Husband left me on Friday.

Sorry to be so megalodramatic. It’s just a three week business trip to Dubai, but I am surprised how aimless I feel. I got a bit soggy at the airport. If the floor hadn’t been dirty, I would have thrown my arms about Andrew’s legs and begged him to stay.

If this all sounds pathetically codependent - hey, I’m not about to argue. In my defence, Andrew and I have lived and worked together every day for the last six months. He comes grocery shopping with me and entices me into Mitre 10. Joint decisions include whether to put on another jumper. We schedule summit meetings on what to cook for dinner. So is it surprising that my universe features a great, big, silent Andrew-shaped hole? Or that I’m a bit chilly?

I haven’t yet resorted to sniffing his clothes, but I have a fleece top on emergency standby. It harbours three weeks of Andrew’s skin cells.

(On second thought I might put that in the wash.)

The only way I can fully express myself is via the medium of dance, which is what I did at Fairy Falls yesterday. I think this covers how I feel about my husband, whilst also conveying my longing, anguish and despair:-

I keep an eye on my blog stats because it’s still a novelty. The majority of visitors are friends and family. However, some people visit Deadlyjelly having been referred from other sites – mainly links from Bookshed members’ sites and MarkJ’s blog. And some people stumble mistakenly upon Deadlyjelly while looking for the bathroom or quality porn – or possibly both - as a result of Internet searches.

Here, for those of you who are interested, are some of the search terms that apparently throw up Deadlyjelly:-

disturbing images (a daily search term; I can only imagine my photos are something of a let-down)

what is right hand rule and give way in new Zealand (nice to think Deadlyjelly fulfils a public service)

liv tyler (since yesterday)

 jellyfish procreation

irina spalko arse

sweaty man

demon lord

pointy bra

scartoid

nutmeg in dubai spinneys

tic infestation (my heart goes out to this poor soul)

leather codpiece (but not this one)

קיווי עץ (what the frig?)

christopher howard rubbish

rodeo laundry advertising (anyone know what a rodeo laundry is?)

andrew chute (sounds like fun)

best advertising in New Zealand (another disappointment)

dum dum dum doobie

doobie dumb dumb song

doobie do dum dum (why don’t they just search ‘Frank Sinatra’?)

what’s the name of the song it goes dum (FRANK SINATRA!)

sixties music about suicide

cutting holes in stereo cabinet

(A quite alarming number of people seeking information on) the seekers

I know you’ve all been waiting for a considered, measured, detailed analysis of The Incredible Hulk. Look, don’t expect too much. It didn’t pack the emotional resonance of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly – but on the upside it featured way more violence, exploding clothes and mutating humans. It was also more environmentally friendly.

The Hulk has always been one of my favourite superantiheroes, even back in the seventies with his tragically ill-advised hairstyle. Who hasn’t faced a sneering nemesis and wanted to pulverize them with a Ford Focus? And let’s face it, we’ve all wanted to be green at some point.

I wasn’t interested in the previous incarnation of Hulk, largely because Eric Bana’s head is so disturbingly small. But The Incredible Hulk 2008 – what a cast. I’m a major fan of Edward Norton, Tim Roth and John Hurt. Or is it William Hurt? Doesn’t matter, I like them both.

And then there’s Liv. *sigh!* She’s right up there on my top 10 lesbian list. If Liv were to turn up and say, “Niamh, I want you. Kiss me. Kiss me now,” while casting meaningful looks at a bottle of massage oil, holy crap I would be all over the woman. Heck, if she were to walk in the door and say, “Anyone got nail clippers?” I would be all over the woman. Naturally, I would be torn about it, because I am madly in love with my husband, and not a lesbian generally, and also it wouldn’t last because she doesn’t have much of a sense of humour, and I expect Andrew would win me back pretty sharpish.

There’s not much I can tell you about the movie. I mean, here is the plot deconstruction: Hulk evades armed forces while searching for a cure.

There were some amazing aerial shots of Rio de Janeiro.

The movie addressed a burning question, an issue that has occupied me in the years since the TV show: how come The Hulk never bursts out of his trousers? According to the film, Bruce Banner simply buys trousers with elasticated waists, in size 22+. I find it laudable that a man who regularly transmutes into a monster that radically renovates public property is so concerned about preserving his modesty.

However, the film raised more questions than it addressed. For example, how come size 22 trousers don’t fall down around Bruce Banner’s ankles? (At least there are a number of sensible and entirely plausible answers to that question, not least a safety pin.) Where do The Abomination’s trousers go? What casting agent extraordinaire thought Liv Tyler would make an ideal scientist? Why can’t Betty Ross attract better-looking boyfriends? (I wouldn’t be calling Edward Norton a weed to his face – because there is a risk he’d nibble my ankles off – but I am definitely calling him a weed behind his back. And Betty’s boyfriend before Bruce Banner turns up is not much better.) What the hell did the antidote actually do - apart from not much? Does your heart rate really rise that much during sex, or just with Liv?

I admit I’ve probably been thinking about it way too much

At The Hangar the other night, a TV show featured stunt skiiers slaloming down cliffs, outrunning avalanches and dodging boulders.

Me: If I skiied, I’d be like that. Except I’d probably intersperse the skiing with random cartwheels.

Andrew: Right.

Me: But I’m totally like that on a mountain bike.

Andrew: <Snigger>

Me: Did you just snigger?!

Andrew: GOD no, sweetie. You’re Out There on a bicycle. Extreme. On the edge. Pushing it to the max.

Me: Yes! Exactly.

Grimly determined to tour as much of New Zealand as their five-day visit and the driving rain would allow, Fitz and Belle spearheaded an overnight trip to the Bay of Islands. Like us, they thought it was a half-hour drive. After all, New Zealand isn’t that big.

Although bigger than you might think. In fact you might call it: deceptively large.

Therefore, it qualified more as a Road Trip than a mini-break. There were mad japes, comical misunderstandings, barfing (me, mainly; tamarillos fruit of Satan), and smutty livestock-based jokes.

Although it met most of the criteria, a serious Road Trip would have involved a handbrake mishap - perhaps the car rolling over a cliff into a lake - or being stolen or pumped full of strawberry jelly via a hose through a rear window. None of these things happened. Also, no intimate animal encounters. Despite his best efforts, Andrew didn’t drive into a road sign or combine harvester. Nobody was pushed into a swimming pool; ditto liaisons with gorgeous, mysterious strangers. Well, just the one.

Maybe next time.

Russell seafront at dusk. This is when it all begins to happen. Not sure what ‘it’ is

Sunset

Andrew gets historical

Russell harbour in the morning

Fence posts and blue sky

Fitz plotting to steal my sunglasses, and Belle enjoying the sun for a change

Off to the Bay of Plenty - or it could be the Bay of Islands. I always get confused between the two. One has lots of stuff and the other has islands, I presume. I don’t really know because I’m not sure I’ve visited either place. If there are plenty of islands, I’ll be eternally confused - although that might be the case either which way

The scene: early afternoon at Bethell’s Beach. Stately clouds roam the sky. Seagulls wheel overhead. A fine mist drifts inland from the exploding waves. Clotted volcanic sand huddles close, freshly black with rain. Swatches of surf-froth shiver in the gusting wind.

Fitz crouches to photograph the froth. He ponders the exigency of flash, searches for the best angle, manually focusses the lens, adjusts the settings, takes numerous test shots.

Meanwhile Andrew gallops across the beach kicking up froth, going: “Hee hee hee!”

Brr it’s COLD!

AND WINDY

Andrew pulls faces from behind a camera. You’ve got to wonder what’s the point?

Smile or wind-frisked grimace? Hard to tell

Belle takes a moment

Fitz and Belle arrived yesterday for a five day holiday to see a bit of the country. Unfortunately, little of the country has been visible through the mist, fog, cloud and swirling rain.

About the only sensible response was to drink plenty of alcohol, which we duly did. Andrew is presently lying in bed moaning, and I’m trying to remain optimistic that Fitz and Belle are still alive. The only noises I can hear are multiple plops and small drowning mammals. And the occasional chilling moan.

We will probably aim for the same effect for the remaining days of Fitz and Belle’s visit - although we will be trying to minimise the moaning

Husband claimed that, due to the time difference, my birthday didn’t start until 11:00am yesterday, but he gave me my presents anyway. He took me shopping on Monday and I chose the new book by Marian Keyes and ‘On Chesil Beach’ by Ian Mcewan. In honour of my great and ancient age, I also picked out a knitting book, some needles and balls of wool. These gifts came with a signed guarantee that Andrew would wear anything I produced. Foolishly, he failed to insert a subclause that they had the requisite number of holes and were within striking distance of two sizes.

If you are looking for a husband, do try and choose one who gets anxious that you don’t have enough presents. In fact, Andrew was so concerned about the scarcity of giftage - despite my protesting that he’d got me more than enough of just what I wanted - he drove into town the day before to bolster the birthday offering with two DVDs, and a bottle holder and mudguards for my bicycle.

After the gift ceremony, the sun came out. Andrew affixed my bottle holder and front mudguard and we went cycling. I’ve never been concerned about the skidmarks administered by the back tyre, but the mud and small twigs splatting onto my glasses was always distracting - especially when trying to negotiate a bank or predatory bush. The new front mudguard effectively abbreviated the mud, and is high enough that trees don’t get stuck in it (that much).

We returned home to find my bridesmaid dress in the post from Róis. Over the last week, she has engaged in some alarmingly un-Róisín-like pre-wedding stress over whether she should get my dress in size 10 or 12. The outlet’s size guide on the Net indicated that size 10 was perfect around the bust and hips, but no matter how much I sucked or how tight I pulled, my waist resolutely refused to conform to 68cm. Róis and I had several emergency phone calls about the issue, and eventually I instructed her to get the size 12 on the grudging hypothesis that it could be taken in if necessary. Róis evidently knew I was conflicted about it, because she got the size 10 - and it fits. Perfectly. Well, it had to on my birthday, didn’t it? Lucky it arrived when it did.

My second family all called and the Outlaws in South Island Skyped and sang me Happy Birthday with party hats on. I was so touched I would have cried except I was laughing too hard.

Later that evening, Andrew and I went for dinner at The Hangar. We cooked our food on stone slabs heated to 400˚ and didn’t singe ourselves once. Then Andrew took me to see The Incredible Hulk (I would like to hastily point out that it was at my request; Andrew is not that romantic on his own initiative). It wasn’t the best movie ever but it was fun.

Turning 36 was pretty cool

I love mornings. Andrew is half-asleep and adorable and defenseless, so I jump all over him and administer lots of cuddles (when he is fully awake, he moves too fast). I don’t have to fight anyone for the shower or bathroom mirror and have a choice towel. I wander downstairs and put on coffee and listen to it gurgle a while. Then I go outside, take a deep sniff, wander down the drive, say hello to the trees, and check the mail. The day has so much POTENTIAL.

I’m not so fond of evenings. All that squandered potential *sigh!* Although it is quite agreeable when they look like this: