One child, in fact. Vincent and I spent Friday night with our excellent little six-year-old niece. We didn't know we could turn off her night-light, so we (half-)slept in a red glow reminiscent of a bordello, on our backs because our corrugated blow-up bed doesn't really lend to sleeping on one's side (especially not when inflated to capacity, as our capable little hostess had ensured). She awoke with a smile at 6am and began to wrestle with her uncle; I tried to sleep through it but after a foot to the face, decided it was time to get up. We spent the entire day together, and in spite of feeling like I'd just undergone a partial lobotomy (I need at least eight hours for my personality to be anything near pretty) it was lovely and a lot of fun. Then our excellent little country niece arrived and our family day was complete.
When we got home, I went straight to bed for a nap and didn't emerge until 7pm. I sleepily ate some dinner, clumsily got dressed, and then Vincent and I went to MOTAT, which was open until midnight for White Night, part of the Auckland Arts Festival. Everything looked magical and we agreed it would have been a perfect date... if we weren't already in love and married.
On the way home we passed Aotea Square, which has been transformed for the festival and looks magnificent. The drunk old posers in it weren't quite as attractive, but there are always mosquitoes at the beach. We saw no less than three hen's parties as we walked down Queen Street, and as I watched girls tottering in their heels and boys leering at them, I thought maybe I am ready for the next phase after all.