365 in 2013

365 in 2013

Sunday: fancy brunch times at Logan Brown
Sunday
Friends and I went to Logan Brown for a fancy pants New Orleans style brunch.
Beignets, eggs crawkitty, pecan pie, and a hurricane cocktail.

Mondat: grey day and reaching spires
Monday
Walking home and the nights are getting lighter and lighter.

Tuesday: heading to knitting. As per.
Tuesday
Heading to knitting, since it was a Tuesday and all.

Wednesday: fancy icecream for a grown up lunch
Wednesday
Ruth Pretty sold fancy icecream in Midland Park for Wellington on a Plate.
The caramelised macadamia and wattle seed was outstanding.

Thursday: books like this and wrists like mine make me glad for e-readers
Thursday
Books like this and weak wrists like mine make me pleased for the existence of e-readers.

Friday: earthquake. Emergency wine and emergency water.
Friday
2:31pm there was a 6.6 earthquake in Wellington. It was the first one for which I’ve ever actually gotten under my desk. We were shortly thereafter evacuated from our office building and since Craig was at work, a colleague and I decamped to a bar.
I was carrying a bottle of water. Just in case.

Saturday: walking home in the rain. Tulips
Saturday
I headed out early on Saturday to volunteer at the DCM bookfair. The rain packed in and I saw these flowers on the way home.

365 in 2013

365 in 2013

Sunday: hanging out doing not much at all
Sunday
A three-day weekend never felt so long. Hanging out at home all Sunday.

Monday: package from Meadowlark
Monday
Starting Monday morning with a package from Meadowlark with my first purchase from their new range: pretty good way to start the day. When it comes with artisanal chocolate? Even better.

Tuesday: free cranes for Hiroshima day
Tuesday
A gentleman was handing out envelopes of peace cranes on Lambton Quay.

Wednesday: bathrooms at Penthouse cinema
Wednesday
Craig and I went out to the Penthouse Cinema in Brooklyn to watch Blackfish. The documentary was incredible. The bathrooms in the cinema? they were kind of neat as well.

Thursday: Majestic Centre, majestic tree
Thursday
Majestic Centre, majestic tree. Darkening sky on the way home.

Friday: love that little flower thing
Friday
I love this little place on The Terrace. I have no idea what that flower of holes is, but I think it’s pretty damn adorable.

Saturday: Wellington on a Plate burger at Plum. Amazing.
Saturday
Last minute burger date with my darling husband – the restaurant was busy and we ended up sitting outside. Thankfully the burger was worth it and, despite having bare legs, it wasn’t all that cold out.
And they comp-ed my wine for the hassle of sitting outside. So it was kind of a win all around.

&

Dying the streak pink again

365 in 2013

365 in 2013

Sunday: broken glass
Sunday
After a Saturday night of noise outside, I was not surprised to find a few broken bottles on our wee street.

Monday: Earthquake damage at work
Monday
On Sunday evening Wellington was hit by a 6.5 earthquake. Craig, my sister Jayne, and I all missed it as we were in a car at the time. At work on Monday there was superficial damage which really just showed that the building had behaved as it was designed to do. It didn’t stop it being disconcerting, however.

Tuesday: knitting for Craig
Tuesday
A no-good, very-busy day ended with knitting. It often ends with knitting.

Wednesday: sweet toys near work
Wednesday
These little animals, in a bookstore near my work, are both adorable and slightly incongruous.

Thursday: anxious around scaffolding
Thursday
Days of aftershocks left me a little anxious around scaffolding.

Friday: city fringe
Friday
It was supposed to be a quiet night out. It didn’t quite end up that way.

Saturday: at Rogue and Vagabond
Saturday
At the Rogue and Vagabond to hear my brother-in-law DJ and we were all obsessed with Frank the bulldog.

&

I feel strange sans glasses now

&

Sunday: love this dude
Sunday
I love this little dude. Spotted as I headed home from a Film Festival film all on my lonesome.

Monday: puppy at the market
Monday
Baleful hund at the supermarket.

Tuesday: on my way to knitting
Tuesday
Cool coloured sunset on my way to knitting.

Wednesday: frantic morning, busy day
Wednesday
Frantic morning before a busy day. Not the best photo I’ve ever taken.

Thursday: SMK an acceptable alternative for dinner
Thursday
After our first dinner venue was closed, Craig and I ended up at Sweet Mother’s Kitchen. Their usually surly demeanour was … super friendly. It was almost disconcerting.

Friday: pre-tattoo foot
Friday
Forcing myself to eat a proper lunch so I didn’t faint on the tattoo artist.

Amazing plate at Frith's house
Saturday
This plate exists in Frith’s house and should pretty much tell you everything about why we’re friends.

&

Post-tattoo, post-crying jag

A no-good very-bad tattoo experience.

Pity the artist was such a dick, I do like this tattoo

Before I begin, a few caveats.
Perhaps the artist & I just didn’t get along.
I haven’t heard anyone else complain about him. The studio is still excellent, this was a guest artist. I’m not sure I want to name either of them.

I’d seen the artist’s work on Instagram & as soon, literally as soon, as I saw that he was booked to do a guest spot in NZ I was sold.

I sent an email asking if he could tattoo me, if he had any time on the Friday or Saturday of his visit as I would be flying up to Auckland, not the easiest or cheapest thing.
I also asked if he was keen to do the kind of tattoo I was after, a symmetrical flower similar to ones I had seen in his portfolio but in bright “feminine” colours like pink and purple. I told him I was looking to get it done on the back of my neck.

He seemed to have no queries as he emailed me back and set up an appointment.

I arrived at the studio 10 minutes before our appointment time (I am punctual to a fault). The first thing he asked me was where I was getting the tattoo again. He seemed annoyed the back of my neck was so small.

He huffed about the place shrinking it down – telling me about how he would have to simplify what he’d shown me, and that if he made it too small it would look “shit.”

From the outset I told him that I would trust his instincts as he was the artist and if he had any other idea about placement, I was open to it.

After trying to put the stencil on a few times, barely saying anything or telling me what he was doing, pushing my head this way and that, we had the following conversation:

Him: I can’t make it fit. I’ve already shrunk it about 20%. If I do it any smaller it’s going to look shit. I’m not sure what you want to do …
Me: Oh.
Him: Yea. This won’t work on your neck. I’m not sure what you want to do.
Me: Uh. Well I don’t want to just leave it, I flew all this way …
Him: ………..
Me: Ummm. Would it work as a shoulder cap?
Him: uh yea, I suppose.

So we did it as a shoulder cap and halfway through the tattoo he disappeared.

Stings

He’d just finished the outline when he put down his tattoo machine, took of his gloves, and left the room. He didn’t say anything to me or to either of the two artists in the room and just left me there. He came back, eventually.

He asked me what colours I wanted I told him “like I said in my email, girly colours, pinks, purples, turquoise, yellow, unexpected colours.” His petulant response?
“Oh. So all the colours I don’t do.”
He stormed around the studio making a big show of borrowing colours from the other artists. I was such an imposition.

It was at this point I wanted to tell him to just forget it, that I would get someone else to finish it, but I’ve never done that before. I’m pretty sure that’s something that’s just not done. I was also pretty sure I would burst into tears if I tried to talk, and I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

If I had any kind of hint when I’d emailed him that he would be anything other than pleased to do this tattoo? I wouldn’t have flown to Auckland. I wouldn’t have done all of this. I could have avoided this whole stinking mess.
I could have a tattoo that I just like, not one where I’m reminded of a jerk.

When he was finished he didn’t even take a photo, he barely let me look at it, wrapped my arm, told me about after-care, and I got out of there as quick as humanly possible. On the street I called Craig and sobbed.
Shortly thereafter I unfollowed him on instagram.

Post-tattoo, post-crying jag

There’s no moral to this story, I haven’t really learnt any kind of lesson.
I guess some people are just jerks.