Hell Mariachi

A few weeks ago we had to take a trip to the hospital after the wife had a back injury. Despite the fact that the driver took us over the bumpiest roads imaginable we made it there safely, signed in at the desk and had our pick of seats in Accident & Emergency, which had the capacity to hold about 30 people but held 3 at this time. Including us. The only other patron was a woman who had a splinter or something.
Once swiftly seen, we navigated our way to the pharmacy before trying to exit the maze of corridors. The problem with Auckland is that the terrain is volcanic and therefore very hilly. You can go in one door at ground level and by the time you get to the back of the building you are two floors up and watching knuckle dragging locals tipping a stolen Ford Falcon into some lava. Anyway, we ended up in the bowels of the hospital and eventually came to an upward sloping corridor where we could hear organ music. Thinking that this was being piped through the sound system but still needing to ascend anyway we went up the slope and the music got louder and louder. At the top of the corridor was a way out to the back of the building and staff car park, but on the right was a man playing the organ. There was nobody else around.

Once out we didn’t venture back into the hospital so I had no way of knowing if this music was being piped through the rest of the building (I couldn’t see how) or if it was just a bloke playing the organ for the delight of departing staff members.

Orakei has a Maori womble. I’m not joking. A Papa Smurf a-like, this old man makes a daily circuit of the neighbourhood rooting in bins, hanging out in front of the nearby dairy (local vernacular for a corner shop) and generally warping the very fabric of space/time with his military grade body odour. Bedecked in a beanie hat and parka (even in the height of summer) and with a face that has more lines than Kate Moss’s coffee table, he wanders the streets getting into daily adventures worthy of a Mike Batt tune. One day I’ll actually stop and talk to him to hear his rags to tatters story, but until I lose my sense of smell I’ll keep a respectful distance and he can remain a local enigmatic legend. Albeit it one who smells of piss.

The Mexican restaurant in Mission Bay has reopened. It has now been renamed Two Amigos and rumours are afoot that it is still owned by the same miscreant who closed the place down after doing a runner with 15k of compensation money. I’m thinking that the name is a bit of a throw off as the homophobic tossrag seemed to be dead against anything involving Two Amigos. We went past the place the other night, and despite the fact that the waiter was wearing a huge sombrero; the place was emptier than Tiger Woods’ sponsorship diary.