Tag Archives: mouth{JT}

Crafting For Money

By mouth{JT}

I have been selling what I make for a very long time now. Different crafts such as children’s drawings, greeting cards, crochet, etc., but for the most part, I made serious money from pottery and ceramics. I’ve picked up a few tricks along the way, and so I’m passing them along. If they can be of any benefit to others, great.

Firstly, do (make) something you love.

You have to love what you’re doing. Otherwise, you will never survive it. You’re putting in hours and hours of work for far less than the minimum wage, so loving what you’re doing is an absolute must. Make that product unique to you in some way – style, design, technique; it really dosen’t matter so long as it’s recognizable as “yours”. (For example, a few years ago, every ceramist was making fairies, and cheaply – about a tenner each. I chose to make my fairies very gothic-looking and naughty, semi-nude with ripped fishnet stockings, for $30 each, and I couldn’t keep up with demand.)

Give good value for money.

Always do that little bit more, for free. It will pay off in the long run. If someone, for example, orders some journals, add a couple of book marks and mention it in a covering note, so they know the add-ons are a freebie, purely because you appreciate their business. In ceramics, I would spend a lot of down time at home painting endless small pieces to give as freebies to clients’ children. And if the parents didn’t buy? Hey, it ain’t the kids’ fault. A small egg with a chick peeking out of it cost me maybe twenty cents to make, and I always found that if you make the kid happy, the mum is far more likely to buy. These small things I would make while watching TV, and carry with me every time I went to sell.

Offer a better commission rate.

This is easy to do if you remember one simple rule: Never give commission in cash, but always in goods. Goods are a fraction of the cost to make.

Give clients limited choice.

I learned this the hard way. A client wanted something done in blue, so I hauled out a paint chart, and they chose Azure Blue. I didn’t have the color in stock and so had to buy it, and ended up using very little out of a jar that sat there doing nothing afterwards. What I should have done was offered three colors: light, medium and dark. The more choices a person has, the worse it gets. Keep it simple.

Lastly, practise.

Practise, practise, practise. It’s boring, I know, but you get better and better – better than your competitors. Perfection, or as close as you can get to it, only comes from endless practise. I have made several thousand greeting cards, and I still have the first one I ever made pinned to my wall, to remind myself how far I’ve come. It is bad (my word, but it is bad). Now, well, there’s a big difference. (There’s a divider here – people either buy the best or buy the cheapest.)

The Market

So you’ve decided on your product, and now you want to sell it. You have to decide if you want to make it an expensive product and only sell a few, or a mass appeal product that will sell loads. I’ve always been in favor of the former. Personally, I would rather sell one real up-market looking piece for $100 than ten pieces at $10 each. My own rule is I never, but never, sell seconds at a cheaper rate. I either destroy it, or give it to friends or family. I think, in the craft world, reputation is everything, but that’s just my opinion. (There’s also a weird subset of clients that actually want to pay a lot of money. Bragging rights, and all that.)

How you sell is entirely up to you. Internet, direct to shops, word of mouth, party plan, all of them – it doesn’t matter as long as you sell. I have always sold by party plan or word of mouth. A typical night for me would be to load up the car with about five boxes of stuff, arrive at a client’s house, and set everything out on the floor. The client would invite all her friends, and I would then give a small speech (cringe) and invite people to touch, pick up, and feel things, then ask for all the children to come see what I was doing. I’d lay out all my little “freebies” and invite the kids to take one home, to keep for their very own (the mums just melt). Then I’d remove myself from the room, saying come see me if they had any questions (usually making a joke that I would be in the kitchen scoffing the snacks), then – leave them alone. No one wants someone hovering over them pushing them to buy. (Oh, and the kids’ freebies? Sorry, only available at parties. A party? Sure, I can do one for you. I give twenty percent commission in goods, on anything you want.)

Two to three hours later, I was packing up my boxes with orders for roughly a grand – maybe even $2000 on a good night. The hostess collected the money for me, and three weeks to a month later, I delivered. All I had to do was one a week to make enough money, and when the client’s friends saw the amount she got for just having the party, they would have one themselves.

Nowadays, I don’t party plan, but it was really good income for almost twenty years. And it’s still out there – I was asked recently if I still did them myself. But crafting, art, whatever you want to call it, is a passion of mine, and I still sell the odd few things, all by word of mouth. I rarely take orders, preferring to do what I want. I make weird one of a kind things, and yes, they’re kind of expensive, but I remind myself of the words, “You only get what the market thinks it’s worth.” I was very fortunate to have some incredibly loyal clients, who, through their own word of mouth, introduced me to others who were interested in the one of a kinds. I do limited runs, choosing my own medium, making a few things, and then placing a phone call, and so have gotten a reputation for the, “I’m looking for something a bit different for my sister,” client.

Ka-ching!

I hope this has been of some help to anyone reading, and please bear in mind this is very much an overall view. If anyone wants me to go into more detail, shoot me a message!)

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

First of all, I would like to say I have no problems being a Drama Queen, I really don’t. In fact, I like it. One of the real positive things that has come out of me writing a blog was the fact I’m okay with all my strange habits and behaviours. I used to feel a bit guilty about it, and try to be normal, but in reality, inside I was screaming, with all those little twitchy things dying to come out. I like being different, a comment I’m often told, and I like being precise, pedantic, and demanding (mostly of myself.). I don’t like comments such as “Okay, well, that’s good enough,” or, “That will do” – statements to indicate that something is passable, but not really right. I don’t do passable at all, and I would drive myself (and those around me) crazy making something as near to perfect as I can. It’s tiring and time consuming, but it is the way it is, and I like it. A lot.

That being said, it can certainly lead to some odd and funny situations. This month’s drama was the cell phone. Now, I had a cell phone, but it wasn’t trendy. Not at all. It was 10 years old, though still obviously in pristine condition, and it did what I wanted it to do: Make an emergency call if I got stuck anywhere. That’s it, period. I don’t want to take photos with my phone, or even do texts. I certainly dont want it to access the internet, and I dont play games in RT, so that’s out, too. I want it specifically for the car in case I get stuck anywhere. And because I am an old lady, I have no need to update it every year, either. I’m not interested in looking cool. So every once in a while I would charge it up, and off we’d go.

About six months ago, I bought a “swipe” phone as a backup. There was one big snag however: I didn’t like it, and I mean as in, I hated it. My normal phone is a flip top, or clamshell phone – the type with a lid – and I prefer that, so the new phone was relegated to housing music, and that was that.

Until the charger for my flip top broke. The phone was so old they don’t make or sell chargers for it, so there was nothing else to do but buy a new one. Ugh. So ugh. My first thought was to search on the internet for a new charger, and buy a cheap phone in the meantime, which I did. It was just as a temporary measure, so it didn’t have to be expensive. I got about ten seconds into setting it up, and honestly? I didn’t really try. I was already over doing it before I started, so I thought, “Screw it, I’ll take it to a phone shop and get them to do it for me.”

Off I went. The new phone was a push button thing, but – Hm, okay, I didn’t really like it. I would probably pocket dial someone by accident, so while I was in the shop I bought a third phone – a clamshell one, with a lid. I must say, the guy that sold it to me was very, very patient and set the whole thing up for me. He activated it, whatever that means, and kindly activated the other one, too, and the smile never left his face, even when I told him I don’t text unless if I have to (I don’t cope with text speak at all (how RU and i’m gr8 get no response from me. I didn’t learn fucking spelling at school to bastardize the language).

So now, I have four phones. My old one, dead with no charger; my new one to use in an emergency; a backup to sit in the glove box in the car; and a swipe one to play music on (although I mostly use an Ipod for that).

Overkill? Possibly

But I got there in the end.

The DQ way.

-Carrie-
aka mouth {JT}

The Serial Killer

By mouth{JT}

Kayem watched as the snow blew down hard outside, making vision near impossible. He waited patiently, silent and unmoving in the bitter cold, knowing sooner or later, they would come into the empty building, trying to get out of the bitter wind and find some shelter for the night. No one had been in there in some time, and the air smelled rank and unused, shut up, with long, lingering memories of his previous kills in every shadow, giving off a slow, dank vibe of death. He often brought his victims here, and the floor showed remnants of past deaths, with small, rusty-colored blood stains that were now too numerous to count. They would still come, however; just pleased to be out of the blinding cold with the easy access of entry making it a good haven for winter’s refugees – and so he settled in, making himself comfortable.

No one officially lived here now, of course. Living here wasn’t something you advertised – not unless you wanted an early death, but Kayem knew if he waited long enough, they would indeed come. Too desperate not to. He hunkered down, barely even feeling the cold. Long years of traveling, doing this, had hardened him to the elements, and he killed without remorse, not letting sentiment or memory get in the way. He was one of those that killed for nothing more than pleasure, satisfying an intense inner desire and a tiny bit of curiosity to see how long his victims would last.

Kayem was a loner – well, killers usually are, but he had no attachments to anyone, moving around without a care or thought, pleasing only himself and travelling on when the mood took him, with no backward glances – ever. He spent most of his days resting up, preferring the shadows of the night to take his victims unaware, and tonight, he was especially alert. It was freezing cold, and they would come. As he waited, he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, reviewing the feeling in his mind, still fresh, of that first kill long ago. How sweet it had tasted, taking him by surprize with the way it intoxicated his senses. Right from the first one, he was hooked, needing that rush to sweep through his body time and time again, never getting enough of it. The only thing that made him feel alive.

He actually salivated at the thought of killing. It had been a long time, and sure enough, there it was – that slight tentative noise that told him they were here. Possibly a family, from the sounds of it, now getting stronger as they tumbled in from the cold, bitter night, no doubt tired and confused. Slipping from the shadows he moved in silently for the first kill.

Early the next morning, the pale sunlight shone down on a sleeping Kayem, satiated into slumber, his sleek black body surrounded by at least twenty corpses.

Best damn mouser of a cat the farmer had ever had.

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

They say that pets become like their owners. In our case, that would explain a lot. I have a cat and a dog, that, if truth be told, probably both need a bit of mental help!

Let’s start with the cat. I was always a “cat person”, and when my children were younger, they had their own cat to be responsible for. Now, anyone that knows children and pets knows that isn’t the case, but you believe the lie – or, at least, resign yourself to the cries and promises of “I’ll look after it, I promise!“, coming from a small child’s mouth to be believable for – oh, two days, three at the max. And so it was in our house. The cats became my responsibility but remained “theirs”. I fed them (the cats, that is), saw to their well being, and paid the vet bills, but if you asked the children, it was “their” cat. And they have come and gone with regularity – until this last one.

She is now 17, and I don’t think I have met a more anti-social pet in my life. I mean, I know cats can be difficult, but she takes the biscuit. You are good for food – that is all. Oh, and turning on the electric blanket so she can spend all day buried there. She was always standoffish, but now? Cat? What cat? You never see her, unless it’s tea time. And another thing! How can cats tell time? All day long, she is asleep in the bed, buried under a mound of blankets. Sometimes you can hear her disappear out the cat flap to go to the toilet, only to come to the front door to be let in by a human, but that’s it. But come six o’clock, and there she is, waiting in front of the fridge. And if you happen to be a nanosecond late with the food, you get a constant meow, meow, meow! until you do feed her – then, it’s back to bed without so much as a, “Thanks, Mum!” Nothing – until tomorrow.

It reminds me of those TV programmes where in a hushed voice, the commentator says, “And now,” followed by a dramatic pause, “if we stay very still and just observe, we might just catch a glimpse of the lesser spotted doo dah bird, known to come out only between the hours of twelve and twelve-oh-one on a full moon in the month of June.”

People actually don’t know I have a cat, and if I didn’t have to buy cat food every week, I wouldn’t know either.

And so, on to the dog. To be fair, I adore this animal. He is my baby, and it shows. I got him as a teeny tiny puppy, and he made himself mine. He loves his mama and will willingly come with me anywhere. Unfortunately, there are times when I have to work long hours. I try to take him as much as I can, but sometimes I just can’t and he has to stay home. That’s a problem. He is so keen to see me that he waits at the gate. Never mind that there are a garage with an open door, a dog house, and a choice of two sheds for him to be in (all with blankets inside, I might add). No, he has to sit by the gate in all kinds of weather and wait for me to come home.

Once I do, it’s circles, cartwheels, the full nine yards, and then it’s time to go inside the house – only there’s a slight snag. It has been raining and he is wet right through, and so we have a ritual. He sits down and just looks at me. I then go, “Oh, no, you are all wet! You need a towel down,” and I go fetch one of his towels. (I know they’re his because he got all the blue ones.) He then lets me rub him down while I’m doing the gentle scolding thing: “Oh, you are so silly; look at you! You are all wet. Oh, no, you’ll get dog flu!” Blah, blah, blah as I rub him dry. He then holds up a paw so I can take care of them one by one and wrap the towel over his head, a bit like ET. With only his nose poking out, he lays his head on my shoulder, and I rub his back for a bit. He just loves the fuss.

They say that animals take on the characteristics of their owners. Combine the two of mine, and I’ve got an anti-social drama queen.

It fits.

Confessions of a Drama Queen

By mouth{JT}

Barbecues: The Matter of the Meat

I hate barbecues – I mean really hate them – and it’s all about the food.

Apart from restaurants, which I can be a little bit picky about, I’m not going to eat other people’s food. I’m just not. It’s not happening, period. I am convinced I will be sick. So on that score, barbecues would be the worst form of torture there is. Let’s face it – it’s food of a dubious nature (mostly steak and sausages) being cooked very badly by people that shouldn’t be in charge of a lighter, let alone an open flame.

There are two forms of barbecue meat: Raw to the point it’s running around your plate, or so charred that cinders get stuck in your teeth. It’s accompanied by badly made, tossed together lettuce leaves (that have wilted while waiting for the meat to cook) and – ugh – tomatoes, that kind of – maybe – resembles a salad on a bad day. I can’t eat that. I just can’t, and no amount of bribery is going to put a smile on my face. So I used to avoid them and stay home, pretending I had leprosy – or worse. Then came one I couldn’t get out of, and it hit me: Why not take my own food? Food that I like, and could pretend it was part of a contribution to the event. If I took food I liked, then at least there would be something for me to eat, and I wouldn’t have to pretend to have just eaten – or that I had gone vegetarian for that day only.

And that’s exactly what I did.

Hmmm – what to make.

Oh, I know: Kebabs!

So I would get up early and make kebabs- bacon and banana ones that I could pretend were “for the children”. I’d precook the bacon, chop and soak the banana in lemon juice, soak my sticks in cold water, and get to work threading these guys up. I’d make a pile of them until the bacon ran out and carefully fold them under some tin foil, only to be met with, “Ew! Bacon and banana? Ew!” from the adults. I’d just smile and say, “For the kids.”

“Oh, well, I might as well try one seeing as how I’m waiting for the sausage to – Wow! These are so good. Yum!”

And before I’d know it, the other adults would be hooking into my little guys with cries of, “God, these are good. Got any more?” I’d just smile inwardly to myself, knowing I’d already had mine at home – and I’d kept a plate back for the kids, guarding them ferociously.

I don’t do desserts either. I’m not going to eat tinned fruit. It’s non-negotiable. So, once again, I had to make something. Now, my favourite is cherries, and I could eat my own body weight in cherries – just not the tinned kind. They’ve got to be fresh. So – thinking, thinking, thinking. Ah-ha! Got it: Cherries half-dipped in chocolate. It ain’t even hard to do – warm the chocolate, leaving the stalks on the cherries for holding as you dip, then set aside to firm up. In between eating them myself, I made a huge pile both of those, and strawberries dipped in chocolate, too. They’re basically the same thing. I prettied up the plate with a few basil leaves, and – ta -da!

“Hm. Bit posh, ain’t it?” was the comment I got when the plate was offered around. Um, no! Cherries dipped in edible gold leaf, surrounded by thinly sliced truffles soaked in wine, would be a bit posh – but I said nothing; just laughed to myself as the “Oohs” and “Ahhs” started coming out.

When it came time to collect my very empty plates and go home, I got stopped with, “Oh, hey. Next time, do you think you could do more of those bacon and banana thingies? They were good – and, oh, yeah! The cherries, too. I never had those before. They were really good.”

I laughed as I was driving home, about people not going outside their own comfort zones. They’re so eager to judge something without even trying it, that they settle for less than they want because they’re too scared to try anything new.

Next time I might do a salad as well, and – god forbid! – put some feta cheese and pomegranate arils in a spinach salad.

Even I can eat that.

Karaoke Night

By mouth{JT}

The bump of the car against his hip was enough to send him sprawling into the gutter, and as he looked up, all he could see was the cool red of the tail lights as it sped off into the distance. Didn’t even bother to stop. He sat up, pulling a half empty bottle of vodka from a pocket and taking a deep swig before muttering in a surly snarl, “Fucker.”

It had started to rain – that light mist that settles on everything, making you wet before you know it. He fished around in his pocket, dirty fingers closed around the lone five-dollar note there. It would be enough toe buy himself a drink at the bar across the road, he thought, and if he nursed it all night, he could stay out of the rain for a time. Carefully stowing away the bottle, he crossed the road and looked up at the sign over the door. There in big, bold, garish letters read the words:

KARAOKE NITE TONITE
Come as your favorite star, or come just as you are! All welcome!

He grimaced, imagining it – but, hang on! He listened. It was loud in the place – loud with lots of laughter and shouting. This was going to work to his advantage. They’d be too busy to notice he didn’t buy any drinks. He’d be set for the night, and so with a smile, he slid through the door.

The music hit him as soon as he walked in, loud and wailing. A very drunk Jim Morrison was singing, only half into the microphone and slurring the words, a bad rendition of “Roadhouse Blues”, while pushing away a rather tired looking hooker every time she tried to get a grope in. Ordering a beer at the bar, he smiled as the bartender barely gave him a second glance before thrusting the beer to him and hurrying off. Flashing a small grin of triumph to himself, he noticed the bartender hadn’t taken the five bucks, and so he palmed it with practised ease as he found a seat. It was in a back booth where, although he could see the comings and goings easily, not much could be seen of him. Good, he thought as he fingered the bottle in his pocket again. Good. He made himself comfortable with the beer and settled back to watch.

Up on the makeshift stage, Jim was still singing. This time, a small group of girls were dancing in front of him in a tired way. They looked barely out of school, but he shrugged as he took another swallow of vodka. Kids grew up so fast nowadays. Fifteen or twenty-five, you couldn’t tell the difference.

A Marilyn lookalike drifted past him in a heady swirl of perfume, her arm over a painfully thin young man with vacant drug filled eyes. She kept whispering in his ear – “Boo boop be do”.

It was all so surreal, he thought as he took yet another swig, unable to keep his eyes from a fat Elvis – obviously the Vegas years – arguing with the bartender. There was even a Jimi Hendrix lookalike yelling to Jim that it was his turn now. Jim shrugged, dropping the microphone, flipping the bird, and lurching off stage, where he collapsed into a booth in a headlong sprawl. The wrong song came out of the speakers, causing Jimi to scream at the bartender as T-Rex’s “Get It On” blared out, and he suppressed a laugh, imagining Jimi in a feather boa like Marc Bolan had worn. The bartender, still arguing with Elvis, waved a hand in Jimi’s direction before flipping the switch on a tired stereo that had seen better days, and peace won as “Hey, Joe” came wafting out.

A couple of young guys in tired, torn, matted sweaters came in, and he peered closer, but – nah, they had just come as themselves, he decided as they took a seat joining the hookers. He watched, fascinated, as a faded gold sandal was slipped from a fishnet-encased foot and walked up one guy’s legs. Lucky guy was going to score tonight, he thought. Mind you, by the looks of her, even he could have afforded her with that five bucks of his. She seemed desparate.

The door banged open again, with a, “Fuck you all!” screamed out before it had even shut, and he grinned. Now Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen lurched through the crowd of school girls, pushing them out of the way despite the girls’ protests. Yeah, he knew those two. Heroes of his youth, were Sid and Nancy. This should be good. He would have to come here more often if it was.

The night wore on, with more and more people coming through the door. Some, like Sid, he recognized straight away. Some he didn’t, leaving him unsure who they had come as. Opera singer, one chick was, and she was immediately booed off the sagging stage. Well, what did she expect, in a place like this? Hardly Paris, was it? But she took it good-naturedly and left without a fuss. And still more streamed in, a real cross-mix of life to watch.

Karaoke certainly brought them all out, he thought. Must be great for business. He wondered if it was a weekly thing, then sighed, watching fur coats rub shoulders with ripped jeans while gold lamé mingled with peace T-shirts and dirty sneakers. Sure does take all sorts.

The night passed in a blur of mixed drinks – vodka washed down with beer, and a swipe of several glasses of wine as he made his way to the toilets and back again. It didn’t matter to him what he drank, so long as there was plenty of it, and he neatly took a cocktail from the edge of the table closest to him. The warm glow of alcohol had dulled the edges of his life, as it always did, and he let himself drift along, caught up some music from the Fifties. Not bad, he thought drunkenly.

Around four or five, maybe even six – he didn’t know for sure – it started to thin out. People were either leaving or falling asleep at the tables, and the bartender wearily wandered the floor, avoiding pools of dried vomit and piss as he collected glasses. As the man passed over his glass, he gave a grin and a, “Tough night, huh?”

The bartender cracked a weary smile.

“Nah, not really. It always gets like this when there’s a bad accident. Some drunk got himself run over down the street. Died. But it brings all these fucking ghosts out. Half of them -” He jerked his thumb at the sleeping Elvis. “- refuse to believe they’re fucking dead yet, either.”

What’s New on the ReVo Forums: The Wordslingers

By mouth{JT}

You may have noticed the recent activity on the Writing section of the ReVo boards, and wondering what got it going again. It happened like this:

For a few months, I had been reading the boards while keeping my usual low profile. But, as writing is a passion of mine, I also kept watch to see if anyone was going to take it upon themselves to give that section a “lift”. I wasn’t confident enough to do it on my own, but I did feel a little sad as, day after day, no one seemed to want to take it on.

Oddly enough, it was music that gave me that “push” to think maybe I could. I had posted a few songs on Laramie’s thread, Music That Saves My Soul, and we seemed to “click”. I didn’t know her very well, but the more we shared comments, the more friendly we became – so much so that it was with shaking hands I shot her a note asking if she would be interested in helping that section come back to life. To my delight and surprise, a very cautious “yes” came back, and so, along with torrid, we talked about it some more. A threesome was formed. Okay, I really was scared then, but I was also committed. With gritted teeth, I asked if we could do this. The powers that be came back with a yes, and the 1st of January was set as our starting point. Unfortunately, torrid has been taken away by real time concerns, but Laramie and I decided to forge on ahead.

We both had ideas that complimented each other, and some days, we helped push each other along as well. We decided early on that neither was going to take credit for anything specific – it would all be done as a team. Though we work in particular fields, the other is right there not only as support, but ready to take over, if need be. That was our founding promise to each other, and it’s probably our best idea yet.

So, what can you expect from the writing team?

We had so many ideas that we decided to run them out slowly, so as not to swamp the boards. The Blogs, Word of the Week, Pagan, and Poetry sections were started immediately. Discussions came soon after, and one of the new games was started just this week. It has never, nor will it ever, be a “sit back and let us entertain you” thing. Rather, it will always carry the intentions of getting others to join in by creating games and threads of their own, with emphasis on the thinking part of writing. Its whole purpose is to help, encourage, and give confidence to others, with the thought, “Well, if they can do that, maybe I could start a blog/put up this great game I thought of/throw up a word I find interesting.” There’s nothing that gives us more pleasure than to see someone diving in. Even if it’s just a comment! Please do comment. It tells us if we’re on the right track, or if there’s something we could be doing, but as of yet, aren’t.

Right now, some of the things we have planned for the future include more games, competitions with prizes, and a revamp of the old “Millers Hollow” role play for the boards – among others.

In closing, I would like to say that in two weeks, it has exceeded our wildest dreams with incredible support and input already. As we both know, it’s not easy taking a risk and posting, and for those that have, we take each and every one of them as a success.

A ReVo success!

Thank you,
The Wordslingers,
Laramie
Carrie (aka mouth {JT})
torrid (On hiatus)

Where in the World is…?

By mouth{JT}

The ReVo family is a diverse group of people, coming from all corners of the globe to this space we clall our online home, and so I thought to kick off an occasional article about the countries we are from, with my contribution being, obviously –

New Zealand

A small country by any standard, New Zealand (NZ for short) is the closest country to the South Pole, and so is not, as most consider it, tropical. It has a mild climate, very rarely exceeding 35 degrees Celsius anywhere. A nation of two islands roughly joined together, it’s approximately the same size as the UK, but it has a much lower population – currently running at around 4 million. There is still a lot of rural land, and with it, dairy farming. The currency is the New Zealand dollar, and English is the main language spoken.

Because of its remoteness, it wasn’t visited by Europeans until quite late, around 1642. Full British colonization took place in 1841, with the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi between the Maori and the English.

The Maori are the indigenous people, and their culture and look is somewhat akin to the Hawaiians, which they believe to be a “sister” tribe. Today, the Maori people have a significant amount of say about their country, but it wasn’t always so. Their culture and language were almost eradicated until, starting in the 1970s, a concentrated effort brought it back from the brink of extinction. Among the interesting customs still in use are the full tattooing of the chin on women, which has made a comeback in recent times, and the Haka, a traditional warrior war dance – though it’s now used only at sporting events and in social situations to welcome guests or honour people.

New Zealanders take great pride in their country, particularly their sporting prowess on the field in rugby and cricket, with swimming and netball coming closely behind. This pride also extends to the fact that New Zealand is a very “green” country, conservation wise, and due to very strict import laws, has no fatally venomous creatures. Being a small country in the Pacific Ocean, you could be no more than a 10 minutes drive away from a major river or even the sea, and they would be some of the most beautiful waterways in the world.

New Zealand has many interesting geographical features, including active volcanoes, glaciers, rain forests, geysers, hot mud pools, and several impressive mountain ranges. Its remote location has allowed the evolution of quite a few animal species found nowhere else. The most famous is the Kiwi, its national bird, but there are also the paua, a delicious tasty shellfish; the tuatara, a small lizard unchanged since prehistoric times; several unique native birds; and a huge variety of flora. In the past, significant gold deposits have been found, which exploded into gold rush fevers. Greenstone, a type of jade which mostly all comes from a river in the South Island, is in great demand around the world for its colour and clarity. It is considered to be the property of the Maori in the area it comes from, and is viewed by them as having great spiritual power (mana).

New Zealand is seen as a great place to live by the surrounding smaller Pacific Islands, as it offers good welfare, health, and social help, and the immigration laws for those countries are more lax than for others. It is seen as a good place to invest in as well, and there is now many Asian immigrants that have come for that purpose.

New Zealanders of note include Edmund Hilary, who was the first to conquer Mount Everest; Ernest Rutherford, the first to split the atom; Nancy Wake, the most wanted woman by the Gestapo in World War II and the most highly decorated servicewoman by the Allies; Charles Upham, the most decorated soldier of World War II; and a slew of other firsts in the areas of culture, sports, and science. A lot is made of the “Kiwi Spirit” of these people – that is, you never, but never, give up; an attitude still found in most New Zealanders today.

Where in the World: Proudly brought to you by the letters N and Z and the number 4,000,000.

Confessions of a Drama Queen

The Lengths One Has To Go To

Hello, there! This time Little Miss CDQ is going to write about food – well, a fork, to be more precise.

Let’s begin.

I’m not terribly good with food, to be honest. I can’t eat if I’m upset, and I can’t eat if I’m happy. I have to go for the window that shows up as “medium”, or middle ground. Anything else, it’s sandwiches and crackers at best, nothing at worst, until the middle ground comes back again. Now, to make sure I eat properly in that narrow margin,I like to have everything in place. My own special 3/4 plate, red with white spots, an old blue bowl with a band (and a small chip) on it, any old knife (well, one of the plain ones), and my fork.

This fork turned up at my house one day and settled into my cutlery drawer like it had always lived there. I have no idea where it came from, but it’s cute. My guess would be circa 1960, 1965. It’s like a 3/4 sized fork. It’s bigger than a cake fork, but smaller than a regular fork, with a squiggly pattern on the handle, and the tines are perfectly straight. No one knew anything about it when I asked, and so I took a fancy to it and claimed it as my own. If it was dirty from use, I would wash it and immediately use it again. I don’t use other forks at all, unless I’m out, and that doesn’t feel right – and, well, if I don’t use my fork, the window for eating is gone anyway, so I don’t bother.

So, I decide to make a roast lunch with all the trimmings as well, including yorkies, mushroom gravy from scratch, the whole nine yards. Mmm mmm. My son and daughter get theirs, then me. Gravy, salt, pepper, napkin, cup of tea (I’m uncouth like that), and –

Hold on.

Where’s my fork? My food is getting cold as I root around looking for it. The drawer, the sink, the lounge, the bedroom (well, you never know), and nothing. Zip. Nada. Fork is gone. Elvis fork has left the building and gone back to where he came from. After all this time. Shit. Quite a bit of swearing follows before – I spot it.

Hey!

My daughter is using it to eat her meal with.

“Erm. You got my fork”
“Really? It was just in the drawer, Ma.”
“No, that’s my fork. You know that. Can I have it, please?”
“Ma, I’m eating!”
“Yes, I know that. Swap it for this one.” I offer a regular fork.

At this point we start to eyeball each other.

“No. You can have it when I’m finished if it means that much to you.”
“Aw, c’mon. Please, please, please?”
“No.. Go away”

I go away, not very happy. I want my fork. I can’t eat without my fork. I need my fork, and I can feel that window of middle ground opportunity slipping away fast. Think, think, think. I go in the kitchen to think.

Her cell phone rings. She puts her meal on the table and heads off to the lounge to answer it. No one’s there.

I’m not surprised, because the person that called her is in the dining room, taking back her fork.

Evidence

By mouth{JT}

The bloodstains on what were once crisp, white, linen bed sheets stood out with more vulgarity in the cold light of day. He sat on the edge of the bed, observing them for the longest time, reflecting in his mind what had happened the night before. Why couldn’t she leave him alone? he had thought – not for the first time – as his eyes drifted to first one stain, then another and another. Already they had turned a rusty brown, never to be completely removed from the expensive bed linen.

His thoughts turned to his wife, Cora, and how she was going to react when she saw them. Cora had always put up with his peculiarities, as she called them, with a pained, resigned sigh. They had married late in life, with each accepting the other’s past, and all the little things that went with forty plus years of life. They rubbed together quite well, in fact, and with no children around, had kept up a very nice lifestyle. Comfortable, middle class suburbia, no fuss and no drama, each taking the other as they were – and in Cora’s case, with a small sigh when she saw he had invaded her space yet again. Cora liked everything neat and tidy; clean, ordered, and, well – starchy white. The mere sight of what he had done would send those lips of hers into a tight line. She would sigh and remove the offending sheets before he could even offer an explanation, really.

How he had felt he was going mad, to the point he couldn’t think straight, and just lashed out. The dead body that he had let his eyes drift onto lay starkly amongst the bloodstains. He hadn’t realized just how many there were – not until now, in the hard reality of morning. Cora was due home soon from her stint on the nightshift, her feet aching and wanting nothing more than a cup of tea and sleep. Ugh. He pulled a face. There was no way she could sleep in this mess. She wouldn’t anyway, and she would know if he changed the sheets. She was so proud of them, being of the finest Egyptian cotton and coming home for all the world to see, in a bag proudly displaying the logo of one of the finest (not to mention, most expensive) stores in town. No, Sir-ee, Cora was not going to like this at all.

It was all her fault, he thought, as his eyes drifted back to the body on the bed. If only she had shut up, had stopped with the incessant whining, never giving him a moment of peace. All he wanted was for her to leave him alone and let him sleep, but oh, no. she couldn’t – wouldn’t – shut up. So he had lashed out – well, isn’t that what any sane man would be driven to? And, as he surveyed the marks on his own arms, she had given as good as she got. Well, almost. He grimaced in a small smile of triumph. At least he was still alive. And once he had started, he couldn’t stop; hearing in his mind, even long after she was dead, that noise. On and on and on. But she had fought bravely back, evading the first few grabs at her with a dexterity that he admired, even as it fuelled him on, taunting him as he redoubled his efforts to kill her. Eventually he had, but not before she had left him with a few souvenirs of her own – not to mention the possibility of a nasty disease as well. His well-ordered mind made a mental note to make an appointment with the doctor later. Right here, right now, though, he was the victor. Survival of the fittest, baby, he thought with another grimace.

The sound of a key in the lock and the screened back door opening with a squeak that he had never quite been able to get rid of told him Cora was home, and he took a deep breath as he followed her footsteps coming closer down the hall to the bedroom. As she stood in the doorway, he looked up sheepishly. He caught the disapproving glance as her eyes went to the messy, unmade bed, and he felt her inward shudder as she took in the scene.

Then came the sigh, followed by, “Really, Colin. You need to stop mucking about and get that hole in the screen door fixed. You know how bad the mosquitoes get at this time of year. Look at the mess its made of my nice, new sheets!”