Not in Service, kindly go away.

Four years ago, when we both started to work in a local town, we noticed that when we reached a certain point in our journey, we would see a bus heading towards us with the name of another local town on the front. The town concerned was a 20 minute drive in the other direction, and this bus always seemed to be driving round the suburbs, as if in a nightmarish Purgatorial loop, unable to find passengers or a destination.

It became a standing joke and so we would frequently wave at the empty bus and its puzzled driver, who was no doubt related to the Flying Dutchman.

In the last few weeks, a new bus system has been introduced in our region. Many more buses are now available on many more routes. This has involved hiring a lot more drivers, many of whom haven't driven in the region before, or in some cases have just got their bus licence. We know someone who has recently joined this band of merry men and have heard hair curling stories of the first few days of the new timetables being operated. Thankfully our contact is experienced and unflappable, and I suspect has dug many a lost driver out of trouble.

The papers in the last few days have been full of stories of the chaos in the capital caused by new routes, new drivers, new buses and very frustrated passengers who have not been able to get to work on time or at all. This morning a whole page in the national online news service was devoted to Tweets about the debacle.

"I saw a No 1 driving through Mornington today. That’s so lost it’s almost cute."

"Wellington taxis are absolutely loving our new bus system."

"Double deckers are my third favourite decker after Desmond and Black &."

"The good thing about the new Wellington bus system is the surprise element."

"The poor Metlink rep at Wellington station is just saying '‘I have no idea where the buses are'’, even though the Metlink GPS tracking map is showing them as being at the station."

Today on a visit to the capital, the roads appeared to be full of yellow buses with not many passengers. They still had the old numbers and destinations marked clearly on the front, but there was an air of "lost children at the zoo" about them all. We started to wonder if the notification on the front of the buses should change from "Not in Service" to "No blooming Idea" or "Lost, please someone call my wife."

If there isn't a collective noun for a fleet of hopelessly late and lost omnibus, may I respectfully suggest "A frazzle"?

This pig won't fly

He's a sofa of a pig. He is the equivalent of a four seater with an extra footstool, and reportedly he is a big softie.

A few weeks back, I bumped into the Postmistress's husband in the local fruit and veg store. He waved a big bag of apples and stated "These are for my boy. We've had to put him on a diet". The said "boy" is their pet porker Hinu. Hinu is a corker of a porker, but he is a fortunate boy, as he is not destined to be eaten, just loved and spoiled by his human mum and dad.

He can occasionally be found smoking / sniffing the carbon monoxide fumes on State Highway 1, separated by only a flimsy metal barrier on the hard shoulder. Mostly he is too lazy to count number plates, and his extra girth is giving his knees gip. So more often than not he is recumbent in the grass flicking his tail and dreaming of afternoon tea (which is usually any leftover bread and milk from the day before at the shop.)

When he is bored he can be seen walking around the paddock wearing a large blue bucket which delivers the afternoon delicacies, and when an energetic moment strikes, he roly-polys down the slope to the river, thereby to receive a beneficial mud pack treatment. It's called maintaining ones complexion I believe.

Whatever it is, it's a pig's life.

Should have gone to Specsavers

A young family recently bought a large piece of land on our road. They have intentions to build a home there, but in the meantime the fields are being used to raise beef. A few weeks after the calves appeared so did a solitary goat, who seemed happy to be the livestock guardian.

On Thursday, we were driving over the bridge close to their fields and I spotted the owners car (he comes to check on the stock and give them supplementary food). I commented to my husband how nice it was that he'd brought his son, who was sitting next to the goat having a big smooch and long conversation. It was only as we drew closer that I realised his young son had a beard and it was in fact the owner, lying next to the goat catching up on gossip. From a distance, it looked all the world like a toddler, because it was only his torso visible above the grass.

I think I may have to bring my optician's appointment forward......

Hot Desking

My desk is a table that I manage to keep reasonably tidy. But there are always several projects happening on it at any one time; genealogy research, processing a Trademe order, writing a letter or paying bills.

It is also the place where our shy tabby likes to have a bit of fellowship. His habit is to sit right in front of my iMac screen. This means I have to ride the computer side-saddle to see what I am writing. As the warmth soaks into his fur, he leans closer and closer to it, and then his head droops into my pencil mug, until he looks like he is about to start writing a letter. He will shake his head and pretend he was only resting his whiskers, then the black silhouette droops for a second time and is accompanied by a gentle snore. When he is a bit more awake, he follows the courser with his nose and taps the screen with his paw - he is a south paw, like me.

Her ladyship likes to snooze in my husband's in tray, after she has dried herself under his study lamp - which today has been a bit of a constant activity

Things that are hidden

I am constantly surprised at the things that are produced from decay in our garden. The fungi especially. We reluctantly cut down a plum tree because it had self seeded too close to an earlier plum and was getting tangled and blocking light from the main tree. Our cats sit in this area of the garden on a pile of bricks which gives them a great view into the compost area (their ears can be seen wiggling at the slightest mousey noise being emitted from the the debris).

This morning, retrieving kindling from the wood shed, I spotted this, which has grown from the rotting plum stump

Oh the delights of nature's creative box of tricks!

Fair Warning, "I wish to make a complaint"

Yesterday I was sad. Nothing world shattering or tragic, just personal. I was looking for something warm to buy to wear for work, so I went to a local department store as there was a sale on over the public holiday. I came away about 20 minutes later feeling really low.

Why? Because I was met by a sea of black clothes. Sometimes the black had a splash of colour on it, but I would say 97% of it was black or grey with black. All I wanted was a cardigan. Something to wear to layer for warmth. I found three cardigans in the entire shop that weren't black. One was bottle green (tick) with a large hole the size of a dinner plate in the back (intentional). Great for summer, maybe. The second was apricot paper thin merino (half a tick), with gold spots on it all over (!!). It was also three times more expensive than I could afford, even in a sale. The third was a hot pink cardigan 4 sizes smaller than I admit to.

This is not the first time I have experienced the black tsunami of gloom in the Ladies Fashion department. One retiring French diplomat quipped, on leaving New Zealand, that he thought that Kiwi women dressed as if going to war. A bit harsh perhaps, and lucky he was leaving the country, but I can't help but agree with him. I wish I had a curry for every time I have been told by retail assistants, "Black is fashionable. It is what everyone wants, it is so flattering" Well, I have news for you. Black is occasionally fashionable, but if "designers" for high street stores actually bothered to attend fashion weeks (London, Paris, Milan, NYC), they would note that it only ever makes up a small percentage of collections. Sometimes it doesn't appear at all. It is NOT what everyone wants. It is what everyone gets served up, so it is purchased, for lack of choice. Black only flatters women with olive/Mediterranean complexions or those with porcelain white Celtic ones (ask any colourist). Heck, even my African American / S. African / Caribbean sisters tend to avoid the colour and they COULD wear it. In other news, black doesn't wash well. It fades, and unless the fabric is top quality it doesn't wear well. Also, there are those of us, over 50 who also associate black with mourning.

So, back to my local department store. I genuinely wanted to cry. I asked the assistant at the till "Who is responsible for choosing the clothes in your shop?" I was told head office. I feel a letter coming on to that senior buyer (who is probably dressed in yellow Armani). The national obsession with black has to stop. Not only that, can we please have some affordable items of warmth (not polyester plastic cotton mixy things). New Zealand has sheep for heaven's sake. We have wool in abundance, and I'm told the farmers can't get a good price for it. And now, ironically, we are an entire country in search of a cardigan.

End of Rant

Beards, spots and wobbles

A piece of land next to the river was sold recently to a young farming couple. They are planning to build a home on the land, but currently it is occupied by a number of very young calves and a tethered goat. The goat has made friends with the horses in the adjacent field. It isn't uncommon to see the three of them having an early morning chat when we drive past on the way to work.

One of the calves however has given us cause for concern. He was tiny and skinny and in the recent cold weather had a waterproof jacket on. We wondered if he would survive. Today it is much milder and Little Spotty Fella is without his bright orange jacket.

I decided to walk along the road to introduce myself. He and his bigger and stronger pal were some way off, so I started to sing near the fence. Initially LSF trotted forward.

It was then I realised he had a wobbly head. I suspect it was a difficult birth as he was very bony and looked a bit fragile. But he was enjoying my singing so approached a bit closer. His pal came with him to protect him from me (and possibly my singing - the only songs which came to mind were folk songs!) They stared, I sang. When it came time to walk away, LSF trotted along with me for a while. The singing evidently wasn't that bad.

Mr Goatee with a goatee, was less hard to impress and was somewhat preoccupied with a nice circle of weeds.

His mates the horses were impossible to coax, even with two pieces of carrot. It was only as I walked away, tossing the carrot into the field that they came over to introduce themselves. Of course then they were looking for a carrot from my hand. I pointed to where I had thrown it. As I walked away they were walking in smaller and smaller circles looking for a piece of orange amongst the clover.