Whilst most of us associate greyhounds solely with racing, they are in fact an ancient breed, once coveted by kings and noblemen.

In ancient Egypt, greyhounds were so revered that only pharaohs and aristocrats were allowed to own them. In medieval England only people of royal blood could have a greyhound and the act of killing one was a crime punishable by death.

Fast forward to the modern day where a greyhound owner threatened to ‘blow all his dogs away’ when the ban on greyhound racing in New Zealand comes into force this week.

The comments were made during a confrontation between racing industry stalwarts and animal rights protesters at one of the last ever greyhound race meetings, held in Auckland last weekend. A video of the incident has been widely circulated in the media.

Whilst greyhound racing authorities have distanced themselves from the threat to kill comments, the incident is the final salvo (one would hope) in a bitter and prolonged dispute between the industry and animal protection groups who have long campaigned to have the sport banned.

Welfare concerns have plagued greyhound racing for some time, with successive reviews finding dog injury and death rates unacceptably high. The code’s attempts to reduce the toll failed to satisfy the Government and in 2024 a law was passed to ban the sport, effective from August 1, 2026.

While this may be great news for animal advocates, and the dogs, it has left around 1600 dogs now surplus to requirements. Sadly, some will be exported to Australia where racing still remains legal in most states. Others will be looking for domestic adoption through groups like Greyhounds as Pets (GAP).

I have never owned a greyhound but learnt a lot about the breed when I wrote a children’s book about them some years ago.

After reading a newspaper article about GAP and its work rehoming greyhounds, I saw the potential for a children’s book. I thought it could work on two levels - as a story about a dog’s journey from the track to adoption, as well wider themes such embracing change and uncertainty that might help kids experiencing upheaval in their lives.

As part of my research, I arranged to meet GAP’s then manager, Jacqui Eyley, and to meet some of the dogs awaiting adoption. It was a cold winters morning when I arrived at GAP’s headquarters, a rural kennels that housed, not only greyhounds, but other breeds being boarded there. I was immediately struck, as I got out of the car, at how quietly and calmly several greyhounds in an enclosure greeted my arrival. In the adjoining pens, spaniels, terriers and hounds of all descriptions were yapping their heads off.

Jacqui emerged from a small office with her own two greyhounds silently in tow. Each nudged my hand with their pointy snouts and then stretched out on the floor, where they remained for over an hour while we talked. My first encounter with greyhounds left me very impressed.

I eventually wrote Bo, a rhyming picture book that follows the adoption of Bojangles (Bo), an ex-racing champion whose racing career is cut short by injury. I hope the book has played a part in promoting greyhounds as pets and in preparing families planning to adopt one.

Certainly, greyhounds, with their skinny bums, bulging thighs and colourful coats, have become an increasingly familiar sight on our streets since the adoption programme began 20 years ago. I have since had some personal experience of the breed by occasionally caring for Maya, Jacqui’s current greyhound.

Comparing her with the many other dogs I have owned, I would say she is very different. Actually, more like cat. Greyhounds rarely bark and love nothing more than curling up in a sunny corner or, more typically, lying on the sofa with their legs in the air.

They don’t need much exercise but do like an occasional sprint. Maya is spectacular when she runs in huge circles on the beach, powering through the water then back onto the sand, cornering impossibly tightly.

Greyhounds are total sooks. Most owners will be familiar with the dreaded ‘scream of death’. This is a high-pitched shriek greyhounds emit for the most minor of reasons, such as being mildly startled or having a leaf caught between their toes. Maya brought me rushing into the yard once when she performed this godawful noise. It turned out a thorny rose bush had merely grazed her ear.

So, if you are thinking of getting a greyhound there is much to recommend them, even for apartment or small home dwellers. Thankfully, you no longer need royal blood to own one. Just a comfy sofa and lots of love to give.

Fun facts about greyhounds:

• Greyhounds aren’t named after their coat colour: Instead, this ancient breed’s name comes from the Old English words grǣġ (dog) and hundr (hunter).

• Fast sprinters: They reach top speeds of 45 mph, making them the second-fastest land mammal behind only the cheetah.

• Extreme heart rate: Their heart rate can jump from a resting 30 beats per minute to a racing 300 beats per minute.

• Super vision: They boast a 270-degree field of vision and can spot moving objects up to half a mile away. This is why they are called sight hounds.

• Trouble sitting: Due to their massive, tight rear leg muscles and lean build, many greyhounds find it physically awkward or uncomfortable to sit down normally, preferring to lie flat or on their backs.

• Universal donors: Like humans, they have specific universal blood types, making them frequent canine blood donors.

• Couch potatoes: Despite their racing capability, they have very low stamina and are notorious for sleeping 16 to 18 hours a day.

• Greyhounds come in 18 primary colours and 55 different colour combos: Greyhounds can look incredibly different when it comes to colour and coat pattern. Brindle Greyhounds (a coat pattern that looks like tiger stripes) are the most popular colour combination.

• Greyhounds have relatively long lifespans: they often live 10 to 14 years due to their generally robust health.

On a cold December day in 1952 a filthy smog closed in on London. This deadly weather event - fuelled by a combination of industrial pollution, domestic coal fires and diesel transportation - lasted almost a week and killed thousands. It also changed the course of my life.

My Irish immigrant parents were living in a flat in Kensington. My mother was training to be a nurse, and my father was an apprentice saddler, producing harnesses for the Queens horses – admittedly an odd vocation for a proud Irishman.

For years my siblings and I listened to our parents recount the horror of what became known as the Great Smog. The pollution blocked out the sun and plunged the city into perpetual darkness. People reportedly couldn’t even see their feet and moving around the city, on foot or by vehicle, became hazardous. Hospitals began to fill with thousands struggling to breathe. My father said farmers at Smithfield cattle markets were running out of pubs with rags soaked in whisky to try and revive cattle suffocating in the toxic air. My aunt, who was a nun at the time, was visiting from Ireland and was convinced the end of the world had come. There was much praying and working of the rosary beads - high drama by all accounts.

It was this historic event that made my parents decide to leave England to seek greener pastures and a healthier place to bring up their kids.

Immigration to lands afar, particularly America, had long been part of the Irish DNA, with huge numbers fleeing, initially the Great famine, then poverty and religious turmoil. In the 1950s countries, such as Australia and New Zealand, were looking for new citizens and actively recruiting with promises of assisted passage and a better life. Most countries welcoming new immigrants required them to have a job to go to. My father had the offer of work in his trade in two places - Maryland in the US and Gisborne, an isolated settlement on the East Coast of the north island of in New Zealand.

Both potential destinations had their attractions, and they couldn’t decide which to choose. The decision was made on the flip of a coin and so it was that in 1955 our small family - mum and dad, me 18 months and my older sister, three, set off on a long sea voyage to our new home in New Zealand.

We sailed on the maiden voyage of the Shaw Saville’s newest ship, the Southern Cross, a 10-week voyage via the Panama Canal. I still have a scar on my thigh from the smallpox injection we had to have and which apparently made my father and I very sick.

Whilst New Zealand certainly delivered greener pastures, cleaner air and ultimately greater opportunities for the six children my parents would go on to have, there was a trade-off. Moving from the centre of a thriving city like London to Gisborne, an isolated town in provincial New Zealand, was a big adjustment. This was particularly so for my mother whose diaries describe terrible homesickness and many challenges fitting into a new culture. The contrast in lifestyles can be seen in photos of my father with my sister and I in Kensington Gardens and then later, on a beach in Gisborne.

As we adjusted to life in New Zealand, our Celtic skins burned and peeled under the fierce sun, our vowels began to flatten, and barefoot free ranging became the norm. We grew up with no close family, despite having a huge extended family on both sides, including droves of cousins living in Ireland and England.

New Zealand society, particularly in the 60s and 70s was very much built on British culture and institutions. London and its iconic landmarks – Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and the Tower Bridge - loomed large in nursery rhymes, books and popular culture we were exposed to. When television arrived, our newsreaders sounded like they’d been freshly minted at the BBC and popular shows of the day were British sitcoms – Steptoe and Son, On the Buses, Till Death Do Us Part and later, Coronation Street. Our little country, with its outdated cars and millions of sheep, came to a standstill whenever there was a royal tour.

So, when I returned to London in my early 20s, it felt very much like coming home. I arrived there on my ‘OE’, an almost obligatory rite of passage for young Kiwis at the time. My British passport proved handy as I smugly strolled past the queues of foreign nationals at Heathrow. Going from a small town in New Zealand to London reversed the culture shock my parents had experienced. It was huge, grimy, vast, noisy and fantastic!

The Monopoly board came to life as I travelled to Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Street, Mayfair, Kings Cross and Charing Cross stations and joined the throngs at Convent Garden. As a young journalist, I mooched around Fleet Street; confident I could walk into a job but I didn’t get past the stout girths of the doormen guarding the houses of the media mammoths. In the end, I was hired by the Agricultural Machinery Journal, a sister publication to Farmers Weekly, based in Sutton. It was presumed that, as a Kiwi girl, I must have grown up on a farm so would know all there was to know about agricultural machinery. I soon became the journal’s hydraulic expert and got to travel to agricultural shows all over Europe to examine, and write wisely about, the latest combine harvesters, ploughs and tractors. There were some perks, like staying in a chateau in France, which was hosting the launch of a new range of John Deere tractors.

For a couple of years my then partner, a Scotsman, and I lived in a drafty house in Wimbledon. It was divided into three flats over three storeys with only one bathroom on the middle floor. If you wanted a bath in the morning (there was no shower) you had to be first to dash upstairs to feed a coin into the ancient gas plumbing system to make the water run. Winters were freezing and the landlady discouraged the use of the barely effective radiators.

On weekends we’d wander on Wimbledon Common and have a ploughman’s lunch by the fire in one of the local pubs. I was also able to catch up with my many relatives living in London and marvel at the family likeness and many idiosyncrasies we shared, even though we’d grown up thousands of miles apart. We bought a VW combi van and became the Antipodean cliché, travelling to Europe then back to London to work again when the money ran out. At Christmas, when my New Zealand family was heading for the beach, we were chugging up a snowy A1 to Scotland, heaters full-bore, for a white Christmas and boozy Hogmanay.

I cried hopelessly as I flew out of London in 1979, a mix of the death of a relationship and acknowledgement I would miss this big, crazy complex city where, through a range of experiences, I had truly matured and rounded out as a young adult.

After settling back in New Zealand, I would return to England again in the summer of 2019 with my second husband and two grown-up daughters. As we landed at Heathrow, I immediately felt the old familiarity return. We stayed in London for a week, walking through Hyde Park, visiting Greenwich Village and taking in a show in West End. Oddly, I didn’t feel like a visitor. I never have. I guess London is part of my DNA.

As well as changing the course of my life the Killer Smog of 1952 drove British lawmakers to pass the world’s first comprehensive national air pollution law. The Clean Air Act of 1956 outlawed the emission of ‘smoke nuisances’ or ‘dark smoke’ and required new furnaces to emit little or no smoke.

Ironically, the act was passed the same year my parents turned their back on the UK and sailed for pastures anew. That law and subsequent clean-air initiatives have made London a place where its residents can breathe easier and need never fear the choking gloom that descended without warning so many years ago.

I thought twice about posting this photo, with its blunt assessment of New Zealand’s coalition government, but then I thought, who am I to censor the rage of our children.

The placard was moving along in front of us at a recent school climate march through the streets of Wellington. My husband and I decided to join the kids to offer some support in their demands for climate change action.

One of the politicians featured on the placard, Act leader David Seymour, admonished the students saying they should be in class. As Associate Education Minister, he said he expected schools to mark their absence as ‘unjustified’.

“Students going on strike today would make a bigger difference by showing up to school, working hard, and taking every opportunity to learn,” he said.

But the kids have learnt enough to know that, even if the politicians refuse to acknowledge it, the biggest threat to their futures is climate change.

They’re frustrated, like many kiwis, at the abandonment of emissions reduction and climate mitigation programmes in favour of industry-friendly policies – such as the scrapping of the ban on oil and gas exploration and the fast-track approvals framework. These policies enable mining, dairy farming and fisheries to thrive, regardless of the cost to the environment.

While political leaders wilfully turn a blind eye, the kids aren’t stupid. They learn about climate change at school and, like all of us, they are exposed to our increasingly chaotic weather that is already regularly destroying roads and infrastructure, displacing communities, causing deaths and costing our economy millions.

It’s these young people and their descendants that will live through the worst of what’s ahead.

Just imagine viewing the future through the eyes of a 16-year-old. Dire predictions about the consequences of global warming - water degradation, crop failures, biodiversity collapse and unsurvivable heatwaves – are not just concepts - they are their tomorrow.

One of the additional demands of the protesters that day was for the voting age to lowered from 18 to 16. If ever there was a time in history where young people need greater agency over their lives, this is it.

In advance of their January 2026 meeting at Davos, the World Economic Forum (WEF) published an updated assessment of the threats facing humanity. They lay out in terrifying detail how different the backdrop to our children’s future lives will be to their parents.

In the face of such considered predictions from a global authority, it’s alarming that our government is not acting with greater urgency to cut carbon emissions and to support New Zealanders to adapt and prepare for what we know is ahead. Instead, their focus is on ‘growing the economy’. This short-termism makes no sense because without a healthy environment there will be no economy. We will be bankrupted by constant repair and remediation after extreme weather events, food supplies will be disrupted, clean water harder to come by and increasing insurance costs will put home ownership out of reach of most.

No wonder the kids are scared. They have every right to be and to tell them that their absence from school is ‘unjustified’ when their very futures are at stake is patronising, insulting and supremely arrogant.

In 2004 I was commissioned to write a book for US schools about oil.

The brief was pretty straight forward – to explain its origins, how it’s extracted, refined and used.

The assignment turned out to be anything but straight forward. The story of oil is so enmeshed in geo-political posturing that pinning down the facts was almost as hard extracting oil itself.

For example, the question of who first drilled for oil is contested, with both the US and Russia claiming credit. Given the book was aimed at American kids, the publisher opted to feature Edwin Drake, who struck oil in August 1859 in Titusville, Pennsylvania. With a caution that underscores every sentence in the book, I note I was careful to say Drake found the first underground source of oil ‘in the United States’.

The publication is only 30 pages long, one of many titles I wrote for American schools, but the research was exhaustive and I certainly learnt a lot. To my shame, I remember grasping for the first time why oil is called a ‘fossil fuel’.

This is the way I explained it to the kids:

The thick black liquid we call crude oil is actually the remains of tiny plants and animals that lived in the ocean millions of years ago. When they died and sank to the ocean floor their remains were slowly buried under layers of sand and mud. Over time, pressure turned the animal and plant remains into oil.

So, it took about 350 million years to brew this prehistoric elixir that has become so crucial to our lives on earth. We’ve long known it will run out one day - best estimates say 50 years - yet we continue to suck it from the veins of our ever-giving planet as though it’s going to last forever.

We knew oil supplies were finite in 2004 when I wrote the book but more than 20 years later it seems nothing has changed. The world still relies on fossil fuels - coal, oil and gas - for around 80 per cent of its energy needs and demand is growing rather than diminishing.

The text also makes reference to scientific opinion that burning oil was contributing to the production of greenhouse gases and global warming. Still, we continue to rely on it with no rush to find alternative energy sources or to educate people about the lifestyle changes needed to reduce dependency on petrol and gas.

Of course, we know even more about the climate impacts these days but, even with violent storms, floods and wildfires destroying homes, roading and infrastructure and displacing communities, our love-affair with fossil fuels continues. Negligent political leaders continue to renew mining and drilling licences and to protect the worst emitters.

Those leaders will be long gone when the wells finally run dry. It will be left to future generations to deal with the dual problems of how to power transport and industry into the future, as well as how to survive on a planet smothered by combusting fossil fuels.

Apart from anything else, if the current Trump-triggered blockade of global oil supplies doesn’t give us further cause to consider the folly of our dependence on oil, it’s hard to imagine what will.

As I slot the slim volume back onto my bookshelf, I consider the title. ‘Black Gold’ is a term used to describe oil because of its potential to fuel economic growth and improve our lives. With its history of stoking conflict and destroying our planet, perhaps it’s actually turned out to be fool’s gold.

I plonk the schnauzer on the table and slip a corded loop over her head. She gives me the side eye that schnauzers are very good at - a cross between resignation and disdain.

I’m dressed in an upside down black polyethene rubbish bag with holes cut out for my head and arms. I am wearing a face mask and my reading glasses - essential kit for the task at hand.

It’s dog grooming day for the two household hounds - and nobody is happy about it. Ruby, our 4-year-old mini schnauzer, tenses slightly as I swipe a slicker brush through her coat. Rosie, an elderly Cairn terrier, has retreated under the bed.

Reaching retirement with two dogs that need regular grooming was not a smart move. With six-weekly salon visits around $85 for each dog, I’ve swapped professional services for a DIY version that is, shall we say, still evolving.

To equip myself I’ve bought a cheap grooming table and splashed out on some professional clippers, that have already paid for themselves. I have watched dozens of YouTube demonstrations and further perfected my technique – unfortunately for the dogs - through trial and error.

Laid out on the top of the washing machine, adjacent to the grooming table, are an array of scissors, brushes and metal combs. Some I got from the global Chinese warehouse with a name starting with T. Others, including elegant scissors with a curved blade, came from a professional dog grooming salon that was closing down.

Ruby is impressed by none of it. She knows that, despite the impressive display of tools, I am a complete amateur, and her ordeal is about to begin.

I plug the clippers into the wall socket and blow on the blade. I am pretty sure I see her roll her eyes. Seconds later, the blades are cutting a swathe through her coat and there is no going back.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that throughout my lifelong journey of dog ownership, I have managed to prove the old adage that people look like their dogs. When I was young and lean and running most days, I had a sleek and leggy hunting hound. Today I have a dog with grey curly hair, much like mine, and my husband’s eyebrows.

Since I began wielding my own clippers, I have a whole new respect for dog groomers. I reckon they more than earn their fee, especially having to deal with nervous or matted dogs, let alone the expectations of some owners.

As I have developed my skills, my dogs have variously displayed bald patches, lopsided whiskers and obvious clipper tracks. Thankfully not as awful as the literal furball whose photo went viral after he was taken to a US salon. His owners had managed to shave his head but didn’t feel confident tackling the rest.

Interesting, because I find trimming the body relatively easy. It’s the face, legs and paws that can be tricky. Most dogs don’t like clippers being run across their ears or having their snout held as you scissor their face. It also requires skill to excavate fur from between their sensitive pads. I’ve gotten better at it but snipping around the nether regions still brings me out in a sweat. I’m guessing it’s even more nerve wracking for the dogs!

After an hour of clipping and snipping, with one cuppa break, Ruby is done. I lower her to the floor where she shakes off the residual fluff. She was the easy one. Rosie, now 14, has had a mixed record with groomers, once chomping on a hand and drawing blood. After that she was required to be sedated and wear a muzzle. As the owner of the hand that feeds her I like to think I am immune from attack, but she is not exactly compliant. When I finally retrieve her from under the bed, she tolerates a light body trim but snaps at the clippers when I try to do her ears. We manage a bit of scissoring around the face and a ‘hygiene cut’ around the back end. That will have to do.

I peel off my makeshift coverall and flop into a chair, snorting fur from my nose. My husband nods favourably. “They look pretty good.” I smile proudly, accepting a glass of wine. Then he peers more closely at Ruby, who is now sitting on his lap. He smooths a hand over her rump and frowns. “Oh, hold on. You missed a bit here.”

If David Attenborough were observing himself from afar, he might say “The wise old male doesn’t move far from his home these days. At 100 years old, he has outlived most of his troop but still commands huge respect throughout the vast lands he once roamed.”

Attenborough began his career in 1954, the year I was born. I remember watching his fascinating wildlife documentaries on a faltering black and white TV and am still devouring them in full, high definition colour. It’s hard to think of anyone else who has been such a wise, consistent and solid advocate for nature except, perhaps, Jane Goodhall.

David Attenborough is an example of what age and accumulated wisdom can offer the world – a unique perspective, quiet authority and hours of stunning images of the wonders of our planet. As well as knowledge of what we stand to lose unless we act urgently to protect it.

The message has never been alarmist or preachy and never about him. Simply an appeal to all of us to share the wonder of the natural world and to do all we can to protect it for the sake of future generations – something very personal to him. “If my grandchildren were to look at me and say, ‘You were aware species were disappearing and you did nothing, you said nothing’, that I think is culpable.”

Here in New Zealand a January 2025 assessment by the Department of Conservation found that 351 (31%) of 1145 native species assessed are highly vulnerable to climate change by mid-century, increasing to 746 (65%) by 2100. Highly vulnerable species include all native bat species, fairy terns, alpine wētā, and 50 percent of seabirds.

Climate change is making life harder and survivability more difficult for species that are already rare or struggling.

Our coalition government has signaled a disturbing disregard for the environmental stewardship and climate change mitigation. Thankfully this is being challenged in the high court in Wellington.

Earlier this year two groups representing hundreds of top environment lawyers lodged a case against the government over what they say is its “dangerously inadequate” plan to reduce emissions to net zero by 2050.

Lawyers for Climate Action NZ and the Environmental Law Initiative – who represent more than 300 lawyers – filed judicial review proceedings in court in March 2025.

The groups argue the government has abandoned dozens of policies to tackle emissions, failed to adequately consult the public, and rely too heavily on high-risk carbon capture strategies such as forestry to offset carbon emissions.

The government’s plan was “fundamentally unambitious” and a “dangerous regression” for the country, Jessica Palairet, the executive director of Lawyers for Climate Action NZ told the Guardian.

With the decision due any day now, this is one to watch. Particularly with the election just months away.

His perfect little feet dig for purchase in the sand as he takes a few unsteady steps toward the ocean. His hands are outstretched, perhaps reaching for the seabirds bobbing on the tide just beyond him. My daughter and I share a smile as two curly wisps on the back of his head dance in the light breeze. We’ve been watching this spouting frizz with interest, hoping he has inherited the curly-haired gene shared by her and I.

Curl watching, nursery rhyme singing, buggy pushing and nappy changing dominated our lives for three precious weeks recently as my husband and I enjoyed a visit from our South Africa based daughter and 17-month-old grandson.

Watching this newly-minted human experiencing the world for the first time triggered a cascade of emotions – love, awe and wonder. With our adult children grown and flown, we’d forgotten the joy and total absorption of having a little person in the household, making a beeline for wall sockets, fragile ornaments and the resident dogs.

I found myself constantly swooping in to save him from his risky explorations, all the time harboring a nagging fear that there are bigger threats on the horizon I can’t protect him from. As I laughed at his antics, splashing in the pool, giggling on the swing and shoveling a fistful of blueberries into his mouth, news bulletins told of an escalation of hostilities in Iran and, closer to home, a life-threatening cyclone heading our way.

How have we enabled the rise to power of egoistical tyrants who yank on the levers of power with such scant regard for the consequences for humanity? How have we, against all the warnings, continued to plunder our planet to the point it has already become uninhabitable for many treasured species and will continue to become hostile to many more, including ultimately us.

Such questions have unsettled me for some time but having our young grandson around brought a terrifying reality into my consciousness that has continued to erode my sense of entitlement to a comfortable retirement.

In our blended family, we have six grandchildren ranging in age from 17 months to 21 years. They are all great kids making their way in the world, but they didn’t ask to inherit a planet choking with byproducts of our greedy and profligate lifestyles. They didn’t vote for the old white men off setting their flagging potency by hurling missiles into countries they have no business invading. These geriatric vandals will be long gone when the crops fail, land masses are lost to the oceans and fresh water becomes more precious than oil. It is future generations – our children, grandchildren and great grandchildren that will inherit the unimaginable consequences.

Concern about this legacy is mobilising grandparents globally. Grandmothers, particularly, are forming themselves into groups and dedicating their retirement to leaving a better world behind. In the US you’ll find the Eco Elders, Seniors for Climate Action and Climate Grannies. A few years back in Lancashire, a county in Northwest England, a group of older women, known as the Anti-Fracking Nanas, occupied a site earmarked for exploration by a huge oil and gas company.

It’s possible that the drive by grandmothers to protect future generations is driven by biological as well as social imperatives. The ‘grandmother hypothesis’ posits that human females, along with just a handful of other mammals, such as elephants and orcas, have evolved for just this role. That a human female’s reproductive years cease relatively early in their lives so that they can step in and help raise their grandchildren. This enables and supports mothers to focus their energy and resources on having more children at shorter intervals. The scientific justification is that a grandmother enables the birth of more descendants, leaving more copies of her genes in subsequent generations.

Responding to the question why they have become climate change activists, most grandmothers say their motivated by one thing - wanting a better future for their grandchildren. Hazel Chandler, a 78-year-old US activist, attends protests and organises letter writing campaigns aimed at politicians and lawmakers. She says, “when I look my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren, my children, in the eye, I have to be able to say, ‘I did everything I could to protect you,’” Chandler says. “I have to be able to tell them that I’ve done everything possible within my ability to help move us forward.”

Perhaps the most prominent senior climate change campaigner is the actor, Jane Fonda. The octogenarian grandmother has been arrested during climate protests a number of times and funds the campaigns of “climate champions” in local and state elections.

Here in Zealand, two years ago, peak-hour traffic chaos ensued when protesters staged a sit in on the motorway into Wellington.

Most people waking to the news may have imagined a cohort of young people from Greenpeace or another activist group, but it turns out one of the protesters was a 63-year-old woman.

Rosemary Penwarden, a retired scientist representing the group Restore Passenger Rail, cemented her hand to the bitumen. It took some time to remove her as cars honked and frustrated commuters fumed. Penwarden said she took the action because, as a grandmother, she wanted to bring attention to the urgency of the climate crisis.

“After more than a decade of climate protesting, writing letters, signing petitions and speaking at select committees, local body meetings and hearings against oil and coal industry applications, almost always stacked against the natural world, I was ready to get more uncomfortable for the sake of my grandkids.”

Penwarden already has a criminal record after being convicted and discharged along with three others for willful trespass for occupying an oil support vessel in Timaru Harbour. In 2023, she was sentenced to 125 hours’ community service for writing a satirical email pretending to be New Zealand’s oil and gas industry leaders and shakers, postponing the 2019 Petroleum Conference due to the climate crisis. She was convicted of forgery.

Climate apathy alive and well in Aotearoa

Unlike Penwarden, it seems that most Kiwis aren’t that exercised about climate change. Even after a summer of extreme weather-related events - including the fatal landslides in Mount Maunganui and Tauranga - climate change is not shaping up as a significant election issue. According to research conducted by Dr Sam Crawley from Victoria University, public opinion surveys rate climate change about 8^th on the list of issues Kiwis are concerned about.

“The number of people who cast their vote with climate change in mind seems to be growing—but slowly.

“There is undoubtedly enough public concern about the climate that we’ll hear about it during the election campaign, in debates, and in party manifestos. But as a pivotal issue it is likely to be eclipsed by the cost of living and healthcare.”

This seems remarkable, given the vulnerability of our maritime nation and plenty of evidence climate change is already claiming lives, destroying property and infrastructure and significantly affecting our economy.

Perhaps our present government, which has deprioritised environmental issues and rolled back climate mitigation policies, has set the tone for this national indifference. The fact is, without a healthy environment, we won’t have an economy. And, if long-term predictions come to pass about the effect of climate change on our health - sizzling temperatures, new parasites and diseases, water and food shortages - we’ll have way more to worry about than whether we can get onto a hospital waiting list.

Whilst I have huge admiration for Rosemary Penwarden, who spent time in Arohata prison, then confined to her home wearing an ankle bracelet, I know I would never have the courage to cement my hand to a roadway. I do know though, for the sake of my grandchildren, I need to do more than simply ruminate on the tragic injustice of it all.

As I pick up my grandson, brush the sand off his legs and carry him from the beach, I feel the weight of not just one child but the collective weight of millions just like him.

I came across The Essential Fairy while researching standout children’s picture books with a real-world news connection — and the story behind it genuinely stopped me.

Nice one. Thanks Kev.

Kevin went on to blow sunshine up my proverbial before finally coming to the point.

I am a book marketing strategist who specializes in Amazon and Goodreads visibility for authors. Given that you have a full catalogue of titles, there is a real opportunity here to build a connected discovery system where a parent who finds The Essential Fairy naturally finds Viola Vincent, Bo, and your other books too. That kind of momentum compounds over time.

Well yes. Who wouldn’t want that? So, I asked Kevin for some proof of his credentials. He sent a link to his Instagram profile and website.

I work with a team called EpicLens, where we specialize in helping authors increase their discoverability on Amazon and Goodreads through strategic optimization.

…and there was a photo of the man himself.

Not only does Kevin possess movie-star good looks - he was also super interested in my work - and so generous.

I did take a closer look at The Essential Fairy’s Amazon page, and there are a few quick wins that could make a real difference in how often it shows up in search results.

If you’re open to it, I’d be happy to send over a few specific observations — completely free, no strings attached. Warmly, Kevin

Last week it was Mary, who ‘reached out’. In her profile photo Mary presents as a motherly librarian.

Like Kevin, Mary was totally wowed by my work. This time it was my kid’s picture book, Bo, a tale about an ex-racing greyhound who is adopted as a pet.

Stories like Bo quietly shape the empathy of entire generations. They help children understand compassion, resilience, and the beauty of giving and receiving second chances. In a world where kindness is needed more than ever, Bo offers a message that heals, teaches, and inspires.

Why, thank you Mary. That’s exactly the messaging I was going for. How can I help?

I would be honoured to support Bo in reaching the readers whose hearts are waiting for a story exactly like this.

What author wouldn’t be flattered to receive such glowing appraisals of their work? What a pity Kevin and Mary are parasitic, bastard scammers. Just two of dozens who infest my inbox daily.

Their profile photos are either stock images or the identities of real people stolen off the internet, the websites are fake and these scamsters will do you like a dog’s dinner if you’re not careful.

The publishing world is awash with scams targeting writers, particularly self-published authors craving recognition and success in a highly competitive global industry.

They are relentless, persistent and highly persuasive.

I’m not sure how I unwittingly invited these bots into my life. My exposure began late last year when I uploaded a new children’s book to Amazon.

Since then, I have been getting up to four or five scam emails a day.

According to the Writer Beware website these particular scams originate in Nigeria. There was a time when you could spot a Nigerian scam by the poor English. Not so with these modern-day versions, aided by the internet and Artificial Intelligence.

AI has enabled scammers to trawl authors’ online websites, book blurbs and reviews and then send emails that appear to demonstrate a profound and intimate understanding of their work. Writers, who may struggle to get noticed, can feel someone has finally recognised their work, the motivation of their characters and deeper themes.

‘Israel’ seemed to really ‘get’ the 13-year-old protagonist in my environmentally themed novel ‘Troubled Water’.

Let’s be honest Troubled Water isn’t just a kids’ adventure. It’s a story that reflects the real world: environmental crises, divided communities, and a 13-year-old with more grit than most adults.

This type of feedback can be affirming and validating to aspiring writers. While approaches to agents and publishers go unanswered, the scammers fill the void, peddling promises and false hope.

Relentless

These con artists are hugely persistent, repeatedly following up the original email in subsequent days and weeks.

In fact, as I am writing this article, ‘Kevin’ pops up again, this time in my SPAM folder because I have reported ‘him’.

I noticed my last message hasn’t gone unread, so I wanted to check in one more time — without any pressure at all.

If you’re still weighing things up or have any questions about how I work or what the process looks like, I’m genuinely happy to answer them…
If the timing simply isn’t right, that’s completely fine too — I just didn’t want to disappear without giving you a proper chance to reach back out if you wanted to. Warmly, Kevin.

It is very tedious and time consuming. I have blocked so many of these email addresses but still they come. Different names. Same shit.

Testimonials

Even when you question the validity of these approaches, they come back with something like…

I completely understand your caution — you’re absolutely right to verify.

Then they’ll refer you to testimonials from famous authors they claim have used their services. The email addresses are fake of course and just lead back to the scammer.

On her website, ‘Mary’ has an impressive list of well-known authors who apparently think she’s the bee’s knees. However, when I contacted some via their real email addresses (surprise, surprise) they’d never heard of her.

Fake book groups

The other scam I have encountered, too often to recount, is requests from American book clubs wanting to feature my work.

Typically, I am contacted by a friendly club representative who says my book has been chosen for discussion at an upcoming meeting. This exposure I am told can open the door to new readers and potentially more sales. For the privilege…

…. we do ask featured authors for a small setup contribution, which helps cover promotions, newsletter placements, refreshments, and snacks for attendees. Authors we’ve featured in the past usually contribute in the range of $90–$165. I’d love to know if you’re open to contributing and what amount within that range you’d be comfortable with.

In these cases, the scammers use the social media profiles of actual book clubs and the names of real representatives. So, if you check them out, nothing appears to be amiss – except that the email addresses (usually Hotmail or Gmail) are bogus.

Once bitten….

In the past few months, I’ve learnt more about these scams than I ever wanted to know but not before I myself got done over.

Embarrassing - particularly for a journalist.

I was enticed into an online relationship with Shopia (a misspelling of Sophia perhaps, which should have been the first clue).

Shopia convinced me she had the skills to elevate the profile of my books on Amazon and Goodreads by tweaking the necessary algorithms. Most authors are creators rather than marketers and only too happy to contract this stuff out.

Over a period of months, ‘she’ wound me in like a fish. There were daily emails, detailed schedules of her planned promotions and even advice on how not to be scammed!

At first, I bought the basic package but was persuaded over time to spend more with the promise of greater returns and certain growth. It was a bruising, costly and upsetting experience that left me feeling foolish and exploited.

Most writers I know are trusting types, possibly more emotionally fragile than most and often socially isolated. When the instruments of our trade, our laptops and PCs, become a front door for criminals to enter and manipulate us, it feels deeply personal. When they feign interest in our work to do so, it is especially cruel.

The scams I have mentioned are only a fraction of those circulating. There are a host of others originating in Pakistan and the Philippines. Thankfully there is an organisation tracking the growth of this industry and updating writers on the latest scams. The Writer Beware website is an offshoot of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association. Co-founder Victoria Stauss says today’s writers are ‘swimming in an ocean of scams’ - the worst she has seen in 25 years the watchdog has been operating.

The warnings came a little late for me, but I am deeply grateful for the work Writer Beware does to keep writers safe. It is worth checking out the website but here are some simple tips to avoid being scammed by the likes of Kevin and Mary.

• Be wary of cold callers – email approaches out of the blue from someone you don’t know offering you something that sounds too good to be true.

• Don’t fall for the flattery – The OTT gushing about your work. Who even talks like that?

• Don’t pay upfront fees for representation, marketing or publishing opportunities.

• Verify email domains and contact identities by finding official websites or LinkedIn profiles.

• If in doubt, ask on writing community forums and check the databases of established watchdog sites like as Writer Beware for known scams.

Photo by Kaitlyn Baker on Unsplash

It was a trendy Auckland cafe where two old friends chose to meet for a catch up. Not the typical clientele this pair. Two older Kiwi mates in collared knit shirts amongst the active wear and young mums meeting for a coffee catch up, their toddlers bonding in a corner playpen. A harried waitress appeared before them notebook and pen in hand. “What can I get you?”

One of the men looked up and smiled. “Just a coffee please.”

“Same,” added his companion.

The waitress pursed her lips, looking just a tad impatient. “Flat white, latte, cappuccino? The multi choice of coffee types and sizes was just becoming a thing but obviously not in the places these guys usually meet.

The man’s smile turned to an awkward grimace. “I’ll just have tea,” he said. His mate nodded. “Make that two.”

In the face of change we often take the path of least resistance.

I was reminded of this recently when I was reflecting on the fragmentation of the writing industry. There was a time when a writer was a writer and a versatile one, with a good brief and audience in mind, could turn their hand to anything required. Throughout my career, I have written essays, features articles, OpEds, documentary scripts, TV news stories, blogs, case studies, human interest stories, explainers, technical guides, persuasive emails and website content. As a published author, I have written fiction and non-fiction for kids of all ages.

I am a writer.

I am a writer but despite my proven skills and experience, I find the modern freelance industry frustratingly complex and somewhat intimidating. Seems it’s not good enough anymore to simply be a writer. To compete for the scraps in this shrinking industry, where redundant journalists are pitted against communications professionals, the cocky unskilled and increasingly AI, you have to fillet your skills. You must catergorise yourself as a copywriter, a ghost writer, a content creator, a technical writer, an SEO writer, a B2B (business to business) writer, a B2C (business to consumer) writer, a medical writer, a financial writer, a grant writer, copy editor, proofreader and so the list goes on. For even short term and low-paid roles you must provide a polished portfolio as proof of your specialty. It’s all so tedious, exhausting and ridiculously overblown.

I don’t know how this stratification or over-specialisation of what are, after all, just writing jobs came about but, in my experience, manufactured terminology and labelling is usually about pomposity and patch protection and the power to select and exclude.

What I do know is that I have absolute faith in my ability, with instructive onboarding and a clear brief, to provide any type of writing needed by any employer or industry in any format required. As a journalist, I am very good at absorbing then explaining complex things.

I feel for people who are competing in this crowded industry to support their families and create a future. To be honest I just can’t be arsed joining the fray.

Like the two old fellas in the cafe, you can keep your multi-choice coffee selection. I’ll just have a cup of tea and find ways to showcase and promote my own writing rather than contort my creativity into some saleable commodity.

For a couple of months last year, I volunteered at a local hospital as ward visitor. This involved ambling through the wards initiating conversations with patients and providing the unhurried human contact that stretched health staff no longer have time for.

The hospital’s main role is as a rehabilitation facility for older people recovering from joint replacements, heart surgery, strokes and falls. Typically, patients are over 70 and usually there for weeks rather than days, as they adjust to their diminished health status and changed life circumstances.

One thing that struck me, over multiple conversations, was the number of people whose children now live offshore - mostly in Australia. The impact for seniors facing a life changing health crisis of having no immediate family close by is huge. A son or daughter now resident in Sydney or Melbourne may initially dash home to help but, with families and jobs to go back to, most can’t stay to provide the long-term support their parents invariably need.

Record numbers of young people aged 18 to 30 are leaving New Zealand, not for the traditional OE – but for good. I’m not blaming the kids. Shut out of the housing market, facing high unemployment and extortionate grocery and energy prices, many feel compelled to seek a better life across the ditch.

Hayden Fisher told the Guardian last year that when he moved to Sydney from Wellington in late 2024, the financial gains were immediate.

He said in New Zealand he was “putting groceries on Afterpay” and would regularly spend half of his wages on the weekly food shop. In Australia, he’s spending about a quarter of that amount.

Working in a bookshop, the 24-year-old says he has “a path to economic stability”, which felt impossible in Wellington.

“I love New Zealand, I love the people, the culture … but I feel like the National party are mismanaging it.”

Harriet Baker, 33, her husband Cameron and 2-year-old son Teddy have moved to Perth.

Speaking to the Guardian she said, “When we bought our house I said, ‘You’ll be taking me out of here in a casket.” However, the couple felt they had no choice but to sell their home and buy a one-way ticket across the ditch. “The living costs just keep climbing, you’re working hard and you can’t put any money away – it felt like we were treading water.”

Cameron will work as a heavy diesel mechanic in the mines while Harriet, formerly a public servant, will be the primary caregiver.

Harriet said she’d like to give Teddy a Kiwi upbringing around his New Zealand-based grandparents, but she knows that might not happen.

“It does feel crazy that we’re leaving them. But that Australian income just flipped the switch for us.”

Demographers are worried about the impact of the exodus on Zealand population dynamics, particularly in light of our steep decline in fertility and rapidly ageing population. But behind the stats are sad stories of fractured families and ageing parents destined to have screentime relationships with their grandchildren and to face the future alone.

While our government bangs on about economic growth, we’re driving our brightest and most productive citizens and future taxpayers away. It’s hard to imagine any will be in a rush to return as our political leaders renege on climate change commitments, inflame race relations, treat unique and endangered species as dispensable and erode the very essence of what it is to be a proud New Zealander.

Whilst most parents understand the conditions that drove their kids away, it can be hard to accept the consequences of distant relationships with their grandkids and to know that when their health declines they may be at the mercy of an aged care system already stretched to breaking point.

Took these pics on my regular beach walk this week. I live in coastal New Zealand, and these seawalls have stood for the 30 years I have been walking my various canine companions past them - that is, until last weekend. The local ostriches will say ‘So what? This happens occasionally.’

Yeah, right! The same people are watching tragedies unfolding in coastal communities around New Zealand and imagining this is not on the cards for them. I continue to see new constructions and renovations crazily close to the ocean and buttressed seawalls going up at huge expense. How arrogant we are to think that some stout posts and cables are going to make any difference at all when nature finally bites back.

A few years back I worked at our local council when they embarked on a campaign to increase public awareness about what the future might look like for our beachside community. They broached the controversial subject of ‘managed retreat’. The messaging was pretty upfront in predicting the eventual loss of coastal roads, rail lines and key infrastructure such as water and stormwater pipes.

Apart from a few interested individuals turning up to the events, it seems most people just didn’t have the stomach for it. A collective of beach-front property owners then took the council to court and challenged the science. After a battering of its own, the council itself performed a managed retreat and, as far as I can see, has not ventured to raise the subject again.

This has happened all over our complacent little nation. People fighting those who deliver the unpalatable message at a local level while central government backtracks on climate mitigation measures and treats the destruction of one community after another as single, unfortunate weather events.

I wonder what it will take for people to wake up and smell the ocean. Perhaps when the water is lapping at the foot of their lazy boys as they watch the news and snort at another climate scientist yelling into the void.

I feel less like an older woman these days than a preservation project.

Like a rusting super tanker, I’ve become used to being framed as an ageing vessel that requires a daily maintenance regime to keep afloat.

I run, dabble with weights, rub emollients into my wrinkles and do crosswords to keep my brain sharp - but this week I learnt there is something else I must urgently attend to.

Old Person Odour!

Outed by an algorithm. At 71 I am being targeted by this breathtakingly unsubtle social shaming.

Watch the short video here → (14) Facebook

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry on being assailed with this knowledge. I frantically consulted Google, as you do, and learnt ‘Old Person Odour’ is indeed a thing. I guess I was vaguely aware but this full frontal ‘you have it and you need to eliminate it or ….

· you will deposit your oily residue on clothing, bedding, furniture

· you will be socially ostracised

· your grandchildren will reel away from you’

…was all too much.

There’s a particular cruelty in the phrase ‘Old person odour.’ It doesn’t describe a natural biological change; it delivers a judgment. It suggests that ageing, as expressed through bodily changes, is offensive and embarrassing - something that needs to be urgently attended to.

Japanese persimmon soap has found a global market by promising to do exactly that. The advertising is calm, scientific, reassuring. Aging produces a compound called 2-nonenal. Ordinary soap won’t remove it. This soap will. Problem solved.

Except the problem isn’t odour. It’s what we’ve decided odour means at this stage of our lives.

People smell differently at different life stages. We coo about the sweet smell of babies and joke about the whiff of teenage boys, but it seems Old Person Odour (also called ‘Old People smell’ and ‘Old Lady Smell’) is no laughing matter. It is framed as disgusting, socially offensive and potentially harmful to your relationships with your family.

Unlike ordinary deodorant marketing, which treats smell as part of being human, persimmon soap advertising treats smell as a consequence of aging and therefore as a kind of failure. The message is not ‘bodies change’ but that ‘aging bodies offend’. Growing older is framed as something that makes you less welcome in the world, unless you take steps to neutralise yourself.

This is ageism at its most marketable. No insults, no caricatures, just a repeated insistence that old age must be managed so it doesn’t inconvenience others.

The emotional hook is almost always relational. Grandchildren who want to cuddle again. Partners who can relax. Family harmony restored once the smell is gone. These scenes are presented as tender, even loving, but the real message is brutal: affection is conditional. Intimacy is something you earn back by fixing your body.

If you smell ‘old’ the ads imply, you are imposing. You are asking too much of the people who love you.

That idea lands harder because it builds on something already familiar. We live in a culture that treats aging as a problem to be solved, not a reality to be accommodated. Persimmon soap doesn’t invent that discomfort it simply monetises it. Aging is recast as a hygiene issue, and shame is reframed as self-care.

Singling out women

Although these products are apparently effective for both men and women, the advertising is deeply gendered. The emphasis on self-monitoring, social acceptability, and responsibility for others’ comfort echoes decades of messaging aimed at women. Don’t be too visible. Don’t be unpleasant. Don’t make anyone else uncomfortable.

In one promotional reel a woman claims that since using the soap, her husband has told her she smells nice, which he has apparently has never done before (!). What about him? I am guessing, unless he’s a toy boy, he is equally whiffy. In the few clips men do appear, they are the ‘experts’, mansplaining the problem – rather than admitting to having it.

Scientifically proven

Like all cosmetic and personal hygiene marketing, Japanese persimmon soap uses questionable science to sell its product. Its website refers to one clinical study where a group of men (Yes!) used the soap for 4 weeks and ‘The amount of 2-nonenal from their bodies decreased significantly’.

The appeal to science gives a reassuring neutrality but it’s not being used here to normalise a biological process but to underpin the message that the senior body is in a state of decay, and the embarrassing by-products need to be managed, eliminated.

None of this is about denying that bodies change, or that people may want to manage odour. It’s about questioning why aging itself is framed as a problem and why the natural processes of later life are singled out as socially unacceptable rather than inevitable.

Persimmon soap doesn’t just clean the body. It polices it. It teaches older people to experience their own presence as potentially offensive, to anticipate rejection, to take pre-emptive responsibility for other people’s comfort.

In a culture already terrified of aging, this kind of advertising doesn’t offer dignity. It offers conditional belonging – at a cost - probably beyond the budget of most seniors.

I’m not questioning the efficacy of this product. I really don’t know (if you buy the premise) whether it works - but surely, given the size of our ageing population, it could sell word-of-mouth through networks of satisfied customers. Do we really need a highly visible campaign that so cruelly shames older people and perpetuates unfair and outdated stereotypes, particularly of older women? I don’t think so.

All the images that feature in this article were taken from Swarva’s own online advertising.

During the Covid-19 pandemic I wrote a children’s book called The Essential Fairy. It was inspired by New Zealand’s former Prime Minister Dame Jacinda Ardern addressing the concerns of children during the lockdown by declaring the Tooth Fairy and Easter Bunny ‘essential’ workers.

Ardern was responding to kids who’d written to her worried the pair wouldn’t be able to do their rounds during the pandemic.

The story follows the plight of six-year-old Ruth (a fictional character) who loses her front tooth during the lockdown and is dismayed when the Tooth Fairy doesn’t show up to collect it. Her dad shrugs off her concerns, but Ruth is certain there must be some mistake, so she writes to the Prime Minister.

Ardern takes Ruth’s concerns seriously and uses a televised press briefing to reassure concerned children that the Tooth Fairy is indeed an essential worker and can do her rounds during the pandemic. Same for the Easter Bunny.

The actual announcement and clip of the press conference made global headlines.

I wanted to capture the story as a piece of social and political history but also because the action demonstrated to children that their voices matter. While questions over the status of the Tooth Fairy may seem trivial, with everything else that was going on, the PM took the matter seriously and spoke directly to children to clarify the situation. I think that was a big deal for kids and I imagine many watching the press briefing grew a little taller that day.

The gesture showcased Ardern’s refreshing style of political leadership, which values inclusivity, empathy and kindness. During those dark days of the pandemic, kids were absorbing the distress and fears of their parents and other adults in their lives. By acknowledging and speaking directly to them on national television, the PM made them feel part of the national effort to combat Covid - members of the so-called ‘team of five million’.

The book has been a huge hit with kids who love that Ruth went into bat for their mythical heroes. Parents appreciate the themes of empowerment, workers’ rights and the message to kids that people can influence change through individual or collective action. However, any attempt to promote my book on social media brings out the haters, trolls and bots, so I no longer bother.

Ardern remains a polarising figure in her own country, her very name capable of engendering the most hateful, typically misogynistic, commentary. I’m not giving an inch to those minority looney sentiments here. My interest is in children, their right to be considered as the inheritors of this sad planet and to believe they matter. Through her actions, Ardern sent that message loud and clear and I hope my book amplifies it. I’d be delighted if it sowed a seed in the minds of young readers, our future citizens, that they too could achieve change by standing up for causes that feel wrong or unjust.

The Essential Fairy is published by Tiromoana Publishing and available for purchase on my website or on Amazon.