FRILLS FADS & FOIBLES

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 214, 29 November 1927, Page 5

FRILLS FADS & FOIBLES

YOUR CLUB AND MINE AN OPEN PAGE

Each Tuesday afternoon a corner will be reserved for original contributions of general Interest to womenfolk- The subject matter is for you to choose—whatever topic Interests you may also be of interest or amusement to others, whether it be about your hobbies, experiences, or merely amusing muslngs about the ordinary round of the day. A book prize is ottered weekly for the best effort, which should be brief, plainly written, and sent to “Your Club and Mine.” THE SUN, Auckland. The prize has been awarded this week to Miss D. Little for the following article:—MOVING DAY In the weighty matter of changing our abode we’re all tarred with one brush. For months and weeks we look forward with enthusiasm to the longed-for day when we shall shake the dust of our erstwhile shelter from the elements from off our feet, and talk runs high among the members of our family of what we’ll do, and what we won’t do when we are safely housed in our new abode. What wonders we’ll perform! It’s a time for wondrous resolutions—all too quickly to be broken: of promises like pie-crust—to be cut arid hacked to bits. ‘‘l’ll do this, and I’ll do that,” is the burden of our song. But wait! Let’s look the operation in the eye. What really happens is more like this:

For days we pack and pack, unpack, and repack. No sooner have we firmly planted our “chemist’s shop” at the bottom of a box, with all its little bottles neatly rolled in paper, and well padded, than father gives hfs thumb an awful doing with the hammer. Frantically we rush to the chemist’s shop’s accustomed place, and realise with dismay we’ve packed it all too well. When finally it’s brought to light, there’s fifty little packets—all alike —to be unrolled and rolled again. Then some evil person’s packed Tom’s shirt, the which was destined for his wear that day, and though you tempt him with six other shirts all neatly ironed, and, as yet, unpacked, it’s all to no purpose; it must be that one shirt or none, and so for peace more of your labour is undone. Another idiot, doubtless on mischief bent, has packed the box of nails you’d

HUNTLY PLUNKET SOCIETY SALE OF WORK A sale of sweets, sewing, and vegetables, etc., was held last Friday in connection with the funds of the Huntly Plunket Society. Mrs. A. Brocklebank (secretary), and Mrs. Robinson (president), helped by an energetic committee, had a busy time, and good business resulted. The Huntly funds should show a satisfactory improvement, for keen interest is displayed in the Plunket movement in the district.

carefully put aside for nailing up your finished cases. Once again you dig and delve.

In the midst of all this joy the gasman calls to read your meter. In no uncertain tone he demands a chair wherewith to reach the meter’s lofty perch. With despair you realise that all your chairs have gone upon the load which has just left your gate some few moments since. The gas-man helps himself quite unconcernedly, and takes a case of worldy goods and chattels to stand upon, and . . . crack! . . .

Oh! heavens! he’s standing calmly on the case which has for its filling all your wedding presents; but it does not affect you much by this time, you’re getting past it.

Finally, when all your goods are packed, and all are gone, you set out on your travels for your new home, there to start afresh your troublous days. No sooner have you reached and banged the garden gate, and looking back for one last glimpse of the old home, with a sickening thudding of your heart you see your bedroom curtains gaily taunting you; you’ve left them hanging. Then someone else remembers there’s a broom still under the house which he had used to sweep the cases out before the strife began.

Yes, moving may be very entertaining to your neighbours, for now they know for sure you are the possessor of only one real wardrobe, and all the rest are “hanging ones.” Their ssupicions were correct, and their minds are now at rest again until the next tenant moves in. But for you moving day is another story. And so you leave the old home deadbeat and hopeless, with another dreary waste of china, scratched photographs, lost articles, and damaged chattels before you; to unpack what you’ve packed. But even so, who’d stagnate for ever in one house? Not I. DOROTHY LITTLE.