A multi-million dollar bank error

Today’s New Zealand Herald reports that a Rotorua couple have fled the country after a ‘human error’ saw Westpac bank accidentally credit their account with $10,000,000 instead of $10,000. Ooops. There’s a Westpac staffer who has seen any possibility of promotion evaporate permanently, and is probably now the subject of a police investigation  into their affairs and connections with the absconded pair.

My point to this story is this: What would you do?

Ten mill says I would tell the bank. Like most normal people, the guilt would get me before I even had the chance to consider a getaway with it. Blame it on my Catholic upbringing, but I can’t even take $5 of extra change from a bus driver. Besides, even if I was a rather more unscrupulous sort, I don’t think ten mill would be enough to make me flee the country, abandon friends and family and embark on the hassle of forging a new identity and a new life. Ten mill just wouldn’t do it. Perhaps in India it would be enough to get a fake passport, some amended facial features and a luxurious hideout for a few years until it’s safe to move on. But you’d have to live in India for a bit. One month there was enough for me.

The other assumption of this is that they were even able to take that much out of the account without setting off an alert. I’d be surprised if they’ve gotten away with the whole ten mill.

Anyway, let’s make this interesting – what country do you think Interpol will find them in? Will they find them? I say yes. And I’m going to guess…

Thailand. (Yes I know I said India before, but my gut says they’re the sort of people who might go to Thailand – despite managing to get out of the country, I have them picked as simple sorts who see the extra money as a chance to go and live by the beach for the rest of their lives.) Time frame? Oh, um… I’m guessing they’ll be found within two months.

Now, your guesses please.

Not your everyday rant

It’s one thing to see handwritten chalkboard signs with unwieldy apostrophes and lopsided misspellings. But it’s quite another to get grammatical errors turning up in so-called professional direct mail-outs.

The Salvation Army are the latest to offend me, with an appeal bearing this headline: ‘Everyday New Zealanders are falling on hard times.’

To be honest, I’m fairly sure the Sallies intend this to be interpreted as ‘Typical/normal New Zealanders are falling on hard times,’ but it is ambiguous for those who don’t know the rules about ‘everyday / every day, and might thus interpret it as ‘Every day, New Zealanders are falling on hard times’. I loathe anything that contributes to the ‘everyday/every day’ confusion. A reminder: ‘every day’ is an adjective and noun pairing, meaning ‘each day’;  ‘everyday’ is an adjective alone, meaning ‘ordinary’. The two versions are not interchangeable. And if you think I’m overreacting, there is also a good old misspelling in the mailer: ‘ineligable’, which in case you didn’t know, should be ‘ineligible’. The horror! Anyone would think they got their copywriter from a seconds shop.

Anyway, you might think it’s minor stuff, but consider this – it just cost the Sallies a donation. And if there are more grammatical pedants out there (and there are plenty of us, I assure you), it could become an expensive little mistake. Their mailer’s going straight in the recycling.

(Whew – glad I got that all off my chest.)

Classic hits 2009

This, from The Big Idea bulletin:

“Iconic New Zealand singer Dave Dobbyn reunites with the Auckland Philharmonia Orchestra on Sunday to perform the timeless classics that defined a generation, along with fresh songs from his new album Anotherland.
Dave Dobbyn has been in the charts for nearly 30 years and says he maintains his energy and passion by ‘being driven crazy by songs’.

I feel compelled to make a couple of snide comments here.

I think it’s great that Dobbyn is still around making music, if that’s what he loves to do. I’m sure his music does ‘drive him crazy’ – it drives me up the wall, too. But I question the  ‘timeless classics’ description. I heard ‘Slice of Heaven’ recently, by accident, on the radio, and it was amusing. It has a special place, certainly: at retro nights, rural NZ weddings and in the Huntly busker’s repertoire.

But, if Slice of Heaven is ‘timeless’, surely then this description could also be applied to ‘The Final Countdown’, the Crazy Frog Song and Sean Kingston’s ‘Beautiful Girls’. All which spent more than their fair share of time at Number One, and were indicative of their respective eras. Timeless though, is a little bit much.

I do, however, maintain the right to call Aha’s ‘Take on Me’ a classic.

Auckland. Better than it used to be.

Any regular readers (hi Mum) will be aware that, recently, I moved back to Auckland from London to live. After the big city hubbub of London, I was worried that the Buckwell and I might find things here a bit quiet.

Frankly, we were right. But – and it’s a big but – it’s not nearly as quiet as we expected.

Auckland is growing up. Big time. From the slow-ish, seemingly provincial city of 12 years ago, Auckland is more multicultural, more arts-focused and more streamlined. It has more decent new architecture than I ever remember seeing (luckily, for the Buckwell may have insisted that we upped and offed to Sydney if not), and the cranes on the horizon strongly suggest that we’ll be getting more. And the few historical buildings that we still do have, have been rescued from the background and brought into the limelight with a bit of ubiquitous but elegant ash-grey and white paint.

There are lots of little clothing boutiques, offering the stylish New Zealand labels that I used to know, plus new ones, as well as European brands at long-distance, extra-inflated prices. And foodies are better off now too, with farmers’ markets and deli outlets selling all kinds of luxury fare. Again, at a cost.

Auckland’s traffic is still bad. In fact, it’s worse. But at least things are better than they used to be for cyclists and public transport users, with increased bus and cycle lanes and improvement to the rail line.  Today I saw a chubby man, wearing stubbies, cycling his way home on the lane next to the North-Western motorway. Normally, I wouldn’t condone such a sight, preferring the roly poly cyclist to keep their jiggly bits well-covered and out of sight underneath some long lycra leggings. But I was pleased for him, and Auckland, that he had the option of braving the erratic weather and travelling home vastly faster on two wheels than our traffic-bound car. Keep going, chubby cyclist, I salute you. Though Auckland City Council, shame on you. I can’t believe that the city still lacks a cycling and pedestrian lane over the Harbour Bridge.

Another thing about the city is that it even seems cleaner. Now I don’t know whether this has something to do with the fact that I was recently in India, and after that, everything looks sparkling new and deodorised. Or, it’s because I’m comparing Auckland to London, my home for the last 7 years, where it’s impossible to keep buildings free from smog, grime, football hooligan vomit and pigeon poo, all the time. Whatever the case, it feels and looks cleaner than I remember it.

But there’s one thing so far about Auckland that has sadly disappointed me. The coffee, when I left, was mostly Great, and rarely slipped below Good. This week, the coffee has been OK at best, often Average and occasionally, dismally, English. If anyone can tell me where to get the coffee I love (strong, not bitter, tangy crema, full milk), please let me know. I haven’t been to Brasil on Karangahape Road yet, but it is on my list. Surely they haven’t let their game slide, too.

Other than that, Aucklanders, top show.

Back to Black

No, not the Amy Winehouse album.

I’m talking about returning to the land of my birth, also the land of the All Blacks. Although, as a reasonably unenthusiastic fan of rugby – much to the Buckwell’s dismay – that’s not what’s drawn me back.

The Buckwell and I gave London 7 years. I gave Sydney almost 5 before that. So what’s made me drop my latest surrogate home like a sack of jellied eels, don a backpack and journey to the other side of the world to reconnect with my roots?

A multitude of things, really.

First, there’s the longing for outside space. Access to the beach. The ability to grow my own vegetables, then whip up a feast in a huge gourmet kitchen that no way could I afford the expense of, or space for, in Central London. The opportunity to have barbecues in the backyard, not on a balcony – if at all. And the chance to see if I can make a pomegranate tree bear fruit in Auckland’s not-quite-warm-enough not-quite-cold-enough weather.

Then there’s the people. Family, of course, who it’s nice to have closer. (But perhaps the Buckwell and I will have to live far enough away so they can’t ‘pop round’ any time they like). And friends. All of whom seem to be popping out progeny faster than I can turn out a basic fresh pasta sauce. I’m going to have to brush up on my auntie responsibilities (hope they don’t extend to much beyond buying cute clothes), tone down my boozy London habits (should be easily done, after a spell travelling in Iran) and get used to long, lazy catchups, instead of flat-out weekends abroad on umpteen city breaks.

I’m also looking forward to chirpy shop assistants, friendly bank tellers and enthusiastic taxi drivers.

What else? Colour. I’m warmly anticipating a life less London-grey, less monochrome. Instead, I can’t wait for lots of gold, plenty of blue and every shade of green.

Plus a bit of Black too, of course.

Ironing is Zen

Some people meditate. Some garden. I find Zen in ironing. And I’m not the only one. A quick ogle at Google revealed that as of today at 1:23pm, there were 106,000 results for Zen and ironing.

Just this morning I found enlightenment somewhere in between a crisp John Lewis pillowcase and an almost-smooth fitted double sheet.

However, my kind of Zen ironing involves only non-personal items – that is, nothing that belongs to an individual; rather things that can be considered to belong to the house. So sheets, pillowcases and even teatowels are Zen, but shirts, skirts and scarves are not. I can’t help but reflect that this is somewhat unfortunate – especially for the Buckwell, who not only has had to bear the disappointment of me refusing to accede to the archaic custom of taking his surname upon marriage, but will also probably always have to iron his own shirts.

Can’t get no satisfaction

This week feels like the most boring week of my entire life. I’m not sure what’s bothering me, but I can’t rustle up the tiniest spark of interest about anything.

I haven’t been getting excited about food (either eating or creating).
I can’t get into the book I’m reading (Animal’s People, by Indra Sinha).
I can’t shop.
I don’t even seem to be able to write.

Perhaps it has something to do with not having a home. The Buckwell and I are renting at the moment, so all our furniture is in storage, and our lives are in limbo.

In a few months we will be going travelling, but so far, we don’t even know where. And there are tickets to buy, visas to organise, supplies to stock up on, and travelling clothes to try on. But our supply of joie de vivre is empty. It’s flat. Dead. Dry.

Last night the Buckwell spent the entire evening in front of the telly with the computer, browsing cars and bicycles that he’s not going to buy. I was in the bedroom, sorting through my make-up (which I rarely use).

It’s time for drastic action.

I can feel a culture vulture week coming on…

Now who’s laughing?

Awwww. England’s football team are out of the European Cup.
And I don’t care a fig. In fact, it was a very pleasing evening in Number 9 last night. The Buckwell and I watched the last two minutes of the game in a detached, disinterested sort of way. Then we listened to the muted hubbub as the pub across the road spewed out its punters at a surprisingly reasonable hour. No celebratory impromptu karaoke keeping us up past 12 last night.
To top it off, we cast our minds back to the charming English chappie at the Kingsmill’s leaving party, who ungraciously showered us with ridicule because the All Blacks and Australia had been dumped out of the Rugby World Cup. (The ones they actually qualified for at least.)
Ah yes. I wonder how he’s feeling now?

I loved Brownswood Loves Jazz

Last night was fantastic. I am SO glad I went. The Buckwell and I turned up just in time for a free cocktail, 5 mins before Elan Mehler began tinkling on the piano. Both he and Jose James are undoubtedly class musicians (James is blessed with an uncommonly harmonious voice), but it was Japanese ‘death-jazz’ band Soil and ‘Pimp’ Sessions who most people had come to see, and now, after seeing them, I can understand why. These guys put on a riveting high-energy show, amazing, hilarious and skilful at once. Even the Buckwell said the saxophonist was the best he’s ever seen. (A rare compliment from Mr Rarely Impressed.) It was impossible not to strip off the London layers and dance.
Then there’s Bush Hall itself, which, with its ornate Victorian plasterwork, hanging chandeliers and great acoustics, is my new favourite venue (even though it’s in West London so it takes me an hour to get home). Sadly, we left at 10:30 just before S + P Sessions were to finish their set, and well before the after-party, because we had an early start the next day, but next time I have the oppoprtunity to see them play, I’m taking the next day off. This was probably the best gig I’ve been to this year (festival acts don’t count).
Found a Brownswood Recordings vid of S +P Sessions, so treat your ears and eyes here:

No cultural activities scheduled for this evening, so I will be listening to my new Brownswood Loves Jazz CD sampler and Soil and ‘Pimp’ Sessions’ Pimpoint. In the bath.

Culture vulture

Tonight I’m going to a gig at Bush Hall in West London: Brownswood Loves Jazz, for which I booked some tickets a few weeks ago. I’ve been wanting to see one of the bands, Soil and ‘Pimp’ Sessions, for several months now, ever since I heard them on Last.fm. Apparently it’s one of Time Out’s recommended gigs this week, and is sold out on Ticketweb. It would appear that I have tapped in to a bit of London cool early on in the piece.
However, although this gives my ego a nice little stroking (when you’re over 30, these hip and cool moments are fewer and fewer apart), I still can’t shake the feeling that I would rather go straight home, pour a glass of red wine, run myself a warm bath, grab the latest Granta writing magazine and settle in for oh, about 3 hours, till the bath gets cold and I run out of hot water to top it up.

Am I a saddo, or is it just that I work too many hours?

Later this week and next, more cultural activities await me. On Friday, there’s theatre at the Chocolate Factory in Southwark, then Macbeth on Tuesday at the Gielgud; Ojos de Brujo at the Roundhouse is Wednesday’s musical fare. Oh, and interspersing all that is a Saturday night out at the greyhound racing, another kind of culture altogether… And I reckon at least another one of those nights is also going to have me musing on the alternate pleasure of words, hot water and wine.

What do you think? Is being a culture vulture instinctive behaviour, or can you become one? Should I continue to book ahead to get tickets to great gigs and shows, or just choose from the dregs that are available the day before each event? Or should I just give up now, join a book club, ramp up the purchases from the wine club, and turn my bathroom into a pamper zone every night of the week?

On that note, check out this remote-controlled rubber ducky. I want one.