Freelance job yesterday, sorry chaps, and by the time I’d drafted my story (not on Shanghai, sadly, just a small Higher Education piece), and finished making a rather-tasty-if-I-do-say-so-myself spaghetti bolognese for dinner, all I really wanted was to curl up on the couch with my book (still Reunion, just over 100 pages to go – more on that anon), particularly as Llew called (yes, called! Your admonishments did the trick!) earlier with the news that he would again be working back (eventually arriving home at 11:15 – talk about getting their pound of flesh!). The truth is, you haven’t missed much. I’ve had no screaming symptoms to speak of, nary a hot flush and certainly not the expected catalogue of horror. If real menopause turns out to be anything like this, I’ll be absolutely delighted. Maybe all the personality defects and mood monsters I thought would be writ large by these drugs are actually being levelled out instead. How unexpected but welcome is my general sense of well-being… I really feel very relaxed. Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la…
Is that the sound of a fast approaching semi-trailer heading this way without brakes?
Perhaps. But so far, so dandy.
The IVF Festival kicked off at 9 pm on Friday after a snippity-snip from Kim at Valonz, followed by a Nasal Inauguration Ceremony with my friend Sophie, the woman behind the divine Mr Rose. We scooted into the Victoria St Spice I Am, both of us nursing a serious hankering for what I call the Spice Spider – something so hot and chilli-infused it feels like a tarantula is creeping up your face and across your skull.Yeah, baby. Ship that shit in. And two ice-cold Singha beers. Stat. It was perfect weather for Thai food – sticky, thick with humidity, everyone glistening and panting and parched in a most sexually charged fashion. On a night like last Friday, everyone in Sydney just slides around looking hungry and vaguely depraved, it’s just fabulous. And in my opinion, there’s no better cuisine in those conditions than Thai, which at its best totally reinvigorates you. At nine o’clock on the dot, my mobile alarm went off, Sophie helped me remove the child safety catch (I am HOPELESS with those things), and I stuck the Synarel up my nostril (right at night!), pumped and inhaled.
Nothing happened, so we ordered more wine.
Had a great night, and then Llewie and I had a lovely weekend in Man Town. Swims were in order first thing (and there was a whale right out front for our trouble), then we took the papers and went and had breakfast at one of the cafes around the corner (can’t remember the last time we did that), before heading down to the Farmers’ Market to stock up on sourdough, meat, fruit and veg. Then we strolled the arts & craft market, where we found a lovely summery silk top for Llew’s mum’s birthday (okay, okay, I admit it: plus a different one at half the price for yours truly…!), before heading home for another swim and then preparations for the birthday barbeque with K and the rest of the family. Very simple, but thanks to everyone’s delicious contributions (including my sister-in-law F’s fabulous Neil Perry flourless chocolate cake – decorated with our Farmers’ Market strawberries – oooooh it was sooooo goooooood, just like Llew’s sister-in-law M’s chocolate brownies, which I cannot, just cannot, stop eating), just perfect. I only had a couple of half glasses of wine, not even; Friday night was my final hoorah, a bit of a line in the sand. And you know what? The moderation didn’t kill me.
Sunday we had swims before breakfast in the courtyard with my sis-in-law, who pronounced our sofa-bed very comfortable. After F headed to the mountains for the day, Llewie headed to the driving range, and I headed into the village. I had a bee in my bonnet about cushions. Yes, cushions. I’d been giving ours the evil eye and I really just wanted them gone. From the moment I saw their replacements last week, I knew they were not long for this world. A little while ago we reupholstered our couch, and the cushions have been quietly irking me ever since. Not right. They were not right. And once I pointed out their wrongness to Llew, he quickly came around to my way of thinking. They had to go. I was burning to replace them before the family arrived late Saturday afternoon, but alas, I ran out of time. Sunday, however, I had but one mission and I was determined not to fail. Perhaps it’s a nesting instinct; certainly the inserts in the new cushions are feather, so I might even be said to be feathering my nest. Whatever the case, the new cushions are PERFECT. And it was very pleasing when Llew walked in on Sunday afternoon and eyed them approvingly.
“When you’re right, you’re right,” he said, and I practically purred before sticking my head back into my book. Llew then changed into workman gear and went on a DIY frenzy around the apartment and exteriors. I didn’t even know it was possible for me to get excited about a new wall-mounted clothesline, but so far this whole IVF process is simply full of surprises.