Employment/Recruitment agencies in New Zealand?
I am going to NZ on a Working Holiday Visa on my own. I don't mind where I go in NZ. But I'll prob try Auckland and Wellington for admin jobs first. Can anyone tell me what agencies I should be signing up with for admin/office work? Or any agencies for hospitality/tourism/seasonal work would be great. Cheers
Other - Australia - 2 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
I think you should ask the question in the right category to get a comprehensive answer. What about choosing â—™ >Travel >New Zealand > Auckland, Wellington, or Other New Zealand â—™ to get good answers. If Y!A gets you "Travel > Australia" as proposal chose the option "browse other Y!A categories" to place your question into the right one. Maybe this website will help you at first: http://www.immigration.govt.nz/migrant/stream/work/workingholiday/workopportunities/ ..
2 :
Go to this site, it has almost all jobs listed in New Zealand: http://seek.co.nz You will also find the agencies on that site too.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Critique this writing
Critique this writing?
I am a thirteen year old girl, and I am setting out to redefine the word 'childish'. I love Nicholas Sparks, and I am greatly influenced my masters such as him, also J.D Salinger, F. Scott Fitzgerald (Who I am distantly related to), Neil Shusterman, John Steinbeck, and Avi. This is a tiny excerpt from one of my novels, called 'Wellington's Grand Heist.' It's not the intro, which I will include after this one. Richard Wellington doesn't know that Dotty Kline is the girl he met years ago. “The inwardness of despair is a constant struggle within the realms of one’s soul. The heart and mind is in continual conflict, driven by indecision, hesitation and diffidence of character; the confidence lacking to pursue what one wants, instead of what is expected of you.†Her father had given her an ultimatum; and though his voice had been quiet, it contained a sense of finality behind his words which could not be mistaken. His tone had been true to his intention, and his intention true to his meaning: She was to marry Mr. Williamson, or be estranged from her family. As she shuffled along the road to the factories, trying, in vain, to stop the cold slush of snow seeping through to the holes in her boots, the wind howling furiously and the threadbare branches of the tree shivered wildly up ahead. She could barely see her surroundings; only seven years worth of familiarity with the road enabled her to maneuver through the foggy mist of the early hours of dawn without the aid of clear and unhindered vision. She came to a stop here, looking around at her surroundings. It did not seem different in any way to the naked eye, though it had a certain warmth to it, a warmth which she cannot even begin to describe. Here she had met Richard Wellington, the young man she was most sure she was in love with. She had not come to elope, to throw herself into his embrace (though that was most certainly what she wanted to do). She had come to say a simple good-bye. This is the intro to the whole novel: In the year 1965, the city of London truly was ‘Swinging’. Just about everywhere you looked, people were doing something they probably shouldn’t have been doing. But this was accepted. It was exciting to do something you probably shouldn’t have been doing. To hell with morals! Who needed them? The English certainly didn’t. There were affairs, murders, love triangles—the whole damn country had turned into one hell of a West Side Story. For a bloke like Richard Wellington, being intelligent, smooth, cockney, and drunk in Swingin’ London worked like a charm. Getting paid a rather fair amount a day to do ‘odd jobs’ for criminals was a dream come true for an old man raised on blood, sweat, and tears; all derived, of course, from his mother. Richard Wellington wasn’t used to working for the things he had. No, he had the nasty habit of simply taking the things he wanted. Ever the scholar, he had a rather intelligent yet somewhat biased philosophy: ‘Steal from the rich, Cause they can live without a thousand pounds off their bloody millions.’ Perhaps he was right. Wellington used his looks, charm and wit to knit his way into the lives of London’s wealthiest—a con man through and through—finding a way to cleverly extort money from them, all the while fooling them with some outlandish plea: such as the old ‘The Wife and Children are out cold with pneumonia’ or the clever declare of false love to a unknowing social-climbing heiress, who was, quite coincidentally, from New York. Yet there was one bloke Wellington never could seem to fool. That particular man was a billionaire. That man’s name was Francois LaPlant. Francois LaPlant owned the Bennett Museum in downtown London, where he housed one of his dearest possessions: A big, fat fifty-carat diamond just screaming Wellington’s name. Wellington had walked past that diamond every day of every week of every month of every year for the last thirty years. It was only around this time that old fox began plotting to steal it—one of the biggest heists in history. It was also around this time that he took notice of one particular woman named Dotty Kline. Dotty Kline certainly was an Irish beauty, two years younger than Wellington. He had observed her from afar; and, just as he had suspected, she was not ‘just’ a pretty face. In fact, Dotty Kline was one of the cleverest criminals in all of London. You know what that bird did? She stole art without the actual piece ever leaving its home. Dotty painted and sculpted exact replicas of the valuables, switching them so she had the real deal and the owner had the phony. That’s what attracted Wellington to her—this was pratically his female counterpart. And this, lads and lasses, is where our story begins. In central London, the frosty air biting at your nose. Critique, please, and does it interest you?
Books & Authors - 2 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
You posted this a few times before (I'm always looking at the questions). It's okay, I mean I'm not into those types of books. But I would change the word "swinging", I don't know, I just don't see it fitting the intro for some reason.
2 :
What the hell is going on? This is the second excerpt I've clicked on today expecting some crude but understandably poor piece of writing from a kid and been pleasantly surprised by the quality. Perhaps there is hope for the youngsters yet! Ok, what to say? This is good. Very good. It's not the kind of story that interests me in general, but the structure is enough to allow me to breeze through it without stopping to re-read a lot of bits and therefore offer some feedback. I think the first bit is better than the second. It has a few aspects that could be re-worded to improve flow, eg the paragraph starting 'As she shuffled' could do with a final edit. There's also a couple of tense confusions. And being British I prefer 'manoeuvre' to 'maneuver', but that's neither here nor there I guess. The intro feels rushed to me. The first thing that hit me was the year; the excerpt suggested to me a late 19th/early 20th century setting, not 1965. As for the writing I think you could separate it out a bit to make it seem less like a big block of text, but as you've done that with the first excerpt I'm going to assume you will do this eventually. It's also a bit over-descriptive but again I think you'll fix that in the editing. Overall, bravo, it really is good.
I am a thirteen year old girl, and I am setting out to redefine the word 'childish'. I love Nicholas Sparks, and I am greatly influenced my masters such as him, also J.D Salinger, F. Scott Fitzgerald (Who I am distantly related to), Neil Shusterman, John Steinbeck, and Avi. This is a tiny excerpt from one of my novels, called 'Wellington's Grand Heist.' It's not the intro, which I will include after this one. Richard Wellington doesn't know that Dotty Kline is the girl he met years ago. “The inwardness of despair is a constant struggle within the realms of one’s soul. The heart and mind is in continual conflict, driven by indecision, hesitation and diffidence of character; the confidence lacking to pursue what one wants, instead of what is expected of you.†Her father had given her an ultimatum; and though his voice had been quiet, it contained a sense of finality behind his words which could not be mistaken. His tone had been true to his intention, and his intention true to his meaning: She was to marry Mr. Williamson, or be estranged from her family. As she shuffled along the road to the factories, trying, in vain, to stop the cold slush of snow seeping through to the holes in her boots, the wind howling furiously and the threadbare branches of the tree shivered wildly up ahead. She could barely see her surroundings; only seven years worth of familiarity with the road enabled her to maneuver through the foggy mist of the early hours of dawn without the aid of clear and unhindered vision. She came to a stop here, looking around at her surroundings. It did not seem different in any way to the naked eye, though it had a certain warmth to it, a warmth which she cannot even begin to describe. Here she had met Richard Wellington, the young man she was most sure she was in love with. She had not come to elope, to throw herself into his embrace (though that was most certainly what she wanted to do). She had come to say a simple good-bye. This is the intro to the whole novel: In the year 1965, the city of London truly was ‘Swinging’. Just about everywhere you looked, people were doing something they probably shouldn’t have been doing. But this was accepted. It was exciting to do something you probably shouldn’t have been doing. To hell with morals! Who needed them? The English certainly didn’t. There were affairs, murders, love triangles—the whole damn country had turned into one hell of a West Side Story. For a bloke like Richard Wellington, being intelligent, smooth, cockney, and drunk in Swingin’ London worked like a charm. Getting paid a rather fair amount a day to do ‘odd jobs’ for criminals was a dream come true for an old man raised on blood, sweat, and tears; all derived, of course, from his mother. Richard Wellington wasn’t used to working for the things he had. No, he had the nasty habit of simply taking the things he wanted. Ever the scholar, he had a rather intelligent yet somewhat biased philosophy: ‘Steal from the rich, Cause they can live without a thousand pounds off their bloody millions.’ Perhaps he was right. Wellington used his looks, charm and wit to knit his way into the lives of London’s wealthiest—a con man through and through—finding a way to cleverly extort money from them, all the while fooling them with some outlandish plea: such as the old ‘The Wife and Children are out cold with pneumonia’ or the clever declare of false love to a unknowing social-climbing heiress, who was, quite coincidentally, from New York. Yet there was one bloke Wellington never could seem to fool. That particular man was a billionaire. That man’s name was Francois LaPlant. Francois LaPlant owned the Bennett Museum in downtown London, where he housed one of his dearest possessions: A big, fat fifty-carat diamond just screaming Wellington’s name. Wellington had walked past that diamond every day of every week of every month of every year for the last thirty years. It was only around this time that old fox began plotting to steal it—one of the biggest heists in history. It was also around this time that he took notice of one particular woman named Dotty Kline. Dotty Kline certainly was an Irish beauty, two years younger than Wellington. He had observed her from afar; and, just as he had suspected, she was not ‘just’ a pretty face. In fact, Dotty Kline was one of the cleverest criminals in all of London. You know what that bird did? She stole art without the actual piece ever leaving its home. Dotty painted and sculpted exact replicas of the valuables, switching them so she had the real deal and the owner had the phony. That’s what attracted Wellington to her—this was pratically his female counterpart. And this, lads and lasses, is where our story begins. In central London, the frosty air biting at your nose. Critique, please, and does it interest you?
Books & Authors - 2 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
You posted this a few times before (I'm always looking at the questions). It's okay, I mean I'm not into those types of books. But I would change the word "swinging", I don't know, I just don't see it fitting the intro for some reason.
2 :
What the hell is going on? This is the second excerpt I've clicked on today expecting some crude but understandably poor piece of writing from a kid and been pleasantly surprised by the quality. Perhaps there is hope for the youngsters yet! Ok, what to say? This is good. Very good. It's not the kind of story that interests me in general, but the structure is enough to allow me to breeze through it without stopping to re-read a lot of bits and therefore offer some feedback. I think the first bit is better than the second. It has a few aspects that could be re-worded to improve flow, eg the paragraph starting 'As she shuffled' could do with a final edit. There's also a couple of tense confusions. And being British I prefer 'manoeuvre' to 'maneuver', but that's neither here nor there I guess. The intro feels rushed to me. The first thing that hit me was the year; the excerpt suggested to me a late 19th/early 20th century setting, not 1965. As for the writing I think you could separate it out a bit to make it seem less like a big block of text, but as you've done that with the first excerpt I'm going to assume you will do this eventually. It's also a bit over-descriptive but again I think you'll fix that in the editing. Overall, bravo, it really is good.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Critique this piece of writing
Critique this piece of writing?
In the year 1965, the city of London truly was ‘Swinging’. Just about everywhere you looked, people were doing something they probably shouldn’t have been doing. But this was accepted. It was exciting to do something you probably shouldn’t have been doing. To hell with morals! Who needed them? The English certainly didn’t. There were affairs, murders, love triangles—the whole damn country had turned into one hell of a West Side Story. For a bloke like Richard Wellington, being intelligent, smooth, cockney, and drunk in Swingin’ London worked like a charm. Getting paid a rather fair amount a day to do ‘odd jobs’ for criminals was a dream come true for an old man raised on blood, sweat, and tears; all derived, of course, from his mother. Richard Wellington wasn’t used to working for the things he had. No, he had the nasty habit of simply taking the things he wanted. Ever the scholar, he had a rather intelligent yet somewhat biased philosophy: ‘Steal from the rich, Cause they can live without a thousand pounds off their bloody millions.’ Perhaps he was right. But keep in mind, this was the year 1965. Wellington used his looks, charm and wit to knit his way into the lives of London’s wealthiest—a con man through and through—finding a way to cleverly extort money from them, all the while fooling them with some outlandish plea: such as the old ‘The Wife and Children are out cold with pneumonia’ or the clever declare of false love to a unknowing social-climbing heiress, who was, quite coincidentally, from New York. Yet there was one bloke Wellington never could seem to fool. That particular man was a billionaire. That man’s name was Francois LaPlant. Francois LaPlant owned the Bennett Museum in downtown London, where he housed one of his dearest possessions: A big, fat fifty-carat diamond just screaming Wellington’s name. Wellington had walked past that diamond every day of every week of every month of every year for the last thirty years. It was only around this time that old fox began plotting to steal it—one of the biggest heists in history. It was also around this time that he took notice of one particular woman named Dotty Kline. Dotty Kline certainly was an Irish beauty, two years younger than Wellington. He had observed her from afar; and, just as he had suspected, she was not ‘just’ a pretty face. In fact, Dotty Kline was one of the cleverest criminals in all of London. You know what she did? She stole art without the actual piece ever leaving its home. Dotty painted and sculpted exact replicas of the valuables, switching them so she had the real deal and the owner had the phony. That’s what attracted Wellington to her—this was pratically his female counterpart. But let’s jump ahead into present times. Wellington and Dotty still had not met at this time, but this is where the story begins. The Bennett Museum towered above him, its gray stone looking even colder in the early winter air. The small frown on his upturned face gave the illusion that he was upset about something, though he wasn’t—he had never been happier in his life. Richard Wellington was simply giving the building a stern look. The small frown turned into a small smile. “It’s been thirty years, old friend.†he chuckled. After one last short look upwards, Wellington turned and began walking down the sidewalk, only one thing on his busy mind. With a grunt, he sat down on a bench, crossing one leg over the other and stretching his right arm on the back of the wood. With a sigh, he lifted his fedora hat and ran a hand through his gray hair. Sitting on a bench across the way, a young woman was blaring an obnoxious pop song, reading a colorful magazine. Wellington shook his head, scratching his rough chin. He pushed up the sleeve of his coat and looked at his wristwatch over his small spectacles. He looked back up at the night sky, pulling his sleeve down. A Chilly wind blew through the square, forcing him to turn up the collar on his coat. A small female cough told him she had arrived. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.†“Have you?†“Yes. But it’s not you who’s asking the questions, here, ducky. What’s it all about?†“Money, I say. But most others say love.†“Do you? And what do you say to ‘you’re a smart-ass’?†“I say people who must use vulgar language to get their point across obviously don’t know any other way but the American way.†he turned his head to look at her. “Richard Wellington.â€
Books & Authors - 1 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
I could hear your voice in your writing. And that is the objective of all good writing to have a loud and clear voice.
In the year 1965, the city of London truly was ‘Swinging’. Just about everywhere you looked, people were doing something they probably shouldn’t have been doing. But this was accepted. It was exciting to do something you probably shouldn’t have been doing. To hell with morals! Who needed them? The English certainly didn’t. There were affairs, murders, love triangles—the whole damn country had turned into one hell of a West Side Story. For a bloke like Richard Wellington, being intelligent, smooth, cockney, and drunk in Swingin’ London worked like a charm. Getting paid a rather fair amount a day to do ‘odd jobs’ for criminals was a dream come true for an old man raised on blood, sweat, and tears; all derived, of course, from his mother. Richard Wellington wasn’t used to working for the things he had. No, he had the nasty habit of simply taking the things he wanted. Ever the scholar, he had a rather intelligent yet somewhat biased philosophy: ‘Steal from the rich, Cause they can live without a thousand pounds off their bloody millions.’ Perhaps he was right. But keep in mind, this was the year 1965. Wellington used his looks, charm and wit to knit his way into the lives of London’s wealthiest—a con man through and through—finding a way to cleverly extort money from them, all the while fooling them with some outlandish plea: such as the old ‘The Wife and Children are out cold with pneumonia’ or the clever declare of false love to a unknowing social-climbing heiress, who was, quite coincidentally, from New York. Yet there was one bloke Wellington never could seem to fool. That particular man was a billionaire. That man’s name was Francois LaPlant. Francois LaPlant owned the Bennett Museum in downtown London, where he housed one of his dearest possessions: A big, fat fifty-carat diamond just screaming Wellington’s name. Wellington had walked past that diamond every day of every week of every month of every year for the last thirty years. It was only around this time that old fox began plotting to steal it—one of the biggest heists in history. It was also around this time that he took notice of one particular woman named Dotty Kline. Dotty Kline certainly was an Irish beauty, two years younger than Wellington. He had observed her from afar; and, just as he had suspected, she was not ‘just’ a pretty face. In fact, Dotty Kline was one of the cleverest criminals in all of London. You know what she did? She stole art without the actual piece ever leaving its home. Dotty painted and sculpted exact replicas of the valuables, switching them so she had the real deal and the owner had the phony. That’s what attracted Wellington to her—this was pratically his female counterpart. But let’s jump ahead into present times. Wellington and Dotty still had not met at this time, but this is where the story begins. The Bennett Museum towered above him, its gray stone looking even colder in the early winter air. The small frown on his upturned face gave the illusion that he was upset about something, though he wasn’t—he had never been happier in his life. Richard Wellington was simply giving the building a stern look. The small frown turned into a small smile. “It’s been thirty years, old friend.†he chuckled. After one last short look upwards, Wellington turned and began walking down the sidewalk, only one thing on his busy mind. With a grunt, he sat down on a bench, crossing one leg over the other and stretching his right arm on the back of the wood. With a sigh, he lifted his fedora hat and ran a hand through his gray hair. Sitting on a bench across the way, a young woman was blaring an obnoxious pop song, reading a colorful magazine. Wellington shook his head, scratching his rough chin. He pushed up the sleeve of his coat and looked at his wristwatch over his small spectacles. He looked back up at the night sky, pulling his sleeve down. A Chilly wind blew through the square, forcing him to turn up the collar on his coat. A small female cough told him she had arrived. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.†“Have you?†“Yes. But it’s not you who’s asking the questions, here, ducky. What’s it all about?†“Money, I say. But most others say love.†“Do you? And what do you say to ‘you’re a smart-ass’?†“I say people who must use vulgar language to get their point across obviously don’t know any other way but the American way.†he turned his head to look at her. “Richard Wellington.â€
Books & Authors - 1 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
I could hear your voice in your writing. And that is the objective of all good writing to have a loud and clear voice.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
How do i become an actress when i live in such an isolated place
How do i become an actress when i live in such an isolated place?
I live ion New Zealand, that little tiny island off australia for all of you who dont know it. I want to become an actress, or get into theatre but its really hard because there are hardly any opportunities out here. More and more movies are getting made here but they are all being produced in America so there are no available parts i can find. Im in Wellington, the captial, but all the work seems to be in Auckland, up north and i cant just pick up my stuff and go - im only 15. So what can i do? Any one got any advice?
Theater & Acting - 6 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
wait til your 18. move. end of story.
2 :
Go to acting classes and get a lot of experience in plays and community theatre. Then when you're older and have finished school move to wherever and have a go at it. Even if you could up and leave now, you wouldn't want to, you're only 15. You'd just become a child star and be in rehab by like 20. Like Mischa Barton. Look at Mischa Barton. She's kinda gross now.
3 :
Audition and get involved online, here: http://dramuseproductions.weebly.com/ You don't need to live anywhere in particular, all you need is a good mic. All the best :)
4 :
Since you're 15 you might want to consider going to a local theater to get some acting experience, if you're talking about Hollywood wise you might want to wait until you graduate and then search for an acting college. Most of all, though, get exposure to some acting, theatrical or not. Without that, you're not going to get far.
5 :
hi heres a free website for auditions for new Zealand (and other places) just click on it and do what it tells you to and it will list auditions http://www.mandy.com/place/newz.cfm and it's free. I don't think you should move to Hollywood straight away move to your capital city if you make it big there then move to Hollywood or where ever i live just outside London so if i make it big in London then i could move to America im just gonna be patience. GOOD LUCK PURSUIT YOUR DREAMS
6 :
there's not a simple easy way to do this. you have to be where there are things to do. there is not a way around that. take advantage of whatever you have around you, and when you are able, get yourself to where there is something to do.
I live ion New Zealand, that little tiny island off australia for all of you who dont know it. I want to become an actress, or get into theatre but its really hard because there are hardly any opportunities out here. More and more movies are getting made here but they are all being produced in America so there are no available parts i can find. Im in Wellington, the captial, but all the work seems to be in Auckland, up north and i cant just pick up my stuff and go - im only 15. So what can i do? Any one got any advice?
Theater & Acting - 6 Answers
Random Answers, Critics, Comments, Opinions :
1 :
wait til your 18. move. end of story.
2 :
Go to acting classes and get a lot of experience in plays and community theatre. Then when you're older and have finished school move to wherever and have a go at it. Even if you could up and leave now, you wouldn't want to, you're only 15. You'd just become a child star and be in rehab by like 20. Like Mischa Barton. Look at Mischa Barton. She's kinda gross now.
3 :
Audition and get involved online, here: http://dramuseproductions.weebly.com/ You don't need to live anywhere in particular, all you need is a good mic. All the best :)
4 :
Since you're 15 you might want to consider going to a local theater to get some acting experience, if you're talking about Hollywood wise you might want to wait until you graduate and then search for an acting college. Most of all, though, get exposure to some acting, theatrical or not. Without that, you're not going to get far.
5 :
hi heres a free website for auditions for new Zealand (and other places) just click on it and do what it tells you to and it will list auditions http://www.mandy.com/place/newz.cfm and it's free. I don't think you should move to Hollywood straight away move to your capital city if you make it big there then move to Hollywood or where ever i live just outside London so if i make it big in London then i could move to America im just gonna be patience. GOOD LUCK PURSUIT YOUR DREAMS
6 :
there's not a simple easy way to do this. you have to be where there are things to do. there is not a way around that. take advantage of whatever you have around you, and when you are able, get yourself to where there is something to do.
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