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. 

Puppies gone bad

Back in the seventies... something happened, parents sauntered and span from Cold Duck to Blenheimer. Their cars guzzled and glugged gas with gay abandon and zoomed along truncated motorways. They're longer now.

Mums' moo-moos grazed psychaedelic hems on the trudge to the shops and dad's were wearing coloured shirts, no longer choking on their tight, black ties. Hair grew and flew. Mind enhancers were swilled and swallowed and often unceremoniously regurgitated.

It was great for kids. As parents wandered from sherry to sherry, kids were left to their own devices because if there was a babysitter, she (it was always a she back then) wasn't interested in child rearing nor did she have to wave a qualification before sitting with the kids. She'd be snogging enthusiastically somewhere 'out of sight' if she wasn't sucking on a fag out the window. The glory days. The gory days!

There was usually a funny smell in the bathroom the day after mum and dad had left us with a babysitter. We never heard the retching or regret. Hangovers were hung and dried and not drivelled over.

It was about the same time that long skirts were getting caught in the giddy heights of platforms, that Leroy came into our lives. Leroy, after the song. 'Bad, Bad Leroy Brown'... or something like that... this was last century... he lived up to his name.

Leroy was a dog. Midnight black with a small speck of white on his forehead (do dogs have foreheads?). He was all big feet and tongue when he puppied his way into our lives. We three, vied for his attention with tidbits and strokes.

But it wasn't long before the darkness crept into his being and the big-footed puppy scampered away. We were left with a dog with all the charm of Satan's spawn.

Sometimes he would sit at the top of the stairs gnawing bones. We would try to creep past him but his low growl and curled back lips sent us back down the stairs.

Other times, mum would pick us up from school. But we couldn't get into the old Belmont because Leroy was flying around the interior, bared teeth, barking.

I remember once waking up with a great weight on my still flat chest. It was as if a wardrobe had fallen over during the night, and I was trapped beneath it. A wardrobe would've evoked less fear. The canine force's low growl usurped the urgency of my bladder's signals. As I lay, covered in fur and fear... I wet the bed.

And another lasting memory, was the day Leroy made a dental impression in my cheek. It was sharp and sore. When Dad saw it, he noted pragmatically "If he'd meant it, he'd have taken your jaw off."

Leroy was a Great Dane.

The seventies were great.