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. 

Aussie Rules

I have written about Australia with such frequency recently that I'm seriously considering changing the title of this blog.  'Little Adventures in a Big Country' maybe. Too twee? Maybe. A bit corny? Definitely, but it's as good as it gets this late in the day.

It may come as a bit of a surprise to some readers of this little corner of the internet to discover that I am, once again, in Australia. For the second time in as many weeks, the reasons for which are too convoluted to explain here, I have touched down on Aussie soil for a few days of recuperation. Well it's important to have a bit of a rest after a big holiday isn't it? And, I have been back in work for two weeks. Okay, well only eight and a half days, but they were quite busy ones. I just hope the Australian authorities aren't on high alert and suspect me of immigration by stealth. They needn't worry because flying in every two weeks is an expensive business and not something that I can sustain over a long period. Sorry New Zealand, you haven't gotten rid of me just yet!

Anyway, we're back in Australia and have spent a fantastic few days relaxing in Melbourne in what is our second, and hopefully not last, visit.

Previously we were here to attend two concerts which whilst gave the impetus for us to visit, curtailed some of the activities that we could engage upon. Plus it was summer then and now, with the thermometer at the lower end of the range, we were ready for a totally different experience. 

The thing with visiting cities, especially when time is tight, is that it's all too easy to simply tick of the must-see sights, have a couple of drinks, pack your bags and then move on to the next destination. And that's just fine as you'll leave Melbourne thinking what a great place it is and promise to return should circumstances allow.

Which they did, and so we found ourselves once again in the capital of Victoria, or Vic for short. This time, rather than rely on the wisdom of the internet, we had some good friends to show us around. And what a difference that makes. If you are ever given the opportunity for some locals to guide you around your chosen destination I thoroughly recommend that you take them up on it. You won't regret it and you'll get to see parts of the place, in this case city, that other sources may otherwise overlook. 

Not only did we get to drink, eat and chat in some great pubs and bars, see our first real Australian Football League (AFL) game, more of which in a moment, we also visited coastal towns, hillside villages, cable-carred (if that isn't a verb then it should be) up to a stunning view point and fed local wildlife. All within the confines of a single city. 

So AFL. What's that all about? Well, after seeing Carlton take on the mighty Hawthorn I consider myself to be a bit of an expert. "What after only one gone?" I hear you ask. Well I'm a quick learner and I had good teachers. So in a nutshell, here is a true idiot's guide to AFL;

Firstly, imagine a game that is a cross between soccer, rugby, basketball and even wrestling and you might get somewhere close to the spectacle that is AFL. Add to that heady mix the fact that there are 18 player per side and at least six referees, not to mention numerous pink-clad runners and you've got one hell of a game. To the uninitiated chaos seems to be the order of the day but, as I learnt, there's more to it than meets the eye.

The aim of the game is to get the ball through one set of the four uprights at the opposing end if the pitch, which is incidentally oval and not rectangular. Not only does this mean that the game can be played on slightly modified cricket pitches, it also prevents the soccer spectacle of an entire team being camped in one of the corners, protecting the ball from the opposition whilst the clock counts down, only to spectacularly fail at the last second and watch, distraught, as the opposing team gains the bell and saunters down the pitch to score in an open goal. Just watch any game involving Middlesbrough FC and you'll see what I mean.

How the ball gets through the uprights is entirely up to you. Running with the ball, handling or kicking is all allowed with the only limitation that you can't hold the ball for more than 10 metres. Or as long as the referee permits according to some of those around us in the stadium. Points are awarded for getting the ball between the posts with a higher score for a clean kick through the centre set. If the ball is deemed to have hit the post, then less points are awarded as it's considered, presumably, to be less worthy. Which is a shame because some of the most entertaining, if not intentional, goals I have seen in soccer are those where the ball is kicked optimistically into the box, ricochets off a half-dozen players before hitting the goalkeeper on the side of the head and deflecting into the goal  off the post. Ah well, it's AFL's loss.

Still with me? Good. The game is played over four quarters of twenty minutes each, with the clock stopping whenever the play is interrupted. The interesting thing is that only the timekeeper, who is out of sight to everyone, knows exactly how long is left leading to the odd situation where the entire stadium don't know how long is left in the period and therefore can't slope off to the bar. Or toilet. This avoiding the "Shall I, shan't I shuffle" that plays out across the football grounds in Britain every Saturday at 3:45pm, give or take a few minutes for stoppages. Unless you are Manchester United and playing at home in which case it's until you score a goal. 

The other discerning feature is the sight of a referees, or umpire, turning their back to the game and throwing the ball tens of metres over their heads into play. It's a fascinating sight and quite an energetic feat, although it did occasionally look like an overly-competitive bride who was trying to throw a bouquet over the heads of all of the assembled guests and into the car park. 

And that's just about all you need to know. It's fast, free-flowing,  occasionally confusing and sometimes brutal.. Much like life itself but more good natured and with comfortable seats!

Creature comforts

After the humidity of Darwin, it came as blessed relief to step off the plane into a cool Auckland afternoon as a gentle northerly breeze soothed our skin and swept the red dust of the outback from our clothes....we some of the dust anyway. I swear I'll be finding the red pigment for years to come.

Where once if felt as if the whole environment was out to get us, we felt instantly calmed and, well, safe. That is not to say that we didn't have a great time in Australia, it was a fantastic experience and thoroughly recommended, but we never felt truly relaxed. Admittedly our cosseted UK upbringing has a lot to do with that -  you were more likely die of thirst from the once archaic pub opening hours than you were from exposure and  "a nasty nip" was to do with inclement weather and not part of the fauna.

So it is only now, with the guards down as it were, that I feel safe enough to entertain you with a story of our brush with Australian wildlife. Read on......

We had been in the Outback for nearly a week and considered ourselves to be seasoned bush travellers. Well providing someone else was doing the driving and there was an ample supply of hot towels obviously. To this point I'd seen a whole raft of animals, some more deadly the others, but none short of fascinating; crocodiles, both freshwater and salt, parrots, Rock wallabies, kangaroos, muddy munters (or something like that - it was a fish so I wasn't paying much notice), turtles, Reef sharks and several spiders. But despite all that, I still hadn't seen a snake and so, despite feeling slightly relieved, felt short changed.

It wouldn't have been a problem except I was warned to always walk at night with a torch, especially when visiting the toilet, for fear of accidentally standing on a wandering belly crawler. Although I hadn't been advised of the implications of standing on a snake, it didn't take much imagination to see that it would not end well. And I don't mean for the snake.

To rectify the situation, our guide was on high alert to seek out, with a fair margin of safety of course, a local snake for us to photograph, again from a safe-ish distance. In fact I wasn't really fussy, if a local reptile wasn't available then a travelling snake would do just fine. Maybe one on his holidays. Happy either way.

Despite this, we had been travelling for several hundred kms without so much of a sniff, or hiss, of a snake. I was told, I suspect to manage my expectations, that as this was technically winter the snakes were hibernating and therefore unlikely to be out and about. This wouldn't stand. Hadn't they seen the brochure? Now at this point, it's fair to say, that Sarah was less than thrilled at the thought of seeing a live snake. This was nothing new and I only have myself to blame and admit that I shouldn't made her watch that documentary 'Snakes on a Plane'. Ah well, you live and learn.

Anyway, we ...sorry I... was starting to lose hope. We'd been travelling down a dirt track for over an hour and whilst termite cathedrals were awe inspiring, they weren't snakes. Then, just as I'd resigned myself to the fact that we wouldn't see any elusive reptiles today, the bus sudden lurch to the side of the road, leaving a dust plume as it did, and our guide suddenly jumped out of the cabin.

"He says he thinks he's seen a snake hid for cover in the bushes over there," said Steve who was sat in the passenger seat. 

Sure enough, our guide was scrambling in a bush just out of full view of the rest of the passengers. This was it. At last a chance to photograph a wild snake. It didn't matter how big it was, although I really wanted it to be huge, this was the opportunity we were waiting for.

He approached the side door and sure enough, wriggling in his grip, was a red-bellied black snake, so called because it was black with a red belly. An accurate name I'm sure you'll agree. Thankfully he seemed to have a good grip with the tail of the snake in one hand and the 'neck' in the other, gripping just behind the head so it couldn't inflict a fatal bite...

Actually I've got no idea whether red-bellied black snakes are poisonous but in a country where sea shells can inflict paralysis it's a safe bet that they are.

He opened the side door, very carefully so as not to lose his grip on the deadly creature, and stepped into the bus.....

....and tripped, accidentally flinging the reptile onto Sarah's lap. 

Well, you can imagine the reaction. I've never seen Sarah move so fast. With a thoroughly understandable shriek, she jumped up and almost knocked herself out on the roof of the vehicle. I'm still sure that, had there been no impediment to her trajectory, that she would e given Jess Enis a run for her money. And the snake? Well it lay motionless on the floor. Odd. 

A grin broke out on the guide's face. Even odder. Surely he should've been a little more concerned about his passengers' health. It was only through a second look at the snake that the truth began to dawn. It was plastic. And not alive. And therefore not at all poisonous.

"You bastard!" 

There may have been a response but I didn't hear it for the laughter. Mine and the rest of the passengers'.

As japes go, it was pretty good. Damn fine even and really well executed. So good in fact, it overcame the fact that we hadn't seen a real snake, and still haven't as it turns out. 

And that's ok. There are plenty of opportunities to do so in zoos behind the safety of safety glass. Better for me, better for the snakes and certainly better for Sarah!

Perspiration, parrots and parkrun

I'll never complain about being too warm at a parkrun ever again. Honest!

We returned from our tropical tour last night and after enjoying a few beers and a meal we dragged ourselves out of bed for one last time. The difference being, however, that it wasn't a sunrise that was on offer but a 5km run, or parkrun to be precise. Some may argue that that the prospect of a run is even less of a reason to get out of bed in darkness, but we were in town on a Saturday and there was a parkrun so it had to be done. 

The only drawback is that due to the heat and humidity the run started at 07:00am, which by extrapolation required a 06:00am alarm call. To put it in context, this was a whole hour earlier than New Zealand parkruns and two hours earlier than those in the UK. After all of the early alarm calls on this trip, the early start should've been second nature but it was so tempting to just turn it off and turn over and go to sleep. I'd like to think that it was the lure of air conditioning and a comfortable bed that was the main reason but I suspect the beers from last night also played their part.

But no, we'd come this far and a late surge of steely determination pulled us out of bed and into running kit. After weeks of relaxation and relative inactivity it felt odd putting on running kit - and it felt it had a slightly snugger fit than the last time it was worn. How strange. Maybe it had shrunk in the wash?

The hotel apartment was lovely and cool but as we opened to door the heat hit us - it was if someone had wrapped us in a blanket. We hadn't even taken a dozen steps and we already sweating profusely. This was going to be tough!

It was only a short walk to the starting point - we would've normally jogged there to warm up but in this heat there was no need to warm up and the thought of losing even more fluid than was absolutely necessary kept us at a walking pace.

As we waited for the run to start, parrots were waking up noisily in the trees above.  Our local parkrun is next to Auckland Zoo so it's not unusual to hear elephants whilst waiting for starters orders, but it was quite something to be surrounded by parrots. You don't get that in Darlington! 

After the briefest of briefings, and a big shout out to the runner from Scotland, we were off. Although the first kilometre was slow it was fairly easy going, or so I thought. After a couple of tight turns, the pack started to thin out and I slowly increased my speed. That was a big mistake. As I hit the halfway mark, it was clear that the lack of running and suffocating humidity was taking its toll. 

I have been known to stop at water fountains during parkruns in New Zealand but usually only once and, more often than not, the reason is due to dehydration from the takeout food the night before and not from over-exertion. Today was different. I must've stopped at six or seven water fountains during the short run and it was the first parkrun where I have seen a dedicated water station.

Finally, after leaving a trail of drips from sweat, I was into the final 500m and started to run for home. Except I couldn't. With an increase in speed came more sweat and shorter breaths. How does anyone breathe in these conditions? It felt like tying to run with a scarf around my face. I've never wanted to stop so much but managed to keep going - the finishing line was in sight.

As I staggered over the line in a relatively slow 24 minutes something or other, I was relieved to have finished. 

"Are you ok there?" a local asked me, probably a bit concerned by my purple-faced appearance, before adding, "that was a strong finish!"

"Thank you, but that was tough. It's so humid!" I replied.

"Naaaa, you should try this in the wet season. It gets really uncomfortable then!"

The thought of trying this again in even more insufferable conditions was not tempting in the slightest and I was happy to have just finished. 

We dripped our way back to the hotel, spurred on by the thought of a cool shower, air conditioning and several litres of cold water, content that we had completed our first parkrun in Northern Australia and the closest one we have ran to the Equator, and probably ever will unless we decide to holiday in Singapore..... Now there's an idea.....