At Least the Sheep are Happy

Monday 16^th January 2006

What seemed like a long day wasn’t. It was longer.

I have never been too good with numbers; I always choose the trolley at my local supermarket with a calculator on the top. I have never worked out why; it’s probably that shopping is so dull, until you get to the booze section. I never use it for its sole mathematical purpose but it always gives me amusement to type in “boobless” when I am waiting for my pound of cheddar. I knew the day was going to be long and even with my numeric dyslexia it was.

I had always understood that 24 hours for a complete day was about right. How did I end up with 33 in mine? It just seems unfair.

Tuesday 17^th January

The dawn chorus awoke me, noisy bastards.

In strange and different surroundings it is difficult to gather your bearings especially when you have been transported across the Atlantic.

Very disorientated. But my temple that is a body had escaped alcohol for at least two days so I did have a valid and plausible excuse.

With the inclusion of booze it makes sleeping and hopefully awaking in a different environment even harder. I have witnessed horror situations around Europe when friends have thought they were at home after a night out on the sauce, turning left to empty as full bladder only to discover in the morning that the wardrobe was not a good substitute.

I did not sleep very soundly. The dodgy motel that I had booked on the Internet may as well have been located at the end of runway two at Houston airport. The noise was continuous and relentless.

In fact the motel was at the end of runway two so the Internet picture that came with the booking was obviously superimposed. You could sense a look of smugness from the receptionist when I returned the key.

She may as well have said “Did you find us on the internet?” because that is what she was thinking.

I may as well have said “Ha Fucking Ha” because that was what I was thinking, but the air remained unpolluted from morning pleasantries.

Wednesday 1^st February

Claire decided to drive me to a very important landmark just out side Auckland.

One Tree Hill should have been what it says. A hill with a tree on it, except some bastard had chopped it down, leaving just the hill. Never the less it was a lovely hill.

The old One Tree Hill is bathed in history and obviously not leaves. It had something to do with some important person a long time ago doing important things. I never really got to the bottom of the story but the view was pretty good. A 360-degree panoramic view of Auckland and the surrounding areas. As this was a very definite Kodak moment the cameras were on overdrive.

I decided to turn the tables on these picture hungry photographers and we put into action that well-known party game “Nice photo who the fuck is that?”

Its simplicity is its success. You try and out do one another by getting into every photo taken by strangers and pull a funny face or hold a stupid pose. If you can get partly naked or show bare flesh you get bonus points. You can just image Mr Wong back in Phuket showing his photos to his misses of his short break in Auckland and all she sees is some hairy arse in front of a hill. Priceless.

After a tame round with us square on two points each we decided to call it a draw, which it was.

After driving back to the gaff I did notice that there were in fact many hills all with one tree on them. There did seem to be a little irony