Rooms

Click. 

Click. 

And there it was. Spread across the screen. Brick and tiles holding its breath for the next family. 

Click.

The table. 

It was familiar. The same table, they’d sat and laughed, chasing peas around plates. She remembers her oldest, sitting heavily on her knee laughing. His grandmother walking tickling ducks up each of his arms. His father beaming. 

Giggles and glee raining over the table woven through sips of wine, and carefree talk. 

The meals, perfect in size and taste. Never enough, for fuller, greedier appetites.

Scattered accents around one table, sharing tales and familial anecdotes

The rum. Splashing with generosity. The boom of tales woven through past realities, threads of embellishment of memory lapse and some intended creativity. Never an empty glass.

The fleeting touch of a hand, a brushed kiss. Now gone, just as tears have now dried. 

Drifting through the empty rooms, memories wafting, hazy and light. Dark and distorted. A maze of real and reimaged. 

The warmth is lost through the distance of time at that table, all together. A family. 

And now, at life’s end, the memories are all that are left, to press against the walls and live in the minds of those who had their friendship, or bore the brunt of their tongues. All have different faces for different people. Facades to fall and change, the chameleon of any life lived.  

Closing the window. The screen again blank. 

Leaving. 

Two lives gone and only memories left to drift around in an empty house, and saddened hearts. 

Gone.

Spinning

Was listening to a woman lamenting the dating pond, I nodded in all the right places. Big deal, the pond's been full of paunchy, over-sized egotistical fish for a while.

However, I have a penchant for enjoying other folks misery who sidle up to the pond and dip their toes in, and totally rate all those who dive in without goggles.

The woman's body was as hard as her finely tuned nails. A well-shaped ironing board if you like - in fact, her forehead looked like it might have had a bit of heat on it. She decried the lack of honesty, the tall cyber profile miniaturising upon arrival in real time. Creativity should of course be applauded.

Anyway, it led me to a little meander down Cyber Dating Lane.

Profile ... doesn't look like a cat murderer. Bit follicularly challenged, so aren't we all!  Righty ho ... Click ... Click ... and so it began.  

Swapping witty cyber missives, the coupling sounded promising. We had so much in common:

1. we could both type
2. we could both spell
3. we could both spell (this is very important!). 

A match made in cyber-heaven!

Then the phone chat in real time.

Conversation flowed, and little bits of lives (or those of fabrication) learnt.

The conversation veered to the gym.

I noted I had gone to the gym, in fact the sticker is still on my car. The sticker has proved to have a great deal more exercise than I ever had.

He noted that he enjoyed spin classes.

Spin? The only spinning I did was after a couple of glasses of wine on an empty stomach.

The conversation spun out of control, spin this, spin that. Hello? Are you mad? Who wants to be surrounded by pert sweaty bottoms? Ummm ... don't answer that.

A pause.

I needed to interject something slim-full and gym-full.

"Well," I said. "Perhaps I should mention ..."

An anticipatory pause. 

"I'm more Moby Vick than Nemo."

And that was the end of that cyber coupling.

Time for a hot chocolate. And might peel off sticker, I'm obviously not a promising marketer and that might be seen as false advertising.

Cut

The power is off. Cut. Scissors to our cyber-umbilical cord.

It’s as if time has been poured into our hands, but we are not quite sure what to do with it. There is no internet to explore, no funny cat pictures to amuse us on screens or soap operas to delight us with their chaotic, unbelievable storylines. There are no gasps of delight by moments captured in time by snappers of our overpaid jesters. There are no pictures to be had of celebrities caught the nanosecond they step outdoors without makeup, or where a small piece of pixelated skin is deemed to be cellulite. And oh Lordy, let alone are we able to view those poor, wiry saps, where a pea consumed the night before, has shown them to now be harboring a baby bump.

What is to be done with this time, which suddenly seems much heavier a burden. It doesn’t feel as heavy as we fritter it away on Facebook, wondering why you’re reading that somebody is bored/itching/watching TV. Why on earth would you put up a picture where it looks like you’ve been constipated for a month? Where is the self-censor as the selfies populate our screens great and small. Those mouths, slightly agog, are not alluring, it’s as if the fish has missed the hook.

Perhaps I should move away from this screen, to see what can be done as the light fades. Time drifts by much more slowly with our attention not stolen by unexpected, electronic burglars of time.

The stealth of the banal, is lethal for a commodity which in our very own life-span realities is very limited.

 But when the switch is returned, I suspect this very precious thing will seep and creep away – sand on the wind, coins in a one-armed bandit.

Light! Cuppa and Corrie … what was I saying?

Climb every mountain

Yesterday, whilst tootling around the house, avoiding the vacuum cleaner, the phone bleeped. A text!

Holding out the phone as far as my arm would go - noticing that if it doesn't get telescopic soon I'm never going to be able to work out the calorie count on chocolate wrappings - I read it, slightly apprehensive.

"Kill me now." Hyperbole?

I nodded. Was the texter running a marathon over keen, hot sands? Wrestling with pitbulls in a pit of snakes?

"Keep calm and carry on." I cannot truncate nor abandon vowels.

"Nein." Came the response.

"Breathe." I suggested helpfully.

"Can't." Puffed back.

"Try." I advised.

"Made it." Surprisingly, not Everest or Kilimanjaro ... Rangitoto actually

Hope the views are worth it. Quick look out the window, to witness a bit of sun and blue sky, am assured they'd be spectacular.

Silence. Still no vacuum cleaner.

Bleep-bleep.

"Lost my money." A whole five dollars, not too worrying. No time to respond.

"Parched and tired." Oops can't buy refreshments, said cash lost.

"Found the moolah." Oh good, that should preclude dehydration then.

The bleep-bleeps stopped.

Texter's brother noted, "His heart rate needs to go above his age occasionally."

Sort of agree, but too tired to work out strategic plan to accomplish laid down task.

Didn't find vacuum cleaner. Suspect a good thing.

Cat drops hair, creating tiny kitty tumble weeds which really need that sucker to be found.

Cuppa, always does wonders.

Remotely interesting?

Slumped, two screens twinkling, one screen controlled by a keyboard, the other by remote. Was it so long ago, that we had to actually uproot from the couch patch to change the channel? To actually walk from the couch, to push the buttons in on the old Phillips? And let's not forget the walk back to the couch. Luckily TV was finished by about 10pm, which gave us enough of a good night's sleep to build up our strength to start this whole sordid process again the next day.  

I remember the first time I encountered the phenomenon that was the "remote control" - I was young, guillable - I still remember the excitement when I opened a birthday present to find a Hannimex calculator, with its blue ... or was it green? ...  flashing numbers ... I digress.

Anyway, there I sat on the couch snuggled up to my first boyfriend, in his parents' living room in the suburb now known as Te Atatu Peninsula - 'twas T'at North when I was on that couch. The lights were low, with the only light radiating from the TV screen - which like most TV sets in '80 New Zealand, sat pride of place in the middle of the room. Strangely, programmes flicked randomly, from one channel to the next. At first I didn't notice for whatever reason. Then slowly it dawned on me, that the channels were changing, and in 1982 Auckland, there were only two channels. This was unheard of in my own television watching sphere. The change of channel was usually precluded by a rather wide angled view of a familial bottom, and the clunkety-click either of the channel dial being turned or the very definite clunk of the pressing of channel buttons.

Slowly pushing myself up, my eyes attached to the ever changing, ghost like screen. My eyes widening with each switch. A ghost in the machine? A glitch? Someone hiding behind the set? The jiggery and pokery, perplexed and confused me.

Then after a half an hour or so of these magical shenanigans, my BATT (boyfriend at the time) disclosed the magic box. I don't recall its shape or colour, but I recall the realisation ... the world is changing.

And I suspected at that stage, one click at a time.

How wrong was I?

As an aside, and as attention spans have miniturised, this post was actually meant to be about obesity ... now where was I?

The Samsonite Incident

We left New York with many tears. Being a little more seasoned than a few days before,  I ensured I wouldn't be ensnared at security again because of an errant underwire. The boys were relieved that we made our way through rather fiesty security with only the removal of our boots and the retention of our dignities intactus.

The Air France plane was a double-decker, and we quickly sorted out me sitting downstairs whilst the boys were meant to fly solo on the deck above. My superb language skills didn't stretch beyond bonjour but luckily it didn't need to.

That was not until we got into Charles De Gaulle airport ... my French was all bundled into my two travelling companions. Who needs Berlitz? Staff were well dressed, and the queues were spectacular, as we shuffled towards customs. The young man who surveyed our passports had left his smile at home, and didn't appreciate my bonjour or merci.

Finding ourselves on the concourse of a bustling early morning Parisian airport, we were a little flummoxed at what to do next. Here we were, in Paris! Paris-Paris! What a feeling!

So we went in search of a taxi. Sacre bleu! The taxi driver didn't speak English but worse, much worse didn't take credit cards. But alas worse was yet to come ... when I handed the crumpled piece of paper which I scribbled our Parisian address, he shrugged and Jack translated that the driver had not heard of the suburb ... Sevres ... unfortunately he'd read my S as a P ... his Nav-homme was proving to be partiuclarly unhelpful.

That was the first little French bump in our journey. Next was ... ooops ... I'd written the name of our Parisian street address (Waffy's!) down incorrectly. Waffy lived at Rue Léon Bourgeois not Rue Bourgeois ... big, big ooops. Somehow, Jack with his untarnished memory, remembered a Skype conversation of long ago where Waffy mentioned her address. Saved again! This was getting embarrassing.

As we trudged through heavy traffic, on a grey Parisian day, we were delighted by the signs as we pushed through the heavy veil of rain. I was sitting on tenter hooks, worried that Pevres would never eventuate, let alone Nav-homme find us our lovely Waffy. 

Suddenly, we saw the sign for Sevres! My day brightened with relief. After winding up narrow roads, we found ourselves outside the apartment buildings. Square, sturdy buildings which once housed Renault workers for its nearby factory, were framed by a leafless, winter forest.

Paying the taxi driver, Harry and I practically fell out of the car, entangled in his headphone wires. Taking our cases from the driver, as we tried to disentangle ourselves, Harry took his hand from his case, as we continued to endeavour to avoid garroting ourselves. 

Suddenly, Harry's Samsonite took off with missile-like precision, its target a late model Renault, not quite in our sight. As we looked on, at first impressed at the speed of the inadvertent missile, I suddenly realised we might be at the beginning on an international incident. Harry and I were hapless as we struggled with the cords, Jack standing mouth open holding two other potential weapons. 

Faster than a very speedy thing, our middle-aged taxi driver flew after the missile, intercepting it just before it hit the car. 

Trundling the case back up the steep road, we were grateful to have a handle on the now stilled missile. Beads of sweat stood out on the driver's now pink forehead. We thanked him, and I tipped over and above the call of duty, not realising that we'd already been ripped off with the fare costing about twice as much as it should have.  

Standing waving the taxi driver good-bye, Jack noted pragmatically, "I told you Harry shouldn't have a four-wheeled suitcase." 

I think he may have been right.  

Other mothers

Mother's Day is, of course, a commercial construct, waiting for the guilt-ridden to unburden their gilt on confectionery, chocolates or gifts. Apparently rest homes around the country will find their usually empty visitors' car parks full, as mums are feted and visited. Just as dads are on Father's Day.

I've already tucked into my little heart-shaped cakes and placed my Mother's Day card at pride of place on the dresser.

But a certain sadness, is gathered in the dresser's dust; a tiny tea-cup, a gift from my God-mother, a ginger jar belonging to my mother's mother, and some of the dinner plates on which we chased peas at Sunday lunch at my paternal grandmother's. All these lovely women, who have helped to shape my life. All these lovely women, that I miss dearly.

When I was little, I used to stay with Nana Hall. She lived in a brick house, on Great North Road, not far from Waikumete Cemetery. If I close my eyes, I can find myself there in an instant. After mass each Sunday, we'd find ourselves around the old oak table, with places set for six. The dinner service featured a crowd of blue daisies dancing around the rim. Roast potatoes formed an island as they swum in a pond of gravy on the plate. Peas would float, and I'd chase these across the plate and try and tuck them into a serviette or under the table cloth. I wonder if the squashed peas stained the tablecloth? Nana never said anything. My brother and sister ate their peas.

Nana and I used to sing Rule Britannia as we waltzed around the house. Nana was born in the late 1800s, and had seen so much in her 88 years. But at 15, I'd never asked the right questions. And as I pore over faded and bent images, I wished I'd asked more; asked about her dreams, her loves, her passions. But these questions remain unasked, and the answers remain locked somewhere, far from here.

Nana Lynch, goodness where to start? She shared her flat with a herd of elephants, crowding shelves and doorways. Some were tiny, nestled into a bean. Charlie, the biggest watched over the bird bath in the garden. He was painted many colours over his life time, his last colour was yellow. I remember the toast and the "It's not an arm or a leg". I remember when my sister and I went to tidy Nana's flat, after her death, Dean Martin was on the record player, the arm still resting on the vinyl.

Aunty Margaret, my God-mother in every sense of the word. Imagine having an active God-mother, especially as you near the half-century. She was always on the end of the phone, and dished out helpful advice. It's between us, so I won't go into it. I remember when I was about 10, I was staying the night at her place. A dapper man came to afternoon tea. To the surprise, disbelief and eventual delight of family and friends, my spinster God-mother became unspinstered! Whatever next!

So what's this about, lovely women who have been big part of my life, and all who I love and miss dearly. I raise my glass to you all, with love, of course.