I hold them, in varying degrees, going back to about 1981. At one stage I tried to dial it back, deciding I would abandon all grudges after a 10-year period, but I just couldn’t do it. I’m a lifer!
Take the café that sells ice creams at a beach west of Auckland, for example. I could hold a grudge against it on the grounds of its name alone. Let’s call it Wavz, because it’s by the sea and presumably ‘Waves’ took up too much room or no one knew how to spell it. Anyway, one New Year’s Day about eight years ago, I queued up at the outside window at Wavz to buy an ice cream. I counted out the required $3 in change in my hand, but when it came to pay for my treat, the man behind the counter said it was $3.45. Why? The public holiday surcharge. On an ice cream.
I went back to Wavz last Labour Day to see if this daylight robbery was still continuing, and it was. A holiday surcharge on a takeaway ice cream is against the laws of nature and the spirit of New Zealand, and I will hold a grudge against Wavz until the day I die unless they remedy that situation. There are other places to buy ice creams after all — like the dairy up the road (hello!) — and I will happily go to them.
By the way, there are more than a few people who hold grudges against me, which I totally understand, although I’m not as good at remembering those as I am my own.
Take this, for example … Back in the early 2000s I was offered a job reviewing movies on Today Live, which was the show that aired on TV One before the news. I was thrilled to bits, as I love the movies and it paid quite well. Of course, it’s a little nerve-wracking for a novice going live on air, so I was a little antsy on the day of my first review, but the host of the show, the lovely Susan Wood, called and asked if I would come in a bit early as she’d like to talk to me first.
I thought that, as the consummate broadcaster, she was going to give me a few tips, but I wondered if I had got the wrong end of the stick when we headed up to the tearoom and I thanked her for giving me such a wonderful opportunity. It had nothing to do with her, she said, pleasantly enough. The choice was made by the show’s producers.
Susan then sat me down and reminded me that during the brief period when I had been a gossip columnist at the Herald, I had once written that she was so thin that readers should order pizzas to be delivered to her house. She was right. I had.
She had been going through a painful divorce at the time, she told me, and my flippant comments had really hurt. She was right. They would have.
I was absolutely mortified, not only because I had forgotten that I had written that, but also because at the time I had not even stopped to think that it would be hurtful, which is shameful given that I had sometimes been on the other end of that particular stick.
I felt like a Bitchy Resting-faced Bitch, and what’s more I was about to go live on air with the woman. My natural reaction was to flee the building and never go back, but that was not seriously an option because the show must go on, and so it did.
Miraculously, once she had cleared the air and said her piece, Susan Wood and I got on very well. She’d been wronged, there was no doubt about that, and had clearly expressed how that made her feel, and then moved gracefully on.
This is probably the opposite of holding a grudge.
My way is good.
But hers and Don McKinnon’s is possibly better.
By the way, when I asked Susan if it was OK to include this story, she said ‘include away’, and why I like her so much is explained here in her very own words: ‘It’s funny, because many years later and many kilos heavier, I now wish someone would write “Send that woman a pizza!” I was pretty tender at that time over my divorce, but looking back with my 50-something eyes it really wasn’t such a bad thing to write at all! These days I’d laugh, which is the joy and freedom of being older.’
Gold.
Letter from MILAN
OK, so I got back from Madrid and had another almost-week on my own in Paris, and I think my character started to crumble a bit again. I really should have learned to speak French. I mean really.
I’m sick of missing out on all the jokes.
Anyway, my friend Therese is living in Milan, so I’ve taken myself over here for a couple of nights.
I’ve been to the Milan railway station a few times in the past, and twice driven past the city without stopping, because I always thought it was strictly for the fashionistas, and even though I am usually the epitome of chic — ask the courier driver who keeps catching me in my pyjamas with hair like a half-chewed cat on my head at three in the afternoon — I have never before felt the urge to visit the Italian style capital. Actually, it’s not that stylish. Well, it’s as stylish as a lot of Italian cities, which is more than most, but it’s not intimidatingly so.
I ran into a couple of hiccups with my new refusal-to-research-anything approach, though.
I walked one hour in the searing sun to the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie to see Leonardo da Vinci’s famous The Last Supper painting only to find out that you need to book a ticket weeks in advance. Never mind, I told the surly ticket-counter — I don’t need to see the pictures, I read the book! Actually, despite the heat, it was lovely just to walk through the streets and marvel at the beautiful buildings, the leafy parks, the passing trams and the pasticceria windows. Those Italians sure can come up with some pretty crazy-looking cakes.
Having been robbed of the joy of joining the last supper, but still feeling vaguely religious, I decided I would head to the centre of the city and visit the Duomo, Milan’s gothic cathedral. Florence’s one gets all the rave reviews, but the Milan one is also pretty sensational, from the outside anyway.
I never got to see the inside on account of my bingo wings.
Yes, that’s right, I joined the queue to get into the church, but was stopped at security because of the flubber on my arms. Who knew Jesus was such a stickler for shirt-sleeves? He spent half his life wearing a toga, for the Fat Guy With The Beard From The Hangover Movies’ sake!
Anyway, the security guards made it perfectly clear that I was not welcome in Jesus’ house, and I suspect my knee-length skirt was a bit flirtatious for them, too. I’m a right saucy strumpet, me! Honestly, I was wearing more than most of the rest of Milan put together, but what can you do?
Miffed at the stymied condition of my spontaneous sightseeing, I stalked past a tour guide speaking English to a goggle-eyed group in front of him. ‘After we’ve been inside the church,’ he was saying, ‘you might like to look around the Rinascente department store behind me. There’s a mozzarella terrace on the top floor.’
Now, I am a champion eavesdropper, but this has to go down as one of my best efforts ever. Without even slowing, I simply turned towards the Rinascente department store, took myself to the top floor, found the terrace — which is indeed a mozzarella bar called Obika — got a table overlooking the Duomo and placed my order.
Giant fresh cheese balls served any way you like while sipping prosecco and gazing across at a gothic cathedral?
God of small happiness, one; Under-arm police, nil.
My friend Therese was working while I was out not seeing the sights of Milan, but we went out for dinner that night to a gorgeous little neighbourhood place near where she lived. Over dinner, she told me a story that was perfectly timed, given that it was the Year of Me, and I’d like to tell you, too, because it’s a perfect Screw You Dolores affirmation.
I’d only met Therese’s mother, Lynette, once, back in New Zealand at one of Therese’s birthday parties, but she’d made a big impression on me because she took my hand and didn’t let it go. This doesn’t happen that often once you’re grown-up. Lynette had lovely soft skin, and I instantly wanted her to be my mother, too, although she already had nine children so probably would not have been interested. Anyway, she seemed special. Mothers of nine probably all are.
But that night in Milan, Therese told me that the last time she’d been home with her mum she’d been in a quandary about something or other and her mother had looked at her a
nd said, ‘Please yourself, my darling. Just please yourself.’ She didn’t mean it snippily, as in see-if-I-care; she meant it sincerely, as in trying-to-please-other-people-is-a-waste-of-precious-time.
And she is so right.
You can tie yourself in knots trying to do what you think people want you to do and putting their needs or expectations before your own, but here’s the thing: they might not even notice, and you might have had it wrong in the first place. So, despite your time and effort and angst, they end up in the exact same situation as they were before, but you are worse off.
Obviously Lynette was talking to Therese when she told her to please herself, but I felt as though she was also talking to me. And I took her advice. I started to please myself first, before anyone else. And guess what? No one else noticed any difference. It wasn’t world-changing, but it did change my world.
It’s as simple as booking a movie at 6pm because that’s when it suits you to go, and telling your friends that’s happening, instead of ringing around everyone first and seeing if that will be alright and then getting talked into going at 9.45pm which is, by the way, a sh*t time to go to the movies unless you are in your twenties and/or on drugs. This isn’t hurting anyone’s feelings, it’s simply streamlining your choices. Come to the movie at 6pm or we’ll catch up another day.
Or it could be as complicated as saying to your siblings, ‘I’ve had Dad at my place for Christmas seven years in a row, but I want to take the kids camping this year, so could one of you please invite him?’ If the answer is ‘no’, you’ll at least know you are right in thinking they are a bunch of conniving sh*theads who don’t deserve your secret trifle recipe. If the answer is ‘yes’, you get the break you’ve been wanting for the past seven years but have been too scared to ask for.
‘Please yourself’ is really a nicer way of screwing Dolores, or perhaps the beginning of the realisation that Dolores needs to be screwed, or the egg from which the realisation is hatched, or the chicken that lays the egg from which the realisation is hatched, or the — look, anyway, used in moderation (those bee-arches!) it’s a winner.
Lynette is sadly no longer with us, but I’ve passed on her advice to so many people that she’ll live forever inside more people than she bargained for.
Pleasing myself isn’t the only revelation I’ve had while here in Milan, by the way. I’ve also discovered the Aperol spritz, possibly the world’s most delicious summer cocktail. Take one part Aperol, which is a slightly bitter orange-y aperitif, add a big splash of prosecco, a small splash of soda, a lot of ice and a slice of orange and saluté: here’s to pleasing yourself.
1. The hot chocolate at Angelina’s on Rue de Rivoli in Paris
2. A cold beer on a sizzling afternoon at any Kiwi bach or beach
3. The margaritas at Woody’s in Golden, Colorado. Or the ones at my house
4. The bitter lemon and grapefruit tea from Tea Total
5. Champagne — which deserves its own chapter … if not two
6. Of course, drink enough of anything and you’ll end up happy. For a while. Then you’ll get a headache and feel fat … and wish you had listened to those bee-arches!
Champagne for DUMMIES
One year I drank nothing but champagne.
Oh, I choked back the odd glass of water and a cup of coffee here and there, but otherwise it was just champagne, champagne, champagne.
I got the idea immediately post-measles when I was lying in bed causing no trouble at all, gracefully bearing the agony and indignity of being in horse-spittle. (If you know me at all by now, you will realise how unlikely that is to be true.)
A bottle of Bollinger arrived at my door, sent by a worried friend in London.
Another arrived soon after from different pals in Dublin.
A third came not long after that from someone whose name I didn’t recognise, and actually I’m not even sure it was addressed to me but by that stage I had a thirst for the stuff.
How very Patsy from Ab Fab, thought I, that instead of sending fresh grapes, these thoughtful folk were sending grapes that had been fermented in France. I decided that, from that point on, I would drink nothing but French.
It was a fabulous idea — although it might have worked out better had I married an independently wealthy European playboy rather than the Ginger, because when my Get Well Soon French champagne supplies ran out and I started to buy it for myself, I realised how perilously expensive it was. This is because champagne only comes from one particular very small part of France, and the winemakers have to follow a lot of very strict rules to be able to produce it.
I thought, perhaps, that for tax-deductible reasons it might be a good idea to write a book about champagne.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I recalled a vague idea I’d toyed with, about three estranged sisters who are forced together and have to get over their grudges for the sake of something bigger: the future. Perhaps the sisters should be French, I thought, and what forces them together is inheriting a crumbling champagne house.
Obviously, my next step was to go to France.
But sometimes there are big disconnects between how I think things are going to work out and how they actually do. Mr Bean, I imagine, has the same problem.
When I planned my trip to Champagne, I decided that I would pick up a rental car at Charles de Gaulle airport and drive to the region, a journey of less than 100 kilometres.
‘Oh, I’ll just pick up a rental car at Charles de Gaulle airport and drive to the region, a journey of less than 100 kilometres,’ I breezily informed anyone who asked, and a few more who didn’t even know me, but still, I liked the way it sounded.
Of course there was nothing breezy about the experience at all.
When I finally found the right rental car office after my long trip from New Zealand, it occurred to me, for the first time, that usually I had about my person, or at least in the very near vicinity, someone else who did all the driving. And carried the bags. And knew where we were going.
When I jumped into the passenger side of the car and sat there while nothing happened, I realised it had been the most enormous oversight to not bring that someone with me. How could I have been so remiss?
Still, there was not much I could do about it right then, so I swapped seats and headed for the EXIT. Half an hour later, I was heading for it again. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Charles de Gaulle airport, but it appears to be spherical. I spent the first hour of my research trip circling the airport car park, and only escaped by taking a wrong turn, which delivered me, thankfully, onto the freeway.
The GPS had not been invented then, that I knew of, but I had bought a map. In fact, I had bought two: one of Charles de Gaulle airport and one of Champagne. This is how I knew exactly what freeway I needed to be on when I left the airport. What I did not know was what I should do when I missed the turn-off to the other freeway that would take me to Champagne.
For a start, I couldn’t look at either of the maps because I was driving. And for a finish, the bit of France that I was soon in no longer appeared on either of those maps anyway. I did not know where that bit of France was.
I realise now what I had done wrong. If you get off the Picton ferry in Wellington, for example, and want to go to Johnsonville, you need to know that the highway to Johnsonville is actually called State Highway One and most the signs are probably for Auckland. You yourself are not going to Auckland, and may have no interest in Auckland whatsoever, but you do need to know that that is where the road you need to be on finishes, as that might be your only clue.
In France, on my way to Champagne from Charles de Gaulle airport, I had no such clue. Instead, I drove for three hours — yes, three hours — on a series of highways, most of which seemed to have a view of the Eiffel Tower, which I did not think was near my final destination.
I exited the highway on several occasions, but you would be surprised how unhelpful this was. Wherever I ended up I simply couldn’t work out where I was,
because it wasn’t on the map and I didn’t understand the signs.
At one stage, I rang the Ginger even though it was 3am in New Zealand, but he was of little help, partly because he was asleep and partly because all I could tell him was that I was parked in the middle of a roundabout three hours’ drive from the airport yet still clearly under the flight path. In the end, we worked out that Troyes, which I had seen signs for, was in the Champagne district, although not on my map, so I headed for that.
After another two hours — that’s a total of five and, remember, Champagne is only a journey of less than 100 kilometres — I pulled into a gas station, once again totally, completely, utterly lost. Inside the little shop part, two blokes were chit-chatting in French, but stopped to stare as I walked through the door waving my map.
‘Je cherche Épernay!’ I said. ‘Je cherche Épernay.’
After a split second’s silence, they both burst out laughing.
There are certain times when a person can be laughed at, but being lost in a foreign country with the sun slowly setting and having skipped both breakfast and lunch is not one of them.
Fighting back tears, I swept past these unhelpful buffoons to use the rest room. What’s more, I decided, I wasn’t even going to buy a packet of gum or a bottle of water. I was just going to pee in their French dunny and they could go f**k themselves.