Conversation With Mr Shortt On Skype
DAD: Now look Darling, there's some mail here for you labelled 'private and confidential'. Would you like me to open it for you?
ME: Yep, sure.
DAD: Oh it's from the NHS.... Let's just get this open....
[LONG PAUSE]
DAD: Oh! They'd like to invite you for a cervical smear test.
ME: Right..... great.....
DAD: I'll leave it up in your room shall I? (CHUCKLES, UPBEAT) Well, it's nice of them to invite you!
Is it? IS IT?? It's not like I'm being invited to accept my lifetime achievement at The Oscars, they're inviting me to be lie down on a sterile white couch and be scraped with a cold metal instrument. Last time I went (at the insistence of my then-boss, who kept loudly asking me in the office, "HAVE YOU BEEN FOR YOUR SMEAR TEST YET?" - we have a close relationship) I accidentally moved my foot on the bed and planted it straight into the lubricating jelly they were about to utilise. Just typing that makes me cringe. In fact, close my eyes and I can still feel that cold wetness on my right heel; 6 years later, I'm still recovering from the embarrassment.
(At which point my sister would tell me: Get Over It).
It's kind of been one of those weeks. On Monday I was having a perfectly lovely afternoon until one of my colleagues commented, "oooh you smell nice, is that Britney?" Er no... no, it's not Britney, it's Jo Malone. Pomegranate Noir. From England. It costs about 5 times the price and (so I thought) was a very unusual and classy scent. Well, we live and learn. Apparently, I could have saved myself about $100 and bought Cosmic Radiance (Anniversary Edition) from The Perfume Shop in The Pallasades. Always good to know.
I always like discovering new ways to tell I'm in my (early) 30s. This week's gem came in the form of a Rihanna concert. Pre-Concert, it was my outfit. I was chatting with The Gay and telling him I was about to go and see Miss S&M. He cast a dubious eye over my pink paisley top and commented "er, you're wearing THAT to Rihanna?"
"Yes.... what should I be wearing?"
"Something that makes your butt look bigger and your tits look higher".
Right. Well, seeing as the last 'gig' I attended (yes, I'm aware I already sound old using the word 'gig') was Pulp, the NEC, circa 1996 when it was de rigeur to wear Converse and Diesel T-Shirt, I thought I was doing pretty well in my costuming efforts. After all, at least I now get my eyebrows threaded. None of that Romanian Peasant look for Sarah in 2013 thanks very much.
In-Concert, it was my choice of drink. Firstly I had my 2L bottle of water confiscated during the security bag search - as my friend commented, "RiRi does NOT approve of hydration" - then I got to the bar and ordered a red wine and water. The bartender looked a bit unsure at my request for wine (clearly displayed on their drinks menu I might add) and said she'd just check if they had any. I'm not sure anyone had asked for Merlot since 2009.
(At this stage I feel compelled to add that, until attending the Vector Arena, I had always thought you couldn't get any uglier people at a concert than the Birmingham NEC. I hold both hands up - I was wrong).
Since I've now been in NZ for (almost) 12 months, I thought I would take some time to reflect On The Fings Wot I've Learnt (Learned, Alana?)
- In one year, nobody has ever said to G'Day to me. Not even once.
- When I moved here, people told me that New Zealand was like England in the 70s. Which is a bit weird, given that most of those people weren't even alive in the 70s. It's NOTHING like England. In the 1970s or 2013.
- Unless you count the copious amounts of rain. And fixation with Coronation Street. (Coro)
- People also told me that Kiwi's didn't get sarcasm. Er, not true. For all their apparent nicety, I think most Kiwi's are actually more sarcastic than the Brits. In fact, most of the time I feel like the idiot who didn't get the joke.
- Everything can be shortened. Preso. Convo. Tammy. Coro. Unco. Bro...
- Which is weird, given that everyone generally seems to have more time here than in the UK.
- People in the supermarket here smile at you. Like, all the time. In a really genuine, non-rapey manner.
- Trying to teach in New Zealand is actually like trying to win the X Factor. I pretty much feel like I'm auditioning for Simon Cowell every time I teach. To wit, I was told by one GFM (group fitness manager), "Well, you don't bore me". THAT'S 110 PER CENT YES FROM ME! Naturally, this is followed up in the next round by I'M SORRY, SWEETHEART, YOU'RE NOT GOING TO JUDGES' HOUSES. THIS JUST ISN'T YOUR YEAR.
- In fact, I think it would be easier to run for US Presidency than it is to teach here.
Obama's out soon isn't he? I'm just off to finalise my health insurance proposal.
