Arrowtown book buyer Miranda Spary continues her regular column about her recommendations for a good read, and life as she sees it ...
Christmas is the time of year when you see millions of things you want for yourself and still can't find anything for anybody else. I'm a dreadful shopper (unless, of course, I'm in a book shop) and loathe it, so Christmas is a big disappointment for my family and friends.
If you have a whole lot of hard-to-please family members and friends and you don't want to spend more than $20 on them, go to wakatipurowing@gmail.com. You can get a case of Random Walk - a fantastic very local pinot noir - and that's 12 presents sorted for $220. Best of all, every cent is going to the Wakatipu Rowing Club thanks to the very Christmassy-spirited Alistair Nicholson and Alison Gerry.
Knowing you are helping keep a whole lot of teenagers fit and focused (and making them get up at 5am each day) makes it taste even better.
I got much fitter this weekend after my two days on the rail trail.
Our book club decided to change the habit of the club's lifetime, which is just to have a massive booze-up for Christmas.
Instead, Roger and Nicky at Off the Rails organised two days of cycling, curling, eating, eating, eating, drinking, drinking, drinking and far too much laughter. We had perfect cycling weather and all sorts of special treats were laid on for us.
If you have never been to Hayes Engineering, you are in for a big surprise. Roger even organised for them to turn on all the machines - it's the most marvellous mad inventorish collection of belts and wheels and sparks and excitingly dangerous looking tools and gadgets you ever saw.
OSH must hate it.
Our whole weekend was fun and fabulous, but the curling was ridiculous. It is the silliest sport in the world - whoever dreamt up a sport involving sweeping in front of a whizzing 20kg stone while running on ice?
I'm very keen on sports that need a lot of special equipment, but curling is a little uncool in that regard: as well as hats and gloves and sticky things for the bottom of your shoes, an industrial-strength pair of incontinence pants wouldn't go amiss.
And on the subject of sports fashion, my brother-in-law has just arrived from London.
As ever, his first port of call was Element to buy his fishing licence.
And who should he meet there but a vision of bald and stout loveliness clad in bright tartan shorts with an ill-matching, ill-fitting belt, calf-high white socks and boat shoes?
My darling.
I had already discussed his wardrobe choice with him and been firmly (and crossly) ignored.
I told our No 1 son it was his job to train him what to wear - my darling can easily find a new wife, but first-born sons are harder to replace.
I'm sorry to say even he failed, and so I just have to keep reminding myself that inside that unlovely outfit is my lovely husband. It's very tricky some days.
Jenny and Hamish Cochrane have finally opened a new Merrell shop in the Mall: they had their opening party there on Friday night and they have got everything you could possibly need for every sport (except perhaps curling, which is one of the only sports where clothes that were in fashion many years ago are more popular).
And my lovely niece is no longer cross-eyed. I asked her why she looked different and she said it was because she is older now. I am so glad not to be an eye surgeon, and so glad that there are people out there who are brave enough and confident enough to be able to do operations on a 2-year-old's eyes.
I simply could not cope with the responsibility of a job like that and I have the hugest admiration for anyone who can do that sort of work. Her surgeon has done a marvellous job and she is full of the joys of life, whizzing round my garden nude on her little pushbike (my niece, that is, not the surgeon).
I went to my friend Adele's funeral in Athol on Thursday. It was a beautiful day and whenever I drive through Athol now, I will always think of her very little coffin covered in the most beautiful flowers.
Even though I am quite old now, I had never actually been to the burial bit of a funeral and when we filed past to drop a white rose on her coffin, I got a little vertigo when I saw how very deep "six feet under" really is. Apparently it is six feet from the top of the coffin.
It was a gorgeous service and a lovely chance to catch up with all sorts of naughty friends I hadn't seen for years, which is what makes funerals so special.
It's the Montessori Nativity play at noon on Wednesday.
Nothing says Christmas more loudly than a 4-year-old who has learnt his one line off by heart and is going to follow the instructions about making sure everyone in the hall can hear it.
I love it, and the tiny shepherds and wise men kicking each other make me feel very Christmassy.
It's written by Charity Norman, who is a lawyer born in Uganda and now living in Hawkes Bay.
It's a story of adoption and it also looks at the way people who seem nasty or creepy or bossy often just have sad stories in their lives that stop them thinking about how other people might be feeling.
David is an English curate with a Nigerian wife. They can't have children and baby Grace's birth seems the answer to their prayers. The book is very touching and full of delightfully ghastly relatives and other difficult sorts.
Enjoy the chaos of the next week and do sneak away from it with a good book or two. Or three, if you are very good at shirking responsibility. I'm hoping to manage quite a few.
