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?
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