Katherine Hayton | BLOG

When I woke up this morning I hastily checked myself all over to see if any of my little dream companions had made the ride through to real life with me.

Those little critters get in everywhere.

Usually my dreams are either so uneventful that I forget them soon after waking up, or so full of adventures that I have to explain them to someone in case their histories are lost forever.

But there are occasions which are quite different to either of those. These are the dreams in which I thrash about and make strangled moany noises. Note: that’s according to my darling. As far as I’m concerned I’m screaming at the top of my lungs and attempting to run with legs that have been inconveniently dipped in cement.

I can’t pinpoint the exact time I first had a spider dream, but they are now my constant companions. (I can remember my first nightmare, in which I was swinging out over a graveyard and then woke up and walked into a bathroom that had creatures popping out of the wall like it was a giant advent calendar. I then really woke up and determined that I would never sleep again.)

They’re also odd in that they can be tacked into the middle of any other type of dream, and take it over completely. A dream about walking on the beach? Ruined by the spiders. A dream about getting something from the garage? Ruined by spiders. An awesome adventure dream involving zombies? Completely enjoyable until I tried to get through the window which was festooned with spiders.

In the scale of dream horrors, these are my definite winners.

There’s some sort of sliding scale of dreams that seem to be shared widely, if not universal.

Highest up are the flying dreams. They’re the absolutely ultimate best dream ever.

Down from that are adventure dreams, which come with an entire backstory and plot.

Then are dreams that disappear as soon as you wake up.

Then are the school dreams where you’re trapped in high school on exam day forever. Clothing optional.

Down another rung is the poorly constructed elevator dream where you’re moving between floors when all the walls of the elevator drop off and the floor tilts wildly. I don’t know who constructs the bloody things, but they should find a new line of work.

Then there are the spider dreams.

There’s also a lower level of dream from there, where you have a bad dream about spiders or monsters and wake up into another dream where something even worse happens, and then when you wake up properly you’re so tired you fall straight back to sleep into either part one or part two and pick up where you left off.

And if you’re very unlucky you reach the absolute bottom of dreaming which is where you fall asleep and something awful happens and you can hear, see, and feel everything as normal but are completely unable to move. I’ve only had that happen on multiple occasions over the course of one night, but that was enough.

Apparently, this is the dream responsible for the phenomena of believing you’ve been abducted by aliens.

I just thought I’d died and nobody had bothered to tell me.

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11 Apr / Apple trees

Today I planted out my brand new apple tree. It’s a crisp little number. Bright red and sweet, but also hardy. Perfect for lunch boxes.

There was a bit of digging at the beginning, then the slaughter of an existing tree, then a bit of sawing, a bit more digging, a bit of the old shoveling, tamping down the soil, and water.

The hardest bit by far was the slaughter of the existing tree.

It was the first fruit tree I ever planted. I chose a dwarf cherry tree from a catalogue because it’s the finest tasting fruit in the world, and I marked out the perfect spot in the back garden. Full sun, and protection from the wind.

I planted it out, watered it up, spread in some fertiliser, then sat back and waited.

My dwarf cherry tree failed to thrive.

Thinking that it was a failure of the soil, or the type of tree was incompatible with Christchurch weather, I bought another five dwarf cherry trees and plant them around the side of the house. Where there’s clay soil, and no sun. Rather than grass surrounds, it’s moss.

Those trees thrived. To the point that I have to firmly prune them back each year in order to not have them growing through our guttering, and scraping across the spare bedroom window.

The tree out the back with its perfect positioning meanwhile? Well it half-heartedly put together a few leaves and a few blossoms each spring. By the end of summer it could usually have summoned a whole dozen leaves per branch. All three of them. And the cherries? Never had one.

So when I mentioned to my darling that what the house really needs is an apple tree and he swore I could put another fruit tree in only if I dug one out, there was never any question as to which tree would be going.

I still felt as though I was picking up the runt of the litter and drowning it in a sack as I sawed its branches off.

And then tonight on the news I see that there are sixteen hundred fruit and nut trees with their produce going begging in the red zone. If I’d held back I could’ve gone on a scavenger hunt to pick up my fresh fruit, rather than murder a living thing in my back yard.

Of course, then I’d have to leave the property, and that’s never good. So I guess I’m standing by my decision which is always a plus when it’s too late to take it back.

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09 Apr / Breaking Bad

Over the past few months my life has been undergoing a transformation. The transformation to even-less-time-than-usual to do all of the things I really should be doing.

There comes a time in every young woman’s life where she has to made a decision. And sometimes in an older woman’s life as well.

I cannot do it all. I can’t have a career, a second career, a husband, children and pets. It’s not possible.

And yes, I’m aware that I don’t have children or pets – it’s the main reason I don’t have a photo on the children and pets wall in the office – and my darling is still firmly against becoming my betrothed, but I do want to have the other things.

So I’ve decided instead of trying to do them both at the same time, I’m going to take a break from one in order to focus on the other in the hope that it then reciprocates and gives me a chance to focus back on the first.

Oh yes. I’m career breaking.

I hope it’s not bank breaking.

In order to stave off debtors I’m not taking the break until the end of August, and then only for six months.

And until then I have put my credit card away in the hope that this will alleviate some of the financial stresses of not receiving a pay cheque.

The stresses of not being able to buy things in the meantime, and the toll that will take, remains to be seen.

Not to mention the stress of trying to remember that I’m taking a break not to take a holiday, but to give myself an opportunity to explore more fully the question of tangibly building a retirement career out of putting words down on paper.

Although, I guess if I get to the end of it and I still haven’t written anything more down I will have answered that.

And as one of my work colleagues gleefully pointed out, either way it’ll all be over this time next year.

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08 Apr / Old timey books

When I heard that Harper Lee was going to release another novel I – like a goodly portion of the rest of the world – immediately booted up my Kindle and pre-ordered.

Fantastic fiction, elder-abuse or an amazing discovery, I didn’t care. I just wanted to get hold of it. How could I resist? I’d loved To Kill a Mockingbird.

Yup. The rabid dog. The mysterious neighbour. Gregory Peck.

Wait a minute.

I eventually concluded after scouring my library and my memory (I trust the first more than the last) that I hadn’t read To Kill a Mockingbird, I’d merely enjoyed the fine movie adaptation.

As a long believer in the fine tradition of ridiculing movie or television adaptations as inferior to the real thing I immediately bought the kindle version and set to work.

I don’t remember the old-lady heroin addict appearing in the movie (although it has been a while so feel free to correct me) and there was a lot of use of certain words that I’m pretty sure I’m not allowed to type into a blog on the internet for fear of forever making it onto some sort of list that Edward Snowden has long warned us all about, but that was a fine book.

A damned fine book (if you don’t mind me cussing).

I really must pick up some more books by that author to see if her talent expanded throughout her career.

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Tonight is the last night of my Easter holidays. And once again I must ask that most philosophical of questions – Why do Holidays End?

No, I’m not really sure why it’s a philosophical question either, just it sounded better than my usual whining.

Given the time I spend looking forward to holidays, they really should last longer just to recompense me for the thoughts given. If they were longer I bet I’d spend less time thinking about them as well, which would work out better for those people who don’t realise that they’re paying me to think about my next holiday.

I’ve also discovered that because I leave work extremely early, due to starting extremely early, it means my holiday ends earlier than your standard holiday-ending victim. Three-thirty is my cut off time, while there are other people I know who can sail on all the way to five before they officially count themselves back at work.

Oh, I thought that was how everyone counted the end of their holiday. Is it not? I think it should be. If the world was run by accountants, and lets be serious for a moment now because it’d be much better if it were, that is definitely how you would keep track of your holidays.

But none of that matters at the moment, because whatever may or may not happen to the length of my holidays in the future, the one I’m currently having is over.

And tomorrow may be Tuesday, but it’s definitely got some Monday-like qualities going on.

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is finally over, and I’m pleased to announce that I have my hour back.

Because we’re currently on Easter break, I’ve also lost an hour of daylight because I’m not awake when it’s gained in the morning, but I’m well awake when it disappeared early this evening.

To celebrate this occurrence there was also a blood moon last night, which I was glad to see was not visible in Christchurch and therefore didn’t require me to try and fail to stay awake to see. A glorious thing by all accounts by people who were located on the West Coast, and had access to a telescope.

Apparently the next month is the most dangerous time for folks medically speaking. The hour the clocks were put forward back in September may have averted a few dozen heart attacks, but that bill is about to come due.

I do wonder if all the deaths we’ll see over the next month or so due to circadian disruption – not that it’ll be the reason going on their death certificate – would be saved if one year we just went on daylight savings, and then never went off it.

Sure, the very nature of time itself would become a joke a few years down the track, but in the age of the internet I’m sure it doesn’t matter too much that offices open during daylight hours and close during the dark. Teenagers would hate it, but since that’s their raison d’ĂȘtre it may even please them in some backhanded way.

Alternatively, it’s possible that I’ve been the victim of two-sided propaganda and no one is affected too much one way or the other. As the least exciting explanation it’s probably best I left that to the end.

And now, I’m an hour late going to bed so if you’ll excuse me…

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04 Apr / Old

I don’t feel very different than I did a decade ago.

Sure, my bones ache a bit more. Some of my joints have the broken glass addition of arthritis to them. My ankles have started to swell in warm weather.

I’ve also developed a special type of grunt for sitting down, and a much longer one for standing up again.

But I still didn’t think I was that much different to the younger generation of people that I’m surrounded with at work.

Until a discussion about a visiting rock star began.

To be more exact, began with the word ‘Who?’

Now, I accept that every generation has its own music, but there are still some names that should echo across the divide.

When someone mentions the Beatles and the Stones I don’t shake my head in confusion.

And likewise I expect everybody to know who Billy Idol is.

How dare this young generation of people grow up without listening to White Wedding or Rebel Yell? How did they survive their teen years without Dancing with Myself? What other version of Mony Mony could they possibly prefer?

I could almost accept that someone may haved missed out on the musical genius that created Hot in the City, but then I discovered somebody in our office who didn’t know who Baldrick was.

I’ve obviously fallen through some strange time-warp and ended up in the wrong dimension. Or, grown old.

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03 Apr / Easter silence

Today was Good Friday, and it was mainly good because we get Friday off from work.

Unfortunately, viruses haven’t availed themselves of the timetable for public holidays in New Zealand, and my companions have decided to continue working full speed ahead.

For the past couple of days I’ve had a lovely croak to my voice. It made me sound like a blues singer who’d been hanging out in smoky bars. But without the benefit of being able to sing, and ignoring the fact that no bar is allowed to be smoky anymore.

Today, however, my voice went way past sexy without passing go and without collecting two hundred dollars.

Laryngitis you are not my friend.

Each time I come up with a witty comment, or a passing opinion, I need to repeat it so many times before it’s heard that all the cleverness is sapped away by exasperation.

Last year when I had laryngitis at work I made up a handy sign that said ‘I have laryngitis, please don’t make fun of me.’ In case anyone still tried I’d written on the back ‘Or I’ll kick you arse.’

If I’m still having the same amount of trouble expressing myself tomorrow I may need to recreate this, or come up with a new interpretation. Something that will hammer home to my darling how much he’s not funny when he’s sitting there with a smirk on his beautiful face pretending not to understand.

You just wait, sweetie. You’ll get yours. Tonight I’m going to wait until you’re asleep, and I’m gonna cough all over you.

Because sometimes you don’t need spoken words to express how you feel.

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Today we held a meeting for our leadership team. After my tirade on meetings not so long before, I’m sure you already know my opinion about the usefulness of these things, but this one was slightly different.

First of all, it was offsite so we couldn’t leave and go back to our day job. Second, it was held at a restaurant which gave it a certain appeal.

This is how corporations suck you into attending off-site meetings. They make them sound more attractive than they actually are.

I arrived slightly ahead of time, which gave me a nice fifteen minutes alone in the room to the side of the main restaurant. I could’ve used this time to brush up on the facts and figures provided to me the day before by my manager, but I thought the time would be better spend rescuing pets. I stand by this decision.

When everyone arrived we got the meeting underway. The first thing we tried to do was close the door between the side meeting room that we’d booked for the day, and the main restaurant. It’s a popular restaurant so it’s fairly loud. It seemed a reasonable request.

We couldn’t close the door. Apparently some workman had been in the day before to fix it, and misunderstood what “fixed” meant.

All our state secrets were being spilled in that room. We resorted to using post-it notes and whispering very quietly.

We couldn’t hear each other, or read each others’ writing, so if the future of our department ends up heading in a slightly wonky direction I’m afraid you’ll have to blame it on the restaurant. Not the leadership team.

And in a completely different direction, check out the great daily deals on Buck Books.

Tomorrow my debut novel Found, Near Water will be featured for only 99c.

If you enter your email address on the site you can have all their new deals sent directly to your inbox each day, and never pay more than a buck for a book again.

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