International cricket

Last week I went to a One Day International cricket match between Australia and New Zealand. It was free to attend so I went along and sat in the sun and enjoyed myself watching the game and taking photos. It was very exciting and it all came down to the final ball where it proved that Australia had the mental strength to snatch victory from a game New Zealand had been sure to win.

There were only about twenty spectators at the ground. Why? Because it was women's cricket. Their loss; I had a great day, and here are some pictures to prove it. You can play along with your own version of 'spot the ball' if you like!

Everybody else does it; why can't I?

There was no live or even delayed coverage of the Oscars this year (unless you have SKY Movies, which I don't). I do have E! (the channel; not the drug) because it comes free with the sports channels, and they had a 'live from the red carpet feature'. So I watched that with all the people parading up the carpet and being subjected to inane questions from brainless presenters.

These film people have put a lot into their art and this is their big night - fair enough. But the gushing cling-ons are hard to take as they bounce and squeal excitedly over each pleat and ruffle. One asked a bloke 'Who's tux are you wearing?' which I thought was rather rude. Were they suggesting that he couldn't afford to buy his own and had to borrow someone elses? Apparently not. That's fashion-speak for 'Who designed your outfit?' (And in the case of Sarah Jessica Parker, 'Was it for a bet?')

The 'stars' smile and politely pirouette for the masses. They all want the acknowledgment - that's why actors act, right? - they will get from their peers inside the building. But to get there, they are prepared to face this gauntlet first where they know the people simpering at them now will be ripping them to shreds in the magazines and websites later.

No, I'm not above it. And just to prove it, I took notes on whose gowns I'd like to own, and which were total frock horrors.

Cameron Diaz's look was described as 'old school glamour'. We dressed in navy blue polyester at my old school. I like this gold strapless gown, but it would have been somewhat impractical on the lacrosse pitch.

This is sort of similar, but what it makes up for in the practicality stakes with shoulders, it looses out with a fish tail. Sandra Bullock is beautiful and she has clearly chosen to match her outfit to the cute accessory she will take away later, but it might help if she could move. She can't even break into her trademark smile for fear of breathing.

Demi Moore's Versace frock is described as 'blush' which is slightly amusing as she is now so plastic, I doubt she is capable of doing that herself. However, she looks good for a doll and is able to wear all those ruffles without looking like a toilet roll cover.

Speaking of ruffles - why does this work? Diane Kruger risks looking like a Christmas tree, but this dress is so frou-frou and chic it can only be Chanel. There is a gorgeous ribbon effect that hangs down the middle of her back, and adds extra interest, like a gift you can't wait to unwrap...

...whereas Jennifer Lopez (why is she at the Oscars at all?) in bubble-wrap looks like something you desperately want to cram back into the box.

Speaking of boxes, Vera Farmiga appears to have crashed through the first layer of chocolate and ended up in that annoyingly noisy crinkly stuff like an anaemic strawberry cream.

Helen Mirren retains her Queen of the Catwalk crown with this sparkly metallic number with the subtle sleeve detail that 'ladies of a certain age' wear so well. She is simply stunning.

My beloved Kate, however, looks like she is auditioning for the Tin Man in this suit of armour. Metallics don't always work the way you intended.

Carey Mulligan looks great in this Prada outfit sewn with tiny scissors which earned the word 'quirky' on the night by everyone who mentioned it. Who says black has to be boring? And she gets extra points for proving that yes, film stars really do have feet (I was beginning to think they were all on wheels).

At last, some colour! If you're not size six, you're going to stand out at the Oscars anyway. Mo'Nique does it for all the right reasons (as well as winning the best supporting actress award, obviously) in electric blue.

Oops, I spoke too soon about the colour. In all the excitement, Maggie Gyllehall forgot to get dressed and just wrapped herself in a bath sheet. It seems she remembered earrings though.

This is one outfit that certainly doesn't need jewellery, and Zoe Saldana rocks it. Colour; check, sparkles; check, metallics; check, ruffles; check, fish tail; check. Perhaps she stole some of Maggie's materials?

I actually like this dress on Penelope Cruz, although I did hear it described as 'provincial bridesmaid'. Let's just say that if you were the bride at this wedding, you would be well and truely outshone. So, colour; there is the good...

...the bad (Sigourney Weaver is so angular that an asymmetric look just doesn't work for her, unless the exposed shoulder is to stop her blending into the carpet)...

...and the ugly. Sarah Jessica Parker gushed, 'Mr Lagerfeld made it just for tonight', to which I wanted to ask, 'What, this morning? In ten minutes? With his eyes closed?'

Books read in October

Below are short reviews of the books that I read in October 2009. The numbers in the brackets are the marks I have given them out of five.

Red, White and Blue – Susan Isaacs (3.7)
The notion of national identity is one fraught with complex issues. In this novel, Susan Isaacs questions what it means to be American through her protagonists, Charlie Blair, an FBI agent in Wyoming, and Lauren Miller, a New York journalist. When a supposed hate crime is perpetrated against the Jewish community of Jackson Hole, Wyoming, Charlie is sent to infiltrate a vicious anti-Semitic group called Wrath, while Lauren covers the story for her paper, the Jewish News.

It is obvious that these two are going to become romantically involved, but the story is more than the individuals. Isaacs traces who they are though their ancestors, taking the narrative back their grandparents – both of them are descended from Eastern European Jews and they share a heritage. Is it more important to maintain your cultural roots or to assume the nature of your new country? Isaacs suggests you can do both but equally you can be unaffected by your past, as Charlie, in keeping with many descendants of Eastern European Jews, doesn’t know his family history. She is heavy-handed on this issue, driving the point home to ensure that we have understood.

When Charlie goes undercover to infiltrate Wrath he gets a job as a mechanic, which he enjoys as he likes to work with his hands – the nurturing, caring man of the people. Good solid work and the sharing of stories are seen as examples to live by. Meanwhile Lauren fears for the future of print journalism – “At some point in the twenty-first century, we’ll fall into a state of permanent semi-literacy. A picture really will be worth a thousand words.”

Isaacs also attempts to introduce a mystical element, perhaps as a sop to the indigenous tribes – “The land is worth more than the trees and the forage and the water that’re on it. It has value to people who don’t own it, to people who will never see it” – but this strikes a hollow note. You can almost hear the strains of, ‘This land is your land, this land is my land...’ Subtlety is clearly not one of the required attributes to make an American.

Windmill Hill – Michael Jacobson (3.3)
In this easy to read and surprisingly uplifting novel of atonement, Paul kidnaps his grandfather, Blink Johns, from a nursing home and takes him on a trip to Queenstown, Tasmania where the ground is particularly inhospitable. Blink used to be a great gardener but after WWI and family tragedies, he has retreated into old age and dementia. Paul, whom his grandfather confuses with his old army pal, Angus, wants to revive his senses and attempts to do it through the soil. Agricultural metaphors and gardening imagery are scattered throughout the novel.

Paul takes Blink to Queenstown because he knows that is where Angus grew up. It is a mining town where the earth is useless after years of chemical treatments and excavations, yet with hard work and a tender care it can become fertile again. Angus is from mining stock and he finds it exciting that he should be going around the world to places such as Egypt, when he spent his days underground and had never even been to Hobart.

The war shaped and destroyed men, playing a huge part on the Australian psyche and encapsulating their relationship with the land. Much of the novel is comprised of his reminisces; Blink talks to Paul as though he were remembering alongside him. At other times, flashbacks fill in the narrative.

This is a sturdy novel about honest folk; families who were deeply affected by a war on the other side of the world; people with personal tragedies who don’t seek revenge but merely acceptance. Michael Jacobson is a journalist and he draws on his spare, economical style in this debut novel which tells a good story without mawkish sentimentality or apportioning blame. The optimistic conclusion draws upon the adage, ‘to everything there is a season’ and leaves the reader with a rare sense of hope.

The Vintner’s Luck – Elizabeth Knox (4.2)
The vintner is Sobran Jodeau and his luck is an angel called Xas. One drunken night, Sobran encounters Xas in his vineyard and they arrange to meet every year on the same date. Through natural and unnatural disasters, they keep their assignation almost religiously for 63 years. In each chapter, which is named after a type of wine or a process in viticulture, Sobran tells the angel about the births, deaths, marriages, affairs and murder in his large rustic vineyard family life, and Xas drops little snippets of information about his world. The descriptions of wine and the countryside are whimsical and lyrical. But Xas finds it hard to be pinned down as he has lived through thousands of years and cannot isolate moments, only emotions.

Xas is a remarkable creation. He ‘can go freely’ with huge wings that are warm and fluffy and smell of snow. He collects rose bushes to plant in his garden, always arrives with a bottle of wine from some exotic location, and has an enquiring mind and a sulky temperament. He is both earthy and ethereal, and he is achingly sensual. Over the years, Sobran shares an intimacy with Xas that he lacks with his wife, children and even his mistress. When his daughter dies, he pines for the angel. “The whole house was sad. Sobran’s friends brought him brandy or laid their arms along his shoulders – but no one wrapped their body about his and bore him away.”

In return, Xas informs him of the nature of God and Lucifer, of Heaven and Hell and everything in between. His relationship with God is clearly troubled and he seems to resent His influence. “Sometimes I feel God is all over me like pollen and I go about pollinating things with God.” He is also scathing of God’s liking for copies and imitations. Elizabeth Knox has now written a prequel to this novel which clarifies the relationship between God and his angel, and might explain some of these tantalising vagaries.

Antoine, Sobran’s son, learns from his tutor that “Books can be the people we never get to meet, ancestors or far neighbours.” I am very glad that I met these fanciful characters in this delightful novel of angels and wine where morality and assumptions are examined and questioned.

Will in the World – Stephen Greenblatt (4.2)
In this book, Stephen Greenblatt attempts to put William Shakespeare in his place, as it were. Against the political, social and historic background he looks at what may have influenced him to write the plays and sonnets that he did. From parental pressure to royal patronage, he examines the factors and experiences that possibly shaped his art.

Shakespeare was influenced by both morality plays and the pastoral. His father’s financial issues may have had a bearing on his plays as did his marriage and the death of his son. Of course this is all conjecture as there is no record of Shakespeare’s feelings about anything.

Perhaps one of the major players in Shakespeare’s art was the theatre itself. He knew the attributes of actors; they were supposed to be gifted musicians, who could both fight and dance. “They were also expected to wear clothes gracefully – in this period of long dresses, it was men’s legs, rather than women’s, to which eyes were drawn.”

London was another key-player in his development. Touring players by nature of moving on between towns could repeat the same show and so cope with a limited repertoire. This didn’t work in London. The open amphitheatres held over two thousand people which meant that it was not enough to mount one or two successful plays a season – “The companies had to induce people, large numbers of people, to get in the habit of coming to the theatre again and again, and this meant a constantly changing repertoire, as many as five or six plays per week.”

Shakespeare brought a host of new words to the theatre, none more so than in Hamlet which introduces more than 600. He discovered the power of blank verse and how to seduce the audience through poetry rather than just the story, removing explanatory elements, so there is no back-story or explanation necessary. With a love of character and language, Shakespeare wrote plays for as many people to see as possible.

Like a magpie that steals bright shiny bits from other people to make its own nest, Greenblatt argues that Shakespeare borrowed from all around him, and that only a study in context will reveal the true shape of the man.

My Song

After dinner we sat as you sang

With your guitar and capo

In your black bean bag and orange shirt and socks,

Strumming songs about family and friends.

Some sang along

With those they knew,

While others absorbed

The personal and political.

"I'm in love with the free world,

But the free world's in love with itself."

Sister and father

Reflect anguish in a chord change.

"Do you remember when you hated the world?"

Slow down.

Song is closer to smell than memory;

Nostalgia brings tears to my nose.

"You're so fucking special."

I wish I was special.

One day I want someone to write a song for me.

But I'm scared of what they might say.

Oysters and IPA

The Arrow Brewery is one of our favourite things in Arrowtown – in fact, one of the reasons we moved back to Arrowtown was so that we could walk to the pub. And what a pub it is!

To coincide with the Bluff oyster season, which begins on 1st March, the good folk at the brewery have launched (quite literary) a new beer. This is their take on the IPA (one of my favourite styles). They claim the beer perfectly complements the tangy taste of the oysters. Well, we’ll be the judges of that!

Because IPAs were originally transported from England to India they needed to survive the long sea journey without spoiling. Many hops were added and the gravity was lowered resulting in a strong, bitter ale with high alcohol content.

It’s not quite a passage to India, but the Foveaux Strait has challenges of its own and the barrel was hoisted onto an oyster boat to endure a mini sea journey, accompanied by brewers Darryl and John keeping a close eye on their precious cargo. They also kept out of the way of the oyster catchers (Marina Fish and Oysters of Invercargill) who were working hard to provide everyone with a little (shell)fishy when the boat comes in.

And when the boat did return to shore, the boys got the beer and a giant sack of oysters and made their way back to the pub in Arrowtown where we waiting for this inspirational combination. There was no shortage of helpers to remove the barrel from the back of the ute and the beer was delivered to the hand pump inside where it flowed freely to the punters on the other side of the bar.

The conclusion is that it is better warmer – and it was served at the right temperature here; many Kiwis can’t get their heads around the fact that you don’t have to freeze all the flavour out of beer it it’s any good. It’s got an intense nutty essence and the bitter hops balance the sugary malts perfectly. Almost like barley wine it is 8.1% strength (‘I think’ said Greg) but it is soft and gentle with a velvet mouth-feel that belies the alcohol content.

As for whether it goes well with oysters? Move over sauvignon blanc: this is the new perfect accompaniment. Those plump Bluff beauties were being shucked in the courtyard by a trio of blokes who seemed to know what they were doing (this is not a metaphor; they really were opening the oyster shells and pulling out the meat – that’s not one either).

Each glass of IPA came with a fresh oyster glistening in its shell. You could have them served in a tempura batter, but that would seem almost like overdressing them – they were simply sublime as nature intended.

There is no better way to start the week (and we’ll be back regularly to check on the progress of that ale). Now, that’s the sort of Monday I really do like!

This story was featured on Campbell Live. Check out their footage here.

Lake Hayes Women's Triathlon

The day of the Lake Hayes Women’s Triathlon was beautiful and sunny, dammit, so I couldn’t use the weather as an excuse not to enter!

I’ve done it a couple of times before – a long time ago when I was fit (2003 & 2004). Now I’m really not and it hurts to know that I had it and then I lost it. If ever there was a supportive and encouraging way to try and get back into it, however, it is the Southern Lakes Women’s Triathlon.

This is its 18th year and also incorporates a duathlon for those without the time or inclination to add another discipline to their training regime. In the past, starts have been fierce (I have been scratched, gouged, had my goggles kicked off and received a nosebleed) so it was a welcome addition to have two starts for the swimmers. We began on either side of the big tree and there were two buoys out in the lake so those on the left could swim round one and those on the right picked out the other.

I had swum in the lake the previous week and found that it was plenty warm enough. Also, the distance is only 300m so at current fitness levels, that should take me approximately 8 – 9 minutes. It takes me about that long to wrestle myself out of my wetsuit, so I decided not to wear it. The water really was fine and although my feet went numb, they always do.

The run up to the bikes is the toughest part of the course – you’ve just come out of the water; you’re disorientated; you’re not breathing properly and you’re faced with a gravel hill to run up in bare (numb) feet. Because the entrance and exit point is the same, there was a flag to run around to make sure that everyone went the same distance. My transition was not too bad and I was soon on to my bike and out on the course. Here I merged with all the other disciplines – those who had paddled kayaks and those who had run 1½km as a start to their duathlon.

The bike ride begins with a gravel track that I travelled over very gingerly – I don’t want to puncture my tyres at the very beginning of the bike leg. (One girl got three punctures on this ride.) This would be the only 100 yards or so where I would have been pleased to be riding a mountain bike.

When I watched the World Triathlon Champions in 2003 (the swim was right here in this lake), a Canadian girl in mid-race mode yelled out at us, ‘Where’s the mountain lion?’ At least that’s what I thought she said – it made some sort of sense that in her adrenalin-fuelled delirium she thought she was back home and being pursued by big bobcats. It turns out she was asking the whereabouts of the ‘mount line’ – the point at which you are officially meant to get on and off your bike. I think of this every time I do a triathlon now, and it makes me smile – you find your pleasure where you can...

I like the bike ride on this course – there are no hills, which is always a positive for me. Today there was no wind and the speeds could crank up quite high. Generally drafting is illegal in triathlons so, although this event was pretty low-key in that regard and no mention was made of it in the briefing, I decided against doing it. Not so a couple of others (the only person who passed me on the bike leg did so after sitting on my wheel for a good third of the leg) but that’s up to them.

Back having racked the bike, changed shoes and run round the flag again, it was off on the run leg. Now, this does have hills. It’s on a section of the excellent track that circumnavigates Lake Hayes. By now it was hot and the gravel track was dusty, making it hard to breathe, and it felt like a bit of a struggle.

I was pleased to take on some water at the turnaround. Incidentally, there was a bottle of water in our race packs, but I would have preferred cups at the finish – when you cross the line on a hot day you want a drink immediately, not after you’ve found your vehicle and rummaged around in your bag. This is merely a minor quibble – everything else about the event was very well organised.

I walk around this lake nearly every Friday with my friend and I never think it is particularly tough. Admittedly we usually stop to throw sticks for her dopey dog, and there wasn’t a lot of that going on today. The views are still breathtakingly scenic, however, which could be another handy excuse for lack of breath.

I am not a runner and admire those who are – some of these ladies were skipping past me on the way back when I was grinding my way out. They looked fresh and shiny in their running kit while I was a heaving sweaty lump, and I was gasping by the time I thankfully saw the finishing chute.

We waited and applauded as others came in – each with their own personal achievement. That’s what I like about this event; everyone has a goal and they are all different.

Some are national triathletes down from Auckland to get in some extra training and win the race in what the papers described as a ‘blistering pace’; some are simply comparing their times with the previous year.

Some are entering with a group of friends to have fun and work on their fitness; some are hoping to win a spot-prize (the girl who won the great prize of a Giant bike generously donated by Veritgo didn’t actually own one previously).

Some see it as a perfect opportunity to try out their first ever triathlon or duathlon and they are right to choose it. Everyone there has done well, and by the smiles on the faces, they have had fun too!

Golf: A good walk enchanced

I am not perturbed by the fact that I have never played golf before. I have won a round of golf for two (plus use of the golf cart) at Jack’s Point and I’m determined to use it. It’s not often you get anything for fee – and nor is it here; we have to hire a set of clubs each and buy some balls. $150 later and we are ready to play.

I have dressed in suitable attire – I found a t-shirt with a collar (it’s from Rebellion Brewery, but no one will know that unless they look closely), a pair of dark dress shorts and a diamond-patterned jumper, and I have pulled my hair back into a plait. Him Outdoors assures me that we both look the part. The only problem is that we now have to actually play some golf.

Him Outdoors has done this before so he takes me to the practice area to give me some tips. He tells me how to grip the club. He says, “It’s just like cricket.” I’ve never played cricket. I try to think helpfully of other bat and ball sports. I say, “Is it like tennis?” Apparently not. We have a bit of a go at driving and putting (it’s all about the lingo) and I even get one or two balls to go where I want them to. “Is it like hockey?” I ask, with more confidence. Not really.

Never mind, we set off in the little buggy thing over the bridge and to the first tee. Later I discover there are three varieties: blue; white and yellow – the yellow one is the ‘ladies’ tee’ because it is easier – I am too crap to feel patronised by this. Him Outdoors slices his first shot into the rough and mine goes into the stream. At least we look the part as we look for the balls...

It’s fun. I’m rubbish but I don’t care. The scenery is phenomenal and the air is fresh. We keep forgetting we’ve got a cart and we have to go back and get it several times. It’s fun to drive around the green, though I can’t hit the ball far enough to make it necessary. A couple come along behind us and Him Outdoors invites them to ‘play through’ – I get the impression that they would anyway, and they give us disparaging looks – I just smile and wave.

Him Outdoors discovers that his golf balls are magnetised by matagouri and are frequently drawn to the side of the fairway into impenetrable thickets of the stuff. Distracted by the ‘money shot’ – you know the one; it’s on all the brochures – he finds another four balls where his has landed. Others have clearly made the same error but can’t be bothered to retrieve their whiteware.

We encounter a foursome and a dog who are also all enjoying their day out. We have a brief chat where Him Outdoors attempts to sound knowledgeable and I mind my own business. One of the gents explains that he had promised his lady a meal if she came for a round of golf with him on Valentine’s Day. Him Outdoors and I had no idea that it was the day of the prince of hearts, but we decide it is as romantic a way to send it as any.

Him Outdoors keeps saying, “Oh, dear, I don’t know what else to tell you.” Really there is nothing to say and although he gets frustrated by his lack of technique, I am not expecting anything else and am quite happy with my ‘inconsistency’. On one hole I get a score of four; on the next, twenty-nine (later I find out that people stop counting after ten).

My problem (among others) is that I get to the green okay but then I over-putt and the ball sails past the hole and ends up in the bunker – by the time I heft the ball out of there I use up another heap of shots and inevitably it ends up on the other side. At least I get to use every club in the bag – I like the names; the woods, irons, wedges and drives. I also like the ones with little sock cosies to keep them warm and dry. I realise halfway through that every time Him Outdoors tells me to use a six I have been using a nine, but I decide to keep quiet – it would only upset him.

When we finish we eat lunch at the clubhouse surveying the ponds and the grounds – they are extensive and pleasant. My neck and wrists hurt (which is proof positive, should it be needed, that my golfing stance is rubbish) and I can see a bruise developing where I connected a sand wedge with my shin, but I am happy and contented eating my steak sandwich and drinking a crisp Moa blanc.

Golf is an onomatopoeic game: thwack; clock; putt; tap; swoosh; hook; chip; drill. Or in my case: hack; miss; slice; swipe; thud; bang; ouch! I enjoy it and it is a grand day out. I have a new appreciation for it as a game (although I still have reservations about its claims to be a sport) and no longer agree with Mark Twain’s summation that it is a ‘good walk spoiled’, but I’m not sure I’ll be rushing back – not unless I have a spare $200 lying around.