Seven things I want to tell you

I'm currently working on a little project for the man in my life called "37 things I want to tell you" loosely based on Jo Hubris' zine "101 things I want to tell you". It's his 37th birthday soon and I'm putting it together in rather a hurry. It's a little book with old pictures and words cut out of magazines and bits and pieces of old wrappers and textures, like a scrapbook.

Here are seven of them, without the art work of course.

1. My first best friend was a girl called Stephanie Smith. She lived around the corner in Billah Street, directly behind my house. We broke into her brother's hut which was like Fort Knox, but he almost tore it apart to stop us from seeing anything that was in there. I was scared of her father because he told me off once for spilling some water. She moved to Nelson when I was about seven or eight, and we lost touch in our teens.

2. I used to really love roller skating. I still do.

3. My favourite book is 1984, which I read in 2004 when Martin was in Auckland hospital being assessed for a liver transplant. It was a dark time. I almost wish I hadn't read that book because then I would still have it to discover.

4. Today I found out that my old friend from film days who I worked with in 1995-1998 is the cousin of a girl I worked with at the Waikato Times in 2005-2006. Esther, from the WT, used to talk about her cousin in Wellington, but I never put it together that it was my old pal Amanda. Noo Zilund is very small.

5. I like tea very much, but usually only drink a few mouthfuls of a cup. Actually, J already knows this.

6. I knew I wanted to be a writer when my standard one teacher Mr Alach showed us the book of stories and poems he had collected from his teaching career. I really wanted to be in that book. He told us to see things in a way noone had ever seen them before. I got in touch with him last year through Old Friends, he's principal of a primary school in the Horowhenua. He reads my stories in the paper now.

7. Another inspirational teacher was Talo Tolovae, who was not only my English teacher in seventh form, but his family lived (and still live) in the house I grew up in in Arthur Street, Tokoroa. He died of liver cancer in the early 90s, when I was doing Bill Manhire's course. The best poem, the one I am proudest of, is about his life and death. At his funeral, I cried so much I had to go and sit outside.