The PG version

Before we left Dubai, Andrew talked to Trade New Zealand about my applying for residency. They gave him the distinct impression that all I had to do was sing a bar or two of the National Anthem, slap my elbows, and I would be naturalized in the airport.

 

It was John and Haze who advised us to get police certificates before we left Dubai. We humoured them because they’re good friends, but it came as a complete surprise. Evidently, we ignored the alarm bell orchestra.

 

After arriving in New Zealand, we pretty much forgot about immigration, until I realised my temporary visitor permit was due to expire the following week, when we downloaded the application form for sponsorship and residency.

 

Andrew’s sponsorship application was a six page form which had to be certified by a notary public and supplemented with certified passport copy, two passport photos and his police certificate from Dubai.

 

The residency application was another matter. This form was 32 pages and required: a comprehensive medical including blood tests and chest X-rays; a 16 page doctor’s statement; certified copies of our marriage certificate, my birth certificate, and my passport copy; two signed passport photos; my police certificate from Dubai; a police certificate from Ireland; and evidence of my relationship with Andrew including photos and joint bank accounts, statements, tenancy agreements, investment schemes, property ownership, life insurance, etc.

 

We did not have much fun compiling the documentation and had a minor panic locating my birth cert, which we finally tracked down in one of the 118 boxes delivered by the shippers. Considering that in the Middle East we went out of our way to avoid appearing a couple until we were married, we managed to put together an impressive library of ‘evidence’ of our relationship.

 

The biggest obstacle was not having a police certificate from my country of citizenship. The Immigration New Zealand website did not list this in the requirements, but regrettably the application form was explicit and the scary woman at Immigration even more so.

 

While we waited for the Garda Síochána to issue my certificate, I applied for a work permit/visa. For about two weeks, I was an illegal alien, which didn’t at all appeal to my law-abiding nature (although Andrew found it quite kinky).

 

The work permit/visa was processed fairly quickly although there was a blip when Immigration New Zealand contacted me requesting the blood test lab reports from my medical. My white cell count is 113, falling below the ‘normal’ range of 114-129. For a while it looked like my application would be rejected because I was vegetarian.

 

I applied for residency as soon as the work permit/visa was granted. I was impressed with the Garda Síochána, which had issued a police certificate within three weeks free of charge.

 

A fortnight ago, Immigration NZ contacted me requesting a certified copy of Andrew’s birth certificate. No worries: his mum tracked it down and we certified and sent it from Oamaru.

 

But on Wednesday, we went to NZ Post to collect yet another registered letter from our buddies Immigration NZ. Apparently we submitted insufficient evidence of Andrew’s and my passionate, ongoing union. Perhaps our marriage certificate is out of date?

 

We are now required to submit a detailed chronological history/account of our relationship (I’m still not sure exactly how much detail they want: the PG version? Or R18?); letters of support from family and friends verifying that Andrew and I still lick each other’s face in public; and yet more evidence that we are not faking a 10 year marriage for the sole purpose of my gaining New Zealand citizenship.

 

At least I’m not the only one with problems. The head of the Immigration NZ Service resigned on Tuesday amidst allegations that she gave preferential treatment to residence applications from her relatives

Stag’s Roar - photos

Here are some pics from the orienteering event at Stag’s Roar last Sunday - photos courtesy Haze - thank you!

 

The Team: Haze, me and Andrew - sweaty yet triumphant.  Rare image of Andrew almost smiling.

 

Andrew demonstrates his internal compass, thankfully with his arm. It looks as if I’m biting him, but I’m not.

 

 

Me, pushing in on the tree’s photo op.

 

John orienteering.

 

Fungus: mushy

The difference between John and me

On Sunday we went orienteering with John and Hazel at Stag’s Roar. Well, Hazel did the course with Husband and me, while John felt navigationally compromised and read his book under a tree.

 

A few things have changed since I last orienteered. No more twaddling around with clear contact; control cards have been replaced by electronic ‘keys’ which are inserted into a reader at each control. No more huddling by master maps waving your arse in the air; the courses were pre-printed on the maps. No gaiters, but I think that’s a cultural difference. There appear to be less brambles to whip the shins in New Zealand.

 

And there was blazing sunshine. Perhaps it’s inverted rose-tinted glasses, but orienteering events in the Irish eighties seemed to always be accompanied by gale force winds, horizontal rain, knee-high mud and puddles of ice.

 

Andrew’s sense of direction continues to be purely instinctive. I was gutted when he hit the third control before Hazel and me. Still not completely recovered from it.

 

Afterwards, we all went to The Carriages for brunch.

 

The following exchange illustrates the fundamental difference between John and me.

 

John: Went to the movies last night.

 

Me: Oh cool! What did you go see?

 

John: The Painted Veil.

 

Me: The- what?

 

John: The Painted Veil. Edward Norton-

 

Me: I love Edward Norton. Great actor.

 

John: Yeah, him, and that babe - what’s her name again-

 

Me: Liv Tyler.

 

John: No-

 

Me: Halle Berry.

 

John: It’ll come to me in a minute. Anyway, it was excellent - much of it was set in China at the turn of the nineteenth century, in the cholera epidemics. It was really interesting.

 

Me: Sounds . . . nice. We went to the movies too.

 

John: Really? . . .

 

Me: Yes! We went to see IRON MAN!

 

John: Oh, with Harry Connick Junior.

 

Me: No, Robert Downey Junior. He IS Iron Man - he totally rocks! Awesome actor. And Iron Man is such a great superhero - I mean let’s face it, Spiderman is great but Peter Parker can be a bit whiny. But Iron Man, you know, he’s pretty single-minded and you gotta admire that in a superhero-

 

John: I’m not convinced.

 

Me: What? How can you not be? Iron Man has compelling motives, an engaging character arc, and he blows stuff up and flies!

 

John: Mmm

 

The Seekers

When I was a kid, my parents had an LP of The Seekers, an Australian group who popularized the folk dirge. Maracas were an integral part of the group’s percussive strategy. ‘The Best of the Seekers’ featured classics such as ‘I’ll Never Find Another You’, ‘A World Of Our Own’, ‘Morningtown Ride’, and ‘Georgy Girl’:-

 

When I was a little girl, I used to look wistfully at the cover of this LP innocently lusting after style like Judith Durham’s. At the age of six, I thought the guy on the left was quite the fox. I used to listen to the LP over and over, and drop the needle repeatedly to the start of ‘The Carnival is Over’, the lyrics of which go:-

‘Now the harbour light is calling
This will be our last goodbye
Though the carnival is over
I will love you till I die’

I used to weep for the impossible love between the one-armed strong man and the bearded lady.

You can imagine my joy when I came across a Seekers CD on sale in Christchurch Airport last Tuesday. As soon as we got home, I put it in the stereo and turned the volume up full.

“What did I do?” asked Andrew plaintively, in a quiet moment between ‘Open Up Them Pearly Gates’, and ‘Red Rubber Ball’.

“What?”

“I must have done something wrong for you to be torturing me like this. Are my ears bleeding?”

“These are CLASSIC SONGS!” I said, and I told him the story of my parents’ Seekers LP and Judith Durham’s dress with the bow and the frills and her satin shoes.

“I can just imagine your parents listening to this,” Andrew muttered darkly.

“What’s THAT supposed to mean?”

“Just that it’s the sort of music they’d listen to.”

“Well they did, and so did your wife, and now you’re listening to it too. Ooh, I love this one!
‘But if I should lose your love, dear
I don’t know what I’d do
For I know I’ll never find another you-ooo-ooo!’”

Andrew stared at me in horror.

Regrettably, the Seekers declined in popularity because they weren’t raunchy enough for the seventies. This picture goes a long way towards explaining why:-

Aging chafes

Last night, Andrew tested his new car stereo at maximum volume as we drove down Henderson Valley Road. It blew off my clothes and tossed my hair around. The thrumming passenger seat whipped me into a nympohmaniacal frenzy.

I’m sure that would be entirely true if I were 10 years younger with a full supply of oestrogen. Also, had James Brown or Lenny Kravitz been playing rather than Moby.

Reality = the passenger seat chafed a bit

Death by impatience

Saturday afternoon and I’ve just finished cutting into the trim in the lower hallway and kitchen areas. We’ve done no painting for months, mainly because the mere thought of it was enough to induce spontaneous coma in the pair of us. I can just see us finishing the painting a week before we move on.

 

Cutting in turns me into a person who can spend however long it takes obsessively coaxing three bristles into a 1cm² corner. I always have to be careful not to get an eyeball stuck to the brush or my tongue stuck to the wall.

 

There is a shelf that runs the entire length of the stairs hallway, with a 40cm section I can’t reach unless I balance by the toenails on the banister or dangle from a light fitting. Unfortunately, I’m not quite limber enough for either these days. When I asked Andrew to do it, he claimed he didn’t have the patience.

 

“To paint a 40cm strip?” I asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You realize I could fall off the banister and injure myself?”

 

“Well, I might DIE.”

 

I’m not sure from what exactly - acute impatience? Then again, this is a man who would spend his time exclusively soldering bits of metal to other bits of metal and soldering the result to more metal, except that he occasionally has to eat and sleep.

 

While I painted, Andrew spent the morning ripping out the interior of the MR2, including door handles and panels, the dashboard and centre console, the seats and floors. I think he’s fixing the car stereo. The reason I’m uncertain is that it always sounded fine to me. However, he flew into a rage yesterday afternoon, because - from what I could make out - the car is too small to fit a sub-woofer.

 

To inspire him while he tinkered, Andrew put on a CD of greatest rock hits ever. At the moment, Jimi Hendrix’ ‘All Along The Watchtower’ is vibrating the living room, while Andrew has sufficiently fixed his car stereo to blast Norah Jones at top volume.

 

Some things never change, but there’s something infinitely comforting about that

Beanie

Every second day or so and depending on atmospheric conditions, Andrew and I go for a walk or cycle. Over a quick mid-day snack, we consult our map of the Waitakere Ranges and choose a trail within a 20km radius.

 

One of the best so far is just a little up the way from us. It is a bush walk called the Goodfellow Track, which takes about an hour via Fairy Falls.

 

Today we needed to go into Henderson for provisions (me) and mooch around Bunnings (Andrew), so we decided to do the Goodfellow Track on our way. It was a beautiful - if blood curdling - day.

 

“Where’s my hat?” I said to Husband.

 

“What hat?”

 

“Well, any hat; although preferably woolly or fleecy and featuring ear flaps and insulation. Ooh- and a bobble.”

 

Andrew was unreasonably unhelpful - possibly because I was describing an imaginary hat, but still. Anyway, I struck out on Goodfellow Track without headgear.

 

“My head is cold,” I grumbled.

 

“Well, walk faster,” said Andrew.

 

About 20 minutes along the trail - I FOUND A HAT! We crossed a stream and there, lying to one side of the track, was a lovely, warm, woolly hat in exactly my size. Well, it wasn’t that lovely at the time, because it was soaked in mud; and obviously not that warm for the same reason. But it was indeed woolly and as for size, well a head’s a head. It’ll fit, even if I have to chop holes for my ears (which admittedly might defeat the purpose).

 

“Look!” I exclaimed, pointing.

 

“What?”

 

“A hat! Lovely, warm and woolly in exactly my size - perfect!”

 

“Isn’t it a bit . . . nasty?”

 

“Not at all, it’ll clean up great after I pick out the leaves and pine needles and the mud and - oh, are those dead spiders? - Just a moment while I give it a little rinse in the stream.”

 

 

 

 

Me at the top of the Goodfellow Track. Auckland City in the background to the East

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I fear I have a kauri tree fetish. Sorry to subject you to it, but they really are the most astonishing trees. Andrew took a photo of me standing next to it to give an impression of scale. Unfortunately, after five days of farm food in Oamaru, my waistline looks about equivalent in diameter to that of the tree - so that one’s staying on the hard drive

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part of Fairy Falls - it extends further up through the bush, but I couldn’t fit it all in the photo. We usually have a quick dip, but it’s getting a bit cryogenic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What’s wrong with this photo?

A bull called Fu Manchu

On our last night in Oamaru, we gathered around the telly for some family bonding. There was some quality TV on show (worth bearing in mind that it’s been a while since I’ve goggled the box). First up was the Chicago auditions for ‘America’s Got Talent’, this episode being about nine months behind America.

 

The first contender was Consuelo, who ‘sang’ blues gospel in Gregorian chant complete with quotation marks. One of the three judges described her as looking like ‘Hilary Clinton on acid’, which is roughly what she sounded like as well.

 

Then there was a country singer who sang a song which featured the lyrics ‘I went 2.7 seconds on a bull called Fu Manchu’. Anyone who can air a line like that without snorting his mic gets my vote.

 

Awesomely, a lardy transvestite performer calling himself ‘Boy Shakira’ took the stage in a tasseled bra and transparent skirt. I have never seen anything so funny. After his performance, his doting mum said: ‘It’s all I’ve ever wanted for my son, that he does something that makes him happy’. Have I missed something poignant and heartbreakingly true, or did she fail in her duty to set goals for her son?

 

 

If you have never seen it, you should take the time to watch the vid on YouTube:-

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIr3gaqefXg

 

If you want more, you should check this out too:-

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KiL-cH8ihs

 

Sharon and Piers voted Boy Shakira through. David Hasselhoff, perhaps feeling that Boy Shakira was not enough to spike the ratings, stormed off set in a hoff. God, it was nailbiting. Would he punch out the cameraman? What if his face fell off? Would he ever return?

 

He was back in time for the next act after a nip in his dressing room.

 

There were more histrionics from Hoff when Piers and Sharon refused to vote through a hip hop dance troupe of inner city kids. Unfortunately, their only discernible talent was the leader’s ability to look menacing. He might have done better had he worn a tassled bra and transparent skirt instead of a clown outfit.

 

Finally, we had Alex Mooney.

 

“I break miscellaneous objects with my butt,” he announced, before dropping his shorts and, well, breaking miscellaneous objects with his butt. With a seismic flex of his cheeks, he snapped two pencils in half. A ruler met the same summary fate, followed by a fork which he bent almost double.

 

I can’t help but wonder whether he meticulously trained his arse five hours a day from an early age, or did he discover this skill by chance when he accidentally sat on a pencil? Although Alex had more raw talent than Boy Shakira, the judges unanimously voted him off. In fairness, I’m not sure how he could develop his act; perhaps by crushing beer cans or small cars.

 

After this, everything else was a tragic anticlimax. ‘Medical Emergency’, despite featuring real live-with-potential-for-death victims and lashings of blood and goo, failed to scale the same glorious heights as ‘America’s Got Talent’. It almost got there with the guy who fell off a roof and broke his back. A doleful voiceover informed us that he might never walk again.

 

“OH FACK OFF!” roared my Stepfather In Law at the telly.

 

“Craig,” I admonished. “That poor man may be paralyzed from the waist down.”

 

“Crap. Look! He’s wiggling his toes.”

 

“But his leg didn’t jump when the doctor hit him with a hammer. And listen - they just said-”

 

“It’s bollocks.”

 

“Hey, can you stop leeching my drama?”

 

Then there was ‘Border Patrol’, where immigration officials were suspicious of a grinder wheel with a large crack in the side of it. They spent a lot of time pulling their chins and pondering the fragility of grinder wheels, before some bright spark noticed it originated in Columbia. They drilled a hole in the wheel and discovered 2kg of cocaine - in Auckland Airport! Or some other airport quite close by! I mean, everything is in New Zealand.

 

I have embarked on a mission to persuade Andrew to get a telly - but it is second on the priority list after the puppy

Portrait of pluckers

Actually, several of them. Just back in Auckland and updating the blog with news from the weekend.

My Stepfather In Law, Craig (the one on the right) and his dog Morty. Craig was supposed to pull a sneer for the photo, but in fact this is more or less how he looks all the time. He is half as terrifying in person, but twice as terrifying when holding an axe.

 

The other duck shooters. All men had strict instruction to look menacing, but Andrew figured the suit was enough. From left to right: Husband; Andrew’s mother’s daughter’s boyfriend Ian aka Taffy; and Dave.

 

The men tried to persuade me to pluck, but I was having none of it after the stunt Craig pulled with Trevor the Trout back in 2004. I reckon thems that shoots it gots to pluck it

Herbert the Duck

Herbert was a happy little duck. He liked sunshine. He and his brothers and sisters paddled in the river, snapping at flies and dancing shadows.

But Herbert preferred the rain. He and his brothers and sisters played with the raindrops and fished for minnows. They quacked and stuck their little ducky tails in the air.

One day, their mother said: “Children, it’s time you learned how to fly.”

Herbert was scared. What if he was not able to fly? What if he dropped out of the sky?

Herbert was right to be scared, because one day he copped a gutful of lead and died.

The End

Duck cemetary

[WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS GRAPHIC IMAGES]

When I first met my Mother In Law and Stepfather In Law, they lived on top of a hill in Te Anau. Dusk was falling as Husband drove the rental car up the 70° driveway. We rounded a corner and there, silhouetted against the lowering sky, was a tractor with its digger raised. At the corners hung two bloody carcasses twirling idly in the breeze.

If the moment had a soundtrack, it would have been violin strings plucking up a scale.

“What the . . . what the <expletive deleted> is THAT?” I said, pointing a quivering finger.

“Drain the blood, meat tastes better,” responded Andrew as if that explained the matter.

This was my gentle introduction to a world of killing sheds, gut holes, knocking on the ‘ead, projectile pus and anal probing. I am now accustomed to eating breakfast while Margaret drains a doe’s abcess, or sitting on the living room sofa shooting possums out the window when the milking’s done. It has got to the stage where I’m all: ‘Dead deer? Pass the knife. And the steel’.

Given the way I have embraced country life, I was gutted (when Margaret or Craig are involved, it is important to point out that this is not in a literal sense) that I wasn’t allowed partake in the duck shooting. As a female, I was present in a purely supportive capacity: food preparation and provision, construction and materials, transport and logistics, underwear technician and specific totty.

I got over it fairly quickly when I realized how much hanging around is involved in duck shooting, allied with the ambient temperature in South Island at this time of year.

Yesterday, the Duck Shooters, their support team and associated groupies, went to cut broom to conceal the blind - or mai mai as it is called in these parts. Afterwards, the Duck Shooters modeled their camouflage suits, which essentially make them look like mouldy Yetis.

The Duck Shooters set off at 05:00 this morning. I was supposed to cook breakfast and massage Andrew’s trigger finger but, well, I was asleep.

Since Andrew wouldn’t pose for an official portrait in his Yeti suit, I am going to have to go with this one featuring only the pants:-

Terrifying: Andrew’s killer instinct

[You were warned about the graphic images.]

 

Duck cemetery

 

Morty and Bambi: Craig’s dog confuses deer for duck

 

In keeping with the horrifying theme: abalone mince. Actually tastes pretty good

Champion duck caller

Arrived in South Island this morning for duck shooting. Andrew’s a lot more excited than I am. It’s in his genes; his mother once won a duck calling competition

Romantic snapshot

Earlier today as I drove us to Mt Wellington, Husband picked up my hand and kissed it.

“Do you think you’ll still be kissing my hand in twenty years time?” I asked dreamily.

Yes indeed, I do subject the poor man to conversation like this.

“I don’t know,” said Andrew. “I might lose my lips in a freak train accident.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“I’d have to get electronic lips.”

“And why wouldn’t you be kissing my hand with your electronic lips?”

“You mightn’t have a hand.”

“Freak train accident?”

“Don’t look so skeptical - it’s entirely probable you’d be on the train too.”

Because he can

 26 April 2008: Andrew eating a sandwich while poking a hole in the wall

My Precious

I lost my wedding ring on Sunday.

 

Six years ago, when Husband presented me with my engagement ring, he said:-

 

“Will you marry me? Oh, good. You’re going to lose this, aren’t you?”

 

I was sure I wouldn’t, because it was so pretty my very life force depended on the ongoing presence of this thing in my life. I can be impressed for minutes at a time by sunrises or ladybirds or a storm at sea or Andrew’s cheeks when he’s eating lamb chops, but I can stare at a 0.55 carat H colour VSII Princess cut conflict diamond for HOURS.

 

Shortly after we married, I nearly lost my wedding rings at Ex-Employer’s office in Dubai Internet City. I went to the bathroom and removed both rings to wash my hands. Back in the office, I resumed compiling a nail bitingly tedious document on change request procedure, then paused to reread a paragraph. As I clasped my hands together to better aid concentration, I became aware at a subliminal level there was something very wrong in the world in addition to evil dictators and global poverty. Then I realized:- “AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaagh!”

 

Much to the bemusement of my three colleagues, I catapulted out of my chair, hurdled the desk, and ripped out the door screaming all the way to the bathroom where my rings glittered reprovingly in the soap dish. I’m not sure whether anyone had been there in the twenty minute interim – in Dubai, many people are too lazy to go to the toilet – but still.

 

After that, I resolved never to remove my wedding rings; I even wore them swimming in the sea.

 

My engagement ring is currently out of action, having split after a period of intense digit expansion, but I always wear my wedding band. On Sunday morning, I was pottering around the kitchen cleaning up before the guys woke. Brett had stayed over the evening before, so there were beer bottle tops all over the place. I have ranted about bottle tops before, so I will spare you- ok, no, I won’t. THERE’S A RUBBISH BIN! RIGHT THERE! WHAT IS SO COMPLEX ABOUT FLIPPING BOTTLE TOPS INTO IT, HMM?

 

Sorry. So, my wedding ring was irritating me for some reason – although not as much as the mess DO YOU NEED TO BE A WORLD CLASS ARCHER OR TIDDLYWINKS CHAMPION TO GET A BOTTLE TOP INTO A BIN?! IT’S LIKE HITTING A HIPPO WITH A SHOE! – so I transferred it to the little finger of my right hand. Even as I did, I thought, ‘Hmm. That’s not going to stay there,’ and then ignored myself.

 

It was after Brett left that I noticed my wedding ring - gone. My ring finger looked plainly wrong without it. There is a pale groove worn around the base of the finger where the skin is puckered and defenceless looking.

 

I alerted Andrew as to the situation.

 

“Will you look for it?”

 

Andrew nearly choked on a gigantic sigh, but he performed a sweep of the living and kitchen sectors while I repeatedly checked that I hadn’t misplaced the ring on my finger. There was no sign of it – on my finger or anywhere else.

 

“I’m sure it will turn up,” said Andrew and shuffled off to not obsess about where the ring might be.

 

Throughout the day, I looked in all the obvious places: the kitchen bench, the key hanger, under the sofa, in the microwave. I kept visualising the ring in different places, with the result that I checked the cutlery drawer and kitchen windowsill several times (maybe THIS TIME it will be there). In the evening, I turned the rubbish out onto the garage floor and picked through it with a fork.

 

On Monday morning, I put Andrew at Defcon 3, increasing to Defcon 2 as the day wore on. We tore the house apart. I moved everything out of the pantry; we checked the drains; Andrew squeezed the fingers on my rubber gloves; we crawled around the floor with torches.

 

I had a vague recollection of leaving the wedding ring on the hallway banister. Late last night, Andrew revealed that he had vacuumed the stairs on Sunday morning. There had been debris on the treads after Andrew knocked a couple of holes in the wall. No idea why. Because he could? Maybe? But really, you’d have to ask him.

 

He offered to go through the vacuum bag this morning in daylight. I knew that’s what had happened to my ring; in fact, I was so sure I actually slept last night.

 

It wasn’t in the vacuum bag.

 

Then Andrew went through the week-old rubbish. We’ve been together over 10 years now and Husband drives me up the wall on a frequent to full time basis. However, there are rare, brilliant moments when I understand exactly why I am with Andrew. Watching him sift coffee grounds, turn over greasy chop bones and wipe rotten spinach off mouldy lemons without complaint, I had one of those epiphanies.

 

On the other hand, I’m not sure I was his favourite wife at that point.

 

It wasn’t in the rubbish either.

 

Back upstairs, I got a bit teary:-

 

“Tell me you love me and the wedding ring is just a symbol in no way indicative of the future of our marriage and it’s not as if you even wear yours and the fact that I’ve lost something that’s blessed won’t curse us for the rest of time forever and ever amen.”

 

“Er, yes. All that,” said Andrew. “Look, we’ll get another ring and get your father to bless it.”

 

“Yeah, but he’ll give me a lecture on how he can’t go around blessing every time I lose my wedding ring,” I muttered darkly, “and how I should be more careful-”

 

“Well-”

 

“Are you sure you want to go there?”

 

“Absolutely not. No.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then I found the ring in the plastic bag drawer

Qualified author

I have just been offered a publishing contract! Yippee! Apologies in advance for the number of exclamation points in this post – I’m not proud of it! Little Black Dress Books www.littleblackdressbooks.com have offered me a one, two or three book publishing deal!

 

This afternoon, Husband and I went into Borders at Sylvia Park to check out Little Black Dress publications in the romance section. Andrew demonstrated an uncanny ability for opening books at the paragraphs detailing hot shafts and throbbing rods. He did a rather unheroically unmanly amount of giggling.

 

When I thought about Smart/Casual fighting for space on these shelves I got quite squeaky and overexcited. With any luck the cover won’t feature martini glasses, fluffy mules, poodles in raincoats or female apparel.

 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Freshly painted house

A very brief window of tidiness opened up today, and I seized the opportunity to take a few pics of our freshly painted house featuring Husband’s recently installed lights.

The kitchen from the balcony

 

Dining area at the end of the living room

 

The living room. Our furniture looks much bigger here than it did in Dubai

 

My office off the bedroom

Perhaps we should mow the lawn

Here are the results of a toxic buildup of creative juices:-

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BN4EJmI_PVA

Me in my stylie boots at the bottom of the garden

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kNtBAHXVWhw

A New Zealand bush trail

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8UvqypUVYSQ

Andrew’s garden shed

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eaH_mELMpx4

The guesthouse

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Usy6uZXTEao

Hobbit alert

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-KQf-tndWbU

How to squirm under a tree

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emlk-vXmp9I

Our house in the middle of the bush

Responsibility

There have been a couple of times recently when we’ve left the house and forgotten to close the garage door behind us.

“Oh crap,” I said, driving home from our walk this afternoon. “Did we close the garage door?”

“I did,” said Andrew.

“Oh, good.”

“If both of us are going out,” said my husband, “I think the passenger should close the garage door.”

“Fair enough-”

“Except when I’m the passenger. Then it should be you.”

“Hey! Hang on a minute; basically, you’re saying it should be my responsibility.”

“Well, let’s face it: you are the most responsible party in this relationship.”

“Yes, but-”

“Don’t even try and talk your way out of it.”

“So, are you saying you’re irresponsible?”

“No. Just that you’re MORE responsible.”

Husband fully equipped for hiking (yes, that’s an umbrella in his right hand). Photos of Andrew’s face are pretty rare; he doesn’t stay still long enough and he is also pretty mean about the photo ops

 

Niamh and the tree

 

Down by the river

 

Vaseline shot: me undaunted by Andrew waving a camera in my face after a cryogenic swim

Storms

The view from our balcony this afternoon after a thunderstorm that lasted all day yesterday and today

He’d like to add the crystal parrot to his collection

Andrew: You can list that crystal dolphin on Trademe.

 

Me: Where did it come from anyway?

 

Andrew: Someone gave it to me as a present.

 

Me: What – that?

 

Andrew: Yes.

 

Me: A 7cm high figurine of a crystal dolphin springing joyously out of a crystal wave?

 

Andrew: Yes!

 

Me: To you?

 

Andrew: Yes, they GAVE IT TO ME.

 

Me: Hee hee hee hee hee-

 

Andrew: WHAT?

 

Me: I just- seriously- I can’t imagine a gift more outrageously, spectacularly unsuited to Crusher Tomes.

Finely honed athlete

I am a former Irish Orienteering Champion. At the age of 8 in Ballyhourigan Wood, I crushed the field of opposition with grit, determination and a finely honed athlete’s instinct.

 

There wasn’t much to crush, since there was only one other girl in my class and she didn’t finish the course – but hey, a victory is a victory. It’s the winning that counts. Nobody remembers who came second.

 

Now, I haven’t fondled a Silva Expedition since the late ‘80s. There wasn’t much opportunity for orienteering in Dubai, since the only features on the landscape outside the city are sand dunes and camels, both of which are prone to roam. Since this is in stark contrast to most of the city’s inhabitants, it’s little wonder that orienteering never took off in the Middle East.