Friends of mine - The Whingies, whom I've mentioned before, have neighbour issues. All their neighbours, according to them, are bastards. They are surrounded by unthinking people who let their children have loud fun in their own swimming pool, or who are mean enough to have an afternoon BBQ and make noise.
What they don't consider is what their neighbours think of them, and I suspect the neighbours can't stand them and call them as many names behind their back as the Whingies do them. After all if you have five neighbouring properties on your boundary and the people therein are all bastards, that seems a little over the odds. Could it be that the common denominator, the people in the house in the middle, is the problem?
We are blessed, on the other hand, with lovely neighbours. So is my Mum - so much so in her case that her new neighbours invited her (and us) to a party two weeks ago that was really an insight into How The Other Half Lives. Money was no object and the Moet et Chandon flowed like water. It was great fun and I think the new neighbours had invited all the surrounding property owners along not just because they wanted to get to know them, but because they knew they were having a noisy bash, and best to include people rather than have them complain about the noise. It's a good strategy. It worked. We chatted to some other neighbours there and they were having as good a time as we were. Not that we could hear the music after we got back to Mum's anyway; we just crashed into bed.
Mum is a lovely person who has always made friends with her neighbours, even the nutter who used to live next door and drive his car over our lawn on odd occasions, or light bonfires full of rubbish outside our door when he knew I (as a little girl) was having a birthday party the same day. He was a bit mad, and everyone was at loggerheads with him except Mum, who was and is firm but nice.
Where we live now is a multicultural area, and out of the eight town houses in our complex, six of them are owned or tenanted by Indian families. We are on chatting terms with most of them - those around the back of the complex like us who we see just about every day going to and from work. We are good friends with one couple in particular and have dined at each other's houses or drop in for cups of tea. We have been sounding boards when my neighbour R wanted to rant about her husband's family who had behaved in a very rude and ungrateful manner. We help them with odd bits of DIY and they help us. R's husband K works for a major brewing company and when he decides he can't drink all his monthly freebie allowance of beer he'll drop some around to us. They have two adorable little boys, the elder of which is fascinated by our cats and likes to visit and talk to them.
Right next door to us new people moved in last year, a young Indian couple expecting their first baby, S & Mrs S (her name starts with S too). The baby was premature and it was touch and go for a while there. We got updates on the little boy's progress and were delighted to see him come home in January. They had planned a special celebration for when he turned three months old. They are Sikhs and there's a special three day ceremony where the main Sikh text is read from start to finish by Sikh priests; it takes all the three days, 24 hours of them. On the final day you have a feast when the reading is finished.
S told us about the ceremony on Friday and apologised in advance for all the cars that would be around over the weekend as people were coming for the ceremony. He then, to our surprise, invited us to the feast on Sunday. I had a suspicion that it may have been a case of "include people rather than have them complain about the noise"! On Sunday there were drums and lots of chanting. Anyway we said we'd be delighted to come, and R & K told us more about what to expect, and what to wear. Luckily I had some sari material I'd made into a dress and had a scarf in similar colours I could wear on my head. My husband wore a woolly scarf tied around his head as he doesn't own a bandanna, and looked vaguely piratical... or a pirate overfed and gone to seed!
All our neighbours were at the feast too, and they all have children under five. S & S's extended family were there, as well as many friends. I think there were about 40 people sitting on the floor, on the chairs, wherever, and we were the only two anglo-saxons there. I felt rather honoured that we had been invited. The ceremony of the food, the friendship, the laughter... it was a lovely day with everyone in their finery and everyone getting on with each other. We also had a good opportunity to chat more with some of our other neighbours and are now planning a night at the rugby together, six of us.
We are very blessed to have nice neighbours, but of course the behaviour of neighbours reflects on how you behave to them. If I tell Whingy about the ceremony she'll roll her eyes and ask how we coped with the chanting and drums, which would have driven her mad, or the small children running about (ditto mad). To be honest, we were having such a good time getting to know our neighbours better we didn't even notice.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
The day of living angerously
No, I do mean angerously.
You see, I have a problem with anger management, or just anger in general. There are some days I just can't cope with the constant plop of emails in the inbox, clients phoning with urgent stuff (and they are ALWAYS the slow payers who have urgent stuff), computers running slowly, computers in general sometimes.
Yesterday was one of those days. Every time the phone rang I screamed "F*ck off!" at it before I picked it up. By lunchtime I'm sure my aura was black. I had a headache, my stomach was churning, I was feeling almost physically ill. At one point I found I was strangling myself with one hand while holding the phone in the other talking to a slow payer with urgent stuff. I tend to self-harm when I'm angry and impatient; usually I bite my arm but the strangling was a new and interesting diversion.
I'm trying to finish a large project for a client who DOES pay on time and can't cope with the interruptions. I've thought of turning on 'quiet time' and not answering the phones or emails but the thought of coming back to earth to more than 100 emails and half a dozen bloody phone messages makes me feel even sicker.
To make matters worse I'm running out of hard drive space and had to compress and chuck out some files yesterday in order to download some software plugins.
Even the dog was annoying me. Every time I got up for any reason, she was underfoot, ready to trip me. I did apologise to her for shouting at her.
I know anger is bad for the body and the soul, but when I'm stressed and up against a deadline I can't help it. Meditate, friends say, but for f*ck's sake WHEN!? I didn't have time yesterday, and I can't quite get into meditation. My brain looks at it as quiet time in which it can compose a to do list.
To cut a long story short I worked from 8am to 10pm yesterday. I had minimal meal breaks and just wanted to get shit finished. I had too many phone calls including one from a colleague who likes to talk for at least an hour. I can usually work at the same time by putting the phone on hands free so that wasn't too bad. She talked for nearly two. I can't really remember exactly what about but a lot of it was going around in circles on one issue. She's a sweet person and I did try and say I was busy but finally resorted to messaging my husband asking him to ring on the home phone to get me away.
By 5pm my fury had subsided; I played a game of chasing with the cats and the dog around the house, and that made me feel brighter and better.
There are times I truly hate computers, even though I'm lucky than many and own a Mac - much less stressful than a Windows machine. There are times I truly hate the human race, because I push myself as far and fast as I can to respond to the bastard bloody clients, I go above and beyond the call of duty, and still get paid crap money or none at all (still chasing the Scarlet Pimpernel). I am soooo NOT a people person.
You'd think by the tone of this post I'm still cranky but I'm not. Just thinking about the way I was yesterday - taut as a new wire fence - is channelling what I'm typing now.
It's Friday, 4.30pm local time. I still have tons to do for clients and two big websites to complete, one of which I got a lot furiously done on yesterday, but I have had it for today. I am worried about when I'm going to get the time to work on them though as weekdays are full of interruptions, which is why I work weekends too. This weekend I have to get my quarterly tax in order, another headache. God, I hate anything to do with numbers or accounts! And data entry.
It's probably lucky in a way that we are heading to my Mum's for Saturday night and staying over, as that will get me away from computers and work for a day or so. I don't need another day like yesterday, I'm sure it took a year or two off my life. I was fortunate in retrospect I didn't have a stroke or a heart attack.
I suspect my anger-day was also weather-related. It was pelting down outside and we have had the least sunshine in the last month we have had in years. I get testy and grumpy if I don't get a bit of sunshine on me at regular intervals. I wouldn't survive a Scandinavian winter, that's for sure (wonder if the murder/suicide rate goes up in Scandinavia during winter?)
Anyway, today is better. The weather is sunny and so am I. Wonder if I could make a living out of making marmalade?
You see, I have a problem with anger management, or just anger in general. There are some days I just can't cope with the constant plop of emails in the inbox, clients phoning with urgent stuff (and they are ALWAYS the slow payers who have urgent stuff), computers running slowly, computers in general sometimes.
Yesterday was one of those days. Every time the phone rang I screamed "F*ck off!" at it before I picked it up. By lunchtime I'm sure my aura was black. I had a headache, my stomach was churning, I was feeling almost physically ill. At one point I found I was strangling myself with one hand while holding the phone in the other talking to a slow payer with urgent stuff. I tend to self-harm when I'm angry and impatient; usually I bite my arm but the strangling was a new and interesting diversion.
I'm trying to finish a large project for a client who DOES pay on time and can't cope with the interruptions. I've thought of turning on 'quiet time' and not answering the phones or emails but the thought of coming back to earth to more than 100 emails and half a dozen bloody phone messages makes me feel even sicker.
To make matters worse I'm running out of hard drive space and had to compress and chuck out some files yesterday in order to download some software plugins.
Even the dog was annoying me. Every time I got up for any reason, she was underfoot, ready to trip me. I did apologise to her for shouting at her.
I know anger is bad for the body and the soul, but when I'm stressed and up against a deadline I can't help it. Meditate, friends say, but for f*ck's sake WHEN!? I didn't have time yesterday, and I can't quite get into meditation. My brain looks at it as quiet time in which it can compose a to do list.
To cut a long story short I worked from 8am to 10pm yesterday. I had minimal meal breaks and just wanted to get shit finished. I had too many phone calls including one from a colleague who likes to talk for at least an hour. I can usually work at the same time by putting the phone on hands free so that wasn't too bad. She talked for nearly two. I can't really remember exactly what about but a lot of it was going around in circles on one issue. She's a sweet person and I did try and say I was busy but finally resorted to messaging my husband asking him to ring on the home phone to get me away.
By 5pm my fury had subsided; I played a game of chasing with the cats and the dog around the house, and that made me feel brighter and better.
There are times I truly hate computers, even though I'm lucky than many and own a Mac - much less stressful than a Windows machine. There are times I truly hate the human race, because I push myself as far and fast as I can to respond to the bastard bloody clients, I go above and beyond the call of duty, and still get paid crap money or none at all (still chasing the Scarlet Pimpernel). I am soooo NOT a people person.
You'd think by the tone of this post I'm still cranky but I'm not. Just thinking about the way I was yesterday - taut as a new wire fence - is channelling what I'm typing now.
It's Friday, 4.30pm local time. I still have tons to do for clients and two big websites to complete, one of which I got a lot furiously done on yesterday, but I have had it for today. I am worried about when I'm going to get the time to work on them though as weekdays are full of interruptions, which is why I work weekends too. This weekend I have to get my quarterly tax in order, another headache. God, I hate anything to do with numbers or accounts! And data entry.
It's probably lucky in a way that we are heading to my Mum's for Saturday night and staying over, as that will get me away from computers and work for a day or so. I don't need another day like yesterday, I'm sure it took a year or two off my life. I was fortunate in retrospect I didn't have a stroke or a heart attack.
I suspect my anger-day was also weather-related. It was pelting down outside and we have had the least sunshine in the last month we have had in years. I get testy and grumpy if I don't get a bit of sunshine on me at regular intervals. I wouldn't survive a Scandinavian winter, that's for sure (wonder if the murder/suicide rate goes up in Scandinavia during winter?)
Anyway, today is better. The weather is sunny and so am I. Wonder if I could make a living out of making marmalade?
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
The button theory
Have you noticed that when you buy clothing these days it often comes with a spare button (assuming it has buttons in the first place)?
In days past this was an indicator of a posh item; something you'd keep and wear for years, a classic, and maybe at some stage you'd lose a button and lo! you had a spare stashed away in a drawer somewhere.
These days even cheaper clothing comes with a spare button; my Mum is impressed by this and thinks it means the clothing is well-made and posh. I disagree.
These days a spare button means that the clothing is invariably made in China, to a budget, and the cheapskates who make it don't sew the buttons on thoroughly. Thread costs money. Sewing buttons on takes time and THAT costs money too.
Take two cardigans I bought last year from Woolovers, a UK company which ships to Australia. I'd had trouble finding the style and blend of wool/merino/cashmere I wanted for a price I could afford. I got two items from Woolovers for $50 plus postage, and there wasn't a place in Australia that could match that. The website had a proud "British" feel to it and I figured the items were made in the UK. Nowhere on the website did it say the items were made in China, and it doesn't say on the jumpers themselves, but the little production tab inside boasts fonts that scream 'Made in China'. I've learned the signs over the years.
At first I was impressed that each item came with spare buttons. Maybe Woolovers set high standards for production, wherever in the world it was. However... the first time I wore one of the cardigans buttoned up, 50% of the buttons popped off over a five hour period. Luckily I was at home and every time I saw one missing I scanned the carpet until I found it. I resewed them all on and resewed the remainder too. They had originally had a scant couple of loops holding them in place.
The buttons on the other cardigan looked fine and as I had yet to wear it buttoned (it is a lightweight summer one) I didn't bother about restitching them all. I wore it today though and because the temperature dropped steadily from midday you can guess what happened. I buttoned up the top two buttons and found I was missing one of them by the time I got home from my meeting. It was nowhere to be found, probably squashed underfoot now at Top Ryde City Shopping Centre.
I have a little box full of spare buttons that belong to items of clothing I've bought over the last twenty years. Most of them I haven't needed but I've kept them in case they come in useful for a future sewing project. Luckily I had the corresponding button to the one I'd lost today nestled in the plethora of tiny plastic bags.
Tomorrow, when I'm awake and it's light outside I'll be sturdily sewing on every blasted button on that cardigan. When I sew buttons on the stitching outlasts the garment itself.
The thing that is really making me scratch my head now is my button box. It's almost like my Mum's. I delighted when I was little in playing with the buttons in her box - all shapes, sizes and colours, literally hundreds of them kept in an old tin that had once held posh chocolates. As a small girl I used to sort them according to shape or colour and it would keep me amused for hours, making patterns out of them on the floor and picking my favourites. She reused some of them for clothing and I'm sure they are a collector's dream, as she still has that box full of goodies dating back to heaven knows when - at least the 1940s. Sadly my collection isn't quite as eclectic as hers, my buttons not as fancy. But I bet hers never fell off her clothes!
In days past this was an indicator of a posh item; something you'd keep and wear for years, a classic, and maybe at some stage you'd lose a button and lo! you had a spare stashed away in a drawer somewhere.
These days even cheaper clothing comes with a spare button; my Mum is impressed by this and thinks it means the clothing is well-made and posh. I disagree.
These days a spare button means that the clothing is invariably made in China, to a budget, and the cheapskates who make it don't sew the buttons on thoroughly. Thread costs money. Sewing buttons on takes time and THAT costs money too.
Take two cardigans I bought last year from Woolovers, a UK company which ships to Australia. I'd had trouble finding the style and blend of wool/merino/cashmere I wanted for a price I could afford. I got two items from Woolovers for $50 plus postage, and there wasn't a place in Australia that could match that. The website had a proud "British" feel to it and I figured the items were made in the UK. Nowhere on the website did it say the items were made in China, and it doesn't say on the jumpers themselves, but the little production tab inside boasts fonts that scream 'Made in China'. I've learned the signs over the years.
At first I was impressed that each item came with spare buttons. Maybe Woolovers set high standards for production, wherever in the world it was. However... the first time I wore one of the cardigans buttoned up, 50% of the buttons popped off over a five hour period. Luckily I was at home and every time I saw one missing I scanned the carpet until I found it. I resewed them all on and resewed the remainder too. They had originally had a scant couple of loops holding them in place.
The buttons on the other cardigan looked fine and as I had yet to wear it buttoned (it is a lightweight summer one) I didn't bother about restitching them all. I wore it today though and because the temperature dropped steadily from midday you can guess what happened. I buttoned up the top two buttons and found I was missing one of them by the time I got home from my meeting. It was nowhere to be found, probably squashed underfoot now at Top Ryde City Shopping Centre.
I have a little box full of spare buttons that belong to items of clothing I've bought over the last twenty years. Most of them I haven't needed but I've kept them in case they come in useful for a future sewing project. Luckily I had the corresponding button to the one I'd lost today nestled in the plethora of tiny plastic bags.
Tomorrow, when I'm awake and it's light outside I'll be sturdily sewing on every blasted button on that cardigan. When I sew buttons on the stitching outlasts the garment itself.
The thing that is really making me scratch my head now is my button box. It's almost like my Mum's. I delighted when I was little in playing with the buttons in her box - all shapes, sizes and colours, literally hundreds of them kept in an old tin that had once held posh chocolates. As a small girl I used to sort them according to shape or colour and it would keep me amused for hours, making patterns out of them on the floor and picking my favourites. She reused some of them for clothing and I'm sure they are a collector's dream, as she still has that box full of goodies dating back to heaven knows when - at least the 1940s. Sadly my collection isn't quite as eclectic as hers, my buttons not as fancy. But I bet hers never fell off her clothes!
Monday, February 27, 2012
An afternoon out of time
The good old days weren't always the good old days. Think about what we have now - particularly health care and most particularly pain-free dentistry! The good old days - in any era - were undoubtedly much better if you were well-heeled; that's true of this very moment. We romanticise the past in tv shows and movies, and I'm as susceptible to longing sighs for a world before the intrusions of mobile phones, the internet and speed cameras as the next person.
My chosen era to sigh over is the 1920s. This was an exciting time per se, but a very exciting time for women as they shrugged themselves out of long skirts and corsets and into comfortable clothes, low-maintenance bobbed hair and a sense of power. The Great War had changed everything; women had a taste of independence as they took on roles left by men who'd gone to fight, and had no intention of going back to being subservient little creatures. They smoked in the street, they wore makeup, they defiantly wore dresses that showed their knees - or to the horror of their mothers, trousers - and thanks to Marie Stopes had a lot more control over when they intended to have children. (Sadly however equal pay for women was a loooong way off!)
That's just the tip of the iceberg. I could rant on, but this post takes a delicate sidestep, a slight Charleston if you will or perhaps a Black Bottom, into the realms of 1920s fashion.
I'm a sucker for 20s fashion. Unfortunately I have a curvy 1950s body which means that the slimline boyish dresses of the period don't fit me as well as they should, but this was a period of real glamour. Again, particularly if you were well off. Sequins, beading, luxurious materials, floating panels that swirled out when you danced, feathers and filets... glorious glamorous stuff.
Three years ago I went to a vintage fashion fair and bought a reproduction 20s dress made in India of modern materials - knitted cotton lining, net over the top embellished with heaven knows how many sequins and beads. I'd get dizzy if I tried to count them. The dress was less than $100 which was great for me but probably not so good for the poor little bugger in India who'd hand beaded it.
Anyhow, there I was with this heavenly dress in deep purple and nowhere to wear it. Until I discovered the Roaring 20s festival at the Blue Mountains. Apparently it runs every February and there are plenty of events you're invited to frock up for.
So I frocked up and dragged my long-suffering husband along yesterday to the Jazz Afternoon Tea at the beautiful Paragon Cafe in Katoomba. The Paragon was built in 1916 and has recently changed hands, with the new owner slowly restoring it to its gracious original beauty. Luckily there is a wealth of original features untouched for nearly 100 years, including art deco mirrors and panelling.
Armed with champagne cocktails we both had a fantastic time, got chatting with the German jazz singer who, when she is at home in Hamburg, is a family court judge, explored the Paragon, danced the Charleston (Yesss!!! Another thing ticked off the bucket list), ate too many delicious Paragon chocolates and generally had an afternoon out of time.
What I loved most was how different I felt, dressed in this sparkly purple dress, with my home-made satin bandeau and the purple kimono-type jacket I'd finished the week before. I moved differently from head to toe. I walked differently. I caught sight of myself in one of the Paragon's old bevelled mirrors and in the dim lighting I was someone I didn't quite know; not the dag who spends most days in jeans and a t shirt or bizarre tops and leggings, but an elegant creature from an earlier time.
Yes, I dress well when the occasion demands it, usually business suits or smart modern clothes for business meetings. But this was different. Now I understand why people - adults - play dress up. Why period costume conventions are growing in popularity. The good old days weren't always the good old days but the glamorous bits, in a throwaway world whose pace is far too swift, are worth recreating.
My chosen era to sigh over is the 1920s. This was an exciting time per se, but a very exciting time for women as they shrugged themselves out of long skirts and corsets and into comfortable clothes, low-maintenance bobbed hair and a sense of power. The Great War had changed everything; women had a taste of independence as they took on roles left by men who'd gone to fight, and had no intention of going back to being subservient little creatures. They smoked in the street, they wore makeup, they defiantly wore dresses that showed their knees - or to the horror of their mothers, trousers - and thanks to Marie Stopes had a lot more control over when they intended to have children. (Sadly however equal pay for women was a loooong way off!)
That's just the tip of the iceberg. I could rant on, but this post takes a delicate sidestep, a slight Charleston if you will or perhaps a Black Bottom, into the realms of 1920s fashion.
I'm a sucker for 20s fashion. Unfortunately I have a curvy 1950s body which means that the slimline boyish dresses of the period don't fit me as well as they should, but this was a period of real glamour. Again, particularly if you were well off. Sequins, beading, luxurious materials, floating panels that swirled out when you danced, feathers and filets... glorious glamorous stuff.
Three years ago I went to a vintage fashion fair and bought a reproduction 20s dress made in India of modern materials - knitted cotton lining, net over the top embellished with heaven knows how many sequins and beads. I'd get dizzy if I tried to count them. The dress was less than $100 which was great for me but probably not so good for the poor little bugger in India who'd hand beaded it.
Anyhow, there I was with this heavenly dress in deep purple and nowhere to wear it. Until I discovered the Roaring 20s festival at the Blue Mountains. Apparently it runs every February and there are plenty of events you're invited to frock up for.
So I frocked up and dragged my long-suffering husband along yesterday to the Jazz Afternoon Tea at the beautiful Paragon Cafe in Katoomba. The Paragon was built in 1916 and has recently changed hands, with the new owner slowly restoring it to its gracious original beauty. Luckily there is a wealth of original features untouched for nearly 100 years, including art deco mirrors and panelling.
Armed with champagne cocktails we both had a fantastic time, got chatting with the German jazz singer who, when she is at home in Hamburg, is a family court judge, explored the Paragon, danced the Charleston (Yesss!!! Another thing ticked off the bucket list), ate too many delicious Paragon chocolates and generally had an afternoon out of time.
What I loved most was how different I felt, dressed in this sparkly purple dress, with my home-made satin bandeau and the purple kimono-type jacket I'd finished the week before. I moved differently from head to toe. I walked differently. I caught sight of myself in one of the Paragon's old bevelled mirrors and in the dim lighting I was someone I didn't quite know; not the dag who spends most days in jeans and a t shirt or bizarre tops and leggings, but an elegant creature from an earlier time.
Yes, I dress well when the occasion demands it, usually business suits or smart modern clothes for business meetings. But this was different. Now I understand why people - adults - play dress up. Why period costume conventions are growing in popularity. The good old days weren't always the good old days but the glamorous bits, in a throwaway world whose pace is far too swift, are worth recreating.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Chick lit, trashy mags and weird clothes
Today I bought a copy of Grazia. This is worth mentioning because I rarely buy magazines with the exception of Country Living (British Edition) or Burda (sewing mag). If I want to read a gossip mag it'll be at the hairdresser's, but since I got a new car the hairdresser visits have got fewer and fewer. The colour I now buy in a box at Priceline and if I'm feeling very frugal and have split ends it's a DIY job for that too.
The last couple of weeks I've swayed from my usual diet of murder mysteries and have been reading some of Marian Keyes' chick lit novels (thanks to Displaced who put me onto them). Chick lit may be a rather unkind description in this case as her novels feature characters with deeper problems, mental illness and other issues; this sets these novels apart from the dime-a-dozen-with-pink-covers-and-curly-fonts books. Aside from which they are bloody funny. And Marian Keyes knows how to hold your attention; several nights in a row I've been up till midnight because of her blasted cliffhangers at the end of chapters.
Having read about women working in the fashion/beauty industry (Anyone Out There) I had a sudden urge to pick up a copy of Grazia, just for the heck of it. This was doubly fuelled by galloping through How To Be Impossibly French by Helena Frith Powell last night in a bubble bath.
I have a cup of tea on one side of the computer and Grazia on the other, and flicking quickly through the mag I realise that while I don't feel at least fifteen years too old and several kilos too heavy for it, I, in fact, am. I also don't have the budget to be a fahionista - or the longing, even if I was a lithe 25 again.
There was a time when I'd blow one third of my weekly pay packets on shoes and clothes (that bit about 25 relates to this!). This was the 80s and I followed fashion with a passion. Unfortunately! Of all the eras to choose...oh well.
These days I have my own style. I might pick and choose an idea of what's in style and try and recreate that with what I have in my wardrobe, some of which is vintage stuff I've bought from eBay, markets or op shops that comes in handy from time to time. Now I'm learning to sew (intermediate rather than beginner I think by now) I buy fabric and make clothes. Lace is in fashion at the moment. I made myself a lined stretch black lace suit for $45; would have cost about $200 in the shops. It's the nicest thing I've made, suits my body shape and is nice enough for business occasions.
My own style is rather dependent on how I feel when I wake up or what the weather forecast says. I have an eclectic mix of clothes from hippie style cotton kaftans (just perfect on those stinky hot summer days) to business suits (boring but necessary from time to time) to jeans and tshirts, a few pretty floral dresses for when I'm channelling the 1930s or 20s, plenty of knit tops that are transseasonal and clothes I've made myself including more knit tops. These last are clothes that look like no other - partly because I was a real beginner when I started and had to cover up duff necklines and other bits and pieces with additional bits of lace or fake fur or whatever.
My friend Sue, who is quite conservative these days, told me recently, "Some of the things you wear are really weird. But then, that's your style. If you dressed like everyone else you wouldn't be you." I think at the time I was wearing a hot pink tshirt and tights with an orange tunic over the top and red shoes. Or perhaps purple. I do prefer the term eccentric to weird though.
I did my bit towards eccentric/weird this week. I bought a copy of Burda a week ago, the German magazine (English version) which is packed chock full of clothing patterns. Really.There's a huge great pullout bit in the middle with patterns overprinted on other patterns and once you've sorted out which bits you're after, you trace them and bingo, you have a pattern. Stuff you can make - yessss!! This coincided with a 50% off sale at a fabric warehouse last weekend so armed with Burda I went to the sale and got some real bargains. More knit tops to make in beautiful shades of green, and a 1920s-influenced kimono thingy I'm going to make in patterned velvet.
The Burda instructions for the kimono top said "easy" but I've been caught with "easy" before, so I bought some cheap purple fabric in a hurry (which on reflection looks like polo shirt material. Oh well) and some matching satin and thought I'd try to make it first out of the cheap material, to find out where any stuff ups could occur.
So that's been my nights this week, making the purple kimono. All went swimmingly until I had to attach the ties. There's a wonderful scene in the first episode of Black Books where bookshop proprietor Bernard Black is trying to do his tax. He reads the same paragraph over and over again and procrastinates, prevaricates and actually welcomes a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses to take him away from the task.
(Start watching at 1.40.)
Anyway, digressions aside, this is how I felt reading the instructions for attaching the satin ties. The instructions had been translated into English I think by a jokester or sadist who decided to leave important bits out. When I finally sorta kinda understood it, I realised it wouldn't work and devised my own method of attaching them. If I hadn't I wouldn't have been able to do the stupid thing up.
I finally finished the kimono-ish garment at nine last night. Can't wait to show my friend Sue, who will think it weird. But oh how I'll laugh if something similar shows up in Grazia this autumn!
The last couple of weeks I've swayed from my usual diet of murder mysteries and have been reading some of Marian Keyes' chick lit novels (thanks to Displaced who put me onto them). Chick lit may be a rather unkind description in this case as her novels feature characters with deeper problems, mental illness and other issues; this sets these novels apart from the dime-a-dozen-with-pink-covers-and-curly-fonts books. Aside from which they are bloody funny. And Marian Keyes knows how to hold your attention; several nights in a row I've been up till midnight because of her blasted cliffhangers at the end of chapters.
Having read about women working in the fashion/beauty industry (Anyone Out There) I had a sudden urge to pick up a copy of Grazia, just for the heck of it. This was doubly fuelled by galloping through How To Be Impossibly French by Helena Frith Powell last night in a bubble bath.
I have a cup of tea on one side of the computer and Grazia on the other, and flicking quickly through the mag I realise that while I don't feel at least fifteen years too old and several kilos too heavy for it, I, in fact, am. I also don't have the budget to be a fahionista - or the longing, even if I was a lithe 25 again.
There was a time when I'd blow one third of my weekly pay packets on shoes and clothes (that bit about 25 relates to this!). This was the 80s and I followed fashion with a passion. Unfortunately! Of all the eras to choose...oh well.
These days I have my own style. I might pick and choose an idea of what's in style and try and recreate that with what I have in my wardrobe, some of which is vintage stuff I've bought from eBay, markets or op shops that comes in handy from time to time. Now I'm learning to sew (intermediate rather than beginner I think by now) I buy fabric and make clothes. Lace is in fashion at the moment. I made myself a lined stretch black lace suit for $45; would have cost about $200 in the shops. It's the nicest thing I've made, suits my body shape and is nice enough for business occasions.
My own style is rather dependent on how I feel when I wake up or what the weather forecast says. I have an eclectic mix of clothes from hippie style cotton kaftans (just perfect on those stinky hot summer days) to business suits (boring but necessary from time to time) to jeans and tshirts, a few pretty floral dresses for when I'm channelling the 1930s or 20s, plenty of knit tops that are transseasonal and clothes I've made myself including more knit tops. These last are clothes that look like no other - partly because I was a real beginner when I started and had to cover up duff necklines and other bits and pieces with additional bits of lace or fake fur or whatever.
My friend Sue, who is quite conservative these days, told me recently, "Some of the things you wear are really weird. But then, that's your style. If you dressed like everyone else you wouldn't be you." I think at the time I was wearing a hot pink tshirt and tights with an orange tunic over the top and red shoes. Or perhaps purple. I do prefer the term eccentric to weird though.
I did my bit towards eccentric/weird this week. I bought a copy of Burda a week ago, the German magazine (English version) which is packed chock full of clothing patterns. Really.There's a huge great pullout bit in the middle with patterns overprinted on other patterns and once you've sorted out which bits you're after, you trace them and bingo, you have a pattern. Stuff you can make - yessss!! This coincided with a 50% off sale at a fabric warehouse last weekend so armed with Burda I went to the sale and got some real bargains. More knit tops to make in beautiful shades of green, and a 1920s-influenced kimono thingy I'm going to make in patterned velvet.
 |
| This is the top in question. This version naturally looks 100% better than the one I made! |
The Burda instructions for the kimono top said "easy" but I've been caught with "easy" before, so I bought some cheap purple fabric in a hurry (which on reflection looks like polo shirt material. Oh well) and some matching satin and thought I'd try to make it first out of the cheap material, to find out where any stuff ups could occur.
So that's been my nights this week, making the purple kimono. All went swimmingly until I had to attach the ties. There's a wonderful scene in the first episode of Black Books where bookshop proprietor Bernard Black is trying to do his tax. He reads the same paragraph over and over again and procrastinates, prevaricates and actually welcomes a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses to take him away from the task.
(Start watching at 1.40.)
Anyway, digressions aside, this is how I felt reading the instructions for attaching the satin ties. The instructions had been translated into English I think by a jokester or sadist who decided to leave important bits out. When I finally sorta kinda understood it, I realised it wouldn't work and devised my own method of attaching them. If I hadn't I wouldn't have been able to do the stupid thing up.
I finally finished the kimono-ish garment at nine last night. Can't wait to show my friend Sue, who will think it weird. But oh how I'll laugh if something similar shows up in Grazia this autumn!
Thursday, February 9, 2012
The waiting game
Earlier this week I put in a proposal to a local government agency. The proposal links in with existing work I'm doing for a local not for profit organisation which is completely autonomous from the local government but has agreed to host the subject of the proposal on its own website. If that sounds obtuse I apologise.
I've worked as a contractor for the not for profit for 11 years and am responsible for its website. For development and maintenance. All at bargain basement rates 'cos that's all this NFP can afford.
Now I'm worried that this tender will lead to others proposing that as part of the deal they redevelop the existing NFP's website. After all that's what I suggested in my proposal and it is seriously speccy. Lots of lovely e-commerce integration, plenty of social media to attract Gen Y and X. Realistically I told the NFP I wanted to update the website anyway and do a rebuild which would be more stable and incorporate more goodies.
This morning I had to do a presentation to the selection panel, two of whom I know well and one, the council rep, reasonably well. The council rep likes jobs for the boys, people he's worked with at a previous role with another local council. The two I know well...well, one is certainly on my side, the other can be swayed by flirtation.
The preso went well. It was more of a Q&A with them asking me questions about what my solution could do; I gave them an online demo and handled off the cuff stuff pretty well. I'm in a unique position because I not only do the creative stuff as part of my business offering but also manage the NFP in my own right.
We were supposed to hear a result by this afternoon. The successful tenderer would be contacted.
Come 5pm and no response my heart sank. Clearly I wasn't 'it'. What worried me was the potential of losing the existing web contract. If I lose it my interest in working for these guys drops below zero. If I can't control our key means of communication I may as well hand it to someone else and let them make a hash of it, not maintain it properly, pay a fortune for updates and changes.
I spent an hour seriously thinking of walking away from the NFP, which pays really shite hourly rates but it's all it can afford. It does, however, help me promote my business.
By 6.30 I had an email from the council rep - working late! good grief!- telling me they were doing more checks and he'd contact me tomorrow.
So all is not lost. I've spent the latter part of this afternoon morose and depressed thinking I've lost a key contract which is a great advert for my business... I still may have... but as Scarlett O'Hara said, Tomorrow is another day.
And the council rep told me he would be contacting the winner... not the also rans.
Fingers crossed. Another shite night's sleep coming up.
I've worked as a contractor for the not for profit for 11 years and am responsible for its website. For development and maintenance. All at bargain basement rates 'cos that's all this NFP can afford.
Now I'm worried that this tender will lead to others proposing that as part of the deal they redevelop the existing NFP's website. After all that's what I suggested in my proposal and it is seriously speccy. Lots of lovely e-commerce integration, plenty of social media to attract Gen Y and X. Realistically I told the NFP I wanted to update the website anyway and do a rebuild which would be more stable and incorporate more goodies.
This morning I had to do a presentation to the selection panel, two of whom I know well and one, the council rep, reasonably well. The council rep likes jobs for the boys, people he's worked with at a previous role with another local council. The two I know well...well, one is certainly on my side, the other can be swayed by flirtation.
The preso went well. It was more of a Q&A with them asking me questions about what my solution could do; I gave them an online demo and handled off the cuff stuff pretty well. I'm in a unique position because I not only do the creative stuff as part of my business offering but also manage the NFP in my own right.
We were supposed to hear a result by this afternoon. The successful tenderer would be contacted.
Come 5pm and no response my heart sank. Clearly I wasn't 'it'. What worried me was the potential of losing the existing web contract. If I lose it my interest in working for these guys drops below zero. If I can't control our key means of communication I may as well hand it to someone else and let them make a hash of it, not maintain it properly, pay a fortune for updates and changes.
I spent an hour seriously thinking of walking away from the NFP, which pays really shite hourly rates but it's all it can afford. It does, however, help me promote my business.
By 6.30 I had an email from the council rep - working late! good grief!- telling me they were doing more checks and he'd contact me tomorrow.
So all is not lost. I've spent the latter part of this afternoon morose and depressed thinking I've lost a key contract which is a great advert for my business... I still may have... but as Scarlett O'Hara said, Tomorrow is another day.
And the council rep told me he would be contacting the winner... not the also rans.
Fingers crossed. Another shite night's sleep coming up.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Bullet, bitten
I'm feeling a bit sick with nerves right now. I don't handle confrontation at all well and I have just set myself up for what could be a big one.
I have mentioned in earlier posts a client who owes me several thousand dollars - aka The Scarlet Pimpernel. I've still been unable to find where she lives and today's enquiries got me nowhere.
So I have this afternoon locked her out of her own websites. I expect fireworks within 24 hours. And perhaps some payment within 48 if she wants them back.
My solicitor had originally tried to go down the polite route of letters of demand, which fell on deaf ears. We have a summons we can't deliver because we don't know where this woman is on a daily basis.
So now let's see if she comes out of hiding. Oh shite.
I have mentioned in earlier posts a client who owes me several thousand dollars - aka The Scarlet Pimpernel. I've still been unable to find where she lives and today's enquiries got me nowhere.
So I have this afternoon locked her out of her own websites. I expect fireworks within 24 hours. And perhaps some payment within 48 if she wants them back.
My solicitor had originally tried to go down the polite route of letters of demand, which fell on deaf ears. We have a summons we can't deliver because we don't know where this woman is on a daily basis.
So now let's see if she comes out of hiding. Oh shite.
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