Get Fresh at the Weekend (Showing Out)

Ah the weekend, lazy mornings on bed, a relaxed breakfast, the bliss of not having to shave and time to relax with friends. Mel and her kin, Kim, meanwhile urged us to get fresh at the weekend, implying that during the week we ignore deodorant and ablutions?

Perhaps we are meant to spray “room fragrance” and Febreze around to make the place seem more alluring over the two days.

On Saturday we escaped to Browns Bay, a pleasant seaside suburb with shops, bakeries and cafes galore, in order to meet a friend of Glenn’s. I had yet to meet this friend in person, and human nature being what it is, set out to make a good impression.

With this in mind I selected a very eatable black forest gateau slice, complete with a decent fork to partition it and deliver it to my mouth in suave sophisticated gestures. A sensible latte arrived in a cup (with a handle, so not messing about there either). Our guest arrived and we stood up to greet her, like a gentleman would……..and then knocked the table, so coffee spilled over the brim and filled the saucer. Oops!

Nothing disturbs the intimacy of a cosy meeting than the clash of china against glass, and the froth of coffee teetering over the edge of it’s vessel like the waters of the Ruhr pushing against the Mohne Dam.

It was with a tangible sense of relief that we relocated to the beach, to catch some rays. (sun not manta). We chose a shady nook of trees overlooking the sand, waves lapping the shore, and a clear view of Rangitoto, our friendly local neighbourly volcano. Dormant and not very fresh.

After a good hour of more chat, a sparkling use of wit and a liberal dose of jokes and puns, I resolved to move the car, which was parked in a metered space.

My leg by now was quite numb, from bad (but sophisticated) posture and lack of movement, so I said my goodbyes, and stood up.

Except I didn’t stay up for long.

I suddenly had no support in my legs and fell backwards to the ground. Oh how very sophisticated I must have appeared.

“it’s all right, I’m OK, just numb….” And made to stand up again.
The sandy grass kissed me once more as I plummeted earthwards.

Hmm, time to shake the old leg to freshen up my circulation, and hastily make a respectable exit. I limped off like a late forties ex diabetic with organ transplants, collected the car and quickly drove off.

Thriller

Darkness falls across the land. 

The midnight hour is close at hand. 

Creatures crawl in search of treats. 

To terrorize your darkened streets...

We give grateful thanks to that annual US Halloween import: endless news items about things most "spooksome", all set to Michael Jackson's Thriller, for maximum chill factor.

However I do not appreciate that other American "holiday" (its just an evening!) custom, the Tricking and the Treating. The English of course are immune to that unexpected knock on the door, being raised as we are on a diet of Cherry Door knocking and Knock Down Ginger. (if you aren't aware of this childhood prank then do please rush to your local UK embassy or High Commission and knock on the door)

This year of course, we completely forgot to buy some sweet treats to throw at the little ghouls and goblins, which of course usually invites the wrath of the miserable parent waiting for their horrible tricksters at the end of the drive. Not wishing to encounter any damage to our garden this year I decided to lay low and ignore any knocks form the "other side".....

The first came at 4.30, as I lay low, surrounded by books and my ipad (no TV as that would alert them to my presence) The dogs barked and howled, and eventually after many taps the ghouls went away)
This was repeated every few minutes, as the procession of vile costumes continued apace.
Hark! My phone beeped.....Had they worked out how to trick or treat by text? Thankfully no it was Glenn.

"Shall I get some lollies?"

"YES!, I'm trapped in the house surrounded by the undead, all manner of foul demons, witches, warlocks, wolves, orcs, plus  Batman and a goat.

After yet more hidden spectral manifestations at the door, the lollies arrived and I felt sufficiently armed like a Victorian vicar replete with garlic and silver.

Time to succumb to the inevitable......Switch on the Pumpkin light

Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!

A B Rogan? Gosh!

Have a curry on a Friday Night? What a capital idea!

Grab a menu, peruse the vast array of wonderful exotica dishes, pickup the phone, and place the order.

A well tried and tested ritual across the globe. Well perhaps not in or Mumbai, or the province of Madhya Pradesh, unless of course you want to curry favour with the locals.But enough of the terrible pun jabs.

Sure enough we too joined the very British ritual last night, and ordered the obligatory Butter Chicken, Lamb Korma and not one garlic naan, but extravagantly opted for 2! Normally we share as they are so generously proportioned, like an elephant, and tear it two, a sort of Naan asplit.

In little over twenty minutes it was ready and I set off, eagerly expectant of the prize to be taken at the end of the drive. I parked my trusty steed in the car park and walked up to the magical palace of light that is the local Masala emporium.

I was met with wafts of Eastern spices, tandoors, and the sizzle of meats as the waiters delivered their game to the diners, eager maharajahs awaiting their feasts.

Greeted by the staff like an extra from the Jewel of the Crown,I was ushered to the reception to pay for our banquet. My card was charged and the food was furnished in front of me with a flourish and a smile.

As I turned to leave I saw the food rating on the wall.....
B for Butter Chicken.
Bother.

I wondered what catastrophe had befallen the normally A rated Masala? Had they perhaps been infested with a plague of marauding gourmet tigers?

Or had the meat delivery had been interrupted mid wicket and rained off? 
I pondered these thoughts as I drove home.

By this time I was a ravenous vulture, ready to devour anything, no matter what it's sauce.

However the spectre of unhealthy food handling processes still was there. My partner Glenn suggested it was more likely to do with their paperwork and written procedures, and a B was still safe. After 2 seconds of deliberating we promptly scoffed the lot.

Glad to report that the night passed without incident with no need to carry on up the Khyber.

Shattered Dreams

Disturbed nights perhaps from 1987 with Johnny Hates Jazz, an obviously Fats Domino phobic ensemble.

Now it was always stressed to  me as I was growing up, maturing from tiddler to tot, bookworm to swot, that the word hate was quite wrong.

To hate is a vile expression and too extreme, when really we mean to dislike, averse to, or just not in favour at the moment.

Johnny, whoever he may be, for it is not specified, has probably a mild dislike for jazz music, unfamiliar with the wide ranging musical genre. In fact to quote the Encarta of the new age, Wikipoodle, Jazz was described by one it’s leading proponents as 

“that it is music that includes qualities such as swing, improvising, group interaction, developing an 'individual voice', and being open to different musical possibilities” There you see, clear as mud, and how anyone can “hate” that, is beyond comprehension.

Just like the sad Johnny and his Gershwinphobia, I too have had shattered dreams. Dreams where in my weird world of medical dependence, outcomes would match or excel expectations. Take my recent brush with an angioplasty/groin grabbing operation, I was expecting that following my interrupted procedure a while back. I would be slotted in for surgery quite soon……

Alas it will probably be summertime….and the living is easy…when my appointment comes through. Oh and it wont be a simple rescheduled operation, that would be too easy. No the fish may be jumping but I will need to start from the bottom, to see the surgeon (to make sure I am OK to have the operation) Just like I did 6 weeks ago. Boohoo.

Now hush little darling don’t you cry, or you’ll upset Johnny again.

Where's the Party?

Asked Madonna in the collection of days that became universally acknowledged as 1986,when days were sunnier, the summers longer and global warming was something Mums did in the kitchen with a fried egg..

Whilst the Aged One was referring to glamourous nights out in Miami, Chicago and Puerto Rico, I on the other hand ventured to the bacchanalian hotspot that is Ponsonby. This licensed strip of wine bars, gastro pubs and high end fashion retail is Auckland’s answer to South Kensington, with perhaps slightly less dinosaurs and tube stations.

Off we swept, parking near to the venue, with the intent of swishing in and making an entrance, waving and greeting various acquaintances as one would long lost celebrities. The reality was somewhat different, as we squeezed and pushed our way in through the patrons to the bar. We joined some friends and tried shouting our “hulloos” over the music…

No Kylie, Madonna, or anything more vintage than August 2013, but a heavy fusion of drums and wails in Icelandic, or Welsh, or Gujarati…

The usual international party folk were there; stunning visions crafted from the pages of Vogue or Chanel, property investors from the Far East, the odd racing car driver (yes really), and even Mr and Mrs "Even More Normal Than We Were", from Late 80's Essex, if their hair was to be believed. We strained to hear each other over the pulsating beats as we circulated, but I soon learnt how to communicate using the international language of dog owners…

Really? What kind...2 Papillons?

How lovely/cute/brave etc    (delete and insert appropriate doggy adjective)

Papillons not withstanding, it was time to usher in the cake…….to welcome in our host’s 40^th year. Young Bastard.

Following the usual planned “surprise” speeches and gift opening (Oooohs and Arrhhhs), we soon returned to our collective bonhomie.

As our group was finally entertained the racing car driver, we tried not to gasp at his outlandish tales of daredevil shenanigans, with both petrol and diesel variants, whilst I decided to pretend I didn't drive, and certainly not a Peugeot 207 GTi with a GB sticker on it.

Finally we ebbed away into the distance, seduced by the time and the fresh air entering by the now clear doorway.....

It then dawned on me as we slowly walked back to the car, I had really enjoyed myself, good company, thumping music, wild atmosphere, even if we didn't have a racing car.

Not bad for a Tuesday lunchtime.