As part of my insurance claim, I have to pick a jewelery store that I want to go to. This part I dislike, because I don’t like buying jewelery, and I don’t like going to jewelery stores. “But I’ve seen you wear jewelery!” You might think - and yes, it’s true, but it’s more than likely that the stuff you’ve seen me wear was picked up at a street market at a festival somewhere, and all of my stolen (worthy) jewelry was gifted to me by my jewelry adoring mother.

So perhaps I should clarify: by jewelry stores, I mean the ones where people go and spend a small fortune on little gold necklaces that look like rockets. I mean, seriously, who buys this stuff?

As part of the good fortune resulting from the bad, I thought that I may as well try to find a suitable item that I would never, under other circumstances, indulge in. Unfortunately, the one that I found that I really liked was slightly over my budget.

I did learn a thing or two about NZ jewelery store websites though: they suck. They don’t work unless you download Silverlight (Michael Hill, seriously? GTFO), open in a pop-up window and play you cheesy music, or are amazingly unhelpful.

Please - I just want to browse through your range. Does it have to be this hard?

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If you ask my sisters to tell you childhood stories about me, they’ll take much joy in retelling the tales of my clumsiness.

“There was never a day that went by when she didn’t spell something on the dinner table,” one will start.

“Oh yeah, she used to spill her milo every day during breakfast!” The other will finish.

I like to think that as I grew older, I grew out of this, but today is one of those days that would prove this not to be the case. And if it were just the one incident of spilling hot takeaway miso all over msyelf and the car, not having a towel and having to drive back home with MisoPants, I might let it pass as as a little bit of bad luck on an off day.

But when, only hours later, I proceed to spill a glass of water over our chest of drawers and bedroom carpet, I have to wonder why life hates me today.

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So since we’ve been unpacking, I’ve discovered some interesting things about myself:

• I have a penchant for buying Christmas cards that I never send. I’m pretty sure I’ve found at least 8 packs.
• I have a lot of craft equipment I haven’t used. This includes a mask, liquid resin and petroleum jelly.
• There are things about my past that are better left in boxes. “Things” includes network marketing.

I also found this.

Yes, it’s a puppet. I know.

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“What kind of movies do you like, horror?”

The consultant asked earnestly, still maintaining awkwardly intense eye contact.

“Well yes actually…”

“It seems to be a popular genre around here.” He cut me off, still doing the crazy eye thing. I wondered, then, whether he was profiling me and had concluded that we were, in fact, an office full of potential serial killers posing as a web design agency.

Actually, I’ve been intrigued by horror movies since I was a kid. I blame that one Bollywood movie, Purana Mandir (directly translated to “old temple”), in which the scenes were always set at night in a big old house (possibly temple) with curtains flying in the wind and a demon wandering the grounds. I was maybe 5 or 6 when I watched it - my mum claims she found me sleepwalking after. For years I was petrified of it until I watched it again later in my adult life and found it to be hilarious and not scary in the slightest, but it was too late - I had already been Hooked onto Horror.

(Dun dun dun.)

I think the best horror movies are the ones with the big, haunted old house with the curtains blowing in the wind. And what gets me every time is that there’s always someone who’s willing to stay in this big, haunted old house - alone. I mean, come on lady! The curtains are billowing - that’s right, billowing, doors are opening, ceramic figurines are moving their heads, the power goes off and you do what? Go into the basement in the dark with scary old dolls sitting in the shelves, staring at you?

Hell, if my curtains were blowing in the wind and the power went off, I would get into my car and drive the hell away. But not this lady. No, this lady goes into the basement, finds the fuse box, flips a switch and then goes “oh phew - it was just a burnt fuse, nevermind those freaky doll heads laughing at me, I can go back and sleep soundly now” when the lights come back on.

Which brings me to my escape plan - because if my curtains were, in fact, billowing in the wind and the power went off and I tried to get into my car and drive away, I would, in fact, not be able to because the garage door probably wouldn’t open, or the gate for that matter. I don’t think I even know where our fuse box is, or how to work it. I better find out, you know, just in case.

And in case you were wondering, fascination with horror movies is not among the reported childhood behaviors of a serial killer - although I did exhibit a few others on that list. Hmmm…

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So Susan Boyle - are you sick of her yet?

Don’t get me wrong - I’m really impressed that the old broad can sing, but seriously - does she need to be in the news every single day, and when she’s not in the news, is it necessary to use her as a metaphor?

I mean come on, how is this guy’s story in any way like Susan Boyle’s, or Slumdog Millionaire for that matter? At the very least, he deserves his own headline that’s not comparing him with a British woman who, according to Wikipedia, took singing lessons from a voice coach, attended Edinburgh Acting School, and took part in the Edinburgh Fringe.

But they’re both aesthetically impaired (he’s missing 2 front teeth from a racist attack, and Susan Boyle just, well, has a munted face), and can sing much to our surprise and amazement - so of course they’re the same! How could I have missed that?

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