nothing to steal and there's nothing to say
Back in Sydney, this time to stay.
A couple of nights before my birthday, I flopped back onto my iron bed and the whole thing lurched far too ominously for my liking. Usually when that happens, I grumble for several days, get a backache, then rummage around for the spanner/wrench/wotsit and swear mightily while tightening all the screws. This time I just lost it.
The bed just hasn't been steady since I moved into this place and I'd had it. Dismantled the whole thing as in took off the head and the foot and the middle legs. And since then it's been the mattress on the tray, laid on the carpeted floor, all nicely swaddled in the embossed wine red sheets with my grandmother's cushions as the head and my three small cases of music as the foot. You know, it's actually quite comfortable and pretty? Almost tempted never to put the bits back on.
The Aunt and I met her cousin and his family at the Hindu temple in Helensburgh this morning. Didn't go to see the temple so much as to partake of the dosas and idlis and vadas at the canteen. I totally didn't realise it was an actual functioning temple. We didn't go in but there was mass and everything and it was quite awesome to be surrounded by Indians in kurtas and churidars and some rather lovely saris. I loved just being able to see a mangalsutra worn. Always loved them.
The dosas weren't all that great but we ate and came back to the cousin's extremely well decorated and big house in Bangor where we sat and talked about family and had nummy gooey brownies and listened to the Priests sing Ave Maria. I wasn't particularly keen on company since I was totally ready to come back here and get back into my life but it was nice enough.
But now home. Finally.
Yesterday morning while waiting for my hair appointment, I started and finished Little Lord Fauntleroy. Turns out Frances Hodgson Burnett doesn't always write kids I can relate to. I was hoping it wouldn't be the case but yep, he was definitely far too good. Constant nobility and humility and not a single flaw made for pretty lukewarm feelings on my part. But I did like how she managed to balance out his immensely sensible nature by the total irascible sarcasm of his grandfather. Nicely done but yep, definitely the least of the three.
I'd still rate The Secret Garden as my intense favourite and admit a healthy liking for A Little Princess. It was just funny that all the way through the last novel, I had Kirkeby in my head looking at Jack Lemmon in the cloakroom and saying "Listen to him! Little Lord Fauntleroy!" Bwee hee hee. Oh Wilder and Diamond, thou art divine.
I discovered yesterday at the library that PL Travers actually lived for a while in the street behind the Aunt's place. A very loud squeal was emitted, yes. And this is now my explanation for why the Aunt has a bizarre tendency to turn into that street instead of her own. *snort* What? Is there a better explanation?
Not working tomorrow. But oh there will be work done. Come rain or blazing sun.
A couple of nights before my birthday, I flopped back onto my iron bed and the whole thing lurched far too ominously for my liking. Usually when that happens, I grumble for several days, get a backache, then rummage around for the spanner/wrench/wotsit and swear mightily while tightening all the screws. This time I just lost it.
The bed just hasn't been steady since I moved into this place and I'd had it. Dismantled the whole thing as in took off the head and the foot and the middle legs. And since then it's been the mattress on the tray, laid on the carpeted floor, all nicely swaddled in the embossed wine red sheets with my grandmother's cushions as the head and my three small cases of music as the foot. You know, it's actually quite comfortable and pretty? Almost tempted never to put the bits back on.
The Aunt and I met her cousin and his family at the Hindu temple in Helensburgh this morning. Didn't go to see the temple so much as to partake of the dosas and idlis and vadas at the canteen. I totally didn't realise it was an actual functioning temple. We didn't go in but there was mass and everything and it was quite awesome to be surrounded by Indians in kurtas and churidars and some rather lovely saris. I loved just being able to see a mangalsutra worn. Always loved them.
The dosas weren't all that great but we ate and came back to the cousin's extremely well decorated and big house in Bangor where we sat and talked about family and had nummy gooey brownies and listened to the Priests sing Ave Maria. I wasn't particularly keen on company since I was totally ready to come back here and get back into my life but it was nice enough.
But now home. Finally.
Yesterday morning while waiting for my hair appointment, I started and finished Little Lord Fauntleroy. Turns out Frances Hodgson Burnett doesn't always write kids I can relate to. I was hoping it wouldn't be the case but yep, he was definitely far too good. Constant nobility and humility and not a single flaw made for pretty lukewarm feelings on my part. But I did like how she managed to balance out his immensely sensible nature by the total irascible sarcasm of his grandfather. Nicely done but yep, definitely the least of the three.
I'd still rate The Secret Garden as my intense favourite and admit a healthy liking for A Little Princess. It was just funny that all the way through the last novel, I had Kirkeby in my head looking at Jack Lemmon in the cloakroom and saying "Listen to him! Little Lord Fauntleroy!" Bwee hee hee. Oh Wilder and Diamond, thou art divine.
I discovered yesterday at the library that PL Travers actually lived for a while in the street behind the Aunt's place. A very loud squeal was emitted, yes. And this is now my explanation for why the Aunt has a bizarre tendency to turn into that street instead of her own. *snort* What? Is there a better explanation?
Not working tomorrow. But oh there will be work done. Come rain or blazing sun.