Trendy But Casual

Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow

We spent last New Year's Eve in New Zealand: the weather was good, and we crammed in a lot, as I recall - a trip up to Warkworth to have lunch with my cousin, Len; then dinner on Cheltenham Beach (the garden used in the old Telecom London/Auckand ad) with our friends Sarah and Hamish; then back to my sister's house, which was overrun with teenagers ("who the hell is that?" someone said when we walked in); then drinks at a friend's place down the road, followed by a scramble through the mean streets of Mt Albert to watch the fireworks over the Sky Tower. When we got back to my sister's house, the teenagers were eventually herded out (my sister: "how soon can we make them leave?") and we cleaned up.

This year we've spent the day in planes and airports - St Louis, where big thunderstorms were rolling in, to Denver, still snowy from yesterday's blizzard, to LA, where there are flowers in bloom and we walked to Terminal Two delighted to be outside without a coat. It's already 2011 in New Zealand, and in Britain, but we'll be celebrating tonight somewhere over the Pacific. By 'celebrating' I mean by taking Nyquil tablets and falling asleep during an episode of NEW ZEALAND'S NEXT TOP MODEL, which I hope will be available via in-flight entertainment. TM and I have been sick as dogs all week with flu, and I lost my voice some time on Tuesday night. (It's Friday now.) You'll know how sick we are when I say we've been sitting here in the Koru Club at LAX for the past four hours and all we've been drinking is hot soup and mint tea. (There's free wine in the Koru Club, as well as yesterday's NEW ZEALAND HERALD and today's DAILY MAIL - which TM is carrying home for my mother: I don't want to be seen with it.)

I'll blame the illness for my complete indolence today. Instead of getting work done, I've been watching episodes of 30 ROCK and COMMUNITY on my computer, and cheating on NYT crossword puzzles (I have a book). Considering I've worked on chapters of a novel in the Koru Club during previous visits, this is a poor show.

This past year, 2010, has been busy rather than serene. A novel written, as well as some stories, and numerous magazine columns. I spent most of May in New Zealand, which always makes me happy, and we had a brilliantly lazy holiday in Mexico in June. I took a course in script editing at the BBC in London in February, and got the chance to teach with (and learn from) Eric Overmyer in the spring. We worked at Jazz Fest for the fifth year running, and somehow I managed to miss Mardi Gras altogether. Big upheavals, obviously, with the move from New Orleans to Glasgow. We had to sell/give away a lot of things, and abandon Salon M, and say goodbye to a lot of friends, and drive ourselves crazy with stress. We're still not settled: we now have things in Kiwi Storage in Auckland and Kangaroo Storage (really) in Glasgow, as well as in the homes of my sister, my brother, TM's parents, TM's aunt and ... who else? Speak up if we're storing something with you. Please don't sell it or throw it away. (I'm talking to my brother here.) We'll round up all our belongings one day and maybe have some kind of home.

We just spent a great week in London, arriving by train and leaving by plane but managing to elude all the snow-related cancellations - saw Alan Ayckbourn's SEASON'S GREETINGS at the National Theatre, and the fantastic Gauguin show at Tate Modern; queued to buy macaroons at Laduree, and to attend the St Paul's Cathedral carol service; saw lovely friends, and had amazing (if unfortunately costly) meals at Ottolenghi and Moro. Here are some pictures. The first three are shop windows - Selfridges (with a tribute to my hero, Frank Sidebottom), a swanky shop on Jermyn Street, and Fortnum & Mason.

The next group are from our wanderings: Borough Market in Southwark, Leadenhall Market in the City, the window at Ottolenghi in Islington (we were staying just down the road), and the view from our seats in St Paul's.

I suspect this post may have the forced cheeriness of one of those Christmas round-robin letters that list only the triumphs of the year. Rest assured, my Schadenfreude friends: there have been some resounding low notes, and I'm staggering into the new year a little punch-drunk and unsure. Maybe it's just the Nyquil, or the prospect of our third plane journey of the day - this one twelve hours long. Maybe, as I've often claimed, uncertainty and insecurity are not entirely bad things.

No resolutions this year, aside from the usual - to become EVEN MORE glamorous. I do have some New Year's wishes, if they count:

1. That Cafe Baru on Magazine Street in New Orleans fixes its lighting issue in the back room, because it's one of my favorite places to go but that shrill lighting is a deal-breaker.

2. That instead of buying me gift cards for Aeropostale, a shop for 12-year-olds, my in-laws will buy me a gift card for SKY MALL, so I'm forced to buy e.g. a camouflage Slanket, or exact replicas of the earrings Hermione wore to the Yule Ball, or fake rocks to position around the garden I don't have.

3. That people will stop inserting the line "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough" into "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," when the original line is much, much better and almost always applicable.

Unlike resolutions, all of these things are totally achievable, I think, with a bit of good will and application.

I'm lying about the resolutions, of course. I have just one, and I was reminded of it by a slab of the Berlin Wall outside the Imperial War Museum.

Happy new year, everyone. If you're in Auckland this January, please get in touch. T. MIddy is available for mini-golf tournaments. I will be working a lot, but never during cocktail hour.

 

Stories

Some of my stories were broadcast on Radio New Zealand this week, though I forgot to mention it to anyone but my sister. Next week, however, more will be broadcast, if anyone has time to listen. All go out at 10:45 AM on National. Monday and Tuesday: Mon Desir. Wednesday: Bright. Thursday: Many Mansions. Friday: The Argyle. All these stories are from my collection, Forbidden Cities.

I like the way the Radio NZ site refers to me as "Paul Morris." My first-ever story publication was Bright back in 2000, and I was listed as Paul Morris on one of the pages. It's quite hard to be the Oprah of New Zealand when people keep changing my gender.

Also on the RNZ web site: the engineer is named as Darryl Stack. I went to primary school with someone called Darryl Stack. Surely they are related? We West Aucklanders get around.

Tomorrow T. MIddy and I head off to Aberdeen, because Glasgow is not cold enough. I'm taking my computer, so maybe I'll have time on the train to write a post about my ongoing battles with various British people in positions of influence (radio, newspaper, book publishing) about American geography. In the meantime, here is some cutting social commentary from T. Middy - after a morning spent listening to BBC Radio Four.

TM: I don't like Women's Year.

PM: It's Women's HOUR.

TM: But it feels like Women's Year. That's why I don't like it. When is Men's Hour?

Edinburgh. Rugby. We win.

This Saturday, November 13, T. Middy and I went to Edinburgh on the train to see the All Blacks SMASH Scotland at Murrayfield. (TM: "I'll support Scotland in every sport except rugby." I, however, still cannot forgive Scottish soccer for anti-NZ comments made by the Scotland manager during the 1982 World Cup, so both soccer and rugby are on my non-support list. On will-support list: curling.)

There was slight sport-related chaos in Glasgow on Saturday, involving fluorescent-vested police in the subway, queuing systems at Queen Street station, and a ban on alcohol sales on trains between Glasgow and Edinburgh that afternoon. Rangers were playing too that day, so the subways were crowded. Most of the Rangers supporters were wearing poppies.

It was a cold, clear day in Edinburgh. Already Christmas, according to Coca-Cola.

We strolled George Street and had a late lunch at an Italian restaurant, which used butter pats to express its divided sporting loyalties.

Along with everyone French-speaking in Edinburgh, we caught a bus to Murrayfield and then walked the last leg.

We had brilliant seats in the West Stand, surrounded by Scottish fans - many in kilts, some in Viking horns, one in a blue-and-white bodysuit (sensibly warm) and some in a popular ginger wig/tartan cap get-up that TM has threatened to buy. When I sang the NZ national anthem, I couldn't hear another voice joining in, though I could see a scattering of other NZ supporters nearby. Including this NZ supporter, who claims he couldn't join in because he only knows the first two lines.

The pre-show was a fantastic pipe band, displayed here swirling onto the pitch in out-of-focus artiness, then the anthems, then the haka (also slightly out of focus, because I was over-excited), partly drowned out by the whistles and jeers of Scottish fans. They weren't quite so vocal as the match progressed. I wonder why? Could it be because Scotland only scored once (a penalty) while the All Blacks converted seven tries?

At half-time, T. MIddy asked me about the "half-time show." He's used to America. Cheerleaders, mascots, a band; maybe even Ashlee Simpson. At Murrayfield, we had something much better - a sing-song to a souped-up, blasted-out version of"The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond."

More than 50,000 fans were there at Murrayfield. I've never attended such a big international sporting event. The only other All Blacks test we've seen live was against France in Wellington, where the capacity is more like 35,000. I'd like to say this was the biggest sporting event of any kind I've attended, but unfortunately I've sat through an endless LSU game at Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge (capacity: 92,000) - the longest, hottest day of my life.

We got tickets for Murrayfield, by the way, at the urging of my father, who went there to see the All Blacks play Scotland in January, 1964. That game was a draw. Scotland has played New Zealand twenty-eight times over the past 105 years. The All Blacks have drawn twice (in 1964 and 1983) and won all the rest.

Highlights: watching the amazing Sonny Bill Williams. Catching up with my boyfriend Richie McCaw. Seeing Dan Carter in full-length. The last time I saw him, he was a life-size paper fold-out acquired, via a milk promotion, by my niece.

Some final rugby links, which many of you may have seen. The first is the All Blacks showing off in an ad for Sky and the second is a parody of that video by the Brumbies.

Kia kaha, Scotland. If you play England, I'll support you.

 

 

 

 

 

New Zealand, South Africa, History, etc

I'm in high spirits this morning: refreshed after an incredible trip to Mexico (expect pictures later today) and energized by New Zealand's historic equalizer in this morning's World Cup match against Slovakia.

The last time the All Whites were in the World Cup, it was 1982, my first year at university. The World Cup was held in Spain, so we had to get up in the middle of the night to watch games. We could see lights on all over Auckland. When NZ scored for the first time against Scotland, my father - seated on the coffee table at that point, possibly because he was waiting for the kettle to boil for our Milo - jumped so high in the air that his hands brushed the ceiling. The Scottish manager at the time had made numerous dismissive public comments about the All Whites, saying they shouldn't be in the World Cup at all. While NZ lost all its games, it scored twice against Scotland - enough to scupper Scotland's chances of moving through to the next round. Do not cross us, managers of other nations.

Twenty-eight years later, New Zealand is ranked 78th in the world, just below Wales and just above Albania. Slovakia, today's opponents, is ranked 38th. The other two teams in Group F are Paraguay (30) and Italy (5).Right now everyone has paid one match, everyone has scored one goal, and everyone has one point in the table.

This morning I only had to get up at 6:30 to watch the match. When it was over, less than a minute after Winston Reid scored our equalizer, I rang my father, thinking he'd be up. It's the middle of the night in New Zealand, and my father is a little older these days: he was in bed, taping the game. I gave him a breathless account of the match. My mother picked up another phone, listened for a few moments, and said "I don't know what this is about," maintaining her usual stand on all sporting tournaments.

Well done, All Whites. (The team moniker follows an unwritten law in NZ, that all national teams must have the words "all" or "black" or "silver" in their names.) And thanks to Winston Reid for choosing to play for New Zealand rather than Denmark, where he lives. Now come on Ivory Coast: beat Portugal!

Kashin

Kashin

Sad news from home today: Kashin the elephant died at Auckland Zoo yesterday. I know it’s ridiculous that I’m moved to public lament when this blog fails to commemorate the deaths of Bergman, Pinter, Antonioni et al, but I guess I’m sentimental. (And not alone.)

Kashin was one of only three elephants in New Zealand. There’s another Indian elephant, called Burma, at Auckland Zoo, and an African elephant down in Nelson, in a circus. My sister remembers Jamuna, who used to give rides at the zoo: Jamuna arrived in 1923 and died in 1965. My sister probably also remembers the chimpanzees who held tea parties: this was stopped before I was born. All I remember is the Punch and Judy shows, which involved no inconvenience to animals, apart from persistent cruelty to the puppet crocodile.

The funds for Kashin were raised by the ASB, which in those days stood for the Auckland Savings Bank. It now calls itself the ASB Bank, which seems ridiculous to me, but presumably makes sense to its new Australian owners. Kashin arrived at Auckland Zoo when she was four and I was seven, in December, 1972. A public competition came up with the elephant’s name, though it has a Hindi meaning as well, allegedly unrelated to money. My brother and I were very excited about the arrival of a baby elephant, though he would no doubt deny this now. (He has a very non-elephant-like memory.) Like almost every other child of our generation, we got plastic Kashin-the-elephant piggy banks from the ASB. We had several of them, as I recall. I’m sure that one, at least, is stashed away in my storage unit in Albany, along with all the other jumble of my childhood.

When we were children, the best thing to see in the Auckland Museum was the gigantic stuffed form of Rajah, a male elephant who lived at the zoo in the 30s until he became too violent and unruly and had to be put to death. (It was seen as the humane thing at the time, apparently, because the alternative was spending his life chained up.)  Australians are also implicated here: before he arrived in Auckland, Rajah was being terrorized by the public in Hobart, and this is now blamed for his anger-management issues. I think he’s still on display at the Museum, though the latest generation of curators despise him, no doubt, as a relic from a less enlightened age, and see the exhibit as capitulation to trashy public taste.

Today the Auckland zoo is all environments rather than enclosures; the old elephant house is rented out for parties and wedding receptions. It backs onto Old Mill Road, just where the road takes a steep climb. When we were children, we used to beg my father to drive this way at night – when we were going back and forth to my grandparents’ place in Ponsonby – so we could see the elephants. Just a glimpse of those massive dark backs, like upturned hulls, safe in their pens for the night.

The Auckland Zoo is closed today: they’re in mourning for Kashin. Here in New Orleans, it’s late afternoon, which means the McMain band is outside wailing and braying and trumpeting in the school yard, and our new next-door neighbor is practicing scales on her French horn. The sound of elephants, perhaps, but not quite the same thing.

 

Wellington

I'm just back from an overnight trip to Wellington, and already I'm esconced in the Koru Club in Auckland's  International departures: I had just a few hours at home today before returning to the airport. I just took a photo of the chocolate brownie I'm eating (with real cream and chocolate sauce), so I can torment my father in a week's time when I'm back. I'm not eating this because I'm hungry, of course: I'm just trying to get my money's worth out of the Red Carpet Club membership. I think I've drunk $400 worth of wine alone so far this year, during my endless richocheting back and forth across the Pacific.

The trip to Wellington was really good, for a number of reasons. I got to see my good friend Milton Bell, who has been putting us up (and putting up with us) at his Mt Cook aerie for a number of years now. Milton helped me in my hour of need, when I realized I had done the unthinkable (i.e. LEFT MY FOUNDATION IN AUCKLAND) by finding a chemist on Cuba Street, helping me choose between medium-light and medium, and lying to me about the youthful flawlessness of my complexion.

I also got to see my good friend Katrina Smit, who is the Queen Bee of Creative New Zealand, despite being forced to sit in one of its depressing hospital-green cubicles; we had lunch at Chow in the city. And I managed to infiltrate yet another of the capital's official residences - this time the Prime Minister's House in Thorndon, where she was handing out Literary Awards, champagne, pikelets with slivers of duck, etc. This was super-literary: Bill Manhire, Elizabeth Smither, Lloyd Jones, Kate DeGoldi. Jane Parkin, who edited my first three books, and John Huria, who edited the new one. Afterwards I had dinner at Chow, the one off Courtenay Place, with Finlay McDonald, books editor of the Sunday Star-Times, which means I've eaten at three different branches of Chow in four days. 

In Wellington people are more blunt: they ask questions like "What are YOU doing here?" And "how can you afford to keep coming to New Zealand so often?" But I don't mind. I just eat at Chow, and wonder how their martinis can be so very weak, and hope that there's not an earthquake that involves the entire city sliding into the harbor while I'm there.

Have to go board the plane now. By the way, if the American public votes for McCain and Palin, I'm leaving.

Wellington

I'm just back from an overnight trip to Wellington, and already I'm esconced in the Koru Club in Auckland's  International departures: I had just a few hours at home today before returning to the airport. I just took a photo of the chocolate brownie I'm eating (with real cream and chocolate sauce), so I can torment my father in a week's time when I'm back. I'm not eating this because I'm hungry, of course: I'm just trying to get my money's worth out of the Red Carpet Club membership. I think I've drunk $400 worth of wine alone so far this year, during my endless richocheting back and forth across the Pacific.

The trip to Wellington was really good, for a number of reasons. I got to see my good friend Milton Bell, who has been putting us up (and putting up with us) at his Mt Cook aerie for a number of years now. Milton helped me in my hour of need, when I realized I had done the unthinkable (i.e. LEFT MY FOUNDATION IN AUCKLAND) by finding a chemist on Cuba Street, helping me choose between medium-light and medium, and lying to me about the youthful flawlessness of my complexion.

I also got to see my good friend Katrina Smit, who is the Queen Bee of Creative New Zealand, despite being forced to sit in one of its depressing hospital-green cubicles; we had lunch at Chow in the city. And I managed to infiltrate yet another of the capital's official residences - this time the Prime Minister's House in Thorndon, where she was handing out Literary Awards, champagne, pikelets with slivers of duck, etc. This was super-literary: Bill Manhire, Elizabeth Smither, Lloyd Jones, Kate DeGoldi. Jane Parkin, who edited my first three books, and John Huria, who edited the new one. Afterwards I had dinner at Chow, the one off Courtenay Place, with Finlay McDonald, books editor of the Sunday Star-Times, which means I've eaten at three different branches of Chow in four days. 

In Wellington people are more blunt: they ask questions like "What are YOU doing here?" And "how can you afford to keep coming to New Zealand so often?" But I don't mind. I just eat at Chow, and wonder how their martinis can be so very weak, and hope that there's not an earthquake that involves the entire city sliding into the harbor while I'm there.

Have to go board the plane now. By the way, if the American public votes for McCain and Palin, I'm leaving.

Get Some Sleep

The light and warmth are seeping out of the day; a storm is on its way. Soon I have to catch a bus to my sister’s. It’ll be dark by the time I get there. On the TV Keith Quinn, the rugby commentator, is advertising funeral insurance.

Today I went back to the dentist to collect the custom-made splint I have to wear on my front teeth at night. This is because I am grinding my teeth down into shards and nubs, apparently; I already have stress fractures, according to the x-ray evidence.  The splint will correct my behavior. It will prevent me from sleepy-time grinding. According to Alex, my handsome Brazilian dentist, in twenty years time I will thank him.

I’m not thanking him now. When the splint is locked into place (with a ferocious cracking sound), I can’t close my mouth. My front lip protrudes, as though someone’s punched me in the face. Swallowing and breathing is hard. And I can barely speak. In fact, the word “speak” is lost to me entirely. I was able to communicate the word “horrible” to Alex, and I communicated that over and over.

Even more irritating, the splint itself is really high-maintenance. It needs to be coddled at all times – bathed in warm water, kept moist, cleaned with special powders. I hate the thing already.

Ironically, grinding my teeth may be caused by stress; the splint is stressing me out even more. I’m dreading going to bed.

But that’s nothing new this week. I’ve been woken up three nights by carousing under my window. On Wednesday night, there were two carloads of hooligans blasting out their stereo, drinking, and having an impromptu party (start time: 2:30 AM). The police and noise control were summoned, but forty minutes later, they still hadn’t arrived; luckily something startled my tormentors and they cleared off in a hurry. (What Albert Park needs, I think, is the Hound of the Baskervilles.) Last night a group of incoherent jesters had a party outside for an hour after midnight. But after various calls – to the Auckland City Council, which owns the lane behind this building, and from the Central Police Station, where a very helpful sergeant promised me they’d come and “clear the place out” more often – I’m a little more hopeful of a night’s sleep some time soon.

Sergeant Ben explained that it was probably students or people from out of town – the suburbs, I guess – who are on their way to clubs and don’t want to pay the high drink prices. They buy cheap alcohol in the supermarkets and come to the park to drink it and start the party. He said this was one of the reasons the police were opposed to the endless opening hours in Auckland bars.

I’ve read about this in the paper. The mayor, John Banks, and the council say that Auckland needs to become a world-class city, and that means people should be able to go out all night. Early closing = provincial.

The trouble is, I don’t think the world’s jet set are descending on Auckland to drink cocktails and champagne in the manner of Russian billionaires in St-Tropez. I think all the young people who live in too-quiet suburbs are driving in to drink and take drugs in the park, squeeze into clubs, and then drive home off their heads. Dealing with this is a problem everywhere: hence the new regulations in London forbidding drinking on the tube and the bus. The dark side of a city that never sleeps is a city that never stops drinking, vomiting, fighting, and making mischief under cover of darkness. Look at New Orleans. How many Tulane students have been mugged on their way home – or to their cars – at three in the morning? Too many quiet, dark streets; too few police. If we want a world-class city, we need a much bigger, denser population, and a much larger, more powerful police force to keep order. This applies to New Orleans and Auckland, I think.

So I’m staying at my sister’s tonight, with only the horrible splint to keep me awake.

Auckland, July

I’ve always liked the sound of rain on the roof, especially at night; maybe it reminds me of sleeping under a tin roof at my grandparents’ house.

And it’s just as well I like the rain, as it’s been raining in ferocious squalls ever since I arrived in New Zealand just over a week ago. Auckland can’t take the blame:  I was in Wellington yesterday, and got soaked through, racing from the National Library to lunch with my friend, Milton Bell, at a Spanish place on Swan Lane.

Here in the Sargeson flat, where I’m pretty much settled in now, the rain is loud. I’m living in an attic, and there are sky lights in the kitchen and bathroom. Every morning I wake up to the sound of birds – the flat is in a park – or the sound of rain, and sometimes, like this morning, both at the same time.

There are three different places to work in the flat – a big desk in the kitchen area, a dining room table, and a smaller round table at the window overlooking Princes Street and the university. That’s where I’m sitting now, entangled with phone and modem cords, watching students – in the international uniform of skinny jeans, big scarves, and messenger bags – hurrying to morning classes. I haven’t heard the tui yet, the fat one who feeds off the red blossoms on the tree across the road. Right now I have my eye on one of the wheelie bins in which I hope to dump my rubbish later on – there’s no trash can for this flat, so I have to be opportunistic.

The other two tables, by the way, have been strong-armed into service too, because I can never see a flat surface without wanting to stack papers all over it. The dining room table is for personal stuff, like the guest list and spare invitations for my sister’s birthday party; the itinerary for my parents’ odyssey around Alaska and Canada; cards to send; a mountain of receipts; New Zealand non-resident tax forms, already months overdue; .and the local magazines I can’t resist buying. On the desk are piles of books and notes, divided into vaguely related piles – the New Orleans novel, the New Zealand novel, and the anthology I’m supposed to have finished already.

It’s a long, long time since I’ve lived by myself, and I’ve never lived by myself in New Zealand at all.  Apparently, my life as a writer-in-garret revolves around green tea, red wine, and downloaded TV shows. Also, walnut-and-oat crackers, postcards on the wall, and a calendar in every room. On one calendar, I’m crossing off days, as though this is a prison sentence – but the idea is the opposite: I’m trying to panic myself into not wasting time. There’s too much I need to do. Writing deadlines loom – the first is July 30, my sister’s birthday, then August 18, my birthday.

The flat is looking more like a home now. Brigid Lowry, the previous Buddle Findlay Sargeson fellow, left it extremely tidy; she also left me a tea cup and milk jug. Inside, I’ve moved the sofa, hidden anything ugly (pictures and tea towels which have accumulated through the years of the fellowship), and stuck up all the book-relevant postcards I got in the UK – boats on the Thames, Wesley’s chapel, the Crystal Palace. In the vines that grow up the north side of the house, I found an envelope of poems intended for Brigid, which I’ve mailed to her in Nelson. We don’t have a post box or slot here; there’s no number on the building. Telecom left my modem on the doorstep of the art gallery downstairs.

Homeless guys sleep under the verandah overhang of the language school next door. On weekend nights, larrikins leave their cars on the other side of the building, and shout and smoke their way through the park. Girls squeal on their way to and from the campus night club. Throughout the day, language school students on their breaks gather in the grassy common area to smoke, make calls on their cell phones, and chatter illicitly in foreign tongues. A few times I’ve fed the birds – sparrows and tiny wax-eyes – outside my bedroom window.

It’s pouring again; people are running through the rain. Later I have to go out and mail things; I’m meeting a friend for lunch at a café on campus, and tonight my brother and I are going to the Maidment Theatre, about five minutes walk away, to see “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” I live in Auckland now (or for now, at any rate). From the skylight in the kitchen, I can see the Sky Tower: it flashes at night.

Down the steep hill, in town, the film festival’s going on. The shops are open seven days a week. A hundred different varieties of tea are available at the tea shop in the very chic Elliott Stables – in Elliott Street, in my childhood a place best known for the Hungry Horse restaurant and a branch of Para Rubber. I bought white canvas sneakers there when I was fourteen; I wore them to my sister’s wedding rehearsal, and they squeaked when I walked down the aisle. (I didn’t care: the important thing was to look New Wave.)

So far here I’ve done quite a bit of writing, plus finished reading the final proofs for my short story collection, Forbidden Cities. I’ve been out to lunch with the nice Buddle Findlay people, and had my photo taken for their publicity material. I’ve caught the train out to Henderson, and flown to Wellington for the Montana New Zealand Book Awards. I’ve been several times to the university library, and even more often to Whitcoulls to buy more invitations for my sister’s birthday party. I’ve seen my niece off to Christchurch, my parents off to Vancouver, and Martha, my nephew’s lovely girlfriend, off to Mexico: she was here for a five-week holiday, and we  were all crying at the airport when she left.

At the Montana Awards, Guy Somerset (of the Listener, winner of best books pages; all three of us who were reviewer-of-the-year finalists write for it) complained that I never update my blog. It’s because my real work has to come first, especially right now, when I have so much to do. But I’ll try and be more diligent while I’m here. I have nothing to do but write.

Holding Pattern

I'm just back from almost a month away, first in England for research (with a side trip to Wales for fun), and then to Ireland for a brief, damp holiday. In a few hours I have to get back on a plane again and fly to Los Angeles, then Auckland. The thought of getting back on a plane does not appeal at all. At least the second flight is on Air New Zealand, where the staff do not seem to share the sullen jobs-worth attitude of the employees of certain other airlines. Also, on ANZ, there's TV on demand. This can keep me happy for hours - luckily, given the duration of the flight.

Here in New Orleans it's sultry; the crepe myrtles are in bloom, and the city feels quiet, in summer slo-mo. I'm only around for 36 hours, too many of which were spent without air conditioning - a problem now fixed, which meant we could sleep last night. And now I'm flying into a winter, to a place where all tea is hot, and you don't have to specify "unsweetened" when you order. (In the South, I've learned to like iced tea, but not the sickly-sweet kind.)

I have lots of pictures to post and stories to tell of our Irish adventures, but will do that over the next week when I have more time. This is what I've been telling myself for months now: in New Zealand I will have more time. I will finish my New Orleans novel; I will make final selections for the anthology I'm editing; I will finish the ghostwriting projects still lingering. And I'll write Rangatira, of course. I'll invite people over for dinner. I'll also try to stay off the Afghan biscuits, and go to Pilates twice a week, and see loads of the movies. It's years since I've been home for the festival.

These are my New Zealand Resolutions, and I intend to stick to them.