You shrunk my baby

Since I got pregnant, I’ve slept like a baby. (That would be the Proverbial Baby rather than my own, who spends at least half of any twenty four hour period wide awake pointing at stuff.)

Even during the first couple of months after Finn was born I could cast off consciousness in a matter of seconds, whether in the shower, weeding the garden, with my head in a bowl of muesli or waiting for the traffic lights to turn green.

In the last couple of weeks, Finn has started sleeping through the night. Conversely, my own sleep pattern has gone all to cock.

The other night – I’m not sure what time it was, but it felt like 03:23 hrs or thereabouts – I can’t recall what I’d been doing, but I was getting back in bed when Andrew’s eyes clicked open demonically.

“You smell,” he said, then rolled over.

I’m not sure whether or what I responded, but I woke up the following morning aggrieved and fully outraged. I mean: I just spent nine months carrying his child – of course I’m not going to smell the freshest. In any case, it’s been a long time since Andrew smelled like an advert featuring an ocean wave breaking over a rock – in fact, the last time was when we met and I was never entirely sure whether the seductive scent was Andrew Musk or bacardi.

“What’s up with you?” asked Andrew, catching a glower.

“You told me I smell!” I snapped, waving the baby at him threateningly (it was the only thing to hand, but in fact it’s difficult applying a baby for menacing effect, a bit like trying to terrorize someone while wearing leg-warmers).

“I- what? When? I didn’t- I’d never say something like that.”

I’m not sure how he can claim that, since has no problem telling me I should do some crunchies (he alleges his motive is preempting back-ache, although it would be a bonus if I reverted to my pre-pregnancy body. I’m drawing up Andrew’s daily workout schedule involving multiple sets of 100 lunges, star-jumps, squat-thrusts, bench dips, back extensions, inclined pressups, pushups, situps, pull-ups, shuttle runs, hip raises, rotational chops, lat extensions and splits.)

However, although I can never tell when Andrew’s lying, I usually know when he’s not. After further discussion wherein I refused to make him coffee, it turned out I dreamed the whole thing.

I should have known. I still half-wake around the time Finn used to call for his night feed and spend the remaining interim until morning fending off horribly vivid nightmares. Most of these involve Finn e.g. forgetting to take him out of the frying pan or accidentally washing his head clean off.

The stuff dreams are made of

One night – and I have to warn you: this is WRONG on so many levels in so many dimensions – I dreamed Finn and I were at a roller-skating theme park.

(HEY. You were warned.)

I wanted to go on the flying fox. Obviously I couldn’t take Finn because that would have been irresponsible, so I asked some random group of children to look after him. When I returned he was gone.

I scoured the theme park until I finally located the Lost & Found Office where there were loads of cardboard boxes full of extremely ugly babies. I got more and more agitated – I kept forgetting which boxes I’d looked in – the staff were more interested in telling me how negligent I was rather than being helpful – but none of the babies was mine.

I finally found him in a wet cardboard box – and they’d SHRUNK HIM.

And I was all, “You call ME negligent when YOU SHRUNK MY BABY?!”

Violent salvo of squelch

I brought a banana chocolate fudge cake OH HOLY MOLAR SO SCRUMPTIOUS! along to the Tupperware party last Thursday.

I’d never been to a Tupperware party before. Apparently there are two types: one version where everyone sits around fingering snap-lid tubs, and the other featuring sex toys and lingerie that promotes rather than reduces chafing. I presume it was the former type of Tupperware party since, although there were some strange-looking pieces of plastic, none of them looked as if they’d fit up the fanny.

I brought the Tiny Monster along, but he got so distressed we had to leave early. He must REALLY dislike Tupperware – or perhaps he was protesting the price.

I had my last remaining wisdom tooth extracted at the dentists’ last Tuesday. I was almost as nervous about the procedure as I was about my caesarian. When I had my three wisdom teeth extracted in Dubai I actually fainted. (Er. It was during the preliminary examination where I nearly garroted myself on the x-ray machine; I think it was due to a critical build-up of anticipation.)

“Probably because you’re attached to your teeth,” offered the dentist by way of explaining the phenomenon (he must have had a few puffs of nitrous oxide between me and his previous patient).

“Um, I’m pretty attached to my uterus as well,” I said.

Then he insisted on fully disclosing how painful the three injections would be. Look, of course it’s going to HURT; I’m about to be stabbed with a needle by a medically qualified sadist; just quit the small talk/foreplay and get on with it already.

As it turned out, the extraction lasted only about six minutes from start to finish. In contrast, the filling he did afterwards took nearly three quarters of an hour.

I wasn’t looking forward to caring for my little man the rest of the day, but in fact he was wonderful apart from occasionally head-butting me in the jaw with deadly precision.

When I related one of these incidents, “Did he cry?” asked Andrew.

“No, but I nearly did.”

Hilariously, after Finn hurls his head into your soft bits, he gets all outraged about his sore cranium. Same when he does it to the floor – especially when we sit around chanting: “Face plant! Face plant!”

I’m trying to teach Finn head-butting is only an appropriate form of expression for the Scots. Since he’s half-Irish he should be practicing knee-capping or perfecting the subtle art of poking peoples’ eyes out with a pointy stick.

Our Tiny Monster is growing so fast. The Plunket Nurse Harpy visited yesterday morning and remarked how sociable he is: all wide smiles, chatting away, solid eye-contact, turning to look at whoever is talking. However, he showed hints of passive-aggressive behaviour when he yarfed down her denim jacket. I’m going to train him to do that on command.

Speaking of bodily fluids – also boogers and poop on the occasions they don’t fall under the ‘fluid’ category – I suppose I could have just gone with ‘bodily fluids and/or solids’ – I remain mesmerized by the size of the bogeys Finn produces from his tiny nostrils. The only possible explanation is they expand when exposed to oxygen.

I always resolved never to be the type of mother who subjected others to her child’s poop, in either descriptive or demonstrative form. I’m about to break that rule, but I’ll make it as euphemistic as possible. Finn has recently taken to detonating what I can only describe as ‘atomic shits’. He usually saves it for when he’s sitting on someone’s knee; I always wince when he emits that delicate little grunt which precedes a violent salvo of squelch. Sometimes I worry he might blow someone’s leg off.

Rather than wiping him down, it’s often easier to fling him in the shower. He loves showering with mum or dad, to the extent that he hasn’t had a bath for weeks. Andrew’s nervous about Finn being so slippery he drops him, but I figure it adds an element of spontaneity. I hold Finn against my shoulder with one hand while I wash him with the other, and he thrusts his head back into the stream until water sluices down his face.

Finn doesn’t cry much any more. I hope this is due to maturity rather than extreme neglect like babies in Romanian orphanages. On the positive side it’s much more peaceful. He still complains, but it’s more along the lines of: “Oh I say, chaps, don’t mean to be a nuisance, but I’m not entirely content – I don’t mean to imply I’m unhappy, as such – frightfully sorry – I’ll just mutter to myself here another while – carry on.”

No I will NOT say 'cheese'

It’s actually pretty easy to dissuade him from grouchiness by giggling at him, or tickling his face with my hair, or simply kissing him vigorously until he gives up. Sometimes I worry he’ll grow up thinking an acceptable way of resolving a dispute with someone is pressing their nose and shouting ‘BEEP!’.

Although I do think world leaders should consider adopting this as a technique for conflict resolution.

Something scary

Finn spooks himself out

Poison berry pie

I wasn’t sure what the berries were, but they were located beside the blueberry bush in the garden, so I figured they probably weren’t closely related to the deadly nightshade of the family Solanaceae. In any case, they were very tasty.

After looking up redcurrant recipes on the Internet – which didn’t take long because there were only two and one of them was for redcurrant jelly – I made a German cake with a lemon-cheesecake style crust and a meringue filling containing the berries.

Andrew pronounced the dessert ‘strange’, but only thought to ask what it was after he’d finished a slice. Unfortunately, instead of confidently asserting: ‘Redcurrant pie. Would you like another helping?’, I made the mistake of saying, ‘Er. Redcurrant pie, I think. I’m not sure. I always thought redcurrants grew in clusters, like vines, but these . . . don’t. Anyway. You finished with that plate?’

Andrew immediately fired up the iPad to confirm the berries were redcurrants. Unfortunately, the pictures on Google Images showed they were clearly not redcurrants; for a while Andrew desperately searched for sufficient evidence to prove they were rowan berries, before he announced they were obviously holly berries and he ‘felt sick’.

Well we were both still alive the following morning – so that was a relief – although Andrew still felt queasy so I advised him to take a Panadol and perhaps not speak for a while.

Now Andrew has the dog pre-taste anything I serve him, believing I’m engaged in a conspiracy to off him, my motivation for which is still unclear. He still refers to it as poison pie, but I subsequently discovered they were cranberries.

In any case, it seems unlikely I’ll make it again.

Special Forces Sleep

We’ve had fabulous weather over the last couple of weeks: gorgeous sunny days with a crispy winter edge. We’ve explored more of the tracks in Herbert Forest, and Husband’s been out fishing with Agent of Death twice. I want to take Finn out in the boat to get him used to sailing, since it would be awful if he ended up with Andrew’s stomach (forcibly ejects contents when a duck paddles past). Her Goatiness is horrified by the prospect, being of the opinion you can’t train a baby to grow a pair of sea-legs.

The Boo turned 12 weeks last Thursday and appears to have grown again overnight – it might have been Monday or Tuesday.

He spends much more time awake now and is generally a happy go lucky little fella, quite content to squirm around his mat, kicking his legs, gnawing his fists, gurgling, chatting away or working out complex algorithms in his head. His pure, gummy grin would make me weep for joy if I didn’t get a grip. When he’s like this, I love his company; there’s nobody else in the world I’d prefer to spend time with.

BUT THEN, in the early evening he turns into Tiny Monster; kind of a miniature version of The Incredible Hulk – only in red. Over the last few days his scream has evolved/mutated into a screech that wilts the plants at the top of the drive. He can occasionally be pacified with dancing, but I just don’t have the energy or, for that matter, the moves or hand-eye coordination.

Furthermore, he had grown accustomed to falling asleep on top of me. When he was younger, I was fairly confident Finn was down if he didn’t wake up within 15 minutes. However, it got to the point where I’d carefully peel him off my shoulder, lower him slooowly into his carry-cot; and even if I managed to avoid whacking him on the hood, his eyes would snap open the moment his head hit the mattress. Then he’d declaim my bitter betrayal at length.

A couple of weeks ago I decided it was time to put some shape on Finn’s routine. That sort of carry-on was simply not to be tolerated. What our household needed was discipline, regulations, boundaries, possibly smacking. I’m sure I read somewhere that spanking babies to sleep can be most effective.

I approached the project with confidence: put Finn down when he was still awake, and clearly communicated my expectation that he would fall asleep. Which he did – after crying for an hour and a half.

I know those of the old school of child-rearing basically stored their babies in a box in the fridge, firm in the conviction they were hardening us up – and I admire that. Truly, I will do whatever it takes if I think it is the right thing.

But I can’t reconcile my baby spending that long crying himself to sleep.

I could argue that he was never in any serious distress: the wail never reached a grade above outrage. But then, he was hardly crying from an abundance of glee. And it just . . . doesn’t seem like a nice way to spend an hour and a half. As I can verify, since I spent most of that time in tears myself.

So then I tried the same thing, only I set the oven timer every five minutes and basically sat there nibbling my knuckles and twitching, watching the seconds count down until I’d rush to soothe him: rock his carry-cot, sing to him, pick him up if necessary.

The process took another hour and a half. My son really has remarkable stamina.

Finn having blasted my logic (i.e. tired = sleep), I did some research and decided to try the pick up/put down method championed by The Baby Whisperer Who’s Dead. Although it borders the vicinity of healing-crystals up the yoni, I evidently didn’t have the chops for Special Forces Sleep. Motherhood is teaching me a lot about myself, including that contrary to my own self-image (determined, bitchy, kind of chilling on occasion) I might actually be something of a wuss.

The pick up/put down method involves picking your child up as soon as he cries then, when he stops, lovingly yet firmly returning him to his cot until he falls asleep – the idea being that eventually any horizontal configuration of child results in instant sleep. ‘The first time it might take 30 pick up/put downs’, stated a website.

Well, over the course of an hour I lost count how many times I plucked The Boo out of his cot. It got to the stage where he’d resume crying as soon as I laid him back down; then upon reclining him as much as half a degree; until he was basically roaring all the time.

So that blowed.

We finally reached a compromise, whereby I relaxed and stopped forcing my poor son to sleep, and Finn often does. I’ve learned to read Finn’s cues that he’s tiring. When he starts bitchin’ I flip him onto his stomach; when he head-butts the floor I feed him, check his nappy, then put him down. If he’s still awake after five minutes, I pick him up and cuddle him or, depending what noise he’s making, rock the cot and/or sing him some Neil Diamond. If he’s still grizzling after another five minutes, I recheck his nappy, then return him to his cot. If a final stint fails, Finn wins and I try to be a gracious loser. No, really. I just train harder for the next battle.

It’s only in the last couple of weeks that I’ve felt as if I’m getting a grip on my child and his rhythms.

Apologies for the angle on this video; I took it myself while Finn was on his change table first thing in the morning. However, he frowns at the camera, so I had to hold it off to one side while I distracted him.

Your fly’s down

Finn’s 8-10 week Plunket appointment was this morning.

The Plunket Nurse immediately established a tactical advantage by enquiring whether I needed a breast pad – which I assume is the Plunket equivalent of saying your fly’s down when it’s not. Because I wasn’t leaking.

At least, not much.

When I demurred, she swiftly pressed home the advantage by asking whether I was clinically depressed.

“Who- you mean- ME?”

I actually looked around to see if some lank-haired dead-eyed twitcher had crashed the appointment. I mean: my jeans fit; it was a beautiful day; Finn and I had just strolled through the Oamaru Gardens; I had only a suggestion of dribble in my hair, which was perfectly straight; and just for a change I had remembered to apply mascara to both eyes. Quite frankly, I was positively brimming with bounteous motherhood, the fucking epitome of relaxed, ruddy-faced mental health.

In the face of such a vicious onslaught, perhaps it’s no wonder I let slip that during mealtimes we sometimes placed Finn in his bouncy chair on the dining table.

“I would question the safety aspect of that arrangement,” said Nurse Plunket, menacingly swiveling her steel eye.

Now, being Finn’s mother has opened up whole new avenues of anxiety for me. Sorry; did I say avenues? Make that motorways. I worry about him falling down a well, or becoming allergic to polyester, or being unpopular in school, or doing drugs, or his ears growing disproportionately large. Recently I had a nightmare that he went blind. In summary: I have anxiety covered without the Plunket Nurse’s assistance.

But the LAST THING I worry about is a baby who’s not even aware he has ARMS undoing both clasps on a bouncy chair’s safety harness, then propelling himself up and out and over the side. Or bouncing so energetically that the chair springs past his parents and onto the floor. (That’s the second-last thing.)

And even my imagination does not extend to our solid wood dining table developing a sudden and alarming tilt that defies the bouncy chair’s non-slip grips.

She’ll have to do A LOT better than that to alarm me.

Amateur.

Finn wakes up

Heeey!

 

How YOU doin?

Sharkattack!

This post is about norks.

Specifically mine.

WHAT?

Ok, I grant you this may be unexpected. This is possibly the first post brought to you by the jubblier parts of my anatomy. I’ve always prided myself on being a closet prude (as documented here).

However, IVF strips away much of your modesty, and breastfeeding pretty much sucks away any that remains. You know your personal boundaries have undergone a subtle shift to the region of Albania when you greet the Fastway courier with a funbag flopped out.

In fact, recently I’ve wondered what I’ve been so precious about all these years. There’s nothing special about my norks. They’re round, squishy, kind of furry in the colder months. See? Same as everyone else’s.

So. When I was pregnant, Andrew and I discussed how we would feed our child. Formula? Breast? Throw a few bones into the garden and let him fight it out with the dog?

In the end, the decision was clear: buy a big box of chicken necks and . . . HAHA ONLY JOKING, PLUNKET NURSE! You know: joke? Something said or done to provoke laughter or cause amusement, often culminating in a punchline which is why mine might have confused you? Ok. Sorry. Please don’t alert Child Welfare Services.

No but SERIOUSLY, it seemed willfully irresponsible not to breastfeed Finn. It’s the most nutritious source of food; boosts the immune system; allows the baby to regulate his own supply; and is fully supported by the Ministry of Health and its associated minions.

In fact, the MoH’s informational material was positively inspirational. The promotional DVDs featured joyful women leaping through waves with their sated infant swinging from a nipple. Breastfeeding is the most natural thing in the world, they aggressively stressed. And totally painless if you do it correctly.

Well, you can call this a public service blog post. I’m here to shatter the conspiracy of misinformation.

IT HURTS LIKE A RAW BASTARD.

My first pet name for Finn was ‘Sharkattack!’. He may have had no teeth but could gnaw through my upper torso with his razor-sharp gums if I didn’t hold him back. I’m not sure why we bother with a bassinet when we could simply affix a silicone tit to the wall and sucker him onto it.

One week old

Also, it didn’t help that within 24 hours of Finn’s birth, I’d had at least five people man-handling my chest (not including baby-handling). These included the anaesthesiologist in the operating theatre – which I can only compare with a tax consultant reaching across his desk to grip you by the boob and give it a rare squeeze while discussing personal wealth and asset planning.

Although there was no doubting the passion, dedication and absolute conviction of the midwives and lactation consultants at Dunedin’s Queen Mary, they all offered conflicting counsel. I was variously advised to latch the baby by gripping him by the shoulders, neck and head (although not all at once). One suggested letting Finn latch himself – “Guiding him to the breast is a mechanical act. After all, you don’t see lambs being attached to a teat with a great big hand.”

She seemed unmoved when I pointed out that sheep weren’t equipped with hands.

One lactation consultant had transformed vagueness into an art form and stood by my bedside twitching and wincing as I practiced putting whichever hand it was somewhere and waiting until ooh- aah- the baby sort of oohaah- yes- no- that’s not right- um.

Here’s the low-down: unless you routinely engage in sex play relying heavily on nipple-clamps, chances are breastfeeding will hurt for the first few weeks. Frankly, I think it’s immensely disrespectful to women to pretend otherwise.

Instead of the relentlessly positive propaganda, I would like to have been trusted to make the right choice for Finn and me in the face of the horrifying truth. Despite the blood and shreds of tissue, I’ve always been aware how incredibly special it is to be able to nourish my baby.

Painfully aware, even.

And I’d rather have been prepared for it, rather than wondering whether there was something wrong with Finn and me.

Finn at five weeks. ONLY KIDDING ABOUT THE DOG TOWEL, PLUNKET NURSE!

Bonding stratagems

I’m still amazed by what people feel inclined to – let’s call it ‘share’ – when they discover I’m pregnant.

I’ve had the stranger who, after asking how far gone I was, told me she had a miscarriage at that stage. The efficacy of this bonding strategem is limited by one of the parties battling the near-uncontrollable urge to reach into the adjacent deep-freeze, seize a family-size pack of frozen cauliflower and apply it forcefully to her face.

Then there are those who elevate the horror to a whole new level upon finding out you also have a dog, when they remember their sister’s neighbour’s plumber who read an article in an old Woman’s Weekly about a family corgi who gnawed a baby’s face off. The denoument of this variation of story – because I’ve heard at least two versions of it - is dramatic, along the lines of: “No warning- this dog was just the gentlest, most placid- used to bath the kid- but now the baby, IT HAS NO FACE!” 

I’m not sure what appals me more: the poor, faceless baby; the faithful family pet being euthanised; or the gross irresponsibility of parents who a) leave their dog unsupervised with their child and b) haven’t trained their baby not to eat out of the dog’s bowl.

Last week there was the real estate agent who, upon showing us an old-fashioned water burner, felt compelled to inform us how many babies used to fall into them and DIE. Tiny, unformed lives snuffed out in the blink of an eye. Happened all the time, apparently. She knew of at least one soft-boiled baby.

Then there was the time in Farmers I was searching for some saucy lingerie to spice up Husband’s and my sex life now that I’m pregnant. As it turns out, the maternity section is the last place to go for this – although it’s ideal if you’re looking for some seriously durable upholstery in the style of which your great-great-aunt would endorse deep in the chilly folds of her spinster heart.

I got chatting to another woman riffling through the bras – as you do. We introduced ourselves by chest size – as you do. She was quite obviously pregnant. Probably about 6-7 months, I gauged with my newly critical eye. However, I made the mistake of engaging my new lingo and asking how ‘far along’ she was.

It turned out she had had her baby four days previously – but I MEAN REALLY, if you’re going to wear a top that tight . . . anyway, she got her own back by telling me in spine-curdling detail about labour: “Nothing prepares you for the PAIN. Never felt anything like it. Agony. AGONY. Like you’re being torn in two. AGONYYY.”

I’m not sure what the appropriate response to these social gambits are. How about, “Thanks for sharing. Sometimes I go into my bathroom and lock the door and cut myself with a sawn-off shampoo bottle. Then I curl up on the floor and cry uncontrollably. Anyway, nice meeting you”? Or, “Oh my, you’re right: that IS an impressive cluster of hemorrhoids. Indeed no, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. GOODBYE”?

In a devastating and frankly brilliant parting shot, she advised me to look up ‘perineal massage’ on Google. I resisted as long as I could but in the end I was macabrely compelled, like being unable to look away from a car crash or videos of tsunamis on YouTube. Here, for the stout of heart and stomach, is a description of perineal massage; there’s a picture; oh my sweet baby cheeses there’s even a video (thankfully featuring no free radical fanny flaps).

Some sites recommend you get your partner to massage your perineum, suggesting it reinforces love and closeness. Well, I don’t need Husband THAT close to feel The Love. In fact, in our relationship the intensity of love is directly proportional to physical distance within an optimal limit (in the region of 100m). Although it might be worth asking Andrew for a perineal massage just for the look on his face – or, more likely, the confusion that would ensue. I might get a nice head rub.

My favourite one came from the man who told me, shortly after my pregnancy was confirmed, about someone he knew whose wife delivered a still-born baby, strangled by the umbilical cord. It’s difficult to imagine anything more personally heartrending; I just about wept when I heard it.

After WTF, you might ask who – I mean to say – WHO – or even WHAT TYPE OF PERSON would tell such a story to a pregnant woman?

Yes, well, that would be MY HUSBAND.

Making pregnant women cry since 2011

Husband: What’s wrong?”

Me: You made your pregnant wife cry.

Husband: What? I- but- I didn’t even notice!

Me: Thirteen years together and you STILL can’t tell when I’m crying? It’s not that hard, you know. It’s quite distinctive: tears, snot, sniffles, bit of wailing.

Husband: But- when?

Me: Five minutes ago! I was on the sofa, you were- saying stuff.

Husband: What did I say?

Me: It doesn’t matter! I’m PREGNANT! I have HORMONES! I cry at the tremble of a leaf! What you said- that’s not the point! The POINT is that I was CRYING-

Husband: Aw, sweetie!

Me: And you didn’t come over and give me a cuddle. Personally, I think that’s pretty shabby behaviour-

Husband: Well, I suppose-

Me: And I really think you need to smarten up your act.

Husband: Fair enough. I’ll start on it right away.

Dose of trigger finger

It is wonderful being home again, despite the lavishly wet display the weather has put on since we arrived. It’s also terrific having Husband back after over a month. Eh, suppose I must like him.

Of course, after a weeks’ intense, touching reunion, we’re about due to have an absolute crockery-endangering rip-snorter of an argument. It’s a pattern; usually prompted by Andrew’s asking whether I have fed the dog, and my responding, “Well who the <expletive deleted> do you think fed the <expletive deleted> dog all last month? HMM?”

(In this particular instance the answer would in fact be Agent of Death, who fed Jed with the other farm dogs, but no matter. I’m feeling twitchy. Especially after a week of Andrew’s nocturnal duvet-rustling raids.)

The weather forecast for the weekend was uninspiring, but when Friday dawned beautiful and sunny we decided to go fishing. Ken Ring’s fishing calendar predicted ‘very good’ fishing for 1pm.

I’m somewhat ashamed of our reliance on Ken’s Ring, since it rather undermines my opinion that he’s a dodgy chancer. However, it is comforting to know that Andrew and I will always bond over a primary, borderline chartered-accountant level sense of humour – and, well, Ken’s Ring Hurhurhur hasn’t been wrong yet. The alternative is that we’re gifted anglers with a feeling for fish – and actually I have more faith in Ken.

We made our way to the Point, stuffed the dog in the prow of the boat, and while Andrew fiddled with his rod, I baited my hook and unspooled the hand-line. The weight had barely hit the bottom, when the line tugged.

At first I thought it was an aggressive piece of seaweed; but then it yanked violently.

“Bite!” I roared, trying to wind the line onto the hand-caster. “Ooh, it’s a big one. Oh no- has it got off? Yeow! No! Woah!”

My prey seemed to alternate between fighting like a kraken possessed, and swimming towards the light. My arms had the pulling power of spaghetti by the time the fish broke the surface – and he was HUGE.

“What the fuck IS it?” I gasped.

“Get it in the boat!”

“I CAN’T!”

So Andrew hauled it in. “I think it’s a groper,” he said. “But that’s not . . . they don’t . . . it’s impossible.”

Port Underwood is not renowned for its swarming shoals of groper.

“Why don’t you just call The Sheriff?” I said, as Andrew looked up pictures of groper on the phone, along with the Ministry of Fisheries website to determine the legal size for groper in this area. “I mean, as long as it’s not a kingfish, it’s well above the legal limit for anything else. Isn’t it?” It was 65cm.

Eventually, while Andrew was distracted admiring pictures of moki, I hijacked his phone and called The Sheriff myself. He issued a staccato burst of technical questions - ‘Does it have whiskers out its chin? / Does it have a big mouth? / What size are its gills?’ – it had a huge gob, protruding eyes and was kinda scaly. The Sheriff was of the opinion that, however unlikely, it sounded like a groper pup.

Ok so it looks smaller in the photo.

Andrew cut it into steaks; I rubbed one with Cajun seasoning, dribbled over some oil and lime juice, and baked it for 20 minutes the other night – I would highly recommend it.

The following day, flocks of seagulls wheeled just above the surface of the sea, so we went trolling for kahawai. We had to whack them away with a stick; Andrew resorted to casting off from the stationary boat. At one point, there were three kahawai after the lure as he reeled it in.

We donated three to The Hostess with the Mostest and The Mustachioed Muchacho, and two to The Sheriff and Bunqueen. In return, The Mustachioed Muchacho gave us his top-secret recipe for smoking kahawai, and we now have a stack of it in the fridge.

Dinner this evening was fish pie with smoked kahawai, groper, blue cod and mussels – mmm.

Decorate with dead pigeons

Official duck shooting season commenced yesterday.

The big party to celebrate the opening of duck shooting season was planned for weeks.

The Swine House was decorated with wooden decoys, bales of hay, three dead pigeons (tastefully arranged), a life-size portrait of Daffy Duck and a bushy mai-mai in the corner. There were to be games: Duck Idol, a duck and spoon race, pin the tail on the duck, musical ducks and a duck chucking contest.

Agent of Death had a lamb, a salmon and leg of ham for the barbeque. There were three coolboxes full of wine, spirits and mixers to facilitate interest in the games.

So it was a real shame nobody turned up apart from The Warrior who wasn’t even invited.

In fairness, it had been raining rhinos and witches all afternoon. The Swine House paddock was a quagmire. In fact, ‘quagmire’ doesn’t fully describe the shifting, crawling mess of mud, which – if you stared at it after a couple of vodkas – appeared to advance menacingly in waves.

Being Irish, I wasn’t going to be put off by a touch of inclemency – which in any case was more than compensated for by lashings of alcohol. In case you’re ever invited to the Swine House, appropriate party wear is woolly socks, reliable jackets and extreme beanies rather than stilettos and body glitter.

I attempted to kick off the evening with a vodka & orange, but got off to a shaky start when I mistook Agent of Death’s ham glaze for orange juice. My stepfather in law was so preoccupied laughing – or choking on a lamb shank, it wasn’t certain which – I nearly succeeded in throwing out his glaze in disgust. Agent of Death saved it at the line with a last-dash tackle.

At 8pm, the gathering consisted of the family, Paul, the Kardashian Twins, Barry and his ADHD sons, The Warrior and a couple of his infested friends – enough to stage Duck Idol. Her Goatiness, Florrie and I judged the duck-calling. I don’t know about anyone else, but we had a blast:

“In all my years on the duck scene, I’ve never heard anything so shit. It sounded like the wicked duck of the west. I’m afraid it’s a ‘no’ from me.”

“There’s no doubting your enthusiasm, but you need to project from the diaphragm, not the sphincter. No.”

“You think you can come on here with your skimpy outfit and wiggle your tits around, but here at Duck Idol we’re looking for more. I’m going to vote ‘no’.”

“There’s no doubting your technique, but I just didn’t feel the emotion. To be honest, I just don’t think you’re hungry enough to win this competition.”

As it turns out, Husband demonstrated an extraordinary, previously unsuspected talent for duck calling. His performance was a startlingly original portrayal of a duck-hunter on the edge, a man driven to desperate measures. In a dramatic twist at the end, he mimed fending off a savage duck attack. It was a poignant and heartfelt blend of yearning, urgency and drunkenness.

There was no nepotism involved in my granting him my only ‘yes’ of the competition, and it was no surprise (to me) when he swept aside his competition to win Duck Idol 2011. He was so caught up in his victory that he sprayed his cheering fans with beer, thankfully direct from the bottle.

Agent of Death sulked because he only won a consolation prize.

The duck chucking competition was carnage: feathers, blood and lice everywhere. The kids came in handy for retrieving the ducks in the rain. Husband duct-taped his duck, but in the event it didn’t provide any superior aerodynamic advantage. Paul somehow flung a duck onto the Swine House roof. Gary pulled the head off his.

I left around about the time the dead pigeons looked like they were about to come to life and terrifyingly peck at my eyeballs.

Official fish inspection

Up until recently, I was convinced the waters of Port Underwood were the aquatic equivalent of an arid wasteland. Absolutely swimming with kelpie – but technically they’re more vegetable than fish.

Last weekend, Husband deemed conditions ‘ideal’ for fishing. Well, he says that every time, but the signs were good: it was on the turn of low tide, there was a gentle swell and visibility was good.

Still, I brought my book.

Which is probably why WE CAUGHT FISH! You know, in the same way as ensuring fine weather by packing an umbrella, or minty fresh breath by sucking on a haddock.

See, I don’t understand where that analogy went so wrong.

We caught a terakihi and four blue cod, returning seven that were only 1-2 cm shorter than the legal limit of 33cm.

When I say ‘we’, I do of course mean me. I catch more fish than Andrew because I bait the hook with chunks of finger, which appears more tempting than squid. Also, I practice a form of psychic fishing which involves visualizing the fish trundling around the sea bed and willing them to impale themselves on the hook. It is frankly uncanny the number of fish I hook through an eyeball or gill or the tail. 

Four blue cod and one terakihi

 

Jed inspects the catch

 

When we got home, I called my stepfather-in-law in a high state of excitement to grill him on how to grill a terakihi.

“How big’s it?” he growled.

“Around 29.2cm.”

“Fish that small, bake it whole with salt and pepper and some bloody ginger,” he said and hung up before I could retort, “SMALL? I’m sure it wouldn’t feel that small if you shoved it up your arse, Fishboy.”

I’m so totally lying. I’d never say that to Agent of Death, not even on the phone.

Four days later, Agent of Death went fishing off Oamaru and, in the space of two hours, caught 40 blue cod and 20 sturgeon or something.

Yeah well ah, you know, I’m more interested in quality not quantity.

HIS HAIR IS A BISCUIT!!

Inspiration

This has pretty much directed the course of my day:

(I invite you to note the tear-off strips.)

Armadillo knees

Solartap:  How are you?

Me:  Great! I’m wearing a wetsuit with armadillo knees.

Solartap:  Armadillo . . . knees? Is that a . . . what is that?

Me:  You might call it the cutting edge of seventies neoprene technology.

Solartap: Huh?

Me:  Yeah, the knees are, like, they have WINGS. You probably need to see it to get the full effect.

Solartap:  For ease of movement?

Me:  Not that you’d notice. I think maybe it’s some kind of retro fashion statement. It’s about thirty years old.

Solartap: Why are you wearing a wetsuit that’s thirty years old?

Me:  It has no arms. I’m going to try it out for swimming. Used to belong to Andrew-

Solartap: When he was EIGHT?

Me: More like fifteen.

Solartap: Thirty years ago he would’ve-

Me:  I was rounding up. Jeez.

Solartap: So you can fit into a wetsuit that fit a teenage boy. What does that say about you?

Me:  Nothing. I think it says more about the sagging nature of neoprene over time.

Public Service Announcement

For some time I’ve been struggling with existential questions. What is Deadlyjelly? Why? Is it really deadly? I mean, has anyone ACTUALLY died from reading my blog? – because if so, I’ve certainly never heard of it. And whither jelly? Why doesn’t it come in black and white? Should the definition be expanded to include other substances?

As you can see: so many unanswered questions.

Before I set up Deadlyjelly, I regularly – or at least frequently occasionally – personalised and mass-mailed up to 40 emails to friends and family. The administrative overhead was considerable. The coffee consumption was excessive. The arse spread was cheekily encroaching.

Consequently I conceived Deadlyjelly as a means of streamlining my correspondence.

To that purpose, it has failed. Of the relationships that previously existed when I set up Deadlyjelly, the only one that’s improved has been with my computer. As a communication tool, blogging is passive and largely one-way. People are more inclined to respond to an email that’s clogging up their Inbox like a gently steaming turd. I don’t have the bandwidth – either figuratively or literally – to blog and email (which kind of defeats the purpose anyway); and I’ve never embraced the concept of announcing a new blog post, which feels like advertising.

The result is that I’ve lost touch with many of my old friends – and I miss them*.

But that’s not all. Due to its public nature, I don’t blog about what’s really going on in our lives: the family feuds, the scandals, the disease and accidental murders. My blog sucks up a lot of creative energy that should be directed elsewhere. And Deadlyjelly has had little to no impact on arse spread**.

And so Deadlyjelly is going to change. Only in the regularity of posting, although I suppose that’s fairly fundamental. From now on, I will limit my posts to every Sunday, unless our week has been particularly action-packed, or Jed’s feeling photogenic.
* While being amazed and grateful for the new friends Deadlyjelly has introduced over the years.

** Still haven’t resigned myself to the inevitability of arse spread.

Courage in the face of migrating turbot

HEY! How are you? Wow, it’s been a while. How long? No way. You’re looking great, nylon really suits you. Delighted to see you survived the festive season; I was worried about you for a while. HAHAHA!

Sorry I haven’t posted for ages; I had a hangover. But for that and a critical mandolin injury, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to hear I survived the silly season. Husband also made it to the new year, although sometimes you have to pinch him to tell. Our dog is DELIGHTED with himself, and CAN’T BELIEVE it’s 2011 and AW WOW A DEAD POSSUM!

Jed got more presents than the pair of us combined, including Mr Testicle Head:

Her Goatiness claims the chew-toy is supposed to represent a chicken leg. I present the photographic evidence and leave you draw your own conclusions.

It squeaks.

In fact, this year The Outlaws outdid themselves with a range of startlingly inspirational and inspirationally startling gifts. They gave me a mandolin and a plastic snowman on a bicycle bearing two edible lollipops. If there are some sort of hidden meanings there? Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m stumped.

On Christmas Day on The Farm, it is customary to partake of bellinis and eggnog down at the milking shed at 08:00hrs. No, that’s not a typo: I am indeed referring to shortly after dawn.

After I got over my fleeting disappointment that the bellinis were in fact cocktails rather than mini-pancakes, I embraced this tradition with such enthusiasm I was drunk by half past nine. In fact, ‘slaughtered’ would probably not be too strong a word, in addition to being altogether more accurate. Husband had to bring me back to the farmhouse and deposit me in bed; although unfortunately not before his grandmother drove past me rolling around the verge of the road, giggling.

“You know,” said my friend Róisín, “the one thing I’ve always admired about you is you’re a HAPPY drunk.”

Well, I’m glad she’s been able to identify something worthy about me after all these years, although I’d prefer it was my staunch loyalty or courage in the face of migrating turbot. I’ve resolved to work on that this year.

I suppose at any party, there’s always SOMEONE stumbling around trying to strike up conversations with the lino. Ten years ago, that person was GUARANTEED to be me. Also, if there was someone doing a Billy Ray Cyrus impression on a table top using a beer mat and stuffed deer head as props? – yeah, that person was usually me, too.

I haven’t been outstandingly drunk for a looong time, but last Christmas – much to everyone’s surprise including mine – I was That Person once more.

The dog’s blog

I should probably consider renaming Deadlyjelly to Dog’s Blog or even Deadlyjed.

You’d think our dog was the most exciting thing going on in our lives – and I suppose you wouldn’t be far off. Sometimes we sit picking at loose threads on the arm of our sofa and pray for an escaped convict to stumble in the door, or a corpse to turn up at the bottom of the garden. And then Jed turns up with a dead possum and, well, there’s your corpse and the afternoon’s entertainment.

The lesser-spotted fat-headed colossus and his bow wow wave.

 Anyway, this post is a response to Jeep’s complaint about the dearth of photos of aquatic adventures. So the next time I went swimming, I brought my Canon EOS 350D SLR camera.

How is it that just typing the previous sentence brings on an overwhelming sense of ominous foreboding and dread; yet actually DOING IT seemed like a terrific idea?

Hindsight has a lot to answer for.

But I sensed Husband wince as I waded into the sea with the Canon slung around my neck.

I did take the precaution of looping the strap around my neck – just in case. Also, I remembered to remove the lens cap before launching.

At waist-depth I readied the camera and called Jed. Unfortunately, I’d overlooked how to fend off a furiously paddling 40kg curly coat retriever coming hard at me at the rate of approximately 30 knots with only a moisture-sensitive electronic device and a strand of seaweed. 

I decided escape and evasion was the optimal manoeuvre. So I’m wading backwards, giving artistic direction to the dog and snapping away, when I stumbled over a rock.

At considerable danger to myself – or at least considerable discomfort – I managed to hold the camera aloft as I sank into the briny depths. You have to admit I’m courageous.

Also stupid, but let’s not dwell on that.

To get the full effect, you really have to imagine being on an eye-level with this coming at you. I don't know whether I'll ever be stupid enough to try and capture THAT on camera, but on current form there's a fair chance.

 

Jed discovers barking and swimming is not a great idea. We all learned something.

The Towel Game

This one is dedicated to Jed’s groupies (note: signed photos of the canine star can be purchased for a modest sum. NO, he will not send you a lock of his hair – although if you ever visit just try running a hand over the carpet, or alternatively simply check your food especially anything baked).

Every day I take Jed for a walk and despite my best efforts to make a broad detour around mud-holes, Jed seems to either discover or – I don’t know - DIG UP new ones. He always ends up covered in mud, slime and several shades of drool. I get most of it off by using him to trawl the paddling pool out the back of the house.

Before bringing him inside, I rub him down. He particularly loves having his head toweled and sits there grunting obscenely as I scrub his ears.

I’m not sure how the game originated. One day I wrapped the towel around his head and Jed thought staggering around the living room trying to paw it off drunkenly was terrific fun – although probably not as much as Husband and me. And thus – in probably much the same tradition as the creator of Monopoly or Snakes n Ladders conceived of Monopoly and Snakes n Ladders – The Towel Game was born.

The rules are relatively simple. I start with possession of the towel and Jed attempts to confiscate it. He forfeits the game if he hits below the belt, or severs one of my limbs. It’s pretty evenly matched so far.

The only trouble is that whenever I come near him with a towel now, Jed pounces on it and worries it. Makes rubbing him down a challenge.

Engineered with bounce in mind

If there’s one thing Blenheim doesn’t have, it’s cheap, quality tennis balls. Also a Pak N Save, a water park and an indoor skating rink, but that’s a post for another day.

When we lived in Auckland, I used to buy 3-packs of tennis balls for Jed at the $2 shop in Glen Eden, next to Pet Shop Boyz. Generally speaking, the balls operated and, most importantly, proved resilient to Jed’s digestive system.

In Blenheim, we have tried tennis balls from New World, the $2 shop and three different brands from The Warehouse. Unfortunately, all seem to be engineered with bounce in mind rather than withstanding an applied chomping. After about five seconds of Jed’s er, HANDLING, the balls are in several component pieces tenuously hinged together by scrolls of fluff and slobber.

Once in this condition, the balls are of limited use. Well, they won’t roll or bounce, and are often attacked and carried off by eagles.

However, the other day, we found an application for these sadly mangled tennis balls. Because – depending on the state of the ball – if there is but one or two holes, IT SINKS.

Always keen to challenge and test the limits of our dog – i.e. amuse ourselves – we chucked it in a pond to see if Jed would retrieve it.

And we were SO IMPRESSED with our dog’s freediving. He’s slightly too buoyant around the arse to handle depths greater than three feet; when his body is submerged, his hind legs float over his head and he twirls around like an asynchronised swimmer.

On his recent visit MarkJ did what I’ve been threatening to do for WEEKS and took some wonderful pics:-

The release.

 

Dive, dive, dive!

 

Catching the tail end of the action.

 

Full immersion.

 

We were pleased he came up for air every now and then.

 

Husband bravely rescues a foundering ball. He didn't take to the water with the same level of enthusiasm as his dog. Andrew looks like he has a six-pack here; either he's seriously clenching, or MarkJ is VERY talented photographer. Take your pick.

A savage love (hope I’m not stealing a Mills & Boon title)

We’re down on the farm, and Agent of Death and Her Goatiness have a new puppy. Tex is about 8 weeks old and comes from a long pedigree of mutts. He is so small and fluffy and snuggly and outrageously CUTE! I want to pat a hole in his head and pull his little ears off.

I practice a vicious brand of love.

AND there are videos

Jed demonstrates limited interest in kayaking:

Dog vs. Kayak: Jed 0, Kayak 1

Jed gets onboard:

Part I: The crumpet saga

My top* Trademe purchases to date, ranked according to a weighted assessment  are:-

1/ Panasonic bread machine – $60
2/ Breville Cafe Roma espresso machine – $20
3/Leather motorcycle jacket that I’ve never worn, although I’m sure that will change any day now – $10

* Note: ‘Top’ is calculated according to a combination of: value for money, frequency of subsequent use, and/or unbelievably cool. My waffle iron would have made the #3 slot, except the seller still emails me embarassing photographs of herself. The espresso machine would have made the #1 slot, except the woman who sold it to me refuses to email embarassing photographs of herself.

I use the bread machine pretty much daily since acquiring it just over two months ago. There were several false starts: the honey oatmeal bread with the soggy bottom; the cranberry walnut bread where the yeast didn’t activate so much as die a long, slow, painful death; the country seed bread that redecorated the kitchen.

Then our landlords sent me a recipe for their Acclaimed White Bread For Which They Are Renowned Throughout The Sounds. I can’t write too much about it because I get emotional. But oh! The golden, explosively crusty exterior concealing a light, aromatic, most tender of interiors that you just want to snuggle up to and/or roll around in, the whole emitting such a glorious bready smell. I just- it makes me feel so- so-

Sorry! Sorry! But I did warn you.

Then Meep introduced me to Alison Holst’s range of cookery books, specifically ‘The Bread Book‘. Alison Holst has been around for centuries – or certainly as long as Andrew can remember – and is apparently a Kiwi icon, which I presume means she has a purple perm, a thrilling bosom concealed behind a pinny, and says things like, “First catch your weka”. Certainly, the introduction to ‘The Bread Book’ would appear to support this:

However excited you may be about the wonderful things a new machine will do, you may be daunted by the idea of ‘getting the thing going!’

Since my children were 10-12 years old, I have found that the best way to learn about a new machine is to encourage them to read the instructions and use the machine. I then get them to show me what to do, and operate it under their supervision, preferably several times. After this, I am ‘away laughing’, can now read the instruction book and understand it, and can see just how simple the machine is.

I was initially put off by Alison’s inability to either a) read, or b) grapple with the complexity of pressing three buttons. However, I was encouraged by her eager grasp of ‘the lingo’.

Due respect: Alison’s recipes produce outstanding results. Furthermore, whereas I am generally a fan of Antipodean cooking, it often has an unhealthy fixation on fats and dairy produce; yet Alison’s bread recipes favour oil over butter; keep the salt and sugar to a minimum; and substitute wholemeal flour for plain.

Husband and I look significantly more robust and vigorously healthy. Yeah, I’m not sure how many kilos it translates to; I’m afraid to weigh myself. We have enjoyed multigrain bread, wholemeal bread, yoghurt bread, muesli bread, cinnamon raisin bread, hot cross buns, pizza bread and fruity oatmeal bread with toasted almonds.

But then . . . then there were the crumpets.

URGENT REQUEST

In response to an urgent request from MarkJ for a photo of Jed:-

Jed pretending to watch the sun rise (he's actually asleep with his eyes open, a classic move that he has pretty much perfected)

 

Don’t say I’m not good to you.

Canine cunning

On Saturday I planted some bulbs.

Half an hour later, I found that Jed had dug up every single last cotton-picking one of them. He had also gnawed a few. I’m seriously thinking about giving the little bugger away. Do let me know if you can think of any bad homes. 

Most of Jed’s brain is given over to determining the digestible qualities of potential foodsources and figuring out how to get on the sofa without being smacked. However, there must be a portion of his brain – cold, manipulative, devastatingly calculating, chilling in its canine cunning, small perhaps yet brilliant in its powers of deduction and reasoning capacity – that, when he sees me planting bulbs, thinks . . .

“TREASURE!!!”

Carpe diem baby

The Artiste: You don’t find it distracting listening to music while you write?

Me: Yeah well, when I’m in The Groove it’s just background noise. But if I get stuck on a sentence, or a plot point or an asterisk, I tune in. It’s less disruptive than going for a cup of coffee or, you know . . . a swim or something.

The Artiste: Yeah, yeah! What sort of stuff do you listen to?

Me: Heavy metal, mainly: Metallica, Poison- I recently discovered Rammstein- WAAH! WOAH-

The Artiste: Do you find what you listen to influences your writing?

Me: Oh yes, definitely.

The Artiste: Interesting. What sort of books do you write?

Me: Er.

Me: Romance. Mainly.

Insert condiment pun here

Salt is the most preposterous movie I’ve ever seen – and yes, I have watched both Lara Croft films and several of Steven Seagal’s.

No mystery in the answer to the tagline: Angelina Jolie

The entire plot is based on a plausible way of getting Angelina Jolie into a Russian costume with fur trim. Plausible, in this case, being a bendy, stretchy, logical-only-in-the-action-spy-thriller-adventure-context sort of concept.

Basically – and at first glance you wouldn’t think the word could be applied to this film but don’t be fooled – some Russian dude approaches the CIA offering information in exchange for amnesty. When CIA Agent Evelyn Salt interviews him, he announces that she is one of an undisclosed number of deadly Russian ‘sleeper agents’ sent to bring down the American government.

Is Angelina a Russian agent? Or a double-agent or even a triple- or quadruple-agent? Does anyone really care after Ange removes her knickers in the second scene?

Cue ever increasing ridiculousness.

Unfortunately, it’s perfectly clear which side Ange is on if you not-so-carefully observe whom she annihilates with a smouldering pout, and whom she merely kneecaps and smacks about playfully.

Similarly, Ange’s best friend is played by Liev Schreiber, so we all know where THAT’S going. Oh, come ON, it’s hardly a spoiler! Here’s a little movie quiz:-

GOODIE OR BADDIE:

Christopher Lee
Tom Cruise
Will Smith
Jason Isaacs
Alan Rickman
Arnold Schwarzeneger
Liev Schreiber-

EXACTLY. Liev Schreiber’s one of those actors who, as soon as he walks into frame, completely kills dramatic tension. Because you just KNOW.

The movie opens with Ange being tortured in North Korea, although thankfully she’s wearing matching underwear. She rolls around the floor wailing in her matching underwear, but later we’re expected to believe the same woman goes all ninja turtle on CIA and ex-KGB ass when she can’t garotte a couple of scrawny North Koreans with her bra? 

My credulity never fully recovered from that leap. I mean, I could understand if she didn’t want to be left with a pair of unmatched knickers, but that plot point was never clarified.

Then we’re introduced to the husband, an arachnologist, who was instrumental in getting her sprung. He’s obviously besotted with Ange because he gazes at her lovingly even though she has a fat eyelid.

In a cosy domestic scene, it is implied that Ange is smitten with him too, because she doesn’t mind him putting spiders on the breakfast table. I mean, isn’t that every guy’s dream? She also peeps coyly at him from behind a door, which is completely out of character and pure embarrassing. Her devotion would have been better established by treating him to hot, spider sex across the table.

I struggled to see the attraction. I mean, in one of a series of flashbacks that serves little purpose, he chats up Ange with the line, “I hunt spiders”. I don’t know about you, but that one never did it for me. But also, August Diehl is no Brad Pitt:

That said, he looks much nicer and probably doesn’t wear mirrored shades to check out his own reflection. 

Anyway. Ange goes on the run from the CIA to save her dog and prove her innocence while pretending to assassinate the Russian vice-president and trying to find her husband in her spare time.

When she builds a rocket launcher out of a table leg, bottle of bleach and a fire extinguisher, Ange breaks a nail and spends a couple of seconds flicking her hand around going, “Damn, I broke a nail.” And she spends less time constructing her weapon than pouting at the door in case some cute guy she wants to have hot spider sex with forces his way in.

At least she wouldn’t have had to take off her knickers, because she applied them to cover a security camera earlier. Which neatly ties up one loose end.

Then Ange returns to her apartment and has to crawl out the window in her pencil skirt when the CIA bursts in. There’s a wonderful shot from above of Angie clinging to some grouting five stories off the ground. After a lot of grunting and evading of an up-the-skirt shot, she makes it to street level, where she’s spotted STROLLING ALONG THE SIDEWALK by the guys she’s trying to evade . I mean, don’t you think she’d have concealed herself in a dumpster for five minutes? JEEZ.

There follows a high voltage chase sequence. Before filming, Ange should have watched The Bourne Trilogy, which would have taught her that, when you momentarily shake your pursuers, NEVER RUN to evade capture. Walk casually yet briskly, admiring the birds and occasionally referring to a map while tying your shoelaces if absolutely necessary. It also helps if you’re not wearing a light suit that’s marinated in blood. Also, if you don’t run like a girl.

At one point, Ange takes a course in The Superman School of Disguise by wearing a hat, contact lenses and a pair of false teeth. But even that was preferable to disguising herself as a man, which was frankly deeply disturbing.

Another time, she kills some actor eating into her screen time with a modified yoga-stretch, which was cool. But nothing could redeem Ange after she entrusts her pet to a neighbour’s kid to look after; yet has no qualms about abandoning the dog before the credits roll. Ultimately, I don’t care if she was a goodie or baddie: what a bitch.

Someone – and I’m not mentioning names – but I’m LOOKING AT YOU MarkJ, yeah YOU, that’s the prickle you feel at the back of your neck, although you also need to turn down the gas heater – raised the question whether Jennifer Aniston would be able to ‘pull off’ this role.

The answer is no.

However, I’d like to see Angelina ‘pull off’ a role where she’s required to show any motivation other than looking hot, nasty, and about three days overdue a bath.

2/5

Some obscure title totally unrelated to subject matter

When I was last in Oamaru, Her Goatiness asked me to take some pictures of beech trees.

Agreeing with one’s mother-in-law is generally accepted to be a wise, self-preserving course of action. Naturally, I agreed. I’m not sure why she asked me to photograph beech trees as opposed to, say, oak trees, or pine trees, or dolphins. It may be related to her recently painting a portion of her kitchen purple. Otherwise, it’s anyone’s guess.

Today it was just me and Jed out walking and – crucially – I had my camera with me and – even more crucially – no Husband, who tends to hover when I have my camera out, going: “Are you finished yet? How about now? How about now?”

In a perfect confluence of circumstance, the logging operation impeding the access track up to the beech forest was abandoned. Ever since I returned from my travels, the pine forest has been a wasteland: great scars scored in the earth, splintered trees tossed aside, diggers and generators discarded like giant toys in a quagmire of mud. Today, the ground steamed in the mid-day sun as I squelched up the track, following the ruts left by caterpillar wheels.

When Her Goatiness first asked, I personally envisioned maybe four or five artfully spaced trunks in perfect vertical formation. Unfortunately, it appears the local variety of beech tree don’t grow straight, but kind of sideways and/or curly. There were also a high proportion of dead trees. While I’m on a roll with the excuses, the light was a bit watery.

Actually, that could have been rain.

Really, the most concrete thing that came out of the exercise was the realisation that I had absolutely no idea what Her Goatiness wanted.

I took some snaps anyway, experimenting with composition and camera settings. Back home on the ‘puter, I marginally increased saturation, and cranked up the saturation to 70% and these are the results:-

Beech tree

 

Beech tree

 

Beech tree

I win

Andrew: Coldplay.

Me: Er.

Me: Cream.

Andrew: Crowded House.

Me: C- C- Chaka Khan.

Andrew: Counting Crows.

Me: <sound of brain racking>

Andrew: Time’s up!

Me: Aw, give me another minute-

Andrew: No.

Me: All right, all RIGHT! 2-1 to you. Ok, D. Duran Duran-

Andrew: I’m bored. I win.

Me: What? You don’t just- you can’t make up the rules like that! The game’s not over!

Andrew: When’s it over?

Me: When we get to ‘Z’ or, alternatively, I win.

Andrew: Best of three, I win!

Me: You do NOT! If you refuse to come up with an artist beginning with ‘D’ you- you FORFEIT! You’re DISQUALIFIED!

Andrew: Let’s play something more interesting. How about . . . car models that start with ‘A’. I’ll go first: Alpha Romeo.

Me: I’m not- that’s crap-

Andrew: Do you give up?

Me: NO, because I refuse to engage in a game which is so weighted in your favour, not to mention TEDIOUS. I want to play a game where I have at least a fair or even unfair chance of winning. I will absolutely not be drawn into this.

Me: ASTON MARTIN!

Andrew: Heh heh heh.

Husband, I would invite you to please note:-

On any reputable game show, you would not have been allowed Harry McConnick Junior, and the point would have been rightly awarded to me for supplying the correct name.

American rapper and actor Ice-T is a renowned and entirely valid artist.

Grease lizard Julio Iglesias is spelled with a ‘J’, NOT a ‘H’ OR a ‘K’.

The artist not known as Laura Jones.

Did you mean THIS Leo Speedwagon?

The High Llamas are often affectionately referred to as ‘The Llamas’ by their loyal fans, of which I AM ONE despite being unable to name any of their singles.

The renowned and entirely valid artist, LL Cool J.

Also, POPULAR British indie pop band from the 80s, Lloyd Cole and the Commotions.

The Canadian singer, composer, harpist, accordionist and pianist, Loreena McKennitt.

Scottish singer-songwriter, actress and television personality Lulu.

I WIN.