Would I Lie to You?

Questioned Annie Lennox as the Eurythmics clambered up the charts in 1985, her dulcet Scottish timbre roaring like the motorbike featured in the video. I gather that her coquettish  line of query was intended for her sceptical lover, the lyric doused with heavy sarcasm.

I certainly don't think she was questioning her associate's citizenship.

Unlike the administrator in my local MRI clinic this week.
I was asked to have a MRI scan of my lower limbs to ascertain the cause of some leg ache during walking. The letter duly arrived in the post and I opened it to check the date.
Now, letters from our District Health Board always state that you must be eligible to receive state funded treatment, and that you may be asked to provide some form of proof of that eligibility.

Presumably this is in an effort to restrict services to NZ residents and citizens, whilst charging citizens from other nations for accessing the free services here.
As a Brit living abroad I have already provided my passport and visa and this has been kept on record by my health board.
Fast forward to last week and contained within the DHB's Missive was the usual proof of eligibility clause, but it had been highlighted in yellow.

I thought nothing more of it.

Until of course until the receptionist at the MRI scan asked to see proof of my entitlement.
How galling, I mused. It must be my exclusively UK accent, my Surrey tones entwined with flecks of Northampton. A marvellous vocal brew, in case you haven't heard it, a blend of BBC English and the odd tone from the shires, "me old ducks". All of which could conceivably allow some people to assume I am not normally resident here.
Piffle and a nonsense, or should I say "Would i lie to you"

I explained my long history here, and my transplant in 2011, asking her to check my history on the system.

She appeared peeved and disappointed as she registered me in for my scan, managing to get in that if I had not been eligible I would have been the recipient of a very heft bill in the post.

Of course no demand appeared, and my leg scans were fine.

 In May I shall be eligible to become a New Zealand citizen, should I so desire, but hopefully without any noticeable change to my diction or slang, but will be asked no doubt to provide evidence of my new nationhood.

Annie might have said about the whole episode:

Here comes the rain again, falling on my head like a MRI

Footloose

And fancy free?

Of course nothing is truly free, even Kenny Loggins charged us one pound ninety nine to buy his musical masterpiece, which accompanied the toe tappin’, foot jiving, celluloid creation from 1984. Recently remade, it inspired a generation of plimsoll dancing (I believe they are pumps in the US) and legwarmer toting dancers at every school disco.

Certainly there has been less “toe-tappin” over here on the peninsula, as I have been in need of some podiatry TLC.
Slightly more cracked than a peanut brittle, my  heels have taken to looking tired and forlorn, even downtrodden, especially after 2 weeks at the beach where jandals/flip flops are the mode de rigeur.

Off then I hastened to claim one of my “free” appointments at the local podiatrist. Free due to the long ravaging effects of that ole devil called diabetes and a smidgeon of sympathy from the local health authority.

Provided of course that it has been referred by a G.P.

This simple admin procedure had been overlooked by my doctor, due to his discovering the Lord and moving to Melbourne fairly sharpish. Personally I have never thought of Melbourne as the likely residence of God, but then I might have misheard that at Sunday School.

Or perhaps as an ex-diabetic, my GP felt that my feet would miraculously recover from 40 years of diabetic neuropathy?

In the end I politely waited as  my sparkly new GP rushed through the prior approval to the podiatrist so that I could get a much needed foot scrub. After a thorough buffing, polishing, and a final deep moisturising they were done for another 3 months.

And now my feet are as soft and smooth as a soft and smooth thing entering the annual National Softest and Smoothest Thing competition, where no doubt I would have won after all the care that has been lavished on them. I need to ensure they are moisturised well, though shall probably avoid Bacon fat.

These are my real feet, albeit in 2006 in Fiji.
No feet were harmed in the making of this blog.

The Boys of Summer

Flapped Don Henley in his flight away from the Eagles, perching high in its' eyrie amidst the charts of 1985. A number 2 from 1985 no less.

The video for which featured various stages in Henley’s life, with a strong focus on youth.

and displaying athletic aquatic prowess, all in stylish black and white.

Of course he wasn’t referring to my local resort, the oddly named Manly, which delights in the distinctly separated Big Manly and Little Manly beaches,

where last week, during the stiflingly humid NZ summer, I found myself being coerced into the waves.  Gasps of horror ensue. I am as fond of the sea as is a camel, the ship of the desert.

Although hailing from a nation of maritime adventurers, I doubt whether Britain would have been deemed as “Great” if Drake, Nelson and Bligh had been enthused by my particular loathing of the sea, being more like Cap'n Birdseye:

Not from an inability to swim, I am a perfectly proficient swimmer, thank you. (Just imagine a backpedaling otter).

No, 'tis the cold water, seaweed  and the saltiness which I dislike. So having being brought up on annual sojourns to such temperate hotspots as Cromer, Grange over Sands and the Isle of Wight, my dislike of  the briny swells that surround our coasts has been long entrenched.

I have managed to avoid Neptune’s empire so far, bar a brief spell in the warm seas in Fiji, (where I burnt my foot on hot sand and developed an infected appendage, thanks to my diabetes)

And so it remained, until this week.

While bush fires sweep Australia and NZ’s South Island, the heat down under this summer has driven me down to the sea, to dip my toe in the warm expanse of the Tasman Sea.  And what a pleasant experience it has been. Big Manly beach is blessed with warm sandy safe waters, with not too many visitors to witness my doggy paddle and back flops. Like a gracious narwhal I spear through the small waves, only to emerge spluttering with a mouthful of salty water and in dire need of some eye rubbing. But what fun, and only a three minute walk from the comfort of a shower back home!

Excellent, and I only put on 200g over the Christmas period, aided perhaps by my new found buoyancy?  The buoys of summer indeed.

Tempus Fugit

And so the New Year has passed uneventfully, apart from the small matter of 3,000 screaming teenagers swaggering and jostling their way to the park next to our rented holiday apartment in the kiwi seaside town of Whangamata. A thronged mass of pimpled, drainpipe wearing youth advanced to the sea front, tonsorial spikes a flutter, as they texted and facebooked their New Year salutations to all and sundry. The glow of their cell phones lit up the night sky like the annual convention of NZ glowworm fanciers.

Whangamata, beachside surf town of 5,000 people, swells to 30.000 over Christmas and the New Year, with hordes of surfers, beach types, fishers, and families looking for a traditional NZ holiday:

For those of you with no knowledge of Maori pronunciation  allow me to explain the shibboleth:

Whangamata, (which means in English: whanga = bay,  mata = obsidian stones) does not end with the rhyming sound matter, but rather ma tar, and so locals know the towns as Fong-a-matar.

Anyway, thyme is of the essence, as they say in herb flavour enhancing factories...

A swift review of a couple of  blog stats for last year:

I managed 59 posts in all, which as all you mathematical genii will instantly know equates to....
(I'm waiting for a mathematical genius to tell me)

1.13 posts per week, or just under 5 posts a month.

There have been over 15,000 visitors to the site, with the majority hailing from The UK, the USA and then Russia.

The most popular post was Breakfast at Tiffanys, closely followed by Ra Ra Rasputin.
Clearly Boney M gets googled frequently, as does Rasputin, but I suspect the main reason for it's popularity lies with the inclusion of Russian billionaire and Chelsea FC boss, Roman Abramovich blatantly swearing in cyrillic, which obviously pleases the dry Russian sense of humour.

Yes my world is a silly place, full of frolics and general silliness, so please drop in from time to time to check my updates. This year I hope to branch out to Google+ and perhaps tumblr to enable easier posting and updates, but we shall see.

If you are on Facebook  please use the 'like' button if you read my blog posts and I encourage you to leave comments. Sometimes blogging feels like a very one sided process.

 If you are not on Facebook, why not?? (and who isnt these days it?) posts gets tweeted as well.

Happy New Year.