Sorry about this but

Feck. Long time, no bloggetty blog. Will definitely get round to it soon. Like in about a week when I get back from doing stuff that is more fun than typing.

Homeward bound

I have some goodbye drinks with the Wellington/Melbourne crowd, which was triple radness to the extreme and I realised that I've failed miserably to see some people more than twice in the past year. Stupid old London. Mike dubbed me home from the station on his bike, which was worryingly fun, and we ate fried chicken and watched telly and chortled loudly at midnight, much to Skye's rage (she was trying to sleep). And then I had another round with the Christchurch bunch, sensibly, I thought, an afternooon affair so I'd have time to get home and pack for France. I did get home and pack for France but I was mildly pissed at the time. Good times. Red wine teeth not so hot. Sigh, is so hard being so popular and having to drink so much with so many who adore me.

So Dan and I, like, totally did Toulouse. Failed to eat my own body weight in cheese but probably got reasonably close in drinking my body weight in whisky. The weather was not clement and I'm not a good tourist so there was much sitting inside and watching True Blood, in which little Anna Paquin grows the fuck up and gets to have sex with vampires - a dream come true, no doubt.

Dan and I did manage to leave James' house to get to Carcassonne, a walled fortressy type arrangement, where I saw one of the better torture museums - educational and hilarious. Any century that produces an instrument to torture bad musicians is okay by me (of course, any century that produces nasty instruments to torture women who have sex with the devil is not, so that kind of ruined it all).

We ate some stuff that was yum. Ate more stuff that was yum. Drank semi-dubious red wine with gusto. Met all manner of nationalities, but oddly, very few actual French. All in all, had a thumbs-up time and was completely exhausted from all the telly watching when we got back.

Cue my final night in England. For which Skye'n'Mike'n'I invited Kruse and Bibby (so the old flat was together once more) for a Stratford stylez event of Chinese and zombie porn. It was magnificent. Bibby provided the projector (really, the only reason we invited him) and we ordered far, far too many dumplings, which we still managed to eat most of. Skye'n'Mike thoughtfully made me a t-shirt so I'd remember the good times - it's got a photo of our Chinese takeaway shop on the front. Skye wouldn't let me open the door to the takeaway man in it in case he got offended. And then, with the heating pumped up, it was too hot and they all took off their jumpers to reveal that they, too, had the same t-shirt! Hilarious! Oh, how I shall miss them all. Mike promptly got dumpling sauce on his.

So, a late night and then much pottering around the next day demanding Kruse make my laptop taller than God and twice as pretty and then he manfully carried my pack to the station and plonked me on the tube and I burst into tears because I am good at this, and then I staggered on my way to Heathrow. And then 26 hours and one mildly irked man next to me later (had to keep climbing over him in the plane to get to the toilet) I was home. Twenty-three degrees and I haven't worn socks since. My plan to get off the plane and spend the afternoon napping was dashed by Brandon deciding that there was no time like the present to re-blonde me and I spent the afternoon sitting in his salon catching up on the gossip and complaining about all the couples.

Made some cookies, hung with Ruthie, saw all the lads, and now I'm in welly, crashing at H's. Jess'n'me watched some Real Hot Bitches do their thing last night and now I have to start purchasing some day-glo lycra so we can join in the new year. Probably drank too much bourbon last night as well, but at 6.30am, I'm feeling pretty good. Right. Who wants to give me a job? And some new jeans? I darned mine, but I didn't do so well because the next time I put them on and bent over, well, there was more air on my nether regions than I prefer.

You really can't beat Wellington on a good day.

Almost away laughing

Day three of unemployment. It's starting to take its toll. I am bored. I also have far too much to do and I am ignoring it in favour of watching stuff. I started packing and I have nice pile of shoes in my 'probably shouldn't take home but am all in favour of doing so' pile.

Since it's been a couple of weeks since I last attempted to update my reading audience of six, here is a brief description of my life in November:

Roast with Kruse, Gen and Justin where we get to the bottom of Gen's fisting abilities. Oh the hilarity where words have several meanings.
Em turns 31. Drinks. Get harrassed by locals on the way home from said 31st. Yes, my legs are indeed a stairway to heaven.
Conrad gets a girlfriend! Conrad is smug. Resolve to deflate Conrad.
Quiet drinks with Dan and Nic turn into five bottles. Label for one says it is soft and approachable. Do not feel this way the next day. Must not do again on a school night.
My leaving work drinks, which I didn't want to organise so I gatecrash Mike's, from Sales and Marketing, instead. This goes very well and I end up having conversation with a young whipper snapper, who cannot hold his booze so well, about the supportiveness of different men's underpants. Am told by several workmates they regret not getting to know me better now that they know I am the sort of woman who drinks too much tequila occasionally and gets mistaken for a heroin addict.
The election turns me to the bloody marys (red and green) but to no avail. Instead am cheered by Kruse, Caro, Katie, Gen and Dom and roast lunch and rugby. And then we girly up for a cocktail party at the Skanky Palace (aka Chook and Laura's house). Stop off for a quick pint at Kruse's local. Locals are confused by Kruse's red suit and his bevy of beauties. Gen dances with local eldery crack dealer. She looks stunning (in my dress that we have had to wrap around her about seven times she is that much smaller than me, damn her), the crack dealer less so.
Finally get to the party and fail to recognise Simon, who has had his hair done by Laura and now resembles a member of some Emo band. We talk, we gossip, tell lies and make beer blue. Then Gen and I run away so we can make the last tube - we both have busy Sundays planned. Nerds.
I work on a Sunday.
Last day at work - 50 workmates surround my desk, apparently because I am so popular but we all know they are really just there for the cake. I get nice presents and feel sad so eat more cake than should. Then work till 8 and have satisfaction of finally being the last person to leave the office.
Day one of unemployment - wake up at 6am. Emails from workmate who took over my books start at 8.30am. He will never be as good as me. Spend day in pjs watching Anne of Green Gables and swooning over Gilbert.
Drinks with Em, Conrad and Dan so can say goodbye. Nathan turns up - it's been eight years and he seems to have gained a wife and almost a child. I have not. Conrad still smug about girlfriend.
Day two of unemployment. Em and I go to the British Museum and nerd it up. See favourite vase with Achilles and Penthesileia. We spend 90 minutes admiring stuff and then two hours drinking tea and eating cake gossiping. Much like being back in the university halls.
Day three - am absolutely determined to get up and post some stuff home. Right after trawling in the internet in seach of nothing in particular.

France on Monday. Will attempt to eat own body weight in cheese.

Sometimes these things just happen

Caught up in the excitement of a Saturday night at home, Skye, Mike and I get far too excited about watching Annie Hall and decide that what we really want to do is pretend to be chickens.

In other news, my German workmate offered to marry me so I could stay, which was very kind, if not terribly sincere. His reasoning was that as his country has bombed the bollocks out of Britain and he's allowed to be here, it seems very unfair that I, loyal subject of Liz, should be forced to leave. He is a nice man and together we have completely destroyed an author, which has given us no end of delight - I like to think that he will always remember me as the editor who had the guts to purposely forget a foreword, thus bringing a teetering author to the brink of insanity, which led to nasty letters allowing us to break a contract. Unfortunately, I shall remember it as my biggest boo boo to date. But with such a satisfactory outcome.

With only three weeks of work left it is with a great deal of delight that I have started agreeing to some outlandish requests from commissioning editors and authors, safe in the knowledge that I will not have to see them through to fruition. But I shall miss the gang - we've become so close the last few months as we've given each other the flu, in a continuing vicious cycle where one of us gets better only to catch it again from someone in design a month or so later. We compare symptoms with gusto, warning the American that his turn is next. He laughs in the manner of someone who does not yet believe. His time will come.

Socially, there have been drinks, some cocktails, some thefting of condiments that I had nothing to do with, unless you count the fact that the getaway vehicle used to transport the goods was my handbag, some watching of reality tv, which has just led me to hate everyone on the telly, and quite a lot of eating stuff. It's autumn: time to eat and get the all-important layer of plumpness needed to protect one from the chill of London. Which I shall then magically shed when I get home. I just need to lay a trap for the pixies in the backyard so as to get my hands on some fairy dust, which, when applied correctly, works in a similar manner to a gym workout. But way faster. Like overnight. I know it's true, I read it in Cosmo.

Baking Day: Resurrection

In which Dan and I decide to bring back Baking Day. But we had to have it on a Saturday because we no longer seem to have spare time on weekdays, what with our jobs, hectic social lives, etc. It was decided that Baking Day UK-Stylez probably demanded pie. So pie we did. Good pie. Marvellous pie. Mostly made by Dan. Alex and I watched him and admitted that neither of us had ever seen anyone peel celery before. I made apple pie - it was not as good as Dan's chicken pie but I think I kind of buggered up the pastry owing to Alex plying me with wine. Disappointing lack of people wanting to participate in Baking Day - I suspect they're still terrified that purple death trifle will somehow make a comeback. This is foolish as one cannot find purple death here.

Working backwards over the past few weeks for a moment - I was abandoned by the other ginger twin and am still sulking. And then I ate some Peruvian with Kruse which was great fun especially once I worked out that I sort of understood the waitress. Sort of. And then Roger turned 30 so there were drinks. And then I did some work and then another weekend came about and Amanda was down for the evening so we sampled some wine at a pub and I watched an old man try and chat her up, which was hugely entertaining for me. And then we crashed at her brother's house. He is a chef and, much to my disappointment, had an empty fridge because he eats takeaways mostly. And then I had to wake up a little hungover and work out how to get to Toast NZ where I was meeting Kruse and Caro'n'Dom. This was difficult, made worse by my inability to think but I was only half an hour late and as a reward I got to have steak and cheese pie and L&P and it was delicious. As was the NZ wine and beer that I also partook of. Disappointment of the day was Supergroove - awful accoustics meant we couldn't hear feck all.
I cannot recall if I did anything on the Sunday. I probably cleaned the bathroom and did a white wash.

All of that brings us up to Baking Day, and then roast lunch at Kruse's with Chook and then drinks at the local and then rolling home and being dreadfully tired at work on Monday.

Yesterday I tried to purchase some sensible work-type shoes that are waterproof as it transpires that all my other shoes are not waterproof and this is irksome. But, you know how it is when you actually need something and have the cash - couldn't find shoes that fitted EXCEPT gold sparkly dancing heels which I thought 'Fuck it, I want those' and they were on sale so it makes it okay, but the shop had bloody lost the left shoe of the pair. Oh the cruelty of this situation. So I bought a jacket instead. I sort of needed that as well.

And then I bought a flight home so will be getting to NZ on 25 November.

The new American workmate is settling in well. We have adjusted mostly to the fact that he is a little bit louder than we are used to, and so fucking happy all of the time, which we are still coming to terms with. Clare in design was so suspicious when he asked how she was early one morning, that she turned to him and demanded to know what he wanted. Learning curves for all. His teeth are not nearly white and straight enough though, which leads me to believe that perhaps he spent his teenage years outside of the States as I thought it was mandatory for all Americans to get their teeth done at this stage in their lives. When he leaves the office he says goodbye to all of us by name. And just that little bit louder than what the English deem necessary. I helped him make his first cup of tea - he looked flummoxed at the potential addition of milk. And he told us that he proposed to his wife after watching the Matrix. The poor thing is about to inherit some of my nastiest books, which I was going to try and get as nice as possible before I left but the imp inside says it'll be a good learning curve for him if I don't.

This weekend - it's looking all nice and empty. Which means I can spend that time waiting for Ben to update his blog instead of complaining that I don't update this one nearly enough.

How sick is sick enough?

I managed two hours at work this morning, most of which was spent under either my desk, or my workmate's, or the spare desk that will be filled on Tuesday, not giving out random sexual favours as would no doubt be the case if this blog was an episode of Green Wing, but trying to make the telephone go for the new guy. I think under our desks in my corner is where all the telephones in the building are hooked up. But we managed to only crash one computer in the process - and hey presto, new guy has a phone so he too can be harassed by freelancers needing work and angry authors who have just found an error that needs to be corrected except their book is currently printing.

I have the flu. But I woke up at some ridiculous hour as Skye seemed to be making a great deal of noise, and decided, what the hell, let's go infect some people with my nastiness. Skye, it transpires, was up most of the night vomitting. As I didn't cook last night, this is not my fault. Anyway, after two hours at work, I think all my workmates wanted me to leave, such was the blowing of nose and sounding not so hot. Problem is, I don't really feel sick enough to be at home - however, judging by yesterday's performance at work, where it took me ages to write an email because it felt like I'd been at the cooking sherry all morning, I should not be trying to communicate with suppliers right now. So home, pondering what to read, should I start my proofreading, and just how many litres of orange juice can I possible have? And trying to avoid Skye in case we cross contaminate each other.

There is chocolate and I don't want it. This must be serious.

Pillow fight, pillow fight

For each book I produce I have notes, which I sensibly use to remind myself about aspects of said book. TodayI went to check something as was about to email the author and came across this: 'Author is insane'. Useful.

Last weekend was slightly more energetic/booze-filled/tiring than I had anticipated. The perils of last minute drinks on Friday with Dan, Alex and Nic - this swiftly turned into a Tequila Hunt. For the record, it is hard to find the good tequila on the Strand.
Not enough sleep and then time for luncheon on Saturday at chez Kruse. Only we had to drag Mike away from the telly, which had the Tri Nations on - he is a firm believer that if you yell at the telly, things will get better onscreen.
Kruse lives at Oval - when we left Stratford it was a murkyish day - 30 minutes later when we climbed out of the tube station, Oval was sunny. There was a farmer's market - with cheese, truffles, etc., and we indulged. Got into an accidental conversation about how downloaders are responsible for EFTPOS machines taking so long at the booze shop. To be fair, it wasn't really a conversation, it was a man ranting. The owner, who still had my card, so I had to listen.
And then an afternoon of drinking Lindauer, which Kruse had found somewhere, eating roast lamb and generally talking quite a lot of nonsense - before we toddled to the pub for one last drink because Skye insisted. I was already late for my next appointment, but she's quite convincing when she wants to be. So jagermeister all round. And then again. And then I made a break for it, sensing that if I didn't, I'd never leave. So only made it to Lauren's place two hours late. Just in time for a sleepover. Only, as we were both extremely tired, we managed two drinks, excellent soup, 15 minutes of Labyrinth (David Bowie in tight pants - who wants to miss that?) before we both fell asleep at midnight. There were no pillow fights in beribboned, lacy negligees and definitely no sniffing of each other's hair - as was suggested might happen.

Sunday - I cleaned the bathroom. Lolled some.

And today I handed in my resignation. Eight more weeks and then unemployment looms. But so does New Zealand. And my workmates are envious that going to New Zealand for four months is even an option.

So home in ten weeks - just in time for summer. And a hair cut. Which is the real reason I am coming home. There's no stylist like Bran.

What does worry me is how much it's going to cost to post my shoes home.

Mental note to self

I embarrassed myself quite thoroughly yesterday by not plugging my headphones in properly to the little mp3 gadgety thingy, and consequently most of my tube got to enjoy the Beegees along with me. Until, after about 20 minutes, someone tapped my shoulder and mentioned it. Obviously not a fan of Islands in the Stream.

I also discovered that if, at 3am, you get up to use the bathroom and then remember there is Whittaker's Dark Caramel and you are peckish and you eat some but leave the rest on your dresser then caramel will be everywhere in the morning.

Eternally flaming for you

Another childhood ambition realised: I saw the Bangles live. Am still swooning. Sadly, I also got to watch Peter Andre live. Am not swooning over that at all, but apparently he's still got a scarily large fanbase. And he had three number one hits? I can only recall one, but he kept telling us these other two songs were also number one - although he carefully failed to tell us in what country this occurred in.

Last week I launched an expedition to Edinburgh, safari suited and pith helmeted to the max, to find an Amanda and to see if I could drink more tea than ever before. Successful on all counts. And I also got to attend Retrofest, dressed in a hot pink ra-ra skirt, with matching leather belt and lipstick and a variety of other attractive 80s paraphernalia. I was so hot. As were the many, many people who were wearing 'Frankie says Relax' or 'Save Ferris' t-shirts. Full points to the woman in her late forties who was wearing a black ra-ra skirt that barely covered her bottom, fishnet tights and a white g-string. We saw it all. I watched bits of The Breakfast Club, Top Gun (why do people find Tom Cruise attractive?) and the last hour of Ghost. And stood in mud for several hours watching the likes of Nik Kershaw and Bjorn Again, the Abba tribute band that got the most cheers and dancing drunkards on the day. I queued for toilets, which was not fun. Drank very sweet cider and sat in a sandpit. A mildly intoxicated man dressed in a pink tutu told me my hair (imagine a palm tree sprouting from my head) was the most authentic 80s hair he'd ever seen. Got home at 1.30am completely sober and very tired but pleased to find that my boots were mud-proof. Sadly, the next day I discovered that they are not waterproof. I cannot work out how this can be.

Caught up with Hannah, of working in China at the same school as me fame. We had two hours of snorting with laughter at the bizarre lifestyle we lived there, whilst enduring the worst customer service ever, sadly commited by a New Zealander, eating an absolutely pathetic attempt at pancakes with fruit compote and three sauces. When translated this meant three pikelets, one strawberry and five blackcurrants and, when requested, manky maple syrup. We did not tip.

Last week saw the passing through of many people, en route to a wedding, so there was much catching up and kissing on the cheeks and squealing for joy, and pie and pints. I miss people.

Skye turned 32, so she, Mike and I got gussied up and then ordered in Chinese takeaways and watched the documentary Designer Vaginas. Fascinating topic ruined by the worst presenter ever. And if, at the age of ten, someone had told me that in twenty years, I and Mike, son of my Sunday School teacher, would be watching a programme about ladies' bits, I'd have ... well, probably not done much at all, really, but I might have been suprised.

Out of the mouths of babes

'Shoes are precious, aren't they?'

Overheard being uttered by a small child whilst I was out destroying my credit limit on Saturday. It made me feel all warm inside.

njordskjy

The joys of checking proofs where almost everyone has a Scandavian name and the author has made his revisions in a hurry so I have to translate his handwriting and there are difficult letters such as j next to letters I'm not used to, like, say, d. I cannot guarantee this book will be error-free. In fact, it won't be. But I won't be able to see them because they're in a different language. Won't be as bad as the cover we had to redo (not my error, so hilarious, really) that had Terroism written on it.

But my cold has mostly gone - leaving me with a dodgy nose that generously keeps producing nasal waste at a decent pace and a semi-phlegmy-ish voice if I don't talk for ages, which often means that I answer my work phone with a splutter. It's not husky good - it's husky bad.

Whine of the day. Adult acne. Not fair. When will it go away? Ranty rant rant. Might be time to kick up a fuss and have a tantrum, complete with arms a'flailing and legs a'kicking.

Heavy breathing

As punishment for being so beautiful when everyone else is only average, and also possibly because I gave scathing and disgusted glares to the man sitting next to me on the Tube who kept sniffing in a revolting and vomit-inducing way, I have a cold. In an effort to stop it in its nasty phlegmy tracks I drank a great deal of 1 million per cent vitamin C-ridden juice whilst at work yesterday, but to no avail. I could tell things were not progressing well when I didn't want chocolate at lunch. So at 6pm, after destroying some trees with the help of the printer, I sailed off for home, determined to eat at least ten lemons. Unlike icky Tube man, I had a tissue so I did not upset the delicate sensibilities of my travelling companions. However, I think I may have started singing along to the ipod, and not everyone appreciates my voice, so perhaps I did irk a few people. But who doesn't like Bananarama?

I did indeed ingest some lemons, as well as some red wine, and then a lemon, ginger, honey and vodka drink, which I figured would make me sleep, at the very least. I have fond memories of my dad giving me something similar as a child - probably to stop me whining that I couldn't sleep because I felt ill - 'This'll sort you out, small child'. And I always did fall asleep - probably because I was drunk. He's a good man.

So today, instead of being at work, I have spent the day in bed, wishing we had a telly so I could watch utter nonsense - although, given that we have the internet, I've managed to fit quite a lot of bollocks-watching in. I have also done heaps of work, as in nerd-like fashion, I brought work home with me. It has to be done and it is so horrible that I've been putting it off for ages, despite the fact that I am way behind schedule on it. I have been blaming the author instead. But, I can see the end! Only 100 heavily marked-up pages about the Ottoman Empire to go.

The best part about today was brushing my teeth this morning. Nothing feels/tastes better after a night of heavy breathing when one's nose is blocked and one's throat is being troublesome. Well, lemonade would have been good, but we didn't have any and I'm too poorly to leave the house.

Dark Ghana Chocolate Saturday vs my Jeans.

Forgot to mention that Prague does a great line in public loos. Not quite as good as La Paz, but quite a bit cleaner.

The weekend has been the kind that involves wearing no bra, only pyjamas, and eating leftovers, watching extremely bad vampire films and being a bit of a nerd doing proofreading that I have hired myself to do at work. Freelancing for the company is all good, even if we don't pay that well.

Drank too much on Thursday night with James, Dan and so on, and decided when I got to work on Friday morning that, actually, I'd be better off at home so I grabbed a pile of proofs that I'd been avoiding because they were difficult and had a day on the couch in my PJs, getting a remarkable amount done, despite the hangover, probably because I didn't have commissioning editors wandering past asking ridiculous questions about their books. Got the horrible proofs out of the way, which means I can now spend this week concentrating on the other pile of awful proofs that make me want to cry they are so complicated and covered in red pen. Woe is Pen.

One of the extremely young commissioning editors, who stopped asking me if I wanted to get a pint once he discovered that I was, gasp, 30, sent me the spiel he wrote for some educational thingy, on how to become an editor. It has spelling mistakes in it. I am waiting for the opportune moment to point this out.

Friday night was James L's leaving and as my hangover had cleared up I trotted off to quaff shandies with quite a large group of people, loitering in a little cobblestone street, letting Mike and Kruse tell Katie she likes perverts, discussing youporn and the remarkable things you can do with a vibrator and a go cart if you only have the gumption to try. And then it was 8.30pm, which was declared the leaving hour for those I live with and, after a round of shots to farewell James, who had already left (Mike's spectacularly bad timing), we started off for the tube, Kruse taking a champagne bucket, glass and bottle, which is probably stealing, although he had paid for the bottle, so ... We got as far as around the corner before Skye and my bladders had a chorus of 'Full, full', so we ducked into another pub and Skye insisted that we have another round of shots because we used the toilets. Made it to Stratford, having watched Kruse commit a crime by drinking on the tube, and decided it was dumplings for all. Skye and I sort of lost Kruse and Mike at this point - they claim they were being hassled by youths wanting Mike's tie, but, like, whatever. I ordered the Chinese (basically a million dumplings) and then she and I decided we may as well have a pint in the mean time at the pub where we got chatted up this one time and possibly we were hoping the same would happen again. No such luck. We failed to do very well at drinking the pints, as we were too busy talking, so by the time 15 minutes dumpling cooking time had passed we decided to do a Kruse and just walk out with our drinks. Our stolen pint/wine glass collection is coming along nicely. Sadly, having just implied that this is what Kruse does all the time, most of them were taken by me.

And then we went home and ate so many dumplings and then I had to lie on the floor and just loll for a bit, listening to the sweet sound of James Woods and the fat Baldwin kill some vampires.

Saturday involved some Bloody Mary drinking for breakfast and then some nerding out by me and some making of garlic soup and roast lamb and then some eating far too much and wondering why my jeans don't fit so well sometimes as I made chocolate sauce for dessert.

This week's points of doom go out to Angela for sending Kruse a tuckbox from home, which I have eaten a great deal of (caring is sharing), and Ruthie, who sent quite a lot of the same to Skye, Mike and I. Even if she didn't sent Dark Caramel, like I requested, but Dark Ghana instead. And accompanied the stash with a note that reads: 'Share them out in whatever way you think is fair, or share them out in a completely unfair way and then harbour secret grudges against each other - whatever works'.

Prague: Czech it out

For reasons I can no longer remember, I decided not to buy the t-shirt with the above slogan on the weekend. I now regret this a great deal - how better could I let people know that I have been to Prague?

So, yeah, Prague. Stag party central. Oddly, not the reason I was there. But I did wind up in a photo with a groom-to-be who was wearing only a Borat-style mankini. Will no doubt be plastered all over Facebook any day now.

Why was I there? My love of cheese, beer and pork-related products? My fluent Czech needing a workout?

Caro got older and six of us went to Prague to mourn the loss of her twenties. We went clubbing - haven't been clubbing in ages. I know now which city in Europe buys the most wonderbras. And has the most metrosexual bunch of men I've ever seen. We lasted at the club for at least 90 minutes. And then we'd had enough. Because we are old and we were tired.

We did touristy things like go see stuff. Like a castle. A church where they've had to dig up several thousand graves and so they've made the bones into decorations and a bit of a money-spinner. We drank beer. Ate a lot of sausage and cheese. Slept some. Went to Tesco to see if it was any different from the English Tesco. Caro got some great knickers. Got not enough sleep and caught an early flight back to London so I could go to work like a nerd.

Actually, getting to work at 10.30am and having to go to a meeting at 11am, which took place in a cafe on Southbank, where we did little work and much chatting, followed by lunch with Kruse, meant that I didn't have to do much in the way of thinking or working, which was probably for the best, really.

Tried to play boozy Twister with Dan and a visiting James T last week. Not the best game I've ever played. And Dan made me run for the tube, shouting Marine insults at me the whole way.

Work is frantic again, there is paper all over my desk and we're out of chocolates. It's time for some sort of mission.

Side note: the best way to make a two-hour plane trip more interesting is to sit next to Katie. We talked non-stop and worked out how to save our souls/planet/sanity in only two hours. I thoroughly recommend her.

Erring like a human

In which Penelope makes a boo boo at the office. Quite a good one, actually. Best worst mistake ever. Cross author. Manager who is unconcerned - and I am not in any trouble at all - but am now extremely paranoid about contents pages. Just as well we're trying to get rid of said author - it seems that my boo boo may have helped us to do this.

Aside from that, work goes well. There has been a great deal of cake in the office and I embraced it with gusto. Made a bit of a mess, but anyway ... Most interesting thing to come up lately has been whether or not to try and stay once my ability to work runs out in November. This does not mean my limbs fall off, making it difficult for me to run rampant with my red pen, but rather that the one year working part of my visa runs out - should I try and see how long I can work before I am deported? Or ask work to sponsor me. Which they might. However, itchy feet suggest not athlete's foot but urge to go walkabout.

Have gone to a music festival, which seems to be the thing to do in England in summer. Given that I don't really like large groups of drunk people and mud combined, I had a spiffy time. Probably helped that it was a small festival at Dom's parents' place in Yorkshire, wasn't too wet and I got to spend most of Saturday making my favourite breakfast, Bloody Marys, at the bar. They sold well. Kruse and I drove up, forgetting the tent but remembering chocolate and beer. We called ahead and by the time we got there, Caro and Mel had found us a tent and put it up. When we took it down on the Sunday we discovered an extremely large carving knife underneath it. Odd.

I also had a Bounty icecream bar. Do we have these at home? It was rather good.

Em got engaged a few months back and so I met up with her, Dan and Conrad on Sunday for a few drinks and a trip down a slightly foggy memory lane as we dredged up our time at Canterbury over a few bottles. Once again we all learned the hard way that you should never have more bottles of wine than people present. Although, I actually felt pretty chipper yesterday - but found doing maths particularly difficult.

I feel obliged to share with everyone the title of one of our books: Meaningful Funerals. Just in case you were thinking of having one that was thoughtless.

Dear God, what is that thing?

I seem to have the pox. Again.

And, hard to believe, but true, it's even more unattractive than usual. I look like I have been punched in the eye, with little blisters to top it off.

Apparently registering with the doctor who is right around the corner can only be done on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays between 11.30-12.30. No appointments can be made until you register. Of course not. So I went to a walk-in clinic and was soundly told off by a nurse for not having a stash of the prescription only drugs that I need so I could have already started taking them . . . was a rather bizarre conversation where she just got angrier and angrier and I became more and more confused - I have obviously been molly-coddled by the New Zealand medical people for far too long. Debated in my head about asking her if she was having a bad day and if so could she not take it out on pox-ridden Penelope but decided that it might not help matters.

Only good thing to come out of the encounter was a prescription and being weighed and not being horrified by the result. So I had some chocolate to celebrate.

It's such a pity that no one ever prescribes me an eye patch.

Hello darkness my old friend

My weekend
By Lady P

On my weekend I didn't get much sleep and that trend continued right up until this morning so now I am a mess.
On Friday I went to Kruse's work drinks and drank pints like the English. None of this fancy pantsy wine business that we had at the work lunch earlier that day. I also demonstrated how a Kiwi woman has no fear of words that can leave an English chap shaking in fear. Might not have made any friends there.
And then we went home and got Chinese takeaways because we needed them. And then I fell asleep during the DVD. And then Skye and Mike woke me up at 5.30am because they didn't come into the house quietly enough after their night of messiness elsewhere.
Saturday - no one feels so shiny. Skye mentions the well-known restorative powers of tomato juice and vodka/lemonade and beer and we spend the day testing them. Kruse made soup. We ate soup. The sun went away so Mike and Kruse made a fort in the living room out of the sofa, chairs, sheets, a pole, some books and fairy lights and then we spent the afternoon/evening in the fort watching DVDs and waiting for the Chinese takeaway shop to open again at 4pm.
Sunday. Mel and John's flatwarming. Starts at 3pm, I make it by 4.30 after luring Skye into the fort with shandies, Chinese takeaways and Damien Rice for a few hours of lolling. We are good at lolling. The flatwarming is hours of entertainment and then not enough sleep on the foldout sofa, me once again squished between Chook and Kruse. Go home smelling like beer. Get straight into pyjamas and spend all day drinking carbonated stuff and eating cheese. Just as well it's a public holiday else I'd be at work right now.
Do not sleep well so Tuesday at work I put all the things that require intelligence into a pile for Wednesday and fantasize about my bed. However, at 5pm Dan tells me that Nic is in town for one night only and there is dinner in Clapham. I do the math and figure I can be home by 10.30 which gives me enough time to start catching up on sleep. I am not that good at math.
We see Nic and lots of other people and drink cocktails, which make me feel so much better. And we have dinner. And we leave before 10pm, so it looks like I might be home by 11. Until my train stops moving. It started again, but didn't like it so stopped again.
I get home by midnight, open the door quietly, only to discover that someone has piled all the recycling bottles by the door and I am obliged to walk into them. Clamber into bed and discover that sleep has already visited my house and forgot to leave any behind for me. Cocktails and curry in my stomach decide they are not chums. Not a good night. Wake up a sweaty mess and decided that have tossed and turned so much in the night that I don't need to go the gym and will instead lie in bed and have strange dream about Mrs Spencer and tissues and my dad's missing library book until 8am.
Get to work - pile of manuscripts from yesterday gives me the evil eye. Realise I forgot to raid chocolate cupboard at home and now have only boring old fruit to eat. Day is going downhill quickly. Gets worse when typesetter in India does not believe me when I say that Chapter 9 is in a completely different font and I need that book to go to the printer now. Have to leave office to go to shop to buy several different blocks of chocolate to make the day better. Am tempted to make fort in office in which to hide from world. I think I could sit under my desk and use my coat as a curtain for this purpose.

Trophy Wives Anon

New potatoes and hummus. Now I smell a bit garlicky but it was worth it. Not sure my workmates appreciate it, but I don't really care.

So, being the very popular person that I am, last weekend I had two parties and a barbecue to attend. Sadly, this being London, I failed to make it to one of the parties because it was ages away and straightening my hair took somewhat longer than I had anticipated. I had to straighten my hair because we were going to a stereotypes party and trophy wives wouldn't dream of having a haystack on their head like I do most days. I was rather pleased with my outfit. Never before have I had an excuse to wear white denim stretch capris. And a gold bejewelled Grecian tunic. The pink heels are an everyday wardrobe staple, however. I was also accompanied by the ultimate accessory - an ex-husband, resplendent in his tuxedo with lipstick marks on his shirt from other women. I don't think I saw Kruse without a bottle of champagne in his hand all night. Or the next day, as having woken up in our clothes in Chook's bed (me squished in the middle), we carried on carousing to Caro's 30th barbecue. Not enough sleep, more than a little too much booze and we were a trifle tired by 10pm on Sunday night when we finally got home. Work on Monday was downright hard. Probably worse for Kruse because it was his first day.

Yes, that's right, Kruse got a job. And has discovered the joys of the morning rush-hour tube. He is now determined to move somewhere closer so he can walk to work.

Best conversation had all weekend - what does milkshake, as in the milkshake song, mean to you? Great ice-breaker. Some very odd definitions from people, all of whom thought they were right. Best one came from Ebony who apparently once used it in a conversation as a pick-up line. I'm not too sure how you'd manage to make her suggestion look sexy, but, it takes all types.

Dirty old town

Thought de jour is my love-hate relationship with tomatoes. I lurch from adoring them as little, round, red pockets of deliciousness (this really only applies to the cherry variety) to detesting them unless they are somehow disguised, i.e. cooked/pureed/combined with vodka.

But anyway, back to dirty old London. Except I was wrong to fear the weather for it is summer. Twenty-three degrees, I'll have you know. No more wearing of the hated tights or socks - it's sandals forever. Which does mean, unfortunately, that my awful toes must be bared. I've tried to brighten them up/disguise them with nail polish, only there's always one nail that never goes according to plan. I was, actually, feeling a bit better about my icky toes recently. Usually when someone spies them for the first time, as a Pen toe virgin, the comment goes something along the lines of:

'Look. At. Your. Revolting/Scary/Incredibly Unattractive. Really. Long. Toes.'
'Thanks.'

I have been known to mutter something that rhymes with 'luck off' at this point. But in Sydney, Nic's flatmate Dave uttered the words, 'Wow. You have long toes.' I was waiting for the inevitable 'And they are so revolting, how can you live with yourself' comment but it never came. I think it made my year. Admittedly, Dave was hungover and sleep deprived and might not have even been seeing straight but the point is that for the first time in years I felt okay about my toes. Even the one with the possibly rotten nail. Which I have covered in polish and plan to ignore. I was so chuffed with Dave that I let him try on my pink suit as a reward. I wasn't quite so pleased when this resulted in him looking better in it than me. Stupid men and their skinny little girly hips. Try pushing a baby through those.

My 27-hour flight/stopover/flight was non-stop fun. The passenger next to me did not enjoy his trip quite so much as I had to wake him up several times so that me and my bladder of unhelpfulness could traipse to the bathroom. Also, I caught him eyeing up my music selection in the in-house entertainment selection - going by his facial expression he is not a fan of Prince. Or Dolly Parton. Philistine.
On the second leg I got an actual knife to eat with. A steely knife. I looked for a beast to stab but none were forthcoming.

And then customs and ages on the tube and then home and I just threw everything in my pack in the washing machine - books like water, surely - and then fell into bed and had utterly stupid dreams of the kind where you think you're awake and cannot sleep even though you are asleep and when you do wake you're even more exhausted than when you got into bed in the first place.

And then work. I like my job so this wasn't as bad as it could have been and only one book is truly screwed up and it's not my fault although I'm pretty sure I could have prevented the all-out rotten situation that has developed had I only been here. It's the sort of situation that has me wanting to rant about the office with pencils in my nose and ears shrieking 'Amateurs!' whilst tearing up 600-page manuscripts with my bare hands. But this will pass.
I also got to have a five-minute phone conversation with an author of one of my books, only when he introduced himself I had no idea who he was or what he'd written and consequently had to spend the whole five minutes faking it. We both seemed quite pleased with ourselves at the end of it so I must have faked it well.

My workmates were not nearly grateful enough for their Pineapple Lumps/Whittaker's/marshmellow easter eggs/Tim-Tams/Cherry Ripes - in fact, the Pineapple Lumps were universally loathed. I even caught one workmate taking a bite of one and then throwing the other half away when she thought I wasn't looking. The fact that I don't actually like them much myself is, of course, beside the point. Why is the concept of faux-pineapple (4.5% fruit juice, even) and chocolate so hard to accept? It was as though I'd produced a bag of faeces. Chocolate covered faeces.

All the tea in China and where I put it

I think I almost reached my capacity for tea this week - I didn't think it could be done, but, well, we can never predict these things. Once again, I found myself admiring bathroom decor, this time at Fi's new house. I also got to spend most of an evening in James and Teena's bathroom at their new house. These are all nice places and I thoroughly recommend them.

My five days in Christchurch were plum lovely and will need repeating at some point - especially Thursday powersuit luncheon. It was discovered that where size matters - shoulder pads - my pink suit of loveliness was lacking but that Sara's shoulder pads could have doubled as pillows. And there was much seeing of people and places - points to Pete for taking me to Taylor's Mistake so I could see the greenery and sea and feel dreadfully homesick (can you feel homesick if you're actually at home?) and to Fi and George and Gary for their hospitality and general superness - although I did find myself becoming increasingly jealous of their house. I want a house. All the cool kids seem to have one.

I drank far too much on my final night (when will I learn? I thought 30 came with instructions on maturity?) and I can't say that I enjoy flying on a hangover - so will be avoiding doing that again this weekend. However, Jess'n'Debs are in town and they are evil so I can't make any promises.

Am now at Nic's house in Sydney where his flatmate is murdering Knocking on Heaven's Door on the guitar - the fascination first time guitarists have with this song is awful. Right up there with chopsticks and the Entertainer for pianists. There might be a nasty incident with scissors and guitar strings, soon.

Nic's house overlooks the sea and I fell asleep to the sound of waves, which was all nice but I still had awful dreams about runaway wheelchairs. Wheelchairs in my dreams can hit very high speeds and always head for steep flights of stairs. They are, however, not as frustrating as the invisible helicopter dream I have where I always get caught in powerlines.
Nic, for reasons that I cannot explain, warned me not to sleep in the garden. Apparently when he did he woke up with ticks. As you do.

Three more days of holiday - then 27 hours of nastiness on a plane and then work! Fun! Can't wait! Maybe some more exclamation marks are needed here to make me sound more convincing . . . or perhaps not.

My personal war with exclamation marks continues.

But for now I will have another cup of tea (am glutton for punishment) and sit on the balcony in the sun and will not think about what the weather in London is like. Thursday's boozy suggestion of moving to Spain with Sara and Nic looks positively enchanting at this point.

You can't beat Wellington on a good day

It's true. You just can't. You can, however, have the best first view of Wellington (rounding that final corner on the motorway, coming into the harbour) utterly destroyed for you by a ranting bus driver intent on telling his victims/passengers exactly why the lights at Waikanae are to blame for the constant traffic jams on State Highway 1. If only Helen Clark would drive to Auckland - it'd get fixed quick smart, etc.

But I digress. I love Wellington. It is the most beautiful city in the world - it was only with a great deal of self control that I managed to not stroke the pavement/houses/sea/Fin clothing shop with a loving hand. Instead I lavished affection on the smaller sister and gave out hugs to people I know there. And there was much catching up and meeting of people's new special friends (I go away for six months and everyone gets lucky - was it me that prevented this from happening before - was I the blight?). Gen's flat had drinks so I whipped out the gin and made sausage rolls like some sort of adult and proceeded to talk nonsense until 4am with old chums and woke up at 9am to go shopping - with no hangover. Possibly I was still mildly intoxicated - but I prefer to think that I have managed to tame the booze.

And then there were new clothes and the elation that goes with that, which carried me all through waiting for the airbus and the plane to Christchurch and the baggage carousel and falling into Fi's arms, whereupon she said all the right things, such as 'I like your ring, and your shoes, and your jacket', proving once again that we are friends for all the right reasons.

So now Christchurch until Thursday. So far I've been sleeping a great deal, and have managed to seduce Fi's cat into sleeping on my bed, instead of hers - worst night's sleep ever. Cat needs a lot of affection and enjoys kneading one's body with her claws.

I finally got my new credit card and it looks hungry for action so I'd better buy a few more things - just to make sure it works as it should. And I got all my money (overdraft) back from the bank after the bad people stole it in Bulgaria so it's shaping up to be a top week.

On the looking for toilets when desperate front - Fi demonstrated that the law library is pretty good, as is George's mum's house - but only when you can get a park outside it, otherwise the service station round the corner is quite acceptable.

Only one sour note about Wellington - I seem to have fleas. I'm not criticising - just making a note. It could have been a really rampant mosquito, actually. Probably was. I'd prefer it to be that. Yes, that's what it was. Not fleas at all. Ignore that first bit.

Hypothetical question for the week - should one have to go to the baby shower of someone that one cannot stand but is sort of related to? And before my family starts wondering which family member is eating for two - this is not about me for once - just a situation that seems to have arisen for someone else. Should you have to go especially if the mum to be is going to be passively aggressive to one as well? Because you can't slap pregnant women. I was thinking, after watching Good Morning today, where they had a doctor demonstrating a very phallic aid for helping with pelvic muscles after having babies, that perhaps one of these would be a good gift. Given with a saccharine sweet smile and some sort of very pink card. Does this thought make me a bad person? The actual thought made me feel warm all over - but that's not really the point, I suppose.

And I'm blonde again

Thanks to the mighty power of Bran and his scissors and bottles of magic stuff I am now blonde-ish again. And Bran has kindly pointed out that I have clean hair now. I hate Bran. It might be clean but it is also incredibly fluffy and I think I look sort of like a sheep.



Saw the rest of the Auckland gang - there were some drinks, some food, a dubious video of that Canadian who eats dental floss and then does the 'body floss' which made me retch and quite a bit of filth talk - mostly initiated by Demelza. Poor Mark came to visit and was subjected to all this.

Saw Ruthie and her new chum from Ireland. He passed my very poor interrogation and then later I realised that I had forgotten to ask him the most important question of all - how does he feel about canned pineapple?

Having been let down by Auckland's weather, I hired a car and drove to Rotorua to see Angela and Hayden. This was all good, and then it was suggested that we go out to meet Hayden's new lady. Having never been out in Rotorua, I was keen. Angela declined, suggesting, quite sensibly that having been at home sick, if she went out, the rules firmly state that she would have to bump into a workmate. So Hayden and I made sure we were not wearing steel caps and ventured out. And by golly, the effort was worth it. Never before have I seen a man dressed in leather, with a half face moko dance with sequined pom poms. And he wanted to be our friend! It was so my lucky night. However, as midnight approached, and all the university students rampaged in their togas, I decided that perhaps I ought to call it a night. And then, just as I was leaving the bar I saw that they were having a sausage sizzle. Yes! Could my night get any better? I think not. I had two and felt rather satisfied with their white-bready, oniony, tomato-saucy, nasty sausage goodness.

And then I drove to Wellington because that's where the hire car lives. On the way to Wellington I stopped in at the bank in PN so to pick up my shiny new credit card so I could pay for things. Alas, it was not to be. Apparently it had never turned up. So they ordered me another one. To be picked up in Christchurch. That's three credit cards in two weeks. A personal record.

Having thoroughly enjoyed my drive down the island, although I probably scared several people with my driving, I caught a train with Gen back up to PN, to be all family like for the weekend.

Because Gen and I were both home for the weekend and some birthdays have been and gone, we all went out for dinner in our gladrags. Sadly, the meal was not up to standard and dad told the waitress that whoever cooked his potatoes should be shot and could she please at least throw the offending veges at the chef. Shooting people seems a popular choice with the older generation as today my rather charming dentist told me that if waited another four years before I came to see him again, he'd shoot me. My tartar build up had horrified him.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

Hong Kong hides its public toilets very well. Which is awkward when it's all hot and sticky and you drink a lot of water.

But that's okay because I am home now. And it is raining nice NZ rain. (It only seems nice because I am at home. I'm sure this will stop being nice the moment I have to go outside.)

And last night I tried to give Bran, Jase and Demelza food poisoning by cooking roast chicken in Bran and Jase's very badly lit kitchen. Mood lighting, sure. Pinkish chicken? Maybe. But no one complains. And then there are marshmellow eggs, which make everything all shiny.

Am rather tired because despite the stopover and both my flights being under 12 hours, and the fact that each time I had an empty seat next to me for lounging over, I failed to get much sleep - so was wide awake at 3am this morning for quite some time. And then was rudely awoken at 9am by Jase wanting to show me where he keeps his car so I can drive it.

"Drive to the conditions, Pen."
"Uh?"
I was listening, mostly. I was also reeling from inadvertenly getting a whiff of my morning breath.

But I'm almost done watching informercials now - so addictive - so it must be time to do something. Except it's raining. Perhaps going back to bed/mattress on the living room floor is a good idea.

HK

One of the advantages of being an adult is that you get to test those potential lies your parents told you as a child. Like if you don't rest for 30 minutes after eating before leaping into a pool you will get cramp and this will more than likely kill you. And if you eat too many cashews you will feel sick.

I feel sick.

But, if you're going to be ill, why not in Hong Kong? Free internet at the airport - although no access to Facebook as it seems to be classified as a dating site. Fair enough.

My 32 hours in Hong Kong have gone nicely - did some shopping, ate some cashews, got my fill of dumplings for breakfast, which was really the only reason I stopped over, and I paid too much for a hostel room but I was desperate to use a toilet so my negotiating skills kind of disappeared.
However, didn't have to share a room and it came with a TV that didn't work and a toilet/shower combo that entertained me no end, given that was smaller than your average cupboard but yet you could do so much in there at once. Like shower AND brush your teeth. Utter brilliance.

I do seem to have a caught something though, along the lines of a scratchy throat, which is probably the beginning of some romantic tropical wasting disease.

And now - to duty free.

Better late than never, eh?

Forgive me, reading audience of eight, I couldn't be bothered.

Skye came home from Australia very, very poor but with a house for herself and Mike and a bag of cherry ripes for me.

Kruse got a bit older and I gave him socks. He went house sitting for Caro and Dom and I went round to visit and the cat bit me.

Work is ever so busy and it's all gone to hell and no one knows what the feck's going on. Which means it's a good time for me to come home. So five more days. And then a day buying some Rolexes in Hong Kong (anyone want one?) and then Brandon will meet me at Auckland airport wearing a red carnation so I know what to look for next Monday. Three days in Auckland, one in Reporoa hanging with some cows, raging it up in PN for a week, two days in Wellington buying trousers of the like not seen in the UK, then Christchurch for five days to try out the comfort of Fi's spare room and then Sydney for three nights to see brother Nic and the world's tallest man, Tim. And then home in time for work on 6 May, when I discover that all the books I sent to print before I left have mistakes in them. I am a very good production editor.

We had people over for my birthday brunchy lunchy (featuring asparagus rolls, bloody marys, truffles and fairy bread - all class) and there was a greatdeal of nonsense spoken, a history lesson, cake in face, probably a bit too much booze and all in bed by midnight. Thirty is looking as mature as 24 did.

I finally stretched my jeans to an acceptable fit and I was overjoyed but then they started to smell (hadn't washed them for a very long time) so I had to give them up to the washing machine and now I have to start the whole process all over again. I'm eating a caramello koala in an effort to help with the stretching. And then I'm going to make a huge effort to finish off my third birthday cake - is it cheating if I just lick off the icing? Mad Laura made it and it's awfully good.

I got some very good books for turning 30, and marshmellow eggs from Simon, which went straight into the freezer because that's where marshmellow eggs live. You can't get them here so I'm hoping that people are stockpiling them for me. James bought me coffee machine. I loathe coffee. James knows this. Skye is very pleased with her new coffee machine. I think it's going to have an accident. Those things fall off the bench into a hot oven all the time.

And this morning Skye burst into my room and demanded I look out the window. And despite the fact we started daylight saving last weekend and it's been rather warm all week - it was snowing. Was rather pretty but, oddly enough, when I went outside to take some cheesy photos, it was fecking freezing and my toes got cold.

My toenails are disgusting and I don't know what happened to them. One is definitely bruised, but the others? Perhaps it's winter toenail sadness? They just need sunlight? Or heaps of nail polish.

Oh, and some utter bastard in Bulgaria stole $1000 out of my NZ bank account. Fuckers. Once I'd rung the bank and explained stuff (like the fact that I have never been to Bulgaria and I still have my credit card) and wrote an email to explain more stuff, they rang me back to talk some more. Only they forgot about the time difference.

'Penelope? It's Trudi from the National Bank. How are you?'
'What? Sure. Fine.'
'What time is it there?'
'What time is it in New Zealand?'
'One thirty in the afternoon.'
'Then it's 1.30am here.'
'Oh.'
'Yeah.'
'Did I wake you up?'

And so on. So now I have forms to fill out and eventually I should get my money back. Or rather, I should get my overdraft, which is really the bank's money, back.

More about toilets

I haven't written about public conveniences for some time - this probably has a lot to do with the fact that there aren't many in London. The same with rubbish bins. Too easy for the naughty people to put bombs in them. This makes London awful sometimes. I have carried rubbish for ages and ages and ages and oh you get the idea, looking for somewhere to put it, and not opting for everyone else's 'litter' policy. Litter makes me quite cross. So does really needing to pee and not knowing where the public toilets are because they are secrets known only to the few. I have become one of those people who stride into pubs looking like they're about to order some lager only to swerve into the loos first and then sneak out without actually buying anything.

St Pat's yesterday and Kruse got well and truly into the spirit of things and drank an impressive amount of Guinness. I loathe Guinness for it is all nasty and so on and when I asked for a Guinness shandy last St Pat's in PN, I got the evil eye. Did get my shandy, though. By the time I got home from work, Kruse had had 13 large cans. And also managed to make a very good Irish stew. I had a glass of wine and fell asleep on the sofa. Have become a pathetic drinker. Kruse was still up and drinking at 3.30am, making calls to Ecuador and NZ. He finally came to bed at 4am, and then managed to sleep talk a great deal of gibberish, which seemed to be very important to him at the time, and was the kind of sleep talk that needed someone responding to it else he just kept repeating himself. Gibberishly.

In other news:

Work has suddenly become very busy as I start to take over someone else's books - and it transpires that I have no idea of stuff. However, I shall just fake it until they fire me.

I need to have words with the mothership (you know who you are, Gloria) about texting me at 4am my time. Five o'clock in the afternoon is not a good time to text your eldest daughter, although thanks for the dosh.

I have new red boots. I gave them to me for my birthday because I deserved them.

Penelope out.

Let me eat cake

Cake for breakfast is a rather good way to start one's thirties.
I also finished my first day of thirty with cake - a different one.

So, how did I spend the last night of my twenties? Having a dream I pashed Chuck Norris. Definitely time to leave.

Nearly got hit by a motorbike on the way to work the other morning and was ever so pleased that I managed not to, especially when I got to work and discovered that my underwear was on inside out.

Back to my all-important thirtieth - my workmates gave me flowers and I gave them cake. Win win. Then I skived off early and went to the Tate Modern with Kruse in an attempt to be cultured. And then met up at the pub with Katie to recover. And then went home to have fush'n'chups and Kruse made me a cake and we watched more Twin Peaks and it was all pretty good, really. Points to Ruthie for her T-shirt and Mother for the book of Katherine Mansfield stories. Had completely forgotten about KM, but was reminded by James and requested it for my birthday. Mum says she went into Whitcoulls to ask if they had a copy and the young lass behind the counter said 'Who?'. What are they teaching them in schools these days?

Right -will finish today pondering bananas. I only like them if they're sliced and with something. Disguised, if you will. Had very long conversation with workmates about pros and cons of bananas and other people's weird food 'things'. I looked positively normal in comparison to the baked beans on toast but only a spoonful in the middle and the butter has to be completely melted - no lumps or I'm not eating it, girl.

!

Have been made a permanent production editor - what fun. Although new contract doesn't start until May, allowing me to take three weeks' holiday, which will be spent at home in NZ. Oh, the glories of Palmerston North, once more you will me mine to adore.

All morning I have been receiving congratulatory emails from my workmates, which is nice, however I think I might need to have a word to some of them about their constant overuse of exclamation marks, the use of which makes their emails sound suspiciously as though they were written by 13-year-old girls.

My immediate superior had her hen's night on the weekend and has kindly brought in the remains from her afternoon tea party. I was extremely disappointed to discover that Snickerdoodle cake does not contain any Snickers. False advertising.

Had a particularly bizarre dream that a burglar was trying to steal Skye and Mike's bed. And that Kruse was setting dwarf traps, using pound coins and cask as bait.

The weather has become complete rubbish - it's viciously cold and windy and rainy and it's very hard to concentrate on footnotes when one would much rather be at home in one's jim jams reading Agatha Christie. Or watching Twin Peaks. We've just started the second season and I heart Agent Cooper. Oh, he is such a dreamboat.

As 30 slowly approaches this week, giving me the glad eye over her shoulder and come hither glances that I am incapable of resisting, I ponder the truly important things in life: just how many new flavours have Whittaker's chocolate bars brought out since I've been away? Only five more weeks of not knowing!!!!! All right!!! Look at those exclamation markers go!!!

I have to admit that the main reason I am coming home is that I need a haircut and Brandon is the only person I trust. And I also miss my shoes. And all my clothes. I suspect my father is going to come from work in mid-April to find me buried beneath a pile of dress-up outfits and ludicrous shoes, muttering 'I love you, I love you, please forgive me for abandoning you for so long'.

Nose picking

Nose picking is personal sort of thing and on the whole people do seem to hide that they may indulge in a bit of nose mining. Fair enough. But one brave soul on the tube, a crowded, jostling tube, felt no fear. He was picking with gusto. And then flicking his nose treasures into the crowd. Such kindness. I was too far away to thank him but I think he felt the full force of my mental gratitude as I stared at him intently. And in princely fashion, as befits someone so far above me on the social scale, he closed his eyes and ignored me.

It's all about looks

Had a dream that I was having plastic surgery on my fingers. Because they're so fat, you know.

Have spent the day wading through a sea of references in a bibliography of the damned. Why would anyone use two different systems? And why would any company, especially mine, let an author take in the copyeditor and proofreader's corrections to his own manuscript? Strangely, he's left out anything that he doesn't agree with, but then further on has changed his mind, resulting in chaos.

And the one-kilo block of Dairy Milk is still haunting my desk. I've put it where I can't see it - but I know it's there. And even though it's not dark chocolate, I have given in to it a few times. Just so it feels wanted.

I've met my match

My boss took his children to the Cadbury museum/factory and brought us back a kilo of chocolate, which he has (oddly) given to me for safe keeping, so the thieves from Sales and Marketing don't eat it. A kilo of chocolate is quite heavy. Sadly, it's Dairy Milk - not my favourite, so it probably was quite sensible to give it to me to look after. I really ought to have given him instructions as to what to get (Dark chocolate, DARK), although considering that my jeans are still taunting me with their tightness, perhaps it's just as well.

A quietish weekend - goodbye drinks and dinner for young Cazz, during which I embarassed myself after six pints by trying to talk about adjectives (I don't know why, blame the pints) and then used a verb as an example. Yes. Well done, Penelope. Worst editor ever. Kruse and I then progressed to arguing about grammar and I came to the conclusion that I am awful at explaining things. And perhaps I ought to change professions.

A slight baking semi-disaster when James came for afternoon tea on Saturday. Was lying in bed thinking about going back to sleep to get rid of the persistent headache left over from the night before, next to a lightly snoring, occasionally sleeptalking Kruse who had come in at 9am, again, when Skye texted from her room (the laziness of our house is one of the best things about it) to say I should get up and bake because James was coming to play. To the kitchen - where I made scones and possibly, in my hungover state, put too much baking powder in. The scones rose to a size beyond belief and looked downright stupid. So I cut them all in half to show them I was boss and baked them a little further so they weren't still doughy and explained to all that they'd look better if buried under a layer or two of butter and jam. And, as usual, I was right. And after a few shandies, I didn't care about them, either. And my headache cleared up - shandies are medicinal, you know.

And then some other stuff happened and then we went to bed. The end.

Teething problems

My wisdom teeth are making their presence known. I wish they wouldn't, as it's not at all necessary.

But, other, more important issues have arisen lately, namely, being identified as a possible pervert at the local library.

I have been to our local library four times. On each of those occasions I have ventured into the children's section to try to obtain all the Harry Potters, so I can read them in order and in under seven years, as well as reread, as I do most years, Arthur Ransome, Noel Streatfield and L M Montgomery. Yes, I rather like children's books. I never before thought this was much of an issue. But on Sunday I was informed that unless I was accompanied by a child, I was not allowed to be in the children's section. I went very red when I realised why. The librarian kindly said I could stay, but that she would have to hover by me. This made me feel worse - and concerned - I mean, what if I were operating with someone else? I'd distract the librarian and they'd go and chat up the kids with cool talk about Pokemon or whatever it is that the munchkins are into now. The previous times I've been in the children's section the librarian (a different one) has merely asked how I am - although now, of course, I know that they were probably watching me, and whispering into a walky-talky the entire time.
I slunk out of the children's area and stood in front of the crime section for quite some time, waiting for my face to resume its usual pink and whiteness. And then felt very cross. And then I stalked home and ate most of a block of chocolate and Skye and Mike and Kruse all laughed at me.

The day before this was the messy Waitangi Day pub crawl in London. Which we didn't do - instead, eleven of us opted for lunch in the sun, several bottles of wine, a few pints and then a few cans for the walk down to parliament where various people show off their national pride by doing the haka. Except we couldn't see anything. Too many drunk Kiwis loitering about. So Kruse and Mike climbed a tree and confirmed that nothing was happening. So we waited. And waited. And drank some more cans and ran into people we had not seen for a bit and then we got bored and realised we'd run out of beer so we left. And found another bar. And then some Chinese. And then another bar. And then some blurry bits and then I caught the last tube home and then Kruse turned up at 9am, having caught the first tube home the following morning. And engaged in some verbalness with football hoodlums about why he was wearing a skirt. All the Kiwis we'd met had congratulated Kruse on his 'skirt' - football hooligans don't seem to know much about Polynesian daywear.

Waitangi Day

I made Anzac biscuits. They were good. My workmates scoffed them down. One workmate ate four - she was having a bad day and therefore 'needed' them. Fair enough. Workmates wished me a 'happy Waitangi Day', which sounds odd, because I don't think anyone has ever said that to me before.
I made an attempt to explain Waitangi Day to a workmate - after which she said 'Well, you're still doing better than the Australians, aren't you'.

Pie and pint had been decided upon as a suitable way to celebrate our national day - so eleven of us met up in town and did so. The pies were not great. The pints were quite acceptable. It was put forward that instead of attending the Waitangi Day Pub Crawl with all the other Kiwis in London this weekend (carnage, by all reports - 8000 very drunk and patriotic Kiwis on the tube is not quite so appealing as it may sound) we would instead opt for a semi-civilised luncheon (which probably won't be that civilised, really) and then join the end of the pub crawl for the haka at parliament. Whether or not we actually achieve this remains to be seen.

Back to my dreams - last night's one had an actual Stairway to Heaven. Oh yes, quite the tourist drawcard. We (me and some of those faceless people who so often turn up in dreams) were being rather scathing about said tourists, but I was secretly thinking 'I want to go and have a looksee'.

In a moment of madness I joined the gym. And then had to suffer through a ridiculous induction that everyone has to go through, presumably so you don't sue when you fall off the treadmill.
'Out of ten, how do you feel when you walk in the door of the gym?'
Quietness. I am pondering, wondering if it is somehow a trick question.
'Ah, seven?'
'Hmm.' Writes it down. 'And how could we make that a ten?'
Thinking hard - Fuck off and leave me be does seem like the obvious answer, but I'm not sure this is what they want to hear. It would probably be a ten if they gave me money for turning up.
In the end I mumble some bollocks about finding winter a bit disheartening so if they could just make it summer I'd probably give them a ten, purely for being on those kind of terms with the magic Weather Man.

I have made the mistake of wearing a tightish T-shirt over the bra that has little beads on the outside of one cup, thus making me look as though I've had an outbreak of warts on one breast.

Naked

I seem to have been a trifle slack over the past few weeks. No one complained, however, so I didn't do anything about it.

I've had the flu. This has been a particularly unenjoyable experience and has not made me deliciously thin, as so often happens in books. If anything, appetite has gone beserk but, interestingly, only for things savoury. Had very strange week of not wanting any chocolate at all. Was obviously very ill, indeed.

Have had some stranger than usual dreams lately, as well. The best (or worst) involved Chook and me being very fat, naked and hanging out with a talking pig. Last night's dream, where Justin and I were dancing to Milli Vanilli and enjoying it, was much less stressful.

Have celebrated two 36ths and one leaving party in the past few weeks and probably overindulged slightly in the drinks department. During one such evening, Skye and I managed to get off the tube at the wrong place, losing Kruse and Mike, so when we eventually got to Stratford we decided, in our slightly boozed state, that we should not go straight home, where they would very likely gloat about the fact that we made a navigational boo boo, but instead go to the local. This proved to be a brilliant move for our egos, as people tried to chat us up. Hugely cheered by this we charged home and proceeded to have a few more drinks, which in retrospect was not a good idea. Sore head in the morning.

The weather has not been particularly clement. Sometimes it looks as thought it might be and you get all excited and go outside and then find out that it's exceptionally cold and the bra you are wearing shows your nippples.

Thought for the day

Don't jam your finger in a car door.

Snap, crackle, pop

Bubble wrap. There's no finer invention.

Wet shoes and socks disappeared when I opened up the new heater and found it wrapped in bubbles. My workmates ignored my ecstasy and popping - perhaps they found it distasteful, as if I was masturbating in public (I did have a pretty good smile on my face).

But now it's all popped and I don't think my workmate wants to share the piece of bubblewrap that came with her heater - perhaps she's going to take it home for some private popping.

I've think I'm going to steal her bubblewrap when she goes to the bathroom.

I might have been wrong

Mashed potatoes might actually be as good or even better than a fresh chicken roll. I realised this last night when I was feeling a trifle peckish at about 10.30pm and opened up the fridge where lo and behold I found a bowl of mash.

The thing about mash, though, is that it's got to be good mash. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has suffered through inferior mash. I make acceptable mash. Kruse makes mash of the gods.

And now, off for a pie and pint with the gingers.

The big questions

Is there anything better than a chicken roll?

Nothing - except a cask that I found in the supermarket today labelled 'Good French Wine'.

I really, really hope that somewhere else there is a 'Pretty Good French Wine', 'Very Good French Wine' and a 'Manifique French Wine'. And, of course, waiting hopefully somewhere in a cheap booze shop near you: 'Not So Great French Wine', 'Bad French Wine' and Positively Awful French Wine'. Marvellous marketing ploy, the use of 'good'.

But, yes, Christmas. It started off well, the week leading up to it, with me dodging calls from copy-editors and authors about commas and whatnot, and Skye and I slugging back the bottle of Moet that someone foolishly left at our party the weekend before. Christmas Eve saw us both attempt a run around the block (me looking remarkably attractive in my shorts-and-t-shirt-over-polypro combo), after which we rewarded ourselves with a lunch at the local. Because we deserved it.

Christmas (in a quaint village with 23 houses) went something along the lines of:
More cups of tea that you can poke a stick at (and why would you want to?)
North-Hamptonshire skittle competitions at the local on Christmas Eve
Christmas morning without my mother asking why won't I and my siblings get up and open our presents and drink this here bottle of champagne (very sadly missed, ma)
Mad English relatives that I am not related to and have never met before insisting on kissing me and giving me presents because I am Mike's Katie's orphaned Kiwi friend
The Queen's message (of course)
Dogs
Learning how to set a table properly English country stylez yet being given contradictory directions from people
Brussel sprouts that didn't make me vomit
Charades
Boxing Day races (won 125 pounds because a horsie fell over)
Boxing Night dinner with more relatives, more booze, more mad games and the exciting discovery of a very good bookshelf and suddenly no more was seen of Penelope until it was home time.

And then I got a Kruse. In defiance of the weather Kruse came out of customs wearing a Panama (technically Ecuadorian) hat and jandals. And nothing else.

That last part is a bit of a fib.

But, no time to apologise for that for we were off for a nauseatingly couple-filled New Year's in the Lake District. Three couples in a lonely cottage next to a lake - obviously there ought to be have been some gruesome murders but, sadly, no. However, there was a pub next door (doesn't sound that lonely at all, does it?). Pub was full of what we'd call trampers and the English call ramblers. Many had dogs. One in particular smelled uncannily of blue cheese.

Speaking of cheese - Caro found a really good horseradish cheese. Thoroughly recommended.

And then we came back to London and Kruse already has talked to people about the prospect of him becoming a nerd again, where he will once again earn about a million more pounds than me and I shall have to console myself with the thought that as long as I really enjoy my job, the money doesn't really matter.

But money buys SHOES.

I think what is so very important about a chicken roll is the hotness of the cooked chicken (which I didn't cook but got from the supermarket so it's undoubtedly full of evil additives and preservatives and cocaine and possibly soylent green) and the freshness of the roll.