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Observations on New Zealand (IV).

By Douglas Sassman.


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I particularly like how Kiwis refer to significant others simply as partners. Husband, wife, homosexual lover, are all referred to as partners, and if youíre gay, nobody gives a tinkerís turd. When the Prime Minister rides on a float in the gay Hero Parade, you know youíre living in an accepting society, and believe me, it is a good thing.

My mailbox would be more useful as a birdhouse: And itís not just my mailbox, itís most of the mailboxes Iíve seen. Ours, like most, is a small box, with a slot in the front and a flap in the back. Hereís a typical dayís activity in our mailbox: our mail arrives in the morning delivered by a smiling postal worker on a bike.

She carefully inserts our letters through the slot, and anything larger than a postcard drops out the back flap and onto the yard. Obviously the postal worker is so engaged in her duties she fails to notice this. The few letters that do manage to survive the plunge cling perilously to the edges of the mailbox.

In the early afternoon, the first of many circulars [junk mail] arrives delivered by every manner of school kid with pierced heads and low-slung shorts that hang off fetid boxer shorts. Their method of delivery is one based entirely on speed and when the first circular of the day is jammed through the slot, the last few bits of mail drop out the back flap.

It rains. We arrive home, carefully dry the dayís mail, and like archeologists, set about deciphering the arcane ink markings. Sure I could have cobbled together a better mailbox, but please, I have better things to do then spend time making willy-nilly improvements to a rental home.




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