I went to Palmerston North on the weekend and visited the new Mitre 10 Mega store over there. They were blowing up and giving away promotional orange and black vinyl balls, so I decided to line up and get a couple to give away to appropriate little people. (If you fit into that category, I *do* have one left over...)
The Mitre 10 balls are fairly large balls, about the size of a netball and, after I scored a couple, I then had to walk around the store holding them. The most comfortable way to hold them was to hold them against one's chest but I saw myself in one of the mirrors sold by Mitre 10 and I looked like I had brightly coloured breasts bursting out of a bra. So I lugged them around under me arms, instead!
Palmerston North now has two huge hardware stores – Mitre 10 and Bunnings. They are both so large that, when you enter, they give you a map so that you can find your way around. The one I got from Mitre 10 had an X on it and so I quickly went to that spot just in case I’d accidentally been given a treasure map. Sadly, the X merely marked the spot where the garden tools were sited. I thought about grabbing a nearby pickaxe and digging up the floor just in case, but the shop management always get excited when you display initiative like that. So I just hitched up my balls and walked on.
These big hardware mega stores really have all sorts of stuff in them. Mitre 10 even sold ping pong balls.
Shirley, a caregiver friend of mine, tells me that they put ping pong balls in the toilet to teach intellectually handicapped guys to accurately pee in the loo. The idea is that the guys are taught to aim for the ping pong ball.
This got me to thinking. Maybe they should put ping pong balls in public urinals. Firstly, one finds in public urinals that the users seem to have peed everywhere *except* in the urinal and, secondly, the idea could be especially useful in a pub. They could put a sign up above the urinal – “If you can’t hit the ping pong ball, you’re too pissed to drive!”
Anyway, the reason I had gone into Bunnings was to buy a sophisticated technological marvel called a cuphook. The stick-on cuphooks on the ceiling of my crockery cupboard are unsticking and coming off. So I can be working at my computer when the next moment there will come a loud CRASH from the china cupboard as a hook gives way and a large mug lands on the plates below. Thank heavens I have unbreakable crockery. It’s bloody annoying, but I look on the bright side. Any ants in the cupboard will be running the gauntlet…
Anyway, I asked the lady where the cuphooks were and in the ensuing conversation it turned out she was an ex-Wairarapian. Of course, I should have guessed this because she had this sort of rugged beauty, just like all of us Wairarapians, although some suggest that my appearance is more a case of rugged than beauty. But I know they are just jealous of my country-boy looks.
Of course, the Bunnings lady may have looked just ordinarily beautiful out of her Bunning’s uniform. Actually, being a full-blooded man. I have to say that she probably would have looked *delightful* out of her Bunning’s uniform. The Bunning’s uniform, incidentally, is a sort of a cross between a boy scout outfit and a pinny. It’s an outfit that would make Charlize Theron look rugged.
After my busy day braving the mega shops, friend Shirley and I went out for tea. On the advice of Shirley’s brother, who has the girth of someone with good knowledge of eateries, we went to a restaurant called The Rat Hole.
This establishment is probably a classic example of matter over mind in that the name of the place gives one all sorts of horrible images yet the food supplied at the establishment is so good that word of mouth has made the place very popular. It wasn’t a large place yet when we arrived there must have been about 150 people there either tucking into food or waiting for their meal to be cooked.
The food is what I suppose you could call country tucker – not particularly gourmet but basic tasteful meals of considerable size – you could have used the steaks for pillows. Well, at least until they started going off.
But, we had a very nice meal, I refrained from burping loudly after the meal, and no one threw us out. Well, in big cities of 75,000 people like Palmerston North, they aren’t used to our country customs.
--
Allan
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Of politics and bureaucracy
What did I do this weekend? I went to Hunterville to the opening of a friend's Art Gallery.
I had arranged for the local National MP, Simon Power, to do the opening bit. I was appointed to be the Master of Ceremonies. Dunno why...
Anyway, there was only about 30 people at the opening so, to introduce Simon, I stood up and said:
"Officially opening the gallery tonight is Simon Power MP for Rangitikei.
Simon just scraped into Parliament a couple of elections ago but he roared in this year. That, of course, was because he did the hard yard campaigning,
The rumour is that, to reach the country electorate he rode around on a draft horse called Gertrude. But he soon stopped doing that as all his constituents confused the horse with Helen Clark.
Well, that's to be expected really because when he first went into Parliament he told everyone that he'd always be on Helen Clark's back.
Yep. Simon got elected the hard way, going around meeting people, shaking them by the hand. I suspect that there are times he would have liked to have shaken them by the throat, but that's political life for you.
So, without further ado I'd like to invite Simon to come and do the ceremonial opening bit."
I'm not sure whether he took it all that well actually. He complained that the ribbon he had to cut was a red one and the National Party colours are blue...
Anyway, I got home yesterday and it's been one of those days today when one is unmotivated and can't seem to get down to work and everything goes wrong.
I must have PMT!
And I am beginning to think that New Zealand is rapidly going under in a sea of bureaucracy.
A week or more ago, I had to apply for a Customs Client Code to import my books. I was told I would be notified what the Customs-required code was within a day. A week later, I had received nothing.
Today I asked Customs what was going on. Apparently, because I have no fax number, I wasn’t advised what the number was. This is despite the fact that I had included an email address in the place of the fax number. It appears that people working in Customs don’t have the initiative to send a reply to an email address in the place of a fax….
I also found out on Friday that, in order to export anything over $1000, one has to fill out something called an Export Entry (even though the goods are exiting, and not entering…)
An Export Entry is, apparently, a form solely used for governmental statistical purposes … yet one is required to pay $5.50 for the privilege of filling it in!
Worse still, this form is required not because I am exporting anything but because I am sending back to a customer some motorcycle leathers that were repaired (for free).
I’m gobsmacked! Why the heck is New Zealand placing this sort of stupid obstacle in the way of people wanting to export and earn overseas currency? If Kiwis didn’t earn overseas currency, New Zealand would be in serious trouble. Indeed, right at the moment New Zealand is spending more on imports that it is earning through exports.
Personally, I’ve decided that all this export stuff is just too much hassle. New Zealand will have to do without any overseas funds I could earn through exporting.
I wonder how many others decide the same.
And my bad day continued.
I got a scam email from a man on msn.com
So I included the scam message in an email I sent off to the abuse section of msn.com to get them to close the account of the scam artist.
The msn.com server refused to accept the message because it contained spam...
However, just to prove that life goes on, my pet duck arrived today and demanded food. Her mate was nowhere to be seen. Probably sailing the oceans of the world. I gather Drakes do that.
So I fed the duck and she went away.
Then she came back again and demanded more food. I told her I wasn’t made of bread, so she stopped pecking my foot.
But, I gave her another couple of slices of bread, anyway. So she had her fill and left with nary a kiss for me. Women are so fickle.
They leave their mate behind for another guy who can give ‘em the goodies then, when the new male runs out of goodies, they nip off back to their mate for a bit of the old feather ruffling.
But enough of my sad day. I think tonight I will go zombie with a DVD. I have a choice of one with an M rating or a PG rating. Geez, decisions, decisions.
Hey, you have a good day tomorrow.
I had arranged for the local National MP, Simon Power, to do the opening bit. I was appointed to be the Master of Ceremonies. Dunno why...
Anyway, there was only about 30 people at the opening so, to introduce Simon, I stood up and said:
"Officially opening the gallery tonight is Simon Power MP for Rangitikei.
Simon just scraped into Parliament a couple of elections ago but he roared in this year. That, of course, was because he did the hard yard campaigning,
The rumour is that, to reach the country electorate he rode around on a draft horse called Gertrude. But he soon stopped doing that as all his constituents confused the horse with Helen Clark.
Well, that's to be expected really because when he first went into Parliament he told everyone that he'd always be on Helen Clark's back.
Yep. Simon got elected the hard way, going around meeting people, shaking them by the hand. I suspect that there are times he would have liked to have shaken them by the throat, but that's political life for you.
So, without further ado I'd like to invite Simon to come and do the ceremonial opening bit."
I'm not sure whether he took it all that well actually. He complained that the ribbon he had to cut was a red one and the National Party colours are blue...
Anyway, I got home yesterday and it's been one of those days today when one is unmotivated and can't seem to get down to work and everything goes wrong.
I must have PMT!
And I am beginning to think that New Zealand is rapidly going under in a sea of bureaucracy.
A week or more ago, I had to apply for a Customs Client Code to import my books. I was told I would be notified what the Customs-required code was within a day. A week later, I had received nothing.
Today I asked Customs what was going on. Apparently, because I have no fax number, I wasn’t advised what the number was. This is despite the fact that I had included an email address in the place of the fax number. It appears that people working in Customs don’t have the initiative to send a reply to an email address in the place of a fax….
I also found out on Friday that, in order to export anything over $1000, one has to fill out something called an Export Entry (even though the goods are exiting, and not entering…)
An Export Entry is, apparently, a form solely used for governmental statistical purposes … yet one is required to pay $5.50 for the privilege of filling it in!
Worse still, this form is required not because I am exporting anything but because I am sending back to a customer some motorcycle leathers that were repaired (for free).
I’m gobsmacked! Why the heck is New Zealand placing this sort of stupid obstacle in the way of people wanting to export and earn overseas currency? If Kiwis didn’t earn overseas currency, New Zealand would be in serious trouble. Indeed, right at the moment New Zealand is spending more on imports that it is earning through exports.
Personally, I’ve decided that all this export stuff is just too much hassle. New Zealand will have to do without any overseas funds I could earn through exporting.
I wonder how many others decide the same.
And my bad day continued.
I got a scam email from a man on msn.com
So I included the scam message in an email I sent off to the abuse section of msn.com to get them to close the account of the scam artist.
The msn.com server refused to accept the message because it contained spam...
However, just to prove that life goes on, my pet duck arrived today and demanded food. Her mate was nowhere to be seen. Probably sailing the oceans of the world. I gather Drakes do that.
So I fed the duck and she went away.
Then she came back again and demanded more food. I told her I wasn’t made of bread, so she stopped pecking my foot.
But, I gave her another couple of slices of bread, anyway. So she had her fill and left with nary a kiss for me. Women are so fickle.
They leave their mate behind for another guy who can give ‘em the goodies then, when the new male runs out of goodies, they nip off back to their mate for a bit of the old feather ruffling.
But enough of my sad day. I think tonight I will go zombie with a DVD. I have a choice of one with an M rating or a PG rating. Geez, decisions, decisions.
Hey, you have a good day tomorrow.
Blowing a fuse
Last night, when I turned on the bedside lamp, the bulb when Phfutt! And the radio died, the DVD wouldn’t go, the computer became silent and black, and my animated picture of the Queen Mum ground to the same restful halt that the old dear herself has now assumed. Well, my picture would have, if I’d had one.
I had blown a fuse.
Well, actually, I hadn’t blown a fuse. I don’t have any fuses, short or otherwise. A fuse had blown in the flat’s fusebox. All because a bulb had blown. I obviously have sympathetic fuses in my flat.
So, outside I went into the rain, looking for the fusebox.
Now you may dismiss this venture out into inclement weather as something trifling, but *you* aren’t bald (I hope). Bald people suffer in the rain. We have no hair to reduce the violent battering of raindrops on the noggin. When we go out in the rain, we are incessantly beaten over the head by vicious drops of water. It’s terrible, I tell you. I need comfort!
And I’ll bet that you thought that the worst thing about being bald is that you don’t get to choose designer combs. Although you do have more room for designer tattoos.
Anyway, search as I may while being viciously assaulted by the rain, I couldn’t find the fusebox. So I came back inside again. It was then that I noticed that the clock on the stove was still working. There was power to the stove - and the stove had two power-points on it! So all last night my computer was plugged into the stove. No comments, please, about half baked ideas.
This morning, my power problem is over. In the cold light of day, I found the fuse box. It is inside, for Pete's sake. One expects fuse boxes to be outside on the wall.
So I opened the fuse box door, pushed in the popped-up button on the fuse, and Hey Presto! I can once again recharge vibrators, heat up the electric blanket, play soft and seductive music, and all the others things a bachelor must do to keep his lady friends happy.
Aren’t I clever? Maybe I should get a job as an electrician.
Or maybe I should get a job photographing pieces of paper.
Yesterday, I was in the local courthouse filing some papers with the disputes tribunal when this lady came in from a collection agency. She was given a big folder of court papers (I gather they were court decisions on debts) and promptly set up a small photographic studio (tripod and all) on a nearby public counter. Then she started photographing each piece of paper.
Apparently, she goes around the courthouses from Masterton up to Taupo taking these photographs of pieces of paper.
Well, I suppose it's better than trying to lug a photocopier around with you...
I had blown a fuse.
Well, actually, I hadn’t blown a fuse. I don’t have any fuses, short or otherwise. A fuse had blown in the flat’s fusebox. All because a bulb had blown. I obviously have sympathetic fuses in my flat.
So, outside I went into the rain, looking for the fusebox.
Now you may dismiss this venture out into inclement weather as something trifling, but *you* aren’t bald (I hope). Bald people suffer in the rain. We have no hair to reduce the violent battering of raindrops on the noggin. When we go out in the rain, we are incessantly beaten over the head by vicious drops of water. It’s terrible, I tell you. I need comfort!
And I’ll bet that you thought that the worst thing about being bald is that you don’t get to choose designer combs. Although you do have more room for designer tattoos.
Anyway, search as I may while being viciously assaulted by the rain, I couldn’t find the fusebox. So I came back inside again. It was then that I noticed that the clock on the stove was still working. There was power to the stove - and the stove had two power-points on it! So all last night my computer was plugged into the stove. No comments, please, about half baked ideas.
This morning, my power problem is over. In the cold light of day, I found the fuse box. It is inside, for Pete's sake. One expects fuse boxes to be outside on the wall.
So I opened the fuse box door, pushed in the popped-up button on the fuse, and Hey Presto! I can once again recharge vibrators, heat up the electric blanket, play soft and seductive music, and all the others things a bachelor must do to keep his lady friends happy.
Aren’t I clever? Maybe I should get a job as an electrician.
Or maybe I should get a job photographing pieces of paper.
Yesterday, I was in the local courthouse filing some papers with the disputes tribunal when this lady came in from a collection agency. She was given a big folder of court papers (I gather they were court decisions on debts) and promptly set up a small photographic studio (tripod and all) on a nearby public counter. Then she started photographing each piece of paper.
Apparently, she goes around the courthouses from Masterton up to Taupo taking these photographs of pieces of paper.
Well, I suppose it's better than trying to lug a photocopier around with you...
Saturday, January 13, 2007
A visit to the city
I went to Palmerston North on the weekend and visited the new Mitre 10 Mega store over there. They were blowing up and giving away promotional orange and black vinyl balls, so I decided to line up and get a couple to give away to appropriate little people. (If you fit into that category, I *do* have one left over...)
The Mitre 10 balls are fairly large balls, about the size of a netball and, after I scored a couple, I then had to walk around the store holding them. The most comfortable way to hold them was to hold them against one's chest but I saw myself in one of the mirrors sold by Mitre 10 and I looked like I had brightly coloured breasts bursting out of a bra. So I lugged them around under me arms, instead!
Palmerston North now has two huge hardware stores – Mitre 10 and Bunnings. They are both so large that, when you enter, they give you a map so that you can find your way around. The one I got from Mitre 10 had an X on it and so I quickly went to that spot just in case I’d accidentally been given a treasure map. Sadly, the X merely marked the spot where the garden tools were sited. I thought about grabbing a nearby pickaxe and digging up the floor just in case, but the shop management always get excited when you display initiative like that. So I just hitched up my balls and walked on.
These big hardware mega stores really have all sorts of stuff in them. Mitre 10 even sold ping pong balls.
Shirley, a caregiver friend of mine, tells me that they put ping pong balls in the toilet to teach intellectually handicapped guys to accurately pee in the loo. The idea is that the guys are taught to aim for the ping pong ball.
This got me to thinking. Maybe they should put ping pong balls in public urinals. Firstly, one finds in public urinals that the users seem to have peed everywhere *except* in the urinal and, secondly, the idea could be especially useful in a pub. They could put a sign up above the urinal – “If you can’t hit the ping pong ball, you’re too pissed to drive!”
Anyway, the reason I had gone into Bunnings was to buy a sophisticated technological marvel called a cuphook. The stick-on cuphooks on the ceiling of my crockery cupboard are unsticking and coming off. So I can be working at my computer when the next moment there will come a loud CRASH from the china cupboard as a hook gives way and a large mug lands on the plates below. Thank heavens I have unbreakable crockery. It’s bloody annoying, but I look on the bright side. Any ants in the cupboard will be running the gauntlet…
Anyway, I asked the lady where the cuphooks were and in the ensuing conversation it turned out she was an ex-Wairarapian. Of course, I should have guessed this because she had this sort of rugged beauty, just like all of us Wairarapians, although some suggest that my appearance is more a case of rugged than beauty. But I know they are just jealous of my country-boy looks.
Of course, the Bunnings lady may have looked just ordinarily beautiful out of her Bunning’s uniform. Actually, being a full-blooded man. I have to say that she probably would have looked *delightful* out of her Bunning’s uniform. The Bunning’s uniform, incidentally, is a sort of a cross between a boy scout outfit and a pinny. It’s an outfit that would make Charlize Theron look rugged.
After my busy day braving the mega shops, friend Shirley and I went out for tea. On the advice of Shirley’s brother, who has the girth of someone with good knowledge of eateries, we went to a restaurant called The Rat Hole.
This establishment is probably a classic example of matter over mind in that the name of the place gives one all sorts of horrible images yet the food supplied at the establishment is so good that word of mouth has made the place very popular. It wasn’t a large place yet when we arrived there must have been about 150 people there either tucking into food or waiting for their meal to be cooked.
The food is what I suppose you could call country tucker – not particularly gourmet but basic tasteful meals of considerable size – you could have used the steaks for pillows. Well, at least until they started going off.
But, we had a very nice meal, I refrained from burping loudly after the meal, and no one threw us out. Well, in big cities of 75,000 people like Palmerston North, they aren’t used to our country customs.
The Mitre 10 balls are fairly large balls, about the size of a netball and, after I scored a couple, I then had to walk around the store holding them. The most comfortable way to hold them was to hold them against one's chest but I saw myself in one of the mirrors sold by Mitre 10 and I looked like I had brightly coloured breasts bursting out of a bra. So I lugged them around under me arms, instead!
Palmerston North now has two huge hardware stores – Mitre 10 and Bunnings. They are both so large that, when you enter, they give you a map so that you can find your way around. The one I got from Mitre 10 had an X on it and so I quickly went to that spot just in case I’d accidentally been given a treasure map. Sadly, the X merely marked the spot where the garden tools were sited. I thought about grabbing a nearby pickaxe and digging up the floor just in case, but the shop management always get excited when you display initiative like that. So I just hitched up my balls and walked on.
These big hardware mega stores really have all sorts of stuff in them. Mitre 10 even sold ping pong balls.
Shirley, a caregiver friend of mine, tells me that they put ping pong balls in the toilet to teach intellectually handicapped guys to accurately pee in the loo. The idea is that the guys are taught to aim for the ping pong ball.
This got me to thinking. Maybe they should put ping pong balls in public urinals. Firstly, one finds in public urinals that the users seem to have peed everywhere *except* in the urinal and, secondly, the idea could be especially useful in a pub. They could put a sign up above the urinal – “If you can’t hit the ping pong ball, you’re too pissed to drive!”
Anyway, the reason I had gone into Bunnings was to buy a sophisticated technological marvel called a cuphook. The stick-on cuphooks on the ceiling of my crockery cupboard are unsticking and coming off. So I can be working at my computer when the next moment there will come a loud CRASH from the china cupboard as a hook gives way and a large mug lands on the plates below. Thank heavens I have unbreakable crockery. It’s bloody annoying, but I look on the bright side. Any ants in the cupboard will be running the gauntlet…
Anyway, I asked the lady where the cuphooks were and in the ensuing conversation it turned out she was an ex-Wairarapian. Of course, I should have guessed this because she had this sort of rugged beauty, just like all of us Wairarapians, although some suggest that my appearance is more a case of rugged than beauty. But I know they are just jealous of my country-boy looks.
Of course, the Bunnings lady may have looked just ordinarily beautiful out of her Bunning’s uniform. Actually, being a full-blooded man. I have to say that she probably would have looked *delightful* out of her Bunning’s uniform. The Bunning’s uniform, incidentally, is a sort of a cross between a boy scout outfit and a pinny. It’s an outfit that would make Charlize Theron look rugged.
After my busy day braving the mega shops, friend Shirley and I went out for tea. On the advice of Shirley’s brother, who has the girth of someone with good knowledge of eateries, we went to a restaurant called The Rat Hole.
This establishment is probably a classic example of matter over mind in that the name of the place gives one all sorts of horrible images yet the food supplied at the establishment is so good that word of mouth has made the place very popular. It wasn’t a large place yet when we arrived there must have been about 150 people there either tucking into food or waiting for their meal to be cooked.
The food is what I suppose you could call country tucker – not particularly gourmet but basic tasteful meals of considerable size – you could have used the steaks for pillows. Well, at least until they started going off.
But, we had a very nice meal, I refrained from burping loudly after the meal, and no one threw us out. Well, in big cities of 75,000 people like Palmerston North, they aren’t used to our country customs.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Sometimes it's not a great New Year...
Today I received one of those messages that leave you wondering how to reply.
After I wished Alexandra a great New Year, she replied that her year could have started better. She said that she had been waiting for this year. The year of the Allessandra she had named it.
Alas, 12 hours after she wished Happy New Year to her mother at 12.05 am on January 1, 2007, her mother tripped on a mat and went flying through the air. She knocked her head on the dining room table, and, in reaching out to stop the fall, snapped her wrist and broke her hip!
The hip break was too bad to pin, so they put her under and were rebuilding her with a partial hip replacement.
“She is, as I type,” said Alexandra, “refusing to wake up after surgery.”
So Alexandra is sitting there waiting - either her mother will pull through or she won't.
“I am trying to be philosophical,” said Alexandra. “Other times I put my hands over my eyes like I remember my daughter doing as a wee tot, her thinking being that if she couldn't see me, nor I see her…”
“But,” Alexandra said., “perhaps I am just getting the worst of the year over and done with early.”
I think all of us who have lost one or both parents knows how she feels. How helpless, how alone, and how sad.
If I could reach out and hug Alexandra, I would, but she lives at the other end of New Zealand.
So what could I say?
In the end, I just said “Let's look at this another way. If mother is as extraordinary as her daughter, one would be led to the conclusion that mother is, at this very moment, away inspecting heaven to see whether it is sufficiently salubrious for her, in case she has to spend a bit of time there before she moves on to her next life.
That being the case, if she wakes up you’ll have the mixed emotions of being really glad you have your mother back, yet knowing that heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Ya just can't win, kid!”
I don’t know whether that helped. I just hope it did.
(I have just received a joyful message from Alexandra. Her mum is breathing on her own and out of recovery .. high five!!!)
--
Allan
After I wished Alexandra a great New Year, she replied that her year could have started better. She said that she had been waiting for this year. The year of the Allessandra she had named it.
Alas, 12 hours after she wished Happy New Year to her mother at 12.05 am on January 1, 2007, her mother tripped on a mat and went flying through the air. She knocked her head on the dining room table, and, in reaching out to stop the fall, snapped her wrist and broke her hip!
The hip break was too bad to pin, so they put her under and were rebuilding her with a partial hip replacement.
“She is, as I type,” said Alexandra, “refusing to wake up after surgery.”
So Alexandra is sitting there waiting - either her mother will pull through or she won't.
“I am trying to be philosophical,” said Alexandra. “Other times I put my hands over my eyes like I remember my daughter doing as a wee tot, her thinking being that if she couldn't see me, nor I see her…”
“But,” Alexandra said., “perhaps I am just getting the worst of the year over and done with early.”
I think all of us who have lost one or both parents knows how she feels. How helpless, how alone, and how sad.
If I could reach out and hug Alexandra, I would, but she lives at the other end of New Zealand.
So what could I say?
In the end, I just said “Let's look at this another way. If mother is as extraordinary as her daughter, one would be led to the conclusion that mother is, at this very moment, away inspecting heaven to see whether it is sufficiently salubrious for her, in case she has to spend a bit of time there before she moves on to her next life.
That being the case, if she wakes up you’ll have the mixed emotions of being really glad you have your mother back, yet knowing that heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be.
Ya just can't win, kid!”
I don’t know whether that helped. I just hope it did.
(I have just received a joyful message from Alexandra. Her mum is breathing on her own and out of recovery .. high five!!!)
--
Allan
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