To The Markets We Go

I’m sure I’ve written about my love of de-cluttering several times already. When I was a child, a favourite past-time was sorting through cupboards. Freakish behaviour, I know. But, had I known a professional organiser was to become a legit occupation, I might have taken a different career path.

Instead, I stick to my own patch, decluttering everyone’s belongings. Part of the joy is seeing unused items going to a new, appreciative home and so, when I was younger I would constantly hold garage sales.

Strangely, in contrast I also enjoyed attending them. Back then I would trawl through the garage sales in Friday night’s paper, highlighting addresses. The next morning, at the crack of dawn, we would bung our toddler in the car, still in his dressing down, peanut butter toast in hand, and head to our first destination. 

It was competitive out there, I learnt, especially with antique dealers and second hand shop owners. One elderly man, in particular, would scream up to the address, leap out of his vehicle and, leaving the engine running, bolt up the drive at a speed unexpected of someone his age, leaving the car door flung open in his wake. Usually, within seconds, he would return at the same pace and tear off to the next address before he’d even shut his door.

I didn’t take it that seriously but it was a favourite Saturday morning past-time for a while. I subsequently learnt that trawling through other people’s treasures was not conducive to keeping my own abode minimalistic so stuck to my own garage sales and then I discovered selling at the markets. But after a fruitless wet Saturday where I returned home with most of my junk and think I actually lost money by the time I paid for the site, I decided to call it quits.

Until last weekend. I decided enough was enough with the pile of toys and bric-a-brac I’d been adding to in the garage over the years so, like childbirth, I pushed aside the last memory and went back for more.

With sport consuming most of Saturday, our local markets weren’t an option so, instead, we headed up to Tikipunga the following day. It was driving through the darkness at some godforsaken hour with the skies beginning to open up, that I began to question my sanity. This was new territory and would anyone even be there?

However, when we reached our destination it became clear I’d made the right choice. The rain hadn’t reached Tikipunga and, as I began to unload the car, a queue of early risers stood peering with their torches to check out the newbies’ wares. I was still unloading when the bartering started.

The kids, still sleepy, moped around like muppets at first until they noticed their toys beginning to sell, then sprang into action taking over the sale - lest a sibling pocket their money. It was pleasing to see their class maths equations coming to life as they worked out change.

As the sun rose, peoples’ faces became visible and so, unfortunately, did the goods of fellow site holders. It wasn’t long before the kids discovered we were stationed next to a fidget spinner stand and, as the money rolled in, they were eagerly counting it to see if they had enough for their eyed prize.

The Tikipunga markets were thriving and still had a steady flow after 10am but, alas, the kids had tired of being sales people and we had to go.

With heavy pockets – not from cash, but from fidget spinners and some painted rocks Miss Eight had purchased – and an emptier car, we headed home, satisfied all round.

And I admit, I’ve already got a steadily-mounting pile in the garage ready for next time.

Don't Throw the Baby out with the Bath Water

I guess there comes a time in this modern day when your children will stop wanting to share bath water.

I say ‘modern day’ because, once upon a time, the whole family shared the water on a weekly basis. It’s said this was at different times, starting with the men, then the women and finally the youngest being the last – hence the origins of the saying ‘Don’t throw the baby out with the (filthy) bath water’.

Heck, back in the very olden days it wasn’t even just families sharing – townships took their public baths annually. Apparently most people got married in June because they took their annual bath in May and still smelled pretty good the following month. However, to mask the whiff of a month’s worth of body odour, the bride carried a bouquet of flowers. Charming.

It’s possible this is a myth but ‘washing’ yourself in other people’s dead skin cells and liquefied sweat and grime, kind of defeats the purpose of taking a bath at all, don’t you think?

Fast-forward to today and, although my kids stopped taking baths together some time ago, they now screw their noses up at sharing water altogether. Which begs the question: at what age do you stop making them share bath water with their siblings and let them take showers?

I searched my memory and couldn’t recall the age I started to become a hygiene freak but, if hygiene was their reason, then fair enough. So the bath dried up and the Daddy longlegs made their descent and, come 9ishpm when the kids were all tucked up in bed, I stepped into my nice hot, steamy shower to wash away the day … when it ran cold.

Ice-cold water on your bare skin is not what you want at 9ishpm in the midst of winter. Because I had not anticipated this and was lathered up with soap, I couldn’t just leap out. Instead, I had to endure another few painfully cold minutes washing the soap off.

And so the following night I became the hot water police, yelling to them every few minutes to get out of the shower.

“But I’ve only just got in!” they yelled back. Or;

“I’m washing my hair.”

The following night, after another stone-cold shower, I performed random checks. Through the (frosted) shower door I caught one swaying and another drawing noughts and crosses in the mist of said frosted shower door. All the while the precious hot, water was running down the drain!

I became tired of being the hot water police – getting up and down off the coach was impeding on my Shortland Street time. Plus, I know cold water showers are supposed to be good for one’s complexion but they were not my cup of tea.

Short of returning to baths, I purchased an egg timer and placed it in the bathroom and what a difference it made! I’ve said it before but there’s something about timers and alarms that gets children’s respect. From my perch on the coach, I can hear the alarm go off, followed by the bang of the shower door opening and closing and I can relax knowing I will have a nice, hot shower later that night.

It’s just as well they have the respect of that egg timer because, with the water becoming murkier during football and rugby season, it’s highly-likely my ‘baby’ would’ve got thrown out with the bath water.

Return of the Music

I’ll never forget the last time I played the piano on stage. I was ten-year’s-old and my piano teacher’s suspected star pupil. But sitting up there on the podium at Forum North, I let my attention drift from the song I knew so well and, instead, briefly focused on everyone’s eyes boring into my back, waiting to hear what I did. I panicked.

My fingers tripped over themselves and the tricky song which I’d pulled off flawlessly countless times, slid into a downward slide. Mortified and bitterly disappointed with myself, I stood up, faced the audience and curtseyed before returning to my pew. I never went on stage again.

Well not playing the piano. Put me in a role where I’ve assumed another character, as the choreographer of a musical show once said after a rehearsal scene where all 40 cast members were on stage: “Who was the girl in the orange wig because she held the stage and I just couldn’t take my eyes off her?!”

That was me dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo. It would seem I had become one of those total and utter show-offs on stage, something I’m not in real life. I also had no qualms dancing on stage during my ten years of ballet and confidently danced my way across that same stage many a time.

But back to the piano. After that atrocity, I stuck it out another few months but my interest was waning. Mum said she wasn’t going to pay the exorbitant amounts of money for the lessons anymore if I wasn’t interested. I said I was too scared to tell my sweet, gentle elderly but overenthusiastic teacher, who hadn’t mentioned my on stage faux pas and still held high hopes for me.

This went on another few months until finally mum caved and was the one to tell her. She cried. Not mum, the piano teacher. It was dreadful.

Walking back up the drive to the car mum, ashen-faced, said to me: “Gosh, I can see why you didn’t want to tell her – I had no idea.”

I felt bad for years about letting my piano teacher down. But I felt free as well. And I had enough knowledge and songs to have a few party tricks up my sleeve and belt out tunes to entertain friends and family for years.

I didn’t realise what a great skill it is to be able to sit down at a piano and play. Until I couldn’t.

It was last year and we were at Paihia where the outdoor village piano attracted my attention. I took my pew, placed my hands on the keys … and froze. But this time it wasn’t from stage fright. My mind was blank. After all these years, my musical knowledge had gone.

I resorted to the one song I could remember – a simple one but it sounded impressive to the kids, and that has been my go-to ever since.

Last week we bought a new piano and I’ve been distracting myself from my lack of recall by teaching the twins the basics. It’s been satisfying for both them and me as they’ve learnt their scales and then their first song. It’s the upper octave version of my lower scale go-to song so now we can play a duet.

The trouble is we’re now all sick of it. So, I’ve enlisted mum to dig out my years of old sheet music and I am going to start back at the beginning.

Soon our house will be filled with music. But I’m thinking if I put on any performances in future, I might don a wig and assume an alias, Elton John-style.