Cold hearts, cool change

Getting dumped is bad enough without being stuck within the confines of a small car to the sounds of Cool Change. Kevin Norquay has only just forgiven The Little River Band for writing the anthem to his heartache.

MY NIGHTMARE before Christmas unfolded to a Little River Band soundtrack in her bronze-coloured Ford Escort – it was over, she told me; she’d fallen in love with her flatmate.

Walking away stoically with head held high was not an option. I was a prisoner of the road as we drove briskly towards Christmas celebrations with her family.

And so, moments after stepping off the train from Wellington full of summer optimism, I found myself sifting through the ruins of my holiday plans, as their wrecker filled me in on love.

As she outlined the (apparently many) charms of her new man, another layer of pain poured from the car radio – the Little River Band with Cool Change, the schmaltzy worst of their many insipid late 70s hits.

‘‘Well, I was born in the sign of water, and it’s there that I feel my best, the albatross and the whales, they are my brothers,’’ the Aussie soft rockers warbled, as I mock gagged. Not her. She went all misty-eyed. ‘‘Mark [not his real name] was born under the sign of water,’’ she said dreamily. ‘‘He’s an Aquarian.’’ Luckily for me (and her), members of my star sign apparently ‘‘enjoy last-minute and/or unexpected surprises’’. Still, this was the last straw.

‘‘I’m an Aquarian, too,’’ is the abridged, printable, version of my gritted teeth response.

I still despise that song, and that band.

Having ruled out a daredevil leap from a moving car, I spent a sullen Christmas hostage on her isolated family farm, 12 kilometres from the nearest town. I was naughty, not nice, a grinch.

I haven’t seen Misty-Eyed’s family since. I doubt they miss me. Nor have I set foot back on a dairy farm, other than to retrieve wayward golf balls.

RAISED a dairy farmer’s son in Waerenga in north Waikato, I swiftly decided being doused in urine and cow dung at 4am in the cowshed was no life for me. No regrets there.

With the benefit of decades of hindsight, I can now commend my ex. I was a directionless young man, with no realistic idea where I wanted to live, or what I wanted to do.

A boarding school boy raised from 13 by my rough-edged truck-driving father, I was no great catch. I had little idea what women were interested in, or how to treat them properly. Still don’t, I’m told.

I had departed for Wellington, degree in hand, without consulting her. For six months I lived unsettled in the capital, always looking north to the Waikato, harbouring dreams of returning there, to a job that probably didn’t exist.

I travelled ‘‘home’’ to see my father and friends in Hamilton every chance I got, frittering away my paltry civil servant’s earnings on trains and planes.

I didn’t socialise with work or flatmates in Wellington. I did join Wellington Harrier Club but when a big relay race came up in Palmerston North, I ran for my old club, Hamilton Harriers.

My job ‘‘counting trees’’ as a Forest Service planner, I found boring and repetitious – I was a wordsmith, not a number cruncher. Each morning was positive only for being one day closer to the next escape to Hamilton.

Wellington’s charms eluded me when I arrived mid-winter. It was too cold, and it seemed to rain every weekend. Even the wind was against me, ruling out simple pleasures such as reading the newspaper outside. It hailed in December, there was still snow on the Rimutakas as summer loomed.

My dank flat overlooked Karori Cemetery, with its depressing rows of headstones. I fought with flatmates over pathetic matters such as parking, going vegetarian and whether Neil Young could out-sing jazz-pop crooners Manhattan Transfer (of course, he could).

I got drenched walking to catch the crammed Lyall Bay No 12 bus that took me to my boring job. On board, I clung to a strap – there was never a spare seat – as the driver vigorously applied the brakes down Tinakori Rd in an effort to fell his passengers, or at least dislocate their shoulders in the attempt.

Until that fateful Christmas, I craved gentle Hamilton with its warmer weather, wide flat roads and peaceful suburbs, its clanging red, yellow and black cowbells, its river, and its nearby surf beaches. I even half missed the wafting scent of cow dung.

All that started to change on that car trip, at the start of the summer of 79. Once an obligatory period of selfpity and emotional wallowing ended, Hamilton was ditched as an option. I would learn to love Wellington.

As I tried harder, Wellington played along. I threw myself into running, to discover life in the capital wasn’t all bad. How had I missed the beguiling charms of the harbour, Miramar Peninsula, and Mt Victoria?

I rummaged through the green belt, explored every zig-zagging stairway, and even ran through tunnels – Mt Victoria tunnel just once, the petrol fumes deterred a repeat.

I marvelled at the views from the hills above Khandallah, as Wellington lay perfectly at my feet. I found treasures in its record shops, and bargains in second-hand bookshops.

PERSONAL transformation was not rapid, though. I was fitter, but no wiser. While counting trees at work was no more interesting, weariness from training dulled the senses. I quit Karori for a flat on The Terrace, just as dark but without the gravestones.

Women remained a mystery. It wasn’t them, it was me. My approach to romance was simple; if they liked me and I knew it, I was out of there.

If I thought they might like me but wasn’t sure, I acted all weird, made dumb jokes and kept a wary distance until they went overseas.

If I liked them, I’d talk about myself monotonously, barely drawing breath, in a bid to charm them. I’d take them to bathed-inblood action movies, cheap restaurants, play loud Neil Young records, or pop by the middle of a training run, bathed in sweat.

Somehow, they managed to resist me.

But that summer I started to grow up (albeit slowly). Running provided principles to live by, as well as aching tendons.

It taught that with a little training each day, you could conquer the marathon.

You could save money cent by cent, and buy a house. You could work hard, and build a career. And should life take a nasty turn, you knew to aim to be a little better today, even better tomorrow, much better in a month, then better.

A decade on from my Christmas catastrophe, all the really good pieces of life started to fall into place one by one. Soon, I had it all . . . a perfect (hot) sports-loving wife who could see past my foibles, help fix them even, tick; two larger-than-life daughters, tick; snuffling food-crazy shih tzu, tick.

So thanks, Little River Band. You were right; it was time for a cool change.

Stop singing now, please.

My dank flat overlooked Karori Cemetery, with its depressing rows of headstones. I fought with flatmates over pathetic matters such as parking, going vegetarian and whether Neil Young could out-sing jazz-pop crooners Manhattan Transfer (of course, he could).