What is an OE?

In just over four weeks, we are finally going on our OE. First we fly to Vietnam, and then all sorts of other places in three different continents until settling in either Galway in Ireland or London in Ye Olde England, depending on how we feel at the time. It's all pretty much sorted - the passports have the requisite stamps, and our arms have had the necessary and necessarily painful shots. I am also in the process of trying to mentally prepare Max for a long holiday with Grandma Raema and Grandad Ray.

On the weekend, though, we started one of the worst parts of moving overseas. And no, I'm not talking about the part where you get nostalgicand eat so many Minties you get a headache, go crazy with the kumara chips, and frantically try to learn the words of the haka. On Saturday, we started packing. Shudder. It is no coincidence that 'packing' rhymes with 'what sucks to do when I'd rather be slacking'. One entire floor of our house is so covered in a pile so large soon we will need crampons to navigate it.

.

This packing business got me thinking about the idea of an OE. Like, what is an OE? Do you have to go to Europe? Is there a minimum time you have to be away from NZ for it to count? I have lived in Italy for one year, and worked in the USA for three months. Do they count? I feel like they don't, but can't articulate why.

.

Since joining the professional workforce I have met loads of people who have never lived overseas, but have done extensive travelling through some very challenging and diverse parts of the world. Why do many people consider that less of an OE than someone who goes to England and never strays from North America and Western Europe, thus never experiencing the palava of trying to get a tourist visa for a third-world country? I am very curious what you think.

My Cat Max vs Paris Hilton

Things my cat Max and Paris Hilton have in common

1. They are both mammals

2. They both get photographed a lot, especially with one foot in front of the other for maximum appearance of slimness

3. They are both socialites

4. When we go driving, Max has to be in a cage. When Paris goes driving, she ends up in a cage

5. They both take being fed and cared for by others for granted

6. Paris Hilton went out a guy called Paris. Max likes to rumble with a she-cat called Max

Things Max and Paris Hilton do not have in common

1. Tane can't balance Paris on his back

2. Max is named after Max Power, Homer's alter ego, which Homer claims he got from a hair dryer. Paris is named after a city

3. Max doesn't need to wear hair extensions

4. Max loves to eat potato peels. I assume that Paris doesn't

5. Due to a cruel trip to the vet at three months, the movie One Night In Max will never be made

6. A news presenter has never tried to burn a script in protest because it is about Max

7. Paris wears necklaces made of mother of pearl. Max wears necklaces made to kill fleas.

Does anyone else have any more to add?

Tane's reviews: Rise of the Silver Surfer, Zodiac, Becoming Jane

Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer

There are some superhero movies that only a fan could like. Ghost Rider, Constantine and the first Fantastic Four movie spring to mind. Then there’s Rise of the Silver Surfer. Not even a comic book geek with low expectations and a fair amount of Friday night drinks in him could get many kicks out of this movie.

Rise of the Silver Surfer sees superpowered team The Fantastic Four dealing with fame, the upcoming wedding of Reed Richards (Ioan Gruffudd) and Sue Storm (Jessica Alba), the appearance of the mysterious, immensely powerful Silver Surfer, the reawakening of Victor von Doom (Julian McMahon), and the end of the world.

There are some good points to Rise of the Silver Surfer. Chris Evans again brings cheek and charm to the Human Torch, there’s some decent action sequences – particularly the Torch’s chase of the Surfer – and three funny moments. But they are buried in the welter of lame one-liners and feeble attempts at drama. It’s a movie that’s clearly aimed to be lighter than most superhero movies, but it still needs to have more substance than it does.

As in the first Fantastic Four movie, the performances of Gruffudd and Alba are flat, while McMahon strikes the wrong note. Dr Doom is sinister, not smarmy. Alba is particularly annoying. She’s beautiful, in a Barbie doll kind of way, but if she has any acting talent, her invisibility powers appear to have affected it. Even Michael Chiklis, one of the standouts of the first film, is below par as the team’s forth member, the rocky Thing.

The literally shining light in all this mediocrity is the Silver Surfer. Played by Doug Jones, voiced by Lawrence Fishburne and animated by Weta, the Surfer lives up to his iconic status. He is as elegant, beautiful and powerful as a Renaissance statue, with a tragic grandeur.

A pity he’s not in a better film. The story of Surfer and his master is one of the most famous and interesting in comics. As a fan, the worst thing about Rise of the Silver Surfer is how it wastes that potential.

5/10


Zodiac

As the story of a serial killer, you might dismiss Zodiac as the kind of slasher flick that most moviegoers avoid like a rabid dog. Don’t, because it’s excellent.

Zodiac is based on Robert Graysmith’s book about a series of killings in the San Francisco area in the late ‘60s and ‘70s, and the search for the murderer, a man who called himself The Zodiac.

The Zodiac crimes captured nationwide attention and influenced many fictional portrayals of serial killers. This was largely because of how The Zodiac promoted himself. He wrote very creepy letters to newspapers and the police, some of them in code, and left messages bragging about his crimes. He was brutal, disturbed and clever.

Aside from the scenes where The Zodiac kills or attempts to kill people, the film focuses on those chasing him, particularly Mark Ruffalo’s cop, an extrovert crime reporter (a brilliant Robert Downey Junior) and Graysmith himself (the reliably strong Jake Gyllenhaal), who is portrayed as an obsessive geek.

Director David Fincher is known for making films with oodles of visual flair, such as Fight Club, but, aside from a couple of scenes, he treats Zodiac with restraint. This is exactly the right approach. He does not sensationalise the killings or the investigation, which makes the film feel more realistic. I particularly liked how the killer was shown as frightening, but also vaguely pathetic. Which is what he was – a ghastly, attention-seeking, socially inept loser.

Zodiac is a long but absorbing film. There’s some white-knuckle scenes, but much of its fascination comes from watching the characters slowly gathering pieces of evidence and fitting them together, and seeing the damage the case did to their personal and professional lives. It’s nice to see a film that does not rush through its plot or feel the need to fill it with gratuitous action.

8/10

Becoming Jane

What an unexpected pleasure this film is. I went in to Becoming Jane, the fictionalised story of young Jane Austen’s dalliances with love, expecting a frothy, lightweight, clichéd romantic comedy. For the first half hour or so, that is what you get. But Becoming Jane becomes something much better, taking real events in Austen’s life and creating into a powerful story that finishes with some very touching scenes. With its combination of sadness, romance, literature and humour, it’s much like Shakespeare in Love.

As Jane, Anne Hathaway is endearing, as is James McAvoy as her rapscallion lawyer love. They’re backed by a formidable supporting cast that includes Dame Maggie Smith, James Cromwell and Ian Richardson.

Stick these actors in nice costumes and lovely rural settings, and you have a film Jane Austen fans – so long as they are not too picky about historical accuracy - should not miss.

7.5/10

Ninety Mile Beach and the best photo sequence ever

Yesterday, I went to Northland for what feels like the ma-zillionth time in the last few years. It was my last time in Northland before Tane and I head overseas, so I found myself looking out the car window a little more than usual thinking about how stunning it is up there. My favourite part of Northland is easily Te Oneroa a Tohe, Ninety Mile Beach. Which, apparently, ought to be called 55 Mile Beach. Regardless, for those of you who have not been there, here are some photos of it. I wish I could claim them as mine, but no, alas, they were taken by Geremy when we were there last year.

These photos make me seriously reconsider my current point-and-click method of photography. Stupid impatience.

Speaking of good photos, in the entry 'Best River Ever' (back when it was warm) I promised you the best photo sequence ever. You'd forgotten? You never even cared in the first place? Too bad. Here it is, the best photo sequence ever staring Tane and a river near Otaki.

How to relate to others, by Lauren aged 8

I recently found my old teenage diaries, well hidden and covered in dust. Usually, reading about the musings of the angst ridden teenager that grew into moi makes me want to go back in time with a giant rubber hand and administer some slap therapy. Every now and then, though, I found some gems. For example, I read my entry from ten years ago to the day, and I quote "I have been busy recently, but can't be bothered writing about it. It's not like I'll care in 10 years anyway." Given that I go on to describe my sister calling my Mum 'poo-juice' as well as other Keenan home shenanigans I think that me-of-ten-years-ago was wrong. I wish I'd expanded. Although, if whatever I was too lazy to expand on would have just made me of now want to look on Trademe for a time machine and a rubber hand anyway, it's probably good I didn't.

.

On the subject of old writing, I also wanted to share this list that my Mum found in an old school book of mine that I wrote when I was eight. Unfortuanately, I can't show you the handwriting and back to front letters.

.

How to relate to others By Lauren aged 8

.

1. Like other people's dumb work

2. Be kind to people who are being beaten up

3. Try and get on with people that you hate

4. Be kind and nice

5. Like people from other races

6. Lend things to people you don't like

7. If you are a girl, don't hate boys

8. Don't be mean

9. Don't gang up

10. Don't call people names that will make them sad

Tena nga kanohi kua tikona e Matariki.

Yay! It's Matariki, AKA the Maori New Year. To celebrate, I am going to eat kai moana and kumara, and drink beer. Tane has been wearing his Matariki beanie all week, both on account of Matariki and the very very cold weather right now. So cold, in fact, that typing right now is hard on account of feeling like I have frozen fish fingers connected to my hands rather than usual flesh fingers.

For those of you who aren't Kiwis, or don't know about Matariki, click here. It's a pretty cool celebration, and commemorates a star cluster that appears this time of the year. It's a time to celebrate anyway, so if you forgot about it and need an excuse … woohoo!
Tena nga kanohi kua tikona e Matariki. Let Matariki keep you awake!

What tribe are you?

Ko Lauren au. Ko Taranaki toku maunga, ko Waiwakhaio toku awa, ko Te Atiawa ki Taranaki toku iwi.

.

And, according to the authors of "8 Tribes: The Hidden Classes of NZ" my other iwi is the Grey Lynn Tribe. According to them, both Tane and I are part of the tribe of Kiwis whose distinguishing characteristics include preferring to be “challenged” than entertained, seeking out authentic experiences, and blushing when talking about property values. We also, apparently, value ideas above material things and intellectualise every element of our lives. Interesting, and not inaccurate either. The other tribes include the Raglan Tribe, the Balclutha Tribe, the Otara Tribe, the Remuera Tribe, the North Shore Tribe, the Papatoetoe Tribe, and the Cuba St Tribe.

.

I have yet to meet someone who has taken this test and is not Grey Lynn, which probably says more about the demographics of central Wellington than anything else. I am sure that if I went to Otara or Gore it would be a whole different story. What are you? You can click here to take the test. Is the test a load of bollocks? I haven't decided yet. Either way, far as I am concerned, my primary tribe is still Te Atiawa ki Taranaki.

As inspired by Barney Gumble

It sounded like an impossible challenge. Two weeks without Coke Zero or Diet Coke. Two weeks without that refreshing "kshhhh" of a can opening. Two weeks of actually having to think about what I want to drink when I was thirsty. I have always maintained that I am not addicted to Diet Coke and Coke Zero, but merely like it very very much. So much, in fact, that I often think about Barney on The Simpsons when he wins a truckload of Duff and cries "plug it to my veins!"

Today, though, the two weeks are over and I am about to have my first Coke in what feels like years. It wasn't easy to break the habit of reaching toward the silver or black bottle (that is apparently supposed to be shaped like a headless woman which strikes me as very odd), but I persevered. It was even harder when I went out with my coke-guzzling sisters, shooting them evil looks as they smugly drank. The low point was when I went out with three girls for coffee last weekend and each of them ordered coke.

But now the two weeks are up. Plug it to my veins!

P.S. What is your favourite Simpsons quote? Mine is:

"My cat's breath smells like catfood" - Ralph Wiggum. Click here for more Ralph quotes.

Grammar

I am on a crusade against grammar Nazis.

Being good at grammar is like have a birthmark on your stomach. No-one cares except you, and no-one knows unless you show it off. The difference between good grammar and a birthmark, though, is that unless showing the birthmark involves doing something anti-social, the person you are showing will not think that you are a git. If, however, you passionately believe in grammar, I suggest following these steps to ensure that you are only regarded as a quasi-git.

1. Ask yourself - why am I correcting the other person?

Is it because you love language and love to educate? Or is it because, deep down, you are a little bit insecure and want to feel superior to and more intelligent than someone else? Are you looking to teach, or dis empower?

Good grammar isn't a sign of intelligence, it's just a sign of someone who has learnt the rules. Thinking otherwise is like remembering the details of all the Presidents of the USA and fancying yourself an expert in US history.

2. Make sure that your 'correction' is correct

I recently completed a course on English grammar as part of my teaching English as a second language course. This course taught me three things. First - most grammar comes down to personal preference. Second - I would rather eat a porcupine than put that much energy into the English language ever again. Lastly - there are many Grammar Nazis out there (let's call them "Grazis") who aren’t the grammar gurus that they think they are. Just because someone will leap into a conversation to correct you does not make them right.

I can think of three recent examples of grammar being 'corrected' by different ill-informed Grazis:

The first was an eye roll at the "grammatically incorrect" title Bridget Jones's Diary. If this Grazi had put as much energy into reading up about the apostrophe rule as they did moaning about the common misuse of it, they would know that the title is not a grammatical faux-pas as either Jones' or Jones's is fine.

The second was after I had referred to a photo of Tane and me. I was quickly told that it was Tane and I. I wouldn't say "look at this photo of I" so why would I say "look at this photo of Tane and I"? The reflexive "me" is the grammatically correct way of saying this. Just because "Tane and I" sounds poncy doesn't make it right.

Third, a Grazi pointed out an error by asking "what's the first person possessive pronoun again?", referring to the word 'my'. This was wrong as 'my' is a possessive adjective because it always needs to be describing a noun. Grazis take note: it is especially important to get 'corrections' right if you are willing to use the poncy grammatical way of describing words in pointing out the 'error'.

If you are a Grazi and are starting to question yourself, don't worry. Apparently a number of errors can be found in the book Eat Shoots and Leaves, a Grazi bible. The author of that book is obviously an uber-Grazi and she can't even get it right. Read about some very funny criticisms of the book here.

3. Remember - there is a difference between essential and non-essential grammar

.

Basically, if the error can change the meaning of the sentence, it is important. If it doesn't, it's not. Language is always in a state of evolution, and there is a huge difference between the prescription and description of English. Also, pronouciation is different than grammar. Whether it's a to-may-to or a to-ma-ta does not change the fact that it is small, red, and delicious with tuna in sandwiches.

The more I learn about grammar, the more I realise how subjective and generally unimportant it is. Except for when I am at work, or writing something academic, I prefer to keep that birthmark well covered. Among other things, there are plenty more interesting things to talk about.

Unless, of course, I am on my personal crusade against Grazis.

Tane's reviews:Pirates of the Carribean - At World's Ends

Writing a review of ‘At World’s End’ feels rather like retreading my review of ‘Spiderman 3’. The year’s first two Hollywood blockbusters have a lot in common. The third of a hugely successful, special effects laden fantasy franchise. Dynamite action sequences. Overlong and overcomplicated. And I enjoyed both of them.

‘At World’s End’ is the better of the two films: funnier, more imaginative and with less of a rush towards its finale. Like the first two Pirates films, it’s a refreshing romp, a gleefully, unashamedly over the top swashbuckler filled with salty sea dogs, swordplay and black magic. The Spiderman films take themselves more seriously, which – when done well – adds depth. But, when done badly, comes off as melodrama.

Don’t bother going to see ‘At World’s End’ if you haven’t seen ‘Dead Man’s Chest’. They’re part of the same story and ‘At World’s End’ is hard enough to follow if you have seen the earlier film.

‘At World’s End’ opens with the resurrected Captain Barbossa (Geoffrey Rush), Elizabeth Swann (Keira Knightley) and William Turner (Orlando Bloom) trying to find a way to bring Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) back from the afterlife Davey Jones (Bill Nighy) sent him to. The first stop is Singapore, home of Sao Feng (Chow Yun-Fat), one of the nine pirate lords who must gather to face Jones and the mighty British East India Company. The Company’s leader, Lord Cutler Bennett, is determined to wipe out piracy and rule the seas himself.

What follows is a globe and netherworld-spanning adventure that nearly gets sunk by a needlessly tangled plot. You need a scorecard to keep track of who is betraying who and why. It’s best just to forget about it, go with the flow, and admire the string of vividly imaginative and magnificently shot scenes. With scurvy pirates swinging cutlasses and firing cannons from the dark, sweaty dens of Singapore, to flows of ice, to a surreal desert, and beyond, ‘At World’s End’ has enough spectacle and action to make you forgive its length and other flaws.

Most of those flaws are familiar ones. Knightley and Bloom are as bland as ever, with Knightley in particular apparently lack the acting skills to do anything more than look beautiful and annoyed. Their love triangle with Captain Jack has never held any interest except for giving Depp a few good lines. To be fair though, I did like the way it was resolved.

She certainly pales next to Nighy, Depp and Rush, who are clearly enjoying themselves. Of these heavyweights, it’s Rush who steals the movie. Captain Jack is still very amusing, but we have seen most of his tricks and quirks. Rush though, is the epitome of everything piratical - dastardly, charismatic, leering and apparently unable to speak without saying ‘yaaar’. Though, had he been given longer on screen, the effortlessly cool Keith Richards might have given Rush a run for his dubloons.

You can say ‘At World’s End’ is overlong, indulgent and confusing, and you’d not be wrong. But it’s still a pirate’s life for me.

Yaaar.


p.s. There’s a nice bit after the end credits.

7.5/10

Lauren’s two cents

This movie is fun. Go to it for a laugh, but turn off your critical censor first. I haven’t laughed so much in a movie for a long time, and the funny bits made the annoying Keira “I have only one facial expression and like to clench my teeth” Knightely scenes easier to forgive. A great way to spend a Saturday night, as long as you don’t pay too much attention to the plot.
7/10

Run of DOOM minus four weeks

The half-marathon is in four weeks time. Unfortunately, my “training” over the past two weeks has consisted of little more than carrying around my running gear and talking loudly about the runs that I might hypothetically do. Until yesterday, over the last two weeks I had eaten a greater number of chocolate bars than I had run kilometres, which would have been great if I was training for a chocolate-eating competition.

Yesterday, though, Tane dropped me off at Scorching Bay and said he wouldn’t return with the car until I had gone for a decent run. That was the push I needed to change my running to chocolate eating ratio. By the time he rolled back to get me I had struggled around the 12 km Miramar Peninsular, the farthest I have ever run. Yay! The Chocolate Fish café at the end has never had a more grateful customer. Pity I was so shagged during most of the run that my eyes were fixed on the white line on the side of the road rather than the stunning scenery.

Today, I feel like someone has replaced my limbs with cardboard planks. The more I run, the more certain I am that I have the natural running ability of a cardboard box filled with custard pies. I am enjoying it though, especially learning how to do something that has intimidated me ever since the wobbliness of puberty set in.

.

Just a note: despite my "training", I doubt I will ever attempt a chocolate eating competition. I was in a banana eating competition when I was 13 and never want to experience an eating competition of any sort ever again.

Mum's Wedding

On Thursday evening, my sisters and I invaded West Auckland. To quote Bryn (Philippa's boyfriend) and seconded by Tane "I always find it remarkable how quickly the decibel levels rise when those four are together." Not that any of us actually heard him say that - we were too busy being noisy. Tane had to tell me the next day about it. This weekend, though, we had a good reason to be excited and noisy. There were you tube videos featuring Justin Timberlake and a box with a hole in. There were bottles of Coke Zero. There were stories about Philippa teaching me about the birds and the bees when she was at kindy. There were dodgy jokes about Brad Pitt. And, our Mum was getting married to Ray.

The wedding was fantastic. They got married in a quarry somewhere near a motorway (sorry, I cannot do any better than that describing Auckland geography), and we had a lovely buffet lunch on the other side of the aforementioned motorway. It was great - low key, fun, and really good to see Mum getting married to someone that is clearly so good for her. The cake was pretty good too. My sisters made it, and I helped by picking at the chocolate. Mmmm.

So, now our family's a bit bigger - Mum and Ray have become the Mike and Carol of their own Brady Bunch, albiet a less wholesome version. They have five daughters, two sons-in-law, three more boys for Ray to ask when they will be his sons-in-law, one very cute granddaughter, and an entire managerie of cats. This photo is of us all, hanging out in the quarry.

And this is Chloe, my now neice. So cute. Ray has told us that he wants an entire rugby team of grandkids. We would rather just have enough play Family Von Trapp and dress them in curtains.

A shameless plug for Wellington

Back in early 1980, I was born in Wellington and lived in the area for the next 9 years. Despite growing up here, when I re-moved to Wellington in late 2003 I liked it about as much as I like my alarm clock. As far as I was concerned the wind was a pain, there were too many people marching around in suits, and I especially hated the way that whenever I took a wrong turn while driving I would end up on the motorway. Shudder.

Between now and then, though, I got to love it. I know to always carry a spare hair-tie to keep the wind from turning my hair into a face-whipping lacerator. Tane and I have morphed into suit wearing marchers, especially on Lambton Quay at lunchtime. I even shamelessly wear sneakers with work clothes like a true local. Now we don't have a car, the accidentally ending up on the motorway isn't a problem either. Having said that though, we have ended up in Newlands by accident a few times. Heh.

Yesterday Tane and I were walking through Central Park, enjoying the vibrant colours while avoiding the dangerous looking mud puddles and sodden leaves. We agreed that Wellington is the new black. Also, that while the rest of the world sounds pretty exciting to visit, Wellington is still pretty neat. Why?

1. The views

True, that means hills, and hills mean puffing and pain. The views at the top, though, are awesome. This is the view from our house.

And this is from a hill near Eastborne that we climbed on Waitangi Day. Even though I looked like an angry tomato at the top, it was worth it.

2. The Town Belt. It's pretty cool starting the day walking through here on the way to work.

3. The great vibe. And the culture - neat movie theatres, cafes and shops.

4. Feeling like we're in the centre of the country. Which, in many ways, I guess we are.

5. It's home. This is me and my sisters at Titahi Bay, where we grew up.

In fact, one of my earliest memories is of sheltering from the wind right near this spot. Pretty typical Wellington, eh?

Lost vs Heroes

At the moment, there are two fabulous programmes on TV: Lost and Heroes. Tane and I are helplessly addicted to both, and I pity anyone that has ever tried to engage either of us in meaningful conversation while either are on. Unless, of course, all they want is a series of grunts in manner of wild boar.

On Stuff not so long ago, I was reading an article about one of these shows and noticed a poll at the side of the screen. The poll asked: which did I prefer?

a) Lost;

b) Heroes; or

c) I don’t watch either.

I couldn’t decide which I preferred. When I told Tane about it, we ended up discussing the issue with an earnestness usually reserved for conversations about such weighty topics as the environment and international relations. Heroes is great, we agreed – fast paced, great characters, mystery, eye candy, excellent concept. Lost is great also, for all the same reasons.

I since decided that I prefer Lost, mainly because it is funnier and the script is snappier. I have more of a soft spot for the characters in Lost also. All of them, in fact, except Kate. Heroes is great, but seems to take itself a little more seriously than Lost does. What do all you TV geeks out there think? For the record, on the Stuff poll Heroes won, although Lost still held its ground.

.
And while I’m on the topic of entertainment news, is anyone else as pleased as me that Paris got 45 days?

Tane's Reviews: Spiderman Three

With movies, third time is not the charm. In fact, third time is often when the rot sets in. Godfather 3, Return of the Jedi, X-Men 3.

Sadly, this is the case with the Spiderman franchise too. It’s guilty of a common sequel failing – in trying to up the ante above what has gone before, it get bloated with too much plot twists and too many characters.

A pity, because there’s much to like about it. Taken individually, the storylines are strong ones. Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire) is New York’s biggest hero, while girlfriend Mary Jane (Kirsten Dunst, again making the best of a thin role) is in the doldrums. High on his fame, Peter is oblivious to her problems. Things rapidly get worse when a hot classmate of his develops an attachment to Spiderman, old friend Harry Osbourne decides to seek revenge for his father’s death, a competing photographer upstages him and a powerful new villain, the Sandman (the excellent Thomas Hayden Church), appears. Worst of all, an alien substance develops an unhealthy attachment to the webslinger.

To the credit of writer/director Sam Raimi, he manages to keep all these plates spinning in the air for most of these movie. There are injections of humour, the actors do a fine job and the special effects, especially the Sandman ones, are fantastic. The big action scenes do not disappoint, with a berserk crane running the Sandman’s first appearance close for the title of the movie’s best scene.

But the tangle of plots means the movie first loses momentum and then hurries haphazardly into its big finale. There’s one villain too many in this movie, which does a rushed job of bringing all its stories together for a finale that features a couple of wrenchingly corny moments.

Fans, of which I am one, will still enjoy Spiderman 3, but if you did not like its predecessors, do not bother going.

7/10

Lauren’s Two Cents:

A Pearl Harbour movie. Great scenes, great costumes, great concept, but the end result is plain old mediocre. Not a waste of money, but not a movie that will be recommended to others either. 6.5/10

When the English language lags

We have been civil-unioned for four weeks now. It’s great – I love being hitched, and things between us are better than ever. Yay!

There have been some interesting reactions to the C.U. as well. The best? Apparently Stephen caught up with an old old friend, and was giving her the low down on the last few years. He said that I’d recently had a civil union, and she responded “What? You’re gay AND Lauren’s a LESBIAN?”

The only thing that perplexes me in any way, though, is the lack of a word to describe what we are. Civil unioned? Cupped? Unionised? Married? They all sound a bit strange or heavy. I am also unsure what to call Tane now. Legally, he’s my civil union partner, not my husband. It feels a bit weak to just call him my ‘partner’, and ‘spouse’ is a little formal. I started calling him my ‘cup’ (Civil Union Partner) until my sister thought I was making a geeky Hitler reference and calling Tane “Mein Kampf”.

I know that it doesn’t really matter one iota and I love having a civil union. I will be relieved though when the great evolving beast that is the English language gives me a word for what we are. I figure that if the word ‘Do’h’ can make it into the dictionary, it’s only a matter of time.

Ode to the Midnight Rambler

The Midnight Rambler, my midnight blue 1989 Honda Prelude, has gone.

It was sold today, sacrificed on the altar of the OE, after 18 months of putting up with my driving. It went to the McDonalds car park at Auckland Airport, to pick up Lauren. It went to Rangariri, with its graveyard, its pa and its pub. The harbours of Port Waikato, Raglan and Kawhia. Opotiki, and all around the bays of the East Cape. To a hotel in New Plymouth. To a home in Wellington. Palmerston North, the Ashurst Domain, the Wanganui River, Castle Point, Cape Palliser, Makara.

It was the first car I ever owned, quick, comfortable, good on corners. The headlights popped up, and the roof opened. What more could you want?

Of course, the tape player was dodgy, the radio was worse and the CD player didn’t work at all. The steering rack needed fixing, the clutch hose went, as did the power steering fluid hose, the brake pads, and the clutch itself. If sports cars were rockers, it would have been Paul McCartney – decaying, with its best years long behind it. But I still thought it was cool.

I got $580 for the Midnight Rambler, only a fraction of the money I put into it to keep it running. But it was worth every cent.

Long may you run.

15 reasons I love winter

I am sitting at home, wrapped in polar fleece. If I could make the cord reach further, I would be writing this while sitting on my fin heater. I have the kind of cold that is caused by germs and bugs that obviously thrive in wind, rain and biting temperatures. The spectacular view of the Wellington Harbour from our window is obstructed by a dense wall of fog. Guess this means, then, that winter has finally arrived.

.

Last year I moaned about winter to anyone that would listen, and plenty of people that probably didn’t even do that. This year, though, I’m determined to start off winter on a more positive note. So, here’s a list:

15 reasons I like winter:

1. It’s snugly inside by the fire
2. Soup seems extra delicious
3. I lose my craving for ice-cream
4. There are fewer temptations to go out on the weekend and spend money
5. It’s a great chance to do lots of reading
6. As well as DVD and movie watching
7. Sunny days are treasured all the more
8. Hats
9. Scarves
10. Big coats
11. We spend much more time at home in the evenings
12. I never feel guilty for catching a bus home from work, unlike in summer
13. Winter is when I leave for overseas. Ergo, it’s getting closer.
14. Sunday roasts are tastier, as are baked potatoes
15. Board games are more likely to get cranked out

.

And anyway, there is no way any Wellington winter could be as bad as any of my 3 worst winters ever:

.

1. Pietragalla, Italy, 1998: The snow was so biting that the only way to combat it was to wear a fake Calvin Kline beanie around. I will also never forget that day that the roads got closed due to snowfall and I couldn't go to see The Titanic as a result. 17 year old me was sad indeed.

.

2. Christmas in Milwaukee, USA, 2001: Yes, having a white Christmas was neat. I couldn't help but feel mocked by mother nature though while shivering on the phone to whanau in NZ who were talking about the picnic they were about to have outside. In the sun.

.

3. Dunedin, 2001. This was the year that the road uphill to our house got so iced up that it was impossible to leave home without using the trees along the roadside to help us get down. Sadly, exams were not cancelled either.

The Caps half empty

On Wednesday morning, I dragged myself out of bed before dawn and went to meet a friend for a regular, patriotic and ultimately tragic ceremony.

Anzac Day? What Anzac Day? I’m talking about the cricket World Cup semi-final.

It’s a hard thing, being a fan of the New Zealand cricket team. Unlike say, supporting the All Blacks or Manchester United, you aren’t guaranteed a steady stream of trophies. No cushy flow of victories with the Black Caps, oh no. It’s a rollercoaster of hopes raised and hopes shattered.

Inzamam ul-Haq in 1992. The nine-wicket slaughter of 1999. And now, our best chance of winning the World Cup, with a team boasting perhaps the world’s best strike bowler in Shane Bond, quality spinners and a hatful of hard-hitting allrounders, has ended with a thumping by Sri Lanka. Bond chose the most important game to have far and away his worst performance of the cup, the spinners were helpless in the face of a brilliant Mahela Jayawardene century, and then our normally gutsy middle order folded like workaholic mail clerks.

No team’s flattery is quite as deceiving. Well, except the South Africans. We can rely on them to choke even more spectacularly.

At least that’s something.

Tane's Reviews: Pan's Labyrinth (and Hot Fuzz)

Fantasy often gets labelled as escapism, a rather patronising but accurate description of the allure of the genre. A decent fantasy enmeshes you into another world, a more wondrous one, with magic, monsters and heroes, a place where the whites are whiter, the reds redder and the blacks blacker than the fields we know.

Of course, when it comes to darkness, the real world throws things up that are grimmer than almost anything we can imagine. Check out an account of the Khmer Rouge’s reign in Cambodia, or Stalin’s in Russia.

Pan’s Labyrinth brings together these two things – escapist fantasy and bleak reality – in one superb film. Set during the tail end of the Spanish Civil War, it’s writer-director Gillermo del Toro’s story a young girl who goes with her heavily pregnant mother into a forest, where her cruel stepfather is fighting left-wing rebels. While there, she is lured into a series of dangerous quests by a being living in an ancient labyrinth.

Be warned: this is NOT a film for children. Pan’s Labyrinth is dark fantasy, very dark indeed. It contains some of the nastiest scenes I have seen. Even for a film about a brutal period of history, some of the violence is excessive.

That is my only criticism of the film though, which is magnificent on all counts - acting, story, cinematography, costume, makeup, sound and special effects. It does bring you into other worlds – though ones you’re more likely to want to escape from than to.

8.5/10

Also highly recommended is Hot Fuzz. From the makers of Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz is like that film in that is both a tribute to and pisstake of a genre. It’s a hilarious merging of hard-boiled action film, rural English village murder mystery and outright kookiness. It goes on a bit long, but it still the most I’ve laughed in a cinema for a long time: 8/10

A do run run run

There are three types of people in his world. The first type are made for running. If they were an animal, they would be something of the sprinting across the Savannah to feast on a Wildebeest variety. These are the people that get a placing in school cross country runs, and do not hesitate to pull on some Lycra that looks tight enough to cut off circulation to their vital regions and go for a jog. The second type are physically incapable of running, perhaps on account of having no legs. The third type, though, are those that find running a real chore. Perhaps it’s because they are too wobbly, or just too uncoordinated. These are the people that came last in the school cross country, and go running in baggy T-shirts that came free at a university orientation years ago. If this third group were an animal, they would be the Wildebeest.

.

I sit very easily within the Wildebeest camp. Running is such an effort, I used to like to think that I was allergic on account of the fact that it made me sweat and puff. Treadmills scared me because I was sure that it was only a matter of time before they hurtled me into the air. Running outside was even scarier as people could actually see me there. Shudder.

.

Earlier this year, I decided that I was sick of feeling like a spaz every time I tried to run and decided to lose the Wildebeest demons. The only way to truly motivate me to learn how to run, though, was to set an exercise goal that would scare me into running - hence my current training for a half marathon at the end of June.

.

I am so scared at the idea of running 21 km I have been motivated to go running more times in the last three weeks than in the last three years. I am constantly sore, and even got blisters on the soles of my feet. I'm pretty determined though, and luckily have Tane to egg me on and run effortlessly beside me as I pant and wheeze. I've got to say, it feels pretty good to learn how to do something I've never been able to do before. And if, while doing it, it feels like the earth has been replaced by burning hot coals and the whole experience makes me want to crouch in the foetal position and suck my thumb, I just won't do it again.

.

And I knew that I had to post my half-marathon intentions on the blog because then I couldn't back out for wussy reasons :)

A self-indulgent Anzac Day rant

I bought an Anzac poppy this morning on the walk to work to celebrate Poppy Day. Well, to be accurate, Tane bought me a poppy as my wallet was lurking in the bottom of my gym bag. Unbeknownst to the naked eye, reaching into the Bag of Gym Gear of Doom for even a seemingly simple retrieval can be a deceptively time-consuming affair. Regardless, I now have my 2007 poppy, and have worn it happily all day. Except the time that I pinned it into me rather than by jumper. But I digress.

At lunchtime, I met my sister for a Coke as she had been at Archives studying for her thesis about the Pioneer Battalion of World War One. After noticing all the poppy-clad Wellingtonians around us, we started asking - why do we care about Anzac Day? Why are so many Kiwis going to Gallipoli every 25 April to drink so much that the Turkish government has banned liquor there?

I know why I like Anzac Day. As anyone who knows me (or seen my bookshelf) is aware, the two World Wars are of interest to me. I have written a thesis on the Maori Battalion of World War Two, and presented a paper about the same. Due to this interest (and Stephen's nagging), I've also been to a number of dawn ceremonies. Getting up that early is hard work, but a simple reminder that the trenches would have been a whole lot worse generally does the trick. A dawn service is worth going to if you haven't before, and if you go more than once it really hits home how the number of World War Two vets are steadily decreasing.

I like wearing the poppy, and I like sparing a thought for people that have fought in various wars. I like Anzac Day because it reminds me of my Granddad (who was in the Airforce) marching in the Anzac Day parades back in the early 90s. I also like remembering the war records, dairies and letters I trawled through honours year, and the fascinating content of these. Anzac Day to me isn't about national identity, but about remembering the multitudes of people that fought in a number of wars. It isn't even about the two World Wars specifically. We forget that Boer War vets used to participate in Anzac marches before they all died.

Daniel Keenan c. 1945

If I had to put why I like Anzac Day in a simple sentence, it would be that Anzac Day reminds me of the uniquely NZ experience in events that encompassed the whole world. It isn't about Gallipoli alone, but Guadalcanal, and fighting in North Africa and Italy. It's about having to put gun emplacements on Somes Island in the Wellington Harbour, and Paekakariki women being swept away by the American GI's posted there. It's about the stories featuring Kiwis that are unlikely to ever be made into a Hollywood blockbuster a la' Saving Private Ryan. And I am clearly a filthy liar as that is well more than a simple sentence. :)

I am curious though - why do other Kiwis care about Anzac Day? Are their reasons the same as mine? If you click here you'll connect to a site about why Anzac Day is significant to New Zealanders. It's interesting, although the reasons given aren't same as the ones I've just listed. Having gone on this self-indulgent rant, though, I have to conclude though by saying that I am enjoying wearing my poppy. And I sure am looking forward to going to Gallipoli in September.

Horray for poppies!

Our Civil Union - a blow by blow

Two days ago, Tane and I declared in front of a room of rowdy friends and family (as well as a a silent yet dignified portrait of Queen Elizabeth II) that we were, in fact, Lauren and Tane. After the rowdy friends and family did not respond to the questions 'is there any legal impediment to this union?' and 'do you agree that these people are who they say they are?' with anything inadequate (that the registrar heard), the official part of the ceremony began. First, we had to solemnly declare, not just declare, that we took each other as civil union partners. Second, we got to swap rings and say mushy things to each other. Third, we signed the official papers, as did our witnesses Richard and Stephen. Stephen even treated our audience to a Nixon-esque victory gesture. The ceremony was excellent, both moving and fun.

Us solemnly declaring

The ceremony was held in a little room off the Births, Deaths and Marriages office. I was a bit dubious about this at first, but (not wanting to gush too much), it was perfect. It was intimate, low key and lacking all the pomp of most weddings. I also liked the fact that the audience could heckle us, which made it all very, very fun. The NZ flag also made for some very patriotic posing.

The Day was made all the better by the enthusiasm of our whanau. Mum and Ray flew down from Auckland for the occasion, and Tane's parents and youngest brother had driven down from Opotiki. Dad and Gaylene provided us with excellent food, and Mum and Philippa a stunning cake covered in marshmallows. Mmmmm. Marshmallows. Ngaire and Erin were fabulous also, decorating both me and the house.

Erin decorating the house

Ngaire decorating me

Following the ceremony, the festivities began. It was fabulous fun - pizza with our nearest and dearest, a speech by my Dad, and a great party with friends. So great, even, that the word 'great' deserves italics. All up, our Civil Union day was perfect. I couldn't have imagined a better day, even if I'd tried. It feels wonderful to be hitched. Me and Tane felt like a team before, but now it feels even more so. Having so many friends and family in one place meeting each other was a real treat as well. After the last few days, I have become firm in my view that Civil Unions are the new black.

With our parents

Louise, Richard, Tane, Me, Stephen, Sarah and Geremy

At risk of sounding like an Oscar speech, we really do want to thank everyone who helped out with the ceremony, and those of you that came and celebrated with us. Thank you also to those of you who have sent your well wishes from far flung places around the globe. And, of course, I'd like to thank the Academy ...

For those of you that asked about rings

5 reasons I love Easter

1. Chocolate eggs and hot crossed buns

Need I say more? Except that the new Cadbury Pineapple Lump eggs get an honorable mention this year. Mmmmmm.

2. Sweet, sweet mooching

I love Easter because it is four whole days to relax right when you need it. Every year I forget it's coming, and get that moment of sheer joy the Monday beforehand when I remember that it's only a four day week. Bliss. It is also a public holiday without the drama of Christmas, and without any obligation to go anywhere. Except, of course, the supermarket to stock up on buns and eggs. This Easter has been especially fabulous for sweet sweet mooching, and I feel thoroughly relaxed and happy.

3. Easter always makes me think of Italy

Nowadays, I hardly ever think about when I lived in Italy. Easter always reminds me, though, of being a cold, culture shocked foreigner living in Pietragalla back in 1998. While living there I decided it sounded like fun to partake in the Easter procession and eagerly volunteered. I hadn't realised, though, that this meant getting up at 4am to wrap up in my brown jumper covered in sheep and joining a small group of locals to walk around the village, behind a cross, singing carols about how much it sucked to be Mary the Mother of Jesus when Jesus was crucified. Every Easter I think about this ritual which no doubt continues to be practiced there.

4. It's a chance to do stuff that I've been meaning to do for ages

I have done so much this weekend that I've been meaning to do for ages. I have finished In Cold Blood (which was excellent), caught up on sleep, and even cleaned the kitchen. Momentous.

The highlight of the long weekend, though, was Tane and I doing a walk we had been meaning to do for ages - the walk to Pencarrow Head. Pencarrow is at the Eastern mouth of the Wellington Harbour, and getting there was a lovely 4 1/2 hour meander on a beautiful day. As always, the scenery was stunning, and it was very satisfying seeing Wellington from a different angle. The highlight, though, was reaching and having lunch at the lighthouse. As Tane put it while we were sitting, reading above the harbour: "It's a good life."

We also took a moment to reflect on what the lighthouse would have looked like back in 2001 when someone* apparently painted it like Mr Blobby. Interesting.

5. It's a chance to do something challenging

Last Easter, I pushed my physical boundaries walking around Waikaremoana. This Easter I pushed my physical boundaries too. With the help of my three sisters, I broke a personal record - five hours of shopping at Queensgate Mall. I think that I will need to start a strict training regime if I am ever to attempt that again.

*not naming names

To bling or not to bling?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a large showy diamond ring must be in want of a feminine finger. It is a less acknowledged truth, however, that the owner of these fingers would much rather spend money on travel than on a piece of shiny jewellery.

Tane and I went ring shopping for our Civil Union the other day with high hopes and a low budget. We walked into one shop, and walked straight out again. The number of zeros on the little signs under the rings had scared us away. We went to a couple of other shops where we were shown lots of beautiful pieces of jewellery. A green ring that could have passed for costume jewellery. Stones so sharp they could double as a secret weapon and take your nemeses eyes’ out. Intricate designs that look like they must have been made by an army of elves - and all well outside our price range.

Each time, it took me a little while to say to the over eager assistant “that’s lovely, but do you have anything simpler?” The shop assistant would often look at me like I had two heads, blink a few times, and motion to a corner of the cabinet where the ‘simpler’ rings lived. Unadorned, unpretentious rings, hidden by ostentatious bling and elegant diamonds. I admired these simpler rings, all the while feeling that I had somehow betrayed the sisterhood by wanting a non-blingy ring. I wonder if, as a girl who doesn’t really care about bling, I am in a real minority?

The way I see it, I am getting a Civil Union because of the regular corny and clichéd reasons. Not because I want a shiny ring. Having said that though, I am absolutely stoked with the snazzy little number that Tane found me after going ring shopping alone yesterday.

P.S. Click here if that little sad feeling you have every now and then is due to not knowing the origin of the word bling

Tane's Five lots of Five

Five things I am hoping will happen this year

1. NZ beat Australia to win the cricket World Cup
2. Lauren and I ride an elephant in Laos
3. Lauren and I take to a boat to Lesbos. Heh. Lesbos.
4. Lauren and I ride in a balloon over Cappadocia
5. We're in a pub in Ireland to watch NZ win the rugby World Cup

Five movies I’m looking forward to

1. Pan's Labyrinth
2. Spider Man 3
3. The Simpsons Movie
4. Pirates of the Caribbean 3
5. Harry Potter 5

The last five books I’ve read

1. A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich - Alexander Solzhenitsyn (well, still reading - it's bloody good)

2. His Dark Materials trilogy - Philip Pullman (incredibly imaginative and filled with beautiful descriptions, but the plot was sometimes messy)

3. A History of God - Karen Armstrong (interesting and well written, if repetitive - people's ideas of God tend to be similar)

4. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night time - Mark Haddon (fascinating autistic narrator)

5. LOTS of comics - especially The Swamp Thing by the great Alan Moore

Five books I’m looking forward to reading

1. Birds without Wings – Louis De Bernieres
2. Anansi Boys – Neil Gaiman
3. Life of Pi – Yann Martel
4. War of the Flowers – Tad Williams
5. We Need to Talk About Kevin – Lionel Shriver

Five things I am currently procrastinating from doing

1. Writing my CV for Ireland and the UK
2. Doing my TEFL course
3. Cleaning the car
4. Putting my fan on trademe
5. Reading Umberto Eco’s “The Mysterious Flame of Queen Laona”

Lauren's Five lots of Five

Five things that have made me laugh recently

1. The new Simpsons. “Duffman said stop punching and kicking Duffman”
2. The swan in Hot Fuzz.
3. Sawyer’s line in Lost: “you found yourself a hippy car”
4. Laughing with Tane about far too much to describe here
5. Scaring the bajesus out of Stephen when he walked into the house this morning

Five places I really want to see that I have no current plans to see

1. Tikal, Guatamala
2. Angkor Wat, Cambodia
3. Petra, Jordan
4. The Kremlin, Moscow
5. Krakow, Poland

The last five books I have read

1. “Lolita” – Vladimir Nabakov (like looking at a beautifully taken photograph of something horrendous)

2. “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” – Victor Hugo (this book surprised me with its raciness. And how much Disney was wrong.)

3. “The English Patient” – Michael Ondaatje (a good book although a bit pretentious for my liking)

4.“The Five People You Meet in Heaven” – Mitch Ablom (nice and soppy)

5. “Summer Fires, Winter Country” – Maurice Shadbolt (great New Zealand short stories. I recommend.)

Five books I look forward to reading

1. The next Harry Potter. Oh yeah. I get excited whenever I see the advert outside Borders on the way to work. I hope that I can remain dignified when scrambling to get a copy on July 21.

2. The next Song of Ice and Fire by George RR Martin, whenever that will be.

3. Shopaholic and Baby. Thanks to Philippa for lending it to me, along with most of my Civil Union outfit.

4. Senor Vivo and the Cocoa Lord, by Louis De Bernieres.

5. Vanity Fair. I am part way through and look forward to Becky Sharp getting what she deserves. I hope.

Five fruts I am in (fruts = food ruts)

1. Lollies
2. Coke Zero
3. Suhsi with tuna and avocado
4. Caramel Chews
5. Fruit of all kinds

Borders

Bookshops are to book geeks like me what lone mountain caves are to long-bearded hermits. They are somewhere to kill time without over-eager shop assistants asking if they can help you every five minutes. Somewhere to meet a friend who is always notoriously late as browsing a bookshop is far more pleasant than standing on a windy street corner. Bookshops are also great for, well, looking at books.

Borders bookshops in particular have been my lone mountain cave during my travels in North America. To me and my family, Borders has became as much a part of the American experience as lard-filled doughnuts, watching strange daytime TV and visiting shopping malls the size of a small city containing such diversions as an orchestra of life-sized mechanical bears. Between the impressive collection of books that American Borders’ bookshops contain, the deliciously comfortable seats and the conscious policy of staff leaving customers alone while they browse, a Borders bookshop is a weary traveller’s dream. As whoever came up with the Borders concept also deliberately ignored the sacred commandment of book lovers “thou shalt not drink hot beverages and eat cake while reading”, when my feet were crying for mercy after hours of walking around an American city, finding a Borders always felt a bit like striking gold.

Borders in Honolulu was a place to enjoy the crisp air conditioning and shelter from the sweltering heat and humidity, while enjoying the view of palm trees from inside the café. Borders in Chicago was the opposite, the warmest place I could find to sit and read on a December day so cold I thought I would lose the use of my fingers. Borders St Louis was where I went to reduce my heart rate back to normal after making the ill-informed decision to visit the top of the towering St Louis arch. Borders in Los Angeles was a place to pretend that I wasn’t in the smog capital of the world. For my Dad, Borders in San Francisco was where he went to occupy his mind after witnessing a bank hold up and shooting while innocently walking down a street in the downtown area.

The Borders formula is a cunning one indeed. Despite all intentions of going to a Borders to escape the weather and rest tired feet, trying to lug home to New Zealand far too many books than was sensible also became part of the American holiday experience.

Given my long association with Borders, and also having recently inspected the one on Queen St in Auckland, I was excited at the prospect of one opening on Lambton Quay. The morning it opened, I scrambled to the new store for an initial inspection. On the surface, it met with approval. Good travel section. Lots of magazines. Great non-fiction books. However, upon returning a few days later for a proper peruse Borders Lambton Quay started to feel … odd. I was at a loss to understand why – the books were good, the chairs comfortable and the winning café-and-browsing formula was the same. What was missing? I met up with my Dad in the café to discuss. Why was this Borders different? Dad hit on the answer after we heard some staff talking near-by.

“You know” he said. “the thing I always notice about America Borders are the heavy American accents over the intercom.”

He was right. The only reason why that Lambton Quay Borders didn’t fit with my idea of what a Borders ought to be like was simple – it was on Lambton Quay. My feet weren’t sore. My house was a short bus ride away, and I had not been walking around Wellington all day. What’s more, I knew exactly where it was located, so hadn’t stubbled upon it after a day of being a tourist.

Next time I go to North America, or any of the other Borders bookshops around the world, it will be different. Already Borders on Lambton Quay has become a place to meet friends who are notoriously late, and somewhere to kill time when I don’t want to be pestered by over-eager shop assistants. When next in an American Borders, I wonder if I will think about the vegemite on toast you can buy at the one on Lambton Quay, as well as the New Zealand history and literature books found there. I wonder if doing something that used to feel part of the American experience might, next time, leave me feeling more than a little homesick.

Civil Union FAQ's

I am officially a child of the 21st century! I have four parents, and flat with my gay ex-boyfriend and his boyfriend. And, just to make being a child of the 21st century official, Tane and I have decided to be the 841st couple in NZ to get a Civil Union and will do so in three weeks time. The ceremony itself will be a small affair, but we’ll be having a party to celebrate that night (Friday 13 April) at our flat if you are able to make it. It's not in lieu of a wedding - we'll do that with all the bells and whistles when we get home from the big OE in a couple of years time. It would be great if you could make it, but if not that's fine too - I know that plenty of you live far far away. We promise you'll get more than three weeks notice when the real thing rolls around.

Since deciding to get a civil union, I have been asked questions like you wouldn’t believe, so have added a Frequently Asked Questions section to my write up of this on my blog:

8 most Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ's)*

1. How is it different than getting married?

Legally, it’s not. I could go around calling myself Mrs Aikman if I wanted. BUT, we are able to change our Civil Union to a marriage later, so will do that. Apparently, the only difference is that we are not legally recognised in most of the world. So if I have to tell creepy men in the Middle East that no they cannot buy me for a camel they probably would not understand why.

2. Why don't you just get married?

Because we would much rather spend our money on travel than a wedding, and don't really see the hurry anyway when we have this great interim solution at our fingertips ...

3. Are you going to change your name?

If I am, I won't till I get married later. Dunno. I am sure that every girl wonders about this, and I am always really interested in which of my girlfriends change their names and which don't. Apparently 1 in 5 NZ women keep there maiden surnames. Any thoughts on this? Am curious to hear opinions on this debate.

4. Is it true doing this caused you to lose a bet?

Yes it did. I gave Geremy his 5 chocolate fish yesterday, and was told they tasted like victory.

5. You do realise that you are getting civil unioned on Friday the 13th?

Yes I do. Imagine me looking at you with a blank expression. That is my caring face. (I am not superstitious, and we planned it for three Fridays from now without really looking at the date)

6. Are you engaged?

I realise our situation doesn't fit nicely into conventional boxes of "boyfriend/girlfriend" then "engaged" then "married". We are engaged to get a civil union, and intend to get married later. Although, in three weeks time we have technically overtaken the "engaged" stage I guess. And I also realise that I have given a typical bureaucratic answer that doesn't leave you any the wiser. Tee hee.

7. Will you have a bridal party?

No, we are just going to have significant witnesses. Stephen has agreed to be mine, although has not agreed to wear a dress.

8. What does Max think of it all?

As long as he still gets fed, Max appears unconcerned. He sleeps soundly.

The last weekend of summer

Last Friday, Tane and I were spending an afternoon of annual leave poddling around in outdoorsy-type shops. While in one of these shops, Tane decided to buy a tent. And to justify this purchase, we made a spur of the moment decision to go camping.

Less than an hour of frantic travelling back to the flat for some even more frantic packing later, we were sitting in the car, heading north. Although by "heading north" you must not assume that we were travelling at speeds higher than 30 km an hour. By "heading north" I really mean "driving so slowly that smug looking cyclists were overtaking us". Stuck in a traffic jam so bad that whenever we turned on the radio the main news story would be "traffic jams north of Wellington", we crawled to Wanganui over a period of 5 hours. The beauty of having no-where to be at no particular time, though, is that I still enjoyed myself. Good company, good music and good junk food made for a pleasant beginning to a great weekend. This, in spite of the fact that 1) by the time we found a random camping ground what felt like halfway up the Whanganui River it was too dark to pitch the tent, and 2) in all the frantic packing Tane had forgotten his sleeping bag anyway. 'Twas a cold night that night, and no wonder - turned out we were staying like a metre from the river.

It was a weekend of random beaches along the Surf Highway, reading in the sun, and good brunches. We took a detour up to Dawson's Falls at the base of Mt Taranaki which was spectacular, an amazing view of Taranaki as well as some pretty snazzy bush. Camping was great fun too once we arrived in New Plymouth and figured out how to put up the new tent. Tane got his beach swimming fix, and I got my seeing the Mountain fix.

There was one aspect of the weekend, though, that was less than pleasant. We stopped in at Cameron's Blockade on the way home, a historic barn type fortification built in the 1860s in case Titokowaru were to invade. The blockade looks, at first glance, like a Wisconsin-esque barn perched on a hill. Looking closer though you can see the carefully made holes in the walls for shooting muskets from, as well as the thickness of the walls to provide security. There was a small door at the top of the building that I decided I wanted to look out of, so scrambled up the ladder to the loft of the building.

Setback #1 - the small door was locked. Upon realising the door was locked I also realised how creepy and dark the loft was. Setback #2 - my puny arm span wasn't big enough to position myself on the ladder to climb down. I was stuck in the creepy loft. Setback #3 - at risk of sounding like a super-wuss extraordinaire, about this time, I remembered I was scared of heights. It was not fun at all. I got down eventually, but don't intend to ever investigate the loft of a blockade house again. I do wonder though if any of those colonials ever got stuck up there.

Scarier than it looks

This aside though, it was a great weekend. I still can't believe that we have had such good weather in the middle of March, and am glad that by going camping last weekend we are enjoying every bit of the NZ summer we possibly can before heading off to Europe later this year. I read on Stuff this morning to expect the summer weather to cease this week, and can't help but feel a little smug about having such a good last weekend of summer.

Croquet in the park

Like most other Wellingtonians, Tane and I have spent the weekend frantically relaxing in the sun. No-one can frantically relax like a Wellingtonian. I think the Wellingtonian brain works something like this: "Sun! There is sun today! I might not see another day of sun until next Christmas! I must go as quickly as I can to relax at the beach/in the park/in my yard!" Only that train of thought could possibly explain the masses who flock to Oriental Bay on a sunny day, even if it is July and only 5 degrees.

On Saturday, a group of us had a picnic in the park to celebrate Stephen's birthday. It felt like something out of a Famous Five novel, but with more beer and smutty jokes. We had a portable gramophone to play songs that the Botanical Garden's probably hasn't heard for 60 years . We had a bun stuffed with cicada shells that Stephen tried to trick Kerry into eating. And best of all, we had a croquet set.

Stephen pumps up the boom box

Croquet sounds like an innocent and simple game, but don't let the blunt mallets fool you. Oh no. Those sticks can be vicious, and on account of the twiggy terrain, the game quite a challenge. I had the honour of being the worst croquet player ever, and Tane gets a special mention for being the person whose ball I knocked out of the way most often. I am determined to secretly practice my croquet skills to enable me to wow and dazzle the next time they get cranked out. Or, at least, good enough to knock everyone else's balls out of the way to take everyone down to my level :)

Erin hit what was was universally agreed to be the Best Shot Ever