Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Thinking Positively



I’ve just finished reading Jane Clifton’s cover story in the Listener ‘Down with Positivity’. The article is about Barbara Ehrenreich’s research on the American experience detailed in her book ‘Smile or Die: how positive thinking fooled America and the world.

Can you extend your life by being happy? Is a cheerful outlook what is required to live a
long life? Interesting stuff, and don’t we all know some cranky old curmudgeon who led their family a not so merry dance, died at 93 and everyone said ‘good riddance’, whilst the person we adored snuffed it all too soon and left the their community shaking their heads and wondering about the existence of a just God. 

Will sheer optimism and doing generous deeds attract great rewards and financial success? We’ve all watched as integrity free bankers rob their clients and institutions, spending up large on themselves whilst those who work tirelessly in the community have a 1000 to one chance of being the recipient of ‘Mucking In.’ 

And what about the current economic climate? We’ve all done our own version of trying to be hopeful whilst the electricity bill eats up the last of the tiny redundancy payout. ‘It’ll all work out, it’s fine’ we say as we thumb through the recipe books looking for a new way to feed a family of four on ten dollars, ‘I love trying out new recipes.’ Meatless and fatless, it’s a whole new diet plan. Just like in the war!

This has given me pause to think about honesty. A friend said yesterday that she admires the way I ‘put it all out there on my blog and say what I’m feeling.’ I don’t you know, if I did you’d all be shocked. You’d think I’d lost the plot or had a turn. You wouldn’t be happy. Or would you?

I follow a blog ‘Flux Capacitor’ by Maggie May Ethridge; her strap line is: "What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open " M.H. She’s a novelist, poet and mother living in the States and she tells it like it is. There’s no marketing ploy or adverts. She has 470 followers. I’m not sure I could put it all out there like Maggie May.

My husband knows the truth of me, my children think they know more than they do. My sisters know all and tell me when I’m being a pain in the arse Pollyanna and my closest girlfriends drink wine with me and keep my secrets (well at least I hope they do!). The closest I got to really telling it how it is was when we were living in Bristol in 2001 and I was still writing for Next. I sent poems and pictures back to New Zealand and a long time fan said ‘I think they should be more uplifting.’ But when you are hiding from the world under a table in the garden crying so hard your head is buzzing, with your children urging you to come out and your husband at a complete loss, well, to conjure up chirpy verse is a little difficult. I couldn’t make New Zealand readers feel better about things when my own small world was emotional rubble.

I started this blog as a way to re-show my old Next Magazine poems and illustrations, which were a fair summation of my life at the time I wrote them; the nearest I’ve got to being completely honest about my thoughts and feelings in print. Perhaps that’s why people liked them so much and the column ran for 8 years. In a poem you can say what you are feeling and no-one will pull you up on it in the same way they might for an opinionated blog post. I’m not sure why, because both of them are honest; is it because one is a form of art?

Here’s the last poem I wrote from Bristol late in 2002. It probably won’t make you chuckle, but then, I was just being truthful. 

Rue Britannia

Every morning on the way to work,
I pass a homeless guy,
He sits beside the cash machine
And looks at passers by.

He has a worn out sleeping bag
Pulled up around his knees
There’s resignation in his voice
With every ‘Money please?’

And on every tube in London
There roams an immigrant
To shake a tin at passengers
And tote a small infant.

When I first came to England
I was shocked by what I saw
The streets are full of beggars;
They’re dirty and they’re poor.

But the thing that really gets me
Is now I find myself unmoved
At the sight of broken spirits
Lacking shelter, warmth and food.

Grafting in the U.K
Makes you steely and immune
It’s not a lovely attribute;
I’m glad I’m going soon.


Friday, March 19, 2010

Lessons


This picture is from last Saturday's Dr Sketchy class. My lovely model is 'Shanghai Rose', a new graduate from the Glitterbomb Burlesque School. I did this chalk drawing in 20 minutes. I was there for three hours and produced 3 or 4 drawings I liked out of about 20. Thats pretty good odds. This is the way it goes with life drawing; you start with 1 or 2 minute gestural drawings to warm up and work your way up to longer studies, some of which go well and some of which are destined for the bottom of the cat litter tray. I'm not at all attached to those and only semi attached to the good ones. They are after all just practice. I've been life drawing for 33 years (if you don't count the attempts before art school) and am absolutely comfortable with the process of making marks and discarding them until the work is more suitable for public scrutiny.

I am a seasoned artist. I can throw my work away.
But with writing... I horde every damned word. This is because I am still an apprentice (as much as I'd like to think that 3 published novels in, I am not).

I am currently in the depths of rewriting a bit of chick lit that I once put up on this blog. I took it down last year because, well, actually...I quite like it and want to get it looking a whole lot better before it goes public again. It's been interesting working on it. I've had to chop bits out and get rid of adverbs, backstory and connect with my main character again. She and I were apart for a long time and it takes a while to get comfortable with each other again, much like when you go on holiday without your partner. I was cross with her when I came back to find she hadn't done anything- not even emptied the dishwasher; instead she'd got even more miserable and unlikeable. Then I realised it was just me! So I've shaken myself up (with the help of Fleur Beale and Maureen Crisp) and I'm beginning to see the good marks on the page and gain some confidence with the ones that will make it better.

It doesn't pay to stay away from your writing in the same way that letting your drawing lapse is not useful. Both need a workout on a regular basis if you want to get any mastery.

Now if I could only apply that to my physical fitness program...perhaps a course in burlesque?


Friday, March 12, 2010

Love in the First World War


I have a new project (like I need another distraction!)
Go and have a look, follow it if you like. 
I'll be posting regularly and for once its not all about me!
cheers Fifi

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Girls Away...

                                                       
                                                            Ducks and beers cooling...

I wrote this article for Next magazine a couple of years ago and they paid me for it but never published it. Odd, because its usually the other way around! So given that I had done a bit of research it seems daft to have it sitting on my hard drive gathering pixelated dust. So here it is- its quite long so you may want to sit down with a cuppa, or a glass of wine and soak it up. I'm all in favour of relaxing!



Girls Away

For some years now, I have listened with disguised envy masquerading as bored indifference to women friends talk about their girl’s weekends away. Some have chosen to traverse mountains, some cycle for miles, some lounge about on beaches or venture to decadently expensive health spas and in the case of one friend, go skinny dipping and take turns bathing in a claw foot bath outside, heated by manuka fueled flames. Deliciously toasted sirens under the stars. How I longed to be one or any of them. I loathe tramping and pedaling but quite like the idea of total immersion in hot water. In any case, all groups seemed to have one thing in common. Gossiping, eating and drinking copious amounts of wine. I could do that…if only I was invited. And there lay my problem; whilst all shared the fabulous highlights of their togetherness; no-one seemed to notice that I’d be quite a good sport on the next outing. I’d even muffle my whingeing whilst hauling my ass up a saddle, or even onto a saddle. Thrown right back to my schooldays where the best and most popular girls dissected the latest weekend party; who fell through which ranch slider door and then into bed with the hottest and wealthiest boy on the block, I miserably resigned myself to the league of ladies who luck out. In the girly weekend away stakes that is. Until this weekend; you see, I have just joined the ranks of the women who can flaunt their social superiority and say…’I had a great few days away with some girlfriends.’

Girls might be stretching the age boundaries a little. We were all in the demographic for an evening out at Menopause the Musical. And this was no hair and makeup fest. The laciest thing I threw on was my knickers. Over that went board shorts, vest and a thermal fleece, all topped off with sensible walking shoes. Because walk I did, down a cliff, through bush and ferns to wade across a swamp and along a steep shore to the bach which ran on 12 volt batteries. My hairdryer was immediately redundant, but I didn’t moan once. Instead I enjoyed a few days in the company of two fine women, walking, talking, rowing and reading in the heart of New Zealand. The scenery was spectacular, the old bach very comfortable, the lake surprisingly warm, but what made the holiday was the way we kept company. We were three very different people. A freelance creative, married with teenaged children, a widowed alternative health practitioner with a passion for horses and an engineer with highly technical skills, especially when it came to outboard motors, thank God. Given that our ordinary lives differed so much in content and priority, what was it that had the ‘girly’ weekend work out?
I put aside my former feelings of exclusion from other women’s groups and decided to ask a few women about their own holidays with the gals.

From my extensive research (five flat whites in a café whilst gossiping), I found that we all had the same thing in common. The preparing and the making of food and the consumption of it, with or without alcohol was a binding factor. Men may fire up the barbie and knock the tops off stubbies as they fry up a feast (fishing works up an appetite) but women discuss the menu possibilities of beef on the turn, pitted prunes and wilted celery. They chop, dice and swap methods for dealing with the aubergine, the ex partner and hot flushes. They pour in the left over Pinot and administer acupuncture to the wrist that was bruised in landing the boat. They stir the pot and complement the chefs, all of them. And when the day is done, the food is shared with generosity and good spirit. “Sharing food, eating together; breaking bread; it’s a kind of communion.”

The abundance of food and vino is common and, says Rose, vital. “Massively over cater, thinking that you’ll have more time to consume it than you’ve ever had before. In reality, you often end up going to bed at 8pm, but it’s important to know it’s all on tap. It’s about plenty and availability.” For Mary and her friends, cuisine is a focus; “Collecting lovely local food, like fresh farm eggs, farm-grown mushrooms and wine. We’re real foodies and one of us is a chef.”  A handy person indeed to have along, but not always the case.

 “Patience is a good trait to bring to a GWA (girls weekend away), as seven mothers often have fixed ways of doing things- even peeling carrots” says Sally, who is a veteran GWA devotee. She and her group organise walks through National parks, some of which have been catered but others not. “We also do our own catering to accommodate those less flush amongst us.” This goes for accommodation too; “On our recent trip, several of us slept outside. No tent, and absolutely amazing stars!” A GWA doesn’t necessarily mean an outrageously expensive retreat. These women and their friends have stayed in tents, caravans, old farm houses, communal bunk rooms in DOC huts, a barn in an olive grove and even a renovated church. They move in packs of three or more, with eight generally being the upper limit and composed of a variety of women, mostly of long association. Old flatmates, student buddies, book club members, playcentre and kindy mums (though the kids are all teens now). But it’s not mandatory to have a history. Claire organized a group of 11 for the Tora walk. “We didn’t all know each other at the start but since the walk we have had 5 reunion dinners!!!”

I asked them what was top of their lists to pack, and expecting an itemized list of books, undies and wine varietals, I was surprised by the result. Respect was the universal answer. “Be yourself and respect everyone else and who they are. Humanity is a binding factor- or is that the wrong word? We need a new one!”  How about ‘hu-woman-ty’ then? Because these weekends seem to be about more than just eating, drinking and reading books.

Rose:  “In my 20’s it was all about getting ridiculously drunk, finding a local pub and checking out the talent. We talked about sex, sex and sex. Now it’s all about bath bombs, face masks and slippers and spiritual intimacy. It’s the new embarrassment- letting others know what you believe in. We’ve all done sex; none of us has done dying…yet.” The big issues can be raised in a non- judgmental environment, to be pondered upon with differing views celebrated.

Christina: “I think these weekends should be an essential in any girls, women's life. No matter what the weekend involves is irrelevant - it is the cohesiveness, bonding and sharing that happens during it that is important. To go away with and be with a group of women who share your values and ideals (or not), listen to your dreams, care for you, laugh with you - most importantly laugh a lot with you (at you is ok too!). To be with others who understand you and if not understand you, at least accept and respect you and to have fun, laugh with and relax with them is like a health spa for the soul.”

Laughing and relaxing are well known rest cures and GWA’s provide plenty of opportunity for both. Anecdotes abounded, my favourite one being the mental image of a group of hot, tired women, weary after a long hike throwing off all their clothes except for tramping boots and jumping into the nearest body of water. Then someone loses her glasses and they all bend over to search for them. One can just imagine the DOC worker rounding a corner, looking for Old Man’s Beard to eradicate and finding something else entirely!  And then the group who went to a lavender farm with a fence to get over. The physio (who had small athletic gazelle-like daughters at Playcentre) leapt over it with ease and was halfway across the field when the journalist (with a son who preferred to sit at the playdough table) declared she was stuck. “It struck us as very amusing that this was a situation of ‘like mother like child’ and that we didn’t always know aspects of each other’s lives or character (who could climb fences or couldn’t).”

Claire: “The loveliest moment was us all in a straight line on towels on the deserted beach at sunset reading 100 year old mags drinking champagne. I think the fact that it was 3 nights was good as it gave you a real separation from the family. There’s no point in going with the kids.”

And what of the children? Given that it can be a military operation to organise a weekend away without them, can you sneak a small child into the packing?
Rose: “Sometimes we’ve taken our offspring, especially if there’s baby in tow. It’s chaos of course, but easier with three or four other women at 2pm with a glass of wine. The motto is: it doesn’t half the work but definitely halves the pain!”

Mary, now with teenagers said of her earlier GWA experiences. “Children weren’t encouraged but we accepted that for busy women especially those who worked full-time it wasn’t always possible to leave the children at home. The times children came, they were brought by women who worked full-time and/or travelled as part of their jobs and they needed to make contact with their kids that particular weekend or the children involved were especially young. One time, a woman brought her 12-year-old son who was delighted by the fields around the barn we were staying in and spent the weekend playing cricket by himself! It was like he wasn’t there. For Playcentre GWA’s kids were forbidden! We spent our Playcentre lives in and around children and wanted a weekend completely without them.”

For the women I talked to, the motherhood experience was a common binding factor. But it can also be the one to drive the group apart. “You cannot tell others how to parent,” warns Rose. So what else can’t you do?

Have over the top reactions to revelations; the GWA is a modern confessional- what goes on tour stays on tour. “Revelations are in a safe circle but if you feel the need to criticize, shut up and bury yourself in a book for a bit.”
But it’s defiantly infra dig to immerse yourself in a novel the whole time, paying little heed to others around you, unless they are all doing the same, “Preferably overdosing on women’s magazines until you can’t stand reading about Britney anymore, and long to pick up David Lange’s Biography.”   And forget trying to tune into Desperate Housewives or Greys Anatomy. T.V is a definite no-no, but if your accommodation has a DVD player, Cheese and Chick Flick videos are absolutely allowable for a cosy night with Pinot Noir. Especially trashy classics along the lines of Dirty Dancing and Pretty Woman.  Take good music, a sense of humor and the ability to keep a secret.

Rose: “Don’t take people who hate each other; bad history means bad karma. It’s all about good planning.” And good planning means leaving the men behind. Boyfriends, brothers and husbands are all off the invite list, even for a lunchtime visit. In fact they don’t figure in the conversation too much at all according to Sally.
 “We are all middle class family women. So far no-one has turned up with a toyboy or a stash of some class A drug (though the toyboy would be interesting! ) We generally don't talk about our husbands - it's not a conscious thing but the weekend is about us and not the humdrum of domestic life.” 

And when you’ve walked, talked, eaten and luxuriated in each others company, it’s time to go home to the partners, children and jobs you’ve left behind. The women had different takes on their return to domestic life. “Lovely, home to what you have made; the home you like. There’s a clearer focus on what you want and what you want to change. Girlfriends help you do that in a positive way,” and “Homecoming is uneventful - sometimes I'm not sure the two teenage boys have noticed I've been away but they're usually keen to know what s for dinner the next night! Unwritten rule -always arrive home after 7.00pm so you don't have to cook!” then “The kids – especially young ones – are delighted to see you and the husbands are usually relieved. It’s odd though – it takes a moment or two to settle back. It’s like tucking yourself in….”

When I came home from my days away, my pleasurable bus-woman’s holiday from cooking for the family, I steeled myself to the disorder that would be my home after leaving a husband and two teenagers in it. I had received texts from the latter complaining about the lack of food in the house. This is unsurprising as the minute I buy any; it is eaten with no thought of conservation for the days to come. The last time I had shopped was the previous week and I could pretty much guarantee that the supermarket had not come high on the list of their father’s priorities. I trudged up the many steps to our house, slightly regretting the large portions I had consumed over the past four days. For someone who had done at least one bush hike, I was surprisingly out of condition.

A shock awaited me; the house was unbelievably tidy. The progeny leapt at me with cheery countenance, desperate to impart their week’s news. For anyone with a university student and a 16 year old son, this is barely credible. The most one can hope for generally is a request for the car keys or yet another un-repayable loan of twenty bucks. Whole actual conversations belong to another time when they were at primary school and thought you were the font of all knowledge, not the black hole of intelligence.

The fridge was full. The lawn was mowed. There was a bottle of Sav Blanc cooling and my son even offered to wash my car (for five dollars) and what’s more, my husband had managed to get them both to do household chores I had given up on nagging them about. I had just planned to ignore the mess until they had left home and then have a really good tidy up, and create that minimalist look I so often admire but am never likely to achieve with a family in residence. They had missed me but they had managed. I was speechless; I have booked the girl’s weekend away again. I’m hoping the bach is free next month.

Wednesday, March 03, 2010

NZ Post Children's Book Awards Shortlist




So the shortlist for the NZ Post Children’s Book Awards has been struck and my junior fiction novel is not on it. I had an inkling as such, because if you are shortlisted, you get a call from your publisher at least a day or three before. I know this because I was a judge for the awards in 2008. I learned a lot from that job; mostly that it’s one thing to write your acceptance speech but another to accept that you aren’t in the running, and yet another to make it not mean anything.

I have had many years of practice at this with awards, grants and residencies, and believe me, it does get easier. This year’s disappointment was eased completely by a large peach and coconut muffin from Floriditas. It took about two hours- one for the gut to turn and another to digest the baking. So this does show that I am indeed growing up, or perhaps just easily soothed with sweet things like a small child. Either way I am less likely to take myself off to bed for a week with disappointment, because I understand what I could interpret the situation as, lying there moaning piteously, I count the extra sales I could have made with the publicity and think of the Trellise Cooper dress I’d have maxed the visa card out for to wear on the awards night. Not to mention the rose petals strewn before me as I walk up the red carpet of Glory. I’m so damned good at speeches too…

But in reality I know the thing we make awards, grants, residencies and accolades mean is that our work is worthy and therefore we are too; because writers are so beset by doubt and we define ourselves by our work. Even the most outspoken masters of the trade plying their wares have quiet moments of despair- more often than you might think. One success just ups the ante… after years of submissions, rejections and rewrites a book gets published and yes!!! But the voice on the shoulder says ‘it’s no good unless it makes the best seller list’, so a big launch is organised and many copies sold for one night and yes!!! But then the voice reminds the author about the awards and maybe just maybe it gets there on the shortlist and yes!!! But then it needs to win at award night does it not? And yes!!! Elation. But what about the sequel/next book?

There is just no satisfying the inner critic is there? Your voice inside your head telling you your work isn’t good enough, or worse, that it is and everyone is blind or against you. The perfect pathway to anger, resignation and revenge. My book Glory deals with all of that. Florence Bright, the lead character is 13, she’s feisty and hell bent on setting the world to rights.

It’s the perfect book to go buy right now if you didn’t get that prize you wanted so desperately. It’s meant for 8-12 year olds but it’s a universally appealing story, written with humour and insight with a twist at the end. It’s had great reviews and is delicious; much like a good cupcake. And whilst you are at the bookshop, buy some other NZ authors work too. None of them need to have a sticker on to give you permission to invest in a good read!

Footnote: did you think you were going to see the list here? Nope- 4th March at Booksellers. Congrats all to my fellow writers and illustrators who made the cut!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Leaving...


After 4 years of talking about it, our daughter has found a flat and is moving out. We haven’t been nagging her to go, just gently nudging from time to time and now all the planets have lined up to make it possible. She’s about to start an honours year at Uni, she has a part time job and well, what’s a bit more borrowing from Studylink to buy your soymilk anyway?

I’m looking forward to having a spare room at long last- when her clothes have made it off the floor and the last of her shoes and study folders have found their way into boxes, ready for moving into her new abode. We will no longer open her door just wide enough to throw her possessions into, shaking our heads at the chaos within. Her cat will be distraught- he’s staying here and loves the garment nests in her room. We expect lots of piteous mewing and any staying guests will probably get a moggy for the night thrown in, unless they lock the door very securely.

In a way I can’t believe the day has finally come. One minute I was on the netball courts doing mother duty on freezing Saturday mornings, and the next, helping her find banana boxes to pack her life into. I wrote this poem for Next magazine when contemplating her entry into teenage hood. Now where did that decade go?

My Girl

My daughter is as tall as me;
With platforms on she's bigger.
She borrows all my favourite shoes
And has a better figure.

I know that in a year’s time,
She'll look down her teenage nose,
At me, her fogie mother,
And rubbish all my clothes.

Then when she's finished uni,
With her massive student loan,
She'll take off for the big wide world
And leave her cat at home.

And I'll remember, smiling,
Her preschool birthday parties,
Fairy dress and tinsel crowns
And chocolate cake with Smarties.

I'll stroke her ancient moggy,
And we'll purr nostalgically,
For the breakfasts made on Mother’s Day;
Burnt toast and luke warm tea.

Then the tears will spring unchecked
And we'll give a desperate moan,
Because, whilst she has flown the nest,
Her brother's never leaving home!


Footnote- her brother has just read this and said ‘I’m finding a flat as soon as my student allowance comes in so you can stop going on about it okay?’ … the cat will be suicidal.

Monday, February 08, 2010

Working Mums




There's been a bit in the papers recently about the disgruntlement of co-workers with regard to the 'perks' people with children get in the workplace. As a freelancer for 30 years it's all a mystery to me. I don't even know HOW people manage to get out the door, drop kids, deal with work and keep a handle on family things whilst working a full time job in an office; even assuming your co-workers didn't loathe you for dashing off to take an asthmatic child to hospital because school just frankly refuses to have him there dying in the classroom. One of us working fantastical hours in our household was hard enough. Mercifully, with adult children, we are past that hideous juggle and the guilt that goes with it. I have lost the will or the ability to work in an office now, being the mistress of my own precarious financial destiny, but here is a poem I wrote a few years ago for Next magazine when the kids were still at school and I thought a steady job would be far better than waiting for clients to pay up...

 

Priorities


I want a real job
A nine to fiver day
With holidays and sick leave
And direct credit paye.

I want a real job
With biros free as perks
And bosses who drive Audis,
Beamers, Saabs and Mercs.

I want a real job
Where I have to travel lots
On buses, trains and my two feet
‘Cos there are no parking spots.

I want a real job
And always get home late
Then cook dinner for the family
And fall asleep at eight.

I want a real job
A career to fulfil
So how on earth does that work out
When the kids get ill?

And who will go to sports days
Help with class trips to the zoo?
Someone with a real job
I pay my wages to?




Friday, February 05, 2010

Creative marriages




I have a big mouth- it’s what gets me in front of audiences to entertain and hopefully inspire people in the world of creativity. But very occasionally, I wish I could shut up.

A year or two ago, at a gathering of writers in Tauranga,  I said ‘If you are an author and your work has been illustrated by someone else and you feel the illustrations are not up to standard, then do say something to your publisher. If you say nothing, nothing will be done.’  Oh je regrette…
This comment was born of seeing a friend go through the agony of her first book poorly illustrated by an artist who could and should have done better.  There are many reasons for sub standard pictures; the illustrator ran out of time to do better ones, there was not enough money in the budget, they thought they could draw but couldn’t really… and no author should have to live with a picture that tells a thousand wrong words. You shouldn’t for example, have to have your main character, the dog drawn as a seal because that’s what the artist liked. There is no excuse for misinterpretation.

But …there is a strong line between giving your opinion and trying to orchestrate the illustration process.  

Many authors will confirm that they very rarely get the chance to say boo, but if you do, then don’t drive your illustrator to despair. They have most often completed years of rigorous study to degree or MA level, thrown all they have on the line to freelance and are professionals in their field. If you have successfully achieved that which is so elusive- a publishing contract then excellent. So does that then make you an authority on design and illustration? No. Equally, an illustrator does not see it as their prerogative to give unwanted advice on plot, structure and dialogue- unless they are a writer too, in which case they’ll illustrate their own work (the full 10% royalty…mmmm)

So, writers (and I am both, so I can see it from each POV), be very aware of your role in a picture book. Your job is to write it. On wonderful and rare occasions, you can work collaboratively with the artist to achieve the result you both want (this often requires a high degree of friendship and collegiality the like of which is seen with the fabulous duos, Kate De Goldi and Jacqui Colley or Jennifer Beck and Lindy Fisher). Apart from making sure that a dog is not a seal, therein your role is at an end. Hand it over, trust the artist and your publishing company- they do know what they are doing.

As a footnote, today I was rather gobsmacked to find out that the first book I ever illustrated in 1984 ‘ The Old Man and The Cat’ by Anthony Holcroft is being re-illustrated and published by Penguin later this year. I felt like a dumped first wife and my baby thrown over for a whole new family. Then I checked out Leah Palmer Priess’s blog. She has posted some of the work up there, and I have to say, it is beautiful. The book will be stunning; I shall be a gracious ex. Je ne regrette rien.

Monday, February 01, 2010

Ohariu Valentine...



Sometimes a banishing turns out to be a blessing.
Our daughter turning 22 and still living at home (but looking for a flat) requested for her birthday that we vacate the house so she could have the BBQ she planned without parentals looking on and getting in the way. It was hard to drag her father away from the hoola hoops on the lawn (it subsequently turns out that her 19 year old brother is a natural at this especially after a beer) and leave the Jerk Chicken behind that had been marinating in too many Habanero chillies for 24 hours, but we did and took ourselves off to an idyllic hideaway only 20 minutes from town.

It has to be said right here, right now that we know the owners and threw ourselves on their mercy with promises of food, wine and scintillating company in exchange for a night at Ohariu Lodge. Mike and Liz, our charming and entertaining hosts relented and threw open their hospitality and the lodge doors for a romantic retreat that I can thoroughly recommend.
 
The lodge itself has a fascinating history; some years ago it started life as a bowling alley for the Swiss Club in Ohariu Valley. A slightly odd destination for avid bowlers but picturesque, as the building sits atop a lovely lawn with a glade and stream boundary (complete with a friendly eel).  As a sports venue it didn’t boast the spa pool it has now, the BBQ, the top notch bedrooms, lounge, kitchen and bathroom, but it did have the lovely carvings in some of the rafters that have been preserved by with love and attention.

They have thought of everything. The lodge is completely geared up for self catering with a fully equipped kitchen (I wish ours was as nice), the spa pool is very private (no need for togs if that’s the way you like it), decent shampoo and conditioner, phone, wireless internet, a bookshelf with tempting novels, DVDs, a stereo…

You could stay there a week, get your novel written or your relationship invigorated (sorry, novel writing is a solitary pursuit unless you are doing research for erotic fiction) and come home feeling like you had been away in the countryside far from the madding crowd forever.  All with a nice café down the road at the riding school! Ahhhh, nice!  
Thanks Mike and Liz, it was the best birthday present our daughter could insist upon!