Sween in green

I wanted to get some pics of my flat at Mortimer Terrace before I packed it up and left, but spent most of my time photographing the Sween in his tiny happy 'muscle' shirt. Check out the shoulders on him. This little singlet, hand screenpainted might I add, was sent by the wonderful Melissa, who sent this and a t-shirt the same colour with little hearts on it and my coin purse (which has replaced the famous wallet) that she made with some lovely bird-covered fabric. So choice.
I think these three shots really show Sween's vast range of emotions; Bliss, Super Bliss and Amazement.
We're so lucky to have him.

The Sparrow flies

Not only have I been accepted to sell my wares at the next Craftwerk in mid-February, I've also been accepted into Craft2.0 in mid-March. So the next couple of weeks, while still manic at work (where I am taking a break from one story before heading into another) I shall be crafting and making and glueing and threading and picking tiny little beads out of my bellybutton. Oh, and designing Sparrow's brand or getting the lovely Lee Whiterod to help me with it. I wasn't quite ready to launch Sparrow yet, but it seems the market has come to me rather than the other way around.

Like a bowling stone

or, how we spent Wellington Anniversary Day at the Wellington Workingmen's Bowling Club celebrating Gus' 33rd birthday... from left to right Matt, Leo (in stroller, obscured) Matt, Neil, Monique's arm, Natalia, Deb, Kimpy. Shortly after this pic was taken we ate sausages and salad and bread and then howling northerly gales forced us to Neil and Becc's place for cups of tea and more booze.

I'm so stoked ...

that I have six lurkers! That's so choice. From here, I can take over the world! Mwah ha ha...

De-lurking

Apparently it was recently international de-lurking week for bloggers - it's a week when readers of blogs are invited to step out from behind the glowing blue screens of their computers and make themselves known to the other members of that blog's community. I don't know if I have a 'community' but I'm trying ...

Anyway, this is the only pic I could find of me that isn't already on Special K, it's me with Leo on the front lawn at Mortimer Terrace when we had a brunch there. Leo is now almost walking, crawling like speedy gonzales and has six teeth. I was getting over the bug that had me off work for two weeks, and hadn't washed my hair in many days.

So, anyone out there reading this - please post a comment so I can see if people really do read this thing, or if it's just me ... tell me what your middle name(s) is/are, what your favourite birthday has been, where you would have a house if you could only have one, and what books/films make you cry... and anything else you think is kooky. My middle name is Jane, my favourite birthday was in Paris (29) where I ate steak and frites for dinner followed by creme brule. I would own a house in New York on Central Park. Magaret Atwood's Blind Assasin made me cry, as did The Colour Purple. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind had me in torrents of tears, but was nothing compared to the final episode of Six Feet Under.

Over hill, over dale, through the mud and in the hail

Yesterday I started "training" for the Oxfam Trailwalker that me, Ange, Neil and Matt are doing in mid-April. We're the Mortimer Terrace Posse. The challenge involves walking 100km around a course near Taupo consisting mainly of open farmland, in under 36 hours. The average time it takes a team to complete it is 28 hours. I walked up Brooklyn Hill, Washington Ave, and down Connaught Terrace to my house. Some of the houses in C Terrace have an even better view that Mortimer Terrace, you can see right down into Te Aro and beyond to the waterfront. You can watch the cricket at the Basin, or fireworks from the stadium. Superb. It took less than an hour to get home, so was well pleased. This morning, I got up at ... 7am (that's two hours before work, which is unheard of for a Kimberley) had breakfast (also a new thing) and walked to work via Mt Cook. I have a wee blister forming on my heel. I imagine by April my feet will be hard like rocks.

I think I may have taken on too much this year. What with training for the walk, raising the $5000 we said we'd raise for Oxfam, starting a jewellery business, being Aunty Kimpy one day a week, learning the guitar, going back to the Alliance Francaise to continue my French study, training to tutor refugees in English, and my work commitment with possible overseas trips if I get a grant, I think something's going to have to give. Just don't know what yet.

Ways that my sister and I torture each other

When I was small, I used to linger at the dinner table long after everyone had left. Long before anyone understood that it was just my nature not to eat that much, my parents would insist I finish my meal - no matter how long it took. The day we had Maggi mushroom soup for lunch would go down as the record - the soup had not only gone cold, but congealed, and was turning into a life form all its own before I managed to eat it all. To this day, I still have second thoughts about grey food.

Anyway, one night I was at the table by myself, my sister and parents having downed their meals months before me. There was a block of cheese on the table (I don't know why), and I was in a biting mood, so I took a bite out of the block of cheese. I thought I would get away with such a heinous crime by being able to blame it on Ange. But my brain not being quite as big as it is now, I wasn't able to figure out that my parents would know it was me by the shape of the bitemark correspinding with my teeth. They made my sister and I bite the cheese once again to match the bite marks. Geniuses.

So the other day, some 20+ years later, I come across at post in Dayglo Days where some kid has bitten a block of cheese. (See pic above)

I write to my sister saying "remind you of anyone?"

Angela: You weirdo. It doesn't make it any better that there's someone else out there who does it.

Me: You're just jealous that you weren't as nuts as I was as a child. Just sadistic. Remember "when you get older you bleed" and "we won't be killed by the nuclear bomb falling, we'll die slowly from the poisoned air that comes after it."

Ange: Look, you take an hour to read “When the Wind Blows” – that was the cool new kids’ book when I was 15 or thereabouts. If nothing sets you up for a future of menstruating and radiation sickness, that’ll do it …

And you took as much pleasure from winding me up as I did in finding new and invisible ways to torture you for it, admit it … remember how you used to stand at the entrance to my room and put one toe over the line when I really really really wanted to be alone with my diary and blaring goth music?? Remember??

Me: Funny, I seem to have forgotten the toe-thing. How genius was I?

Ange: And the Twisties - do you remember the Twisties?? And, omigod, you used to kick me in bed the same way that Sweeney does, when we occasionally both slept with Mum. And you used to push me to the outer limits of both blankets and mattress, then fire bed-breath all over me if I complained. And of course Mum would always take your side because you're the baby, but that breath should've been listed with the Geneva Convention ... And Dad would just throw something at the wall from my bedroom because we dared wake the beast.

I can feel my ulcer resurging at the thought of it ...

Me: Twisties?

Ange: We both got a bag of Twisties. For whatever reason, we used to be in combat mode over everything, so there had to be a winner over eating Twisties. The winner was the person who had a Twistie left after the other had finished their packet. One day, the contest went over after school, through dinner, and then I thought, or you led me to believe, or something, that you'd finished your Twisties, so I guzzled my last two in front of you while you were getting ready for bed. However, as I walked past your bedroom a little later, you lifted your pillow to reveal The Last Twistie, and I just about exploded on the spot in the hallway.

You looked so chuffed. So from then it was all on - taking photos of you on the toilet, working Dad up into a tickle frenzy and setting him on you, that sort of thing.

Me: I think I do actually remember that. Outfoxed by your tiny, tiny baby sister. And you're the one with a boyfriend. Who knew?

Ange: Yes, even I have a boyfriend. Even me. Even dumbass, fat-thighed me. Has. A. Boyfriend.

Me: You're not fat-thighed. As I remember it, Dad called you Thunder-Thighs. Thunder is different from fat.

Ange: What do you think he could’ve meant, then?? That at any moment, my thighs would emit rumbling sounds following a flash of lightning??


Anyway - the reason that this post started is because Ange has found a new way to torture me. Last weekend I lost my wallet. The wallet itself isn't that special, but it did have a few gift token things in it that I was saving for a bad mental health day when I could do some guilt-free retailing. I also had all the receipts from a work trip to Gisborne that I needed to hand in. So I do the things that people do when they lose their wallet:

1. Think about where they last were when they used it
2. Look for it
3. Ask people who I have visited if they've seen it

So I tear my flat apart, tear my car apart, call New World where I last used it, call Monique who's birthday party I went to after I went to New World, ask Nat and Matt who I travelled to the party with and whose house I hung out at the next day if they had it, and ask my sister Ange if she had it, as I had been at her house on Sunday morning to pick up my nephew Sweeney for Kimpy-Sweeney Day. No one had it. Ange even specified that the wallet was not in Sweeney's nappy bag. Days go by with no wallet, so I ask Ange again, just to be sure, if she could check Sweeney's bag. No, it's not there.

I call the banks, cancel my cards, etc. Live on 10 cent pieces until my new cards come through.

Then, yesterday my sister Ange, who is older than me by seven years, has always been the person I look up to and admire, tells me she has my wallet. It was in Sweeney's bag.

Torture.

Other ways my sister has tortured me over the years (with a scale 1-10 of torture-ish-ness)
1. By telling me there was a special present for me, that I got really excited about. I thought it would be something totally amazing, like cash or vouchers for shoes or something. But it was just that she had got the passenger door on her car fixed so I didn't have to climb over the driver's seat to get in the car. 7/10

2. By getting the flu over Xmas 2004 when we were moving house out of Moir Street. 4/10

3. By taking the "if you see a VW you punch the other person" game to the extreme and leaving my left arm practically useless with bruises. 8/10

4. By leaving home aged 14 or something, to go to boarding school in Auckland. 10/10

Ways I have tortured Ange over the years. (please bear in mind she is seven years older than me, and in many ways I was still so little and teensy and would never do any of these things as a mature grown up).

1. By being born. 10/10

2. By being alive. 10/10

3. Gee, I suddenly seem to remember nothing about my childhood except what a lovely little cherub I was... hee

Change of address

On Saturday, This is Chris Bramwell, Joe90 and myself will be moving into our new house in Vogeltown. The house is glorious. The landlady Dianna said no pets, but yesterday I talked her around by saying how great Charlie is, and how I would get one of those clever magnetic cat flaps, where only the cat with a special magnetic collar can get in the door, thus stopping any mangy flea taxis from entering our glorious abode.

I'm so pleased I get to keep my beautiful lovely white pawed boy that I wrote a poem ...

"The greatest cat in the world"

I can’t wait to see what things
To your magnetic collar cling
Or what things you will get stuck to
Like a motorbike or truck too
And how the cats and dogs you tease
Slam into the door while you enter with ease
When they snarl on the other side,
You’ll show them your bum from the safety of inside
And when Dianna comes to see you
She won’t smell any stinky cat pee – phew!
Because you’re the greatest cat in the world …

Introducing Mbenguele Kimpalou Kimberley Shinelle Albrina

This is Alexis and Brigitte's three month old daughter Albrina, Feldi and Benichous' little sister. Look at those cheeks! The zubbits she's going to get from her white-as Aunty Kimpy ...

Top Five Flatmates

Last weekend, my new flatmates Chris and Joe and I found our new pad - a simply glorious villa in Vogeltown (v-side) with a garden, rose bushes, places for us to grow vegetables, DVS system, dishwasher, clean clean clean bathroom, woodburner, huge benchspace in the kitchen and lovely everything else. I'm really looking forward to many evenings spent baking little treats for C and J, knitting copiously, getting Charlie nice and fat again for winter, cooking huge meals, and watching our veges grow. We had our first group outing on New Year's Eve along with Kate, special guest star.

Then today, on my way to meet Tane Aikman, one of my top five ex-flatmates, I see Tom Acland (weird, they have the same initials) who is also one of my top five ex-flatmates walking down Lambton Quay. I've had a lot of flatmates. Who are these mysterious other three top five ex-flatmates? Can I stop myself at just five?? And what makes a good flatmate anyway??

To solve this mystery, I am going to be scientific about it.

1. All my ex-flatmates from which to choose a top five:
Monique Portegys - Packe Street Chch 1992; Cutts Road Chch 1993; various dossing arrangements over the years
Tom Acland, Willie Trolove - Cutts Road Chch 1993
*Andrew Findlay - Cutts Road Chch 1993; The Terrace, Upland Road, Island Bay Wellington 1994-6
James Hollings - Owen Street, Wgtn 1996; Durham Cres, Wgtn 1996-8
James Cousins - Durham Cres 1996
Neils Dugan, Kirsten Browne (who got married and had chilluns) - Durham Cres 1996-7
*Aaron Cowan - Rodrigo Road 1997-8
Petrina Krause, Phili Munro, Wendy (flip, I can't remember her last name) - Mein Street 1999-2000
Siobhan the alcoholic who liked playing JLo at all hours of the morning, Karen, the bald guy from Bristol who had bad taste in movies, the redhead who moved out the next week, Patrick, Ilke the psycho German - Chamberlayne Road, NW London 2001
David Lombard, Matt Taylor, Natalie Marshall, Vicks Hill, Eugene - Earlsfield SW London 2001-2
Angela Rothwell, Martin O'Neill - Moir Street, Wgtn 2002-4
Denise Babington, Tane Aikman - Cecil Street, Hamilton 2005

That's 27 in total .. *indicates they were more than just a flatmate...

2. What makes a good flatmate?
You don't groan when they walk in the door at night
They cook yummy things
They don't complain about your slothfulness too much
They don't get drunk everynight and play JLo at ear-piercing levels till three am
They don't leave crumbs in the butter
They buy you McDonalds and chocolate when you break up with your boyfriend and put little pictures of things that will make you happy on the fridge
They don't care that all you want to do is watch MTV or Tiny Toons or Letterman or Lost or Home and Away
You like them as people outside of the flat, you socialise with them, even meet up with them in other countries
They obey all your petty rules and let you off when you break them yourself
They don't care that all you want to do is knit/make earrings/sew/read/sleep/have baths/wear pyjamas
They don't talk through the news
If they're cool, they give you their old World t-shirts and bottles of nail polish
They remember your birthday
If they are girls, they fold your washing
If they are boys, they steer clear of your washing
They don't have any weird facial growths, tics, right-wing political views, neo Nazi sympathies, guinea pigs, stories from the time they were in band camp, or homocidal tendencies
You have fun together.

3. Applying the "what makes a good flatmate" criteria to the list, I have decided that there are just too many top five flatmates out there

I loved the way that Phili folded my socks, said "do you want to talk about it?" like talking was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, and called everyone Sharon. She also introduced me to the "What's Fresh?" "Not my knickers!" schtick.

I loved the way Davie cut out a picture of a penguin and put it at eye-level on the fridge. You can't be sad looking at penguins.

I loved the way Willie ran through the house after Meg calling "here Kitty, fun! Fun!"

I loved the way Matt could watch football for hours at a time, about the same length of time he takes baths. I loved, and still do love, how Natalie can be counted on to watch crap telly with me.

I loved the way Kirsten slouched about Durham Cres, and the way she tells stories. She introduced me to Calvin Klein underwear and indulged my New York obsession. Durham Cres will always be the house of the white trash party, where I ate my first mussel, and where Neils and I sat on the couch one night and he played me all his favourite songs, including a blow by blow account of seeing Straitjacket Fits play "She Speeds" live. He was also quite good at telling horror hospital stories.

I loved the way Tane could be counted on for another Lost DVD.

I loved the way Martin could be counted on for another round of tea.

I love the way Tom is always the same when I see him, as if he's just been living around the corner.