Musings from our favourite Kiwi funnywoman
There’s every chance that in 1934, when my grandmother was pregnant with my mother and visiting the doctor, there was a copy of the New Zealand Woman’s Weekly in the waiting room.
The magazine would have been two years old then and surely already a staple of waiting spaces. I don’t think I’ve ever been in in it, except maybe during the early part of this pandemic when we weren’t allowed to touch things, and possibly the odd corporate foyer where they’d prefer you to have a go at enjoying their latest annual report. There’s nothing like a group photo of the Board of Executives, most of whom are named John, to have you hankering for celebrity gossip and a new recipe for eggplant.
