Honestly, it's no wonder my house is so upside down at the moment - there has been so much happening that it is hard to stay home and do housework.
My wonderful Kings Seeds catalogue has just arrived in the mail, which is a sign that the end of winter is in sight.
There is nothing much nicer than sitting by the fire deciding which of the 38 gourmet tomato varieties to order (especially in deepest, darkest, tomato-unfriendly Wakatipu winter) or whether to grow lime-green zinnias or new shaggy pinks.
Decisions, decisions ... best to tick all of them.
And on top of all this decision making, there is the true delight of my darling arriving home with copies of the New Yorker magazine courtesy of Ken Bania.
He wanted me to read some reviews, including one of David Mitchell's new novel The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet.
Six completely different stories that twist and turn and all end up holding hands to make one fabulous book.
Cloud Atlas is positively clanking with literary awards, and it sounds as if this new one is worth the $39 investment as well.
Oh dear, another reason not to get the housework done.
Thanks for those, Ken!
Happy birthday to Gus Watson, who had the good sense to celebrate his birthday at Dick and Jilly Jardine's.
As ever, the food, company and conversation were all marvellous, especially from lovely, loquacious (wonderful word) and loud Michael Williams, the famous Sydney Silk (it's not a breed of dog, you know).
We were very sorry to have missed Pam and Chris Read's Saturday evening bash.
All that swanning around overseas meant I had rather neglected my materteral duties (look it up).
So when snivelling brother needed a babysitter at short notice, it was hard to refuse.
Babysitting at night is one thing, but babysitting at 6.15am is quite another!
Our 18-month-old niece was surprisingly happy to be awake with new surroundings to explore at that hour.
Given her interest in poking her tiny and very sharp fingers in every orifice in our heads, we think she may be a budding brain surgeon.
I managed to persuade her to go back to sleep for an hour, but as I couldn't hear her breathing over my darling's snoring, I didn't dare sleep myself.
The Bledisloe Cup was on Saturday night, and I now realise I should have watched it.
Our quiz team narrowly missed winning last prize (won by The French Connection, who achieved some astonishingly low scores), but we were given a special mention by world-famous-in-Arrowtown quizmaster David John, who said that Robbie Deans was not the Wallaby who was sent off during the Bledisloe Cup.
Not one of our team could name a single Wallaby, which is probably why we keep missing out on the big prizes - bags of coal and frozen chickens - yum. It didn't help that it was one of Ray Clarkson's "musical mysteries" nights.
He plays music on his electronic keyboard and we are meant to guess what it is.
David John had played a key role in Oliver and still didn't recognise Ray's version of I'd Do Anything.
Absolutely brilliant fun and David's nonsense makes up for all the tragic disappointment of getting most of the answers wrong.
On Sunday, it was time to take slightly broken son back to Dunedin.
Annoyingly thin sister is in town just now and she joined us on the tour of the Third-World squalor that our children call home down there.
We did the big shop to stop them getting scurvy and the other things that come with malnutrition.
Our attempts to buy cleaning products were mocked, but we did insist on buying them a dozen rolls of loo paper each.
They find that the Yellow Pages make a perfectly serviceable alternative, which just goes to show the internet can't replace everything in print.
While I was in Dunedin, my darling and our current flatmate, David Bradford, trit-trotted down to the antiques auction in Arrowtown.
I had marked a few things in the catalogue that deserved a place in our lives, but had forgotten what an auctioneer's dream I am married to.
His competitive streak knows no bounds and no other bidder is going to get the better of him.
I am now the proud owner of everything I had ticked plus watches, mah jong sets, a strange leather map, fishing bags and all sorts of other treasures.
Wendy Bradford will need many more holes in her ears to wear all the new earrings that David "won".
Now all I need to do is find places to put all this treasure.
Sometimes when there are too many jobs to do, it is good just to find a good book and settle down with it until the job goes away or someone else does it.
Neither of those things seem to happen much in my life, but I keep trying and trying and reading some more.
This week I have been on a bit of a dog theme and both of them are written from a dog's point of view.
Timbuktu, by Paul Auster, is the rather beautiful and sad story of Mr Bones, who belongs to the homeless Willy G. Christmas. I am quite certain Mr Auster has been a dog in another life as he seems to understand their thinking so well.
The Life and Opinions of Maf the Dog and of his Friend Marilyn Monroe is hysterical.
Frank Sinatra gave MM this dog, who (with O'Hagan's great wit and help) had an instinct for the 20th century, politics, psychoanalysis, literature and interior decoration.
Mad and marvellous.
Enjoy your reading, and if you feel that all these books aren't stretching you enough, you could try some of the many wonderful yoga classes going on in the Basin - lucky us!
And for another sort of mental stretching, call Nina at Cavit and Co to book a place for Stephen Taylor's lecture on the history of interior design. He's senior lecturer at the Inchbold School of Design and it sounds like a great day.
