Jenny, Invercargill

I don’t know how I got to the Zoom bit though, I don’t know what I poked and what I didn’t. I couldn’t do it again, I don’t think.

I’m Jenny, I’m 80 and I’m retired.

I was originally a florist. I live with a dog called Nel in a nice, quiet suburb. I’ve been here for about 16 years. I have lawns, a garden, a vege garden and a nice warm sunny house. I’m very lucky.

Before all this, I was free to go. Pilates, an art group, coffee and meals with friends and family. People would call in. I do miss that, someone just popping in. I could drive to the beach and go on scenic walks. Now, I share my walks with so many people because they’re all out and about. I feel like a leper. They must too, because we all do the same thing – mumble hi, step aside. Some don’t, some just take up the full footpath. They’re quite rude, really.

I’m not settling to any routine, but I’ve got heaps of opportunities. I was just commissioned to do a painting, I said I was honoured and that’s fabulous but where do I get the canvas from? I’ve got books to read, a garden, walks. I’ve got the interest of a dog. I’ve got a family who want me to do technology. The Zoom session was nerve-wracking. I felt like a bit of a dick really, as I didn’t know what I was doing. But it was fun to see everybody. I actually find it a bit difficult, as I’ve got an old iPad and my hearing’s not great. Some people you can hear and others you can’t. I don’t know how I got to the Zoom bit though, I don’t know what I poked and what I didn’t. I couldn’t do it again, I don’t think.

And last night, I don’t know how it happened, but Anna and Michael were there on the screen on my phone. They phoned me. I answered it and then there were Michael and Anna having drinks. Having big drinks. I’d had my quota of whisky so I was very sensible, just sitting and eating my curry. I felt good and I was still making sense. It was about half past 7. I don’t have lots to drink. I don’t need much before I’m quite comical probably. But I think with the way we’re feeling at the moment, no one needs a hell of a lot.

The hardest thing? Probably being unable to feel the physical presence of family, the cuddle and warmth of a grandchild. It didn’t happen all the time, we didn’t live in one another’s pockets, but when it did happen the physical presence was great. And just the freedom to go out, spontaneously. To knock on someone’s door and say ‘Hi’ and take them a biscuit. I can still put biscuits in people’s letterboxes. Or can I? I don’t know.

It’s terrible lying in bed. Terrible. I’m not sleeping well. I do have the radio, but it’s all about the virus and so many idiotic people phone up, I feel like throwing the radio against the wall. Last night I listened to Māori music and that was very relaxing. I woke up at 4am, did some deep breathing – mindful stuff – and went back to sleep. Anyway, should we do another question or have we finished? No, I like talking to you, you know that.

The best thing? I love mowing my lawns, is that a bit weird? And family connecting through technology. That’s nice. It’s lovely to see you all, just don’t make it too frequently. We’ve got one at 5 o’clock tomorrow? I wish I could use church as an excuse!

I’ve always looked ahead and always had plenty of food so that was the least of my worries but I did stock up on soup bones and veges. You can keep yourself alive forever on bone broth.

The worst thing to run out of … do you want a sensible answer or a naughty one? Ok, whiskey, pinot and butter!

I’m worried someone in our family is going to be hurt. Destroyed by this ugly thing. When you’re a granny, you feel for everyone. I hate thinking about the heartache our family would go through, as we’re very, very close. Some families will kill one another during this time. The lawyers are going to make so much money.

I’m excited for knowing we all survived this, to live in a cleaner world and to pop some wines with fun and laughter. You might have to put me to bed that night. It would be fun though, wouldn’t it?

There’s a film out there to be made now, isn’t there? So many stories to be told.

Jenny’s garden.

A painting of the lovely Nel, done by Jenny.

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