Jane Bowron: And the heat goes on ...
Afriend phoned for what we describe as a muchneeded ‘ketchup’ (catchup) and asked: ‘‘When do you break up?’’
‘‘With whom?’’ I replied. We snickered, remarking how funny it was that decades after leaving school, we still refer to our holidays in breaking-up, end-ofterm school slang. Not that we did time together in the great slammer of school where you counted down, right from the beginning of term, how many days it would be till the prison gates sprang open and you were mercifully released.
The return date was an impossibility away, somewhere in a far-off distance after you had worn out and stretched the togs from daily swims, and gorged yourself on a diet of Christmas cake & ham. (I wonder what the long term harmful effects of that Yuletide tucker will be on my generation when we pass to our reward and they autopsy our blocked-up corpses?)
In the adult world, annual leave is a lottery with the constant anxiety that if you are experiencing any decent preChristmas weather, chances are it will all turn to custard the minute you clock out.
No such worries for this, the summer of the burn, with its sizzling scorched earth policy as the lawn turns to concrete, the garden dies off, and the water threatens to run out. I keep seeing thirsty neighbourhood cats drinking out of my old laundry tub that I turned into a water lily repository.
‘‘Happy to oblige,’’ I say, tipping my hat to them as they look nervously back over one shoulder and catch my eye.
Thank God I bit the bullet back in winter and shelled out for the 200 litre water collection tank, I thought smugly to self on Thursday night when the Nelson 9.30pm quake ever so lightly came through.
If there was a big one, that tank, which resembles, and is affectionately called the giant chocolate milk shake, will see me through. For a little while anyway. Now I amexperiencing buyer’s remorse and regretting not purchasing the bigger 500-litre tank. Some people are never happy.
Those who have long given up on the prospect of a decent Wellington summer and forked out for a holiday on the better weather bet of a Pacific island retreat, will be cursing themselves. This season, the smart money is on staying home and enjoying the deserted beaches when the capital clears out and the cars join slow conga lines, inching their way along roads of national importance to crowded holiday destinations.
The homeless must feel the bitter irony of thousands of Kiwis choosing to live under canvas, or enjoying a roughing-it glamping experience, while their homes remain empty or are rented out on Airbnb for the holiday period.
Would it be possible to organise a home holiday programme for the homeless run on the same guidelines as Airbnb where the host and the guests give each other reviews?
The gloomy Eeyore in me wondered if we would actually make it to Christmas this year with the waning testosterone of Trump taking on the cantankerous Kim Jung Un and their threats of nuclear war. In January 2017 the Doomsday clock was at two and half minutes to 12, so each day now is a miracle as we dance to the beat of the random rage of nut jobs.
Speaking of dancing, news that 2015’s most popular reality show, Dancing with the Stars, will return in 2018 brings with it speculation of who will be the next competitors.
No doubt it will be the usual mix of sports stars, hard cases, and failed politicians with the time to tango. I’m thinking Gareth
Morgan or Peter Dunne. The latter would have to hang up his bow tie for a slit-to-the-waist ensemble to look on with envy at the bowtie of the show’s co-host, Dai Henwood.
Or what about top ballroom dancer Stefano Oliveri partnered with Brodie Kane, Candy Lane with Max Key, Vanessa Cole with The Mad Butcher, or Jonny Williams with Judith Collins?
No show without punch, ballroom dancer and Green Party candidate Hayley Holt could double dip and partner herself as the dancer with the politician. Word on the street is that Toni Street will be approached, even though she’s on the opposing channel from Three, which is hosting this nation-defining event.
If Max Key was on the list, perhaps his Dad, Sir John, could be approached for some father and son rivalry. Seriously though, I’m picking the Williams family as in Poto, Guy and Peter Williams in there, with the heavy hoofing of Richie McCaw or even Steve Hansen.
Imagine those two rugby greats coming off the dance floor pitch to bore the nation with their game of two halves humble evaluations of their wooden performances. In contrast, NZ First MPShane Jones would be a dead cert for some postmatch verbal va va va voomery, but don’t put him with Krystal Stuart.
You’ve got to give credit to MediaWorks for bringing back this cult show, but for it to titivate it needs some edge. Phone Bishop Brian Tamaki and Hopeful Christian aka Neville Cooper from Gloriavale right now and book them in so the taxpayers can watch the tax evaders dance for their suppers. Now that’s what I call ‘sects-ing’ it up.