The Writing Competition

Press, 26 January 1988, Page 14

The Writing Competition

By

SUSANNAH

LEES-JEFFRIES

aged 12, of Christchurch There were six people on the judging panel —

three men and three women. They sat in a row, drinking black coffee (caffeine-free) and reading stories with minimum interest. The first was Ms Lara Goldberg. In her youth she had been a full-blown hippie and now, nearly 20 years later, she still had a rather ethnic appearance. Ms Goldberg had stringy, shoulder-length hair of no particular colour and she wore dangly earrings that looked like pieces of deformed pasta. She wore shapeless clothes in vague purples and browns, amulets, bracelets and necklaces and smelled faintly of herbal tea. Next to her was Steve Carter. He was the ultimate trendy male, wearing super-baggy pale trousers, loose, light T-shirt and white jacket. He had designer stubble, a short, spiky haircut and one gold earring.

Beside him was Mr Lionel Ogilvie. He was the token Rotarian on the

panel and wore a dark suit and a super-conserva-tive tie. He wasn’t very sure about Steve and sat nervously, staring into his coffee cup. Next to him was Shirley Finlayson, who was a journalist wearing a neat linen suit (Warehouse Clothing) and a yellow shirt (Glassons). She was very businesslike, right down to the matching lipstick and nail polish.

Beside her was Mrs Maureen Baker. She was a home hints columnist on a small local newspaper. Mrs Baker was large, flowery, wore too much make-up and had an aura of instant coffee, cheap perfume and gin.

And beside her was an earnest young man with a sprouting beard. He was Templeton Baird and he wrote contemporary poetry and short stories about nature. He had had a few pieces published. The judging panel was looking for a short story reflecting the great New Zealand culture with spiritual depth and a deeper meaning or hidden message. They had been looking for two weeks. Suddenly Ms Goldberg

sat up and took a long (and loud) slurp of coffee. “I’ve got it!” she yelled. “This is a story about the horrors of high-rise. It’s called ‘Urban Suicide’ and it’s exactly what we’re looking for. It’s written by someone called Jeremy Seagull who squats in a disused shampoo factory in Petone. ‘Urban Suicide’ is written.from the point of view of his pet gecko, who’s dying of a terminal disease caused by smog. It’s brilliantly written and very moving.” She sat back, took a deep breath and a triumphant sip of coffee.

Everyone looked stunned. Then they all motivated themselves to have a look at the great story. They all (even Mr Ogilvie) agreed that the story was worthy of first place in the writing competition. A message was dispatched to Jeremy Seagull via the four o’clock post as the shampoo factory wasn’t on the telephone. Within the hour the letter came (by carrier pigeon) to say that Jeremy Seagull would be delighted to accept the prize of $l5O as a donation for Greenpeace but he could not come and collect it as he was in the seventh hour of a 60-hour fast to save the spotted pelican.

So the money was sent to him with his pigeon and the judging panel packed up and went home — Ms Goldberg to her beanbag and curried lentils, Steve Carter to his flashy car and string of girlfriends (who never found out about each other), Mr Ogilvie to his wife and Irish stew, Shirley Finlayson to her cottage cheese (she was always watching her weight in order to fit into a size

10), Mrs Baker to her thin and weedy husband and her Beefeater bottle, and Templeton Baird to his Kilbirnie studio and loving de facto wife whose name was Marigold. As for Jeremy Seagull, he sat in Petone with his pigeon ... and gazed at the prize from the writing competition.