Mourning

As a child, I lived on a dairy farm. We had prize winning goats. While it wasn’t the happiest of childhoods, there are some good memories. Let us just leave it at that. However I did make some wonderful friendships, some of which lasted a lifetime.

Across the road, one of the children had the same birthday as me. We had another neighbour Nigel. He, my sister and I would chase the (non-native) cane toads and spear them with sticks. (I shudder when I think of it now). Sometimes our friend Sandy would join us in our hunting. She lived on the other side of the gully. Her family owned a banana plantation. They were like a second family – our Uncle and Aunt. We kept in touch with the family even after we moved away to ‘the city’. Sandy was one of my sister’s best friends and they were as thick as thieves, even as adults.

This year I was told that Sandy had cancer. A nasty one. Having moved interstate many years ago, I could not be there for her. My sister supported her, visited her and sat with her.  A few months ago, my sister phoned. They were coming to visit Adelaide as Sandy had always wanted to see the pandas. The zoo had other ideas; the pandas were locked away on a breeding programme (which was unsuccessful).

In the end they visited Sydney, even making an appearance on a national morning TV show, Sunrise. They had got their trip. Sandy had a great time. I am so sad that she did not get to see her beloved pandas and that I did not get the chance to say goodbye.

Mum rang this morning to let me know that my friend Sandy passed away in the early hours. My sister had seen her yesterday and she was with her family.

Today I am in mourning. I am remembering an old friend. I am thinking of her young family and how they must be missing her. I am thinking of my sister who has lost a best friend and cohort – - in her 40s – all too young.

Though we mourn for our loss, Sandy is now free of pain. She is going home.

RIP Sandy.

Mourning

How NEVER to Treat a Client - Rant warning!

Today I must apologise to those who do not like rants but I have something to get off my chest. I have never been a fan of the phrase ‘The customer is always right.’ Sometimes the customer does not know what they want. Sometimes they have unrealistic expectations. Sometimes they are just rude and expect everything for nothing. Sometimes they actually want things that are unsafe or impossible. Sometimes they are just lacking in social etiquette. However most customers can be quite reasonable. I think that I am quite reasonable.

I work in a profession that has the (sometimes dubious) advantage that it stradles the health industry and customer service. Before that I worked at a department store in ‘records and cassettes’ (yes, I know that ages me… but all the other kids wanted my job back then). I have done endless courses on working and communicating with a customer.  I know how bad and stressful it can be working with the public so I try not to make life hell for those who have to work with us.

However on Saturday morning I met a worker who has mad e me so angry at the incredibly horrendous,  abhorrent and atrocious (and I use this as it is the most polite word I can use here and still keep a G raiting) service I have had in many years.  Her manners were atrocious. I felt like I was rushed through, my instructions and needs were totally ignored and I was argued with. Basically I was treated like an idiot and lied to.

Let me set the scene: I have had to find a new hairdresser. Due to work stresses, I can no longer frequent the shopping centre where my lovely and wonderful long-term hairdresser works. (I am not happy about the incursion into my everyday life but have no choice at this point). I was referred to a different store where one of her colleagues had been transferred. We attended once and were happy with the service and results.

This week we were informed that she no longer works there. Turns out the store changed hands (we only found out when we arrived) and she left. A replacement appointment had not been made and so we had to be squeezed in at a most inconvenient time at the last minute.

We were given another hairdresser. She popped across, did a blunt cut (on dry hair) across the back of my hair and said she would do the rest of the cut after the colour. She then disappeared back to her original client for 15 minutes or so and returned. I prepared for the normal gossipy chatter that we usually get at the hairdressers. Boing. Black mark number one. She was very officious, the little small talk that she engaged in drowned out the instructions I gave her on how I wanted the colour (streaks and roots) to be done; specifically to leave in my natural grey streak at the front, and redo a red streak at the very front, near the face.

The colour was slapped on as if in a race. She did not put it in the same places as existing and did not do the specific streak near the face. She said she had done one on top that would fall down and cover. This actually left the under streak – faded as it was – undone entirely. I had to argue and call her back to do it.  Boing. Black mark number two (well three if you count her ignoring my instructions to start with).

Hair washing: Well let me just say that my scalp is still buzzing from being burnt by such hot water. Boing. Black mark number four. No, I did not want a blowdry and if I did I would wait until my cut was finished. But wait, apparently it was! ????  (Insert jaw drop and query as I had specifically asked her to slightly layer the back (not done) and trim the ‘fringe’ and layer it. She advised me that she had already done it.

Excuse me! I would have noticed if she had taken to the front of my hair with a pair of scissors – which she had not! I have eyes and intelligence; I am not senile and she was lying. She argued with me but dained to cut it anyway. (too short, the layers go too deep and it is on the wrong part – even after a few minutes of explaining exacty what I wanted). (insert many, many expletives here). I felt as if we were being pushed through as fast as possible (even though there was no one else in the store at the time – am I surprised?!) to keep her numbers up, her manner becoming more abrupt the more I insisted on insisting that the items I was paying for had not been done.

Even my husband’s cut was unprofessional. The slight undercut that he has is usually about a number 2 I think, she was going to totally shave it off and I had to insist she get a different razor – even after we had ‘discussed’ it in detail before hand. Even now, there are bits that she has missed and not cut properly.

I left feeling very angry, patronised, gobsmacked and in tears. I don’t think she cared one bit. I was not a young trendy thing and I suppose she wondered how I would dare to dictate to her what I wanted done with my hair.

I will never be returning to that shop. I am spreading the word to my friends to avoid it like the plague… and have the pictures to prove it! This woman provides that horrid example to reinforce the gen Y stereotype that people complain about. I feel sorry for all those hard working gen Y’s who had to put up with the like of her. Because I will never put up with her again.

Sorry for the rant.

How NEVER to Treat a Client - Rant warning!

Flash Fiction

That got your attention. Flash fiction (or micro fiction) is a very short story. Depending on the type it has different word count restrictions. Generally, flash fiction is under 1000 words (though I have heard 800 words as a definition as well). There there also are ‘under 500 word’ versions. The most difficult to write are 100 words - exactly! This takes a lot of skill to engineer an exact word count.

I had asked some friends for some ‘topics’ to write on. I chose ‘Snow Peas’. Here is an ‘under 500 words’ flash fiction for today:

Snow Peas

(c)Karen Carlisle 2013

Mum always tells us to eat our greens. They are good for us.  We grow them in the front yard. This year she went pea mad, planting every pea type known. With names like ‘Greenfeast’, ‘Bounty’  and ‘Telephone’, I wasn’t sure if we were meant to eat them or communicate with them. I hate peas. I swallow them whole, like pills.

This year mum also planted ‘Sugar Peas’ and ‘Snow Peas’. She was hoping to find something that I might like. The Snow Peas were my favourite but not as mum had hoped.

Though it was only just summer, we were having a heatwave. Two weeks in a row above 37 degrees (Celcius) and the peas were looking a little bedraggled. Mum picked possibly the last of the snow peas and made a delicious looking salad. Well she said it was delicious, I thought it could have done without the snow peas.

Mum looked so sad; her babies were dying. I wished I could cheer her up, maybe chase the heat away. I couldn’t, so I ate the snow peas. They were cold and refreshing, as if there was an arctic breeze across my tongue.

As I opened my mouth, a gust of cold air rushed out, filling the room. Small icicles formed where it touched. Mum almost fell off her chair in surprise.  I opened my mouth again, this time freezing mum’s cup of tea. Then I had an idea.

Outside the sun was still beating down with its full heat. I turned towards the vegetable garden and breathed. The air chilled around me, dropping the temperature. It felt like spring. If I could lower it for long enough then maybe the peas could survive the heatwave. The temperature continued to drop. Now it was like winter.  Small icicles formed on the leaves, the tips turning black.

I heard the front door slam. Mum stood beside me.

“Oh dear,” she said. “Peas don’t like frost.”

Mum looked sad again. I backed off and didn’t speak. The peas continued to freeze.  Mum hugged me.

“Thank you for trying,” she said. Though mum was upset at the loss of her babies, I must admit I was glad that I did not have to eat any more peas that summer.

It took two days for the snow pea effects to wear off. During that time, we discovered many new ice-block flavours and mum decided that she was not going to make me eat peas anymore. That is why I love snow peas.

Flash Fiction

The Difference Between Parasols and Umbrellas.

I love parasols but I find umbrellas frustrating. Does that make sense? Let me explain.

Both are hand-held, portable methods of shading yourself from the elements (sun or rain) or in some cases bird poop.  They can even be used in photography to redirect light as desired. Various forms of parasol or umbrella (often used interchangably) are found throughout history. There are written records from 21AD China (and earlier) and Ancient Rome and India. Ancient Egyptians used them. In Greece they were a woman’s fashion necessity (and shade from the sun).

They can even be used as weapons. In 1832, a book titled How to Protect Life and Property advised on how to use the umbrella to defend yourself against highwaymen. In the early 20th century, there was a form of marshal art (called Bartitsu) using umbrellas and walking canes – and apparently used by Sherlock Holmes to defeat Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls.

So far, not much difference… Let’s try definitions.

An umbrella is a ‘a device consisting of a circular canopy of cloth on a folding metal frame supported by a central rod, used as protection against rain.’ (Oxford dictionary). It is derived from the latin word umbra meaning shade. It can be portable or it can be of gigantic proportions for the beach or beside the pool. A yellow umbrella became the symbol to represent the faceless wife in ‘How I met your mother‘. When I think umbrellas, I think English men with bowlers and black umbrellas.

A parasol is a ‘light umbrella used to give shade from the sun’. (Oxford dictionary) The word is derived from Spanish: para meaning stop or shield and sol meaning sun. It seems to be smaller in size, traditionally has a straight handle, end instead of a curved one, and is portable.  In one of my favourite book series, the Parasol Protectorate by Gail Carriger, the heroine uses a gimmicked-out parasol as a weapon. The ‘chinese paper’ parasol with a colourful swirl is instantly recognisable as belonging to Kaylee on Firefly. For me, the parasol is the quintiscential symbol of the genteel Victorian woman protecting her peaches and cream complexion.

So that is my personal views on the difference between parasols and umbrellas. I prefer parasols because they are prettier, remind me lazy picnics and of  cups of tea. Most of all because they are usually not used during windy storms, they don’t blow inside out and poke me.

The Difference Between Parasols and Umbrellas.

'Buy Nothing New" Clothing.

Next on the list is a maxi-length A-line skirt for summer. I have revealed the  the planned material in a previous post: Overcoming obstacles. For those who don’t like following links, here it is again.

This has been sitting in my material stash for most of the year (purchased from one of the Spotlight sale tables). It has a summery feel, is very lightweight cotton (for our over 40 deg C summers) and is in shades of purple.

You may have guessed that my favourite colour is purple (see Clothed for example). I went through a stage of not buying or making pieces in purple. I was tired of people assuming  that if something was purple, I would either like it or own it. My wardrobe was becoming a drab place. I have now decided to go with my heart and wear what cheers me up. Purple cheers me up.

This month is Buy Nothing New Month. The challenge is to try to buy no new items for the entire month, encouraging recycling and reusing (food exempt). If we can learn to cut down on wasting our resources then this will benefit the environment. There are several FB pages dedicated to this such as Buy Nothing New Month Australia. Check out the second hand stores, opshops and garage sales. I also have a FB page dedicated to Recycle, Reuse, Repair and Grow.

This month I am planning on attacking more material from my stash cupboard and wrangling it into wearable items.

'Buy Nothing New" Clothing.

The Middle Syndrome

I was watching a movie yesterday. The station ad made it sound like a fun Rom Com with a twist, the blurb sounded interesting – something a little left of centre and unique. It was about a writer so that sparked my curiosity as well.

The start was promising. There was a hook; a what if. The characters were established with just a dash of angst background. I started to wish I had thought of the idea. But as it progressed, it was as if I was watching three different movies all pulverised into one. There was the ‘search for what a relationship was like’, the sinister ‘what if you could control the one you love and what would you do to him/her’ and finally the quirky romantic comedy (which dragged out with some pointless scenes that did not serve any obvious purpose to the ‘supposed’ story line).

At the half way mark, it lost my interest. A cup of tea was made and a toilet break had  - without bothering to even mind about using the pause control. I was asking myself Where is this going? What is the point? Do I need another cup of tea?  Fortunately the ending improved. He learnt his lesson, wrote a best selling book and ended up meeting the (possible/assumed – depending on your romantic notiongs) love of his life.

There was a point where I almost gave up on the movie (it was just as well that it got more interesting with the change of tone after my self-imposed break) It was suffering from the ‘middle syndrome’. At the same time it made me realise that I am not the only one that has this problem.

With a movie, sticking it out  through a uninspiring middle is not as drastic as in a book. There is less time invested for the watcher of a movie. Much more time (and effort) is required to plod through a badly thought out middle of a novel. Many readers will give up and not bother to see if the end holds provides gratification.

Having suffered from this myself (and from what I have read, so have many other writers), I set about doing some investigation on how others deal with the ‘middle’ of their stories. I checked out writers’ blogs, articles and those books we all buy to give us both inspiration and insights on how to improve our writing.

I get a great idea, the words flow. I get stuck. I then usually turn to writing the ending. Then it stops. That middle bit, possibly the most important part of a story, should deliver on the promises of an beginning ‘hook’. It should flesh out characters, supplying more background and providing added torment (um.. challenges) for our ‘hero/heroine’. It should set us up for the ending while keeping the reader interested and wanting to read more. This is why I consider it a very important part of a story and one of the hardest to write.

Thinking back on the movie, it was frustrating, even boring at points but I did enjoy the ending. If not for the ending, I would have said that I hated it. I didn’t. But I will not watch it again. It had so much potential and just left me feeling empty – not wanting more but wishing that I had been given more.

I have just had another cup of tea, so now I am off to tackle some more of my writing… on the middle.

 

The Middle Syndrome

Not a Thing.

Someone challenged me to write about nothing. I tried to think of a good reason not to write a thing on the subject and could think of absolutely no reason why I should not at least try to write about nothing. Not a thing.

I sat at my desk, notebook in front of me and tried to write something. Nothing came to mind. After an hour, still nothing. This task was not as easy as you would think. A few cups of tea later and there was still not a thing penned.

I decided to procrastinate some more. Nothing to lose, I thought. I flicked through the stations on the television. There was not a thing worth watching. Nada. Nothing but repeats and debatable ‘real life tv’ (something that really promotes nothingness).

Back to the writing… I sat. Maybe if I defined nothing: “not anything; zero; something that has no substance or importance” which is how I am feeling about this post actually.

So I Googled ‘nothing’. There is a blog called ‘Nothing’. Apparently they believe in nothing. They also have twitter – a good place to go chat… about not much really. Next on the list is a website called ‘do nothing for 2 minutes.’ There is a lovely view of the ocean at sunset with relaxing wave sounds as a clock counts down the two minutes. Then there is an advertisement advertising the app on the Apple App Store.

Did you know there was a movie called ‘Nothing’ made in 2003? (rated 6.2 on IMDb). I knew nothing about it before. Speaking of movies, Much Ado about Nothing with David Tennant  and Catherine Tate… Now there is something I want to see.

Not a Thing.