Hipsters, unite
Other notable works included Richard Maloys' 'Inside Outside Upside Down' - basically lots of cardboard stapled together. Another, 'Butter Body', showed a video of him moulding his weight in dairy into a smooth mound.
The crowd, mostly with neat trimmed beards, shiny waistcoats and clown like make-up were obedient enough during an eighteen minute broadcast by Layla Rudneva-Mackay whereby her computer narrated - in a Stephen Hawkings' monotone - a confession of the artist when caring for her dying mother and coping with her dyslexia. The curator and much of the audience broke down in tears at the conclusion of this programme. I however lost interest within the first few threads of the androgynous 'Fitter Happier' musings and was found absorbed in a petty debate with my self as to what to eat for lunch (I finally decided upon a Roti Chanai from The Satay Kingdom - a delicious Malaysian meal for only $6 / ₤3).
The horizontal rains have ensured that most activities in the past week have been indoor based, and mostly in the intimate cage of the hotel. Let me expose to you the kaleidoscope of distinguished and tarnished rogues who parade down the arcade of my current accommodation. My new room-mates for the weekend were made up of three Fusbal players, based in Napier and in their mid-thirties, who were all trialling for the New Zealand national team. One of them was an affable Kiwi, the other a stern and authoritative German (no surprises there then) and finally a festive spirited Brazilian, who used to play in midfield for the club team Corinthians in his native country. The Sao Paolo resident captured me one evening, quickly after my admission that I would be visiting his home resorts later in the year, and meticulously took me through album after tedious album within his laptop archive of photographs from his recent vacation in Paraty and scans of his city. His kindness and enthusiasm was admirable yet his amateur photography was utter rhubarb. I was more concerned as to where to direct my forlorn gaze as he had a disobedient glass eye which circled the room in great eagle swoops. I decided that the best place to focus on him was at the bridge of his nose so as not to offend him in any way.
The other guests at the hotel are a monstrous combination of drunks and connoisseurs of the contraband. They are hospitable enough, and my curtailed free spending has meant that during my daily browsing of the free wi-fi in the lobby in the evenings I have been subject to vocal abuse and daily taunts of "put down your PSP and come and have some Scrumpy with us" as they all conga down to a local den. Most encouraging of all is a mop haired Welsh man who looks and has the same staccato mannerisms as of Pippin from The Lord of the Rings. He is under continuous inebriation, swaggering his plastered frame from one plastered wall to another like the chiseled etching of Morten Harket in the final scenes of the 'Take On Me' video by A-Ha.
(Skip to 3:20 on the video - actually, just listen to the whole thing, it's a perfect pop song and my earliest music video memory: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EXxMlIExpo).
Another source of distant amusement is an English man, borrowing rich Ricky Gervais features (a bristly stubble to hide his chins and pudding hands) who described to me at length his journey to work on Saturday morning following a late night of birthday revelry. By his accounts, after waking in a zombie like state, he stayed on the bus past the construction building he was employed at and instead spent two hours amidst the moss and earth trying to search for mushrooms growing in a local park and placing the hallucinatory fungi in his top pocket for keeps. When he returned to the site, already three hours late, his supervisor assumed he had been working at the back yard all day and rewarding him with a newspaper of fresh fish and chips.
However, my favourite character thus far has been the mute ogre, who resides in the secret pit of a bed opposite mine. We have not shared a word, nor have I heard him speak to anyone at all in the past few days. All that he divulges to the world is his symphonic flatulence which erupts into life when the curtains are drawn and he is in ignorant sleep. The brass band carnival of noise to an unprepared twilight is the reward for sharing a dorm with the viking assassin.
The job search, in its limited horizons has led me to a cruel rejection for a dishwasher hand at Great India restaurant on Courtenay Place. The much prized scalp of a role was taken earlier that day, much to my disdain. However, Rakesh, the Leicester born Manager, to his eternal credit, saw a sparkle in my eyes and offered me an improved full time job as a waiter / bar staff. I had to decline this fair proposal as my notice period was to be two weeks, which effectively would have meant that I'd have to resign on the second day of work. The lure of free lunch and dinner, along with the stalking scent of the tandoor was enough for me to contemplate the role for a few seconds at least.
Wellington's Botanic Gardens
Twelve days of non stop driving merciless rain continues and there isn't even enough space in between the rain drops to take a breath for clarity. My pale blue umbrella has been destroyed by the gusts and swept away any optimism that I had in my bow. Open to the storms I chased the bright red cable car up to the Botanic Gardens towards the summit of the city. The rattle of rain on the tarmac and on my brow did not lean well to the experience. I followed a meandering path and a gentle floral perfume to Lady Norwood's Rose Garden, which is regarded as the Pièce de résistance of the enclosure. On reaching the maze court I was left disappointed to see that the petals were lying dead and colourless on the dirty ground and only the thorns on the stems were in prominence.
Lady Norwood's Rose Garden, Botanic Gardens
Wellington Song of the Day: S-Club 7 - You
Romero, the Brazilian ex-Corinthians footballer showcased his abundance of musical zeal to room 404 at The Cambridge soon after giving me an extended showcase of his pictorial amphitheatre. His laptop playlist included too many upbeat songs for me to bear, but this sudden blast from my youth was enough for me to wink in appreciation. To his good eye, at least.
Indulge in the good times with the seven wonders of the entertainment world:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afd3FETvNYE
This song stirred me a couple of weeks back in Mickey Finn's Irish pub, where a solo musician with an empty stare played to an empty stage as I tapped on an empty glass. His one saving grace to his exaggerated throaty crooning was this little interval from the bland, where his unaccompanied pickings to his acoustic guitar actually revealed some hidden charm from the Pink Floyd original. A sugar sweet episode referring to Syd Barrett and his eventual breakdown.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
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