It will never be forgot.
I hope. He is threatening to not shave.
I met a baby this weekend.
I met a baby and there was no screaming, crying, or shuddering. From me or from little Riley.
He was curled against his mum, just a day or so old, snuffling contentedly. His mother looked exhausted (54 hours of labour. FIFTY-FOUR HOURS) and his father was positively beaming.
He is the first child born to anyone I actually know.
To people of my generation. People I see quite regularly and could call friends.
Not to family, not to distant school friends, not to the older or younger siblings of friends.
I was terrified when I heard they were having a baby. But they’re so YOUNG, are they going to keep it? was my gut reaction. But seeing their little family? Didn’t seem so odd.
Then, they are not wild ones. They have always been happier going to an early movie then heading home. They own a home, and a cat, and more than one car. They DIY. They have not travelled. They are not at all similar to me.
But seeing them as parents didn’t scare me.
Is this growing up?
Either way. There is a lot more of the world I want to see before I take that path. A lot. One of the few on which there can be no turning back.

Sunday
It was the 21st November but I started decorating for Christmas. In my case this just meant putting out a vase of candy canes.

Monday
A Koi Carp kite. That is all.

Wednesday
Learning lines. For the usual Summer Shakespeare audition. Only this time? I really care. Eep.

Thursday*
I’m usually really quite heartless about these things but the Pike River disaster made me so so sad.

Friday
Wellington Train Station. Late. Again.

Saturday
Post-audition gelato (Pistachio!) with my mama, sister, and a lovely Nun.
Yep. She called me Sue and said I was pretty. Also, she told us about how she “buried” her dog by dumping the body off the end of a wharf. And no, she didn’t see why that was illegal.
&
* Also? Unfortunate juxtaposition. Explosion at Pike River next to explosion at Mt Ruapehu.

Sunday
I spent the day holed up with Harry Potter 7.

Monday
I highly doubt that Picasso’s first word was Pencil … but I can see how it would be a good story.

Tuesday
The clouds feel so close these days. The humidity is oppressive and soporific.

Wednesday
My darling Petra sent another postcard. This time, Washington DC. I remain envious.

Thursday
Craig was out climbing walls so I ate dumplings with sriracha sauce.
Yes, that fork has a face. It’s in the shape of a squid and came from the Osaka Aquarium. It’s adorable. Shut up.

Friday
Ten to midnight on the train. Drunk ish, Emphasis on the ish.

Saturday
A quiet night of mindless movies, hairdye, and spicy spicy noodles.
&

Sunday
Big ol’ utes -a quintessential sight on New Zealand rivers in summer.

Monday
Another postcard from my darling Petra as she travels around North America. This time, New York City.

Tuesday
Crazy sparkles by O.P.I. – the Burlesque tie in.

Wednesday
This bicycle has been parked near my office for days now. It’s parked by a rubbish bin so I think they’re just hoping that someone will clean it away.

Thursday
It’s peony season again!!

Friday
The Rocky Horror Picture Show … I really should go see it but lord I am not up for much at the moment.

Saturday
Shopping for work clothes while Craig’s car had a service.
&

Sunday
Asparagus is back in season! I’m thrilled.

Monday
Work work work … and my Raspberry filofax.

Tuesday
I closed my eyes as we left the house in the grey dawn and when I opened them again? golden hour was in force. Amazing.

Thursday
I loved these Pantone pens. I wanted to buy so so many of them.
But really, what would I use them for?

Friday
A rough-faced amethyst plug made especially for me. I love it. I love ninjaflower.

Saturday
My new shoes from Jeffrey Campbell arrived!
They are beautiful and comfortable and … too too tall. They remind me of classy stripper shoes.
&
?
I accidentally deleted the self-portrait for this week.
Yes I am very annoyed.
Dearest darling London,
Today I ache for you.
I read and reread the article A.A. Gill wrote for The Times about St Paul’s Cathedral and I sigh.
St Paul’s Cathedral is the solemn, eternal boss and hub of our city. We look up for it, mark our bearing by it, judge our distance from the lantern on top. It is the axis of a compass. The great dome is the calm centre of the spinning city.
A couple of nights ago, thinking in the liminal dark, I was struck by the idea for a tattoo*, a bolt of lightening from my subconscious. The idea for a tattoo which honours my love for the city more than the obtuse and multi-symbolic crown on my right arm.
The idea arrived fully formed. So clear in my mind that I wanted to run out and get it straight away. But I am too sensible for that. I must wait to see if the seed idea grows roots.
Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. I ache for you today, London.
Much love,
Sarah-Rose
* I’m done apologising to my parents for my tattoos.
They may have created my physical being but they also created who I am. And I am a person who loveloveloves my tattoos.
No Philip Larkin here. THIS be the verse: I love who they helped me become.