Reading "What Katy Did" by Susan Coolidge

 Hi there

When I was a child, my mother tried to get me to read the book "What Katy Did".  It was written in 1872 USA, and was considered a classic.  I wanted nothing to do with 'a classic'.  Yuck, if grown-ups thought something was good, it was bound to be awful.

But then, I was sick in bed, with nothing to read so I reached over to my bookcase and picked up "What Katy Did".  It was a story about a motherless well-to-do family, the eldest child being 12 year old Katy.

 I loved the book.  I cried through it, I laughed through it.  Okay, the fourth wall - eg, "and what do you think happened next, dear reader" - is broken hundreds of times in the book,  and it's full of the moral high ground, and a bit of religion thrown in, but, heck, that's how people rolled in those days.  And Katy is such a little imp... until she isn't. 

Katy decides to change her ways and to be good tomorrow ...

"Tomorrow I will begin," thought Katy, as she dropped asleep that night.  How often we all do so!  And what a pity it is that when morning comes and tomorrow is today, we so frequently wake up feeling quite differently, careless or impatient, and not a bit inclined to do the fine things we planned overnight."

And isn't this true?  I'm always going to diet tomorrow.  Or fix something tomorrow.  Or be nice to someone tomorrow.  Tomorrow I vow not to go to the Farmers sale.  Tomorrow, I will weed the garden, volunteer for a charity, visit a family member, change that lightbulb, vacuum my bedroom.. But how often do I complete  these intentions of mine?  When daylight comes, my mind has usually flitted on to something else.

Katy forgot her intention about being good.  She didn't listen to a warning from her Aunt Izzie not to go on the swing, and I was a heartbroken mess for Katy when she had a horrific fall.   Maybe through Katy, there is a lesson to be learned.  To have patience, definitely.  Not be so selfish ... well, I guess I can try. 

But, hey, what's that proverb about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?  My thousands of  good intentions (that are rarely acted upon) must make up half that darn road....

 

Little girls and Barbie

 Hi there

I was in The Warehouse at Lyall Bay Retail Park last week.  A little  girl of about four came barreling past me from the back of the shop, her pink princess dress all caught up around her in a bunch;  I feared she would trip over the tulle.   Her eyes were fastened intently on a display stand that was just in front of me.

"Barbie!  Barbie!". The little girl skidded to a halt.  Her parents hurried to catch up.

The child's excitement was appealing.  Did she perhaps crave a Mermaid Barbie, I wondered ?  Or  Cinderella Barbie?  Maybe  Astronaut Barbie?  Or Business woman Barbie?  

I turned to look at the stand.

Huh?

The stand was full of barbecue accessories.  Spatulas, and the like.  As in, 'put another shrimp on the ....'

Kids nowadays, eh?  It must have been difficult last Christmas picking out a present for this little princess?

Typist in Charge, episode 2

 Hi there

Here's my so-called monthly update of my typist autobiography.  Episode 1 was about five weeks ago.

above:  Sheila's wedding reception.  I am to the left of the bride, wearing a frothy confection of a hat and I'm demurely clutching a handbag.  Over my shoulder is Mrs Rowley (typist in Charge).  Far left is Miss McNeill Supervising Typist in Charge.  To the right of the bride is Miss Hopkins, now a staff typist but recently retired from Sup Typ-in-Ch job.  Behind Miss Hopkins is Valerie (bridesmaid) who was a Miss Wellington.

***

The 'girls' in the room 305 typing pool at Government Buildings, from 1961, were a varied lot -

Vivacious blonde Elspeth was a weekend nightclub singer; after a row with her boyfriend, she'd thrown all the jewellery he'd given her into the Hutt River.  Mariana loved anything mechanical.  Valerie, a Miss Wellington, was granted time off work to tour the country with Joe Brown's Miss New Zealand Show.  Evaline was a junior tennis champion who told me I was too old, at sixteen, to learn to play.  Del, a future minister of the faith, went all fluttery whenever she looked out the window and spotted her fiancee's car trundling down Lambton Quay.

Singleton Sheila had come straight off the ship from England, and into the typing room.  Tamsin was a snob.  Francie,  a mature spinster, hadn't paid any attention to Taboo perfume's warning about being careful around men when wearing it; she had to fight off a long-time guy friend the first time she spritzed on the perfume.  We all decided none of us would run out and buy a bottle.

Mrs Parr, Elizabeth, and Tall Pat sat at the back of the room, smoking like chimneys.  The rest of us in the pool patted away the smoke as it got in our eyes, never thinking twice about the health repercussions of second-hand smoking..

Every payday, there was a timid knock on the typing room door.  Mrs Parr, who was nearing retirement age, would greet her funeral insurance salesman, and hand over her small fortnightly contribution.  The two guys who delivered our pay had casually sauntered into the building carrying a small leather suitcase containing thousands of pounds worth of crisp new bank notes, and a myriad of change.  We typists lined up to get the little brown envelopes that had our names on them.

Several of us wore 'bop' skirts, with layers and layers of stiff petticoats underneath.  As Val, Elspeth or I sauntered down the two narrow aisles of typing desks we often knocked work off the desk-tops because our skirts were so voluminous.  I was the proud owner of a stiff petticoat with a hem that could be blown up.

Mrs Rowley, my Typist-in-Charge, came up to me.  "I want you and Mariana to relieve in the Thorndon office today," she said.

"I'll take my scooter," said Mariana.

"I'll walk," I said.  It would take about twenty minutes.

But it was decided (not by me) that I would ride on the back of Mariana's motor scooter.  Yes, I was worried.  What if there was an accident?  What if my bop skirt blew up to reveal all my stiff petticoats?"

"Psshw, there's nothing to it," said Mrs Rowley, who had never been on a scooter.

It was awful.  I kept forgetting to lean in certain directions when we turned corners, and there were lots of corners.  For years, Mariana retold the story about how I almost caused umpteen accidents.  The story gradually got embellished so much that after a time I didn't recognise myself as the maniacal devil over her shoulder that nearly caused the biggest pile-up the suburb of Thorndon may ever have seen.

***

Bravo, New World Supermarket!

 Hi there

Wow, What a brilliant marketing idea, New World Miramar.  As of yesterday, you still had your Christmas decorations up, and you were selling hot cross buns!

Add in some pumpkins and witches, and you've got the year covered ...

Oh, wait, no - I forgot Valentine's Day.  So how about a poster of a pair of entwined lovers standing under the mistletoe, by the light of a pumpkin lantern, and gripping tightly onto hot buns?