Update

This week I’ve been inundated with porn. Last Saturday my phone beeped at 8am. It was the friend who lent me 50 Shades of Grey, having read my article about being a few beats behind the drum when it comes to fashion and contemporary literature. It read: “Don’t you want the second and third 50 Shades book before you start The Hunger Games trilogy? The second book is better than the first.”

When I said it only took me a week to read, I was talking about one book, not the trilogy – I did say I’m a slow reader after-all. I was also still finishing it off Saturday morning and was most disappointed with the unhappy ending.

“Yes please, I replied. “The Hunger Games can wait. That book didn’t end on a good note - most unsatisfactory.”

Next minute my email’s beeping with a message from another friend: “I’m off to the beach but I’m leaving your porn on the back deck.” She was referring to books two and three.

I just need to clarify that this subject matter wouldn’t usually be my thing but I do need to find out what happens in the storyline (and I’m not just saying that in case my mum and nana are reading).

So The Hunger Games has been shunted further down the pile as I embark on my painfully slow (to most) journey through book number two.

Anyway, that’s hardly a topic related to anything remotely childlike or chaotic so I shall change the subject:

You know you’ve had a good Christmas when Master Four repeatedly refers to the non-existent baby in your tummy and keeps patting it.

“That’s not very nice,” I say, feigning a sad face.

“Sorry mummy.” Then, as an after-thought he walks back: “And sorry baby,” he says patting my tummy one more time.

Apparently I need to start running again.

And that’s about all I’ve got to say on that topic too.

50 Shades

When it comes to fashion I’m usually a season or two behind. The same applies when jumping on the 50 Shades of Grey bandwagon.

The days of reading novels at one’s leisure disappeared out the window around seven year’s ago when baby number one made his appearance. The stack of books beside the bed grew taller and taller until I was forced to make a second pile, now equally high.

The lack of time, combined with the need to drink in every detail makes me the slowest reader in the world; The book which has made it to the top of the dusty pile only gets picked up at bedtime, by when I’m so exhausted I usually only get through one page.

Therefore one year on, I’ve finally finished the intense but intriguing The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo series (I’ll be surprised if the friend that lent me them ever lends me another), allowing me to start the controversial 50 Shades of Grey (which I had cheated and bumped to the top of the pile).

One week later and I’ve nearly finished.

It’s true it’s received a lot of flak for its storyline and repetition (the overuse of the expression “Oh My” makes me cringe more than the lewd acts themselves!) but I’m a sucker for good easy-read chick-lit (although I understand it’s proving popular with men too) and, like many readers before me, I’m finding it hard to put down.

This poses two problems: One – I can’t take this book to the beach to read because anyone who happens to look my way and notices the familiar cover will recognise it for what it is and – two – once I finally pick it up at night, the storyline is somehow managing to keep me awake until midnight, rendering me tired and grumpy the next morning when I’m woken by 6am regardless.

By the time you read this I will have finished and should be started on The Hunger Games trilogy (lent to me by the same generous but, at the time, oblivious friend).

If you haven’t already read it, it would be quicker to read yourself than wait for a review from me. Otherwise, I’ll give you my verdict in. oh, about a year’s time.

Her Majesty

There’s a grand old dame residing at a popular beach in the Far North who would have many an interesting tale to tell if only she could.

Her silent presence features in many a holiday snapshot and taken back to the vacationers’ respective parts of the globe.

She has most likely played host to loads of teenage drinking sessions (according to the odd telltale Cody’s can strewn about) and rendezvous by night but, by day, she welcomes family after family with her outstretched ruby-bejeweled arms.

Our family is just one of many who make a beeline for this magnificent Pohutukawa tree. The kids are still young enough to have forgotten previous visits and so rediscover her each year through new and adventurous eyes.

While us adults park ourselves underneath the shade of her crimson-hued foliage high above, she keeps the kids entertained for hours on end - she is also an experienced babysitter.

After exploring the nooks and crannies of her magnificent base, they scramble along the low-slung, gnarled, sprawling branches before jumping off into the shallows of the incoming tide and repeating over again.

Back in the day of newborns, with us at least, this was also the scene of the great tandem power-poo episode. Anyone who’s experienced a newborn power-poo through four layers of clothing (that’s counting the garments of the victim who’s holding the baby) – at the beach no less – knows this is not a fun experience. To have both babies do it in unison was almost laughable. Although I’m sure, that day, covered in sand-coated poo, we were not laughing.

In hindsight, our host was probably having a wary chuckle. Nothing fazes her as she has seen it all before.

Yes, I’m sure each summer she has noted many pooy, crying infants transformed into fun-loving children, clambering over her old, creaky limbs, and then, some years later, gathering under her sprawling mass with their cans of Cody’s before becoming parents and seeking the sanctuary of her attractive, relaxing presence while she entertains their offspring all over again.

As the summer holidays wind to a close the great Pohutukawa of Whatuwhiwhi can begin to recover through the winter, ready to bloom in all her splendor and play host once more.

Until next year Your Majesty.