So, to summarise, I have hit 32 and - apparently - middle age. You know how on dating sites people always write,"I'm just as happy staying in with a bottle of wine and a good book as I am dancing the night away"? (Don't lie - I know you've looked even if you've not subscribed). Well, I have come to discover in 2013 that I am happy staying in. Period. Give me hot a bath, 'The Best of Enya' on Youtube, a bottle of wine and a copy of 'Brighton Rock' (I am an English graduate remember. Three years of Book Critiquing = Literary Snob) and I am one Happy Granny. No dancing the night away, no flaming Sambuccas or Jagerbombs for ME thank you very much. I need to be in bed by at least 930pm or I'll never get up for body attack tomorrow.
Just re-read the last paragraph. I think I need a night out on Broad Street pronto. Key Largo anyone? Oh, that's right. It shut down in 1998.
The down side of staying in is that I'm more likely to encounter Sid The Cockroach at some point during the night. I'm calling him Sid, but in fact there have been several Sids over the last few days. For three consecutive days now I have woken up only to discover a GIGANTIC cockroach lying on its back, antennae going mad, legs flaring, on my bathroom floor. I have no idea where these bastards are coming from, but to keep discovering them one morning after the other is not unlike some kind of Groundhog Day of the scene in The Godfather with the Horse's head. I feel like I've starred in The Cockroach 1, 2 and 3 this week.
Of course, my friends at work think this is hilarious. My first encounter with a cockroach in New Zealand occurred in a very public and shameful manner. Picture the scene: it's 0617am on a Friday morning and a very sleepy Sarah decides to fill up her protein shaker at the water fountain in the gym. As I was standing there staring into space, I suddenly felt something move on my hand. I looked down only to see a massive, shiny, black shield perched on my hand. I screamed the house down, threw my protein powder all over the floor and fled to the other side of the gym. This greatly bemused the massive Maori blokes who were doing incline chest presses in the weights area. My friend Blyth thinks it's brilliant now to peer furtively at the floor when I'm around, in a manner suggestive of several cockroaches (cockroachi?) scurrying around.
One is not amused.
I went out on my first date in New Zealand last week, are you proud? It's only taken me 5 months. It was a guy I found surfing on the beach, I'm so Kiwi bro....... anyway, before you get all excited I need to tell you that I've not heard from him again so no need to rush to House of Fraser to snap up a hat. It wasn't a promising start anyway. In our first conversation I asked him if he was a member of the gym I work at and his reply went like this: "No. I did a 3 week trial but it was too gay for me". I was so taken aback by this reply that I said, "Are you serious?!!" Apparently getting checked out in the men's changing room was too much for him. "I'm pretty homophobic". Being the little Fag Bangle I am I was not a little distressed by this, but I still went out for a drink with him because.... well, mainly because he's the only person to ask me out here and he has big arms. Call me shallow. So I've not heard from him again but perhaps it's just as well. I did feel like I was cheating on my Gay Sisterhood the entire date. I've put YEARS into becoming the camp, cliquey, friend of Friend of Dorothy that I am. My record collection alone would cause most gay men to turn green with envy.
(Celine, anyone?)
KIWI 101 TO BRUMMY
That's mean, bro = that's good, friend = yam alrooight, bab.
Thursday, 21 March 2013
Thursday, 14 March 2013
Sex O'Clock
So the latest obstacle I have encountered in New Zealand is pronouncing the word 'six'. Due to the difference in our vowel sounds, I'm apparently saying 'sex'. Just like they pronounce 'pen' as 'pin' and 'eggs' as 'iggs'.... I had a conversation with my friend last week that went something like this:
KIWI: What are you doing tonight?
ME: Nothing. I'm in at six tomorrow.
KIWI: You're having sex tomorrow?!!
ME: Nooooo.....
So now every time we meet she asks me if I've had sex yet that day. It's not unlike the incident which occurred during my first year at uni: everyone in our flat was shouting "we want sex", I misheard and somehow thought they were shouting "Sarah" (clearly, they sound the same), opened the door to say "Yes?" and this minor mishap thus lead to my nickname throughout the proceeding 3 years of university - Sarah Sex. Eventually it got shortened to just 'Sex', which was not a little embarrassing when it was hollered at me as I was stumbling my way into lectures. Wearing my Diesel backpack with the one strap which wrapped around my torso on a diagonal angle. You know the one, with the mobile phone holder on the front strap. Yep, back then I had my finger on the fashion pulse.
But I digress. My point is that I have spent years trying to shake my 'affectionate' nickname of Sarah Sex. It followed me beyond university, because then whenever I went to visit my Uni friends in London they would introduce me to their new Job Friends as Sarah Sex.... Job Friends would then ask curiously where the name derived from, and I would have to explain that it really wasn't anything racy in the slightest - more that I just have hearing problems. It's really quite a dull story when you have to recount it to drunken Londoners, and I was rarely invited to the next party.
I thought I had escaped this particular embarrassment by moving to the other side of the world. But then I hadn't reckoned on Kiwi Vowels. My other nickname in the UK is 'Sperm'. But I think that's quite enough hilarity for one day.
In other news, I am no longer allowed to buy sporting equipment in NZ. Not until I have learned to Love And Utilize The Stuff I Already Have. I think I may have been a bit over-zealous when I first arrived, and in my excitement about my future outdoorsy lifestyle I have purchased a car, surfboard, bicycle and boxing gloves. I use my car every day (LAZY English girl). The bicycle I have used twice so far - making those two rides a rather costly $67.50 each. The boxing gloves are still in their packet in my boot. Ready for Action. And I took the surfboard out for the first time last Sunday - and managed to cut my knee, break a fin, and discover that the wax I bought for it doesn't work on my particular board, thus resulting in my continually sliding off when I tried to stand up. I'm positive that was the reason I couldn't stand up. I can assure you, I will have a brilliant surfing career once I have found the right wax.
My final revelation of the month is this: don't ever believe people when they tell you that a netball game is 'just social'. They are lying. My flatmate texted me last week to help her out with their final netball game of the season. I am trying to be more proactive in getting-out-of-the-gym, so like the little Keen Bean I am I agreed. Then I panicked. I've not played netball since 1997, and even then I was never quite sure of the rules. But she reassured me that it would just be a bit of fun, "nobody takes it seriously". Like the fool I am, I believed her. About 60 seconds into the game I realised that I had been duped, and in fact we were all playing like it was the World Series. It's the girls that are the worst - the Irish blonde I was marking was short, fast, and vicious. It was the longest 30 minutes of my life. (And remember, I was doing tech reviews for a year back home). At least it reminded me why I like group fitness. I like it when we're all on the same side. Fighting to change the world. Challenging Obesity. Making the Planet Fitter. But most importantly, Getting Bigger Biceps.
KIWI 101 Translated to Yam Yam
Chur Bro (Auckland) = Choice Bro = Nice One = Noice One, Bab (Dudley)
KIWI: What are you doing tonight?
ME: Nothing. I'm in at six tomorrow.
KIWI: You're having sex tomorrow?!!
ME: Nooooo.....
So now every time we meet she asks me if I've had sex yet that day. It's not unlike the incident which occurred during my first year at uni: everyone in our flat was shouting "we want sex", I misheard and somehow thought they were shouting "Sarah" (clearly, they sound the same), opened the door to say "Yes?" and this minor mishap thus lead to my nickname throughout the proceeding 3 years of university - Sarah Sex. Eventually it got shortened to just 'Sex', which was not a little embarrassing when it was hollered at me as I was stumbling my way into lectures. Wearing my Diesel backpack with the one strap which wrapped around my torso on a diagonal angle. You know the one, with the mobile phone holder on the front strap. Yep, back then I had my finger on the fashion pulse.
But I digress. My point is that I have spent years trying to shake my 'affectionate' nickname of Sarah Sex. It followed me beyond university, because then whenever I went to visit my Uni friends in London they would introduce me to their new Job Friends as Sarah Sex.... Job Friends would then ask curiously where the name derived from, and I would have to explain that it really wasn't anything racy in the slightest - more that I just have hearing problems. It's really quite a dull story when you have to recount it to drunken Londoners, and I was rarely invited to the next party.
I thought I had escaped this particular embarrassment by moving to the other side of the world. But then I hadn't reckoned on Kiwi Vowels. My other nickname in the UK is 'Sperm'. But I think that's quite enough hilarity for one day.
In other news, I am no longer allowed to buy sporting equipment in NZ. Not until I have learned to Love And Utilize The Stuff I Already Have. I think I may have been a bit over-zealous when I first arrived, and in my excitement about my future outdoorsy lifestyle I have purchased a car, surfboard, bicycle and boxing gloves. I use my car every day (LAZY English girl). The bicycle I have used twice so far - making those two rides a rather costly $67.50 each. The boxing gloves are still in their packet in my boot. Ready for Action. And I took the surfboard out for the first time last Sunday - and managed to cut my knee, break a fin, and discover that the wax I bought for it doesn't work on my particular board, thus resulting in my continually sliding off when I tried to stand up. I'm positive that was the reason I couldn't stand up. I can assure you, I will have a brilliant surfing career once I have found the right wax.
My final revelation of the month is this: don't ever believe people when they tell you that a netball game is 'just social'. They are lying. My flatmate texted me last week to help her out with their final netball game of the season. I am trying to be more proactive in getting-out-of-the-gym, so like the little Keen Bean I am I agreed. Then I panicked. I've not played netball since 1997, and even then I was never quite sure of the rules. But she reassured me that it would just be a bit of fun, "nobody takes it seriously". Like the fool I am, I believed her. About 60 seconds into the game I realised that I had been duped, and in fact we were all playing like it was the World Series. It's the girls that are the worst - the Irish blonde I was marking was short, fast, and vicious. It was the longest 30 minutes of my life. (And remember, I was doing tech reviews for a year back home). At least it reminded me why I like group fitness. I like it when we're all on the same side. Fighting to change the world. Challenging Obesity. Making the Planet Fitter. But most importantly, Getting Bigger Biceps.
KIWI 101 Translated to Yam Yam
Chur Bro (Auckland) = Choice Bro = Nice One = Noice One, Bab (Dudley)
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