My best friend pointed out the other day after seeing me in these photos with New Zealand’s rowing golden boys that I’ve turned into somewhat of an Olympic groupie.
I’ve never been much of a sports follower and only yesterday I asked a sheep shearer with a slight rats tail who I actually quite fancied (no lies) if the hammer throw was called the clean and jerk.
In truth, if there’s one phrase to sum up my Olympic reporting over the last three weeks it would be – Kiwi House Correspondent.
Basically Kiwi House is the expat supporters’ base for our Olympic team set up in the heart of London’s Kings Cross, with home TV coverage of the games on the big screen, pies, and kiwi brews and BBQs.
And though I tried to avoid it, I have been here pretty much every day voxpopping people.
For those of you not familiar with the journalistic lingo, voxpops are the cold calling, charity street collecting of journalism, which involves interrupting people mid conversation/pie/beer and asking them this question what felt like a thousand times over – ‘what do you think of …. …..’s medal?’
So for my own sanity on Wednesday night I decided not to spend my evening at Kiwi House and went to the pub with a friend.
Murphy’s Law – less than an hour later the BBQ caught on fire, two gas cylinders exploded and the outdoor area was engulfed in flames (thankfully no-one was hurt).
Personally I’m glad I wasn’t there.
Amazingly, a day later thanks to some good old fashioned kiwi can-do it reopened – minus the BBQ area – and I found myself again voxpopping, though this time the question was – ‘what do you think of the fact Kiwi House reopened less than 24 hours after the fire?’
But of course tomorrow it will all be over, the Olympics will cease to be London’s and I will get my life back.
I will again be very very happily unemployed, riding camels in the Sahara.