She runs a computer and gizmo repair business in a Central Auckland Mall. When I visited with my lame duck cellphone which didn’t seem to want to re-charge, she diagnosed the problem immediately. Mould, or at least something resembling that at the end of the charger line.
Hmm” she said, casting for the word. “Wet…”
“Damp” I said, thinking it would help.
For a long time, my friend, a former journalist and writing pro used to be on my case.
Every few months we would catch up for a coffee at the local and have a rant and rave about all things that either fired us up or depressed us including injuries and accidental mishaps!
That is what you do with your friends, right?
I met a group of fellow cycling tourists at Lake Ohau Lodge, a stopover between Twizel and Omarama on the Alps to Ocean bike trail. One of them wore an exasperated frown when she said, “Why do New Zealanders not tell the truth about the standard of the trail? What are they afraid of?” I was taken aback, as much by the irony as the question.
‘William David Paget’ began the address on the envelope. Whoever could be addressing me in such a formal way?
Then I noticed the sender’s address the exterior of the envelope – Department of Social Welfare. Surely no-one was alleging that I might be the father of her child.
Have you been asked a question recently – a simple one at that – which caused you to stop and think. Your mind flicks into another gear as it goes through the search and inquiry process until it connects with some semblance of an answer.
But what is interesting is that long after you have responded, you find yourself still mulling over the question!
One glance and you knew she looked like everybody’s favourite auntie, her round freckled face wearing a smile which seemed like a permanent expression. Yet she’d had no cause for such equanimity.
Went shopping for a hat-rack the other day. No big deal, this was a need rather than a want – my hats had multiplied in direct proportion to my vanishing hair.
I rang a store which stocks everything from rope to paints and plants, and asked for a hat-rack.
“No we don’t sell any” said a South African accent a little too emphatically, the way some people do when they want you off the line.
“Really?”
“I’ll put you through to hardware” she said, and was gone, though Hardware was displeased.
I should begin by saying I am but a beginner beekeeper, so these are just my observations. I don’t keep them for honey, but for pollination, though my kids would tell me the joy of sticking their heads under a giant honey tap in harvest season is a hard reason to beat.
The old bloke lived in an equally ancient villa in Mt Albert. It was, like him, in need of loving care – or that’s what we felt when he opened the door, bewhiskered and a little dazzled by the sudden light.