Tiny Stories

I am in the depths of lockdown, and the depths of despair. Cast again, a third time, into isolation, the extrovert in me struggles. My rock lives in another city these days, he and his husband offering support from afar. Last time, he saved my life: my work wife, my buddy who held the key to the safe, the code for the alarm. We were a team, thousands of dollars passing through our hands as we gifted our visitors with the manaaki they so desperately needed. That was then, this is now. I have moved, regrouped, realigned. I am ready to take on the world, when Delta strikes. My resilience falters, but I convince myself I can do this, an hour, a day at a time. I am one of the lucky ones. It is the nineties. My class is full of 18 and 19 year olds drawn from across Manukau, rich and diverse, poor and enthusiastic. My colleagues are men, wary of the tiny woman who runs down the wide corridors, seemingly pleased to be at work. One stops, and claims my class could be renamed: not Organisational

What I’ve learned from my cat: Trips to the SPCA on Boxing Day are irresistible to two young boys who are used to cold-blooded fish and frogs Multi-coloured cats leave white fur on black pants, black fur on white shirts Calling a cat’s name only elicits a response near dinnertime Neighbours who bring battered and bleeding cats to your door at dusk are to be revered forever for their generosity and humanity A cat will always seek out and find a sunny spot, but is equally happy to share the space  A ball of fluff can banish the loneliness caused by divorce and shared parenting A cat’s purr can drown out the sound of waves crashing on the nearby beach The vet’s threat of removing the ear of the world’s most beautiful cat will send me into a tailspin of grief, rivalled only by the act of amputation itself If you’re wondering what that strange noise is, investigate, quickly There is no need to photoshop out the tiny tattoo in a cat's ears unless you are selling her images on Unsplash -

There are four books on my shelf. I can’t feel them, these electronic copies, but the pages are shining on my tablet, bright in the darkness of my room. It is cold, spine chillingly cold, as a southerly blows snow from the south, and only one dry-skinned hand emerges from layers of blankets. But the stories are of warmth, of growth, of learning to love again. Three “incredible” books I find boring, self-aggrandising, repetitive; a fourth fills in time during bouts of insomnia. I browse the shelves again, and his name appears, a man whose writing I adore. It is Albert Wendt, now in his 80s, tracing his life in Ponsonby, the garden he shares with aiga and friends. And a cat. Immediately I reconsider this man who I’ve held in awe for years, since I read "Ola" a decade or two ago. Tanoa: an aloof, bird-stalking, pillow-cruising cat. Wendt, writing about hip replacements, friends dying, Vegas losing its pull. Writing about cicadas and sweet tomatoes. There's a tiny slip of pap