Another Seismic Tremor

For a change of scenery, I moved back to Nomads for a few days and into one of their 'King's Suites' on the third floor, with no exchange for cash at all. This strange piece of fortune arose when briskly walking down the nocturnal Shotover Street and colliding into a figure whom I had met on the Stray bus a few weeks previous. Rene, the half French half German youngster, complete with 'Sweet As' black cap, fixed firmly backwards on his rich canopy of hair, greeted me with a generous portion of amicability considering that we had barely reached past the moderate greetings of acquaintances from on the bus journey from Picton down to Franz Josef. After agreeing to go for a brief drink in The Buffalo Club (2-4-1 draughts, thanks to the dorm key from Deco's) and a few measly shaped spring rolls, with a subtle flavour of wallpaper, Rene explained to me of his predicament at Nomads Hostel, where his 10 bed dorm room had been upgraded to a two bed en-suite room due to an overbooking from the hospitable reception staff. His new room was now equipped with a fridge, tall timber wardrobe, towels, flat screen television, coffee and tea, soap and shampoo. All relative glittering luxuries for a mule like backpacker such as myself, used to sharing bathrooms with the nefarious footprints of vile students.

Rene (every time I say his name, it unfortunately comes out all 'Allo 'Allo) asked me to take advantage of his spare bed for no charge at all, simply to share his wealth in the palatial chamber with its spectrum of Sky Channels emitting daily doses of Family Guy and feature films, hooked up from the Cinema Room downstairs where all the pleborian children remained sat cooped up aloft impotent red bean bags. I, naturally, took this offer with both greedy hands. The selling point being that the en-suite was equipped with an abundance of soap, much needed after my last slither of a bar had disappeared down the wiry hair plagued plug hole in my last hostel, and the odorous signs were beginning to reveal.


It's not all glamour as a high flyer in telesales you know

As expected, within 48 hours of my stay, the room had begun to morph into a tarnished catastrophe, an earthquake in the calm. The beige carpet now hidden under tattered cardboard pizza boxes, tortilla chip packets, fudge centred tim tams discarded half eaten and bottles of Speight's Ale with the residue of warm liquid still circling the bottom of the translucent glass. The less we speak about the state of the bathroom the better. Rene and I were not impressed by housekeeping's lethargy at attempting to redeem the lustre of the opulent room and we swiftly complained, maintaining the loose candied crown of the plastic Princes that we had become.

The eruption. Regret would follow.

I had heard passing rumours of the chaos that had plagued European aerospace in recent days due to the eruption beneath the Ejafalafel....Ezjoecoleskull.....er....Eyjafjallajoekull glacier in south-western Iceland. In retaliation for my stranded Mother and Father, stuck in the desert heat of Egypt awaiting their return flight back to Heathrow, I toasted their extended holiday with a volcanic concoction of my own, provided by the faltering Hispanic staff of the underground Debajo's cocktail bar in exchange for this week's $40 drinks bonus from work. The infamous 'Volcano' bowl, the content of which I'm not sure of but did seem to have four types of rum in it, was a sure fire lava hit for myself and my long suffering work colleagues to ensure that the week's proposals were not all made in vain. The bowls were advised to be shared between 2-5 people. However, having traded our souls to Lucifer in order for the sweating palms to grasp some Kiwi Dollars, we agreed to hoard a Volcano each so as to numb the rhythmic taunting of the conscience with the magma crimson palliative.

I'm hoping the gypsy and the good doctor are faring somewhat better looking out towards the ash debris beyond the Red Sea by the Pharos of Alexandria.

(l-r) Rene, Daniel Panesar, Ben, Kurt Cobain and Jimmy Jolion Archbutt (real name) enjoy the lava before missing scenes kicked in

Now on my final week in the job, a home straight that feels like a marathon (though I think Pheidippides, the Athenian herald, encountered an easier passage on requesting help with the oncoming Persian War). The last week was not as operose as the induction, my ears weren't even open to any profanity for the duration as I had adeptly mastered hanging up the phone before the ire of the recipient was demonstrated. I seem to spend a large proportion of the time lost in a Reggie Perrin styled daydream to counter the monotony of the blank walls. Like Leonard Rossiter's hapless character, I also lack the conviction to throw myself into the depths of a raging sea to cleanse me of my employment sins.

Reggie tastes ice-cream in the classic 70's BBC comedy:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aBYLNHiIJMc&feature=channel

Some beneficiaries of my dulcet tones were as unusual as ever. A sprightly lady passed me on the ingredients for her signature golden syrup dumplings and cream that she insisted I tried out at the hostel later that evening (it actually sounded delicious, but I didn't have the patience to try it out). Another time a 40-something quickly discarded my patter and swiftly became besotted with my accent and asked me, seductively and desperately, to come over to her apartment after I finished work to share the spoils of her remaining dignity. I've never been so pleased to be based in New Zealand and not Brisbane.

However, some calls were harder to make than others. Especially the timid lady who spoke meekly to me that her husband had passed away the morning before and that she wasn't quite ready to talk about her equity. Also there was another young woman who asked me to return the call at another time as she was rather tired from her afternoon's chemotherapy appointment.

Not to worry, I've logged a call back for both parties later this week as I believe that in their orbit of weakness I could just about rope them into a consultation with our financial consultant and thus gaining me a sale. I concede, I have become a monster and my trend of increasing successes has led me to become my boss's new pet, for him to groom into something even more grotesque.

Ben demonstrates his early Tiger form with his pink golf ball

Finally, in an energetic week, I organised a Mini Golf day out for some of my telephonically wounded work mates as a team building exercise and also to abandon the rustles of restlessness within the camp. The golf course was aptly located by the eerie shadows of the local cemetery and on a gloriously cloudless day we putted like novices through tricky greens and obstacles made up of mounds, toadstools, bunny rabbits and a nearby goldfish pond, laced with algae. I finished in a respectable fourth place (out of five), and I blame my erratic club and the regular hawking of an elderly couple from Lancashire for my early loss in form.

All very Super Mario Brothers at this point

Archbutt chips into the frog spawn

Queenstown Song of The Day - Led Zeppelin - Whole Lotta Love
Out of the jukebox in the Buffalo Club (whilst trying to displace the taste of the awful spring rolls) released the iconic colossal drumming of John Bonham followed by the Viking hollers of Robert Plant and the prodigious loose blues riff by Jimmy Page. Oh, and John Paul Jones was there too on bass, people always forget about that poor man.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x14vuq_led-zeppelin-whole-lotta-love_music

Close second this week was when sat at the communal dining area at Deco backpackers two American guys sang along boisterously and without care to Taylor Swift's instant classic, You Belong To Me, which was stuttering out the kitchen radio. At the conclusion I gave them a knowing nod, the unspoken bond between all Taylor Swift fans.