Is so hard being so very popular

I finally leave Edinburgh, almost sobbing my heart out at the prospect of leaving Dave and Manda, but uber excited about a camping trip with the London massive. The ten-hour bus trip seems like nothing after South American bus experiences, although I was reminded sharply of that part of the world when I first climbed aboard the London express.

'This bus smells like South America.'

And then I realised that there was a toilet onboard, which was great given my very pathetic bladder, but obviously it hadn't been cleaned terribly recently, or terribly well, because there was a distinct smell wafting in a not so gentle way throughout the bus. But I am tough and thought nothing of it. Tough, I say. Like nails. Bendy nails.

Camping with 16 others and a baby - times have changed. We had enough tents, although a mild case of poor communication between Katie and me meant that we were down a sleeping bag (all my fault) but someone else actually had a spare. And we ate vegetables. And proper sausages. You know the ones, they actually have meat in them. There was still drinking and singing and poking of fun but somehow less messy than previous years . Having said that, my camp stretcher collapsed within 30 minutes of me lying down on it. Not such good times there, but I rolled with it. Because I am a trooper. And I am lazy. And incapable of putting a camp stretcher back together in the dark.
And because I can't go on any sort of holiday without having some part of my body fail me, another bladder infection made the last day mildly irksome - this had a lot to do with me drinking several bottles of water in order to let the infection know that I was totally in charge - but then I got in the car for a two-hourish drive back to London - managed not to disgrace myself by wetting my trousers but I think sleeping on a broken camp stretcher might have been more fun than not thinking about a toilet and how badly I need to pee.

And then home via Melbourne for a surprise visit to Jess for her 30th. She fell over when she saw me, was very gratifying. Mind you, it could have been the smell of unwashed, jetlagged Penelope, but probably not. She's seen me looking/smelling far worse than that. Like that time we drank too much tequila and I got mistaken for a heroin addict because I was incapable of moving (brain was working terribly well, just rest of self not co-operating) and I eventually threw up a lot before telling atrocious lies to a taxi driver about how I had just been jilted and was therefore obliged to go out and get very drunk. Jessa's 30th was spectacular, if only for the dancing, but you know you've been at a good party when you don't get home until 5pm the next day and you're still in last night's dress, with a mammoth bruise on your bottom. Good times. I think I liked the lolling on Debs/Jess/Nic/Nath/Elise/Timmy the best. This is what friends are for. They also make you cups of tea (Tim failed here and I'll be making a note of it in my official report to his mother).

Melbourne also enabled me to give Nic his birthday present, carefully crafted by Dave and myself. It's a very special, very adult version of Guess Who. Hours of entertainment.

Then Auckland and straight into Bran's arms. And then, as the deal goes, I made him cookies of bribery. And then Wellington, straight into the mothership's arms. She loves me. You can see why. And then to Flat Awesome, where Mark and mum got on far too well so I had to make her go. And then bloody marys. And then lunch with Luke to get salacious details of his far more exciting life, just so I can live vicariously. And then another bloody mary. Because I am unemployed and I can. And then drinks with Duncan. This involved an absolutely thrilling trip to get his car. And when I say thrilling, I really mean not very thrilling at all. But the wine made up for it. And then back to Flat Awesome for drinks with a ginger and Mark and Stu and shouting at the final of New Zealand's Next Top Model. And then a party. And then the dancing. And then the takeaways. And the realisation that we were minus Loz's phone. And then the sleeping. And the waking up realising that what I had thought was a glass in the dark last night was actually an olive jar, but it still did a pretty good job of holding water. And then the walk of shame from Loz's to Mark's where there were pancakes. And tea. A lot of tea. And then there was Sara. And more tea. And then a bus to Palmy. And the others had bloody marys without me, bastards. But that's okay because I had parents and a cat and a fire and all my shoes.

And now back in my old flat in Wellington pondering job hunting, wondering how I'm going to cope with how incredibly cold it is (get pet bear to hug?) and wishing I had remembered to get chocolate at the supermarket. Jetlag makes me wake up at 2am utterly ravenous. It also makes me feel ill, although my mother says I could just have caught the sickness circulating at the moment, which makes perfectly respectable people, such as my aunt, throw up in a stranger's garden.

I did not win Lotto. There seems to be a glitch in the system.