Hi there
Only a few hardy people are coming to Hataitai Beach. A pity really because the Thursday and Friday air temperatures were 20c and 21c. Brilliant for end of April. I think I got a little sunburnt yesterday.
However the shadow is creeping over the beach and sun-deck from about 2 pm now. Soon it will be completely over the water in the bay, and winter swimmers will have to go out further in the water to feel a fraction of the sun's winter warmth.
My swimming friend, J, and I had a wonderful time in the water yesterday, laughing, joking, singing songs - "Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside" and "the nearest thing to heaven ...". We do love the sea. But will we be saying that come the end of July when it's so cold our fingers have got numb, our tootsies are like icicles, the water is in deep shadow, and we don't feel like singing? This will be our tenth year winter-swimming. The Young one is still swimming - she's been cold weather swimming with us for about five years - but she cant make it as often nowadays because, you know, work intrudes...
Friday, April 26, 2019
Friday, April 19, 2019
Crown Lynn Pottery
Hi there
When I was a kid, all the young marrieds of the time got given, or bought, New Zealand Crown Lyn crockery . Cups, plates, bowls, etc.
When I was at the Queenstown Saturday market, down on the foreshore, I found this bloke who was making pendants out of broken bits of Crown Lynn. I'm so glad that the old defunct Crown Lynn crockery is being recycled into something pretty.
below: a glimpse of the market.
***
HAPPY EASTER!
When I was a kid, all the young marrieds of the time got given, or bought, New Zealand Crown Lyn crockery . Cups, plates, bowls, etc.
When I was at the Queenstown Saturday market, down on the foreshore, I found this bloke who was making pendants out of broken bits of Crown Lynn. I'm so glad that the old defunct Crown Lynn crockery is being recycled into something pretty.
***
HAPPY EASTER!
Thursday, April 11, 2019
Table etiquette
Hi there
Years ago, I read about the proper etiquette surrounding table serviettes. 'Napkins' (hehe), if you're American.
Did you know that when you temporarily leave your seat in a restaurant, you are supposed to drop your serviette onto your chair?
No, I didn't know that either. But when I was in Melbourne recently, I was determined to give it a try. I went to lunch at the posh Conservatory buffet restaurant. Somehow, I don't think Miss Manners thought of buffets when the idea was first thought up.
I left my chair seven times. Each time I put my serviette on my chair in an artfully-dropped casual bundle. Each time when I returned with a laden plate, my serviette was on the table where a lovely and attentive but truly misguided waiter had put it there for me.
Tut-tut, the dowager Duchess, operating out of Downton Abbey, would be much displeased.
+++
PS: a 'napkin' or 'nappie' in British-speak is what Americans call 'diaper'.
Years ago, I read about the proper etiquette surrounding table serviettes. 'Napkins' (hehe), if you're American.
Did you know that when you temporarily leave your seat in a restaurant, you are supposed to drop your serviette onto your chair?
No, I didn't know that either. But when I was in Melbourne recently, I was determined to give it a try. I went to lunch at the posh Conservatory buffet restaurant. Somehow, I don't think Miss Manners thought of buffets when the idea was first thought up.
I left my chair seven times. Each time I put my serviette on my chair in an artfully-dropped casual bundle. Each time when I returned with a laden plate, my serviette was on the table where a lovely and attentive but truly misguided waiter had put it there for me.
Tut-tut, the dowager Duchess, operating out of Downton Abbey, would be much displeased.
+++
PS: a 'napkin' or 'nappie' in British-speak is what Americans call 'diaper'.
Friday, April 5, 2019
Come and smell the coffee?
Hi there
Way back when I was a naive young typist in the Department of Education typing pool, I used to travel to and from work by bus. Every now and then I would be sitting next to someone who so obviously didn't wash. They smelled. The odour was horrendous, revolting to me. Hadn't these people heard of deodorant?
After a couple of years of sitting beside some obviously smelly (but mainly well-dressed) vagrants, one of them, a woman of about fifty years sniffed the air - and I thought, oh my goodness, at last, one of these unclean persons can finally smell herself. The woman said to me (with a smile, no less) :
"Isn't the aroma of ground coffee beans absolutely delightful?"
What? Whaaat?? What the - ?!
My eyes goggled as, with a majestic flourish, the woman pointed to a bulging paper bag in her shopping basket.
Coffee beans! That was the dirty-washing smell that had been assaulting my nostrils for upwards of a half-dozen years? Coffee beans, grinded, roasted, whatever, had been sneaked into the country. Tins of Nescafe Instant were on the outer.
I still can't stand the smell of coffee, still want to gag when the aroma hits me. Often when I collect money for charity I stand outside one of Wellington's most iconic coffee shops, a place that I'm pretty sure grinds its own beans, or roasts them, or some such thing. I am nauseated by the smell coming through the doors. When well-meaning patrons offer to buy me a cup of coffee, I smile radiantly, tell them what a lovely thought, but decline.
Oh dear, how on earth do I manage to exist in this modern world?
Way back when I was a naive young typist in the Department of Education typing pool, I used to travel to and from work by bus. Every now and then I would be sitting next to someone who so obviously didn't wash. They smelled. The odour was horrendous, revolting to me. Hadn't these people heard of deodorant?
After a couple of years of sitting beside some obviously smelly (but mainly well-dressed) vagrants, one of them, a woman of about fifty years sniffed the air - and I thought, oh my goodness, at last, one of these unclean persons can finally smell herself. The woman said to me (with a smile, no less) :
"Isn't the aroma of ground coffee beans absolutely delightful?"
What? Whaaat?? What the - ?!
My eyes goggled as, with a majestic flourish, the woman pointed to a bulging paper bag in her shopping basket.
Coffee beans! That was the dirty-washing smell that had been assaulting my nostrils for upwards of a half-dozen years? Coffee beans, grinded, roasted, whatever, had been sneaked into the country. Tins of Nescafe Instant were on the outer.
I still can't stand the smell of coffee, still want to gag when the aroma hits me. Often when I collect money for charity I stand outside one of Wellington's most iconic coffee shops, a place that I'm pretty sure grinds its own beans, or roasts them, or some such thing. I am nauseated by the smell coming through the doors. When well-meaning patrons offer to buy me a cup of coffee, I smile radiantly, tell them what a lovely thought, but decline.
Oh dear, how on earth do I manage to exist in this modern world?
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