I was in Christchurch last week, alternatively squinting as the sun beat down on me through the windows of various meeting rooms or pushing back my hair as the wind blew a gale when I managed to escape outside. It's been a disappointing spring, really. Gusty, drizzly, grey. I shouldn't complain - in the two years since we returned to New Zealand, the seasons have outdone themselves. Aucklanders grow to expect six weeks of rain during spring, standard so there's nothing new with what we've been experiencing to date. It's just that springtime elsewhere seems to have bright days (notable exception: London, Spring 2012, miseryfest).
In the past two weeks, the humidity has finally arrived. Sensing it was going to take even more of a beating than usual, my GHDs promptly gave up the ghost and are lying abandoned on a shelf in the bathroom. I've been using horrific amounts of hairspray and plastering my bob back into a weird little pony tail. It's gross. GHD's are GD expensive, the bastards, and have a life of about two years. I've been through three sets now which is an obscene amount of money on a hair implement. My vanity knows no bounds.
We had patches of sunshine at the beach this weekend, though the wind was still there. We escaped to the Coromandel for a night, though I'm not sure it qualified as relaxing. The last half hour of the drive left me contemplating whether I would, for the first time in my life, actually require P to pull over. The alternative being that I threw up in the door handle, as did a poor British woman on our tour in Rajasthan. I managed to keep it together, but spent some time afterwards laying prone either on the beach or on the window seat of the bach in Whangamata, letting the heaves settle. There's sand in my cardigan but it was worth it.