Seatoun Housewarming

The last day of November - this month has flown like an eagle and I can't believe the Silly Season is upon us, and I have started it with a party, the first, and last, I feel sure. The lovely Corrections Ladies opened their wide and generous doors to the hitherto unknown neighbourhood at Seatoun, a suburb an hour away by bus, but ten minutes by car, as I was to discover on being offered a lift home by K, here below in photo. There were an interesting bunch there, a few choristers, but mainly other friends of the hosts. I  spoke at length with three, all men, and totally from different worlds.

I overheard a distinctly Irish brogue, so I moved nearer and spoke to N, sipping a beer and looking quite alone, although his delectable Kiwi wife wasn't far away and soon joined us. But N had a story and it briefly went like this. Like so many Irish he had quit the green isle for richer shores, this time NZ. He had ridden the Celtic Tiger to big money, but also lost it, with some enterprise only an Irishman would have considered. Like buying a decrepit sixteenth century castle out of Cork and trying to restore it in an economic bust time in Europe. But who was to know this, the Celtic Tiger had been rampant, for a while anyway.

 N then emigrated to NZ. Skilled in IT, he was very employable and wanted to work like crazy, meaning about sixty hours a week, whereas the Kiwis went sailing after forty. He also had a stint in Saudi, crazy days, and then the Philippines. He made big money, and lost it, which is where his castle and the restoration came into play. Eventually he found a beautiful Kiwi bride, married her and had a babe, a mortgage, and a castle costing heaps. He's still smiling and like Edith Piaf, has no regrets. He is also renovating his home in Seatoun, next to the party house, the neighbours whom he just met today. He is laconic and whimsical, like many Irish, and the lifestyle in W suits him just fine.

The other guy, I'll call G, was living in Melbourne, an ex-pat from Auckland, an actor. So I saw why he had moved countries. My age, he was staying with his sister who is in the choir with me, she had told me he would be there. Spent some time in London in early seventies, tried the theatre scene there, too tough and no money, I agreed with him on that, so finally he moved to Melbourne where he managed to make a reasonable living. He was happy enough, comes home occasionally to visit sis and discover the beauties of New Zealand he had forgotten about. I fear he is lost to the final beauty of this country, having been seduced by the bright lights too many years ago. Once a thespian, always a thespian.

The third, and perhaps most interesting is K, in photo below in his world of creation, under the house his father built by hand, fifty years ago. He is a wood craftsman, a guitar maker to be precise, a trained and well qualified musician, and he was there with his eighty-eight year old Chinese born, but Russian mother, who was quite the character of the party. K doesn't fit in with the world, is a dedicated pacifist, a vegan, and is happiest with his computer generated wood saw he calibrates to the finest millimetre to make the exquisite sounds of the guitar, used normally, he assures me, to creat a violin. He generously insists on driving me home when I tell him was taking a bus, or two. It is indeed much faster, and in ten minutes I am home, mulling over an interesting afternoon. Three men of a certain age, one married, the other two finding their way in an unpredictable world. I wanted to tell them about the HU, but I don't think they would have been interested.

Today, I've just come from the HU, talking with like Souls about experiences some would call weird, but which we call spiritual. You just can't separate the spiritual from the everyday, it's in everything, if you pause to notice.

Below, the Seatoun Vicarage, straight out of Jane Austen! This house is just across the road from the party house - they seem to be living on different planets! 

The Laundry on Cuba

...I forgot to tell you, I just discovered another fab cafe on Cuba St, called the The Laundry, more later!

Below....father-love at Macca's, where I just had a chai latte, possibly my last, as it is tasting pretty reconstituted, like most things in this awful fast-food palace.

World AIDS Day

Well it was evident from the gods on high that the Red Ribbon Day would be a success. The day was sunny and not even too windy so the bucketeers went forth with great gusto. I volunteered and was sent to the big supermarket New World, only a couple of blocks from BP, and it was fascinating to have the opportunity to read the public, and their purses,  as most were unashamedly generous.

 I say that because people are strange when it comes to donating in public, some do not like to be seen doing it, and some are just downright stingy and avoid eyeballing you completely. However that is the tiny minority as the Kiwi public today showed that they are generous and caring, and colourful.  I  was constantly entertained by the passing throngs of shoppers, especially as it was a  Friday afternoon, and near to Christmas, albeit four weeks away. There was a lot of beer and wine going out in the shopping trolleys and not a few magnums of champagne.

The Joy of Giving with Lesley

In the pub...

Later that evening I repaired to the Four Kings pub on Courtenay Place for a farewell drink for young  J who is returning to England. Rather sadly, as he has made such good friends in Wellington and loves the city to bits. 

His workmates and pals joined him for a few jugs of beer and I stayed for a short while to meet and chat with his two Irish friends, Louise and Connor from Cork and Tipperary, both of whom say there is a mass emigration going on in Ireland at present, with great unemployment there. They seem very happy to have moved to NZ to escape it. I decide soon after to leave gracefully as the young people will be enjoying their farewell drinks, which quite possibly, may be many.

The gale force wind has come back upon Wellington and I am making my way home before it gets too strong. It has been a tiring but very interesting day.

Kiwi Writing

Why are there so many good Kiwi writers? One reason is certainly the excellent education system here, and the inestimable Victoria University Creative Writing degree they offer. But I think it's also their weather, it is so conducive to staying at home in a warm environment and sitting in front of your keyboard, and writing... creating in an atmosphere which is unthreatening but still a bit edgy, earthquake edgy I mean.

The two books I am reading concurrently are written one hundred years apart, and both by pre-eminent Kiwi writers, one living, and one long passed on. The latter, Katherine Mansfield, is reputedly New Zealand's most famous and respected writer, although she wrote most of her work from Europe, and most of it about Europe. But she did remember her youth in Wellington, and her memory is securely locked in a house in Timaru Street where she used to live. I will visit it one day... 

Mansfield wrote somewhat like Jane Austen, describing the morals and habits of the very early twentieth century. Her style and attention to detail was impeccable, and this was to influence quite a bit the work of Witi Ihimaera. Witi was unabashedly intoxicated by her writing, even to the extent of calling an early work of his 'Dear Miss Mansfield'.  However Witi's work, coming from a Maori perspective, naturally looked into vastly different areas than Miss Mansfield's. 

But now, both are famous, and justly so, but for very different reasons.

Witi's Ihimaera's semi autobiography 

A collection of Witi's best short stories in a 'hommage' to Katherine Mansfield

NZ Notes...

Well another day another season, that's Wellington!

Summer one day, winter the next, and so it goes...

I have New Zealand workers who have come to paint my rented Victorian house on the hill. It is a daunting task, but then these are daunting Kiwis, both men in their eighties, unable to stop working, perhaps even addicted to it, something that has never ever been in my ballpark, so to speak. They bring their lunch to put in our fridge, always take a cuppa morning and afternoon, and sometimes I join them. The conversation is not sparkling, especially as we are all a little hard of hearing! But all their long lives they have been buliding houses and painting them, never moving far away from their home. One has a son who lived for seven years in NYC, so that is typical for that generation, but of course he returned to settle and have a family in Wellington. They tell me stories of earthquakes and tempests, but nothing phases them, they are built to last, as are the houses they so proudly build. But they are both white, and do not have a strong Maori sensitivity I perceive, but I may be wrong. 

However there is certainly a class division in NZ among the Pakehas and the Maori, certainly of my generation, but not so much of the current young people who are better educated and who were there when Maori language and culture became more acceptable subjects to study. It is good to have arrived here when I did, as opportunities are there now to understand the culture which were not at all present even twenty years ago.

Photo below of a cross-class artist whom I have loved since she hit the world music charts a few years ago. She is all over U-tube where I can't stop listening to her. Her Cockney accent is adorable and her rejection of English class barriers fabulous to observe. As is her voice fabulous to listen to, rich and velvety in tone, she sings heartfelt sad songs and delivers the goods, even winning Grammies and Oscars on the way. ( She wrote, I think, and certainly sang, the Oscar winning theme song to the last James Bond movie 'Skyfall').

At present I'm drinking a chai latte at an establishment near where we sing the HU on Wednesday nights. Opposite me is a young Dad with two gorgeous little daughters - he seems so bored and can't do anything but check his cellphone, or perhaps text his mistress? I shouldn't think like that should I, but the evidence piles up - kids alone with Dad at Maccas after work.. perhaps they are just waiting for a working mum to get home a little later. Who knows? 

At least they make a good chai latte here and it's somewhere I can sit and play blogger...

Monday summer

Adele...chanteuse extraordinaire!

The workers arrive...

Texting whom?

Movenpick

Monday and Wellington is a little quieter after a busy, nearly summer weekend. The weather is slowly warming up but we will never get a summer like in OZ, thank goodness. I have ducked into the Swiss Ice-cream shop, Movenpick, on corner of Manners and Victoria Streets. The ice cream looks excellent but I foolishly order a coffee, forgetting it is five o'clock and one pm is my deadline for caffeinated drinks. I will pay later for this being awake at two am.  However I can tell it's not too strong, certainly not a double shot.

Our Community Radio went off on its last show yesterday, and I fear it needs a revamp if we are to continue it next year. Having it on the air is a great idea but if no-one, as I fear is the case, listens to us, it's a bit of a waste of time. We'll see, I may have to volunteer to lead it next year myself, meaning lots more energy in that direction. I would have to do a bit of work on my vocal chords however as they are letting me down big way at present. Although I don't know what to do about it...

Each day in Wellington when I venture out of my home is a new adventure, as I am never sure what may pass. Today I have decided to buy some cologne, and have found a specialist with a dedicated woman selling what seems to be authentic perfumes at not too ridiculous prices. She has given me a number of tests on different coloured cardboard slips. I can now wait a little before deciding to invest. 

Fragrance for me has always been a big thing having discovered the beauty and seduction of Guerlin in Paris over forty years ago. Those days are well and truly over, and the big corporations have barged in with quality and authenticity seeming to have disappeared, especially with certain French fragrances, and Guerlain, unfortunately, is amongst them I feel. I am opting for something not so famous, but has a nice  whiff  and seems to last. I look forward to smelling better now that sweaty summer is arriving.

Tonight is the fourth of our Six On Six meetings at BP, and I am hoping that it will be as interesting, as the last one, if not more. The American husband of E is coming to talk about things psychological, I have no idea what may eventuate. But that is Wellington!

A young student in his private school blazer doesn't know he has been caught perfectly blending in with Movenpick's colour scheme.

St Paul's Market, missed!

Saturday morning and I woke late, too late it appears for the organic market at St Paul's Cathedral in Thornden. So I accept my laziness and decide to have brunch at a nearby cafe, called succinctly, HOME. It is quite busy as you'll see in first photo below, and the lady in green I believe is the Vicar of St Paul's, interesting, ay? Her assistant, is also a lady vicar. It seems female liberation has well and truly taken on in the Anglican Church, Amen to that!

I slept late as I was glued to U-Tube films of interviews with Witi Ihimaera, the excellent Maori author of The Whale Rider, amongst others. He is nearly the same age as I am, and our backgrounds couldn't be more different, but from his many writings I feel already a strong affinity with him. Perhaps one day I'll meet him, he lives in Auckland now, a confirmed bachelor, probably with grand-kids. As person born under the sign of Aquarius, I would say he's a life traveller, and very hard to pin down. Would be a nice person to meet however.

Maori Art and Literature are relatively new things, as is the emancipation of the Maori, with so few ever having been in positions of Govt power, even the Maori Chieftains. Result, a slow recognition of their valuable culture, with, according to Ihimaera's best selling book, The Matriarch, the women being at the forefront in this matriarchal, and homophobic, he points out, society. One of Witi's most famous books, written a bit later in his career, was a thinly veiled autobiography, with the main character coming-out as a gay man. The difference being that David, in Nights in the Gardens of Spain, (Gardens pertaining to the sex palaces apparently abounding in Auckland in the eighties), is a Pakeha, whereas when the film was made, he was portrayed more accurately by a Maori actor, which resulted in the ultimate outing for Witi. 'David', as does Witi, has two daughters with his young wife, but eventually finds the pressure of living a double life too great, has a messy divorce and moves in with his male lover, a ballet dancer.

The book is an excellent read and I am surprised it hasn't been more publicised in Sydney and Melbourne. There is an interesting supposition in his writing about Maori homosexuality, which is clearly admitted in the culture, that gay Maori men can have children, thus keeping their mothers happy with grandkids, and still remain their homosexual selves, in a way, having your cake and eating it too. He insists that the inherent separation in the overriding Western gay culture, is restricting, obviously as he had so much enjoyment from his children. This does not take into account of course, the pain suffered by the mother and wife, which is very evident in his book, and for which he feels not the slightest responsibility it seems. I must discuss this with him one day, I'm sure he'll refute it! Anyway with today's 'with-it' gay generation, they are all artificially inseminating to their hearts' content, no questions asked!

Before I leave this HOME cafe, with waitresses and waiters happily bedecked with black T-shirts with Home Boy inscribed thereon, I must comment on the absolute dominance of youth in the hospitality industry in Wellington. Whereas in cities like Paris and New York, the attending team is often of a certain age, i.e. career waiters, here it is the thing to do for young people, in management as well. It is a healthy sign, as long as they have been instilled with a culture of 'service', as many of whom in Australia, especially Tasmania, have no idea of the meaning.  I do think they are better 'brung up' in New Zealand, on the whole, so good manners are inculcated at an early age. 

If you want to read about Maori culture btw, read Ihimaera's award winning short book, Tangi, it encapsulates it to a T.

The Vicar in green

Pizza with a little side salad and an excellent coffee!

There were two male clerics there too, to balance it all.

A Home Boy walking...

Thai on The Terrace

I decided to be brave and meet the Glamaphones on their own turf, which just happened to be a Thai restaurant  about fifty metres from St. Andrew's where we sing every Thursday at 6.30pm.

I arrived early with no-one there, but soon there were six, of whom two are men. 

The food was quite OK and not expensive, but we were there principally to have a bite and socialise before our weekly rehearsal. Jo, the choir secretary, sat next to me and we had a nice conversation but time was short as she had to leave early. However it's somewhere I will probably return to, as it's a good way to get to know the other singers.

The rehearsal went well and I even volunteered to be a placard holder for the Twelve Days of Christmas which we are illustrating with Kiwi motifs. It is going to be a different 'Carols' afternoon I'm sure.

More music, this afternoon at Caffe L'Affare, off Tory street, with six Double Bassists from NZSO of whom one I had hoped, would be my neighbour Matt. But no luck, he did not appear. The group, however, was excellent, and it was a nice way to tail-end my Friday afternoon. This cafe has to be one of the best in W, certainly one of the most popular. 

The gig is over and there is great camaraderie as the musicans chat with their partners and have a beer. The two techies quickly dismount the sound engineering and all is over until their next gig on Sunday at St Andrew's on The Terrace. 

There is always some interesting connection in Wellington, probably because of it being such a small city, and  it is an organic connection, with healthy relationships among the participants. The atmosphere is normally very confidant and laid-back, with no pretence nor expectations. However, they always deliver the goods and the quality is very high.

Back to Books

  Yesterday I discovered my perfect entree into NZ Lit. It is a wonderfully edited tome of fifty-two top Kiwi authors, novelists to be precise, who are reputedly the best read NZ has produced in the last two hundred years. Of course Kevin Ireland, the editor, covers his tracks by explaining several notable omissions, but the final result, to put it in today's much maligned English, is awesome. 

New Zealand seems to punch far above its weight in the writing scene, and I suppose the recent Booker Prize winner exemplifies this. This great book, in large format, called simply 'The New Zealand Collection', cover printed in New York Times font, also boasts an excellent print of a famous Kiwi artist to accompany each novel. The editor, or his protege, gives a short précis of each book, just to tempt the reader to read further, as he has done to me. So I will now begin my quest to find them all, at least, one exemplar of each. I have already started with the gay Maori writer Witi Ihimaera, and with Katherine Mansfield, I will have only fifty to go. 

Am writing this in the city library, in below photos, and I am taking out with me today, 'Something Childish, and other stories', by iconic female writer Mansfield, and 'Nights in the Garden of Spain', a rapturously entitled novel by Ihimaera.

 I won't be in bed early tonight, that's for sure. My future reading in Wellington is assured for the next twelve months.

Wanganui

   At just two and one half hour's drive north of Wellington on the west coast, lies the provincial city of Wanganui, population of about forty three thousand. Once a Maori fiefdom, it has rich farming areas and the beautiful Whanganui River, the longest navigable river in the north island. With strong sporting and artistic culture, it unfortunately suffers presently from a large percentage of unemployed.

On Sunday I was happily driven up by an ECKist friend G who had a made a RV with others from W, in a spacious old building on the main street, to facilitate an  ECK Worship Service where I was to assist.  Well it was quite an enjoyable experience.

We arrived early to check out the room and then we descended to a nice cafe for lunch. At an outside street table we ordered a lovely light meal with good coffee, all perfect to energise us after the long drive.

Five people turned up, one of whom, an eighty year old ex farmer, was an ECKist. They were a varied bunch, three women and a male friend of the ECKist, also from out of town, and who was also a former farmer. They were extremely chatty and interested in talking about spiritual experiences. They actually seemed starved of that sort of conversation, not surprising given their background.

The hour's discussion passed in a flash and later, with a cuppa and biscuit, promises were made to meet again on December 15, same time, same place. It was fascinating to see salt of the earth Kiwi men discuss what their mates in earlier times would have considered kooky, and just 'not on'. I left Wanganui wanting to come back.

 Wanganui is essential Kiwi, a bit down on its luck, but creative and 'can-do'. Its geographic situation is also very attractive, being an hour or so drive to the biggest ski slopes in winter, and great trekking in other seasons. The top summer temperatures are low twenties, and in winter, down to only six to eight degrees centigrade. Sounds perfect to me, with a somewhat low earthquake risk although the wonderful Mt Tongariro is a still active volcano only an hour away. It also has New Zealand's only glass blowing school.

 I look forward to my next visit to their original timber-built Royal Opera House in December, to hear the great Kiwi pianist Michael Houstoun, play a concert of Beethoven. This is his last appearance for a year as he's taking a year off to record. It will doubtless be an exciting recital.

Spring day

Another interesting day of choices, ending up at the Paramount cinema. 

Above, the beautiful views from my morning balcony, with a tiny fisherman taking early advantage of a coming summer to dream about I'm sure.

Below is the foyer of the majestic Paramount where the Festival of Shorts is showing and I am really looking forward to catching a few tonight. I am sitting opposite an interesting couple, young bearded man and slightly older but attractive, and attracted, female. They are sharing a bottle of beer, she with the aid of a wine glass, but when the glass is empty, she is still thirsty so she intimately shares the neck of the beer bottle with her friend. I can imagine a work relationship evolving into something more than that, after-hours on Friday night. Perhaps it is in early days as he doesn't show so much interest yet. The stage will have to be set right for anything to eventuate I fear, as Wellington is such a small town, people do talk. In NYC it would be a piece of cake!

But back to 'reality', a day at BP with 'de boyz', only difference was me inviting Lesley and Woi Woi to my home for L to change for their climbing of Mt Vic, an invitation to join I happily demurred from. 'Another day', I said, it looks too high and the weather still to cool for that ascent. So they dropped me on the way back and I strolled along the waterfront to my destination of the old cinema, little changed from its glory days, many, many years ago. 

It is Friday, but early this morning a text from V put paid to our regular HU song - they are both away for the weekend. So a rare free Friday night for me to enjoy doing other things, but I do have a very busy weekend ahead of me, again. This time it's Sunday at Wanganui, which will be quite a full day of ECK Service, and tomorrow a 'social' with many lesbians from the Glamaphones. That one should be interesting, and I am prepared for anything. It is in the afternoon from only three to six so they are being careful; I may well be gone by five I would say, as I really am not friendly with any of them, and the males won't be there I feel. I am still a stranger there but I will have to be patient, not one of my normal characteristics. Have prepared a multi-berry tart which is my contribution to the fare. Should be OK.

But now to the shorts...

City Library - again.

I am sitting at the wrong table! Yes there are laws about where you sit in this cafe I have started to frequent, but until now I thought I was quite legal. But I'm not, I'm a felon, or whatever someone is called who sits at the wrong table. I've always liked a certain personal space, so naturally I chose the long table to have my lemon and ginger at today. But now with guilt I am looking sideways to see if the cafe police are coming to fine me. But seriously this is an example of the great desire for fairness and equality in this country. And people need to be reminded of it, especially selfish newcomers, like me! 

 I've just returned three good dvds, the last one a Canadian-made documentary about Michael Moore, which I saw last night. It was very interesting to see how the hubris of the man who virtually created the American tell-the-truth documentary, knew very well how to stretch the truth himself. This doco was very truthful and didn't show the corpulent Mr Moore in such a squeaky-clean light. Although it did accept that many good things arose from his early documentaries, one of which, Bowling for Columbine, in 2002, following the terrible school massacre, won an Academy Award.

Nothing is ever as it seems, and sometimes it may be better just to not look at anything in the mainstream media. It is all tainted to some degree or other.

The Butler

   As well as being fitness freaks the Kiwis love their choc-tops! I am at Lighthouse Cuba to see a film whose trailers looked too good to miss. I hope I am right.

But back to kiwi fitness - if there is one phenomenon which stands out like the proverbial, it is the fact that Kiwis, or is Wellingtonians, seem to jog everywhere, that is, if they are not running for their lives. Perhaps it is the constant fear of falling into a crevice created from an earth tremor, I don't really know, but at all times of the day, and in all weathers, people are running - some with backpacks, probably full of their work clobber, or the odd water bottle in case of dehydrating, but no-one seems to stroll anywhere. 

The result, of course, is supremely evident in the biggest sets of calf and thigh muscles I have see in my life. And I previously lived in what I thought was the capital of 'LEGS', Hobart, Tasmania. But, I was wrong, it is Wellington, and probably all New Zealand, which would win the banner of the best legs in the world. And not just that, they are intrepid. I've said it before, but if I were to be shipwrecked anywhere  in the world and I could choose a companion, it would be a Kiwi, preferably male. I know then I would be safe and would get out alive, for that is the stuff the people on these far distant islands are made of. 

Above two photos of excellent glass bus shelters in Courtenay Place, necessarily quite enclosed against the weather.

 Back to 'The Butler', a recent US release in which Oprah Winfrey shows her political colours, and which is not such a great success, in spite of a starry cast and workable story about racial rights in America told credibly and importantly from the black person's perspective. 

However it labours a little under its expectations, showing the arrival of an ex-slave cotton picker coming to work at The White House as a butler for a series of US Presidents. Some of the actors are a bit of a stretch, like Robin Williams as Dwight Eisenhower. As with so many American movies, the schmaltz over-rides the grisley facts of the race riots in Birmingham Alabama, King's assassination and more. The butler loses his well educated son to the black cause, while being the 'house negro' to his white 'betters'.  But he finally learns from his son to be his own man.

The plot is weighed down with subplots of his wife's affair and drinking problem where it could have spent more time on the main issue of those amazing years in American history. Forest Whitaker as the eponymous lead for me just didn't cut it, but it was worth it to see English actor Alan Rickman play Ronald Reagan and especially Jane Fonda in a small cameo role who reincarnates Nancy Reagan to a T. She would have loved playing her nemesis I'm sure. A film certainly worth seeing from the historical pov.   Three stars.

Btw, the Lighthouse number 3 cinema was a cosy thirty armchair size, and before each session the always  extremely personable and articulate young usher, yes, they still have ushers, welcomes the guests and politely reminds them all to turn off their cell phones, then wishes them happy viewing. Nice touch.

Babylon Cafe on Oriental Parade

It is Saturday and sunny and Oriental Bay is at its best so I have to finally sample its retro cafe that is called Babylon. It is nearly full and there is a gentle hum from happy customers. After all this is Wellington at its best, good food, coffee and a view of the harbour. With a somewhat violent orange seventies decor akin to my blog's backdrop, the Babylon has a past, a present and certainly a future I'm sure.

My toasted bagel and cream-cheese arrives with a smile and the coffee I'm sure is excellent. This the start of an interesting weekend, with the Guy Fawkes fireworks display taking place tonight at 9, right outside where I am now sitting. I will probably be among the throng of thousands tipped to view the show. But before that, I plan a swim at the famed Freyberg pool, named after one of the country's biggest sporting (swimming of course), and much decorated wartime heroes, Lt. Gen. (Lord) Bernard Freyberg, whose picture graces some of the monuments around the area.

The thirty metre pool is well designed and sometimes too popular by half, but today I am lucky and it's not too busy. I pay my oldies' three dollars which gives me a swim, sauna and spa pool so it's good value when it's not too crowded. I do all three of these at a gentlemanly pace and feel virtuous but not too knackered as I emerge an hour later. The parade and beach area are sprinkled with sun-seekers as today is a rare one. Tonight I am sure it will be packed. 

Tonight I have decided to go to a small but vibrant modern dance company of an Englishwoman called Anne Dewey. Her interview on this morning's radio impressed me no end. She was also a dancer with Douglas Wright so that decided me. I think it's a good idea to first check out the venue. It's quite close as is everything, and the dancers are already there limbering up in the small Tararua Tramping Club (est. 1853) Hall situated next to the Quakers' Meeting Rooms. It bodes well I think, and I am not surprised that the women, for it is an all woman show, are there well in advance for the hour long dance. I am happy to forego the NZSO to see this company of innovative dance and I will still have time for the fireworks on the bay.

 It is a balmy spring afternoon, and the GO Wellington buses are all athletically gliding along the clean Wellington  streets carrying their not immense loads to their destinations. Everything goes a civilised pace here, and perhaps that is why the longevity of Kiwis exceeds that of most countries in the world.

I pop into a local hotel, the Cambridge, and see on the blackboard  that tomorrow the All Blacks, the ABs for the cognoscenti, are playing France at nine am. Most of the pubs will be celebrating and a big breakfast turnout is assured to see the ABs probably win, yet again. Although France has beaten them a couple of times I believe, but not of late. I am suddenly tempted to forego my earlier plan and catch the game, but Tim Winton's three hour cinema saga, The Turning, on at the Lighthouse, wins out I'm afraid.

Below is photo of the Rugby tradition that is such an integral part of being a Kiwi. It is like British Royalty in its importance to the average jo-blo. This honour roll is displayed on the wall of the lounge at the Cambridge gaming hotel, proudly owned, I must add, by an ex All Black.

After the dance...

Eight o'clock after the show puzzlingly entitled 'Lazy Suzy Boy' I am still reeling. It was amazing! Talented dancers with very original choreography and quirky brilliant narrative - quite worthy of the great creativity that New Zealand is so famous for. Six stars! I am so happy I witnessed this fabulous piece of modern innovative dance.

Gotham

Am in Gotham, that's right, Gotham City in Chew's Lane in downtown Wellington. Happily now restricted to walking everywhere I am felicitously discovering a few new haunts.  This caff is certainly not gothic but it does have extremely high ceilings and a wall picture somewhat resembling a New York skyscape. On the other hand, one of the bartenders wears a T-shirt with 'My awesomeness may be infectious'. He happens to be about 1.88m tall and a girth nearly as wide. And his smile matches his girth. I decide to try a chai latte which I had recently somewhere and it was nice. I forget to order it 'very hot', so the lukewarm result is quickly downed. So many baristas feel we oldies like our drinks cooler, perhaps so we won't burn our lips! Enough grumpy old man....

At lunch today at BP I felt like an elder as I decided to show the few who had come, the dvd of the Academy Award winning 'The Times of Harvey Milk'. It always touches me as it took the incredible double murder of a San Francisco Mayor and the gay Supervisor Harvey Milk to make some of the American public aware of their built-in prejudices. It was a wonderfully shot doco and richly deserved its award. I believe it is a must-see for any young person especially if they are struggling with their sexuality. It is inspirational and at times uplifting in spite of its rather tragic story.

I have a very busy weekend ahead and have just decided to add to it a Symphony Concert by NZSO at the Michael Fowler Centre. Unfortunately the Town Hall next to it, which houses reputedly the third best acoustics of a concert hall in 'the world', is closed with its four hundred organ pipes being refurbished and the building itself undergoing a further forty-three million dollar earthquake improvement. It should be worth waiting for so I will have to wait four years before I get the chance to hear the NZSO on its home ground.

The Gotham is obviously an evening wine bar as it is slowly filling with cool young people, winding down after a hard week's work in Wellington. And I am preparing for a big weekend. Perhaps more about that on Sunday. 

Having collected a programme for the New Zealand Festival 2014 which just came out, I am perusing a copy on the table. There is a great selection of artistic works and I look forward to sampling at least a few, if they are affordable. However one needs to be earning a good salary to really savour all that Wellington has to offer. I relax and notice the seventies anthem 'Hotel California' which is filtering out through the Gotham's muzak. Ironically it is a gentle reminder that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Now on to the bus to get to Kilbirnie for the 7 o'clock Friday night HU chant, always a good way to finish the week.

City Library

Killing time is not difficult in Wellington City Library, or in its always very busy cafe, to be precise. 

The cafe is situated on the mezzanine level of this well stocked library and I have just taken out a DVD on Harvey Milk for a week. The double set has many extras and although I have already seen it, I'm sure it will be well worth seeing again. 

I cannot help overhearing my adjacent table where seven young literature enthusiasts have chosen to discuss their latest book club find. The conversation is lively, a variety of accents appear, and it is just seems to be a classic example of the intellectual fabric in this city. It all looks so natural, as though everyone has coffee together and talks about the latest best-seller, or perhaps even, an abstruse sociopathic thriller. I'm quite sure they are all budding writers, one of whom one day might even win the Man Booker Prize, although there are a few American accents among them.

As usual I have my honey, lemon and ginger drink, preparing my throat for tonight's choral singing on The Terrace. I'm happy to say my plans for the Christmas outing have firmed as there are some people with transport who are coming and we will make a jolly car full non-christmas vacationers.  It is a mobile-free zone at Vinegar Hill, somewhere I am sure my young literary friends would never survive as I see they have just brought out their latest smart- phones and the conversation has now radically switched to hi-tech talk. Such is the reality of real time with the youth of today.

And now appears on my right another table of writers, this time they are men of a certain age, and who are actually writing on paper with pens. One I notice, has taken off his battered top hat and has rested his black jacket heavily decorated with plastic lizards on the back of his chair. He and his three mates are all seriously writing. I notice their watches are doffed and lying on the table. I think they may be doing a speed-writing exercise, or perhaps collaborating on writing the next kiwi blockbuster film script.  Another piece of Wellington creativity.

Christmas plans askew

Melbourne Cup day over means that Christmas is in the offing and as it's my least favourite time of the year I am planning to escape somewhere but not sure where. My plan was to do a House-sit but I think I have left it too late, all the good ones are gone and I really wasn't prepared anyway. There is always Vinegar Hill campout which was my earlier option and that is still there and could well be the answer. Just need transport which could easily turn up. If the weather is fine that might be perfect, or at least a fascinating adventure into the mad alternate culture that certainly exists in these windy isles.

Pic above is where I am writing this blog, in bed on a grey somewhat wet November morn, awaiting the urge to bake a chocolate mud cake for the final Scottish Dance fling of the year. Have bought all the ingredients so it's a simple matter of warming the oven and melting the chocolate - all done.

Have been devouring some very interesting kiwi 'Memoirs', and they are worth commenting on as they have taught me a lot about the culture and richness of the fabric of life here, albeit with a few holes therein. The one I've most recently finished is by choreographer and modern dance supremo Douglas  Wright, and it is a great read. He is also an excellent writer and was shortlisted for this Memoir called 'Ghost-dance'.

 Although he is ten years younger than me his life seems to have been the double of mine already - he started very young. In youth falling into heavy drug use he was looked after by a famous old queen in Auckland who eventually directed him to his great love of dance, and from there he never looked back. After winning an audition among two hundred dancers  for the famed US modern dance company of Paul Taylor, he lead an incredible adventurous life touring the world before leaving Taylor and joining a talented compatriot Lloyd Newson in his innovative London company, DC8. From that, he returned to NZ and set up his own group but with ill health finally hung up his ballet slippers. It was the ogre of AIDS which stalked him but after many health episodes he is still there, somewhere hidden in the Auckland backwaters.

The book was written ten years ago so how he is now God only knows. What I found remarkable  was his similar spiritual growth to mine, although we ended up differently. I could have written his New York experiences myself, but mine were a little earlier. His return in triumph to NZ was  mixed blessing as after such an eclectic life OS there was little more to do, so he wrote this evocative memoir. One day it might be nice to meet him, if he's still around. His early abusive childhood may be typical of some of the backwoods culture that existed in NZ even in the sixties and seventies but his extraordinary talent won out and he became a veritable kiwi legend. Most of his friends have also passed away which is the sad case for many of us. 

The other two memoirs I read were both by non-Kiwis and so give a different slant which is equally valid and fascinating. An American with the auspicious name of Aaron Allbright wrote a tome called A Land near Oz, only because he discovered NZ by default after being at the Sydney Olympics in 2000.  But he became an ardent fan and soon moved holus-bolus, with male partner whom he officially married in legally advanced NZ. They subsequently both took Kiwi nationality, totally embracing their adopted country. 

It has a rather sad postscript as they invested in their dream home called 'Paradise', on Doubtless Bay on the top of the North Island, but soon after settling in their paradise, leukaemia hit in for Aaron and to get cutting-edge treatment they had to sell and relocate home to California. Such is our health system here. However he left us with an illuminating commentary of an outsider's look at a country which in many many ways he could never comprehend. Interestingly it was through the Maori context which he experienced in buying his property up north that he felt in tune with the country. It is very amusingly and racily written with lots of bold-faced type. I wonder if he'll ever return, but I'm afraid his prognosis was severe, and terminal.

The other book by Scot Tom McRae called ominously, 'If I should die' also has a sad postscript as Tom died a week after its publication in Auckland. It is a fascinating historical read about the emergence of AIDS in NZ and the problems he encountered with stigma and prejudice. As a Scot with a wry sense of humour it is an easy read also but happily we have well and truly moved on from those dark days in the eighties when cadavres were still considered 'infectious'. Poor Tom's legacy was just this book but he deserved more as he was a ground breaker and brought the public face of AIDS  into better repute.

So there's my reading for the past week and I can now smell my chocolate cake ready to be taken from the oven. A comforting smell on a still-cool and wet Wellington day.

Melbourne Cup Day

Well it is the first Tuesday in November, even though in Wellington this blog date insists it is only Monday!

So as it's Melbourne Cup Day I've gone to the biggest TV screen to look at the race. It's in the Four Kings gaming hotel on Courtenay Place and although it's not yet full, it's not empty either. There is quite a buzz with assorted young people aware of the importance of of this Holy Day in Oz. I have a feeling for Fiorente, with Mt Athos as runner up, as the stupendous horse flesh parade their style in front of the millions of viewers. But who knows, with the 'Cup'  any horse can be a chance.

Ten minutes later...

Well the Cup has just been run, and won, and guess by whom? Yep, you gottit, Fiorente first and Mt Athos only third, bad luck there. I should have had a bet ay?  Strange how fate gives me two winners in a foreign city and I can't even make a bet! C'est la vie.

I took this picture as Fiorente was being walked in to the enclosure, before the race, really!

I look out the window and see that the city has not stood still at all for this race, and suddenly feel a little homesick, as Cup Day is quintessentially an Aussie day.

Back to more mundane affairs, my morning was spent under the needle, so to speak, or many of them to be exact. Elanita, a catchily named acupuncturist from the USA, generously donated her expertise and time to working on a few of the boys from Body Positive, one of the many worthy ventures organised by BP Wellington. She was absolutely amazing, with such healing hands I have rarely experienced. She emigrated here with psychiatrist hubby from San Diego in search of a new life, away from the stresses of the great US of A. They have only been here five months and are finding getting accepted, especially with the Maori with whom her husband works, quite difficult, and I can imagine why. There is a vast cultural gap between the US and NZ. I can only commend their guts and wish them both well.

But before if finish, last night was quite a memorable first meeting of the 'Six on Six' chat group at BP. Organised by the CEO in Auckland, this smaller group was an interesting bunch, all telling their individual stories and all so very different. Although with the younger ones there was an unfortunate trope of becoming infected by predatory HIV stalkers, some of whom were caught and are now spending time behind bars. In earlier times, and not SO long ago ago, NZ was a dangerous place it seems, to be a gay man. But everyone agreed they have come out the other side and have no anger or animosity toward those perpetrators. Which is an excellent result as anger gets you nowhere, even the righteous kind.  It was a good meeting and there are five more so we'll see how they unfold.