Last Saturday at Drop Zone was not meant to be eventful. The kids were off bouncing themselves into early exhaustion, and I was sitting with two adults having a normal conversation. Then a woman I had not seen in ages wandered over.
The vibe shifted. Not in a bad way, just in that subtle, knowing look people get when they have learned something about you that you did not realise had travelled. She never said she had read my blog, but the hint was sitting there between us like a folded note no one wanted to hand over.
We chatted, she left, and the kids kept bouncing. Then my phone lit up.
The mayor was calling me. On a Saturday. At an indoor trampoline park.
In that moment, I honestly wished I was two possums in a trench coat standing in the rain. Absolutely anywhere else but sitting there trying to look normal while my private and public worlds collided like two shopping trolleys on black ice.
And the irony of it all? My life had the same chaotic-peace energy as nobigdyl.’s “What a Day.” Kids bouncing, adults hinting about my blog, my phone lighting up with the mayor’s name as if it were a plot twist. All I needed was a bathtub full of fake hundred-dollar bills and the moment would have been complete.
I was not even thinking about politics. That was the entire plan. I wanted one afternoon of normal conversation: school runs, weekend plans, the mystery of children outgrowing their shoes overnight. But apparently politics has me on some sort of emotional tracking device. The minute I try to step away, it pops up like Microsoft Clippy saying, “It looks like you’re trying to relax. Would you like me to ruin that for you?”
This is what happens when you write honestly in a town where everything eventually finds its way through the grapevine. I am not a journalist, commentator, or political insider. I am a resident who writes what she sees, plainly, with receipts, and without the polished sheen of PR.
But here is the part I have kept quiet.
A while ago, I raised something that mattered. It was backed by evidence. Instead of being taken seriously, instead of anyone looking at what I had, I was politely brushed off. That kind of dismissal hurts more than an argument. It quietly says, “We are not dealing with this, and we would prefer if you did not either.”
And yes, that hurt. Not because I need approval from anyone in office, but because it showed me how quickly inconvenient truths get tidied away.
So yes, I have been avoiding the mayor’s calls. Not from fear, not from pettiness, and not from drama. After last time, I need communication in writing. If it is important, text me or email me. Put it somewhere with a timestamp and a paper trail. Phone calls vanish into thin air, and I am not interested in off-record clarity that later becomes on-record confusion.
For the record, I hear things like everyone else. But I do not write what I cannot prove. I do not take shots for sport. Even when I have opinions, I stick to documentation, facts, and what is actually on paper. If I publish something, it is because I can back it.
People keep calling me a journalist instead of what I actually am, and every time they do, I feel like I am being shoved into a tinfoil hat and set adrift on a paper boat to nowhere. That is not me. I am not running an underground newsroom. I am just a local resident with a strange talent for explaining things that usually make people squint.
Try explaining that at Drop Zone while drinking a lukewarm coffee, and you can see why people look at me like I have a secret tunnel running under Parliament.
But the truth is simple. I write what I see. People read it however they want: on the couch, upside down, inside out, or on the toilet. I do not control the interpretation. I put the truth where people can see it and let the chips fall where they fall.
So if you need to reach me, send an email. If you want to talk on the phone, that is fine, but nothing is off the record. I am not a journalist. I am simply someone who values clarity and timestamps.
And if what you have is an apology, write it down. I take letters. You know where I live. My mailbox has better emotional capacity than my voicemail anyway.
Bibliography (Verified Sources)
epitomeofcoolness.com. “Source: my letterbox.”
Ministry of Justice NZ. “Defamation Law: Overview.” Summary: truth is a full legal defence and honest opinion must be based on facts.
Ombudsman New Zealand. “Fair Treatment by Public Officials.” Summary: citizens raising concerns must not be ignored or pressured.
New Zealand Electoral Commission. “Local Elections and Public Participation.” Summary: public commentary contributes to transparency and democratic accountability.
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