Not all that long ago there were still people who thought the world was flat. They formed the Flat Earth society. Its members were always careful to stay away from the horizon, scared they might topple off its edge.

While most of us are happy with a round world, it seems flatness is making a comeback. I am very worried about the curve of roundness disappearing. While not against frugality of size and the narrowing of the essentials in smaller and smaller products, I feel that this mania to reduce and downsize is concentrated too much on the flatness of things.  Today, of all places, at Aldi, one can buy an entire dining set of large table with four dining chairs, all in a flat pack. The week before, a huge turbo gas driven four burner stainless steel barbeque, all came in a neat square sturdy carton flat pack. Our ugly curved lampshade looming over the settee; in a flat pack. We bought some time ago 4 lovely Cotswold garden chairs after seeing them at a show room. We noticed a trolley going to the back of the store and soon after it reappeared with 4 flat packs.

Designers now must be considering first of all on how to fit the object into a flat pack before actually designing the products. If it can’t be put into a flat pack it won’t get to production. I believe Renault is working on designing cars that fit into a flat pack with a major requirement being all can be assembled by the use of a single giant Allen key.

It might all be related to storage. It is a known fact that flat stores better than spherical. Notice though that even small objects are all in flat shapes. TV’s used to be large and have curved screens. Now, the large TV makers are vying for making them as flat as possible. Soon we will watch TV on flats sheets of plastic or paper. Soccer balls used to be round but know come also in a flat package to be blown round later on after it has been bought. Meat products now come mainly in vacuum sealed and flattened out shapes. I would not be surprised there is a conspiracy between the giants of the supermarkets that will entice people to put more into shopping trolleys when all the foodstuffs come in flat packs. Have you noticed that Brussel sprout are becoming flatter and squarer? Soon through genetically modifying and capturing the flat nano particle, food engineers will produce flat cauliflowers and potatoes. Another requirement seems to be that once the flat pack has been opened, the challenge of un-wrapping the plastic surrounding the object has to be tackled. Not an easy task with the plastic obstinately refusing to give way to almost any object used to penetrate it. I have used my teeth to try and break through.

Years ago, being called square wasn’t a term of endearment but one wonders with the exploding world population, people will revert to being square again. It would enable us to take up less space. We already live in square rooms, sleep in square beds and fill space with flat and square objects. It would make perfect sense to all and everything becoming flat and square and…..boring.

We had heard rumors that IKEA at Tempe near the airport was magic. Friends of ours told us via Face-book they had bought an entire kitchen there. He had loaded up his large SUV vehicle with 6 trolleys of flat-packs and that it even included the hexagonal Allen key. He confessed he was exhausted afterwards. It had been a big day.

We needed a lamp shade after having bought one from Aldi. The Aldi lamp shade came also in a flat pack and with a tiny Allen key as well. It was made of stainless steel tubing that would slide into one and other to form the stand. On the picture it showed a lovely curved shade that would, because of its curved steel tubing and shape, hover over the reader and his or her book while its stand was modestly kept behind the chair or, as in our case, behind the comfy settee. After assembly on the carpeted floor it looked a bit strange and the curve was far greater than anticipated. Also, because of the canter-levered construction, the lamp would totter and hesitate, could hardly keep itself upright and threaten to topple over at any moment. To counter this, I put a small piece of wood under the stand. It now tilted the opposite way.  After looking at it for a few weeks we thought it was too ridiculous. Hence our plan to visit that Mecca of interiors, the IKEA store at Tempe and buy a ‘good’ one. It would be Swedish and therefore good.

We left Bowral on a bright sunny day. We had driven past this IKEA some months before and had even flown over it. You could not miss its blue and yellow, so sternly Swedish with hints of Ingmar Berman’s ‘seven seals’. The position is perfect on a busy highway and right next to the airport. The import of flat packs (from China) could almost be parachuted right to the front door or even onto the roof. The over- flying aircraft are so close you can see the rivets in their metal coverings and stroppy standing passengers hauling their luggage from the over-head compartments.

When going to its entrance one is already greeted by the first umlauts and strange Swedenised Anglo words. The shopper softens up, bulging with pride being introduced to a foreign language.  After entering a massive cathedral like entrance space we half expected a moody Max Von Sydow to greet us. No such luck though.

There were young girls handing out oversize and brightly coloured yellow bags. The large bag had us stumped. What was this for? We felt a bit silly. We noticed everyone going up the elevator all had those large empty yellow bags. Surely it would not be possible to put a bed or chair in it. Once upstairs we joined a throng of other shoppers going through a vast maze like area of endless beds, settees and completely fitted out rooms with a décor of items all ladled with umlauted names and price tags. There was so much of it, a dizzying choice. I felt overcome but noticed many of the comfy chairs had already been taken up by elderly people like myself, overcome and freaked out. (With and umlaut)

We shuffled on hoping to see a suitable lamp stand. At what price a well lit reading enjoyment? This Tempe IKEA is so large and so full of Sweden and its China produced umlauted articles, it must be tempting not to book the hotel next door and take a couple of weeks to see it all.

With dehydration setting in and a spell of agoraphobia we needed to make a quick resolution. Out! Of course with the planes roaring overhead ever thirty seconds or so counter blasted with equally loud music, many shoppers just get on with the business of filling those yellow bags. It transpired there are many kinds of objects that one is tempted to buy. Tea-light candles for example. Two hundred for just $ 4.99. Who can resist? Put them in the bag. Packets of Swedish tissues or napkins put them in the bag. Tea-pots with a name dual vowelled and umlauted; in the bag!  Swedish embroidered shopping bags, 6 for $ 19.90; in the yellow bag!

We found, after an exhausting two hours our lampshade, all in a small flat pack; in the yellow bag. We made it to the exit, emptied our yellow bag. I noticed IKEA catered for the exhausted shopper. There was a huge eating area. They were selling frankfurters on a roll for just one $1.-

I was dragged away. Back to Bowral. I sat on the carpet and assembled our new shade stand. Perfect! Thank you Sweden. (China)

After the war many children In Holland went through children colonies (Kinder Kolonies). The aim was for children to be given their good health back again. The Dutch Government’s aim to give good health and hygiene to children dates back to the 1890’s when many children were put into State run homes and given better care than within their own poverty stricken families.

This scheme really took off after the war when thousands of undernourished children were put into those homes. I was one of them after a doctor thought I was too skinny. My grandkids still get a good laugh when I tell them how people used to bump into me and say, “Oops, I didn’t see you”. “Your arms were like sticks, Gerard, like this, and my mother would hold up her finger, together with the encouraging, and you used to cough so much.” I had bronchitis almost permanently. I was send three times to different children colonies for six weeks each time.

The general aim for those post-war children colonies was to make them gain weight. Not an unreasonable aim in my case. Weekly weigh-ins was one routine strictly adhered to. A letter would be send to the parents with the good news of weight gain or perhaps not, when no weight was gained. My memories don’t include the finer details of any arrangement of those that failed to get heavier. Anyway, the idea was sound. Another routine was the weekly change of underwear together with a hot shower; again a pretty reasonable affair considering whenever the need for a ‘number two’ arose, a request included having to ask for toilet paper from the leader. It must have been in short supply.  There was very little generosity in giving the required number of sheets. One had to ‘row with the given oars,’ was a popular saying of the times.

While the aim was for children to gain weight, it was also necessary for them to be given rest. Rest to recover from years of famine and hunger. This rest was generally in the afternoon between 2 and 3 pm and on stretchers. For a reason that was never explained, rest and sleep was only allowed by laying on your right side. We had one group leader whose job it was to look out for any recalcitrant trying to sleep on back or wrong side. She also happened to have a loose arm and would give you a good smack around the ears followed with the word, “please”, if you had disobeyed this one sided rule. Of course, I was never smacked at home but smacking was far more common in those days and I suppose those young women only gave back what was given to them. Even so, it was particularly painful and not just because of the pain. Children would often be wracked by homesickness, yearn for their mums. A smack with ‘please’ afterwards wasn’t exactly pedagogically a child friendly or wise thing to do at those times but what can I do now? Another form of therapy was for bed-wetters to give them an extra our between the wet sheets. Teach them a lesson.

However, the best of the lot was that after the afternoon rest you were made to queue for the daily spoonful of cod-liver oil. (levertraan)This ritual involved opening your mouth wide and a large spoonful would be shoved in there. Many children would develop an aversion to anything fishy for the rest of their life. I was most fortunate that I had developed a taste for anything that ended up in my mouth. Even a wooden stick would be welcome. My hunger and lack of food a few years earlier made me an addict for anything oral for the rest of my life. Show me food and I’ll show you determination.

After the ladle of cod-liver treat, a new queue would have to formed, and again with mouths wide open we would be given two pills of vitamin C. You were given time to swallow and had again to open your mouth wide in case you were cheating and spewing them out when away from scrutiny. Day in, day out, for six long weeks!

No matter with all those efforts, my weight-gain was measured in ounces rather than pounds or kilos. Before the ‘weigh-in’ we were told to drink copious amounts of milk or even water. Of course those grams added up and the rapport to the doctor was nicely blown up.

In many cases, the efforts in weight gains were mainly in vain. The heartbreak of being without mothers was so overwhelmingly felt, especially in those afternoon rests. I can still hear not just my own sobbing but also of so many other five and six year olds. All the spoonfuls of Cod liver oil and all the vitamins could not make up for the lack of mothers. When I was visited by my mother I ran after her when the visit came to its inevitable end, I promptly lost a kilo in my hand-knitted underpants and without those sheets of toilet paper as well. I could not care anymore.

Readers will be pleased to know I am still on the slim side. I am as fond of food now as then and apart from brown underpants-like vegemite can eat anything. Even now I keep a bottle of cod liver oil in the fridge, just in case.

Old habits die hard.

Glass of Cordial (Ranja) biting after the War

When during the last bitter winter of 1945 food had run out there was an angel in the shape of a helmeted German soldier, still billeted below the footpath in our street, who must have felt remorse or became overwhelmed with the futility of it all, and gave me half a loaf of black bread. I was almost five years old. I walked upstairs to our home at number 18a Roderijsche Straat, Rotterdam which wasn’t far from where the German soldier was dug in and gave my mother this piece of black bread. During that last hopeless winter known as the ‘Hunger Winter of 1945’, many in Holland died of starvation, and, as is so often the case, most were just children and the elderly. In search of food, people would walk tens of kilometers to trade valuables for food at farms. Tulip bulbs and sugar beets would be eaten. It is estimated close to 20.000 people died of starvation. When the war ended many young children were treated at special children colonies to restore them back to good health. I was one of them.

I don’t think anything ever exceeded the euphoria in our family as at that time we had that half loaf of glorious bread. It was a luxury for our hungry family.

The memory is inedible and on par with another one, much more gruesome, of which my grandchildren can never get enough of. They insist on me regaling this dreadful tale over and over again. Children seem to love dreadful macabre tales.

This is the tale: While Rotterdam was bombed at the beginning of the war, the early and still primitive rocket science of the Germans had not yet progressed to anything remotely accurate. The Werner Von Braun V2 rockets meant for England just used to come down willy-nilly anywhere including in our already bombed out city of Rotterdam. They would swoosh over very low with a high pitched manic scream and frighten sleeping children as nothing else ever since. One of them came down somewhere near us and exploded. People were hanging out of windows, shards of glass everywhere and I found myself walking with my mother. She was holding my hand. A man came hobbling down the ruin of a blasted house. There was red colour oozing out of him. He was holding one leg under his arm. He was bleeding from the stump where his leg used to be…………. End of tale! Good night children…go to sleep now. No mucking up! They slept like angels.

Some two years later after life had become more normal but with food and staples still on stamps, my dad decided to take me and two brothers on a day’s outing. We took a train to the south-west somewhere and while my memories are vague being so young, I remember looking out over an endless grey mud flat whereby the colour of wet clay and sky matched at the very end of where I looked. There was no horizon. Dad had promised, after viewing this grey landscape for enough time, a glass of orange drink at a cafe. It was called ‘ranja’ in Dutch.

Of course, no fizzy drinks were available then and all soft drinks were cordial mixtures. The promise of a ranja drink is what I looked forward to so much, the first cordial in my life. The thought of that drink filled my mind as soon as dad’s promise was uttered. I had tasted sugar cubes at the children’s colonies prior to that event, and that was already an enormous experience that I would relish for hours afterwards. Life was so much worth living for now.

After we were all seated at this little café that overlooked this grey flat clay landscape the ‘ranja’ duly arrived in their glasses. This was the moment whereby I would taste a heaven on earth. I put the glass and its edge into my mouth but became so overwhelmed by the occasion, determined never to let this moment of supreme joy ever pass, that my teeth lashed onto the glass with such vehemence that a large piece broke off and remained clamped into my mouth. Oh, the sadness of it. I remember the immediate sense of failure and together with my wrongly assumed payment by my father for the broken glass to the café holder, burst out in inconsolable grief. The day was ruined and I so wished my mother had been there, but she was home in Rotterdam and dad wasn’t as good in the art of consoling little boys.