I drove back from Wellington over the weekend and it was a combination of awesomeness and panic. I wore clothes almost all of the time, which accounts for the awesomeness part, but panicked like a schoolgirl being offered candy when I got snowed on. Although, come to think of it, I kinda like candy. Especially from strangers. What I didn't like was sliding all over the road like an amputee on roller skates. But that's all by the by...
The best moment was when I stopped at a little rest area (which is just like a rest home only they don't tape your mouth up for asking for a cup of tea) just out of Taumaranui and decided to make Snow Angels in the paddock alongside it. I clambered out of the car- I'd put my pants back on by this time. I have to say, there's nothing quite as freeing as driving along knowing that your man parts are resting comfortably on the driving seat as you contemplate picking up that hitchhiker standing on the side of the road... Mmmm, candy...
But I digress, where was I? Ah, Snow Angels... Clambering out of the car, straight into a puddle of slush and water and ice, take two steps to the grass and gracefully leap over the fence... Into the paddock, wringing out the bottom of my jeans which have ripped with my graceful leaping over barbed wire, looking for a good solid pile of snow on which to plant myself. Looking left, then right for cattle or sheep or anything that might pose a threat to my imminent Snow Angel spectacular. The field is covered in about 6-8 inches of snow with a few bits of grass showing through here and there. About 10 metres up the hill is a good duvet sized patch of white gold. I pause briefly to marvel at the beauty and wonder of nature and then write my name in the snow with urine; My own urine, I don't carry around other peoples piss...
Walking up to my pristine patch of duvet sized snow I pause and catch my breath. Snow is hard to walk in. Taking three more steps I reach my region and catch my breath once more. Snow really is hard to walk in. Breathing in deeply I face back down the hill and look around.
Bloody Hell! There's nothing around, no cars, no people, no cattle and certainly no old ladies with tape over their mouths. I stand tall, spead my arms wide and fall backwards into my patch. Matt's patch. My Region. A heavenly site of blissfull, welcoming goodness. And land squarely on a massive pile of sheep shit. Not just any old sheep shit however. This was sheep shit that had been frozen on the outside by the coldness but had somehow had maintained a warm and creamy centre. Think of a Jellytip icecream only without the red part. Thank God! If there had been a red part I possibly may have lost the remaining portion of my mind. Instead of making glorious snow angels that would be the basis for an inspiring series of postcards and photos with life affirming messages attached I had managed to make... poo angels. Yes. Poo Angels.
I have ripped jeans. My feat are so cold I could put them in martini glasses to chill the vodka. My hands are the colour of Facebook blue. And I smell remarkably like I've been crapped on by a flock of vengefull, incontinent sheep. I have 4 hours left to drive. I smell like toilet paper - like livestock's toilet paper.
Home, shower, wine, food, shower again, more wine, another shower. Never again.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
I had a realisation last night. And now I can't remember it. It was a good one too, full of big ideas covered in hopes and dreams and topped off with a healthy layer of optimism. And now I can't remember it. It was probably about something to do with work, but I can't remember so really, it could have been about anything from porn to cheesecake. Or perhaps both?