Love, hate and intrigue

That may sound a bit like the précis of a bodice-ripper, but I was caught in a reflection yesterday about my feeling towards my new Kindle, and a random collection of other things kind of grouped themselves in my head.

Love

• I love that Kindle:
  
  • I love the black leather cover I got with it, which makes it look so solid and blokey.
    
  • I love the built-in dictionary. When an author goes literary on me and describes something as "marmoreal" I can cursor down to it and find out he just means it's like marble (and is specifically outed by the dictionary as being "literary").
    
  • I can still look like a moderately early adopter even though that's not my usual stance.
    
  • And when I bought a Kindle-formatted version of the 6 volumes of Anthony Trollope's Palliser series for US$1, the strength of the Aussie battler meant I only paid 96 cents.
    
• I love competent professional advisers:
  
  • I love the way my accountant Greg doesn't panic about deadlines with the Tax Office, and just calmly sorts out the issues which would otherwise have me in a bit of a twist.
    
  • I love the new contact lenses my optometrist Andrew just gave me, so I can read the Herald comfortably again. Plus I can decrease the font size on the Kindle and not look like I am reading a kindergarten book.
    

Hate

• I hate the way it's so hard now to lose those last 1 and a ½ kilos out of the 4 or so I seem to put on when I took up the role of chief taster for Brigitte's new cupcake-baking endeavours.
  
  • I hate that once I would have burned it off with a couple of long intensive bike rides; now it just seems like a grind.
    
• I hate those fitting rooms in Myer, which have mirrors allowing you to see yourself from every possible angle
  
  • and in particular I hate seeing where those last 1.5 kilos are hiding.
    

Intrigue

• I am intrigued by what people think they can tell you about yourself:
  
  • Before the cupcake tester phase, people had no reticence about telling me I looked too thin.
    
  • The dust and dirt from the current renovations through which we are living have given me some kind of sinus reaction. A stream of people has felt quite comfortable telling me I look "puffy" or "unwell".
    
  • But no-one ever seems to tell you that you look fat, which surely I did.
    
• I am intrigued by the gobsmacked smile on the face of a barista when you say to them: "That was a really good cup of coffee."
  
  • I reckon that unless you are going back to your regular place (which you only go to because the coffee is good) the ratio of great cups of coffee to ordinary ones is about 10:1. So when you get a good one somewhere else, surely it's worth acknowledging.
    
  • I said one day in a cafe: "Who is the barista today?" One girl said: "I am. Why, what's wrong?" Seems like the last thing she expected was: "Nothing – I just wanted to say it was a great cup of coffee."
    
• I am intrigued by the availability of a "premium leather" version of your good, old-fashioned, regular Blundstone boots.
  
  • I have taken it as validation of my right to wear them all this winter as going-up-to-the-village boots, and in fact pretty much wear-wherever-I-like boots.
    
  • It must be okay because the premium leather version cost $27 more than the standard version – even if they don't look too much different, I know they are.
    

And finally, I am intrigued by the fact that stuff like the above wants to order itself in my head as a potential blog post. No doubt, there is more than one person out there who would want to say to me: "Get a life."