A Bit Tied Up

I've been getting some funny looks at work this week.... Hey! I heard that at the back.... OK, I've been getting more funny looks than usual at work this week. And all because of a little social experiment. But it didn't start out that way....pull up a chair and I'll explain....

It was all getting a bit predictable. Every morning I'd open the wardrobe doors, grab a white shirt and declare myself ready for work. Of course I had pants on - that goes without saying. Or at least I hope it does. I hope you haven't, over the the course of these musings, got the impression that one can get away with a deficiency in the trouser department. I know New Zealand is relaxed. But it's not that relaxed. Sheesh. Anyway, it was getting monotonous so I decided to spice things up, and add a bit of colour, by wearing a tie. Something that I'd not done in a while. Long before I left the UK.  Yes! That was the answer, a tie would brighten up my day and put a smile on my face. And I'd look cool to boot!

It didn't take long after leaving the house to realise my mistake. It was far too hot to wear a constricting item around my throat. By the time I'd got to the top of the street I was red in the face and the smile had turned into a grimace. A whole fifteen degrees from looking even remotely cool. Ah well, I'd started this so I was going to see it through, no matter what.

All the way to work I was getting curious looks and began to feel more and more like the hapless hero in the cop show sit com "Death In a paradise". A real Brit out of water. At least now I knew why ties are a rarity in the Kiwi working day. 

But the odd looks didn't stop once I reached the air conditioned sanctuary of the office. Nope. In the relative comfort of the office 'the tie' took on a whole different meaning. Where previously it had been a instrument of torture, in the coolness of the office it symbolised something else. Whether it was professionalism, dynamism or just an unusual smartness I don't know. But I started getting unsolicited comments from my colleagues, some disappointingly predictable;

"Do you have an interview?"

"Who's died?"

"What time is your meeting with the client?"

"Oh, we didn't know we have top brass in the office today!"

So far, so predictable. There were others;

"Looking good!"

"Very smart"

And the direct;

"Why are you wearing a tie?"

Blimey. If I'd known I'd get such a reaction I'd have prepared more. Maybe some witty responses or an elaborate story as to why I'd decided to dress up. But I didn't. The fact was I fancied a change. Pure and simple. But now what? Tomorrow was another day but surely I couldn't back down. Back down from I don't know what but continuing with the tie-wearing, heat ignoring experiment seemed to be the right thing to do. And so it continued, through one of the hottest and most humid weeks. Day after day. Tie after tie.

Quite frankly I was ecstatic when Friday evening arrived and, like a giddy school kid on the way home at the end of term, as soon as I was out of view of the office the damn thing came off. 

Unceremoniously stuffed into my bag. "That's quite enough of that!" I thought to myself, "Well at least until it cools down...."

The Long Way Round

5:15 is too early to wake up when you're on holiday. It's hardly a good start to some much needed R&R. But that's one of the joys of air travel - the need to dance to the drum of air traffic control. Not that there was much dancing going on at that time of the morning.

In return, however, you are whooshed (is that a real word?) off to your desired destination in a fraction of the time it would've taken had you elected to drive. Or walk. Perish the thought. Or at least that's the plan. The deal, if you like, between you, your ungodly hour of rising, and the airline.

I guess you can tell by the tone of the opening paragraph that I have an axe to grind, a bug to bear or a point to make. Oh yes. 

It was almost excusable that the flight was thirty minutes late due to 'operational problems'. I appreciate that there was no way of informing each potential passenger of the delay whilst they were in their slumber, but I really could've used another thirty minutes in bed. That would've been nice. 

Anyway the airline would've been far too busy sorting out the 'operational problems'. 'Operational problems', as it turned out, was code for 'we can't find the plane'. Now each to their own profession, I grant you, and I'm sure there are aspects of airline management that I just can't comprehend, but I'd like to think I would know where my airplanes were. It's kind of important to the running of an airline. Almost fundamental some might say. I can just imagine the scene that early morning;

"Where is it?", asks the airline manager

"Where's what?", comes the response

"The plane?", the manager explains

"Plane?", the employee questions

"Yes the plane!" 

"Aeroplane?", the employee confirms

"Of course aeroplane. We run an airline so what sort of plane did you think I meant?"

"Well I just wanted to check before I went  to look"

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well where's the bloody plane!", the exasperated manager continues

"Which one?", the employee asks

"THE ONE FOR THE BLOODY FLIGHT TO QUEENSTOWN THIS MORNING!!"

"Oh, are we going to Queenstown this morning?", the employee wonders

"Of course we are - we always go to Queenstown in the morning"

"Oh, that plane", the employee replies

"Of course that plane", the manager tells adding "which other plane did you think I meant.... it doesn't matter. Go and get it"

"I can't", the airline employee adds rather sheepishly.

"Why ever not?", the manager asks afraid of the answer and trying to keep his temper under control.

"Well I don't know where it is", the employee responds whilst looking at his shoes.

"(Under his breath) Jesus give me strength.....OK.....So when did you last see it?".......

Anyway all was well because the plane eventually turned up. Presumably there had been a mad scramble whilst the missing plane was found. I guess it was down the back of the sofa or something.

Finally we were off. With a thirty minute delay I was wondering, if not worrying, whether we would make our connecting pre-paid transport to Te Anau. It was going to be tight. The snow capped southern Alps came into view outside the window. Not far. Ten minutes max. The aeroplane began its final descent. We might just make it..... What the? 

The plane made a sudden banking turn and pulled out of the descent.....

"I'm sorry to announce that the runway has just been closed due to contamination and we are diverting to Christchurch"

For those that don't have a good grasp of NZ geography, Christchurch, whilst still on the South Island is about midway between the northern tip and our desired destination, in other words IN THE WRONG BLOODY DIRECTION and nearly halfway back the way we'd already travelled. 

This was not good. We were certainly going to miss our lift and it would be touch and go whether we got to Te Anau that evening.

Forty minutes later we touched down at Christchurch airport and taxied to the airport building. It was then explained that a heavy rain storm had flooded the runway at Queenstown resulting in 12mm of standing water, which the ground crew were furiously trying to clear. 

What a start to a holiday. After an anxious  thirty minutes and we were given the all clear. Taking off once again, and heading back the way we came, we finally landed in the correct airport, three hours later than scheduled.

The pre-arranged lift had long gone and the next service wouldn't be back for another three hours. Three hours was longer than we wanted to wait. Especially with the thought that wouldn't get to our accommodation until 9pm and particularly after we had left the house at 6:00am that morning.

There was nothing else for it. We were going to have to hire a car. Luckily neither of us had hit the bar in Auckland so were sober enough to hit the road, although the $450 hire charge would sobered up the most drunk of travellers.

Thankfully all that seems so far off and a minor inconvenience. A mere blip on what turned out to be a wonderful week tramping in the back country. Beautiful blue skies, fresh mountain air, lush forests, crystal clear streams and huts with running water. Even not having a wash for four days is quite liberating. If not a little smelly. But then you are not alone in being in that state. I'll save that though for another time. 

So it's ironic that Mother Nature lived up to her part of the bargain and delivered a fantastic four days in the wilderness without a hitch yet it was the modern world, the world that is designed, planned and scheduled that let us down. 

A Medical Emergency

Well I suppose it had to happen eventually. We have, after all, been here for over six months. I know. I can hardly believe it myself. Six months without incident. Six months without a slip, trip or fall. Twelve man months if you count the two of us. It's really quite miraculous if you think about it for long enough. But it couldn't last. And I suppose it was inevitable that it would be caused by running....

You see I've got one hell of a nappy rash in.... well .... in the general crotch area. Stop laughing. It's not a laughing matter. Not from where I'm stood. Or sat. Sitting is much better that standing at the moment. Sitting with legs akimbo. I did try standing that way this morning at the queue for the kettle, but people thought I was about to make a big announcement. Which I wasn't. Well certainly not without drinking my morning coffee first. And that wasn't going to happen with everyone looking at me rather than getting the drinks that they were queuing for. It was a Mexican standoff in the kitchen area. Anyway not to put too fine a point on it (no please don't) with the increased mileage, soaring humidity and the help of friction I've ....well ... you can guess the rest.

It was so bad that, after a colleague in work remarked on my unusual walking style, I had to take action. I rushed - which is no mean feat when you are trying to keep your legs as far apart as possible - to the chemist and bought the biggest tub of nappy rash cream I could find. I must've looked a sight - as if John Wayne had decided to take up amateur athletics; legs thrashing at acute angles whilst trying to negotiate the busy lunchtime traffic.

With rash cream in hand, as well as a pair of softer running underwear from the adjacent running apparel store, I couldn't wait to get back to work, enter the men's loo and administer a good dollop of cool relief. And it was fantastic. Thankfully there were no other visitors to hear my "Ooos", "Aaahhs" or hear the hiss of steam.

So let this tale act as a solitary lesson. If you're out running and friction gets the better of you - take my advice. You can't run it off. Quite the opposite. The longer or faster you run, the worse it gets. And, if left untreated, then be prepared to be the butt of jokes in the office. Well not exactly butt. You get the picture.