Author: anneinabsentia

Bloomin’ marvellous

…as John Campbell would say about anything at all.

In this case, it’s my expression of surprise at my fairy rose. Characterised as a healthy heritage rose, it is still producing flowers despite the frosts we’ve had so far this winter. I went into my garden looking for flowers for the bathroom and found this: at least 22 flowers on a single stem.

Lives of women

This hugely enjoyable and resonant movie has had dour reviews from some reviewers – and my brief survey reveals they are male. Perhaps they lack the perspective of a woman viewer who doesn’t need to be told the backstory of the women in the movie; we know it in our bones or have learned about the horrific Magdalene laundries, the long struggle for the vote, the oppression of women by religion, the ‘glass ceiling’, the manipulative undermining, and all the injustices for women in a patriarchal society. It is, apparently, not even respectable for a woman to play the guitar! In addition, the movie is set in the shadow of the recent World War, women’s war work is no longer valued, they often live in basic, dark, cheek-by-jowl housing with shared privies, they are bound by societal rules of propriety, and under the thumb of the male of the house. Something has to give. This, it seems to me, is what this movie is about.

Neatly staged groups of three show the progression of the movie. First the woman police officer with her self-satisfied and patronising colleagues backed up by the architecture of the establishment, then the friendships of the women, and finally, Woman Police Officer Moss (centre) in civvies, takes matters into her own hands (with back-up). The downed tools in the background suggest the men aren’t up to the job, while the three police officers, full of self-importance, are subtly undermined by the hens.

Mid-afternoon boost

Sometimes at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon on these cooler days I enjoy a hot chocolate which is a bit more substantial than a cup of tea and, unlike coffee, won’t keep you awake at night. Microwaving might be a quick way to heat the milk, but I often burn my mouth, and watch nervously to make sure it doesn’t boil over. I tried a caste iron saucepan, but spent ages cleaning it afterwards. So I’ve bought a small milk pan with a pouring lip on each side.

With this marvellous piece of kitchen equipment, making hot chocolate has assumed the significance of a ritual. I heat the milk slowly, use a wooden spoon to stir in a square of dark chocolate, check it is hot enough (not boiling), then froth it (for a touch of luxury – and you need less milk) before pouring it into a warmed mug. Lovely. It goes well with an oaty biscuit!

The melted chocolate and milk
Frothing the hot chocolate
Notice the milk hasn’t stuck to the pan so it’s easy to clean (due to the gentle heating and stirring).

A cup of tea and a hobnob

In December 2005 and May 2015, Mum and I enjoyed house sitting in London. We became enamoured with McVitie’s Hobnobs – plain oat biscuits. We liked to listen to BBC Radio 4: The Woman’s Hour and The Archers – along with a cup of tea and a Hobnob or two.

I was delighted to find them on the shelf in a supermarket here last weekend. They were the chocolate-coated version, but lovely all the same. Then I spotted them in my local supermarket and bought a packet – only to find I’d mistakenly bought digestives, not Hobnobs.

It’s nice to re-visit the past, but perhaps I won’t go on a hunt for more. After all, they’re imported from the UK and, as Mum pointed out, our homemade Anzac biscuits (also made with oats) are our favourites just now. It was a nice bit of nostalgia though, and has been before when, in May 2021, I took a photo of this delightful Sharon Murdoch Munro (the cat) cartoon in The Press.

Chilled garden

The leaves are falling off the grape vine, revealing many bunches of grapes some of which are beginning to rot. There are too many for the birds it seems, and certainly too many for us, although it’s lovely to pick a bowlful to eat and to share.

The grapes seem to have survived the -6.3C frost overnight. Perhaps they don’t mind being chilled. The water in the bucket – with grape leaves – is frozen solid. The kale and broad beans looked rather limp two hours ago, as did the daisies in the front garden. They are recovering quickly in the sun.

Fortunately I’d thrown frost cloths over the late tomatoes. The plants are bent by the weight of fruit, but they seem to have survived the frost. Perhaps it’s time to pick and ripen inside.

This shoot was outside the frost cloth. It’s too late in the year for the flowers to produce fruit, sadly.

A parcel and a perch

A two-hour course at Tūranga today helped me discover who has lived in my house since it was built around 1935. We looked at historical aerial photos, investigated street names to see if there was a change (there was: my street was High Street until 1904), delved into Wise’s and Stone’s street directories (wearing orange gloves to turn the frail pages), looked at online street directories, electoral rolls and Papers Past.

I already had the Certificate of Title as a useful reference. It lists the owners but I found more names of people who lived here who I’m guessing were boarders or tenants.

I love the language – and the mysterious measurements used then. My house is my perch!

The initial sale was of the section only or, as the title says, “a parcel of land”. I presume that the house was built by the Frederick and Hinemoa Andrews who bought the section from Laura Gregg. I noticed in the street directories that Laura Gregg lived further up the street. The Andrews owned it until 1972 when Hinemoa died aged 78 (Frederick having died in 1949 aged 61) but many other people appear to have lived in the house at least from the 1960s. In 1972 it passed to Hinemoa’s daughter (as I discovered from the Papers Past death notices).

There’s just the land here – no house. Doesn’t the typing lack the character of the hand writing?

Other glimpses I have had previously of former inhabitants include “I hate Mum” scratched into the back of a bedroom door, and the very brief and unremarkable diary of a young boy which I found behind the tongue and groove match lining in the old wash house.

Today, the most interesting details were found in Papers Past by entering my address.

1947 – Lost and Found: one red and one grey blanket strapped together near Otira. Urgent. (Perhaps they came loose from the roof of the Andrews’ car when they were on the West Coast.)

1957 – Art Union Draw: £5 won by George Weller of this address.

1961 – Car for Sale: 1954 Morris Minor

1961 – Engagements: Barbara Blair to Anthony Weller, son of Mr and Mrs George Weller

1980 – Cats, Dogs, Pets: 2 male tabby cats

1982 – Lost and Found: Two-tone jacket near ice skating rink in Cashmere. Please call Megan or Susan at (my phone number, minus the 3 added later), plus this address.

1988 – Garage Sale: Hold it, I thought. I bought the house in 1987 and don’t remember having a garage sale, particularly one which included alabaster lamps! Then I recalled that my flatmate had a garage sale. She was an alabaster lamp sort of person. Whatever they are.

A ‘domestic powerhouse’

Somehow this phrase popped into my head as I cleaned the bathroom basin yesterday – thinking of something else entirely, probably. But there it was, this phrase, sticking in my head for the rest of the day and recurring today much to my amusement. “You’re a domestic powerhouse.” I had walked to the nearby shops for milk and vegetables, and done the usual morning routine of hand washing Mum’s things, getting breakfast, giving Mum her calcium injection and put out two loads of her washing. I went on to make Anzac biscuits before I headed off to play Rummikub with friends after lunch (homemade minestrone). Then came home to bring in the washing, sweep the driveway, pick up cabbage tree leaves, get the fire going, give Mum her cheese and crackers and do the ironing before getting dinner.

Today, I decided, would be just for reading – apart from the usual routines of morning, lunch and evening. There was only one thing on my list:

Now, at the end of the day, I have read only a couple of chapters of my book. I made bread, cleaned the bathroom, washed the shower curtains and bathmat, washed the floor and the front porch and steps. Before long, it was time to set the fire and fetch in kindling and wood. Is ‘retirement’ a misnomer?

I began to make a list in my head of the things I do about the house each day. I thought how weird it is that I tend to think about what I haven’t done (washed the inside of the windows, sanded and polyurethaned the window sills, cut back perennials…) rather than what I have achieved. I imagine this is typical. It reminded me of Flip Grater’s recent column in The Press where she wrote that the unpaid work of women in caring for family, children, the elderly, the disabled, and general voluntary work, is what supports our economic system, namely capitalism. And what about the women who do all that and still do paid work? Marilyn Waring has long since argued that unpaid work should be factored into our Gross Domestic Product. I agree.

A meander of Minis

The sight of multiple Minis meeting in a car park in New Brighton caused us to pull in and marvel at the diverse assembly of the little cars. They were about to embark on a ‘meander’. The drivers on the right are listening to their instructions before motoring off on the trail.

Here are some marvellous Minis which caught my eye:

A member of the road runner club
British racing green
Useful on a dark night?
Older models with racing stripes
‘Genevieve’ with colourful crocheted rug
There are a dog with purple harness, a smurf, a woollen rug and two cheerful children in this one

Some collective nouns for Minis:

A miniscule of Minis

A coop of Minis

A marvel of Minis

A barrel (for Cooper) of bricks

A medley of Minis

A Minagerie

Cheering up a gloomy day

It’s been what Mum calls a ‘no day’: no sun, no wind, no rain. The washing hung limp and damp on the line all day and I empathised. My room needed cheering up so I did some online research – finishing just as my mouse ran out of charge – then, rustling up some energy of my own, headed to Northlands mall. The assistants were helpful, worked out measurements, went up a ladder to fetch my selections from a high shelf, helped me mull over what was best, shared cat photos, and I made my final choice. Here it is:

Before
After

I got some bunny pyjamas at the same shop and everything was 25% off. The result is a cheerful room and a more cheerful me.