It seems one of the rites of passages to becoming an adult is being a sober driver for a night. When your friends are out drinking, or your mother is re-visiting her teenage years in town, the night usually ends in a slurred phone call to someone who can drop everyone home safely.
I know tolerant husbands who have spent more than their weeks wages on petrol costs as they drive women all over the province to return them home safely from the girls' night out.
I am almost ashamed to say it, but I am nearing my third decade of age and I have never been a sober driver, in fact until this year I'd never been a driver at all.
By the time I got my learners licence at the age of 26 both of my younger sisters had theirs, and my much younger cousin, who I remember as a day old baby, was zooming around on the roads. Getting my licence a decade after all of my friends was a little strange. While I waited in line at the AA to apply for my test I was struck by the number of teenagers around me.
I'd spent 10 years thinking I was going to fail this test, but my pent up nerves seemed ridiculous next to the fresh faced youth who were wide-eyed in fear.
Despite not being able to successfully cook two minute noodles I have a secret and almost shameful addiction to cooking shows.
I've tried to hide it from my friends, who I know will laugh appropriately in my face when they discover me, the worst cook they know, devouring the cooking shows on reality TV.
It started about two years ago, with a small yet fierce crush on Gordon Ramsay, the king of all things kitchen.
I was less interested in the meals being created in Hell's Kitchen and more interested in the man who had this insane power to make people cry and break down, before transforming them into the beautiful chefs they had always been behind their failing soufflés.
How to make the food didn't really interest me but I did become addicted to the drama, the backstabbing and the bitchiness behind every, ''Yes Chef!''
The smell of my childhood came creeping back into my memory this week.
Facebook was abuzz with the rumour, I drooled over my keyboard while we talked about the tantalizing idea at work, and for a moment my overseas friends considered moving back to New Zealand.
Georgie Pie is back.
The announcement that 11 McDonalds stores in Auckland and Hamilton will soon be baking fresh
Georgie Pies and selling them 24 hours a day came yesterday.
Before you all play Harold and Kumar and take a road trip up north, take a minute to stop and smell
When I was a child I lived in a crazy world of my own. My head was always buried in books and my mind was
forever lost in the trees.
My imagination painted my childhood a pretty shade of happy, and my days were filled with the most magical
friends, which was great because in the real world I didn't really seem to have any friends. Not real friends
Perhaps it is because I went to 13 different primary schools and never stayed somewhere long enough to
attend birthday parties, or perhaps I was just a weird ginga child who nobody wanted to share their lunch with.
But it didn't matter to me, because growing up on farms meant I had lots of furry little friends. There was Mr
Gobble Gobble the turkey, Dingo the dog, and there was even a pet cow named Hongi, who I used to sit
on in the milking shed.
As far as I was concerned Hongi, Dingo and the characters from my books were the best friends in the world.
There are a few moments in a new relationship that fill you with a breed of butterflies intent on sending you into a state of nausea-inducing excitement.
The often awkward first date, the sweet moments in the encroaching first kiss, and the first time your partner stays over are nothing compared to the oft dreaded but eagerly awaited day when you meet their best friend.
Perhaps it was new for me because my three previous partners had been friends-of-friends, and if we didn't move in the exact same circles we had at least danced a jig and downed a jug or two with mutual mates.
But my new flame and I were not sneakily set up on a blind date, no friends slyly suggested we meet and we didn't seem to have any BFFs who even remotely knew each other.
Let's face it, not being able to find a friend who knows a person who kissed someone who flatted with a girl who once dated your new boyfriend is almost unheard of in a town the size of New Plymouth.
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