slightly sozzled, I said yes

Have I never told you "My Engagement Story"?

(Capitals and "Quotes" and Sarcasm are a Good Mix, No?)

OH BOY, YOU'RE IN FOR A TREAT.  Not really, I just feel like writing this piece of history up today like the fickle-memoried wench that I am. 

It started with Kate and Wills, like all good romances.

In fact, Wills was born a week after me, when my mother was still in the maternity ward recovering from the birth / shock.  I felt from a very young age that the prince and I were meant to be; at least until he started losing his hair.  Yes, I am that shallow when it comes to one-sided relationships with future rulers of my dominion. 

Anyway, I didn't mean to delve that far back.  You know how Wills and Kate got married one time?  Well that day was declared a public holiday in the UK.  We were living in London and because of Easter or somesuch, the wedding meant a four day weekend.  Four free days to travel was too good to pass up.  P took it upon himself to organise that weekend as I'd recently been shouldering the travel arrangements 'burden'.    He umm'd and ahh'd about location and finally informed me he'd sorted it and it would be a surprise.  FINE THEN,  I said.  BUT BARCELONA RIGHT? I'M PRETTY SURE IT'S BARCELONA AND IT BETTER BE BARCELONA OK?

On the morning of Princess Catherine's big day, P put me on a train.  The train went through London right by the route the wedding carriage was taking, which at first made me scowl - packed train.  But everybody was dressed to the nines to attend the wedding of the decade.  Quite a few were already drunk and waving bottles with fascinators in their hair.  Even my stony heart melted when I saw a wee girl, dressed in her best party frock with a tiara in her hair accompanied by her grandfather.  I mean, honestly.  She was going to see a wedding and a princess!

I couldn't work out which airport P was taking me to.  When we eventually emerged in NW London, I realised he was taking me to a car hire spot.  He'd organised quite a nice car which made me internally sigh, thinking about the damage he'd done to the bank account renting something flash.  P is a car fan, you see.  He's pretty lucky I love him anyway because petrol-headedness is not my jam.  I also briefly mourned Barcelona -- how far is it possible to go return in four days in a car from NW London?

Well, as we drove that day it I guessed it - we were heading to the Peak District.  I forgave him for Barcelona immediately.  I now blush with embarrassment at being the living embodiment of a particular cliche - wasn't the Peak District where Lizzy toured in Pride & Prejudice?! I said.  And...I also knew it was the location of Lyme Park, the stately home used in the BBC adaptation of P&P which, sadly, is my favourite movie of all time.  Yes, I'm sorry, I am an Austen saddo.  P feigned disinterest in the Austen connection, just said he thought it was a cool area and had found a special on a great place to stay.

The drive up to the Peak District was really, really wonderful.  You see, most of Britain was celebrating the royal wedding.  Every village we drove through was decorated with flags and pennants and bunting - we stopped off at a pub for lunch and caught the televised kiss on the balcony - everyone cheered.  It was spring time and just gorgeous. 

P had outdone himself for accomodation.  The inn was my definition of perfection; giant bathtub, very cute, countryside, huge fireplace, gorgeous cottage garden grounds.  However, P's blackberry had been going off all day - there was a big deal in the works.  We arrived, he hauled out his laptop and set to work, making phone calls etc.  I had a bath, then flopped on the bed in a robe, disappointed that business took priority.  After moping around for a bit waiting for him, I decided to unpack the bags, seeing as we had three nights to spend.  P, on the phone, saw me pick up his bag.  He turned around, flapping his hands at me with a pissed off expression and I thought WELL FINE I WON'T BOTHER THEN.

You see, none of these signals - romantic weekend, flash transportation, surprise destination, all-out accomodation, reluctance to share the contents of his bag - amounted to wedding proposal in my mind because I am as dense as two short planks.  I have never been much of a wedding or marriage girl and we'd been together nearly 10 years at that point.  We were already committed.  Once upon a time, P had said to me that he did want to get married someday, but I hadn't given it much thought. 

The next morning, P offered up some local touristy options.  I gleefully picked going horse riding; we went on a hack in the countryside with about 10 Korean teenagers and had a fabulous time.  I taught P to post to the trot (key if he wanted his tackle to remain unbruised for the remainder of the weekend, a most important consideration).  We picnicked in a lane somewhere.  We walked up to an old henge, laughing at the British definition of Peak - more like gentle hill, though the other trekkers there had hiking boots, support poles, chaps etc - we were wandering up the hills in jandals. 

We went back to the hotel for a breather.  P was dead keen on setting out for Lyme Park, which I couldn't fathom.  It was already about 4; I knew we had dinner reservations and the Park was likely to close reasonably soon.  I convinced him a G&T in the garden would be best. 

We drank one, people watching.  P suggested we move on, but the sunshine was too good for me. I now know I was completely busting his grand plans to propose with a dramatic Austen backdrop.   Instead, we drank another G&T.  P then cajoled me into finding a private spot in the garden.  He disappeared to grab our picnic blanket and, unbeknownst to me, ordered a bottle of champagne.  We set ourselves up in a secluded spot to make the most of the sun. 

I felt buzzed, if you must know.  Two stiff gins, sunshine and then a first glass of surprise bubbles was more than enough to make me feel a bit giddy.  I later realised P was probably softening me up. 

He said some very nice things as we lay on the blanket in the sun, then, before I knew it, he'd asked me to marry him. 

After I said yes (I think), he produced a wee box with a ring.  I was very taken with it, moreso than I ever expected to feel about a piece of jewellery (at least, until the end of the weekend when I, frugal beastie that I am, realised that it probably cost a bit and was horrified).  We kept the engagement to ourselves that first night, sharing with family and friends the next day. 

The rest of the weekend was unreal - just magical.  I loved the proposal, didn't see it coming and am so glad to have married this man. 

things what i drank + enjoyed, recently

I had to go to work on Auckland Anniversary day.  Hence a post in order to whinge, basically.  At least it's warm in the office today, given that there's no aircon?

(I'm sweating my face off, in other words).

Enough whining. 

More wine-ing instead please!  Wines I have slurped this weekend:

- On Friday: P cracked open a bottle of pinot noir we bought at a tasting some seven years ago - oh man, that ages us!  We were the youngest people at the tasting, I promise. I wish I could remember the name so you can take the recc, but after a couple of gins and half a bottle of pinot while wandering after kittens in the garden and then watching Federer/Nadal at the Aussie Open, my recall ain't so good.  Also, I am old.  These things happen.  Bloody delicious, in any case.

- Saturday: Kim Crawford Pansy during the cricket.  Not the tastiest rose in the world, but great name and wonderful for a hot evening.  Serve chilled, but not too cold. 

- Sunday: Morton Estate IQ7 sparkling.  This was delicious and is a steal in NZ supermarkets at the moment, I highly recommend it.  Also, I quite like drinking Morton Estate because they have a vineyard right down the road from my mum and dad.  There is a lovely sign that uses river stones to say 'Morton Estate' on a slight rise as you approach the vineyard.  Some clever clogs pinched the stones from the T in that sign once, and I giggle every time we drive past or pick up a bottle from their cellar door (which in fact is miles away on SH22 near Katikati, where my grandparents used to live. Yes, I can find my way around the North Island by vineyard navigation, sadly).

And yes, I am a terrible boozehound who feels guilty but HOLIDAY WEEKEND I deserve it, right?! (Please validate me.  Please)

Hey, how's that for some lifestyle blogging?  If your lifestyle is wine-soaked, that is.  OH, WAIT, I NEED A PICTURE to support this review:

LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

ALSO, SEE WHAT I DID THERE? GRATUITOUS KITTY PIC FEATURING WINE.  SHAME ABOUT MY HULK-HAND

plagiarised bits

You know, I find a new good blog and I'm immediately composing posts in my head completely bastardizing the author's voice.  I think it's a hang up from reading Bridget Jones, oh about 50 years ago, and writing forevermorethereafter: 'v. good'.  (Helen Fielding may not have been the first person to abbreviate 'very' to 'v.' but god, she did it so effectively.  Almost all of my most 'London' moments while living there were based on feeling like I was living just like Bridget - WWBD, if you will.  Except with less crotch-cam-on-a-fireman's-pole.)

Today's find was Bend it Like Becker who made me giggle.  Rigging up a system to get the rubbish into the bin from the second storey deck to avoid having to go downstairs is actually frigging genius but having the commitment to buy carabiners to achieve said goal? I've got nothing but snorts and applause.  Brilliant.  I immediately wanted to rip her off which must be the highest accolade I've got in my (admittedly limited) Positive Praise Bank.  (What I've got stored in my Disdain and Contempt Bank is extensive.  I don't even save it for special, I apply it liberally). Anyway, Sarah has a thingo she calls 'blurbs' which appears to be a conglomeration post of bits and pieces and I'm totally ripping that off today.  Credit where credit's due and all (um, assuming this counts as credit?)

So, anyway.  We're having a house warming this weekend.  (OF COURSE you're all invited, internet stalkers! Um, your invitations are in the mail! Yes, that's it!) P has purchased about half a beast (half a lamb anyway) to feed guests with and I am in that stage of concern that reads: 'well we're going to look ridiculous when only three people turn up and we've catered for the population of a medium sized town'.  Those three people aren't even a given - my Mum's not in town.  But look on the bright side: when have I ever been upset about eating leftovers for a solid week?! NEVER.  NOT EVER.  I cry when the Christmas ham runs out four weeks after the event. 

Also, I am going to see Beyonce in concert (as opposed to over tea, you know) tomorrow with a veritable gaggle of women.  One, a high school teacher, has already emailed to express concern about the reaction of a class of 15 year old girls - 'YOU listen to Beyonce?!' 'Destiny's WHO?!'.  Look, I remember 2000 clearly when Say My Name was the only thing we'd play on the high school common room stereo (which if I recall rightly was so wrecked it had to be sat on the foam cushions from the broken-ass common room couch in order to work).  I'm now however quite concerned that I will be the oldest, saddest woman at this concert because I've already ditched the idea of wearing heels in order to be more comfortable and I'm planning how to get home after.  Shit. 

On the plus side, at least we're having dinner first at quite a nice restaurant so I'm guessing it won't be like the heady days of the 2007 JT concert where we destroyed ourselves on Lindauer Fraise (exactly as classy as it sounds. EXACTLY). 

still vile

Here I am, still gunked up with snot (clear, I've been checking, no need to panic just yet), open-mouth breathing and exhaling heavy sighs approx. once every two minutes.  I spent all of yesterday at my new house, sending out emails saying things like:

"I'm just trying to shake this cold.  I'll definitely be in by lunchtime"

"I'm afraid I won't be in today but I'm checking email and I'll definitely be in tomorrow"

"I'll deal with that on my return, if that suits?"

"P, COME HOME NOW WITH A JELLY TIP PLZ I'M DYYYYYYYING"

While I did spend quite a bit of time napping, nose-blowing and binge-watching Laguna Beach (the second series, woefully inadequate without LC), I also continued the stocktake of the house.  Was definitely warmer after I stuffed dirty teatowels in the half inch gap under the back door.  My mother recommended I find "one of those craft fairs" and buy some kind of "handmade sausage" to stop the drafts.  It was sometime before I finished laughing.  The telephone and internet connections came online yesterday (note: NZ services - infinitely faster set up times than the UK.  Sure, you have to hand crank the internet once it's in, but at least it gets set up within two weeks, rather than, say, eight).  That is an enormous relief because do you know how much data one chews through when one needs to check the Daily Mail thrice daily?  Quite a bit (ROYAL BEBE WATCH PEOPLE, PRIORITIES.)

Oh also, in News Of The Day, Hat Friend scored us tickets to Beyonce!  Me circa 2003 is so unbelievably pumped about this news.  Seven 30-something girls at a Beyonce concert: what could possibly go wrong?  Quite a bit.  There's already talk of taking a day's leave (it's on a Friday) to "get ready", for which, substitute "blow out on cheap bubbly before the concert even starts."  God, I'm that woman that circa-2003-me would have felt sorry for.  How the mighty have fallen.  Don't be so smug 2003-me.  You wouldn't have had the money to buy tickets.  Be grateful to yo' old ass self! 

celebrations / commiserations

I had a very nice birthday, once I'd thrown the hangover, thanks.  Not a day over 18, I swear.  I yell-whispered "ITS MAH BIRFDAY" and "WHERE'S MAH PHONE" at P for about 10 minutes when I arrived home at 2am on the morning of the big day, reeking of cheap bubbles and some vile energy drink/vodka combo.  As it turns out, you can forgive a birthday girl quite a bit but some things are always, always annoying. 

(I told him he should just be grateful I didn't kick on with the others.  He told me that a decision to kick on is usually made by 10pm and doesn't get remade at 2am.  He still made me a bday cuppa tea in the morning, so I was only in the dogbox briefly (whew).)

As part of my nice day, I hung out with my sister.  We were flipping channels from my couch as we lazed following a tasty brunch.  Then: golden moment! We discovered 'Making the Team: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders'.  Now, you might think that K and I don't have a great deal in common.  Sometimes that's true - I love tomatoes, she loves tomato sauce.  She's an excellent sportsman, I have no coordination whatsoever.  Etc.   But when it comes to trash television, we have a shared passion for excellence.  That show is beyond brilliant and I want to join the kick line (but I'm worried I'm too 'soft' and have a little too much 'jiggle' - the euphemisms were offensive yet somehow outstanding).  How have I not known about it before?

Had a quiet evening with friends, watching the rugby and chatting.  Just lovely, really.  Oh, and I am devouring my new copy of Wolf Hall, superb (why yes, I am about four years late to the Hilary Mantel party, thanks for noticing my lack of cultural relevance.  I am about to go and discover Hemingway or something, then present it to you like it's a revelation, OK?).

Birthdays are alright with me. 

my dad worked in a purple building, once

And now a return to our regular programming: ME. 

Two and a half weeks 'til we move in to my new purple love shack (oh, I forgot to mention the house is purple? How...ashamed remiss of me!  It won't be purple for long...I hope.)

Oddly, this time last year, I was playing the waiting game too.  It was a matter of days before I finished my job.  I could not wait.  I had worked out a three month notice period (please read the word 'worked' loosely in that sentence, or feel free to swap it for "planned a trip and read the internet") and was a matter of five working days away from the end, itching for it to be over and the fun to be started.  This time, the rip-tide of work is threatening to pull me under but, never fear, I'm spending a whole swathe of time on design websites daydreaming about the contents of my new home.

O stylish yet uncomfortable looking couches! O quirky lamps and sideboards!  O printed tea towels with whimsical designs you SLAY me!

As sands through the hour glass, these are the days of my shallow, materialistic life: travel obsession replaced with house obsession replaced with homewares obsession...I really should find an obsession that is less me me me and more productive to society as a whole.  I'll get back to you on that.

So, I turn 31 tomorrow.  I had sort of forgotten about that whole 'my bday' thing this year - it got subsumed in the house excitement and, prior to that, the general worky malaise I've been suffering from.  What does 31 mean to me, apart from declining fertility, inclining fatness and broadening wrinkles?  Um, it means taking up the yoke of adulthood I suppose, given I'm chaining myself to a mortgage a few weeks later.  What were you doing when you were 31, or, assuming you're a delicate young petal who hasn't yet reached this golden age, what do you think you'll be doing when you're 31? 

Oh god, this game is a complete rabbit hole for me to fall down.  I'm keeping myself on a short leash here, but here are a few brief predictions:

- At 41 I'll have two smalls and a middle-aged hangover from being ridiculous with P & champagne;
- At 51 I'll have ditched the rat race and moved to the sticks where P has a vineyard; and
- At 61 I'll be living part-time in France, learning the language and working at a bar or cheese shop, with P making wine out the back.

I can but dream, I suppose.  More desires than predictions, but aim high, why not?  Happy 31st, me.

while i'm gone

Something to chew on: I hated the Great Gatsby.  Not so much because I abhorred the writing (I didn't), but because there was not a single thing I liked about Daisy and Gatsby (I felt a little sorry for Nick, but that was it).  I haven't been able to bring myself to reread it since sixth form, when I was poisoned by F. Scott Fitzgerald.  This article by Kathryn Schulz in New York Magazine has finally given me to understand why that might have been: not a skerrick of the emotional connection between them hits the page. 

i live for the weekend

Monday morning, how much more do I adore thee when thou art followed by a four day week?  Easter.  Can’t come soon enough.  Choc + a four day weekend is the best thing I can imagine right now.  If the weather stays the way it currently is (clear, 20+ degree days, cool nights and mornings) it will be sheer bliss.  This lingering summer is melting into autumn but slowly, slowly.   

Weddings for the season have now been attended, gifts given, cards signed and we’re facing down the barrel of a bleak, ceremony-less winter.  When I see a house I like I think I might marry it, though, because then it can’t leave me, right?  Those two pics I posted on Friday were of houses we visited this weekend and decided we could TOTALLY live in so that brings the next round of auctions to three possibles.  You will have to wait until after Easter to ride the rollercoaster again though – auctions are on the 3^rd, 10^th and 13^th of April.  We will have been house hunting for about three months then.  May not sound long to many of you, but it’s far more of my life devoted to the process than I ever previously intended. 

Other updates: P spent the weekend chatting with Melbourne based friends about how we should totally go over for a visit, apparently ignorant of all my birthday scheming (muahaha).  R nearly wet himself, writhing with excitement over the secret when P was speculating about a good time for a visit (P in his best man’s speech about R: “Apart from the fact he can’t keep a secret, he’s the best friend you can imagine”).  I think he might be on to me, actually.  Sneaky beggar is very sneaky and I cannot for the life of me work out how I’m going to secretly pack him a bag to get to the airport. 

Also, not to boast (totally to boast), but it is EXTREMELY attractive when one’s husband makes a speech about his best mate and has everyone in tears of laughter and emotion.  The booze helped a willing audience to be sure, I was so proud of him nonetheless. 

And so, hi ho hi ho etc – work. 

what i did this weekend, brought to you by ibuprofen and insect-bite soothing cream

The usual tale of excess followed by woe – it was a pretty good weekend.

Friday night we caught up with friends returning to London to eat, drink, exclaim, gossip – lovely.  We ate at Ponsonby Road Bistro: love. Great food, great atmosphere; the evening felt very European but with a Kiwi twist.  Loved it. 

VENGEANCE the next day however – we got up early to take our friends to the airport and as the morning wore on, a hangover descended…I think it was likely related to the humid weather we’re having in Auckland (amazing blue sky days but my lord, the SWEATING).  As I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, I thought I was going to pass out under the hairdryer.  P and I consumed bulk nurofen and tried to make ourselves acceptable before the 2pm ceremony.  We failed miserably.  As a result, this is the only half-assed picture I took of the New Dress:

TERRIBLE PICTURE, NO? DRESS IS KNEE LENGTH, MUCH PRETTIER THAN THIS (I HOPE). 

Completely failed to take a snap of anything else – left the camera behind.  Sigh.

I love weddings.  Even though I thought I was going to die for a while there between the ceremony and the reception (until the first gin started working its magic), I was happy happy happy to have been there to see the delicious bridesmaids, gorgeous groomsmen and the happy couple, looking so thrilled.  Many of the family we caught up with we haven’t seen since our wedding – so many said such nice things which was very generous of them. 

Now, do you see what I did with the gin foreshadowing there?  Yep, I hit the bubbles at the reception thinking it would totally help me get back on the level.  I got back on the level, then I climbed a few more levels….JC on a stick, before I knew it, I’d hit the dance floor with a vengeance, sans shoes, demo’ing my best running man, hair flips and skanky moves… I fed the bride tequila (she loved it, in my defence) and dragged on a cigarette (I don’t smoke.  I don’t know what possessed me).  P, no stranger to excess himself, eventually dragged me home, where we passed out with the doors open and were feasted on by mozzies.  I woke at 7, cracked a gimlet eye to look at the clock, shut it and lay almost stock still for the next two hours, moving only to scratch the mosquito bites if absolutely necessary. 

The rest of the day was a fabulous gathering of the wedding guests at a beautiful home with an enormous pool.  Feeling dire, I reclined on a chair in the shade, failing miserably at conversation with the rellies.  Seriously, it took HOURS to pass.  I spent the day wading in the pool, finding shade and hmming/haaing gently when responses were required of me.  Such lovely people and such generous hosts. 

P and I dragged ourselves home around 8, where we tried to clean up and went on a mozzie killing binge ('die you fuckers', we shouted, as we slammed our palms on the wall or shook clothing in the wardrobe to loose the bastards) (such a display of class and good taste).  Definitely need to purchase some flyspray this evening.

evolution of an over-reactor, of sorts

Ever since I was a child, when someone proposes a course of action, I have a picture in my head of how it will go / be / even look.  It used to be quite problematic in that when I was small, if the reality didn’t match the picture, I got quite upset.  “Quite upset” for 4 year old A meant tantrum.  (OF COURSE I was a tantrum child.  Was there EVER any doubt about that?).  These days, I sometimes get huffy but am better at going with the flow than I once was. 

Doesn’t mean I wasn’t shirty when I started my day at the tennis, feeling rotten from a hangover.

We watched Lukas Rosol (you know, dude who beat Nadal at Wimbledon in 2012 – I watched that match from a B&B in Oban, Scotland with a view out my window of the sun sinking into a grey, oceanic abyss, striking bright rays over fishing trawlers) get more and more wild both at himself and at the umpire.  I sipped a pink bubbly treat out of a plastic flute, starting to feel the anger that I’d fucked up my morning recede.  Maybe I was transmitting the morning-fuck-uppery to Rosol.  He lost. 

The day continued to improve; we saw some excellent serves, some outstanding returns.  We were sitting in an amazingly good spot courtside at the southern end, feeling like we were going to wear some services in our faces and able to actually see the spin on the ball.  The light faded; the day grew cold.  That wasn’t part of the plan either, but I let it go. 

XAVIER MALISSE FROM BELGIUM AWAITING SERVICE.  THIS PICTURE IS COMPLETELY SHITE BUT GIVES YOU AN IDEA OF HOW CLOSE WE WERE TO THE ACTION.

I’m going to keep working on that skill.  I need to let it go when things don’t pan out as I expect.  You never know when it’s going to surprise you with being better than you expected.  I’m not going to try to curb all my expectations; great joy sometimes arises from imaginary chart-plotting.  But tempering my reactions is a good idea. 

AN UNEXPECTEDLY BEAUTIFUL NEW YEARS' DAY ON THE ISLAND.  BETTER THAN I COULD HAVE DREAMED IT.

my summer holiday: a report

Oh hey blog.  Long time, no ... blog.  Ah well, thems the breaks as my venerable mother would say.  Don't ask me what that means; I don't have a clue. 

This is where I should recap Xmas/New Year.  I was going to try and do an express version of this recap but it's ended up long winded and vaguely ranty (yet ANOTHER assessment of the state of the nation, because a minute examination of my own mental state is my favourite writing subject.  NARCISSIST ahoy).

- Three families, too many places to be at once.  Love being wanted though!

- Caught a bug off Whanau Number 1.  This lead to me throwing up Christmas dinner at Whanau Number Three.  Was not a good look.  P is still incredibly dark about missing out on dessert as (selfishly), I fancied going home to my bed after spending 20 minutes retching over someone else's toilet. 

- The HAM, people.  THE HAM.  Hot, cold, sandwich, omlette, frittata, toasted sarnies, pasta, you name it, we've eaten that little piggy treat. 

- New Zealand summer!  Sure, we've had some rainy days, but New Years' Day on the Coromandel peninsula (or, more accurately, on a tiny wee island off the side of the Coromandel) was glorious: clear skies, water so azure we watched a gurnard swim on the shores of the beach from 100 metres away, sun so blistering we sat on top of one another to hide under the shade of the umbrella.

- Friends!  Saw some wonderful friends who live far from Tamaki Makaurau this summer.  So, so good to see their smiling faces.  We sat in quiet contemplation on the rocks, as the last rays of 2012 lingered redly, violently on the edge of the Firth of Thames.  Someone started strumming a guitar (Tom Petty and Pearl Jam appropriate replacements for Auld Lang Syne, n'est-ce pas? Or not); we hummed through the hard parts.  I saw tears in the corners of H's eyes as she beamed at me.  My heart hurt happy. 

- Three more days of holiday!  Yussssssss.

Oh, it's not all daytime naps and eating ham straight out of the fridge over here.  This is the summer at it's glossiest, bloggiest best, of course.  It's a weak woe, but illustrative: today I spent about 50 hours using bleach on different surfaces of my house.  As I type this, sitting with a shandy and three different coasters (because I NEVER want to WIPE another surface AS LONG AS I LIVE which will not be long if I have to continue bleaching; my lungs will be seared out of existence) (also, who the fuck takes white shorts to an island possessing only an ocean and a long drop by way of ablution block? A moron, that's who), I'm a touch melancholy about some rain on my parade, the roots in my hair (fuck me MORE BLEACHING required), a break up, an illness and the amount of work ahead. 

BUT. I'm excited about 2013.  We don't have Big Exciting Things Planned (unlike 2012), but I'm gonna enjoy the shit out of the kitchen equipment I received for Xmas, spend more time with my husband and friends and make the most of career opportunities.  It's a pretty good outlook. 

Let's see how long that lasts!

{PS Totally had some photos to support this snoozefest post, but blogger is being an asshole.  Bad Luck.  No doubt we'll relive this all with some shitty pics in the NEAR NEAR future, interwebs YOU SPOILT THING!}

flaking skin is a good sign?

My lips are burnt because……dun dun duuuuuuuuun….. I saw some sun this weekend!  Miracles never cease, we may have a summer yet here in NZ! 

LOVELY LAKE WAKATIPU.  WAS MUCH WARMER THAN IT LOOKS; MAH PHOTOG SKILLZ SADLY LACKING IN ACTUALLY CAPTURING THE SCENE

P and I packed our (10kg or less and within the applicable dimensions) bag on Saturday morning and Jetstarred off to Queenstown for the weekend.  All the NZ-resident Kiwis we’ve talked to have bitched and moaned about Jetstar, but apart from the dire lack of leg room, we didn’t have any incidents.  Unless you count the squalling ginger toddler on the way back, that is.  Hardly Jetstar’s fault, nor the baby’s for that matter; either the squalling on descent or the gingerness. 

IF YOU ARE NOT FAMILIAR WITH QUEENSTOWN, HERE ARE SOME FACTS: IT IS IN THE DEEP SOUTH, IT HAS MOUNTAINS AND IT HAS LAKE.  LOVELY.

This was a flying visit for an old friend’s 30^th.  He had arranged a time-share situation with a fab deck overlooking Lake Wakatipu so we had a few bevvies on the deck and enjoyed the sunshine massively.  My face is a bit pink, despite the liberal application of sunscreen.  I had forgotten exactly how violent the sun is in NZ – once or even twice a day applications of sun protection is not enough on a bright day.  We rode the gondola and saw some fantastic views, celebrated excessively when we discovered the DSLR has recovered from India (the display is now working again…we took two weeks’ worth of photos in India with no VDU following some splashy times at the Agra Fort, but now it’s magically sorted itself out – YUSSSS – because the warranty is British and they weren’t going to honour it here, the assholes), ate merino lamb and smacked our (burnt) lips, all v nice.  I had a bit of a mozzer on Saturday night when the tiredness of the week caught up with me and I basically bailed just after 11 when the others were just warming up for a good time, so I looked like a prize party pooper. 

GLORIOUS VIEW OF FAREWELL SPIT AND GOLDEN BAY AT THE TOP OF THE SOUTH ISLAND ON THE WAY HOME.  I'M TOTALLY BIASED BUT NZ REALLY IS THE FAIREST OF THEM ALL. 

Also *sigh* - we’re in the middle of sorting out what’s happening at Christmas.  Does anyone else find this quite stressful?  P and I have spent the last three Xmases with his mum and various others (both family and friends), given that the three of us were living in the same hemisphere, far away from the rest of the whanau.  This year, we’re torn between three sets of family and it seems to me that we’re building up for what will likely be a long day.  Basically, I figure I’ll survive by just having another drink.  I started laying in supplies of bubbly stuff at the supermarket yesterday, having predicted the need.  Spoke to my mother yesterday and confirmed we would likely see her Boxing Day; she took it very gracefully so now I owe her a pretty decent prez.  Ideas for mothers who like farms and tennis and gardens, anyone?  Maybe some more paeony plants? 

Well, that’s my newsy little update for you all.  Bit like a Christmas letter really; the writer enjoys putting it together and the recipients could probably care less.  Very tempted to post a family picture featuring seasonal sweaters and an update that reads something like:

“Dear Family and Friends,

“Well it was a wonderful year in the A & P household!  A few highlights of the year:

-       January: We started the year with a disappointing return to work and never saw the light of day in London because of the rubbish winter sunlight hours.  Seasonal Affective Disorder FTW!

-       February: We got MARRIED!  Here are 50 bazillion photos of the Big Day for you to peruse. 

-       March: Went back to work and sulked; decided to quit and return to NZ on flimsy basis of “it means we can have a nice holiday on the way back”

-       April – May: planned said holiday on work time, in between fits of sulking about rubbish Spring weather in London.  Got really boozed in Bordeaux, ate stuff in Amsterdam etc, etc.

-       June: Started our Big Trip!  Here are 50 bazillion photos from the first part.

-       July-August: More Big Trip!  Look at some more photos you suckers!  Mostly unedited and seriously repetitive because one photo of the Blue Mosque is simply not enough!

-       September: We arrived back in NZ and promptly remembered about this Nation’s serious lack of proper insulation!  Got chilblains immediately, bitched about losing our tans and attempted to recover from bowels of death!  Started work in our new jobs.

-       October/November: Whinged at one another regarding how HARD full time employment is.  Continued oversharing about our bowel problems.

-       December: Began resenting our beloved families who we moved back to NZ to be closer to because they care about us and would like to spend Xmas with us.  Aren’t we just peachy?

“Isn’t that lovely?  In summary: we travelled, we drank, we wed and, most of all, we poohed.

“All our love, A & P”

A bit early for that sort of palaver; I must be getting my Xmas spirit(s) on. 

always stuff your handbags full of toiletries

Wearing a white dress to a charity ball was always going to be a stupid idea.  You know, it wasn’t floor length or anything so it’s not like I picked up a whole lot of grime from the floor (I looked like I should be at the races 'cos I was wearing a knee length white dress, but stuff ‘em, I didn’t have a ball gown and shopping for that crap when you have hams for arms is not conducive to good mental health).  I managed to avoid major stains but I spent all night sweating the effing dress but yet still choosing to drink red wine, eat dishes with red jus etc.  There was a HUGE other potential stain issue – my body has been fairly reliable about Wednesday midday once every 28 days for a long time.  So I didn’t think to prepare myself on Tuesday night, when selecting the limited number of items to go in my clutch (cellphone, keys, lippy, blah blah).  That wee danger had me running to the lavs to spin around in front of the full length mirror about once every half hour and, you know, *improvise* with the resources to hand.  I came home unblemished but it was a very stressful evening, I must say.  I am now in favour of installing emergency tampons next to every emergency fire alarm just in case.  It’s a situation in which no woman should ever have to find herself. 

 

So, yes, charity ball.  I’ve never been part of a silent auction before; though I think it was actually more of a whisper-y auction as the top bids on each item were being projected onto a screen for all to read, which made me properly competitive.  I was all “who, ME?” and fluttery when I realised I’d won the wine glasses and that the money was going to the children (somebody has to think of the children, you know).  I will no doubt feel smug every time I slurp out of one of my winning glasses. 

 

Despite all the thinking of the children which was good, I did find the whole set-up a little unsettling.  Having recently budgeted a wedding, I started calculating the cost of the ball itself and comparing that with the money raised on the night, fairly unfavourably.  Even adding in the price of the table to the charity profit calculation, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit like the ball involved an unnecessary amount of expenditure.  I could be totally wrong; the venue might have donated its services, or possibly the caterers etc – in fact, I really hope that’s the case.  I just found it a little distasteful that in order to get me to open my wallet, it was necessary to wine and dine me in such splendour.  Obviously, there is an incredibly layered discussion to be had here and I am basically only skimming the surface with some half-baked thinking, but there it is.  And you’re right, I attended and ate and drank and donated, which I might not have otherwise done (being honest about it). 

 

In other slightly related news, this round of Christmas palaver is getting obscene.  I am out attending some event every night this week which is not a brag, it’s a hate situation.  I am getting pretty sick of small talk and I’m hopeless at working a room.  Other people are just so…intimidating, I think.  To be fair, some of the events this week are personal and not schmoozy but my friends will likely not be experiencing the best of my sparkling wit and natural vivacity , as I’m fresh out of interesting anecdotes and natural smiles.  What, you’ve noticed?!

exercise or eating: guess which

More European bucket list-y travel this weekend - P and I hit Paris to support friends running the marathon/use their marathon as an excuse for excessive indulgence.

Let me just say I heart Paris in an achy, breaky kind of way.  However, I'm sorta glad I don't live there because all I swear that all I achieved this weekend was eating and drinking.  I ate a baguette on the sideline of the marathon to quell a hangover, for fuck's sake.  This was at about the 35k marker; I'm sure all those poor participants were grateful to see my fat ass munching on a french stick just at the point where they realised that there were still 7ks to go.  Honest to goodness, I ate and drank my bodyweight this weekend and I feel so queasy at work this morning that I think I finally believe in karma.

Also, my friends DOMINATED THE RACE.  One of the girls, in her first ever marathon, came home in 3 hours 47 minutes, which if you ask me is freaking outstanding.  Another ran the entire race on a bung foot and bung knee and still finished in 4 hours 15!  I'm so proud, you have no idea.  I'm not sure I could personally ever handle a marathon (Lumpy Knee does not love the running and frankly, neither do I), but as I watched the stream of runners getting closer to the end of the race, the sense of achievement and pride you could see on faces, albeit mixed with grimaces of pain and suffering, was just lovely and I was a tad jealous.  But then I went back to the baguette and gnawed away my feelings.    

OK BACK TO FOOD.  FOOD FOOD FOOD.  BOOZE BOOZE BOOZE. 

Highlight of Friday was the best chocolate mousse I have ever eaten.  We got in late off the Eurostar, so P and I dropped our bags at the hotel and wandered down to a neighbourhood joint.  We hadn't researched or booked anywhere; we just walked in off the street.  A very nice main was followed by the proffering of the dessert chalkboard and the assurance from Monsieur the proprietor that he had "the best chocolate mousse in Paris".  We laughed; he looked marginally offended and told us to check the internet.  HOLY CRACK PUDDING, that stuff was unbelievable.  DIVINE.  It came in a giant bowl from which you served yourself.  The man was brave to let me at it with a serving spoon…I almost licked the bowl once we were done. 

Saturday's highlight - Aux Deux Amis. Go there.  Just do it.  We were a party of six who ate almost the entire menu, which was composed entirely of specials.  Completely irresistable, fresh and delicious, as were the four bottles of wine we demolished and the aperitifs.  The entire bill came out at something like 35 euros per person, which is fantastic value for money.  Not a particularly fancy place, but it had wonderful atmosphere and was packed to the rafters.  We commenced at 8.30 and rolled out at 1ish, laughing and sated.  It was so lovely to see some of my Masters' classmates, some of whom are now living in Paris.  Two Paraguayans, an Australian, a Belgian and we two Kiwis had lots to share - telling filthy stories about translation difficulties a particular highlight of my night.  Lowlight: falling down the stairs in the Metropolitain, chest first into the railing, jamming my necklace with pointy bits into my decolletage...shameful AND hurty.  At least I have the excuse of ankle booties with five inch heels, but TYPICAL nonetheless.

GORGEOUS BUT LETHAL.  POINTY BITS STABBED STRAIGHT INTO THE BONY BITS OF MY CHEST.  SHUDDUP, I DO HAVE SOME BONY BITS ON MY CHEST.  ABOVE THE SQUISHY BITS.
PRETTY THOUGH, NO?  MAH LADIEEEZ GAVE IT TO ME AS MY SOMETHING NEW BEFORE THE WEDDING.  TASTE, THEY HAZ IT. 

Sunday - it took some celebratory champagne with the runners after the race to get me back on the level.   I am STILL nauseous today after drinking my way home on the Eurostar last night.  Shouldn't complain though - really, I am still blissfully happy after a lovely weekend. 

that time i got married

Right.  Hope that last one wasn't too awkward.  Let's mend fences with a topic that usually makes people feel a bit mushy, shall we?  Skip this, if you don't fancy a trip through saturated, overwrought and self-indulgent recollection of an event you didn't witness and perhaps only want to see photographs of.

P and assistants had spent the morning artfully arranging the bunting I so desired in trees at the venue.  My mother had strewn the aisle with the petals of roses from her garden and the gardens of my great aunt, our family friend and my mother's friend's business's garden (they got a completely illicit thrill gathering the petals from the business as they did so after dark and assumed everyone around thought they were burglars.  Who knew this business of flower harvesting was so darkly entertaining?). 

THE BLUE BITS OF THE BUNTING.  GOD I LOVE THAT BUNTING EVEN IF IT IS A CURRENT WEDDING-DETAIL-CLICHE. 
ALSO: IS IT ANNOYING THAT I USED THE *MOST* IMPORTANT PHOTO TO ILLUSTRATE THIS STORY? PROBABLY. ALL IN THE NAME OF TRYING TO PRESERVE A TOUCH OF ANONYMITY. 

I spent the morning getting beautified with my mother and sister, periodically squinting out the window at the weather, while P and friends battled with lemon and blue gingham bunting.  I wish I could have seen them - there is almost nothing more genuine, touching and funny than grown men doing battle with aesthetic principles for a good cause!

The moment I arrived at the venue, the heavens opened.  I watched through the trees from the car as people hustled inside to the alternative ceremony location (the tasting room of the winery, how appropriate for this relationship).  I had been so calm up until that point, but at that moment I felt so terribly, terribly sad that I couldn't have what I'd been imaging: a wedding surrounded by trees followed by hugs and champagne in the sunshine.  The minute I stepped out of the car, it didn't matter.

What I did have was a wedding indoors, with those I loved surrounding us closely, able to hear all the words.  The side doors of the venue were open with the trees crowding in.  Leftover petals had been hastily strewn over the exposed concrete flooring.  I clutched Dad's hand tightly and sweatily, overjoyed. 

My boss said to me that the most clear recollection of her wedding, some years ago, was the church doors opening.  Everyone turned to look to her, and in that moment she was filled with the joyous realisation that everyone had come to celebrate with her and her new husband.  I thought of her in that moment.  I felt like there was time to look into everyone's eyes and smile, filled with exaltation that this was happening, that they were there and mirroring my joy.  And then I saw P. 

He was standing at the front, under a mirror that reflected our friends and family and my own beaming face.  It's not fair to describe his face; a private, private moment witnessed by those we love dearly. 

I am not a religious person; our civil ceremony was not long.  I had believed that I did not need a legal tie to seal our union.  What I underestimated was the power of words. 

It was the highlight of the wedding for me.  My sister's reading, selected partly to gently laugh at the idea of a reading and partly for sentimental reasons, caused my girlfriends to have to share the one square of toilet paper they had between them.  She read beautifully through her tears and I was so proud.  It transpired that the reading also meant a great deal to P's paternal family; unbeknownst to us, we had connected our wedding to a family member long gone. We so dearly wished we could have met him; serendipitous that we included him anyway. 

Our vows.  I had felt like a moron suggesting to P that we write our own.  But I'm so, so glad that we did.  He was funny, sincere and truthful.  So funny, sincere and truthful that in fact I forgot myself and planted a kiss on him after he spoke them.  I revelled in mine; I had not realised that saying those things out loud would mean so much. 

There was more, so much more.  But that's all for now.

cultural

I think you, my dear imaginary readers, deserve more than just a rant about my underwear.  So today, I'm presenting to you the awesome London-based things I got up to last weekend which were really, really worthwhile. 

SUNDAY, LIVERPOOL STREET. GLORIOUSY EMPTY OF COMMUTERS. BLUE SKY IN JANUARY - A FREAKING MIRACLE. 

Secret Cinema

I'm probably not supposed to advertise it, the tagline being "Tell No One", but OH WELL the Secret Cinema was one of the best events I have been to in London.  The premise is that you won't know what movie you're going to see, or where you're going to see it, but that you will know what to wear and who to approach. 

My girlfriend and I spent a couple of hours prior to the movie with the other patrons in an old building decked out in the mode of a particular location in a particular era (I won't give it away), eating, drinking and investigating to our heart's content.  A completely fabulous experience with atmosphere; we laughed, screamed and interacted with staff, actors and other guests before watching a great film.

The Pear Tree

Friends we hadn't seen for a while suggested a catch up meal and drink at the Pear Tree in Baron's Court.  P and I don't often venture West because we're pretty lazy and our hearts are in the SE1, but the Pear Tree was well worth the trip.  Open fire places with lovely service and reasonably priced and tasty food.  I sat next to tall candles burning in the window and nearly lit my hair on fire, while we yarned and drank. 

The Pear Tree has a real community scene: people were passing a baby around (it wasn't squawking so it gets the seal of approval) and there were several generations in the pub without having that feel of being a place where people come to die or entertain little Timmy (I am not ageist I swear, but I hate it when it feels like there are only the elderly or families with children in a pub - a real mix is where it's at). 

Allpress Cafe and Roastery, Shoreditch 

Best beans, tastiest coffee, lovely brunch.  The Allpress roastery in Shoreditch was pretty packed when we arrived on Sunday at about midday, but it was still possible to grab a seat and a copy of the paper.  They don't really do hot brunch food (as in eggs benedict or a fry up) but we love their simple menu.  P and I shared soft boiled eggs (fresh!) with soldiers and a breakfast plate featuring avocado, tomato, prosciutto and cheese with lovely foccacia.  

P and I finished brunch and wandered the streets of Shoreditch with our best nonchalant hipster faces on (we’re SUCH frauds.  The noveau-chic-East-Londoner can smell that we weren't cool before it was not cool to be cool or whatnot).  We bought cheap t-shirts with gaudy prints and ogled the street art.  And then bought a half doz champagne from Majestic because that's we're lushes EVERY day of the week and specials are nothing to be sniffed at. 

{Apologies for the lack of photos - more to come next post, I promise!}

I started this year drunk. Much like last year.

Hello 2012.  I wish I could say I welcomed in the New Year in style, but the truth is I welcomed in the New Year at a pub in Brixton like a lush and then locked myself in a toilet by accident.  Don't recall tweeting from there, which led to a massive cringe moment yesterday when I discovered the evidence.  Bizarrely, the offending tweet had correct spelling.  I truly hope people realised I was boozed when sending that crap into the ether. 

But the hangover was not nearly so bad as I expected/deserved, so 2012 may turn out to be OK after all.  But that reminds me, do NOT watch the Hangover Part II, btw - effing awful movie even when hungover and looking for mindless couch entertainment.  Stick to Harry Potter. 

I have been trying to remember the last time I saw in a New Year without being under the influence of the demon drink.  Sadly (and I mean sadly, I'm not saying it in a braggy sort of "look at how cool I am with the drinking and whatnot" way, but actually as a reflection on my poor decision-making abilities and patchy memory), I had significant trouble piecing together what I've done for New Year's Eve over the last decade or so.  I would say I had the assistance of P with that task but his memory is even more patchy than mine ("Were we at a beach somewhere in '04/'05, possibly with friends? Or was that '03/'04? or '05/'06?" - as if New Zealanders would have done anything else, it's practically compulsory when in NZ).  The last sober NYE may have been the millenium (and I'm probably disclosing my age here) when Mum and Dad drove a friend and me into the Domain in Auckland to watch the fireworks, following which we took them right up on their offer of a lift home again…only to receive a phone call from the girls who we were supposed to meet, who had managed to score a free hotel room and gifted tickets to the Finn Brothers concert on the waterfront.  At that time in my life, free tix and a room were the most impossibly glamourous things that could happen to an underage girl (I didn't consider the possibility of strings attached, clearly).  I seem to recall tears of vexation and disappointment when Dad wouldn't turn the car around.  So, following that wee disappointment in 2000, there have been eleven subsequent NYE celebrations involving copious quantities of the supermarket's finest (admit it, you know you pick your wine at the super based on three things: is there a little medallion sticker on it?  Has five bucks been knocked off the usual price?  And more importantly, is the label pretty?).

I tried hard to turn my behaviour this NYE into something resembling "grown up" behaviour.  After getting coffee, P and I went to the Tate Modern for some culture, thankyouverymuch.  But we started our art tour with a drink overlooking the Thames while discussing important life questions, then after a desultory wander through the surrealists (surreal, for real), we drank more in a Bermondsey tapas bar, before repairing home to 'get ready' (i.e. have a few more in order to solve the clothing crisis) then head out.  Safe to say we were well on our way before arriving in Brixton where the party was in full swing.  The elements were there, but tipsy art-viewing involving squinting at a Dali does not qualify as adult behaviour.

THE VIEW FROM THE TATE; WINTER IN LONDON.  IF YOU'RE FEELING PARTICULARLY SORRY FOR ME FEEL FREE TO SEND VITAMIN D TABLETS AND A SUN LAMP.  OR A DREDGE AND A FEW WATER PURIFICATION TABLETS FOR THE THAMES

But never fear, I am a product of post-colonial teen-drinking NZ, transported to the Mother Country where drinking vats of bevvies is smiled upon and glorification of bad boozy behaviour abounds!  I will no doubt shelve my concerns about the effects of over-consumption in favour of getting on it the next time the girls call and I will in all likelihood continue to write trite crap about my exploits.

Lucky you, aye?