Shrinking, Part 2

Shrinking, Part 2

I have taken a long time to purge this second instalment. Writing about this stuff makes me wonder if I am being too negative and then I get coy. But, I thought about it, and figured my plan was to get my stories out there before they became too blurry. A lot of them just happen to be, er, not great.

I think our brains have a fairly good filing system. Archive bad data and move on. But the files still lurk back there and cast a shadow over day to day life that you may not be aware of. Until recently, I had underestimated the reach of that shadow. I have this idea tugging away at the back of my mind, that if I write the nasty bits down, my archives can be genuinely purged of a lot of that negativity, with me safe in the knowledge that there is a hard drive in some server out there storing them, unperturbed by the nature of content. And perhaps then I will feel more liberated. It seems to be working so far.

So back to the not so delightful Jill...

Jill could be quite pleasant when she chose to be. Despite that, Dad's work colleagues heaved a sigh of relief when she left him. Jill fancied herself as something of a vixen and her sexual overtures at work functions had earned her a reputation. One colleague told me that Dad was asked to get her to tone it down. They split in July of the last year of my Master's degree. Dad asked that no one tell me of the split until November - he didn't want to distract or upset me so close to the end of my studies. But while he believed the news was too bad to share, my well meaning older sister felt the news was too good not to share, and divulged the secret in August. Jill, on the other hand, with typically impeccable timing, called me with the news the day before an exam. I feigned surprise in November when I finally got the call from my father.

Jill married my father in April 1992, on the day of my mother's birthday. I am not sure whether the significance of the date occurred to my father when they booked the reception venue. Even if it did, I think it is unlikely he intended any slight. Venues can be hard to secure on a Saturday, so you can't be too picky. Rae had remarried the previous year, and clearly despised my father. That he should marry on her birthday should cause no hurt. At least, that would be true for a normal, functional human being.

Rae, on the other hand, is deeply narcissistic, so of course she believed the choice of date was all about her - a deliberate swipe. She and Rob threatened to crash the party, she even found out the location of the nuptials. The threats were credible enough for Dad and Jill to hire a security guard for the wedding. As cruel as Jill could be, no-one should fear for their own safety on their wedding day. I cannot recall whether or not Rae turned up. In fact, the wedding was largely unremarkable, aside from the dance I had with an uncle who kept on standing on my feet, and the dance I had with my sister's fiance who took the formal dancing part very seriously, and pressed me close to his chest. I blushed with utter embarrassment. I played a lullaby on the flute as Jill walked up the aisle. I duffed many notes - more blushing.

Leading up to the wedding, a radio station was giving away 91 return flights for two to Honolulu. Every letterbox in Auckland had a card put in it that had an individual number. On weekdays, the morning DJs would read out a range of numbers. The first person to call with a card that had a number within that range, won a trip. I checked with Dad and Jill whether they wanted the card and planned to participate in the competition. No, and no. So I asked if I could. Yes.

Each morning I turned the radio on during breakfast and listened for the numbers. One morning, as I walked to the radio to turn it on, Jill called out "Don't forget to turn on the radio!" When the numbers were called, the number on my card was in the range. I called up the station, got through, and passed the phone to my father with a whisper, "Have the trip for your honeymoon." I can't remember whether it was planned on my part, or impulse. Jill and Dad had planned not to honeymoon because of the cost, so it seemed like the nice thing to do. Jill did not make it feel that way at all.

I didn't look for gratitude, I was just quietly chuffed that I, a young girl of little means, could do something wonderful for my Dad. But Jill took the wind out of my sails. First it was "We never would have won that trip if I had not reminded you to turn on the radio that morning." Then it was, "This house belongs to your father and I, so that card belongs to us, not you. We are entitled to this holiday." And later, "This honeymoon has become a bit of a hassle - accommodation is expensive, and we had no plans to spend the money." Then, "Your father and I have already been to Honolulu before - it would have been much better to go somewhere else, but now we feel obliged to spend our money on a place we don't really want to go to." When they got back, she had this to offer: "The honeymoon was OK, but we would have preferred to have gone somewhere else."

Without having opened my mouth, I was berated bit by annoying bit for what I did. She really was a complete nutter. The worst part was Jill describing to me how the low point of her holiday was when she was giving my father a blow job and room service barged into the room. She had his ejaculate in her mouth at the time. She then added that it tasted like alfalfa sprouts. Like I said, a complete nutter.

A year after they wed, I became a finalist for a scholarship to a United World College for a year to complete an International Baccalaureate. Up until that year, the government had annually funded two scholarships, but the country was in a midst of a recession, and everything was getting cut, so I was vying for a single placement. I went to Wellington to be interviewed, and made it to the final two. The decision board could not decide between me and a lovely girl from Thames, so apparently they flipped a coin, and the other girl was chosen. She was sent to New Mexico for the year. I was told that if they could twist the government's arm, they would send me to Wales.

With the prospect of escaping my home so tantalisingly within reach, it was hard to focus on my studies that year. The night I returned from the Wellington interview, Dad and Jill took me out to dinner and said they had something to announce. "You're having a baby!" I blurted out. Jill gave my father daggers "You told her!" I thought it was all rather obvious - two people, wed just a year, have an important announcement to make. What else could it be? I suppose it could have been a divorce...

Soon after, either that same night or some other day, I cannot remember, they dropped a bombshell - as soon as I had completed my end of year school exams I had to move out. Jill did not think that the house was big enough for our family, and despite the fact that she had agitated to move house up until that point, she had decided she no longer wanted to move. So I had to leave to make room.

I spent the rest of that year in a state of deep anxiety. At seventeen, when I was about to embark upon my university studies, I had to find a new home and a means to support myself. Jill and my father made it clear that they would provide no financial assistance. Nor was I allowed to take my bed with me. I was earning a very small part time wage and there was no way that by the end of the year I would have enough money to purchase a bed and join a flat. In fact there was no way that anyone in their right mind would take on a seventeen year old girl as a flatmate. The scholarship fell through which was, perhaps, a small mercy as I would have not been given any assistance to buy toothpaste, let alone a change of underwear by my parents if I was in another country.

I was shamed by my predicament, but as the school year came to a close, I must have opened up to some friends. Fortunately, I received an offer from parents of two friends (twin sisters) to stay with them for a year. The twins were heading to Otago University to study, so there was plenty of room for a boarder at their place. The board they charged probably did not cover the cost of having me there. They were angels.

Weeks later, my sister moved out after Jill held her up against her bedroom wall by the neck. While she was being choked, Jill told her that she was a little bitch and that she had what was coming to her (or words to that effect). Moments after it ended, my father entered the room. My sister told him what happened, Jill denied it, and demanded that my sister take it back, or leave. She left, sent back to the instability of a life with our mother. My father called me in tears, unsure of his decision.

Meanwhile, I was having a glorious taste of normality living the year with my friends' parents, with all the freedom that comes from being a university student. That year turned into two and, feeling that it was time to move on, I rented a room at another friend's house. That year, for reasons beyond my control and too boring and bureaucratic to go into, I could not have a regular income until the end of semester one. I was the most skint I have ever been and became stressed and ill. Out of desperation, behind in rent and with two dollars left to go in my overdraft, I asked my father for a two-week loan of two hundred dollars. I had never asked for a loan from anyone before and I was deeply embarrassed to go cap in hand to him. He said he would have to run it past Jill.

At this point, I need to take you back six months, to the phone ringing in our flat on a balmy Sunday afternoon. The voice on the other end was that of a friend, inviting our small household to a spontaneous party. These were the days when liquor sales on Sundays were prohibited, so we needed to think creatively about our refreshments. I called Jill and Dad, who lived around the corner. In a small cupboard dwelled a bottle of sparkling that they had no intention of drinking. It had been a Christmas gift and I could have it if I paid them $10 - its retail price. I had no cash on me, but went around anyway and picked it up, saying that I would drop the money off that week. I dropped an envelope containing $10 in their letterbox the following Friday.

On Saturday, they summonsed me. Jill then lectured me on how I was unreliable and had taken advantage of them, by taking the bottle, and then not paying for it right away the following day. Up until this point in my life I had been the very picture of reliability and trustworthiness. I had been a good student who did her homework, never got into trouble, never rebelled, did chores, studied hard, and was a free baby sitting service (for their new baby). And now I was being lectured like a child, more than two years after being kicked out of home, on how I was unreliable and how that was "unacceptable". It occurred to me that as a non-resident I no longer had to put up with bullying in the form of a "family meeting" (We used to have regular "family meetings" to air concerns, but the children were not allowed to have concerns. It was, in reality, an opportunity for Jill to nitpick over minor indiscretions, such as when she suspected we were using more than two sections of toilet paper (our allowance) each time we peed). I stood up left, but not before announcing "I don't have to put up with this shit any more, so fuck this and fuck you." Wow, that felt good.

And that story is the reason that was produced when my father reported back with a "No" from Jill - they would not lend me $200. I had committed the crime of paying them on a Friday instead of a Monday, market price for a bottle of wine they got for free and had no intention of drinking. I was unreliable. A friend lent me the money, and I paid it back two weeks later. I was able to buy food and I recovered from the flu.

Jill left my father and very quickly established a relationship with another man. It happened so fast, we suspected that relationship was already in motion prior to the split. The man she hooked up with was a comedian well known in New Zealand. He also proved to be a bit of a wife beater, which was somewhat ironic. That relationship ended, and was replaced by a series of connections that appeared less than functional. Over subsequent years, she bounced from home to home, car to car, job to job. I don't know that she will ever have tranquility, nor will the people whose lives she touches. But boy, am I glad she is no longer a part of mine.

Shrinking, Part 1

Shrinking, Part 1

When my mother kicked me out of home at 14, I moved in with my father. He then took steps to gain custody of my 6 year old sister. If my memory is correct, he swooped in and took her from school one day, like a knight riding in on his white steed (which is a generous metaphor for a moustachioed accountant in a 1986 blue Mitsubishi Super Saloon).

I remember that summer was idyllic. Even though I was a long way from my friends, and from the beach, I was safe and secure. The house was peaceful, I wasn't afraid, there was routine, and no-one was drunkenly railing at me. No-one tried to hurt me, at least for a time.

Early in the New Year we moved in with Dad's girlfriend, who I will call Jill. She seemed nice, and I was glad that they were happy together. I don't really remember when the weirdness started, but I do know it happened early on. It is a big call to have your partner and his two children move in with you less than a year into a relationship, and I can appreciate that there would have been some speed wobbles. But Jill was something else.

Jill was 17 years younger than my father, but undeniably wore the pants in the relationship. She had a legion of rules and regulations that we had to comply with, overseeing the house like the commandant of a Nazi war camp - capricious and vicious. She was especially hard on the 6 year old who had hitherto lived with little discipline.

Her level of clean was something I have not encountered since - and I know my fair share of clean freaks. Most of all, she was very hard to please, and if she had decided she was going to be angry at you, she would find something to be angry about, or would create an impossible situation.

I once accidentally broke a glass jar before school. She flew into a rage and declared that I must return home that evening with an exact replacement, or not return at all. Dad was forbidden from giving me any money, and all I had was my bus fare home, a paltry amount. All day at school I fretted. I either walked or got a lift to my sister's school that afternoon (I picked her up each day) and we walked to the local supermarket. We only found plastic jars, which was just as well as that was all I could afford. I returned home with some trepidation and waited for her to return. She flew into another rage. Not only had I not bought an exact replacement, I had insulted her by buying plastic, not glass. She knew that it was beyond my means to provide her with what she wanted. Even if I had the money, I would have also needed a license and a car in order to drive about town to find the same jar, which for all I knew was no longer manufactured. She also knew that I had to return home as I had my sister in my care. Perhaps she simply couldn't see past her rage.

There were shades of "Mommy Dearest" in her ways. On another occasion she flew into a rage because Jane and I made toast for afternoon tea. She decreed that toast was breakfast food, therefore forbidden in the afternoon. We were, however, allowed to eat un-toasted bread. "Why not toast?", I asked. "Because toast makes a mess." "But we cleaned up the mess before you got home." "But I could smell the toast." That was the best explanation she could give for the blanket ban on toasted food in the afternoon. Perhaps slightly more bizarre was that she flew off the handle even though she had not yet established the toast rule. As odd as it was, if we had willfully flouted an actual rule, I could at least rationalise her reaction.

I had come from a freaky environment, and initially I coped with Jill's weirdness by telling myself that life with Rae would be much worse. And it would have been. With no palatable alternative, I quietly accepted my lot.

Something that people still find hard to believe is that under Jill's regime I was not allowed to know my phone number. The official reason was that if the unlisted number was known to me, my mother may trick it out of me and resume her crank calling and midnight phone threats. Implicit in this was that I was not to be trusted. Embarrassingly, even the school was given instructions to not let me know the number. Can you imagine what affect this had on the social life of a teenager? I lived a long way from my friends at my new school (I had to change schools when I moved in with Dad, and for odd reasons I was sent to a school out of zone even though it had a poor reputation) and if friends wanted to get hold of me, they had to drive around to my house (if they dared).

All that taken into account, perhaps I don't even need to mention that I was not permitted to call my friends - Jill did not want me tying up the phone line. Making calls only happened in the holidays when I was sure that Jill was not going to pop home from work. Even then the activity was fraught with danger. If Jill phoned to find the line engaged, she would be angry. Inevitably there would be some important call that she was expecting. With no answer phone, goodness knows what she expected would happen if I was not home! It is probably also needless for me to say that my friends had a hard time believing this story, and a couple of them thought I was simply being a snob, withholding my number on purpose. As the new girl at school, it didn't help my social standing.

I challenged Dad and Jill about it once when I was 16. I wanted to know what would happen if I got stuck somewhere and needed their help but had no number to call. Dad's response was "Dial 111" (NZ's emergency services number). That night, indignant, I went out to town with a friend, going into bars underage, and staying out late - things that were out of character for me, and that I knew put me at risk. At some point in the night, we strayed behind a building and a couple of guys chased after us while reaching into their jackets. We ran to safety, what little rebellion I had in me quelled. I arrived home in the wee hours, breaking one of the golden rules of our home - if you were out late, you were to return no sooner than breakfast time. There was no concern for where I might end up, just so long as home was not my destination any time after 11pm. This was because Jill's sleep might get disturbed. Inevitably, the next morning I was in trouble for the interruption.

I was not allowed to socialise on Friday nights as they were set aside for cleaning. I was also responsible for ironing to Jill's exacting standards. Between my father's business, attire, Jill's nurses uniform, and my school uniforms, I spent hours ironing every week. If the pile started to get too big for Jill's liking, she would get angry.

Jane understandably had some behavioural issues and by the time I had collected her after school and then cajoled her into the 20 minute walk home (which took significantly longer most of the time as she was reluctant), it was often 5pm when we walked through the door. Jill expected two things when she came home - that the washing had been brought in and that our bags were put away upstairs. On the days that we got home late, it was a race to accomplish these two tasks. If I heard Jill come down the driveway as we stepped into the house, I would have to decide which would make her more angry - washing on the line, or bags in the lounge as there was not time to attend to both.

Life in the house was fraught with anxiety. Anxiety that we would make a mess, not complete a task on time, not attend to a mess quickly enough, not complete a task to standard, say the wrong thing, or break some unspoken rule. One of those unspoken rules was that I was not allowed to converse directly with my father when Jill was in the house. If she heard us having a conversation, she would intervene, or get angry and inflict some kind of punishment, ostensibly unrelated to my conversation with Dad, but I got the message. I gave up trying to talk to him in the end.

At the time, Jill was charge nurse of the Ear Nose and Throat ward at Greenlane Hospital. Sometimes she would bring home videos of nose job procedures, and play them over dinner. The images were gruesome and confronting, but we knew better than to complain, or let her see that the images disturbed us. She also habitually fondled my father's genitals. Every evening she would thrust her hands down his pants, and would stare at us, willing us to look at her. I used to think it was a weird territorial display, but now I am not so sure - maybe she took some sadistic pleasure in creating unease. I learned to look away, but like the toddler who is ignored, she would escalate until she got attention - trying to lure me into conversation while she carried on her foreplay. On good days, she would just give up.

She sucked her thumb and threw tantrums. I later learned that during some of those tantrums, she physically assaulted my father. She also sneakily assaulted my younger sister in private. I guess I was lucky in some respects. The worst I had from her was a request, via my father, that when I returned from my after school job at night, that I squat and pee outside as the tinkle of my urination disturbed Jill's sleep.

I think that is enough for one blog post. Stay tuned for part two ...

Patrick James Owens, b. 2 January 1843, Isle of Wight, d. 14 February 1931, New Zealand

Patrick James Owens, b. 2 January 1843, Isle of Wight, d. 14 February 1931, New Zealand

I am very lucky to have a relative in my family who is a keen genealogist. She has filled in a good part of the family tree going back several generations and has been diligent in searching out information relating to my great great grandparents, Patrick Owens and Mary Murphy, who sailed to New Zealand in the late 1800s. What makes this lady particularly dear is how she makes sure to pass this information to the younger generations of the family.

Her latest offering is an obituary she found for Patrick, who enlisted in the army at the tender age of 14 - so heart-breaking. It reminded me of how a while back I talked about the legacy of dysfunction. Human history is full of screw-ups on an epic scale. The many victims of those wars, oppressions, repressions, and famines are damaged directly, but generations to follow can indirectly bear those scars. Here is the obit below:

OBITUARY: The New Zealand Herald Tuesday February 17th 1931


INDIAN MUTINY VETERAN

MR PATRICK J OWENS

The death of Mr Patrick James Owens aged 88, one of the few survivors of the Indian Mutiny, occurred in Auckland on Saturday.

Mr Owens was sent to a Dublin school for the sons of soldiers and upon attaining the age limit, at the school, of 14 years he enlisted. His father and his two uncles were soldiers. In addition to the strong incentive of family traditions Mr Owens was influenced in his decision to become a soldier by the fact that the Indian Mutiny had broken out.

The 60th Rifles, the regiment in which its youth enlisted, reached Madras in December 1857, after a passage of 118 days. The return journey 10 years later in the tea clipper Tweed which conveyed the 97th Regiment, to which Mr. Owens had been transferred, was made in 78 days. On account of his youth Mr Owens did not actually take part in the repression of the Mutiny but he retained a vivid recollection of the horrors associated with it. He was engaged as a soldier in India for about 10 years. At the age of 22 he was drum major. On one occasion the regiment marched over 700 miles, being on the road for three and a half months. Mr Owens was stated to be the youngest drum major in the British Army at that time. His promotion was rapid. He was a corporal at 19 years of age, a sergeant at 20 and a drum major at 22. Failing eyesight however, terminated his military career.

After spending about seven years in civilian life in England, (Ireland) where he was married, Mr Owens came to New Zealand in the ship India in March, 1875. He began life in the new country by working on the cutting down of Fort Britomart and reclamation works. He was later employed at the Auckland Mental Hospital for 23 years. In recent years Mr Owens had been living in retirement in Ponsonby. He enjoyed good health and retained his excellent memory up to the time of his death.

Mr Owens is survived by three daughters and four sons. There are 20 grandchildren

The legacy of a narcissistic mother

The legacy of a narcissistic mother

About 12 years ago I read an article about Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and I was struck by how it reminded of both my mother and step mother. 8 years later I looked it up on Wiki and saw how my mother could so easily fit the profile of someone with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). There wasn't much I could do with that information, save put a name to what was horribly wrong with her.

Someone with NPD is not necessarily someone who is particularly in love with his or herself. In fact, self loathing is a common characteristic. However, such a person is extremely self absorbed and generally lacks both empathy and self awareness of their dysfunction. There is a lot more to it, and if you are interested the wiki page is here.

Recently I met a woman, who like me had identified that her mother had NPD, and she referred me to the website for Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers (DONM). This was a watershed moment for me. I had never really considered Rae as a narcissistic mother (as opposed to simply a person with NPD), and I had not considered that my experiences as the daughter of such a mother would follow a pattern repeated by thousands of other people around the world who had been raised by someone with this disorder. Perusing the forum of this website I am humbled by the sheer numbers of women who have shared in my experiences. Women who would understand if I told them I have nothing to do with my mother. Women who would not squirm if they heard the details of my upbringing. Women who would accept, wholeheartedly, that a relationship with my mother would open me up to more years of torment and abuse. I am still slightly dizzied by the notion that my mother is not so unique, that so many children have lived, and continue to live that life.

As a mother myself, I often despair at how undervalued the role of the mother is in society, but my experiences also tell me that the role is somewhat idealised. While we do not necessarily give mothers the props they deserve for their role in shaping the nation, we also seem a bit blinded to the idea that not all mothers are capable of living up to the ideal. Some women are so damaged psychologically, they bring down, rather than bring up their children. The NPD mother is a lost cause. Incapable of self reflection, her abuses will continue unfettered until the day she dies.

I ceased contact with my mother in 2002. As she was what is referred to on the DONM site as an "ignoring mother", ceasing contact was easy. I simply never called her again. She made no attempt to contact me. In her world, she is the centre of everything, and it is our obligation as children to worship at the temple of Rae. She will not lower herself to contact her children, except when she needs something, or wishes to abuse us. If we do not contact her, then she simply moves on to her next victim. If we do not feed her cravings, we are simply of no use.

I have had the occasional person tell me it is a shame that I have no contact with my mother. In the early days of no contact, my siblings were the most vocal in this regard. They have since either gone low contact or no contact themselves. What the 'normals' (people who have had a decent upbringing) often don't and cannot appreciate, is the hopelessness of the expectation of a even a slightly normal or healthy relationship with an NPD parent. To the NPD parent, a child is an object to be used up. It is common that they do not love their children, however they do rely on their children for what is termed "Narcissistic Supply" - the children are seen as chattels to feed the narcissism and sadisitic tendencies of the NPD person. This is not a 'relationship'. This is a transaction in which the child pays with his or her soul.

Children are perfect for Narcissistic Supply as they are vulnerable, dependent, and therefore easily manipulated. When they reach independence, guilt is a big reason why such children stay connected to the abuser. This brings me back to the idealisation of mothers. To turn your back on your mother is a big taboo in our society. The child of the NPD parent has spent a lifetime trying to be perfect and trying to please, because that child has been made to feel inferior and responsible for the unhappiness of the abusive parent. It is common that the child struggles with criticism, constructive or otherwise as criticism is a tool of abuse that has been wielded in a wholly negative way for for that child's entire life. This deep fear of criticism is possibly why the NPD child allows his or herself to be abused into adulthood, because to turn your back on your mother - in this society - risks opening oneself up to the criticism of others.

Another startling revelation was that my ex-stepmother ticked many of the behavioural boxes for the NPD parent. She was so different to my mother, it is hard to imagine that they should have anything in common. They did, however, have the same underlying dysfunction, just in different flavours. It is a relief to be able to say that the woman was abusive. My younger sister has opened up to me about a few things that the stepmother did to her, and I now feel free to admit that she was the kind of woman the Brothers Grimm had in mind when they wrote wicked stepmothers into their tales. I have hitherto tread carefully on the subject of her as she is still a part of both my brother's and father's life but right now I feel emboldened enough to call a spade a spade.

I am intrigued that my father should be attracted to and marry two NPD women (although I should add that the second may carry traits of other personality disorders). My father and I have talked about it, and I like to think he might do a bit of soul searching. If he does, he is sure to be led to the memory of his father, and the effect that his father had on his own feelings of self worth. But that is a whole other psycho-therapeutic blog session!

Magnetron

Magnetron

Here is the new addition to our family, made by Martin Horspool.

His name is Magnetron, he is a Retrobot and he is very cute.

Spooky Coincidences

Spooky Coincidences

I read the Celestine Prophecy years ago and thought the whole "there is no such thing as a coincidence" angle ridiculous. The idea that all coincidences somehow mean something suggests that they are engineered by a higher being. But imagine if, despite the demands of probability, there were no coincidences. Now that would be spooky. If all coincidences stopped tomorrow, I would hang up my atheist hat "toot sweet" (in the immortal words of Kath Day-Night).

However...despite being a curmudgeonly non-believer, I do love a spooky coincidence. So I thought I would share a few with you now...

Grant and I travelled to France some years ago, and knew of three people living in Paris. The couple we were staying with and a woman that we used to know many years earlier, but did not keep contact with. We bumped into her on our second day there while eating at a Left Bank bistro in an out of the way lane. Spooky.

A few years ago a Australian man was convicted in New Zealand of trying defraud a government department of millions of dollars. When the case was in the news, I was convinced that I had met the man while we lived in Sydney. He worked in IT, so I asked Grant if he knew him. Grant said that he had only a passing acquaintance with the man through a project he had been on in Wellington. So I knew I couldn't have met the guy through Grant. For weeks it bothered me, until the penny dropped. I had worked for the guy at Vodafone for a month when we lived in Sydney. Grant and I had independently known the guy in two different countries, and through working in two different industries. Spooky.

In 2005, when my eldest was still a wee babe, our fledgling family went for a holiday in Rarotonga. We stayed in a house with a deck that stepped straight on to the beach. Each day we watched many people stroll back and forth past our villa. A few days in, while holding my wee one, I stood on the end of deck and watched a few people pass. I saw an elderly man, gnarled walking stick in hand, make his way slowly along the sand. For no particular reason, I stepped out on to the beach and approached him.

His name was Bill and he was subjected to many questions from me. I quickly established that he lived in Puhoi, a small and historic settlement an hour north of Auckland. I knew the area from childhood and shared some memories with him (I love to 'share'). He told me that he used to own the Coach Trail Inn, at Waiwera (just south of Puhoi). This was a regular haunt for my family. My parents would have a Ploughman's lunch while my sister and I swam in the hotel pool (they figured that was cheaper than paying entry to the neighbouring Waiwera hot pools.)

Once, when I was four, Melissa and I swam there while mum and dad helped themselves to a meal (and no doubt a beer or three). This being 1980, and them being my parents, they were fairly relaxed when it came to water safety. In other words, there was no parental supervision - the swimming and eating were two rather separate things.

The pool had two depths, linked by a short transition ramp. I distinctly remember standing in the shallow end and thinking that it had been a long time since we were last there, that I was a big girl, and that by now surely I would be able to touch the bottom in the deep end like Mel could. I stretched my leg out on to the ramp, discovered it was rather slippery and quickly slid down into the deep and under the water.

I recall it like an out of body experience. I can see my hair floating around my face, the string from my frilly red bikini waving about, my limbs hanging useless about me, and a man with large sunglasses and big sideburns leaping in fully clothed to pull me out. There were not many people around and I was very lucky that he noticed me go under, otherwise it is likely I would have drowned.

Bill looked at me with his mouth agape, "You were that little girl that I saved?". There had only ever been one almost drowning at that hotel, it was in 1980, and Bill was the hero of the day. Coincidentally he had been talking about the incident with friends a couple of weeks earlier - the first time he had done so in many years.

Slightly overwhelmed, I thanked him for saving my life, and thereby making my little boy's life possible. I invited him up to the deck to rest his legs, and he was soon joined by his (much younger) wife. They told us about their life in Puhoi, their home, their family, and we said we would try to stop by when we were next in the area (we haven't yet - gulp).

I was glad that, so unexpectedly, I was able to close a chapter of my life that I didn't even realise was open. And I imagine that for Bill, there was a certain satisfaction to be had in our meeting, especially coming as it did in his twilight years.

Spoooooky.

Airing out the Linen Cupboard on Facebook

Airing out the Linen Cupboard on Facebook

Recently my younger sister posted a bunch of family photos on Facebook, carefully editing her selection to include as many horrid photos of me that she could find. I would call her an old slag, but she is neither old, nor a slag - dang.

Despite being confronted with the evidence of my numerous crimes against hair fashion, I have enjoyed the dialogue that has ensued between my older sister, young sister and me on the web pages. It is like flipping through an old family album together, and then having a (semi)permanent record of the conversation that follows. Even better, because our reactions are written rather than spoken, there is some time for reflection and the dredging up of memories hidden away in dark corners. OK, so we are sightly prone to too-much-information syndrome, but I think that makes it a little more fun. I have pasted one of these conversations below. I also find it fascinating how slippery memory can be - as you will see here. Mainly I am just amused at how bizarre our childhood really was.



Me: when I was 12 my hair was bad, ok? Why is our house always sick tidy in these photos? Oh that's right, I was always tidying it! I am pretty sure I have been snapped clearing up after cyclone (YS)-4 years old :-)

damned iPod - I was trying to say so tidy, not sick tidy.

Younger sister (YS) - a ha thats what little sisters are for! ps that hair is HOT.......I am sure it was bad for a tad longer than that! Oh thats right I have photographic evidence to prove it was! he he

Older sister (OS) Remember that photo, think I took it, you were cleaning up. Background sofa couch is what that alchie Rickie slept on in your old room, pissed on it so much in his sleep it went right through to the carpet & rotted it. Classy

Me - he was so dodgy. He gave me a book called something like "the little black book for boys and girls" when he moved out. It was full of "self abuse" and sex stories and in hind sight read like a book designed by paedophiles for "grooming" children. I was 9 or 10. I was disturbed by it and gave it to Rae who hit the roof. He was very nice to me then turned out to be such a weirdo

hmm that was probably too much information, but isn't it great that on facebook we can bring something different to each photo. Shame we don't have a photo of Cath, Dolly Rocker, or the cat burglar "Piorrhea Pete with the marijuana breath" and his trusty whippets.

OS - Actually the cat burglar was a little ginger man called Paul, I helped him & Mum weigh up ounce bags of weed on our dining table.there was also penguin Pete who went down to Campbells Bay beach & got naked to call in the penguins.... he had a rather pirate edge to him AAARGGHHH.Not forgeting the swinger Cliff Hill. We also had GH the rock photographer who had a penchant for Leather trousers with no undies. He was a strapping 40kg. He accused Mum of drugging him & renting him out for anal sex with brooms. One time we had a 'gathering at ours, Cath came up to the lounge & said something in her incoherent vagrant dribble, then disappeared behind the couch where she lay in a cheap booze coma. God I miss the suburbs
(PS I will remove this once read xx)

Me - Now, I am sure his name was Paul the penguin and pete was the Ginger man with whippets and oral hygiene issues. Cliff Hill in being incredibly tall had such a fitting name. Do you remember that the penguin was a pyromaniac who stayed up until the wee hours burning things in the backyard? He had a Charles Manson vibe.

PS: forgot to mention the photo montage GH did for me of stryper - that Christian metal group that toured in 89. Sooo sweet of him even if stryper wasn't quite my thing. That same year he was covering a music festival up north and we went along and were introduced to joe walsh and the herbs. We then slept in a marae and had pipis for breakfast. So I do have fond memories of the guy even though we did tease him and rae mercilessly for him being an old hippie with patchwork leather vests and skinny jeans. We certainly knew how to drive away those boyfriends!

YS - Don't bother deleting them they are so funny! At least our lives growing up were colorful to say the least. Don't remember penguin man but you are right Pete was the ginger.. his name was Pete shit bags who went out with a prostitute on k road. I don't think i want to know why his name was shit bags! But he did remind me of neil off the young ones a bit. I think he ended up in a Psychiatric hospital... or maybe it was his hooker girlfriend.
God i remember I hated cath the bag lady. She was such a horrible woman.
Actually funny and true story mum went out with this guy Rick who offered to pay Jade and I $50 each if we pashed each other. Anyway this was when we were over at his house, mum found out and got mad and got even. In front of some (I think french can't quite remember) Homestays and us stood at the top of the stairs and said... hey guys look at this.... whipped down her pants pissed in his glass and then gave it to him to drink... which he did.
Our mum was all class...

Me - Ok - now we are all getting very confused! The ginga and pete shitbags were two different Petes (or pete and Paul according to mel's recollection). Jane, that story is at once horrifying and hilarious. Horrifying and hilarious .... those two words pretty much sum up life at 274.