Lost and found

Last month, I received an email informing me that I'd won a $200 voucher to spend at a big ticket retailer as part of a monthly promotional draw. How exciting! The voucher was couriered to me a couple of days later and I thought about many ways I could use it to help set my new home office.

A few days later, a second $200 voucher arrived from the same person at the same retailer. Even the congratulatory note was identical.

My next step was obvious. I emailed her back, thanking her for the original voucher and explaining that a second one had arrived that day. Perhaps she could send a courier ticket for me to safely return the second voucher? Here is her response:

"Oh my! You're THE most honest person ever! I was just going through my voucher records trying to figure out where the missing voucher was. I'm so very sorry!"

A similar thank you message arrived once the voucher was returned, full of gratitude and seemingly surprised that I sent it back. I find it a bit sad that honesty is seen as unexpected, but there's no way that second voucher should be mine and it was immediately obvious that I must return it. Honesty is its own reward.

Yesterday, I was coming home from my morning walk and spotted some 'rubbish' in the front garden. It certainly hadn't been there when I left an hour earlier. I tweeted about it.

Mr Weka and I conferred; although the bank note was immediately outside our bedroom window, we didn't think either of us had dropped it. I checked that the cash I'd been paid a few days earlier was still in my wallet (it was). We agreed that $50 is a sizeable amount of cash to lose and that this situation was very different to the time when the weather gods blew a pair of women's track pants into our backyard, or the time that a book was anonymously hand delivered to my letter box - addressed to me.

I set up a twitter poll, but already knew that I would hand the money in at the local police station. The conversation following the poll reinforced that my decision is the right thing to do. $50 is a lot of money for someone to lose. Who knows what it was destined for? If it is unclaimed and eventually returned to me, I will donate it to charity. Honesty is its own reward.

I've lost a few special items before and searched endlessly for them. Some have monetary value while another has sentimental value beyond belief. My precious taonga is still out there somewhere. It's of no value to anyone outside of my whānau and I hope that karma helps bring it home to me. Honesty is its own reward.

I don't like celery

A while ago, my nephew had commandeered my phone when an email notification popped up with the subject line You've been paid. Here's how our conversation went:

"Hey, I've been paid!" he announced.
"Oh, good! I like those emails," I replied.
"Who paid me?" he asked.
"No, I've been paid," I said.
"What for?" he wondered.
"It's my salary," I told him.
"You get paid with celery??" He didn't sound impressed.
"No, I get paid with money. But I can buy celery if I want," I explained.
"I don't like celery," he concluded.

That's a pretty fair reaction. While we all like salary of the financial variety, my father in particular is always keen to voice his dislike for celery the vegetable and his mistrust of any food that is calorie neutral - because eating shouldn't require such hard work. I don't mind celery and will add it to soups or keep stalks in the fridge to munch on while trying to distract myself from cheese cravings. It sometimes works.

One of my summer projects has been to plant my first ever vegetable patch - a tiny square metre garden in a sunny spot in the back yard. I planted some seeds for salad greens, beans, cucumber and celery of the vegetable variety. I'll see if anything comes of them in the coming weeks. In the meantime, I'm happy to receive salary to buy celery. But my nephew is still not convinced.

Ice cream spiders

It's warm and sunny in Wellington today. Sure, there's wind - but that's to remind us of which city we live in. After a few wintry days inside, I decided to spend an hour wrangling the hebe bushes and deadheading the proteas that have been thriving since the early arrival of summer this year.

It was hot work and reminded me of summer days when the whole family got stuck into outdoor work at home. I don't remember having much success in Mum's garden but I do remember our reward if we helped: Dad would make us an ice cream spider - and there was nothing better in the middle of a hot afternoon when we'd been working hard.

Here's how it worked. We'd sit at the kitchen bench and watch Dad place one or two scoops of ice cream into a tall glass that was kept especially for this occasion (along with the extra tall teaspoons that could reach all the way to the bottom). He'd bring it over to us and pour Coke all the way to the top. Sometimes he plonked a straw in so we could sip up the last of the liquid at the bottom. There were no cherries, berries, cream, wafers, syrup or sprinkles in our spiders; simplicity was the key. You had to be alert, though; fizzy drink and ice cream could quickly overflow if you didn't catch it in time, which is why Dad assembled them right in front of us.

These days, I'm not much of an ice cream fan and haven't drunk fizzy drinks in more than 20 years, but nostalgia hit hard while I was gardening and I suddenly felt like a spider. I settled for a handful of ripe cherries and some leftover gingerbread instead.

Word of the day: suboptimal

Our office is a little unconventional. We work hard, we play hard, we let off steam and we start all over again. For some, the language is colourful. For one in particular, swearing is as natural as the air she breathes.

In an attempt to curb her swearing steam-release valve, one team member has self-initiated a swear chart. There are point values for certain words and a chain of terms will earn a bonus point. Each calendar month, she aims to reduce her overall office swear tally. It began in March with a target of 50 points, meaning that she would shout a round of drinks for everyone in our part of the office if the target was met.

Unfortunately, the first month's target was not only met but exceeded, with 50 points accrued by 16 March and almost half a month to go. April was a little better with 48 points earned. We're halfway through May and the total is sitting at just 11. A reformed swearer? Or are we just so attuned to these words that we're no longer conscious of when they're uttered? To be fair, she is very good at self-reporting, sometimes emerging from a meeting room to take up a whiteboard marker and add tallies to the chart without even explaining herself.

We may have found another solution to help our highly strung swearing colleague. Someone suggested a new word of the day: suboptimal. Apparently it's acceptable as both a word and a sentiment. It can be embellished with emotion and gestures but is not offensive in itself.

Looking at its definition, it could work well in everyday conversation. Here are some examples:

"That idea is suboptimal."
"This document is completely suboptimal."
"I don't know what you're thinking but it sounds quite suboptimal to me."
"Another suboptimal meeting." *rolls eyes*

It wouldn't always work, though. Try saying these paraphrased sentences:

"Suboptimal off, you suboptimal piece of suboptimal!"
"Why doesn't anyone suboptimal listen to me?"

Will it work? Only time will tell if this is just another suboptimal idea.

Tofu roulette

It's Friday, so that means my manager sends out his weekend digest of Friday Funnies. Most are cringe worthy and many are lowbrow, but all are eagerly anticipated as it means the weekend is oh so close.

Today's selection featured a series of one liners and this short recipe for the foodies in our team.

How to prepare tofu:

1. Throw it in the trash.
2. Grill some meat.

This led to much discussion about uses for tofu, including many questions – mostly, why?? You might be a vegetarian but surely almost any other source of protein would taste better than slobbery rubbery bean curd. Clearly, I'm not a fan. I've been known to turn down the offer of buying an otherwise appealing cookbook for a good price because too many of the recipes feature tofu. Fact.

Here's a fun game my friends used to play at cheap and cheerful Chinese restaurants way back in our student days. After ordering and devouring the shared Chinese banquet, there would inevitably be a small dish of tofu left over. This called for a game of tofu roulette. Despite our mothers telling us to not play with our food, we'd spin the plate on the edge of the Lazy Susan turntable and when it stopped, whoever had the misfortune of sitting in front of where the tofu stopped had to eat some.

At this point in the evening, we learned the importance of choosing the right seat at the start of the meal, especially if the table had a lean or the floor was uneven. Table cracks or joins also meant you had a higher chance of eating the most tofu at the end of the night as the Lazy Susan would default to stopping at the same point. I was careful to never be that person and haven't had the misfortune of eating tofu since those days. Long may my good fortune continue.

Cicadageddon

We've had a fantastic summer this year. Lots of warm, sunny days with very little wind and rain. Occasional weather tantrums have quickly given way to more of the good stuff. This is the kind of summer that future childhood memories are made of.

My own childhood memories of summer include a soundtrack of cicadas chirping happily from dawn til dusk. Cicadas hung out everywhere when we were kids: on tree branches, on the roofs of tree huts, outside windows and even up lamp posts. I always thought cicadas chirped when the temperature reached 17°C (or somewhere around there), so chirping meant it was a lovely warm day, but apparently it's more like 28°C. Whatever the actual temperature, there's something about this summer chorus that summons up memories of happy days and long, hot holidays.

I was alarmed to discover this week that not everyone feels as sentimental as I do about cicadasong. During an early morning shuttle ride to the airport this week, my driver complained of not being able to sleep because "the skaders" keep him awake all night. He had a reasonably thick accent so I wasn't exactly sure what he meant until he explained further: they're everywhere outside the house, banging against the window all night and some of them even come inside and make a noise! Ah. Not skaters.

Cicadageddon has even been compared to a horror movie. Here's where I confess my unpopular opinion: I love cicadas. Not so much the insects themselves, but what they represent. The chirping sound is male cicadas singing their lungs out to woo their women. It'd almost be romantic, if they weren't so creepy looking.

I say let's enjoy the sound of summer for the few short months it lasts. It'll be winter again before we know it and no doubt we'll find other things to complain about.

Cycling to Pencarrow Lighthouse

It's been several years since my 101 in 1001 project began and ended. One activity I never ticked off the list was #13: Walk/cycle to the Pencarrow lighthouse and have a picnic. It's something I'd done years ago (both walking and cycling) but, even though it's relatively close to home, had never repeated. When an opportunity came up this week to cycle to the lighthouse with a group of friends, I grabbed it. We packed a picnic lunch and set out from Burdan's Gate in Eastbourne.

The ride is a flat 7.5 km each way, taking roughly 25 minutes to get there on a gravel road. There are actually two lighthouses at Pencarrow. The original lighthouse up on the ridge was built in 1858 but, due to its altitude, was occasionally shrouded in fog. From memory, there is a grave of a young girl (perhaps 8 years old) near the lighthouse, creating a very rich history. The steep path up to this lighthouse can only be reached on foot and  is currently out of action.

Looking north towards both lighthouses

The second lighthouse was built on the shore in 1906 to supplement the first. Small 12v halogen lamps now provide the light, which can be seen from up to 16 nautical miles away. It has been automated since 1960. The power supply is from solar powered batteries, vastly different and more efficient to the original set up from a century ago.

We had a picnic lunch, seeking shelter behind the bottom lighthouse. It can be really windy and exposed so watch the weather forecast before setting out and allow yourself a couple of hours if you are cycling and longer if you walk. The easterly view across Wellington Harbour is quite novel if you've never seen the city from this direction.

Pencarrow Lighthouse

That's where this blog post was meant to finish - as a happy ending to what was a relaxing and long overdue summer break.

Shortly after leaving the lighthouse to head back to Eastbourne, there is a cattle or stock stop along the road. I'd dismounted and walked my bike over it on the way there but felt braver going back and decided to ride over it instead. Bad decision. I came off my bike and ended up underneath it. My sunglasses broke and left a nasty, deep gash above my left eyebrow and quite a bit of blood on and around me. My left shoulder was wrenched against the side of the bridge, and I had to pull myself back and up not knowing if anything was dislocated or broken. I had packed a travel first-aid kit and a friend did a great job of using all the bits and pieces to disinfect grazes, bind up my head wound and later create a makeshift sling for my arm ... but we were still 7 km out from the car park.

Cycling wasn't an option for me so I walked while my partner pushed my bike alongside his and my friends went for help. Help didn't arrive as vehicle access is apparently only allowed on that road with a permit (the wedding party that drove past us must have had one) or an ambulance. Having neither, I trudged along for an hour and was surprised that not one single walker, runner or cyclist stopped and asked if I was ok all the way back to the gate. By this time I had quite a bit of blood on my face and body and was nursing an ice pack from the picnic lunch against my bandaged arm. It's not like most people could have done anything for me but I found it interesting that I didn't get a second look. Hmm.

After five hours in Hutt Hospital Emergency Department, I was discharged with an immobile left arm in a strong sling resulting from a moved shoulder joint, a glued and taped up head wound (hooray for no stitches!), a tetanus shot, a prescription for pain meds and instructions for physio rehab. No using my left arm means no return to work for me this week and cancelling various plans.

So this post was written painstakingly slowly on my phone and finished with one hand on my laptop. I'm tired, sore and generally gluggy but doing ok. It could have been so much worse though and I'm thankful nothing was broken or stitched.

I just know that I would have stopped and asked if I could help if I saw someone injured approaching. Definitely. With no hesitation. No doubt about it.

Mistaken identity

Apparently our minds are good at playing tricks on us. Information overload can wreak havoc on our brains and it's been found that childhood memories are often a figment of our imagination. Scary, but true.

Our primary school class photos have started resurfacing recently on Facebook. Many of us are still in touch while others are reigniting old friendships after 30+ years. Most of the class photos were scanned by an old friend, Allie, and are tagged with captions along the lines of, "Gosh, we were so cute then!", "Whatever happened to so and so?" and "Phil, you don't look so happy. Was Murray punching you again?"

There have been lots of laughs and memories, along with several profile pic changes to our younger selves. Those who care to stalk me online will now see a shy, pig-tailed girl in a blue school uniform who bears a remarkable resemblance to my father. Another friend, Serena, cropped a class photo and used it as her profile pic. So did Allie, the instigator of all this.

Here's where it gets tricky. Serena and Allie have used the same cropped photo as their profile pics. Allie has noticed this and asked Serena why she's used her photo as her own. In the meantime, Serena has messaged me from the UK to ask, "who's this Allie person and why is she using my photo on Facebook?"

Although it was a long time since we were all in that photo, I know who is right. I just don't know how to tell Serena that she's not the little girl she thinks she is.

Help?!

First date food

A cold winter's evening has followed a meh kind of day. Motivation to do anything outside the confines of my comfy recliner is low. Dinner time has come and gone. On rare occasions such as these, cheap and cheerful comfort food of the takeaway variety is acceptable. Kebabs were ordered and a quick "you drive by while I run in and pick up dinner" plan was executed before returning back to our trusty heater.

I do like doner kebabs, but they're incredibly messy to eat, especially once they start falling apart after a few bites and get even messier towards the end when all the sauce drips out, usually on clothing or your face or both.

"This is not first date food," we agree each time, as I get up to eat the last of my kebab over the kitchen sink. The thing is, we can safely eat kebabs in front of each other; it's been years now. But it's not usually the best way to make a good impression on someone.

Years ago after returning from a trip to Italy, someone wanted to help me recreate the magic by taking me to a local Italian restaurant. He liked the look of the spaghetti and meatballs on the menu but was too scared to order and eat it in front of an Italiana. Schema!

There are lists, of course. Some good places to start are 16 messy foods that will make you look like a slob no matter what, ten foods too messy for public consumption and foods that no-one can eat gracefully (although some of these are incredibly yummy and lots of fun). Still, nothing quite beats first hand experience with messy food.

Here's my list of non-first date food:

• Kebabs
• Ribs of any description, especially when covered in sticky sauce
• Wings (see above)
• Small chicken drumsticks
• Pork crackling
• Corn on the cob dripping with melted butter
• Chocolate eclairs, raspberry buns or cream donuts overfilled with cream
• Seafood that requires shucking to get the good bits out
• Anything requiring the use of chopsticks unless you have this skill mastered.

What would you add to the non-first date food list?

The Very Naughty Caterpillar

"HungryCaterpillar". Via Wikipedia.

I love the story of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. The tale has delighted toddlers, parents and teachers alike for more than 45 years, with its colourful hole-punched pictures of foods eaten by the caterpillar as it bulks up for its transformation into a beautiful butterfly. My nephews have a giant hungry caterpillar soft toy that they cuddle while we read the book together. There is also a delightful Christmas version that I bought last year, with northern hemisphere Christmas variations on the foods the caterpillar ate each day.

Here is a video of the book read by its author, Eric Carle.



I'm not too enamored with hungry caterpillars in real life, though.

Two months ago, I planted a living herb wall. It started out really well and I enjoyed picking handfuls of fresh herbs to chop and add to my cooking. The violets bloomed into a rainbow of beautiful colours and the leaves were healthy, green and lush. Until one day, when holes started appearing in the leaves before being eaten away altogether. In desperation, I consulted various gardening sites who all seemed to agree that the best non-toxic solution was to find the elusive bug in the plants and remove it. I searched and searched but couldn't find anything, even among eighteen little pockets. Eventually, I pulled a snail out out from behind a chives plant! Goodbye, villain. *cue evil laugh*

The plants started growing back and I enjoyed watching them grow again. Then one day I noticed that my living herb wall was once again under attack! Each day I watched yet another healthy plant seemingly disappear before my eyes but with no culprit in sight. Until today. Victory is mine!

Here is my abridged version of the Very Hungry Caterpillar, told as a photo story without a happy ending.

The Very Naughty Caterpillar

On Monday he ate through one basil plant.

On Tuesday he ate through two oregano plants.

On Wednesday he ate through three violet plants.

On Thursday he ate through four thyme stalks.

On Friday he ate through five coriander plants.

On Saturday he tried to eat through six parsley stalks.

On Sunday he was found climbing from one pocket to another, got squashed between a paper towel and ended up unceremoniously dumped in a rubbish bin.

There will be no life as a beautiful butterfly for this very naughty caterpillar.

Off on a tandem

We were chatting about an out-of-town colleague that is due to visit the office shortly, where she will meet some of our branch coworkers for the first time. Donna and I have worked together before. It would be fair to say that she has a very distinct personality that sometimes disguises a heart of gold. We get on well, but I'm aware that some others don't.

Patricia filled in our new staff members: "The thing about Donna is she always comes up with these outrageous malapropisms. I used to point them out but now I wouldn't dare. She doesn't think they're funny at all!"

We laughed politely at Patricia's anecdote but our confused faces quickly gave way to a collective confession that none of us actually knew what a malapropism was, let alone what Donna was doing wrong.

Patricia elaborated: "Donna will say something like, 'the meeting was going really well and we talked about lots of good ideas, until Sophie brought up alternative funding. Next thing, they were off on a tandem!'"

Imagine the impeccable timing Sophie and her colleague must have to just hop on a nearby tandem mid-meeting and cycle away together! Does this happen often? Is the tandem kept on standby somewhere close, ready at a moment's notice if it is needed, we wondered? Or does one just appear out of thin air whenever Sophie and her coworkers sound like they might be about to ride off together?

Another malapropism that I have heard for years in the education world is Pacific, as in, "we need this project's objectives to be really Pacific." How delightful would that be? Imagine objectives that were entirely Pasifika-focused! It might be appropriate sometimes, but I don't think it's the word they're looking for. I find it really hard to keep a straight face when I hear professionals educators reminding people to make things Pacific.

What malapropisms make you laugh?

Walnuts

We were given a big bagful of walnuts recently. Handfuls have been shared with friends and family and the rest are spending their days drying in the sun. Those that are not gobbled up as snacks are destined to be finely chopped and used to top homemade cinnamon swirls when I get around to it - if they last that long.

I always have nuts in the pantry. A 30 gram handful makes for a yummy protein-laden snack with all the right cholesterol-lowering fats and just 185 calories. (Don't ask how I know that.) But walnuts tend to polarise people's palette. Either you like the woody taste or you don't; there's nothing in between.

I sit in the walnut lovers' camp. My brother is is firmly on the other side of the fence. However, when we were young (perhaps 8 and 6), there was a walnut incident in our home that neither of us have been allowed to forget, even 30 years later ...

A family friend had died and my parents were at an evening memorial service. Mum had pitched in with catering and baked to two large chocolate walnut cakes to bring to the funeral the next day. They were cooling while she and Dad were at the rosary and we were left with a babysitter (probably my grandmother, but no-one seems to remember where she was during the 'incident'). The cakes looked good. They smelled even better. Surely Mum wouldn't notice just a little nibble gone? We pulled out a small bit each from the back of one. I found a walnut. And another. Bonus! We pulled out some more. And then some more. We knew we shouldn't but couldn't stop ourselves until we had ripped apart the middle of both cakes, gorging on handfuls of walnuts and leaving just a few chunks of cake on the racks. I think my brother may have tried to reassemble the remaining crumbs into cake form. Surely no-one would notice?

I don't remember what happened when Mum got home but I know she wasn't happy. To this day, my brother insists he hates walnuts and always has, but we both vividly remember devouring the cake with great gusto and loving every bite!

It's funny how the sight (and taste) of something so small can bring back so many memories.

Ready To Roll

We're enduring a long, slow Friday today. With only 40% of staff present in our office, the ensuing quiet should technically enable more productivity but has instead resulted in a general malaise that isn't helped by the dreary weather outside. So we're collectively tackling some really big issues.

It was all sparked by the casual Friday wardrobe choice of our 24-year-old accounting assistant. Spotted wearing a RTR t-shirt, he was asked by another colleague whether he knew what it meant. A quick Google search and he told us that it was "an old TV programme". "What does it stand for?" he was further challenged. "Ready To Roll," he read. By now, he had gathered quite an audience, all within a certain age range. We swiftly delivered a verdict: "You can’t be allowed to wear a RTR t-shirt if you don't know what it means and weren't even born at the time."

Naturally, he argued that he could wear the t-shirt. After all, he has been listening to some old music lately. He proudly told me a few weeks ago that, "I listened to an 80s song last week. It wasn't too bad." He then went on to name an obscure number that apparently earns him the right to say he knows about 80s music now. He "might even listen to another 80s song sometime" if I can recommend something for him to download. Never mind the oxymoron that is downloading 80s music.

Here's how it is: unless 6 pm Saturdays, Robbie Rakete with long hair (he was Robbie then, not Robert or a Wiggle), counting down to the number one single and not being allowed to stay up late enough to watch Radio With Pictures on a Sunday night rings a bell, you shouldn't be allowed to wear the t-shirt. Not in any circumstances. Not ever. Not even if you've listened to an 80s song once. No way. It's a bit like wearing a t-shirt for a concert you never went to or remembering Woodstock.

What do you think? Are we being too harsh?

A solid 17%

I met up with a friend and former colleague for lunch yesterday. She is bubbly, effervescent and dynamic to be around at work. It's hard not to 'buzz' with her nearby. She describes herself as high maintenance and "makes no apology for it". She is also someone who knows herself really well, what works for her and what doesn't. On some (many) days, she is absolutely on fire! On others, her energy levels are low and productivity seemingly grinds to a halt – but she no longer pretends to herself or others that she should be anything other than herself. Instead, she openly declares herself to be operating at a solid 17% on those days and knows that her output at other times more than makes up for moments of lethargy.

I am somebody who very much works in bursts of energy. A burst may last anywhere between several hours or several days. During these bursts, my productivity and output is outstanding; documents fall out of me faster than during coffee and Berocca-fuelled nights used to allow and all my thinking comes together lightning fast in various creative forms. People can't help but be impressed! ;-)

And then comes the crash, where I inevitably hit a proverbial wall. Everything is a chore. Files go AWOL. I look back and wonder what I have achieved (if anything), even though I have been 'busy' all day ... and then suddenly we start all over again and I'm off!

Here's an example:
I had set aside two whole days this week to work on a major project that I somehow finished in just a quarter of the time. By lunchtime yesterday I was done, 1.5 days ahead of my own schedule and with more detail than I had originally intended. I surprised even myself! But today is definitely a solid 17% day. I suppose it was inevitable.

My manager understands me well. She knows that the number of hours seated at a desk does not directly equate to levels of productivity or creativity and encourages everyone in our team to do whatever we know works best for us. She's a very smart woman. She currently has this quote (that may or may not have been coined by Einstein) as her Lync status. It suits me perfectly.

We were all having a chat about this in the office a while ago and lamenting that a conventional 8-5 working mentality doesn't always work so well for 'creative types'. (They've branded me as one of those - a description I quite like.) We agreed that a change of scenery or a complete break can sometimes yield far better results than just doing more of the same thing, albeit harder and longer than before. It certainly works for me.

A few minutes later, I received an email from my neighbour, CCed to everyone around us.

'I saw this quote and thought of you.

"The only thing one can give an artist is leisure in which to work. To give an artist leisure is actually to take part in his creation."
Ezra Pound, poet (1885-1972)

Despite the fact that Ezra Pound was a smelly fascist, he makes a good point. You should have more leisure time.'

Hear hear! Now, how does one get more leisure time?

Early birds

It's generally known that there are two types of people in the world: larks and night owls. Apparently it's all to do with our Circadian rhythm, which is a fancy way of saying "body clock" and controls a multitude of things that we do. I'm most definitely a night owl by nature, which is handy when you are a musician. It's not so handy when you are also a teacher, as the school bell waits for no-one. Over the years, I have had to work really hard to regulate my sleep pattern so that I can get to sleep at a reasonable hour (before midnight, but more like 11 pm these days) in order to get up at an unreasonable hour (anything before ... well, we don't need to be too specific).

There's a lot that's good about mornings. Beautiful sunrises, quiet streets with hardly anybody about, cheerful birdsong and all the excitement and promise of a new day.

I admire people whose jobs require very early mornings and don't know how they do it day after day, sometimes for years. As I race to the bus each morning, the driver has probably already been working for an hour or more. Couriers have VERY early starts and very long days. How about those people who check you in for overseas flights at 4.30 am? I look at fellow red eyed travellers, already weary without having gone anywhere yet, and wonder if there are hidden cameras set up to film a running joke among airline staff who make passengers arrive several hours before they are required to. Then there are bakers, breakfast presenters and, of course, parents of young children. However, I truly don't understand people who simply get up at 5 am each day to do ... well, I'm not entirely sure what they do but their hair usually looks great when they arrive at work, they wear full make up and they are annoyingly cheerful.

Don't get me wrong - I like mornings, but would prefer them to start a bit later in the day. I can do early mornings when required (occasionally). However, I usually end up looking and feeling more like this harassed bird instead of the ridiculously chirpy one above.

Take this morning, for example. It was an early start in our household and while I technically could have gone back to sleep when my partner got up at 5.30 am, it didn't happen. And so I got up and did stuff. Lots of stuff. I started out with breakfast while watching a few episodes of The Muppet Show, as you do. I dealt to my inbox and caught up on news and other online happenings. I put washing on (and out). And it was still early. I folded some of yesterday's washing. I went for a 1 hour walk. I even went to a dreaded shopping mall, where the car park was blissfully empty because hardly anybody else was up and shopping. Shoe shopping mission accomplished and a few more errands later and I decided to reward myself with coffee, which is when I realised it was only lunch time. How could I have been so productive on a single Sunday morning? I then had to resist the urge for a nana nap at 2.30 pm. How do people do this every day??

Too early for diamonds

A friend and I have been training to become ladies who lunch. The training is intense but we're pretty dedicated. It mostly consists of drinking coffee and sampling high tea in various Wellington establishments. I'm pleased to report that it is going well and we are making good progress. However, a recent experience has made me realise that we need to step up our game.

A while ago, I was staying with a friend in Auckland when she mentioned that there was a jewellery sale "at someone's house" that day. Was I interested in going with her? I guess so; it doesn't hurt to look. We drove up to a semi-mansion in Castor Bay and I got a glimpse of how the other half live.

The jewellery for sale was Sensational Silver as the owner was selling her business and clearing stock. We enjoyed perusing a table covered with earrings, rings, bracelets and necklaces in a whole range of styles. We tried on some items, all the while thinking ahead and trying to match various upcoming birthdays to the jewellery on the table. Three other women were at the sale and we soon noticed that their shopping style was markedly different to ours.

Our conversations went something like this:

"Do you think [12-year-old] would like this for Christmas?"
"Is this necklace too big to go with my red top? It's probably a bit OTT if I'm wearing long earrings at the same time."
"These earrings are cute, but I've already spent $15 on those studs so I shouldn't really buy two pairs."
"Ouch! $50 is still quite expensive, even with the discount ..."

Their conversations went like this:

"Oh, that's nice! I already have it in gold and one with an onyx inset. I might get the bracelet to match and it will also go with my rings and that chain over there."
"Only $190 for a sterling silver choker? You'll never find something so cheap in the shops!"
"I want this for my next wedding ring. I tell husband that I'm a big woman and so I need big jewellery. He says no, so I tell him my next husband will buy me big jewellery."

As they were chatting, they were gathering up and putting aside pieces to buy, much like we were. However, their piles were overflowing to the point where the seller went into her kitchen to find plastic containers for each of them to fill so they didn't get mixed up or lost. (I had no such problem with my three tiny pairs of earrings for $45.)

Their chatter went on and these women suddenly had our full attention with their next conversation. "My husband tells me, 'I buy you gold jewellery. Why are you wearing silver now?' I told him, 'it's too early for diamonds during the day - I'll wear them with gold at night but it's now quite acceptable to wear silver during the day.' He just doesn't get it." And here's where I learned a life lesson. We've always been told that diamonds are a girl's best friend, even in this day and age, but I never knew that sometimes it's too early for diamonds.

I flew home realising that I may never become a lady who lunches, nor am I likely to own different sets of jewellery for different times of the day, but some days I coffee like a princess and dine like a queen. Surely that counts?

Fashion crimes

We've been talking about fashion crimes in the office recently - not necessarily because of outfits particular people have worn but more as a general line of conversation. We asked ourselves the big question: "What is a fashion crime?" Urban Dictionary's definition of a fashion crime is simple and to the point: "wearing clothes that do not match or look altogether stupid".

The old adage of "blue and green should never be seen" seems well known but can go just as well for any colour combination, so long as the second colour is green or cream and still rhymes (white and cream?). Surely that can't be right? I distinctly remember hearing that wearing red and green makes you look like a Christmas tree, but is that true for any combination?

We brainstormed a few more: double denim (especially double blue or double black), double leathers (unless you're immediately about to hop onto a motorbike), non-matching handbag and shoes, short shorts on people who are obviously not designed to wear short shorts (most people), mixing metals when wearing jewellery (gold and silver etc), brown and black, mixed patterns and prints (checks, stripes, different florals etc), red and pink, redheads wearing red (or pink), socks or stockings with open toe shoes ... the list went on.

But apparently fashion rules are made to be broken, as these examples show. That's when our resident office clown decided to put this theory to the test. She promised to turn up to work the next Friday committing as many fashion crimes as she possibly could while wearing one outfit. Then, we'd watch people's reactions and see if anyone called the fashion police.

She arrived at work in a blue denim jacket with tight black jeans, a patterned scarf (which is actually a dress) over a horizontally striped top, black suede high heeled boots with frilly white ankle socks that left a gap between the bottom of her jeans and shoes, then finished off the ensemble with a yellow smock and a brown belt.

How did she look? Strangely, quite fabulous. It would seem that certain people can get away with committing fashion crimes while barely raising an eyebrow. We didn't even take a photo as there was simply nothing to report - she even received compliments! I guess it's back to the fashion crime drawing board. Clearly, the rules don't apply to everyone.

Strange encounters

A funny thing happened on the way to the theatre.

Well, not really. Unlike this classic gag, a strange thing happened on the way back from lunch today. I was walking along Lambton Quay when a guy was coming towards me carrying a bass drum. Sure, it's not something you'd expect to see in the middle of town during a work day. Next thing I know, the guy accidentally whacks the drum into my right forearm as we pass. "Oops, sorry!" he called and kept walking. Stunned, I couldn't decide whether it actually hurt or if I was just put out at being hit by something so random.

Back at the office, I can confirm that it does hurt and the pink mark on my skin agrees. "Put ice on it - now," colleagues said. But what is available in an office freezer? Ice blocks, a tub of ice cream, some frozen scones, but no ice pack - not even a proverbial pack of frozen peas. I returned my desk protesting that I couldn't find anything, when my colleague decided to search the freezer herself. "Here, use this," she said.

So here I am, back at my desk, holding a frozen Watties Meal Sensations meal for one (Teriyaki Beef, in case you're wondering) on my arm and pondering how my day came to this. My arm hurts in a couple of places, but I'm feeling bemused more than anything else.

How's your day going? Any eventful or bizarre incidents to report?

"Your computer has a virus"

We don't often get calls on our land line so it's usually pretty easy to guess who might be calling at certain times in the evening. The usual suspects are Sky TV (for the last time, eff off!) or yet another government insulation scheme. If they are unfortunate enough to get me on the phone, they'll either get a swift yet rude response or an instant hang-up. Actually, it's more likely to be one followed by the other. However, sometimes there are also callers from India who utter five heavily-accented infamous words: "your computer has a virus".

Really? How thoughtful of you to call from the other side of the world to let us know! I'm sure you know how the next part of the conversation goes. These are the kinds of phone calls that inspire floods of "oh, I should have said ..." thoughts in the following hours. But enough of them have happened during the last couple of years to enable us to sharpen our wit and be quicker off the mark with some of our remarks. My partner is getting quite good at it. It's almost become a game among people I know: can you get the scammer to hang up on you, instead of the other way around? How did you do it? How long did you keep them on the phone for? And so on.

Last night was a bit different. I put it out to the Twitterverse to come up with some responses to the Indian woman who called and had the pleasure of being shafted by my partner. She hung up before the tweets came through, but there were some great ideas for next time along with a few that we already know to work. Here's a selection of them:

• "I've just got a pot boiling. Hold on while I turn the stove off" ... then leave the phone off the hook and count the minutes until they eventually hang up.
• "I'm a bit busy right now. What's your number so I can call you back?" This one usually results in an instant hang-up.
• "But I don't have a computer." Repeat as many times necessary. We do this while playing around on our laptops and with both of our smartphones within reach. It seems to confuse them; they insist that it is a very dangerous virus, even though we explain that we don't have any computers in the house.
• Ask them exactly how they are accessing your computer, what operating system you're using and what your IP address is so you can confirm which computer has the problem. (Thanks @UpsideBackwards!)
• Explain that it's very hard to believe as you are in the police internet fraud office. (Awesome stuff from @beerlytweeting.)

Last night's winning line came after my partner questioned the caller's ability to sleep at night knowing that she is intentionally scamming innocent people with her lies. She tried to restart the script, then he scored the touchdown by asking, "haven't you got any morals?" Click!

This sort of thing isn't new, though. Humans have been scamming each other since civilisation began and we shouldn't fantasise that it was any different in the past. However, the intricacy of these scamming rings is alarmingly sophisticated. Talking to a banking fraud analyst recently, I learned that these schemes are actually very complex international operations. They work in much the same way as the infamous Nigerian 419 email scams. The scammers are part of syndicates who buy the contact details of people from all around the world and categorise everyone according to their proven levels of gullibility. If you have proven yourself as being gormless enough to fall for Stage 1, you get promoted to the next level and your name moves up the scale of people who can be easily scammed. You'll find yourself dealing with further tiers of scammers, whose English becomes progressively better in direct inverse proportion to their behaviour, all the way to the top of the pyramid. By this stage, you will find your bank balance substantially lighter and the threats coming thick and fast. It's an extremely nasty business.

Do you play the hang-up game with virus hoax callers? What sort of fun do you have with them and what's your record time for keeping them on the phone before they hang up?

Planning to be spontaneous

Like most people I know, I'm a busy person. Gosh, how society loves busyness! Ask someone (anyone) you haven't seen for a while what they've been up to and they'll busily explain how busy they've been, how busy they are right now and how busy they're going to be for the next wee while ... yes, it's reassuring to proclaim how busy we are. It's also a convenient, upfront blanket excuse for getting out of things we're not sure we want to do.

Admittedly, my social calendar alternates between feast or famine. However, even during my busiest times I love getting random text messages saying "Coffee in an hour?" or "I'm in town today. How about lunch?" Absolutely! Spontaneous events are sometimes the most fun as they also feature the bonus element of surprise. (Yes, I know all about logistics and prior commitments.) I have a friend who is desperate to do spontaneous, fun things ... but only if she's planned and prepared for it first with plenty of notice. Hmmm. It doesn't quite work that way. (I think she secretly understands this.)

Yesterday, a colleague casually invited a few of us in the office to her place for lunch and a mini-housewarming. We'd briefly mentioned the idea before she moved and agreed to wait until she felt settled enough to host us. Word spread quickly and the numbers grew. And then Miss Self-proclaimed Party Girl Who Loves To Do Crazy Reckless Things At The Drop Of A Hat piped up with a litany of questions:

• When is it? What day of the week is that? How many weeks away is it?
• What time will it start and finish?
• What do you mean by 'lunch'? Do you mean lunch or just nibbles?
• How much food will there be? What sort of food is it?
• What is everybody bringing? How will we know what everyone else is bringing? Should we all write what we are bringing on a big list just in case someone else brings the same thing and we have too much?
• Who else is invited? How many people will be there? Who is allowed to come? Can people come later if they can't make it at the start?
• What will we do once we're there?

... all within 30 seconds. Sure, they're all valid questions and there is definitely a time and place to sort out details, but we were taken aback with how quickly she could fire them at us and needed to know the answers right now. Whew!

We told her to take a leaf out of Nike's book and just do it. Yes, I know that campaign's not all it was cracked up to be - but just think about it for a while, ponder all the facts and then make a measured decision when you are ready doesn't quite have the same ring to it when we're suggesting a casual lunch six weeks away. We assured her we'd get it all sorted before the day but, in the meantime, she should just put it in her calendar. We all had a good-natured laugh and she backed down a little, but I'm not entirely sure she's convinced.

Do you love or loathe spontaneity? How would you react if your best friend called you right now and said, "I'm in town for just one night - let's have dinner"?