Taking its toll

Brendan texted me yesterday to say that Robin Williams had taken his own life. Williams’ untimely death shocked the world. How can someone so talented who has given so much pleasure to so many people be so utterly depressed as to want to end it all? Poor mental health is a huge problem in our society and it shouldn’t take an A-list celebrity suicide to get people talking about it. Every year about 300 people are killed on New Zealand’s roads. Road deaths are readily reported on the news. You can find the figures all over the internet, and they’re updated almost daily. Road casualties are broken down month-by-month, by age, location, and type of road user. And wouldn’t you know it? NZ road fatalities are in steady decline. We’re all becoming better drivers and our roads are becoming less dangerous. But while the road toll is decreasing, over 500 New Zealanders are killing themselves every year, and that figure isn’t going down. Just imagine for a minute that suicide statistics were displayed so prominently and in such detail on a government website, and updated every time a suicide was confirmed. Suicides would be the second or third item on radio news bulletins. Millions of dollars of taxpayer money would be spent on suicide-prevention adverts, specifically targeting those most at risk. By tracking the stats, you’d know exactly who those at-risk people are because, guess what, they aren’t the same people they were in 1994. Knowledge is power. Yes, John Kirwan’s depression campaign has been a definite help, but so far it feels like we’ve only just scratched the surface of the problem. Depression, and suicide in particular, still seems to be largely a taboo subject.

I talked to Brendan on the phone last night. We talked about Mark, a 23-year-old guy who, for a while, attended both the Auckland autism group and the North Shore men’s depression group. He died on a sunny afternoon in August 2011 when his car crossed the centre line and collided with a truck. I don’t think it was ever determined whether or not it was suicide. Mark had a combination of mental health and other conditions: depression, anxiety, chronic fatigue syndrome, fibromyalgia and Asperger’s, although I never would have guessed he was on the spectrum. He was what I’d call a “pretty boy”, and he had a habit of getting closer to women than they might like. He came from a well-off family north of Auckland; I don’t think he had a good relationship with his parents. In September 2010 he wanted to move away from home and he asked me if I’d take him on as a flatmate. I said no, using the age gap as an excuse, but really I knew he’d be hard work with all his conditions. If I’d said yes, he might still be alive today. If a butterfly flaps its wings and all that.

 

The autism group on Monday worked rather well. Our facilitator had to leave at short notice but that wasn’t a problem – we were more than capable of facilitating ourselves. My phone app – remember that? – cropped up in conversation. If I’m ever going to create apps or games myself, perhaps my best bet is to make a Facebook game.

Here's a great article on FiveThirtyEight about Nigel Richards, the Kiwi Scrabble player who is number one in the world by some distance and gets virtually zero recognition here in New Zealand. He's almost a recluse and is Zen-like when he plays Scrabble. Both his interests are obsessions: Scrabble and cycling. If he wasn't somewhere on the spectrum, I'd be surprised.

Here's another good article from Joe Bennett, describing a moneyed suburb of Auckland. He's right - house prices have reached almost mythical levels in that city. Things were bad enough when I looked at properties in 2009. The no-price thing was a real turn-off. I'd look at a place and ask an agent for just the first figure of the price. Three or four? Four or five? Give me a clue. Of course if I'd actually bought, we'd be talking six or seven now. But that was 2009, the year when my income peaked. I'd be really surprised if I ever earn as much in real terms as I did then, and I knew that even then (and if by some miracle I do make that much, it won't be from a salary). The earning power of a graduate is "supposed" to peak around fifty; mine peaked in my late twenties. Going back to the article, Joe Bennett has a remarkable knack of making mundane things, like that road sweeper, sound interesting, almost beautiful.

I had my Chinese lesson tonight. I still think it'll be ages until I can speak vaguely comprehensible Mandarin, if I ever do. And as for reading or writing it, that will take even longer. At the moment we're using pinyin, which is the most popular Romanisation system. The design of the system was headed by Zhou Youguang, a remarkable man who is still alive at 108. The Language Log blog is interesting reading. It covers Chinese quite often. The latest post on the blog, written by Victor Mair, features a Chinese restaurant menu. The two most impressive things in that post (to me) are that: (a) the Chinese have at least seven words for cabbage, and (b) Victor Mair knows them all.

My car failed its warrant. I'm not surprised. It's got some fairly large patches of rust on both of the front pillars. I'm getting the patches repaired for now, but all this rust will probably be end of my car eventually.

It feel like rust patches are sprouting all over this blog too. I don't think my writing is up to much these days, and I don't enjoy it as much as I used to either. So we might be nearing the end.

In my face

It's the weekend, but so what? I don't really want to see anyone this weekend, not even Kevin. Especially not Kevin. It wasn't long ago that some of my weekends were people-free, if you don't count the market, and I was fairly happy with that. Now there's someone around, and in my face, all the bloody time.

Yesterday I had a performance review at work. I didn't think I'd have one so soon. I did a lot better than I expected; I haven't produced or achieved anything there for weeks, but my boss didn't seem to care that much.

We're getting the wobbles here in Wellington again. Two earthquakes yesterday (although I didn't feel the first one) and two others that I've felt in recent weeks.

Tomorrow I'll be collecting for Autism NZ for three hours at the new(ish) Countdown at the end of my street.

The group stage of the World Cup has been completed; I don't think anyone can complain about a lack of excitement. The States surprised many by making it out of a tough group. Australia didn't win any games but won plenty of friends with the way they played (and scored one of the best goals). It's funny how American and Australian sporting teams (and fans) can be almost intolerable in the events they excel at, but very endearing in sports like football. Some of the images from the match between the USA and Ghana were of pure joy.
Uruguay also made it, as one of three teams to qualify despite losing their opening game. They'll have to play the rest of the tournament without Luis Suarez, who got a well-deserved ban that could easily have been longer. I couldn't believe Uruguay's population was only 3.4 million - that's less than New Zealand.
The football has been excellent with none of the ball-related problems that dogged the last World Cup in South Africa. The refereeing could have been better, but offsides are quite hard to get right and until they use technology to make those decisions, game-changing mistakes will be made.
I hope the knockout stage is as good as the group stage, and please not too many penalty shoot-outs (more about them in my next post).

Going down...

Eight days in the job. Getting to know quite a bit about pipes. Compared to people, pipes aren't too bad. They had drinks after work today. I didn't want to be there but I didn't want to be at home either. After work I had that sinking feeling. The end of the week, but weekends are hard work. I was wishing I was still back in Auckland doing some kind of temporary work where I could relax and not face the impossible task of building a rapport with my workmates. Did I mention that my job isn't permanent? It's a two-year contract. Two years feels like an eternity. The money is better - that's something - and the work is interesting, but there's all that other stuff. And I'm staring at a blank calendar with nothing to look forward to.

On Monday I got a letter from the apartment next door about excessive noise, both in Kevin's room and in the lounge. For me, that's actually a good thing - it gives me more ammo when asking Kevin to turn down (or off) the bloody TV. It's the second note I've had from the people next door.

That evening I played board games with Tom and Tracy. We played two games of Qwirkle which involves placing rows of tiles with matching shapes or colours in a similar fashion to playing words in Scrabble. It was a nice simple game, and I felt I had a reasonable handle on it. (I won the first game and came second in the other.) Then Tracy's mum joined us for a co-operative card game called Hanabi. Unlike any card game you've ever played (except Indian poker if you've ever tried that), you see everybody's cards except your own. Interesting concept certainly.

My new employers have come up with a new "logo". It's terrible. For a start it isn't a logo at all. It's text on a yellow background. Wellington is full of creative people; I don't see any creativity in this block of text.

Much debate on the Guardian website after the execution of Clayton Lockett. He was injected with a previously untried cocktail of lethal drugs, and only died 43 minutes later from a heart attack. I'm against the death penalty. Yes, some people commit such heinous acts that you wish they could be wiped off the face of the earth, but by killing a convicted killer, it starts to make you as bad as them - two wrongs don't make a right. There's little evidence to suggest that capital punishment reduces murder rates. Plus there's always the chance that you'll execute someone who was wrongly convicted. And nobody, no matter what they did, deserves to die slowly in agonising pain.

Also from the Guardian, here's a rather alarming article about prenatal screening for autism. Having met many warm, kind, intelligent people who happen to be on the spectrum, the idea that their very existence could be denied as a result of a positive blood test is repugnant.

I've written several times on the demise of sport as we know it. Most popular sport these days is like fast food, and it's amazing how people just mop it up. They announced this morning that rugby will soon feature a super eighteen. Yes! An upsized competition. Bigger is better. Then there's English football where the top players are paid obscene amounts and fans happily part with a large chunk of their own wages to see them play. As more and more money flows to the top of the game, some of the smaller clubs are struggling to stay afloat. One of these (and they aren't even that small) is "my team" Birmingham City, who are dicing with relegation to the third division (which is now called League One - go figure) for the first time since 1995. They've lost their last five games, and have only won two of 23 home games all season! Tomorrow night they travel to Bolton in their final game. They could draw and stay up on goal difference, or if they're really unlucky, they could win and still go down. It's hard to predict results on the last day (some teams have nothing to play for so you don't know what sort of side they'll put out or how they'll approach the game) but I reckon Blues are marginally odds-on to be relegated.

Ear bashing

We had the autism group last night. Sometimes I wonder if I should carry on going. We had a new bloke turn up - he would be about my age. He's got a high world ranking in the "hands" version of StepMania, something I'd never heard of before, and I never knew you could get a world ranking in what is basically an arcade game anyway. He also practises martial arts - he nonchalantly told us about a time when he was learning a type of martial art involving a stick, and the instructor cut off the ear of a supposedly disobedient student. "I had a lot of respect for him." What?!

It hasn't stopped raining all day. I got drenched, waist-down only, on the way to work today. It was like this when I arrived in Wellington three years ago.

Depression - it doesn't take time off over Christmas

Maybe I'm coming out of yet another depressive spell, and soon it will be completely wiped from my memory. I hope so. In case it does get wiped, I'll mention right now that things got seriously shitty.

I've had all the physical symptoms of chronic fatigue syndrome, without (yet) the chronic bit, plus a whole load of really crappy stuff going on in my head.

I was able to finish work at three on Christmas Eve, but still felt (and looked) completely shattered when I got home. I remember it being an unpleasantly weird day for me, but I've mostly forgotten the details. Dad was also struggling: his tablets to help him pee less often during the night had the side-effect of reducing his blood pressure. We went to church at St Joseph's, a modern building just around the corner. The sermon was unlike anything you'd get in Geraldine. The priest told a story, but not the nativity story, and even used a spade as a prop. At times he switched to Spanish - he must have spent some time in South America. There was also a lot of Maori being spoken, even though I could hardly see any Maori among the 400-plus-strong congregation.

On Christmas morning Mum put the turkey in the oven, then we went for a long walk (at least 10 km) around the bays. It was good to make the most of the sunny weather, but neither Dad nor I was quite in the right state for that sort of distance. Mum forged on ahead, anxious that the whole apartment block might have burnt down, though at least the seismic risk problem would have been solved. The building was still intact when we finally got home, and we had a good Christmas dinner: turkey, ham, lots of vegetables, Christmas pudding, not much alcohol. Mum even made those extremely tasty devils on horseback (prunes wrapped in bacon). It made a nice change having it in my flat with the sun streaming in, and with just the three of us. (I don't think I could have faced a big extended-family Christmas, and I'm pretty sure Dad couldn't have faced that prospect either.) It turns out my brother also had a quiet Christmas with a friend of his - they go back a long way. We then went over to my cousin's place and sat outside (and grazed, as if we needed more food) in the early evening sun.

On Boxing Day we took my old TV to the tip (that cost $5), picked up a few $2 books from there, then drove around the coast. Mum and Dad had their eyes on properties and for-sale signs - they'd like to buy an apartment here at some stage. That evening we played Scrabble. Mum had a really good game, as evidenced by the speed at which she played (the whole game only lasted an hour) and how little complaining she did. I didn't do so well. I had a bunch of letters that didn't go together (F, U, V, W) and no esses or blanks or anything remotely useful like that. I did have the J and the X - at the same time, quite late in the game. Mum must have beaten me by forty-odd, with Dad, who was unlucky to get stuck with the Q, a bit further behind.

Yesterday I was at work, and it was a shocker of a day. At one point I ended up in the store room. I couldn't find anything I needed, and I must have balanced myself on two box trolleys, rocking back and forth, knocking brochures and letterhead and envelopes off shelves, not really caring. It wasn't too bad being in the store room really, as long as I didn't attract anyone's attention, or heaven forbid, someone actually came in. They didn't. At lunchtime I ventured outside, as always, even though the weather was horrible. I sat in the food court and opened Love in the Time of Cholera at page one. I read and re-read the first few lines over and over, not getting anywhere. As far as work was concerned, I might easily have entered incorrect bank account details and a lot worse. Walking to and from work, and even just around the office, was painfully slow. Later we saw the second Hobbit movie, which I thought was very good, even if I struggled to concentrate for 2¾ hours. If I suffered from arachnophobia I probably wouldn't have lasted very long. The end, which absolutely invites you to see part three in a year's time, was a bit of a surprise to me.

Mum and Dad flew back home this morning. We'd had a pretty good Christmas together, even if both Dad and I were struggling. No arguments, apart from the one on Monday when I broached the topic of work. That's always been the number one source of arguments with my parents. After dropping them off at the airport I went to the market then attempted to put up a small ad for a flatmate in New World in Newtown. I asked one of the staff who wasn't very helpful - they don't have that facility - and in reply I dropped the F-bomb on her. When I got home, for some reason I remembered that the darts would be on so I found a live stream. I saw an extremely high-quality match where a bloke by the name of Peter Wright, sporting a mohican and a tattoo of a snake on his face, averaged a whopping 106 but still only squeaked past his younger opponent 4-3 in sets. It's changed so much since I watched it as a kid - with all the walk-on music and cheerleaders, it's become a lot like the rugby sevens. I received a website-related email that I was supposed to act on, but it was all beyond me. I got very frustrated and rolled around on the floor shouting. I walked into town and sat out on the waterfront for a while. There's nothing like Christmas to make me even more aware of the passing of time, and I just sat there with my head in my hands. Life is slipping away and Mum and Dad and me, we're all getting older and it's all happening so damn fast. My brother's getting older too and I have no idea when I'll see him next. I've now had eleven Christmases since I landed in Christchurch. Christmas in 2023 or 2024 doesn't even bear thinking about. I happened to bump into my cousin and her family. Their youngest was riding a bike; he picked it up almost instantly just a few days ago. When I got home I made myself go to the gym. That's probably the best thing I could have done. I then spoke to Richard, and I'm certainly feeling better now. I came off the Efexor a few days earlier than planned (because I was feeling terrible) and that might have made me feel even more terrible. It's anyone's guess.

The 60th anniversary of the Tangiwai disaster, which killed 151 people, received some media attention (including a very unjolly radio programme on Christmas afternoon) and with such a huge death toll I'm utterly ashamed that I didn't know anything about it before.

Sometimes I think they should bring back public flogging. Those teenagers who attacked that German couple camping in Whakatane on Boxing Day certainly deserve it.

About ten days ago Louis Theroux did a programme on American autistic kids and their incredible parents. Boy do those parents have it tough. I'm glad they touched on life for these kids after childhood. The saddest bit for me was when the mother of an autistic boy talked about praying for a miracle every time she goes to church. Her (non-autistic) daughter said, "Mom, God made him that way" to which the mother said, "Yes, God made him that way to teach me a lesson."

Here's hoping my mini-revival continues. I'll be catching up with Martin tomorrow.

Game shame

Back to work today, and a reminder of why it was so nice to have that week off.

The autism Christmas party went well tonight I thought. There was plenty of food and plenty of chat. There were also a few games going on. Tom had brought along Cards Against Humanity, a game he'd printed off the internet. When I got the gist of the game (I'd never heard of it), I was really surprised he (and not Rob, a guy who might be into that kind of thing) had brought it. It's a party game, but certainly not a nice party game, and not (I would think) a game that anyone on the spectrum would enjoy. All the pop-culture references, the sexual themes, the potential to cause serious offence. It's an extremely "neurotypical" game and I'm glad I didn't play (the novelty would have worn off for me after ten minutes) but I must admit that hearing "bitches" followed by "crystal meth" followed by "a big black dick" coming from the next table, at an autism Christmas party, was hilarious. At our table we played Bananagrams, a fast-paced word game; 8:30 came around extremely quickly for me playing that, and I could quite happily still be playing now (it's ten past midnight but I couldn't sleep).

My dad has an exhibition in Timaru. It opened yesterday, with no shortage of food and wine to hopefully entice potential buyers. And they did buy: Dad sold six paintings on the day. That might (or might not) sound like a modest number, but some of those were the bigger, more expensive ones. There's definitely wealth in South Canterbury - people have sold farms and found themselves with big bank balances all of a sudden. As well as cars and (occasionally) paintings, they've been spending their money on overseas travel, and that might be why five the six paintings Dad sold were scenes from outside the country - in the past it's always been local scenes that have sold.

Red card

I was in two minds over whether to attend Monday night's autism group, and before long I was wishing I'd stayed away. The bloke I'd previously likened to Gollum, who calls himself Mr Ronald, had a habit of taking more than his fair share of biscuits and chips. On Monday the rotund chap with the braces (I think I've mentioned him before too) had had enough of this ("take the whole fucking lot then") and things quickly got out of hand. Mr Ronald became very aggressive. Other people weighed in, a red Snapper card was brandished, and food went flying. We only had one facilitator instead of the normal three; I tried to back her up but others did the opposite. In the end Mr Ronald did get shown the proverbial red card and was told to leave. I didn't want to make a big deal of the food thing - I've seen it many times before, from Bazza and others. Hoovering up food seems to be a very common trait among autistic people. But the bloke in the braces made a really big deal of it. I'm happy that these kinds of things are pointed out, but he wants the whole meeting to be a teaching mechanism so that people can cope with the big bad outside world. That's not what I want, and if it turns into that I'll stop coming.

On Sunday I played badminton. It was less organised than previous sessions - we didn't have points tallies or anything of that sort. One guy was keen to play a game of singles with me - I felt a bit bad as I beat him 21-4. He was starting a new job, in the mental health sector, the next day. Some (most?) of the people there preferred chatting to playing. It was suggested that I do a squash meet-up at my apartment block. I'll probably arrange that in a month or so.

I hadn't been back long when Martin came over. He showed some interest in flatting here but nothing definitive. If he does move in he'll be bringing his guitar and drum kit. I can't imagine the guitar will be an issue for neighbours but as for the drums, if the darts are anything to go by...

An old colleague from Auckland has just started at my workplace. I didn't like him much (he just seemed, um, not very nice) but people can change a lot in four years and anyway he'll be working 24 floors above me so I won't see much of him. He played competitive badminton at a good level and would surely beat me 21-0.

I'm lacking in energy so often. I'm going to get my thyroid checked just in case.

The too-hard (food) basket

After two good days (by my standards) at work, I crashed again on Friday. No energy at all. I also had a lot of sinus pain. At least it was Friday. Finding out that next Friday night's six-monthly awards dinner/party will be held on a moving boat didn't help either. The desirability to me of any work event is dictated by how easy it is to escape. Plus I've signed up for quite a hard tramp, starting early on Saturday, and the last thing I need is a hangover.

I'm skeptical about this paleo diet which I haven't yet started. My "different" doctor had these five words to say about it: "It will change your life." Well yes, not being able to eat such basic foods as grain or even most types of potato is life-changing. What makes it so hard for me is the very reason my doctor suggested I follow the diet: my depression, which makes everything take longer, which means I can't afford to spend extra time on food preparation (which might mean I'm half an hour late for work). Also how am I supposed to explain the reasons for my diet to other people? It's very strict, and even if you've followed the rules to the letter for 29 days out of 30, you're deemed to have failed. I don't understand this: we're not talking about smoking here. Still, I haven't dismissed the idea entirely, and I plan to make a start next weekend (this will mean my 30 days include five weekends; it's much easier for me to control my diet when I'm not going to work).

On Friday's Millionaire Hot Seat (yes I watched that rubbish again), one contestant mentioned an autistic relative, saying that autism "is a disease with no cure". He wouldn't win any prizes for political correctness with that comment. Although to be fair, if you think about where the word "disease" comes from, autism makes life hard enough to certainly be a dis-ease. This morning's Attitude programme was devoted to Jimmy, a 22-year-old member of the Auckland group who I briefly met last week. You can instantly tell that he's on the spectrum. His big passion is films, and (all credit to him) he was keen to find work. He got a voluntary job at the Auckland Film Festival, ushering people to their seats in his typically brusque style. "Today I want you to smile," he was told. He then repeatedly got lost as he delivered flyers to shops and cafés. Jimmy's 18-year-old brother also has Asperger's; their mother said it was hard talking about her sons and having to explain everything. Their dad seemed quite outgoing and had a very good sense of humour.

It's that abrupt way of talking that I find most off-putting when I meet people on the spectrum. Tom was like that when I first got to know him. It was almost like talking to a robot. He's improved a lot in the last few months.

Yesterday I met Phil at the Café Breton in town. He was staying in Wellington for the weekend. I didn't mention that I was in Auckland last weekend (he might have thought I didn't care about him); he told me all about the big storm which I pretended not to know much about. The café was run by people from Brittany (hence the name) and I ordered my crêpe in French. It was close to the TSB Arena where the WOW (World of WearableArt) show was happening. It's the second-largest event in Wellington's calendar. There were crowds of people, mostly women in their late forties or older. That's a very different demographic to the one attracted to Wellington's biggest annual event. Phil talked about his struggle to buy property in the crazy Auckland market. He recently went to an auction for a place numbered 44 (that's "double death" in Chinese so he thought he might have stood a chance) but the bids got so high that he didn't even stay till the end. It sounded like my experiences in 2009, with an added $150,000 or so. As I sat at a café in central Auckland last weekend, I saw someone poring over the Chinese version of the Property Press (I didn't know that existed) and making phone calls. It's time they put a stop to foreign property ownership in NZ. Imagine a Kiwi trying to buy a place in Beijing or Shanghai.

Last Sunday's warm weather in Auckland took me by surprise after the storm we'd had hours earlier. I had a sinking feeling after talking to Mandy who updated me on various gossip from our ex-colleagues. She said she has no desire to keep in touch with them either, but feels obliged to from a professional perspective. I'm so glad I'm out of all of that. When she got back to her study I walked along Takapuna Beach, as I did most lunchtimes for about three years. I bumped into a woman who I used to see on the bus when I lived in Bayswater in 2004 (she had an intellectual disability and had supported employment) - I don't think she recognised me.

Judith Collins wants to revamp NZ's antiquated and horribly inefficient judicial system. About bloody time. Judges and lawyers do very nicely out of the current system.

I thought I heard on the radio yesterday that it was the tenth anniversary of Johnny Cash's death. This was actually a couple of weeks ago, not that it really matters. Here's the video of Hurt, which he did shortly before he died. It's hard to watch without getting a bit choked up.

A stormy trip to Auckland

Hooray! It's over! The America's Cup regatta came to an end in this morning's 19th race of the best-of-17 series, with the limitless resources of Oracle winning out. It's remarkable how many Kiwis got so emotionally (and irrationally) involved in it all. It wasn't NZ v USA or anything close to that, it was a battle between two mega-corporations. I kept hearing "we've been penalised" and "we've got no chance now", and even the mayor of San Francisco said "we won!". You can just about get away with "we" when a national team like the All Blacks are playing, but how can you get that attached to a brand? Today I got a long and very emotive text from Brendan (a friend from Auckland) who normally shows no interest in sport at all. He was "totally disgusted", calling Oracle's comeback a "conspiracy" and saying, in all caps, "MONEY TALKS". I totally agree with his last point. I only learnt yesterday that Larry Ellison (Mr Oracle) is the world's fifth-richest man. As for Dean Barker, he took defeat extremely well I thought. I hope the NZ government cut their funding for the next America's Cup challenge to zero. Imagine if that money was spent on mental health services instead.

The piece in the Press on the America's Cup by the ever-brilliant Joe Bennett sums it all up rather nicely. Two more of Bennett's columns caught my eye. First there was this one about personalised plates. It's weird, people pay hundreds of dollars to get hard-to-decipher vowel-free combinations because they provide an ego-boost. Not so long ago I was following a car with a plate that read (or so I thought) NOTLGB. Hmmm, what's LGB? Is that, like, gay? So you're straight? As I got closer I noticed it wasn't a B on the end, it was an 8. NOTLG8. Huh? I sat right behind him until it finally clicked. "No tailgate". But I had to get so damn close to figure that out. Then there's this piece which touches on a subject dear to my heart, all that nauseating marketing speak (I'm guilty sometimes too: I talk about "issues" too much). As he says, words matter. He's obviously a voracious reader; that's one reason why he writes so well.

Well I left Wellington eventually on Friday night. We had a downpour and a rare thunderstorm; one of the planes on the ground was struck by lightning. There were a lot of cancellations as a result, and it was complete chaos in the terminal building. The departure boards were worse than useless (they only showed a handful of flights and gave dodgy information about those) and the staff were very unhelpful. I spoke to one woman who told me all flights were suspended for the evening and I'd need to queue up to get put on a plane the next day. I had my phone on me and, as a rare treat, I'd bought an internet data package. According to my phone, that woman was telling porkies and I was good to go from gate 11. After a 90-minute delay we did indeed take off from gate 11. The plane was packed - people had been rebooked on my flight from earlier (cancelled) flights. The flight was fine. My phone was a godsend: I knew exactly which bus to get on and where, and I arrived at the motel a few minutes after midnight.

On Saturday I met up with Richard in Newmarket before the autism group. I hadn't seen him in over a year. I still prefer the set-up of the Auckland group to the way they run it here in Wellington. There you're able to get up, walk about, and have conversations in twos and threes. Richard will try and talk to just about everybody, which is great. As I chatted to some new people (there was one woman I really liked) I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn't see them for at least six months, possibly longer, possibly ever. There's a bigger spread of ages at the Auckland group: in Wellington they're mostly twenty-somethings.

A big thunderstorm came through on Saturday night (I could have been luckier with the weather). The rain was torrential and I was kept awake for hours. Between two and four, the fork lightning got further away, then closer again. In the morning I popped over to the Shore to meet up with Mandy, who is now five months pregnant. So that gave us an obvious topic of conversation. She was also studying for yet another exam. I don't know how she still manages it (she reckoned the prospect of a new baby gave her extra motivation). Her partner holds a senior position at the same company; in her (serious) words he gets paid far too much. They bought an apartment in Birkdale, a stone's throw from the cold, damp flat I lived in for a year. Its value has already shot up in the short time they've owned the place. Mandy asked if I would ever consider having a family. Never say never, I said. I think I'd be OK at the dad bit up to the age of five, but not much use after that.

On Monday I caught up with the ex-facilitator of the Wellington autism group.  We had lunch at the swanky new section of Britomart. She's pretty happy with her lot now - her husband's got a good job while hers (at a school) is rewarding and almost free of stress. It's all very different to their situation when they lived in Wellington. Later I met Richard again, at his new flat in Onehunga. He showed me his drawings, mostly of fantastical figures, then played me some songs on the guitar. It must be nice to have his level of creativity. Things are looking up for Richard - he's far happier with his current flatting situation than some of his previous arrangements.

I didn't get to see Bazza while I was up there, or (despite my best efforts) Brendan, which isn't his real name, or either of his two previous real names. The wet and windy weather made Tuesday a bit of a write-off. I couldn't really go anywhere or do anything before my flight except read my book. I was pessimistic about my flight but it took off with only a short delay. Our approach and landing was a bit bumpy but unremarkable by Wellington standards. So I was back to work yesterday, and I surprised myself (and probably my boss too) by how on the ball I was.

Disconnection

It's been an exhausting day. My old boss leaves at the end of the week. The responsibility for a task that he used to do, which is actually several tasks, has fallen on me. As luck would have it I'm taking over just as there's this major launch, the likes of which haven't happened in years, and I still don't know what I'm doing. Nor do I particularly care. Today I was supposed to provide time frames for when I would have my various tasks done, so that they could "socialise the project". That's some serious BS there, folks. I then provided some time frames which were also BS. Saying how long it would take me was a bit trying to say how long it would take me to drive somewhere I've never been before, with the added bonus that I neither know nor care where the destination is. We then had a meeting where it became obvious to everyone that I didn't have a clue, and that's when I felt really stupid. The word "collateral" was used in that meeting to mean, as far as I could tell, "printed documents". That threw me a bit - we weren't caught in the crossfire of a battle, nor were we taking out a loan. I talked to my old boss after the meeting - I told him that I didn't really know what I was doing and there's only so much feeling stupid that I can handle. He said we'll need to scope out this and scope out that, and I just wanted to go home, open the freezer and scope out some ice cream.

I had my counselling appointment in my lunch break. She was very helpful and got me to think about things like I've never done before. I felt that I was able to put my finger on why I don't really have relationships. When I interact with someone, it is to exchange information or opinions, and not a lot else. But when other (more socially adept) people interact, they also make connections. That's what I'm not doing and don't really know how to. (There's certainly humour involved when I interact though, and I wonder what that's all about, because a lot of people on the autistic spectrum don't - or very rarely - use humour. Maybe my humour is different to that of most neurotypicals. I don't know.)

Another thing that came up was my constant looking at the clock or watch. I'm almost obsessive about the passing of time. My near-obsession doesn't have much to do with being punctual, it's more a concern about life passing me by without doing anything meaningful.

After work, instead of burying my face in a bowl of ice cream, I attended the autism group. It's getting too big now: I think there were 27 people including the facilitators. There was a new guy who went by the name of "Mr Ronald". This might sound cruel but Mr Ronald (forty? fifty? it was extremely hard to pick his age) reminded me of Gollum - he had verbal tics, and would often bend over double and cough and sneeze and blow his nose. Poor chap, basically. We weren't in the same subgroup so I didn't get to see much of him. After tonight I'm actually quite glad to be in Auckland in two weeks.

So Serena won yet another grand slam. To win the third set so emphatically after everything that went on in the second is the mark of a champion.

Some very positive sports news - after the ridiculous decision to drop wrestling from the 2016 Olympics, it'll be back for the 2020 Games, which we now know will be held in Tokyo.

Trapped!

One minute I'm sitting out on the balcony on an unusually balmy Sunday in August and the next ... oh dear. The door has locked behind me, the key's inside and I'm trapped. No phone, no nothing. What the hell do I do? I'm only on the first floor but there's also a step up from the ground. I'm looking at 13 feet. I think of ways down but decide there's no real way of getting down other than stepping out onto the beam that connects the balconies, and jumping. I use a long stick to knock on my neighbour's window but they're obviously out. Eventually I attract the attention of a Chinese family who live above me and are about to head off in their car. The mum phones the property manager, who I thought had a key to all the apartments, but apparently not. She tells me not to even think of jumping. "I'll call 111. The police." "Um, you should probably ask for the fire brigade." Oh god. Is this really happening? It's happened in bad dreams enough times. I hear her half of the 111 call. "Nothing's on fire and nobody's injured." Five minutes later three firemen are on the scene and I'm suitably embarrassed by the whole situation. They put a ladder up and I get down. I've left one of the downstairs windows open a few inches with the "security" stay which the firemen break very easily, and I'm back inside without having to shell out for a locksmith.

I bought the people upstairs some lilies and a box of chocolates but they haven't been back since. It makes a nice change to sense the aroma of flowers as I walk into my flat. There are a couple of things I can take out of being trapped (I was stuck for about an hour). One, I've locked myself out before (far less dramatically) and I'm bound to do it again. It's just too damn easy to do. Having flatmates will help but in the meantime I'd better make sure my property manager has one of my spare keys (there's no-one around here I really trust with them). Secondly the window stays are so feeble that I must never leave the downstairs windows ajar, not even an inch.

In other news, we had a very good session at last night's autism group. People have really come on in leaps and bounds. Tom, for instance, has become (and this sounds terrible) much less robotic and more human. This time last year he'd hardly say anything at the group and his face would be almost expressionless the whole time. Now he contributes quite a lot. He must have a good sense of humour, if all the comedy programmes he put on my computer are anything to go by, but up until recently you never would have known it. We talked about skills that people on the spectrum sometimes have. The date calculation thing always blows me away. In fact there is no calculation that I can see. You input a date, sometimes years into the past or future, and out pops the day of the week. Almost instantly. How? It's the same with mental arithmetic. I'm quite good at that (it's one of the few things I can confidently say I am good at) but I still have to calculate the answer, and I make mistakes sometimes. How some people are able to bypass all those calculation steps and get straight to the answer I have no idea.

One of the comedy shows Tom gave me was Look Around You. It's a spoof educational programme, where they do supposedly serious experiments that are in fact complete bollocks. It's a take-off of the programmes they produced for schools in the UK in the late seventies and early eighties, and must have repeated for a few years after that because it all seems quite familiar to me. The attention to detail is excellent and makes the whole thing even more hilarious. Here's the bit where they boil an egg. Enjoy.

We moved desks at work on Friday. I've now got less space but I've got a window. I'm now miles from the loo but people can't see what I'm doing very easily. You win some, you lose some I guess.

My chances of being stuck on the balcony were increased by Wellington's warmest winter on record. Climate change has all kinds of knock-on effects.

I've started caring about politics a bit more of late (and it's funny that after my last post when I talked about Key, and not trusting, I should lock myself out). We've got a prime minister who basically thinks he can do what he likes, and I don't like that. His comments about the GCSB bill didn't wash with me, and as for the saying "if you've got nothing to hide you've got nothing to fear", well that might be true, but the fact is we've all got something to hide, dammit, even if it's perfectly legal. I really hope that whoever wins the Labour leadership contest can shake things up at next year's election.

I haven't heard from Julie at all since I wrote that letter.

Mum and Dad arrive on Friday. I haven't told them about the lock-out incident.

Totes

One of the topics at tonight's autism group was finances. That's quite a pertinent subject for me at the moment so I'd prepared a list of tips to help people on the spectrum with both the "ins" and "outs" of money, only I wasn't able to get very far when it was my turn to talk.

At work today we had afternoon tea - savouries and mocktails - to celebrate the new team structure. I happily partook in the food and drink but I couldn't see what there was to celebrate. I'm now officially part of a much bigger team with a more ruthless manager who has the same first name as my mother. My old boss is sticking around until mid-September. Last week he did my interim review, as they call it. We dashed into a meeting room and were done and dusted within five minutes.

On Saturday I signed up to play pool with the anxiety group on Meetup.com. I don't like pool that much, and I like sitting round a table with lots of people, drinking, even less. And that's what we did for an eternity (I think it was nearly three hours) before we even played pool. The woman next to me was extremely loud and kept saying "totes". That's short for "totally", which is bad enough as it is. I'd only heard "totes" as a joke before; I never thought, like, real people, like, totally said "totes" in general conversation. I'd totes had enough before the pool, and once I'd played a couple of games and blown what felt like dumb money on drinks, I was glad to get home.

On Friday night Julie put the phone down on me again. This time I didn't feel as guilty as I have in the past (my counsellor has helped here I think). I haven't called her back.

I attended the games evening at the library on Wednesday. I played canasta with the same woman from the previous week. She works at the library, doing some kind of strategic planning or something. In other words nothing to do with books. I really had no clue how to play canasta. She plays every other week, and my cluelessness soon became obvious. My family played a long time ago when the game was popular, and once in the early nineties I did join in without ever properly knowing the rules. My dad tape-recorded our canasta session (he'll still have the tape somewhere), hoping to get a few snippets from my grandfather who had Alzheimer's. Unfortunately my grandad didn't say a lot (he was very quiet, and placid, in his later years). Anyway, there are two main types of card games: trick-taking games and rummy-type games. Canasta is a rummy game but it doesn't really play as one. My instinct was to try and get rid of all my cards, as you do in most rummy games, but in canasta you often want to do the exact opposite - pick up a whole bunch of cards from the discard pile which you use to form melds that score points. This took some getting used to. It's not a quick game - it took me 1¾ hours to come second.

I've been reading a book called Truth in Advertising. In places it's hilarious. Slightly alarmingly for me, a lot of the humour revolves around the narrator's disillusion in his job, but he's actually less disillusioned by his made-up job than I am in my real one.

I've now seen the latest seismic reports for our apartment block. It appears my flat is in fact in the dodgy zone rather than the "safe" zone. By the way I now pay $1750 a year in insurance through my body corp fees. One highlight I just remembered from the body corp AGM: when asked if any firm decisions have been made about earthquake strengthening, a committee member said the process was currently at "ground zero".

Car number plates beginning with H appeared on our roads last week; it took a smidgen over two years to get through the G's. In the UK you can tell the age of a vehicle directly from its number plate. When I was growing up, the new letter (an H-registration, say) came out on 1st August each year, to a big fanfare. A few doors down from us was a garage; people would take off in their new cars on the stroke of midnight. Such is the status symbol that a new car provides in the UK. Used cars in the UK lose their value extremely rapidly; my brother has just bought a not-that-old Audi A4 for only £600. (It looks like my brother has got his old marine security job back. He's only been back ten days and things are already looking up for him. Hopefully he can consign his NZ experience to history.)

Pants

July has been a record-breaking month of blogging for me. That's a shame because my writing has been decidedly pants this month.

There are a few other things I was too tired to mention last night. Last Thursday we had our body corporate meeting. Guess what - for seismic purposes my apartment block is two separate buildings, and the one I live in is safe. Not safe safe, but above the magic 34% threshold, while the other building is a few points below. Unfortunately that doesn't mean a whole lot. A prospective buyer isn't going to think, you know what, that great big yellow sticker there only applies to half the block so this flat should be fine. And because it's a body corporate, we'll all have to chip in whether we're in the safe part or not. The costs of earthquake strengthening could easily run into seven figures. Heck, it's costing us $40,000 just to find out how much it will cost. Most people - myself included - don't have this sort of money, and there are thousands of us in the same boat all over Wellington. The government will surely have to step in. Where will the money come from? Well they could have used that few hundred million they spent on the America's Cup, so now I have to hope they win the bloody cup and can use the money from that.

My brother had an accident on his last scheduled skydive. I think there was some problem with the parachute not inflating fully, he had a very hard landing and was extremely lucky to only have bruises and no fractures. I hope we can stay in touch from opposite sides of the world. Despite a nightmarish last seven months for him, I'm optimistic of his future in the UK.

Last night we had another big turnout at the autism group. One bloke, who was a regular member back in the "old" days, made his first appearance for about 18 months and was taken aback by the sheer numbers. He used to be on the board of Autism NZ. We now have three facilitators including an Irish bloke of about my age. As usual we did our "what we did at the weekend" bit, in turn, and as usual our male facilitator said he played football. I always imagined it was some social team, but last night he said his team won through to the last four of the Chatham Cup. This comment went by almost unnoticed, but the Chatham Cup is a pretty big deal. A quick Google tells me that he's the captain of the team who came back from two goals down to win their quarter-final 3-2, and he scored the goal that sparked their fightback. For just about anyone on the spectrum, experiencing that level of success at a team sport is hard to imagine.

I just finished P G Wodehouse's golf book. Golf lends itself so well to amusing anecdotes. It's so full of jargon, even more so in Wodehouse's time when the clubs had names like niblicks, mashies and brassies.

What's an iBox?

This Thursday I'll be flying to Timaru in one of those little planes. I'll be staying down south till the following Wednesday. I'm looking forward to getting away for a few days.

We had the autism group tonight. We split off into three subgroups of five or so. In our group was a woman I hadn't really met before. She didn't speak although she was very facially expressive; she communicated by tapping out messages on her phone. At one point we discussed physical exercise and she handed me her phone which showed the simple message "I box". For a few seconds I was picturing some sort of Apple gaming console. Ah, you do boxing. Now that's proper exercise. Her next message said that she used to cycle at national level but came off her bike at speed and suffered a brain injury. Judging by her insightful messages all evening there was little wrong with her brain. Tom was also in my group and was busy unscrewing a table with his Swiss Army knife and Leatherman. It's actually quite comforting to know that he unscrews other furniture besides mine.

One of my team-mates at work got fired last Thursday. Sacked, dismissed, however you say it it's not good. Part of her role involved taking calls from customers; she'd receive points (which converted into dollars) for certain outcomes, for instance if someone rang in to cancel their policy but she retained the business. Apparently she'd been fiddling the points. I don't know the ins and outs of it all but it doesn't sound clear cut to me. Some of my colleagues aren't happy with the way she's been treated. She plans to take legal action. I think the incentives work on a dollars-per-point basis, but if you don't reach a certain monthly target you get nothing for that month. I think that's an unfair system, and some people will try to beat unfair systems if they can.

There was a headline in Saturday's Dom Post: "Wellington dithers while Auckland hums". I'm not sure what kind of hum they're talking about because whenever I go to Auckland I don't hear it. I think it's more of a "kerching" than a hum - people flock there (from within NZ and from overseas) because that's where the jobs are. House prices in Auckland continue to skyrocket. On TV last night they showed a (Pakeha) woman struggling to get a toehold on the Auckland property ladder, who was particularly interested in a house because it was number four and Asians might be put off by that. "Four" sounds very similar to "death" in Mandarin. When house numbers start to become a major consideration, something isn't right.

Mum and Dad have just bought their third property, and their second flat in St Ives. I asked Dad what would be next - he assured me there wouldn't be a next. My parents have always been interested in houses, and like looking at them - particularly new developments - when they drive somewhere.

I went to my cousin's place on Saturday night. We watched the All Blacks game against France. I only had one eye on the game, if that. There was much excitement at a couple of the All Blacks' tries but I didn't share in it. Unlike tennis I don't really get rugby, even if I followed the most recent World Cup and actually went to two matches including Tonga's shock win over France. At least Saturday's match finished with a tennis score (30-0) although I thought the French were unlucky to get nil.

Next month they're having a Great Gatsby-themed mid-year work function. Should I go? I'm not sure I can face the prospect to be honest. Last year I was in Auckland when the function was on so there was no decision to make. No such luck this time.

Fog lifting?

I felt stressed for most of the weekend. It seemed impossible to switch off from everything going on in my head, which meant that everything I did, or tried to do, was shrouded in dense fog. I was busy all weekend - at least it felt that way - but I never felt like I did anything of significance. I went for a longish walk, went to the market, did my chores around the house, played around with a few phone apps (which I need to do as part of my "other job") and spent a fair while on the phone, but didn't talk face-to-face with anyone unless the market stallholders count. That's not an unusual weekend for me; when I return to work on a Monday and someone asks me what I did at the weekend I often end up saying "nothing special" or words to that effect.

At lunchtime today I saw my support worker (have I mentioned her?). Her main job is to help people look for and keep jobs, but when I see her I often drift into territory that lies outside work. Today it felt we were getting somewhere, and I think my fog cleared a little as a result.

I had to phone a few customers at work today. Considering how hard I find certain people-related situations it's funny how I don't mind calling customers, and sometimes even like it, except when they ask me something I don't know the answer to and I feel silly. Today I found myself in an interesting situation when a name I knew flashed up on my screen. I checked his notes and one of my colleagues had written "I spoke to him, he said he's autistic...". Yep, definitely the guy from the group. He'd applied for an automatic acceptance policy (no underwriting) and it's easy to see why: he's very overweight and with his past history of addictions he'd struggle to get cover otherwise. He'd be about five foot five in every direction and his trademark braces make him a very recognisable figure. Some of his comments on Monday nights make me wince ("when I feel down I fire up YouTube and listen to one of Hitler's speeches"). Eww. His view of the world lacks any shades of grey, and he can get worked up over issues to the point of being scary, but he's also highly intelligent and can be very friendly too. Anyway I was really supposed to ring him but I just couldn't. How could I pretend I didn't know him? What if someone listens to my call (which is recorded)? I saw his birthday was imminent so I sent him a text wishing him a happy birthday and, er, by the way, if you provide your payment details I'll put your policy in place. I found it interesting that he told my colleague he was autistic - he seems to identify strongly with the "brand".

Julie sounds like she's in a pretty bad way and I don't think I can do much to help. Our 45-minute phone conversation on Saturday (which was really her conversation) could have been summed up in seconds: "I'm in a lot of pain, I feel hopeless, and I don't want to live any more."

So Nadal did make it eight French Open titles and twelve grand slams in total. Quite remarkable really. Some of the results in the latter stages of the tournament (Tsonga beat Federer 3-0; Ferrer beat Tsonga 3-0; Nadal beat Ferrer 3-0) show the importance of match-ups in tennis.

Collecting

I stood in the cold on Lambton Quay for an hour and a half on Wednesday evening, trying to raise money for Autism NZ. There was plenty of foot traffic but the weather didn't help; people just wanted to get home. It was also hard to get noticed, unlike last year when we put up a stand at the entrance to New World. To my surprise two blokes each gave $20. I was the next biggest donor (a $10 note and a bunch of small change) but of the thousands of others who walked past me, only ten or so donated. If everyone had given just a dollar, what a difference it would have made. It can't help that so many people live cashless lives. I stood next to a bus stop for some of the time; bugger those Snapper cards.

I can't remember anything of Thursday except that after work I walked past a café that I hadn't really noticed before on the corner of Dixon Street and Courtenay Place. It has lots of old shabby furniture. I heard the latter half of what seemed like an amazing song blaring out of the speaker. The only lyrics I caught were "Jump On My Shoulders" which happens to be the title of the song. I Googled those lyrics after going to the gym. When I listened to the song (by a band called Awolnation) on YouTube it no longer seemed amazing, just reasonably good. I must download the Shazam app (which can identify songs as they're played) when I ... um ... get back to using my smart phone instead of my dumb one.

Last night I saw the Great Gatsby at the Embassy with the work social club. It's good for me when the social club organises a movie because I can participate without having to be very social. I read the book in 2009 and I can see why it's viewed as the great American novel. I didn't realise that F. Scott Fitzgerald was so damn young when he wrote it. The movie wasn't bad either but I preferred the book and I felt the movie was half an hour too long (one of my colleagues said two hours too long). They could have cut back a bit on Gatsby's use of "old sport". Visually it was quite spectacular though. After the film a few people, including my boss, wanted to extend their night out but it was an easy decision for me to go home.

I listened to bits (when I wasn't asleep) of last night's gripping semi-final between Nadal and Djokovic. The other three grand slams have produced all manner of great men's matches in recent times but this time it was Roland Garros's turn to come up with a real classic. It wasn't just the quality of play and closeness of the match, but the significance of the outcome. Luckily I woke up in time for the fifth set. During the most dramatic game of that set, which saw Djokovic broken for 4-4, the commentators did justice to the historical significance of it all. The crucial moment was perhaps when Djokovic touched the net to hand Nadal a break point in that vital eighth game, but it's easy to single out individual moments. Had Nadal served out the match at 6-5 in the fourth set, all those "crucial turning points" in the fifth would never have happened. With a staggering record at Roland-Garros (58 wins and only one loss), Nadal must be a fairly heavy favourite to win a record eighth title.

It's a me problem

I'm making some progress with the puzzle stuff. It's given me - for the first time in years - a reason to want to get out of bed in the morning, even if I can't work on the puzzles until the evening.

I went to the autism group again on Monday. I keep asking myself, should I keep going? I haven't had a diagnosis, and have no real intention of getting one, so part of me feels like a fraud. But it gives me the chance to meet people (I haven't done much of that lately) and hopefully, in a very small way, even help one or two of them.

I talked more than usual at Monday's session, maybe because some of the louder ones were absent. We talked about the rules of the group: no religion, no politics, and now no sex. And no "inappropriate" interruptions, a rule which one bloke, who's been going since last September or so, had difficulty with. He seems to have problems that go beyond just the autistic spectrum (and his unibrow). Out of nowhere he'll butt in to talk at length, in his staccato style, about some bad childhood memory. He often talks about "unfinished business" from his childhood, even though he's now 38. He reminded me of the movie Eagle vs Shark where Jarrod is desperate to get back at the kid who bullied him at school. I should also mention that he has an obsessive fear of contamination.

Our previous facilitator is about to return from maternity leave; this meant that her temporary replacement was there for the last time. She was in tears; she'd become quite emotionally attached to her role at Autism NZ and the people at the group. When she started she had a bad habit of treating people on the spectrum as if they were kids, but she's improved since then. It was sad to see her have to make such a reluctant departure.

John Key's recent comments that Wellington is dying (which were tongue-in-cheek I think, but still not clever) have made Wellingtonians stand up and think, shit, we're pretty lucky to be living here. For a city of under half a million, there's heaps going on. It sure as hell ain't dying. OK it hasn't all been beer and skittles for me in the two years I've lived here, and I haven't made a lot of friends, but that's mostly due to a me problem, not a Wellington problem.

We had an earthquake on Monday afternoon, a short sharp shake that only lasted a second or two. It was a 3.6 but felt bigger to me.

Bouncing back (I hope)

This week I've been feeling stressed, anxious, depressed, the lot. I can't quite put my finger on why. There might be several whys. Sometimes there doesn't have to be a why at all. It hasn't been much fun feeling hopelessly inadequate, not sleeping well (that's a problem I haven't had in ages), and being even more obsessive about the passing of time than I normally am. There's been a lot of news - the plane crash that killed the 2 Degrees boss and his wife; Jesse Ryder; North Korea; Nelson Mandela; the new Chinese leader; and the George Taiaroa murder (that was absolutely terrible), but I've been too introspective to pay much attention to it and I feel bad because of that.

My uncle - Mum's third brother who's 69 - has been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. He smoked up until a few years ago. He's lived in South Canterbury all his life and knows people from childhood. I've seen him on a fairly regular basis, most times I've gone down south, but I've never got to know him that well. I've never felt we've got much in common. He's quite a complex character I think. He's been married three times and has seemed quite bitter ever since his second wife pretty much took him to the cleaners. I guess we're all terminal, but this has happened so suddenly (the news I mean, not the cancer which has probably been around for some time) that it's a real shock to Mum's family. My uncle is a very private person and although I haven't named him and hardly anyone reads this blog anyway, he'd probably shoot me if he knew I'd written this paragraph.

On Tuesday I saw Julie at the rest home. The place is run by the Catholic church (she isn't a Catholic herself but most of the inmates are) and you get the impression they're nearly all waiting for God. I think you can become institutionalised, and subservient, very quickly in a place like that. Julie plans to move out of the home later this month, into a flat that someone has hooked up for her. I've lost track of the number of times she's moved. She had some extremely dark thoughts when I saw her. I don't expect her next move to lighten her mood but I'd like to be proven wrong.

I was on edge for the rest of the week. By Friday the constant foot traffic behind my desk (to access the nearby loos and canteen) was starting to get to me. That lunchtime I got my hair cut at the cheapest place I know of in town, a barber's with old furniture, run by an old man. I think he recognised me from my previous visits. He asked me what I wanted and I made a bad job of pretending to have some clue. Inevitably when I returned to work, some of my colleagues noticed my chop and wanted to know where I'd got it done. Oh god. Our local CEO has now moved on to bigger and better things within the company, and on Friday afternoon she had her send-off. Lots of anecdotes, lots of jokes, lots of supposedly funny pictures on Powerpoint slides, and lots of wanting to get the hell out of there.

Straight after work on Friday I went round to my cousin's place for an Indian takeaway and a couple of glasses of wine. I don't drink a lot and when I do it's nearly always either with my cousin (her husband doesn't drink) or by myself. My cousin's husband showed me their Kindle. It can store up to 3000 books, and in some ways is better than a book. For instance you can't increase or decrease the font size in a physical book. Don't know what "repudiate" means? Just click on it and it brings up a dictionary entry. It felt like science fiction somehow. (Mum has an e-reader too but I don't think it's as sophisticated. It does however come with a lot of classics already loaded.)

I've so far resisted the temptation to buy a smart phone. Actually that isn't quite true; I haven't needed or wanted one so I haven't bought one. But this puzzle stuff will soon make one a necessity. So what do I get? I know, I'll ask Tom from the autism group. He emailed me screeds of information about phones, and went into all kinds of technical detail that I didn't even try to understand. Apparently it's all about what version of Android you have (Tom says I shouldn't go down the iPhone route) and whether it has a single or dual core. You can even get quadruple cores. I wonder, can you also get Apples with multiple cores? That brings to mind this sketch from the one remaining Ronnie.

Tom came over yesterday. He brought half a roast chicken and helped me with some tech issues, but oh boy. I was feeling anxious anyway and he didn't help. He's got an inquiring mind, which is generally a good thing, but it means he asks lots of questions. Yesterday I could almost physically feel the impact of each one. I had to explain why I wanted to go to America, which was hard because I didn't really know why. At one point he wanted to know if I'd done any home improvements lately. Well not really. I mentioned the chairs that I did with Mum last weekend. I said the stair rail needed painting. He said, yes, it looks really grotty. Thanks. "I can tell you're not interested in doing renovation." Thanks. While I was sorting out lunch he looked at those chairs and picked them up and turned them over. "Why aren't the screws in fully?" They don't go in all the way. Look, you try. They did go in all the way, but there was some good reason why we hadn't fully tightened them which I could no longer remember. Out came his Swiss Army knife and he started tightening the screws. "This one is missing a screw." Yes I know, they came in packs of fifteen, I'll get another one.
I'd had more than enough of Tom by this stage. I asked him how he planned to spend the rest of the day. He got the hint.

As I was walking through Te Aro yesterday, post-Tom, I saw this game of bike polo going on. I'd heard of it, and even Segway polo, but never expected I'd see it in action.

Today I went tramping at Cannon Point. I'd done that trip before, six months ago. Only four of us went today - some people (including Danielle) were put off by the dodgy weather. It did rain a bit, but nowhere near enough to outweigh the benefits of getting out and about when you've been feeling like crap. Even driving there and back seemed to be of benefit, and I now feel like I'm bouncing back from my latest bout of depression. It wasn't a very long walk; it took in the reservoir lake which must have provided most of the Hutt's water supply in the past. On the walk somebody mentioned smart phones and I said I was looking to get one; it was suggested I get the Galaxy Rav 4 or something. Whatever, it was clearly expensive. When I said I didn't want to spend more than $300 I got comments like "but a smart phone is such a useful tool; unless you get a good one you won't appreciate how powerful it is." That's OK if you've got the money.

I heard Hello Old Friend by Eric Clapton on the radio on Friday night. It's just a lovely song, simple as that, and I've been playing it a lot this weekend. For some reason it reminds me of Richard (as it happens he was born the same year that the song came out). I miss Richard. So much is made of where we live, but if you've got friends nearby that hardly matters.

Side(burn) bets

After missing the session a fortnight ago I decided to attend tonight's autism group. I'm glad I did because we had some interesting discussion. I got lucky with the subgroup I ended up in.

On Saturday I went tramping. We ascended Mount Climie, which was a bit of a climbie, to an altitude of 840 metres. The autism group is starting to take over the tramping club: of the seven who did the walk, three of us attend the group (Danielle, Tom who has been to my flat a couple of times, and myself). We were blessed with good weather.

I saw Julie at her rest home on Saturday evening. It was the first time I'd seen her after her shoulder operation. She was in a lot of pain - more than before - and didn't think it would improve. It was sad to see her life reduced to an eight-foot-square "cell", especially as she's still got all her mental faculties. She talked about ending her life; it's hard to know how to respond to that. She was struggling to sleep so I gave her seven sleeping pills (they were prescribed to me years ago but I never took them). She's since taken them all - presumably one at a time - but it probably wasn't a clever idea for me to supply them to her.

This third test between NZ and England has been a great battle which the Kiwis have dominated. They ran the English bowlers ragged earlier today and then held two stunning catches just before stumps. NZ now need "just" six wickets in the final six hours of play tomorrow to secure a shock series win. I hope they do it (I suppose I should have mixed feelings about that, but I don't, probably because NZ were huge underdogs before the series started).
Update: What a match, and what an absorbing last three days. Forget the "tee twenty" crap, this was proper cricket. It was a shame the Kiwis couldn't quite finish England off but both sides performed admirably today. Just when the game appeared to be fizzling out into a slightly tame draw, Kane Williamson popped up with two quick wickets to create a grandstand finish. The NZ team go to England fairly soon - it's a shame they'll only play two tests over there. To me a proper test series needs to be three matches at a minimum. And they're playing the shorter formats after the tests - what's all that about?

Yesterday I saw my cousin and her husband (I attended their wedding three years ago) with their two daughters, the eldest two-and-a-bit, the youngest just six weeks old. They now live in Auckland having returned from an extended OE in London. The puzzle stuff has given me a chink of light on the horizon; that's probably why all that family stuff yesterday was just about bearable for me.

Mum is coming up here on Thursday. My sideburns have got even bushier since she last saw them. If I were a betting man (!) I'd put up odds of 3/1 that she mentions my sideburns within the first five minutes. I'm probably being generous with those odds. I'd give at least 8/1 that she doesn't mention them at all in the time she's here. I'm looking forward to seeing her though.

I spoke to my brother tonight. He's staying with Mum and Dad, just for one night, and will be off in the morning. Until last Christmas I'd never known him to have a sustained period of unhappiness. It's upsetting to see it now. He plans to fly back to the UK, permanently, at his earliest opportunity.

Auckland report

I'm trying to sell my old washing machine on Trade Me. Someone just came round to look at it. I wish I'd chucked in a few complimentary shirts. I counted all my shirts - I've got seventeen. Holy hell. Nobody needs that many shirts. I certainly don't.

Selling stuff on Trade Me isn't that easy. I was put off in 2009 when I sold some of Julie's furniture items on there. One of the buyers (who was Chinese) was angry because the table wasn't real mahogany and he retaliated by stealing Julie's dog. The police were brought in and she got her dog back. This time I haven't had any such dramas (yet) but trying to communicate with people before they buy can cause difficulties. Trade Me don't let you give out your phone number, so people resort to writing their number in words. Last night I wondered, do I put "oh" or "zero"? Before I came to New Zealand I'd have read a number like 364-0077 as "three six four double-oh double-seven" without even thinking about it. In fact I still do, but I hear a lot of people (mostly younger ones) saying "... zero zero seven seven". It sounded really strange the first time I heard it, and still sounds a bit clumsy now, though I don't know why. As for "nought", which you'd hear in the UK in a variety of situations (but not phone numbers or temperatures), well I rarely hear that in NZ.

I got back from Auckland on Sunday night. The North Island's remarkable run of dry weather came to a screeching halt that morning – I got well and truly soaked as I attempted to get some kind of breakfast. At 10am I checked out of my motel, walked the short distance to Remuera train station, put $3.40 in the machine and it spat out a ticket. I waited under cover for my train into town. Being Sunday I realised it might be a while until the next train so I had a look at the timetable but couldn’t see any times anywhere. This was weird, but being Auckland public transport I didn’t think much of it. Then I had another look and saw a big “NO TRAINS TODAY” sign in place of the usual timetable. So why do you sell me a bloody train ticket? They had a replacement bus around the corner. My train ticket was still valid, thankfully, but I’m not a big fan of Auckland Transport. On Friday I tried to buy a day pass but you couldn’t do so via the machine and there were no staff around so I bought a seven-buck single ticket to Papakura to see Bazza. He suggested I make a ticketless return, which is what I did, and nobody checked.

Bazza hasn't changed much. He’s made a fine job of his small section with a pleasant selection of flowers and fruit trees, but the inside isn't somewhere I'd want to stay for long. His large flat-screen TV is clearly the focal point of his lounge - he probably watches six hours of telly a day, mainly Sky Sports and the History Channel. We watched the cricket while I was there; he talked pretty much the whole time. He offered me some leftover sushi. I ate it but was unsure of its age. "Did you buy that yesterday?" I asked. "Today." Look Bazza, if you're going to lie, you could at least lie plausibly. I then needed the loo. The sit-down sort. He has carpet wedged in such a way that the loo door is permanently open. I guess he rarely has anyone over so it hardly ever matters. If I was really determined I could perhaps have repositioned the carpet to facilitate door closure, but I took my chance on a numéro deux en plein air. There's a TV ad with the slogan "what does your loo say about you?" In Bazza's case it's quite a lot. On top of the loo were a dozen or so loo rolls, all of the ultra-budget variety, and many of them half-finished. He had a similar habit with toothpaste: there were part-used tubes everywhere. For all his unusual habits, it was good to catch up with someone I got to know over seven years and many tennis matches. I even invited him to stay with me in Wellington.

On Saturday morning I met my aunt, uncle (Mum's youngest brother) and 16-year-old cousin who is now six feet tall, towering above his dad. The two blokes had just done a bike time trial; my cousin was clad in Lycra. Although I don't have a lot in common with my aunt and uncle (he worked at the same company as me for a while in Auckland), they seemed more relaxed than they used to be. It was nice to see them again.

I then met one of the facilitators for lunch (she picked me up in her Smart car which you don't see too many of in NZ) and then it was on to the monthly autism group. An excellent meeting I thought. I counted 23 in attendance. To begin the session we sat in a circle to talk in turn about a topic. This month's topic was music: we had to talk about our favourite singer or band. The bloke next to me started. I couldn't think of what to say: I like all kinds of music but don't have a favourite as such. Luckily they went round in the opposite direction to me, meaning I would go last. I got my iPod out for inspiration and only got as far as B in the list before choosing Bob Marley. Nobody else picked him or the reggae genre so I was OK with that. One bloke attempted to play a CD of his favourite thrash metal band; a facilitator had to be unusually assertive to stop him. When I talked about Bob Marley I lamented the commercialisation of his music and culture. His face is everywhere these days and unfortunately seems to say "I smoke marijuana; here's someone legendary who smoked marijuana" and not much else. For the second half of the session we chatted in small groups, or just sat around if we wanted to. Being able to talk in small groups is important because, guess what, lots of people on the spectrum don't like talking in big groups. There are no small groups at the sessions in Wellington, and that inevitably means two or three people dominate the big group. That's something I'd like to change. One way in which the Wellington group is better (whether by luck or judgement I'm not sure) is that its gender ratio is far more balanced. In Auckland there are hardly any women outside the facilitators; those who do attend feel intimidated by the sheer numbers of men and stop going.

On Sunday, the wet day, I met the woman who used to facilitate at the Wellington autism group and is also notable for being the only person on the planet who I know still reads my blog. I also met her husband who I hadn't seen since they lived down here; he's got a really good job which has improved their well-being considerably. She and I had a really good chat about all manner of things. I really didn't envy her when she told me stories about her son which could best be described as "oh dear". She made me think about my brother. I'm very proud of him and have supported him through all his difficulties with his relationship. Maybe my parents and I have been too supportive. I hope not.

It was good to get away but I was happy to get back. I've got stuff to sort out (hopefully) with my puzzles. By the way my washing machine sold while I wrote this post. The auction ended, it fell short of its reserve, but I made a fixed-price offer of $170 and someone quickly snapped it up.