Proof the Universe is on my side

No fog in Wellington on the day of my departure.

A spare seat next to me on all three (very busy) flights: Wellington – Auckland - L.A. – London. If this isn’t evidence of some omnipotent power then I don’t know what is. I could stretch out my legs and everything.

Karen’s smiling mug at LAX.

Taking a quick twelve hours to catch up on each other’s life.

Karen’s Grandmother announcing she was “full and sassy” after dinner.

Being nicknamed “lips” by the San Fran gay posse.

Running around Golden Gate Park late on Sunday afternoon just as the sun was setting.

Arriving at Heathrow and my luggage getting spat out onto the conveyor belt first.

Being met at the airport by some of my favourite people in the world. Well those who hadn’t nipped to Marks and Spencers quickly to buy some crisps, that is.

London, in a spring shower.
Awful Hallway Art #5

Fitting really. I don't hate this.


Shame about the poetry...
Letters to the Editor

Dear New Zealand,
Thanks for having me. You were sunny and easy going, and seemed genuinely pleased to see me. For the first time I think I really appreciated you as well.
You made it legal for gays to marry and banned fags being smoked in bars. Your hip hop rocks. One day, when climate change has made the rest of the world uninhabitable, I will sail my friends here in a boat and show you to them. We’ll drink pinot noir on a hill somewhere because by then the polar ice caps would have melted.
All my love,
p.s. thanks to NZ bloggers for making me feel at home too - Jemsweb, MirimarMike & Tony.

Dear hot boys,
You were few and far between, but it was worth the wait – if you’re into that whole surfer grungy tanned beach boy look.
Which I am.
I’d have to give you a good wash with a damp flannel first though.
ttfn, Drew

Dear Harri,
You said “Drew” today for the first time. Twice. It’s like you've been waiting for the right moment.
I don’t know if it’s harder or easier that you’re not old enough for me to explain why I’m going. Harder maybe. Whatever it is they put in babies to make sure you don’t tread on them is such a part of me now. The world is baby proofed in my head. It kills me I’m not going to be here to make sure you keep away from the sharp corners.
You crawled. You walked. You vomited a lot. I can change a nappy without blinking. You love books now. And when I say “bubye” in a stupid voice.
You dance whenever there’s music. Even in a crowded cafe. You don’t care if anyone’s watching. In fact, I think you enjoy an audience.
You’re a rough old kid too. You bite and scratch and grab my foot when I’m sleeping. But you always do it with a wry smile which is probably why I haven’t trodden on you yet.
I think that’s what surprised me most. How much of myself I see in you.
All my love kiddo,
Uncle Drew

Dear book,
Can I call you that yet? Unfinished manuscript doesn’t have the same ring to it.
You turned out better than I ever expected. You’re not sophisticated and urbane. They’ll never describe you as “Sex and the City meets Prozac Nation” or whatever, but you’re about families and growing up and the unlikely alliances we make in life, and for some reason, animals. A whole freakin’ zoo.
Can’t wait to see more of you.

To my Ma, Holly and Ellie,
We didn’t murder each other.
Love, Drew
p.s. your kindness, strength and love over this 6 months has been such an incredible gift. Thank you.
I’m winding down – I can feel it. London is slowly overtaking New Zealand in my mind. I get too excited to sleep sometimes, or too agitated to write. My head is a jumble of ideas and ways I want it to be next time round, the moments I’ll savour, plans, schemes, the feast to follow a famine. When all my thoughts align I can see so clearly where I’m going, and I scramble for a pen and paper, looking at the page moments later only to find random words. “Happy”. “Restrict”. “Don’t”. I’ll let my subconscious work it out.

My Mother bought me a homeopathy spray for the jet lag. I’m emailing myself everything I’ve ever written. I still have a third of the book to edit, but I need a break, to get some perspective again, to read a few novels, to miss writing. Each time I revisit a chapter, a whole new layer unfolds, demanding more detail, more editing, more voice. Not that I’m complaining. I know how lucky I’ve been to spend a summer faffing about with words and junk. I’ve never worked so hard, or been so happy to do it.

Expect more of the same over the next few days. Goodbyes. Promises. Things I write down so I won’t forget them.
Hit the Sack!

Goodnight. End podcast.
Lick your Cat!

My nephew has fractured his arm. He had an ear infection and fell over at the park. My sister and I took him to the radiologist yesterday, where we were given lead aprons and had to squash Harri at several uncomfortable angles to get the x-rays. It was horrible. Children should be swathed in foam and bandages until they’re at least sixteen, I've decided.
Resist! Resist!

My trouble with Blogger was remedied when I cleared my cookies btw.

I have to join the workforce when I get back to London. I recieved my first rejection email yesterday. I forgot how demeaning it is to get rejected for a job you're overqualified for and really didn't want in the first place.
Confuse Yourself!

I’m currently penning a scene where a woman describes growing up in an adopted family. The writing’s not exactly flowing tonight, probably not helped by frequent live podcasting.

Did I mention I leave Wellington in twelve days? My six months here is nearly up. I’ll be heading to London via Los Angeles, where I’ll be spending five sunny days with Karen, driving up to San Francisco so I can “get all my gay out”.
When I arrive at Heathrow, Elizabeth, Christopher, Charlie and my sister Amber will be there to meet me. Apparently I owe them money.
Retype your Password!

I can imagine there are going to be quite a few angry words exchanged between the cardinals after the ceremony - along the lines of “You wore the red robes? I told you I was wearing the red robes! No, you definitely said you were going to wear the blue. Why would I wear the blue? Blue makes me look washed out on camera!”

Apparently the robes are crimson — the colour of blood — to symbolise the commitment of each cardinal to defend the church to the death and are no laughing matter.
Have Faith!

Oh Mother, they’re burying the pope. I completely forgot about it. Must. Not. Make. Fun. Of. Funeral.
Seems to be a lot of singing. And processions.
Did you know my Ma went to catholic schools as a girl? Run by Nuns, it was.
Those rice crackers they’re giving out look good. Think I might fix a snack.
Don’t be late!

Is this a podcast? I just want to know. Am I podcasting?
I’m going to say I am. If anyone asks.
Postpone Judgment!

So now Blogger tells me “the document contains no data”. Oh yeah, Blogger? You come here with all your “free” this and “easy to use” that and expect me to sit by while you malfunction? Huh? You think you’re so big, don’t you? Don’t you?
Oh hang on, it’s working again. Thanks Blogger! Love you!
Agh, it did it again! Bastards!
Live the Wonder! Experience the taste!

If you’re in the UK you’re probably just getting to work. If you’re in the U.S. you’ll be asleep. Here in New Zealand in THE FUTURE (*makes ghost noises*) it’s Friday night and I’ve got a hot date with a Word Document.
I thought it would be desperate interesting if I shared my night with you – the coffee highs and lows – in real time. So far I've eaten a salad, watched Joan of Arcadia and learnt how to strike through. Did I say this was going to be wild, or what?

Yeah, yeah, email me

09/2003 / 10/2003 / 11/2003 / 12/2003 / 01/2004 / 02/2004 / 03/2004 / 04/2004 / 05/2004 / 06/2004 / 07/2004 / 08/2004 / 09/2004 / 10/2004 / 11/2004 / 12/2004 / 01/2005 / 02/2005 / 03/2005 / 04/2005 / 05/2005 / 06/2005 / 07/2005 / 08/2005 / 09/2005 / 10/2005 / 11/2005 / 12/2005 / 01/2006 /

sites what I write on:

sites what I wrote on:
über: I haven't been completely honest
somewhat.org: on the up




sex, lies & videotape
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vivid blurry
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