Shall we flag it?

I flicked on the television early this morning and was caught in front of the screen by an interview Peter Williams was having with John Walker.  That’s the Great John Walker, gold medalist for the 1500 metres  and first New Zealander to break the 3 minute 50 second barrier.

I enjoyed the interview, always do when one of the great runners of that generation is interviewed, due to the fact it was in my era of excitement in watching the races and then beginning to run myself. 

During the interview there were shots of Walker winning his gold medal at the Montreal Olympic Games, shots which were televised around the world at the time;  and more shots of his breaking the 3 minute 50 barrier in Sweden, also televised worldwide. 
This is the most famous photograph of that moment.

After this particular news segment a separate news clip was of some fine bodied New Zealand men performing the haka at a World War One grave site in Turkey.  The camera spanned a few of the graves and I noted something that had me reflect on the shots of Walker crossing the finish line for all the world to see.

Can you see what I am referring to?

Tony used to often say, “Everyone has a snozzle.” I always thought the word ‘snozzle’ was a Cockney word for ‘nose’.  It is, but when he quoted it he referred to a person having a ‘hang up’.  Or obsession.  Or phobia.  Or botheration.

Well, of late I have read, heard and overheard so many ‘snozzles’ among our general populace.  And the most discussed and popular snozzle at the moment is the jolly New Zealand flag debate.

It has been amusing.  Entertaining.  Intriguing.  Funny.  Often droll.  And often preposterous.

It is fair to say that so many of any general population loathe change.  It is a botheration for them. The flag debate has certainly proven to be yet another challenge for some to contemplate accepting a change on our national ensign.

Bemusement has come to me by reading some of the many Facebook posting friends have put up – friends on both sides of the change argument.  Some firmly, even fiercely anti any change to the present flag, others just as dogged to have change.

Me?  I do have a view but never considered the flag change a big enough issue to become whelmed up with emotion about.  I can think of so many more issues to become passionate about that surround us near and far.

Therefore I have thoroughly enjoyed sitting on the fence with this issue and have watch the ensuing fuss whilst at the same time acknowledging that there are times when accepting change is an inevitability in life.  Some people loathe any change.  But, change happens.  Thankfully, otherwise we would never have been inspired to develop the invention of the wheel.  Nor would we have ever had sliced bread. 

The flag debate certainly is a debate of change.

One can fight change, or one can embrace change, or one can accept change irrespective of how feistily you have fought against it.

What is more relevant is what the change is that you become emotional, passionate and feisty about.

So my fence sitting on this issue has given me much amusement and entertainment by watching it being played out over the past couple of years.    

Now, back to my earlier reference to John Walker and the Gallipoli graves.  

What caused me to stop and pause and ponder on the relationship these two televised news articles had in common - these two major historical events in our country’s past - was the New Zealand flag.  

The first news article was about one of our greatest athletes and the other article was of the first great world war where we lost over 18,000 New Zealand soldiers.  The first historical news article dates back to 1977, the other back to 1914 to 1918.  Both these historic articles have been pictorially represented and linked by, not the present national flag, not the Southern Cross, not the Union Jack, but by the silver fern.  There it is, for all to have seen since 1914.

To me it stated much but I realise it would mean sweet all to many of those who are vehemently opposed to any flag change. 

It reminded me of Tony’s and my Europe travels in 2010 when we went to follow the Tour de France, in France.  We had packed away in our little bags a good sized New Zealand flag which we had purposely purchased at the New Zealand shop adjacent to the New Zealand Embassy in Central London.  We were going to France to watch the tour and in among the many teams were three Kiwi cyclists so we wanted to make sure everyone around us knew that we were Kiwis, there to support and cheer along our fellow countrymen.

Each day we carried the flag.  Each day we would then spread it across the hills and fields in the hope that the helicopters above who were sending televised coverage all around the world would show the flag well displayed.  Each day some French, or German, or Belgium family would nod at us and explain to their children that we were from Australia.  Whenever we could we would try to correct them and endeavour to explain we were not Australian but we were New Zealanders; New Zealand being a different country to Australia.  Each time we realised the language barrier meant we were not understood so though we were shaking our heads and pointing to the flag and saying “New Zealand,” it meant nothing to these many families and they wandered off in the knowledge that those Australian people they had just met were quite odd.

During that same holiday trip I also had taped to my backpack a lovely embroidered tiki, given to me by a dear friend for the purpose of being seen by fellow travellers, particularly fellow Kiwi travelers, who would then acknowledge us as Kiwis.  Not once in ten months did anyone pick this up – and this was during times when we were surrounded by touring New Zealanders.  So the tiki did not strike any note with anyone.

After the third day of our displaying our country’s flag and receiving no recognition by the tens of thousands who also travelled the course of le Tour with us, we packed away the flag, where it remained and is now a torn piece of shredded flag that has adorned our old clothes line in the back yard for the past five years.

On our last day of travelling with le Tour, Tony put on an Ironman t shirt that had the silver fern somewhere amidst the many Ironman logos.  We were in a tiny village in France, sitting having an espresso on a rock wall by the roadside when a giant tour bus came slowly driving past, maneuvering through the narrow village streets.  As the bus came alongside us two sitting on the wall, the driver stopped adjacent, pulled back his sliding window, stuck his head out of the window, gave us the broadest smile we had seen all day and called out in some funny European accent, “Kiwi!  Kiwi! All black!” Then to us two stunned ones thumped his chest and then pointed to Tony’s chest where there was the small 6cm silver fern embroidered. 

The driver then turned around to his audience in the bus and yelled to them in French, or German, or Italian, or whatever …  whilst pointing to Tony, “All black.  Kiwi.  All black!”  All windows on the bus had faces pushed up hard against the panes, peering at Tony, the Kiwi, the all black, and they all waved and cheered at that Kiwi sitting on the wall.  One presumes they all believed their trusty bus driver and thought that Tony must have been an All Black. 

We were left highly amused as the driver then proceeded onward in his maneuvering his bus through the village streets, with back seat passengers turning to wave at us and they disappeared into the distance.

A small, two inch silver fern.  We had been carrying a one and a half metre by three metre flag all throughout France and no one knew it was from New Zealand.  But this whole bus knew by the two inch silver fern that we were Kiwis.

I was at a dinner party earlier this year when a fellow diner, who loves ruffling feathers, tried to engage all the dinner party guests in some heated debate about the “debacle John Key is making over changing the flag.”  I stayed smut for the initial part, taking a general interest in who sat on which side of the debate on the issue and realised that the discussion had changed tact from the flag to the politics and policies of the present government in being instrumental in making such a major and critical change in our history.  Their words, not mine.  As their discussion was about to finish and turn to something even more pressing, like pony tail pulling, I thought some balance should be put into the debate.

I reminded my audience that if they reflect back to our previous government who held onto governing from 1999 to 2008, that their leader, Helen Clark, was a strong proponent of having New Zealand become a republic.  There was dead silence.  Did my audience, I asked, think that should the Labour party have made us a republic in that period, that our flag would remain the same?  The flag with the Union Jack?

I continued, if you remember, Helen Clark was quoted as saying that our flag at that time “… exclusively acknowledges our British heritage and totally ignores our Maori heritage.”   Remember that Helen Clark has stated many times that it is “… inevitable that New Zealand becomes a republic and that would reflect the reality that New Zealand is a totally sovereign independent 21^st century nation 12,000 miles from the United Kingdom.” Does this sound like someone who would retain the Union Jack in our ‘totally independent nation’?

Remember, this is also the governing party that abolished the Privy Council option for New Zealanders.  And the same governing party abolished knighthood and damehoods as well as abolishing the title of ‘Queen’s Council’.

I kinda took the steam out of their bubbling indignation of the ‘John Key government wanting to mess with our flag history’. 

I am neither right, nor left, nor centre-left, nor centre-right.  I just remembered history.  It was only 7 years ago.  Funny how people forget, for convenience.

BTW, I’m not a communist either.

But I like facts.

I did not mention it at the time, as I felt I’d popped one too many festering bubbles, but I also remember the Right Honorable Matiu Rata, MP for Labour, Maori MP, also called for a flag change.  This goes back to 1992.  Due to his view on this a member’s bill was introduced for a government committee to be formed to take us into a referendum about a new flag.

Funny that.  This government has done the same.

So, seems the present Labour opposition has become miffed and conveniently forgotten their own history when it comes to the flag debate and their peels and calls some months ago about it being a National Party policy they were against.  Notice now how they have come to accede to the concept.  Seems National took their policy and made it their own and are now getting flak from the very members of the political party that actually initiated flag change.

I hear the lovely representatives from the many RSAs within the country making their own representations against flag change.  I hear them saying so often how our men fought under the flag, died under the flag and defended us from the world’s evils under the flag.

Did they?  I have read so many history books on the two major world wars.  Heart breaking books.  Stories of men who died, men who returned.  Letters from men to their wives and families.  I have stopped reading those books.  They are too heart breaking to read.  But I cannot recall one book quoting one soldier who says he was fighting for the flag.  I can recall many quotes of the pride of fighting alongside fellow Kiwi soldiers.  Pride of the fighting forces among our Maori Battalion. 

Yes, the New Zealand flag was the same as we have now, but do you really think that Uncle Ted who went to fight in the Second World War went to fight for the flag?  No, he went to ‘do his bit’, for ‘God, for King and for country’.  Not the flag.

I have photos of Maori Battalion medals.  Below.  What is it that stands out so strongly in the middle of these medals?  The one with the silver fern.

If only we could bring back to life all the soldiers we lost to those wars and ask them what symbol most represented what they fought for.

Quite interesting how every overseas grave of our soldiers has the silver fern on it.  Not the Union Jack, or koru for that matter.  And every war gravestone in New Zealand has the silver fern on it.

As for ‘God, King and country’.  Well, God I accept.  Country I accept.  But King?  The country the King, now Queen, lives in was the same country that left New Zealand a little in the financial poo some many years ago with their joining the European Economic Community.  Poor New Zealand was left a little out of the trade bargaining after that.  Was not a lot of loyalty to the century and a half of New Zealand's British patriotism shown to us then - when they were looking at what side of the bread would be best buttered for them, we were left flailing.  

Undoubtedly one of the best things that happened to this little Commonwealth country. Indeed, it was from then on that little old New Zealand learnt it was a fairly smart little dominion and began to find avenues of income in many other forms, successfully, since losing the reliance on Britain buying the major production of our dairy and meat produce.

Speaking of meat, interesting that some of our sports people consider the silver fern as the symbol of New Zealand they most relate to.  Mahe Drysdale came into that debate, stating his views on this being our chance to make the silver fern our symbol.  

This week the other New Zealand rower, Eric Bond, made similar comments about his positive view of us having a new flag for them to fly when they take podium places at the World Rowing Championships.  Love his great optimism.

This is a great shot of our four gold medalists from the last Olympics - something silver and fern-like stands out.

                         


And interestingly our Commonwealth and Olympic medalist, Beatrice, happens to be on the flag changing panel. 

When I had my little tour business it always gave me pleasure to take tourists along bush walks and come across a silver fern tree, stopped them and turn the leaf over and explain to them the meaning of our world recognised fern. There were many an American travelling home with a silver fern leaf tucked in among the pages of a book or luggage.  It always had them consider it a ‘charming’ emblem.

I mentioned the koru earlier.  I note many of the final flag samples the government has now whittled the selection down to has the koru symbol emblazoned.   I love the koru.  I have koru badges, necklaces, broaches, and even bracelet trinkets of korus.  It means much to me.  It means new life, growth, harmony and new beginnings.  Guess that what flag changing represents too, new beginnings.  However, would there be anyone overseas who would have the slightest idea what the koru is?  What it means?  I read an article in today’s newspaper where an American tabloid has described it as a “curly thing”. 

As much as I love the koru – I remind myself, what is it really?  It is the new shoot of … a silver fern. 

What would bother me most if the Koru were accepted, is that Air New Zealand would be in marketing heaven.  Indeed, they could halve their marketing team as the New Zealand flag would be the company's greatest marketing tool and emblem.  Now that I ponder on this I realise it should not bother me as Air NZ is majorly NZ owned; maybe the Koru on the flag would be a good thing!

I spent five months of 2014 travelling around the United Kingdom and Italy.  No one, anywhere came up to me, or my sister and I, and asked where we were from.  We were obvious tourists, yet no one bothered to engage us in conversation.  Wherever I went I took my swimming gear, which included my black swim suit with the big silver fern across the front and back.  I went swimming in a pool in Central London in this suit, and a man came up and asked if I was a Kiwi. He recognised the silver fern.  We had a long chat about whatever, it was an enjoyable encounter.   I went swimming in another indoor pool in Wales and a young couple came up to me after recognizing the silver fern and told me they spent time in New Zealand in 2008.  Two delightful conversations occurred simply because of the silver fern, the recognizable silver fern.

When Tony and I were in Toulouse in 2010 we went to a little suburban café and there on the wall were a row of international rugby jerseys, with the All Black one proudly displayed at the top.  When the waiter came to take our order we pointed to the jersey and said we were from New Zealand and showed him the silver fern broach I was wearing.  We got free wine that night, because he was the proprietor and the All Blacks were his heros.  We were countrymen of the All Blacks who carry the silver fern wherever they go, therefore the wine was on him.

So, six pages later you can figure my view on the flag and flag change. 

I note the many antagonists on talk back radio who are angry about any flag change are either from the RSA or have a slight tinge of a UK accent.  Or are totally, totally against the change due to their life-long loyalty to any New Zealand political party other than National. Or is that just my imagination?  But, as has often happened, when the talk back presenter presses, they confess to either being died-in-the-wool anti-National, or having some UK family history.

Because I am neither blue, nor red, nor green, or whatever other colour the politics of our country are I find it hard to be anti-something due solely to a particular political party pressing for it.  

In my mind I will presume those are the same people that are heard saying when new immigrants come to this country they should ‘integrate’.  That they are in their new country now and should feel grateful for being here, so therefore should leave their past behind and begin anew in this new country and adopt our customs.  Funny how many old school or UK folk don’t want to let go of the Union Jack. 

Yes, the flag does represent history.  And we all learn from history.  Fortunately it is impossible to live in history.  But history is something tangible to learn from.  We cannot move forward into the future without looking back to the past.  If you prefer to live in the past, and the flag debate is your ‘snozzle’ good for you.  May the Union Jack stay for you. 

The flag is not a pressing issue really.  Not in the realm of other happenings in our world. 

But, like it or not, National Party or Labour Party, the flag is going to change.  The question is merely when.

It's that date again

It’s his birthday today.  This is his third birthday since he passed away.  The first one was only four months after he died.  It was a truly difficult day.  The second birthday date after his passing was another truly difficult day.  This is the third birthday date.  It is another truly difficult day.

Birthdays.  Wonderful and joyous celebrations for children and adolescents.  Once a person hits adulthood they are sometimes viewed as silly celebrations, by some. For others they are merely unwanted and irritating reminders of aging.  There are ampe bah-humbug Scrooges of birthday parties.  We all know some.    

Happily, for other gown ups, birthdays, whether it’s their 29^th, 59^th, or 79^th, are still an excuse to feel special for a day and celebrate in whatever manner they desire. 

That’s what birthdays were for Mr J and I.  We made it that way.  Many viewed us as being weirdly childlike and nonsensical to insist on making sure we fussed over each other on our birthdays.  This did not stop us looking forward to the annual occasions to use the dates as a jolly good excuse to throw a little bit of extra affection and appreciation toward the other.  It made us happy.  And gave us yet another excuse to once more wrap our arms around each other and whisper how happy we were to have shared another whole year together. 

We never thought or gave thought that it would end the way it did.  Our birthday celebrations together were going to be endless for us.

After all, we consciously assumed that when the end did come it would come at the same time for the both of us.  We made out our wills with the surety that our lives would end together.  We did not prepare for one or the other to be left without the other.  It never entered our minds.  Until the diagnosis, of course.

And so it is.

I do not, or would not, expect others to fill the vacuum of emptiness, nor do I want them to as sometimes those who try hard to make life easier and gentler for me become a burden to my grief and with their good intentions they can exacerbate it further. 

But I always, always, appreciate and feel nourished by their caring.  Because of that I feel great gratitude.  I am fortunate for the friends I have.  They constantly reassure me of their value merely by being good friends and often they fill the gaps that some family chooses to ignore.  The friends have certainly filled a few gaps these past three years, most particularly through this one.  On the date of Mr J’s passing, at my final Ironman event, on our wedding anniversary and on my own birthday date.  And today.

Today is his birthday. Today we had a scone. One cherished friend remembered the date, literally.  For it was the cherished friends who knew how much Mr J loved his scones, most of all his date scones.  Particularly the date scones which were purchased fresh or especially handmade for him; for any occasion.  It didn’t have to be his birthday.  Just as well.  Otherwise we would have been celebrating date scone birthdays every second week during his last years.  He was never short of someone blessing him with a date scone.

He was blessed with one this morning.

He’s such a lucky fellow.

         

And, I guess, so am I. For there is always a smile to be had in sadness - tis I who smiled this morning.  I got to eat Mr J's date scone.

It was lovely.

                                 

The offerings of friendship ...

Friendship can be a very fulfilling thing.

In my case, over fulfilling.

Over the past weekend I spent about 33 hours in the company of nine, eclectic, friends.  We had a sleep over night on Tiritiri Matangi Island.  A wildlife sanctuary to be put on everyone's 'Must Visit' list.  

However, apart from us ten meandering anthropological dullards, there is not a lot of actual 'wild life' (that one can visibly see) but there is a plethora of fantastical native bird life that has one stand in awe and wonder.  

The island's length would be approximately three kilometres and at it's widest would be, perhaps, a kilometre.  It is truly a little treasure island on our coastline.

Our trip, being an over-nighter, had us catch the Saturday morning ferry to the island and return the next day on the afternoon ferry.  A mere 32 to 33 hours of togetherness of ten friends.

Our only planned activity was to walk the island with our own personal guide who kindly gave up her weekend to spend it with us; this was due her being an extra-mutual friend of two in our group.  

There was a loose plan of some in the group rising on Sunday morning and enjoying a jog over the various island tracks and circumnavigating as much of the island as we could, whilst pretending to be the adept off-road athletes we once were.

However, on alighting from the ferry on Saturday we did enjoy walking as a group over all the tracks and ascents and descents along the coastline over the whole island, with the detailed guiding from our personal guide; so come Sunday morning there was noticeably no mention of heading off for that athletic jog that some had envisaged.  Mind you, that could have been due to some individuals choosing to rise before dawn to head down to the bush and shoreline to listen for the dawn chorus of bellbird, riroriro, kokako, stitchbird, tui and saddlebacks that are in abundance.

We all slept in the very well equipped bunkhouse on the island and were fortunate to be the only occupants, thereby having the bunkhouse to ourselves until Sunday morning.

Thus, in the weeks prior to this weekend it seemed that little had to be done in terms of preplanning or pre-packing for the mere 32 hour sojour.  

At least, that is what I thought.  Silly me.  This is a group of people who have the ability to rally around at short notice and be able to provide ample food and drinks for over two hundred people and still have enough over to feed many of the extended whanau for numerous weeks.

Some in this group began the pre-weekend planning weeks in advance by sending out general emails to each individual to let them know there would be a 'shared' dinner on the Saturday night to which each person would contribute their share of culinary and spectacular delights.

Before long there were emails crossing the city with precise instructions on who was bringing what and for how many and what colours their contributions would be.  Along with the instructions on the style and types of foods each would take, were strong instructions about the most important colours being the whites and reds of the confessional grapes that would accompany the evening repast.

Seems friends were ensuring friends were to never go hungry.

Therein lies the story behind the opening sentence to this scribe - friendship can be a very fulfilling thing..

It belies explanation how just 32 hours of over-imbibing on the fruits of others' love and labours could possibly cause the weighing scales to spin another circuit on the Monday morning to let one know - that friendship may be a fulfilling thing, but the gob should be kept shut throughout.


We began like this:


                         


We left like this:

              

Went to the GP today - diagnosed as: ..........

Posted on Facebook yesterday a note about my doctor.  It was Sunday afternoon and I answered the home phone to have my doctor's voice on the end of the phone. This took me back a little as I had not been to see her since April, nor have I made any appointment to see her.

She proceeded to tell me that she had received a copy of an MRI scan and X-rays I recently had and was ringing to discuss the results.

Now, I've had a minor, silly little niggle since February; something I have chosen to ignore as in the greater scheme of things - illnesses, injuries and my regular mental discrepancies have bored more than a few over the years, more specifically this year with my great tales of woe over Ironman and marathon runs.  So this little minor, silly, niggly thing - in comparison to everything else happening in this world around us all is just a stupid, silly, little niggly thing.

But, a couple of weeks ago I thought that I'd pop into my long term, friendly and knowledgeable physiotherapist to say, "Hey, I've got this stupid little thing that is bugging me, I've tried to get rid of it but it won't go away, can you do something to get rid of it?"

Long-term-friendly-knowledgeable-physio takes a brief look then decides to make a big issue of little niggle.  I express annoyance at making a big issue and repeat the request to just stick some electric shock treatment on it or give me the ultra-sound knob and I'll do it myself.

Result was - war of words - she won - I lost.  Got sent packing, and sulking, to ultra-sound places, x-ray places, expert places, MRI places, bla-blah-blah.  All because of a tiny, minor, silly little niggle.  Grrrrr...

But, with all that there was no doctor involvement required.  Thankfully.  Doctors cost and this didn't as it came under ACC - our medical care insurer.  

So never gave the doctor a thought - until her phone call yesterday.  That resulted in:

- she wants to see it
- she wants to see me
- she reminded me I needed a flu injection
- she reminded me I was supposed to go get updated blood tests done 2 months ago
- I reminded her that I didn't need the tests anymore as everything got better
- she reminded me that I was not the doctor
- I reminded her that I know I'm not the doctor, but I am me, myself, I, and know that the issue re the blood tests has gone all due to the fact that I have a good doctor who I went to because I know she's a good doctor, who fixed it
- she reminded me that if she rings me on a Sunday I should have the courtesy of giving her the courtesy of being right and doing as she says.

I made an appointment.  

I went this morning.

I now have a sore arm from the flu injection.  I now have the other sore arm from the blood tests that I got done because of her.  I still have this stupid, silly, irritating niggle.  I now have a copy of the MRI results she had received.  I now have yet another appointment with some other hierarchical person who will no doubt make another appointment with some other hierarchical person - for this stupid, little, irritating niggle.  

I then had the giggles during my appointment with her when reading the MRI results - the giggles turned into almost unrestrained laughter as I read aloud the gobbledy-gook to explain what this stupid little niggle is.  Such a lot of fuss, for such a little thing.  

In the words of the MRI radiologist:

Distal to the fibular tip peroneus brevis has a high grade interstitial split tear dividing the tendon into a very thin medial and lateral bundles which are intermediate in signal.  The tear measures approximately 37mm length.  The distal 3cm of the peroneus brevis tendons are intact.  Behind the fibular peroneous longus shows tendinosis with a small low grade split tear, distally the tendon is intact.  There is a further mild tendon sheath thickening and fluid.  The peroneal retinaculum appears intact, with no tendon subluxation.  The anterior talofibular ligament is irregular with high grade tearing bordering on a rupture, the calcaneofibular ligament is mildly intermediate in signal but intact.  The posterior talofibular and the tibiofibular syndesmotic ligaments are intact.  The deltoid ligament is mildly intermediate in signal, the tibiospring ligament is normal.  The peroneus and medial ankle tendon remain intact.  No osteochondral lesion is seen about the ankle or subtalar joints. The sinus tarsi are unremarkable.  There is a very small non oedematous os trigonum ossicle.  The visualised mid foot joint are within normal limits.  The plantar fascia is unremarkable with a small plantar calcaneus spur.  There is mild mid to distal achillies tendinosis.  Impression is: 35mm length high grade split tear of preoneus brevis extending from just distal to the fibular tip to the peroneal tibercle. Only sparse medial and lateral fibre bundles remain.  There is associated preoneuss tenosynovitis.  Posterior to the fibular there is minor peroneus longus tendinosis and a notable split tear.  

High grade tear bordering on rupture of the ATFL, Mild CFL and deltoid sprains.

Do you get it?  Yeah, there's a teeny, irritating tear there somewhere. Big deal. Had worked that out myself. But at the end of reading and absorbing all the above - what stood out most were the two references to my own and personal interior ropes and strings that move my skeletal body around as being "unremarkable".

Unremarkable!  Do you know what 'unremarkable' is?  It's dull.  It's humdrum.  It's mediocre.  It's average.  It's ordinary.  It's characterless.  It's featureless.  It's plain.  It's unmemorable.  It's even less-than-plain-old-garden-variety.  It's nothing-to-write-home-about.

All this fuss.  All those appointments - all that governmental costs - and what is the result ?  - I'm boring.


                                                    

I've Forgotten What I Am Writing About .....

Saw a quote this morning, and yes, it was on Facebook, but it resonated so well as it related to a conversation had a couple of days ago with a temporary house guest I currently have.

The conversation began with her expressing frustration that she considers she is “getting older” because of her ability to remember certain names and facts seems to be on the increase with the increase in her age.

I had had the same conversation with friend of mine earlier that very day, a friend who is a mere and sprightly young twenty-something-year-old whereas I am a wiser and not quite so sprightly thirty-something-year-old.

The twenty-something-year-old thought that despite not wanting to acknowledge it, she is reminded constantly of her natural annual aging by the fact she keeps forgetting things.  Short term things and long term things. 

Short term relating to the usual situation where one walks into a room to get or do something but by the time you are in there you have forgotten what it is that you have gone into there for.

                                 

And then there are the recollection things from some years ago.  The house guest was trying her best to remember the name of someone who was relevant to our conversation but no matter how hard she squinted her eyes and dug deep into the brain cells, she could not bring to the forefront of her brain the person’s name.  This was despite the fact she had been a close associate of the person for some period a few years ago.

On both occasions I chuckled at their frustration.  The house guest was a teenager by comparison to my other friend and I but was already putting her momentary amnesia down to age.  How little she knows what she is in for.  If she feels frustration now, imagine the great sense of intense and continual frustration she will feel when she hits my numeric age.

It happens to me constantly; getting up off this chair in front of the computer to go do something really important and before I am across the hallway the process and purpose of the important thing I was about to do has totally gone.  Nowadays, being very used to this happening, I pause momentarily, try to recall what the purpose of my standing and walking three steps was for, then laugh aloud, shake my head in bemusement, and then head straight for the pantry as that’s the next best place to be.  

That is particularly so at this period in time because some really kind friend recently presented me with one very large and very numtious fruit cake which, no matter what my resolve was about not touching it until a special occasion, the resolve has not withstood those forgetful pauses hence the fruitcake beckons.  The fruitcake beckoning is aided by the fact it had been well soaked in rum prior to the baking.  It literally brings warmness to my inner core and makes me very happy.

                          

  At the same time it is fulfilling a need of reward for the aging process of forgetfulness.  Its purpose is being well patronised.

It all has a circular purpose.  Because I am prone to head to the pantry at every forgetful moment it means my later conscience then tells me that I need to go out and exercise to balance out the negative and long lasting effects of the fruit cakes, slices, chocolates, caramel slices and whatever else is awaiting in the pantry.  Thus the sole purpose of why I jog, swim, heave weights in a gym or sit on a bicycle seat that is going nowhere is to burn of the calorific intake of forgetful moments.

And folk think I do all that because I am a strong minded, strong willed woman, whose goal setting it to be admired.  Ha! 

                               

As for long term memory loss on my part;  many decades ago I realised the Brain Gods had blessed me with loss of long term memories as a way of blocking out the negatives of the past and allow me to enjoy the now positives.  Therefore I have never worried about forgetting things from long ago.  Indeed, I find it an absolute positive aspect of memory loss.  I makes it so very rewarding whenever I am with old friends and they reminisce (as old friends tend to do more and more these days – the older they get the more they live in reminisces), and talk about an incident, a person, a happening from long ago and my brain lights up with an almost audible ting of a deep-in-the-brain-mass-wave-length with teeny snippets of that memory long since buried illuminating and sparking yet more brain waves of the memory.  The more it sparks the more detail of it comes back.

It turns into a thrill and delight to relive and enjoy the memory (or not, dependent on the memory) all afresh, all anew.

So it was years ago I stopped fretting and worrying I had forgotten things in the past as one day I came to the realisation that my brain was merely a personal floppy disc.  Yes, floppy discs have long since become redundant in this modern world, but for us less modern ones they are still quite useful and reliably functioning human tools. 

I worked out that my particular brain works in the manner of a floppy disc as opposed to the more modern hard drives.  

                           

That is, there is only so much storage space floppy discs can hold and once that storage space is filled excess and less used memory cells are then dropped off the end of it and miraculously transferred to my personal Cloud. 

The Cloud being somewhere up in the ether, floating and following behind me at all times, which has a lifetime guarantee to be able to access the stored memories for recollection whenever required.   It’s magic.  

Mind you, recollection is not instant for there has to be a few moments of whirring and whizzing while its engines start up before beginning to download;  but overall it works reliably well once it begins whizzing after one encounters or meets with an old friend or associate.

Having a floppy disc is a wonderful thing.  It means most of the bad memories drop off and go into The Cloud, which means one cannot dwell long on them; but when the good bits come out of storage by yet another coincidental meeting with someone, the joy of the reliving is almost as good, if not better, than when it was lived all that time ago.

                                          

Whether twenty-something, thirty-something (as I will remind you that I am), forty-something, or one foot in the grave  …  do not worry about apparent memory loss you may find you are experiencing because the memories are in fact not lost but stored, with ready access to be resurrected as and when required and with fulfilling enjoyment. 

And remember (a most relevant word) they have merely been handily transferred to The Cloud storage because of the fact you have lived so much more than those who are younger; thereby you are the one who is wiser, more interesting, more astute, more knowledgeable, more resourceful, more skilled, more cunning, more enchanting, more interesting and more mentally adroit than your younger associates. 

So, fret not as you turn another birthday.  Yearn not for your youthfulness; the floppy discs of the younger are more empty than filled.  That makes us seemingly memory-loss ones far, far more consummate individuals than those younger smart-ass, smart alecs.

    

Now, I came in here to do something ... what the heck was it?........

Body Conscious Musings

There are only a few benefits that come with getting toward an ‘older’ age.  And I’m not talking about the Super Gold Card old, or the old age when we think we’re successful by achieving a disabled parking card status so that one can finally drive straight into the best parking spaces in busy car parks, shopping centres and burgeoning city streets.

                   

In fact, I’m not talking about being anywhere near THAT old.  I am referring to being just a ‘little’ older than being younger.  Like the age I am now, thirty-eight-something.

I was reminded of this when in the swimming pool changing rooms this morning and could not help but notice a young lady whose gym bag was next to mine on the bench.  She was obviously in the process of dressing for her work day after having had a cleansing shower post her gym or swimming pool work out.  Usually I don’t notice who is next to me in the changing rooms at that busy rush hour in the mornings, everyone is so busy that you are in your own world going through the well practiced routine of showering and changing.  Today, her being next to me was made obvious by the manner in which she was attempting to dress.  Well, the awkward, time consuming and difficult way in which she was trying to dress.  I could not help but stop for a moment and glance subtly over to observe what was happening.

The contortionist manner in which she was changing did have me ponder of “why bother?”  It looked so jolly awkward and difficult.  She was bent over, in half, as bent half over as the Old Woman in the Shoe was; you know what I mean, bent at the waist so that her legs were vertical from the ground up, but from the waist up she was horizontal with her head and eyes looking directly down at the rather grubby, concrete floor in women’s changing room.  Or perhaps she was just checking her toe nails out?

Rather like this  ..

                          

No, I dismissed the fleeting toe nail theory quickly as draped over this ‘bent pin’ body was a very large bath towel.  So large was it that it completely covered all her body except the feet at the bottom and her head which had to be visible as she was in the process of anxiously looking and feeling around in her gym bag for her under clothes.  As she rummaged around in her gym bag  I was tempted to lean over and say, “Can I help you with that?”, but thought better of it.  Heaven knows the fright that would have given her while she was in her own little private world under that giant’s towel.

There was a sense of desperation though and for another moment I thought that perhaps she had discovered her underwear was not in the bag but, as many of us do, left neatly on the bed at home where it was put prior to final gym bag packing earlier that morning or late the night before.

But no, suddenly an unpretentious pair of matching knickers and brassiere emerged and whilst one was put carefully on the change room bench the other was now to be somehow attached to the body without the giant’s towel slipping or sliding off the body, baring yet more skin than the feet, hands and face.

Now it should be noted that the women’s’ changing room does have private cubicles for those who do prefer some modesty but it would appear the six or so cubicles were already taken by others thereby meaning this poor thing had the dubious job of dressing among the other twenty or so ladies who, without any thought of modesty, just rush to the showers while still wrapping their standard size towels around them, then rush back out to the bench, dry body off without even contemplating if someone else is looking.

But I did begin to feel for this young thing; she would have been in her early twenties, for it was plain to see that she was going to an extra ordinary amount of grunting and groaning and clasping and grabbing to get her bra and knickers on whilst at the same time not allowing the giant’s towel to slip one inch for fear of skin being exposed and someone actually seeing her body.  It took forever, with several desperate grasps of the towel when she felt it may possibly drop. 

Once the underwear cladding had been achieved it was then time to put the rest of the day clothes on still maintaining no chance of any of the other women in the changing room seeing any part of the body.

During all this time I had gone to shower, returned, totally dried myself, gone to the mirror, dried my hair, dressed and was applying lipstick.  Effortlessly, smoothly, without stirred fears and anxieties, relaxed and with little else on the mind except the anticipation of the latte awaiting in the café.

But finally, underwear attired, dress attired, the Young Thing audibly sighed, stood upright and withdrew the towel.  To expose a perfectly formed body in workday clothing that began approximately two centimeters below the buttocks, finished about two centimeters above the nipple line and clung to the body so tightly that every male driver who would happen to drive past her in the street that day would create traffic mayhem by the head twisting caused as they drove by.

On a cold day like this.

Adorned on the feet were a pair of heels so high that I’m sure the local physio would be rubbing hands greedily at the anticipation of yet another sprained ankle injury due to modern day shoe fashion.

                           

So much effort.  So much time. To cover so little skin.  To expose so much skin. To every Tom, Dick and Harry.  Yet to cover up for every Pam, Sue or Mary.   

Huh?  I don't get it.  Why bother? 

Gosh.  I am so very glad I am that teeny bit older. Totally unbody conscious. Wiser.  Nonchalant.  Indeed, that situation is so contrary to my mature countenance.

I couldn't care less who in the women’s changing room saw my skin; and yet care very much more than my bench neighbour this morning that anyone outside the changing room sees so little of it.  For that they are no doubt all very grateful.

But, who cares!

                                

Waffle at the movies

I went to the movies last night – a 6.30 pm movie.  It was Friday night.  Tony and I used to frequent early Friday evening movies on a regular basis over the years.  We found the routine of meeting up for a movie early Friday evening meant we could unwind together over a pre-movie wine, catch the movie then come out and pick up a cheap dinner somewhere and be all relaxed, having dispelled any work-thinking brain cells and have the entire weekend to look forward to.

We were both working at the time (this is pre-tumour days), so by the time we walked out of the movie all our weekday work mental fatigue had gone – dispersed into the movie ether of either some terrorist being obliterated by a Bruce-Willis-type hero; or a French lady creating romantic-making chocolates; robots taking over the world; or weird black sheep on a killing spree.  Clearly we were open to all forms of ridiculous, spurious fantasy.

In post-tumour diagnosis days we continued as often as possible to maintain the Friday night routine, even though neither of us were working as it was another tradition we had that we maintained to make life as normal as possible.

Consequently we did get to see lots of movies – although in all fairness, we did tend to lean more toward the grown-up genre as transformers, alien and macabre people and creatures killing each other and entire planets did nothing to keep me entertained.  I have always had the fortunate habit of being able to fall deeply asleep throughout the majority of those movies; it would seem I was born with mental switch that enables me to completely block out the horrendous, explosive, world ending noises around me when the brain has gone dead from brain-dead entertainment.

Once Tony passed away there was a dearth of movie attendance as the few times I did go I felt the void by my side so greatly that, no matter the movie, I was unable to overcome the grief of the void -  meaning many of the movies I did go to by myself have also been totally obliterated in the memory banks as the entertainment absorption rate was almost zero.

However, life is moving forward and in the past year I have taken to always browsing the movie reviews in the early part of the week in hopeful anticipation that some reviewer may catch my curious attention by what they have written on a newly released feature.

This means that on most early Friday evenings I can be seen, the lone soul, in the foyer of either the Lido, Capitol or Rialto theatres in town.  They are the theatres that show grown up movies, therefore I don’t have the shuddersome option of queuing with the moronic populous who come armed with many dollars to purchase the expensive tickets, huge buckets of butter-coated popcorn, large bottles of Coke, and several noise-creating bags of potato chips.

      

Oh no, snob that I am, I queue with the fine folk, those old and wrinkled ones who buy the cheap senior citizen rated tickets and purchase either a Kapiti ice cream cone or a nice glass of Pinot Something – which I have witness has put some old sods fast a snoring sleep halfway through a foreign romantic.

Anyway, the purpose of this script it to say that last night I arrived rather early to the movie theatre so purchased a ticket and sat in a comfy lounge chair and people watched for almost an hour.

Without a Kapiti ice cream or Pinot Something.  Me, in my now miserly way, take along my own bottled water.  Bottled from the kitchen tap at home.

Most folk enjoy a relaxing hour or so of people watching at some time, none more so than someone on her own who has little else to do but fathom the lives of others whose heads pop up from an apparent hole in the floor as the escalator pushes the rest of their bodies up to floor level height and they walk toward the movie foyer ticket counter.

When I originally arrived in the movie theatre there were but a handful of folk milling around the bar chatting or standing in front of the notice boards reading reviews and previews of movies.  It was a fairly quiet, dull period with little for people watcher me to see.  By the time my movie was about to start the foyer area was jammed packed with people and the noise level loudly buzzing.

Folk had arrived as individuals meeting other individuals, in couples or in groups.  The longer I watched the more I realised the greater majority of those arriving were of the feminine gender.  Indeed, there was a period when I played the mental game of when would the next male head appear from that hole in the floor; and then, how many women would come up to how many men.

       

Overall, for the period I sat in that foyer I figured the male versus female quotient would have been approximately 30% to 70%.

If you were single, male and randy this would be the ideal place to bring along your basket of upturned bananas.  If at first rejected the populous was such that it would not take long for you to strike lucky.

I digress.  This new-found female-movie-attending phenomena of mine then posed the question, why?  Why so many women and so few men?

Then I figured, as the greater majority  of women in the foyer would have been forty-plus somethings, there must be more men in that age group who had the unfortunate problem of having kicked the bucket.  Result being their widowed wives, were like me, filling in their Friday nights too  …. 

Or  … a more rational reason could have been  …  most of those women did have husbands, at home; husbands who didn’t care what or where the spouse went, so long as he didn’t have to go with them.

Then of course there were the two groups of ladies who looked well into their 60’s, or more, had the appearance of being most intellectual by the manner in which they were discussing previous high brow movies they had been to see – who, I would confidently say – once did have husbands but have since realised they were superfluous to requirements and their enjoyment was in seeking the fellowship of their like minded womanhood.  All power to them.

Irrespective of all the above.  It did remind me of the statistics I had heard on National Radio earlier in the day that females born this year have a greater likelihood of living until they are 81+ years old.  And those boys born this year will now have the happy outlook of living longer than their fathers, or father’s fathers did, and now live to 78+ years of age.  The 3 year age difference of men dying earlier than women has reduced from the 4 years it was predicted sometime in the 1990’s.  The life expectancy gap of male versus female is now closing.

On those statistics, maybe the Rialto foyer, in the year 2095, may have a male-female ratio of 45% to 55%.  And if those statics keep reducing, by the year 2125 it may be 50-50 percent.

Then what would I have think about when sitting in the Riato foyer?   Oh, there’s another quandary for me.

Things improve with age. I’m approaching magnificent.