Bolton Street Memorial Park

Between the cyclone in Burma and the earthquake in China, I was feeling rather melancholy earlier this week.

I was in town and had some spare time between appointments so I took a stroll through the Bolton Street Memorial Park. In a strange way this cheered me up. There is something deeply moving about cemeteries; they are places of peace and respect.

Without being too crude about it they are also places of growth, suffused with natural blood and bone. Plants regenerate around graves with verdant abundance. Splashes of colour punctuate the grey stones and the brown earth. One life may come to an end, but life as a whole goes on.

The dead are interred with reverence. There are rituals that attempt to find order amidst the random chaos that is living. There are places the grieving can visit and follow their own protocols to deal with their loss.

As I paused among the headstones, people smiled and spoke to me. I found sympathy and peace. The neat paths in the cemetery are beckoning, leading to new avenues. I felt as though there was reason and rationale in this place. There can be beauty and dignity even in death. It is not all in vain. I was bizarrely rejuvenated.

E nga mate, haere, haere, haere.

Tuakana: My Newest Favourite Thing

Last week, through an opportunity at work, I spent two days and a night on the Massey University marae, learning Te Reo Maori and Tikanga. It can be a minefield, especially for someone like me - English, white, and female - a trifecta of tribulations.

I find new experiences initially frightening, but ultimately rewarding. I am still haunted by memories of going to a new school and finding a seat in the cafeteria at lunchtime. I like swimming but am terrified of unfamiliar pools where I don't know the routine about lockers and changing rooms. Dinner parties; award ceremonies; sporting events; church services - all can fill me with trepidation until I know what to expect and what is expected from me.

I did, indeed, learn many things and am grateful for the experience. The best part of the whole wananga was the concept of tuakana/teina. My understanding is that the tuakana is an older brother or sister, who is your senior to whom you defer and ask for advice and guidance.

This is not necessarily to do with age, but more to do with wisdom. As a teina you are the younger sibling, but also have points of value and merit that you can teach to others which may be more to do with attitude and outlook than experience. I love the fact that the relationship works both ways.

We had two lovely 'big sisters' (Sian and Terina) who helped us out with all the protocol and customs - we followed their lead and asked them questions and they were approachable and made everything positive and welcoming.

I think everyone in life should have someone who fulfills this role. I have been blessed with two big sisters and a big brother of my own, who always look after me when they can. Geographical distance and daily concerns mean that sometimes this isn't possible and I miss them all greatly. For those who aren't fortunate enough to have a large family, I think a tuakana should be top of their wish list.

Gunner Inglorious

Last week I went to see an excellent play called Gunner Inglorious at Soundings Theatre in Te Papa.

The one-man play, based on true events in a book by Jim Henderson has, apparently been performed over a hundred times around the country. It is still remarkably fresh and captivating and thoroughly worth seeing. I don't know what the future plans for this production are, but I strongly recommend that if you haven't yet seen it, you should do so.

Bassoon: My Newest Favourite Thing

My new favourite thing is the bassoon.

I had a fortunate childhood which involved a lot of music, theatre and art. This is because my mother loved these things, and I was the youngest child. There was gap of three and a half years between me and the next one, so when they had all been carted safely off to school, I was left behind with my mother. She toted me around concerts halls, theatres, art galleries and the like – it was much easier to keep track of one child than four on the train to London and back.

My earliest memories include music – sitting and listening to crackling records of Sergey Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf; Camille Saint-Saen’s Carnival of the Animals; Modest Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition; Georges Bizet’s Carmen; Paul Dukas’ Sorcerer’s Apprentice; Ravel’s Bolero.

Underpinning all of these was the deep mellifluous tones of the bassoon. It was a sombre, dignified instrument that you didn’t mess with. It meant business and it was slightly sad due to the weight of its years and experience, yet it had a benevolent and gentle nature – it was solid, protective, and dependable. It really was Peter’s grandfather. In an orchestral melee you’d want a bassoon on your side.

Yesterday I went along to a free reading of orchestral music by New Zealand composers, conducted by Kenneth Young. What a delight! One of the pieces, by Mike Nock was Sketches for bassoon, orchestra and jazz trio. It was stunning and sent shivers up my spine – in a good way. The bassoon was played by Colin Hemmingsen and I’m no aficionado, but I thought it was fabulous.

It took me back to my childhood days of sitting on the rug in the front room while the rain sleeted down outside. My mother left me in the capable hands of these composers and my own imagination while she did whatever it was that mothers did. I can only be grateful for that opportunity.

These readings were held at the Wellington Town Hall and organised as part of New Zealand Music Month by the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra and SOUNZ. The next lot of readings will be on Tuesday 2nd and Wednesday 3rd September in the Michael Fowler Centre, Wellington. I recommend you get along to them.

Changing Times

Smalls Books and Models was a shop selling ‘books, plastic kits and diecast transport and military models’ in Central Wellington. Every time I walked past it, I recalled the heady (and that’s not just due to the rather enticingly-named poly cement) days of Airfix kits.

With these models you could glue, assemble and paint rockets, ships, tanks, cars, dinosaurs and historical figures. They were a great thing to do on a rainy day when you couldn’t ride your bike or go to the park to play football. Parents got to play with them too, having hours of fun using tweezers for the fiddly bits that podgy children’s fingers couldn’t manage.

I remember my sister making a scale model of the Golden Hind, with miniature figures clinging to the rigging for their dear little plastic lives. Of course it was educational as she found out all about Sir Francis Drake and his voyages of discovery. It took her ages and the manufacture of it was more than half the fun – when it was finally finished, it was left to gather dust on the windowsill – I think it may still be there.

Building model kits taught skills for later life such as following instructions; manual dexterity; hand-to-eye co-ordination; patience; and the pleasure of seeing something develop before you and knowing you had made it yourself.

Airfix is now in a fix as their sales are down. Parents complain that many of their constructs are violent. Today’s children, and their parents, prefer instant gratification with either sanitised whimsy or video games, which as we all know, are inherently placid.

Whether this has anything to do with the disappearance of Small Books and Models, I don’t know, but I do find it symptomatic that it has been replaced by a shop called ‘The Apple of My Eye’. Established in late 2005, TAME purports to sell ‘a gorgeous compilation of our favourite hard to find nursery items and playthings from around the world.’

The website insists the ‘fantastic range of goodies are vintage inspired, contemporary and whimsical.’ The writers freely admit that they love sentiment. They also love the unholy mix of marketing and manipulation. They trumpet that the goods they sell are ‘ethically made and traded’, offering a ‘unique example of craftsmanship and design’.

Hence you can buy dolls with pink co-ordinated accessories, so your ‘wee one’ can learn early on about succumbing to fashion dictates. With a clear conscience and a knowledge that you are being ‘kind to the world and those in it’ you can start a child on the road to capitalism with ‘Birdie anibank’; a hand-knitted depository that wears a ‘cute little hat and sports rainbow striped wings.’

Smothered in saccharine you can buy ‘cosy’ cotton items for ‘onseies’ and ‘modernist’ blankets that are, apparently, ‘so snuggly (sic) that parting from them would be unbearable.’ The nauseating advertising continues with things for ‘baby’s room’ like the resolutely pastel ‘bedtime buddies’ and ‘softies’.

Of course, gender stereotypes are strictly reinforced with blues for the boys and pink for the girls. If you don’t yet know what flavour ‘the sunshine in your life’ is going to be, but are still desperate to part with your cash, there are some green, orange and brown items: Elfie and Sprite are mythical spirits combining a twee fantasy world with the latest boardroom buzzwords, as they are ‘perfect guests for tea parties, and robust enough for garden adventures.’ And there are knitted car-shaped music boxes which are both pink and blue.

TAME offers ‘apple lessons’ in which you can learn new talents and ‘wow your coffee group friends with stories of your trapeze and aerial tissue lessons.’ Clearly this is far more socially acceptable than spending time with your child building a model of something real.

We have softened the edges of our world, so it is all a big blurry, fuzzy cocoon. How nice; how safe; how mind-numbingly dull; how blatantly untrue; how crushingly brainwashed. Pass me the Valium – oh, I see, you’ve used it all up already.

International Comedy Festival

I used to go to a lot of live comedy when I was a student in Manchester, where there were regular gigs and stand-up comedy was an art form. Here, in New Zealand, I know the population is a lot smaller and there are not the opportunities to perform, but there is such a dearth of comedic talent that I came to the conclusion that New Zealand is just not a funny nation. I know Kiwis will disagree and I can hear the shout of 'Flight of the Chonchords' from here. But, and leaving the merits or otherwise of that particular duo (who weren't valued in New Zealand until they were recognised in the U.S.), what else have you got?

Well, quite a bit, it appears. The line-up for this year's International Comedy Festival includes some pretty fine Kiwi comedians. I am full of respect for those who hurdle these obstacles and prove that geographical isolation doesn't have to produce insularity. Jeremy Elwood, whose professional brand of political and social comment is so good that it reminds me of the fabulous Ben Elton, is an absolute stand-out. But then, he was born in Canada, and raised in the UK. If you get the chance to check him out, do.

I have been trying to get to as many shows as I can and it is a delight to see some good comedy again. One of the things I like about the festival (apart from the laughter) is the fact that not all the shows are on really late. Some even start as early as 6.30pm, which I think is very reasonable. As I said, I used to go to comedy a lot when I was a student. When I didn't have to get up early the next morning and go to work.

Maybe that's why traditionally stand-up appeals to a younger audience. You don't have to do a different show; just do it earlier. Sometimes it can be even better when the audience hasn't had a chance to get pissed yet, and can actually appreciate what you're saying. Just a thought...

These are my reviews of the shows I have seen so far:
First Laughs
The Lonesome Buckwhips: Charity Gala
Janey Godley: Tell It Like It Is

Fennel tea: my newest favourite thing

My new favourite thing is fennel tea. Twinings have brought out a version in their infusions range, which they call Pure Fennel and in which they claim to only use fennel seeds. Hmm, I could probably pick a few and add my own boiling water, and not have to pay for a box with a rather fey picture on the front of a fennel bush in flower.

My run through Pass of Branda (which sounds wonderfully gothic or otherworldly but is actually just a wee hill between bays) is lined with fennel – in the summer it feels like running through a curry kitchen of bright yellow flowers; in spring the brilliant green feathery fronds hold enough residual moisture to soak you as you brush past.

Fennel is naturally caffeine-free, has ‘anti-spasmodic properties’ and stimulates the production of gastric juices. Not only is it useful for gastrointestinal and menstrual cramps, heartburn, diarrhoea, and colic, but apparently it can also be used to help alleviate the symptoms of whooping cough, asthma, bronchitis, and other upper-respiratory infections.

I don't know if any of this is true, but it is a great ingredient to add a piquant flavour to many meals. I discovered a great recipe involving fennel, pernod and cannellini beans which goes perfectly with firm white fish. My mouth is watering as I think of it.

Fennel has been used as a drug to aid indigestion for centuries form the Chinese to the Greeks and of course, the Romans. It is native to the Mediterranean and has a mild liquorice flavour. Fennel tea is not as strong as liquorice tea, which can leave an unpleasant aftertaste. Fennel tea is good for bloating and gas, and can be combined with peppermint for a different type of refreshing flavour.

As with all organic and natural remedies, there may or may not be a measure of truth to any of this, but who cares? It tastes good!