It’s a long time since I’ve blogged, and although my internal narrative constructs new ones every day I never seem to find the time to get the words out of my head. Of course, everyone is busy and time has to be found to hurdle the excuses which block any output. My major excuse has been learning to walk after so long on crutches or in a moon-boot (a process I seriously underestimated). My knee wobbles, my ankle is uncertain and my toes feel like they will snap. The physical demands of getting back to work has been hard enough in itself, and any time not working, doing chores or caring for my child has been spent elevating my leg to deal with the inevitable swelling and pain.

That said, for the last three weeks I have been walking down to the beach whenever I can, something that takes 40 minutes and leaves me covered in sweat – quite a comedown, as even with my pre-op Achilles and bone deformity I could easily run for an hour up and down the tracks where I live (well, maybe not so easily but it seems that way compared to now).

Nevertheless, my exercise over the last few weeks has stripped over 3 kgs off my body, and even though I’m always tired and puffing, I feel much better than I have in many months. Not as good as I was pre-op (disabling condition and all) but I try not to think about that. As my CEO said when I expressed frustration with my slow recovery, that’s why we call them patients…because they must be patient.

After I dropped my daughter at school this morning I decided not to rush through my to-do list and stopped for a coffee at my favourite local espresso bar. It’s little more than a hole-in-the-wall and I like that. The owner is friendly and I prefer to support these small enterprises in preference to the awful homogonous franchises that dominate every retail area. It has character (and wonderful homemade caramel slice).

I’ve stopped there in the past chatting with the groovy old Dutch lady who always has New Zealand music playing at a reasonable volume. There’s never anyone else there but this time I was surprised to find it chokka with people waiting for coffee (there were 4 people).

As I happily waited, enjoying the stillness of a hot autumn morning, I noticed a stack of fliers by the ceramic clog on the counter offering a ‘Hubby 4 Hire’ service to do the jobs you either have no time to do (or resent doing).

I wanted to pick it up because:

1. I hate doing lawns (such a waste of time with no satisfaction).

2. The rate seemed very reasonable.

3. The logo on top was hilarious, while also being a little bit insulting and rather true.

4. I collect ephemera like this if it catches my eye.

But I suddenly felt self-conscious and didn’t want to be adjudged as a lazy, or a somehow deficient, man (a belittling narrative that gets pushed in our culture).

When the other punters got their coffees and went out to enjoy the sun I slipped a flier into my bag. Then another man walked in, and while he waited for his coffee he picked up one of the fliers, looked at me then put it down saying, nah, makes me feel guilty. Yes, I said, but I really hate doing the lawns. True, he said, such a waste of time. Don’t even feel good once it’s done.

We both laughed at ourselves. He was younger than me, a burly Samoan with his lineage tatau-ed on giant fore-arms.

In the minute it took me to sip down my macchiato he asked the barista if she was missing her family who had gone back to Europe. She looked over her glasses and said in her heavy Dutch accent, can I tell the truth?

Well, I have known many Dutchies and been part of more than one Dutch family (in fact, although I am a Scots/English Pakeha I identify as part Dutch), and they will always tell you exactly what they think. She then said that the problem with Dutch Dutchies is that they think that their bloody opinion is how things are. I laughed, knowingly, and she smiled saying, I hope I have been here long enough to lose some of that.

Every moment is full stories to a writer. Whether they are bashed out there-and-then as a blog, or whether they percolate into a piece of fiction; all depends on time.

While I have no Dutch blood, I can swear in Dutch and regularly employ the same guttural ‘ach’ of frustration/contempt that the barista expressed when she made a mistake with one of the punter’s coffees.

I am a man who hated his deformity, and is frustrated with the resulting incapacity; who has little time for any so-called rules about what makes a man a man, or dull stereotypes about shirking husbands and bossy women.

Or so I like to believe.

Which brings me to the real reason I blogged today – I wrote a new piece of fiction in the weekend, something I decided I needed to do before I could allow myself to prattle away in this form.

Whether fiction or memoir is my higher aim comes down to mood and identity. I’m still not exactly sure which I am, but both forms involve storytelling and self-examination.

I will not be employing anyone to mow my lawns. I intended to do so over the summer when I was on crutches, unable to perform my manly duty. Instead, I waited it out until I found a way to do it by hobbling around on one crutch, swinging the weed-eater in circles around me. What could be more like a man?

There is something else to the story of this Hubby 4 Hire flier. The contact number is for a woman called Rachel. Is she the ‘hubby’ looking for work, or is she ‘the wife’ finding things for her man to do?

In these questions lie my own answers.

If I am patient.