Outside the casino, the moneyed and the desperate smoked in the light of the Sky Tower; across the street the secondary industry of the pawnshop had shuttered for the evening. A young Asian man spat heavily into an outdoor ashtray, the Pakeha woman next to him, with a lifetime smoker’s deep wrinkles, looked up from her phone in disgust. An American man in an Aertex shirt described his new cross-trainers to a female companion: “You’re a woman, you wouldn’t understand.”
Sophie keeps her condition a secret because to other people she appears “normal” and the stigma, despite years of campaigns urging New Zealanders to be more open-minded, is too strong.
“People like me who have long-term mental health concerns don’t want to be a drain on society. I have a great job, good relationships, and am generally doing well — but I know how precarious my situation is. I’m one brain chemical misfire from losing everything I’ve worked for.
“We get shunted aside because we can’t be trotted out as problems that are easily fixed.”
Can you picture Hunt in the downstairs room, declaiming Yeats and Auden to no one? "Pathetic, in a way," he admits. "I remind myself of a character out of Dylan Thomas."
From the hundreds – no, thousands – of poems and quotes stored in his head he produces Thomas' Quite Early One Morning. There are sad lines about the old contralto Clara Tawe Jenkins, who sits at the window and sings to the sea, for the sea does not notice that her voice has gone.
"F...ing beautiful. I've loved those lines since I was probably 8 or 9 years old.”
Kate’s still angry. “As someone with complex health issues, to have ‘breast is best’ rammed down your throat past the point of reason is crazy, as is not discussing formula. This cookie-cutter stance doesn’t take people with health issues into account.”
And there’s a trickle-down effect. Kate, who visits an Auckland hospital six-weekly for her pain condition, once pulled out a bottle in the Westfield St Lukes parents’ room. “One of two mums there said, pointedly, ‘These chairs should only be for breastfeeding mothers.’ I left, then started bawling.”
“It was a tough night,” wrote a content John Key on November 26, 2007. “Roast chicken, lemon tart and heap’s of grog.” John Key had a recurring trouble with apostrophes. “It’s condition 3 so if I don’t make it out my team mate’s ate me.”
“Kiwi A-frame,” he concluded: “a national treasure.”
PHOTO: ©Mike White
“It’s just blown up. Every second person here is either using it, has used it, or is affected in some way. Everyone of all ages. The youngest I know of was 11 when he started using. He’s 15 now and is still chasing it. He hasn’t really had a childhood.”
I wasn't sobbing so much for myself as for my girls, Alex who was then six, and Rosie, three. I was sobbing because of my fear for what might become of them if the disease was to progress rapidly — and who is to know how quickly, or how slowly, it will progress, we only know that it will — and I might not be in a fit state to look after them and provide for them. Would I be able to run with my children? Would we be going on the long-promised "someday-when-my-ship-comes-in" trip to Disneyland with me in a wheelchair? How would I be when the children graduate from university?
Look at those people inside prisons, he says. So many mental health issues, addiction problems, family violence and inmates who are themselves victims of crime.
"If I don't follow my conscience and my political obligations to say we can do different things and better things and achieve better results, I'd be failing.”
For kayakers like Venable, it is the diminishment of wilderness that is the main reason for opposing Westpower’s plans for hydro on the Waitaha—not merely the loss of a kayaking opportunity. Although most of the river would be unaffected by the scheme, the loss of the final reach would mar the experience of the whole—like tearing the last chapter out of a thriller.
It’s a freezing mid-week day. There’s an aftermatch function: men only. There’s nowhere for us to go. I approach the door. I say, I have some wives of the All Black team with me, and we would like to come in. Through the comforting cloud of cigarette smoke I can see the players drinking beer, and the officials drinking sterner stuff. The man from the rugby union is resolute. If he lets us in, the floodgates will open. You’ll want fancy stuff to drink, he says. But, he says, moist-eyed with magnanimity, if you’d like to help out in the kitchen with the other ladies, you’re more than welcome.
We go to the pub.
Photo: Barry Durrant
At 6.57pm, Vyrvova spoke to David for the last time. He was crying and laughing. He told her he had gone to church to confess his sins. He told her not to worry about him, that he would go to heaven.
It's the next morning and Neill is dutifully doing his media one-on-ones at the Hilton. He was staring out to sea when Canvas arrived in the room with the Antipodes sparkling water and mini Whittaker's chocolate bars. Neill has claimed Cook was "a hard man to read". But what to make of this actor who, on the one hand travels with miniature plastic pink pigs he captions for laughs on social media — and on the other champions big and serious causes. Neill has spoken out against cubicle dairy farming in the Mackenzie Country. He recently suggested a boycott of Cadbury's should its Dunedin factory closure go ahead. He is appalled at the Australian Government's decision to detain 1600 asylum-seekers in Papua New Guinea.
A couple of weeks after her diagnosis, Mum was visited by a fieldworker from the MNDA. The fieldworker, an older woman whose daughter had died of MND, made the mistake of saying she’d bring along a hospice nurse “next time”. My mother was infuriated. “I’m not dying of motor neurone disease,” she shot back. “I’m living with it.”
The LifePod’s journey, as recounted by Avery, started when he kept seeing broken-down incubators sitting in corridors in Nepal. Determined to do something about it, he started tinkering in his garage.
Unlike a lens or a muesli bar, an incubator is a high-stakes medical device, whose failure could result in death.
“Artist Bill* owned a house, whose walls were hung with a lifetime worth of art – both his own and gifts from other artists. When Emma* moved in, she brought a bike and cash.
When they split…Emma claimed the $350,000 art collection in the house was joint property, despite pre-dating her. Bill argued the collection was of such sentimental value it was a taonga and should be exempt, but the judge found the artworks had been used as "household ornaments" and were therefore family chattels.
“The judge said equal sharing would be "repugnant to justice".
But beyond the assemblies and solemn undertakings, kids seethed and tensions grew. On social media, bravado and bullshit flew. It had become more than a game. As one Wellington College pupil wrote, “This means war.”
War began punctually at 9.30am with the under-14 boys 3000m.
The girl with the blonde hair and the glasses is standing halfway up a fire escape in a gloriously graffitied carpark, staring into the morning greyness as a group of teenagers congeals on the concrete below.
Amelia de Farias is one of seven Class Comedians this year. They've got a month to learn how to be funny on demand, before performing their six-minute sets at the Comedy Festival. Those six minutes launched former Class Comedians such as Rose Matafeo and Rhys Mathewson into successful careers. Today could be the start of something.
Melissa understands why few do what she did. “You need that reference to get into your next property. It doesn’t matter how badly things have gone and what the landlord’s done and whether it was legal or not - you do need that reference. It’s terrifying because landlords and letting agents, they’re the ones that hold the power - they’re the ones that decide if you’ve got a roof over your head.”
I founded Happy Cow Milk to make a difference. But last week I had to admit to myself that I failed.
I made the decision to shut down the business and I faced the hard truth that I haven’t really made any difference at all. So what went wrong?
In a country awash with milk – with so much invested – you’d think a few small changes would be easy. And you’d be wrong.
When Maxwell hit “search” in the Lexus Nexus legal database, line after line of Lau-related cases popped up on screen.
For a 23-year-old who’d almost topped her class in the notoriously difficult land-law papers, it felt like a rain of coins from a poker machine.
Something, she knew, was going on here. But what was it?
"It's a completely ridiculous process," he says about tenure review.
"First of all, the land should be retained as public land, but if there's going to be huge profits made it should come back to the state, the people who own this land.
"This has happened behind closed doors, as far as I can see. They're not looking at the interests of the public or the wider country at large."
It’s Douglas’s birthday. I have a small present to give him then some other presents on the following day when, for practical reasons we decide to hold a small birthday. Again for practical reasons – I can no longer really manage a cooked meal – we will have Indian takeaways and some Moet. This is not how we expected it to be. But this is how it has turned out.
"Right after 12, the chopper swooped in, its rotor blades cutting through the air to beat that familiar whop-whop-whop. A couple of Marines jumped out, and Jim’s mate ran for the door. Garry turned to his brother to say goodbye. They both grinned, and hugged. With their faces inches apart, Jim told his brother, 'Keep your head down, Gar.'”
Talking about his apparent mastery of the guitar, he said, "Nothing ever pleased me. I had such high expectations it was ridiculous. I just couldn't reach them. It had a bad affect on my health. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I had stomach ulcers, hernias... A perfectionist who is also a soft, sensitive person, a person like that is looking for trouble."
Most of these conversations are issues on which the progressive left has convinced itself, but no one else. What Harris is really calling for here is for academics and left-wing intellectuals to transform politics by talking about things that they’ve already been talking about, for years and sometimes decades, with little effect, and for everyone else to just embrace all of those values and agree with them about everything. It’s an argument against the broken status quo that perfectly replicates it.
I must admit, the guy said some stuff that made me wince; gender stereotypes in experiences of depression, dismissal of colonisation, inequality and racism as reasons for suicidal thoughts – it was like a virtue-signalling bloodbath in my head. But according to Mike, 155 young people killed themselves last year. Nothing I've done with my ‘correct’ opinions and appropriately reasoned arguments has contributed to shifting that – but I know Mike has.
This is a story about science experiments and a cast of colourful characters playing a risky game of cat-and-mouse with New Zealand's drug laws.
A story of "protection" money, clandestine meetings and bugged Skype conversations.
Of boxes of cash stacked in the lounge of a pensioner's home in the North Shore, later laundered through companies in Hong Kong and Thailand.
Money made from "designer drug" pills. Millions and millions of pills.
And this little gurgling helpless bundle, the book says, will one day crawl and talk, but really how will that ever happen? And then she is warbling and burbling and it's the prettiest trilling and gargling of random syllables and then she is crawling and she is walking and she is talking and you move through it all like a car through fog, forgetting how different things were just days and weeks before, and it is happening at jet speed but it is also like tunneling to Australia with a teaspoon, and you think this particularly as you stand behind her in a swing, pushing, again and again and again.
Neville doesn't have a name yet. He barely exists. He's just a difficult patient who'll have his morphine nicked by Deb, then die at her hands. (As Fleming says, "Everyone loves a killer nurse.")
What if, says medical adviser Caroline Restall, "the patient's so irascible that he scratches Mo, and Deb fixes Mo up?" (This is cunning, as it simultaneously serves the Deb-Mo storyline.)
Fleming: "Yeah, that's sweet."
Trainee storyliner Lily Daubney: "Can he have Alzheimers as well?"
Fleming: "I don't think we need that."
The deluge of logging waste at Loudon farm points to a massive weakness in the country’s plantation forestry system. The so-called “window of vulnerability” is a period of about six years after a radiata crop has been clear-felled, during which the land lies raw, unprotected and at the mercy of rainstorms and cyclones.