Where Were You?

There have been a lot of significant anniversaries and reminders of momentous events lately. Tomorrow was the first day of World War 2. Obviously I don't have any memories linked with this event, it has always had a purely historical event in my life, though I was well into adulthood when it dawned on me that I was only born a short thirteen years after its end and as child of a returned serviceman I was part of the baby-boomer generation.

Neil Armstrong's death had people talking about the first moon landing (conspiracy theorists and complete nutters may exit the blog at this point, please) and I do have clear memories of that day. Well, much later that day because the grainy televised images weren't 'straight off the satellite' but viewed some time later after the reels were flown across the Tasman. New Zealanders probably were initially glued to their radios, but I have no memory of this at all. I do remember the viewing though because it was significant for two reasons. The first was that we were allowed to eat our dinner in the living room in front of the television - previously unheard of. The second significant point was what we were eating - curry and rice. This was a very recent addition to our family menus. My mother had always served up delicious (if we discount boiled cabbage) meals that were of the 'meat and three veg' variety. My father had definite views about any food that reminded him of the range of world cultures he had experienced during his war service in Europe so macaroni cheese was the closest we came to the exotic and garlic was banned. My mother, though, had recently come under the influence of Allison Holst and suddenly rice, seen only before in rice pudding (which I never ate) had suddenly transformed into a savoury dish - radical. The awe and wonder of the actual moon landing completely escapes me. 

It is 25 years since Lotto first came to our shores. I clearly remember the first draw - I had reason to be optomistic. Some say that statistically one's chances are poor, but I sat with my ticket, hopes high. And with good reason. All through my childhood I had watched the weekly ritual of my father and the Golden Kiwi ticket. It was usually named something snappy like 'Happy Days Synd' (the 'synd' being a vital element to outsmart the taxman when the big win came) and he would run it slowly down the long columns of winning numbers looking for the match. Between draws we would discuss all the wonderful things we would have when we won the big £12,000. That day never came, which is why by combining my own chances with my father's I feel my odds are vastly improved. Patience is a virtue - the 26th year could well be mine.

It is 15 years since the demise of Princess Diana - note I said PRINCESS Diana. I know exactly what I was doing when I heard of her death - I was having a huge panic attack of anguish and dis-belief. This was because approximately 60 seconds earlier my mother had rung to let me know that Diana had died. My mother's name was Diana and my niece is named after her. The shock was enormous - how could she die so young, what must my sister be going through? In a tunnel? In France? What was she doing there - it's a long way from Glenfield on a school night. Hearing it was Princess Diana came as huge relief on that Sunday afternoon and I went back to quietly enjoying The Antiques Roadshow.