Happy New Year. I’m a couple of weeks late, but as these are the GOM in Training’s first mutterings of 2020, I’m sticking that out there.Given the turning of the year, I’ve come up with a couple of resolutions which, as of today, I’m almost managing to keep. They’re different to anything I’ve proposed before. The first, which is NOT to interfere with other folk’s barbecues, saw some early challenges in the first three days of the year. These were spent in New Zealand, where a barbecue occurred on each of those days. I left Anthony, Bella and JP, and Mike to do their thing. Each was superb: Ant’s effort, unencumbered by my contribution, was excellent. I allowed the view over the Orewa River and out into the Hauraki Gulf to distract me whilst he grilled a feast. That same Gulf, but from a different perspective on Waiheke Island, distracted me again as Bella’s butter and thyme drenched Pipis opened in all their gloriousness on the hotplate, a perfect starter to precede her Dad’s effort, JP demonstrating expertise of his own. Back on the mainland, Mike’s swift breakfast barbie the following morning served as our final treat before heading back to Blighty.
Here in the northern hemisphere, winter has us in its grip; outdoor cooking opportunities are rare, but this Saturday, a friend’s firing up his Weber as part of his wife’s birthday celebrations. He’s English, so could probably do with some help, but I’ll resist. He has shown reasonable form when turning a snag, so I’ll let him have his tongs. If I budge in, it may engender foul language; he’s a man of the cloth so it wouldn’t do to put temptation in his path.
My other resolution is proving to be a mite more challenging. “Be more like Ange” was my declaration on the eve of the New Year. It’s a tall order.
I would suggest that Ange is like a whirling dervish, however, that would imply some form of chaos in her wake. Not with her, quite the opposite, she’s a tornado of tidy. When she flies around the house, order follows; it’s extraordinary.
I first noticed this on a visit to spend time with her and her husband, Shane, when they lived in Queenstown. Queenstown’s a tourist mecca, there’s something for everyone, a discovery I made at the local tourist office as I garnered armfuls of brochures. My plan was to review them when I returned to their house. When I did, I popped them on the coffee table whilst I went to the loo. Ange returned from work whilst I was out of the room, and when I got back, the brochures had vanished. I momentarily questioned my sanity, then asked the obvious question. “I’ve tidied them away,” she replied. “Oh,” was all I managed. I hadn’t realised they needed tidying.
On a subsequent visit for their wedding, we blokes; Shane, his best man, Dave, and I participated in the preparations by sitting down for an afternoon in front of the TV to watch the cricket. The coffee table that had once briefly hosted a range of extreme activity brochures now supported our beers, each perched on the centre of a coaster, three corners of the table occupied. In the fourth corner, an empty coaster sat, perfectly square to the sides of the table. Ange, slightly more engaged in the wedding preparations than we were, fizzed around the house undertaking a variety of tasks. “Watch this,” said Shane in a moment when she was out of the room. He subtly shifted the fourth coaster, turning it so that it was no longer square. The next time Ange whizzed by, she realigned it to the table without pausing as she passed. “You do it,” said Shane when she was out of earshot, encouraging Dave. He duly obliged. So did Ange, once more restoring order on her next pass.
“Your turn,” said Dave, drawing me into the plot. I childishly participated, bolstered by Heineken-fuelled courage. Ange, armed with freshly delivered flowers for the following day’s nuptials, straightened the coaster as she flew by again. Shane rose to the challenge she’d unwittingly set, daring to move it a fourth time.
On her next approach she paused, hands on hips, glaring. “I know what you’re doing,” she said. “Leave it alone.” Chastened, we complied.
This December we had the opportunity to spend more time with our friends and rather than disrupting the interior design through misappropriation of coasters, I chose instead to observe Ange in action. Her tidying is immediate and breathtakingly swift. I swear, if I’d chomped into a biscuit and an errant crumb were to break loose, she’d dispose of it before it hit the floor. She’s a marvel.
So, my resolution, to be more like Ange, is an attempt to introduce a little more tidiness into my doings. Mrs GOM is rightly sceptical, she’s experienced 25 years of the antithesis, so perhaps has justified reasons for doubt, but I have set off with aspirations. From the centre of the kitchen, there is a four-foot radius where I’ve focused my attention. Surfaces get wiped, dishes get washed and my usually chaotic efforts in meal preparation have a degree of order to them that was hitherto unknown. It’s exhausting and I’m not sure the heightened activity will extend beyond its current scope. That might demand attention in another room, the one to where I’ve been throwing the stuff from the kitchen.
I’m also trying to follow the example of immediacy and pace, but that’s possibly beyond my capability. My frantic efforts create more mess than order; water is sloshed over work surfaces, discarded waste misses the bin and there is a real danger that crockery will meet an untimely demise, all of which creates additional work. I’m not sure that Mrs GOM is impressed with my attempts, however, she’s welcoming the improvement, however mild.
I’ve tried to encourage Daughter of GOM (DofG) to join me on the crusade, however she’s too busy to participate, preferring instead not to empty her suitcase from the holiday. Mrs GOM would argue that if ever there was evidence in favour of nature in the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate, when it comes to tidiness, DofG provides it; until that is, one considers that I’m her father.
Mrs GOM persists with her patience. Mine, however, is being tested. Dog of GOM (DoG), not to be confused with DofG, is not playing ball. Or rather she is, discarding them, along with other remnants of her play and snacking about the house. Ange’s dog knows better than to leave a toy discarded in a corner – it may never reappear. DoG, on the other hand, has taken to mass disruption, leaving bits all over the place in an effort to undermine my declaration and overwhelm me into submission. I’m not giving up though, I’m going to convince DoG to join the effort and adopt more appropriate behaviour. She’s bound to be easier to train than DofG. That said, as I write, I can hear DoG shredding an envelope that she has purloined from the recycling bin beneath my desk. My failure to notice this egregious act may illustrate that my resolutions are doomed to failure.
Maybe I will dig out my tongs for the forthcoming weekend, you know, just to spare the Englishman his blushes.
Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2020
17 January 2020
