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Mr Whisnant – please do.  Please do spend the next couple of years shut away in a room writing a book so we don’t have to listen to the drivel that seems to dribble down your chin every time you open that ghastly mouth of yours.  And when you’ve finished, please may I have a copy so I can relieve myself upon it and then burn it without even bothering to open the damn thing – which is just slightly better than I’m sure it would deserve.

Just over 3 weeks ago, with Sheldon (our ever increasingly clapped out VW) packed to the gunwales, the boy and I drove off into the sunset in search of a new life in Paradise Square, Oxford. After only 3 weeks, with the interruption of Glastonbury in the midst, and 3 days of the week spent in the suburban limbo of Uxbridge, I can’t say I feel like much of a local yet, but it certainly feels cool to be discovering somewhere new.

One of the downsides I have noted about living in a big city is the amount of planning required. I may be wearing the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia, but my memories of life in New Zealand didn’t involve vast quantities of coordination, planning and booking ahead. As I recall it, there was a lot of last minute, ‘what are you doing tonight?’ calls, and many occasions of throwing stuff in the car on a Friday and driving somewhere when the weather was looking good for the weekend.

The only time I’d been to an auction previously was when my older brother got fleeced for a beat-up old Honda Civic. He went $500 over his maximum in the heat of the bidding, and explained this to his (now ex-) wife by saying – “I was just trying to push him up”.