​​Mothering has got a whole lot more complicated since I became a mother in the mid-1980s. The ante seems to have been upped while I’ve been otherwise occupied and wondering vaguely if my daughter would have children, and  what it would be like to be a grandmother.  

I noted the rise of the Yummy Mummy, grateful that I got my mothering in before she appeared in the centre-folds of women’s magazines, baking cupcakes from quaint retro recipes, and serving herself up just like a cupcake - sweet, highly decorated and very edible. So delectable did the Yummy Mummy seem that laddish social media soon featured references to MILFs. Google MILF. It’s not nice. 

When I was a young mother you were still allowed stretch marks, exhaustion and rumpled, dribble-stained clothing. If you whipped up a batch of Anzac biscuits, this was not understood to be a culinary triumph, or a piece of vintage whimsy. You weren’t expected to look fabulous while cooking or spooning mashed vegetables into a reluctant tot. It was accepted that most young mothers don’t feel glamorous or sexy, they mostly feel tired and emotionally preoccupied with their baby.  I remember being too scared to look “down there” for weeks after giving birth, fearful that I’d be wearing my insides on the outside for the rest of my life. Sexy this was not. 

​It's a Monday at the Classic Comedy Club in mid-town Auckland. It's the night when beginner comedians gather to test their comedic talents in front of a live audience.

Comedy Director, Geoffrey Scott Blanks, who was made an Officer of the NZ Order of Merit for his services to comedy in the last Queen’s Birthday Honours is busy selling tickets to the 2-hour “Raw” show in the club’s bustling foyer.

​At 8pm the doors to the high-ceilinged performance space swing open. A friendly usher directs us to seats clustered around tables, cabaret-style. Candles flicker on each table. The red brick walls are hung with posters advertising comedy shows past and present. There are a few grey heads in the audience, but it’s a youngish crowd and the atmosphere is warm and convivial. 

I'm on my own so I’m pleased to be seated at a table with four other women with whom it’s easy to strike up a conversation.  It turns out they aren’t just here for laughs - they have skin in the game. The young woman on my left, has Nihilist printed on her T-shirt and Hysterical Feminist on her tote bag. She's here to suss out the comedy scene before making a leap from sit-down wannabe, to stand-up comedian. ​

Mr Trump is very fond of "alternative facts" and we ridicule and castigate him for it.

​But I've been wondering if his self-flattering fibs are so different from the air-brushed versions of our lives which we present on Facebook.

On Facebook we all lead perfect lives. On Facebook everyone’s life is packed with caring friends, doting parents, handsome lovers, adorable children and perfect pets. Everyone is talented and clever, and has a fascinating job. On Facebook everyone recycles, saves whales and rain forests, eats mountains of kale at the coolest restaurants, and goes on cycling tours of Outer Mongolia at the drop of a hat. 

No one on Facebook is lonely, unemployed, in debt, or suffers from acne, low self-esteem or depression. 
Let's start telling the truth on Facebook ... I’ll go first: 

​I’ve been walking around this week with two and a half thousand dollars tucked behind each ear and no one’s noticed except me. Which is something of a relief: I’ve been trialling a pair of hearing aids. Their invisibility has made it easier for the vain and foolish part of to accept that I am wearing these twin badges of age and disability. 
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Naturally, I’d much rather be wearing diamonds as big as the Ritz in my ears. Or if I must wear expensive hi-tech gadgetry, I’d prefer that it was something way cooler and more youthful - the latest Apple Watch perhaps - than a hearing aid. Self-conscious idiocy aside, the effect of wearing hearing aids has been more positive, and more radical than I could have imagined. 

​A couple of years ago I wrote a profile of Hone Ma Heke AKA Lewis Stanton in this blog and in my Nelson Mail column.  He'd been a controversial figure for so long I was curious to find out more about him. At the time, he was camping with his Horse in Neale Park and so was actually a neighbour. 

Clive now camps out on Nelson's main street (minus horse and cart) and has become the subject of renewed controversy during the lead up to the City Council elections. This republished profile is my contribution to the debate.

I've just survived a fortnight of Fifty Shades of Grey. It involved a lot of lying in bed and horizontal passivity though not (what a life-saver !) velvet hand-cuffs or spanking.   

Shades of Grey is what happens to your life when you find yourself in the clutches of flu-with-cough virus. So much energy is taken up with coughing that almost immediately your get-up-and-go gets up and abandons you completely. 

This enfeeblement soon makes even the short, but essential trek from bed to bathroom like climbing Everest - without oxygen tanks or obliging Sherpas.
Very soon after that your brain goes into recess and a grey fog descends. If you are lucky, in the midst of this mental pea-souper, a synapse will send out the occasional hopeful pulse - rather like a rescue flare sent up from a ship foundering at sea. 

While the dim interior of your skull is thus illuminated a few thoughts occur to you. Where is the? Why is the? I wonder if? How come? In the foolishly optimistic moment before the flare dies out and all coherent brain-activity ceases, you really believe that you might be able to relieve the fog-bound boredom with a little light reading. Then you realise that no reading it quite light enough.