Feminism finds a way

Press, 5 September 1983, Page 12

Feminism finds a way

Helen Brown

Some people organise their lives. Others have lives that control them.

I belong to the second category. Sometimes I look at the others and wonder how they do it. They always remember to put their rubbish out, never run out of petrol, never squeeze toothpaste in the middle of the tube, and they never do what I did the other night. I am not often downright stupid but I am often forgetful. Unfortunately, the two sometimes add up to the same.

It was a calm evening, so I decided to take the dog for a walk. I stuffed my arms into my fur coat and grabbed my purse in case I’d forgotten anything at the shops. It still felt as if something was missing. Ah! That was it. The dog’s lead. I took it off the hook in the hall, headed out into the world and slammed the door.

At that precise moment I realised what I’d forgotten. The front door key.

I was not seized with panic. There was the old spare key trick. I had a look'

under the usual pot plant It had vanished.

That was right. I had used it the last time I had shut myself out. The relief at getting inside again had been so great, I had forgotten to put it back outdoors. I scrambled through the shrubbery, peering at windows, hoping one would be open, or loose, at least. But I had been in such an efficient mood that afternoon, I had closed every one of them.

Despite years of selftraining, determination, and often bitter experience, one thing still springs to mind in situations like these. That paragon of strength and practicality. The Male. The wilting, unenlightened part of my personality urged me to run to the nearest phone box.

But the Germaine Greer in my soul said, “Hang on! Men aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. You know that despite popular folklore they’re much more prone to hysteria and silliness.” True. Which reminded me. I shouldn’t let another month go by without learning to change a fuse, i

I have tried several times to, get a Male to teach me to pump up car tyres, too. They usually insist on doing it themselves because it’s easy and looks like fun. Or the air pump machine has broken down.

I decided to stick to my original plan and take the dog for a walk. A long one. We stopped at the fish and chip shop. The dog liked that because the man tossed spare paua fritters and sau-

sages out the door for her.

He called her Charlie because that was the name of the last dog he’d treated like that. “But Charlie’s not allowed out any more because he got too fat,” he said sadly. “And he’s in trouble with the dog control man.” I refrained from bursting into tears and telling him I could not get into my house. He had enough on his mind, what with missing Charlie. The dog and I walked to the top of a hill. I sat there swallowing chips in the evening light, staring across the valley at our house.

I knew exactly what was going on in there. The living room heater was on low, dishes were still scattered on the kitchen sink. It was all there. Imperfect, but impossible to reach.

As we trotted back, I worked out what would have to be done. I selected a brick, sharp-edged and heavy, from the path outside our neighbours’ house. It was getting dark. I arrived home, half-hoping Sir Galahad had turned up with a key. Unfortunately,

no sign of a white steed in the garden. I held the brick, weaponlike, and pushed it at the bathroom window. But the glass acted like a trampoline. I pushed harder. The window wobbled and bounced as if it was enjoying itself. Was our house fitted with the only unbreakable windows in town?

Surely a hammer would work? On my way to the basement workshop, I saw a pickaxe leaning against the house. A little melodramatic, perhaps. But if that wouldn’t do the job ...

Like the man who used to bang the gong before the movies, I drew my arms back. The pickace glided, slow motion, in a graceful semi-circle.

It was more spectacular than I had expected. A frightening, thrilling, cracking sound followed by the surprisingly musical tinkle of falling glass. Now there was only the mess to clear up. And, dare I say it? One of those organised people to come along and fit a new window pane.