Negative stories abound about our once much-vaunted Resource Management Act. It’s hard to meet a property-owner in my community who doesn’t have a gripe about it.
In my case, it’s personal. My brother and I went through three very expensive, time-consuming resource consents, after we knocked over a rat-infested bach and replaced it with a spacious holiday home.
Recent isolation, and advancing years has led me to reflect on “THE MEANING OF LIFE?” and “WHAT HAVE I LEARNED ABOUT LIVING”?
As the famous song says,”What’s it all about Alfie”?
(In the interests of cordial marital relations it may not be a good idea to show your wife or partner this list!!!!)
Before television, families gathered each night around the essential piece of lounge furniture – a stylish floor level radio console (perhaps branded Atwater Kent or Gulbransen) – or faced the ornate mantle model (Philco), waiting with expectation for the crackling radio valves to warm up.
At first they nodded and smiled as usual on our daily walks. Nothing unusual there, it’s our neighbourhood.
But then the pandemic arrived and didn’t leave. For a few days we were confused and offered the same greetings, though we all knew nothing would ever be the same.
Indian students with their awards for education excellence.
It was John Cleese who made the above comment famous in regard to German guests in the 1960s television show, Faulty Towers. The theme; attempting to keep silent about guests whose behaviour or history you think deplorable is universal, which is what made the show so brilliant.
Outside it’s sunny, a hot, muggy Auckland day. A plump Tui swings on the untidy flax bush by the bedroom’s open window; slothful clouds drift past in a china-blue sky. But inside the bedroom it’s cold, chilly enough to raise goose-pimples. Despite the golden light outside, the room is shadowy, its corners dim and blurry.
We raised our heads as our Maori guide finished grace and as if on cue, out the window the Prince of Wales Feathers geyser began to play.
Last November I went to a memorial service for those whose relations or friends had died during the previous 12 months. It was organised by the funeral directors with whom my mother had arranged her prepaid funeral and who had efficiently, calmly and professionally helped us organise her obsequies in early December, 2018.
“There’s nothing to watch on TV,” many people moan. And so it may be timely to remember what TVNZ used to be:
Paul Holmes: a victim of his own fame.
Jennie Goodwin: The first female network newsreader.