It's All About Dave

Unfortunately today has been verging on the rubbish side of things and it's pretty tempting to blame Dave, but I am a nice, positive person, who tries to see the best in everything...except when I'm tired or hungry, then all bets are off (the similarities between me and a two year old don't end here, sadly). And today I'm tired, thanks to Dave and his arsenal of random sounds. It wasn't too late when he started up, only about 11:30, but it was a work night (well, for H1, anyway) and I do need more sleep than the average bear. I'm not sure I would have noticed it had H1 not said something, actually, as I'm pretty good at tuning out things I don't want to hear, but the second he piped up with a grumpy, bewildered tone, asking exactly what Dave was up to, it became all I could focus on. A quick analysis of the noises led us to determine that Dave and his latest name-ends-in-'i'-girl were attempting to assemble some flat-pack furniture (bumping, scraping, muttered-yet-violent swearing, outright shouting, etc). As I understand it, this is what happens anytime anyone anywhere in the world tries to put together something that originally came in a box from IKEA - not something I actually have any personal experience of (thankfully, when moving into our flat we had a 'Troy' on hand to help H1 with all furniture construction, while I was off doing something highly useful elsewhere) - but a phenomenon I have heard a lot about (ah, IKEA, where would Sunday newspaper columnists be without you?)

So today commenced, with sore knees preventing me from running. I exercised indoors, but that's about 70% less satisfying than being outside, at least. Sliced my finger when cutting my bagel, patched myself up, sat down to eat it, and promptly stumbled across Dave again, in the form of Caitlin Moran's brilliantly written column, where she detailed a favourite family game called Are You Dave? Short version - in a crowd, look for someone who doesn't look like a Dave, approach, ask if they are Dave. One point for you if they are indeed not Dave, one point for your fellow player if it turns out Dave is exactly who they are. Amazingly simple. I suggest that if you choose to play you make the game easier on yourself by assessing the level of hair grease and general noise - higher ups your chances it is Dave, in both cases.

Thus entertained, I read the Guardian, which listed 25 things to be positive about, perked up, finished my tea, got ready and headed out to deliver a gift. Tried to ignore the cold, admired the scaffolded beauty of the V&A, scoured Central London for something (positive) to write about, and failed (nobody seems to do anything in the midst of winter worth noticing - or perhaps it's that everyone is detoxing, and is therefore boring), delivered the gift, headed for a cafe to warm up and write (although what I intended to write was still very up in the air), spilled hot chocolate all over the table, floor, and the bag of the guy sitting opposite me. Thank god it was composed of a strange plasticky, vinyl-y substance, and was therefore wipe-clean. Not something you'll often hear me saying. And he was lovely about it, which was wonderful, because he didn't have to be. So, deciding that ruining a stranger's day was a good hint, I left town, came home via the decidedly depressing post office, put on a set of clothes that can have only one positive adjective applied to them (no, not glamorous, luxurious, or expensive - comfortable is what I'm going for), and browsed Facebook, where Dave confronted me again in the form of a group entitled 'Everyone knows someone called Dave'*.

Ah, Dave. Way to influence my day. I hope your new furniture is worth it.

Only five full days of January left - may they speed by, and may London start living again.

*I don't actually know anyone called Dave. The odds of Mr Next Door's name actually being Dave are pitifully slim, and even if he is, I've never met him. Does everyone else in the whole world know a Dave? Even in Burma?

Same Same! But Different!

Recession schmecession.

I like to take a positive approach to things, and admittedly, that approach isn't always so based in reality. It can also be intensely annoying to those who look at things in a mildly more realistic way (the accusation of 'Pollyanna' has been derisively muttered in my direction more than once).

But seriously, after a good three days of thought - what recession?

It wasn't evident in New Zealand - pretty much nothing had changed, all the same shops were there alongside quite a few bright new ones, and ginormous new houses were going up everywhere (traditionally, New Zealanders have not been into ostentation or big houses - this has changed, however, so the big shiny new ones kind of stick out, like a Cardiff girl in the harsh light of day). And now that I'm back, all I can say is that it kind of looks like it's over here too. Thankfully, because while taking on quite a bit of freelance writing, I am still technically without full time gainful employment - eeeps. Many people have suggested I aim to be a lady-who-lunches, and while I can see the merits (I have, after all, been working full time for three whole years now - phew) I'm not that much of an optimist. H1 is also not that much of a fool.

My reasons for believing this are based on the same indications I observed in good old NZ - new shops going up, old shops staying up (like the sex shop next door - how is that still in business?), and old houses being done up (the English equivalent of building new houses - there's no room to put any new ones in, you see). To be fair, this is an extremely biased point of view - it's only about cities, and the wealthier parts of cities, but if you want a more balanced picture, feel free to google 'Condiments on a slightly depressed small-town life'. I won't hold it against you. Balance is good.

So change is all go in Fulham (and Putney too, oh and also North Sheen - I've been getting out and about recently!) There is a new cafe which has some pretty epic looking cakes in the window - unfortunately its proximity to the aforementioned sex shop means I am unlikely ever to stop in - a new bar going up over the road, which has some highly styley interior decoration - unfortunately, its proximity to my house, well stocked with its own booze, means I am unlikely ever to stop in - and the green shop looks to be thriving - unfortunately, my consistent uncertainty as to what the green shop actually does means I am unlikely ever to stop in. But luckily, these businesses clearly don't need my help (I am probably Fulham's biggest cheerleader, but I tend not to follow it up with too much action). And then there are the houses, which used to be derelict, boarded up, run down monstrosities that you could tell were once beautiful. H1 was always fond of the idea of giving up our ridiculously expensive, tiny one bedroom flat and just squatting there instead, and nagging me to look up squatter's rights online, but now, thankfully, someone has put some money into these houses and they look nearly ready for inhabitation. Almost completely moved on from their amusingly cliche, but actually rather terrifying, empty yawing windows and gappy brickwork.

Almost ready, I say. Because it's winter, and nothing is at its best in winter - but really, somebody's bright idea of putting baby trees in the front, behind the low fence, held up with stick-y pieces of wood (that is, stick-like, not sticky like melted ice-cream on your hand) hasn't paid off in the way you might hope. Deciduous trees. In the middle of the coldest winter for forty-odd years. At the moment, those newly refurbished houses look like something straight out of the Blair Witch Project, and this in itself is enough to make me increase my speed when I walk past them. As are the crows - I don't think I've ever noticed crows in London before, but every time I walk past these houses I see them, enormous and black and extremely Edgar Allen Poe. And cawing! I always thought cawing was a myth. But no - cawing is alive and well, at least in Fulham.

I certainly wouldn't go close enough to consider renting/buying it. And sure, for every ridiculously-over-imaginative-person like me there will be many more sensible people, who see only deciduous trees - but still, some people still think there is a recession on. Why lose potential sales, even those based in a frustrating melange of fantasy and sheer silliness?

That's about it for this week - it's winter. Nothing more to say. Head down, bum up, and hope to make it through to spring (sorry, 'spring') without too much pain. It's the best way.

Over and Out

I am back in the UK. Back in London, back in Fulham, back in my bed. I'm only truly happy about one of those things. It's very pleasant not crashing on a sofabed in my parent's lounge.

Our last couple of weeks in relaxing, sunny old NZ were just that - apart from one night in Wellington, details of which we won't go into (suffice to say Wellington has been permanently removed from my list of potential places to live, and Prime Minister has been permanently removed from my list of potential careers to follow, as she has to live in Wellington.) We spent some more time in Napier, which was glorious, and finished up with five days of sailing, rollerblading, swimming, and socialising in Auckland.

This last sentence makes me sound a little like a fitness bunny, rabidly jumping from one activity to the next, barely pausing to switch accessories, so much so you can kind of imagine me rollerblading along Tamaki Drive wearing a lifejacket. Much as I would like to convince you this is the truth, I'm pretty sure all earlier posts that have virtually worshipped my bed and my couch have proven quite the opposite. I'm more like a fitness Chihuahua - lots of enthusiasm, but no grace, staying power, or - well - fitness. Short legs, too. They don't help.

Anyway it's always been a bit of a joke to me and my loved ones, until I returned to NZ and realised with a short sharp shock the extent to which my fitness had deteriorated. I've never been the greatest, but I was all right - until I wasn't, and I very nearly went into cardiac arrest walking up a hill. Fulham doesn't have any hills, you see. Stanmore Bay has many, so to get anywhere, you're going to walk up a hill, and then up another to get back (unsure how this works - it's like the basic laws of physics don't apply in this outpost of Auckland).

So one of my missions in New Zealand became to regain my fitness. Considering I was on holiday, and it was Christmas, and really quite hot, I don't think I could really have picked a worse time to get on with it, particularly being in a country full of hills. I swear, New Zealand has stolen some other country's share of hills, and is now selfishly hoarding them. Behind H1's family home in Napier lies a good size hill, covered with rippling grass and sheep. It's a pleasant place to try to kill yourself (or regain your fitness, as some would have it).

I walked up the hill, 'glowing' bucketloads, admiring the rippling grass and great views in between choked, wheezy, 70 year old smoker breaths (to remind you, I'm 26 and a non-smoker), got to the top, stared out at the ocean for a couple of minutes to reward myself, then climbed over a stile to follow a different path back down.

This is where I made the big mistake. Logically, if something has successfully got you somewhere, it makes sense to use that same thing to get you back. It doesn't make sense to climb a stile and tread the unknown, especially if we're not talking about anything life changing, merely a walk up a hill on a sunny day. I learned this lesson the hard way, less than a quarter of the way back down the hill. I glanced up, and saw a couple of sheep running towards me.

I froze for a few seconds as the farm animals charged, while words from my father flowed through my head (they're more scared of you than you are of them, they're harmless, sheep don't eat humans, blah, blah) and swiftly came to the conclusion that it was all lies. Besides - they're sheep. If one of them is heading your way, others will be following. All this in mind, I made the wise decision to turn around and head back to the stile, which would take me back over the fence, onto the safe, non-sheepy side of the hill.

I walked on confidently, only checking for the killer sheep behind me every thirty seconds or so, before being stopped in my tracks by - more sheep.

These ones were on the path. On the path meant for humans! There were about 15 of them, a real gang, all crowded over the path and staring at me in a distinctively threatening manner. Had they been English sheep they probably would have pulled a knife on me. As it was, they just kept staring at me, waiting for me to turn tail and run.

They won. I didn't run (what if they liked nothing better than a good old fashioned girl/sheep chase scene?) but I certainly walked away at a good pace. Very good for my fitness, I'm sure.

I made it to the bottom of the hill with no further sheep sightings (not for want of looking) and told H1 all about it. I expected to be swept up in his arms and comforted, but instead he looked at me with an expression that, were it a word, would come out sounding a lot like 'wus'.

So that was New Zealand - greatest place in the world, in my unbiased opinion, even if they do have a sheep problem. It's all over now, but the memory lives on, in my nightmares, every time I wake up with my heart pounding after dreaming about the sheep. Oh, and on my hips. NZ has the most delicious food you've ever tasted, which is fantastic, but does negate the exercise somewhat - lucky there are so many hills.

A Tale of Two Cities

Just under a week in Auckland, followed by just under a week in Napier - a study of contrasts.

Or it possibly would be, had I made it into the centre of Auckland once in the time we were there. Our six days were spent by the beach, relaxing with both families, only interrupted by Christmas. We then came to Napier, where we have so far spent our time by the pool, relaxing with one family, interrupted only by New Years. As threatened in previous posts, I have very little to write.

Although the journey to Napier was entertaining. We left Auckland not too early in the morning, in our little silver hire car - aka the most expensive hire car in the world - $300 total for a 24 hour hire. We picked it up the evening before from the seemingly lovely conman, signed our bits and pieces, handed over all our money, and drove it away, to the sight of him laughing his head off in the rear view mirror. Our mistake was booking it from England - had he known we were Kiwis we're convinced it would have been a different matter.

So making the most of this car, we headed on our merry way south, stopping only to visit two grandmothers, a bathroom, some photographers in Hamilton, and the beautiful, scenic, dramatic Huka Falls (because why not, right?) before pitching up in Taupo and realising we didn't know where we were staying. H1 frantically looked through his travel wallet, phone, and laptop, but couldn't find any useful information at all, and I had never known anything about where we were staying, so was an even slightly lower level of usefulness. Knowing what road it was on (Rifle Range Road, home to about 30 motels) and what star rating it was (four, likethe vast majority of the motels on Rifle Range Road) we started the painful process of driving from one to the other, asking if we were booked there. At this point in the story, it's necessary to consider the fact that New Zealanders, while having access to every mod con available to everyone in the first world, will often choose not to use them, preferring a pen, some paper, and perhaps some No.8 wire and duct tape (for when things get really dire). So asking if we were booked there required asking the person behind the desk to rifle through their diaries/notepads/back of receipts looking for our name, on the off chance it was there. And they're all really friendly, so have big long conversations with you about your surname while they're searching, which is lovely, but - you know. You know.

Luckily, we hadn't done many of these before H1 performed a different search on his laptop and came up trumps with the Acapulco Motor Inn, a highly retro looking motel that gained its name in the days when Acapulco was highly exotic (on the outside anyway - inside it was very modern and lovely). We checked in and went to check out our room - all flat screen televisions and crisp white sheets and an enormous internal spa pool, with its own dedicated room, like a shrine to the hot bubbly water gods.

We went and dropped off the prohibitively expensive silver hire car, after filling it up with prohibitively expensive petrol, then headed into town for a nice drink of beer at the Speights bar (apparently when in NZ, I drink beer. Interesting). We were joined there by a good friend of H1s, hereafter known as 'Troy', and after another drink and a delicious yet slightly odd shared dinner of nachos and potato wedges, headed back to Acapulco Motor Inn for a movie and - a spa!

A paragraph ago I mentioned the spa pool in its own room, which hopefully you remember. Now, this pool was empty - you had to fill it up yourself - but despite this, and despite the fact that it was indoors, next to the bathroom, it was most definitely a pool, not a bath. We were all very clear on this, because sitting in a spa pool with your fiance and his friend is fine, but sitting in a bath with the same two people is kind of not.

So we filled it up, which took forever as it requires 300 litres of water. We passed the time by feeling bad for the environment. We then climbed in (all in our togs, I hasten to add), grabbed our glasses of bubbly (I know, but it was free) and excitedly pressed the button to make the bubbles go, thus achieving the 'spa' bit of the spa.

Nothing happened. We pressed more buttons, flicked switches, rang down to reception, and still nothing. It was kaput.

At this stage it was hard to deny it. We were three adults, with glasses of bubbly, taking a bath together in our togs. An overgrown bath, yes, but a bath nonetheless*.

And that was Taupo. It's not a city, but turns out, the interesting bits don't restrict themselves to cities. Hamilton's a city, but nothing of note happened there whatsoever.

*We swore never to talk of it - and now that this has been written, we never will.