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Oh, Wellington. Right where I left you.

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First! My car. RUINS. MY. LIFE. The less said about it the better, but it did give me three extra days of holiday while mechanic number 8 (YES! EIGHT!) tinkered. It has now been declared fit but I will not be fooled again! No sir. It has proven itself a hateful liar and a cheat, and it is going to a new home and/or the bottom of a river at my earliest convenience. Take THAT, car. HAH.

Anyhoo. My boss is snoring, which means it’s after 3 at General Hospital. Good to know nothing much changes.

Since we last spoke, dear internet, I have been on many adventures. I have danced with the toothless locals at the Mount Mainia Cossie Club as I guzzled their $5 red bull and vodkas with someone’s Auntie Queenie — who was every bit of what you’d expect of someone from Whangarei called Auntie Queenie (aka AWESOME) — then watched the sun come up on 2010 with five boys spooning each other. Wandered the beaches of Paihia and Waipu and Tutukaka. Kayaked to Cathedral Cove and ridden badly behaved horses in the mountains. Drank feijoa liqueur in a tiny organic winery and ate fish and chips at our camp site. Swam every day. Failed to locate the Southern Cross because there’s so many stars that far out. Visited the oldest Kauri in New Zealand and stopped by Opononi for lollies. Watched a group of grown men get the meat sweats at Pizza Hut buffet. Got to know some truly great family (and some interesting goats) and discovered the wonder that is whisky and L&P. It has been, in short, everything a summer holiday should be.

And now, reality. SIIGH. WHO NEEDS IT. I’m back to my usual conundrums: how much can I sacrifice to write another book? How do I find a wealthy benefactor and a free estate in the country? How high can my heels get before I can’t walk to the coffee shop? How can I leave work in time to get me some of the new Marc Jacobs perfume?

I need a massage. And a white sand beach. And a Pimms and ginger ale.

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Writer of things. Annoyer of cats.

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