Three Colours: Blue

1. The colour of the sky. It's bloody freezing for Sydney, but the sky is blue so I don't really mind.

2. The colour of Holden's winter school shirt. That's right, you don't only get the joy of nose-bleedingly expensive uniforms ONCE a year, you get it twice. He wasn't best pleased about being photographed.




3. The colour of this paisley vinyl. It belonged on my beloved 1960s chairs (that went with a long-gone formica topped table), which nobody liked except me. They have finally been usurped by some bog standard Thonet bentwoods. I took them to The Bower in the hope that someone else will love them.

Rabbit-Proof Fence

Today is the first sunny day we've had for the whole of the school holidays (two weeks). For Sydney, that's something of a record, and it's made us all rather grumpy and unmotivated. Or maybe not all of us, maybe just me.

Anyway, today it is gorgeous. Laundry is swaying on the line, Holden is off playing soccer, and Phoebe and I joined forces and built a special anti-rabbit device so that the mutually exclusive concepts of 'free range pet rabbits' and 'herb garden' can co-exist. We sawed, drilled and hammered with gay abandon. Right now I'm looking down from the studio, gauging the efficacy of our contraption. So far, so good. Cottontail looks annoyed, and Flopsy looks puzzled. The herbs look smug.

Cottontail has now taken solace in my murraya bush, so excuse me while I go and hunt down our dinner. There is a very tasty looking rabbit ragu recipe in this month's delicious.

Gallipoli

On Thursday, Andrew said, as he does every April 24, 'I might take the kids to the dawn service tomorrow'. Five minutes later he said 'Actually, I don't think I will' (also as he does every April 24).

So we spent Anzac Day in an unpatriotic fashion, as usual. Not even a game of two-up.

I had half a box of lemons sitting around the kitchen making me feel guilty, so I made a jar of preserved lemons, some lemon curd (which Andrew loyally declared to be the best lemon curd in the world), lemon cordial and lemon juice ice cubes (for that time of year when lemons are not in season but I MUST have lemon juice).

For dinner we were planning to try a clam, fish and chorizo soup recipe but the fish shop was patriotically closed, so instead we had to have our old standby, smoked fish chowder. It was delicious.

Schindler's Ark

Yeah, for those of you who didn't know, there was a book before the movie (Schindler's List), and it was written by Thomas Kenneally, who also happened to be the guest speaker at Andrew's graduation ceremony this morning. Andrew is now a Master of Politics and Public Policy (which is probably a good thing since he is about to go and work for a Minister).


It was a rather nice graduation - I do love the pomp and ceremony of the gowns and mortar boards (and I want one of the squishy velvet caps the PhDs get to wear, they are so insanely 16th century). All the speakers were very good, and now I want to go back to uni and be hideously intellectual (but I won't).

As we strolled through the grounds of Macquarie Uni, I remarked that it was in 1989 that I began my BA there. So imagine my surprise when one of the graduands was the boyfriend with whom I started that particular degree. NINETEEN years later, he finally got his BA (Hons). Glad I didn't marry that one. I confess that as he walked by me in the recessional, I whispered loudly 'Took you long enough'. He did laugh. Ish.

PS. Yes, I know I could have called this post The Graduate. It just seemed a bit too easy.

The Towering Inferno

Or other reasons to take the fire stairs.

Most lifts are equipped with mirrors; I assume this is to stop claustrophobic people-haters like myself from freaking out when they’re trapped in a tiny, nasty moving box with other people.

I always thought the rules were: 1. If you are alone in the lift, you may check your appearance – you may even reapply lipstick or admire yourself lovingly if you feel compelled to do so. 2. If you are not alone in the lift, you can take a surreptitious look as you get in to make sure you don’t have black ink on your nose, and from then on you stare fixedly forward at the doors.

Recently, however, I have had the unsettling experience of sharing lifts with individuals who have stepped in, ignored fellow traveller (correct lift etiquette, I prefer to be ignored in a lift) and then spent the whole ride gazing at themselves from a distance of two inches, playing with coiffure and (I am NOT joking) removing stray nasal hair.

Wild at Heart

After a restless night in our house, in which Andrew took himself off to casualty at 1am because he felt like he was bleeding to death post-wisdom tooth removal, I got up to find a possum on the top shelf of the kitchen, pretending not to be there (hard when you're hiding behind a clear glass jug).

Picture me, standing on the kitchen benchtop in my work garb (heels and all), valiantly grabbing possum with a towel.

Possum rescue complete, I headed into the city for another thrilling day at work.

Monty Python's Life of Brian

As part of Andrew's dedication to the catholic (note small 'c') education of our children, he regularly shows them movies that he believes are part of their cultural heritage. Thus on Friday night they watched Dead Poets Society, and on Saturday night they watched Life of Brian. Phoebe has been stomping around the house saying 'He's not the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy'.

It was that sort of weekend. Lots of children, lots of DVDs and lots of food (I love a rainy Sunday). On Saturday night we rustled up a roast loin of pickled pork stuffed with prunes and pistachios, from Damien Pignolet's beautiful book French, accompanied by spuds sauteed in duck fat and a large and garlicky salad. Unfortunately I went serious trash for the dessert and made a banofee pie. I think I put on five kilos overnight.

So then yesterday we had to have yum cha at the Fish Markets for lunch. More food. Sigh.

The kids are now on school holidays, so I have been dashing between house and studio, trying to keep Miss Muppet amused at the same time as getting some work done. She made and iced biscuits this morning.


Oh, I knew I did something else fun on the weekend - on Sunday morning my buddy Phil and I went shopping. He got the smoke-coloured Philippe Starck Louis Ghost chair pictured, and I got a serious case of 'Wow, if I was rich, I'd buy this, this, this and this'.

Cars

I don't really care very much about cars. I would quite like a 1973 Mercedes 350 SL convertible, like the one pictured, but cream, with red or tan leather interior. I am also quite aware that I will probably never have this car and if I did I'd be the female equivalent of the fat balding middle-aged man driving a Ferrari.

The only time I suffer from deep car status anxiety is when dropping Holden off to school (so, a few times a week). Our poor, beaten up but brave little RAV4 looks very, very sad next to all the giant BMWs, Mercs, Porsches, Volvos and Jags. I'm trying to think of it as a reverse status symbol - 'we're so cool (NOT POOR) that we don't care what we drive'.

The Stepford Wives

Because I like to do 'craft' things like knitting, sewing (ok, so that's a love/hate relationship) and anything that involves making a tremendous mess on my dining table, I frequent a fair number of crafty blogs. It seems to me that these are divided into a) radical GRRRLL-type blogs, which I'm really a bit old and staid for (I don't need or want a wristband with a skull embroidered on it); and b) the Stepford Wives.

These blogs are written, sometimes delightfully, by women who make beautiful things, some of whom have quite elegant taste. So far so good. But I realised recently that I was starting to feel a bit nauseated, and I have worked out the problem.

1. They all have small FEMALE children called things like Milly Molly Mandy (or Lily). Yes, my daughter is called Phoebe, but at least it's hard to spell.
2. They spend lots of quality, happy, smiley time with Milly Molly Mandy, in which they never wonder why the paint had to be spilled or why children only want to knit when you're just finishing something.
2. They all have husbands to whom they refer coyly as 'Big X', who make no appearance whatsoever except an occasional manful building of shelves in blogger's craft room (build your own bloody shelves, woman).
3. There is never a moment of disharmony, except for when they go off for a blog sabbatical. I have to assume that this is when they scream at their kids, fight with their husbands and drink too much wine. After a brief foray into the real world of life with men and small children, they return for another season of Cath-Kidston-themed fantasy.

Today, Milly Molly Mandy is squeezing lemons for homemade lemonade; earlier we went up to our local farmers' markets and bought a daisy plant and some rhubarb to make crumble tonight. Isn't that lovely?

You've Got Mail

It worked! My ode to the postal gods yesterday resulted in a cheery yellow UPS sticker on the door when I got home. And this morning they arrived, complete in a pretty pink box ... the shoes!!!

Even more astonishing, they fit, are not uncomfortable, and spouse thinks they are very nice too (not that we care that much what spouse thinks about shoes). As they have very soft leather soles, I am going to do the right thing and have rubber soles put on them before I wear them.

What a shame I have nowhere to wear them over the weekend. I'm almost looking forward to going into the city on Tuesday.

The Postman Always Rings Twice

I do like email, but I miss letters. I was a prolific letter-writer in my teens (work avoidance training starts young). I remember waiting for the sound of the postman, on his little scooter, driving the dog insane; hoping for a letter from the UK, Canada, Australia, anywhere really. And quite often there was one, given that I had about 15 friends overseas who I wrote to regularly. I used to write a lot of aerogrammes (remember them?) because they were cheaper to post, so I had to make my writing as small as possible. There's an endless amount to say about things when you're a teenager.

Now it's just emails, so instead of pages and pages, you get a few lines. More often, admittedly, but still not as satisfying.

But there is an upside. Shopping online means that you can have the delicious wait for a parcel or large padded envelope, never quite knowing when it might turn up. It's all about anticipation. Right now I'm waiting for, in no particular order, a book, two magazines and a pair of shoes. In amongst the bills, offers of more credit cards, and requests for money, that is.

The Devil Wears Prada

I don't.

I did buy a Veronika Maine dress a month or so ago (the first one in the Winter 2008 campaign), thinking it could form a useful part of my winter work wardrobe. This morning I put it on for the first time, and Andrew's comment was 'it looks homemade'. It's hard when the insults start before 7am. Holden tried to make it up to me by saying he liked it because it's 'plain'. Phoebe didn't say anything, which is the worst possible sign.

I'm wearing it anyway. Maybe it needs a belt to highlight my non-waist.

I think I'll go back to my default mode of not thinking about clothes at all.