About a month ago, I saw the New Zealand film Rain on telly. It was good, if a bit predictable plot-wise. (They're spending a summer at the beach in the 70s and the protagonist has an preternaturally mature but incredibly cute little brother learning to swim. What do *you* think happens to him? Yeah. Not very obvious, is it?) The reason I'm writing about it is because I think we have another candidate for a 'story of my life' movie here - like Dazed and Confused for Brent. Achingly, *achingly* familiar stuff. I kept poking Brent and saying 'I had one of those kiddie's basket chairs!' and 'look, pint milk bottles! I remember when they cost 20 cents and were delivered to the gate!' I know exactly how that little seaside bach *smelled*. The song on the soundtrack which truly brought all this home to me was Sherbet's 'Howzat'. I'd completely forgotten about it until I heard it playing over a party scene. It wasn't really like a punch in the stomach, but it was a bit like an insistent poke in the arm. 'Hey! Remember me? I'm a hit song about a cheating lover which is *cricket-themed*!' Dan was telling me recently that he's been downloading songs which can't be defended using any aesthetic criteria, but which bring back his childhood incredibly vividly. (I can't possibly tell you the one he confessed to me. The innocent need to be protected.) 'Howzat' is like that. It's everything that's bad about the 70s... and yet I love it, deeply. Sample lyric: 'You messed about, I caught you out, howzat!' Awful, isn't it? Have a go on Kazaa, that's where I found it. Wallow in my cheesy childhood. :)

'United States of Whatever' has superseded 'Bananas and Blow' as the novelty song of hilarity in our household. 'Yeah, WHATever!'

Big shout-out to my 6.45am bus driver, who waited patiently at a bus stop for me to return my freshly escaped dog to our abode. I was totally gobsmacked to look down and see her snuffling around cheerfully beside me as if she was planning on going to work on public transport. She is a *huge* dork. And she has an unerring instinct for finding fresh holes in our crappy old fence.

I must be premenstrual, because a particular portion of the latest Bic Runga single, 'Listening for the Weather', makes my throat tight and I can't sing along properly. I mean, yeah, it's a pretty enough song, but Jesus Christ. Inappropriate tearfulness is always a key pointer!

Another couple of entries in The Big Book of Ridiculous Library Patron Names: Sparky Tango, and (poor, poor girl) Creamie Wong.

Gary, upon seeing Piha: 'My GOD! This is BEAUTIFUL!' I felt particularly smug, as if I had personally created it. I am an idiot.

It is a fundamental law of nature that if anyone has the gumption and cash to make a trip to New Zealand to visit his friends, as Gary has, it will rain in Auckland. All. Frigging. Day. It's fine if it rains in London when you arrive to sightsee there, because so much of the cool stuff is either indoors, or its gloomy splendour is actually enhanced by drizzle. But New Zealand is nearly all scenery! What's the point of scenery you can't see because of low cloud? Sigh.