Sauntering gyrating spinning tops

In my childhood we had limited toy options. Skipping rope, pieces of elastic tied to our legs, home-made skateboards, marbles and spinning tops. Oh yes, and balls of various shapes and sizes. As I have aged some of the toy options have not been suitable for me to pursue. Take the hula hoop, well, it's harder than it looks to keep it whirling around my waist and all that bending down to pick it up off the floor was tiring. Spinning tops were my toy of choice to help me beat the fidgets. The spinning tops I grew up with were pieces of wood with a steel tip that looked like a nail of some sort. We would wind string around it, making sure to keep the end of the twine clamped under a finger, various fingers cupping the whole thing and then fling it onto the ground in the hope that your top would spin. Competitive spinning was a real thing where we would face off against an opponent with the goal of smashing into their spinning top and stopping it in its tracks. Heady moments of adrenaline, sweat on our brows and fire in our eyes. I went online to look at one of those ancient spinning tops and yes, they do still sell them. The prices range from $84 to 84 cents. But modernisation has struck and you can now get the never ending gyro or the multi-coloured children's version that looks like a frog or a butterfly. I'm a purist as you know, so my tops are plain wood with a simplistic design and no decoration at all. I sit at my computer thinking through difficult decisions and use my thumb and finger to spin my tops, all three at a time across my desk. If the problem is very stressful, I might try and flip the top on its head and spin it on the base so that they look like three spinning mushrooms wobbling and gyrating until they collapse. This week I was waiting for the outcome of a difficult court case and my nerves were jittering and jumping like bunnies on catnip, so I took my three tops off to visit my grandchildren to distract me. We spent a happy hour or so while I taught them how to modulate emotions using the essential life skill of spinning. I have been told it's a form of stimming. Stimming is what neuro-divergent people use to soothe themselves. And yes, it did soothe me. It has no other practical use in life. There is no spot on a CV to fill in the dexterity of finger flicks. No tick box for how good you are at flipping tops on their tails or even how long the spin lasts. This is obviously a huge gap in our selection of skilled candidates. We are voting for a government at the moment and I do think that instead of how many scoops of ice-cream the candidates can spoon onto a cone or babies they can kiss while they smile inanely, that we should rather sit them down at tables and let opposition members duke it out over spinning tops or pretty marbles. As tempers flare and competitive natures surface, we will see their true colours. The one who laughs as their gyro flies off into the crowd gets my vote. Ooops I have already voted. I couldn't wait for competitive spinning to be featured on TV debates and instead went with the left of the left candidates and ticked their boxes regardless.

In Durban, South Africa is a rescue and rehabilitation centre called CROW. In 1977 Isolde Mellet started the centre from her garage in the hopes of helping the wildlife of Africa. Poachers would kill off the mothers of cute cuddly animals and then sell them alongside the road. Big eyed monkeys clinging onto whatever they could. Owls blinking in the sunlight in shock and horror. Deer that should still be suckling from their mothers. Often the little creatures were dehydrated or injured and traumatized. The emotional balance is whether to pay the poacher and save the animal or watch the helpless die. If you paid the price, the poacher would go on to kill more mothers and sell more and more babies. I bought a few animals in my time and hated the thought that the criminals were getting away with murder. We would phone Isolde and say that we had a bush baby, an owl or something small for them to save. The two hour drive from our home to CROW was often fraught with worry about the future of that treasure of the wild. But a small donation and a big thank you was all the centre asked for. Here I sit in New Zealand almost 50 years later and wonder if life has gotten easier in the land of my birth, and no it hasn't. CROW has grown and is in more demand than ever. The centre is always on the brink of collapse financially and animals are still being poached and killed for profit. I live on a strict budget and a limited pension, so big donations are not something I can afford. This week, as a way to distract myself from various dramas, I donated SAR100 to CROW and felt good and positive for a moment. No, I'm no saint, no, I am not wanting to be patted on the back for my generosity because frankly, that generous donation cost me the price of a hot chocolate and half a muffin, actually no, it cost me the same as a fancy muffin with no hot chocolate. The endorphin buzz was worth every penny. If I bought a muffin I would feel guilty about treating myself when others were struggling to put food on their tables. So, this was a totally indulgent action. A moment of feeling like Santa Claus and Superwoman all rolled into one. I can now chant those positive affirmations of being good, with confidence. Cheap at the price. I watched some TikTok videos of cute Meerkats and Bush Babies as my ultimate reward of the day. We all need that and when times get tough, cuddling a kitty is on my list of stims to soothe my troubled mind.

We live on a hill near a river in the city and often see joggers of all shapes and sizes huff and puff their way up or down our street. My father and husband both enjoyed a good jog or two. My Dad said that the right speed to jog was when you could hold a conversation with your running partner. Anything more than that was overdoing things. Science has proven him right. More calories get burnt at that speed than if you were sprinting. Well, as you might realise, I'm neither a sprinter or a jogger, I'm a saunterer. I saunter so that I might enjoy the scenery around me. I saunter through shopping malls and stop often to lean against railings and sit on benches. I saunter to watch the birds and animals and sometimes even to take notice of people. I watch clouds and waves, notice flowers and insects, yes, I wobble my way along paths, much like my spinning tops, until I run out of steam and collapse in a heap. But the word saunter is taken from the Crusades between 1030 and 1300 when knights went on journeys of Christian zealotism. They wanted to rid the Holy Land of the Islamic people and restore Christianity to the area. Usually this Christian crusade was done at the end of a sword and was a truly awful way of showing the kindness of Christ. But, they did it regardless. As these people travelled through Europe, the locals would ask them what they were doing and where they were going. The answer was "A la sainte terre." or in English (which wasn't really spoken in those days) it was "To the Holy Land." This slowly changed to sainte terre which developed into saunter, which is described as "to walk in a slow, relaxed manner" or leisurely stroll. I can imagine those knights and their knaves wandering along the lanes of France and Italy, down to the Mediterranean sea, all decked out in their very uncomfortable outfits of chain mail and armour. Yikes, no deodorant either, so, smelly knights and knaves. Did they really saunter, or were they too tired to care about putting on a brave face by jogging or sprinting? Could they jog? And what an awful cacophony of noise would a hundred knights in full regalia make if they did run? The infidels would hear them a mile away and be able to put in place an ambush of mammoth proportions. No, sauntering is a better strategy. Sneaking like commandos, hiding behind bushes, jumping out like demented demons on unsuspecting victims. Okay, I have been watching too many movies for my own good. I watched a movie about Maid Marion and Robin Hood the other day. Set at the time of the Crusades and yet not true to life in any way, shape or form. The clothes were beautifully crafted, the hair was shining from being washed and brushed and they could have stepped off the film set and into a 2023 street scene without any problem. I really would prefer a realistic depiction of the time, but realise that it wouldn't fit Hollywood standards. And Maid Marion could run for miles. Seriously, that woman in the movie had never heard of a saunter in her life. It made me tired just watching it.

Christmas is two and a half months away and I am on the hunt for stocking fillers for my grandkids. Spinning tops? Gyros? Why so early? The answer is Postal systems. I have sauntered through the local toy shops, the craft shops and the boutiques of the city to no avail. Not a gyro in sight. To buy online I have to put my details into dodgy sites that might sell my information. Do I risk it? Or am I turning into one of those people that are too scared to wander through the websites of the world? And then I have to wait to see if that particular site can get me my gifts on time. The challenges of modern life. I don't have to worry about Crusaders stabbing me with rusty swords or smelly armpits, all I have to concern me is trusting people I have never met to live up to my expectations and their obligations. Oh, I need to fidget with my spinning tops because my anxiety is climbing and I need a mental break.