The Account of a Lifetime

February 19, 2010


Filed under: A day in the life of...,Tea. Earl Grey. Hot — xisor @ 2:58 pm

It’s been a funny few weeks. Not necessarily in the haha way, but it has indeed been a little odd.

For one, I’ve finally picked up the reading bug again. Just this past four days, I’ve raced through a fair chunk of Holmes and completely read (nay, devoured) Rynn’s World and 44 Scotland Street. I did something else too, but I still can’t remember what that is, which is a little annoying.

Anyway, on top of all that, I also went to Wellington. This meant two journeys on the Overlander which I thoroughly enjoyed, I do miss my train travelling.

Still, Wellington. What a city. I’m almost completely gutted that I didn’t visit before now. Why hadn’t anyone told me, I gasped, that it was…well, like it is. Christchurch and Dunedin are all very well, but Wellington was something quite different. Maybe I caught it on a good day?

Possibly. First up: the feel of the place. It just felt different, an altogether un-New Zealandy feel. Well, not like I’d felt before. It didn’t feel…edge of the world. Auckland doesn’t quite feel that way either, it’s very cosmopolitan, but Wellington wasn’t cosmopolitan. Not in the same way, at least. Auckland feels massive and bulging, but Wellington was small, refined perhaps. Distilled?

In any case, it was rather nice. Visited the Te Papa museum and, just as I was ascending to start touring the fourth floor in this rather magical museum, I noticed a lecture advertised; something about Pompeii, it said! How queer, I thought, but of course, this is far away from Pompeii, it must seem rather distant, almost magical for folks here. And it was. Well, that’s the impression I came away with. A massive theatre packed out with folks attending a dusty old (if fairly interesting and very informative) lecture about day-to-day social life in Pompeii. Then, afterwards, who’d have thought: a latin poetry recital in the cafe upstairs!

But the fun didn’t end there, oh no! The cafe served my favourite brand of tea (Live), albeit only in the cool pots, not with the cool tea-timers and odd (if excellent) plastic cups. Furthermore, the poetry was decidedly (hilariously) vulgar. And, to boot, I ended up chatting to an unsackable circuit-judge from Britain about my prospects as an unemployed bum, amongst other things.

All told, it was a curious few hours. Yet before that I’d wandered the city (picked up 44SS, had a burger in an offbeat little place curiously named, I think, Offbeat, had some Frank tangy-blood-orange juice [not sex-face smiles, alas, as no orange peels. Haven’t done that since leaving McIntosh, makes me very sad, but also optimistic about the future; I can do it again!] and even picked up a copy of ‘The Big Sleep’ for the hell of it too), I’d found some pretty cool things and then found the Mac’s Brewery Bar wherein I read plenty of 44SS and drank a big pile of lovely drinks.

Post-museum, I ventured to the hostel, got recommendations on where to go for drinks, went for drinks. Managed to find a wee back-alley pub (Watsumi’s? Waitsushis?) which served my week-long favourite ever drink, Tuatara’s London Porter and made a start of an evening of it.

Well, doing as you do, I wandered off and found a Rock bar which had some live music shenanigans ongoing. I partook in some aural enjoyment and listened my ears off right up until the point where some bloke recently down from Wellington (proclaiming that he was here to get laid, at least twice, over the weekend) chatted away for half an hour whilst at the bar, doing a fairl decent Scottish accent in an effort to make me feel less far-from-home. (I sincerely doubt he was trying to pull me, fortunately; I’m canny about that sort of thing, I hope.)

Anyway, on leaving the pub, I passed him yelling into his phone and tapped him on the shoulder. “MATE! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!” he cries, before thrusting a pint-handle of pink stuff at me and shouting “MATE! WHEREVER YOU ARE, I’M GIVING THE IRISH BLOKE YOUR SNAKEBITE!”. And he did, so I drunk it, and whilst he was still yammering down the phone to his chum, I leaned over to the bouncer after downing the darned thing. “I’m very grateful for the drink,” I say. “But I’m not Irish.”

I am not Irish

I never imagined I’d begin to get irritated for being mistaken for being Irish. I love Irish, all told, but in all the time I’ve been here, only once has someone guessed I was actually Scottish rather’n Irish or English. Even then, English is understandable, I’m fairly ‘well spoken’ to strangers/foreigners. But the consistency (almost 100%) with which people guess ‘Irish’ before ‘Scottish’ is somewhat disheartening. I almost feel I need to work on my twang, to exaggerate some words when making my introductions just to get the point across.

I say ‘almost’, I don’t actually feel this way. I much prefer the idea by simply responding with an obvious (deliberate) mis-guess as to the other persons’ nationality. “Aha, you’re definitely an Aussie!”, “Canadian, right?” etc.

Ho hum.

The future

Well, things are about to change. I’m off on another adventure fairly soon and then, well, then things will really change. It should be interesting. Exciting. Neither safe nor calm nor quiet. Fantastic.

A more sensible, well-ordered blog will follow…at somepoint. I also need to finish off transferring my Bebo blogs. Watch this space!


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