Cold : So Hot Right Now.

It had to happen – a post about the weather - specifically about the winter cold. Are you ready…?

I love it. There is nothing I like better that the ‘snapped rubber band’ ping of air on my cheeks, or numb fingers slowly and achingly thawing out. I like red runny noses, watery eyes, high colour and seeing my breath.
Cheeks reminiscent of a ruddy Prince Edward are a small price to pay for the brisk, crisp, chill of a frosty morning. And my, oh my, doesn’t PN do it well. It is a daily joy to behold the dusting of icing sugar over the lawn and I always give in to the temptation to goose step across it grinning at the immensely satisfying crunch.

Last winter in the 09, we had a single day waking up to a frost. One day in the entire season (such as it is, in the winterless north). My motives for the move south are many and varied, but I would be lying if I said that anticipating a quality winter freeze wasn’t part of the allure; along with finally being able to utilise all the hats, scarves, coats, gloves, and boots that I have accumulated (impractically) over the Auckland years.

So I’m not apologising for failing to join in all the whinging and miserable shivering that is taking place on streets and in workplaces all over town - smell that wood smoke, enjoy a vigorous shudder of cold, tuck yourself around with an afghan and put on the minestrone soup…

Deus ex Manawatu.

I can’t claim I didn’t know that Palmerston North belonged to Jesus – it was mentioned, mentioned and mentioned again (and by mentioned, I mean brandished as a dire warning). What I can lay claim to is the habitual disregard of advise based on second hand experiences. Lucky for me, His heavy hand is everywhere – poking me in the eye as I walk across The Square and idly regard the cenotaph, tugging on my earlobe when I catch the sharp intakes of breath at my frequent, explosive blasphemy and slapping me in the face on a daily basis at work. (If I had a loaf or fish for the number of times I’ve heard that work simply won’t be accomplished on a Sunday (deity forbid having a few lemonades at the local!) I could feed the multitudes – no parabolic miracle required). It shouldn't continue to shock and awe, but it does - clearly, those going to hell are slow learners.

I have every intention of making my mark on my new home town; live long and loud enough anywhere and you can't fail to, but it suddenly occurs to me that the traffic is both ways. No doubt this time next year I'll be a Palmerston North-ed version of my former self; flattened and perpendicular. Would it be appropriate for an atheist to pray that such a version doesn't include church goin'? A dear friend of mine reluctantly moved to PN after a long stretch living joyously amongst the winding topography of Wellington. She remembers spending the first night in her new house on Main Street in the throes of a panic attack, running desperately to the bedsides of her 2 children, gripped with the need to assure them that no matter what, they would never become 'straight line people'.

Dear Baby Jesus,

Please save me from such a fate,

Not yours,
Rachel.

Secret Society.

So I'm loving the Palmerston North Film Society. Pay $85 when you are feeling flush, enjoy a movie a week for 12 months - no more money down.

But wait, there's more....

Screenings are on Wednesday evenings and you know I need a little somethin' to look forward to once I realise that it's only 11.24am on Wednesday morning, instead of the 4.41pm Friday afternoon that it should be, it feels like it should be, it's beyond wrong that's it's not. Added to which, the selections are varied, intelligent and heralded by an emailed synopsis a few days beforehand, so it's easy to avoid a familiar film you aren't bothered to see again.

All this is as it should be and not at all shocking - what does disturb is the number of "Say what?" responses I get when I mention the film society at all. Mentions made to PN locals. PN locals who have already professed an open mind, a love for cinema and a belief in the value of mid-week experiential adventures in the CBD.
So what gives? In a town of thwarted social butterflies who grimly challenge all new-comers to try and find anything of interest to get up to, how come no one I bump into seems to know about what IS available?

Speaking of film, best I get a plug in for The Portal (corner of Princess and Main Street), a DVD hire store without rival, best known for it’s comprehensive collection of ‘Arthouse’ (hate that word, but you know what I mean) cinema. If you missed it during the film festival, studied the director during Film/TV and Media Studies 101 or caught the tail end of it once on a wet Sunday afternoon circa 1987, you’ll find it there - along with some opinionated converstion about film at the counter.
And I mean that in a good way.

Sausages: The Deal Breaker.

Palmerston North is many things, but it could never be called vegan friendly. Perhaps it’s because there is a local movement afoot to redefine vegetarianism. I’m yet to meet a self proclaimed vegetarian from the 06 who has ceased to eat meat. Hedging your bets by calling yourself a less strict vegetarian only counts if by “strict” you mean “than actual”. A less strict vegetarian can also be called a flexitarian: ethics so flexible in the face of a barbeque as to be non-existent. For the person who eats animal products and yet labels themselves vegetarian, presumably in an effort to impress others with their ‘special nature’, here’s a thought.

Just BE vegan/vegetarian.

That way you can have the desired effect on others without being ignorant/pretentious/hypocritical/offensive/all of the above.

In a related topic, I wish I had a dollar for every meat eater who, upon finding out that I’m vegan, has cheerfully barked “I could be vegetarian!” To which I always reply “If that’s the case – why aren’t you?” Their faces immediately fall into an incredulous frown. “Oh - but I just couldn’t give up sausages”.

I suppose it’s a bit like saying “I could be a lesbian, but……”