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.