f.nightingale

I am a raging snot machine.  I produce mucus faster than a speeding bullet, or some such.  OH HAI FIRST DAY OF AUTUMN, YOU'RE HERE ALREADY?  Why you bring your nasty germy little friends with you? 

So.  Am taking my bugs to Hawke's Bay so my mummy can console me or make me better with the balm of maternal compassion and care.  I.e. so she can roll her eyes and tell me to keep away, she doesn't want what I've got.  Totally inherited Mum's saint-like patience and nursing genes, FYI.  When P's sick, all I can think is:

a) I can't bear the moaning/nose blowing/throat clearing etc etc.
b) When will you be better so we can go do some god damn fun stuff?
c) Don't touch me.

I blame Dad for this bout of germs, actually.  Saw them last weekend when he'd just got off a plane from Germany and was coming down with some sort of virus.  It'll be a vicious merry-go-round of reinfection of his household this weekend.  Poor old Dad.

I do actually like autumn though.  Warm, with chilly bits, then colder, then jeans/boots/scarves and tasty hot treats.  S'good.

THIS WAS 2 WEEKENDS AGO BUT THINGS WERE ALREADY STARTING TO LOOK AUTUMNAL.  THIS PICTURE MAKES ME LOOK LIKE I AM A PINHEAD.

PS This thing still posts on British time, but it's actually 1 March here in NZ.  Truly.  Also, if you're REALLY REALLY confused, here in the southern hemisphere the seasons are different.  Go look that up. 

not today, either

You poor souls are going to get very tired of this progression:

- A sees a house.  She REEEEEEALLY likes it.
- A whinges about how it'll probably go for too much.
- A ties herself in knots imagining auction scenarios, sweating over the detail.
- A announces she's attending an auction today, WTF!!!
- A does not buy a house because her expectations of value and price are completely fucked.
- A adjusts her expectations marginally.
- Rinse, repeat.

Long-winded way of saying I didn't buy a house today.  I nearly did, for a while there, but then I didn't. 

We nearly cacked our pants on arrival, as we were the only registered bidders there for quite some time.  The agent was filling our ears with negotiation, conditional offers, blah blah.  Then some crackhead's agent arrived, obviously filled with the authority to pay a ridiculously high number, basically bid against himself to a point where we believe he would have been well over reserve. 

This is scintillating stuff, my house-buying-saga.  It has the potential to go for months, NAY YEARS and it will remain interesting to me alone because it's so fucking repetitive. 

Oh well, you can't win 'em all. 

this does not contain momentous news

I have no patience.  Today’s auction has not happened yet and I am deteriorating into a sniffy, rageous, scatterbrain.

It’s not like I didn’t see this coming, but I truly believed I’d worked harder on curbing my psychotic tendencies in the lead up to this auction.  I arranged to have a reasonable discussion about numbers with P last night in a public place over a glass of pinot noir so that I couldn’t get huffy.  To be fair though, this was also because when you have houseguests in an apartment that is approx. 60m2, you can’t really have a discussion about private matters.  P and I are not at our best last thing at night, whispering under the covers (plus, I prefer sweet nothings for that type of whisper, rather than “What if Interest Rates Go Up?”  Please do let me know if you are aware of any examples of interest rate type conversation that lead to wild, carefree relations – in fact, having houseguests in such close proximity means that interest rate discussions are the closest we’re basically getting to even sedate, constrained relations. This is, no doubt, increasing the huffiness and up-tightness experienced by the A+P household at present). 

But it is the waiting game that really makes these conversations so loaded.  We have plenty of evidence that I’m terrible at waiting when expecting something.  I just started drafting examples for your edification, but it’s actually just so horrible I can’t bring myself to publicise it.  I certainly can’t find a way to make it even remotely funny; it’s a character flaw entirely without merit that I generally choose to ignore.  (See also: wilful ignorance in the veritable pantheon of flaws that make up my extremely complex persona.  Also, an inability to refrain from referencing P+P.  Blame Austen.)

In sum, today I am prickly, nervous and short with basically everyone.  Surely I will get better at this with practice? 

ring the bell for rounds 2, 3 and possibly 4

Ha! We're at it again.  Tomorrow, lunchtime-ish, Cute Nikau Palm House goes to auction.  If that doesn't work out, Sunday at 1pm Sweet Neighbourhood With a Chef-y Kitchen House goes to auction.  And there's another this time next week: Slightly Dark But Did You See The Backyard! House.

A minor hiccup - we're supposed to be on a plane, somewhere between Hawke's Bay and Auckland on Sunday at 1pm.  Air NZ (sneaky devils) sold us on some very well priced Grabaseat flights a while ago, in order to visit my olds.  Now, less than a week out, it's going to cost six times the original price of each seat to change the return ticket.  I kid you not.  To be fair, that probably reflects in part how good the original deal was, but also the cost of buying at the last minute.  We have a few contingency plans worked out, but it would seem that there is quite a bit of potential for me to be busy purchasing the biggest thing I've ever purchased while sweatily wringing my hands, out of cellphone contact.  That'd be one for the books!  If I never felt compelled to turn on my mobile phone while taxi-ing on the runway before, I may well do come Sunday.

I'm trying not to get too worked up and emotionally invested, but given the extent of my furniture arranging dreams last night I'm sad to say that seems unlikely.  SNWACK House has taken over my imagination just at present.  Unfortunately, there is quite a lot of red in the kitchen (splashback tiles), but I'll tone that down using wooden and white decorations.  I'm thinking a blonde wood dining table.  You see?  I'm screwed. 

It may not surprise you to hear that I am not Bidder-in-Chief in this domestic arrangement.  It's the sort of pressure I would absolutely CRUMBLE under (tears!), so P is taking charge.  Fear not, this is not borne out of traditional role-keeping, but more the knowledge that I would be utterly hopeless at this sort of thing.

Oh yes: the wedding was lovely.  My auntie looked absolutely beautiful and it was a great, great evening.  The sun came out and stayed.  Happy sigh. 

full disclosure

It is 9am, Saturday morning.  I am discovering.  If you are a litigator, you will appreciate what that means.  For the rest of you, I simply request that you pity me.

I'm all woe+gloom these days, no?  Ah well, can't win 'em all!  Plus, to be honest I kind of need a few more billable hours this month...glam life we lady lawyers lead, no? 

BUT exciting times ahoy!  My aunt is getting married today!  It has not dawned clear and bright, which is a damn shame because she's getting married at her home, with a marquee in the backyard.  The horizon is looking promising though, so I trust it won't rain on her parade.  Love a wedding, and this one'll be fab.  Brill, even.  (P can't bear me saying brill.  In his oh-so-humble opinion, even British folk have a hard time pulling off brill, so saying it in my best Nu Zild accent sounds terribly off.  Need a new superlative, plz to leave your suggestions.)

I can't let a post go by without acknowledging that P is lining up today's open home schedule, ready for viewing.  So, you know, house buying palaver is still happening.  Yesterday I received an email from an agent listing recent sales that made me spit out my cornflakes.  Quite a few were properties we had looked at - they sold for considerably more than I had anticipated.  Otahuhu, you're starting to look quite sexy and all BUDGETARY and what not.  Oh Auckland, you crazy housing bubble rapidly expanding city.  You are much like a blowsy gin drinker, all shine on the surface and rot underneath.  I jest (I totally feel you Auckland.  Which is to say I'm an actual blowsy gin drinker.  If this was 1880, I'd be living in East London trying to sell my aging bod for more than a penny in order to buy geneva too, don't worry.  Because it's 2013 I whore myself to The Man/The Establishment/Whatever as a Lady Lawyer in order to pay for expensive limes to add to my gin).

On that note, back to reviewing documents.  Must earn my keep, etc.

brown cow

In the interests of recording the minutiae of my life, you can mark 20 February 2013 on your calendars as the day I switched to brunette.  Momentous news, no doubt.  I have been a brunette for a short period once before, when I was 21-ish.  It was a very dark and reddish colour.  This time, it is a warm brown with coppery undertones.  I am not yet fond of it; I was hoping for something closer to my dark blonde/light brown natural colour.  It’s a semi so hopefully it will fade quickly to a more flattering tone. 

 Blonde-A (a self-absorbed peroxide addict) is horrified by this turn of events. (She lives somewhere in my brain, next to Skinny-A but far away from Chocolate-Bikkies-Are-My-BFF-A).  She points out that blonde looks so much better with a pink dress, or a dark blue suit.  Brunette-A (as Usher so eloquently put it, she’s a lady on the streets but a freak in the bed) says piffle, you look so much more SERIOUS and PROFESHUNAL now.  Both are full of shit. 

That is more than enough about a change of hair colour, ffs.  No big deal, I tell myself.  Ha. 

Photos?  HA HA NO. I’m not that confident about it yet.  I’m already cacking my pants about whether it will match the dress/lipstick combo I chose for this weekend’s wedding festivities for my aunt. 

shop-window mannequin

Hilary Mantel smashed this one, in the London Review of Books, out of the park.  An excellent speech, terribly misinterpreted and twisted by the Daily Mail.  Gynaecological history and press scrutiny are beautifully eviscerated.  It’s not just the thesis but the fascinating content that compelled me (Henry VIII’s ulcerated leg; Prince Charles and a room full of stacked chairs; Diana’s crumpled wedding dress; the Queen and piles of kebab sticks.)

P bought me Bring Up the Bodies for our anniversary – I’m going to get my sticky mitts on Wolf Hall now, as having read this speech I suspect I’m going to enjoy Mantel’s writing very much.  Yeah, I’m sure she’s grateful for the praise from me, despite the validation from that whole Man Booker prize x 2 situation…I’m extremely late to the party, per usual.