More False Accusations of Sexual Abuse: Rob Harley's Proposal to TVNZ

Rob Harley, who did the Assignment story on the Glenelg families back in the 1990s, followed that up with another proposal for a documentary on false accusations of sexual abuse in Christchurch at a special ward at Christchurch Hospital. This is his outline. The health professionals are not named for legal reasons, but these are the real names of the families involved who want their story told.

Christchurch, Winter 2010.

The atmosphere in the Christchurch hotel room is very tense.

Two young women in their early thirties sit on either side of their mother, and both make only occasional eye contact with others in the room.

With a brief prompt, one begins to relate a story of horror – of a childhood and a family life ripped apart by overzealous doctors and therapists.

Joanne Fraser tells of the time that a female doctor told her to disrobe in a hospital ward, conducted an internal examination, and then told the trembling nine-year old that she appeared to have “enjoyed” the invasion of her young body – providing incontrovertible “proof” that her father had sexually abused her.

Joanne knew it was a preposterous lie. Nonetheless, the doctor insisted her father had interfered with her, and called the bewildered child a “slut” for having allowed it to happen.

Tears are flowing freely in the room now. Joanne’s Mum Margaret pulls her daughter close. This is the first time she has heard this revelation.

Dabbing her eyes, seeking to gain some composure, Joanne’s older sister Teresa nods and says much the same thing was done to her by the doctor.

Moreover, that upon Teresa’s admission to Christchurch Hospital’s Ward 24 for “treatment”, Teresa, then aged eleven, had been made by therapists to wear a small but very heavy backpack for up to eight hours a day.

“I was told this backpack – which was full of wooden blocks – was my ‘burden’,” Teresa tells her family. “The staff would tell me that if I were to disclose something about my Dad abusing me, then they would take a block out of the bag. Sometimes when I wasn’t co-operating, more blocks would go in.”

By this stage, Margaret is beside herself. She knows how dreadfully hard it has been for all her family since the utterly false allegations were made about her husband in 1988, but she never fully understood the toll it had taken on her girls.

The Fraser family sit and quietly absorb the body-blows of these fresh disclosures. The youngest child, Michael, aged 27, grimaces in his seat – hurting, physically a lot more than his older sisters today.

His jaw and three ribs, freshly broken in a fight last week with a distant relative, who at a family funeral called his father a “kiddie-fucker,” then handed him a severe beating.

This is just one of as many as a dozen broken families, who lost innocence, hope, contact with their loved ones, and in several cases even life itself, because of a single-minded and misguided obsession.

Children to Ashes, Fathers to Dust.



Background

In the late 1980’s a number of families – mostly in and around Christchurch – were ripped apart by accusations of child sex abuse.

Two doctors – one a psychiatrist, the other a supposed child health specialist, engineered the removal of probably in excess of 20 children from their parents.

The reason: the child health specialist believed she had a revolutionary new way of proving that kids – especially girls – had been sexually abused.

The technique she used has now been internationally discredited, but the damage remains.

The children concerned – who were aged between five and seven years old at the time - are now emerging from the darkness to which they and their families were consigned.

Many of them have suffered major mental trauma as a result of having been taken from their parents – all carry the scars. At least two of the wrongly accused fathers died in their forties – their children convinced their hearts and health were broken by the accusations.

The paranoia about sexual abuse in Christchurch at that time, finally had its sequel in the infamous Christchurch Creche affair, - a story which divided a nation, and finally made us start to ask if we hadn’t been too zealous.

The “stolen” children are now adults, and they are fighting mad. The passage of 22 years has done nothing to diminish their adamant denials that they were never sexually abused by their fathers.

The awful irony is that some of these people were placed into foster care where, they allege, they suffered the exact abuse their fathers were falsely accused of perpetrating.

Some of the former victims of the diagnosing doctor have ended up in tragic situations in respect to their health and lifestyles.

The tales are literally like something plucked from the pages of Charles Dickens.

In thirty years of making TV programmes I have yet to come across a more ghastly situation. That it could have happened in Aotearoa defies belief. 
 
Those who were falsely diagnosed as having been abused would – in an ideal world - confront the doctor who tore their families asunder, the policeman who told their Dads to get a gun and shoot themselves, to save the courts the expense of a trial, and a system which has shrugged its shoulders at their pain.

Also left in the wake of this affair, a number of frightened health professionals and others whose own attempts to stop what was occurring in the eighties, were met with threats, intimidation, and jacked-up claims that they were probably child abusers too.

Those who perpetrated what are now generally acknowledged as having been terrible breaches of natural justice, have never been called to account.
 
 

False Accusations of Sex Abuse in Christchurch (Again)

Sexual abuse of children, as those who know me, is something I've campaigned against - a crime with dire and extensive consequences for victims. But imagine too the horrifying prospect of being falsely accused of sexually abusing your own child; trying to prove innocence in the face of repeated charges of guilt. Imagine being that child  forcibly taken into to foster care, or seeing your father removed from the family home.

 In Christchurch up to 50 families were torn apart when government health professionals and social workers wrongly and repeatedly accused dozens of dads of abusing their daughters. The girls were primary school age. Now they're grown women, reunited with their families (if alive) still fighting for justice, but despite media coverage they've been ignored for years. They won't give up.  

This is their story.
 *****

On a cold Christchurch day in June 2015 Violette Kahukiwa, 36, warm in a puffer jacket, speaks to me in a room at the city’s Te Whare Roimata marae, recalling what happened 27 years ago when she went to Glenelg Health Camp.  

Violette’s story.

In 1987 when Violette was nine the nurse at her primary school sent her to Glenelg in Hillsborough because she was considered too skinny for her age. Violette and her older sister were living with their father, Noki (her parents had amicably separated) but they both regularly saw their mother, Heeni. Violette had been to Glenelg several times before and by her own account, she’d always enjoyed herself.

In 1987 the Medical Officer of Health working on contract for the Canterbury Area Health Board at Glenelg was Dr Dianne Espie and Violette’s health examinations would turn out to be more thorough than before, which were always just, “weight, height, nits, that sort of thing.” This time, despite the fact Violette showed no indications of sexual abuse, she and scores of other young girls would undergo invasive internal examinations in what one child abuse expert later termed a “fishing expedition”.

Violette has told her story to journalists several times over the past 20 years and it hasn’t changed substantially in that time  – not when she was filmed by journalist Rob Harley in 1995 for Assignment, nor for an interview recorded by the child abuse expert witnesses TVNZ commissioned for that documentary, nor for this article.

And the telling doesn’t get any less emotional. “I went into [Dr Espie’s] room and she asked me to take off my pants; she just wanted to do a little check or something and then she grabbed two cotton buds in the jelly kind of thing, stuck them up [my vagina] and it was sore and she pulled them out again.”

Violette says Dr Espie didn’t examine any other part of her body and no other adult was present. At a later appointment Violette asked if the team leader could come with her but Dr Espie ruled this out, telling her the consultations were “confidential”. Neither Heeni nor Noki were aware of, nor had given consent for this intimate examination. But more was to come.

“The next day she got a tape measure, she was leaning down there and she measures it…and then she showed me how long it was.”

Dr Espie was measuring the opening of the vagina, or the diameter of the hymen, looking for evidence of sexual abuse based on a wider range of hymen size. Even at that time, the late 1980s, this was a highly controversial, some would say discredited method of diagnosing sexual abuse in children who had not previously disclosed. Dr Espie was not a gynaecologist, she had a MB ChB (1974) from the University of Bristol – the first professional degree in medicine.

The next day Violette was called back to the doctor’s rooms for a recorded conversation.

“She asked me if Dad’s ever touched me in my private parts and I said no, and then she said, do you like living with your Dad and I said yes. She kept asking me all these big questions and all that, heaps of questions…and then she asked me if Dad touched me again, she asked me at least about four times if he did and I just kept saying no, no, no he didn’t and then she um, she looked all red and she told me it wasn’t her day, she said she’s just had a real bad day today and um, she’s going all red on the face and then next minute she just slapped me side of the ears.”

According to Violette, Dr Espie quickly apologized and told her to “keep it a secret” before she turned off the tape. She then said, “You know he touched you and why can’t you just admit it. I said but he didn’t touch me. She goes well someone’s touched you and I said why, and she said cos my vagina’s getting bigger and bigger and I said well, it’s sore, cos of what she done.”

These interviews, examinations and measurements of the vagina continued while Violette stayed at the camp. Repeated leading questions about her father: “She said if I didn’t say yes, that Dad touched me, then I can’t go and live with him, but I just kept saying no he didn’t touch me I was telling the truth.”

After a week Violette was removed from the camp into foster care.

Heeni says she spent three months trying to find her daughter. Glenelg gave her no information, nor the Christchurch Police. In that time Violette escaped from foster care, ran away several times, a nine-year-old hiding on the streets of Christchurch.

Meanwhile, Heeni tried to make sense of the state system alienating her from her daughter. In an unscreened but recorded interview for Assignment she said, “I said [to Social Welfare] you fellas are accusing Noki and yet you fellas won’t give my baby back to me. I want her back I’ll look after her. I just cried, you know, really cried my heart out and they set up dates to see whether I was going to get Violette back or not. It was the hardest time for me cos I [couldn’t] understand as a Maori I have very limited English. I know.”

Finally, desperate to get Violette back, Heeni complied with Social Welfare’s wishes. “She [the social worker] said, ‘Do you believe that Noki did abuse your child?’  

“I said I’ll agree with what you fellas say provided I get my daughter back…all I needed to do was to see my baby.”

Noki was never charged  and  was eventually reunited with Violette when she was 16, but died, his family say a broken man, in 2002.

Trevor Gibling’s story

Trevor Gibling is also at Te Whare Roimata with Violette, her sister Keri, and supporters to tell me his story. Later we’re joined by other families affected by Dr Espie – one family has driven in from rural Canterbury, and others arrive later. The list of families with complaints is substantial.

Lynley Hood wrote about Trevor and his daughter, Carolynne in her book, A City Possessed - The Christchurch Civic Creche Case, but didn’t identify them. They later went public for Assignment, then in September 2004 were interviewed by TVNZ for a Sunday documentary. Separated for eight years, like other families, Trevor and Carolynne  want an inquiry.  

Carolynne was recommended to Glenelg in 1987 by her family doctor because of incontinence problems. She’d never displayed signs of sexual abuse, but Dianne Espie gave her a health check, told her to take her trousers off and lie on the bed. She measured eight-year-old Carolynne’s vaginal opening as “6 mm diameter”, that she had “no hymen” so concluded sexual penetration had occurred.

Carolynne was also asked to write a list of family names, then cross off everyone not involved in “yukky touching”. (It should be noted that Dr Espie, before private consultations with girls at the camp, had conducted group meetings where “yukky touching” was discussed in relation to sexual abuse.) Carolynne crossed off all names except her own. Instead of accepting that Carolynne hadn’t been abused Dr Espie took this to mean, “She felt very strongly that it was her fault and that she was responsible.”

When Carolynne repeatedly denied being abused by her father Dr Espie recorded she, “continued to find it difficult to actually name the person who had abused her.”

Today Carolynne feels she was ambushed into ‘admitting’ her dad had abused her. Dr Espie noted: “In one question it was asked what if Dad has yukky touched. Answer: he didn’t. A little later: what if you went home and it happened again? Answer: he won’t do it again.”

Carolynne also remembers anatomically correct dolls: “She started blaming it on Dad, using the dolls. She wouldn’t listen to me no matter what I said.”

There are a number of flaws not just in Dr Espie’s evidence gathering, but also her diagnosis. Author Lynley Hood pointed out back in 2001 that she believed Espie was exhibiting gynaecological ignorance. Complete absence of hymen in young girls is a very rare congenital abnormality, not a conclusive indication of repeated sexual abuse. Even women who’ve had children often still have traces of hymen. Nevertheless, when Trevor Gibling laid a complaint against Dr Espie in 1997 to the Medical Council, The Preliminary Proceedings Committee (PPC) chose to believe controversial findings from overseas, such as “a vaginal opening of greater than 5mm is not common (in normal children) and may indicate vaginal penetration with a finger, object or penis”.

A full reading of the PPC’s decision indicates they generally believed Dr Espie over Carolynne’s evidence, and for the complaint to go further, Carolynne was invited to “establish beyond the balance of probabilities” that what she said happened, did occur.

According to Trevor she was not allowed a support person when the Council questioned her, so he withdrew the complaint.

It’s difficult to see how a traumatized teenage girl, on her own, could convince a medical panel she was telling the truth, “beyond the balance of probabilities”.

On the day of the dolls, Trevor was visited at work by police and interviewed but never charged with anything. However, he says he felt pressured to leave the family home for his wife to be allowed by Social Welfare to take back care of Carolynne, so he lost his marriage, and for eight years he also lost his daughter.  

When Carolynne was taken from Glenelg she was placed in the care of Social Welfare. After two months in foster homes she asked to see Dr Espie, and requested the dolls to show, “What Dad did”. She put the male doll’s finger in the female doll’s vagina and said, “Will I be able to go home now I’ve told?”

 Carolynne returned to her mother’s care, but not Trevor’s. Throughout their separation Carolynn repeatedly tried to get back to her father, running away from foster homes, living on the streets. They are now reunited.

The stories of Violette and Carolynne are representative of numerous families – too many to fit into this article, all depressingly similar. Melani Burchett, the team leader at Glenelg when Violette was in her fourth stay, whom I tracked down for this story, remembers the girls sobbing themselves to sleep at night and their being extremely reluctant to visit the doctor’s rooms.

Today Melani works on contract for Whanau Ora in Christchurch, and recalls in particular one girl, “I’m sure it was Violette, clinging to me and crying because she had to visit the doctor again and didn’t want to go. But I wasn’t in a position to stop her, and I told her she had to go.”

In hindsight Melani feels bad she didn’t speak out. But at the time she was only 19 and Glenelg (which closed in 2012) was tightly controlled by manager Madeleine Harrison. Harrison, it was reported at the time, believed out of 250 children who went to the camp in 1986, 117 had been sexually abused, based on symptoms such as stomach pains, nightmares, bedwetting, masturbation, and attention seeking.

When two other camp staff tried to blow the whistle, concerned about the way children were being examined and removed by Social Welfare, they were both fired, ironically on allegations of inappropriate behaviour with the children. Alan Fort was one of those who complained and was dismissed by Harrison. Neither he nor the other staff member were ever charged with anything, and Fort vehemently denies any “inappropriate behaviour” or any actions which could have been taken the wrong way. He still lives in Christchurch, keeps close contact with the Glenelg families, and has campaigned hard on their behalf for an inquiry. I have tried to contact Ms Harrison but it’s believed she has returned to live in Australia with her daughter.

Not one of the girls ever reported sexual abuse by their fathers, nor showed symptoms, though some who had been examined by Dr Espie at the controversial children’s Ward 24 at Christchurch Hospital were abused later when removed from their families by Social Welfare and placed in foster care. I have spoken to these families where the fathers were charged for abusing their daughters, but acquitted, but I can’t name them legal reasons.

Dr Espie told the Christchurch Press in 1987 that she had examined 40 girls in just one year who she claimed had been sexually abused. In fact Glenelg records show 55 girls from the camp that year were documented by her as being abused. She had access to those children because their parents entrusted them into state care.

As a result, most of those parents got a choice – split up or you won’t get your daughters back again. In the case of Kahukiwa family, Heeni falsely accepted that Noki was an abuser just to get Violette back in her care. But not all the authorities were comfortable with what was happening with these families. Robert Fraser, then with Social Welfare, had “major concerns” with the way Dr Espie operated, and requested a transfer to Income Support Services.

Additionally Dr Barry Rich, who at that time was a psychologist for the Department of Education, stopped referring children to Glenelg and Ward 24 because he only saw negative outcomes.

As recently as 2014 the outcomes were still tragic. Katrina Meaclem  went to Glenelg when she was 12 in 1987 and after being examined by Dr Espie was removed by Welfare from her family’s care. Katrina’s father was never charged or taken through the criminal justice system, but nonetheless falsely accused of sexually abusing Katrina, despite her repeated denials and in May 2004 she told the Christchurch Press, “I was Daddy’s girl. But we had to sneak around just to spend some quality time with him. I know 100 per cent that my father didn’t touch me.” 

Dr Espie concluded, by measuring the vagina of Katrina Meaclem, she had been sexually abused “possibly on a recurrent basis” and her father was the abuser. He was never  charged of sexual abuse crimes against her

Meaclem wanted an inquiry for herself and the other families, but she died in 2014 aged 39.

Dr Karen Zelas          

But Dr Espie wasn’t acting alone. When Social Welfare took these fathers to court the state agency used psychiatrist Dr Karen Zelas as an expert witness. Dr Zelas, now retired and living in Christchurch (who did not wish to comment for this story), was once sought after in child abuse cases but discredited as an independent expert witness by the Court of Appeal in 2003 when she was strongly criticised by the judges for ‘gratuitously exceeding the limits of expert opinion’. The court went on to state Zelas, ‘may well have been perceived as an advocate for the complainants rather than as a truly independent expert’. The case, against a man convicted on 16 counts of abusing three children, went to retrial, and the legal rules Zelas helped design for child abuse cases came under attack from the legal profession, psychologists and academics.   

But in 1986 Zelas had chaired the Christchurch Child Protection Team (CPT), and Dianne Espie was deputy chair. It had no statutory authority. A crown prosecutor who was prosecuting some of the fathers (not those named in this story) was among the membership, as were personnel from the Health and Social Welfare Departments. It seems strange nobody thought to draw attention to whether it was appropriate for a crown prosecutor to belong to an ad hoc organisation which participated in the investigation of child abuse (instigated by the deputy chair), used the chair as an expert witness, then conducted prosecutions of members of other families when they came before the criminal justice system.   

Dr Dianne Espie

 Dianne Espie also declined to be interviewed and said she did not wish to comment for this article. She no longer practices medicine; she and her husband run a lodge near Dunedin.  From 1981 to 1988 she was employed as Medical officer for the Department of Health (as it was then known) and assigned to Glenelg and Christchurch Hospital’s Ward 24. She also assessed other pre-school and school children in the Canterbury region. In 1987, Dr Espie suggested 55 children attending Glenelg that year, out of a total of 414, had been sexually abused. This compares with a norm of around five to 10 children a year out of 400 to 500.

Dr Espie would not appear on Assignment in 1995 (she hasn’t been registered as a doctor since 1996) but faxed a statement denying hitting Violette Kahukiwa or wishing her any harm, adding she only wanted the best for her.  It is of course entirely possible Dr Espie was trying to act in the best interests of these children, as she claimed later to The Press but questions still remain around issues of consent – remember, this was about 10 years after the Cartwright Inquiry (see below)  - children’s rights, involvement of parents, privacy of the patients, and not the least the Hippocratic oath including the words, “Either help, or do not harm the patient”.

In 2004 she told the Press, “I felt that I was acting in [the children’s] best interest and reporting what they wanted to say, and protecting them. I wish now I had never worked in child protection. But that’s a cowardly view, isn’t it? I mean, someone has got to do it. I was a pioneer in the area and I thought we would be listened to in the right way but we haven’t been.”

Resolution

These families – at least a dozen of whom I have spoken with and have the details of - have battled for over a quarter century for an inquiry, an apology, and they refuse to give up. They certainly feel abused now where they weren’t before, and they want answers, beginning with why they’ve been repeatedly ignored when they feel they did nothing wrong.

At least one senior barrister, Bill Wilson, QC, chairman of the Glenn Inquiry into child abuse and domestic violence, agrees. He says the Glenelg story, “Raises very serious concerns, not only over what occurred there but also because of the persistent failure of those in a position to do so, to ensure that the complaints were fully investigated.”

Wilson feels very strongly that, “A full and independent inquiry should be held without further delay.”

Consent

Applying today’s standards of consent when discussing medical examinations carried out on children 28 years ago is difficult says Grant Gillett, Professor of Medical  Ethics at the University of Otago, but says nevertheless, “Standards do hold up.”

It was assumed that because parents entrusted their children to Glenelg consent was given to everything which might arise, an, “anything goes” kind of regime. In the case of Carolynne Gibling, there are notes indicating a phone call to Carolynne’s mother requesting examinations, but not specific vaginal inspections.

However, in 1997 when Carolynne’s parents complained against Dr Espie to the Council, the panel said gaining this written consent was not the responsibility of the clinician Dr Espie, but of the camp manager, Madeleine Harrison.

This is an odd decision when held up against the Cartwright Inquiry which occurred a decade earlier. Do adults have the right to specific informed consent for invasive examinations, but children don’t?

So when these girls did not present with any indications of sexual abuse prior to being examined by the camp doctor, were these repeated intimate examinations part of the general consent parents signed up to when they took their children to these government institutions?

Emphatically no, says Professor Gillett. “ If it’s an asthma attack or the like, no problem, that needs to be handled with expediency, but this was not a call like that. For an invasive intervention with dubious intention there has to be due process of consent. You should get a second opinion from a clinician who agrees it is warranted in the circumstances, not a clinician who is hand-in-glove with you.

“And in these circumstances, in those times that would have been difficult because a lot of clinicians would have seen difficulties because of Cleveland. There were already worries with that kind of evidence gathering.”

Gillett refers here to the 1987 Cleveland scandal in the United Kingdom, when two paediatricians, Drs Marietta Higgs and Geoffrey Wyatt, measured the anal reflex and dilation in children to diagnose sex abuse, and welfare removed 121 children from their homes. An inquiry was established immediately and in 1991 the Children Act was established as a result. Cleveland, as it’s become known, has startling similarities to Glenelg.

And having a child alone in a consulting room with a clinician doing intimate examinations even when they’ve requested to take a support person? Was that acceptable back in 1987?

Professor Gillett: “This fails on a lot of counts.”

 

Timeline – Attempts at Justice

1988 Parents ask Prime Minister for a ministerial inquiry.

1989 Social Welfare Minister Michael Cullen, concerned at “inadequacy of evidence in some cases” requests report from Judge Ken Mason. Mason reviews papers only and says a ministerial inquiry not justified. Prime Minister Geoffrey Palmer agrees.

1990  Parents write to new Prime Minister Jim Bolger. Social Welfare Minister Jenny Shipley requests second report from Ken Mason who again declines ministerial inquiry but writes, “I regret to say that these cases will not go away!”

1993 Hon Jim Bolger again dismisses calls for an independent inquiry.

1995 One-hour Assignment programme screened. Rob Harley expects an inquiry will follow but Cave Creek disaster occurred the next day, wiping all other news off the radar.

1997 Trevor Gibling complained against Dr Dianne Espie to the Medical Council, but withdraws complaint when advised Carolynne will have to prove her story “beyond the balance of probabilities”.

2004 National MP Katherine Rich and Deborah Coddington, Act list MP, raise questions in Parliament. Ruth Dyson, Labour’s Associate Minister for Social Development and Employment (CYF) initially blamed the Bolger/Shipley 1990 government, then later admitted the file dated back to the 1988 Labour government. Dyson refuses to order inquiry unless new evidence presented.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Labradors Eat Anything - True or False?

Dear Drontal

Every month my vet sends me two of your big white worm tablets.

They look like pessaries.

Actually, it would be a lot easier if I did just have to shove them up the arses of my two black Labs.

But no.

I have to make them eat the damn things.

"Just swallow the pill, Goddammit."

I mean, Labradors aren't dogs, they are garbage disposal units. I live on a vineyard, and it's commonly known that grapes, the pips in particular, are fatal to dogs.

Not for Hawk and Whetu. They just eat the grapes and poo out the pips. Whole.

Whetu will eat anything - zucchini which have swelled into marrows because I forgot to pick them, chook poo which gives her an itchy bum so she's developed this method of planting her anus on the ground then sticking her back legs in the air and pulling herself along on her front legs so she can scratch her toosh, cat shit, windfall apples, rabbits they catch and devour every scrap including the fur and claws, crayfish - they both love crayfish bodies, in short nothing is safe from forever hungry Labradors.

Except worm pills.

I wrap them in tasty mince.

Every little bitty scrap of mince gets eaten then the pill gets spat out.

I smother them in honey. The honey gets licked off.

There's only one way to worm these dogs. Every month I wrestle them to the ground, wrench open their jaws, thrust the pill far down into their throats past those sharp white teeth, past their gagging mechanism then quickly hold their jaws shut until they're forced to swallow.

They hate me for it.

Until they get a little treat one second later.

Please, Drontal, do you think you could come up with rabbit flavoured worm pills?



Ten Commandments from Parliament

INCASEYOUMISSEDIT (as the NZ Herald loves to proclaim when it repeats stuff from Buzzfeed) the National Cabinet issued new edicts. Ministers were influenced by the Minister of Corrections' extremely thoughtful directive of last week in which MPs were rescued from potential attacks from savage criminals due to so many random prison visits.  Henceforth, SHEWHOMUSTBEOBEYED wrote, MPs must ask for permission from the Minister's office when they wish to visit prisons and bugger the Corrections Act 2004 (my swear word).

So the following visits are from this day off-limits for all MPs without express permission:

1. Minister of Finance: Thou shalt not visit a bank lest thou borrow money thou canst repay.

2. Minister of Education: Thou shalt not ride a school bus if thou name be Winston.

3. Minister of Education (yes, again): Thou shalt not visit a school lest thou be a teacher not under supervision by the Education Council.

4. Minister of Health: Thou shalt not visit a hospital lest thou wait too long in ED and end up on front page of Dominion Post in its weekly OIA sweep.

5. Minister of America's Cup: Thou shalt not go to any series lest thou stay away from The House for months and never want to come home.

6. Minister of Justice: Thou shalt not drop in on a court case lest thou be tempted to remove all thou clothes and end up in the Herald on Sunday.

7. Minister of Internal Affairs: Thou shalt not visit the Office of the Chief Censor lest thou become addicted to porn, wrestle with thou addiction, then out thouself on social media.

8. Minister of Agriculture: Thou shalt not visit a farm lest thou pee into a river.

9. Minister of Social Welfare: Thou shalt not visit Housing NZ house lest thou be tempted to attack mould with bleach and a scrubbing brush and deprive media of sob stories.

10. Minister for Canterbury Earthquake Recovery: Thou shalt not visit Christchurch lest a wardrobe fall on thou with its key poking out and thou give birth to baby wardrobes.

Amine, waiho ki tena.

Can we CrowdSell New Zealand?

Sometimes I wonder.

If two mates over beers can galvanise the country to crowdfund and buy an inlet, why can't we reverse the process and sell the entire country?

CrowdSelling. Cos that's what Kiwis do.

They weren't celebrities endorsing. One even had an apostrophe in the middle of his name where someone forgot how to spell.

Why do I suggest selling three main islands and assorted cling-ons, lock stock and barrel?

Because who appreciates this place any more?

Look around and all you see is a glass-half-empty attitude.

Take that latest Fonterra survey. It found just over one in ten dairy farmers are feeling pressured by banks so that means more than one in eight farmers are doing okay.

But nah mate. You'd think from the radio reports we're all going to hell in a handcart.

Sit down with a gin at six to watch the news on telly, which should really be called the olds because it's not new, and it's car crashes or stabbings, crime or some munter in court yelling at a judge. The cops are bad and the crims are saints.

Everything's the fault of the gummint.

The minimum wage is raised but it's not high enough. Students go to Dunedin to burn down houses and couches, generally destroy property.

Gangs abuse their missuses and kids but live the life of Riley on welfare and drug-dealing cos they're just "misunderstood", while honest women (mostly) who clean up shit and piss and care for elderly in old folks homes earn fuck all.  And if you're dying of cancer you have to beg a career politician with a Bouffant Billy hairstyle and a penchant for wearing a bowties for permission to go gentle into the good night with the aid of medicinal cannabis.

Shoot me now.

We're finger-wagged and lectured over what we can drink, how much we eat, we're too fat, too thin, swear too much, mustn't streak across a cricket pitch, shouldn't eat peas with our knife, drink coffee, keep a rooster, eat pies, go naked at a nudist camp, smoke cigars, fuck the hottie at a Xmas party with the blinds up, be Mayor and have an affair, be an MP and buy wine, be PM and touch head hair that belongs to someone else, (are we there yet? No, but that's e-bloody-nough, Ed).

Am I grumpy?

Yes I am right now.

It's out of character for me, because recently Andy Sutherland, a contractor and grape-grower asked if I sleep with a smile on my face.

Life is not a dress rehearsal. New Zealanders don't appreciate what we've got. Listen to Joni.

Goodbye Mr Smith, Let's Go Slumming

A song today to farewell a good friend and a good young man, Mr Smith, who died at 6.30 last night.

Gone too soon.

As his daughter Verity said in her text to me this morning, "The Coddington Taylor Marshall Smith kids meant the world to Dad."

Mr Smith was a regular at my first restaurant at Russell, The Cavalli Beachfront Café, and then again at my second, The Gables.

When Mr Smith knew he didn't have much time left one thing he wanted to do was go for a blat in a Ferrari.

We tried to organize this, so big thanks to my good friend James who, when I asked if he could take Mr Smith out in one of his Ferraris, said yes immediately. Alas, the Reaper intervened.

Mr Smith liked to listen to Genevieve Waite in my restaurants; we played LPs back in those days.

So here's a song for Mr Smith.

 

Arise Sir Arthur Taylor; 'The Nation' is prostrate before your Statue

Sir Bob's smackdown of Sir Gareth Morgan last week was a delight. A 5000m-high statue, no less, of Our Saviour celebrating his "overwhelming wonderfulness" which Sir Robert would erect on land currently occupied by his Solnet House, a building he'd demolish to accommodate the grand Gareth-the-Redeemer (a la Rio de Janeiro's Christ).

But Gareth lost his sense of humour and was offended by the suggestion. He is a humble man. He loathes publicity. Shuns fame. Hates reporters forcing comment from him. Shut up Sir Bob, and leave this shy, retiring fellow be.

There are others who deserve immortalizing in granite or marble or stone.

Mai Chen for a start: selfless in her inspiration of other women. A 5000m-high dedication to boosting the turnover of Adrienne Winkelmann, and spitting in the face of racism against Asians. Ms Chen's statue should be modelled in the manner of Rosa Parks, sitting on a corner in Dallas.


Then there's her mentor Geoffrey Palmer who loyally allows his name to remain knotted to hers, when just a bucket of water could separate the 'Chen' & 'Palmer' for ever. He would look great in the image of an Easter Island statue, as has already very kindly been pointed out some years ago by the editor of Metro magazine.

In the US Supreme Court is a famous statue of the 4th Chief Justice John Marshall, seated in a chair, right hand outstretched. Sir Bob could well do (ahem) justice to that great expert in all things legal in this country, Dr Bill Hodge, by knocking down his beloved (former Fay, Richwhite) building in Auckland and commissioning a 5000m replica of the media's go-to legal expert Dr Hodge.

But surely the one person most deserving of our total respect, the current media darling, is that cheeky fellow Arthur Taylor, soon no doubt to be Sir Arthur Taylor?

The "Goody Baddie" as folks in television like to call him.

As Labour MP Kelvin Davis well knows, what Taylor doesn't know about the inside of prisons, is not worth knowing. He is the absolute authority. And from what Lisa Owen discovered in the weekend on 'The Nation', Taylor's legal mind is the finest in the country. Can we soon expect an announcement: Sir Arthur Taylor, Queens Counsel? I think so.

There is, of course, no question that Sir Arthur is telling the truth at all times when he is interviewed by these people.

The fact he has, oooh about 150 criminal convictions doesn't give pause to the breathless ones, eager to rub shoulders with the bad and infamous. Of course they don't doubt him.

Arthur didn't kill anyone.

His only misdemeanors were theft, armed robbery, fraud, burglary, escaping custody, drug possession, receiving stolen property, conspiring to sell methamphetamine.....pah! mere bagatelles.

According to "The Hub" news site Arthur is polite, has a heart of gold, and is sort of "picaresque".

That's all right then. He's a kind of Robin Hood - in his own words he "sticks up for the underdog". He just nicks stuff from rich people, like those ones with a Coromandel holiday house. They weren't using it at the time.

And meth doesn't hurt people really.

Nobody, it seems, was harmed in the making of this new hero.

Start ordering the scaffolding then, Sir Bob.

Why Not Have All Judges Sit Naked in Court?

Eyes. Rolling. Backwards. Such a fuss from so few over a District Court Judge shedding his clobber at a private nudist camp.

The hapless bugger was innocently raking his balls (Boules, you silly woman, it's a type of petanque, Ed.] and next thing he's before the Office of the Judicial Conduct Commission. No doubt sent there by the same busy-bodies who dobbed him in to the media.

These delicate petals (Offended-Mother-Of-Six-From-Wainuiomata; you know the kind, Catholics probably) who spotted the photos in a promotional pamphlet, or some such, have come all over with an attack of the vapours. Quick, nurse, a screen and smelling salts!

Patricia Bartlett has not left the building. (Yes, she's well dead, Ed.)

Is she? Taken too early. That's what comes from not enough good Rogering.

Must have been Mary Whitehouse then. (She's dead too, Ed.)

Whatever.

Said Judge is not now allegedly fit and proper to pass judgment on sexual assault cases, cases of indecent exposure (oh give me a break!) and other such indecencies.

Just because he chose to air his giblets.

Oh dear. Maybe all judges who drive faster than 110kph should recuse themselves from hearings over defended speeding tickets. 

Actually that's not a good comparison because technically it is illegal whereas baring all in private? Well, what law does that break? Where will it ever end? Barristers must always shower with their clothes on just in case they may be admitted to the Bench and someone wanders past a window and espies them in the raw? A female judge sunbathes topless at a Mediterranean beach (and who doesn't?) then some random Kiwi tourist takes a photo which gets posted on social media, recognized, and she's then deemed unfit for office?

Tut-tut yes according to "We" the self-appointed guardians of public morals. "We" are not amused. "We" are offended.

Oh please. I saw the "offensive" photographs in an article in The Daily Mail ['Every woman needs her Daily Mail' - that was a good 70s ad campaign. Would have been even better if they'd added 'two times or more a day'.]

And apart from a smudge where normally his togs would be (and it was only a tiny little smudge), there was nothing anyone could blanch at.

I've seen more sick-making images of men cold-bloodedly beheaded by ISIS savages.

If those sensitive souls who channel Pat Bartlett don't like it they should avert their eyes.

But here's a thought.

Why not have all sitting judges dispense with all their clobber - gowns and suits - and appear in court totally naked. To be fair, we could bring back wigs so the bald-headed ones wouldn't feel discriminated against.

Lady Justice is blindfolded, so she won't mind.

It would certainly improve the aesthetic appeal of the Supreme Court, and cases in all courts would proceed more rapidly. Imagine, when a porky judge tells a recidivist, "I don't wish to see you before me again," you can be pretty assured that won't happen.

The crime rate may well plummet.

Another advantage - it would let us all clearly see how the members of our judiciary lie, which way they're stacked.

From the moment the judge enters the court to the call of, "All rise", we the public would have the chance to look around and see just how effective our judges - both men and women - really are.

Yes, I know I'm being Childish and Ridiculous. About as C and R as those huffing and puffing about the naked judge.

NZ Saved From Sky Fall By Road Sign

Get down on your knees and give thanks, everybody, we have all been saved from a fate worse than death by a man (presume it's a man but I could well be wrong - whoever it is doesn't have the guts to identify him or herself publicly) who calls himself a road sign.

No Right Turn.

Why would you call yourself a road sign? Perhaps he had a crush on that Australian rock band when he was little.

No matter. This person has selflessly sacrificed his time to battle away at bureaucracy, has spent who-knows-how-much taxpayers' dollars, to bring us crucial information sent to the Prime Minister by a gossip columnist.

Is your life not a whole lot better for knowing what she wrote?

Did you not wake up so much happier last week with the knowledge that Rachel Glucina texted John Key and said (drum roll please):

"Piece of work. Massive political agenda."

No! Rachel Glucina should be shot at dawn for that.

"Massive political agenda" is a pretty heinous aspersion to cast at an innocent young woman just doing her job working hard at a café, trying not to have her ponytailgate pulled.

Nobody these days has a "massive political agenda". It's just not done. Especially when they choose to tell their story on a completely neutral bombsite blog operated by a fair-minded rational person like Martyn Bradbury.

Annette King was one senior MP prepared to speak out in favour of Road Sign's heroic uncovering of the unspeakable horrors of this text message. So let's hope we can look forward to the more transparency in the future when MPs, Ministers or Prime Ministers receive unsolicited messages to which they don't reply.

There must be examples from the past....like, oh I don't know, perhaps messages Hon Annette King herself received when a sexual complaint was made against poor Darren Hughes when he was living at King's house, and which caused Hughes to resign from Parliament. Yes I know, this too was a beat-up, like the above so-called Ponytailgate.

But it's vital we know about the itty-bitty details of this minutiae. Not only does it keep the morons occupied in front of their computers all day, whining about what goes on Parliament, it makes their dreadfully bland lives just that little tiny bit less dreary.

And what would they do without something to hang a gate on?

Journey, Journey, Journey BAN THIS WORD and NZer of the Year

Much and all as Louise Nicholas is a gutsy, tough woman, I think New Zealander of the Year Awards are rubbish.

I mean for fuck's sakes, how can you compare what she does, what she's gone through, with Richie McCaw?

Naturally we're far too precious to have a NZ Woman of the Year and a NZ Man of the Year. That, My Darlings, would never do.

Obviously (and I write this before the award is announced) the award has to go to Richie if we go by popular vote. He's an international brand. He's extraordinary. Everyone wants a piece of him. Louise Nicholas just doesn't compare with all that razzamatazz. And yet.....

Then I ask, why is Rob Fenwick even in the finalists? Who is this person? Has anyone outside the Viaduct Basin heard of him, this businessman, capitalist masquerading as a Care Bear. Cleverly, yes, but an ex adman nonetheless.

If he really wanted to "normalize environmentalism" as I think he just said to Toni Street, he'd take his "journey" (that fucking over-used word and used yet again by Louise Nicholas in her interview. Jesus Wept, we're all on a fucking journey) and stand outside every KFC and Maccydunneda and order all the munters not to chuck their Happy Meal boxes out their car windows on to the street. That's pollution.

And while they're at it, he might say, why don't they think about putting their coke cans, their other cans, and all their bottles in those recycling plastic bins provided by the Council, instead of using them for fish bins?

Nah. Sir Robert would have to protect his chinos with a pair of bicycle clips to go on this here journey.

As Karl du Fresne - the one and only decent columnist with the guts to write what he feels in the mainstream media in New Zealand http://karldufresne.blogspot.co.nz/ (yes I know that's his blog but he republishes his DomPost columns there), if you analyse litter it's mostly from junk food, beer and fizzy drinks.

The middle classes put their chardonnay bottles, camembert wrappers, Nosh paper bags and La Cigale paper in the recycling buckets. Their children go to schools which ban anything in lunchboxes which can't be recycled.

New Zealander of the Year? Why don't they give it to someone outrageous for a change? Someone who's not on a journey. Surprise us.  Give us a laff?

Warning: Contains Bad Language

There have been complaints.

Swearing in my blog.

Tough shit.

This one contains worse use of language.

Such as "iconic".

Do the users of this word, the journalists and broadcasters who spread it around like explosive cow shit in an unfenced waterway, guaranteed to make a high country hiker go hyper on Instagram, even know what it means?

iconic (The Concise Oxford Dictionary)  adj. 1 of or having the nature of an image or portrait. 2 (of a statue) following a conventional type. 3 Linguistics that is an icon.

This overused adjective is applied to describe everything from a Member of Parliament to some random dairy south of Timaru called Kia Ora tagged by vandals.

Please, can we have a moratorium on iconic?

moratorium n. (often foll. by on) a temporary prohibition or suspension (of an activity)

Other obscene language which is painful to the ears - "quite unique".

I am shopping for cosmetics and the otherwise very beautiful young thing compliments me on my cardigan (which is rather special) and then says, "It's quite unique".

Oh fuck please kill me now.

No. It is not quite unique. It is mass produced. If it was unique it might have been on the body of Diane Foreman. Or Posh Spice. But not me.

"Quite unique" is an oxymoron.

oxymoron n.  Rhet. a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction (e.g. faith unfaithful kept him falsely true).

There is no connection between an oxymoron, and a moron who thinks cattle should die of thirst rather than briefly be allowed to drink from a river in the high heat of summer.

Lunch With Dirty Deaf Granddad

Lunch with Dirty Deaf Granddad this week.

Dirty Deaf Granddad knows a lot about life. He's been around a while, seen a lot, knows many people, but DDG doesn't know he's hard of hearing. Very hard of hearing. So bloody hard you have to shout yourself hoarse. DDG accuses you of sitting there whispering at him and there is nothing worse than trying to repeat your stories over and over because every story, even if it's not a funny story, and I don't do funny stories, loses its shine when it is told for the third or fourth time.

So you end up with DDG saying, "Why are you telling me this? What is your point?"

You begin to wonder yourself. You start to contemplate getting up and going home. But DDG enjoys these lunches so much you decide to tough it out. It's a lunch that will last all day.

DDG drinks low alc beer. You ask for a soft drink. He says no he's only got hard liquor and thinks that is terribly funny. Ha ha.

So you open DDG's fridge and help yourself to a wine. By this time DDG is on to his second beer, even though he has told you he's sworn off alcohol. And meat.

It's now well past lunch time and you still haven't eaten and DDG is raving on about Muslims, and the bloody natives, and the underclasses, and godknowswhatelseiswrongwiththefuckingworldtoday. That oaf Donald Trump. He's a buffoon.

And what's Hillary Clinton got to offer? Just Hillary. That's what.

And on it goes while I keep returning to the fridge to fill my wines and DDG keeps going out to have a pee. He comes back to explain why. When we get old, DDG says, our bladders lose their stretch and don't go back into a nice little elasticised bag like they used to. He uses his hands to demonstrate. So my old bladder, he says, is like a hard-skinned basketball - don't screw up your face like that girl, he says to me, this is scientific - and I have to empty mine all the time.

I don't want to think about DDG's bladder so I talk about the newspapers. Mistake.

On and on and on he complains until finally we go and eat. Chicken.

DDG talks about roots he has had. Ewww.

The waitress has a nose ring, purple hair, shaved at the sides, and is wearing tiny black shorts with stockings underneath. Good God Girl says DDG what happened to your nose? She just smiles and takes his order. She's from Lancashire. She knows her chops. At least you don't have tattoos, he says. Not where you can see them, she says back.

He pays the bill and leaves a big tip. Make sure the owner gives it to you, you clever girl from Lancashire, DDG tells her, and I take DDG back home to his seat by the window overlooking the sea. It's five o'clock. Time for his nap.

What About Cruelty Against Vegetables? Ever Considered That?

No, they're pushed aside and forgotten. It's all about the animals.

There was another kind of protest last Friday down our way - a band of nosey parkers trying to stop other people's fun.

What was it H L Mencken once said about puritanism? The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, must be happy?

Across the country some people who have got it into their heads that rodeos should be banned because bull riding, and making horses buck, constitutes cruelty to animals. This is the same mentality which thinks boxing is on par with thuggery. It's ignorance.

Undoubtedly there have been, are, always will be, individuals who are cruel to bulls and horses, whether they love the sport of rodeos or not. But these days vets must be in attendance. Standards must not be breached. It is rough and tough. Hard and fast. Sometimes animals are injured, just like on farms; in real life. And yes, it's cruel and painful - to the men and women crazy and gutsy and skillful enough to participate.

But a bunch of townies think this fun should be ended.

They won't stop at this, believe me. Once they succeed with rodeos, they will get polo banned. They will then move on to thoroughbred racing. Trotting and pacing. Then gymkhanas and pony clubs.

Why stop there? Take this to its logical conclusion and is it not cruel, in a do-gooder's eyes, to break in a horse to wear a bridle with a bit in its mouth, a saddle, nail iron shoes to its hooves, and put a human on its back with a whip, kicking its flanks and bending said horse to his or her will?

I loathe cruelty to animals - it's one of the finest examples of cowardice but these protestors are picking easy targets. Do we see them standing protesting outside the gates of gang houses where half-starved, unloved, non-exercised fighting dogs are chained up 24/7?

And is it nice to keep a dog cooped up in a high-rise apartment all day, let out to pooh on the balcony perhaps, occasionally feeling the grass under its feet if the owner has time a couple of times a week?

Perhaps not, but that's not my business. I don't like it but I'm not going to interfere in someone else's companionship when I'm fortunate enough to live on a farm.

If these busy-bodies don't like rodeos where no cruelty is taking place they should look the other way.

Quote of the day went to the rodeo organizer who said the protestors didn't even come from Wairarapa; they're out of an Auckland vegan restaurant, he said, wouldn't know one end of the bull from another.

And who knows how the veges feel about being killed and eaten? Remember, cabbages have hearts. Scarlet beans can run, and spuds have eyes. That's why my Dad always said never have a root in a tuber patch.

TPPA, Waitangi Day & Other First World Problems

Today a whole lot of people in Auckland will stroll along in the sun to the Convention Centre, singing songs and waving their gladioli, to welcome visitors to Aotearoa.

Further up the line about a dozen Tangata Whenua are a bit hot and bothered - again! - about the Prime Minister visiting Waitangi.

Meanwhile dozens and dozens will enjoy the day - and ignore the Prime Minister - but in turn their enjoyment will be overlooked by the media.

Many of us don't care what John Key or the Government - or any politicians - do on Waitangi Day.

Plus ca change plus ca meme chose (and please excuse the lack of accents but I don't know how to do them on the blog).

That's those issues done and dusted then. If you want to get up to speed on the TPPA with facts as opposed to speculation, I suggest you read Stephen Jacobi's article from Monday's Herald:

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/business/news/article.cfm?c_id=3&objectid=11582655

Why are these first world problems? Go to Vietnam and see how thousands of people will be lifted out of poverty by their country being able to trade freely with 11 other nations. That's if it finally eventuates.

We are the lucky ones. We don't desperately need this deal, with our fridges, tap water, stoves, sanitation. It's a nice-to-have.

Enough lecturing.

Tomorrow is (cough cough) a day when I hurtle startlingly closer to heading down to WINZ and signing up for Winston's Gold Card. So tonight Mr C is whisking me off over the hills and far away to a secret destination, I know not where.

I have only been told to scrub up out of my vineyard tar, wear something posh, be ready and waiting in the capital city at 8.15 where I know I shall be given a right royal.........spoiling, you dirty minded you. What did you think I was going to say?

We won't be taking any notice of this lemon-lipped tart:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/health/12136938/Do-as-I-do-think-about-cancer-before-you-have-a-glass-of-wine-says-chief-medical-officer.html?fb_ref=Default

You may not hear from me for a few days. It's my birthday. It's all about me.

Mrs C's Recipe for Coping in the Modern World

Do you know there is a condition called FOMO?

Furthermore, those who reject this affliction have invented their own suffering, that is, FOBI (it may be something else but I simply don't have the energy to Google such nonsense).

FOMO stands for Fear Of Missing Out, though why an acronym is used instead of all four words beats me. Then again I think I do know. This select herd of paranoid -ists, clamouring to be included, these deluded social gagas deliberately use an acronym so others ARE (that's not an acronym) left out. Hence they create their own little clique.

Clever.

But rude.

FOBIs have a Fear Of Being Included.

Really? Invite them to something and they make sure there's free booze before they accept then they're the last to leave.

It's so very chi-chi now to dispense entirely with words and use the first letters only - have you noticed? It's an outbreak - Bureaucratitis. Margaret Chan could declare this, in her best Queen Elizabeth II voice, A World Wide Emergency.

RATFLMFAO. Yes, took me a while to work that out too; about the same time it takes me to send a text saying, "I'm on my way" - that is, ten minutes. And don't allow your children to mock your tardiness while they execute the Gettysburg Address on their I-phone in ten seconds using two thumbs. Just remind them you once taught them to use a knife and fork and tie their shoelaces.

Oh, but we don't teach toddlers to use knives and forks these days do we? Too controlling.

Once, a long time ago when Mrs C was a teenager the only acronym was SWALK. No teenager would even know how to write a letter, put it in an envelope and post it these days.

And when these young things aren't UTTTST or RATFLTFAOATP; OIJSOMMWHSB or WDJKJSTFU they are typing very odd letters for their employers.

To wit.

A friend is always telling me I need to find a new, younger husband (he's mad) but to humour him, while on holiday in Samoa last week I sent this photo of a strong, polite, handsome 24-year-old I met.

As my friend was out of town, his personal assistant replied saying "if appropriate" he would respond upon his return.

"If appropriate"? The corollary to this was my letter could be deemed "inappropriate", like picking one's nose, scratching one's bum, or farting in church.

Needless to say the letter was strewn with spelling mistakes and apostrophes were scattered about like sparrow poos.

Sigh.

I find only one way to cope with this. You must not try to compete. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to join this ridiculous trend and try to look hip. Mrs C will share with you her recipe for the Modern World.

Go to the cellar. Choose a good bubbly, Viognier, or a red of your desire - Syrah or Pinot.

Gently remove the cork, or screwcap is fine (we are not snobs), pour yourself a glass or three, and put your feet up.

Bitchin' With the Mista & Missus

Don't you hate it when couples bitch with their little private passive aggressive agendas in company?

You know the scenario. Women are especially good at it because they play games so well. Men are pretty straightforward (having only been in heterosexual relationships that's all I'm qualified to comment on, and I've been in a few, so I know a bit about it). Men will just say, "Sorry, you're wrong." Or, "You stupid bitch, you're wrong." Or, "You mad ignorant fucking c*** you don't know what you're talking about." Depending on their level of intelligence, subtlety, and how much they value a) the relationship and b) their balls. Not having them kicked, that is.

Women, on the other hand, will cut in to his conversation and say, "Now sweetie [note the sweetie, which means he is anything but her sweetie] remember, you went that way and bought the tickets and I distinctly recall that I was sitting chatting to Blah Blah and you came back and asked me what I thought and I looked up the catalogue and I said it wasn't $300 it was $400 and you said you could have sworn it was $300 and it was like the time you were mistaken about the colour of that car which you cut off when we were driving along the motorway and you swore at him and I said no you were the one who cut him off and you said a rude word at me and I said would you kindly refrain from using language like that in front of the children they are in the teenage years now and their brains are very vulnerable and you muttered under your breath at me and I asked you to repeat what you said, share it so we could all hear it if it was so important and you were extremely rude and said if I carried on like the woman in the Big Wednesday advertisement then you'd be forced to behave like the poor henpecked man who revved the engine of his boat....."

You get my drift.

Why do they stay together in such a toxic relationship?  Perhaps they don't notice they're doing it, like the How To Boil a Frog Without Him Jumping Away theory - you know, first you put the frog in cold water then very slowly turn up the temperature without him realizing it's getting hot in there.

I looked up "Ask Aunt Daisy!" for help but she had no handy hints on this one, nor any on relationships or marriage. None on sex at all, though she did have this to say about meat:

To Sweeten - If meat begins to go slightly sour, place out of doors in the cool air overnight.

Can't see that helping. Put the dog out on the porch, and he's gonna stray. Just ask Hillary.

Why does this trouble me? Because I find it exceptionally rude and I don't like discourteous behaviour. Save your dirty linen for your own washing line. We're not interested in your petty quarrels; they're boring.

Yes, he might be wrong. She might be talking toss. But think on this, do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?

A Reminder - Car Conversion is a Crime

Back in about 1984 in another life in Russell, Bay of Islands, I drove a clapped out Datsun 1200 bought on hire purchase from some dodgy outfit on K Road, Auckland - Moneyforjamich Motors, or Emptyyourwalletich Motors, or something like that. Probably owned by John Yelash.

They financed me into the deal at usury interest rates but I had no choice - my partner was bankrupt, I was a poor risk and made my living waiting on tables, cooking breakfast and cleaning guest rooms (emptying adulterers' ashtrays) at the Duke of Marlborough Hotel, and taking in ironing. Plus I had three kids and another on the way. Life was sweet. No respo's.

Taking the kids to the dentist, and one who needed specialist eye care, and me to the obstetrician, meant a day trip to Whangarei. So one morning when we came out and found our car missing it was pretty damn disastrous. Fortunately for us, good mates helped out then months later my Dad died and we got his car. But as a family living on a tight budget, losing that Datsun was pretty devastating.

Additionally, I'd only been able to afford third party insurance and spent the next three years paying off the loan. The local cop (who couldn't chase a blowfly through a meatsafe) never found the old Datsun - HC5664.

Thousands of cars are stolen in New Zealand. It's a self-help mentality - if you don't own a car take your pick. And what happens when the outraged owner reports same theft to police? Two thousand "fleeing driver incidents" a year usually resulting in crashes, deaths, injuries and inevitable grief.

This weekend two of these deaths were teenagers who lived a few kilometres away from me. I know Alan Maxwell, the youth worker who tried to help these kids, but I disagree when he says it's a community problem. I also disagree with Police Minister Judith Collins who says teenagers need reminding of the "absolute stupidity" of fleeing from police officers.

Back up the truck a bit.

What about drumming into kids' heads the serious consequences of breaking the law? Stealing cars, in my book, is a major crime - taking other people's valuable property - they should realize how badly it affects an owner. Are we expected to believe cars are the first things these kids have ever stolen?

Teenagers are shits - they are programmed to be so. I was a shit. My kids were shits. If you get them through teenage years alive it's a miracle. Nobody wants to bury their kids. This is not new so why the sudden handwringing? I think of the words in that old song by Simon & Garfunkle: "The kids have no respect for the law today and blah blah blah. Save the life of my child, cried the desperate mother. Oh what's becoming of the children? People asking each other."

But pursuits going bad is not the cops' fault. Without the decision to steal a vehicle, there would be no pursuit. Police have chased criminals since Mr Plods wobbled along on bicycles blowing their whistles. The difference is today chases are faster so it's not rocket salad to work out how it's going to end.

Mrs C Did Not Go Without

It's Saturday. That means last night was Friday night, a time for relaxing on the back porch with Mr C, two long glasses, and a bottle of Champagne.

Or two.

So instead of searing commentary today I give you a handy hint from "Ask Aunt Daisy!", published by Whitcombe & Tombs Ltd (no date, unfortunately), but costing only two shillings and sixpence, containing "196 pages full of valuable hints for the housewife".

Here we go with wisdom seasonally opportune:

Sunburn - Apply methylated spirits as soon as possible, and apply till the heat goes out. Also good for burns.

2. Slice a green tomato and rub it on the sore places.

3. The white of an egg, the juice of a lemon, a teaspoon of borax. Put in a bottle, and shake well. Keep corked. Smear over burns.


Well, bugger me.

Who's Gonna Scream In Your Ear

Holy cow, two opinions in as many days. From a wife? That's what happens when she has a pile of ironing - the mind must entertain itself whilst maneuvering the collars' two sides, shoulders and across the necks, the double cuffs with fold-backs, round and round the buttons, then matching the stiffeners to the correct shirts.

For better, for worse, in sickness and health, for boxers and court attire.

How did you go on the voluntary get-someone-to-kill-you-when-you're-gaga-or-dying legislation? Sorry but it's nuts calling this Death With Dignity. Death means you're gone for ever. No dignity in that, mate. Surely they mean Dying With Dignity.

How about an MP introduces a Bill called Life With Dignity? There's a novel idea.

But as our last PM, the Rt Hon Helen Clark said, when caught in a pickle, "Moving right along."

I'm baffled as to why airline people in Thailand are "struggling with" and object to their latest class of passengers, ie, life-size dolls called Luk Thep https://asiancorrespondent.com/2016/01/thai-smile-airways-look-thep/

They're also called Angel Children, which is surely an oxymoron. Children are brats, that's why these mute, immobile dolls should be welcomed aboard and given the best seats. Instead, their mewling, squealing, squawking real life doppelgangers must henceforth be put in the overhead lockers. If the owners of these Luk Thep, bless, are happy to pay for an extra ticket, and batty enough to want their dolls fed the inedible airline food, then why object?

Actually it's not children who are the problem on planes so much as their parents. Babies, one can forgive and tolerate - their ears hurt appallingly when planes ascend and descend and there isn't much one can do to help. But in today's age children and parents are equals and friends. We don't discipline we just reason with them even when they want to boot the back of the seat in front of them the entire flight, pull the hair of the passenger in that same seat then swing on the seat back. 'No' doesn't figure in the lexicon of these families. Uttering the words, 'Eat your vegetables because I'm your mother and I say so' is the equivalent of child abuse. Children should choose whatever they wish to do; want to eat because they need to grow into....[fill in the gap from 21st century psychobabble book but definitely not Spock]. 

Never mind. On Air New Zealand we've always got Nannies in the form of some of the new bright young steward. Lately they've taken it upon themselves to protect us from ourselves, inspired, no doubt, by those wretched safety videos. Instead of normal airlines like Myanmar Airways, where they  point out the exits, tell you to belt up then sit down and drink coffee, Air New Zealand insults our intelligence with a video which torturers would have crawled over ground glass to use at Abu Ghraib.

Then the staff stalk the aisles checking we're all tucked up ready for an hour's chit chat over the sound system - no chance of reading - and woe betide any passenger with buds in their ears: "What's playing on that?"

Of late they've even taking to checking how passengers drinking alcohol on a flight will be getting themselves home - are they driving themselves or will they be collected? I kid you not - after serving the booze a steward then demanded a passenger prove a taxi would be called.

If you can't afford your own private jet, you just have to suck it up.

I can just see Air New Zealand's next safety video, set to this song from The Cars:

Voluntary Euthanasia

Two things really irritate me about this debate. One will be considered frivolous: this is the multitude of journalists who can't spell euthanasia and furthermore are too lazy to look it up in the dictionary. In particular, the technicians employed by television companies to run those words across the bottoms of our screens because they assume we the viewers are all morons when in fact many of the reporters have something wrong with their jaw joints meaning their mouths won't close properly, like that girl in the Air New Zealand safety video, guaranteed to make you block your ears and squeeze your eyes tightly shut, so we can't understand a word.

The second issue is more serious.

First, just to be clear, I support Act MP David Seymour's bill because it doesn't  allow for an advanced directive and puts the individual clearly responsible for his or her own body, not shoving the responsibility for their death on someone else in the future.

But confusing the debate is this issue of pain.

Why do we suddenly want death to be completely free of pain? Life is not pain free. Birth is not without pain. You can't turn on the television of an evening without the dreadful screaming and yelling of a mother popping out another one (Lord knows why anyone wants to watch this birth-porn) and if it's agonizing for the mother (I've had seven babies, it's like pooing a pumpkin) it must hurt the child being squeezed out like toothpaste.

Then there's a whole life to endure with accompanying vaccinations, headaches, broken limbs, severe diarrhoea where death would be a welcome relief, period pains, and not to forget that worst affliction of all time - MAN FLU!

So on what page, which sentence, in the book of life does it promise us that we have the right to die with no pain?

Sissies.