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Betty Crocker, eat your heart out. Well, actually, eat my muffins. Or technically, eat your muffins since I made them using Betty Crocker’s Triple Chocolate Muffin Ready-Mix… The point I’m trying to make here is I just made some kick-ass muffins. I have spent the morning baking like a Women’s Institute group leader who has just snorted a line of icing sugar. Along with my muffins I whipped up some buttered icing to pipe on top of my muffins with a $3.49 piping bag which came with six nozzles to choose from. I was delighted with the price (courtesy of The Warehouse) as the only other piping bags I had seen cost between $12-$16 and were nozzle-less. I now know why it was so cheap however, because I ripped it whilst cleaning it un-vigorously, but with a bit of sellotape we’ll be back in (piping) business.
Along with my muffins and icing I tried out making Hokey Pokey. I remember going to the National Science Museum in London when I was a kid at school – we went a few times and each time they always had an exhibition about the science of cooking, at which there was always a presentation in which a “scientist” (spotty student wearing lab coat) would whip up a batch of cinder toffee, because there is a chemical reaction involved when you add baking soda to sugar syrup which is both exciting to watch and tasty to chew. What they don’t tell you at the science exhibition is that there’s a science behind getting the Hokey Pokey out of its container after it has hardened and is ready to eat. I tried chiselling it out to no avail (I was only successful in flicking shards of it across the room into nooks and crannies where I couldn’t see it but where ants and flies could smell it from a mile off). Eventually I ended up turning the tin upside down and banging it out with a tool used for tenderising meat. I would never have thought to do this so it’s a good thing Kiwi’s mum was around with some initiative or she may have ended up wondering where her baking tin had disappeared to because my next thought was ‘oh shit, I’ve soldered golden crunchy goodness to the bottom of a baking tin which doesn’t belong to me… hide the evidence, where’s the wheelie bin?!’
The only problem with banging the Hokey Pokey out was it came out in a billion tiny pieces (with the exception of about four decent nibble-sized chunks). But all was not lost, as I had muffins which although covered in buttercream icing, were looking a bit bland. One sprinkle of Hokey Pokey later and I was done.
Now I feel inspired to get my apron strings on and go through Edmond’s Recipe Book from back to front (useless fact – Edmond’s is the second most popular book, behind the bible, in New Zealand). Luckily for my waistline though, cookery is an expensive hobby which I can’t afford to indulge just yet.
New Zealanders don’t seem to take anything too seriously. I’m watching 3 News and they have a bulletin about Hot Cross Buns in the recent economic climate. Apparently this Easter the price of Hot Cross Buns will increase and this may affect the quality and quantity of ingredients used – cue lots of innuendos about the “currant” recession and how bun prices are “rising” – boom boom. Very Basil Brush, as we’d say in England. Actually we wouldn’t, per se. I would though, because I’m a big fan of Basil Brush; he’s a cheeky little fox with a big bushy tail and he tells outrageous jokes to children who wouldn’t have a clue what he was referring to. There was one episode of Basil Brush in which the co-host (a man, not a puppet), let’s call him Brian, is crying. Basil says “what’s wrong with you?!” Brian says “it’s my girlfriend, she’s dumped me. She broke it off because she said it wasn’t working.” And cheeky-minded Basil says “well if she broke it off, no wonder it wasn’t working, BOOM BOOM!” (Do y’all get it?!)
I like a bit of outrageous cheek courtesy of a puppet. I also have a gigantic soft spot for the Muppets – or anything Jim/Brian Henson related (yes, I could be found watching The Hoobs at 6:30am back in the day). It might be related to the fact I actually share my surname with a certain fluffy little fellar from Sesame Street, so puppetry is in the family genes (?!). I used to have an unhealthy love for Ed the Duck (I even had an Ed the Duck skateboard), Roland Rat and Gordon the Gopher when I was a kid. In fact, nevermind old TV puppets from the 90s, even at 24 years old (25 in May) I still get all giggly when I see Nev from Smile on CBBC. Of course if you’re reading this from anywhere other than Britain, you won’t have a clue who or what I’m talking about. Go to Youtube and search all names mentioned above, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed (unless unlike me you’ve got the IQ of an adult, in which case you will be very disappointed).
Apart from the fact their news stories are much brighter than those in the UK, New Zealand television is AWFUL. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I miss the channels E4, channel 4, Film4, BBC1, 2 and 3, ABC, CBBC, Cbeebies and Dave. There was never a dull TV moment. In New Zealand we get UKTV but it’s like a channel dedicated to the worst UK television ever made. I’m beginning to think it’s a propaganda method – as if it’s supposed to lure Kiwis into thinking that their TV is actually good compared to ours. It’s all lies people, LIES.
On the upside, New Zealand isn’t supposed to be enjoyed from indoors in front of the “goggle box” as my Dad calls it. It’s got big green hills and lovely green trees and lots of green plants and it’s very, very green everywhere, except for the sky which at the moment is blue 95% of the time (night time excluded) and there’s a big yellow burning ball of fire in the sky. If you’re English you won’t have a clue what this is all about – I think they call it ‘THE SUN’ over here. It’s amazing. It makes everybody happy and browner. Who needs television when you’ve got scenery and sunshine? Well, actually I also have the internetz to keep me entertained (don’t even get me started on terrible NZ broadband services which are nothing compared to, yep you guessed it, the UK!)
Well isn’t this a random ramble. I’m off to see another free movie, courtesy of my fantabulous job. Tonight I’m seeing Duplicity, on Tuesday night I went to see Confessions of a Shopaholic. And over the weekend and next week I will be seeing Hotel for Dogs, Gran Torino, Dean Spanley and The Merchant of Venice. It’s a hard life, all this sitting on my arse chowing popcorn.
Oooh, today I just want to keep blogging and blogging. This new theme on WordPress is inspired by Twitter, so although you can’t see it, when I go to my blog homepage I see a message at the top of the page (under the title) which says “Hi, . Whatcha up to?” I’m unsure why there’s a random full stop, but the grammatical error isn’t the point here. Under this question which makes me think “wow my blog is interested to know how I am today,” like it’s suddenly my real friend, is a big white box where I write my blog posts. No need to go to my dashboard for a new post, I just type it in the box provided and click ‘Post it’. Magic. Well technology really, but I wasn’t talking ‘magic’ as in rabbits in hats and Debbie McGee, it was simply a synonym for ‘fantastic’, ‘great’ etc. So yeah, it’s like a never ending Twitter status – it doesn’t restrict me to 140 characters. And I can see your comments on each post, without having to click on ‘comments,’ so it’s like a continuous dialogue. I am overthinking a simple blog theme here, aren’t I? Wooh, that’s a new level of geek for me.
Back from running in the sun. Actually, I should say I’m back from dying a slow painful death with the sun beating down on me, boiling my already overheating body to the point of feeling like the Wicked Witch of the West (or was it North? South? East?… North East?) anyway, by the end I felt like screaming “I’m MEEEEEEELLLLLTTIIIIING!”. And it was all down to Kiwi. He’s evil-bad with a great looking exterior. He has a new hobby you see, free diving for Paua and now he also has a spear so he’s spearfishing too. He wants to be able to dive deeper and for longer periods so he needs to build up his fitness and stamina, because then his body will expend less oxygen when he dives.
So, two hours ago Kiwi comes to me and says “fancy going for a run?” I say “yes”, thinking that because I have been running a little more frequently (though still rarely) than him, it’ll be a cinch and we’ll have a nice leisurely jog together. It was not to be – I hadn’t realised how unfit I have become since I gave up running regularly in Newcastle. I’m definitely fitter than when I started running last year (I couldn’t even run for two minutes), but a half hour run today really pushed me to my limits. I have to start running again; I love it – fresh air, sightseeing, time just to lose my mind in my iPod; but I have become lazy. If it wasn’t for Kiwi MAKING me carry on after I had stopped halfway round our run (if I had been on my own I would have just dawdled home), I wouldn’t have carried on. I’m really lazy when it comes to pushing myself – I’m always up for an easy ride and I don’t like feeling uncomfortable. But Kiwi had a goal and so he kept me going when I just wanted to give up. I feel prouder of myself now – I would have felt disappointed had I only achieved a 15 minute run, so I have to thank him for making it a 30 minute run. I hope that because Kiwi is running with his own goals in mind, he’ll keep it up, which means I’ll be inclined to keep it up too. Kiwi and I are much better at sticking to things when we do them together; there’s always one of us to encourage the other when we’re flailing.
More to the point, I hope Kiwi keeps up his new hobby. I have no doubt he will – it’s a new passion he has, not just one of his ‘fads’. He’s been out and bought a wet suit, weight belt, weights, diving knife, spear, flippers, boots, gloves and plans to get all kinds of other diving menagerie. And although I’m not too taken with the Paua he brings home (apart from their stunning shells, some of which I have kept to use to keep jewellery in) – Paua are an acquired taste and they don’t smell too grand. They have to be cooked really carefully to prevent them going rubbery and gritty, and even when they are cooked nicely I’m still not too keen. But now Kiwi has a spear and yesterday he brought home a teraki, a butter fish and a marble fish. The marble fish was tough but would be ok if you battered it, the teraki was nice but the butter fish was the best; like butter it was melt-in-your-mouth tasty. So it’s a hobby for Kiwi which benefits us both; he’s turning into a very good hunter-gatherer for us, and I’m inclined for us to move to a house near the sea so he can put free seafood on the table most nights of the week.
Day 1 of application for residency:
I am applying for a resident’s permit for New Zealand, based on Partnership. I am Kiwi’s ‘de facto’ spouse as we have lived together for more than 12 months. It’s been 20 months in fact, although we only have a tenancy agreement as proof for 12 months of this. I’m hoping Kiwi’s old landlord can vouch for me that I lived with him for the full time he lived at her house before we moved in together ‘officially’. I had really bad relations with my old housemates so they can’t vouch for us that he also lived with me for one month after he first arrived in Newcastle.
Apart from this, I need to prove we are in a ’stable’ and real relationship, so I have saved all the cards we’ve received addressed to the both of us, along with letters and emails between us, and I have plenty of photos of our holidays together – along with travel documents. I also have plenty of friends who I am sure can vouch for us. But immigration doesn’t make it clear what for them proves our relationship is ’stable’ and true, and I’ve heard they can be intrusive about your personal lives.
We’ve both got tens of pages of forms to fill out – for me I have medical examinations, police checks and immigration forms. Kiwi has police checks for his time in the UK and sponsorship forms. We’ve both got a fair amount of money to pay – it’ll cost me about $1500 overall to become a resident. Yes it’s worth it, but right now that’s about 90% of every penny I have. That’s not good. That’s money I was saving for when we move into Wellington and rent; or money that could be used if one of my friends comes over to visit from the UK so we can travel the South Island. Now it’s just money which is gone and is putting me back to square one again; time to start scrimping and saving and bitching about budgeting. It’s like being back in Newcastle – money is the bane of my existence.
Back to last week, my seemingly long week. Perhaps it’s not just last week either; the longer I am out of full time work, the more stretched out time seems to become, until I can’t tell what day it is because there’s no structure to my days, weeks, months. Yet already it’s the middle of March and soon it will be April, and it’ll be three months since I arrived in New Zealand, and I don’t feel I’ve achieved anything towards my goals to work for myself and find a place to call home.
If it wasn’t for my part-time job at the local cinema/cafe, I think I’d be going stir-crazy; well, more stir-crazy than I already am. Not only does it give me the satisfaction of working, feeling productive, getting out the house, interacting with people; it also helps to relieve day to day boredom as even if I’m not working I can go in and see a movie, because it’s free. It’s called ‘product knowledge’ – staff need to see the movies we sell tickets for, so we can recommend them to the customer. And I’d forgotten how much I love watching movies; it’s escapism at its best – you engross yourself for a couple of hours in someone-else’s life and come out the other end having learnt a moral to a story and feeling some form of hope or humility, depending on the outcome. Last week I watched A LOT of movies – Slumdog Millionaire, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Watchmen, He’s Just Not That Into You and Marley & Me. Here’s my lowdown;
Slumdog I watched twice and loved it both times. It’s culturally rich, has a fantastic soundtrack and is uplifting because it has a happy ending, which I didn’t expect. It seems tragedies hold greater critical acclaim when it comes to films.
The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas isn’t as emotional as I expected, because it’s the story of an eight year old boy’s slow discovery of the happenings of the Holocaust. He never fully understands the horrors those people who were persecuted and killed in the camps face, and in turn the film doesn’t go into detail. Having studied Holocaust literature, I feel only people with a full understanding about the camps could appreciate that, horrifying though the mass murders by gas chambers were, there was so much more going on in the camps than anybody could imagine. The film leaves the audience, like the eight year old boy they are seeing through the eyes of, naive of the full facts.
Watchmen was confusing for someone who hasn’t read the graphic novel. It was still entertaining, though I did get a bit bored toward the end and Mr Manhattan is unnecessarily nude – as in butt (and penis) naked, and the director obviously knows his sex-obsessed teen/geeky men who can’t get girls audience as Silky Spandex Panty Woman/Sexy Latex Lady (whatever her name was) gets a good seeing to a few times when it’s really not that needed for the plot – in fact, without the sex scenes the film could have been shorter and therefore a tad more bearable. I’m not a sci-fi fan, I’ll live and learn.
He’s Just Not That Into You was watchable and funny in parts, but it did get on my nerves that it suggested women were completely pathetic and would go out with anyone who showed them the slightest bit of interest then fell apart when a man they dated once didn’t call. I’m no feminist, but I think girls deserve a little more credit. To be fair, the movie also made men out to be arses in the most part, so it was a little two dimensional as an example of relationships between the sexes.
Marley & Me was surprising, a nice surprise. I’m under the impression it’s biographical – it’s a movie of a book by John Grogan, and the main male character was called John Grogan. It’s an assumption, but you can see why. Yes the film was essentially about a dog, but it was based around the development of a couple as they start a family and as the family grows. It was very real – the couple could have been any couple, they weren’t perfect, they went through bad periods but unlike most films they stay together and work through their problems – “mend it, don’t end it” as John Grogan declares – no break ups, no cheating, no external interference, and they come out stronger in the end. The ending was bittersweet as Marley doesn’t live forever (I wasn’t the only one with tears rolling down my cheeks as he dies and they bury him in the back garden) but overall there’s a positivity to the film – it puts faith back in the strength of real relationships overcoming the troughs involved in living life.
So, apart from the life lessons I am learning through watching so many movies, thanks to my new job I have also learnt some important life skills: how to make popcorn, how to make chocolate topped icecream cones and how to make coffee. Making coffee isn’t a walk in the park either; I’ve made coffee before – I’m not talking instant coffee, I mean real coffee made from freshly ground beans and steamed milk. Having worked in hospitality since I was 16, I have used many a coffee machine. But in the UK a latte and a cappucino are really the same thing, served in a different cup. A flat white doesn’t exist; nobody ever asks for a ristretto, machiatto (unless they’re in Starbucks and it’s caramel-topped) and I’m pretty sure nobody knows what a Vienna is either. And that’s only half the types of coffee I am needing to learn how to make. There is a vital difference between serving lattes and cappucinos, and it’s not just the cup they come in. New Zealanders take coffee-making seriously. It’s an art form, it’s even a career. There are courses in coffee making. I have so much to remember: ground the beans just before you use them, don’t let fresh ground coffee sit in the porta-filter for more than 10 seconds before use, don’t let ground coffee sit in the porta-filter after use, don’t let the tamper get wet, don’t put the ground coffee in a wet porta-filter, don’t put the porta-filter down on a dirty tamping mat incase you get coffee on the pourer. Then there’s the milk rules; don’t over stretch the milk, don’t under stretch the milk, don’t overheat the milk but if someone asks for extra hot then overheat but don’t burn the milk, get rid of the top bubbles but don’t get rid of the froth, stir the milk but not with a spoon-mix it in the jug by swirling it in your hand; bang it to get rid of bubbles but not too much so you don’t separate the milk from the froth, but then when you poor the milk make sure the froth is held back until the end… You get the picture. I’m still serving an ‘every-coffee’; as in ask me for a flat white, I’ll give you a latte. Ask me for a cappucino, I’ll give you a latte. An americano and a long black are the same thing to me. I’ll improve, I’m sure I will, and in New Zealand a good coffee Barista is like a jewel – I’ll always be able to find a job in a cafe/bar which means I can always rely on hospitality if ever I’m stuck for work. Which hopefully I won’t be… but I’ll save those concerns for another post.
It’s been a week. It’s been a long week. Taking you back to last Monday morning, the week didn’t start off well. I woke up in the middle of Sunday night/early Monday morning with a shock, having pulled out my new nose piercing in my sleep. Ouch. Painful. I panicked a little and took about five minutes poking around my nose, trying to put it back in. Sounds easier than it was; because of the angle of the bent pin inside my nose, with every push back into the pierced hole I got a sharp prod on the inside of my nostril. I just couldn’t get the angle right. Tired and frustrated I eventually got it back in and put a plaster over it to prevent a re-occurrence, but I had begun to feel really nauseous and dizzy. I put it down to shock but I couldn’t get back to sleep; each time I dozed off I woke up again with a start, feeling woozy, as though I had just passed out. I got out of bed and had a glass of juice and a biscuit to try and replenish my sugar levels (a tip remembered from some St John’s First Aid education about 15 years ago). An hour later, once I’d calmed down, I went back to bed and tried to get back to sleep. Although I still felt dizzy I eventually managed to drift off after a few whimpers to Kiwi about how ill I felt.
Monday morning I woke up late and wandered into the study to find Kiwi who was already up. I checked my nose in the mirror to assess the damage after the previous night and nearly had a fit when I realised I couldn’t see my nose stud. On closer inspection I could see it had gone into the skin of my nose – I could poke it out by pushing it from the inside of my nose but I had begun to panic that it might get stuck in there and I’d have to have it cut out by a doctor, or I could get an infection, or I could DIE, or something… I felt nauseous and dizzy all over again and mumbled something to Kiwi about going to be sick before stumbling into the bathroom and sitting on the edge of the bath with my head between my legs. I felt burning hot all over and got Kiwi (who had followed me into the bathroom looking concerned) to get me a glass of water and a wet flannel. By the time he’d returned I was sat on the floor of the bathroom, hyperventilating and on the verge of fainting. It was only by deep breathing that I didn’t actually pass out. After about half an hour I had calmed down enough to deal with the fact I’d have to take the nose stud out, without panicking and feeling faint again. Luckily taking it out was far easier than it was to get in, and as soon as I was free of the alien piece of metal that my mind was having issues with, I instantly felt much better.
I spent the rest of the day reminiscing the fond memories of my 1 and a half days of having a pierced nose. I was gutted the day/s had come to an end, it suited me and felt like something that had always been there – like my nose came complete with a stud at birth. Unfortunately it didn’t and it had cost me a now wasted $50 to get it done. Kiwi was full of ‘I told you so’s’ because he firstly didn’t want me to get it done, and secondly disapproved of my choice of piercer – he didn’t think they looked professional enough. So he felt I had proved his point when after only 1 and a half days I had had such an adverse reaction to it.
But the day came to a happier ending, as luckily for me Kiwi’s mum was neither sceptical about the quality of the piercing, neither was she convinced there was anything wrong with me. She suggested I just put the piercing back in. Oh. right. why didn’t I think of that? Probably because my overactive imagination and Kiwi’s criticism had made us believe I’d either had an allergic reaction, an infection that had gotten into my bloodstream or any number of medical-issues. But Kiwi’s mum has obviously got me sussed. She said perhaps I’d just got myself so worked up about the thought of the nose stud being stuck inside my nose, and of having it taken out by a doctor, that I’d panicked which had brought on the fainting fit. I’m a scaredy-cat and that’s all there is to it. So, I had a word with myself and within five minutes I had put the nose stud back in its hole, without any problems. And one week on, I’ve been absolutely fine – the only thing wrong with me is I’m a complete girl – just the thought of pain makes me woozy, so when it comes to my pain threshold, I don’t have one…
I may have fallen off the decaffeinated wagon. It’s very hard, when you work in a cafe that allows you as much free coffee as you like, to resist. So I haven’t. In my defense, I haven’t had a cup of instant coffee at home since the beginning of Lent – I’ve drunk decaffeinated teas; I bought some vanilla chai tea, cocoa chai tea and a lemon and ginger herbal tea so I had plenty of variety to keep me going. And I do love tea – if my addiction to coffee hadn’t gotten in the way, I’d be an avid tea drinker. But instead I got into the habit of drinking what felt like 10 cups of shitty instant coffee a day. Because I craved it. Even though I wasn’t particularly keen on the taste of it, for some reason my brain decided it MUST have REGULAR caffeine shots. But not any more, now I have just one cup of freshly ground coffee every other day and I’ve found time to rediscover my taste for tea. So even though I failed at giving up caffeine, I have successfully weened myself off instant coffee. And this is something I will stick to.
In other news, it appears I woke up this morning in another dimension, an alternative world, where I am twelve years old again and subject to the disapproving thoughts of concerned parents. I received some unexpectedly stern words in an email regarding my choice of nasal piercing. I was asked what influenced me and why? I answered:
I was influenced by myself – it’s something I have thought about doing since I was a teenager, and I’m a ‘do-er’ rather than a ‘think-er’ so I finally got it done. I have a long list in my mind of ‘things I’d like to do in my life’ and this is one of them. There’s a lot of things on this list that I feel I can’t do due to my anxiety attacks, so this is a relief from the constant feeling that I can’t do anything I’d want to.
My close friends know that it’s pretty impossible for me to be influenced by anything other than my own will and want. I am too independently-minded and stubborn to follow trends – it’s almost like just because something is “in fashion” then I automatically take a dislike to it. If anything ‘influenced’ my decision, it was simply my own appreciation for the type of piercing I chose. In Asian culture it is considered beautiful, and I’m very much influenced by Asian culture – it inspired my tattoo designs, it inspired my studies, it’s a culture I am in awe of - it’s colourful, foreign, exciting and a whole world away from my own. Perhaps this is my little piece of India.
Another parental concern was how it would affect the way people saw me in a professional situation, had I considered that it would affect me getting freelance work. I said:
You are right that there are people who will judge me for it, but I’m happy to let my professional skills speak for themselves. And if the piercing still affects their judgement then so be it.
I’m sure some people will be prejudiced, but then I don’t want to work with these kinds of people. And I work in the creative industry, so it is going to be very rare that I come across anybody who would be concerned by my outward appearance; creatives often appreciate a creative exterior – it presents someone in touch with their own artistic nature.
Far from making excuses for my decision, like a naughty schoolgirl, I think the most important thing here is that I love it, I think it is subtle, I think it’s cute and I think it suits me.
I’m feeling like a rebel without a cause; this morning I had my nose pierced, this afternoon I had a mini bouffant re-style and right now I’m hankering after a new tattoo to add to the one I already have and further cover my back in permanent graffiti. I get like this when I feel stuck. None of my decisions are whimsical, I have wanted my nose pierced for years and my tattoo has always been the beginning to an extension since I first had it done, but it’s the times that I’m stuck in a rut when I’ll finally act on my thoughts. It’s like a release, a small relief where I get to make a change in my life over something I can control when something I can’t control is holding me back.
I’m trying to settle in, make some friends, carve myself a place in Wellington. But things like anxiety attacks get in the way and good intentions turn to shit. Take last Sunday for example; I wanted to go into the city to meet up with the CouchSurfers who were having some drinks and lunch. The CouchSurfers are a good place to start to meet people who are all in a similar situation – in a new city, wanting to make friends and find others to attend events etc with. I already felt anxious about meeting people on my own and the trip would either involve taking the train or driving; both of which can bring on anxiety attacks, so after having an argument with myself over whether I could manage it or not, I took the easy route and decided to go to the cinema with Kiwi. I had an excuse not to go out and I didn’t have to face my fears. Kiwi and I arrived at the cinema only to find all the seats to the movie we wanted to see had sold out, so we turned around and headed home. I took this to be a sign that fate said I had to stop avoiding situations I wasn’t comfortable with and get myself into Wellington to meet up with everyone. Before I had another chance to talk myself out of it, I dropped Kiwi off, took a deep breath and drove off town.
Just ten minutes down the highway I had an anxiety attack. A sign I should have given myself a pat on the back for good effort and turned around. Instead I took a five minute time-out in a McCafe in Lower Hutt, then got back onto the highway and carried on my way. Half an hour later I had made it into Wellington and thought I was home-free. I parked up outside a dairy and practically skipped down the hill toward the intended meeting place for the CouchSurfers. But passing another dairy I noticed the parking signs read ‘5 minutes at all times’. I deduced that if this was the norm for parking outside dairies then I had narrowly missed getting a hefty ticket and trotted back up the hill to move the car somewhere safe. This is where it all started to go wrong. As I drove around the city centre I couldn’t find another parking space, I slowly realised I couldn’t find myself either as I had gotten caught up in the city’s one way system. Being a nervous driver at the best of times I get flustered very quickly. With unfamiliar roads, road signs, and heavy traffic flow I was fast becoming every other driver’s nightmare. I didn’t know which lanes to get into, I didn’t know which way to turn, I kept getting honked, I kept making bad driving choices, I had three more anxiety attacks; I was haphazard to say the least. It took me at least 15 minutes to find an illegal parking spot and phone Kiwi in fits of tears. He didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to direct me as I didn’t know where I was. My knight in shining armour (plus parents) dropped what they were doing and drove in to my rescue. I just had to get myself somewhere I could stop for half an hour and give a decent description of where I was.
30 minutes later and Kiwi had arrived; his ride (plus parents) had dropped him off. He got me into the passenger’s seat and took me out of my shortlived nightmare, back to the safety of home. It’s been a week now and I’m not sure if it’s a setback or not. It’s put me off driving into town alone at least, and I can’t seem to kick this feeling of shyness about meeting people. I feel I need someone with me to hide behind, it makes everything easier. Put me in a group of people I know and I’m pretty loud. Put me in a room full of strangers or people I’m new to and I feel self conscious and like I want to fade into the wallpaper. It’s like being a kid on the first day of school all over again, trying to find common ground with whoever you’re sat next to in class. Except when you’re a kid it’s so much easier to break the ice – just share your Barbie doll and you make instant friends. In adulthood you need a little more than a Barbie doll. It’s easy to make acquaintances – it’s the big step of turning them into friends which is nerve wracking. You start to wonder if people really like you or if they’re just humouring, you feel paranoid that you might be forcing your company on people who just don’t ‘get’ you. Or maybe that’s just me. Am I worrying too much?
Ah well, now I have a nose piercing and a choppy hair cut at least I can be like the ‘cool kid’ in school. Maybe that’ll work for me… Here’s hoping.
He said, then she said...