To begin with it feels nothing but alien, its spaces clean and bleak and anodyne. Nothing is intuitive or familiarly located; every task requires conscious navigation. I feel weary beyond the physical, as if the sheer newness of everything takes effort to process; as if the energy of rolling with every minor adjustment and improvisation compounds into serious exertion. I’m a stand-up paddleboarder, making the countless tiny corrections just to stay upright that amount to a full-body workout. Continue reading “Life overboard”
“It’s too early to be getting up,” say my sons, dragging themselves out of bed in the 7am dark: these boys who till recently rarely slept past six.
The first week of January comes as a minor shock to us all. Surely we can’t be expected to go back to work and school so soon after Christmas? Continue reading “A new groove”
“You’ll laugh about soon,” they said. And, “It’ll make a great blog post!”
At the time, writing about it seemed highly unlikely – it felt too quailingly awful even to be grist to the colourful-story mill – though even then I was half-laughing about it, in between the palpitations and the tears. Continue reading “Comedy of ewwww”
Ship of the desert
Poor old Aratere. Stuck in dock with her broken propeller shaft, no dry dock in Godzone big enough to accommodate her for the required delicate rummaging among her ladyparts. Continue reading “Shipping out”
We settle into a daily expectation of subzero-to-single-figures temperatures and become almost blasé about the thick white frosts that linger all day in the shady parts of the section. Hapless returns from a four-day visit to “wet, green” Auckland with something like relief. Continue reading “Expats at ease”
Well, here’s a big fat cheat of a blog post: not because I’ve run out of things to say (yet), but because sometimes you come across real-life poetry that just has to be shared.
The weekly Upper Clutha Messenger is a local communications lifeline: 40 pages of classifieds, display ads and community notices for everything from the local croquet club to pony poo, free home delivery. Continue reading “Crime Line Wanaka”
Every car passing is an event in our quiet cul-de-sac and even at the family dinner table, all our heads automatically turn to look at the rattle of a bike or the sound of a passing voice. We’re slightly elevated on our section and, being orientated the opposite way from most of our neighbours, have a clear view back down the rest of the street. Continue reading “A local place for local people”