October 28th, 2023Kyle’s Rant
When I was a wee lad, depending on where at the time we lived, bearing in mind I went to 13 schools, I would nip down to the local dairy, which was what we Kiwis called a milkbar, not the local farm.
I would have to pick out my 10 cents worth of lollies from the very patient shopkeeper, changing my mind along the way a few times, and backflipping on my delectable choices.
I would instruct them to swap the lollies for other bargains I had spotted in the glass cabinet. Fun fact, a K-Bar, a three-inch-long super chewy, fruit- flavoured toffee bar, would retail for five cents in those days and now sells for $8.54.
But my decision wasn’t based on the value for money as I didn’t have much. It wasn’t even about the flavours, it was about another ledger, time. I would be thinking how long the lollies would last me and the longer they lasted the better bang for buck.
While drooling over the lolly counter, I always dreamt that when I got older I would buy the whole counter and stash it in my bedroom, but there were issues with that in regard to actually having a bedroom to stuff it into.
Sometimes we lived in tiny little flats with three kids stuffed into one little room and when you shut the door the doorknob would get into bed with you. And sometimes there was no bedroom, it was simply the annexe of a caravan parked outside a barn 50 metres from the local pub – think of a bar scene from the Once Were Warriors movie and you have your pub.
I guess my reflective mood is due to a recent birthday that puts me closer to 60 than 50. I have never been much for birthdays, maybe it was my family’s devout Jehovah’s Witness beliefs that we never celebrated them, or Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas or Easter.
Obviously all grown up now I am an agnostic, a fence sitter of religions, sort of the same way I feel about the Bledisloe Cup every year, where my citizenship for the year is decided by the winning team.
But back to my dislike for my birthday. I love and celebrate others’ birthdays, but I hate being the centre of attention and people singing a song for me just because I was born.
For God’s sake, sing your shanty to my mother. She was the one that had to put up with the pain of this 12-pound naturally birthed, bouncing baby, and don’t forget I had no say in it, no say in it at all.
And then there is the Facebook attention. Thank you to all of those people who Donna pointed out put special messages on Facebook, but if you knew me and really cared you would know I don’t read Facebook. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to rant over.
