Let's talk about car parks. I swear that if I don't start being nicer in general, when I die I'm being sent straight to an underground car park, most likely attached to a Westfield Shoppingcity. Oh my lord (sorry, Lord - see, I'm being nicer already), there couldn't be a nastier place to go.
Take this morning, for starters. It took about 20 minutes just to get through the boom gate because someone was blocking the entry waiting for a car space that may or may not have been opening up. I refrained from honking my horn to the tune of "why are we waaaaiting" (many didn't), but I couldn't figure out why this person felt the need to wait for so darn long just to park right there. We all know that the entrance to the car park is always at least a 55 minute walk from the actual shopping centre doors, so what was the urgency?
I soon found out. Even though it was only 9:35 am, the entry level of the car park was already bursting. Of course, driving just one ramp down to another level meant there were loads of spaces, but no one wants the horror of walking up a whole flight of stairs, so they create chaos on the entry level for everyone to wade through instead.
This morning we also had to manage the usual car driven by one of those Special People Who Don't Need to Follow the Rules Like Everyone Else parked pretty much in the middle of the road, streams of frustrated drivers carefully manouvering around it. Those Special People are just a little bit annoying, aren't they?
They're the ones who whizz by you in heavy traffic as they zoom along in their own lane which was previously referred to as the bicycle track. They're the ones who never indicate because the world can just get out of their way whichever way they decide to turn; who tailgate because that apparently makes the car in front go the speed they want it to go; and the very same ones who park in the No Parking zone right outside the school gate each afternoon, blocking everyone's view of the pesky pedestrian crossing.
They are also the ones who drive up a down road so they can zoom into a free parking space moments ahead of the car that had carefully driven along the arrows to get there.
"Excuse me," I called through my window. "I was supposed to get that spot, you went the wrong way down the road and pushed in."
"Everybody does that!" She scoffed. "Nobody else minds."
"Oh, I think they mind," I retorted. "They're just too shy to say something. I'm not shy at all."
"Doesn't bother me," she snapped. "I'm going shopping."
"Have you ever seen Fried Green Tomatoes?" I screeched after her.
The thing about cars and car parks and roads in general, is that unless you're prepared to ram them with your car (so very tempted), you're pretty much helpless against the rude, arrogant Special People of the world.
And nothing, nothing makes my blood boil hotter than that.
What makes your blood boilth overth?
Are you going to the Kidspot workshop and party tomorrow? Of course I'll be there!
We're obsessed with constructing stuff from stuff around here. We wash and save all our recyclables and throw them into a giant basket and then make things when the urge strikes. Sometimes I'll give the kids (okay, the girls, Max does not participate, but I live in hope) a word to start them off ("insect", "car", "giant", "plant", etc), but usually they just get on with it.
Lately they are particularly keen on constructing elaborate houses out of shoe boxes. I should share some of them here. Last week Cappers made a room for a bear and she scalloped the edges of the shelves. My kind of girl.
These sweet neon binoculars made out of yoghurt containers would fit an "explore" brief perfectly. The pop of neon is like a little scalloped edge on a shelf.
It's been well over a year since I left the grey world. No more suiting up and hobbling around in heels, (because apparently it's more 'professional'). No more cubicle-city-working, popping meerkat-style over half-walls to talk to colleagues. No more endless meetings to talk about our next meeting.
Gone is the rattle and hum of 1000 fingers clicking on 100 keyboards, launching email after email into space. Tap tap tap taptap sigh tap taptaptap sigh tap tap tap.
Gone is the 'well, I can tell you X about Y, but you're going to have to ask Brian about Z because I'm not allowed to comment on that part of the proposal' conversations.
Gone is the long commute into the city with 1,000 other sleepy heads who also nearly missed the 8:06 express to Burwood via Wynyard.
The commute. Yep, I miss the commute.
OMG, it's truuuuue.
I always thought I hated it, but now I see it for what it was. Half an hour in the morning and half and hour in the evening just for me. To sit (or stand, as it were) and do something, anything, nothing while the train hurtled down the track, back to my busy life. A long pause and time being passed quietly and without fanfare. Stay still, there's nothing to do here, wait for time to finish bringing you to where you need to go. Idle thoughts stray and wander, dancing down the tracks.
I didn't appreciate those delicious pauses when I had them. I wished them away and thought them annoyingly inconvenient. I endured them and therefore wasted them, trying to fill up space that was full enough already.
There's me, my 3 Tsunamis (Maxi-Taxi 8, Cappers 7, The Badoo (twenty)4) and my everlovin' man. I'm rather opinionated, but I like to be kind. I work as the Editor at Kidspot's Village Voices and other freelancey lancing writing jobs. I don't get to blog as much as I used to. There's a little bit more about me here.
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It's my great pleasure to write for Village Voices on Kidspot. Here's what I've been talking about lately...