Wally's tales

It will soon be year since Laura had her Bathroom fall and began her long journey back to recovery and good health, which is the best that we can expect with her journey via three Hospitals. Immediately after her accident she was fully cogent, able as well, to make an intelligent conversation. This quickly changed for the worse, by the time she was admitted to Christchurch Hospital, now she was unconscious, possibly caused by internal bleeding. The ACC now no longer regarded her situation as a accident, any assistance we might have expected from them was quickly withdrawn. They considered now that she had had a stroke, end of story. On arrival at Hospital she was accessed and admitted but completely paralysed and now she could only signal any of her intentions by the blinking of her eyes. Since then she has made wonderful progress, but still requires assistance to dress, shower, and visit the bathroom. At date, she can now feed herself and as well hold an intelligent conversation.

Life in Hospitals are another world altogether, and for the uninitiated, and they take a little getting used to. Don’t worry, you will all find out for yourselves all that you need to know one day. It’s all the natural procession of life’s journey. Hospitals have so many rules and regulations, which overtime, many the reasons for their being, will have been long forgotten, or even why they were introduced in the first place. I noticed in a ward in Princes Margaret that all the windows only opened six inches, possibly to prevent jumpers, as it was on the third floor. Well anyway that was the conclusion I came to. This fact came to my attention in the middle of summer, without ‘Air Conditioning’ the ward was a most stifling uncomfortable place to be in. One patient innocently inquired ‘Was there a Fan available?’ There was, and one was found, however after being used for only 10 minutes, it was taken away for someone whose need was greater. ‘Don’t worry, another would soon be forth coming from a Store Room’. This turned out to be figment of their imagination. I said in all innocence, we have a couple at home that I could donate to the Ward, as well, I could go and get them both immediately. I only live a couple of blocks away. No, No, No, you can’t do that, or even use them, they would have first need to be authorised for use by the Hospital Electrician.

One day I was heading for the elevators to go to the ground floor which was a march of a hundred metres or so. when a nurse said, ‘Leaving early today’? I replied, ‘No’, ‘I’m actually heading for the only public toilet I know of in this building’. And that is situated on the ground floor. I know another thing too, ‘Diuretics were not invented when this place was built’. She said, ‘That’s ridiculous situation’, and took me back upstairs to a closed off wing on the third floor and gave me the use of my own personal toilet for the duration of Laura’s stay.

They never stopped trying to feed me this is because I usually time my visits to meal times, when I can assist Laura with her meals. I refused all offers of food, even to a cup of tea until Christmas came around. Then a very helpful Samoan Girl found out that I was going to be alone for my Christmas dinner as all my family were heading away. No way could I stop her from ordering an extra meal and for the week up to the 25^th all my likes and dislikes for this special meal were religiously noted, and entered into the Hospital Computer. However when Christmas day rolled around and the meals were being handed out, nothing for me. From the looks the new assistants face and attitude on inquiry, there wasn’t going to be any Christmas Dinner for me anyway. Who was this guy who was trying to free load and get a free meal? It was made worse when they relented and came with a plate saying Mrs Murphy was too sick to eat, I could have that. I was really annoyed at this stage for the very reason that on Christmas day not one restaurant around here is available for a meal unless a pre booking has been made because of the penalty rates they have to pay staff. As far as restaurants are concerned it’s not worth bothering to open.

I have noted also that the busiest Department in the hospital must be the one that makes signs. I felt that if you stood still for long enough you too would have a sign stuck onto you. Everything is ‘signed’ and in more than one language. This information urge expends to the bulletin boards. There are layers upon layers of messages and information stuck onto them, it would seem they are good at sticking up notices on the boards but not very efficient on removing them when they have served their purpose. Another very noticeable fact is the staff, especially the Nurse Aids. They seem to come from the four corners of the earth. In one Hospital ward at Wesley Care, there was one girl from Bougainvillea, three or four from the Philippines, Another from India (She was actually a doctor but not licensed to practice in NZ) South Africa, Hungary, United Kingdom, Fiji, I’m not sure what the reason is for some of the many overseas girls, maybe they only pay the minimum wage, and this is the best job on offer.

A long time ago, in fact right back to my earliest memories, life for me was very comfortable. Then again I must have been lonely, because I created for myself a friend, a ‘Frankie Nissen’. My goodness Frankie, was very naughty boy, full of mischief, and the perpetrator of all the bad thing that happened around our home. He broke things, and saved me many times from getting into trouble. He even took the wheels off my bike, and he was even responsible for taking the family clock apart. I must have made him sound very convincing as my parents were always itching to get their hands onto him, send him on his way with a flea in his ear and told never to return, and as well to teach him a lesson. As always, when they hunted for him, he had just taken off and left for his home. Where? Up Mount Cargill that’s where he lives. I must have sounded very convincing, it took a long time for my family to discover he was only a figment of my imagination. I know I have must have been a precocious child, after being told that Santa Claus had brought my bike down the chimney with all the other presents, I was immediately found measuring the fireplace and declaring that the bike was far too big for that to happen.

There was always a lot of activity going on in our suburban streets. Meat was delivered by our Butcher ‘Geof Robertson’ on horseback. Resplendent in his jodhpurs, polished leather gaiters, and a basket of meat swung up on the saddle. His delivery was cross country as he rode across sections and our gardens. He never dismounted, but made his presence known by loud cries of, ‘Yar Yip’. As well, the baker who was also busy ‘clip clopping’ around the neighbourhood daily selling hot fresh loaves from his horse and enclosed cart. His was a silent delivery, and the bread he sold totally different to what we expect today, very tasty with a crisp crust, and if no one was watching the chance to pick out an offering which was a delicious treat. The bread was not at all like the soft soggy offering we expect today. Even the names and size of these loaves have now fallen into disuse. (Barracouta, Square Pan, were a couple I remembered) Milk was sold loose, you supplied the receptacle to receive it in whether it be a billy, or a recycled golden syrup can. It was also delivered in the main by horse and cart, but one vendor George Poulter had a one ton truck that must have dated back to before World War One, and even then a vintage vehicle. It was painted white, with a huge brass radiator, brass head lamps and gear lever and hand brake mounted on the running board. All the brass was polished and sparkling, a wonderful sight in the sun. The Council also had a fleet of blue carts all pulled by a single draught horse, and among other tasks they were the collectors of ashes and other household refuse. I can still hear the noise their iron clad wheels made as they rolled along crushing the gravel on the roads. Everyone’s ash buckets all seem to come from the one or two sources. The Harbour Boards dry docks, or the Union Company Shipping Company Base. There they had all started their former life as paint containers which was supplied in drums. A visit to Dry Dock or Ship Yard by a ship would require some hundreds of gallons of paint being splashed around, with no worry what to do with the empty containers.

Groceries were also delivered after an order had been solicited earlier by an employee. On payment a receipt was issued, these were kept and valued as they had a redeemable value of something like 2.5% providing you sent them on more groceries. Should you have decided to make a personal visit to the Grocer’s shop you were waited on by an employee. Your order was filled from his bulk supplies, very little in this grocery world was available ‘prepacked’. The Grocer and the Butcher shops were both notable by the fact that the floors were covered with an inch of sawdust. This sawdust trick was also repeated in the bars of the Hotels. Paper bags were generally used, but sometimes a ‘Poke’ was made by rolling up a small sheet of brown paper on the bias forming a cone. The bottom was then sealed by twisting the paper and the top folded over.

Our post was delivered by a Postie who signalled his presence by a blast of a pea whistle. Telegrams were another important form of communication and delivered to the door by a boy. Telegrams remained a popular and convenient method of sending messages and money around the Country and even International right up to the introduction of Electronic devices. The young may consider that ‘Texting language’ is new, but this is not so. Then Telegrams were costed at so much a word, ( I seem to remember it was about a minimum of twelve words for about fifteen cents, and this included the address) so the idea was to abbreviate the message as much as possible without loosing the sense of your message.

Very little money in early days was lent by the trading Banks for the purchase of private homes. This service was taken care of by the Savings Banks, Building Societies, and various Lodges formed by the Friendly Societies who also looked after the Health services, which included our Doctors and Chemists, people paying only a nominal fee with the Lodge picking up the balance. Then it was very much of the case of looking after yourself, and it was found to be a very efficient system too.

I don’t know if anyone else agrees with me, but a lot of Art that people rave over today in this World of Culture, is for me, absolutely meaningless’. No matter how hard I try, I can see no merit in it what so ever. Frankly I can’t see just exactly what excites the ‘Avant-Garde’ in some of these works. Maybe in my ‘make up’ that I’m missing some special genes, or something else in my outlook and my pathetic attitude towards the Art World. After recently looking at some of Ralph Hotere’s recent works, which seem to consist of only of a few rough lines. Then listening to the ravings of so called art critics of how wonderful they all are. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m completely barmy. Or is it that perhaps the art experts have got it wrong? I have even studied some of Colin McCahon’s late works of art, complete with their addition of biblical messages splashed across prominently over the foreground of his paintings, this makes me wonder if he is more interested in getting across a religious message, or finishing off another masterpiece work of art. The experts again can interpret this again as something wonderful. I suppose what actually sparked this message was the ‘exhibit’ (actually a heap of rubbish), made from recently discarded wrapping material tossed aside from other items that had been entered into an exhibition. This rubbish was swept into heap, and then declared another, ‘Work of ‘Art’. This, believe it or believe it not, actually gained first prize. To make it worse in my eyes, was listening to the ‘Experts’ try to explain the message that they were getting from the exhibit. We also harbour amongst our young folk vandals whose one aim in life is to vandalise any blank surface with spray paint. They can quickly turn any inner city into a ghetto if they are left unchecked. Up again pop our ‘Experts’. This is folk art!, they should be encouraged. In this case I’m pleased they are not taken notice off and the authorities have quickly stamped on their pathetic daubs.

I suppose Wine also comes into this, believe it, or believe it not, category. Of course Wine is a very pleasant drink, but in my mind doesn’t deserve all of the praise and mystique that today’s romantics heap on it. Of course not forgetting the trade, who have an alterative agenda and are more interested in shifting product. I wandered one day into a boutique wine shop, after reading some of the labels and advertising plashed everywhere. I should have got carried away and purchased a bottle or three, then according to the ‘blurbs’ be in for a treat indeed. They raved on, ‘A fresh cheeky wine, with an aftertaste of raspberries, spicy and fragrant’ another wine boasted. ‘Tastes of tropical fruits like Mango and Guava’. ‘Rich and warm, with the taste of abundant fruit’. At one time I was a director in a winery, so I understand a little of what’s going on. Back then, listening to many of my fellow directors who spent much of the meeting time in talking in superlatives about their product, and not keeping their eye on the ball, which in this case was money, something, they were loosing by the bucketfuls, and not making moves to correct the situation. Had their product been as good as their advertising claimed it was, it wouldn’t have been a problem. One bright individual said, ‘I worried far too much’, ‘If we require more money, we can always issue more shares’. This was at a time when the Bank was calling up their loans, and the fact that they were diluting their shareholding escaped them.

Music is another area that I’m often out of step. I once attended a concert one evening given by a newly discovered prodigy. He then, right from start proceeded to render offering after offering, all played in discords. This instead of entertaining me, made it difficult to listen to. On this occasion I was able to vote with my feet and I walked out, I was pleased to see I wasn’t alone with this gesture. I’m also against loud music which the young today seem to enjoy. I even wonder how long a life some of the modern tunes of today will last. Will they be around in ten years? It matters not as most of the young will all be deaf by this time, then they will be able to turn up the volume on their hearing aids as loud as they wish.