Ed, a dutch expat, owns Bakery, the creatively named establishment where I now sell breads and pastries. Ed took me on to give himself more time in the evenings to spend with his five year old daughter.
The cafe has a distinctly European feel, and it's proprietor takes a great deal of pride in the quality of his goods.
I've also started working at one of our flat's favorite haunts: Indian Spice, home of $10 curry Mondays. Auckland-born Terry is a short Maori woman who manages the joint and happily offered me a job when I casually inquired last Monday.
Indian Spice has seven tables and two hindi chefs: one naan chef and Mama who does the curries. There's also a spastic roundish geology student who helps out. His name is Tel. Between the five of us we manage pretty well.
Yesterday we day tripped out to St. Kilda beach and played in the sand a bit. Tori took some beautiful pictures.
Salute the sea.
Resistance sprints with monster kelp. 
Ms. Sarah Phillips. The pride of her Majesty and the rest of the U.K.
Cirque du Sol-Ass the sequel.
Brother Matty is is a perpetual state of stoked. Between the sun, surf, and scenery this bro's stoke-o-meter has been off the charts for months now.
Cliffy the vegan ninja acrobat. His parents were dancers or wizards or something like that….either way I'm pretty sure I will edge him out when it comes time for Cirque du Sol-Ass tryouts.
I thought I would leave you with this guy, an ad to convince Australians to invade New Zealand.
My next post will be dedicated to detailing how and why NZed is like the wild wild west and how rugged, leather-handed Robert Redford babies are shepherding and cowboying their way through life down here. Either that or why kiwis wear pantyhose with jean shorts.
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