EARTH, WIND and RAIN. Luckily no fire

Dear Long-Suffering Friends,

I write to you from a house that is — technically — still standing, though Saint Medard, the Patron Saint of Absolutely Filthy Weather, gave it his very best shot. One hundred and eighty millimetres of rain in 24 hours. Not content with merely drowning us, the old saint sent one final triumphant gust to flatten our largest beech tree, then — with the cunning of a medieval siege engineer — found a hole in the wall the width of a gnat's whisker and delivered a puddle to our sitting room. The ducks, I should report, were delighted. They had, however, not been invited.

The solution, naturally, was to go outside in the biblical deluge and dig trenches.

The water that burst forth nearly carried me bodily down the hillside — a scene reminiscent of the opening of the Kariba Dam, though considerably less planned. Three tons of gravel later (shovelled by hand, into a wheelbarrow, uphill, because of course they dumped it at the bottom), my biceps have expanded to such a degree that I have had to retire two shirts by over flexing biceps. People are beginning to confuse me with Arnold Schwarzenegger. I feel this is reasonable.

Given that I have recently achieved the great milestone of becoming a septuagenarian — a word that sounds like a Roman general but means merely that one has survived seven decades without sufficient cause for removal — it seemed only fitting to celebrate by visiting a retirement village. One must know one's options.

The ducks, sheep, alpacas and chickens were conspicuous in their absence. This was Strike One. We were ushered into the common room where competency at canasta and cribbage appeared to be entry requirements. The notice board, however, beckoned with a lifestyle of dizzy variety: Aquarobics with Amanda (Monday). No-Bend Bowls with Ben (Tuesday — presumably Ben can't bend either). The Joy of the Ukulele (Wednesday — joy being a strong word). Sing-Along Thursday. Friday's bus to the shopping centre, which I imagine has all the frantic energy of a Viking raid. Saturday Tea Dance. And — saving the best for last — Silent Disco Sunday.

The grounds were immaculate. "Please Don't Walk on The Grass," said the sign, which does rather limit one's relationship with grounds. The grass was fit for snooker at the Crucible, but tell me, what is grass for? The houses were lovely — 230 of them, so thoughtfully positioned that the view from your sitting room window is directly into your neighbour's sitting room. Who needs a TV and Netflix.

Service at the coffee shop was a tad slow, a barista on a zimmer frame was novel. We waited. We left. I enjoyed the entertainment. Our friend Sylvia's quinoa and avocado salad upon our return was, in the circumstances, an act of mercy and delicious brilliance.

We popped over to Sydney for a Wellington Phoenix match — for once the Phoenix won, the sun shone, and at the 80-minute mark, the Wellington faithful removed their shirts as is apparently their sacred custom. When in Rome and all that, so I was obliged tojoin in. I blame the gravel shovelling for the confidence.

Spoil sports – no fun football!

The real highlight, however, was the airport, where we encountered the Wellington Phoenix Ladies' team. A selfie was taken. She was wonderful. I have absolutely no idea who she was. They won the match.

December's great project was filling the woodshed. There are always surprises in a pile of logs. I shall say no more, other than: His 'n' Hers.

We found a magnificent coffee spot — excellent brew, — next door to a restaurant that appeared to be suffering an identity crisis of clinical proportions and truly could not commit to a cuisine.

We park-ran. Well. Ali park-ran. I was present. She moved faster than the camera shutter speed. I was caught by the camera perfectly. Draw your own conclusions. ParkRun Age Grading 59.6%

Christchurch was wonderful. Rebuilt magnificently after the devastating 2011 earthquakes, it now has space, light, pedestrianised streets, and — perhaps most remarkably — the blank walls left standing after the quakes have been turned into enormous painted friezes. The whole city centre has become an outdoor gallery. Devastation repurposed into beauty.Very few buildings are now more than 3 floors high. There's a lesson in there somewhere, though I'll leave the philosophy to people with more time on their hands.

Water from a sewing machine.

Chips by pneumatic shoot

The bookcase to the loo at a café in Christchurch.

At the top of a bit of pedestrianisation.

It's kinda cool where postie leaves your post if it doesn't slip into the letter box.

On the community front: our recent weather catastrophe — bridges out, roads blocked, villages cut off — prompted eight of us to start establishing a Community Emergency Hub. We'd already secured a $5,000 grant. One local, bless him, asked why we'd bother because "nothing ever happens here.; we don’t get earthquakes, nothing you can do about wind, it’s not going to flood and there is nothing to burn". Wrong on every count. We have just had 180mm of rain in 24 hours and a humongous great beech tree blown over for our winter warmth. He is, I'm told, unwell, which is often an explanation for ‘out of character’ behaviour. The hub is proceeding.

I have also, through a moment of catastrophic weakness, agreed to run our local U3A Current Affairs group after my predecessor Ursula very sensibly fled. She set the group up from nothing and did an excellent job; a hard act to follow. The silence when a volunteer was sought was, as these silences always are, absolutely deafening. So far we have heard from a remarkable ex-gang member who built a youth village to save others from the path he'd walked through fights, drugs and prison; learned about Orange Sky, a charity that takes shower vans and washing machines to where the homeless are — topical, as our government has just legislated that the homeless must move along, without anyone troubling to mention where they might move to (fines of $2,000 apply; prison for those who can't pay — innovative social policy). Coming up: a master mariner who has sailed through the Strait of Hormuz and around most of the world's oceans; someone from a school for teenage mothers; a dyslexia specialist (that’ll help explain a lot to me)!; and the local newspaper editor. I am, against all odds, enjoying myself.

We’ve had some delightful guests. A friend from Ali’s student days with her vet husband. Great people and Lois our super next-door neighbour allowed us to go up into their glow worm caves, we also went to see the seals. Our most recent guests were the daughter of Ali’s Mum’s next-door neighbour and her friend. What lovely, lovely people and an endless laugh. Contrary to popular belief, the youth of today are OK. The glow-worms again performed excellently and then we met up with Eddie the Eel. The sheep family are missing them.

And finally: Wellington. A day of high adventure that had nothing to do with weather. I went to Welly to pick up friends from the airport.

In Newtown I lost my phone. I bought delicious Iranian bread and then went to the supermarket. The phone was absent. The Iranian bread shop man had held onto it, ran up the road, gone down the road, failed to find me, and kept it safe. I offered him coffee in gratitude. He is observing Ramadan. His sister runs the coffee shop next door. I am a genius.

Then in a car park where I’d stopped to buy shorts, my wallet was absent. I hunted in the car, high and low. I didn’t want to go back to the bread shop. In the hunt I found it under the curry take away. CRISIS AVERTED.

Then — and this is where it gets good — I stopped at a petrol station in Upper Hutt, decided the prepay machine represented an unreasonable level of technology so I got back in the car and drove away. Six kilometres later: in a moment of inspiration, I exclaimed “where is my wallet”? I was getting familiar with searching the car, but nowhere. A speedy U-turn on State Highway 2. Back to the station. The guy behind the counter seemed suitably uninterested “Nah mate, Not handed in”. PANIC. We drove on. One kilometre up the road, sitting serenely in the cycle lane, was my wallet. With a scratch on it. And some dust. I bought Geoffrey and Carol coffee.

I had left it on the roof of the car.

It had ridden 500 metres on the roof of our car and was waiting for me by the roadside like a faithful Lamborghini waiting for me to return to feed him some more sheep nuts!!

I am taking this as evidence that the universe, despite everything, can be good.

As for the ‘good’. I don’t ‘do’ big birthday parties. I really struggle. I don’t know what to do in a darkened room with loud music, and I get lost with what to talk about with people I don’t know. Instead, I have several small more intimate events with like minded people who fit into our lives in a specific way. We had a great and cheerful lunch at – guess where? A local winery. Called …

Such a fun group- that we met at the cafe. The view from the birthday bedroom in Welly.

We went to Poppies!!

My Birthday speach, after having said I am rubbish at parties:

You’ll always find me in the Kitchen at a Party!

It's my Party, I'll Cry if I want to. Oh, what an atmosphere. What a party! You really know How to Save a Life; I'm stayin' alive for a bit longer.—Celebrate, C'mon. I Can See Clearly Now that turning 70 isn't about feeling Under Pressure, but about Dancing in the Streets with people who genuinely Care.

Look, it’s all too Beautiful, the food is Simply the Best, and the company? Well, You're My Best Friend! I Should Be So Lucky. Everything is beautiful

Baby you Can Light my Fire, I think that tomorrow we might just have to set Fire to the Rain, what are we going to do? The Answer my Friend is Blowing in the Wind. It looks as if there is a Five Feet Flood and Rising. We are Riders of the storm,

Anyway, moving on, I'm planning on Stayin' Alive for a little longer. It's a Thriller!

At one point I thought, Should I Stay or Should I Go home to rest, but the energy kept me Going Back for More.

Thank you for Making My Dreams come true and proving that With a Little Help from My Friends, aging is nothing but Good Vibrations. You've shown me what a Wonderful World this truly is. Sweet Dreams Are Made of This!

Gimme Shelter!!

With love, optimism, firewood for the winter, more educated, mingling with the soccer glitterati and another year gone.

I’m definitely not in the retirement village yet!

P.S. The beech tree was magnificent. Saint Medard, if you're reading this: well played, but we're still h