We had looked at possibly moving into the city for these two weeks to be closer to the schools of our older girls. We have been considering quitting Sumner for a while after the trauma of the quakes and while the girls are at school in the city. We spend a lot of time in transit, back and forth from schools or dancing or whatever. The state of the roads after the quakes has added to the drama and time that this takes. But I’d have to say the process of packing up our home and relocating to the cottage has made me stop and reflect on Sumner and my relationship with it…

2013 will mark my having lived in Sumner (excluding wee trips to Wellington) for 20 years. For Katherine it’s nearer 40 years given she grew up here.

Queue swirly screen signaling a trip back in time.

My earliest memories of Sumner were as a child coming out here for a play on the beach and the always hoped for (Hokey Pokey) ice cream. Cave Rock was an endless source of adventure and fun, it was an obvious place in which pirates would have buried their treasure and upon which one could while away hours playing complex games. It seemed huge in my youth and finding new ways to reach it’s summit was always a challenge. I have vague recollections of a cousin or family friend taking a chunk out of their head while running through the cave and requiring medical attention which added to the drama of that day.

I am old enough to remember water lapping underneath the jetty that is now the Poseidon Cafe.

I started to become a regular visitor to Sumner when ‘courting’ Katherine (I believe that is the correct term) way back in 1985. We were married in 1989 and our first home was in St Albans.

We had our hearts set on owning property in Sumner and in 1993 bought a lovely house in Nayland Street. It was in a gloriously sunny position in the block by the beach. It was a little two bedroomed cottage on a large section. Over the next 10 years we turned it into a much larger and more modern home adding a large family room and kitchen along with a huge deck.

Our first two daughters Annie and Molly were born at “The Croft” as we had named the property and in the tradition of the Tangata Whenua their Whenua (placentas) are buried at that property. They too are connected to Sumner.

We sold The Croft in 2002 but rented it from the new owner while we built our Wiggin’s Street property. We had enjoyed renovating and so had set ourselves the goal of building our own property. It was a drama at the time but we ended up with a wonderfully comfortable home, well suited to our needs and with all the mod cons as the saying goes.

Katie was born into our family and came home to Wiggins Street. Her whenua is part of this garden. Our current home is about 15 houses away from where Katherine spent her childhood years.

Along with these two properties I have lived in several others in Sumner when we’ve needed to rent short term. But apart from the houses we’ve lived in we have other deep connections to this seaside community.

Katherine and I were married in the Our Lady Star of the Sea, Catholic Church in March 1989. The church suffered significant damage in the September 2010 earthquake and fatal damage in the February 2011 quake. The powerful aftershock in June 2011 sealed its fate and it was demolished later in 2011. I had served on the Parish Council at the time the parish centre was constructed, this saw significant renovation of the church. It had (ironically) undergone additional renovation in 2010.

All of our girls were baptised in Sumner, the older two went through Our Lady Star of the Sea primary school and Katie is currently there. It is the same school that Katherine and her sisters attended for their primary education. I served on the Board of Trustees for some time. Our girls names are recorded on trophies and plaques for their diligence in the halls of this school.

Katherine’s parents live a block from us, her older sister on the corner of our street. Yet another of her sisters and her three children are three blocks away. It is a family enclave.

I am a regular visitor the the Hollywood Cinema in the village, and an even more regular visitor to Joe’s Garage (one of five coffee shops we have).

A wander down to the village to pick up provisions at the local supermarket can take a while as one invariably meets a friend or neighbour for a chat and a catch up on local news.

The Esplanade is a regular wandering place for me. I never walk to the village by the more direct road way and always prefer to amble along beside the sea. I frequently will go for a wander by the sea (especially on the weekend) just to take in the ever changing scenery that is the ocean.

I love the fact that I can hear the sea from our house. In the summer in particular when one is able to have the windows open, the sea is a constant reminder of our location. Seagulls are ubiquitous and always an efficient way to dispose of half eaten sandwiches or uneaten chips from the fish and chip feast the kids didn’t quite complete.

In a bid a few years back to loose weight and to feel better I started walking. Walking is something that Sumner is great for. One can explore the hillsides, the ‘flat’ or the seaside.

Yes the earthquake has ravaged our suburb, the February one bought death and destruction on a significant scale to our neighbourhood. While many in Christchurch have managed to resume normality we are living with constant reminders of our fragile landscape. Four hundred or so shipping containers are strategically stacked along precarious cliff faces and road ways. The roads themselves are broken and twisted. Many of our historic buildings such as the churches and the community centre have now been demolished.

But I am noticing more and more the spirit of Sumner is alive and well, the locals seem more determined than ever to retain and restore the unique character that is this place. We have a Sumner Rocks Street Party this weekend to celebrate our place in the world. Every car sports a Sumner Rocks bumper sticker, marking our resilience.

As I noted at the start of this ramble we had looked at moving into the city after the quakes, to be be closer to the older girl’s schools.

I don’t want to do that. I like this place… I love this place … It is home.

I used to tell people that I’d be carried out of Sumner in a box. I believe that may actually be the case, and I just hope it’s not for a good 50 years yet.

Part of the trigger for this post was my teenage daughters horror at having to listen to one of my recent purchases on a recent car ride.  I purchased the soundtrack to “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”, it is a great album of Indian music. I have a small collection of Indian music.  I really like it.

I also particularly like soundtracks to movies.  The instrumental kind especially. I liken them to modern classical music, beautifully composed and very evocative. Some of my favourites include the soundtrack to The Mission, the Forrest Gump Suite (which I play very loudly) and most recently the soundtracks to the last few Harry Potter movies composed by Nicholas Hooper.  It is not surprising that I have so many soundtrack albums given my love of movies I guess.

My iTunes Match ‘directory’ tells me I have 10,535 songs or about 44 gb of music currently… I had diligently loaded all of my CDs into iTunes over the last few years and have weened myself off CDs.  We are a digital music home.  At last count there were 7 iPods in our house of various generations and capacity.  We have an Apple TV connected to our stereo and several iPod dock capable devices throughout the house.  We can stream music from our iPad, iPhones or other gadgets.

It allows me to select music that suits the mood quickly and to rediscover old purchases easily.

Along with soundtracks I really love musicals.  I have a good friend who loathes musicals and describes them as ‘those shows where people are mooching about and then suddenly burst into song”.  I can’t get enough of them. I really enjoy seeing them live, I’ve seen a few classics while in Melbourne for business over the years. I’ve been introducing Katie to “Annie” and “Oliver” over the last few weeks. Again I have a series of favourites “Jesus Christ Superstar” and the aforementioned orphan fests.

I use music to manage my moods, to help me think, to escape, to dance to and to affirm the good bits of life.

A predominant theme in my collection would be singer songwriters.  I have a fondness for clever lyrics – for poetry set to music.  Bruce Cockburn, Luka Bloom, Bruce Springsteen, Leonard Cohen, Suzanne Vega, Jackson Browne… they’re all on the most played list.

I have a large collection of classical music.  An quirky ‘attribute’ I have is that I cannot concentrate on written work while listening to music with English lyrics.  I use classical music or foreign music if I want a background when I am writing.  Unusual, but me.  I’ve never been a big fan of open plan offices and every now and again rather than ‘go postal’ I will pop on some headphones and crank up some classical music to drown out the chatter.

Music saved me from being zip-tied by a US Air Marshall while flying in the States recently.  If it had not been for my beloved noise canceling headphones and the genius of Coldplay the woman next to me with the annoying sniff might have been the cause of my  arrest and deportation.  I just closed my eyes and was in Para Para Paradise.

The soundtrack to my life will be a bit like the Forrest Gump Suite.  It’ll have some slow bits, some loud bits, some bits that will evoke tears and some bits that make one want to laugh or dance.  You’re welcome to hum along.

1. While I am pretty good at not getting pinged by the metal detectors I always forget to hold onto my boarding pass. George does this great routine where he places all his various items; belt, slip on shoes etc. into the tray and then holds his boarding pass ready for the TSA inspector to view. I do the first bits but keep forgetting the boarding pass. On a recent trip to India I left it in my jacket, which was in a tray going through the scanner. I endured this silly dance where the security officer tried to extract it from the jacket while not leaving his post.

2. I invariably choose the wrong queue at customs (we never see Mr Clooney have to do this however as he is only traveling ‘domestic’ in the movie, so avoids the whole drama of customs clearance). On a recent trip to Canada I narrowly avoided getting in the line of passengers from the Philippines who, to a person, had not completed their entry cards. As each one presented their passport to the customs officer they were sent back to complete the blank card they were holding. At no point did any official have the common sense to make an announcement to the bewildered and long queue of weary non-English speaking passengers. I did overhear one customs officer berate a cabin attendant from the flight for not having told the passengers. But that’s as far as his initiative went.

3. I travel economy/ coach. George’s magnificent status has him sitting in the comfy end of the aircraft in a big leather chair being schmoozed by pretty cabin attendants. I tend to be down the back with the elderly, the back packers, the holidaymakers and the young parents who choose to circumnavigate the world with dribbling little people. I’m not complaining it’s just cheaper back there so I get to do more of it. And due to my status with the airline I frequently get a visit from a poor cabin attendant who has been sent to hunt me out and welcome me onboard. And the great thing about being down the back with “the People” (as Captain James Cook used to describe the enlisted men under his command) is that it makes it so much more enjoyable on those rare occasions that I get to sit in a comfy seat. I come from a background where a treat is something that you don’t get every day.

4. Unlike Mr C I don’t ever frequent hotel bars by myself. It’s just not a good idea. I suspect that it is a short step from drinking alone in hotel bars to sleeping on park benches in sleeping bags or wrapped in newspapers. I tend to head to the restaurant and polish off a couple of bottles of whisky with my burger. Oh and that reminds me… here is a tune wonderfully written and recorded by my talented cousin Ian Hudson that covers this theme well

5. Not frequenting the hotel bar means I also avoid the opportunity to pick up women by comparing loyalty cards and thus miss out on nights filled with acrobatic shagging (a fact I imagine my wife is fairly pleased with). I tend to spend my nights acrobatically navigating the hotel chain’s pillow selection (again I usually select the wrong one and wake with a sore neck) or navigating the 154 crappy TV channels trying to find an advert free show. This also usually fails and I tend to watch medical adverts and decide I have not got long to live as I have never tried preparation Z. Oh and I have yet to experience a hotel where the temperature is just right. It’s either swelteringly hot or freezing. And where it is the latter I will have probably omitted to pack my pyjamas (see point 8 below). I once slept in my suit, true story.

6. I don’t have a wallet full of loyalty cards. If I had a loyalty card for every hotel I ever stayed in my wallet would be the size of a brick. I would then either have one man-breast (if I placed said wallet in the suit jacket pocket or thrombosis of the right bum cheek if I placed it in my jeans pocket). Neither appeal. I’m also worried I’d look like Kenny Rogers on a train bound for Nashville… dealing the silly things out at reception while trying to locate the correct one. If the hotel has a record of me in their system then that is a good thing. As an aside I understand there is a very real medical phenomena around male back pain caused by sitting on a wallet in one’s jeans for too long. It causes a person to compensate some how (that’s a wee wallet pun).

7. I don’t rent cars that often. I tend to catch the complimentary shuttle from the airport to the hotel. I enjoy this part of my ritual; it saves me having to navigate and allows me to take in the view. It does have a downside however, sitting in some van with a bunch of strangers listening to them chat about their hellish experience of being delayed 20 minutes while coming from city x to city y. I usually want to scream at them that they have just been in the air! They have made a journey that their ancestors couldn’t imagine or would have spent days or weeks undertaking and they are moaning about 20 minutes. If they stopped and thought about all the people involved in their flight, the technology, the planning, the awesome miracle of flight… but I tend to just sit quietly and imagine think uncharitable thoughts.

8. As with GC I do pack very well. I am an evangelist for using packing ‘cells’. Smaller bags that allow one to sort various items within a suitcase. I am tidy by nature and so this makes sense. It allows me to compartmentalise the trip. I also have a morbid fear of my suitcase exploding on the carousel at the airport and having the contents displayed as though on an episode of Bruce Forsyth’s The Generation Game (sans Cuddly Toy). I have seen this occur on two occasions to others. Now having said I pack neatly, I differ from George in that I never seem to get the climate appropriate clothing right. I have travelled to Canada in the winter without a coat of any description and to a conference at a beach resort in Mauritius without any swimwear. This tends to become rather expensive therefore as I end up having to buy the clothes needed for the trip. Sometimes I think I’d be better off just packing my credit cards and travelling light.

9. I don’t collect air miles for the sake of them like George. Those I do earn I use to upgrade my seat or I use them to fly family or friends about the place. They’re there to be used. I don’t imagine I’ll ever have a head pilot wander back and sit with me (especially where I usually sit… I’m lucky to have a seat spare next to me anyhow) and I doubt they’ll ever name a plane after me. But hell, I love travel and just like Mr Clooney I enjoy the rhythm of air travel, the ritual of the check in, security and boarding procedure. I am comfortable with take offs and landings. I find some form of peace in sitting above the clouds. It’s where these words are being tapped out.

10. Oh and while this isn’t strictly to do with ‘Up in the Air’ George Clooney is a much better person than me. He is doing much more about Syria than I am or are the majority of useless politicians on the planet. He was arrested protesting the atrocities in that country when the best I’ve done is rant a couple of times on twitter (scary me). It sickens me that there is such global apathy toward the evil that is being wrought by Bashir al-Assad our planet’s despot of the month. I try to find solace in the hope that karma will be the hole in the ground from which Bashir is dragged pleading for his life, as did Saddam, Gaddafi, Ceauşescu, Mussolini and the myriad of egotistical murders before him.

Well it’s time to switch off any electronic devices, stow carry on luggage back in the overhead bin or under the seat in front of me, fold away my tray table and return my seat to the upright position. I’ll ensure the window shade is open and that my seat belt is securely fastened (not so tight as to prevent feeling in my legs but low across my hips)… travel on.

So many things have happened.
Did happen.
It was all going so well and then in a few seconds it was done.

We were done to.
Some were done for.

I didn’t really stop to think.
I preferred to be in control.
So many things have happened.
Not all of them as I would want.
Some just as I wanted.

What’s done is done.
I didn’t like it then.
I don’t like it much now really.
Too many things have happened.

Sod this.
We just have to get on.
We should just get on.

One of my goals in the new world of Christchurch post-earthquakes is to de-clutter my life. Reducing the ‘stuff’ I have. One thing that is common for those who have experienced the trauma we have shared in this city is that we reassess what is truly important.

During the mass clearing out I stumbled upon two large boxes of photographs, one a collection of loose photographs of my own and the other an assortment of albums of my mothers.

Well one cannot but stop and go through a box of photos really.

I believe it is a human universal that people smile when looking at their photos. It’s a bit like the opening and closing scene in the movie Love Actually where we are shown images of the emotions people display greeting loved ones at the airport. Looking at photos is the same for me; I inevitably find myself smiling and being taken back to a place and time.

But this wee entry is not so much about the photo experience (and those who follow me on Facebook will have seen many of the gems I have uncovered) but rather a reflection about my brother Dominic. I found a few photos of him.

The Hygate family leave the UK for NZ. Dominic is a babe in arms.

I am one of seven children and Dominic is the brother immediately older than I. He is the fourth born. Third son. Dominic (full moniker Dominic Francis) was born March 7th 1962. He was born in the UK and came to New Zealand as a wee fellow; my parents and older siblings sailed to New Zealand on 4 December 1962 arriving six weeks later in January 1963. Dominic currently lives in Wellington.

School photo from St Teresa's. Note Dominic is Head Prefect.

At this point I should also acknowledge that the other trigger for this piece was the recent death of Wellington’s ‘Blanket Man’ whose real name was Ben Hana. He died at the age of 54.

You see Dominic suffers from schizophrenia and has for most of his adult life lived the very hard existence of the mentally ill. He knew Ben and shares a similar sort of existence albeit not so publicly and without the alcoholism.

He has lived in a series of hostels, institutions, hospitals, and prisons and undoubtedly in periods of acute symptoms on the streets. I know on one occasion he slept in a house under construction in Sumner. Interestingly the (very nice) house was being built for Katherine’s current employer. At the time Dom stayed there it was really only framing and tarpaulins.

Approaching his 50th birthday this March is no small feat for a man who has survived day-by-day and week-by-week for 30 odd years with nothing. When last I saw Dom at Mum’s funeral in September 2010, he had aged considerably. The niceties we take for granted such as regular dental care, doctors visits and haircuts are all a very different reality for Dom. He has a pretty interesting diet at the best of times and part of his world has been to shun certain types of food because of some theory or another he holds of that food type. He is pretty much a vegetarian.

He smokes like the proverbial chimney and has an incredible capacity for instant coffee. He simply does not (and has not the means to) look after himself.

Dominic at Maxwell Street

He was, as my mother would have undoubtedly attested a beautiful baby. He was a lovely wee kid; the photos capture a bright, sporting and cheerful young fellow. In fact to this day Dom has a very infectious and unique laugh. Almost a giggle and he is pretty free with it. In better days he was always ready with a joke or anecdote.

Baby Dominic

More recently Dom has become focused on his health and mortality. I suspect this is in part due to our mother’s death but also due to some poor health he has experienced. Dominic was always legendary for his ability to walk long distances; part of his self-management was to walk all across Wellington or Christchurch.

Sometimes this was because he couldn’t afford any other form of transport and was headed to a mate’s to scrounge a fag. Other times he was just wandering around talking to himself. Sadly he is not able to do so anymore. For some reason not entirely known to me he has trouble with his balance at the moment. He collapsed in the doorway of a shop in Courtney Place, Wellington, last year. He felt unwell and tried to get into a shop to call an ambulance. It is a sad testament to his condition that rather than come to his immediate aid the shopkeeper berated him for being drunk (which he was not). He collapsed and was unconscious. A kind passer-by telephoned the ambulance and he was admitted to Wellington Hospital. He suspects he had a seizure.

He has been on a very potent combination of antipsychotic drugs for near on thirty years. I believe they are taking their toll.

I confess I have not always been the gentlest to Dom. Mum was a soft touch for him when he needed cash. She was always forking out money she could ill afford to provide, and from time to time I would step in and tell him to bugger off.

The family pose for a 'portrait' circa 1970, Dominic third from front.

I have sent him to Wellington on more than a few occasions just to create some distance between he and mum so she could relax (or recuperate) knowing he wouldn’t be knocking on her window late at night in search of a bed. She’d always give in and he (particularly when unwell) was not the model houseguest. Mum just wasn’t well enough in latter years to manage Dom for long periods. On one occasion mum had a mini-stroke the day after he left.

Some readers will be surprised at this approach. I am unapologetic. Dominic is an adult and while he is not capable of holding down employment he was not the responsibility of my elderly mum.

In fact I could go off on a tangent and have a crack at all the (predominantly right-wing) politicians who would have you believe that Dominic is a beneficiary who should get a job. Dominic the survivor will tell you that even he knows it is cheaper for the Crown to put him in a prison than a hospital. In fact he has been known to seek incarceration over the winter months in order to get to somewhere warm with food. Sadly he doesn’t do well in jail as his illness and frequent self conversations draw the attention of bullies and he has more than once been assaulted while in jail.

Clipping from The Press 1985

Mum of course loved Dominic unconditionally, as only a mum can. Mum always wanted to know where he was. She was great at keeping in touch with his psychiatric nurse and caregivers. She was forever popping parcels or envelopes with $20 notes in them into the mail.

When Dominic stood up to speak at mum’s rosary (the night before her funeral) he spoke from the heart about how much he would miss her. He articulated his recognition that she had always stood by him and that he hadn’t been the easiest son she had. I was profoundly moved and felt his loss as well as my own. My kids still talk about the lovely things he said, so simply and so well.

My dad never really understood mental illness. He was very impatient with Dom. I think dad thought he should just snap out of it. Dad loved him I have no doubt but as is often the case with men (and certainly can be for me) if there’s nothing we can do to fix something we get a bit frustrated. Men can be more focused on the fixing than the understanding and accepting.

My siblings and I at mum's funeral. Dom centre back row.

In my old job with the government I got to travel to Wellington very regularly. I would often bump into Dominic down on Courtney Place and come away my wallet lighter, we’d go a buy him some cigarettes and get some cash. I remember one call where we agreed he’d walk to my hotel and I’d give him $40. I found out later that he had forgotten he’d left a pot on the stove at his flat so used $30 to cab back there!

I would always report back to mum that I’d seen him.

I have an 0800 number attached to my phone. I originally got it because mum while living in Wellington had used the excuse of a “rather steep toll account that month” for not having called me when she had her first heart attack!! It is great though as it means that Dominic (who has an excellent memory for numbers, particularly his bank account) can call me anytime. And he frequently does.

Families are interesting things. Our one is every bit as interesting as the next. I hope Dominic is happy in his own way. I am grateful for the care he gets from the professionals assigned to him.

I’ll get a call in a few days no doubt. It’ll probably include the line “ you wouldn’t happen to have a lazy tenner?” Of course I do. Oh and I shall buy him a carton of fags when next I enter the country and that’ll make his day.

Oh and for my next post I may turn my thoughts to a piece on my older brother Neil who (despite a successful career in the Royal New Zealand Air Force and being decorated by Her Majesty) behaved like a right prat in several family photos….

Suspect Neil always wanted to be 'han 'hofficer

It wasn’t helped much by the very unseasonal weather. It’s easier to hide in the sun behind a book than in the corner of a noisy room full of kids, and in laws.

I got a few walks in. But not of the length I’d have liked given my ‘gammy’ foot. Suspect it’s an old war wound flaring up. Will toddle off and see the quack when he returns from his Christmas break. I keep telling the kid’s it’ll likely need to come off and I’ll need to change my name to Blackbeard. Katie seemed pretty philosophical about having a pirate for a dad.

I read about the latest swarm of earthquakes that had rattled Christchurch overnight. A few people were expressing sentiments of guilt on Facebook for not having been there (from their various holiday locations). I could understand this as they presumably had family there. I on the other hand had my family with me and felt relieved not to have been in Sumner. I am firmly of the view that any you miss are good ones.

I would like to miss many more. It is a curious phenomenon that some Christchurch residents inherently criticize others in words or tone for not having been in the city for the Boxing Day quake 2010, or the February 22nd or the June 13 or whatever (there are a fare few to choose from). My view is that there are no prizes for having gone through them all… and as I say any that you miss are good ones.

And so I am now home in Sumner. I head off to Auckland for the balance of the week tomorrow. It’ll see the first flight of 2012.

Lots to do… Looking forward to staying on Waiheke with Woody, Anna and their collection on Thursday. Might get a movie in tomorrow night…

I’ve exhausted my commentary on the year that was. So a brief summary is all that is left to be recorded. It had some lovely bits and some really awful bits. Anyone who follows Cantabrians on Facebook will see the general consensus amongst their postings is that 2011 was an awful year.

If you’ve never lived through major earthquakes, you’re lucky and keep it that way. There’s nothing really to be said in support of them.

Sure there’s the adrenalin rush, the sense of survival, the wonderful sense of community and caring for one another in a new way. There’s the refocusing of the mind on the things that matter, the lessening of interest in material (and breakable) things the newfound desire to fit more into our mortal lives…

But to be honest I’d have been happy to have just kept with the droll status quo rather than panicked about where my kids were, watched my wife suffer through anxiety and my kids loose their confidence and routines. Selfish of me I know.

Of 2012 not a lot is known. I have plans for travel to India for the first time. I expect I’ll be in Canada a couple of times along with at least one trip to the US. I would dearly like to get back to the UK again as I do so enjoy my trips there and the deep sense of connection I have to that lovely crowded Island. I shall throw myself into my work with gusto, it’s an exciting time for Foster Moore and I know we’ll do great things.

Molly starts her high school years at Rangi Ruru in late January. Annie will head off to the relocated Marian for her year 12 and Katie will be the oldest Hygate at Star of the Sea she tells me.

I am in the mood to throw some stuff out. My garage is full of junk and my loft doubly so. Less is more in 2012. Holding on to stuff is just pointless and it’s time to have a good clear out. This is equally true of old ideas, hopes and behaviours.

To those who have been kind to me this year, thank you.

To those to whom I have been less than kind I am sorry.

I truly hope that 2012 is kind to us all.

Have a Happy New Year one and all.

I have lost my religion. Not in the sense that I can no longer find it but rather I have actively and consciously shed it.

Those who have known me a while may find this surprising, disturbing or hard to believe… This is all the more interesting I suppose as it comes from a fellow who as a young man sought the monastic life. I was born into a Catholic family; I attended Catholic primary and secondary schools. I participated fully in the life of the Church for many years.

Now there will be some of you who already having rejected religion might smugly roll your eyes and mutter something about how you already knew all this… I care not. Some may welcome me into the folds of the unbeliever – if it’s all the same I prefer no fuss.

I wish to avoid offending those of my friends and family who hold their beliefs dear. I respect your right to believe what you believe. I do not intend to record this to offend those who have faith or in anyway to suggest that what has occurred to me is better or worse than that which you the reader believe. I am sure some of you will tut-tut and decide to pray for me. Do whatever you want.

I’m happy. In fact I have never been happier.

How did I get here?

When my mother died on 9 September 2010 through a series of events I was left with all her remaining worldly possessions in my garage. As I worked my way sadly through the boxes of half opened laundry powder or wedding cards she and dad received in 1954 I was confronted with the issue of what to do with those things that mum had kept so carefully for 57 years.

It hit me with a tangible force that mum was gone. She was quite simply gone. She was not looking down on me from some heavenly place nor was she watching my disposal of her detritus with some loving glow.

When a person dies they are gone. Simple. All that remains is the memory I hold. When I go – I go. I reject the notion that this life is some form of rehearsal for the next.

This is all there is and I find that rather refreshing. It means that how I behave here and now is important, for no other reason than I wont get here and now again.

I reject vehemently that men in Rome have some exclusive access to the truth. Bollocks to that. I am heartily sick of grumpy priests trying to explain every crappy thing that happens on the planet as god’s will.
I reject energetically any religious belief that argues that one gender is superior to the other.

I reject any proposition that a person’s sexual preference can be right or wrong. Consenting adults can do what they please in my world.

Food based religious rules are just bloody stupid.

Any belief system that suggests that by following rules one will gain eternal life – potty.

I recently completed a visa application for travel to India. It asked me to record what religion I practiced. I recorded for the first time Atheist, and I meant it.

And what of my mum and dad? They were both happy in their faith. Do I feel any sense of guilt or that I have let them down? No. They’re gone and I honoured them both in their death. I respected their faith in their funerals. I love them, as much today as I did when they were alive. But they’re gone.

A friend commented after I had declared my new found belief system that I had had the opposite to a Road to Damascus experience… I hopped back on the horse and turned around heading away from Damascus. He’s right… I am riding away happily.

I do not believe in god. I believe in good.

Oh and I do believe in magic and Harry Potter of course… and in good table manners, the restorative power of a good laugh, the joy of small pleasures and nice glass of whiskey a great cup of coffee…

For some this would be the whole idea of a holiday – the absence of interruption, the solitude. Not me. I get enough solitude thanks. I like to be connected. Oh and I have two teenage daughters who feel the same. Katie the 5 year old is always connected but in a 5 year old way… she’s connected to her new soft toy puppy and her Polly Pockets and her Barbie…

It was bad enough, according to Annie, my 15 year old daughter, that we were leaving Sumner at New Years and leaving her friends… but to take her somewhere where she is unable to txt them is tantamount to cruel and unusual punishment. I wouldn’t be surprised if her friends stage a Navy Seal-like rescue in the middle of the night… all flash grenades and Black Hawk helicopters. I hope there’s room for me.

Katherine, my beloved wife of 22 years had always intended to marry a farmer, as she frequently reminds me. I could never have been a farmer. I need city living. I like neighbors and noise. I relish walking to the coffee shop(s), cinemas and supermarket. I am well and truly a city boy.

On those occasions, such as this, when I am in a rural location I find the absence of noise novel. Though even as I type there are six cousins all talking over each other at the table while they make origami thing-a-ma-jigs.

My plan (and if you are reading this, my plan has worked) is to empty my head into the trusty MacBook and then drive a few kilometres up the road in order to connect and update you all on my imprisonment.

The postings are designed to allow me to share what has become something of a family ritual. We head away at least once but occasionally twice a year with Katherine’s family. We have 13 of us here at the Huruni River Mouth. We are staying in a lodge that amply accommodates us all. We have bought tents as well but the weather is decidedly inclement so they may stay in their bags for a day or so yet.

We drove here this afternoon and I enjoyed listening to Katie singing the chorus to the song on her iPod… “just passing by” (she was listening to Rolf Harris’s, the court of king characticus). She would hum along and then burst into the chorus…

One of the hallmarks of a Robb family holiday is the jigsaw puzzle. Egad I hate jigsaw puzzles. The highly successful NZ Transport Agency advertisement ‘Legend’ has a scene where the surviving youth has to live with the victim’s family. He is stuck at a table where a nerdy sibling of the deceased proudly and enthusiastically announces “Puzzle Time”. I found it the most disturbing scene of all the road safety campaigns ever.

I have a lot of reading to do and plenty of thinking to do as well. One of the annoying effects of the earthquakes we experienced in 2011 is that I have had difficulty finishing a book. I was previously an avid reader and would chew through a novel easily while on holiday. A five-day-break like this would see several consumed. Since February however I have struggled to complete a handful. I’ve picked up plenty and started them only to lose interest and to cast them aside.

I am hoping to break this curse this weekend.

I have also plenty of thinking to do. I want 2012 to be better than 2011. And by this I don’t mean an absence of earthquakes, they are well and truly out of my mortal control. I suppose the best way to articulate it is that there were plenty of things that happened in 2011 that I didn’t like. It’s very much a case of me learning to change the way I react to these events. I can only change my behavior not that of others. So I shall have a wee think about how I might make this happen.

I think I shall also start a Bucket List. I have an appetite for living and I plan to do a bit of it in 2012 (for the whole year is the plan). I intend to seize any and every opportunity for new experiences in the New Year.

I tried hard to do some new things in 2011 and if anything have added a whole series of experiences to my repertoire. Whether they’ll count for much in the long run and whether they have made me a better person will not be for me to judge I guess. That’ll be for those who read my eulogy. And I wont get to hear that so I care not a jot.

2011 has been enormous. By every metric it has been a big year. Full of change; some traumatic, some voluntary and some delightful. A lot of change.

It has also been truly a year that will be seared into the memory like no other.

If I were to sum up 2011 in one word it would be survival. Making it to the end of this amazing and tumultuous year with any form of functioning sanity is no small feat.

A year full of earthquakes, job changes, hundreds of thousands of kilometers of air travel on top of the ‘normal’ excitement of family life has certainly marked 2011 as a very memorable one.

Some statistics for 2011:

Number of take offs 74 and landings 74 (happily the number balances) – according to Tripit I have travelled 241,411 kilometres this year. That equates to flying around the circumference of the Earth 6 and bit times.

I have flown on Air New Zealand (my beloved airline), Air Canada, United Airlines, British Airways, Singapore Airlines, JetStar (shudder), Lufthansa (who unbelievably still fly aircraft long-haul with no in seat entertainment, thank Steve for iPads), BMI, Ryan Air (never never again), and Aer Lingus. Forgive me if I groan when I hear “even if you are one of our regular travelers please pay attention to the safety demonstration”…

I’ve done the vast majority of the flights in coach/ economy. I’ve sat in premium economy a few times and had the luxury of business class on only 3 of the legs this year.

I’ve travelled to: Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, Washington DC, Winnipeg, Hong Kong, Bonn, Cardiff, Portsmouth, Dublin, Jersey, Toronto, Regina, Montpelier, Halifax, Ottawa… and some of these places I have been repeatedly!

I’ve stayed in at least 27 different hotels over the course of the year. I’ve been away from home for about 12 weeks of the year cumulatively. I find hotels soulless places. The best I’ve stayed in would be The Cambridge Suites in Toronto, the Hilton in Taupo and perhaps the Radisson in Regina. The worst would be the Comfort Inn in Toronto. These are very subjective assessments though and are greatly influenced by my mood at the time I’m there.

I’ve travelled to and from Wellington and Auckland umpteen times (where umpteen = more than 10 each at least).

Number of aftershocks (as at the time of writing) 9221 [see http://www.christchurchquakemap.co.nz/ for up to date numbers]

Number of glasses of whisky drunk = 700+ (note correlation to aftershocks)

But rather than spend too much time reflecting on the year that was, I shall look to the promise of the year that is to come.

I’ve hung up my noise canceling headphones for the year and will throw them in my carry on again in late January 2012. The holidays will include a few days under canvass at Hurunui and then a week or so in Auckland with the family. They’ll get a first chance to see where I now work and live when away. We’ll also get to play in Auckland with trips to the zoo, Waiheke and some teenage shopping sojourns to Newmarket no doubt.

I have also been reflecting on my New Years resolution for 2012. I believe I had some modest success with those I set in 2011 (in the main, with a few relapses from time to time).

I am always keen on rebuilding oneself and I suspect 2012′s objective will be to reduce some of my more annoying behaviours (I have many) to move on from those things that are beyond my control and to build on some more positive ways of thinking.

There are some things that will occur in 2012 that are well outside my control and I shall just adapt to them. There are plenty of other things that I can manage.

And to those poor souls who have read to this point… Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!