Category Archives: photography

Nanny Goat

I have one grandparent left. Just one now. Life goes quickly, have you noticed? I wonder how much faster it will feel when my children have grown up and left home and are having children of their own.  My nana turned 90 on the 2nd of October. That’s a pretty good achievement isn’t it? My grandparents, all four of them lived good long lives. My grandad was in his late 80’s I believe, and both my father’s parents reached their early 90’s. Nana is the oldest living person in her family so far. She has outlived them all.

I remember so much about her, and so much I just don’t. I don’t remember being two or three years old and jealous that my sister got to stay at her house, so jealous in fact, that I decided to take my little bare baby feet and walk to her house. I had to walk down a mountain, across two fairly main roads, and down a horrible seedy little street where very..hmm..interesting people lived. I did it all without being noticed, and barefoot.  Mum got a call from Nana asking if she knew where I was!  Even as a toddler I was trouble, right?

I do remember the nights when I would stay at her house. Sometimes with one of my cousins, sometimes just by myself. I remember the smell of her house, the way that you could play underneath a huge cloud of cigarette smoke that lingered from about, waist high up.  Nana never smoked.  I remember spending hours and hours playing snakes n’ ladders and colouring in with her. I remember playing outside in my grandad’s amazing garden. He had a huge plum tree up the back, and he built a platform on it. I remember when my Aunty Lee came back from Australia and my cousin Ben used to come over.  He ate so much one day, he vomitted. And I can still remember creeping away from the purple vomit that was threatening to spill all over my shoes as we played up on that platform together.

I have very good memories of my Nana’s house. Of the way all her vegetables tasted, the salt, the extra cookedness of them, which I hated at the time, and absolutely miss right now. I remember my grandad eating lambs tongue out of a can.  The way the jelly stuff used to make me think of dogs food, and how much he loved it, and how revolting it used to make me feel. I remember his warbling voice as he sung old tunes that he loved and remembered.  I remember curling up in the warmth and dark of Nana’s bedroom, being scared of the things my cousin Jo told me, scaring each other senseless with ghost stories, I remember Nana coming to bed in the pitch black, the soft sound of her snoring in the bed next to mine, the way that her house was always home to us.

She was a big woman.  She was big and soft and motherly.  You could curl up in her.  She was warm and kind and everything you’d imagine a grandmother to be.  I always remember her as being bigger than life.  Fat and cuddly. She smelled like a grandmother and she was always happy.  At least, she always seemed to be happy, to me.

Over the years, after my grandfather passed away, 13 years ago now, Nana began to loose her bigness, her softness.  Dementia has ravaged her mind. She would have the same conversation with us, 5 times in a half hour visit.  She began to forget to eat, and lost weight.  She became tiny, and birdlike, and old.  She was always old, always the seemed to me that she never aged.  She just sort of existed. And then one day, I realised just how wrong I was, and how very  much she was aging.  She cannot take care of herself anymore, and is in a home where they make sure she has her meals every day and remembers to have a shower.  She still knows who we are, most of the time, but she reverts back to being a teenager sometimes. Apparently, she doesn’t recognise the old lady looking back at her in the mirror anymore.

Sometimes when I see her now, I don’t recognise her either.  She is so frail, and so tiny.  We used to tell her all the time that she was shrinking.  It seemed a joke at the time, but now, when I see her, it has become real. She is shrinking, she is becoming less.  Less and less.  And that makes me nostalgic. She is still my nana, she’s still the woman I grew up being loved and cared for by, who let me do things my parents wouldn’t, and never got angry at me. She’s the woman who would sit with me for hours in her living room and colour in countless pictures.  I can still hear the click of her clock. I can still smell grandad’s cigarettes, I can still see everything as it was, in her house in Murphy Street. I have the two dog ornaments that spent their life in her house now.  They remind me of how I was never told off for touching anything in her china cabinet. For wanting to touch things that were special and breakable.

Like my Nana.  Who at 90 years old, seem so special and so breakable that I cannot quite fathom how fast the years have gone.  I don’t see her often enough anymore. Our trips to Nelson are short, and we run out of time, and I am always riddled with guilt. I am ashamed to admit, that it hurts me to see her so frail, so old, and so lost in a world of dementia. It’s easier sometimes, not to see the people you have spent your life looking up to, being cared for by and loved by grow old and frail.   I miss her terribly though. Her and my grandfather, whom I had such a tempestuous relationship with, and whom I loved fiercely.

Nana, on your 90th birthday, I thought about you all day. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be there, but I know you were in good hands.  I can see, just how good those hands are in this photo. I hope you remember it. I love you very much.


OMG it’s true!

A giant sperm in the square! Only, it is purple, and if you ask me?  That is so much worse than blue. Purple implies…oh, you all know what it implies!  Do you know what else?  There are people, sitting inside it!  PEOPLE! They sit in there and give handouts out, I was too embarrassed to go see what they were doing.  But when we went back that afternoon, because I just had to show Ollie, there were….children…riding it.  THE HORROR!!!  *L*

Behold, internet, and my mother (This post is really for you, you know!)  A giant purple sperm in the square!!


How much do you love Spring? It’s so stunning!! This time of year in Christchurch is just glorious. Hagley Park is perfection, and it is becoming a tradition to go there when the daffodils come out and be forced into a million photos. This year, they turned out delicious! So, I have to share.

This is supposed to be what we did last weekend, however, it rained on Father’s Day, so we stayed home instead. Today we finished shopping for Siobhan’s birthday – she’s 12 on Wednesday. I know. It disturbs me so much! We had them spend the night with Elsie, and picked them up mid afternoon. It was deliciously grey and cool, typically Christchurch in the spring.

So here you go internet. Just as the majority of you are coming into Autumn, I will share with you my bliss at seeing spring daffodils. There are loads, I apologise, but they’re all so lovely! You must share them all with me!

Be kind – I am not in a stitch of makeup, it wasn’t until we left the house that Ollie informed me of his evil photography plans.

Aleeya and I were having deep discussions about what we bought Siobhan for her birthday. She is, understandably, extremely jealous. But how glorious is this park? It’s so beautiful, really. She’s excited, and not at all pleased, because you know, she has to wait until December until it’s her birthday, and how cruel is that? According to her – brilliant child that she is, she has to wait twice as long as the rest of us.  Our years go much faster than hers, you see.

Look at Ollie’s girls. Dejectedly walking out into the most beautiful spot he could find for us, before he ENDS OUR LIVES!!!!!!

Oh, you thought I was kidding?  Do you see him sneaking up behind us?

Fortunately, I am much too sweet and affectionate for him to destroy. Who could want to get rid of this? I mean, the adoration! The love!  Look at him.  He is completely oblivious.  Either that, or he just doesn’t care!  He’s all “meh, I have the laydees AND the daffodils.  You will serve me tea and look up at me in adoration.”  And I do, damnme. I do. *weeps*

It’s stifling you know.  Stifling and terrifying, and truthfully, we were only dejected before, because it’s really Ollie who is being led to the slaughter, and suddenly, I think he is realising it.  See how he is trying to escape? Suckah.

Aww.  You love us, don’t you?  Siobhan was taking these photos.  She always makes me look good. Always. I don’t know how she does it, but the girl snaps me with my eyes open and way less retarded faces than I usually pull.

The best thing about her taking photos is that she catches Ollie unaware all the time.  And these, so make the best photos. I mean really…what -is- he just about to tell me?  You know you’re intrigued.

See that?  That’s mine that is. I did that. And yes alright, I am making her lean so that I look taller than I really am. Alright? Are you happy? Also, this one is Aleeya’s. She’s not bad herself, she is a little snap happy though, we had meeellions of them and she almost ran away with it just to keep out of Ollie’s reach and keep snapping pictures as he came charging back at her.

OMG. The love, the cute, the ppprrrreeeeciooouuusssssss! Are you gagging yet? We really are quite disgusting. But didn’t wee Aleeya do a good job?  They will be noted fashion photographers yet.

Okay, so I have to put this one in here too. I mean, how can I not? Siobhan is a really good photographer. And we? We are hot.  That’s it, I believe you now, that shop lady? She was jealous, she must be, I mean srsly, look at us! 19 year old child, indeed!

Rawk!  \m/

I’m not even sure I can even explain this one!  I think I offended a couple of rather posh looking old ladies.

And you know, obviously, I cannot even express the joy at going home and having the camera TURNED OFF, without being snapped one.last.time.

Don’t You Look To Daddy’s Little Angel!

It’s Father’s Day today, time to remember everything that makes your father better than everyone else’s.  To celebrate the fact he is half the reason you’re alive today and half the reason you are who you are.

When you’re growing up, you take your parents for granted. At least, I did.  They were there and they stopped me from doing things I wanted to do, they punished me when I did things I wasn’t supposed to do, and they always seemed so completely against me, like they didn’t understand, they’d never been teenagers, they didn’t know what it was like. And then I had children of my own, and I realised what sort of thankless, incredibly selfless, HARD job it is.  It is so hard to be a parent. You are teacher, parent, disciplinarian, doctor, are, in effect a child’s everything.

I am the apple of my father’s eye, and I am not afraid to admit it.  I was, and still am Daddy’s little angel. I was so used to hearing myself called this, it is what I called myself.  “Don’t you look to Daddy’s little angel!” I would exclaim whenever anybody did anything I did not like. I cannot remember a time where I was not on his knee, listening to his voice, falling asleep while he rubbed my head.  In fact, that is still my biggest weakness.  It is the one thing that, no matter how tired or angry I am, will calm me down.

Anyway, let me introduce you to my father. My father, as I know him. This is for you my daddy, on Father’s Day, because I am a hopeless daughter and I know I promised it for your birthday, but that came and went, and you know, I realise that my presence was present enough. The late night drinking and Indian food was better than any posting, because you got to be with me!  Joy of Joys, Tinsel of Your Universe, Daddy’s Precious Little Angel.

My father is Irish, he has a sense of humour that scares people. No one is ever sure if he’s making a joke, or making fun of them.  Not so long ago, he began a writing course, and has continued to blow me away with his amazing stories and poems.  He has a real gift for it, and I never really realised this before.  Dad isn’t the sort of man who will talk openly about himself.  At least, he never did with us.  I don’t recall hearing very  much about his childhood at all, nor what it was like for him growing up.  He was always, a very closed book. Lately, he and I have become friends.  We have reached that age where you stop being father/daughter and become friends. You understand one another, you share things with each other, and you enjoy the time you get to talk and share and drink with each other.

I have learned a lot about him in the last few years, things I’d never have imagined.  We went to Ireland together when Grandma was sick.  I got to see him amongst the people he grew up with. I got to watch a small piece of the interactions he had with his mother, and his siblings.  I got to see Ireland through his eyes, we spent time together and did not judge one another, but were just there together, existing and understanding, and relating.  We listened to one another and I grew to realise that our similiarities are the reason we found it so difficult to understand each other while I was growing up.

Being a parent, an adult, and being responsible for the life of someone else, is not an easy job, in fact, it’s incredibly difficult. You bring a piece of yourself, and someone else into the world and you love this person with all your heart, and then they begin to become their own little people, they take on parts of you, parts of their other parent, and they fuse into something that is both them, and themselves, they argue with you, they know more than you do, they are willful and disobedient and they never turn out the way you’d imagined they would, but in the end, you’re still there for them, you still tell them it’s going to be okay, and that the choices they have made, are the right ones. Even if you know they’re not.

So, my daddyboy, here’s to you, on Father’s Day, the year you wilfully turned 60 without asking my permission.  Thanks for the advice, for giving me sound options, for making me believe in myself, for grounding me when I loose my way, for believing in me, even though sometimes I’m sure you still don’t.  Thank you for the head rubs and standing in my doorway while I pretended to sleep waiting for me to dissolve into a fit of giggles before you said goodnight one last time. Thanks for putting up with me when I became rancid and completely unbearable to live with.  No matter how old I get, I will always be Daddy’s Little Angel, and I will alway seem to never be listening, but I take everything you say to heart, and I remember every word, when I need to hear it the most.

I love you.
Your most beautiful, wondrously talented and amazing child ever

Bonded by Blood.

It’s always strange to me that now I have my own family that I don’t often talk about the people I grew up with. It’s not because they’re less important now, it’s just that it seems like such a distant memory, and in the case of my sister, is really is.  I was six when she left home. I don’t remember her when we were growing up really, I have a few memories, when she was told to look after me and took me out with her and her friends, or getting told off by her for touching her things.  There is a time I vaguely recall, although I might just recall it because the story was told back to me years later, when I had used the drawers in her dresser as stairs (Siobhan has this now) to reach the top of it to touch her things.  I’d pulled the drawers out too far and the entire thing fell over and pinned me beneath it.

In my house, this was cause for much hilarity.  Like the time I decided to shave my legs in the bath, nicked myself behind the knee and the entire bath turned pink, or at least, it seemed to.  I thought I was dying, and screamed and screamed, Michelle and my mother came running in to save me, saw me in the bath, screaming with a razor in my hand and fell around laughing.  Is it any wonder I am the mother I am I ask you? She and my brother used to get me out of my cot when I was wee and take me into their room and teach me to swear, then roll around screaming and laughing when I repeated the words.  It was all fun and games until dad caught me chasing John around the house with a stick screaming “you f***ing b**tard!” at him while he gleefully kept juuuust out of reach and squealed with laughter infuriating me further so that I’d keep chasing him. Your story is coming big brother. Ah, revenge, sweet, sweet revenge!

Anyway, I spent most of my summers at her place in Takaka when I was between the ages of about 11 and 14. Mum would put me on the bus and six hours later, I’d be over the mountain and she’d pick me up in their really old car and take me home. I’d stay up late in my room reading Narnia and freaking out at the insane silence of the country.  She took me everywhere, usually on the back of her pushbike.  The smell of the country is still one of my fondest memories. Cow shit and grass. I love it.  I loved wearing gumboots and oversized Swandri’s and walking around in the mud and rain in mornings so early that I have literally forgotten what they look like. I remember how crisp and clean everything was.  How silent. She had German Shepard’s and I would fall asleep by the fire on top of her male dog.  We’d go to the neighbours and I’d ride the clydesdales while they worked.

The beaches in Takaka are amazing.  Their is nothing that compares to them in the world. They are rugged and salty and we would go out into caves that you could only reach in low tide, spend too long out there and almost be stranded when the tide came back in.  It was frightening and exhilarating all at once. The smell of salt air and the cool breeze that turned your face pink and our curly hair into frizzy oblivion still gives me pangs of nostalgia.  Everything always seemed so free and easy when I stayed with her.  I never really thought about time, it just passed and every day was always different.  She had caves in her backyard.  There was always something to do, some place to see, new things to learn.  She was mother while I was away from home.

She worked for this woman who’s husband was in the last stages of altzheimers. I remember her pushbiking with me, an 11 or so year old on the back, up the hills to his house and she would take care of him. Feed him, talk to him, and he would lay there in his chair, a shell of a man, thin and making inarticulate noises. I remember knowing that he was going to die, and thinking that that must be what death looks like. It scared me, and fascinated me, and I could never fully come to grips with the reality of it. I really loved spending summers with my sister.  She had what I thought, was the most amazing life.  I learned a lot there, about myself, other people and what it was like to be away from my parents.

Michelle and I grew close when she moved back from Takaka following her split with her first son’s father.  I was 18 and we’d go to bars together and get totally tanked.  She was 27 at the time.  We had a lot of fun, I stayed at her place as often as she’d have me, we’d listen to music, we’d talk about relationships, sex, vulgar things that you can only talk to sisters about and we finally got to be what I imagine other sisters are like. We were close, we were no longer mother/daughter, but sisters. Our ages, still vastly different stopped being so gapingly obvious now we were grown up. We shared everything, we got rottenly drunk and we enjoyed every minute of it.

Michelle was there when I gave birth to Siobhan, along with both my parents and Ollie.  Busy room.  She held her moments after she was born.  I had one foot on my midwife, one foot on my sister, my father on my left with my mother, my (now) husband on my right when Siobhan came into the world.  She was surrounded in family and people who loved her, and so was I.  It was an amazing experience, one I was still young enough to be horrified by, and too tired and sore to care at all that all these people were standing around me while I was buck naked and pushing new life into the world.  It’s a pretty strange experience when you’re 19.

Michelle met her husband and moved up North, and we have had sparodic contact ever since.  She came to my wedding a few years ago, I miss her a lot actually.  She taught me a lot about myself and who we are as a family. She has three boys now, and I’ve only meet two of them once.  Her oldest I haven’t seen since he was about 10? Apparently he’s a big man now.  That amazes me.  He was always so little, I can’t imagine him grown up and having a life of his own.

She has her own business now.   She owns a shop in Thames and sells crystals, local arts and crafts and all kinds fabulous, crazy stuff.  Michelle is one of those people who can find crystals and four leaf clovers almost anywhere. She’d sit on the lawn and come back with a handful of them.  I never found one.  Every single time she’d go out, she’d come back with more.

She’s also a tarot reader and a healer, she’s an artist and a dreamer and my big sister.

Good god!

You know, the worst thing happened to me the other day.  It was so awful, it’s taken me a full day to get to the point where I think I can write about it and not feel too heinous.  That’s not true, I still feel heinous, in that amused sort of “wtf?” kind of way, because really, it is strangely amusing.

I went shopping yesterday after work with a girl I used to work with in my photography job.  She contacts me when she leaves jobs asking me if she can use me as a reference you see.  She’s 19 years old, part Malaysian and good god is she beautiful.  Like stunningly ridiculously beautiful.  She’s tragically dim.  I said to her via txt message “Starbucks in the Square!”  I even plastered it all over her facebook.  “Yep, yep! C U thar lol” she’d reply, because..she is 19 and that’s how they write..always.

She went to the wrong Starbucks, like I knew she would.  So hilarious.  She goes “Oh my god Kelly!  I am like, SO blonde!”  And I reply “You are dear, you really are.  How did that happen when you have such dark hair?”  She is full of fun and sarcasm and I adore her. I can’t help myself.  She is just so ridiculous and amusing.  Anyway, we went to the mall, because I need new black pants that fit and don’t fall off my arse every time I move…yes, loosing weight is great, but then you have to get a new wardrobe which makes your husband go into dramatic fits of agony over the money that will be spent.  Nevermind the fact that there will be joy and eyeballing of the behind in pants that actually show I have a bum, and don’t make me look like Eminem.

Also, don’t 19 year olds with no children – I add that in for my own sake, considering I was 19 with child..although, to be fair, I still had rocking taste – know where all the good shops are?  Of course they do! She showed me shops I’d NEVER gone into before.  “Wait…this shop is way too expensive”  I’d gasp and she’d go “is it?  Let’s just look.”  So I’d go in with her and hover at the front of the shop looking at things and she would cross her arms over her chest and say “You see Kelly, THIS is why you think they’re expensive.  The sales racks are down.the.back?”  Use of inflection to remind me how old and crunchy I am, along with eye rolling and much head shaking.

She was right!  Of course, everything in my size was gone.  “It’s a really popular size” she’d sympathise with me, and I would search the sales racks finding only large sizes which all the larger ladies don’t realise exist in these shops because they are TOO AFRAID TO ENTER THEM!!!  Anyway, we went into this shop, and the lady serving me was probably my height, a little stockier, and hmm…40ish?  I say “Can I try these on?” And she goes “sure!”  then she looks at them and looks at me and says “are you looking for straight leg loose, or something that shapes your bum?”  And I am a little horrified by this, because normally these women in these sort of shops are too good to talk to I say “I um…uh…well…something that shapes my bum?”  and she hands me a pair of pants in a size too large, because they don’t have my size..obviously..popular, you know..and do you know what internet?  I put them on, they were too big, but they shaped my bum and get this….they were only about 2 inches too long! OMG!

Okay, so lots of you won’t get my excitement about see, I am 5’2 on a good day..and Oliver likes to inform me that I am shrinking.  I’d agree if I didn’t know that his posture is just 100% better now that he’s been doing karate for like his whole freaking life and finally walks straight!  And, pants NEVER fit me, I hate, hate, hate shopping for pants.  It is the one thing I truly struggle with.  But these, god were they glorious!  And instead of being 6 inches too long, only 2!  2 I tell you!

So, I’m marvelling at my bum, and lamenting the fact I can fit my hand sideways into the waist when the shop assistant comes back and says to my 19 year old friend who is patiently waiting for me to show her how the pants look on…she says…”How’s your mum doing?”


Did you hear that?  “How is your MUM doing?!”

Now..I’m standing there, thinking..”did I just hear that?”  And my friend is all “huh?” because, she lives in her own world, which is partly why I love her so much..she’s never quite -there- if you know what I mean..and I come out and explain they’re too big in the waist, but that the other pair are too small in the waist and she offers to order me some in, and when she walks away I say “Did she just call me your MOTHER?”  and Miss 19 goes “OMG! I thought I misheard her!!”

I mean, I know that 19 year olds don’t often hang out with 31 year olds…but really?  MOTHER?  Not even…sister, but MOTHER?!?!!!  I just had my hair done!  I’m not even sporting any greys!!!  Good god.  From a distance, you can’t even see my crinkly eyes or my smile lines..horrifying!  We laugh a bit, but you know, I am understandably horrified and she goes “Hey remember that time our other workmate asked if Ollie was your husband or your son?”  And I go “You see?  THIS is why I’ve missed you. NOT!”  And she laughs and informs me soon I will need a zimmer frame and that she will now always refer to me as “mum”.

Please, please, pleeeease boost my dying ego internet.  Do I really look old enough to have a 19 year old child? I mean really??  She does look young, as all Asians do, but I would say no younger than 17..which still would have made me 14.  Oh, I’m so woe!  Look at me and be honest – but only if your honesty is really nice and doesn’t agree that I look like a 40 year old freaking housewife!!!

That’s my straightened hair, not this last time, but the time before, and because I am vain, (hence my angst at that awful woman’s assumption, really internet?  Really?? That old?) I must show you it from the back, it’s so long and gorgeous! It’s longer now!  When I had it done last week it was so way longer. Also, it’s crinkled because I slept on it – as you do.


I wanted to capture the grey so you could see it with me. Somehow, I’m not sure it looks as grey as it really is in real life, but here you go!  This is my walk to work every morning.

When you enter The Square from the main section of the city, this is what you see. The chalice thing is relatively new, as are all those grey cobblestones. There was a lot of debate about putting them down, the council won of course, despite the residents of this city complaining that the entire area – a very popular and the most central part of the city, would be too grey.

Looking away from the cathedral is the rest of the Square, the building on the far left? Nice brick and cream?  Yeah, that’s a Starbucks. It’s just wrong, but I admit, when we had the bomb scare, Ollie and I had a coffee in there, and it was so lovely to sit there looking out onto the rest of the Square.  You can just, hopefully…make out the people setting up their stalls.

How stunning is the cathedral? I mean really.  Most of the stone masonry around Christchurch is made from Halswell stone – the Halswell Quarry is an amazing walk. I don’t think I’ve blogged that yet! Soon my pretties, soon.

This photo betrays my grey bleakness.  The buildings there are not grey! How dare they!  Where I am standing though, is where the man with the Australian hat stands with his collection of flutes. I forgot my phone on my way home, which I was sorely disappointed about, because he had the most luscious yellow jersey on that I have EVER seen. Maybe one day when I am feeling particularly bold, I will try to capture video footage of him.  He is worth the effort.

Now this is a little more grey right?  I took these last friday (15 August) the day turned out to be one of the more beautiful ones we’ve had, so of course, the blue sky tells you lies. I walk right up that street you can see in front of you, all the way up and over a bridge, where I follow the Avon river along Oxford Terrace to work.

I don’t know about you, but I really love this photo. This is my Christchurch, bleak, busy, always being revamped.  They cannot leave anything alone in this city, they tear down what little history we have and replace it with bigger, better, faster, warmer buildings all the time. The buses go around the Square every two minutes or so.  This is to the left of the Cathedral.  I really love this statue. It’s one that I never pass up looking at when I walk past.  Sometimes seagulls are perched on their heads, sometimes it is perfectly pristine. A deep dark jade green bronzed statue against a slate grey sky that speaks to me every time I see it. You can’t see it very well, but the central figure is an angel holding a sword over her head and she has three or four others at her feet. It’s really beautiful..and I cannot for the life of me remember what it’s called. You have no idea how gloriously bright he was standing here fluting in the yellowest jersey you’ve ever seen! Truly! Right there in the left hand corner. I wish he’d been there that morning.

Past the Square is Victoria Park.  There is a statue of Queen Victoria at its entrance, and it leads up to the Town Hall.  It’s one of the most stunning parks ever. The tram stops there every day and yes, that really is a red phone box.  Try as I might, I have never found either a Tardis hiding in one (okay, so they’re blue sue me!) or the way into the Ministry of Magic. *sigh*

You can’t see how beautiful it is sadly, the statue is Queen Victoria, and right there, where that tiny red roof is on the left?  That’s a tram stop. Fascinating, no?

And that my dears, is my daily walk to work, minus the delightful river and work itself, the Town Hall, the Band Rotunda and many other things that you just cannot capture on a cellphone camera.  I am quite pleased with how well they came out though.

Thank you for reading me, for the comments, the love and the support. You guys are making that step from creative hobbiest writer into working writer that much easier. <3

Growing Up

I finally managed to get out with Siobhan last night. We went to one of the funky little cafes in the city for dessert to celebrate the fact that she is now in the league of grown up ladies. It was really nice. We talked about crazy things, we video called Ollie to show him how good dessert was – this was Siobhan’s idea! It was so funny, Ollie was most impressed. We dressed up and off we went. Just her and I and night time. We were both very grown up.

She had an apple berry crumble with coke, and I had banofe pie. Siobhan ate all of hers and finished the rest of mine for me too. Seriously, she is her father’s daughter. I don’t know where she hides all that food, but I’m fairly certain it’s part of the reason that she is growing so tall. Did I tell you she is an inch taller than me now? It’s disgusting. She is too tall and too willowy. I think it needs to stop now, she is too gorgeous for her own good.

My cellphone doesn’t take the best pictures unfortunately.

Murder On The Dancefloor

So, the show was last night, we had a decent crowd, and it went well from what I heard anyway, I did five pieces, which meant I was in the show from start to end and I didn’t get to see any of it. The pieces I did I was pretty happy with, but I think the best part was that a bunch of dancers from The Contemporary School, including my other teacher – and the Tribal teacher came, and everytime i went on stage the ululating was so loud that I was torn between being absolutely terrifyingly embarrassed and deliciously proud. They were wonderful, and I’m SO glad they came. Having friendly faces makes it so much nicer when you are up on stage in front of tables and tables full of people all eating and discussing things and you are being blinding by the lights.

I had a great time, I was extremely nervous, and the strangest thing is, whenever you are on stage, no matter how fast the dance seems when you are learning it, by the time you get up there, it seems to be so slow that you’re going “what’s happening? Why is the music so slow? How come I am dancing in slow motion??” I enjoyed every minute of it

I really enjoyed myself, even though I needed to do nervous pee from beginning to end and was sure I was going to die.

I got some wonderful comments, comments that made me blush. The contemporary girls told me how gorgeous my smile was and how no one but me was smiling. I told them it was them that made me do it. They are big on smiling, and it was hearing them that made me smile. They said I looked relaxed and like I was enjoying myself, and I was so proud. I was enjoying myself, I really was. I love dancing for an audience, it makes me so happy. Also, they said “have you lost weight?” And I have! I had such a belly hanging over my costumes the last time I danced, and now I don’t. I’m really proud of myself.

Afterwards, I had people coming up to me and telling me how wonderful I was, and how beautiful my smile was. I’m gloating, I know it, but it isn’t every day that I have people complimenting me like that. They had that look on their faces, you know the one..where they’ve just met someone they really admire, and they really wanted me to know how much they enjoyed watching me. One of the girls I danced with had her family there, she has been telling me for weeks how lovely she thinks I am. She delighted in telling me her sister thought I was hot too. There is something really special about having other women think you are beautiful, because women – as you know, are so much harder to please than men..they look at different things, they see things that you wouldn’t expect and comment on those. It was so sweet, and so touching, and I’m very glad that things have ended on a high note.