Heat Wave

It’s strange how kids can run round in short sleeves in the midst of winter unaffected by the cold yet the stifling heat of this week renders them incapable of anything but rolling round moaning.

Somehow I got the blame for this week’s heat wave.

“I’m soooo sweaty,” Miss Seven lamented.

“Look mum, feel this,” Master Seven exclaimed between moans, indicating the beads of sweat dripping down behind his knee as he rolled around on the floor.

Usually humidity reduces one’s appetite but, such was the heat-induced boredom this week, mine have eaten me out of house and home. As a result, we’ve made two trips to the supermarket this week to conduct our ‘weekly shop’.

I tried everything: putting fans in every room, rolling down the shade sail to fully block the sun, a make-shift paddling pool, taking them to the beach (but by the time we’d returned home, we were hot and sweaty again), making hand-made fans and ice blocks, showing them how to fan themselves with their sheets. But Miss Seven insisted on sleeping under her duvet, for fear the cockroaches get her in the night.

Yes, unlike us humans, the cockroaches must be pretty happy about this temperature rise and our house is a magnet for them. It traps the heat to the point that, as soon as you hit the top stair, it slaps you in the face like you’ve walked into a sauna.

The other night I was in the shower when I heard Miss Seven come hurtling downstairs screaming blue murder.

“What has he done this time?” I called, expecting Master Nine to be the culprit.

“A-a-a, cockroach, f-f-fell on my leg off the r-r-r-roof and crawled up my nightie!” she wailed while simultaneously conducting what looked to be a convulsive version of the Highland Fling.

I could feel her fear. When I was a teenager, a giant Weta dropped off the ceiling while I was lying in bed. I was alerted to its descent when I felt its feeler stroking my cheek. 

Going by the state of her inability to keep still whilst clawing at her nightie, I would imagine that, like me, she’d reacted like Scooby Doo chancing upon a ghost.

This cockroach, in particular, had made itself at home on our lounge ceiling earlier in the week and was last seen hovering above the coach while the kids watched Frozen.

After checking and reassuring Miss Seven that it was no longer in her nighty and, in fact, was probably more petrified of her than she was of it (although this was hard to imagine) I managed to calm her down by rather badly singing Sound of Music’s 'Favourite Things'.

“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens …”

She joined in and peace was restored.

I subsequently found said cockroach, which I’d been informed Master Nine had killed with Miss Seven’s drink bottle (to which she tearfully declared she was never drinking from again). It was wriggling its way painfully across the floor. I can’t kill a thing, even if it is to put it out of its misery, so I tentatively scooped it up between two cups at arm’s length and threw it outside.

Later that night whilst reading in bed I saw something dark flash in my peripheral. It was a giant cockroach scuttling across my floor! My god that thing was fast - and freaky! I looked around for something to scoop it up with but there was nothing big enough so I reluctantly watched it scuttle up my wall and make its way into my wardrobe, taking note to shake all contents before donning in future.

The cat came in next and started chasing something round the room. It turned out to be a smaller cockroach. What was this – cockroach central?!

I was too tired and hot to care anymore so, with the fan blasting hot air at me, drifted into a sticky, fitful sleep which featured cockroaches centre-stage.

Red Red Wine

It was clear that everybody was in a good mood as soon as we stepped onto the bus. Although not running late, we were the last to board, such was the anticipation, so I sat next to a stranger towards the back. Before long we were old mates and so our journey to Kerikeri for UB40 began.

Soon into the trip, my new mate started to look uncomfortable. It turned out she needed to go pee. In lieu of a SheWee, I suggested we start a Chinese Whisper to the front of the bus for a pee stop.

It began with the amused 60-something-year-old man in front of us, who dutifully passed it on to the man in front. I was interested to hear the outcome of the message but before it made it to the front, my companion had shouted loud enough for the driver to hear: “Excuse me, somebody here is about to pee their pants.”

Giggles ensued and all heads turned in my direction while the bus driver hurriedly pulled into the Towai Tavern, where a number of passengers piled off for what was to be the last decent toilet stop (as in you actually sit on a toilet) for the night.

Two hours later we exited the bus outside the vineyard and followed the trail towards the gates, with people popping out of bushes in front of us, having relieved themselves, left-right and centre.

That’s enough about ablutions for now. The 5,000-strong crowd was a who’s-who of the north. I was meeting friends from Doubtless Bay but reunions were happening all around, as well as spotting familiar faces - from our perch: Matt Watson to the left, Kelvin Kruikshank to the right, my friend’s ex in front, the girl I once interviewed for one of my most memorable stories, behind.

We had taken nothing and I was wishing I had brought some seating as I eyed up everyone’s set up around us. Not to worry, there was a comfy looking rug next to me with no one on it so I decided to do the owner a favour and ‘anchor’ it. The owner returned and didn’t seem fazed. In fact we struck up a conversation about the lack of toilet paper and she promptly offered half a squashed roll from her back pocket. I politely declined and suggested she sell it by the square outside the port-a-loos and fund her ticket for the night.

We didn’t stay seated for long. The concert, as you will have heard, was amazing. When I was a teenager in the 90s, I used to thrash UB40 in my first car on the way to High School. In the lead-up, I hadn’t felt the need to dust off those CDs – once learned, the lyrics remain ingrained.

But the next day, with the band’s encore song Red Red Wine, still in my head, I pulled them out and once again it became the theme song for my car journeys.

And after a subsequent trip to the KariKari Peninsula with me thrashing this foreign music to their ears, I'd say my kids are now seasoned reggae meisters.

# Footnote: Following the concert, there will be a lot of dead grass around Kerikeri.

Carpe Diem

There’s a saying out there that goes: “Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the 'Titanic' who waved off the dessert cart.”

Why do we ‘save our best china’ and put away those Christmas chocolates and scented candles for a special occasion that might not ever come?

I have resolved to make the ‘dessert cart’ theory my motto for 2016 but had already started living it, thanks to the influence of the tourists I have been hosting of late. They hail from all around the globe and each arrive with their own reason for travelling to this part of the world – whether it be work, a gap year, or to open their eyes to new experiences and become a better person. But what they all have in common is their get-up-and-go attitude. They are living. Of course the fact they have travelled to the other side of the world and are on a deadline plays a part but it’s contagious none the less.

As a result, and because they hang onto my every word, having asked for recommendations on local sight-seeing, I thought I’d better up my local knowledge by becoming a tourist in my own town.

One tends not to partake in the touristy things in their own neck of the woods – the Whangarei Falls? I cannot remember the last time I went there, Abbey Caves? Why, that was 1986 on a class trip! The Matapouri Mermaid Pools? I don’t even think I’ve been! In fact, it was my Belgium tourists this week who filled me in on their popularity. They couldn’t believe how busy our beaches were – a surprising statement considering the masses on European beaches – a combination of our good weather and influx in tourists who have flocked to experience their beauty this year, no doubt.

It takes a bit of work going to the beach with a young family – there’s all the thinking ahead and packing and then the unloading and washing at the other end, followed by the layer of sand underfoot all through the house until the next vacuum. But whenever I start to waver, I remember the dessert cart and an hour later, find myself frolicking in the ocean and playing cricket on the beach with my happy children.

And so it is that I am now armed with a whole lot more recommendations, other than my standard: “Drive out to the Whangarei Heads and you will have a multitude of beautiful beaches to choose from, then call in at the Parua Bay for a meal and a cold one on your way back.”

And so it also is that I will sign off now on a Carpe Diem note and head to the freezer for that Hokey Pokey Trumpet.