Day Its been a while - Annoying people are poos

My 3 year old boy is learning to poo in the toilet. To date, he prefers his underpants. He is somewhere between confused, lazy and/or noncholent. Obviously he is destined for a long career as a middle manager at a third rate government agency. Much like most of the people who read this blog, I suspect.


In order to motivate the little fellow to prefer the toilet to his pants. a "Poo Chart" has been created. For every poo deposited in the toilet, he places a truck sticker on the chart. Simple reward theory. 


As I was cleaning yet another pair of shitty underwear, I began to formulate a theory on how a poo chart might be used to modify the behaviour of annoying people. 


Then I realised that some people are so irritating, it is not worth trying. Greenpeace recruiters on the Terrace come to mind. Too happy and shiny.  


Also, anyone who likes that mythical TV show, "The Wire". I mean really, if it takes 28 episodes to understand what the hell the show is on about, how can it be any good?  


Very fat people. There I said it. The other day my brisk walk into the supermarket was halted by a BMI challenged fatty. His or her's (alas, the 42 inch flat screen ass rendered gender identification impossible) pace in the fruit and vege section would embarrass a sloth.  Of course Mr or Mrs fatty could not turn around to note my irritation because their neck was too thick. Oh the humanity! Thankfully the pace picked up by the cooked chickens. The waft of chicken fat is a powerful motivator. 


Perhaps I'll reward my 3 year old with greasy chicken skin, it could be more successful than stickers. 

Day Indeed - Chats about sausages and Norman the POW

I often stumble into weird conversations with lunatics, well meaning spasies and tetchy old people. I accept my lot. Walking around Island Bay with a cute little girl, a marauding greyhound and a keen sense of the absurd naturally attracts space cadets. 


Take my recent chat with Jason, a halfway house man-child who favours short shorts and colourful beanies. 


Jason: Wow that's big dog
Me: Yep, its a greyhound
Jason: Has she tried to eat your baby?
Me: She is not a Dingo, so no
Jason: I don't like Robbie Deans*
Me: Me neither
Jason: I like sausages


Or my chat with an old lady yesterday. Gladys spied me from across the road. She then took about 30 minutes to get her walker across the pedestrian crossing. This afforded me the opportunity to pop into the cafe for a flat white and to watch the traffic build up. The waiting cars were not amused. I was, though.


Gladys: What a lovely little girl
Me: Thank you
Gladys: She is a bit exotic looking
Me: Yes, she is half Chinese
Gladys: My Albert wouldn't buy any Asian cars or TV's after the war. Couldn't stand those Japs. Albert's cousin's neighbour, Norman was a POW. A cruel race, or so he said.
Me: Indeed
Gladys: Mind you, that Chinese fellow at the Fish n Chip shop is nice. Always gives me an extra bit of  fish so they are not all bad. 


Harmless loonies and bewildered old crones are good fun.  I encourage everyone to have a chat with these folk. It will make their day, and yours too. 




* For those outside New Zealand who don't know about rugby, Robbie Deans is a Kiwi rugby coach who coaches the Australian national rugby team, a traitor of sorts. He is nick name in Australia is "Dingo Deans". 

Day 13(b) cold & wet - Lesbians and Greyhounds

As some of you know, a small horse resides in this Island Bay home - a retired racing greyhound. She skulks around the house indiscriminately whacking things with her super powered tail and trying desperately not to fall over children's toys. 

A greyhound is an amusing creature in itself. But what is more amusing is that some lesbian couples seem strangely irresistibly drawn to this large canine. 

In the course of adopting our miniature horse, we dealt with one likely lesbian couple and suspect another. 

Now it would be tempting to theorise that lesbian couples like retired racing greyhounds because they miss a certain amount of masculinity in the house. After all, the greyhound is a lazy, but lovable dolt who consumes vast amounts of food. Sounds like most blokes to me.

But taking the piss out of lesbians couples is a dangerous game. Gays and lesbians, it seems, are allowed to joke about themselves, but usually take issue at anyone else having a laugh at their expense. That would be discrimination. 

What a pity. Lesbians adopting greyhounds is such rich fodder. 

I prefer the improv comedy mob. They might be freaks and geeks, but at least they can laugh at themselves. 

Day 105.76 - Saunas and Improv Comedy

Uncle Geoff came over to assist the wife with all things children and dogs over the weekend while I was on my "mancation" in Hamilton. 


The undoubted highlight of aforementioned mancation was the Raglan Backpackers. The backpackers only luxury is a sauna. The boys noticed this as we walked passed four European girls in bikinis sweating gracefully in the sauna. While the boys found this aesthetically pleasing, it only served to remind us how old and useless we really are. 


We waved politely and carried on. But only after Bazza had extracted Scott's face from the glass door. 


But I digress. Uncle Geoff is stalwart of the local improvised comedy scene (" improv"). Now I like Uncle Geoff because he is proudly hirsute and brings me craft beers. But I can't stand improv or its ilk. I get terribly embarrassed for the performers when their improv just isn't funny. This is most of the time. 


However, there is one redeeming feature of improv. 


Cast your mind back to all the weirdos, socially inept loners and dropkicks back in high school. These were the kids that made high school bearable because you were at least one social strata above this painful mob.  


Amazingly, these people grew into adulthood. Then they found each other within improv - an odd collection of fruit loops and ex dragon masters. But within the improv scene, they are Kings among geeks. Its lovely really, but ultimately makes for excruciating improv shows. 

Day mancation - Champagne socialists and 13.5 steinlagers

My friend Susan from up the road describes anyone who lives in Island Bay as a "champagne socialist". An apt description. 


The average champagne socialist is well meaning, for sure. But as transparent and wet as the empty bottles of isotonic Powerade they recycle in their council provided wheelie bin. Did I just describe myself? God forbid.   


Fuck that was a pretty dour opening. Not to worry because it leads to the point that Susan also described my boys trip to Hamilton this weekend as a "mancation". 


Women have a way of making anything blokes do in a group sound a little camp. I reckon they are just jealous. It is my hypothesis that a group of women cannot spend an entire weekend away together without some major falling out. Honestly, groups of women are like the UN. Symbolic, complicated, tetchy and ultimately doomed.  


Blokes, however, can happily spend a weekend away due to the following basic rules:


(1) Extreme personal abuse of mates is allowed and encouraged - especially any physical defects. A good one for your short mate is "what are you going to do, head butt me in the kneecap?". Or for your rotund chum, a chorus of "who ate all the pies? he did, he did" should be joyfully sung at appropriate moments. 


(2) Abuse of ones wife or girlfriend is disallowed. Of course ex's are fair game. For example, "ah yes, Claire, that was when you used to like the fatties". And you think women are cruel. 


(3) It is acceptable to fart in the car so long as the car has working electric windows. 


(4) True feelings and philosophical discussions should only be attempted after 13 and a half bottles of steinlager. This way, anything said can be denied later. 


(5) Anything that is said or done that offends a mate can be explained away with a beer and the immortal excuse, "it seemed like a good idea at the time". 

Day Office - The Rules of the Office Leaving Card

A few weeks ago, I escaped the Island Bay parental treadmill and drove to the office to sign a card for a colleague. She is my manager. Getting my childish scrawl into her card is worth at least three future days of  forgiving looks when I stagger into work hungover, surly and protectively clutching a mince and cheese pie. 


All office cards are a nightmare. But leaving cards are the worst. They go around the office more times than colds through the dodgy air-conditioning ducts. What the hell do you write in them? I suggest the following system:


- If it is a colleague who you consider a good friend (ie you "might" consider seeing them outside office hours), then unexpected abuse and profanities are recommended. I normally write something like "Fuck off, no-one liked you anyway". This cushions the boredom of your mate's leaving card.


- If it is someone you don't know at all, I suggest the opposite. A syrupy heartfelt note should confuse the hell out of the person leaving. Something like, "You have been my mentor, dear friend and inspiration, I will miss you dearly, stay in touch Smithy!" If their surname isn't Smith, even better. 


- The middle of the road colleague is difficult. This is the colleague where engaging in weather related conversations by the photocopier is sometimes bearable. I suggest a one word note in their leaving card. "Indeed" pretty much sums it up. It says, I am giving you a passing thought, but no more. Perfect. 


One further rule about office leaving cards. Under no circumstances do you contribute money to somebody senior to you. Simple economics. 

Day Monday & Tuesday - Hell parking and kind words to public servants

Uncle Dave often says "hell is other people". My personal hell is the parallel park on the Terrace. 


For non-Wellingtonians, this is near the Terrace, the hub of the New Zealand's public service. The Terrace is always busy with traffic, but like all well meaning public services, its not really busy at all.


Finding a car park on the Terrace requires extreme luck. Next one must have the ability to expertly parallel park under enormous pressure from:


- That impatient bastard in the Audi waiting for you to park. Under these circumstances I advise to kindly inform the bastard that it is not your fault that he couldn't afford the extra $20,000 to buy a BMW.


- The amused pedestrians and slack jawed gawkers with little else to do but witness your parking demise. Well meaning feedback such as "get fucked" is advised. 


Attempting to avoid parking humiliation, I headed for the car park off Bolton Street. This was even worse. It purported to contain public car parks. Alas it did not. 


As I descended the 58 levels of car parks, it eventually became apparent that:


- Every single car park was "reserved". For whom, I couldn't tell, but clearly not for the great unwashed like me.


- Every ramp and corner was built for a hatchback. This resulted in my people mover's bumper sensors exploding into wild beeps as I embarked on 23 point turns at each of the 58 levels.


Having spent so long in this underground nightmare, there one final indignity. I was charged for leaving the car park. The expletives I projected would embarrass a drunk Scotsman. My nine month old in the backseat didn't seem to mind. 


When I eventually surfaced, it was Tuesday afternoon. I had missed my Monday lunch date with the wife.   

Day Sunday - Toast and the Briscoes lady

There is no better Sunday afternoon family excursion than a trip to Briscoes. Its the thinking family's Te Papa. In years to come, studies will be conducted on its cultural significance. 


For instance, did people in 2012 really believe that there might not be a huge sale the next weekend?  I can imagine a PhD titled "The Briscoes lady deconstructed". 


The trip to Briscoes was prompted by my wife's dissatisfaction with a recently purchased toaster, also from Briscoes. At $24 I considered it a bargain. However, it made unevenly toasted toast. Even our Greyhound stopped eating her Vegemite toast. I now accept that decent toast is a quality of life issue. 


So what to do with our unevenly toasting toaster? Our two ideas were:


- Give it to our Childcare Centre. The wife refused. She reckoned that our kids and fellow Island Bay toddler scholars shouldn't be subjected to dud toast. 


- Give it to the charity that provides refugees household goods. This places refugees below even Island Bay toddler scholars, and our Greyhound for that matter. That seemed about as fair as John Banks being alive. 


I have now proposed that we gift it to our 3 year old. He can shove his crappy Warehouse toys into it to see how long they burn. Somehow that seems apt. 

Day Monday night - A poignant moment at New World

Poignant moments are few and far between at my local New World Supermarket. Once a stack of lettuces fell on a fat women. The irony was not lost on her fellow shoppers. 


All that changed last Monday night.


It was a dark and stormy night. The wife dispatched me to the New World to buy women's sanitary products. It was emergency, apparently. I didn't argue.


As I confidently searched for the appropriate product, a young man shuffled nervously bedside. He was bewildered. Clearly he was out of his depth. I was happy to assist.


Me: You right there mate?
Young bloke: Nah, been sent down here to get some pads, I've got no fucking idea which ones she wants
Me: OK, has her period just started?
Young bloke: Must have eh. She seemed pretty grumpy 
Me: Did she say exactly what she wanted?
Young bloke: Yeah pads, but I didn't know there would be so many bloody pads (he didn't notice the pun)
Me: My guess is she has just started so she will want these heavy duty overnight ones
Young Bloke: Cheers mate
Me: No worries


Proficiency in pad buying comes with at least five years of marriage. One must also learn to listen to your wife's instructions and follow the Simpsons repeat at the same time. Difficult, but achievable. 






  

Day 45(b) - The Reverse Pregnancy Walker

Wellingtonians are a strange breed. None stranger than the Wellington walker. These are people who insist on walking to work, even in crap weather. The wife and I observed a few as I drove her to work last Thursday:


The Trudger: Face like a pummelled pear. As bitter as the weather. Just spent 28 hours on a broken down train from somewhere on the Kapiti Coast. Some may pity them. Not me though. If you chose to live in Paraparaumu (or anywhere in Johnsonville or Tawa for that matter) you have given up on life.


The Reverse Pregnancy: This fellow places his raincoat not only on himself, but also over his backpack. This results in an odd hump. Of course the contents of the backpack are hardly worth protecting. Last night's left over pasta and a library book (or the Economist if you are an upstart young policy analyst). 


The Sneaker Brigade: Even the most stylish Wellington girls ditch the heels for the sneakers. Practical, yes. But its a bit like pouring instant gravy over Kobe beef. Indeed, this might sum up all Kiwi girls, but that is another blog for which I will burn happily in hell for.  







  














  

Day 78 - Food lists and goth girls

Facebook has a new application thingy, "100 foods to try before you die". Friends proudly proclaim how many of the global delicacies from the list they have sampled. It all seems very competitive. 

It is rather like blokes tallying the number of women they have nailed. I guess food lists are more tasteful. 

What about a list of 100 women you should sleep with before you die. Far more relevant to the my fellow blokes. Aspirational too. 

I reckon it would look something like this:

(1) A "D" list celebrity. You know the kind, "Kazzer" the morning host on Masterton's XFM. Great voice, but chunky in real life.

(2) A goth girl. Preferably in a cemetery, but the back bedroom of a skanky university flat is acceptable.

(3) Your mate's sister. Just don't tell your mate. Or do, if you feel like getting punched.

(4) Any French girl. Looks don't matter here. Its all in the accent. Indeed for most of the list, looks don't matter, its an aspirational experiences list. 

(5) Any of your ex's close friends. Awkward and messy, nevertheless excellent.

And so on. Obviously some women will view this as a very sexist list. The annoying feminist is number 78 on the list. Only for the enthusiast.   

 

Day %$&!!%^* - Hell is other people

Having travelled Wellington's buses for sometime, I categorise passengers into the following groups:


(1) Idiots: Passengers still paying with cash rather than Snapper cards. Usually, they cause several would be passengers to get battered by Wellington's wind and rain for another few minutes. 


(2) Blockers: These are passengers who stand in the centre of the aisle. They do not move to the back of the bus when the bus becomes congested with standing people at the front. Apparently having to shuffle six paces backwards is just too hard. One day I am going to kick one of these blockers in the crotch. Except I wouldn't be able to because there would be no room (caused by aforementioned blocker). Life is cruel.   


(3) Martyrs: Passengers who are standing on a full bus. When a seated passenger departs the bus, these Martyrs remain standing and refuse to sit down. This prevents others from sitting down. Madness. 


All Idiots are Idiots. Not all Blockers are idiots, but can be Martyrs. All Martyrs are by definition Blockers. 


Sage Uncle Dave is a 60 something civil servant with a small but loyal following. His advice knows no filter nor sensitivity. His great saying, "hell is other people" aptly describes riding Wellington buses.  

Day 23.5671 - Balls in pockets

Is there anything funnier than a grown man sitting in a little kids chair? I don't think so. Legs brushing his chin. A silly look on his face. A laugh a minute for all concerned - especially for aforementioned bloke. His bum cheeks maybe be sagging over the side of the chair and his spine is contorting like a noodle, but he is happy man. He is the centre of attention. 


Other amusing sighting in and around Island Bay include:


- A roadworks Stop/Go Man scratching his ass as cars drive by. A quizzical look on his face as he plumbs the depths of his overalls. He might well be thinking about how he came to be a Stop/Go Man. More likely he regretting last night's curry at the local Indian, Ahruningdownyeleg Indian cuisine.


- A Newtown loony (is there another kind?) following a postman. At each letterbox the Newtown loony asks the disgruntled postman, "Is that for me"? Classic. 


- A yappy little Shitzu (translation = "shit dog to own") barking at a languid greyhound. You have to admire the little bloke's pluck. But really, the Shitzu is just a symbol for short men everywhere.


I'm off to watch the snooker which is a metaphor for life. For us blokes, everything comes back to balls in pockets. 


Apologies to Hamish for no Karori abuse. Next time. 

Day 19 - Lotto Powerball and Island Bay

Every large Lotto Powerball jackpot, my wife and I have the same conversation. If we won shit loads of money, would we remain in Island Bay? My answer is a categorical no. She thinks yes. But this is because her criteria for a place to live is based around the flatness of the road (she hates Wellington hills) and requiring a two minute walk access to a local cafe. 


So because the weather is lousy, here is my list of reasons I would not remain in Island Bay if I won aforementioned shit load of money. 


(1) 100km southerly winds blasting your pasty face as you stagger down the road with your disgruntled dog. You resemble a startled washed potato. 


(2) 110km northerly blasting up your polar fleece. This causes ones normally inconspicuous man nipples to resemble a couple of nails hammered halfway into your sunken chest. 


(3) Having to put up with the halfway house drunks, spastics and lunatics who occasionally stumble in Island Bay from nearby "colourful" Newtown.


(4) Having to put up with snooty Island Bay mums with flash buggies,  designer jeans and irritating offspring called Oliver and Ella - Mind you, I bet they are walking along dreaming of living in Kelburn or Roseneath so I suppose they have their own private torments. 


What I like about Island Bay? Its not Karori.  

Day 4 - Prequel - the "fcuk" conversation

Some weeks ago I was buying a birthday card in Whitcoulls. Six month old baby was present.


As I was paying for the card, the cashier remarked upon my tee shirt. The cashier was a women in her fifties with hair the colour of a dirty mop, a beak for a nose and a condescending manner worthy of a senior analyst at the Treasury. In small print on my black tee shirt was the name of the brand, "fcuk".    


It was a very odd conversation. I only recalled it today. Here it is.


Cashier: "I hope you are not going to wear that tee shirt when your baby girl grows up!"
Me (alarmed): "Excuse me"
Cashier: "Your tee-shirt"
Me: "Can you read?"
Cashier: "Of course I can, they would hardly hire illiterates in Whitcoulls"
Me: "I dunno, you don't need to know how to read to work a cash register"
Cashier: "Don't be silly. Its your tee-shirt I don't like"
Me: "Do you need new glasses?"
Cashier: "What on earth for?"
Me: "Well you seem to be mistaken about the word on my tee shirt"
Cashier: "I am not"
Me: "Its a global brand"
Cashier: "I bet your mother wouldn't approve"
Me: "She bought it for me (she really did)"
Cashier: "tut tut"
Me: "Well I suppose she lives in Otaki, what do you expect"
Cashier: "Well, yes"


I decamped to the bustle of Lambton Quay. I must have been sufficiently distracted to completely forget that the conversation ever happened. Until today. Thanks for the tee shirt Mum.   

Day 16.5 - Builder mates

For those of you that read this self indulgent drivel (to quote Wayne of Invercargill fame) you might have noticed I have two friends of which I attach "the builder" label. Curious. I don't refer to my other friends according to their vocation. Probably because Hamish the senior economist just doesn't sound as cool.  

Having mates that are builders allows pasty DIY challenged blokes like myself, and indeed, and Hamish the senior economist, to bask in the glow of a bloke who can easily build a retaining wall. I couldn't build a retaining wall. I could certainly draft a 13 page memo on the benefits and detriments of building a retaining wall. Hamish the senior economist (still doesn't sound that cool) could then do some economic modelling. But of course, this is of little use.

So the builder friend becomes vital. If I did intend to build a retaining wall, I would immediately consult either Nigel the builder or Dave the builder. After they finished laughing at me, they might find it in their hearts to explain how it might be achieved. This allows me at least two months of planning and a sweet delusion that I might actually build the thing. I won't.

Bloody useful are builder mates. But don't try and out drink them. You will lose, badly. 

Day 10 (ish) - Disparate is a fancy word for different

Local cinema cafe, around 1pm. Seated in the cafe are the usual assortment of doting and chattering Mums. What is more interesting is three disparate groups of blokes:

Group 1 = Myself and Dave the builder (not to be confused with Nigel the builder of Hamilton fame). With us are his 6 month daughter and my 6 month daughter. Both in chairs waving their arms in erratic directions and drooling happily. Our babies were fine too. We received a number of approving looks from the resident doting mothers.

Group 2 = Five blokes from the road worker's crew just down the road. Sipping flat whites and delicately munching blueberry muffins. I expected them to be discussing the Black Caps latest miserable defeat. But no, here is a tiny snippet of their conversation:

Burly bloke: "Mate, I make better muffins at home"

Unshaven bloke: "I can make a bloody good cheese scone"

Grizzled bloke: "He can, bloody sensational cheese scones they are too"

Burly bloke: "The wife refuses to bake so I ended up doing it myself. My mum taught me when I was young"

Grizzled bloke: "Look good in an apron do you?"

Burly bloke: "Why, you cruising for a piece of my fine kitchen ass?"

Group 3 = Two blokes having short blacks. Mind you, they would probably prefer large blacks or the fine kitchen ass of burly road worker seated nearby. Gay as the night as long (or a bit festive as my Nana used to say). Not that there is anything wrong with that, as Seinfeld once said.

Rewind 30 years and this scene would be completely different. For a start, New Zealand didn't understand decent coffee. Most would be drinking tea. Most Auckland cafes still don't understand decent coffee and don't get me started on Hamilton's so called coffee. There would be no stay at home Dads, no openly gay blokes and road workers would not be experts in baking cheese scones. Us blokes might be a bit dim compared to the fairer sex, but fuck me, we can adapt.

Day 8ish - the parental borefest

Being a stay at home Dad means spending at least 45 minutes per day camped out at the local cafe. Did I really say this was hard work? Anyway, given that I am usually a "Nigel no-mates" (odd Kiwi expression, no offence to my good friend Nigel the builder) I like to eavesdrop on the conversations of those seated nearby. Sad,  intrusive, but an effective time waster. 


Today's conversation was between two dedicated mothers. However, it wasn't really a conversation. Earnest Mother tells a purportedly interesting story about her kid. Sensible Mother appears to be vigorously listening. Not so. Sensible Mother is really thinking about a related story about her kid. And so the pattern of conversation continues between earnest mother and sensible mother. Back and fourth it goes. They seem happy enough. 


I started scoring each story out of ten. Earnest mother won easily following a particularly gross tale about toilet training. This toilet training story included a hungry family dog, Daddy's prized smurf collection and a potato masher. A bizarre, yet moving yarn.   


In my former life as a semi-functioning member of a government agency, my sage colleague Uncle Dave warned me of this parental borefest. I hate when he is right. 

Day lost count - funeral insurance

When one has children, a new respect is found for your long suffering parents. On my first day of looking after two children at once, this respect increased by 72%. Bloody hell, its hard work. There was not time for this self indulgent blog.

Happily, there was time to sneak about 15 minutes of crap afternoon TV. On the TLC channel (that's Travel & Living Channel to those under the age of 35) one can watch Australian advertisements. Fascinating stuff. We think we are pretty similar to Aussies, but their ads debunk this. The best example is a Kiwi ad for funeral insurance versus an Aussie one.

The New Zealand ad features Keith Quin, a much loved elderly rugby broadcaster who might might well be in his eighties. His dulcet tones assure us that funeral insurance will save us financial stress if a loved one dies. He is your kindly, but ultimately past it, Grandad. Then the Kiwi ad shows a selection of old folks saying what they want at their funeral. These are ordinary elderly Kiwis who probably have names like Doris and Bruce and who enjoy a cup of tea, a game of bowls and then a lively chat about how nice that Paul Henry really is.

The Aussie ad for funeral insurance is fronted by an attractive blond female. Now she might be in her thirties which I suppose is a token attempt at getting an older presenter. The older people in the ad are reasonably easy on the eye and might be pushing 50 at best. Australians must age beautifully, or be severely deluded, perhaps it is a bit of both. It is that Aussie optimism that you just can escape from. Aussies prove that delusion is a critical element in confidence, and therefore, success.  

I suppose it all comes back to the age old question, is it better to be deluded and happy or realistic and grumpy? We would probably win more rugby world cups if we were a deluded and  happy country. But then we would be like Aussies, and that is worse.

Day 3 - Good weather is over-hyped

Its a beautiful relatively windless day in Island Bay. Emphasis on the "relatively". Those who live on the South Coast of Wellington will know what I mean.


Its the kind of day which should inspire one to thrust oneself to the park, beach or suitably natural location. Not me. Partly, this is because I am waiting for the 6 month old to wake up from her nap. Mostly its because I have a weird urge to rebel against good weather and remain inside. This is Wellington syndrome. What on earth is driving this? Time for one of my lists:


- I have an inherent suspicion of any outdoorsy type who proclaims everyone should be outside on nice days.  


- It doesn't get any better than eating a chip butty and watching Antiques Roadshow (for those of you who don't know, a chip butty is a sandwich made from lashing of butter, freshly cooked chips, or fries if you are of the American persuasion, and tomato sauce).


- Due to my porcelain, some might say, pasty skin tones, outdoors equals ludicrous amounts of sunscreen which is irritating to apply.


- Wellington averages 3.5 nice days per year so I wouldn't know what to do with myself anyway.


All of this is symptomatic of everything in life being, what my dear wife labels, "over-hyped". Even good weather is over-hyped. Like any self-respecting X generation product, I blame my baby-boomer parents. It could also be that I am a sloth, but I am not self aware enough yet to determine whether this could be a contributing factor.


In any case, as I watch the Antiques Roadshow, I can't help but think that the other staple indoor Wellington food on a nice day is marmite on toast (or vegemite if you are of poor palate). Top Gear is now on. An excellent TV show to feed a baby to.

Day 2 - Did you believe me?

In my first post, there was a throw away reference to leaving my 3 year old in front of the television so I could get a coffee with the 6 month old down the road. How you read this depends on whether you have kids or not.

Those with no kids probably had one of three reactions:

- Glossed over the comment completely.
- Perhaps wondered what cartoon he was watching.
- Thought that this parenting lark sounds pretty easy.

Those with kids who make up the esteemed middle classes of New Zealand would react completely differently with the following chain of logic:

- Startled pause followed by an immediate assumption that Island Bay Dad must be joking in a brutal 2011 kind of ironic manner.
- Quickly followed by a nagging feeling that Island Bay Dad might not kidding.
- But again dismissing it because how could any father in Island Bay leave their three year old alone, maybe in Porirua...
- Finally, a guilty feeling for judging parents in Porirua based on their low economic status.

Such New Zealand middle class parenting angst. Makes me yearn for the days of the dopier and carefree days of life with no children.

Cafe update. Apparently middle class estrogen coven flock to the cafe everyday Wednesday morning. The kindly cafe owner suggested I avoid a certain time to avoid extreme cackling. I will.

Day 1 - the 9:30am coffee experience

A few rules. No talking about solids, shitty nappies, power chucks, cuteness, rolling over or any sort of milestone. Another rule, no debating the merits of modern parenthood and all the crap that generates thousands of research, books, magazine articles and parental angst. Final rule, don't believe everything I say and I might break my own rules.

All you need to know is that I am a 39 year old father of a 3 year old and a 6 month old. I am in charge of the kids Monday to Friday for six months while the wife works.

I can sense the first uncomfortable squirm from a few earth mothers from the stay at home brigade. But remember the rules, no comment. Instead, a few observations about life at the local cafe at 9:30am on a Monday morning:

Walking into the cafe with my 6 month old (the 3 year old has been left at home in front of the TV, a godsend for the lazy father), I am struck by a heaving mass of middle aged women dominating the two large tables. Frightening on a number of levels. The six month old, sensing my immediate discomfort lets out a high pitched wail that is unheard due to the incessant cackling of the aforementioned female middle aged coven.

Upon ordering a trim flat white and decamping to the table far away from the gossipping gaggle of ageing estrogen, I wonder what on earth they are doing in the cafe on a Monday morning? Don't these women have jobs, or worthwhile interest to pursue? What brings them together in such numbers? Ill informed conclusions as follows:

- Lesbian swingers reunion
- The weekly meeting for the advancement of sensible brown slacks
- A Mythbusters type extreme decibel in a cafe experiment

None of these seemed likely. As the six month started to cry even more loudly, one of the women glided past and commented that perhaps her and her friends might be talking a bit loudly. As I have been trained all my life to suppress spontaneous adverse social reactions, I smiled politely and raised my eyebrows. I departed soon after having guzzled, and not enjoyed, my trim flat white.

As I trudged home, one positive thing struck me. At no point did any of the horrendous throng of middle aged hawkettes stop to wonder what a bloke was doing with a little baby on a Monday morning. So accepted is the stay at home Dad (at least in Island Bay) that I was not given a second glance or thought by women who would have never seen such a thing in "their day". Excellent. I'll forgive them for this.