Unique rules to drive us crazy

Confusion reigns.

As an indelible part of modern life, it is even enshrined in our road rules. I realised this on our way to Nelson Airport, halted briefly in a Mexican standoff while turning left at an intersection.

You know the rule described as "unique" in a driving guide for new migrants. A vehicle turning left must give way to an oncoming car turning right. But as often as not, the right-turner can't turn because a vehicle behind the left-turner is going straight through.

The standoff ensues. Leftie must decide whether to be terribly polite and wait, or break the law and nip around the corner as the straight-thougher passes. Rightie must decide whether to be terribly impolite and refuse the courtesy, or plant boot and chance the turn without being collected by the straight-througher.

Pay attention. There will be a test later.

Kiwis pride ourselves on our pioneering character. We were among the first in the world to give the vote to women jetboaters. Yet this road rule is still "unique".

How ungrateful of the rest of the planet not to follow our courageous example. How narrow-minded of the two-thirds of AA members who called in a recent poll for the rule to be scrapped.

The traffic management prophet is indeed without glory in his own land. We detected his hand again once we had resolved the standoff and plunged into the Whakatu Drive roundabout. The law now says you must indicate only if you intend turning left or right, but everyone should signal their exit from a roundabout.

Yet all over this fair land, motorists are flashing left when they enter the roundabout but they don't take the left exit. The indicator goes off, and a few seconds later back on again to signal the true exit straight ahead. It's a happy chaos that must bring a smile to a panelbeater's face.

Undented, my ride and I made it to the airport for a flight to Wellington that I can't even recall, such is the blandness of modern travel. However, confusion reasserted itself in the capital when I set off the security scanner while trying to board for the leg to Auckland.

I retreated, and handed over my hat and coat for inspection in the x-ray tunnel, but triggered the alarm again. Turns out it was my cellphone on my belt. Those scanners are ridiculously sensitive. For heaven's sake, a cellphone is a vital organ now.

I reluctantly handed over mine and fretted on the other side of the tunnel until it emerged in its little plastic tray. It seemed unharmed, but you never know what separation trauma will resurface decades later on the analyst's couch.

The plane was full of politicians on a taxpayer-funded commute home. Air NZ was running a trivia quiz on the overhead screens, and one of the questions concerned Sir Roger Douglas and his many terms in Parliament. The man himself was seated two rows in front, so I could have leaned over and asked him the answer. (Curiously, he didn't react at all when the question flashed up, so he had obviously seen it many times before. Must remember to look up the size of his travel bill.)

We disgorged in Auckland from a flight that must have enlarged our carbon footprints a few sizes, but we recycled our newspapers in the bin provided, so that was all right.

I'm confused by the so-called "green sheen" donned by so many companies now. Even oil giants do it. But then, I'm easily confused. I can't make head nor tail of my mortgage rate, and trying to figure out the three electricity charges on my bill gives me a headache. Former Telecom boss Theresa Gattung famously confessed a few years ago that telcos use confusion in marketing cellphone pricing plans. "And that's fine," she declared.

Whatever happened to the concept of service in business? It seems to apply only to the shareholders now. The customer is serviced only in the agricultural sense.

After a dodgem ride across Auckland, I finally flopped into the couch at my daughters' flat. A flip-read of their mags would calm my nerves. No chance. Kate was in the midst of a "palace drug shock" that threatened her chances to be queen. I thought she was married to Tom Cruise? A rival mag proclaimed "Kate's joy `I can't wait for our baby"'. Seems they might have to let out the wedding gown, but no, it's a hypothetical sprog and a hypothetical wedding. Angie's "split exclusive" probably refers to the ragged hair ends discovered in her morning mirror check, and SJP might just be a brand of engine oil after all. It's all very perplexing.

I need a lie down. We're off to Samoa tonight, and I'm not taking my phone. This lie down could last the week, in the foetal position, with my thumb in my mouth.

- © Fairfax NZ News