Mad Dogs

A long time ago, when skin was smoothe and soul untarnished by cynicism, I travelled to London. The big OE was, and still is, the right of passage for many kiwi kids. We needed to connect with and see the real world. The big world.

It was the first time I'd been on a plane, the first time I was separated by great chunks of water from my family. Alone, it was a big adventure, something I'd dreamed of many times as I sat on Takapuna beach watching cruise ships and tankers crawl past Rangitoto.

My cabin bag was heavier than my suitcase and I had to nearly drag it down the aisle while pretending it was feather-weight. Wedging it between my seat and the one in front, it became my footrest for the journey. I remember the zip was threatening to burst so I tried to relieve the pressure by unzipping it a little. But the zip was akin to a bladder awaiting a scan, there is no such thing as a trickle. The contents spewed forth. And at that same moment a baby (German) projectile vomitted across the aisle. The baby bile served as a marinade for the bag's contents.

It was in that bile that my cabin bag acted like a mile-high hangi. So the first story was born before the plane had even taxied down the runway. I burst into tears.

Arriving at London's Heathrow, and after an unexplained chest x-ray I met my two friends as I struggled with my mobile hangi. Dave was an old flatmate and Laima his wife. They were bedraggled by living in Britain. Their hair was lank, their skin pale. It was the eighties and as I hovered under my shoulder pads, their shoulder blades stuck out from thin jumpers.

Delighted hugs and pleasantries were exchanged before we started on our way 'home'. My new home was Little Baddow, a small village not too far from Chelmsford in Essex. Well, actually, on that early morning it was two tube rides, two bus rides and gratefully a taxi ride. The trip home was more exhausting than the plane journey, taking over three hours.

Little Baddow is a tiny village of picturesque cottages and a local pub, the name of which escapes me over two decades later. We arrived at the driveway which wound up to the house my friends were boarding at. The taxi crackled over the stones and through the overgrown garden encroaching on the drive, to arrive at a rather grand albeit decrepit house.

Stopping near the front door, we paid the fare and helped unload the car.

'We've got to tell you something,' Laima said.

I looked at her with red eyes.

'About Fiona.'

'Fiona?'

'A black labarador.'

'Oh lovely.'

'Not really,' Laima continued. 'Fiona... oh you'll find out soon enough.'

Great, just what I needed, Cujo.

We carried the luggage up to the house. The door swung open, and my nasal passages were invaded by the smell of... dog poo. Looking down the dim hallway and along to the staircase, I could make out dog poo littering the floor and stairs. The poo was more prolific than the flowers embedded in the carpet's pattern. It was obvious by the deposits that Fiona had a healthy appetite.

My shoulder pads drooped.

Welcome to Blighty.