Today's post was brought to you by too much makeup

I'd read the after-care notes and been warned by my facialist but I was still unprepared for the sight that greeted me this morning. "You look like a burn victim," suggested the Animator. "Or like you've gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson."

Apparently following IPL it can take up to a week for the burnt/bruised/swollen epidermis to flake off. Until then, I will be channelling my inner Essex Girl and wearing more foundation than is appropriate (sadly even that doesn't hide the worst of the scars). I also wasted half an hour changing the way I part my hair in an attempt at strategic disguise; I don't need to tell you how successful that was.

This morning I did an interview for Homestyle Magazine and, despite my convoluted explanation and apology for my appearance, I'm sure the couple's four-year daughter took fright.

If you need me, I shall be hiding in the wardrobe until things return to normal.  

Today's visuals are of the Melrose house, c/o owner Jo Macdonald.

The one where it ends well

The Grumpy Olympics continued apace today - this time interview subjects and editors were among the competitors.

And the poor bird died. It was chirping this morning when I got up and although I tried to hand-feed it (following the sage advice of yesterday's bird woman) by the time I went to check on it later in the morning, it had gone to a better place - or at least a place without bastard cats. And yes, big old sook that I am, I did have a wee cry.  

But the day got better when the sun came out and my friend Rachel came over - it's her birthday tomorrow so I baked a cake and after a walk with His Highness in the town belt we sat in the glorious sunshine and ate and gossiped.

Other good things that happened today: a commission from Taste Magazine to eat and drink my way though the Wairarapa and another for one of my Seoul stories from a Hong Kong-based magazine. Speaking of Honkers, today I finally got around to contacting the airline and tourism body to organise the famil I won as part of the travel journo of the year thingy. Am hoping to also get to Europe on this trip so let the planning commence.      

And I have just returned from my first - and last - IPL session. There's no need to look it up - it basically means 'painful facial treatment that I should never have let my facialist talk me into'.

Am off to lie down with a glass of wine and a cold compress. I may be a while.

Today's visuals c/o Rachel.

   

Birdlife

The Grumpy Olympics were in full swing today - everyone from colleagues to the chick at the bookstore to the receptionist at my doctor's surgery seem to be enthusiastically competing.

Having blown out the cobwebs with a post-work run, the Hound and I found, as we rounded the corner to our street, a bastard neighbourhood cat attacking a poor defenceless bird. I raced over and snatched the tiny bird from the jaws of the stupid cat and legged it home. What I know about our avian friends would barely fill a post-it-note, but I somehow managed to get the bird into the laundry.

Bristol of course, was fascinated so I had to lock him outside while I trawled the internet for a local bird rescue organisation. I eventually tracked down a very nice chap who, unfortunately, focused only on rescuing injured ducks. He managed, however, to put me in contact with a woman in Upper Hutt who, despite being in the bath (!) calmly talked to me about the bird's injuries - the loss of most of its tail and wing feathers and a munted foot - and suggested I find a large box, fill it with newspaper, bowls of water and softened dog kibble and leave it be. It would, she said, be stressed after its ordeal. It's not the only one.

The agitated tweets coming from the laundry seem to have stopped; either the poor mite has passed or the dark, warm box is working its magic. I shall check on it before I go to bed.

Here's a photo of it shortly after the dramatic rescue, spurning our offer of water and bread. If you were in the vicinity of Mt Victoria tonight, that demented woman chasing a cat down the street was, indeed, me.  

    

The best news!

Two weeks ago, I trotted off to have my breasts fondled by a lovely South African woman.

Yesterday I received the news that the pesky lump wasn't cancerous. But, being the nosy jouno I am, I wanted to know more: why hadn't the first screen two years ago picked up the lump, why did I have to discover it myself and then be shunted into the private system's bewildering array of ultra-sounds and needles? And why did none of their correspondence with me make reference to a lump or the monitoring of said lump? I thought it would make a good article because if I wasn't given all the answers then surely there were others in the same boat?

I ended up chatting at length to the clinical director who must be in line for the 'world's nicest chap' award, who patiently demystified the screening process and talked through my x-rays and what they meant. Result: one satisfied, and happy, camper.

Sometimes, just sometimes, the system does work...

  

Warning - the noise you can hear are the hooves of my hobby horse

When I become President of the World, the first thing I will do is ban Crocs, cats, noisy neighbours and fireworks.

Tonight, we cleared our calendars (admittedly, only of work) so we could spend hours calming the Hound and reassuring him that the loud bangs and shrieks emanating from the neighbourhood wouldn't harm him. It helped that we had the brilliant House of Cards and Homeland to distract us, but even these weren't enough to assuage my feelings about Guy Fawkes.

Why, in 2013, do otherwise sane beings feel the need to watch large piles of cash burn? Or celebrate the misadventures of someone 12,000 miles away and hundreds of years ago?

Tonight Hilary Barry told me there was a petition to ban the sales of fireworks, that their use should be restricted to public displays. The ban has been spearheaded by the NZ Fire Service, the SPCA and the Vet's Association and, if enacted, would align us with our cousins across the ditch where the public sale of fireworks was banned years ago. I couldn't whip my pen out quick enough.

But until someone at the top of the food chain sees sense, we have to put up with lunatics letting shitty loud bangy things off, scaring the bejesus out of innocent animals. Seriously, isn't it time we grew the f*ck up?!

          

    (Pic credit: Google Images)

Seoul Food

The October issue of Taste Magazine runs my foodie travel piece on Seoul, including the incredibly odd and not terribly pleasant sensation of tasting raw, still-alive and still very much wriggling amputated baby octopus. Even putting aside my objection on the grounds of animal cruelty, it's a practice I shall NEVER be repeating (click here to read).

Canine heaven

Despite the race to deadline for a magazine piece, the Hound demanded we down tools for the weekly doggie meet up group. Today's venue was the Ataturk Memorial where we joined about 20 others for an hour long walk.

Bristol was beside himself: there were big dogs and ones smaller than him, retired racing greyhounds and SPCA specials. At one stage, I picked him up when he was getting over-excited and his tiny heart was pounding so hard it was in danger of escaping from his chest. Today should keep him going until the next canine love-in.  

For the humans, it was a chance to mix with our kind of peeps. A good Sunday for humans and animals.

  
(Pic credit: Tania S and moi)