Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Baking cures all evils except swollen feet

I spent last week recovering from the flu and baking because I'm fairly sure baking cures most things, except perhaps my pot belly. I ate a lot of cake. Good old Edmond's; when you've got no one else, Edmond's is always there for you, offering baked goods to get you through the hard times.

I think someone tried to pick me up on the bus on Friday night. A Kiwi, he very nicely stopped the bus so I could catch it when it looked like it was going to ignore me. Unfortunately, he decided this was a good enough reason to sit opposite me and chat. Londoners do not do this and tend to look at strangers who try to talk to them as though they are mad. We got some odd looks. However, being polite (that's your fault, ma and pa) I made conversation. Andrew is a banker. He plays rugby. He went to King's College. Turns out half his classmates were in my hostel in first year. I loathed them. I may have told him this a bit too vehemently. Cunningly I brought up Kruse's name as soon as decently possible, talking of my big strong boyfriend who can hoist the world on his shoulders. Best moment was when I was about to get off and Andrew said:

'Is this where you live?'
'Sure,'
'Isn't that a housing estate?'
(It used to be and I don't like the sound of snobbery in his voice.)
'Yes. IT'S FUN.'

Unfortunately, the grand exit I was planning on making after making this statement was ruined when the bus jerked suddenly and I almost fell on Andrew. And as the bus drove off and I climbed the steps to the gate, a drunk old man and suspicious looking youth passed me, no doubt adding the beauty of the environment.
I love living at Katie's.

Caught up with Lemon Nice and Nic Rowe on Saturday night for a few quiet drinks in Camden. Should have known better than to meet these two for quiet drinks at a bar offering 2 for 1 cocktails. Katie and I thought we'd escaped at 11am when they left to go to another bar. Unfortunately we ran into them about ten minutes later and they convinced us to go to yet another bar. Katie cleverly escaped in time to get the last tube home. I wound up crashing at Nic and Alex's, having lost my phone and been bodyslammed onto an airbed by someone not much bigger than me. It is amazing how booze can give one superhuman strength. Sadly, as this superhuman threw me onto the airbed, my foot hit a table and now it's all swollen and mildly blue and a spot sore. Bloody sore, really.

Hobbled home in time to call ma on the blower and have a good catch-up. And then I baked because we had a hot date at Chook's house for afternoon tea. High tea with the gang and there was much drinking of tea and scoffing of scones and clotted cream and lolling about on sofas, admiring Katie and Mike's lycra-clad bodies, yet loathing them for having spent their Sunday doing something as ludicrous as cycling.

The worst thing about London is the ludicrously early time that the tube closes. Of my five weekends here, I've spent four of them crashing at other people's houses because the price of a cab home would buy you a nice house in New Zealand.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Speechless

An unfortunate combination of the flu and a weekend of very little sleep and far too much socialising and, therefore, talking, has left me with no voice. At first I merely sounded as though I’d taken up smoking 50 a day. But by Monday there was nothing left. Tuesday wasn’t any better. Just as well I’m the new kid in town at work and don’t have to talk to anyone much. Have become quite proficient at sending emails instead of poking my head over the top of the cubicle-thingy and asking someone a question.

However, today I’m back to smoking 20 cigarettes by lunchtime, if my voice is anything to go by, so I’m clearly on the mend.

But the very good news of the day is that I have a bank account. I marched into the bank, with my lack of voice, and whispered loudly that I wanted, nay, demanded a bank account and here were my many bits of paper to prove that I really do exist. It was close, though. Some thoughtful tapping of the pen against their heads as they pondered if my NZ bank statement was eligible as ‘proof’ if there wasn’t a postcode on it. HA! As backup, I’d also brought along my contract. This changed everything.
Them: ‘Oh, you’re a professional. Here, have a credit card, too.’
Me: ‘I’m a what? Oooh, a credit card … what’s the limit on that shiny piece of plastic?’
It’s hard to concentrate when visions of shopping malls dance enthusiastically through my head making ta-ra-ra-boom-te-day noises, with drums and cymbals crashing as confetti falls from the sky.

I am, at this point, rather enamoured of the idea of credit card debt in two countries.

Last week saw the return of Ruthie and Mrs Spencer so we, plus Mike and Skye and Anna trotted off to The Sound of Music, the musical. It was fabulous and only mildly camp. This did mean that at times we were all giggling. The three little girls in front of us would turn around and look disapprovingly at us whenever this occurred. It transpired that they were chums with one of the small children who was singing and looking cutsey on stage. I tried to make friends with them by offering them chocolate. It seems they’d been paying attention to the ‘don’t take candy from strangers’ lesson because they just looked at me suspiciously. Admittedly, by this stage I probably had quite a few ice cream and chocolate stains on me, such is my gusto for sugar, so I probably looked dodgy. I discovered later one of the pitfalls of eating chocolate ice cream in the dark – stains all over my jersey which no one was kind enough to point out.

I have been accused of having an imaginary boyfriend. This is, in all fairness, from a friend of a friend who, in the past month, has heard me mention this ‘boyfriend’ but has yet to see any evidence of him, and I don’t help matters by admitting that I’m not too sure exactly when he’ll be turning up. I have ‘sad, almost 30-year-old delusional woman’ written all over me.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Near fatal errors

Apparently if you are in an illegal bar at 2am on a Sunday morning in London you must not ask the Italian-looking older man what it is that he does for a living. He looked at me as though I was mad. It wasn't my fault. He started the conversation and I was merely being polite.

'So, what do you do?' (I don't actually want to know but I'm being well mannered)
'My mother is Italian.'
'That's nice, but what do you do?'
'A bit of this, a bit of that ...' He looks at me strangely and then says in a quiet voice:
'You should never ask a man whose mother is Italian what it is that he does for a living.'
'I was just making conversation.' Cue muttering from me about how some people are so touchy.

Aside from upsetting people in bars, I've managed to get myself employed. Company I interned for in Auckland a while back suggested I email a client of theirs who just happened to have three resignations the week I contacted them. Marvellous. One interview and one job. I still don't have a bank account or tax number but I won't let that stand in the way of me trotting off to work each day. I'm not entirely sure exactly what my role is, but neither is my boss. They've decided to squish production and editorial together so it'll be a mish-mash. So far I've done very little but as I seem to be coming down with the flu, I think I'll just sit in my chair and look miserable. I've also managed to be late both days and spill yoghurt all over myself. Think I am making a great impression.

Am still staying with Katie. She's just started making her Christmas cake. So far she's decided entirely on her own that she ought to double the amount of brandy that the recipe asked for. I merely nodded my head.

We caught up with Justin and met some utter wankers (lawyers) that were all part of some semi-antipodean monthly pub get-together. Justin had warned us that there would be people indulging in wank-talk and gave us permission to be as rude as we liked. He also spent quite some time encouraging Katie to go about the room, taking ties off those men who were foolish enough to still be wearing them at 9pm. Katie was not keen.
I met my first stuffed shirt. So disappointing that he was a Kiwi who had somehow become more English than the English. Had annoyingly faux tousled hair that he'd obviously spent quite a lot of time and gel on getting to perfection. We had the following conversation:

'Hello, I'm Richard.'
'Hi, I'm Penelope.'
'Please, call me Richie.'
'Then please call me Pen.'
Pause.
Me: 'So, how do you know Justin?'
'Do you know ...' (rabbits off some names and I look blank) 'I don't think you know anyone that I know.' (Distaste is reflected in his voice as he realises just how far down the social scale I must be).
I go for all out Kiwi: 'Nah, not unless they went to Massey, eh.'

He turned to the very good-looking woman next him and pointedly ignored me. I thought evil thoughts about men who own more hair products than I do and took unclassy big gulps of wine in order to wash away the poor taste of the conversation.

In other news, have suffered a spot from pedestrian rage. Far too many people here. And was stuck on a bus today for an annoying amount of time with no idea of where I was.

Oh, I'm sick. Poor little 5-foot 10 pen pen. I want my mummy to make me hot lemon and honey drinks. And, AND, I'm spotty and I have bad hair. I was struck by these ailments the moment I arrived in London. Stupid old London with its huge array of shoe shops.

But, am in England now, so, mustn't grumble.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Good vs. Evil

It's the eternal fight. Good and evil. Repeated battles over the centuries, eternalised in books, poetry and film. Apparently good always wins. I certainly hope so, as in this year of 2007 we once more witness good gird up its loins, preparing to war and (hopefully) win against evil. Good, here being represented by me, Penelope, and the face of evil cavorting here as my jeans.

I think Katie might be an agent of the devil. She's made another batch of extremely delicious truffles that call to me, even when they're in the fridge.

Aside from working my way through all the different flavours of chocolate at the supermarket, I have been doing stuff. Am not sure what, exactly, but it seems to be extremely time consuming. And exhausting. Honestly, unemployment can really take it out of a girl.

Spoke to minor on the weekend. Got slightly homesick.

And went to Caro and Dom's Bonfire Night. Great fun. Everyone loves a sparkler. Also caught up with Dan Scott and his lady chum who kindly allowed me to sleep on their sofa, after escorting me to a comedy night. Surprise star of the evening was not a comedian, but came rather from the audience and was a drunk, middle-aged woman called Teresa who was determined to get her money's worth by heckling the performers, often making no sense whatsoever. I have no doubt that she felt just as proud of her performance the morning after as she obviously did that night.