Coming up Trumps (aka surviving with helmet hair as the only injury)

Years ago, in pre-earthquake Christchurch, when riding a bike was not for the foolhardy but a necessity for the cash-strapped student, a sortie to the supermarket was usually an uneventful chore. To feed the eight-strong crew of the Grey Whale, the once a week meal roster required the purchase of ingredients on a large scale. These would be carefully arranged in my backpack for a speedy journey through the backstreets of Riccarton- legs pumping, eyes focused and hands anchored to the handle bars in a steely grip as the gears clicked with ease. I was, in essence, coolness on two wheels.

That was, until the fateful day when epic proportions turned an ordinary commute into a spectacular display. Now just to backpedal a bit, the purpose of my trip was to source the items required to replicate the savoury delights of the Pancake Palace. With my bag filled to capacity and still more to pack I was confident that leaving the two equally weighted items to balance elegantly from the handle bars would be the winning trick. 

So off I set on my journey down Clarence Street with 1 kg of yoghurt dangling comfortably in a plastic bag on one side and 1 kg of cottage cheese on the other. As I picked up pace the trip followed suit of many taken before. The gentle rustle of plastic however was soon replaced by a rhythmical knock as the two bags swung towards each other, mimicking the motion of Newton’s Cradle. A short sharp escalation of knocking was followed by the violent inhaling of bags into the spokes and the Catherine wheeling of contents behind me, leaving a 50 metre trail of dairy diarrhoea.

This story ends well, dear readers, with the absence of witnesses and a conveniently located bin….coolness intact.

Sharon Cook

Dick Turnip v Mercedes

Winifred wanted to leave the cosy townhouse that she shared with Dick Turnip, her cat of fourteen years but since her drinking and gambling husband died leaving her financially compromised, her ability to move on from her current situation seemed unlikely.  Doug died a month before the September earthquake and she had tried to make full use of that intervening time.  The quiet of that month ending when her house bounced around like her favourite orange jelly.   Win wanted to leave but settlement would only occur if both units received substantial damage and every one of the thousands of aftershocks had failed to bring it to resolution. 

Neighbourly relations with Gillian had never been great and complaints regarding Winifred’s 1992 Nissan dropping oil on the driveway, Dick Turnip’s fascination with her potty-mouthed parrot or even the airing of her laundry on a rack outside clearly irked Gillian.
 
Gillian’s freshly- groomed metallic blue Mercedes glistened in the sun and stood as the monument to their divide.  The air seemed dense and the parrot squawked uncontrollably as the rumble arose from seemingly everywhere and the ground bucked and charged beneath her.  The air-conditioning unit snapped from the wall and fell squarely onto the freshly washed bonnet of the Mercedes while the brick fence at the rear of the ninety-thousand-dollar vehicle took care of its windows and made ribbons of the leather seats.  As if in slow motion the fracture at the base of Win’s house ran across the length of the joined units and moved up.  A solitary brick spat out from its surroundings and knocked the bird cage over scratching the side of the Mercedes in a wild arc releasing the squawking parrot into the dust clouds.

For the first time in a long time, a smile appeared on Win’s face.

Andrew Hawkey

The ghost of Valentine's past

”Crap!” Bryan dropped his glasses.

It was 10pm, mid-summer. He had just enjoyed a merlot or four and his usual steak, alone.

A young waitress with a tooth gap came over - ”Dinner for one?”

”Yes,” he grumbled bedgruglingly and waved her away. He had completely forgotten it was Valentine’s Day, until he arrived to giddy couples holding hands, talking softly. Bryan cursed - SHE wouldn’t have forgotten.

Irene sat at the bar, supposedly the swankiest place to be seen. But she wondered what the fuss was; the mushroom-coloured wallpaper, the yellow light giving a sick saintly glow. The bartender noticed her jiggling nervously and approached, and Irene ordered another vodka martini.

”Stronger, this time…” He’s obviously not coming, she just needed to accept that she’d been stood up. That’s it, modern dating is a waste of time. She downed her drink and paid, scoffing at the prices.

”I’ll have to sell my wedding ring before I come back here, though it’s probably only worth a few drinks.” She was feeling like a bitter and rejected old lady, every day another bloody wrinkle.

Irene clutched her bag and hurried down the main street. There was a dark blur of a man ahead, kneeling down strangely. She startled as her foot kicked something across the pavement - a hideously large pair of dark-grey glasses. Shocked, she realised who she must’ve encountered.

”Looking for something?”

”Bloody hell Irene, I’d recognise that voice miles away.” Bryan fumbled, returning his glasses to his face.

”Well, I’ve had one hell of an evening,” Irene burbled. ”Fancy a cheap red and a seat by the water we used to admire?”

”Sure love. Don’t forget it’s Valentines; plenty of young things we can yell advice at.”

”Tell them not to bother,” she said with a sly wink.

Uella Watson (editing: Brendan McBryde)