The forecasted rain arrived in the night and stayed on uninvited. An early morning text direct from the commissaire halted the tour in its tracks.
Rerouted past the Mossburn stop for morning tea directly to Five Rivers by van meant packing up all 25 bikes and 27 people into two vans. Lycra clad in anticipation drinking coffee and feasting on cheese rolls and muffins the group battled with procrastination and indecision.
The Five Rivers cafe played host well to local and foreign visitors alike, with retail sales of local artisans showcased enticingly throughout the contemporary
layout.
A call went out and ten riders stepped forward. Some of their own volition, others pushed. The remaining 17 clambered into the vans confident in their decisions.
A van of eight dry cyclists headed directly for Queenstown in search of a break in the weather. The other van followed the 'gang of ten' obediently on damage control.
The sights along the way for the van and cyclists alike were breath taking in two completely different ways. The drive in through Garston and Kingston meandered adjacent to the Remarkables on the right and Wakatipu on the left; two stand alone stunners.
The steadfast bikers rolled on undeterred by a little precipitation winding their way around the Devil's Staircase as practiced as altar boys. Queenstown emerged eventually 97 km later.
The first team had arrived and departed for their two hour ride reluctant to lose face. Beer and wine was detected from the luggage and disposed of smartly. A lazy drizzly afternoon spread out in one of the most magnificent spots in the country and possibly the globe.
The Prime restaurant in downtown Queenstown dished up approximately 27 steaks, cooked to perfection to some fussy bi-peds. The included lake vista only added to the perfection.
The party capital of the south didn't fail to deliver with the group returning to base at varying times on foot, in vans or a hailed taxi.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
The last of the summer wine
22/2/12 the last of the summer wine.....
Too much wine and too much song opened up a day of remembrance for the 27 Christchurch team members. 12.51pm would mean a compulsory stop to commemorate the time and day a year ago when our lives changed irrevocably.
190km day ahead and saddle sore rumps guaranteed a slow even pace out of Invercargill. The nineteen men and five women chattered amongst themselves enjoying the leisurely pace promised until morning tea time at 60km later. Textbook riding was observed as we passed through Riverton and the coastal glory of Gemstone Bay ALMOST slow enough to take photos of the magnificent scenery. What began as a ride through a gloomy rolling countryside likened to Scotland continued onto a new world mimicking a colder version of the Florida Keys.
A quick left turn off the highway to edge onto the coastline to Colac Bay found us cold, wet but unfazed at the Pavillion Cafe. An establishment that could have been at home on the Auckland waterfront proffered up cheese scones and fruit muffins by the dozen. The sated cyclists looked out over the waterfront through the drizzle, warm of heart and stomach.
Three bikes stowed by the ladies and jackets donned the remaining crew and we headed out for our next lunch stop at Blackwood School. The pace again civil and the land gradient accommodating we climbed gradually enjoying the lengthy downhills that go hand in hand with the ascents.
Acutely aware of the date and time we hauled the peloton to a stop at precisely 12.48 in readiness for the 12.51pm minute of silence. Heads bowed on an open silent road deep in the wilderness we all reviewed our personal demons and mourned the loss of our compatriots.
Morning tea now a distant memory unconsciously upped the pace considerably as we bolted towards our lunch stop. Tuatapere came and went, pretty and purposeful and a definite stop on any other occasion.
The grounds of Blackwood school swimming pool was awakend for an hour. The variety of lunch options further added to the frivolity. Laying around like school children chewing sandwiches from plastic triangles we enjoyed a trip down memory lane when life was less complicated.
Mount Blackwood needed mounting as did our cycles again. Heavy bottoms but light hearts approached the climb with trepidation. A 200m stretch of road works left us grappling with our machines. Those dextrous enough forged through and were first off the mark for the uphill race. At the apex the sun shone brilliantly along with our smiles to have climbed through the incline and gravel of the continual roadworks.
The downhill was spectacular with riders clocked at 65km/hr over the 10km stretch. Euphoria swept through the team like wildfire as it was all downhill from here with an accompanying back wind. A sprint was booked for the Manapouri stop, 20 kms from Te Anau and didn't fail to please. The view from behind was like following in a lead car witnessing professionals pumping their way home for the big money.
Lake Manapouri proved skiable. A group photo was called for taking full advantage of the picturebook backdrop. Affluent bach owners glanced up from their decks and their books as the cyclists sloped past.
A cheer went up from the crowd as we passed the Te Anau sign. 190km and six hours and twenty minutes in the saddle since we had set out that morning.
The Ranch restaurant in the village catered well to the still energised group after some restorative massaging. Keen to make like Velcroe with the Explorer Motel's pillow we eagerly crowded into one unit for the days summary from the team captain. Acknowledgments were made with members commended and condemned in equal parts.
The sandman called for some with the cricket proving a great distraction for the wifeless boys on tour.
Too much wine and too much song opened up a day of remembrance for the 27 Christchurch team members. 12.51pm would mean a compulsory stop to commemorate the time and day a year ago when our lives changed irrevocably.
190km day ahead and saddle sore rumps guaranteed a slow even pace out of Invercargill. The nineteen men and five women chattered amongst themselves enjoying the leisurely pace promised until morning tea time at 60km later. Textbook riding was observed as we passed through Riverton and the coastal glory of Gemstone Bay ALMOST slow enough to take photos of the magnificent scenery. What began as a ride through a gloomy rolling countryside likened to Scotland continued onto a new world mimicking a colder version of the Florida Keys.
A quick left turn off the highway to edge onto the coastline to Colac Bay found us cold, wet but unfazed at the Pavillion Cafe. An establishment that could have been at home on the Auckland waterfront proffered up cheese scones and fruit muffins by the dozen. The sated cyclists looked out over the waterfront through the drizzle, warm of heart and stomach.
Three bikes stowed by the ladies and jackets donned the remaining crew and we headed out for our next lunch stop at Blackwood School. The pace again civil and the land gradient accommodating we climbed gradually enjoying the lengthy downhills that go hand in hand with the ascents.
Acutely aware of the date and time we hauled the peloton to a stop at precisely 12.48 in readiness for the 12.51pm minute of silence. Heads bowed on an open silent road deep in the wilderness we all reviewed our personal demons and mourned the loss of our compatriots.
Morning tea now a distant memory unconsciously upped the pace considerably as we bolted towards our lunch stop. Tuatapere came and went, pretty and purposeful and a definite stop on any other occasion.
The grounds of Blackwood school swimming pool was awakend for an hour. The variety of lunch options further added to the frivolity. Laying around like school children chewing sandwiches from plastic triangles we enjoyed a trip down memory lane when life was less complicated.
Mount Blackwood needed mounting as did our cycles again. Heavy bottoms but light hearts approached the climb with trepidation. A 200m stretch of road works left us grappling with our machines. Those dextrous enough forged through and were first off the mark for the uphill race. At the apex the sun shone brilliantly along with our smiles to have climbed through the incline and gravel of the continual roadworks.
The downhill was spectacular with riders clocked at 65km/hr over the 10km stretch. Euphoria swept through the team like wildfire as it was all downhill from here with an accompanying back wind. A sprint was booked for the Manapouri stop, 20 kms from Te Anau and didn't fail to please. The view from behind was like following in a lead car witnessing professionals pumping their way home for the big money.
Lake Manapouri proved skiable. A group photo was called for taking full advantage of the picturebook backdrop. Affluent bach owners glanced up from their decks and their books as the cyclists sloped past.
A cheer went up from the crowd as we passed the Te Anau sign. 190km and six hours and twenty minutes in the saddle since we had set out that morning.
The Ranch restaurant in the village catered well to the still energised group after some restorative massaging. Keen to make like Velcroe with the Explorer Motel's pillow we eagerly crowded into one unit for the days summary from the team captain. Acknowledgments were made with members commended and condemned in equal parts.
The sandman called for some with the cricket proving a great distraction for the wifeless boys on tour.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Bluff or bust!
21/2/12
We came, we saw, we conquered! Bluff Hill, the nipple on the large breast of the south. 22 riders solemnly rode the 27 km out to the live zone. Oft spoken of, seldom ridden. You know you are traveling with mature riders when you pull into town and head en masse into the bushes for a nervous one before the climb.
The support crew in the two vans took on excess weight from the nervous cyclists and buoyed up spirits as best they could.
Bladders bled we approached the bottom of the hill. Circling like vultures over a kill our starting gun was momentarily jammed by a rogue flat tyre.
The opportunists decided to make a getaway while the others continued to pace.
Eventually we took off at a great pace of knots only to be thwarted in our efforts by gravity.
Much grunting and battling of self wills ensued..... Nek Minut....or about fifteen minutes later, after some nosebleed inducing climbing, we were all safely uncleated swathed in sweat and satisfaction having completed a ridiculous gradient.
Scenic shots were captured as heart rates returned to rhythm. A leisurely descent, then to Stella's coffee shop for a much anticipated break of pies, toasties and coffees.
The energy on the return trip to Invercargill was palpable. Peaks conquered, the group now looked forward to their afternoon in the velodrome.
A leisurely lunch at the units of purchased snacks then back into the vans for the short trip to the sports centre of the south.
Our local pro Jerry instructed the nineteen men on how to ride safely on the 25 million dollar track. Bikes chosen, baskets swapped for personal cleats and the majority of the team tried something new for the second time today.
Propelled around a 250m track by centrifugal force up and down a cereal bowl edge they raced like pros. Pumping and huffing through two hours of single and team sprints they frolicked almost tripping over their childlike grins.
The mid afternoon van ride back to the unit took a detour straight to the bottle store for lubrication. Much back slapping by comrades and masseuses completed the build up to dinner.
The Lone Star Invercargill proved another good choice to showcase the purchases of a breakaway group of shoppers. Celebratory beer and wine flowed freely as did the conversation as we marveled at the days antics.
We came, we saw, we conquered! Bluff Hill, the nipple on the large breast of the south. 22 riders solemnly rode the 27 km out to the live zone. Oft spoken of, seldom ridden. You know you are traveling with mature riders when you pull into town and head en masse into the bushes for a nervous one before the climb.
The support crew in the two vans took on excess weight from the nervous cyclists and buoyed up spirits as best they could.
Bladders bled we approached the bottom of the hill. Circling like vultures over a kill our starting gun was momentarily jammed by a rogue flat tyre.
The opportunists decided to make a getaway while the others continued to pace.
Eventually we took off at a great pace of knots only to be thwarted in our efforts by gravity.
Much grunting and battling of self wills ensued..... Nek Minut....or about fifteen minutes later, after some nosebleed inducing climbing, we were all safely uncleated swathed in sweat and satisfaction having completed a ridiculous gradient.
Scenic shots were captured as heart rates returned to rhythm. A leisurely descent, then to Stella's coffee shop for a much anticipated break of pies, toasties and coffees.
The energy on the return trip to Invercargill was palpable. Peaks conquered, the group now looked forward to their afternoon in the velodrome.
A leisurely lunch at the units of purchased snacks then back into the vans for the short trip to the sports centre of the south.
Our local pro Jerry instructed the nineteen men on how to ride safely on the 25 million dollar track. Bikes chosen, baskets swapped for personal cleats and the majority of the team tried something new for the second time today.
Propelled around a 250m track by centrifugal force up and down a cereal bowl edge they raced like pros. Pumping and huffing through two hours of single and team sprints they frolicked almost tripping over their childlike grins.
The mid afternoon van ride back to the unit took a detour straight to the bottle store for lubrication. Much back slapping by comrades and masseuses completed the build up to dinner.
The Lone Star Invercargill proved another good choice to showcase the purchases of a breakaway group of shoppers. Celebratory beer and wine flowed freely as did the conversation as we marveled at the days antics.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Bikefest 2012
19/2/12
The 11.30am start started at 10.30 for some, 12 for others. And so it began, the gathering of like minded souls setting out for a weeks riding around the bottom south of the island. One thousand kilometers over six days atop carbon fibre machinery second to none.
Two van loads embarked on the six hour journey deep into the heart of central Otago...or thereabouts. The mighty river Clutha...aka...Balclutha.
The journey was remarkably quick despite the chronological time span. Captains of industry, airlines, operating theatres and domestic duties amused themselves as best they could completing cryptic crosswords, drinking Heinekin, discussing the minutia of cycle purchasing, snacking on home baking and generally immersing themselves in the necessary evil of pre cycling transportation.
The Rosebank Motel was the first lucky choice of accommodation to welcome the weary athletes. Bikes unloaded, we sauntered to the motel restaurant and fell upon the allocated bar. Three tables of nine were set awaiting our arrival. A quick round later we were seated, feasting on the pre ordered breads and dips.
Strangers became acquainted and cycling psuedonyms were introduced as part of the in race shenanigans.Reluctant recipients received awards for less than outstanding performances.
After a hearty meal of protein with extra lashings of pre race banter, the cautious team members headed off surreptitously one by one for an early night. A hardened handful lasted an extra forty five minutes showcasing their supremacy.
20/2/12
The 6am iphone alarm heralded the new day. The 27 strong team shuffled and mumbled dairy cow like over to the breakfast area. Pre booked continental and hot cooked breakfasts were woofed down in anticipation of a long 170km ride.
Obligatory first day photos were taken in the overcast morning light. The whistle went off and we rolled out into the subdued streets of Balclutha. A full contingent of 25 riders. The vans followed cautiously as we found our confidence riding in such a large group vaguely aware of the directions.
We had all been pre-allocated a cycling psuedonym to while away the many hours. Previous strangers struggled with real and made up names and they were fined dearly for their erroneous ways. An OSH approved skirt and matching fluro anklets were also awarded to a lucky cyclist to wear to advertise any particular stuff up on their behalf.
The first stop was The Whistling Frog cafe only 68 kms away. The undulating hills through the Catlins proved a feast for the eyes. Spirits soared and climbed along with our snaking peloton. With only one puncture, we were on schedule and pulled into the cafe, whistling and leaping.
Southern hospitality was at its best as our pre warned vendors welcomed us with open arms and warm scones. We basked in the mid morning sun bathing in the ambience of this wonderful spot.
About half an hour later we re-cleated and departed, richer for the experience thus far. Swathed in serenity we enjoyed a lengthy downhill.
Another 60 km in the saddle before lunch. More climbing plateaued our spirits, with conversation reduced to the odd throwaway line as the pace intensified. One of the downhill turns proved too technical as one of our team got up close and personal with the roadside hill. A sheepish grin and an adrenalin fueled sprint reunited him smartly and also guaranteed him a day in the skirt tomorrow.
Scone calories long ago consumed left us dangerously weak and no amount of glorious vistas proved distracting enough. Our grainy eyes peered longingly into the distance in search of the aptly named, Stirling Tides cafe.
The staff eagerly dished out the sumptuous delights to a long and grateful audience. Filled full of filo, fish and fresh salads we gazed out at the stirling tides lapping comfortingly at our door.
Choosing the van as a restorative option of self preservation for tomorrows crawl up Bluff Hill afforded me a kindy nap while the rest of the team boxed on in the wind with their filo filled tummies.
Accompanying the support crew we drove on and I witnessed the ride from an acutely more attractive angle. Using the vans as markers , the team knew when to sprint and where to turn.
Invercargill never looked so good after another 45 km of solid riding. The Monarch Motel appeared like an oasis in the distance.
Much back slapping and hand shaking ensued as day one was officially completed.
Massueses arrived on schedule at 4pm. 3x3 many of the team had the hills kneaded right off their muscles. The rest watched on relaxing on the finest of motor inn furniture.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
15 February 2012
Vacancy
Today I semi-retire. From motherhood. It is the first day of the rest of my baby’s life. My vocation will never be over. The hours may be less and I may be required at fewer meetings but like a doctor or a comedian, I will never switch off.
My career began twenty nine years ago. Instinctively, I chose a mate exhibiting favourable genes, set up home and procreated. A long term career goal had been achieved; two baby girls within two and a half years of each other.
Fast forward two decades.
With one already deposited offshore for five months on a university exchange, and the other poised to begin her tertiary education in another city, our nest now lays vacant.
I watched a wildlife documentary recently depicting arctic birds actually leaving their nests for the first time. There were no practices. Once they exited from their high rise apartments they had one way down. Their parents did fly alongside them but couldn’t fly for them. Some chicks managed to adopt the concept of flight seconds before impact, other didn’t. Those that survived the crash were then often carried off to their imminent deaths by opportunist wolves. There is a lesson to be learned from the natural world here I am sure. Watch out for wolves or never leave home, it’s too dangerous.
Friends and family comment, “It will be so quiet without them and won’t you miss them terribly?”
Granted, it will be silent, can’t see any negatives in the resulting serenity. As for missing them, what will I miss? Miss having to wrestle for the sky remote, miss watching repeats of Jersey Shore, miss multitudes of teenagers grouping with intent, miss having to grocery shop everyday, miss sneaking around your home until midday as not to wake the sleeping cherubs and miss being woken by explanatory texts in the wee hours and with odd request for a taxi? I think not.
Let’s face it, offspring aren’t the most altruistic individuals. If I was to liken them to a disease, I would choose eczema, flaky, irritating and untidy on the surface but harmless. Comes and goes under stress. If I was to liken them to anatomy, I would call them blood. Vital for life, a constant flowing through every corner of your body. You can do without the odd pint but you are never truly your best without your full quota.
It is the end of an era. The candidates have undergone rigorous training as part of the ultimate succession plan and my exit strategy is in place. I shall join Rob Fyfe on the benches of self imposed retirement until my next gig ‘turns up’. The university holidays, I imagine. I think I may contract out myself for that job. Same job, better conditions.
With wolf detection kits packed amongst all 46kgs of baggage we will embark on our drop off today. I have been afforded a forty eight hour window of transition before I return home on an air ticket for one.
Vacancy
Today I semi-retire. From motherhood. It is the first day of the rest of my baby’s life. My vocation will never be over. The hours may be less and I may be required at fewer meetings but like a doctor or a comedian, I will never switch off.
My career began twenty nine years ago. Instinctively, I chose a mate exhibiting favourable genes, set up home and procreated. A long term career goal had been achieved; two baby girls within two and a half years of each other.
Fast forward two decades.
With one already deposited offshore for five months on a university exchange, and the other poised to begin her tertiary education in another city, our nest now lays vacant.
I watched a wildlife documentary recently depicting arctic birds actually leaving their nests for the first time. There were no practices. Once they exited from their high rise apartments they had one way down. Their parents did fly alongside them but couldn’t fly for them. Some chicks managed to adopt the concept of flight seconds before impact, other didn’t. Those that survived the crash were then often carried off to their imminent deaths by opportunist wolves. There is a lesson to be learned from the natural world here I am sure. Watch out for wolves or never leave home, it’s too dangerous.
Friends and family comment, “It will be so quiet without them and won’t you miss them terribly?”
Granted, it will be silent, can’t see any negatives in the resulting serenity. As for missing them, what will I miss? Miss having to wrestle for the sky remote, miss watching repeats of Jersey Shore, miss multitudes of teenagers grouping with intent, miss having to grocery shop everyday, miss sneaking around your home until midday as not to wake the sleeping cherubs and miss being woken by explanatory texts in the wee hours and with odd request for a taxi? I think not.
Let’s face it, offspring aren’t the most altruistic individuals. If I was to liken them to a disease, I would choose eczema, flaky, irritating and untidy on the surface but harmless. Comes and goes under stress. If I was to liken them to anatomy, I would call them blood. Vital for life, a constant flowing through every corner of your body. You can do without the odd pint but you are never truly your best without your full quota.
It is the end of an era. The candidates have undergone rigorous training as part of the ultimate succession plan and my exit strategy is in place. I shall join Rob Fyfe on the benches of self imposed retirement until my next gig ‘turns up’. The university holidays, I imagine. I think I may contract out myself for that job. Same job, better conditions.
With wolf detection kits packed amongst all 46kgs of baggage we will embark on our drop off today. I have been afforded a forty eight hour window of transition before I return home on an air ticket for one.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Christchurch Arts Still Wearable...
Flight NZ486 from Christchurch to Wellington last Saturday was crammed full of giddy middle aged woman drunk on freedom and the thought of firm terra firma in the nation’s capital.
The reason; WOW! World of Wearable Arts, inaugurated about the same time as the Rugby World Cup, originating in Nelson then being shipped off to Wellington in 2005. The show draws entries and wins from all around the globe and runs for three weeks concluding September 10.
As a first timer for this event, curious as to its allure, an invitation in February (one needs to book early) was accepted. Seven months later we embarked on our big day out. Hotels were booked for an overnighter and bank accounts cleaned out in anticipation of excellent shopping opportunities.
Arrival with hand luggage only, assisted in a smooth transition to the city streets after dumping the aforementioned bags unceremoniously at the hotel. An economic shuttle did a great job in shuttling us at a low cost deep into the heart of the CBD with bone rattling speed.
With precision timing and the instinct of well honed consumers we moved gracefully throughout the web of streets systematically emptying large amounts of cash from our bank accounts and wallets on material items from the array of shops primed and ready for the onslaught of out of towners. The streets groaned under the pressure of groups of well heeled woman babbling and celebrating their shopping successes. Like drug addicts after a well anticipated fix, the Christchurch contingent easily distinguishable by their sated glazed over gaze.
Budgets blown we headed back to the hotel to regroup before the big night out. Again spoilt by choice of restaurants we didn’t miss the opportunity to partake at one of the many on offer. A quick and cheap taxi ride later and we were deposited in our high heels that were for looks only, at the conveniently located Queens Wharf Arena to attend the extravaganza known as the WOW!
The show began the minute you entered. Filing into the arena the buzz was immediate. Actors dressed in costumes performed about you as you collected your STAR package ($175/seat) which entitled you to great viewing seats, a picnic bag of well appointed food and beverages that could easily have constituted a full meal had you not already eaten. The fold down seat was initially comfortable but after two hours played havoc with my vertebrae which thankfully was mildly anaesthetised by the complimentary champers.
The show kicked off at 8pm. A central stage area was used to manoeuvre the variety of acts up, down and aerially with up to five mini catwalks extending from the centre for the competitors to showcase their entries. Elaborate sub shows battled for your attention with the entries systematically visiting every catwalk so you eventually saw each one up close.
The seven categories were themed accordingly with appearances and references to the Christchurch plight highlighted with the aid of David McPhail and Ginette McDonald in their farm based slot which included live roosting chickens, a flock of subdued sheep and a farm dog who looked like they had all just sauntered straight out of a local petting zoo, well behaved after two weeks of performance.
The largely over forty five female crowd were well stereotyped with an unexpected but gratefully received appearance by John Rowles who almost crooned the knickers straight off their middle aged bottoms.
Ballet dancers, opera singers and a gaggle of brides pirouetted, postulated and pranced about the stage at varying intervals thrilling the crowd repeatedly with their professional displays of talent.
The entries weren’t all too bad either. Intricacy and simplicity shared the stage with ornate structures including large steel tubes intersecting at meticulous angles over the female form, fully hand knitted pieces swathing another and seemingly ordinary pieces that could have easily have been camouflaged on any suburban street. A scantily clad youth in an Adam from the Garden of Eden inspired piece stole the show in the men’s section with a particularly fetching stomach undulating routine that sent the crowd into a frenzy.
Overall a spectacular event worth taking your mother, daughter, friends or workmates to once in your and their lifetimes.
The returning flight NZ479 was visibly subdued. Only a handful of revellers with the stamina of university students remained. They could just be heard yahooing above the gentle hum of snoring from the majority of weekenders.
The reason; WOW! World of Wearable Arts, inaugurated about the same time as the Rugby World Cup, originating in Nelson then being shipped off to Wellington in 2005. The show draws entries and wins from all around the globe and runs for three weeks concluding September 10.
As a first timer for this event, curious as to its allure, an invitation in February (one needs to book early) was accepted. Seven months later we embarked on our big day out. Hotels were booked for an overnighter and bank accounts cleaned out in anticipation of excellent shopping opportunities.
Arrival with hand luggage only, assisted in a smooth transition to the city streets after dumping the aforementioned bags unceremoniously at the hotel. An economic shuttle did a great job in shuttling us at a low cost deep into the heart of the CBD with bone rattling speed.
With precision timing and the instinct of well honed consumers we moved gracefully throughout the web of streets systematically emptying large amounts of cash from our bank accounts and wallets on material items from the array of shops primed and ready for the onslaught of out of towners. The streets groaned under the pressure of groups of well heeled woman babbling and celebrating their shopping successes. Like drug addicts after a well anticipated fix, the Christchurch contingent easily distinguishable by their sated glazed over gaze.
Budgets blown we headed back to the hotel to regroup before the big night out. Again spoilt by choice of restaurants we didn’t miss the opportunity to partake at one of the many on offer. A quick and cheap taxi ride later and we were deposited in our high heels that were for looks only, at the conveniently located Queens Wharf Arena to attend the extravaganza known as the WOW!
The show began the minute you entered. Filing into the arena the buzz was immediate. Actors dressed in costumes performed about you as you collected your STAR package ($175/seat) which entitled you to great viewing seats, a picnic bag of well appointed food and beverages that could easily have constituted a full meal had you not already eaten. The fold down seat was initially comfortable but after two hours played havoc with my vertebrae which thankfully was mildly anaesthetised by the complimentary champers.
The show kicked off at 8pm. A central stage area was used to manoeuvre the variety of acts up, down and aerially with up to five mini catwalks extending from the centre for the competitors to showcase their entries. Elaborate sub shows battled for your attention with the entries systematically visiting every catwalk so you eventually saw each one up close.
The seven categories were themed accordingly with appearances and references to the Christchurch plight highlighted with the aid of David McPhail and Ginette McDonald in their farm based slot which included live roosting chickens, a flock of subdued sheep and a farm dog who looked like they had all just sauntered straight out of a local petting zoo, well behaved after two weeks of performance.
The largely over forty five female crowd were well stereotyped with an unexpected but gratefully received appearance by John Rowles who almost crooned the knickers straight off their middle aged bottoms.
Ballet dancers, opera singers and a gaggle of brides pirouetted, postulated and pranced about the stage at varying intervals thrilling the crowd repeatedly with their professional displays of talent.
The entries weren’t all too bad either. Intricacy and simplicity shared the stage with ornate structures including large steel tubes intersecting at meticulous angles over the female form, fully hand knitted pieces swathing another and seemingly ordinary pieces that could have easily have been camouflaged on any suburban street. A scantily clad youth in an Adam from the Garden of Eden inspired piece stole the show in the men’s section with a particularly fetching stomach undulating routine that sent the crowd into a frenzy.
Overall a spectacular event worth taking your mother, daughter, friends or workmates to once in your and their lifetimes.
The returning flight NZ479 was visibly subdued. Only a handful of revellers with the stamina of university students remained. They could just be heard yahooing above the gentle hum of snoring from the majority of weekenders.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Winter warmer
Mary’s Fried Rice
I used to hate this as a kid but tastes and times have changed and I quite like it now....
*Makes a good crowd pleaser for pot luck dinners or a great way to use up cooked rice
Ingredients
• 4 chicken breasts sliced (marinate in 1 T sesame oil/2 T Kikkoman soy)
• 1 C king prawns or shrimps or squid pieces (or all)
• 1 C frozen peas
• 1 chopped sliced red pepper into little squares the size of a pea
• 3 T canola oil
• 1 Onion finely chopped
• 4 T shrimp paste (crushed garlic/ginger/chilli/dried shrimps)
• 2-3 C cooked rice
Mix in a jug
• 1T fish sauce
• 1 T brown sugar
• 1 T oyster sauce
• 2 T Kikkoman soy
• 1 T dark soy
• 1 T sesame oil
GARNISH: with a sprig of coriander and 2 whole red chillis , ½ C roasted peanuts and finely sliced 2 egg omelette
Method
Brown onion and shrimp paste in oil until soft. Add chicken and toss until almost cooked. Add seafood and fry for a minute.
Add rice then sauces from jug and mix continually to evenly coated. Take off heat if sticking and add more canola oil.
Put lid on and take off heat, using steam to continuing cooking and stop it sticking to the pot.
Add a splash of fish sauce to 2 beaten eggs then fry in a little oil in a hot mini frypan. Flip and remove onto board and slice thinly.
Garnish with sliced omelette, peanuts, chopped coriander and whole red chillis.
I used to hate this as a kid but tastes and times have changed and I quite like it now....
*Makes a good crowd pleaser for pot luck dinners or a great way to use up cooked rice
Ingredients
• 4 chicken breasts sliced (marinate in 1 T sesame oil/2 T Kikkoman soy)
• 1 C king prawns or shrimps or squid pieces (or all)
• 1 C frozen peas
• 1 chopped sliced red pepper into little squares the size of a pea
• 3 T canola oil
• 1 Onion finely chopped
• 4 T shrimp paste (crushed garlic/ginger/chilli/dried shrimps)
• 2-3 C cooked rice
Mix in a jug
• 1T fish sauce
• 1 T brown sugar
• 1 T oyster sauce
• 2 T Kikkoman soy
• 1 T dark soy
• 1 T sesame oil
GARNISH: with a sprig of coriander and 2 whole red chillis , ½ C roasted peanuts and finely sliced 2 egg omelette
Method
Brown onion and shrimp paste in oil until soft. Add chicken and toss until almost cooked. Add seafood and fry for a minute.
Add rice then sauces from jug and mix continually to evenly coated. Take off heat if sticking and add more canola oil.
Put lid on and take off heat, using steam to continuing cooking and stop it sticking to the pot.
Add a splash of fish sauce to 2 beaten eggs then fry in a little oil in a hot mini frypan. Flip and remove onto board and slice thinly.
Garnish with sliced omelette, peanuts, chopped coriander and whole red chillis.
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