Australia Fare

The present animosity between New Zealand and Australia because of the Rugby World Cup Final is both contrived and hoary.
I say contrived, because most of it seems to me to be through the media which has taken some fairly innocuous comments by the respective coaches and blown them out of context and importance.
It is hoary because it is boring, not original and certainly cliched. I also don’t think it is a true representation of our feelings to each other, and is based, largely, on stereotypes.
Good natured ribbing between two nations is okay and we are not the only nations indulging in it—France and England, USA and Canada are others. The difference though is that those other countries went to war with each other: USA and Canada (1812), England and France (1799—1815), whereas what do Australians and we lob grenades at each other about? An underarm, a crowded house, a racehorse and a pudding.
Yet we are called “sworn enemies”. Really?
Now, you may, rightfully, accuse me of taking this too seriously. And I am. But I am only doing so because others—inside the media and out—are, taking the competitive nature of our two countries  and placing on it connotations and ramifications that it doesn’t deserve and for the most part don’t exist. By all means hope for an All Black (sorry, Michael: New Zealand) win but let us not over-indulge or succumb to this xenophobic nonsense which seems totally bereft of humour and grace.
We should be above that and Steve Hansen is.
Even if the Australians and Michael Cheika are not—just kidding cobbers. :)

Letter from North Korea

From time to time I receive correspondence from a friend whom I have known for more than a quarter of a century. Phyllis J. Fenwick (Miss) is 86 years old and, if what she tells me is true, has lead an extraordinary life. She continues to lead that life with her one all-embracing interest being her perpetual quest to find the ancestral breeding grounds of the fabled Devonport Guppy. That quest has taken her over the world and when she is overseas her usual means of correspondence with me and her other friends is Facebook, with which she is quite adroit. Currently, Phyllis in in North Korea, apparently at the personal invitation of President Kim Jong-un. Internet coverage isn’t great in North Korea, but Phyllis managed to post the following on Facebook and I thought I would share it with you. One final note: Nothing in Phyllis’s life is meant to be taken seriously and nothing is as it seems. Have an enjoyable Labour weekend.

My Dear Facebook Friends
Many of you have been writing to me asking where I am and why you have not heard from me in such a long time. Your concern for me is vey kind and I am most touched. Let me assure you I am well, but—alas, I am still waiting in Pyongang for my meeting with young President Kim Jong-un.
I have been given many excuses as to why he cannot see me and I am extremely gratified that such a busy young man is taking the time and the courtesy to keep in touch. However one wonders how one man can cram so much into such a young life. On one day, I am told, he is finding (and indeed has found) a cure for cancer. On another day, again I am told, he has succeeded in inventing a nuclear powered moped for the masses. And amidst all this I am informed he has found time to personally deliver no fewer than 20 babies at Pyongyang’s Maternity Hospital.
I am told that, more than anything else, Kim Jong-un likes making babies.
However, it remains frustrating for me not to be able see him. I even at one point suggested to one of his aids that President Kim might like to make a baby with me, but I have not heard back
So, with nothing much else to occupy my mind, I spend much of my time reading or watching television programmes. Most of the programmes are political broadcasts, though there is the odd cooking show (Kim Cooks and Kim’s Kitchen Rules among them) but there are one or two surprises such as Gilligan’s Island and The Brady Bunch, which I understand to be the President’s favourites. There is also something that looks like a North Korean version of Game of Thrones, with President Kim playing all the roles except those who die—it appears those roles are played by some of his ministers and army officers, and their death scenes are very realistic indeed!
No word on the Devonport Guppy yet. A fish was brought to me the other day for examination, but it proved nothing more than entrails from the Game of Thrones set (I am told) and was mistakenly used as a fish dish in one of Kim’s cooking programmes. I fear for the producer if Kim Jong-un hears of the mistake. He is such a perfectionist and the producer might even get a very sharp talking to.
No such harsh words between me and my very dear young friend Elizabeth, back in New Zealand. It is her birthday on Friday and I am so distraught that I shall not be back in time to share in the celebration.
However, my wish for you Elizabeth is that you have a lovely day spent among good friends who love you as I do.
And for the rest of my Facebook friends with whom I am blest have a wonderful day.
Your friend,
Phyllis.
xx

I Take it all, back.

This week Fryday is suffering from a bad back. I am told that there are many things that can damage a back: age, weight, posture, standing too long, sitting too long, sharing your bed with a dog (the canine variety), and I am guilty of just about every one of them. No wonder my back is objecting. My main issue, however, is my occupation. It is a sedentary occupation and does require long hours at a desk typing. To be fair, that is by choice; there are writers who chose to write standing up—Dickens, Hemingway (at times), Churchill and Nabokov among them. Shakespeare is thought to have stood at his writing desk. But it is not my choice; I like to sit and write. So, my problem comes down to choice of chair and its ergonomic design. And I don’t want to go anywhere near those new fangled options such as Swiss Balls and knee chairs—I am a traditionalist. So, it was on to Google for a bit of research (which ultimately became more confusing than anything) and to Warehouse Stationery, which at least has the convenience of being local. My chiropractor, who has wrestled gamely, assiduously and patiently with my back issue also gave me advice. In the end, I settled on convenience, so it was down to Warehouse Stationery I went. They didn’t have a big range of office chairs, just a big price range. The cheapest was about $130, the dearest in excess of $1000. I sat in them all. Surprisingly, the most comfortable was among the cheapest: $160, down from $240.00. It also looks smart, like one of those sports seats in a modern rally car. So I bought it. And I haven’t been disappointed in it. I have spent several writing days in it without incurring any of the pain that beset me from previous chairs. I even persuaded the chiropractor’s receptionist, his wife, to invest in the same model of chair, and she seems equally satisfied. And mention of the chiropractor brings me back to my central premise: the day before I bought the chair I went to him in agony. He did what he could and it was enough to provide relief and restore equilibrium. Then I went and bought the chair, hoping to maintain that newly-restored state of relative harmony. The next day my back was back at the chiropractor—in agony. You guessed it, as much as the new seat is now supplying me with the part panacea for my ills, it required assembly. And, that my friends, is what you call irony.