The Amazing Adventures of The WebStress and Pulsar the Hire Car
Part I - Trek to the summit of Mount Maungatautari (almost)

Since I made the brave step of hiring a car (which I discovered isn't the horrific experience that it is in the UK - they don't ask for a down payment of your soul in exchange for a Fiesta and a few scratches are par for the course) and setting out on New Zealand's largely deserted roads, I have seen some amazing sights.

I have never really travelled much on my own. In fact, the only real solo adventuring I have done to any extent has mostly been on the M5, M42 and M1 and the only real experiences to note are the service station toilets and anger inducing cost ineffective Ginsters sandwiches from the adjacent shop (none of which I can eat, although I usually buy a cheese sandwich and remove the offending dairy produce if I'm in need of a carb kick).

But this holiday I've been all over. I've driven to the east and west coasts, I've encountered beautiful lakes, volcanic environments (which had such an offensive stench that even I, who has experienced the most horrific of bodily functions and still managed to eat a marmite sandwich on my lunch break without further thought, couldn't face eating anything other than a biscuit for the rest of the day) and bubbling mud pools.

And I have taken an enormous amount of photographs (making up for in quantity from what I lack in artistic quality) that I have made my boyfriend sit and look through every night on my return (this is some sea; this is me with some sea; this is me with a large apple in my mouth, isn't it a really big apple?; this is my shadow when I was pretending to be superwoman at the top of Mount Maunganui; this is a landscape; this is another one of the landscape, but on manual focus; this is the same landscape but with me in; this is a sheep pissing (yes all these were photographs I actually took)). And, while his attention may have waned a little with each photograph that I made him look at, he dutifully stood by my side as I waffled on about 'a funny story' that was associated or told him a WebStress fact (definition: highly inaccurate, lacking in any real direction and fairly wooly at best).

I've done all this on my own. I've set off every day with a picnic, I've walked, I've attempted (and spectacularly failed) to absorb every leaflet, every informative board, every historical plaque that I've encountered. I've driven miles, I've seen sights that made me gasp (that somehow didn't come across in any of the 20 or so photos I took of such locations and they all seem to have the sense of being a little overcast).

And I've walked and walked and walked.

While I am fantastically terrible at most sports and outdoor activities that I have ever attempted, and the rest I'm mildly awful at, walking is actually something that I can do. And not only that, I'm actually quite good at it and will not give up after 10 minutes and suggest a cup of tea as an alternative activity.

Today, after exhausting the city's local activities, I decided to venture further afield (but still make it back for lunch and Melrose Place) while not spending too much cash.

So a walk it was. I studied local maps and set my target as climbing to the summit of Mount Maungatautari (no I have no idea how that is pronounced, but I did for about 2 minutes after someone told me).

While that may sound rather dramatic for a morning's exercise, Maoris seem to have named anything above a small bump a Mount of some description. According to the guidebook it was 797 metres and had a track to its summit. Doable, with a decent pair of walking boots and a few snacks.

I arrived at the desolate car park, populated with just one other vehicle: that of the park ranger. I asked him about the route which he said was steep and approved of my decision to wear walking boots. I geared up and was about to set off before he asked if I was okay with going alone as it was best to go walking with someone, and that while the area was as safe as it could be, I should be careful. I told him that someone knew where I was which seemed to suffice.

And so I set off.

The initial track was through farmland populated with sheep and cows. The sheep fled like waves parting for a modern day Moses (without the beard and religious connotations), however the cows were less skittish. Instead they closed in on me, mooing unsettlingly and I was extremely thankful that an electric fence divided me from them. Maybe they'd heard tales of Cornish Cow tipping.

After ducking under the odd electric fence and avoiding (where possible) large amounts of faeces, I came across a group of conservation workers at the top of the fields who the park ranger had warned me to 'make sure they didn't give me any hassle'. I walked by cautiously, making as limited idle chit chat as feasibly possible without being incredibly rude, and continued up the track.

The track was wide enough for a 4x4 and pretty steep. As I was stumbling over the gravel, the words of the park ranger were echoing in my head. There were two things I imagined he had warned me about being careful of. One was falling over and breaking my ankle (extremely possible considering that I appear to have been blessed with the balancing capabilities of an inelegant elephant (years of watching my dance performances as a child must have been torturous for my mum). The second was to be careful of other things, or people.

I was happy with the first. I had provisions and a telephone with credit. I could occupy myself waiting for help playing eye spy. I had a map, albeit a vague road map of the area, but still it was something to read. I could limp or crawl my way back if necessary. I was used to continually falling over, I have the ability to fall over invisible objects and have acquired so many bumps, scratches and bruises over the years that my skin rarely acknowledges the odd graze here and there. Flesh wounds could be solved with a plaster, a bit of blood would dry after a while.

The second I was less comfortable with. I quickly became aware that there was no one else around. My nearest neighbours as far as I could tell were the group of scary Kiwi men who were growing ever distant behind me. And I had a long way to go.

But I pressed onwards. I have an extremely fertile imagination when it comes to 'bad things that might possibly happen' and I wasn't going to let them consume my enjoyment of some good old cardiovascular exercise with a view at the top (camera at the ready, boyfriend on standby to be bored later).

I went up and up (as you tend to do when trying to reach the summit of a mountain) and tried to concentrate on the vegetation around me, although after a while and several hundred trees later, my interest was beginning to grow a little impatient. The top must be nearing. Or a photo opportunity of a view at the very least.

Then the orange markers that I'd been diligently following veered off the road and plunged into the undergrowth. Deep breath: On we go. Not too far now, it shouldn't be too far.

However five minutes of trekking up through the dense woodland, and I was no longer worried about the scary Kiwi men driving their 4x4 up the track to abduct me. They were beginning to look like Father Christmas in comparison to the possibilities that my mind was telling me may exist in the dense undergrowth.

I looked at my situation. I wasn't going to be able to run anywhere if something were to happen. The woodland was near vertical (or so my legs thought) and I was sweating profusely and struggling as it was. I hadn't seen a soul and I'd been walking for a very long time. And the trees were looking like they could hold an awful lot of scary things.

I have been struggling for years to come to terms with walking alone. While I have always been absolutely terrified of the dark, a few years ago in my final year at university I was mugged at knifepoint and from that moment on, my fear of walking alone or being anywhere vaguely secluded or remote expanded to the day. I was mugged at night, but it was only 7pm on my way home from attending the gym for the very first time (damn fool hardy idea). The most unsettling thing about the whole incident was that I'd been followed for some time by the (trying to suppress bitter undertones) bastard skag head who mugged me. It was possible that he was following me on my walk home from uni which resulted in me walking up, in hindsight, an incredibly unsavoury desolate path.

He had been watching, and when I was alone, he started running. I heard footsteps, and I turned to see him advancing on me. I started to run as fast as I could thinking if I could just reach the road, just a few hundred yards in front of me, there would be people, it would be okay.
I didn't make it that far, and with a small but still really not very friendly knife about a centimetre away from my throat (apparently if it had touched my skin then the bastard skag head would have faced additional charges to that of simply mugging, but that centimetre looked really really small at the time) he made me take out my wallet and phone out of my bag and give them to him.

He ran off then: People were chasing him up the alley (who I have an awful lot to thank for, as they took me home and calmed me) and he had what he needed. The police later said that, under these circumstances, I did what was right. If I had have fought in any way then, well, he was a heroin addict and they're not known for their compassion in situations such as this. Money equates to a hit and that's about where it ends. So they said, and I'm inclined to agree.

After, the police took me around the estates where I lived looking for him and I quickly realised that where we were living was basically situated in an extremely unsavoury area. This was confirmed a few months later by a documentary on the increasing heroin problem in Bradford, focusing on the council block directly behind our house with a few choice shots of needles, heated spoons and tin foil.

After that going anywhere on my own was difficult for a long long time. I had amazing support from my friends but now, even now, nearly 5 years later, while I have managed to suppress it as far as I think it may ever go, I can't do anything on my own at night, or in secluded places, without that fear. While I managed with a car wherever I could, it crippled my freedom in London as no bus or tube thought it necessary to stop directly outside of my house and I felt that fear every morning when I left in the dark, and every evening I returned home. I avoided people, I stopped and changed direction often, or waited until they'd passed I felt my heart pound so fast it made me sick when I could hear someone behind me, just walking to the tube stop on a morning. I felt stupid and foolish but only on occasions where fear was totally consuming me did I manage to swallow my pride and ask my boyfriend to meet me. The rest of the time I just felt my heart, felt the sickness in my stomach, felt the hairs rise on my arms and the back of my neck and dealt with it. Or didn't go out.

But I am stubborn, I can walk and I was going to walk to the top. What was the point in walking two thirds of the way? You climb a mountain for a reason. And I was not going to let the fear pulsating in my head take over. I repeated over and over to myself that I was merely out of my comfort zone, that yes, it was possible that situations could occur that would result in a particularly unhappy WebStress, but they were slim (the devil's advocate sitting in on such thoughts kept interjecting with unhelpful comments such as 'yes but what if this is the slim chance?' and I promised to have serious words with him once I'd returned to the car and composed myself). There was no one following, there was no one watching. I was okay.

I carried on and finally, finally I reached the top, which was possibly the severest anti climax of any hardcore uphill walk I have ever experienced. There was a bench. And lots and lots more trees. No view, not even half a view.

I didn't even stop. I was just relieved I'd made it. I carried on following the orange arrows, leading me downwards. I'd done it, I'd reached the top, and now I was going to get down as quickly as possible and go home for a well deserved cup of tea.

But something wasn't quite right. The orange arrows were heading downwards sure, but then a little way in the distance they were heading upwards again.

I hadn't reached the top at all.

I stood stock still for a moment, wondering what to do. And then, with no conscious control from me, my fear consumed my pride, my body turned and my legs took me back the way I'd came as quickly as possible.

My descent was thankfully a damn sight swifter than my ascent. I arrived back at the scary Kiwi men in impressive time. They asked me if I'd made it to the top. I couldn't lie, because I didn't know what was at the top. It may have been the most breathtakingly beautiful view conceivable or, if experience of previous resting points had led me to believe, it might just be a bench and some more trees.

I told them where I'd reached to. They nodded. Then they asked me some peculiar questions about how I'd found out about the mountain and how did I know it was pest free. By this point I'd gone beyond indulging in niceties with scary Kiwis, so I made my excuses and carried on down the hill.

En route I took an astonishing amount of pictures of the view that I could see, the cows (who had clearly been mocking my efforts to attempt the climb in retrospect with their communal mooing) and some sheep (one which was pissing).

I drove home, a little shaken, very relieved, a bit dazed (which resulted in an accidental massive detour) and rewarded myself with bad American comedy (Melrose Place was all over by that point) and a cup of tea.

My next outing tomorrow is horse trekking with a very large group of people over a vast amount of open countryside.

10 Observations of the Travelling WebStress

1. Everything in New Zealand, or certainly where I’m based, ‘does what it says on the tin’. They don’t mess about with advertising here that may mislead the consumer as to the purpose of the retailer; shop names are self explanatory. Alongside Pack n Save (where, as you trundle around a no frills warehouse that has more in common with Homebase than Sainsburys, savings are in abundance until you get to the checkout where you have to buy loads of bags to pack your shopping in) and, I have also ventured into Food Town, The Warehouse (which is, in fact, a warehouse) and The Number 1 Shoe Shop and Liquorland. Easy for foreigners and the more in-bred of locals.

2. Everything you could possibly want from a supermarket belongs to someone called Pam (I currently have Pam’s soya milk, Pam’s cheese, Pam’s tin foil and Pam’s washing up liquid but I drew the line at buying my boyfriend burgers from her. There’s just something a bit wrong about buying frozen meat produce from the same person who’s trying to sell you cleaning products.

3. Ribena tastes the same…

4.…But Heinz beans really, really don’t. Especially ones claiming to be from an English recipe. Whatever English recipe they’re adhering to it certainly isn’t one for mixing beans with tomato sauce.

5. Radio advertising is an eclectic mixture of cow de-licing solutions, John Deere tractor bargains and people telling you they used to be a ‘hoon’ (sometimes in relation to the advert, sometimes just for a bit of background info) and tend to know nothing of how to keep a sales pitch short and snappy.

6. Radio programmes themselves can use words like bugger, butt crack, jap’s eye and bastard in general chit chat and no one bats an eyelid.

7. According to law, if you are turning left at a set of traffic lights you have to give way to oncoming traffic turning right which is totally idiotic and pointless and often results in hairy near misses, especially as Kiwis seem to apply the rule infrequently and erratically (as they too believe the rule is idiotic and pointless).

8. Kiwi drivers seem to think the hard shoulder is, in fact, another lane and tend to drive in it most of the time. I did question that maybe they were just being considerate in letting other people pass but after doing nearly 10 hours of driving I am beginning to realise that they are just taking ‘drive on the left’ to the extreme.

9. Corrugated iron seems to be as fashionable here as sheep. If you can make it out of corrugated iron, they do. Signage, shop fronts, entire buildings are made out of the damn stuff. And it comes in pretty colours too.

10. New Zealand rock music is not to be recommended as being introduced to the outside world. Think Nickelback with a few Bon Jovi power chords and a good helping of heart wrenching emo thrown in for good measure.

Reunited

Wednesday morning: I arrived in Auckland after a comfortingly uneventful flight.

My bag, however, did not. The clean clothes that I had visions of changing into, a rather crumpled, wrinkled and generally not too healthy smelling caterpillar emerging into a slightly more politely perfumed and less wrinkled butterfly, did not emerge.

So, whilst my boyfriend waited for me upstairs in arrivals, I was filling in forms downstairs, biting back tears. It was bad enough that I wasn’t looking as radiant as I would have liked, and that I’d food welded onto various parts of my clothing when he saw me for the first time after 3 and a half months, but he was actually going to have to put up with that for the whole day.

His first encounter of me wasn’t exactly as I’d planned. I’d done my best with my variety of wipes and a compact mirror to make myself reasonably presentable and, while I wasn’t going to win any awards, it could certainly have been worse. But instead I was a little emotional, and not in the way that I should have been.

Emerging from arrivals, I saw him instantly. A whole rush of thoughts and emotions, but all I could do was say hello. On the ride back to his accommodation, as New Zealand was emerging from a chilly night into an overcast morning, I began to realise that I was here, and, over everything, I was with my boyfriend.

It is now Sunday morning here and that feeling continually floods me, over and over. We can be doing the most ordinary of things and it hits me. Food shopping, and he’s there, beside me. Cooking (questionable New Zealand allegedly ‘English Recipe’) beans on toast. Watching TV. And waking up (it’s a bit difficult to avoid someone in a single bed).

I have been trying to establish my place in my boyfriend’s new life. I can only imagine it is something similar to watching your partner go to University. You let them go, you listen to them change, their stories, their experiences, their friends. And you arrive, for a visit. There are changes, you are a guest in their new life. They have friends, they have established relationships with people you met two minutes ago. There are jokes, there is a world that you cannot relate to and don’t understand where you fit into. You are reliant on them to help you feel your way, a new city, a new environment, new accommodation. This person does this, this person knows this. Names are passed to me and I promptly lose them in the poor filing system my brain adopts (much like my physical approach), beneath a pile of mental post it notes on currency translations, pronunciation of place names and crazy New Zealand driving rules and regulations (as far as I can gather: none or at least those that exist are somewhat inconsistent).

It is like being on your partner’s work night out. Except constantly.

But to be with him again –

On Thursday morning I woke early and, in true half-asleep-really-shouldn’t-be-attempting-complex-thought style, I flooded myself with thoughts. On the flight over, I began to panic. The overwhelming thought of being with him again torn apart by the intolerable thought of losing him again. Was it too painful to see him? How was I going to return home, leaving him here? I did it once, I said goodbye once, one of the hardest moments of my life. And I will have to do it over and over in the next few years. I will have to learn to reduce the transition, deny myself the down-time that I indulged in after he went, people won’t be able to pick me up, hold me, carry me again and again. I will learn. I’m sure.

There will be a time when he will be there one minute and gone the next and I will be able to cope with it. I’ll say goodbye at the airport, or from a car window, and then I will be on my own again and will return home without him.

I wonder if it will ever get easier. I wonder if it does, if that is wrong.

Thursday morning, with him beside me, those thoughts exploded into a million other tiny fragments of worry and aching. He was next to me asleep, yet I was terrified. I was terrified of everything that I have experienced since Thursday night: finding my way, or my place, whichever, in his new life, and all the things that are still to come.

The days have passed, I have operated in something close to a routine and managed to develop some independence, my most recent example of this was facing my fear of driving in NZ so, due to a public transport system that leaves a lot to be desired, I have hired a car. Out of my comfort zone and into the front seat of a Nissan Pulsar (possibly the biggest and most powerful car that I have ever driven) and onto the roads of New Zealand, trying desperately to pre-empt the inconsistent and frankly terrifying actions of the local drivers.

I have done relatively little sight seeing so far, I have seen what there is of the local town (not a lot) and have driven to the coast through some beautiful countryside and roads that rival the travel sickness inducing tracks that weave through the Lake District that would leave even the most hardened of stomachs a little unsettled.

But I have seen him. He could have been situated in Hell and I’d have still happily paid a month’s salary to go to the ends of the earth to find him. The fact that it is New Zealand is an added bonus and will keep me occupied, now some blissfully ignorant Kiwi has entrusted me with the keys of a car on foreign soil. I have been overloaded with information on where to go, what to do. What I have taken in is probably bugger all. I have a million leaflets all instructing me to visit various regions and partake in all manner of activities in order to make my trip to New Zealand the holiday of a lifetime.

But that has already been achieved. Sights I will see on my own, I will digest, I will enjoy. I will drive to them alone, I will think and I will sing very loudly (and probably a little painfully on the high notes). I will have space and I will have time. But all of that doesn’t compare to a few small hours a day with my boyfriend, even if it’s just to fall asleep together.

Cut, blow dry and a little something extra

(Written 2pm, Monday 17th July)

On Thursday, in one of a few select beauty preparations I indulged in before today’s journey, I got my hair cut.

I have heard from tales of women who adore the pampering, the excitement, the experience of the salon. However visiting the hairdressers is something I can only say that I endure.

I spent years getting my hair cut obscenely and unflatteringly short for my round face so that I didn’t have to go so often and could get my money’s worth.

This time, however, I have had very little off the length (finally, I am hoping, that I have learnt my lesson, although once sat in the chair cowering beneath the hairdresser, I unfortunately have little control over my vocal chords and my tongue will ravel off whatever it sees fit) and have instead concentrated on trimming ‘unsightly’ (apparently) split ends and trying to thin the unruly mop somewhat from its garden hedge status.

So after delivering my rather vague instructions (littered with ‘if you think that’s a good idea’s’ and ‘something like that anyway’s’ and ‘okay, we’ll go with that idea’s’), I sat down to have my hair washed.

There are two reasons why I dislike visiting the hairdressers so much. One is that I loathe small talk and am utterly terrible at it unless it is with an old person (when I seem to have a natural ability in talking about the weather for extended periods of time). I will do anything I can to steer the conversation off myself and onto the hairdresser so I don’t have to reply to the inane ‘so where are you going on holiday this year’ (this particular hairdresser asked me this even though I’d just told her I was going to New Zealand for a month) and whatever questions they will promptly filter out the responses to. If that fails, opting for silence is usually my effective plan B.

My second dislike is people touching my hair. My personal space is quite obscene at best, but touching my hair and, even worse, my head is something that I cannot bear. So getting my hair washed prior to my cut is never something that sits particularly well with me. Lie back and think of England, or anything that isn’t the fact that some stranger is touching one of my most sacred of places.

I endured the shampoo without too much agony. Then came the conditioner, which I assumed would follow a similar process.

I was wrong.

She ingrained the conditioner into my skull with some vigour. Okay, she was getting it clean. I did have the slight worry that my hair needed that much cleaning but whatever, she knew best.

Then she began to massage my skull.

At this point I started to panic. As she kneaded away she asked me ‘is that pressure okay?’. I responded in a slightly restrained voice ‘yeah fine’ despite my internal monologue screaming ‘what the hell is she doing?’ so loudly I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was trickling out through some facial orifice accidentally.

Time passed. She was still going.

Thoughts such as maybe this was costing me extra and was she coming on to me swept into my head (and, where the latter was concerned, left just as swiftly). Just as I thought she was letting up, she’d find some other part of my head to exploit. I imagine she must have been surprised at my (stunned) silence, as other customers will no doubt have expelled ecstatic moans of pleasure. I tried to move my concentration to reading the labels of the shampoo bottles in front but, constantly reminded of the goings-on above my eyelevel through a constant uncomfortable jerking and a sensation that continually swept through my body like hearing nails down a chalk board or seeing someone’s teeth clamp around a lollypop stick (another one of mine), my efforts went unappreciated by my sensory perception.

Eventually it ended and I thanked her, still in some shock. After that, my conversation with the hairdresser was a walk in the park.

I told my sister of the horror I had experienced earlier, as she had recommended me to these madmen.

She said hadn’t I enjoyed it and that was her favourite part.

I swore. A lot.

Next time I’ll see if they’ll let me wash my hair myself.

36 hours and 41 songs

(written 1:24pm Monday 17th July)

As I write this, I am 6 hours and 24 minutes into my journey to New Zealand. I am sat in the departure lounge at Heathrow searching in vain to find some careless soul who has left their Wi-Fi connection unprotected, feeling pretty sick and sweating fairly profusely. And I haven’t even got near boarding a plane yet.

Last night, mid-beer with my dad, I remembered something that, with all the excitement of going to see my boyfriend, I had totally forgotten to address.

I hate flying.

I also hate airports, crowded places, and the majority of the people I am currently sharing airspace with.

But I could deal with all of them, at a push, if you took the former out of the equation.

Short haul I can just about cope with. The tires have barely left the tarmac when you’re presented with your impressively co-ordinated meal (condiments arranged within mathematical precision in the coffee cup? A napkin that turns into a bin liner? Genius.) and, once that’s done, you spend half an hour trying to drink a cup of tar coloured coffee without scalding yourself (you will fail). Before you know it, you’ve just had a chance to decide not to purchase the mini toy aeroplane from the in-flight magazine that is supposedly a replica of the one you’re currently say on, except a lot shinier, newer and more stable.

But the last long haul flight I spent the entire return journey clutching fiercely onto either my dad’s or my mum’s hand (or occasionally both through a particularly bad spell) through 21 hours of continuous turbulence.

I hope whoever’s sat next to me won’t mind indulging a little hand-holding if it all gets a bit hairy.

You would have thought I would find some vague comfort in having a boyfriend who will eventually be flying one of these plane things. But for the past year I have been immersed in all manner of flight literature (I was a little disappointed when his copies of FHM were replaced with ‘Flight Weekly’ or whatever its called, and wouldn’t recommend it for bedtime reading) and stories which have done little to reassure me (I have discovered that having a pilot boyfriend is similar to losing a beloved pet – everyone knows a story about a plane disaster and are all to ready to whip it out, gory details and all, at any given opportunity. Light after dinner entertainment for The WebStress it is not.).

In trying to suppress my worry and sickness I appear to have adopted some sort of pseudo persona as a sort of coping mechanism. I have been obscenely chatty, confident and ‘lovely’ with everyone I have encountered today, rather than avoiding all unnecessary human interaction as usual. I have become quintessentially English since I set off this morning and have adopted an accent just shy of Received Pronunciation (this is quite a change from my typical hybrid of Home Counties with a dash of Cornish and Yorkshire colloquialisms and lilts thrown in. And yes, it sounds as odd as it reads).

So far this has resulted in one particular near problematic encounter. I befriended an elderly Kiwi in the baggage queue and, on replying that no, we didn’t know each other to the security guard, we were both subsequently pulled for security checks. Obviously a suspicious duo if ever there was one.

I have an hour to go until I board. So far my water spilt all through the inside of my backpack, I have eaten something that is clearly not agreeing with my digestive enzymes that have spontaneously all decided to go on strike due to high stress levels, I have listened to the 41 songs on my 256mb MP3 player 1 and a half times through (it may be tiny but it is indestructible, even for the clumsiest and most indelicate of hands such as mine), I am attracting fatty tissue just through the process of sitting and my hair has decided that the back of my neck is actually its conjoined twin and has decided to glue itself to my skin through the bountiful resource of perspiration that’s accumulated there.

Altogether, looking good.

Senility vs Instinct

Living in the countryside, I am all to aware, can put a vegetarian somewhat at odds with their surroundings at times.

Aged 9 I had the unfortunate nickname of 'Captain Planet' by a boy who is now one of my best friends (and occasionally thinks it is amusing to refer to me as such). I was a troubled child who wore various oversized 'save the [random endangered species]' teeshirts (occasionally these were teamed with leggings just to finish off the look). I could have chosen to simply adhere to my parent's wishes and continue quietly with my meatless diet. But no, before I knew any better, I wanted to save the world.

I regularly chose the majority of my Christmas list that wasn't Lego from the WWF magazine (oh god I think I'm revealing too much of my sinister past). My sister and I tried to save numerous birds, devotedly feeding them through a pipette for all of an afternoon until we got bored and our parents had to assume the motherly role that we'd hastily vacated.

I even had a board game called 'go green'. It came with a tape. And I still remember the lyrics.

Due to a consistent backlash of piss taking and the assimilation into a 'normal' teenager, once I hit around 14 I, well, stopped caring. Which was probably for the best considering my dangerous leanings at such a tender age towards Greenpeace. I can't remember when it happened exactly, but I can now cook a bacon sandwich with some skill, slice ham directly off the bone, remove the jelly from the top of a tin of spam with only the most insignificant of gipping noises (my cast iron stomach and bizarre array of skills shall forever be in debted to my nursing home past) and walk past a field of sheep, my dad, a reasonably strict vegetarian (depending on if my mum is cooking for him, his devotion waivers somewhat when she's away and he's near a fish and chip shop), yelling something about juicy mutton and not even flinch. In fact, I've been known to join in.

Today however, my disregard for animal life was tested somewhat.

Our three cats are hunters. Over the years, I've seen (or seen the remains of) them devouring rats, mice, rabbits, birds and a variety of other harmless vermin and rodents. Only this week, I've had to deal with a dead bird and a very much not dead bird (although after me man-handling the poor thing in order to get it out of the kitchen, I wouldn't be surprised if it met a hasty end on escaping).

But today, the old lady of our trio of felines, with a muffled series of confused meows, presented me with a rather large and very dead rabbit.

I didn't tell her off. She is increasingly senile and to be honest the damn thing was dead and she seemed incredibly confused as to why she was whining, let alone why she was holding a rabbit in her jaw. Besides the damn thing was dead, and she might have had a notion of presenting it to her vegetarian mother as some sort of tasty afternoon treat (however I am inclined to think that instinct overruled any sanity checks that she may or may not have had in place and at least its keeping her active).

And, to be honest, that's what cats are supposed to do. I might not like the fact that they do it, but then they don't like the fact that I don't pander to their each and every whim (with three of them who have contradictory needs and desires, it can be pretty tricky).

But this one was a big bugger. And it was still warm. She could have at least had the decency of eating the damn thing.


I calmed the rather confused and distressed cat down and then pondered what to do with the deceased bunny, that was only an inch or two smaller than the cat herself.

So, now, after some thought and joining the cat in whimpering and confusion, the rabbit is laying a cool shade (I retained some initiative at least with regards to heat, smell and decomposition) around the back of the garage waiting for my dad to come home and dispose of it in a more appropriate manner.

I felt a few twangs of guilt looking out from the kitchen window at the dead rabbit's relatives innocently bounding about in field opposite while Jim decomposed in our back garden. They've gone now, with the effective solution of just not looking at them.

Cycling Proficiency

It is now just over a week until I arrive in Auckland, and my hardcore programme of exercise coupled with strict dietary guidelines has remained as somewhat of a myth.

When my boyfriend left and I moved in with my SP I felt there was nothing I couldn’t do, with regards to achieving physical fitness. Everything was within reach: the figure that I’d dreamt of, toned muscular outlines carefully teetering on the edge of attractive and slightly masculine (it’s a difficult thing to balance), a flawless stomach. I could do it.

And as the weight gradually started to subside and my fatty tissues assumed their intended roles (with some confusion and a lot of guidance), I really believed that it was achievable. And for the first time in my life, I was actually getting somewhere near the figure that I have a feeling God originally intended (but got somewhat sidetracked with producing).

But then something happened.

Maybe I tipped the balance too far. Maybe the reward of eating the quantities of the foodstuffs that I wanted (and not that I needed, which I have to state are two vastly different goal posts) and consuming a glass of wine for every 10 minutes of ‘strenuous’ (in its loosest term) exercise wasn’t actually equal to the calories I was burning.

But everything’s well, stopped.

And there’s another reason for my lack of shrinkage: I’ve got bored.

I voiced my concerns to my SP earlier. She too suffers from the same ailment. Exercise consistently and vigorously for the weeks leading up to whatever event where you wish to be at your most attractive (wedding, university reunion, seeing your boyfriend for the first time in 3 and a half months) and then, in the few days before said date…..stop.

Genius.

Nothing seems to be inspiring me. Not my Jordan DVD, not running, nothing.

But the lack of defined torso is a consistent and relentless reminder that really I have to get off my arse and do something.

So, after a lengthy day of banner ads, uncooperative Actionscript and ‘not-quite-right-but-will-have-to-do-because-I-can’t-think-of-anything-better’ designs (quite a common conclusion in the creative life of The WebStress, I had the ingenious idea of going out on a bike ride with my dad.

Now it sounds fairly idyllic cycling in Cornwall. Miles upon miles of unspoilt countryside, beautiful windy lanes, no pollution, shiny gates.

And lots and lots of hills.

And there are hills, then there are Cornish hills. And for every beautiful, exquisite race winding down into a valley, the wind whipping through your ears (causing me no end of pain but I ignore it as best I can and try to concentrate on the fact that I am exercising without actually doing anything, and carefully avoiding acknowledging that the not doing anything means I’m actually not exercising), for every downhill there is an uphill.

And that uphill is, somehow, much steeper and much longer than it’s neighbour.

It doesn’t help that I’m a terrible cyclist. I passed my cycling proficiency at primary school. At the age of 25 I am just managing taking all but my thumb off the handlebar to give a semi-wave to thank passers-by, and on Saturday I achieved an extremely brief full hand wave for the first time in years.

My cycling career from the age of eight up until the last few weeks has been, at best, intermittent and unimpressive. I learnt to ride in Berkshire, where the hills were undemanding, even for a small person. Unfortunately, even with such slight inclines, my sister still managed to crack her head open hurtling down one of them and together we were forced to pioneer the extremely unattractive Tuff-Top cycle helmets: great wads of polystyrene that were painted in red and white stripes and stretched as wide and as high as the eye could see.

At the time, despite my sister’s injury, I was not impressed that my family had decided to champion the cause of safe cycling, even at the tender age of 8. Especially as no other bugger was. But I played the dutiful daughter (actually, there was no dutiful about it, we either went cycling with these obscenities strapped to our heads, or we didn’t and heaven only knows why I didn’t opt for the latter). If we wanted to ride with our friends, we did them with our skulls wrapped in polystyrene (an updated, literal version, I can only imagine, of being wrapped in cotton wool, being less itchy and able to fend off an impact).

But then we moved to Cornwall and, not only did my friends live a considerable distance from me, between my house and theirs was most certainly a hill or five. And my bike, I seem to recall, was for town use.

I attempted tackling the countryside a few times on my bike. I have vivid memories of panting up hills and freewheeling down, but I have a feeling these memories most likely are all derived from the same one or two occasions.

So, after a while, it was resigned to the garage, alongside the rest of the sports equipment my dad had purchased to try to encourage my sister and myself to pursue active lifestyles.

And my skills, along with my bike, were left to gather dust.

So, in January 2005, suffering from the same deluded health kick as millions of Britons, my boyfriend and I decided that we would purchase mountain bikes.

We had the best intentions. We rode around Epping Forest. Three times. We….well that’s about all I did. And then it all went horribly wrong.

On one memorable trip which involved venturing onto London’s roads, long after we’d learnt that cycle lanes in London share their tarmac with buses and taxis, I was assaulted by a stationary white van when the driver, oblivious to my presence, opened his door into me.

Had I not had a cycle helmet on at this point I would have suffered a lot worse injuries, I’m sure. As it was, I limped home, whimpering, after momentarily losing my sight and nearly vomiting. I can only think I wouldn’t have got off quite so lightly had I not adorned my head in a more sophisticated yet still essentially polystyrene protector.

My resurrected cycling career ended as swiftly as it had started. And my bike, its wounds gaffa-taped and its gear-shift never quite the same, was dragged to the top of our second floor flat and, with the exception of a few brave ventures, left.

So, Cornwall mark II – this time I was going to become a cyclist.

As with primary school chairs, I assumed that the hills would be smaller and I’d laugh at my previous attempts as a podgy child and, later, still quite podgy teenager to conquer them.

I’d tried this once before, last May. My boyfriend and I, proud new owners of my now sadly departed Rover, decided that we would exploit this new found freedom and take our matching Treks (his obviously being a more advanced model with him actually being able to ride competently, while mine was one up from the suspension-lacking bone-shaker).

This was a big mistake. I think we probably recognised this 10 minutes into our journey.

Not only was it pouring with rain, it was freezing. But we weren’t going to be defeated.

My boyfriend was quickly disappointed in realising that it is pretty much 99% of lane cycling around our house. No woods to explore, our mountain bikes itching to venture off the beaten track. Instead, I took him around a route that I thought wouldn’t be too suicidal.

It was horrific. Even now, I think of the cross words my boyfriend didn’t say to me and am in awe at his patience, his stopping to wait for his unfit, unqualified girlfriend. The dead end that I made him cycle down. The hill that even he had to walk up.

But with my fitness levels higher than they have been of recent years, I thought it was time to start afresh.

Over the past few weeks, my dad and I have cycled on the only route that isn’t littered with uninviting hills has he has a racing bike and I am just crap. But today I thought we’d try a little something new.

I am still here, still able to type, still able to walk, so obviously it didn’t go that badly. And now, after a hefty lesson in the mind boggling ways of how gears actually work by a family friend (not actually magic, as I’d previously assumed), using a series of dinner plates, I am actually managing to use the majority of the middle range of my 24 gears to some degree of effect.

But at one point, attempting the most vicious hill we were to encounter, I looked ahead to see my dad leaning into a hedge to pause up ahead and I actually thought ‘Oh my god I’ve killed him’.

We did it, my dad, in his high-vis jacket and baseball cap (which I did mention won’t do much to keep his brains in) cycling ahead and then waiting for his daughter, panting and wheezing, soaked in rain and sweat, to catch up. We must have looked ridiculous to passers by.

But it worked pretty well. At the end of the journey my helmet was dripping with a dowdy, typically English version of an Australian cork hat. I was covered in a variety of farmyard faeces and my bike had developed a rather painful sounding whine, a vocalisation of my inner screamings. But we did it.

After we’d conquered one of the most painful of hills, the rain at this point thrashing down, I yelled to my dad ‘we get to have a drink tonight’.

He yelled back ‘what, water’.

And that was that. It was of course the response that I should have given when answering back to the antagonistic side of my conscience when it was goading me into a drink. But, after months of exercising with my SP and my boyfriend’s sister and being rewarded with some sort of alcoholic treat, I have to say it was a rather disappointing result. I’ve had a cup of tea now and some fizzy pop but it just isn’t cutting it.

In the shower, trying to scrub off the countryside that had managed to get itself into the unlikeliest of places and trying to erase the Lilly Allen lyrics from my brain (which I eventually managed to do with a silent rendition of ‘God gave rock and roll to you’, my mind believing that this was, of course, an appropriate alternative), I am embarrassed to say that I came up with an ‘if else’ statement for my weight loss programme, which I can only attribute to my afternoon of Actionscripting.

If ($calorificIntake > $exerciseAchieved){
$bodyFat ++;
} elseif ($calorificIntake < $exerciseAchieved){
$bodyFat --;
}

Now I nearly omitted this from my blog. But I felt it important that my friends were really and truly justified in their consistent ridiculing and ribbing of the WebStress in highlighting how geeky she really is.

And now, in order to wash my hands of these coding monstrosities (which are probably floored in some way anyhow, not only am I a geeky coder, I am a bad geeky coder) and scrape together some vague semblance of womanhood, I am going to paint my nails.

Life in the slow lane

On cycling passed some fields (its pretty tricky round here to get anywhere without going 'passed some fields') en route to collect the papers on Saturday morning my dad exclaimed 'Wow! New gate!' as he admired the shiny polished metal wonder.

And that, in the words of Forest Gump, is all I have to say about that.

Less Idyllic Cornish Moments

There are some wonderful aspects of Cornish life.

Small children, for entertainment, waving at the occasional car passing them by, and being a little too excited when the driver waves back, being one that I recently encountered.

And there are those aspects that, however homesick I may become in wherever my travels may take me, however deep the yearning that I may endure for the countryside when immersed in pollution, congestion and claustrophobia, that I will never, ever miss.

I have just wiped old mad Cornishman slobber from my ear.

I knew the knock: a distinctive thudding on the front door. Sure I could have pretended I wasn’t in, hid behind the sofa, feigned ignorance at my visitor’s arrival. But the back door was wide open and, even in the ends of the earth where my parents reside, that’s a sure fire sign someone’s in.

Our neighbour is, as far as I can tell, barking mad and is sprouting hair from every conceivable pore on his face. He has also looked around a hundred since 1989. And somewhere in my youth he decided to take a fancy to me.

On this particular occasion, he grabbed my hand (the wrong one I might add) to check for a wedding ring. When I told him that, no, I wasn’t married but yes, I was living with my boyfriend (the prospect of explaining that that wasn’t technically true and he was actually in the other side of the world for the majority of the year seeming like a very bad idea) he winked at me and said how lucky my boyfriend was.

This was a fairly mild encounter. During some of my most uncomfortable teenage years I have endured hugs, leers, lewd comments and a variety of unsettling, slightly unhinged grins.

I am, I might add, not the only one that has had to suffer these awkward encounters. My Grandma vocalised her strong dislike of his advances in her dog walking days (I’m sure his wife can’t be that pleased either). I don’t think he’s ever attempted such banter with my sister but I’m sure she’d probably ensure that he certainly never entertained the idea again.

But I’m a little more of a pushover and am able to scrape a few smiles from somewhere and bear the situation as best possible thinking ‘I must be a good person, I must be a good person’.

He’s old after all. And harmless. Well that’s what my dad says. However I imagine if he’d been kissed on the ear and embraced a little too intensely by said hairy Cornishman then he’d perhaps be a little more sympathetic to my complaints.

Oh god, I’ve just realised my hand smells of dirt. I need to sanitise my skin.

Moments like this, for a heartbeat, I long for a Starbucks. Oh and I’ve locked the door now.