The percussionist

Was in two minds whether to go out on Christmas Eve, but after a text from a friend I’d been meaning to catch up with and some Brass In Pocket, I headed Downtown for a boogie. I do love to Dance. It was a fairly average evening, up until the point I asked some guy if he had the Time – Time The Avenger on these nights when the pubs have to close at midnight.

So we got talking and it turned out he was this guy travelling around the South Island following their recent Christchurch gig. “What do you do?” he asked me. Well I was Born For A Purpose and that be writing. So we talked some more because he’s about to start writing his memoirs. I could even tell you what the title is going to be …but I won’t.

To cut a long and amusing story short, I can now say I’ve drunk Jack, smoked hooch and talked copious amounts of utter bollocks with a muso of some international repute on the 9th floor of the Rutherford Hotel of all places. And before your mind wanders into the gutter – although If There Was A Man in this world that didn’t try it on I’d eat my hat – I declined, graciously. Don’t Get Me Wrong, if I was to get the same offer from my Johnny I wouldn't have thought twice and been in there boots’n’all. But really, I guess I'm just not the groupie type of girl.

Pretty classic today, just before I tucked into my Christmas dinner, said percussionist phones me to wish me Happy Christmas. It was Kinda Nice, I Like It. And like I always say: you always gotta expect the unexpected, because it happens more often that way. If you can identify the 10 related song titles within this post perhaps I'll even find you some sort of prize.

Wet behind the ears

I'm really not sure why everyone moans about the rain. We live in Nelson, it's always sunny again tomorrow. I think it's quite refreshing. Reminds me of this poem that was one of my favourites as a nipper. Roll with it and have fun always...

HAPPINESS

John had

Great Big

Waterproof

Boots on;

John had a

Great Big

Waterproof

Hat;

John had a

Great Big

Waterproof

Mackintosh - 

And that

(Said John)

Is

That.

~ A. A. Milne

Induction and convection

It seems I possess slightly unusual powers to induce birth.

Firstly – to all men - beware! Never become involved with me unless you want to procreate with another woman soon after we're over. This has happened more times than I care to remember now. I could get a complex over it, but actually I choose to take it as a compliment on various different levels, if you can work that riddle out.

I've also played mid-wifery assistant for a good friend: timing contractions, fetching towels and boiling up large quantities of water, as you do during home births, which was a groovy and err… enlightening experience.

But most serendipitous of all was pitching up with blankets and provisions at the farm earlier this week in preparation and expectation of a long wait to see a foal that was “due to arrive sometime soon”, but not necessarily in a hurry, being born. But just 5 minutes after my arrival, and not long after the sun had gone down (horses usually give birth in the wee small hours), it’s all on. Fifteen minutes later, out pops a marvellous ¾ Cleveland Bay filly. This morning I found this in my email inbox:

“We’ve been pondering over foal names – for a brief moment I did contemplate Anthea, in recognition of your amazing ability to induce birth. Unfortunately this is a silly name for a horse. We eventually decided to continue our Greek god theme and go with Athena, daughter of Zeus. This evening I realised this also happens to be an anagram of Anthea. Serendipitous huh?”

For those not versed in Greek mythology, Athena is the goddess of wisdom, born out of the head of her father (after he swallowed his pregnant wife whole), fully grown and wearing robe and helmet. Athena is known for being a powerful defender in war as well as a potent peacemaker. Of course it’s also the name of a well known line of tap ware, but that’s okay. As I love being immersed in hot water, it’s still kind of appropriate.

Naturally, she will grow up to be a champion.

Like Cocoon, only different

So I’ve been living Nelson urban for 8 months now. It’s all good ...except for that one thing that really gives me the shits.

 
Not the drunken larrikins stumbling home, whooping it up in the early hours. Or the neighbour insisting on chopping winter kindling outside my bedroom window at 7am on Sunday mornings. Nor even 2 days solid of marching troupe music blaring out from the new suped-up sound system across the road at Trafalgar Park.
 

Nope. What scares me shitless is inner city old fossil drivers. It’s bad enough that, once their hearing has gone, they ring the bejesus out of first gear taking red lining to a whole new level. And when their sight clouds over, one minute they’re driving down the road at 45kms and the next they’ve pulled over in a manner of not altogether convincing parking state a metre or so out from the curb without any indication or warning. I can live with the fact that bifocals maybe don’t provide that good a peripheral vision.
 

But then, fuck me if some bright spark relative doesn’t go and get them a mobility scooter. Sweet old Grandma, with her new found freedeom, morphs into Evil Knievel reincarnate overnight. The sunnies are on, lips pursed, hairpins in and they're off with a high-pitched whine. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh! It’s enough to brutally awaken me from my nana nap in a cold sweat as they squeal past the house of an afternoon.
 

Presumably embittered by the loss of both the beauty and memory of their youth, they stealthily stalk the pedestrian you in silent glide mode [**insert scary tension building music here**] until about 2 metres behind you they suddenly thrust back that throttle to full squeal tit, beeping their very tinny but nonetheless gratingly annoying horn, while their dentures rattle with menacing and gut-busting sarcastic cunning as you jump out of your britches and into the gutter with fright.
 

Now I’m the type who, no matter how much I might want to run away and hide, tends to go with the looking fear cold and hard in the face approach. So when I clocked onto the fact that old Gramps down the road parks at his letterbox every morning reading the paper - on his mobility scooter - naturally I concluded the best strategy was to befriend, and thereby, disarm him. It started by smiling at him all friendly like whenever I walked past. Slowly this advanced to greeting him with a cheerful “hello”, “good morning” or “good day for it”. This morning I really pushed the boat out with “What’s in the paper today then, anything worth reporting?”
 

The sly old bugger’s obviously been around the block a few times. He just pretends he’s deaf or senile or something and can’t understand what I’m saying.

Defying logic

A hot summer’s evening aboard a pristine sailing yacht. She, adorned in a whimsical crisp white cotton dress, smooth bare shoulders and a hint of mystique. He, dapper with everything to offer a girl, and a big kind generous heart worn upon his sleeve.
 
On paper, perfection, she muses. As curled up amidst her own fair fabric folds, a gentle hand caresses the soft outline of beautiful shape; a reminder of the exhilaration of loving touch. But her heart, annoyingly, insists on defying logic. Perhaps she’s thrown away the key?

Sweet sixteen

This is the last time I recall sitting on Santa's knee. With any luck, it was also the last time I sported a mullet or used crimping irons in my hair in the mistaken belief that either were cool. What do you want for Christmas this year little girl?