Yes, a $900,000 house. Ken doesn’t like to be pretentious. That’s why he didn’t buy a million dollar one.
Ken has been a friend of mine for years now. It’s one of the few cases of bad judgement I’ve known him to make.
He’s actually an amazing guy. Many years ago, he was driven into bankruptcy by an incompetent manager with whom he entrusted his business while he went on a motorcycle charity ride around the world. That was the second bit of bad judgement I’ve seen from him. He was going to ride around the world on a motorcycle! Then again, maybe that’s good judgement. There’s no way the mother-in-law would want to come with you.
Anyway, after losing his luxury home, luxury car, and luxury sandflies (he used to own a mansion near the sea), Ken has turned his life around and is doing very well for himself. But I notice that he, probably unlike I, learns from past mistakes and he now works for himself, with no staff nor money-munting managers to bother him.
And he has dragged himself up in the world not by hard business tactics that prey on other people, but by win/win Internet business deals.
Ken is an impressive marketer. He could sell ice creams to Eskimos … and then sell them the freezer to keep them in.
Bt he does have some quirks. He’s not quite perfect like you and I. He has this thing about cars. He has four vehicles, yet he seems to walk everywhere. I think that’s because his cars are in such mint condition that one stone chip is a major disaster. And as for exposing them to the risk of trolley strike at the local supermarket…
I suspect that’s why his latest vehicle is a Lexus SUV. On that, anything a shopping trolley would hit is virtually undamagable and, from the high driving position, he has a chance to see gravel-strewn roads in plenty of time to avoid them. Not to mention drunk pedestrians. Lexus drivers don't drive over drunk pedestrians. It's such a common thing to do.
Anyway, Ken sent me a photo of his new house and I just had to visit. It’s one of those modern style houses with walls that are just about all windows.
I have another friend who says he refused to live in a house like that. He says people who live in glasshouses don’t have much of a sex life.
They do have a good view though. And in Ken’s case, since the view from the house is a spectacular one of Wellington harbour, that’s probably an asset. But it’s going to cost him a fortune to clean those windows. I’ve suggested that he cultivate some friendships amongst people of a political bent, then throw a window cleaning party. The politicians could just huff hot air on the windows while he cleans them. It would save a fortune in window-cleaning fluid.
It looked like such an interesting house I just had to visit him.
On the way over the Rimutukas there was some minor excitement when I discovered that someone had parked their station wagon halfway down the bank after failing to round a corner. But the Police had already been and gone, and all that was left was the vehicle, sulking halfway down the bush-clad hillside. So I took off my Captain Spunkbubble tights and got back in the car again.
When I reached Wellington, I turned onto a narrow hillside road that lead towards Ken’s new home.
I’d forgotten how narrow that road was. It’s so narrow that even the Prime Minister’s convoy wouldn’t travel at more than 100kmh on it. Indeed, the convoy probably wouldn’t even go that fast on it since most of the corners are so blind that they have Braille road markings on them.
As I slowly wound my way up the hill, I kept getting this mental image of some rich little old lady coming hurtling around one of the blind corners in her Spewgo convertible and me ending up wearing the poodle that comes through the windscreen.
But, thankfully, most Wellingtonians seemed to have gone away for the holidays (if you lived in Wellington and got a holiday, you would go away, too!), so I met not a single thing coming down the goat track that the Wellington City Council laughingly calls a street.
Eventually I turned into the fancy, relatively new subdivision Ken now lives in, and drove past the mouldy decorative wooden posts on the roadside that the developer had obviously thought would add class to the neighbourhood. Unfortunately, it was obvious that he’d forgotten that this was a bush-clad Wellington hillside where the only things that don’t grow mould are the birds, and then only if they fly above treetop level at least once a day.
The road wound it’s way into the subdivision and at about that time I remembered that I’d forgotten Ken’s house number…
I was about to do a mild panic when I saw the car sales yard - I was looking at Ken’s place.
So I parked my car amongst Ken’s, hoping that someone would actually think this was a car yard and make me an offer I couldn’t resist. I must admit that was unlikely as, amongst Ken’s cars, my Honda Accord looked like something that had been used as troop transport in Afghanistan.
So I quickly walked up to the house to knock on the door. This was when I first discovered that, on this multi-story, hillside dwelling, not all levels have an entrance.
So I wandered up another level and there was a door with doorbell beside it. I rang the bell and then, distrusting lad that I am, I also knocked on the door. Which was just as well because the doorbell wasn’t working. It’s this sort of thing that door-to-door evangelists hate and people who like a quiet life love.
Ken answered the door. I don’t know what the door had asked him but he told me “I thought I’d better answer the door”, so it had obviously asked him something. Probably: “Why haven’t you fixed my bell yet?”
He ushered me into the living room. The view from it is enough to kill for. It takes in the harbour, Eastbourne on the other side of the harbour, the hillside suburbs below plus, way down below, a tiny piece of the Wellington – Johnsonville railway line as it winds between two tunnels. Although no trains came through when I was there, it was obvious that it would be like looking down on a toy train buzzing around an electric railway set.
The décor was very modern but somehow the house didn’t have a cold feel. I think this was both because of the way they had furnished the room and because all the windows in the house (and there are a lot of them) are double-glazed. This does two good things. It keeps noise out and heat in.
As I walked into the lounge Ken’s wife, Andy, welcomed me. Andy is a counsellor. She works for such salubrious organisations as prisons, Lotto outlets, marriage guidance organisations, credit card companies, and the zoo. Well, it was one of those, anyway.
She put down her book on Body Language For The Short Sighted and asked me if I’d like a drink. I said yes, and then she asked me what I’d like and rattled off a large number of choices. Halfway through, I thought to myself that if she kept going, she was to have to give me counselling rather than a drink. In self-defence I interrupted and asked if she had any tea. So she rattled off four choices, none of which was Earl Grey.
Eventually we were all sitting down, partaking of a nice morning tea and catching up on each other’s news. As usual, Ken avoided asking about my love life. He gather that he’s not one for comedies, although sometimes I think my love life fits more into the fantasy category.
Then Andy rushed off to counsel something or someone and Ken gave me a guided tour of the place. It was, at first impression, a home of wall-to-wall bathrooms. You see, there are five levels in their home and four of these contain bedrooms. So there are four bathrooms. This is commonsense since you don’t want a tired kid who needs to go to the toilet tempted to slide down the banisters to reach a bathroom on the floor below. It could get messy.
As I wandered down the stairs to the next level and the next bathroom, it came to my mind that the sewer must be on the road below and in front of Ken’s house, and not on the one above and behind it. Otherwise, the builder would have had the interesting task of having to push shit uphill. I’ve been told that it’s little thoughts like this that indicate that I have a unique thought process.
Ken showed me his office. I have never liked Ken’s office. It’s always so tidy! There is not a single piece of paper out of place, and you can actually see the desktop and find the telephone!
Everything is so organised. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s measured his head just so that he knows how far apart to place the stereo speakers.
I suppose that you could say that his office is like a clear felled pine plantation, while mine is messy native bush. Then again, if mine is native bush, I’ll get more birds in my office. But Ken is married, so he doesn’t need to house wild birds. He can afford to clear-fell and sell the result.
On one level, as I looked into a room I saw a fluffy Berman cat spread out on the floor. It must have been about a year since I had last seen the puss and I wondered, as I approached her, whether she would remember me. But as I knelt down and reached out a hand, she rolled onto her back and offered up a fluffy tummy for a rub. Then, as I rubbed her tummy, she playfully started clutching at me with her paws, claws sheathed. Yes, she remembered me. Or maybe I just have a way with pussies. Er … I won’t go there.
Eventually we reached the bottom level and the garage. I noticed that Ken didn’t have enough garage space for all his cars. Then again, the way he’s going, he‘ll have to buy the Southward’s car museum if he wants to do that.
After we reached the bottom level, I rediscovered the problem of living in a multi-story house. You have to go back up all those stairs again. But Ken is a gadget freak. Give him a month or two and he’ll have a Star Trek transporter fitted to the place to make movement back upstairs a doddle. Then again, I’ve always been worried about that sort of transport. What say you have two transporters operating side by side and a malfunction gives you some of the bits from the female being transported in the unit beside you? You could end up with big breasts and a hairy chest. The combination just doesn’t bear thinking about.
So, still with a manly chest but out of breath, I arrived back at the top level and the lounge, and Ken and I sat and talked business for a while before it was time for me to leave.
As I drove away, I looked at all the modern, expensive houses perched on the hills around his house. And the occasional empty sections. Ken was saying that some people have bought the $300,000 sections and now can’t afford to build on them, especially since building costs increase when a house is built on a sloping section. Ah well, this is earthquake-prone Wellington. If they wait long enough, their sections will be flat and they’ll be able to afford to build.
And Ken won’t have to worry about the transporter.
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