The peroxide gets the better of me in the kitchen

In the interests of alerting all to the potential dangers of ever having me stay as a houseguest, where I offer to cook delicious and only mildly unhealthy meals only to try and kill you, let me tell you the sad story of Mr Roast Chicken.

Oh, he was a pretty roast chicken, all trussed up and stuffed by me, surrounded by his buddies, little mr carrot and not quite so little mr potato, as well as bulbous mr onion and guaranteed not to make you any friends mr garlic. They were having such a jolly time, all hanging out together, getting a bit hot and heavy under the collar and generally raging up a storm, getting one hell of a tan and generally making me look exceptionally good to the starving masses. I even made gravy. Properly, for feck's sake. We carved. We served. We ate - Dave had manfully eaten half of his by the time I got round to starting which was when I noticed the odd taste. I had another carrot. Yup, something squeaky clean and not too edible about it. I asked the others who said that they too could taste it but no one had wanted to insult my cooking. Whoever had last used the roasting tin had indeed washed it, but not rinsed it and my beautiful roast chicken and his little vege chums were all mint and avocado washing up liquid flavoured and inedible. I was very sad. Manda was furious. She loves roast chicken. So Dave and I had a cheese toastie off and made Manda judge who was the best by blindfolding her with a mildly filthy tea towel and force feeding her. Fortunately for my reputation, I won, although it was noted by both the judge and the very bitter opposition, that I should have toasted the bread before I put the cheese on so as to avoid that slightly soggy bit you get.

I still get very sad whenever I think about the roasting tin. The situation is not made any better by me running out of chocolate and being too lazy to remedy the situation.

Remember that time Dan wore a nurse's uniform? That was good.

Possibly, in hindsight, deep-fried pizza and a deep-fried Mars bar were not the ideal midnight snack, but we were aiming for the complete Scottish experience so ... sadly, this may have not aided me in the continuing saga of me versus my jeans. I can get them on, but sitting down in them is not fun. Probably not fun for anyone watching, either.

Dave, Manda and I have a sleepover and drink some whisky and play some cards and talk a fair amount of rubbish and fail to leave the house for periods longer than approximately 37 minutes. We also fail to get fish food. Or to get to bed before 2am. Which means that as an unemployed person, my day technically is about two hours behind that of the average person, so a 12.30pm getting up time is really only 10.30am. But this morning I am wakened at the ungodly hour, by any person's standards, of the real 8am, by a phone call from home - people are drinking at the Cambridge! I am pleased for them. The Cambridge is a good bar. However, I do feel they could have waited a few more hours. I do not hold grudges, though. Back to sleepytime, where I dream I am a 15-year-old boy who can breathe under water right up until my phone goes again, still too early by my standards, at 9.35am. Justin is a cripple and can't go camping but wants to know if anyone has a nurse uniform. Mine is in New Zealand somewhere, last seen being put to good use by Dan. Back to sleep again and I have dreams about fish and chips, which suggest to me that I am hungry, and men in very short shorts, which suggest that perhaps I am a pervert, and then it's 12.30 and time for breakfast and the good news that Kruse is an uncle.

I did a touristy thing and climbed up to Arthur's seat. I am not a good climber. I am more of a huffy, puffy, let's just stop here and admire the view, sort of climber.

I did a silly thing and got on the mini roundabout in the playground opposite Manda's house. Dave spun me round and round and it was fun for about ten seconds and then I felt very ill and I shrieked 'Stop, make it stop, please, please' and he just chortled and I resolved to throw up on him, but not Manda, no, not her, because she just looked very sorry for me, whilst somehow still managing to look superior for not having been so foolish to get on the damn thing in the first place.

Jelly beans in the shape of little love hearts are delicious.

Thoughts from this very comfy blow-up mattress

Edinburgh is a bit stingy with its weather. It's pretending to be sunny but the moment you get outside the wind attacks you with chilly and grasping fingers, and sticks its nose up your shorts in the manner of a very impertinent canine.

I have achieved very little the past few days, although, as I am unemployed and on a very tight budget, I suspect doing very little is one of my best options. And I'm pretty good at it. I am particularly good at drinking tea and eating chocolate covered peanuts in bed. I even half cleaned the bathroom yesterday. And I did the dishes. And made a very good midnight snack of Welsh rarebit after Manda and I overdid the 'bad day at the office must have several glasses (bottles) of plonk' bit. Obviously she had had the bad day at the office, but as a good friend I felt I ought to help her out in the drinking of wine bit, because I am a trooper like that. I did not feel like a trooper yesterday morning. I didn't even want the chocolate covered peanuts. But I dragged myself out of bed and set off for Glasgow. Eventually met up with Manda, who was there for work, and Frazer, who I have not seen since the epic camping trip of '03, and whose accent is like wading through very thick chocolate. Transpired he had the other Amanda visiting him, who was also on that trip back in the day, so there was much rejoycing and catching up and bemoaning all the people who seem to have become adults since then, bastards.

Frazer has a very nasty habit of buying another round just as you're about to say you've had enough.

This morning I don't feel too bad, despite the six pints, and I've just remembered the bottle of cider to get us through the train trip, whoops, so I've eaten the peanuts and drunk the tea and realised we're out of toilet paper, which is irksome. However, everything pales in comparison to the depressing conversation I just had with Jody, who has recently moved home, about unemployment. We have decided we might have to take up drinking cheap sherry out of tea cups whilst perusing the wanted section of the paper. Or watching Oprah.

Unemployment/travelling is making my jeans shrink.

Pretty much just me muttering about nonsense

This unusually sunny and beautiful Edinburgh morning finds me sitting in Manda's bed eating fudge for breakfast and reading an article on how not to be single at 40. I know it's a few years away, but nothing wrong with being prepared, no? Although it does assume that for most women being single at 40 is somehow very shaming. Surely it's better to be happy by one's self than unhappy but with a partner? Look! I have a man! I have achieved ... something, I'm not sure what but apparently this is all I need. Although, at this point, you'll start finding articles on why you should get rid of him if you're not happy, it's all about being your own woman, loving yourself, girlpower ... but then the moment you're single all anyone ever asks is whether or not you've met anyone because no one can possibly be happy by themselves ... sweet baby jesus, it's a vicious circle, made worse by some well-meaning (or possibly very unpleasant) person asking if your baby clock is ticking because babies are the primary aim of women ... I think I might be feeling a bit ranty this morning. More fudge will help that, surely. But then I'll just get fat. And then no one will want me because I wobble. But I should love myself no matter what ... I need to stop reading these articles.

All this fudge is aggravating the tooth that just got fixed, but I'm the boss, not Tony Danza, so I say we eat more of it.

The good thing about staying at Manda's house is that she doesn't like chocolate. Or anything sweet, for that matter, which means that if I buy, say, oh, I don't know, a family pack of Maltesers, I know exactly who is going to eat them all in less than 24 hours. Me. Gosh they were delicious. Manda is obviously insane for not liking sugar.

Since I got here about four days ago, the weather has been awful and my beautiful beyond belief tan has slunk away, upset by my inability to feed it sun. The leopard spots remain, however. Are they some sort of early warning that I may become a cougar, destined to patrol the swanky bars of Auckland, feeding on the flesh of Very Young Men? Let's hope so.

Edinburgh, despite its dubious weather, is a charming city. We ventured out on Friday, school girlz stylez, with a water bottle full of gin and lemonade for the bus trip to the pub. In hindsight, this was a bit immature and foolish, given that we then drank a fair amount of beer with Manda's workmates, listened to a bloody marvellous trio with a guitar, ukulele and bongo drum who kindly played Crowded House when they realised where we were from, and raged it up in general - we have photos where I'm sitting on the bar hugging the barman. Dear God he was one hell of a ginger (I think I am suffering withdrawals from not having my own gingers nearby). At some point Manda and I decided that it was time for dinner (I think this was about 1.30am) and home time so we combined the two and made the taxi driver, who hated us, stop at one of Edinburgh's fine dining establishments, also known as a kebab shop.

Saturday morning wasn't as shiny as it could have been. Saturday night was mildly quieter, in that we didn't leave the house but Manda's blasted flatmate came home with a bottle of spiced rum and knowing all the dance moves to Poker Face. I managed to escape after four drinks but Sunday was still a day of lounging about in one's PJs, watching Outrageous Fortune and feeling mildly homesick because of all the Kiwi accents. And also chortling because I wasn't wearing a bra because I hadn't gotten up yet*, but Manda was because she'd never gotten around to taking it off the night before.

*I don't count being up being up until I've had a shower. Them's the rules.

Have booked some flights home, am now even more utterly destitute and am enjoying myself thoroughly. Home in about three weeks and I have changed my flights in order to fit in with Brandon's schedule so he can play with my hair. It was cheaper to fly directly to Wellington but no, I insist I go via Auckland just to see Brandon. I can see myself having to defend my Auckland visits for the rest of my life - but my stylist lives there! I have to go at least three times a year! Surely it's tax deductible?

Nudey Rudey

Nudist beach. We couldn´t help it. We giggled. Once again proving that with great age does not come great maturity.

Last night was spent pretending to be pterodactyls.

Exhausted by Justin and Katie

He said it was an accident but today Justin invented the avocado white wine spritzer. Flashbacks to the smoked chicken martini of years gone by immediately followed.

I am too old for 4am bedtimes. Justin tried to go to bed at 2am but Katie kept filling up his glass and said that as she likes to deal in twos, he couldn´t go to bed until 4. So none of us could. I think she regretted that today when she had to drive to pick up Caro but we screwed up the arrival time and then she got lost and as far as I know she´s currently asleep on a beach somewhere near the airport because Caro doesn´t touch down at 4.30pm - she gets in at 8.30. Justin and I are on dinner. Literally. Eggplants like it when you stand on them.

Gibberish again. I really need sleep. Leopard print coming along nicely on tummy. Rashy thing still bumpy.

Katie is learning to say some very rude words. I am so very proud of her.

Topless women everywhere. Justin loves it. Nudist beach sometime this week where I bet he just faints from all the boobies on display.

And I´m down another credit card. I wasn´t even drunk when I lost it.