Showing posts with label Palmerston North. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Palmerston North. Show all posts

Friday, 31 May 2019

Replacing The Cream - A Short Story


Replacing the cream.  

It’s 1:30 am and the last of the coffee bar stragglers have left the building. Re-purposing the cream cakes for the next day by scooping out the old cream and piping in some new is a nightly chore.

There’s usually a spatula for this purpose but it is in the vibrating commercial dishwasher out back so a surreptitious finger will have to do.

Not that there’s anything really wrong about this practice; after all what the customers don’t know don’t hurt them.

The folk singer was terrible tonight.  Not sure where the boss finds them, but they are mixed bunch, all singing Bob Dylan with a nasal pitch, or croaking plaintive Irish Republican songs whose lyrics they don’t really understand.

The coffee bar is on the corner of The Square, the city’s main and only redeeming feature.  This cafe plays second fiddle to a much larger coffee bar several blocks away that is the habitat of Teacher College students.

Hang on a minute, this cream looks a little rancid?  Or is it just yellowing with age?  Time for a quick taste test.   No, it seems OK although the cream pressure gun could probably do with a good clean.

Don’t have time to do it right now as there are other things to tick off before final lock-up.

A quick check of the pie warmer.  There’s a steak and mince that has seen better days.  The crust is as hard Palmy’s railroad tracks, but the boss says its OK if I take the old ones for my own consumption.
There’s also steak and kidney although you’d need a microscope to spot any kidney in the filling.

Think I’ll take a couple and throw them through the windows of the women student’s hall down the road.  They always appreciate a bit of sustenance even if it is an ungodly hour of the morning.  Bit of gravel thrown on a lower window usually gets a result although you need to keep an eye out for matron or passing police patrols who might misconstrue the intention.

Ah... the float.  How I HATE doing the float!

Maths was never my strong point and its even worse now that the cheap calculator’s battery has died.  Why is it that I am always 20 cents out in the tally?  I’m not going to mess around at this time of morning.  I’ll put in the money from my own pocket to get the balance.

It is now 2am and I have a lecture at 8:30 this morning. Check and turn off the electrical appliances. Ready the alarm.

Maybe I’ll take pity on customers and take that lamington with me to much as I head home.

After all I’ve just filled it with fresh cream.

Roger Smith
May, 2109


Four Winds Coffee Bar


Sunday, 14 August 2011

The Rugby Heartland

The 2011 Rugby World Cup is almost upon us in New Zealand and the hype has already reached fever pitch in the local media.

Those of us who last played the game some forty plus years ago have fond memories of the then amateur code.  No doubt they too have, from time to time, rummaged in their stored possessions chancing upon memories of teams past.

Coming from a strong rugby secondary school (New Plymouth Boys High) where I played well enough to make some of the top junior school teams in Taranaki, I was keen to continue this sporting passion during my Teachers College days in Palmerston North.
Two us, Dave Bullot and myself, represented the province of Manawatu as rugby reps in our first year at the college which was quite an honour.  I played prop and Dave, who also happened to be my childhood neighbour for Waitara, was fullback and had a prodigious 'boot'.  The thrill of running from under the stands in Palmerston North, wearing the green and white striped Manawatu jersey is with me still.

Our Manawatu 3rd grade team beat all comers that year.  I also recall a bus trip through the Manawatu Gorge to play a rep team from Hawke's Bay who were playing a grade higher than we were.  Their side was made up of rough-whiskered young farmers and the inside of the scrum smelt like a brewery.  No wonder we thrashed them.

It was in this cauldron that I learn the 'dark arts' of forward play.  Brought up on the idea of fair play I was somewhat surprised when our rep. coach instructed me to stand on the foot of the opposing jumper in the lineout.  It certainly worked but I can't say I enjoyed doing so; the referee never spotted my deviousness so I guess I performed up to the coach's expectation.

After the Teacher's College games we would adjoin to the Grand Hotel on the corner of the Square and Church Street in Palmerston North.  They served a nice pub meal and we shared a jug of beer.  Being under age on licensed premises made one rather nervous and eventually the police raided the hotel and caught several of us.

My first and last court appearance resulted in a fine on $19 for drinking under age, much to the chagrin of my parents, as my father happened to be a Judge of the Maori Land Court.

The magistrate who conducted my case had been dining with our family the week before and clearly wanted to make an example of me so that I never darkened the doors of the Grand again, which I never did.
The next year I made the 1st Xv which played in the Senior B competition.  I was probably a little too light in build to play against the older men who made up these sides but nevertheless we won the competition.

Players who I remember from this time were our fullback, John Brebner, who was studying art and got me interested in doing likewise. John Watson I had known from my school days in New Plymouth. He went on to become one of New Zealand's finest actors. Manasi Vaka was a Tongan studying in New Zealand and Peter Potaka was one of three brothers who went to Teachers College. His family came from a potato growing area called Rama.

This was the last team that I seriously played for. The following year I was transferred to the town of Turangi in the centre of the North Island to undertake my Probationary Assistant year. I played one social game in Turangi but was no longer fit enough to enjoy it.

So this year, as others squabble over the price of All Black replica jerseys, I shall be remembering a time when raking boot sprigs on one's back was a feeling set aside and the gladiatorial crunch of the front row engaging brought on a primeval sense of satisfaction.
Enhanced by Zemanta