Finally......

Woo hoo, we are in....  Finally after 5 months of living out of suitcases and turning my sister’s life and house upside down we are finally in our own place.  Okay, perhaps at this stage it is more the banks then ours but nonetheless we now have a place to call home.

All our stuff survived the boat trip out from the UK, all 202 boxes with nothing broken or damaged.  It is utterly amazing how much junk you accumulate and then pay to get shipped across the other side of the world!  Of course there has to be a reason why the broken laptop made its way out here!  Or why the movers thought we would want the broken door handles from our old kitchen or keys to the back door?  Then there are the heavy duty winter coats and boots we have.  Not really needed where the average winter temperature in this city is 11 degrees (Celsius).  We could make use of them and go skiing but since I have a pure hatred of snow brought on by the last five winters in London I don’t think that will be happening any time sort.  Mr P is yet to explain why he thought we would need the snow shovel and sled!

Also I am absolutely sure I cleaned everything before we left but apparently the yoghurt stains on the sofas (don’t worry they are leather) have proven me to be a lair.  The only thing that seems to be missing is a broom and feather duster but I can and have lived without them before.  The boys are ecstatic of course to have all their toys, not to mention their own bedrooms again.

Some things are a bit weird, like seeing all our furniture from London in totally new surroundings.  Going to redial a number on our phone and seeing all our London friends’ numbers or the number to our old local Chinese.  Where once I would be typing this and looking out at a magnolia tree in full spring bloom I am now looking out at palm trees and listening to the noisy sound of cicadas.  It may sound tropical but it is still suburbia... 

I still do not have the settled feeling and still have many decisions to make for myself but at least now I can do it knowing we have a place of our own and that the boys are happy. 

I still wish that we had settled back in Wellington not Auckland as that is where we are from but hey shit happens.  As they say “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth”, we were lucky enough to get out here as quick as we did with a job for Mr P. 

So chin chin, here’s to the next 10 or so years in Auckland.  Lets hope they are as good to us as the years in London were...

Friends, as good as Family?

What do you think, are friends’ family? Do you consider your closet friends more like family than friends?

Well if like me you live 13,000 miles from your family then the answer is, Yes. Of course they are never going to replace your family, how could they? But they can and do fill the gap that exists when you have no immediate family to hand. This really hit home for us last week when we had to take Son No 1 in at 6.30 am for his operation. What would we do with our younger son? No problem, our good friend K, said she would take him the night before so we could just get up and go without having to sort him out. Then when the day didn’t go to plan and the operation was scheduled later than we anticipated, she stepped in again by taking him for another night, so Mr P could stay later, and be there when Son No 1 woke up from his surgery. The whole time we never had to worry that he wasn’t being looked after or that one of us had to rush back to collect him.

Of course I am not talking about fair weather friends or transitional friends, those friends that come in and out of your life at different stages like work colleagues or people in parenting groups. I am talking about your close friends, the ones that will always be there for you, the ones where you can agree to have different points of views, tell you that your arse does in fact look big in that, hold your hair back for you when being sick, the ones where you can feel comfortable enough to sit in your PJs all day eating cold take away from the night before, with. Those are the friends I am talking about.

Yes, your family are the ones that know you warts and all. They know all about your good and bad points, the teenage angst and crushes, crying when watching old Lassie movies! Whereas your closest friends know you as you are now, with none of that family baggage or resentment. They are less likely to judge you especially when it comes to raising children, hands up who hasn’t had an argument with their mother over something that you are apparently doing wrong? They tend to be more supportive of your decisions and actions as they have either been there done that, or going thru the same thing as you.

Our boys will not only grow up with their immediate family but also an extended family of uncles, aunties and cousins that may not be tied to them by blood but family they will be.

I just don’t understand....

I have been living in this fair country for going on 10 ½ years and in all that time there is one thing I can’t quite understand. I would even go as far as to say it’s a downright bloody mystery to me. That mystery is the jacket (or baked, depending on side of the Atlantic you are on), potato!

In all seriousness I just don’t get whey they are everywhere, doesn’t matter what eating establishment you are in there is bound to be a jacket potato on the menu somewhere. Okay, perhaps Jamie or Gordon don't have them in their restaurants. I have even been aboard and see baked potato stands in English touristy hotspots. As if you can’t leave old Blighty for a week or so without getting your potato fix.

Now I am not a potato hater, in fact I am quite partial to a spud or two and back in NZ we do have baked potatoes, mainly as a meal accompaniment (with just butter on top) or done on the coals of a BBQ. But what I really don't understand is the allure of a potato, baked to within an inch of its life, covered in a variety of toppings, pawn cocktail anyone? I just don’t get it. I can count on one hand, no actually two fingers the number of baked potatoes I have had in my time here. What did I think of them, well they were okay but it wasn’t a culinary masterpiece or even a delight. While working it was a much debated topic between myself and a good friend T, who is a bit of a foodie. While she could see it merits as a healthy lunch option I couldn’t, so would try all I could to negate the argument, “baked potato, might as well get chips!”

So to try and find why the fascination for the baked potato I went over to the ever reliable Wiki and apparently...

“The baked potato has been popular in the UK for many years. In the mid-19th century, jacket potatoes were sold on the streets by hawkers during the autumn and winter months. In London, it was estimated that some 10 tons of baked potatoes were sold each day by this method. Common jacket potato fillings (or "toppings") in the United Kingdom include cheese & beans, tuna mayonnaise, chili con carne and chicken & bacon.
Guy Fawkes Night was a traditional time to eat baked potatoes, often baked in the glowing embers of a bonfire, however this is no longer common and they are eaten at any time of the year.  As part of the upsurge for healthier fast food, the baked potato has again taken to the streets of the UK both in mobile units and restaurants.”

So perhaps a culinary delight it is not supposed to be. Perhaps it is just one of those crazy English traditions that I will never quite understand!