H = Helping

Every day I log on to a charity website. This site saved my sanity when I was going through a rough time. I found other people who were experiencing the same thing, who could reassure me that I was not going mad, who could tell me I would get through it. I found an organisation set up after a young woman had died as a result of a misdiagnosis, full of compassion for those of us who experienced this medical trauma. I found an organisation backed up by the best medical research in the world, intent on teaching GPs and emergency room doctors the basics about this medical condition. I found information that helped me understand what had happened, why it had happened, what the treatment options were, and what the future might hold.

I found friends. There was safety in the anonymity at first, but our voices were clear, our personalities spoke through the internet’s series of tubes. So when I travelled to the UK, it was as if I'd known these special women for years.. Some of them travelled here. Friendships developed. Real friendships. I send their children birthday presents, send them NZ wine as wedding gifts, share their ups and their downs, and with their help I coped, and grew, I survived and yes, even prospered.

Most importantly, I found myself.

And now, every day I log on to that charity website, and see other women going through what I did. I find them young, vulnerable, terrified, angry, confused, despairing. I reassure them that they will get through this, that what they are experiencing is normal, and that it is not their fault. I listen to them, wipe their tears and hold them across the ether.

I realise how far I've come.

Helping others. It helps me too.

G = Gershwin

Omitted from my x365 so here he is.

Overly, eagerly, affectionate, he can drive people away. But I know his timidity sometimes plays out in aggression, and have a soft spot for him, as I think he does for me.

He’s old now, and drools.

But his purr is beautiful. His fur soft.

F = Fraud

I remember watching a TV documentary in the early 90s about four very successful New Zealand businesswomen. One of them, the head of a publishing company, surprised me by confessing that she constantly felt inadequate, and this spurred her on to work harder and always be better prepared than anyone else, in case they “caught her out” and discovered her biggest secret. She felt like a fraud, despite her evident intelligence, humanity and abilities. I was surprised.

But I was also secretly comforted. Other women felt the same way I did. (Do men suffer from this? Less so, I think). I too struggled to feel confident with my own talents and abilities. I realise now that I was intimidated by people who used their innate confidence and, at times, aggression to cow the rest of us into the belief that they knew what they were talking about. Consequently, these were the people I saw getting ahead, and I got very disillusioned at times.

Fortunately now though, I am increasingly aware I suffer from the fraud syndrome, aware that the negative conversations I have in my head are generated from my own lack of confidence. I know that if I pretend confidence, no-one will know that I feel a fraud, even if my stomach is tied in knots and doing acrobatics at the same time.

This last week I was re-elected to my position on the Board and had to chair two major meetings. I’d had a few difficult issues to deal with earlier in the year and some sleepless nights as a result. I worried that I would be voted off, and as my husband said, was seeing conspiracies where there weren’t any. By the end of the week I think I am finally beginning to believe that I deserve to be in this role, that I am doing just as well as my quite illustrious predecessors, and that I am not a fraud. I do in fact know what I’m talking about. Experience and commonsense count. Maybe other people have recognised this, even if I haven't. Up till now.

So as my hair greys, frown lines appear and eyesight lengthens, I am feeling much more comfortable in my own skin (if not the mirror).

The fading of the fraud syndrome. Nobody talks about that. But it’s definitely one of the good things about growing older.

E = Eat!

We have to do it. We’d die without it.

We all eat to live. And some of us live to eat.

I’m one of the latter. We’re the type of people who like to take pleasure in all aspects of our lives. I’m deeply suspicious of people who don’t take any interest in food. Either that, or I’m sympathetic – maybe their taste buds just don’t work? Poor souls.

In the 21^st century, we have access to so many different types of food. My mother and father, and grandparents, and their ancestors, grew up on the land, eating what they could from the land, rivers, sea or sky. Their food was simple, wholesome. It looked like food. This was the food I grew up with. I remember as a child squealing as my father squirted us with milk from the cow’s teat. Fresh milk and cream daily. Sometimes, when my mother was tired and at a loss for what to provide for dessert (yes, in those healthy and skinny days, we had dessert every night), she would simply whip some cream with some vanilla and icing (powdered) sugar. Aaah. My favourite.

Then I got the letter I was going to Thailand for a year. We knew they ate rice, but little more. Rice was rarely on our table, in the South Island country farm. When it was, it was rice pudding. (Although sometimes my mother horrified me by mixing cooked rice into the whipped cream. Ruining it!) The memories I have of rice pudding are of being left at the table after everyone had gone, because I refused to eat it. I gagged . The texture still makes me want to squirm. So my family laughed at me when we knew I would be eating rice with my host family in Bangkok. I was philosophical - at least I would lose weight. (Typical teenager – skinny was not skinny enough!)

Then I landed on Thai soil. Was served jasmine rice. Sat at the dinner table in the garden as the sun set, and smelled that unmistakeable scent. I was hooked. Then I was introduced to sticky rice. Line and sinker.

Now I’m a rice snob. I’m sorry. Jasmine rice has to be served for Thai food, and I distinctly remember getting very crotchety at a so-called fusion restaurant in the Dandenong range (just out of Mrs S territory) when they had a Thai green curry and basmati rice on the menu. I love risotto (with risotto rices of course please), and paella, and Malaysian coconut rice, and Japanese short grained rice. Sushi of course.

When my husband and I chat now about our travels, you can guarantee we talk about the food as much as what we saw. I can tell you what I ate at many of the places we’ve been.

• My first ever lobster on the sand in Vanuatu by the most beautiful deserted lagoon
• the smoked salmon soup in Budapest I remembered just the other night
• the rabbit stew in Carcassone at Chez Fred’s (yes, that was its name)
• the capsicum tapas in Segovia
• the seafood risotto in an alley in Rome just off the Pantheon Piazza
• the honeydew melon filled with Beaumes de Venise wine in Avignon
• the tiny mussels in Charlottetown, PEI
• Yo! Sushi in Bayswater in London
• Californian Pizza in Bangkok (the fake one who delivered to our apartment) and San Francisco (the real one – prawn and pesto pizza …. Yum )
• the whole fish on the beach at Phuket our first night together in Thailand
• the Moroccan tagine of beef, peas and fennel in the courtyard at our riad
• endless satay at the old outdoor Satay Club in Singapore, and
• the fried crickets at the mayor’s house in Kantaralak, Thailand.
  

The list could go on and on.

On Saturday morning Kim Hill was interviewing someone about a meal he’d eaten that cost $350 for 16 courses. “Immoral!” she declared provocatively, at the same time as I turned to D and said “that’s not too bad that price!” After all, we had a Euro 350 meal in Paris at a three star Michelin restaurant back in 2002.

His argument in defence was the same as ours would be. We don’t go to expensive sports matches for $350. I don’t have a lot of diamonds. D doesn’t have a big screen TV. Our car is ten years old, our stereo system older. Our armchairs are a bit torn and tattered. We’ve lived in the same house for 15 years.

But we like food and wine. We like eating out. It’s a form of entertainment. And we’re lucky. We have a good time together, and so a two or three hour meal passes quickly – it’s not a torture of silence we see other couples enduring. We understand the concept of destination dining.

But we like simple things too. Ripe tomatoes and fresh basil. Fish and chips on the beach. Chocolate. Anytime.

And sitting down to a platter of grilled Turkish bread and dips, with a glass of wine, is a great way to unwind after a busy day.

It’s dinnertime.

D = Distorted

I understand anorexics, in principle. I can see how they can look in the mirror and see a fat person. Because I can do the opposite. I look in the mirror, regularly, and approve. This morning I saw a taut bum, flat stomach and body in proportion. The face was still young, fresh, 30-something-ish.

But sometimes I’m walking down the street, and catch sight of this round, middle-aged woman reflected in a shop window. But she’s wearing my clothes. Carrying my handbag. Huh?

Wwhen I can’t avoid it, I am occasionally photographed. And look back at the image to see a woman who looks kinda like I think I might when I'm old.

In my head, I’m still young, slim, fit and athletic. I told someone that once. They laughed.

I prefer the image in my head.

C = Coffee

New Zealand used to be a land of tea drinkers. Coffee appeared in the 60s and 70s, but your options were usually instant, Greggs instant, or Nestle instant. We then almost skipped straight to espresso, which started appearing in the late 80s. Now, everywhere you go, there are little coffee shops serving great coffee. You can get a good latte or long black almost anywhere in New Zealand now, even small towns such as Whakatane where I went for the first time a couple of weeks ago.

The New Zealand coffee revolution was essentially home grown. We developed a more European approach to coffee, with small intimate coffee shops, coffee served in glasses or good cups. A good barista is worth their weight in gold, and annual national competitions are held to find the best.

I probably became addicted to coffee at Brios, where I used to drink regularly with friends from work. During work, in fact. But sadly a Starbucks opened up over the street, their landlord got scared, and to their shock their lease was cancelled. (Fortunately they opened up successfully elsewhere, and they’re still going strong). So I led a one-woman boycott of Starbucks. Colleagues used to tease me by leaving empty Starbuck’s coffee cups (cups? buckets more like!) on my desk. It’s been at least 8 years, and I am proud to say I have never had a coffee there yet. New Zealand developed its own coffee culture, one with good food and small owner-operated cafés. Only when it was obvious that this was wildly successful did Starbucks, the big bullying chain, enter the market. I won’t drink there. I have my principles. Stamping of foot!

I adore the smell of coffee, maybe more than its taste. My husband however detests it, so I don’t have a fancy espresso machine at home. I like good coffee, and only good coffee. I get my coffee made by professionals. I’d rather have nothing at all if I have to make it myself! Not because I’m lazy. I just make terrible coffee, and can’t figure out how to do it better.

So when I go out for my coffee, I have some choices to make. I look for atmosphere, service, something to read, somewhere as child-free as possible, and of course, great coffee. Being self-employed, I often drink alone. That has its pleasures too.

Inevitably, I have my favourites. Mojo on Willis St has the best coffee, feels like a little piece of Paris, and is the venue for my regular chats with Adrienne, discussing world politics, office politics, books or the latest fashions.

Wholly Bagels in Thorndon always has a newspaper and a variety of magazines that often send me away filled with inspiration. Only this morning I found reference to a short story competition in a new magazine there. Or maybe it’s the caffeine! It also has free parking, but is to be avoided at all costs during the school holidays.

The Organic Grocer at the bottom of the gorge in Kaiwharawhara is a new discovery, and has more good magazines and some peace and quiet. I also feel very wholesome there.

I always have good intentions to walk to Rosa in Khandallah, but usually end up popping in when I’ve been driving by to get a takeaway fix. It pays not to go around 10.30 am on a Tuesday or Thursday, when the yoga mums are there though.

Rise on The Terrace does the best 5-grain toast with my coffee before a meeting in the morning, and I enjoy lingering over my coffee, or even having a second cup, when all the suits are running off to their offices at 8.30.

And when I have time to kill, and it is a fine day, I sit at the bay, looking out at the harbour, with a coffee from Kaffee Eis, breathing deeply and enjoying the good, simple things in life.

B = Birds

Indigo Bunting, of Alphabird and more latterly Route 153 fame, who inspired this blog, writes frequently of birds. What intrigues me is that she does it with an infectious fascination and love. I’ve never really thought of birds this way before, but this entry is for her.

Growing up by the coast at the bottom of the Pacific, the birds we were most familiar with were water birds, apart from the odd magpie attracted by my mother’s silver hair clips, swooping at her as she hung out the washing behind our house.

In the lake nearby, wild ducks, Canada geese (introduced to New Zealand from the United States as a gift from US President Theodore Roosevelt), and black and white swans were abundant. They never learned that in the beginning of May, duck shooting season began as the winter weather arrived. My dad would go out with his brothers and neighbours almost daily, in the manuka maimai. The results of the day were brought home to us, for plucking and later, for good eating. We always knew to spit out the pellets from the shot gun (poor ducks never had a chance), but forgot to warn my city born and bred husband the first time he experienced this.

Otherwise, the birds we were surrounded with were exotic blackbirds and sparrows. I’m using exotic here in the ”not native” sense of the word.

In the swamp down the road, we often saw pukeko, one of New Zealand’s many flightless birds. The pukeko can be, I learned recently, quite a vicious bird. If you're a duck. But you have to admit, it's awfully cute in a lovably awkward indigo blue sort of way.

Occasionally a fantail or piwakawaka would venture to the coast, miles from its native bush. Going to the bush was a treat – we would look for the tui, delighting at the sight of its tuft, listening hard to identify the chattering clicks and coughs and high notes that make up its song. We also loved the calls of the kokako and bellbird. Their voices were otherworldly, beautiful in their purity. Another thrills was to hear the thumping flap of the wings of the elusive wood pigeon, or kereru.

Living in New Zealand’s capital city in 2008, you would expect we don’t see much birdlife. But in recent years the bird life in the city has exploded as a direct result of the establishment of a bird sanctuary. Tui are now commonplace throughout the city - we have several who love our trees. On fine days I sit at my computer, with my window open, and hear their song. At night, as we lie in bed drifting off to sleep, we often hear the native owl calling morepork or ruru, named as it sounds.

Because New Zealand had no land mammals (other than the bat) or snakes, there were no natural predators for our native birds. Consequently a number are flightless, most famously the kiwi.More beautiful, once thought extinct, is the slow, stately and vulnerable takahe.

Weka are curious and destructive. Many a traveller has left their car on the road to Milford Sound to look at the view or play in the snow, only to return and find their windscreen wipers ripped off by a gang of cheeky weka. Campers are equally vulnerable, leaving their tents or goods unsecured at their peril.

Unfortunately the arrival of humans, who hunted birds for food and who brought rats, stoats and ferrets, cats and dogs, our birds found themselves at serious risk. Some have disappeared, most notably the moa, others are still endangered. Our Department of Conservation has done a wonderful job of saving the black robin and the takahe, to name just a few.

I remember being on a trip once with my family. We had stopped beside a river for lunch or afternoon tea, and my father suddenly hushed us. We could sense his excitement as he pointed out a rare blue duck.

At his funeral, my sister talked about spending time with him when she was young, before I came along and disrupted things. He used to take her to the beach, by the lake, and would talk about the things he thought they could see. When she got her glasses at age 13, she could for the first time see all the birds he used to point out to her, and finally understand why he was so fascinated.

My dad would have liked Indigo Bunting.

Oh ... and I know Helen wanted a shag, so how can I deny her?

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.