T'is is the first year that Santa doesn't take the credit.
T'is the first season the fat man in the red suit doesn't get ALL the credit, ill deserved at that.
I'm not a grinch by any stretch of the imagination. I have gnawed through carrots in reindeer fashion. Emptied half a can of beer and left white whiskers on the top of the beer can (sorry Keith). I have scooped up reindeer poo which has rolled off the roof. I had trotted soot through the carpet even though the flat we were living in at the time had no chimney.
That was the easy stuff.
Labouring under the goal post which was fetched and carried from K-mart doing significant damage to my car when I'd somehow managed to get its box into the car. Then I wrestled with it again to get it out. Tackling it, when I got my breath back, to wrap it in Christmas cheer. It was as if it had been parcelled by little elves (did I say malignant in their invisibility) and rolled off the sleigh, like snow off a reindeer's nose.
Flipping big nose is all I can say.
I've had to conquer the conversations which go like this...
'But it doesn't matter how much it costs in the shops...'
Think I know where this is going... and it's not close to salvaging the budget.
'because Santa's elves make them in Santa's little igloo workshop.' Jingle... jingle...
'But Santa's elves aren't quite up to speed on the latest PS3 or whatever... they're elves... they make wooden dolphins and rocking horses.'
An eyebrow is raised, eyes are rolled and the nose is tapped.
This year, and it is the first, I can go to sleep and not worry about remembering if I tooth-marked the carrot and worried the beer. I can tuck presents under the tree without having the worry that I might be caught out like the unfortunate tooth fairy was a few teeth ago - his eyes aghast that Ben at school had been right but then noting pragmatically 'I was worried that you were Ben's mum'. Ben's mum must have been as elephant-like as me.
But then again, I'm going to miss the tubby Christmas phantom. I'll miss majiking him up and over as he sped through the skies on a clear Christmas night. I'm going to miss him squelching uncomfortably down warm chimneys or tucking into his mince pies.
I'm going to miss that little bit of make-believe magic we tousled and fooled with each year as the reindeer were harnessed. Might even miss the nobbly earnest elves, can they help the challenge of the vertical with no real drop?
I'm already missing those little embers of childhood and lost magic.
But my boys are tucked up in warm beds, dreaming boy dreams with full tummies. I suspect many children have had their childhood robbed a long time before the fat man in the red suit did a disappearing act in our household.
Must be Christmas.
Merry Christmas one and all. And, I suppose, a little bit of credit to the red hatted one.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Royal Flush
Our body's effluent is given a bad wrap. Farts are not accepted with grace and glee when imparted at a business meeting, indeed quite the opposite even though they offer the imparter a great deal of relief. Wee hardly gets a mention and if my own visits to the 'Ladies' is anything to go by, the toilet rolls are always chubby in the morning and annoerexic by the afternoon. The signs of a healthy human body usually abhore or entertain. In equal measures I suspect, and yes, girls do fart and poo... and dare I say it... no I won't.
When we eject a bowel bomb it is not observed with the reverance it deserves, the exception to this rule being babies and toddlers. In fact, we applaud the poo of the tiny and abhore the mention in the adult world. Unless perhaps with dear close friends when poo stories can be swapped, admired and size and weight gauged. Of course noone wishes to test the accuracy of the story-teller.
It's something we all do, we just don't need to think about, hear about it or smell it.
In the seventies sometime... or it may have been earlier... I remember sitting in the darkened Pt Chevalier theatre. The lights were down and the curtains were about to be opened to reveal the screen. It was all hush and icecream. (I think the theatre was called the Ambassador and although it is no longer a cinema, the building still stands its silver screen no longer lit.)
Then... I'm not sure if it was before the shorts... an orchestra would fill the screen and everybody would stand... gold and red flashed and shimmered. God Save the Queen filled the room and filled our hearts. I was always keen to jump up, hand solemnly on my heart.
But not if Mum was there.
She'd pull us down, 'She's not here... she wouldn't know if you were standing or riding a rhinoceros.' And we'd sit down. But if Mum and Dad were there, we were torn whether to stand or sit. It was a veritable tug of war. Dad's dad was British and spoke the Queen's English and I remember singing Rule Brittannia with noisy abandon at Nana's house. Dad's parents were born during Victoria's reign.
I suspect this was my first experience with the rumblings of Republicism. But as I can't even spell it I suspect it hasn't disturbed my intestinal tract in the intervening years.
But the stand-sit war, which went on for quite a few movies, was nothing compared to the shock when Mum informed me, 'The Queen poos.'
'Like brown poo?'
'Like your poo or my poo.' Mum was an authority.
'Have you seen it?'
'No. But it will be brown and it will get flushed down the toilet just like your poo.'
'Does it smell?'
'Does poo smell?'
'Maybe it's golden poo, like that goose's eggs.'
'Maybe,' said Mum, tiring of the conversation, 'Maybe not.'
Interestingly the first movie I saw at the Ambassador was Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang... how appropriate. I strongly suspect nobody would give a movie that name today.
Sadly, I could never look at the Queen in the same way again.
And with the night yawning ahead, and two boys fast asleep, I will have a brief sit on the porcelain throne in my small surburban principality.
When we eject a bowel bomb it is not observed with the reverance it deserves, the exception to this rule being babies and toddlers. In fact, we applaud the poo of the tiny and abhore the mention in the adult world. Unless perhaps with dear close friends when poo stories can be swapped, admired and size and weight gauged. Of course noone wishes to test the accuracy of the story-teller.
It's something we all do, we just don't need to think about, hear about it or smell it.
In the seventies sometime... or it may have been earlier... I remember sitting in the darkened Pt Chevalier theatre. The lights were down and the curtains were about to be opened to reveal the screen. It was all hush and icecream. (I think the theatre was called the Ambassador and although it is no longer a cinema, the building still stands its silver screen no longer lit.)
Then... I'm not sure if it was before the shorts... an orchestra would fill the screen and everybody would stand... gold and red flashed and shimmered. God Save the Queen filled the room and filled our hearts. I was always keen to jump up, hand solemnly on my heart.
But not if Mum was there.
She'd pull us down, 'She's not here... she wouldn't know if you were standing or riding a rhinoceros.' And we'd sit down. But if Mum and Dad were there, we were torn whether to stand or sit. It was a veritable tug of war. Dad's dad was British and spoke the Queen's English and I remember singing Rule Brittannia with noisy abandon at Nana's house. Dad's parents were born during Victoria's reign.
I suspect this was my first experience with the rumblings of Republicism. But as I can't even spell it I suspect it hasn't disturbed my intestinal tract in the intervening years.
But the stand-sit war, which went on for quite a few movies, was nothing compared to the shock when Mum informed me, 'The Queen poos.'
'Like brown poo?'
'Like your poo or my poo.' Mum was an authority.
'Have you seen it?'
'No. But it will be brown and it will get flushed down the toilet just like your poo.'
'Does it smell?'
'Does poo smell?'
'Maybe it's golden poo, like that goose's eggs.'
'Maybe,' said Mum, tiring of the conversation, 'Maybe not.'
Interestingly the first movie I saw at the Ambassador was Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang... how appropriate. I strongly suspect nobody would give a movie that name today.
Sadly, I could never look at the Queen in the same way again.
And with the night yawning ahead, and two boys fast asleep, I will have a brief sit on the porcelain throne in my small surburban principality.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Cyberfrication
The sea of knowledge and wonder ebb and flow into our home at the tapping of a key. Images, static and moving, beguile and amuse.
Well, most of the time anyway. Let's face it, disappointment can lurk in any nook or cranny of the globe.
The beautiful kauri, library ladder which I envisaged packed with freshly, laundered towels was a thing of beauty. I gazed at it in its full glory as it leant nonchalently against a well painted wall in somebody else's garden.
I bid with rapid fingers as the price went up. I was perched and pounced on the keys. The auction closed and I was the excited owner of a kauri library ladder. The intoxication of success was brief. I'd bid on the Christchurch ladder, some distance from the pubis of the city fringe where I actually dwell... soberiety rushed in because I'd thought I'd purchased the Auckland ladder. Regaining composure, I awaited my acquisition with growing anticipation. Buyers regret taking a nap in the back seat.
Arriving on my doorstep one morning before the alarm had time to despatch sleep, I was delighted at the size of the package. It was wrapped in towels and bubble paper. It was a twist of tape and twine.
Argh!
The ladder revealed was one not to be shown off to one and all in the bathroom. No, it would need to be secreted away to avoid jokes at my cyber blunder. The first pair of eyes other than my own to lock on to it, noted pragamatically that it was made of cedar, not the adored kauri and had probably never been near a book. Thanks Dad.
There have been other purchases which should've shoved this cyber bidder into more traditional shopping venues.
My favourite is the 'slightly scuffed leather chair'. Addressing the slightly scuffed would suggest the seller was either blind or a pathological liar. The chair looks as if a victim was stabbed in it but the stabber, in his irritation, missed the stabbee instead puncturing the chair with the very sharp stabbing utensil. Leather, one would assume, came from a cow which grazed on green grass and contributed flatulently to the demise of the ozone layer. The leather on my leather chair was derived from a mechanical bull.
So, what was I thinking to venture into the world of cyber dating? If jiggery-pokery-magic-ky things can happen on a piece of pita bread, why would human beings not invest in a little cyber trickery to lure and deceive? Some say that it's all in the chase, the relentless pursuit but if you turn around to find yourself in gummy-jaws below an ill-fitting toupe when you'd been lead to believe it was a toned, lion... sigh... well... maybe the real world has something to offer after all.
But the piggery-jiggery that goes on cyber dating deserves its own little window of perplexity.
Basking in the glow of my computer, the rain is drumming the window outside. Maybe it's time to see what people really do on cruise ships. A little Vitamin D wouldn't go amiss.
'Mr Google!' Something to be said about immediacy and attention spans.
Well, most of the time anyway. Let's face it, disappointment can lurk in any nook or cranny of the globe.
The beautiful kauri, library ladder which I envisaged packed with freshly, laundered towels was a thing of beauty. I gazed at it in its full glory as it leant nonchalently against a well painted wall in somebody else's garden.
I bid with rapid fingers as the price went up. I was perched and pounced on the keys. The auction closed and I was the excited owner of a kauri library ladder. The intoxication of success was brief. I'd bid on the Christchurch ladder, some distance from the pubis of the city fringe where I actually dwell... soberiety rushed in because I'd thought I'd purchased the Auckland ladder. Regaining composure, I awaited my acquisition with growing anticipation. Buyers regret taking a nap in the back seat.
Arriving on my doorstep one morning before the alarm had time to despatch sleep, I was delighted at the size of the package. It was wrapped in towels and bubble paper. It was a twist of tape and twine.
Argh!
The ladder revealed was one not to be shown off to one and all in the bathroom. No, it would need to be secreted away to avoid jokes at my cyber blunder. The first pair of eyes other than my own to lock on to it, noted pragamatically that it was made of cedar, not the adored kauri and had probably never been near a book. Thanks Dad.
There have been other purchases which should've shoved this cyber bidder into more traditional shopping venues.
My favourite is the 'slightly scuffed leather chair'. Addressing the slightly scuffed would suggest the seller was either blind or a pathological liar. The chair looks as if a victim was stabbed in it but the stabber, in his irritation, missed the stabbee instead puncturing the chair with the very sharp stabbing utensil. Leather, one would assume, came from a cow which grazed on green grass and contributed flatulently to the demise of the ozone layer. The leather on my leather chair was derived from a mechanical bull.
So, what was I thinking to venture into the world of cyber dating? If jiggery-pokery-magic-ky things can happen on a piece of pita bread, why would human beings not invest in a little cyber trickery to lure and deceive? Some say that it's all in the chase, the relentless pursuit but if you turn around to find yourself in gummy-jaws below an ill-fitting toupe when you'd been lead to believe it was a toned, lion... sigh... well... maybe the real world has something to offer after all.
But the piggery-jiggery that goes on cyber dating deserves its own little window of perplexity.
Basking in the glow of my computer, the rain is drumming the window outside. Maybe it's time to see what people really do on cruise ships. A little Vitamin D wouldn't go amiss.
'Mr Google!' Something to be said about immediacy and attention spans.
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Fringe
The honeymoon is over.
So cliche.
The metaphorical puff of flatulence has moved the honeymoon into marriage. Blissful ignorance into reality.
We've now been in our house for nearly six months, so we had a good long honeymoon. Some might have wanted a little longer but I'm not overly greedy. Want what you've got and all of that, a good adage to pretend to live by.
Act One: Honeymoon: Our own home. Perfect in its apparent and robust imperfections. Protagonist weeds garden and dreams of decks and lattice. Children bounce on trampoline and remain uninjured.
Act Two: Honeymoonic Rumbles: Movement noted in curtains when blustery gales buffeting the city. Builder arrives on blue sunlit day. A bit off rip here and bang there. The house will be blustery no more. What's that dripping noise? Starting to see imperfections not over robust.
Act Three: Marriage: Dark clouds gather. Thunder threatens. A stud which I've often been on a quest to find from within the walls has mysteriously disappeared. Where is the stud? Where can it be? It can only be found with the opening wide of the wallet and emptying of its bowels.
And so when will the play finish? How many acts will torture the once entranced house owner? Fingers crossed if the borer continues to hold hands the house will remain erect. Had mad thought that injecting Viagra into the holes might help in this aim.
But luckily, we're located on what is cheerfully noted as the 'City Fringe' by real estate agents.
The fringe? Considering where the city is, say where the nose is on the face, then the fringe would be the pubic region. And I don't want to think about those sort of fringes. I suspect real estate agents in their poetical wisdom do not think it a goer to advertise houses on the city's pubis. Sounds positively painful.
Thinking about fringes, they're usually used to cover things up. My fringe sails over a craggy brow. The fringe on the chaise lounge disguises a car wheel which I really don't know where to put or what to do with. Fringes can be deceit-fool.
Here I dwelll on the city fringe - I wonder what exactly this fringe is hiding?
So cliche.
The metaphorical puff of flatulence has moved the honeymoon into marriage. Blissful ignorance into reality.
We've now been in our house for nearly six months, so we had a good long honeymoon. Some might have wanted a little longer but I'm not overly greedy. Want what you've got and all of that, a good adage to pretend to live by.
Act One: Honeymoon: Our own home. Perfect in its apparent and robust imperfections. Protagonist weeds garden and dreams of decks and lattice. Children bounce on trampoline and remain uninjured.
Act Two: Honeymoonic Rumbles: Movement noted in curtains when blustery gales buffeting the city. Builder arrives on blue sunlit day. A bit off rip here and bang there. The house will be blustery no more. What's that dripping noise? Starting to see imperfections not over robust.
Act Three: Marriage: Dark clouds gather. Thunder threatens. A stud which I've often been on a quest to find from within the walls has mysteriously disappeared. Where is the stud? Where can it be? It can only be found with the opening wide of the wallet and emptying of its bowels.
And so when will the play finish? How many acts will torture the once entranced house owner? Fingers crossed if the borer continues to hold hands the house will remain erect. Had mad thought that injecting Viagra into the holes might help in this aim.
But luckily, we're located on what is cheerfully noted as the 'City Fringe' by real estate agents.
The fringe? Considering where the city is, say where the nose is on the face, then the fringe would be the pubic region. And I don't want to think about those sort of fringes. I suspect real estate agents in their poetical wisdom do not think it a goer to advertise houses on the city's pubis. Sounds positively painful.
Thinking about fringes, they're usually used to cover things up. My fringe sails over a craggy brow. The fringe on the chaise lounge disguises a car wheel which I really don't know where to put or what to do with. Fringes can be deceit-fool.
Here I dwelll on the city fringe - I wonder what exactly this fringe is hiding?
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Slipping into Dotage
It's happened.Slippers have found their way onto my feet. That in itself is not the tragedy. The tragedy exists in the fact that I don't want to take them off and would even answer the door in them. Not just answer the door, I danced out to the letterbox in them.
Worryingly, if I hadn't been in my pyjamas I could've danced all the way to the moon. But even space isn't ready for me in my sheepskins and flannelettes.
I'd like to think they were those little 'cocktaily' slippers with the kitten heel. Mine, however, have nothing to do with cats, my comfort is sought through the unhappy demise of a perhaps once happy sheep (citizenship unknown). It is not wise to dwell on the fate of the cosier. My rationale here is that the sheep had long since digested its last blade of grass before I stumbled across them in K-Mart. And I paid full price. It did not die in vain gasping at the bottom of the bargin bin.
It died for a good cause. Mine. Anyway, I can hardly choke on guilt when I have no such guilt trips when eating the Sunday roast.
How would the conversation go? I can't even begin to think of an opening gambit. I can only imagine it in a Dickensian novel, the Sheepskin Carol. How I'd greet a woolley apparition belongs cheerfully in nightmares. I wonder if my feet, size 10 (on a good day) ever featured in the sheep's nightmare?
Speaking of which, if we count sheep to lull us to nigh-nigh... what do sheep count? I can think of nothing pastoral and calming that would befit the sweet dreams of a sheep. Perhaps bales of hale and new grass blades blowing in the breeze.
But I digress. My feet are warm and I am content in their snugness. Sadly, I have not given them much thought in my youth as I shovelled them into shoes fit for tiny, pointy feet.
I think it's official, I am a spinster. Which only begs the question, can a divorcee become a spinster? I'll sleep on it and in them.
Speaking of which, if we count sheep to lull us to nigh-nigh... what do sheep count? I can think of nothing pastoral and calming that would befit the sweet dreams of a sheep. Perhaps bales of hale and new grass blades blowing in the breeze.
But I digress. My feet are warm and I am content in their snugness. Sadly, I have not given them much thought in my youth as I shovelled them into shoes fit for tiny, pointy feet.
I think it's official, I am a spinster. Which only begs the question, can a divorcee become a spinster? I'll sleep on it and in them.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Paranoinka
It's here.
A sniff or cough is no longer a snuffle. It's swine flu. No 'ifs' or 'buts'. Cough and the person next to you stiffens in horror. Of course, if a mask is being worn, the brow drops slightly in relief that says, "Hey, I might look silly, but I'll still be around to watch the next episode of 'Desperate Housewives'".
One damp Monday morning, the smallest noted with concern that he had two symptoms of swine flu, drawing the conclusion that he should stay home. I suggested that if unless he could prove he'd snogged a hog, he was going to school.
Simply paranoia? If we're sneezing on the precipice of a viral disaster, I'd not like it be me to say that it's all a storm in a media tea-cup. Michael Jackson took over the front pages for a while, and he wasn't linked to any pig, well not adult ones anyway. Perhaps, looking at the way the King of Pop has been exploited since moon walking off his mortal coil, this flu could be deemed devine retribution for the western masses who no longer forage for food instead choosing to masticate on infamous misfortunates.
Paranoia comes in waves, often fuelled by slow news days. We ride them. Y2K blustered through and Bird Flu offered another chance to wear masks but didn't deliver the full load of dread. I've only recently started releasing baked beans from their rusty Y2K-kit entombment.
The emergency kit. It's a great idea. But where will you be when the emergency strikes? I'd suggest that if you're trying to wrestle a bar of chocolate from the office snack bar machine at the 'strike time' you're too far from your emergency kit for it to be much use. It could be buried under the rubble. Or the baked beans may be so out-of-date that if you remembered to replace the can opener you borrowed from the kit in 2005 they could kill you through orange botulism.
It's bedtime. Fingers crossed the bed bugs won't bite... and if they do...
A sniff or cough is no longer a snuffle. It's swine flu. No 'ifs' or 'buts'. Cough and the person next to you stiffens in horror. Of course, if a mask is being worn, the brow drops slightly in relief that says, "Hey, I might look silly, but I'll still be around to watch the next episode of 'Desperate Housewives'".
One damp Monday morning, the smallest noted with concern that he had two symptoms of swine flu, drawing the conclusion that he should stay home. I suggested that if unless he could prove he'd snogged a hog, he was going to school.
Simply paranoia? If we're sneezing on the precipice of a viral disaster, I'd not like it be me to say that it's all a storm in a media tea-cup. Michael Jackson took over the front pages for a while, and he wasn't linked to any pig, well not adult ones anyway. Perhaps, looking at the way the King of Pop has been exploited since moon walking off his mortal coil, this flu could be deemed devine retribution for the western masses who no longer forage for food instead choosing to masticate on infamous misfortunates.
Paranoia comes in waves, often fuelled by slow news days. We ride them. Y2K blustered through and Bird Flu offered another chance to wear masks but didn't deliver the full load of dread. I've only recently started releasing baked beans from their rusty Y2K-kit entombment.
The emergency kit. It's a great idea. But where will you be when the emergency strikes? I'd suggest that if you're trying to wrestle a bar of chocolate from the office snack bar machine at the 'strike time' you're too far from your emergency kit for it to be much use. It could be buried under the rubble. Or the baked beans may be so out-of-date that if you remembered to replace the can opener you borrowed from the kit in 2005 they could kill you through orange botulism.
It's bedtime. Fingers crossed the bed bugs won't bite... and if they do...
Monday, May 25, 2009
R U QRS
How many accidents are caused by drivers deciphering number plates? One minute you're driving along with a chronologically placed plate in front of you and one behind you. Generated by a bureaucratic database, they're numbers you can trust.
Then...
Out of the blue, a quirky creative strip of metal flashes by. The number plate in a perpetual state of perplexment. In the ensuing moments your mind leaves the road as you try to work out what it means. In most instances your autopilot maintains the car on its flight path. I can only guess that some must leave the road in askance at a stranger's turpitude.
I narrowly avoided a lamppost recently as I was trying to figure out why someone was querying my sexuality. R U QRS was translated by me as 'are you queers'. I realised after a few cranial gymnastics that it meant 'are you curious?' No I'm not curious but I would've been furious if my head had nogged the lamppost. By good fortune I wasn't behind a wheel at the time.
There's no hidden agenda in BCY186 - I know, because that's my number plate. It was on the car when I bought it. A simple number plate for a down to earth car. I love my Toyota Corolla but will never use it to advertise my sexuality or availability. Who wants to know and even if they did, by the time they'd worked out that I was a rampant hussey (I'd like to point out that I'm not, sadly) they'd be several kilometres out of luck.
And I'd still be behind the wheel listening to my radio station of choice, singing with all the gusto of an operatic diva without the gift of tune.
But interestingly, I've started to notice the radio ads. Unfortunately to get a radio station that has songs with a tune, you have to wrestle with your own mortality. And as you tootle along the road missing cats and pedestrians you're brought face to face with it.
I am intrigued how the ads manage to put the fun back into funeral. I'm nearly excited about buying into a retirement village although am a little concerned that there are more women than men. I rationalised being several decades younger might give me a head start in the dating stakes but worried that live-in children might not be a welcome asset.
The erectile-dysfunction-fixer ads offer a glimmer of hope to the limp, although sometimes they're so oblique that I may have drawn the wrong conclusion as to the product. It might be elephant's toothpaste or a hair removal product for all I know. But the voices are always reasuring if not a little obtuse.
And then there's my hearing... eyesight... joint problems (not the naughty ones)... and the list goes on. All things that I hadn't been worried about in my thirties.
As I squint a bit at the screen, feeling the crows feet claw in, I think it's time for my beauty sleep.
Then...
Out of the blue, a quirky creative strip of metal flashes by. The number plate in a perpetual state of perplexment. In the ensuing moments your mind leaves the road as you try to work out what it means. In most instances your autopilot maintains the car on its flight path. I can only guess that some must leave the road in askance at a stranger's turpitude.
I narrowly avoided a lamppost recently as I was trying to figure out why someone was querying my sexuality. R U QRS was translated by me as 'are you queers'. I realised after a few cranial gymnastics that it meant 'are you curious?' No I'm not curious but I would've been furious if my head had nogged the lamppost. By good fortune I wasn't behind a wheel at the time.
There's no hidden agenda in BCY186 - I know, because that's my number plate. It was on the car when I bought it. A simple number plate for a down to earth car. I love my Toyota Corolla but will never use it to advertise my sexuality or availability. Who wants to know and even if they did, by the time they'd worked out that I was a rampant hussey (I'd like to point out that I'm not, sadly) they'd be several kilometres out of luck.
And I'd still be behind the wheel listening to my radio station of choice, singing with all the gusto of an operatic diva without the gift of tune.
But interestingly, I've started to notice the radio ads. Unfortunately to get a radio station that has songs with a tune, you have to wrestle with your own mortality. And as you tootle along the road missing cats and pedestrians you're brought face to face with it.
I am intrigued how the ads manage to put the fun back into funeral. I'm nearly excited about buying into a retirement village although am a little concerned that there are more women than men. I rationalised being several decades younger might give me a head start in the dating stakes but worried that live-in children might not be a welcome asset.
The erectile-dysfunction-fixer ads offer a glimmer of hope to the limp, although sometimes they're so oblique that I may have drawn the wrong conclusion as to the product. It might be elephant's toothpaste or a hair removal product for all I know. But the voices are always reasuring if not a little obtuse.
And then there's my hearing... eyesight... joint problems (not the naughty ones)... and the list goes on. All things that I hadn't been worried about in my thirties.
As I squint a bit at the screen, feeling the crows feet claw in, I think it's time for my beauty sleep.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Chocologic
What is it about chocolate? How does it manage to ursurp the sensibility chip in the most rational?
It's an antitoxidant which means that it's like eating a tomato only it's brown. For some unknown reason the tomato doesn't invite the tongue teasing and testing that chocolate endures. I've never seen anyone suck a tomato but then I've never jumped off a bridge with a bit of elastic stuck to my foot. A sheltered existence some might say but having two live feet firmly on the ground is something I pride myself on.
Today, when negotiating a piece of Toblerone, carefully peeling away the tinfoil, I reasoned that these two brown morsels could last me through to dinner. Afterall, it only had seven hours to fill in. Suffice to say, it didn't and re-fuelling was required by something a little more substantial and less brown a little later on.
This particular chocolate was being offered in the lunchroom at work. The approach to eating in the lunchroom is vastly different to eating at home or in your car. Had that bar been stationed in the fridge at home, the chocologic would've really kicked in. Some use this logic to ration it, two pieces a night viewing Coro with a cuppa. I do not. I can not.
My rationale for eating said chocolate is exactly that, eat it. Eat it all. Why bother dividing it in your head, especially if you're mathematically challenged. By doing that you use up all the health giving calories before they've even reached your tongue.
As a point, do you often torture yourself on the bathroom (should be 'bath-rue') scales, manoeurvring your tummy so that you can read the malignant figures at your feet? Well, do it get off and balance a packet of chocolate biscuits on your head -get back on and voila - there is no change in the reading. Thus proving eating biscuits and chocolate plays no part in weight gain. Note of caution: remove biscuits from a tin or cookie jar as this could cause you serious injury to both body and spirit.
Chocologic does not confine itself to cocoa derivatives. It's that over thinking crashing through scenario after scenario in your small cranial colesseum. If you'd only kept your right hand on the steering wheel instead of offering another driver a single-digit driving directive you'd not be driving around in the panel-beater's courtesy car. Or if only you'd decided to wear yellow instead of red when you were crossing that field with all those udder-less cows in it.
Well, as this is in chocological order - which is an oxymoron as chocology has no order and is a nonsensical at the best of times except when reordered ad naseum in your head - then it's bedtime and time to offer another note of caution. Do not leave chocolate under your pillow with the electric blanket on. The initial heart shape, romantic in solidity but the ensuing gooey mess is reminescent of something much less so.
Sweet dreams.
It's an antitoxidant which means that it's like eating a tomato only it's brown. For some unknown reason the tomato doesn't invite the tongue teasing and testing that chocolate endures. I've never seen anyone suck a tomato but then I've never jumped off a bridge with a bit of elastic stuck to my foot. A sheltered existence some might say but having two live feet firmly on the ground is something I pride myself on.
Today, when negotiating a piece of Toblerone, carefully peeling away the tinfoil, I reasoned that these two brown morsels could last me through to dinner. Afterall, it only had seven hours to fill in. Suffice to say, it didn't and re-fuelling was required by something a little more substantial and less brown a little later on.
This particular chocolate was being offered in the lunchroom at work. The approach to eating in the lunchroom is vastly different to eating at home or in your car. Had that bar been stationed in the fridge at home, the chocologic would've really kicked in. Some use this logic to ration it, two pieces a night viewing Coro with a cuppa. I do not. I can not.
My rationale for eating said chocolate is exactly that, eat it. Eat it all. Why bother dividing it in your head, especially if you're mathematically challenged. By doing that you use up all the health giving calories before they've even reached your tongue.
As a point, do you often torture yourself on the bathroom (should be 'bath-rue') scales, manoeurvring your tummy so that you can read the malignant figures at your feet? Well, do it get off and balance a packet of chocolate biscuits on your head -get back on and voila - there is no change in the reading. Thus proving eating biscuits and chocolate plays no part in weight gain. Note of caution: remove biscuits from a tin or cookie jar as this could cause you serious injury to both body and spirit.
Chocologic does not confine itself to cocoa derivatives. It's that over thinking crashing through scenario after scenario in your small cranial colesseum. If you'd only kept your right hand on the steering wheel instead of offering another driver a single-digit driving directive you'd not be driving around in the panel-beater's courtesy car. Or if only you'd decided to wear yellow instead of red when you were crossing that field with all those udder-less cows in it.
Well, as this is in chocological order - which is an oxymoron as chocology has no order and is a nonsensical at the best of times except when reordered ad naseum in your head - then it's bedtime and time to offer another note of caution. Do not leave chocolate under your pillow with the electric blanket on. The initial heart shape, romantic in solidity but the ensuing gooey mess is reminescent of something much less so.
Sweet dreams.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Dis-appointment
Firstly, there was the mailbox disappointment. When opening it only produced a moth or bill, the heart sank just a smidge. With the advent of the answer-machine (because they were whirr-gigging machines whereas robotic blips now bleep out your disappointment) came the crashing ego-whack when you returned home, after two days visiting Nana, to find there was only one message left and that was somebody trying to sell you life insurance. Not only reminding you that you have no friends but it didn't matter anyway as you'd probably be dead soon so there'd be nobody at your funeral. Oh well, less to spend on egg sandwiches and asparagus rolls.
It's bad enough not getting snail mail but technology has gifted us an array of disappointment deliverers.
Now, mobile phones offer disappointment at your fingertips, 24 hours a day. That text you'd been waiting for... and waiting for... and waiting for... was obviously been sent to the wrong person. How many texts can you send before you're deemed a stalker and have a restraining order slapped on you? Should you conclude with a x or a xox or just your name ... or ... should you lose the vowels or ride high in the saddle of the grammar pedant? Questions posed and answered in a thousand different ways... all in your head.
The internet through your computer portal offers you an abundance of disappointment and disillusionment. The empty cyber mailbox. Doh! Or worse, full of inconsequential cyber detritis which serves only to remind you that you live in a world that has all the depth of a gnat's puddle. Who really cares if you only have seven friends on Facebook, and that figure includes an Ethiopian stranger?
And that one email where you compared your boss to a syphilitic despot was the one you hit reply all to. The intended sole recipient informing you of your career-dunking keystroke before offering to help you pack your career into a small brown box. Very kind, but asking you if you'd mind leaving your Elvis mug as a keepsake... blooming cheek!
Of course, it's gets better. Spam is not oft-wished-for missives and more annoyingly, it's hard to pass off Mi Knob or E. Normous as a good friend. They sound like jolly good sorts though, as they assure you that your partner 'won't need a magnifying glass to see your instrument'. Then there's Rod Hard who boasts that 'it will be hard to hide your bulgy pride' after you've knocked back a couple of his con-cock-tions. Indeed.
So now you have no friends... are nearly dead and have the added disappointment that you lack a penis. Even if you were fortunate to posess one, it would be too small to operate in the over-inflated world. And then to enable you to operate it with your head held high, and I supsect your member in a sling if the photos are anything to go by, you'd need to pop little pink pills for your partner to be satisfied during your 'couch adventures'.
It's all quite exhausting.
With all this talk about appendages to be proud of, I look down at our new family member. Sammy, a scruffy tabby, looks up at me adoringly. I can only cross my fingers that he can't read because his little man was lopped off without much ado and I certainly do not want to be responsible for his lamentations at this loss.
I've got enough to worry about already.
It's bad enough not getting snail mail but technology has gifted us an array of disappointment deliverers.
Now, mobile phones offer disappointment at your fingertips, 24 hours a day. That text you'd been waiting for... and waiting for... and waiting for... was obviously been sent to the wrong person. How many texts can you send before you're deemed a stalker and have a restraining order slapped on you? Should you conclude with a x or a xox or just your name ... or ... should you lose the vowels or ride high in the saddle of the grammar pedant? Questions posed and answered in a thousand different ways... all in your head.
The internet through your computer portal offers you an abundance of disappointment and disillusionment. The empty cyber mailbox. Doh! Or worse, full of inconsequential cyber detritis which serves only to remind you that you live in a world that has all the depth of a gnat's puddle. Who really cares if you only have seven friends on Facebook, and that figure includes an Ethiopian stranger?
And that one email where you compared your boss to a syphilitic despot was the one you hit reply all to. The intended sole recipient informing you of your career-dunking keystroke before offering to help you pack your career into a small brown box. Very kind, but asking you if you'd mind leaving your Elvis mug as a keepsake... blooming cheek!
Of course, it's gets better. Spam is not oft-wished-for missives and more annoyingly, it's hard to pass off Mi Knob or E. Normous as a good friend. They sound like jolly good sorts though, as they assure you that your partner 'won't need a magnifying glass to see your instrument'. Then there's Rod Hard who boasts that 'it will be hard to hide your bulgy pride' after you've knocked back a couple of his con-cock-tions. Indeed.
So now you have no friends... are nearly dead and have the added disappointment that you lack a penis. Even if you were fortunate to posess one, it would be too small to operate in the over-inflated world. And then to enable you to operate it with your head held high, and I supsect your member in a sling if the photos are anything to go by, you'd need to pop little pink pills for your partner to be satisfied during your 'couch adventures'.
It's all quite exhausting.
With all this talk about appendages to be proud of, I look down at our new family member. Sammy, a scruffy tabby, looks up at me adoringly. I can only cross my fingers that he can't read because his little man was lopped off without much ado and I certainly do not want to be responsible for his lamentations at this loss.
I've got enough to worry about already.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Techno-flagrante
Children can slip into contraeceptive mode in inadvertent moments of comic genius.
One friend told of the time she stood waiting in the queue at the checkout. Flourescent lighting, chewing gum and trolleys. Her little girl, fed up with oggling the forbidden sweets, instead turned her attention to the man behind them.
'Look Mummy.'
Mummy turned.
'That man has a front-bottom on his face,' her voice, loud and clear.
Mummy turned red.
The bearded man looked pointedly down at his bananas in his trolley.
Another friend was being served by an efficient bank teller as her little girl tugged insistently on her skirt. 'Mummy, mummy...'
Mummy looked down.
'The lady looks like a monkey.'
Mummy's eyes narrowed briefly then brightened quickly, 'She's going through one of those phases.' Her eyes returning to the teller. 'She says everyone and everything looks like an animal at the zoo... that's where we went today,' she added.
'No I don't,' said the little voice. 'No we didn't.'
Mummy smiled tightly.
The little girl was not finished.
'The lady has a nice face,' she said. 'A nice monkey face.'
Mummy smiled apologetically as her toes curled in her Birkenstocks. She crossed her fingers, hoping that the teller wasn't vengeful towards small children and was now channelling all her funds into an account to help the Chimpanzees' Charity for Cosmetic Surgery.
With the progression of technology, the scope for embarrassment has widened considerably.
In one case, thanks to a small gadget attached to another one, a whole can of cyber worms was spewed forth to an unsuspecting recipient. One who'd have happily left the can opener in the drawer.
Munching on a crumpet, my friend sat pillowed on her bed, as the morning sun streamed through the window. The unexpected pleasure of a Saturday morning still in bed.
Tinkering away on her laptop, she decided to Skype a young relative as she noticed he was on-line.
He quickly came into focus. He noted that her hair looked interesting and she commented that he was wearing quite a bit of his breakfast on his pyjamas.
Then she noticed the background start to move and the boy's head bobble. The camera was obviously attached to a laptop at the other end of the line and was on the move.
The camera followed the boy's journey down a dim hallway, and stopped focussing on a door. The door opened, obviously pushed open with a good thwump.
'Arghghghghhgh!'
Two bare bottoms presented themselves full screen. Then a face, peered out from behind the cheeks wearing a look of abject horror. The face had been caught inflagrante by her son. Bad. Then realisation that their bare skin was being aired live in someone else's bedroom. Very bad. Boy, very, very bad!
A face froze on screen, the mouth a full circle of horrible realisation. My friend took a moment or two to realise what was happening in her laptop.
'No!!!!'
Faced with four unexpected cheeks, she fell out of bed, flinging her laptop to the floor.
The first thing she did when she regained her composure and rescued her crumpet was remove the camera from her own laptop. She'd pop it on the one in the lounge... later.
One friend told of the time she stood waiting in the queue at the checkout. Flourescent lighting, chewing gum and trolleys. Her little girl, fed up with oggling the forbidden sweets, instead turned her attention to the man behind them.
'Look Mummy.'
Mummy turned.
'That man has a front-bottom on his face,' her voice, loud and clear.
Mummy turned red.
The bearded man looked pointedly down at his bananas in his trolley.
Another friend was being served by an efficient bank teller as her little girl tugged insistently on her skirt. 'Mummy, mummy...'
Mummy looked down.
'The lady looks like a monkey.'
Mummy's eyes narrowed briefly then brightened quickly, 'She's going through one of those phases.' Her eyes returning to the teller. 'She says everyone and everything looks like an animal at the zoo... that's where we went today,' she added.
'No I don't,' said the little voice. 'No we didn't.'
Mummy smiled tightly.
The little girl was not finished.
'The lady has a nice face,' she said. 'A nice monkey face.'
Mummy smiled apologetically as her toes curled in her Birkenstocks. She crossed her fingers, hoping that the teller wasn't vengeful towards small children and was now channelling all her funds into an account to help the Chimpanzees' Charity for Cosmetic Surgery.
With the progression of technology, the scope for embarrassment has widened considerably.
In one case, thanks to a small gadget attached to another one, a whole can of cyber worms was spewed forth to an unsuspecting recipient. One who'd have happily left the can opener in the drawer.
Munching on a crumpet, my friend sat pillowed on her bed, as the morning sun streamed through the window. The unexpected pleasure of a Saturday morning still in bed.
Tinkering away on her laptop, she decided to Skype a young relative as she noticed he was on-line.
He quickly came into focus. He noted that her hair looked interesting and she commented that he was wearing quite a bit of his breakfast on his pyjamas.
Then she noticed the background start to move and the boy's head bobble. The camera was obviously attached to a laptop at the other end of the line and was on the move.
The camera followed the boy's journey down a dim hallway, and stopped focussing on a door. The door opened, obviously pushed open with a good thwump.
'Arghghghghhgh!'
Two bare bottoms presented themselves full screen. Then a face, peered out from behind the cheeks wearing a look of abject horror. The face had been caught inflagrante by her son. Bad. Then realisation that their bare skin was being aired live in someone else's bedroom. Very bad. Boy, very, very bad!
A face froze on screen, the mouth a full circle of horrible realisation. My friend took a moment or two to realise what was happening in her laptop.
'No!!!!'
Faced with four unexpected cheeks, she fell out of bed, flinging her laptop to the floor.
The first thing she did when she regained her composure and rescued her crumpet was remove the camera from her own laptop. She'd pop it on the one in the lounge... later.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Stud Finder
Studs are not what they were. They're no longer associated with lusty, lingering looks across a crowded, darkened room. As a middle-aged, new home owner I'm surrounded by studs, and fascinated by them but for different reasons to the youngster gripping her Southern Comfort and ginger ale in a sticky-carpeted pub.
Although I'm still looking to nail a stud, the nail is now literal. Looking for one has a lot more to do with tapping and if you're hearing has been dessimated by the Bee Gees screeching through your iPod, there's a nifty little tool that you can use to find them. It looks easy and positively fun in the picture.
First things first.
Last week I watched, intrigued, as a friend tapped across my walls with a look of consternation and concentration. Studs were found and followed. But upon his departure when I mimmicked the exercise, I could disern no difference in sound from whatever or wherever I tapped. It was not for lack of knocking, as my knuckles were distinctly red from the rapping.
It was because of my dismal failure at being able to distinguish a stud from a live cable that I found myself in the hardware aisle at K-mart. Drills, hammers, crow bars and tool 'things' crammed the shelves vying for my attention. It was under the eight metre retractable tape measure and above a vicious looking tool 'thing' that I found it. The Stud Finder. It sits in front of me as I tap, and although I haven't actually been able to liberate it from it's plastic entombment, it will be disinterred and find its way around the walls any day soon.
I do intend to tap across the walls in the hope of nailing a stud or hanging a mirror but as I sit here in the banality of my own thoughts, an opportunity for digression has arisen.
Have you taken a close look at your reflection recently? A pond is kind but if you've had the misfortune to live with a bathroom mirror crucified by halogen bulbs you'll be more than aware that with the ripples of time comes the growth of your own Magnum. Suddenly hair is sprouting up in all sorts of places where in Victorian times you could very well have been a major exhibit in a travelling curiousity show.
Whatever happened to Magnum PI? I wonder if his magnificent upper lip adornment is still intact? Possibly not because I think it may have landed on me.
Forget the Stud Finder, where are my tweezers?
Although I'm still looking to nail a stud, the nail is now literal. Looking for one has a lot more to do with tapping and if you're hearing has been dessimated by the Bee Gees screeching through your iPod, there's a nifty little tool that you can use to find them. It looks easy and positively fun in the picture.
First things first.
Last week I watched, intrigued, as a friend tapped across my walls with a look of consternation and concentration. Studs were found and followed. But upon his departure when I mimmicked the exercise, I could disern no difference in sound from whatever or wherever I tapped. It was not for lack of knocking, as my knuckles were distinctly red from the rapping.
It was because of my dismal failure at being able to distinguish a stud from a live cable that I found myself in the hardware aisle at K-mart. Drills, hammers, crow bars and tool 'things' crammed the shelves vying for my attention. It was under the eight metre retractable tape measure and above a vicious looking tool 'thing' that I found it. The Stud Finder. It sits in front of me as I tap, and although I haven't actually been able to liberate it from it's plastic entombment, it will be disinterred and find its way around the walls any day soon.
I do intend to tap across the walls in the hope of nailing a stud or hanging a mirror but as I sit here in the banality of my own thoughts, an opportunity for digression has arisen.
Have you taken a close look at your reflection recently? A pond is kind but if you've had the misfortune to live with a bathroom mirror crucified by halogen bulbs you'll be more than aware that with the ripples of time comes the growth of your own Magnum. Suddenly hair is sprouting up in all sorts of places where in Victorian times you could very well have been a major exhibit in a travelling curiousity show.
Whatever happened to Magnum PI? I wonder if his magnificent upper lip adornment is still intact? Possibly not because I think it may have landed on me.
Forget the Stud Finder, where are my tweezers?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Blegging
When is it ok to beg?
Should you have to beg somebody to marry you? I'd say not in this particular circumstance. Begging here shouts desperation and a ticking biological clock. Love, for that's apparently why we tie the knot, should be offered not extracted.
It's ok for a dog to beg for a bone or a cat to beg for a fish. It's fair to say that I've never seen a cat stoop to such a level. They will capture their want with a level-headed stare and a flick of a claw if necessary, but begging is usually left to their dopey-earred canine 'friends'. A cat's dignity seldom flounders whereas a dog's is often lost in its eternal search for a compatible bottom, upon whichever species the bottom may sit.
Is it ok to ask your partner to stay when you know their heart has strayed an uncapturable distance from your own? You can covert that heart as much as you desire. You can lasso it or harpoon it but it will never stay in your cage. I'd say, in this instance, let the heart go. A little voodoo may be in order but not begging. Buy some pins.
What about when there's only one chocolate left in the box? The little tinfoiled one reaches the height of desirablility when it languishes alone. If there is more than one mouth in its vicinity, then it is OK to beg, especially if one of those near is sticking little pins into a small, ugly doll. Begging should be encouraged in this instance although it shouldn't be necessary as the chocolate should be offered in sympathy. But don't bet on it.
When Funny Face plays on the radio - beg or blast? If begging doesn't work, blast it or hit the radio/cd player/computer with whatever instrument is near at hand that will be able to shut it up. You may not have time to beg, then just bang and blast. Baseball bat or bazooka, your choice.
And it's always OK to bleg your friends for anything... that's what friends are for... and they are inevitably capable of slapping you with a one-eyed wet fish if they feel the need.
Slap!
Should you have to beg somebody to marry you? I'd say not in this particular circumstance. Begging here shouts desperation and a ticking biological clock. Love, for that's apparently why we tie the knot, should be offered not extracted.
It's ok for a dog to beg for a bone or a cat to beg for a fish. It's fair to say that I've never seen a cat stoop to such a level. They will capture their want with a level-headed stare and a flick of a claw if necessary, but begging is usually left to their dopey-earred canine 'friends'. A cat's dignity seldom flounders whereas a dog's is often lost in its eternal search for a compatible bottom, upon whichever species the bottom may sit.
Is it ok to ask your partner to stay when you know their heart has strayed an uncapturable distance from your own? You can covert that heart as much as you desire. You can lasso it or harpoon it but it will never stay in your cage. I'd say, in this instance, let the heart go. A little voodoo may be in order but not begging. Buy some pins.
What about when there's only one chocolate left in the box? The little tinfoiled one reaches the height of desirablility when it languishes alone. If there is more than one mouth in its vicinity, then it is OK to beg, especially if one of those near is sticking little pins into a small, ugly doll. Begging should be encouraged in this instance although it shouldn't be necessary as the chocolate should be offered in sympathy. But don't bet on it.
When Funny Face plays on the radio - beg or blast? If begging doesn't work, blast it or hit the radio/cd player/computer with whatever instrument is near at hand that will be able to shut it up. You may not have time to beg, then just bang and blast. Baseball bat or bazooka, your choice.
And it's always OK to bleg your friends for anything... that's what friends are for... and they are inevitably capable of slapping you with a one-eyed wet fish if they feel the need.
Slap!
Monday, February 9, 2009
Mad Dogs
A long time ago, when skin was smoothe and soul untarnished by cynicism, I travelled to London. The big OE was, and still is, the right of passage for many kiwi kids. We needed to connect with and see the real world. The big world.
It was the first time I'd been on a plane, the first time I was separated by great chunks of water from my family. Alone, it was a big adventure, something I'd dreamed of many times as I sat on Takapuna beach watching cruise ships and tankers crawl past Rangitoto.
My cabin bag was heavier than my suitcase and I had to nearly drag it down the aisle while pretending it was feather-weight. Wedging it between my seat and the one in front, it became my footrest for the journey. I remember the zip was threatening to burst so I tried to relieve the pressure by unzipping it a little. But the zip was akin to a bladder awaiting a scan, there is no such thing as a trickle. The contents spewed forth. And at that same moment a baby (German) projectile vomitted across the aisle. The baby bile served as a marinade for the bag's contents.
It was in that bile that my cabin bag acted like a mile-high hangi. So the first story was born before the plane had even taxied down the runway. I burst into tears.
Arriving at London's Heathrow, and after an unexplained chest x-ray I met my two friends as I struggled with my mobile hangi. Dave was an old flatmate and Laima his wife. They were bedraggled by living in Britain. Their hair was lank, their skin pale. It was the eighties and as I hovered under my shoulder pads, their shoulder blades stuck out from thin jumpers.
Delighted hugs and pleasantries were exchanged before we started on our way 'home'. My new home was Little Baddow, a small village not too far from Chelmsford in Essex. Well, actually, on that early morning it was two tube rides, two bus rides and gratefully a taxi ride. The trip home was more exhausting than the plane journey, taking over three hours.
Little Baddow is a tiny village of picturesque cottages and a local pub, the name of which escapes me over two decades later. We arrived at the driveway which wound up to the house my friends were boarding at. The taxi crackled over the stones and through the overgrown garden encroaching on the drive, to arrive at a rather grand albeit decrepit house.
Stopping near the front door, we paid the fare and helped unload the car.
'We've got to tell you something,' Laima said.
I looked at her with red eyes.
'About Fiona.'
'Fiona?'
'A black labarador.'
'Oh lovely.'
'Not really,' Laima continued. 'Fiona... oh you'll find out soon enough.'
Great, just what I needed, Cujo.
We carried the luggage up to the house. The door swung open, and my nasal passages were invaded by the smell of... dog poo. Looking down the dim hallway and along to the staircase, I could make out dog poo littering the floor and stairs. The poo was more prolific than the flowers embedded in the carpet's pattern. It was obvious by the deposits that Fiona had a healthy appetite.
My shoulder pads drooped.
Welcome to Blighty.
It was the first time I'd been on a plane, the first time I was separated by great chunks of water from my family. Alone, it was a big adventure, something I'd dreamed of many times as I sat on Takapuna beach watching cruise ships and tankers crawl past Rangitoto.
My cabin bag was heavier than my suitcase and I had to nearly drag it down the aisle while pretending it was feather-weight. Wedging it between my seat and the one in front, it became my footrest for the journey. I remember the zip was threatening to burst so I tried to relieve the pressure by unzipping it a little. But the zip was akin to a bladder awaiting a scan, there is no such thing as a trickle. The contents spewed forth. And at that same moment a baby (German) projectile vomitted across the aisle. The baby bile served as a marinade for the bag's contents.
It was in that bile that my cabin bag acted like a mile-high hangi. So the first story was born before the plane had even taxied down the runway. I burst into tears.
Arriving at London's Heathrow, and after an unexplained chest x-ray I met my two friends as I struggled with my mobile hangi. Dave was an old flatmate and Laima his wife. They were bedraggled by living in Britain. Their hair was lank, their skin pale. It was the eighties and as I hovered under my shoulder pads, their shoulder blades stuck out from thin jumpers.
Delighted hugs and pleasantries were exchanged before we started on our way 'home'. My new home was Little Baddow, a small village not too far from Chelmsford in Essex. Well, actually, on that early morning it was two tube rides, two bus rides and gratefully a taxi ride. The trip home was more exhausting than the plane journey, taking over three hours.
Little Baddow is a tiny village of picturesque cottages and a local pub, the name of which escapes me over two decades later. We arrived at the driveway which wound up to the house my friends were boarding at. The taxi crackled over the stones and through the overgrown garden encroaching on the drive, to arrive at a rather grand albeit decrepit house.
Stopping near the front door, we paid the fare and helped unload the car.
'We've got to tell you something,' Laima said.
I looked at her with red eyes.
'About Fiona.'
'Fiona?'
'A black labarador.'
'Oh lovely.'
'Not really,' Laima continued. 'Fiona... oh you'll find out soon enough.'
Great, just what I needed, Cujo.
We carried the luggage up to the house. The door swung open, and my nasal passages were invaded by the smell of... dog poo. Looking down the dim hallway and along to the staircase, I could make out dog poo littering the floor and stairs. The poo was more prolific than the flowers embedded in the carpet's pattern. It was obvious by the deposits that Fiona had a healthy appetite.
My shoulder pads drooped.
Welcome to Blighty.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
A Little Tribute
We've just returned from the vet after having Keith, our moustachio'd cat put to sleep. We don't say put to death because euphemisms are much easier to digest. I guess they're like putting curved edges on angles, cushions on pin-points.
He's been part of our family for about 11 years now, wandering in and out of our life through the cat door (when there was one) or knocking on the door with muddied paws, munching his way through interestingly named foods which would be palatable to the human by name but definitely not by smell.
He's been part of our family for about 11 years now, wandering in and out of our life through the cat door (when there was one) or knocking on the door with muddied paws, munching his way through interestingly named foods which would be palatable to the human by name but definitely not by smell.
My two boys, one bigger than the other, are both in tears. It's their first real death. We all loved Keith, and it's the first time 'something' the boys have actually loved has been permanently lost. He cannot be repurchased or recycled, he's popped his paws and that is it. No happy ending.
As we clustered around our small ginger pet to say goodbye, we'd, to that point, assumed he'd be given a tablet and the offer of a day or two of rest - then he'd be home again traumatising the birds. The boys left the room (on their own wishes) and I held Keith as life left him on the sterile, stainless table. I could hear the boys in the waiting room and I can't remember hearing them sob so, gut wrenching sorrow. I wasn't much help, as I was wracked by guilt for not realising he'd been so ill.
Keith seemed to have settled well into our new home. His first morning, only a week ago, saw him enjoying the novelty of new cat doors. He no longer had to beg on the welcome mat - he woke me at 6.30am by whacking me on the eyelid with his paw. He was always keen to eat. If we could be as honest with our own appetites.
We chose him from behind a wire cage at the SPCA and little did we know that we'd acquired a cat in the full throes of cat flu. But he survived. He travelled from our address in Auckland, flying with us to Christchurch then back to Auckland. He rattled bowls in Beach Haven and made his name in the Point. He dined at several addresses, at least three, but we suspected there were a few more.
Stella, my neice, called him the 'kissing-hissing cat'. But to be fair on our ginger pet he very rarely scratched, and even tonight as he fought getting into his cage, he didn't try to scratch or bite. He never did. He chose when he would offer affection, it was always his perogative and a delight when it was offered. Lucy, a beloved bearded collie, was his favourite sport.
But now he's gone.
Sleep isn't looking very promising tonight.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Stretching the Truth
Playing the dating game is not all knights and white horses. In the world of dating, the shire might turn out to be a shetland, the armour more like grandad's favourite cardy, all holes and lint.
And once dating has progressed to the point where it's all tongues and touch, there are the practicalities that need to be addressed. But alas the promise of prophylactics although necessary, is none too romantic.
A friend told the tale of her knight as they flounced and floundered he procured a holiday sized box of the before mentioned. Some were unpackaged and unfurled as the moon yawned and the stars twinkled. The night galloped ahead, and it was all pillows and talk. An engaging and satisfying evening.
The two were not to meet for a week or so. After dinner but before they flew between the sheets, prophylactics were again mentioned. She was a little perplexed as to why further rubber recruits would need to be bought as from memory the initial supply had been ample. Her brow furrowed but she didn't mention the absenteeism of the rubber friends. Perhaps, it was a memory lapse and they were simply gathering dust as they jogged towards their expiry date. Or perhaps not.
But as the days turned to weeks, she did wonder. Perhaps the barriers of the night were not simply absent they may have been unfurled somewhere a little remote, where the maidens were fair. Where libidos could saunter and roam and not be hindered by the constraints of the city or conscience. Or perhaps not.
And so in a game where as we mature, we assume we know and understand the rules, we are none the wiser. Actions and words seldom meld and things done and words uttered are often misunderstood and misinterpreted. The straight shooter is wished for but ne'er found.
Of course, questions could've been posed and answered but in the ensuing silence disappointment squandered promise.
As I sit with the dishwasher humming and the cat purring at my feet, I hope the night ahead will be fuelled by happy dreams, and as I wrest with a yawn... a little sleep.
And once dating has progressed to the point where it's all tongues and touch, there are the practicalities that need to be addressed. But alas the promise of prophylactics although necessary, is none too romantic.
A friend told the tale of her knight as they flounced and floundered he procured a holiday sized box of the before mentioned. Some were unpackaged and unfurled as the moon yawned and the stars twinkled. The night galloped ahead, and it was all pillows and talk. An engaging and satisfying evening.
The two were not to meet for a week or so. After dinner but before they flew between the sheets, prophylactics were again mentioned. She was a little perplexed as to why further rubber recruits would need to be bought as from memory the initial supply had been ample. Her brow furrowed but she didn't mention the absenteeism of the rubber friends. Perhaps, it was a memory lapse and they were simply gathering dust as they jogged towards their expiry date. Or perhaps not.
But as the days turned to weeks, she did wonder. Perhaps the barriers of the night were not simply absent they may have been unfurled somewhere a little remote, where the maidens were fair. Where libidos could saunter and roam and not be hindered by the constraints of the city or conscience. Or perhaps not.
And so in a game where as we mature, we assume we know and understand the rules, we are none the wiser. Actions and words seldom meld and things done and words uttered are often misunderstood and misinterpreted. The straight shooter is wished for but ne'er found.
Of course, questions could've been posed and answered but in the ensuing silence disappointment squandered promise.
As I sit with the dishwasher humming and the cat purring at my feet, I hope the night ahead will be fuelled by happy dreams, and as I wrest with a yawn... a little sleep.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Truth Trudge
The truth of the matter is that we should be packing.
The house fairy did make an appearance and with the bang of a hammer and a little nod as we signed away our souls to an Australian bank, the Pt Chev Team now find that we might be in need of a new name. Once we've moved we can't truthfully say that we're the Pt Chev Team. Mind you how many Whos are left in The Who? But I digress.
Interestingly, 'true' is pressed under 'trudge' in my dog-earred Oxford. To remain truthful could be seen by some as a bit of a trudge. Trudge... a solid if not dogged word, Budge's slower cousin. Now Veracious could be stoical Truth's hard-lined cousin, all tattoos and teeth. Veracious, lounges beneath Venus in my Oxford. Lucky Veracious. I am not qualified to comment on the truthfulness of the goddess of love, one would think though where love is concerned, not all comments are completely trustworthy in the throes of passion. Look at poor old Milo, her arms have flailed her, did they lose their grip or did Veracious rip them off in the heat of the night as they lay pressed and gasping between the pages?
I'm starting to look at my little Oxford in a whole new light, a more seductive glow. Look at the passions it houses, some perhaps, which never rest but simmer and weep through the pages. The secrets that must lie hidden between the lines.
I seem to be on an alliterative trail - Trudge - Truthfulness - Trust.
Trust, the godmother to Truth? She could be wearing sensible brogues and a twin-set with pearls. She could fold you to her breast, but as you press your ear to her heart you can only hear the rhythmic beating of a robust organ, no flutters or quick, lusty beats ever rattle her rib-cage. And in her kindly embrace you can easily be fooled that Trust is indeed a fool albeit a kind one but a fool no less. And a fool can have the wool pulled down over her eyes but her heart can still break. I'd suggest enjoy the embrace but don't mistake Trust with Stupidity.
Stupid surprisingly wrestles beneath Stupdendous, the later none of us minding to be accused of. Stupid lolls without intelligence or cleverness, it could be placed on the car dashboard and left to crack and blister in the sun. Stupidity is not something we relish being accused of, but it shouldn't be confused with Trust or Kindness. These two traits can often temper Stupidity.
With Sod squirming beneath Socrates, I suspect I'd better get back to the kitchen cupboards.
The house fairy did make an appearance and with the bang of a hammer and a little nod as we signed away our souls to an Australian bank, the Pt Chev Team now find that we might be in need of a new name. Once we've moved we can't truthfully say that we're the Pt Chev Team. Mind you how many Whos are left in The Who? But I digress.
Interestingly, 'true' is pressed under 'trudge' in my dog-earred Oxford. To remain truthful could be seen by some as a bit of a trudge. Trudge... a solid if not dogged word, Budge's slower cousin. Now Veracious could be stoical Truth's hard-lined cousin, all tattoos and teeth. Veracious, lounges beneath Venus in my Oxford. Lucky Veracious. I am not qualified to comment on the truthfulness of the goddess of love, one would think though where love is concerned, not all comments are completely trustworthy in the throes of passion. Look at poor old Milo, her arms have flailed her, did they lose their grip or did Veracious rip them off in the heat of the night as they lay pressed and gasping between the pages?
I'm starting to look at my little Oxford in a whole new light, a more seductive glow. Look at the passions it houses, some perhaps, which never rest but simmer and weep through the pages. The secrets that must lie hidden between the lines.
I seem to be on an alliterative trail - Trudge - Truthfulness - Trust.
Trust, the godmother to Truth? She could be wearing sensible brogues and a twin-set with pearls. She could fold you to her breast, but as you press your ear to her heart you can only hear the rhythmic beating of a robust organ, no flutters or quick, lusty beats ever rattle her rib-cage. And in her kindly embrace you can easily be fooled that Trust is indeed a fool albeit a kind one but a fool no less. And a fool can have the wool pulled down over her eyes but her heart can still break. I'd suggest enjoy the embrace but don't mistake Trust with Stupidity.
Stupid surprisingly wrestles beneath Stupdendous, the later none of us minding to be accused of. Stupid lolls without intelligence or cleverness, it could be placed on the car dashboard and left to crack and blister in the sun. Stupidity is not something we relish being accused of, but it shouldn't be confused with Trust or Kindness. These two traits can often temper Stupidity.
With Sod squirming beneath Socrates, I suspect I'd better get back to the kitchen cupboards.
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