Joanne McNeill found a weta in her coffee plunger.
A harrowing week.
Monday
Blearily ground coffee beans for the ritual early morning brew, grabbed the plunger, spotted what appeared to be a long hair sticking out from under the lid, gave a sharp tug; it detached.
Unfortunately, however, (gulp) the lid flew up to reveal a weta - probably not technically a giant but impressively gargantuan nevertheless. Somehow, remarkably, it must have snuck indoors, scaled the glassy face of the plunger overnight and settled unsuspectingly into the snug weta-sized gap between lid and filter, only to have one of its antennae rudely amputated first thing by a blundering monster.
Although irrationally afraid of moths, birds indoors, doctors, dentists, dogs, horses, cattle, police and various omens, I am not scared of weta, so happily was able to liberate it safely outdoors; but dismembering beloved protected native fauna, albeit unwittingly, is no way to start the week.
Tuesday
A nasty realisation about Jeremy Corbyn's election to lead the UK Labour Party dawned. Naive joy at the emergence of an unashamed, old-fashioned, anti-war, pro-equality socialist - especially if it signals a popular ground shift - gave way to fear. It's hard to imagine the ruling global conspiracy of banksters and warmongers relinquishing power meekly anywhere. If Corbyn gains traction, history suggests smear campaigns and/or assassination could easily follow. Hopefully, he has employed a bombproof food-taster.
Wednesday, Thursday and every other day for weeks, or is it months?
Just as we all bask in the glory of winning tries against the odds, we all share the desperate agony of homeless refugees. Part of me is ever absent, with the exodus, up against wires, wondering what I should have packed, heartbroken over what was left behind.
The list of important precious valuables is way too long to carry on foot. Certainly elders, books, paintings, tools, family archives and the garden wouldn't make the cut. Perhaps a smartphone, hand-cranked charger-cum-torch, passport, towel, toothbrush, warm coat, water bottle, lighter, pocket knife, hope and well-endowed credit card are all that's needed for contemporary survival on land, but escaping by sea is more problematic. The inflatable is hardly up to a Tasman crossing.
Worry, worry, worry - but as the song says, "Don't panic JoJo, the end of the world is still nowhere in sight."
Friday
The flag debate dangles listlessly at half mast.
Although as a professional contrarian it grieves me to agree with any Prime Minister on any subject whatsoever, we do need a new flag. The Union Jack belongs to a distant former colonial power, and our ensign is insufficiently distinguishable from the Australian version.
None of the officially shortlisted designs - or the late running Red Peak outsider - is adequate. They all look like fake Chinglish versions of made-in-NZ product labels. Our Government might see its primary role as selling New Zealand Inc, but our little green home in the blue Pacific is not a cheap commodity.
Never mind petty politicking over amendments. Now that everyone knows what's at stake, it's time for a cup of coffee - always remembering to inspect for lurking weta first - before going back to the drawing board.
Come to think of it ... maybe a weta on the flag? (Just kidding).