Last Friday I said goodbye to a dear friend, my constant companion for the last few months. My life feels empty without her. She’d been with me day in and day out, and in the darkness of the night I’d lie awake thinking about her. We shared so many stories, through the good times and the bad. Together we laughed a lot, and even cried a little when the news came through about White Island. But now we’re finished, and I need to move on.

She wasn’t my first, of course. There were three others before her, and today – as you must know, because you are reading this – I’m with someone else. But for a few brief months we were inseparable.

She was a harsh mistress, always wanting more. Every day she expected me to perform, even when I didn’t feel up to it. I totted it up, and in total we got it together 89 times. Sometimes she let me have a day off, but the next day I had to make amends, to come up with the goods twice in just a few hours.

There were moments when I hated her for her insatiable demands, but mostly I loved her for believing in me and for driving me on to do things I didn’t know I could do. She got under my skin, seduced me, cajoled me and always encouraged me to be the best I could be.

I’m sure most of my friends wondered why I bothered with her at all. I could see it in their eyes, sense the unasked question in their emails, what’s the bloody point, why waste your time locked up with her, glued to your laptop when you could be outside soaking up the rays, or maybe getting rat-arsed in a pub?

And my answer is simple. I wrote a blow-by-blow blog of our visit to New Zealand to prove that I could, to show that there’s still life in this old dog, to demonstrate that intellectual and creative atrophy is not an inevitable consequence of retirement.

Writing a travel blog also allows me – forces me, in fact – to experience things differently. Regardless of the blog I would still have seen the parrots on our porch. But without the imperative to write something that family, friends and followers could relate to it would have been just a fleeting, casual acquaintance, soon to be forgotten. Without my blog I would never have met Lady Kaka. Here’s part of what I wrote about her in early December 2019:

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She’s perched on the railing that guards the edge of our veranda, or porch as they call it in North America, staring into our room through the full length glass sliding door. I’m looking back out at her, captivated by her audacity. We’re separated by no more than a couple of metres and a sheet of glass. The kaka can see me but is totally un-phased.

Even when I slide the door open and step closer she’s untroubled, and simply watches me calmly. She doesn’t need reassurance but I offer it anyway, whispering to her, telling her that I find her beautiful and won’t ever harm her. She tips her head to one side quizzically, weighing me up.

I can read her mind. Are you for real? she’s asking. Why do you people always act so weird around me? She’s plainly in charge of this encounter, which is like a thousand other meetings she’s had before with guests occupying our room.

I, however, haven’t read the script. I’m lost for words, unsure what to do next. Wild birds aren’t meant to be like this. Is she ill? Or mad? Or am I the crazy one, standing here in awe of this kaka, this big parrot with olive grey plumage, yellow sideburns and a bloody enormous bill?

I watch her intently, and she watches me back. It’s a Mexican standoff, and neither of us wants to make the first move. Finally she gets bored – I’ve obviously buggered up the audition – and utters a piercing, eardrum-exploding squawk as she flies off into a nearby tree. Lady Kaka has left the building

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The Platypus Man in New Zealand was my fourth and most ambitious road-trip travel blog. It runs to over 61,000 words spread across 89 posts. Designing it, researching it, writing it, editing it and responding to comments about it has dominated my life for several months. It’s been a deep and meaningful relationship that has changed and developed me in all sorts of ways. But in the manner of most relationships it’s run its course, and now I have someone new in my life.

Now I’m 64 is my new Best Friend Forever, a fresh challenge to keep the brain active and the pulse racing.

So, farewell Lady Kaka, my dear old friend, and thank you for the good times. I promise I won’t ever forget you.