Waking up alone

I hate waking up alone in my childless house. Hate it.

Every second week, I face the silence on Saturday, Sunday, Monday and Tuesday.

I find the business of living much tougher on those mornings.

If you’re parenting seven days a week, you probably fantasise about waking up to an empty house. It would be a lovely novelty if it happened occasionally, but the regularity is crushing.

My heart breaks for any parent who has been estranged from their children by a vindictive ex. The thought of waking up EVERY morning to an empty house must be so, so painful. I can’t even begin to imagine it.

That said, don’t feel too sorry for me because I had a pretty fantabulously awesome weekend once I got my self-pitying weep out of the way on Saturday morning.

Actually, let me back track to Friday night, when the fun really began.

DD flew home from a week of lectures about lung cancer to my demands we celebrate World Champagne Day. He realised he was also committed to seeing a performance at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music, so we combined both. We parked at this funny hotel called the Sir Stamford, wandered past some random stuffed wombats in the lobby and sat in their retro bar drinking glasses of Mumm. I asked for two flutes of “Moom”, which is the way I thought you were supposed to pronounce it*, but the waiter looked at me blankly for a moment before saying “Oh, yer mean the Muh-m?”

Yes thanks.

The performance at the Con was quite something. It started with a guy painting a canvas red, then leaving us “watching paint dry” while another guy stuck his face in a bowl of water for 60 seconds. And it just got better from there. I was beside myself with glee.

On Saturday the world became even more tiny when my friend Emily mentioned during our weekly walk that her dad was bidding on a sandstone property in Hunters Hill that morning. I said I’d give sandstone a miss, too much trouble. She said it was an apartment in a block of four and I said I hoped it wasn’t in Mount Street. And she said it was. And I said I hoped it wasn’t 5 Mount Street. And she said it was. And it was MY OLD APARTMENT. Ermagerd don’t you think that’s totally freaky?!?

It went for $2.2million. (Not to my friend’s dad.) Fark!

It looks much, much different to when I owned it.

Here are the before shots:

Here are the after shots:

Whoa, huh?

That afternoon, DD and I watched a pod of whales frollicking offshore at Avalon, then headed to The Tinnie Party – a fundraiser in the street outside a brewery called Modus Operandi featuring all these craft beer stalls. I got to show off my booze knowledge when DD ordered a Sly Fox from Feral Brewing, telling the bloke running the stall: “Oh, you guys came second in the Beer Cartel craft beer survey recently!”

A band called Jester – featuring DD’s son – played a great set, including a rollicking rendition of Sex Machine, which DD said is actually pretty difficult to play. It was bulk fun.

And then we headed to a nearby bar, where we tried to outdo each other with taking the best photo of our wine for my work Instagram account. Modern love.

My photo:

His photo:

I told DD about a funny video called Instagram Husbands. He said he empathised, but the truth is I think he secretly likes it.

On Sunday we saw Blade Runner 2049 with some friends. I’d been really looking forward to it, but I really didn’t like it. Well, aside from Harrison Ford, who was excellent. It was arduous and bleak.

We sat in a bar afterwards to recover, nibbling fried squid and sipping wine. Then it was time to be dropped back to my dark, empty house.

And I woke up alone and searched for the energy to rise and face the day.

Still searching …

Here are some pics from the weekend, click on the first one to open the gallery and get explanations of them all (because you’ll need them for lots of them!):

Wombats in the lobby of the Sir Stamford – I have no idea why.

Our Mumm!

Followed it up with some domestic.

Watching paint dry while a bloke put his face in a bowl of water for 60 seconds … 60 seconds is a remarkably long time to watch someone not breathe, I was scared he was dead.

The show kicked off with a bloke energetically playing the piano with headphones and a blindfold. At one point he played with his butt.

This student ate a bowl of Cornflakes on a sound loop.

This bloke jumped around in his undies during a thrashy electric guitar number.

The girl in front of us.

Jester performs at The Tinnie Party.

DD gets arty with my cider. He has such nice thumbs.

Selfie time in the fading sunlight.

Feral Brewing.

Hope you had a fun weekend too!

* I’ve since checked and here is how you pronounce the various champagne names, interesting:

• Dom Pérignon – Dom Peh-ree-nyon (“g” isn’t pronounced) 
• Veuve Clicquot – Verv Kli-koh (not voov)
• Deutz – dirts (French pronunciation with a soft “r”)
• Ruinart – Rwee-nar (not ruin-art)
• Piper-Heidsieck – Pee-pay Ed-sick
• Mumm – Moom / Mewm (with a short “u” sound)
• Pol Roger – Pol Roh-jeh (soft “j”)
• Louis Roederer – Loo-wee Row-ed-er-ey
• Bollinger – Bol-an-jey (soft “j”)
• Moët et Chandon – Moh-et et Chan-dawn (not mo-way)