7.27am music report

Today the cafe had reverted back to standard crappy cafe jazz.  I'm not sure it's better, per se, but slightly more morning/setting appropriate?  I'm unable to tell - in the early hours of the morning all I want is silence and tea.  Yes, I am actually 80 years old. 

All the other stories I have at the moment revolve around poo.  I've already gone there once, let's not do that again, shall we?  We'll leave it that living with smalls is surprisingly odorous.  My olfactory senses are taking a battering.

Ok, so, what else then?  Oh yes.  This weekend I am going to the Rugby.  Our Nation's Game, watching Our Nation's Team (the All Blacks, hallowed be thy name, the father Hansen, his son McCaw and lo! the word of his apostle Kieran Reid) belt ten types of crap out of the Springboks (we most feverently hope).  While I enjoy the occasional game - for example watching the 2011 World Cup victory in Clapham followed by the most ridiculous day of my life stands out - I am going on record: I don't really love it and I've never been to the ABs before.  I know, I should turn in my passport and best pavlova recipe immediately to the authorities and leave the country.

Sport attendance seems to involve far too much being cold, far too many overbearing idiots and not nearly enough cocktail olives for my precious tastes.  I've been to the cricket, yes (summertime. Pimms) and I actually enjoyed a live match of American football (hot dogs! hilarious guys from Jersey commentating the game behind me!) but we'll see about the rugby.  The last game I attended was the Blues versus....some other team...and I seem to recall being quite bored, though I'll admit I wasn't invested.  We were with P's Irish cousins who enjoyed heckling immensely, much to my amusement, P's concern and the ire of the Blues supporters seated around us.  These were the girls who also managed to convince P's friend that they weren't really P's cousins at all: they just did a fantastic accent and had looked up the most Irish sounding name in the phone book before calling to announce long lost family were on their way for a visit.  Brilliant. 

Anyway.  Rugby.  I feel like I'm going through a rite of passage.  I want to see the haka - sing me national anthem - wave me flag - stand outside the dressing room for a signature - make a comment about the ruck - curse the ref - worship at the goal posts - it'll be great, I've no doubt.

is 7.45am

too early for the cafe in the building lobby to be blasting "You Make Me Feel (Like a Natural Woman)"?


I thought so.

add lolcats caption here

Found on my front mat on Friday:

FORGET GRUMPY CAT.  THIS OLD GINGER PUSS THAT LIVES NEXT DOOR IS THE GRUMPIEST CAT ALIVE.
ALSO, SEE HOW MY FRONT YARD RESEMBLES A GIANT KITTY LITTER BOX?

It's hard to see, but if you check out that expression up close you will be at risk of the laser death rays.  That cat did not want to be disturbed. 

What shall we call him?  Harry? 

spring weekend causes uncharacteristic episode of positivity

Friday was a particularly lovely day.  Posterity, take note:

• Work got done.  That all-too-infrequent sense of satisfaction of churning out a job in a timely way well produced?  I had it.  I need to get it more often, self.
• Boss cheerily noted 'why don't you go home, you've got that report done' at 4.15.  I was out of the building by 4.16.
• There was sunshine outside!
• On the way home, I ducked into Smith & Caugheys and sprayed myself with nice perfume.  Such a nice (free!) treat.  Doesn't take much to flick my switch, really.
• While sniffing my wrist waiting to cross a major intersection, I witnessed a car accident.  That might not sound very lovely, but it was just a minor scrape thanks to a last minute swerve with no injuries, so I count my lucky stars.  Plenty of witnesses to comment; I couldn't see who had been at fault from my angle and I got to keep walking.
• Home: empty on arrival.  I poured a G&T ---- vacuumed, and cleaned the bathroom.  Who knew that could be so satisfying on a Friday evening? 
• Gussied up (I don't do that often enough!) and hit Kingsland Friday night with friends.  Drinks, lovely French dinner, safe in bed by 11.  Good times.
• Walked home from Kingsland with P, arm in arm, chatting, laughing.  He's a good sort.

I might have a few moans about the rest of the weekend which was not all I had hoped and dreamed, but given my Friday and the fact I managed to destroy a whole book this weekend, it's not all bad.  (Book = Gone Girl, Gillian Flynn.  Am distinctly ambivalent about it; quite possibly because I'm very late to the party as always and it's been talked up a lot.  Gripping enough to keep me binge reading I suppose but the only character I really liked was Boney and she seemed very underdeveloped given where the character went.  I know, I know: you don't have to like characters to know a book is good but I felt I could have done with someone to like more - Nick's sister Go, maybe? Eh, I don't know.  What a sterling reaction.  Real take home piece.)

Ate my first piece of tasty steak off the giant barbeque last night.  Flat iron and sirloin, if you must know.  P is a culinary god: he served it with a beautiful cos and parsley salad with a simple lemon dressing, as well as his take on potatoes dauphinoise and a dab of Hot English Mustard.  A man who knows the way to fatten up his wife properly, that one.  It did look a little ridiculous - two wee steaks sitting on the most enormous piece of powder coated steel that could serve as a boat, should you wish to add an outboard motor.  If Thanksgiving were a thing here in the Land of the Long White Cloud, I'd have a turkey on that bad boy in a heartbeat.  SRSLY.  It's huge. 

a round-up of spring fashion? perhaps not

It is a glorious day here in the City of Sails - well, from my desk anyway.  I ventured out to purchase that most necessary of all office staples (diet coke) at lunchtime and there is a chilly breeze, but nevertheless, the sun is out, there are boats on the water and there are teenagers wearing ill-advised high-cut denim shorts sans tights.  All is right with the world. 

I have that peculiarly spring-y feeling (plz to tell if you suffer from this as well) where I want to go out and purchase all manner of sandals and floral dresses.  This is a particularly dumb idea in circumstances where:

1. Said dresses and sandals cost money, which I have basically been flushing down the toilet recently;
2. My legs bear a close resemblance to neon glow sticks except hairier and fatter;
3. All the shops appear to be stocking just now are crop fucking tops and dresses that will barely cover my crotch LET ALONE my granny sized underwear. 

I wandered through Glassons the other day, in search of cheap inspiration and was really stoked to find a fine knit Breton stripe top (just the rage with all the cool bloggers, I hear).  I picked it up and was horrified to find it stopped just below my navel.  Look, I know I'm 31 and am borderline being banned from Glass on the basis that it's just inappropriate for a woman of my age (hey, I don't shop at Supre at least), but I do expect that as a high volume manufacturer of polyester for the masses the powers-that-be would be aware that the masses are generally in possession of muffin tops and look absolutely fucking ridiculous in crops?  Or is that just me? (that looks ridiculous.  Says the woman of questionable taste wearing a jumper with what appears to be a mullet-y bridal veil hanging down from the back.)  And before you ask, IT WAS NOT A SIZE 6.  I am dim and am always imagining that I am MUCH slimmer and taller than I am (with smoother, glossier hair too) but I tend to pick the correct size from the rack before I hit the changing rooms. 

Whew, ranty. 

Moving on: culture.  I has none.  I wasted a bday Whitcoulls voucher on Mortal Instruments: City of Bones I don't know why because it transpires that it is terrible, terrible teenage fantasy-style fiction which features:

1. the supernatural
2. a love triangle
3. a heroine who doesn't know her own talents

Sound familiar?  And yet I have been consuming it rapidly.  I suspect A aged 14 has been all up in my head with her heart racing as the heroine chooses between good looking guys and saves the day.  I have since discovered that the movie being made of this book features Lily Collins, so I guess I can't hate it.  Lily Collins = Phil Collins' offspring and I HEART PHIL forever.

Digression: you know how in rhythmic gymnastics and synchronised swimming they do team items coordinated to music?  Well, there is a similar sort of thing in dressage (horses for courses) and at the ages of 12 and 13 respectively, my sister and I choreographed a routine to "Another Day in Paradise" for four of us and our ponies.  I can't remember whether we won the competition but I can tell you Phil Collins writes excellent beats for an extended trot.  F me, I can't believe I just told you that.

I have a nasty feeling I'm on a kind of roll spilling all my teenage shames here so I better put an end to this post, pronto.  Have a lovely weekend, all. 

tamariki

There was a poopsplosion in my house this morning.  Thank goodness we don't have carpet, is what I'm saying.  P and I escaped the noxious fumes and clean up duty by thrusting a roll of paper towels and spray'n'wipe at the offender's father and escaping the property immediately.  I have been sniffing whiffs of poo all morning, despite having been nowhere near the culprit or the mess.  I've checked my outfit, my hair, my shoes - I hope I'm just having malodorous flashbacks.  I really, really hope so. 

Other things what I have noticed, living with small children:

• Stupid stuff is really funny.  Flicking light switches on and off: hilarious, when it's an 18 month old who is just so pleased by his tricks. 
• They produce MOUNTAINS of washing and cleaning.  Even with all the plastic dishes, there's just so much filthy stuff everywhere.  I was unaware that there was peas and corn in my kitchen and yet there are stray morsels all over the living room floor.  And how do two very small boys produce such a ring of grime around the bathtub? Amazing.
• Cartoons are shite. Have thought so for years and Lightning McQueen is doing nothing to disabuse me of the notion.
• Don't mind playing cars though, for twenty minutes or so anyway.
• I am super jealous of 12 hours of sleep.  Three's not so keen on having 12 hours enforced, but I'd TOTALLY take 12 hours if it were reasonable. 
• 70 square metres is really not that big on a wet day.  I mean, you might not think it big at any time, but with four adults and two smalls, 70 square metres starts to feel pretty confining.
• Once they're asleep, you can be louder than you think. 
• I thought I drank a lot.  Then I discovered the quantities of gin the parents of small people can pack away post-bedtime. 

That's after four or so days.  Let's see what else I learn over the next four and a half weeks, shall we? 

scaredy cat

A thing what have given me a fright recently: the automatic scent squirter in the work bathroom.   You might think that's an odd thing to be frightened by, but then I suspect the only automatic scent squirter thingamees you've ever encountered have probably been placed high on the wall, in a corner perhaps.  Not right behind your elbow while you're sitting on the throne.  Saturating your elbow with Eau De Pink Fake Flower with a scary pump noise.  I convulsed in response - let's just be grateful it wasn't a jump, shall we? 

Another thing what has given me a fright recently: we bought a ginormous BBQ.  It's huge.  There are only two of us, but BY GOD WILL P ENTERTAIN with that bad boy.  It did some damage to the bank account (see: fright) but wasn't as bad as my fears suggested.  I think he's doing that thing where he totally oversells what he wants in order that I feel better when we find a "middle ground".  I suspect he also thinks he's pretty damn sneaky. 

Small boys living in my house have also given me frights.  I wake up at night wondering what ghost is crying in the spare bedroom before my brain registers that it's only One with a tooth giving him grief.  I'm sure it's a natural biological response, but I find the sound of upset children quite distressing.  When Three objects to his pajamas being put on or taken off (depending on the time of day), the skin over my spine shrivels.  I also find that I'm desperate to reason with him, even though his mum and dad have clearly tried that to no avail.  This morning, P resorted to "you can't stay home and watch TV all day because the TV'll break." LIES, P. I've watched you do that very thing.