Either this winter has been mild or my internal thermostat has adjusted itself again and rendered me almost insensible to Sydney's brand of cold.
To wit: I have slept under cotton quilts with cotton flannel sheets all season, and worn a wool coat only once.
I've spent the rest of the winter in a the Banana Republic trench coat I bought in New York eighteen months ago. I'd never owned a trench coat and was a little sceptical of their recurring khaki inclusion on every ten-garments-you-must-own list.
There was no recognisable gap in my life for a trench coat, or so I thought. I bought it on a New York whim, seduced by the way it had been styled on the store mannequin - with some slouchy blue trousers and a carelessly light pink cotton jumper - and end up wearing just about every day last winter and every day this winter.
So it was a disaster of middle class proportions when the dry cleaner lost the belt. It doesn't work without the belt. I tried every thing - leather belts, velvet belts, no belts, unbuttoned - but nothing looked right.
So I've been wearing other coats but I don't look right. I feel odd in my clothes, odd on the train, odd walking through the park to work.
I could bear it no longer and at lunch time today I cracked and bought another trench.
It looks entirely unremarkable, almost identical to my American trench.
Except it has a belt.
The quilts are more interesting, at least at first glance.
The house hunt continues. I'm starting to think I just like looking in all the different houses rather than actually choosing one. My least favourite are the styled places, all coiffed and cleaned to the realtor's instructions. They are predictable and false. The details set my skin crawling - salad forks in preposterous over-sized bowls empty on a sparkling clean counter, guest towels folded in little fan shapes on the chrome-like finish of the bathroom sink.
I like the houses where the residents are obviously still living. They may have smoothed the sheets but their shoes are visible in the wardrobe. There's a smooth lozenge of used soap in the shower recess. There's a couple of well cuddled coloured teddies in the smaller bedroom.
I have no idea where we'll end up but I can tell you this is one of the things you will see in my new home:
Isn't it's beautiful? It's fabric!
These are from a store called Edit in Sydney's Darlinghurst, a former working class, now wholly gentrified suburb on the city rim. I'm not usually one for posting websites but will make an exception for any place that treats fabrics with the reverence I saw here. If you choose to be further delighted, click here: www.edit-group.com.au.
I've not yet found a house for my leaf curtains. This crumbling corner is my current favourite. It is too small, too cramped and possibly haunted, but jasmine is running riot on the rotting wooden fence outside and there's a wood cooker in the kitchen.
Also, it matches a lot of my clothes. May I just offer a slightly better indication of my seemingly bottomless bag:
And here's the jasmine, which has just started scenting Sydney this last week or so.
If this dank little house were mine, I'd plant hydrangeas in the front and install the matching Edit chair in the stunted triangular little sitting room.
It's likely no one enjoys going to work but every morning, when the train pulls in to the station before my stop, I feel pretty damned fortunate. Even today, when Winter gave Sydney a resoundingly wet goodbye kiss.
I took that photo on my new phone. The phone is smarter than any person or machine I have ever met. Everyday its achievements and capabilities make me feel a little embarrassed.
Tomorrow, rain or not, we're going to look for a new house. We've looked at a lot recently but nothing has seemed right, except this one:
Trouble is, it's not for sale and quite obviously occupied.
Look at that smug face. He's not going anywhere.
It's only been a couple of months but it seems much longer. I would like to thank you very, very much for checking the blog and keeping it alive. When I took a deep breath and logged in last night I expected to find something like a dusty torn shoebox that had been abandoned under an old bed; it is hard to explain how thrilled I was to see that that everything was clean and crisp because people had been dropping in and reading. It meant a lot to me and had a very powerful, positive effect on my outlook.
Thank you!
I don't often have many plans for Spring - it has always got along quite well without any intervention from me - but I do plan to reinvent the blog a little as I reinvent myself a little. Hopefully, by the time the jasmine is in full bloom the blog and the pictures will look a little different.
Hopefully too there will more pelicans because frankly I love them.
But before I rabbit on about pyjamas I just want to have a minor tirade about lipsticks that are more than six months old.
Magazines are telling me that I have to turf all my make up that is older than six months.
I have been using this lip crayon on and off for ten years and have yet to be struck by lightning, turned into a bat or burst into flames. It is older than all my nephews and less inclined to have me read it stories.
Now, where was I?
That would be my first fashion rule, but it is not applicable to any ants who might be reading.
May I just add that I took that photo and indeed provided the speck of cheese biscuit that this ant is taking home to share with his roomies.
Seriously, on my top seven list of things you must have - if not a jaw fitted with ball bearings so you can eat things bigger than your head - is a pair of comfortable shoes. Only you can decide whether that means trainers or spindly stilettos or steel capped boots. In my case it means flat black boots you find on ebay:
Whatever your preferred shoe, they should allow you to move gracefully and in full comfort. They should also provide you protection from blizzards and landslides, and allow your feet to support your back adequately so you don't end up at the chiropractor's every week of your last three decades.
And you should also think about owning a piece of jewellery that is so dramatic people stare at it rather than you when they are talking with you. While you provide them information about the photocopier or ants, they are wondering: where on earth did she find a piece of jewellery nearly as big as her head? Are those pink things real? Is it heavy? If I compliment it, will she shut up about the ants?
Sigh. I love this pendant that is in fact a locket. When pressed I answer without a hint of irony that I bought it at a French flea market.
Tomorrow: why everyone should have an archive of pyjamas.
