Life Begins at 49

By Chris Brady

As he saw his 50th birthday approaching, Chris Brady realised things had to change. When his children wouldnt leave home, he and his wife did. This is the story of the huge gamble they took, uprooting themselves from the security of a job and home on the idyllic Waiheke Island (population 7000) in New Zealands Hauraki Gulf, and moving half way around the world to London (population, 12 million).

There Chris explored the UK and Europe with the passion and enthusiasm of a twenty-year old. As an historian, he delighted in finding everything from pre-historic ruins to twentieth century icons, most notably the Abbey Rd crossing!

And just to prove that old gits can do anything, after three years away, Chris and his wife came home in style. The book details their camping trip through the UK, their trip around Europe, and finally, their epic journey on the Trans-Siberian railway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Sep 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477136836

Chris Brady

Chris Brady was inspired by his work with children in education and theater arts. Touched by a local tragedy that brought profound pain to children and families of Newtown, Connecticut, he felt compelled to bring his hopeful reflection on their loss, to light, in this, his first children’s book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rachael, our youngest daughter, had often told us that there was no two ways about it, as soon as she turned 16, she was leaving home. As happens with many teenagers, however, the foibles and idiosyncrasies of clearly senile and geriatric parents were deemed to be preferable to the stark harshness of the real world. When it became clear that the exodus was not about to begin anytime soon, there was obviously only one solution. We would have to go. We had been raising kids for 23 years, a change seemed like a splendid idea, and when we raised the idea of going overseas for a year or two, our kids were all wonderfully supportive. We felt confident that they could all look after themselves, so I arranged a teaching position in London and off we went!

We left New Zealand on August 28, 2002, just after Rachael turned 18. We said a very emotional goodbye at Mangere, boarded the plane, and sat on the tarmac for two and a half hours while the pilot talked about replacing an engine. This did not seem overly propitious, but airlines know how to deal with this sort of situation very effectively. They feed you. Airlines are always feeding people, whether you’re awake or asleep, sober or not, hungry or full. I now wonder if passengers’ baggage allowance should include the 3.5 kg gained on each flight. Still, the plane finally managed to take off all right, and we were on the way to London. Due to the lateness of takeoff, our scheduled three hour break at Bangkok became twenty minutes, just enough time to run from one terminal to the other and catch the connecting flight. By the time we arrived at Heathrow, we had been flying and eating for over twenty-four hours, and we were knackered. However, flight fatigue must never be taken into consideration by immigration officers, especially at Heathrow. The immigration people there are without a doubt the rudest, most arrogant, intimidating, self-righteous, officious officials anywhere in the universe. If this seems a wee bit harsh, it was certainly our experience the first time we landed there, and every single other time we used that airport. They ask the most inane questions and you so much want to take the mick out of them but you daren’t. For they have the kingdom, the power and seem pretty keen on getting some glory. You have to stand there saying, yes sir, no sir, I’m very sorry, sir, all the time thinking, come on, you meathead, just let me through. Bastards.

Eventually they did let us through, and we go to the meeting point to be picked up and taken to our flat by a company called Meet and Greet. This was strange, really, because they neither met nor gret us. Instead we waited for three hours for the driver to arrive. When he finally did turn up, he was vaguely apologetic, led us plus two other waiting passengers to his car, and we took off. He insisted he knew where he was going, but also insisted on using what to us at that time was a strange new device called GPS. It soon became clear that this stood for God Punishes Sinners, for we were driven all over London, when all we wanted to do was find our place in Romford, and sleep. After a couple of hours, we spotted a road sign saying Romford, Straight Ahead, and the driver immediately turned right. We wept a silent tear, promised in our hearts that we would repent, and at last we were delivered to the flat. Unfortunately we couldn’t find the key, and the driver suggested that we get back in the car. Ha! I think not! We declined his offer, watched him disappear, and found the key under the mat. Secret hiding places are obviously universal world wide. We went in, found the bed and crashed.

The next morning was our first full day in London. We caught the train to Liverpool St station, then to Oxford Circus. I shall never forget the sight as I emerged into Oxford St. Bloody hell, I thought, there’s more people here in one street than on the whole of Waiheke. I’d been quite well known back on the island—big fish, small pond—sort of stuff, but here clearly I would be just a little amoeba in a big ocean. It was great! So many people, so many nationalities, so many record shops!! And so many pubs! I felt driven to taste my first English pint, ordered a Strongbow, and thought how absurdly sweet their beer was. Someone later told me it was cider. Over the next few days, as we explored and visited so many of the places we’d heard and read about, it was as if we’d been on a magic carpet ride, and suddenly transported into a totally new world, a mystical, far off place of legends and fairy tales. But all it had taken was an economy class ticket on Thai Airways and we were now part of it all.

Chapter 2

(In which we meet baked beans, colonialism and London classroom behaviour)

Over the next week, before I started work at Bower Park School, we had time to explore London. It was such a buzz seeing all those places that we’d only ever heard of, Buckingham Palace, Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus, and taking in the magnificence and grandeur of it all. So many of the buildings and monuments were so impressive and beautiful. That was one side of it, because as impressed as I was, I also kept thinking how much of this was just a monument to an out-dated British imperialism that had thrived on the exploitation of both the British working class and of the far-flung colonies. I thought it best to keep this to myself, however, lest I be deported as a latter day Marxist, coming to corrupt the minds of the British youth. (It was at this time I finally realised there’s only one letter’s difference between British and brutish, but I kept that quiet too. I later found out that James Joyce once had the same thought. Great minds…) And of course, one of the first places I visited was The Crossing. Having been a Beatle freak since, well, since the 60s, I found that being in London was just like being in a time machine. It didn’t matter that it was no longer the Swinging Sixties, it was still London, and I was there! So we walked across the crossing (several times…), through Carnaby St, down Savile Row where they played on the roof top, and sat patiently in Soho Square for hours at a time, hoping we might glimpse Paul visiting his MPL offices. We never did. Bit of a shame really, it meant that he never got the chance to get my autograph… .

The other thing we had to do, apart from visiting all these wonderful places, was to survive. Neither of us had started work yet, and as all Kiwi travellers in London know, the dollar doesn’t go far. So we searched for the cheap food shops, and found Lidls. What a splendid place! Baked beans for 9p a can. Soup for 13p. Tinned mushrooms for 21p. We were made! We found out where to buy fresh fruit and veggies (at the Romford market) and where to get cheap bread (Tesco’s), and we were set. Mmm, well, it was cheap, but the novelty wore off pretty quickly, after all there’s only so many ways you can have baked beans on toast. You know you’re getting desperate when you start cutting the toast into pretty shapes before you put the beans on, hoping that’ll change the taste a bit. It didn’t. But we knew it wouldn’t be long before we started getting paid, and then we’d be able to really lash out. Like buy tinned spaghetti as well.

Our other big discovery was finding out what a true Romfordian is. Romford is the town where we lived, and is part of the London Borough of Havering. We discovered in our first few weeks there that to be a proper local, you had to be able to spit, chew gum, say the f-word, drop rubbish on the streets (the closer to a rubbish bin the better), and whack your children on the head while telling them to shut their bleeding gobs. To achieve true Romfordian status, it was preferable if you could do all of this at the same time. Clearly we had been sheltered living on Waiheke, but we couldn’t believe the amount of rubbish on the streets, especially on a Saturday or Sunday morning. And the way many parents spoke to their kids just stunned us. Mind you, it wasn’t like that everywhere in London. In the posh parts, like Mayfair and Kensington, the parenting skills seemed somewhat more refined, even to the extent of letting baby lie on the back seat of the Rolls while nanny changed its nappy.

And let’s not forget the Essex girls who frequented the pubs and lined up to go clubbing, in the skimpiest of clothing, no matter what the weather. I watched with great interest, purely from an academic point of view, I stress, as winter approached, then arrived, and the girls still wore skirts up around their bums and the briefest of tops, obviously designed not for warmth or comfort, but to impress the macho Essex boys, whose grasp of the English language and the subtleties of courtship were a wonder to behold.

Then it was time for us to start work. Joke had found a job in the accounts department at the London Institute, and I started at Bower Park. It soon became clear that teaching in a London school was going to be very different from anywhere I’d taught at home. I found it absurdly difficult to start with. Initially I wondered if it was a language thing. Maybe these London kids just didn’t understand my strange requests, like Please sit down, Don’t throw the chair across the room, No, you mustn’t take Billy’s tie and throw it out the window. The bizarre thing was that no matter how badly they behaved, they kept calling me Sir. And of course, I must not exaggerate. Not all the kids were like this. I guess the majority of them were just normal school kids, happy to learn if the lessons were interesting enough. It’s just that the naughty ones… no, not allowed to say that… it’s just that the behaviourally challenged kids displayed worse behaviour than any I’d ever seen in NZ. But hey, don’t we all need a challenge?!! I got one all right.

Chapter 3

(In which a fortune is paid out, Baker St is discovered, and we have a home)

The flat we’d moved into on arrival in London was a very temporary one, and soon we had arranged a more permanent one. We checked it out and went to pay the bond and first month’s rent. This was very, very painful. It cost ₤1100, $NZ3500 at the time, and we still hadn’t been paid. We hoped that our English bank manager would be as kind to us as our one on Waiheke had been. He was. We survived until payday, then lashed out uncontrollably, buying our first lot of deep fried English chips. The English do not know how to cook chips. Chips are not chips if they are not properly drained, shaken and salted. English chips are none of these, and would be more aptly entitled Soggy, Greasy Mess. But I loved them!

However, we could not squander our hard earned cash on chips. (By the way, why are they called French fries all over the world? Even the French don’t call them that.) We needed to visit the places of culture, expand our minds, and perhaps buy one or two items that would enrich our spiritual and inner beings, and be a permanent reminder of our time in this great land. So we found The Beatles Store in Baker St. Oh my gosh. People in NZ thought I had a bit of a Beatles collection, and I suppose it wasn’t bad for an Antipodean, but when I saw what was in this shop, Beatle thingies I’d never dreamed about, and the BIG STUFF, like the autographs of the Great Ones, oh how I lusted. And how I yearned to win Lotto. ₤3500 for a wooden spoon signed by John and Yoko. ₤6000 for a postcard with all four signatures. I looked at my wife. She smiled, but I could hear her thinking, Piss off!! So we did, and saved all that money. (I did sneak back later a buy a calendar, and some postcards, and some posters, and a phone case… .)

But more urgent matters needed our attention. We had a flat to occupy, and no furniture. Fortunately we found a wonderful second-hand shop run by a splendid Polish chap who reminded us both enormously of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. He was decidedly helpful even when we couldn’t understand him. He delivered all the furniture promptly and even gave us a free standard lamp. He also gave us the three point plug which had come off the lamp and suggested we connect it before turning the lamp on. I had brought none of my tools with me from NZ, so this posed a small challenge, but it’s amazing what you can do with a kitchen knife, and hey presto, there’s our working standard lamp. We were very proud of that lamp not only because I had fixed it but also because it was just so retro. It had a pink lampshade and an unbelievably tacky stand with even tackier golden tin foil around it. It was so awful it was great. Moving into the empty flat and getting second-hand furniture was just like when we had got married, so we decided this whole adventure was going to be our second honeymoon. But of course we were a lot older now, so that when we went to bed at night, it was more a case of making wild passionate sleep.

We did not spend all our time in bed. The next Sunday we headed into London to see the big protest march against the Government’s proposed fox-hunting ban. As veggies, we supported the ban wholeheartedly, but somehow ended up in the march, thinking it was just an anti-government march, which is always worthwhile, no matter which country you’re in. But as soon as we recognised the stupidity of our actions, we found an anti-anti-fox hunting ban march and joined that instead. It wasn’t half obvious who was who. The pro fox hunting brigade were much better dressed, spoke much more politely and clearly voted Conservative. The antis were much scruffier, more vocal and were obviously Communists. Well, that’s what the Tories thought, I imagine. We got to hold a big banner and get our picture taken by the official police photographer, and I thought, I haven’t had this much fun since 1995, when the Blokes Liberation Front joined the McGillicuddies and Aunt Fanny’s Sewing Circle for a demo outside the American embassy in Wellington, chanting wildly, USA, out of Washington! It’s amazing what you can do when you’re passionate… or inebriated.

Chapter 4

(In which Cardiff is visited, opera is seen, and National Express bus drivers make us very cross)

Part of the problem of teaching in the UK is that there are so many holidays. They operate on a three term, six half-term system, which means you work for a few weeks, get a week off, work for a few more weeks, get two weeks off, and so on during the year until the six week summer holidays in July and August. This can cause great problems for people like me because there are just so many places to visit. Nice problem to have, though. For my first half term break I decided to visit Cardiff. This was very brave of me because Joke, being far too sensible to be a teacher, wasn’t on holiday so off I went all on my own. I know thousands of people go on holiday on their own every year, but we’d done most of our holidaying together and I was just a little apprehensive. What if the Welsh didn’t speak English? What if they kept saying, of course Bob Deans didn’t score a try? Even worse, what if, once they realised I was from NZ, they tried to draft me into the national rugby team??? (I had been undoubtedly a star for the Reporoa Golden Oldies in 1980 but that was under no pushing in the scrum rules.) My fears were of course unfounded. Cardiff, and Wales, was great! Everything people say about the Welsh is true. They’re friendly, they talk to strangers (unlike the English), and their accent is delightful. The lady at the B&B fed me copious amounts of brekkie and thought my photos of Waiheke were wonderful. The Millennium Stadium was awesome, and I learnt that it’s still called Cardiff Arms by heaps of locals, whatever the authorities say. The National Museum had heaps of Roman and Celtic exhibitions, and I was most impressed that I could still translate some of the Latin inscriptions. Apparently there is more to Latin than amo, amas, amat.

My scanty knowledge of Latin, however, was not a great deal of use on my return to London, when we went out to the opera. Classical music to my wife is like Beatles to me and it was only proper that we should make at least one visit to the opera. We went to The Barber of Seville, which is a very famous opera and was definitely written by either Rossini, Mozart or Puccini, and it was being performed at the London Coliseum. It was a splendid night out, the first time I had ever been to an opera, and I behaved very well. I did not fall asleep once, I waited until intermission before I asked my wife what the story was all about, and afterwards I agreed wholeheartedly that the singing was outstanding, the costumes electrifying and the acting superb. I did not mention that a lot of the time during the performance I was trying to work out how to get a ticket to the upcoming All Blacks v Wales game in Cardiff. Also, I had made a very good effort to dress appropriately, having worn both shoes and trousers, as well as a shirt, of course. I now feel my wife has finally forgiven me for my transgression twenty one years ago, when I wore shorts and jandals to the Sydney Opera House for a piano recital by Peter Donaghue. Well, it was Australia… .

Unlike our time in Sydney, Stockport (near Manchester), where we visited the following weekend, was not blessed with sunshine. We were met by apparently traditional northern English weather, and had to borrow raincoats. But the weather was the least of our problems. Getting there turned out to be much more of a mission than we had expected. We had decided to try the famous National Express coach service, as it was considerably cheaper than the train. We boarded the bus in London, being very careful to check with the driver that we were definitely on the right bus to Stockport. Absolutely, he says, jump on. We then depart, and it soon becomes very clear that neither of the drivers can read. We gathered this because all over the bus, including right by the driver’s seat, were signs saying NO SMOKING. But because they couldn’t read, the drivers obviously were not aware of this prohibition, and smoked the whole journey. Now readers who smoke and feel very hard done by with society’s growing reluctance to accept this indulgence may well feel, jolly good show. But for those of us who prefer the air we breathe to be contaminated by the least possible number of modern poisons, this was a pain in the neck. Still at least we were going in the right direction. Well, we thought we were. As we neared Manchester, after what seemed forever, we started to notice motorway signs saying Stockport. Right, we thought, we’ll be turning off soon. Alas, no. Some time later, we pull into the Manchester terminal, get off the bus, and ask the driver why we didn’t stop at Stockport on the way. Stockport? he says, nah, you’re on the wrong bus. What? we said, but we asked you In London if this bus was going to Stockport and you said it was. Oh well, he replies, you’ll just have to catch a local bus," and wanders off to get his coffee. Bum, we think, and trudge around in the rain trying to find the right bus. As always happens in these circumstances, we eventually did find it, but our feeling of goodwill to all men, in particular to certain drivers of National Express, was not very high.

Stockport and Manchester, though, were interesting places. I had expected Manchester to be a typically Northern English city—industrial, dirty and polluted. Well, that’s the stereotype I had in my mind. But the central area was delightful. It had been rebuilt after an IRA bomb attack in 1996, and was a thoroughly splendid place. I don’t suppose they can do much about the weather, though. The one thing I did want to do in Manchester, and which my wife absolutely forbade, was to gauge the reaction when I walked through the streets wearing my Beckham is a tosser t-shirt. I presume, and hope, that she took this stance because of concerns for my personal safety and not for any deep seated affection for this prince of England’s alternative monarchy.

The trip on the coach back to London seemed to last forever. Going along the motorways is fine, but driving through London is diabolical. You must keep remembering we had come from Waiheke, where the phrase traffic jam has a totally different meaning. Still, we made it home ok, and there’s a nice little touch to the end of our Manchester visit. I took the liberty of writing to National Express about our trip up, and they sent us a very apologetic letter in return, very sorry for the inconvenience caused, and please accept the enclosed voucher to use on your next National Express trip. Very nice of them, except they forgot to enclose the voucher!

Chapter 5

(In which the British Museum is visited, one learns that the Elgin Marbles are not part of a child’s game, and Cleopatra’s Needle is found, but not in a haystack)

By mid-November we had been in Britain for two and a half months, and the initial excitement was as big as ever. London itself is such an amazing place and there is so much to see, to do, to feel, to experience. For me, as a History teacher, every weekend seemed to turn up something new and exciting. Even street names (Jewry St, Brewers’ Lane, Old Castle St) and church names (St Andrew-By-the-Wardrobe was always our favourite) conjured up stories from the past about which I knew nothing. It was when I visited the British Museum for the first time that I realised that knowing nothing might have been an exaggerated description of my knowledge. I had heard of the Elgin Marbles years ago, knew they were famous, and that the Greek Government reckoned they should be returned to Greece. I knew they had something to do with sculpture but did not know what. What I did know was that not far from our flat in Romford was a series of perfectly round stone boulders, about 50 cm in diameter, which served as a shop front traffic barrier. Because they were round, like kids’ marbles, and made of stone, I had somehow persuaded myself that this was what the Elgin Marbles would look like. And this is what I expected when I turned up at the British Museum. I got myself a museum map, (the free one, not the glossy but expensive one) and trotted off to find the famous marbles.

Eventually I found myself in a room with a series of magnificent Greek artefacts, including a stunning collection called the Parthenon Sculptures. These were breathtaking in their beauty and awesome in their majesty, and I was thrilled to be able to view them so close up. But I still wanted to see the Elgin Marbles, and in one of my more pronounced foolish decisions, I decided to ask one of the Museum attendants. Excuse me, but could you please tell me where the Elgin Marbles are? I say, in that hushed, deferential tone one uses only in a museum. Yes, sir, the attendant replies, looking at me in just a slightly funny way, they’re right there behind you. I thank him, turn around, and find myself looking once again at the Parthenon Sculptures. I’m about to turn around and tell him he obviously hasn’t understood my question, when I’m hit with a full blown, head-on, Damascus-type revelation. The Parthenon Sculptures are the Elgin Marbles. Oh my gosh, how stupid can one person be. I feel my cheeks reddening, and try to move away from the attendant as nonchalantly as possible, but I can feel his eyes burning into the back of my head. Stupid colonial, I can hear him thinking, why do they ever let them out? Still, I learnt something that day. Not only do I now know what the Elgin Marbles are, I also know never to ask a question of a museum attendant unless you’re absolutely certain the question will not render you an absolute idiot.

After that I did manage to find the museum’s famous Reading Room all by myself, and revelled in walking around it, marvelling at the names of the hundreds of notable people who had used it over the years. I wondered if one day in the future a visitor might walk through the room and say to his friend, say, did you know that Chris Brady once walked through here. Oh, his colleague might reply, the meathead who didn’t know what the Elgin Marbles were…

Fortunately, on the way home, I knew when I had discovered Cleopatra’s Needle, because there is a sign right next to it saying Cleopatra’s Needle. This of course saved me the ignominy of asking someone in the street where it was as I stood right next to it. I have no doubt someone in the street would not have been as polite as the attendant in the museum. Yeah, you’re standing right next to it, dumbass, I could imagine them saying, what do you think that is, Britain’s first bloody space rocket????

Chapter 6

(In which my wife meets a life-long hero and we see Paul, Ringo and Eric . . . nearly)

Having had such a jolly time at the opera, we decided to pursue further our association with classical music. That is to say, Joke found out that there was to be a concert in the Royal Festival Hall featuring Daniel Baremboim. Baremboim is one of the greatest classical pianists and conductors of the last fifty years, and his recordings of Beethoven in particular are seen as setting the benchmark for all other pianists. I know this because my wife has told me. When we first met, I had never heard of him, much to my shame, but as one does when one is courting the love of one’s life, I decided it would be a good idea to take an active interest in the man and his music. Unfortunately this was in the 70s when The Beatles, despite having gone their separate ways, were producing such gems as Band on the Run, Imagine and All Things Must Pass, and my music hours were spent on these modern classics rather than listening to Dan. Nevertheless, I did gain valuable brownie points in 1991 when I remembered his name and bought his recording of the complete Beethoven sonatas for Joke’s 40th birthday. Anyway, we managed to get tickets for the concert and set off to the Royal Festival. Even for a barbarian like myself, the concert was stunning. The man is just so talented and brilliant and how he can play all that music without a sheet of paper in front of him is beyond me. But I was interested in not only the concert but also the way Joke was watching. She was absolutely rapt, and I was so pleased I could be there to share her happiness. And even better was to come.

After the concert we found out that Baremboim would be signing copies of his latest recording, so we bought one and waited patiently in line. We had also brought one of the birthday Beethoven sonatas on the off chance he might sign that. Well, we met the man, he signed two of Joke’s CDs, and let me tell you, as we walked away I have never seen anyone so happy in all my life. Joke and I have been blessed with many wonderful times in our marriage, but I had never seen her speechless for happiness. Not even when I asked her to marry me, but then that was over the phone. She was walking six inches off the ground and it was some time before she came back to earth and was able to talk to me, a mere mortal. It was clearly one of the great moments of her life and I was so pleased to be able to share it. Our next concert venture, however, wasn’t quite as successful.

We had also read that there was to be a concert at the Royal Albert Hall to commemorate the first anniversary of George Harrison’s death. The line-up included Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, Eric Clapton and many other stars and friends of George. It was patently obvious that I would have to be there. Unfortunately it proved impossible to get tickets in time but we decided to go along to the hall just in case. This was our first experience of meeting English scalpers. I couldn’t quite understand how there could be so many people yelling out, Buy or sell tickets! when I hadn’t been able to buy even one. Well, still new to the country and wary of being ripped off, we nonetheless bravely approached one of these chaps and entered into discussions. It all seemed a tad shady; he was reluctant to name his price, as was I, till finally he says, ok, you can have two tickets for ₤1500. Goodness me, I exclaimed, although it might have sounded a little different, and it was then it became apparent that I would not be going to the concert. But one must make the most of a bad lot. We did go into the foyer of the hall, mingled with the ungrateful wretches who had scored tickets, and I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was in the building at the same time as the great ones. Small things, small minds, I know, but I did go home happy in the knowledge that when McCartney et al played at the Royal Albert I was there, just on the wrong side of the wall.

Chapter 7

(In which we go on our first European trip, see real Dutch windmills and get in the wrong side of the car)

One of the reasons for choosing to live and work in London was its proximity to the Continent. We all know that any overseas travel from NZ to anywhere, even to Aussie, is a big deal. Well, it is for those of us who aren’t regular business class travellers, and for whom flying business class, let alone first class, is just one of life’s many impossible dreams, like watching Otago win the NPC or hearing Winston apologise to the media. But from London you can go anywhere, anytime, and for bugger all. Our first trip to Europe, to Holland, cost us ₤30 each return, but as we got smarter, and had the regular use of a computer, we found that prices could be even lower. (Our best was flying from London to Cork for ₤2.99, but of course you have to add taxes on top of that. Even so, that trip cost less than ₤25). So our initial sortie to Holland was not the trip of a lifetime, as a flight from Auckland might be, but merely a weekend visit. We were going to see Joke’s relatives, all of whom she had either not seen for a very long time or indeed not even met at all. Before we left I practiced my Dutch. Speaking Dutch is very easy. All you have to do is make a very, very guttural sound, repeat it several times and look grumpy. Many people think that German is guttural but in fact it has a delightfully mellifluous sound to it compared to Dutch. (This is not mere ignorant conjecture on my part. I have it on good authority from my wife, who is both a native Dutch speaker and who learnt German at university. When I first met her I would never have dared to suggest that Dutch sounded like a cross between a roaring chainsaw and a deep-throated gargle, but now she assures me this is in fact the case).

Arriving at Schiphol airport, being for the first time in my life in a country where English was not the first language, was truly exciting. Well, it was to start with. I soon found out that most Dutch speak excellent English, and I was not as linguistically isolated as I had expected. In fact my first mistake was not a language one but a right obvious one. Ok, uncle says, jump in the car, and so, being the passenger I naturally open the left hand door. Back off, bud, he says, I’m driving. Immediately I started pondering one of life’s great mysteries. Why do some countries drive on the right and others on the left? Why can’t they all be like us? (Out of absolute idle curiosity, I did check the net to find out why. Apparently we can blame Napoleon and Hitler. Also, according to one site, 74 countries drive on the left and 166 on the right; according to another site, it’s 53 on the left and 139 on the right. I just hope this discrepancy doesn’t mean some countries don’t really know or care and people are free to drive wherever they like. Mind you, it’s a bit like that in Mongolia.)

The highlight of driving from the airport to the rellies’ house was seeing real live Dutch windmills. Of course I did not let on how exciting this was lest I be thought a right twerp, but it’s pretty cool seeing in real life all those things you’ve only ever seen in a book or on telly. We saw dykes as well, and there were even some clogs at the house. I did not however see any tulips. This may well have had something to do with it being winter. When we arrived at the house there were lots more rellies there and Joke began catching up on all the gossip. I found it all very interesting. Though everyone there could speak English very well, it was natural for them of course to speak in their first language, and often I did not have the faintest idea of what was going on. It’s when everyone bursts out laughing that it’s difficult. Do you join in, pretending it’s all jolly good fun, or do you just sit there po-faced, wondering if everyone’s taking the piss out of you? My romantic visions of experiencing other cultures and of interacting with foreigners whose language I did not speak were rapidly being replaced by a yearning to hear familiar words and phrases from home, like Can we get you another beer, Chris, or Bloody hell, the Crusaders won the Super 12 again!!!

But I got over it, especially when they started handing out presents. It was, after all, Sinterklaas, bit like Christmas except the Dutch do it earlier in December, and Joke’s uncle had gone to a whole lot of trouble to get me a Beatles calendar. Very useful it was too, and I found out that the Dutch have twelve months in a year too, except they spell them all wrong. I mean, Januari just doesn’t look right, does it? Still, a jolly good time was had by all, and we arrived back at the flat in London amazed at how easy international travel was going to be in Europe.

Chapter 8

(In which we celebrate our first Christmas in Britain, and it’s not white)

As December progressed we began getting ready for our first British Christmas. One of the reasons we had come overseas was to experience a different weather pattern from what we had on Waiheke, but so far we had been a little disappointed. From late August, when we arrived, up to November, we had experienced a wonderful autumn, in fact it seemed more like summer, and although the days started to shorten noticeably, it was not particularly cold. We had hoped for a white Christmas, but there didn’t seem much chance of that. Still, it was fun preparing for the season of joy as the days did get darker and trying not to keep humming Christmas on the Beach. It was also to be our first Christmas in 24 years without a little Brady with us, so buying prezzies was much cheaper. We did continue with the tradition of a Christmas tree, but with no kids to entertain, I just cut out a picture of a tree from a magazine and stuck it on the wall. Not quite the same but it did the trick.

Christmas Day finally arrived, and a white Christmas it was not. We woke up to the most gloriously sunny day, beautiful blue sky, and it wasn’t at all chilly. We felt ripped off. All this way for winter Christmas and it’s just like Waiheke in January! But what can you do, who’s going to listen to complaints from a whingeing colonial about a sunny Christmas day. We decided to make the best of it. After our long-established tradition of a bottle of Asti Spumante Riccadonna and peanut butter toast for brekkie, we exchanged gifts. (Every year my wife lives in absolute, total, and, I might suggest, quite irrational fear that I’m going to buy her Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits, but once again I didn’t. I don’t know what it is about Copacabana, but even if I just hum the first two bars she threatens to do all sorts of unmentionable things to my unmentionables, so I only ever do it if I’m in safe running distance.) It was a tad strange, a Christmas with none of our kids there, but I guess that’s one of the prices intrepid explorers have to pay. After brekkie and prezzies, we decided to take a stroll down the main street of Romford. It was bizarre.

Usually there are hundreds of people in South St, no matter what time of day or night. Romford has a large shopping presence, and is also the clubbing capital of London. People actually get on the train to go there, and is the place to see the cream of Britain’s youth. More like sour milk, really. On Christmas morning, however, there was scarcely a soul to be seen. South St was deserted, and it reminded me of The Day of the Triffids. It was all quite strangely pleasant, as we walked along, me in my shorts, jandals and sunnies, looking distinctively un-British. Eventually we met some other people, oddly enough a Japanese couple on holiday (now why would a Japanese couple be spending Christmas day in Romford?) and the gentleman was very worried about my attire. You not cold? he politely enquired, and clearly did not understand my reply about the fortitudes associated with good pioneering stock.

The other surprising aspect of South St that Christmas morning was the mess. Most Saturday and Sunday mornings the streets of Romford are filthy, with rubbish, especially takeaways wrappings, all over the show. (McDonalds should of course be banned world wide, for many reasons, one of which is the damage it does to Romford’s natural beauty). Obviously Christmas Eve was a biggie for the clubbers as well, because there was more rubbish on the streets that day than we’d seen previously. And it stayed there all day. I guess rubbish collectors don’t work on Christmas Day in Havering, and fair enough too, But if that’s the case, all clubbers should be obliged to take their rubbish home with them, even if it is recycled McDonalds, of which we observed several very daintily and artily constructed piles.

I have to admit that by lunchtime some clouds had started to arrive, and that towards evening it did get a wee bit chilly, just enough for me to put on longs. That evening we sat down to Christmas dinner, and as the result of a decision made not long after we arrived in the UK, it was our first ever vegetarian Christmas dinner. There’s no need to bore you with the reasons why we became, and still are, veggie, but we did get a number of comments during the rest of our time in Britain along the lines of, What! How can a good Kiwi bloke be a veggie?!!! Just shows there’s room for all sorts of deviants in this world… .

Chapter 9

(In which we see real Roman remains, a trip down memory lane is included, and we find a real English beach)

Our last outing for 2002 was a trip to Colchester and Clacton on Sea. (I was very keen to make sure I spelt this name correctly, in case some Englishman took umbrage, so I looked it up. The net offers the spelling above, plus Clacton-on-sea plus Clacton-on-Sea. What’s a man to do???) Colchester just blew my mind away. (Some of my more cynical friends might suggest that the gentlest zephyr could achieve this, but let’s not be silly.) Why I found it so fascinating is this. For years I’d studied Roman history at university in Auckland, taught by many wonderful classicists, including Prof Lacey, a legend if ever there was one, but of course there are not many Roman remains in Auckland. All I ever learned was out of books. But when I got to Colchester I was just bowled over. The town has one of the best preserved sections of Roman town walls in Britain, and when I first sighted it, then touched it, it was as if all that study finally made sense. It was just wonderful.

I should mention here that amongst the many Roman history papers I studied at uni, my Stage II paper, with good old Prof Hamilton, was the most difficult. This was not because of any particular inherent difficulty in the paper, nor because of the Latin translations involved, but because of its timing. That year I had only two lectures on a Friday, one at 11am and the Roman paper at 4pm. Unfortunately most of my friends had no afternoon lectures on a Friday that year, and decided a very worthwhile academic and intellectual exercise would be to discuss the week’s learning achievements over a quiet pint at lunchtime. Because of my yearning to make the most of my time at university, and learn as much as I possibly could, I was only too keen to join them. Unfortunately I didn’t realise that lunchtime could stretch from midday till closing time at 10pm. Consequently I missed several lectures on Friday afternoon, not through willful neglect of my own studies, you must understand, but simply out of a desire to increase my knowledge by listening to the learned musings of my colleagues, most of whom were law students and consequently had a great deal to offer about the meaning of life and how to get rich quick. I did also make a substantial contribution to the profits of the local dairy, as on the Fridays when conscience got the better of me and I did turn up to the lecture, I bought vast amounts of peppermints to disguise the fact that I had been drinking. Sadly there were only about ten people in that class, it was in a small room and I don’t think I fooled anyone. I used to hate it when Prof Hamilton would ask me to read out aloud one of the inscriptions. It’s hard enough not slurring in English let alone in Latin.

Back to Colchester. We spent some time walking along the wall, and I was fascinated by it, as I was by the Colchester Castle, where the Roman vaults have survived from round 50AD. Some people think studying history is a waste of time, that it’s the future we should be worried about, not the past. But I’m one of those people who believe that to understand the present and to anticipate and plan for the future, you have to know about the past first. I think that all politicians, especially ones like George W., should have to study history before they’re let loose on an unsuspecting public. How can our leaders expect to avoid making the mistakes of the past if they don’t know about them? Enough! I shall stop trying to justify my existence and get on with my account.

From Colchester we were due to return to Romford but discovered that we could make a quick detour via Clacton on Sea, and so make our very first visit to an English seaside resort and beach. I had read about these resorts ever since I was a kid, in such classics as the Famous Five and Secret Seven. Probably in Noddy too, in the days before Big Ears and Noddy could jump into bed without arousing screams of abuse from our moral guardians. Never did me any harm, but that’s what they all say. (Reading Noddy, I mean, not jumping into bed with a big-eared man; not that I’ve ever jumped into bed with a big-eared man, but it jolly well shouldn’t matter if I have!)

Anyway we found Clacton, and there it