If you have always dreamt of living in New Zealand, are under 30 years old and have a bit of dosh saved up (enough to get you back to your own country) you can spend a year working in New Zealand by getting yourself a year-long working Visa.
That way you can see how you like it.
This weeks podcast episode features Adam, a twenty-something chappy from the UK is doing just that.
After being persuaded by his mate to leave Thailand and come to New Zealand to work on a fairground, he got himself a year-long working visa and headed down under.
They say opposites attract. I met my husband when I was 17. I turned forty-seven this year. Thirty years of opposite behaviour and still he hasn’t told me to sling my hook.
He is calm. I am an erratic nutter.
He says to the kids: “let’s just let things blow over and we’ll discuss it in the morning”. I say “let’s get to the bottom of this right now you bloody hooligans”.
He loves Liverpool football club more than life itself. I am overjoyed when he tells me that the Corona Virus has halted all games.
He is a negotiator. I am a control freak.
The kids ask him for something and he says “check with your mum”. They ask me for something I say “and don’t even think about asking your dad”
He loves wine. I love wine a bit more.
I say “let’s talk”. He says “goodnight Liz”
He drinks whiskey at 6 pm, I won’t drink until at least 7 pm. Or maybe ten past six.
He likes his eggs fried. I get constipated if I don’t have enough fibre.
He loves to cuddle up on the sofa and watch films in the middle of the day. I start huffing and puffing and say “it would be a nice day for a walk in the rain wouldn’t it?”
He’s sociable. I quiver if my phone rings.
He laughs out loud when people tell him rude jokes. I tut and shake my head like a granny grunt.
He can laugh at himself. I cry when the kids say I snore like a pig.
He has to listen to the radio in the morning. I prefer silence. Unless its the noise of the kettle being boiled.
He says we’d better leave now, we’re going to be late. I say we’ve got at least another ten minutes, I’m just going to check Pinterest.
He believes in me. I believe in fairies.
He always seems to say the right things to the kids. I lie in bed almost every night thinking “Why the hell did I say that?”
He can’t remember names, I will hunt you down if you owe me two dollars.
He thinks before he speaks. I am a gob on a stick.
He loves Monty Python. I don’t get it.
He encourages me to spend money on myself. I say “how much did that cost?’ if he comes home with a paper bag.
He cooks and it looks as though Tinkerbell has been in the kitchen. I cook? Think Shrek.
He doesn’t give a damn if people like him or not. I am like a Labrador, panting at peoples feet and longing for them to love me.
When he’s had a few drinks he becomes romantic. When I’ve had one too many I become an opinionated bore with wine breath.
He emigrated to New Zealand with me without ever having stepped foot in the country. I won’t go to a restaurant that he’s recommended until scouring it on ‘Trip Advisor’ and googling it to the point of exhaustion.
I love to sit on the beach and watch the waves. He loves to sit in the toilet and watch the highlights of the Liverpool match.
He makes our daughter laugh. I make our daughter annoyed beyond belief.
He makes our son cut the grass. I make our sons’ bed.
He agreed to quit his job and travel around the world for a year with our teenagers so we could all be together. But I keep going off on my own to write newsletters to people online.
His grey hair looks distinguished. Mine looks like a mop that’s been dropped in a bucket of dirty bleach water.
He has laughter lines. I have crows feet. Deep ones.