I can’t be the only one who wishes Air New Zealand would just tell me where the lifejackets and emergency exits are. While I applaud the creative effort, I find their onboard safety videos tedious – mostly because I don’t buy into the whole All-Blacks-and-Lord-of-the-Rings thing. Earlier this month, I was treated to the latest in the series. While most of the previous editions have reflected New Zealand popular culture, this one features some very odd camerawork and two Americans waxing about God’s creation. If that doesn't resonate with you, maybe it's not supposed to.
I started writing this post in early September. Then I got busy, put my pen down, and didn’t pick it up again until Labour Weekend. That’s longer than it took Winston Peters to decide which party to favour with a coalition agreement. Fortunately, I don’t rely on writing to pay the bills. Unfortunately, not getting around to thinking work is a familiar predicament in my day job, too.
I watched the Valley the other day — Stuff’s piece on New Zealand’s involvement in Afghanistan. I was reluctant. But I’d run out of Game of Thrones episodes, and I needed something to do while dinner cooked. How far can you believe what someone said they saw? And is a cover up the most plausible explanation of events?
I think the first time I saw a Tesla was in Hong Kong a couple of months ago. It took me a second look and some mental rummaging to work out what it was. Oslo swarms with them. There, one in three new cars plugs into a wall socket. Norway’s government has announced plans to be carbon-neutral by 2030. What's more surprising is that they seem to be serious about it.
The limits of my language mean the limits of my world. I remember our classics teacher saying that in sixth form. I think he was admonishing someone, in his usual, understated way, for using expletives instead of adjectives. It was only decades later that I learned that the source of the quote wasn’t some long-dead Roman but a more recently dead Austrian.
The limits of my language mean the limits of my world. I remember our classics teacher saying that in sixth form. I think he was admonishing someone, in his usual, understated way, for using expletives instead of adjectives. It was only decades later that I learned that the source of the quote wasn’t some long-dead Roman but a more recently dead Austrian.
Norwegians like their statues. Wander around one of their cities and you'll likely find statues in honour of sailors and politicians, Vikings and fishwives, artists and mothers. Even so, there are a conspicuous number of memorials to those who resisted or fell victim to Norway's occupation by Germany between 1940 and 1945.
