Casual Sex? But what about your life insurance policy?


I was told I over think things. Which I don’t really agree with because I’d like to think that my behavioural patterns followed a impetuous line that didn’t reflect on my neurotic tendency in my personality, stemming from am incident in early childhood with  snail….

Maybe they were right.

It’s true. I do over think things. Sometimes it’s bad. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s just plain weird. I am the master of bizarre conclusions from one comment you half implied last Wednesday.

But whenever the pressure is on, I crack. And all because I over think things. The best example is sex.

Oh I think that I can handle the pressure of seducing a stranger, having wild passionate sex, then moving on like a nymphomaniac bird in overpriced knickers. Except in reality when I got to clubs and dance with men (who whatever their age all seem to smell the same) something ticks over in my mind.

I’ll find someone vaguely attractive, they’ll ask me for a drink. I’ll say something I think is witty, they’ll laugh because they didn’t hear me and don’t care, and we’ll go and drink over priced paint stripper.

But by the time ask my name, I’ll already have  disagreed with them over where our children should go to school. I’m already angry at them for not understanding why my parents need to spend Christmas with us. And I’m livid that he ate all the chocolate biscuits but left the wrapper in the kitchen.

So I can never do casual sex. Because i’ll already have divorced him for irreconcilable differences,before he asks me what star sign I am.

But I should look on the bright side. I’ve discovered a  form of contraception that is 100% effective – over analysis!


Cancer? Baby? What?!


Today my favourite moments were:

I saw the dreadlocked, battle scarred, chain smoking communist that mans the Socialist Alternative stall on campus drinking Coke. Viva la revolucion!

Listening to a guy bitch about his friend “He’s just so horrible. He’s so negative. He never says anything nice about people.” Hmm. The irony seemed a little lost on him. Although this is a guy who would think irony is an adjective to describe red meat.

I was on the phone, when a friend of mine appeared and told me our friend had given birth. Unfortunately, at that moment the person on the phone told me their partner had died of cancer. My brain decided to answer both people at the same time. So out came a confused grunt. To which both people reacted with displeasure.

That was one of those moments so painfully awkward, that the only way you’ll ever be brave enough to remember them is by laughing at yourself.  


Here’s why I can’t take you home…


In typical middle class style, I like to pretend that I’m from the streets and well ‘ard. Yo. To cement my tough nut image, I like to listen to rap music and pretend I too am from the city that never sleeps. I’m from a village that sleeps at 9pm, or 10,30 if we’re feeling naughty bunnies.

So anyway, I’m currently into Kanye West’s Homecoming. (Which I know is old, but I’m not cool enough to know any hip and happening hip hop right now. So old Kanye is all I’ve got.) Anyway, listening to Homecoming, I always start think about coming home

Except that unlike Kanye, I have no city to come back to. No home with pebble dashed walls, a pond full of frogs and bushes cut into geometric patterns. And that sounds woefully dramatic, it’s not really. It’s when you’re 18, and you’re living in your third country, your home isn’t a house. It’s not a city, country or artfully minimalist Swedish inspired warehouse/space rocket cross loft space.

It’s the feeling you get when you’re around people who know you. I mean actually know you, as opposed to people who acknowledge your existence before continuing talking about themselves.

People who know that you get angry when you eat the wrong sort of museli. (NO. SODDING. COCONUT.) Or know that you like to sharpen your colouring pencils when bored. Or that you detest being interrupted when reading, writing or talking to oneself.

And being around people you know, and most importantly love, is what home is. Which is convenient because it means you can keep it with you – in your phone, computer and heads. Which is great when you have to fit everything else into 23kgs of baggage allowance.


You Lost WHAT On The Dance Floor?!


When I was 16, you could give any of my friends a few drinks and oserve the Justin Beiber phenomenon; skinny, middle class white girls under the illusion they’re black rappers. This is why after a few shots, the dance floor will fill up with girls swaggering, twerking and flipping their hands around like they’ve just touched a hot iron.

I was one of these girls. My dancing looks like a giraffe having an epileptic fit. But because self awareness and drunkenness are inversely proportional, that never bothered me at the time.

But perhaps God decided he’d had enough of teenage girls. (I understand that feeling. I, at 19, am now thoroughly disgusted with decadence and frivolity of such youths. Wasn’t like that in my day….) Anyway, there was one evening when all of my girls turned up at a blokes house. He was a thoroughly underwhelming guy, made attractive by the ownership of a house without parents home.

Up we turned. We started to drink something sugary and pink – because that was sophisticated, darling –  and dance. 

Now earlier that day, I decided that if I were to name my boobs, they would be christened ‘Disappointing.’ So I adopted the full proof plan of stuffing them with cotton wool (tissue left conspicuous crinkle marks. Rookie mistake.)  After my DIY boob job, I felt much better. So full of confidence that I danced with even more than my usual enthusiasm. 

That was until my friend pointed out I’d lost a boob. In my spirited throwing-my-hands-in -the-air -like-i’m-drowning move my bra had hoiked up. And out had come my C cup filling. 

I swore that day that I was never gonna dance again. And if someone asked, it was because these guilty feet had got no rythm. As opposed to because I’d lost a boob on the dancefloor, ironically,  dancing to “my milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.” 


You Know You’re An Immigrant When


I’ve been in New Zealand for a long time now. So long in fact, that when they announced on my plane the other day that the police were boarding, my first thought was “oohhh. Someone’s been smuggling pine cones.” 

But sometimes I say something that shows that I’m an immigrant. Something that makes real Kiwis look at me like I’ve just said I have erotic dreams about their mother. 

I saw a sign for FCO. So I turned to my Kiwi friend and said “why do the Foreign and Commonwealth Office have a branch in the mall?”

My Kiwi friend looked at me with that mixture of surprise and disgust; they it reserve for English immigrants making references to NZ’s colonial past.

“Verity. That stands for Fishing Camping Outdoors. They’re a shop for people who go outside.” Then he smiled “not everything here belongs to England ya know.” 

That told me.

Why I love old people


I don’t know why everyone wants to be young. I’m at the gym, and it’s the first time in my life I fully appreciate old people.

The gym itself is ok. Considering my chronic unfitness, i’m actually enjoying myself. I like buildings that embrace the “I can’t be bothered finishing this so I’ll just paint it grey, leave some strange corners and call it minimalist” look. I like the smell of panic as women try to out do each other on the treadmill. I like the self congratulating grunts of pain the guys make when they lift heavy shit up and down. Reassurance of their own success in life that they can shift 50 kgs of metal 30 cm. I like the way they try to fill it with things that stop you from hearing your body is screaming “stop! stop! I’ll never have a cronut again, just STOP!” 

But one thing I hate is the gym junkies. 

Why? I’m not jealous of them. Partly because they probably couldn’t spell the word jealous. Not because they bully me. They don’t talk to me. I don’t speak cross-trainer. So what is is that pisses me off? 

They stare at how much I sweat. And yes, I do look like a blue fin tuna swimming in a river when I run. I also go deathly white with red flushes which makes me look like a  radish in a food blender. And i’m ok with this. But gym junkies aren’t. They look at me, they look at the puddle i’m dripping into and they sniff and toss their hair. Their young, tanned, toned bodies are teflon coated. They don’t sweat. Sweating is for mortals.

But it’s ok. Because I have found the solution. This is why I like old people. When I train with them, they’re just nice, slightly crumpled and fond of bright lycra. They saw Vietnam, the great depression and cheese in a can. You think your sweat freaks them out?

I think as you get older you just give less of shit about what people think. And I just love their acceptance. Either that or they’re blind. 

Today I laughed because…


Firstly, I found out the street where the PM of NZ has a holiday home, along with several other high flying, elegantly feathered birds, is called ‘Success Lane.’ I never knew town planners had a sense of humour.

Secondly, I watched a Katy Perry documentary that said that she cries at the emotional significance of her lyrics. I quite agree. “Let’s go all the way tonight” has the linguistic subtlety to make Shakespeare weep. 

Thirdly, I put henna in my hair. It looks like a swan got diarrhoea on my head, as my dad so elegantly put it. See the photo.