My pampering of choice

I love choosing nail polish colours – just reading through the names on the bottom of the little bottles is so much fun: “I’m not really a waitress”; “Diva of Geneva”; “Paint my Moji-toes Red” – who gets this job thinking up such names. I want it!

On Friday, husband was sick. He’d survived a week of meetings and travel, so decided some bed rest, hot lemon drinks and some TLC were in order. He got the first two alright, but I’m no nurse. In fact I hate playing nurse – or patient – so he was out of luck. I try my best, but after seven years, he’s learnt to fend for himself!

Which meant I spent my Friday afternoon getting my nails done! A manicure would have to be my pampering of choice. The soaking of fingers in relaxing warm water, the filing and careful shaping of nails, the massage and then walking away with nails the colour of “20 candles on my cake” that I can admire for the week ahead.

A manicure isn’t like a pedicure – which tickles too much, or a massage – which is never quite the right pressure. I reviewed a facial treatment late last year and that experience was enough to put me off facials for a while. I’d asked the beauty therapist not to worry about massaging my head as part of the facial, I was going out for dinner later and didn’t want that after facial oily look! Yet such a request was ignored. Instead she went about pulling my hair out by the roots (which did not constitute a relaxing treatment) and left both my face – and hair – so oily, that as I sat down to dinner opposite an old friend of mine, his first comment to me was: “I can see myself in your forehead!”

Yes – a manicure is definitely my preference. What’s your pampering of choice?

Snuggling up with a good book

As much as I love the ease of communication that email provides, nothing beats receiving a package via snail mail. A few weeks ago, a rather large parcel arrived – so large in fact, it couldn’t fit in our mail box and we were left with only a card to say said parcel needed to be collected.

Now I may be known for my procrastination but when it comes to collecting parcels from mail centres, no such lingering occurs. It immediately goes to the top of my “to do” list and no other commitment will stand in the way.

On this particular afternoon, awaiting me was a relatively flat box, light in weight but of a sizeable proportion – intriguing. What could possibly be inside, I wondered? Despite customs requirements to clearly identify the contents of such deliveries, I always try to avoid looking at the little sticker that will give away what lies beneath the layers of sellotape, cardboard and tissue paper.

Taking it home, I waited for husband to return from work. No sooner had he walked through the door then the scissors were in hand and the grand opening began. Out came confectionary, biscuits and clothes – a wonderful combination of the best NZ has to offer. Yet despite my love of such sweet goodness from my homeland, on this particular day there was an item far greater than a packet of pineapple lumps.

My incredibly talented, and wonderfully wacky, ma-in-law had sent us a creation. One of pinks, browns and leopard print. A creation so soft and comforting. It was the most decadent of snuggle rugs – perfect for snuggling under with a book in hand.

And there was one of them as well. Nestled softly in the folds of this beautiful snuggle rug, was The Saffron Gate, by Linda Holeman.

A perfect morning

I’ll let you in on a secret – each morning I wake at 7.30am. A civilised hour one could say. I’ve done the early morning starts and no doubt I’ll do some more, but for now 7.30am it is – and I don’t feel a bit guilty!

Awaiting me on my bedside table is a cleansing cup of hot water – the perfect way to start the day. It’s been placed there quietly by husband... he’s been up for a good half hour already and is well into his early morning routine of getting ready for the office. I use his 8am departure as reason to leave the house myself – in either walking or running shoes. A brisk 45minute run around the waterfront or a power walk around the Bay certainly gets the blood pumping.

But one morning this week was different. I awoke to husband leaning over me, quietly pulling the covers up underneath my chin. Sleep-clogged I couldn’t work out what was going on – yet I knew something was different. I felt dopey – and must have looked it too, much like a child does when you’re slowly waking them from a deep slumber, encouraging them to start a new day.

“Guess what’s outside,” he whispered to me. There could only be one answer to that... snow! And sure enough, a glimpse through the blinds showed a magical winter wonderland had settled.

There was going to be no use for running or walking shoes today – boots were in order. As we stepped outside, commuters before us had already paved a way down the pavement, but I didn’t want to follow in their footsteps. I wanted to walk where no-one had gone before... so I did. Right up to my ankles. In soft, oh so soft, powdery snow.

There’s always a stillness surrounding snow and this morning was no different. As snowflakes continued to fall upon us, we made our way slowly into town. Streetlamps wore snowcaps, boughs of branches bent towards us in greeting, and lying gently on top of budding blossoms was a fine layer of snow – a meeting of two seasons.

I left husband at the door to his office building and spent the next hour wandering the streets. By now there was more sign of life – more cars on the streets, buses, workers and students – the magic was starting to wear off, so I went in search of more. And found it in an extra hot chai tea latte and a bargain book table.

A bag of books later, I trudged home through the snow. I’m sure I broke all snow walking etiquette as I scuffed through the powder, knocking snow back onto the path shovels had but a moment before cleared. But the child in me – that snow so easily brings out – wanted to rebel.

And as I stepped back into the warmth of our apartment, tending to the more mundane of chores – hanging dripping jackets in the washroom, wiping snow covered bags, and dusting off my boots – I couldn’t help but to look outside at a magical winter wonderland, eyeing up the perfect spot to head back outside and make a snow angel.

Life’s all good

I always try to set one day aside each week for a treat – and that day is usually a Sunday! Treats include such things as sleeping in, breakfast in bed, a decadent bagel with jam and cream cheese, a visit to a museum or gallery I’ve been meaning to go to, manicures, walks, or simply catching up with friends.

Don’t get me wrong – such things can be done at any time during the week – and even better, they can be done spontaneously. A mid-week vino with a girlfriend, just because. What better reason do you need? A romantic movie, a new pair of shoes, a chocolate cupcake or tickets to the theatre – simply because it’s what you feel like.

But the weeks can get away on us, so if nothing spontaneous has occurred during the week, you can guarantee such decadence, self indulgence and treat giving will take place on that day of the week commonly known as rest day (who are we really kidding in the 21^st century?)

So, I’ve decided that Sunday’s is my day to blog about something other than books. It will come from the heart and will be about anything or everything... or both! There’ll be no theme other than the heading “Life’s all good!” Because with books, shoes, treats, and friendship – why wouldn’t it be?

However, to begin with... it’s got to be shoes...

“You sold your soul to the devil when you put on your first pair of Jimmy Choo's, I saw it.”
Emily says to Andy in Devil Wears Prada

The Devil Wears Prada is one of my favourite movies. From the shoes to the clothes to Meryl Streep’s lifting of an eyebrow, this movie is irresistible. But it bought to light a question...

Can you really call yourself a shoe girl if you don’t own a pair of Jimmy Choos? Because the thing is, I love shoes, and I do call myself a shoe girl, but I don’t own a pair of Jimmy Choos. Nor have I even tried a pair on! In fact, confession of all confessions, I wouldn’t even know a pair of Jimmy Choos if I tripped over them.

But that doesn’t mean to say I’m not a shoe girl. It’s just means I’ve saved the best till last. And, I’ve still got my soul.