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.