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.

Voting and vexation

On Thursday a yellow sign was put up right outside my flat, i.e. inside the apartment building. That's great. I expected a sign on the exterior (we got that a week earlier), but not inside as well. What's next? I'll have to put one on my loo door? You wouldn't want to be caught short when the big one hits so anyone who uses my loo needs to be made aware of the risk. From the council's point of view our apartment block is two separate buildings (a "safe" one and a dodgy one), even though they're joined together. I'm just inside the unsafe part, so this new sticker tells everyone they're now entering the dodgy area. There are two other yellow signs on upper floors that carry the same message.

I'd only just seen the sticker when we had an emergency body corporate meeting - it lasted two and a half hours and things got pretty heated. They're painting the outside of our building and they've found a lot of corrosion in the steel panels of the roof. Water is already leaking into one or two apartments (not mine - yet). We had the meeting to vote on how to proceed. For me it was an easy decision: we've got the scaffolding up so we should do it now. I don't want to fork out this extra money, but leaving it till later, when it might cost twice as much, would be crazy. They needed a 75% vote to allow the work to go ahead, but the townhouse owners banded together and voted no (they're up in arms over shelling out all the money for their leaky buildings and don't want to pay for work on the main apartment block, not that they would really have to anyway) to give a 16-7 tally. The townhouse owners wouldn't benefit at all by stopping the work; they were just trying to score a political point. Someone compared them to the Tea Party in America. Eventually two of them changed their mind, two more people arrived (they voted yes), and with a 20-5 vote the work was allowed to go ahead. I think it'll cost me about $3000 (on top of my normal body corp levy). People pointed out that this is just the entrée before we deal with the seismic strengthening.

This home ownership lark isn't at all what it's cracked up to be. Paying for the roof repairs is just one of those things, but as for the earthquake reinforcements, who knows what that might cost, and in the meantime I'm stuck here with no possibility of selling. There really isn't enough money coming in; the sudden drop in value only adds insult to injury. I'm beginning to wish I'd stuck with online poker. I knew the rules and could calculate the odds; with this apartment someone slipped a couple of jokers into the deck when I wasn't looking.

While my boss was out of the office for a couple of hours, one of my quieter colleagues commented on how much more relaxed the atmosphere was. Too right. With my boss, it's go go go, all the time, and all information about anybody in the office (including her) is public property. I'm always thinking, jeez, I didn't need to know that. (I didn't have to guess her weight at all; she volunteered that information.) In other work news, the woman who was controversially fired in June for fiddling her stats, recently got unfired. She took it further, won her case, and got another three months' pay. Good on her I say.

I did vote in the local elections. I never bothered when I lived in Auckland. I see that Celia Wade-Brown was re-elected as mayor. I didn't put a 1 beside her name, nor her main rival John Morrison. My council vote was mostly driven by self-interest (my earthquake predicament) and I note with some horror that none of the names I put any sort of number beside got elected. I like the randomised ballot papers we had in Wellington, which meant the Abbotts and Adamses didn't get an unfair advantage.

Last week I read an article in the Guardian about Britain's failings in literacy in numeracy, compared with other OECD nations. I enjoyed this comment about the obsession with targets in education:

I just can't understand it. Labour gave schools targets, masses of new procedures to follow to record target completion, policies, procedures to follow to record policy adherence, procedures to record policy targets, procedures to ensure that targets were within policy, policies to ensure that procedures recorded targets, and above all targets to ensure that recording of targets and the policies to follow procedures were on target.
I suppose they could have thrown in a bit more teaching, but surely with these many targets, policies and procedures the children should have pretty much educated themselves?

I also read an article about Britain's booming new-car market. It's nuts if you ask me, and great news for people like my brother who can grab bargains by buying perfectly good second-hand cars.

Here and here you will find (and hopefully enjoy) some music from the band with probably the best name ever. They're called Tim and Sam's Tim and the Sam Band with Tim and Sam. Or TASTATSBWTAS for short. Or just Tim and Sam (incidentally there is a Tim in the band but no Sam). They're either from north Wales or Manchester, maybe both. I'd never heard of them until last week, but with a name like that there was a fair chance I'd like them.

That band name (lots of short words) made me think up a quiz question about a song title. Which hit song has 10 words in its title but only 15 letters? It's from the seventies and reached number one in NZ.

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.)

Ash, dash and crash

I saw The Amazing Spiderman tonight with people from the autism group. The movie exceeded my expectations which weren't all that high. It was over the top in places with all those cops and countdowns, and I think they made Peter Parker too cool, but I couldn't complain. We'd planned to see the Batman movie instead but there was some mix-up with the times.

Last night I went to the group, having missed the previous two sessions. Now that the turnout is well into double figures and they've brought in another helper, we were split into two groups while we discussed a topic. Last night's topic was work, which can often be a major issue for anyone on the spectrum. Talking about work was a useful exercise, but one member of the group talked almost self-indulgently on the subject (OK he had a couple more decades of experience than the rest of us) and the facilitator did little to stop him.

Talking of work, I survived my interim review. These six-monthly reviews serve as a reminder that I'll eventually need to find something else to do with my life. I still make mistakes at work, but who doesn't? What really gets me is how big a deal is made of my mistakes. I really don't need seven people reminding me to click on ABC whenever I submit XYZ. At times it's like that scene from Office Space where Peter is reminded about his TPS reports. It's frustrating because I take my work seriously when I'm there, and always want to do as good a job as I can. The only consolation is that I'm not the only one who gets this treatment.

I've just been watching the heats of the men's 110m hurdles. The last heat was like the Grand National: three runners (including the Athens champion) didn't even make the second hurdle! In an earlier heat, one runner fell victim to the new over-the-top false start rule.

Usain Bolt won the 100 metres, and judging by the way he finished he'll smash the 200, barring a false start. He could even dip under 19 seconds. I really can't warm to the guy though. He's got a massive ego; I don't subscribe to the view that he's entitled to one because he's so good. To be honest I find most male sprinters repulsive with all that preening, posturing and trash-talking, similar to how boxers behave.

Tennis shouldn't be in the Olympics but it was good to see Andy Murray claiming gold, for the loss of just seven games against Federer.

The fact that I even care right now what sports are in the Olympics, or whether this or that rule should be in place, is a good thing. When I'm depressed I really couldn't give a toss.

More good news: my car should be back in business tomorrow. I must say they did an excellent job on the rust I had on the roof.

Mount Tongariro's eruption last night has showered much of the North Island in volcanic ash and disrupted a few people's travel plans.

Engagement

My brother has got engaged. I saw it coming but didn't expect it quite this soon. He and his fiancée will be coming to live in NZ (in Christchurch I think) in late September; they're bringing their cat with them. My future sister-in-law's line of work involves providing equipment to hospitals (I don't know the ins and outs of that, so to speak); she's got herself a similar job over here. So I'll soon be seeing my brother rather more than twice every nine years.

On a loosely related note, there was a new face - a 23-year-old woman - at Wednesday night's depression group. Every time someone new turns up I hear the same thing. They talk about their anxiety, depression and difficulty in dealing with social situations. Then in the next sentence they mention their wife/husband/fiancé(e)/girlfriend/boyfriend/partner. If meeting people is so damn hard, how come they're all in relationships? I've got three theories:
1. For some (most?) people, they need sex almost as much as they need food. No matter how severe the barriers are to finding a sexual partner, they'll overcome them somehow.
2. The mental health of the people who attend the meet-up groups isn't that bad, otherwise they wouldn't go.
3. Compared to how they were one or two or five years ago when they were the life and soul of the party, they've seen a marked increase in their social anxiety. They've noticed a decline relative to their reference point, but they're still not all that bad.

Last weekend was very much an indoor one. I went round to my cousin's place on Saturday (I did invite them to come to my flat but they declined). They've now got Sky (in time for the Olympics) and we ended up watching the Crusaders play the Force. I couldn't have cared less about the outcome (which, after a couple of dodgy video referee decisions, was never in doubt).
I should mention Andy Murray's defeat in the final of Wimbledon. He gets very emotional after a big match, win or lose. Unfortunately, in his four grand slam finals to date, it's only been lose. I've heard plenty of people say he'll never win one. I think he's more than capable of winning a couple. I'd put him in a different league to Tim Henman (Britain's last big hope); he's just that much more versatile. Henman used to need five sets in the first round, then four sets, then five again. By the second Monday, Britain was a nation of fingernail-free tennis fans. That he so often survived to make the later stages says a lot for Henman's resolve, but Murray in contrast gets through the early rounds with ease.

My car failed last week's warrant in style. Supposedly both front shock absorbers need replacing as does the driver's seat belt; also a patch of rust on the roof needs looking at. I was handed a four-figure quote - I certainly won't be paying that. I'll try taking it in somewhere else (VTNZ?) next week but until then (and quite possibly after then) I'm sans wheels. Bugger.

So I won't be popping over to see Julie tomorrow - I normally see her every Tuesday. A lot (but my no means all) of her conversation is pretty negative; sometimes she talks about doing herself in. I try to cling onto the positives but I'm no counsellor so I feel hopeless at times.

I'm flying to Auckland on Friday night. I must say I'm really looking forward to it.

I'm flying to Auckland on Friday night.

The Big Smoke

I touched down at Auckland airport on Saturday lunchtime; from there I made my way to the autism group. I'd forgotten what a head-spinning occasion it can be, and that's speaking as someone who has never been diagnosed with any form of autism. Trying to keep track of ten conversations (or monologues) at once is no easy task. But for all the acoustic challenges the monthly meeting presents, it's still a wonderful thing they've got going up there. Autistic adults need all the support they can get. The Arie Smith case was a major topic of discussion again. The point I made (when I finally got a word in edgeways) was that Cantabrians are less tolerant of people who are a bit "different" than those from other parts of the country. In addition to having Asperger's, Arie is gay, and I'm sure that doesn't help his cause in red-and-black territory. Whatever, it should be blindingly obvious to police that he has a disability, and they should show some compassion (and common sense) by dropping the case.

That evening I settled into my hotel room in Parnell. The woman at reception wanted to know my ZIP code, then told me my room was on the first floor when it was on the ground floor. She sounded perfectly Kiwi to me, so what was with all the American terminology?

On a sunny Sunday morning I went to La Cigale, the popular French market nearby. I only bought some odd bits of fruit but was fascinated by their wine cellar. When it comes to the price of vintage wines it appears the sky's the limit. I couldn't figure out why a bottle sometimes differed in price by $100 from a seemingly identical bottle right next to it. Maybe Richard (who is something of a connoisseur) could give me some idea.

This 1957 Chevy was parked outside the market. A beast of a car with a number plate to match. Forget all those vowelless what-the-hell-does-that-say combinations you see so often; this one gets straight to the point. On the subject of plates, the letter G has started to appear as the first letter of standard (non-personalised) issues. It took a long time to get through the F's in spite of all the combinations like FAG and FUK that they must have skipped over - a sign of the tough economic times I guess. My Camry dates from the two-letter system - appropriately, given my reluctance to make decisions, those two letters are UM.

Sunday afternoon was a bit stressful as I hung around in the city, not really knowing what was happening. This wasn't anybody's fault but by the time we saw the final Harry Potter movie (Richard, another member of the Aspie group and myself) I was really past caring. The film was good, I think, but I hadn't seen any of them since number two and I struggled to concentrate. I was feeling a bit low and my mind was in a dozen other places.

Monday was an unusually busy day for me on the social front. First I met Julie in Devonport for coffee. The mental health system in Auckland has failed her, she's seen six figures disappear in failed finance companies, and most recently her dog (which he was very fond of and gave her some purpose in life) has been put down. She was understandably upset when I saw her. The good news is that she intends to leave Auckland and make a new start (at the age of 65) in Wellington.
I then met Mandy, the only contact I've kept from my last so-called big job. She left the company last September, nine months after I made my exit. She now works for another insurance company and is much happier there. We walked along Takapuna Beach in the sunshine, something I used to do regularly before our offices moved to an impersonal business park where there was nothing to do at lunchtime but attempt the crossword. As a side note, who should I meet on the bus from Devonport to Takapuna? None other than Bazza, for whom going to the shore is almost a day trip.

I had a quick catch-up with a guy from an employment agency who I still keep in touch with, and then met Andy in the Mad Dogs and Englishmen pub in Wairau Park for a drink. In his life things are moving at breakneck speed: he's got engaged (he met his fiancée just six months ago) and there's talk of houses, kids and all those things normal people have. Andy left shortly after six but I stuck around and ate a lamb shank (tasty and more meat than I'd bargained for). I got back to the hotel at around nine and eventually fell asleep watching darts on TV in a flashback to the early nineties.

On Tuesday I met Richard at his new flat in Greenlane after losing my bearings a bit on the way. He lives with three females if you include the Siberian Husky. I think it's a very positive move for him. We had lunch at a nearby eatery and a decent chat. He hopes (as do I) that he can make a trip to Wellington in the coming months. I then hung around town, which is something I did quite a lot of over the long weekend. When the time came to catch the Airbus I was very glad to leave: I find central Auckland an incredibly soulless place.

On Wednesday - my first day back at work - I felt pretty low. All my thoughts were a function of the state of my mental health. That evening though I spoke to someone in the UK about my business idea, and since then I've been back almost to normal, whatever normal is any more.

Putting my own job into perspective

Some not-so-great news this morning. My brother is off to Afghanistan. Mum and Dad only found out when a pile of bumph from the British army arrived in the mail. He's already put his body on the line enough thank you very much, which is why he wanted out of the army. But they recently persuaded him to stay by giving him a new (supposedly front-line-free) role. Of course my brother (thirty next month) is experienced and a very useful man to have on the front line, so they'd love him to go. My own job feels pretty damn good all of a sudden.

Last night I attended the Asperger's group, which took place at their offices in Thorndon instead of at a pub. There were five of us, a massive improvement on the previous turnout. Unusually for Asperger's groups, women were in the majority. The other bloke wasn't your typical Aspie at all (there's no way I would have picked him) - I wondered if he had ADHD instead. The two women I hadn't met before were both in their twenties and very easy to get along with. The topic of conversation changed at lightning speed; not every topic would be printable in your local gazette.

My car failed its WOF in style; I was quoted a ridiculous amount to get it up to scratch. I took it in on the way to work and was wearing a suit so perhaps they saw me coming. I don't trust car mechanics any further than I can throw them so I'll get it tested somewhere else, hoping all the "failure notes" didn't get permanently stored in the system, and see what happens.

Being able to survive without a car is one of the (several) great things about Wellington. It's also just as well I've got off-street parking or else I'd face a $200 fine. I'm amazed the local council can issue fines for expired WOFs - it should be a police matter surely. Parking fines for expired WOFs and registrations are a regressive form of tax for two reasons: people with lower incomes are more likely to have to park on the street and get clobbered with the fine in the first place, and of course if you earn less the $200 is a bigger proportion of your income.

Wimbledon is in full swing but it's not the big deal to me it once was. I no longer meticulously write out a draw sheet with all the winners and losers and scores. I no longer bring my bedroom TV down to the living room so I can watch two matches on different channels at the same time. My move to New Zealand didn't help. But still I've been keeping vaguely up to date with the action. The top women's seeds have been dropping like flies. Sharapova must be the favourite now, but I'm rooting for Marion Bartoli. Her unusual playing style and bouncing around between points make her seem completely mad. We need more of that in tennis. She plays her quarter- final tonight. After her last three matches (saving three match points, then winning 9-7 in the third, then beating Serena) she probably thinks she can't lose.

Update: I put the mockers on Miss Bartoli. All that bouncing around caught up with her in the end. She saved three more match points in the second set against Sabine Lisicki, then levelled the match on a tie-break only to lose the third 6-1. Sharapova on the other hand stormed into the semis, beating Cibulkova 6-1 6-1.

One fine day

Wednesday's early morning turbo badugi tournament lived up to its name: I never got above my starting stack (of just 1000) and was out in double-quick time. As it happened, I couldn't have made it to the tournament proper anyway. The WINZ meeting or "seminar" was useful - everyone was told to be a lot more persistent, and not to take no for an answer. Only seven or eight people attended, but the whole gamut of jobless life was on show, from a highly switched-on computer programmer to someone straight out of The League of Gentlemen.

I got back to my car after the meeting to find a thin piece of paper stuck to the windscreen. I instantly knew what it was, but couldn't think why it was there. Then I looked at my registration sticker. August 21st. Everybody's birthday seems to fall on that date so how I could I forget? This year I've been very careful to save the odd dollar here and there, and then bam! - I forget something important and it sets me back hundreds. In this case $200. I went to Takapuna Post Office who gave me the bizarre news that I wasn't the legal owner of the car, and that it was registered until November 21st. I'd signed all the change of ownership papers when I bought the car, but for some reason the change has since been reversed. The post office lady spent twenty minutes on the phone to Land Transport, after which I was reinstated as the legal owner and given a new updated registration sticker without having to pay anything. In short, I might get lucky here and get off the fine. That would be quite a result. I've sent the council a letter and will see what happens.

After all that messing around, I attended the WRAP course (for what I imagine will be the last time unfortunately), helped (I hope) the Browns Bay boy with his maths, and went to the men's group where we chatted and watched the first half of Flawless which was very good I thought.

Quite a bit (by my standards) has happened since Wednesday; I'll save that for my next post.

Independence Day

Last weekend Americans celebrated Independence Day. At the same time I regained my own independence by getting myself a new set of wheels. For a minute I thought of avoiding the whole "anonymous box" thing and getting something exciting and European like a Saab or a Citroen, but in the end I spent $2500 on a red 1996 Toyota Camry. As well as being an anagram of "my car", the Camry is one of the most exciting cars on the planet. In the week I've had it, I've been getting stares at every red light. In fact Camrys are so exciting that 74% of New Zealand's actuaries choose to drive them. In all seriousness it should be a reliable car, if perhaps a bit big for me.

I did have some real excitement last week, in the shape of a phone interview. I'd applied for a job at my local mental health support centre; the impromptu interview took me by surprise a bit. "Is now a good time?" Sure, it's a bloody great time! But I'd met the interviewer before, and I handled the questions as well as I could have hoped. Whether that'll be good enough, somehow I doubt it (I come from a very different industry after all) but if I did get it, I'd be over the moon.

After catching the end of this morning's third-place World Cup match, I saw a programme about an Auckland teenager who, three years ago, got into a car with one of his drunk mates behind the wheel. The resulting crash left him brain damaged. The programme certainly brought home the horrors of drink-driving, but what really amazed me was that after the accident, none of his so-called mates, not even his girlfriend, wanted to know him any more. I didn't have any friends to speak of at that age, but if that's what teenage friends are like, perhaps I didn't miss much.

In other news, I'm back badugi-ing again. I've asked to cash out most of my SCOOP winnings ($4000) and am anxiously waiting for the cheque to arrive. Yesterday I made eighty bucks at the tables (a mixture of 25c/50c, 50c/$1 and $1/$2) but I gave back thirty today. I'm also trying to get a handle on triple draw, although the variance in that game seems even more severe than in badugi. I'll be restricting the bulk of my play to weekends and will try to give weekly updates on my progress from now on.

Life stages

Following yesterday's Anzac Day service I met up with four others from the Asperger's group at St Lukes mall. After much discussion regarding the choice of film, we eventually plumped for Date Night which was hilarious in places, though I was hardly in the mood for comedy. It looked like we would see Boy which I must make sure I see before I go away. It was good to meet up with Richard and the others whose Asperger's were at varying levels and affected them in very different ways.

After Saturday's embarrassment I didn't particularly want to talk about my other tennis matches, but on Thursday I played what I imagine was my last ever match with Bazza. I'd rather not mention the score (I mean I'd love to, but we were only playing for the love of the game so the score hardly mattered). To cut a short story even shorter, we were outclassed in our second round match. Bazza was a talismanic figure at the club ("c'mon Belmont!") even if he could get on my nerves at times. Now that he's gone, that's one less reason for me to play there.

Saturday's singles - that match - was also a second-rounder. In the first round I got lucky and faced an inexperienced player. I struggled to an error-strewn 7-5 6-1 win. It wasn't much fun.

My dad flies back from the UK in a few hours' time. I think he's glad to leave and relieved that the unpronounceable Icelandic volcano won't stop him. The last four weeks, with my grandmother, haven't been easy for him. And as for my aunt, the less said about her the better.

Mum arrives here on Wednesday (by accident she booked her flight on the same day Dad returns from the UK). I'm looking forward to seeing her.

Tomorrow I'll be seeing a careers advisor. For once I'll be brutally honest and tell her what I want to do (and what I don't). I'll have to go to Mt Eden for this appointment (they recently closed the Takapuna office). On Wednesday, just before Mum gets here, I'll be meeting with my counsellor.

It's been a pain not having a car. Buses wouldn't be such a problem if I was making the same journey all the time, such as going to and from work, but as that's not the case I've found it all a bit of a struggle. I see people waltz onto the bus and ask nonchalantly for one or two or three stages. How do they know how many stages it is? I've never seen a sign telling me I'm about to enter the such-and-such stage. And what's to stop you from staying on for an extra stage or two? I can't imagine the driver remembering exactly who has paid for what. On occasions I've bought an all-day ticket that lets you bypass all that stage malarkey, but even some of the drivers don't know about this ticket, or at least they pretend not to.

On Thursday I entered an 18-man private tournament which one of the badugi regulars set up. It was a limit tournament with rapidly increasing blinds at the start, so luck would play a huge part in the outcome. I got a lot of luck, almost an embarrassing amount of it. When we got down to three I had over 80% of the chips in play, and soon it was all over. I followed that win with a fifth-place finish in last night's pot-limit tournament. That good fortune hasn't flowed through to the cash games. My overall profit did top $600 for the first time today, but nine of the last ten hands I showed down were losers and I ended the session at $599.

Sorry Mum, still no news

Man do I miss my car. I'm quite exhausted from all this bussing and walking. Yesterday I saw my counsellor in Albany (how many buses did I take in total? Five?) for some Gestalt therapy which is a new one on me. Basically I pretended to be myself at the age of ten or eleven talking about my lack of friends, then I took on the role of an adult talking to this young boy. Our session was taped.

I managed to upset my mum on Sunday night. She said to me, "had a busy day? No." I told her to please stop saying that. She's been doing this for some time, asking me if I've done something and then saying "no" immediately afterwards. "Did you apply for that job? No." "Did you phone Dave? No." She always fears the worst for me, expects the worst. "I don't know what you'll do when you get back from the UK. I doubt you'll get a job, and you'll be paying all that money in rent. And don't go out and buy another car because it'll only get nicked again..." Dad is just as pessimistic but at least I can have a reasoned argument with him. With Mum, I'd obviously upset her and I felt very bad about this, but it was no use trying to rectify the situation. She just totally shut down. A lot of the problem here is that my parents phone me every day. I know it's because they love me and worry about me, but I find these daily 9pm phone calls put unnecessary pressure on me. Usually nothing of note has happened since the last time we spoke and I feel guilty about that. I suggested to Mum that maybe every day is a bit much, to which she replied, "well I won't ring then if you don't want to talk to me." Oh dear. I do want to talk to her, just perhaps not every day.

My interclub tennis was all over in double-quick time last night. We won our doubles 6-3 6-0 but then I got thrashed 6-1 6-2 in my singles. An unusual pair of results for me: I prefer singles and generally fare much better at it than doubles. My singles opponent was very much a confidence player; last time we played I won a tight first set, after which his confidence was shot and he effectively threw in the towel. This time it was the exact opposite. I had love-40 on his serve in the first game but couldn't take any of those break points. In the second game I had yet more chances but they too went begging. Soon his confidence was sky-high and I was powerless to do anything. The type of shot I played had little bearing on the outcome of the point, so in the end my tactic was to take the pace off the ball and just get everything back. This resulted in some long rallies and multiple deuce games but I invariably came off second best. Knowing his temperament was fragile I never gave up until the last point, though the killer blow for me came in the penultimate game. At 2-4 and deuce, after trading groundstrokes, I hit a lob onto his baseline which he retrieved; his next shot was a clean winner. When it was all over I walked home, grabbing easily the spiciest pizza I've ever had on the way back.

In today's badugi session I picked up right where I left off from last night's tennis. I play 300-hand sessions, give or take a few, but I have a "mercy rule" whereby I quit when I get down $20. Today I invoked that rule after just 140 hands. It was carnage. I won only seven hands, three of those pre-draw and just two at showdown. After taking that kind of hammering I don't feel I can play my best, hence the mercy rule.

I had a very enjoyable, if slightly tricky, Italian lesson today. If I didn't already know some French (which has proved very useful) I might have been all at sea. After the lesson I had the pleasure of riding in a Fiat Bambina.

Tonight we had the men's group. We had a new bloke there who writes stories; tonight we acted one of those out. I'm always envious of anyone who can write anything.

Lost years - can I make up for them?

I guess it hasn't been a bad week. Since I last posted I've paid two visits to my counsellor, psychologist, call her what you will, and I'll be making another trek that way tomorrow. Without my car (no it hasn't yet magically appeared), getting up to Albany really is a trek. And a hassle. When you lose your car, your independence goes with it. I still haven't decided whether to get a new one before I go away.

In those last two meetings we spent some time discussing my teenage years. I found this subject a bit upsetting: in those so-called formative years I never really "formed" at all. Four months before my 13th birthday - yes I can pinpoint it accurately - every shred of self-confidence melted away. For the next half a decade I found myself almost completely alone. Peer groups, which play a major role in shaping teenagers, didn't exist for me. It wasn't until late 2001 that I finally developed an identity I was happy with, only for it to be snatched away months later when I left university.

I had a tough time of it on the tennis court last Monday. In the doubles (I played with Superman yet again) we were completely outclassed. Our opponents were an imposing force at the net and everything happened far too quickly for us. After barely half an hour we were behind 6-0, 5-0, staring down the barrel of a double doughnut. We put together a nice little cameo performance at the end to at least salvage two games, but really it was a complete mismatch. In the singles I surprised myself by taking the opening set 6-3. It was the best set of tennis I'd put together for a very long time and reminded me of when I could actually play this game. My opponent had the upper hand in most of the rallies but I was able to work my way into the point and eventually hit a winner myself. He was aggressive at the net but all my passing shots found their target. I couldn't have played any better, but it was still a close set, and it was no surprise when his extra class told in the final two sets which both finished 6-2. I wasn't disappointed with the loss; he was simply a better player.

I've moved my Italian class to a daytime slot and a slightly higher level. There always seems to be a skewed gender ratio at language classes but at last Tuesday's session I was the only bloke there. Not that I minded. It was a small class so we were all able to participate. I'm really happy with my progress in the seven months since I started.

It's been horribly muggy in Auckland this weekend. I only had to poke my nose outside the door and my T-shirt would be sticking to me. After this afternoon's tennis it was like a wet rag.

Car(e)lessness

My car got nicked while I was away. I had it parked outside my flat (well not exactly outside, maybe three doors down on the other side of the road, I can't remember precisely). Whatever, it's gone now. And for the first 24 hours after I got back from the South Island I was too depressed and dead to the outside world to even notice. I called the local police, then my insurance company. "There's no insurance on that car." "What? I'd never dream of having a car uninsured." But when I moved into this place I never let my insurance company know, so I never got the letter telling me it was up for renewal, and I'd let it lapse. I've always had problems with organisation. I'm particularly bad with mail. In the last couple of years, for some psychological reason, I've tried to avoid opening it. I'd let two weeks' worth pile up in my letterbox before bringing it in, I'd wait another week to open it and at least one more week would go by before I did anything about it. I've made some recent improvements on that score but it's still a problem.

I've since come to terms with not having a car. It wasn't worth much and thankfully I hadn't left anything valuable inside. Maybe it'll still turn up. It's such a common car (and colour) that on numerous occasions in the last two days I've been convinced I've seen it.

I played interclub tennis this afternoon, making the most of the sun. Unfortunately I had the tricky task of playing with Superman - again. I felt I was letting him down - again - but at least this time we ended up on the right side of the ledger, winning 6-4 4-6 6-3 in a fraction under two hours. I haven't won in two sets, in singles or doubles, since the very first match of the season. The woman we were due to play in the mixed pulled out because of the heat. That was a shame but in some ways it was nice just sitting in the sun watching the other matches. I expect to be spending a fair chunk of tomorrow down at the club too - they've got a working bee with some tennis afterwards. What is it with this word "bee"? There are working bees, spelling bees and plenty of Esso bees. Maybe one day I'll even find a suitable jay-oh-bee.