I wasn't always the nana that I sometimes am these days. I have worked really hard on developing my natural talent for what I like to describe as ‘slothing’ into an art form. To some it may be viewed as laziness, but for me it came from an instinct for survival. When I’m exhausted – physically, mentally, or dare I say it, emotionally, I’m not much use to anyone.

Heard of FOMO (fear of missing out)? FOMO is the enemy of rest and relaxation. I used to suffer badly from this, but now I’ve learned to love my own company, or even better, the company of a book, my duvet, and a cup of tea every few hours.

Before overcoming (to a certain extent) my FOMO, I would go to events I didn’t really want to go to just because they were there and because if I didn’t go, what if people stopped inviting me to stuff? Oh the HORROR! But trying to combine an over committed social life with jobs that required after hours work took its toll, and I began to realise that it wasn’t the worst thing to not go to everything, especially if I could make the quiet moments/hours/days into times I could really enjoy and stop being afraid of the loud silences.

I didn’t do a lot of things I was going to do this weekend – but I did move from being someone who was weary and a little on edge, into the more friendly happy person I prefer to be. I’ve got a lot better at recognising when I need some space, before I get to the stage where I really really really need some space. I'm so ready to take on this week – watch out world!

Its Daffodil Day today, and in addition to my daffodil pin I also have a ‘frieze’ on my Twitter profile. Clearly, I am a big-time supporter of the Cancer Society.

They say one in three New Zealanders are affected by cancer, but I don’t know anyone who isn’t affected by it. At the moment it seems like an epidemic. It’s unbelievably hard to see people fighting illness, and it’s also really hard knowing what to do when friends are going through the pain of watching a loved one battle cancer, or for that case any illness.

I’ve recently made a deal with a friend with a sick family member that goes like this. You know I care about what’s going on, I’m trusting you to tell me the news, and I’ll (try to) refrain from asking questions all the time. It’s not easy, but really, it’s not in the least about me.

When I was nineteen my role model and favourite person in the world, my mum’s dad Gordon died on ANZAC Day, and less than a month later my dad died of cancer. As life goes, that time was sub-optimal. I have ANZAC Day as a particular day to think Grandad thoughts. With Dad it gets me, still after all this time, at odd moments. I’m good most days, and just yesterday when I realised a new acquaintance had actually known him, it was a nice thing, rather than a sad one.

I like to support good causes – and most of the time they only want my small change, and then they give me a ribbon or something so it’s not exactly a big commitment.

I’ll treat you to a blog on my favourite charities and causes another time, but today, since its Daffodil Day, here are some thoughts on dealing with the horrible big C.

·         You can’t deal with it. It’s impossible. But you have to hope, and you have to be there for your friends and family who are going through it, because you’ll regret your absence if you don’t.

·         Sickness and death is part of living. While we live in a time of never before seen medical genius, bad things happen, and I think conditioning ourselves to believe otherwise is really unhelpful.

·         Don’t let bad things that happen make you afraid to feel. I’ve refused to see movies with cancer in them for years because they’re too upsetting. As part of my personal rebrand, I’m trying to stop being such a wuss. Crying isn’t all bad.

·         It can be surprisingly nice to talk about people you’ve lost, even for a minute. Try it sometime when you think you might be ready.

·         A gentle reminder that life is for living.

·         And on a less serious note – it’s really not cool to recycle daffodils, poppies or ribbons. That’s kind of missing the point.

For some time it’s been clear to me that I would much rather be rich than famous. There is no money that would make me go on a reality TV show (even though I have friends who have, and good on them.. I’m not judging you guys, it’s just that we are all different). I will not put my head in a tank of spiders, I will not eat insects, and if I choose to share my issues with the world, it will not be on Big Brother.

I enjoy performance as much as the next entertainment and sports mad person, and I like to know what’s going on. But really- who would want to be so well known that people think they have the right to inquire into and speculate about your life?

Serious thoughts about the intrusiveness of our paparazzi culture aside, I have this very evening, as I attended the relaunch of the sassy new Metro magazine, discovered the true reason that it would be HORRIBLE to be a celebrity. Picture this: elegantly dressed people, chatting in groups, sipping bubbly and cocktails. The nibbles come around – I snaffle as many as I can, discovering that the simplest way to consume without dropping any on my carefully selected early evening casual but formalish outfit is to ingest the whole canapé in one bite. This is fine, because the ‘candid’ photographer is taking snaps of people much more important than I am.

This is the thing – celebrities have two options: eat in public, and risk having your photo everywhere looking dreadful (BRAND DAMAGE ALERT!), or don’t eat when at parties. Seriously, what would be the point of going to parties where you don’t get to eat amazingly little bits of deliciousness?

Kelly Clarkson photo courtesy: http://www.celebrities-eating.com/

This week I have changed my facebook status to a plea to whoever I lent my favourite DVD to (Cold Comfort Farm http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112701/) and even emailed a few likely suspects to see if they have it, to no avail. It’s sad because there are just some times when a girl wants to hang out on the couch in her most comfortable trackpants with a blanket, a cup of tea and some snacks of the less than nutritious kind and enjoy a movie they know and love. There’s a lot to love about Cold Comfort Farm. There are makeovers. There is 1920s fashion. There is the can do attitude of Flora Poste, and there are all the mad inhabitants of Cold Comfort Farm, including a nearly unrecognisable Sir Ian McKellen.

Anyway, it got me thinking about lending, and how I need to either a) create a spreadsheet of who has what, and devise a friendly and effective reminder/penalty strategy for non-returned items or b) Just give things to people, and not part with things I can’t handle not getting back.

I love generosity. It’s great to be able to help people out who need it, or even do something nice for someone just because you can. It’s also pretty fantastic being on the receiving end of someone’s loveliness. I love it when someone unexpectedly gives me a thoughtful gift or pays for a coffee, and occasionally I find it in myself to practice a little selflessness.

Have you heard of Random Acts of Kindness (RAK)? The whole premise is doing kind things to people you don’t know (randoms). In New Zealand we have an official day on 1 September, which is really soon! There’s a website www.rak.co.nz, plus Twitter @RAKday and there are all kinds of brilliant and crazy ideas flying around as people get into the spirit of this thing.

Want to get on board? You could do something as simple as pay for the coffee of the person in line behind you (you can get cool little cards for the server to give them saying “You’ve been RAKed”). You could pay for someone’s groceries; you could give flowers to strangers. The whole thing is completely the opposite of doing something to look good, it’s just about spreading some kindness. I love this.

Incidentally, I thought perhaps my clever title quote was from the bible, but it turns out that it was actually Shakespeare’s Hamlet:

LORD POLONIUS:
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

Oh, and if anyone has seen my DVD…

Aaah flatting. One of those things that is a necessary evil, like getting your car serviced and  always making sure you’ve got extra layers because you live in Auckland so who knows what’s going to happen with the weather.

Flatmates, or roommates for my American readers , are the people who help pay life’s expenses so that you can afford to buy nice shoes. Worst case scenario, they’re psychos. Sometimes you tolerate each other. A good balanced house sharing relationship is when you like each other enough to hang out when you’re both at home, you all do a bit of housework, and you don’t find each other’s friends too irritating.

I’ve lived in quite a few houses since leaving home at the tender age of 17. At that time I could not cook (whereas now I can if I have to) and my other life skills could be described as ‘limited’. I’ve lived in a big ramshackle villa in Grey Lynn, an adorable two-bedroom place that was just a little too close Ponsonby Road for a decent night’s sleep, an apartment in Dominion Road where there was a triad stabbing in the lift and various other strange and wonderful places.

Over the last few years I’ve gone for smaller, nice places with fewer people. While some people choose to live alone, it just takes a weekend without my flatmate for me to start texting everyone I know, begging them to have a coffee with me. I’ve been lucky, I’ve lived with some pretty cool people including my current flatmate, who is pictured here. Not a shy and retiring type, she has wondered aloud a few times this week why I haven’t put her my blog yet. So here is my tribute, and I didn’t even have to change names.

An ode to Sara

She is from Waimate in the South Island

She likes to sing and cook and bake

Sometimes we watch the Gilmour Girls

She’s honest and never fake

People fight to come over for dinner

And love your chocolate pudding

Oh Sara, I’m glad you idolize Donna Hay

Even though you make the rest of us look like we have no womanly qualities at all