British High Commission, Te Puke

To the great disappointment of British readers, the place name in the title is actually pronounced Teh-Puh-Kee.

Mr Street is a distinguished English gentleman, with handle-bar mustache and impeccable social aplomb; the residence a little piece of England with a clear Kiwi
twist. I was invited in and immediately made to feel at home. I regaled them with stories and we swapped enthusistic opinions about quality motorcars. After being told by a Kiwi relative at the table that I have a Top Gear accent I had to confess that I am in fact a Bristolian born and bred. After the second post repast glass of wine the girls retired to watch some awful Jennifer Aniston movie about a break-up and the men topped up for a third - all in keeping with being good Baptists.

The following day, the Ambassador gave me a tour in the open top TR3



and afterwards helped me tinker with the bike and fix a problem with the headlights, caused by the most minute spring and copper contact. Finding it after an hour of dead ends made me feel triumphant. It is not often that things go back together again after I have dismantled them.

The evening barbeque party was thrown apparently in my honour (although the Kiwis don't need much of an excuse to fire up the gas coals). The banter flowed and was very entertaining: the British and Kiwi sense of humour has a comfortingly large overlap.

Church on Sunday was good, with a solid, well planned message which taught me a couple of new things. Then after lunch we headed down to Papamoa Beach. It turned out that fishing wasn't possible because the kayaks were elsewhere, but the crew were entertaining themselves with a 250cc beach buggy towing brave adrenaline-junkie Kiwis on a boogie board along the water's edge through the incoming shallows. I took a turn in driving the buggy, but didn't go in for the drag; I didn't fancy losing the skin off of my feet and knees and elbows.

Finally, we went inside to catch the end of a 1000km motor race on TV, the Bathurst V8 Supercar challenge which happens annually in Australia and is a derby between FORD and HOLDEN (which is GM-Vauxhall in the UK). Everyone here is a Holden fan. Therefore I was rooting for Ford, especially since they hadn't won in 8 years. Admittedly the last laps were very exciting. Most of the room had been there since 10am when the race began. (There are some REALLY committed petrol heads here). It must have been a long day, especially to see Ford romp home for a convincing win. Hooray the underdogs.

This week I aim to find work, visit Mount Maunganui and get out on the sea.

THE AMBASSADOR PENS A RESPONSE:
"11th October 2006: Confidential. Blog Eyes Only.

The Special Envoy from Pomgolia seemed to have all the right credentials, known and highly recommended by my brother and niece back in Blighty.

But sadly he has two serious shortcomings.
We call them Jappas in the antipodes. No self respecting Pom drives/rides a Jappa here. Not without a wig and dark glasses.

And then he admired my 'Citroen' in the drive - 'it's a Ford' I hear you all cry - and I nearly did.




He has however some redeeming features - dishwash hands have earned him serious brownie points from 'her who shall be listened to'.

And he likes his cars, not that he knows his Alvis from his E type.
And he speaks proper. He hasn't yet used the annoying Kiwi term of satisfaction 'sweet as'. "

END TRANSMISSION