BOOKS

My 12-year-old grandson Kobey now stands six feet tall in his basketball boots, I’m told. He lives in Melbourne so I don’t see him in the flesh much. And next time I do, I imagine he’ll be looking down on me. I’m experiencing mixed feelings about this. Up till now, despite some close calls, I’ve been the tallest in the family. I won’t like losing the crown. I come from a heightist background. When I say “heightist”, I mean that I grew up a child of tall parents, fed on a bit of an attitude about short people. I’ve done my best to shake it off, but some of it clings. I recall, years back now, becoming a little alarmed when Jamie, the only boy in my pack of six kids, started sprouting upwards towards my altitude, but he stopped growing just an inch or so short. Then Maddy, the youngest, launched a late challenge, going up at an alarming rate in her mid-teens, but, again, stopping just shy of my eye. And the sons-in-law all seem as if they were specifically and sensitively chosen. They’re all tallish, but not too tall. Though now, probably, they’re all waiting for me to start shrinking. My dad shrank as he became really old, dropping from six foot two to shorter than me. The evidence is in the old photos from family gatherings. But I hadn’t thought about the grandchildren challenging me. Well, not until now with the six-foot 12-year-old situation. But there’s nothing I can do about it, except perhaps pop over for a visit –and I’d better make it soon, while I can still look the kid in the eye. Maybe I can catch him in action with his basketball team. Kobey’s a bit of a rising star, apparently, along with being a rising presence, which is a happy coincidence. In other news, we have now not only managed to sell our house in Wellington, but we’ve bought one in Auckland. The outrageousness of the price we got for the Wellington place didn’t quite match the outrageousness of the price we had to pay for the Auckland one, but we did it anyway, telling ourselves that this one’s a keeper, which I surely hope it is. Packing, which we’re in the middle of, is a slow torture, as you pass all your possessions through your hands while the boxes rise around you. The darling wife reckons I’ve started the packing a bit soon, making it a difficult and dangerous thing getting in and out of some rooms. Also, I seem to have packed a few things that we still need. And when I said back there that “we” are in the middle of packing, I actually meant that I am. I don’t think she’s packed a thing at this stage, which isn’t any sort of accusation. She’s a flat-out full-time executive and I’m in more of a stay-at-home, semi-employed arrangement, quite able to get on with packing a few boxes, while considering what to make for dinner, or writing a column. I still haven’t told the cat about the move. She’ll be livid, though she is enjoying playing in the boxes in the meantime. STRUNG IT’S A GALLING MOMENT WHEN YOUR GRANDCHILD COMES OUT ON TOP