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November! The Big Highlights…
Birthday! Hi all, I hope your November was spectacular! Mine kicked off with another birthday, which tends to unfortunately happen once a year but feels like at least a biannual occurrence. I turned thirty-three. There are two ways of dealing with a birthday, I’ve decided. One is to let it slip quietly under the radar and pray nobody notices or, god forbid, asks you what you’re doing for it. The other is to embrace it wholeheartedly, organise a massive celebration, and get shitty if anyone forgets. I tend to opt for the latter, with my birthdays lasting an average duration of two weeks, by the end of which everyone close to me is well and truly over the said ‘celebration’. It’s not just the big numbers that warrant a fortnightly celebration for me, any number will do. As the culmination of this year’s celebration I dragged my brothers, their partners and a few friends down to Napier for a long weekend of wining, dining and, well, general child-free debauchery. It was fabulous. The actual ‘birthday’ (not to be confused with other days of celebration) consisted of a very boozy lunch at Te Awa vineyard (gorgeous spot, fabulous food and wine) followed by a jaunt across the road to see Evermore playing at Trinity Hill, followed by several hours at the ‘Chook & Philly’ (or Chicken Filet, depending on who you talked to), a classic country farmer’s pub and local haunt of my friend Doug. Followed by a taxi to Doug’s farm in the wee hours, where much juvenile shenanigans ensued, including me being pushed down an embankment by my brother in law (mid pee) and rolling in sheep shit, which the drycleaner was unfortunately unable to remove from my pink Trelise Cooper silk jacket (I appreciate this is not normal farm attire but I really had no idea when we left the apartment 12 hours earlier that I was going to end up squatting on a farm). Followed by a hundred and fifty dollar taxi back to Napier in the wee-er hours. Needless to say it was the most expensive taxi ride I’ve ever had and thank god there were a few of us in it. All in all it was a super birthday, surrounded by people I love, and served the purpose of distracting me from the pain of being lumped with another digit. Two days after my birthday IT happened. I knew it had to, I’d been living on borrowed time. There I was, standing in the bathroom, innocently putting on my makeup, and all of a sudden I caught glimpse of something that looked like a blonde hair sprouting from my crown. Only, on closer inspection, it wasn’t a blonde hair, it was a grey hair. Two of them. (The morning sun streaming through the window had given the illusion they were blonde). The shock, then realisation, was palpable. The frightening reality that I am no longer a delinquent (though I may act like it), nor am I even a young adult. I am in fact Middle Aged, with grey hairs. I responded how any normal woman would – I cancelled a meeting I had scheduled, went straight to the hairdresser and got my hair dyed. I’m not sure if it’s an old wives tale about plucking out a grey hair and two growing in its place, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Two was bad enough, four would have sent me skedaddling well off the edge. I made the hairdresser perform a CSI on my head, to see if there were any others I couldn’t see. She said there weren’t, either that or she was just being kind and wary of my fragile state. Why on earth is it that grey hairs, for most people, seem to coincide with their birthday? Like you weren’t painfully aware you’d just got a whole lot older and needed it pointed out to you in layman’s terms? Look, see! You really are getting on! I told you so! Post-birthday my little boy Jasper and I had a lovely week at Kaloundra on the Sunshine Coast, staying with my friends Clare and Rob and their gorgeous little boy Harris. A much-needed break after a very intense few months of work. It was soooo relaxing, aside from the fact the sun rises at 4am and as Jasper is SO in tune not just with the sun, but with the birds also, he was rising at 3:30am i.e. The Middle of The Night. We were on the beach by 6am and by 9am and I honestly felt as though it was three in the afternoon. Such was my mind addled with sleep depravation. On the plus side the holiday seemed reeaally reeaally long. It’s surprising how many other people are on the beach at 6am, loads! All running, and walking, and swimming. You’d have sworn it was midday if you didn’t know any better. They don’t believe in Daylight Saving in Queensland, which is a real shame because by 6pm, when you’d quite like to see what you’re cooking of the barbie, it’s pitch black and you can’t see a fecking thing. By the end of the week (when we were about to come home) Jasper had adjusted his wee body clock and was back to the 5.30am rise. I honestly hate to think what would happen if I took him further abroad, say the UK, it doesn’t bear thinking about. In defiance to my grey hairs I’ve started playing social soccer in the Auckland Domain on Thursday evenings – I used to play when I was a child, so I guess you can say I’m reverting to my childhood. Stitch and beetroot-face aside, it’s a gorgeous place to be on a summers eve. It’s also a fantastic way to find out if you are remotely as fit as you think you are. Turns out I’m not. Though I haven’t been too shabby on the goal scoring front…it helps if you permanently plant yourself in the goal for the entire game, it looks as though you’ve conveniently put yourself in the right place, rather than suffering from an immobilizing and puke-rendering stitch and being unable to run, let alone move, for the love of god. By the end of the game I have generally formed a lasting friendship with the opposition’s goalie, such is our quality time. I even had my own on field near fisty-cuff last week. A member of the opposition was intent on sitting on my lap for the entire game, even when the ball was several suburbs away. Anyway, I’d finally had enough and proceeded to point out to her that it was a social game, not the World Cup, and gave her a little back-off hip shove which, admittedly, sent her shoving a little further than intended. Though no blows were landed, or even thrown, there were several F you’s, and general Bad Girls moments which, I have to admit, I rather enjoyed. Anyway, we shook hands at the end like good sports and neither of us pulled a flick knife, so it was all good. In an attempt to be more organised, to take the bull by the horns, to make sleeping dogs wake up, I did my Christmas shopping last weekend. The only problem is that I was hung-over. Very hung-over. And everyone knows you should never do your Christmas shopping when you’re hung-over. It’s a disaster, you end up buying your mother a pair of board shorts and your brother a pendant and no one is ever happy (least of all yourself because you’ve got to go and swap the sodding presents). And not only did I buy crap presents for everyone, I also bought several for myself. Very much a case of one for you, two for me. There was no stopping me, my credit card was seemingly invincible, which unfortunately it’s not, at all. It wasn’t until the next morning, when I made a closer inspection of my purchases that the full extent hit home – latex leggings may look good on Posh Spice, but they’re a completely different story on a grey-haired middle-aged mother from Western Springs. I looked so hideous they should have made an Ad out of me – It’s not the drinking. It’s how we’re drinking. The sight would have definitely stopped a few bingers in their tracks. Anyway, I hope your Xmas shopping has faired better and remember, do it sober, everyone will be happier. Wishing you all a fabulous December.
Lots of love,
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