Trying the clothes on

9:30am, and here's Terry for his morning coffee. Cue crouch position behind coffee machine while checking empty waterbucket. This works for ten seconds until it becomes clear that someone needs to make Terry's coffee. Standing up, our eyes meet over the stacked cups. "Ah, hello Terry."
"Hello Natalie."
Fiddle with grinder.
"So, ah, what did you think?"
"Excellent." Sugar holder falls over, chocolate coffee beans all over bench and floor.
"Yes, very good. Let me know if it gets printed."
"Yes, thanks Terry!"

I couldn't believe it! Such encouragement! The watermark was high! Terry had called my article 'excellent.' I felt a sudden rush of energy, making it difficult for my colleague to communicate with me at a mature level for the rest of the day. Now all I needed was the green light from Edward...

"Not bad as a story, but we have restraints in this week's edition."
ALright Edward, I thought, I understand. And I did. It was an achievement for me to have written then re-written the article in the first place. In fact I noticed that writing had given me energy. The whole exercise had proved very beneficial for me, whether I got printed or not. I had begun to notice that my motivation to be a journalist didn't come from a desire to be printed but flowed instead from who I was. I serve people when I listen to their story, when I get points of view from people who are as far apart as possible and then bring them together in writing that is purposeful and uplifting and gives people a hope for their future, nation and culture. I want to serve people when I write. The more I write the more this mandate becomes clear - to write with the purpose of serving the people of New Zealand.

This afternoon as I was heading out the door to bring in the flat groceries from Chris' car I heard my phone ringing. It was Edward from The Aucklander. "I need a reporter, can you come in for a job interview tomorrow?" he asked.
"Of course!" I replied. As I hung up I savoured another 'clothes' moment, yet this time I had one arm in the sleeve of the fringed leather jacket.

"Feeling the clothes."

Last week I had the privilege of meeting The Aucklander's chief reporter, Edward Rooney, who allowed me to pitch some stories. What a thrill to walk into the APN building and meet up with an experienced journalist who was willing to take the time to encourage a flegling freelancer who has been published twice, on the internet. I couldn't stop smiling as I walked out into Albert St that night. It reminded me of how I felt after my first job interview, nearly three years ago. I was applying for a PR position at a fashion PR company. Arriving fifteen minutes early in my cut-off jeans and cowboy shirt (I didn't get the job) I was left in the sample room, which was lined with racks of clothes from NZ designers: Lonely Hearts Club, Huffer, Cybele, Ezue and some others. I remember walking around and touching these expensive clothes with delight, thinking, "Even if this is as far as I get, it's worth it." That was how I felt now, that 'touching the clothes' feeling, when you've taken a step somehow in the right direction.

Now that I had pitched some ideas however, I needed to do some writing. My first idea (courtesy of Terry Snow) was to investigate whether the buying power of twenty-somethings would decrease with the Budget's touted rise in GST on May 20. I commissioned three friends of different ages and jobs to keep a spending diary for a week, to find out whether they would still spend the same if prices go up. Turns out twenty-somethings will keep buying as usual, as long as they have regular income: thoroughly boring, story wise. Terry agreed. Blast! I thought. This calls for drastic action, of some kind. Thankfully, I had had a 'discussion' with my boss the day before, about GST being a potential opportunity for businesses to evaluate how they do things. Despite leading to an inner vow never to express my opinion out loud without special consideration ever again, the discussion was what this article needed. Five hours later, lying on the floor in the dark and struggling at my laptop while my flatmates booby-trapped the bedroom door across the hall, I sent the reworked article off to Terry. I was terrified. As well as hard work, this article expressed my opinion on government policy and business - something I have never commented on, or felt I had the authority to comment on. I had no idea if I was right or wrong, in style and opinion. Terry would be the watermark, when he came in for his flat white the next morning...

Eric Bullen

Last week I interviewed an 89-year old World War II veteran, Eric Bullen. We sat outside in the Monday afternoon sun at his Mangere Bridge home in Auckland while he talked about his involvement as an engineer, or sapper, with the 7th Field Company in Egypt and later, Italy.

The idea of interviewing a war veteran came from a customer who frequents the cafe where I work part-time. This man is an ex-editor of the New Zealand Listener and an excellent journalist. After encouraging me to write about ANZAC day, I phoned several RSAs and was given Eric's name by the Onehunga club. Several hours later I emailed the article to Snow, the ex-editor.

I sat in front of my Packard-Bell digesting phrases such as, "If I were employing you I would toss this straight back to you and get you to re-check and re-write the whole thing." Although I had trouble breathing at first, I was grateful for such necessary correction in my quest to be a journalist. Afterwards I went down the road to my friends' house, the boys' flat which has a landline, did some re-checking, and then sent a corrected copy to Snow. Still, there were some faults but Snow was very encouraging this time: "Good work and well done for following up the detail of my suggestions so well."

I sent the article into The Aucklander, but unfortunately their ANZAC edition had already been planned out. After phoning the Manukau Courier there is a possibility that Eric's story will be published on Friday. Watch this space.

Kaff' Racers

Sitting at the breakfast table this morning I interviewed flatmate Francois Guttenheim about his new cafe racer, a style of motorbike born of the Rocker period in post-WWII Britain. Constructed over several weeks on our back porch, Francois' Kawasaki evokes a punkish style, all low, exposed and humpbacked. Pronounced Kaff Racer, these bikes were used to ride fast on London's arterial roads between transport cafes, being timed by whether or not the song on the jukebox had finished. Riders wore Levi's or Wranglers and motorcycle jackets and listened to Elvis and Chuck Berry. Now these vintage bikes are becoming popular again in New Zealand. I took this occasion to wear my Pierre Cardin dressing gown over my clothes while Francois animatedly bid on TradeMe for a new bike. "I'm going to try and get this [story] in The Aucklander," I said, as he tapped away. After a second failed CV attempt at the publication I thought, "Bombard the suckers."

"I've always been interested in bikes," says Francois. He briefly lists how many he's owned, including his present Kawasaki-turned-cafe racer. Why a cafe racer? "They are not so expensive and easy to customise. And slower, which is good because there are always cops."
He is planning on driving it to Invercargill in November with a group of an enthusiasts, some of whom he's met at Deus Ex Machina, a cafe/cafe racer shop in town. "The guy there is really nice," he says. "Although he wanted to sell me one of their new expensive racers, when he could see I wasn't going to buy it he gave me some really good tips about how to do things cheaper." "What's his name?" I ask, "I'll give him a call." "If there is one thing you should never ask me it is people's names," Francois laments. "I just cannot keep them in my head." I walked down the road to the phonebox and called Deus to get an interview but the girl on the phone was not as forthcoming as I had hoped. Then I called the Methodist church hall to see if I could play the piano there for a couple of hours a week. The lady also could not seem to fathom this idea, it surpassed all points of reference. "I will have to make enquiries," she said. If anyone asks me how my day is going on the way home, I thought, I shall have to say, "Fair to midling."

At home Francois bounds up to my bedroom door. The bid has been successful, and we will have another bike to contend with on the back porch for the next few months. In the meantime, the cafe racer is brilliant for getting to and from his girlfriend's house at grande vitesse, just like old times.