A Suffolk Traveller

Work was slack and Hubby appeared home at lunchtime on a Tuesday.  We had to go to Ashburton to sort out some boring banking business. My EFTPOS card would not work.  So we parked by the railway track and strolled over to the blue plush premises of the Bank of New Zealand. What a pleasure to conduct banking with such a helpful and pleasant cashier rather than faff about unsuccessfully online. There is nothing like a BNZ cashier who tells you that they will sort everything out NOW! And then they do.

With time on our hands we wandered along to the Ashburton Heritage Centre, a smart new building which has replaced the small rooms that used to house the museum. Good job! We were greeted in a charmingly smiley way and directed to a section of the ground floor full of history. Colonial history. The stories were of indomitable Pakeha (British Europeans) who set up small settlements and Stations during the 1850s and then travelled down from Christchurch to the “runs”. The Māori tended to pass through using a coastal route. The Canterbury Plains were arid and difficult for travel. The area only achieved its famous patchwork of farm fields after major irrigation works in the twentieth century. Undeterred, as they usually were, the early settlers arrived.

The main obstacle to settlement was the great Rakaia and Hakatere (Ashburton) rivers. Because of their wide braided nature (the Rakaia is 2km width in some places), and their erratic flow as they bring water down from the mountains, they could not easily support a ferry or a bridge. Horse drawn vehicles struggled to cope with the crossing. People were having to ford the rivers in bullock carts. But in 1858 William Turpin managed to set up a ferry service across the Ashburton river, and he opened a hotel of sorts.

The railway arrived in 1874. There were long bridges, a new hotel, and suddenly the population grew from 50 to 500. People brought their tea sets, sewing kits and piano stools. We looked at the pictures of haggard bearded men and tight lipped women in stays, admired the glass cases full of their precious belongings, and marvelled at the audacity of setting up a fire service with just a few buckets.

One of the early residents was a lady called Clara, born in Norfolk to a sailor father. The family emigrated in 1875 when Clara was eighteen, and they settled in Ashburton. She married a fellow Methodist called William Lill and they had eleven children. She was President of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union for over 20 years, and signed the local petition for women’s franchise. The Union realised that unless women could vote, alcoholic prohibition would never be passed by the government. Sheep and cattle drovers were well known for laying all their wages on the bar and drinking until the money was gone. The women were angry!

In 1893 New Zealand became the first self governing country to give women the right to vote in parliamentary elections, and this was a direct result of the massive grassroots petitions coordinated by Kate Shepherd and signed by the many “Claras” throughout the country.

We left the stories of the past and climbed the stairs to the art gallery.  Here the balance was redressed with giant photographs of half naked Māori displaying their body tattoos.

A bit of an anti climax then to finish our trip with a visit to The Warehouse to buy our own little works of art – a set of penguin shaped lunchbox cool blocks! That’s civilisation for you. I wonder if they will be in a museum one day?

The NZ Channel 1 news from North Island was not good. Rainfall has been unprecedented this summer. The new Prime Minister, Chris Hipkins, was doing his best to get around, having just taken over from his exhausted predecessor (Jacinda Ardern). Several people lost their lives in the Auckland floods; the airport was underwater – international passengers forced to take refuge on an upper level without loo paper; and both Elton John’s farewell concerts were cancelled because the concert goers would have needed to wear waders. Poor Elton might have ended up with pneumonia again.

Meanwhile, South Island was basking in hit-and-miss sunshine. We set off in the truck on our Sunday adventure on a gorgeous blue sky day. We made for the Rakaia river gorge.

Māori legend says that the gorge was created by a Taniwha (river monster) who used to live there. He cultivated crops and hunted for Moa and Weka to eat. But one cold day he went away to find a hot spring in which to warm himself, and while he was away a demon, personified as a nor’west wind, came and flattened his property. When the Taniwha got home he was furious and he went to get huge stones and boulders from the mountains to make the river narrow. These made up the rock walls of the gorge, and the outcrops of stone where the bridges are now. The gorge and the plains are well known for the rattling wind. The Nor’westors have been known to drive people crazy in this part of New Zealand.

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At last we had a weekend where we could take a trip away. We got up early, drove to Christchurch airport and parked up. We jumped on a plane to Rotorua in North Island. This is much the most efficient way to get between the North and South Islands and usually does not involve seasickness. We had no checked in luggage, there were no security conveyor belts, and we walked across the tarmac to our aeroplane. Fantastic views through the clouds as we chugged above the braided rivers and the Cook Strait. We rumbled into Rotorua to land 90 minutes later, and joined a slow queue to collect a hire car.

Finding our way out of Rotorua (the UK is not the only place with road works), we drove to Taupo for a lovely BBQ lunch with friends, before returning to check in at our accommodation – optimistically called a Hotel. We had a nice spacious room with a view of the next door petrol station. The room was in need of updating (mouldy shower and tired carpets) but adequate. The hotel was in a prime position very close to the Māori village and a steam belching Geyser. The Maori village is used for shows and hangi (feasts) and attracts lots of visitors who enjoy the cultural aspect of the events. The Geysor is also a great attraction, but comes with an enveloping odour of rotten eggs (Sulphur). So we got the full experience. The weather was warm and beautiful. We flung open the windows, and a few moments later decided we might prefer to melt instead. Hey ho.

We did not stay in our hotel room for long. We drove into town to visit Eat Street (street names are often very helpful here) and wandered up and down the food outlets reading menus and trying to decide what nationality of food we wanted. Then to the awe inspiring Redwoods Forest.  We joined a long queue, in the dark. In the rain. With no coats or umbrellas. Hubby folded his arms – a sure sign of doom.

We had come to do the Redwoods Treewalk at night. The cheery young Kiwi attendants kept popping along the line with their glowing iPads to check people in, chat, and tell us that we were only an hour’s wait away. When we finally shuffled as far as the great spiral walkway that was to take us up into the mighty trees our enthusiasm was significantly dampened. We were greeted by an even cheerier young man who told us how lucky we were to see the Nightlights in the rain because the wet makes the glowing lights sparkle like emeralds. He also told us not to touch the trees because their bark is very sensitive (but apparently it is OK to attach an enormous treewalk of rope bridges 20 metres above the ground using huge hooks and nails). His safety advice included the warning that there should not be more than 8 people on a rope bridge at any one time. Now, this was very sensible advice. However, the ladder bridges are completely dark (and wet) so it was almost impossible to work out how many people were actually on the bridge. The best way was to gauge the bounce. He had told us, (quite rightly) that there must be no jumping. However, as people stepped onto it the bridge would sway and bob. By the time you got to the other side the end of the bridge would be boinging towards you with varying degrees of force. Anyway, we made it, and the lights and giant lanterns were amazing.

Definitely worth the wait, even if it did take us most of the next day to regain our “land legs”. We decided to go back to look at the trees properly in daylight from the ground, and they were awe inspiring.

Having survived the night and the fumes, we set out to find breakfast in the town. We ended up in Eat Street again with a wonderful breakfast of coffee with honeyed bacon, poached eggs and toasted focaccia. This gave us the strength to walk to the Village Green by the lake where we were in time to look at a huge rally of vintage cars. The camping chairs were out en masse in the warm sun, with enthusiasts from the local motoring clubs perched strategically between rows of Morris, Mini, early Utes and Chevrolets. Hubby was so intrigued that we walked round the large field twice, and he was persuaded to put a couple of dollars in the bucket. A Gospel service was in full swing under the trees as we left to explore the lakes.

Rotorua is a favourite holiday destination, known in New Zealand as “The Lakes District”. Around the deep scenic lakes in the area are clustered the many baches where the Kiwis adore to spend time. They were out with their boat trailers, kayaks and wetsuits enjoying the water. The children quickly learn to be fearless adventurers. We watched, intrigued, as a family set off from the shore on a particularly popular activity. Mum and dad had placed their two primary age children (in life vests) tummy down on a rubber dingy, and had obviously told them to hang on tight – which they did (for dear life). Mum then attached a very long rope between the dingy and a jet ski and climbed on behind dad. She sat with her back to dad, presumably so that she could check if either of the children had dropped off, and fed out the rope as they left the shore. Dad pulled on the throttle, the children screamed, and the whole family shot off across Lake Tikitapu. We did not see them return.

Further along the road we came upon the Buried Village of Te Wairoa. This is a museum and archaeological site recording the infancy of tourism in New Zealand during the 1880s, when there was a mission and two hotels on the site. Intrepid Victorians stayed here. They visited local scenic attractions and thermal pools, admired the culture of the local Māori population, and sent pressed leaves home in their letters. Until one day in June 1886, a phantom war canoe was seen on the lake, a portend of disaster. This vision was followed by the catastrophic eruption of Mount Tarawera, which changed the landscape and buried the village in thick mud. The story of the dead, the survivors and the heroic rescue attempts is told here. It is an atmospheric and beautiful place, with a very steep climb to a roaring waterfall (that nearly finished me off).

Then it was time to head back to the tiny airport to catch our ride home. Only 4 Gates here…well one really. Everyone goes out of the same door and saunters across the tarmac to the Air New Zealand plane. We have watched it arrive from Christchurch through the the huge glass windows. We have watched them unload and reload for the return journey inside 30 minutes. Once we are all aboard, the pilot taxies up the runway, swerves round in a u-turn at the end, and “puts his foot down” on the straight. Up and away into the clouds, heading back South.

It was a warm day with a clear view of Mount Hutt. Time to stretch my legs on the pretty Methven Walkway.

Sun hat firmly planted on head, I set off towards the road. Just past the new Opuke Thermal hot pools and spa, powered by glittering solar panels, there is an unassuming entrance to the woods. The path skirts the Trotting Race ground and leads towards the RDR. RDR is short for Rangitata Diversion Race. It was built in the early 1940s and consists of a long canal-like waterway which diverts river water in order to irrigate over 100,000 hectares of farmland. However, it is no use thinking of the dingy canals of Peeky Blinder Birmingham. The RDR is full of beautiful blue water, and the backdrop is the Southern Alps. With this as my goal, I plunged into the woods.

There was a big sign, adorned with a slightly soggy net butterfly, saying “Enchanted Forest”.

Excitement mounting, I skip along the pathway under the trees to find myself in an amazing land of fairies that, unlike Puck and Arial, do not appreciate the finer points of poetical meter. There are numerous enticing fairy house doors in tree trunks along the path, with painted windows above them. The more ostentatious residents have signs that explain their particular position or peculiarity. For instance, a smart tree with a red door, red windows and a pathway adorned with red painted stones belongs to Fairy Michelle. Her sign is helpful: “The Fire Chief is Fairy Michelle, any sign of fire ring her bell”.

A posh home with more red stones, a shiny sequinned door and a flattened plastic crown nailed to the tree trunk belongs to Fairy Queenie. She is “the ruler of them all. When fairies need her help they need to call”. Then there is the home of the OCD fairy: “Keeping her house all neat and cosy, the tidiest of all is Fairy Rosey Posy.

The creepiest door belongs to the tooth fairy. Orange, with green and white windows. Her sign says: “Tooth Fairy likes to boast how her door is bigger than most, inside is where baby teeth go, white and bright all in a row”. (I have added some commas here and there to assist reading). We also learn that “Fairy Gypsy flew to Australia to see Bluey and Bingo. She visited Aussie Zoo, saw a kangaroo and dingo.” Well done to Fairy Gypsy for broadening her horizons. I hope her wings did not get too tired. Some of the houses have fairies who obviously do not fly so well – perhaps due to age, infirmity or obesity. I know this because they have small wonky rope ladders to help them get down from their high front doors. I felt very sorry for Fairy Bayley, who was always scraping her knees, but my favourite was the livestock keeping fairy. “Who stole all the sausages and hid them under a log? It wasn’t Fairy Lavender but her naughty little hedgehog”.

Interspersed with the quirky fairy houses were some diversions. There were three cylindrical blind mice running down a branch, a nest of rather beautiful red dragon’s eggs, a fairy tunnel (not a real tunnel but an exercise in perspective painting), a place for Santas sleigh to pull in, and a fairy tea party laid out on tree stumps (with a do not touch sign).

On my way I passed several small children with mummies and dogs in tow, who were obviously enjoying the delights of the Enchanted Forest. We all said “Hi!”, we adults grinning at each other conspiratorially. One very small person toddled up to me on the path, but quickly backed up when I said hello. Perhaps she thought I was the wicked witch, or – god forbid – the tooth fairy.

I wandered over the flower draped bridge (artificial blooms of course – they need to withstand the elements, the children, and the fairies) and wondered where Shrek, Fiona and Donkey had got to. The sign said we might be able to spot these celebrities putting in an appearance at the “Fairy Hall”, but they must have been avoiding the paparazzi, because they were not in evidence.

At last the path led out of the trees and up the bank of the RDR, where the kind residents of Methven had placed a wooden bench for weary walkers to enjoy the view across the fields to the mountains. A very small combine was busy far away. The blue water and wild banks were peaceful.

I braced myself for the return journey through the Enchanted Forest.

We were out on one of our Ashburton shopping forays, when we decided to drop in at the Chertsey Book Barn. We had no intention of buying any books.

This is an old wheat barn that stands beside the railway track. Visitors pull up in the rough car park and then squeeze in through the side door. Once through the door it is almost impossible not to gasp. The barn is huge, and every square metre is full of second hand books of all sizes and genres. Heaving higgeldy-piggeldy bookshelves are crammed in throughout the yawning space. It feels that it might be necessary to unravel a piece of twine in order to negotiate the dim passages and find the way back to the light. One side of the barn is dissected by a partition, beyond which countless boxes of books loom in mountainous stacks right up to the roof – all waiting to be sorted.

We scarcely noticed a woman sitting behind a counter. This was partly because she was too busy to say hello, and partly because she was almost buried under boxes as she mined their contents. Instead we were met by a very handsome ginger cat sitting on a broken chair, who miaowed an introduction and proceeded to show us around. In reality he was probably pleased to see someone with hands available for stroking, who was not a book, or holding a book, or unwinding a piece of twine. I suspect his name is Zag. I only suspect this because I later found out that his brother is called Zig. Could be wrong.

New books are rather expensive to buy in New Zealand, so we were not alone in this place. As we plunged further into the maze, accompanied by our whiskered guide, we occasionally stumbled upon other explorers. They were browsing in corners, delving in piles, or sliding round battered tables and shelves, totally immersed in their discoveries. Zag was rapidly loosing interest as our hands became full.  We negotiated children’s fiction, cooking, and medical self help, explored the room of fantasy books and then hunted for C in general fiction. This was not an easy task. The handwritten labels were  visible and orange, but often obscured by height or…you guessed it…books. Eventually we came across the woman and the counter again, Zag having long since abandoned us for a much younger explorer whose mother was wielding a phone to take pictures. We had to pause a moment while the woman at the counter slammed a box down onto the floor, then we paid our dollars and squeezed out. She retreated behind a new pile.

“I thought we weren’t buying any books!” Said Hubby, clutching his hardback by Chris Ryan.

Methven is a ski resort. It bustles in the winter time, but is very quiet in the summer. However, a few forays past the horse poo sign to the village centre were a welcome pastime for me. The cafes were mostly open, the ATM finally said “yis”, and The Four Square supermarket enabled the opportunity of engaging in conversation with someone other than a top loader washing machine.

In fact, it is very easy to talk to people here.  While meandering past the Red Cross Shop (in the slim hope of browsing for second hand kitchen equipment) I absorbed the obligatory sign telling customers to take their work boots off and noted that the lovely volunteer ladies were not planning to turn up and open the shop on any day before 1pm. Exception: Saturday 10 till 12.  As I had timed my excursion (badly) for Morning Tea Time, I had no chance. A man screeched to a halt on his bike next to me. We had a chat about opening times and agreed that it was quite OK to come back later.

Following this I had an intimate conversation with a little hairy dog who was trying to persuade me to stop by his art shop. Followed by one or two human “gudays”. Then there was the dog who was just getting some exercise from his comfy bed outside the Real Estate shop and was a little too busy to stop and pass the time of day.

I walked as far as the smart new building which proudly proclaims itself as Methven Library and Museum. I have fond memories of the original library which sadly did not survive the 2011 earthquake. But even an earthquake is unable to change some things on South Island. Closed. I probably need to turn up on Friday afternoon to have any chance of perusing the contents. I shall save that treat for another day. A Friday.

On the way up the deserted Main Street I rest my memory foam under a bench outside the Medical Centre, which is wonderful and proclaims it’s wares on the roof. Medical, X-rays, Dental. Physiotherapy is just next door. Hydrangeas adorn the attractive exterior. So simple. So efficient. You know exactly what you are going to get before you walk in.

My eye is caught by a large sign further up the road which says “Car and Dog Wash”.

I read this several times. I wonder if I am suffering from culture clash and a “dog” must be a kind of New Zealand truck rather than a Labrador with a waggy tail. Hell no! I looked it up later and Facebook can’t be wrong. There is a photo of a large Doberman enjoying a lovely shower in a huge bath. What an excellent plan! Wash your dog when you wash your car. The sign says it all! Not sure this would catch on in Blighty though. What would the lovely Eastern Europeans at the local car wash say if I turned up and asked them to clean a Staffordshire Bull Terrier? Probably charge me double.

I feel that I must apologise for the lack of scenery. There is plenty of it, and it is amazing, but it has recently been hiding behind clouds and cyclones. The reality is that life goes on, with or without beaches and snow capped mountains. At least the South Island has been much luckier with the sun recently than the poor old North Island.

On this particular Sunday in January the sky was a wonderful dome of blue. We turned our backs on the at-last-visible summit of Mount Hutt, and headed for the Banks Peninsular, named after the naturalist Joseph Banks by Captain Cook. The peninsular sticks out like a craggy thumb from the side of South Island, beside Christchurch, and was formed millions of years ago by volcanic eruptions. It is a maze of bays and coves, and the views from almost anywhere are spectacular. Following Highway 75 to its logical conclusion brings you to the pretty French Heritage harbour town of Akaroa. The French who came in 1840 were whalers, and they left behind a number of huge iron cauldrons which are now arranged artistically along the beautiful harbour front. Happily, the whales and dolphins bring a different income to this coastline now. I wondered if the bossy British ever got put in these pots, and whether they are now kept on display as a warning to tourists. Hubby says not! But a timely reminder of history.

We wandered along in the sunshine, enjoying the sparkling blue water, little wharfs and bobbing white boats, occasionally being given the evil eye by seagulls. At a little coffee shop we ordered coffee and frittata and sat outside. The table next to us became empty, the previous occupants having committed the sin of leaving a few chips on their plates. The pirate gulls had chosen a vantage point on the roof of a parked car and they mobbed the little table, squawking and scattering cutlery. Then they returned to their perch to stalk the next customers (us). I knew that sun hat from The Warehouse would come in handy! Never park outside a café in Akaroa.

After a bit more happy wandering, many photos and a brief dive into a shop, (a lot of tutting from Hubby), we left Akaroa behind and meandered back towards Highway 1. On the way we found a little bay at Wainui and sat on a handily placed picnic bench to listen to the waves and admire the blue beyond where the inlet meets the ocean. Behind us the cabbage trees, pampas and blue Agapanthus rustled in the sea breeze and the Bell Bird called. Just a few swimmers on the beach, and a group of black snorkelers bobbing like seals in the shallows. No ice creams or Ferris wheels here. Just New Zealand.

Rumour has it that during the March 2020 lockdown God was discovered chilling out here in New Zealand. When asked, “What’re you doing here?” He replied, “Working from home”. On this particular weekend, God was on the South Island.

NZTV1 was unusually gloomy. Daniel the newscaster tried to keep upbeat, but every time the weathercaster appeared wearing her shiny red polyester pleated skirt and yellow top his face took on a “oh well, we will have to make the best of it” look. North Island was under water. The winds blew and the rain came down. Bedraggled holiday makers clad in rain ponchos gave evidence of wrecked tents. The inter island ferry was still attempting journeys across the Cook Straight but warning passengers not to travel if they were prone to sea sickness. Tugs were employed to pull the ferries containing vomiting passengers into port.

January is the school summer holiday season here, so amid this Armageddon, when families were forced to abandon the beach for indoor aquariums, the sun rose pleasantly over South Island. We gathered our hats and climbed into the truck amid bits of field and empty disposable coffee cups. We headed out on Highway 72 and drove along the foothills of the Southern Alps towards Geraldine. But we never got there because we turned off towards Peel forest and then onto the Rangitata Gorge road. The sign informed us that this was a dead end, so we went along for the ride, expecting to bump into a mountain before too long.

We drove and drove. From empty sealed road to rumbling gravel track we followed the river valley up towards Cloudy Mountain, drinking in the glory of God’s backyard under the blue sky. The great velvet slopes, the wide braids of blue water, the green green paddocks and fields of wildflowers and willows. The sheep grumbled at us, the paddocks of deer lifted startled heads and then ignored us, the Aberdeens and Herefords grazed contentedly, and the mighty muscled Charolais bulls sunbathed in the grass. Every now and then we came across a narrow bridge, a ford, or a lonely ship-lapped house with a view to die for. There were regular signs that told us this was a school bus route, and finally there was a silent fire station. The sun was high over the cloud topped peaks and we had still not reached the end of the road. Any time now it seemed that we would fall over the top and land on the West Coast – although we knew this was impossible without tramping. So close. We turned back, stopping for photos that would never be able to tell the true story of our senses.

It seemed a lot quicker on the way back. Always the case. We drove back through the gorge, and stopped at a small cafe with umbrellas, black sun sails and stools made out of old tractor seats. Sausage rolls and coffee were consumed gratefully, the little woodland sparrows being charmingly preferable to the pirate seagulls of Christchurch. Then a walk uphill through Peel Forest to admire The Big Tree. Originally titled, this is a huge Totara tree that seeded before the Norman Conquest, and has a trunk girth that defied the family of five who asked us to take a photo of them trying to reach round it. They only got half way.

On the return journey we stopped at Staveley Store. This is probably one of the best places in the world to eat a double Tip Top ice cream cone. We sat under the gnarled old tree outside, watching a coach load of weary tourists admiring a small wooden shack (the Staveley geological museum). We wondered along to look at the little Presbyterian church (a suitable activity for a Sunday afternoon) and drove home for a cup of tea.

New Zealand is often associated with hobbits, sunshine and snow capped mountains. Even the orcs rarely go out in drizzle (although driving rain is another matter altogether). Hubby was rained-off work at the weekend. Once we had planned a future adventure and drunk a few cups of coffee we felt the onset of cabin fever. We bravely attempted a walk to Methven to buy bread, but were forced to retreat due to cold rain on Hubby’s shorts clad legs. The Impatiens plant looked happy though.

By the evening the rain had stopped sufficiently for us to go hunting for our supper. We walked to The Blue Pub, noting the sign on the door which ordered work boots to be removed on entry. Luckily we had not been at work and no one seemed to object to the memory foam, so we ordered cider and burgers and climbed up onto high stools to enjoy the ambiance. The bar(n) was high roofed with several TVs in the rafters showing cricket and tennis. The music playing was just enough to induce a gentle bottom bounce. The woman on the table next to us was doing a much more active bounce. She had been temporarily abandoned by her partner, but she had brought Grandad along on her smart phone. So no worries. Grandad joined in merrily as she swung him round to view the company and he enjoyed a little sit against a beer glass.

Best to treat Bulmers cider with caution if you are not used to drinking it by the pint. By the time I had eaten the burger and downed the cider I was in serious danger of falling off the high stool and sliding across the shiny wooden floor. I made it safely, only to have to then negotiate Four Square supermarket to buy bread. The aisles swam in front of my eyes, but luckily Hubby took charge of the purchases which were placed thoughtfully in a little box by the packer, and we went home to enjoy Saturday evening on Netflix.

I have always held the opinion that boredom is a state of mind that can and should be immediately remedied. I refuse to get bored.

It was in this spirit that I completed my household chores to the sound of Amazing Grace played on a distant set of Methven bagpipes. Hubby was at work so I researched for an upcoming trip, and finally turned to the in-house library. There are eight books in the library. There is a copy of The Holy Bible, the crisp and spotlessly unread pages of Deuteronomy hiding between dingy covers. There is a biography of a very important outdoorsy red faced man, three tired paperback novels, the obligatory Dan Brown – The Da Vinci Code (hard-backed and illustrated), Gok Wan working his wardrobe and Trinny and Susannah as seen on TV. Endless happy memories whirl round in my head.

Trinny and Suzannah offered “The Survival Guide”at a time when shopping online was still a little avant guard for busy mothers, super fast fibre was science fiction in Norfolk, and Apps were only for the daring. “How to look terrific all the time, balance work, home, children and social life and still have time for yourself”, they gurgle triumphantly. This is like the pension scam that is too good to be true. Nothing will ever come of it. It is a perversion of the universe.

My eye was drawn to a pertinent section on packing for holidays and long haul flights which includes innovative suggestions for entertaining children. These include magnetic snakes and ladders, “Fuzzy Felt (it sticks)” and a portable CD player. Bribes include Smarties for counting games, presumably subtraction. The page is illustrated with a fuzzy felt picture of cats, squirrels and horses, and a large photo of a bottle of Piriton Syrup (that well known remedy for active children). Suggestions for the adult in-flight kit include homeopathic pills and multi vitamins (fast acting, one wonders?), pillow spray and an iPod (what’s that?). “Make your seat into a little home” they happily intone. Oh yeah. Each section of this indispensable survival guide comes with a diagram illustrating the rules of what one should wear if one has big tits, no tits, flabby tummy or saddlebags. Depending on the occasion there might also be advice for big bums, short legs, big arms and hapless waistless people. No men’s outfits are included. There is no advice for disguising a beer belly at a football match. What they have failed to understand is that most of us – alas – fall into more than one category and some of us now feel we must take refuge under a duvet or large kaftan and hide in number 37b in New Zealand.

I put the book back on the TV stand next to the benign Gok Wan. That one is for another day girlfriend.