K = Kissing

New Zealanders have always been reserved people – thanks to our predominantly Anglo-Saxon heritage. Though I sense too that our isolation and the hard life of early immigrants contributed to a culture that values stoicism and has a distaste for overt shows of emotion.

So the arrival of the social kiss on our shores has disturbed a lot of people. Those of us who like to think we are more cosmopolitan have embraced it, but we still don’t understand it. Unlike the European cultures that habitually use the social kiss, we have no rules to guide us.

The Maori community, with its close-knit society and customary hongi greeting (a touching of noses and “shared breath” ), is more comfortable with being physically close to others. Maori men and women frequently greet members of the opposite sex with a kiss on the cheek.

But the rest of us grapple with the issue of to kiss or not to kiss, especially in the business context, but also socially.

Last year I was on a long business trip with several other people. After two weeks, and a successful conclusion to a very stressful negotiation, H flew out. At the airport, where we had all gone to have a final debriefing and to farewell him, I shook his hand and congratulated him on a tough time and a good result. That evening, chatting over a drink, one of our team commented that she thought Hone would have kissed me farewell, and was surprised he didn’t. I on the other hand was not surprised. I explained that our relationship was a professional one, I was his boss essentially, and that – however friendly and at ease in each other’s company we might be (we had conducted an early morning meeting with me in a sarong in front of the mirror straightening my hair only a few days earlier) - ultimately we had to keep things on a business level. At the very least in front of his staff!

This though is representative of the confusion that surrounds the social kiss in New Zealand. I recounted the story that I had once travelled with another colleague in another company – we had drunk champagne cocktails together and snuggled down into our seats on the plane side by side. But it was not until I had left the company, and ran into him again, that he said to me “now you’re not a colleague I can give you a kiss!” And I reciprocated gladly.

I should add that the next day at the airport, when it was my turn to leave, D grabbed me and said “well I’m going to give you a kiss whether you like it or not!”

It’s a minefield, even socially. Many of my peer group now seem to kiss on meeting. There’s an awkward moment, that first kiss with male friends (or the husbands of friends) you’ve known for years.

Even when we’ve dealt with the issue of whether or not to kiss, and we lean in for a kiss, there are pitfalls.

Fortunately, most people automatically go to your right cheek first. So there are not too many broken noses as a result of poor directional judgments.

With Charles, we have had the occasional clash of eye-glasses. (There’s a lot to be said for contact lenses if you’re a nervous social kisser). Even if you navigate the inward movement successfully, there is always the danger of your glasses hooking his on the outward movement, or vice versa. We kiss each other awkwardly and carefully, breaking free with relief and getting on to more interesting things, like what wine we’re drinking and what gossip needs to be told.

There is of course the issue of “one cheek or two.” It can be terribly awkward - you start to pull away after the first manoeuvre just as the kisser aims at your other cheek, then you feel terribly gauche and go back to complete the kissing, just as they give up on you. Hopefully you can laugh about it, making it much more relaxed. Last week, as I said farewell to Joe who was going home to Canada, I kissed him on both cheeks. He was startled. “Oh! A double kiss!” he said, looking relieved that I wasn’t going in for a third!

Then there’s the confused “is this a kiss or a hug” gentle colliding of bodies, and finding you’re kissing the back of someone’s head as they grab you in a bear hug.

It's a pity blowing kisses wouldn't catch on. But it's not really acceptable to do that to a member of the opposite sex over the age of about 6.

There’s a lot to be said for the Germans, the handshaking champions of the world, keeping a seemly distance with everyone with a handshake. Simple and clear-cut. Confusion-free. Unfortunately, New Zealanders have a relatively informal culture, and so the formal, business handshake hasn’t really caught on in social situations.

The Thais have it right.

They wai, and bow the head. We could do that. We like our personal space.

Whilst I am all for a good hug with close friends and family, I shudder to think that we will ever adopt the custom of hugging complete strangers or professionals (eg dentists and doctors or interviewers) that we see on American TV shows. My US friends, please tell me you don’t hug your doctors in real life?

Of course, in written form, I’m very relaxed.

So hugs and kisses, handshakes and hongis to everyone!

J = Justice

There is an ugly mood prevailing in New Zealand at the moment. Recently there have been a number of high profile legal cases that have not resulted in a conviction. The public, and even the Prime Minister, have been baying for blood.

One case, where baby twins died, was a horrific situation and was another example of people having babies who could not and did not care for them, and should never have had them. The case involved a dysfunctional family who refused to talk to the police at the outset, then ended up with the mother and father accusing each other in a TV drama-style court case. The evidence was only ever circumstantial and there was opposing medical testimony. There was, to me, undoubtedly reasonable doubt.

But the media has been reporting or perhaps more accurately whipping up public outcry, the politicians (it being election year) have jumped on the bandwagon, and there are the inevitable calls for public enquiries, for changes in legislation to allow for retrials, and for the government to be "tough on crime." Lobbyists scream for longer sentences, under the misnomer of the Sensible Sentencing Trust, despite the fact that we have one of the highest prison rates in the OECD and minimum sentences have been lengthened significantly over the last 5 years. Everyone seems to prefer trial by media rather than trial in law.

“Justice!” they screech, forgetting that reasonable doubt and the right to a fair trial are the basics of our justice system, and if we lose those we lose justice. I knew we had reached a new low when our Prime Minister Helen Clark weighed in, as she is usually a very astute judge of when to speak and what to say.

The public is angry. I am angry with them. But for the opposite reason.

If I ever find myself in court, I want a fair trial, and I want to be judged against the premise of being innocent until proven guilty, and a verdict based on the principle of reasonable doubt.

Mind you, having said that, I shiver at the idea of a trial by a jury of my peers. Whilst I've never been a juror, my husband has reported that half his jury comprised retired people (because they have the time to be jurors) and several of them couldn't even hear the evidence, yet were prepared to come to a verdict. Few of the jurors had the ability to sift through evidence or use logic to determine guilt or innocence. So if I have to be judged by my peers, I want to be the one deciding if they truly are my peers. Women my age and my education level would be a good start - with decent hearing too - but I know that’s not completely foolproof because a good friend of mine, who shares my age, background, education and even a similar career, would want to string me up or get out Old Sparky. So I would want my ethics and social values to play a part in choosing the jury too.

Face it, I’d be screwed. But at least there’d be reasonable doubt ... wouldn’t there?

I = Inspiration

I find inspiration in many places. Unfortunately, I act on this inspiration far less frequently.

The other day, I was driving home and saw a big yellow bus with a neon sign saying “Sorry.” It has inspired me to write a short story. I intend submitting it for a competition but will do so NEXT month after it’s been polished a bit. If I don't chicken out, that is.

On Friday, a “home office” shop inspired me to plan on tidying my office and have it beautifully and expensively organised. It might happen. I have good intentions of doing it.

My travels inspire me to paint. I got into painting when going through a rough time. I loved it, finding it very therapeutic. But I haven't done it for a long time. I feel inspired to start again.

The Biggest Loser inspires me to exercise more, as I watch from the couch with my glass of wine.

The magazines I read in my favourite coffee shops give me a lot of inspiration, both for my career and life in general. For example, Cuisine magazine inspires me to want to create beautiful meals and buy fabulous wine. My favourite cuisine recipe is a sienese recipe for chicken, prunes, spices and lots of booze.

Izzie and Sarah inspired me to help others, and so now I do.

And my blogger friends inspire me daily:

• to really see the world around me ... and to learn more about birds (IB)
• to write more about my life experiences (Bridgett)
• to appreciate the good and often simple things in life, and how to be a friend (Deloney)
• to laugh at life (Helen)
• to be more poetic (Mrs S)

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?