There were great plans for a day off a little while ago, but hail and torrential rain put a stop to them. Half an hour between downpours is just as nice, though.
In wisdom have you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.
Here is the sea, great and wide, which teems with creatures innumerable, living things both small and great.
(or, though Betty is trying to avoid this kind of thinking, And she spake thus loudly, O Lord, I thank you that I am not like other men, who do not live on Takapuna beach…)
The Sentinel Kitchen, like the Sentinel Diner before it, is no more. Betty is greatly disappointed, because the Kitchen is about forty seconds’ walk from work, open early, run by two lovely chaps who are happy to whip up a mushroom salad wrap or a lemon toddy by request any time. Also it has booths. Word is that it will reopen soon: here’s hoping…
Sometimes, when the boy person fiance is just chillin’, he will blurt out (or even text-message) the words “Top Shop”. Sometimes, when Betty has a spot of free time, she will wander through the Department Store, which is very near her work. Several days ago, the word muttered darkly on the lips of the beautiful people was Eyjafjallajökull. However, this morning, technology and modern British bravery will prevail, and Top Shop will open on the top floor of the Department Store, and all of Auckland’s fashionable and moderately budget-conscious will rejoice. No doubt they will queue up, as they did a short while ago when the shop opened for a weekend to sell the one measly order that had made it through the skies before the eruptions, and Betty will see them on her way to work.
Betty, incidentally, will not go in; she will race through town afterwards to meet the boy person fiance for a spot of premarital counselling, but she does want readers to be informed. Top Shop!
Betty, who has the most rockin’ of clients, got a voucher from a client. It promised her a mini-manicure at Lucy and the Powder Room, the new swanky salon at the incredibly swish Department Store. Betty, therefore, tootled up to the Powder Room after her morning at the studio was done. It was a chillin’ time at the salon: the place was mostly populated by two beauty therapists, or, as they may have been, nail artistes: they were pleasingly dressed in chic grey smocks, such as might be worn by, say, the supervising sisters at an alternate-reality 1960 unwed mothers’ home, and they had gold nurses’ watches pinned to their fronts.
Betty chose a polish in a kind of post-apocalyptic Williamsburg blue, or like a slightly iridescent dolphin; the artiste led her to a sweet little table for two and laid her hands, palm-reader-style (but, of course, palms down), on an expanse of white towel. “They’re very short,” said the artiste. She was referring to Betty’s nails, not her hands, which are in fact rather long; Betty will remind readers that a bored haematologist once caught sight of Betty’s hands and impulsively measured her wingspan, investigated her palate and proceeded to X-ray her in search of a Marfan’s index. This diagnosis did not eventuate. The artiste regretfully informed Betty that she would have to go for what she technically termed a “roundy shape”, the (apparently much cooler) “squary shape” being unavailable on such short nails. Betty readily acquiesced (she is a roundy, not a squary, anyway), and the artiste proceeded to file, buff, scrape, press, clip, again buff, clean and finally polish Betty’s nails.
One wonders why it was termed a mini-manicure, because it took about fifty minutes; Betty had a very pleasant time chatting to the artiste. At the end, the artiste advised Betty to be careful of her nails for the rest of the day, and not to wash in hard water.
So. A question. Why, when one’s nails are still soft, does one find that one bumps them into every little thing all the time? With a heightened sense of her nails, Betty still found it near-impossible to avoid denting them on the car key, or smacking them into the steering wheel, never mind the temptation to run them idly through her hair. It is a puzzling and yet intriguing somatic exercise, this polishing of the nails.
It’s been rather an, oh, how shall I put this delicately, annus abyssus? A hell of a year. At the end of last year, I threw caution and the dregs of childhood to the winds, quit my job, left home, and moved to one of the swankier suburbs of the big city. Once the wheels were in motion, there was no stopping me: one thing led to another, and in the space of a year, I have
- Found a flat, or rather, a bedroom and a landlady
- Found a part-time job, in which I got to use a hoist
- Broken my right ankle (walking on the beach, slipped on the rocks, rescued by paramedics, tide coming in, hopped up the cliff, true story)
- Entered a second Pilates training programme, and completed the first two stages of certification
- Been hit by a car, badly spraining my left ankle
- Rehabilitated two ankles
- Crashed someone else’s car, in a very minor manner, but still
- Found another part-time job, in which I get to drive cars
- Quit the first part-time job
- Found a full-time job, teaching Pilates
- Had another part-time job, lecturing in humanities at medical school; secured same gig for next year
- Done NaNoWriMo, winning by the skin of my teeth
- Started a blog, and posted more than five times (see previous blog)
- Watched Battlestar Galactica
- Done Balance Control Step Off on the Reformer
In order to round out the year, there are some things I plan to do in the next few weeks:
- Complete the Pilates certification — practical exam on Friday, mat test on Saturday, updates then.
- Turn 27.
- Fix the car.
Stay tuned, gentle readers.