"Money" published June 24

Bill Gates has been listening to me. Finally someone with heaps of money has decided to make a full-time career out of philanthropy rather than build enormous houses, buy up chunks of beach and drive fast cars. The richest man in the world aims to take his money and his mind and do something about the worldwide crises we have in areas of sickness, death, ignorance and illiteracy. And as hard as I tried I couldn’t find funding for the War on Terror or a Microsoft yacht in the next America’s Cup challenge anywhere on his list.
Unlike that other rich guy Larry Ellison, who reportedly spent a quarter of a billion on his syndicate for the America’s Cup challenge and all those other rich people ( including the New Zealand Government) who by my calculation will have thrown into the America’s Cup pot close on $3 billion. Just so that a few of the world’s elite can get a short term thrill of some yachts going really, really fast. Isn’t Pirates of the Caribbean 3 on where they live?
It’s not hard to find out what $3 billion could have done for the world. It could have given food to some of the world’s 2.2 billion children who live in poverty. Or how about doing something for the 815 million people in developing countries who are suffering from acute hunger and the 10 million who will die of hunger each year? *
If you’re still reading then it’s safe to assume you are a realist or you are one of those boring Aucklanders who shout at me: “The America’s Cup created the Viaduct you moron!” as if that is something we can be proud of. A strip of bars where 17-year-old Westies practise being Paris Hilton watched by men in property development who have far too many white striped shirts in their wardrobe. Thank you America’s Cup for your cultural input, and next time you come let me take you on a day trip to South Auckland where people die because they can’t pay the power bill.
Now back to the realists. We’re the kind of crazy cats who talk about creating a future rather than killing it. About preservation, conservation, renewing, reducing … that sort of thing. Admittedly we tend to be middle class wankers who think that taking our own bags to Foodtown and donating to charity will save the world while we pay off our mortgages and plan our next world trip. But at least we are aware and prepeared to do more if needed which has to be better than living for the momentary thrill of piling material possessions one on top of the other in our own personal financial wasteland.
But the best bit about Bill is that someone who basically rules the world has stood up and said there’s nothing wrong with capitalism but there is something very wrong with greed. How many possessions does it take for a wealthy man to be satisfied? Can you not live with one of everything? Of course you can. And suddenly eccentric people like me who live in Grey Lynn, grow our own organic veges, sign petitions and buy books called Beyond Terror, The Truth About the Real Threats to Our World look a bit more normal.. No longer are we marginalised as greenie, hippy nutters who should have a bath and drive a real car. No longer is it just mad old Bono jumping up and down about the state of the world. Bill is leading the charge, and Bill may not be cool but he’s clever. Perhaps in mansions, super yachts and boardrooms around the world people might start to feel a little embarrassed about their wealth and set some aside for the planet.
Meanwhile back in New Zealand we still have children growing up in poverty. One in five say some, a quarter of all households say others. Either way you cut it we have food banks, breakfasts provided in some schools, overcrowded living conditions and the emergence of third world diseases. Not to mention our appalling domestic violence and child abuse record and the emergence of a phrase called “corporate manslaughter.” All point to poverty. But you can’t see all that from the Viaduct, so it mustn’t be happening. Tell that to Bill next time you see him. You could save him a fortune.

*Statistics from Beyond Terror, The Truth About the Real Threats to Our World, by Chris Abbott, Paul Rogers and John Sloboda. Published by Random House.

"Money

Bill Gates has been listening to me. Finally someone with heaps of money has decided to make a full-time career out of philanthropy rather than build enormous houses, buy up chunks of beach and drive fast cars. The richest man in the world aims to take his money and his mind and do something about the worldwide crises we have in areas of sickness, death, ignorance and illiteracy. And as hard as I tried I couldn’t find funding for the War on Terror or a Microsoft yacht in the next America’s Cup challenge anywhere on his list.
Unlike that other rich guy Larry Ellison, who reportedly spent a quarter of a billion on his syndicate for the America’s Cup challenge and all those other rich people ( including the New Zealand Government) who by my calculation will have thrown into the America’s Cup pot close on $3 billion. Just so that a few of the world’s elite can get a short term thrill of some yachts going really, really fast. Isn’t Pirates of the Caribbean 3 on where they live?
It’s not hard to find out what $3 billion could have done for the world. It could have given food to some of the world’s 2.2 billion children who live in poverty. Or how about doing something for the 815 million people in developing countries who are suffering from acute hunger and the 10 million who will die of hunger each year? *
If you’re still reading then it’s safe to assume you are a realist or you are one of those boring Aucklanders who shout at me: “The America’s Cup created the Viaduct you moron!” as if that is something we can be proud of. A strip of bars where 17-year-old Westies practise being Paris Hilton watched by men in property development who have far too many white striped shirts in their wardrobe. Thank you America’s Cup for your cultural input, and next time you come let me take you on a day trip to South Auckland where people die because they can’t pay the power bill.
Now back to the realists. We’re the kind of crazy cats who talk about creating a future rather than killing it. About preservation, conservation, renewing, reducing … that sort of thing. Admittedly we tend to be middle class wankers who think that taking our own bags to Foodtown and donating to charity will save the world while we pay off our mortgages and plan our next world trip. But at least we are aware and prepeared to do more if needed which has to be better than living for the momentary thrill of piling material possessions one on top of the other in our own personal financial wasteland.
But the best bit about Bill is that someone who basically rules the world has stood up and said there’s nothing wrong with capitalism but there is something very wrong with greed. How many possessions does it take for a wealthy man to be satisfied? Can you not live with one of everything? Of course you can. And suddenly eccentric people like me who live in Grey Lynn, grow our own organic veges, sign petitions and buy books called Beyond Terror, The Truth About the Real Threats to Our World look a bit more normal.. No longer are we marginalised as greenie, hippy nutters who should have a bath and drive a real car. No longer is it just mad old Bono jumping up and down about the state of the world. Bill is leading the charge, and Bill may not be cool but he’s clever. Perhaps in mansions, super yachts and boardrooms around the world people might start to feel a little embarrassed about their wealth and set some aside for the planet.
Meanwhile back in New Zealand we still have children growing up in poverty. One in five say some, a quarter of all households say others. Either way you cut it we have food banks, breakfasts provided in some schools, overcrowded living conditions and the emergence of third world diseases. Not to mention our appalling domestic violence and child abuse record and the emergence of a phrase called “corporate manslaughter.” All point to poverty. But you can’t see all that from the Viaduct, so it mustn’t be happening. Tell that to Bill next time you see him. You could save him a fortune.

*Statistics from Beyond Terror, The Truth About the Real Threats to Our World, by Chris Abbott, Paul Rogers and John Sloboda. Published by Random House.

"Money" published June 24

Bill Gates has been listening to me. Finally someone with heaps of money has decided to make a full-time career out of philanthropy rather than build enormous houses, buy up chunks of beach and drive fast cars. The richest man in the world aims to take his money and his mind and do something about the worldwide crises we have in areas of sickness, death, ignorance and illiteracy. And as hard as I tried I couldn’t find funding for the War on Terror or a Microsoft yacht in the next America’s Cup challenge anywhere on his list.
Unlike that other rich guy Larry Ellison, who reportedly spent a quarter of a billion on his syndicate for the America’s Cup challenge and all those other rich people ( including the New Zealand Government) who by my calculation will have thrown into the America’s Cup pot close on $3 billion. Just so that a few of the world’s elite can get a short term thrill of some yachts going really, really fast. Isn’t Pirates of the Caribbean 3 on where they live?
It’s not hard to find out what $3 billion could have done for the world. It could have given food to some of the world’s 2.2 billion children who live in poverty. Or how about doing something for the 815 million people in developing countries who are suffering from acute hunger and the 10 million who will die of hunger each year? *
If you’re still reading then it’s safe to assume you are a realist or you are one of those boring Aucklanders who shout at me: “The America’s Cup created the Viaduct you moron!” as if that is something we can be proud of. A strip of bars where 17-year-old Westies practise being Paris Hilton watched by men in property development who have far too many white striped shirts in their wardrobe. Thank you America’s Cup for your cultural input, and next time you come let me take you on a day trip to South Auckland where people die because they can’t pay the power bill.
Now back to the realists. We’re the kind of crazy cats who talk about creating a future rather than killing it. About preservation, conservation, renewing, reducing … that sort of thing. Admittedly we tend to be middle class wankers who think that taking our own bags to Foodtown and donating to charity will save the world while we pay off our mortgages and plan our next world trip. But at least we are aware and prepeared to do more if needed which has to be better than living for the momentary thrill of piling material possessions one on top of the other in our own personal financial wasteland.
But the best bit about Bill is that someone who basically rules the world has stood up and said there’s nothing wrong with capitalism but there is something very wrong with greed. How many possessions does it take for a wealthy man to be satisfied? Can you not live with one of everything? Of course you can. And suddenly eccentric people like me who live in Grey Lynn, grow our own organic veges, sign petitions and buy books called Beyond Terror, The Truth About the Real Threats to Our World look a bit more normal.. No longer are we marginalised as greenie, hippy nutters who should have a bath and drive a real car. No longer is it just mad old Bono jumping up and down about the state of the world. Bill is leading the charge, and Bill may not be cool but he’s clever. Perhaps in mansions, super yachts and boardrooms around the world people might start to feel a little embarrassed about their wealth and set some aside for the planet.
Meanwhile back in New Zealand we still have children growing up in poverty. One in five say some, a quarter of all households say others. Either way you cut it we have food banks, breakfasts provided in some schools, overcrowded living conditions and the emergence of third world diseases. Not to mention our appalling domestic violence and child abuse record and the emergence of a phrase called “corporate manslaughter.” All point to poverty. But you can’t see all that from the Viaduct, so it mustn’t be happening. Tell that to Bill next time you see him. You could save him a fortune.

*Statistics from Beyond Terror, The Truth About the Real Threats to Our World, by Chris Abbott, Paul Rogers and John Sloboda. Published by Random House.

"Grey Times" published June 17

Grey Times


“We don’t do grey,” said my hairdresser.
I had warned her when I sat down that I would not be swayed from my mission.
“So does that mean you don’t have grey as a colour dye in the salon or you are politically opposed to doing grey on a woman my age?” I asked eager to turn the discussion into a philosophical debate not often found in a hairdressers.
“A bit of both,” she answered, shutting it down.
I looked around and saw that the entire salon had ground to a halt. Not in a silent, everyone stops what they are doing way that you see in the movies when the director needs emphasis. More in a still reading their magazines (clients) still snipping their scissors (hairdressers) but their ears had all just been rotated like huge satellite dishes in my direction.
“Jasmine, I want to be grey, and I want to be grey now!” I demanded raising my voice for the benefit of the eavesdroppers.
The hairdresser behind me smirked as he snipped away. “Another mad Grey Lynn woman worried about the cancer causing effects of hair dye,” I imagined he was thinking.
The “grey” thing as my friends and family call it began a few months ago when I did my accounts for the year. The wonderful thing about computerised accounting systems is that you can type in a code and see how much you spent in the past year on specific things like dining at SPQR, dining at Prego and getting your hair coloured. I would have been better off buying shares in SPQR and Prego. But hair colouring, while not as expensive as dining, was a return air ticket to Europe which is the currency I exist on at the moment. Every four weeks, three hours in the chair and a couple of hundred bucks later. Couple that with the fact that apart from the occasional TV appearance I no longer need to look groomed and sophisticated as I shuffle around my home in my ugg boots pretending to write for a living.
So it was off to the library on my bike, as you do in Grey Lynn, and home with a book called “Going Gray, Looking Great!” Billed as the modern woman’s guide to unfading glory I knew this was just the encouragement I needed. Being American it spelled “grey” as “gray” and neatly side-stepped the whole issue of cancer causing chemicals in hair dyes, but that’s okay because there isn’t actually much proof around. I’m just generally opposed to chemicals of any kind coming anywhere near my body, unless it’s Chanel No 5 which I won’t live without even if it does make me sneeze. The book concentrated more on Oprah style feel good messages like “there’s a whole new “cool” to grey. Works for celebrities, men and models” and “Silver is a fantastic background to showcase what God gave you” and my personal favourite “Like the lustre on fine pearls, silver hair is a woman’s patina.”
And then I looked at the pictures. Groomed hopeful women stared at me from the pages and it didn’t really matter how many ways I played it, silver, pearl or platinum they just looked, well, old. Nice, but old.
My friends did their best to talk me out of it.
“Do you ever want to have lunch with a man under 35 again?” I was asked.
“Well I think all the young men I know like me for my essence not for what colour my hair is,” I responded defiantly.
“Yeah, essence, young men are really into that,” they chortled.
My husband was encouraging. According to “Going Gray, Looking Great!” husbands may worry that you’ll let yourself go if you let your hair go grey. They may still see you as the “girl” they married and miss her when she’s grey. Perhaps my husband’s enthusiasm had to do with the fact that I’ve already “let myself go,” he married me when I was 35 and already sprouting a few greys and he rather likes the idea that lunch with young men might be off the menu.
And so we did it. Jasmine and I. Like all good intelligent women we compromised. She calls it ash blonde, I call it going grey gradually and she promises me I will reach a point in the future where dying my hair will be an occasional not an essential task and that air fare to Europe will be tucked firmly in my back pocket.
“Has anyone said anything about your hair?” my husband keeps asking on a daily basis
And the answer is no. Which is either a credit to Jasmine’s masterful colouring techniques or the fact that no one really gives a shit.

"New Residents" published June 10

New Residents

Every suburb has its influx of new residents. That’s how suburbs grow and prosper and most new residents bring with them interesting new religions, cultures and best of all cool ethnic food.
But not in Grey Lynn. Our new residents come from that far away place called Middle White New Zealand and the only thing new they bring with them is the word “aspiration” and an attitude called superiority. Because what we quaint inner city types who have lived here for a while don’t understand is that the New Resident has paid good – actually, silly - money to join us. And in the cultural richness that is Middle White New Zealand money buys you the right to be pompous, insular, judgmental and wear really bad clothes.
We older Grey Lynners on the other hand have earned the right to stand up for ourselves so here for the New Residents who might be finding it hard to fit in is a guide:
There are dogs in our parks which are allowed to run free. Contrary to media reports they are highly unlikely to maul your children, nor is it their fault that your child falls off its bike at the shock of seeing a dog running free on the other side of the park. If you want to live somewhere without dogs there are things called gated communities. Failing that perhaps the council will allow you to have one end of the park fenced off where you and your children can play exclusively while we stare at you in disbelief.
When you meet another New Resident in the supermarket do not stand in the aisle discussing your latest valuation. No one is interested in the fact that your house has increased in value by 100k in one year. Especially the Samoan shelf stacker who now has to find room for 10 new flavours of organic cashew nuts since you moved up the road.
Do not try to engage us in conversation. That’s why we’re wearing headphones on our walks around the neighbourhood now. We are not interested in your petition to do away with inorganic rubbish collections which visually pollute the streets for a massive five days once every two years. Nor do we want to partake in a street party, a pot luck dinner or form a Neighbourhood Watch scheme. If you’re lonely you only have yourself to blame.
Do not wear those clothes. You know the ones I mean. They’re the ones you refer to as “funky street wear” and you keep folded away in your drawer called “weekend.” If we wanted living Esprit catalogues walking around the place we’d live in Florida.
Don’t take your kids to the cafes. We know your new house was advertised as “just minutes from trendy cafes” but that doesn’t mean you take your kids with you. Have you ever met a kid who likes sitting at a café table while it reads the paper and orders another soy latte? Bored kids are a menace and if you doubt me just ask yourself why fluffies are the approximate measurement of a tablespoon. Café owners designed them that way so your child would finish up and you would be forced to take them somewhere else to perform their cute gymnastics and impressive squealing.
On the café situation, they are for eating, talking to friends then pissing off. They are not bus shelters or park benches which were designed for people to sit on and wile away three hours. Move along. You’ve been seen at the trendy café, time’s up.
Get rid of one of your cars. We all have. There’s a reason your suburb is described as “inner” city. You can walk to work in 25 minutes. Do it.
Do not allow your children to poke and gawk at the sleeping tramps in the park. They are part of us, they belong there and are not an excuse to give your children an impromptu lesson on the likely outcome of abusing alcohol and drugs. They might look like they’re asleep but they can hear you. We like them, and some of us talk to them rather than about them. The least you can do is leave them alone.
Consider forming a club. You can organise day trips out to where you came from to gaze at the dog free, bland environment you left behind. You don’t want to lose touch with that place because you’ll be moving back there once we’ve driven you crazy with our menacing dogs and inner city ennui.

"Bread" published June 3

They were starting to talk. About the bread. The bread I keep making like some haunted Romany woman in a Joanne Harris novel except thus far Johnny Depp hasn’t waltzed into my kitchen and started strumming a guitar meaningfully, more’s the pity.
The reason they are talking is that unsuspecting visitors are sent home with it, all hot and wrapped in newspaper. Friends trying to get me out of the house for some social time are told they’ll have to wait until the bread has risen. And the other day I was sprung at the supermarket by a former colleague from a glamorous world I’ve long forgotten with flour all over my black jumper and a wad of dough clinging for dear life to my unbrushed hair. “How the mighty have fallen,” the speech bubble above her head flashed as we exchanged pleasantries.
My family are being unusually quiet about this latest reincarnation from busy mother of many and occasional writer, to apron wearing, yeast sniffing, Van Morrison listening baker. To be fair they have lived through other reincarnations such as the several years spent as an amateur aromatherapist concocting healing oils for every ailment, which they suspected were all just a bit of lavender oil mixed with wheatgerm oil. The hangi-in-a-pot stage was thankfully short lived due to my husband’s refusal to eat any more of it and the adopt ex-battery hens scheme never quite took off despite the month of backyard preparation and long winded treatises on the taste of freshly laid eggs. Perhaps they were actually enjoying this one. During the first week of loaves my husband returned home after being asked to pick up a bag of flour from the supermarket with two 20kg bags of the stuff. One white and one wholemeal which sat glaring at me on the kitchen floor. I calculated that at my daily rate of 1kg of flour this meant I was committed to baking loaves for another 40 days and suddenly I felt trapped. Because baking bread is a free spirited thing. Something you do when you’re avoiding writing your novel which you promised everyone you’d start on May 1st, but you didn’t. You planted broad beans, shifted the pictures around on the walls and baked bread.
The mere act of baking bread is in itself deeply therapeutic and is more art than science. Anyone can throw together the flour, sugar, water oil and yeast to make a loaf but you need to be in the right head space to make a truly wonderful bread.
There must be Van Morrison on the stereo;Astral Weeks is good for white, and Best of Van Morrison does a good wholemeal. You must also be in a good mood. Not an “Oh what a beautiful morning” superficial good mood, more a feeling right with the world genuinely nurturing mood which radiates well being. Something mothers generally find able to slip into from time to time. And you must be gentle. With the yeast, with the kneading, everything must be peaceful, flowing and deeply entrenched in the Grey Lynn equivalent of Eastern mysticism. Which was all very well for the first few weeks of loaves. But then the family started leaving the crusts with the over confidence of people who were becoming used to having fresh bread baked every day. The novelty, which was me, had worn off. The only slightly diminished 40kgs of flour continued to cast menacing looks in my direction and threatened to become infested with weevils if I didn’t hurry up and use it. Suddenly the yeast refused to bubble, the kneading gave me a stitch so severe I momentarily thought I was having a heart attack, and the loaves came out stubbornly small like little hurt souls.
So the last batch of bread was made. Four loaves of cottage white (two with a light dusting of parmesan) one citrus rye and a multi grain. Van has been put to the back of the CD shelf and the novel has begun. But only after I planted the potatoes and went to the caravan, which is the way I started the last book. I have returned to my former self, busy mother of many and occasional writer and life continues on as usual while I attempt to adjust to the people who have moved into my head and insist that I sit down and write about them every day. You would not believe what they have been getting up to.