99 not out!

Anyone who as spent anytime listening to me rabbit on about running - and for that I sincerely apologise - may also know that my other passion is data. Wait! Come back! I promise to keep this brief and interesting. Well mildly interesting anyway.

So when the opportunity arose to combine both...well you can imagine my joy. Running and data all in one neat package. Actually, when I say 'data' (or 'darta' if you prefer the Kiwi pronunciation) what I really mean is information, facts and figures. When it comes to the collection of such stuff I'm a bit of a digital hoarder. Want to know what we were doing on the 15 August 1999? No problem. We were sunning ourselves in Morar on the West coast of Scotland. How do I know this? Well my photograph database tells me this. A photograph database I hear to ask? Really? Well what else am I supposed to do with over 20,000 photographs? No good keeping them in a box. Or hidden away in the dark corners of a hard drive for that matter.

It's the same with receipts. Want to know when we bought our now defunct Alphason TV stand? No problem, 31 July 2010. Am I sure? Of course I am, I have a scan of the receipt stored in our document hard drive. I probably should delete it but you never know. I guess its a digital version of a man-drawer. You know, the one where you put batteries of indeterminate charge, cables, old phone chargers, pizza menus and a Boulder Dash Gameboy cartridge that you bought off eBay despite not even owning the console to put it in. Well it was an investment opportunity that I couldn't pass up.

It's a bit of a compulsion really and I probably need psychological help.

Where is all this leading? Well this coming Saturday will be my 100th parkrun and presents a excellent opportunity reflect and dissect upon the achievement. You see rather than have a lie in on a Saturday morning, I have been rising, putting on running shoes (and clothes before your imagination runs away with you!) and travelling to a local park to complete a 5km course. This coming Saturday will be no different, and for the 100th time I'll eschew sleep and tip-toe out of the house trying not the disturb those who might be sleeping.

So for those brave enough to keep on reading, let's take a look at the story the data tells. I warn you there will be graphs but all done in the best possible taste.......

Still here? Great. Well it all started on the 9 June 2012 in the sleepy town of Basingstoke in Hampshire........

Well it almost started. Although this was my first foray into the sociable world of parkrun, it would be another seven months before I chalked up my second run. This wasn't, however, due to a lack of interest but rather lack of opportunity. Well a convenient opportunity anyway. You see it wasn't until December 2012 that a parkrun started up in our home town of Darlington....which I missed because it was the night after my work Christmas party and I was in no fit state to run. In fact I had trouble just standing up!

It's fair to say that winter is not the best season to encourage people to put on running shoes and hurtle around a local park. But Darlington did just that and 109 keen runners turned up on the 5 January 2013 to accompany me on my inaugral South Park parkrun and put the town well and truly on the parkrun map. Incidentally, if you're interested, the Darlington South Park parkrun has gone from strength to strength and now regularly attracts over 300 runners.

If 2013 cemented my involvement in parkrun you wouldn't know it. The following year, 2014, I didn't manage to turn out for a single parkrun. The simple excuse is that, for the first part of the year, I was training for the Edinburgh Marathon and didn't have the time for the parkrun. I was far too busy stressing over running further to bother with a piddling 5km. It never occurred to me that I could be combined the two!

Then, I relocated to New Zealand which I'm sure you can imagine was a little bit distracting, hence my total disappearance from the parkrun statistics. It doesn't really explain why I didn't take it up again on reaching the Southern Hemisphere. It's not as if the climate wasn't favourable for running or that I didn't have parkrun options. Maybe I was just to phased by the whole living on the other side of the world thing? Or maybe I just couldn't be arsed. I'll let you decide.

It wouldn't be until 2015 that my relationship with parkrun recommenced and on the 17 January 2015 I completed the Cornwall Park course and ended a 560 day parkrun drought. Of course I didn't know this at the time but my 12th parkrun rebooted my parkrun participation. I can only say that it must've been the agreeable weather, although slightly too warm for serious running, or the friendly people. It certainly can't have been the course because Cornwall park has a bastard of a hill around 2km into the run. Locally known as Dead Man's Hill, this 1km long dip us just what you need in the middle of a 5km course on a warm summer's day. Not!

I was on a roll and just didn't know it! Having made my first appearance in an international parkrun, there was no stopping me. I've since turned out for parkruns in Australia in four difference locations, and the US where I completed the Crissy Fields parkrun with the Golden Gate Bridge as my backdrop. I must say that, on that balmy day in Basingstoke, I had no idea that I would go onto to complete over 80 parkruns on foreign soil.

In fact, the records will show that I have participated in no less that 16 different parkruns in four countries, from the country park of Sedgefield to the humidity of Darwin in Australia's Northern Territories - 30 degrees at 7am WTF - and the beautiful serenity of Western Springs.

Whilst I am on the topic, a special mention must go to our current home parkrun. Western Springs, on the face of it, seems like quite an ordinary place to hold a parkrun. Just three laps around the lake and, apart from a few bumps, it's a relatively flat course. Simple. It may look like a serene parkrun location but just beneath the surface it's a bit of an animal. Literally. Being located next to Auckland Zoo, it's not unusual to be accompanied on the run by the trumpeting of elephants or the roar of lions. I'm still expecting one day to look over my shoulder only to find a big cat hunting me down. At least it would be good for a PB.....assuming I could finish with all appendages attached! For the time being, however, I'm happy with my personal best time at Western Springs of 21:21.

I've come close a few times to beating the time I set on the 13 August 2016 but I kinda like the symmetry of that time. 21:21 has a nice look to it don't you think? Besides, it's some way off the course record at 15:55 so why bother?

I'm quite happy with my cluster of times, somewhere in the mid-twenties. There has been a few glitches in my performances, some due to illness and others self-inflicted. Like the time on the 29 October 2016 when I mistakingly ate breakfast before running and vomited into the toilets half way around. At least I made it to the loos - can't imagine it would've been particularly nice for my fellow competitors to have to avoid a chunky-spew lake. It's enough having to plan a route through swan poo without adding partly digested cereal into the mix. I'll leave that there and probably have said too much.

But what the statistics don't show you though, is the main reason that hundreds turn up week-in-week-out at their local parkrun. Friendship. Without that essential ingredient, a parkrun would be nothing more than a jog around a local park and certainly wouldn't encourage repeated participation on a Saturday morning. I have met some fantastic people on my little adventure around the parkruns of the world, be it a short chat before the run, longer discussions over coffee after or proper friendship through meeting in the same place at the same time.

So I must say a big thank you to all of the people that I have met, ran alongside and supped coffee with. From the organisers and volunteers at each event, strangers who have welcomed me to their event and everyone at my local parkrun. Thank you for 99 wonderful memories and I look forward to another 99, wherever they may be.

On that note, I'll just leave these here.....well it's not all about numbers is it?

Kitted out for the Darlington South Park parkrun

I'm not a fair-weather runner!

Welcome to New Zealand and Cornwall Park parkrun

Western Springs. My adopted parkrun home

Finally! My 50th parkrun was completed on the 28 May 2016

Getting ready to tackle the Melbourne Albert Park parkrun. Watch out for F1 cars though!

Hamilton parkrun is a really well run event. And flat!

Errr! I think this was Christmas Day? Not sure about the pink wig though.

This is either Hull or San Francisco

Puarenga in Rotorua must be one of the most unique courses.

Sweaty and tired in Darwin

Volunteering is an essential part of parkrun, although it looks like we could also help out on the building site next door!

The Western Springs crew!

The Road to Somewhere

I’d imagine that for most people, the last place that they’d want to be on their day off would be at work. Which technically wouldn’t be a day off except for the fact that they’re not getting paid. Thankfully most people aren’t engineers.

You see, to an engineer, there is nothing more interesting to do on your day off than to go and look at some engineering. It’s true. Sad, but true. It was a long running joke for a while that once, whilst out on a shopping trip with my parents and heading to the pub for a well earned pint, both my Sarah and I stopped in our tracks as we passed a fenced off area, stared down into the huge hole that had been dug and discussed what was going on, why, and what the risks were. Only an engineer could find a hole in the ground more interesting than a pint in a pub. 

Anyway, even I would draw the line at visiting my own project whilst 'not working'. That was, however, until today. Today, my project was having an Open Day so what else was there to do on a bright and sunny Auckland Sunday than to jump in the car and see what was going on. A busman’s holiday so to speak. Which is kind of fitting because the first thing we did when we got to the designated car park was to jump on a bus.

Before I go any further, and to attempt to quell any thoughts that I’ve lost my mind, there are some mitigating circumstances that I feel compelled to explain.

Firstly, this is no ordinary project. The Puhoi to Warkworth PPP is the construction of 18km of brand new motorway through mainly native New Zealand bush. In completing the $800m project, 150 Ha of forest will have been removed, 7 bridges will have been built, 11 million cubic metres of earth will have been moved, nearly 8km of drainage culverts constructed. But before all that, erosion and sediment control ponds have been built, bats monitored, snails rehoused and 26 endangered gekos relocated. Well technically it was 26. You see we first had to find them and once the proverbial needle in the haystack exercise was completed, they were transported to Auckland University for safe keeping. The University did such a good job that upon our return there were actually 28 gekos ready for a new life on the other side of the road. Clearly a nice break in a warm hotel being fed and watered was good for the geko libido and certain gives a potential answer to 'Why did the geko cross the road?"

As well as increasing endangered animal population, the completed motorway will finally join Warkworth to the motorway network and remove the need to travel on one of the deadliest pieces of road network in the country. At its peak, sometime next year, the project will employ 500 people and utilise over 250 pieces of earth-moving machinery. And if that doesn’t make you want to jump up, get on a plane and take a look then you’re clearly not an engineer!

Secondly, my partner is also an engineer so was curious to see what was going on. Admittedly there wasn’t a hole in the ground to take a look at, not yet anyway, but there was some big machinery on display. And a sausage sizzle. What more could you want for a top day out?

One day this will be all roads...well one road but you get the idea

My plan was, if you can call a loose idea formed whilst walking across the car park such a thing, to attend incognito. Keep my head down and see what was going on. A bit like a secret shopper I suppose. Not that I thought that there would be anything untoward or faintly dodgy going on, but as a member of the Client team I didn’t want to be seen to be interfering. Unfortunately my ‘plan’ didn’t last long.

“Good morning, shouldn’t you be helping out?”, joked the guy* on the registration desk. 

Rumbled. And there was I thinking that my sunglasses, hat and the fact that I was wearing shorts was an effective disguise.

* Note - I obviously know this persons name but in the interests of anninomity I’ve left it out. It’s not important but I didn’t want anyone to get the impression that I’m one of those client who doesn’t know the name of people on the project. If it bothers you let’s just call him Trevor, which is obviously not his real name but somehow it seems less impersonal.

As the bus wound its way along the haul road on the way to the site complex, another colleagues gave an introduction to the project and pointed out things of interest, with only the occasional glance in my direction. As I sat there staring out of the bus window, as an ordinary member of the public, I reflected on what an impressive job the contractor was doing in engaging the local community and was in no doubt that this was, in part at least, due to the level of enthusiasm that the team showed when talking about it. The people on the bus were clearly interested and a barrage of questions occupied the short 20 minute journey. They can’t all have been engineers. The more likely explanation is that they were all locals and are keen to see the desperately needed piece of infrastructure completed.

After traversing a tempoarary bridge, the bus arrived in the site complex. As we hopped off the bus Kar.....err ‘Bob’.... smiled and asked “I hope I got all of the facts right!”.

‘Note perfect”, I responded.

The usual sea of white Utes (Utility Vehicle or pick up truck) had been cleared from the site complex and in their place was an array of displays, food stalls, demonstrations and an area that had been fenced off for two pieces of large earth moving machinery. Against the fence was a colourful sign announcing ‘Free Dump Truck Rides’.

“Oh my god, I’ve got to get a go in that!”, I thought to myself, “That will be sooo coool!”

Maybe I'll get a go on Monday?

...and then my sensible head took over. It would not be a good look for the one of the project team to be seen riding in the cab of a 40T dump truck, grinning like an idiot and waving. I grudgingly accepted that my sensible head was right. Besides, I could just wait until Monday.......

By the time we had seen all of the displays, checked out the equipment on display and eaten our own weight in sausage sandwiches, we decided it was time to head off. 

With the bulk of my involvement due to end next July but construction not due to complete until 2021, it’s doubtful I’ll still be involved when the ribbon is cut. But whatever happens it’s really a great privilege to be involved in such a project, even just to be a small part in a huge machine (I’m back on machinery again - sorry), and to really make a difference. It was certainly not something that I was expecting when I arrived into New Zealand. 

Watch Out! There’s a Tomo About!

It’s very dangerous to assume that just because you’ve been somewhere a while, that you know all there is to know about a place and are totally at ease in your surroundings. But, just because everything is quite similar, no sooner do you think you have a handle on everything, then New Zealand’s uniqueness reasserts itself and bops you on the nose. Figuratively speaking of course. 

It all started so innocently. I was asked to attend a video conference meeting with some colleagues to discuss progress on site and to take a look at the programme for the coming weeks. Fairly mundane and run of the mill stuff. With over three years of NZ work experience under my belt I’ve finally stopped referring to pounds, no longer called intersections junctions and a verge is finally a berm. In fact, so sure was I of my perfect colloquialisms that I’ve even started raising a wry smile when new European arrivals made exactly the same mistakes that I had not too long ago. Oh how we forget. And how easily we can fall off our high horse, partner!

Anyway, the conversation was progressing nicely when suddenly the person at the other end of the call stated “We’ve found a tomo so part of the site is a no-go area!”

“Wow, a tomo!” I exclaimed a little to enthusiastically, not having a clue what or indeed who a tomo was. 

“Yeah, we found it whilst we were walking over the site. Lucky we didn’t stand right on it really!”, came the response.

I looked around at my colleagues in the room for any clue as to what is was that we were talking about, but all I could see was a row of confirmatory nods that this was indeed a precarious situation. In short, no bloody help at all and I was going to have to figure this one out for myself.

“So,” I started cautiously, “what’s your plan of action then for dealing with it?”

Brilliant! A good question and one that was designed to not disclose my level of ignorance. 

“Well, we’ve already put a fence around the area so it’s contained but obviously we need to get an expert in to deal with it”.

“Obviously”, I agreed without knowing what it was that I was agreeing to.

So we were surely dealing with an animal of some kind. Definitely not a bird - a fence would’ve been useless against a flying animal.....oh but wait, it could be a flightless bird. I started to rack my brain to see if a flightless bird called a Tomo had ever been mentioned but nothing was registering. Surely I would’ve heard about such a creature? I decided that I hadn’t and therefore it couldn’t be that. Right, an animal of some kind it must be. And clearly a dangerous one given the level of concern that was being shown both in the room and on the screen. 

Time for another carefully worded question.....

“Great. What do you think their assessment will be?”

“Well, ideally we’d like to get rid of it but it depends how big it is really.”

“F*ck, this thing must be huge”, I thought to myself. 

The thought of animal slaughter on the project, however, was just too much to bear. I could see the headlines writing themselves in from of my eyes. The last thing we needed was a load of environmentalists crawling over the site. And who would blame them? You can’t just go around exterminating creatures because they happen to wander into your project site. Especially not in New Zealand. Unless they’re possums of course. I needed more information.....

“Just how do you propose to get rid of it?”

That was clearly a question too far as the assembled group, real and virtual, looked at me with incredulity. 

“Oh, probably with an excavator, that’s what we normally do with Tomos”, came the response from the TV screen adding, “or just drop a load of rock on it if its not too big.”

This was too much.

“Wait! How do you know that dropping rock on it is going to sort it out. What if it survives?”, I exclaimed, not sure if I was more concerned about the negative publicity or the inhumane method of disposal.

“Survives? How else are we going to fill the hole?”, a colleague enquired no doubt half wondering if I’d lost my mind before quickly adding, “Or we could just excavate to find the bottom but it will depend upon how deep and wide the Tomo is.”

Thankfully the conversation moved on to the engineering solution whilst I surreptitiously consulted Wikipedia. And in doing so, I soon realised my mistake. How could I have been so stupid....  don’t answer that! So, to prevent you from landing in a similar situation, and before we go any further, you need to know what a Tomo is. Admittedly the chances are slim but you never know in this world. So a Tomo is a hole in the ground that either once, or still does have, water passing through it and usually found in limestone regions. Or if you prefer, a sinkhole and definitely not an animal or flightless bird.

For those that would like a longer explanation, and I’m thinking mainly the engineers out there, here is an extract from the Wikipedia entry;

The word ‘Waitomo’ comes from the Māori language ‘wai’ meaning water and ‘tomo’ meaning a doline or sinkhole. In short, this can translated to be water passing through a hole.

And the moral of the story? Well if this story must have one then I guess its that don’t be afraid to ask questions, no matter how stupid they may seem. Or to put it another way, you’re going to look like an idiot no matter what you do so you might as well get it over with!

Stumble in the Jungle

When nearly a thousand like minded souls turn up at just before 7am in a sodden field in the middle of the New Zealand bush, that can only mean one thing. They are there to take part in a trail run. Well, either that or there has been a serious fault in the GPS system and it has directed each and every one to a remote corner of the upper North Island. I’m going for the former, although I wouldn’t put it past the current US government to corrupt the GPS system. Not that they would admit to it though and no likely brand it as fake news despite several hundred individual accounts to the contrary. Sorry, I’ve gone off topic. Back to the sodden field, although not literally thank goodness.

Trail running in New Zealand is nothing like its equivalent in the UK, something I learned very early on but don’t seem to have remembered the lesson. In the UK you can expect fairly well defined routes with grades that are at least runnable. Not here though. Oh no. Trail running in New Zealand is much more rugged, gnarly and challenging with terrain that will reduce you to walking with purpose rather then leaping gazelle-like over the obstacles. And, unless you have ran the route before, you have literally no idea what to expect. Take today’s run for example. If I’d known that there would be three river crossings, several tunnels and four kilometres of heavily tree-rooted New Zealand bush to negotiate I might have had second thoughts. Actually, who am I kidding - it would’ve made me even more determined to line up on the starting line and set off like a banshee into the unknown.

Having said that, I haven’t done a lot of trail running in New Zealand. It sort of lost its shine when I broke two ribs during the third race in the 2015 Auckland Xterra Series. Slipping on wet grass and sliding down a bank into a fence post definitely wasn’t part of the race plan. Since that incident, details of which were covered in a previous blog, I have been just that little bit more cautious and respectful of New Zealand trail running. These are definitely not walks in the park. Nor are they runs around gentle terrain on manicured footpaths.

It’s fair to say that a damp field somewhere of State Highway 2 between Paeroa and Waihi is not a hugely inspiring place to loiter for 90 minutes whilst waiting for your turn to line up and set off. At least the sun was shining. Sort of. If nothing else, it gave me a little time to wander around and ponder why on earth do people do this? Surely they have better things to do on a Saturday morning? But evidence pointed to the contrary. Wherever you looked there were huddles of people, contentedly chatting and sharing and swapping advice. Advice? Some of the conversations I overheard whilst mulling my existence sounded more like horror stories. Falls here, trips there, grazes, cut and bruises on show as physical trophies to previous runs.

It was no different on the bus on the way to the race. There I was, minding my own business, happily wondering if the rain was going to stay off and looking forward to a run across some beautiful countryside, when a fellow passenger piped up;

"Have you done this race before," she asked before helpfully adding, "it's a killer!"

I admitted that I hadn't before casually asking, "So why is its a killer?". To be honest I regretted asking the question immediately the words had left my lips.

"Oh the hills of course....." she added with a mischievous grin on her face

Hills, well that was ok I could handle hills

"...and the mud. But that's ok because the river crossings will get you nice and clean.."

"and wet!" I interjected before adding "How deep are they?"

"Oh, not deep," came the response ,accompanied with a helpful hand gesture that suggested it was only waist high.

"Great!" I sarcastically responded, secretly wishing I was a foot taller.

"At least you're only doing the medium length course. Those poor sods in the long race have to do two laps!"

I smiled inwardly and relished in the thought of others who would be worse off than me. Ah, comfort in the misery of others.

As I looked around the field, which had now filled up with excited runners and walkers, people looked genuinely happy. I wondered whether they would still be so happy and conversant after the run and whether the coming pain was sufficient payment for a free Speights beer at the end.

Inevitably, the time to line up with the others came and after receiving our safety briefing, which basically boiled down to you're on your own mate, we were off....

We didn't get very far before we all had to queue to cross a river on a wooden and rather rickety suspension bridge. It was one at a time and walking only. Kiwi engineering at it's best, a bundle of No.8 wire and a whole lot of hope.

Once we were across I started to accelerate and slowly move through the pack. Slowly because there wasn't much room and I realised that I was wearing far too many layers and in danger of over heating. After several tunnels, a quick stop for water and change of tops, and a gorgeous run through Karangahake Gorge we started the climb up Karangahake Mountain.

Oh and what a climb it was. It was made worse by the fact that runners who had already reaching the turn around point on the path were speedily descending as we puffed and struggled up the slope. I muttered under my breath, "If one more person cheerily notes 'you're nearly there' I'm going to do something that I'll regret!". And worst of all there was no way to see how far we had to climb. The path was through dense bush and with twists and turns only a small portion of the path was visible at any point. When the bush did break for a brief moment the whole stunning vista of the gorge opened up. It was very tempting to stop and in the view but I knew that I may not ever start running again. Plus I didn't want anyone to think that I was taking a sneaky breather...which I so desperately wanted. Eventually, as is always the case, I reached the turning point, took a swig of water, and belted back down the hill. And of course I greeted runners who were struggling up the hill with the now customary greeting, "Well done, you're almost there!". What a bastard!

My speedy descent soon came to a halt when I tripped on a tree root and was unceremoniously dumped on my arse. That'll teach me. Luckily there was no damage done, except to my already bruised ego when a small group of school girls nimbly jumped around me and continued their fast descent. "Let's see how fast they are in thirty years time," I grumpily said to myself.

I'm pleased to report that, although the tree-rooted descent was definitely gnarly, the muddy section was relatively short and easy to negotiate. And, as was promised by my bus companion, the river section cleaned off any mud that I had collected on the way. Especially as I slipped on a rock and was thrown backwards into the torrent. I'd like to see Mo Farah deal with this course!

The final few kilometres were flat and along a wide trail. Finally some running where I could relax, switch off and stop worrying about my personal well being.

After negotiating a few fences and one small stream crossing, I ran down the finishing shute in a relatively slow 1hr 43mins. Not particularly fast for a 13km run but not bad considering the queues, clothing change, hills and river crossings.

By now the sun was definitely shining so I gingerly walked to the beer tent, grabbed a cold bottle of IPA, and sat watching the other runners and walkers finish their race. And it was there, whilst I sipped my cold beer, that I realised why I, or should I say why we do this. It wasn't for the cold refreshments, although that was very welcome indeed, or for the promise of a double sausage sizzle. It was neither of those things. Instead it was something much less tangible..... togetherness.

Or as I like to put it....a sense that you're not totally deranged for wanting to hurl yourself around a natural obstacle course on a Saturday morning. You see, as I sat there, I witnessed hundreds of running souls race, walk, limp or crawl over the finish line. Some for charity, some in the memory of loved-ones and others just for the sheer hell of it. People of all ages took part, just as they do every weekend around this country and others and it almost brought a tear to my eye. (Well I was very tired and the beer was rather strong so was quite emotional). Parents encouraged their children to finish,  whilst other children raced each other to the finish line seemingly unaware of the kilometres they had just ran. Yes there were tears, other than mine. Some of joy, some of relief and some due to exhaustion. Occasionally at least.

What other explanation could there be? You could, if you so desired, run around the New Zealand bush every weekend, free of charge and to your own timetable. But we don't. We wait. We enter. We run. Be a part of something. And that's why, despite promising myself as I struggled up the the hill that this would be the last trail race I would do, I found myself only moments after crossing the line planning my next one and wondering if there was anything....well you know.... a bit harder?

...or maybe I'm wrong and it is all for the free beer and sausage butty. Maybe but surely there are easier ways to earn a decent meal?

Before the clothing change

After the pit stop and tumble in the jungle

A Raglan Story

As this is our sixth visit to the sleepy seaside town of Raglan it would be safe to assume that there is little more I can tell you about this place. Except there is. There is one more story that I haven’t yet told, not because it wasn’t interesting or charming, although I’ll let you be the judge of that in a moment, but because it didn’t have a proper ending. That was until very recently.......

We hadn’t been in New Zealand for very long, maybe five months or so, and we were going through a difficult patch. We had just had our first Christmas since arriving and work was particularly challenging. Never let anyone tell you that moving to a different country is going to be a breeze. It isn’t, and on more than one occasion you will find yourself questioning whether it was all worth it and wouldn't it be easier to jump on a plane and head back. This was one of those times and the pull of home was particularly strong. In short, we needed a break. Somewhere to get away from it all and just hang out. Be. We chose Raglan. 

I can’t recall now whether we actually chose Raglan or whether it was recommended to us. Either way we couldn’t have picked a better place to unwind and put things into perspective. The pace of life in the little coastal town never gets above 'relaxed' and with plenty of cafes, shops and bars to wander in and out of its a perfect place to put the stresses of city living into perspective. But I’m getting ahead of myself.....

As we normally walked to work, it was unusual for us to have the car with us but as we were heading off to Raglan at the end of the day it made sense to park in the office underground car park and try and get ahead of the evening traffic, rather than waste an hour walking home to collect the car. Being early risers, and one of the first into the office, was on this occasion an advantage as we had the pick of the office car parking spaces. 

As was typical when wanting to get away from the office as soon as possible on a Friday evening, the tasks built up and we spent the last few hours of the working week frantically try to wrap up, issue reports and send the final few emails. Eventually the last tasks were completed and we met in the reception before heading down in the lift to the car park.

“Have a great time you two,” said the office receptionist, “and have a safe journey. Enjoy Raglan!”

We were dead on our feet and desperately in need of some time away from Auckland. We'd done well to hide it but another hour in the office and I fear that it would've all come rushing to the surface. No matter, in a few hours we’d be holed up in a bar drinking beer, watching the sunset and putting the world to rights. Our world. It had gotten a bit out of whack and needed knocking back into shape.

The lift doors closed and as we started to descend to the car park we let out a sign of relief.

The car was parked at the far end of the car park and for once I had reversed into the parking space, not for safety reasons but because I’d decided that being able to drive straight out of the spot would save precious time and help us get to our destination that little bit quicker. Every second counted seemingly. I unlocked the car doors and climbed into the driver’s seat. Sarah, meanwhile, was faffing around on the outside and messing around with the passenger side door handle. My time-saving reversing manoeuvre was being wasted.

“What are you doing?” I mouthed from inside the car, “the door’s unlocked!”

What response I heard was muffled by the car windows and partially masked by the sound of the engine. All I made out was it was something to do with the car door handle. Maybe it was broken? Just as I was about to get out of the car, the passenger door opened and Sarah took her seat brandishing a brightly coloured gift bag.

"You could have just given this to me rather than tie it to the door handle, and there was no need to tie it so tightly!" she exclaimed before adding "but it's a lovely thought. Thank you."

“Err it’s not from me. What is it?”.

Well that was a mistake wasn't it! Any proper man would've taken the credit whether it was rightfully theirs or not. Although that would've been risky in this case as I had no idea what was inside the bag.

"Let's get going and I'll open it as we drive," Sarah suggested, keen to make some progress.

Typically for Auckland on a Friday night, the traffic was already getting heavy and our quick getaway  would only be as far as the motorway on ramp. It seemed that everyone else had the same idea. Ah well. As we crawled down State Highway 1 the bag was opened and the contents examined for a clue as to who could've left it tied to the car.

Inside was a box of Lindt chocolates and a gift card with "Relax, Enjoy & Have Fun" in brightly coloured letters. A lovely, thoughtful gift but no clues as to the intended recipient. The bag itself had a pattern with little bicycles on but no other marks or writing that might give some clue as to it's rightful owner. Even Columbo would struggle with this one.

We quickly came to the conclusion that, as we don't regularly drive to work and nobody knew we were driving on that particular day, that somebody must have mistakenly tied the gift to our car. It was, after all, a fairly popular model and colour.

"I feel really sorry for whoever went to this trouble," Sarah noted, "they are going to be so disappointed when they find out that their gesture has gone awry"

"I know," I said, "but it's going to be hard to find out who they were intended for. There's not even a name on the card."

"Well it must be someone from work," Sarah suggested, "because our car was parked in a staff parking spot."

I guess that kind of insight is what you get from years of reading detective novels. It hadn't crossed my mind. As we pondered how we could return the gift to it's rightful owner, the traffic got even heavier and we ground to a halt as the traffic from SH20 joined the masses trying to head south.

"Couldn't this lot have waited a little longer before heading south, " I said as I gestured to the queuing traffic that was trying to merge with ours, "I don't understand the logic of trying to merge four lanes into two. Auckland really needs some better transport planners!"

My frustration was no doubt enhanced by my grumbling stomach. We had no food in the car as we had foolishly decided to get some shopping in the local shops rather than the supermarket chains that litter Auckland's streets. Well no food except the Lindt chocolates of course. I glanced down at the gift bag at Sarah's feet....

"Don't even think about it," came the response, "they're not ours"

"Would it be wrong to have a couple of those chocolates?" I said mentioning my head towards the bag.

"I know but the owner isn't going to know that they were missing," I reasoned

"It's not right"

"It's not our fault they got the wrong car and besides with this traffic it's going to be hours before we get anything to eat. Just one each.....?"

It must've been a brilliant and well argued case because Sarah agreed, albeit reluctantly.

"Just the one though," she added, "no more. Just to take the edge off our hunger."

She carefully removed the cellophane wrapper and opened the top of the box. Just one each that was the deal. That will be enough.

They were delicious.

"You can say what you like about the Swiss but they certainly know how to make chocolates," I said as the sweet morsel slowly melted in my mouth.

"Thank you whoever you are," Sarah added, "and we're really sorry that we're eating your chocolates."

The traffic was starting to ease but we were still inside the Auckland boundary. At this rate of progress we wouldn't get to Raglan until around 7pm, about an hour later than we we'd planned. Naturally, the conversation turned to the evening meal.

"Pizza or somewhere more upmarket," I wondered aloud.

"Let's hope we can just get something to eat!" Sarah rightfully responded. She was right, we'd assumed that there would be a restaurant open. That didn't bear thinking about.

The traffic finally cleared and I slowly crept up our speed without going to far above the speed limit. A speeding fine would not be the best way to start our weekend out of the city.

"I'm sure they won't miss a couple more chocolates," I suggested.

"Of course they will - the box already looks a little empty and we've only had two!"

"We can explain what happened....Just say it was an emergency."

I'll admit that the logic was somewhat flawed. It's not as if, assuming we found the intended recipients of the gift, that we could hand over a part eaten box of chocolates.

"Oh, go on then. Just a couple more each."

I was inevitable I suppose but not before too long we'd eaten all of the chocolates and looked guiltily at the empty chocolate box.

"If we ever find out who they were intended for we'll just offer to buy a new box," Sarah said in an attempt to soothe our guilty consciousnesses.

"Agreed".

We finally left the motorway and as we wound down the back lanes of the Waikato District towards the coast we chatted about the week, work, family, friends and occasionally coming back to the gift that had been erroneously tied to the handle of our car door. Unbeknownst to the gift-giver, it had made our journey that little bit more pleasant and put us in a good frame of mind for the coming weekend.

Just before 7pm we passed the 'Welcome to Raglan' sign and a wave of relief came over us. We'd made it. As the main street of the town opened out before us. It was a wonderful sight. Palm trees ran down the central reservation and the street was lined with cosy shops and cafes. Tourists and residents mingled, either just strolling in the late evening sun or enjoying a beer or two on the hotel veranda. A visceral feeling of calm came over us and we knew there and then that we had found our home-away-from-home-away-from-home.

Needless to say we had a great time in Raglan, returning time and time again, and have retold the story about the gift bag to numerous people over the years. In each and every telling people have wondered how the gift came to be attached to our car and what the gift-giver must've thought  when they reaslised that that the gift hadn't been received. Assuming, of course, that they ever found out. Hopefully they haven't been stewing on the thought that the person they had given it to, or at least they thought they had given it to, was ungrateful for not thanking them or even mentioning it in passing.

And as for us? Well despite telling the story countless times over the intervening years, we were no nearer to finding out to whom the gift was intended. We pinned the card to our refrigerator door to remind us to do exactly that "Relax, Enjoy and Have Fun" and that was that. Or so we thought.

We were at a work social function nearly two years since the event and were telling the story once more. At this point we were no longer searching for the rightful owner of the gift but were telling it as an interesting anecdote. In amongst the audience on this occasion was the office administrator and as we got to the end of the story a wry smile spread across her face.

"IT WAS YOU!!" we exclaimed.

"It might have been," she replied coyly.

"But why us?" we asked

"Well, you both seemed to be stressed and really down and in need of cheering up so I thought it would help your weekend get off to a good start," she explained.

We were both speechless. What a wonderful, wonderful gesture. We had wondered over the years whether it was meant for us but had dismissed that because we thought that no-one would've known which car was and certainly not known where it was parked on that particular day. Besides, no-one had even come close to owning up despite the regular airing that that story had received.

For two years we had speculated, suggested and discounted and now we knew. We are still astounded at the gesture and it is a fantastic testament to the thoughtfulness and generosity of Kiwis. The card still takes pride of place on the refrigerator so when things get a little tough or stresful we just have to glance at the note and remember to relax, enjoy and have fun. Oh, and of course it's a reminder that there is no better taste than that of guilty chocolates!

Caught in a Trap

Admittedly there are worse places to be trapped. In fact I’m pretty sure that many would agree that a pub on a Friday night is probably the best place to get stuck. I’d also wager that to others there is little difference. I’m talking about those that, for all intent of purpose, give the impression that they are stuck there but chose to stay of their own free will. Well at least until the landlord starts to lock up and has to resort to throwing then out into the street because dripping hints like yawning and declaring ‘Gosh is that the time?’ had no effect.

We certainly didn’t fall into the later category, and whilst we can’t say we were held against our will there were certainly exceptional circumstances that lead to us drinking more that we should’ve and having to resort to a kebab for our evening meal. Like most misadventures, it all started so innocently....

Our usual pattern on a Friday night, or at least one that has certainly become a habit if we’re not jetting off somewhere, is that after work we will meet up and enjoy a few drinks whilst the stress of the week ebbs away and the weekend eases into view. This is usually followed by a movie, if there is anything worth seeing, or a slow walk home via the pizzeria. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s a pretty pleasant way to welcome in the weekend. 

This Friday, however things were nudged slightly off track by the fact that one of us had to work later than usual. Nothing spectacular but by enough time to make us change our routine and meet at the bar near our house rather than one further up the hill. A pretty innocuous change. Or at least we thought it was.

Unusually for a Friday, our local bar was particularly quite with just a few small groups of people enjoying a quiet and convivial drink. Maybe it was because it was the start of the school holidays or maybe the damp weather had put people off venturing outside. Either way the pub was quiet so we grabbed a couple of drinks and sat down at a corner table and chatted about the events of the day.

In fact we were so deep in conversation that we hadn’t noticed that what few people there were had finished their drinks and left. Just as I was about to remake once again on the quietness.....

“Hello there, we’re filling in for the usual band and this is the first time we’ve actually cleared a room before we’ve even started to play”, a voice boomed over the bar’s PA system and then added “In fact it’s the first time we’ve actually played to an empty room!”

Not wanting to upset any feelings, we realised that now was our chance to escape and grab a bite to eat. They obviously hadn’t seen us in the shadowed  corner table. We could just slope off and exit by the side door.....

“Nah, there’s a couple in the corner over there”,  said the bar man and just to reinforce his statement pointed straight at us.

“Phew, our honour is intact. Well there’s no point in sitting there, come up closer”, the lead singer said and motioned for us to sit at the table right in front of the band. 

“Crap!”, I said under my breath although a little too loud that I became worried that I may have been overheard.

Being British, we did what were were told and took our drinks and sat right in front of the band. 

“The last time this happened we got very, very drunk!”, Sarah cautioned. 

She was right. The last time this had happened we were in Thirsk and watching one part of the Wonder Stuff perform in a tiny venue. Our poison that night was red wine and the following day was a blur. This did not bode well. Determined that lightning wouldn’t strike twice, I regulated my imbidement.... just in case.

At this point I feel that I need to point out that our entertainment for the night was not new to us. Not at all. You see, they were regular performers in our other local where they play rock and jazz standards on a Sunday afternoon. We have been known to while away an hour or two, sat in the afternoon sunshine, sipping beer and listening to two talented musicians going through their repertoire. Usually with several dozen likeminded souls. 

Not this time, we were on our own and formed the entire audience, except for the two bar keepers, who busied themselves presumably for the surge in patronage which showed little sign of showing up. Of course we weren’t physically held there but every atom in our British being screamed STAY WHERE YOU ARE! The last thing we wanted to do was to hurt the feelings of strangers by getting up and leaving. That could only be interpreted as us not liking their musical skills or thinking that they were poor examples of the human race. At least this how our British upbringing would’ve interpreted the situation. So there we were. Stuck. The force of British etiquette kept us welded to our seats. Nothing, short of an earthquake, would make us get up and leave now. And even then it would have to beer a pretty strong shake. At least we were entertained as the songs flowed from the musicians and the beer from the bar taps. 

“What kind of music do you like, any requests?” the singer asked. Not wanting to push the boundaries of audience participation too far we suggested they were on the right track and kept listening. And drinking. Well it was hard not to as rock and blues standards, skilfully played, followed one another as the captivated captive audience sat spellbound. Well we were either spellbound or simply too afraid to move for fear of the singer asking “and just where do you think you’re going?”.

Speaking of the singer, he was clearly enjoying himself as beer followed beer and his inter-song dialogue got ruder and swearier as the night wore on, probably sharing more personal facts than he would have otherwise liked. Judging by the expression on the guitarists face this was not an unusual condition for his partner to be in and he was actually surprise that he was still sat on his stool.

“Right folks, we’re going to take a short break and we’ll be back with the second part of the set.”

Now was our chance. The singer had popped out for a cigarette and the guitarist was at the bar. It was make or break time so we gulped down the last of our beers and......

“Hi guys, thanks for listening to us,” the guitarist said, plonking his beer down at the table before unnecessarily adding, “it’s quieter in here than we would like”. Drat. Oh, well might as well buy another beer then.....

After a short conversation the signer returned to the room and once again they sat at their stools and picked up where they left off with a storming cover of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”. Thankfully, as the second set played out, the room finally started to fill as people people braved the wet weather and bought drinks. A couple even sat at our table making us less like rabbits-caught-in-headlights and more like willing audience members.

We could have left there and then but what the heck, we were dry, sat at a table, being entertained by talented musicians whose musical tastes were not a million miles from ours and the bar was almost at arms length from where we sat. Besides, we were already on the tipsy side of drunk so getting up and leaving now wasn’t going to change that.

As the band launched into another song, a Rolling Stones classic,  we bought another beer.

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need....”

Indeed. Couldn’t have put it better myself......

Ice Scream Fury

You know that you’ve reached a particular low point in your life when you start to feel angry at ice cream. Once you’ve found yourself venting your spleen at sweetened dairy products where do you go from there? Pissed off at pizza, whining at wine or cheesed off at...well... cheese? 

I’m not normally an angry person, I’m really not, but last Saturday I unexpectedly found my hackles raised. By something as innocuous and pleasant as ice cream. How did I get into this state? 

It had been a pleasant and dry night, a rare occasion in what’s been a particularly wet spring in Auckland, and after a couple of drinks we settled into a cosy Mexican restaurant. It was unusually lively and after some excellent fried chicken we decided to skip desert and grab an ice cream on the way home. Not only was there an award winning ice cream parlour not far off our route home, but we would also be able to eat al fresco and away from the hustle and bustle of the lively restaurant. 

For those that don’t know the Auckland ice cream scene, there isn’t one. A good ice cream in Auckland is as rare as a reasonably priced house, or to put it another way rocking horse shit. In fact, to be blunt, two or three decent placed to buy ice cream does not a scene make. And no, I’m not counting Movenpick in that calculation. They don’t count and have no business being in the Southern Hemisphere.

Giapo is another proposition all together. If I was being particularly pretentious then I would say that they were artisan ice cream makers, but I’m not going there. Instead I’ll just say this. If you want a nice simple, but tasty, semi-frozen desert then this is not the place for you. Walk on. Find a dairy. Get a Tip-top.

In all fairness, my spider-sense should’ve started tingling as soon as we entered the premises. The was not a single sign of ice cream in view, other than those that had already been purchase by a group of Japanese’s tourists. Where was the dairy deliciousness? Just as we were starting to wonder if we’d accidentally wandered into an estate agents.....

“Hello, my name is Amy and I’ll be your guide tonight.”

Well that was an unusually turn of phrase. What on earth was she going to guide us to. We only wanted an ice cream. Then, just before we could ask for clarification

“Please, come this way”, she said, pointing towards one of four pedestals with a iPad perched on top. Still no sign of any ice cream.

Intrigued, and a little discombobulated, we made our way to the pedestal and were presented with a menu. 

“May I introduce you to our flavours?”

Before I could get the words “Just a vanilla please” out of my mouth she disappeared only to return moments later with a wooden spatula containing a blob of ice cream on the end. 

“This is our most popular flavour, caramel infused with vanilla and slated caramel”

“Nice”, we said and dutifully slurped the ice cream from the end of the spatula. 

I looked up and was about to ask if they had anything, well, less fancy but was too late. She’d disappeared again to return as before brandishing a wooden stick with another sample of ice cream.

“This is quite special. Double chocolate with crushed hazelnuts and real gold sprinkles, accompanied by fresh cream from Swiss cows whilst a string quartet plays Handel’s Messiah. It’s quite an experience.”

Or at least that’s what I think she said. I’d lost interest around the ‘quite special’ stage. All I wanted was an bleedin’ ice cream. Not fussy and the flavour. Vanillla, chocolate, boysenberry. This was all getting too much.

“What else can I get for you? Maybe you would like to take a seat whilst you chose? Or maybe I can book you in for a tasting tomorrow when it’s more convenient and we can go through your options in a little more detail?”

Frustrated, I replied “err, nah. I’ll have that one please”, and hastily pointed to a random spot on the page. 

“Excellent choice. Would that be in one of our hand folded sugar encrusted cones or in a c..”

“Cup!”.

If I was a little brusque it went unnoticed. I was done with options.

“Very good. Now for the side options. Which of these toppings would you like. I’ll just pop and get some samples for you to try to help you decide....”

“No toppings please just give me the bloody ice cream!”......is what I should’ve said but instead just nodded my head whilst she disappeared and we repeated the whole charade once more.

Eventually, we got to the end of the whole process and our order was repeated back to us. We agreed that sounded like the deal we had come to and the details were entered into the iPad perched on the pedestal.

“That’ll be $23and 50cents”

I was speechless and expecting for that price the ice cream would have to be delivered by a truck. Possibly two.

“Please take a seat. There might be a bit of a wait because the chefs are busy with a few orders already.”

We stood at the back of the reception area, for want of a better word, and stared amazed as sweet sculptures were delivered to their destinations. These things were fantastic and in all shapes and sizes from the petite to gargantuan. Some frosted and others glazed, shimmering in the early evening light. There was one that looked like a sea creature had just been dipped in chocolate and stuck in a cone. 

Squid ice?

Eventually the door to the kitchen swung open and two ice cream marvels in a cup were presented to us. They were like nothing we had seen before. Not so much an ice cream but an edible piece of art. In fact, the only way we knew they were ice cream and not something to display in a trophy cabinet or on the mantle piece was because the were cold. It’s ice cream Jim but not as we know it. This was going to be amazing.

It was then as I took my first bit, eager to find out if all of the hoopla was worth it, I came across a fundamental problem.... I couldn’t actually eat the ice cream. The toffee encrusted glaze that had been so lovingly applied to the ice cream had been gas flamed into something approaching sugary concrete. The flimsy spatula that had been handed out wouldn’t even make a dent and was dangerously close to snapping.

“For f*ck’s sake”, I grumbled under my breath, “this is rock hard!”

I struggled on for a few hundred metres, desperately looking for something that would help break down the ice cream’s seemingly impenetrable coating. A jack-hammer maybe? 

I was getting nowhere fast and had only managed to prize a few small spatula sized pieces of ice cream into my mouth. It was a struggle with very little to show for it so as I passed a bin I tossed the $12 ice cream unceremoniously into the trash. 

I have to say that what little I was able to eat was perfectly pleasant but definitely not worth the pomp and palaver that came with it. At least not to me. I'm sure many would have persevered and been rewarded with a delicious ice cream treat. Maybe I should've been more patient, savouring the moment rather than rushing in an nearly breaking a tooth? But I'd gone past the point were patience was available. Perhaps gourmet ice cream just isn't for me? I’m all for a bit of adventure but not in ice cream. Call me simple but I’ve been just as happy with a nice vanilla choc top thank you very much. Am I sure? Oh, okay. Let’s push the boat out and go for a double choc top!

Let's Do This

After three years of writing I have rarely, if ever, dived into the hazardous waters of writing about politics so I how you will forgive me this one time. And if you don't, well we'll just had to file that in the 'hard-cheddar' category!

Still here? Good, and I promise you that it is really relevant today. For today, sometime shortly after noon, I voted in my first ever New Zealand General Election. Or NZGE for short. Not that anyone is calling it that. Just plain old GE. But for those who can vote in two countries it's important to make the distinction don't you think?

Anyway, if you thought the UK's electoral process was complicated, it ain't got nothing on the Kiwi version. So for those out-of-towners, I'll explain (with more than a little help from Wikipedia and RadioNZ website for the tricky bits!);

How is the New Zealand Parliament structured?

New Zealand has one House of Representatives, usually with 120 members, although the number can increase because of one or two overhang seats, depending on the outcome of the electoral process. More on that later. The term of the New Zealand Parliament is set at three years, which is not quite long enough to get anything done but equally not enough time to do any real damage, unless of course you manage to convince the electorate that you deserve another three years in which case you can run amok. 

That's odd. Was it always like this?

Nope. The term of the Parliament has changed over the years almost as often as I change my socks. In New Zealand's early colonial history, elections were held every five years, as established by The New Zealand Constitution Act of 1852. The term was, however, reduced to three years in 1879 because of concerns about the growing power of central Government. Since then, the term has been altered three times, mainly in times of international crisis. 

During the First World War it was extended to five years. In the early 1930s, it was pushed out to four years. This proved to be unpopular with the electorate and after the election of 1935, the term was reduced to three years again. 

It was extended to four years once again during the Second World War, but returned to three years afterwards. In 1956, the term of three years was entrenched in the Electoral Act which means that it can only be changed by achieving a majority in a national referendum or by a vote of 75% of all members of Parliament

But it's just like the UK right?

It was but not any more. Until 1994, New Zealand used the first-past-the-post electoral system, just like the UK, whereby whichever political party won the most seats on election day became the Government. As we all know this process favours two party systems and for the last 60 years, New Zealand elections have been dominated by the National Party (think Conservative for a UK equivalent and the Labour Party (think errr... Labour Party). Smaller parties found it hard to gain representation and in 1994 New Zealand officially adopted Mixed-Member Proportional Representation, or MMP for short, as its electoral system. Before we get onto that, and I recommend that you get some strong coffee ready because it takes some powers of concentration, there is one unique feature that I need to explain.... Māori seats.

Māori Seats? What are they?

A unique feature of New Zealand's electoral system is that a number of seats in Parliament are reserved exclusively for Māori. However, this was not always the case. In the early colonial era, Māori could not vote in elections unless they owned land as individuals. Not surprisingly European colonists were quite happy with this state of affairs and at the time, Māori were dealing directly with the Crown in regard to the Treaty of Waitangi so and had little interest in the 'pākehā parliament'.

During the wars of the 1860s, some settlers began to realise it was necessary to bring Māori into the British system if the two sides were to get along. After much debate, in 1867 Parliament passed the Māori Representation Act which established four electorates solely for Māori. The four Māori seats were a very minor concession; the settlers had 72 seats at the time and, on a per capita basis, Māori should have got up to 16 seats. Māori with only Māori ancestors had to vote in the Māori seats and only Māori with mixed parentage were allowed to choose whether they voted in European electorates or Māori electorates. 

Surprisingly, this dual voting system continued until 1975 and there was, from time to time, public discussion about whether New Zealand still needed separate seats for Māori as it was considered to be a form of apartheid. In 1985, a Royal Commission on the Electoral System was established and concluded that "separate seats had not helped Māori and that they would achieve better representation through a proportional party-list system". The Commission recommended that if mixed-member proportional (MMP) system was adopted, the Māori seats should be abolished. 

However, the Māori wanted to keep them and the seats were not only retained under MMP, their "number would now increase or decrease according to the results (population numbers) of the regular Māori electoral option". As a result, in 1996 before the first MMP election, the number of Māori seats increased to five, the first increase in 129 years, and in 2002 it was raised to seven.

Needless to say, the existence of Māori Seats is still being used as a political football and remains a hot topic of debate. I'll leave it to others with a much better grasp of New Zealand history and politics to explain.  

Hey, the coffee's ready. So what's all this about MMP?

Right. So why does New Zealand have this weird voting system? I thought you’d never ask. It’s as simple as 1-2-3. 

1. Donald Trump lost by five million votes, but got to be president anyway.

2. That kind of thing used to happen in New Zealand too.

3. It can’t anymore, because… MMP.

Surely the winner is always the winner. How stupid do I look?

No, really. In both 1978 and 1981 the party with fewer votes ran New Zealand. It was pretty unfair – so it was changed.

Yay NZ. So what was it changed to?

Blimey, pay attention. MMP.

Oh, that doesn't sound very exciting. I was expecting more of a Strictly-Come-Voting kind of deal. I feel let down. Why is MMP so cool?

MMP is proportional, so however many votes each party gets in the election is mirrored in Parliament. But not every vote – only party votes.

Yeah! I'd vote for a party.

Not that kind of party.

But isn't every vote for a party?

God, no. That would be easy.

So every vote is for a person?

Nope, try again.

I give up, that’s all I had.

First - everyone gets two votes.

Generous but weird.

Pay attention, this is the vital bit. The two votes are different. You get:

• One (1) electorate vote - for a person to represent your local area.

• One (1) party vote - for the party you want to be the government.

So, twice the power!

Not really. One is useful, the other is powerful. The vote that affects the election outcome is the party vote. Party vote. You can use the electorate (local) vote however you like - vote for someone you like or trust, even if they’re from a different party to the one you want to win the election.

But the party vote – that’s for the party you want to win the election. The party you care about. The party you hope will be part of, or leading, the government.

That’s easy. Why does anyone get confused?

Because of this next bit. I warn you to leave now and stay blissfully unconfused. 

Still here.

Take a breath then. To get into Parliament, a political party has to achieve one of two thresholds. First, if a party wins five percent or more of the total party vote, they get that same percentage of MPs.

So if they got exactly five percent of the party vote they would get six MPs?

Yes, exactly. Five percent of the total 120 MPs is six MPs. Good maths.

Woohoo. Achievement unlocked!  And the other way?

If a party win any electorate, they get that electorate MP, and they get extra MPs to match whatever percentage they got of the party vote.

Plus that MP?

No, including that MP. So if ACT won the Epsom electorate, and also got, say, 1.8 percent of the party vote, they would get two MPs - including the MP for Epsom.

Because 1.8 percent of 120 MPs is two?

Exactly. Ultimately, each party’s proportion of all of the MPs in Parliament is exactly the same as their percentage of the party vote.

And who would that second MP be?

Each party publishes a list of wannabe MPs that will be used to top up its proportion of the party vote, after accounting for its electorate MPs. That’s what they call the party lists.

But what if they won an electorate but only 0.2 percent of the party vote, and so didn’t deserve any MPs based on percentage

You just described Peter Dunne’s United Future party result in the 2014 election.

They still get the local MP. But Parliament gets resized to 121 MPs to try to work around that extra MP. It’s called an ‘overhang’.

Which must make it harder to form a government, right?

Yes, because then you need 62 MPs to get a majority rather than the normal 61, which favours the coalition the overhang MP goes along with.

But what if your party doesn’t win any electorates, but gets 4.9 percent of the party vote?

So close, but they fail to get any MPs.

No wonder people get confused. What would happen to their 4.9 percent?

Good question. The percentage of party votes that doesn’t lead to MPs is called the wasted vote. It gets shared out among the successful parties in proportion to their own vote win.

So if six percent of party votes were ‘wasted’, and National got, say, 47 percent of the party vote, they would get given another three percent and get topped up to 50 percent?

More or less. You really have this maths thing down.

Thank you. I am now also fully confused and a little bit tired.

Good. My work here is done. But you really don’t need to know all that detailed stuff just remember, the party vote is the important one. Use it well, Grasshopper.

Phew! If you've made it this far you're technically an expert on the New Zealand electoral and parliament system. 

So what does an election campaign look like in New Zealand? 

Well, there is certainly less nastiness than during those held in the UK and it's a refreshing change for policies to get some airtime and column inches over personal attacks. That said, the Labour candidate has been questioned on her gender and whether the fact that that makes her fit to lead the country. Hasn't she got babies to have and washing to iron? Mostly it has been positive coveregae but it has degenerated over the last few weeks as the poll results continued to show an alarming trend.....

You see, for a while it was perceived that it was a foregone conclusion that National would waltz back into government. At the last election Labour had spectacularly imploded and showed no signs of mounting any kind of challenge to the dominant National party. Champagne had been put on ice, the foie-gras had been ordered and Bill English, the current NZ Prime Minister, was already selecting which tie to wear for his victory speech. That was before Jacinda Ardern took over the leadership of the Labour Party on the 1 August. Under Ardern there has been a ground swell of support for the Labour Party, especially among the younger electorate, and with it a 15% upturn in the polls with very little daylight between either of the main parties numbers. Fancy building a campaign around a positive message and a glimpse of a brighter future. What was she thinking?

Not quite the foregone conclusion that it once was. Predictably, with the pressure now on, the National Party has turned to their friends in the press for help as experts were rolled out to explain how much worse off people would be under a Labour government. Oh and the fact that the opposition leader has the audacity to be female. 

So how did you vote?

I'm not saying. That's between me and my conscience. For those that know me and my political affiliations it wouldn't be a huge leap of the imagination. Voting has already started - it is a two week period in New Zealand - so I'll have to wait for another week to find out whether I'll be jumping for joy or drowning my sorrows.