Memories of youthful days keep flooding back. Still learning how to be better I would fall for this temptation in the most unlikely setting. When I was under the legal age to look glaringly at a boy, I made the discovery, by dint of excellent spade-work, that the colder the climate the nicer the boys smelt.

In Gore I discovered that boys smell great, even after a hard game of rugby! The same could not be said for other rugby-playing boys who domicile in higher latitudes.

Storing this information with meticulous care, I determined at a very young age to marry a man whose odour did not displease me when he got under stress. My parents who knew about my glorious plan called in a specialist teacher, so that I could plan my future route in search of my future soul mate.

I set off still a teenager in wisdom. Accompanied by a cold sweat I determined in my heart, that I was prepared to endure frostbite to bring the "right" man back to New Zealand.

What I failed to think through was that even such a gem of aromatic perfection is subject to the law of atrophy. Once stirred and shaken from the sanctity of their former safe abodes, every "future husband" will spoil, from time to time, the level of fresh air at the dinner table.

Alas, my husband's behaviour, since transportation from Iceland, obeys perfectly the laws of atrophy!

My spiritual nose notices him, more and more, as each day goes by. He is still endearing! He is still loveable! He is still compassionate to my feelings. Pray for me, seekers of God's unique perfume, lest my "perfect Eskimo" puts me under his nasal microscope.

Implore God on my half; for you are my last hope. Pray for me powerfully, seekers of God's unique perfume for should this happen, I am sure that I will fare substantially worse than him. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times!

Never before have I experienced the urge to breed woodpeckers with the sole purpose of teaching them to give my URL a tremendous peck as often as possible. I hate coming second! Looking in my diary I can see that my quest for fame started on the 10 October 2001.

I have never been the sort of person to to be bought by money. It has come as a huge surprise to me to feel and experience the depth of emotion that I am currenly experiencing. Three weeks later I am running on all cylinders!

Alas, I must be a modern day Silvia Potts or Gail Divers. Yet O how I yearn like Richard Taylor did at the Commonwealth games, in Christchurch in 1974, to one day fling my arms up in contented triumph as I cross the finsh line. How I yearn profoundly to flop down exhausted and spent after pouring out my life as a offering, concious, always, of glorifying God's Name.

How I long to see you there, cherished companions, too, even if you finsh several laps ahead of me! Imagine my chagrin though when in every competion I enter I invariably finish second last. There have been some bright exceptions: Once I beat a fellow girl in an apple eating competion, once I took a wrong turning in a mountain climbing event and came in third last.

Then there were the "near misses" for glory like winning the 1500 metres for three laps, only to collapse last over the line gasping for breathe. Coming home fully last in the final unimportant bit is a real fly in the ear experience. Would I stop training my woodpeckers, if I could see them failing on their mission?