Well finally – here we are, ensconced at Number 13 Ginger Street, which for me has always been such a lucky number! When I lie my head down at night beside my exhausted hard-working anaesthetist husband Stuart, who single-handedly maintains the health industry in this country, I breathe such a sigh of relief that we made this move, well – that I made us make this move – to Ponsonby…
No more scraping sheep shit off my high heels once I’ve picked my way through the minefield of Shrek-droppings between Landcruiser and kitchen to make dinner for my family. No more mind-numbing Kumeu chitchat with Bonnie Buckley about her eventless day being a domestic dumbo whenever I collect Ollie after school… No – just the comfort of knowing that everything in this central suburb is open 24 hours a day and merely steps away at that, that people have ideas and conversations relating to events of the twenty-first century, instead of what happened when their horse-float got bogged down on the backroad, and that if the dvd you rented doesn’t take your fancy, that there are shelves and shelves of every imaginable Hugh Grant comedy just crying out to be picked! Such a relief to be living back in the developed world! I have to pinch myself to believe its real!
The only irritating note to date, well frankly, its more than that – its the hideous squawk of bagpipes at ungodly hours, deliberately disturbing us and making my children feel unsafe, and it goes by the name of Arthur. Eeuucchtt! Even his name sounds like a throwback to the Iron Age, or whatever ancient epoch he comes from. King Arthur? More like Village Idiot Arthur in the village stocks being pelted with cabbages for crimes against communal wellbeing… you see I’ve come across his type before, and I know how people like that operate, and its never pretty…
With Arthur niggling away on my mind, last night while unpacking books, I came across a classic text which has been so helpful to me in my dealings with difficult staff in the past (in my job problem solving, guiding people, as H.R./Conciliator at DebtNZ) and I glanced at a paragraph I’d once underlined several times with reflective silver ballpoint: “Understanding fractious staff members is essential, if they are to be successfully reoriented into productive team players. However, don’t be fooled. Some staff have no intention of ever working towards group goals, as they gain too much attention and pleasure from others’ discomfort. These individuals must be rooted out and made an example of, and expelled from the organization as swiftly as possible. It is no exaggeration to say that the very growth and survival of the company itself is at stake. Move boldly to eradicate this source of friction. A key H.R. maneuver is called for – immediate staff expulsion!”
Yes, these words spoke to me with a resonant clarity. And again I was reminded of the sage wisdom of my real estate consultant Eric Stock, when he said that the only real way to choose your neighbours is to own the property. You see, having given the problem such careful consideration, balancing all the issues, I’ve never felt more convinced that the only way to secure our well-deserved happiness – which is just so close – is to eradicate the source of friction. Everything is at stake here, everything Stuart and I have fought for! Number 11 must be mine, and Arthur must go.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Friday February 16
I won’t be put off. Stuart may be suffering from his usual lack of vision, but I won’t allow that to get in the way of what may be the most important decision of our lives… to join the twenty first century! We have the chance to make a major investment, to plan for our future, and what does Stuart do? Head in the sand! My husband has inherited half his genes from an ostrich. His tendency is to hide in the face of difficulty, but decisive action has always characterised my dynamic personality. The true shame is that my skills go unrecognized. I could say this applies to all the males in this particular whanau. Julian demonstrates a similar casual indifference when it comes to acknowledging just how much I do to hold this family together, like father like son! My hope is that Ollie, our darling wee boy, might benefit from the additional quality time I’ve devoted to his wellbeing, and see beyond the horizon which marks the limit of his father’s world.
OK. Where are we? We have an aggressively painful nuisance called Arthur Short living next door who misses no opportunity to interfere with my purchase of his dwelling, even though its not even his… we have a truly irritating burgeoning love-interest between Julian and that tawdry little slapper Amber who’ll be his downfall if I let things go on another minute, and moreover we have an embarrassing public display of disunity while my husband is licking his wounds and hiding out at Spencer’s house… Spencer – now there’s an odd specimen, he’s really no more than a savant with a scalpel, a big baby whose mental development was retarded at fourteen from excessive masturbation, who’s making millions tinkering with what nature got wrong while dashing from one twenty year old bimbo to the next. Sometimes I wonder if Stuart doesn’t try to model himself – unsuccessfully – on this sad old chum from his medical school days. And sometimes I wonder if I don’t wish I’d made a different choice and taken up with Spencer…. No! Just a joke!! Although I am sure Spencer would be an easier mate to deal with than Stuart, who hovers between sweet loving husband and socially retarded basketcase… I don’t really mean that, but believe me, I’m furious at him for not being here.
I cannot believe how silly I was the other night. Bonnie has to take responsibility, getting me so tiddly on pinot noir before she finally went home, god she was here for hours going on and on and on about the thrill of having sex with her freakish husband… then she abruptly abandoned me and all I could think of to do was… Damon… Damon Strauss… how that name makes me quiver. Actually right now that name makes me feel more queasy than quivery. I really did embarrass myself with that musclebound dingbat, like walking into the most obvious love-trap without a clue of what was going on. He took advantage of me! I’ll have to change gym. I’ll ask for a refund! No, that might mean explaining why. You see this is just what happens when your husband runs and hides from reality, abandoning you in your moment of need, leaving hound dogs like Damon to come snapping up your backside… thank God no-one knows about this. Pure humiliation. And if I’m right, if it was Julian who stole the $200 I put in my purse... Just when I was trying to save face and pay off that creep for his services. God he was good. But I’ll never admit that.
Now Ollie’s been saved from those two drugged-up English models – thanks Stuart, for another inappropriate choice of childcare – and now that Julian has stopped fighting in the playground at his new school and giving himself and everyone else a headache, MAYBE we can get on with our lives. Stuart’s still around at Spencer’s, reliving the fantasy of being an unmarried man with no responsibilities, but in the meantime I’m waiting with baited breath to hear from Eric that my offer on Number 11 has been successful. Because if it is – Phase Two, get rid of Arthur, and let my Ponsonby life really begin.
OK. Where are we? We have an aggressively painful nuisance called Arthur Short living next door who misses no opportunity to interfere with my purchase of his dwelling, even though its not even his… we have a truly irritating burgeoning love-interest between Julian and that tawdry little slapper Amber who’ll be his downfall if I let things go on another minute, and moreover we have an embarrassing public display of disunity while my husband is licking his wounds and hiding out at Spencer’s house… Spencer – now there’s an odd specimen, he’s really no more than a savant with a scalpel, a big baby whose mental development was retarded at fourteen from excessive masturbation, who’s making millions tinkering with what nature got wrong while dashing from one twenty year old bimbo to the next. Sometimes I wonder if Stuart doesn’t try to model himself – unsuccessfully – on this sad old chum from his medical school days. And sometimes I wonder if I don’t wish I’d made a different choice and taken up with Spencer…. No! Just a joke!! Although I am sure Spencer would be an easier mate to deal with than Stuart, who hovers between sweet loving husband and socially retarded basketcase… I don’t really mean that, but believe me, I’m furious at him for not being here.
I cannot believe how silly I was the other night. Bonnie has to take responsibility, getting me so tiddly on pinot noir before she finally went home, god she was here for hours going on and on and on about the thrill of having sex with her freakish husband… then she abruptly abandoned me and all I could think of to do was… Damon… Damon Strauss… how that name makes me quiver. Actually right now that name makes me feel more queasy than quivery. I really did embarrass myself with that musclebound dingbat, like walking into the most obvious love-trap without a clue of what was going on. He took advantage of me! I’ll have to change gym. I’ll ask for a refund! No, that might mean explaining why. You see this is just what happens when your husband runs and hides from reality, abandoning you in your moment of need, leaving hound dogs like Damon to come snapping up your backside… thank God no-one knows about this. Pure humiliation. And if I’m right, if it was Julian who stole the $200 I put in my purse... Just when I was trying to save face and pay off that creep for his services. God he was good. But I’ll never admit that.
Now Ollie’s been saved from those two drugged-up English models – thanks Stuart, for another inappropriate choice of childcare – and now that Julian has stopped fighting in the playground at his new school and giving himself and everyone else a headache, MAYBE we can get on with our lives. Stuart’s still around at Spencer’s, reliving the fantasy of being an unmarried man with no responsibilities, but in the meantime I’m waiting with baited breath to hear from Eric that my offer on Number 11 has been successful. Because if it is – Phase Two, get rid of Arthur, and let my Ponsonby life really begin.
Friday, February 23
There’s nothing like that heady rush of success, of turning that final corner, reaching out and claiming your prize! Now I own it – Number 11, the perfect do-up, with my name on it! Well technically the bank’s, but that’s a minor detail.
At this point I wish to admit, yes perhaps I have been a touch hasty and abrasive, maybe even a little shrill in some of my dealings with Arthur Short, but these things are forgivable given how hard it is for a woman to forge her own way ahead in the world. Because at this point it is far from clear whether or not I have a husband to assist me earn an income for the family. And if I am alone, then surely its wise to have made a sensible investment in an adjacent property? Julian could live there when he’s studying for his law degree! Or I could re-tenant the place with a nice professional young family. Once I’ve made it liveable. New décor. Torn out the kitchen and that hideous sump-hole of a laundry and toilet. Surely I could be asking something like $500 a week? $600 a week? Does that seem outlandish? After all this is Ponsonby… though I’d hate to be greedy… but a lovely three bedroom house in the central city, nice garden, lovely light feeling… $700? Must check with Eric.
Sandy Grey – my new confidante and counsellor – has been worth his weight in gold. He’s helped me to revalue the things that are really important. Like – time for me, time just for me, not giving and nurturing and mollycoddling others. Time just for me to be me, Dimity-time. I have no idea what Stuart accomplished in his own – separate – session with Sandy. He’s disappeared again, still sulking at Spencer’s. It’s beyond me to understand what Stuart’s problem really is. He’s being so indulgent. Is he acting out one of those male menopause fantasies that blokes pretend to have to gain a bit of sympathy? What kind of role model is he to the boys? Next thing, Julian will be copying his father’s half-arsed half-witted breakdown. Give me strength!!
And while I’m being irked – Bonnie – and her throwback husband Jase – how dare she get all sniffy about kicking in a little bit of cash to help out her old friend? Do I ever ask for anything from that lazy cow? And Jase demanding interest? Who does he think he is? Doesn’t he know that without me, his wife’s social life would shut down like a flat battery? She’s hardly well-connected. If I wasn’t there, she’s just be standing in front of her horrid stove slopping together those casseroles she finds in women’s magazines, clogging up the guts of her slow-witted husband and child. She makes me worry about what she’s feeding Ollie when he’s over there. You better come through with that loan, Bonnie, I’m not joking.
But for now – I’m thrilled! Thrilled with myself, thrilled with my boss John Ackroyd finally coming to the party and helping me cobble together a decent financial package, and grateful for that little extra nudge from Eric my real estate advisor – who was there for me even when my own husband was not. Now I’ve got a real stake in the area. And there’s nothing Arthur Short can do to take it away from me!
At this point I wish to admit, yes perhaps I have been a touch hasty and abrasive, maybe even a little shrill in some of my dealings with Arthur Short, but these things are forgivable given how hard it is for a woman to forge her own way ahead in the world. Because at this point it is far from clear whether or not I have a husband to assist me earn an income for the family. And if I am alone, then surely its wise to have made a sensible investment in an adjacent property? Julian could live there when he’s studying for his law degree! Or I could re-tenant the place with a nice professional young family. Once I’ve made it liveable. New décor. Torn out the kitchen and that hideous sump-hole of a laundry and toilet. Surely I could be asking something like $500 a week? $600 a week? Does that seem outlandish? After all this is Ponsonby… though I’d hate to be greedy… but a lovely three bedroom house in the central city, nice garden, lovely light feeling… $700? Must check with Eric.
Sandy Grey – my new confidante and counsellor – has been worth his weight in gold. He’s helped me to revalue the things that are really important. Like – time for me, time just for me, not giving and nurturing and mollycoddling others. Time just for me to be me, Dimity-time. I have no idea what Stuart accomplished in his own – separate – session with Sandy. He’s disappeared again, still sulking at Spencer’s. It’s beyond me to understand what Stuart’s problem really is. He’s being so indulgent. Is he acting out one of those male menopause fantasies that blokes pretend to have to gain a bit of sympathy? What kind of role model is he to the boys? Next thing, Julian will be copying his father’s half-arsed half-witted breakdown. Give me strength!!
And while I’m being irked – Bonnie – and her throwback husband Jase – how dare she get all sniffy about kicking in a little bit of cash to help out her old friend? Do I ever ask for anything from that lazy cow? And Jase demanding interest? Who does he think he is? Doesn’t he know that without me, his wife’s social life would shut down like a flat battery? She’s hardly well-connected. If I wasn’t there, she’s just be standing in front of her horrid stove slopping together those casseroles she finds in women’s magazines, clogging up the guts of her slow-witted husband and child. She makes me worry about what she’s feeding Ollie when he’s over there. You better come through with that loan, Bonnie, I’m not joking.
But for now – I’m thrilled! Thrilled with myself, thrilled with my boss John Ackroyd finally coming to the party and helping me cobble together a decent financial package, and grateful for that little extra nudge from Eric my real estate advisor – who was there for me even when my own husband was not. Now I’ve got a real stake in the area. And there’s nothing Arthur Short can do to take it away from me!
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