Auckland – shorn
“If something is shorn, it’s trimmed, clipped, or shaved. A shorn sheep is considerably less fluffy than one that isn’t shorn.”
My hair and I have a difficult relationship, one that challenges the most caring of professionals. At least, that was the case, until I went to New Zealand, where things changed.
I arrived there out of a hectic time, with my hair as dishevelled as pampas grass. A few blustery weeks later, even my cap had begun to complain, so I made some enquiries.
Auckland – Finding Parnell
The North Shore was a fine place to stay, but leaving it was not so easy … at least not the way I did it.
I’d been lent an old car to simplify my trips to the centre of Auckland. The car, a veteran of the beaches and foothills of New Zealand, sat low on the road, leaking sand and old trainers.
“It’ll get you anywhere,” said the owners of the car.
“Sure,” I replied.
Aotearoa – the North Shore
There it was, “the land of the long white cloud”, gleaming on the surface of the ocean. I watched its shores get closer and closer.
Thirty hours of travel were about to end. London was now the dot out of sight, and there below was the upside down, lumpy exclamation mark that I’d peered at so often on our map on the kitchen wall.