Mary Warwick

With my various gadgets fully charged when I left Australia – and a spare camera battery in my cabin bag – I had packed the chargers in my suitcase. That is what you do to lighten the load on the cabin bag, always in danger of being declared “too heavy”. Imagine the mounting panic, then, when my primary method of communicating with those whose job it is to locate and redirect lost luggage, teetered on the brink of expiry. What good is a mobile phone with a flat battery?

It was a beautiful morning in Where-is, so I put on yesterday’s and the day before’s clothes (sans knickers), flung open the balcony doors and, since there was little to be gained from kicking the wall, I sat down with the trusty laptop and wrote instead. 

Aaah, the joy of doing what makes you happy. Writing mends and rejuvenates, massages the soul. The words flow freely regardless of the sense they make. Or don’t make. 

Engrossed in this activity, I was shocked that the screen dimmed, the first indication that all was not well with my darling laptop. The battery wasn’t charging and power was down to 32%. Worse, the little green light on the connection plug was out. A quick check on cable, clunky UK plug, switch on wall, everything was as it should be. Don’t tell me that my lost suitcase wasn’t the worst of my worries, please! I quickly switched off. Like the mobile phone, conserving what remained of the battery became the first priority. 

I lay on the bed with the latest Lee Child book, bought in Auckland. It wasn’t long before exhaustion and/or jet lag kicked in and I was soon fast asleep. Afternoon heat competed with a ‘sticky’ fly to wake me later, and I closed the balcony door and switched on the air-conditioning, flopped back on the bed and soon realised there was no background hushing noise. 

Lack of air-conditioning in a hot climate hotel is probably worse than failing batteries and lost luggage combined. Worse, even, than jet lag.

The obvious then dawned on my befuddled brain. I hadn’t put the keycard in the slot inside the door. Without the card nothing in the room would work. No kettle, no lights, no air-conditioning, no power points. 

Power points!! Duh! Idiot!

At least the laptop is now fully charged and the kettle is boiling again. The air-conditioning is humming and hushing in the background and all is well once more on the island of Where-is.

Perfection would be the return of a lost suitcase, but… 

The words of that old song come to mind as I await the services of a builder to replace the joists and the ceiling. The size and convolutions of the termite workings were of industrial proportions and, as more and more of the muddy stuff was removed, I could only marvel at the scope of the site.

I suppose there were project managers, engineers, architects and numerous other experts at work during the construction phase, for such a complex structure would have been a nightmare if left to mere workers. Imagine termites in hard-hats directing the ‘erks’ in their labours, rolls of drawings tucked under their arms, and all in the dark. What a sight they’d have made, if only I could have watched them.

Despite the magnificence of the structure and the ant-hours expended on it,  the effect of their hard work is going to cost me a packet. Determinations on the fix are expected in the next few days and I’m not holding my breath.

Just the beginning of the (human) work.

The day before the discovery of this extensive in-ceiling termite community, I had decided to take a trip interstate to the nearest travel agent to book flights to Malta and UK. There followed some nail-biting and knuckle-chewing while I carried out a detailed examination of the bank account. Yes, I figured I could still go visit my lovely relations while funding the builder’s superannuation.

Just about.

So long as nothing expensive went wrong between now and departure day.

Sadly, I calculated without the dishwasher, which died a few short weeks later.

Not to be beaten, I pushed the airline tickets to the back of the drawer and, head held high, set about obtaining a replacement. No, before you ask. With repairs at $170 each, three strikes and it was O.U.T. out. The local bloke was able to deliver and install a new machine and cart away the carcass the very next morning! Such service was overwhelming.

With nothing much to fall apart now, I might dare to give some thought to what I’ll pack when I head off for that little chip of rock in the Mediterranean. I think I can see that far ahead now.

My 70th birthday is creeping up on me with all the stealth of a semi-trailer. Before that day arrives, I would like to point out To Whom It May Concern that I am becoming increasingly intolerant of the reluctance of the young to address us mature folk with respect. I shall rant loud and long on behalf of all similarly insulted ladies of advancing years, hoping that one or two snappy young lads in the telemarketing industry will listen and, perhaps, learn.

‘Am I speaking to Mary Warwick?’

”You are speaking to Mrs Warwick. Do I know you?’

‘Hi, Mary. My name’s Simon and I’m calling from the Save the Tea Lady Foundation. Can we count on your support today?’

‘No. We haven’t been introduced and I don’t know you. You don’t sound old enough to call me by my Christian name.’

Smart young, upwardly mobile lad he might be, but he isn’t listening. He also doesn’t realise that he’s getting nothing from me because he’s too thick to learn a little telephone etiquette.

My rant includes those young receptionists in every institution from hairdressers to hospitals, who loudly and publicly call, ‘Rita, Doctor will see you now.’ Where are their manners? I notice they never call the medic by his Christian name. You never hear, ‘Winifred, Clive’s free now.’

I recently had occasion to collect some documents from a solicitor’s coven. The receptionist – all 17 years of her – asked my name.

‘Mrs Warwick.’

‘What’s your first name?’

‘Why?’

‘There might be two Mrs Warwicks.’

‘Unlikely in a small town like this.’

‘I still need it.’

‘Mary.’

Taking a deep breath, she warbled loud and clear, ‘Mary Warwick to pick up some docs!’

At least when I’m running late for my flight at Sydney the lady on the public address has the decency to call, ‘Passenger Warwick.’

I have tried to understand how such basic manners as proper and respectful forms of address have slipped so tragically and, apparently, irretrievably from our society. It’s not the fault of working parents. Both my parents worked – and were quite unable to keep track of me because mobile phones and smart phones hadn’t been invented back then. Might television be to blame?

Sadly, it’s unlikely that we shall ever turn the clock back, and in some respects that’s not such a bad thing. I shall, however, continue to challenge every young telemarketer in the vain hope that just one of them may realise that you catch more flies with honey than ever you will with vinegar.

Am I prepared to be owned?

This is a question I’ve asked myself many times since I committed to an Australian Mist kitten some weeks ago. When the desire to have the company of another being overtakes common sense and fiscal responsibility, people do surprising things. You see, I have had past experience of this particular feline breed, so I have a rough idea of what I’m in for. Why then, am I prepared to do it all again?

Perhaps I like being owned? Perhaps I’m at a point in my solitary existence where I need to be needed? There’s something else, though: after being surrounded by people for so long and finding myself suddenly quite alone, I’m in danger of becoming a self-centred mutterer.

An Australian Mist kitten is the most satisfying alternative to taking a live-in lover, but without the need to look alluring at 4.40 a.m. That tentative touch of a nose or paw in the pre-dawn is better than being woken by the rattle of cup in saucer and the aroma of coffee. A Mist doesn’t care what I look like, her only desire is that I respond with a grunt and a caress. Oh, yes, it’s pretty important that I’m prepared to get up then, too, because it’s been all of 24 hours since we played with the en-suite handbasin plug, after all.

Thus my previous life of scant routine and limited household order spiralled into utter chaos in less time than it took to open the cat carrier. Within moments of introducing the inquisitive bundle of pale fur to her new surroundings, my house took on the appearance of a war zone. At 13 weeks old, Calico (named because of her colouring) took only a couple of hours to scale the heights of her 187cm cat-tree. In the same time frame she learned that she’s quicker on four legs than I am on two – and promptly took advantage of the fact. She discovered that her water is more fun to jump into than to drink, tissues are interesting to pull from the box and that the gap between the screen door and the sliding glass door is big enough to squeeze into but not quite big enough to reverse out of.

Exploring: the cat tree.

Much more has changed since the addition of Calico to the household. The simple task of taking out the kitchen garbage, once no more challenging than tying a knot in the bag and carrying it out the door, now requires the planning of a military manoeuvre. Mistakenly believing my knowledge of Felinese was quite good, “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” resulted in a ten-minute foray into the depths of the jasmine jungle, so I now find it necessary to lure Calico into a room – any room – and swiftly close the door to contain her. Ditto to retrieve the mail. Receiving visitors is similarly regarded by this “bred for indoors” animal as an opportunity to escape into the wilds of a (mostly) feline-unfriendly neighbourhood.

A Taliban style ambush.

With the New Year comes the trashing of the ambition I had long held to write with a quiet companion whose tranquility and mute companionship would translate into productive hours at my keyboard. Clearly that is not going to happen, since the keyboard is a stepping stone to the display cabinet upon which is a collection of commemorative and fragile goodies, oil lamps and so on.

Perhaps, in the fullness of time, the meaning of “No!” will be understood.