IDLE VICE

See you later

2008-04-23T13:11:00.005+12:00

Hello all! I have been terribly slack in writing on my blog - that is because I am writing furiously on my book! For the moment, at least, writing about my characters seems so much more interesting than writing about myself, so shall retire the blog for a wee while.

I shall be back when I have finished the book, or when the realisation that I have written 300 pages of utter crap sets in - which ever comes first.

Shall still be visiting my blog-pals, so do all behave.
Thanks to all my dear, dear readers.
xxxx
Mrs Smith

Snaps

2008-04-11T06:12:00.009+12:00

Yesterday, I was on my way to Mahadeo's Indian food warehouse (a wonderful source of spicy delights - my only reservation in commending it is that last time I did, I was inundated with emails from people in India wanting to know if I wished to buy bulk-lots of saris and pashminas. 'No' to the the first, a big 'hell-no' to the second. Pashminas are for the elderly and the mentally infirm. I am definitely not the former)... My goodness. That sentence is so long I have lost track of where I am. In any case, I took some photos along the way.

I adore this building:

The entire exterior is studded with these wee cameos - the edifice looks like a giant Wedgewood plate. I wish I had thought to get the street number, so I could find out its history. Perhaps the cameos are likenesses of the Queen, and the building thus decorated to celebrate her coronation? Pure speculation, I will endeavor to find out more.

Nothing much to comment on here; I just thought the mobile death-traps looked very pretty lined up liked this:

An oddly augmented street-sign:

I Spy With My Little Eye

2008-04-11T05:21:00.003+12:00

Have you ever heard of a 'Track-Stick' before? I hadn't, and neither had the young wife of a much older and wiser spouse, until she found one hidden in the recesses of her handbag.

The website suggests that these devices are a grand way to keep track of favourite fishing sites, or to see the normal routes of one’s day (snore!); furthermore, "the possibilities are endless and our users are always finding new and interesting uses for the Trackstick." Keeping tabs on a wife’s whereabouts is apparently one of those uses.

Those with clear consciences would have the right to feel indignant upon finding one of these hidden about their person – but those with less spotless scruples (such as the Young Wife) may consider not mentioning their find at all, but instead leaving it with a trusted pal for a few hours while they do their ~~boyfriend~~ errands.

Propositioning your son's friend – somewhat disgusting. Having the son's friend confide this to his girlfriend’s mother (who tells everyone else, and all laugh and laugh at the aged propositioner's expense) – priceless.

Odd

2008-04-09T06:58:00.002+12:00

What beautiful, crisp autumnal mornings are upon us now! I was walking happily, a gay spring in my step, breathing the freshly carbonated traffic fumes, and thinking all was well with the world, when a car drove past at speed.
The passenger bellowed at me.
"You're going the wrong way – K Rd's that way."

For those uninitiated with Auckland's streets, K Rd (as it is casually referred to, Karangahape Road if addressed formally; my foreign readers might like to attempt its pronunciation), is known for little more than its preponderance of night-time prostitutes. Thus, it was clear that, far from being helpful, the bellower was actually being very rude. (One wishes to point out here that my attire - a fetching knee-length trenchcoat, and jeans – didn't merit the comment; the only skin exposed to view were my hands and face, and it's possible I had my hands in my pockets).

It was very odd. I recall another time, when I was a teenaged Miss Smith, when a bus of hooligans drove past, and one shouted out the window, to much laughter from his fellow primates, "Show us where the axe gotcha." The phrase is embedded in my head forever, as I repeated it to myself for some moments, until I fathomed what on earth was meant by it.

Men think women are hard to understand, but really! Shouting vulgar things at strangers who are minding their own business seems singularly odd. Can anyone explain?

Advice

2008-04-02T07:13:00.003+13:00

I heard some interesting advice yesterday. Someone was complaining about a woman in her husband's office; the woman worked under the husband, but it seemed clear she had intentions of wanting to work on top of him as well. And perhaps behind, to the side, on a desk, and whatever else. That's not surprising, or necessarily a problem –these things happen, but the problem was that the husband was flattered by the intention.

Mrs N, much older and wiser, asked, "Does this woman come up in conversation much?"
"All the bloody time!" was the heated reply.
"Good," said Mrs N, "then they haven't slept together yet. Invite her over for dinner."

The suggestion was met with disbelief. Mrs N remained serene.
"She won't be able to resist the invitation – she will want to see what she thinks she's going to get her common little hands on. Be utterly pleasant and charming, but cool. Once your husband sees her in the context of his family and home, he'll see how out of her league he is, and nothing ruins an infatuation like a dose of reality."

The tactic is brilliant, but does require a cool head. Not sure I'd have the guts to do it. My strategy is far more rudimentary – I have told Mr Smith that if he ever strays, I shall set the house on fire.

Country Life

2008-03-31T15:11:00.009+13:00

I'm so bored, and I don’t mean bored in the "Oh, I have nothing to do at the moment," kind of way. I'm bored in the "there’s barely any point doing anything, as it's all the same anyway" dogged ennui kind of way. I fantasize about crashing the car, just for the thrill of it. Terrible, n’cest ce pas? But there you are.

So when in doubt – go shopping. I rang a real estate agent. "I want something nice, out of Auckland," I said, "but not too far away from the civilised world. No more than an hour's drive would be super."
"Have you considered somewhere north?" she asked.
Oh God, I thought. She's about to say Omaha.
"If I wanted to be neighbours with a bunch of middle-aged Aucklanders, I could just stay at home, you fool," I roared.

No, of course I didn't, but she got the general idea, and I had a list of properties to inspect. What sugar-plum visions of a country-life danced through my head! I imagined stamping around lawned vistas in leather boots and tweeds, raising free-range chickens, shooting guns, and making jam. I even put Roxy Music's 'Country Life' album on the stereo to inspire me, but unfortunately, none of the songs had anything to do with tweed, or jam, or indeed, the country in any respect, from what I could tell.

Misleading Title
Anyway, so that is why, on the weekend, I was cursing the decision to wear heeled boots to an 'Open Home.' My god – the countryside is in desperate need of a few excavators and a decent landscaper; I almost broke my ankle on the bumpy terrain but a morbid fear of cow-pats kept me upright. A family of five was also inspecting the grounds – the children gave me some fierce stares of loathing. I have no idea why.

On the way home, I read an article about free-range chickens in 'NZ Lifestyle Block' magazine (the one with Sam Neill on the cover), and the article said vaccinations against salmonella were mandatory (for the chickens, not Sam Neill). Sticking needles into animals isn't quite my sort of thing, and to tell the truth, I don't even like jam, so am rather going off the whole idea, which is a shame, as the wardrobe options would be marvellous.

Just add corgis and stir;
Country-look from Dolce & Gabbana (Fall 2008)

Faux (Pas)

2008-03-25T08:00:00.002+13:00

In the latest Fashion Quarterly, features editor Zoe Walker writes, "... there’s possibly no bigger fashion crime than carrying a fake handbag" (page 59).

However, in her profile on page 20, she announces "I usually carry vintage handbags but my favourites are a tan vintage Oroton, and my faux Chanel 2.55."

I think Zoe needs to find a new job.

Also saw David Hartnell the other day. From the sight of his florid Hawaiian shirt, I assume he will be putting himself at the top of his own Worst-Dressed list this year.

Hypocrisy

2008-03-25T07:53:00.002+13:00

Easter weekend afternoons were spent drinking wine in the shade of a peppercorn tree, reading Fashion Quarterly, and eating feijoas from the surrounding orchard – they were still warm from the afternoon sun, and somehow all the sweeter for it. Fruit from the supermarket never tastes near as good.

I've been spending more time out of the city lately, and every time wonder why I should return. One can't help but feel in some ways that the life-marrow has been sucked from the city's bones. Who's left really, but the taggers, and screaming blonde girls in mini-dresses?

Last week - Ms S was in Yvonne Bennetti, trying on an embellished evening dress from the sale rack. Not sure I'm keen on Yvonne Bennetti. It's a place where a lot of the screaming blonde girls shop, and the sizing is obtuse – "What's a size 2?" I asked (it clearly wasn't smaller than a standard 8). "A size 10," I was told. This kind of in-house sizing system reeks of pandered vanities – many prefer to wear a single-digit clothing label, no matter how undeserved.

Mrs R flung back the velvet fitting-room curtains.
"Fabulous," she said, a-sparkle with silver bugle beads.
"You certainly wouldn’t go unnoticed," I remarked, "They could see that dress from Jupiter."
"Oh, good." She looked pleased, which surprised me as I hadn't intended my comment to be entirely complimentary.

"I hadn't intended my comment to be entirely complimentary," I said.
She stared at me, smirking. "So you don’t want to be noticed?"
"Not particularly."
"Bit pointless buying that Gucci bag, then, wasn't it?"

Hard as I tried, I could think of no response that would rescue me from my own hypocrisy.

Lessons

2008-03-19T06:56:00.000+13:00

I have been so busy, my French lessons have been quite neglected.

Actually, that reminds me of a dear friend who lives in London, who saw a notice in a shop window for 'French and Greek lessons.' She was dating a French man who had a home in the Greek islands, so she rung the number with dreams of impressing her beau with a new-found grasp of the necessary languages.

She was utterly confused by the response she received from the tutor.
"...Then she said 'I don't do women, love,' and slammed the 'phone down."
We pondered this for a while, before I started to laugh.
"The sign in the window," I said, "It didn't actually say it was for language lessons, did it?"

She demurred that she didn't know, and didn't see what difference it made anyway. I pointed out that there was quite a big difference (need I point it out to my filthy-minded readers? I'm sure I don't), but thought the French beau would appreciate the benefits from either type of tuition.

Knowing what men are like, he would probably prefer she learned French. The non-speaking type.

Bonjour!

2008-03-13T06:55:00.002+13:00

Hello everyone! I'm back! Thanks to those who sent emails and comments. My pre-midlife crisis is over for now! (The emphasis on PRE).

I know loads of people who are having minor melt-downs. One fellow threw in a top executive position, and its eye-wateringly good salary, to be a motorbike courier in Napier. Another threw in a top executive position, and its eye-wateringly good salary to tend his olive groves somewhere near Coromandel. Ms R is redecorating. Again. I'm not one much for motorbikes, olive groves, or redecorating, so I went on holiday instead.

I went away, but unfortunately, wherever you go, you take yourself with you, which is a shame, as I find myself quite annoying. However, the last night away, I was lying on a sun-lounger, drinking a glass of wine, and looking at the night-sky. The pure swathe of the Milky Way was above. One never sees the Milky Way in Auckland, the glory of the universe just can't compete with the orange blast of the street-lights, and we get a watery, dilute version of the real thing.

But this – this was beautiful. Something about it was just so... well, beautiful, everything else fell into perspective. Our smashingly-pretty galaxy is so very big, we are so very small, and on the scale of it all, who really cares a jot about all the inconsequential annoyances of daily life.

Anyway. I have decided on a course of self-improvement. I am trying my hand at painting (pictures, not houses. I'm not very good), and writing (started my novel again). I also bought a Rosetta Stone language course, to improve my v v rusty French, which is quite fun, except I am not sure how useful the phrase "The ball is on the boy" will prove to be. The phrase "The man is under the table," might though. Oh la la!

Delusions

2008-02-14T07:07:00.003+13:00

She stood in the dressing-room.

"What do you think?"
"No," I said firmly.
"Do you think it's a bit tight?"

My inner Mrs Smith laughed uproariously. My inner Mrs Smith wanted to point out that the skirt was as tight as a rubber-band around a Land-Rover. My inner Mrs Smith was ignored.

"Well – a bit," I said, cautiously.
The Land-Rover looked sad. "It's a 14," she said. "I've never been a 14."
I shrugged noncommittally. "Different labels size very differently," I said, with an award-winning degree of vagueness. I picked at my nail-polish, avoiding both her eyes and the boldly obvious, that she had as about as much chance of being a 14 as Nicky Watson did of having natural DD cups.

The Doctor was no less deluded. He had the appearance of a small nocturnal creature forced into the sunlight – blinking uncertainly into a foreign environment. He started off an anecdote, "Years ago, when I was working in Scotland..." which improbably involved himself, a priest, and a lawyer, and ended up with something unfortunate happening to the lawyer. I was quite confused.
"Oh dear," I said, "Was the lawyer badly hurt?"
He continued, with more anecdotes, starring himself, and an unlikely cast of drunks, nuns, and quite a few shared acquaintances. The penny eventually dropped with a resounding clang – he was telling jokes. I have never before heard jokes told in such a fashion.

Digression:
I hate jokes. I hate knowing that at some point I have to laugh (a minor smirk is never sufficient). Jokes make me feel like I am performing in someone's badly-written play;

Doctor: (gabbling faster and faster) … then the priest said, 'don't worry, I got him with the car-door!'
Mrs Smith: (vein throbbing in temple) Oh! Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Very good! Ha ha ha.
Doctor: ...and there was the time I was working in Africa with three nuns…
Mrs Smith: (brandishing a knife) Take that!
Doctor: Arrggh gurgle thud.
Fini Digression

That ending doesn't work well, so instead I ha ha ha’ed painfully through some more real-life jokes, then exited stage left while murmuring something about seeing if the hostess needed any help in the kitchen. Later the Doctor cornered me again, and was saying how his daughter was also studying medicine, and hoped the younger one would too.
"She has what it takes to be a doctor," he said, eyes shining with pride, "a really great rapport with people."
The sub-text to his words was I am a doctor. I have a really great rapport with people.
That was the funniest thing he said all night.

Anyway – we have all met such people – those who think they are witty, or charming, or clever, or whatever, when others think they are anything but. And one does begin to wonder what delusions we have about ourselves. It's a grim thought.

Eeek

2008-02-13T06:55:00.000+13:00

Mere moments ago, I found this in my kitchen;

It is huge! About 20 centimetres long! However, I behaved quite admirably - I uttered no sound upon seeing this monster lurking suspiciously by my right foot - but anyone watching may have thought I was doing a mime version of Edvard Munch's 'The Scream.'

According to Landcare Research, it is a stick insect, Clitarchus hookeri (sounds rude).

It has a shoe-box sitting over the top of it at the moment - Mr Smith will have a pleasant surprise when he gets up.

Questions

2008-02-12T06:51:00.000+13:00

Stream of consciousness blogging…

Have you ever noticed that in all the house/garden type magazines – no-one has a television?

If one goes to a fashion designer's birthday party – does one HAVE to wear the designer's creations? The odds of wearing the same ensemble as someone else are high. Would it be rude to turn up wearing Tamsin Cooper? Or an organic wool aran jumper?

Three-cheese tortellini at Cin-Cin is fabulous, delightful mounds of creamy loveliness on a fork – but what’s up here? This used to be a fairly decent place to strap on a nose-bag, but the view of the grubby 'smoker's tables' outside is reminiscent of some horrid westie bar. Cin Cin's ambience is getting dangerously close to AC/DC on a jukebox and chips in a basket.

Speaking of chips – why does the "fine dining" French Cafe have chips (sorry - french fries) as a side dish? What is your chef, like 8? (P.S. Dear Engine Room – I had been going to book dinner with you, but your website was so repugnantly impossible to read, I gave up.)

Note to all – don't ever say in public, "Mortgagee sales are a really great way to pick up some bargains." People look at you with stabby-eyes of hate if one does. Really very rude of them. Not my fault their mortgages are creaking at the seams.

What's the fuss about Havianas? Aren’t they just $50 jandals?

Anyone else going to the polo on Sunday?

Peow

2008-02-07T07:21:00.000+13:00

We had Herr and Frau Fossil staying with us over the weekend. I am battered and bruised from the storm of disapproving looks fired my way. The Disapproving Look is swift – a mere ‘up-down’ glance, and were pinging off me by the end of Tuesday like I was caught in a hail-storm.

Saturday night - we sat down to have a glass of wine. After one, they declined more, and started drinking water. I poured myself a second glass. Peow! Disapproving Look. Glass number three – peow, peow!

I have also learned that the very people who say that they "are not fussy eaters – we eat anything," are invariably the fussiest eaters of all. These "not fussy eaters" did not eat:

Red meat, potatoes (althought Herr Fossil did help himself to some, for which Frau Fossil rewarded him with some peows of his very own), soft-drinks (I had a Diet Coke – peow!) and anything that might contain butter, milk, sugar, etc.

We took them out for lunch – the meal portions were too large (peow), but I still managed to eat the majority of my meal (peow) and had a beer (in the daytime! Peow).

They have now been released into the wild – on a grand tour of our fair isles, so I wish to send a storm warning to the South Island. Despite the weather forecast, temperatures over the next fortnight will be chilly, and there will be storms of Disapproving hail.

Horror!

2008-02-01T06:44:00.000+13:00

Looking up something on the internet yesterday, and accidentally stumbled across a very special type of website.

Horror-movie porn!

Thought I had a fairly innovative imagination, but must say, fantasies involving demented creatures from the dark side had never occurred to me before.

Lycra

2008-02-01T06:32:00.000+13:00

I'm back! No – I didn't run away to join the circus. Realise that a skill is probably required, and I'm scared of heights, and don't think being the Incredible Shopping Woman would be much of a draw-card.

Oh – about the missing penis. Should point out here that bike-shorts are not for everyone. While riding a bike is a very good form of exercise, I am not convinced that full racing gear is necessary (or appealing) apparel for non-athletes.

Mrs L and I were sitting, having a glass of wine on her verandah, escaping from the furnace blast of the afternoon sun, when Mr D rolled up on his bicycle (must come up with a better system for naming people. Think I might now have multiple Mr Ds). He was wearing an ensemble fit for a fatties version of the Tour de France. Tour de Fattie ha ha! He looked very surprised by my presence, I by his penis' absence. I could not stop staring at his groin.

The tight lycra pants had smeared his genitals into a flat, barely undulating mass like a hot knife on beurre. He had – dare I say it – a camel toe. Did you know that men could get camel toes? I didn't. Amazing. Perhaps the circus has a position available for the Incredible Camel Toe Man.

He stopped long enough for a beer, then cycled off again. I thought little of it (apart from pondering his smeared penis), until the same thing happened again yesterday. Given that he has been 'cycling' for some time now, without any discernable difference to his girth, I suspect these bike rides are much shorter than he is telling his wife. Indeed, for various reasons, I strongly suspect his two-hour bike rides take him no further than once around the block, with a prolonged pause for aerobic activity of a different type.

By the way – the herd of Hollywood types that rushed through our diminutive isles over the last month caused a nauseating amount of activity on the social front. The number of people who suddenly decided to dash off to Waiheke in hopes of bagging a Charlize Theron or a Jack Nicholson was embarrassing. When members of the herd were spotted in the Coromandel, or at the car races, the hunters swung their sights that way with remarkable alacrity.

I have no interest in famous sorts… I have met heaps, and the most I can say about them is that they are A. very short. B. fairly dull. C. have surprisingly bad skin. My cleaner could be thus described, and I wouldn't rush off anywhere to see her.

Penis

2008-01-23T06:33:00.001+13:00

I could not stop looking at his penis. Or at least, where his penis should have been.

My goodness, isn’t it hot lately? Humidity yesterday got up to about 94%. There is so much more to that story, but it's too hot and clammy to think.

All the ceremony over the passing of Sir Edmund Hillary makes one think about one's own demise. I thought long and hard (which for me, I confess, is barely a minute), what my obituary might look like. If someone had to put fingers to keyboard to summarise one's life, what could they write? All I could think of was;

Mrs Smith
She was very tidy.

After this, I get writer's block. It may be time to run away and join the circus.

Competition Results

2008-01-21T09:40:00.000+13:00

Who won the Kagi bag competition? Reader 'Wonderferret' did, that's who!

Email me at your earliest convenience, Mr Wonderferret, and we'll get your prize sorted.

Thanks ever so much to everyone else who emailed/commented, your fabulousness, although unrewarded with a prize, is appreciated.

Boy

2008-01-21T09:05:00.000+13:00

It was a perfect evening for a BBQ – the sun had gone down sufficiently, and the slight breeze meant we didn't cook like the sizzling main course. The children, aged six and up, were sitting alone, disconsolately, clearly forbidden to retire to their rooms and Playstations as they would much rather do, but had to remain on display. Wine on an empty stomach had made me unexpectedly charitable, and I wandered over to the table where they were seated.

"Hello!" I said cheerily, sitting down.
"You're dumb," shouted Six.
"Oh, I say, that’s not very nice," I said, "People need to know me for at least an hour before they can say that."
The others giggled, but Six (after thumping his sister for her mirth) continued, unabated.
"You're so dumb, you probably think one plus one equals a thousand."
Regrettably, there were adults within earshot, so I had to bite my tongue and refrain from ripping his out, but I have a special form of torture I reserve for small boys.

"I farted," he shouted, waving the thus polluted air towards me.
"I do so love rude boys who fart. And the more they talk, especially with their mouths full," (his was stuffed with semi-digested chicken throughout the exchange) "the more I want to kiss them." I leaned forward, lips puckered.

He screamed in anguish, chicken falling from his mouth, and ran off.

The other children turned out to be quite pleasant (despite their appalling table manners. It appeared that they have never been properly introduced to Mr Knife and Mrs Fork). Six returned later. He threw a wine cork at me which bounced off my head. His grandmother, who had minced around Six all evening bringing him special plates of food, wrung her hands apologetically. "Six! Be nice!" she wailed.

I wish I could say that this semi-feral species of the urban child is rare, but indeed, their population seems to be increasing. Thus, any school-leavers wondering which field to study at university, might be strongly advised to pursue psychiatry. I think this may be a booming industry in the next decade.

Albert Park

2008-01-16T08:10:00.000+13:00

Albert Park in the centre of Auckland is – I think - a typically Victorian design. The Victorians loved overstuffing their houses with bulky furniture and a lurid array of dust-collectors (ornaments). Similarly, Albert Park is overflowing with statuary, cannons, a rotunda and vibrant flower-beds. My favourite is the flower clock, which was paid for by the founder of Farmers department stores in 1953.

However, the banks of cheery flowers are but a painted-on smile, for Albert Park used to be a favoured spot for all shades of deviant acts and those intent on bidding adieu to the mortal coil.

Clock of Doom
The first reported suicide in the park was in 1893, and after that, self-inflicted death by revolver (two in 1904), hanging, poison (carbolic acid, Lysol, ‘Rough on Rats’ rat-killer), and various of unknown causes, became rather commonplace over the next few decades.

In 1888, Sir Charles Wentworth Burdett, seventh baronet of Benthwaite, was spotted carrying roses in the park by a policeman, who queried as to where the blooms were acquired. Sir Charles denied picking them from the public garden, but was arrested nonetheless.

Crime scene
In court, it was shown that the sole of his boot matched that of a print left in the flowerbed, and a rose expert was called in to testify that the roses the accused had clutched in his hand were the same species as that planted in the park. Sir Charles was convicted to fourteen days hard labour.

Governor Grey attempted to save the baronet from this ignoble fate, but the judge countered that such an educated man ought to be made an example of. Apparently the example made was an imperfect one – flower thefts continued unabated, but pilferers thereafter removed their boots to do so.

Poor Sir Charles! The aristocratic title belies his impoverished existence – having been a dashing captain in the army during the Waikato war, then a member of the police-force, he fell on hard times. He was described as “often with shoeless feet and a battered hat, picking up a precarious subsistence by stripping bark from trees, cooking for bushmen, and doing odd jobs about squatters' stations.” By the time of his conviction, he was no stranger to the walls and bars, having experience the dubious charms of the debtors prison.

Such a tragic image – the shoeless tramp with his bunch of stolen blooms. The sentence signalled the beginning of the end. Two years later, he became a resident in the most unfortunately titled 'Costley Home for the Aged Poor,' and died in 1892 at the age of sixty-five.

Facts gathered from the fabulous resource, Papers Past, a collection of New Zealand newspapers dated from 1840 to 1915.

Competition Update

2008-01-14T06:47:00.000+13:00

Hmmm. Although, perhaps in jest, Lita's comment bothered me a bit, and I realised I didn’t think the details of the competition through very well.

It probably contravenes all sorts of rules regarding internet safety, after all, you don't know who I am or where I live, so why should I expect those sorts of details from you?

So thank-you to the brave few who have ventured forth anyway – but I think I had better change the competition a bit. Nominate yourself for the prize – via comments or email, and I will draw a winner with a bit of eeny-meeny-miny-mo, then forward the winner's email address to the designer, and the two of you can take it from there.

Nice, stalker-free bag

Competition

2008-01-11T10:10:00.000+13:00

Dear Readers – time for a competition! Put your thinking caps on.

If you cast your mind back (and if your mind fails to cast, just look further down the page), you’ll see that before Christmas I wrote about some ideas I had for ‘green’ presents – including Kagi jewellery.

Anyway, Kagi's designer, Kat Gee, wrote to me, and offered one of her darling canvas eco-totes in way of thanks, but because I am so super-fantastic, I thought I would offer it as a prize instead.

Fact. New Zealanders use over 1 billion plastic bags yearly.
Fact. Each bag takes over 500 years to biodegrade.
Fact. Thats 243 bags per person.

Use one of these instead of a plastic bag and you’ll not only be doing something nice for the environment, but you will look stylish too, not like those sad-sacks trawling their fake Anya Hindmarch shoppers around town.

So – EMAIL me (email link on the left), by next Friday with your creative suggestions on how to do something nice for the environment, with your postal address, and the winner takes the bag!

I'll announce the results next Monday (the 21st).

I Spy With My Little Eye

2008-01-11T07:42:00.000+13:00

Bill Ralston – leave me alone.

My god – the man is infatuated with me. No matter where I have gone over the last few months, I turn, and there is my lovelorn shadow. Dining at Soul or SPQR, walking down Queen St, or coffee at Agnes Curran – there he is. Of course, those with a cold, cynical heart might argue it is purely coincidence, and point out that he doesn't seem to know who I am, but I laugh in the face of reason. I know he's just playing it cool.

Speaking of Agnes Curran, a slight acquaintance was there in line in front of me. The label on her 'Chloe' dress was turned up from her collar. Everyone could see it, how embarrassing! "Oh, your label is sticking out," I said, and thoughtfully folded it back in again. From her terse smile, I could tell she was thankful I had amended this lapse of grooming. However, I am sad to say, standards have slipped in the designer market – sewing skills not what they once were - for minutes later I saw her leave, and the errant label was sticking out again.

Such a fairytale marriage – although Prince Charming might wonder how his Shagging Beauty turned into Coldilocks.

New Year's Eve party, the Lanson was flowing freely, but when the clock struck two, she turned into a nagging pumpkin and sent him to bed. Gosh. What with the early bedtimes, endless complaining, and no sex, he may as well have married his mum. And so they all lived crappily ever after.

Wish-list

2008-01-09T11:41:00.000+13:00

Oswald Bastable and Poneke have tagged me to do a wishlist for 2008. So here are eight things I am crossing my fingers for this year:

1. A refrigerated pillow. Don't you love the feeling of sinking into a bed made with cool crisp cotton sheets? Possibly not. I suspect many of my readers sleep on rough hessian sacks, or worse, polyester. So take my word for it. Unfortunately, the pillowcase warms so quickly; in the heat of summer I find myself flopping my pillow over and over to get the cool spots. Someone needs to invent a pillow with a central cooling system. That would be nice, thanks.

2. Walking uphill in heels is fine, but downhill? Impossible to do without bending knees in a peculiar fashion, so choice of footwear is limited depending on location. So, wish that Auckland was made flat. Will suggest this to John Banks.

3. My garden in 'NZ House and Garden' magazine. I did it all myself, and it is quite fabulous, and everyone ought to know it.

4. Lucie Boshier to release a line of lingerie. Trelise Cooper has stopped producing her line of frilly essentials, which I suppose means there is no money to be made in it, but just imagine! Bet it would be so gorgeous you’d grope yourself.

5A. Wally Simpson famously said, "You can never be too rich or too thin." No chance of the 'too thin' taking off in New Zealand, we're a nation of hammy heffalumps, but I'd like to change this to "You can be too blonde and too thin." Eek. My wish is that more women would realise blonde does not suit everyone, and brassy urine-yellow suits no-one.

5B. Aiming for a size zero? Stop reading the celebrity-gossip shitazines. Women who don't know how to get out of a limousine without flapping their legs open are not viable role models.

6. All Croc shoes, leggings, shapeless smock tops, and men wearing chunky white sunglasses, to disappear in a cloud of vapour.

7. 'What Not To Wear' to return with Trinny and Susannah. The current presenters are shining examples of the programme's title.

8. That Ms W would hurry up and have her baby. I know more about her bodily functions than I do about my own.

Escape

2008-01-09T11:07:00.000+13:00

When you live in Auckland, you really do need to escape it at regular intervals. There is nothing like arriving at one's destination and the first thing to marvel at, is the silence. Silence! What luxury there is in stillness and quiet. After a few days away, one almost dreads going back.

One thing I must say – and this may surprise some – is that I do not approve of the current trend of the modern holiday home.

When I was but a small Miss Smith, the well-heeled family bach was a far more casual affair. They were large and comfortable, but the kind of place we children could run wild, and track sand indoors without someone shrieking that we were ruining the carpet. Sunny days we only returned to the house for meals and sleep. Rainy days were spent playing board-games (somehow most of the pieces and rulebooks would have wandered off, which meant amusing substitutes were invented), charades, and violent games of hide-and-seek. I don't remember there being any televisions.

New Year's Eve parties were the only times the women dressed up and rolled out the gowns and the heels, soon discarded for dancing (the heels, I mean, not the gowns. Well, possibly the gowns too, but that would have been after I was sent to bed). One lived in a glorious state of feral-gentility.

Now – no matter how far one goes, it rather feels like the city came along for the ride. The 'baches' are not much dissimilar from city homes – looking like they were packaged up and air-lifted in from Parnell. I don't see the point. Baches should be to escape, not recreate, the city.

I saw a small girl on the beach attempting to make a sand-castle, attired in a fetching Trelise Cooper Kids sun-dress. "Sophie!" her mother called with a sharp tone. "You'll get your dress dirty."

God. New Money People are so dreary.

Green

2007-12-24T07:53:00.000+13:00

Christmas is a time of year that must give the ecologically-sensitive veritable conniptions at the thought of its huge gift-wrapped carbon footprint. Writers of the 'Eco-centric' blog, Matthew and Natalie Cutler-Welsh, suggest the following for ‘Last minute prezzies that are good for the globe;’

For kids, what about swim lessons (concessions), an annual membership to Willowbank (a wild-life reserve) or a home-made voucher for ‘a special 1 on 1 outing of your choice’. Encourage your kids to 're-gift' some of their items to younger siblings or cuzzies.

I do not know much about children, but I do know that vouchers or promises of future outings will fail to impress on a spectacular, chin-quivering, watery-eyed level. For adults, they suggest a worm-farm, donations to Oxfam, or East Timorese coffee, all of which would also induce some chin-quivering of my own, and possibly screaming and threats of divorce over the worm-farm. It is daft ideas like this that puts me off the Green movement, and no doubt many others too.

Thus, for those who might wish to reduce their big carbon-bootprint to that of a diminutive stiletto, I thought I would suggest a few last-minute present ideas of my own.

Vintage 1940s/1950s Rolex watch:

I would love one of these (and have broadly hinted at such). One with a leather strap – it looks like something Katherine Hepburn would have worn.

Of course, not only would it be fabulously chic, it is essentially 'second-hand' so surely this would qualify as a 'green' gift (?). I have seen some available at Lord Ponsonby's antique shop on Ponsonby Road.

A sterling-silver Tiffany hip-flask

Typically a present for men, but I wouldn't say no to one of these myself. "What a smashing gift – but what of the environment?" I hear you cry. Well, the Tiffany and Co. Foundation of Environmental Conservation supports organizations dedicated to conservation of natural resources, responsible mining, etc. And much nicer than a bag of coffee.

Hand-made Hetty-Rose shoes

Lovely shoes, n'est-ce pas? And all made from recycled stuff, including vintage kimono fabric. Only problem – they do take several weeks to make, so unless you have a time-machine handy, probably not a good last minute idea.

YSL cocktail rings

Madly love cocktail rings at the moment, and these YSL ones are cheap as pommes frites. Don't know how 'green' they are, but they look organic.

However, if you want to support a local designer (buy local - and you reduce carbon point things), try the lovely designs at Kagi, available at a bunch of places.

Kagi uses real gemstones and crystals in the jewellery. It is believed that when worn against your skin, these gems and minerals will bring energy and balance to body and mind.

I have one of their peridot pieces, which promises, "This stone prevents you from being envious of others and allows you to focus on positive aspects of life. It teaches you that holding on to people, or the past is counterproductive." Not sure its working in any of those regards, but it certainly is gorgeous.

Designer cat bowl

New Zealand fashion designers Trelise Cooper, Cybele and Liz Mitchell have each designed a lovely bowl for the fashionable feline. Not only are they rather swish, the proceeds from these limited-edition bowls support local cat charities.

They are 'available for purchase from Animates and Jansens stores throughout the country.' I have bought two.

In any regard, no matter what Santa brings you, may you all have a wonderful Christmas. I shall be going away shortly after Christmas for a wee break, and shall return early January. That is, unless I get a worm-farm, in which case I will be blogging from prison after knocking Mr Smith over the head with a blunt object.

Keep safe and well.

XXX

Mrs Smith

P.S. Bloody hell! The photos are all mashing together. Hope I have fixed it, it looks fine on my screen now.

Insects

2007-12-19T07:35:00.000+13:00

He had to have been a gigolo.

The heat of early summer brings those annoying foreign insects that land on you – you flick them away, but they lazily circle, and land again on the same spot. You hope they go away and bother someone else.

He was devastatingly good-looking (and knew it) - and would have been a lovely afternoon distraction if I wasn’t a married woman of the most virtuous calibre (Shut up. Yes I am). He had a mop of dark curly hair, and intense green eyes (actually, bit off a put-off – the colour verged on improbable and I suspect coloured contacts. If men are handsome, they should look accidentally so).

His English was probably very good, but with such a rich and colourful accent, he spoke too fast to be understood easily, and I did eventually lose my patience.

"I bet you have a beautiful smile," he crooned.
"I bet I do, too," I said.
"Oh," he played a sad face. "Will you not smile for me?"
"Not with a mouth full of food, I'm not," I replied, tersely. He persisted.
"And I bet you have beautiful eyes – but I cannot see them behind your sunglasses!"

With no response, and thwarted by my failure to reveal smile or eyes, he moved downwards.

"Your skin – so beautiful with the sun, the colour, so nice."
He touched my hand - wrong move. What a novice.
"Yes, quite. One gets rather tanned toiling on the farm."

He looked confused – he thought he'd hit gold, but gold isn't found in a farm-hand's knickers, no matter how they looked to the contrary.

We were both too young for this game – he too young to know that these lines were not novel territory, but had been well-trammelled for decades by hordes of hungry handsome Lotharios before him, and I was too young to be desperate and appreciative for the attention and silly compliments of a pretty man.

It only works on those whose age frightens them, and husband neglects them, which he too, soon realised, and he left me to find less-resistant smiles, eyes, and credit-cards elsewhere.

Santa

2007-12-18T15:28:00.000+13:00

Christmas, Auckland-style.

Santa has a cell-phone and a latte, and the thunder-storms and pouring rain have just rolled in.

By the way, the NZ Herald reports;

Auckland also came fifth-equal out of 215 cities on "quality of life", ahead of all Australian cities, and registered less traffic congestion than Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide or Perth.

Wellington came a stinky twelfth. Ha ha.

Festivities

2007-12-18T14:36:00.000+13:00

Haven't I been dreadful! Dear readers neglected for so long… Tsk tsk. I shall give myself a sharp slap on my bottom, to teach myself a lesson in manners.

I have been so very busy lately – time soaked up with festive alcohol like a sodden bar-towel. The arrival of December has invariably lead to the obligatory rounds of Christmas sociability, where everyone, fuelled by unnatural amounts of champagne, feign fairly convincing displays of mutual affection and bonhomie.

Christmas is generally my favourite time of year – the specials on champagne makes one's eyes water with glee. However – it is so very hard on the waistline. Clothes which hung with comfortable ease a month ago are now straining at their zippers like over-stuffed sausage skins.

Have also been helping (?) Mrs D make up hampers for her husband's clients. I query the use of the word 'helping,' as my role is limited to murmuring "Why yes, that would be lovely" and finding her car-keys. She usually leaves corporate-gifty things to a company to do – but for some reason thought she/we would do it this time.

Personally, I think the most help a wife can be to her husband's career is to stay well clear of it, something Mrs D should heed. Having bought voluminous French wicker hampers the size of hot-air balloon baskets, then stocked them with champagne, she said gaily, "Now let’s go buy loads of yummy things to go in them!"

I pointed out that there was a budget assigned to us, and with the remaining funds, the loads of yummy things couldn't cost more than six dollars per hamper.
She froze. "Sixty dollars?"
"Six."
"Sixty?"
"Six."
"Oh."

There was a long silence, in which we both tried to think of ways in which three cubic metres of unfilled hampers could be made to look full without resorting to wads of screwed-up newspaper. I think Mr D will be using the usual company next year.

Other updates: I have decided to write a children's book! I tried a novel earlier this year, but used up all my ideas after one page. Thought a children's one might be easier – the print is bigger, for starters.

Maths

2007-12-06T05:25:00.000+13:00

Today, Dear Readers, you have a special treat - a maths quiz courtesy of another Dear Reader, who I shall call 'Miss Maths';

Metro reports Gilda Kirkpatrick's husband is 43 years her senior.

But in another article they report she is 33 and he is 79.

Now, 79 less 33 is 46 years.

Question: Is Gilda K. shaving a few years off???

A tricky quiz, Miss Maths. Could it be that socialites age in dog-years - one year for every seven human-years? Hmmm.

Hot

2007-12-05T07:19:00.000+13:00

From my observations – these are things to have or do in the city.

Tiny cakes and sandwiches; The afternoon tea is back! Somehow more leisurely than lunch – at three o'clock the day is practically over anyway. Dust off the bone china.

Long Island Iced Tea: Have one at Mea Culpa – the emphasis on one. A local bar-fly claimed his record was six – which I thought far from impressive, but after two my head fell off and rolled around the floor, so now think any more than three of these a death-defying stunt.

Rolls Royce; The city is positively teeming with these stately machines. How delicious!

Orange tan; I'm passing on this one. Think I’d rather go the natural way and get melanomas.*

Shoes on the side of the motorway; How and why do so many solitary shoes end up on the side of the road? Do people drive with one foot out the window? Is hurling one’s heels from a moving vehicle a substitute for using indicators? I have no idea.

Is this Roadside Shoe Phenomenon is a New Zealand-wide thing? Has it gone global?

*I've never claimed to be a role-model to anyone.

Pools

2007-12-04T16:55:00.000+13:00

When I arrived, she answered the door wearing a bikini and a fur jacket. I thought it a brilliant look – like something from a '70s Helmut Newton Vogue shoot, but she had been crying, and her nose was quite red, which ruined the effect.

She had a drink in one hand, and from her effusive greeting, it was clearly not her first. She wasn’t happy – her husband wanted to go to the company Christmas 'do' alone – she had insisted on going, but he had hidden a change of clothes in his car, and not come back to get her.

We went and sat by her lap-pool.

This is my opportunity to say I HATE lap-pools. Yes – I know how very trendy (voice soused in disdain) they are but they look like miserable pools for people who can’t afford or lack sufficient room for a proper one. Don't tell me how much they cost – I don't care. They look cheap.

In my mind, a pool is for splashing about aimlessly in or basking next to – neither of which can be done satisfactorily in something designed for swimming straight lines.

Lap-pools stingily allow nothing but exercise, not relaxation or fun.

Stingy, tomfoolery-free zone
How could one have a cocktail-party around a lap-pool? Drunken tomfoolery, which full-size pools encourage, would be limited to no more than two guests at a time. I suppose one could draw up a roster, or insist that everyone lines up for their tomfoolery in an orderly fashion.

Infinity pools! Another pool type that annoys me. Amazing in the right location where the end of the pool overlooks ocean, which makes the pool look endless – hence the name INFINITY.

Infinity pool - good

Some don’t get the 'infinity' concept at all, and build one with a sordid view of a back lawn.

Infinity pool - fucking useless

In this case the only 'infinity' is the measure of their owners unmoderated doltness. Infinity pools MUST have an unimpeded view of an open body of water or it's NOT A FUCKING INFINITY POOL.

Roar moan wail. I have a hangover. A rant about pools. That is it for today.

Where's Cricket?

2007-11-29T07:54:00.000+13:00

Many is the time I wish the Smith cat would disappear, especially when he decides he wants his breakfast at three in the morning. I also suspect he has Munchausen’s Syndrome (causing self-harm to get attention), such as when he faked a cancerous lesion (ka ching at the local veterinarian to find out it was a scratch from a stick).

Nonetheless, he is much loved, and I would be distraught if he were to go missing. As you all no doubt know by now, Nicky Watson’s "chuwawa" Cricket has gone missing – last seen at Matarangi. Now – New Zealand is a very small country – it can't be that hard to find the wee fellow.

Everyone – go check your pockets, handbags, and under stray bits of dust. His mother wants him back desperately. Contact details are on 'Pets on the Net' if you have any information. Proper information, don’t be a nong and make something up.

Where's Cricket?
Capri pants! Who told Auckland women these were permissable to wear? Someone needs to own up, and get the sound thrashing they deserve. My walk along Ponsonby Road yesterday, in the glorious sunshine, was irrevocably ruined by these cropped affronts to the senses. I would no sooner recover from one pair, when another pair would stride stumpily into view. Beach – yes. Home – if you must. In the city – non! I get all the fashion mags, and I do not recall seeing these horrible things gracing models elegantly wasted limbs.

Remember the words of Trinny and Susannah – one’s legs only look as long as one’s trousers – and Auckland’s women are looking like extras from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Take them off at once, and put some proper clothing on.

Update: Au revoir, Cricket.

Traffic

2007-11-28T06:46:00.000+13:00

As you know, I possess no degree of fondness for 'chain emails,' but received this in my in-box the other day, which I thought I would share. Apologies if everyone else simultaneously received in their in-boxes as well.

Rules for Going to Auckland

1. You must learn to pronounce the city name. It is "Ork - Lund ", not "JAFATOWN."

2. Forget the traffic rules you learned elsewhere. Auckland has its own version of traffic rules... Hold on and pray. There is no such thing as a dangerous high speed chase in Auckland. We all drive like that.

3. All directions start with, "Go down the motorway"

4. The morning rush hour is from 6:00AM to 10:00AM. The evening rush hour is from 3:00PM to 7:00PM. Friday's rush hour starts Thursday morning.

5. If you actually stop at an orange light, you will be rear-ended, abused and possibly shot. When you are the first one off the starting Line, count to five when the light turns green before going, to avoid getting into any cross-traffic's way.

6. K' Road can ONLY be pronounced by a native Ork-Lunder.

7. Construction on motorways & other main streets in peak traffic is a way of life and a permanent form of entertainment.

8. If someone actually has their turn signal on, it is probably a factory defect.

9. All old ladies with coloured hair in a crappy car have total right-of-way.

10. The minimum acceptable speed on Motorway is 120 kph. Anything less is considered downright dangerous.

11. Never stare at the driver of the car with the bumper sticker that says, "Keep honking, I'm reloading." In fact, don't honk at anyone.

12. If you are in the fast lane, and only going 100 km in a 100 km zone, people are not waving when they go by.

13. The Auckland Harbour Bridge road is our daily version of Speedway. There are plans to rename it Western Springs Waikaraka Park Bridge.

Gossip?

2007-11-27T11:10:00.000+13:00

Are Gilda and Michael Boulgaris now frenemies? They seem to have removed each other from their respective Facebook pages, but, who knows. People come into your life for a reason, a season... or $35K pocket-money a month, whichever comes first.

Thought; Why is she now dubbed "Gilda K" in Le Media? Is a record deal in the making? Are her image-consultants re-branding her as a low-fat breakfast cereal? A tampon? You tell me.

On the same lines, one can't believe Metro thought Glucina's Sunday gossip round-up of Justin Timberlake’s Auckland presence was a winner – perhaps the Metro writers got a different edition of the newspaper than mine. My paper only had an entirely unthrilling account of how Mr Timberlake went through a McDonald's drive-through, and then someone spilt orange juice in the car. The obituaries were more titillating.

Glucina tried to get the McDonald’s security footage – bugger! To no avail. How my heart yearns to see Mr Timberlake's driver getting his change.

Glucina's sneaky snapper Norrie has a much more entertaining account of the "Where’s Timberlake?" mystery. To put it baldly – Norrie should be doing the writing as well as the snapping, and leave Glucina to hang around McDonald's drive-throughs, as she so clearly likes to do.

Hurrah!

2007-11-26T06:25:00.000+13:00

Found this test at lovely Lita's.

How fab am I! Seems wagging all those English classes at school did me no harm.

And if you don't like my blog, it's because you are dumb.

Gifts

2007-11-23T07:59:00.000+13:00

Christmas, for many, is fraught with indecision – what to buy a loved one? If you are poor, I imagine the process is quite simple – a bucket of KFC and a packet of ciggies would probably suffice, but for those in a more genteel social category, the art of finding The Perfect Gift can be difficult to master.

Regarding a certain birthday present, commenter Whaleoil provides this sound advice;

The first is the Rule of Reciprocity. So if someone gives you an iPhone valued variously between $690 -$1100 depending on where you get it from then you need to spend at least that on their reciprocal present. That then leads to … (the) Rule of Escalation. If someone spends $690 on an iPhone for a present for you then you have to add at least 20% to up the ante.

How very mathematical and clever! I confess to counting on my fingers, so for those who are similarly numerically-disabled, here are my rules;

Good presents
Gift Rule #1; Buy something either very large, or very small. This sounds odd – but true. The best things in life are either very large, or very small. Mercedes – very large, diamond-encrusted thingys – very small, etc.

Bad presents
Flowers. Flowers are perfectly lovely for everyday, apologies, and Valentine’s Day, but otherwise should never be given unaccompanied by something with a bow on it (refer to Rule #1). “But why?” men cry, “Women like those flower things!” Here’s Gift Rule #2 – Anything that can be procured at a petrol-station does not make for a pleasing gift. It reeks of minmal effort.

Practical things. Gift Rule #3; Anything really useful makes a rotten present. Does the person really need it? Don’t buy it. A good gift should be entirely unnecessary - that's the definition of luxury.

Apparel and perfume. Actually, potentially really fabulous things to receive, but an area that is a veritable minefield of wrongness waiting to blow off the giver’s limbs. A dear friend once received lingerie for Christmas – size large. If a lady is large (the Dear Friend wasn’t, which made it worse), I don’t think being reminded of it before Christmas luncheon would be very nice.

And perfume is a very personal thing – not something to guess at. But if one insists on traversing this dangerous territory, make sure it is:
a. V. Expensive,
b. Has a pleasing name.

Perfume is a gift of intimacy, thus, getting a perfume called ‘Alien’ (Thierry Muglar) wouldn’t be at all flattering, but ‘J’adore’ (Dior) would be.

Relations

2007-11-23T07:54:00.000+13:00

Bad news – the next invasion of relatives are on their way. They are not due until February, but due to the nature of the people coming, battle-plans are being drawn up now.

I think I will need to get my sofa reupholstered, and paint! I need paint! And am thinking of asking my cleaner to draft in every relative she has from the islands (probably thousands, knowing how these types like to pop the babies out) to start cleaning. A single mote of dust is enough to provoke Herr Relative's disdainful smirk. Am beginning to think it may be easier to just buy a new house.

Good lord – forget the house, I'll need to send the islanders out to give the entire city a polish up.

Stare-Bears

2007-11-19T07:09:00.000+13:00

Bloody hell! Sitting around the house doing nothing is dull work! What do beneficiaries do all day? If it's what I'm (not) doing, no wonder they all look so angry. I am sick of watching movies, although, while watching one of the Deathwish movies I recorded on MySky, I have decided I want a set of vintage 1970s Gucci luggage (Charles Bronson’s girlfriend had a set). Have scoured the internet for hours for a picture, but to no avail. This handbag is the closest I can find to the look.

Not quite right. The set I want is canvas (un-monogrammed, natch).

Boredom also means smoking far too many cigarettes, which is bad, as the information sheet states that smoking inhibits the healing process. The sheet also has an omission – it says that after surgery one "should not smoke for nine consecutive." Nine consecutive what? I decided it meant nine minutes, so lit up as soon as I got home (at which the leaking begun, which probably served me right).

Wanted fruit on the weekend, so drove to a supermarket on the outskirts of Auckland, far from the prying eyes and gabby mouths of those I know and loathe. Thank goodness for the fashion of giant sunglasses! Personally, I hate the look, but had bought a pair from World anyway, as knew they would do the job of covering most of my leaky face. Proved difficult selecting produce with them on, though, so had to take them off.

Goodness, what a load of impolite stare-bears reside outside the confines of the civilised world. How people gaped in open interest! I am certain they thought I had a contagious skin disease, as they shunned any produce section I ventured near. I coughed into my hand a few times before touching the fruit, just to really scare them.

Have also informed Mr Smith that should I run into anyone I know, I shall have to tell them he beat me, because of course, the first rule of Surgery Club, is you never talk about Surgery Club.

Thought of the Day; One day, when mini surgery theatres are operating in all the malls across the Western World, wrinkles will be The Next Big Thing. The Fashionable Set will be having crows-feet implants. You read it here first.

Milestones

2007-11-16T09:41:00.000+13:00

A week's worth of milestones – it is now a year and a day since I started this blog. I am surprised it is still going. Many is the day my beautifully manicured finger is poised over the "delete this blog?" button – but as yet I have not been caught out, although should you revisit this site one day to find I have gone, I am sure you can imagine why.

And another milestone; I visited a certain clinic this week. When it comes to these things, I have always thought "never say never," but now I say "never again." While it wasn't terribly painful, it was demoralising to say the least, and my face is leaking something most unpleasant. I realise now that no matter what you do, it is never going to be good enough.

Father Time is far too clever to be fooled by a bit of surgical jiggery-pokery. How long can women fake youth, before they no longer look 30-something, but just a really peculiar fifty-something?

The receptionist read my form. "Oh," she said brightly, "you're only a few years older than me!" Curses! I know that tone too well – it said, "Ha ha! I look waaaay younger than you, Grannie!" I know the tone, because I have used it myself on others. But she was right. Her face was as smooth and white and unlined as a freshly boiled egg. I spent the afternoon recovering, watching movies and scrutinising actresses crows-feet.

So. It was all rather depressing. I told Mr Smith I didn't think I would ever do this again, and he would just have to accept that I would one day turn into a wizened old crone. He said, "Never mind, you'll be my wizened old crone," by which I know he meant well, but I had hoped for something a bit more flattering.

Another thought; You know how some clothing shops put those vanity mirrors in their dressing rooms – that make you look extra thin? I think the clinic had one of those too, except a mean version. Bloody hell! What a sight! Perhaps they do it so ladies come rushing into theatre screaming "Forget the cost, give me one of everything."

Well. Fuck that.

Deviancy

2007-11-16T06:40:00.000+13:00

Over at the NZBC, dear Mr Stratford ponders the concept of prostitute review sites;

"… one wonders why these guys don't just get girlfriends. At £300 an hour for two temporary "girlfriends", or £120 for one, wouldn’t it be cheaper? And, well, nicer?"

Nicer! What a dear, sweet man! I want to top him off with whipped cream and strawberries, and serve him up at my next luncheon. However, I should point out that 120 pounds ($NZ300 +) an hour really wouldn't get you much of a girlfriend. Try waving that pocket change around the viaduct, and a gentleman wouldn't get so much as a peck on the cheek.

To be quite practical about these things, if someone were to add up the amount of money spent on a girlfriend, and divide that by the number of oral visitations received, it would no doubt be fiscally far more sensible to pop up and see Crystal in the Egyptian Room every so often.

Which brings us to the next thought, the odd things people do in the name of sexual gratification. The English seem to be infamous for a few things, like an aversion to bathing, and more pertinently, spanky hanky-panky. The English love a good whipping, and, funnily enough, most of them deserve it, but is it just an English thing?

My thoughts are that sexual deviancy (for want of a better turn of phrase) is very much like the English language.
-It is practiced everywhere.
-It is taught to the highest standard at boarding schools.

To some, after years of ‘lights out’ in a room full of pubescent school-friends, a menage-a-quatre is verging on monogamy, and youthful memories are happily recalled over an expertly-wielded paddle. But what is deviant these days anyway? One is shocked by very little anymore. I saw a woman in Newmarket yesterday, wearing a silver sequin mini-dress (at ten in the morning! And with thighs like that!), which made me recoil in horror, but someone's giggled confessions about a (male) paramour’s predilection for parading in panties is a dull respite between courses.

One begins to wonder if the only true deviancy these days is "niceness." It certainly is unusual enough.

Coronary

2007-11-13T07:30:00.000+13:00

Once upon a time, in a suburb not so very far away, lived a beautiful model. At least, she was beautiful, until the evil fairy godmothers Time and Chronic Bulimia waved their magic wands and made the beautiful model look a bit odd. Anyway, the (now not so) beautiful model lived in a white house, and every room and everything inside it was white too – all the walls, all the carpets, and all the furnishings, except for the occasional fur throw rug in a tastefully contrasting shade. The model so loved the colour white, she even dressed her children in it.

What a frightening house it was. Visitors were rather afraid to do anything in the house, lest a single drop of wine should accidentally mar the perfect house, which would make the model scream and turn into a wild-eyed monster armed with spray carpet-cleaner.

The End

It was some time ago I visited the model's house, but I thought of her while reading 'Japanese Women Don’t Get Old or Fat,' by Naomi Moriyama. The author describes her mother's kitchen as being tiny – no bigger than the average Western wardrobe, with surfaces piled high with cooking utensils and ingredients. A garden with parsley and tomatoes grew outside the door. The refrigerator was too large to fit in the kitchen, and had to reside in the dining room.

It made me think about all the kitchens I have ever seen – the best and most stylish display no evidence of any cooking utensils or food preparation, the thought of a refrigerator being in the dining room is risible. The model's kitchen looked like a surgical operating theatre – and everyone would murmur how wonderful it looked, admiring the space and bare granite surfaces.

I can't help but think this says something about relationships with food. Is the kitchen still the 'heart of the household' it used to be? The cold, bare surfaces found in the fashionable home suggest major coronary disease if it is.

I bought a mortar and pestle on the weekend, and left it sitting on the bench. My small act of style rebellion, although I haven't quite worked out what to do with it yet.

P.S. Just noticed - this my 200th post! Hurrah!

I Spy With My Little Eye

2007-11-09T17:11:00.000+13:00

Saw Michael Boulgaris in Ponsonby today. While it is lovely that he is growing a ‘tache for Movember, I do wish someone would wean him off the over-sized Gucci accessories - someone might mistake him for one of those homosexual types if he’s not careful.

Is leopard-print the new black?

The NY Times thinks so. Why not? All things trashy are now a la mode. We already have the ubiquity of the strippers Brazilian, suburban housewives pole-dancing... Next week, fashionistas everywhere change their names to Chynna or Shanahyah.

To my immense shame, I rather like the YSL gloves.

Are Russian Brides the new Filipino? Yes.

Movember

2007-11-07T06:16:00.000+13:00

It's Movember, the one time of year that men can grow a moustache, and not look a fool.

Every year in New Zealand 2,656 men are diagnosed with prostate cancer and about 600 die of the disease, making prostate cancer the second largest cause of male cancer deaths, after lung cancer.

Not only is prostate cancer not at all nice, a diminishing male population means less men to buy me presents and champagne, so even if you don't wish to grow a soup-strainer on the old visage, I do insist that all men go for yearly check-ups of their man-bits.

Seriously - my father has prostate cancer. The doctors are very optimistic that all will be well, as it was caught early.

Anyway, I don't much care to write about politicians, as I would rather write about people who really matter, but I do wonder about the mental fortitude of our Prime Minister;

In response to early Guy Fawkes celebrations,

Helen Clark said the noise of fireworks in her home suburb of Mt Eden was horrific on Saturday night.

"Last night in my suburb, I felt as if I was in downtown Kandahar [in Afghanistan]," she said.

Horrific! Kandahar! Oh my! Helen has rather let the (female) side down. Would a male leader react this way to the sound of traditional community festivities? Imagine if Winston Churchill had thus quailed at the high-spirits of rowdy morris dancers;

"The noise of the co-ordinated foot stomping was horrific. I felt as if I was in downtown Gallipoli," etc, and then called for all handkerchiefs and clogs to be banned.

Downtown Gallipoli
I suggest Ms Clark invest in some ear-plugs, or else have a lie-down and a large gin, and let someone less sensitive take the reins for a while.

Pavlov

2007-11-05T07:43:00.000+13:00

The demure Cactus Kate draws one’s attention to the naked pool-side frolics by New Zealand’s favourite scr...apper, Aja Rock. I am reminded of a certain lad-about-town, who had a fondness for dating strippers (well – why not?). However, he didn’t like taking them to clubs or bars.

"You can't take them anywhere," he would grumble, "without them wanting to take their clothes off."
His expectations, I think, were wholly unrealistic. Strippers, not dissimilar to Pavlov's dogs, are conditioned to perform under certain circumstances, such as when a (musical) stimulus is supplied.

One then should not be surprised by Miss Rock's public nudity. However, I'm more interested to know what happened when six men stripped down and jumped in the pool with her. Thinking again about prior-conditioning, you know, from a purely scientific perspective.

Burgers

2007-11-05T06:24:00.000+13:00

The writer for Viva magazine in the NZ Herald thinks 'Handmade Burgers' in Kingsland makes Auckland's best burger - and says;

"Burger Fuel may have gone public and have far better coverage with its many outlets, but Handmade Burgers in Kingsland wins where it counts - in the tummy."

Apart from finding it annoying that an adult would use the word 'tummy,' I disagreed heartily for these reasons:

I went there once about five (?) years ago, and was subjected to the most hideously awful cack ever to profess to be a burger. Dreadful! I never went back.

Many restaurant reviewers don't know their anus from their mouth. I have been to quite a few restaurants on the 'best of Auckland' type lists, to be thoroughly underwhelmed. The Maple Room in Remuera? You have got to be fucking kidding me.

I have always thought Burger Fuel entirely marvellous.

As a founding shareholder in Burger Fuel, I may be a tad biased.

So, I thought I would try it again, and decide for myself.

Handmade Burgers, 455 New North Rd, Kingsland.
First of all, the name is stupid. Handmade Burgers? As opposed to the ones made by robots elsewhere?

Burger: The similarity of their menu to Burger Fuel cannot be dismissed as coincidence. The quirky names, the fillings, the aioli chips – rather deja vu. It was okay; the most I can say is that it was bland. No shortage of bloody lettuce. Mr Smith said his was "a bit dry."

No shortage of bloody lettuce.
Price: $9.50 (comparable burger at BF $8.90)
Service: The tiny shop was overflowing with dolts such as myself who read the Herald, but despite the crowds, the server maintained an impressively friendly disposition. A thousand thumbs-up to the chap.
Overall: NZers are consistently suspicious of success – they like something until it gets too popular, then bash it down in favour of an unknown underdog - a most unfortunate predilection. I can't help but think this is where the Viva preference stems from… because Handmade just isn't anywhere good enough to hold the award for 'Auckland's Best Burger.' I'm giving it to Burger Fuel. As in many things, bigger is better.
(P.S. Handmade's food hygiene certificate expired in August).

Junk. And Matthew Ridge.

2007-11-02T15:11:00.000+13:00

Goodness! What a terrible mood everyone seems to be in – including myself. I got a telling off by a shop-assistant for not picking an item up earlier (bloody hell! It was paid for!), and I swore at my beauty therapist (the choice of words may not have been the best, but the sentiment was deserved), and Auckland drivers seem to be giving their horns a real work-out today. Is it a full moon?

Saw Naughty Norrie on Ponsonby Road armed with his camera, not that anyone of any interest was around, but photos of a strategically-placed Matthew Ridge at SPQR with a sour-faced blonde may be in the Sunday paper, I suppose.

Mrs L has picked up some terrible habits lately, one of which is thinking she is an American rapper.

"I really need to get on the treadmill more," she sighed, "I have far too much junk in my trunk."
I snorted convulsively.
"Junk in your trunk! Ha ha! What have you been smoking?"
She looked defensive.
"You may not keep up to date with these things, Mrs Smith, but I do. Bet you don't even know who Fergie is."
“What, the Duchess of… whatever. The dumpy redhead?” (I knew who she meant. I just felt like being annoying).
She rolled her eyes. "The singer with the Black-Eyed Susans."
I tittered, but she continued, unfazed.
"Anyway, you used 'fo'shizzle' for ages, Mrs Smith, no matter how irritating it became, which was almost immediately."
Well! "That’s hardly the same," I said, "I was being ironic."

We sighed heavily in unison. It was, without doubt, the silliest conversation any two human beings have ever engaged in, which is saying something, coming from me, but I was annoyed and my face was stamped with a scowl for at least another hour (Note to Self: Must ask surgeon about Botox).

AND it has started to rain, so all in all, not a good start to the weekend.

Cool

2007-11-01T08:16:00.000+13:00

For those who like a stylish home, floors and walls are carefully decorated, but when one thinks about it, the ceiling just hangs about doing nothing. So why not hang your plants from it?

Yes! Upside-down! The plants don't seem to object, and they "use up to 90% less water than a conventional planter," which may be of interest to those who care about such things (I don't water my plants at all, which is 100% less water, but the plants don't seem to appreciate this).

This 'Antipodes Planter' is created by New Zealand designer Patrick Morris, who is in the process of opening a new shop in Ponsonby (down the alleyway, next to Agnes Curran). When I called in, the designer's brother was still painting the place, but it will apparently be open for business some time this month.

I think these are pretty fab. Bonkers, but fab.

Cloudy

2007-10-31T13:36:00.000+13:00

I installed the little weather thingy on the sidebar (to the left) a few days ago, and ever since, it has insisted that our weather here in Auckland is 'partly cloudy.' This is rubbish, the sun is shining gloriously at this moment. Proof - a photo I took just minutes ago:

I am only pointing this out in case out-of-towners think we live in a city of perpetual gloom.

Halloween

2007-10-31T11:52:00.000+13:00

Despite my reservations about celebrating Halloween in this country (for reasons I am sure my astute readers can imagine), I used to contribute towards making the occasion fun for the neighbourhood's children.

"I believe the children are our future, teach them well, and let them lead the way," so sang Whitney Houston, and it is true. Thus, it is never too early to teach the tiny ones that one is judged by what one wears, and so those with pleasing ensembles received my commendation and a handful of mini chocolate bars, and those who demonstrated little creativity or effort, got a stern look and a budget lollipop. This is the way of the world, and they should have thanked me for the lesson learned.

Rubbish Outfits (lollipops):
Princesses (snore)
Cheap, polyester things (Pooh. Pulling something off a shelf at the Warehouse does not count as effort. Imagine if I did that!)

Good Oufits (chocolate bars):
Unusual themes (one little fellow arrived at my door one year as a perfect replica of a WWI soldier. How splendid! I gave him four chocolate bars).
Home-made ones (a slightly lopsided Spongebob Squarepants made from papier mache – they got four also).

However – there has been a disturbing trend in latter years, which has meant I no longer participate in this event. Not all the children who crossed the Chez Smith threshold in search of treats were locals, and these interlopers are increasing in number every year.

How do I know they are not local? Firstly, they are sans costume – unless their attire is actually some very clever post-modernist statement on consumerist society, local children do not trick or treat in scruffy jeans and soiled tee-shirts. Secondly, the parents of local children do not wait in a rusting van in the street, nor do local children kick one's letter-box in lieu of thanks for their budget lollipop. And thirdly, they are entirely the wrong colour, which is an instant giveaway.

There should be some sort of rule about sticking to one's neighbourhood for such occasions. Or at the very least, they should know that you don't get the good things in life by kicking letter-boxes and wearing dirty clothes.

Bio-Oil

2007-10-30T15:05:00.001+13:00

In the ceaseless (and I am sure - futile) search for magic elixir of youth, I am always prepared to try any new product – in case it is The One. Bio-Oil is extremely cheap ($20 for 60 mls), which is enough to rouse my suspicions, but one will try almost anything.

There is some blurb on the accompanying pamphlet about the oil’s similarity to duck oil, being a ‘dry’ oil, not an oily oil (snore!), but I didn’t really bother reading any more of that. If it staves off the wrinkles it could be made from sautéed ear wax for all I care.

The Good
Like most women, I imagine, there are days when one looks in the mirror, and feels great satisfaction with the divine reflection smiling back. Other days, one can wonder how a particularly horrible wildebeest managed to find its way into the bathroom, and realising it is indeed one's reflection is rather dispiriting. However – perhaps it is my imagination, but I do feel the horrible wilderbeest days are fewer since using Bio-Oil. My skin certainly feels nice, and I think the fine lines not as visible.

The Bad
The instructions warn that the product can stain sheets, which is a definite negative. I do not want my Egyptian cotton bedding thus marked, so the night-time position must be one of lying very prone and still on one’s back. Equally, should marital relations be desired, it would be best to apply the oil afterwards, as the aforementioned position is not particularly interesting for either party.

Weather

2007-10-30T07:24:00.000+13:00

Forgive the lack of updates – I have been kept v. busy with a distraught friend. She found out her husband is/was having an affair, and apparently part of her break-down required updating me frequently on her current emotional climate. Last week – stormy, with frequent spells of swearing and crying. But I – a true fair-weather friend - was a bit bored with it all, as:

They have only been married two years, so it’s not like the husband has any great sentimental value.

He never got her to sign a pre-nuptial agreement, so if he leaves or stays, she’s not about to end up revoltingly poor, being forced to travel economy-class, and drink methode champenoise, or whatever it is that the revoltingly poor do.

It seems a bit hypocritical, as she’s been having an affair herself for ages (although, officially, he’s just a "very good friend.").

She thinks no one knows about her “Very Good Friend.” Pffft. Hitting the town with a small posse of gay-men friends is quite clever – who would notice another male joining the party? But not clever enough. The gay-men friends are admirable for their loyalty, but not their discretion.

Appeased by the husband’s presentation of a $28K diamond ring, her outrage reduced from a ferocious cyclone to a chilly passive-aggressive breeze, which would seem to bring us back to point #1.

Colonic

2007-10-26T07:23:00.001+13:00

We were having a late lunch at the viaduct, when a startling thought of huge significance struck me – why are almost all boats white? Really, why? I can't think of any sensible reason, which is hardly surprising, but some of my more practical-minded readers may know the answer.

Why?
No one present knew, nor thought it half as compelling a question as I did, and they went back to discussing weight-loss strategies over glasses of wine.

Of course, everyone, including myself, denied use of diet pills.

Someone swore by colonic irrigation.
"You lose kilos after one session! And afterwards, the food just flies out of you – twenty minutes after eating, out it comes again." (I don't think this sounds very healthy. Rather like bulimia, but out the other end. Bottom-Bulimia?).

Apparently eggs are not good – hanging around indefinitely in one's colon like clueless guests who don't know the party is over. I have some disbelief about this - I love eggs, and if what they say is true, I should have more eggs (non-vibra) in me than a battery-hen house. Anyway, it was a frightful topic, and was glad when it turned to things other than having hoses put up bottoms.

I got a taxi home, and I made some polite noises to the driver about Auckland traffic. He had his own theory about why the Queen Street upgrades were taking so long.

"The road-workers are all Maoris and Pacific Islanders, and they don’t want to work evenings."
"Well," I said, yawning,"I can’t imagine anyone would want to, given half a chance."
"No – they're lazy," he said firmly, "they don’t like to work at all."
"Erm," I said, noncommittally.
"And they like to drink!" he exclaimed.
"Hmm," I said, gazing fixedly out the window.

Who knew I had so much in common with the working-class? It's a sobering thought. Kind of.

Fashion Awards

2007-10-23T09:07:00.001+13:00

Isn't Petra Bagust just the most absolutely fabulous creature? Beauty on the inside too - she lends her position to a variety of charity work. I think she is clearly the deserving recipient of my award for the most stylish and beautiful woman in New Zealand.

Left - Petra Bagust
It’s hard to believe that she was once an unappealing virgin with giant eyebrows.

Such a cute couple – Dave and Sarah Gibson, as seen at a movie preview in Auckland.

Her outfit is as sweet as apple-pie, and I like how their ensembles coordinate, but not in the creepy way that American tourists favour so much.

Last place-getter in my award ceremony, is the Velvet Gypsy. Cross her palm with gold, and she'll tell you your fortune.

Amendment: Photographer Olivia Hemus told me off for using her photos of Petra. Apparently I had stolen her "intellectual property." Not wishing to leave her bereft of her intellect, I have deleted them. The one used now is courtesy of the obliging Norrie Montgomery.

Labour Day

2007-10-23T08:17:00.000+13:00

Thus ends Labour Weekend – Aucklanders celebrated in the usual sort of way with dismal weather, and by sitting in their cars for hours on clogged motorways.

For those who don't know - the first Labour Day Holiday in New Zealand was celebrated in 1890. It is a celebration of a lazy lout called Samuel Duncan Parnell who, in 1840, was asked to build a shop in Petone.

"I must make this condition, Mr Hunter," he replied, "that on the job the hours shall be only eight for the day." "Ridiculous, preposterous," demurred Hunter. "There are twenty-four hours per day given us," Parnell insisted: "eight of these should be for work, eight for sleep, and the remaining eight for recreation and in which for men to do what little things they want to do for themselves."

Wikipedia credits Australia as being the first in the world to achieve an eight-hour working day in 1900, but this article must have been written by an Australian, as in 1890, New Zealand was already celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the eight-hour working day. I blame their penal-colony gene pool - Australians will try to steal anything that isn't nailed down.

Nonetheless, it seems an antiquated thing for us to be celebrating. I don't know of anyone who still works an eight-hour day.

Homeless

2007-10-18T07:15:00.000+13:00

As seen in the city. It was after six, so I guess the sign's owner had knocked off for the day.

I like how 'cat' has been crossed out, and replaced by 'kids.' Did the cat get better? Or are 'sick kids' a more effective euphemism for 'beer'?

If anyone works in the city, and they see the sign's owner, ask how his cat is. I want to know.

Say No To Norrie

2007-10-16T06:02:00.000+13:00

Social-event snapper Norrie Montgomery has started his own website – filled with photographs taken at Auckland events, and a diary detailing stunning insights of product-launches and pay-phones.

(Note to Norrie, when you referred to Nicky Watson's ANUS horribilis, I think you intended to say Annus horribilis. However, I am not sure. Being one of the few people in Auckland who have not seen Ms Watson’s bum-hole, I am not able to confirm whether it was her year or her rear that was so dreadful).

The website is called 'The A-List.' Perhaps the 'A' stands for ANUS.

It does rather seem that the social butterflies are being replaced by a persistent swarm of flies. In any case, someone regularly snapped by the tiny tabloid tout is also displeased by the standards maintained. They write;

There is a secret Auckland society launching calling itself 'Say No To Norrie'.....members who accept that enough is enough. Members who urgently NEED to sign up to save themselves anymore embarrassment are:

Gilda Kirkpatrick, Nicky Watson, Ricardo Simich (who is known to throw his poor long suffering mother at the snapper), Aja Rock, Anna Jobz, Jacqui Ansin and did I mention Gilda? Dangerously close to total social annihilation Cameron Brewer, The World family trio and Hilary Timmins.

Do these people have absolutely nothing better to do than constantly inhabit this frighteningly sad world of dull par-tays every night? Could they not just pop their feet up in front of the telly for ONE night a week? As Tan-orexics are addicted to dangerous over-exposure to UV on solarium beds are these over-exposed fame hunters addicted to flashes going off in their faces?

The latest reason to say no, is of course he now works for the Herald On Sunday ... featuring in those pages is instant, swift and severe social suicide and symptoms include constant ridicule from your peers. Whatever you do DON'T get snapped with any of the aforementioned SSFA (Sunday Social Fame Addicted) members ... you will need to go into social rehab sooner than you think.

The A-List. Are you on it?

Legend?

2007-10-15T07:17:00.000+13:00

The NZ Herald reports a story about how a consumer rights group has found that many popular lipstick brands contain dangerous amounts of lead.

This may have been somewhat alarming, except that just days earlier, I had received an email from a well-meaning, but (apparently) gullible friend:

This is truly good to know. Be sure to pass this info on. Your lipsticks might cause you health problem. Brands don't mean everything...Lead is a chemical which causes cancer.

The Brands which contain Lead are:
1. Christian Dior
2. LANCÔME
3. CLINIQUE
4. Y.S.L
5. ESTEE LAUDER
6. SHISEIDO
7. RED EARTH (Lip Gloss)
8. CHANEL (Lip Conditioner)
9. Market America-Motives lipstick

The higher the lead content, the greater the chance of causing Cancer. After doing a test on lipsticks, it was found that the Y.S.L. lipstick contained the most amount of lead. Watch out for those lipsticks which are supposed to stay longer. If your Lipstick stays longer, it is because of the
higher content of lead. Here is the test you can do yourself:

1. Put some lipstick on your hand,
2. Use a 24k-14k Gold ring to scratch on the lipstick.
3. If the lipstick color changes to black then you know the lipstick contains lead.

Please send this information to all your girl friends.

Poohs! I thought. I don't care if my lips atrophy and fall off, I shall not be parted from my YSL lipstick. In any case, I am absurdly cynical by nature – my first instinct is always disbelief, so with a few seconds of effort, found that the lead claims were somewhat of an urban legend, and the email had been whizzing malignantly around the world since about 2003.

But what of the current claims? Cancer research UK thinks it sounds like utter bunkum. The Food and Drug Administration (FDA), no doubt bored with testing lipstick everytime the hoax email springs back to life, states that "Similar past claims have not been confirmed," but in a sentence burdened with a heavy sigh, says that "it would look into claims from [the] advocacy group."

Is the internet making people more informed, or stupider? It's so hard to tell.

Incidentally, another friend sent me one of those chain-email thingys. You know the sort, I am sure... 'send this on to six people within the next ten minutes or something really horrid will happen to you' sort of thing. I hate these emails - of course I never forward them, except to my 'deleted items' folder, where they belong.

In future, any friend who sends me emails of such unsubstantiated rot will get a YSL lipstick for Christmas. I hope their lips fall off.

Egg

2007-10-09T12:40:00.000+13:00

A certain Miss confided (if telling everyone over lunch can be thought of as confiding) that she often pops in a vibra-egg before heading out for the day.

At this point, I must interrupt myself and admit that I am not entirely au courant on the varieties of inanimate objects available to insert in one's orifices. However, from the subsequent details shared (Alas! If only it were possible to Janola one's brain) everyone present became experts in vibra-egg specifications. I tentatively Googled it later, and a website primly and unhelpfully described the item simply as "Most valuable treasure for women." Hence, I have started (I think wittily) referring to Mr Smith's wallet as my 'vibra-egg.' He is not amused.

Where was I? Oh yes. Thus, the Miss gaily spends many a day with her egg installed. The thought persisted that perhaps the egg was a present and unwelcome guest, and this rather put me off my creme brulee.

"Ugh," I murmured, "I'm sure it can't be good for one's bits to be in an eternal state of stimulation," but most of the ladies seemed rather impressed.

As I fear a sudden run of sales of vibra-eggs in Auckland, one fervently hopes their users pelvic-floor muscles are up to the job. The consequences otherwise don't bear thinking about.

Crisis

2007-10-08T06:48:00.000+13:00

Please excuse me while I have a personal crisis. Again. I had a similar one this time last year.

With boring regularity, as soon as the winter season starts shuffling off, with the reminder of time passing, another year grinding to an unsatisfactory close, I start to think – what have I done? The answer is always 'very little,' and I give myself a stern talking to, about how it is time to do something with one's life, apart from the bare minimum.

The years of my life are not recalled by any grand moments or great achievements, but by where I went, and what I bought. I can think to myself, "Oh yes, 2003. I went to Mexico." To some that may sound quite good, and it is, but it is no great feat to travel. When I said I wanted to do something bold with my life, a friend suggested I go sky-diving. I said that, in theory anyway, a comatose person could be strapped to a parachute and pushed out of a plane, and my idea of 'bold' would have to be something beyond the capabilities of the unconscious. But what? There is a great burden to ambition without talent.

The smallness of one’s life seems a little claustrophobic at times, but I suspect I would feel like this no matter what I was doing.

Parsley

2007-10-04T06:24:00.001+13:00

In between bouts of sunshine and hail yesterday, I noticed beds of parsley in Aotea Square.

Makes me think of my dear Grandfather, who used to grumble about Grandmother's ranks of roses, as he thought it not worth planting unless it could be eaten (I think living through a few world wars makes one funny in the head. Grandmother - I believe - made rose-petal jam one year to shut him up).

I find it a curious choice of plant for the inner-city, although the local homeless contingent will be pleased to have a ready supply of garnish to accompany their a la bin meals.

Advice

2007-10-02T09:31:00.000+13:00

A dear reader and fellow blogger, G-Man, has emailed me with a problem. The full, unabridged letter is available on his site, so do go read it. Below is a brief synopsis:

G-Man goes to pub, and is introduced to a scantily-clad girl who likes pole-dancing and communicates only in nasal grunts and table-banging.

The aforementioned gentleman is then introduced to another girl. She seems nice, but knows nothing about rugby. She only wants to be friends. G-Man replies he doesn’t want to be friends. Nice-girl has since texted him forty-eight times in a desperate plea for coffee. Nice-girl has friend ring up and scream abuse.

Mr G-Man concludes, "What's up with that? What the hell is wrong with these people? How can I get them to just leave me alone?"

Dear G-Man,

What a tragic tale of woe!

Once upon a time, Mr Smith and I had been invited to a party that neither of us were especially inclined to attend. I fussed and bothered over how to politely disentangle ourselves from the obligation – worrying that the excuses I came up with were weak, or unbelievable. Then Mr Smith came home.

"I ran into Mr X today," he said (Mr X being the host of the party in question).
"Oh no," I cried, "Did he ask if we were going to the party?"
"Yes," replied Mr Smith.
"What did you tell him?"
"I said we didn’t want to go."
I gasped. "You didn't! What did he say?"
Mr Smith shrugged. "He said 'no worries,' and that was it."

I have always admired the directness of men's language – while women will couch their sentiments in a frenzy of obtuse ambiguities, men will say a cheery "fuck off!" and be done with it. Such a very efficient and tidy way of going about life. Unfortunately for men, this directness is not a language women generally appreciate or comprehend. While you, G-man, were very frank and honest to the women in question – they did not understand what you were saying.

Thus – the question remains – how to get clueless limpets to bugger off and leave a man to drink beer and watch rugby in peace? I would suggest the following:

1. Paint a dreary picture of your prospects. Say, "Could I borrow a couple of hundred? Dole-day isn’t until Wednesday, and I need to pay the board at my hostel… I'll pay it back when I get a job. Actually, can you make it five hundred? The lads and I are off to a strip-club tonight, and I haven’t had a lap-dance in ages."

2. Perhaps they see you as playing hard to get. Ring Nice-girl, and propose marriage. Tell her that she’s the girl of your dreams, and that your mother has booked the reception hall already, and needs her to come over next Wednesday to pick centre-pieces and napkin designs. This could back-fire, I suppose, but would be interesting to try.

3. You should so have asked the table-banger for her number. Without the ability to think or communicate in a human language, she would never bother you with questions such as "What are you thinking?" or pointless arguments about whether you think she is fat.

Hope I have been of some help,

Cheers,
Mrs Smith

Notes

2007-10-02T06:40:00.000+13:00

Well, I am back. I left to have a respite from the bleak days of winter, and was satisfied that I left Auckland in a howling storm of thunder and lightning last Monday, and returned to the same yesterday. However, while I was away, the weather was apparently marvellous! Summer-like, I am told, and sufficient for dining outdoors at the viaduct. I am peeved. My sojourn was – given its purpose – an utter waste of time and money.

Also, my nose got a bit sun-burnt, and has turned a shade of brown that does not quite match the rest of my face. It is not a good look.

Voters on my poll seem to be, overall, on La Saunders' team. However, I shall declare both ladies joint-winners, in my gratitude for providing a bloody good laugh. More of the same, please.

Girlfight

2007-09-24T05:45:00.000+12:00

Well! It appears Fashion Week ain't over 'til the fat lady sings (or throws a glass of wine).

The Eighties is definitely back in style! We have the clothes, the models, now Dynasty-style girlfights. Normally I wouldn’t approve of such unfettered hurly-burly, but given the high-profile nature of the participants, I have obviously missed out on a hot new trend. I fully expect fashionistas and society mavens to be throwing glasses of wine and punches at every opportunity from now on. The sign of a successful party will be the number of guests who go home with blackened eyes and bleeding noses. How utterly thrilling!

So kids, whose team jersey are you wearing?

I have turned off the restriction of one vote per person, so feel free to cheat and fight dirty.

I am off somewhere fabulous for the week. I'll be back next Monday, so occupy yourselves with the poll until then.

Harsh

2007-09-24T05:27:00.000+12:00

My goodness! Now there are some interesting questions!

Fashion Finale

2007-09-22T06:19:00.000+12:00

Having spotted Chloe's fur sleeves, Kate cried, "Right on!" and with a few deft snips, she cut the sleeves off her mum’s old rabbit fur coat.

Left - Chloe, Right - Kate Sylvester
Has Eighties revivalism gone too far? We have the leggings, the shapeless silhouettes, the fluoro palette – now the models? Brigette Berger and Geeling Ng were wheeled out of the Withered Rose Home for Aged Models but should have been promptly wheeled back in again.

However, Lorraine Downes and Rachel Hunter still scrub up very nicely, although the curtain call came a bit too soon for La Hunter, who had to rush from the shower, in nothing but a towel and unshaved legs.

Scrub up nicely
I went to the public day on Friday, despite the shame of not having any leggings or satin circus tents to wear. I bought a Kagi cocktail ring at the designer garage sale – reduced from $480 to $95! Although, when I got home, I noticed that two of the pave diamantes had fallen out, which was mildly depressing.

I got to see a couple of current season fashion shows. The Lucie Boshier event was fun, although I was faint with altitude sickness, with my seat being 8,000 feet above sea level. There were familiar faces amongst the models, but with deep-vein thrombosis setting in, the only name I could recall was Amanda Peebles. My god, her breasts! Astonishing they were. I hope they are not couture, because I would like to get a pair just the same. There were a few technical difficulties with the music – but who cares about such things in Boshier-land! Here, women are beautiful sylphs in maximalist multi-hued polyester, with diamante-studded eye-lids and perky breasts, who look like they do nothing all day but eat cupcakes, have loads of sex, and bathe in champagne, possibly loads of sex while bathing in champagne. One of the models even stopped mid-way down the cat-walk to pash a handsome young man in the front-row.

Next up was Annah Stretton. Stretton-land is a more sober environment, populated by pale private-school girls as icy as the blue-grey palette. No cupcakes and sex here. In Stretton-land, the models are en-route to a polo-match in rosette-laden silks, where they would coolly fend off the Trust-Fund Charlie’s grabby hands, strangle him with their multitudinous ropes of pearls, and stow the body in the back of daddy’s Range Rover before going off to stamp in divots and pat the ponies. One of the girls, however, had an alarming gait, that made a few front-row people giggle. One wondered if she had a wooden leg, or a stone in her hoof. Another looked so thin and tired, one thought she should be promptly returned to the stable and given a big bucket of oats. I was close enough this time to confirm that yes! Models do get cellulite, although in a pretty, pleated organza kind of way.

Deja Vu

2007-09-19T09:23:00.000+12:00

Is plagiarism the new black?

To those of us (cough) who aren't on any guest lists to Fashion Wank, it doesn’t look like we are missing much. There is insufficient novelty to stave off the over-whelming sensation of deja vu.

Juliette Hogan's show started in reverse to the usual order, with all her models sent out together instead of at the curtain call. Innovative? Not so much. Marc Jacobs did the same thing for his Spring show.

Deborah Sweeney looks like she is channelling her inner Denise L’Estrange-Corbet, while her gold leggings/leather jerkin outfit looked like a cheap, shitty version of Balenciaga’s S/S 2007 offering.

I don't really need to point out which is which, do I?
Yvonne Bennetti – patent-leather trench coat? Seen it already with Lanvin, Valentino, and a host of others. Fringing? Prada. Stifled yawn.

Left - Lanvin, Right - Bennetti
There are many other outfits that have a distinct air of familiarity, but I can’t remember where I might have seen them.

Our local designers are coming across a bit like school-girls on a budget, who, thumbing through an old issue of Vogue, exclaim, “I could make that!” and whip out their mum's Bernina. While I am not saying NZ designers have been deliberately ripping off other’s ideas (actually, I guess I am), I think this is a bit embarrassing with regards to overseas buyers, who will also, surely, be suffering the same “Haven’t I seen this already?” malaise.

Additional Notes:
Everyone is doing leggings. And smocks.

Designer Salasi wins my prize for ugliest clothes ever.

Holy crap, is that a unitard?

Whoops!

2007-09-17T14:13:00.000+12:00

Liar, liar, XL pants on fire!

Plagiarism may save time, Glucina, but it's awfully embarrassing when you are caught doing it.

Answers

2007-09-17T07:24:00.000+12:00

Now for the answers to some of the questions received. Firstly, a few brief responses;

Evad – Yes, but don’t tell anyone.
Mark – A resounding slap for your impertinence.

Now for the more challenging queries:

I have one I have thought about from time to time but never asked anyone.
Butros Butros Ghali.
I mean, why? What was his mother thinking? Is he brother to Butros and Butros Butros Butros?
from Laughy Kate

Dear Laughy Kate,
I googled Mr BBG, and discovered that his grandfather was Butros Ghali, hence I imagine that a repetition of a name is the Egyptian version of 'Butros Junior.'

One hopes then, if this is true, that the Egyptians are imaginative with their name selection, as while eight English Kings called Henry can be readily distinguished by a Roman numeral (e.g., Henry VIII), the equivalent in this case would be Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Butros Ghali.

Which is silly, but I would expect no less from shifty foreigners.

Dear Mrs Smith
Please tell me what answer to give when people ask "so, what will you be selling?" Not knowing is making me look decidedly unprofessional.
Chur,
Martha Craig
Babylicious

Dear Martha,
With a business name like ‘Babylicious’ you could try replying, "Baby-flavoured sandwiches." It may not be a very professional answer, but that’s what you get for asking me.

Kia ora, Smithy
Here is my question pour vous:
Legendary Hollywood slutpants Tallulah Bankhead once said, "It's the good girls who keep diaries; the bad girls never have the time."
Substituting "blogs" for "diaries", do you find this is the case with respect to how often you update your blog?
Chur,
Robyn

Dear Robyn,
I kept a diary until I was nineteen, then didn’t resume jotting down my daily life until I started mon petite blog. Suffice it to say, by observing my own life, it appeared Miss Bankhead was right.

However, to further explore the Bankhead Equation (wherein Goodness correlates to frequency of diary/blog entries), I did some research, and found that in August, I wrote sixteen posts, while in the same month, Cactus Kate wrote fifty.

So I think that explodes that theory.

You didn't answer the question two posts below:
"I heard you like a cock sandwich?"
Well....?
from Seamonkey Madness

Dear Seamonkey Madness,
A good girl would say "no," a bad girl would say "yes." However, a wise girl would just evade answering.

Fog

2007-09-17T06:42:00.000+12:00

The seasons are turning - and mornings are wreathed in fog. Fog is like a good foundation, it hides the unpleasant blotches and spots, and makes the city look soft and pretty. I couldn't resist it on the weekend, and ran out the door for an early walk.

What a different world the city is before everyone else gets up! Ponsonby Road was almost deserted, save for the delivery men, the dairies opening, and an unusual number of women wearing Juicy Couture trackies out walking small dogs. People called out hello to each other, and smiled at those they didn't know - it was like being a member of some strange club that closes down as soon as the late-risers start to get out of bed.

But try getting a coffee! It wasn't worth trying the Dida's deli - I had once called in at 6.55am, only to be sternly told that I "should come back in five minutes, when we open." Five minutes! Go fuck yourself. However, the 'One 2 One' Cafe (at - surprise! 121 Ponsonby Road) was open at 6.30, despite a sign saying 7am. Now that's service.

Random assortment of photos I took along the way;

Questions

2007-09-13T08:11:00.000+12:00

I shall now open the floor to questions. I may be able to provide sage advice on all sorts of life's pressing problems. Go on - email me (link on the left).

If I am so inclined, I will post my answers tomorrow. Or perhaps next week - I'm very busy and important, you know.

Anonymity is assured, if so desired.

Disclaimer: It seems a good idea right now, but the truth is, I am quite unreliable. Answers cannot be guaranteed. I may have gone off the idea by tomorrow.

Spiky Red Thing

2007-09-13T07:26:00.001+12:00

The sculpture by the Nelson Street off-ramp doesn't do much for me. The yellow tips light up at night, which is slightly pretty, I suppose. It is meant to be a representation of a pohutukawa flower, but rather reminds me of a primary school art project involving pipe-cleaners.

Known locally as "The Spiky Red Thing," it even has it's own My Space page. Spiky Red Thing has 1952 friends! That's more than me, so it just goes to show that there is no accounting for poor taste.

Note: Spiky's friends include Rodney Hide, Aja Rock, and Robyn; shame on you all.

Text

2007-09-13T07:12:00.000+12:00

Received an odd text yesterday evening. "I heard you like a cock sandwich," was the message. I didn’t recognise the number. "What?" I texted back, with no reply.

In a rage, I rang the number. A man answered. He sounded young, Polynesian.
"Why did you text me about a cock sandwich?" I demanded. "Who are you? Where did you get my number?"

He laughed. "I don’t know what you're talking about, lady," he said, sounding genuinely surprised, then hung up.

It’s very curious. For no particular reason, I suspect Mrs L is behind this.

Fashion

2007-09-11T07:40:00.000+12:00

Tickets for Fashion Wank have gone out, and there has been much gnashing of porcelain crowns from those whose letter-boxes have remained resolutely empty. But not me. My teeth are au naturel. Also, I never expect invites to anything anymore – I have made far too many enemies to get invited to the good stuff, and have far too much pride to go anywhere that does stoop to invite me. "One gets what one deserves," as Mother would say, the frightful cow.

Mrs N was parading the contents of her goodie bag, and mentioned that she had an extra ticket. I perked up. Trelise has really picked up her game lately; no more lurid circus tents with mutton-leg sleeves – last season she made some things I would actually wear (and do). But no – she is taking her husband. This is quite unfair. His suits are shiny with age and he probably thinks Costume National is what the Maoris wear.

Still – one must be gracious. I understand room is limited, what with all the space the front-row will need for their walker-frames and colostomy bags.

Online, one can find out what one will be missing. Nom D is using loads of black (Quelle surprise!), and Deborah Sweeney is channelling ZZ Top (large ginger beards on all models, I assume).

Meanwhile, State of Grace has been stirred by Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ (bloodied eye-sockets are to be the Next Big Thing), and Karen Walker has been inspired by racing jockey attire and maternity wear – so expect lurid circus tents with capped sleeves.

Sun

2007-09-07T09:39:00.000+12:00

Yes - I saw blue skies yesterday!

My retinas were scorched, not by the blinding glare of the sun, but by the acres of porridgey flesh on display, as many Aucklanders hit the streets in t-shirts and (in most cases, inadvisably) shorts.

P.S. Advice to all - when consulting with one's doctor, have discovered it's not advisable to ask if he can prescribe an alternative to BZP. Perhaps also, should not have referred to Slimfast as one's "happy pills." I got a half-hour grilling, and a referral to a psychiatrist.

P.P.S. Anyone know if Ritalin is any good?

Funeral

2007-09-05T06:35:00.000+12:00

I'm back. Forgive the unheralded departure; an elderly great-aunt did me the disservice of dying suddenly. This was annoying – I missed out on a really good shoe sale at Sybella.

Anyway, the Smiths thus shuffled forth from their various nooks, crannies, and snake pits for the funeral. I do not like funerals. One is expected to cry, and try hard as I might, the best I can do is make my eyes water a little, but the main reason I dislike them is the assemblage of the elderly. There, but for the grace of God, go my genes. There are an astonishing number of women of la famille in various stages of going bonkers. Really – I am not just being unkind. Fully-fledged, diagnosed dementia. Dementia is, I think, the cruellest thing.

One spinster aunt, having led a perfectly respectable and charming life (decades ago, she used to make babies christening gowns for Smith & Caughey’s), is now in a home, where she wears a stetson hat (not sure where that came from) and thinks other people’s closets are her toilet. Another seemed fine, and untouched by any mental malady, until one Christmas her nearest and dearest were surprised – to say the least! - when her carefully wrapped gifts contained certain items removed from her own body. I shan’t say anymore about that, but it was utterly disgusting.

Also went to a house auction that Mr and Ms W were keen on. A complete dump it was – probably one strong breeze away from falling over – and it got passed in at $1.6 million. Even I was surprised. Someone asked Ms W about the Baby Jesus (she is looking very large now), and she started talking in a loud voice about passing wind. Why do pregnant women always want to talk about such things? Several men within earshot moved away, so perhaps it was a clever technique to put off the other bidders, and not really a hideous lapse in propriety.

I see the rain has continued, unabated, in my absence. I am sick of it, and am going to go on holiday, somewhere nice and warm, free of deranged elderly (counts Parnell out!) and gaseous women. I just have to ~~nag~~ convince Mr Smith this is necessary.

Photos

2007-08-24T06:53:00.000+12:00

A random assortment of photos I snapped around Auckland City this week...

Tanks on Queen Street.

No - Aucklanders haven't decided to deal to Mayor Hubbard for once and for all. I was told they were there for a parade. I had no idea what the parade was for, but said that sounded like fun, and how I would love to join in the occasion and drive the tank.

Someone informed me later the parade was 'Boobs on Bikes'. That explained why the men giggled like girls when I volunteered my services.

More Component artistry on Ponsonby Road.

The latest L&P campaign, which I thought very funny.

Can't believe it's still legal to make jokes about junk food, the dole, and mothers who can't be arsed cooking (child abuse!).

Mood

2007-08-24T06:38:00.000+12:00

Mrs S has been a long-time, dear friend, but surely that will change, if her current mood does not.

Mrs S is never what one would call a 'laid-back' person, least of all when in her car. She is the sort who swears and shouts at other drivers – often lowering the window to do so - for (often imagined) traffic infringements, yet never seems to consider how her unvarying speed of 30 kms per hour might annoy others. She will barely crack 40 kms, even when on the motorway.

Her high-powered European car must quietly sob in its garage late at night, for the misery of a life half-lived.

Despite this, she is very good fun. But not yesterday. I began to think, one of us has gone quite mad, and I do so hope it's not me.

So. We were in the car, and I was navigating. I am quite good at this, I think. I do not shriek "turn left now" at the last possible moment. My instructions are generally quite unambiguous, like, "Come off the next motorway exit, turn left, then continue straight ahead." Mrs S dutifully came off the next motorway exit, turned left, then got into a left-turn only lane.

"Er, we are meant to go straight ahead here," I volunteered, wondering which part of "straight ahead" sounded like "turn left again."
Mrs S rolled her eyes.
"Oh," she said, in tones that intimated my incompetence was unquestionable, "bit of a communication break-down there." She rolled her eyes again.

And so it continued, with every word I uttered scrutinised and found lacking, yet the meaning entirely ignored.
Standing at a counter, I gazed at a collection of Clarins products.
"What are you thinking?" she hissed.
Even doing nothing was annoying to her.

I finally made it home. Mrs S came in briefly, said hello to Mr Smith, who grunted a cursory acknowledgement from his computer without looking up.
"What's Mrs S on?" he asked, after she had left.
I collapsed in a chair.
"The end of a sharpened stick, if she continues like that. She was an utter bitch all day."
"She's on something," he said.
"Well, she's on a diet, so probably diet pills of some sort."
"Hmmm." Mr Smith looked unconvinced.

She has porked up lately, so my money is on diet pills. However, if she continues in her current mood, being fat will be the least of her problems. I will push Mrs S into the path of an oncoming vehicle, and I will make sure it is one doing more than 30kms an hour.

Spring?

2007-08-22T07:13:00.000+12:00

The sun showed its face long enough yesterday to make one think Spring might be on its way. I went to the Auckland Domain - one of my favourite places - to just sit and have a cup of coffee. It was really nice.

But then the clouds rolled back in, and it was rather cold and crappy again. I am not a fan of winter at all.

Green

2007-08-21T07:33:00.000+12:00

Was looking up something on the Green Party website, when I spotted this photo.

Hmmm. I think Jeanette needs to invest in a decent haircut, and some lip-gloss.

Boring

2007-08-21T07:09:00.000+12:00

What a dull week I have had. The weather is miserable, and activity on the social front-lines is minimal. Thus, I have little of substance to report (if, indeed, I ever do).

Who says Auckland has a man-drought? I passed SPQR last Wednesday, and there were two well-heeled gentlemen, sitting pensively at separate tables, drinking glasses of red wine. Went to Galbraith's Alehouse on the weekend (wet and sodden Sundays call for beer), and lo! No less than three gentlemen, drinking alone, reading books.

Get your best knickers on, Singletons, there are men ripe for the picking.

Sweat-shop labour and cheap, mass-produced goods - Ponsonby is becoming our own 'Little China.' All that is lacking is some dog-meat (no jokes about the All Blacks WAGs, please).

Far from being a stalwart stronghold of food and fashion, it is being infiltrated by nasty rubbish (I’m referring to the retail version of such, not the human kind, without which Auckland would be as dull as Wellington).

The hardware shop has gone, and has been replaced with some kind of 'two-dollar' shop monstrosity, a depressing accessories business down the Three Lamps end is openly flogging fake handbags (if Prada ever made anything as awful as what is in the window, Miuccia would be put in an institution), and the Goldmine warehouse has been happily pedalling its shonky cack for at least a year now.

Also, have discovered the secret to how local models keep their svelte figures – they can't afford to buy food! One young lady confessed that Karen Walker pays her models with a hundred-dollar clothing voucher to her own (sweat) shop. One hundred dollars! Goodness. That wouldn't even get one a t-shirt.

No wonder they are crying in her latest ad campaign.

Like

2007-08-17T14:49:00.000+12:00

A Few Of My Favourite Things...

1. I really like these tops, made by Locher's, a shop in Paris.

2. A Chanel bangle engraved with the message "L'elegance, c'est la ligne." My French is très crap, so I think it translates as "Elegance, it is a straight line" (??) This sounds appalling silly, so everyone who knows better, please let me know what it means.

3. Just as well Dr Gregory House is a fictional character, because I am fairly sure I could be arrested in several countries for the things I would like to do to him. Woof woof!

4. Stronger by Kanye West is currently my absolute favourite song. The line where he quotes Pamela Anderson, "...that [which does not] kill me, can only make me stronger" is brilliant. However, I'm bound to be caught quoting, "So how the hell could you front on me? There's a thousand you's, there's only one of me."

Too right.

Licked

2007-08-17T14:07:00.000+12:00

The Media Girl has an odd way of starting a conversation.

"Do you watch porn?" she asked.
This wasn't addressed to me, but to Mr Smith, so I naturally became rather interested in where she planned on going with this tête-à-tête, and whether to make a witty contribution of a stiletto heel through her foot.

Fortunately for her foot, it wasn't an invitation, but the start of an anecdote about certain predilections she shared with her flat-mates.
"I like being licked from behind," she concluded, cheerfully.
"How lovely," I murmured, "a truly delightful story. Quite heart-warming. Perhaps you ought to put it on your profile page."

She rolled her eyes. Instead of her foot, I imagined a Miu Miu spike through her bloated head, and her whizzing around the room like a deflating balloon. It was a satisfying thought.

I mean, really. What is wrong with the old standards of conversation-starters, like the weather? Dull, perhaps, but at least talking about the rain never made one lose one's appetite.

Sharing what one likes having done to one's nether-regions, should wait until you have known someone a little longer. Like an hour, at least.

Needy

2007-08-14T07:57:00.000+12:00

I remember one time in science class at school, doing something with magnets. Being a resoundingly mediocre student, I didn’t understand what the point to the class was, but was fascinated by how the magnets would repel each other if their same poles were aligned. Moving one magnet closer to the other, would force the other to slide quickly out of range.

Perhaps it was the joint I had smoked in the toilets before class, but to me this was a simple yet perfect metaphor for human relationships, and even now, years later, the image of that sliding magnet often springs to mind.

(I just re-read that paragraph. Am now quite sure the joint was to blame. Therefore, should probably keep my later cocaine-fuelled insights on ants to myself.)

When I hear the Barbra Striesand song, "People who need people, are the luckiest people in the world," I feel a sharp surge in irritation. Not just for the cheap, hideous sentimentality of the lyrics, but for what I see as being a mental illness sublimated in song.

The Tedious Acquaintance had rung, and we had a brief conversation (I am not one much for telephone conversations, so with me they are inevitably brief). However, every time I attempted to wrap the call up, she would blurt out some disjointed question, or half-witted and dull anecdote.

"I really must go," I said finally.
"Oh, please don't," she said in a small voice, "please stay and talk to me. I'm lonely."
My brain veritably fizzed in my head. I could see the magnet sliding across the table.
"Only stupid people get lonely," I hissed, "if you are capable of holding a thought in your head, there is no excuse for loneliness. There should be plenty in there to keep you busy."
"Don’t you ever get lonely?"
“Never. Go take some drugs, or read a book, or something.”

Of all the unappealing traits that my fellow humans can manifest – neediness is the worst, an utterly selfish act. Who would really want company given for the sake of guilt or obligation? Is company grudgingly granted really better than none at all?

Kitty

2007-08-10T08:33:00.000+12:00

Misbehaving Thai police are issued with 'Hello Kitty' armbands .

Apparently, tartan armbands were trialled, but proved popular rather than punishing. Can't imagine why - tartan has been passé since at least the late nineties.

Dumb

2007-08-10T07:48:00.000+12:00

The furore over a lecturer’s email to a student – telling her she lacked the requisite skills for the degree she was studying - reminded me of a party I was at a few months ago.

A certain gentleman, Mr D, known for his investments in the local real estate market, had decided, as so many men of his age do, to dabble in foreign female property as well. He proved to be quite successful in his dealings with Russian Blondes and South American Brunettes, but his investment in a more exotic model proved less profitable.

I recognised her straight away; she has been on the cover of a fashion mag, and been seen lurking in the background of the 'About Town' social pages. Her body was astonishing – legs like stilts, and an arse that looked like Pamela Anderson was stuffed down the back of her trousers. However, despite her apparent genetic superiority, she was thick to the point where a surgeon might feasibly declare her brain-dead.

I attempted to strike up a conversation with her.
"I am at university," she said.
"Really? What are you studying?"
"A bachelor."
"A bachelor of what?"
"A bachelor."
"Yes. Quite. What is your major?"
She shrugged.

Mr D joined us.
"So, I hear X is studying at university."
He laughed. "I know. Sad, isn't it? It would seem that the Creator spent so much time making that incredible arse, he ran out of time to install a brain."

I must have looked startled – after all, she was standing right there.

"It's okay," he said, "say what you like. If you talk fast enough, she doesn’t understand a word you are saying. In fact," he continued, drawing long on his cigar in a thoughtful way, "you don’t even have to speak fast. Just use some words of more than two syllables."

Could this really be an indicator of what standards we have for international students here? If so, I think Dr Buchanan’s email was an exercise in sublime restraint. He should have been promoted, not fired.

Tofu

2007-08-09T17:06:00.000+12:00

I'm off the Slimfast, so have had to look to other ways to prevent my thighs taking over the world. The Koreans and the Japanese have the lowest rates of obesity in the world, just 3.2% of the population are obese, as compared to the USA, which comes in a big fat first at 30.6%, or New Zealand at seventh place with 20.9% of the population popping their shirt-buttons (Can we really be that bad? I blame all the Pacific Islanders for skewing the results).

So, I thought the Japanese must know what they are doing, and bought "The Japan Diet, The secret to effective and lasting weight loss," by Naomi Moriyama.

Not only am I guaranteed to be healthier (pah) and slimmer (yes!), but rule number six, is "Be gentle to your food." This translates as cook the ingredients as little as possible. This is excellent, as I can't cook anyway.

However, the price for being healthier and slimmer may be divorce. Mr Smith quailed at the sight of last night's entrée – 'Firm tofu with spring onions,' a title that cleverly summarises the entire list of ingredients.

God knows what he will make of what's on offer tonight – dinner includes sautéed beetroot and miso soup with wakame (seaweed).

Too freaking bad. I’m on to G&T number three and am beyond caring.

Hate

2007-08-07T09:40:00.000+12:00

There is a woman in a local shop who appears to hate me.

Neither hate nor love are emotions I throw around too often; most things and people are far too mediocre to inspire such extremes. Perhaps it is just me – the depth of my Hate is a deep, dark place, with villainous thoughts of inflicting harm lurking in shadowy corners, so could never be applied to brussel sprouts or the colour red (I like both, incidentally).

Love, too, is rarely applied. Not because I possess a hard lump of stone for a heart (I probably do, but that’s irrelevant), but because I again dislike the idea of a powerful emotion being tagged to the mundane. Love becomes luuurve. Women who squeal with bulging eyes, "Oooh! I just luuurve those shoes!" make me think they must have a really rotten sex life. If one knows the feeling of really sweaty, dirty, animal-sex, then how could one possibly get so red-faced and excited about some straps of Italian leather? An exception would be for the sort applied with some vigour to a bare bottom.

Yes. I like shoes. But I am capable of selecting them with as much passion as if I were purchasing a box of tampons.

While on the subject, I despise (see! I avoided the 'H' word) the term 'making love.' It sounds far too tidy and sanitised to properly describe the act.

The woman in the shop. She really does seem to hate me – and quite irrationally so. I am not saying that it is unusual for me to inspire such a feeling, far from it (ha ha!), but really. Dishing out hate without giving me the opportunity of meriting it is just rude.

She glares at me, and whispers comments behind her hand to the other shop assistant, who, bless her, has the grace to look mortified, and becomes increasingly polite and deferential in precise proportion to the amount of bile leaking out of the other one.

I was trying on a jacket. I sighed.
"I do like it," I said, "but I did promise my husband only yesterday I was going to try to cut back on spending. I usually give it a week before I break a promise."
She smirked.
"It's not exactly expensive, is it?" she said, with a reasonable, yet unconvincing attempt at private school vowels. "Hardly more than buying one from Ezibuy."

Goodness! I was about to say, quite honestly, "I wouldn't know," but realised it would sound retaliatory - as if her opinion of me mattered. I bought the jacket anyway.

It's really very tedious. I would never bother hating someone who works in a shop. You have to be far more important to earn that honour.

Thoughts

2007-08-03T11:21:00.000+12:00

Oh unhappy day! Knowing that BZP is to be become illegal, I kept meaning to stop by the chemist to stock up on my Slimfast. But alas – I procrastinated too long. No Slimfast is left! All sold out. Well, there is the new herbal variety, which the chemist insisted is just as good. I do not believe this for a moment.

As no doubt everyone has heard by now, hospitals are going to ask women the following questions to gauge if they have been the victims of domestic violence. Answering “yes” to at least one of these will be a potential indicator of abuse.
Has anybody hurt or threatened you?
Have you ever felt controlled or always criticised?
Have you been asked to do anything sexual that you didn’t want to do?

Guffaw! In my neck of the woods, answering "yes" to all of these questions, would indicate you’d had the usual sort of night out with the girls.

Wondering if Mrs Kirkpatrick needs a new pair of dentures? Either that, or her mouth has been glued shut. Smile, love. It might never happen.

Strange

2007-08-03T07:52:00.000+12:00

Something rather strange happened to me the other night.

Doesn't one’s brain curdle in one’s head whenever someone utters those fateful words! One just knows some tediously un-strange incident is about to be told in horrifyingly long-winded detail. Not as bad, however, as when someone starts off with "I had this really weird dream last night…" and then proceeds to tell it in minute detail. Who cares if there were puppies flying in the sky that then turned into giant shoes made of butter? It never happened.

Anyway. The incident was strange, but it did happen, and horrifyingly long-winded detail is my style. So suffer.

A group of us had stopped off at a bar for a post-dinner sherry. Sherry was my idea. Someone pulled a face, but I nonchalantly said "Sherry is what all the cool kids are drinking these days." The bartender pointed out that sherry was increasing in popularity amongst the middle-aged set, "You know, like people in their thirties." Thirties! Middle-aged! Get your tongue ready, young man, you are kissing your tip a fond farewell.

I went outside for a cigarette. It was raining heavily, the sky dark. Someone passing by asked for a light, then moved on, and I was by myself, looking in at my friends inside.

"They’re bad for you, you know."
I turned, and saw a tall man in an precision-cut black suit standing next to me.
"Smoking makes you look cool," I replied with irritated terseness.
"I wasn't talking about the cigarettes," he said, and he turned his head, and looked into the bar. He was looking at my friends.

My blood ran a little cold. He walked away without giving me a second look. I looked up at the bar sign above, noted its meaning, and couldn’t help but feel I was acting in a movie, and this was the scene which predicted bad things that were to come.

Navas

2007-08-01T10:19:00.001+12:00

In my few cafe reviews, I have refrained from writing about my regular haunts, as I wouldn't like to think that I might run into some of the horrid riff-raff that read my blog. However, I shall make an exception this time, for a Malaysian cafe that I visited for the first time this week, and think is going to be new favourite place to dine. If I relied on my own cooking, I would have died of scurvy years ago, so I assure you, as someone who dines out regularly, this place is a cracker.

Navas, 14 Ponsonby Rd, Ponsonby, Auckland
Lunch: Mon - Fri 11am - 2pm
Dinner: Mon - Sat 6pm - 10pm

It's not a fancy restaurant by any means, quite humble in appearance but nothing better lighting couldn't fix. I mean, look at bars like Mea Culpa - just a concrete shell, really, but with dim lighting, it takes on a suitably urbane mood.

It's located down the shitty end of Ponsonby Road, so an ideal locale to meet friends for dinner, before hitting the bars down the other end.

I had a lovely fish curry, but found I could not leave Mr Smith's lamb curry alone. I do so hate it when people eat off each other's plates, but I don't suppose it counts with one's husband, and anyway, it was the lamb's fault for being so irresistable. Oh, Lamb curry. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

Also followed the Herald's advice and had the Sago pudding. Yes! It really is that good.

I am so determined you should all go at once, I have even thoughtfully provided a map.

Go. Now. I command you.

Black

2007-08-01T09:43:00.000+12:00

In New Zealand, "All Blacks" does not just refer to our national rugby team, it also describes the contents of most women’s wardrobes.

There are few women here who could go an entire week without their favourite black outfits, or if told to wear an outfit with no black at all, would not be able to leave the house.

I do like black – used judiciously it is always a chic shade to wear. However, visitors to the country must wonder what national calamity we are in eternal mourning for.

I ran into a friend in the city last week, and mentioned how I had just been tooted at by two truck drivers (a sure sign of impending middle-age when such attention is considered secretly thrilling rather than outrageously rude).

"It was probably because you were standing in the road," said the friend rather uncharitably, I thought.
"No I bloody well wasn't. It was entirely complimentary. And given I was bundled up in winter layers, I think it was because I wasn't wearing black. Wearing colour, I stood out like a beacon. A really hot beacon," I added haughtily.
"I mean, look," I continued, waving a hand towards the street. "A sea of black. They’ll never get tooted at by truck-drivers, because they just blend into the tarmac. They look like part of the road."

For special occasions, some brave ladies fight the All Black tendency, and choose a pretty frock in a becoming shade – then fail at the last hurdle, and plonk on a pair of black shoes and handbag, under the misguided belief that "Black goes with everything." It doesn’t, and it devalues the look of both the outfit and its wearer. In other words, it looks cheap.

Eeeeeeeee!
If, for a special occasion, one decides to wear a black dress, don’t spend any time choosing it. Just grab the first one you see. In black, no-one will notice you anyway.

Forget the rising tide of P addiction – we need to wean women off their black fashion safety blankets. The Dark Ages are over.

Holiday

2007-07-30T08:52:00.000+12:00

Hello all! Forgive my absence, I know you have been bereft without me. I could hear the gnashing of teeth and rending of clothes all the way over on Waiheke, where I have been sequestered for the week.

Mrs J has a place on the island, and offered it to Mrs S, who then invited everyone else to "pop by." Mr Smith has been pulling faces at me for the amount of spending I have been doing lately, so it seemed a good idea to travel far from the sweet siren call of mid-Winter sales, and go rural for a while.

It's nice to occasionally live simply, and have to fend for oneself, living off the land. But how one struggles! While there are plenty of places to fill the old nose-bag, there are no decent bars within staggering distance at all! How primitive. One actually had to mix one's own G & T. And the spa-pool was of the meanest proportions, forcing everyone into the closest proximity, which could explain why Mr S’s hand mistakenly ended up on thighs that did not belong to his wife.

Thankfully, Ms W is pregnant (hush! No-one is meant to know!) and did not come, as she has transformed into the Sacred Vessel of Motherhood, and will not spend any time around people who are drinking, as drinking people sometimes smoke, and the faintest whiff of smoke may forever taint the Guaranteed Genius-ness of the Baby Jesus she is bearing.

One had been thinking uncharitable thoughts about the impending Baby Jesus (I do not wish to hear in any detail about what stage of cellular development it is at), but now see there are advantages to it.

If only she were pregnant more often, or had an elephant-like gestation period.

The rest of the company was a mixed bag. Some new people, Mr and Mrs Z - I can't remember their names, so Z (short for Zzzzz) will have to suffice. He stayed a day, then left us to baby-sit his spouse. She was bearable I suppose, if one didn’t mind blood congealing in one’s veins every time one caught sight of her face. He made discreet enquiries as to whether anyone had brought a helicopter, which no-one had – so I suppose this meant he felt safe to do whatever he planned to do without his wife walking in unexpectedly. A special treat for him, perhaps, to have sex without employing the use of a paper-bag over his partner’s head.

The last night there was a good one – at least I imagine so, as I can’t quite remember it. I woke up, fully clothed, but missing a shoe (found later in a bush outside). Someone else, however, woke up fully clothed, but missing their underpants (never found), which might be worrisome, but it was Mrs L, so unsurprising really.

Anyway, back to civilisation now. I need a break from my holiday.

Days...

2007-07-20T09:58:00.000+12:00

There are days when one knows exactly how that kitten feels...

Steal

2007-07-20T08:34:00.000+12:00

I am not sure how it came up, but had been talking about Naughty Things Done In One's Youth, which turned to stealing, and who had, and what it was they had stolen.

I admitted that when I was a teenager living in London, I stole a sixty-pound smoked salmon from a delicatessen on Sloane Street, by shoving it down the back of my tights. Someone thought that seemed a rather heavy thing to shove down one's tights, so I had to explain sixty pounds was not what it weighed, but what it was worth – and it while it was rather large, I had a bulky winter coat on, so as long as I stood up straight and didn’t move too fast, it wasn't all that difficult.

"A salmon? In your tights?"
"It was shrink-wrapped," I sighed.
"What would one do with a sixty-pound smoked salmon?"
Oh god. "I befriended it, and together we roamed the world, carefree and in love, until a tragic accident during a bungee-jump in Las Vegas."
Blank look.
"I ate it, of course, which is why I had also thought to steal three packets of Philadelphia cream cheese while I was about it."

Despite the odd looks, I had thought it an excellent story, and better than their ones of petty school-girl pilfering (although one had stolen quite a lot of designer clothes from her employer – but I didn't think that was at all nice. Clothes are personal. I don't think anyone had a personal attachment to my dear smoked salmon).

Ms W primly claims to have never stolen anything, which is utter rubbish, as before she was married, she made a regular habit of stealing boyfriends and husbands. Due to personal attachment, I would put men in the same category of clothes, so do not wholly approve, although as she returned the men when she was done, perhaps it wasn’t stealing so much as borrowing.

I felt my story qualified me as rather the dashing desperado, until much later, when my salmon was trumped by an art-theft. T, a quiet girl, who with doll-like blue eyes and blonde curls, looked as much a criminal as a Dresden figurine.

"I stole a Picasso," she piped up.
Well!
"Not that big a deal, really. It was just a drawing."
House-sitting in NY. She and her friends traded in the drawing for cash and cocaine, had a great weekend (which culminated in them trashing the apartment), then they all legged it to Europe.

I was a bit jealous. A Picasso! But then, you can't eat a Picasso, so I still think my salmon the winner.

Winter?

2007-07-20T07:10:00.000+12:00

What winter? The weather this week has been quite marvellous. More like spring, in fact.

Bit of a shame really. My fur coats may have to stay in the wardrobe this season.

Link

2007-07-17T07:47:00.000+12:00

I caught a bus! And it was just as horrid as I imagined it would be.

Why would I catch a bus? The why isn’t very interesting, so a brief synopsis would be that I was meeting Mrs S for lunch in Parnell, and she insisted that catching the Link bus would be a good idea, as we should all be using our cars less anyway because of global warming. I pointed out that driving with the air conditioner on would negate any warming effect my car might have on the globe.

"It would only take ten minutes to get there if I took the car," I grumbled, "How much warmer will the globe get in that time?" But she was insistent. I had banking to do first, so got Mr Smith to drop me off on Queen Street.

Finding a bus stop was hard enough! Queen Street is a building zone (again), so all the bus-stops were closed. I eventually found one hiding down by Fort Street.

11.50 am. A Link bus comes. I hail it. The driver sails past, and stops at the lights, a few metres away. I run after it, and knock at the door. He jabs his meaty, minimum-wage hoof in the direction of the bus-stop. "I was at the fucking bus-stop," I politely point out. He shakes his head. I thoughtfully show him my beautifully manicured middle-finger, and suggests he perform a particular act upon himself, presuming he has the requisite genitalia to do so.

12.10pm. Another bus comes. According to the schedule, Parnell should only be three stops away! Hurrah!

12.17 pm. We are now outside Sky City. It has taken us seven minutes to travel 500 metres. Why are we heading the wrong direction? Half the population of Saudi Arabia piles on to the bus.

12.25pm. We arrive in Ponsonby. I think of making my escape to home and car, so tantalizingly near, but the solid wall of bellowing Muslims means escape is impossible.

12.28pm. Through the greasy film on the windows, I see people driving their cars. I am sure there are more people on the roads than usual, flaunting their cars. They are mocking me.

12.36pm. Sweet baby Jesus! We are back on Queen Street! Realize now I must be trapped in some loop in the time-space continuum. Must keep morale up. Tear cloth strips off my A/X shirt to make a head band, and start a camp-fire by rubbing two lip-sticks together.

12.40pm. Am in a severely weakened state. My bottle of Evian is empty. Armed with a nail-file, I go in search of food. I spy a suitably plump young animal, but its mother glares at me.

12.50pm. According to earth time, it has been an hour since I was waiting at a bus-stop. Oh! What innocent care-free days! In the space-time continuum however, three years have passed. My clothes are ragged, I have violent pains in my head, and am feverish. The end is surely nigh.

1.11pm. Parnell! I am here!

I greet Mrs S with grimy, tear-stained face. Having been so long without human company, I have lost the ability to speak, and can only make grunts and whistles. Through this mode of communication, with hand-gestures, she understands I need wine, and much of it.

I share my tale of woe.
"Poor you!" she said. "You caught it going the wrong way. You should have got on the opposite side of the street. I’ll give you a lift home."
"You brought your car?"
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and said nothing.

Hurrah!

2007-07-17T07:08:00.001+12:00

Auckland's sharply superior society scribe, Ms Saunders, wrote some jolly nice things in her Sunday Star Times column. Thanks so much!

Note: "$18,500 for a TV? Is there anything on TV worth that kind of investment?" wasn’t actually written by me, but by Mark, but we’ll just keep that to ourselves, I think.

Everyday Etiquette

2007-07-13T06:57:00.000+12:00

Mr Smith reminded me yesterday that I had invited friends over to dine with us tonight. Oh my – true friends indeed, to know what culinary horrors await, yet accept the invitation anyway.

There is a reason why we eat out so often. After a few glasses of wine, my cooking ability flees like a frightened child from the violent wrath of an alcoholic mother. At the last dinner, the main course rudely announced its presence with the smell of burning. I panicked, turned off the oven, having forgotten about the desserts, which remained almost entirely raw.

At this point one is thankful for having a plentiful supply of good wine, as one’s guests will (hopefully) be rendered physically insensible to what is served them.

However, I found a delightful book, this week; Everyday Etiquette by Clifford Montrose (published in 1935), with advice for the success of ‘A Small Dinner Party At Home.’

In the first place, choose your guests wisely – that is, see that they are congenial. Don’t attempt to include Mr A on account of his social position when you know that there is a possibility that he may bore all others by his airs of superiority or condescension.

Absurd! If that rule were adhered to, I’d never get invited anywhere.

In a section sternly capitalised; THINGS THAT ARE NOT DONE, we have some directives that are as valid today as they were seventy-two years ago.

Loud argument is always a sign of lack of breeding.

If her escort is late for an appointment, a lady should never reprimand him in front of other people. Smile pleasantly whatever your feelings may be.

You will never make people believe that you’re a person of consequence by incessantly grumbling at, and bullying, waiters.

Persons who use a nail file or toothpick otherwise than in a dressing-room can scarcely expect to be numbered among the good-mannered.

All readers are cordially invited to add their own advice to the list.

Psychic

2007-07-12T12:57:00.000+12:00

I don't believe in psychic clap-trap at all, but "Champion astrologer-tipster" Don Murray has something very interesting to say;

Seems to be lots of high-profile broads getting busted for "P" of late. Latest is an heiress to millions who was sprung with a P lab in her Remuera home. Strange how she's eventually gonna inherit millions from the alcohol industry but makes P her drug of choice. The downhill slide began when her boyfriend, known as "Meth You" in some circles, ditched her for another. Ms Heiress retaliated with a vengeance and absolutely trashed Meth You's waterfront apartment....

Hmmm...