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Melbourne Questions

September 10th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Winona is back at work, smiling at everyone who asked her, Did You Have A Good Time in Melbourne?  In reply, she murmurs “Yes, no…”

Something was a little off, in Melbourne. The spring clothes in Melbourne were just as hideous as the ones in Wellington.  Perhaps that was why the hordes of commuters were clinging to their winter black, as Wellingtonians did. The weather was just as indifferent – a little less windy, but raining in torrents.

In the shops, the laneways, the luxury box at the AFL stadium, she had peered around for what Melbourne had that Wellington didn’t. Apart from Quick Brown Fox, Alice Euphemia, and lots of very large sandwiches and long blowdried hair, it was hard to find. It dawned on her that, perhaps, she wasn’t missing anything by being in Wellington. And when the news about the Christchurch earthquake came through, she quit looking and started sending text messages home, despite the roaming costs.

The wireless revolution had not yet come to Melbourne. So, in their short-term apartment, with a nephew on each side of her, Winona had channel-surfed on the TV until they found news that showed Christchurch. As they watched, one nephew nestled into her, hiding his face. The other one plucked at her elbow and asked questions that she wished she could default to their parents, like “What if we had an earthquake at our house? Would it fall down? We’re going to have an earthquake in Wellington, aren’t we? They said so at school.”

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Rattled

September 9th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Wellington has a soft spot for the Cantabrians who leave Christchurch for Wellington’s windy hills. Not given to flashy plumage themselves, Wellingtonians appreciate the low-key Cantabrian style, and have even adopted their genteel, crooning “Hello! Hellooooooo!” They fit seamlessly into government and private work alike, put down roots, and lived happily. Until last Sunday’s earthquake.

Now, talking to friends and family in their home town, looking at photos of tumbled storefronts and fractured streets, they are plucked by guilt, relief, and more guilt. Wellington friends pat them on the arm. “That was supposed to be our earthquake, up here. We thought we’d get The Big One first.”

Cantabrians are too polite to point out that there will be, inevitably, enough seismic activity to go around.

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Spring, Now

September 1st, 2010 by the_lifer
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All of Wellington has been yearning towards spring. On days with the least sliver of sunshine, people sit down at outdoor cafe tables, set outside by equally hopeful cafe owners. Women put on their dresses, while girls wear soft short skirts above their winter-weight leggings. Everyone scans the skies like dogs yearning for a heavenly treat. Is it spring now? Now? How about now?

The first day of Wellington’s spring is a classic; curtains of rain drift in and out, leaving warmth and rainbows behind – until a new front, more threatening than the last, comes in. At Wellington Airport, Winona has a perfect view of the weather’s vagaries.

Wellington’s springs are slow and cold, winter blowing back in at the least provocation. Winona’s not sorry to be waiting for the boarding announcement for the flight to Melbourne, even if her two nephews are already acting up.

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50s Meet 80s, or, Pass the Salsa

August 30th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Three days ago, Willow timorously asked her friend Winona for help. What should she wear to go salsa dancing?

Friday night found Willow standing shyly, hands jammed into the pockets of a cowl-necked cobalt tunic picked to Bring Out Her Eyes, looking for the guy who invited her salsa dancing. The crowd is intriguing; pairs and trios of women and men come in, split up, and dance with each other. Couples spin, feet fly, Latin music jangles, partners change. Is it a scene from the 50s? The way some of the dancers are dressed, it’s a scene from the 80s – one woman is still in the sprayed-on jeans and feathered bouffant that she must have picked out then.

She’s so fascinated that she jumps when she gets tapped on the shoulder. “Hey! You made it! Ready to dance?” Hugely encouraged, Willow says yes, but has to admit, “I don’t know how.”

The event’s two dance instructors come to the rescue. In a confusing whirl, she manages a basic merengue, while seeing the Guy out of the corner of her eyes, dancing with other women. But never with the same one twice.

Once she has mastered the steps enough for someone else to ask her to dance, the Guy cuts back in. “See! It’s not hard!” After a half hour’s whirling, he buys her a spring water.

The lights are turned down. The atmosphere gets prowly. Willow stammers her excuses. The guy is all smiles. “See you next time!”

Was it a date? Willow’s not sure even now.

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In a Buzzword Blizzard

August 27th, 2010 by admin
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Frankie’s fired!

Nervberg, as the second in command at the Department of Stodge, has been delegated the dirty work of making several of the staff  “redundant.” The graphics design part-timer, Frankie, is one of them.  He explained it all to Winona, who manages Frankie, in a buzzword blizzard. Cost cutting – restructuring -  budgets – efficiencies – current business environment – when does Winona recommend breaking the news?

Winona doesn’t ask “Why not Jen, the other part-timer?” Jen’s loudness is in her favor. People are used to asking Jen for help as Keeper of the Sanctified Flash Drive. Winona would like to think that Nervberg’s social connection with Jen wasn’t involved in the decision, but she can’t be quite sure.

Frankie, in contrast, comes in, does her job, and leaves. Winona found Frankie easy to work with – a good foundation in her first role as a manager. Now, this low-flying worker with her subdued grey plumage, once well adapted to the tangled thickets of beuracracy, is losing her environment in the budget clear-cut.

Frankie is just about to leave for the day when Winona asks her to join them in the meeting room.  The deed is executed quickly, as is tactful. Then, it’s an hour-long visit to HR before Frankie returns to her desk, with an empty copier paper box under one arm, to start packing up. Resilient, stoic Frankie waves aside Winona’s apologetic murmurs. “No worries! The severance package was rather good – I do appreciate that. If I need a reference, I’ll get in touch with you through your sister.”

“My sister? Helena?”

“No, Karin. She’s just around the corner from me.”

“Wait – you know Karin?”

“For ages and ages! Ever since she’s been up the coast. So I’m sure I’ll see you around. Bye!” Frankie bustles off, her thumb flashing as she sends a fusillade of text messages, not looking back at Winona leaning nervlessly against a desk.

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Meeting Room Thirteen

August 25th, 2010 by the_lifer
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All up and down the Terrace and Featherston Street, there are cafes that have the luxury of closing all day Saturday and Sunday. Their free weekends are funded by being “Meeting Room 13.”

When professionals in a central city office need to have a meeting, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that they’ll take off to a café. The code phrase for this at the Department of Stodge is “see you at Meeting Room 13.”

Is it rainy and cold? For a change of scenery and a decent coffee, it’s off to Meeting Room 13. Is it sunny? Meeting Room 13 is as close as they can get to skiving off while actually working. Discussion with an outside contractor? Meeting Room 13 again, and make that espresso a double, because the contractor will pick up the tab as a business expense. Do they need a private word with a manager? Meeting Room 13 is less official, less binding, than an on-site discussion. How about a good bitch about that same boss? That, of all things, warrants the on-site room with the door closed. Because anyone can overhear you at the café.

Nervberg, the second in command of the Department of Stodge, popped his head around the corner. “Winona? Can we meet today?”

She smiles happily. That’s a fast reply to her request to discuss some of the antiquated IT policies. “Of course! Meeting Room 13?” One of Nervberg’s few slivers of humanity at work is admitting he’s addicted to the moccachino at the nearest cafe.

“No. Largeman’s office is free, let’s go in there.”

“All right.” She’s a little disappointed.

Which is nothing to how she will feel fifteen minutes from now.

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The Prisoners of Policy

August 23rd, 2010 by the_lifer
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At the Department of Stodge, Winona has noticed an odd stream of people going to Jen’s desk. “Jen, can you…” Each time, Jen gives them a knowing smile and bustles off with them.

Winona decides to have a Manager Moment with her about it. “Jen, I was just looking for you. Were you at a meeting?”

Jen blinks. “Oh, I’ve got the only flash drive in the place. Sorry, I should have told you.”

“What? The only one? But I’ve got a flash drive in my purse.”

“This is the only flash drive that’s approved by IT to use on the computers here at work. Other ones might give the computers viruses. And we have that low attachment limit on our email, and there’s all the Sharepoint problems, so…”

Winona’s jaw dropped. “So everyone comes to you when they need to move files?”

Jen nods.

“But that’s insane! That’s stupider than not letting us go on TradeMe from our web browsers!”

“It’s policy. I know someone at another Department who’s not allowed to have a clock on the wall of her work area.”

“It could be worse – there’s a Ministry where only designated computers have Internet access for overall security. People bring in their own laptops, on their own wireless. Say, how did you wind up with the flash drive?”

Jen scrunches her shoulders, wriggles like a naughty puppy. “I kind of… inherited it from the previous marketing manager. Maybe you should have it in your desk?”

Winona contemplates having to be at the beck and call of  the odd stream of people trapped by this Kafkaesque limitation. “No, that’s fine.”  Then she pauses. “Actually…could I borrow the drive? Frankie’s out today and I’ve just finished a file that’s too large for our email system.”

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The Favourite

August 21st, 2010 by the_lifer
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Everyone has one: the Wellington restaurant they adore.

Winona had become attached to a quirky brunch place near their flat. Instead of trying to cook in the galley kitchen on a chilly Sunday at 11 AM, it  was more pleasant to escape there. The place served dinner, too, and decent drinks. It was vegetarian-friendly and also lots-of-beer-and-chips friendly, and she and Will were on first-name terms with several waiters and the owner.

And then, last night, she walked by and it was Closed For Renovations. Were they closing for good? Was there a new owner? Where had their Twitter feed gone? Nobody knew. It was odd timing, too, during the Wellington on a Plate restaurant week.

“Renovating ahead of tourist season,” is Will’s theory. Winona hopes so, though it gives her a pang to think of sharing the place with backpackers brandishing netbooks.

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113 Years On

August 18th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Let’s eavesdrop on some of Wellington’s movers and shakers, gathered in a penthouse flat.

“…generating dollars per hour…”

“…they want me to start this contract in Geneva as soon as possible, the problem is the paperwork that the U.N. requires…”

“…extremely busy, no sign of the recession…”

“…I say, this pinot noir is tasty. Penfold’s? Or one of the newer vinyards?…”

The decibel level is tremendous, a table has become a forest of wine bottles, and most government departments or their allies have a presence here. Meanwhile, one of the luminaries lifts a catalog. “I think I’ll go for the reheatable ones with the orange lids. Can you pass me an order form, Loulou?”

This electric, high-energy powerhouse is also an all-women’s Tupperware party.

Winona is on one of the party’s sofas, next to her friendly co-worker Jennifer. She flicks through the Tupperware catalog, tuned out of the sales presentation. Nevertheless, something vivid in the catalog catches her eye. She likes it. It will endear her to the hostess to get something. It’s not cheap, and she is going to Melbourne soon, but she makes a good salary.

One hundred and thirteen years after suffrage, Wellington’s women can afford the mind-bogglingly expensive Tupperware. Female power has slipped from its dizzy zenith of the Shipley/Clark years. But it remains firmly entrenched in Wellington.

These women carry their power graciously. They swap stories of travel, but modest ones. Junior analysts and administrators mingle with policy directors. Winona chats a bit with the lady next to her. Who knows what agency she might be running? Under Winona’s searching glance, her smile unfolds like a flower that’s just been watered. “Everyone here is so friendly. I used to live somewhere else, but out of towners said it was so hard to make friends there. And now that I’m new in town here, I see what they meant.”

The Tupperware seller overhears and joins them. “People are open in Wellington because everything changes all the time. A new government every three years. People move here from all over the country. Who knows what will happen? We don’t. So we stay in touch with each other, we let each other know what’s happening.” She flourishes a catalog. “Was there anything you liked?”

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