TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, Episode 13, 1972

Hi there

 I decided to put in for a new typing job, any public service typing job.  I just wanted to get away from Rossmore House, at the top of Molesworth Street, Thorndon.  Education's regional office in Wellington  was too far away from the city for a town bunny like me.

 There were no non-shorthand jobs for in-charge positions being advertised in the Public Service Official Circular but there were several Senior Typist positions up for grabs.  I applied for one in a different government department. It was a senior typist (dictaphone) position.  I was called for an interview.

The 'girls' in the typing pool fluffed around me, advising what to wear to the interview, how to conduct myself and how to answer questions.  Mrs Brown, the Typist-in-Charge wished me luck as she shoo-ed me out the door.  The wonderful thing about applying for jobs in the government family was that everybody was happy for you to go to interview.  An applicant was given time off, best wishes were thrown at you like confetti, there was no skulking out of the room and pretending you were going to the dentist...

At the interview, my first real interview ever, I completely failed at impressing the three interviewers - 

"...and why do you want this job," I was asked.

"It's closer to the bus stop," I said.

I lost out on the job.

But ... the next interview I went to was for the position of - wait for it! - 'Typist-in-Charge' at the Wellington Regional Office of the Health Department.  And ... there was no shorthand involved.  Score!

I got the job.  Somehow.

There were four of us in the typing room at Education House, Willis Street, in Wellington -

Roxy, Elizabeth, and Tracey each had the title of Staff Typist.  I was two rungs above them on the typing scale.   I was so happy with my new position.  

There was one fly-in-the-ointment:  Elisabeth was overseas when I joined the department and had been away for quite some time.  She had taken leave-without-pay to travel the world with her boyfriend. 

She had previously held my position of TIC in this very same pool but when she returned a month after I started she would be just a plain old ordinary Staff Typist.  Her in-charge position hadn't been able to be held over past a certain date.

To me, Elisabeth was my Ghost of Christmas Past.  The Shadow Over My Shoulder.  My nemesis.  I was sure that everything I did was being scrutinised by her.  We were the same age but to me, she seemed more mature, more with-it, more aware of the goings-on of the department because of her past knowledge of the ins and outs of the place.  She was tall and beautiful.  She wore stiletto shoes every day to work and didn't even hide them under her desk and turn to flatties to run up and down between floors.  Her boyfriend was god-like in looks and taller than her.  The two together would have won charisma contests.  

My administration director sent me on a course (during work-time, wow) to learn how to be a great leader.  Well, I learnt to hang a wad of paper beside the room's one telephone so that people could take down messages.  I also learnt to check up occasionally on how 'my' staff were progressing.

One lunch-hour period, I wandered around the three empty desks in the room.  Elisabeth had been typing a letter to her boyfriend who was out of Wellington - 

"The bitch got me to do some urgent typing..."

Tracey was the junior typist, a happy breezy young lady, thrilled to be in a job straight from school.  Roxy, typist no 3, was a different kettle of fish.  She was accurate to a fault, the trouble being that she was incredibly slow.  A complicated one page table that the other typists could complete inside a morning, took Roxy two or three days.  She checked every figure, letter, paragraph, sentence, over and over again, many times.

Roxy also had an obsession with cleanliness.  After visiting the loo she would spend twenty minutes washing her hands. She would don white gloves to open the loo door to get herself back to the typing room.  Eating a snack bag of peanuts at lunchtime, would necessitate Roxy using a spoon to get the peanuts out from the bag, yet again wearing her gloves.

In 1972 we didn't know about OCD.  We were in the Health Department, and yet nobody picked up on Roxy's behaviour.  In the pool, we just shrugged, thinking "Oh, well, that's just Roxy...".

Every morning we four took turns typing cheques on a special machine that was hell to learn how to use.  The cheques were to reimburse doctors, so had to be sent out with alacrity and accuracy.

I wasnt very fast on the cheque machine.  Figures were always my downfall.

"You're not very good at it, are you?" said Roxy smugly. She could do her portion in two hours.

The next day I broke her record by half-an-hour.   Goodness, I was such a revengeful person.

I liked typing at Health Regional Office.  There was an ordinary in-tray in front of me, as well as an urgent in-tray.  Of course, most of the officers put their work in the urgent basket.  Or, if I wasn't in the room, they set their manuscripts right slap-dab across the keys of my electric typewriter.  Or on my chair.  Or they hovered around my desk until my return.  It was pain of death, of course, if an officer tried to jump the queue by approaching a staff typist.

One officer was The Visiting Medical Practitioner.  He would make appointments at various doctors' surgeries up and down the country, pretending he was 'just a patient'.  Then ... he would announce he was there to do a spot review.

All his work came in by dictaphone tape.  He was hilarious with his reports on the shenannigans the staff at different surgeries got up to...

  

"

Santa Claus is Coming to Town...

 Hi there

Have a Great kiwi Christmas

Christmas Stress???

 Hi there

Oh dear, next week looks like non-stop rain and non-stop stress.....

New Plymouth Holiday

 Hi there

I've just returned from another little holiday (another?  Yes, please don't dwell on it...).

I stayed at the Belt Road Seaside Holiday Park, in an en suite/kitchen cabin.  I love to stay here because of the glorious view.  And because it's right next to the Coastal Walkway.

I walked a heck of a lot along the walkway.  And I ate a lot, my favourite being the dinner buffet at Marbles Restaurant, Devon Hotel.

And I went to Gusto for lunch.

"Do you want to sit outside or inside?" asked the hostess.  She was looking terribly excited, almost bouncing on her high heels with barely-suppressed joy.

"Um...  Outside?"

"The women's rugby world cup winners are sitting outside!  With -"  She paused dramatically.  "With their World Cup!!!"

I chose to sit outside.  There were three rugby players, with the cup on the table between them.

What lovely young ladies, so full of happiness over their win.  

The players insisted on taking my photo with the cup...

Sharing a Plate

 Hi there

About 20 years ago, I was at a cafe.  The nicely-dressed  man and woman at a table opposite me were acting strangely.

On a plate between them sat one individual-sized cream-filled lamington cake.  A fork was arranged elegantly to the side, upon a serviette.

The woman signalled to a waiter.  She quietly said, 'May I have a second fork please?  And another serviette? "

The couple shared that one small lamington, savouring it between them for the next fifteen minutes.

Oh.  I felt my face flushing with embarrassment for the couple, because I had suddenly realised the situation - 

They couldn't afford a second lamington.  

My heart went out to the pair.  They were maybe saving up for a house, or - horrors, perhaps both had lost their jobs!   Or their bank accounts had been embezzled?  Or...or with the last couple of dollars they possessed, before bankruptcy, they had decided to go out with a  last big-bang gesture of a shared lamington?

How heroic they were to sit in public in this cafe and brave stares from snobby others who loved to look down their noses at the poor.

I wanted to rush over and drop a dollar or two on their now empty plate...

.... A month or so later, I saw a couple with a plate of pasta between them.  Again, there were two forks, and two serviettes.. What?  Were they recreating that final scene from Disney's "Lady and the Tramp?  Was the country on the edge of a depression, just like the nineteen-twenties, and I knew nothing about it -?

Of course, as the years have gone by, I've realised the answer.

It's a thing.

It's (officially) a shared meal!  These couples aren't poor.  They're just not that hungry....

My day in Paraparaumu

 Hi there.

The Young One has left me alone at Hataitai Beach and moved to Paraparaumu, about an hour up the line.  The Kapiti Coast is a lovely area and usually a couple of degrees, or more, warmer than Wellington. The People on the Kapiti Coast wear shorts in October and November, wow...

It's a very relaxed area, with a nice walk path along many kms of beach -

My one grump about the sea area of The Kapiti Coast is the debris - all the twigs, feathers, bits of seashell, etc - that is in the water as you wade into the sea.  If you swim out a way, the water becomes cleaner.  A Kapiti resident told me all the debris is coming down from Wanganui, via the rivers.

The Young One, J, and myself were swimming buddies for many years, especially through the winters.  

It's my 13th year winter swimming.  But I don't know if I will continue with it next year, without my friends. Not to mention the fact - well, here, I am, mentioning it - that the cold, after a swim, gets into your bones for hours afterwards. 

Roman History

Hi there

I learnt Roman history, as a thirteen year old.  One day I was revising for a test, and my auntie came into the room -

 " What are you doing? " 

 "Reading about the death of Julius Caesar," I said.

 "When did he die?"

 I was horrified.  "You don't know when he died?" 

 Everyone - I mean, surely everyone - knew when Julius Caesar died?  

 

 "You wait till you're my age," said Auntie, smugly " You won't know it either. "

I highly doubted that.

But you know what?    I dont have a clue.....

Latest holiday

 Hi there

Summer is all but here.  It's still officially Spring but I've just returned from a week's holiday (yes, yes, another one, but you know me, you won't see me for dust once I hit the good weather). 

I went to Mount Maunganui, and Lake Taupo.  I walked a lot.  Along beaches.  On the track round the base of The Mount.  In Taupo, I hiked the track from Spa Park to Huka Falls - scenery great, but, oh, those hills!  

I was stunned how civilised the hot water spring in Spa Park, at the beginning of the Huka Falls track, had become since I was there, just a few years ago.  It all used to be pure nature. It was slippy-slidey over the rocks to get down the riverbank and into the water.  The scenery all around was bushland and there was a little old bridge over which people could peer down at those sitting in the warm water as it spurted out around the bathers from the natural rock formation.  The warm water flowed out to the cold river with its dangerous currents (don't swim out from spa cove, it's dangerous).

Nowadays, at the hot water spring, there are steps into the water, landscaped picnic areas, a viewing platform, toilets, and -what?! -  a cafe!??!  The area is one hundred percent gentrified.

I was so stunned at the area's transformation that I forgot to take photos.  And you can tell I'm not an influencer...

...

Yesterday morning, as I was leaving Taupo, aiming for Turangi, I got turned back from Highway No 1, and told to drive right around the lake instead.  I was so upset because I'm one of those people who always gets lost when travelling somewhere new.  Instead of my journey home taking five hours, it took seven, and  I also got lost around the Transmission Gully area, trying to not end up driving the Gully but ended up driving it anyway.

And it turned out that a long distance lorry had fallen into Lake Taupo, from one of the sharp corners of Highway No 1.  

photo: stuff.co.nz

Dyscalculia

 Hi

I can't do sums.   Maths.  Geometry.  Call it what you will.  A rose by any other name...  

The official name for what I have is Dyscalculia.

My close friends know I have Dyscalculia but I've never mentioned it in writing.  Ever.  This is a big thing for me to admit in public.

From Standard 1 class onwards, I havent been able to grasp how to do sums. I look at a number and my mind gallops around in a frantic  haze.  It doesn't matter how many times well-meaning friends explain to me about fractions, I can't get my head around them.  Before paying a bus driver, I would stand for about ten minutes counting my fare money a dozen times, to make sure it was right.  Lots of times, it wasn't.

When I used to get my change counted into my hand in a shop, why did the assistant count backwards?  When asked by a teacher what was 62 x 13, I would have to write the number 62 down 13 times, and then add it up.

I counted everything on my fingers which was extremely difficult because money and measurements came in 12s, and I only had ten digits.  At secondary school, I had procured a pencil with all the timetables on it - a brilliant cheat for when I sat tests or exams.  Needs must, I figured.

I was well-used to getting below 10 out of 100 marks for maths or arithmetic exams. But I never shirked an exam with a fake dental appointment, like various classmates did for their exams.  I guess this was the only point of pride for me.

When those shop assistants counted that change into my hand, I used to try to look intelligent, and nod knowingly.   I still do this today.  I can't tell if the price I've been charged is correct because I'm too embarrassed to point anything out to the checkout operator because I know I'll be wrong.

I used to think how dumb I was, how ashamed I was that I could never understand why my mind went into panic-mode the very second I saw a maths question, or had to hand over money.

But I was a reader.  I was top in English class and I went to the library three times a week from age 10.  It was the library where I came across a new book from english actress Susan Hampshire (remember her in 'The Forsyte Saga"?).  The book was "Susan's Story" (originally published in 1981 and still on sale).  She was dyslexic.  And at the very end of the book I found a piece about Dyscalculia.  It meant not being able to do sums, or maths.  A sister to Dyslexia.

What?  The numbness in my mind?  The fear that gripped me when numbers reared up in front of my eyes?  The thud-thud-thud of my heart if the teacher picked me to answer an arithmetic question?  The not being able to even format an answer when sums were involved?

There was a name for my terror of figures?  

Yes...   Dyscalculia.  Dyscalculia!  Dyscalculia!!!  

And this diagnosis was confirmed for me later on....  

But an even greater thing happened in 1967.  Decimal currency came in.  I could count on my fingers rapidly, because - bet you've guessed? - I had ten digits!!  Nowadays, there is no faster finger-counter in the country than me .  Because I hop on the answer instantly a friend wonders about a maths question, and before anyone else in my group has even thought about adding anything up mentally, I've counted on my fingers.  I have the answer out within seconds.  Not so, of course with long division, multiplication, or fractions.  I still can't do those...

But I'm so grateful I found out all those years ago why my brain goes into a crazy funk whenever I see numbers.  It made me realise that I wasn't as dumb as many teachers and classmates thought I was.

Thanks, Susan.

Checking out others in restaurants

 Hi there

When I was in Melbourne I visited the Conservatory Buffet Restaurant at the Casino. 

I love looking at fellow diners and visualising their lives.  I didn't have to visualise the life of the young woman at a table opposite me. I could see it.  She was obviously an influencer. 

She was by far the the most gorgeous woman in the restaurant of several hundred people.  A tall Asian beauty, wearing a slinky sparkly shoulderless dress and multi-coloured high heels to die for.  Her dark sleek way-past-the-shoulders hair could have come straight out of a tv commercial for shampoo.  Extra-long eyelashes, flawless make-up...

She had one accessory that absolutely floored me -

Her phone.

I sat opposite this lady for an hour and a half and, probably, ten minutes out of that hour and a half, she didn't pose into her phone.  Even when she was eating (all of five minutes), she had the phone on high in one hand and the fork in the other.

She held the phone to the right, pursed her lips and posed.  Then she held the phone up to the other side and duplicated the pose.  Then, to the middle.  Over and over again.

She passed the phone over to her friend to take her photo.  Then, after looking at the finished result:   No, no, that's not good enough!  She thrust the phone back at her friend to redo the photo over and over again, until the friend got it right.

This woman never let her phone go, even when she elegantly floated to the buffet, the phone went with her. 

The woman at the table beside where I was dining raised her eyebrows to me, and I raised mine back at her.  This was when we decided the stunning woman was, indeed, an influencer.  For us, it was like looking at some radiant mythical creature.

...

The buffet restaurant was fabulous.  I ate many (many!) oysters on the shell.  And that woman beside me all but cleared out the prawns.  Here, in New Zealand, in October, the strawberries on sale appear more green than red but at the Conservatory Restaurant they were so blood red and delicious that I had three platefuls of strawberries, along with scrummy ice cream.

  

Plane passengers

 Hi there.

On Friday night, I flew back from Australia.  I was sitting in my aisle seat, minding my own business, half asleep, when this guy in the seat in front of me leapt up.  

He was a broad man, elderly, with a bushy white beard. He looked like Father Christmas -

"Stop kicking my seat," he thundered down  at me.

Whaaat???

"I'm... I'm not kicking your seat.". (Me, timidly.)

" You are!  Stop it!  (Him, still thundering.)

"I would never kick anybody's seat," I said.

With one last glare, the guy stomped off to the front of the plane.

Again, Whaaat????

Of course, everyone sitting in the vicinity perked up.  Here was some excitement to cut out the boredom of long distance flying. 

I just wish I could have come back with some pithy retort, but I had turned into a deer in front of headlights sort of person.  I sat there, mortified.

About five minutes later, the guy returned.  He leaned down to me. I stared straight ahead at the tv screen that I'd never turned on.

"I want to apo!ogise," he said.

And yet again, Whaaaat???

"I understand now that it was turbulence.  I'm sorry -"

Talk about theatrics of the air...

I'm back from Australia

Hi there

I returned yesterday from a week in Melbourne.  At 10 pm, the night before I left I couldn't find my mobile phone and I was due to leave the house at 4 am the next morning. 

I had to leave without my phone.  I never realised before how many times it would be necessary to have a phone when on holiday.  Several times a day in Melbourne, I was told that a firm, business, hotel, shop, restaurant, airline would ring me soon, and please could they have my number?  I was so stressed.

I saw the stage show "Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Reimagined".  I'd seen "Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Parts 1 and 2" before in Melbourne.  Twice.  Because of covid, the show had been cut down from playing over two nights, to one night.  I wanted to see if the show still could be understood after cutting out about three hours.  Yes, it flowed fairly smoothly.  There were a couple of little info dumps but I guess that's understandable.  All the magic trickery was still there.

I also saw "Hairspray - the musical".  This show has sort of followed me around the world over the years.  I often ended up in cities where it was playing - dating back to New York in the year 2000 - but I never really cared about seeing it.  

The show was a nice part of my Melbourne holiday.  More modern shows have great CGI effects and I sort of missed that with "Hairspray".

I went to the Queen Victoria Night (food) Market, the QV day market, and the casino where I spent $5 on a poker machine and won back $6.60.  I also visited Conservatory buffet where I scoffed down 8 oysters on the shell.  

I took the tram to St Kilda, walked the beach and bought a couple of really gorgeous cakes at the famous street of cake shops which used to have about fifteen cake shops, all running side by side but now - unfortunately since covid - has only two such shops in the street.

I love to walk along South Bank, between the river and all those fancy-schmancy restaurants, reading the menus.  The weird thing is that I suddenly craved good old-fashioned fish and chips whilst I was in Melbourne,.  Couldn't find a place anywhere in the CBD that sold them, not that there arent thousands of other restaurants and cafes, selling all sorts of international food, to pick from.

 And talking about fashion.  It was Melbourne Fashion Week.  A couple of times I passed venues where the fashionista were gathering for parades and whatever, with the paparazzi outside and the elite of Melbourne clustered around the doors.  I even saw the most gorgeous male models posing for a fashion photographer outside the most grungiest building, in amongst graffiti walls, empty crates, dirty pavements, boarded windows.  It was behind Victoria Market.

Over two days, I was confined to David Jones/Myers/The Emporium Mall/Central Mall, all places that were joined together and I could escape the serious rain.  The state of Victoria was suddenly in the midst of serious and sad flooding.  I'd only taken one pair of shoes with me and I did every shuffle step imaginable to escape the deep puddles, and the rain.

Because I didn't have my phone, I couldnt take any photos.  Curses!  

I found my phone under the sofa today, hooray...  But not before I'd done a lot of cancelling at Vodafone.

 

Dux Students

 Hi there

Does a school still recognise a Dux student, I wonder?  The Dux award is given to the best student for the year.

My father got a Dux medal way back in about 1913.  It was gold.

After my father passed away, I wore the medal on a chain for many years.  Then I gifted the medal to the local museum in the New Zealand town where he went to school.

Here's the medal -

No, I'm sorry I didn't follow him, with all that school intelligence.  I was terrible at maths and (probably) more about that in some later blog.

Carpet layers coming

 Hi there

I've been all a-flutter the last couple of days, moving furniture before the carpet layers arrive.  Oooh, I'm getting new carpet, yippee!   There's nothing as lovely as scrunching bare tootsies into beautiful warm fluffy carpet as you hop out of bed.

So, I've been cramming furniture into back rooms away from their original places, as per the carpet layer's instructions.  By tomorrow those back rooms will look like a hoarder's paradise and I'll be clambering over cabinets and drawers, and rubbish bags full of clothes and CDs, and cushions, and drawers. My wardrobe doors will be blocked, and other doors too.  How will I get to the loo?

I've uncovered what surely has to be years of accumulated dust, and found $1.20 in loose change down the sides of the sofa. I discovered  17 plastic supermarket shopping bags stuffed behind a hall table,  two parasol-like umbrellas that haven't been opened since the 1960s, and does a woman really need so many backpacks and purses?

None of the books in the lounge bookcase have been read in, at least, ten years so why on earth am I keeping them?  

The advance guard for the carpet layers informed me that compared to others, I don't have much clutter.  Huh?  What was he talking about?  I have ornaments, for goodness sake!  And bags of clothes.  And shoes.  And swimming paraphenalia.  And too many photos of my late cat, StarGirl.

And I also have hayfever...  Curse you, household dust.  And curses especially go out to my vacuum cleaner because when I emptied it today, sprays of fluff and dust sprayed up into my face, like Ruapehu suddenly erupting...

Those eyedrops

 Hi there

I'm still on my eyedrops, 10 a day for at least two more months.  The dosage has dropped from 12 a day and before that, 15. 

When I was told I couldn't stop them, I wanted to do a Billy Elliot angry dance. But... I can't dance.

 So, instead I ransacked the cupboard for anything chocolate because chocolate is, of course, angry food.  When I am so toddler-tantrum angry I crave chocolate.  

I couldn't find chocolate anywhere, not even when I climbed up a step-stool to the top shelf of my pantry where I usually hide the Crunchie Bars.

All I could find was a bag of marshmallows.  Marshmallows?  Come on now, marshmallows are not angry food.  Marshmallows are for sitting in a field of daisies in a long chiffon dress, and patting a unicorn ....

 

So Sad

 Hi there

How truly sad that our queen has passed away,  One of her official titles is, of course, 'Queen of New Zealand'.  I remember as a child going with my entire school to see her coronation on the screen at the Majestic Theatre in Wellington. 

On the day of the coronation we heard that our Sir Edmund Hilary  had been the first to conquer Mt Everest.  I still remember bits of the song about Hilary's feat:

Now you're done it

Reached the summit

Three cheers for the red, white, and blue

Today, we have Charles as our king.   When he came to Wellington a few years ago, I wandered down the road to Weta Workshop with the hope that I would see him. There were only a dozen or so of us waiting outside.  Charles came over to me and reached out his hand.  I hurriedly brought my hands out from my hoodie pockets, and we had a handshake. Goodness, I've just realised: I've shaken hands with our reigning monarch, King Charles III...

Superstitions our mothers told us

 Hi there

I've been wondering about how long superstitions last in our generational memories. Our parents passed down to us superstitions recognised by their parents and grandparents.  Usually, in our modern day times, however, we laugh about such things.   "Goodness," we chortle, "we don't care if we accidentally break a mirror.  Psssh, who truly believes that there'll be seven years' bad luck ...?"

Or how about walking under a ladder?  True believers do think the action is going to bring bad luck.  I must admit that when I see a ladder I do veer away from it.  "It's sensible," I tell myself. "A bucket of paint might drop on my head."  

However if I do happen to accidentally walk under that ladder I cross my fingers, just as a safety precaution.

 My grandmother told me that I must never bring lilies or peacock feathers into a house, or I would hear of a death.  Same hear-of-a-death-thing if a bunch of flies continually hover around a person, or a bird flies inside the house (pick your bird - different countries' superstitions allocate different birds).   Crossed knives bring bad luck too, a hard thing to avoid as practically every time I do the dishes in the sink, there are crossed knives everywhere.  I retaliate by (again) crossing my fingers!

 When I rush out of the house, slamming the door behind me, I often suddenly think, "Oh, dash-it, I've forgotten my sunglasses (or wallet, or SuperGold Card, or whatever)."  But I hesitate about turning around to go back inside.

"It's unlucky to return for something," my grandmother told me.  "If you do - once you get inside - you must sit down (another version is turn around three times).  

The weird thing is, I do sit down for an instant.  I gave up turning around three times a long time ago; it makes you a bit dizzy when running back out the door with your sunglasses.

I saw the most beautiful sundress in a Taupo shop last summer.  My heart yearned for it. All those wonderful colours, swirls of peacock feathers patterned throughout the style.

I stood looking at that dress for a long time.  In the end I sorrowfully turned away.  I mean, I couldn't wear those unlucky peacock feathers.  Grandma would be so displeased...

Hi there

I was throwing out hundreds of old photos. Here's a photo of my friend Shirley and I on the day we boarded 'The Northern Star' ship in Wellington,  sailing for England 30 August 1965.

I'm in the front, Shirley behind me, and two strangers behind the two of us.  A news photographer was roaming the ship taking photos. He rounded up we four and posed us on an outside stairway.  The photo was in The Sports Post the following Saturday.

I'd taken three months leave without pay (plus a few weeks' annual leave), Shirley was going to stay for two years.  I didn't work while I was away, and flew home at the finish.  Long distance flying was highly unusual in those days and in the middle of the flight, I was given a crossing the equator certificate.  A pilot even came out and talked to everyone individually.

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, Episode 12

Typist-in-Charge, Episode 12

Curriculum Development Unit, Department of Education, August 1969-1971, Senior Typist (Display)

above: Curriculum Development Unit..  My golfball typewriter hadn't arrived yet.

The office in Hobson Street, Thorndon, was a 25 minute fast walk to the city shops.  .I could maybe, at a pinch, cut five minutes off if I cut through the Thorndon School playground, and then through the grounds of Parliament Buildings.    Thorndon School used to be the 'in' school for embassy officials to send their kids.  Many of these children would roll up to school sitting all alone in the back seat of posh chauffeur-driven limos.

We had an office assistant at the Curriculum Development Unit:  Jennie, a lovely Maori lady, a solo mum, with the happiest personality ever.  We all adored her for her liveliness and willing-to-help  attitude.  One morning she came bouncing into the typing area.

 "I'm in!  I'm in!" 

I stopped typing, and bounced around the room with her. 

"The Maori teaching course?" I burst out.  "Is that it?  Is it?  Is it-?"  

"Yes! Yes! Yes!  I've been accepted.."

Jennie was going to be practically an inaugural student for the teaching of Maori in schools project.  She spoke Maori fluently, and wanted so much to pass on her knowledge.  I was happy for her that she had achieved her goal.  I decided to take on Jennie's determination and get to my goal too. There were about half a dozen more rungs on the ladder for me.

After about 18 months in Hobson Street, the CDU moved to a brand new multi-storey building, that was a couple of blocks west of Hobson Street, at the very tippy-tip top of Molesworth Street, yet still in Thorndon.  I wouldn't have to cut through the school anymore to get to town.  Hooray, five minutes less walking to the city.  Buses were few and far between.  There were only about three shops in the entire street.

above:  Rossmore House, Molesworth Street, Thondon, Wellington.  The building on the right wasnt there at the time.

There were several other divisions of the Department of Education in Rossmore House, including the regional office typing pool where I was plonked (Mrs Fraser had since retired from the CDU, without even letting me know she was leaving).  There were about ten of us typists.  The Shorthand Typist-in-Charge, was Mrs Brown.  She stared, greedily, at my IBM Selectric Golfball typewriter, the only one in the room.

"We'll all share that machine," she said.

"But I'm a senior typist, " I babbled.  "Doing display work for the CDU.  I'm graded - "  I really didn't want to lord it over the others in the pool but I had to let this woman understand that I typed only for one division, that the golfball typewriter had been bought by the CDU.

Mrs Brown was new to the government.  She had been chosen from 'outside' because - wait for it - she could do shorthand.  She was the only one of us who had the skill.  Not that Mrs Brown did any shorthand whilst she was at Rossmore House.  She had been chosen because 'Shorthand Typist-in-Charge' had always been the official title for every rung on the in-charge graded position ladder, even though shorthand was rarely used by appointees.  Shorthand was so a dying language.

Mrs Brown obviously didn't hear my wailing about how important I was.  She started making a rota of who would share my machine.

I rang up Mrs Rowley at Head Office who was still the Lord High Executioner of Wellington typists. 

I never heard another word from Mrs Brown about taking over my machine.

It was good to be in a pool again.  I had missed the companionship of a clutch of fellow (fellow?) typists.  I became friendly with Margie who was nervously going for her drivers' licence.  We all wished her well as she nervously took off to do the test.

She was back in 20 minutes.  "I've failed..."

"Oh, no...."  We fluttered around her sorrowfully.  "What did you do wrong?" somebody asked.

"I never got out of the carpark," cried Margie.  "The instructor asked me to back out, turning right.  And ....  and ....  I kept turning the car left.  Over and over.  And over.  We went round in circles. .."

In those days there were only a couple of shops in Molesworth Street, ie, a dairy, and and the expensive dress shop, "The Mews", where it was rumoured the Prime Minister's wife and the Govermor-General's wife shopped for cocktail dresses.  

There was practically no cover when it rained.  I couldn't even cut through the grounds of Parliament anymore to get to town because The Beehive addition to old Parliament Buildings was being erected and the grounds were closed off.  It took me the same amount of time to get to Hays-Wright-Stephenson's department store as it had when I worked in Hobson Street.

Over three consecutive days, there was tremendous rain, coupled with the notorious Wellington wind.  On each of those three days, I had a different umbrella blow inside out.

"That's it,"  I decided.  "I'm putting in for any job that comes up in The Public Service official Circular -"

***

 

  

childhood memory

 Hi there

Above: 12 Manley Tce.  Recent picture

When I was a small child, maybe kindergarten age or earlier, my parents and I moved in with my grandparents at 12 Manley Terrace, in Newtown.   It was one of the oldest streets in Wellington, with several beautiful turn-of-the-century two-storey houses and an old closed-down factory that may have been a flour production place, around which we kids would play.. The old book "Streets of My City" (F L Irvine-Smith, 1948) listed the history of every street in Wellington up to when the book was printed.   Manley Terrace was in the book. 

My grandparents' eating area, off a tiny added-on kitchen, held a huge wooden dining table.  I remember my mother telling me that she had her tonsils taken out by the visiting doctor on that table.

There was a fireplace with a stool at each side of the fire.   

At one family gathering around that table, my ever-so proud grandmother declared, "Lorraine knows a song-"

"Ooooooh.. "  Four aunties, four uncles, two grand-parents, three cousins, three of my grandparents' boarders, my parents, and even the dog, Sandy, perked up his ears.

I remember marching proudly up to the far stool, and clambering up onto it.   My first public appearance!

My voice rang out -

"I'm a little teapot

short and stout

Here is my handle

Here is my spout -

Tip me over, pour me out..."

My cousins, with tremendous glee, still like to remind me,  and others, of my theatrical debut.  I am so embarrassed.

 

Feeding the Sparrows

 Hi there

This winter has been cold and the sparrows have been clustering in my yard waiting to be fed.  They've reached the stage where they're beaks to the glass of my ranch-sliders, peering in to me with pleading eyes and looking so sad, yet cute!!  -

Wellington Blown Away Sign

Hi there

Even though I've been passing our welcome to Wellington sign that is between the foot of the airport runway and the entrance to the Miramar Cutting practically every day, I've never really registered it lately.  The sign used to be done in a silver colour (except when the vampire movie "What we do in the Shadows" movie was playing in Wellington, and the letters of the word 'Wellington' were blood-spattered).  It's now pastel rainbow colouring.

 

I love it when I pass the sign and see tourists posing in front of it for photos, and I feel such an idiot for not realising it was now coloured.  I wrote a piece on the sign being set into place some years back on this blog.

The sign is called "Wellington Blown Away" because the style of the wording looks like the word is being blown away.  Wellington is known as Windy Wellington.

***

My eyesight is getting better.  Last week, I had the printing of my Kindle on really big print, now I've dropped it down a couple of levels.  And, as of yesterday, I can - with a bit of squinting - do crosswords from my beloved Arrowords magazines.  So, touch wood that my eyesight will get better - oh, wait, I don't have any wood around me to touch.   How embarrassing that I'm like that touch wood advert  (re  getting health jabs) on tv where the actors are all frantically trying to find wood to touch because it will no doubt save them from catching flu or covid. 

After my glaucoma surgery

 Hi there

I'm still having trouble seeing print, still guessing  as to what's on a screen, especially if I can't make the on-screen print into bigger size,  but at least I can see the keyboard on my Kindle Fire tablet and I guess that's something, yeah?

I must admit I was upset when I made a diced pineapple toastie instead of a diced apple one; it came out of the toastie machine as a sodden mess.  I used to love doing Arrowords (crossword magazine) every day but can't see the words anymore. Alphabet letters and numbers are still in double vision.  I stepped into the road this week without seeing an approaching car, it missed me by a whisker. 

It's annoying when I watch tv and the main character brings out a note to read.  The camera focuses on the note, and I can't read it.  If I'm lucky, by the time I leap up from the sofa and all but press my nose to the screen, the note will still be there for me to interpret.

Mustn''t grumble.  Mustn''t grumble - oh, wait, that's exactly what I'm doing...  Sorry.

My glaucoma surgery

 Hi there

last Wednesday I had glaucoma surgery on my right eye.  Well, nope, I don't think it's worked very well.  I  can't even see this screen now as I'm (attempting) to type this blog.  I'm one-fingering it  on my Kindle Fire and hoping I press the right buttons and you get to read this epistle which I'm all but typing blind.  

I'm so unhapy.

stand by....

Pop stars

 Hi there

When I was a young teen, in the 1960's, my friends and I decided to try to get the autograph, or at the very least, see every overseas pop singer to visit New Zealand.  I've already mentioned how I climbed about half a dozen stories up a hotel's fire escape to see Cliff Richard.  Well, I did the  limbo (and fell flat on my back) in front of Chubby Checker.  I asked  singer/actor Adam Faith to marry me (it was that day in February when it's allowed for a woman to propose).

I was front row behind the wire netting as The Beatles got off their plane at the airport, but the five hour wait had been worth it because I got a special wave from George Harrison.  Years later I wrote a story entitled "The Day I Saw The Beatles" for The School Journal.  And got paid for it.

I tried unsuccessfully to rip a button off Bobby Rydell's coat during the riot of his arrival at Wellington Airport and, with a friend, got backstage to Helen Shapiro by presenting her with a charm for her bracelet. 

Gerry, from Gerry and The Pacemakers, gave me his autograph earlier in the day, but when he saw me later at the Town Hall stage door, muttered "Not you again".  Gene Pitney kindly spoke into my new mini tape recorder.

The father/manager/uncle of The Beach Boys asked a crowd of fans hovering around his boys to send him future information about NZ record sales. I was the only one who did so, with clippings and reviews. In exchange he sent me autographed photos.  And records. And a lovely letter.

There were many others....

But then lots of flash-in-the-pan singers began coming in a steady stream to New Zealand, here today and gone tomorrow celebs.  Show-biz entrepreneurs, like Harry M. Miller, were grabbing the opportunity to bring such performers to the country while they were hot.  After a time, however, my friends and I got tired of all the strategising, and conniving, and phoning hotels pretending to be reporters to get a star's arrival time.... 

"We're through with all this," we decided.  It wasn't worth the effort any more to run after the soon-to-be-has-beens, the one-hit wonders.

A music group, one of the many so-called British Invasion groups, was coming over from England.  But my friends and I had made the decision to stop the chase ......

...so we never turned out to see The Rolling Stones.

Our borders are open -

 Hi there

Our borders are now open to international travellers, and covid, omicron, omicron variants, and monkeypox -

welcome Whanau = Welcome our extended family

Photos i wish I'd taken

 Hi there

There are times I wished I'd had my camera on me.  I must have missed out on dozens of  great happenings.

Like those three cruise ships that were leaving Mt Maunganui on a beautiful blue sky day, with paddle-boarders, kayakers, and swimmers in the foreground, and ship passengers hanging over the railings, shouting their goodbyes.

And what about the time I all but crashed into William Shatner in Las Vegas?  By the time I had fumbled my mobile phone camera out of my bag, switched it on, and turned on the photo app, Shatner had beamed himself away, probably to Caesar's Casino behind me.

I was walking along Cobham Drive one day, beside the sea.  There was a family a short distance in front of me.  Mum, Dad, a boy of about six, and a girl eight.  And a black and white border collie sheep dog.

The children were obviously bored, straying separately to opposite  sides of the track, lagging behind, walking backwards, attempting to skip stones into the water.  The parents weren't even watching the kids.  

But the dog was.  He snuck on his belly over to one side of the track to herd in the girl, then dashed to the opposite side for the other sheep-whoops-sorry-I-mean-child to steer him, too, back toward the parents.  The dog hovered around the two kids for the whole of Cobham Drive, manoeuvring them back when they went off-point.

That would have made a hilarious picture.  I guess urban sheep dogs never lose the thrill of the round-up.

But ...  the ultimate photo would have been the day the plumber came to fix my kitchen water pipes.  He opened the cupboard under the sink and attempted to squeeze his heavy bulk into the narrow crawl-space.  His top-half disappeared into the depths of my pots and pans storage area. 

Gulp, I got an embarrassing view of  plumbers crack!  But, no, that wasn't the photo I would've taken.

I hastened outside for a minute or two, just to allow the man some alone time but when I returned there were two rear ends poking out from that cupboard:  one belonging to the jean-clad plumber, the other was furry and with a tail - my nosey Siamese cat, StarGirl.  

There couldn't have been a finger's-width of space between the pair.  Siamese cats just have to take part in everything that's going on.

The plumber later told me that StarGirl was a bossy plumber's mate, crying out orders to him.  Well, what did he expect, she was a Siamese cat, and they're never willing to take a back seat.

But, oh my goodness, didn't I miss an hilarious photo opportunity that day? 

Above:  guess who?

Shortest Day Mid-Winter Swim 2022

 Hi there

What an exciting morning.  Forty-one swimmers turned up to Hataitai Beach today to commemorate this year's shortest day.  Unlike last year's swim where it poured with rain and there were howling biting cold winds, today was beautiful.  Blue sky, warm(ish) water, 15c air temp.  I also went for a swim last week on the official shortest day (21 June) when the air temp was a cold 8c and the water temp was 11c!

Today, 26 June 2022

photos by ... Tom

Getting health jabs

 Hi there

I often wonder about what would have happened if I hadn't taken certain medical jabs, ones that I'd forgotten I'd even taken in the first place.

When I was in a remote little cowboy town in Nevada, I got bitten by a feral burro (donkey) who wanted my lunch and had backed me up against the saloon wall (hint to my four readers: never ever accept the packed lunch provided by a tour company when you're anywhere near a burro, especially in a replica western town where burros are allowed to wander anywhere).

Back home, my GP assured me that the tetanus jab I'd had eight years before, and didn't even remember getting, still had two years to run. I was safe from feral burros.  Whew...

The same thing when I rang him five years previously after having injured my finger on a rusty saw whilst pruning a fig tree.  I'd forgotten then, too, that I'd had that tetanus jab.

 I read now that travellers who had the smallpox jab in the 1960's may be a teeny bit resistant to monkeypox.   That's me!

I'm ruminating over what other helpful jabs I've had in my long life that I've completely forgotten about?

Mid-winter swim, Hataitai Beach, June 2022

Hi there

Mid-winter swim, Hataitai Beach

Sunday 26 June 2022

11 30 am

Swim, plunge, paddle, wade, or spectate...

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, Episode 11

Hi there

It was 1969.  I was Senior Typist (Display) at the Curriculum Development Unit of the Department of Education in Hobson Street, Thorndon,Wellington, Yippee, at last, I had my foot on the first rung of the typing graded position ladder.    

At the CDU, I typed all the yearly booklets, pamphlets, reports, exams that were needed for the secondary schools' syllabus.  

And I got a spanking new Selectric golfball typewriter, the only one in the department.  Scored!

above: not quite the model I worked on but this machine is showing a good view of the 'golfball'.

above: similar to the machine I had.

Please imagine a small metal ball with every alphabet letter and number that's on a general typing keyboard crammed around this ball.  The ball is clipped onto a fork in the basket of the typewriter.  And - bingo! - when a typist types, the ball rotates up into the air, fights its way through the inky ribbon, and miraculously finds the right letter/number to put on the page.

I could prise out this general golfball, and in its place slot in different  golfballs containing umlats, italics, symbols, or macrons.  There were other golfballs too, full of mathematical figures, foreign languages, fractions, and  scientific equations.  Frequently I used a golfball for just the one key strike.

The Maori language, full of macrons, was difficult to type on a golfball machine because every time I came to a letter that required a macron above it, I would have to change golfballs.  

And I wonder if anybody realises how many upside down question marks there are in a Spanish-language exam paper?  

My record for the highest amount of golfball changes in one line was seventeen.  I got blisters on my index finger.

The Curriculum Development Unit was in two separate buildings, a one minute walk away from each other.  At morning and afternoon tea time, the officers from the other building trekked over to my building, no 32.  Obviously it was to partake of Mrs Fraser's piping hot and freshly made scones, cakes, biscuits, and savouries.  I don't know how she fitted in time to type.  Um.   Well ...   She didn't much.

above: 1969.  In my memory this building was numbered 28 Hobson Street (corner of Hobson Crescent)

above: the building as it is now.  It seems to have a different street number from no. 28, the building I knew.  Actually, the only thing I truly recognise is the entrance arch.  At present, it's an apartment block. 

above: side view, 32 Hobson Street where I worked for the CDU.  (yes, yes I know I've shown you this building a couple of times before but, sigh, needs must...).  Photo taken from 'the other end' of Hobson Crescent.

above: modern day view. It's a house and nowadays is numbered 33 Hobson Street. ??

I would shoot between the two buildings quite a bit to ask a question about my typing (translation: when I couldn't read the writing).  I adored the old-fashioned architecture and layout that was inside no. 28 (?), with its beautiful wood-look, and all the nooks and crannys of the work spaces.  We had the entire building.

The directors at the Curriculum Development Unit weren't a bad crowd, except for the one who kept his hand on my mini-skirted thigh as I drove him to the railway station one evening.  

I never reported it ...  

I was too scared to rock the boat.

*** One of my four readers has told me that after  the CDU  building was the Curriculum Development Unit, it became a hostel.  And she stayed there!  Wow, great information...

What will our descendents not like about us?

 Hi there

I often wonder what our great great great great and onward grand-children will think of things that have given us pleasure but by the year 3000 be thought of as ... repulsive.

Coffee, as a for instance.  You know how we have been trained to look down our noses at cigarette smokers?  I figure children of the next millennium will be horrified by our generation's love for caffeine. 

And bread.  When I was young, I read a short story set in the future.  The plotline was about paying a mighty price on the black market for a sandwich, and dealing with shady characters in dark alley negotiations just to buy one.  I think the only alternative was pills or paste. 

My two favourite foods are sandwiches and low calorie caffeinated  Coke. I have tried dozens of times to quit both.  My usually three-week Coke withdrawal anger put fear into my dentist when I visited him during week 2.  He made me promise never to come to him again during withdrawal.

I would never attempt to quit Coke and cheese sandwiches at the same time.  My snarling anger at everybody in my vicinity from the postie, to the guy at the dairy, to my closest friends would be a sight not to behold.  You wouldn't like me when I'm angry....

 

My bubble bath

 Hi there

Today I walked halfway around the Miramar Peninsula.  I got back home sweaty and worn out.  

 "A bath!  All I want is a bath -"

 

I put in the plug, turned on the taps, splashed in some bubble bath, and went away...

I returned about ten minutes later to turn off the taps.

 "wha-!"

 I couldn't turn the cold tap off. No matter how hard I tried.

 "No,no,noooooo."

 I pulled out The plug.   The water was pouring furiously into the bath, pouring in faster than it was pouring out.

I helplessly watched the bubbles rising.  And rising.   I had memories of a few months back when I couldn't get the bath's hot tap to turn off.

I raced outside in my foxy-patterned socks, and my ancient only-wear-around-the-house dress.  I pounded on my neighbour's door.  "Please, please, have you got a spanner?  Or a strong husband?"

 Thanks, husband.  He saved the day but not before the bubbles had  reached halfway up my bathroom wall.  I thought for a moment I was in a "Carry On"movie.

Sigh.  I better call the plumber.  Yet again.

Other Car Drivers

 Hi there

I look upon myself as an average motorist, but the weird thing is that lots of other drivers think I'm as brilliant in driving as they are!

I know this because ...

when a driver jettisons from the fast lane into my slower lane on the motorway and doesn't use an indicator, I have to - with alacrity - rein in my car to allow their car to fit in line.  Wow, that hotshot must trust my driving implicitly to pull such a stunt: they think I'm a champion behind the engine?  I'm not.

There's only so many times I can screech to a halt when a car barrels out from nowhere at a crossroads. Obviously the official mantra of "The Top of the 'T' goes before me" doesn't rate a second thought by the motorist who knows everything. They are one hundred percent certain that I truly am as brilliant a driver as they are, that I can stop on a dime to protect their life.

My  three-point turns are steady but I'm learning fast that some courier drivers can't wait for me to finish the turn as they squeeze around my car. I appreciate their paranormal powers in knowing that I will be able to finish the turn before their front wheels so much as kiss my tyres but, honestly, I'm not psychic myself;  I'm no good at predicting where they're coming from as they shoot around me from nowhere.

So come on you drivers who think you're Bert Munro on four wheels ...  could you bring in your elbow from the side window please,  stop looking at your phone at the Himatangi turn-off, and don't suddenly double park in front of me just as the lights turn green.  I'm flattered you think that I, too, am brilliant at driving in all situations but ... truth be told, I don't think I am.  You're over-estimating my driving talents, and next time I might not be so quick at picking up what you're recklessly trying to do on that dangerous corner or motorway...

Ohope Beach Again

Hi there

I've recovered from my Transmission Gully traverse, but have just spent nearly two hours trying to get photos to transfer from my phone to my computer.  Grrrrhhh.  And I used to be expert in new technology (in the old days).

above: Port Ohope

above: George, Whakatane, where I had the best fish and chips.  Whakatane is about five minutes drive from Ohope

                                                above: Port Ohope.

Ohope Beach

 Hi there

I suddenly decided, one day before it happened, to take off for a two week holiday at Ohope Beach (a five minute drive from Whakatane).  And I've just returned.  Photos will be included at some point.

Because I'm a wimp I was worried about getting home yesterday to Wellington before dark.  From go to whoa, it took me nine and a half hours.  Blame the one-hour-longer-than-usual-time on my stopping for brunch for the best chips ever at Robert Harris in Taupo, and then ooh-ing and and ahh-ing over the brooches at my favourite cheap and cheerful knick-knack shop in the little township of Bulls.

Coming home, my car's boot ('trunk ' in American-ese) was crammed full of heavy luggage.  It never ceases to amaze me that when I fly I can happily take 7 kg of bag with me, yet when travelling by land I have to take everything barring the kitchen sink.  Even my bag for the beach weighs more than Air New Zealand's 7 kg carry-on luggage restriction.

Because my car is ancient  - but I love her to bits and will never get rid of her -  I decided to not return to Wellington over the newly opened Transmission Gully road with its really really high hills. I turned off at a notice pointing to Paraparaumu.  I circled a roundabout thingee, and followed another notice saying 'Wellington'.  Whoops, I was in Transmission Gully, with a nearly-completed sunset to the west, a heavy car boot behind me, and the biggest hill I would ever have driven looming up to the front.

I don't know how I survived the anxiety...

Choosing new glasses

 Hi there

Several weeks ago, I bought a couple of different glasses from Specsavers.  It took me nearly two hours to pick out the frames I wanted, especially when each pair I tried on had to be taken away and cleaned after every try-on because of covid .  I must have tried on a hundred pairs. The staff surely loved me.

I went and collected my completed glasses today.  I tried on the first pair.

" I hate them! "

I tried on the second pair.  Immediate flashback to one minute before.  " I hate them! "

I told the lovely assistant that I wanted to change them.  She said I had three months to make up my mind.

" No. No-". Now! "

An hour later I'd picked out another couple of  frames.  Specsavers allowed a straight swap.  Good on you, guys.

As I left the shop, the assistant called out.  "No more 'swapsies' allowed ..."

She was busy cleaning the fifty pairs of frames that I'd rejected.

Sing-alongs in Rest Homes?

 Hi there

above: singer Madonna.

When I was young I visited a rest home with my mother.  The residents were gathered around a piano for a sing-along.  

With great gusto the oldies blasted out "Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do..."  Daisy's boyfriend, poor guy, could only afford a "bicycle built for two" instead of  a carriage.  I felt for him.    

Then there was the stuttering farmboy who shyly asked the love of his life - "K-K-K-Katy" - to meet him "at the k-k-k-kitchen door.."   Would that song be released nowadays or would stuttering be classed as too sensitive a subject to sing about, I wonder?

Oh, and not to forget "Cruising Down the River".  This little ditty was so popular the rest home retirees sang it half-a-dozen times.  It was obviously the thoughtfully magnificent choice of rhyming that they marvelled over:  moon, June, tune, afternoon, honeymoon .  Mum and I happily sang along.

All the songs were from my mother's generation but, of course, I knew them too.  I mean, the Sunday afternoon 2ZB request session was full of such music.

I remember idly wondering what song I would be singing when I was in a rest home.  Probably the same stuff I reasoned.  Come on, they were classics. 

Many years later Madonna released the song "Like a Virgin".  She sang about "being touched for the very first time..."  And I thought,  "My goodness, is this song a new classic?  In the future, will it be sung lustily in rest homes?  Will I be singing it?  Oh dear..

Rapping?  Twerking?  Who knows what oldies in rest homes will be doing and singing by the time I find my way into the likes of  the Rita Angus age care facility in Kilbirnie?  I must brush up on my Eminem and Kanye.  And can anyone teach me how to pole dance?

 

 

My opera singing debut

 Hi there

Years ago, I visited the city of Milan, Italy.  I visited the famous and historical La Scala Opera House. 

I stood in a posh box and looked over the auditorium.  Wow, how magnificent.   The world's top opera singers have performed in this theatre, including our own Kiri Te Kanawa.  

And me.

As I stood in that box, I spread out my arms, gave a deep breath and let forth a loud operatic-type trill:  "La-la-la-laaaaaaaaaa.... "

I do get great delight in telling people that I've sung at La Scala  ...

Those "Typing Pools"?

 Hi there

I belong to a community centre drama-improv-without-an-audience group for seniors.  Just for fun we make up, on the spot, tiny spurts of  silliness.  Either in a huge or small group, or individually.

During one such action, where everyone was ostensibly working away at a suggested job, one of our number called out "Typing Pool".   All of us retirees immediately became typists sitting at imaginary desks and typing frantically on imaginary typewriters.  I swear I could hear the carriage-returns dinging.  Honestly, I thought we were brilliant!

Then our instructor, a lovely young professional actress in her twenties,  asked "Why are you all typing in a swimming pool...?"

Goodness, I've never felt so old ...

Worser Bay Wellington Swimming

Hi there

I've been swimming a lot at Worser Bay nowadays.  I'm not around too many people there, what with covid and all.

Last week, Wellington Airport was fogged over, and so was the entrance to Wellington Harbour.  From Worser Bay, there was a lovely view over the water -