I'm feeling a bit mopey today, for various reasons. Tomorrow I've got to show up at Whangarei District Court for jury duty, which is highly inconvenient, in that I really can't be arsed going and am thinking of letting them sting me with the $300 fine for not turning up instead, good responsible New Zealand citizen that I am.
But, as I am a person in between jobs (and that's a rant for another day) a $300 fine would not go down well with the Other Harf, who is slaving away over a hot desk on mega exciting "budget templates" on this gorgeous sunny Sunday afternoon when he should be home with his maudlin wife - reason #2 for the mopiness.
And then there's reason #3. In the past three months my oldest and best friend hasn't phoned me once, nor has she returned my phonecalls and I think she's texted me, ooh, maybe three times. She would have no idea if I am still a jobless bum, or whether I've been taken on as the CFO of a multinational conglomerate.
I also know at the moment that her and her husband are going through one of the hardest, most emotional things a couple can be faced with - infertility: test after test, specialists, clinics and the distinct possibility of IVF.
Being 39 years old and not 16, I decided not to sulk about this understandable breakdown in communication on her part and sent her a text last night, wondering why she hasn't called, or texted, and telling her that I'm here if she needs to talk.
I'm still waiting to hear from her, and I'm wondering if I should just pick up the phone and just call her.
I'm feeling so much better today, after two days of mooching about the house with a head stuffed full of cotton wool and a nose on permanent drip. Fresh air! Physical activity! A functioning brain! I missed you!
So this morning I got up, walked the eternally grateful Pippa and Max, vacuumed the house, did some washing, weed-eated the forest round the back of the house, did two hours of studying Victorian poetry (strictly timed) and now, now I get to chill out, wind down and relax, with the possibility of a large glass of chilled white wine looming on the horizon.
Tomorrow it's my turn to take Miss 8.6 to her swimming lessons in town, which start at 8am. This involves extracting myself from bed at around 6.45am, in order to wake up properly for the 25 minute journey (I am so not a lark, but I'm not really an owl either, come to think of it) and to make sure that our ever-forgetful daughter hasn't forgotten her goggles or her swimcap or her hairbrush or her head.
Miss 8.6 is an awesome little swimmer and can do four lengths of the 25m pool at the aquatic centre no problem at all. So much so, she kicked butt at the school swimming competition two weeks ago and was subsequently picked to represent her school at the regional champs, this coming Tuesday.
The Other Harf and I are very proud and humbled about this, considering both of us represented our respective schools in diddly-squat. We both plan on being poolside on Tuesday, cheering very loudly and over-enthusiastically to embarrass her and to make up for our pain.
On Friday afternoon around 5-ish I got Bruvinlaw to drop me into town outside the Other Harf's work where we swapped my stationwagon for the OH's three-door hatchback.
Then I phoned the OH on my mobile and asked him to take a look outside his office window.
"Oh hello...what are you doing here?"
"I'm whisking you away for the weekend!"
"Are you?" I could practically hear the big grin on his face."I'll be down as soon as I can!"
Five minutes later we were on our way to the lovely little town of Paihia in the Bay of Islands, just over an hour's drive away, where we lazed about, drank lots of wine, ate some lovely meals in restaurants and some grownup breakfasts in cafes and did a bit of tiki-touring and souvenir shopping and sleeping-in late.
We sat on Paihia wharf, at 10 o'clock at night, dangling our legs over the side and watched the moonlight sliding across the water.
But the best thing about this weekend? It was just me and the OH.
No child, no DIY, no loud, early-rising nephews or noisy nieces, no gardening or cooking or housework or dogs wanting walks.
I'd forgotten how much I like just being with him.
Early this morning, at the unholy hour of 3.27 I received two text messages on my mobile, jolting both myself and the Other Harf out of our much needed beauty sleep regime.
What the!
At that hour it was either one of my UK mates forgetting about the time difference (again), or something bad had happened to someone here in NZ.
No, one was from a old work colleague, asking me how I'd got on with the job.
And the other was a notification of a voicemail. It was a message from the Human Resources Lady I wanted to give a piece of my mind to in yesterday's post, apologising for the delay in getting back to me and letting me know that I had been "unsuccessful" in my application.
"But best of luck for the future, Fiona."
Hummph. WHATever.
Fortunately I didn't ring her up yesterday afternoon and tell her what I thought as both were sent around midday and Vodafone took 13 and a half flippin' hours to send them on to me.
Nice one!
I guess I'm ok about not getting the job. It might be some sort of sign?
Or perhaps I just wasn't what they were looking for, after all.
