oh and ...

stay tuned for reality tv show blogging. If the guests don't turn up there will be time for commentary on Alpha males go wild in the pirates show aka Everything that is wrong with Matthew Ridge - that's for you, AbD. And oooooh boy, hey Rudi.

the gates of hell are close

by. It explains all the flies in my house. And before you say anything, not just my house, Palmengrad is swarming with these devil's henchmen. I just went medieval on their flying asses with the spray, something that I am actually usually quite opposed to, but enough already.

So househunting continued today ... a railwayman's cottage. Very cute hundred year old villa with a little verandah but I was sensible enough to take an advisor this time. And as soon as we hit the kitchen she said get out of here now. So back to the original plan of waiting for one on Savage to come up ... I'm not so good at waiting though.

I drunkenly invited some people for tea tonight. I shouldn't have. I should be working ... and the evil flushing mechanism on my toilet ... the cistern of hell? ... has gone wonky as it always does when I am expecting visitors. I being drunk at the time, only remembered by chance this morning about inviting them, so I am not sure if they have remembered at all. I have left a message on their phone, and now don't know whether I should prepare all the tasty treats or not ...

I guess I could have lots of vegan leftovers, if you are up for any ...

big ho

me owner.



I went house hunting yesterday. Though kinda on the down low. I was sort of accompanying a colleague who is looking for a new house, but with the vague understanding that I might be interested. I have been slow coming to the idea of homeownership. It seems like a weight around the neck more than anything else and to be honest I never thought I would earn enough that the lady bankers wouldn't scoff down there silk scarf wrapped throats at the thought of a mortgage for me. But it turns out that I might be earning enough to get myself into ridiculous debt.





I have the self awareness that I am not a do-er upp-er-er and have not the supposedly kiwi diy dna but it would be nice to live without that GODDAM red paint in the living room.



My only problem is that there are only two streets in this town that I want to live in, and the people living here (yes the Sav is one of them) don't seem to move a whole lot. Apparently a lovely lady died just round the corner, so we went and had a look at the carnage she had wreaked when she was feeling a little more spry ... circa late sixties by the look of the carpet and the drapes. This beautiful 30-40s state house with rimu and matai floors had all of its original features ripped out - the doors replaced with that beer-bottle coloured textured glass and one of those rubbery concertina doors. She had also made little curtains to hang over such offences as the wardrobe doors and even over the fusebox!

what happens to the rat that stops running the maze?

The doctors think it's dumb but it's just disappointed...

Yes more nostalgia music buying. I am trying now to resist an Afghan Whigs restock. A week of unrelenting stress, angst and to admit to you all anger, well just a little. The weekend again and here I am in the kitchen thinking music of the early nineties. Talked on the phone for over an hour with C.C in Sydney, which was great, trans-Tasman gossip lines though. And it looks like NYC for 40th birthday ... any takers?

On the surface this weekend is stretching out into a silent and empty few days, before the clients return on Monday .... for another short week ... anzac day ... but underneath it all will be the nagging suggestion of work to be done, bedrooms to be tidied and the like. I am going to go looking at houses with a colleague. Really for her, but secretly for me. I have never really wanted to be a home owner before. I guess though I am relenting to the Pakeha dream of owning land ... and if I don't do it now I will never get it into it.

I'm pretty picky too. There are really only a few streets I want to live in in this town, and even then only a few houses. In fact, I think I really want to own this house, but that's not an option. Open homes scare me ... hell as you know ... I can't really stand visitors. So being a stranger is some poor person's house, basically invited to judge their taste and decorating skills is a bit off-putting.

Well enough dullness ... Would you like to me blog on american idol/america's top model/dancing with the stars ?

I thought not.

nostalgic dressing

pays off. Against all predictions, dressing as you did circa 1986-1989 does not make you look tragic, or like some misguided ageing hipster. It makes you look younger. Cooler. During unsuccessful shopping outting I was handed a flyer for a rock and roll gig. I might just go.

shopping city terrors

So the old blog turned out to be a cleaning blog ... no wonder I abandoned it ... here's hoping this doesn't turn into a shopping blog ...

So its Easter Monday, which elsewhere in the civilised world means one thing ... SALES ... but here in Palmengrad, not so. You were hard pressed to find a cafe open. I having no food in the house and unable to express my identity through consumption since before Good Friday was planning on replacing those dear departed undies ... and some new shoes ... and something to read ...

But denied. All excited I left the house before nine, and headed into the ville, in time to see the bourgeois set up their Mercedes Benz club display ... Noting the shops were not yet ready for my perusal, I downed coffee ... and then another ... and then another ... I window shopped, I saw a great Maoist teapot set in a closing down sale, in a shop that couldn't be bothered opening up to close down ...

The bookshop opened. And had a sale ... on cookbooks. It was packed with ladies who lunch ... and probably don't cook. I came away empty handed after contemplating buying a replacement copy of Diski's skating to antarctica - the best autobiography slash travel writing I have ever read.

So empty handed was I, as I wandered home ... past the local Savemart ... not nearly as spectacular as the Wanganui effort. Still, a Pierre Cardin jersey for seven dollars ... that'll do nicely.

Vegas! .... well kinda

It is holiday time again, and the same battle between the police and garden centres is raging up and down the country. Apparently Gardening For Jesus is not an option ... though Smacking your Kids is a truly Christian thing to do ... Go figure ...

Anyways so it is the season of road trips again, and I headed out with Br and his Girlfriend to the second hand shopping mecca that is Wanga-Vegas ... hometown, but not birthplace of the Marvellous K. We stopped first in Marton, a pretty little town with a dark underbelly. It has the highest suicide rate in the country. We stopped in at a second hand hall to hone our skills for the bargains that awaited us further along the line. P bought a cute little skillet to heat seeds and nuts, and perhaps create the occasional frittata-for-one... I discovered we were also at the site of Rangitikei Country Music Club ... which may or may not be implicated in the aforementioned suicide statistic.

Perhaps, this perceived link explains, the demure, if not covert decoration of their hall.

Onwards, to the mighty Whanganui river, and out to the fallen down suburb with river views to behold the savemart, the largest I had ever seen, and with a carpark full of late model 4 wheel drives. Inside, we were the only neo hipster kids, the rest were poor and mainly brown, which suggests that the income is going into feeding the gas guzzlers outside. Anyways, we came a way with a bargain or two. I was especially pleased with a vintage navy silverdale cardigan with leather knot buttons ... in fact I am wearing it now. Five dollars well spent.

I am succumbing to nostalgic dressing once, again. Jeans white t and a cardigan takes me back to undergraduate days making melting polystyrene cups into "sculptures" and avoiding class.

In other clothing related news, I had to bid farewell to my two favourite pairs of underwear this week. One was given to me be the lovely E, and date from her reporting days... What makes us so attached to our clothes? Why are we ... perhaps men in particular ... reluctant to part with our ragged but loved favourites? Is it some identity we have invested in these vestments. Is throwing out the ragged-edged t or beloved undies the same as euthenazing a pet, or is it just the hassle of replacement, the awkwardness of shopping at the mall, and in my case buying new underwear off a young client?