Film eyes

The husband person, who has been accumulating gift vouchers from several Christmas presents and volunteering thankyous, bought himself a second-hand GoPro.

It’s the coolest thing ever.



He is my one true love.

We also found this coconut on the beach. Who can say why?




Scandretti-Persons, House-Sitters, Dogs Also Minded.



In Devonport, one would sit anything, and mind on request. Betty is not a dog person, but she is a big fan, for example, of taking the ferry…


…and of working in the city, and keeping tabs on things to do.


Must look into that. The week of house-sitting ended with fish and chips on the beach – with perhaps a tiny dish of handmade aïoli from the French delicatessen.



It was nice. For various, mostly traffic-related, reasons, though, Betty is glad to be home.



On the spur of the moment, our good friend Fosdycke invited us to go to the cricket.


The husband person is a very keen cricket fan, and a leg-spin bowler himself, so he was excited to go; Betty is big on sitting still, and wanted to see what it was like, so she was excited too. Plans to bring nice things along, like a salad in a Mason jar, and a homemade lemon-stevia-and-matcha drink, which Betty was looking forward to, were quashed – it turns out that Eden Park security suspect that any glass receptacles will be repurposed as guided missiles later in the day, and they flatly refuse to let you bring them in. Fosdycke, who is a teetotaller, had to pour out two plastic bottles of cordial brought from home; they refused to give them the sniff test, or Miranda them in any way, and would only point sternly to the wheelie bin provided. (Of course, glass bottles of Tui are readily available inside.)

Even so, the atmosphere in the stadium was still quite lovely.



The fans were very well-behaved. This turned out to be mostly due to the fact that anyone having any fun was quickly asked to leave. Large billboards warned people against racist comments, which was nice, except for the pointed anti-Pom advertising displayed close by.


This chap started several Mexican waves and was escorted out by orange-vested guards.


He got a standing ovation and a kiss, though, so perhaps it was all worth it…


And in the stands opposite, people were having a grand time batting around a large bouncy ball, one of those floaty transparent balloony ones; security took it off them, but one of the Black Caps managed to scoop it out of the sin bin and give it them back; much applause.

About the game itself, there is little to say. New Zealand lost the toss and, rapidly, the game. Fosdycke was beyond despondent. At the very end, Mr Mills here caught the ball on the full and was transfixed by his own greatness, and the entire northern half of the stadium chanted for him to give a little wave, and after a while he was able to do so.


This was the last of the games that go only from two till nine-ish, but in a few weeks Betty and the husband person plan to go to one of the week-longs, in part. Betty will bring a plastic container and make her lemonade inside. They don’t take your folding knife, so that’s OK.

The Sailors

Another sunny weekend! The city is still freshly preened for yesterday’s Valentine’s day.


Betty and the husband person had a quiet lunch at the Wynyard Quarter.



Food truck pizza, 1. Rubbish disposable shoes, 0.


Mochi, as always, makes up for it.


Then, beside the bridge that folds up, a little crowd gathered to watch a French circus duo perform their original show.



The pre-show was a group of little fishies – and a splashy wee boy, whose identity I will protect.


The show itself was called The Sailors – a very French caper inspired by silent movies, in which the duo performed hilariously on the beams, and dizzyingly on the rigging of their own sailboat.






Punch and Judy have nothing on the French.



They’re called Voiliers Spectacle, and not to be missed. Betty is keen to see their other show, Between Wing and Island, when they sail back in April.


Waitangi adventures

Public holidays this year are a dime a dozen. This week, Waitangi Day.


The weather was glorious – apparently it was horrendously windy early in the morning, but as Betty was sleeping in it really didn’t matter, you see?


Betty and the husband person hopped on the bus and moseyed at a snail’s pace to Devonport. It would be quicker to cycle, except that Hanna, Betty’s genteel omafiets, has a puncture, the poor sausage. Once it’s fixed, there will definitely be a post giving a proper introduction.


    Devonport was lovely, as usual.


    I mean, more or less…




    They really take the alternative transport idea to a whole new level.


    But, not having easy access to a bike, a cruise liner, or a naval submarine, Betty and the HP took the ferry instead. It’s a short trip, but exceedingly pleasant.







    The ferry building is one of Betty’s very favourite spots. This will be the last full day off for a wee while, sadly, but life promises to be pretty adventurous anyway – circus classes start again this week, there are exciting guest teachers at the studio, Betty’s university course is coming up fast (this time with twice the Charcot and more Richard Selzer, heaven help us), and the work party of the year is only weeks away. Onward and upward!




The rest of the long weekend went lazily, with much lolling about Cornwall Park and strolling through the twilit university. Betty could develop a taste for having entire days off.


In the evening, she and the husband person went to the movies. There has been rather a rash of this going around, of late: Betty saw Life of Pi with her sisters over Christmas, and Les Miserables just the other week. This time was The Master.

Betty feels the need to point out that though she has a very high tolerance – a soft spot, in fact – for Paul Thomas Anderson, his work is seldom seemly. The Master is nuanced and beautiful; it tells the story of the leader of a movement called simply the Cause, and the broken stranger who threatens to be either his soulmate or his undoing.

20130131-230236.jpgJoaquin Phoenix’s character Freddy Quell is breathtakingly tragic – a piece of ex-Naval jetsam, grimly kyphosed, post-traumatic, abandoned and out of place, alcoholic to a near-savant degree, still sparking from the burns inflicted on his soul by military action and peacetime missteps in love.

Philip Seymour Hoffman is the Master himself, a charismatic and down-to-earth auteur huckster. He is flailing somewhat in the process of writing his philosophical movement’s difficult second treatise, navigating the inconveniences of legal and domestic restrictions on his wishes that the Cause should allow him to cure, love, enjoy and experience all. In the face of disgruntled disciples, obstreperous policemen, and herself (beautifully played, again, by Amy Adams, qv), Freddy is a breath of fresh air – a blank slate, a listening ear, a second chance. The dance the two do together, under the wife’s suspicious eye, shows most sensitively the varied pulls of faith and love, of independence and of pain.

A fellow-congregant of Betty’s once remarked that a life lived in church had given him nothing if not a deep understanding of battered woman syndrome. He wasn’t being cynical – in faith, as in any good thing, opportunities to abuse each other abound, even before we face problems like significant doubt, or scandal. The Cause has plenty of worrying tenets, and the Master is unquestionably gifted to lead with authority, though he’s not the out-and-out deceiver one might want to believe he must be (comparisons to L. Ron Hubbard are justified but glib). To follow, or to go back, or to hang on for dear life is as natural as breathing, whether we’re grasping onto a violent spouse or a dangerous cult or a culture of painful potlucks; and, confusingly, we ourselves are often the party that’s no better than it should be. What then? If love, let go?

One suspects that the scars on Freddy’s soul would take as long to heal as Joaquin’s shoulders will take to complete the long migration to his back (his is a performance that excited Betty’s artistic admiration and professional horror in equal measure). But then one never knows. How few of us, really, are master of anything.