A Terrific Hon

Can I have a gold medal?

I'm winning today. I know, it's only 8.30am! How can I be winning, you ask?
Thusly:

The combination of Wine and Beer - specifically Wine then Beer then more Wine, makes me a right drunkard, and causes me to wake up at 4 in the morning. Oh, what a drag! You think to yourself. Well, no. I wake feeling incredibly well rested, albeit hungover, and have learnt to harness this pre-emptive biological alarm clock in the stables of my advantage.
This morning I spent the hours between 4 and sunrise, which is a bit before 6, reading The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford, which is always a great delight, and thinking of funny things to tell my friends. Of course, as happens whenever I entrench myself in the world of the Mitfords, I start coming up with lists in my head of people who I know who are Terrific Hons or Frightful Counter-Hons. Of course, it is possible for a terrific hon to do something frightfully counter-honnish, but that's another story for another.

So I hopped myself out of bed a little after 6, had an excellent shower, and listened to some really old Marianne Faithful while I got dressed.
Then out of the gate, and off for a walk (though without Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's dairy).

I enjoy walking through schools when they're empty. Luckily, there is one right behind my house that is perfect for walking through, especially since there's a lovely path that goes straight from my letterbox to the school's back entrance.
A few houses along from me lives one of those aged goths that Aro Valley is littered with. You know the ones I mean: balding - but what hair remains is kept long - computer geeks with long vinyl trench coats, who are devoted to Anne Rice, Douglas Adams and their extensive Sisters of Mercy vinyl collection, and who will argue to the death that Your Funeral My Trial is a better album than Henry's Dream, even though they're wrong.
Yeah, one of them.
Anyway, he emerged from his abode roughly the same time as me, and I had a good time skipping colourfully ahead of him.
It's a squishy morning out there, so crossing Boyd Wilson Field and Kelburn Park were very much a stick-to-the-path affairs. I got to the top of that hill that slopes down to the rose gardens - having been nosed at by a handful of happy dogs - in full sunshine, despite the rolly, rumbly looking clouds that were hanging over the Rimutakas.
There's a quite excellent desire line that runs down the hill from the street onto the main concrete path, but in this muddy morning it was easiest to walk on the grass just to the side of the desire line.
The rose bushes are all pruned and ready for spring to really get sprung. In the little edge gardens there are some lovely, optimistic poppies, valiantly braving the wind. I adore poppies They're so fragile, but so bright and cheery. I especially loved the orange ones that grew in the secret garden I had last year... I miss my secret garden...
So down into the main part of the garden, to say hello to the ducks, who will think me an absolute rotter for not bringing any bread - and check on the tulips.
Jonno will think me a traitor, but I also spent much time admiring the daffodils.
Then back up past the rose gardens, and down through Bolton St Cemetery, which I love.

As I was walking up the terrace towards my final destination, work, I thought how nice it would be to find the time to do that most mornings. And then I remembered that I usually start work at 10am.
So, totally doable.

Ooh, ooh, and I saw Jim Bolger, and MAN does he look old! He was wearing nice little black gloves.