I tested the kitchen smoke alarm a couple of weekends ago. Baking an apple and boysenberry cake, the topping, dots of butter sprinkled with muscovado sugar, melted, oozed through the dodgy base of my aging spring form tin and began to burn.
Woke up this morning not to our plaintive Tui, who seems to have lost his song, but to a whacking great WHUMP! It shook the house, made the windows chatter in their frames like teeth in a shiver.
Damn developers we thought, making six dwellings where two once stood. But no.
The show-prayer fashion was everywhere this year. Why appeal to your maker in the changing-room or tunnel when you can do it front of millions? This is a special God, after all, a biased God, your own personal God who’s here for you, not the other blokes lining up beside you.
The brave and possibly foolish lads who ride helicopters in search of wild deer. During the 1970s they used the aircraft as shooting platforms, flying into remote valleys…
Did I want to read a book about Christchurch?
I’d seen the destruction of the earthquakes, later vast expanses of nothingness and recently, steps of reconstruction. I’d watched John Campbell cover stories on television about it and each Saturday for the last five years I’d read all about it in The Press. (Maybe, thought I knew it.)
Between 2005 and 2007, a total of 119,600 people migrated to NZ from overseas. 41,300 of those were New Zealand born citizens returning home. The remaining 78,300 were born overseas.
The vast majority of migrants have made Auckland their home in a very short time, changing the demographics of the population dramatically.