Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

Wow. Just... wow. I never new "book trailers" existed, but I stumbled across this one - I think it was a link from Twitter -  and I had one of those "why didn't authors think of this before?!" moments. I have never heard of the book, but now I so desperately want to read it.

When I actually finish my novel (this blog post is my procrastinaton), I will definitely be doing this - I know lots of artsy people who can help me out so it can't be too hard. I can imagine my own book trailer clear as day right now. An old man stands at the Wellington cenotaph wearing his medals on Anzac Day as the Last Post rings out, signalling dawn. He thinks back and what he sees is the crashing of the waves at the Red Rocks, a beautiful girl, a crazed young man, a young woman lying in a pool of blood, and a ship sailing away from the harbour with his young self on it, waving goodbye to his family and trying his best to forget about the woman who ripped out his heart.

We will remember them

One of the reasons autumn is my favourite season is because of those days that make you want to sit on the slightly damp grass under the impossibly blue sky and gulp in as much fresh air as possible. It’s those days that look like summer, minus the scorching heat that is replaced by air with an icy edge. The freshness of it feels like the moment the clock strikes 12am on January 1st each year – it’s the start of something new and exciting.
Yesterday was one of those days. April 25th; a day of both mourning and national pride for New Zealand and Australia as we commemorate Anzac Day. We bow our heads in prayer and thanks to those ordinary men who became extraordinary heroes who are remembered nearly one hundred years on.
The number of people attending Anzac services around the country and around the world steadily increases each year as the number of veterans dwindles, and for that, I personally feel extremely proud of my fellow New Zealanders, and glad that those men and women who fought for our right to live free are remembered.
Usually I get up before dawn to attend the dawn service at the cenotaph in Wellington and last year I reported on the Masterton dawn service. But this year, I decided to do something different.
While working for the Wairarapa Times-Age, I became aware of a tiny rural Wairarapa town called Tinui, which was the first place in the world to hold an Anzac Day service on April 25, 1916. Reverend Basil Ashcroft held a service for the people of Tinui at the Church of the Good Shepherd, before a group of men and boys carried a wooden cross up Mt Maunsell which would serve as a memorial to those who had died in the war. It was replaced by an aluminium cross in 1965, which was given a category one Historic Places Trust Classification last year.
I researched the place, and found I could not get its story out of my head. While numerous news stories had been written about it over the years, I felt the town and its people deserved its story to be told in more than just a few articles, so I approached the chairman of the Tinui Anzac Trust and proposed that I write a book about it.
To my surprise, he took me completely seriously despite my age and the fact I have never written a book before and gave me a tour of the town and told me of its history. At the end of the tour, he thanked me for taking on the project and said he was grateful that the younger generation was still interested in the Anzac story.
And so I took my first step towards making this dream become a reality yesterday, and, with my parents and sister in tow, we drove the one hour, 45 minutes from Stokes Valley to Tinui to stand in the brilliant sunshine outside the War Memorial Hall. As the tui sang behind us, the New Zealand flag flew proudly in front of us as people spoke and prayed and together we sang our national anthem before tears of sadness and gratitude came to our eyes at the sound of the Last Post as three war planes flew over our small gathering.
Following the service, we were treated to some country hospitality in the hall, with a massive morning tea spread, and then we made our way towards Mt Maunsell, where we half walked, half rode quad bikes on the trail walked 97 years ago by the people of Tinui to carry the cross to the top.
A few metres from the top, I wondered aloud why they had chosen that particular spot, and on reaching the cross and looking out over the town of Tinui surrounded by acres and acres of farmland, I had my answer. For there, at the top of the mountain, I felt the spirits of the fallen were very much alive and from that point, they could watch over their town, seeing it change and grow as the people in it live their lives free from war because of their sacrifice. And from the town below, its people can look up and be reminded of the realities of war and the freedom of peace.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

 

See more photos here

I am a New Zealander

New Zealand is a strange and wonderful place, where there is technically no such thing as a New Zealander.
My Dad always says to me, “Do you realize that New Zealand is the only country in the world where we can’t call ourselves New Zealanders?”
When we fill out forms, we have to tick the box that says “New Zealand European/Pakeha”.
Firstly, I have never been to Europe, and nor has my family. My ancestors were born in Scotland and England, and only ever went to Europe to fight in the wars.
Secondly, “Pakeha” is a Maori word, which means “white ghost”, a name given to our ancestors when they arrived on the shores of New Zealand in ships flying white sails 200 years ago. Some say it means, “white pig”, or at least that’s what the Maori kids at school used to tell us.
Of all things, the Rugby World Cup has bought this anomaly to the forefront of my mind once again, which is entirely appropriate, given that the eyes of the world are on our tiny country at the moment, with 20 countries competing for the Webb Ellis Cup.
On my dad’s side of the family, I am a third-generation “New Zealander” and on my mum’s side, I am fourth generation.
On Sunday, my dad, sister and I donned blue and white face paint and headed to the stadium to support Scotland, the country of our ancestors.
There is nothing wrong with being proud of your heritage and supporting other teams for a bit of fun, but where do we draw the line at being defined by our heritage?
I love the sound of the bagpipes, and jumping around yelling at Scotland to “run the damn ball!” and cheering when they score, but when I stood up and sang Flower of Scotland (the national anthem), the hairs on the back of my neck stayed flat and my heart beat was normal.
Yet when I stood up with my sister in my living room on September 9 when the All Blacks kicked off the RWC with a match against Tonga, put hand on heart, and sang God Defend New Zealand, tears of pride came to our eyes.
When the All Blacks performed the Haka, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
Every Anzac Day, when I attend the dawn service in Wellington, I think of the New Zealanders who fought and died for our freedom regardless of the colour of their skin nearly 100 years ago.
How many generations of people born and raised in New Zealand will it take to shake off the words “Pakeha” and “European” and when will we get to tick the box that says “New Zealander”?