Camping: the art of getting closer to nature...

... while getting farther away from the nearest cold beverage, hot shower and flush toilet.

Ah, Easter….the end of the busy season at work and time for a week off to recharge the batteries. And what better way than pursue the Kiwi Dream – the outdoors life getting back in touch with nature. So we headed off to the far North for a few days’ camping. We’d picked up a bargain family tent a couple of months back and had accumulated bits and pieces of camping gear along the way – camp beds, a travel BBQ, a mini gas burner, a whistling kettle and four sleeping bags. In fact, barring the really exotic gear your average seasoned campers had, we’d pretty much got all we needed.

So I packed up the car (note the use of the first person singular for reference later!), squeezed the kids in the back and headed off. Not having camped since we were both much younger, it’s probably fair to say Mrs C and I weren’t really sure what to expect but, after a 2 hour drive we were pleasantly surprised when we arrived at the campsite – communal kitchen, hot showers, standpipes aplenty and recreation room that young Miss C insisted on calling “the Staffroom”.

Having done one trial run with the tent in the back garden a few weeks ago, we set about setting it up for the real thing. With the instructions discretely hidden for reference by the car wheel, we actually managed to get the whole thing set up within about 15 minutes. Now for people of a certain age, my age, you'll recall that family tents used to be made of canvas - you made the frame up on it’s knees, draped the canvas over, raised it to its full glory, hung the bedrooms inside, pegged out the groundsheet and, three hours later sat back sweating. Well, not these days, this is kind of a family sized version of a kiddies’ pop-up tent. You roll it out, stick a few fibreglass poles in and hey presto, the thing magically becomes inhabitable. The only real downside was that we didn’t have a tent peg mallet. After about five pegs the palms of my hands were becoming quite painful and swollen. Undeterred, I pushed the rest in with that universal of tools, the sole of my jandal. The fact that the pegs went in so easily should perhaps have triggered a few warning signs in my mind as to the current weather situation, but I suppose I was too full of glory from the ease with which we’d raised the tent – a feat made more remarkable by the fact that I hadn’t sworn at Mrs C or the kids once during the process!!

Quite impressed with myself, I set about putting together the camp beds. Now the traditionalists out there will be pleased to note that the passage of time has not changed the basic design of these things – a series of short tubes, connected together and slotted down either side of a canvas sheet, which is then stretched by the insertion of W-shaped legs. Each bed on its own took longer than the tent to put together! After about an hour of sweating and swearing I finally managed to get the damn things looking like camp beds. After that, I treated myself to a cold beer and inspected the various cuts, welts and bruises around my ankles – it’s quite amazing the amount of damage a piece of W-shaped steel can cause when the tensioning pressure is suddenly released!

But that said, we were done – quite a tidy little campsite all set up and very professional-looking too! By this time everyone was getting hungry, so we popped open the chilly bin to survey a plethora of pre-packed meat cuts, just waiting to be BBQ’d…..in about four days’ time when they’d thawed out!! Another weather warning sign for you there folks – the meat was still frozen, despite the absence on any kind of powered refrigeration. Never mind, first day of the holidays, we’d worked hard; the least we could do is treat ourselves to a meal out.

It was after the meal and back at the campsite we noticed the first of the things we’d forgotten – it gets pretty dark around 6pm after daylight saving finishes! Still, it gave the kids chance to have a bit of fun with their head torches and we settled back for a game of cards and a glass of wine….at which point we noticed the next thing we’d forgotten. Most wine bottles in New Zealand are screw capped and I’d managed to bring the only two cork-sealed bottles in the house….and no cork screw! Now anyone who has studied physics, or has tried to open a bottle of wine by pushing the cork down with a fork handle, knows what it’s like to have a glass of cheap, cold Sav Blanc squirt up your armpit!

Oh well, time for bed, a chance to lie back and listen to the night sounds of nature – the occasional screech of a Possum, the squawking of Pukekoes as they settle down for the night and the strange call of the Ruru – a small native owl, also called a 'Morepork' because of his call…..morepork, morepork. Quite relaxed, we all settled down for the night.

And at 1am, the old body clock kicked in….the night’s intake of cheap wine was now looking for a way out. Ordinarily it’s no problem to rise and walk, eyes closed, around the bed, into the bathroom, release the pressure and tread the well worn path back to bed, almost without losing snoring rhythm. But not when you are zipped into a sleeping bag, inside a well-zipped tent in the pitch dark 30yds from the nearest dunny. After half an hour of trying to ignore the growing pressure in my bladder I finally succumbed and staggered around the tent looking for a torch and some clothes. It’s only when you exit a sleeping bag at 1am on an autumn night you realise just how cold it can be. And of course the cold does things to you! Having legged it across to the toilet, through cold, wet grass, twanging guy ropes like a virtuoso Spanish guitarist, I finally made it to the dunny…just in time. With a bladder the size of a barrage balloon, I set about trying to find the ‘Old Fella’, who rather sensibly it seemed had decided to escape the cold by shrinking inside where it was still nice and warm!

Mind you. It was probably worth the trip to see the most amazing, clear, star-filled night sky you only get to see by being miles away from any kind of urban life.

Now the thing about going to bed early, is that you generally get up early, but the fact that we were all wide awake at 6am didn’t seem to matter once we got the BBQ going and bacon, eggs and sausages sizzling away. Disregarding the fact that the only pan we had brought wasn’t non-stick, which meant we had shredded bacon, we really were quite enjoying this camping lark.

The next day, we set out for a thoroughly enjoyable trip further north to the Bay of Islands, where the sun beat down on us all day. Tired and fulfilled, we set about the hour long trip back to the campsite….towards ominously black clouds. About 20 minutes into the trip we hit the south-bound storm, and began the race to get back home before the torrential rain beat us to it. Exiting the storm about 10 minutes from home, we raced back and got there just in time to get the kit indoors and the BBQ set up under the awning. Shame the chicken still hadn’t defrosted. Mind you, there were more sausages, so they’d do. Torch in hand, hunched on deck chair like a war torn refugee I set about getting the food cooked before the downpour reached us – no such luck! It’s amazing just how loud the rain is when it’s hammering on a tent! It’s also quite amazing how much water leaks down your neck when your head brushes an, until then, waterproof canopy. With our ears bleeding, and my collar soaking, we tucked into sausages and salad before retiring for another early night.

And once the storm had passed, the local wildlife set about its nocturnal symphony. Now it could be that we were too spellbound by our first night to realise just how loud the Great Outdoors really is, or how savage it can be. It’s not so much a symphony as the soundtrack to mass murder. You’ve got Pukekoes (probably the crappest bird ever invented – they can fly - badly, they can walk – stupidly, they can eat - messily and they don’t even squawk properly) sounding like they are being strangled……squawk, squawk, honk, SQUAWgluklglukgleeeeAAYYK. The Possums were clearly having a gang fight, with a posse from over the valley mounting some kind of dusk turf challenge – Eeeeeeeech, Eeeeeecccchhh, EEEEEECCCCHHHHH. The Rurus, being somewhat pissed at being left out of the action, decided to voice their scorn over our somewhat unoriginal sausage diet…Morepork? Morepork? MOREPORK?? MOREBLOODYPORK!!!! (They were beef sausages for christ's sake!) And then, to cap it all, the cows in the next field clearly came into season at some time around 3am, much to the enjoyment and gleeful anticipation of the resident bull – mooo…..moooo….mooooo…..MOOOO ...MMMOOOOOO...MMMOOOOOOOOMOOOOOO!!! Judging by the amount of bellowing going on he must have had an erection the size of a telegraph pole! I couldn't quite decide whether to be worried he'd have a coronary or worried he'd pole-vault over the fence and onto our tent!!!

Now don’t get me wrong, camping is great and we all thoroughly enjoyed our first trip and we learnt a lot. However, for those that haven’t tried it and aren’t sure if they’d like the Kiwi camping culture, here’s a little experiment you might try before you waste a lot of money on expensive gear – get a deckchair and one of those disposable picnic BBQs, set them up in the bathroom, stick “Good Morning, Good Morning” by the Beatles (Sgt Pepper album) on the HiFi at full tilt, turn the shower on to cold, turn all the lights off and get some sausages going – If you can drink a cold beer and still smile, you’ll do okay camping.

Oh, by the way, Mrs C asked me not to mention the fact that she wiped all the tent pegs clean with toilet paper before putting them back in the bag…..so I won’t!! I also won't mention the fact that when I packed the car everything fit in, but when WE packed the car to come home, using Mrs C's alternative suggestion, we had to unpack it again and repack it using my original method, so that we might take home everything we had brought with us!

Happy camping!!

There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed

He might have been a power-mad despot but he knew a thing or two did "Old Boney", and I cannot help but think it was fate which led to my first encounter with the New Zealand Health Service.

And so begins the story.....

I must apologise in advance for labouring through the circumstances leading up to my chance encounter with the medical services, but I feel these events themselves are worthy of mention before I take you to the Medical Centre.

Firstly fate conspired to match an early-finish meeting with an unusually low tide, which provided ample time and opportunity for a spot of evening rock fishing - not the easiest or best way to catch your dinner but usually a bit of fun and a chance to watch a fantastic sunset and catch up with a couple of mates. So me and a mate head off down to the local beach for a couple of hours.

Not a hugely successful haul - two undersized snapper that had to go back - but it was certainly worth the effort and, after a couple of hours we head back to his place to to sink a quick beer and tell a few fishing lies out on his deck. After one beer - note that well, one beer - it was getting too dark and we both had work the day after, so it was time to head home. We had plenty of stuff to carry (including tonnes of plums for an imminent wine brewing venture) so my mate offered me a lift home. He gathered some stuff together and headed across the back garden towards the car. Chipshaker Junior, true to form, followed him carrying as little as possible, leaving me to gather up a tackle box, two pairs of wet jandals and an 8ft fishing rod.

With no outside lights I headed barefoot for roughly the point where the steps down from the deck should be. Having successfully negotiated the four steps I thought there should be, I set off walking to head round the side of the house. Unfortunately, the existence of a fifth step mean that my mind and body, geared to travel in a horizontal direction, were not prepared for the remaining six or seven inches of vertical drop that followed! Now I have no idea how spectacular the fall actually looked but, if it is proportionate to the pain that followed, it would have been impressive. Truth be known I don't really know what happened, except for a couple of things that were immediately apparent - the amount of blood coming from my knee meant that it had come into contact with the concrete pad at the bottom of the steps, the pain in my right foot meant that I had definitely not landed smoothly, and the air rushing out of my lungs, combined with the excruciating pain in my right testicle meant that the butt of the 8ft fishing rod had tried to break my fall...unsuccessfully. Completely unable to cry out, I lay in a ball for a few minutes, listening to my mate carrying on a conversation with me from round the side of the house that I had no hope of participating in. Eventually, I recovered enough to test out the extent of the damage and managed to hobble round to the car, where I had to try to explain what had happened.

Anyway, to cut a long story a little shorter, I was delivered home where, after packing up the fishing gear, I advised Chipshaker Jr that all I wanted was a beer and a sit down. "I'll get you the beer Dad........CRASH!". I turned round to see the puddle of beer expanding across the garage floor, with Jr stood in the middle of it, the blood slowly mixing with the beer and broken glass.

"Stand STILL!"

I then eased myself into a sitting position, and helped Jr sit down in a dry patch, so as to avoid standing on any more glass. I then began to pick up the larger pieces of glass, after first establishing that Jr had only nicked his foot.

And that was the point Mrs C returned home, to find us both sat on the floor, bleeding, in a pool of blood, beer and broken glass!!

"What the hell is going on here?!"

And so we come to my encounter with the local Medical Centre.

After cleaning up my knee it turned that, whilst being the most painful of the various injuries, it was in fact the least serious and was now being overtaken in the pain stakes by my rapidly expanding big toe! Having broken a few bones in my youth, I was familiar with that special aching, throbbing pain that comes with broken bones, and I was fairly certain I had broken the toe. I also knew there was bugger all that could be done for broken toes, so I gobbled down a few painkillers, had another beer and went to bed.

That was Thursday night and, faced with a number of meetings and a huge "To Do" list, I headed off for work on Friday morning, armed with enough painkillers to hopefully see me through the day. However, by lunchtime it became very apparent that this was probably a very silly thing to have done and by 4pm my left foot was its usual size 7 whereas the right foot was a size 9, with unattractive shades of blue and purple. On arriving home, I succumbed to the pressure and agreed to let Mrs C take me to the medical centre.

And what a truly glorious experience it was!!!

At first, it seemed like any other emergency waiting room - rather sterile, the walls decorated with posters warning me about sexually transmitted diseases and the dangers of sneezing on people, and a TV playing to itself in the background.

Then gradually, you realised that, along with everyone else in the waiting room, your attention had subconsciously been drawn to the TV.....

"and so now we are going to perform an incision around Maureen's scalp, draw back the forehead and incise around the ears. We pull up and staple into place........CLICK, CLICK, CLICK"

"Two weeks later Maureen visits Dr Smith's dental surgery.......and we remove the fillings like so, drill around the teeth [weeeeeeeee, weeeeeeee, WEEEEEEEEEEE] and insert the new caps over the top"

As if the TV wasn't enough, the nurse on duty then felt compelled to compete with these outside influences and picked up the phone...

"Yes, this is the Medical Centre, I have a woman with an amputated fractured finger and I called for an ambulance a while back......well do you know how long it will be?.......well yes, it's just hanging on by a scrap of skin....it's on it's way? Okay, thanks"

Then, turning to the gathered crowd of pale onlookers, she addressed us collectively, seeking out her next victim....

"Darryl? [big bloke with bandaged calf (the bottom bit of his leg, not a young farm animal) stands up nervously] Yes, can you come this way please....[heading down the corridor] it's just a tetanus is it? Righto. And it was a shark bite was it? Dear me, how many stitches?......27 STITCHES! My word!"

Now that's what I call health care! No drawn curtain, no patient discretion, just full-on graphic commentary for the enjoyment of all.

I went in feeling very dejected and in a great deal of discomfort, but I came out extremely uplifted, having enjoyed perhaps the greatest moments of unintentional comedy I have seen for a very long time. I was also resolved to never go there with any kind of ailment I wouldn't freely admit to others, for fear of walking down the corridor to the loud accompaniment of..... "so, it's just the penis suppurating profusely is it? We'll soon get that sorted"

And the best thing of all? The whole experience, glorious as it was, lasted less than an hour and the nurse even put some cream on my grazed knee!!

PS

As a post script to this wonderful experience, I went back to the medical centre yesterday morning for an X-ray to confirm the extent of the damage. It is indeed broken as suspected but most impressive of all was the way the doctor nonchalantly took down a book from the shelf entitled "Practical Fracture Treatment", which he proceeded to flick through before writing up his treatment notes. Now I know these guys have to learn a lot, and they can't possibly know everything, but I'm not too sure they should be learning on the job!

If we think about this carefully, I diagnosed a broken toe on the Thursday night, which was considered to be a correct diagnosis when viewed by a doctor on Friday night, confirmed by an X-ray on Saturday morning and treated by reference to a text book and use of multiple strips of Band Aid. In the past, I have also correctly predicted tonsillitis in myself and my children and successfully treated it with salt water gargles, convinced Mrs C that the children have a heat rash not meningitis, identified chicken pox, and have treated several deep wounds (in myself and close friends and family) with home-made butterfly stitches, thus generally avoiding a four hour sojourn fighting off the unwanted attentions of drunks and drug addicts in British hospital waiting rooms .

I can't help but feel I may be somewhat wasted in my current job and can see a future with the Chipshaker Travelling Medicine Show. After all, it doesn't really seem that difficult and, if anyone in New Zealand can be an estate agent, surely the conditions for being a doctor can't be that rigorous?

I wanted to do something nice....

....so I bought my mother-in-law a chair, but my wife won't let me plug it in!

(If it weren't so true that old joke would indeed be funny)

Yes, as I write this I come to the end of three very long weeks in the cloying company of my wife's mother - an individual I found intolerable during previously infrequent encounters, let alone having to live with her for three whole weeks. (And I should point out that this is notwithstanding several vicious and underhand tricks she did when I first seduced her beautiful daughter some 18 years ago, which I try hard not to influence my loathing of her).

Apart from the fact that she is perhaps the most thoroughly dislikeable person I have every met, most adults of a certain age will probably admit that it is also very difficult sharing ones personal space with another adult you wouldn't ordinarily choose to live with. That said, once I had got over the initial urges to mark my territory by urinating on the dining table leg, rationalised that I was only connected to her by some tragic fluke of marriage, and that my summer holiday/Christmas was going to be buggered up beyond redemption, I have to admit that I did settle down somewhat to revel in the spectacle that was to follow.

I suppose those that don't know me may feel my opening comments are a little uncaring (those that do know me probably feel the same!), but be assured that Mrs C does in fact share my dislike of the woman, although perhaps not to the same extent, and begged me not to abandon her to her tender mercies. Undeterred by this impassioned plea, I pointed out the undeniable truth that she was in fact no relation of mine and our paths had only crossed by an accident of early 20s lust and animal attraction (to Mrs C, not her mother!!). Therefore I patiently explained that I was quite within my rights to find every excuse possible to disappear with the children, play golf or undertake marathon Playstation sessions in another room or join the Merchant Navy. And at this point, It is worth bearing in mind that the visit was only grudgingly agreed to for the sake of the two Chipettes, who mistakenly believed they were missing out on something by being 10,000 miles away from Grandma. If you care to read on, you can make your own decisions on whether they were.

As I say, at first it was perhaps just a little difficult because of the territorial aspects of three adults cohabiting. Nevertheless, it became apparent after only the first fifteen minutes that it was going to be much much more than that.

Having passed through New Zealand customs control myself a few times, I am very aware that there are stringent drugs controls in this country and a notable intolerance of smugglers. That said, The Bride of Satan managed to fox this country's trained enforcement officers and their clever dogs somehow and arrived with the biggest haul of drugs I have ever seen! Antihistamine tablets, thyroid tablets, aspirin, allergy tablets, enough Rennie to have rendered Acid Bath Haigh harmless, anti-depressants, sleeping tablets, distemper tablets, foot and mouth cream - you name it she had the lot. The only thing she was missing was the medication to treat her hypochondria!

When I was stupid enough to comment on the size of her pill box (more a travel bag than a pocket box) she regaled us with tales of how she had scourged the pharmacies of Sydney (during a 10 day stop over) because she was worried she only had enough blue pills for the next 3 months!! Not content with that, we then got a blow by blow account of her extravagant pill popping excesses.

"This blue one I have 75mg one day and 50mg on the next, then 75mg again....or is it the other way round, I can never remember? Anyway, this yellow one I have three times a day. The white ones I just take when I fancy......"

I'm assuming the white ones were in fact mint imperials, which she harped on about regularly throughout the visit (and which were later found, half sucked, in the bed when the covers were changed after her departure!!). Judging by her miserable countenance and lethargic shuffling round the house, I can only assume the blue ones were not speed! I also have a theory that her insomnia could be triggered by some kind of mad urge to get a sugar rush around 10pm every night - mint imperials, honey, assorted biscuits, Ovaltine, you name it. All were consumed as part of the going to bed ritual, accompanied by 10 minutes of exaggerated yawning and the oft repeated chorus of "Oo I'm tired, I'm worn out, I am tired you know, I think I'll go to bed". After 5 minutes of which I was fighting back the urge to scream "Well, just effing go to bed then, so that the rest of us can hear ourselves think!"

Somewhat suicidally bored and fighting back the urge to self harm, I retired gracefully to bed at the end of day one!

In the following days she displayed perhaps her only skill in life (assuming paranoia isn't considered a talent), being the ability to fill every single waking second with unnecessary noise or vacuous and inane chatter. Let me give you but one example - upon meeting her on the stairs one evening she greeted me with the earth-shattering revelation "Eh look, it's me, with my camomile tea and honey". Now Stevie Wonder may have struggled to deduce that one but I just about managed to draw that conclusion by assimilating the assembled facts (ie, it was definitely her, she was holding a cup of hot liquid, she'd never stopped harping on about camomile tea since she got there (this was before we'd scoured Greater Auckland to replenish mint imperial stocks) and it was past 10pm so there was bound to be a shovelful of honey in there!). Somewhat stunned by the enormity of this event I was fleetingly tempted to contact Sky News to advise them of this world-changing revelation but, on further reflection, opted for the wintry smile instead.

Mind you, it's a wonder she can find time to brew camomile tea quite frankly, what with the hectic social life she seems to live. After all, she seems to be on first name terms with just about every A-list celebrity you can imagine. Or at least I assume this is the case based on the running commentary she gives whenever she watches the TV (which is almost constantly). "Aw look, there's Elton, he's been going some years, eh look, it's Rod - he's nearly as old as me you know. And Shirley, she's done some stuff over the years...la, la,lelah, bum, be bum"

Now I have to confess I'm perhaps not Shirley Bassey's biggest fan, though her talent is undeniable, and I am reasonably familiar with her most popular songs. However, I couldn't for the life of me place the one that had just been attempted by Beelzebub's Bedfellow

But perhaps the greatest revelation of all, and one the New Zealand Herald would definitely be interested in was.... "Aw Diana - she's not dead you know, oh no, she'll never die, she'll live forever"

I don't know about you but after a fairly conclusive post mortem, endless media coverage, a State funeral, several messy stains in a Paris underpass and a high profile enquiry I thought it was a given that she'd shuffled off this mortal coil, but apparently not. Nevertheless, this little snippet did leave me wondering if it was all a ruse so that Di could get some respite from the media attention. Perhaps she's teamed up with Elvis and works in a burger joint in Des Moines, and only Mrs C's mum knows the secret?

By this point, we were only a few days in and I was beginning to wonder if I would stay the distance without "going postal". Nevertheless, Christmas Day was imminent, so I felt duty bound to soldier on. And what a joy Christmas Day was! We were treated to Christmas courtesy of QVC - for the uninitiated, QVC is a shopping channel available on satellite, cable and freeview in the UK. It specialises in selling chintzy, tacky crap of all descriptions to insomniacs who are too tired to venture out during the day, mostly because they sit up all night watching QVC! And the Monster-in-Law is a most avid fan - I can recall a time when Mrs C revealed how she had opened a cupboard at her mother's house, only to have a near-death experience under an avalanche of Jiffy envelopes and boxes all bearing the QVC emblem.

Anyway, given their origins, it was perhaps not surprising that most of the gifts fell apart after the first hour or so, prompting a rant about all the things that upset her the most about Christmas. Somehow, this turned into a discussion around the jewellery adorning the Monster-in-Law's crabbed hands and a revelation far greater than the immortality of Princess Di...

Mrs C, whether out of mischief or morbid curiosity - I know not which , asked "Why do you keep buying all that stuff Mum?"

"Well, I'm a collector you see. I buy it all on Easypay you know - I just pay over four months so it's a lot cheaper. And most of the things I've bought have appreciated in value".

Now at this point, apart from being in danger of losing control of my bladder, I was also stunned to realise that there was in fact a market for "Diamonique" and "Rubyite" jewellery outside those that sit up all night watching camp wannabee presenters waxing lyrical on the aesthetic and intrinsic value of a glass-and- silver-plated ring that wouldn't look out of place falling from the big end of a Christmas cracker. I naturally assumed that pieces of shaped glass were of limited value, regardless of their colour, unless made in Waterford instead of Warrington. Needless to say, when the Harpy from Hades does get the call to return to Satan's side, I'll be sending Mrs C straight off to the Antiques Roadshow with her inheritance!

Mind you, if - as I suspect - the 'jewellery' (I imagine the Guild of Master Jewellers may dispute the careless use of that word as gross misrepresentation) turns out to not be worth enough to pay off the Easypay instalments, we will still have something to remember her by. Well, that's assuming Mrs C doesn't chuck out that one of her set of her best towels her mother ruined when surreptitiously dying her hair.

And I couldn't help but marvel at the underhand way she "confessed" to this wicked deed.

Waiting until Mrs C had gone out, the MIL backed me into a corner and numbed me into semi-consciousness with a rambling account of how the sun had dried her hair and taken the colour out (Bearing in mind this is the same sun that had seemingly failed to appear most of the time......"Oh I am disappointed with the weather, it's been nice seeing the kids but I'll be really upset if I don't go back with a suntan", but that she had basked in at every opportunity, turning the uncovered parts of her body into charred flesh...."Oh no, it's not sore, look I can even do this...." [slaps horrible turkey neck violently to demonstrate lack of excruciating radiation burns]". She wasn't fooling anyone though, the putrid stench of burnt flesh and the oft applied Savlon were testament to her misery and stupidity).

Anyway, almost to the point of semi-consciousness, I suddenly realised this rambling soliloquy actually had a point......"all the grey was showing through, so I had to dye my hair. I brought an old hand-towel with me especially but it was too small and my hair was still wet. So I borrowed one of Mrs C's towels to finish it off....the stains'll come out when it's washed I'm sure...."

I have to admit, I couldn't resist mentioning to Mrs C on her return that she might want to have a quick shufty at the top quality, extra thick CREAM-COLOURED bath-towel currently residing in the laundry basket....

And so let me finish with a message to all sons-in-law out there, particularly those who reluctantly allow their mother-in-laws to stay. It may seem like a prospect worse than death but, with the right mental attitude, it can be hugely entertaining and incredibly educational - I now know much more about immortality, celebrity lifestyle and the specialist collectors' market than I could ever have imagined, and I learnt some new swear words too when Mrs C found the towel!

Oh, and I also improved my golf handicap and won prize money in the club competition two weekends running!! Not bad for a bloke who usually couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo!!

Meanwhile, fears of universal disaster sank to an all time low over the world

Well Isaac Asimov may well think that but my insurance company certainly doesn't!!

Six hundred and fifty five quid they want, for buildings only insurance on an empty house! Not only that but the insurance only covers damage by lightning, explosion and aircraft damage? What about the good old stuff like loosened roofing tiles, subsidence and burning down?

I mean, we lived there ten years before we emigrated and I can't honestly remember the house ever being struck by lightning or exploding. These are the kinds of things you'd tend to notice I feel.

And as for aircraft damage, well we are some twenty odd miles from the nearest airport, in a sprawling urbanisation. But apparently aircraft damage is a major concern to the insurance company it seems. So much so that, under the terms of the policy, my parents have to visit the property at least once a week to make quite sure that there isn't a Boeing 747 sticking out of the lounge window.

One assumes that, at such an extortionate price, I at least get salvage rights over any commercial, military or recreational aircraft that should just happen to choose my house to crash into out of the millions of others in the Greater Manchester area!

I'm thinking someone has been watching too much Emmerdale! Bloody insurance? Surely the whole idea of insurance is that they assess the odds and take a gamble? Quite honestly, at nearly seven hundred quid a chuck, I can't see a downside for the insurance company!

Don't suppose anyone out there knows any dodgy pilots do they? Perhaps a retired Kamikaze veteran looking for a quick buck (assuming of course Kamikaze pilots can either be veteran or retired?)

The difference between a misfortune and a calamity is this :

"If Gladstone fell into the Thames, it would be a misfortune. But if someone dragged him out again, that would be a calamity."

Quite a wag that Benjamin Disraeli, but I suppose he has a point.

Let me share with you then, my misfortunes of last week.

The week didn't start too well when Mrs C advised me casually, in passing, that her mother was coming to haunt us for five weeks over the Christmas period. Five weeks!! I only get two weeks off for Christmas and I was rather looking forward to the peace and tranquility of Christmas on the beach. As it stands, I'm more likely now to be stood in the dinner queue at Mount Eden prison for Christmas dinner. She once lived with us for three days and how I held my tongue that long I'll never know - five weeks is a feat of endurance beyond even a saint. To say I don't like the women is perhaps understating things somewhat and it's probably no exaggeration to say that I'd rather have Peter Sutcliffe use our gaff as a bail hostel.

Naturally, when I picked up an e-mail last Friday morning advising me that our house buyers in the UK were dropping out 24 hrs before the date of completion I was very slightly less than gruntled. On the assumption that these things come in threes I was also starting to look carefully around me for the next drama on the horizon, and I travelled very warily to work that day. But then I told myself that it was all a load of guff, nothing else could go wrong and I'd had my quota if such things even existed. I also couldn't recall breaking any mirrors, and you tend to notice doing that.

But I was wrong! I might as well stood under a ladder and smashed a mirror over the black cat running past!

Come 9am I'd just got my first cup of tea and was settling down to my usual Friday turgidity when the phone rang. Not content with already ruining my Christmas, Mrs C decided to twist the knife a little further. "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this.......". Turns out that a mate of Stevie Wonder's had driven his bullbar-adorned 4x4 Schoolrunmobile into our parked car and stoved in the two offside doors. I can only assume he was a mate of Stevie's because there is no other explanation for him failing to see the large, silver family saloon he crashed his front end into as he reversed slowly at an angle out of his adjacent parking space - one assumes the seeing dog in the passenger seat wasn't having a particularly good day and failed to bark his customary warning in time.

Fortunately, the dog had a conscience and scrawled his telephone number on a note (Thank goodness for the dog, because a Braille note from the driver would have had me well stumped!)

Taking a deep breath, and reassured that my third and final piece of bad luck had now arrived, I assessed the damage over the phone and concluded that the car was unsightly rather than undriveable. Surprising myself with my calmness (is there a difference between calm and abject resignation I wonder?) I left Mrs C with the words "Right, I'll deal with it when I get home, but please, please do not phone me again unless someone dies, I couldn't take anything else".

She's a grand wife is Mrs C, very bright and deeply beloved to me, despite having a mother rumoured to be the daughter of Satan. And she followed my instructions to the letter.....until around 2pm, when the phone rang again.

Now you know when you answer the phone and you can tell just by the way people breath that they are about to relay something catastrophic? Well it was like that - shaky breathing, muted sobs and I could definitely detect trembling through the ether. With the words ".....unless somebody dies" ringing in my ears, bile rising in my throat and her "I'm really sorry to phone you" opening gambit, I immediately began to wonder which one of the children's names I was going to hear!

The word "hospital" was all I heard in the next sentence!

Turns out, she'd turned around quite innocently and innocuously whilst helping out at school, and crumpled in a rather messy heap on the floor (probably with her legs firmly closed and her skirt neatly clamped between her knees, because women somehow have this reflex action for falling that way whenever they faint or collapse - or is it just me that notices these things?). Anyway, I digress. After a trip to the hospital, the conclusion is a torn calf muscle, a bill of $80 for a bit of tubigrip bandage, some aspirins and a pack of anti-inflammatories, plus $30 deposit for the crutches, which will be refunded when she returns on Friday for a check up (which will probably cost the returned $30 deposit plus another $50 no doubt!). Now I put this kind of injury either down to old age or playing football....and I don't ever recall seeing her wearing football boots!

So not only was my Friday a disaster of unfathomable proportions, but I had to spend a whole weekend of Mrs C alternating between hopping around like an amateur Long John Silver or shuffling up and down stairs on her backside like a stricken leper.

Regardless of what Disraeli says, I still haven't decided whether all of that was purely misfortune, or whether the quantum of those misfortunes qualifies it as a calamity collectively.
And all of this whilst going through the itchy and deeply irritable hell of a two week old moustache in aid of 'Movember' - an event in aid of Men's Cancer charities. I mention this a) because the itching was already making me bad tempered and b) in a shameless pursuit of cash in a good cause. If anyone would like to sponsor my flowing Mexican moustache, complete with underlip tickler. Log on to the Movember website here http://www.movember.com/nz/sponsor and quote my rego number 34760. Leave your e-mail address in the comments section and I'll send you a mo pic to laugh at/stroke/drool over (I currently hold 5 gold "Best Mo" stars, 4 red "Most Stylish Mo" stars and 4 blue "Best Porno Mo" stars to lead the office competition!)

PS, in response to the anonymous comment...Ron Jeremy? Pah. I don't think he can compete on any front! Even Merv Hughes is cacking himself

It isn't that life ashore is distasteful to me. But life at sea is better

Pah, Francis Drake, what did he know about it??

Me on the other hand, I'm now a fully fledged member of the nautical community. Mind you, this elevation doesn't come easily. Oh no, you live and learn every time you go out on the Briny.

So what allows me to speak with such authority? Well, I'm now the proud owner (well loaner really ) of a boat, following an incredibly generous offer from a colleague's partner - something along the lines of "Here take mine". Never being one to look a gift horse in the mouth (being sensibly scared of getting anywhere near the flickering eyes and yellow teeth of such animals), I gratefully accepted the offer. After all, it would be rude to refuse and how hard can it be to drive a boat?

Hmm, well a little bit harder than you might first imagine!

Now being honest, the driving of them (or should one say skippering?) isn't really that difficult. You turn the key and off you go. In fact, it's the bit before you set off and the bit after you get back that are the REALLY hard bits. First of all, there's the reversing it down the boat ramp without dropping it off the side or submerging the car. For those that have never reversed a trailer before, it's a bit like rubbing your stomach and patting your head. You can learn to do it in time, but generally some people are just born with the ability. In fact I think it's a gene passed from Kiwi male to Kiwi male. For the rest of us, it's an activity designed solely for the amusement of others.

Not deterred, I was hell-bent on trying it. I mean, how hard can it be? You just turn the steering wheel in the opposite direction to the one you want the boat trailer to go.....don't you?

So I stationed my mate (we'll call him Jimmy) within sight at the back, so that he could guide me and I set off slowly. Now Jimmy is a decent fella - after all, it was his 4x4 we were using to tow the borrowed boat (I know, I might look stupid but...) - and in the true way of all loyal mates, he turned to the nearest disinterested bystanders and attracted their unwavering and undivided attention to the forthcoming entertainment with the words "It's his first time!"

Having ensured that we now had the full attention of all present, I inched backwards down the ramp, turning the wheel slightly to the right, to account for the slight curve to the left of the boat ramp. Having quickly got the boat at right angles to the car, I then drove forward to straighten up. Start again.....and the same thing happened!! Lesson 1 - even the slightest touch of the steering wheel slews the trailer in the opposite direction!

After only four attempts I managed to get the boat down the ramp and into the water.....and nobody applauded!!!

So off we set for an enjoyable day's fishing.

Now it was a little rough, so we didn't go far and anchored out in the bay. The boat was pitching a little but nothing too serious. And then I learnt my next lesson. NEVER, EVER kneel down in a pitching boat, because when you do, the pitching suddenly becomes a WHOLE lot worse (even writing this I can feel the bile rising again!). After about 30 minutes rocking and wallowing, we decided enough was enough and it was time to 'weigh anchor'. It was only at this point we realised the anchor was fouled and, stuck fast, it 'weighed" a bloody tonne!. With Jimmy facing out of the hatchway at the front of the boat trying to pull up the rope, we began hitting every wave head on as we fought to get the damn thing up - me by driving the boat over the anchor line and him by hauling on the rope (at one point I think I saw the palm of his hands smoking!). Now I was a little scared at the thought of being stuck forever out there and have to admit I was very chuffed to be skipper, responsible for the boat, rather than the other bloke sat out on the front of the boat facing the rising sea and getting drenched with every wave. We finally got the anchor up and, as with most instances where the danger suddenly disappears, had a good laugh and a celebratory beer.

Somewhat relieved, we decided to have a little bimble about round the headland. As soon as we turned the corner, the sea was flat calm!!!

The sequel to this story came last weekend, when we took the boat out again, this time with our kids on board. Being a bit wiser this time, and noticing the number of people about, I let Jimmy drive down the ramp - he's a Kiwi you see, so was born with the trailer reversing gene and can make any boat ramp look 30ft wide. And as you might expect, our departure was a relatively unamusing and uninspiring affair. We spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon buggering about on the water, fishing, drinking beer, peeing in buckets and all the other things you'd associate with a blokes' fishing trip. Well, when I say fishing trip, Captain Birdseye we weren't. We caught a few but none were big enough to keep....except one snapper, which was a couple of millimetres over the legal 27cm. Obviously, we couldn't go home completely empty handed, so he went in the bucket and we set off back.

By this time, confidence was high and we cruised gently towards the beach, in a dead line with the boatramp, a bit like Nelson and Hardy (but without the kissing of course!). Now for some reason, the beach was particularly busy (could word of the previous week's antics have spread so far already??). Having judged we had about 1/2 metre of depth before we grounded, my fellow gallant matelot and I made preparations for the ceremonial disembarkation - he's supposed to jump off first and hold the boat, I kill the engine and then follow him overboard, so that he can leg it up the beach for the car and trailer, whilst I stop the borrowed boat washing down the beach and against the rocks.

Unfortunately, it didn't go quite according to plan - a wave caught us just as Jimmy's about to go over the side....and he went slightly faster and a little less gracefully than he intended. Soaked to the neck, he quickly scarpers pretending nonchalantly to the gathered crowd on the beach that nothing untoward had happened - judging by the faces, his performance wasn't too convincing and his sopping wet clothes clearly indicated a lack of intention! Barely able to hold my bladder for laughing, I followed him over (more gracefully) and hung onto the boat, waist deep in water, whilst the kids were under instructions to sit still as I fought the waves (which I was hoping "were fiddlin' and small", but weren't).

After what seemed like ages, I could see my buddy scrabbling about up near the car. Cursing, I turned to my son and growled "I can't believe that daft bugger's getting his dry clothes on whilst I'm struggling here."

Then my youngest starts crying - she wants to go home and doesn't like the boat rocking in the waves......then my mates daughter delivers the words that strike fear into anyone in such a situation........"I need the toilet!"

Just then Jimmy sets off back down the beach towards us. It was at this point, I learnt another lesson - car keys aren't waterproof!!!

"Mate, we've got a real problem" he says. "The keys got wet and the immobiliser's buggered!"

So there we were, a 15ft boat, no trailer, no car, one child reliving the Titanic experience, another performing the bladder dance complete with facial contortions, and half of the local population loving every minute!

Fortunately, we had mobile phones with us (carefully stored in waterproof bags I might add!!) so we phoned Mrs C, and told her to bring my car down to tow us off bloody quickly.

Now at some point during this, I noticed the two blokes in official overalls up in the car park - FISHERIES OFFICERS!!! These guys take your boat, your car and all your kit if they catch you with undersized fish, or so I'd been told by every Death or Glory Kiwi fisherman I'd ever met. And by this point, I'm convinced they thought I was spending hours in the water just to avoid them inspecting us for our one and only fish that was 27.5cm long!

Just then, Mrs C arrives with the car, so we get the trailer hitched up and The One With The Genes reverses it down the ramp - boat hooked up, winched out and we are ready to go. Being somewhat sodden, I suggested Jimmy (the drier of the two of us!!) drive up and I'd meet him at the top of the ramp. So, completely oblivious to the fact that my car is a 2.0l front wheel drive saloon, and not a 3.0 4x4, Jimmy guns the engine.....and buries the front end of my lovely car into the beach! Fortunately, a quick reverse, a lower gear selection and we get away with it.

So, at the top of the ramp, the Fisheries guy stops us, has a look over our catch (1 fish you'll recall - it didn't take long!) and gives us the thumbs up. Feeling brave, I questioned him as to whether the fish we had was borderline or not

"Nah, you're okay there. We're mostly after the fellas who take sackfuls of shellfish, or bags of undersized fish....besides, you fellas gave us such a laugh we had to let you off!!"

Swing your razor wide! Sweeney, hold it to the skies

Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, not much chance of him getting on in New Zealand, far too much of a craftsman he was. In the Land of the Long White Cloud anyone can be anything they want to be over here and qualifications seem to have little to do with it. Take barbers for instance. Six months and I haven't once had a decent haircut. In fact, I'm pretty convinced that the qualifications for becoming a New Zealand barber are simply the ability to daub red white and blue stripes somewhere on the outside of a shop. They certainly don't seem to relate to being able to cut hair, that's for sure!

Now at this point, some of you are probably assuming I'm one of those sartorially elegant chaps who sports the kind of trendy haircut that makes you look like you've just jumped out of bed and dived backwards through a hedge? Well not me! Admittedly, I do like the back shaved up and a quick razor scrape to rid me of the bum fluff on the neck but I've never considered myself trendily tonsured - I'm quite happy with the regulation short back and sides with a good short trim on the roof. Back in England a quick trip to "Mad Jack's" and you'd spend more time waiting than you did in the chair - a good old fashioned barber who'd whizz round with the clippers, have the cut-throat up and down your neck and offer you "something for the weekend sir?" before you'd even had chance to comment on the weather. (By the way, why is it, whenever I hear the oft parodied phrase "Something for the weekend sir?" I immediately think of a hot black pudding and a free ticket to watch the mighty Shakers get trounced by some second-rate pub team from the wilds of Yorkshire.)

Anyway, my mind wanders, as it often does, but, to get back to the point, you wouldn't think it would be too hard to get a decent, sharp haircut of the old fashioned variety, now would you?

Well how wrong could you be?

The first mistake I made was going to a female barber. Now call me old fashioned, but women are hairdressers and blokes are barbers. Women just simply don't have the aggression needed to wield hair clippers with the required amount of venom to shave with military precision. So I spent 30 minutes (20 minutes longer than I would usually) sat in the chair, listening to inane twittering about the weather, TV and the price of shopping, whilst this lovely lady faffed and fussed around the back of my head. Granted, she did do the thing with the mirror to show me the back of my head when she'd finished. But that immediately raised my suspicions - no self respecting barber shows you the back. He leaves that surprise for when you get home! And true enough, there it was....a beautifully clipped neckline with not a trace of blood or tissue paper anywhere. And even worse, no evidence of contact with clippers whatsoever....which left me wondering just what the hell that buzzing noise had been at the back of my head for the last 20 minutes!! (Surely not!)

Now everyone knows that the standard issue short back and sides lasts you at least a month but after a week I was beginning to look like Jason Eaton!



So, with the bit between my teeth and my unwanted ponytail wafting gaily in the breeze, I set out again to find a real barber. Spotting a dingy place lurking menacingly next to a disused cafe, I thought I'd struck lucky. Surely no-one but an old fashioned barber would have Old Holborn and Park Drive tins in the window?. So in I dived and to my delight not only did I find there were only two people before me, but there was a table full of 10 year old copies of "Top Gear" magazine and "New Zealand Fisherman & Hunter". Now I really was in luck!

So, I quickly grabbed an interesting magazine and began to read the review of the "hot new 2.8l Ford Capri", knowing I would only have the briefest of moments to savour the vinyl interior as modelled by Lewis Collins, before my turn would come, I read hungrily......and after nearly an hour, it dawned on me that, not only was I no nearer getting my haircut but there was actually STILL no-one in the chair and the same two blokes were waiting before me....looking, on closer inspection, as if they'd been there for years. This guy had stropped his razor, cleaned his clippers, rolled a couple of fags (for the non-Brits out there, rolling a fag is the art of crafting a hand-made cigarette, not a George Michael courtship technique!), and sipped a couple of cups of coffee. It suddenly became very clear to me that this fella was cacking himself and doing everything possible to avoid cutting anyone's hair, presumably lest he should be found out to be a plumber or a plasterer down on his luck, and not really a barber at all !!

It was at that point, I noticed his prosthetic ear (I kid you not!!)....and I began to wonder. Maybe he wasn't a barber at all. Maybe he'd been cruelly mutilated by another amateur New Zealand barber and was now hell-bent on some mission of misplaced vengeance!

Bugger that, time for a sharp exit.....before I end up with a sharp exit!!

So I legged it....and only stopped running when I spotted "Bert's Barbers" (name changed to protect the under-qualified!) tucked away down another alleyway. Undeterred, and becoming somewhat stubborn by this point, I thought I'd give it a go, if only to save money on Alberta Balsam conditioner for long and fly-away hair.

Once again, stepping into the breach, I found myself in an empty shop, bedecked with faded Manchester United memorabilia. The chap seemed cheerful enough, as he greeted me in that cheeky cockney accent favoured by most traditional Man Utd fans. "What'll it be sir?". Now, my hopes soared at this display of traditional Uriah Heep-like ingratiating humility that can surely only truly be learned at a good barbering school. However, not being prepared to take any more chances, I opted for "a number 3 all over", on the basis of a good nagging from Mrs C for having "a bloody crew cut" was better than being mistaken for a slightly dishevelled Liza Minnelli from behind.

It was only when I got home I realised I'd had "a number 3 all over" except for various long tufts at the back!! It was at that point, completely defeated, and after a bout of expletives, I opted for the unthinkable......."Mrs C, do me a favour, get the scissors and trim some of these long bits off."

Snip, snip, snip......"Oh, oh, sorry, I think I've gone a bit close there....."

"Jesus, what have you done? Give me that mirror?"

Now I ask you, which is worse, long tufts of hair here and there or the random placing of bald patches, making me look like a feral dog with the mange??

You know I used to worry a little about going bald but I'm sure Yul Brynner never had the problems I seem to have!

A meal without wine is like a day without sunshine

Okay, let me firstly say that I am in no way proud of what I am about to recount. However, I do feel the tale worthy of sharing, if only out of relief and surprise.

Someone very kindly offered us use of their holiday home last weekend on the Coromandel (unspoilt playground of the wealthy - a rural/farming peninsula running from south Auckland, parallel to the city, heading back north) and, with an opportunity like that, it seemed only right that we should make the most of it and set off on Friday.

Despite the unspoilt beauty of forests, untouched beaches and winding mountain roads that would give the Alps a run for their money we still had a few issues with Chipshaker Jr and his determination to be sullen and ruin the day for everyone, despite everything we did to make it better (I suspect this is probably lingering homesickness, even after 6 months, and he seems hell-bent on punishing us for dragging him to this wonderful place). Consequently, Friday was a challenging day to say the least and the conclusions we reached at the end of a really difficult day trying to do nice things for Junior's benefit were:

a) if we ever got divorced the custody battle would be more about who got lumbered with the kids rather than who wanted them
b) nothing we could do would make him happy
c) we'd run out of ideas

and most importantly

d) we both needed a beer

Now the day hadn't been all bad - we'd driven a fair distance to a particular beach, known for its thermal springs. And the gloom lifted briefly as the kids, turning slightly blue, bathed in steaming hot water as the freezing Pacific rollers crashed up onto the beach, chilling everything until the hot water bubbled up again. Nevertheless, once the fun was over Junior once again returned to his perpetual state of sullenness.

We were some way from our base, so we decided to stop off for a beer on the way back. After a nice "cold one" things were looking up so we decided cut our losses, relax in front of the log fire and order a meal, with which I had two glasses of a very fair local red wine, as you do.

By now darkness had fallen so I had a "fun" time driving through winding forest roads in the pitch dark, trying hard not to run over kiwis and possums - the former a protected species and the latter a pest. Whilst it is considered good form to run over any possum you spot, they do rather make a mess of the front of the car. We didn't see either but we did nearly run over some farmer's dog.....twice!! Not content with wandering into the road the first time and near choking on the blue tyre smoke, the daft bugger did the same thing again just as I was about to set off!

Nevertheless, we eventually got to the village before the one we were staying in. Clearly a farming community, it became immediately apparent from the sight of two or three bars bursting at the seams that all the farmers knock off at 5pm on a Friday to sink a few cold ones. As we were passing out of town, it also became apparent that the local copper parks his car in the middle of the road at 7.30 and stops every driver in the hope of catching miscreants driving home full to the gunnels.

At 7.45pm, he caught one such miscreant!

"Evening" said I
"Evening sir, could you state your name and address please" said he, as he pressed a breath testing machine to my mouth
"Thank you sir....oh....it's a fail, have you been drinking?"
"Yes, I had a couple of glasses of wine with a meal"
"Where was this?"

At which point, anyone who isn't a native who tries to pronounce some of the local names is heading for disaster, drink or not!

"Er...er...just up the road in Whitty...er...wanger"
"Ah, right, I think you mean Whitianga" (pronounced fittyanga) "When was that then?" says he, looking at Mrs C and the kids
"Well it was about an hour ago, eh love?" said I looking to Mrs C for corroboration, and setting the kids with a steely death stare, daring them to speak
"Yes, about an hour ago"

Having watched a few episodes of "Motorway Patrol" I was well aware of the dim view the NZ police take of drinking and driving and, at the point I saw the police car in the road I knew I was heading for a night in the cells at least, and probably a hefty fine and a ban - and all before I've even got my NZ driving licence!

As I said at the outset, I don't condone drinking and driving, and I'm sure abstinence is the only sensible policy when driving, but I'm sure most of us have had the odd beer, or a glass of wine or two with a meal before heading off home. Knowing I had to drive, I'd deliberately moderated the intake, had a coffee and killed a bit of time before we set off home.

Nevertheless, I suppose I knew from the outset that I was on thin ice. So, as you might imagine, the next event took my breath away somewhat

"Okay sir, no problem, thank you and have a nice evening"

I drove the rest of the way more stunned than I would have been had I downed a bottle of scotch!. No cells, no fine, no ban, no marigolds. Not even a patronising British bobby-style spiel about how irresponsible it was to drink and drive, particularly with kids in the car, and how I'd better watch out next time!

Unbelievable!!

Now this was the first time I'd ever been stopped in all my years of driving but I've since learned that it is fairly commonplace over here. I've also learned from several people I have spoken to since that I was very...very...lucky!

We commend to Almighty God our brother.....

So, I wake up every weekend and I look out the window to see that winter still hasn't come to this part of New Zealand. Oh aye, it rains occasionally and it's been pretty cold of late - in fact the coldest winter in Auckland for a couple of dickheads (about 20 years), and there was even frost on the golf course last weekend - but we still haven't seen that traditional sopping wet, bucketing down New Zealand winter that everyone keeps threatening me with. So every weekend, we do our best to make the most of it, and we get out 'tramping' or get in the car for a 'tikitour'.

And this weekend was no exception, although it did have some slightly unusual qualities to it!

Having finally found a bookshop that sells road maps for less than a king's ransom I gladly parted with my $7 for a shiny new tourist map - the fold-out type designed to add excitement to any trip as the passenger wrestles with it across the driver's field of vision, trying unsuccessfully to re-fold it along the original lines, and occasionally uttering from behind it the words "who's doing all that honking?", not realising the car is careering across the central reservation as the driver steers by gut feel and intuition. (I can't help but feel there is a market for opaque maps by the way!).

Anyway, I digress....I had planned out an adventure to take us out to the wild, west (that's 'wild, west' as in rugged coast, not 'Wild West' as in lawless gunslingers).

Unfortunately, what I didn't do was fully appraise Mrs C of the route. Rashly adopting a male outlook to any kind of trip, I vaguely traced a finger along what I thought was a fairly simple route indicating the general direction, and left Mrs C to shout directions out rally co-driver style at relevant points. Unfortunately, these points were usually just after the relevant turnoffs, which invariably meant much hard breaking, blue tyre smoke, reversing and the occasional straying over the white line as I tried to point to our current location on the map and drive at the same time.

Having spent a few hours driving up a relatively uninhabited peninsula we got to a point where what was initially a tarmac road suddenly becomes a dirt track. Now even though I'd only paid $7 for the map, it had so far navigated us perfectly through recognisable landmarks (which is more than can be said for Mrs C), so I kept my faith, with only a nagging concern that the track would suddenly lead to the front door of a farmhouse and we'd be greeted by a grinning farmer and the words "Hehehe, another one eh?".

But got there we did, and we found the (near vertical) path down to the beach....just as it started bucketing down with rain! We did a quick traipse down to the beach, passing a couple of stray walkers along the way, and I was only mildly puzzled by the way they were puffing and blowing. But their apparent breathing difficulties were explained when we set off back. Slightly heavier now due to the downpour, I realised that what seemed invigoratingly steep on the way down was calf-burningly, lung-busrtingly vertical on the way back, made all the more challenging by having to drag a rain-sodden, dead-weight five year old behind me, wailing the "Are we nearly there yet?" song all the way.

Feeling somewhat virtuous at the feel of all that lactic acid cramping up our calves, we all piled back into the car, and headed down to Muriwai, and the famous gannet colony. Now that place is impressive. Not the gannets, there's only about two dozen of them, but mind you it was early in the season and most where still on their way back from their holidays in Australia. No, what was impressive was the rugged scenery....and the howling wind!

You can't help but feel that the wind starts out as a mere breeze across the Tasman on the east coast of Australia, a light zephyr caressing the golden sand, but by the time it gets uninterrupted all the way to the west coast of New Zealand it's strong enough to press your eyeballs forcefully through your brain and into the back of your cranium! We had an enjoyable half hour watching gannets make numerous attempts to land on a nesting rock, cruising gracefully on the hurricane-force winds, lowering their feet, and then backpedalling like fury, only to be blown back out to sea just as their feet were about to touch dry land. One gallant fella tried about five times before finally scrabbling his way onto the rock, inches before falling off the other side. Probably a little perverse but I found the whole thing hugely amusing. And my how we laughed....except you couldn't hear any guffawing. Oh no, instead, it was like some strange silent movie with exaggerated facial movements as we tried to talk to each other with every word being snatched away on the wind.

And then the third leg of our tikitour took us down to Bethells Beach. Now Bethells is a fairly remote beach, with nothing there except a scattering of ramshackle beach homes, a surf shack that's closed in winter and four port-a-loos that, on brief inspection, appear to be emptied once a year whether they need it or not! But that said, it has to be my favourite place of all the places I've visited in the world. The word "barren" was invented for this place. It is a huge expanse of black, blue and purple sand (coloured by iron-ore) with huge waves crashing onto the beach. And when the wind blows, as it does with aplomb, it blows all the lighter brown sand underneath across the surface,leaving the most amazing patterns and effects. And at one edge of the beach, an ice cold, fresh water river courses along the beach to the sea, where the huge waves crash against the flow causing a turmoil of water.

And it was at this meeting of waters we made our most bizarre discovery of the day....

"What's that Dad?" says young Chipshaker Jr

"No idea mate, probably just some rubbish washed down the river"

So we wandered down to where the little blue box was tumbling backwards and forwards from river to sea and back again. At first glance it looked like a discarded shoe box but for some reason, I couldn't work out why it seemed to be fully enclosed and didn't seem to have a lid as such. So, captivated by the progress of this detritus we followed it back on its journey upriver, where it was cast upside down onto the edge of the sand by a rogue wave. Having spent a lifetime in an office environment, I'm pretty proficient at upside down reading so I hunkered down to read

"Necropolis"

Hmm, funny name for a shoe brand, I thought, until I read on

"The cremated remains of Li Ting Su" (name changed to protect the innocent)

Now I'm thinking if I'd bequeathed my ashes to my near family with the wish that they be cast to the tumbling waters of one of the most beautiful places on earth, I'd rather hope the buggers would be bothered to take them out of the waterproof box first!!

Instead someone had hoyed poor Li Ting into the water in his original plastic overcoaat (aye, not even an urn!), for him to spend the rest of eternity washing up and down a five yard stretch of beach. I only hope that was the intention, because if it was the intention to give him a burial at sea all I can say is they didn't consider the tides and the currents!

Mind you, that's assuming Li Ting escapes the attention of passing kids...because I spent the trip all the way back up the beach trying to explain why we couldn't keep him!

"Aw go on Dad, let's take him home....aw why not Dad? But it's a real, live dead person Dad, I've always wanted one of them....aw why not?"

Get thee behind me foul demon

G'day folks. I'm back - apologies for the lengthy absence but I've been rushed off my feet doing bugger all, and enjoying it immensely!

Now, having been in New Zealand nearly six months, I guess I've lost the rose tinted spectacles and I'm starting to see beyond the white beaches, swaying palm trees and wide open spaces. Oh don't get me wrong, I still love the place and I'm still generally at peace with myself and the world...well most of it anyway.

But it's at times like this that you do enjoy the refreshing taste of reality from time to time. So yes, I'm already starting to drive like a psychopath, I get cold from time to time and I'm hooked on fishing. But I still don't miss England and I have as yet not felt any urges to visit "The British Shop" - a local retail outlet where you can buy icons of traditional British culture - llike Paxo and Wotsits - at exorbitant prices.

But England seems to be following me!

This week a brand new, much awaited, shopping centre opened on the Southwestern suburbs of Auckland. Phase 1 currently comprises of a 'Warehouse' (kind of like an upmarket Wilkinsons) and a Foodtown. It's not even finished and already the car park is too small to cater for the expected number of punters, the police had to shut roads to ease congestion on the motorway, and motoring chaos reigned...because yes, you've guessed it, the centre is situated right next to one of the busiest motorways in Auckland. And if that's not bad enough, in true British out-of-town-shopping style, there is only one motorway exit on and one off, and the motorway heads somewhere important, like the airport. It also heads to Hamilton, but don't be fooled by that, no-one goes to Hamilton intentionally - people only go there by mistake (but therein lies another story)

Now you've got to admit, that has British Town Planner written all over it!!

At the risk of losing you all here, let me share a theory I have held for as long as I can remember. Now I'm not a particularly religious man, in fact I'm not at all a religious man. However, I do have this firm conviction that Hell exists, and the folks that populate the place have a LOT of fun with their eternal competition. It's a very simple competition - we humans have a reserve of things like care, consideration and goodwill, all wrapped up in the Milk of Human Kindness that courses through our veins from birth. And what determines where we end up is how much of this leaks out during life. And that's were Hell comes into it!

In the true ways of all despotic places, there is a very strong and thriving competitive hierarchy down in Hades - Naturally Lucifer is the boss, with a plethora of Earls, Dukes, Archdukes, Barons, demons and imps all jostling for position below him. But it's a flexible hierachy, with advancement dependent solely on achievement. Picture your average demon, harbouring dreams of greatness. So he sits plotting away for his crowning glory, when suddenly he's hit by an inspirational thunderbolt......"Hellfire and damnation, I've got it....Milton Keynes! Let's create a place with two-way roundabouts, streets with only numbers - no names, and we'll make them all look exactly the same. If that's not going to drive the humans mad, what will?" You've got irate businessmen getting lost and stressed out - heart-attack material or what? And then mums/dads screaming at innocent kids when they ask "are we there yet? what do you mean we can't get home?". Plus the obligatory few American tourists wandering around, looking confused as they stare at maps and mutter words like "dawgonne, I'm sure we've been here before." (Mind you, that's probably a coincidence. Most American tourists wander round looking confused. I think they are struggling to work out why they aren't in Boisie, Idaho).

Anyway, I digress - Within days, the Milk of Human Kindness is leaking out everywhere (adding to the traffic chaos no doubt) and souls are cascading down to Hell faster than ...... whatever it is that goes really fast. Anyway it's not long before they know they are on to a real winner. Add a few concrete cows and hey presto, our humble demon is now the dark Baron Degvond of Hades.

By the way, it's a well known fact that the demon who came up with the Milton Keynes idea was a little lacking in confidence. Not wanting to go out on a limb, and being a sensible chap (in as much as demons are) he made a scale model first....and called it Warrington!

So what has this got to do with a new shopping cente in Mt Wellington? Well, you can see how it works down in the Underworld now - advancement by achievement. So you can imagine just how pissed all the other ambitious Underworld high flyers get with this. There's only one thing for it...they need to come up with an idea better than Milton Keynes.

So a bit more of eternity trundles by and months, years, decades go by until suddenly.....young Krazvon (until now something of an under-achiever) comes up with the idea to top it all.....Out of Town Shopping!! And here's how it works, you build a huge complex, preferably indoors where you can control the flow of oxygen. You site it somewhere just off a key arterial route (so not only to you get to the people who go by choice but also those just trying to be somewhere else) and ensure there is only one way in and one way out. Chuck in a food hall selling various forms of artery-hardening muck purporting to be from all four corners of the globe, but in reality is just a multi-coloured range of monosodium glutamate and guar gum. You do your homework and try to predict the number of visitors, then you divide my say four to determine the number of cars and you design the car park to hold approximately two-thirds of your predicted number. Even better, you design the car park in the shape of some mysterious satanic sigil which constantly flexes and changes....then place arrows strategically so that they say "EXIT" but really they point back to the entrance. And there you have it - CHAOS! People honking at each other, kids crying, parents screaming, dads fighting in that daft, posturing middle-aged way that dads fight ineffectually, lost kids, traffic chaos, overheating cars, innocent passing traffic missing their holiday flights......

Something like that makes Krazvon a dead cert for a Dukedom as a minimum.

The thing is, and this is what I really love about New Zealanders, they are just too nice to get it quite righ. They take a perfectly good (in the satanically bad sense of course) idea and they don't quite do it properly. You see, as soon as they realise they've been a victim of some satanic horseplay and folks are suffering, they try to fix it to save your soul. So within a day of the place in Mt Wellington opening, there are announcements on the radio and notices in the press.

"Please stay away from our new retail park, don't come here".

Now it could be me, but I'm not sure that's how PR is supposed to work in retail!!

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, perhaps she'll die.

I've lost count of the number of times people have asked me "So what made you choose New Zealand?" and invariably the answer is a variation of the theme "It's a nice place to bring up kids and it's one of the few countries that would have me"

Aside from that fundamental issue of getting through Immigration, one of the other reasons is that New Zealand is generally a pretty safe place when it comes to wildlife. This is particularly true when compared to, say, Australia, where just about everything is evolutionarily designed to kill you by either sting, bite or swallowing you whole in one bloody mouthful. However, what they don't tell you is that New Zealand is FULL of things that want to share your bed, eat your meal, or just generally take over your house.

For the first couple of weeks we were in an apartment in downtown Auckland, in the middle of summer. It's hot, it's near the sea, it's humid at times, so generally, you are pretty geared up to dealing with tenacious mosquitos and the occasional housefly. Being used to Mediterranean holidays, this isn't a problem - you shut the blinds, you plug in the mossie repellents and you cover yourself in mossie spray.

However, nothing prepared me for moving to a house 40kms out of town in sleepy suburbia. For a start, the house had been empty for a few months before we moved in, so quite obviously various bits of wildlife were a bit upset at the intrusion. You kind of expect that and, whilst I'm not a big fan of spiders, I can usually get along with them. I do, however, take exception to opening the kitchen cupboard to be confronted by a behemoth in serious need of a shave, with more knees than an Oxford Boat Race crew. Being a rufty tufty bloke, I did the only thing possible. I took a deep breath, composed myself, then screamed and swore like buggery! Having got that out of my system, I calmed down somewhat and, after a moments logical thought, realised all was well because we had some fly spray.....in the kitchen cupboard!! Opening the door again, I soon realised it was going to be a battle of wills because our friend Harry the Spider wasn't going anywhere. Grabbing the fly spray, I whipped off the top and gave him a shot in the eyes. Not feeling very gruntled at my lack of hospitality, he buggered off down the back of the cupboard to tell his mates and form a posse!

Just about every time I went in any of the cupboards, one of Harry's mates would be thee, grinning and staring at you with more eyes than an old potato. Even worse, you settle down for a night in front of the telly and all of a sudden you get the arachnid equivalent of the incontinent old lady at the cinema wandering past your telly!! Somewhat disturbed by procession of arachnid antagonists, I thought it would be useful to check a few wildlife facts on the internet. Basically, the advice seems to be that none of the spiders are truly poisonous but some may bite. Now I'm sorry, but that's splitting hairs in my book and there is no place in my house for anything that can get up the stairs quicker than I can! I was also in no way reassured by the little snippet of interesting information proudly advising me that all of the spiders used in the film Arachnophobia where rounded up in New Zealand!

And as if the spiders aren't bad enough, there's the crickets. These buggers are the catburglers of the insect world. No matter how securely the house is locked, they can find their way in, and once they have, they tell all their mates. They are sneaky buggers too! You can search the house and there are none in sight anywhere, but you nip off for a quick pee and by the time you get back, there will be one of the buggers sat in your chair, drinking your tea and flicking through the channels with the remote.

Being somewhat naive, It's only now I have realised why the spiders are as big as they are - it's because there is an endless supply of crickets to munch your way through when there is bugger all worth watching on my TV. Not only that, but having now eradicated most of the spiders - certainly the very big ones anyway - the crickets are having a field day! I spent one of our first evenings in the new house with all the windows open, letting the tropical breeze caress my heat-weary bones, listening to the hypnotic and haunting chirruping of all the nocturnal critters. Little did I realise that all the noise was a thousand little crickets passing on the message "Hey lads, the daft bugger has left all the windows open, let's go!" Jesus, turn on the light in any one room and there were dozens of them! The house was a seething mass of brown shiny bodies, and the crunching sound as I went into the kitchen to make a brew was like a troop of Morris dancers tap-dancing on rice crispies!

As you might imagine, I'm not an insect person and our house is now well stocked with insect spray. Mrs C thinks its highly amusing that I shake my clothes out and turn my shoes upside down and give them a few hard taps before putting my toes anywhere near. But she'll be laughing on the other side of her face when some cricket-gorged spider has her foot off!

Mind you, one or two people I've met can't quite understand my sensitivities. Most people can't see what the fuss is all about. "Oh don't get worked up over the crickets" they tell me, "It's the wetas you need to worry about."

Wetas, people take great delight in telling you, are like crickets on steroids. Having seen a specimen at the museum last weekend, I can't see me and wetas hitting it off somehow. Even the dead ones look menacing - about the size of your hand with the crazed and spiky look of a thrash metal junkie.

And now, a word from our sponsors......

Okay, so I have to admit, not everything in New Zealand is perfect - the television over here is pretty poor, but I think even the Kiwis will tell you that! Programmes that were scheduled for 30 minute slots in the UK are on for an hour here, with commercial breaks peppered everywhere. Sit down to watch a film at 8pm and you are still there at midnight!! And the more you get towards the climax, the more adverts they throw in. As if that's not bad enough though, they don't even put the adverts in the right places. The last 15 minutes of a film will be so full of commercial breaks that it last 40 minutes, by which time, they must have run out of adverts, so the film ends and they go straight into the next programme. This leaves you sitting there for 5 minutes trying to figure out the ending, until you realise it's actually a different programme you are now watching!

And the best scheduling cock up ever? We sat watching the Winter Olympics the other night. We spent 30 minutes watching blokes in spangly suits ponce about around an ice rink, on the promise that the downhill snow boarding would follow afterwards. Cut to commercial break, make a brew get comfortable, back to the Olympics, only to find that some idiot had put the wrong tape in and the programme was showing the same gut-wrenching rubbish over again.

Now clearly the director or someone must have noticed this, but you just get the feeling they hope no-one out in TV Land will notice - perhaps they think we are so numbed by the figure skating that we'll just think our minds are playing tricks?

"Really sorry boss, I've put the wrong tape in - we are now replaying the last 30 minutes all over again! What shall we do?"

"Aw jeez, you've really buggered up this time... we can't change it now, just keep it rolling and hope no-one notices!"

But, as with everything in New Zealand, the good far outweighs the bad, and most of the adverts are far superior to the programmes they interrupt.

There's the drink-driving add that graphically shows what happens when a half-cut teenager trashes the car. Personally, I'm all for this kind of shock ad and the slogan says it all really

"If your mate's pissed, you're screwed!"

But I think best of all are the radio ads, particularly those on Radio Hauraki - probably the most anarchic radio station I've ever heard.

There's the insect killer that is rather aptly names "Bugger Off!". You get some bloke promoting the virtues of the product, in a machine-gun style rapid tirade for around 20 seconds, then the cheerful jingle follows......"bugger off, bugger off bugger off!"

Then there's the door handle company that advertises its product in song........"get your hands on our handles, get your fingers on our knobs"

And the windscreen company that promise to repair cracks without a trace......"show us yer crck, show us yer crack, show us yer crack!"

Probable the best though, only because it is so bad, is the guy who advertises his own audio and speaker company. He's clearly so pleased that he had reached the intermediate reading level that he feels the need to proclaim it to Radioland - you can practically hear his finger sliding along the page as he - reads- each - scripted - word - in - an - expressionless - stilted - monotone!

In fact, he's only just outdone by the countless downtown Auckland massage parlours and knocking shops that advertise the variety of their products at various times through the day.

You just don't get that kind of quality from the BBC!!

And before I go, I just thought you'd be pleased to know that I'm really picking up the language now for sure. I learnt a new word today but it's still taking me a minute to register the fact that Kiwis swap all the vowels around. "Dickhead" is apparently a period of 10 years. I nearly spilt my coffee when a very nice lady told me "Oh, I've been doing it like...er....a dickhead now". It was only a second or so afterwards I realised she was talking about the length of time rather than the quality of performance!