Fight Club

If you've seen Fight Club, you might remember the mention of IKEA. IKEA, with its promise of Scandinavian chic with one twist of an allan key. If only it were that simple.

1. I bought Holden a new wardrobe and bookshelf from IKEA.
2. If we owned this house I'd have put in built-ins (no, wait, I'd knock down the house first).
2. The boxes were delivered on Saturday morning by the two surliest delivery boys I've ever met.
3. I assembled one side of the wardrobe without mishap, then opened the second box.
4. One major piece in the second box was broken.
5. I drove to IKEA and got stuck in traffic.
6. It took 2.5 hours all up to replace the broken bit.
7. It took me most of the weekend to install one stupid wardrobe and one stupid bookshelf.

IKEA furniture may be cheap, but only if you don't factor in your own time and aggravation. On the other hand, the actual design, as in the way things fit together, is pretty cool - like the little dooverlacky that you use to put in nails so that they're in the right spot AND you don't bash your thumb with the hammer. Genius.

But not really worth it. While I was waiting for the unbroken bit, having exhausted the joys of browsing the Swedish food shop, I did some people-watching. There was a woman, probably in her mid to late 50s, who looked like she'd just taken the bandages off a very expensive facelift. She reminded me of Patsy in Ab Fab, but just a bit too shiny to be real. And as I looked at her, I thought 'You know what, if I had the money that you just spent on plastic surgery, I'd buy REAL bespoke furniture, not rubbish from IKEA'. Priorities, I guess.

American Werewolf in London

This post is a tribute to the fevered imagination of my favourite 7-year-old. On Friday afternoon, Phoebe had her friend Finlay over, and all seemed to be going well. Then, suddenly, there was shouting. I could hear Holden trying to adjudicate, but it was clear that I was going to have to leave Command Central (the studio) and intervene.

I got down to the fracas and asked what was going on. 'Finlay doesn't believe I'm a werewolf', said Phoebe, beside herself with indignation.

'Wellllll', I said, trying to find the right approach. 'It's probably hard for people to believe that you're a werewolf ...'

'But I AM!!!! When it's full moon I go into the forest and I become a werewolf!' And she burst into tears of outrage at the fact that we were slightly sceptical. I didn't have the heart to point out that we don't have a forest nearby.

Fun with Dick and Jane

Because this is MY blog, I can be as nasty as I like. My blog is the dullest blog in the world, as we know. Winner of the dullest baby names in the world is jointly awarded to my brother-in-law and his wife. Not content with naming their two daughters according to whatever name was Top of the Pops in the year of their birth, they've now produced a son (perhaps they will stop breeding now or at least have a five-minute break?) who they are calling Thomas. Obviously it's not a BAD name, it's just breathtakingly BORING.

Yes, yes, we get to name our own children, they have a perfect right, blah blah blah. But they were talking about some more interesting names, like Rory or Felix ... clearly that was all just a decoy.

Mind you, it's obviously genetic. After all, my mother-in-law named my husband ANDREW. You don't get duller than that. (This is a test to see if spouse is reading the blog.)

Home Alone

It's official. I am the World's Worst Mother. Today being Thursday, we all fell out the door at 7.30am, ready for the dash to before school care, offices and school. As I signed Phoebe into before school care, feeling quite cheerful that everyone was awake, washed, ironed, fed and with packed lunches, I said to one of the girls 'Her grandmother will pick her up this afternoon'. What I meant was 'Her grandmother will be picking her up from after school care'. What she thought I meant was 'She won't be coming to after school care because her grandmother will be picking her up from school'. So at 3.15pm, while I was in a meeting, I got a call from Phoebe's teacher to say 'um, is her grandmother picking her up?'. The mortification. Poor Phoebe will think I'm evil; poor Phoebe's teacher probably spent forever in the school playground thinking 'what the hell are these people doing?'; I get to spend the rest of my day feeling like a Bad Working Mother. Sigh.

Lars and the Real Girl

Last night, after one of the most hideous work days I've had in a long time, Andrew and I WENT TO THE MOVIES. Wow. This is a huge treat for us, as it only happens about twice a year. We do watch lots of films, but normally on DVD, on the couch, with Phoebe shouting from her room 'Why can't I watch it?'.

We saw Lars and the Real Girl, which was wonderful. It was funny and kind, without sliding into American schmaltz. I loved it.

Being in a dark cinema for two hours is a great way to stop thinking about things that are annoying you. I still have too much work and not enough time, but the sun is shining, it's Friday, ... actually, now it's Saturday. I ran out of time.

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.