Kerre Woodham: Magic in the summer air

For a number of reasons, mainly family commitments, I've missed the Christmas holiday period in New Zealand over the past few years. Most years we spend New Year in thermal underwear freezing our patooties off, but warming the cockles of our hearts catching up with family and friends. This year, we stayed in Auckland and it's been marvellous.

The weather might be unpredictable but I love the Kiwi summer. Especially in the city. When the city is depopulated, it feels like you're the lead character in a video game. The streets are yours to stride, and the roads are free of those irritating bastards who seem to exist solely to raise your blood pressure.

No queues, no stress, a laidback atmosphere - it's like a holiday even when you're working.

And the summer sport has been magic. I've had Radio Sport on almost continuously as I meander through my day. I've been finishing work just as the Australian and South African cricketers have taken to the field for the morning sessions of their test series and the battle between the feisty Aussies and the equally combustible Graeme Smith and his Proteas team has been nearly as good as the Ashes series.

In fact, the cricket's been so good, the Irishman's become a fan.

As well as the sublime cricket across the ditch, we've had the ridiculous one-day series between Sri Lanka and the Black Caps. But hey, cricket is cricket and with one-day cricket, you're guaranteed the occasional frisson of excitement no matter who's playing.

There's been the tennis - the girls last week and the boys up next.

There were a few riveting match-ups last week, but most of the women's games went as predicted. I was in the half of the population watching tennis for the sport.

The other half of the spectating population - the ones with the double-X chromosome - was watching for the chicks. And let's face it, who can blame them? Those young girls from the Eastern Bloc are stunning. Looking at their legs, it's hard to believe I belong to the same species as these women, far less the same sex. Bring back the Iron Curtain, I say.

And just as an aside to the young lovelies: if you want to be taken seriously, and hate the label of sex kitten, don't pose on your websites with your undies showing and pouting at the camera like you want to swallow the lens. And stop complaining. Sex kittens get more sponsorship dollars than old molls. Girls with faces like smacked bottoms may well be higher up the world rankings, but they're never going to make the money you can. Anyway, you'll be a mangy old moggy before long - you might as well go with the sex kitten thing and make it work for you.

So there's been the cricket, the tennis, and I even found myself listening to the National Bowls Championships - and, what's more, sitting on the edge of my lounger as Ron Snowden called the action from the Naenae greens. Who would have thought Naenae could have provided so much drama?

It's been great.

I've spent most of these summer afternoons imitating a starfish, stretched out enjoying the warmth of the sun, with the murmur of the sports commentators in the background overlaying the distant drone of a neighbour's lawnmower, and the rustle of the wind blowing through the magnificent trees in our street (don't even think about trimming those babies, councillors, or there'll be hell to pay!) and it's a time when my world is in perfect harmony.

Knowing my parents, I probably listened to sports commentaries in the womb, as opposed to Baby Beethoven, which is why I find the dulcet tones of Ron and Brian and Mystery Morrison particularly soothing. It's summertime and the living is indeed easy.