Well I never had a place that I could call my very own,
But that's all right, my love, 'cause you're my home...*
What an absolute load of twaddle those lyrics are. I've been travelling with my beloved man and son for at least three weeks and while it's been gloriously fun (apart from suffering from dratted hayfever for the last few days), nothing compares to driving around that last curve of the highway opening up to a panorama of the hazy blue/purple Brindabella range and the knowledge that in less than ten minutes I'll be covered in black cat hair in my little shoebox of a house that I grumble about constantly but secretly love.
And so here I am, after a hot and sweaty sleep, back in the dark and cluttered Batcave that is my home office, sipping Russian Caravan tea with milk and honey (made in a pot from proper tea-leaves), black cat-hairs sticking to the clamminess of my hot skin, trying to decide which item on my very long list has the highest priority (blogging won, of course, but it is exempt from most lists, especially urgent ones), and feeling very happy to be home even if Canberra is the most gawd-awful place to be in Summer.
Some dot points, because the list is rather long and some of the items are things that will not be set aside without incurring wrath from even the most patient of Beloveds:
-- talked to Zoe last night on the phone after our arrival, to make sure that she is still intact (she is) and cracked up when she suddenly held the phone away from her mouth and yelled into the background let's talk about whether daddy is tougher than mummy after mummy has given birth naturally to our new baby, shall we? Thank you! then without missing a beat resumed our conversation. Ahh, I'm home.
-- Apparently Summernats came and went very noisily, according to our champion housesitter, D. Sometimes the authorities block off our street, as it is very long and straight and perfect for mini-street races, but decided not to this year. We will be writing a letter urging them to resume this practice, as poor D had the wheel of her car stolen while it was in our driveway on the second last night of festivities. Whoever stole it was nice enough to prop their old tatty wheel in the space left by the newer one, but didn't attach it. Luckily it was her day off, not one of the days when she was working as an Accident & Emergency nurse.
-- The cats are very very happy to see us, and have spent the last 12 hours following us around and sleeping as close to us as possible. The last thing I really needed on a hot night was a furry sleep companion, but hey, I missed them too.
-- I could really do without the hayfever that seems to have hit me square between the eyes, but it's better than the headcold I had at Movie World. I will blog more about Woodford and Movie World, but after I've helped unpack our clothes and sundry accumulated souvenirs (including a terrific book on bookbinding I found in Katoomba) and build Bumblebee's bunkbed (bought 18 months ago, but installed too early, and it was hard to get him to the loo at night. Now he's ready for it).
-- We had constructed the end of our holiday around dropping Bumblebee at his father's house on the way home (he lives a few hours from Canberra) but a phone call a few days ago changed everything. The up-side is that we get a few more qwality daze with the boy, but the down-side is another frigging hot drive out to the country on Sunday afternoon, o joy.
-- Just finished reading Kate Atkinson's latest, One Good Turn and loved it, although I do recommend reading the previous book, Case Histories first, although it's not mandatory. My mother-in-law bought me this for Christmas, but kept it for herself when I asked her to buy me The Ballad of Desmond Kale by Roger McDonald. Now that I've read them both, I regret the decision. I liked the latter, but I'd probably re-read the former. I think Kate Grenville's The Secret River should have won the Miles Franklin over McDonald, but I can see why the decision was made. It's a 'safer' choice.
OK, I'll be back. Hopefully breaking the hawt news about Zoe and her sprog. Apparently she was talking to the midwife the other day, and asked her in all seriousness, now, tell me again, what is the advantage in having a natural birth? I don't think the answer was as persuasive as she wanted, judging by the muttering coming from around the corner. And so we wait. And she waits. There's a slow handclap going on at her blog, if you want to join in...
*Yeah, it's Billy Joel. So sue me.