New Zealand is a small place and most of us know somebody who knows someone else who knows one of your relatives.

For us here we are more likely to know many people who got screwed over by the Family Court, or the ex and her lawyer and your lawyer deciding what was best for your money or your children.

Men have been increasingly on the end of this flea-bag rort since last century or at least 1999, and I don’t think we’re hard to spot. Is it the hunted dog look you leave the fight with that haunts your existence into a new hope … the prospect of a better future?

Does that leave us vulnerable?

Is there a certain unashamed sloth that hangs around waiting for you to walk past?

There I was chatting to this guy … having guessed he’d have a sad story to share, and I got that feeling … I’ve heard this before somewhere.

So, I listened some more, asked a few questions, and it started to sound very much like the story of a friend of mine from 1990s. And sure enough as I encouraged him to detail the specifics I was so certain of what he was talking about that when he dropped her first name into the conversation I told him her last name.

As you can imagine he was somewhat surprised, and even more so because the previous ex he knew was not the same man I knew.

I wonder how many guys over the past 30 odd years have been prey to this parcel of deception. She’s a nasty piece of work and the only upside to this story is she’s not a Kiwi, she’s an Aussie import.

Now, it wouldn’t surprise one bit, if someone reading this said, “I know who he’s talking about.”