The KFC bean salad is back. The tale of this magnificent fast food tongue-tempter, its tortuous and convoluted journey through civil courts and the public marketplace, made my first taste in nine years just all that more satisfying last week.
If you are walking purposefully towards an appointment along Dunedin's main street, and you have lived here all your life, it is an absolute given you will meet someone you know who will make you late. Dunedin is that small.
Some columns scream out for illustrative backup, something that proves the column is actually based on real life and not amphetaminist bollocks. This is one of those. Somewhere out there lies the evidence I need to prove this outrageous tale is true.
A friend of mine, let's just call her someone who is providing actors for the upcoming movie Mister Pip, is providing actors for the upcoming movie Mister Pip. I have told her I am available.
It was fairly early on in my life that I realised I had only one genuinely demonstrable skill. I had been hoping a few more might emerge as the developing years unfolded, but no, I had just the one. I could add and multiply numbers really fast.
All social anthropologists would agree that in marriage there are fierce domains, areas of expertise exclusive to just one of the two partners. No domain can ever be challenged, and if these boundaries are respected, then the marriage flourishes like a fine flower.
Most rational thinkers would agree that the only time a man should ever try to make a coffee pavlova is when his wife is in Christchurch stuck in heavy snow.
The news that Meatloaf, and excuse me a minute while I bow in reverence, will not be performing at the Forsyth Barr Stadium later this year because Elton John wants to be first, has driven me down into an emotional nadir from which I may never recover.
Is eating a sport?
Children should always be photographed from behind. I am thrown into a coma of shame when I realise how long it has taken me to realise this. Most humans, I am sure, worked this out very early on.
Most rational thinkers believe material possessions accrued in youth shape the rest of your life. Mine was a small Philips bedside radio.
New Zealand has quaintly taken ownership of the Tall Poppy Syndrome.
The principal of my wife's school was stranded by volcanic ash in Wellington last Thursday, and the request went out to represent the school in the Dress Circle of the Dunedin Town Hall for the high school choral showcase, The Big Sing.
Many years ago when I was a bright-eyed young cricket writer, national cricket coach Martin Horton told me he found it incomprehensible that our players made exactly the same mistake every time they went out to bat.
I, too, was dumbfounded by this thing.
And, look no further than Ross Taylor, it hasn't gone away.
Attendance at the annual meeting of the Fernhill Community Group was small this year.
American Idol is down to the Top Three. Last Saturday night we lost James, which leaves Scotty, Haley and Lauren heading for the final. I am jiggling with excitement.
The number of times I have agreed with the wowser cabal would be fewer than the thumbs on one hand.
Television infomercials are shrinking. Truncated versions of them are now being slipped into mainstream programmes, whanging their illiterate repetitive nong-speak into 30sec and 60sec bites.
My old friend Peter popped around for a cup of tea last week. It's something we've been doing occasionally since he came back home from Auckland a couple of years ago.
Debris continues to beat my door down from internet auction and retail sites. I am gathering things I barely know anything about, buying on whim and seventh sense.
