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The Starfish

May 11th, 2010 by the_lifer
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“Get in the car! I said, get in the car! Get in the car NOW!” Helena Hutt takes the deep breaths familiar to any mummy trying very hard not to scream at the children. Right now she is driving them all to an ear specialist doctor, 30 minutes and a parking nightmare away in Newtown. After a week hauling them up hill and down, they are all frazzled and carsick. She takes another breath. It’s not their fault. It’s not even her fault. She blames what she has named The Starfish.

Wellington’s geography has its center in, not surprisingly, downtown Wellington. But it’s a small center, and other neighborhoods extend from it where the steep hills and crevasses of Wellington geology allow. The result is an entire region split into separated valleys, as if you were driving around the interior of a starfish, and you had to go back to the center to get to another limb of the starfish.  In response, Wellingtonians take on a neighborhood parochialism and a dislike of driving that seems strange to those who dwell in other parts of Aotearoa – until they, too, try driving hill roads in a Wellington storm, or finding a parking place downtown.

Meanwhile, deep in another limb of the starfish, louche cad Wayland is similarly irritated by Wellington’s psychogeography.  It makes it easy to “see” a couple of women at once,  without worrying about them meeting up and exchanging confidences. But the petrol bill and speeding tickets are adding up. Bored with his current paramour, he is texting around his exes to see if any of them are in the mood for a reconciliation. ‘hi what’s up thinkin ‘bout you lately’, sent to six women, brings three responses. One reply text uses perfect grammar and punctuation. Wayland reads it thoughtfully. “Bought a house in Hataitai, eh?”

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Rites of Passage

May 7th, 2010 by the_lifer
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“I blew it,” Winona moans. “I could’ve prevaricated and spun them a load of – ” Winona glances at her sister Helena’s two children, sitting attentively with them at the café table. “A load of guff, but no, I couldn’t not explain.”

Helena says, philosophically, “They can’t be mad at you for telling them the truth.”

“No, but they can not hire me for making them look like idiots.”

“Perhaps they’ll hire you to be smart for them, then. Tch! What did I tell you boys? No mustaches, we’re not at home.” Clicking her tongue, she wipes foamed milk off her sons’ upper lips.

Winona sighs. “I’ve been gone so long you’re ordering regular-sized drinks for the boys.”

Her older nephew nods. “This is my favorite café.”

“Is it?” echoes Winona.

“It is. They have the head like Bart Simpson’s as decoration, and the best chips, and when you order a hot chocolate you get a skinny Whittaker’s to stir it with.”

“I – I – I like this cafe but I like the other place too,” adds the younger nephew. “I like the place with the mini bagels. They give Mummy two Jaffas with her moccachino so we can each have one.” The boy has lost both his front teeth and has a lisp, but he still pronounces “moccachino” correctly.

“Do you want my biscuit?” Winona offers him the nubbin of shortbread that accompanied her drink.

Suddenly shy, the six-year-old nods. His brother, all of eight, watches the scene. “If he gets your biscuit can I have a sip of your coffee?”

The fretful crease between Winona’s brows vanishes as she smiles. “Eight going on twenty-eight,” she says, and hands him her flat white.

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The Department of Stodge

May 5th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Sit bolt upright on the edge of your seat, rigid as a post, and you’ll have the same posture as Winona, who is in the middle of her job interview.

On her way in, she surveyed the Department’s location with interest. They are tucked into the bad side of an office tower in the middle of The Terrace (bad side = looking out over the motorway, not the gorgeous harbor). Their work is one-third science, one-third business, and 100%  schmoozing. They are a subdivision of a larger Ministry, a relic of government structures even larger and more byzantine than the current ones. It would make sense for them to merge with their parent, but they are currently being held at arms’ length after some recent bad publicity.

En route to the interview room, Winona passed the remnants of a team lunch: fish and chips, a “savouries” assortment, lamingtons, artery-clogging old school treats. To herself, she nicknames the place the Department of Stodge. It’s not what Winona would have picked. But she’s on a second interview, in a trapezoidal conference room with a scratched rimu-wood table and her interviewers. One of them is large: the other one is nervous.

Nervberg taps a stack of papers. “We recently had a… negative PR incident. It took place before you returned to New Zealand.”

“I did see the articles online, though,” Winona says.

Largeman raises his eyebrows.

Flustered, Winona adds, “I Googled it. It’s…always unfortunate when those things happen. If I was with your Communications team at the time, I would’ve handled it by deploying some social media and a more on-message PR response.”

“Social media?” Largeman asks.

“Interactive modes, giving the organization a – a personal aspect. Facebook, Twitter, blogs…”

Largeman says, “Ah, yes. Our previous comms person didn’t think much of them. Called them Matesbook and Fritter.”

Nervberg clears his throat. “Then again, he’s in Australia now, and if you can find out all about it five months later, and you say if you used those things then you wouldn’t be able to, it’s something we should look into.”

This most definitely not what Winona meant. She didn’t even know that someone could interpret it that way. But after eight months of unemployment – should she clarify?

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Makes A House A Kiwi Home

May 3rd, 2010 by the_lifer
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In Willow’s living room, her friend Winona and her new acquaintance Wazzer are all arcing over a basket. Wazzer, driving her ’92 Nissan, has given Winona a lift out. Upon receiving Willow’s message, there was no time to waste.

Winona leans over the basket, eyes wide with adoration. “Who’s an ickle bitty baby? Who’s the cutest baby ever? Do you love your Mummy? Can I be her auntie?”

“She looks like you, same hair color, same eyes.  Any toys for her yet?” says Wazzer.

Willow tenderly reaches into the basket. “No, I just got her from the breeder last week.” The kitten squeaks prettily as Willow picks her up.

Being a Kiwi, Willow felt in her bones that she needed two things upon moving into a house: a lemon tree and cats. The lemon tree was easy enough. A small Meyer lemon sapling is in a tub in the courtyard. The feline part, to her surprise, was much harder.  Amazed at how tough it is to adopt a kitten from the SPCA, swayed by cute pet web sites, Willow has indulged in a long-haired purebred kitten. With patches of grey and peach fur, her eyes still baby blue, Cullodeena Malmuirie of Tweedcats is as efficient a heartbreaker as she was bred to be.

Willow watches her new pet play.  “I think she looks like a Cilla, don’t you?”

“Cilla’s a good name.  Sensible.” Wazzer bats a finger at the kitten, and stays calm when her hand is pounced and nibbled. She even takes a look around. “This is a nice place, eh? Did you have a decorator?”

Willow shakes her head, happily. “Just me. I like color.”

Winona, paying no attention to any bipeds in the room, squeals helplessly. “My brain just turns to fudge when I look at her. She’s a kitten!”

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Craft Fair Chaos

April 30th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Willow texts Winona and asks if she wants to go to the market this weekend. Winona replies, asking which market?

Willow said that she has heard of a farmer’s market that has started up in one of the parks.

Winona asks if she means the one in Thorndon, or Te Aro, or on the waterfront?

Once this is clarified, Winona notes that the weather will be bad this weekend. Perhaps, she suggests, they can go together to the crafts market instead?

If Winona means the one at the museum in Lower Hutt, then Willow doesn’t want to go to that one, since she would rather go to the one that takes place in that bar downtown, on Sunday.

Winona actually meant one that is taking place this weekend in a pop-up shop.

By now, both of them are staring at their cell phones, uncertain of how to reply.

Winona is vexed. Markets used to be special. But dairies and fruit shops used to be special, too. Coming back from three years in a London made bland by globalization, she is starting to realize that, while it may be virtuous to buy from a table that appears once a week, it’s also good to give money to stores that aren’t franchise clones.

Willow, contemplating her mortgage-tightened budget, is obliged to admit that very few of these markets sell anything she actually needs. She has a limited requirement for felt owls, beaded jewelry, screenprinted merino, or tea cosies. Even the food markets in Wellington, which once had slightly imperfect vegetables sold off the back of a truck, now focus on $6 loaves of bread and expensive confections.

Winona ends the deadlock by suggesting that they just catch up over coffee, instead. She wants Willow’s advice on her upcoming job interview next week.

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The Guardian Sphinx

April 28th, 2010 by the_lifer
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It is now Winona’s turn to navigate the intricacies of a job interview.

In Wellington, the mushy term “Business Analyst” can be read as “Smart Person Wanted.” So Winona sent in a CV for a position being guarded by an employment agency. Gratifyingly, her cellphone rang two days later.

Now, she is facing off across a desk with the guardian sphinx for this position. She wouldn’t be surprised if this dark-eyed Senior Consultant, with her enigmatic smile, truly had the lower body of a sphinx or dragon, for she has stayed seated the whole time.

The air hums with, unexpectedly, affinity. Winona is asking tough questions, and the HR sphinx seems to like this. She has saved the toughest for the end. “You mentioned that this was for a government department. May I ask which one?”

“They’re quite careful about their confidentiality.”

Winona raises an eyebrow. She had a conversation with her mother a few weeks back. “There are good Ministries to work for, and there are the difficult ones. Mad office cultures, software projects that go on forever, too many contractors there half-time so nobody knows what’s going on.” Her spider-sense tells her that one of the Difficult ones is concealed behind this coyness.

After a chess player’s pause, she ripostes, “I might have something special to offer them if I knew their main area.”

The sphinx relents, and names the department. Sure enough, it is one of the Difficult ones.

It is on the table. The sphinx doesn’t blink her onyx eyes as she waits for Winona’s response. “They’re a bit special, I’ve heard. I’m very well organized and assertive, and I think…”

She burbles on a bit more,. By a slight twitch of a smile, she knows that the sphinx knows that Winona knows it’s Difficult. And the sphinx knows that Winona, for her own reasons, is still interested. The sphinx starts talking about setting up another meeting. Privately, Winona is thinking, Well, at least I know what I’m getting into, now.

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Landlord’s Perogative

April 26th, 2010 by the_lifer
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Wazzer lives in a rented bungalow in Kilbirnie with a manicurist, a call center worker, and a security/guard bouncer. (Yes, a female bouncer. Be very afraid.) In their late thirties to early forties, they have moved beyond most flatmate dramas: their occasional squabbles have a sisterly tone.  There are also two potbellied cats, tabby and calico.

They’re proud of the place.  “It’s a real home, not a student flat,” they say. Fresh slipcovers hide any sofa sins. The bathroom puts most pharmacies to shame. A vast flat-panel TV dominates the living room, where the flatmates gather for frequent shared dinners. Wazzer has generously placed one of her bookcases in the hall, so the flatmates can read her werewolf romance novel collection. Thanks to a heat pump, it’s even warm in the winter.

But that is about to change. Wazzer, that morning, signed for a registered letter that turned out to be the landlord’s official end-of-tenancy notice. His brother is moving back from Australia and the landlord wants him to have the house instead.

Wazzer smacks the wall and swears. Another flatmate, half-dozing in the room on the other side, moans, “Waz! What’s up?” Wazzer tells her.

The sigh from the other side of the wall is philosophical. “Happens when you rent a nice place in Wellington.”

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Unbrunched

April 23rd, 2010 by admin
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There is now a new indignity for Willow to endure as a single Wellington woman. For three weekends in a row, she has been unbrunched.

The dust from her move has settled, the little townhouse in Hataitai is all hers, avocado 1970s kitchen, peach-hued bathroom, and all. She had pictured entertaining in the  rimu breakfast nook. But nobody has been available to come over to her place for a weekend brunch. They are having brunch with someone already, they say, but they don’t say with whom. Willow knows this means they are brunching with another couple, probably of her acquaintance, and that, for whatever reason, the party will not be expanded to include her.

But they can catch up with her later! A drink during the week? Afternoon tea? Or perhaps that new movie on Tuesday night? They can fit her in. Just not for brunch.

Why, she wonders, is she even brooding about this? When she does join a gaggle of couples for brunch, even Wellington’s restaurants conspire against her. A table for an odd number often leaves a chair glaringly empty. By the time the couples are all mixed along the table, Willow is sitting across from this empty chair, a little off kilter from the conversations, shouting to make herself heard, and paying $15 for eggs and toast that would cost her $3 in her own kitchen.

This grim little thought loop will continue until she is invited to brunch. Then all the sins of the unbrunchers and of brunch itself are forgotten.

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Celebrity Sighting

April 21st, 2010 by the_lifer
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Winona is at a cafe and a celebrity comes in. Everyone ignores him. At least, it seems that no one is looking at him directly. Even the waitress sidles up to his table as if she is overcoming peripheral vision difficulties.

But a certain abbreviated murmuring goes around. Is that who I…you know…yes, I do believe so. People can’t complete these sentences without violating Wellington’s omerta about not gushing over celebrities.  Those who were about to leave ask for a biscotti, or more tea.

Fingers start flying. Everyone is texting,  even writing their little updates, from their cellphones straight to the Net. Bloggers start taking photographs of the food on their plates, of each other, of knives held up to tactfully reflect the famous visage three tables over – anything rather than point a camera directly.

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