Sunny Sunday on the wharf

Sunday January 17

Today is perfect. We get up a little late. Malcolm is already breakfasted, so I have a quick meal and I suggest we take a stroll to the city wharf and have a coffee. Unfortunately  Malcolm's torn a ligament in his leg from fire-fighting practice and thus he lacks enthusiasm for walking, so we drive into town, cruise through the farmers' market next to Te Papa Museum and then find a sunny spot at Chalk Café on the wharf. It is qute sublime.

The view...

Malcolm sketching...

Boat lift in the making...

Kirks coming to an end..David Jones taking over.

Putin's criminal interests..will they be exposed at Alexander Litvinenko's inquest in Spain?  Probably not.

Another super-talented young Kiwi writerdiving into the American thriller market at a very young age.

It is a perfect day on the wharf for sketching and Malcolm is always ready with his pen to be the artist, something which is only one of his many talents. However his ability to see the glass half-full is never there. He seems to be a born pessimist, the total opposite of myself although he may well deny it. His foray into Cuba Street last night was met with a yawn. This is the street whch enticed me originally to live in this wonderful city. He sees what he can but doesn't see how lucky he is in the long term. There is always something in his past which he evokes to remind him that the present is a bit sadder than it is. Tonight's dancing is an example.He only remembers the horrific experience he had with his dancing teacher mother, who used to grab him tightly to her heaving breasts in an incestuous way he insists, when he was a young pre-teenager. He has hated dancing ever since although, as with most things artistic, he is probably very talented all the same. We'll see how he enjoys tonight with the DANSS group and the charismatic Maori, Heta, who is our teacher.

Malcolm's evocative sketchon the wharf.