For the last week, my husband has been rabidly unpacking boxes. He says it’s like Christmas because of my eccentric packing method and my failure in detailing all contents, resulting in oddities appearing amongst the expected.
Since moving in day, we have mostly had unseasonably warm days and blue skies. Australia’s March temperature records has been broken amidst reports of a delayed end to Summer.
Stan, our almost thirteen year old, fur baby, foodle is thoroughly enjoying being able to play fetch in the backyard as this blurry snapshot shows.
The commute to work takes about 60 minutes door to door. As I’m able to work half the time from home, only two days this week.
April is a great month because we have three public holidays. More time to enjoy our new home.!
Growing up in the UK, we always had pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. It was a big deal, celebrated at home and at school. I have vague memories of pancake tossing (as in flipping) races.
In our household, it was a token nod to the eating of vice-ridden food stuffs before giving them up for Lent, a forty day period of fasting before Easter.
The pancake batter was the same recipe as for Yorkshire Pudding; eggs, milk, water, flour. We had one large sized frying pan, the resulting pancakes were thin, lightly toasted deliciousness served sprinkled with lemon juice and granulated sugar.
Throughout our thirty years together, my husband and I have infrequently enjoyed pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. This year my husband surprised me with Donna Hay Vanilla Bean Pancake mix in a neat plastic container.
Shake the vessel. Add a beaten egg to the dry ingredients along with melted butter and milk. Shake until a smooth batter emerges.
The mixture yields eight 12 mm diameter sweet, fluffy, American style pancakes. Personally, I like vanilla in moderation and prefer savoury over sweet foods. We were disappointed because they were not the pancakes of our childhood memories.
The photo has nothing to do with Shrove Tuesday or pancakes. It is a record of a mad day when we bleached and died my hair. My resourceful husband made the horns from a cornflakes packet
This morning, I awoke with a start. In my sleep, I dreamt of staying in a house with a pool. It had been snowing, the pool appeared to be frozen.
I hobbled outside to test my weight on the ice. Of course it was thin, sinking into remarkably warm water, I swam around, fully clothed.
At length, I emerged and returned to the house. The dripping wet silver grey tracky dacks seemed to have dried, no squelching was observed.
In the kitchen diner, people who appeared familiar were busying themselves in assembling a fruit platter to accompany hot beverages.
My mother stood in the living room folding clean washing. ‘These are yours, Rob’, she said, indicating white socks with orange heels and toes.
After undressing, I stood in front of two wardrobes, the right was assigned to my brother. The left contained pressed, white cotton, long sleeved shirts on wooden hangers. Below three lidded boxes lay on their sides.
Whilst pulling the left one out, a memory flashed through my mind. I had spent $8k+ on three pairs of shoes. It was a buy now pay later deal. What will my husband say when I tell him? The cost would have to be covered from the proceeds of the house sale!
Feeling guilty, I gingerly, removed the white lid. Inside nestled a pair of highly polished, walnut coloured, round toed loafers. The soles extended about 5 mm all around. Disconcertedly noting no tissue paper protected them from scuffing in the box, I removed the shoe tree and put on the left one. The softest most comfortable Italian leather enveloped my foot.
A price sticker inside the right advertised $2399.99. I held my breath as I carefully put them away. A red sale sticker, I had not previously noticed, declared ‘reduced $1499.99’, not so bad, gulp.
The middle graphite box contained boxer style boots in old master sky blue, kid leather with graphite laces.
Latin for the rule of three; my husband’s favourite number.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Home Unusually for a Tuesday, I am taking a day’s leave. Our original plans have changed and there is a forecast for thunder storms.
We sold our house at the first open inspection, to a cash buyer. We arranged for a 60 days settlement period to allow time to find a new place. The weekend after the sale, we found a ‘late mid century modern’ (1980) house to buy.
In line with the terms of contract the building and pest inspection condition has been ticked off, only the finance approval to go. Fingers crossed this will occur by the end of the week.
Health This morning, we walked to one of the local supermarkets to buy supplies so that we could have scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast.
By the time we arrived at Morningside Plaza the recently diagnosed osteoarthritis in my right hip had slowed me down to a snail’s pace.
Knowing exactly where to find our loaf of choice, I headed to the bakery counter. A burly baker asked me if he could help me. I pointed to the racks of loaves behind him, requesting a white, sourdough Vienna. I thought he asked if I wanted ‘normal’ or ‘finest’.
At times my slight bilateral hearing loss leaves me unsure, so I said, ‘sorry?’ An equally proportioned woman sporting curly burgundy coloured hair flattened by an oversized dark brown hairnet shouted back, ‘HE SAID, NORMAL OR FINEST!’ She then went back to wiping down the stainless steel surfaces.
My ‘finest’ loaf was bagged and labelled after I refused the offer of it being sliced.
Hubris I exited the store into the shopping centre. While mulling over the fact I usually purchase discounted bread at the end of the day off the shelf without the need to interact with dubious assistants, I was confronted with a supersized picture of a tabby entitled ‘how’s your health’. Cogetating for a second or two, I thought there’s no vet in here. Then I saw ‘sugaring’ and ‘waxing’, I guessed the ad was related to beauty treatments.
Convinced others are seeing me as some sort of elderly idiot, I am now frightened my brain may be slowing down; quelle horreur!
On Thursday, I used two words, I seldom, if ever use, haywire and hullabaloo.
The former in relation to my new work laptop connecting to a landscape, wide screen monitor, after I returned from lunch. The mesmerising resizing action of Google Chrome browser and Microsoft Outlook windows appeared completely out of control.
The latter when describing havoc related incidents at large scale events.
Being the eighth* letter of the alphabet, I’m surprised I haven’t thought more about aitches.
My husband exclaimed, ‘don’t they know what amber means!’ as we encountered a second car speed through another set of traffic lights.
Another Amber Gambler*!
It was late afternoon on Monday, we were returning with a lime green, lemongrass zest fragrant candle from Dusk candle and homewares store. The advertising boasts ‘A refreshing mix of aromatic lemongrass, zingy citrus fruits and verbena for an exotic, uplifting fragrance. ‘ Close up my husband says it smells like creosote. Luckily when caught on a waft it smells devine.
This is the chosen aroma for our open house scheduled for Saturday morning from 8:45 am. Our home is officially on the market!
Fingers crossed the sale will be the green light for us to move on to the next chapter of our antipodean adventure.
*According to Wikipedia, ‘Amber Gambler is a metaphorical phrase and the title of a British public information film from the 1970s, about the dangers of speeding through traffic lights before the amber changes to red “when there is ample time to stop”, or in advance of it turning to green.
Today, Friday 13th, lunch time, I was drifting off, post quiche Lorraine and salad. My consciousness was teleported to a moment in my teenage years. A warm English Summer’s day in 1979.
I vividly remember the gentle breeze as I lay on a sun parched patch of grass in Birmingham. Dozing as I listened to Knock on Wood by Amii Stewart on a battery operated, handbag sized, portable cassette player with carry handle. Very similar to the one pictured above, I would record songs from the radio.
The weight of my eyelids was getting the better of me as I drifted off whilst reading a paperback science fiction novel, The Weapon Shops of Isher by A. E. van Vogt.