Pigs will Fly and Koalas will Swim.

I like this guy's attitude. He saw an opportunity and swam for it.

That's one smart bear.

Pirates

A friend of mine has a three year old who is currently obsessed with pirates.  

Recently they were out at a café and her daughter started talking in a pirate accent. My friend chimes in, both of them both heartily chatting away in Pirate.

And if you’re familiar with talking in Pirate you’ll understand that volume is necessary to perfect the accent.

A few minutes into this banter her daughter wanted to go to the loo, so off they trot.

It was on their way back that my friend was mortified to discover her daughter’s inspiration for talking in Pirate.

There was a man sitting at the table behind them wearing an eye patch. 

Busted!

Once of my Australian cousins posted this on Facebook. 

It's what she discovered in the kitchen and she accompanied the photo with the comment, 'Nothing spells guilty like the bag from a BBQ chook on one's head...'

And my comment was, 'If I can't see you, then you can't see me.'

Just In Case You Haven't Seen Teddy Already...

I think Teddy is awesome. 

Stork TV

Since I have been at the company I am currently working for I have worked on four different productions. So that means four different production managers.

First production manager came to the production engaged, then got married, fell pregnant, then left.

Second production manager came to the production engaged, then got married, fell pregnant, then left.

Third production manager came to the production engaged, then got married, fell pregnant and will leave at the end of the production and her pregnancy.

You know what’s coming next, don’t you?

Fourth production manager came to the production engaged, then got married, fell pregnant and will leave at not quite the end of production, but at the end of her pregnancy.

Needless to say management are asking questions, ie what do I do to make all the production managers who work on my productions leave? 

Burning Question

If an orange is called an orange, why isn't a lemon called a yellow?

Film Festival Love

I've been a happy wee camper over the last few weeks as the New Zealand Film Festival has been on in Auckland.

Let me count the ways I love pouring over the the festival magazine, choosing what to go to. I've been to four films this week (okay The Dark Knight doesn't count as a film festival number but, hey, I was on a roll). However I'm nowhere in the league of a colleague who told me that he was also limiting himself to the number of films he was going to this year.

'How many are you allowing yourself to go to?' Ask I.

'I've narrowed it down to eighteen.'

Anyhou, I was really looking forward to West of Memphis, the documentary about the failure of justice in the case against three teenagers whose biggest crime was to be bit left of field and, as a result, were falsely convicted of the brutal murders of three eight year old boys by a bunch of rednecks. It was directed by Amy Berg and produced in conjunction with Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh. (It's stunning, by the way).

We were lucky enough to have Peter Jackson present the film which was being screened at Auckland's grand old dame - the Civic.

I went with a very old friend of mine who, until recently, has been living in the States so she was well aware of the case and also really looking forward to seeing it.

Going well so far?

We make our way to our seats (with about two thousand of our closest friends), armed with a glass of wine and a packet of doritos, eager for the film to start. Peter Jackson comes on and starts to introduce it.

Everybody is craning forward, hanging off his every word.

Then, just in a moment of silence - CRUNCH! I turn to look at my friend I see the horror slowly register in her eyes at what she's just done.

Yep, you got it, totally inappropriate audible Dorito action.  This was bad timing at it's best. The Everest of bad timing. But even worse, while the Holy Grail of New Zealand Film was speaking to us. 

In the row in front, a man practically gave himself whiplash as his head snapped around to deliver a look which would freeze a bead of sweat.

And you know what's coming next, don't you?

Inappropriate giggling action. Yup, that was it. She was all over. We both hung our heads in shame while we silently shook and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

And you know that when you're not allowed to laugh, that is just a red flag to your laugh bull and you're completely helpless to control it? Well that was us two. Silently shaking and shaking and shaking. Desperate for the silence to be filled up by the soundtrack of a film. It was like a car accident - time slowed down.

I have to say, it took a good twenty minutes for us to calm down. And even as I write the story, I'm off again, giggling away.

Sigh.

Mature? Clearly I haven't quite grasped the concept yet.

I live in hope.