Thursday, 28 February 2013


I am a raging snot machine.  I produce mucus faster than a speeding bullet, or some such.  OH HAI FIRST DAY OF AUTUMN, YOU'RE HERE ALREADY?  Why you bring your nasty germy little friends with you? 

So.  Am taking my bugs to Hawke's Bay so my mummy can console me or make me better with the balm of maternal compassion and care.  I.e. so she can roll her eyes and tell me to keep away, she doesn't want what I've got.  Totally inherited Mum's saint-like patience and nursing genes, FYI.  When P's sick, all I can think is:

a) I can't bear the moaning/nose blowing/throat clearing etc etc.
b) When will you be better so we can go do some god damn fun stuff?
c) Don't touch me.

I blame Dad for this bout of germs, actually.  Saw them last weekend when he'd just got off a plane from Germany and was coming down with some sort of virus.  It'll be a vicious merry-go-round of reinfection of his household this weekend.  Poor old Dad.

I do actually like autumn though.  Warm, with chilly bits, then colder, then jeans/boots/scarves and tasty hot treats.  S'good.


PS This thing still posts on British time, but it's actually 1 March here in NZ.  Truly.  Also, if you're REALLY REALLY confused, here in the southern hemisphere the seasons are different.  Go look that up. 

Wednesday, 27 February 2013

not today, either

You poor souls are going to get very tired of this progression:

- A sees a house.  She REEEEEEALLY likes it.
- A whinges about how it'll probably go for too much.
- A ties herself in knots imagining auction scenarios, sweating over the detail.
- A announces she's attending an auction today, WTF!!!
- A does not buy a house because her expectations of value and price are completely fucked.
- A adjusts her expectations marginally.
- Rinse, repeat.

Long-winded way of saying I didn't buy a house today.  I nearly did, for a while there, but then I didn't. 

We nearly cacked our pants on arrival, as we were the only registered bidders there for quite some time.  The agent was filling our ears with negotiation, conditional offers, blah blah.  Then some crackhead's agent arrived, obviously filled with the authority to pay a ridiculously high number, basically bid against himself to a point where we believe he would have been well over reserve. 

This is scintillating stuff, my house-buying-saga.  It has the potential to go for months, NAY YEARS and it will remain interesting to me alone because it's so fucking repetitive. 

Oh well, you can't win 'em all. 

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

this does not contain momentous news

I have no patience.  Today’s auction has not happened yet and I am deteriorating into a sniffy, rageous, scatterbrain.

It’s not like I didn’t see this coming, but I truly believed I’d worked harder on curbing my psychotic tendencies in the lead up to this auction.  I arranged to have a reasonable discussion about numbers with P last night in a public place over a glass of pinot noir so that I couldn’t get huffy.  To be fair though, this was also because when you have houseguests in an apartment that is approx. 60m2, you can’t really have a discussion about private matters.  P and I are not at our best last thing at night, whispering under the covers (plus, I prefer sweet nothings for that type of whisper, rather than “What if Interest Rates Go Up?”  Please do let me know if you are aware of any examples of interest rate type conversation that lead to wild, carefree relations – in fact, having houseguests in such close proximity means that interest rate discussions are the closest we’re basically getting to even sedate, constrained relations. This is, no doubt, increasing the huffiness and up-tightness experienced by the A+P household at present). 

But it is the waiting game that really makes these conversations so loaded.  We have plenty of evidence that I’m terrible at waiting when expecting something.  I just started drafting examples for your edification, but it’s actually just so horrible I can’t bring myself to publicise it.  I certainly can’t find a way to make it even remotely funny; it’s a character flaw entirely without merit that I generally choose to ignore.  (See also: wilful ignorance in the veritable pantheon of flaws that make up my extremely complex persona.  Also, an inability to refrain from referencing P+P.  Blame Austen.)

In sum, today I am prickly, nervous and short with basically everyone.  Surely I will get better at this with practice? 

Monday, 25 February 2013

ring the bell for rounds 2, 3 and possibly 4

Ha! We're at it again.  Tomorrow, lunchtime-ish, Cute Nikau Palm House goes to auction.  If that doesn't work out, Sunday at 1pm Sweet Neighbourhood With a Chef-y Kitchen House goes to auction.  And there's another this time next week: Slightly Dark But Did You See The Backyard! House.

A minor hiccup - we're supposed to be on a plane, somewhere between Hawke's Bay and Auckland on Sunday at 1pm.  Air NZ (sneaky devils) sold us on some very well priced Grabaseat flights a while ago, in order to visit my olds.  Now, less than a week out, it's going to cost six times the original price of each seat to change the return ticket.  I kid you not.  To be fair, that probably reflects in part how good the original deal was, but also the cost of buying at the last minute.  We have a few contingency plans worked out, but it would seem that there is quite a bit of potential for me to be busy purchasing the biggest thing I've ever purchased while sweatily wringing my hands, out of cellphone contact.  That'd be one for the books!  If I never felt compelled to turn on my mobile phone while taxi-ing on the runway before, I may well do come Sunday.

I'm trying not to get too worked up and emotionally invested, but given the extent of my furniture arranging dreams last night I'm sad to say that seems unlikely.  SNWACK House has taken over my imagination just at present.  Unfortunately, there is quite a lot of red in the kitchen (splashback tiles), but I'll tone that down using wooden and white decorations.  I'm thinking a blonde wood dining table.  You see?  I'm screwed. 

It may not surprise you to hear that I am not Bidder-in-Chief in this domestic arrangement.  It's the sort of pressure I would absolutely CRUMBLE under (tears!), so P is taking charge.  Fear not, this is not borne out of traditional role-keeping, but more the knowledge that I would be utterly hopeless at this sort of thing.

Oh yes: the wedding was lovely.  My auntie looked absolutely beautiful and it was a great, great evening.  The sun came out and stayed.  Happy sigh. 

Friday, 22 February 2013

full disclosure

It is 9am, Saturday morning.  I am discovering.  If you are a litigator, you will appreciate what that means.  For the rest of you, I simply request that you pity me.

I'm all woe+gloom these days, no?  Ah well, can't win 'em all!  Plus, to be honest I kind of need a few more billable hours this month...glam life we lady lawyers lead, no? 

BUT exciting times ahoy!  My aunt is getting married today!  It has not dawned clear and bright, which is a damn shame because she's getting married at her home, with a marquee in the backyard.  The horizon is looking promising though, so I trust it won't rain on her parade.  Love a wedding, and this one'll be fab.  Brill, even.  (P can't bear me saying brill.  In his oh-so-humble opinion, even British folk have a hard time pulling off brill, so saying it in my best Nu Zild accent sounds terribly off.  Need a new superlative, plz to leave your suggestions.)

I can't let a post go by without acknowledging that P is lining up today's open home schedule, ready for viewing.  So, you know, house buying palaver is still happening.  Yesterday I received an email from an agent listing recent sales that made me spit out my cornflakes.  Quite a few were properties we had looked at - they sold for considerably more than I had anticipated.  Otahuhu, you're starting to look quite sexy and all BUDGETARY and what not.  Oh Auckland, you crazy housing bubble rapidly expanding city.  You are much like a blowsy gin drinker, all shine on the surface and rot underneath.  I jest (I totally feel you Auckland.  Which is to say I'm an actual blowsy gin drinker.  If this was 1880, I'd be living in East London trying to sell my aging bod for more than a penny in order to buy geneva too, don't worry.  Because it's 2013 I whore myself to The Man/The Establishment/Whatever as a Lady Lawyer in order to pay for expensive limes to add to my gin).

On that note, back to reviewing documents.  Must earn my keep, etc.

Wednesday, 20 February 2013

brown cow

In the interests of recording the minutiae of my life, you can mark 20 February 2013 on your calendars as the day I switched to brunette.  Momentous news, no doubt.  I have been a brunette for a short period once before, when I was 21-ish.  It was a very dark and reddish colour.  This time, it is a warm brown with coppery undertones.  I am not yet fond of it; I was hoping for something closer to my dark blonde/light brown natural colour.  It’s a semi so hopefully it will fade quickly to a more flattering tone. 

 Blonde-A (a self-absorbed peroxide addict) is horrified by this turn of events. (She lives somewhere in my brain, next to Skinny-A but far away from Chocolate-Bikkies-Are-My-BFF-A).  She points out that blonde looks so much better with a pink dress, or a dark blue suit.  Brunette-A (as Usher so eloquently put it, she’s a lady on the streets but a freak in the bed) says piffle, you look so much more SERIOUS and PROFESHUNAL now.  Both are full of shit. 

That is more than enough about a change of hair colour, ffs.  No big deal, I tell myself.  Ha. 

Photos?  HA HA NO. I’m not that confident about it yet.  I’m already cacking my pants about whether it will match the dress/lipstick combo I chose for this weekend’s wedding festivities for my aunt. 

Tuesday, 19 February 2013

shop-window mannequin

Hilary Mantel smashed this one, in the London Review of Books, out of the park.  An excellent speech, terribly misinterpreted and twisted by the Daily Mail.  Gynaecological history and press scrutiny are beautifully eviscerated.  It’s not just the thesis but the fascinating content that compelled me (Henry VIII’s ulcerated leg; Prince Charles and a room full of stacked chairs; Diana’s crumpled wedding dress; the Queen and piles of kebab sticks.)

P bought me Bring Up the Bodies for our anniversary – I’m going to get my sticky mitts on Wolf Hall now, as having read this speech I suspect I’m going to enjoy Mantel’s writing very much.  Yeah, I’m sure she’s grateful for the praise from me, despite the validation from that whole Man Booker prize x 2 situation…I’m extremely late to the party, per usual.

Monday, 18 February 2013

physical and budgetary woe

Hunched over in the shower yesterday morning, I hardly bothered to wash as the pain in my skull intensified.  DRAMZ.  I had a headache.  It was bad enough to spend the day sleeping it off.  And that’s about as much drama as I am able to wring out of my own personal malady just at present. Usually it would be much, much more, no?

So, yes, I had a nice weekend and Monday morning was more awful than usual.


Houses! I looked at three of them! It would have been more, but P was horrifically hungover!  (Just hit all the usual hopeless-blog highlights [booze + where to live] right there).

P is not so enamoured of the cute nikau palm house.  I think it is adorable and I can see us living there.  So I have placed the auction in our calendar and we have some compromises to work out.  SRSLY though.  I heart it.  Even with it’s terrible lack of storage, weird third bedroom/living room situation, useless room upstairs, weird shaped section etc etc.  I think (I hope) the agent is way over-pitching the price but it’s a distinct possibility it’ll still sell for more than we can pay for it.  Watch this space. 

There was another wee (under budget even!) bungalow that I kinda dug, but it’s a no go.  Cross lease, non-compliant spa pool, wee section and a bit of work to do.  It made me laugh aloud with delight when we walked through though – not only had they filled up the bath tub and sink and floated wee flowers, but they had my extremely garish circa 2002 Warehouse duvet cover what was sort of batik and purple with bright pink flowers!  It’s still in the cupboard somewhere, if I’d known it was still such a fashion item I’d’ve have that back on my bed in a heartbeat!  Come to think of it, that’s probably what really turned P off the place.

House-the-third turned out to be out of budget.  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand that’s a housing wrap.  (Whew, says everyone, including me.)

Friday, 15 February 2013

if you don't want a nikau palm in your front yard, i'm afraid i can't help you

Dipshit.  SUCH a good word.  Use it in a sentence: “A is a dipshit because she demolished the contents of the bikkie container at 3pm, due solely to the fact she forgot to eat lunch”.

Anyway, f me, I’m freezing again.  After an airconditioning failure and some semitropical temps on the 21st floor early this week, I’m back to huddling over a cup of tea.  I neglected to bring a blazer with me today (black blazer where aaaaaaaaare yooooooooooooooou? I could have sworn you were in my work wardrobe what smells of grotty feety old work shoes) so I’m basically a giant iceblock. I’ve resorted to wearing my back-up suit jacket.  It’s grey and I purchased it at the very beginning of 2006 when I was just about to start my first post-uni job.  It has pleats at the back and an extremely ripped lining.  It’s time it was retired but I can’t give it up.  Don’t even speak to me about the skirt that goes with it – unflattering length, saggy bum and YET I still look at it, think of 2006-me and grin/cringe (gringe? That’s something else entirely).

That’s all a long-winded wind up to: FRIDAY.  THANK Sanitarium for that (can you tell I’m pleased that Marmite will be back on supermarket shelves near me c.20 March?). This weekend: Devonport Wine & Food fest! More House Hunting! That is all!

I’ve totally fallen in love again, on the papers.  There is this cah-ute place with a nikau palm out the front, walking distance to good buses or trains or even directly to work, should I choose.  Fringes of an excellent neighbourhood what knows it’s coffee.  Close to dumplings.  I WANTS IT.  I WANTS IT BAD.  Of course, it is also tiny with a terrible layout and no doubt 50 bazillion other issues but I don’t care about right now.  I just want this process over and done with.  Sometimes, I throw money at a problem in order to resolve it or resolve it faster (usually unsatisfactorily), but when you’re talking in tens of thousand dollars, which money won’t actually belong to you but to the bank and will have to be repaid avec interest (SEE? I told you I knew how mortgages work now) then it’s not really a good solution.  I’m all emotional about this. 

OK, so please excuse me now.  I have to go do sexy stuff like list my open-home schedule. 

Thursday, 14 February 2013

two strong hearts (that's a great song)

Happy Valentine’s Day, Lovers.  I hope you get all the smooching and romancing you desire. 

P turned up at home last night, drunk and bearing supermarket flowers and a bottle of wine.  He made me grin; that’s pretty much all a girl can ask for.  The yellow ‘mums are an outstanding, violent slash of colour in our neutral toned apartment.  We ate leftovers and pored over pictures of our new favourite home advertised online (haven’t seen it in the timber yet).  I went to bed because there was work tomorrow.  P stayed up a bit later because there was still wine left in glass.  How’s that for romance?  He makes me laugh. 

Wednesday, 13 February 2013


Other than attending a squillion open homes, I’ve been toodling around Auckland, enjoying summery weather. Auckland’s summer has mellowed – the humidity’s dropped off slightly, the nights and early mornings are now cool but the sunshine has remained, up until today.


 We farewelled my mother-in-law at a tasty meal on Friday night at Depot.  Lots of people have written about this wee joint; suffice to say, very very tasty.  Oh actually that doesn’t suffice at ALL – I’d forgotten about the oysters!  Anyone with an oyster aversion who otherwise likes shellfish would be well advised to try Tio Point oysters – pinkish, just slightly salt-watery and not at all globules of snot.  Delish.  On the way home, my brother-in-law was playing silly buggers and backed himself into a bus stop which nearly killed us all with laughter.  Unintentional slapstick shouldn’t be as funny as we found it, but post-wine it made me snort. 


OH NEW ZEALAND CRICKET.  I don’t hate you because you lost, Black Caps, I'm just.SO.disappointed.YET.AGAIN.  I didn’t enjoy the Twenty20 game as much as I ought, even considering the dismal result.  I won’t sit in the old Terraces at Eden Park again (how old does that make me!)  The guys seated behind us were funny at times, but also cringingly racist (to each other, as well as the donut sales guy and the security guard, and whoever else struck their fancy).  As it became more and more obvious that NZ was unlikely to win, the crowd became less engrossed in the game and, frankly, more irritating.  Eh.  I like the cricket better on the telly.  Great barbie with friends beforehand though and a sunset to remember!


My marriage turned 1 on Monday!  We were frantically organising auction bits and pieces so I disappointed my husband bitterly by wanting to just go home after work.  The lovely thing had bought me books and tickets to a play (One Man, Two Guvnors) because it was the paper anniversary.  I’d chunked it and forgotten to sort him anything.  Fucking hopeless.  I trust he’ll forgive me (um, tickets to Melbourne I’m still paying off on the sly anyone!?), but I felt really awful.  P is a gem. 

Tuesday, 12 February 2013


We didn't even bid.  It sold for $180k more than our upper limit...I think we might need to adjust our expectations.  SRSLY.

You cared deeply about that, didn't you?

Back to the drawing board.

Monday, 11 February 2013


my pants.  I'm about to leave for the auction.  This'll be anticlimactic!

a place to call my own, in the sun, etc

Back to ME ME ME and the house purchasing.  I instructed a Builder and a Lawyer today, which surely must be about as grown up a thing as it is possible to do outside major life events (babies, moving in with your partner etc).  One of my new professionals is inspecting the possible house, one is inspecting the papers.  It’s blowing my mind.  This time tomorrow, I could have bought a house (but not settled on the purchase. See? I know how it works now!).  Certainly this time tomorrow I’ll owe some people several hundred dollars for their professional services.  The last time I spent that much money on anything I sweated for weeks over the sheer EXTRAVAGANCE and now here I am, blithely throwing money around in the face of a seriously large mortgage. 

Of course, the odds that we’ll be successful at auction seem perishingly slim.  It’s very hard to gauge how much interest there is in the house.  I know at least one other prospective purchaser has had a building inspection; the agent seems to think that others have dragged their builders through.  Who knows?  They could have been massively turned off by its state of repair.  Sadly, I’ve fallen in love with the idea of it, even though:
  • It has at least two layers of peeling wallpaper;
  • There are visible signs of bora in some of the floorboards;
  • The window on the third bedroom doesn't close, due to it, um, what's the technical term? Falling apart;
  • There is SO. MUCH. GROSS. linoleum on the kitchen/bathroom/laundry floors;
  • No insulation or heating as far as I'm aware;
  • It's heinously expensive for a do-up; and
  • If we do buy it, we can't really afford to do it up.  So yeah, there's that.
BUT I LOVES IT, I DO.  I look at the pictures and for the first time in my young (cough) life I am possessed with desire to landscape.  Peel wallpaper.  Paint.  INSTALL SHELVING.  I want to move my furniture in there straight away (Um, I own two beds and a set of drawers.  Not exactly a houseload.  We’ll be squatting on the floor in the living room if we’re successful, believe you me). 

This is not 20s-me.  She was scornful of this sort of behaviour.  (She also wanted a cat though, we share that in common at the least.) 

AND - if we’re unsuccessful at our first auction, we do know this other great little place in Freeman’s Bay….

If I wasn’t property-obsessed before, I certainly am now. 

Friday, 8 February 2013


There is a man at my apartment building.  He says hello most mornings, averting the pattering hose, opening the door and waiting for a chance to chat. His mouth is at the ready to resume a conversation already begun.   

Sometimes I see him at the rubbish bin, genially approving of my flipping of cardboard into the large woolsack meant for CARDBOARD ONLY.  He chortles when I tip the rest of the recycling into a giant pile of glass and tin. 

He floats around the complex, spindly legs whirring and propelling his large motor around from point A to point B and back again.  He is in charge.  I think he likes it; but I bet he wishes we had more time for talk. 

My smalltalk is very small.  Rain?  Norain?  Sometimes it fails altogether, though I can always muster a smileandnod for the man at my apartment building.  I wonder what he takes care of that I don’t know about.  Is he secretly watering my rubber plant?  It seems unlikely.  Its leaves are sooty with exhaust.  Does he keep an eye on that window I leave ajar so that fresh air wends its way into my apartment and infiltrates the bedsheets?  He might; none of the cats have ever managed to get in, as far as I’m aware. 

I wonder if he speaks to Oscar, Burmese Prince of All He Surveys in our building?  I talk to Oscar more than the man at my apartment building.  Somehow its easier; Oscar does not care for my attention.  I am drawn to that which is not given lightly.  I am a cliché. 


So, I feel a little bit like a prize asshole and I've been avoiding you.  On Waitangi Day, I saw a "Racist Waitangi Bingo Card" that had been snarkily produced on twitter featuring all sorts of awful soundbites regarding Waitangi - that I won't reproduce, other than to say one of them was "Anzac Day is the real national holiday anyway".  I felt about *this* big when I saw that. 

Like a prize asshole, I'll try to defend myself.  My point was that Anzac Day helped shape our national consciousness in a way that perhaps Waitangi has not.  I don't mean to suggest it is or should be our national holiday.  Our nationhood has been defined by Waitangi; Ti Tiriti is our turangawaewae, in many respects.  It's just it's awfully touchy. 

You know what? I'm sorry I said it.  I'm sorry for being offensive.  I've thought the better of that sentiment and am appropriately ashamed.


So, as advertised, I had a rather good night on Tuesday.  Eh, I feel terrible and I can't muster up a chirpy recap so that'll do for the day. 

Happy weekend, all & sundry.  Promise I'll be better. 

Tuesday, 5 February 2013


Six February is a public holiday in New Zealand; Waitangi Day.  It’s the closest thing we have to an Australia Day or an Independence Day-type-deal, but instead it’s the anniversary of the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi, wherein sovereignty over New Zealand was ceded to the Crown.  It has a terrible shadow hanging over it - the Treaty is not a document of celebration, it has become a symbol of subjugation and resentment. 

Never fear, I am too ill-educated and ashamed of my colonial roots (my turangawaewae; place to stand) to get into a lengthy exposition on Ti Tiriti.  What I’m leading up to is that many New Zealanders don’t use the day as a chance to celebrate nationhood.  Instead, it is treated as a free day, devoid of particular meaning (much like the Queen’s Birthday holiday).  We tend to celebrate being Kiwi or our roots more on Anzac Day, 25 April.  That is the anniversary of the deployment of Australian and New Zealand forces on the ill-fated Gallipoli campaign in WWI, which ended largely in disaster but shaped our national consciousness.  I guess it’s sort of an equivalent to Memorial Day in the States.  Waitangi Day is in summer; we hit the beach, we bbq in the backyard, we fix our gardens/decks/cars.   

The 6th falls on a Wednesday this year.  Free day Wednesday = two Friday nights this week.  JUST ASKING FOR TROUBLE, BASICALLY.  I have friends from London in town, a boatload of work to avoid and some sunshine on the way.  A potent combo, you might say. 

Now that I think about it, it’s so odd that we’re a secular country that considers itself free and independent and yet we have public holidays for the Queen’s Bday (she’s still officially the head of state, I guess) and Easter (the baby Jeebus.  It’s not even a pagan/spring thing here – southern hemisphere autumn, ffs).  I think what we’re really about is a day off.  More public holidays, more of the time!

And that concludes the (half-assed and ill-expressed) Kiwi lesson today, boys and girls.  Day off = booze and loose behaviour, with a little greenthumb and DIY.  (You know I jest, right? - we New Zealanders are more diverse than that. Still, if the shoe fits...I'll wear it).   

Monday, 4 February 2013

places i have lived ii

To the serial work entitled ‘Places I Have Lived’, we add my current accommodation:
-       September 2012 to March 2013: The Two Bed Auckland Apartment in a Very Nice City Fringe Suburb with Excellent Brunch Next Door.  Where sadly, last night at 3am, there was a fire alarm in the middle of a downpour (NOT our fault this time, I hasten to add – but I did say to P “I wonder who left the prawns on the stove?”)  I managed to find time to put a bra on (?!) and to pick up an umbrella (saving the precious items in the event of a fire!) but also managed to open the umbrella into my eye in front of 90-odd other residents, huddling on the street.  When the alarm was finally declared false by the lovely fire service folks, I stumbled damply back to bed with a hand clutched piratically across my eye.  I’ve been EXTREMELY squinty today. 
We’re working on the next instalment at present.  Wow, looking to buy a property is a wonderfully awful experience.  If my life was a movie (and trust me, I think about my life being a movie/sitcom/reality show ALL THE TIME) it would have a horrendous tagline like:
‘Two people. One weekend. Eight open homes. Welcome to the Suburbs.’ 
There were god-knows how many pairs of jandals lined up at the door of every home we visited and just about every goddamn pair were brown/black/white havaianas -  we were all the same white-middle-class-upwardly-mobile-professional-types.  I didn’t have the grace to be ashamed; I just felt hot knives of resentment stabbing my innards.  Yup, I was classy enough to just want to beat all these people in the purchase-race and declare the good real estate MINE ALL MINE for the choosing.  Don’t worry, the hot knives of resentment have receded and have been replaced by the icy cold forks of shame and guilt.  Just be a better person, A.  Less competitive, hey?
I’ve become OBSESSED with the hunt.  It has taken over my brain, my conversation, my LIFE.  I expect it will also take over my blog.  Although, to be fair, I did find time to go to the basketball and get ridiculously fanged on beers this weekend so, you know, balance or whatever.  Go Breakers.   

Friday, 1 February 2013


Current bane of my existence: workplace air-conditioning.  It is twenty-something degrees outside, yet I’m sitting here in jeans (casual Friday!), top, blazer and full coverage shoes, shivering.  I’ve tried to get the building manager to turn it up but apparently the sensor in my office has a warped sense of humour and pushes it right back down again.  (Yes, privileged office professional first world woe.)

I don’t think I’m one of those too-cold girls.  I mean, last night I resented having to pull up the sheet to keep the mosquitoes off my tasty, prone carcass.  I adore an excuse to cuddle up under a rug on the couch but inevitably push it off, sticky, clammy and overheated.  So no, I don’t think the problem is mine (certainly its mine in that I am currently too cold; but not mine in that I am not the source). 
On re-reading that first paragraph, I had a vision of an equestrienne attired woman in the workplace.  Rest assured, you did read 'jeans' and not 'jodphurs', and there is no helmet topping my blazer combo.  Though, to be sure, there are small shoulder pads in the's not an 80s throwback thing, I swears it -- more a Looking-Less-Round-Shouldered-Technique.  Us statuesque women (those over say 5'8 or 5'9) can pull off the blazer look, I promise.  Oh for fuckssakes, I probably can't pull it off but I don't care.  It's warm.
And speaking of office attire...I saw three colleagues this morning before the fourth pointed out I was wearing entirely different shoes.  A grey suede wedge on one foot, black leather pump on the other.  When I arrived in the office this morning, I kicked off my jandals and slipped my feet into shoes under the desk without looking.  HOPELESS.  I'm still not sure if any of the others actually noticed and just thought I was crazy, or whether they were still in need of caffeine and therefore incapable of picking up on detail. 
Wearing two different shoes feels a bit like that usual romcom/teen novel trope, doesn't it?  You know, the one where the otherwise smart, lovely and likeable heroine is clumsy and/or scatterbrained about everyday life.  Except let me just be clear: two shoes in two different colours, styles and heights?  That's just goddamned useless, that's what that is.  Trust me, it's not a  quirky-yet-endearing character flaw.  It's just obliviousness. 

I’m generating a little heat snickering at this: my thing of the day for you.  Good God, Lemon!

It's my mother's birthday today.  Happy birthday, Mumble dear.  Many happy returns.