COVID-19: We Aren't Gathered Here Together

Last weekend it was Easter. I am a 'wishy-washy Anglican' (not actually my words, but I have been called thus) and only really attend Church at the major religious festivals - Christmas, Easter and Whitsun being the big dates in my calendar. Of course, this year I could not go to Church - no one can - and I missed it. I missed singing the songs and saying the prayers; I missed turning to my fellow members of the congregation and wishing them peace and good will. And I missed them doing the same for me. I missed that communal feeling.

For the same reason, I love watching sports and theatre; I enjoy a shared experience. Knowing that you feel the same thing as others is a wonderful thing. When I breathe in the hallowed turf of Anfield, it is a spiritual moment; all the home players and supporters know what I mean - we stand and sing together and no one cares how out of tune we are; we are in time. Our time. Any true fan will tell you the same (although they will worship at a different shrine). 

When the curtain raises on the stage and everyone takes a collective breath, we are all waiting to see what unfolds together. This moment will never be repeated - every performance is different - and we know we are privileged to witness it. And when the curtain falls and people applaud, they do it together. I have been part of a cast that received a standing ovation. It was magical and unforgettable. We did it for the audience and the audience appreciated us; and we were one. It was incredible.

I like listening to a band, but I prefer going to a gig or a festival. I don't need to then hear this gig again; I'm not a fan of live albums because generally the sound quality isn't as good, and the whole point is the being there. I am pleased the National Theatre, The Globe and the RSC are screening some of their performances so we can all enjoy things that we couldn't otherwise see - but we are still watching them alone. The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd is missing. (Yes, that was deliberate.)

'Queen Elizabeth viewing the performance of The Merry Wives of Windsor, at the Globe in Merrie England' by David Scott

I like a drink as much as the next person. But there's a reason I go to pubs and clubs, even if the beer is often ridiculously overpriced. I like the atmosphere of sharing things with like-minded folk. Restaurants and cafes are better when they're busy (not cramped and heaving full, but with a low-level hum of noise). Silence is good when it is shared. Have you had a moment's silence in public? Then you know what I mean: there is nothing more moving than a collective memorial. 

Over the last few weeks I have held many on-line conversations and 'attended' conferences and meetings; I have done group trivia quizzes and play readings; I have watched re-runs of football matches and 'live' theatre. But I have missed the physicality. I will stay at home, and I will practice the physical distancing, because it saves lives and that's what matters. But when all this is over, I will find my flock and I will join them again, and we will sing our songs. 

Because it may be elitist; it may be exclusive; but being there is everything.

Friday Five: Easter Cross-Stitch

Everyone who knows me, knows that I have ideas and like to be creative. They also know that I never send things on time. I delivered one of these today, the rest will be late. Oh well, it's the though that counts, right? Happy Easter!

 

 

 

 

COVID-19: Dreaming is Free

Stories are my saviour. Whether told on the page, stage, screen (large or small) or radio, they inspire, enlighten, challenge and comfort me. It may not be the best idea to be watching World on Fire at the moment, but last night we watched the final episode of the first series. The series is set during the Second World War in France, Germany, Poland and the U.K. and it follows several families and characters from 1939-1940. It's tough to watch at times (and there seem to be a few anachronisms in terms of speech and accent), but it is well acted and sufficiently tense and dramatic to keep me involved.

I am tempted to see parallels with our current global situation, and slightly reassured that I 'mustn't grumble: things could be worse'. No one is shooting at me, or trying to bomb me, or threatening to hang me because I am the 'wrong' race, colour, ability, sexuality or political persuasion. Not yet, anyway: I don't live in America - cheap jibe, sorry. But there is a preponderance of panic buying, propaganda, misinformation, uncertainty and an extremely rapid pace of change. Life (and death) goes on in altered circumstances; people still get born; get married; fall in love; fall out... not necessarily in that order. And like World War II, those in the midst of it have no idea of when and how it will finish. Trust me, I've just seen the last episode of World on Fire and there is no satisfying sense of closure - sorry if that's a spoiler.

Our COVID-19 situation also sees leadership, and the lack thereof. Boris has been chewing his way through speeches by Churchill and Plato and now emerges blinking from his shabby chrysalis as a somewhat unlikely statesman; Prince-Hal-like, the foppish fool has sobered up to face the future. Jacinda is calm and firm; just and fair, dealing with a hideous situation with sense and sensibility. Scotty is floundering about like a lumpfish in shallow water but out of its depth. Make some decisions; be bold and resolute; lead!

In Australia we are told that schools are 'pupil-free' but they remain open and no one is turned away. We are told that only essential services should remain open - yet many businesses have not been made to close, so people are still heading to the office, hoping for a gold star from the boss. We are not allowed to gather so theatres, cinemas, gyms, pubs, clubs and restaurants have been closed. Art galleries and museums are choosing to close. There is no statewide ban on beaches, although people are 'advised not go' - yep, we've all seen how well people are following those guidelines.

Hairdressers and beauty salons are still open - it's important to look good in your coffin, apparently - but no one will be there to see you. Churches and places of worship are closed except to very small gatherings; weddings and funerals are not allowed indoors except in small groups observing the one person per four square metres rule. I am a sporadic church-goer; my places of worship are hills and woods and the great outdoors. I worship a mixture of myth and religion - I would like to believe in a golden thread that we can follow out of this darkness into the light once more.

I do usually go to church at Christmas, Easter, and Whitsun, however: they are the significant touchstones of my faith. This year, I will not be attending live services, but I will be commemorating the occasion in my way. Many people are suggesting ways to occupy their time in isolation (although Australia has not moved to this yet, and people are still congregating in entirely unnecessary groups); one of my pass-times is cross-stitch. I have been stitching little Easter designs of baskets and bunny rabbits, surrounded by eggs and flowers.

All this is probably what informed my dream last night in which I was trying to stitch together a Polish fabric that had been destroyed by Germany. It was my duty to reconnect the border by unpicking the existing stitches and working them back into an unbroken line with a golden thread. I believe our dreams are important - not in a Freudian way, but because they are a coping mechanism in which the brain shuffles events and tries to impart some meaning. My bible is the bard, and I find words to fit every event in his plays and poetry. And so it is with dreams, which come to us in sleep:

"Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast."

I know I have employed that quote before (it's one of my favourite, from one of my favourite plays), so here's something else that's been on my mind.

My newest favourite thing: MaltEaster Bunnies

The MaltEaster Bunny looks pretty cute with his round paunch and big ears. Him Outdoors bought me one as a treat after a Sunday run. It's six weeks until Easter so I reckon it's just about okay to be purchasing festival goodies (hot cross buns, creme eggs and so forth).

This little chap is milk chocolate with a crunchy and creamy Maltesers centre. The middle has the malt honeycomb consistency of normal maltesers, but the texture around it is almost fudge-like. Apparently there are mini versions of the bunny, but this size (29g) seems just perfect to me, and you can devour him in three bites.

I don't know how long they've been available in Australia, but this is the first one I've seen. I'm sure they are likely to breed as all good rabbits do, and we shall soon be overrun. Perhaps I might be able to help solve that problem...?

Easter Treats

I'm not known for my baking, or if I am, it's not in a good way. But Easter often finds me faffing in the kitchen. This Easter I eschewed the oven and made 'surprise chocolate eggs'. I guess the surprise is that they don't look anything like eggs. They are Maltesers covered in a milk chocolate and sour cream mixture, dipped in melted white chocolate and then drizzled with melted dark chocolate. They may look a bit odd, but they taste lovely - and ridiculously rich (as you can imagine with all that chocolate!) Some of them worked quite well; others were mutants.

I am better with savoury stuff - for dnner we had slow-cooked lamb with skordalia (potatoes mashed with garlic and olive oil), green beans with feta, roast tomatoes, and chickpea and risoni salad (I didn't take a picture of that). I know, as Him Outdoors said, as if I didn't have enough to do... But I love cooking, especially at Easter for some reason. 

The gorgeous flowers in the photo are from my mum - thank you mum. She figured I might need a hug, so she sent a floral one long distance. As she often is, she was right and it cheered me up, so I put them in the picture with the Easter chocolatey goodness. I hope you all had a good Easter too with gatherings of the people you love.

Quick Quintet: High Days and Holidays

I used to love the summer holidays during my student years. I have heard that some people didn't - apparently they got bored. Where was their imagination? True, the holidays seemed to stretch on forever, but that was the joy of them. You could always postpone that essay on Marxist interpretations of linguistic theory while you went to pubs in the afternoon and drank real ale in the sunshine.

When I was little there were games to play, when I got older there were boys to see, and there were always books to read and, if you were lucky, countries to visit. Inter-railing around Europe was a teenage rite of passage. And then there were the summer jobs. We went hop-picking or worked in factories and shops to save up for the holiday, or the records, or the clothes or the fags. And we thought how lucky we were that we would never have to do this full-time. Clearly we were wrong, but we were young and life was fun.

Now life is still fun, but holidays are shorter and every day off is precious. When we can mark it with a celebration it is even better. Here are my favourite:

The Best 5 Holidays*:

1. Christmas: Family; friends; food; bubbles; lights; tinsel; glittery stuff; good cheer and, if you're lucky, snow - who could ask for anything more?
2. Easter: Now that I no longer have to run around the forest in my pyjamas, I love Easter. It's a time of rebirth and new beginnings; a chance to catch up with friends and family; lambs and daffodils; green grass and the promise of Spring.
3. St George's Day: A chance to celebrate all things English, recite Shakespeare, listen to Britpop, drink real ale, eat cheese and pickle sandwiches and even indulge in a spot of Morris Dancing.
4. Harvest Festival: The cornucopia of colours; the abundance of wine; the church  floral arrangements and window displays with sheaves of wheat; the bigs hats and village fetes; the collections of canned food for the aged; the chance to use words like bounty, abundance, and cornucopia.
5. Guy Fawkes night: The smell of cordite and mischief in the air; bonfires, baked potatoes and toffee apples; fireworks exploding in showers of colour in the night sky; a brisk chill and the thought of witches; and, if I remember rightly, a damn fine rave or two.

* You will notice, these are all Northern Hemisphere-based holidays - as I've pointed out before; they just don't make sense down here.

Magical Vanishing Act

People in Otago don't like rabbits very much and their Great Easter Bunny Hunt is very different from ours (don't let children or sensitive folk look at that link). Him Outdoors and I performed our very own version of the magical disappearing rabbit trick at Easter weekend. Here is the evidence - just don't ask us to make it re-appear!

Later that night...

 

Easter Weekend

Good Friday

Actually, the long weekend started last night when we had friends round to dinner. I made baked figs with blue cheese (and prosciutto for the non-vegetarians among us); penne pasta with mixed mushrooms and goat's cheese, served with a big green salad drizzled with parmesan infused olive oil, and apple and peanut butter crumble (made with apples from Jo Reid's garden) and Bird's Eye custard (from a tin). We drank Easter bubbles from France, oaked chardonnay from Hawke's Bay and pinot noir from Central Otago. This morning we cleaned up.

I submitted some artwork to the Arrowtown Autumn Festival - photographs I have taken and had framed or stretched on canvas. Arrowtown is so peaceful in the morning before the visiting hordes arrive that it is worth taking a moment and reflecting how lucky we are to live here. I picked up some pains aux chocolat and a baguette from the French bakery, which I took home and we had them with coffee on the patio.

Him Outdoors was competing in the Lake Hayes Duathlon, which with the main event of the associated triathlon, is the oldest surviving triathlon in the country. He came second by 45seconds to his main rival in his age-group; quite distressed because 'Dave's got a new bike!'



I, meanwhile, mountain biked around the lake and along some local tracks shouting, cheering and generally supporting with a couple of friends who also had nothing better to do.

Afterwards we thought we might have a drink at the local pub but it was closed and the one down the road was charging a surcharge (which I loathe - they make enough money to be able to pay their staff without hiking the prices - if you don't think you can afford to open on a public holiday; don't) so they lost out on four meals and several rounds of drinks from us, as we went home and drank red wine in the front room instead.

Later in the evening we watched The Fakers, 'a funny, sharp and fast-moving tale of blackmail and forgery set in the upper echelons of the international art society'. The 2004 film is billed as an off-beat comedy along the lines of The Thomas Crown Affair or The Italian Job - those are two of my favourite films and it doesn't live up to them, but it's not bad. It stars Matthew Rhys whom I've only ever seen as Kevin Walker on Brothers and Sisters, and he's actually very good - and Welsh! Who knew? I have more respect for him now - not because he's Welsh, but because he can really act.

Easter Saturday

Him Outdoors had some vouchers that he won at the Motatapu Adventure Race burning a hole in his pocket, so we strolled into town along the river and paid our respects at the cenotaph (it is Anzac Day tomorrow and will be heaving so we got in early) before popping into the shops and buying woolly jumpers and a flat cap for everyday (he still has his grandad's 'for best').

Back home we watched a couple of short films on a DVD I got free with The Observer when I was in England last year. It features 'five early short films from Britain's most influential filmmakers'. First was Amelia and the Angel (1958) directed by Ken Russell. In black and white with a gentle voice-over, it tells the tale of Amelia who takes home her angel's wings to show her mother, 'even though she will see them tomorrow at the school play'. When her horrid brother destroys them, she searches throughout London for another pair (including cemeteries and rag and bone carts), despairing until she stumbles across an artist's studio where a bearded sandal-wearing painter dresses up his models in theatrical outfits.

The clear narrative arc, dramatic music and omniscient narrator reminded me of an episode of The Clangers - things were simpler back then, even for Ken Russell it seems. Some of his early directorial touches are evident; the low camera work intended to mimic a child's view would have been considered a stroke of genius, although commonplace now.

Next was Boy and Bicycle (1965) directed by Ridley Scott. A teenaged boy bunks off school and cycles around Hartlepool instead - you'd have to imagine school was pretty dire if this is his preferred pastime. The strteets are empty; the beaches are deserted; the factories are grim. The young man provides a self-consciously assured voice-over in a landscape that seems almost post-apocalyptic.

The tracking shots and building of tension are clearly the director's trademarks and it's interesting to see them in their infancy. Scott was a photography student when he made this, which is apparenty in the perfect composition of the shots. Living in a world where we are bombarded with audio pollution and sensory stimulation, this was almost soporific (perhaps intentially - the revolving spokes of the bicycle wheel being particularly hypnotic), and so we decided to leave the rest for another day.

Later still (in the middle of the night) I watched Liverpool take Birmingham apart. Not only was the 5-0 scoreline (including a hat-trick from Maxi Rodriguez) something to celebrate, but I was hugely encouraged by the way the team played with energy, enthusiasm and something like the passing precision of old. I miss Stevie G, of course, but it's also great to see the 'youngsters' coming through the ranks - Jay Spearing, Jack Robinson and Jack Flanagan all played well and, although they may be tested by tougher opposition, things are finally looking up for the future.

Easter Sunday

As I walked to church this morning, I saw a lady in her slippers and pyjamas distributing chocolate eggs through her dewy garden. When she saw me she smiled, put her finger to her lips and whispered, 'Shhh, I'm the Easter Bunny'. I didn't have the heart to tell her that she wasn't.

The service at St Paul's was joyful and positive; emotions I could use at present, and naturally, I love a good sing-a-long. An extract from the order of service stated, 'Faith is like a bird that feels dawn breaking and, while it is still dark, begins to sing.' I think that sums it up nicely.

We spent the afternoon in Clyde at the Wine and Food Harvest Festival. As you can tell from the images, a good time was had by all. We came home to rehearse for the show I am directing; Cribbies for the Arrowtown Autumn Festival. It opens a week today, which is more than slightly scary. We went over all the dance moves; many of which I have set, so they are not exactly complicated!

Easter Monday

My cold is catching up with me and I woke up this morning with difficulty breathing. It may not have been the best idea, then to walk up Tobin's Track, but friends called up and that's what we did. The views are as glorious as ever and the couple of dogs that we had for company were certainly entertaining. How wonderful to be a dog when everything is fresh and every smell could be an adventure. They bounded up and down and made us all feel tired so we came home to drink coffee and eat chocolate ducks and rabbits.

Another rehearsal in the evening at which we ran the play for the first time without a prompt. Things are coming together and, although I'm doing all I can, I don't know how you can make people learn their lines! And so I came home to a large glass of pinot noir, a warm fire and a hug from Him Outdoors. It's not been a bad Easter weekend.

Cultural Collision

Living in New Zealand, as I do, there are many things that I will never get used to. For a start the seasons are the wrong way round – how can you have Christmas in the middle of summer, Bonfire Night in spring when you have to wait until 10pm to set off the fireworks, and Easter when all of nature is curling up and going to sleep rather than bursting into life?

Secondly, they call the wrong thing football. Here’s a tip – if it’s ‘a solid or hollow sphere’ that you kick with ‘the lower extremity of the leg below the ankle’ then it’s football. If you pick up an ovoid inflatable and run with it, then it’s either cheating, or it’s rugby – union or league depending on the level of violence involved – American football if there’s padding, and Aussie rules if there are no discernible rules whatsoever.

And other thing: although we share a similar history, the popular iconography is far more American than English and, according to a friend I mentioned this to, becoming more so each day. I noticed this when I was writing the Midsummer Night’s Dream review. My 80s was clearly a very different time to most Kiwis’ 80s. And this is not the only decade to suffer this phenomenon.

When we first arrived to these fair shores we were invited to a fancy dress party (the love of those is also a Kiwi thing I don’t understand – Him Outdoors has his theories which I have mentioned before but shan’t again). The theme was 70s. Naturally, we went as punks – ripped jeans, tatty leather and safety pins galore – expecting to hear The Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Clash, and Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Everyone else was dressed in kaftans, headbands, love beads and painted flowers. They tripped around drippily to Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Mamas and the Papas, and The Beach Boys. Wrong decade, surely, I thought – and may well have said. I was an aggressive punk after all – I felt like a Hell’s Angel that had just turned up to Woodstock.

This feeling of displacement continues daily. We are lulled into a false sense of security and familiarity – they play cricket; their judicial and political system are based on ours (although how someone who is not even wanted by their electorate can still occupy a seat in Parliament bewilders me); they screen Coronation Street twice a week (it’s a year behind) and they speak a version of our language. But the popular iconography – from the plastic news presenters to the ‘fashion’ of vests and baseball caps – is largely American.

Not all, I hasten to add. There are pockets of Scottish ‘it’s cold and it’s wet and we like it’ heritage (Southland); there is a large Yorkshire ‘we are better than everyone else and why talk when you can grunt?’ element (Otago); there are prime examples of Home Counties ‘what school did you go to and who are your parents?’ affectation (Canterbury); and a delightful patch of faux French ‘let’s fly the tricolour and call our streets by Gallic names’ chic (Akaroa).

Of course there is a rich and distinctive Māori culture which adds a unique and valuable component to the heritage. And there are colourful swathes of Pacific Island traditions, Asian customs, and all sorts of bits and pieces of European inheritance from the Italian-style blessing of the boats at Island Bay to a strange Viking connection at Dannevirke (settled by a handful of Danes and Norwegians).

The result of all this is a little curious and unsettling like one of those dreams where you know something is different but you’re not sure what. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but it is odd. Some things are simply ingrained in your formative years and when they change, you may never get used to them. Ah well, ‘Vive La Difference!’ as they say in Akaroa.

Easter Sunday

As it is Easter Sunday, I go to the little church in Riversdale – it is gorgeous. The vicar is a farmer, a youngish bloke who has the Tinui district as his diocese. He has no little (or large) helpers to assist with the Eucharist and does it all himself.

The service is very interactive; there aren’t enough prayer books or hymn books to go round and there is neither an order of service nor an organ or piano. People just nominate an appropriate hymn that they like and everybody sings it. A volunteer is asked to do the reading, another passes round the collection and people are encouraged to call out the names of those they would like to be remembered in the prayers.

Tania from Camp Anderson tells me there are 62 permanent residents at Riversdale Beach and the congregation swells during the holidays. The simple wooden church is packed to the rafters with worshippers and wasps – there’s a nest here apparently.

Tania and her husband run programmes at the adjacent camp for boys and girls during the holidays. Usually they are mixed, but this week they are running one just for girls with lots of art and craft activities.

Tania says she is struck by how many girls don’t know that they are beautiful and she finds this very sad. It leads to abused and broken women and she wants to help them develop their strength and their self-esteem and to know that their beauty has nothing to do with their looks. What wonderfully positive and noble sentiments.

The sermon likewise, is that we should all just be good to each and share the love – we don’t need to become priests and spread the word – simply listening to someone’s sorrows or baking a banana cake for the person down the road is enough to support those in our community.

I receive the blessing – I love the beautiful words, and I feel at peace. The congregation disperses to their family commitments and I drive back to our bach to Him Outdoors and bacon butties.

Relaxing in Riversdale

For our Easter break we decide to head over the hills and far away – well, not that far away actually, just to Riversdale on the Wairarapa Coast. We had hoped to stay in a bach but we found out the day before that the owners are using it, so we thought we’d just turn up and see if there are any vacancy signs or if anything is available.

It isn’t, but we have a pleasant walk on the beach watching people motoring up and down the sand on quad-bikes and ATVs (I’m such a petrol head, I don’t even know if there’s a difference or not) and families fishing in the surf.

As we are leaving town we see a corrugated iron shack with Bayleys and rental written on it. We peer in the windows but it is all real estate to sell as rentals. A bloke pruning trees with a chainsaw and dressed in scruffy jeans introduces himself as the real estate agent and says we can use his bach for $80 a night.

We follow him down a dirt track 2.5km from the township to a little place surrounded by oak trees. We say we’ll take it for a night and decide later if we want it for all three, but apparently we can’t call him as there’s no Vodafone reception. It’s a bit damp, there’s no TV and you can’t stroll down to the beach, but it’s sufficient and Him Outdoors seems happy enough.

We have lunch back at the township at the dairy/café (a burger and wedges) then Him Outdoors goes running while I take a photographic walk along the beach. Apparently the waves are 2m plus and ‘messy’. We are told this is very unusual by a couple who describe the horizon as ‘bumpy’.

Our bach seems a little cosier once we put the lights and the heater on, and I stop worrying about our new temporary landlord being a chainsaw murderer – there’s a headstone for his brother in the garden although he assures us he’s not buried there. It’s the sort of thing that you imagine in horror films – well, I do anyway. Him Outdoors says I’m being daft – I know I am, but I’m still a bit jumpy.

We walk into town along the moonlit road. Once we emerge from the trees we can see incredibly clearly by the full moon. The local police officer cruises past, reversing to get a good look at us before turning off into a driveway where a party is in full swing.

We have been advised that the golf club is the best (i.e. only) place in town for meals so we head there. A stressed couple (she is called Pam; I don’t catch his name) bang about in the kitchen providing meals that consist of ‘fish’ or ‘steak’ and come with chips. There is no creativity in the descriptions – ‘nestling on a bed of’s and ‘drizzled with’s are noticeably absent. They aren’t taking orders at the moment as they are way too busy, but we can wait.

The beer on offer is Speights, Tui or Export – I go for a glass of wine. It’s $5.50 for an enormous vase full of cheap chardonnay. You’d not be able to drive after two of those glasses. Him Outdoors talks to strangers at the bar – within minutes he has met a bloke who usually drinks at the Malthouse, reconnected with a chap he’d talked to after his run, and received two offers of a lift home – one of them from the barmaid.

There are cluster of school-assembly-hard chairs around Formica tables, most of which are supporting quart bottles or jugs of beer. There’s rugby on the television (it’s the Hurricanes all the way in these parts) and drunken surfer dudes falling over themselves. One guy is celebrating his birthday – he’s been out at Castlepoint today because you can’t get out ‘through the corridor’. See what you can pick up?

Eventually we order and receive our meals. As well as chips, they come with an array of homemade salads. These are spread out on a table and I see one woman, who claims to be ‘starving’ help herself without ordering a meal. ‘Not with your fingers, please’ admonishes our friend Pam.

When we set off on our homeward walk, our way is once again lit by the night-time constellations and we get to sing about our moon shadows. There is no traffic on the road, although one car passes us and then backs up and offers to take us home. It’s the bloke from the pub. We hop in and he shoots straight past our bach until Him Outdoors points it out. The bloke thought we were somewhere else but he stops and lets us out.

Him Outdoors says, ‘I bet that scared you?’ Actually, not until you mentioned it, no, although now I think about it, it could be considered sinister enough to fuel my horror story phobia – Him Oudoors: ‘We’re just up here’; Axe-murderer: ‘Oh no, you’re a long way away yet, mwah-hah-hah.’