Across the road, what I call a paddock since the house was removed has been attracting a lot of visitors lately.
OPINION: Or rather the garage on the paddock has. I have sat in my lounge staring through the net curtain, twitching whenever I observe yet another bloke disappearing through the side door of the garage.
What on earth was going on in there I wondered, imagining perhaps a local tinnie house set up to flog off some festive herb superb, perhaps a spot of homosexual cottaging or maybe some shenanigans in a makeshift brothel.
Curiosity got the better of me, so I sauntered across the road just as a guy pulled up in his car, got out and headed in there.
He shot me a furtive look over his shoulder and hesitated but then proceeded on in an orderly manner (your Honour) and disappeared into the garage.
I walked along the road a bit and made a point of memorising his car registration number in case someone was being tortured or abused in there and when he came out he copped me staring at his rego, jumped in the car and tore off.
Before you shout: "Who do you think you are? Helen Mirren from Prime Suspect? (I wish)"; let me assure you I am no card-carrying member of Neighbourhood Watch but I am talking about a procession of gents here.
So I ventured inside the mysterious garage and it was dark and dingy, completely empty and uninhabited by beast or human and I detected a strong whiff of the unmistakable smell of male urine.
How boring, I thought, and wondered why the men had not bothered to walk back a ways into the recesses of the long property and relieved themselves in the ground cover of that not inconsiderable undergrowth.
No-one would have seen them there. Sheer laziness I suspect but it did seem rather odd that so many men were using this garage to pee in.
Had someone posted a message on Facebook saying: "Top garage urinal to splash your boots in down Kilmore St", or "Free slash close to CBD".
Had word got round in the pub or did the garage hold some strange allure, making men literally stop in their tracks and want to mark it like a dog?
So imagine how I felt when I was walking home from the local cafe where the people are very nice to me and manage to keep straight faces as I order my annoying idiosyncratic, half-strength cappuccino with trim milk, no sprinkles and lots of froth, and who should I see emerging from said garage but Benecio.
Even my male moggy is in on the secret peeing club.
Needless to say I picked him up by the scruff of his neck and escorted him home in high dudge.
Speaking of paddocks and great tracts of the city turning country, I motored out to Rangiora the other day for the first time in a long while to drop a friend off and decided to have a nosey round the shops. Sure it is Christmas but the place teemed with humanity.
I grew up in that town, which was strictly one horse back then, but now it is the bee's knees, flocked to by quake refugees and the prices of the houses reflect this.
What a reversal of fortunes.
The small town has turned into the big smoke while back in the hood, which was the central city, we have become the country hicks.
- The Press