I'm just spitballing, here
I'll do it for a bottle of red
How do people work in cafes?
I’m giving it a shot right now at a suburban cinema, while the kids are upstairs watching the Minecraft movie. It’s a fundraiser, with proceeds going towards George’s school. I’m at a corner table with my laptop and have a lovely clear hour and a half to focus. But I keep being distracted by exchanges at the till.
I dream of being as exacting as this lady, who just ordered a savoury.
‘Would you like tomato sauce with it?’
‘Is it Wattie’s or homemade?’
(Short pause.) ‘Homemade.’
‘Oh, fine then.’
Now I’ve two beautiful sisters to contend with, speaking urgently to each other in a mixture of English and German. German has a way of cutting more quickly through the air than English, so I’m picking up more of that side of the conversation. This is nostalgic because it reminds me of my own German-speaking relatives, who were a large part of my childhood: the sisters are talking about work problems, though, and that’s way less interesting than elderly people tsk-tsking over somebody in the village whose behaviour they disapprove of.
Still, it’s a good deal more peaceful now than an hour ago, when the foyer teemed with George’s classmates in Minecraft fancy dress. They ranged from pint-sized Year Ones to world-weary teens, and many of the little ones were wearing boxes. It’s really difficult to push past a kid in a box, so took me ages to get this table.
No, cafes don’t seem to work for me as office environments. Honestly? I’ve achieved more sitting at the edge of my bed in pyjamas, using an ironing board as a desk, with a restless baby in the next room.
It’s come to my attention I may be writing too much about my own work stories. (I mean, nobody’s said this to my face. But about a dozen readers dropped off a cliff last week, plummeting to the water like gannets, when I posted YET AGAIN about the theatre.)
Please understand how refreshing it feels to finally be part of something. I’ve spent years working alone at home in questionable outfits, with breaks only for pulling washing out of the machine or attacking the grout with a toothbrush. My colleagues are a cat and a needy dog.
This means I don’t get to discuss any small outrage or problem in real time with a nearby adult. I have to wait until my husband gets home. By this point hours have elapsed, and existentialism has set in. I might as well be standing over the frypan in a black polo-neck, moodily smoking a French cigarette by the time he arrives. What’s the point of discussing the day? By dinnertime, all of one’s problems seem pointless.
Even an eyeroll between workmates in a meeting lets off psychic and emotional steam. I don’t have this privilege. This is why I’m telling you EVERY SMALL THING.
For example, I’ve been having the weirdest conversations since this contract began. Well, the conversations are absolutely factual, clear and useful - I’m collecting advice like some people collect rocks. But when you’ve one foot in theatre and the other in media, sentences will fly around your head which you hardly ever hear in other settings:
ALWAYS HAVE A FLYER IN YOUR HANDBAG.
OH, ACTORS NEVER GIVE THEM OUT.
SHE’LL DO IT FOR A BOTTLE OF SPANISH RED.
I’D HAVE LIKED TO SEE MORE BOOKINGS BY THIS POINT.
SPEAK TO THE BAR ABOUT A TRAFFIC LIGHT COCKTAIL.
FLYERS? FLYERS ARE DEAD!
I’M JUST SPITBALLING HERE, BUT WHAT IF
LISTEN TO ME WHEN I TELL YOU PEOPLE BUY TICKETS AT THE VERY. LAST. MINUTE.
IT’S A PRODUCTION MANAGER’S JOB TO SAY NO TO YOU.
DID YOU TALK TO THE BAR ABOUT PLATTERS?
If I could stitch each of these onto a throw pillow, I would. Then I’d line these pillows up and drop-kick each one through my bedroom window onto the street.
It feels like we’re at a balancing point, now - three weeks until we open. The seesaw is going to tip downward, falling towards opening night. I can already feel the downward pressure in my ears.
This is the part where, if you’re anything like me, you make mistakes. You’ve more demands on you than is usual; you must use both hemispheres of your throbbing pink brain, instead of switching lightly between small electrical centres. If you’re drawing down this much energy, naturally, you’re going to blow the odd fuse:
You forget to sell raffle tickets for a school fundraiser.
You offer to be a parent helper on the class trip to Government House, then withdraw your invitation.
You refuse to drive your daughter’s forgotten PE kit to school, surprising everybody. (You always drive your daughter’s PE kit to school. It gets the front seat all to itself.)
You take six days to reply to a text from someone living two blocks from your house.
You’re due a haircut, a dental hygiene appointment, a Covid booster. You fail to do anything about any of this.
Instead of your usual weekly trips to buy produce, dry goods, proteins, you find yourself buying an armful of goods on impulse each evening at half-past five after realising there’s nothing in the fridge for dinner.
You also fumble the bag at work. You decide to cut a promotional video and add graphics and animation, having never previously cut a video, added graphics or animation, on the day the video is due up on a social platform. You spend three hours sweating over it and invite your children, both digital natives, to watch it and see what they think. They watch it. One smirks and leaves the room. The other lays his hand on your shoulder and says, “Yeah, it’s a nuclear accident.”
You’ll offer ten distinguished people two complimentary tickets to both opening night and the post-show reception, before being advised they’re already booked in; they are awards judges who routinely receive one ticket each to everything. You send them an apologetic email inviting them to ignore the misaddressed invitation and one replies, “Boo!”
There are moments, though, you will cut out and keep. Driving along the wide avenue of Hatton St on a completely deserted, slate-grey afternoon, a single orange leaf twists in the air above your car before landing lightly on your windscreen.
“Listen,” your mum says, on an afternoon walk. You pause by a stand of shivering poplars. “They sound like water,” she says, and it’s true. The leaves trembling together resemble a current rushing over stones. This is a lovely discovery, and feels perfect.
You realise, while walking the dog, that you’re finally okay with your face. You’ve never loved it; you’ve hidden it for years with big hair and spectacles.
But when you look in the mirror now, in your fifties, you can see the imprint of your Dad in your eyes and jaw, and beyond, your Nana McFall’s eyes and jaw. How can you be dissatisfied with this face? Because of these eyes, these bones, they’re both still here.
Pulling up to the house after a supermarket run, you bump into a former workmate. You haven’t seen her regularly since your children were at kindy together.
She dispenses with small talk and tells you she’s just drunk a LOT of wine at your neighbour’s house. She has no purse, no keys; she’s confident her husband will soon pick her up. I dream of wearing a blousy white shirt, hair tumbling, being lightly squiffed in the early evening sunshine with no immediate responsibilities. But I’m sober, in ugly sandals, carrying a bag of mince and onions.
You quickly agree things are fine, though fundamentally quite shit; you laugh like drains for five minutes, feeling heady, like you’ve rewound ten years, it’s like the office kitchen all over again; you notice your husband approaching from a short distance along the street, the dog tugging hard at the lead.
“Here comes my husband,” you tell your friend.
You introduce the dog first.
Hello to some lovely new subscribers! I’m grateful to fellow Stackers
, , and for their kindly recommendations. It feels like a conga line at a wedding, to recommend and be recommended. Did you know, I’ve been on Substack a year this week! (I’m photo-aging. It feels like five.) I’ve made some gorgeous virtual mates among readers, too. I’m so glad I did this. Five stars, would do it again.In one final act of publicity before next time, here’s the story behind the story of Give Way - The Musical. A lovely piece in yesterday’s Post about our playwright, Steven Page.
Great, Leah! And yes, there's definitely power in looking at your face in the mirror, and going, "Well, this is me...and my mum...and my dad... and lots of other people who are no longer here. But I am - and that's good enough!"
'Give Way - The Musical' will be a hit.No worries about that. I've just finished reading about the author who is a Southland Postie. There's the nostalgia bit.When NZ Post have finished screwing us,there won't be any posties anymore.
And start planning for the sequel inspired by world wide politics : 'Turn Right - The Incomprehensible.'