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Rocking Rod

This makes me so happy for so many reasons, so in lieu of a proper blog (it’s been a crazy few weeks, but I promise to try harder in the weeks to come), I give you Rod Stewart in all his knitted glory:


The man of my dreams.

The man of my dreams.

You’re welcome.


Occupational Hazards

There are some real perks to my job. I get to go to great parties. Parties to launch products and buildings and restaurants and fashion collections. Parties where they serve good fizz and arancini balls (everyone’s doing arancini balls this season – what’s with that?). Parties where I get to eat things like this:



And I get to stand around in rooms as gorgeous as this:


The new Sugar Club.

Lined with velvet like this:


Silky smooth.

Actually that party wasn’t so much fun. Yes, there was Tattinger on tap, but it was 52 floors up and the glass-bottomed elevator that took me up there made me want to heave all over the velvet-lined walls before crawling out of there on my hands and knees.

And it doesn’t really matter how much fun they are; they’re never as fun as the weekends when I get to do this:


Me and Wolfie.



Hello Stranger!

I’ve never been someone who enjoyed bumping into people they knew in unexpected places. It’s one of the reasons New York suited me so well; with eight million people swanning about the city, the chances of seeing an acquaintance or friend was slim to none unless you actually made a plan to meet. The odd time it happened, both the person I bumped into and I were so flummoxed we just stood gaping at each other for a few seconds and then went about our business.

Here, you bump into people from your deep-dark past and your present with alarming regularity.

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A Case of the Speed Wobbles

Well, everyone said it would happen, and it’s happened. Nine months into my new life, I’ve started to have a few ‘being home’ speed wobbles.

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Sticker Shock

I know I’ve banged on on this blog over the past two years about how expensive New Zealand is. When I first arrived to live at Disco Farm, I was gobsmacked at $5 for a carton of milk, $4 for a lettuce and $3-something for a small bottle of water. After living in a town where there are millions of savvy shoppers to keep the prices low, where you pay very little for almost everything, including restaurant meals, supermarket staples, bikini waxes and petrol, it was quite a shock that here, on an island at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, you pay a fortune even for things that are made here (like milk and cheese).

But in the last month or so I’ve noticed my sticker shock has abated.

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We Have a Winner

Well the pickings in the ‘Who has had the biggest disaster in the home’ competition were slim, but I loved that they all involved emergency services, potential loss of life, a trip to Accident & Emergency, and in Ngaire’s case, a sexually-innapropriate moment. It’s a great indicator of the types of friends I gravitate to.

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Radio Without Pictures

So my bright idea to give away a book didn’t garner much interest – so far, only three peeps have posted a domestic disaster. But I can’t tell if that is a sign that means it doesn’t bode well for book sales or that the people I know are such sophisticated cooks/cleaners/home-handy women that they’ve never bleached a whole load of black washing or poisoned their dinner guests.

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Book Ends

My book comes out next month. Remember that book I worked like a lunatic on last year? Yeah that one…

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Across 110th Street

I went to Bobby Womack last night. He rocked an old theatre in Auckland in a red leather suit teamed with red shoes, red glasses and a red leather hat. He looked a bit like this:

Bobby back in the day.

And he sounded terrific. I was there for just one song, Across 110th Street, one of the greatest disco hits ever made I think and Bobby’s best tune. And, luckily, it was the first tune he played last night. It made me think of New York, The Big C and the time Janey and I drove across 110th Street in Harlem, singing Across 110th Street. I had a little tear as I clapped along, but I so, so enjoyed it.

Let Me Entertain You

One of the things I’m really enjoying about suburbia is entertaining. In New York, people hardly ever have friends over, partly because their apartments are so cramped, partly because they work so hard, and partly because they’ve never learnt to cook. Instead you spend your social time in restaurants and bars and coffee shops where as soon as you’ve finished your food and drink you are expected to move on. You get used to catching up with people in one-and-a-half hour blocks. And to never having to do the dishes after dinner. But that’s not how I roll.

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