Last weekend a few of us drove across the country to Mount Ruapehu. And even though I’ve driven the way a million, billion times, I’m still struck by how pretty New Zealand can be.

I have to say, I love this drive. Is there a particular drive that you are loving right now??

It was dark, and wet and miserable, which suited me perfectly. I drove with a friend through the familiar streets, and I tried for light hearted gossip even though we both knew that I was angsting. We peered at letterboxes, trying to figure out how close we were.

Three . . . Five . . Nine? Did we miss it? I pull over, and get out.

I walk down to Seven, and stand in the driveway.

It looks like a nice enough place, an ugly villa in semi-good nick, and there are lights on. His cars not there, though. It’s Wednesday, so he’s probably at netball. I frown a little (it still irks that he’s still playing netball with MY team. I insisted, at the time, that I leave instead of he, and now it just seems silly that I did). Still, it’s good that he’s not here, I didn’t want to run into him anyway.

I hold the mail that’s not mine and eye the letter box, and I’m torn. If I leave these here, then please please please let this be the end of this, please stop bothering me with details he should have already taken care of, please get out of my life. And then the other side, if I leave the letters here, there will be no more reasons to send an email, to talk, if just about nothing, no reasons to connect . . . and I miss him.

I stop myself before I can get further with that thought. I don’t need the past.

That particular past is a bit like a cigarette. It’s bad for you, and it makes your breath and hair and clothes smell, and you get that horrible smokers cough. And everyone gets down on you for smoking, they do, because its disgusting and bad for you, and you know it, and they know it. But you crave the nicotine, so you smoke the cigarettes anyway. You feel relief, but its dirty, and tastes bad.

He was like that. Encourgaging horrible behaviour and disparaging remarks and a miserable, lonely existence.

I don’t need that past. I don’t want that past.

I drop the letters in the box, and walk away, quickly, back to the car out of the rain.

We drive on, and I spent the rest of the night in good company, with friends who are brilliant and make me laugh. With boys who like me, and tell me so. With people who bring out the best in me, not the worst. With people who would rather hold me up, than let me fall. With people who care about me. People who actually care.

I’m learning to let go, slowly. And its hard. But I wish I didn’t have to learn. I wish I already had.

I love sending mail, I really do. Big packages covered in brown paper with exciting things hidden inside. Generally there are always doodles on the outside of my packages, little pictures of random cute things. And really, who doesn’t get excited by a letter from some far off place? Some exciting envelope thats not asking you for money?

Well, it turns out I’m about as far as far off can get. New Zealand is tiny, and a million miles from the rest of the world. So I’m in a prime position to be sending things from a far off place.

And it just so happens, that Number 97 on the list is “Mail 100 hand written letters”

Hand written letters. One hundred of them.

Long story short, I need people to send letters to. People who live in places I’ve never been, or seen. Who live wonderfuly different lives, and have brilliant adventures. You, really. I’d like to write you.

If you’d like a letter, email your address to me (elly@rarg.co.nz) and I’ll send you a letter. A brilliant letter. With a stamp from New Zealand, or perhaps somewhere else, if I happen to not be in New Zealand at the time. Imagine the possibilities!

I promise not to do anything untoward with your address (cross my heart). Promise you’ll get something pretty in the mail, too. Something brilliant. Maybe a chocolate fish, even. Or some pineapple lumps. Maybe even a tiny tiki. You know, you’re missing out if you haven’t got a tiny tiki.

So please, please do email me your address (elly@rarg.co.nz)

It will be brilliant. I promise.

PS: Oh <3 for all the responses already! Just a note for the Kiwis, I won't send you letters from home. I'll wait till I'm in some far off place before you get yours. <3, though!

I don’t really enjoy flying, not really. I hate the pressure that builds up in your ears and makes them ring and ache. The uncomfortable seats in the cattle class, the rude people, and the children that kick chairs. But the views, oh the views! If for no other reason, I would suffer all the discomforts of flying willingly, with a smile on my face, just to see the the world from above.

And its always the little things, flying out of Wellington to see the wind farms dotted along the mountain tops, the islands shrunk to miniature sizes, and giant alps breaking up the lay of the land. When we flew back last Sunday, Ruapehu looked divine, and I was jealous of all the people enjoying the snow on such a gorgeous day.

It was amazing to see coast to coast, to see the farm patchwork of the Waikato plains. To be above the clouds in perpetual sunlight, watching their shadows fall across the sea. New Zealand is so pretty, from above.

Last weekend I was in Wellington, and oh was it mad!

It was a weekend of eating ridiculously big breakfasts, and trying to speak Maori, and loosing at poker and stealing replacement chips. It was about cake and chocolate icing, and banner making, and fancy cowboy restaurants with huge portion sizes. It was about sharing bottles of wine, and in jokes, and gossip. It was about complaining about the cold, and cheering on the All Blacks, and racing to finish books. It was about straightening hair, and ridiculous impluse buys. It was about flying and birthdays and pulling faces at the camera.

But mostly it was about family. My wonderful, brilliant, mad family who I get to see once a year, if I’m lucky.

Needless to say, it was a brilliant, brilliant weekend.

And Dudley is a giant, huge, brilliant giant dog, a cross between a Poodle and a Golden Retriever. And he is AMAZING. I’ve been having a really, really horrible week (honestly, deadlines actually just bring out the worst in people) so when I rocked up to the amazing Barkley Manor to pick up Quinn, and Dudley was hanging out? I didn’t hesitate to play and cuddle and hang out with him.

I actually love how huge he is. No, actually. Check him out in comparison to Quinn. Check out how his head IS BIGGER THAN MINE.

I’m appreciating the simple things right now, and a dog that knows you want a hug when you hold your arms out? He’s a dog you spend half an hour cuddling with.

As I write this, the timer on the wall is at 29:23:24. Chris is playing “Faith” for what I’m sure is the third time. I recognize most the faces in the bar, in various states of exhaustion, drinking either coffee or beer, or wine.

Yeah, its an odd time. But we’re all here because Christopher, the amazing brilliant boy who used to sing ridiculously corny love songs down the phone line when were 17, is trying for the Guiness World Record of Longest Solo Performance. Ohhh yeah. The current record sits at 32 hours, and this crazy mad wonderful boy is trying for 36. We’re in the home stretch now, and people clap and cheer at the end of every song, and at the end of every hour completed.

I was here when he kicked off at 9am yesterday morning. I was here for most of the day, and I drank a stupid amount of alcohol last night (oh Jager shots, you are never a good idea!). I had intended to stay, but at around 5am the amazing Lyth made sure I dragged my sorry ass home safe and sound.

And then a few short hours I’m back. And it’s been brilliant. I’ve danced and twirled with many people (the bar staff, friends, strangers, and even a cop in uniform!), we’ve sung along till our throats were hoarse and croaky. And I love this atmosphere, so many people have come together to support one of their own. Chris, being so determined to finish, and raising a stupid amount of money for the Cancer Society (donate here, if you like).

I will be here at 6pm, when he breaks the current record of 32 hours. I will be here at 7pm, when he sets a new record of 33 hours of a solid solo performance. I will cheer, and support and sing along with him, and the many other people who are here to support and love and help Chris cross the 33 hour finish line.

I can hear the warble in his voice, and his arms are sweaty, and his fingers look like they are cramping. But he’s still making jokes mid song. Still singing, still rocking out. He’s playing all the songs we know and love. He’s going to make it. I’m stupidly proud. World Records are made to be broken. Go you good thing!

12 Hour Mark

22 Hour Mark

33 Hour Mark (World Record Beat at 3:15. I won’t lie, I got teary at the time).

Find him at christopher-reed.com, on twitter, or on facebook.

[edit] In true rockstar style, Chris broke the world record, and performed 33 hours straight. It was an epic effort, he raised a couple of thousand for the Cancer Society, and is honestly a rockstar. I’m so so proud of him, glad I could have been there to support, glad that I was witness to such a mad weekend. Woo! [/edit]

I don’t usually take my camera to the bar, not usually. This is because I know that I could end up anywhere, and that at 4am I’m not going to know where my very expensive, very precious camera is. So its always very exciting to discover bar adventures on Facebook the next day.

So I’ve had a few brilliant nights there this month, I think each of those is a confirmation on how I should NOT take my camera . . . Highlights, then:

* Dancing to the only Jimmy and the Goodbrew song I know (Golden Rule <3)

* Having @lellobot be home, and having her leaving drinks at the bar.

* The bartenders call of “Shots!” and having him pour me a sweet strawberry something, and everyone else something foul like Patron.

* Sitting around in the courtyard bitching with the Staff, both new and old, after closing.

* So much Square madness. So. Much. Madness. Square <3!

* Having the French Glassie teach us to say silly things in french, and letting us butcher it rather horribly (“Tu êtes une singe pute!”)

* Teaching the French Glassie english words like “Goober”

* Winning a stupid amount of pool games with tin-ass shots.

* Sitting around in the closed bar with my besties (<3 Lyth + Zes!), impressed that they came down in the early hours of the morning

* Watching the College Rifles Rugby team take of their clothes in punishment in Kangaroo Court

* Sneaking shots from behind the bar

* The mad affection which comes from having a family bar

Yeah, its been pretty brilliant. I’m not there as much now, but when I am, it works for me.

Two weeks ago, in a cocktail bar, I met a boy. A friend of a friend. I’d met him before (although briefly) on several other occasions (I sat next to him at a screening of The Goonies, once) but I didn’t really know him, I’d never really had a conversation with him. It’s pretty safe to say that while I knew his face, I didn’t at all know this person.

So there’s this boy that I don’t really know and he tells me that he’s read my blog. Apparently, quite a lot of it.

My brain immediately flicks back to all the stuff I’ve written at rarg. The break up with The Ex. Moving from one hated job to a brilliant one. Loosing friends. Starting companies. The 365 Project. Ending client relationships. The Square. Sex. Starting The List. The adventures at the bar. Adventures anywhere. There is about two years of juicy, intimate details right there, ready for a stranger to help themselves to.

I asked him what he’d read, and even before he answered I decided I didn’t really care what he’d read. That I was okay with what I’d written being public domain. Knowing that mostly, the last six months have been super emotional, super mad, and knowing that this was the way I figured things out, found clarity, and gained the support I got and still get from people was by making all that emotional muddle public. Was worth strangers knowing how I felt about my ex and our break up. How I felt about being single, and meeting new people and dancing those really ridiculous dating dances. About all the insecurities and outbursts and personal growth. Fuck it, really. I posted it all, and generally I was fine with that.

Then he got all vague and said he’d read ‘enough’. That was what I’d posted was brave, and honest and that was rare. He didn’t make any comments about my life, about what I written, about how I was feeling or the decisions I’d made. And that was enough to make me curious. That he wanted me to know that he’d read the intimate details about my life, but didn’t want to discuss them with me. He said he didn’t want to make me self-conscious. Curious.

So today, I went and re-read the last six months worth of posts.

And with a new perspective, I protected half of them. (If you’re curious too, email me and I’ll supply the password).

Last week I wrote post about stepping back, and taking time to figure things out (its the post with the whoopie cushion photo. Oh yeah, you remember that one.). I think this ties in nicely with this. Those old posts were a brilliant avenue for support and self-discovery. People from all over the place reached out and helped me find my feet, because I wrote so openly about what I felt. It was helpful for understanding what I felt, finding clarity in what I wanted, who I wanted to be and why.

But I’m on my feet now. I know what I want. And why. Mostly, I’ve figured some things out.

I think I’ll always blog about my life in some way or another (heres why) but like I said last week, I think I’m going to take a step back and hold some of these precious melodramtic moments for me.

And I think that’s less me being self-conscious. I’ll always be willing to talk openly and honestly about my past, with whoever. I think its more about me being a place that’s different from then. About being able to sit at a cocktail bar with a boy I don’t know, and have him not dance around knowing the intimate details of my past.

So, the last week or two has mostly been posts of moments. Museum visits. Kelly Tarltons. Nice happy, incredibly distant, less intimate posts about the adventures I’ve been part of.

And I met up with a friend who said, in passing, ‘pfft, that isn’t you, with your posts with no weight. You’re more than just pretty pictures, you know. That’s why people read what you write’.

Really? Do you really read what I write because I spill those intimate details, share the drama, and post videos of the tears I shed? Really?

I guess what I’m trying to say here, is that I’m still figuring it out. Writing posts with no substance is kind of difficult. And I’ll loose enthusiasm for blogging that way. In saying that, I’d prefer cute boys in cocktail bars asked me about my life, rather than read it from the internet. So where’s the line between what’s postable, and what’s not, hey?

What’s your rule of thumb?

I’m not a soccer fan. I’m really, really not. I can count on one hand how many soccer games I’ve witnessed, and only ever in support of The Second + Third Quarters. So, I really didn’t expect to watch the All Whites play Slovakia in their first game of the Fifa World Cup. But I did, thanks to The Fourth Quarter, and I did it in a pub packed with people, sitting close with The Square, all warm and happy. We took mock bets on who would win, and by how much. Some of us were patriotic. Some thought they were being realistic. Some were mad. At this point, I was happy to be somewhere warm, and was trying desperately not to fall asleep.

But there is something pretty brilliant about the atmosphere of a crowd who so ready to support their national team on the world stage. It was SO easy to get caught up in the game, to be excited, to cheer when things were going well, to protest when it wasn’t. To mock (with affection) the keeper who can’t kick, and cheer in support when the same keeper stops the opposition from scoring. To yell insults and praise at a screen. The ‘What are you doing?!’s and ‘Down the line!’s, and ‘Take him off! He’s f*cking useless!’s. Laughing and jeering and cheering all in one. We were all standing so close, huddled together, clutching our beers, or cranberry juices. Comments about skill, and strategy flying over our heads from those around us.

It was pretty brilliant. But sadly, I left at half time to nip home, and watch the second half from the warmth and safety of my lounge. I shouldn’t have, I should have stayed. Because in the last few minutes the All Whites, the brilliant brilliant All Whites came back, and scored a goal, winning a draw from Slovakia.

And, for someone who isn’t a soccer fan, who doesn’t know the players, or the rules or much about the game, I wished that I’d been back at the pub with people who did, people who understood. Because I cheered, standing on my couch, arms raised in the air. I cheered by myself, loud and stupidly proud of a team I don’t know, for drawing in a game I don’t understand.

I’m excited about the next games, now. 2am kick offs be damned. I’m going to be in that pub with those people. I’m also that girl that filled out all the scores in the Heralds World Cup Game Results chart at work this morning. I think this what they call patriotic pride. Go the All Whites!