Flash mobs: my newest favourite thing

Last month I participated in a flash mob. This sounds somewhat risqué, but it really wasn’t.

To support World Environment Day, hundreds of people gathered in Wellington to join in the Big Freeze. Some bloke played a saxophone and we all stood motionless for five minutes, until at the signal (another blast on the saxophone) we all melted back to life and went on our merry little way.

It was harmless, it was fun and it felt strangely subversive. It is performance art with a political connotation, with random strangers coming together for a common purpose, to make a point.

As bemused people, not in the know, scurried past us on the streets I heard several ask what was going on. I have never been part of the ‘it’ crowd – not thin enough; pretty enough; bitchy enough at school – but this really felt like I was part of something – a subset of society who cared enough about something to do something.

Actions that flash mobs undertake aren’t particularly extreme – they don’t scale buildings, block traffic, or attempt to board ships. Their deeds are simple; they may be pillow fights, silently head banging, wearing a particular colour, or doing literally nothing. Organised through text message and emails or Internet postings, it brings a virtual community to a real space.

It’s something that ordinary people of all ages do – not just the young trendy hippies. You don’t have to pontificate or make yourself more important than your cause. You don’t even talk about it – you just do it and then go, taking five minutes out of your life to contribute to something greater than the individual.

It feels semi-anarchic, but with some direction. It is an ad hoc activity beyond the reach of the gigantic corporate and governmental powers that dominate life. It makes you feel like part of a community again – something that is lacking from society these days. It feels good. Does it do any good? It would be nice to think so, but I don’t think it’s going to change the world. Anyway, who cares; it doesn’t do any harm.

Marshmallows

What is it about Kiwis and marshmallows? They have them in their hot chocolates - kids have them in 'fluffies' and they coat them in chocolate at every opportunity. They eat things called chocolate fish - basically, just chocolate in the shape of a fish, covering a big marshmallow. They even have them in their Easter eggs, which is just wrong frankly. It's even worse than putting beetroot in your burger - they do that too.

They have these things called Mallow Puffs, which are a treat apparently. The advert asks, 'Have you done enough for a Mallow Puff?' and I sincerely hope not. They also have a thing called a Pinky bar that is strawberry marshmallow wrapped in chocolate and purporting to be 90% fat free. What's the point? It's chocolate! If you don't want to eat fat, there's always carrots!

Don't even get me started on Pineapple Lumps. Strictly speaking, these are not marshmallows, but they have that soft jawish consistency and are coated in inferior chocolate. Supposedly they are made with fruit juice (4.5%) and are one of the things Kiwis most miss about their homeland when they go overseas. Why? They're revolting!

So anyway, back to the marshmallow. It has one purpose as far as I can see, and that's for toasting around a driftwood fire on a beach when you're 13 and you're desperately trying to pretend that you haven't got your eye on that simply gorgeous bloke opposite and you're too shy to make actual conversation, so you just squint at the flames instead until the thing on the end of the stick goes all gooey and mushy and then you pull it apart with your fingers, stringing it out and attempting (and failing) to look seductive while nonchalantly acting like you haven't just burnt your fingerprints off. No one expects you to actually eat the thing!

I once made 'fruit kebabs' for my nephew's birthday party. This involves stabbing yourself repeatedly with a skewer while trying to thread slices of apple, segments of satsuma, halves of strawberries and grapes, and pink and white marshmallows into a pastel rainbow of semi-goodness.

Never mind that my palms were bleeding like sticky stigmata; never mind that my Libran anal-retentive nature would not allow me to break the pattern I had set myself; never mind that I spent hours arraying them in frivolous fan formations; the little monsters just picked off all the fruit and went straight for the sugar - much like we used to discard the cheese from the stick that also featured pineapple and cocktail onions. Except, I actually preferred the cheese, but then I was frequently described as a 'slightly odd child'.

So, it came as a shock to discover something involving marshmallows that was actually palatable. More than that, I really like it! It's got a crunchy texture from nuts that melds perfectly with the soft chewy consistency of the marshmallows and fruit jubes. And it's studded with unexpected colour like an ancient stained glass window. It's very rich and you only need one tiny square at a time. I found this recipe particularly tasty.

30g fruit jubes
50g walnuts

30g Brazil nuts

30g glace cherries

50g marshmallows

10g butter

350g dark cooking chocolate

30g whole almonds

1. Lightly toast all nuts in the oven on fan bake at 180 degrees C.

2. Cut cherries and marshmallows into quarters.

3. Melt chocolate slowly in double boiler (microwaving kills chocolate).

4. Mix all dry ingredients together.

5. Line a tray with grease-proof paper.

6. Mix 2/3 of the melted chocolate with the rest of the ingredients. Mix by hand until well-combined.

7. Spread evenly on the tray and then top with the remaining chocolate. Ensure the mix is even in height, and allow to set. Do not refrigerate, otherwise the chocolate will set very hard and become difficult to cut into portions.

Books read in June

The following are short reviews of the books that I read in June. The marks I have given them in the brackets are out of five.

The Face of War: New Zealand’s Great War Photography – Sandy Callister (3.3)
WWI was not the first time that war was photographed, but it was the first time that it became the primary visual representation. Photography appealed as a medium because it was ‘real’ although no photo is neutral – all have a purpose. These photos, from the tourist snapshots the men took while on leave, to the studio portraits printed in the ‘Roll of Honour’ are all used for something.
The same images of gruesome facial disfiguring are used to support the anti-war movement and to promote the advances of plastic surgery.
As a book from a New Zealand perspective it focuses on Gallipoli – there was no soldier photography permitted on the Western Front, although there were no such restrictions in Gallipoli.
For a book about photography, there seem to be few photographs, and the author over-analyses and lacks common sense. It reads like an over-anxious university student trying to get a good mark for a thesis, but some of the images are worth looking at.

Home School – Charles Webb (4)
The sequel to The Graduate reads like a cross between Woody Allen and Tennessee Williams with fantastic theatrical dialogue and knowing, random asides, mainly about home schooling. Benjamin and Elaine are home schooling their two children which causes them to fall foul of the school principal. In an attempt to make him drop his efforts to get their children to attend his school, the pair enlist the services of Elaine’s estranged mother to seduce and then blackmail him.
Elaine’s mother is, of course, the infamous Mrs Robinson (now known as Nan), and there are soon seductions, recriminations and blackmail all round. When Garth and Goya, the hippy couple who introduced them to the home schooling notion, come to stay with their adolescent breastfeeding children and their notions of healing circles, the tensions in the household seem ready to implode.
It is the interweaving dialogue and the sardonic style that make this novel stand out. And it does stand out; it is not just another sequel. Webb is self-mocking of his authorship and his characters, looking down on them like a disinterested deity. It is as if Webb doesn’t want to get too close to them and therefore we can’t engage with them – they may be his idols but they still have feet of clay.

Deaf Sentence – David Lodge (4.2)
This intellectual novel is well written, with puns and witticisms combined with deceptively rambling asides that are actually tightly structured, in the tradition of grumpy old men.
Desmond Bates is a retired university professor of linguistics. He is bored in retirement and he has no purpose to his days save for trips to visit his elderly father in London. To make matters worse, he is losing his hearing and he drinks too much. When Alex Loom, a young PhD student asks him to tutor her he is flattered, despite the ghoulish subject of her thesis – a linguistic analysis of suicide notes.
Desmond begins to keep a journal in which to record his thoughts, writing up awkward escapades as short stories, to try and exorcise the humiliation and embarrassment of the experience. Sometimes he writes in the third person, sometimes the first, enjoying an exercise he often gave to his students.
As his oral and aural communication becomes more strained he likes the control he has over the written word. The paragraphs are dense without much dialogue and it’s quite heavy going but the effort is well rewarded, in a similar way to a novel by Ian McEwan, Julian Barnes, Justin Cartwright or Alan Bennett.

Scapegallows – Carol Birch (3)
A scapegallows is someone who cheats death and that is what the heroine of this novel, Margaret Catchpole, does twice. Sentenced to death, her sentence is lessened and she is instead transported to Australia, where the novel begins and ends. The 400 pages in the middle tell of how she got there.
The style is laboured and reads like an account of ‘what we did on our holidays’. It is narrated by Margaret, who was actually a real character, and, as a servant, she has only recently learned to read and write, so her language is flat and even, with all incidents being given equal weight. This quickly becomes trying on the reader, as does her lack of judgement over Will Laud, the sailor and smuggler with whom she falls in love.
She is a free spirit who believes in equality, treats everyone the same way, and expects the same herself. When this proves unattainable, she attempts to equal the balance, and this, added to her misguided love, lands her in gaol. In some ways she is independent and adventurous, but she is also brought low by her love of a man – the stuff of sentimental ballads and melodramatic miniseries.

Euro 2008: final

Yes, I'm pleased that Spain won Euro 2008. If I were a betting person, I'd have put money on them from the start. They played with enough flair up front combined with a solid enough defence to keep out the other big names.

And of course there's Torres. Liverpool need to hang on to him and I sincerely hope they do. As long as they are in contention to play in the European Champons League, they have a good chance.

The final was a great game. People (especially those who don't 'get' football) will say that a 1-0 scoreline is a bit dull, but then, as I said, they don't really 'get' football. Lehmann played a blinder and (with the help of Frings' knee) is the reason the score wasn't higher.

Apparently Lehmann has since complained about the 'biased referee'. This rather tarnishes his excellence, as ref-baiting is usually the last refuge of the sore loser or the New Zealand rugby fan - or is that the same thing? Roberto Rosetti is Italian with a Croatian mother, isn't he? Why on earth would he be on Spain's side?

I loved the entire spectacle despite wishing ardently that we were there. If it took Spain 44 yearts since their last win at a major football tournament, maybe we can repeat the feat. I'm looking forward to the World Cup qualifiers now!

Thought miles

Yesterday was a good friend's birthday. I thought of her and I wrote a card. She lives in England so it isn't going to get there for at least a week. It has to fly there in a plane because I sent it airmail. I am contributing to the destruction of the planet by sending greetings around the world.

The phone doesn't really work because we are annoyingly half a day apart. When I am sitting down to relax with a glass of pinot and Coronation Street, she is heading out of the door to work, after preparing the kids' breakfasts and taking them to school. Much though she would love to sit down and chat, I'm sure it's the last thing she has time for in her hectic maternal schedule.

And a letter is so much better than an email or a text. When I was a child my aunt travelled to exotic locales and I used to love receiving envelopes or crinkly airmail letters covered with her distinctive handwriting and clourful stamps often with arabic language I couldn't understand printed across them. Without meaning to be naff, I pictured them bringing sunshine into my life in so many ways. I've kept them all in shoeboxes and the memories spring out when I release the lid.

And so I know that it is not cost effective, economically sound or environmentally conscious to tell my friends back in England that I miss them and I love them and that they are in my thoughts. But I will continue to do so because yes, we may only have one planet, but without true friendship in our lives, it wouldn't be a world worth living in.

Thought Miles

My morning is your night before.
When I’m out drinking
You’re starting work,
And I seldom call or write,
But I often think of you:

When I have a carpet picnic
Sitting cross-legged on the floor
With crisps and taramasalata,
Hiding from the rain and the world;

When we’re driving in the car
Singing along to The Primitives,
Hair blowing everywhere
And passing the time with ‘which is better…?’

When it takes hours to choose
A film to watch that night
Drama or action thriller,
That we’ll talk through anyway;

When I tell stories
About my history and background
Friends and influences
That made me who I am.

If you could read my mind
You’d know you’re always there,
But if I forget to tell you
I hope that you read this instead.
And know I think of you.

Cobham Drive

Cobham Drive

The wind wand is horizontal;
Rainbow neon circles are all aglow;
Coloured boxes spin violently
In the urban forest,
While the resin rods clatter and chatter.


Filthy and ferocious gusts
Force manmade modes of transport
From the street and into the waves.
Sea meets the sky,
Swallowing the earth elementarily.

Happy-Go-Lucky

Last week I went to see Happy-Go-Lucky with my mum. This film seems to divide opinion and I can see why. The lead character, Poppy, played by Sally Hawkins, is so immensely irritating that if she were real I wouldn't want to spend five minutes in her presence. And yet she is utterly believable. Sally Hawkins' acting is excellent and she made my toes curl with her excruciating relentless cheerfulness.

I hate those people who are always telling you to smile and cheer up; who witter on inanely refusing to have serious discussions because they don't have a sensible thought in their brain; who assume that other people don't have a sense of humour because they don't laugh at her banality. Her silly eye rolling and head waggling movements are simply infuriating and I can understand why Scott, the driving instructor (played to perfection by Eddie Marsan) loses his temper with her - she refuses to take anything seriously. I would not want her to be on the road when I'm driving.

Scott tells Poppy (real name Pauline, but that's not nearly annoying enough) that not everything is about her. She genuinely seems to think it is. She is one of those smug self-satisfied types who have taken a gap year to travel to Australia, Vietnam, Bali and Thailand, and now thinks she knows about the world.

I would like to know more about the other characters, all of whom I like more than her. I want to know what happens to the little boy who bullies others because his mum's new boyfriend hits him. I'm intrigued by the Flamenco teacher (Karina Fernandez) and the student who is completely expressive without words (Rebekah Staton). Tim (Samuel Roukin), the social worker could be interesting as could the youngest sister, Suzy (Kate O'Flynn), studying for her exams, and the heavily pregnant middle sister, Helen (Caroline Martin), unhappy with her domestic bliss and hen-pecked husband.

The best friend, Zoe (Alexis Zegerman), is the star of the film for me with her deadpan delivery and smouldering looks. But Scott is right; all we learn about these people is how they relate to Poppy, as if their existence is unimportant outside her circle of radiance. This could be due to the work-shopping manner in which Mike Leigh runs his rehearsals. Many stories are started but none are finished; there is no script. The dialogue is believable because people have repetitive verbal twitches - 'don't they just?' - and they don't actually say anything, but is that really what you want from a drama?

I like Mike Leigh films, and I'm used to them being dark and depressing. I kept waiting for the misery to kick in - when is she going to reveal that she's addicted to Prozac? - but the fact that it didn't, made it even more exhausting. Poppy is a primary school teacher and she dresses in bright primary colours and skank boots. There is nothing wrong with being childish, but surely not all the time? Or maybe that is the secret to happiness - don't live in the real world!

Although I can believe such infuriating people exist, I cannot credit that they would have so many friends. The ever-excellent Sylvestra le Touzel as the headmistress, Heather, seems far too grounded to waste her time with this total airhead. There is a far-fetched but touching scene when Poppy patronisingly talks to a tramp; I can only assume she relates to him because he doesn't say anything sensible either.

I also find it very difficult to believe that two men would fall for this woman. Most I know would run screaming. A quick scan of the IMBd message board revealed the following comment from someone signing themself 'The Piano Dude': “I just couldn't stand the character of Poppy. If British children are really being taught by people like that then no wonder the country's in the sorry state that it's in. I wanted to smack her more than I've ever wanted to smack a fictional character before.”

I think that just about says it all. But, and this is a big but, the acting was fantastic and I haven't stopped thinking about it since. Poppy has got under my skin. Like a particularly nasty case of shingles.