Early next morning we boarded the big inter islander ferry for the several hour journey to the South Island. Not being the best ferry passengers in the world (due to a propensity for nausea, not because we’re antisocial or disobey all the rules – although it was me who got shouted at – twice – over the loud speaker on the Sydney Harbour ferry for standing up on the top open deck to take photos) (what do they expect? It’s Sydney Harbour and all I could see were people’s heads…). Anyway, we found we could upgrade to the “executive lounge” for the same price as they were charging for a breakfast and midday scones and coffee in cattle class – and in the “special lounge” you got comfy seats and breakfast, coffee and scones and muffins and cold drinks al for free. And no children. And newspapers and 2 year old copies of Top Gear magazine. And you got to look like posh people to all the poor people outside on the deck. A few of them looked in at the windows and I waved and thought that their lack of response was because they are classist and objected to our comfy seats and free Top Gear mags. No one responded at all. Not to little furtive waves or even grander ones. Halfway through the trip I went out onto the deck to mingle with the poor and saw that it was one way glass in the windows. You,could see out, but not in. They’d been looking at their own reflections and couldn’t see in to the luxurious innards of the “luxury lounge”. Probably just as well as a riot may have ensued if they saw the decadence in which we wallowed.

After a pretty voyage and duly fortified by a lot of free scones – though not really proper scones, more like biscuits but they were free, the ferry dropped us at Picton, a place as picturesque as a sneeze.

Fortunately, a coach was there to jump onto and travel down the coast to Christchurch.

There is a fairly random list of things you are allowed and not allowed on this coach. It’s displayed prominently on the walls and the driver also helpfully read it through to all of us before we set off. Among many other things, you are not allowed to have any hot drinks and nor are you allowed any form of hot food. You are, however, allowed cold drinks and cold food. So I’m wondering if it’s OK if you have hot food and wait a while…

You are allowed sandwiches, but you are not allowed fruit. And no milk shakes.

I’m not sure where they stand on feijoa smoothies – for I have bought one by mistake. I got it in Picton, so maybe it was getting me back for insulting it. A feijoa is a fruit much grown in New Zealand. I think its name is Maori for “Yuk.”

I mistakenly bought a bottle of Feijoa Frenzy because it looked to all intents and purposes like it was cloudy apple juice. It comes to something when you have to imitate something else in order to sell your evil foodstuff to an unsuspecting public.

I would never have bought one knowingly. We were first fed feijoas at the monastery. I”m sure they thought they were being kind: I thought I must have done something terribly wrong for which they were punishing me.

Have you ever had a feijoa?

You would remember.

They look innocuous enough – they are small and green and soft, a bit like Kermit the Frog. But imagine Kermit the Frog’s psychotic evil twin who has a taser gun and a mallet. Sure, he’d look just like Kermit, and just like Kermit he’d be all green and small and soft and friendly – but as soon as you took a bite out of him….

That’s the same with feijoas.

(I just woke Ella up to tell her I’d spotted a sheep. I thought it was funny. She didn’t.)

If someone was fed only on toenails and mud – if that was their sole diet and all they had ever eaten and then, say, after ten years of that diet they were given bread to eat I’m sure they would devour the loaf or bun or bap or French stick and ask for more, amazed at having a different flavour to savour. Now imagine the same initial scenario, but after ten years of toenails and mud they were given a feijoa to eat.

They would spit it out.

I cannot see how people eat them – they taste of something between Ralgex and Deep Heat. You eat them and you are eating a rugby changing room.

I think they are only endured in New Zealand as the small print around the bottom of the label reads: “One day the world will recognise the glory of the feijoa. Until then, they’re all ours.”

Please, please keep them.

All of them.

 (The offending article)

If a barman ever offers you the choice of a feijoa juice or a smack in the head the correct response would be: “Hit me.”

If he then starts pouring the juice: “No. I meant hit me!”

Opt for the punch.

A flurry of punches if need be.

We’re heading down to Christchurch where we’ll be picking up the camper van. The man three seats ahead of us needs to learn how to put things properly on the overhead shelf. In the last ten minutes first, a coat fell down onto his head, (picked up and put in between him and the lady traveling with him). Then a drink bottle (hope it’s not contraband – if it’s a milkshake the driver’s going to duff him up). And just now a smart phone with an emergency charger attached (I know what they look like now as we bought two of them and then accidentally rendered them useless by throwing away the leads that connect them to our phones and iPads). Right onto his head. A little bit painful and a little but funny for everyone else. Every time we go round a sharp right hand bend something else comes down. Stuff must be balanced up there like those coins in the arcade machines. Why doesn’t he re-pack it all – or bring it all down?

The reason for the sharp bends and cascade of possessions is that we’re zig zagging through stunning mountainous passes. I want to look out of the window, but I also don’t want to miss what’s going to fall next. (Ella’s being my “spotter” while I write this.)

As I got off the coach I confessed to the driver that I’d been in possession of a contraband item. He said what sort. I said fruit. He said what fruit. I said a feijoa smoothie. He said that was fine.

It’s not though.