We're moving. Not quite sure where yet but somewhere a skip away from the Point and a hop away from our folks.
As the financial world's contenance furrows its brow in constipative gloom, pockets become very small, so tiny that entry and exit is made decidedly difficult...
But every cloud, however dark, has a silver lining.
The Point Chev Team is looking to find a new home. It's seize the day because without global recession we'd have fared like a snowball in a very hot place in the housing market of old. We're faring better in its cooling embers.
After six months it's becoming increasingly obvious even to the optimistic that the 'house giving fairy' has buggered off. But if she returns with wand waving, then so be it, she'll be welcomed by all of us. Failing that there're estate agents.
It is through our, to date, empty endeavours that I've rediscovered the joys of language. The language of realty is a thing to behold.
There are the obvious: 'TLC' - read as obliterate and try to start again on sheer cliff face; 'Cute' means you could swing a legless and headless cat with ease; 'opporutunity knocks' translates as knock me down and start all over; 'alfresco dining' would suggest the roof needs some serious surgery; and, 'a hidden gem' means to make it sparkle will cost you upwards of an arm and three legs.
But poets of old are not restricted to volumes stabilising ancient tables (and here I apologise to poets both past and present). The new poet now enters the realm in the guise of the real estate laureate and once in cyber-space creativity can bounce and bound along at a happy and often unedited pace.
'Just like a little black dress' is the headline, an interesting analogy, you just have to read more... 'Sexy and alluring with a classic look that has stood the time, this home is just like that little black dress...' The house, cosy, was more like a dressing gown than party dress, but hey beauty is in the eyes of the beholder to wring a cliche and not put it in the dryer. More Miss Haversham than our Rach.
'My friend, let's not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will take care of itself. Let's find this present moment of life, tomorrow when we pass from this mortal world, we will be with seven thousand years old people. To rush there we shall not. I say get this character dwelling and forget about the fear of that mortgage. The sound of the drum is good from within earshot, so is the feeling of ownership once you take possession. Use this dwelling to your liking, live in it yourself, let others live in it while you collect rent, possibly set it up as your workplace, your options are endless. Be swift in moving to take possession. For my friend this is what I will be telling you if you were my own kin.' (author unknown realty laureate)
And for the same house, different agent but one with no obvious 'authoratic' aspirations…
Located in a central location is 1930's brick & tile bungalow. Full of character with many orginal features. Separate lounge & dining area with two double bedrooms that are bigger than the average.Parked on a full 511sqm level site with private sunny backyard. Just a short stroll to ... Don't delay! Call me today! (author unknown).
And I'll add these as I see them, because they shouldn't be left to the purchasers alone, many are pearls cast from a cyber shell.
But I digress. We still lounge at the Point, and two Point members are not the most enthusiastic of home purchasers. And at this stage, the usually optimistic one, is thinking that we might be lounging here for some time to come...
Sigh.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Kitty Spitty
There's something about cats. Volumes of cute-to-puke books featuring these engaging pets lie crammed in bookshelves. There may be two or three on our shelves with words of wisdom and wonderment attached to each claw. With the advent of Photoshop, the indignities suffered by cats has been increased immensely, but I'm not here to protest as I have yet to suffer the indignities of digital witchery and luckily cats don't read books. Mine don't anyway.
Many cats have wandered in and out of our lives, some making big impressions, some indents more tangible than others. I've loved all my cats but for very different reasons. I won't expound on the virtues of our domestic flea-bearers, I wouldn't want to have to compare any of mine with yours. Mine would always be the fairest of them all, probably, also the most cynical.
You always remember your first...
I remember the first time I saw Elvis. He was small and ginger and with his tiny eyes closed he ate his way into my heart. When he was weaned a few weeks later he padded straight into our lives, claws sheathed... at first, anyway.
And so the legend was born, but not in Memphis, in Mt Roskill. He soon moved to Te Atatu, although neither home could quite compare to Gracelands he made both homes his own. Mind you, there were a few chip fires at No. 1 and I can't help but wonder if Mr Presley didn't have the odd fire engine attendance with his alleged penchant for deep fried peanut butter sandwiches. Our record, although the accolades for procuring such a treat for the neighbourhood kids really should rest with Mum, was three fire engines. Sirens and everything.
So there he lived in relative peace with Lola our entrenched and streetwise family cat. Her collar jingled with displeasure at her first sighting of the ginger bundle of fur... and teeth. We came to know about the claws and teeth a little later but poor old Lola suffered indentations long before us.
I told Elvis everything but sadly he wasn't overly responsive. His attention span lasted as long as the can opener edged around his Chef can. Treats were often snuck from the kitchen to gain his love. I never reacted when he'd wait at the top of the stairs and jump out, striking with outstretched claws. When bare legs were left unscarred, school tights were the winter victim of choice. Luckily, in spite of his delight at giving us a daily fright, none of us fell back down the stairs. No doubt to his disappointment.
Elvis welcomed the entrance of Leroy, our pyschotic Great Dane. How he loved being picked up in the big dog's jaws and hurled across the room. I didn't laugh the first time I saw it, I thought the dog was going to eat my cat. But unlike us, Leroy never growled or showed any real aggression towards Elvis. None at all. We on the other hand lived in fear of the dog but that's another story (must've had a happy ending as I'm here tinkering in cyber-space). When the malevolent cat was toturing us, he and Leroy were best friends, they'd sleep together, eat together and play together. Leroy was everything to Elvis that I wanted to be.
Then there was Blonde who jogged with me, only making herself known when something sinister was afoot whether it be a snappy dachshund or pipped tom. Topsy, a skittish and skinny cat we attended when my grandmother could no longer wait on her. Benny, perhaps the most adored, I can't start, I wouldn't now where. Frank for her ability to be cuddled at length. And Herman who grew in to his forehead, and Keith our moustachioed ginger who lives with us at the Point.
But my favourite story belongs to an annoymous ginger who strayed into our lives. Dad, had the magnificent idea to gift him to Nana. This was very kind and thoughtful of him but Nana's great passion was her birds.
At 7.00 in the morning her garden was a picture of Hitchcock's 'Birds' as the winged creatures flocked and flew to her well placed lumps and slices of bread. It would never have come as a surprise if the White Cliffs had sprung up from the excited cloud of brown. This spectacle was repeated each evening at 5.
Ginger was to make a dent on the cloud. One by one, feather by feather, the cloud diminished as did the cliffs. His proud em-plonkment of his feathered hunt dropped on the doorstep did not endear himself to Nana. At one point he relocated more than five winged ones to the welcome mat after a garden hunt.
Nana would sigh and transfer the gifts to the rubbish bin.
But all feathered friends are not equal.
In a small wooden bungalow across the road, a treasured, fattened pigeon cooed and wooed. Its character enchanted and delighted. But sadly the bird's operatic career was halted in full flight.
And the night after the chirpy bird lost its flight, Ginger disappeared.
To this day we're not quite sure where he is, or if he still is.
I suspect, 20 years on, we'll never know.
Many cats have wandered in and out of our lives, some making big impressions, some indents more tangible than others. I've loved all my cats but for very different reasons. I won't expound on the virtues of our domestic flea-bearers, I wouldn't want to have to compare any of mine with yours. Mine would always be the fairest of them all, probably, also the most cynical.
You always remember your first...
I remember the first time I saw Elvis. He was small and ginger and with his tiny eyes closed he ate his way into my heart. When he was weaned a few weeks later he padded straight into our lives, claws sheathed... at first, anyway.
And so the legend was born, but not in Memphis, in Mt Roskill. He soon moved to Te Atatu, although neither home could quite compare to Gracelands he made both homes his own. Mind you, there were a few chip fires at No. 1 and I can't help but wonder if Mr Presley didn't have the odd fire engine attendance with his alleged penchant for deep fried peanut butter sandwiches. Our record, although the accolades for procuring such a treat for the neighbourhood kids really should rest with Mum, was three fire engines. Sirens and everything.
So there he lived in relative peace with Lola our entrenched and streetwise family cat. Her collar jingled with displeasure at her first sighting of the ginger bundle of fur... and teeth. We came to know about the claws and teeth a little later but poor old Lola suffered indentations long before us.
I told Elvis everything but sadly he wasn't overly responsive. His attention span lasted as long as the can opener edged around his Chef can. Treats were often snuck from the kitchen to gain his love. I never reacted when he'd wait at the top of the stairs and jump out, striking with outstretched claws. When bare legs were left unscarred, school tights were the winter victim of choice. Luckily, in spite of his delight at giving us a daily fright, none of us fell back down the stairs. No doubt to his disappointment.
Elvis welcomed the entrance of Leroy, our pyschotic Great Dane. How he loved being picked up in the big dog's jaws and hurled across the room. I didn't laugh the first time I saw it, I thought the dog was going to eat my cat. But unlike us, Leroy never growled or showed any real aggression towards Elvis. None at all. We on the other hand lived in fear of the dog but that's another story (must've had a happy ending as I'm here tinkering in cyber-space). When the malevolent cat was toturing us, he and Leroy were best friends, they'd sleep together, eat together and play together. Leroy was everything to Elvis that I wanted to be.
Then there was Blonde who jogged with me, only making herself known when something sinister was afoot whether it be a snappy dachshund or pipped tom. Topsy, a skittish and skinny cat we attended when my grandmother could no longer wait on her. Benny, perhaps the most adored, I can't start, I wouldn't now where. Frank for her ability to be cuddled at length. And Herman who grew in to his forehead, and Keith our moustachioed ginger who lives with us at the Point.
But my favourite story belongs to an annoymous ginger who strayed into our lives. Dad, had the magnificent idea to gift him to Nana. This was very kind and thoughtful of him but Nana's great passion was her birds.
At 7.00 in the morning her garden was a picture of Hitchcock's 'Birds' as the winged creatures flocked and flew to her well placed lumps and slices of bread. It would never have come as a surprise if the White Cliffs had sprung up from the excited cloud of brown. This spectacle was repeated each evening at 5.
Ginger was to make a dent on the cloud. One by one, feather by feather, the cloud diminished as did the cliffs. His proud em-plonkment of his feathered hunt dropped on the doorstep did not endear himself to Nana. At one point he relocated more than five winged ones to the welcome mat after a garden hunt.
Nana would sigh and transfer the gifts to the rubbish bin.
But all feathered friends are not equal.
In a small wooden bungalow across the road, a treasured, fattened pigeon cooed and wooed. Its character enchanted and delighted. But sadly the bird's operatic career was halted in full flight.
And the night after the chirpy bird lost its flight, Ginger disappeared.
To this day we're not quite sure where he is, or if he still is.
I suspect, 20 years on, we'll never know.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Later Dater
Listening to the radio one day, the announcer noted that 'kids' (under about 25) were horrified at the thought of anyone over 40 having sex. In fact, many questioned assumed that folk stopped this act at about 39 and looked upon those acting upon such primeval urges as repulsive, even obscene. I squirmed in my forty-something hide.
Now assuming that the kids are wrong, and I have anecdotal evidence to suggest this. Take Viagra (or not, as the case may be), its ads are not targetted at the young and nubile. Current statistics divulge that older folk returning to the dating scene are picking up more than their dates due to omitting to use barrier contraceptives. In fact, if the ads are anything to go by, older folk are rampant albeit well-heeled sex fiends.
But what of real folk re-entering the dating realm? Why bother, surely a cup of tea and re-runs of Dad's Army should be enough to satisfy their needs? Companionship is the first ship pushed into port. Now this may be a lovely ship to set sail on, but companionship could be scored with a small furry animal or a blow-up doll. Lust is hardly ever alluded to in the older daters repertoire. This could be due to suspect hips or cranky backs but I suspect it's more to do with the misconception of age.
Stories of older daters are somewhat precious (our memories aren't what they once were) and much funnier than when we were young. When young, we'd cringe into our dacquiris at the unfairness of it all. Older daters revel in the full glory of embarrassment. Afterall, breasts are not where they once were nor bottoms as pert.
A very good friend, fell for a pony-tailed, single dad. He was witty, charming and quite buff. So all the ingredients were in place for a date or two or even three.
With dim lights and soft pillows, he carressed her with words and their adventures raced into the night. They were no longer cheering on the side of the soccer field Saturday morning, they were now on a much more grown-up playing field.
One morning after their exertions, the pony-tail hopped out of bed and made his way into the shower, afterall he needed to get ready for work.
My friend lay on the crumpled sheets, as the sun started to trickle into the room. One ray, as if a spotlight, fell on a small picture on the wall, drawing it to her immediate attention.
Looking over, she couldn't quite make it out. Getting up, she moved closer, grabbing her glasses from the bedside table. Her eyes widened as she looked. Dropping her glasses to the floor she picked up her clothes and dressed quickly.
In the frame sat a miniture shrine to pony-tail's ex-wife. She was smiling in one, laughing in another, comtemplative in that shot and harrowed in another.
He re-entered the room, just as she was stepping into her shoes. Not wanting to make a scene, she kissed him briefly on his de-stubbled cheek and clattered away.
As she sat in her car, the shrine flashing in her thoughts, she held back tears. Creasing her brow, the smell from the kiss lingered. But she couldn't quite make it out. All she knew was that its smell was something very familiar, she just couldn't think what.
Then she remembered.
Nit shampoo.
Smiling to herself, she turned the key in the ignition.
Now assuming that the kids are wrong, and I have anecdotal evidence to suggest this. Take Viagra (or not, as the case may be), its ads are not targetted at the young and nubile. Current statistics divulge that older folk returning to the dating scene are picking up more than their dates due to omitting to use barrier contraceptives. In fact, if the ads are anything to go by, older folk are rampant albeit well-heeled sex fiends.
But what of real folk re-entering the dating realm? Why bother, surely a cup of tea and re-runs of Dad's Army should be enough to satisfy their needs? Companionship is the first ship pushed into port. Now this may be a lovely ship to set sail on, but companionship could be scored with a small furry animal or a blow-up doll. Lust is hardly ever alluded to in the older daters repertoire. This could be due to suspect hips or cranky backs but I suspect it's more to do with the misconception of age.
Stories of older daters are somewhat precious (our memories aren't what they once were) and much funnier than when we were young. When young, we'd cringe into our dacquiris at the unfairness of it all. Older daters revel in the full glory of embarrassment. Afterall, breasts are not where they once were nor bottoms as pert.
A very good friend, fell for a pony-tailed, single dad. He was witty, charming and quite buff. So all the ingredients were in place for a date or two or even three.
With dim lights and soft pillows, he carressed her with words and their adventures raced into the night. They were no longer cheering on the side of the soccer field Saturday morning, they were now on a much more grown-up playing field.
One morning after their exertions, the pony-tail hopped out of bed and made his way into the shower, afterall he needed to get ready for work.
My friend lay on the crumpled sheets, as the sun started to trickle into the room. One ray, as if a spotlight, fell on a small picture on the wall, drawing it to her immediate attention.
Looking over, she couldn't quite make it out. Getting up, she moved closer, grabbing her glasses from the bedside table. Her eyes widened as she looked. Dropping her glasses to the floor she picked up her clothes and dressed quickly.
In the frame sat a miniture shrine to pony-tail's ex-wife. She was smiling in one, laughing in another, comtemplative in that shot and harrowed in another.
He re-entered the room, just as she was stepping into her shoes. Not wanting to make a scene, she kissed him briefly on his de-stubbled cheek and clattered away.
As she sat in her car, the shrine flashing in her thoughts, she held back tears. Creasing her brow, the smell from the kiss lingered. But she couldn't quite make it out. All she knew was that its smell was something very familiar, she just couldn't think what.
Then she remembered.
Nit shampoo.
Smiling to herself, she turned the key in the ignition.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Songs of Joy
Tragedy and joy make up each of our lives. If we're lucky, joy is buttered a bit thicker and goes right to the crusts.
While growing up whenever a 'tragedy' struck me, whether it was a heart being harpooned or a doll's head crashing down the stairs, my grandmother would always soothe it with the prosaic phrase 'It's not an arm or a leg'.
At first, I rebelled against this usually testily applied lotion. Of course it's not an arm or a leg, I've just been dumped and it's as if a rhinerous has rootled about in my chest cavity and removed my heart. There wasn't an arm or leg in sight, for goodness sake, just lots of blood and tears. But roll my eyes, and beat my chest, Nana always knew best and took little notice of my distraught laments. Not that I was a drama queen but if I was, I would've been in silent movies because I can't for the life of me remember anyone taking me particularly seriously whatever misfortune I'd befallen. It goes without saying that it was never my fault.
Sometime later, my husband harpooned me with the news that "there was someone at work ... and she likes me and I like her". "That's nice, dear," didn't escape my lips but as I was ironing at the time (his business shirts), I tried to throw the steaming appliance at him but a stoic plug saved him and the carpet bore the brunt of my despair.
Now, had Nana been alive, I'm sure she would've tried the "It's not an arm or a leg" but since she was no longer here to dish out such wisdom, Dad stepped up to the mark.
But unlike Nana, Dad had a different approach to salving grief. His way was quite unique, he trawled through his extensive collection of CDs to triumph with the most gut wrenchingly, depressing, usually country songs to dissipate my grim moods.
Flopping down on their couch I'd arrange myself in the foetal position of despair, Dad would pop his head around the door. He'd smile brightly, then he'd cross the jamb, CD in hand. Placing it reverantly into the CD player he paused before hitting the play button. Turning to me with a look of fatherly concern he'd give me a brief synopsis of the song (dirge) that was about to be played.
The songs, and sadly I can't remember them as they'd make a great divorce compilation were the sort that you'd want to commit suicide to. Many were along the lines of some chick's bloke's heart's been swiped by some floozy (probably a first cousin) and they've packed up and left the wife and 14 kids to mourn his passing. These ones were just plain depressing.
But the fun ones, the same ones that started to cheer me up were much more proactive. These ones were quite graphic in their revenge which usually involved guns and the odd cliff. These were great to linger over, plot and have sweet dreams by. And so my broken heart was mended in part by Dad's unique attention to lyrical detail and the appropriate application to a given situation.
Not many years after this, in fact only a few months ago, Dad had a stroke. It struck him down and we were not sure whether he'd live or die. As we watched him with tubes and needles and pale, pale skin, we willed him to live, making bargains with our Catholic God.
And he lived through the first night. We didn't sleep that night as we flicked through the 'what ifs' and demented over the 'if onlys'.
The next day, I drove with Mum to the hospital. Following the labrynth of corridors that seem to ensure all hospitals look the same whether London or Auckland, we found ourselves at Dad's bedside.
He was pale and drawn. A screen bleeped and blipped behind him. His eyes, blue as a spring day, stared but they didn't stare knowingly or lovingly, they just stared. We tried to humour him to get Dad out from behind his eyes, but he seemed to look right through us. There was no recognition.
Leaving him for a moment, we walked over to the nearby window and stared out. Trees in the park, green, just as they were yesterday. Grey apartment building, nothing changed there either. Looking over to the bed, something had changed. My father, lay confused and lonely because of a severe brain haemorrhage. Mum and I stood in combined misery.
That's when I remembered Dad's therapy. The depressing array of melancholy which was enlisted to lift my sorrow. Standing there I tried to remember a song that I could perhaps sing to Dad, something that was pertinent and cheerful.
Then Paul Simon's song Red Rubber Ball popped into my head (I'm not sure if I was thinking about the ball of blood which was now lolling around in Dad's head).
Returning to his bed, I leaned over the rails and started to sing... "yes, it's going to be all right..." But I'm not a lyric person, I'm a hummer so the words did not fire out naturally, they were searched for and any word that 'fitted' grabbed at. As I struggled through the lines that I thought I knew, the first veil lifted and Dad slowly but surely finished the song by speaking the lyrics.
I've thought of a few more songs now that are just perfect for the hospital bedside and I'm sure it would be a hit...
If I Only had Time...
While growing up whenever a 'tragedy' struck me, whether it was a heart being harpooned or a doll's head crashing down the stairs, my grandmother would always soothe it with the prosaic phrase 'It's not an arm or a leg'.
At first, I rebelled against this usually testily applied lotion. Of course it's not an arm or a leg, I've just been dumped and it's as if a rhinerous has rootled about in my chest cavity and removed my heart. There wasn't an arm or leg in sight, for goodness sake, just lots of blood and tears. But roll my eyes, and beat my chest, Nana always knew best and took little notice of my distraught laments. Not that I was a drama queen but if I was, I would've been in silent movies because I can't for the life of me remember anyone taking me particularly seriously whatever misfortune I'd befallen. It goes without saying that it was never my fault.
Sometime later, my husband harpooned me with the news that "there was someone at work ... and she likes me and I like her". "That's nice, dear," didn't escape my lips but as I was ironing at the time (his business shirts), I tried to throw the steaming appliance at him but a stoic plug saved him and the carpet bore the brunt of my despair.
Now, had Nana been alive, I'm sure she would've tried the "It's not an arm or a leg" but since she was no longer here to dish out such wisdom, Dad stepped up to the mark.
But unlike Nana, Dad had a different approach to salving grief. His way was quite unique, he trawled through his extensive collection of CDs to triumph with the most gut wrenchingly, depressing, usually country songs to dissipate my grim moods.
Flopping down on their couch I'd arrange myself in the foetal position of despair, Dad would pop his head around the door. He'd smile brightly, then he'd cross the jamb, CD in hand. Placing it reverantly into the CD player he paused before hitting the play button. Turning to me with a look of fatherly concern he'd give me a brief synopsis of the song (dirge) that was about to be played.
The songs, and sadly I can't remember them as they'd make a great divorce compilation were the sort that you'd want to commit suicide to. Many were along the lines of some chick's bloke's heart's been swiped by some floozy (probably a first cousin) and they've packed up and left the wife and 14 kids to mourn his passing. These ones were just plain depressing.
But the fun ones, the same ones that started to cheer me up were much more proactive. These ones were quite graphic in their revenge which usually involved guns and the odd cliff. These were great to linger over, plot and have sweet dreams by. And so my broken heart was mended in part by Dad's unique attention to lyrical detail and the appropriate application to a given situation.
Not many years after this, in fact only a few months ago, Dad had a stroke. It struck him down and we were not sure whether he'd live or die. As we watched him with tubes and needles and pale, pale skin, we willed him to live, making bargains with our Catholic God.
And he lived through the first night. We didn't sleep that night as we flicked through the 'what ifs' and demented over the 'if onlys'.
The next day, I drove with Mum to the hospital. Following the labrynth of corridors that seem to ensure all hospitals look the same whether London or Auckland, we found ourselves at Dad's bedside.
He was pale and drawn. A screen bleeped and blipped behind him. His eyes, blue as a spring day, stared but they didn't stare knowingly or lovingly, they just stared. We tried to humour him to get Dad out from behind his eyes, but he seemed to look right through us. There was no recognition.
Leaving him for a moment, we walked over to the nearby window and stared out. Trees in the park, green, just as they were yesterday. Grey apartment building, nothing changed there either. Looking over to the bed, something had changed. My father, lay confused and lonely because of a severe brain haemorrhage. Mum and I stood in combined misery.
That's when I remembered Dad's therapy. The depressing array of melancholy which was enlisted to lift my sorrow. Standing there I tried to remember a song that I could perhaps sing to Dad, something that was pertinent and cheerful.
Then Paul Simon's song Red Rubber Ball popped into my head (I'm not sure if I was thinking about the ball of blood which was now lolling around in Dad's head).
Returning to his bed, I leaned over the rails and started to sing... "yes, it's going to be all right..." But I'm not a lyric person, I'm a hummer so the words did not fire out naturally, they were searched for and any word that 'fitted' grabbed at. As I struggled through the lines that I thought I knew, the first veil lifted and Dad slowly but surely finished the song by speaking the lyrics.
I've thought of a few more songs now that are just perfect for the hospital bedside and I'm sure it would be a hit...
If I Only had Time...
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Sunday Roast
Sundays were Sundays. It was a day of rest and mass. Catholics, as we were, would trudge off to mass where a lone figure floundered sadly on a cross while we sat on well rounded bottoms with wet finger-tips from dipping them in the holy water.
The priest would drone on in a matter-of-fact tone and I would sit there, not in awe, but in terror. What of living forever and ever and ever? What would you do? Can you read books and sleep and play with dolls? I was not in fear of damnation, because I suspected that damnation was slightly less worrying than eternal life. Eternal life! It must be boring. How many lutes can you play? How many clouds can you count? I'm sure flying would be fun for the first 567 years but what after that? Question felling question.
And as I sat there participating in synchronised sitting, standing and kneeling, I ate the hymn books. Well, it started with the hymn sheets. Good roughage, I'm sure my grandmother would've approved, had she known. I never ate the staples, hunger does not equate to stupidity. And hungry and bored, I may have been, but I was never stupid.
But one day as I chomped through a hymn book, leaving out the slightly tatty red cover and rusty staples. I nibbled through Christening hymns, wedding hymns and funeral dirges. They were digested, whatever notes of wisdom or heart swelling tunes each page held my stomach was immune. My digestive tract was not interested in which notes should be played or who should be singing which part. Masticating reverantly, each chew was completed in silent, wonderment. An intestinal sack cloth.
But the wonderment did not belong to me alone. My sister spied my mastication at the point of the index.
Her eyebrows lifted and then narrowed and I knew. I didn't know what, but I knew that I was in line for some EST (elder sister torture). Internalising the hymn book, I returned my attention to the priest. He stood pumping up our guilt at our good fortune in light of the misfortune of small, very hungry children living on a far off, poverty stricken island. I suppressed an inky burp.
Sitting at the opposite end of the blue vinyl ocean of the Falcon seat, my sister sat smugly on Big Sister Island. My blue-eyed brother occupied his car seat in the front seat, as my mother was indulging in Geogette Heyer at home, under her candlewick bedspread. We didn't talk. We sat and listened.
Brrrmmmm... brmmmmm...
Stopping at the local bakery, my father bought our hot, crusty loaf.
Returning home, I didn't look at my sister. I didn't want to find out what her mental machinations were producing. I was much more intent on my rather full, round tummy which now housed 75 hymns.
But I very discovered what she'd harvested.
As I sat on the side of my bed waiting for Mum to call down. My sister came into the room. Her head was a perfect halo of curls. Her lips, cupid's buds.
'You'll die of ink poisoning,' she said.
'Really,' I said.
'Yes, die of ink poisoning,' she said.
'No, I won't,' I said.
'Yes, you will, ' she said. 'You'll be dead before lunchtime.'
My eyes widened. How could I die before we had lunch? I'd never be able to learn to fly or play a lute or eat Nana's crispy roast potatos.
I was going to die and miss lunch. How unfair, I love roast potatos.
'There is an antedote. A cure.'
My eyes wondered. Now I was going to have my potatos.
My sister procured a white loaf from behind her back. 'Eat this. If you eat this you'll be able to eat lunch.'
'How much do I have to eat?'
'The whole loaf,' said my sister, stroking the loaf as if it were a white rabbit.
Taking the loaf, which was about the quarter of my size, I started to eat it. Breaking through the crust, the crumbs soon snowed upon me. Crumbs after crumb was forced to reside with the displaced notes.
My tummy extended with each mouthful, my chewing slowed until my jaw ached. My eyes started to pop.
Just before my eyeballs fell onto the floor and rolled into the garden, Mum came into our room.
Her eyes narrowed, as she saw the storm of crumbs.
She spied my sister.
The last thing I remembered was falling back and burping - notes and crumbs made a fine covering over my orange, candlewick bedspread.
And I never ate hymn books ever again but I still eat toast.
The priest would drone on in a matter-of-fact tone and I would sit there, not in awe, but in terror. What of living forever and ever and ever? What would you do? Can you read books and sleep and play with dolls? I was not in fear of damnation, because I suspected that damnation was slightly less worrying than eternal life. Eternal life! It must be boring. How many lutes can you play? How many clouds can you count? I'm sure flying would be fun for the first 567 years but what after that? Question felling question.
And as I sat there participating in synchronised sitting, standing and kneeling, I ate the hymn books. Well, it started with the hymn sheets. Good roughage, I'm sure my grandmother would've approved, had she known. I never ate the staples, hunger does not equate to stupidity. And hungry and bored, I may have been, but I was never stupid.
But one day as I chomped through a hymn book, leaving out the slightly tatty red cover and rusty staples. I nibbled through Christening hymns, wedding hymns and funeral dirges. They were digested, whatever notes of wisdom or heart swelling tunes each page held my stomach was immune. My digestive tract was not interested in which notes should be played or who should be singing which part. Masticating reverantly, each chew was completed in silent, wonderment. An intestinal sack cloth.
But the wonderment did not belong to me alone. My sister spied my mastication at the point of the index.
Her eyebrows lifted and then narrowed and I knew. I didn't know what, but I knew that I was in line for some EST (elder sister torture). Internalising the hymn book, I returned my attention to the priest. He stood pumping up our guilt at our good fortune in light of the misfortune of small, very hungry children living on a far off, poverty stricken island. I suppressed an inky burp.
Sitting at the opposite end of the blue vinyl ocean of the Falcon seat, my sister sat smugly on Big Sister Island. My blue-eyed brother occupied his car seat in the front seat, as my mother was indulging in Geogette Heyer at home, under her candlewick bedspread. We didn't talk. We sat and listened.
Brrrmmmm... brmmmmm...
Stopping at the local bakery, my father bought our hot, crusty loaf.
Returning home, I didn't look at my sister. I didn't want to find out what her mental machinations were producing. I was much more intent on my rather full, round tummy which now housed 75 hymns.
But I very discovered what she'd harvested.
As I sat on the side of my bed waiting for Mum to call down. My sister came into the room. Her head was a perfect halo of curls. Her lips, cupid's buds.
'You'll die of ink poisoning,' she said.
'Really,' I said.
'Yes, die of ink poisoning,' she said.
'No, I won't,' I said.
'Yes, you will, ' she said. 'You'll be dead before lunchtime.'
My eyes widened. How could I die before we had lunch? I'd never be able to learn to fly or play a lute or eat Nana's crispy roast potatos.
I was going to die and miss lunch. How unfair, I love roast potatos.
'There is an antedote. A cure.'
My eyes wondered. Now I was going to have my potatos.
My sister procured a white loaf from behind her back. 'Eat this. If you eat this you'll be able to eat lunch.'
'How much do I have to eat?'
'The whole loaf,' said my sister, stroking the loaf as if it were a white rabbit.
Taking the loaf, which was about the quarter of my size, I started to eat it. Breaking through the crust, the crumbs soon snowed upon me. Crumbs after crumb was forced to reside with the displaced notes.
My tummy extended with each mouthful, my chewing slowed until my jaw ached. My eyes started to pop.
Just before my eyeballs fell onto the floor and rolled into the garden, Mum came into our room.
Her eyes narrowed, as she saw the storm of crumbs.
She spied my sister.
The last thing I remembered was falling back and burping - notes and crumbs made a fine covering over my orange, candlewick bedspread.
And I never ate hymn books ever again but I still eat toast.
Stella Bella
Close your eyes
And count some sheep
It’s time for Stella
To go to sleep
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh
Dream sweet dreams
Of stars and moons
See elephants dancing
In pink pantaloons
Bacio, bacio sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.
Hear giggly fairies
With fine sugary hair
Dance the tango
With great fairy flair
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.
Sleep little angel
Close your big blues
Can you see
Hippos in floaty tutus?
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.
Under the covers
Snuggle down tight
Sail to Sleepyville
On this beautiful night
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh
Ssh, sssh, ssssh
Ssh, sssh, ssssh
Copyright V. Hall 2007
And count some sheep
It’s time for Stella
To go to sleep
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh
Dream sweet dreams
Of stars and moons
See elephants dancing
In pink pantaloons
Bacio, bacio sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.
Hear giggly fairies
With fine sugary hair
Dance the tango
With great fairy flair
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.
Sleep little angel
Close your big blues
Can you see
Hippos in floaty tutus?
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh.
Under the covers
Snuggle down tight
Sail to Sleepyville
On this beautiful night
Bacio, bacio, sssh
Bacio, bacio, ssssh
Ssh, sssh, ssssh
Ssh, sssh, ssssh
Copyright V. Hall 2007
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
'A 'we' speech
A perfectly formed chip of guilt rests perpetually and snugly on many parents' shoulders. It nudges and torments relentlessly as 'the child' eats Mac Donald's two days in a row or coughs as the parent pushes him through the school gates. Sometimes a glass of two of wine can dislodge the little chip, but it always finds its way back.
As 'the child' crawls through the early years and then trudges into school, you'd expect that the chip would lose a little of its grip as 'the teacher' can be apportioned blame. Afterall, 'the child' spends a great deal of time with 'the teacher'.
But the chip grows faster than 'the child'.
Homework fuels its growth. But as any good parent would know, it is 'the child' who should be doing the homework but what if it's not done? Who is held responsible? Even if 'the child' is sitting in homework detention it is 'the parent' lamenting his fate. So to ensure that 'the child' does not enter the detention pit, the parent offers a little help. It might be colouring in ballooning letters one day or carefully decorating the borders of the story the next. Just a little help.
The worse type of homework is the dreaded 'speech'. Parents react differently to this task. Some applaud its potential usefulness in the corporate world, others cross their fingers that their child doesn't make the cut because that will mean at least two hours out of a day in which to hear speeches being delivered by other gifted children and one is only interested in the child oneself has spawned (if the parent is honest).
One parent, was intent on helping 7 out just a little with his speech. A visit to the library was planned and books on the Titanic were accrued. The internet was surfed and the parent soon came to learn the meaning of downthrust and starboard and all about poor old Captain Smith. The speech was preened and polished as the 'two' worked tirelessly on it. Words cut out, perfect timings, chartings and laminations.
One afternoon, as the parent prepared the little cards explaining the tragic sinking of the unsinkable, she looked over to 7.
'Pop these in your bag darling.' She handed him the speech cards. Each one printed in her neatest scrawl. Some she'd had to do several times to make sure they were readable on the small cards as they needed to fit snugly into the seven-year old's palm. 'You'll need these for your speech tomorrow.'
7 took the cards, then gave them back.
'Mummy, I don't need them,' he said. 'I said my speech today. Mrs Hally said I spoke very clearly.'
The parent's heart sank faster than the ship.
'Oh,' said Mummy. 'Did anyone ask how the Titanic sank?"
'No,' said 7. 'Why would they? I was talking about soccer'
Smiling tightly, she took the cards and put them in a drawer. A little keepsake to her stupidity.
As 'the child' crawls through the early years and then trudges into school, you'd expect that the chip would lose a little of its grip as 'the teacher' can be apportioned blame. Afterall, 'the child' spends a great deal of time with 'the teacher'.
But the chip grows faster than 'the child'.
Homework fuels its growth. But as any good parent would know, it is 'the child' who should be doing the homework but what if it's not done? Who is held responsible? Even if 'the child' is sitting in homework detention it is 'the parent' lamenting his fate. So to ensure that 'the child' does not enter the detention pit, the parent offers a little help. It might be colouring in ballooning letters one day or carefully decorating the borders of the story the next. Just a little help.
The worse type of homework is the dreaded 'speech'. Parents react differently to this task. Some applaud its potential usefulness in the corporate world, others cross their fingers that their child doesn't make the cut because that will mean at least two hours out of a day in which to hear speeches being delivered by other gifted children and one is only interested in the child oneself has spawned (if the parent is honest).
One parent, was intent on helping 7 out just a little with his speech. A visit to the library was planned and books on the Titanic were accrued. The internet was surfed and the parent soon came to learn the meaning of downthrust and starboard and all about poor old Captain Smith. The speech was preened and polished as the 'two' worked tirelessly on it. Words cut out, perfect timings, chartings and laminations.
One afternoon, as the parent prepared the little cards explaining the tragic sinking of the unsinkable, she looked over to 7.
'Pop these in your bag darling.' She handed him the speech cards. Each one printed in her neatest scrawl. Some she'd had to do several times to make sure they were readable on the small cards as they needed to fit snugly into the seven-year old's palm. 'You'll need these for your speech tomorrow.'
7 took the cards, then gave them back.
'Mummy, I don't need them,' he said. 'I said my speech today. Mrs Hally said I spoke very clearly.'
The parent's heart sank faster than the ship.
'Oh,' said Mummy. 'Did anyone ask how the Titanic sank?"
'No,' said 7. 'Why would they? I was talking about soccer'
Smiling tightly, she took the cards and put them in a drawer. A little keepsake to her stupidity.
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