Moata's Blog Idle
Armageddon Expo. If you've never been to the annual pop culture event, it could be because you don't live in one of the main centres. Or maybe you're just the kind of person who has no desire whatsoever to come face to face with a zombie. I attended at the weekend and got a massive fright when out of the crowd two teenage girls with horrific decomposing facial injuries hove into view. IT WAS GREAT.
So I guess we know what kind of person I am.
To be fair there are large chunks of Armageddon Expo that I just don't get. Like the wrestling, and the card gaming, and the booths selling fake ninja swords. Not to mention the fact that the "free swag" bag you get upon arrival always includes a packet of instant noodles. Am I missing something here? What exactly am I supposed to do with these things? Because I sure as hell am not eating them any time soon.
But even so, I do enjoy this once yearly unabashed nerdgasm. Occasionally they get some really cool artists and actors to come who I'd never have the chance to see in the flesh otherwise and, as I mentioned earlier, I am now sufficently old that I have no cosplaying shame and in fact am merrily inflicting it upon my offspring.
You'll be pleased to know that I completed my Tardis costume and that of my miniature Eleventh Doctor sidekick.
It's always interesting to have an experience that puts you on the other side of where you usually see things.
I did that earlier this week when I took part in Plunket's annual fundraising drive by shaking a bucket and looking hopefully at people outside my local branch of The Warehouse.
Now oftentimes I am not overly keen on interacting with street collectors. It's not because I'm against giving to charity. I'm not. But the fact is, I have charities that I support when I'm able and I almost never have cash on me and I feel awkward saying no.
It's also because the notion of "stranger danger" was so thoroughly drilled into me at an impressionable age that even at 40 I still think deep down that anyone approaching me on the street is going to offer me a sweetie and push me in to a nondescript-looking panel van.
People randomly saying hello or good morning (which I've noticed that people are more inclined to do if you have a baby with you) startles me, and the thought of having to interact with a well-meaning charity collector fills me with, not dread exactly, but feelings of vague awkwardness.
When I was growing up, it seemed that summer time meant playing outside, mostly because of the better weather but at least partially because daytime television was dominated by cricket coverage.
Our mother was (and is) an ardent follower of the national team and it didn't take too many queries of "is it finished yet?" before we realised that TV was not a thing we would be enjoying during daylight hours.
It wasn't all bad. We watched it sometimes, enthralled by the feats of legends like Lance Cairns and Excalibur, and Richard Hadlee.
We would listen for the umpteenth time to my mother's story about when she worked at Woolworths and Paddles was her boss and how they used to sometimes take the piss out of him.
We learned about nightwatchmen and rabbits. We learned about maiden overs and ducks and LBWs, but the stuff about "silly mid on" and where exactly the "slips" began and ended never really sunk in.
In recent years I have become increasingly fond of op shops. Often I'll enter one not knowing what I'm even looking for, only that I have the urge to "rummage". Sometimes I leave with nothing, sometimes I pick up a cheap toy, book or item of clothing for The Master.
It's rare that I buy anything that's actually "good". I often have to stop myself from buying something silly like a pair of iceskates that aren't my size (also, I haven't been iceskating in years) or a delightfully retro piece of kitchenalia because the fact is, I do not need a cruet set. Especially a bright orange one.
There are several charity shops within walking distance of my home so I regularly wander out for a bit of a fossik.
My favourite of the shops in our neighbourhood is the Cats' Protection League Shop. For one thing there's a sign outside that forbids the presence of dogs in the shop. Of course. Because people generally are in the habit of taking their dogs on shopping expeditions with them, especially into a Cat Person shop.
But let's not take any chances! If it were the Catholics Protection League Shop the sign would probably say "Begone Proddies! And take your Satan worship with ye!". The Cats Protection League Shop is obviously hallowed ground, like a cat church, therefore natural enemies of the cat shall not cross the threshold.
Another earthquake anniversary came and went on Sunday without much fanfare in our house.
There was a bit of quiet reflection, and we noted with interest the flowers planted in road cones when went out in the afternoon but not much else. Some time after 1pm the Silver Fox came over and gave me a hug as we'd been in different rooms when 12.51 ticked over, me feeding The Master his lunch, and he in the living room watching the cricket, I think.
So you could be forgiven for thinking that we weren't much affected by the fourth anniversary of The Day Everything Changed Forever. That life goes on much as it always has. But of course, it doesn't.
Everything in our lives is still very much affected by the earthquakes.
Take, for instance, our little outing to The Foo Fighters gig on Wednesday last week. It took place at a temporary stadium, for one.
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