Patricia Langford - some writings and travels

Schooldays November 2016 I can recall most vividly my first day at school and the memorable last day at Takapuna Grammar School. On my fifth birthday-morning I was walked by my mother to my first primary school, on the northern outskirts of Whangarei – Whau Valley Primary. All the small children sat on a huge coarse-woven matt are covering the floor. It was not very comfortable. The teacher, with the aid of a long pointed stick, was instructing us all about colours from a wallchart. I disagreed with her judgement as to whether a chosen colour was pink or red, drawing regrettable attention to myself – the new girl. At morning play-time outside, a group of classmates gathered around me, laughing at the pinafore I wore over my dress, and jeering as I opened a tiny latched case and unwrapped a grease-proof paper-clad buttered scone, provided for my play-lunch by my mother. She appeared at noon and walke...

Secrets July 2015 My mother's glory box was the most beautiful treasure chest I had ever seen, stately and covered in glowing beaten copper on every surface, impressively studded along every seam. Its side, as well as the lid were decorated with rich rural scenes, featuring proudly sculpted Red Setter dogs, standing handsome and alert, with long feathered tails and legs and glowing copper-coloured coats. All the years I could remember, my fingers had lovingly stroked and polished those rounded reliefs, lustrous and lifelike, especially when firelight, on cold winter nights, flickered across the surface of the chest. I imagine those much-loved dogs springing into life My mother was a dressmaker and kept all her fabric remants, sewing patterns, spoons of thread and trimmings in her glory box. When I asked her why there were so many dress materials, she had an explanation. "Oh, the ladies bring the fabric, pattern and th...

A Light in My Life March 2017 From the patchwork quilt of people who coloured my life, the significant centrepiece was a frail, quiet gentlemen, of Irish descent – my beloved Grandpa Hooley. I was his cherished child, born in the latter part of the gloom of World War II. My first memory is of the summer day he plucked a sun-warmed nectarine from his West Auckland garden fruit tree and offered it to me. I can still savour that sensational taste, likewise the lemon, cupped in my hands, it's zesty citrus scent, and the delicious cool drink we made from it. He made me a rockinghorse chair with seat and footboard the sides were two, white-painted, horses with sculpted manes. Next cane a doll’s cot and pushchair to give me delight. He started making wooden toys to sell, so I learnt early that skills could soon turn to extra pounds and shillings. At this time my grandparents built a new home in the next street. Grandma laid hea...

Good Times March 2019 The Sunday fortnightly visits to my paternal grandparents were usually regarded as a chore by my mother, but I remember them with great warmth and fondness. We usually came home with generous gifts of fruit and vegetables from Grandpa’s garden and Grandma always had a tiered cake-stand loaded with sweets – black balls, barleysugars and licorice allsorts. I used to peel the coloured layers from the allsorts and give the unwonted licorice to my brother, who liked the unusual taste. Grandma had a part-time job at a Point Chevalier sweet factory and shop. I went into the shop with her once, in school holidays and was captivated by a display of sugar mice and handsome marzipan penguins. Next Easter Sunday I was delighted to receive a beautiful penguin of my own, and lovingly held it stroked and admired it and carried it around in my pocket for some days until a stern ultimatum was given – "Eat...

                           HAS HUMANITY PASSED ITS USEBY DATE?               March 24 2009 I thought an old work colleague would appreciate a friendly phone call, so we could catch up on each other's news, but sadly I was wrong. "When are you going to start sending emails instead of wanting to talk to me?" was the unwelcoming comment I received. That was my last phone call to that particular person. Another friend’s husband was constantly tetchy and unrelaxed while they were travelling anywhere, and rushed into each arrival place, his arms and fingers poised for immediate action. I thought he must be a passionate piano player, but the sad reality was that he was desperate to attack the nearest keyboard, of the computer variety, and would decline to visit anyone who couldn't oblige....

                                              The Christmas Tree (Ghosts of Christmas Past)       "Please, Mum, can we have a Christmas tree?" pleaded Stephen, holding up the battered crêpe-paper streamer and lop-sided gold star he had made at school that day. At least these innocent offerings were more welcome than months of raging bouts tonsillitis recently bought home from school during Steven’s first term, and readily acquired by both this little sisters as well. Kay was hot and harassed and struggling to regain anything any vestige of Christmas spirit. She glanced around the jumbled holiday batch, belonging to her Uncle George, it had already been cluttered and fully furnished, before she squeezed in the entire contents of her previous home. Two bedrooms were in accessible due to duplicate beds, chairs, chest of drawers and spare clothing in ca...

2006 saw Patricia in Egypt:

                                                             Identity Crisis............June 2016      I do not respond well to being called a Kiwi – it puzzles me how this moniker could have attained such over-use. Typical New Zealanders are disappearing as rapidly as Kiwi birds these days and I am struggling to retain my identity. I think the farcical flag debate of recent times highlights the threat of being engulfed by severe Kiwi-itis. Every time someone suggested we add a Kiwi to our flag, I shuddered at the prospect of transforming our national emblem emblem into a design for public transport upholstery fabric or nursery motive. We are...

In 2002 Patricia toured the United Kingdom: England, Wales, Scotland, and her ancestral home - Ireland.

                                                                    Road Trip                        August 2017   I was 19, naive and nervously anticipating my first ever road trip – by 150 cc Lambretta motor- scooter – Auckland to Bluff and back, with side excursions to Mount Cook, Queenstown and hopefully, Milford Sound. I was the proud owner of a sleek blue and grey Italian crafted steed, secondhand, of course, but as good as new to me. I joined the Auckland motorscooter club and promptly affixed their blue and yellow transf...

In 2001 Patricia flew to Japan, then boarded the Trans-Siberian Express for an overland journey to Moscow - where she visited a shell-collecting contact. After a short time in England she returned to NZ.  Below: "All Aboard!"

The Beer Bottle Collection       When my younger brother and I were growing up in Devonport, and regularly exploring and fossicking on our beloved Narrow Neck Beach, we collected beer bottles, large, brown, clinking, conspicuous bottles – worth pocket money! We developed Scrooge McDuck dollars signs in our eyes as we regularly traipsed home with the weekend collects. Lazy yachties and boaties offshore, bobbing around in the Rangitoto Channel, carelessly tossed the empties overboard, which stood in the water like little bobbing soldiers until they gently came to rest on Narrow Neck sands, joining the discards from late night beach revellers.        My brother's family friends visiting regularly, to admire the growing pyramid of backyard bottles, clinking benignly in the sunlight, and regular tallies showed we were winners. Regular bottle-trucks came to relieve our back garden, and the welcome shillings in pennies mounted up. I recall those pre...