Fate as a Friend

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Some say that Life is made up of lost opportunities. Whilst that may be correct, Life is of course comprised of many aspects and to imply missed opportunities is foremost among them displays a negative mind-set that may even, for those of that demeanour, escalate those lost opportunities.

Nevertheless when I look back at my life I can think of many opportunities that I have not taken, regret not having taken and today—at 63—despair of ever taking. They range from the relative mundane such as not going to the Bruce Springsteen concert to the life changing such as not travelling the world or not becoming proficient at playing a musical instrument—I would have loved to be a rock drummer.

But one opportunity I did take, one afforded me by my late mother, was to become a writer. It wasn’t immediate, I started as a delivery boy in a newspaper, but doors opened continually and often fate intervened to help. In that regard, and in having the mother whom I did, I have been truly blessed. Let me say this though—and here we are arriving at the theme of this Fryday—I don’t think I am particularly talented as a writer but I am a good reader, a vociferous reader, and that, along with fate, the mother and luck, has helped immensely.

A young lady whom I met yesterday and who is yearning to be employed in the communication industry prompted these thoughts. She is a hard-worker, intelligent and has a supportive mother; yet you can see the doubt in her eyes and what is extravagantly called the fear of the future. That is understandable; at her stage of life, much of the future stretches before her like an unmapped desert. Yet she will have guides across that desert. There will be people to help her. There will be opportunities that come up—some of her own doing, others through sheer luck or the intervention of Fate. Nobody, and I mean nobody (unless they choose) is left to face the future alone.

My life has undergone many changes. One of the most abrupt and ultimately joyous was in 1986 when I won a major writing competition that I had not even entered. But Fate intervened, and I was subsequently offered, and took, the opportunity to write full-time. Another more recent was the meeting of my wife under a set of circumstances so unlikely that many have said it was Fate playing Cupid. I agree. It was.

I am now likely to make another change (with my wife, not to my wife J) and like that young lady yesterday I, too, have a new and uncharted desert to cross.  But cross it I will, because I will have Fate as a friend and a glorious nurturing thing called Life to lead and to lead me.

Jumping the Shark

My one and only appearance thus far on Shortland Street has had none of the expected or desired effects. It has not furthered my acting career, it has not given me street-recognition, and it has not even prompted an invitation to appear on “Shorty Street” again. The fact that I was not prominent in Ellen DeGeneres’ Academy Awards’ selfie is further evidence of my abject failure as an actor—shared by Lisa Minnelli. And the reason I have grown a beard is not, as I hoped, to escape unwanted attention, but simply because everybody else is doing it and I have a fear of loneliness.
So, there I am a sad forlorn case consigned to watching Jones and its repeat broadcasts of some of the classic shows of my youth. And therein lies a silver if somewhat perverse lining and a vivid example that I am in fact not alone. Many of the actors seen on Jones today are, like me, one-hit wonders, or close to it. Many are dead of course and it is very hard to come back from that even for The Love Boat or Fantasy Island. But others are consigned to memory, rest homes or the nostalgia circuit. Which is where I think some of their shows should also stay. Opinions will differ but it is clear that some shows stand the test of time (and a repeat on Jones) while others do not. Of those that do not—in my opinion—I would list, among others, Happy Days, On the Busses, and Bonanza. Of those I believe warrant repeats and I am thoroughly enjoying are Columbo (Stephen Fry calls Columbo one of his favourites), High Chaparral, and Cheers.
British comedies such as Dad’s Army deserve even more repeat viewings, but where is Hancock’s Half Hour?
Some of the programmes I have listed were in fact in the midst of their death throes first time around, which makes the repeats even more inexplicable. Uppermost among these are the later episodes (post Ron Howard) of Happy Days. Watch them now. Fonzie is a shadow of his former self—resorting to jumping over sharks in an ill-conceived foray to Hawaii. That very act, jumping a shark, has become a nomenclature for any show that resorts to outlandish situations to instil life into a moribund corpse. Another trick was to introduce new blood, usually someone sickingly cute. Happy days had Chachi Arcola  (Scott Baio) and the dreadful Roger Philips (Ted McGinley), and All in the Family introduced kids in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to infuse life into an already dead programme. Archie didn’t need it; nor, before him, did Alf have it.
But good on Jones for bringing these shows—good and bad—back. Where else on television these days can you see again such great characters as Buck Cannon and Manolito Montoya (High Chaparral), Norm and Cliff (Cheers), Louie De Palma and Reverend Jim" Ignatowski (Taxi) and of course Columbo?
It is just a great pity that we have to wade through sharks to get to them.

Letter from Somalia (2)

Dear Frydaygroup Friends
Wonderful, wonderful news. I am quite overcome with excitement and cannot wait to share that excitement with you.
But first I must bring you up to date with what happened since we last corresponded. You will remember that on that occasion I was in the midst of Somalia at night watching distant lights approach our grounded plane. My new-found lady friend opined that they may be the lights of bandits or pirates whom I believe are quite prevalent in these parts. We were cautioned into silence. I am happy to be able to tell you now that our caution was unwarranted. The lights belonged to a convoy of Christian missionaries, which my friend thought just as bad. But when they finally arrived at the plane, I found them quite delightful and very much helpful. They kept saying they wanted to save us, though I know not from what. Our plane was by now fully repaired (as subsequent events so proved) but they seemed to be very persistent. It was only when I began my recitation on the breeding habits of the Devonport Guppy that they thought to leave and our plane could take off.
It was a delightful interlude, but there were no other events before our arrival at Bosasa two days later. And here we arrive at my wonderful news. Who should I see here in Bosasa but none other than my erstwhile brother-in-law Prince Mongatabo, brother of my late husband King Abundo. What excitement! He recognised me immediately! But what would bring Mongatabo all the way from Nigeria to Somalia? Well, it appears that he has some sort of role with the Somali Navy, and I shall tell you more of that in a moment. Most exciting of all is that he already has many friends in New Zealand! Many of whom, he says, started as investors in his Nigerian businesses whom he met by email. By email, can you imagine! It is a small world. He asked me how many friends I had in New Zealand and I told him about all my Frydaygroup friends and he says he will write to you all so that he can be your friend too. It will be lovely.
Now for my other good news and one that has much to do with my guppy hunt. I am to be taken to sea tomorrow for an off-shore search. And I have Mongatabo to thank for it. You see, I said he had something to do with the Somali Navy. I do not know that for sure, but I do know that he introduced me to twelve or so friends of his whose job is to go to sea in their small boats and help guide big ships through Somali waters, and they have offered to take me along when they go out tomorrow. They are heavily armed. But, as Mongatabo says, so is everybody else and these men need protection from sharks and crocodiles and such like. From what I have heard, said I, we might add pirates to our list of hazards. Mongatabo simple smiled (he has a lovely smile) and said pirates wouldn’t be a problem. I cannot wait, I am quite in a tis as you can imagine.
So, from Somalia and soon to sea, bless you my friends.
Much love,
Phyllis.

Yours truly,

Phyllis J. Fenwick (Miss).

Internet support kindly provided by Jack Arbuckle’s Pre-Loved Car Emporium

With love from Wogistan (you know who you are).

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

Email: Info@officeoftheforeignsecretary.govt.wg

Her Serene Highness

The Queen of England and other Countries not U.S.a.

Bucking Ham Palace of the Peoples

London

In England.

Greetings From Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

I am instructed by esteemed president President Yoseph Flagrantlie (hollowed is his name) that said President Yoseph Flagrantlie does require seven seats in Royal Box at Wimbeleton Tennis Courts to watch Wogistan’s number one tennis player President Yoseph Flagrantlie win matches. President Flagrantlie has won all matches in Wogistan (Inc) except one to the late Major General Yoseph Tztortion.  Will win more.

President Yoseph Flagrantlie enter tennis tournament at Sochi Winter Olympics. But he such a feared opponent that no other nation turn up to play tennis. President Flagrantlie win Gold Silver and bronze medals, but Russian dictator Vladimir Putin refuse to give. We go war.

But we loves beloved British peoples in not U.S.a. We willing to be in fashionable tournament and be in royal box with your Phillip who went to school in Greece with second uncle of Wogistan Minister of War and Farm Implements, Yoseph Kazakstan.

Minister of War and Farm Implements Yoseph Kazakstan carry Presidents tennis racket. Not need seat.

With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathhouse.

Kim

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To me, having an innate aversion to a name is irrational and illogical. Yet I have it.  In my early days the name was Felicity. But at least I could explain why I disliked Felicity—I disliked Felicity. Felicity Smith was a girl who followed me in every primary class we attended. She latched on to me like a limpet and it was only when we went to separate secondary schools that she stopped. Felicity was never popular and was as a consequence lonely and morose—which only added to her problem and in retrospect my own: the guilt I now feel for the way I treated her which ran along the lines of I don’t want to be associated with you because you are bad for my image.

That said, I still have an aversion to the name Felicity. But at least I have an explanation as well.

But how do I explain Kim? Why do I not like the name Kim? Is it again that I associate it with the traits of some people I do know of that name though not intimately—Kim Kardashian, Kim Dotcom and Kim Jong-un? Maybe.

I am such an evil devious bugger that I even went on the Internet to find other people named Kim whom I could dislike. What I found surprised me—not the number of people, but the number of sites devoted to the name Kim. There is of course the omnipresent Wikipedia listing, but there also any number of sites listing famous people named Kim (they all seem to come up with the same three I did) and one site for “Men named Kim”.  There is even a site for people who wished they were named Kim. For those of a scientific bent there is a Web-thesis on the gender-neutrality of Kim.

None of these sites adds much to the store of common knowledge but they perhaps illustrate the fact that you can find anything about anything on the Internet, and that there are too many people with too much time on their hands. Like me.

I will now go and do something useful.  Before I go, however, there are some riders to this Fryday. They are:

1.     I know very few people named Kim.

2.     The only Kim with whom I have a close acquaintance is one of the loveliest people I have met and of whom I have the greatest admiration and adoration.

3.     None of the other Kims I have mentioned have invited me to any of their parties (in the case of Kim Dotcom he seems to have invited everybody else) and thus allowed Fryday to form a different opinion of them. Until they do…

And finally...Felicity. My hope there is that she has grown to live a full and happy life.  That won’t assuage my guilt, but it will at least allow me to think she has the strength and the depth to smile benignly and knowingly on my apology.
Happy Valentine’s Day Felicity, wherever you are.

Letter From Somalia

Note to readers: Since receiving the following email earlier in the week we have made concerted and repeated attempts to contact Miss Fenwick. Unhappily they have been without success. We will keep trying, but these are worrying times for her supporters.


Dear Frydaygroup Friends

This is my first letter from Somalia. I have been here a week now and have much to tell you.

But first please allow me to again thank you for your kind and collective contribution to our cause. I know that there are some in the scientific community who still insist that my quest for the ancestral breeding grounds of the Devonport Guppy will be in vain. They have been wrong before and I believe they will be wrong again. They lack the vision and indeed the comprehension to know how important to the world a successful conclusion to this quest will be. But you know. You have the vision. And your contribution and faith come at no better time, given the exciting news from Somalia and the fact that my previous benefactor my son-in-law, Mr Jack Arbuckle of Jack Arbuckle’s Pre-Loved Car Emporium, is presently temporarily incarcerated and unable to continue his funding support.

So, what is happening here in Somalia? What adventures I have had! I have not yet been able to confirm those earlier reports that a Devonport Guppy has been seen in Somali waters. But it is early days yet and I remain in hope. In all other respects but one my stay here has been a delight. The one disappointment came with the arrival of our Air Garuda flight at Mogadishu. The pilot seemed in unseemly haste and the aircraft had not yet come to a full stop before we were unceremoniously bundled off and the aircraft took off again. Most disappointing and potentially dangerous, I am sure.

But in all other respects there is no disappointment with this country or my welcome to it. Indeed, I have been made to feel most welcome and am very much in demand. On no fewer than three occasions thus far I have been forcefully removed from the streets and whisked away to a room by heavily armed men who seem to be very reluctant to let me go. It is only after I have completed my five-hour dissertation on the breeding habits of the Devonport Guppy that they seem happy to allow me to leave; only for me to be then whisked away by the next group. Very flattering to an 86 year-old woman to have such attention.

Yesterday I started north from Mogadishu to the northern coastal town of Bosaso, flying Somali Airlines. We are yet to arrive and I believe we must be on a tourist flight because the plane lands every few miles so that we can have a comfort stop and see the sights. There is a lot of sand in Somalia. How refreshingly different this airline is from others I have flown! What other airline allows you to wind down the window for fresh air? What other airline allows you to take pets on board? I have counted several pigs, two goats and countless chickens. They are also a most convivial airline; they serve a strange and strangely delicious alcoholic beverage to passengers and even the cabin crew and pilots join in!  It is all very social. I also feel most secure. Almost everybody on board is heavily armed. So with that warmth, safety  and comfort I think I shall now retire for a short nap—I see the pilots have already nodded off.

I am awake. It is dark. And there is no sound in the plane.  Fortunately my trusty Dell which my son-in-law gave me after it fell off the back of a truck seems undamaged and is still working. But the silence here is worrying. We are on the ground.  I see lights in the distance and they are moving. What or who they are  I cannot tell. My new friend, whom I met on the flight—a lovely woman with her very own Kalashnikov—now tells me that the lights are those of bandits or pirates. How exciting! Imagine—pirates in this day and age! And in Somalia of all places! She says that we must remain silent for if we are captured we are destined to a life of decadence and debauchery. She does not of course know of my three years as nanny in the household of Mr Keith Richards and Miss Pallenberg and their lovely little boy Marlon. But I shall remain silent and post this e-mail now in case it is to be my last.

Bless you.
Yours truly,

Phyllis J. Fenwick (Miss).

Internet support kindly provided by Jack Arbuckle’s Pre-Loved Car Emporium (temporarily in hiatus).

The Last Time I was in Palmerston North

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The last time I was in Palmerston North it involved motel rooms, key swaps, seductive lingerie (black with little red flowers), garter belts (2), a whip, handcuffs and a Formula One driver. But, because you are probably not interested in any of that, I shall move on.

I came close to Palmerston North last week; the sign said Palmerston North 50ks but one can never make up ones mind as to whether such signs are meant as a guide or a warning.

Regardless I ventured no farther. I was in a hurry to get to Taupo (for a beer), to Hamilton (for an interview) and home (for a…). It was all part of a three-day road-trip through Hawke’s Bay, Wairarapa and Manawatu, ending, as much does, in the Waikato.

On that trip I saw parts of New Zealand I had never seen, and parts of New Zealand that would count among the most beautiful I have ever seen. Southern Hawke’s Bay looked like something from a Steinbeck novel, without the sadness. Manawatu was simply gorgeous, stunning. The Desert Road pulled at the heart, ripped at it, demanding that you leave part of it there, and I fear I did a little.

Most joyous of all though, and remarkably for me, were the towns. The towns of central North Island and the Wairarapa are thriving. There is not an empty shop to be seen, the streets are bustling, and the people are cheerful and friendly. Even Masterton, which had experienced a 6.2 earthquake the week before my arrival, was buoyant; I saw no damage and experienced none of the much-vaunted aftershocks. It was probably the high point of the trip.

The only sour point—and here you may say I am being predictable, but I have evidence—was Hamilton.

The only near-miss (crash) I had after travelling 100s of miles in my rental car was in Hamilton. What obscene logic persists in Hamilton that says it makes good sense to have two lanes going fully around a roundabout and cars in the right (inner) lane can at will and without warning cross over the left (outer) lane to exit?

But the evidence I have that Hamilton has a malevolent redolence for me was that my rental car’s GPS simply gave up the ghost when it reached the environs of Hamilton. It  could not track me through (and more importantly out) of the city. It gave me a series of confusing though strident instructions and then went blank. It did show a somewhat hazy image of what I thought was a bull mounting a cow, but it may have been a farmer and a cow—I simply could not tell.

The GPS recovered only when I was on the Te Rapa Straight and on my way home. It was as if it had fled the car and was waiting for me outside the town. Normal service was resumed but by that time I knew where I was going, and where I was going was home—taking with me wonderful memories of this beautiful country of ours and confirmation—if confirmation was needed—that Hamilton is just not my kinda town.

Happy Birthday Fryday

What started as a simple and one-off exercise to test the theory that the pen is mightier than the sword turns 20 years-of-age this year.
I don’t know the actual date, but I do know I wrote my first Fryday in 1994, which may make it one of the oldest e-letters still going.
That first posting was written to “fry” a Glen Innes panel beater whom I described as Auckland’s worst.  It was I think the first and last Fryday with any real malice and was sent to a few friends as a warning.
Since then I have tried to keep it light-hearted and the distribution list has hovered around 100, though the more recent blog version has reached 12000 hits.
Many of you have shown kindness in responding to individual postings. The one that received the most response was my tale of inadvertently poisoning my Sea-Monkeys. That posting, like most from the first 10 years, is now lost, at least from my computer.
The series that received the most comments (mostly good) was George W’s Letters to God followed by H’s Letters to Michelle—both now dispensed with. Letters from Wogistan get commented on, but the king for comments is reserved for Whetu; you seem to like his quirky view of the world.
Some of you may have given up on Fryday and consign it automatically to the junk file. But in 20 years I have had only 2 requests to have names removed from the distribution list. I did so immediately though regrettably in the case of one and with some humour with the other considering he wasn’t even on the mailing list and for someone working in public relations was unnecessarily abusive.
But the rest of you have stuck around and I hope I have, most times, given you a bit of a laugh each Friday/Fryday. Some have even past on Fryday to others, and I am both pleased and flattered by that.
So, thank you for your kindness and readership over the last 20 years.  I have no immediate plans to close Fryday; not at least while there is still my beloved Hamilton, and I will later this year publish the archive as an e-anthology, and introduce a new columnist, whom I hope you will like.
Oh, and by the way: despite me, that panel beater is still in business, but then again so is Fryday, so let’s call it a draw.
Have a good weekend.

I Feel Like Salman Rushdie

I feel like Salman Rushdie.
This is written from a remote, very secluded and extremely secretive location. It has to be. It appears that the fashionistas of Auckland have returned from their summer sojourn in Bali, Thailand or whatever the destination de jour is these days and have read and taken umbrage at my comments regarding the superficiality of participating in Fashion in the Field. They have told me in no uncertain terms that they are not superficial, just sooper!!! The jihad has begun. What started as light-hearted comments about my parentage has escalated to outright physical violence. I have been attacked! And there seems to be method to this violence. First I am blinded the light-emitting garish ties of the men (often matching their suits for even more effect) and, in this vulnerable state, I am then targeted by those so-called hats of the women that look less like hats and more like multi-coloured porcupines perching uncertainly atop a cascading waterfall of bleach. Fortunately I have a respite as most of the attackers have taken time off to appear before the cameras at the Heineken Men’s Open. But I fear they will be back, and I shall remain in hiding until such time as I can reach Hamilton, the last true bastion against the advent of the fashionista, and the ancestral home of the walk-short and the safari suit. Hamilton: my haven, my home.

The Sweet Sweet Smell of Success

I believe I came close to attaining sainthood.
I resolved over the season of goodwill to become newly compassionate, to harbour no animosity toward man or entity, and to not dwell on any disappointment of anyone or anything.
In other words, not pick on Hamilton
However, like many New Year resolutions mine lasted only a matter of days, and for this I blame Fairfax Media’s Stuff news-site. Today Stuff published a story that Hamilton is being beset by a foul but as yet unidentified stench wafting over the suburbs. The stench has been variously described as smelling like rotten eggs, a pile of dead cows, wet chicken manure and a dead cat. Or all of the above and all of which would be eminently practical in Hamilton.
Waikato Regional Council officers have followed their noses but have not found the source. So, Hamilton—a city whose previous sole claim to fame was its proximity to Matamata—has a new if unwanted distinction.
The only resolution to the problem I can suggest to Hamiltonians is that if they cannot banish the stench they should at least try and replace it. Get another; one that is perhaps just as foreign to them, but far more appetising: the sweet, sweet smell of success, of foresight and purpose, of vibrancy and vitality, of religious tolerance.
We can send it down from Auckland if you want.

Soul Searching

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There are those of whom it is said (they) have lost their soul. This is of course impossible. Everybody has a soul for it is a universal diktat of all known religions. What people really mean is that a person who has lost their soul has a disinterest bordering on disdain for what said people believe to be important. For example, I have little time for cats—therefore a cat-lover may think I have no soul.  Hamiltonians go further: not only do they not think I have a soul, they think (and hope) I shall rot in hell.  Another case in point—the annual Fashionistas in the Field at Ellerslie Races. I acknowledge some may be interested in the parade of pretty young ladies and equally pretty young men vying with each other for the attention of the media and each other, but I am afraid it leaves me cold—even if, as is the case this year, an acquaintance of mine won it, and, whatever else I may feel, it is churlish not to share in her deserved delight.

But, beyond that, I have no interest in style and therefore no soul.

What I am interested in though are those who in a heightened way at this time of year attempt to save souls. That is very commendable, though less so of those churches placing a bounty on each soul saved, by way of tithing or through infomercials. 

But there are other, less mercenary, organisations for which soul saving is very much a secondary consideration. They are the most commendable because they  have a belief in the intrinsic sanctity of the soul and can therefore concentrate on doing good work without tying or tithing it to soul-searching: City Missions is one, Salvation Army is another. Both do wonderful work all year round, but particularly at this time of the year. For them there is no tangible reward—no year’s supply of sunglasses or night at Sofitel; there is just another mouth and family to be fed and another tomorrow to face.

Yes, I know it is indeed specious to some to link the glitz and glamour of Ellerslie Races with what goes on under Grafton Bridge—and possibly unfair as well. Fair enough; comparisons are odious. But when I read the Herald and watch the news with pictures of all the pretty young things in their finery at Ellerslie I cannot help but cogitate upon true beauty—beauty with depth and soul— being elsewhere.