Small gifts from abroad
23rd August 2008


Across the table lies a sculpted face, about the size of an oven mitt, carved or moulded from a tufa-like substance, the weight and texture of sandstone. It is the face of a man, creased in a grin so broad it has forced the eyes closed and wrinkled the bridge of the nose. The grin is beatific or idiotic, I’m unsure which.

It lies cheerily upon the layers of tissue paper from which it emerged, alive with fragments of story that tumble from it like the air miles it has travelled. Where does it come from? Who crafted its features? What cultural narrative styled those pointed cheeks, that upturned smile?

I know the story of this carving. I guessed what he was as soon as Sylvia unpacked him from between layers of clothing in her suitcase. I knew it from the weight of the object in my hands and the contours beneath the layers of tissue paper. The grin was the only surprise.

He comes from Exeter in south-west England. Sylvia will have bought him from one of half a dozen small souvenir shops in a restored warehouse on a stone wharf of the old waterfront, where the river Exe tumbles over a weir and coastal trading ships berthed 150 years ago. He is carved in the style of the gargoyles that decorate Exeter cathedral: the peculiar, often grotesque, figures that are flumes or pipes directing rainwater off the roof away from the walls.

This small figure is woven into our story. We once spent a year living and working near Exeter and explored the cathedral, the Roman ruins and the old waterfront, where we bought two or three miniature gargoyles and carvings. They have joined the accumulation of artefacts that decorate our lives, clattering and braying like the pots and pans of a tinker’s caravan. Little smiley man is a worthy addition.

Small gifts from abroad often possess value beyond price or provenance. I discovered this as a child, on those rare occasions when a parcel arrived in our household from Holland, wrapped in string and brown paper, criss-crossed with the purple tattoos of foreign postal services. It would lie in state on the dining table until dad got home from work and then be unwrapped with such care you’d have thought it held all the treasures of Samarkand.

The objects from these parcels flowed into our young lives like beacons. We pored over them for clues, for the stories our parents never told us, or we never listened to, about Holland, their early lives and the people who wrote those spidery letters on thin blue aerogramme paper. We marvelled at the bars of pale Dutch chocolate, the tablets of salty liquorice that I never developed a taste for, the cigars – Schimmelpenninck or Jacob van Hartog – and smooth linen tablecloths. We puzzled over decorative teaspoons, their handles with tiny enamelled coats of arms and names of towns whose vowels we could not master.

Years later there were other parcels, these from Sylvia’s mother Lyla, in England. Lyla pushed the limits of plausibility. She wrapped gifts in off-cuts of wallpaper, plastic shopping bags, recycled newsprint, and bound them with skeins of wool and pieces of string tied in knots that would have defied even Alexander the Great. She posted her final package to us a few days before she died aged 80, in November 1993.

A couple of months later, on a hot January day, we were moving house. Sylvia had hurt her back, the kids were fractious. There was a knock at the door and a postman with Lyla’s parcel. It had failed spectacularly, string and paper giving up, the contents spilling out. A diligent postal worker had gathered up the pieces, sealed them in a large plastic bag and sent them on their way. We unwrapped comics and sweets for the girls, a cushion for Sylvia and a prayer for our good health.

In the years since my childhood the world has shrunk to the size of a walnut, broadband and internet laying bare all its mysteries. With a few taps on a keyboard I can conjure products from anywhere on the globe. The system is efficient but the mystique has vanished. The small gifts I continue to treasure are those that arrive wrapped not in courier bags, but in stories.

The Spencer Truss – uplifting NZFirst
9th August 2008


In a week of high political drama, of leaked audio tapes and upset rubbish bins, the Ashburton Guardian’s political reporters have been tireless in their pursuit of sensational stories. In a journalistic scoop one of our team penetrated a private function room at the Grumpy Hog restaurant in Manners Street, Wellington last night where a special meeting of the New Zealand First caucus was being held. He filed this report online just ten minutes ago.

At first glance the only indication that this is a meeting of NZFirst MPs is the presence, the towering presence, of Winston Peters. The remaining 6 MPs, cleverly disguised as themselves, are completely unrecognisable.

The group is seated at a round table with a lazy suzy decorated with a bunch of geraniums. Two large microphones are suspended from the ceiling directly above the table. The only other people in the room are a Chinese waiter, several members of the parliamentary press gallery hiding behind a potted aspidistra and a shadowy figure in the corner of the room crouched over an audio recording desk and wearing a red jacket with the words “Labour Party Spy” printed on the back.

Winston rises to address the meeting.

Winston: Right, we’ll get straight down to business. We don’t usually meet between elections but you’ll appreciate that the recent activities of certain scumbags means we’ve got some work to do. There’s two items on the agenda: fundraising and party policy. Wait a minute.

He suddenly spins the lazy suzy so hard the geraniums fly off the table, spattering everybody with dirt and flowers.

Winston: You can’t be too careful – they can hide microphones anywhere these days. Right – fundraising. We’re gonna need plenty of cash for this election. What have you got, Ron?

Ron Mark: A couple of us have been going through the list of previous donors. There’s Owen Glen, Bob Jones and those Simunovich boys.

Winston: What do you reckon they’re good for this time around – a hundred k each?

Ron: Well, all things considered, Winston…

Winston: Yeah, yeah, I know. Who else is on the list?

Ron: The next biggest donor was Mrs Dorothy Thwaites in Paeroa.

Winston: How much did Dot give last time?

Ron: Three dollars.

Winston: See if she’s good for five.

Pita Paraone raises a hand tentatively.

Pita: Ah, Winston…

Winston: Who the hell are you?

Pita: I’m an MP.

Winston: Which party?

Pita: Our party – I mean, YOUR party, Winston.

Winston: I’ve never seen you in my life.

Doug Woolerton: Well, you have been away a lot, Winston.

Pita: Some of us near the bottom of the list were hoping that you could do some fundraising: you know, use your connections.

Winston: I did that last time and look at the mess.

Pita: Yeah, but you’ve got new connections now.

Dail Jones: Like that Condoleeza Rice, she’s pretty keen on you, she’d give us a few bob.

Ron: Or you could go on the dinner circuit, do some media training workshops, that kind of thing.

Winston: And where would we put the money? Every journalist in the country is sniffing around our bank accounts. I can’t open my wallet without a commission of inquiry or some such thing.

Doug: We can hide the money in a trust.

Winston: Like the Spencer Trust, I suppose? Bad idea, Doug.

Peter Brown: We could change the Trust’s name to throw them off the scent. Make it look like something completely different.

Winston: Suggestions?

Peter: How about the Spencer Truss? That gives us options. We could sell it as either a medical aid or something to do with construction.

Ron: Medical aid gives us some catchy marketing: “The Spencer Truss – providing hidden support!”

Doug: “The Spencer Truss – uplifting NZ First!”

Winston: Brilliant! Right, what else was on the agenda?

Ron: Policy.

Winston: Policy? We’ll do the same as we’ve done every other election – announce our policy the day after polling when we know which party we’re negotiating with. Right! Drinking time. Ron, call the waiter. Oh, and tell him to get rid of that bloody aspidistra.