Clicktivism is not just taking part in online petitions. It’s social co-ordination and awareness raising, one silly stunt at a time, Liz Breslin writes.
Anzac Day ceremonies are gathering popularity with young families throughout New Zealand. Hawea was no exception, Liz Breslin writes.
I have long wanted to wring the neck of the person or people who intimated that life should be fair. Because, reality check, it isn't and never will be, so get over it, Librans and egalitarians.
Superlatives struggle as hard as the walkers on the Milford Track, writes Liz Breslin.
Having exhausted every other angle on rugby this week, Liz Breslin's family started chatting about concussion tests.
We put a lot of store by happiness - whether we know it or not, Liz Brezlin writes.
At the end of the day, my wise Irish friend used to say, there is always the night, Liz Breslin writes.
In the years I spent tefling - teaching English as a foreign language - there were plenty of memorable times, mostly arising from linguistic mix-ups or sudden moments of clarity, especially when tefling in English-speaking countries with a whole range of cultures sorted according to how well they could conjugate and idiomise.
What's in a name?
Sitting around the lunch table with three generations, we wondered: Is the news mostly bad or sad these days?
You know how it is when you wake up in the morning with a supremely annoying lyric dancing around in your brain?
When I was young and ignorant, I thought the Great War sounded just that, great.
There are those who say maths is boring. But most of us know the truth. Maths is like oxygen: important and inescapable, lurking.
I do like a good conspiracy theory. Who really killed JFK? Who shot JR? Questions that keep you hanging on the edge of your seat until the next series or the newest wave of evidence/fabrication come into play.
It's a bit over 40 years since Gil Scott-Heron penned the piece that would earn him monikers like ''the godfather of rap'' and ''founder of the spoken word movement'' for the rest of his days.
There are lots of contenders for the saddest lines ever written.
I was brought up on traditional Christmas stories, the sort that saw me going to midnight Mass and arranging holy plaster figures in a home-made wooden crib.
My granddad taught me how to bowl. A cricket ball, of course; for him there was no other sport. I remember standing in the back garden, the smell of cardigan wafting from behind me, his big hands over mine.
Liz Breslin spills the beans on her trip to the formerly top-secret Bletchley Park.
Sitting in the dentist's chair is one of the last refuges of single-tasking.