Pearla of a problem

I'm not sure if many folk suffer this particular dilemna. It's something I really haven't talked about before. It could be either embarrassment or because it's completely inconsequential. I suspect the later.

But here goes. What do you do with miscellaneous molars and gnashers that you've garnered over the years as you stole into darkened rooms as the Tooth Fairy, stumbling through Lego towns and embeding prized Matchbox toys into the soles of your feet, as you approach to do the "swap"? The swap entails, searching under a heavy-headed pillow, rootling around for the tooth, then secreting it out and popping a paltry monetary sum in its place.

Simple. Once you've got the enamel and swapped it for the gold, your job as the soft-footed Tooth Fairy is over until the next wiggler makes its way out one way or t'other.

But what of the teeth? What do you do with them? One made it into my purse, and when I was offering a beggar a few coins, out rolled the molar. Oops! Grappling with the molar, I retrieved it, much to the relief of the poor woman at the receiving end, and replaced it with a more useful coin. 

I was cleaning under my bed and among the dust, hairballs and dust muffs, a molar rolled out. By the time I'd figured out what it was, it had popped out of my hand, to be found on another day in Cleaning Future. Anyway, for some unknown reason I've stashed them in all manner of places, and I'm not sure why they haven't simply been binned. I mean, I have locks of hair from the boys' first cuts. I have a splendid collection of Harry's particular house of horrors. There's the piece of paper he folded into a tiny square and put into his ear (when the doctor got it out, she took it around to show her colleagues), there is the silly putty that required an emergency haircut and the straw which nearly popped his retina out when he fell over whilst holding it (I'd told him he'd choke on it, didn't realise it was a danger to his sight). But what of the teeth? I can't bring myself to toss them, I'm not sure why I have such an attachment to these rootless wonders. I'll think about it on another day.

Looking back, my last venture as the Tooth Fairy. Two eyes opened very widely, and looked the Tooth Fairy straight in the face.

"Phew! I thought the Tooth Fairy was Ben's mum."

What with Santa taking the credit for most things, it was more than a bit miffling to think Ben's mum was getting all the credit for my little monetary deposits.

Oh well, I wonder what would happen if I balanced my pillow on a little Everest of pearly whites. I'll let you know.

Smoke gets in your eyes

Dad is a good story-teller, the stories we have grown up with have been retold and embellished. Dad's past is as much a part of the fabric of our lives as any of the stories we've actually lived through ourselves.

So this is one I'd not heard before, which is unusual. Forgive me, Dad, if I've missed something ...

Take yourself back to the fifties. It might've even been before the harbour bridge, it was certainly before the Auckland motorways carved up the city properly. Elvis was banned on the airways and transistor radios were still a faraway dream for many.

It's hard to imagine Dad as a teenager (he might've actually been older than a teenager - in those days you were a  teenager until you were about 28). So he was tall, over six foot foot. He was skinny, skinny as. He was Catholic, which sends you one way or t'other - either rebel or saint. Dad veered towards the halo ... mostly.

A club in town, I think in Swanson Street, was reputed to be a veritable den of iniquity. It was called Heaven and Hell, apparently two separate bars in a Victorian building. You can guess the decor, one more virginal, the other screaming in hot, hot red. I doubt Heaven recceived much attention.

Dad, unlike most normal teenagers, both then and now, told his mother that he was going to the club. Hello? He also noted that on the night he was going to drive his mates in, there was to be adult entertainment in the form of a stripper.  I blanch at the thoughts, both telling my grandmother and my father at a strip joint.

'How could you!' Nana exclaimed. 'And your father a lawman. How could you! That place is full to the gunnels with criminals and law breakers.' I'm sure smelling salts and cushions would've had to be sought upon Dad's announcement.

My mother, sitting in the lounge during the recount, noted 'I wasn't allowed to go there.' Which is saying something, as Mum veered towards rebel, and still does today

Luckily for my Dad and his curiosity, my grandmother's companion, Aunty Mary, was also part of Dad's revelation. 'Syd, should go,' she said, I can imagine very matter of factly. 'It will do him good.' And I'm sure she was right.

And with that said, Dad took off into the night in his '36 Chevy with his friends steaming up the back windows. Hooning into town, Dad (a non-smoker) procured a packet of cigarettes somewhere along the way. Dutch courage? Rite of passage?

The old Chev was parked up and the boys made their way directly to Hell as any good Catholic boys would. The atmosphere. The music. Smoke. Booze. It was a teenage dream. Soon the lights were dimmed, the music setting a sexy tone. It was only a matter of moments before the lovely young woman would be on stage and slowly derobing.

I can practically feel the throb of anticipation, as the boys held their breaths and widened their eyes. 

At about that moment, Dad lit up one of his purchases. Somehow inhaling all the smoke with his eyeballs, he was blinded by smoke as Candi's clothes were peeled and dropped to the stage floor.

He missed it. Missed the whole tantalising show. Missed it completely.

When he regained his sight, he drove home, leaving his friends to find further fun in the Auckland night. Disappointment and itchy eyeballs were his only companions on his journey home.

Dad's cloak of morality remained inadvertently still intact. I wonder if he ever told his Mum? I somehow doubt it. I suspect Aunty Mary knows.

Telly Tubby tutorials

I think it's fair to say that the Telly Tubbies and Thomas were instrumental in my boys' education. But oh Po! It looks like little kids shouldn't be plonked in front of the telly and left to their own devices. I've dumbed them down and widened their waistbands. Uh-oh ... too late.

Thomas and some of his fractious friends were instrumental in the boys' early days of educational well-being. You can hardly imagine the pride I felt when my three-year old described a crack in the lawn as a ravine. Greatness was within reach! Of course I'm not sure if he pronounced ravine in the same way Ringo did, but a crack's a crack.

Of course the boys' weren't only bombarded with characters speaking in accents unlike their own, there was also the lovely Suzy. Suzy Cato that is.

The boys loved Suzy, she was bright and entertaining, and had a Kiwi accent (I'm sure it's Kiwi although she was born in Oz ... ok ... maybe I should cover my bases and say Australasian otherwise the Pavlova thing's sure to rise). I suspect she still does have one.

Anyway, I had the good luck to bump into her occasionally at our local gym, she was charming and polite in contrast to my bumbling inquisition as we cycled to nowhere next to each other. She was amazing, I'm sure she didn't even work up a sweat.

Fast forward a couple of weeks to a supermarket trolley with Mr 3-going-on-37 white knuckling it around the over packed aisles. He didn't say much as the trolley was being laden, except for the odd suggestion which usually involved a derivative from a sugar mountain.

There at the end of one of the aisles, was a golden glow. There stood Suzy Cato. The real, live, not on the telly at the moment Suzy.

I thought at first she might high-tail it out of there when she clapped her eyes on me, but no, she came up to us. I smiled and said hello, and she was polite and genuine in her greeting. I was of course suitably starstruck.

Suzy then turned her full attention to the trolley dweller. 

He eyed her suspiciously.

She then sung her "Suzy song" there in the aisle with only my son and the various cans of baked beans for an audience.

I was beside myself with excitement, Suzy Cato singing to my son! It was a lovely, genuine gesture.

Suzy completed her little set, then went on towards the pasta sauces.

Starstruck at first, I returned my attention to my son. He looked at me, his face puckered in consternation.

"That lady was like that lady on the telly."

"It was that lady on the telly," I said, wondering if those myths were true and his brain had been partially fried from the radiation emitted by the telly.

"No, she just looked like her."

Looking away his attention strolled along to some muesli bars.

Booby trap

Alas in a small tucked away Dominion, some once thought the pimple on the bottom of the Commonwealth's pink bottom, the nation (well, at least three people) is aghast that a royal bosom has been exposed to a worldwide audience.

Surprise! The future queen of England has boobs, and I believe after having a good squiz at the pixelated rack, that there are two of them. Why is this a surprise? In this day of oversized lens and over zealous paparazzi, why oh why would you get your kit off unless you were ensconced in the four poster with curtains pulled?

Many have seen the young man (Kiwi) at the London Olympics who was "snow angel'ing" on top of a building wearing just his jocks, seeking the camera in a very un-shy camera way. Many of us have been amazed at how Google maps can zoom in on our garden to see if the lawns were mowed on the day the pic was taken. So why if you had royal blood, or wedded to a royal body, would you get your kit off unless you were quite comfy having your bare, toned flesh surfing the cyber highways a few hours later?

Big deal. Perhaps it could be used for the greater good, and the PR spin could somehow spin this tardy straw into PR gold. Perhaps it could somehow help raise awareness of breast cancer. We live in a different world now, double standards abound; shock horror that the photos have been taken while also eager to have a look to see what all the fuss is about.

I reckon, the good Duchess should keep the pics as a reminder of her pert-ful youth, as boobs are not always quite majestic as in the throes of youth. And this might be the last photo opportunity.

Funnily enough, a recent royal exposure caused eyes to roll in the royal household. A couple of centuries ago, heads would've probably followed them.

Psy-chick

Fortune tellers gaze pointedly at their crystal balls. Looking for what, our secrets? our lies? We want to know, even the cynical, if they're honest.

We don't so much want to know about our pasts - we already know what lay in that retrospective journey. We want to know the future. Will he be handsome? Will he be rich? Will he make me happy? Doh Doris!

Tea leaves room for creativity and imagination, even more creative genius is required if a teabag has been used.

Our palm can peer into the direction of our souls. Not sure what the fortune teller would make of my latest line from a careless episode at pumpkin peeling with a new knife. The novelty of which quickly wore off as the skin parted and blood seeped. I've worried over my lifeline for many years now, since the time I thought 13 was old.

There's also the iris which can be gazed into and the contents of the soul packed into a small green, blue, brown or hazel bag. All very mystical, if not very believable.

And then there are the joys of the horoscope. I'm a sucker for a good, optimistic horoscope which promises love and good choices. I ignore the horrorscopes and put it down to the writer having PMT or something similar. Being the optimist, I find the horoscope of my choice when trawling through a range of online psychic portals, scoping the good ones which are probably regurgitated on some sort of cosmic rotor.

Anyway today, my timing is exquisite (which is brilliant because cleaning the loo needs exquisite [WT...] timing ...). A disciplined, regular routine will lead to more energy (well cleaning the loo is by its very nature, in a hygenic household, routine). I wonder if the spirits stick around when you're liberalig annointing the bathroom with bleach?

Well that must be proof in the pudding, with exquisite timing I executed an energetic going over the loo. 

Life ... life ... where are you?

A prince of no clothes

Once a long time ago, as I was leaving school for the day through the gate, as you do, with my school bag swinging ... although it may not have been, because I'm not sure if satchels swung ... I heard someone shout out to me. I turned to see Busby.

Busby, a kid a couple of years older than me, was yelling, "Hey, your sister was in the nude with Nigel behind the swimming pool, eh?"

I nodded and rolled my eyes. I nodded because I didn't have a clue what nude meant and I didn't want to appear dumb to a kid in standard 4. And I rolled my eyes because I always roll my eyes.

When I got home, I told Mum. It's fair to say her interest, and perhaps ire, was piqued. And I found out what the word nude meant and had a sudden feeling of panic that I'd just confirmed that my 10 year old sister was nude behind the swimming pool ... with Nigel ... ooops. I couldn't help but wonder if Nigel was nuded as well. And to this day, I still don't know, because I never fronted up to my sister when I realised the full implication of being nude at school. Let's face it, what kid didn't have nightmares about going to school in their pyjamas. What must be so much, much, much worse was popping along to school in the Emperor's new clothes!

And now when many have merely bandaged their nudity, we have the worldwide frenzy where a young, over-privileged man-boy was caught in the dreaded throes of nudity. He happens to be a prince which makes you think he should be able to afford to buy some clothes. But as it came to pass, the sun shone, the drink was downed and suddenly the frock was dropped, and the prince was suddenly sporting the Emperor's wardrobe in it's full glory. Nek minute, it's riding on the tsunami of online media as the cyber sea is swamped in the sheer horror that a prince was found to be frolicing without a further thread to shed.

Oh dear! I can think of nothing more to say but why are the jesters now wearing the crowns, or in some cases exposing them.

Mystery should not be underestimated.

[Historical note: The gates of Rutherford Primary are still there. My old primary school is nestled in Tat North, now more salubriously known as Te Atatu Peninsula (although was delighted when the Council had somehow lost the second 'n' in one of its signs).]

Pairing up

A night fairly long ago, this old broad and fellow single team mate (you know who you are!) decided to venture out into the sea of singledoom. We'd purchased, with our hard earned, tickets to a singles' night - it should be fun, fun, fun! The tickets certainly said 'fun' and the email enticement suggested a lot more than fun. And who were we to argue?

So the eternal optimists ... ventured forth.

Firstly going to a singles night, is portentious. Single in, single out. Not that I usually enter such a deal with unadulterated blinkered optimism, I mean I was there but it felt more than a little forced, many would say contrived. Of course, it has to be, it's a singles' night and let's face it, coupled folk our age, anytime after 8 of an evening, should be found as a curled up couplet under the duvet with their respective teeth in matching glasses on the bedside table. And they say romance is dead ... but I fast forward too soon.

The entrance to the 'venue' had been singlefied. Hope was draped sniggeringly over the entrance as fairy lights twinkled in feigned delight. It teased that it was offering all the fun of the fair ... sort of. Fun, although touted and exclamation marked on the ticket,  proved to be elusive. The fair analogy was a complete flight of fancy.

Walking into the bar, I immediately felt like I was the audience of one to a huge, but not very well sung, Welsh choir. As my head turned to survey the crowd, I was aware I was one of the tallest in the room. The crowns laid bare before me, proved that shallow-ness was not the sole domain of men. 

Then fear gripped me, as the first person to catch my eye, looked like a kindly soul but was also probably older than my dad. As I sipped on my 'free' flute of champagne, my eyes darted around the room trying not to meet anyone's gaze, which I agree is not probably a good strategy at a singles' night.

Hope ebbed faster than the champagne left the flute.

Devising an exit strategy, I found my wing-man and we waddled out, the curtain of hope long gone as we wandered back into the valley of singledoom.

We found a taxi in the crisp clear night, and zoomed off along the motorway, and homeward bound. 

And there it was, a singles' night. To be fair, I suspect that many of the singles were having a whale of a time, but as a fellow whale, on that particular night, my preference was beached.

Bedroom Olympics

Well, I've just finished E L James Fifty Shades of Grey, I'd like to add that it was just after I'd finished Hare with the Amber Eyes and a fantastic biography on Margaret Mahy, both literary tombes.

My expectations were as high as those of me of winning gold in any Olympic event in these, or any, past or present, Olympic games. Which might lead you to ask, why read it at all? Well, the beast of curiosity was lapping at my feet, and I wanted to find out what all the fuss was about. I'd heard about it firstly as mummy porn.

Interestingly we don't hear much about daddy porn, and the term irks me as it's somehow trying to downgrade and ridicule women, and this is of course another story. Preceding something parental to something supposedly raunchy word is akin to brewer's droop. Goodness, there's a huge industry spawned for men, straight and gay. Why not porn for women? And if it's making mega bucks why is it smirked at?  Suspect this is a bigger discussion, and I have little to contribute at this stage.

Anyway, so there was the explosion of this book, an e-book doing wonders having been written by an ordinary woman. Well, I'd say now that E L James is no ordinary woman. She's a very, very wealthy ordinary woman. I watched an interview with her and I thought, "good on you girl". What I find most extraordinary, is that she wrote the book and her sons know she wrote it. My two were horrified when they knew I was reading it, but once I'd told them of its success, they were quick to think of appropriate titles I could rename my children's books for a bigger and wider audience.  

Roll up a few months later, and in a small suburb in Auckland, a group of six women are gathered around a table, and the conversation finds its way to James's book. Surprisingly, all of my bright, beautiful friends were reading it, ordered it or were about to read it. At that stage, I was the only one not in its thralls. I'd have to borrow one of their's, and I did.

So it's Sundary morning and I've just finished it. I enjoyed it, it's an easy, entertaining, and titallating read. I think if there were Olympics for describing orgasms, then James would most definitely be a contender whether or not you're taken in by the fantasy. And rightfully so. If you have a spare minute, you could use this as a writing exercise. Might be fun or excrutiating, it's certainly not easy.

And no it's not a literary tombe and won't be put on the 'show off' bookshelf' (you know the ones where Dickens, Freud and Wilde fight with each other on the shelves). And yes, I'll be reading the next one but I have an Austen and Dickens' waiting in the wings at the moment.

A leap of faith

Admiring the little Olympic troll reminded me of something that happened in what seems like a million years ago, except it's probably not quite that long as, to be honest, I've never heard a dinosaur fart.

Anyway, when we were little, Mum used to flutter and flounce around in her psychedelic mumus, the hemlines sometimes catching on a platform sending her into a psychedelic spiral to the floor. Hair was big, sunglasses were bigger and style was interesting (and even more interesting that this 'style' has since been stolen by later generations).

Mum used to put on dinner parties. These were rather grand affairs for suburban Auckland. Remember, in the seventies McDonald's hadn't reached our shores, our idea of an Italian meal was Pizza Hut and the North Western motorway only reached Pt Chev. The table would be piled with food of all shapes and sizes. Asparagus entombed in bread, curried eggs, shrimps swimming in mayonaise and all manner of things that I can't remember  the sight of, but I can recall the smell.

To be fair, we didn't usually see the set table as I don't think we were trusted not to pick. But we did see the debris the following morning, and the elegance had exited stage left by the time we got up. Children were tucked up in bed on dinner party night - we were not the invited guests.

On one particular night, the guests had arrived. Included was our most favourite of guests, a very good friend of my mother's. He was a lovely, kind gentleman, always with a smile at hand for us. He would pop down to see us before the party began, and would have a little gift, the most memorable being a tiny farthing he gave to me.

This night, I decided that my talents should be shared. It seemed such a shame to only offer this talented performance to a sometimes grumpy immediate family audience, who tired of 'creativity' quickly.

As soon as the guests arrived, I retrieved my props from beneath my pillow, using a bit of forethought, I had my 'costume' on under my pyjamas.  Waiting until the noise had died down, I shot out of bed, arranged myself and flew upstairs.

Throwing the door open to the new lounge, I launched myself into the room. All eyes befell me. Their gazes at best appreciative, well all except for perhaps Mum's, and maybe Dad's.


Flying around the room, my graceful leaps were not exactly applauded but you could've heard a pin's flea drop if the foundations hadn't been shaking so much. Once the routine had concluded, I bowed and returned to my bedroom. Removing the tennis balls, I put them back under my pillow and put my pyjamas back on over my tights. As far as a ten-year-old me was concerened, it was a performance to be proud of.

I did Rudolph Nureyev proud. 

As I nodded off to sleep, I heard Mum explaining to Mons (Monsignieur to others)  that I'd been to two ballet lessons.

There was no good reason for any more.

Alas that was my very first, and very last public performance. 

Olympian trolls

It's the Olympics. You'd have to be an ear-muffed troll, living in a very deep, dark cave to not have been bombarded by the brightly lycra'd bodies careering about our screens in all manner of smarty-alecky ways. Impressive is the ease that folk duck and dive elegantly off towering diving boards or flit over padded mats with pert bottoms perpendicular to the floor.Blah, blah, blah.

Click.

Enough of that. Who wants to be made to feel athletically challenged while dipping your biscuit into your tea? Biscuit dipping (Tim Tam favourite, chocolate chip a close second), now there's a sport ...  you try to lower the biscuit in at just the right depth for just the right time, so it doesn't break off and ruin your cuppa. Now that's skill, real life skill. It's something you'll still be doing when you're 92. 

The Olympics last a couple of weeks, and it's basically two weeks of solid guilt infusion. You should be on that bike, it shouldn't be a spider's condominium. Where are your sneakers? What about your togs? Shoulders back, bum out. What happened to those abs and pick up that pelvic floor.

Righty ho, must be time to pop the kettle on.

Wonder how many golds the Kiwis will pick up?

Beaming

Another four years have passed, and it's fair to say my Olympic dream is well and truly over - assuming that the wick had ever realistically been lit. Flickers of hope had been at their brightest during the Nadia Comăneci years. Let's see (quick diversion to ask Mr Google). Mid-seventies, I must've been about 12. Twelve and full of Olympic hopes, I'm not sure if the dreams were colour or black and white, as I can't for the life of me remember when we got our first colour telly

Flicking ribbons around the living room, sticking my chest out and thrusting out my buttocks I was the Kiwi Nadia, I was the Kiwi Olga. I was a  natural. Unfortunately with a distended puku which had nothing to do with hunger, I thumped and thundered around the house. Dad might've made the odd comment about foundations and the house but parents are prone to exaggeration. I should know, I am one.

The particular event I thought I was born for was the beam. Not sure if it's called the beam, but it's that big bit of wood on legs. My beam was the back of the couch. It did not fair well, and I think in respect for the couch, I will not divulge any further details.Suffice to say, it was the never quite the same again. And I wonder how many couches around the world faired over the excitement of Nadia's achievements.

So now, we look agog at the latest London spectacle. We ooo and arrgh in all the rights spots. It was after all a very oooo'able and arrgh'able event, it is worth the accolades and comparisons.

But where did the last four years go, and as I have no gold clinking together to show for it, what has happened to that great big bit of time? And where will we be in 2016.

I wonder what Nadia is doing now, and if she ever wrecked a couch? I'm off for a little cyber bothering.

Weighty issues

Weightloss is a weighty issue. I've been here before, the lamenting of the time spent on the scales, that one piece of guilt laden chocolate, the obvious culprit for piling on the extra 10 kilos or so.

What's a little more disheartening is when we were youthful, wearing skin that fitted snuggly and when our face hadn't become a cartographer's dilemna, if jeans didn't quite make the journey across the hips, a quick dance around the room ensured they'd be able to complete their journey.

Not any more.

No, as age has pounded the body and pressed excess baggage where it never belonged or could possibly fit before, it has also sets the metabolic rate to self-destruct. Now, we no longer lose weight to flaunt our bodies in a bikini but it is more as a pay-it-forward kindness to our pallbearers. Who wants to think you may have helped to cause a back injury as you were on the meander off your mortal coil? Who wants to leave that sort of legacy? Remembrance can be a fine thing, as long as the memories are not only activated by a visit to the physiotherapist.

Yes, there is the notebook lying beside the keyboard. It records my dietary entries, every crumb, every slurp. It doesn't make interesting or happy reading (well, not for the chicken anyway). It will only be a month or so till it resembles a War and Peace tombe. 

And then in some faraway country children are mere bags of bones, and in neighbourhoods not so far away, children will not have any breakfast. How can the calories we deplore so much be deployed to those in need of them?

I wonder.

Apostrophe faces catastrophe!

Yeah… yeah… there are more important things to worry about… poverty, war, depravity. How can one person possibly change the world when it’s been trodden on by so many millions of feet, pooped on by so many birds?


So why not help something you can get a handle on? Something you can help one stroke at a time. It might not be a whale or yellow eyed penguin, but it is abused and misused … and let’s face it, needs our help.

First you need to find one. Apostrophes can be found loitering in sentences and words and billboards and in newspapers and on fruit shop sign's. Sometimes theyre' nestled gently between two compromised words, holding them together, making perfect sense in an imperfect world.

Before I venture to seek and find this grammatical trophy, its' time to have a little look around to see what I can find …

Please send through any mistreated, abused or missing apostrophes. Its up to us, think of how many syllables the apostrophe has saved us, how much time we have been spared?

Next, the vowels, the misappropriation and so many missing in action ... it's up to us, one key stroke or pedantic rant at a time. 

The others

Is it just me, or is the world starting to shudder and falter and ... and ... well, who knows?

We tut and sigh when waters wash over the poorer, and lives are squandered in overcrowded cities when the earth has a tantrum. Some of us might even think that it's for the best. How can they be happy without a latte or 42" screen?

We dip into our wallets reverently, but not usually at the expense of our lifestyle or at the thought of necessarily improving somebody else's. It is often more to do with the salvation of our conscience than that of the less well-heeled masses.

What of the cosy environment we have created for ourselves? The temperature is right, adjustable. We can manage well in our cosified human nests. The fridge is full, and food and water is plentiful in the households we know. We can watch in comfort, as the Third World falls into our living room, ravaged faces and skeletal bodies. It can be turned off.

Interesting, poverty from suburbs much closer to home can hardly be seen through the curtain of well-heeled suburbandom - it's too hard to see through the smug. Opportunites galore in Godzone, opportunities for the taking, pick them off the opportunity tree - Opportunitree. All very well, but what if you can't even get to the ladder to reach the branches? 

But when the shaking happens in our own neighbourhood, when the earth's tantrums threaten to topple and turnover our own lives, then what? What makes us 'first worlders' more significant than the 'third worlders'?

Does the beggar love his children less than the banker who never sees his?

Just a meander, must be Sunday afternoon. Might go and check out how much goats costs.

Whiffy waftings

Loos and poos, for some of us, are as fascinating now as they were when we were two. Don't ask me why, I have no idea (well I do have one or two theories but I'd rather not elucidate these here). I am one of the 'fascinatees'.

You know how it goes when potty training your little sprogetts. You encourage and 'coo' and 'ooo' over the little potty sausages - this turns my stomach just thinking about it now. The first splash in the big loo, of a digestive missile from the little legged ones, is received with much raptuous fervour, especially in middle-class, over-indulged households.

I remember when once my oldest son was perched on the loo, legs swinging; as the early days of loo usage are usually quite fun. After a while, there was a little plip-plop-plip. "My poo is like rain." A pause for thought. "My bottom is a cloud." Not only toilet trained but a poet as well - my genes, obviously. If only there had been Facebook at the time.

At work, the ladies loos are pinned with all sorts of paraphenalia suggesting that there is a particular way to flush the loo, and it is explained as the 'superior flush'. Perhaps it should be called the superior flush for the Royal wee. There's even a little diagram showing how to pop a new toilet roll in, who'd have ever thought. So there's expected etiquette in the office loos which is quite delightful at first, but it also highlights the sad fact that there are a few who haven't mastered the superior flush. 

The other day, it became necessary to flush a loo in an apartment on the 22nd floor of a city tower block. Upon flushing said loo I heard the crashing and clanging as the flush hurtled down goodness knows how many kilometres of pipes to reach the ground floor. If you start doing the maths in your head, it's quite perplexing, especially for the mathematical numbskull. How many such towering blocks are there in the city? Best not to think of such things.

Anyway, the other day a fire alarm sent us scuttling out of our office block, we noticed a whiffy waft, coming from the drains. It was quite potent and drove some of us to seek a nose cover with whatever was at hand. I had the fortune to be wearing a scarf.

Auckland was particularly whiffy on that crispy autumn afternoon. And I couldn't help but wonder if the pipes below us are coping as our beautiful city grows.

Hope so.

Office banshee

What is it about alarms nowadays? They hardly ever evoke alarm, more likely to raise irritation. There's the neighbour's house alarm which seems to be set off by your average household fly. Then there's the car alarm somewhere down the road which leads one to fantasise about baseball bats and ear muffs at 4.32 in the morning.

Today, at the precise moment I settled my cup of tea down next to the mouse, an electronic alarm sounded. It starts nearly apologetically and then builds up to a crescendo, all the while robotically advocating that we should evacuate the building.

I should explain I wasn't with the cat at home, where the smoke alarms have been moved to window sills due to offensive tones at the hint of a smell of a burnt crumb. They're often  picked up and shaken out the window - desperate attempts to quell the electronic banshee. I don't think my cooking skills are quite as negligent as the frequency of the screams of the batteried-round-ones would suggest.

Anyway, back in the office. The fire wardens don their flouros and then they do what fire wardens do - I'm not sure exactly what because I've never been asked or have been deemed responsible enough to be offered the job (and I'm not a good volunteerer for jobs that might require effort coupled with responsibility).

Alas, office folk don't pop up like meerkats at the sound of the alarm, seeking the nearest escape, faces twitching in abject fear.

Some officelings check out the weather to see if a jacket will be required and others rootle around for handbags or coffee cards. There is no urgency as one officeling decides between a scarf or jacket. Pockets are checked for phones as folk meander to the fire escapes. Today, I had to remind a fellow where it actually was.

Chortling down the stairs we lament the loss of work time for a nanosecond quickly moving on to see if we could manage a quick trip to the bank while the fire engine is in attendence.

Am I hailing complacency? Possibly, but not intentionally. No, I'm just thinking about the office mechanics of the alarm that cries wolf.

Fingers crossed, the wolf will n'eer appear.

Sorry soup

Sorry has got a bit fluffy, and podgy on its royalties due to over-use. This could possibly be due to my own perpetual state of sorridom. I walk into a supermarket trolley and I practically throw myself in front of it in an apologetic fit. I've also been known to use an apologetic turn of phrase with parking meters and tree roots. Somebody barges into me, an apology shoots out like an mis-aimed bullet.

I'm sorry, but you can't have that three foot chocolate bunny ... I'm sorry that your car is embedded in my car after you took no notice of that silly red light ... sorry ... sorry ... sorry ...

The other day I walked into the office, a view of the sea greeted me as it does each and every morning. A warship docked at the port, was grey and sullen on the sunny day. The ship was a portent of doom which I hadn't even had time to ponder before I found myself flailing and bobbing in a frothy soup of cold sorry.  

Sorry, in office situations, is part of the blame-chain. The blame ball drops and is suddenly being bounced around the office faster than a flea on speed. Its thick veneer of blame remains untarnished as it passes from one to the other. Finally, the last person, is left with the ball (it may have passed to some people more than once but is quickly dispatched to the next unfortunate), blame burning on his or her cheeks. Of late, the flamin' reds are usually mine.

I apologise, using voice, gesticulations and even email. And it dawns on me what a dreadful waste of sorry, because I'm not sure about the sincerity of my apologies which calls into question other people's sorries that are doing the rounds. I've used the word so many times, I seem to have lost the real and true meaning of the word. There are many sorries to be made, important sorries, but my imbecilic, runty sorries should be left to grow into proper, meaningful sorries and let out on their own, only when they are meaningful and robust.

There is a point to this, and no I won't apologise for my apologetic rantings. I've given up chocolate for the week, let's see if I can put a sock in the sorry bucket and see how I get on.

Don't mess with mum

I've rattled around on the sidelines for years. I have stood up to my knees in mud, huddled under  brollies, I have cut too many oranges into cute little segments and endured the wrath when said oranges were left on the bench on the way to the game.

I've sat in Accident and Emergency clinics as the family player has been x-rayed ... let's see ... his shoulders, skull, jaw, hips and ankles. If I knew where all the x-rays were, I'd magic up an internal collage of my oldest son. He has bounced and bumped, thumped and thudded around the rugby pitch since he was seven. He has broken his nose and I've lost count of the badly bruised eyes. Not my game of choice, but alas it was not my choice.

I've watched my youngest son, dance around the rugby field somehow managing not to get injured as his great talent was in keeping his distance from the ball. When he decided to partake, he was all energy and wrath, but these bursts were not as constant or as frenetic as those of his older sibling.

I've screamed from the sidelines, in ways I never thought I would or could. Sometimes I'm surprised at the strength of my vocals - I've grunted and gasped with the best of them. I've glared at the parent calling my son the 'fat white boy', but refrained from acting upon an impulse to tackle said parent and try to ellicit a retraction through some form of passive strangulation.

I've enjoyed the gossip on the sideline with other gumbooted mums. In fact, I've usually been so immersed, I've missed my son's greatest injury moments.  

I've been apalled at the racist comments and taunts from both supporters and players. And was secretly pleased when my son planted a fist into a player who'd called his friend something I'm not prepared to write down. (Rationally, I don't condone violence, whether or not justifiable.)

I've watched fights on the sidelines, both on and off the field. Remember this is kids we're talking about, some parents' role modelling skills leave a smidge to be desired, as they shriek obscenities at their own players but usually more specifically at the referee.

I've watched the ref. I've listened to the vitriole hurled at him from the sideline. I've heard the obscenties sprayed at him on the field by the players. I'd always felt uncomfortable with the comments but had never acted upon them, well, not at first.

I've watched my nephew and my son become referees. Bye-bye nice-mum. Standing proudly on the sideline at the first game, my heckles slowly raised as a woman heckled and abused the ref ... my baby ... on the sidelines. Her language, was both vulgar and unpleasant. My heckles were rising so quickly that I was starting to resemble a mohawked punk. With nostrils flared, and eyes wide, I turned to the woman and noted that she was screaming at my 14 year old son ref'ing his first game. Her countenance returned to middle-class insincerity, and with not a hint of an apology, said "He's doing a great job." Whatever.

Not sure why I'm writing this down, the start of the rugby season, perhaps? Anway, to cut a long story short, I now drop my ref at the game and seek out a nearby cafe to keep out of earshot. I think my son is worried he may end up having to break up a fight on the sidelines, his mother vs a vocal opponent.

Who'd have thought, eh? And they say rugby is a game for gentlemen (and women).

Dancing Beans

What is it about dancing? Well, at my age, some might not confuse my rather hippo-like moves, crashing through similarly flailing bodies, dancing (spoil sports). But hey, if you're going to flail, a well trodden floor (and hopefully well supported!) sticky with beer and other spilled alcoholic beverages tippled and toppled from dancers' drinking vessels, then what better place to flail?

And what better music to wobble to than the  B-52s, Dragon, Duran Duran and The Dudes. The eighties were something else and now far enough away to be almost trendy although those trojan-like shoulder pads will probably never re-reach the pedestal of cool. Mind you, I don't think young folk use the word 'trendy'. Does 'groovy' still work ... I digress.

One good friend noted, from a standing position on the outer dance floor that she couldn't bring herself, as the sober driver, to join in the music driven battle. She had no illusions - she looked on at the truly awful spectacle unfolding before her, she could see with unclouded eyes and a head that would be able to retain all memories when the dawn clouted into other fuzzy still-banging morning heads. And it was dark, so thank goodness for the mercy of darkness, it doesn't only secret away trolls and monsters.

Luckily, also loud - very, very loud. Because quite often, when you're doing your moves on the dance floor, you're also singing. And of course you think you can sing, and of course you can. You're Madonna on the dance floor ... with a few more jiggly bits. Unfortunately, if your vocals are somewhat limited in the shower, a glass of wine isn't the wonder sing-thing. And lyrics, well the specially written lyrics to gallop along to the tune you're throwing yourself about to, are not a prequisite for belting out said song.

Don't get me onto karaoke ... the night I nearly (inadvertently) garrotted the DJ ...

Appropriate fortification is needed prior to public humiliation. However, as you put your left foot in and shake whatever about (and many of the things shaking didn't used to shake in your youth) to the Dancing Queen, just jolly well enjoy yourself. You have nothing to lose, and if you've had kids, then your dignity is long-gone.

"You can dance ... you can jive ..." It must be true, then. Thanks Abba.

Open flow

Open plan decreases the floor space and shoves colleagues together, within farting distance. A lone emission can no longer be slipped out in the comfort of your own space, it is quickly owned in the open space but seldom owned up to.

The art of ignoring is immediately apparent. Lips purse and eyes squint purposefully at the screen ahead, while cranial machinations try to determine where the emission may have been emitted from. A flick of the head gives the detective a sweep of the office -most faces are pursed in disgust, eyes fixed ahead but the eyes of the detective land on the one face with eyes darting around, accusingly. It is those eyes that allows an immediate match. Is it the look of fear? Or is it embarrassment that settles on the cheeks? Another clue.

Flatulence, whether corporate or early educational, is dealt by the secret dealer, dealing the card nobody wants to choose or own up to.

Farts have a certain flow, not particularly social, but they do posess flow. They float and waft around the office, their direction amiable with no particular travel plan. I would never own up to making such a social faux pas. Of course, it is a different story at home, but othat's another, and far more purile story.

Interestingly, I hadn't intended to write about egestive gasses, I had something else in mind, but where the mind wanders, the mouse might as well follow. Change the world? Probably best to change your undies first (didn' t your mum always tell you that?).