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.