Katherine Hayton | BLOG
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Finally it’s Friday.

After an extraordinarily long week during which I did an awful lot of things that I didn’t plan to do at all, and none of the things I had planned to do, I have finally reached the end.

It’s not quite the end. Not for some of my co-workers. Money has overtaken sense and they’ve decided to do the unthinkable.

Working on a Saturday.

Yeah, sure. You get paid more. A bit of the day at one and a half times normal, and then a bit of the day at two times normal.

It sounds good in theory, but I’ve had the money in my bank account before and I can attest to the fact that the loss of a Saturday hits me harder than the gain of digits in my bank.

That could be because I don’t value money enough, or it could be that being paid these days is simply watching some numbers on a computer screen turn into other numbers.

Where’s the fun in that?

Perhaps if, instead of getting paid in computerised digits I was paid in physical pleasure and luxury, I may value it more.

Work on a Saturday and leave the office dressed in mink. Stay late every night this week, and have a deposit a beer guzzling, daily massaged, freshly slaughtered, wagyu steak supply left in the fridge.

Hmmmmmm. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll just stay home on Saturday and live my life without the culling of animals. No matter how good I look in them, or how good they feel in me.

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06 May / Kickstarter

Continuing onwards from my discussion yesterday about purchasing new gadgets (and yes it counts as a discussion if it’s one sided, that simply reflects my truth at home) I received a couple of updates this week from projects I’ve funded on Kickstarter.

I remember back in the day when I first came across Kickstarter and thought that all my dreams had come true. Getting in on the ground floor of projects that looked sweet. Gadgets, not only before anyone else gets them, but cheaper too.

And there were amazing ideas on there, with incredibly quick estimated delivery times.

I kept it casual at first. I purchased some jewellery which looked like leather but was made out of paper. I paid. It was sent. It arrived. I could never work out how it fastened, but it looks cool on my bedside table.

I became a bit more adventurous. I splashed out on a Mo Mug. This is a reusable coffee mug with a variety of moustaches on it, which was issued in honour of Movember for when you can’t compete (by virtue of gender discrimination, or a lack of appropriately hair promoting testosterone).

So far, so good.

And then things took a slightly different turn.

There was the Pebble incident. Long delays, but it was so awesome when it came in the end I didn’t care. And by the time it wore out, Samsung had got their act together and produced a much better 2nd gen of watches for my selection.

I am still waiting for Charlie Kaufman’s Anomalisa. Apparently some time during the campaign they decided instead of a short movie they’d go with a full-length feature, and then didn’t actually tell anyone. Sure, we can laugh about that May 2013 delivery date now…

Now that we’re at May 2015 and still waiting. So funny.

Here is a quick screenshot of the latest projects I’ve backed:

Homesick: July 2013. This is actually going okay. It’s into final testing now. I’m kind of over it, and I’m not sure that the game with horror graphics which looked awe inspiring two years ago will still be relevant, but I still look forward to playing it through. Sometime. In 2015 maybe?

Watch Jewellery: On time.

Yolkr: A few months late.

NKV Watch: Ditto

Barmes Freebase: the most expensive piece of luggage I’ve ever purchased, if I’ve purchased it. A year later, still waiting.

Once the trend started, I eventually wised up. Jewellery, yes. Anything else, no.

I even went so far at to not order something on indiegogo because I was learning. I waited until they were about to send out their first orders, and then I pre-ordered it on their website. For my birthday. July 2014. I’m hoping it will be here soon. That would be a nice surprise gift.

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05 May / oPhone

I want one.

I don’t know if you’ve seen or heard or smelt one yet, but you probably want one too.

Ever read a book and thought, ‘What this really needs is the scent of the pine forest the character is walking through?’

I know! Right?

I can’t remember what a pine forest smells like either.

Or imagine reading Winnie the Pooh and smelling the sweet scent of honey. Like you’d stuck your head right in the jar and couldn’t get it back out.

And you get all of this out of your phone!

Well you don’t really. But until I read the details further down the page and realised that you have to buy a large device with towers where smells come out I thought you did. And that moment was magical.

As was the moment what I realised that if I didn’t want to buy the large smell accessory I could buy a bangle version instead.

No I couldn’t.

404 yourself!

I want one, I want one, I want one, I want one, I want one, I want one, I want one.

Why is it that when I can’t buy something immediately I crave it more? That doesn’t seem very fair at all.

Down the bottom of the page there is a sign-up sheet to assess whether you’re a suitable candidate.

A suitable candidate to what, you ask?

To buy their product.

I remember once upon a time if you were nice enough to test products for manufacturers you were given what was commonly referred to as a job, with a hefty side benefit of pay.

Now, thanks mainly to people like me, you get to pay more for a buggier product, and to fill out feedback forms and/or spend hours on your computer detailing whether that new fix got it. Then this one? This one? Oh, that made your gadget stop working altogether? Interesting.

And rather than just be able to do that at your leisure, you have to fill out a form describing why you’d make a better candidate than the next person.

Is it wrong that I still want it?

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03 May / Soup

‘Tis the season for chicken frames and bacon bones. With the first frosts nipping at our heels in the mornings the supermarkets have been fulling up with a whole lot of ingredients that can only be used for making soup.

I’ve been taking advantage of this trend because it’s amazing how much meat you can get off a chicken frame that’s been boiled in lightly salted water for a good fifteen minutes. Certainly more than you’d expect from the price tag of six for $1.00

It’s also the only time I willingly eat a vegetable that isn’t a potato that’s spent its short life being cut into small pieces and coated with oil. And maybe tossed in seasoning. Do the herbs on seasoned potato wedges count as vegetables too? I’m sure they must.

My usually vegetarian averse lifestyle gets thrown out the window as I happily chop up leaks, celery, onions and carrots to toss them into a merrily boiling broth.

Once the vegetable to broth to meat ratio reaches the magic formula of thick and chunky, I let it boil away to enhance the flavour, and because you can’t overcook meat and vegetables.

Last week I was being austere and only purchased the chicken frames. This week I went all out and added a hearty serving of bacon bones on top.

It’s hard to describe exactly how much better the addition of bacon makes everything taste, but since it appears to be pretty universal I don’t think I need to try too hard.

Suffice it to say, mmmmmmmmm bacon.

I now have a second weeks supply of soup to accompany or be the focus of my lunch and dinners. If I get especially bored with it, I do have some emergency back up sausages, but they may just be headed for the freezer instead.

When I like a food. I really, really, really, like it.

In a week, or a fortnight, or a month, I may take my soup out of the microwave, look at it bleakly, and exclaim that I’m buying my lunch instead. But until then, soups up!

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02 May / True horror

I don’t experience terror much in my line of work. Either sitting on the couch writing, or sitting in the office typing. Either way, the only real fear I’d experienced lately was when I lost my USB stick and had to face the prospect of retyping thousands and thousands of words.

And when I found the USB stick again, in a place I’d already checked and rechecked, and discovered that I needn’t have bothered retyping all that work.

At least, that was the only real fear until Friday night.

A train came along when the bus indicator said my next bus was only two minutes away. The traffic immediately stopped (dead in its tracks LOL) and my bus stayed two minutes away for six minutes.

When the train finally passed it left jam in its wake. Traffic jam.

Although the bus pulled level, it didn’t make any great progress anywhere for another five minutes. So much so, that by the time it pulled into the next stop the bus scheduled ten minutes behind it was pulling in alongside.

The bright side to this was the bus behind pulled in front, and so we didn’t collect any new passengers at the next few stops. We may have continued not collecting them, but I stopped concentrating on anything other than the Franz Ferdinand song that I started to play over and over again compulsively because… I don’t know. I’m not wired right, maybe?

Anyway it was a fairly smooth bus ride. It turned into the street that my stop’s on, but five stops down from where we were. That’s my cue to perk up and start paying attention in case I go into a reverie and miss my stop altogether.

Four stops away I turned off my music and prepared for landing. I turned to look behind me, just because you do, and saw that the bus was entirely empty.

A cold chill swept through my body.

I have never, and I mean NEVER, been the only passenger on a bus. In fact the only time I remember seeing only one passenger on a bus was towards the end of Nightmare on Elm Street Two and it didn’t end well. Unless you’re Freddy whereupon it ended very well indeed.

I looked back one more time in case there were passengers, and they were just so short that I couldn’t see them over the seat backs.

Nope. Still empty.

Well this was probably okay. It just meant that everyone who’d been on there when I came on board had just gotten off at various stops along the way, and no one got on because the other bus was travelling so closely ahead.

I’d just sort out which button I was going to press to stop the bus, because I like to plan ahead, and then I may get off a stop early just in case.

There were no buttons.

At some point there had obviously been buttons. The poles they’d been attached to were still there, along with the holes that showed where they’d been mounted.

Where they’d been mounted until someone removed every last one of them. Perhaps whilst disposing of all the other passengers. Or, all the other passenger’s bodies.

There was a bell pull along the roof of the carriage beside me. It was hanging loosely, and ended in some weird slinky type spring, but I just went for it and pulled as hard as I could.

I felt a bit silly when the Bus Stopping light came on. Feeling a bit silly sat right alongside being so scared that I felt almost as though it was a dream. Maybe one of those ones where you don’t wake up.

So I ended up walking three bus stops further than I needed.

And at every step I counted myself lucky.

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Today on the bus I was busy trying to avoid eye contact with everyone as per usual, and then I spied an interesting sight.

There was a teenage boy on the bus who was one of the most beautiful boys I have ever had the good fortune to lay my eyes upon.

He was blond, about seventeen, clear skin, chiseled jaw, face long and thin, but not strangely so.

And just in case you’re wondering let me be perfectly clear. He wasn’t just bus pretty. He was real-life pretty.

He was so handsome that I was too afraid to look at him too long in case he disappeared in a puff of smoke and was replaced with someone uglier who’d just caught the light at the right angle for a second.

My schoolboy fantasies were interrupted when someone in the seat behind me poked me repeatedly in the shoulder. I turned around to see who’d broken the sacred code of community travel – keep your hands, and any other body parts, to yourself – and a man in the seat behind me made a vague gesture towards the button next to him.

I intuited this to mean, could you push your button for me because mine isn’t working, which I courteously did. I then turned surreptitiously to my other side to see why he couldn’t follow the normal path and ask the person next to him to push theirs. It was a teenage girl. Nuff said.

Unfortunately, when I turned to look forward again the perfect face was gone. There was no chance of seeing him step off the bus either as it was crowded full of teenagers down the middle aisle; all standing and obstructing my view.

Not that I was planning on doing anything creepy like keep him in eye-shot until he turned into a driveway, and then write down the address.

I am not that sort of girl. Not any more. There was a period there, but it was a long time ago and I really wish you wouldn’t keep bringing it up.

Now I’m just debating a few things about the ride home tomorrow. Do I leave work on time and catch the early bus home, or do I leave twenty minutes late in the hope of seeing him again?

Just kidding. It’s Friday. I’m leaving on the dot. Besides, if I wanted to drool over pretty boys there’s always the internet.

Hmmmmm. I wonder if he’s on the internet?

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28 Apr / Schizophrenia

This morning I was driving to work – or being driven if I’m telling the truth and I don’t really feel like lying this early on because that’s a quick way to lose an audience – when a disembodied voice started talking to me from the floormat.

Now, today is my Monday even though it’s disguised as a Tuesday, so I admit that my head wasn’t quite in the right place. Still, it seemed a bit of a drop from being grumpy about having to go to work in the morning, down to hearing an imaginary voice talking to me.

What was even creepier was that I just couldn’t quite make out what it was saying. It was whispering too softly.

I tilted my head to one side, and tried to pick out one word. One word would do. Then I’d know if the voice was talking in English, whereupon I may have to start paying attention, or speaking in another language, whereupon it could not possibly be expecting my monolingual brain to understand.

Still no clarity but the voice certainly had the pattern of English. Not New Zealand English which has a sound rather like eh-eh-eh-eh-eh as we try to merge five distinct vowel sounds into one, but English nevertheless.

I bent my head closer. Surely this was the time when the words would begin to make sense and issue me with their instructions. I could barely wait. What would it be?

Kill the {insert your favourite victim of the day here}.

If a voice from the floormat tells you to do it, I’ve heard you have no real choice in the matter.

I sat back up as I thought of how awful that would be. Not the murdering, I’m down with that, but I hate it when people tell me what to do. A voice who doesn’t even go to the trouble of growing a full grown body around itself would be no fun at all.

Then my darling spoke up and asked the joyous words, ‘What’s that?’

All the pieces of the puzzle came together as I realised that he couldn’t possibly be prone to my auditory hallucinations. He can’t even hear me when I’m talking aloud. In the same room. Directly to him.

I reached into my bag and swished around my pile of vitally important bag refuse until I located my mobile phone. I turned off S voice and made sure the on button was facing the opposite way when I tossed it back inside.

So happy I’m not schizophrenic. I’ve got enough voices to ignore already.

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I often complain bitterly about our current government. I’m a socialist at heart, so my voting usually leans lightly to the left.

However, today I’m rather pleased that the right wing were in office to enact the legislation in 2014 that means that tonight, despite being Sunday, I’m not getting that Sunday feeling.

You know, that sinking feeling that grows throughout the afternoon, and puts a damper on anything that you’re doing in the evening.

The regret that you feel as you crawl under the covers. The list of things that you were so positive you were going to get done during the weekend but didn’t even come close to touching upon.

Unless you’re on a different contract and work on bizarre days and at bizarre hours (my definition of bizarre being anything outside the hours of 8.30 to 5.00 on Monday to Friday) then you’ll know what I’m talking about. If you’re bizarre then please insert whatever the bizarro equivalent is for you.

Anzac Day is always commemorated on the 25th April. It’s the day in 1915 that the New Zealand and Australian troops landed on the beach in the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey where they would begin a two-way slaughter that ended on the 9th January 1916 in defeat of the Allied troops and the loss of quarter of a million combatants on either side.

What a great day to celebrate. Who needed those half a million people anyway.

Turkey gracefully allows the countries that invaded its borders and slaughtered its countrymen into the area each year to commemorate the campaign. Because this year marks the centenary there’s been even more stuff happening than usual.

While I have the greatest respect and gratitude for our servicemen, I have to admit that I’m slightly more interested in the public holidayness of the whole thing.

Until this year if a public holiday fell on a Saturday or a Sunday, and those happened to be days that you weren’t working anyway, you missed out on a holiday. Between Waitangi Day always being celebrated on 6th February, and Anzac Day always being celebrated on 25th April, there have been years where we’ve missed out on either or even both of them.

There was even that horrid time where the leap year in between meant there were fewer years celebrating both and more years celebrating neither.

But now we have Mondayisation. And yeah, that’s a word. It may be a word that we made up because it’s annoying to say things like ‘the occasion whereby a public holiday falls on the weekend and therefore workers who don’t work during the weekend may take the public holiday on the Monday instead’ but that’s just a good a reason to invent a new word as any other.

So this is the trial run. Yesterday, we have the ceremonies marking the centenary since the Anzac troops landed in Gallipoli, and tomorrow I have the ceremony marking the sleeping in of the Katherine.

Thank you National Party. Your work here is done, you may now leave the Beehive.

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on Lotto tonight. Just sitting here waiting for the shiny balls to start jangling about in their big ball sack, before popping out the end into a little tube.

Always so exciting. Figuratively glued to the telly. Apart from taking a break to write this down right now, the screen has my full attention.

There’s hosts on there at the moment, but I know they’re coming. The balls of joy. The balls of happiness.

Money may not bring you happiness, but I’m kind of happy already, so making my life a whole lot easier could quite literally buy me the time to enjoy it.

Even if it doesn’t work, I’d be the first to hold up my hand and say, I’ll give it the good old Kiwi try.

They’re spinning now. They’re spinning.

If I look closely enough I can even see my lucky numbers spinning and jostling in order to make their way to the tube.

Ball One. Green 25. I have that. I’m a winner baby. Not really, I need a whole lot more before I’m even in the money, but at least I haven’t ruled myself out yet.

(BTW they should definitely live tweet the Lotto numbers every week)

Okay. That was unexpected. Not the best of all things. Don’t have a yellow 14.

Don’t have a yellow 15 either.

Don’t have a green 20; don’t have a yellow 10.

Do have the bonus ball, but I’ve already trashed my ticket because that ain’t gonna buy me happiness. It ain’t gonna buy me love.

Just a minute, just a minute. I forgot there was the winning wheel number…

Oh, okay. I’ll just get back to ripping up the ticket then.

Watch that happy couple spinning the wheel. $250,000. That would’ve been nice. Would’ve come in handy.

Damn you Lotto. Where’s my gamblers anonymous card got to again?

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