As Ginette McDonald pointed out to me at halftime, I (a 20-something) am not quite the target demographic for Winding Up, the latest play from Sir Roger Hall about 70-somethings Barry (Peter Hayden) and Gen (McDonald herself). Seeing as the two-hander picks up on the lives of the central couple from Conjugal Rites, which Hall wrote before I was born, I’m inclined to agree. But I didn’t need context to root for Barry and Gen in this tender and touching chapter of their 50-year marriage.

Winding Up is set in the retired couple’s upmarket apartment while other happenings – like family dramas and flirtations with nosy neighbours – occur offstage. Barry and Gen often bicker and tease each other but their love shines through above all else, accentuated by a script that jumps from sharp to sassy to sweet in a heartbeat. Moments that make me fall in love with them in turn include a hilariously awkward (attempted) love-making scene and a gentle slow dance in which the full gamut of emotions runs across McDonald’s face, beautifully lit by Marcus McShane.

Hayden’s portrayal of a kind man with lots of zest (and patience!) is wonderfully offset by McDonald’s nuanced but no-nonsense Gen. Both veteran actors, their chemistry sparkles and sizzles as five decades of marriage are expressed in the touch of a hand, an exasperated eye roll, the tucking in of a blanket.

With the couple contemplating going on a cruise, I initially hope the setting will shift from the apartment to a boat but end up enjoying the slice-of-life perspective from their living room. Plus, seeing the pictures of their holiday afterwards (set and AV design by Lisa Maule) is a lovely touch. Together, Maule’s sleek set, Sheila Horton’s sophisticated costume design, and Michael Nicholas Williams’ gorgeous classical music design (particularly effective during the transitions, some of which are a tad too long) show a well-off couple in years made golden not just by age but by love.  

I expect you, like me, have never wondered what happens when a wallpaper realises it is being watched. However, this fascinating “three-course meal” of domestic history, spoken word, and sensory dance experience seeks to answer that very question.

On arrival at Katherine Mansfield House, audience members have 15 minutes to enjoy the hors d’oeuvres, the lovingly recreated rooms of the home of one of New Zealand’s most famous writers. We’re told that rooms in the house have been reclad in facsimiles of the original wallpaper that neatly sets the scene for what’s to come and helps make this venue an inspired choice.

Once settled in an upstairs room, the petite audience of 10 is treated to the sumptuous main course, a reading from Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s 19^th-century short story, The Yellow Wallpaper. This is the tale of an unnamed narrator who is prescribed bed rest in an old country estate and eventually grows fond of her cage-like room and its garish wallpaper. The lush and poetic descriptions of the patterns and shapes on the walls that surround the narrator are beautifully read by Liz Butler, who wears a suitably yellow dress, and conjure unexpectedly creative imagery from something as mundane as a wall covering.

Dessert is taken in a different room and, like all good sweet treats, it tickles the senses with its scent of spicy incense, hypnotic music (Aaron Dupuis), and soft, yellow light (Matilde Vadseth Furholm). Two dancers (Abi Sucsy and Ellen Butler) employ sensuous and sinuous movement – often in harmony, occasionally in conflict, sometimes together, sometimes apart – to bring the spirit of the yellow wallpaper alive.

With creative direction from Butler and Andrew Ford, Yellow Cat Collective have pulled off the seemingly impossible – making wallpaper interesting. Having sampled their tasting plate of creativity, I’m left hungry for the full buffet of storytelling they presented at this year’s Fringe Festival to describe “the sprawling waves of optic horror” that so enthralled the unnamed narrator.

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer is based on the beloved 1876 novel by Mark Twain – which, ashamedly, I haven’t read! I do however know of Huckleberry Finn (Alfie Byrne), who gets up to all sorts of mischief (I mean adventures) with his good friend Tom Sawyer (Thomas Neville).

Set in the 1840s, this play focuses on Tom’s perspective and upbringing in a small town in Missouri, where director Lynn Coory notes “children’s currency was a dead rat and a brass doorknob and where children roamed free from breakfast to supper”. From grave robbing to buried treasure to miraculous resurrections, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer certainly is one great big adventure.

This Khandallah Arts Theatre production stars a number of youngsters and seasoned actors working as one. Neville, Byrne, and Josh Harford as Joe Harper share a wonderful chemistry, especially when bellowing around a campfire together. All of the kids do very well, with Ira Crampton deserving a hearty clap for his energy and enthusiasm as Ben. In the grownup category, Hayden Rogers makes an excellent villain of Buckshot Joe and as his would-be victim Widow Douglas, Marj Lawson’s lively performance is a favourite of mine.

The world building on display here is fantastic, with audiences transported to simpler times thanks to clever costuming (wardrobe collator Theresa Donnelly), a charming old-world suburbia set (Stephanie Woodman), and scene-setting music from talented guitarist Jack Dryden. Idyllic projections by designer Brian Scurfield work in harmony with the lighting design of chief technician Chris Collie-Holmes to establish different locales – from a cemetery to a cave to a haunted house – so the audience never loses their place. The thundering rain outside certainly added mystique to the spooky scenes!

Overall this Khandallah Arts Theatre production has great heart. I’d recommend more music through some of the transitions, as the energy does dip while the audience waits for the next scene to start in silence. A bit more pace and we’ll have a firecracker on our hands!

The Justice of Bunny King is not always mesmerising, but its characters certainly are. Though its story loses steam, saved by a left-field surprise of a third act, its messages ring true, and I wager most will leave the theatre with a slightly altered perspective. 

Bunny King (Essie Davis) is a squeegee bandit with a goal: to save enough money to regain custody and house her two kids. After promising her youngest a birthday party during a visit, Bunny will do anything to keep her word, despite having no job, no home, and no help from social services. Things are only complicated further when her niece Tonyah (Thomasin McKenzie) reaches out for help.

The film rides or dies on the shoulders of Bunny, an undoubtedly demanding role. She must at once be warm and compassionate, frustrated and cool, but Davis refuses to let her become superficial. Bunny is imperfect, with shades of light and dark. She makes mistakes, often lashing out at those who wrong her in immature ways. But these elements boil down to a supremely human character, one who we’ve all encountered and maybe now feel we can relate to a little more.

Front to back, the cast make the story feel visceral. Even minor characters, such as Government Family Services caseworker Trish (Tanea Heke), make an impact. This is largely aided by Gaysorn Thavat’s focused direction and Sophie Henderson’s concise screenplay.

It’s clear that the collaborators felt a kinship towards Bunny, but at times the story she is in runs out of gas. The film takes an unexpected turn in the final act, which will work for some and alienate others. For me, it worked, bringing scope, suspense, and surprise to a tale I thought had tapped out.

Bunny and Tonyah struggle to be heard, supported, and empathised with, feelings we’ve all had. The film’s anti-patriarchy message is one many will raise a fist to, but I foresee The Justice of Bunny King being a love-it-or-hate-it experience for most.

Julia Millen’s favourite childhood song was On the Road to Anywhere. It was a ditty that became the theme for a lifetime. Beginning with New Zealand and venturing later to Europe and South America, Millen clearly revels in her many and varied hitchhiking experiences.

There is much to be learned from this lengthy saga of her travels: not least survival tips for the tricky and challenging situations faced by those who choose to stick their thumbs out. I was relieved that Millen usually opted to hitchhike with two female companions – free spiritedness even of the 60s variety has risks attached.

There are tips of other kinds too and I found these entertaining. We learn where the Impressionists are hidden away in Paris, that the Swedes don’t go in for garden taps, and that in Greece you may get your hands rinsed with retsina. And I felt amusement mixed with memory-driven horror at our writer’s discovery that the Greek word for ‘yes’ is ‘nai’, pronounced confusingly like the English word ‘no’. Leads to all kinds of trouble.

Millen’s narrative is peppered with literary and classical references, due perhaps to her background in library work, though I suspect that many of them would be missed by millennials. The Hound of the Baskervilles? An Enid Blyton Mr. Plod?

Readers are also treated to the personal journey to, through, and eventually out of a first marriage – though quite why it was entered into in the first place is a bit of a mystery. Or is that the 60s again? And being married doesn’t seem to preclude hitchhiking adventures.

It’s only when back in New Zealand, after 20 years of thumbing her way around the world and a historic trip to Antarctica, that Millen finds her man – on the beach at Pukerua Bay. Should we be surprised that after following myriad “roads to anywhere”, her early inspiration to a heady, hedonistic life morphs into an acknowledgement that “There’s no place like home”?

Joanna Grochowicz has made quite a name for herself as a writer of what is sometimes called the golden age of Antarctic exploration. Her books give us a closer look into that time, when men risked it all to explore what is still one of the most desolate continents on Earth.

Shackleton’s Endurance tells the story of Sir Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated voyage to the Antarctic in 1914. When disaster strikes, though, and his ship becomes stuck in the ice, his journey soon becomes a matter of life and death with the odds stacked against him and his crew.

It’s a harrowing tale, and one made even more compelling by the fact that it all actually happened. Grochowicz, who has made the genre of ‘fictional history’ her forte, has really outdone herself and her skills are on full display here.

I say fictional history because while Shackleton’s adventures were completely factual, his and his men’s interactions would have to be based on second-hand accounts from various sources, such as crew journal entries that survived their adventures.

I loved the characters and how well fleshed out they were; thus, they felt real to me, and I found myself feeling for them as they struggled to find their way out of what must have seemed like hell on Earth.

One of the best parts of the book is Shackleton himself. Unlike Roald Amundsen (the star of her previous book, Amundsen’s Way), who seemed stern and domineering, Sir Ernest comes off as a kind and compassionate man who always put the welfare of his crew first. This makes him a more relatable protagonist than Amundsen ever was.

History can sometimes feel boring, and because it happened some 107 years ago, many people find themselves disassociated from it. Grochowicz makes it all come alive on the page, and the results are spectacular. Shackleton’s Endurance is a thrilling ride and one I highly recommend picking up.

The Runaway Girls is a heart-warming story about the warmth of friendship and the lengths two girls go through to protect theirs. It is set in Victorian England and written by Jacqueline Wilson. In this story, Lucy Locket, the protagonist, runs away from home for multiple reasons relating to her home life. Lucy meets Kitty on her escape, and the two instantly become best friends. 

My favourite part of this book is the natural and normal friendship Kitty and Lucy share. They argue and make up, tease and joke like any best friends you might find now. The only disparity is the fact that they lived a hundred years ago, which does tend to make a difference. For example, when Lucy loses Kitty in the park, she has no way of communicating with her and is understandably distraught. Whereas nowadays we can just send our friends a text or call them. Also, the poor are better cared for today, which is a contrast in Lucy’s world where they are ignored if they are lucky, or beaten and shooed away.

Additionally, I love how compatible Lucy and Kitty are. They make a fantastic team when facing foes. Kitty is generally more knowledgeable and fierce, but Lucy makes excellent use of her sweet demeanour and discovers some hidden talents, like lying on the spot well and melting adult’s hearts. Her parents would have a heart attack if they ever saw her, smiling like an angel while spinning devilish lies, but it serves them well on the streets!

I also enjoyed the ending in which Jacqueline subtly brought in an easter egg from another book, though it doesn't hinder your understanding if you haven’t read it yet. Still, for someone who does understand, it was nice to see. I liked the fact that it was a happy ending, perfectly suited for the characters.

All in all, The Runaway Girls is an excellent book that has everything a good read requires: wonderful characters, an awesome story, and an interesting setting. I definitely recommend this book.

Tikanga, the book, belongs to Francis and Kaiora Tipene. It is written from their perspective, their knowledge, their traditions; but it belongs too, to their whakapapa and those who have come before them.

Driving past the opening of the brand-new branch of Tipene Funerals in Porirua, curiosity got the better of me. Many had gathered, eating, conversing, and listening to music. I could see Francis and Kaiora speaking with visitors. I made the hasty decision to pull over with my son. Perhaps it would be a great conversation starter about life and death and everything in between.

I was also curious to see if Kaiora and Francis, the humble narrators of such a powerful book, whose words, so genuine, are like I imagined. I felt welcomed and got to witness manaakitanga (hospitality, kindness, generosity, support), which “must be ingrained and extended everywhere you go”, Francis says.

In Tikanga, Francis and Kaiora express the traditional Māori values that ground and guide them in their funeral work and everyday lives. The regard, respect, and agency they give to those that will one day pass through their doors, living or otherwise, Māori and non-Māori, illustrates how they live the concepts of te ao Māori.

“Everyone with a business thinks their business is different from other businesses, but I think ours is ‘more different’ than most. It is especially different because it is so dependant on its culture and being able to live Tikanga every day, no matter what is going on,” Francis says

Tikanga is about what is important and valuable to Māori, but it translates to all. In Tikanga there is a candid nod to all cultures; both Francis and Kaiora are pragmatic and able to incorporate values and traditions different to their own.

Both are keen to convey that they don’t know everything. They are not a mouthpiece for all Māori, but acknowledge the platform they now have to champion Māori culture everywhere, every time with the aim to do better, be better, and encourage those around them to do the same.

Appreciation of poetry closely resembles appreciation of painting – it’s highly subjective. So in commenting on Ian Wedde’s latest collection, I find I must put aside my preference for poems that rhyme and ones that address contemporary themes.

A dictionary definition of poetry runs: “a literary composition that is given intensity by attention to diction (choice and use of words), sometimes involving rhyme, rhythm and imagery.”

Note that this definition makes no mention of content. And it’s content, for my two cents’ worth, where Wedde scores most points. For his exhaustive collection (76 poems) largely charts his family history back to the 1700s: “stalking the family ghosts of German ancestors and obscure relatives and associates”, as he puts it.

A Creative New Zealand Berlin Writer’s Residency 2013-14 provided the opportunity for keeping a diary, and it’s from that diary Wedde draws his material.

His forebears merit such a poetic celebration. Some of them witnessed a great deal of what they probably didn’t want to witness, giving rise to serious themes. And a relative-of-a-relative of some kind published a mostly unread panegyric to the Paris Commune martyrs – now you can’t get more esoteric than that.

The chief enjoyment for me was on the linguistic side – the words and imagery Wedde uses. I loved the pigeon named Werther “fastidiously poking feathers into an improbable nest”, enjoyed the extended metaphor of the bowl of pea soup, and accurately pictured “the narcissist of small differences” encountered at the library when Wedde is enquiring after a relative’s book. On a grimmer note, there’s the watering can in the Stasi Museum, and “the implacable conduit where Arendt disciplined her bafflement into thought”. The little ache of the title merits a poem of its own.

It’s a scholarly read, but there’s much deserving of reflectiveness for the general reader – and a bonus for those who are familiar with German in the form of a generous smattering of words and phrases in the original tongue.