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Sunday, November 27, 2005
In all honesty, my idea of paradise is a house on a beach and a stack of books.
This weekend, we went to no open homes. Instead the three of us drove up to Jack's mum's beach house up the Kapiti coast, got the stereo working and the portable radiator and hunkered down and read borrowed books and listened to the wind and Nitin Sawhney and Boards of Canada (ours) and Ravel and Debussy (the house's). On Saturday we explored Otaki, walking from State Highway One to the beach and back again. On the hot sand I unzipped my detachable trouser legs as we waited for J to return with icecreams. Minutes later clouds closed over us and cold rain began. Walked back up the long straight road to the township, where we bought live green-lipped mussels, which we took home, steamed and ate them with bread and butter, salad, fake beer (me) and questionable white wine uncovered at the back of the pantry (Jack).
On Saturday, Rebecca spent her first night in a proper bed, all by herself, and her poor sodden-hearted mother shed tears and actually uttered the words 'My little girl is growing up.'
Net access intermittent, time and energy for writing fleeting. Hour late. Bear with me.
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