Hand that pen over to me, poetaster.

What an exciting time this past fortnight has been. I found out that I am about to crawl out of the casual pool and walk on two new feet through the world of salary-earners. A job, I kept telling people, I just want a job. And by that I meant the kind of life with consistent pay one week to the next; where I could commit to regularly making myself dinner and perhaps even learn to enjoy doing so; where I could have Saturdays off, and recover from hangovers properly; where I could occasionally be paid for being sick. I am leaving my forager's life behind me and moving to a higher state of being. A hunter now, I'll be sitting on my ass all day, using my free time to order books and organic fruit & veg boxes online, and plotting my company takeover. Progress feels good.

To make a thing like that, you'd need to know what you were about.

Here I proclaim my unfashionable love of New Zealand band The Mutton Birds.


not my image

Since my teenage years I have conducted our musical affair mostly in cars and kitchens and through the public privacy of my earphones. Never live and never at parties. And not usually with anyone else, unless it is a home-early housemate, catching me stacking wet plates and keening along to Ngaire. 

It is not shame that makes me omit them from band-sharing conversations, but fear of an indifferent response. The Mutton Birds make me feel a bit desperate. I just want you to love them.