We are in the great hall of Auckland Grammar, tip-toeing up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the stage and the ground floor. In the belly of the domed hall, some 2,000 students wriggle in tightly organised rows, their collective chatter sounding like some human beehive.
She didn’t wander through the mall and its shops as most people tend to do. She strode towards the supermarket followed by a man who did exactly the opposite.
There they were – a family straight out of one of those irritating television advertisements. Sitting together on a park bench – handsome dad, attractive mum, two photogenic kids.
When I looked again the kids had gone – playing with wild abandon on the nearby swings and slides, Then something caught my eye.
What happens if you’re in the middle of Auckland with its 60-plus ethnicities and want just a sip, not a bottle of water?
Linguistic confusion. It’s born out of the locals taking their lingo for granted – and new arrivals interpreting what they say, just a little too literally.
Day 1: Slightly lost. Ask an old derro if the 277 bus goes past here.
“No Sevens here!” he shouts and I move away just a little. “No mate, not here. Only Sixes come past here” he yells.
She runs a computer and gizmo repair business in a Central Auckland Mall. When I visited with my lame duck cellphone which didn’t seem to want to re-charge, she diagnosed the problem immediately. Mould, or at least something resembling that at the end of the charger line.
Hmm” she said, casting for the word. “Wet…”
“Damp” I said, thinking it would help.
For a long time, my friend, a former journalist and writing pro used to be on my case.
Every few months we would catch up for a coffee at the local and have a rant and rave about all things that either fired us up or depressed us including injuries and accidental mishaps!
That is what you do with your friends, right?
I met a group of fellow cycling tourists at Lake Ohau Lodge, a stopover between Twizel and Omarama on the Alps to Ocean bike trail. One of them wore an exasperated frown when she said, “Why do New Zealanders not tell the truth about the standard of the trail? What are they afraid of?” I was taken aback, as much by the irony as the question.
‘William David Paget’ began the address on the envelope. Whoever could be addressing me in such a formal way?
Then I noticed the sender’s address the exterior of the envelope – Department of Social Welfare. Surely no-one was alleging that I might be the father of her child.