Tiny Stories

I gasp as I open the magazine - a gift from a friend - its plastic wrap carefully removed this time. It’s been sitting on the kitchen bench for a couple of days now, waiting for a space, a time to unfurl when the monotony of life needs to be banished. My gasp turns to palpable excitement, as the face of a woman I know graces the page.  It is Noline, and memories flood through my brain, simultaneously vague but strong. I am ready to read, but I change tack, flicking a message to her: “OMG Nols, I’ve just seen it,” my delight heightened by the discovery on a dull grey Sunday morning. Jumping online, I send a message to The Kids, a tiny group of four, my sons and their gorgeous and talented girlfriends. Sharing this news right now is important, a thread that runs through all our lives, defining who we are. When my oldest son explains she is “the principal” I say that is not enough to describe a woman that is such a force of nature.  She was a co-conspirator, mentor, and friend, I...

A golden glow spreads across the horizon, as I shake the nightmare from my head. I can hear her deep purring now, and know my bubble buddy is safe, her fur already carpeting the floor a snowy white. It is spring, and she is shedding the heavy coat I love to bury my face in. Hot, sweet coffee in hand, I am suddenly aware of the rumble, and gaze out my window. The iconic Norfolk pines standing tall - long after they were planted in 1888 - and there, threading between them, the illusion of the train, its silhouette as magical as Hogwarts Express. The road is higher there, and it’s my early morning treat: ubiquitous utes, container trucks, concrete mixers, shadow shapes with tiny drivers at the wheel. “Are you settling in?” they ask, kindness tinged with politeness. I wonder what being settled means, or if I ever want that feeling. I have moved from the metropolis, the busy roads, the crowded malls, to find stillness. The irony of Level 4 Lockdown in Auckland does not escape me, and my hea...

I am eight or nine, in Standard 3 in a tiny rural community just out of Gisborne, still years away from being a famous wine region. My new teacher is very hip - long hair and long legs, culottes and very sporty, a talented hockey player. I adore her, and her husband, tall and handsome and so chilled. When they offer to share photos of their trip overseas, I join the older people in the room, mesmerised by the atmosphere, the anticipation.  Slide after slide is full of colour, of dust, of intrigue, of flowing robes. I remember three: a vehicle (car, truck, bus?) stacked high and overflowing with people and baggage; intricate prayer wheels; and women in burka. It is 1973, and here in Aotearoa, these full face coverings are yet to be seen. Later - much later - I will help women in the early morning corridors of Middlemore Hospital, their polished English accents emerging from behind their Muslim robes, their fear and anguish clear at that hour of the day. I digress, as I am wont to do...

While the rest of the country is being shaken awake by a 7.1 earthquake, I lie sound asleep in my bed, two consecutive night’s of decent slumber tucked away in reserve. I finally rouse at 5:00.p.m., checking my phone, reading the news, a sense of relief that no-one is injured in this scary natural event. Sans reading glasses, I swipe across to my email, and my heart flutters when I see a message from my website, a sign of work, of income, and a sense of something worthwhile. My expectation turns to dismay, as I read the message from Mel White, purportedly a certified illustrator. I like the name Mel - the Mels I know are lovely people - and I already trust this woman. And yet the message quickly turns nasty, accusing me of stealing images. The language is passive-aggressive, an attempt to be simultaneously engaging and threatening. “Breaching copyright”, “previous email,” “sued by the creator.” Yeah right. I’m pretty confident I have the permission to use these images on my website, th...