Love letter to Wellington
I shouldn't be writing this and please don't tell Christchurch. I am a little guilty about our weekend together behind Christchurch's back, but the thought of your long smooth streets, your unblemished civic facilities, your array of boutiques, cafes, bars and restaurants and even your weather makes me think that my relationship with Christchurch is in trouble. We've had problems recently, Christchurch and I: she's been ill and I am doing my best to support her but since September 2010, she has not been the same vibrant girlish beauty that I fell in love with all those years ago. Spending the weekend with you was a tonic Wellington and I shall think of you while I work to nurse Christchurch back to health. It may even come to pass that nursing her may be futile and her battle against Brownlee, Simpson and Sutton is a losing one and while my enduring love for Christchurch will mean I will grieve, I will happily run to your arms.

Brian Eerwriter in the exactly the same place
as I left him on Saturday. I presume he's at
least moved to the toilet and back a couple
of times. Maybe.

To be fair, it was nice to get out of dodge and go somewhere civilised where we weren't going to get eaten to buggery by sandflies and where the roads aren't four wheel drive tracks masquerading as city streets. My beloved, light of my horizon and mistress of all she surveys booked tickets and accommodation with relatives and we were off for a weekend of culture. This obviously meant a certain amount of waiting while she tried on dresses and me being forced to try on silly looking trousers, but the payoff was a chance to sample the local beerscape (see the On Beer page) and have a few in the excellent company of Neil Miller, henceforth known on this blog as Brian Eerwriter. Brian is self-employed and thus has time and access to brewers, breweries and bars up and down the country. As long as he writes about them and sells his stories he has the ability to live a life of leisure keeping half an eye on parliament, putting blonde highlights in his hair and making appearances on Radio New Zealand National's Afternoons Panel. Brian Eerwriter is living my dream (less the blonde highlights. I prefer blonde highlights of a different sort - there's a few blondes that have been highlights in my life, but there's also a few who haven't). He also is the mayor of a couple of Wellington's better beerspots and it was where we were at the Malthouse that I make my first recommendation of places to go in Wellington. Or in my case, places to go back to. Also making the shortlist was Sweet Mother's Kitchen for its New Orleans cuisine despite having to queue for a table. I loathe queuing. I hate it more than I hate traffic but the Jambalaya was worth it. Recommendations continue for brunch at the Cuba St Bistro and Duke of Carvell's. Also for a quiet coffee in the chappish surrounds of Crumpet on Courtenay St.

A child.
Not one created by Sarah and Harry.

I've been mindful that a trip to Wellington is an overdue chance to catch up with one of my favourite people, Sarah Choolmate, her partner in life Harry Usband and their children, who now also join the ranks of my favourite people. I have been trading letters with Sarah since we parted ways at the end of 7th form: she to a double degree in law and commerce, public service and international travel; me to the Army, dressing like a tree and being cold and the other things that have kept me occupied until Attila the Wife came along. A convivial afternoon was spent at the Southern Cross where the children roam free. In fact, the children roam, chase each other and invariably one of them will cook the other in the pizza oven or create some action that will leave one of the others in tears. Usually I am a critic of parents that allow their children to ruin the ambiance of a pub, however this place seemed to be designed to cater for parents with children and it seemed to work rather well. You have to feel for parents when their child reaches the stage that they become grizzly or noisy as there are few venues which are as much child friendly as parent friendly. I tip my hat to the Southern Cross in this regard. Sarah and Harry have a child that is going to grow into Andre the Giant and a wee girl who isn't. They also have a holiday home on the market in Ohakune, so give me a whistle if you're interested. In short, they represent everything I ought to have achieved if I hadn't been very busy buggering about with my life, but I don't begrudge them their domestic bliss for a second. We enjoyed a very convivial dinner (after I had read a story to young Andre) and the embers of our friendship were left well stoked. This part of the blog serves for Attila and me to thank them for their hospitality. There's a lamp in the window for you in Christchurch.

Picturesque North Fendalton. The empty car park
spaces have been photoshopped in.

Wellington wasn't at all drab, drizzly or dire. There is a (probably justified) perception that Wellington is dominated by its changeable maritime weather and that some days you are lucky if you don't drown in the rain leaving only an inside-out umbrella clutched in your cold lifeless hand in the gutter. Conversely there is a saying that you can't beat Wellington on a good day. There was some drizzle, but by and large my majestic cloth umbrella with its cane handle was used mainly for me to lean on while we perambulated, bimbled and soaked up our surroundings and the bright sunshine. Further, our digs were located near the Zealandia bird sanctuary where the air was peppered with Tui ravings and punctuated at night by Morepork calls. I also fell for the collection of villages that surround the city centre. They are picturesque wee things and Kelburn was within inches of the cable-car down to the CBD. There is one thing I would change though: as I spent most of my time in a state of geographical confusion, I would change the names of the suburbs to something more familiar. Consequently Kelburn is now North Fendalton and Miramar (where we missed a film at the Roxy because there is nowhere to park) is now New New Brighton. Actually, this raises a wee bugbear. There is nowhere to park in Wellington. There are plenty of car parks in Christchurch because every missing building is now operated by Wilsons. Still, I would rather look at tall buildings than car parks and as we ducked through the clouds on the flight back into Christchurch I sadly thought I would rather be looking at Wellington than my own home town. So we say goodbye to Wellington, Middle of Middle Earth*, city of smooth tarmac, playground for beer lovers, capital of brunch and keeper of my heartstrings.

*How the bloody hell did this happen? Have we not got over all this Lord of the Rings crap yet?