2022, Here i Come!

 

Christmas Shopping

Hi there

 

Paying it Forward (without realising it)

 Hi there

In my last blog, I told how I'd lost my SuperGold Card and before I'd even made it home after my trip to town some kind person had handed it in to the Wellington Central Police Station.

Well, exactly one week later, after seeing the Rita Angus Art Exhibition at Te Papa Tongarewa the Museum of New Zealand, I was waiting at the Courtenay Place bus stop to go home.  My bus arrived, I got on, flashing my SuperGold Card to the driver. The bus was stationary, and with folk still exiting via the back door as I went to sit down -

Wait-!  What was on the seat I was about to plonk down on?  A wallet???

Now, I'm a shy person in public.  I would never dream of being the star of my own life if there were  people around.  But -

"Wait!  Wait!  Stop the bus!"  I raced up to the back door, and hollered through it, "Who's left their wallet here?"

The ex-passengers were milling out around the area.  Nobody looked back at me (except every passenger in the bus).  I rushed down the aisle to the bus driver, waving the wallet.  "Here, here, somebody's left this-"

She took the wallet and looked inside. "There's a lot of money in here," she said.

All we passengers went "Ooooh..."

"A heck of a lot of money-"

"Ooooohhh ...."

The driver told us there was also a SuperGold Card in the wallet.  One passenger pointed out the window. She said that she thought an older gentleman wandering away was a guy who had exited our bus.

The bus driver ran out of the bus, engine still running and, darn-it, I couldn't see what was going on but the woman opposite me provided a running monologue.  "The wallet's his!"  Everybody cheered.

The driver came back.  "There was $4000 in the wallet," she told us all.

"-Oooooohhhh....."

It wasnt until that evening that I thought about my SuperGold Card loss and how it was found .  Had today's episode been The Fickle Finger of Fate's way of me paying it forward?  I like to think so.  And I like to think that the elderly gentleman who got his SuperGold Card and his $4000 back would somehow, too, pass it forward (even if he did it unconsciously, like I had done)...

above. When I was younger, Wellington had trams, not buses.  Here is a mural on the side of a shop in the suburb of Kilbirnie. 

  

  

Never lose your SuperGold Card

 Hi there

In town, exactly one week ago, I couldn't find my SuperGold Card. I'd had the card to get into town, but where was it now?  Oh, no, there went my free bus pass, shop discounts, cheaper doctor visits ...

After standing at the bus stop, and clawing frantically through my bag in a not-very-productive first search, I decided that I needed somewhere to sit calmly to conduct a more thorough hunt for my card.  I ended up emptying out the entire contents of my shoulder bag onto the floor in a fitting room at David Jones' Department Store, a couple of inconsequential dresses on a clothes rack behind me.  Well, I needed an excuse for privacy, right?

But, nope.  Still no card.  I paid cash to get back to Miramar on the bus.  At home, there was a message on my answerphone.  My card had been handed in at Wellington Central Police Station!  Wow, and thanks so much to the anonymous finder.

Nobody Loves a Fairy When She's 40 (how about 60?)

 Hi there

I belong to one of several community centres over 60's drama(sort of) groups.  Recently we had to blindly pick a prop out of a bag and make up a couple of minutes' story over the prop.  I got a flower circlet that I plonked on my head and I said I was the fairy princess Orange Blossom.  I was quite snooty...

It made me think about that old song that I heard many moons ago on a music hall programme.

Nobody Loves a Fairy When She's Forty -

Nobody loves a fairy when she's forty

Nobody loves a fairy when she's old

She may still have a magic power but that is not enough

They like their bit of magic from a younger bit of stuff

When once your silver star has lost its glitter

And your tinsel looks like rust instead of gold

Your fairy days are ending when your wand has started bending

Nobody loves a fairy when she's old.

Of course there can be all sorts of interpretations for this song (wink, wink, nudge, nudge....)

The singer Marcia Lewis sings a great version on You Tube.  The version where she's in a purple dress.

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, episode 8

 Typist-in-Charge, Episode 8, Typing Room 206, Government Buildings, Wellington, NZ, 

I was  concentrating on the typing of a ministerial.  No rub-outs allowed for anything the Minister of Education had to sign (grrrhh, so many retypes).  Ministerials were always 1+9, which meant one original page and 9 carbon copies.  Most of the +9 had individual minutes (messages) to departmental officers typed on them, and the solitary rather carbon-ed out last page had to have everybody's minutes typed there.  On any letterhead job, and via the stencil key, the typist's initials were hidden in the departmental monogram so that an officer knew, through the carbon copies, who to return a job to for amendments.

above:  A true used typing artefact:  one of my actual government-issued rubbers (tee-hee, that's an 'eraser', if you're from the United State). 

 Since most of  Room 305 pool had split to go downstairs to the utmost middle/front of the building, Room 206, and new typists had been added, I had decided to be a good little typist, proof-read my work, and not have as many mistakes.  Or at least show as many mistakes.  Mrs Rowley acknowledged me as the best rubber-outerer of the entire two floors.

There was however one huge typist mistake that I am still berating myself over.  Know this please, gentle reader, that to type four accurate foolscap pages an hour was considered the average.  It had taken me several days to type 68 stencils.  My desk was crammed with stuff (a govt poster on the hallway wall proclaimed "Don't have a mesk!", ie a messy desk) and so I tidily set all my stencils in a stencil box on top of my waste-paper basket.  And ... forgot to retrieve them at day's end.

That evening they were whisked away by the cleaners.  Sometimes we arrived at work to find mice in the bins.  The cleaners were reluctant to empty the bins of mice, so it was up to us to call on Mr Ivers in Records to retrieve the rodents and drown them in the gentlemen's toilets.  How I do wish, as well as mice, the cleaners had been turned off by my typed stencils.

Here I was, without my typing...

And ...  I never typed so hard in my life to get those stencils re-done by the original end-of-that-afternoon deadline.  I swear my fingers turned stubby.  I worked through lunch-hour and tea-breaks, and didn't natter to anyone, severely doubting I would finish in time.  But I did do it, finishing 68 stencils with 7 minutes to spare before sign-off  time at 4.35 pm.  There were a few mistakes that came back to me the next day, but most of the alterations were because the officer had changed his mind about whole paragraphs which meant that some pages had to be done again to re-figure the entire job (elongating or shrinking margins, less or more words per line, lowering or raising top or bottom lines or where the page number sat on the page) ...

...  Francie called out, "Hey, who's got the Bijou Gothic - ?"  She needed the small print typewriter for a 10 page job that consisted of many columns to fit sideways on a foolscap page.

Mrs Rowley said, "The Bijou Gothic is up in 305."  She pointed to a corner of the room.  "Trolley's over there."

Francie wrangled the trolley out of the room and over to the lift ... 

I wasn't sent relieving so much nowadays.  But there had been a bit of a blip when I decreed I wanted to stay at School Publications in Willis Street, never to return to the pool.  I liked working at School Pubs, from where they edited The School Journal.  There was one other typist.  And the editors were fun.  Poet James K Baxter had worked there; whenever he'd got in a row with his wife, he'd slept in the old house's bathtub. One editor, regardless of chastisements over public servants not being allowed to take part in protest marches, was not only a marcher, but usually helped carry the banner in the very front marching row.  Another one, wanting a late morning lie-in, put on his vacuum cleaner to simulate the background noise of printing presses.  He rang into the department and shouted he'd be in later because he was at the Government Printer. 

But I missed 'the girls' and the pool.  I'd come straight from school and knew nothing else but a typing pool environment.  With a bit of a sigh, Mrs Rowley welcomed me back.

We had carted down, from Room 305, the pool's bunch of Christmas decorations.  Mrs Rowley allowed us time to put them up in this much bigger room.  Racing out to McKenzies chain store on Lambton Quay, we bought more crepe paper, and twisted it into garlands and hangings.  Mrs Rowley was so nice, she let new typists outside to see openings of Parliament, royal passers-through, Prime Minister's  funeral.

All Education typists and secretaries, both inside Govt Bldgs and in any of the outlying areas, were invited to the annual typists' Christmas morning tea -  

Franci is in the foreground.  She'd let someone else use her brand-new camera to take these slides!  Val is behind Franci.  

Cataract surgery fine

 Hi there

I got home after the cataract surgery and wailed to my friend, "I can't read!  I told the surgeon that for my choice of new eyesight I wanted to read without my glasses.  And I can't do it!!! ".   My yelling was riddled with exclamation points. 

The following morning, I calmed down a tiny fraction.  I was on the phone, reading the hospital information out to my friend -

"Wait-!"   She said, "Are you reading all that without your glasses?" 

Yes!!!!!!!

... All's well that ends well.  !!!

above:

Kenepuru Hospital foyer.  Wellington Hospital sent me there for the surgery.

Wearing masks for Covid

 In my last blog, I mentioned the trouble I had filling out a declaration sticker on a parcel, and how I kept having to go back to the NZ Post agency counter until I got it right.  Well...

A month or so ago I had a hospital appointment.  I entered the building wearing a material mask with images of cute cats cavorting.

A guy at the sign-in booth said, "You're not allowed that mask."  Briskly, he handed me a surgical one.  You know the type:  blue and white with a soft wire running inside the top hem.

 I took off my pretty cat mask and slapped on the surgical one.

" You're wearing it inside out, " said the guy.

I reversed the mask, tucked the cords safely behind my ears and patiently waited for him to write me out an entry sticker.

He said "your mask is upside down."

Everyone within hearing distance sniggered .

I'm going to have my second cataract operation tomorrow.  Wish me glad tidings that I don't do  things wrong at the hospital.  Working on my current  form, I will  probably have  to fill in the admission papers  a multitude of times.  

Postshop Declarations

 Hi there

I had wrapped up three parcels to send overseas for Christmas.  The guy at the NZ Post agency handed me three little green declaration stickers to fill in and stick on the corner of each parcel.

I sat down at a desk, filled each declaration in, and handed the stickers back to the Postshop guy, along with my parcels.

He tsk-tsked.  " No.  No.  As the sender, you must fill in your full first name.  Your first initial  won't do.   And the same goes for the people you're sending the parcels to.  No initials allowed. "

 "Um...  Ooo-kay?  I faithfully filled out three new declaration forms.

This time, the guy sighed.  "You can't put 'Eng' for 'England' and 'Aus' for 'Australia'.  Full place names please.  The Customs people have to  easily be able to read where the parcels are going ."

" But I have the full addresses - both mine and my friends' - in huge lettering on the front and back of the actual parcels, " I pointed out.

"And," he happily continued, ignoring my plaintive mewing, " You can't put ' NZ' for New Zealand."

I grabbed three new declarations and furiously filled them out. I handed over the newly-filled in stickers.

He rolled his eyes.  "You've declared the contents of each parcel as 'stationery'?

"Yes?"

"What kind of stationery? "

"That would spoil the Christmas surprise," I said.

Do it again ," he said.  Smugly 

I brought back the declarations.  "All done," I proclaimed.

 "Go back and write in the value of each present."

 I didn't even bother to argue about the surprise elements of the presents being ruined;   I filled in the values, and glumly trooped back to the counter.

 " You haven't signed the declarations, " the guy said.

I signed the three declarations, then waited till the guy was serving  someone else before I took the declarations to another assistant....

My friend had a similar time at a NZ Post agency.  She had  declared a souvenir magnet inside her parcel.  She was made to stand at the counter and take out the magnet because (who knew?)  magnets were now banned. 

Fallow Hut, Wairarapa

 Hi there

I've just had three nights in the Wairarapa, renting Fallow Hut, just fifteen minutes out of Masterton (though I took the wrong turn-off and ended up being 1 hour and 20 minutes out of Masterton!).  The hut is on a farm, way out in true kiwi country.  There was  tons of hiking - up really, really, really high hills.  But there was also flat land.  And a river.  There were a few walking  tracks and because the farm had what seemed like millions of acres I could wander anywhere on their property. hiking on sheep tracks or pounding through grass.

And oh, those sheep and lambs.  So adorable.  The funny thing about sheep is how like cats they are.  You know when a cat suddenly goes statue-like and just stares at you?  Well, sheep are the same, except they do it en masse. They stare... and stare... and stare...  Then they turn tail, in perfect synchronisation, and run away

It was possible to see deer.  I didn't see any but it didn't matter; the lambs made up for seeing any deer.  I did climb up to the top of one of the highest hills , and then when I tried the utmost highest one, I had to give up about 20 paces to the top....

The hut had an en suite, fridge, microwave, most mod cons.  It stood in a paddock with sheep all around.

 

below:  the fallow hut

below: taken from the deck of the Fallow Hut

below:  the hut from a distance.  It was once a woolshed and there are some old farm sheds beside it. 

Typist-in-Charge, episode 7

 TYPIST-IN-CHARGE

Episode 7

Typing Room 305, Government Buildings, Wellington, NZ, 1960's

It was a rite of passage in Typing Room 305...  21st birthdays were a big thing.  So were marriages, Christmas, farewells, and going away to Australia for a 2 week holiday (such an adventure for me!).

Today was the day I was celebrating my 21st.  I was relieving at Stores Division in Thorndon.  But the office sent a car for me and I was feted like a queen at a special morning tea.  They'd even invited my mother.

The 'girls' chipped in with food from home, and there was a 21st birthday cake.  The cake probably came from the Art Craft Cake Kitchen which was up the road, opposite Parliament Buildings;  all our  sponge cakes and sausage rolls  came from there.

I was presented with a lovely jewellery box which I still have to this day.

above:  that's my mum behind me

above:  room 305.  We shoved two typists' desks together.

above from right:  Miss Hopkins, Mrs Parr

above: from right front: Sheila, Val.    Val had her 21st three months before me and she received two beautiful vases.

 

PS: I was burrowing away in an old suitcase and I found the above slides (slides? huh?) that Francie, typist, had taken of my 21st birthday.  Wow, was I ever so young?

How artwork has changed...

 Hi there

I was standing in the Countdown Supermarket Carpark in Kilbirnie and glanced across at the opposition building - Pak'n'Save Supermaket.  Oh, some painters were doing a mural on the wall.   No, wait-!  It wasnt a mural, it was some large canvas-like material.  And they weren't painters, the guys were construction workers on a crane thingee.  The guys were rolling the artwork onto the wall.

Times have so changed.   

New Plymouth Holiday

 Hi there

I sudddenly got it into my head to go to New Plymouth for five nights.  What fun?  On the way up to NP my car got caught twice in detours because of car accidents.  A 30 minute detour at Levin.  And then, as I was approaching Waverly,  I was held up in a loooooong queue where I was stationary for over 2 hours.  

And, on the way home - at Inglewood -  I had a 45 minute detour that led me up hill, down dale, between paddocks, sheep, cows, and through  the bush.  When  I emerged, I worked out that if there had been no detour I could have covered the original route in about five minutes.

New Plymouth was great.  Every day I walked the Coastal Walkway.  I felt so tired but what a wonderful walk with a terrific sea view.  Nobody on the walkway wore masks, but the minute I crossed the train tracks into the city, masks were everywhere.

And talking about train tracks ....?  I was about to cross one lot of tracks, looking both ways and making sure no train was approaching when a guy came toward me from the other side of the train tracks.  Meaningfully, he stopped mid-track, burrowed around for his water bottle, took a swig, put his bottle back in his pack, then sauntered across to the gateway.  What a silly guy!  

below:  Mt Taranaki was a stand-in for Mt Fuji in Tom Cruise movie "The Last Samurai".

below:  Devon Street. Main shopping street, New Plymouth

below: Mt Taranaki, from the Coastal Walkway

Am I Goofy???

Hi there

Remember that old Disney cartoon about Goofy driving his car and going beserk at pedestrians?  Then when he's a pedestrian, he's mad at all drivers?

Well, oh dear, I think that's me.  On the one hand, when I'm on a pedestrian crossing I don't see why I have to give a wave of acknowledgement to a driver who stops to let me cross.  I mean, I'm on a crossing, for goodness sake.  Cars have to stop for me.

But then on the other hand ....  when I'm driving my car and I reach a pedestrian crossing I furiously think " You silly pedestrian!  How about an acknowledgement?"

Can't win.  Can't lose...

Those masks, sigh...

 Hi there

New Zealand's team of five million have been spoiled; up until a month or so ago we breezed through life at Level 1 without any Covid restrictions, except for border control.

So, understandably we suddenly feel constricted.  For me, it's all that mask-wearing -

I try to power-walk daily.  When mandatory mask-wearing came in, I figured it would be so easy to wear one as I powered over the Miramar hills.  But, oh goodness, how wrong I was.  

For the last year I have had to live with hayfever, obviously far more hayfever than anybody has ever experienced in this entire universe ever (dramatic much?).  Power-walking with hayfever is not pretty.

My eyes water down into the mask.  I have a runny nose. There's saliva.  And sweat.  And I can't see well without my glasses - masks and glasses are not a good combination.

So ... I've given up the mask.  I mean, power-walking is 'exercise', isn't it?  Akin to cycling, and jogging?  And Jacinda says that masks don't have to be worn by the activity-minded.

I still carry a mask and whip it on when approaching others though I don't often see others at the time I'm out walking.  

Wellington is at Level 2.  My fear is that if or when we again reach level 1, we will still have to wear those hated masks.

Non-communication?

 Hi there

I cart my mobile phone everywhere with me.  It's for emergencies and also for using the Covid tracing app, but I'm not one to use it for much else.  What I have noticed is that older people, perhaps those over 50 or 60, use their index finger to write texts whereas younger generations use two thumbs;  I have no idea how the young manage it.

It's a bit sad when a couple on holiday in Queenstown decide to sit down to admire the view but don't pay any attention to that view or each other -

Reading labels on household products

 Hi there

Okay, come on admit it?:  do you truly read the instruction labels of products you buy at the supermarket? 

I remember the first time I read on the back of the bottle  that a person had to put on their sunscreen twenty minutes before cavorting in the sun.    Huh?  What about all those people who slap on their sunscreen at the beach, then lie back on the sand for the rest of the day?  I guess It's no use whimpering about sunburn when clearly you never read the instructions. 

A few years ago, I rang up the sticking plaster people to complain that the plaster I had put on my arm left a burn when I tore it off.

"How long did you leave the plaster on for?" asked the customer information guy.

"Um... three days?"

"Ah ha!  The instructions on the packet say to wear a plaster no longer than 24 hours-"

Oops.

Now take Ibuprofen tablets.  On the back of the pack there is a warning not to take the product if you're over 65 years.  Huh?  Even My doctor gave me two packets.

My latest worry is to do with my kitchen cleaning spray.  For years I've been spraying the counter and  wiping it down straight away.

Oh dear me, no.  I've just read the instructions on the label.  I should have sprayed, then gone away for 15 minutes before coming back and wiping down my counters.  This is going to disrupt my whole nightly cleaning schedule.

Sigh, I guess I'll be reading more instructions in future...

11 September

 It's been 20 Years today (NZ time) since The World Trade Centre attack.

In NZ it was the early hours of the morning and I couldn't sleep.  Most of the country would have been asleep.   I turned on tv, the BBC News.  It  was always on through the night.  

I saw live shots from New York.  A  plane had hit a building.  A dreadful  air accident.  I wanted desperately to talk to someone. But I couldn't ring my friends at about two in the morning.

As I watched - live - a second plane hit a second building ...  

...then a plane crashed into the Pentagon ...   Another  plane fell into a field ..

And I was crying...

And I couldn't imagine that there could be such cruel people in the world to cause this destructuon.

Lockdown Boredom

Hi there

My friend and I were talking over the phone.   "Anything exciting happened during lockdown?" she asked.

I thought hard.  "Um...."  I couldn't think of anything.  "What about you?  Any mind-blowing adventures?"

"No," she said.

"Oh, wait-!"  I suddenly remembered something.   "I got a dozen eggs delivered from Countdown -"

"Pffft, that's not adventurous.  Or exciting."

"Out of the 12 eggs, I got three double-yolks," I said proudly.

"Wow....."

I understand now:  the slightest - extremely-slightest - piece of information heard during lockdown is absolutely rivetting when nothing else is happening.   It's akin  to when the tv news people talk incessantly about the weather when they're short of sport or politics, usually in early January and, we the public, hang on every word.

Stand by for an update on when I next do my ironing* ,,,.

*As if I'd do ironing, now or in the past.  Pfffft.....

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE Episode 6

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE

Episode 6

Typing Room 305, Government Buildings, Wellington, NZ, 1960's

Mrs Rowley, Typist-in-Charge, sent me to the Child Welfare Division in the Dominion newspaper building to relieve there for a week or two.

"I've given instructions to the office that you are not to type abuse cases," she said. 

I didn't really understand what she was talking about.

Later on, when I found out the types of terrible cases involved, I was so glad that my boss had kept me away from it all.

However, I still smile when I think of an overseas person who had written a letter to Child Welfare headed up "Dear Mr Bag-"  The envelope was addressed "Mr P. Bag".  Child Welfare's address was "Private Bag, Wellington".

Not only was I sent relieving around Education outer offices, but after my first year away from school, I was paid an extra 50 pounds per annum to be a dictaphone-typist.  I wore head-phones on a cord connected to the dictaphone on my desk.  There was a choice of a connected foot pedal to operate the dictaphone or a connected hand control which was a wide bar that sat in front of the typewriter, and I would bring my thumb down to buttons to 'stop' the machine, 'fast forward' or 'reverse' the tape.  A taxi stand was in front of Government Buildings and often I would get their messages through my earphones.  Knowing that one guy was going to knock off and get fish and chips for lunch was somehow exciting listening. The speaker of the very first job I typed from the dictaphone kept using the word 'period'.  I typed the word 'period' all through the manuscript.  It didn't seem to make any sense.   Turned out the old-fashioned word meant 'full-stop', and was an instruction to me.  

Dictators were supposed to preface every instruction during dictating with the word 'typist...'.   For example, "Typist:  I want the following set out in two columns, thank you."  Otherwise a typist  would be halfway through typing the instruction before she realised it was meant for her, and not to be typed.  Sigh, paper to be pulled out of machine, new paper to be rolled in, job to be started again....

The secretaries to the directors were the elite of the typing force.  They breezed into the typing room every now and then because their bosses had demanded they at least look busy and they should go and help out the pool (one secretary was quite vexed when told that knitting on the job was a bad image to project to the public). The secretaries rummaged through our pool's in-box and always took long drafts that were to be done in double-spacing.  With a saint-like sigh they never forgot to announce, "I'll take this long job to help out."   We basic grade typists sniggered because double-spaced drafts were the easiest things in the world to type.  All of a director's most difficult typing jobs, like tables and columns, came to the pool.

However, there was one secretary's job I craved: secretary to the Director (Admin).  For the first hour or two each morning, she would sit at her desk and read all the newspapers.  If she saw any article referring to the Education Department she would clip it out, put it in a folder and give it to her boss.

Way before ex-supervising typist-in-charge Miss Hopkins, ended up in the 1960's typing pool as a retiree worker, she had been secretary to Dr C E Beeby who was Director (Admin) for a time, followed, in 1940, by Director of Education (the position was later given the title 'Director-General')

Dorothy Hopkins was on holiday when she was a young secretary. She was on the inter-island ferry going down to Christchuch.    Leaning over the ship's railing and looking at the sea, she suddenly sensed a man at the other end of the railing, slowly shuffling his way closer and closer to her.  She was frightened, staring straight ahead, not daring to look at the guy.  He got so close to her that Miss Hopkins felt his arm against her coat sleeve.

She gave a yell, and raised her handbag to rain it down on this would-be pervert- 

Dr Beeby grinned.  "I'm glad to see you're a good girl, Dorothy," he said.  "... prepared to defend your honour at any cost."

above: Miss Hopkins and me (Sheila's wedding, 1960's)

above:  Dr C E Beeby

Covid Delta in New Zealand

 Hi there

Well, the virus has finally hit New Zealand in a way vastly diffferent from a year ago when we managed to stamp out community transmission.  

We're in lockdown.  Some American outlets were making jokes about us locking down when we only had one official case, but  the virus is sprouting substantially every day.   It started in Auckland, moved to the Coromandel, maybe en route down to Wellington, and now half a dozen cases actually in Wellington (my suburb, Miramar, included).

I couldn't find a supermarket slot to order my groceries online so I had to chance going around the corner  to New World supermarket.  I must have looked like a Yeti, with only my eyes exposed against all my cover-up clothing.  Mask and gloves the latest fashion accessory.

There was no fighting over toilet rolls at the supermarKet but if there had been a jar of Mango Chutney left, I might have engaged in a polite argument.  

for ongoing information about New Zealand's fight against the latest Covid variant see www.stuff.co.nz.

Be kind ....

Finally got my first jab

 Hi there

My friend had warned me that she waited way over an hour for her vaccination jab at The Hub in Kilbirnie, and to take a book.  I was one sentence into my book when I got called for my jab. But then I had to wait twenty minutes before I was allowed to.leave.  I tried leaving when my watch said twenty minutes but the official sent me back, telling me I had two more minutes to go.

However half an hour after the jab I was splashing it up in the sea at Hataitai Beach.  The nurse had said it was fine to do so.

One jab down - whoopee! - and one more to go -

Mishaps in supermarket carparks?

Hi there

Last Thursday I walked out from Countdown Supermarket and into their carpark, with arms laden, and to discover a shopping trolley had embedded itself in the left side indicator light of my car. Grrrhhh!  

It was a terribly windy day (we're not called 'Windy Wellington' for nothing).  I so wish people would not abandon their trolleys here, there, and everywhere in the carpark.  Supermarket trolleys are not as heavy and steadfast as they look.  The wind can roll them into cars.  The damage amounted to $129.  My insurance company wouldn't pay out for anything less than $400.

Groan .....

  

More swimming

 Hi there

This is my twelfth year winter swimming at Hataitai  Beach in Wellington.  The Young One, J, and I were the only ones for ten years.  But when NZ lockdown finished in May 2020, things changed.  It was as if people suddenly wanted to make the most of life and they swarmed to the beach, swimming much later in the season than they would normally, and 'normal' was  usually about beginning of March.

This year, I'm flabbergasted... There's a regular traffic jam of people winter swimming at Hataitai Beach.  Our shortest day swim garnered about 22 swimmers instead of just we three.  Rarely are The Young One and I swimming this winter without meeting up with several others, or seeing a multitude of wet footprints on the deck revealing the presence of swimmers who had rolled up before us.

The long-range weather forecast for NZ this winter was 'warm and dry'.

Let's hope we all make it through August, usually the coldest month and, of course, September with its rain and storms.

 Hi there

When I was last passing through Levin, which is a couple of hours up the line from Wellington, I was intrigued by the below notice.

A Funeral Expo?  How crass.  Such poor taste.

Am I supposed to go to a Funeral Expo looking for my own coffin (multi-coloured likenesses of a young Elvis imprinted on pink satin lining please).  Or do I hold off my loved one's funeral until the Expo comes around in the hope that I can get a bargain burial plot?

 TYPIST-IN-CHARGE

Episode 5

Typing Room 305, Head Office, Department of Education, Government Buildings, Wellington, NZ, 1960s

Along the corridor, next to the typing room was the small teleprinter room, with two operators.  There were two big machines that allowed us to type memos and drafts to officers at the Auckland and Christchurch offices who, in turn, could send work to us at Head Office.  A roll of paper was in each machine.  A teleprinter operator couldn't change anything in her typing, so accuracy was essential.  Incoming memos arrived in red type.  Our outgoing ones were black

above: google photo of 1950's teleprinters, similar to ours

I was often sent to relieve when one or other teleprinter operator was away.  The good thing about the machines was that we could talk, via typing, to real live operators at the other end.  I was typing away happily one day in the teleprinter room when the other operator, Gwen, said, "Oh, the woman on the machine in Auckland has told me that she's been sent home with the measles - "

Gwen looked down at her own chest.  It was summer and she had a low neckline.  "Noooo, I think I've got measles too!"

She was off work immediately.  We kidded her about catching measles over the teleprinter.

Another time, after I had confessed my love for The Beatles who were touring New Zealand, one of the teleprinter relievers from the Christchurch office somehow managed to get into a press conference as a photographer, and he sent me a glorious photo.  I still cherish it.

An education inspector in the Christchurch office who had some time back been relieving in Wellington sent a teleprint message congratulating me on winning a cruise.  This was Bill Renwick.   My boss, Mrs Rowley,  pointed him out when he was a young whippersnapper and said to me, "You keep an eye on that young man, he'll be director-general one day-"  And he was.

Whilst talking to the typists, Mrs Rowley often balanced backward on her chair, with one hand on the ancient water radiator under the window (the radiator had old-fashioned embossed Victorian-like curly twirls and scrolls on it, and over the years had been painted to match the wall colour).  Mrs Rowley's other hand would rest lightly on her electric typewriter.

"-owww!"  Mrs Rowley disliked the little electric shocks that went through her body when she regularly did this action.  With a sigh, she would try to remember not to touch the radiator and her typewriter simultaneously. 

Opposite the teleprinter room was a door marked 'ladies'.   Once through the door, the ladies' toilets were accessed by way of a steep wooden staircase to a narrow attic-type area.  Under the staircase was the kitchen in which the tea lady bustled around making up our morning and afternoon teas.   A discreet knock on our door at 9 45 am and 2 45 pm, and one of the typists would rush away from her machine to help manoeuvre the heavy tea trolley into the typing room.

Often we typists would go to the basins in a room beside the kitchen and get a drink of water.  For weeks we complained about the water looking brown (we still drank it).  Eventually when feathers started to turn up in the water Admin Section called in a plumber.

"The wire netting over the roof's water tank is torn," said the plumber.  "There's a dead seagull in the tank..."

"Let's Go" - New Zealand tv pop show, early 1960's

Hi there

Way back in the 1960's, my friend and I were absolutely pop music fans.  We knew all the music played weekly on radio's Lever Hit Parade (all 7 songs plus a 'suggeston').  

Television was new to New Zealand, and we had our own tv series - "Let's Go  - with NZ singers.  My friend and I managed, after a lot of sly wrangling, to secure entry tickets for the show which ran from Wellington.

The audience's job was to stand around the individual podium singers and bop along to the music.  My mum pointed out to me that the entire time I was standing beside singer Herma Keil, I was mouthing the words with him.  I was mortified by this.  It wasn't cool at all.

above: ticket to get in to the  NZ tv show "Let's Go"

Dentists, oh noooo....

Hi there

I don't like dentists.  Never have, I know I never will.  It all started when I was a child and had to go to The Dental Clinic in Upper Willis Street, Wellington.  I cried and carried on, and ducked and swerved away from the dental nurses (no male dentists).  They threatened to put me in "the blue room".  I never did find out what "the blue room" was about but I visualised a locked room that was completely dark with one blue light bulb glowing from the ceiling.  All the good kids who behaved in the rows of dental chairs got little rolls of wadding made up into figures.  I always wanted one, never got one.

Today I went to the dentists.  I had to fill in a form.  One of the questions was something like "do you have anxiety issues at the dentist?"  I ticked 'yes'. and circled it, and put a square around the circle, and added an extra tick.

It was just a check-up appointment....

  

Kitchen fun(!)

Hi there

27 June

No, not the 'fun' you are probably thinking of (you have a naughty mind?).  I was in Taupo a couple of months ago and there was an exhibition of local art and crafts.  I couldn't not buy this gorgeous 'kitchen Art' cat.  He's made completely out of recycled items from around the house, mostly kitchen items.  He has a little wire fish and a little wire mouse inside his tummy.

sculpture by Ru (Pos) Clements-Jones

***

A friend and I did another shortest day swim today because my friend couldn't make it last week.  The weather today was worse than last week.  Raining really heavily.  

Mid-winter Shortest Day Swim 2021

 

Hi there

20 June

Today The Young One and I thought we would be the only ones swimming from Hataitai Beach mid-winter shortest day swim.  The weather people had given us a storm warning.  It rained, was cold, and windy.

But, surprise, there were about 20 of us hardy swimmers there.  My friend, Jay (10 years winter swimming behind her) handed out congrats magnets to everyone that were swimming today.  There was a polar bear picture on the magnet, plus the year and beach name.  As we all arrived everyone was dressed in hoods and scarves and beanies and winter pants.  I couldn't recognise anyone because they were so wrapped up.  

What a success.  The most people so far.   Today the water temp was 12.3c; it's been colder this month, but the sea was rough.   

 

That little thing that irks me

 Hi there

I wonder if my four readers have any little thing that truly irks them.

I'm not talking about climate change, or politics, or world peace but ... well... for instance -

I'm short.  On the imperial ruler scale, I'm 5ft 1 inch tall.  When I carry home my full shopping bag from the local supermarket my bag tends to drag along on the ground beside me.  If I were just 2 inches taller or wore stilettos  this wouldn't happen.  The bag would swing jauntily above the pavement.

I always have to shoulder-carry my bag and it tends to slip frequently down my arm.  Or I clutch the bag to my warm and ample bosom and I end up with melted ice cream.

Oh, I so wish I were taller ..

****

19 July

Hi again.   I've just watched Susan Calman, Scottish comedian, on her travel documentary Grand Day Out.  You'll never believe this, but she said that what irks her is that her shopping bags drag on the ground!  She's only 4ft 11 so her problem is 2 inches shorter than mine.  And I thought I was the only person in the world with the problem.

The Domino Effect

 Hi there

I was in a petrol station shop last month, in a queue and waiting to be served.  I'd broken my journey on the way to New Plymouth.

It was a narrow aisle.  On the floor, leaning against the end of a rack of shelves were four or five standing-on-end empty metal shelves, one against the other, and reaching a height almost as tall as I was.  

A guy, leaving the check-out counter, pushed past me, brushing against the loose shelving -

One of the heavy shelves, the topmost one, fell onto my sneakered foot.  Hey, it hurt.  A good thing I was wearing socks.

I glared at the guy.  "You -  You - !". My mind couldn't process words.

A second shelf fell slowly, almost elegantly, down onto the same foot.  "You-  You-  You-". What with the pain and the surprise of everything, all I could do was gesture wildly for the guy to get the heavy shelving off me.

A third shelf fell  -

" You-   You-"  I'd obviously turned into a parrot.

Another shelf domino-dropped, with me still gesturing to this guy to lift the growing-heavier-by-the-second weight off me.  I was mouthing the 'you' word at him like a warped record.  He stared, dumb-founded.

Finally, after every shelf had dropped, he reached down and sheepishly lifted each one off my foot;  they were too heavy for him to do them as a job lot.  He apologised, and then sprinted away.

The man behind the counter kindly pumped my petrol for me.  I figured if this were in America, I could sue him for millions. Naughty guy, leaving obstacles in the way of customers.

It's a month later, and my foot is still aching.....😪

Outlaw Colours

 Hi there

In the early 1960's, when I was young - let's say teenage - there were certain colours that people couldn't  wear together because, well, posh fashionistas of the time decreed it was a giant no-no.

I got a beautiful  blue and green dress, real cheap, at a  DIC sale  because nobody wanted it.  I wore this dress to work.  All the 'girls' in the typing pool were horrified. "Blue and green never seen," several of the typists chanted.  By wearing blue and green together I had revealed to the world how little I knew about fashion.  However, I loved that dress and wore it for many years.

We also understood never to wear  black and brown together.  Or silver and gold together.  Or anything remotely glittery in the daytime.  And red-heads shouldn't wear orange.   

One hang-up that's still clung on for it's life is our wearing dark colours in the winter.  Why?  I love colours.  I want to wear them in the winter.  I walk into a clothing store in, say, April, and my heart drops.  It's a sea of black, navy, brown.  So depressing. 

Aw, come to the party TVNZ

 Hi there

Remember about a year ago I grumbled that TVNZ On Demand had decided to leave my six year old smart tv? 

"Your set is too old to handle the new technology", the guy in the tv shop told me.

So the guy persuaded me to buy a Freeview contraption through which I could still access TVNZ On Demand on my television set.

Now...?  TVNZ On Demand have told me they're exiting Freeview.  So, I'm going down from a 52inch screen to the 5inch one that's on my phone?  Heavens, TVNZ truly want to share their programmes, right???

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, Episode 4

 Hi there

Typing Room 305, Education Department, Government Buildings, Wellington, NZ.  1961.

***

Miss Hopkins was now a Staff Typist, sitting in a typing  pool like we other peasants, but until her recent retirement she had been the Supervising Typist-in-Charge of all Education typists, with her own room no less.  We loved hearing her stories about how she started in Education some forty years back - 

When Dorothy Hopkins was a sprightly junior typist, about 17 years old, there was a stiff protocol involved when addressing others.  It was all 'Miss', 'Mrs', 'Mr';  no first names allowed.  The Typist-in-Charge at the time was a Miss Peggy Patrick.  One evening the typists were all out to dinner.

Dorothy Hopkins, no doubt with a gleam in her eye, and in some trepidation but with a hint of a rebellious soul in her young body, asked "Would you pass the salt please ...  Peggy?"

There were a few sharp intakes of typist breath across the table.  Quickly muffled giggles came from a couple of the juniors.

Peggy Patrick passed over the salt.  "Here you are ... Miss Hopkins."

When I joined Education in 1960, I called all the older typists 'Miss' or 'Mrs'.  They called me 'Lorraine'.  By the time I got to senior status, everybody in government departments were called by their first names, so I never got to experience the heady pleasure of being addressed with a prefix.

As a junior I was required to sit the Public Service Typing Exam.  It was the most recognised typing exam in NZ.  My work typewriter had been  bundled up on the day before the Saturday November 1961 exam and sent to Gilby's Business College in Willis Street.  I'd brushed inside the keys basin with methylated spirits, picked out the gunk from the letters 'b', 'd', 'e', 'p' and  'o'' with a bent paper clip, wiped the wax off the main roller where I'd used a stencil* the previous day, and polished the keyboard until it gleamed.

The speed test was to be scheduled first.  Then an hour's break for me before it was time for the confused manuscript part of the examination.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, dear reader,  exam day was the exact day Cliff Richard, Britain's King of Rock'n'Roll, would be in Wellington.  Did I also forget to mention that I was a rabid Cliff Richard & The Shadows fan?  Cliff had turned 21 the previous month, and was young and gorgeous.

In my hour's exam gap I sprinted down Willis Street to the Hotel St George where the boys were staying, and I met up with two friends.  There was a metal fire escape clinging to the side of the hotel -

We climbed it, of course.  Right to the top floor (seventh?).  It was a scary escapade but, hey, this dare-devil climb was done with the hope of seeing Cliff in his - sigh - bedroom, and breathing his same air, swooning over him.

We peeked through a window and, heavens(swoon!), there was Jet Harris, bass guitarist of The Shadows.  He gave a girlish shriek and ducked behind an open wardrobe door.  Oops ....  We scuttled back down the fire escape.  First one off the contraption, I raced up Willis Street but my friends, not so lucky, were caught by the hotel manager.

I arrived at my exam venue puffing, panting, heart racing, mind exploding, and it was one minute before the exam started.

I failed the exam.  Any wonder why? 

above:  Hotel St George, Wellington.  The Beatles stayed here in 1964.

PS:  I passed the exam the next time around.

PPS:   * a stencil was a foolscap sheet of lightweight cardboard with a waxy sheet atop.  A cardboard strip ran across the top of the stencil with perferated holes in it so that the typed stencil could be slotted into a Gestetner machine and hundreds of copies of the typing could be run off.  A red liquid could be brushed over a typed mistake and after a few minutes the typist would type the correct letter on top of the set liquid.  Stencils were not typed with a ribbon.  There was a small lever at the side of the typewriter that would move the ribbon down from its usual place to enable a key to heavily penetrate the stencil.

Up With the Birds

 Hi there

We've all heard the phrases 'Up with the Birds" or "Up at Sparrow Fart".  It mean that we get up extra-early.  Sooo early.

Lately, I've wondered about this.  I feed the birds at my house.  And there's not a sign of them before 10 am.  Why does this new generation of birds sleep in?  Teenage birds who refuse to move from the nest until Mum's brought them their morning worms?  Something to do with daylight saving hours - do birds realise the times are changed?

Maybe it's only country birds who wake up early, they're out there in the plough ruts searching for grubs and worms before the sun is up, whereas their city cousins can't be bothered to even raise a wing until the local cat wakes up (2 pm?). 

It's a mystery... 

New Plymouth Again

Hi there

I suddenly decided to go to New Plymouth for three nights, and was out of the house within 35 minutes.  Over the last few months I thought I'd lost the super-power of fast packing but, no, I had regained that power  -

Wait, no!  I forgot my hiking shoes.  And my going-to-town-and-posh-dining-in-restaurant shoes.  For the whole time away, I was in my scungy, scuffed shoes; the ones I drive in.  

I walked for hours (and hours) in New Plymouth, in just my old Skeechers court shoes, wearing the soles completely flat by the end of my short holiday .

I love New Plymouth's Coastal Walkway.  I walked it backward and forwards twice, walking from the port to the modern-looking walkway bridge  -

above:  from this end of the bridge, I could see Mt Taranaki (okay, I wasn't quite standing in the right place to get the mountain exactly framed in the middle of the span (missed the vista by this much).

above:  this is the other end of the bridge, with more of a view of the beautiful workmanship of the structure.

 

Hiking and Walking

Hi there

With a bit of trepidation, I took off on a hike this morning to Red Rocks, a wild beach-y stoney area of Wellington.  I was anxious because I was now deeming my bad ankle repaired.  But was it?   

Yes!  40 minutes to Red Rocks and 40 minutes back.  I am so good .....

Whilst walking with my trusty hiking stick at the ready (and I only stumbled once)  I got to thinking about the dynamics of people walking together, be it on urban paths or on a narrow bush track .  If there's two of you, great.  But if there's three of you then that third person feels on the outer, a third wheel, because they will either have to walk behind their two friends, or in front of them (which means walking backwards if any conversation is to be included), 

Is it any wonder we have so many walkers who, in trios, often take up the whole of a footpath, loathe to separate to a less privileged position.  

2021 ANZAC Day (Australian New Zealand Army Corps

 Hi there

Remember last year's ANZAC Day when we in New Zealand were in lockdown, and we couldn't officially commemorate our service people, past and present? There were no marches to Cenotaphs or through towns to remember the past.   We all stood at our gates at the same time and had a minute's silence instead.

This year, things are back to normal.   There will be marches tomorrow (25 April NZ time), the young will wear grandads' medals, the poppy will be worn with pride...

NZ and Australia lost a horrific number of troops at Gallipoli in 1915, in appalling conditions.

In two World Wars.  

Flanders Fields is a common name for battlefields in Belgium.   The famous poem starts off "In Flanders Field, the poppies grow, between the crosses row on row...."

Bathing Caps

 Hi there

I tried to swim at age 10 when I lived in New Plymouth.  The instructor gave me a flutter board to begin with, then encouraged me to 'let go'.  Yeah, right.  I just sunk right down to the floor of the children's pool.

My mother was a stickler for bathing fashion and encouraged me to wear a bathing cap.  Ugh, I didn't want to wear a bathing cap. It was bad enough that I couldn't swim, but to wear a bathing cap as well?  Nope,  my psyche wouldn't stand for it.

 But then, I got fed up with Mum's harping on at me and I agreed to "just this once' wear a stupid cap.

The day I wore the bathing cap, I swam perfectly: up and down the pool, across the pool, zig-zagged the pool...  From then on, I wore my bathing cap because it was obviously some sort of miraculous flotation device.

When I was a teen, I was still wearing a bathing cap.  One day I saw a photo of me in a bathing cap - whaaat? - and never wore one again.

Lunch at Parliament

 Hi there

For Friday lunch, a friend and I went to the restaurant "Bellamy's by Logan Brown".  It is a bistro at The Beehive structure in Parliament Buildings. and run by the Logan Brown company.  Three courses for $60 or two courses for $45, with a choice of several offerings at each course.

It was interesting because there cannot be very many world restaurants for the public that are held in  houses of parliament.

Unfortunately, there was a demo/march going through Wellington's Lambton Quay, the main street of Wellington on Friday.  Thousands of people against climate change.  The march arrived at Parliament at exactly the same time as the lunch booking was for my friend and me.  We had to push through the crowd and walk across the forecourt to get into the building where we were security checked and  bedecked in a card to work the lift and official stickers.

above: looking out Bellamy's window at the demonstration outside Parliament.  It was raining.

    

Happy Easter

 Hi there

HAPPY EASTER TO YOU

TYPIST IN CHARGE, episode 3

Hi there

Here's episode 3 of 'Typist in Charge', my typing years' bio that I'm supposed to write for you once a month but seem to be a bit neglectful over the timeline -

***

Mrs Parr sloshed into Typing Room 305, Education Department Head Office, Government Buildings, Wellington.  She looked like a drowned rat.  Her linen coat and once-smart figure-hugging dress clung around her like a bunch of wet washing.  Her peepy-toe shoes leaked droplets of water.  Her rainhat - one of those finger-length strips of plastic that miraculously unfolded into a bonnet that did up in a bow under the chin - was draped wetly across her forehead, dyed blonde curls snaked in the wet down to her nose.  She clutched a short tightly-rolled umbrella, the fold-up style that had only recently hit the market;  yes, the early 1960's was such a 'with-it' era.

"I hate-hate-hate fold-up umbrellas!"  Mrs Parr, near to retirement and this icon of well-known stability, actually stamped her feet.  Mrs Rowley, our Typist-in-Charge, tsk-tsked heavily as she noted the muddy footprints on the lino. Thank goodness footprints would wipe off, unlike the threepenny-piece sized gouges everywhere on the floor where the typists had walked in stiletto heels.

Elspeth and Evaline nodded solemnly, obviously glad they hadn't gone to town in the rain for their lunch.  Francie rushed to help Mrs Parr pull off her soaked-through coat.

Mariana, our whiz at anything mechanical, muttered that these new-style umbrellas were hopeless as nobody could open them.

"Except Lorraine..."  Mrs Rowley acknowledged me.  And trying my best to look humble I gave a demonstration on the proper and efficient way to open a folding umbrella without a half-closed canopy collapsing on one's head.  Or, as seemed to be the case with Mrs Parr,  how to work the catch to even open the darn contraption.  Trumphantly, I ended my demo without ripping my finger.  I was heartily applauded.

Yes, we 'girls' helped each other in many ways. I helped them in jobs like opening umbrellas, and the other typists helped me when I couldn't understand an officer's bad writing, spelling, or adding up.  As well, they enlightened me in The Ways of The World.  One evening about half a dozen of us younger typists went out for a meal.  The typists who were enlightened in The Ways of The World started talking about the four letter word.

Amy, a new typist, and she was a Salvation Army girl to boot, looked across at me in puzzlement.  I shrugged.  "What's a four letter word?" I asked.  I was 16 and prior to this conversation had truly thought I was conversant with The Ways of The World.

"Mmmm..."  Mariana's forehead creased as she was thinking.  Finally:  "It rhymes with 'duck'."

Nope.  Neither Amy nor I had a clue.  (...and back to the present for a moment:  in the supermarket the other day, I heard an under five-year-old spouting the word that, indeed, rhymes with 'duck'.  No-one batted an eyelid.)

One thing that the typists couldn't help me with was my typing.  I wasn't very good at it.  I just didn't have the patience to check my work.  If there was a long job, maybe twenty or more foolscap pages, I  could ask another typist to silently scan my finished typing whilst I read out loud to her from the writer's manuscript.  And yet, still, Mrs Rowley insisted that I hand all my finished typing to her for re-checking.  Much of it came back for retypes.  How did the woman put up with me?  Beats me.

***

Below: an exact google image of a 1960's rainhat

below.  A google image of an Imperial 66 typewriter from my era.

My Recent holiday - Rotorua and Mt Maunganui

 Hi there

I've just returned from another summer holiday, probably my last until next summer.  I had a few nights in Rotorua and 7 nights in Mt Maunganui.   I didn't get one drop of rain.  I swam a lot, and ate a lot.   The temps were 22-24 every day.

I loved the big sculpture of a NZ Tui bird in the township of Rotorua.  

below:  in Papamoa Mall I saw this desk :   Customer Vice?   Oh goodness.  Are they selling vice to customers or buying vice  from customers?  I never did ask.

okay, okay, it's probably 'customer advice' and with the gate open the A and D are hidden.

What?  no photos of Mt Maunganui.  I didnt take any - oops - but if you look at earlier blogs, you'll find some.

Jellyfish, yuck!

 Hi there

I trotted down to Hataitai Beach yesterday.  One of the regular guys was there.  "Jellyfish!" he shouted, deleriously happy for some reason.  "They're everywhere!  Let's swim."

"Nope, I'm not going in," I said.  "Never, no way, not at all."  The jellyfish varied in size from tiny up to saucer-shaped.  They were the transparent ones, with a black fringe around their edge.  I knew they were harmless but I hate banging into them when I'm swimming.  I always let out a yip of horror loud enough to be heard on the shore.. 

So, I sun-bathed on the deck instead.  Merry, a friend went for a swim.  She said that once she had reached deeper water there were hardly any jellyfish.  "I'll lead the way through them," Merry said.  "You can follow in my wake."

So, I scrunched up my courage and followed her into the water, real close behind.   Because it was low tide, there was quite a bit of walking until the sea reached up to my waist.  Merry scooped up perhaps thirty jellyfish from either side as she ploughed through the water, and threw each one further afield.  She was like my own personal mine-sweeper (jellyfish-sweeper?).

Oh dear, I am such a wimp...

Earthquakes, earthquakes, earthquakes

 Hi there

I was in bed reading all through last night.  At about 2 30 am there was a jolt of an earthquake.  I stumbled out of bed and raced to under the dining room table, clutching onto the table legs.  As I clutched I was thinking that my clutching wasnt going to hold the table steady because my table legs had castors on them. We are always told by authorities if earthquakes are "long and strong,  get gone".  I deemed this earthquake was short and not too strong.

I immediately turned on the radio and people were already ringing in about the quake.  It appeared most of New Zealand felt it which is highly unusual  because normally our earthquakes are in certain areas.

I live about 400 metres from the sea, on the flat, and now there is a tsunami warning for the eastern side of the North Island of New Zealand. which is a long way from me at the bottom of the North Island, but I'm on standby because any tsunami may reach Wellington.  

Do you remember that I go to Ohope for holiday a lot of times?  The residents evacuated to higher ground in the middle of last night.  Car lines and people everywhere on the hill from Ohope to Whakatane.

There have been further little quakes and a big one in nearby Kermedec Islands....

Later in evening:  everything OK now.  I've come out from under the table ...

My DNA Results

 Hi there

I'd always wanted to know my DNA background so I sent off for it.  I hoped I would have fierce fighting Viking ancestors.  Or proud Cherokee Nation.  Or Maori warriors.

Nope.  What has come back to me is:

53% Irish

24% English

19% Scottish

4% German/Swiss.

Ho-hum.  Nice to know, but a bit boring ...