Should a Once Broken Hearted Guy Give a City a Second Chance?

Even though I've been in New Zealand for over fourteen months, this time around at least, I've only ever been to the capital once before. The previous time was part of a whirlwind 'tiki-tour' (you're going to have to look that one up) of this beautiful country and the experience was not good. If first impressions are as important as they are made out to be, then the fact that my over riding memory of Wellington is witnessing a bar fight tells you all you need to know about that maiden visit. And if you don't believe me you can experience the visit here. 

http://inthelandlongwhitecloud.blogspot.co.nz/2013/12/wellington.html?m=1

So it came as a bit of a surprise, to me at least, when I suggested a trip to the capital to help celebrate by birthday. I had heard so many people tell me what a great little city it was, that I thought that either they were suffering from mass delusion or I had got it plain wrong. Obviously the former reason was the most likely but, hey, I'm an open minded guy. So with the promise of a great weekend away, and potentially the second bout of a great bar fight in mind we arrived in the second most famous Windy City. 

Second time around the experience couldn't have been more different. It really is a great wee city. Nestled in a natural harbour and surrounded by impressive hills, dotted with houses that  cling improbably to the precipitous slope, it really is a super location to build a city. You could be forgiven for thinking you were in the Italian riviera; sun glistening in the azure sea, golden stretches of beaches, scooters riding up and down the winding coastal road and more ice cream and coffee shops than you could shake a stick at. But, boy is it windy. In the taxi, on the way to the Parkrun, we were casually informed that this wasn't windy, it was a mere breeze and us Aucklanders are just soft and, quite frankly, Wellingtonians are sick of people telling them how windy it is thank you very much. Sorry I mentioned it. Wind or no wind, it was a beautiful day and with the sun beating down what great timing to spend some time in Wellington. And perfect conditions for Wellington to make amends.

I won't bore you with the details, but we rode on a cable car, wandered around the botanical gardens, sought sanctuary in a nature reserve, ate, drank from the brewery tap and were well and truly merry in wonderful Welly. 

It does make me wonder what went wrong last time. We're we too tired? Was it the weather? We're we just not in the mood? Or are we just more attuned to the city after having been in New Zealand for well over a year? Maybe all or just one of these hold the answer. 

Either way, what's done is done and is water under the bridge. But now if asked "Should a once broken hearted guy give a city a second chance?" then the answer has to be a resounding "yes! Of course! And beside what have you got to lose?"

Game Over

So there you have it, and I don't know why I was surprised really, as true-to-form England crash out of another tournament. Before it had began really. No doubt, back home, there will be pages and pages of analysis as to why we were not up to the mark in another game that we invented. Chances spurned and games lost.

And because of our untimely exit, I was expecting a rough ride in work on Monday. I really was. It was not so much the fact that we crashed out, but the manner of the defeat. Capitulation to lesser sides, as the press would have us believe. So there was that, and the fact that it was at the hands of the Aussies. Those two facts, or at least I thought, would condemn me to a day of misery and torment.

I assumed, wrongly, that there would be some kind of symbol laid out in jest for me when I turned the corner into my pod. Maybe a deflated rugby ball or a Kiwi flag? Nope. Nothing. Ahh, I thought, they're saving up the comments for the team meeting later this morning. Then I will really get it. I'll be like a cornered animal, unable to escape to the relative safety of the print room.

The meeting came and went without so much as a sideways glance or half-hidden snigger. Odd, I thought, but if not the meeting then when? Oh, how could I have forgotten? Of course, lunchtime! Yes, that's when it'll start. I'll just be tucking into my salad with pita bread and then it'll start. They know that with a gob full of green leaves I'll hardly be able to mount a comeback....

I had my lunch in peace and quite... well apart from the usual kitchen chatter; house prices in Auckland, the state of the dairy business, which flag is the best replacement and is a straight V8 really enough or would a V12 be better. 

It had reached mid afternoon and lunch was a distant memory but still not a word and it was making me anxious. This was getting ridiculous and it was becoming hard to concentrate on anything. Each passing minute only served to increase the tension as the moment of verbal assault was more likely to arrive. Yet nothing. Slowly tension gave way to disappointment - I'd been planning my witty responses all day. I didn't want to waste such pearls as "The referee was clearly out of his depth", "The Welsh were really lucky to stay on the park" or the particularly clever and subtle "Oh, go and stick you head up a cows..." I think you get the picture.

There was only one thing for it, I'd just have to pre-empt the onslaught. Crack the dam wall if you like. 

"Hey, I'm really surprised no one has mentioned the rugby", I offered and stood well back ready for the tirade of abuse. The response was somewhat surprising and much worse then I could ever have imagined.

"Oh, well we didn't think you would want to talk about it and didn't want to upset you", came the response. 

"What game?" came another, "Oh that? Nah it was a foregone conclusion. The Aussies were bound to win".

And that was that. Game over. End of.

I don't what I was expecting really. I don't even like rugby but some reaction would've been nice. You know a quick jibe or joke about how crap England were to put me at ease. Settle me down. But no. I had to spend the entire day waiting for the inevitable that just didn't happen. And it made me a little homesick. If there is one thing you can rely upon UK office friends for, and that is to kick you when you're down. At your lowest ebb? No problem. 'Ere take that! Thwok! A well aimed kick in the proverbials. Well, how else are they going to show that they care? 

A Thoroughly Modern Bully

If common wisdom is true, and the first step to recovery is admitting that there is a problem, then I am about to make a Neil Armstrong sized breakthrough. Which is my rather circuitous way of telling you that I am being bullied. Gosh, I do feel a whole lot better. Right, best foot forward and on with the therapy. Which is, ironically, the problem. Putting a foot forward that is. Or to be more accurate putting another foot in front of the other. What? Oh, I'm talking about steps. Steps. Steps. Seemingly there's just not enough of them.

You see it all started innocently enough, with the purchase of a new running watch. No, of course not a watch that could run but a watch to use whilst running. Can I continue? Thank you. So I have recently purchased a watch to use whilst running as a replacement to the one I had that has expired. It's time had come so to speak. Little did I know that I had just entered a while new world of pain and anguish. This new watch has a hidden function, one that was unsurprisingly hidden from me at the time of purchase, and that is to torture and ridicule its wearer. It is, to put it more plainly, an evil watch. You see it counts your steps. Incessantly. This wasn't mentioned on the packaging or the brightly colour advert in the running magazine. No, of course not a magazine that runs, but a magazine devoted to running. Sheesh. Well devoted to running and, as it turns out, the dark arts. 

Not only does it count steps but it sends a message, along with a vibrating alert, when you haven't moved for a while. I can only assume that the manufacturers couldn't figure out a way to accompany this alert with an electric shock without completely depleting the battery. 

This was fun at first. A bit of a novelty. I'd be sat at work....working...and then get a gentle reminder that it has been nearly an hour since I'd stood up. So, In response to the reminders, I casually get up and go for a walk and speak to colleagues who, unaware I am obeying my watch, presumably think I've suddenly become a lot chattier these days.

The honeymoon period did not last long and I've seen through its friendly facade. Not only does it count steps and remind you when you've not moved in a while, but it also sets you a daily goal. "How lovely, I like a challenge", I hear you think. Well here's the thing. When you reach your daily challenge, the next time it's a bit more. Not much - a hundred steps or so - but more. Then more. And more. Each day getting increasingly harder to meet the target and please the master..... sorry watch. The watch is a fascist, a bully and impossible to satisfy.

I've now come to the conclusion that the watch was made by Satan himself. Let's review the simple fact - what is the point of putting a step counter into a running watch? If the point is to motivate the wearer into being more active, then surely the fact that it is worn WHILST RUNNING is surely enough. Runners aren't exactly known for their fondness for the couch, unless it is, or course, after a long run. Today is a perfect example of that. I have ran 15km today and well and truly met my step target for today. In fact I had met it by the time I had arrived at the start line on Devonport. And it had truly been smashed by the time I got home. There was absolutely no way the master.....sorry watch....could be displeased with that. So there I was, resting on the couch with a cup of tea, feeling pleased with myself for being so active, when the all too familiar buzz was felt on my wrist. 'MOVE' was flashing on the small screen and it had gone red, presumably to highlight it's anger towards me. How dare I? How dare I sit there and relax with a cup of tea when I should be up and about. Presumably, watch the watch wanted to say was 'STOP SITTING AROUND ON YOUR FAT ARSE DRINKING TEA YOU LAZY GIT. YOU'VE ONLY RAN 15km. GET UP. YOU ARE SUCH A DISAPPOINTMENT TO ME'. I can only thank mercy for the limited screen space.

Was there no pleasing it? This thing was impossible. But deep down, I knew it was right. I have, after all, only done 24,483 steps today and there are plenty of hours left. What am I doing? I'm wasting my life away sitting here drinking tea. Whilst it's still light I'm going to get out there and do some more - oh and there's a torch in the hall drawer so I could maybe squeeze in some more steps after dinner. Yes - I'll show it who's boss......

Hibernation

It's about time I went into hibernation. I know that it's spring - maybe it's my northern hemisphere upbringing that's causing this - but I really need to get my head down. Or should that be 'keep' my head down. Tired? No not at all. Bloody rugby. 

Yes, the spectacle of the Rubgy World Cup is looming and apparently New Zealand are a decent side. Not that you would know that from this side of the world. It's hardly mentioned....... And in case you were wondering, that was sarcasm. I can live with the papers getting all excited, they are easy to avoid, as are promos on TV. But this morning I was treated to this image when I opened the fridge at work. No that's not oil. It's milk. In black milk cartons. Sorry All Black milk cartons.

But bloody rugby. Hardly the beautiful game. Not that association football is the beautiful game either. No, I've been to far too many cold and wet torrid games to ever call it that. Sure, there are moments of inspiration and brilliance but they are few and far between. Yes, before you say it, I've only got myself to blame. Supporting Middlesbrough was never going to be easy. And to paraphrase Harry Pearson, there's a reason the grass is so green at the Riverside......it's because of all the shit that's been on it!

Anyway I am, as they like to say in management meetings, off topic. Back to rugby. What an odd game. Admittedly I am pre-disposed to dislike it. I truly am. Well, as you asked, we played it at school and Henry Smith was a rugby school. Not that this was ever debated, put to the vote and agreed, of course, it just seemed to have been decreed by the dictator, sorry PE head teacher, Mr Dee. It was inevitable as he had, allegedly, played at internationall level and what better way to demonstrate your love of the game you used to play than to get twenty-odd (I love it so much that I'm not even sure how many people are on a team) kids to beat the living shite out of each other on a Wednesday morning. Thinking back, it wasn't even that. Rather than pick two relatively even matched sides to play, surely it's much more sporting to pit the school first eleven against much weaker opposition. ie the rest of us. And to add insult to inevitable injury, chastise the weaker side for not trying hard enough. "You're making it too easy for them!," came the shout followed by "Put your back into it" and "Stop bleeding on the pitch you useless twerp!". Ahh, school days. It's no wonder I took up running in later life.

There was, it has to be said, a few times that he may have had a point. Sort of. After weeks of getting battered it soon became obvious that if you were no where near the ball then the chances of getting clobbered were dramatically reduced. Not a great tactic for winning the game, but without equal for getting off the pitch with the most number of limbs intact. Avoidance tactics did lead to some memorable moments, such as kids actively running away from the ball when it was hoisted into the air as if it were a huge peanut and they all had a chronic allergy to nutty substances. Unfortunately the fascist state, as we liked to call them, cottoned on to the avoidance strategy and warned us that anyone with clean knees at the end of the beating...sorry game... would be subjected to further physical punishment. Queue then comical images of a team of rugby players walking around on their knees trying to find the sloppiest muddy puddle to prove their participation and innocence. Not an easy feat on a frozen pitch in the north east of England.

So I don't like rugby. And it has to be said that this is a slight disadvantage when living in New Zealand. They are quite different fond of it. You may have noticed. So in an attempt to integrate further into kiwi society we decided that we had to embrace the game. And what better way to fan the flames of our passion than to get tickets for an All Black game. In fact it was one better than that. It was the All Blacks against the Aussies in the final game of the Bledisloe Cup. It was bound to be a 'ripper'....

The full time whistle couldn't come soon enough. What a boring, pointless game. Nothing seemed to happen. I could give you a detailed match report but it'd be too much. Okay, go on, I'll give it a go. Well, a big bloke kicked the ball in the air as hard as he could and then everyone ran after it. It bounced funny, because it's not round, but someone managed to grab it before the rest of the pack jumped on him. He then ran off and when they got near he kicked it in the air as far as he could and they all ran after it. This was repeated several times until someone had had enough. Then they all stood around and after a while they had a hug, a bit of a rest and then it started again. Fascinating but I can't imagine feeling bone weary bored had I seen some of the worlds best football teams play. Take your pick; Brazil, Argentina, Spain, Germany, Juventus, Real Madrid, Barcelona, Bayern Munich and Accrington Stanley. What? Okay so maybe not Spain. But the rest - world class!

So I have decided that, after seeing two of the worlds best teams play and still being bored out of my skull, rugby is not for me. You can't say haven't tried. I really have. On the Monday morning, around the coffee machine I thought I'd try and find our what the rest of the office thought. Maybe it was a bad game after all. Maybe this was the equivalent of a boring one sided thrashing or a 0-0 draw and a drab Tuesday night. "Oh! What a brilliant game", said one. "It was a tactical showpiece," came another. "Wasn't it a bit....well.....boring", said another. Wait! Oh no! That was me! I'd just committed the cardinal sin and dissed the national sport and the national side. I couldn't help it. The words just popped out. Unannounced like. 

I must say they took it rather well. All things being considered. They shrugged it off as another Brit who was jealous of the all conquering All Blacks. No hard feelings. At least I don't think so, although my coffee hasn't quite tasted the same since. Somehow a bit creamier?

Tell Me Why?..........

If there is one thing that living in a new country has taught me it's that Monday mornings are still Monday mornings. And by extrapolation, Sunday evening are still Sunday evenings. 

Yes, the spectre of Monday morning is slowly stretching its shadowy hand over the remnants of Sunday evening as slowly we slide into another working week. And it got me to thinking. When does the weekend actually end? I know in theory that it ends with the book being closed, the alarm clock being set and the light turning out but that's not really true is it? Nope, the weekend actually ends much earlier than that when the working day routine slowly starts to gear up. There's lunches to be made, bags to be packed, baths to be had and diaries to be checked. These signallers of the week to come are also the tasks that kill off the weekend. And boy are they good at their job. 

Maybe the answer to the pending Monday blues is to go out on the lash on Sunday night. You know, really stick the fingers up to The Man and in a final act of rebellion get stinkingly drunk shouting "Ha-ha! You'll never take me alive you b'stard!". But both you and I know that's just not going to happen. Oh my god, the thought of starting a week of work with a hangover. I'm shuddering at the thought.

Okay, so maybe not going on the lash. Perhaps a night out at the cinema. Yes! That's it! There's no need to get blindingly drunk to have a good time. I appreciate it's a strange concept but it is entirely possible to enjoy one's self without the use of alcohol. Or so I am told. Ahh, but wait. The cinema won't work either. That will mean getting to bed really, really late. Gone 9pm. Practically an all nighter. The thought of starting a working week tired is not something I would like to consider thank you very much. Even if I were to wear my pyjamas under my clothes, by the time I got out of the cinema, walked home and peeled off a few layers it'd be far too late. Nope the cinema is definitely out.

How about going for a nice meal? A sort of celebratory feast. Yes, that's the ticket....nope.....wait......I can't sleep on a full stomach. A restless night is not what the doctor ordered. Scratch that then. 

I'll just have to grin and bear it - apply a good dose of that stiff upper lip we are supposedly famous for and get through it. It's coming whether I like it or not. Looking back, I always get through them and by the time my first coffee of the day has injected the much needed caffeine into my blood stream I've forgotten all about the ordeal. But sitting here, staring from the wrong side, it just seems....well so unfair. After spending a relaxing day strolling along on a beach, relaxing in a park or idling some time away in a cafe it just doesn't seen right to be dragged back down to earth by having to go to work. Boooo! I say. Booo with knobs on!

I can here the critisisms from here, "Oh, hark at him. Sitting there with his mild weather with spring on the way. Luxury!" But don't you see - that makes it worse! Having nice weather (although at the moment it is raining like a bastard) and beaches and parks on tap makes it all the more difficult to drag my lazy bum into work come Monday morning. And I do, of course, know that some reading this are not as lucky to have such a regular working pattern. I should count myself very lucky to have a job at all. I know. I know. And I do. Count myself lucky that is, and can only apologise if this whole blog sounds a little bit like a whinging spoilt child. I'm sorry and will try harder......but it doesn't stop Sunday evening being a total and utter bummer.

Anniversary

Anniversaries are a strange thing. Giving pause to look back; challenges overcome, moments experienced and achievements.... errr.... achieved. Very rarely do they make one look ahead. Which is probably a good thing. Who knows what the reaction would be. No, best stick with the past. For one it's a lot clearer and for another it's done. No more energy required. Completed.

So why this sudden urge to be all retrospective? Well just a few days ago we passed our first anniversary of being in New Zealand. I know, I can hardly believe it myself. A whole year. Gone. Just like that. In fact, we'd already passed some other significant milestones on the way to this one; one year since quitting our UK jobs, one year since we moved out of our house, one year since we started sofa surfing and a year since we took off and left UK soil. 

We celebrated our first anniversary by walking to the Domain and having an ice cream, just like we did on our first weekend proper in Auckland. We looked around as we licked our salted caramel treats, and saw ourselves in the same place a year ago, remembering being amazed we'd made it this far..... and had the same feeling. Weren't we just the coolest cats?

So at the risk of sounding like one of those New Year television programs - you know the ones that review the events of the past twelve months - here are some of the highlights and lowlights;

Highlights

• Finding a lovely place to live 
• Meeting up with friends
• Sitting on Auckland's stunning beaches
• Settling in to a new workplace and making new friends
• The climate
• Kiwis
• Out stuff arriving from the UK - in one piece. 
• Sneaky side trips - Sydney for a weekend!
• Tahiti
• The Kepler Track
• 'Discovering' Moa beer
• Elbow at the Powerstation
• Joining a new running club
• Rekindling a love for the cinema (could be just the wine though)
• The regional and local parks
• Flowers
• Birds
• Mountains
• Lakes
• and of course pies

Lowlights

• Saying goodbye to friends and family
• Living out of a suitcase for two months
• Saying goodbye to new friends.
• Auckland rain (not very often but boy can it rain)
• Finding a lovely, but sometimes cold, place to live in
• Having to work for a living when it feels like we should be on holiday
• Actually looking forward to going to work when it's either too hot or too cold at home.
• The TV programmes - OMG what are they thinking?

And many more. It's like the past year just passed in front of my eyes.  So what now? What will the coming twelve months bring? One thing is for certain, it's going to be interesting....

Stranded!

Now I can appreciate that most people would view being stranded on a tropical island as not a particularly huge problem, assuming of course that there was a plentiful supply of water, food and wifi, but I am. And it is actually thank you very much.

Putting aside the fact that no-one is going to believe me, especially my work colleagues, it has put a crimp on my plans. Being in work tomorrow for one and having clean clothes. And the day was going all so well....

After a lovely morning lounging around we finally got ourselves ready, breakfasted and headed around the island towards the airport. After stopping a few times en-route (see how I cleverly slipped a bit of French in there!) to admire the view of the lagoon and the waves breaking out at sea on the coral barrier, we arrived at the airport far too early - even for us. We have a habit of overestimating how long things are going to take; driving to the airport, dropping of the hire car, checking in and so forth that we usually spend a good chunk of our holiday actually in the airport, wandering around and chastising ourselves, once again, for setting off far too early. Today was no exception, although our arrival was hastened by the fact that it had decided to rain hard and that, it being a Sunday an' all, there were no restaurants open for business. With nearly four hours to kill we were certainly in no danger of missing our flight. At least we were in the shelter of the airport whilst a rain storm of biblical proportions played out outside.

But it was all good - we had some snacks, reading matter and a comfortable seat. Which was a good job as we were about to find out. Now don't get me wrong, I quite like airport departure lounges. As well as the anticipation of a journey yet to take, there are shops, cafes and people. People watching is one of the most entertaining things to do in departure lounges. They are a weird bunch. Take the guy, for example, who was fashioning a 'rat's tail' hair cut and was wearing a t-shirt that broadly boasted 'This is my going out shirt'. Or at least that's what I think it said. It was hard to tell with the martial being stretched to breaking point across his beer belly. I wonder if his wife liked it? She was a very slim and attractive southeast Asian woman. Now I'm not going to jump to any conclusions so I'll stop right there. There was also the usual couple who, when faced with the news that their bags were over the weight limit, proceeded to argue their case with the terminal staff. It wasn't going well and I have to say that questioning their parenthood was not perhaps the most tactful approach. After at least thirty minutes they accepted defeat and coughed up, all the while mumbling about having flown all around the world and suggesting that Air New Zealand were once part of the Third Reich. The ironic thing, and it wasn't wasted on the rest of the queue judging by the looks they were getting, was that they were in the Express Check-In lane.

Yes, time was passing nicely and it was nearly our allotted boarding time. But something was up. The plane that we were supposed to be getting on was not on its stand. Ah, but the board still had the flight showing as being on time so all was good. Back to the people....

Now I'm no expert in aviation planning but I do suspect that you actually need an aeroplane to get onto in order to begin boarding. It would be a horrible charade otherwise. Our boarding time had been and gone and we were still sat, on the thankfully comfortable, departure lounge seats. We had now been in the airport for four hours. Those who were observant, or had been there so long that they had internalised the staffing schedule, would have noticed an increase activity at the rear of the room. Something was definitely up. And that, as it turns out, was the problem. The incoming plane was not able to land due to poor visibility. Okay, it was a little damp, but enough to not be able to land a modern jet plane? If planes couldn't land in the UK due to wet weather then we'd have less flights than a small island in the South Pacific and Heathrow be a backwater facility. Which would be nice for the residents. Anyway, the aeroplane had been diverted to neighbouring Rarotonga to determine what to do next. Fit some wiper blades maybe? If we felt bad, just consider the passengers on the incoming flight - as first days of a holiday go, being sat on an aeroplane whist your fate is decided is not the best start. Even if the plane is on the runway in a tropical island.

The news, when it came was not good. They were going to take off and go back to Auckland where the weather was more conducive to landing a sophisticated aircraft thank you very much. They might try again tomorrow. Tomorrow? What's wrong with this evening? The rain had actually stopped and the stars were clearly visible. 

We'd now been in the airport for nearly six hours. It had been so long that I was considering getting a part time job - I felt that by now I knew the workings of the airport better then most and besides it would help pass the time and bring a little more money in.

Just as I was formulating my interview responses we were told to collect our bags, return through immigration - I don't know why because we hadn't actually gone anywhere - and get onto a shuttle bus which would take us to a hotel. Which it did. Eventually.

So here we are. Roughing it in a five star hotel, in a suite that is bigger than our house in Auckland, a private balcony, cool air conditioning and a minibar stocked with tiny drinks. Or at least it was stocked. As places to wait it's not bad. I might have a dip in the pool later, or maybe go to the spa. Choices, choices. 

But despite all that, it's not where I was supposed to be and that's annoying. If I'd have wanted an extra day's holiday it wouldn't have been this. Does that make me ungrateful? Probably. But there is nothing I can do about it. I can no more influence the flight of an aircraft than I can direct a light opera. So I'm just going to have to sit back, relax and make the most of an extra day in Tahiti. Life's a bitch.

We've just heard that we might be departing at 7pm this evening, only 1 day, 1 hour and 25 minutes later than scheduled. Now that's a record that Nerwork Rail would be proud of!