The new malaise

Apparently some recession-weary Americans are saying, to hell with it, and defrosting their credit cards.  It's all about the new malaise: frugal fatigue.

According to the Reuters wire, The National Foundation for Credit Counselling's January poll revealed 66% of US consumers are done with the penny pinching and are ready to resume spending.  But interestingly, 20% of US households forced to curb spending during the recession intend to maintain the changes.  Ironically, financial commentators caution these "perma-frugalists" could have a significant, negative economic impact.

Of course, Americans are not the only consumers battling financial belt-tightening and the Faustian bargaining required to negotiate our modern lives.

Western economies tend to lurch from one extreme to the other and ride out the middle. You have to marvel at a system that requires us to earn, earn, earn and then, spend, spend, spend, and ultimately, borrow to spend.  Growth, growth and more GROWTH.  It's a bit of a trip.

I've only iced my credit card once at some crunch point during my early twenties when my money mismanagement finally threatened to cinch my neck in the debt collector's noose.  The looming shame of having my name registered at Baycorp (NZ's debt collection authority) with the other defaulting miscreants was enough to panic me into miserly submission.  The bill was paid.

Rayban Wayfarers pushed the debt envelope for me
 back in the day - just one purchase too far.
Images via www.yourrayban.com

I can't say I learned my lesson; I just played the game better.   Of course, I can see now that doesn't make me at all clever.  It did help keep Visa and Mastercard and Amex and Diners ticking along though.  They loved me, in that corporate, special-offer kind of way.

I barely rate a salutation now.  It would seem I've fallen off the valued customer radar.

End of an era

The Farmer is the only man I have dated twice - that's as in boyfriend/girlfriend, not dinner and a movie.  The first episode ended in tears (mine) after several months.  He had only recently returned from his OE in the UK and was charged with minding the family farm while his parents enjoyed their OE.  I had just completed my undergraduate degree and was a farm novice.

The second episode, some three years later, again lasted several months and ended in tears (his).  It was a low point in my life, and one for which I have never truly apologised; all the more agonising because the dear Farmer died in June 2009, just shy of his 41st birthday. 

During our second-time-around we moved to a little farm cottage owned by the Deans family; the First Family, as it were, of Canterbury's early European settlers, arriving in the 1840s from Scotland and farming at Riccarton Bush, Christchurch and Homebush, Coalgate.  The Farmer was managing one of the family's surviving sheep and cattle farms. 

Homebush Homestead
via The Press

Jim and Louise Deans run the home farm, Homebush, plus garden tours and their working-farm tourism business.  A bus-load of tourists would arrive Wednesdays (from memory), and observe the farm dogs working the sheep, the demonstration sheep shearing, and then partake of a full farmhouse afternoon tea and a stroll around the historic outbuildings, gift shop etc.  

Occasionally, The Farmer would be called upon to put his heading dogs through their paces and shear a sheep or two, to the absolute delight of the (mainly Japanese) tourists.  They adored the dogs; absolutely couldn't get enough of how clever they were. 

via http://www.homebushstables.co.nz/

Jim and Louise also kindly opened the homestead, a wonderful triple-brick house built more than 150 years ago, to viewing by appointment.  The house and grounds are of significant local and national historical interest, and more recently, the property was used in the filming of The Lion, the Witch and The Wardrobe, starring Tilda Swinton.

Photo: The Press

Sadly, Homebush was demolished in November 2010 after the 7.1 magnitude earthquake of September 4th rendered it uninhabitable.  (The quake's epicentre was just 10 minutes down the road at  Darfield.)  The central staircase collapsed and external walls were sheered off.  Because the earthquake struck at 4.35am, Jim and Louise were miraculously unharmed.

A still taken from aerial footage of Homebush
via New Zealand Herald

I'm sure The Farmer would have been saddened to see Homebush like this.  And even sadder to see it flattened. 

Louise Deans said the repair costs were simply prohibitive, despite being fully insured. What can you do? They have plans to use some of the bricks in their new home which, surely, must be a heart-wrenching process.

Revisiting Valentine's Day

I did have good intentions. Sunday afternoon I ducked down to Ballantynes in search of a small but perfectly formed gift for Mr T.  I forgot the department store was 'on sale', a staged event over three days.  The ground floor, where I had hoped to find the perfect thing, was swarming - bargain hunters jostling at specially erected trestle tables brimming with stuff.


It never ceases to amaze me just how alluring thoughtful merchandising and display can be. Of course, the opposite is equally true.  Even the loveliest items look shambolic and cheap heaped on tables, and let's not talk about the behaviour of generally decent people unhinged by the prospect of a discount.


I did notice men's fragrances were, on average, $30 - $50 below retail but it was bedlam!  As it was over in men's accessories, and menswear in general.  Not even a box set of hankies and golf tees survived the snatch 'n grab fest.


I did not venture upstairs to Contemporary Lounge, where the cool(er) stuff is. Firstly, I just couldn't bear it any longer and secondly, I knew full well there would be no Valentine's Day gift from Mr T to me, and I would so hate to embarrass him with a really expensive gift.


So I left the city with one skirt and two long-sleeved tee-shirts for the children (something each), three glass tumblers to replace the three that succumbed during one of the larger aftershocks, and a little something from Eve Lom for me.  I was also feeling somewhat resplendent after a skincare demonstration and a triple shot flat white.


On Monday, Valentine's Day, I changed tack and decided to visit the florist after taking the girls to school.  The traffic was heavy, the lights were in my favour, so I took the right-hand turn just before the florist.  I could easily walk back to select an arrangement of fresh, cut summer flowers.  No roses though; just a selection of red hues to honour the day.  Or so I thought.


By 1.30pm the boy-child was down for his afternoon nap and I started leafing through my small collection of cookbooks.  My new resolve was to make individual sticky date puddings in the ubiquitous heart-shape with lashings of butterscotch toffee sauce.


Just before 3pm (school pick-up) I raced into Taste, a local deli, and seized the first red heart-shape treat I could see.  By 3.45pm I noticed the treat's chocolate swirls had melted in the car's glove-box while we were in the library squabbling over how many books a six-year-old could actually read in the allotted three weeks.  


At 4pm I dashed into The Cupcake Collection, a divine little shop even closer to home, to snaffle whatever was left.  I found this.

Forgive the reflective wrapping, but I did want Mr T to see it was a personalised Valentine's treat, not one of four (or more), the rest of which I had polished off during the course of the day.


Having learned my lesson, I put the "Mwah" cookie in the fridge both to hide it and to prevent the icing from sliding off the biscuit base in the afternoon heat.   Whereupon I rediscovered it at 10pm, and offered tea and a biscuit, feeling fully 61 instead of 41.


On reflection, my Valentine's Day planning and implementation could have been better.  Or maybe I should resist it altogether.  I mean, is it really for married couples?  We already know how we feel about each other -  no outing necessary, surely?


There was one, truly memorable Valentine's Day though.  Just after midnight, a song was dedicated to me on the local radio station. (There were several clues that it was intended for me, not least of which my first and last names).  The dedication was from You Know Who and the song was Madonna's Crazy for You.  It was 1987, I was seventeen and bursting into tears was my heartfelt response.  Later that same Valentine's Day, there was a message in the local paper's Valentine's Day personals column.  Again it was clearly to me: this time signed, Your Dashing Young Man.  Shrieks!


To this day I have absolutely no idea who sent those Valentine's missives, which might be taking the original spirit of it a little far.  At some point a reveal is expected, don't you think? Although I suspect the answer(s) must have been right under my nose.  If only I hadn't been so caught up in the drama of it all, I might have worked it out.  Unfortunately, the trail is well cold.


Happy Valentine's Day.

'Incongruous'

I am in awe of Roxanna Zamani's couture collection, 'Incongruous'. It's not that I covet a piece, divine as the dress below is, but more because I deeply admire her talent.  

Designer: Roxanna Zamani,  'Incongruous'
Photography: Inge Flint

It astonishes me how she conceived the designs, sketched them, made workable patterns, and then put them together in the workroom.   Her vision, skill set and artistry is amazing.

Roxanna says 'Incongruous' captures the beauty of opposites reconciled; the tension between rigidity and fluidity, and the contrast between structure and softness.  You can read more about the collection and Roxanna Zamani here and here.

Photography: Inge Flint

And you can see how the garments move (or not) in the short runway clip below.

I hope you enjoy the link.  In a sure sign middle-age looms, I find myself absurdly clucky about talented young New Zealanders, and just a little bit wistful.

Full dress uniform

There is a veiled sense of chaos at our house, which gives way frequently and without warning to calamity.  I suspect it will intensify as the children are hijacked by various maturation hormones and any semblance of calm is jettisoned for the next 10-15 years.  

We are awash with cortisol.  It's just the way it is.  

So yesterday's events were not without precedent, but for the soothing ministrations of the gallant District Commander in full dress uniform.

I have never before had a man in uniform on hand in a time of need, and I have to say, I like it.   Calm, well-mannered and so totally in control, I can appreciate how the polite or genteel women of yesteryear found such encounters 'thrilling'.

Certainly my poor mother rallied after a nasty fall, as before her on bended knee, holding her hand, the recently arrived District Commander ran through an injury checklist.  This, after he had swooped her off the ground and settled her on the sofa in one effortless manoeuvre.  His starched white handkerchief was duly prized.

Richard Gere and Debra Winger in An Officer and a Gentleman
via www.listal.com

Meanwhile, in a 'the person you need is Nanny McPhee' moment, three girls were running around in various states of undress, while the boy-child seized their discarded uniform items, favouring shoes, and started throwing them at us.  And the dog, oh god, the dog... like a Muppet on a pogo stick outside the dining room window, barking incessantly because someone had breached the property boundary and was INSIDE. 

Would you like tea?  I asked, extracting the boy-child's honeyed fingers from our younger visitor's school blazer, the District Commander's granddaughter.

He even appeared to contemplate the invitation, as if we could and would simply sit down, charming and composed over the tea cups.

You have to love a man who can make you feel every inch like a woman in full possession of her faculties when, clearly,  I am but wafting around in a delusional haze.

I am pleased to say, my mother is okay and was rather taken with the silvered alpha male and his unbelievably shiny shoes.

Oh that I had...

Mt Eden Dubstep, featuring Ruby Frost, has been keeping me company this week with the beautiful collaboration: "Oh that I had".

Ruby Frost
via thecorner.co.nz

It's an interesting blend of dub-step beats with ethereal, synth-pop vocals.  I especially like it late at night when I'm trying to engage my brain to string a sentence or two together for free-ranged.


I hope you enjoy this sound, fresh out of Auckland, New Zealand.

Don't mention the 'e' word

In the event I find myself cast away on a deserted tropical island and granted one 'thing' (assuming I already have the survival skills of Bear Grylls and a decent Swiss army knife), then hands-down, no question I'd like The New Oxford Dictionary of English.  A risky admission on the speed dating circuit possibly, but there you have it.  I am a word geek. 


So you can imagine my surprise when, reading the news online yesterday, I was stumped by the use of the word error.  I realise my brain has atrophied since the arrival of all those mothering hormones several years ago, chewing through synapses for sustenance.  But seriously, error?


Wikipedia got off to a cautious start.

The word error entails different meanings and usages relative to how it is conceptually applied.

Generally speaking, I understood error meant: mistake; being wrong. But again from the Wiki, there's the whole error versus mistake consideration.  

An ‘error' is a deviation from accuracy or correctness. A ‘mistake' is an error caused by a fault: the fault being misjudgment, carelessness, or forgetfulness.

So perhaps sending a baby home with a broken neck and some paracetamol after a few hours in the Emergency Department was a mistake then?  Because New Zealand's independent Health and Disabilities Commissioner's report concurred with MidCentral Health's own investigation into the incident, ruling out any error in the care or treatment provided to the baby.


An interesting conclusion given the news story (click here to read the article).  

• A ten month old baby boy and his mother are taken to the local ED by ambulance following a car crash.
• Ambulance staff suspect a neck injury.
• A junior doctor tends to the baby, who is discharged some hours later with paracetamol.  The mother remains in hospital.
• The father returns the baby to the ED the next day because the baby's head is lolling on his collar bone.  He sees the same junior doctor and urges the doctor to give the baby an x-ray.
• Specialists at Starship, New Zealand's only dedicated children's hospital, view the x-rays and ask the baby to be put in a neck brace immediately and air-vac'd to Starship.

Since then, the baby has had 2 MRI scans, 3 CAT scans, nearly 100 x-rays, one surgical bone graft, and earned the dubious distinction of being our youngest child to be placed in halo traction, which he wore for three months along with a half body cast.

He has become the 'poster child' for Starship Hospital's spinal injury unit. Starship says he's lucky to be alive.

I understand injuries can be missed, especially in very young children.  I also understand that things can and do go wrong, especially in medicine, and most especially, in trauma medicine.

What I struggle with is the apparent misappropriation of every day language; the revision of meaning by managers, lawyers and communication experts.  I am not privy to all the facts.  I am not a clinician or health manager.  But to say that there was no error in the care or treatment provided would seem disingenuous at best.


Clearly, something went wrong.  A baby was sent home with an undiagnosed broken neck.


Assuming the care and treatment provided were without error, then surely the diagnosis was "incomplete", flawed, missed, botched, plain wrong.  (Is that a mistake?  Or an error?)  And if so, since when has diagnosis (accurate or incomplete, as the case may be) been excised from the prevailing concepts of care and treatment?  Isn't diagnosis implicit in care and treatment?  Shouldn't it be?


Policies, procedures and guidelines are proven management tools for effective and efficient businesses.  But they are also reductionist by nature, allowing clever managers to review 'incidents', obfuscate and deflect, and conclude, as in this case, no error was made.  


So maybe it's the execution of all these constituent steps of care and treatment, these policies and procedures, that's the problem.  Maybe the junior doctor (et al.) made a mistake with the care and treatment provided - an error of judgement.


But then, that would surely depend on how you conceptually apply the word.  I guess it's back to The New Oxford Dictionary for me.

Bear Grylls: no room for error.
via http://www.beargrylls.com/