Sunday Scribbles X

Well, It's been a week. There have been many occasions in the past when I would get to 5pm Friday, put my work aside, and then wonder exactly what I'd done with the preceding five days. Those days are, I fancy, over. It's hard work that I do, far more physical than I'd imagined (a box of books is a heavy thing, and I'm pickin' them up and puttin' them down an awful lot on each and every day) and the simple fact of driving a large white van artound tight suburban streets requires a bit of endurance as well. But the rewards are out of sight. There's the people I work with (and they're a really trerrific bunch of people) and the people I work for: deeply appreciative of anything that done for them. Brilliant.

Lucky. It's a word I'm hearing a lot, these day. Mainly, it seems, from older people who have, or have had, difficult lives. It's refreshing to come from an environment where people feel deprived if they don't have the latest iPod or baffling techno-geewhiz device to a place where people feel genuinely lucky simply because someone drops by every few weeks with a couple of dozen books for them to read. Is their attitude nobility? I think it comes close. It certainly has had me thinking about the virtues of humility.

Genius: It's a well-hackneyed word, and grossly over-used. Rugby players are given the appelation, as are TV game shows hosts. Obviously, the word is duumb hyperbole in those instances, but there are times when it can be applied: not necessarily to an individual, but to an act. Each one of us is capable of doing something so sublimely inspired that it can be very correctly described as genius, even though we may be the furthest thing from a genius ourselves. There is, apparently, a yard-stick for genius: to score in the top 1% of the 3 standard IQ tests 3 times over a period of 3 months. There's not many people who can do it: I might nail one or two of those tests, but certainly not all 9. There was a good article on Slate that got me thinking: I'd recommend you read it. http://www.slate.com/id/2227801/pagenum/all/#p2

Films seen: Well, nothing in the past week, although Jenny and I did see "Coco" with our friends from over the bridge a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't too excited by the prospect of seeing it, but ended up loving it. Mind you, when a movie features Audrey Tatou (name speling?) it's going to be good: she is the most luminous of actors.



READING: "The Kindly Ones", by Jonathan Littell. It's been described a s a latter-day "War and Peace" and it's weight certainly lends credence to that claim. However, having read the first 100 of 900 pages, I'm inclined to agree.

LISTENING TO: Bob Dylan, "Modern Times." Sigh. Another genius. Let's face it, he did change the face of modern music.

WORD OF THE DAY: Sacrifice.



MORE MOANA:

“All right, you two,” I said. “I was going to tell your father first, but I haven't found the right moment yet.”
“Tell Dad what, Mum?” Treen, looking instantly worried.
“Look,” I said. “You've got to keep it to yourselves until I speak to your Father. Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” said Useless.
“And may my corpse be left out in the open for blowflies and rats to eat,” continued Treen.
“And green pus to ooze from sores all over my body,” said Useless.
“And my bum to fall off and be turned into a boat for boogeymen,” finished Treen. It's their usual oath: one they made up when they were small. Actually, they're still small. I felt like weeping.
“OK. It's like this,” I was nervous. Suddenly, I was a schoolgirl again, confessing to my Mum. “I think I'm pregnant.”

Chapter Two.
I found out at that moment just how deafening absolute silence can be. I swear it took them five minutes to lift their jaws off the floor and say something.
“Pregnant?” squawked Useless. “Like – you're going to have a baby?”
“Well, I can see the biology lessons at school haven't gone astray,” I said, dryly.
Treen's reaction was short, and sharp: “That dirty old man!” Then she laughed. “Really, Mum? Really? Pregnant?” I think she was both thrilled at the thought of a baby, and shocked that her Mum and Dad still did it. Little does she know.
“Really, yes. I haven't been to the doctor yet, but I'm pretty sure. Now, remember: don't tell your Dad. Mum's the word?”
“Mum's the word, all right!” said Russel. Humour, from a 15 year old. “This is neat. If it's a boy I can teach him how to play footy.”
“Be a good idea if you learned how to play it first, wouldn't it?” asked his sister. “Can you even remember the last time you won a game?”
“We win our fair share of matches,” replied Russel, defending his manhood.
“You haven't won enough matches to light a fire,” she shot back.
“All right you two, that's enough,” I said. “And remember: your Dad isn't to be told.”
“Told what?” said Chutty, from the back door. He has a way of sneaking up on a girl, that man does. Mind you, I think I did the sneaking up on him, which is how I got this way.
“Eh? Oh – nothing, sweetheart. Just a little surprise I've got organised up for later this afternoon,” I stuttered. He didn't seem to notice that I was prevaricating.
“This afternoon? Hope it's not too early. I want to head down to the Club and watch the footy with Frank, Towser, and Wiri,” he said.
“Tarquin Russel Wrigley, you are not to go and watch the footy. Not after my protests!” I snapped.
The previous Saturday, I'd been down on the main street, outside the Post Office – which is the closest thing we've got to a Public Service building – protesting against the Tour. I'd taken Chutty's crash helmet, and a big placard saying “Have a HART!” and me and Sandra Westmere stayed outside the NZPO for the two hours of the game, shouting out our support for the anti-tour people. OK, it was only two people. But we did something. Why the NZPO? It's the closest thing Northbridge has to a Public Service office.
“Quiet, woman,” he said, with that grin of his. “You can protest all you like, and I'll do what I think is OK. And I think that it's just a game of footy, and it's a game I want to see.”
“But haven't you thought about all the things I've said, and everything John Minto said, and -” I was spluttering by now.
“I reckon Minto's as big a ratbag as Piggy Muldoon is, Moana,” he said. “I just want to watch a game of footy. The Springboks have made no fuss about Maoris or anything, have they?”
“As long as they're confined to serving the beer and polishing the Springboks' boots, no,” I retorted.
“Look – Wiri's coming down the club to see the game. You don't get any more Maori than him, and he doesn't mind, does he?”
I gave him The Look, but it bounced off. What's the point of having a secret weapon, if the Bloody Man Is Too Bloody Thick-Skinned? It's not fair.
“Look,” he said. “If it'll make you feel better, you can go and protest again. This time you may not outnumber the cops. After all, Barry is actually at the game.”
Barry's the local cop, and our next-door neighbour. He gets more done with a sock-full of dried peas than a horde of psychologists and councilors will ever do.
“All right then,” I said, defeated. “You go to the Club. I'm going to -” Then, inspiration struck. “I'm going to get a Wedding Party ready!”
There were two world-shaking events happening that day: the Spingboks were playing Taranaki, and the heir to the throne, Charles, the Prince of Wales, was marrying Diana Spencer.

I Love My Wife

I was driving home this evening. It had been a hard day, and I was trying to keep what few wits I possess about me.

I looked at a car srtopped beside me at the lights: was it a Ford or a Holden? Couldn't decide. It might have been a Mitsubishi. It pulled away ahead of me: it was a VW Passat, which means it could have also been a Skoda. Sigh. Gone are the day when you you could identify a car by its shape. Whoops! What that our VW/Holden/Ford/Mitsubishi/Skoda owner has in his window? A sticker! Saying... "I Love My Wife".

Oh dear. I should take a note of the number plate. Call my cynical, but I have this depressing feeling that the only men who feel the need to have a sticker in their rear window proclaiming their love for their wives will fall in to one of four camps:

1: They'll be serial killers.

2: They'll be wife-beaters.

3: They'll be christians - and therefore legally insane.

4: They'll be hen-pecked, brow-beaten, submissive, and sit down when they piss.

Why? Well, it's the public statement. Sorry all you serial killing, wife-beating, christian milquetoasts: but a man who really loves his wife is quite content for her to know it, and for his kids to take comfort in it. He doesn't really need to boost his own self-image by shoving strangers' noses in his emotional life. Men who sit in numbers 1, 2,or 3 are trying to disguise their contempt for their wives in particular, and women in general. Chaps who are settled in category four are in fear of their wives, and are grateful when she allows him to have sex on his birthday. I know this, because I used to live there. No more.

LISTENING TO: Jimi Hendrix, "Are You Experienced?" My brain is leaking frommy eardrums.

READING: A Batman comic.

WORD OF THE DAY: Hypocrite. Like the men who drive around with stickers in their windows.

MORE MOANA! Yay!

It vibrates. We’ve put that feature to good use a couple of times, too.
The phone rang. It's a thing that phones do, and I answered it. It was my Mum, wanting to know if I could take her into town later that morning.
“Sorry, Mum. I don't know if I can. Chutty's got the ute, he's off to Kaweka this morning on a job, and I think young Russco's going to be off in the Mitsi to footy.” I said.
“OK love,” she replied. “It's just that I've got to get to St John's to do some pledging.”
Mum goes to St. John's every second Saturday, and polishes the pews and arranges the flowers. She calls it doing her pledging, because she uses half a can of lemon Pledge every time she does it. It's no wonder people are staying away from Church these days.
“Have you seen the doctor about your angina, Mum?”
“I'm not about to let that doctor start fossicking around down there, thank you very much. And don't you dare talk about my, my, parts like that,” she said, sounding like a pissed-off wasp, then hung up.
I put the receiver back on the hook, feeling flat. Mum takes umbrage at the slightest thing, and I'm in the dog-box until she forgets about it. Fortunately, that takes about seven minutes these days. I can't help but think that – apart from her heart problems – she's starting to shows signs of Alzheimer's.
“Mum?” said my daughter. “Didn't you just say that Russco'd be taking the Mitsi to footy?”
“Yes,” I said, thinking about Mum.
“But weren't we talking about how they've got a bye this week?”
“Shit,” I said. “And here's me thinking your Nan's got old-timers' disease. Oh – and don't talk to her about her angina, 'cause she thinks you're talking about her vagina.”
The door from the hallways opened while I was saying this, and Russel came in, scratching his bum. “Whose vagina, Mum?” he said.
“Your Nan's,” I told him. He went pale, said there were other mental images he'd rather have, then asked about breakfast. At least that was something I'd got right that morning.
“Bacon's just gone under the grill. Be another five minutes or so.” I said, looking under the grill. “Give your father a call, would you, Useless?” Russco went to the kitchen door, opened it and bellowed for his Dad. I hear a “Righto, son” coming from the general direction of the workshop, and put the eggs on.
Breakfast was its usual chaos. Tea and toast and cereal and eggs everywhere, and seven different conversations going at once. I sat there and watched the three of them, and felt the lump in my throat thickening. I can't imagine how I got so lucky. And how lucky I was right now. Or at least I was hoping that I was lucky right now. Things could go all to custard if I wasn't careful. It's nice to get the four of us around the table: Chutty, Treen, Useless, and me. I'm Moana, daughter of Hinemoa and Colin Treloar. You'll gedt to meet my Mum soon.
Chutty went back out to play around with the Caterpillar's hydraulics after breakfast, so I got Useless to help me with the dishes. We worked in silence for a couple of minutes, me washing, him drying. I felt him standing behind me, and looking hard at me.
“All right, Mum. Give. What's up?” He's a month off sixteen, and he sounds so much like a man at times. As to the up-ness of what, it's something I don't want to talk about right now. Not 'til I've spoken to Chutty, anyway. I'll do it this afternoon. Promise.
“Eh? What's up? With me? Nothing.” I'm nothing if not direct.
“Treen!” he shouted. “Can you come in here a minute?”
“Coming,” she shouted from the bathroom. “I'm just cleaning my teeth.”
“Wiping her bum, more like,” muttered Useless.
“Now, now,” I said. “If she says she's cleaning her teeth, then she's cleaning -” I heard the toilet flush. “Then she's probably wiping her bum.” I laughed as I finished the sentence. Treen came in to the slop room, asking “What's up, Russco?” Sometimes my family has too many nicknames. Russco, Useless, Treen, Curls, Chutty. And Chutty's been in the habit of not only saying “Quiet, woman,” to me when we're arguing, but calling me Quiet Woman, too. He reckons it's like the Aussies. They'll call a red-haired man “Blue”, and a short man they'll immediately call “Lofty”. So he calls me Quiet Woman. What that says about his opinion of me I – we'll, I'll just keep quiet about it.
“Time to play tag team, Treen,” says Russel. “Something's up with Mum, and she isn't saying.” Sometimes I regret teaching them that it's always better to talk about things than it is to bottle them up. My Dad was one of those men who kept a stiff upper lip, and never complained. He was riddled with cancer before he first complained of having a slight belly-ache. The Doctor, whose name, for heaven's sake, is Know, reckons he would have been all right if he'd started grizzling when the pain first hit. Anyway, I could see there was no way I was going to bluff my way out of this, so I took a deep breath, checked to make sure Chutty was in the workshop, and owned up.
“All right, you two,” I said. “I was going to tell your father first, but I haven't found the right moment yet.”

Samaritan

I met a little old lady the other day (my life, for a short while anyway, is going to consist of meeting a large number of little old ladies. And little old men, too.) who told me a story that absolutely rocked my socks.

She's a housebound individual. She's mobile, but only just. She depends to a huge degree on the good offices of other people coming to deliver her the bits and pieces sxhe needs for a comfortable and reasonably fulfilling life.

I bring her the reading material she needs to keep the brain ticking over.

A few days before I visited her, her televisioon set gave up the ghost. It died. It futzed out, went on the fritz, FUBARd itself, broken died, gone to the great Coro Street in the sky.

The day it died, the woman from her pharmacist arrived, with her monthly delivery of medication. Housebound people use drugs far more than you spotty teenagers, let me tell you! Anyway. The LOL (little old lady, munchins: not Laugh Out Loud.) told her friendly pusher the problem, and showed her the Harvey Norman that had co-incidentally come that day.... The dealer went straight to the local Harvey Norman, bought a tele on her own Mastercard, and had them deliver it.

Naturally, the LOL paid the Good Sam back immediately... but that wasn't the point. The point was simply that the Good Sam had decided to just go out and do it - and she hadn't asked to be repaid.

People are good.

READING: Brent Gherlfi's “Volk's Game". Russian crime. Uber-violent.
LISTENING TO: Blondie's Greatest Hits. I used to know a man who had been told to Faar Cough by Debbie Harry. Ah, such is fame....
WORD OF THE DAY: Samaritan. Just do it.

MORE Quiet Woman.

“No, he won’t. Didn’t he tell you? The coach has benched him today. He’s not playing. Given him the day off.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. He did mention it last night.”
The Coach of Russell’s footy team’s changed recently. It used to be that big joker up the road, Henry Talbot, but they’ve gone off somewhere. Rumour is that he’s crook, which would be a shame: they're good people. I like her. No pretensions, no BS. And I don’t know what it is she does to gardens, but I swear my roses perk up when she wanders in for a cuppa. Anyway, Henry passed the Mantle of Coach to Chutty, who can be a bit of a tartar. But more about that later.
I like my kitchen. Nothing too flash. Well, there’s nothing that’s too flash in the whole Wrigley household. I put my foot down a couple of years ago, though, and had it re-modelled. It’s a galley-style kitchen, which I really like. I’m surrounded by bench space. The end of the U shape is exactly 2.8 metres across, and 2.9 high: and that’s my pantry. I store everything in there, from the pots and pans and toaster and electric jug and cake-mixer and cups, saucers, plates and whatnot to the cornflakes, Thai sauces, and spuds. And all the rest of the food that’s not in the fridges or freezer. Along one of the sticks of the U, the one that faces the outside wall, is a bench. Miles of it: 3.4 metres. Under it is my dishwasher, small fridge, and some open shelves where I keep, well, stuff. The other stick of the U, another 3.4 metres, faces the breakfast nook, and I can see into our living cum dining cum slopping-about room, as well. Colours? Sensible greys and yellows. This side of the U has a small splash-back, as that’s where my double sink, with kitchen-pig, is. And more shelves, and another under-bench fridge, and a freezer.
From here I rule my roost. The living cum – look, we call it the slop room, so I’ll just keep on with that nomenclature, all right? The slop room is big. It has the big table and chairs, bookshelves along the internal wall, fireplace, stereo, tele, a couple of couches and Chutty’s La-z-Boy chair. It vibrates. We’ve put that feature to good use a couple of times, too.

Sunday Scribbles IX

The Flying Wing. I snaffled something from the Library on Friday: "Eagle Annual: The Best of the 1950s comic." Very cool. Featuring,of course, Dan Dare. Why hasn't anybody made a Dan Dare movie? The Mekon is a thoroughly satisfying villain. Anyway. Featured was a series they used to do- the cutaway explanations of how things work. Steam engines, flor mills, you name it. And if you named the Flying Wing, you'd be with me. A few weeks ago I'd been reading a recent Popular Mechanics, which had an article about a Flying Wing passenger craft. Makes sense: instead of having a wing support a long, wide, tube filled with people, make the wing massive, and put the people into it. Forget the fuselage - make the entire aircraft a lifting device. The recent article banged on about how many more people could be transported more economically, etcetera. Radical! Modern! Until I saw the same thing propounded in the 1950s Eagle. Seems the idea's been around for 50 years: why hasn't anyone built the damn' thing yet?

But: I'm fond of Dear Prudence, a regular feature on Slate magazine, an American on-line magazine. The questions are heartfelt, and the answers often wise and erudite. But it strikes me that a good 80% of them start of "I'm married / seeing a wonderful guy. He's warm, witty, loving, funny, handsome, and a great lover. But...' Now, I know that men don't feel as comfortable airing their concerns about their emotional and sexual partners as women do. I think it's about time we did. The ladies, it seems, are happy telling the world they want perfection in their partner. They want a man who has everything, and flosses as well. Is it that we men aren't as fussy, or are more forgiving of the little peccadilloes that make up an individual? I really don't know.

Incidentally: One of the rare "Dear Prudence" manly questions came from a chap who didn't phrase his question with a "but"... he was asking about the sanitary habits of women. Namely, in the bra-wearing department. His lady apparently wore her bra for seven days running before chnaging it. he wondered whether this was normal. The answer came "Yes, it is. a lady's bra doesn't get as grubby or sweaty as a man's underpants do, so it'll still be clean and fresh even after five days. Well, pretty well every woman I've ever known has changed her bra on a daily basis. I know that's not a truly representative selection - but even so, I do get the feeling that - provinding Prudence was accurate in her review of American women's laundry habits - NZ women are maybe a little more hygienic than their sisters in the States.

READING: The Librarian. Good value.

LISTENING TO: Clair Martin, "Perfect Alibi". Sublime.

WORD OF THE DAY: Basterd. Yes, Jenny and I are going to the movies, to see Tarantino's badly spelled movie.

MORE MOANA:
It took me two years to do my degree up in Auckland, and I did far too many drugs and shagged too many faceless men and listened to too much crap before coming back home to Northridge.
And in that time Chutty had worked his buns off and started his own business. Twenty three years old, and he employed three men, and owned four bloody great huge yellow pieces of machinery and he was a by god and by gravy contractor. Well, the bank owned everything, but Chutty never put a foot wrong.
He’d bought a house on Talbot Terrace – worst house on a pretty average street – and was doing it up. The first rooms he’d done were the kids’ rooms.
Treen’s room was done up in pinks and lemons, and little bunny rabbits. Russell’s room was all footy posters and Chutty’s old league jersey on the wall, and when I finally came home and saw it I sneered and crushed a cigarette butt into the carpet and Mum slapped my face.
It was the best thing she could have ever done.
Treen’s hair is an unmanageable black curly mess, like her Dad’s. Her eyes are bright blue, like her Dad’s. She can swear a blue streak, like her Dad. She’s stocky, like her Dad, and has an irrepressible sense of humour – like her Dad. She is, I swear, the greatest kid that anyone could ever hope to know.
Chutty and I often lie in bed at night, holding each other, holding hands, holding hope, and talking about the kids. He disagrees with me about Treen. He reckons Russell’s the greatest kid anyone could ever hope to know. I often wonder whether he’s over compensating, but then I see the pair of them, under the bonnet of some old clapped-out old car that Russell’s found, or some old motorbike that Chutty’s resurrected from the back of a barn somewhere, and I wonder about nature and nurture.
Frankly, Russell’s natural Father’s a dick, and wouldn’t know a mineral oil from a synthetic one. He wouldn’t even know which hole you poured the oil into.
Back to Treen: like me, she’s been a precocious student. She’s breezed through everything, gaining good marks at whatever she’s taken on. She loves playing word games, and reckons she’ll get one over me one of these days.
Fat chance.
She has no idea what’s coming up later on today. That’s something that’ll rattle her dags, I can tell you.
So, here she is: a bright, cheerful, over-achieving kid. As Chutty says, “Where did we go wrong?” And I really don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it. Christ, if she’d given me half the trouble I gave my Mum, I’d be in my coffin by now.
“Mum,” she says, as she comes through the door. “There’s a basic flaw in your thinking today.”
“Oh, yes?”
“You’re up and out of bed early and you’ve gotten me and Russco up, and you’ve cooked our breakfasts, and I think you’ve even made our lunches.”
“Yes – all that shows that I’m a caring and sharing and loving Mum, who you don’t deserve. What’s your point, kiddo?”
“Well, it’s this: what day is it?” She says it with a grin, and I know I’m in trouble.
“What do you mean, ‘what day is it?’” I’m the queen of the snappy comeback.
“Mu-um! It’s not even a school-day! It’s Saturday, and I wanted to lie-in.”
Saturday. Well, this demands a bit of a rethink. I thought the programme on the radio sounded a bit odd. But when you’re a wee bit distracted, sometimes you make tiny mistakes.
“Mum?” She’s sounding worried, and I look at her. She puts a hand up to my face, and it comes away wet. “Mum? You all right?”
“I’m sorry, dear. It’s nothing. I’m just a little doo-lally today, that’s all. Look – sorry. I don’t know where my head was at.”
She gives me The Look, which we both know means “don’t bullshit me, lady” but nods her acceptance.
“Look, you can still get Useless up anyway. He’ll have footy today, and –‘
“No, he won’t. Didn’t he tell you? The coach has benched him today. He’s not playing. Given him the day off.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. He did mention it last night.”

Is it racist?

I've been struggling with this thought for some time now. I think most people will agree that New Zealand has a mild strain of racism running through its psyche. I think that if we're honest with ourselves, and ask ourselves the qurestion, we'll find that we're just as capable of having an unguarded racist thought as any white-hooded KKK bum.

So, perhaps I'm a little sensitive. But I can't help but wonder about Westpac's newish ad campaign. Is it racist, or is it just plain dumb? It is definitely the latter: they have a manager of the bank who's too dense to put his dick away before doing up his zip. The same man is so frigging stupid as to engage in all sorts of childish behaviours - blowing bubbles as he's doing the dishes, giving his outboard motor death as he test runs it, and so on.

He doesn't even know how to pick up after himself, and allows himself to be bullied by people who look at him accusingly.

The fact that the man is a Maori may be coincidental. But I can't help but wonder about the discussion around the marketing manager's table when the advertising agency came to him or her, pitching this idea. MM is marketing manager, AW is Agency Wanker.

MM: So, what have you got for me this week, chaps?

AW: We're going to have a Westpac Manager at home, being lectured by his ten-year old kid about environmental concerns. The Westpac Manager will be breaking all the rules, while the kid reads from some greeny magazine.

MM: I love it. It shows Westpac's willing to embrace the new eco ethos. But we need a hook.

AW: Way ahead of you there. We actually have two hooks. One: we're going to make the Westpac a Maori...

MM: Nice. It'll show we're equal opportunity employers, and anyone can rise to the top with Westpac...

AW: And his kid will be white! A pakeha kid! We could use yours - he's about ten, isn't he?

MM: Magic! Little Bartholemew should be on the tele. Now, that's one hook - what's the other.

AW: You'll love this one. The kid follows his Dad around, lecturing him about this and that, and when his Dad's taking a leak, the kid turns off the light. The Dad - we'll call him Hemi - is so flustered that he zips up without putting his cock away, and gets in caught in his zip!

MM: And I thought Jim Carrey was funny. Nothing on you guys. Hilarious! This has legs for Africa... we can follow up with the same limp-dick Dad doing other stupid things, to show we have a sense of humour... that we're willing to laugh at ourselves as we rip off our customers. Brilliant, do it, want it tomorrow.

Well, it may not have gone quite like that, but I'd put dollars to doughnuts I'm not far off.

It may or may not be racist. What it definitely is... is stupid.



LISTENING TO: Jeff Buckley, "Grace". Best cover of Leonard Cohen's song "Hallelujah" ever.

READING: I had to get it: "The Librarian", by Larry Beinhardt.

WORD OF THE DAY: Brother. Mine's pretty magic.



Quiet Woman starts here:


Chapter One.

Everything was well in the Wrigley household. Treen was getting herself ready for school, Russell was buggering about doing whatever he was up to, Chutty was outside swearing at the cell-phone, at the truck, and the bloody weather, and I was where I like to be at this time of the day: in the kitchen.
Four plates on the bench. The first has a piece of toast, lightly buttered, and one poached egg. That’s Russell. After he scoffs that, he’ll be into a bowl of Weet Bix, and a man-sized mug of tea. The second plate’s Treen’s: one slice of toast, lightly buttered, and cut into soldiers, to dip into her boiled egg. She’ll then have two Weet Bix, and a glass of orange. Chutty’s plate has two slices of toast, two poached eggs even though he’ll grizzle, and then his oatmeal’s ready to shove into the micro-wave. Then there’s mine: like Chutty, two eggs on toast. I’ve been hungry the past few days.
Schooldays are always a bit hectic, but if I get up with Chutty, the kids’ll be all right.
“Treen! Come on, you great lump, breakfast’s ready. And throw a glass of water over Useless, would you?”
“Righto Mum,” she calls back. “Be there in a sec’.”
And so she is. She breezes through the door, dressed in her school jumper and a pair of pyjama bottoms. They’re decorated with little yellow bunny rabbits, and she’d be mortified if I told her she looked cute. While we’re doing this introduction thing, we may as well start with Treen. Treen’s my eldest. At 17, she’s not long for this household: she’s passed all her exams and assessments, and is off to Uni next year. She’s not a pretty girl – anyone’ll tell you that. But there’s a strength to her; and earthiness that she gets off her Dad. To me, she’s beautiful. She’s my height, just a little over 5 foot 4, whatever that means in metrics. I’ve got my hand on most of the big metric stuff: litres and kilometers and kilograms and so on, but I still struggle with the little bits, the centimetres, metres, grams. Still, as long as I can still whip up a half-decent sponge cake, I’ll be all right. Anyway, my Treen. By the time I was her age I was shagging my boyfriend, young Tarquin Russell Wrigley, half to death most nights. God, I’m glad she hasn’t taken after her mother in that area. Right little bugger, I was. And when I was only 18, and just starting to show, I told Chutty to bugger off. Me and my Mum went through the usual stuff Mums and daughters go through, and Treen – short for Katrina – was born. Chutty knew about her, and did what I told him to do: he shot through to Australia. I really didn’t want him mooning about wanting to marry me and smothering me. Mind you, he sent me half his pay packet every week. God alone knows how he survived. We kept in touch, of course we did. But I needed to do a lot of growing up.
Which I did by getting myself knocked up again.
Silly little bitch.
Mum was a brick. Never asked about it, never got on my case. Anyway, there I was, under 20, and with two kids. I never saw Russell’s father after I told him the good news, and I can’t say I’m sorry. What I did do was write the longest letter to Chutty. To Tarquin Russell Wrigley. I had already named the baby – a boy - after the man who wasn’t his Dad. Well, not completely. Call a kid Tarquin? I think not! And Chutty, bless him, came back home, and lived with my Mum and the kids while I shot through.
It took me two years to do my degree up in Auckland, and I did far too many drugs and shagged too many faceless men and listened to too much crap before coming back home to Northridge.

The Good, The Bad, and The Family

I wrote my title yesterday, not knowing what I'd put with it: it's the kind of writing exercise I relish. So - here goes.
The immediate thought is to ramble on about the Kennedy clan, or perhaps that chinless (I can talk) crowd that haunts Buck House, in London. But hell, they're both cliches, and both families deserve to now fade into obscurity.
So - I'll instead burble on about new people, new experiences, and new hopes... a blither that's all wrapped up under the false moustache of my title. I am, of course, referring to My New Job: Access Services Librarian, for the Waitakere City Library.
It's always a thrill meeting new people, and I've been given a rare opportunity of meeting some astonishing people who actually bring the ideas / notions / dreams of a cloistered community to my mind. I was the new guy on the block, and very aware of the fact that I was becoming a part of a very privileged group. My first real confirmation of this thought came when I stepped into the office: a long room, perhaps 50 metres. And the dominant design feature was that fourth great love of my life: bookshelves. Bookshelves filled with books of all kinds. Books, and magazines, and and talking books, and CDs and DVDs. Initially, I felt awkward and lumpen, as though I was a three-legged elephant. However, the feeling quickly passed. I was introduced to people - people who astonished me by their genuine and heartfelt welcome. Yes, that appalling cliche "welcome aboard" was used once or twice, but there was no feeling that I was walking up the Titanic's boarding plank: instead, I was being brought into a well-knit and cohesive group of people who still had room for one more.
They even put on a morning tea for me: sausage rolls, chocolate cake, and that embarrassing two-minute talk about myself. As I blithered to a somewhat dribbly end, someone said "But we'd heard you also wrote.."
Yes, they'd been talking about this strange older chap who was joining their team. And a few of them had checked out my blog, and were complimentary about Henry.
That was yesterday. That was the good.
Today, with the person I'm replacing, I went out to meet a few of our clients: the housebound of the city. The Library staff choose appropriate books for these people, and delivers them: it's an expensive process (that's the bad) but one which the city deems as necessary. Certainly, when I had quick chats with the dozen or so old-timers I met today, I can't argue. It was a privilege. We based ourselves at a branch for the day, away from the head officey-ness of where I'm based. Guess what? They welcomes me, they knew about me, they all have a genuine passion for what they're all doing, and they see my role as being just as vital as their own. So much so that they all gave me the impression that they considered it an honour to help me get to my feet quickly, and continue my / their / our work.
I said to a friend this evening that I was struck by the fact that no-one seemed to have personal agendas, no one seemed to be burdened by a vaulting, overweening, personal ambition. There were no dagger-wielders, looking for a back to plunge their weapons into.
They were, and are, concerned with ensuring that they worked as collaboratively as possible, that we all strove toward a common objective, that we were all seen to serve the people of their city, and beyond.
They are, after all, Librarians. And very proud of it, too.

LISTENING TO: Acoustic Alchemy, "Positive Thinking". One of my favourite shut up and think albums.
READING: Umm... nothing. True. For the first time in a long, long time... and for the briefest of periods... I don't have a bookmarked book. Some Librarian!
WORD OF THE DAY: Gratitude. I don't have to tell you why.

NO MORE HENRY. As from tomorrow: "Quiet Woman".

Discipline

New challenges, new disciplines.

Change is never easy, but it is always welcome. I find myself in the odd situation, at age 57, of starting a completely new career. I said to Jenny a couple of weeks ago that I really didn't want to write another advertisement in my life: that what I had said inmy interview for the job at the Library was right. I told them that I'd more or less slipped into the business by accident, and soon found myself trapped by it. The fact that I was good at what I did was, I suppose, a benefit for my clients and my various employers. But I simply have no heart for the business any more. In fact, I have become hyper-critical of its products.

AN ASIDE: What in the hell were GJ Gardner Homes thinking when they got the shaven-headed 55-year-old-going-on-12 gay scamp to work as their co-huckster? It wouldn't be so bad if he - or the talent-free zone they have put beside him - was funny. He's not, she's not, they're not. And they don't seem to be able to find an all-Kiwi couple who've built a Gardner home, either. They're either from the RSA or the USA.

Back on topic, now. I'm nervous. I'll be stepping into a new environment, learning an entirely new job, and be expected to perform from day one. Well, I'll expect that: they probably won't.

But damn it all - I'm excited, too. The job's what I want. Working with books: check. Working with book-loving people: check. Talking to people about books: check. All I have to do is learn new stuff, and keep on learning new stuff. And if there's one thing I've always striven to do, no matter where I've been,or who I've been with - I have always tried to learn new stuff. That's why our Pub Quiz team worked so well. That, and the fact that the ever-glorious Fiona Murray filled in the gaps in my knowledge. She could Pub Quiz for the nation, that woman.

AN OTHER ASIDE: INTERESTING BITS. There are about 73 TV commercials on air that are using this vaguely irritating phrase. Guess what, folks? It was mildly amusing, and almost ane, the first time it was used. The second commercial to use it was inane. The bloody breakfast cereal that's pounding my forebrain with "interesting bits" at the moment is driving me into a homicidal rage. It weren't my fault I slaughtered my neighbours, yer onner. It were that bloody TV commercial's interesting bits....

So, back to discipline. I'll need it, over the next few weeks. New job to learn, new blogs to write. I'll be posting my blogs at a different time in the future: at some time in the New Zealand evening. This post, written and put up on Tuesday evening, is going to be counted as tomorrow's... see you Thursday evening.

Kia kaha, fine and gentle folks.

LISTENING TO: Weezer, "Red Album". Nice work.

READING: Jim DeFelice,"Leopards Kill". Hmmm. Don't know yet.

TODAY'S WORD: Tomorrow. It all starts then... on the second day of Spring.

THE LAST OF HENRY.

Henry’s bed is a lake of pain. Not, you understand, from the brain tumour. From the lung cancer, which had, by now metastasised through his body. His every nerve dried out for relief, and the small amount of morphine his sneaky wife and sneaky doctor were sneaking into his veins couldn’t cope.
“Wolf?”
“I am here, mein friend.”
“Can I ask you to stand by Adam for me? Just don’t teach him to smoke those cigars of yours.”
“So, now you wish conditions? It seems to me that you are in no position to bargain.”
“Good on you, mate.”
And Wolf was blessed.
Q: It’ll be soon, I think, Mary.
A: Yes. It’ll be soon.
Henry has been taken from the hospital to the Ugglesworth Hospice. He has a room to himself, and Mary sleeps on a spare bed beside him. Their visitor is with them constantly now, asking his questions, demanding they find their own answers. They both know the voice, they both know the insistence.
“Henry, how are you?”
“Box of fluffy ducks, John, box of birds.”
“Yeah, sorry. Dumb question. Look, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve pranged your car again.”
“No, mate. No. Listen - I’m in love.”
“Good on you, brother. Who’s the lucky man?”
Silence. Then: “You know?”
“One of my very best friends was gay, John. It never stopped me loving him. Mary and I have always suspected that you were, but it was something you had to come to terms with.”
“We’re talking about marriage. Well, Civil Union.”
“I only hope you’ll be as happy as I always have been, John-John. Can you adopt? You’d make a great Dad.”
“His name’s Greg.”
“Greg Trelawney?”
“You know him?”
“Not well. But he’s a good person, John.”
Then Henry slept again.
Q: Henry?
A: I’m asleep. Can’t you leave me alone?
Q: Spot’s cool with you.
A: Thanks.
Mary has lost weight. She’s haggard and tired, and Asdam’s worried about her health. Joe Know takes her from Henry’s room, and speaks to her. She flares up and slaps at him, once twice bastard it’s all your fault. And she weeps and sobs, and Adam takes her away for an hour, but she only picks at the food he puts in front of her.
“Mum?”
“What.”
“I can’t do this, Mum. I can’t watch you die too.” And he walks away from her, tears streaking his face.
Q: Mary.
A: Leave me alone, just leave me alone!
The Sybling and Micah are at Henry’s bedside. She is dressed in a wild Hawaiian shirt, and bright yellow slacks. In her shirt pocket is a twisted cheroot, and in her mind is the hug that Wolf gave her.
“Hey, bro’,” says Micah. “Sybil and I are going to do our big trip too.”
“Hope I’m not holding you up,” says Henry, with a grin. “If you want to play cowboy, give my friend Walter Cochrane a call.”
“You reckon he’ll teach me how to fire a six-shooter?” asks Sybil.
“And look at you, Sis! What’s up? You’ve even had a hairdo.”
Sybil’s hair is now an even one centimetre long.
“I guess we’ve learned there’s never enough time,” she confesses.
“Bit of a tyrant, that time, eh.”
Q: How’s the pain?
A: You know something? It’s so intense now I can’t even feel it.
Q: That happens.
A: Wish you could have arranged for it to happen sooner.
Mary is shocked by Adam’s behaviour. And she knows that he’s right. She picks up the giant milkshake, and drinks it, and walks back to the hospice. Adam’s waiting there, in the foyer. She crosses the floor to him, and hugs him.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
“S’orright, Mum.”
Mary, Adam, and Charlie are with Henry. It’s early evening, and Henry’s lying quietly, apparently asleep. He’s dreadfully thin, having lost at least half his body weight. Mary tells Adam and Charlie about the visitor, and they both come to believe that she’s cracked. But Henry surprises them by speaking up. “She’s right. I don’t know whether we’re sharing some kind of spiritual thing, but I doubt it. I think we’re just asking ourselves if our life together’s been worth while. Whether we’ve done anything right.”
“Yes,’ whispers Charlie. “Yes, it has. And yes. You have.”
And, in room twenty-three, Henry is surprised that the pain has left him, and then, just for the hell of it, and because he can, he stops breathing.
Q: ?
A: !