AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHA it's colder than Satan's armpits out there* but I braved the hill nonetheless, and feel mucho better for it. So I figured I'd treat you all to a blog post as I sit here in my personalized post-exercise miasma of sweat and small children that got stuck to my hairy legs on the way back up. It's okay, they find their own way home eventually.
Currently I'm navigating the treacherous waters of organising a new passport, visa and proof of permanent residency, as I'm technically still a British citizen, God Save The Queen and all her filthy inbred descendants. This mainly involves me contacting the police(!), immigration, NZ passport authority people, old Mr Smith across the road and MacGyver, the latter of whom promised to get me across the ditch using some ductape, parts of an old light bulb and some bat guano...
Annika has taken to cruely mocking my kiwi ways already, and I'm not even in the country yet. Fush and Chups have of course been mentioned, as has our lack of military. It's only a matter of time before a pair of velcro gloves show up in the mail but despite all this I maintain that we hold the high ground, ladies and gentlemen, because thongs are not things that go on your bloody feet.
*This makes sense as long as you avoid thinking about it.
