Small joys
I’m hiring a Rug Doctor tomorrow! I haven’t been this excited since the Smeg promotion at New World!
It’s absolutely time for this. When you have a dog, a cat, two teens, a fifteen-year-old sofa, a thick oatmeal carpet so ugly it’s a talking point with visitors and you are, let’s say, a little slow to attend to slops and stains, you’re going to need the kind of machine you rent by the hour from a supermarket.
A Rug Doctor certainly lacks glamour; I suppose it’s the poor man’s Dyson. Personally I’d love a spin with one of those wet-and-dry, pet hair-eating Sharks, offering RAW POWER AND SUPERIOR SUCTION, but who has a spare $500? Anyway, I’ve nowhere to stow such an appliance. Under the stairs is absolutely jammed as it is, thanks to our rumpty pull-along vacuum cleaner, the Christmas tree and five boxes of Halloween decorations, including a seven-foot inflatable dragon.
No, the Rug Doctor is going to have to do. I’m forever seeing people dragging a red-and-black rental unit behind them out of Karori Mall, probably after Margaret spilled her cab sav over the couch at last night’s Book Club, angry about Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights.
I’m told it’s life-changing when you steam-clean the arm of a chair and see the absolutely foul brown water bubbling out of it. All those sneaky bowls of instant noodles in front of the Winter Olympics, splattering MSG into the fabric! All those gammy half-chewed treats, buried under cushions by the dog! The biscuit crumbs, the greasy spoons, the sweaty forearms, the sticky bottoms of wine glasses and coffee mugs, the licked fingers, the unwashed feet! The unmolested dust mites! Years and years of abuse, absorbed by your long-suffering carpets and soft furnishings!
You won’t know yourself afterwards, they told me when I booked the rental. You’ll feel buoyant with deep joy, somehow, at having purged your home using only vapour and industrial chemicals; a powerful avenger of toxins.
Apparently one user called her entire family into the lounge to watch her pull it across the carpet. You can just imagine their eyes dilating when she emptied the catcher theatrically into the sink, black with organic waste.
YOU FILTHY HOUNDS, she might then have said.
I’ve booked it for eight hours, though I’ll probably need sixteen.
I was casual with the reference just now but I’m indeed the parent of teenagers. George has turned 13!
First to congratulate him was the Wellington City Library service, inviting him to upgrade his child’s card to that of a Young Adult. Little do they know he’s declared war on books. I’m trying not to worry about this.
I remember presenting myself to Karori Library’s helpdesk when Maddie was six weeks old, and applying for her card. I was half out of my mind with happiness, dread and fatigue — if those could be bottled as a fragrance, it would be called Post Partum — and nearly cried when the librarian wrote her name in beautiful lettering across the laminate. It was the first time I’d seen it written in full. After all, in the maternity ward she wore a wristband that said Baby of Leah, as we didn’t name her for a week.
George is also now entitled to a cash card at our bank. We’ve the same sized feet and overnight, he’s nearly as tall as my mother. He has become a card shark in his recent old age, cutting the pack one-handed and forever asking “Was your card the three of diamonds?” while I’m trying to cook tea.
Sometimes yes, sometimes no.
The young make me absolutely vibrate with happiness. What about these two in the past week, reminding everyone what magic young people are capable of, if only we trust them enough to let them go?
Maddie and I have been watching Liu’s joyful routines on repeat all week, and I cannot wait to see Aramayo’s performance in I Swear when it releases in New Zealand next month. The trailer alone is enough to make you cry.
Other Things Making Me Happy
Walking the dog up on Te Ahumairangi Hill is the gift that keeps giving. Look at these rock stars, glaringly white in the late summer sunshine. We walked behind them for ages as they padded along on their lovable paws. Their upright tails swished from side to side, kind of like Vegas showgirls, and they were as fluffy as whipped marshmallows.
I had a chinwag with Andrew Armitage from beloved Wellington institution Aro Video a few days ago, while returning a stack of late DVDs. As a family we are chewing through the Star Trek oeuvre and as you’d expect from a DVD shop that curates only the finest, it offers every Star Trek episode, film and spinoff, spoof and tribute ever committed to film. We’ll be watching it for years.
Andrew is a true cinephile and his crooked old weatherboard shop, spilling over with films and boxed sets, is the beating heart of that historic street. I used to be afraid to go in there, back in the 90s, as I wasn’t cool enough and didn’t know who Werner Herzog was. After all, on any given day, Flight of the Conchords might have been crammed inside giving an impromptu concert.
I’m thrilled my kids are now Andrew’s customers. He and his knowledgeable staff always receive our visits with enthusiasm and respect our (questionable) choices.
Where else can you adopt a film and donate it lovingly to the shop? Do watch this charming short documentary, where Andrew brims up while describing what the shop means to him, and consider streaming from their AroVision site when you next hire a movie.
Live long and prosper, Aro Video.
I’m happy as a clam about this — our new ding-dong! I can’t stop rubbing its beak.
I should’ve known better than to read the comments after last week’s Listener piece, where I rather invited these remarks from the nation’s foragers.
This week I reunited with Mike, my London flatmate of nearly THIRTY YEARS AGO, and had this absolutely sensational fig salad at Floriditas. The wonderful waiter suggested adding chicken, because “everybody needs protein”.
My waistband, seen here, is about to be loosened by one popper.
I had a tiny moment of relief this week in Karori Cemetery, if that isn’t a weird sentence. It was pulsing with heat — a proper late summer’s day, with the cicadas snapping and crackling in the trees. I stopped under the marble remembrance arch and it radiated coolness. I stood underneath for a while, oddly grateful to the old diggers in whose honour the archway was carved.
I can’t imagine there’ll be many more hot days, as the season is definitely on the turn. The cherry tree leaves along our street are beginning to droop and my favourite elm is yellowing and exhausted in the Botanic Gardens. The evenings are less dusky and the mornings are crisper.
It’s time to hand summer over to our friends in the north and settle into new patterns. Two school blazers hanging by the door, a jumble of larger shoes, scattered playing cards, balled-up wrapping paper, and ever-higher pencil-marks on the door jamb, measuring in centimetres our days and weeks and months.
Do let us know how it goes with Dr Rug. I have two black Labradors - one so old she sleeps all the time as does her annual moult which only ends when summer is over - and we bought a house with creamy white carpet. The other is three years old going on 'only just weaned from the teat' and bounces around all over the show. Especially when it's been a Waikato mud day.
Re your columns: Do not. Ever. Read. The. Comments dear Leah. They are always written by would be writers - people with nothing else to do than be nasty. As we used to say in primary school, "come here and say that!"
You are a heavenly writer and my heart leaps up when I see your Substack email drop into my inbox. Much higher than when I behold a rainbow in the sky.
Your writing makes me cry with pleasure. Because Badger can become incontinent at the hint of one of us raising our voice at the other, we have bought our own carpet cleaner. I've got learned incompetence when it comes to working out machines, but Robert is now a real pro.
Is yours 3 of diamonds? That's a novel in 5 words. Wonderful.