Anna Chinn

Having booked to stay one night at a backpackers in Gisborne, I then read travellers' online reviews. "Death camp," they said, "discusting!"

The following conversation was held in a cafe last week between your blogger and an old friend, who works high up in the Beehive.

Hi. And in particular, hi Maori women. This is an open letter. I've been trying to put myself in your shoes since seeing this advertisement for Annah Stretton, but I couldn't seem to fit your shoes, and so I thought I'd just kick the shoe metaphor and ask you what this ad says to you.

You can't swoop, nor swan, back into a city you have left and pretend to know it still.

A wedding occurred in Hokitika, bringing Debbie into the family. This occasioned a convergence of Chinns from around the world upon the salty Westland town. A reunion, therefore.

Before leaving employ as an Otago Daily Times subeditor, your blogger would frequently visit the office of deputy editor Barry Stewart to discuss editorial journalism, current events, food, and your blogger's personal tribulations. These conversations will now continue occasionally by telephone, as a dialogue between Wellington and Dunedin.

I feel as foreign as any non-native Wellingtonian. I am a Chinese busker, singing in Mandarin.

Where did the peanut butter come from? It came from a black rubbish sack in photographer Emily's kitchen, and before that it came from China.

This is a neutral tribute to David Bain. He simply must be acknowledged as a reliable source of news. Here at the Otago Daily Times, seldom a day goes by when he is not the page one lead. "What shall we put on the cover tomorrow?" we ask ourselves daily except Saturdays, rubbing our grizzled and beleaguered jaws in thought.

The dismantling of a home continues. A website where you can list stuff you are giving away has made it easy for me to dispel plenty without even leaving the wadding of my futon, on which I am now sleeping having given away the bed.