In 1973 a young family emigrated to the other side of the world. From the perspective of an 8 year old it was a wild adventure involving the first flight in an aeroplane, a map of the world and living in a draughty house in the last street in a new city. Milk needed a token left in a bottle, tinned fruit had pips in, there were loud cicadas and scary wetas. It was VERY hilly and often windy. Possums clattered on the tin roof and the annoying neighbours kids didn't believe there was such a car as a Volvo. I remember Mum jumping on a chair when a mouse ran across the kitchen floor. I remember her walking me to the hospital to have my knee redressed after I skinned it. We watched the blue and green flames in the grate when driftwood was burned. We travelled on (very) rattly trolleybuses and listened to Maori music in the car. Mum rose to the challenge of bringing up three young children in an unfamiliar place and on her own while Dad was at Police training school. For someone who professed to being under confident she did rather well. Mum and Dad made lifelong friends and memories of trips to the beach (kids in the back of an estate car), standing on rocks in rivers, a beach holiday and a snowy holiday, throwing pumice into Lake Taupo and bubbling mud.