staycation is an awful, awful word

I have booked some holiday, thank goodness.  It's not that I've been consistently under the pump, but I am starting to feel like I need something to look forward to, other than just the end of winter.  So, P and I have agreed to take a week off in August.  We'll probably just potter around the house, because I cannot bring myself to spend money other than on the mortgage at this point in time. 

Case in point: the work dress I am wearing today has had a hole in the bum patched.  You can't see it and it's such a pretty dress...but basically my entire work wardrobe is shabby.  I don't think I have bought a single new piece in 2014 and I didn't really bother in 2013 either. So profeshunal. The bum on my work pants looks a little saggy, my cardigans are a bit frayed at the cuffs, my lint roller has been getting a work out, I won't lift my arms wearing my one white collared court shirt...you get the picture.

Mind you, I'm still spending through the nose on cat food.  And me-food.  I'm not as spending averse as I'd probably like you to think.  We're going to Wellington for a weekend to visit friends in July.  And we're being organised about summer this year - a friend is hooking up a bach in Omaha.  So, really, I'm just lazy when it comes to professional attire and appearance it seems (OH MY GOD MY ROOTS.  Do they still qualify as roots at coming up 2 inches?).

Anyway, August.  A week off at home.  Here's hoping it will be delightful.  Things I could do with that week:

• Properly clean the house.  As in actually dust things, up high for example.
• Paint.  Lots of things.
• Sand.  Lots of things.
• Sit my bum on the couch.
• Prepare the spring garden.
• Go to a west coast beach for the day.
• Read. 
• Buy some new work clothes, for crying out loud.
• Cook. 

That all sounds so....mundane.  Even so, it's pretty appealing. 

three weeks off is just so....punishing, you know?!

Ahhh, the rest and relaxation of the summer break. 

Touch of sarcasm (TM).*

I love my family.  Really! However, I find the start of my summer holidays in New Zealand completely batshit crazy and family time is not always particularly relaxing.  First world problems BLAH BLAH let me tell you them.

• I finish work in December under a complete cloud of crazy.  I'm frantic, as the office is closing down for three weeks and of course the clients want everything done yesterday before Christmas.  At least 50% of them will be working through the summer, so they don't give a rats about the holiday.  Besides which, I've been out and about on company entertaining and personal social catch up missions throughout the month, not to mention a weekend out of the country (boo hoo, what a punishment! you say.  Yeah, that's fair I guess.)
• Then, once I'm finally done in the office for the year (by done, I mean I've walked out at the end with a giant 'deal with it later' pile in the corner), we immediately have P's family pseudo-Christmas dinner.  At our house.  We're catering.  There will be fewer than 10 people this year (thank Oscar the Grouch) but there's still a lot to do.  Oh, and my best friend is in town from London so I am having her around for lunch first (can't not! It's been over 18 months since I've seen her face! And having her to our place allows me to prep meals and gasbag at the same time!)
• 8am the next morning, on a plane with my sister K.  We meet Mum and Dad, then enjoy a three hour drive even further south, followed by a meal with some of P's paternal family.
• Next morning, ferry over to the island.  We're there for a week, plus a night in the Catlins on the way back.  Poor old P is stuck on a frigid wee island in the Roaring 40s in a bach with his in-laws for a week.  I pity the fool.
• P and I arrive home at approx 9.30pm on the 30th.
• We get up the next morning, and drive three hours to the beach to meet friends.  Goodness only knows how many of us will be jammed into a wee place looking for a good time, but it will be mental.  MENTAL. 

Now, don't get me wrong, there will be plenty of rest and relaxation time on the island.  It's just that we'll be in close proximity with family for over a week on the back of one of the maddest Decembers I can remember, in a year when I didn't take more than two days off at a time. 

Oh, and P has decided he wants us to go swimming with great white sharks while we're on the island.  GREAT STRESS RELIEVER, P. 

Call me Moaning Milly.  Really, it's not so bad.  In fact, all of the above sounds pretty good, sans a bit of actually having to work.  Well, now you know the basic facts of my summer schedule anyway.  I've got an end of year thingo to come and will no doubt feel the urge to worddump all over my blog again before Xmas, but I wouldn't be checking back again much before mid-January.  For those of you I'm not seeing this Xmas, I miss and love you all.


*Touch of Grey, anyone?  Best ad I saw during my tenure in the US.  Young dudes giving themselves grey wings (literal, not figurative you dirty bastards) in order to seem more distinguished, trustworthy etc.  Brilliant!

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). 

iiiiiii'm kiiiiiiiiiiiissing yooooooooou

List du jour is Movies What I Have Loved Far, Far More Than Is Reasonable:

• Grease.  I think that was the first taped-off-the-telly movie that my sister and I wore out with repeats, watching it every day if we could.  Wasn’t sure what Rizzo’s problem was, didn’t know why Frenchie could quit school (are they allowed to do that in America where they also can wear whatever they want to high school every day?!!), thought Sandy was prettier when she was square, could not for the life of me understand why they wrapped Grease Lightning with a giant roll of cling film – didn’t get it at age 7, basically, but I loved it. 
• No, wait, the first taped-off-the-telly-movie we wore out was the Sound of Music.  Mum used to sit on the edge of her chair in the scene where Captain Von Trapp waltzes with Maria.  I thought ‘16 Going On 17’ much more romantic, but I was a fool, I have subsequently learned on yet another round of rewatching as an adult.  CvT is the business. 
• ROMEO+JULIET.  I can hear any song off that sound track and my heart basically stops in its tracks, thinking about Leonardo DiCaprio.  Infinitely cooler than how I felt about Titanic (3x at the movies, people. I suspect I believed Jack was real and that the ending might change next time around).  I think I learned what love/obsession/drugs were by watching and rewatching R+J.  Mrs Grewal in fourth form English used it for our Shakespeare study.  She was a bloody genius.  All the girls in the classroom were rapt, mouthing along with the best bits and the sound track.  Jesus, Leo through the fishtank.  If you were around 14 in 1996, female and had access to a movie theatre, I think you know what I’m saying.
• The BBC’s 1995 Pride & Prejudice with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.  I discovered this at about 15 or 16 and quickly wore off Leo, let me tell you.  I think I thought I was a modern day Elizabeth Bennet and could not wait to say I was not yet one and twenty.  I have this on both VHS and DVD, as well as the Keira Knightley version (Matthew McAvoy, you’re alright, but I basically watch it to bitch about how it’s not the same as the book.)
• Die Hard.  My sister and I discovered the glory on a lazy weekend (both of us love Alan Rickman which likely drew us in) and were yelling Yippee-Ki-Yay Mother Fucker and bursting into hysterical giggles for WEEKS.  My parents were, I think, both horrified and secretly proud.  I still feel like the first three Die Hards are the ultimate movies to watch at Christmas.  Is that weird?
• Anything with Liam Neeson.  And I’m not just talking about Rob Roy or Love, Actually.  Sadly, I have seen and enjoyed Taken, Taken 2 and The Grey which tells you something about my twisted little mind.  I suspect he’s the best action star of all time (Bruce is second.  Die Hard 4 really jumped the shark.)

Anyway, there are more v intellectual movies in my catalogue of films what I adore (ha.  Do Ghost or Ghostbusters count as intellectual? What about Spaceballs?), but the above are probably the extent of the ones I feel obsessive about. Most of them are the result of being a ghastly yet probably your average middle class teenager: it was a time of bad poetry and horrendous, compulsive adoration.

will knickers with bows boost my self esteem?

You know what is really, really stupid? 

I have spent an inordinate amount of time over the past two weeks thinking about how gross I am.  Normally, Bendon, I'd sing your praises to the high heavens (Glory Be To Elle MacPherson and Praise the Sainted Underwire!), but I bought some discount plain cotton undies from the store a while ago and christ, they make me feel ugly.  I've never had a problem before with cotton knickers - they're the business.  Comfortable and always available in a range of sassy colours.  Tend not to creep up your crack / go some feral colour in the wash / shed elastane within about 5 wears.  Safe knickers.  Sure, they're not going to be the best in the event of you get accidentally seduced by Ryan Gosling (or Justin Long, is that weird? He seems so ... genuinely funny?) but you're not going to be upset about what the paramedic is seeing if you're involved in some kind of bicycle accident.  So yeah, I love me some sensible knickers. 

AND YET, BENDON, AND YET. 

It's probably just that I've stacked on some belly recently but my latest cotton dacks are JUST SO GROUSE.  They sit at exactly the wrong place to look even remotely attractive. Poor old P has bought me drawers worth of frippery which sits idle (my knicker drawers also hold: eleventy billion odd socks, ribbons, broken pens, lost necklaces, single earrings, a flaming treasure trove of stuff I never use) and here I am wearing cotton gruts that even I can't even stand. 

Things have got to change around here.  I may be getting older, fatter, more shortsighted and grumpier by the day but BY GOD I WILL HAVE NICE KNICKERS if it kills me.  SURELY that will be the cure to my body issues?  (ha...as opposed to regular healthy diet and exercise.  trust me, I'm aware of how fucking warped this logic is but so help me jeebus, I stand by my assertion that lace on my derriere will assist).

So yeah, that's what's really, really stupid.  Add it to the list of bullshit resolutions I make around here. 

dull alert: of interest only to aucklanders currently active in the residential property market. the rest of you have been warned.

I do not yet know what my housing situation will be post-7 May 2013, when the extension to our current lease runs out.  Yes, that is an indirect way of saying we failed yet again at auction over the weekend. 

You must be thinking either:

(a) they have a warped perception of what properties they're looking at are worth; or
(b) they're hopeless at auction technique.

I'll admit that a couple of our offers have been of the cheeky 'can't hurt' variety.  Also in our defence, I think the market growth is rapidly outstripping some of the valuations we've obtained (case in point - the weekend's auction involved a house that sold for $136,000 more than valuation obtained a matter of days beforehand - auctioneer told us afterwards that he'd had some difficulty in keeping a straight face during the latter, obscene stages of the auction.  There were certainly audible snorts from disaffected members of the public attending the auction, though the lady over the fence was stoked).  I'd like to think our auction technique is pretty shit hot though - we've played the occasional sniper move to good effect (but yet, we are still Losers, note the Capital L). 

Basically, I think we need to retrench.  Keep it between you, me and the rest of the internet, but we think our options are:

(a) Give it up for now and hope the alleged 'bubble' bursts.  This is a gamble, of course.  Interest rates are good now and it would be good to lock a decent rate down.  Also, the rate at which Auckland is growing population wise is far outstripping building rates, so long term, investment in the 09 is sensible.  Plus, I just want to.  So there's that.

(b) Look for something further away from the city.  Major issue with this: you need to go a fair way in order to get cheaper prices.  I know from experience that I don't handle commuting well.  P might be OK with it, but he loves the urban lifestyle.  When we drew up our list of 'wants', being close to work was numero uno on the list. 

(c) Throw a bit more money at it.  Scares the bejesus out of me, but there it is.  Don't think I'm talking squillions extra here, but if we'd stretched a further $20k or so at previous auctions, I think we'd be home owners already. (RBATWAFD and SNWACK houses, I'm looking at you; in both cases an extra $5k probably woulda done it, speculation until the cows come home, etc).

(d) Look at something smaller.  Problem being, we're basically looking at the tiniest already.

OK, so this is basically a massive affluent person whinge and you're all entitled to scream "CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS, BITCH" at me.  Here is the defensive part: my diary (public consumption or no), my deal.  See also: mo' money, mo' problems.  We think the answer is a bit of a combo of (c) and (d).  I really don't like losing, so on we go. 

Advise me, o wise and venerable internets: strangers, this is basically the biggest invitation for ass-vice ever.  What would you do, were you me?

super

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

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

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

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

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

in which i post an earnest link to a discussion of happiness and try to avoid sarcasm

AUCKLAND, LAST FRIDAY

"Happiness should be serendipitous, a by-product of a life well lived, and pursuing it in a vacuum doesn’t really work." - Ruth Whippman in the NYT

bits

I will shut my cakehole on the subject of my smashed phone for a while (sniff), while I inform you about all the other extremely important things I feel you should know about my life, just at this moment in time. 

P's mum has arrived for the weekend.  I cooked a meal last night and it had more than three ingredients and wasn't completely inedible so that counts as a win, right?  I also managed to vacuum the floor so I like to think I'm two for two on the domesticity front.  Except that there were no fresh towels because I'm a sloth and apparently had been saving up every possible rectangle of towelling for a laundry date that never occurred.  So two for three, maybe.  Before yesterday evening's clean up extravaganza, I emailed a friend that the house looked like a filthy brothel and she expressed some incredulity about this concept.  I stand behind it though - the flat was practically carpeted in underwear (clean! from the unfolded laundry I did do!) and hair. Wanna come stay at my house?

Where was P in all of this, you ask?  Oh he was helping, don't get me wrong.  He has had a busy time at work of late and pitched in where he could.  Plus he brought home wine and flowers (the essentials).  But don't think I'm not banking that favour and milking it later for all it's worth. 

I booked the last of the airline tickets for the Big Trip this morning! YAY but also DESTITUTE!  Before we leave, we have trips to Croatia and Lithuania planned.  The Big Trip now looks something like:

Wimbledon (camping in the queue)
Scotland
Ireland
Back to England so P can do some GodAwful Car Thing
Barcelona and the Costa Brava
Provence
Tuscany
Venice
Greece (Athens, Paros, Santorini for sure)
Istanbul
Chennai and Bangalore
Rajasthan
New Zealand!

So excited, honestly.  I've said it before but it bears repeating (or I will repeat it anyway until it is done good and driven into the ground) I CANNOT WAIT.  Don't worry, I'm not letting the burglars into any secrets by telling them this because we will be homeless during this period and thus have no place from which burglars can steal things.  THWARTED, potential criminals!  Take that!

Also: the sun is still here!  We are off to a village fete this weekend (quaint, no?) and the English sun shall shine down on our pasty limbs and it will be glorious.  I shall eat cake and be merry.

Happy Friday, one and all. 

idle threats (i'm losing my mind)

On my way to work this morning (where all the big thinking happens), I had this horrible, horrible thought WHAT IF P DIES BEFORE I SEE HIM AGAIN AND THE LAST THING I SAID TO HIM WAS A THREAT TO CASTRATE HIM WITH A HOT, BLUNT SPOON???

I mean, that's going pretty far, even for me (past insults/threats of grievous bodily harm include: I'll soap your toothbrush, so's your face, I'll punch you right in the ovaries etc - fairly mild stuff according to my catalogue of awfulness).  I practically broke down on the street imagining the eulogy I'd have to write for my poor, dear departed husband ("I loved him with all my heart and I often told him so; but our last moments together involved a tender kiss while I threatened him with amateur castration by utensil").

And then I got into that weird zone where I'd practically convinced myself that he'd been hit by a bus.  What would I do without him?  What would my life be like?  How on earth would I ever break the news to his family?  Etcetera, etcetera, on and on ad nauseum.  I was almost in tears by the time I walked into my building, all thumbs as I tapped out terrible soppy messages to P to assuage my guilt over our last words.  Am I the only person who ever has these horrible death scenarios play out in a waking situation?  Please, please tell me I'm not...

I think I'm officially losing the plot.  The countdown tally conducted in the steam on the shower door is telling me 21 working days left before I leave in which time I'm likely to go completely batshit crazy.  I shall have to rally to restore sanity (with apologies to Jon Stewart)....

My husband, meanwhile, is completely unable to account for the inpouring of love in his text message inbox. I think he suspects he's forgotten an anniversary of some sort.


***********************************************************
PS I am marginally concerned about the increase in traffic to my post about rape fields.  I can't see that any *ahem* specific word searches have been used, but I'd be grateful to know that I'm not alone out here in my computer with only people who are SICK. 

Love, Sincere Regards, With a Complete Lack of Irony etc, The Woman Who Threatened Her Husband's Reproductive Organs With Dull Aluminium Cutlery.

monologue about a monologue

CILLIAN MURPHY AS THOMAS MAGILL IN ENDA WALSH'S MISTERMAN AT THE NATIONAL THEATRE

Last night we saw Misterman at the National Theatre and I came away still thinking about it.  It's a one man play but by no means is it a classic monologue - Thomas Magill is caught in an endless recycling of his relationships in Innisfree using tapes, recording devices and his own reproductions of conversations with Innisfree locals.  An unbelievably intense, piercing and thoroughly devoted performance by Cillian Murphy.  Enda Walsh's script and direction I enjoyed (though that seems the wrong word - perhaps appreciated?).  Some of Thomas' pieces in which he was caught up in his/the town's spiritual development were perhaps a bit drawn out, but that was of a piece with the character. 

However, I'm still not sure I've properly processed it all.  Ever have that feeling that you've just scratched the surface? 

danger. danger will robinson

After all yesterday's whinging (which? Trust me, you only caught the edges of), my wonderful husband purchased a lovely bottle of wine and the first of the season's peonies on his way home!  The smell is completely divine; I keep catching the edge of perfumed wafts in my kitchen and living room. 

HAPPY SIGH.  PEONIES ARE MY FAVES.

This means that I should be glass-half-full today.  However, LET ME JUST SAY I work in a dangerous environment y'all and that's one of the reasons yesterday was tough on SO.MANY.LEVELS.  Yeah, yeah, tell me about the hazards you face on a daily basis you tree surgeons and window cleaners and shark divers (is that a career?)…you ain't got nothing on my catalogue of office WOE:

THIS PICTURE WAS SO OFFENSIVE I HAD TO INSTAGRAM IT TO TRY AND DIAL BACK THE ICKINESS.  IT'S STILL REVOLTING, NO?  EW, FINGERS AND TOES AND APPENDAGES.  *SHUDDER*

See that? Paper cuts.  Infectious wee nasties: they hurts me, they hurts!  I swear Ally McBeal did NOT have to deal with this kind of palaver.  Note the picture also depicts some stress-chewed nails.  EW GROSS GROSS GROSS VILE. 

Also: My toe, which was hurting from a day in unsuitable shoes, got stubbed on the corner of my desk last night.  I believe it was on my second attempt to leave the office; when I got to the security gates the first time round, I had a sudden vision of my security pass sitting under the piles of crap I'd left on my desk.  I KNOW, stubbed toes are painful, right?  I'm doing it tough out here in the office-arena.

Just be grateful I'm not giving you a picture of my mouth ulcer which has been exacerbated by stress.  I pulled down my lower lip and showed P the revoltingness and now I think he may never touch me again.  I am kind of grossed out by me too.  Side note: how does one fix an ulcer?  I know you can use baking soda or something...does that just alleviate the symptoms or assist with fixing the problem?

Air-conditioning: dry lips, dry hands, SHARED GERMS OF DOOM.  I share my office with one other person; when he came in on Monday with a rattling chest cough I mustered up some sympathy and the offer of a cup of tea but my internal dialogue was all "GROSS. NOW *I'M* GONNA GET IT".  This may also be because I'm a fundamentally self-centred sort of a person.  (I believe there's a much nastier word for being a 'fundamentally self-centred sort of a person' but hey, I'm not gonna bag myself THAT much on my own blog!) 

Yeah, you appreciate the dangers of the office environment now.  It's hazardous out there, but someone's gotta push paper.  I'm CLEARLY taking one for the team.  You can thank me later.

confrontation

Monday this week was a day for rage.  I didn't get the memo so I wasn't particularly rageous myself, but I saw the results in public places.

Incident 1:

At the large intersection beside Tower Hill there are a lot of pedestrians, all wearing serious faces and coats as they trudge into the City for another day's grind.  It has quite short light phasing; road traffic is heavy and moving in a number of directions.  To cross from Tower Bridge to the Tower Hill tube station, you need to cross the road three times.  The light phasing also means that there usually a significant wait between pedestrian crossing #1 and pedestrian crossing #2.  On occasion, traffic gets so backed up people block the box in any number of directions on this intersection (this generally gives me rage as a driver, but at Tower Hill it's often hard to judge whether traffic is moving through, so I have a modicum of sympathy for those who enter the intersection early). 

We had a wait for crossing #2 on Monday morning.  I stood, unevenly balanced on the grimy yet fluorescent yellow anti-slip dots, next to a woman in her mid to late 20s.  She was blonde, slight, well dressed.  Wearing sensible shoes for commuting and carrying a large bag.  Completely standard for a City worker headed in to work.  When the green man showed, there was a medium sized truck with a  partially open back blocking the second lane across the crossing.  The City girl struck out into the intersection ahead of me and swerved to walk around the back of the truck.  I followed, with several others.

Without warning, she whacked the tailgate of the truck.  A huge thunk, followed by an exasperated exhalation.

It was a deliberate hit; of that I've no doubt.  It came completely out of nowhere.  I tried to imagine how tough her morning must have been to hit a truck (whose driver clearly wasn't going to have heard or felt it) that made her walk, oh I don't know, an EXTRA FOUR OR FIVE STEPS.

Incident 2:

I stopped at the Sainsbury's Local on the way home to pick up some ingredients for dinner.  I'd walked home in fantasy-land, mulling over mental interest calculations on a hypothetical mortgage obtained with a deposit I don't have (fuck my fantasies are BORING.  Where is Viggo fucking Mortensen?  I wasn’t even spending the hypothetical winnings from Euromillions, how sad is that?!), and I entered the supermarket in a bit of a sum-induced daze. 

I was finding the pre-packed salad selection in the back corner of the market a bit trying while I browsed for beetroot (I'm sorry, but WHY on earth does Sainsbury's use so much plastic packaging for fruit and veg in the Local stores?), when I was hit a glancing blow from behind.  I suddenly registered raised voices and turned around.  I'd been hit by a man in a trenchcoat emitting a foul odour as he darted for the store exit, followed by a staff member.  Beside me, in the Chicken section, was another trenchcoated man frantically pulling packages of chicken out of a giant bag and back onto the shelf.  He was yelling "I'm not shoplifting!" on repeat while another staff member had him by the arm. 

Suddenly, there were two staff members manhandling the guy into the back storeroom.  They were laughing, which I found beyond disturbing.  The shoplifter (for clearly that had been his intent, that much was apparent from the speedy departure of his companion and the opaque bag into which had been stuffed approx. 12 large packages of chicken thighs) was clearly pissed.*  He was carrying a visible layer of grime on his person and while defensive, didn't appear to be too much of a threat.  I looked around; unsure what to do.  This was home time for the be-suited bespectacled types - there were a number of men much larger than I watching proceedings. 

The three men disappeared out the back.  I feel a sense of unease about the manhandling.  It wasn't too over the top, but the laughter was very unsettling.  I'm still unsure what I should have said, or done.

*I mean pissed in the sense of drunk.  Boozled.  He had an open can of White Ace cider in hand.

not so fast

After the over-hyped drama of the last post, I've come back to reality, sort of. 

My contract has the longest notice period known to mankind (well, three months) so we're going to be kicking around Londontown for a little bit longer anyway.  During the moping that occurred the evening I resigned (I got half-cut after work with a colleague which contributed to the WOE, WOE IS ME, WE ARE LEAVING FOR THE BACK END OF THE KNOWN UNIVERSE session P and I had on the couch), we decided that there are a few things we should, nay, must do before we leave the UK.



SOUTHWARK PARK, AUTUMN.
AND YES, I KNOW IT'S SPRING NOW.  I DIDN'T HAVE A REASONABLE SPRING ONE ON MY PHONE. 



·         Tower of London.  I walk past the Tower every weekday and yet I have never been.  Hordes of tourists though; v. offputting.  There are queues I can handle and queues I can't - at the bank, sure, to be expected.  To see the Crown Jewels, oh fuck off. 

·         British Museum.  I heart the Reading Room, dimly recalled from a visit at age 19.  You know, interesting old stuff. 

·         Restaurants: MOAR PLZ.  P's sole concern is leaving behind the food mecca of Europe.  I had to try hard to remind him that we have the opposite type of food-awesome in Aotearoa: fresh snapper caught off the back of the boat on the barbie, which? One of the greatest food experiences known to humankind (humble opinion, etc.).  We're supposed to be dining at Pearl in Holburn tonight thanks to a lovely wedding gift from friends (subject to P's burgeoning illness, the symptoms of which have been checked and analysed on an hourly basis: "Do you think it's because my back is out?", "Oh god, my throat hurts like it might be....swollen, or something".  I ventured to suggest that P is just always sick and to my surprise P readily accepted my diagnosis.  Self awareness, he has it...sort of!).

·         Pimms.  I need to DRINK ALL THE PIMMS before departure.  I know that Pimms is just sexified gin, but really? I love gin too so no problems there! Related news: we're going to queue overnight for Wimbledon tickets this year, hoping to check some centrecourt action.  I've seen Rafa pull out his wedgie in person at the US Open, but there's nothing like watching it with a Pimms and perhaps some strawberries and cream in hand. 

·         Park days.  The sun comes out, the Brits get nekkid and sunbathe in the park, consuming tasty treats and iced bevvies.  I swear they judge you on the quality and shade of your tartan picnic rug.  Only the best weaved basket will do.

·         Theatre.  For this drama queen?  MOREMOREMORE!

·         I'd like to go back to the National Portrait Gallery for another wander.  It's such a beautiful resource: for a donation, you can wander to your heart's content eyeballing gorgeous, story-filled paintings. 

·         Columbia Road Flower Market: can't believe I still haven't been!  Maybe that's tomorrow morning's task for a few fresh stems for my dining room table - something other than supermarket daffies might be called for!

And so much more besides.  I'm sure we will be adding to the list as well as subtracting. 

AND SOON, IMMA BE WORKING ON A LIST FOR OUR TRIP ROUND THE MED AND INTO ASIA.  OOOOO YEAH, THE DEEP BLUE MEDITERRANEAN.  I LOVES IT.

PS THIS IS SORRENTO.  THAT IS NOT MY BOAT.

working on my pout

The major exciting news of the day is that I bought two lipsticks when dropping into the chemist for a box of tissues on the way to work.  Two cheap, bottom of the line lipsticks.  One in coral and one in red.  Impulse purchases, along with some control top tights and vitamin C because I'm glamourous that way. 

See this picture?

FROM STYLE MOGUL.  INFINITELY MORE STYLISH THAN ME.

Yeah?  Well.  The lipsticks I bought are not these brands and they are likely not those colours either.  I don't know why I can't commit to investing a decent sum in make up like the products shown above but apparently Maybelline is as fancy as I'm ever likely to get.

OH YEAH that's right - I can't commit in investing in anything decent because I'm cheap and I'm shit at applying facecake.  Don't tell me practice makes perfect because I don't really practice.  Lazy aye? 

I noticed on arrival in the UK that English lassies all like to wear a proper face at work and out to town on a Saturday night which? Fair enough.  But my version of day to day is mascara and, more often than I'd like, crappy concealer smeared over a spot.  For a flash night out, I might add some lip gloss and a spot of wonky eyeliner.  For a big meeting with real adults at work, I might slap on a bit of muted-colour lipstick (once a year perhaps?).  So my daily beauty routine can hardly be called "practicing".

Before the fabulous-month-long-February-holiday, I'd got into the zone a bit with making an effort.  And by that I mean trying to use foundation and having my eyebrows waxed on a semi-regular basis.  That went out the window within a week of arriving in New Zealand when I burnt my nose and my skin tone suddenly no longer matched the shade of English Rose foundation I'd been using.  You might say I gave up trying immediately after my wedding; poor, poor wee P.  Cursed with a wife who no longer makes an effort. 

After having made the arduous selection of tissues this morning ("Is the lily-box too funereal? Or do pink and orange gerberas just scream 'hayfever'?" THESE ARE THE BIG ISSUES, GUYS.  I GRAPPLE WITH THIS SHIT ON THE REGULAR - MY LIFE IS A VERITABLE SHITFEST OF HARD DECISIONS), I decided to "up my game" (HAHAHAHHAHAHA) and buy some new lipstick.  Adults wear lipstick!  I can too!  Trendy people wear coral and red!  I can be trendy too! 

I was completely wrong about that last - that picture was the first image result for my 'coral lipstick' image search.  It came from a beauty trend report that is nearly 9 months old - you guys, I'm so ON TREND you know?   JC on a piece of toast, everyone has probably moved to magenta or some shit while I'm still experimenting with a five quid coral throwaway. 

So, that is pretty much as exciting as March 14 2012 is as likely to get and isn't it just awesome to be me?  If any one out there (echo…echo...) has views on/experience with coral lipstick or suggestions other than a paper bag for my beauty routine, I'm all ears! 

another lengthy exposition. soz.

I have been thinking about this personal blog a wee bit recently.  What do I want it to be?  Does it need to say anything?  Frankly, I've been having a happy little wankfest over the possibilities for the blog, wherein the world discovers that I am hilarious, deep, compelling, yadayada. 

In all seriousness, I haven't struck subject matter or tone just yet so I've hardly been telling the world HEY LOOK, A IS ON THE INTERWEBS AND SHE IS AWESOME.  People write these things so that others read them or, at the very least, in the knowledge that others will read them.  And from those that I've read, even where there is no particular subject matter the writers strike me as deliberately establishing a tone or persona.  So, for now, this is a diary with an audience where I get to try and fail at constructing a version of A, I guess.

HEAVY THINKING ROUND HERE. I ALSO DO MY BEST THINKING PANTSLESS

I can tell you that I have discovered this blog is not:*

A dating blog.  I have snared P with my feminine wiles (read: slutty casual attire and loose morals) and I will likely hold onto him, given he's put up with my morning breath for 10 years now.  Sometimes though, he takes me on dates and who knows, you may even get the opportunity to throw up in your mouth a little as I describe these romantic rendezvous(seses?).  One time, P bought me a bottle of wine for Valentine's Day with the declared intention that we share it together (hey, we were 19 and I thought any wine not packaged in a cardboard box was expensive and therefore classy).  I was busy the evening of the 14th and it was a couple of days before I turned up at his flat announcing that we could now drink it together (with visions of a romantic evening without his three flatmates).  Unfortunately, somewhere between V-day and 48 hours later, P had got thirsty…SEE? Romance, right there.

A mommy/mummy blog.  I have no kids.  My only qualification as a mum as yet is my possession of a uterus (though we're not currently on speaking terms because she was a COMPLETE BITCH recently and if things don't improve, she'll have to shape up or ship out.  Goes for you too Fallopian tubes, don't think you're getting off lightly).

A wedding blog.  Sure, I'm getting married, but I'm not interested in weddings really other than my own.  Actually, that's not entirely true because I'm pretty nosy and may have stalked every facebook photo album of friends' and acquaintances' weddings.  But I don't think I'm particularly interested in writing about weddings permanently.   

A food blog.  I like food a LOT (when the kid I sat next to in Standard 2 inscribed "I love Foodtown" on her desk I drew a little piggy on mine).  No doubt I'll tell you about it from time to time, since eating forms a very important part of my life.  But I'm not a foodie or particularly creative with recipes and, like I said, I feel like an asshole when I take pictures at a restaurant, so suck it up, you'll not be hearing from me regularly on tasty treats.

There are about a million other options for what this blog could be (reliving-my-youth blog - extremely likely, whinge blog - likely, weightloss blog - less likely, style blog NO CHANCE as I have no style!).  Anyone reading this will no doubt be thinking to themselves "WELL WHAT IS THE EFFING POINT THEN?".  A very good question!  The point is I just want to write things, and I'm thinking about it and one of these days Sonny Jim I may just surprise us all and get a purpose in bloglife.  And one day, maybe just maybe, I'll write something without parentheses. 

*At least for now.  Who knows what the future holds and I am as capable of a flipflop on what this blog as I am on my views on popcorn and icecream (FYI: before I ate it, I thought a choctop dipped in popcorn at the movies was the vilest food combination I had ever seen, excepting a friend's strawberry jam laced bolognese sauce.  And then I ate it.  Freaking genius and not to be sniffed at.)

THEY LOOK LIKE MORTAL ENEMIES BUT ARE TASTIER

WHO SAYS THAT ROMANCE IS DEAD?

Sushi bar, lunchtime.  Pile of teriyaki chicken steaming before ridiculously hot girl A wearing effortlessly stylish and chic lawerly attire.  (My blog, my rules people: I will reinterpret facts as and when necessary.  though I will admit that I considered retiring this SUPER (in)EXPENSIVE THEREFORE KLASSY Next dress last time I wore it on the basis that the lining is holy)

A: [answers phone, looking longingly at pile of soy-based treats]
P: Hello. 
A: Are you telepathic?
P: What?
A: Telepathic? Are you this thing? How do you always know to call exactly when my lunch is hottest and most appetizing?
P: I'm thinking of your waistline.  Anyway, I'm in Oxford Street and it's all kinds of godawful and I'm about to punch someone.  Did you get my Christmas present yet?
A: Part of it.  Why? [said knowingly]
P: Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeell, I went to La Senza and they don't have your size, what can I say, you're chest blessed, butanywaydon'tgettherestofmypresentlet'snotbotherthisyear.
A: So, you got nothing right?
P: Nothing but love. 


[in the interests of full disclosure, he is generally very good with presents and I do love to have ammunition in the ongoing battle of who's the boss so not all is lost.  HOWEVER.  hymph.]