I Tried to Write About Cricket

When I was doing my MA at uni I'd meet up with my supervisor every three weeks or so. Generally our meetings would be about an hour, and we'd spend half the time talking about my research and writing then half the time on some random tangent. One afternoon we were discussing the town where I grew up, and somehow the conversation led to me pronouncing that 'people don't read much in Balclutha'.

He laughed, paused, thought, then told me 'that could be the title of your autobiography'.

So I'm baggsing it right now. One day I will be important enough that it would be worth writing my autobiography. It will be called People Don't Read Much in Balclutha, and it will be a bestseller.

I've written a little recollection for it already. Actually that's a lie. I tried to write a short story but two sentences in I realised I had no idea how to write a short story. You'd think they'd be easy, because they're short, but give me novel writing any day. I understand the way they work better. So. My attempted short story. It ended up as a … let's just call it a 'thing'. Maybe it's slice of life. I don't know. Which is really bad for an English graduate. VUW will be revoking my MA soon.

I also ran into trouble when I got to the end of the story because I couldn't remember what happened so I had to make it up. It's fairly realistic though. As Bob Katter says, 'I'm exaggerating, but it's not an inaccurate thing to say'.

Ooh look, I made another picture for it as well. I was trying to edit my rainy day Parapara pictures, but I never took any photos in the actual rain and whenever I edited them they began to look sunny.

So, here is a sneak peak of People Don't Read Much in Balclutha, coming soon to My Vivid Imagination.  

Nothing makes a small two bedroomed bach seem even smaller than persistent, pounding rain.

It clatters against the tin roof, stray drops echoing loudly as they fall down inside the chimney. If you listen really hard you can hear the sea roaring as it smacks up against the beach across the road. Were somebody to slide open the glass doors the wind would have caught the chimes, sending them into a clattering cacophony. The doors remain closed. We came here for the natural environment, but we're shutting it out. Perhaps this is because we came here for a sunny and friendly environment. The weather dropped its end of the agreement, and we responded in kind. It's not playing ball so neither are we.

It's supposedly the middle of summer. The 'wee hoose' at Parapara Beach is meant to be a base camp – we come back to it for half an hour after swimming if we're hungry and then head back to the beach for a walk. After returning from the chocolate shop we all gather in the kitchen together to put our treats away in the fridge, then disperse once more. It's where we return to squabble over who gets the top bunk that night, and where we eventually go to sleep.

But it's raining today and we're all confined to the asylum. There aren't even enough chairs to sit on, not really. There are two comfortable cushioned lounge chairs, some well worn 1970s-esque chairs around the dining table, and some stools at the breakfast bar. Dad and Keren have claimed the nice chairs and are reading. I'm sitting uncomfortably at the table, steadily making my way through a stack of outdated women's magazines which have gathered here over the summers. I'm not sure where Mum is, but Chris is sitting at the table with me trying to text. He himself doesn't have any trouble navigating a mobile phone, but reception here is poor at best, and that's on a good day. He's not a reader like the rest of us, and is growing bored fairly quickly.

Chris disappears into the bathroom, returning with a beach ball. 'Let's play cricket Izzie'.

I look up. 'It's raining.'

'So?'

'We don't have a cricket set.'

He holds out the beach ball as an offering.

'Still don't have a bat'.

'We'll use a stick'.

I close my magazine with entirely too much effort, but this day of doing nothing has been ridiculously exhausting. Sensing success my little brother quickly darts outside to fetch the aformentioned stick. He's in a charitible mood and lets me bat first.

Throwing air through air isn't overly efficient, so he stands mere metres away from me and bowls the ridiculously large cricket ball. I smack it over the breakfast bar so he can't catch me out and watch it land on the floor. It makes a couple of feeble bounces before coming to rest against the refrigerator.

'Where do I run to?' I realise suddenly.

He thinks. 'Touch that chair over there.'

I reach out lazily and prod it with the stick. 'Uh-huh'.

Chris fetches the ball and play resumes. Four points if you manage to hit the ball into the bathroom tucked in behind the kitchen. Six points if you hit it into either of the bedrooms on the other side of the lounge. After a poorly aimed swing Chris catches me out, and we exchange ball and bat. He clearly has a lot of pent up energy as he smashes his first ball all the way into the master bedroom for six. I wander in to retrieve it and discover Mum is in here reading. She doesn't bother asking.

He got off to a good start, but when he makes his next attempt the ball hits the book Dad's reading then lands at his feet. Without looking up he kicks it back towards us. Chris wordlesly hands me the bat.

I'm confused. 'What?'

'I'm out. It's your go.'

We continue for a few innings. With such a small cricket pitch it's inevitable that one of the spectators (though they'd have to be paying attention to be spectators, but then again this is cricket) is hit again. This time our sister is the victim, and she looks up from her book, annoyed.

'Oops', I say, handing Chris the bat.

'Nah, you're still in.'

'But I hit someone. I thought that was an automatic out.'

'If you hit Dad it is', he says, the exasperation in his voice making his tone one of somebody who is explaining something very complicated to somebody very simple. 'If you hit Keren it's an automatic six.'

This only serves to make her more annoyed. 'That's not fair!' she cries, indignant.

Whether Dad truly doesn't hear, or just chooses not to listen, I don't know.

Keren's persistent. And it's hard to keep playing cricket when someone's stolen the bat.

Dad closes his book and sets it on the ground. 'Who'd like to go in to Takaka for afternoon tea?' It's a clear direction to stop arguing, and we all perk up.

'Me!'

A few years years pass and each summer we retreat to our small piece of paradise once more. The beach behaves - the sun shines and the sleepy sea drags itself up onto the shore. But then fate strikes again and it rains for five days straight – and this time there's eleven of us here.