How sweet it was to once again watch The Block NZ: Villa Wars from the comfort of my own home. I missed the two previous episodes last week for the flimsiest of reasons - a national book tour - and was reduced to trying to download an app to watch the missing shows late at night in various hotel rooms after the crowds had gone home. Behold the author, in public posing as a distinguished man of letters, in private wallowing in low, supremely entertaining culture.
Or trying to. I phoned front desk for help at the Southern Cross Hotel in Dunedin. The nice old chap at reception was marvellously adept at polishing the floor with a vibrating machine but didn't know anything about apps.
There was no point, the next night, asking for help from the trouts at the Museum Art Hotel in Wellington. I have declared war on this establishment for the rudeness of its front desk, and for their mean little tactic of sneaking into my room to empty the fridge and snack bar while I was out. It was "policy", explained a frosted blonde with an icy face, when guests were unable to present a credit card as security. I'd left my wallet at home. I made a deposit of $50 cash. They wouldn't give it back until they sent a housemaid to inspect the room and confirm I hadn't stolen the bed.
I may have imagined it but I think the cold trout's name tag read BROOKE. It's hardly exaggerating matters to suggest that Brooke and Mitch, as resident villains of The Block, stand for everything mean and rotten about life in New Zealand. I think of them as Judith Collins and Whale Oil, two government agents who naturally assume that the end justifies the means.
