A = Architecture

I come from simple beginnings. A small wooden house, which began life as a two-room dwelling but ended life as a three bedroom house. My father grew up there, though when his younger brothers and sisters arrived he was shunted outside to sleep in the caravan (which we later used as a playhouse) with his brother.

By the time my sisters and I came along, the by then three-bedroom house was badly in need of repair, renovation, or demolition. My parents knew that demolition and construction of a new house was the best option. But complications over the farm inheritance delayed this. Consequently I have many memories as a child of my mother poring over design books, or looking eagerly at any new houses she saw. This went on for years. At times she got dispirited and the books were packed away for months and years, but finally (the year I was on my student exchange) they were able to go ahead. My mother designed the house, drafted up the plans and had them approved by the local Council. My uncle then built the house.

It was a simple New Zealand farm house, but with good bones, plenty of sun, warm, and easy to live in.

Surrounded for so many years by housing design books, I learned to accurately read plans, to determine where the sun would rise and set, figure out what shade there would be, how practical different designs might be, and to imagine the house as built.

I took this totally for granted, and thought everyone could do it. Until I started living in and buying houses of my own, seeing the impracticalities of design, or wondering at the odd purchase decisions friends made, hearing them later complain of lack of sun or other problems which should (to me) have been obvious. I am also frequently appalled at mediocre houses and buildings in spectacular locations. How could they not want their architecture to reflect the beauty and magnificence of the nature around them? Or to blend in at least?

Over the years I’ve developed a strong view of the architecture I prefer. I like strong contemporary individualistic architecture. Whilst I can appreciate a classic villa and think they can be very beautiful, I am unlikely to choose to live in such a house. I also particularly dislike subdivisions full of mediocre architecture, mass built, all looking like variations of the same design. Suburbia never appealed. Perhaps it was growing up singing Little Boxes at school and playing my sister’s copy of “Mother’s Little Helper.” I was shocked when, years ago on my first visit to the US, I was taken to a housing estate in silicon valley in California. Huge expensive-looking houses, but all the same same same. No individuality. The kind of place you’re not allowed to hang your washing outside.

And whilst I love Italian and French villas, I love them in Italy and France, not New Zealand. They don't work here. They don't look at home. I love homegrown architecture, that looks comfortable in the landscape. Like this place.

Our current house appealed to me strongly with its different shapes. I fell in love with it as I walked down the drive and caught the first glimpse of its sharp lines.

When we opened the door and found a multi-levelled, spacious house with a view, with a cat curled up in the sun, it was a done deal. So we resisted the conservative advice of our engineer father-in-law who felt it needed too much work, and bought the house. We’ve been here 15 years now.

I still get pleasure from the view of our macrocarpa trees through the window in different lights,

or the different angles of the ceiling and stairs.

And I love the view across the valley.

I do however harbour a dream of designing and building my own house one day. It doesn’t have to be a mansion, and I definitely don’t want it full of marble and grandeur. I like unusual (often cheaper) materials used creatively. I want a smallish, quirky, stylish house that meets our needs for socialising and nesting, for work and play. With a view of course.

With this ambition tightly held, following in the footsteps of my mother, I buy architecture magazines to keep up with the latest trends and to get ideas for my dream house. I am constantly on the lookout for the perfect design and perfect location. For the perfect budget too of course. I know none of these exist. But it’s fun looking.

Z = Zealous

I’m not the zealous type.

I’m not religious. I’m not passionate about my career. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up. I enjoy a variety of pastimes but don’t want to focus on one to the exclusion of all others. I can’t even commit to learning one language fluently. I want to try them all. I struggle to name anything “favourite” as my favourite things change depending on my mood, the day of the week, the weather, what I last read/saw, etc.

I tend to do all things in moderation … well, with the exception of sweet things and wine … and time on the internet ...

Oh sure, I can be a little pedantic about certain things.

I’m a bit of a Thai food nazi. I object to so-called “fusion” food becoming lazy and serving basmati rice with Thai food (the horror!), and really object to Thai restaurants offering Malaysian roti bread, or presenting you with a knife instead of a spoon. They should know better.

I was also a one-woman crusade against Starbucks when they arrived in Wellington. (Don’t get me started ...)

But lately, I find myself becoming increasingly obsessed. I’ve even been heard to yell at the television and radio. I find myself ranting to anyone who will listen. Usually my mother-in-law and my understanding friend.

What I'm about to write makes me cringe, as I know I never received a solid education in English grammar, and my vocabulary is self-taught. I make plenty of mistakes. But I cannot believe the declining standard of English, its pronunciation and grammar.

Maybe I don’t have enough to do?

Or is it simply a case of old age setting in?

My particular pet peeves recently have been:

• The increasing tendency to hear “There is ..” followed by a plural. Even Dr Who said “There is 10 million people …” on TV last night. Fortunately I have not yet seen this in written form. Then, without doubt, apoplexy will take hold, I am sure.

• Toni the weather girl says “in the evening time.” “Evening IS a time!” I scream at the TV regularly. At Christmas I was delighted to discover my sister has the same peeve. Mind you, she’s older than me.

• People who say “…ink” instead of “ …ing.” There is a local supermarket chain that has an advertisement that says “everythink we do, we do to save you money.” Needless to say, I shop elsewhere.

• People who pronounce “remuneration” as “renumeration.” Over the last few weeks there has been an industrial dispute between junior doctors and their employers. One of the employer representatives referred to “renumeration.” Maybe that’s a Freudian slip. I doubt it. I confess to being delighted when I would catch a particular radio announcer doing this. She was also guilty of pronouncing “disingenuous” as “disingenious.” It would make my day, even as I yelled at the radio.

• The struggles the news announcers and interviewers have had the last week to pronounce Myanmar. Miranmar, Miamnar, and a dozen other variations.

• “Could of” instead of “could have.” I see this a lot on the message board where I volunteer. Women from all walks of life visit and I understand their mistakes. Just don’t get me started on the senior journalist who says “could of” instead of “could have.” He’s lucky he’s a radio journalist.

• People who confuse “less” and “fewer.”

• Unnecessarily embellished words. Spellings with a "z" instead of an "s" - like “burglarize” instead of “burgle” which manages to incorporate several pet hates in one word.

Pathetic I know. I even punctuate my text (SMS) messages.

This last week I’ve been debating telling my local café that almond is not spelled “almand” and that truffle is not “trufle.” But I haven’t. I haven't written to TV3 to complain about Toni the weathergirl, or the radio station to complain about Sean, or the supermarket about their advertisement, or the BBC about Dr Who.

Obviously, I have a way to go before I can qualify as zealous. Intolerant, however, I have well in control.

Disclaimer: I no that I could of written this real grammatically bad but if there is anythink wrong I hope you and me will still be friends.

Y = Yesterday

5.55am Awake from a nightmare – involving Jennifer Garner, star-gazing, and cockroaches in my hair. Not sure which is the scariest.

8.30 Establish with some relief that only my GST (goods and services tax) return and payment was due yesterday. Finish calculations. Disgusted at pathetic number of offsets available to me. I obviously need to buy more business-related stuff!

9.30 Begin spybot scan before doing internet banking transfer.

10.30 Inexplicably spybot scan is still going on and I need to leave.

11.00 Get great Mojo coffee (my one and only coffee for the day) and feel so much better. I’m not a great coffee drinker, but I must have one once a day. I’m of the view that if I drink coffee, it has to be really good (ie not homemade – I make terrible coffee). It’s the best coffee in the city – I relish every sip/gulp.

11.30 Meeting with CEO. We’re having a power struggle between the Board and management - a relationship that by design has innate tensions. Whilst we are on similar wavelengths for most issues and have an excellent working relationship, on this one I have to put my foot down. I shudder every time I hear of fraud charges brought against company directors, and so try to make sure I operate by the book.

1.10 Yay, no ticket! Parking in Central Wellington is not easy to find. And the parking wardens are vigilant. Too often I get back to my car just 5 or 10 minutes late, and get hit with a ticket. Not today though!

1.30 Bought a pretty box for my mother’s Mothers’ Day present. I’m never sure where to put the apostrophe on Mother’s/Mothers’ Day. Is it a day for a singular mother (ie mine, or for all mothers? Found this amusing site.

1.45 Shopping for my husband’s birthday next week. I want to get him DVDs of a TV series he has loved for 30 years. But the DVDs available are confusing. Are they really asking $29.99 for just one episode per DVD, but with a whole pile of extras (interviews, discussions about the set etc) which are just boring padding and which he’ll never watch? Or are the titles for a series of episodes. Resolve to research in detail on the internet.

2.05 Receive phone call from brother-in-law. Sister seriously stressed out with new baby and her lack of growth, and needs help next week. I’m to coordinate with other sister to see which of us is available to go and help when he gets back to work.

3.00 Lamb shanks in orange juice, onions, garlic, mustard and rosemary in oven.

3.15 Disconnect my portable hard drive and complete spybot check quickly. Pay my tax, and cringe at the state of my bank account, and the lack of confirmed forward work in my order book.

3.30 Starting to stress out. It’s been a few years now since I learned I was unable to have children. It’s something we all assume we can do if we want to, and so recovering from that shock was a long process. It has been some time now since I have contemplated holding a baby in my arms, with all the related emotions. Hoping I will be able to cope, as I do want to help.

4.00 Afternoon spent creating Mothers’ Day present. I have a series of flower photographs from my recent trip to Krabi, and I am creating a Flower Series notecard set. What do you think?

5.30 The house is full of the smell of lamb shanks. Yum.

6.00 Older sister wants to be first to see our new niece. Stress relieved. She goes next week. Agree to send her a lamb shank recipe.

6.45 Finish preparing dinner.

7.30 Open a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon Merlot and enjoy melt in the mouth lamb shanks.

8.30 After about a 6 week hiatus, Lost is back on TV. More mysteries of course. The smoke monster reappeared. What IS that? But where did the polar bear go? And why don’t they just do away with Ben? What is Michael doing on the boat? Naveen Andrews as sexy as ever. (Did you see him in The English Patient? Swoon!)

10.30 Aaaaahhhhh. Reading in bed quietly must be one of life’s greatest and simplest pleasures. Pity about the book.

X = Xanthippe

The wife of Socrates (Mrs S no doubt knows all about her) bequeathed women with a damning stereotype. She may have been unjustly accused. Plato spoke well of her, and I like this analysis of the Phaedo scene.

Blogging is so educational.

This reminds me of an incident in the 1980s. Then New Zealand Prime Minister David Lange once got himself in trouble by reading a letter from a complaining constituent, and scrawling “She’s a shrew!” across it. The letter was mistakenly sent back to the woman along with the more diplomatic official reply.

W = Words

As you probably know by now, I grew up on a farm. It was not a wealthy area, but the people in the district were good people, and we grew up with strong community values: neighbourliness, loyalty and consideration of others.

Living on a farm can be very isolating. Days go by without speaking to others outside the family. Perhaps that is why, in my family at least, what we said was important. Words were valuable things, chosen carefully so as not to offend. Plainspoken we may have been, but we were never rude.

We grew up, went to university and the city, worked in offices surrounded by people, spending all day reading and writing reports, discussing issues. Words could be flung about willy-nilly, there were always plenty to spare. In the worst cases, they became office gossip, complaints about the boss. But they also formed ideas, developed into policies, were considered, weighed, kept or tossed aside, they united and divided countries. Different languages came into the mix – where pronunciation, meaning and choice of words were more important then ever.

Then I joined a company of engineers more comfortable with numbers and drawings than words. Communication was not their strong point, but they struggled to understand even that. I left in frustration, but then returned later as a consultant training them in the use of words, talking to clients, communicating.

Today here I sit, self-employed, in my office over the garage looking out at the macrocarpa trees and across the valley, watching the southerly front come in. Like life on the farm, I find it quite possible to spend an entire day without speaking to anyone other than my husband or the cats, or sometimes, to myself. But still I use words every day – the typed word - to earn money, to support others, and to communicate with friends and family around the world.

In my life, words have been tools, not works of art. I use too many, I know. Brevity is not my strong point. My emphasis has always been on communication, simplicity and clarity, tact. Rarely, if ever, have I chosen words for their beauty, for the way they sound together, for imagery. But recently some favourite authors and other bloggers have inspired me to have a different relationship with words.

So I intend trying.

But in private first.

V = Vineyards

Growing up in New Zealand, the countryside was agricultural. Paddocks full of sheep and cattle, the occasional crops. Nothing fancy.

By the late 1970s, in parts of the country, land use began to change. Grapes were being planted in the hotter, dryer, more barren provinces. We wondered if this new-fangled fad would catch on. Kiwis drank beer, not wine - though I remember my dad, always interested in new experiences, experimenting with wine one Christmas in the 1970s.

Now, driving though parts of New Zealand is not unlike driving through Chateauneuf du Pape – everywhere you look you see vines. Only an hour or so from Wellington, in a very traditional farming community, vines are rapidly replacing sheep and cows (though with high global dairy prices the cows are fighting back). A small rural village is now a trendy wine village, surrounded by dozens of country cottages transformed from shearers’ quarters to luxurious weekend retreats, nestled in the vines.

We often drive over the hill for lunch at a vineyard, or for an afternoon of wine tasting in this region renowned for its Pinot Noir. In summer we revel in the heat, eating outside and sheltering from the sun. In winter, we sit close to an open fire, but sampling the wares gives us hope that summer will come again.

I love being able to visit the vineyards, sample the wine, talk to the winemakers, and take home my favourite produce.

After a relaxed lunch at Coney Wines or Alana Estate, we always stop at Palliser on the way home, to pick up their Riesling, sumptuous chardonnay, and when it is in stock, their delicious bubbles. Atarangi is one of the most established vineyards in the region, a pleasant spot to relax, and famous for its Pinot Noir, though at $65 you pay as much for the name as for the wine. But their chardonnays are to die for and their Rose is always perfect for a summer lunch. And for a treat on a winter’s night with a chocolate dessert, we are very partial to Winslow’s Cabernet Liqueur, which fills the nose with the spices of a Christmas pudding.

Now what will we have tonight?

U = Unknown

At 45 you’d think I’d know a few things by now. But I feel as if the list of unknown things is just growing as I age.

This morning though I learned two things I didn’t know yesterday.

1. A water contractor we use regularly has their base at the bottom of our hill. I drive past it every day, but noticed it only this morning.
2. 25% Americans are Catholic. Never knew that. Thanks to the BBC for informing me whilst I was on the Arc Trainer at the gym.

Still, there are a lot of things still on my list of unknowns. Questions that arose this morning at the gym:

• Is the Arc Trainer really worth it?
• Why did I think I was fat when I was so slim?
• Why don’t politicians know when to stop talking?
• What is wrong with elitism?
• Is the Tall Poppy Syndrome a uniquely kiwi issue? If so why?
• How can America portray itself as the most civilised nation on earth yet have 3000 people on death row? (another fact I learned this morning on the BBC)
• How come the French got great food and wine, fashion AND the sexiest language on earth?
• Australians ... why?
• Why do I like clothes so much?
• Why can’t some people have children and others, who shouldn’t, have dozens?
• Has my sister gone into labour yet?

T = Tax

It’s tax time again.

When I was employed by someone other than me, I never worried about tax. My take home salary, after tax, was sufficient for my needs. It enabled me to live a good life. Tax was something that I never thought of – my tax was paid by my employer, before I ever had the opportunity to become attached.

But I’m self-employed now. Tax is something intensely personal to a self-employed person. As a consultant, my income goes up and down, depending on the needs and holidays and distractions of my clients. I can go some months without significant income, then get huge (well … it’s all relative isn’t it?) welcome and relaxing lump sums in my bank account. I feel safe again for the next few months, and breathe easier.

But then along comes tax time. Self-employed people have to pay income tax three times a year, and our goods and services tax twice a year. So we have to be cautious, even when feeling flush. Because the tax we pay comes directly from our bank account – the same one we use to pay for our food and electricity. Sometimes we have to pay tax on income we don’t yet have. That really hurts.

So I take tax very personally.

I am very happy to pay tax to go towards our health and education and social welfare systems. That’s what taxes are for. I am the beneficiary of a free education, which gave me opportunities I would otherwise never have imagined. I have had the misfortune to appreciate the benefits of a free health system, and more importantly, I have seen my parents cope with old age through the universal government pension payments.

I am less happy though for my taxes to go to the expanding government we have here. The opposition party states that the fastest growing sector in the economy since 2000 has been government administration. I am unhappy about this. Unhappy about my taxes going to unnecessarily high government salaries, and padded departmental budgets. I have worked in government, and in private sector. The people in government think that they would get much higher salaries out in the private sector, and think the private sector has money slushing around, waiting to be used frivolously. But they have no direct experience of this.

But when I moved from the public to the private sector, I was struck with the difference in the attitude to money within organisations. I have seen government officials figuring out how much extra money they can make by manipulating the system regarding travel allowances. Government servants who on principle object to being paid on the basis of performance. Allowances, expenditure, salary increases – everything is theirs “as of right.”

In the private sector, by comparison, profit and performance was the motive. If the company didn’t perform as well as expected, no-one got a salary increase or bonus, whether or not there was inflation, or that they had personally performed well.

Now, as a company director (another role I hold), I see my company suffer because competition is removed and responsibilities are put in the solely in the hands of the overpaid bureaucracy. (I feel qualified to comment – I know many of the individuals involved. I have personally done some of the jobs that now require 8 or 18 people to do, when one or two of us used to be sufficient). This bureaucracy is not as skilled, and definitely not as prudent with my money, my taxes, as the private sector. In Wellington, the centre of government, I see our office rentals skyrocket as the government expands, greedily gobbling up premium office space. I see our small company struggle to recruit or retain qualified individuals at a reasonable market rate, because government departments pay 30-50% more.

And I object.

So Helen. This is my money. And if this is how you are going to spend it, I’d like some of it back please.

S = Screwed

Is there anything quite like the romance of that soft pop of a cork from a wine bottle? The sense of anticipation, then the whiff of pleasures to come, and sometimes the formality of the wine waiter placing the cork on the table for your inspection?

But about 5-10% of all wines are corked. Spoiled by that romantic stopper, with its ancient history. And let’s face it – how many of us actually send back 1/10^th of the bottles we order in a restaurant? Or pour down the sink 1/10^th of the bottles we drink at home? Not many of us. No we tend just to say “I won’t buy that wine again.” So not only is there the danger of paying for a wine that is corked, but ... oh the shame ... of serving or drinking it, not recognising that it is corked, or worse, of missing out on a really special wine and not knowing it!

And so the wise wine producers of New Zealand began to introduce screw-top wine. Traditionally used for cheap wine, or by airlines for those tiny individual serve bottles, screwtops now protect my favourite New Zealand pinot noirs, sauvignon blancs and chardonnays. And I for one am not bothered about saying goodbye to tradition and romance, if it means my wine is better preserved, and most importantly, will taste better. Especially given the price I pay lately!

Besides, it’s an awful lot easier to screw off the top of a bottle of sauvignon blanc and pour a glass when I’m busy than to stop, find the corkscrew, peel off the cap, and uncork the wine … dangerously easy some might say.

Not me, though.

Cheers!!!

R = Relatives

I grew up in a rural district surrounding a small town. All our cousins on my father’s side lived within about 15 minutes drive. Two of them went to our tiny school – Gavin was in my year, Stephen in my sister’s. We grew up together.

Family gatherings were big and busy. Perhaps that was the way of an Irish Catholic heritage, or perhaps just the way of farming families in those days. The men would get together for a drink (some enjoyed it too much, a family failing it seems, that Irish heritage to blame), the women provided the food, all the while gossiping and sipping on a sherry. The children were invariably outside, regardless of the weather – playing tag, cricket or softball, hide and seek. It was, usually, happy and carefree.

But as we grew up, we grew apart. I started noticing differences. I remember asking a very young cousin how she liked school, as she had started only a few months earlier. Her mother answered for her. “Oh Becky hates school, don’t you Becky?” I was shocked three ways. Why was she not allowed to answer herself? Did her mother want her to dislike school? She seemed to encourage or even create that dislike. And anyway, how could anyone not like school in the first place?

My father died almost three years ago. The funeral was, as these things tend to be, something of a reunion. I realised I had not seen most of my cousins for 20 years. About half attended, those still living in the region. The two I wanted to see most, Gavin and Stephen, had not been able to make it. Whilst it was good to see my cousins, in most cases conversation quickly dried up. I lived in the city, and had lived and worked extensively overseas. I was the first in the family to go to university, let alone graduate with a Masters degree. They had stayed in the district, built farms and businesses and families. Good lives. Productive lives. But very different lives.

I was hurt that (with the exception of Gary and his lovely wife) they didn’t make the effort to catch up more. There is a lot we had shared, after all. Actually, I think I was more disappointed they didn’t see it as an opportunity to pay their respects to my father, who as the oldest had done a lot for the wider family.

When I was writing my x365 blog, I found it extremely hard to write about most of my relatives. I couldn’t write too many in sequence - I found it depressing. I’m just not sure I like that many of them. That is hard to write.

So I wonder when, or if, I’ll see any or all of them again. I wonder if that will bother me. I wonder if it should bother me.

Is blood really thicker than water? Does our shared childhood, our shared bloodline, mean that I should make a point of seeing them more? Is that why it seems to matter to me?