Getting Away from It

In what is becoming a bit of an Easter tradition, we are spending the holiday weekend on a tropical island.  In years gone by we spent most Easters camping, usually in the Lake District, and we had some fab times. Yes, some were wet, but for most of them the weather played its part and what better place is there to be than camping in Cumbria. But with a multitude of island getaways on Auckland's doorstep, and with the roads to the camping grounds in the north blocked with holiday traffic, it's shockingly quicker to fly to a South Pacific island and swap canvas for canapés.

This time it's Samoa's turn to play host and so far it's been a fantastic choice to get away from it all. Totally off the grid, away from emails, BBC news, football results, Facebook, Strava, and general global turmoil. And yes, I appreciate the irony of writing a blog about being off the grid that I can't actually post . You'll just have to take my word for it that what follows is all true and I'm not actually in a bar in Auckland making this all up. Although, cone to think of it, that would've been considerably cheaper and less damaging on the waistline. Probably.

It's not that this place is so remote that it doesn't have the internet, it does, it's just that I'm too tight to pay for the wifi cards or air time of our phones. I could, of course, turn on data roaming but I'm still paying off the debt from doing that two Easters ago in Tahiti to get a quick peek at Google Maps when we couldn't find our accommodation.  

So I can't send hourly photo updates of the beautiful sun, glistening sands and the roaring waves that are crashing on the coral reef a few hundred metres out to sea. 

I also can't send photos of me grinning from ear to ear holding whatever is the cocktail of the day, or underwater photos of fantastically coloured fish. You wouldn't want to see that anyway, I'm sure.

And no camera can catch the fact that it's 34 degrees and very, very humid. Being outside is not unlike being wrapped in a blanket. The air feels thick and gloopy and just walking is a struggle, although that might be the pizza from lunchtime getting it's revenge. We did try and take some refuge from the all encompassing heat yesterday afternoon and retreated to our chalet. If I have learnt one thing from this trip it's that, after closing all of the windows and doors, you really need to turn on the air conditioning unit to get the benefit! Essentially we created our own sauna as we sat in a closed room, with no fresh air for two hours in the baking heat and sapping humidity. On the plus side, however, my skin feels really rejuvenated after profusely sweating for several hours!

Apart from that, our days have revolved around swimming in the pool, snorkelling, eating and drinking and not much else. Not that that is a bad thing, which is just as well as it's likely to be the pattern for the next few days, although we have threatened to go for a run at least once. The thought of trying to run in this heat doesn't exactly make me jump into my running shoes, but I can't miss the opportunity to get a Samoan run onto my Strava account. Plus it will give more weight to the fact that we are actually here! After all, if it doesn't happen on Strava then it hasn't happened!

In a few days though we'll be back in a 'cold' New Zealand autumn with temperatures dropping below twenty and rain on the horizon. Well I assume so, we left with a cyclone knocking on the front door of Auckland so let's hope it's still there. Not that I would know if it wasn't.  I'm off the grid you see, and relaxing in blissful ignorance. Did I mention that already?

 

Getting Frooty

On the odd occasion that I head out for a run in the morning, it's not uncommon to come across a group of tired and terrified looking group of people jumping up and down whilst being yelled at for not trying hard enough.

Yes I'll admit I'm only basing this on an extremely small sample size because by 'odd occasion' I actually mean hardly ever. Well, it's so hard to be motivated first thing in the morning what with all the sleeping that's to be done. And if they wasn't enough to fill your morning then there is the coffee. Well it won't just drink itself will it? With such a hectic morning routine it's not surprising that there's actually very little time to devote to putting on running shoes and heading out the door. I'd love to but it's just not possible. Honest!

But on the odd occasion that I have managed to squeeze in a few laps around the Domain between bouts of sleep and caffeine intake, I have been quite surprised that fellow early morning fitness fanatics would chose to eschew a nice cup of coffee for being shouted at by a burly bloke with a buzz cut. Why do they do it? If that wasn't bad enough, they pay for the pleasure. I can't imagine waking up early in the morning and thinking, "What I really need now is to put on some active wear and go and stand in the cold in the park and be shouted at. That's just the ticket!" It really makes me question their state of mind not to mention the quality of their coffee. 

But, despite the verbal abuse that these sessions bring, judging by the size and number of these groups, the Boot Camp business is booming.

Anyone who knows me will appreciate that I'm not the rebellious type and much prefer to keep my head down and get on with it, or hope that whatever it is goes away, whichever comes first. But I'm pretty sure that being shouted at whilst trying to come to terms with being in the park at some ungodly hour is likely to bring out the worst in me. Or best, depending on your point of view and attitude towards chaos. And for that reason, as well as a general sense of early morning apathy, I've given these group fitness sessions a wide berth.

Until this evening that is. Admittedly it was partly in response to being told by a physio that I should run less for a while (he might have actually said 'no running' but I wasn't really paying attention at this point and was already planning my next half marathon). But also because I felt the need to improve my overall general fitness without resorting to a gym membership, the aforementioned verbal abuse or indeed getting up early. Any of those three things is likely to send shivers down the spine of any well adjusted individual.

So on the recommendation of some friends, I turned up at my first Froot Camp. No that's not a typo. Why 'Froot' I hear you ask? Well I understand that it's because it's free. So it's a Free Boot Camp, or Froot Camp for short. But I rather think, after having completed my first session, that it's because it's a Friendly Boot Camp. Absolutely no shouting involved. Which is a relief.

And you would be excused for thinking that if it's free then it can't be as good as those you pay good money for. Admittedly, having never paid for the pleasure of being ridiculed in public, I don't have a reliable point of reference. But, if the effort that was needed to lift my iPad off my lap to type this blog was anything to go by, then I'd say it hit the target. With all too precise accuracy for my liking!

And it doesn't just stop at my arms. My legs are tired, my stomach muscles are wondering what they've done to deserve such a beating and the softness of my bed looks oh so inviting at the moment. And I still haven't taken off my running shoes. Just the thought of bending down that low is making me wince.

There is a lot to be said for training with a group of like-minded people, and proof that it doesn't have to be abusive, well in a verbal sense anyway and I'll definitely be back for more. And as for that half marathon I was planning? Well compared to Froot Camp it'll be a walk in the park.

 

The Times They Are A-Changin

Yes I know that I could have equally titled this blog 'Stop Me If You Think Youve Heard This One Before', but I've just got to say that I still find the changing of the seasons confusing, back to front and more than a little discombobulating.

What has brought this on? Well last night the clocks changed in New Zealand. No big deal, I know, but it's now pitch black but still 18 degrees with 81% humidity. For you budding meteorologists out there, that means it's warm and sticky. And dark. And it's just not right! When the clocks change to their autumnal setting, it's supposed to be cold, crisp and fresh. And you certainly shouldn't have a preying mantis trying to make its way enthusiastically up the wall whilst wondering if it's safe to turn off the anti-mosquito device. It's all rather hard to take in if I'm being honest. 

To add to the utter confusion, shops in the high street are preparing their Easter displays. You know the drill; bunnies, eggs, baby chickens (chicklets?) and daffodils. It's all out of season for those raised on a northern hemisphere cultural diet. When you're expecting to see pumpkins and witches' brooms we're getting Easter paraphernalia. Simply put. It's. Not. Spring.

It's enough to drive you to distraction. Maybe it's these mixed messages that resulted in one of the most talked about events of the year so far. No, not a visit by Justin Bieber, but an audaciaous raid on a local art gallery. Yes, during the early hours of Saturday morning Parnell played host to a heist. Or The Heist as it's now being called. 

I know what you're thinking, "Why go all of the bother of ram-raiding an art gallery when most of the rubbish in there could be painted by my five year old niece?". Well ordinarily I'd be with you. But this is Parnell and the thieves took off with two paintings worth over $1m. Which is not bad for a night's work.

Although the residents of this neighbourhood are outwardly outraged, that a crime of this nature could happen in this sleepy bohemian enclave, secretly they're chuffed to bits. Yes you really know you're living in an up and coming area when it can host a heist. Forget all of the Ferraris and Porsches, you know  you're doing well when the art gallery gets done over. It's certainly going to put Parnell on the map once again and give our neighbouring neighbourhoods something to aspire to. I even heard one local say, whilst queuing in a grocers to buy some tofu, "You can say what you like about Parnell, but Ponsonby's never had a heist! That'll shut them up. Tschh, they haven't even got a gallery!"

Amidst all of the chatter, the Police went door-to-door asking if anyone had heard anything or seen anything suspicious. I imagine it was a fruitless exercise, a bit like the time I went to the shop to buy bananas only to find they'd all been sold, as most Parnellians are well in bed by 3am. It's not, shall we say, a party 'burb. Besides, everyone knows that the paintings are probably still inside the gallery, as anyone whose seen The Thomas Crown Affiar knows.

And if they aren't still in the gallery, then they can't have gotten far. Not on New Zealand roads. Unless they had a boat waiting in the harbour, in which case they might be on one of the many outlying islands. My money would be Waiheke. Plenty of rich folk there and the perfect place to flog a million dollars worth of artwork. Ponsonby wouldn't even get a look in!

 

Neighbourhood Watch

Well it had to happen sooner or later. After two and a bit very peaceful years in this house, we have finally managed to fall out with the neighbours. And it wasn't our fault. Honest! They started it.....

We thought that we were model neighbours; we were clean and tidy, we were respectfully quiet, didn't throw wild parties (although that was more to do with the lack of opportunity than by choice) and were polite and civil whenever our paths crossed. It all seemed to be going well until a few months ago when, late in the evening, there was a knock at the window. I looked out, but couldn't see anything. Odd? There it was again, and as before, upon looking out there was nothing to be seen. This strange behaviour went on for a few days, and each time the knocking sound got increasingly frantic. 

Pretty soon, the knocks on the window were followed by loud excalamations and commotion. But each time we went to look out of the window there was nothing to see, only an empty street bathed in the glow of sodium lighting. Then, without warning or provocation, as we were leaving the house one morning we were attacked. I know, shocking! What had we done to warrant physical violence? Not wanting to inflame the situation, we hurried down the street away from the house, but the blows kept coming as we were repeatedly hit on the back of the head as we desperately tried to put distance between us and our once safe haven. Finally the blows stopped, presumably our pursuers had given up.

We looked back, and they they were perched on top of the telegraph pole mocking us through hysterical squawks. What? Oh, I'm talking about a couple of birds obviously. What else did you think I meant? Oh, ahhh, of course. My apologies.

Anyway, for some inexplicable reason, these two Mynahs had decided that we are invading their space and had taken to demonstrating their umbrage whenever we left the house. I think Hitchcock was onto something when he filmed 'The Birds'. It's quite disconcerting to leave the house wondering if you're going to be bombarded from the air. Even if the coast is clear at the moment the door is closed, it's no guarantee of safe passage to the end of the street. What's even worse is the moment, on the way back from wherever it is that you've been, that you turn the corner into the street only to see the enemy perched high on the telegraph wires. Watching. Planning. Something had to give and after a professional exterminator had failed to return our calls I took the last resort and tooled up.....

...by buying the biggest Supersoaker that money could buy. This was a serious bit of bad-ass kit. Admittedly I got some odd looks when I would, early in the morning, lean out of the bedroom window and take aim but it soon became part of the street's routine. And they don't like it up 'em. No Sirree.

It was all becoming too easy as my skills became honed and they didn't quite know what hit them. I was considering upping the ante and filling the pistol with a noxious substance until I accidentally Supersoaked an innocent passer-by.  I took the complaint like a true soldier .....and hid behind the curtain. To this day, I'm sure she is still wondering why it was raining on a perfectly clear and sunny morning. Me? I'm just glad I hadn't filled the chamber with gravy like I was planning. Still, there are always casualties in war. 

At first, after Operation Retaliation started, there was some push back from the feathered foe. Their aerial bombardment became more ferocious and direct but, being the seasoned campaigner that I am, I knew this was desperation. They knew they had met their match. My SASS (Surface to Air SuperSoaker) was doing the job nicely thank you very much. Sure there were times during the skirmishes when I had to take the weapon with me to work (and boy did I get some questions about that I can tell you!) and occasionally had to twirl my coat around my head as I walked the gauntlet but overall the war was being won.  

Now, when leaving the house, they don't quite salute as we walk past but their squawks are much less hate-filled and much more halfhearted.

I'm not proud of the fact that the situation descended into violence so quickly and I still wish that diplomacy and reasoning could have prevailed. It taught me that, even though I think I'm above physical violence as a means to settle disputes, when the chips were down I tooled up.  

But they were bastards, to put it bluntly, and deserved everything they got. In fact, whilst I'm being honest, they got off lightly. At least they are still alive. If only the exterminator had answered our call they'd have had more than a bit of gravy on their feathers to worry about......

 

Mercury shootin' through every degree

Every now and again a song comes along, whether it's something that you've bought or a snippet you catch on a radio, and you know that you just have to hear that live. No two ways about it. Top of the list.

They are unforgettable moments, or at least they are to me, the equivalent of a bolt of lightening or a swift and spiritual kick to the head.

And it knows no boundaries. It doesn't matter whether it's someone you have liked all along, a totally new band or someone you'd rather not admit to liking. Either which way, the result is the same. Eagerly searching for when that particular song is likely to be played live in the vicinity. 

Here are some of mine;

'Just Like Fred Astaire' - James

'We Too Are One' - Eurythmics 

'A Day Like This' - Elbow

'One Tree Hill' - U2
'Sproston Green' - The Charlatans

I'll let you decide what category they fall into. I'm pleased to say that I have, in the main, been able to hear these bolts of audio lightening live. In some cases more than once and usually within a reasonable time scale from first hearing it. Usually, but not always. Sometimes it is just not possible, either through sheer distance from the nearest venue, other committments or death. The latter is a real problem and enough of a reason I suppose. Some people just don't try hard enough.

So why am I telling you all this? Well last night, after playing a waiting game that spanned over twenty years, I finally got to hear 'Roam' by the B-52s live. Never let it be said that I'm not patient! It was a balm summer's day back in 1989 when I was jolted awake by the surf style guitar riff with a storming summer pop song closely in tow. This was a song that I just had to hear live. It would be ace.

And by chance the Athens GA quartet were heading my way.... well sort of. Well they were coming to the same country at least. Unfortunately, the Town and Country Club in London was a little out of reach to go solo and try as I might I couldn't get any of my so called 'mates' to take the trip with me. Nagging just wasn't going to work so I resigned myself to listening to the concert on the radio. It was the next best thing, or so I tried to kid myself.

Fast forward to November 2016 and would you believe it? They were only playing with Simple Minds as part of a summer tour. Yes in a few short months, they would be playing at the bottom of our street. Here in Auckland!

I must admit to being a little sceptical at first. Simple Minds and The B-52s aren't the obvious acts to appear on the same bill. When you imagine the finest stadium band to come out of the UK you don't immediately think 'What would make the night complete is some quirky indie-surfy-dance music'. Despite the misgivings about the bill, tickets were bought and so last night, on a similarly balmy night in Auckland, I finally heard 'Roam' live. Was it worth the wait? Well, after twenty-five years of waiting you are fully expecting me to confirm that it was. Well, like the song last night, I won't disappoint and say yes it was worth the wait. Just about.

I have no doubt that it would've been better in the Town and Country Club, rather than the cavernous Vector Arena, but beggars can't be choosers. Besides, I only had to walk ten minutes to the venue rather than travel several hundred miles and I was back, tucked up in bed with a cup of tea for 11:00pm. Not very rock and roll I know but it was a school night and I had drank two glasses of wine whilst watching the concert. Ahem, moving swiftly on.......

One of the wonderful things about living in New Zealand, particularly in Auckland, is that if any band is going to make it to this side of the planet then they are more than likely to play here. Not only that, but by the time they arrive here they are usually on the last leg of the tour and so are fully in party mode and have ironed out all of niggles and setlist problems. Fine tuned you might say.

And, because the venues are comparatively smaller than those in more populous centres, it all makes for a much better experience....in my experience. As well these heroes of the pop charts, we have also had the pleasure of catching Elbow, PJ Harvey and Johnny Marr, to name but a few, and in a few short days we have the pleasure of Bruce Springsteen's company. Admittedly that will be in a stadium but at least it won't be foggy. Well hopefully not.

It's the vibe of the thing

There's something really comforting about arriving into a place late in the evening and knowing exactly how it works. Like popping on a favourite pair of slippers, a snug cardie or entering a warm house from a cold frosty day. Yes, I can just about remember what those were like.

Not that it was at all cold, or even cool for that matter, when we rolled into Raglan last night after an arduous journey from Auckland in peak hour 'bank holiday' weekend traffic. Yes it may have taken nearly four hours to travel a distance that, under normal circumstances, would only take two but it's worth it. It always is. You see for us, Raglan is our bolt-hole. A place where we can come and totally switch off, unwind and relax. It's our go-to place. A home-from-home-from-home if you like. 

So why here? Why do we return, time and time again? What is it that attracts us back to this little coastal town?  I've never really thought about it until now. I thought it was, you know, just like the vibe. But if I had to put my finger on it and really think about it, well here are ten of my favourite things, a love letter to this little piece of paradise....

1/. Catching the Waves

It has to start here. Forget the 'Welcome to Raglan' sign because you know you've really arrived when you can finally pick up the signal from the pulsing radio station Raglan fm. Broadcasting to the nation.... well via the internet at least. It's fair to say that the analog signal is not that powerful, a few km out from the town and that's your lot, but that makes it all the more special and a real sign that you have arrived and the weekend has stated.

And, if you arrive when we normally do, you'll be treated to some of the best dub-reggae there is. For from 7.00pm (ish) to 9:00pm on a Friday it's Reggae Rodeo with Red Robin. There is nothing more powerful to put you in a holiday weekend state of

mind than a bit of late day sun and some early evening reggae.

 

2/. The Sea

Yes it may be an obvious one as Raglan is on the coast, but the ocean here is really something special. Being on the west coast of New Zealand the sea comes roaring into the beach - which is what makes Raglan the surfers' paradise that it surely is. 

Not that I am a surfer mind. I've only tried it once, off the coast of the Gower Peninsula in Wales, and that was enough for me. It's a lot of hard word for seemingly little reward. Thinking about it I could've saved a lot of time and energy and just drank several gallons of sea water without even bothering to put on a wetsuit.

Having sand bar gives the town the best of everything; a calm tidal lagoon to relax and splash in, and a roaring monster in which to risk life and limb. A walk along the black sands from the town out to the breakers is quite something as the quote calm gives way to the roar of the might of the Pacific Ocean.

 

3/. A Bridge too Far?

Just as Raglan is a town of the sea, it is also the town of bridges. Well two in particular. And they couldn't be more different if they tried.

Raglan Bridge, or to give it its proper name Te Kopua Bridge, is a local legend. Although it had been rebuilt relatively recently, it is still the local hotspot for kids of all ages. From sun-up to sun-down people congregate on the bridge and participate in the Kiwi pastime of bombing. Even as I write this, as the sun sets on another gorgeous day and from the comfort of our patio, the air is full of distant giggles, laughter and the distinctive thwop as bodies collide with the water below. 

I must admit that I am a Raglan Bridge virgin. I've never plucked up the courage to leap off into the water below. One of these days I will have to give it a go, maybe one early morning when no one is looking and well before the first kid arrives on the bridge. I certainly wouldn't do it from the second of the two famous bridges in Raglan.....

To be fair, I wouldn't have far to fall and I'm not exactly sure that the bridge railings would take my weight. It'd be more of a trip than a jump. Goodness knows how this plywood contraption ever got allowed to be opened to the general public. It looks like something an over enthusiastic dad built for his kids in the garden than a piece of useable infrastructure. But it's very New Zealand and very Raglan. Like I said, it's

more of a vibe thing.

 

 

4/. Raglan's Roasting

If coffee is your thing, and I appreciate that it's not everyone's cup of tea, then I am led to believe that Raglan has the best coffee in New Zealand. It must be true because I've heard that from two different people and they both seem to know their coffee. Obviously I can't substantiate that, other than to say it's very good, but I'll get back to you when I've tried the rest.....

 

 

5/. Dough Nut

If the coffee wasn't enough, then the bread should be. If Raglan can't lay claim to having the best bread in New Zealand, is then it can certainly state, without and risk of opposition, that it has the smallest bread shop in New Zealand. Sandwiched (sorry) between a TradeAid shop and a gift shop, the little shop dispenses delicious home made bread between the hours of 9ish and until they sell out. And with bread this nice it doesn't take long.

 

6/. Sunsets and Wines

What Raglan loses in sunrises it more than compensates in the sunset department. Some of the best sunsets I have seen, definitely in New Zealand but even perhaps the world, have been from the Orca Bar in Raglan. What better way is there to celebrate the end of another great day than to sip a drink and watch the sunset? Winter, summer or somewhere in between, they never cease to impress. Unless of course if it's peeing down. Which never happens..... Well not often!

 

7/. A Bit Fruity

It was something of a discovery when we first tried real fruit ice creams. They're all over New Zealand now, seemingly having sprung up almost overnight. But the first we tried was of course in Raglan. It's a simple concept; just combine a cup of real fruit with vanilla ice cream and mix into a sugar cone. Delicious and it has the added advantage that it counts towards one of your 5-a-day. Well maybe....

8/. Raglan Time

Just like an old Wild West town, where guns where confiscated at the entrance, so it is with Raglan. Except they're not confiscating weapons but watches. Or at least they ought to. Timekeeping is not really all that essential in Raglan. Sure, you need to know roughly what time the bar opens and an approximate sense of what part of the day it is wouldn't go amiss. But that's about it. Raglan time is certainly 'ish' time.

If keeping to a schedule is more your thing then this little town is definitely not for you. Go to one of the bigger urban areas and immerse yourself in the rush and push of city life. And don't forget to get uppity when a bus is a minute later than the timetable. I promise you'll feel much more at home.

Me? Well I like a nice schedule as much as the next person but it is nice to switch off once in a while. And I mean proper switch off. Well for three days at least.

9/. I Get All the News I Need from the Weather Report

And did you know that Raglan has its own newspaper? Well it does. It doesn't quite have the circulation of the New York Times but it does have the advantage that it's free. Established in 1903 this weekly community newspaper reports on everything Raglan based. International news doesn't get a look-in, thankfully. After all why would you want to spoil a relaxing weekend by reading the disasters that are unfolding outside the town's borders. And I'm not just talking about football scores. Exactly.

10/. Harbouring a Beer

Whilst Raglan doesn't have its own brew, it does have some pretty cool places in which to drink other's outpourings. Like the rest of NZ, the beer in Raglan is served super cold and it's all the better for it. Even the glass is chilled. When the sun is blazing and the temperatures are rising, a cool beer is just the ticket.

And there is no better place to enjoy a pint or two than the Harbour View Hotel. The place has a real western feel to it, and if you can nab a seat on the veranda you can almost imagine horses being tied to the hitching post. Just don't expect a view of the sea. I've yet to work out why the place was given the name it was. Admittedly the sea isn't far away, no more than a few minutes stroll, but the building is facing the wrong way. The only chance you have of seeing a boat bobbing whilst enjoying a well earned beer is if a boatie drives up the street with his craft in tow.

 

Well that's about it but I could go on. I haven't mentioned Karioi Mountain, kayaking, great fish and chips, the harbour ferry or the wonderful airport. Well airport is perhaps overstating it a little bit. You're not going to see 747s landing here anytime soon but it's entertaining to watch the light aircraft landing in what it essentially a grass field. 

I'll leave those stories and others for next time. And I'm pretty sure that there will be a next time. I've only

been back in Auckland a few days and I can already feel the pull of the town....

On the Brink

I know I do, on occasion, tend towards exaggeration but yesterday I witnessed what can only be described as the deep chasm of anarchy. "What, in Auckland?" I hear you say. Don't believe me, then read on.....

It is quite easy, in these tumultuous times, to assume that we are all going to hell on a handcart, or some other wooden wheeled contraption. Actually, come to think of it, if I was to go to the warmer of the two afterlifes, you couldn't pick a better mode of transport than a handcart. Yes, if I'm heading somewhere where I don't particularly want to go, then it's a slow and unreliable mode of transport for me.

So I've digressed. Again. Back to the point.

Yes, it's quite easy to come to the conclusion that we are all heading for disaster. Markets flutter seemingly at the sight of a slightest risk. Financial markets mind you, not the retail kind. Which also flutter but it's usually due to a stiff breeze and not some megalomaniacal leader in a big house. Not only markets but we all seem to be eyeing each other with suspicion and wondering who is going to react first. Technically you can't react first, as the definition of a reaction requires something to happen in order for it to be reacted to. I guess that just goes to show how jittery people are when they are even considering a pre-emptive reaction. Hhhmmm. Anyway, let's just agree that the world appears to be on a knife edge and leave it at that.....

What? Oh, yes the chasm of anarchy. That's where I came in but I appear to gone off the point. Sorry.

Right. The chasm of anarchy. You see last night Auckland was fortunate enough to have the rather splendid PJ Harvey within it's city limits and I, being appreciate of her music, decided to go along and see her an her band perform songs from her latest release. All was going swimmingly; I found the venue, parked the car and bought a pie and a packet of crisps from the canteen - we are quite civilised here in New Zealand when it comes to live entertainment.

Being of an age, I had decided to purchase tickets for the seating area and so I obediently went up the stairs and found my allocated seat. It wasn't difficult and just a case of matching the row letter with the seat number. I am regularly surprise to see how often people find this concept of alpha-numerical system of seat assignments so difficult, be it a concert, cinema or aeroplane. In this case, people seemed to take an age debating whether they had the right row, seat or even if this was the place they were supposed to be at in the first place. I did wonder that very thought when I glanced along my row to see an elderly couple sat starting out at the sea of people. Security is quite tight these days so I assume they were at the correct concert and not wondering why so many people were dressed in leather to see Richard Clayderman.

Anyway, after a few wrong turns and heated debate about the seat assignments, people eventually settled down to watch the concert. Or at least I thought they had. Then it all started to kick off'

"Excuse me, I think you have the wrong seat," a bearded man said to the couple in the row in front of me
"Yes we do but you see someone has sat in our seats so we just sat here," came the response.
"I see, but these are our seats," came the reply, quite inevitably
"Well there are still plenty of others so just pick another," the wrongly-seated couple offered.

The advice was taken and so another couple sat in the incorrectly allocated seats. This wasn't going to end well.

Predictably, another few people arrived to find that their seats had also been commandeered by a displaced customer and they, like those before them, sloped off to find an empty set of seats. The ball was really rolling now, as more and more people were unable to take their seats as displaced people had occupied their spot. Tensions were rising as people feared that there would not be enough room for everybody and voices were starting to be raised and fists clenched. The venues security team were called in to try and placate people and resolve the issue.

"Sir, can you please move to your correct seat," one particularly burly guard suggested
"I'd love to but someone is already sat in it and won't move," came the response, "If you can free our seats we'll happily move but otherwise we're not budging!".

A rather brave response I must say given the size of the guard.

The security guard set off to find the offending person and was never seen again. I must say, for the record, that I was sat in the correct seat and was enjoying the spectacle safe in the knowledge that I had followed the rules and done nothing wrong. Not that would have been any comfort to me if it all went biblical, so to speak. I was sat right in the middle of the action and was in no place to feel smug and safe at the same time.

"Those are our seats, please move."

The bearded man was back and having another go at reclaiming his seats.

"Oh you again. Sod off and find another!"

Yikes, it really was going to get rough in here. And the concert had not even started yet. I started to consider my options. Should I stay put and risk getting caught in the cross-fire, despite knowing that I was in the right? Maybe I should make a hasty retreat and go and stand on the ground floor with the rest of the great unwashed. No damn it! I'd chosen a while ago that I wanted to have a seat and have a seat I would, even if it cost me my front teeth. I would take the moral high ground and stay put. Actually I sunk as low as I could into my seat and hoped the whole thing would just blow over....

...and as the house lights went down and PJ came onto the stage people cut their losses and sat down. Phew! Little did PJ know but she had disarmed the situation and peace had returned to the provinces. Or at least the dress circle for which I was mightily relieved.

But what is it that makes someone decide that they can just sit anywhere, despite clearly having been allocated a particular seat? Is it arrogance, ignorance or a mixture of both? Why do they thing that they have more rights than anyone else. Presumably their seat was not to their liking so they took someone else's? Maybe theirs was a bit cramped and they needed more room? Or perhaps they just wanted to cause trouble?

Without sounding all British, seat allocations are there for a reason. To allocate seats to people who have bought tickets and systematically dole out space. It's a fair and simple system - those who get tickets early can choose where they want to sit, safe in the knowledge that the seat will be there waiting for you. Leave it a bit too late and you get whatever is left, thankful in the knowledge that you were lucky to get a ticket at all. A soon as someone decides that they don't want to following these rules, and that they are simply above all that nonsense, then it's not hard to see that we are just a stone throw off from sheer anarchy. Once the genie is out of the bottle it's not going to be easy to put it in again.

I can understand why to break the convention would be quite tempting. Someone else has something that you want and feel entitled to - after all you arrived here first. If they are too lazy to get here on time, or want to waste time queuing at the bar then more fool them. They deserve to lose their seat. It's their own fault and they deserve everything they get. Just let them try and move me! Ha! I'll show them. This is my land now and there is nothing they or anyone can do about it.......

.....wait we are still talking about concert seats aren't we?......