With an hour to kill around lunch time I decided to have my lunch at a favourite look-out spot and see what Whangarei harbour looked like on this dreary, dull day.  At the end of the road is wasteland.  Or that's what I thought until today.  Now, someone cares enough about it to erect a fence around it. 

My first thought was they couldn't possibly be trying to keep something in there, it's certainly not grazing land.  So, the obvious conclusion is that its there to keep me out.  And I admit to a few minutes of childish, resentful thoughts. 

It hadn't always been easy fighting my way through the scrub and thistles to get a photo from up here, so no more will I ruin a good pair of tights trying. 

Even walking down an access road a bit, this was the closest I could get.  And judging by the twitching curtains in a nearby house, my presence wasn't without suspicion. 

The family have returned from their holiday in Oz.  I've missed them so it's lovely having them home.  And they didn't chastise me for letting two little quail escape from the bird cage.  It happened on the eve of their return - I'd been doing so well until then.  On Sunday I realized there was a strong wind but didn't really notice it all that much at my house.  Not, that is, until I went up to the house on the hill and I sure noticed it there.  I'd fed the guinea pigs and then turned to the bird cage.  A few words children shouldn't hear slipped out and I guiltily looked around before realizing they weren't there.  The bird cage door had rattled itself loose and was flapping in the wind.  Thankfully, the budgies knew where they were well off and were sheltered up high in the cage, out of the wind.  I suspect one of the cats had taken advantage and jumped in to grab a tasty feast of quail.  (There's a lip about 9 inches high below the door and I don't think the quail would have made it over that by themselves.)

So it's back to normal here.  Georgia came running in off the school bus yesterday afternoon, her broken arm not slowing her down one little bit.  When I commented that she could run well with a broken arm she replied, "It's a broken arm, Granny, not a broken leg!"

The arm wasn't much of a  hindrance in the kitchen either. 

Ahh, it's good to be back to normal.  As normal as it gets around here anyway.