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Horns OK please

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It is our second day in India, and I am standing near the shore, hundreds of people milling around me. They are dressed in their best, having come to this place: a place of celebration, a place of horror, a place of remembrance. To the side, there are enormous speakers and the beginning of a stage, technicians preparing for tomorrow’s concert. Further back is the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, its magnificent architecture in stark contrast to the dirt and dust coating the nearby squalid buildings on this hot Mumbai day. Later, we will dine on fancy food in the air-conditioned restaurant looking out across the harbour, while the throngs below buy bottled water and sliced cucumber to quench their thirst. Over lunch, we hear of the terrorists who came unseen on boats, racing through the corridors, up the exquisite staircase, firing as they went. Across the city, more than 166 people are slaughtered, an attack that lasted for days. I tried to watch the movie once, but recoiled at the violence, no...
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Groundhog Day ...

I am sitting at my kitchen table. It is mid-afternoon, I think, and the cat is sleeping in the sun. She is my constant companion, the ball of fluff so warm and soft, the purr that drowns out most sorrows. She needs me, especially as the years roll on. It’s a reciprocal relationship, unconditional and uncompromising. Back to the table. My laptop is switched on, and I am perched on the uncomfortable chair that looks good in the shop, but isn’t designed for good posture. I click on the link, and tune in before the livestream starts, seeing the back of heads, a sombre mood in the large space. He was well known, my friend David, so when the MC opens by saying how the skills of Toastmasters will get him through, I’m encouraged. I wear two hats: a curse and a blessing, a distraction and a focus. As a friend, I am gutted that my famous friend has died, so unexpectedly, before I had a chance to say goodbye. And yet, as a celebrant, I am appalled – there is no ceremony, no ritual, nothing th...
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Unstoppable

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It is 1990, the year of the Commonwealth Games in Auckland, amongst the cast of volunteers, my old and vivacious friend, Elizabeth. She’s an ardent volunteer, joining her family at the Mission for Christmas lunch, doing great things that make a difference. Generous with her time, her enthusiasm. She is unstoppable, I think. I am newly arrived in Auckland, and have casual work for a crew who bring exchange students to NZ from my other home, Japan. I’m tasked with finding host families, securing a local venue, creating a programme, and delivering it to the 10 or so students, in a mix of English and Japanese. Friday the 23rd of February, and the kids come to my house, a low-key party for one of the women who is celebrating her birthday, far from friends and family in a foreign land. Lizzy drops by, and true to form, she brings a gift for the guest of honour, even though this is the first time they have met. We take a photo on the bare deck with my tiny camera, long before mobile phone...
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Dying to Know

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The brown paper package is lying on your doorstep, and a shudder of excitement goes through your body as you anticipate opening it. The courier came half an hour ago, but you were in an online meeting, a hui about a hui, a discussion you needed to have, as unresolved tension threatens to destroy the team. Today you’re WFH, and you’ve boiled the jug, a steaming cup of Earl Grey waiting for you on the table, a single square of chocolate your morning treat. There’s a certain heft about the package, a weight you hadn’t anticipated, as you gently slide a knife through the tape that holds the cardboard together. You’ll keep the sturdy box, storing it beside the toolkit and the family history, old photographs of the kids when they were young and cute. The curly strips of wood fall onto the floor as you lift out the crystal ball, its surface shining, specks of glitter embedded into the pale blue glass. It seems to hum with an energy, as the warmth of your hands clasp the ball, embracing it, ...
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The Babysitter

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We’re sitting in the sun having a cuppa, a couple of chipped teapots and brightly patterned cups scattered on the table. The scent of freshly baked gingerbread hangs in the air, while I pick at a few of the sweet crumbs on my plate. “You’re much more than just a babysitter,” he says, and I smile. It’s been 40 years since I babysat the children, who now have children of their own, young adults who travel the globe, off on their own adventures. In that time, I have married, I have had children, I have divorced, I have loved, and I have cried. Christmas cards and the occasional visit didn’t breach the gap, but now we live in the same suburb, a sleepy coastal village, just a ferry’s ride across the water to the capital. I’ve been here just five months, trying to find my feet, as paid work evaporates and illness floats around me. Yet all the while, my old friends are here, good people who know the value of connection, of whanaungatanga: "Come for dinner," she says, and it ...
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The meta-narrative

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I wake early, the waves crashing outside my window. It is early morning, and the salt-sprayed double-glazing struggles to keep the sound out. It is overwhelming, thunderous yet rhythmic, like the train that no longer runs on the track, its bridge destroyed by the cyclone. I open the doors and look into the sky, littered with stars, a lone truck or seabird punctuating the inhalations of the sea. This blog is “Tiny Stories” but there has been no room to write, no incentive. All the stories have been big: Gabrielle, bringing destruction and heart-break; weddings and funerals, laced with sorrow and joy; rising prices and frugal habits. The safety net is torn, and people are retracting. Or fighting. Energy wasted on competing when collaboration is the key. Library books on grief and poetry collections litter my house: the words a comfort for me and those I tend to. Lucy Hone , New Zealand’s own resilience expert; a tiny guide to sit in the palm of your hand or gift to a friend who need...
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A measure of sunshine

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“Have you got sun over there today?” he asks, texting from Taupo. “Not if shadows are a measure of sunshine” I reply, the cloud cover keeping the rays hidden from us. My friend used to live an easy two hour's drive away, the state highway now a mass of crevasses and broken bridges, an impossible journey. The ground closer to home is both vibrant and sodden, silt and rotting vegetables in contrast to our normally parched summer landscape. Sunshine is what we need here in Hawke’s Bay, the idyllic region devastated by Cyclone Gabrielle. The fruit bowl of New Zealand, the resort town, the Art Deco hub, a destination for wedding parties and retirees. Too much water, in too little time, has wreaked havoc, taking lives, destroying livelihoods. Heavy rain on my roof nearly a fortnight after the event has me on edge, the adrenalin pumping through my body. I dream of throwing bags into my tiny car, of searching fruitlessly for my passport, of forgetting important things. Yet I am lucky –...
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