On the garden wall

Thursday, July 02, 2009

Job

So, I got a job.

It wasn't on purpose, but then, none of the last three jobs that I've had were on purpose either.

I scored my last job while drunk in the ladies room at a local bar. The one before that I clinched in the dairy section of the supermarket. And the one before that was offered to me as I drank a coffee at the desk of the job I already had.

It's true what they say - it's not what you know, it's who you know.

So, I was doing my usual parent helper thing at school. I was chaperoning the children to the public library (we're close by, so we walk). Once at the library I felt unusually out of sorts. I'm usually in my element at the library. I'm there at least once a week (it's been four times this past week) and I usually love perusing the shelves while the class does their storytime thing.

But on this day (two weeks ago tomorrow, to be precise) I felt restless. I did a quick count of the other parent helpers, realised that for once we actually had way more parents than we need for our required adult to child ratio (a bloody miracle I tell you), and so decided to bail.

I started walking through the city. I meandered about, not knowing quite where I wanted to be, but feeling that I had to go somewhere. I ended up passing by a little bookshop which an old friend owns and decided to pop in.

Now, this old friend is not someone I see regularly. I've seen him maybe once a year, at most, for the past 14 or 15 years. Prior to that, I saw him maybe once a week, as he was part of one of the crowds I used to hang out with. 1994, grooving to the Stereo MCs at the Worcester Bar, drinking DB Export, that was us.

He's also my ex-boyfriend's brother.

Or, more precisely, my middle sister's ex-husband's brother.

I guess that makes him my ex-brother in law.

Or, maybe he's better described as the brother of my youngest sister's ex-flatmate.

Hmmm, I'm confused.

To put it simply (yeah right), in 1993 I was doing evening shifts at the cinema and would finish my shift at around midnight. Sometimes I'd go straight home, but usually I'd stay in town and go drinking until 4am or so.

And then I'd walk home by myself.

I was never afraid of walking home alone at night. To tell the truth, I'm STILL not afraid of walking around the streets at night. I've never had any trouble, and I'm a firm believer that a woman walking alone at night is safer than a man walking alone at night. Why? Because there are only a very small number of idiots who think it's cool to attack a woman, but a much larger number of idiots who think it's fun to provoke a fight with another guy.

Anyway, halfway home was a Mobil station, and I eventually got to know the graveyard shift worker. He was a friendly young guy and I'd take advantage of his offers of free coffee and hours of conversation. I'd often not get home until after his shift finished at 7am.

After a few months, we began hanging out socially, going to the Worcester Bar, listening to the Stereo MCs. We even had a very brief period of "going out", which lasted only a couple of weeks as we realised we just weren't cut out to be boyfriend and girlfriend.

Eventually life moved on. My sister was looking for someone to marry so that she could protest the new government cuts in student living allowances (i.e. you needed to be married or else you were assumed to be dependent on your parents until the age of 25). She was going to marry my best friend Vixen's boyfriend (who was keen, as he was Scottish and was wanted to apply for residency) but then Vixen decided that she'd marry him instead. So my sister married my ex.

Of course it was a sham, as he went home to his girlfriend, she went home to her boyfriend, and they lived happily ever after. (Until of course my sister went to get married for real, and suddenly realised she had to get divorced first.)

Then my other sister moved to Melbourne, and so did this guy, and they ended up living together for two years. They're still close friends to this day.

So, if you've followed all of this so far, you're doing well. I'm confused.

Anyway, so this guy that owns the bookshop is the Mobil man's brother. We were never close friends but we've always got on well.

So I walked into the bookshop, said hi, chatted about this and that, and he says "Hey, do you want a job?"

My initial reaction was "no way", but he gave me some time to think, and I realised that it would be AWESOME.

So I'm now working in a little bookshop. I work every Saturday, and then I work four hours a day three days a week, during school hours. During school holidays it's up to me as to whether I want to come in during the week or not. It's so bloody flexible, it's amazing.

I'm surrounded with books all day, and the work is EASY. I get paid to chat to people, browse through books, and surf the net when it's quiet.

Awesome.

Saturday, June 06, 2009

Minging

So, last night I had Frally's three kids over for a sleepover. It started well enough. Fish and chips, a movie, some wine (me, not the kids).

Then my husband phoned from Scotland.

Now, this has not been a regular occurrence around here since he's been gone. We're OLD SCHOOL. We don't text (well, we do very occasionally, but my husband left his mobile phone here in New Zealand, and mine is usually either next to my bed or out of batteries, which is handy when out and about), we my husband doesn't really DO email, and we definitely don't Twitter. We both do Facebook (YES! 100 friends now, thanks to my blatant rustling up of random bloggers and ex-prime ministers!) but as he has managed to find an internet cafe exactly ONCE this past month, that's not particularly handy for regular catch ups.

So, my man's been away for just over a month, and we've spoken on the phone four times. To tell the truth, we've probably talked more this past month than we do normally, which is kind of weird.

Anyway, so he was about to start his momentous journey (four flights, two days travel) back home. Understandably, he wasn't looking forward to it. Especially what with his broken pelvis and two broken legs. (Yes, of course they've healed, but it's only been six months or so since his accident and he still aches like an achey thing.)

We were chatting away, and then he drops a bombshell. "Cesca, I've had a revelation since I've been back in Glesgae!" (Oh please no, please not the born agains again, please).

But the born agains might have been better, as he then announced that he's realised how ABSOLUTELY MINGING our hoose is.

"The people here - they CLEAN! They actually CLEAN their hooses, hen They're HOOSEPROOD!"

I laughed nervously. I clutched at straws. I recalled that one of his single guy friends had a pretty mess house. This guy is born again (sigh) and had a cardboard cutout of the cross on top of his TV (surrounded by beer cans and ashtrays). "Davy! What about Davy? His house MUST be worse than ours!"

I could hear my husband's head shaking from down the phone line. "Davy's hoose is IMMACULATE!"

[As an aside, Davy sent us an email recently. This is a direct cut and paste from it (and I am not making this up):
Fuck all changed here Davy no pals. Police still watch me now and again cause of that dog shagging junkie cunt downstairs,got the jail at halloween and barred from ma house until hogmany.I'm still working but back on dayshift, fuckin hate the place and most of the cock suckin masonic,satanic shitebags in there, but the moneys good and there isn't much work (well paid) going about.My love life is down the tubes, hate workliving here now and life in general.Roll on the Rapture! Och well things can only get better bud. STill pray for you.God bless you and you're family in the name of Jesus. ]

Bloody hell. Our hoose is more mingin' than Davy's. Roll on the rapture indeed!

My husband went on. "My maw and my sister - they actually MOP the floors! Twice a week! And they DUST!"

I made disappointed tutting noises.

Then he dropped it. "I told them about you. How you don't clean. They don't understand! They think you're disgusting!"

I blinked.

"Me?? ME???? Hang on, what about YOU?!"

"Aww no hen, it's your job."

Grrr.

But then, through my gritted teeth, I remembered all those luxurious mornings of endless coffees while reading the entire newspaper from cover to cover while the children are at school, and realised that, theoretically, I should be able to fit in ten minutes a day of cleaning.

Thankfully he redeemed himself quickly, saying how he couldn't wait to get stuck in and clean our house from top to bottom once he gets home, now that he's got Davy's standards to live up to.

We said our goodbyes, I put the children to bed, and I thought about the cleaning issue some more. Yes, I tidy. I can tidy. But clean? Oh gawd, I HATE cleaning.

I started looking around the house, trying to see it from my mother-in-law's eyes (she's never visited but I can imagine).

It was boggin'.

So I thought I'd "surprise" the husband with a clean room, a TOTALLY clean room, for his return on Sunday. It wasn't difficult to decide upon the laundry room - a small 1.5 metre by 2 metre space which has not been properly cleaned since we moved in here in 1998.

So I got started. I pulled out the washing machine for the first time EVER and gaped at the blackness underneath (not to mention the lost socks and coins). I ripped off the drooping wallpaper, in preparation for painting one day (one day...). I sorted and organised all of the cleaning products (unused) in the cupboard under the sink. I even unscrewed the light fitting (hey! I never knew you could do that!) and washed it. My son watched me do this and we were both aghast as the grey fluffy lightshade turned to shiny pale yellow in the soapy water.

The room is now totally clean. TOTALLY. I even washed the light switch and the door handle.

BUT (and this is a big but) - it took me THREE HOURS of solid cleaning. For such a teensy tiny room it just seemed like such a huge waste of time. It doesn't bode well for the rest of the house.

This morning, however, it was nice to look at my nice CLEAN laundry, so sparkly, so shiny. And I definitely needed that laundry, as Frally's five year old vomited all over the place when he woke up this morning (I blame the wine).

What was I saying about it being piss easy being a single mother to five?

Friday, June 05, 2009

Night off

I've got two more nights left as a single mother before my husband returns from Scotland. To celebrate, and show how piss easy it all is, I've decided to let Frally have the night off to ~~shag~~ have a date night with her husband. I've got her three children (aged 2, 5 and 6) for the night.

Of course, it's not really been that piss easy since my husband's been gone. It's been very... QUIET. Yes, quiet. That's for sure. My husband, bless his little cotton socks, likes to bring home his big burly rough-as-guts workmates home after work for a beer or eight. I like the vast majority of these guys, which is a relief, but quiet they are not.

It's also been.... TIDIER. I don't actually miss picking up the husband's dirty socks and undies from the floor RIGHT NEXT TO THE LAUNDRY BASKET. Actually, scrub that, I don't pick up his dirty laundry up off the floor. It usually festers in a large pile of smelly rough-as-guts workman-ness until he eventually trips over it and throws it into the basket. I once asked him WHY he doesn't put it in the basket in the first place. His answer: "I might have wanted to wear it again." Hmmmm, yes.

Our household, however, has been LESS nutritionally balanced since he's been away. Red meat and vege has been wiped from the menu and my idea of a fantastic spread is baked beans on toast at least three nights a week. The kids, who absolutely LOVE baked beans on toast, are in culinary heaven. (The other four nights have consisted of various healthy meals such as "pasta with a tin of tuna", "toasted sandwiches", and "steamed rice with a tin of salmon". Of course, every Friday is fish and chip night, and one night - about two weeks ago - I went all out and spent 30 minutes cooking pumpkin soup. The kids don't like soup - they had baked beans.)

So here I am tonight, a single mother with five children. The big boys are playing with the Lego, the girls are playing with the Barbies, and the little boy is wandering around the house opening up all the drawers and cupboards. We're all full from fish and chips (it IS Friday you know) and I'm sipping Merlot and surfing the net. Pfft. Single motherhood is pretty easy so far.

I hope Frally has fun on her night out with her husband. She hasn't had ~~sex~~ ~~a decent night out~~ a decent night's sleep for YEARS. I blame her children.

Speaking of her children, as Frally's car tootled off down the drive, her six year old daughter suddenly piped up with "Do you want to know Mummy's biggest secret?"

Of course, we were all ears, and we all nodded in appreciative awe as we discovered that Frally can do the LOUDEST FARTS IN ALL THE WORLD.

We're in for a fun night!

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Quiet and depressing

It's kind of quiet and depressing around here at the minute, isn't it?

For one, I've not seen the sun in I don't know how many ~~days~~ weeks. My annual Seasonal Affective Disorder is showing its ugly face, causing me to retreat, hibernate and stagnate.

Rain, hail, sleet, nearly snow (oh please let us have snow this year!), and then more rain. And cloud cloud cloud cloud cloud. Where is my blue sky???

Plus, my husband is away. It's been about three weeks now, and it'll be a couple more weeks before he's home. I really didn't think I'd miss him. I thought I'd enjoy the evenings to myself, the car to myself, the computer to myself, the TV to myself, the bed to myself.

And I did. For about one night. Then it got old and boring.

It's kind of lonely, really. I can't wait for him to come home!

And finally, in my list of things that are currently wrong with the world, it's been a miserable couple of weeks for women.

I got all suckered into that whole "Matthew Johns" debate a couple of weeks ago, which just made me incredibly miserable at how misogynistic the world still is.

(For those not in the know, the basic facts are that a girl went back to a hotel room with two guys from a reasonably well known sports team, ten more team members climbed in the window, and they all had a go. She reported it to the police at the time, all the guys said she consented, so no charges were laid as it was her word against theirs. Seven years later it all comes out again as she was interviewed in a documentary about the misogynistic culture in their sport, and suddenly one of the guys, who is now a well known TV personality, is fired from his job due to the uproar that ensued. Several thousand of his fans set up godawful Facebook groups purporting to support him, which in reality were just vehicles for their vitriol, including their views on how any woman who (a) drinks; (b) goes back to a hotel room with a man; or (c) wears less than a burkha, is just bloody asking to be raped. Sigh.)

And if that wasn't bad enough, last night I watched an episode of "I Love New York". I feel like an old nana saying this but "Goddammit people! Don't be so bloody shallow! Get some bloody morals!" That show made me want to throw up.

Of course, it's not all doom and gloom around here! I started my new night course three weeks ago - forget about last term's bellydancing, this term it's all about writing! It's actually a great wee course - I come home after each lesson on a high. I'm loving all that networking with other wannabe writers and loving the enforced homework that I've been doing. (Yes! I've been ACTUALLY WRITING STUFF! Explains the recent absence from the blog, doesn't it?)

In other writing news, I've been working on articles for the community newsletter PLUS doing the layout as well, which is always enjoyable. I had to interview an old Chinese lady this month - she was hilarious. When I arrived at her place she insisted that she was utterly boring and had no story to tell - she then proceeded to tell me about her fascinating life as a mail order bride! Unfortunately, she then made me promise that I couldn't put any of that into my story.... aaarrrghhhh! So it was a tough assignment this month, trying to stretch her knitting and gardening hobbies into a 400 word profile.

And lastly, my brother sent me this link the other day, and it totally brightened up my week. I'm sure it will brighten yours too!

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Death of a Scotsman

It's amazing how quickly death can take someone sometimes.

Obviously, it can take you VERY quickly if you get hit by a ~~Volvo~~ bus.

Or it can take years of illness before you go.

There are pros and cons to both of these scenarios.

A quick death - well, it's quick. All over and done with immediately. No pain. You don't have to go through the angst of knowing that it's coming. Those are the pros.

The cons are that you aren't able to say your goodbyes and put your wrongs to right. It's too sudden. Your family weren't expecting it.

A long death means you can usually sort out your life, plan your funeral and say your goodbyes before you go. But a long death usually means sickness and pain. Expense (loss of income or medical costs). Loss of dignity. Going through the grief process as you realise that you're not going to be around for things you always assumed you would be around for.

I guess the best scenario would be something in between. Best of both worlds, so to speak.

So my husband left for Glasgow on Wednesday afternoon, our time. He arrived there on Thursday at lunchtime (Thursday night our time). His sister arrived in from Canada a couple of hours afterward.

They had a day and a half with their father before he passed away. My husband was with him when he died.

I can't get over how quick it all was. It was only two weeks ago that he had heart pains and so was finally convinced to go to the doctor (first time in many many years). The doctor sent him to hospital, where his heart problem was monitored and stabilised with drugs. He was given the "Stop drinking and smoking or you'll die" spiel (a major reason why he didn't like going to the doctor) and then was about to be discharged after three days.

But first they thought they'd do an X-ray, just to see if there was anything else...

The X-ray showed lumps on his liver and spleen. This was just over a week ago. He was transferred to another hospital, with the thought of getting him started on chemo, but within a day they realised it was too far gone. The cancer was throughout most of his body.

The pros to this death? When he knew he was terminal, it was just over a week. He got to say his goodbyes to his family. He was in pain, but it was only for a short time.

The cons? He was only 69. And the death of a loved one is always a con. It wasn't totally unexpected, what with his unhealthy lifestyle, but it was still too sudden, too soon.

Tuesday, May 05, 2009

Leaving on an airplane

So, I booked a flight for my husband last night. He leaves tomorrow. He may be gone for a few weeks, depending on what happens.

Someone I know recommended that I ring Qantas to let them know that my husband NEEDS an aisle seat, not just wants one. As he broke both legs and his pelvis six months ago, he will be needing to get up very regularly. I requested one on the internet, but thought I'd better ring to make sure.

As I spoke to the monotoned Australian accent on the phone, who sounded so disinterested in what I had to say, I suddenly remembered how much I hate Qantas.

Every time I've flown with them the service has been atrocious. I don't know if it's just my bad luck, but they've always seemed cranky and not interested in helping. The only time they were helpful was when I was flying to Bangkok nine years ago. Halfway through the flight a bloody huge suitcase fell out of the overhead locker and hit me in the head. I'd been happily relaxing drinking a plastic cup of red wine (took me bloody hours to get someone to bring me one so I was savouring it) so therefore got saturated in cab sav. Not the mention the bruised nose and the sore head. They were so terrified of me suing them or something that they clucked over me and insisted that a nurse check me out once we arrived at the destination. They also all chipped in and threw me $20 to cover "drycleaning" (whatever that is). The money came in handy at the bar that night, so it all worked out in the end.

Anyway, so I told the woman on the phone that my husband had had serious injuries a few months ago and NEEDED an aisle seat. In a bored voice she said "Well, yes, I can see you've requested an aisle seat." What she was really saying was "You rang me to reconfirm your bloody aisle seat request? I don't give a shit about his supposed injuries. Everyone lies to try to get special treatment."

I then thought I'd mention that he was flying at such short notice as his father was on his death bed, just in case she wanted to put it into the notes. She said nothing in an irritated way. But she was really saying "What the hell has that got to do with me?"

I then double checked that the dates could be easily changed if need be. She said, with an malicious sigh, "Well, yes, you would have been told that when you booked on the internet." What she was really saying was "I'm putting a note in the file to give your husband a window seat at the back by the toilets, a child's kosher meal, and for the flight attendants to make as many "dying father" jokes in your presence as they can manage."

I would love to be proved wrong.

Saturday, May 02, 2009

The good, the bad, and the ugly

The good:

OMG, I am sooooo insanely proud of my kids at the moment!

On Friday my five year old daughter won the Cup at school. The Cup!!!

The Cup is a weekly award, given to a top all-rounder. I can't believe Eva won it! (Well, actually I can. She's the epitome of a good all-rounder.)

It all bodes very well for the future, I tell you! She is going to look after her old mother very well when she's grown up and earning squillions.

Secondly, my son is coming on in leaps and bounds in his classroom now.

I have no idea what has happened with his teacher, but she is like a new person these days. She is enthusiastic, passionate, and suddenly seems to have a new lease on life.

I popped into the classroom on Friday morning before school to have a nosey about, and she was enthusing about all sorts of developments and ideas. It was fantastic to see! (For those not in the know, I was a tad worried about her a short time ago...)

(Actually, I've just realised why the teacher is different these days. It seems to be two things. Firstly, the most evil child in school, who was in my son's class, has been ~~expelled~~ sent to a boarding school for bad kids. This child was a nightmare and the poor teacher spent a lot of her time managing his behaviour. Secondly, the principal gave her a big stereo sound system and projector screen for her classroom, and she and the class now chill out to Bob Marley all day long - enough to relax anyone!)

She showed me one of my boy's latest story writing efforts - it was amazing! I was highly impressed that Noah had written such a well crafted short story! It was about monsters and aliens - a topic which obviously suited him to a tee. (His piece on Rita Angus had been a bit of a yawn...)

We also discussed his spelling. She'd put him in the top spelling group, but he had not been interested and had only been getting 3 or 4 out of 10 for his weekly tests. She had been considering putting him into one of the lower spelling groups a few weeks ago, but instead I said I'd try a bit of bribery. I told him that if he managed to get 10/10 then I'd buy him a Lego set.

Wow! What a difference! Suddenly spelling is his favourite subject, and he begs me to test him every night. The first week he got 7/10, the second week he got 8/10, and finally on Friday he got 10/10!

Because of this effort, plus his awesome writing, he won his class prize on Friday. And of course he got his Lego set.

Then yesterday morning Noah started ~~soccer~~ football for the first time. I'd decided against putting him into an actual team, as I was not keen on doing midweek training as well as a Saturday morning game. (Plus I didn't know if he'd want to be committed to a team at such a young age.) So instead we're doing something called the Beginners' Group, aimed at beginning players aged 4 - 8. It's at 11am on Saturday, so there are no early morning wake ups, plus you can just wear trainers instead of football boots. The first 30 minutes is ball skills, learning ball control and dribbling techniques, plus a few shots at goals. Noah was loving it.

We then split into small groups and had mini games for the last half hour. Noah was in a group of five and six year old boys, playing four a side. It was fantastic! He was having the time of his life, and I see that Noah and football are meant for each other.

I was on the sideline, swelling with pride as I watched my boy do amazing move after amazing move. He would do these incredible skids in front of the goal, foot outstretched, and manage to save the opposition's ball from getting in. He was managing to tackle well, stealing the ball (sometimes from his own team members) and got goal after goal. A couple of the dads on the sideline started saying things like "Wow! Check out that kid! He is incredible!" When they found out I was that amazing kid's mother, they were asking me "Has he played before?" and were quite surprised to find out that he hasn't.

He's a natural! Woohoo!

It's really nice to see Noah excelling at a sport, especially after tennis where he was always pretty useless. It's given him a huge boost of confidence and he wants to play soccer whenever he can now.

So that's the good news.

The bad:

The bad news is that my father in law has suddenly taken ill. He's been diagnosed with liver cancer and might not have much longer to live.

My husband is trying to decide whether to go to the UK sooner or later. He doesn't want to leave it too late, as he wants to have some quality time with his dad before he dies. Ideally he'll go in just over a week. I know I'm being tight about this, but he was planning to go this coming Friday or Saturday, but if he waits til Monday the ticket prices drop by $800. We'll wait and see if we can get more detailed information before we book the ticket. (We can't afford for us all to go, so it'll just be the husband going. He'll probably stay two or three weeks. And then chances are he'll have to head back later for a funeral.)

We don't know how long he has - it may be weeks, it may be months. It's probably not going to be years.

Life is sometimes too short.

The ~~ugly~~ strangely fascinating and addictive:

On a more lighthearted note, gosh, the prude in me is shocked at what gets on the telly these days.

A week ago I was casually channel surfing at 10pm one night when I nearly choked on my cup of tea. There, on Channel One (the conservative channel for us old fogies), was a stark bollock naked man. Full frontal. A GP was pointing out parts of his anatomy, even to the part of pulling back his foreskin to show the bits underneath.

Of course I had to watch more. Turns out it was a show from the edgy Channel 4 in Britain called "The Sex Education Show". Absolutely explicit, but absolutely fascinating. Very entertaining. Hugely educational.

I made a note to watch it again this week. This week they looked at female anatomy, and again I watched in amazement as the GP calmly showed us the bits of an obliging woman.

But again, because of its context it wasn't pornographic, strangely enough. Clinical and educational.

They had me at ~~the stark bollock naked man~~ hello.

And speaking of things that get shown on the telly, I was watching C4 (the local music station) a few weeks ago and had pull my jaw up off the ground after seeing the video for a song called "On a Boat" by The Lonely Island.

Firstly, there was no bleeping. We got to hear every single "motherfucker" (including the very cool autotoned ones). Secondly, WAS THIS SONG FOR REAL? I'd never heard of the group, and they certainly didn't look like bad gangstas, what with their nerdy whiteboy looks.

Anyway, the song has wheedled its way into my consciousness and I now have to put up with this song running through my head over and over and over and over and over and over... I've got a nautical themed pashmina afghan... Ahhhh, who cares. I now love this song.

Feeling like an 11 year old boy sniggering at the rude words, I finally found out more about the song and the band. And, oh! Well, it all makes sense now. The Lonely Island are a comedy group, and they also did my all-time Christmas favourite song "Dick in a Box".

Here's the song for those who haven't yet heard it (all three of you).

If enough of us oldies start humming it we will succeed in making it very uncool.

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Anzac Day.

Anzac Day. (Also my husband's birthday, but the poor guy has had a rotten deal ever since he moved to New Zealand from the UK. Of course, the exact same situation would apply if I were living in the UK so I figure we're even. Ish.)

We did our usual Dawn Service thing this morning, followed by a scrumptious big restaurant breakfast most kindly shouted by my dad. Yum!

We've then spent the rest of the day feeling weary from the 5.30am wake up call, watching documentaries on war (reminding each other that we never EVER want to have to repeat history if we can help it), and listening to music.

This song, to me, is THE song of Anzac Day. Forget the fact that it's about an Australian, forget the fact that an Irish drunkard is singing it, it is pure magic for this Kiwi.

And today, at the Dawn Service, the famous quote by M. Kemal Ataturk (the first President of the Turkish Republic) was read out at the end, which never fails to bring a tear to my eye.

“Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives. . .
You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore, rest in peace.
There is no difference to us between the ‘Johnnies’ and the ‘Mehmets,’ where they lie side by side here in this country of ours. . .
You, the mothers, who sent your sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace.
After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.”

Lest we forget.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Jamie

Last weekend was great. I indulged in my favourite pastimes. I got to go to a real live dinner party with interesting people, and I watched the complete first series of Jamie Oliver At Home on DVD.

The dinner party was good. I drank wine and managed to discuss gardening quite a lot. The people were interesting (wine drinkers, gardeners, as well as having rather highbrow jobs such as "art gallery conservator", "museum curator" and "reality TV maker").

Jamie Oliver was also good. I sat up in bed to watch the shows, cup of tea in one hand, notebook for taking notes in the other, and just basically drooled.

My husband, being a man, was confused as to my intentions. "Haha! You're in love with Jamie Oliver, aren't you?! You'd like to ~~get into his pants~~ marry him, wouldn't you?!"

Well, actually, no.

Jamie Oliver does absolutely NOTHING to me in that way. But I LOVE LOVE LOVE what he does.

Plus, he's got a gorgeous wife (who I also love, after reading her refreshingly honest memoir on pregnancy and birth) and three lovely little girls, the youngest who was only born last week.

Just an aside about them. His first daughter was named Poppy Honey. Ohhhkay. He's a chef. It makes sense. Plus Poppy is a legit girl's name.

The second daughter was named Daisy Boo. Hmmm. Daisy I get. Daisy I like. But "Boo"??? That's not a name, it's an interjection.

Anyway, Poppy and Daisy. Just lovely.

Fast forward to last week. When I saw the online headline announcing the name I thought someone was taking the piss, and wondered what the Olivers had REALLY named their new daughter. Because, seriously, Petal Blossom Rainbow would be perfect for a My Little Pony or a Care Bear, but for a child?

But, I digress. Their children, their choice. (And I guess that in my eyes Jamie and Jools can do no wrong, so I guess that little Petal will grow on me...)

Back to the food.

The dinner party food was simple yet delicious. Steamed rice, with lentil and black eyed bean dahl. Add some raita and a bit of my delicious peach chutney (OMG! Finally found what you do with peach chutney! Yum!) and it was all good.

Jamie's food was also good. Simple but yum. But I have a couple of small issues with his recipes.

Firstly, the meat. Does he NEED to eat meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner? And then does he NEED to add "just a few slices of wafer thin prosciutto" to his morning and afternoon tea snacks?

I'm not a vegetarian, but I may as well be. I can't claim to be a vegetarian as there are some meats that I eat, but I hate telling people that I eat meat because they might give me some (and as I don't like 80% of meat, I'd probably end up leaving it on the side of the plate and that's just rude).

For the record, don't bother offering me any shellfish, crustaceans, or fish with bones or eyes still attached. Don't offer me minced meat. Don't offer me sausages. Don't offer me lamb. Don't offer me anything that came from a pig. Don't offer me anything vaguely offal-like. Don't offer me chicken on the bone. Don't offer me salami or any of that other deli type meats.

I do eat steak and chicken breast. And to tell the truth, I'm going off both of these types of meat. (I had chicken korma recently, and thought the veges were the best bit). I also like most fish, so that's something I'm not going to be giving up in a hurry.

So no, I'm not a vegetarian, but I wish Jamie would do more vegetarian dishes. (I just adapt his recipes to suit myself).

Secondly, I cook to a budget. For regular everyday meals I tend to spend about $2 - $3 per serving. I look at what Jamie serves up and he'd often be spending five or ten times that amount.

The amount of meat he cooks per meal is astounding, and it's not cheap in the UK either. My husband estimated that the amount of meat he threw on a barbie, to feed maybe six people, would have cost around forty pounds (NZ$100). And then he threw two huge dollops of mozzarella cheese on his mid morning snack ($10 a dollop) and topped it all off with half a bottle of top quality extra virgin olive oil (probably $20 or $30 a bottle at a guess).

Sigh.

But it's Jamie. I love him (and Petal) anyway.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Walkable

What's your Walk Score?

Mine is 71, which is apparently "Very Walkable - It's possible to get by without owning a car."

The site is reasonably accurate, despite Google Maps not always recognising a true school or park or shop.

So, what's your score?

Job