piffle, neatly listed

Why hello blog, you look all LONELY and NEGLECTED.  Let me solve that for you!

OK, so.  Here's what's been happening in my life recently: about a quarter of Not Much. 

Oh no, wait, I have THRILLING updates:

1. I cut more hair off.  It was a mistake.  You know how minature ponies/Shetlands have those shaggy little tails (so cute) that are a bit frizzy all the way down the edges?  My ponytail looks like that but more stunted and it sticks straight out the back of my head (not cute).  But, my drying time has dropped, so there's that.  My hairdresser is Irish and every single thing she says (that I understand) sounds impossibly fun, including getting all snippy on my mane.  Hence, three more inches and a boofhead. 
2. We are still painting.  OF COURSE we are still painting.  How can ONE ROOM take so long?  (oh right, tea breaks, followed by booze breaks.  Liquid ingestibles (comestibles?) are my Achilles heel).  I do like the paint smell, so at least that's not an issue (I also like the smell of whiteboard markers.  Yes, I ate glue and playdoh as a child.)
3. Spring! Is! Here!
4. Lawyering and, you know, having to bring home the pinger to pay for paint by the boatload continues to be the bane of my existence.  I need to win Lotto, stat.  However, I don't have a ticket ever, so that's a problem.
5. Speaking of Lotto tickets, I picked up two tickets plus some scratchies and cards at Whitcoulls today in advance of Fathers' Day.  One for my dad, one for my father-in-law.  M, who was with me at the time, asked whether one Dad would be mad if the other one won (too many ones/won, sorry).  I felt hellishly guilty because what I'd been worried about was whether either of them would share with me if they won.  I am a wonderful person. 
6. AND THEN, GET THIS, one of the Fathers' Day cards cost $12!!!  I didn't realise until looking at my receipt after the fact and CHEEEEEESUS how can a greeting card cost that much money?! 
7. Wow, this post is crap.  Never mind, will try again later.

an enthralling retelling of my weekend

It is Monday and what do you know?  It does get better.  Leaving the kittens today was easier as they now have the run of the house and Tabitha's eye no longer gets sealed shut.  She's much better, thanks for asking.  Timothy is now a little sneezy and is also on the antibiotics.

That's basically what I did this weekend, by the by.  Spent quality time with my kittens, introducing them to the great outdoors and snuggling with them in the morning.  I woke up from a doze on Saturday morning to find Timothy asleep in the crook of my arm and Tabitha on my chest, little furry face pressed up against mine. 

[Don't you worry that P has been relegated to the bottom of the pack; he's loving it and is by no means at the bottom of the pecking order.  I mean, he has purchased and is in charge of doling out the cat treats.]

In other non-cat news, we went to the Big Day Out on Friday.  I am really not feeling into a recap or dissection of the day, so in brief: Ladi 6, awesome (J + I agreed, v. sexy), Pearl Jam, nostalgic, Major Lazer, insane + hilarious, Arcade Fire, glittery etc etc etc.  There were a lot of queues which took the shine off a bit, and I felt a wee bit old for it all at points, sad to say.  But then again, I hope I never get over standing under the stars in a press of people, singing my heart out to songs I've loved for years because that bit was truly awesome. 

Given Friday's excesses, most of the weekend was sort of recovery-ish.  We did a spot of gardening, ate brunch (Salta on the Three Lamps end of Ponsonby Road, highly recommended btw.  I mean, the barista complimented my t-shirt! Given I looked like a sack of crap - said t-shirt was a nasty reminder of Christmas weight - I was simultaneously beyond thrilled and a little suspicious of the compliment), hung with my sister watching cricket.  Quite nice, really.

this is not a real post

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORK.  It's what's for dinner just now.

(not werk)

(am I using that right? probably not)

So, I am aware that some of you sneaky readers know me from my real, unembellished life!  OUT YOURSELVES IN THE COMMENTS SECTION PLZ.  Validate my online existence! 

Plz to keep all fingers and toes crossed for me on Sunday, as contingent on a thing what will happen (or not) on Sunday, I may be living and breathing work for all of August in Christchurch.  I'd really rather not do that.  What I would like to do instead in August is noodle around Auckland and find somewhere selling gluhwein. 

OH YES, I AM VERY INVESTED IN DROWNING MY SORROWS IN A VAT OF HARD LIQUOR THIS EVENING.  IF I AM NOT WORKING. AND IF I AM WORKING, MAYBE EVEN THEN. 

Can you tell I'm basically the world's laziest person what is also liquor dependant?  Thought so. 

edumacation

Hallo, have been AWOL, work + insurance + post redirection + power + inspections (oh mi gawd it was still awesome even if the current owners' cat litter smelled a little...funky) + interest rates + you don't really care, do you? 

Things what I have learned this week:

• My boots aren't as waterproof as I originally believed (damn you Jones the Bootmaker).  However, they make satisfying squelchy noises.
• My umbrella (pilfered from my brother in law, possibly - I found it in the back of our car) is useless (karma?  Probably)
• Auckland's definition of a seriously cold winter is laughable, but the breeze coming in my office window on the 21st floor is a disturbing wretch, tickling the sides of my neck.
• My husband's version of sleep talk/walk can only be batted off with a firm slap in the chest (last night, he was insisting on tickling me and cackling in a way I've never heard before.  After I pushed him off with a slap, he knocked the lamp into the bed and was surprised to find it there several hours later.  He remembers neither of those episodes this morning.)
• If you think you don't NEED the Milky Bar but you WANT the Milky Bar you will REGRET the Milky Bar
• $50 high heels will scuff on the first wear, badly.  That is why you should spend more than $50 (don't worry, I'm taking them back and will no doubt replace them with...another $50 pair.)
• Don't scratch it.  Just, don't. OK?
• New tights are the business.
• Mums are the best. 

That is all.

hopeless, episode 103:

Oh, I know I'm a non-blogging asshole.

HERE IS A PICTURE FOR YOU CONTENT BE DAMNED:

OUT MY OFFICE WINDOW THIS AM.  IF I WERE A BETTER PHOTOG, YOU'D SEE THE HARBOUR BRIDGE.  WAS SUNNY FOR A BIT. YAY.

Work.  Busy.  Lazy.  Homeless.  (Still.) 

That's right, nothing new here.  Tis the opening game of the All Blacks' season this weekend, so the beersies are at ours (seen the 'no more beersies for you' ad, Kiwis? Golden, love it.  No you can't have a link, I'm too lazy to find it.  You're probably not too lazy to google it.).  I think I'm going to go all gour-may on our guests and provide them with reduced cream dip and cheerios, maybe a saus in bread with sauce and onions, if they're really lucky.  That's some excellent Kiwi hospitality right there.  I WILL KEEP THE BEERS COLD WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT OF ME? OH ALL RIGHT I WILL OPEN THEM FOR YOU TOO.  Bugger me, I'm a top notch sort of a wife.  Will prob talk through the game though, don't ask for too much.

lather me up

I am slowly, inexorably, being sucked under by a rip tide of paper waves.  The filing crests over me, the electronic print outs dwelling in the undertow drag me down. 

The waste of paper in my day to day existence makes me feel ill.  Aside from work, I don't think I chew too many trees, aside from the veritable mountain of crap that filters through the post box each day.  We live in a complex that junk-mail posters find difficult to access, so the pizza leaflets have slowed, but the furrows in my brow deepen every time I open the box to see yet another statement from the bank (but you didn't tell us you wanted e-statements on your credit card, they say.  Can't you take it as read, given I've asked for no paper for every other account?)  My furrows do not need another reason to deepen.

As it turns out, that's about all I can muster up on the topic of paper wastage this evening.  I just can't take it to the next tortured metaphor today.  S'really unusual when I can't lather myself into a good rant/whinge (though frankly, someone else can probably do a paper wastage blog better, you know, with stats and sources and stuff).  On the scale of Gives A Shit, you can locate me somewhere closer to Marginal Apathy than Mildly Outraged, I guess (feel free to illustrate the rest of that scale yourself, I've just enjoyed a satisfying five minutes marking intervals such as "Utter Panic", which comes slightly to the left of "All Consuming Rage" but well to the right of "I'm Not Sure What You're On About But I'll Feign Interest").

Indicative of a lapse into that whole seasonal affective situation?  A lack of daylight hours does allow me to indulge in a spot of melancholy, but it's not too bad as yet (in case you were wondering).  I get outside during sunlight hours enough in Aucks enough to counteract that, c.f. London, where an ever-darkening grey haze at 3.30pm used to turn me braindead. 

Nope, just general moping, I suppose.  Te karere, I hear you ask?  Um, well, the news is that there is no news.  I am busy in the practice of existing day to day and wondering what I'll eat for dinner tonight. 

WAIT. STOP PRESS.  I DISCOVERED MOULD IN MY VEGEMITE THIS MORNING.  That, right there, is some momentous shit that I can get righteously angry about (sorry world+our environment, today's just a selfish kind of a day, I guess.) WHICH OF YOU MUPPETS DIDN'T SCREW THE LID ON PROPERLY?? (I'm looking at you, P). That could have legitimately ruined my Vogels, lovingly toasted to medium brown. 

I think I'll give it up there.

the end of may is nigh

It is now almost completely dark by 5.30.  This happens every year and yet it is still a surprise to me, sneaking up to slide a hand over my shoulder and shield my eyes from the sun.

With the onset of wintry weather, poor old P is lurching from bed to couch to work (if he must) to couch to bed again.  I think there may be the occasional shower in his programme, but I cannot vouch for frequency, sadly.  He has savoured lozenges like each suck might be the last soothing respite his throat ever experiences.  Last night, he derived a great deal of entertainment from the novelty game I'd brought him: which is the better brand of aloe vera tissue?  You should be aware that Kleenex carried the day - greater number of tissues per box, three ply, "squishy", plush (major negative: eyewateringly expensive.)  That he spent that much time on a tissue comparison is a telling sign of ennui.

Later that night, he announced:

You know, I watched 15 episodes of tv and Skyfall at least one (possibly twice for the good bits) and I DIDN'T ENJOY MYSELF AT ALL.

I had pity for him, then he tried to bait me by uttering with some serious side-eye, as he tossed another tissue:

Do you think that if we consume more paper they'll just devote more landspace to planting trees?

My eyes almost rolled out of the back of my head and I nastily remarked something about his gunked up face. 

So, I am still being worky and hitting keys at a rapid rate of knots, drafting endless task lists and achieving a good amount of fuck all.  I am also busy being Nurse Florence Nightingale, a task to which I am singularly ill-suited.  I feel pity for the ill, but I loathe illness in my house.  I find it difficult to bear through the nose blowings and "d'y'know if we have any more Nite'n'Day?" type conversations (actually, I loathe the latter conversation irrespective of illness - "Do you know where/if we have...?" is the sentence starter that drives me out of my mind because WHAT THE FUCK AM I, SOME KIND OF HOUSEHOLD DIRECTORY? Even though part of me knows it may just be quicker for the person to ask and it doesn't cost me anything to say yes/no/in the drawer where every miscellaneous thing goes to die it still drives me bananas).  I am fundamentally lazy + selfish and I wish I could find it in myself not to get so frustrated with Sick P. 

Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm still filling orders for tissues/ice cream/meals AND I even picked up a bag of crumpled tissues without complaint, but I'm afraid it's hard to conceal the distaste in my eyes. 

I do love him, I promise.

gotta get down on friday

I ran! Again! 3k this time...could have gone further, faster but this little heffalump is taking it slow so that the phantom knee lump problem doesn't rear it's knobbly bits and make me feel sore.  See also: lazy. 

Only another 18k on top of that and I've totally run a half marathon.  Oh yeah, and add some hills (this was all on the flat).  Good thing I've got six months to go, my dears.  I am unbelievably out of shape. 

Wrote this run down to keep accountable.  Sigh.

I've been avoiding the blog a little / writing about my knickers in order to try and avoid the house-thing a bit.  Totally got it wrong with the last one (fuck the acronym).  Went for more than $160k over valuation.  This was for a variety of reasons, I suppose, but I didn't see it coming until we arrived at the auction venue.  We ran into N there, a friend of a sister of a friend (oh yes, AKL is that small).  We first met N at one of the last disastrous auctions, where he bid (we thought) hugely over the odds for the place.  He was unsuccessful on that occasion.  This was the second auction he's attended and it was immediately apparent he didn't intend to lose this one.  We congratulated him afterwards (tinged only slightly with bitterness); it's a lovely property and I'm thrilled for him, truly.  Just a bit green with envy. 

So, retrench: this weekend, we're looking in such lovely locales as Ellerslie.  Ellerslie sports a train station (tick for Ellerslie), is near the race course, has excellent motorway access and fuck all else, it seems to me.  All y'all Ellerslie-lovers please come to the party and give me the down low on what's good here.  Oh I know, what a privileged wee rant.

by rote

Hallo sailors.  I am here and it is Monday and what is wonderful about that?  We've had rain!  The drought is (sort of) broken, and we're back to standard Auckland humidity (frizz, sweat, panting, window-scraping and the other assorted side effects of humidity are back too, of course).

Weekend was good. Yup.  Spent some time with Hat Friend which was a blast - she makes me laugh - and, you guessed it, went house hunting.  Had a great skype call with a friend in London.  If you ignore all the driving from A to B to C and back to A, then C, B, B, A (of course all the open homes near one another are not grouped in a nice consecutive viewing order), it was a lovely weekend, really. 

Ate terribly this weekend; consider this the start of a health kick, boys and girls.  To ease myself back into good habits, last night's dinner was a hefty iceberg salad, roast pumpkin and a little bit of rump steak, thinly sliced.  Heaven, when you've been living on carbs and cheese and grease. 

Phoning it in with some pictures instead:

THE START OF GLORIOUS AUTUMN MORNINGS

FIRST RAINDROPS FOR THE YEAR.  I DON'T COUNT THAT NIGHT OF THE FIRE ALARM (3AM ON A MONDAY MORNING).  THAT DAY IS DEAD TO ME.  DEAD, D'YOU HEAR?

grumbly

This weekend’s edition of “What I Did” is entirely fucking boring, sorry to say.  I went to an open home, cursed at the expense in combination with the location (who wants to live in the suburban wops and still pay trillions for the pleasure?  Not me, that’s who.)  Internet research on housing somewhere on the isthmus, family time, followed by a quiet Sunday.  Oh yeah, and I did things with bleach again that seared my nostril linings, destroyed my fingernails but also got rid of the red mould in the shower (like you’ve never had red mould before.  Well, I hope you have; otherwise I’ll feel like a complete scumbucket won’t I?!)

If a woman cleans her bathroom, does she HAVE to post it on her blog for validation?  At this rate of posting you’re going to know the finer details of my cleaning schedule so I’ll just announce it: there is no schedule.  I do it when someone’s coming to visit or when I get disgusted.  I have an embarrassingly high tolerance for filth, apparently, and YET I am also needy for validation. 

My life: do you want it?

I need to bulk order asphalt

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions then I think that at least 28% of those paving stones, on what must surely be a VERY long road, have been placed there by me.

[The rest? 50% people making political promises, 13% people embarking on a new healthy lifestyle involving diet and exercise, 9% people buying recyclable tampons because that's a good intention that will end up in a bad place if ever I heard one.]

[Jeebers that's a terrible pun.  I wholeheartedly apologise - but not enough to delete it, apparently.] 

Why is it that I am so entranced by new beginnings and the opportunities they offer to do a great job?  Why can't I just finish what's in front of me? It's not that I think that I'm genetically incapable of finishing a task:

• 50% of my genetic material comes from a certain someone who likes the beginning of a task and the big picture, feels ambivalent about all the tiny detail of the execution but does it anyway. 
• The other 50% arrived from a certain someone else who will weed the garden until there are NO MOAR WEEDZ with singleminded devotion.  

I'm frankly pissed that my synapses don't fire in the same way. (Is that a correct use of synapse?  I'm too lazy to look up the proper definition or scientific explanation and use it correctly - is that not the essence of what I'm talking about here?!) 
I start out so well…and then I put things down/rush them /start something else.  I suspect it's some kind of fundamental laziness.  That, right there, is a character flaw I'm glad I'm only admitting in this semi-anonymous place inside my computer; too shameful to admit in person.

It's a good thing that I'm an ambivalent atheist, bearing this probable singlehanded paving of the road to hell in mind.  Have no doubt, the first few paving stones on that road will have been properly laid but then I will have cut corners because damn, paving is HARD, so it will be a road on which you either stub your toe or get a flat both of which SUCK but would be low-level appropriate given it's the road to ETERNAL DAMNATION. 

Ambivalent atheism, in case you were wondering, which you probably weren't, is the school of "CONTEMPLATE THE EXISTENCE OF A HIGHER BEING? MEH, TOO HARD.  ANOTHER EPISODE OF THE BACHELOR PLZ" that I tend to follow.  P reads Richard Dawkins and thinks about faith before wishing to have a discussion with me.  That's when I'm all "I went to church one time with a friend when I was 8 and got really cross because (a) they wouldn't feed me the cracker and drink everyone else was getting and (b) I didn't know what was going on and felt SO LEFT OUT", at which P sighs and saves his metaphysical conversation for someone who has an adult opinion. 

It's all very insightful to recognise one's faults in oneself but what good does it do if one does not get off one's chuff and change one's sloppy ways?  Let's revert to first person because third person is annoying: I cannot keep promising myself that I'll get there next time.  Work habits, life habits; in all seriousness, I need to check my attitude and follow through. 

Just get on with things.

Things I'm avoiding by writing this post making light of my character flaws. Which I take seriously but cannot resist mocking because that's how we do, in my family.  But we don't usually say 'how we do'.  It does not sound natural coming from the mouths of middle-class New Zealanders, somehow. 

Let's just say that I'm a work in progress. 

bordeaux

I am a new woman.  Thanks to the Bank Holiday weekend I have acquired a pink nose, the beginnings of a tan, a cheese-and-bread tummy-pooch and a truckload of very nice wine.  All of these things have done wonders for my attitude (though the pooch is problematic in relation to future bikini-exposure.  I suspect Summer 2012 will always be The Summer I Should Have Tried Harder to Curb Carbs).

VINES AT CHATEAU FONPLEGADE, JUST OUTSIDE ST EMILION.  SKY BORDEAUX'S OWN. 

Together with 15 others, I schlepped over to Bordeaux this weekend.  SUCH A PUNISHMENT.  We hired a converted watermill near Bergerac for the weekend's accomodation; luxury.  It had a wonderful, rustic kitchen with open fires and so many bedrooms - plus a pool!

SOME OF THE DAMAGE.  TASTY, TASTY BORDEAUX BLENDS.  WE WERE WINE-SNOBBING IT UP BY THE END OF THE LONG WEEKEND.  IT WAS RIDICULOUS, HILARIOUS AND DELICIOUS.

Work tried very hard to ruin the weekend: I missed the flight everyone else took on Friday.  I vividly recall watching the clock hit 3.15 for takeoff, still stuck in a Courtroom on terribly hard benches with a numb bum and sweaty palms (but it worked out alright in the end workwise, thank the baby Jebus!).  Having foreseen the potential for this calamity, I had arranged an alternative flight the following day, but it involved a bit of transport drama:

• Taxi to Paddington (approx 20 mins)
• Waiting on the platform FREEZING cold, inhaling tea (15 mins)
• Train Paddington to Bristol Temple Meads Station (1 hour 39 mins)
• Bus from Bristol Temple Meads to Bristol International Airport (20 mins)
• Going through the standard airport palaver including a detailed conversation about some All Blacks from the 60s with a nice man who was testing my shampoo to ensure it wasn't drugs or explosives (approx 1 hour and 30 minutes)
• Extremely embarrassing incident in the Ryanair passport check queue involving stuffing my carry-on with my handbag then breaking the zip, trying to ram the carry-on into the bag size check thingo and failing miserably, losing a bunch of toiletries out of the open zip, a line full of people actively wishing bad karma on me for delaying the orderly procession of the queue, a frustrated but fairly calm staff member finally waving me by just to get me out of her hair and unexpected commiseration from a fellow queuer who had been in a similar position herself once, with her undies falling out of her bag (10 mins)
• Flight to Bergerac (1 hour 15 minutes)
• Rental car to the home base (approx 40 minutes)
• Time spent driving on the wrong side of the road (approx 2 minutes THANK GOD I didn't run into any oncoming traffic)

REALLY CRAP MANICURE: 30 SWEARY MINUTES AND ABOUT 50 BAZILLION BUMPS ON THE TRACKS.

DO NOT UNDERTAKE A MANICURE ON THE TRAIN.  ESPECIALLY IF YOU LACK COORDINATION.  I REALLY DON'T KNOW WHY I THOUGHT THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA. 

Etc, etc - all the associated waiting time.  I left the house at 7.15 am GMT and rolled into the driveway of the Watermill at 3.30pm Frenchy Time (GMT+1?).  But you know what?  For all that, it was a pretty good day. I always get a sense of achievement from travel, bizarrely.  It's the first time I've hired a rental car by myself; the first time I've driven on the right-hand-side by myself.  I got to see Bath, Bristol and some of the West Country out the windows of bus and train.  Until the others arrived home at the Watermill, I sat out on the wisteria covered outdoor area, reading a book and nibbling cheese, bread and tomato.  I think that qualifies as pretty damn good. 

Digression: I was reading a blog the other day that suggested that it's funny how the discomfort always ends up being the part of the story you focus on after the fact and I guess that's right.  I think travel, discomfort and disaster go hand-in-hand and usually end up being the stories that are recalled.  Maybe because it's the shared part of the experience with readers/listeners?  Most people can relate to a bus that doesn't arrive on time, or a bag gone missing and so on.

Anyway - on to bigger and better reminiscences about the weekend.  Even though Europe appears to be having a wet spring all round, Bordeaux came to the party.  Yesterday we had temperatures in the mid 20s, enough to singe most of us around the edges and allow for swimming and backyard cricket.  Bliss.  We went wine tasting at several amazing spots; savouring the experience, the flavour and the aroma of various Bordeaux blends.  We wandered through St Emilion and stopped at every possible boulangerie or patisserie we saw on the roadside.  We cooked up a storm: duck one night, lapin the next.  We broke the cardinal rule of drinking and frying, but the meals were absolutely delicious, eaten around a table big enough for us all with a blazing open fire and windows open to the moonlight (indulgent in the extreme).  We followed up with dancing into the wee hours, midnight swims, and some serious rumbles over early bedtimes. 

VIEW FROM CHATEAU FONPLEGADE.  HONESTLY, I AM SUCH A LUCKY GIRL.

weathering the drought

Once again, I apparently do not care enough to conceive of and write something meaningful.  This is becoming a whingefest of pathetic proportions. 

Today's complaint relates to this drought we're having.  In London, buses and bus shelters are plastered with posters requiring us to conserve water.  The reservoirs are empty in the South, we are told.  This may, at least in part, have been because winter looked like this:

I SAW THE FIRST DAFFODIL BUDS THAT DAY

And yet, AND YET, my commute today looked like this:

TERRIBLE PICTURE: CAPTURES THE MOOD THOUGH.  1 MAY 2012, WOULD YOU HAVE BELIEVED IT?

My commute has been a wet, drizzly bonesoak, occasionally featuring proper downpours, for the last three weeks at the least.  Vanity aside (MY POOR HAIR), the rain was not unpleasant to start - it made the spring colours more vibrant; every shade of green imaginable amplified by droplets, viewed against a grey backdrop. 

However, the grey has lingered and worked itself into my bone structure, my cells are sodden with apathy.  I'm beginning to view the rain as a virus as the previously green leaves start to spot a sickly yellow with mildew and the aluminium window frames sweat damply with condensation. 

Not-long, not-long, squeak the soles of the boots re-earthed from the 'will no longer need it now winter's over' pile.  They're right, I know.   

The only hints of glee in the situation are the faces of the British as they discuss the weather over a steaming mug of tea.  Nothing more satisfying than the possibility of a washed out summer and how wrong the Beeb was about the drought (conspiracy theories abound: saving water for the Olympic pool?).  The joys of weather dissection; I am now able to use comparative reasoning (Spring '10 was fantastic but early Spring '11? Left a lot to be desired) and can splice my seasoned opinion into a weather discussion without being an obvious outsider. 

death plunge

I'm still in a blue funk at work, team.  Hence, I'm giving the blog the short shrift and devoting any spare minutes to analysing that god-awful prickly scalp feeling I'm experiencing as a result of nervousness and stress (big thing happening later this week that I won't tell you about because it's both confidential and boring - a combo I never thought I'd meet).  Been closely considering my prickly, queasy tummy too.  I hope that some of you can relate, as it is always nice to feel (a) that you're not alone; (b) that someone else has made mistakes before you and someone else will make mistakes after you; and (c) that this, too, shall pass as it has for many others. 

The shower-steam countdown continues.  33 working days my calculations on the shower door told me this morning.  21 June cannot come fast enough.

THIS WAS TAKEN BACK IN MARCH, OF COURSE.  WHEN THE WEATHER WAS ACTUALLY REASONABLE, NICE EVEN

ANYWAY: one of the highlights of this weekend was briefly dropping into the White Cube.  I got all disturbed and icky feeling by the Gilbert & George London Pictures.

GILBERT & GEORGE, 'LONDON PICTURES' (2011), SOUTH GALLERIES, WHITE CUBE BERMONDSEY. VIA

That's a taster - the London Pictures was an enormous collation of headlines, featuring repeated words and phrases.   Extremely confronting as we walked into the White Cube's South Galleries.  In particular, I found myself stuck on the usage of the phrase "death plunge".  Who knew that there were many headlines featuring "death plunge"? 

I'm still experiencing an active, offensive recognition that I was drawn to the overuse of "death plunge" and it's probably exactly the sort of macabre headline that would draw me into a shoddy, voyeuristic Metro or Daily Mail article. 

Another piece currently showing in the gallery:

LIU WEI, 'UNTITLED' (2011) VIA

Honestly, a sculpture made from paperbacks?  Loved it.  Loved it.  It has a very distinct feeling of sinking and *almost* horror but it also made me exclaim with delight when I worked out the medium.  I wanted so badly to touch it, to explore the cityscape. 

Full disclaimer: I know nothing about art so this is a blind ramble.  Sometimes a quick visit to a gallery or a museum can leave me cold, but I did particularly like this piece and felt strongly about the other, so you get my wee bleatings about it.  I've been promising myself I'll do this more often. The checking out art, that is.  Not the bleating. 

And a final side note on the theme of local representative art: Mayoral elections in London this week.  Someone in my neighbourhood expressed an artistic timely reminder (of sorts) on freshly painted hoarding:

'BORIS MADE ME DO THIS...'.  FOR NON-LONDONER TYPES, BORIS JOHNSON IS THE INCUMBENT CANDIDATE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING A BIT OF HEAT OVER HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH OL' RUPERT MURDOCH.  TOO LEGIT TO QUIT THOUGH, HE SAYS (I MAY BE PARAPHRASING)

maintenance

I think its about time I tackled some of the big issues again.

FLOSSING: WHAT IS YOUR STANCE?

(a) I do it religiously day and night.  I am an effing DECAY NAZI and you will see nary a stray grain in the wholesome gaps between my teeth.

(b) Never. Flossing is for pussies.

(c) Meh…when I remember and then sometimes it hurts.

Yeah, I'm category (c).  Generally hopeless; not even taking a stand for or against flossing.  I know it's good for me but it seems that I'm incapable of making it a part of my morning routine (which, btw, is fixed in STONE because I'm absolutely godawful for AT LEAST an hour after I wake up.  Seriously, I need shower, clothes, tea, cereal with the right kind of yoghurt and a not-too-ripe banana before I'm good for anything and WOE betide if I appear to be slipping on the meticulously planned timings (example "JESUS H CHRIST IT'S 8.03 AND I HAVEN'T STARTED THE HAIRDRYER")). 

EYEBROWS: WHAT IS AN ACCEPTABLE MAINTENANCE SCHEDULE?

(a) Once a month like clockwork at the salon's waxer/threader/personal eyebrow grooming assistant du jour.

(b) Never.  Nature gave me these bad boys to keep shit out of my eyes so I ain't messing with them.

(c) When I remember I go into the salon and get them done or, more often, when I pick up the tweezers and give them a go as I'm passing by the mirror.

Yep, (c) for the win.  Which is why I have two eyebrows of slightly differing thickness and evenness, a regrowth problem and a ring of small blondy-browny lashes on the edge of my sink.  I am so ATTRACTIVE at the best of times.  

HERE IS AN EXTREMELY FREAKY REAL-TIME PICTURE OF MY LEFT EYEBROW IN ALL IT'S HAIRY GLORY.  EWWWWWWWWWW THE SITUATION IS WORSE THAN I THOUGHT.
AS ARE MY REVOLTING WORK GLASSES.
JESUS H I AM GIVING YOU ME: THE UNADULTERATED VERSION TODAY

Ack, just realised that this makes me sound like an ENORMOUS personal grooming slob but I trust it will help if I say that I shower daily, wear deodorant, keep my nails in check and clean my ears often?  Flossing and eyebrow maintenance (or lack thereof) just struck me as I looked in the mirror this morning…am I the only grimy cow around here?  Quite possibly.

hkg: another great place. srsly.

OH YEAH, HONG KONG HAPPENED earlier this year. 

Far out, you guys.  Hong Kong. 

I think I was pretty wiped after the emotionalstravaganza of the wedding and saying goodbye to family and friends in the days following.  I mean, I do thrive on a bit of drama and attention but I would not characterise myself as someone in touch with her feelings generally, and I certainly don't do a shit-ton of navel gazing regarding my familial relationships.  The wedding forced quite a bit of that (in a good way!  good way!) but it left me feeling drained.  And then I got on a plane for 11 hours and arrived in Hong Kong.  My mind got blown.

P had sorted out how we were going to get into town and to our hotel prior to our arrival.  Normally we roll out of customs, work out if a bus will be OK and then fight over how to best get to our destination.  This time P knew which bus we should be taking and where we should get off, so arrival wasn't too stressful.  It was early morning, so not much was happening in the streets.  It was exciting seeing high rises from the moment we hit the road on Lantau - and seeing a lot more green space than we'd expected.  Hillsides, covered in green. 

We dropped our bags at the hotel, and scarpered to a Tea House, recommended to us by one Tony Bourdain, P's personal hero.  Hardly a personal recommendation, if you're familiar with Mr Bourdain, but we take his advice and I can't recall ever being disappointed. 

VIA.  SITE OF DELECTABLE TREATS.

The Tea House was awesome.  Clinking, yelling, competition for the best steamed goodies as they rolled out of the kitchen.  We sat with a couple of older men and a younger guy with a giant roll of carpet (who we later recognised encamped in the bottom of the HSBC building as part of Occupy Hong Kong).  After a fabulous but somewhat meaty meal (I always feel that way after dim sum/yum cha - maybe its because I prefer the dumpling goodies to the steamed veg…) we rolled back onto the street and OMG town had WOKEN UP. 

People everywhere, slurping bowls of congee (tried and didn't mind it, but don't think I could handle a rice based breakfast every day), doing their own thing on the streets (unlike NYC, where people tend to move at the same fast pace in the same direction, the HK crowd go at their own pace their own way), talking talking talking!  I was struck by how much talking was going down.  We soaked in the vibe and tried to get our bearings.

That afternoon's activity was a trip to the New Territories to visit a BBQ restaurant and a local market.  The local market was fascinating.  Actually, you could probably categorise most of Hong Kong that way for me.  Different everything: odours, sights, sounds - every travel cliché you can think of, plz to apply here.  I was compelled by the frogs in baskets and fingers being poked into everything to check the freshness.  The H1N1 posters on the wall (advice on handwashing and containment, I think) were mildly disconcerting (particularly given I'd watched Contagion on the plane) but it was a great experience. 

I could probably talk for hours on end about the gloriousness of the roast goose with noodle soup.  Unbelievable.  But I won't because that's obnoxious and I do too much food-porny crap on here anyway.  So that pretty much cuts short the rest of my HK recollections - I ate more things, saw more things, overloaded my senses.  But I didn't shop at all this trip; too short, too much to eat, too wearing on P's patience.  Astounded at my self-control, frankly. 

I'll have to go back.  Definitely. 

[PS Inclusion of photos recently has been lacking, I know.  More to come hopefully, and I'll work on the quality, I promise!]

[PPS Inclusion of quality writing might be quite nice too, I'm sure.  I've just re-read this again and it's sadly lacking but OH WELL THEM'S THE BREAKS.  Totes lazy round these parts...a work in progress].