The airconditioning had me like a feverish raisin - hot, cold, damp, chewy and all dried up.
I sat around amidst piles of paper and frightening phone calls, getting varicose veins, RSI, and rotting away my muscles in a wheely chair.
The wheely chair was alright.
And then, completely out of the blue, it happened.
I went to check my emails, a routine office task....
... when out of the darkness came a beacon of light in the form of a magical email from my flatmate 'Emmi'
This happened:
Within 2 days the flights were paid for, my annual leave was sorted, and everything was looking peachy for my vacation.
But one morning later that week, a puzzling thought entered my head:
The answers were fast flowing: it's a bird sanctuary between Auckland and Waiheke Island... it's a gameshow.... it's a week-long party on a rich person's yacht!
All of these could have been valid answers.
But they weren't.
Turned out Norfolk Island was a giant retirement village plopped into the middle of the Tasman Sea between Australia and New Zealand. How were we to know?
I'm not going to go into huge detail about what we did there.
I'm just going to say that Old people are insane and they know how to party. Especially at a Fish-Fry. And they don't hold back on the port...
I felt embarrased by my apparent inability to stay up past 9pm, even with nana-naps in the afternoon...
Emmi discovered the joy that is: Prunes for breakfast.
And against all odds, they actually DID keep us awake at night with their Bridge Tournament.
And then, after a week in the slow mobility-scooter lane, we had a lovely flight back to Wellington in the party-cabin.
And that, my friends, is what you call a holiday.
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