It is very hard to type one-handed with an overly-affectionate cat draped over your shoulder (the three of them have decided to shadow my every move in case I decide to leave them again). It's 4am and the Jet-lag has poked me awake. I need to do something quiet so that I don't waken the rest of the household.

It is a wierd feeling being back here. I'm not exactly over-joyed to be 'home' but the animals are here and the other 4 members of the 'Not' family seem very much at home here. I have never felt homesick per se but the void that my separation from Hingerland has left in my life is tangible and I never wake up as relaxed and happy here as I do when I am back in the Mother Country.

Imagine my surprise when trawling through my quick fix of The Guardian and Independent one Sunday during our visit home to find that someone had written a book actually saying something negative about Kiwiland Hadn't he heard of Kiri Te Kanawa, the All Blacks and those lovely big flat-footed kiwi? Hadn't he seen all those handsome young men with the polished faces in Earls Court? Well undoubtedly this author HAD seen the polished-faces, and some other bits as well as, although predatory may be a slightly harsh word for him, he certainly appears to enjoy his Gaydom

Anyway. I quickly tore out the review of the book and made a note to keep an eye out at Heathrow, where of course I couldn't find the review, forgot the author's name and generally failed at my task!

Imagine my surprise when I got into our local supermarket to re-stock on bread, milk etc in my groggy jet-lagged state to find his notoriety had reached these shores. Usually negativity about Kiwiland is shrouded in denial with a quick sweeping under the carpet but this time it was in magazines and had been covered by National Radio. What had he said? I bought the magazine and then ... my own step to far ... I tried to buy his book.

Not in the first shop, nor the second so I resorted to the best bookshop in the area. Couldn't see it there either and when I asked at the till they glowered at me and eventually swiped a copy from a tiny, cleverly obscured shelf behind the counter "a charming man" spat the assistant. ".. determined to say negative things before he even came here".
"Aww yis" I replied trying to disguise my vaguely Estuary accent
(I am getting quite good at hiding my birthright in situations where being a pom wouldnt be a good thing.)

So here I am with my little time bomb in my hand "Going as Far as I Can" by Duncan Fallowell. So far (with the possible exceptions of the expressions of gay lust) it could be me writing it. Where is the architecture? Why did they flatten it and build mini-US cities? Why does a yearly screening of Dancing With the Stars serve as "Culcha" for the masses?

This could go one of two ways for Mr Fallowell. It could make him shed-loads of filthy lucre, or he could sell not a jot here due to their fierce National Pride. Let's hope it is the former as I rather like his writing. .... Come on guys at least he liked Christchurch