Gaaargh! L'il Louis!
They say smell is the most powerful sense, and the one most likely to hurl you back to a specific moment in time, but I reckon they're wrong.
I reckon it's House.
I have been known to dance to the sound of a coffee-grinder.
My Sunbeam Café Series coffeebeast makes a hideous rhythmic grinding pumping sound whenever it's pushing water or steam through anywhere. But once you figure out it's the dirtiest dubstep grunt this side of Mt Eden, just set the espresso and the steam going at the same time and not only will you get a great coffee... let's just say kids be dancing.
All three of them, and daddy, in our jammies.
Their mummy usually takes this as a signal to go out for a run.
Stunning collection this week. Thanks Russell!
The parliamentary term would end, sure, but the government could just prevent any election from taking place and a new parliament being summoned.
That is fucking scary talk. That is also the reason I broke out in a cold sweat on reading Smith’s Dream last year. And now the question: what can we do? What can one person, or all of us together, do, right now? How do we break this down into indigestible chunks for our mothers- and fathers-in-law? How do we get the Herald to scream about this across its front page?
the King’s Arms, with its awkward layout and deafening rock PA. It just doesn’t seem as much fun as it used to.
Them's fighting words -- although secretly I kind of agree. Maybe I need to start a fight with myself?
Thanks Russell for again remaining calm in a way I just can’t.
First off, I’m having big trouble on a Monday morning parsing this case: Guy asks to be let off after pretty much trying to kill someone wearing hi-viz on a bike .
Seems wearing hi-viz simply makes you responsible for getting the fuck out of the way once someone has seen you.
This comes on top of the coroner’s report, thanks to which I’ve had a fight with my darling about whether I will be allowed to ride the 2.9km to work from Westmere to Freemans Bay without dressing like a Christmas tree.
It’s times like these I really, really get close to defaulting to driving. We’re fighting hard at Cycle Action , and we’re getting some wins, but still there’s something odd about the undercurrent in our country.
In a sick way it reminds me of living in Singapore, where the only people on bikes on the roads were pretty much 75-year-old coolies or 20-year-old Bangladeshi construction workers who lived – I shit you not – in shipping containers in the bushes. Both were seen as entirely dispensable, and the main reason not to hit them was the inconvenience of repairing paintwork in the tropics.
And with a big, fat, le sigh, I’m off to pick up my sweetheart not-yet-five-year-old from kindy, on my bike. Hope I make it.
Well done, good post. Two things from me:
1. I'd be far happier with a well-worn vernacular Waitangi Day, complete with scars and painted-over bits, than I would with chucking it out and buying a shiny new New Zealand day from Noel Leemings.
2. And that segues into the marevellousness that was our Waitangi Day. We were hopelessly, ironically far too flat-out helping our three teeniebeasts to become well-rounded kiwi kids to stop and contemplate the meaning of the day in any depth. That meant french toast for breakfast, then piling in the car for a trip to the spectacular Buddhist temple in Botany for a wander, and a wonder about what New Zealand means to this section of immigrants, and a delicious lunch at the excellent vegetarian noodle house there, to the strains of the beats at Barry Curtis Park. Next, some bike riding around the school - then Herne Bay for the insanely-packed high tide, with a beer. Kids, sunshine, happy people, all colours and sizes. It was gorgeous, and I felt at home.
Nice work. Thank you so much -- it's great to add another warp to the fabric of my understanding of our fine, fringe-of-the-known-world city, and to celebrate some of the people who sacrificed a hell of a lot to help others. The chronology also brings back many a fond memory of late 80s / early 90s inner-city living and early Hero parties and parades (note to self: must hunt out my astounding slides from Ponsonby Rd Hero), along with some slightly weirder memories of an unusual man I once knew (not in the biblical way) who would drag (not that kind of drag) me past the saunas and through Staircase, hoping some of it would, er, rub off on me (oh stop it). Lovely chap, just not my type.
I really enjoyed that, too; largely for the wormhole to a simpler time.
Just imagine what would happen these days in that exact backyard - "Euh, I knoooow, well Shelly and Steve just paid $1.2 for the shack over the back fence, but it backs onto Farro, so yerrsssss... another coddled duck breast with pomegranate molasses and sauvignon reduction, anyone?"
Wait... I think that's MY backyard!