Tiny Stories

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...

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...