TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, Episode 10. Curricululum Development Unit, Education Dept, Wellington

above:  August 1969.  Me, with Mr Phillips, Director Science, CDU.  My first day at my new job.  Move-in day for everybody.  

***

Hi there

I'd run around like a demented bunny when I was preparing for my first day at my new job as Senior Typist (Display), Curriculum Development Unit, Education Department, Wellington.  My main problem was "What to wear????"  I had to look responsible and adult.   I  was 25 years old but in my mind I still felt a fake grown-up. 

My mother had suggested I wear a trouser suit.  Trouser suits were a new thing.  At this time, there was a work rule about trouser suits.  The top and the bottom had to match.  After a time, this rule was interpreted very loosely.  The mistake was made over the word 'match'.  It was meant to mean that the same material should be used for both parts of the trouser suit, but over time and the next few years, 'to match' became interpreted as 'roughly the same colour'.   Heavy sweaters, summer cardys, floral tops, all worn with trousers.  As long as a rose pattern on a blouse had a green leaf  to it, then that top was ok to wear with  green pants.  A few years' later, jeans crept in, and - hurrah - who cared any longer about matching material or colours?  Whoopee, for individuality. (While I was still at the CDU, hotpants came in.  I wore a lovely little purple jacket with matching hotpants!)

Anyway ...  when I rolled up at 32 Hobson Street in the suburb of Thorndon -  my first day on the job at the Curriculum Development Unit - there was a hive of activity.  Perhaps there were twenty or so of us, and me the lowest on the totem pole.  Oh, wait, no-  there was a much older woman who had been the sole typist in previous premises.  The CDU also had a new office assistant.

 I set up my electric typewriter, opened up reams of different texture and sizes of typing paper and shuffled them into trays each side of my desk's leg-well. I checked the desk-front - yes, there was a modesty panel.  There had been quite a kerfuffle when a typist had rolled up to relieve at our Accounts Division down Courtenay Place to find that the front panel of her desk had been knocked out.  She was in an extremely tight mini skirt and as she later told us, rather indignantly, "There are lots of young men in Accounts..."

 I brought out my star-shaped typewriter rubber, my green stencil fluid (it used to be red), and tucked my lunch away in a bottom drawer.  Plomping down on the cushion that I'd stolen from Government Buildings, the one that was so comfortable I refused to go anywhere without it, I dramatically set my fingers out on the guide keys (asdf and jkl;).  I was ready -

"Let me show you the kitchen," said Mrs Fraser, the basic grade typist (yah, I was the S E N I O R Typist).  She led me into the next room.  An old kitchen for an old house.  Old oven, old ZIP water heater. cracked lino, chipped wooden cupboards and drawers..

"I bake scones at about nine o'clock," she said.  "Then after lunch, at around two, I'll make - from scratch - some bacon and egg savouries for afternoon tea."

Huh?  "Scon- ? Savouries?  Wha-?"

Mrs Fraser told me that we would take turns to make the teas, week and week about.  She would be baking and grilling and roasting ... things.  And with nothing made up in advance.  In the cupboards, I spotted mixing bowls, a beater, flour, sugar, spices, and so much more.

I stuttered, "um, I can ... when it's my turn, I can buy biscuits, right?  And... and maybe current bread that I'll ... butter?"

Mrs Fraser shrugged.  I guess she knew I would be no rival to her skills. 

Over the two years I was at the CDU in Hobson Street, Mrs Fraser would spend longer time in the kitchen than she ever did at her typewriter ...

above: 32 Hobson Street (again).  Side view, taken from Hobson Crescent.  Kitchen on far right, back door leading into it.  The typing/reception in middle, going toward front.

 

Mask-wearing

 Hi there

I was out for my morning power-walk, mask in place.  A big muscular take-no-prisoners type of guy was lumbering towards me, no mask on his face.

Hey, was he glaring at me?  Was he going to yell out some anti-mask propaganda?  Was I paranoid-?

He said, "That's a pretty mask."  And went on his way.

Awwww,  bluebirds and butterflies can obviously melt the heart of the toughest of guys.

Everything Old is New Again

Hi there

below:  Bogart and Bacall, "Casablanca"

When I was a kid most movies were in black and white.   When it was realised that all movies would soon be in colour, many, many people tut-tutted.  They groaned and moaned in letters to the editor and to their neighbours.

"A dramatic movie will lose all impact," they said.

And, "Colour?  Goodness, that's for Disney."

I loved colour in big epics like "The Robe" which was not only in glorious colour but also in Cinemascope!  But I agreed with a lot of folk that a suspense movie wouldn't be the same in bright tones.

But you can't hold back progress.  Technicolor and Eastman Color were in.  Monochrome was out.

However, nowadays, black and white movies have made a comeback.  They're classed as film noir.  The trendy young ones love the dramatic effect of these movies. Such people sit in arthouse theatres, taking notes, reading sub-titles translated from the French and, afterwards, having lengthy discussions in replica 1950's cafes and exclaiming over the beauty of shadow.  

Me, I don't care for black and white movies anymore.  Black and white is so old-fashioned....

Adulthood

Hi there

I'm tired of being a responsible adult, and having to do grown-up things like paying Rates, and the electricity, insurance, and phone bills. 

 I would love to have a responsible adult do everything for me, from cleaning my oven to paying all those darn bills.  Oh, wait, a fairy godmother would be great -  when I'm feeling all sorry for myself, she could pat me on my head and murmur "there, there."  And I've always wanted to ride in a pumpkin....

How great it would be to play hopscotch again, and skip rope, with no responsibilities.  Or lick ice-creams as I'm sitting on the road curb contemplating nothing worse than how crabby Mrs Brown - my standard 4 teacher -  is when she catches me rabbiting away instead of learning how to spell r-e-f-r-i-g-e-r-a-t-o-r.

As a child I looked forward to growing up.  I figured I was all but full-grown when, on tip-toe, I could just about reach the hanging strap in the Island Bay tram-car.  At age fourteen my friends and I stood back to let adults board buses first.  At age fifteen, the gentlemen stood back for us to get on the bus because we were in stockings, bras, and Max Factor make-up.   Growing up was such a heady experience. 

Now?  Sometimes I want to curl up into a little ball, hands over ears and eyes and not be responsible for anything.  I don't want to have to worry about wars.  Or  Covid.  Or bills.  Or  the house burning  down, or perhaps being robbed.  Or worry about missing the bus and oh-my-goodness-what-do-I-wear-to-lunch-with-my-friends. 

I want to be Tom Hanks in "Big", but in reverse.  There are times when I am so over being a grown-up.....

Ruminations during a walk when Omicron is rampant

 Hi there

Right... Have I got my mask?  No, darn-it.  I'll have to go back home and get it.....  Oh wait, it's in my pocket...

I'll put on my mask if I approach anyone.  And, whoops, there's a guy up ahead.  I'll just duck behind this lamppost and he'll be 6 feet away from me....  Oh, lucky me, he saw me and is suddenly veering to cross the road.   I must say I'm hurt that he thinks I could infect him!

Lah-de-dah-daa, it's so lovely power-walking in the sun, with the birds chirping, the locusts singing, and -    Oh no, there's a mother with two kiddies trailing behind her..  I mustn't let my eyes wander from the kiddies. They look obedient, but could run up to me any second.  Omicron-Omicron.

Phew, thank goodness, the mother is circling her brood out into the gutter  and I'm ducking into somebody's driveway.  From about 12 feet apart, we exchange  'sup nods of greeting.

But ... Oh dear, a bunch of teen lads is approaching - where's my mask, oh it's dangling from my wrist; put it on quickly-

I feel like I'm spying for the SIS as I squat behind a bush halfway up the Maupuia hill, and watching the teens.  But, hey,  all's well, they've meandered down a zig-zag path, well away from me.

I tell myself that I am not anxious being out in the city, with Omicron raging.  I-am-not-anxious-I-am-not-anxious-

Oh......................... to heck with it, I'm going home to my comfy couch, to Netflix, to my three-month supply of toilet rolls, to my landline phone on which i can talk for three hours to my best friend, and to a massively thick front door behind which i can lock out Omicron...

Protesters in Wellington

 Hi there

above: Government Buildings

above: Parliament Buildings, Wellington

For years and years I worked in what I've only just found out is now called 'Old Government Buildings', but in my working days - 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s - it was plain old ordinary 'Government Buildings'.  Not to be confused (though many people were) with 'Government House', the Wellington residence of New Zealand's Governor-General.

It's breaking my heart that the calm and dignified and beautiful view - the Cenotaph, Parliament Buildings and gardens - that I had from the front windows of typing pool rooms 305 and 206 has changed completely over the last couple of weeks.

The against-mandate protesters, the anti-vaxxers, and anybody else who has just wanted to enjoy themselves at a sixties recreation of a mini Woodstock has rolled up in front of my favourite building.  They've blocked the streets, and Govt Buildings' grounds with their vehicles, and graffitied the Cenotaph War Memorial, setting up makeshift filthy toilets on its hallowed steps.  

Parliament Buildings gardens and lawns have been trampled on, urinated on, vomited on, taken drugs on, got drunk on.  Passers-by and Members of Parliament have been sworn at, cafes forced to close, shop workers terrorised, windows thumped upon, and police officers spat at. 

Tow truck drivers are scared to tow, workers in the area have been told by bosses to stay home for safety's sake, buses can't use the terminus.  

The protesters' children are playing in unsanitary conditions, and covid - with no social distancing and no mask-wearing - is ready to pounce.

It amazes me how a minority can hold a Team of Five Million  to ransom..

Those romantic movies

 Hi there

I can't exactly pinpoint when my taste in movies changed.  I can remember once-upon-a-time saying to friends that my fave films were "The Godfather" and "The Eagle Has Landed".  I didn't even care that  (spoiler-alert!-spoiler-alert!) Michael Caine was killed in the end of "The Eagle Has Landed", it was fitting, right?

But over the years I started to worry about Michael's character dying.  I realised how much I luuurved that character.  How dare he die, my heart was breaking for him.  

OMG, was I turning sentimental?

The next step, much to my annoyance, was that heart of mine telling me not to go to movies where animals died in the finale (pick any film about dogs).  Or if  I found out in advance that a hero had kicked the bucket.  Or If there was even a teeny iota of violence to a movie...

And I was watching romcoms.  And - aww, no! -  luuurving them.

Pretty Woman, Notting Hill, Love Actually.  Most definitely any Netflix movie containing a waitress/news reporter who ended up marrying a prince of a foreign land.

The final nail in my coffin of love and sentimentality came when, years later,  author Jack Higgins wrote a sequel to his book  "The Eagle Has Landed".  My Michael Caine movie non-hero, the honourable German officer masquerading as a Polish WWII ally in England, had lived through all that hail of bullets.  I did a Snoopy happy-dance around the sitting room, I sang out hallelujah.

Bring on those happy endings in books and movies.  Bring on the romcoms, and the lovers, and the meet-cutes.  Bring on the fluff and magic.  I unashamedly love it all...