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Coleman Sleeplite Camp Pad $44.99 Aerobed make innovative air beds that are perfect for when you have extra visitors or are heading away for the weekend. Our extensive Aerobed collection includes the innovative Backpack Bed air mattress. Ideal for travellers, this air bed packs away into its bag for easy transport. Shop Aerobed products today and get the right air bed for you. There are no products in this section Back to Harvey NormanWith more than a billion dollars in damage caused, towns cut off after roads were destroyed and now torrential rain - it is fair to say New Zealand has seen better days.But two boys have been filmed making the best of a bad situation after turning two blow-up mattresses into rafts.The pair were pictured piloting their creations through floodwaters in Plimmerton, near Wellington, on the country's North Island. One has decked his craft out with a camping chair on top to allow for maximum relaxation while drifting along.Meanwhile the other boy appears to be using a pool cue in order to push his along like a gondola.
Wellington is located around 300km from the town of Culverden, where the epicentre of the 7.8-magnitude earthquake was located.After sustaining earthquake damage, the area has now been hit with torrential rain which has caused groundwater flooding. Two boys have been filmed surfing through floodwaters in New Zealand on a floating mattress using a pool cue to punt themselves along following the country's devastating earthquakeHills, destabilised by the earthquake, have also been collapsing - with more than 100,000 landslides recorded across New Zealand in recent days.The areas around the earthquake epicentre are also being hit with frequent, sometimes powerful aftershocks, with 1,200 registered since the initial quake.Prime Minister John Key has said the damage will take months to repair, adding that the bill will likely be 'in the billions of dollars'.Two people were also killed around Kaikoura, which bore the brunt of damage from the powerful earthquake.Step 1: Tools + MaterialsShow All ItemsTools:
vacuumMaterials:Bicycle inner tube repair kit rubber patch / contact cement / metal scoring disktime: 10 minutesLisa Scott has packed up her marital belongings, put them into storage and is heading north on her 'Divorce Roady'. Sometimes my darlings (now would be a good time to cover the ears of any children in the room), fairytales don't end with a happily-ever after. Sometimes, the witch eats you. Blame Disney if you like. Instead of hacking through the enchanted thorn forest to save the princess, sometimes the prince just calls her an idiot, leaving her single at 46 (so much sadder than being single at 26) and smelling of eau de pathetic.Like a film running backwards fast, a house pain-stakingly furnished and decorated over 15 years takes less than three hours to pack up. Grey rectangles of thick woolly dust appear in the spaces things have been, a spinning top, old postcards fallen behind. The shifters have seen/heard it all before: the bewildered look, the desperate humour – and exude the calm of big cat keepers as you pace the rapidly-emptying rooms.
Scott plots her journey of self-discovery. She'll travel from the deep south to the tip of the North Island. Putting your life in boxes is hard. I find it's best to just look at things out of the corner of your eye, lest you be overwhelmed by the recollection of when and where you bought them (as a side note, what is up with Facebook Memories? Every single bloody morning Facebook says, "We care about you Lisa" and then whacks me in the head with a picture taken in happier times. I'm starting to feel that you do NOT care about me, Facebook). READ MORE: *Dear Mrs Salisbury, how do I cope with a separation? *Dear Mrs Salisbury: He has finished with me and I'm so broken *Lonely Planet: New Zealand's best South Island road tripsAnyone who's been through this knows it's the most wretched thing in the world, apart from a death. And it is a death really, you become a ghost in your own life. Breaking up is a great way to find out how many colossal numpties you know, and that some of them − spoiler alert − never liked you anyway.
The stupider will declare, "You'll be on the Tinder" when you can hardly manage to brush your hair, look like an unmade bed and have convinced yourself you'll never have sex again in your life. Scott has her car, paddleboard, tent, blow-up mattress and a belief in the restorative powers of the road trip. Now you are single and the protective cloak of coupledom has fallen from your shoulders, other women's husbands will offer you something a lot lower to cry on and accidentally pocket dial you while in the car with their wives. Smug marrieds (a club you formerly belonged to and now find yourself stopped by the bouncer: "I don't think so love, push off") will shun you, thinking divorce is contagious, and because they have a sneaking suspicion their husbands are pocket dialling you. After all, you do look amazing: have a waist for the first time in years and Spock's cheekbones. It isn't worth it.Everything becomes a metaphor. Watching a baby rabbit yesterday morning I was cheered by thoughts of new beginnings;
coming home that evening I found it lying across the path, a crumpled ball of fluff, torn to pieces by something with claws and fangs.People will ask "How are you?" in tones reserved for news of terminal illness. This phrase becomes a trigger, a mere "How..?" initiating crying at Olympic level: in the pasta aisle, on the footpath while pedestrians tread a wide berth lest they get some sad on them. Rubberneckers, gossip hounds and the secretly-pleased-to-see-you-miserable will lust after the juicy details, pop over with a bunch of rhubarb, a "How are you?" and an expectant pause. All of this is bad. But just imagine it happening every day for five months in an almost-metropolis where everyone knows you and at an age when you should be spending your time in comfortable bickering and property portfolios.This is why I have decided to get out of Dunedin for a while. Christmas is coming and I cannot think of anything worse than being miserable Aunty Lisa (lost her husband) at the festive table, reading cracker jokes with a brittle hilarity, jaunty paper crown askew, lipstick rimming her wine glass.
All the fun of a cigarette butt floating in your chardonnay. Boxing Day in Wanaka, New Year's Eve in the Octagon: I shall avoid them all and seek out the company of people who don't know my name or most recent history and have no earthly reason to ask "How are you?" unless they're rescuing me from a ditch. I want to see new places. After five months of living in a one-room bach, sobbing at the moon, I need to stretch my legs, encounter new faces, not just my own, puffy-eyed and emotionally flat-lined. I want to talk to strangers. Having been alone for months with just my thoughts and whatever is living in the garden and preying on bunnies, talking to myself more than a little, there's a danger of over-sharing (the checking-if-you're-drunk lady at the supermarket asked me about my day last week and I chattered on for hours) but I feel this will ebb after the initial gush.This expedition will be called the Divorce Roady. I've been to Paris but I've never been to me − or the top of the North Island, where I plan to throw my sorrows into the sea at Cape Reinga.
It will be a journey of self-discovery in more ways than one as I possess absolutely no sense of direction, am a woman of significant uselessness (did I mention I'm a writer?) and have never travelled any major distance by myself. Plus, I'm not entirely sure I know where Cape Reinga is. I had trouble finding Green Island last week.Although, how hard can it be? Surely you just head in an upwards direction? And I can't be the only person who turns Google Maps upside down, confused by the wee arrow. It's not very intuitive software, IMHO. New Zealand seems to have gone out in sympathy, the country as shaky as me, its own heart broken – recent upheavals leaving parts of it high and dry – so my route may be a long and winding one, but such is any path to happiness.I have a 1998 Mazda Capella, a tent, a sleeping bag, a blow-up mattress, a paddleboard and a boundless belief in the restorative powers of the road trip. Getting away from Dunedin will surely put a fixing on me; I can kiss goodbye to 2016, a cursed, horrible year, and return ready to kick ass in 2017.
I know a few people in Christchurch, Wellington and Auckland who might help me navigate their cities, if only to make sure I leave.The settlement papers are signed, the last bit of paperwork tying me to my old life filed away. All my stuff is in storage. Homeless, husbandless, I am legally and literally untethered. Come Monday, girlfriends will escort me to the city limits and push me off, like a Viking burial; a Thelma (Louise was a bit of a bad influence), a Jacqueline Kerouac − looking for adventure, or whatever comes my way. "Keep your wits about you and don't run out of petrol," said my friend Bart, "there's a slim chance you'll be abducted and buried in dense bushland and your body not found for 40 years, but it's very slim." "Keep putting oil in the car or it'll blow up," said Julian. Laughter born of fear greets my plans. People don't seem to realise that, as far as I'm concerned, here in the Deep South the worst has already happened. No choice but to rise above; nothing but north from now on.