On Locked-up in #Lockdown #NewZealand

There The H and I sat, in the spa pool, gin and tonics in hand, snow on the mountains, dusk and soon darkness settling on Day #20, and he asked cheerily. ‘So! Have you knocked off your #Lockdown To-Do list?’

Say what, I was meant to have one. FFS. ‘No!’ I said, softly.

The only thing I wanted to-do when we went into home-arrest was stay sane. I also planned to treat the whole peculiar situation like a neverending house-party. Easter was fast approaching; we’d have kids at home. We’d feast and make merry.

I stood in the Pak n Save car park in 2 degrees with windchill at 7.45 on Tuesday 31^st March 2020. Getting more and more irritated by the cheerful woman in front of me who would-NOT-stand on her 2-metre sticker. I pulled my hoodie up. I told her to stand on her sticker. She smiled. Did it once. Then she did not. It reminded me of my eldest, Lily who was infuriated when her sister Eloise graduated to upstairs Montessori then spent her first day not understanding that standing-on-the-blue-line was quite simply standing-on-the-blue-line.

Approximately one hour later, I was packing my $877 of shopping into my boot. I had no flour. Nor toilet paper. FYI. Just food. Shit loads of food. And the last two bottles of my favourite French rosé I found all alone, bereft of company. Shelf isolating. I wasn’t planning on going out again. Definitely not into supermarket hell with those goddam sticker reprobates.

I didn’t really want to let on but I was sort of looking forward to lockdown. Then. I was taking it as a challenge. A four-week family holiday challenge. We’d all have a great time. Together. At home.

I could write! A short story, set in another reality. And read! My mega pile of new books. Only I haven’t. I usually write a daily journal. The HRT Diaries. But Covid-cam didn’t have the same ring. What would I record? The gluten fest I was partaking in. The fact I’d run out of pink shampoo and would fade-to-grey. The fact I couldn’t be ferked plucking my eyebrows or anything else. The fact that every day became a challenge of extended physical exertion of the gardening kind. I know now, it’s how I deal with existential stress. I flog myself.

We live on what, Steve Braunias described in my first ‘About The Author’ in the PR pack for my first book (back in that carefree year, 2015.) “Jane lives in Queenstown, above the Shotover River, on a rambling lifestyle block.” How had he got it so right, had he googled realtime and hovered above my house and surrounding ramblingness? I always joke that I have a garden in a paddock. But autumn is an easy time in the garden and our 16-acre no-lifestyle-block. It’s cutting back my 200 peony plants and dragging the leaves to my compost dump 200 metres each time. Thinking all the while that my flappy triceps must be firming up along with my calves and that I must be counteracting the famine eating I was doing. At least, a little bit. After chopping, I pulled out the large, gone to seed weeds and limed each plant. The H sprayed the beds. And so it continued the tidy up of raspberries and asparagus. And weeds. The wheelbarrowing of endless horse poo. The mulching. The sun shone. I wore shorts and a singlet. I cracked a tan.

Before we had children we worked all the time on our plot, like that nutty couple in the British TV show The Goodlife. On Sundays, we’d make margaritas in the studio we lived in above our packing shed. Sometimes, The H would go out mowing on the tractor. In the nude. He’d do drive-byes, standing up, for my entertainment.

But talking of margaritas, this picture was pretty much lockdown-me: clean hair (my sole contribution to personal grooming), comfy cotton-knit combo and cocktail. Until the pre-Easter week from hell, when the fridge light went out, our second hot water cylinder blew, our large glass clock fell off the wall and split in two, and the glass vitamizer cracked; essentially rendering itself unfit for service. Fucked.

I moaned about its demise to my FaboStory author chat group. We were busy swinging our kids online writing competition into action. Doing our bit to give creative kids, and kids of creative parents an outlet. And having a laugh and sharing our best wine skulling gifs. Writers love wine. Sue thought I’d find an alternative electric device fit for crushing ice. In my drawer. Actually, I don’t know what Sue thought. Sue? By Easter Monday, under the keen advice of Melinda I’d ordered another mixer. A Sunbeam 2 Way Blender $209.99. It had a flashing covid-yellow sign beside it on Farmer’s website, claiming its essentialness and that it would be delivered during lockdown. It hasn’t turned up, nor has customer service answered my endless bleating cries.

Thank heavens for goodsorts like Becky of PGG Wrightson’s Cromwell who sent Star’s old-timer horse feed straight away by courier. I hadn’t even paid for it. Don’t worry, I’ve got your address, she said. Bloody good sort! Unlike me, Star’s losing condition. He’s rising 29. We’ve had a cold snap. It was so great to feed him his tucker last night. He does happy half-rears at the gate when he hears me mixing it. Crazy old coot. 

As for our mad huntaway, she cannot for the life of her understand the lack of car rides. But she’s loved all the walks. The tracks below our property have never been so populated. Argghghgh. For loner walker me this has been an abomination. One time, I bushwacked through brambles and over fallen willows just to avoid the packs of mountain bikers who were obvs breaking social distancing rules. Then, I started to take alternate routes. I also started to take an old red backpack and fill it with pinecones. To give purpose to my walking. I felt a sort of madness setting into these walks. If I heard the presence of humans I turned away and I kept my head down. I filled my bag with the driest most attractive strobile specimens. Lofty, gnarled macrocarpas loomed above me as I scrambled up steep banks. I imagined a covid-coven. A girl gang of corona-witches. We’d meet beside the damp shade of the river, stir a cauldron of horse bats and pricky pine needles. Or just shriek at the goddam mind fuckery of all this. A plague killing humans in their thousands ... But not here. Not in Jacinda land. We are shut down. But we are very alive.

And we’ve all become a nation of bakers. Fighting over high-grade flour at the supermarket. Up at 5 am kneading our sourdough for its second rise. Urm not me. My bread baking timing is free flow. I managed lunch at 4pm yesterday. It did also involved the picking and roasting of cherry tomatoes. Harry Styles’ Adore You always comes on 87 FM when I’m pottering in the greenhouse. Someone out there is probably recording one rn, but Harry’s will always be my lockdown anthem. I have it turned up loud and I dance like nobody’s watching, cos nobody can … Strawberry lipstick state of mind

The calendar on the wall in my kitchen is an endless hashtag of numbers. Day #23 for us. Day #6, for Lily. She’s in ‘Hotel Quarantine’ aka the Novotel Auckland airport, having exited Copenhagen in a 24 hour pack down. And flying home Qatar Airways, via Doha. One of ten passengers. A woman in the queue behind her said, ‘I guess they won’t give us balcony rooms, might be afraid we’ll jump.’ A sort of joke. There is a cop permanently on duty in the foyer.

Three meals are delivered each day. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. A knock at the door and a scurry of feet, then a paper bag with an array of cardboard containers and packaged goods is found. This was yesterday’s breakfast. Fit for a tradie. She can exercise in the car park. Once a day. It has palm trees in it of all things. Growing out of the concrete. And road cones designating the smoking area. The smokers get way more outside time she’s complained and jested about ordering a packet of ciggies. This is possible. The hotel will buy things from the BP across the road, should you request it. Luckily Lily’s busy with university assignments and her remote job. Keeping the mind busy for 8 more nights.

Lockdown really has been a test of keeping busy. However, I think it’s a time to be kind to yourself. Don’t panic about to-do lists. Creating that masterpiece, learning Spanish, crocheting a rug out of string or losing a few kg. As Darwin said, It’s survival of the fittest. Whichever way you do it.

A groovy upside of #Lockdown is the many cool kiwi artists who’ve turned their hand at creating entertaining content for us. All for free. I wish they had an easily accessible government subsidy. Jacinda? One of my favourites is ex Sunday Magazine columnist, Leah McFall’s right royal parody -  Karori Confidential. It begins: Charles (since being diagnosed with Covid-19) and Camilla are sent to the colonies and find themselves self-isolating in Karori. Their luggage goes missing and it finally turns up along with mega box of sex toys (nipple clamps and feather ticklers if I remember correctly.) Kiwis have gone mental buying sex toys during lockdown according to my sources. As you were.

Megs and Hazza are about to show up. I cannot wait.

Un#Lockdown Your Imagination

Sergeant, Greenstone Station

(NB: This story first appeared on Newsroom, edited by Steve Braunias. This is my original submission.)

On a Saturday before, I drove to Glenorchy to buy a black horse. The road from Queenstown winds alongside the top zig-zags of Lake Wakatipu. It’s a picture postcard drive. And usually busy with activity like the Earnslaw steaming tourists back and forth to Walter Peak Station under its endless smoke-ring. But when New Zealand closed its borders to international travellers, local tourism businesses closed their doors too.

A pearl-coloured ceiling hung low over the lake. It was a strangely still day. It was the land-of-the-long-white-covid-cloud. I counted three white rental SUVs, and twelve white-chested kereru swaying on powerlines, mostly in pairs, one set of four. I saw those plump pigeons as a sign. A bright sign in an unravelling world. But I write stories for kids and often my imagination must run away with itself, down rabbit holes and beyond. Mostly, always, in humourous pursuit. But on that Saturday, I began to wonder if we might need to revert to hunting for food in an unknown, distant future. I also wondered if the Clydesdale-cross (with hooves the size of side plates) I was going to test-ride would double as a pack-horse, should I need to ride to market to buy a sack of wheat …

Encouraging young imaginations to roam wild is what drives myself and ten other children’s authors to run the online story-writing competition, www.fabostory.wordpress.com With the current lockdown in place, we invite writers aged 7–13 to unlock their imaginations and get plotting!

Each Monday one author sets up the beginning of a story. It always stops with a cliff hanger and gives lots of scope to the variety of ages and abilities who enter to really have fun with their writing. Entrants have until Saturday night to type up their story on the website and hit submit. We usually start in Term 2, but with families on lockdown, we wanted to give young minds a creative outlet now. Occasionally we run a theme but this year it’s open. We’re discouraging apocalyptic and lockdown stories. Personally, I’d prefer young imaginations to escape to their own Narnia. Each lucky winner receives a bookish prize (currently provided by Puffin New Zealand.)

Fabostory is in its tenth year. Our authors have over 100 children’s books and a raft of experience between them. I joined four years ago and was amazed at the quality of writing sent in. All the stories make me smile, in fact. Except the ones that are travelling so well and then end abruptly with and then I woke up. As well as choosing a winner and publishing their story on the website, each author writes a report highlighting favourite excerpts from other participants. Our young writers are really encouraged when they receive this personalised feedback.

Indigo Tomlinson, 12, Ohope, was a standout last year for many of us. She has a huge vocabulary for her age and a great eye for detail and story. This passage is from her winning entry, "Weird Tuesday".

“It was an elephant. A teeny tiny miniature elephant. It blinked, bemused, then looked up at me, sending a small squirt of water into the air with its trunk. It fractured into hundreds of shimmering diamonds and just for a second, it felt like the world was bathed in rainbows.”

Wouldn’t that be nice? Right now. Indigo has been my winner twice. When she’d read my Lily Max trilogy, I asked her if she’d like to be a beta reader on my latest manuscript, as her prize. She jumped at the chance. And read it twice. She pulled me up on quite a few things - stronger verbs I could have used, cajoled instead of called for example. She wrote a very succinct report. I can see Indigo as an editor, should she follow a writing career.

Another outstanding writer, from 2010, was Angus Smith, Auckland. He could have won each time he entered, but that’s off-putting for the other regular entrants. Angus ended up winning an overall prize and acting as a Fabstory author, writing the story set-up, one time. It’s cool to feel this competition may have shaped future writers. This year there will also be an overall winner who’ll receive a Puffin prize pack.

My slot is scheduled mid-August. Hopefully, by then, we’ll know a different New Zealand. However, I’m guessing my story-starter will have a mediaeval theme. With horses. There’s a tiny historic stone cottage just over the fence from our property. Over the years, we’ve found lots of treasures from the family that lived in there, back in the 1900s. I’ve dug up a child’s leather boot, a tin gunpowder pouch, and numerous apothecary bottles in blue glass and clay. Even beer bottles along an old fence line. I’ve often wondered about that family, whether they had a daughter who picked the wild plums and gooseberries that spilled over the fence, back when times were simple and they rode the bullock trail into Queenstown, with no jetboats roaring through the Shotover canyon (like right now.) I cannot meet this family, so I’ll have to unlock my imagination and make them up. Hopefully, while riding a large black horse.

The FABO team of fabulous children's authors are: Weng Wai Chan, Sue Copsey, Maureen Crisp, Elena de Roo, Helen Vivienne Fletcher, Tania Hutley, Kyle Mewburn, Michele Powles, Melinda Szymanik and Kathy White. And me!