Homework avoided me until my sixth form year at Wellington College when a braless drama teacher managed to convince me that in between daily sessions of wagging classes, work could be a rewarding experience. All I remember about her name is that she let us call her by her first one. I can’t even see her face in my mind. She might have been christened Vicki but it is possible she wasn’t. Vicki had been to the land of India and revelled in yoga when she wasn’t teasing us with her looks and flowing garments.
About a third of my 1991 school year was spent skipping. If wandering the streets of the city enjoying teenage angst wasn’t enough for me, I was skateboarding with other truants on the miniramp at Appleton Park, simultaneously near Kelburn and Karori. Surprisingly, detention and castigation were in the same box as girlfriends and party invites and I subtly sidestepped ever getting in trouble for missing chunks of school which were as noticeable at the scars on my shins.
While learning to teach, I was awarded a ‘C’ for my opening assignment and was so embarrassed by this that I decided to pull finger and learn to write. I did get better grades shortly after but I never quite managed to say what I wanted. My handwriting is dangerously untidy which has always been a source of poor esteem for me.
I started to keep a blog when our eldest son was born eight and a jot years ago; something for the family. The photos were wonderful while the commentary was feeble. Little did I know that I was starting on a hike which would bring me substantial pleasure and release.
After a year or so it dried up - I stopped sealing my thoughts on screen. Until I moved to Uzbekistan three years ago.
A new blog was generated and for some reason I wrote more than ever. I’d had a few stressful years and becoming an author seemed to relieve much of that. Whoosh. I write because it nearly makes me happy.
A fraction of the posts I write I actually write. I write documents while I run. Ideas present themselves when I see something or someone I like. Anything in a day could trigger a post. I sit for an hour and type. I don’t edit or proof or wonder if it is any good.
While in Rajastan once I sat on a camel for two whole days watching the Thar Desert go by. Eating chapati, fire cooked curries and unquestionably more sand than a three year old. Believe it or not, we disembarked from our caravan at exactly the same point we horsed the beasts in the first place. Jaisalmer. The campaign was not to end up in a different place but simply to wander a while.
My pieces are riddled with my children. There are usually a lot of feelings hidden in the text which only I know about. My church background slips in as does my lust for sightseeing. The readership of my blog is little; almost absent. Each entry is just for me. I have a few I like especially. A personal ‘best of’.
My aim is simply to be a little happier. Writing releases some of the aches I drag about. I would prefer to write anonymously in order to explore another leg of honesty. When I drink beer, I think I am quite funny and I would like to be able to transport some jokes into my twaddle. Such an accomplishment is reserved for titans.
This particular posting was produced in response to a nomination from a wonderful writer and long time friend, Rachel. She writes here: RACHIEBEE
I nominate the superb Angela. Another long time friend. She writes here: THE SPONGE