My seven weeks’ holiday draws to a close today. I awoke from a surprisingly peaceful sleep, especially when it is considered that my ‘mattress’ consisted of nothing more than newspapers placed on the floor. The only moment in which I was disturbed was when Kevin had opened the door briefly and turned on the light, upon his return from the pub.
It was overcast and it had been raining, for when I looked out of the loungeroom’s window there was probably the most vivid of rainbows I had ever witnessed.
Harvey’s name is really Martin, but he is addressed as such because his father is of that name. If that makes sense?
I read in the newspaper of ‘Apollo Eleven’s’ win in yesterday’s running of the Chipping Norton Stakes, which was run under weight-for-age conditions at Sydney’s Warwick Farm Racecourse. Prize money for the race totals $10,000. ‘Jandel’ finished in second place and ‘Kia Maia’, third.
Nick, Marilyn and I were perusing sections of ‘The Sunday Times’. Nick turned his attention to yesterday’s edition of ‘The Christchurch Star’ and espied a photograph of Harvey, Steve, Wayne and himself at the start of the footrace. He drew a circle around the whole picture and each signed their name underneath it. They are going to visit the newspaper’s office on Tuesday to order enlarged copies of the photo. The four, as they put it, “wore skin” — that is, ran shirtless.
Nick pinned the photograph on the wall prior to stating, “You don’t need wallpaper.” New Zealanders appear to have somewhat of an obsession with wallpaper. They even defy gravity by covering their ceilings with it!
Marilyn walked to the shop for milk and butter. I had Weet-Bix, followed by toast and Vegemite which is something that I rarely consume.
I packed my belongings and walked out to the clothesline in the backyard to say goodbye to Nick and cautioned him to “go easy on the horses”. He, along with Marilyn, Shirley, Steve and Harvey bade me farewell at the front door. Nick commented on how relatively small my knapsack is and queried me as to why I was wearing it so low on my back.
I told him that I would write to him and inform him of my new address, when I obtain one.
My intention was to board a public bus to Cathedral Square, only to reach the bus stop at a quarter to eleven and note that the next arrival was not going to be until 12.14. This prompted me to walk on in the hope of being able to hitch a ride. When this proved to be unsuccessful I continued on foot via Selwyn Street, Moorhouse Street, in the direction of the railway station. I turned into Colombo Street and in Tuan Street, entered the depot of the company, Midland Buses.
Despite having entered its office at half past eleven, I learned that the next bus to the airport was not scheduled to depart until a quarter to one.
Leaving my belongings at the terminus, I walked down Colombo Street and entered Cathedral Square where I was to purchase an egg burger and a chocolate milkshake for a total cost of seventy cents at ‘Krispy Chip’, which I had previously noted displays red flashing lines on a neon sign at night. I wandered down High Street, having consumed my food in the Square. There, I located the ‘Copper Lounge’ where Sue, whom I met last night, works.
Upon my return to the terminus at ten past twelve, I waited for the remaining thirty-five minutes to pass and the bus’s arrival. The young driver only had three passengers to convey. “At fifty cents each, I can’t see how they can make a profit?” the woman commented, as we were entering the terminal via a pair of automatic doors.
I wandered about somewhat prior to my location of the ‘Quick Service Snack Bar’, which tended to belie its name to some degree. There I consumed a porterhouse steak, at a cost of one dollar and eighty-five cents, and a large glass of milk (fifteen cents). This meant that I only had sixty-four cents left, in local currency, in addition to the two dollars required to cover the cost of my departure from the country.
There were quite a number of personnel present from the American Air Force when the call finally came to board QF 333 at a quarter to five. The majority of passengers performed what I can only describe as a charge, as if they were not in possession of a ticket after all. A hostess could be seen conversing with a gentleman who stood out on the tarmac and beneath the aeroplane, via means of a walkie-talkie, in order to receive confirmation of the moment when it was permissible to enplane.
My seat was numbered 2A, which was located at the front of the plane and next to the window. A couple, whom I had firstly noticed some hours before in the departure lounge, was seated next to me.
The view over the Canterbury Plains was quite magnificent, what with its bluish green rivers wending their way through the broad river beds on their journey towards the coast. Alas, a covering of cloud prevented the sighting of the Southern Alps, as the airliner climbed to a height of thirty-one thousand feet and, in accordance to the pilot passed over the town of Hokitika on the South Island’s west coast.
The married couple is from Launceston, Tasmania. The pair had travelled for fifteen thousand miles within Australia, via their own mode of transport and had spent twenty-three days in New Zealand, travelling in rental cars. They informed me that their Tasman rental car had been a ‘Valiant’ on the North Island, whereas on the South Island their rental from Avis was a Holden of some kind, which they pronounced to have been “most uncomfortable”.
We talked of Launceston and the pair informed me that a plaza is under construction in Brisbane Street. A new bridge of four lanes has also been built across the Cataract Gorge. The pair lives next to the racecourse, in the suburb of Mowbray, and has no children.
I took a photograph of the aeroplane’s engines for her after she had handed me her small Kodak ‘Instamatic’ camera. He is averse to flying, but realises that if he is to see such places he has to bear it. He took a copious amount of footage with his movie camera after I had relinquished my seat to him prior to our arrival in Sydney. Our flight from Christchurch passed over the Northern Beaches’ suburb of Curl Curl and inland over Ryde. When asked for suggestions on where they should spend their time, in Australia’s largest city, I nominated West Head, the Spit Bridge and Palm Beach. They appeared keen to visit the Royal Easter Show, as he is particularly interested in machinery.
We entered the airport at 6.30 p.m. and I waited beside the luggage roundabout for my rucksack to appear. When it did it was covered in a tawny orange liquid, for my container of anti-dandruff shampoo had burst open during the flight. Everyone was pointing to it as it passed by.
Having passed directly through customs, I learned that the bus to the city was waiting. “Cicular Quay, please”, I replied when the driver enquired as to where I was headed. The gentleman seated next to me commented, “I hope you have insurance?” as he claimed that the driver possessed a “wild” demeanour.
This, I had not experienced for upon boarding I had inadvertently given the large gentleman two one-dollar notes instead of one. He immediately returned my overpayment, as he remarked that there were “… not many of us left” — a reference to his honesty.
Prior to our departure he asked me to move to a single seat, that was adjacent to his own. He informed me that he had been driving cabs for twenty years and buses for five.
We headed for Kings Cross, having left one of the twenty-two passengers at Central Railway Station. A woman alighted at the Boulevard Hotel, which prompted him to then remark: “I hope she brought plenty of money!”
The Koala Motor Inn came next, thence the Florida and Manhattan hotels and, lastly, the Menzies, in Carrington Street, where a gentleman of Indian appearance complained about how long it had taken for him to be delivered. Upon his departure the driver turned to me and exclaimed, “What does he expect for one dollar!”
I waved him goodbye and was just in time to board the ferry to Manly, at eight o’clock. The ‘Royal Viking “Sky”‘ was berthed at the Overseas Passenger Terminal and, in passing, my eyes became transfixed on its acutely angled prow.
A small flock of seagulls flew close to the ferry’s port side, as if to guide me home. It was something that I had not witnessed before at such close quarters. Three men began to skylark around as the vessel passed The Heads and, hence, began to rock somewhat, as these lead to the open ocean. One wore a light orange, South African tee-shirt.
Having boarded the bus on the route, ‘132’, I arrived home at ten minutes to nine and found Bob and Ron to be watching their new colour television. Transmission in colour had only officially begun while I was away, on the first of March. Presumably, this country’s relatively small population has prevented us from receiving it prior to this, literally decades after some others.
Doug arrived afterwards, in a partially drunken state. He is in possession of a beard and a moustache, unlike prior to my departure, and confided in me that he had been so drunk on a couple of occasions that he’d been unable to remember just where his car was parked. He had even enlisted the assistance of the police in one such occurrence.