Postcards from Bath

Last weekend the junket fairy was nice enough to make an appearance, so we headed to Bath to explore this charming Georgian city and write nice things about it for Wellington's metropolitan daily, the DomPost.

We wallowed in the warm, curative waters of the rooftop Thermae Bath Spa, walked the same honeyed alleyways that Jane Austen did, and paid our respects to the baths where, around 3,000 years ago, the Romans discovered that hot water bubbling out of the ground was just the ticket to cure their ills.

We also ate and drank until our bellies swelled (thanks Bath Tourism!) and had the loveliest weekend away.

The Animator (the artist formerly known as Husband) managed to stretch his Kodak moment to hours: he and his horrendously overpriced new toy are responsible for the lovely pics here.

Consolation prize # 1

There has to be something to take the edge off living in a country where 62 million people are shoehorned into a space roughly the size of NZ, where infrastructure hasn't kept pace with the population and accomplishing the smallest of things, such as getting an internet connection, can assume nightmarish proportions.

That something, my friends, is spending Saturday traipsing up and down the high street, soaking up the retail bling and filling one's wardrobe with absolute bargains. There is no reason for any man, woman or child to be badly dressed in this country because clothes are incredibly cheap, particularly now that Sale signs are dangling from every window.

Today, I joined the masses and patriotically did my bit to prevent the UK from sliding into what economists are euphemistically calling a 'double dip' recession.

Along with the usual suspects from Zara (my favourite shop on the planet), I found these black lace-up stunners for a whopping three pounds! And before you ask, no they weren't from nasty old Primark! How these delectable bits of leather and cotton can even be conjured up for that price is beyond me, but probably best to ignore all thoughts of little fingers toiling away in third-world sweatshops.

This country is turning me into Imelda Marcos.

A taste of home

It hasn't even been two months, but already I find myself missing that all-important sense of belonging, of being tethered to something tangible.

It's a weird, discombobulated feeling being a stranger in a strange land and, over the last few weeks, I've found myself aching for the familiar.

Which is probably why I almost kissed the Kiwi couple and their student son who fetched up behind me in the queue at Sainsburys yesterday. A day spent clenching my jaw was made even worse by half of Bristol attempting to do their shopping at the same time. And just to ensure my crap well didn't run dry, when I asked a staff member where the tahini was, he looked at me as though I was special needs (despite describing and spelling the word. Very slowly. Several times). And then he led me on a marathon around the bleeding store to find it.

By this time, petulant six-year-old Shazzy showed signs of bursting, alien-like, from my body. But then I heard that familiar vowel-stretching accent and, before long, the Kiwi couple (who were in town for their son's graduation from Bristol Uni) and I were chatting like old mates. There was a reassuring resonance, a clicking into place, a sharing of the familiar in an alien, anonymous city.

They probably don't realise it, but that couple's small gesture of kindness, their gift of conversation, helped me reconnect to a life I'm only now beginning to realise was more special than I ever appreciated.

Happy Birthday Brownie

As I type this, fingers of sunshine are pushing their way through the curtains and a BBC breakfast presenter with an annoyingly high-pitched voice is telling me it's going to be a glorious 24 degrees today.

On the other side of the world, Wellington has donned its winter coat: the Stuff website says it's raining and a nasty southerly is rattling its cage. Somewhere in Khandallah, the lovely Brownie is nearing the end of her first day as a 40 year old. I still kick myself for missing Brownie's wedding and now I've gone and missed her milestone birthday too. What a rubbish friend I am.

But, dear B, know that you're never far from my thoughts and every time I use my iPod or accumulate someone's business card, I think of the generous and thoughtful gifts you and Sarah gave me when I left NZ.

At an interview recently, I was asked how my friends would describe me. I'm not sure which jumble of adjectives and nouns Brownie would assemble for me but I'd liken her to a cashmere blanket: stylish, classic and so warm and cosy you want to permanently wrap yourself in its embrace.

We came to our friendship late, meeting not at work or school (she went somewhere far posher than Sacred Heart, which is probably why she's the classiest person I know) but via a mutual friend. Since then, I have been an immensely lucky recipient of B's gift for friendship and, despite the fact that our lives are on totally different trajectories, she has helped me rewrite the script of several life crises.

This vision of blonde loveliness has also achieved that rarest of things – producing one of only two children on the planet I can stand to be around (the other being my niece Amira). Thanks Charlotte for showing me that not everyone shorter than me is to be avoided.

Brownie, hope today wasn't too traumatic. Forty is just a number and I know you'll carry it off with the aplomb and grace that has served you thus far. Happy Birthday, my darling friend xx

The boy in the bubble

While waiting for the muse to clock in (am supposed to be finishing a freelance travel piece) I came across these pics from photographer Romain Laurent. If you're going to waste time, then this dude's website is as good a place as any to dally...

My blue suede shoes...

Who'd have thought you could enter the gates of heaven in a lunch-hour?

Today on my way to work I spied what they refer to over here as a 'retail park' (a few largeish shops, to you and me). So at lunchtime, I changed into my walking shoes and headed over there. And discovered, among other things, a NEXT outlet store (insert happy dance).

Shazzy's well-honed bargain radar quickly spotted these cool suede shoes - a mere snip at 13 quid! So of course I had to buy them to cheer up my feet. Note the cute yellow lining and the square toes - I was a one woman cauldron of happiness when I bagged these babies.

Shame they don't go with my other bargain of the week - a purple pleated work dress (looks way better than it sounds) that I bought from a vintage shop (read: charity store). It was only 5.99 but the best thing about it was that it came from a PDSA shop where all proceeds pay for vet care for animals whose owners can't afford it. So not only have I added to my slender wardrobe (where the hell are those cartons, anyway?!) I've also helped an animal in need and earned a shed-load of good karma.

Goodbye to the Vespa

The Vespa came into my life by stealth.

While I was still in NZ, disentangling us from our lives, Husband phoned to say he was tired of riding two buses to work and was going to buy a black Vespa. A prospect that appealed to me about as much as wearing jandals in the middle of winter.

But spouse had spied a window – and disapproving Wifey was, after all, 12,000 miles away – so he jumped through it as fast as his Size 8-1/2s could carry him.

Sadly, expecting the worst is a reflex over which I have little more control than sneezing and since the Vespa inveigled its way into my life, I've spent far too much time wondering when a policeman is going to knock on my door to tell me he's scraped Husband off the road.

I'm not such a Nana that I don't think the sleek black hunk of metal isn't sexy. But, let's be honest, it's more suited to some Italian hottie zipping around the Colosseum than it is to an ageing Kiwi bloke wearing a reflective vest and tangling with the M4 at rush-hour.

In a few days, the Vespa is about to exit stage left as we reintroduce ourselves to four wheels. Husband is suitably sad, but I'm quietly thankful that both he and his toy remained in one piece.