Tag Archives: sleeps to go

Friendships Are Made Of This…

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There’s nothing like a special guest to make a new pad feel like home. Apart from the opportunity to welcome someone into your new space, it also makes you get your a*** into gear with that last little bit of unpacking. You know, the pile you have left in a corner and avoid making eye contact with, the half empty box you’ve been walking around while muttering ‘I must get around to doing that…’

Anyway, last night Gidday HQ played host to its very first guest – A-down-the-hill (the down-the-hill bit a reference to the place I lived before). The guest bed was made up, living room cushions plumped, cosy blankets draped over the couch (our friendship has a history of much ‘vino, cosy blankies and a movie’) and the place was all ready for her arrival.


Gorgeous house-warming flowers from A-down-the-hill.
The thistles are fitting – hubby is Scottish!

A-down-the-hill was my first ‘London’ friend. Fresh off ‘the boat’ in 2004 and with only her email address to guide me, our friendship has been a rock for me – ups and downs ‘n’ all – over the last eight years and outside Mum and Lil Chicky, she’s the person I feel closest to on the planet.

By the time this post is published, she will have featured a dozen times on Gidday from the UK, appearing the first time on the 29th June 2009 as ‘A’ in Muscles & a Minor Heatwave and most recently at my latest birthday bash, Pukka Picnic & Polo Ponies.

In between, there have been BBQs, baking, and bicycles. I’ve been a Hot Chick to her Hen, and an Emergency Handbag. We’ve been Ladies Who Lunch and we’ve even Kew-ed the Music together. She was also the one who inspired my Kindle-envy, culminating in my abandoning my bookish faith and embracing the pure, electronic loveliness of Audrey.

And she’s another Happy Little Vegemite and Australian Abroad, an enduring fellowship for those of us who’ve made it beyond the initial couple of years here to ‘settle’, whether by marriage (her) or by sheer bloody-minded declaration (me).

So, A-down-the-hill was my first guest, a fitting tribute to all sorts of new chapters we’ve seen each other through over these last eight, London years. And to welcome her last night to Fabulous Finchley was…

…well…

…fabulous.

ps…today we also hugged each other Merry Christmas as we said goodbye as we will not see each other again before the big day. This provided little ol’ moi with a timely reminder to let you all know that there are only 8 sleeps to go.

That’s right, we are down to single figures peeps. Are you ready?

Commuting Gems…No Kidding

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Today I was flicking through my freebie copy of the Metro newspaper on my way into town for a meeting when I came across the ultimate ‘pampered pets’ story.

Some dude has decided to make his menagerie feel right at home…


Source: Metro.co.uk Image: Caters

Apparently it’s also inspired a Goats Do Roam range of vinos…

I kid you not.

Important ps:
By the way, there are only 10 sleeps to go now so enough of that sitting on the fence peeps -it’s time to make a play for the Naughty or the Nice list. Santa can’t wait forever and you know how I feel about creating your own destiny and all that…

Strictly Heartstopping…

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Every so often I experience something that affects me so deeply, I just cannot get it out of my mind.

Settling in last night with a bit of Ben & Jerry’s, I was all ready to be entertained and uplifted (to a degree) by my regular Saturday night double dose of guilty pleasure, Strictly Come Dancing and X Factor.

But not like this.

After nine amazing performances on last night’s Strictly, this happened:

I was mesmerised. Absolutely spellbound. For the whole 90 seconds, I think I actually stopped breathing.

I kept seeing it over and over in my head all night, despite the brilliant performances on the X Factor Final (part one) that followed.

It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning. And just to double-check I wasn’t imagining it all, I watched it again before posting – twice.

My heart still skipped a beat.

Exciting. Aggressive. Passionate. Uncompromising.

I have nothing further to say on the matter.

ps…oh wait, hang on. I need to let you know that there are only 14 sleeps before Christmas is upon us. That’s only 14 shopping days left so chop chop peeps. You don’t want to be late!

Bet You Thought I Forgot…

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It’s been a busy time here at Gidday HQ and with the end of the year fast approaching, there has been a notable absence of a tradition that has no doubt left long-time Gidday-ers breathing a sigh of relief wondering what has happened.

But fear not.

As I walked through London mid November, the lights were up in Regent and Oxford Streets.

Last weekend I braved London’s Southbank Market to do a little inspired present shopping.

Mum’s annual cross-the-miles Advent Calendar arrived last week in plenty of time.

This year’s theme is The Nutcracker and instead of chocolates or gifts, each window contains a little booklet which tells a part of the story.

Today, the Gidday tree went up and got all adorned with the trinkets from my travels (note to self: if one wants to travel next year and collect more bright, shiny objects, buy a bigger tree)…

…and the Christmas paper has been unearthed from its new home following last week’s frenzy of post-Freecycle nesting.

So my festive spirit has risen from the dust and left-over packing boxes to announce

there are just 20 sleeps to go until Christmas!

I’ll bet you thought I forgot.

A Place For All Seasons…

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Two sleeps.

 That’s right peeps. Only two sleeps to go.
I have two sleeps left in Kingston.
Nestled under the currently thinning winter canopy of the tree that has, for almost seven years, shaded the highs and the lows of this Australian abroad.
It has been my haven.
An oasis, tucked away at the top of the winding street.
A spiritual home.
Summer Shade
A place of happiness and heartbreak.
Of worry and frustration. Of peace and calm.
Autumn Colour
A place for all seasons.
 Where I succumbed to my love of books, brilliant skies and bracing British winters.

Winter Sunset
Where I wrote my first blog post, discovered the joys of an afternoon spent baking and picked my first blackberries.

A Burst of Spring
And it’s almost time to go.

To leave my cosy front window.
To tap away in pastures new.
That’s right peeps. Gidday HQ is on the move.
 

Twas The Night Before Birthday…

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Twas the night before birthday
And all through the land
The excitement’s been building
The day off is planned.
Yesterday’s Vintage
Was a trip back in time
From disco to swing dance
And fashion sublime.
And today we’ve done polo,
With divot and chukka,
The picnic we had
Was definitely pukka.
So sun-kissed and dozy
I’m back at my screen
At my cosy front window
To muse where I’ve been.
41 has been tough
With ‘curve balls’ galore
And it’s been hard not to miss
The good life from before.
But finally it seems
The sun has come out
And its warmth on my face
Reminds me what it’s about.
Old roads and new paths
To defend and to chart
With family and friends
Those close to my heart.
So on this night before birthday
As 41 fades away
I fondly wave it farewell
And bid 42 ‘Gidday!’

After The Dance…3 Sleeps To Go

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Today is Day 1 of my pre-birthday long weekend (only 3 sleeps to go peeps…isn’t it exciting?!) and while I’ve been out and about today and have some rather magnificent plans for the rest of the time, I wanted to tell you about an unexpected treat I discovered on telly last night.

I am, by nature, a night owl and would happily stay up til all hours but with my 2 hour each way commute at the moment, I am fairly disciplined about getting myself to bed by 11 each night (and that’s an hour later than what’s known in these parts as Surrey Bedtime) so that I am spritely enough to get myself out the door in an efficient 30mins each morning.  But on holiday, all bets are off and last night I trawled the channels to see what late night movie I might like to partake of.

I came across ‘After The Dance’, a 1992 TV adaption of the play written by Terence Rattigan in the 1930’s.

It’s one of those kinds of plays I loved seeing when I frequented the MTC‘s program in Melbourne – a little Noel-Cowardish in style with the action all taking place in one room (or within earshot of said room). It’s crammed full of gorgeous language, crisp banter and subtle innuendo all the while covering the fragile egos and unspoken political agendas surrounding the era.  Anyway, this film for TV adaption had been made in 1992 by the BBC and re-kindled a whole rash of revivals in the West End in the years to come.

It’s a little slower to get into than modern films but once I settled into listening to and watching for the subtleties, the intrigue crept slowly into the room and curled its wicked fingers – in the form of Helen Banner – through the fabric of David and Joan Scott-Fowler’s 15 year marriage. A small ensemble cast added colourful layers but Rattigan makes a stinging comparison between the ‘Bright Young Things’ of the 20’s and the serious ‘new generation’ facing a society crushed by the onset of World War II.

Frivolous. Sad. Thought-provoking.

I LOVED IT!

And despite this being an adaption for TV, After The Dance made me realise that I’d forgotten how much I enjoy theatre…so I’m off to scour the internet for some super-dooper deals!

In the meantime, land is definitely in sight and the SS 41 is cruising comfortably towards its mooring…

The Universe Is Testing Me…9 Sleeps To Go

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The Universe is testing me.

Really it is.  I kid you not.

Absolutely, unequivocally testing me. Pushing my buttons. Stretching my patience.

All in the space of the last 24 hours.

———————————————–

Weekends are a highly valued commodity where I come from, as I’m sure they are for you, so I like to plan a bit of stuff but also make sure I have time to chill out, avoid doing chores, write – you know the drill.

(The current silence tells me that the wet washing is ‘ready’ and will not hang itself out.)

With a weekend plan including a photos viewing Friday night on the way home, a haircut on Saturday morning and then off for a mani-pedi Saturday afternoon, I was looking forward to firstly feeling rather productive then followed by some serious chilling as a busy Saturday mellowed into a Sunday of pottering about.

So Friday morning I pick up a message from my hairdresser asking me whether I could turn up 15mins early.  Sure, I think, no problem.  I call back to confirm that this is ok to be told ‘No it’s ok we worked something out – turn up at 11.’  Great news but I’m glad I rang back instead of turning up early – tolerating lateness is not my strong suit.  Anyway, moving on.

I leave work a little early on Friday to get to my appointment to view my photos at 6pm (a 90min trip but it is a stop-off on my regular 2hr commute home. I know it’s long. Don’t ask.)  I reach Clapham Junction station which is about a 15min walk from the studio and get a message – which had obviously arrived during the underground portion of my journey – asking me to come at 7pm instead.  With an hour and a half of travelling under my belt already, my weary brain shouts ‘NOOOOO!’.  Long story short – we settled on 6.15pm instead. 

To kill the time, I take myself off to Caffe Nero for a white chocolate and raspberry muffin and a soya cappucino, thinking I will just chill for a little bit before wandering up Lavender Hill towards the studio.  Another message arrives, this time from the Mani-Pedi salon.  There’s a problem with my 2pm appointment on Saturday – can I come earlier?  Brain swears loudly.  Despite the ensuing conversation confirming that someone else will be available at the time of my booking to pretti-fy my paws, I feel mildly nervous walking up Lavender Hill, wondering whether I will receive an apologetic phone call Saturday morning (or better yet, be mucked about upon arrival).  I have next Friday off so I call back and agree to have pretty paws then.

Phew!

Photo viewing goes well (pics look amaaaazing – I will collect my chosen ones mid August and share with you) and I go to bed last night, thinking I will get up early-ish and dash into Kingston to do my errands before my hair appointment.  I’m up at 8.30am and, feeling mildly awake and presentable after my ablutions, am eating some vegemite toast before heading out.

There’s another message. 

My hairdresser (a new one, the lovely A having decided to embark on some world travelling for a while) has called in sick.  Brain sighs resignedly.  Little voice in my head reminds me to ‘breathe’. 

I’m going at 12.30.

In, out. In, out. Breathing, breathing. Time for a coffee.  And a post.

And if it’s really lucky, the washing will get hung out to dry.

ps…as I’m a little intolerant of lateness and would really love a chilled out, low-irritant birthday, I thought it prudent to remind you that there are now only 9 sleeps to go. We are now into single figures peeps so don’t be late – I can just see the good ship 42 coming into view.

You’ve got mail…16 sleeps to go

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I staggered out of bed this morning to be greeted by a drizzly Saturday and have been faffing about (great word that, faffing) instead braving the elements and getting out to do the list of things I need to do.  This is also known as re-prioritising and is a very useful skill to have here in the UK, saving hours of damp trudging and allowing one to enjoy the soothing sound of the rain from a dry and comfortable vantage point at the front window.

But I digress.

My faffing meant that I was home when the postman arrived.  Nothing exciting really comes through the mailslot: just the usual assortment of bills to pay, flyers advertising things I could never imagine needing and To The Homeowner letters from local estate agents wishing to sell my little flat from underneath me.  But today was different.  As I whipped around, startled by the metallic clunk of the mail flap, I saw a flash of girly colour.

‘Pink!’, my little heart cried.  ‘Could it be…my first birthday card?’

And so it was.

Itinerant Father and Erstwhile Wife have won the Birthday Derby again, and although 2 days later than last year’s stirling effort, getting in with 16 sleeps to go can only be vigorously applauded.  (Sounds of wild cheering and me doing a little ‘Hooray it’s my birthday soon’ dance around my postage-stamp-sized lounge room).

The card (we are allowed to open birthday cards pre-special-day in the Hamer clan) is a testament to their continued concern about my welfare in a faraway land and featured some handy hints for me to consider in my advancing years:

An ode to ageing gracefully

May your bum stay firm and pert
May your boobies not head south
May your lippy never blend
Into thin lines round your mouth
May you eat a ton of chocolate
But never gain a pound
May you always look your best
Whenever Brad Pitt comes around.
May you never wear big pants
Or grow unwanted hair
And Birthday Girl if all else fails
May you be to sloshed to care!!

 

Well, don’t mind if I do!  And I have 16 days to plan how…

Dad & Bev, thanks for the birthday tip and the lovely wishes.

ps…for a little more detail on the Birthday Rules according to the Hamer clan, click here…my sister Lil Chicky sums it up so succinctly in her comment!

Sleeps To Go…On A Small Island

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I have been reading Bill Bryson’s Notes From A Small Island during my commute this week and this morning, I read a page that really struck a chord.

One of the things I am asked by every second (or maybe third) Brit the minute they hear my accent is ‘what are you doing over here?’  Well, let me refer you to page 46 of Bryson’s tome:

“It has more history, finer parks, a livelier and more varied press (nowadays lively in a sinister, phone-tapping kind of way it would seem), better theatres…leafier squares…and more courageous inhabitants than any other large city in the world.”

He also talks about the ‘incidental civilities’

“cheery red pillar boxes, drivers who actually stop for you on pedestrian crossings …lovely forgotten churches …sudden pockets of quiet like Lincoln’s Inn and Red Lion Square…black cabs, double-decker buses…polite notices, people who will stop to help you when you fall down or drop your shopping, benches everywhere.”

 
It inspired me to think about some of the things I love about London and as I was gazing out of the window of the number 57 bus tonight, here are the first five that sprang to mind:

  • the light – it’s soft and beautiful and drapes itself gently over great expanses of countryside within 30mins of London
  • the fabulous place names – I am just dying to get on the bus to see what Seething Wells is all about and St Martin In The Field overlooks not a field but Trafalgar Square

  • the squirrels – skipping across the railing along my front garden, in the tree overhead, the little ones daring to venture a little way along my front path towards my open door before scurrying away at the behest of the bigger ones
  • the sun worship – with the merest hint of sunshine, Londoners appear from every nook and cranny and cram themselves along river banks, in parks and all sorts of public places to bask at lunchtime, after work, on weekends and any available opportunity
Source: Metro.co.uk
  • the irony – the Brit’s do that dry, dry wit better than anyone else – and really know how to poke gentle fun at themselves (and others) as a result.

There are loads of other things and I could go on (and on and on) but this post was inspired by someone else’s vision of the place I call home.  So what about you?  I’d love hear what you love about London, whether it’s your home, your home-away-from-home, a memory captured for holiday posterity or a trigger for the nostalgic yearning of days gone by.

What do you consider worthy of note about this small island? 

ps…there are 20 sleeps to go peeps…that’s less than 3 weeks for all your Gidday shopping and shipping. Just as well I’m super-prepared with my wishlist at the ready should any of you need a little helping hand.  I mean let’s face it, who has to have a wedding to partake of one of those Bridal Register thingies?