Public Address - Island Life (Home)

Your new career | May 29, 2008 21:11

Here's something to think about over the weekend. Would you like to come to Devonport and write the next Harry Potter?

Jill Marshall is on Public Address Radio this Saturday afternoon (Radio Live 5.00 pm). Eight years ago she gave up her management life to take a Masters Degree in Writing for Children. She graduated in 2002 and moved to New Zealand, bringing with her the idea for a series of children's books that has turned into a splendid U.K. publishing success. She writes, she consults, she mentors, she runs workshops, all under the business banner of Write Good Stuff. She'd like to help another writer enjoy the same good fortune she's had.

This is where the Harry Potter idea comes in. Jill has funded a ten week residency at the Michael King Writers Center for a children's writer. It runs from late July to late September 2008. You'll be living in a historic home on the side of Mt Victoria in Devonport. Your room has an ensuite bathroom, office area, double bed and access to the kitchen and the rest of centre. During your residency you'll work on a manuscript for children. You don't need to be published already; you may be published in other genres.

The residency includes:
- up to 10 weeks paid accommodation in the Michael King Writer's Centre between July 21st and September 26
- mentoring from Jill Marshall
- potential access to an agent at the end of the project
- access to the local writing and school community in Devonport
- a training course with Write Good Stuff at the end of the tenure

You'll have to meet the cost of travel to and from the centre and your living costs.

How do you apply? Send a one page CV, a synopsis or outline of your proposed project, and a sample of up to 10,000 words, to:

Write Good Stuff
PO Box 46116
Herne Bay
AUCKLAND

by no later than 30 June 2008.

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Good luck, Jim. | May 29, 2008 07:56

Mission Impossible always began the same way. Jim Phelps would slip into a phone booth, sneak behind a vending machine or shut himself in an elevator, and unearth the tape player secreted thereabouts. The recorded message would give him his instructions, and always there was the same abandonment at the end: Should you or any of your team etc... this tape will self destruct in five seconds. Good luck Jim. What an elaborate performance things were before we had broadband.

Getting those instructions looked like such fun; a Christmas present every week, and every week a fresh surprise. I imagine it must be much the same for John Key and his caucus. First, David Farrar and the the rest of the rumpelstiltskenites on the phones gather the survey data. How do the voters feel about the budget? Tax cuts? Nuclear Power? Export incentives? Compulsory employer contributions to Kiwisaver? It all goes into pie charts, graphs and spreadsheets. Next, if Kiwiblogblog is to be believed, the pollsters just have to step across to the the next desk at National Party HQ to hand the data to the strategy people and/or Kevin Taylor. I imagine it is compiled into some kind of handy dossier with an executive summary, at which point it is ready for John Key to be briefed about the policies for which he and the National Party will be standing.

I can understand how a principled Christchurch lawyer who came into the National Party on the basis that she felt an affinity with its avowed values ( see in particular: Individual freedom and choice, Personal responsibility,  Competitive enterprise and rewards for achievement, and Limited government) might well find this a little irregular. I can certainly see how as the party's designated spokesperson on Industrial relations, she might, upon being asked about the party's position on compulsory employer contributions to Kiwisaver, have felt confident enough to declare that the party did not believe in compulsion. As someone doubtless familiar with political history, she would well know that indeed her party did not. Whether it does not, is of course in the hands of the pollsters and the focus groups.

I say to Kate Wilkinson: do not give up the good fight. These are dark days for your party but surely, one day before we all pass from this earth, it may yet recover its enthusiasm for the primacy of the individual, the sanctity of money, the freedom of Business to roam green fields at will, unfettered by the RMA, political correctness and and mile upon mile of red tape. Just today, a baby may have been born who will one day grow to be a politician who cleaves to such a posture of ideological purity and steadfastness. In the meantime, there's always the brooding Bill English.

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Ice-cold rabble rousing | May 27, 2008 09:30

Helen Clark will, now and then, and often on a Monday morning, turn to a spot of ice-cold rabble-rousing. Monday is post-cabinet press conference day. It is also the day the Prime Minister has her weekly chat on the radio with Paul Holmes and, in more recent times, a chat on Breakfast TV with Paul Henry. It has become the day to climb up upon your bully pulpit and speak plainly with the people.

The Sunday papers all dwelt at length on the sorry outcome of the Kahui investigation and trial. People were angry and frustrated that no-one would be paying for the death of the boys, and angry to hear the Police declare the matter to be at an end.

The Prime Minister knew what to say on Monday morning.

I certainly would urge them (police) not to leave it where it is because our society now has in front of it a case where two beautiful young babies were killed and we don't know who did so justice has not been done.

Gears graunch when the Prime Minister uses uncharacteristic language. From time to time you can hear the cue cards turning. That's the price she pays for being authentic. She's absolutely right when she avers that no-one will die wondering what she thinks. Here, it seemed, she wasn't offering her own thoughts. Rather, she was purporting to embrace the undiluted outrage and emotional frustration of the voters as her own, and she was prepared to overlook constitutional considerations with which she is only too familiar.

Congratulations, then, to Marie Dybergh for having the fortitude to stick up for the separation of powers as she did today on Morning Report. We overlook the way the justice system works at our peril. The golden thread that lets ten guilty men go free rather than see a single innocent one rot in jail will inevitably have days when we will feel it has let us down. But the alternative is too authoritarian and arbitrary to ever be acceptable. The words the Prime Minister used were nuanced, but the tenor was not. It was bully pulpit, it was rabble-rousing, leaning on the police to go looking once more, perhaps at the deeply unlovely Macsyna. Let's just assume that Chris Kahui was in fact guilty. If someone else should, under the Prime Minister's urging, now be prosecuted and convicted, in what sense would that be right?

A more fruitful avenue to pursue might be to ask how an entire family, such as the group of adults that surrounded those babies in a fog of drugs and alcohol and neglect could be living such feckless lives. Fix that problem, and you might save the lives of some other children.

If the Prime Minister would like something less momentous but nevertheless equally outrageous on which to vent her spleen, she might like to consider that Porkometer in the Herald. If you thought the butcher had his thumb on the scales last week, wait till you get a load of today's edition. It has totted up the budget spending and declared that Labour is promising 16 billion of 'pork' and National still just 1.5 billion. I won't shoot every one of the many smelly fish in this pork barrel, I'll settle for just the one. The four years of tax cuts that Labour are promising are, we have been assured by John Key, going to be at least matched by National. So that thin blue line in the Porkometer graphic of 1.5 billion could get at least 10.5 added to it. Surely.

Elsewhere in today's edition they also have a photo of new protective clothing for the brave lads who have to disable bombs and open letters from Cameron Slater.

They look very snug and secure, I must say. In fact I think I might get one for myself, because I fear that at rate the toxicity of its bias appears to be growing, I many need to slip one on before I go out to the letter box to pick up my copy of the Herald.

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Gassed Up | May 26, 2008 09:16

Congratulations, then
Scott Dixon
Winner of the Indy 500 and
hugely talented New
Zealander.

This makes your name
the most
illustrious
in a list that was
already awesome:
Denny
Hulme,
Bruce McLaren,
Burt Munro,
Helen
Clark.

Churlish types might
quibble
about the fossil
fuels you had to burn to
win this
trophy
but for sheer
folly you really
can't go past those
millions of acres of American
land
growing petrol.

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The Budget of All Mothers | May 23, 2008 10:21

Three and half billion dollars is the limit of my comfort zone, declares Michael Cullen. A hundred million here, 200 million there. Before you know it, you're talking about unreal money. Sometimes it helps to take the Geoff Robinson approach to complex matters. So, Dr Cullen, if I'm drawing up the nation's budget in my garage, how much money do I need?

This little nugget from the briefing material is helpful. John Smith's payslip tells us where his taxes go. John earns $45,000, so he probably wouldn't get a date with Cathy Odgers.

JOHN SMITH
PAY PERIOD
16/5/2008 TO 22/5/2008

Annual Salary $45,000
Weekly Salary $865.00
ACC levy $12.00
Tax goes to: $186.00
- Health $36.90
- Benefits and Working for Families $33.70
- Education $29.70
- NZ Superannuation $22.70
- Capital (excl. Transport) $12.10
- Law and Order $9.10
- Industrial Services $5.50
- Transport and Communication $8.30

This is Tax Cut day. The islanders are standing on the deserted airstrip, waiting for the cargo. If Dr Cullen's barbed observation in an earlier press prizefight was accurate, Guyon Espiner's first order of business will be to find out how much he's getting. I have been too busy taking tea with a friend to arrive in time for a good seat, so from the back row, I can't see which page the One News political editor turns to first. Down here in the cheap seats, however, the naked self interest is frankly acknowledged as people punch in the numbers and call over the treasury officials to help them calculate their particular entitlements.

The rainy day Dr Cullen was waiting for, and/or an election, has come. John Smith, income $45,000 per annum, will be holding on to an extra $16 of his pay each week, and by 2011, he'll get to keep $32.

Over the course of the lockup, I ask various people in the room how much they expect to be paying for petrol in 2011. Few are willing to hazard a guess, although Bernard Hickey wonders if three dollars a litre might be about right.

The purchasing comparisons will be quick to come today, as the microphones head out to the malls and Victoria Street. The people who have been lately lamenting that they can no longer afford a block of cheese are now lamenting that their tax cut will only buy them a block of cheese. Oh the sting of it. That's a block of cheese each and every week, you ingrates. But we need to fill the tank, they say, that takes a hundred.

There's something about the spurned lover or the disgruntled customer in the vox pop tone. Nice try, buddy but you should have been here three years ago and frankly: is that the biggest bunch of flowers you could manage? I'll bet John gets me some lovely ones.

Every bit helps, every bit is welcome, but if you think there's a number at which a tax cut will delight the voters, it may well amount to more than they handed over in the first place. Who'd want to be a finance minister? You're in the same thankless position as any mum who has ever had to try and stretch the family budget further than it will reach. Everyone gets a filling - but dull - meal, the kids all have sensible shoes and trousers they'll grow into, and a little bit more pocket money, and yet the grumbling does not abate. So it is for Dr Cullen. He has delivered the Budget of all mothers.

He was always going to be luckless. He is, though, demonstrably taking solace in the fact that the Tories will have to go deep into debt or cut spending if they want to do better. Several times he uses expressions which suggests the perspective of a Captain who has already abandoned ship: he talks about Anybody who may be in government and future governments may want to think about that.

This is my first experience of being detained by her majesty's government, if you don't count when I worked for them, or a meeting I once had with the IRD. From 11.00 am until 2.45, I must remain within the confines of this small banquet hall, jammed in alongside all manner of journalists, analysts, treasury officials and ministers. Our simple nourishment takes the form of the filled rolls, quiches and sausage rolls my friend had just been warning of. She is a veteran of many of these events. Why on earth would you want to go voluntarily?, she asked. Well, I guess, because a budget lockup is the sort of thing a follower of politics has on their list of 100 things to do before they die or turn 50.

Before you hand that tax money back, you have to get it in. I'm especially interested to know how much money Treasury believes the next few turbulent years might yield. I track the revenue table along from 61 billion to 71 billion and recall that when Bill Birch gave one of his budgets, the big news was that for the first time the nation's GDP was more than $100 billion. The Government's revenue is now nearly three quarters of the way to that figure now. Growth; we love it.

Let's now turn to their risk analysis; how realistic is the forecast? First the context is recited; various perturbing items of economic disorder: an 80% surge in world food prices, surging oil prices, sub prime meltdown. Careful discussion of these many risks follows, with the conclusion that growth will slow. But at least we'll still have some. As enormous economic convulsions go, that sounds pretty tolerable. I rather hope they're right, and not underestimating the coming volatility.

But what if their numbers are off? What if the price of oil goes higher. If the markets contract, well what then? What if retail really shrinks here? How's that GST revenue going to look then? I am guided by the nation's canniest retailer. As runes go, consider this. Michael Hill Jeweller has people lined up outside his store on budget day for the chance to buy a 1000 dollar ring for a dollar. He's got Breakfast TV to cover it and on Lambton Quay, there are people in feather boas and colourful skirts and an MC with a microphone chivvying the shoppers. This says to me that retailers are feeling the need to pedal mighty fast. I see a big freeze at the sales counter and a sagging GST take ahead. This, Dr Cullen says, is what we have buffers for, and boy have people bristled at them for the past few years. Now we're working along towards the buffer in the red - up to the 3.5 billion Dr Cullen says he's happy to live with. Bill English may choose to go further.

The National Party argument prefers to ennoble the tax cut as a means of generating growth. We put it back in your own pockets and you'll do something productive with it. Maybe; although when Bill Birch did it, much of the effect was simply to lift consumption. You may have seen the couple on the TV news who have no kids and earn a decent income. We pay all this tax and we get zero return, they complained. Individualism can become quite unlovely when it mates with modern consumerism. People seem to have a similar difficulty grasping the concept of insurance.

We will almost surely get to find out whether tax cuts can generate growth over the term of the next Government. Wellington, everyone tells me, is abuzz. The smell of change, giddy excitement, and doom, is all in the air. It's Berlin in April.

This is half the fun of Wellington; all the talk. I mooch around the room, renewing old acquaintances, making new ones. I swap notes with John Tamihere on the state of our coronary arteries, tease Barry Soper about his continuing enthusiasm for May/December romances. I introduce myself to Gordon Campbell, whose writing I have been enjoying since he reviewed Blood on The Tracks, which we calculate would be 33 years ago. Talk turns to music and I end up burning a CD of Animal Collective for Michael Wilson.

Time rolls on. Harried hacks tap out their interpretations. On the big screen, Michael Cullen begins a reprise of the speech he gave us at midday, and makes his way through the substantial piece of work it represents. We hear about many aspects of this plucky little nation's economy, but in hindsight, I have to say: considering how much of a fuss they were making just a month or two ago about the Free Trade agreement, and considering how much of a bearing it stands to have on the price of cheese, and oil, and the size of our future income, and, by implication, tax cuts, might it not have been to our advantage to have heard rather less about tax relief and rather more about China?

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A pig this good you don't eat all at once | May 20, 2008 10:06

The front page of my Herald presents me this morning with a very special pig. They have deployed a 'Porkometer' to tally up the spending pledges of the two big political parties. Fair enough. Information is the fertiliser of democracy.

But are we to take it that any spending of any stripe is to qualify as 'pork'? You might call extra funding for elective services or more money for cervical cancer screening 'overdue' but come on: pork? The story expressly recognises the American provenance of the expression, where it is used to describe the pledging of public funds for purposes that may not be in the greater good, but will nevertheless win favour with certain voters. The Herald appears to take the view that it is the act of ingratiation alone that counts, which somewhat misses the point.

The story duly lists every piece of new spending that has been announced by the government and the National party. Result: four odd billion by Labour and one and a half by National. The story doesn't ask which, if any, of the items proposed by Labour have been expressly ruled out by National. David Farrar, in retelling the story, seems in no hurry to shed light on this either, and certainly Bill English made it clear on Agenda that everyone will have to wait and see what the National party will and won't be spending. We know that the bureaucrats will be getting theirs, but what aside from that will be different? English and co are perfectly entitled to take as much time as they like to work out what they'll be offering, but in the absence of any actual detail from them, it seems a little heroic to assume - as the Porkometer seems to imply - that they will be making none of the same commitments.

Even Blind Freddy can see that John Key will probably be in government by Christmas, but if you make out that his spending will look dramatically different from the present lot once he has his feet under the desk (leaving aside the borrowing for tax cuts), you might be telling a porky.

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As seen on TV | May 14, 2008 22:07

Trevor Mallard opens the door of his van and gestures with a cheery wave for me to hop in on the passenger side.

Flying out the gates of Parliament grounds, we all but skittle a stout little fellow clasping a laptop to his chest. Blogger roadkill, barks Trevor, fixing his wild eyes on the cars ahead on Molesworth Street.

Got a few jobs, he says. Few people to sort out.

A generation of children knows the arc of any Postman Pat story. The friendly country postman and his cat set off each morning to deliver the mail. Invariably he is diverted by the problems of the villagers and is prevailed upon to help them out.

There is usually a song to accompany the adventure. 'Football Crazy' is one. 'Now it's time to put on a show' is another. Also: 'Fruity Feeling.'

The resemblance is uncanny. You can see it in the stiff movements, the jaunty red van, the fixed eyes, the way people inevitably turn to Trevor or Pat to sort things out.

All around the world, it's the same. From Wales to India, Scotland to Iceland, the children have Pat, the grownups have some kind of Trevor. In Japan, the show only got to air three years ago. People say the television bosses there were hesitant because, like the notorious Yakuza gangsters, Pat has but three fingers and a thumb on each hand.

It was for similar reasons that the Fat Mexicans never came to New Zealand. Mike Moore warned us of them, but it was Trevor Mallard's uncanny resemblance to a South American cartel boss that kept the world's scariest gang at home, leaving the way clear for the Killer Bees to give themselves the most ridiculous gang name eva.

I have to ask him. We're at Tinakori Road, idling at the lights. He's so good at sorting out a mess; how in God's name did he not see what would happen with the Electoral Finance Act? In a mere moment the lightness has gone from his face, and I am left with menace. He leans across, swings the door open and as the van begins to pull away he says in a slow, quiet voice. Get out. Now.

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A simple 'your lordship' will do | May 08, 2008 09:41

My daughter calls me Dad. Her friends call me David. Likewise my accountant, my doctor, my neighbours. Mr Slack, to quote the surfer-dude turtle in Finding Nemo, is my father. About the only people who address me in that fashion are telemarketers and the IRD. Arguably, using such a title connotes respect. Do I really think some poor backpacker wearing a headset and sitting in a cramped cubicle farm has any respect for me as he reads me his dismal script?

One of our nearby primary schools recently proposed that the children might address their teachers by their first name. The principal explained his proposal in the local paper. It seemed inconsistent that the children were addressing the office staff as Fiona, Damian and Keith, but their teachers as Miss Haywood, Ms Edgeler, Mrs Brown and Mr Gracewood.

So from now on, he said, it would be first names for everyone. Call me Graham, children. The following issue of the Flagstaff brought interesting news. Some of the parents had been perturbed to hear of this change. They preferred things as they were; let the children learn to be respectful. So it will be, said the principal.

As a child, every adult I knew was Mr and Mrs. I had an Uncle John, an Aunt Rosemary, an Auntie Adrienne, an Uncle Brian. My godparents, though, were Geoff and Judy, and those were the names their own children used for them. You wouldn't find kinder-natured, warm, respectful people anywhere.The children turned out just fine.

The rot set in, I suppose, when we got all immoral and started living together without marrying and the women stopped taking the name of the head of the household. What do you tell your child to call the lady next door? Ms Jolie? Mrs Pitt? You settle for Angelina, and the night Miss Aniston arrives on their doorstep, you explain to your child that sometimes grownups forget to be good and they get noisy and say bad things.

Once you've made the change, its easy enough; I suspect. it's the transition that graunches your gears.

I got a nice letter from an old teacher of mine a year ago. I spent fully a month trying decide whether to address her as 'Mrs' or 'Barbara' as she had signed herself. In the end I addressed the letter to Barbara and began by telling her how perplexed I had felt at the choice I was faced with.

I tried this out on Mary-Margaret this morning. How would she feel if they changed the rules so that she would address Miss Watson as Jo? She thought it would feel funny, disrespectful. I reminded her that they address Rosie and Judith at the office by their first name, not to mention Russell, the caretaker, who received his Ph.D. last year.

She saw the contradiction, but said that all the same, it was what she was used to. Some kids don't, though, she said. At Rosa's school they call them by their first name.

Then, because her mind darts all day, she remembered her resolution of the night before when I had explained to her that every school has a scary legend. She said: I'm going to tell Russell about the rat at the back of the PE shed.

Other business

1. Jeremy Elwood's 12 Steps show is on until Saturday at the Transmission Room. He has some excellent material on terrorists, deer shooting accidents, and the visceral and psychological ramifications of carnal union. Get a ticket, you will laugh your AO.

2. So farewell then, Senator Clinton Maybe next week.

3. This morning's Herald describes the effect of 'soaring prices' on a profligate Gen X and Y. What adjective does that leave them to describe what's happening to prices in Zimabawe?

4. Did you notice that the omnipresent Olympic logo in the right hand corner of the screen disappeared from the One News bulletin during the 'news' report revealing the new Olympic uniforms?

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Supertooth | May 05, 2008 10:49

When I'm in a disparaging mood, I describe Takapuna as Hamilton-on-Sea. Henderson is Hamilton-on-P. No disrespect to the fine people who live there, but Hamilton's a bit dull for me. Said the boy from Feilding.

Imagine, then, our excitement a year or so ago when we received the gift of two nights' accommodation in The Home of the Mighty V8s. Weeks and months went by. Somehow there never seemed to be a good time. Finally, last weekend, we acted.

Travel hopefully? We packed no expectation in our luggage, and the arrival was upon us all too soon. Karren collected the keys, I carried in the bags, Mary-Margaret saw the spa pool and got out her togs. As the steam swirled, we made plans. Zoo, museum, a walk along the river, somewhere to eat.

I did what any Jafa would do. I got on the Cuisine website. What's good to eat around here? "Go to Palate" said Cuisine.

We made a booking and presented ourselves at 6.30, first guests of the evening, but lonely for only a minute or two. From the first moment to the last it was splendid. You should go to Hamilton; you should dine at Palate.

Moroccan quail with all manner of fruit. A mushroom soup with truffle-infused oil. The night's special, hapuku poached in red wine, with macaroni cheese, sounded so improbable I had to try it. Remarkable. Cheese - that great rich delicacy; how I have missed it. This is the kind of menu that the likes of your Steve Braunias will lampoon you for, but mock all you like, lamington boy, I ate like a king.

This is where the Hamilton-on-Sea epithet comes undone. If you compare the Waikato restaurant with the one I have in mind, Takapuna is not worthy. Of course you might also say, with some validity, that Lone Star is not a 'restaurant'. Nonetheless it has one thing in common with Palate. They both charge the same for the meals.

Lone Star is where Mary Margaret's friends have lately been having birthday dinners with their friends. This was what Mary Margaret chose for hers.

At Palate they do it the old fashioned way. You ring them up, you ask if they have a table for three at 6.30, they say yes, they take your name and write it in a big book, and when you arrive they open up the big book and voila: there's your name and here is your table and welcome. At Lone Star you ring to make a reservation and they tell you they don't take reservations but you can put your name on a 'priority listing'. What does that mean? If you turn up at the specified time, you get a table but if you snooze, you lose.

We take a priority listing for 6.30. Karren will be arriving with the birthday girl and friends in tow once the movie is finished. It's my job to be there at 6.30 and claim the table.

I am there on the dot. Lone Star does not have a big book. Nor do they have any record of our priority listing. Nor do they have any tables. It is a bizarre sensation to feel frustrated that you cannot get a table at a restaurant you do not want to eat in.

A hovering young woman notices some difficulty and dives in to help. She pulls out the list of names of priority guests which has been carefully compiled on a shopping jotter. She confirms that ours is not there. She assures me that she can sort it out because, she assures me, she does believe me. I have found myself in a suburban collision with the 'Not a Problem' culture. "Go upstairs and get a drink and we'll find something for you," she says, "It may take a while but you will get one."

Great. I climb the stairs. The bartender is a study in North Shore cool. His hair is tied back in a bandana. It's a cold ANZAC weekend night, but he's still in shorts and T shirt and he affects the moves of every cool guy who's ever poured the drinks on the big screen, talking like a Sydney dj.

I ask for scotch on the rocks. He says something that I think is intended to mean that they don't have any. I tell him if he just tips that bottle of Johnny Walker into a glass I'll drink whatever comes out. This is a novelty. I am never terse when I'm ordering a drink.

I slug my glass while he hustles around the bar shifting items about and swapping vacant banter with the passing staff. He judges it may be the moment to thaw me out. One of those days, huh? he asks. I break the habit of a lifetime of amiable banter over a bar and say, levelly, "no."

These North Shore kids have boundless self confidence but they're so preoccupied with broadcasting, there's no capacity spare to do any receiving. The insincere chumminess and overfamiliarity leaves me cold. I'd rather they were rude.

Karren and the party girls arrive, and I explain the wrinkle in our plans. My well organised wife is nonplussed. At this opportune moment the young woman who is solving our problem happens to pass by. Who's the manager? asks Karren, "I am," she says.

Karren doesn't raise her voice all that much when she gets stirred up, but you know what's happening when she does it. She'll say that something's not good enough, and then she'll tell you why. Our hostess doesn't let her get to the second part. She sets out to explain to our clearly addled minds what she is doing to remedy the situation. You're not listening, she says. Oh yes we are, we tell her. We readily grasp, we explain, that she's telling us about her proposed solution; what we're complaining about is the ineptitude that brought about the problem.

But she aint listening. We wait. There is, eventually, a table. See, that wasn't so bad, was it? she says, with a rather more righteous and triumphant tone than Dale Carnegie would recommend.

And so to the meal. Mine was an okay steak. The girls got various pale things heaved out of a deep fryer and piled high on fries. They ate a little. Karren's was, she said, pretty mediocre.

I'd pay fifteen bucks for that steak and feel happy. At thirty, I feel like someone's having a laugh. I remember once, years ago, getting a haircut in Whangarei from a guy whose mind was clearly on other things. I walked out looking like Sonic the Hedgehog. Come Saturday I was at a wine festival. In the late afternoon, lined up at the latrines, the fellow reveller to my left looked alongside and said "Mate, I know you don't I?" He was pissed and happy. I said: Yeah, you gave me this haircut. He began to snicker and it built steadily to mildly hysterical laughter. I use that as something of a yardstick for the way things go in the service culture.

I don't want to be at a restaurant where the staff are servile.
Nor do I want someone to pretend to be my best buddy.
I just want to enjoy the mutual respect you can have when everyone enjoys the evening. You get that from the staff at Palate. They smile, they are warm, they enjoy that we enjoy their food, they take pride in their work.They are not cogs in a franchise.

There is plenty to like about Hamilton, it's just a matter of where you look. I ran along the bank of their mighty river. It was tranquil, brooding, and, in the morning light, quite ethereal. The museum has its own distinct identity, with its marae leading visitors to the water. There was an exhibition on Italian immigrants to New Zealand which was precisely what I was in the mood to see. Not an hour earlier I had been reading a short story, in Tessa Duder's new book, about an Italian widow's miserable migration to New Zealand where no-one speaks her language and the food is rubbish. I wonder what she would have made of Lone Star.

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