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Black coffee, loves a hand-me-down brew.

So, Christchurch. Seeing that written on most every building out of the corner of ones eye was a little uncomfortable, like being caught in some nightmare version of the deepest deep south, though no banjo was to be heard. Aside from this, however, Christchurch seemed a lovely little town, though they are under the delusion it is a big town, with a pleasant river running through the middle, beautiful stone architecture (replete with gargoyles), and hills in the middle distance. It was somewhat like a large Victorian township, but more picturesque and without the slightly sinister element of bogan boofheads with utes looking to drink and fight. No element of flannel was evident in Christchurch. Except for me. It also have a port town on the other side of some lovely hills, Lyttelton, which provided a fine opportunity for a coffee on the main street overlooking the harbour.

They do indeed do a fine coffee in this country, despite no obvious Italian influence. And I can no longer hide it, I suppose, especially when even baristas, nay, bariste, give me crap: over the last couple of years I have indeed become a coffee wanker. Actually, also a wine wanker, and art wanker (although that happened much earlier) and most certainly a travel wanker. I even push the envelope on beer wanker, although that is almost outside the realms of possibility. Meh, I care not. I am grounded by V8s and Cold Chisel. Dichotomous (well, I was always an intellectual wanker).

Anyhoo, next installment: Paul meets the equivalent of a rock star in the nuclear physics world.

This lunar cycle

April 2015
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