A lot of big, tragic and important things have happened to this wonderful country of ours since April 2014. None of which I have covered. I was too busy writing about hungover parenting, ancient philosophy and my dog Colin.
Out of the 536 columns I have written, 27 were about that guy. Far too few. He is such a good boy, he deserves an article a week.
Today is the end of an era for me, and whenever these final events pop up in our lives, we can’t help but think about the ultimate end.
Everything we do, we will one day do for the last time. That’s why you have to enjoy things while they are around. It’s not just big events like leaving a job, house or loved one either. Whatever moment you happen to be in now, you will never get it back, and you don’t know how many more you have.
Everything we do in life, from eating pizza to spending time with the people we love, to driving, writing, drinking or breathing, we will one day experience for the final time. It might happen tomorrow. This can be either a depressing or an inspiring thought, depending on how you look at it.
A few years back in this column, I interviewed professor of philosophy William B Irvine, of Wright State University, Ohio, on this very topic. He put it this way on a Zoom call: “Recognition of the impermanence of everything in life can invest the things we do with a significance and intensity that would otherwise be absent. The only way we can be truly alive is if we make it our business periodically to entertain thoughts of the end.”
Today’s column is very meaningful to me because it is my last. Like the last night with a lover before she goes overseas. And just like a lover, there have been some half-arsed efforts put in from me over the years. Last week, for example, I spent 750 words moaning about how bad my cricket team is. But the truth is that any of my columns could have been the final. If I had reminded myself every week for the past 10 years that the end is inevitable, I may have been more grateful for having a column and appreciated writing them all as much as I am this one.
While everything we do could have more meaning with a focus on finitude, some things are inherently more worthwhile than others. There is no doubt my column “The pros and cons of wearing Speedos” from November 2022 was less meaningful than most things in this world. That was a waste of everyone’s time. So, if we only have so much time, how do we pick the best things to do?
Well, Oliver Burkeman, the author of Four Thousand Weeks – Time Management For Mortals, suggested this to me in a 2022 column: “Ask yourself, does this choice enlarge me? You usually know on some unspoken level if it does. That’s a good way to distinguish between options.”
With that in mind, I don’t feel great about my 2018 article on “New Zealand’s best hole”. That didn’t enlarge anyone.
There will be people reading this column right now who have loved my writing in the Herald and are sad to see it end. Others will have hated it and are glad to see me go. Many won’t have any opinion at all. But for those in the first camp, I have good news. I have a book coming out on May 28 called A Life Less Punishing – 13 Ways To Love The Life You Got (Allen and Unwin Book Publishers). It’s a deep dive into the history, philosophy and science of not wasting our time lost in anger, loneliness, humiliation, stress, fear, boredom and all the other ways we find to not enjoy perfectly good lives. It’s available for pre-order right now (google it if you’re interested).
A Life Less Punishing took me two years to write and is equivalent in words to 100 of these columns. Which would be a complete nightmare for those in the hate camp, but as I say, great news for those who want more.
Anyway, thanks to the Herald for having me, thanks to the lovely people who make an effort to say nice things to me about my column nearly every day and thanks to the universe for every single second we get.
Bless!
My Family Left Grandpa at the Hotel to Avoid Paying — They Didn’t Realize I Was the Wrong Grandson to Mess With
As the front doors slid open and my feet touched the tile, I spotted him—my grandfather—standing behind the counter.
His shoulders drooped, and his hands trembled slightly as he held a thick sheet of paper.
Just two months before, he had retired at 74, after spending 52 years working as a machinist. He’d never missed a day unless he was genuinely sick—and even then, he still called in to check on things.
Grandpa was the quiet, dependable type. Every birthday, he’d show up with a card and some money inside. He never missed one. Always giving. Never asking for anything in return.
So when my aunt, his daughter, suggested we do something meaningful for his birthday, my cousin Ashley jumped at the chance. Everyone agreed. The plan? A weeklong, all-inclusive beach resort trip. Ashley handled all the arrangements—booked five rooms, even reserved a suite with a private balcony just for Grandpa.
He was told not to worry about the cost.
So he packed his one suitcase, brought along his old fishing hat, and wore sandals for the first time in a decade. Off they went.
I couldn’t join until the final day—work obligations kept me in the city—but I booked a one-way ticket to help Grandpa get home. He hated airports. Said they made him feel disoriented.
When I arrived, the sun was out, and palm trees swayed in the breeze.
I walked into the hotel smiling.
That smile disappeared fast.
Grandpa stood alone. His suitcase was packed. The bill was in his hands. Everyone else was gone.
“They said everything was paid for,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He nodded. “That’s what I believed too. But this morning, they all got ready, said checkout was noon, and left for the airport.”
“I didn’t want to cause any trouble,” he added. “What matters is… they had a good time.”
I looked at him, then down at that bill. My fists clenched.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
I stepped outside and pulled out my phone. I called Ashley. She answered on the second ring.
My voice was calm but cold. “Why did you leave Grandpa with a $12,000 bill?”
She hesitated, then laughed.
“We figured he could cover it,” she said casually. “He’s retired. Doesn’t support the family anymore. It was like… a thank-you trip. From him to us.”
“You figured?” I said, my voice tightening. “You figured it was fine to stick a seventy-four-year-old man with a $12,000 bill without asking?”
I stared at the road in front of the hotel, phone clenched in my hand, while laughter drifted over from the pool.
“Let me be clear,” I said flatly. “He’s not the one who looks foolish. You are.”
Inside, I could still hear Grandpa trying to explain things at the front desk, still apologizing for something he didn’t cause.
I went back in and paid the entire bill myself. The manager printed the receipt, and I asked for a detailed breakdown by room. She promised to email it within the hour.
That night, I called an old college friend who’s now a lawyer. Sharp, meticulous.
By morning, we had:
A full itemized invoice, with each relative’s charges clearly outlined.
Security footage from the lobby shows them checking out, no goodbyes, no hesitation.
Written confirmation from staff that Grandpa had been left behind and told he was responsible for the charges.
We drafted formal letters:
“You are responsible for the charges listed below. Payment is expected within 14 days. If not received, I will pursue reimbursement in small claims court for fraud, financial abuse of a senior, and abandonment.”
Each envelope contained the invoice with their charges highlighted in yellow.
Three days later, Ashley paid in full. No apology. Just a bank transfer with a sour-faced emoji in the memo. Her brother followed, then my aunt. One by one, the money came back.
In two weeks, all $12,000 had been reimbursed—except for Grandpa’s part.
I told the lawyer to leave that untouched.
Thanksgiving passed in silence. No calls. No invites.
Grandpa didn’t seem surprised.
But he’s different now—lighter, happier. He laughs more freely. In a strange way, that awful trip gave him something priceless: closure. A clean slate. A brand-new chapter.
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