On an Aperol

Iso is about learning new skills.

  

I present the Aperol Spritz.  My tribute to Italy. 

100mls Prosecco

80 mls Aperol

Splash of Soda Water

Serve on ice with orange

This morning marks my first morning of holidays. The (not so) wee girl is officially on holidays too. The smalls and I are all still in our pjs, all in the front room, all together. Luckily Duncan is still able to work. He is working on a building site - spectacularly ocean side, perched on the northern edge of Tasmania; where he gets to gaze over Bass Straight, in between digging shit and bashing things with hammers and stuff.  I am not jealous.  No.  Not at all. 

Perhaps I should meet him at the front door when he gets home tonight, still ensconced in flannel and fluffy dressing gown, hair unbrushed, aperol spritz in hand.  He can say something romantic like "Darl, you used to look great in a tracky". Ah yes ... love in a time of Covid.

Back in Black (Lycra)

As promised to Mrs Smith, I have dusted off the metaphorical lycra and am back on the blogging bicycle. I'm wobbling like hell (both bike and lycra clad bod) but I'm sure it will all come back with a couple of goes. Mrs Smith and Kooandyoo hatched a sneaky plan from isolation that it was time to fire up the old blogs - to revisit a time when we connected through witty repartee, shared images of our craftiness and motherhood. 

More connection. Less isolation.

I'm in.

New Blog

After a couple of years off the boil I am now blogging over here: researchandreset.blogspot.in

We decided to take off to India for a year to hit the reset button and set sail on a new course (wherever that might be).

We've already been here for a month!

Hope to see you in blog land X 

Twentythirteen

I've been reading old diaries.  Words from other times usually penned around this time of year when I make promises to be kinder to myself, or less fearful, or more confident in going after what I want.  Less this, more that; extra this, minus that; better this, forget that.

This year I couldn't really think of anything to add or take away.  I'm not claiming any sort of enlightenment or achievement of relative perfection.  I'm just not sure of any particular direction I should be taking. I guess I just don't really know what I want to be when I grow up. I'm thinking that the more or less of what I need to obtain the place, thing, outcome I will no doubt come up with over the next year, will reveal itself in due course. 

I like to think of it as taking a holiday like the summer ones you had as a kid - the ones that seemed to stretch on forever until you were excited to get back to school. The one's that were filled with West Australian sun and beaches and backyard shenanigans.  Playing under the sprinklers, eating watermelon and spitting the pips and reaching into the fridge for cold cherry plums.  Of feeling the wind whipping your long hair through the open windows of the car on a hot summer's day and peeling the backs of your legs of the vinyl bench seats when you got to your destination.  The steel wool sensation of having your feet brushed free of sand with the old broom head that lived in the boot, ready for post-beach visits.  Eating loquats and mulberries from neighbourhood trees and riding your bike at twilight.  Of jumping into the deep river and dodging the brown jellyfish that outnumbered swimmers ten to one. Of terry towelling and fringed towels and sun umbrellas. Of washing off the zinc and sun cream and watching the bottom of the shower fill up the sand you'd stored in the gusset of your bathers.

The only navel gazing was the one that produced blue lint.

So for now I'm quite content with the lack of a plan of action.  Better or worse.  Give or take.  More or less.

Happy New Year.
Here's to sand filled gussets and belly laughs with those who think you are ace no matter your tan lines.

One for the Collection

 Hello, Mr Lobster.  Come home with me.  Meet some of your mates.  They live on my kitchen dresser.  You know you want to.

OK.  Don't mind if I do.  I always believed that there is a place for everyone ... you just have to wait.  Exhale.

Wrong

Today I had a moment.  One of those 'I'm going to cry' moments.  Sure I could tell you it was over an issue of world peace or grave illness; famine or drug related crime ... but it wasn't any of that.  It was over this building.  A beautiful heritage listed Launceston building.  Built in the 1920s.  This morning I felt so sad because the 'developer' has now replaced those beautiful wooden windows and doors on the upper levels.  Replaced them with ugly modern aluminium frames.  Apparent improvements?!?

So today I had another moment. I checked the heritage register ... clear as a bell ... 143-149 St John Street- permanently registered. So for the first time ever I took action. I rang the council and logged a complaint. I spoke with Heritage Tasmania.  They were wonderful. Because you know what ... it's a crime against Heritage Architecture ... and I feel so sad people thinking they can get around it by applying for planning permission 'retrospectively' and hoping it will slip through.  Other complaints had already been received.  The more they get, the more pressure there will be for this to rectified, I guess. They had already spoken with him.  Now I hope that he is made to replace those frames (that may not happen).

So that was my moment.
Just had to get it out... because I'm really pissed off.  I care about this stuff. This is our local history. That aesthetics are part of what gives our community its unique flavour.  We've got enough aluminium in the rest of our commercial buildings ... leave these ones alone! This property was purchased knowing it was part of the heritage register.  That comes with responsibilities.  If that's not your thing ... then don't buy it.

Soap box away.

Urban Archaeology

Today Tassie turned on the glorious.  A bright, warm, sunny winter's day lifted out of the morning fog - the perfect canvas for brunch with dear friends in our newly paved ' sun trap'.  When they left, it was too nice to go inside, so we stayed. With one of the lads opting to snooze, the wee girl and her wee brother filled the splash pool and donned the bathers.  Yes it is winter.  They were happy.  The girl even told me she won an Olympic Gold in diving.  We sang the national anthem.  I thought happy thoughts to keep me off those ones about pneumonia.... and I pottered.  Dunc welded - mending our soon-to-be-painted 50s outdoor setting (this has taken 4 years - see how motivating winter sun is?)... and I started doing a spot of archaeology.

 When we first moved into our house the back yard was entirely gravel ... it turned out on further investigation (ie when we decided we would put in garden beds) that under the gravel was a foot of compacted road base over black plastic ... low maintenance gardening, eat your heart out. A weekend of a hired 'dingo' digger and we broke through and freed the soil beneath ... but a really lovely discovery lay beneath ... our house is over 130 years old and at some stage someone had added fill ... whilst this fill contained shards of glass ... the bulk is made up of old ceramics.  So whenever we dig, or garden or even just go outside after heavy rain we find treasure.  This treasure gets placed along our fence , along with the old bottles and other interesting finds our soil turns up.  The ceramics, judging by their patterns and thickness vary greatly in age. Some is stoneware,  some porcelain.

Today, after much thought, and a whole lot more pottering around in the sunshine ,
I decided I might actually do something with these little treasures.  This post will have to act as a gentle kick up the derriere so that it is not waiting the same amount of time as the outdoor setting! We shall see!