Assuming everything goes to plan, P and I are taking a week off in August.
We have needed to have something to look forward, so we tentatively locked in some leave a couple of months ago. We're not going anywhere because we're trying to save, though I toyed with the idea of booking a getaway to Milford Sound and Queenstown. Instead,we're going to engage in a spot of light demolition at Chez Mauve.
This has (expensive) disaster written all over it. The plan:
- Remove all the internal linings from the spare bedroom.
- Insulate the walls.
- Replace linings with fresh gib.
- Get the electrician in to move outlets, and the plasterer to finish the linings.
- Sand, including window and door frames.
- Paint.
- Replace manky door, or at least give the current door a handle.*
*What, all your doors come with a handle as standard? The Purple Palace really is, um, unusual.
What is likely to happen:
- Have fight over logistics while moving all furniture out of spare bedroom.
- Rip down linings and create hellish mess.
- Discover serious issues with timber frames which no doubt means whole house is screwed.
- Call builder, discover no one can help for at least six months.
- Leave the rest of it forever.
I can conjure at least six different permutations of the 'What is Likely to Happen' list. Most of which end with all the bedroom stuff living in the dining room while the bedroom is unfinished for months, nay, years. I am cursing our DIY efforts, no doubt, with my predictions of dire consequences. But I know my limitations and while I'm not sure of P's, I'm nervous.
So, in order that the holiday feels, well, holiday-ish, I booked a long lunch for us the first weekend we're off. Think of it as a marital counselling via pasta and wine before the arguments actually occur. Aren't I optimistic?!*
*Please note the move away from yell-y caps to an angular italicisation for emphasis. I am attempting to be less...strident...in my piffling. I know, not much of an improvement. Still a great deal of overuse of the exclamation mark, to say nothing of the other egregious grammatical offences.
Showing posts with label drunk. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drunk. Show all posts
Wednesday, 23 July 2014
Monday, 2 June 2014
queen's birthday 2014
Me? Oh I've been working like a slave, and then rushing off to Waiheke for a day wine-tasting with friends, getting way too sauced on the good stuff, wasting all of Sunday curled up in a ball of vino and regret fumes, and spending most of the Monday off at work.
But, I made a new friend! This is Bobby:
And we saw the sun!
I swear, the only way to tell it was the beginning of winter was by examining the vines:
Before I wrote off my tastebuds (and the rest), we had a swig of the LaRose from Stonyridge. Heaven in a glass, if you're into that sort of thing. Visitors to Auckland, a day trip to Waiheke cannot come highly rated enough.
And now, back to my regularly scheduled blawgity blawging about Not Much.
But, I made a new friend! This is Bobby:
 |
| BOBBY IS THREE. LIKES: SHOELACES, COAT BUTTONS. DISLIKES: DOUBLE KNOTS |
 |
| SWIPED FROM P'S FACEBOOK. STONYRIDGE VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, LAST DAY OF AUTUMN 2014 |
 |
| TE MOTU VINEYARD, WAIHEKE, HOME OF BOBBY |
And now, back to my regularly scheduled blawgity blawging about Not Much.
Thursday, 1 May 2014
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.
(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.
Tuesday, 15 April 2014
ramble
I contemplated tights this morning, for the first time in at least six months. I wore pajama pants and an old jersey of P's around the house last night and felt lovely and cosy. The shoulder seasons are just lovely, really, when they're not particularly wet.
Ma and Pa are off on an overseas jaunt and I'm super jealous, feeling stuck here in the +64. They're visiting the studio we rented in Cairanne, Provence. Not only are they spending spring in the south of France, but I can imagine exactly where and what they'll be doing. Swanning around the ampitheatre in Orange, swilling wine in Chateauneuf du Pape, visiting the boulangerie in the village etc. It's been nearly two years since we were there last; FRANCE I MISS YOU please can I come back soon?
At the moment, they're in the Napa Valley somewhere. Gosh, they deserve it but man alive I am being eaten alive by envy.
Instead, I suspect it will rain through Easter. We're catching up with friends, will probably mooch around the house a bit, stuff our faces with marshmallow eggs. There are worse things we could be doing, I suppose. P was gifted a voucher by his employer for working hard through a particularly stressful time of the year for them, so on Saturday we're trying a new to us restaurant (Sunday Painters, if you're interested.)
I'm starting to go for walks with sister K this weekend, who has signed us up to a 10k run later this year. K's recovering from knee surgery, so we're planning a leisurely training programme to get her back in action. We'll tackle One Tree Hill on Saturday, and I'll try to convince her of the merits of homeownership in the greater Onehunga area. I'd like her to be closer to us. It feels odd living in the same city but being at least a half hour drive apart. That's probably laziness on my part - in London, I'd have thought nothing of catching public transport for 45 minutes or so to see her, but in Auckland I resent it. Partly because I'm not a fan of the part of town she lives in, perhaps? She's looking to buy even further away, but I am the big sister and what are big sisters for but being a bit bossy?
Last weekend we went to Silo's production of Angels in America, as forecast. Wow. I'm still chewing that one over, but general verdict is I really enjoyed it. As an aside, and lest you think this is a cat-free blog post, let me just say that I nearly lost my shit when in the last 30 minutes of 6 hours, the play featured a dead cat, enumerating its nine lives. Well fuck me, I can tell you for real that cats have one life only. I had to laugh - I'd just been thinking how the play was so obviously of it's time (written in the early 90s, set mid 80s) but maintained resonance.
Ma and Pa are off on an overseas jaunt and I'm super jealous, feeling stuck here in the +64. They're visiting the studio we rented in Cairanne, Provence. Not only are they spending spring in the south of France, but I can imagine exactly where and what they'll be doing. Swanning around the ampitheatre in Orange, swilling wine in Chateauneuf du Pape, visiting the boulangerie in the village etc. It's been nearly two years since we were there last; FRANCE I MISS YOU please can I come back soon?
At the moment, they're in the Napa Valley somewhere. Gosh, they deserve it but man alive I am being eaten alive by envy.
Instead, I suspect it will rain through Easter. We're catching up with friends, will probably mooch around the house a bit, stuff our faces with marshmallow eggs. There are worse things we could be doing, I suppose. P was gifted a voucher by his employer for working hard through a particularly stressful time of the year for them, so on Saturday we're trying a new to us restaurant (Sunday Painters, if you're interested.)
I'm starting to go for walks with sister K this weekend, who has signed us up to a 10k run later this year. K's recovering from knee surgery, so we're planning a leisurely training programme to get her back in action. We'll tackle One Tree Hill on Saturday, and I'll try to convince her of the merits of homeownership in the greater Onehunga area. I'd like her to be closer to us. It feels odd living in the same city but being at least a half hour drive apart. That's probably laziness on my part - in London, I'd have thought nothing of catching public transport for 45 minutes or so to see her, but in Auckland I resent it. Partly because I'm not a fan of the part of town she lives in, perhaps? She's looking to buy even further away, but I am the big sister and what are big sisters for but being a bit bossy?
Last weekend we went to Silo's production of Angels in America, as forecast. Wow. I'm still chewing that one over, but general verdict is I really enjoyed it. As an aside, and lest you think this is a cat-free blog post, let me just say that I nearly lost my shit when in the last 30 minutes of 6 hours, the play featured a dead cat, enumerating its nine lives. Well fuck me, I can tell you for real that cats have one life only. I had to laugh - I'd just been thinking how the play was so obviously of it's time (written in the early 90s, set mid 80s) but maintained resonance.
Monday, 17 March 2014
so, so stupid
I can't be trusted to act like an adult, ever. I spent yesterday dying a horrible, horrible, self-induced death ten times over. The last two things I remember from the night before (the wedding after party) are swimming in the middle of a tropical cyclone (though the details of the swim are pretty hazy) and delivering a full bodied slap to someone's face (no idea who). That last was part of a game, not malicious, but....still.
I am so, so ashamed of myself for not knowing my limits.
If driving two and a half hours home over some of the windiest roads in New Zealand counts as punishment, well, then I've been well and truly punished. But I'm still cracking a whip of self-flagellation and I still physically feel like shit over 36 hours later. Just charming. I carried plastic bags of puke + shame in the car on the way home, while P (god bless his compassionate and understanding heart) drove as carefully and smoothly as he could possibly manage. We took an hour's breather at Thames. I reclined the seat, swallowed the vomit and asked P to go eat outside, anywhere away from me.
So, the wedding was lovely but I got carried away. Awful, immature behaviour and I while I know my in-laws are amazing and very understanding I. Am. Mortified.
I'm not typing this out of any sense of misplaced pride in my actions (trust me, there's no whoooo! such a kah-razy night! here. More OH FUCK WHAT DID I DO AND WHYYYYYYY). I am utterly ashamed and by god I mean to remember this lesson.
Have I got a problem with the demon drink? Judging by my performance, it would seem that there is a good chance. I'm 31 for fuck's sake and I have had PLENTY of chances to learn my lesson. Why I would get black out boozed is just...beyond me. If you've got any material thoughts about this, plz to tell.
Off to turn over a new leaf.
I am so, so ashamed of myself for not knowing my limits.
If driving two and a half hours home over some of the windiest roads in New Zealand counts as punishment, well, then I've been well and truly punished. But I'm still cracking a whip of self-flagellation and I still physically feel like shit over 36 hours later. Just charming. I carried plastic bags of puke + shame in the car on the way home, while P (god bless his compassionate and understanding heart) drove as carefully and smoothly as he could possibly manage. We took an hour's breather at Thames. I reclined the seat, swallowed the vomit and asked P to go eat outside, anywhere away from me.
So, the wedding was lovely but I got carried away. Awful, immature behaviour and I while I know my in-laws are amazing and very understanding I. Am. Mortified.
I'm not typing this out of any sense of misplaced pride in my actions (trust me, there's no whoooo! such a kah-razy night! here. More OH FUCK WHAT DID I DO AND WHYYYYYYY). I am utterly ashamed and by god I mean to remember this lesson.
Have I got a problem with the demon drink? Judging by my performance, it would seem that there is a good chance. I'm 31 for fuck's sake and I have had PLENTY of chances to learn my lesson. Why I would get black out boozed is just...beyond me. If you've got any material thoughts about this, plz to tell.
Off to turn over a new leaf.
Monday, 24 February 2014
end of the summer
Friday evening was a beautiful, balmy evening. When I stepped out the door of the building, a wash of warm air ran over me and, I don't know, the pixies got into my bloodstream or something. Two colleagues and I plonked ourselves down at an outdoor table and, well, got plonked. We gossiped, we drank, we laughed.
I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten. P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all. But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.
As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp. The leaves on my pear tree are turning.
That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house. Positions:
P: It was dirty. You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]
A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend? I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults.
We scrapped. He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY. It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this. We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues. I put on a cheery face.
This, my friends, is a relationship. You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin. It's everything I ever dreamed and more.
I rolled home and into bed and woke up dry mouthed at 6am, sweating white wine profusely under a pile of kitten. P was gone for the weekend, but I like to think he would have appreciated the glory of my appearance - sweaty, disheveled, mascara smeared and all. But as I sat under the stars at 11pm in 20 degree plus heat, swirling another glass of wine, pretending I was in South East Asia, consequences seemed oh so very far away.
As a punishment: the mornings are now crisp. The leaves on my pear tree are turning.
That, and after P arrived home, we had a godalmighty dingdong about the state of the house. Positions:
P: It was dirty. You are slovenly. [Implied by tone and body language until I asked him straight out if he was mad at me, because he was behaving like a dick]
A: Well where the fuck were you this weekend? I still washed your shirts and undies for which you should be grateful, and any lack of fridge cleaning is both our faults.
We scrapped. He apologised for upsetting me, which further needled me because NON-APOLOGY. It is dumb and the house is now cleaner but as jeebers is my witness, I will have the LAST WORD on this. We walked to work this morning in a mostly silent stand off, until we ran into two of my colleagues. I put on a cheery face.
This, my friends, is a relationship. You're both tired, broken and possibly guilty from weekend misbehaviour and it ends in a fight over emptying the compost bin. It's everything I ever dreamed and more.
Sunday, 26 January 2014
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:
(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 |
Thursday, 19 December 2013
i smell like
cigars (not mine) and regrets (mine, all mine). A very merry Thursday afternoon, evening, night was had by A.
I hope you all have merry holidays as well, though I don't recommend dropping a hundred bucks on bottles of cava for your team/family/friends when the lot of you are already loaded. That is not merry; that is insane. It is not very merry to get in a fight with your taxi driver, either. Or retching at 8am on the side of a very busy arterial route. BUT, singing/dancing/chatting - these things are all very merry and I wholeheartedly recommend them!
See you in 2014!
I hope you all have merry holidays as well, though I don't recommend dropping a hundred bucks on bottles of cava for your team/family/friends when the lot of you are already loaded. That is not merry; that is insane. It is not very merry to get in a fight with your taxi driver, either. Or retching at 8am on the side of a very busy arterial route. BUT, singing/dancing/chatting - these things are all very merry and I wholeheartedly recommend them!
See you in 2014!
Sunday, 10 November 2013
a litany of useless behaviours
I worked out my ideal career this morning, trudging to work under my own personal black cloud:
Professional, Work From Home, Dumpling Taster.
I am uniquely qualified for this role:
So, yes, I was feeling a bit dark about being all contractually required to turn up to my place of employment and be employed, today. That's because I had a completely hopeless weekend, in classic A style:
Professional, Work From Home, Dumpling Taster.
I am uniquely qualified for this role:
- I love dumplings
- I eat a lot of dumplings
- I'm very good at staying in bed
- I have opinions on things, like dumplings
- etc
So, yes, I was feeling a bit dark about being all contractually required to turn up to my place of employment and be employed, today. That's because I had a completely hopeless weekend, in classic A style:
- Lost my phone. Again. That's the phone twice and wallet once in 6 weeks. On the bright side, it turned up 24 hours later. On the dim side, I lost it at the same bar as last time.
- Lost my dignity attempting to dance with P on Friday night. Managed to push him over on the dance floor.
- Broke the button off P's pants when we got home. Don't ask me how / why - I'm not even sure myself.
- Crushed my thumb as I was closing up the ladder.
- Got heinously sunburnt in the Domain (when I left the house there was no need for sunscreen - I wasn't intentionally stupid! I promise!)
- Could barely move during the Hollie Smith concert due to hangover from previous evening's...festivities (verdict = she was fab, loved the new stuff, technical difficulties aside a great show.)
- Scared myself shitless - from noticing a spider.
- Killed the romance in my relationship with a gastro issue...followed by falling asleep flat on my back with my mouth open, snoring. SO sexy.
Sunday, 13 October 2013
fandamily gatherings
I ate meals at me new table this weekend! How very grown up. I also reverted to eating dinner on the couch however on Sunday because P and I were engrossed in the television. How very sad. I am going to have to start binge watching the rest of Breaking Bad, I've decided because SPOILERS. Usually I don't have much pity for people who whinge about internet spoilers (don't go on the internet if you don't want to know!) but as someone who is at Season 2, Episode 9, I'm feeling very pissy about the number of headlines on magazine style sites ruining the ending for me. We've been very slow Breaking Bad watchers because it's so intense I find I need to space it out. Hence, we're well behind. Bear in mind that I've decided that one of these days I should really watch the West Wing. I'm about 10 years behind the curve on everything.
Well, that was far too many words about television.
Big fandamily weekend with my family this weekend, rather than P's. At least I came home with my phone and my dignity when I was with mi familia...ohhhhhhhh I hadn't told you about that. P's cousin was turning 28 and scorned us for our age and inability to party so I proved her wrong...no I didn't. I went to Kingsland, finished getting completely soused and then fell asleep on my bedroom floor when P played party pooper and poured me into a cab. Some kind stranger found my phone and a friend who called me the next day picked it up for me...that, right there, gives me some serious faith in humanity. The guy reckoned someone had done it for him - phone karma, he thought. I love him. So true though - I've saved someone's blackberry before (scrolled through the contacts and called 'Wifey') so maybe I was due a cosmic good phone turn? I also thought I'd lost my glasses and spent four very squinty, bloodshot days at work last week, but they turned up on Friday.
(Let's not even discuss the Drunk In Charge FB behaviour shall we?)
I embraced my age at my cousin's 21st this weekend, accordingly. Safe at home by 11.30.
Well, that was far too many words about television.
Big fandamily weekend with my family this weekend, rather than P's. At least I came home with my phone and my dignity when I was with mi familia...ohhhhhhhh I hadn't told you about that. P's cousin was turning 28 and scorned us for our age and inability to party so I proved her wrong...no I didn't. I went to Kingsland, finished getting completely soused and then fell asleep on my bedroom floor when P played party pooper and poured me into a cab. Some kind stranger found my phone and a friend who called me the next day picked it up for me...that, right there, gives me some serious faith in humanity. The guy reckoned someone had done it for him - phone karma, he thought. I love him. So true though - I've saved someone's blackberry before (scrolled through the contacts and called 'Wifey') so maybe I was due a cosmic good phone turn? I also thought I'd lost my glasses and spent four very squinty, bloodshot days at work last week, but they turned up on Friday.
(Let's not even discuss the Drunk In Charge FB behaviour shall we?)
I embraced my age at my cousin's 21st this weekend, accordingly. Safe at home by 11.30.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
la la la, very small things
Long time, no type. You know, caused by the usual: work, a dearth of anything valuable to say (HA. Something of value!? I'm sure you're all clamouring for a return of the "shitty cafe music updates" AMIRITE? I'm always producing kwality kontent on this 'ere blog!)
I have the next two days off - a glorious four day weekend ahead of me. P's organised it, the destination is a surprise (who knows? He might propose! Oh, wait. We already did that.) I cannot wait. Our wee home is dealing surprisingly well with the stresses of four adults and two children, but my mental capacity is not. Weekdays are fine, really, but on weekends I get pretty desperate for some quiet. I know, says you. How on earth will you ever be a mother? Well, that's not a given and also, I keep thinking that there must be some biological pay-off to having children of which I'm not yet aware. I mean, the kids are pretty cute, sure, but they're so....relentless. And grubby. To be fair to them, my excitement is also over the desire for space from their parents, too.
So yes, I intend to souse myself in wine, whiskey and books this weekend and maybe, if he's specially lucky, I'll converse with my husband too. No guarantees, P!
Ok, so I completely lost my train of thought (work interrupted, how rude. Or entirely predictable). Anyway, I hope to see you here a revitalised woman soon. Ha.
I have the next two days off - a glorious four day weekend ahead of me. P's organised it, the destination is a surprise (who knows? He might propose! Oh, wait. We already did that.) I cannot wait. Our wee home is dealing surprisingly well with the stresses of four adults and two children, but my mental capacity is not. Weekdays are fine, really, but on weekends I get pretty desperate for some quiet. I know, says you. How on earth will you ever be a mother? Well, that's not a given and also, I keep thinking that there must be some biological pay-off to having children of which I'm not yet aware. I mean, the kids are pretty cute, sure, but they're so....relentless. And grubby. To be fair to them, my excitement is also over the desire for space from their parents, too.
So yes, I intend to souse myself in wine, whiskey and books this weekend and maybe, if he's specially lucky, I'll converse with my husband too. No guarantees, P!
Ok, so I completely lost my train of thought (work interrupted, how rude. Or entirely predictable). Anyway, I hope to see you here a revitalised woman soon. Ha.
Friday, 13 September 2013
theatrical
Last night P took me to the theatre - Speaking in Tongues, produced by the Silo Theatre Company. Verdict: the first half really made me think and I wanted more of the same - Andrew Bovell's second half felt a little disjointed as a result; it had the same strong themes but I wanted to know more through the eyes of Jane, Pete and Sonja who vanished for the benefit of Sarah, Neil/John and Valerie. Oliver Driver was excellent - as John, in particular.
However. The takeaway from last night's performance is that I can never eat at a yakitori bar again if I don't want to end up the size of a house. Edamame, completely justifiable. However, chicken skins, pork belly, octopus balls and chicken livers all on their own wee sticks are entirely too much fatty deliciousness and I cannot resist. Starving myself of yakitori is the only way - but Tanuki's Cave is on my walk home...I am doomed.
Also, I drank far too much sake with dinner (just before the final skewer arrived I annouced to P: "I am officially impaired") and that's a recipe for feeling alternatively extremely hot and then shivery the day following. I am having real trouble regulating my body temp today.
However. The takeaway from last night's performance is that I can never eat at a yakitori bar again if I don't want to end up the size of a house. Edamame, completely justifiable. However, chicken skins, pork belly, octopus balls and chicken livers all on their own wee sticks are entirely too much fatty deliciousness and I cannot resist. Starving myself of yakitori is the only way - but Tanuki's Cave is on my walk home...I am doomed.
Also, I drank far too much sake with dinner (just before the final skewer arrived I annouced to P: "I am officially impaired") and that's a recipe for feeling alternatively extremely hot and then shivery the day following. I am having real trouble regulating my body temp today.
Thursday, 15 August 2013
eau de plonker
It comes as no surprise, I'm sure, that I like food. Similarly, I'm sure you've twigged that I also like wine.
This love for food and wine is turning me into a giant ASSHOLE.
P poured a glass of red last night and offered me a slurp (I was being all 'I don't drink on weeknights' which is patently NOT TRUE but anyway, a guzzle from someone else's glass doesn't count). I delicately inhaled over the rim of the glass, took a swig and promptly made a face.
'WHAT IS THIS?'
'A pinot, young one, plus it needs a bit more time out of the bottle'
'WELL ITS RUBBISH AND... ... ... AND... ... IT'S SO ... SO FLORAL'
'You told me to stop spending so much on wine, and I got a staff discount on this thanks to a client'
'NO. NO MORE.'
I am actually an asshole. A WINE asshole. That specific breed that rolls its eyes back in it's head as it savours the delights of an 88 Bordeaux out of a Riedel Bordeaux glass with it's nose. (Ha. I WISH I had an 88 Bordeaux and I keep breaking those fucker glasses).
What happened to the girl with the bladder of wine in her flax kite, tap out the bottom, asking the bartender at the Bowler (RIP, a fine establishment) for just an empty glass please? Oh, she was an asshole too, JUST A DIFFERENT KIND.
I lead a very spoilt and privileged existence. I could go ahead and qualify the above all day (I still drink cheap plonk! I'm grateful I can afford anything from Chateau Cardboard and above in my discretionary spending! I know there are starving children! I give money to charity on the regular!) but fact of the matter is, I'm an asshole.
This love for food and wine is turning me into a giant ASSHOLE.
P poured a glass of red last night and offered me a slurp (I was being all 'I don't drink on weeknights' which is patently NOT TRUE but anyway, a guzzle from someone else's glass doesn't count). I delicately inhaled over the rim of the glass, took a swig and promptly made a face.
'WHAT IS THIS?'
'A pinot, young one, plus it needs a bit more time out of the bottle'
'WELL ITS RUBBISH AND... ... ... AND... ... IT'S SO ... SO FLORAL'
'You told me to stop spending so much on wine, and I got a staff discount on this thanks to a client'
'NO. NO MORE.'
I am actually an asshole. A WINE asshole. That specific breed that rolls its eyes back in it's head as it savours the delights of an 88 Bordeaux out of a Riedel Bordeaux glass with it's nose. (Ha. I WISH I had an 88 Bordeaux and I keep breaking those fucker glasses).
What happened to the girl with the bladder of wine in her flax kite, tap out the bottom, asking the bartender at the Bowler (RIP, a fine establishment) for just an empty glass please? Oh, she was an asshole too, JUST A DIFFERENT KIND.
I lead a very spoilt and privileged existence. I could go ahead and qualify the above all day (I still drink cheap plonk! I'm grateful I can afford anything from Chateau Cardboard and above in my discretionary spending! I know there are starving children! I give money to charity on the regular!) but fact of the matter is, I'm an asshole.
Friday, 28 June 2013
ha ha ha, also:
Insurance Lady: 'So, have you had any claims in the past year?'
Me: 'Um, there was that time the Fire Service had to bash in our front door because of the fiery prawns.."
Insurance Lady: 'Well. Well. That doesn't sound good."
Me: 'Um, there was that time the Fire Service had to bash in our front door because of the fiery prawns.."
Insurance Lady: 'Well. Well. That doesn't sound good."
this is full of curse words
It’s been one of those days, you probably know the
kind. Total shit storm. Last day of the financial year at work (bill
those bills, baby) + the last working day before settlement on the house (sign
that documentation in blood, thrice, witnessed by Satan (or a solicitor, sorry
N!) + INSURE THYSELF, WOMAN. YOUR
ELECTRICS ARE SUBPAR + big worky deadline.
To add injury to general woefulness, my lovely new work shoes,
while fine around the office generally, are not made for traipsing up and down
stairs all week. My god, the pressure
points.
My choice of dress today (Richochet, circa some time ago) is
beautiful. It’s also stuck like a static
motherfucker to my tights (despite the slip, which I thought was a guaranteed
old lady cure) so every time I’ve stood up, it got caught up around my ass and
I looked like I was walking around with some kind of vagina-hat. Imagine, if you will.
Stress pimple has been staring people in the face today. I was not aware of this until about 5 minutes
ago. The concealer is not in my
bag. Fuck.
My husband (big promotion! So proud P! Celebratory lunch for
you!) MAY have been under the influence when signing our lives away. I couldn’t possibly comment.
Whinge / rant / etc.
Next week is gonna be so much better.
Monday, 17 June 2013
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.
(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.
Sunday, 26 May 2013
tea + reflection
You'll be pleased to know that my boots are very clean this Monday morning, thanks to a trade-off with P over the weekend (if you clean my boots, I'll iron you a shirt. This is how marital negotiations run in our house. See also: if you cook me something tasty, I'll vacuum the mess off the kitchen floor. We're lazy, basically.)
But other than that, Monday's pretty average this week, boys and girls:
EXHIBIT A
NO EARL GREY TEA IN THE KITCHEN AT WORK. Crisis situation. English Breakfast decidedly subpar.
EXHIBIT B
Nope, that was it. No Earl Grey + Monday is basically enough to throw me for a loop, clean boots and all.
OK, so the thing that is still consuming my spare time is the house hunting. I know. Terribly boring, no action, etc etc. P and I narrowly missed out on Thursday night and got rotten drunk and fought to compensate. That's how we know that (a) Frieda's is a great bar on Richmond Road, Grey Lynn (seriously, love it. Ex-butchery with charm, as unlikely as that sounds) and (b) we can never go back there (the drunken hiss-whispered fighting. The shame.) However, we're nothing if not stupidly resilient and we're still in it to win it. There's another auction on Wednesday evening. Sadly, even with no confidence I'm still arranging the furniture / removing the hideous black chandeliers (black chandeliers! If that's your thing, more power you; you have a very strong sense of self/design aesthetic that my neutral-toned and boring self cannot handle.)
Yeah, I've basically avoided writing more about this online because it's tedious, repetitive and makes me get all self-examine-y in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Just keep your fingers crossed, please?
In other news, I ate approximately my body weight in thinly sliced rump steak, green cos salad with lemon dressing and wee roasty potatoes last night. New favourite meal. Easy, tasty and comparatively healthy (I choose to ignore the amount of canola oil used in the roasting of those potatoes.)
We saw friends ex-London on Saturday night and made bad choices re pizza, beer and wine, but had a very nice time. I need to do that sort of thing more often - I love sitting at a pub, gossiping and reminiscing (this time last year we were in Croatia!)
I guess that's a weekend round-up, after all.
But other than that, Monday's pretty average this week, boys and girls:
EXHIBIT A
NO EARL GREY TEA IN THE KITCHEN AT WORK. Crisis situation. English Breakfast decidedly subpar.
EXHIBIT B
Nope, that was it. No Earl Grey + Monday is basically enough to throw me for a loop, clean boots and all.
OK, so the thing that is still consuming my spare time is the house hunting. I know. Terribly boring, no action, etc etc. P and I narrowly missed out on Thursday night and got rotten drunk and fought to compensate. That's how we know that (a) Frieda's is a great bar on Richmond Road, Grey Lynn (seriously, love it. Ex-butchery with charm, as unlikely as that sounds) and (b) we can never go back there (the drunken hiss-whispered fighting. The shame.) However, we're nothing if not stupidly resilient and we're still in it to win it. There's another auction on Wednesday evening. Sadly, even with no confidence I'm still arranging the furniture / removing the hideous black chandeliers (black chandeliers! If that's your thing, more power you; you have a very strong sense of self/design aesthetic that my neutral-toned and boring self cannot handle.)
Yeah, I've basically avoided writing more about this online because it's tedious, repetitive and makes me get all self-examine-y in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Just keep your fingers crossed, please?
In other news, I ate approximately my body weight in thinly sliced rump steak, green cos salad with lemon dressing and wee roasty potatoes last night. New favourite meal. Easy, tasty and comparatively healthy (I choose to ignore the amount of canola oil used in the roasting of those potatoes.)
We saw friends ex-London on Saturday night and made bad choices re pizza, beer and wine, but had a very nice time. I need to do that sort of thing more often - I love sitting at a pub, gossiping and reminiscing (this time last year we were in Croatia!)
I guess that's a weekend round-up, after all.
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
lazy pantses
Eh, I'm being all worky again and neglecting you, you poor old blog. Just like I neglected my teenage diary when I wasn't that particularly lovely combo of bored and feeling angsty. Soz blog, you deserve better!
Here is the lazyblog guide to moi, recently:
Here is the lazyblog guide to moi, recently:
- Still not a home owner. Hope to remedy this tomorrow, but the hope is only in miniscule, basically unmeasurable amounts.
- Oh yeah, at least the landlord did decide to extend our current tenancy until July at the last possible moment, so I'm not currently homeless (even if it does feel like I'm living in the office, she says darkly.)
- I cooked a salmon fillet for the first time. Two, in fact (seeing as P might have been pissed if I just sorted myself out.) Why have I never done this before?! Am obviously a hopeless, dopey human being. It was fucking delicious. Recipe: oven, salmon, drizzle of oil, slices of lemon, season with S+P. Don't fuck it up. I'm just like Nigella, right?!
- I'm facing up to the fact that I'm likely spending all of August in Christchurch. Don't go all Pollyanna on me and say 'you can go skiing on your weekends!' etc. I'll be holed up in worky places and hotels for the duration. The good news is I'll need to buy a winter coat (yusssssssss). I have very mixed feelings about Chch, generally. I'm very complicated, obv.
- I got a motherfucking haircut last weekend. Oh, you say, does a haircut really require cussing of that magnitude? Damn right it does. I looked like a horror show of split ends and it was bliss. Also, we had to take off quite a whack of hair so I think it justifies being called more than your average haircut.
- Petite Bocal is a very nice new cafe/wine bar in Sandringham, Auckland. I liked it very much.
- We're planning a Stewart Island retreat for Xmas with the fandamily. I know it seems early but you've got to get bookings early or risk missing out. I'm looking forward to spotting some kiwi, creating some triceps kayaking and hanging out with me faves. Any recommendations, previous visitors to New Zealand's third largest island?
Thursday, 11 April 2013
a+p do melbourne
so apart from beating my husband at night, I've been working about a billion and THAT'S RIGHT I went to Melbourne!
So great. SRSLY. 27 degrees, sunshine (+ a shower or to, to be fair), sights, eats etc. We had a lovely time. So lovely in fact, that we made it home at 6.30am on Sunday morning after an extended sesh in the Laneways bars and at the Supper Club. I have not done that since I was about 20 (I think the closest was the time I "tipped" the cab driver my camera by accident in NY at about 4am following an East Village bender with V and L - got into the apartment and fell off the bed taking my boots off while P watched in wonder) (I lie! It was the time I hit Shoreditch with the girls and got hit on by Essex lads with too much cologne at the Hoxton Pony and ate pizza on the roadside, possibly my favourite night in London ever). Mind you, this was not a dance party. Our particular brand of being 30 is much more old fogey than that. We sat for ages in a bar that resembled a womb (red leather dangly trimmings and vulval couches), another that featured outdoor lavs but served something delicious with lychee and eventually ended up in comfortable sofas at Supper Club, sipping red wine, eating cheese and talking, talking, talking.
We caught up with old friends and I probably used my yearly word quota in yakking away - just bliss.
More importantly, I think P had a great time. Happy 30th P, and here's to many more decades of bad behaviour with you.
(I really hope our trip trumps the bad memories of the nosebreaking incident of 2013...)
So great. SRSLY. 27 degrees, sunshine (+ a shower or to, to be fair), sights, eats etc. We had a lovely time. So lovely in fact, that we made it home at 6.30am on Sunday morning after an extended sesh in the Laneways bars and at the Supper Club. I have not done that since I was about 20 (I think the closest was the time I "tipped" the cab driver my camera by accident in NY at about 4am following an East Village bender with V and L - got into the apartment and fell off the bed taking my boots off while P watched in wonder) (I lie! It was the time I hit Shoreditch with the girls and got hit on by Essex lads with too much cologne at the Hoxton Pony and ate pizza on the roadside, possibly my favourite night in London ever). Mind you, this was not a dance party. Our particular brand of being 30 is much more old fogey than that. We sat for ages in a bar that resembled a womb (red leather dangly trimmings and vulval couches), another that featured outdoor lavs but served something delicious with lychee and eventually ended up in comfortable sofas at Supper Club, sipping red wine, eating cheese and talking, talking, talking.
 |
| AS PER, TOOK FUCK ALL PHOTOS AND AM REDUCED TO USING A VAIN ONE I TOOK TO CAPTURE AWESOME SHOES. NAH, I'M NOT ASHAMED ACTUALLY - ROCKING SOME EXCELLENT SKINNY ARM TOO SO BUGGER THE TERRIBLE QUALITY, I'VE FILTERED THE BEJESUS OUT OF IT AND YOU'RE JUST GONNA HAVE TO LOOK. EXCEPT NOT AT MY FACE, WHICH IS A BIT OLD LADY-ISH. LONGEST POINTLESS CAPTION EVAH. |
 |
| P (29Y364D) + A (NOT ME, T'OTHER ONE) + VIEW |
More importantly, I think P had a great time. Happy 30th P, and here's to many more decades of bad behaviour with you.
(I really hope our trip trumps the bad memories of the nosebreaking incident of 2013...)
Monday, 1 April 2013
auckland can be just lovely
Hallo April, you're looking pretty. Weather report: few drops of rain over the weekend, but also gorgeous sunny clear weather too. P and I flopped down in the middle of Victoria Park yesterday because sunshine! and then I got eaten by a cloud of midges so you know, this extended summer business has its drawbacks too.
MUST TELL YOU: the Auckland Art Gallery Toi o Tamaki is magical! I forgot my glasses so had a limited span during which enjoying the art was, well, enjoyable (gets a bit ruined when you have to stand next to the piece and squint) - but my gosh we had a superb visit yesterday. The bit of the collection we saw was just lovely (largely New Zealand artists of the 20th century in the Toi Aotearoa exhibition) and the building itself was fantastic. My favourite part was sitting on a balcony with a coffee, with a perfectly framed/unframed view of Albert Park and a twisty pohutukawa, complemented by native birdsong. I chose that moment to break his bday surprise news - he's pretty excited.
MUST TELL YOU: the Auckland Art Gallery Toi o Tamaki is magical! I forgot my glasses so had a limited span during which enjoying the art was, well, enjoyable (gets a bit ruined when you have to stand next to the piece and squint) - but my gosh we had a superb visit yesterday. The bit of the collection we saw was just lovely (largely New Zealand artists of the 20th century in the Toi Aotearoa exhibition) and the building itself was fantastic. My favourite part was sitting on a balcony with a coffee, with a perfectly framed/unframed view of Albert Park and a twisty pohutukawa, complemented by native birdsong. I chose that moment to break his bday surprise news - he's pretty excited.
 |
| GRETCHEN ALBRECHT, GOLDEN CLOUD (1973) VIA |
We'd wandered into the city on foot to see the gallery; we followed it up with a visit to Unity Books (fave bookshop, EVER, hands down) and mosey around the sunglasses stores (an unfortunate victim of R + A's wedding). P and I were so drunk off our own lovely city/country that we ate Bluff oysters and drank Mission Reserve Chardonnay for lunch + felt blissfully happy/like proper Auckland nobs. Easter Monday was lufferly.
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