13/11/2025
“I was in a hurry to make an appointment in town, and life was playing ‘banana-skin’, complete with new road works in unexpected places. Made the appointment with one minute to spare, and turned off my telephone.
Back in my car an hour later I turned the phone on, or tried to. A black screen with one word, but no other response. I needed someone who knew more than I. I noted a young woman sitting on the ground, back up against a concrete bollard, with her phone. I asked whether she had a Samsung and how one turns it on. I was trying to avoid the mall. She smiled and helpfully pushed buttons to no effect, and noted how hot it was. I sighed, thanked her for her efforts, got in the car and turned it towards the mall. If a young person could not help, the nearest to a ‘rug rat’ I could find, then I needed a geek. Meantime phone was getting hotter.
I paused in the doorway of the computer shop and surveyed the assistants. Ah, there, a pale, skinny young man with spectacles … obviously did not see much sunshine during childhood due to techy addiction. I placed my telephone on the counter in front of him. “I think it has turned into a bomb, it is incredibly hot and won’t turn back on.”
His long, thin fingers delicately held two keys down, whilst muttering the comment, “This usually takes a few seconds.” We stared at the screen together and voila it came back to life, with no apology. He smiled gently, explained the phone’s problem, which translated to ‘stuck’. I thanked him and trekked back through the mall and up to the roof carpark. By the time I got to the car my phone was normal temperature. I knew it had responded to my vibe, that electrical thing I have that seizes some techy stuff – automatic doors, checkout tills etc. Not often, just enough to feel haunted when it does.
Sunday morning. Thought I would tidy the corrugated iron from the wood shed I demolished previous day for safety reasons. I had poked it with a finger and it wobbled. Four hours later I was admitting it was an octopus job … many tentacles.
Admittedly there were a few phone calls to divert me. A friend from Wellington, a writer, who described the effort in getting her new Apple computer set up. I commented dryly, “Rather like cell phones.” We talked of cats, and important subjects. We had been friends for years and talking to her was a treat.
My thoughts turned to my London daughter as I hung up. I checked the time in that city and telephoned. She had started a job in a school for neuro-diverse children two months ago – two pupils to one teacher situation. She was enjoying it, and described the progress for these children as often being measured in years, not months.
I had just turned my thoughts back to my shed (that was) when a call came through from a very upset client/friend. One of her horses had to be put down the previous night. E… was the mother of two of her other horses; a four-legged gem. E… was there as we spoke, in Spirit. “How is she?” I watched E… turn and gallop around a wide grassed area with hillocks, demonstrating wellness, then she lifted off from the ground, still galloping, tossing her mane, whinnying with joy. “I think she is doing well,” said with understatement, humour surfacing, and then caught myself. “Seriously, she is brilliant.” I described the sight of a horse wanting to convey her happiness and gratitude to her owner via me.
As I continued to watch, a particular trainer, in Spirit, known to my friend, approached E…, running his hand across her shoulder and back with love, after which E… galloped back to us, whinnying, then, stepping closer leant close to my friend with her muzzle pointing to the ground, putting her forehead against hers. I too had tears in my eyes. Animals are sometimes so much better at communicating than humans.
I finished most of the shed project and mowed a bit of lawn as well; necessary after such emotional ‘exercise’. Feeling a little more ‘in control’, I told myself I had needed a good measure of Vitamin D anyway.
It was raining when I awoke. I dressed, washed, and put the buckets out in the kitchen – only one drip so far. Love rain and oddly I do not mind the drips … landlord and I are being very pragmatic. (The construction of the cottage does not allow temporary mending without me moving out anyway.) I am very fortunate in life, although one furry four-legged thinks otherwise this morning. Jessie wants the fire on and having to settle for a tightly curled posture on my chair – spoilt cat.”
Linda
Media: N. C. Wyeth - Nightfall, 1945