Once upon a time, not so very long go, there were just two TV channels and neither of them went 24 hours a day.
To signal the end of the day’s transmission, TVNZ (or whichever of its predecessors was in existence then) played the Goodnight Kiwi settling down for the night to the tune of Hine E Hine.
The excitement with which the announcement TVNZ is bringing the Kiwi and his cat back to our screens has been greeted is a sign of the affection in which they’re held. However, the sad state of current programming means there’s little if anything worth watching to keep us up to see them.
If you can’t wait to see the updated version, Youtube has the original.
As the designated driver for our party of five I took a precautionary approach to alcohol at Friday’s wedding.
I accepted a glass of bubbles when we arrived at the reception and nursed it over the next couple of hours until we sat down for dinner. The glass was still half full but I abandoned it in favour of a still white for the toasts and drank about half of that with the meal.
After just two half glasses of wine over several hours, accompanied by food, I should still have been in full control, but that didn’t stop me tripping over en route to the dance floor.
I fell on my left hand and am now sporting a compression bandage, a sling and relief I hadn’t drunk more because if I can do this much damage on two half glasses, I hate to think of the mess I’d be in had I emptied them.
If there’s such a thing as genetic memory, it kicked in when we got to Scotland eight years ago.
It wasn’t a feeling of coming home, that’s definitely New Zealand, but there was a sense of familiarity and recognition.
The prosaic explanation for this could be similarities in the landscape which made me realise why the Scots felt at home in the southern South Island. But the romantic in me put the sense of connection down to the knowledge that this was the land from which my forbears came.
My mother’s grandfather and all her great grandparents were Scottish. My father was born and brought up there and although he moved to New Zealand in his late 20s and spent nearly three quarters of his life here and loved the land he chose, he also retained a close affinity to the land of his birth.
In many ways he became more Scottish as he aged. The kilt which was worn only when he went to Scottish Country Dancing when my brother and I were children, became a staple part of his wardrobe and his clothing of choice for semi formal and formal occasions. Even now, nearly nine years after his death I meet people who tell me they remember Charlie in his kilt, greeting them at the church door on Sundays or addressing the haggis on Burns night.
For all the great inventions and distinguished people that have come out of Scotland, St Andrew’s Day doesn’t get the recognition that St Patrick’s Day does. While I’m quite happy that it hasn’t been commercialised my tarten genes called for a post in recognition of Scotland’s patron saint.