New Zealand, New Life

• So, here I am in God’s Own Country. This is according to Nigel, an immigrant of 23 years. Norm, of course holds a more balanced view, but is still justifiably proud of this green and pleasant land, Aeroetoa (I think) which means ‘Land of the Long White Cloud’.
  
  From my flat/apartment/cottage/annex (a name is yet to be decided upon, but fear not, it’s on the agenda) I can see the sea, Kapiti Island (pronounced to rhyme with Tappity, or, if you are feeling particularly ethnically correct, Carpet-y), and the South Island. My view, up until yesterday, was somewhat obscured by some very tall leylandii. Nigel took it upon himself to move mountains (well, cut trees) to improve my view. After the hedge-trimmers had gone I told Nigel he’d have to shave about three feet off the top of his house to perfect the view but he baulked at that. A bridge too far, it seems.
  
  Nigel is very much the CEO of Ashworth Towers and whenever he feels the need for a family meeting he brings pads, pens and a brusque manner while he chairs the meeting, referring to a printed agenda detailing the need for buying more cat food or getting a haircut. His brain works at a different speed to everyone else in the world and he WILL NOT tolerate interruptions or efforts to speed up the (painful) process. Being a doctor, his minutes are illegible and, on the whole, entirely unrelated to the subjects discussed.
  
  He is much the same when driving. If Norma and I are having a conversation when he is trying to, for example (and no exaggeration) turn a corner, he yells out, ‘SHH, man concentrating here, I can’t do three things at once so while the driver is trying to complete a complicated and dangerous manoeuvre you will be quiet in the back! No back seat driving!’ Norma and I, often discussing how to improve Rufus’ coat (the cat) or what to have for dinner, obediently quiet down until the corner has been triumphantly conquered and Nigel gives us the all-clear to continue. Actually, Nigel reminds me of Toad of Toad Hall in lots of ways, bless him.
  
  I may have mentioned that Norma takes Rufus for a walk down to the gate twice day to lock and unlock it. The morning walk is at 7.30 and Nigel always pops his head out of the house while Norma is at the gate and parps his trumpet to let me know he’s awake and ready for company. I am permitted to bring my instant coffee down to the carport and enquire about Nigel’s sleep. Neither of them will have any truck with instant coffee and I am privileged to be allowed to drink it, let alone bring it within 20 feet of the Baronial Hall. If for some reason Nigel is not disposed to wake me up in this charming manner and Norma needs my assistance with something she will wait until a more decent hour and tinkle a delicate bell inviting me to join her inside the house.
  
  The new system (because nothing is perfect until it is gadgeted up to the max) is a walkie talkie. Nigel insists upon the correct radio terminology so the airwaves around Paraparaumu are filled with, ‘Come in Badger, this is Base Camp, do you read me? Over.’ Actually, I’m loving being The-boy-I-never-was and playing with all Nigel’s toys – he has gadgets for everything.
  
  I am now called an ‘Estate Manager’ and Nigel tells all and sundry that I am here to manage is one-and-a-half acres of land. Mostly the newsagent cashiers, plumbers, passers-by are politely disinterested, but once in a while (his cardiologist’s receptionist, for example) are politely disinterested and slow enough not to run away and so get trapped into a twenty minute discussion of the merits of the term ‘Cottage’ over the term ‘Apartment’ for my accommodation.
  
  HOWEVER! Nigel had an epiphany today. I’m sure you can imagine his attitude to Counselling, Therapy, Spiritualism etc, but Norma managed to persuade him to book in for massage at the local Holistic centre. He returned a changed man. The chap in charge of this enterprise is call Dumbkopf (err…I think) and is a Dutchman who has been here for 25 years. He turned Nigel into this Mooney-type brainwashee who can talk of nothing else but the genius of this man Dumbkopf. The massage (at a cost of 45 dollars) never happened. He was in there for well over two hours and ended up ‘just talking’. For no charge. He’s clearly been recruited by the Scientologists. He has no idea he has been psychoanalysed and merely thinks Dumbkopf is a genius and Norma must go to see him immediately (Norma being a weak-minded woman who would benefit from a good talking-to).
  
  Update: Norma has been despatched to Dumbkopf. Nigel anxiously awaits her transformation. She’s been gone an hour…
  
  Nigel, having been told by Dumbkopf that he is ‘divine’ has taken this seriously and reminds us frequently of his divinity.
  
  Did I mention that he calls Norma by several nicknames? Buddy, Old Chap, Good Fellow, Chairman of the Board etc.
  
  The television in the cottage is an old 14 inch portable which has seen better times. The sound doesn’t emerge unless you stick a pair of headphones halfway into the headphone socket and wiggle it gently. It then needs to be propped into place using an old video case and a matchstick. It took me some time to get the hang of this and I mentioned it in passing to Toad of Toad Hall. In a state of some excitement at the thought of being able to play with a gadget and demonstrate his superior knowledge he very kindly wobbled up to the cottage and dismantled everything, bit by bit, telling me the purpose of every lead (‘Ah, now this bit goes from the telly to the video recording device, you see. Pass me that brown lead, there’s a good chap’). Having discarded one cable as both unnecessary and offensive (it connected the telly to the aerial), he then he said, ‘Oh, well, that’s no good, you’ll have to do without telly for the time being. Blasted thing’s a bit shonky (excellent Kiwi expression for bodged or crap) we’ll have to wait for the little man to come along and take a gander at it.’ ‘But, Nigel’, I said, ‘It was working this morning. Do you mind if I reconstruct my little system again so I can watch it until the cable man comes on Tuesday?’ ‘Oh, well, if you must, but I’m taking this cable – it’s no good.’ Trying to persuade him that the cable was essential (and functional) was a tactical minefield – and as you know, tact is not my strong point! Still, I can once again watch an odd selection of American sitcoms and British soaps (Norma is addicted to Corrie and Nigel won’t admit it, but his little face lights up when the first strains of the opening credits waft through the house).
  
  N&N took me up on my offer to cook the other night. I popped out to Woolworths (no idea if it’s related but it’s a supermarket here) and bought some mince and tinned toms etc. I took all the ingredients up to my apartment and commenced to cook the most putrid, bland, fatty, tough, chewy spaghetti Bolognese it has ever been my misfortune to eat. Nigel (who can normally barely clear his plate) had seconds, bless him, and kept reiterating how delicious it was, no truly lovely, honestly Alex, I’m not just saying that. What a loveable old codger. Norma politely declined my offer to cook again tonight, I don’t know why.
  
  It’s funny the things that are different here:
  · The water is so soft my hair has become overly manageable and is now a regimented boot camp of neatly lined up flatness. So much for ‘mussy’.
  · The mince was not puffed up with water as all meat tends to be in the UK and so was oddly dry to cook with.
  · Cream comes in over-sized Yakult type bottles and is just Cream. Not Whipping cream or Double cream, just Cream.
  · The nation is currently in mourning over a the demise of a favourite childhood sweetie called Sparkles or something. Looks vile.
  · Water main stopcocks are called Tobys. How can you take your plumber seriously when he asks after your Toby? Do you respond with a ‘Fine thanks, how’s your Muriel?’
  So culture shock is a slow, insidious process here.
  
  My heart sank yesterday when I asked N&N yesterday about the night life here and they looked blankly at me. Apparently there is no night life. This could be a real problem. I’m forty and I’m going to be living with two octagenrians, probably for ten years or more. Almost all of their friends are of a similar age.
  
  Sheila lives up the road from N&N. She’s 77 and very active, She’s run a riding school for years with her daughter, Mandy, and is dotty as a fruitcake. Unlike N&N her house smells of dog and horse all the time, her garden is a tangled (but still beautiful) mess and when I went there yesterday there was most of a mangled bird on her dining room floor which she hadn’t got around to clearing up (cat brought it in – feathers everywhere). So I felt much more at home there. She took me to the riding school and then to Mandy’s house (very similar) and then we went to the cinema along with a random lady called Brenda.
  
  The cinema was someone’s living room with a collection of sofa’s and chairs and a projector screen, but the film (can’t remember what it was called) was relatively new – had Helen Hunt, Bette Middler and Colin Firth in it. They all hated it but I really enjoyed it – partly cos I spent nearly two hours not thinking about old folk!
  
  Sheila is great fun and I like her daughter Mandy too – she has offered me riding lessons whenever I want, so I’ll have to clear it with the CEO first, but it shouldn’t be a problem.
  
  Nigel is keen to buy a Smart car for me – I told him I’d rather buy a second hand old banger but that wouldn’t look right in the garage so he’s reluctant to let me. I’m starting to feel a bit cramped! Their generosity is lovely but it does feel a bit like they’ve bought me dinner and now they are expecting me to put out. You know what I mean? Like they have assumed control over all aspects of my life. Ah well, I shall have to grow a pair, I suppose. Or at least attempt to locate a vertebra or two.