Fancy stuff and fancy that!

I am frequently amazed at how well God’s knows us and wants to delight us. For months I have been trying to locate a particular book (now out of print); a history of the British Royal Jewels. Gems are a hobby, and I have always been fascinated by the provenance and mystery of Royal jewels, ever since I found a book in my local library when I was eight years old.
On Thursday, a friend showed up at my workplace with a book she’d stumbled across on the Internet. Knowing that Russia and jewels are a passion she bought it for me! Generous and perceptive – I was really touched. So, Friday night I tucked into a book about Faberge’s eggs.
On Saturday morning, I fell over the other book I had been looking for in a local charity shop for the outrageous sum of $3. Bang went another few hours, racing through the first few chapters. Both of the books interlocked at one point, over the acquisitive nature of two branches of the same family – notably Queen Victoria and Czar Nicholas and his wife, the granddaughter of Victoria, Princess Alice of Hess. The Empress Alexandra was given Faberge eggs each Easter by her husband. As Empress of India, Victoria amassed the most amazing treasures, gifts from Maharajas and Princes in her dominion. Her son Edward Prince of Wales, probably doubled the jewel coffers on his trip to India in 1875.
Back to the weekend. On Saturday afternoon, I had a visit from a friend who had recently returned from a visit to a mutual friend overseas. He had carried back to NZ a present from this friend, which totally capped the weekend. I had lived in her home for two years, and even though we are about as different as salt and vinegar, she knows me well. She sent me an exotic and colourful gift in the bold colours that I love. Again, I was really touched.
It seems you don’t have to be a Queen or a Princess to receive something gorgeous from a far off foreign land.

Singing sweetly to myself

I work in an office next to a historic building. Native pohutukawa trees that shed their red prickles in our car park and block our gutters and drainpipes surround it. They are massive trees, and being English I catch myself looking for squirrels in their branches; delusional, as we don’t have squirrels in New Zealand. We do have possums, but mercifully the city centre is a possum free zone.
Every day I eat lunch with my co-workers in a small kitchen that overlooks a small veranda. We have started to throw out the crumbs from our sandwiches, and each afternoon as I wash up the coffee cups, I am rewarded with the sight of blackbirds and sparrows “taking afternoon tea”.
Oh did I mention that the historic building is the capital’s wooden cathedral?
This afternoon I caught myself singing as I did the washing up.
“All around the Cathedral, the saints and opossums, look down as she sells her wares. Although you can’t see them, you know they are smiling, each time someone shows that he cares. Feed the birds, tuppence a bag, tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag”
It was a truly Mary Poppins moment.

Couronne de la vie

I have only visited Paris three times, which is pretty shocking – as a Brit, I have no excuse. The residing memory I have of all three times isn’t the Rive Gauche, or the fashion, or the museums, it’s the bread and the life experiences that seem to curl themselves around the loaves.
First memory, sitting in a park twenty seven years ago, with a good friend from University, he a diplomat, me still a student. We had bought wine, pate and the ubiquitous baguette to eat for lunch. Whilst distracted in conversation opening the wine, and wrestling with the baguette, a huge dog came bounding towards us and stole the pate from our blanket and ran off with it. The owner of the said dog was very embarrassed and extremely apologetic, all I could do was roll around laughing it was so funny.
Second memory; visiting a S. African friend in the 19th arrondissement. Three times a day we went to worship at the local boulangerie, serving the morning bread at lunch being tantamount to heresy. I had no idea that such a routine could be so addictive – and how on earth did the French women stay so slim? A random fact; French bread contains no fats, sugar or preservatives.
Third memory; visiting American friends on the southern outskirts of Paris. Their village bakery was difficult to get out of, simply because the ability to make decisions vanished the moment you stepped over the 18th century threshold and sniffed the dough fragranced air. My schoolgirl French simply couldn’t cope with the complexity of choice and I left armed with far too much bread due to my linguistic paralysis. Later, wandering around the Jewish quarter of Paris, I found myself following my nose and buying more.
The smile arrives simply with the memory of French bread, so not surprising then at today’s waterfront market, I made straight for “Simply Paris”. All bread made by the café with the same name on Cuba St, Wellington. Bon Apetit!

The stuff of fairy tales

Amanita Muscaria
In summer, we have roses outside our office window, at the beginning of autumn, we have this little fellow. I suspect there are fairies hiding behind it, because they always do in the story books.
But we won't be eating it for tea, it's rather deadly you see..........

Living in Wellington but missing Africa

I miss Africa. I visited Malawi in 1988 and I later Mozambique, Tanzania and Kenya. I ended up moving to S. Africa for a couple of years, and totally fell under the spell of the continent.
This weekend I dragged my husband along to a delightful new shop in Wellington, opposite our National Museum, Te Papa. It is called Juakali and sells beautiful Fair trade products, jewellery and furniture from Africa. This weekend they had a lovely man from Congo giving drum lessons. You can drink good coffee, and Beverley the owner is chatty and hospitable. Drum lessons run for the month of May, so if you are in town, you have no excuse.

Why I love Wellington - Sunday Markets

Opposite the Museum Hotel, where travelling Hippos like to eat, there is a Sunday market, where travelling Hippies like to eat.

Beware of those who own stamp albums

My husband collects postal history of Palestine / Israel. It appeals to his analytical mind and passion for history. A few days ago, we were having a random conversation about Stanley Gibbons, the Englishman who catalogued stamps and whose reference books are a must have for any philatelist. We both thought it strange that he never made it into the “People of the Millenium” list. After all, he practically invented modern stamp collecting.
I decided to see what I could find out about him. It turns out he was trained as a chemist and had FIVE wives who all died young. Some have speculated that there was a link between these deaths and his profession as a pharmacist. It is also rumoured that he was found dead in the arms of his lover at the Savoy Hotel. It seems that fraternising with those who collect stamps could be classified as a “liaison dangereuse”.
How thrilling!