• When I was a child Halloween was only ever celebrated in movies like E.T.  So when I saw a young girl running around in black lycra and a tall pointy black hat at the supermarket today I thought she must have been dancing in some end of year recital or something.  Then we got home and I sent Eddie and Tony out for a surf so I could assemble our new barbeque, but really so I could have some me-time on the couch.  And it was when I heard what sounded like a large group of children quite close by shouting “Trick or treat!” that I realised it was Halloween and also that the Nice & Natural nut bars I look forward to eating on the train home during the week may be a treat to me, but they would not be considered a treat by any discerning child of the noughties, even if I were willing to give them up.  So, I abandoned the barbeque, raced inside, closed the door and pretended I wasn’t home. 
• Leaves are evil.  They never sleep.  I can hear them falling outside as I type.  This is a revelation to me.  I always thought they looked pretty, just lying around on the ground, decorating the place.  Now that I live with a eucalyptus tree I know the truth.  If I didn’t sweep them up every Saturday we would be living in the middle of a compost heap.
• I know there are more things to say, but our friend Tony came to visit and he brought rum and coke with him.  I never drink rum.  I never drink coke either.  But it seemed a shame to waste all that rum and coke, so I had a couple, and now I really need to sleep. 

My work colleagues were almost as excited as I was when my modem arrived in a large express parcel in the internal mail on Tuesday afternoon.  Now they won’t have to listen to me whinge about my crumbling online existence.  By 11pm on Tuesday I had plugged everything in, had the Belkin man talk me through turning the flashing orange internet icon into a solid glowing blue – actually, he hung up on me before I had confirmed it was working… I think I upset him when I said “Hello?  Hello?  Helloooo, are you there?” into the one minute silence down the end of the phone after I asked him a question – then had my ISP man talk me through connecting both our laptops wirelessly.  As soon as that was done I logged onto Facebook, announced our re-connection then went to bed.

Having a connection to the internet at home after an absence of nearly one month feels a little like going back to work after a holiday of nearly one month.  I’ve forgotten the routine and I’m not sure I want to get back into it when I do remember. 

Actually, I almost decided, while I was away, that I was going to remove Our Piece of It from the routine.  Then after subjecting my friend Heather to one or two emails that were almost stream of consciousness in their uneditedness about why I was going to stop writing my blog and then why I thought maybe I should continue, I decided at the last minute to continue.

I was going to stop writing Our Piece of It because I’d forgotten what it was like to want to lay on the couch and read a book from beginning to end without needing to get up every five minutes to check something online.  But, I’ve decided to continue writing my blog, because I actually enjoy it, especially when I don’t feel pressured to do it, which I don’t right now thanks to our inefficient new ISP, because I’m out of the habit.

Oh how silly we were to think all our plans and preparations would mean we could do everything at once and it would run smoothly.

According to our list of things to do we were going to purchase a cute little one bedroom house with a large deck and a leaf-shedding tree on the Central Coast, pack up and move all our belongings to that cute little one bedroom house, and get super fast broadband channeled to our laptops under that leaf-shedding tree. In the mean time I was going to write an assignment on the status of customary law within various legal systems and email it the day of our move. And in the end we were going to sit on our new deck, drink champagne, and Skype my Mum and Dad for tips on how to keep the leaves under control without lifting a rake.

For a whole week before the settlement/moving date – our bags and boxes had been packed, our notice to the landlord had been given, and the removalists had been booked – the vendor’s bank said we were allowed to buy the house then were not allowed to buy the house at least ten times. After the fifth time I booked a storage unit for our belongings, started looking for temporary accommodation for ourselves, and requested an extension on my assignment.

On Thursday afternoon, the day before we were supposed to settle/move, Eddie phoned me at 3:50pm to say we weren’t going to settle, but our solicitor had organised for us to move into the house under license, so at least we had somewhere to put our stuff and ourselves. Then ten minutes later he rang back to say we couldn’t move in under license. Then ten minutes later he rang back to say we could. If I hadn’t been on the bus I might have cried.

The next morning, our removalists arrived fifteen minutes early at 7:45am, magicked all our belongings into their truck, drove up the coast, unpacked our belongings into our house and were on their way back to Sydney at 1:30pm. They were amazing, so Eddie forgives them for breaking the ruler on his drawing table.

Our solicitor rang that afternoon to say settlement date would be on Monday. We said we didn’t believe him, to one another, but that weekend we put together our bookshelves and filled them with all our books and folders and magazines anyway.

On Sunday night I “slapped together” (Eddie’s words) the rest of my assignment. And I tried not to think about the previous weekend, when during my compulsory tutorial (the one that prevented me, fortuitously I think now, from running my first marathon), one of our tutors gave a rather heartfelt description of how the perfect assignment should flow and balance and end on a deep philosophical point. It sounded lovely, but I’m ashamed to admit I have no idea whether or not my assignment flowed and balanced or had a deep philosophical point at the end. Which means it probably didn’t.

On Monday I handed in my assignment and we settled. And I really did think we’d be back online by Monday too. But, it turns out there’s a good reason for all those TV advertisements telling you to buy your modem and then connect to the Internet.

Today is Friday and it’s been four weeks since I applied for our broadband connection and three weeks since we moved, and in that time our new ISP couldn’t find our telephone line, then they couldn’t find our application, twice, then they forgot to send us a modem, and now we’ve been waiting a week for it to arrive in the post. And I’m sitting in the computer room of the City of Sydney library at Circular Quay updating my blog before I go to work, hoping, like anything, the modem will arrive this morning, but I’m not going to plan my weekend around it.

I’ve got bronchitis.  It’s making my attempt to study and move house at the same time difficult, and my ability to update ‘Our piece of it’ almost impossible.  In a couple of weeks the madness will be over.  In the mean-time I thought I’d be easy on myself and share a photo of Boozer and me when we were so much younger than today.  

1980s - Summer in Marshlands

So, this is me and Boozer.  Just to be clear, Boozer is the 12.2 hand chestnut gelding, and I’m the ten, or maybe eleven year old girl.  We’re in Boozer’s paddock, which was right next to the school house where we lived, and I think this photo was taken during the very dry Marlborough summer of 1981/82, or maybe it was 1980/81.  Anyways, my hair looks long, so I haven’t cut it yet, and begun that tortured relationship.  That happened a little later when I walked into the Vogue hair salon in town and asked my hairdresser for the day to make me look like Lady Di.  Two hours later I walked out feeling very sophisticated with my shoulder-length hair perfectly curled under and flicked back.  Of course it never looked like that ever again, no matter what I did with Mum’s hair-dryer.  I was still only eleven, and even now, so many years and so much practice using hair-dryers later, I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to, mould my hair into Princess Di’s 1981 hairstyle. 

Anyways, I’m wearing my favourite jeans with the horse patches on the knees, and oh my goodness I’m wearing my school regulation roman sandals.  Hmm, this photo was obviously taken before Boozer had stepped on me too many times.

So, you’re probably thinking ”Summer shmummer, hair shmair, sandals shmandals.  Oh my god!  She had a pony called Boozer?!”  Well, that’s the name he came with.  And I’ll admit, I thought it was the worst name in world; it was so, well, let’s just say I don’t think any of the nice people in Enid Blyton’s books would have owned a pony named Boozer.  But, he’d been around the local pony club crowd a lot longer than I had, and everyone knew his name was Boozer, so he stayed Boozer, except when I entered him in the local shows.  On those occasions I would be overtaken by my sense of the romantic and call him Golden Lad, and sometimes he would reward me by winning ribbons in the show-jumping.

There are now two cartons and seven boxes of books, magazines, folders, albums and DVDs, one carton of kitchen stuff, and five boxes containing an Australian Geographic globe, a sketching easel, a sewing machine, a set of kitchen scales, and half a dinner-set, all waiting for Eddie to carry them downstairs to the garage, where they will await the big day.

Now that I’ve packed half the house and have successfully dragged myself away from WordPress (mostly) and Facebook (completely) I’m managing to get my study under control too. Just in case you were worried.

That doesn’t mean I don’t have time to worry about my hair. Thus the following conversation as we traveled home on the bus this week.

Me: My hair’s kind of dark since I dyed it on the weekend aye? Do you think it’s too dark?
Edd: *Don’t make me do this*
Me: It looks better when it’s a bit lighter doesn’t it?
Edd: *PLEASE don’t make me do this* Uhh
Me: My hair. Is it too dark?
Edd: *Oh god, she’s not going to go away* Uhhh
Me: I think you don’t care about my hair. You don’t care about my hair do you?
Edd: *I’m so relieved that she finally understands* Nah, not really. Just as long as you’ve got hair.
Me: *Shocked disbelief* Those are pretty low expectations you know!

• After I made the very sensible decision to postpone running in the Blackmores marathon until next year so I could complete the requirements for my law subject this semester, I lost all sense and made the questionable decision to move house on the day my next assignment is due.  Actually, I’ll be at work while Eddie supervises the removalists, then I’ll swan in afterwards to complain about the positioning of the boxes and how it took them longer than they said in the quote.  but really, it’s all the packing and cleaning we’ll need to do beforehand that worries me.  My only excuse is that a ginger cat called Rupert made me do it.
• After I had a wee tantrum when a friend told me I should get my hair cut in a bob last year – Long story short, I said I wouldn’t have another bob until I’m old, and as I write that I’m well aware that some would say I already am - I’m seriously considering getting my hair cut in a bob to get rid of all my split-ends.  Even though the thought of cutting off what will take six months to grow back makes me break out in a sweat.
• After I read over the previous bullet point about my hair I had to edit most of it out, and it made me realise just how much I like to talk about my hair.  I loath talking about my weight, your weight, how to lose weight, your latest diet to lose weight, and what you think about how many carbs I eat, but I can talk endlessly about my hair, and your hair, given the opportunity.
• After considering how much I have on at the moment I’ve decided to give myself a break.  That means I won’t be keeping up with facebook and I won’t be updating ‘Our piece of it’ very often for at least five weeks.  Instead, I’ll be keeping up with my study, packing up the house, and quietly panicking.

Mostly, when I hop in a taxi the driver will grunt at me until he works out where I want to go or at a stretch we might discuss the weather.  I’m OK with that ’cause I’m not big on small talk.

The other day I got into a taxi and an altogether different kind of taxi driver asked me, “We’re we going today babe?”  To which I replied, “Such and Such street in the city.”  Then he said, “Oh! Such and Such street.  Is that the original Such and Such street?  Or is that Such and Such street in Sydney?”  And I replied, “Ummm, in Sydney?”  Then he proceeded to tell me that the original street was in Dublin, which is his home town, though he was “born in a hostel somewhere else, but that’s another story.”  And yeah babe, he thought we should “go to Dublin today, via India yeah, that’d be great, then Iran, yeah, and Turkey.  It’d be a ride baby.”

Just before getting in that taxi, I had escaped an appointment with our mortgage broker after I’d convinced him that I didn’t want to be late for work, and that I only had time to sign stuff and not time to listen to him rehash what we’d already gone over with our solicitor at a much more cracking and satisfying pace, and even if he let me go right now I would still be late for work, damn him.  So, I was slow to take in this rather interesting offer of a side trip to Dublin.  Actually I was still a little stuck on being called babe, and girly.  I distinctly remember him calling me girly.  “Girly, it’d take a while to get there, and it would cost more than a trip to the city, but it’d be a great ride.”

Sadly, I was too cynical and practical to take him up on his offer and as we drove up to my street he sighed and said, “Well, it’s back to the coal face for you little girly… better get out your pick and shovel and get back to it.”

But really just a variation on the old conversation about what should and shouldn’t be kept for longer than one week.

Me:  I guess we’ll have to start packing everything into boxes won’t we?

Edd:  Yeah.

Me:  I think I’ll start with my books.

Edd:  Hmm, and we’ll have to get rid of some things too, like magazines.

Me:  Really?  What magazines do you plan to get rid of?

Edd:  …

Me:  Your surf magazines perhaps?

Edd:  Well, I was thinking about your *cut off mid-sentence*

Me:  Oh really?  Well you get your dirty eyes off my magazines and worry about getting rid of things that BELONG TO YOU.

Edd:  *Laughing guiltily*

Me:  *Laughing but ready to fight for every precious page of all my carefully kept magazines if necessary*

We’ve just bought the most expensive cat ever!  Well, that’s what we’ve been saying since yesterday when we exchanged contracts on a wee one bedroom house on the the Central Coast of New South Wales.  You see now that we’re about to move into our own home we’re in a position to get a cat without asking for permission.  And that means we’re gonna get one.  I am so excited about moving into our own home, but getting our own cat, that’s gonna be the deliciously tasty marzipan icing on the cake.

We’ve been in negotiations about the type of cat we’re gonna get when we finally get one for years now.  The end result is that Eddie wants a ginger and I want a brindle tortoiseshell, so we’re getting a ginger.  Eddie wants to call him Samuel and I want to call him Rupert, so we’re calling him Rupert.  It’s all very civilised and now all we need to do is go to the RSPCA and find a wee beasty who fits our description.

• I think my public library is trying to shame me into returning my books on time.  Someone, probably the person who has to chase overdues, has come up with a new and creative way of displaying my past borrowings on my online record that lets me know that they know what I know, which is that I’m a bad borrower.  When I first saw it I gasped and thought “Oh god!  Next to every book on the list it says “returned item was overdue.”  Every book I’ve ever borrowed I’ve returned late.  How did that happen?  They’re going to suspend me!”  Then I looked more closely and saw there were only 28 books on the list and I’ve definitely borrowed more than 28 books in my time.  So, yeah, after much fluffing around on the website, what I’ve worked out is that I’ve taken my sweet time to return 28 books and rather than disperse that information amongst all the other books I’ve borrowed, they’ve put it in it’s own special table at the top of my record, just to see if that nice long list will convince me to return my latest book on time.  If only intentions were actions.
• Last weekend I was storming up the road in a bad mood about something, I’ve forgotten what, when I tripped over a lumpy kerb and broke my fall with the palms of my hands.  And I have to say it really hurt.  A week later and my right palm looks a little scratched, but it’s awright; my left palm looks yukky and requires a plaster to keep the general public safe, and it’s still sore.  If I felt like doing press-ups, and luckily I don’t right now, I couldn’t.  That’s how sore it is. 
• Just because I feel like it, here’s a video, and a song called Blue Smoke sung by Pixie Williams and The Ruru Karaitiana Quartet.  I love it.

From jonobroome.