Reading Searching for Grace

A couple of weeks ago I entered and won a competition on National Radio (mostly because one of the clues was the B52’s 'Love Shack'. Man I love that song). My prize was a Book. So exciting! I imagine there are many stray books lying around the National Radio office that are looking for a home.

In order to ascertain which book would be most suitable to my Winner's Needs, I was asked what I liked to read. I replied that at present I was mostly reading biographies of women who lived in the early 19th century, thinking about the Mitford Girls, The Viceroy’s Daughters, Fortune’s Daughters and the Virginia Woolf biography I was reading earlier this year.

On Monday I was lucky enough to receive two books: the second volume of Fiona Kidman’s memoirs, and the book Searching for Grace by Carol Henderson and Heather Tovey. I picked up the book at about midday from the post office, sat down to flick through it over lunch and then spent the next four hours consuming the book as quickly as I could!

So yes, very compelling, and also one of the strangest stories I’ve ever read. It’s essentially the autobiography/biography of Heather Tovey (nee Campbell) who was born in London in 1911. From an early age the woman who was raising her (‘Mummy’) made it clear that she wasn’t her biological mother. The identity of her 'real' mother remained a secret until the early 1970s when it was confirmed that Heather was the illegitimate daughter of a very wealthy Edwardian society lady, Lady Grace Weigall. Grace had inveigled herself, unacknowledged, into Heather’s life from about the age of seven and actively interfered with aspects of her life through Heather’s guardian, Doctor Leonard Boys. This interference included not only keeping Heather’s mother’s identity a mystery, but also potentially pressing charges againts the man that Heather eloped, and later emigrated with (Gordon Tovey, a well-known NZ arts figure).

I simply cannot unpick the whole sordid tangle for you here. It’s complicated and fascinating. And complicated. And FASCINATING.

When I first flicked through, I thought the book was going to a misery memoir. Gretchen wrote about reading misery memoirs as an attempt to make herself feel more spiritual which grosses me out, but stoked to say, Searching for Grace is much more than a mere misery memoir. It is a rather strange book, written as it is by two women (Heather and her daughter Carol) over a period of about 20-odd years. There are periodic diversions into spiritual matters (Carol feels her mother Heather’s spirit while she’s doing the dishes) and a number of poems about being abandoned that I think maybe the book could have lived without. I have an aversion to most poetry though, so take with a grain of salt, they could be amazing. Also: Gordon Tovey’s affairs and Heather’s acceptance of the Other Women? Priscilla’s terrible life? Carol watching her mother become increasingly depressed after the Revelations and then Heather’s deterioration through Alzheimers? This book  has everything, including a description of the female Victorian dressing process.

The most outstanding thing about the book was that it was an antidote to all the romanticised Edwardian-lady biographies that I’ve been reading. Those books put the figures they’re written about on a pedestal, and will list all of their peccadilloes with no eye to the real emotional consequences of the subject’s actions. Searching for Grace is rather a book OF consequences: the legacy left by the actions of a particular group of wealthy and privileged upper class English folk at a particular time in history. But it’s also a very unique and personal history. Microcosm and macrocosm in one, people!

In conclusion: Dude, you should totally read it. The prose will not make you wet your pants with excitement but the convoluted nature of the histories more than make up for this. You’ll never be able to read an Edwardian ladies bio in the same way again.

End of the Christmas break for me.

I’m back at work and am existing in a liminal zone between twiddling my thumbs, procrastinating and doing incredibly irritating nitpicky work. Quelle surprise - tres boring. My first day at work was an epic adventure in comedic misadventures AND REALLY FUCKING ANNOYING. Items:

• Tried toasting left over panettone in the toaster for breakfast, whereupon the panettone promptly jammed and filled the kitchen with smoke and I spent ten minutes digging burnt bits of it out of the toaster with a knife.
• Buses were replacing trains and thus public transport was running late. Also, knitting on the bus made me feel motion sick removing the only enjoyable thing from my trip to work. Also, I forgot my iPod, so no happy audio books for me.
• Upon arriving at Petone station for a transfer, my carton of soy milk exploded in my bag and soaked me and everything I own with soy milk. Everything I owned then smelt of rancid soy milk and I smelled like rancid soy milk for the whole day. Joy.
• Upon arriving at work, I discovered that I had left my swipe card on my dresser. The main entrance gate was locked, and I was forced to crawl under it on the wet ground.
• When I tried to have a cup of Bad-Workplace, Any-Port-in-a-Storm coffee I discovered that the soy milk I'd been able to recover from the Terrible Soy Milk Accident was soured and gross.
• NOELLE MCCARTHY ON THE RADIO. so.annoying. In fact, the National Radio summer programme is pretty ghastly all round, and especially in the morning - I can be somewhat indulgent of the awfulness of Matinee Idle (the awfulness being the point of it), but Summer Noelle is a killer. I repeat: so.annoying.

AND (piece de resistance):

• During the week I was away, my boss created extra work in an already complicated job by telling me to do something different, causing a series of annoying problems that I now need to sort out so that I can go back to doing what I was doing in the first place.

On the plus side, things have been much better since and have included the discovery that Supermarket brioche is almost like real brioche if you heat it for 20 seconds in the microwave. In fact, it's almost good. Also, tonight is New Years Eve! And I have absolutely NO PLANS AT ALL except hanging with the Boy and this is filling me with inestimable joy. I want to knit and watch old movies and eat and drink and then we can kiss at midnight and go to bed.

Other People's Christmasses

I spent Christmas with the Boy's (enormous) extended family. I ate so much I thought I would maybe explode. I ate more seafood in one sitting than I've ever eaten before. Shannon's granddad smoked some Butterfish that S had shot in Wellington and it was so amazing delicious, I was in love. Also, I think I've developed an addiction to mussels <yum>. Also, I played Cranium and was in the winning team more than once! I laugh with glee at my Cranium abilities and dominance.

This is my present from the Boy: YES it is made of Bakelite, YES it is a valve radio, YES it is only ever tuned into the Nat Rad, YES I am the luckiest girl in the world.

The best thing about valve radios is the way they have to warm up before they start . I like the anticipation and the way that the sound eases in. Can you believe that Shannon rebuilt this radio? How clever is he?

I *heart* you Squiddy

They're defrosting more colossal squids. The defrosting trays must be pack full of tentacles and scary claw things and fishy-smelling artefacts.

Nat Rad are having a field day - listening to Sean Plunket geeking out over Squid Cam. Listen to the podcast from this morning if you get the chance... especially as the Te Papa spokesperson made a comment about a ton of frozen squid flying through the air...? I missed the context of that. BUT did have an image of a room full of scientists acting like teenage boys in a science class and flicking bits of their dissection all around the room. Heh.

Squid. Bitchin'.

Spooky coincidences

Yesterday I blogged about Paul Simon's Graceland, and I found a copy in my mailbox this morning. Who knew that helpful elves read my blog also? Helpful elf, thankyou x.

Also, checking my Blogpatrol stats, and somebody had entered the exact title of one of my blog entries as their search query. And, it wasn't like "Things to do in New Zealand" or anything. It was "Who is the biggest fat sucker in Austin, Texas?" Spooky, huh?

Finally, everywhere I went yesterday I heard "Heart of Gold" (I'm talking, three or four times, just while walking around) and on the Nat Rad in the morning I heard an advertisement that mentioned a visit to a town with a "Heart of Gold", meaning, Waihi in the Coromandel, the "Heart of Gold" being  the big fuck-off gold mine in the middle of it.

Heart of Gold, Just About HERE

Meooooooooooowwwwww

Would you like Mild or Celebrity flavoured?


The Mo' and the Man!

Post Christmas my muscles turn to jelly...

... as all the tension oozes out of my body, via my extremities.

Fab: over for another year, two days of EXTREME family action. My rather sweet mother has unloaded her fridge into mine, I'm the only person at my place as the flatties are away at various parents' in various provincial cities. And then I fed the five hundred yesterday - all the Male Types of the Family, sans Josh given his current address in Scotland. Very pleasant tho', wasn't stressed at all (not very Me-like). More food moved into the fridge. I may be eating salad and cold meat for The Rest of the Week.

I love Nat Rad during summer, especially Matinee Idol which is a five hour joke, I think. Listened to a Sarah Vaughn concert yesterday afternoon which was rather pleasant, while preparing salads of various complexity and mis-reading icing recipes. I have a Nat Rad tee-shirt now and I think I look rather spunky in my Groupie Gear, am planning to stand about in front of Radio New Zealand House and give intense looks to those radio types I recognise. Hm, so mostly Kim Hill, the Boy, Johnny and the terribly vain German girl.

If only I recognised Sean Plunket also. Apparently he is Big.

Secret Hand Shake

I'm freaking Natasha out with my simulated secret handshake - the handshake I hypothesise as giving Brent special privileges at the Nat Lib (ie enabling him to take out library books. Tut). Last night I watched Chris Knox sing to Bill Hammond paintings, but enjoyed the Tracey Moffatt works LOTS more. I'm going back again... could watch "Love" forever. It makes me think stuff... like about women... and men... and emotional and physical abuse... and differing standards thereof... and the co-dependence generally coined 'love'... and the fact that as a rule I rather enjoy all that passion and drama. And about how much I like old movies. The other night I watched Liza Minnelli in New York New York, and discovered that my love and admiration for her and her dysfunction goes beyond her role in Cabaret. Secretly, I kind of want to be her, which is an odd thing to desire. I also secretly kind of want to be Anais Nin (also dysfunctional) and I want to be Peta Mathias *sigh*. I could be some kind of freaky Liza/Anais/Peta combo. I wonder if Peta Mathias ever googles herself. If she did she'd discover my scary stalker love of her. Hm. [I listened to her on the Nat Rad the other day and she was fab - S sent me in her direction when he switched on the radio, keeping in mind my stalker love. Good boy.]

Rocking out on the inside

In the foyer of the Nat Lib. Only hep cats refer to the Nat Lib. Or the Nat Rad. I'm not rocking out to the Nat Rad in the foyer of the Nat Lib. I was listening to Cherry Bomb. Last night my computer became obsessed with randomly generating post-punk. I made dhal. And Kerala coconut and cucumber curry. Yum. I had some left over that I was intending to luncheon upon today. But I forgot it. Which I only realised while half way down Willis Street. Bah.

Why I love the Bird Calls on National Radio

National Radio plays bird calls (generally native) at the end of Morning Report and before Nine til Noon (about nine o'clock). Management are undertaking a whole bunch of changes and one of these is REMOVING the bird call. So, at the moment, there is a lot of correspondence with National Radio about the bird call, and how they should keep the bird call, and how everyone loves the bird call.

Now my favourite part of the morning is when they read out the bird call fan letters. They've set up a separate email address for bird call fans to send their emails because they were taking up too much room in the Morning Report inbox. So, in between election year politics and the latest bombings we hear the war cries of Middle New Zealand.

Who would have guessed so many people felt so passionate about this? One person suggested that it would be like saveloys without tomato sauce, or politics without Winston Peters (although, I'd like that... fucking idiot of a fucking politician). All this passion makes me love the bird call. Otherwise, I was somewhat ambivalent.

Long analogies inexplicably involving Michelangelo

Andy is watching the TV. My jobs are driving me completely nuts, the knowledge that I only have six weeks worth of mind-numbing meaningless and unrewarding labour has made me feel the meaninglessness of afore mentioned jobs even more keenly. God help me. Women with no self-confidence in their body image (and their projection of self-esteem issues on to me). Store politics. Another motherfucking trim decaf bowl latte. I seem to have run out of anger that I can direct toward social issues. Over exposure to current affairs? I listen to National Radio every morning, and I'm mostly interested in the relationship between the interviewers and their subject. Clearly, I do hear things that make me feel something, but during the whole John Tamihere "expose" I felt less anger and more exasperation... I can't believe that jerks like this are in power. I can't believe the Labour Party is so forgiving. Mostly I just feel irritated with the media's level of sensationalism. Everything that happens is about the way that the taxpayer's money is spent. I find listening to conservative politicians kind of irritating too. Maybe I do care a little bit more about things than I let on.