by I’m half-way through my time in New Zealand. It’s flying by.
We’ve just been out to give a birthday present to Mum’s sister-in-law, and found ourselves locked out. The key didn’t open the thing the label said it did. Luckily we could climb in through the window. But despite that “phew” moment, Mum is upset and angry. I have no idea why.
Earlier we visited the gallery in Geraldine where Dad exhibits – and quite often sells – his paintings. The gallery takes close to half the sale proceeds in commission. The prices to me are unimaginably high. There were two similar large abstract paintings by different artists on display. In fact I think they had identical titles – Oil on Canvas. The prices weren’t identical, however – one was $8000, the other $2000. The reason for the difference escaped me. It reminded me of a time in Auckland when I was with a woman and we went in an art gallery. She asked how much a particular painting was. “Seventeen,” came the reply. Seventeen what? For her it was obvious, but I didn’t dare ask. Today the Geraldine gallery owner said that business was bad across the board – low dairy yields (farmers are large part of the clientèle), uncertainly due to an upcoming election, and the increased cost of living in general.
Last night I spoke to my cousin in Wellington. She said her diagnosis came from a check-up after discovering a lump behind her ear, and a nine-hour operation ensued. She’s just started daily radiotherapy. The C-word doesn’t pass her lips. I told her that she’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, and if anyone can get through this, she can. I would have liked to visit her in Wellington, but there’s no way that’s an option this time around.
On Sunday I joined Dad again at the model aero club. This time he didn’t crash; in fact engine trouble meant his plane didn’t get off the ground at all. There was some interesting conversation. A 91-year-old man (!) who coincidentally was born and bred in St Ives, founded the club in the early nineties. He had travelled extensively as a young man. Another flyer said that his late father was a beekeeper south of the Waitaki, and harvested up to 20 tons of honey in a single year. They were interested in my experiences in Romania, and liked the 50-lei note I happened to have in my wallet. The note features Aurel Vlaicu and his plane – he was Romania’s version of Richard Pearse. The flyers spent some time comparing injuries; propeller blades had lopped off fingertips and left huge scars – I had no idea model flying was so dangerous.
Later on Sunday the three of us went to the final showing of The Miracle Club at Geraldine Cinema. I’m glad I convinced Mum to go; a film all about Lourdes and women in sixties Ireland would be right up her street. Tickets were just $12; they didn’t do special rates for seniors because everyone would have been eligible except me. The mirror ball was sadly taken down ten years ago for safety reasons. Before the film they played the British national anthem, and pumped out early-sixties music to complete the retro feel. The film was funny and made Mum happy. It starred Maggie Smith – I’ll try not to forget that lest it comes up on the Chase.
On Sunday night we watched the women’s World Cup final. It was a belter of a first half, and Spain ran out well-deserved 1-0 winners. They were hungrier, faster, and more accurate in their passing, not that England were bad. On another night England could have forced extra time or even nicked it inside the 90 minutes; on still another night Spain could have won by three or four. There’s plenty of luck in football, or soccer as Dad calls it – Spain’s one-goal victory was in the meaty part of the distribution given by the shape of the game.
The TV isn’t on yet, so I’m listening to Radio NZ right now. They said it was Tori Amos’s 60th birthday today. I went through a Tori Amos phase many years ago.
