Journalism takes you places

Journalism is like a back-stage pass to life, in some ways.  I'm only in training, but I can already see that not only do you get to find out new stuff almost every day, you also get to meet different people and hear their stories, as well as going places you might never otherwise have.
Granted, I imagine the job can take you places you don't really want to go yet are obliged to - but the rest of it can be fascinating.

I've just spent four weeks of 'holidays' getting some experience with a paper and, looking back, I've learnt about a pretty wide variety of topics.
For example, I now know how rat poison works.
I've spoken to relationship counsellors, rugby clubs, child safety advocates, high school students, and frustrated Dinsdale residents.
I've got all kitted up to get onto a building site.  Right down to the steel-capped boots.

Headed down to the Frankton Sale Yards to find people to talk to about petrol - felt I stuck out like a sore thumb in my corporate-ish clothes, and was asked by the young girl helping out "are you buying cows?"
Made a little road trip to meet the couple who are probably the biggest fans of the royal family in the Waikato.
And witnessed a piece of history at Rukumoana Marae.  Aside from the historic settlement, there was some great singing there that day.  See it below - sideways, because my phone did something weird with the recording.

Before signing of the deed, Rukumoana Marae.

Statue of King Mahuta, Rukumoana Marae.

They were four interesting weeks, but now it's back to student-land for some more learning!

Home citrus & home baking

Winter's the season of colds and flu, and the flat's a bit cold sometimes, so I'm really glad we have a set of citrus trees in the back garden.

It's great having them, but what's even better is having them AND a sunny day (when your washing dries on the line in a few hours) to go out and pick the fruit.

I foresee plenty of lemon, honey, and ginger drinks - as well as a bit of pasta with lemon, vinegar, and mustard sauce.

And on the topic of producing things at home, I can recommend baking Scott's Farewell Square - recipe in Ladies, A Plate: Traditional home baking by Alexa Johnston.
It doesn't have any citrus in it, but it tastes pretty good, and it's not a bad way to use up a few Weetbix that are past their use-by date.
Our kitchen scales were out of order, and my guess-work produced a rather crumbly example of the square, but never mind.
I got a few good slices out of it, and I'm sure the crumbly bits will be nice mixed with some natural yoghurt!

Market style

Basket full of goodness from Frankton Markets.

I think I like biking to the Frankton Market on Saturday mornings because I can (kind of) pretend I'm still in Europe.
As a uni student, I used to go to the veggie market in Wellington, but I didn't really understand the magic of markets until I headed overseas.

When I went to St Gaudens (in South-West France) as an English language assistant, I stumbled upon the markets one Thursday morning.  Actually, they spread through the whole town centre, so it would've been hard not to find them.
It became a part of weekly routine for me - like it is for so many French people.  Plus, if you're trying to learn French, you have to talk a lot more at the market than you do at a supermarket.
And, when you can get your fruit and veg at a market like what you see below, why would you want to go inside a supermarket and fight with everyone and their trolleys?  (Plus, there never seemed to be enough checkouts open).

Thursday market in the main square of St-Gaudens, France.

Thursday market in St-Gaudens, France.

I lived so close to the town centre there that I didn't need a bike to get to the markets there.  But if I had, this was my trusty steed.

French vélo.

In La Carolina, my town in the South of Spain, I adopted the same attitude.  Except, I think I took fewer market-related pictures.
Actually, looking through, it seems I took no market-related photos during my whole time in Spain.
Maybe I just market-photoed myself out in France, or perhaps  I was busy with other things.

Dos cervezas, por favor...

Y ponme una tapilla, camarero.

Paella in a pub - the Spanish Sunday roast.

Caseta at feria.

A sweet, sweet paella.

And, since I found them... a few more market pics from various areas of Southern France.

Covered market in Toulouse.

Flea market outside the St Sernin Basilisque in Toulouse.

Markets in the streets of Marseille.

Near the flower market in Nice.

Proof in the pudding

I have discovered something quite useful.

Tonight, after dinner, I decided I needed something sweet and comforting, so I made a microwave self-saucing chocolate pudding.
And it was tasty - if a little bit dry.  Anyway, that's my own fault.

But the real proof of the pudding was in my after-dinner trip to the supermarket.
I looked at the cakes in the bakery... and I didn't want any.
I walked straight past the confectionery aisle.
And those bins by the check-outs, offering three chocolate bars for $3?  Yeah, nah.

Amazing.
Clearly, I should make chocolate self-saucing pudding more often.

Saturday Pastimes

Sunny day     Perfect for riding a retro bike to the Frankton Markets

High five       to whoever got the cyclist/pedestrian underpasses for the Rifle Range Rd (etc) roundabout!

20 bucks       or so for as much fruit and veg as I could fit in my basket and backpack - the silverbeet was sticking out the top on the way home

"Too much"      said a Nawton dude as I biked past with all my bounty.

Clean bathroom   makes me feel happy every time I go in there!

Feature writing   is a necessary evil when you have a 1500-word assignment due on Tuesday but a

sunlit spot      makes it quite bearable.

Kiwi commentators   attempting to pronounce  French rugby players' surnames: good effort, needs more work.

Vegetable paella  turned out not very paella-y at all, especially since I didn't have rice, so used orzo instead.

Home-made smoothie   with banana, coconut, and prunes: not bad at satisfying my sweet tooth when I didn't have chocolate.  But (as to be expected I suppose) the prunes all sunk to the bottom.  :S

You know you're in the Waikato when...

...there's a cow covering half the sign.

Bus trip banter

I get the bus to and from Tech four days a week, but it's not often as entertaining as yesterday's return trip.

At the travel centre, I'm wedged onto the end of a bench, beside a couple of mature ladies, with my head buried in a copy of the day's Herald -I am a journalism student, after all.
A cheerful young man wanders over, singing.

Photo by Morio, from Wikimedia Commons

"I want to be on X Factor!" he announces to all three of us.
"You don't wanna go on that show," says Lady #1.  "You might get kicked off!  He's a hard man, that Stan Walker."
"Oh, nah, he's alright.  I'd give him a singing competition any day - blow him out of the water."

There's a quiet moment, then he launches into singing along with the advertising jingle coming out of the PA.
"See, that's a nice tune, eh?"
"You've got my vote," says Lady#2.

My bus shows up, and I take my Herald to a seat down near the back.
"How long 'til you leave?" says a voice up the front.
I look up to see a teenage girl waiting expectantly for a response from the grey-haired bus driver.
He holds up his two index fingers, leaving a gap in between.
"About that long."
The girl mirrors his gesture.
"About that long? ... Five minutes?"
The driver makes a show of checking his watch.
"Seven minutes."
She decides to explain her question, and points at the vocally-ambitious young chap sitting on one of the benches outside.
"He wants to have a smoke before."

"Oh!  Smoking!" says the driver, drawing a slightly nervous chuckle from the girl.  "Gives you cancer.  Tell him to stop."
She turns.  "Oi, stop smoking."
Her cheeky friend steps into the conversation.
"Did you use to smoke?" he asks the driver.
"Oh, once, a couple of days ago."  Once the pair's laughter has died down, he continues.  "No, 42 years ago I gave up!"

The young girl tries to hurry her nonchalant friend along, which seems to give him an idea.
"He's got two!" she shrieks.
"What?" exclaims the driver.  "Have you got one up each nostril?"

However the young guy's smoking, he's soon finished.  He goes to stub his cigarette out and put it in the nearby bin, so the driver takes the opportunity to close the doors and begin reversing away from the bay.
In between gales of laughter, the girl says our driver is the best ever.  I'm struggling to hold in a giggle.
Even the butt of the joke thinks it's amusing, and gives the bus driver a high five when he is eventually let on.

Whale Bay, Raglan, New Zealand

It looks like the remainder of the bus ride may be less amusing, until he pipes up about 200 metres down the road.
"Boss, do you go down Grandview?"
"Grandview?"  The driver ponders the idea for a moment.  "We're going to Hillcrest."
The young pair dissolve into giggles, because we clearly aren't.  There's some muttering between the pair of them, and then a new suggestion.
"Oh, never mind Grandview, boss.  Let's just keep going to Raglan!"
"Well, make up your mind!"

But they don't make it to the sea.  They just go as far as the suburbs, and hop out with a cheery "thanks, boss."
"Have a pleasant afternoon," he replies.