I have previously spoken of my early convent miseducation at St Bernard's Convent, Brooklyn, Wellington in the 1950s, although have not spoken of the actual process of instruction, which was a hit-and-miss affair.
They came thundering over the horizon and across the Canterbury Plains in a swirl of dust and heat and beating hooves, nail pockets flapping wildly in the wind and spirit levels at the ready in the saddle holster.
Another four years of Barrack Obama can only be a good thing.
I guess there was a time in New Zealand when we didn't give our recreational waterways a second thought.
My local greengrocer says to me, "Dotcom this. Dotcom that. I'm sick of hearing about it. Knock it on the head."
The tiny Vatican City state in the centre of Rome certainly punches above its weight when it comes to international intrigue and scandal.
The other week I had the opportunity to visit the south and on my return from Dunedin found myself with a three-hour delay in Christchurch, waiting for a connecting flight north.
It looks like cinematically at least, the Beats are back in favour.
I have this recurring dream of long lines of refugees, bowed and hobbled, trudging across some battered landscape, plumes of black smoke rising up in spirals to a leaden sky.
The other week, waiting for a connecting flight north, I found myself with a three-hour delay in Christchurch.
A great national characteristic borne out of necessity is our ability to survive at ground level.
It comes down to habit, after all, the expectations of thought, as reflexive consciousness, that control lives, although we are scarcely aware of those mechanisms at work.
Dunedin and its outlying districts have continued to preserve much of their 19th-century character.
Ancestral echoes are written in our DNA - those genealogical batteries of ancient recall.
It was as if I had journeyed back 40 years or so to Smith's Bookshop in Manners St, Wellington.
Len Brown's new super-city is now in the throes of inflating its super ego
Wonderful word "heterospecific". But would it work as a pick-up line in a cocktail bar? "Hi, I'm a heterospecific individual, what's your name?"
There were warning signs at dusk, a revving engine and the thump, thump of the boom box.
Father Flynn was a theatrical fellow, given to showy street processions in full priestly regalia, complete with mitre and staff, followed by a rag-tag flock, corralled for, say, an Easter service, and paraded through the narrow back streets of Newtown with a sort of slovenly pomp.
Our ties to Australia were maybe a little more reciprocal back then during the halcyon gold-rush days of the 1860s.