I was catapulted out of The Cambridge at the weekend, due to an overbooking and the fact that it was the Queen's Birthday bank holiday weekend. Damn Commonwealth. Still, this meant that I returned back to my old stomping ground of Nomads for a few days. There was to be no sign of the versatile thespian Dean Knowlesy, whom I had been informed by reception as working hard on post-production nuances to the Yogi Bear Movie and completing the voice over finishing touches to his much anticipated breakthrough character 'Agent Florimo'.
For the duration of my stay I have volunteered my able and supple hands to the Nomads Pub - Blend - in exchange for the roof above my head. I believe the kids out here call it WWOOFing (even though that's an acronym for 'Willing Workers on Organic Farms', which doesn't directly relate to the bar environment at all). This piece of fortune arrived on a dreary Saturday night as I sat in the moderate t.v. lounge, tilting my head back to view the World War II movie 'Defiance' on the flickering flat screen. Three German goons sat in close proximity and successfully eroded my concentration and apathy for the Jews in Eastern Europe as depicted in the film, with their continuous banal conversation, which echoed around the room like the droning of a freezer. Thanks to my tenacious grasp of the German language, I made out the words 'Red' and 'Big' in their diction, and so was confident that they were not offending me personally. On verge of imploding to their boorish behaviour, an impish chef emerged through the revolving doors of the leisure room and announced, under deep sighing breaths, whether anyone was willing to help him for the night as his colleague had called in with a bout of tonsillitis. I glanced up at Daniel Craig beating up a Nazi with a louring cleaver on the DVD and saw this as an immediate omen to roll up my sleeves to purify my own petty vengeance against a courgette.
The only sign of Dean, actor extraordinaire, at Nomads Capital Hostel
"You have worked in a kitchen before, right?" were the inquisitive first utterances by the chef on throwing me a glorious stained black uniform and flat chess board cap. I hesitated for a moment before lying nonchalantly and confirmed that I was indeed experienced in that chaotic environment. 'I'll leave you to it then" were his final words before pointing to the avalanche of dishes, pots, pans, cutlery that lay in ruins by the sink alongside the vibrant Mediterranean vegetables I had to prepare.
How hard is washing up anyway? Pretty darn hard as you have to spend most of the time wrestling a violently recalcitrant hot water hose towards the lasagne caked porcelain whilst attempting not to douse the stoves and the cook with fiery water (which I failed miserably at. You can't tame the elements, it would appear). However, by midnight the place was just about hygienic. I even mischievously finished the leftover cold chips left soggy and betrayed in an aluminium serving bowl, dunked generously in a half used pot of barbecue sauce. I needed to use a handful of potato wedges to actually pierce the thin layer of skin on the discarded dip. It tasted like socks.
After my second day, I was inaugurated by Sandy, the fresh faced chef, to the rest of the team who comprised of a trying-too-hard-to-be-young bar manager, three dead eyed waitresses, a kitchen hand and the bouncer. I was introduced confidently as 'Cash'. Sandy's loose tongue and distant ear struggled to get to grips with the pronunciation of my actual name. I opted out of correcting him on amusement with my new Nom-de-Guerre. I'm not sure any employer will ever get my name right. This suits me fine though, as it allows me to detach the loose cape of vocation with consummate ease.
The team bought me a few drinks for my heroic work, which was not to be tango to compliment my newly acquired moniker. Sandy, on my last day, stated that I had what it took to make the transition from dishwasher / kitchen hand to stepping up to not only preparing salads and vegetables, but also desserts. High praise indeed.
This time around, there is no abundance of St George's flags parading the streets. Children aren't dancing around with white and red face paint on and there is no sound of the Barmy Army orchestra (which is a relief). The only coverage on television is that of the All Blacks' winter tests against Wales, Ireland and England. The Wellington Post at least has a daily Sports Section where Ryan Nelson gives his daily verdict on the All Whites' likely progress in the cup (2nd Round is a distinct possibility, apparently). The kiwis also are fond of ridiculing, in their good natured spirit, the over confidence of the English support and how the nation is looking forward to observing what goes horribly wrong this time round.
The neo-classical Government House building. The second largest wooden building in the world (behind Todai-ji in Nara, Japan)
After three weeks of solid rain I was at last afforded a clear and sunny day. I could hardly believe it and ensured I took advantage of an opportunity to dilute some of the S.A.D. that had tormented my nervous system of late. I wasted a few hours viewing different shapes of anchors at the The Museum of Wellington City & Sea, and then quickly pirouetted around the wooden floors of the National Portrait Gallery which was situated in a hanger within close proximity.
The timer is a beautiful thing. A pretty hiker caught me taking this and mocked me mercilessly
In an attempt to get prepared for high altitude trekking in a month, I shoved on my delectable orange and brown hiking shoes and attempted to conquer Mount Victoria, a mere half hour walk from the ominous statue of Queen Victoria herself on Cambridge Terrace. I was not prepared for such turmoil to the cardio-vascular system and with sweat pouring feverishly down my spine I finally crawled pathetically to the summit as carefree joggers passed by with barely a charitable look in their eyes.
View of Wellington from Mount Victoria
"You have worked in a kitchen before, right?" were the inquisitive first utterances by the chef on throwing me a glorious stained black uniform and flat chess board cap. I hesitated for a moment before lying nonchalantly and confirmed that I was indeed experienced in that chaotic environment. 'I'll leave you to it then" were his final words before pointing to the avalanche of dishes, pots, pans, cutlery that lay in ruins by the sink alongside the vibrant Mediterranean vegetables I had to prepare.
How hard is washing up anyway? Pretty darn hard as you have to spend most of the time wrestling a violently recalcitrant hot water hose towards the lasagne caked porcelain whilst attempting not to douse the stoves and the cook with fiery water (which I failed miserably at. You can't tame the elements, it would appear). However, by midnight the place was just about hygienic. I even mischievously finished the leftover cold chips left soggy and betrayed in an aluminium serving bowl, dunked generously in a half used pot of barbecue sauce. I needed to use a handful of potato wedges to actually pierce the thin layer of skin on the discarded dip. It tasted like socks.
After my second day, I was inaugurated by Sandy, the fresh faced chef, to the rest of the team who comprised of a trying-too-hard-to-be-young bar manager, three dead eyed waitresses, a kitchen hand and the bouncer. I was introduced confidently as 'Cash'. Sandy's loose tongue and distant ear struggled to get to grips with the pronunciation of my actual name. I opted out of correcting him on amusement with my new Nom-de-Guerre. I'm not sure any employer will ever get my name right. This suits me fine though, as it allows me to detach the loose cape of vocation with consummate ease.
The team bought me a few drinks for my heroic work, which was not to be tango to compliment my newly acquired moniker. Sandy, on my last day, stated that I had what it took to make the transition from dishwasher / kitchen hand to stepping up to not only preparing salads and vegetables, but also desserts. High praise indeed.
This is the only poster I've seen (squint hard) in the whole of Wellington City acknowledging that there's a World Cup going on
I'm at a loss, marooned at the bottom of the earth as the greatest tournament on the globe kicks off. My memories of the last World Cup were that of a confusingly searing London summer, watching England's gallant one dimensional football unfold within the theatre complex of the Clapham Grand. I also remember, with modest bitterness, allowing my friend to acquire close relations with a South African native so as to obtain a better understanding of the complexities behind the socio-economic implications of this 2010 tournament.
I'm at a loss, marooned at the bottom of the earth as the greatest tournament on the globe kicks off. My memories of the last World Cup were that of a confusingly searing London summer, watching England's gallant one dimensional football unfold within the theatre complex of the Clapham Grand. I also remember, with modest bitterness, allowing my friend to acquire close relations with a South African native so as to obtain a better understanding of the complexities behind the socio-economic implications of this 2010 tournament.
This time around, there is no abundance of St George's flags parading the streets. Children aren't dancing around with white and red face paint on and there is no sound of the Barmy Army orchestra (which is a relief). The only coverage on television is that of the All Blacks' winter tests against Wales, Ireland and England. The Wellington Post at least has a daily Sports Section where Ryan Nelson gives his daily verdict on the All Whites' likely progress in the cup (2nd Round is a distinct possibility, apparently). The kiwis also are fond of ridiculing, in their good natured spirit, the over confidence of the English support and how the nation is looking forward to observing what goes horribly wrong this time round.
After three weeks of solid rain I was at last afforded a clear and sunny day. I could hardly believe it and ensured I took advantage of an opportunity to dilute some of the S.A.D. that had tormented my nervous system of late. I wasted a few hours viewing different shapes of anchors at the The Museum of Wellington City & Sea, and then quickly pirouetted around the wooden floors of the National Portrait Gallery which was situated in a hanger within close proximity.
In an attempt to get prepared for high altitude trekking in a month, I shoved on my delectable orange and brown hiking shoes and attempted to conquer Mount Victoria, a mere half hour walk from the ominous statue of Queen Victoria herself on Cambridge Terrace. I was not prepared for such turmoil to the cardio-vascular system and with sweat pouring feverishly down my spine I finally crawled pathetically to the summit as carefree joggers passed by with barely a charitable look in their eyes.
View of Wellington from Mount Victoria
i-Pod Song of the Day: Charles And Eddie - Would I Lie To You?
OK, so not my i-Pod, but that of the waitresses at the Blend bar who took control of the sound system and turned up the volume of this 90's soul duo's worldwide hit. I heard this as I was mopping the floor of the kitchen on my 'work week' and sang down the end of my mop-cum-microphone whilst sliding down the waxy floors with pompous skill.
Only after a little research did I realise that the duo are no more. Charles Pettigrew passed away nine years ago. Thank you for this memory Charles.
Re-live an infinitely 90's video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vytZ8_03tqw
Wellington Song of the Day: Phoenix Foundation - Flock of Hearts
I'd be inconsiderate if I weren't to mention a 'local' band on my journey. The Phoenix Foundation, a Wellington institution of a band have just released the album 'Buffalo' which I enjoyed through heavy grey headphones at a high street music store. I think they made meagre in roads in the U.K. and their songs are nectarous enough to put on repeat.
thephoenixfoundation.bandcamp.com/track/flock-of-hearts
OK, so not my i-Pod, but that of the waitresses at the Blend bar who took control of the sound system and turned up the volume of this 90's soul duo's worldwide hit. I heard this as I was mopping the floor of the kitchen on my 'work week' and sang down the end of my mop-cum-microphone whilst sliding down the waxy floors with pompous skill.
Only after a little research did I realise that the duo are no more. Charles Pettigrew passed away nine years ago. Thank you for this memory Charles.
Re-live an infinitely 90's video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vytZ8_03tqw
Wellington Song of the Day: Phoenix Foundation - Flock of Hearts
I'd be inconsiderate if I weren't to mention a 'local' band on my journey. The Phoenix Foundation, a Wellington institution of a band have just released the album 'Buffalo' which I enjoyed through heavy grey headphones at a high street music store. I think they made meagre in roads in the U.K. and their songs are nectarous enough to put on repeat.
thephoenixfoundation.bandcamp.com/track/flock-of-hearts
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