I am a lackey.
But I am very good at it. I lackey with style and a hangover. Pate sandwiches are quite nice and shiny and help a great deal if you turn up hungover on your third day.
There is no publishing work in Wellington right now. Oh, how I have tried to find some. Whored myself, even. There's work in Auckland, you know. It's like being lured by the devil - one's almost dream job but on the north shore. No fair.
So I am a lackey. It is not difficult but me and admin have never been the best of chums so I've made some spectacular feck ups, but I'm sure Internal Affairs are used to that. I get to play with languages all day. Hindi and Punjabi are just a little too similar for my liking.
As for the Christmas/NY-ness, this was all good and included PN, Chch and Castle Point, a fair amount of sav, bourbon and Lindauer, one hens night, the loss of my Lady Penelope jacket (who nicks a pink nylon jacket with gold buttons, aside from someone like me?), Jess and I enthralling/horrifying Castle Point with our version of the Time Warp, and the utter highlight - taking our overseas visitors home to PN which we assured them was a dubious place at night time and, lo and behold, on a night out we managed to see a chap take off all his clothes and dive onto a pool table.
Am subletting a room at H's - which is ever so convenient on Kent Terrace, even if it doesn't have an outsidey bit. Have restarted the Thursday drinks with the gingers. Prefaced with swimming at Oriental, which is so totally better than a pie and a pint at the pub in London.
Am feeling, however, with the new year madness behind me, that I am somewhat at a loss to explain what I'm doing with my life. I have a nasty case of itchy feet. Am supposed to be at a wedding in London in April, and have the ticket. However, am now supposed to be back here for two weddings and a reunion-type thingy in June/July. Might be a year of loitering about places, wearing big hats and quaffing booze. Which doesn't sound so bad, except I miss my job in London and the prospect of temping for a year, no matter how nice the workmates and how delicious the free fruit bowl, is enough to make one contemplate suffocation by teddy bear.
More importantly, do I need orange shoes? Surely everyone should have at least one pair? Even if they are broke?
Oh, and the gin reference. There has been gin. Have, in fact, gone a little off it.