Those Quiz Shows

HI there

above: "The Chase UK" .  Goodness, who doesn't love this programme? 

Just after I retired I was determined to try out all new things -  my friend and I auditioned for tv quiz shows, and we were chosen for several.

Very few people realise that in some quiz shows there is (or was?) an audition to first get through. Quiz questions are asked by the production people, forms filled in, people are graded.  The tv people know how clever, or not-all-that-clever, are the  participants. .  Me, I probably fitted into the not-all-that-clever category.  

So, because  the tv people know the quiz intelligence level of all candidates, they know how to get a mixture of different intelligence types to sit on the one panel. "Ah," we think from watching on our sofas at home, "that one guy is really clever, he out-ranks the others by miles.  What a pity, he's being held back by them."

I used to wonder why the losing participants always vehemently thank a host for a totally fantastic day.  I mean ...  they lost the game.  All they did was sit or stand there and answer a few questions.  Most of them wrong.  How could the day be so fantastic?  It should be terrifying and embarrassing, surely?

But the fantastic-ness comes from behind the scenes.  Many tv shows keep the participants around for most of the day. Often the applicant gets a nice hotel stay included (twice I was flown return to Auckland).  

A good meal or two is included, a tour of the studio, meeting  tv personalities. Perhaps there's a silly game so that you can memorise your fellow quizzers' names and backgrounds.  The lovely production people can make the time enjoyable.

On 3 different shows, I won $800, a music system, and another music system.  On another, I flunked out miserably.  On yet another, I was a panel contestant for an end-of-season show where the whole of the New Zealand viewing public was batting for the super-intelligent guy who had made it through several weeks already.  He won...

Continuation of "That Was The Worst Week That Was"

 Hi there

Remember my telling you about the storm that hit Wellington and my backyard shed was destroyed.  Luckily I had all my past memories and stuff in plastic bags so everything was salvageable.  But the weirdest thing was how much of that stuff I was now classing as rubbish.  Seven bags-full.

Ten days after the storm, I had finally found a rubbish firm to take the broken remnants of aluminium away.  Thank goodness.  My heart sang as every last bit of my shed disappeared down the street.

And thanks to the Citizens' Advice Bureau who helped me in the hunt to find that rubbish collector.

However ... the hex on me continues.  

After getting rid of the pieces of the old shed on Friday, I went to the beach on Saturday and Sunday.  On arriving home on the Sunday afternoon, I heard what sounded like a waterfall coming from my bathroom.

Somehow, miraculously, the cold water tap over the bath ('tub', if you're American) was gushing out water like it was a branch of the Huka Falls. I couldn't turn off the tap.

I called practically every plumber in both The Yellow Pages and from Google.  They were all out enjoying the only extremely fine day Wellington had been given this summer (okay, okay, I am exaggerating.  But only a little.).  Even one plumber answered me from his luxury hotel in Fiji to tell me he was definitely not available.

In the end, it was my own plumber who answered my call.  He arrived at 5pm that Sunday.  He fiddled around with the outside water outlets, installed a new washer, and  charged me $20.  I was ever-so grateful to see him.

Let's hope that hex on me doesn't continue...

That was the worst week that was

 Hi there

Last week I was on holiday in Nelson, South Island of New Zealand.

I arrived there on Friday 13th.  Yes well...  I didn't believe in that hocus pocus stuff.

On the following Monday there was a HUGE storm in Wellington, maybe the worst on record. Me? - I was swimming and sunbathing at the beautiful Tahunanui Beach.  The air temperature was a balmy 22c, there was no wind and everything was great.  I didn't find out about Wellington's storm until I was watching the news that evening.

I found out through a neighbour at home that my small aluminium-sided garden shed was absolutely crushed, my personal stuff scattered around the yard.  

I wanted to get home as fast as I could.  There was a backlog of travellers waiting to fly to Wellington, as the storm had vetoed all flights into the capital.   Not a hope for a seat until Thursday.  I was due to leave on Friday so it was suggested I stick to my schedule. 

I was a complete and utter nervous anxiety-ridden hopeless tearful wreck the rest of the time I was in Nelson.  What was happening to my stuff?  Unlike most people, I didn't keep garden implements in the shed; I had quite a few personal papers and important textbooks. 

Arriving home devastated me.  I couldn't do anything until I'd got in touch with two insurance companies.  When I'd finally got through to them I was told that sheds weren't included in either policy.  I contacted a young guy who had helped previously tidying up my garden.  He said he'd be there on the next day, Saturday, to help me clean up the yard.

 He never turned up.

Oh, and before I forget to tell you, my four loyal readers, I had visited the doctor within a couple of hours of my arrival home to find I had an infection that required rest and lots of pills. I also arrived home with a broken tooth from chomping into the overly battered fish at the Tahunanui fish and chip shop.

On Sunday I decided I had to tidy up everything by myself.  The first time I bent to the ground to pick up some rubbish, I ricked my back.  From then on, I used one of those tall sticks with claws on the end to pick up stuff.  Thanks, Jean, for that long ago sorry-you've-sprained-your-ankle gift.

It took me four painful hours, and seven big rubbish bags, to tidy up all the scattered stuff in my yard.  Thankfully my precious items had all been encased in plastic and only got slightly damp.  And the gardener young man did finally turn up; yesterday he'd been surfing and partying.  He kindly stacked the shed panels against the fence for me so as I could get to my clothesline.

Then I got in a row with my neighbour who didn't want the aluminium shed panels resting on our shared fence. 

Now I've had another tearful night because I don't know how to get rid of those darn panels

Altogether now, let's blame Friday the 13th..

I was so traumatised in Nelson that I never even thought to take photos.  Sitting around the airport, I took a photo of a plane, similar to the one I would be taking home.  Note the propellers.

Well, what a crappy place Wellington has become?

 Hi there

Its bad enough that the Wellington CBD has become a ghost town with so many empty shops ... and that the hardly-used and hated bicycle lanes are breeding ... and that many of my beloved cafes have closed in the last six months ... and that the Reading picture theatre has been shut down for years, since the earthquake ... and that the road around Hataitai Beach has been surrounded by roadworks for well over a year and probably will be for another year ... and that the weather has been pretty atrocious this summer...

... AND THAT the sewage plant at Moa Point will probably be discharging a huge and varied amount of sewage waste for months to come. Right into the Wellington coastal sea.

Since the catastrophe a week or so ago, when the plant's discharge pipe got blocked and the building flooded, south coast beaches have been closed for swimming:  no scuba diving, no fishing, no seafood gathering, no dogs on beaches ...

The hazardous water hasn't reached the inner harbour and Hataitai Beach yet.

 For daily information about the state of Wellington beach swimming, you can look up LAWA (land air water info).  You can follow the situation through the online news outlet Stuff.co.nz.  

Wahlburgers Sydney

 Hi there

above:  the path leading up to the Sydney Opera House.  Restaurants, including Wahlburgers, are on the right.

When I was in Sydney about four years back, I went to the USA-born restaurant chain Wahlburgers on Circular Quay, and ordered an apple sundae.  My goodness, it was the best sundae ever!  

I did have a fraction of trouble ordering that sundae because it was one of those restaurants where there is a phone barcode on each customer table.  The gentleman behind the bar counter couldn't quite understand that I wanted to order my sundae without ordering it through the bar code, that my older phone couldn't do the action.  Eventually, however, everything was ok and I've raved about that apple sundae ever since.

Before I went to Las Vegas in 2024 I read the online Wahlburgers menu.  No apple sundae on it.  I was devastated.  

When I went to Sydney last year, I rushed to Wahlburgers down on Circular Quay (it is just before the Opera House).  Aha! - apple sundae was on the menu.

By this time my old phone was completely useless.  Australia had already changed to 4G and me, being the most lazy person ever, was waiting until the last moment to buy the new model in New Zealand.

 So, I went inside to verbally order my sundae.

"I'm sorry?".  The guy at the counter looked puzzled.

"I want an apple sundae please," I repeated.

"You have to sit down and order it through the phone code."

"I don't have a phone," I said. "I'll pay with a card."

"You have to sit down - "

"Will the server come to me?" I asked.

"Um... Yes?"

I sat down at an outside table.  There was a beautiful view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. 

I waited.

And waited.

Finally, I called out to a passing server, "May I order please?"

He indicated the phone bar code on the table.  "You have to order through that."

"My phone isn't working," I said. 

"Ah...  I'll see what you'll have to do."  And he was gone

I waited for something to happen.

And I waited.  And waited.

I accosted another server.  "You have to order through this."  He pointed to the bar code on the table.

"Yes, I know that, but my phone isn't working."

"What do you want to order?" he asked.

"An apple sundae," I said.  Hooray, everything was going to work out.

"I'll see what I can do."

I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I accosted another server.  "Please, please, please can I have the apple sundae that I asked for?"

"I'll see what I can do."

I waited a long time.  I accosted another server.  "Where's my apple sundae?" I said.

I waited some more.

"I want my apple sundae!!!"

It finally arrived.  It wasn't ice cream.  It was complete liquid, 

I didn't ask for a straw to drink it.  I couldn't be bothered to argue with servers, chef, management.  I paid and  left the premises.  I stopped at a kiosk  further along the walkway and bought an ice cream cone ...

A beautiful day, but.... Oh, and what about the sand sharks?

 Hi there

I should've been at the beach today.  The sun was shining, the wind wasn't too bad, and it was in the right direction to guarantee that Hataitai Beach would be hidden away from any gale raging across the open sea.  I visualised all my friends there.

But I was busy cleaning the house.  For the plumber who is coming tomorrow.

Why do we do this?  Why should it matter?  I expect that we expect that the second after the plumber leaves our houses, he's going to start broadcasting the state of our kitchens through all social media platforms, radio stations, megaphones, his clients, neighbours....

All I am having done is the installation of a new tap over my kitchen sink. I cleaned the benches, I went into the under-sink cupboards.  I vacuumed the open plan kitchen/lounge/dining areas.  I scrubbed the toilet room floor (who knew, he might have wanted to use the loo?).  I scoured the bathroom floor and shower in case the plumber meant to compare one tap (faucet, if you're American) against another.  

I lugged the vacuum cleaner into the hallway, my bedroom, the spare rooms as all of those areas could be fractionally seen from the bathroom.  I cleaned the windows.

I should be thinking "To heck with the plumber.  Let him take me as he sees me..."  

I can't do that.  Mum's household lessons are heavily imprinted upon my mind.  I mean, the plumber is a Visitor.  Visitors have to come into a clean house.  Visitors are offered cups of tea and biscuits.

I am prepared ...

PS:  At Hataitai Beach last week there was a shoal of sand sharks all swimming close to the deck.   A solo one had been spotted there several years ago by The Little Mermaid; even though she knew that sand sharks are said to be harmless she said that she had never left the sea so fast as she did that day.

above:  Photo taken from the changing room deck at Hataitai Beach (a year or so ago)

My Pet Watch

 Hi there

Way back, there was a craze for a tiny little keychain computer called a Tamagotchi pet. The computer character on the screen only grew if you 'fed' it, and looked after it, and played with it.  All virtually, of course.  But, goodness, you were totally responsible for this tiny thing.  Ignore the Tamagotchi at your peril?  It would ... die?

Oh well, you could start again with a new baby Tamagotchi.  Easy-peasy.

A couple of years ago, I bought a (no, no, not a Tamagotchi) ...  I got an eco watch.  It doesn't have a battery.  You don't wind it up.  

My watch runs by ... light.  It stores up the light.  Any light:  the sun, an overhead electric light, a bedside lamp, a cinema screen, a dull day.  As long as there is even a tiny scrap of light, my ecco watch survives.

About a year ago, I slung it onto a shelf.  Upside down.  Then I went on holiday for a couple of weeks.  On my return my watch had stopped.

Oh dear ....  Had I killed it?  

Nope.  A couple of hours sitting in the sun, and my watch was back to normal. Phew....

I do worry about it staying alive. I used to stress when I swam with my watch until it convinced me (well, it was written on its back) that it could truly survive swimming to really deep depths in the sea.

Oh, I really love my watch.

But, goodness, it's rather like looking after a Tamagotchi ...

above: my ecco watch.  Whoops, I photographed it upside down.

Cleaning staff

 Hi there

Yesterday I was in the cafe of a huge organisation.  There was a person with cart, doing sweeping, cleaning, picking up, etc.  On the back of This person's dark jacket in stand-up white letters were the words "Hygiene Steward".

Loved it!

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE. Chapter 21, Customs Department Head Office, 1978

Hi there

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, CUSTOMS HO TYPING POOL WELLINGTON

Well, here I was, Typist-in-Charge at Customs.  It was the first time I wasn't actually typing anymore.  Just checking the work before it left the room.  And being responsible for any pool shennanigans.  If a typist had a personal problem that was affecting her work, I was required to learn about it.  And help her.

I  hoped that after my first horrible day at the place, my future would be brighter...

I had an ordinary electric typewriter, as did the typists.  Except for Mavis who had been given a prestige IBM Golfball Selectric machine.  And rightly so; it didn't take me long to realise she was the most accurate and speediest typist in the room.  And she let us know about it.  Constantly.  To be fair to Mavis, she was one of only two typists I came across in my entire career who was 100% accurate in everything she typed.

But her personality could have been better.  Mavis was a snob, never letting up about how she was better-bred than any of us, more intelligent than us, had a family who excelled in everything.  Mavis never argued; she just looked condescendingly down her nose at others - even the high-up bosses -  and pointed out in genteel tones that "No, you're wrong, of course..."  Think of Leonard's mother in "The Big Bang Theory": that was Mavis to a T.  Several heads of divisions confided to me that they found her ... difficult.

Nicole was a good basic grade typist, a dark-haired woman in her twenties, who looked like she had just stepped out from a Sunsilk commercial.  When our section was granted one more IBM Golfball typewriter (One???  Talk about stingy), I awarded it to Nicole.  Sullen Nicole, who never smiled at me.  I was always in some sort of paranoia when I caught her giggling to her friends, and then looking straight at me, along with the smirk to end all smirks.

However. after Nicole had sat and passed her TCB typing exam, she thanked me for coaching her in both the speed tests and the confused manuscript practise papers from previous exams. She hadn't even known the Trades Certification Board exams existed.  Or that there was a salary raise for passing.

One afternoon, the typing room door swung open.  An officer raced in:

"I need two girls," he shouted.

"Um...?"  What did he mean?  My mind conjured up several naughty reasons.

"We're short of female customs officers down on the wharf.  We want two officers for frisk duties."

Now, here is where it gets so interesting about being a typist at Customs...

We were all customs officers.  A title bestowed on everyone who worked there.  I think this came from the fact that (real) head office customs officers worked on rotation jobs.  They moved from section to section.  It was so they could learn every job in every area and never be caught out...

Until...  Well, now.

Nicole and Mia shot up their hands.  "Pick us!"  shouted Mia, the bubbly junior.

"Only older typists please," said the officer.

Trudy and Nicole trotted off.  They never did tell us what happened.  Confidentiality was paramount.

Occasionally Customs sniffer dogs came into the building.  I was told there was one floor they were never allowed on.  The floor where drugs were kept.  Samples of many individual drugs had to be kept on hand to train the dogs, but because there were so many different substances kept in the one room, the sniffer dogs would get a little manic if they were brought onto that floor.  

Every Friday evening, after work, was party time.  Lots of people trooped upstairs to an officer's room for drinks and chips.  Alcohol supplied.  A light-hearted rumour was that the drinks were confiscated bottles that came with the compliments of naughty passengers entering New Zealand who had tried the smuggling game.

The 'girls' loved typing about the smugglers.  Some stories were hilarious.  Like the rather well-built gentleman who'd squashed himself into a woman's costly fur coat - a very small size - as he stepped out from the plane.  He pretended it was his own personal fur coat and that he'd owned it for ages. Really, it was brand new and bought overseas for his wife, a dainty woman waiting for him in the terminal.

Homely typist Marilyn had never been known as a drinker.  She belonged to a religious organisation, and stuck to lemonade. But on one Friday night after she had been asked many times by the officers whether she really didn't want an alcoholic drink....

"I'll have a gin," said Marilyn.

We typists all but fell over with shock...

Though Customs had practically all of the building, we didn't have the first floor.  The Public Service Investment Society was there.  It was a bank for government and allied workers, and also a  shop where customers could buy things cheaper than at 'outside' stores.  Everything from make-up to refrigerators.

above: PSIS shop, make-up section.  Stock photo.  From the 1960's, judging by the clothing and hairstyle.

And then - suddenly - the girls in the pool kept getting calls from friends and loved ones.  Our one phone was ultra-busy that day.

"The PSIS has gone into liquidation!"

What?

So many public servants had money in the PSIS bank.  I only had $400, but a friend over at Education had that very day been going to draw out enough money to pay a travel agent for her trip to England.

"I'll go check," I shouted.  I ran down the stairs to the first floor.  The PSIS doors were locked shut.  A dozen or so people were milling around the doors.

It turned out that it wasn't quite liquidation but very close.  A government receiver was brought in to try to sort out the bank's finances.  Other banks immediately helped those in urgent circumstances, like my friend.  It took a few years but everyone eventually got their money back.  That receiver was worth his salary in gold.  The PSIS bank eventually turned into the Co-Operative Bank.

After nearly two years in Customs I was browsing through the Public Service Official Circular and, bingo!, there was a Supervising Typist-in-Charge job going at Health Head Office.

Once before, a lower-graded job had been advertised in Palmerston North and I had casually mentioned to the room, "Oh I'd love to put in for this position.  I used to live in Palmerston.  Great place."

 Weeks later the Palmerston  position was filled.  Mavis read about the appointment in the PSOC.

 "Oh, it was all just talk with you then?" She snipped. "About applying for the Palmerston job?"

But as for the Health Department position ...  I'd worked at Health Regional Office,  I was on the direct grade underneath the advertised position, and I now had my shorthand-typing exam.  Hoorah, I knew teaching shorthand to myself for a year, every night after dinner, would eventually pay off.

Of course I put in for the job.

And I got it.

 On my last day at Customs, I brought in a 'shout' for morning tea.  Chips,  sandwiches I had made myself, a couple of sponges, sausage rolls.

Mavis sidled up to me.  "If you don't mind my saying this, your sandwiches are a bit dry.  You should have brought them wrapped up in a damp tea-towel..."

......

Dress Sizes

 Hi there

Way back in the 1960s, it was stated that a size 14 was the average kiwi dress size.  The curvy models and starlets were noted as being a size 14 too,  or occasionally a size 12 (tch, tch, so thin).

A couple of weeks ago I was in a dress shop.  The clothes were on racks marked small, medium, large...

Size 14 was on the large size rack.

Sigh.  What will the average size dress be in another 50 years - a size 0? 

Oh, wait,,,  There is a size 0 right now.  In British size charts.  Repeat-sigh.

Oriental Bay, Wellington

 Hi there

Yesterday :(Sunday) I hopped on the bus and went down to the Oriental Bay area in Wellington.  It is supposedly named after an early pioneer ship.

Oriental Bay beach is sort of the snobs' beach where the golden sand is periodically brought in from elsewhere in the country and raked over to perfection.  It's a city beach.  Wellingtonians and tourists love to leisurely promenade along the pavement.

In the early 1900's  when my mother was a young woman, and over every Easter, most Wellingtonians would parade around Oriental Bay in their Sunday best, striving for one-upmanship in the fashion stakes of the day.  On the top open level of the rotunda, a brass band would play.  I believe the rotunda is now being brought back to former glory.

Tucked at the side of the main beach is Freyberg Beach where I swam yesterday.  The water was lovely and there was a southerly wind which promised well for the waters at Oriental Bay but not so much for Hataitai Beach where the sea performs calmer in a northerly.

The hard gritty sand at Oriental Bay always reminds me of kitty litter....

above:  Oriental Bay.  Framed picture straight from my hall wall.  The red roof the other side of the bay is the rotunda.