The perpetually snarling, Glock-toting, sunglasses-at-night-wearing ex-gangsta rapper turned actor turned director Ice Cube once wrote: "Today I didn't even have to use my AK47. I gotta say it was a good day."
I totally felt just like my homie Ice did last Saturday (actually we've never met, so it's not accurate to call him a chum, but he's one of those people I daydream about sitting next to on a plane and finding that we get on like a house on fire; this is because I'd be so refreshingly normal and not star-struck and he'd be fascinated at the comparative similarities of my life as a Hastings housewife to his tales of being a "nappy head" growing up on the mean streets of LA's South Central, Long Beach, Compton and Watts) when (to accompany a marathon of MySkyed fishing shows), behind the box of All-Bran that no one ever eats, I found a long-lost packet of salt and vinegar chips to go with the six-pack of Monteiths Original I'd bought on special for $11 at Countdown.
I felt like that on Sunday when my husband and I managed to move all the furniture out of the house, pull up and dispose of the manky, 1980s carpet and prehistoric lino AND sand and repaint all the skirting boards without swearing at each other once.
I felt just like that on Monday when the carpet-laying job that was supposed to take two days was finished in one and it looked really snazzy. I even felt like that on Tuesday when the plane I was flying in from Napier to Auckland ended up parking smack in front of the regional terminal entrance as opposed to the usual Gate 47, which is miles away and a dreadfully tedious trek when you've been wearing stupid shoes all day as, inevitably, I have, because I never learn.