I have long been fascinated by the life of one woman, one I’ve never met and about whom I knew very little as I was growing up. Very little but for the fact she died to give my mother a chance. I’ve told the story before, if you want to know more read the boob-checking stories in my archives. Edna Marian, my grandmother and I were born in the same month (but we’re not the same star sign if you follow that sort of thing) though some 19 years before I was born.
I had the opportunity in my last holiday back home to duck down to Wellington to spend some time with my Aunt and her cousin (and my mother’s cousin too, of course) to delve a little into some of the family history, and to give me a bit of a picture of who Edna Marian was and by extension, who a little part of me is…
Actually we’ll start with her mother, Clara Ellen – born in NZ in 1871, married my grandfather John Henry and had 5 children, my grandmother Edna Marian was their youngest.

Edna Marian Heron, my grandmother, born I’m not sure when but died in 1949 after a run in with breast cancer. Mother of 5, grandmother of 12, great-grandmother of 24, if I’ve counted correctly…

I’m sorry I don’t have pictures of her as an adult, these ones were taken on the run. Next time I’m home I plan to get some from my mother. Actually i know I have Edna’s wedding photo somewhere but for the life of me I can’t lay my hands on it…
Edna was the first to carry the Marian middle name, my mother Wendy was the next. She too is born in April. She’s pretty extraordinary, graduating with her Bachelor of Nursing in her early 50’s and surviving a pretty massive car crash not much later. Mother of four, grandmother of [almost] seven!

Then there’s me. Soon to be 40, not married, no kids and occasionally seriously pissed off about that.

I have great nieces and nephews and god-kids who I count as dearly as my own kin. But if I’m really honest, and as my eyes swim a little while I think about these things, I see this line of women from whom I come and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. Really thrilled.
But I’d really hate for it to end with me.

Wouldn’t THAT be a treat… as it is I’m heading for the Mediterranean Kitchen in lieu of the real deal to catch up with friends who are in town briefly from America.
It as isn’t unusual to see them as one may imagine with friends from so far away (Washington DC) but Nobill is a bit in demand as a speaker on the physics circuit (there’s such a thing? Who knew!) so I see them every 18 months or so.
I love that we’re eating somewhere other than the city, I get to do a bit of exploring, before it gets dark. I NEVER go over that side of town, so tonight’s an adventure.
I’ll post a restaurant review if it isn’t too late when I get home!

Today I exercised my first ever vote in a federal election. This is one of the main reasons I became an Australian. I mean, I’ve lived here for the best part of 9 years, I need to be able to have my say and I’ve always figured I have no cause for complaint if I have no way of doing anything about the democratic process.
I walked out of the polling place feeling good. It’s a weird thing to feel good about. There are many people who do it because they have to, in Australia voting is compulsory (I still feel funky about that… surely part of democracy is exercising your choice NOT to vote if you chose.)
Still, I walked out head high and shoulders back, proud to have done my part, proud to be an Australian (and for those Kiwis out there I’d be equally pleased to be doing the same back in NZ). And as a result of millions of us taking part in the democratic process Australia has a new Prime Minister and is in for an interesting ride as a new broom sweeps through after 11 years of the old guard.
I wish John Howard a peaceful and relaxing retirement and look on with interest as the new government takes shape.

If you were to ask me the following question,
“Hi Deeleea, how are you?”
I would have to say,
“Quite frankly, I’m a bit pissed off”
[I just have to add, that the voice I’m hearing say this in my head has a fairly thick NZ accent. So instead of imagining that I said “I’m a beet, peesed off”, think of it more like “I’m a but, puhssed (as in uh) off… ‘”
as you were.]
And this is why.
For the 2nd day in a row I’ve come home from work and found the window I usually leave open pushed closed. This is the window through which the cat has exit and egress from the house.
Fortunately Chino has been found in the inside side of the window both days which actually leads me to suspect that he’s been deliberately returned to the fold.
Now, I have no evidence for this; MAYbe the wind is blowing the window shut… (they don’t call WINDow for nothing, right?)
BUT, as there is a bit of a feeling of antipathy towards the cat from the neighbours on my right who own the bunny, AND the neighbours on the left who have [bloody noisy] dogs AND the neighbours behind who feed the wild birds [even though they’re not s’posed to], I can’t help suspect that he IS being forced to spend his days inside.
So, I’m pissed off as much because the neighbours on the right have made no effort to restrict the rabbit from my garden, the neighbours on the left do NOTHING about the loudness of the dogs and the neighbours at the back are breaching council bylaws and getting pissy at me because the cat comes into their garden.
Am I allowed to be pissed off dear blogosphere?? Isn’t it the nature of cats to roam, and isn’t it my right to own one if I choose? Shouldn’t my pet choice be as respected as any of theirs?

I walked into the laundry on the weekend to do my weekly launder and noticed 2 rather lovely new mountain bikes.
Very nice, I hear you say.
Yes, yes they are.
I noticed also that they’re in the part of the laundry where my packing boxes used to be. The boxes that things like my DVD player came in, the sort that it’s useful to keep because when you move it’s safer that they move in their original packaging etc.
But the boxes are apparently no more. So I asked VB Man (in and admiring tone) whether the bikes were his and his brother’s (who is sharing his place these days) and his reply was in the affirmative.
I also asked, “was it possible that my boxes were still around?” and his response was in the negative.
I grimaced (and swore a lot on the inside).
Now, it isn’t so much that the boxes are gone, it’s that I wasn’t given the opportunity to rehouse them somewhere. Or offer any kind of consultation. Or wasn’t asked if they were mine or ANYTHING
So VB man says VB Bro had figured that the boxes belonged to Mary and Boaz the old guys who used to live upstairs.
And he didn’t even apologize for throwing away my stuff.

Mr Upstairs brough home another girl on Saturday evening (or the same one, I’ve never clapped eyes on either).
He brought her home at the same time (3am).
And he woke me up (again).
However, rather than listen to their nocturnal shenanigans I put my earplugs in.
Seriously, once (or more precisely 3x) was enough.