A house of dreams

To covet thy neighbour's home is a sin. I think. But in my neighbourhood, to not covet thy neighbour's home is impossible. So I sin often. Surely we all agree the desire to own something that belongs to someone else is quite human, hard to resist and innocent fun? Presuming, of course, one doesn't go too far down the garden path and steal the goods in question. I imagine that could very quickly end up not being fun. But I refuse to believe a sideways glance over my neighbours' fence hurts.

Almost every day – often twice – I walk past a particular terrace home that I adore. I look at it longingly and wish it was mine. Tucked away in Paddington's streets, it's painted a sublime shade of cream with a stylish and slightly bold olive green trim. It is framed by a sweet picket fence and manicured trees.

Each time I walk by I imagine what it would be like to live there. It is frustratingly discreet but I just know if – when! - I ever catch a peep behind its elegant façade, it will be as perfectly to my taste on the inside as it from the outside. And if I lived there, obviously, I'd love the very privacy that currently drives me to distraction.

It is my dream home. Which is convenient because it's just around the corner from where I live now so it will be a manageable move.
Realistically my life wouldn't change much if I lived in the terrace of my dreams. Well, aside from the fact, I'd be a wholly contented woman - smarter, more organised, better dressed, funnier - without a worry in the world. Only joking, Mum! Clearly I'd still just be me, but living in a really tasteful and cool space.

The point is, my lingering looks across the street make me wonder. Do you think the people who live in my dream home, covet someone else's home? Obviously, not mine. (Unless they have some perverse hankering to take part in a social experiment to see how the other half makes cramped apartment living work.) But is there a house they walk or drive past that they can't help but watch in wonder? Or do they love their own home so much their eyes never stray?

Sydney has its fair share of positively dreamy real estate so I suspect it's probably impossible for them not to, at least occasionally, succumb to the sinful act of fancying another's. I'm convinced it's out there so I now wander the streets consumed with the task of finding it. The sooner I find it, the sooner I can relocate them and the sooner we can inhabit their old digs.

Now am I the only person who finds fantasising about other people's houses quite fun? Do you have a dream home? Or do you live in your dream home? If you happen to live in my dream home would you like to swap?

Breaking in Brisbane

This weekend I had a short but, oh, so sweet break in beautiful Brisvegas. I was only away 27 hours but I managed to fit in a wedding celebration, a christening, a delicious brunch*, a spot of lipstick shopping**, several decent catch ups with treasured friends, a too-short catch up with my brother, cuddles with multiple adorable babies, a sleep-in and a comprehensive read of the weekend papers.

Travelling unencumbered by Miss I is nothing if not efficient. And, in my humble opinion, a totally deserved experience.

I very nearly missed my 10am flight on Saturday morning, which given the brevity of my trip would have been tragic. I was so excited to have Mr G back in residence, relishing the fact I had relinquished all parental responsibilities, that I totally lost track of time.

I was luxuriating in a long shower when Mr G asked what time I'd like to leave. I called out that a little bit before nine would be fine. Unfortunately it was already nine. And I still hadn't packed. Oops. Cue some frantic dressing and packing and we were off.

Thankfully we're close to the airport so I made it in time and without a stroller I breezed through without delay. I cursed myself for not leaving extra time purely because a spot of airport shopping would have been sublime. But alas! I'll summarise the rest of my break in highs and lows.

The highlights

 -Sitting on a plane, without being responsible for anything other than my very small handbag. Reading, napping, thinking, listening to music. Bliss.

- Seeing several of my very best friends. There's little in the world as lovely as old friends and Brisbane - very generously - houses many of mine.

-Getting dressed up – leisurely - with one of the above-mentioned friends.

-Applying make-up without having to fend off a lovely pair of little hands from my bronzer, blush, lipgloss and mascara. With the added bonus of not needing to retrieve any of those items from the bin after the fact.

-Waking at 7am on Sunday, closing my eyes and falling back asleep til 8.

-Being collected from the airport by the two smiliest people in my life.

The lowlights
 
-Receiving a picture message featuring Mr G and Miss I thoroughly enjoying the hospitality in the Veuve Clicquot marquee at the Polo in the Park, which they just happened to stumble across. It's a little childish but I would have preferred a picture of them both covered in food, a few tears, with clothes, dishes and toys piled up in the background as if Cyclone Yasi had hit our apartment, with a message saying 'I don't know how you do this'.

-Misplacing my phone, frantically assigning the task of relocating it to Mr G – via my brother's phone - only to discover it was in my pocket all along. Actually that was probably the lowlight of Mr G's weekend.

-Very nearly missing my flight home because I spent too long chatting to my brother outside.

-Arriving home, realising the weekend was over but my typical weekend tasks – blogging, catching up with Mr G, getting work clothes organised, planning meals - remained outstanding. There's just never enough time these days.

How was your weekend?

*We went to Brewbakers in Albion which was delicious.

**I chose a very bright and cheerful fuschia shade Fire & Ice from Revlon.

A moody moment

Recently I succumbed to the most unpleasant of moods. It descended over me like a thick, dark, impenetrable curtain and was at an hour before I was able to peep from beneath my fury to find a shadow of reason.

It began at the airport. It was before Alan Joyce unleashed the full force of his powers by grounding the entire Qantas fleet but I hold him vicariously responsible because it was a few of his Jetstar staff who conspired against me.

I was at the check-in desk with Miss I who was sitting in her stroller. After checking in my bag and receiving our boarding pass the lady asked me if I would like to check in the stroller. I thought it was an odd question. I was travelling solo so if I checked in the stroller how would I navigate myself and Miss I through security and along to our boarding gate? Whilst also inevitably having to variously retrieve my wallet, a dummy, sultanas, and wipes from the depths of my bag?

Miss I is now too big for the Baby Bjorn, she is too heavy and wriggly to carry long distances and far too unruly to walk alone. And, therein lies the genius invention for parents on solo missions with toddlers the whole world over. A stroller! A lightweight, travel-friendly, airport-ready, stroller! It's hard to imagine a setting that requires a stroller MORE than a large airport terminal.

So I said I didn't want to check it in. The Jetstar attendant said if I took it to the gate there was the possibility it wouldn't fit on the plane so I would have to get there early to see. This exchange gave me the impression that I had a choice. There was an hour before boarding so I said I would take my chances. Quite honestly, I thought without the stroller there was the possibility I wouldn't make it to the plane at all.

I'd be stuck at the security gates trying to chase Miss I whilst removing my shoes, watch and emptying the contents of my bag on the conveyor belt. And I figured I'd need the stroller at the airport more than I was going to need it for our five day holiday simply because I'd be accompanied by lovely grand-parenting hands at our destination. Fortunately, this theory proved true.

With stroller on hand, off, we pushed. At the gate I asked if there was room on the plane for the stroller. I was met with thinly veiled disdain. 'You had to check that in upstairs', a lady barked. 'It's not allowed'. I explained that I was given the option of coming early to see if it could fit. Another lady, as uninterested in customer service as the first, came over. Together they rolled their eyes, growled into their walkie-talkies and berated me for bringing it. As if I was on a little folly of my own with a frivolous accessory like a stroller just for the fun of it.

Eventually a crew member took the folded stroller and a few minutes later we boarded the flight. (What then ensued merits its very own post). After disembarking the plane, several rotations of the luggage carousel confirmed the stroller had not accompanied us. When I finally tracked down a staff member I was told it had been "confiscated" because I had "refused" to check it in and consequently I would have to collect it at "my expense".

I was so many shades of angry and I lost my cool. Steam flew out my ears and a few cross words flew from my mouth. Admittedly the staff in Ballina were not responsible for the situation but, my goodness, they didn't make it any better. They just kept repeating the words 'confiscated', 'refused' and 'my expense', as if I was a criminal who had smuggled contraband on the aircraft, not a mother who was bringing along an essential tool of the trade. I know it's a low cost carrier but I thought the low cost bit was because they don't give you food or have fancy interiors, not because they don't carry prams. I now know it does.

The whole episode made my blood boil and it made me wonder what makes you angry? Have you had any moments of fury lately?

One week down...

Despite my misgivings about the solo parenting expedition that has unwittingly been thrust upon me, I am happy to report that I survived the first week. Both myself and Miss I have emerged unscathed. And with the exception of a block of cheese that I stored in the bread bin as opposed to the fridge all week, the household is pretty much in order.

I wouldn't say I relished it but, thankfully, it wasn't the ordeal I was anticipating. I suspect my expectations were so low that I was always going to be pleasantly surprised. Unless Miss I and I had both contracted a nasty bout of the ebola virus - rendering us both miserable and intolerable - in which case my fears probably would have been realised. Though, if that had happened, I guess we'd have to go to hospital in which case we could aim for Wagga and have a family reunion with Mr G. How romantic! 

Anyway. The fact nothing remotely bad happened all week, made it bearable. By Friday I had a spring in my step. I was practically on a high. I had survived! And I'd actually enjoyed it. The weekend beckoned, bringing with it the missing piece in my family trio. I can't explain how happy this made me without breaching the acceptable standards of public declarations of affection. Suffice to say there were big smiles. And for the first time (almost) since we've been back in Sydney we've had a whole weekend together. That looks set to be the silver lining of the next three months.

It is early days and I would like to reserve the right to complain freely and bitterly in the coming weeks as my ability to cope wanes. But for now, it's ok. I got through week one. Surely that fact alone will buoy me through the second. If not, the words of one kind, fellow mother on Saturday will. She said someone should give me an award. I've always liked those...  

Not another solo mother

It's been three months since I embarked on any major life changes so it's obviously time to turn things upside down. Having now settled back into life in Sydney it would be dull to meander on, enjoying this stability. Imagine how complacent I might become if I just continued to familiarise myself with my new life??

So it's extremely fortunate that the bigger powers that be have determined it's time for a fresh challenge to keep me on my toes. Actually it was a hospital board that laid down this contest, but that's apt in itself because hospital administrators are set to be the 'biggest powers that be' in my life for quite some time.

As of today Mr G is living in Wagga for a three-month rotation. This means he will be living five hours' drive away from our house. This means I will be single mothering in Sydney for a quarter of a whole year (which in real terms equates to several years*). This means I may go insane. 

Parenting can be testing at times even with the physical presence and support of another parent-in-crime. In the parenting arena I consider myself a strong team player and a terribly weak solo competitor. The wounds have only just healed from my first foray into single motherhood when Miss I was twelve weeks old and Mr G flew off to Russia for six years**.

Anyway. Instead of dwelling on all the disastrous ramifications of this arrangement, I thought it might be useful to turn my mind to the possible advantages. Except I tried that and there are none. At. All. I've spent weeks contemplating and have come up with nothing.

Briefly I thought this arrangement might guarantee the longevity of our marriage for at least ten eternities. After a few weeks doing the single mother thing, I doubted I would ever so much as argue with Mr G again lest he opts to up and leave. Of course, I then realised my efforts to be a totally agreeable and un-leavable wife would have little bearing on any hospital administrator plotting Mr G's next rural posting.

For now I will console myself in the knowledge that the calorific consequences of  ice-cream, chocolate and wine are nullified in the face of solo parenting. At least that's what I'm running with.  Have you got any better ideas?

*I've done some rough calculations and each week as a single parent, translates to approximately one month of dual parenting so I may as well be on my own for a few years.

**See above. Each day as a single parent to a three month old baby who refuses to sleep translates roughly to six months.

A well-timed break

I arrived home on Thursday night with every intention of sitting down to blog. I've had a thousand ideas flying around my head for weeks now and was eager to put fingers to the keyboard. In spite of my intentions, after putting Miss I down to sleep, I couldn't bring myself to face the computer. Instead, I was drawn to the book beside my bed. I couldn't help it. I was exhausted. I lay down and relished the chance to be very still and very quiet. I couldn't summons the energy to stay on my feet to eat, let alone formulate a sentence. So reading it was.

I was frustrated because I knew the background noise would continue humming. Blogging is a relaxing pursuit for me; a hobby that helps me unwind. But it requires my mind to be switched on and lately I'm constantly looking for the off-switch. I still scan conversations, newspaper articles, websites, blogs and all my idle thoughts, for topics on which to blog. It's a subconscious habit. But because I'm having trouble finding the energy to convert my thoughts into actual blogs, they fly around getting noisier and noisier. 


On Thursday night, before I got too frustrated, I had a little think. I remembered what I'd been doing at work and very quickly my mind's desire for blank space made sense. It made me want to lie very still for even longer. One of the highlights of my job is that I spend quite a bit of time interviewing very clever people who tend to be pretty knowledgeable in their chosen fields. Now, obviously, I don't need to be as clever or knowledgeable as them. (If I was, no doubt I would be running companies, presiding over courts and presenting at conferences, like they do.)

But for my conversations to be of any value to our magazine's readers, I need to understand their field at least to the extent that I can ask one or two relevant questions. And preferably be able to follow their conversation to shape it into an article. Dipping in and out of foreign topics, quickly trying to understand the subtleties of whatever the interview requires, is tiring.

Last week between Wednesday and Thursday I interviewed two American judges, a US professor, an English Lord, the managing partner of a global law firm visiting from London, the chief executive of a software developer, three partners and a director of strategy and innovation at a large company. I spent between 20 minutes and an hour with each of these clever cats who talked to me about everything from litigation support technology, to the rule of law, to the financial correlation between productivity and creativity, to the economic and political climate in India, China, England, Europe, Japan and Australia. And many other things I am still trying to understand.


It left me shattered. I thought back to when I started blogging, when the chance to write a coherent sentence was the only exercise my brain would get. Towards the end of my two years out of the workforce, I relished having a chance to think. Now, I relish the chance not to think. It reminded me of the joy of television at the end of a working day. And the even greater joy of holidays. Fortunately my mental capacity has coincided with a few days off from work. Perfect timing. What do you do when you reach your mental limit?

Guilty pleasures

I'm not sure whether these small pleasures really deserve to be deemed guilty. They're certainly not necessities but they're hardly harmful. My life would be perfectly happy without them but it is a smidgen, sometimes even a splash, happier for my occasional indulgence. These are my slightly-guilty pleasures.

Chinese Massages
They are advertised as 'Traditional Chinese Massages', but having not visited China myself, I can't verify how steeped in tradition these actually are. In Australia, they're on offer in foodcourts, pedestrian malls and in Sydney, at least, along bustling streets. It costs roughly $1 per minute, can be given in convenient 20 minute blocks and is usually given in a plastic chair. It involves no aromatherapy oil or rainforest music, fluorescent lighting is often above head and the masseuses talk very loudly to each other throughout the treatment.

It lacks all the ambience of a day spa but my goodness it is a treat I love. If I am ever truly rich, immediately after I hire a butler, I will hire my own personal masseuse who specialises in Australia's take on the Chinese tradition.

My personal favourite is neck and shoulders. The trick is that the masseuse kneads their hands – and sometimes elbows - into such a frenzy that it triggers a level of discomfort just a few sensations away from eye-watering pain. It's not particularly relaxing but I am magnetically attracted to those little plastic seats. Having described it like this I would understand if you don't see the appeal. Maybe that's why I think it's guilty. It all seems so wrong, and yet, it feels so right.

RockLea Road*

 This is my all-time confection of choice and given its calorific density it is legitimately guilty when consumed more than once a month. Darrell Lea has nailed this heavenly concoction of marshmallow, coconut, milk chocolate and peanuts. Though to be fair, with that combination of ingredients, anyone could probably nail it. I mean with chocolate and marshmallows it's hard to go wrong. I've never met a rocky-road I didn't like or didn't want to eat.

I embrace all variations on the original recipe so long as chocolate and marshmallow feature prominently. I'm yet to encounter a situation that couldn't be rectified, at least momentarily, by a little rocky road.

Something glashy

Somewhere between trash and gloss in the newsagents lies my favourite class of magazine. The Glashy. Not a bible like Vogue or Harpers Bazaar which can easily intimidate a girl without access to a six-figure wardrobe allowance or a working knowledge of Erdam's newest collection. Or even who Erdam is. And not something totally flimsy that preys on cellulite and rounded abdomens to fill its pages.

I find the void is filled by Who, Grazia and Hello! They don't enrich my life or fulfil any intellectual purpose but, oh how I love them, when I lay my hands on them.

In a previous life I used to flip through them religiously at the supermarket check-out each week but these days my regular grocery companion is rarely patient enough to indulge me. It is a joy I can only enjoy solo. Perhaps that's part of the fun.

What little things do you really love? Do you enjoy them guilt free?

*Alas this is not a sponsored post from Darrel Lea. If it was I would take payment in RockLea Road.