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'.