Not the dominant female

It really, really disappoints me to discover that despite being the oldest, the biggest and the tallest woman in my flat, I do not have the dominant vagina. Melissa moved in and my periods went walkabout - apparently her body won the lady bits' wrestling match and I am doomed to follow her. And then Jani moved in and it started all over again. The only time I think I have forced all my female flatmates to dance to my tune was when I was on the pill - and I'm fairly sure I apologised.

This means that I have stormed into the living room in the past and scared poor wee Melissa by pointing an accusing finger at her and demanded 'When is your period due?' I have no doubt that she wondered what kind of flat she'd moved into. Now she just giggles. She knows she has the power.

It's Sunday and the storm just hit. Up here in the Eagle's Nest that is my home in Roseneath we have a perfect view of the rain and wind-battered harbour. Leaving the house today seems like a suicide mission. So I won't be doing it. Instead, I think I have been possessed by demons because after a breakfast of the chocolate fish variety, I cleaned the kitchen. The bathroom is next. Lamb casserole is in the oven and the bananas will be soon be sacrificed in favour of cake. And then the vacuuming. I know, I know, I don't sound well, at all. Last night I was in bed, sober, by 10.30pm. Another raging Saturday night for Lady Penelope. I had, though, just watched five hours of True Blood. It has been suggested that this cannot possibly be as good as BSG. This is rubbish. Don't make me choose between them. I can't do it. They are equally marvellous and shiny. I watch them with different people. With BSG, Oren, Duncan and I mutter 'Frack me'; with True Blood, Morgan and I discuss how Vampire Bill might just be the perfect man. Of course, he's imaginary, which helps immeasurably.

I'm still destroying people's lives on behalf of the man - this brings me no joy but I've started a candy kitty and convinced young Colin to go on the jetplane run - basically I have become a workplace bully who must be kept sweet literally.

Andrew, Morgan and I went to see Morgan's pa perform some of Shakespeare's greatest hits. He was awfully good, but the synopsis provided had us in mild hysteria. Macbeth's started with 'The Macbeths are ...' This was all it took. Who ever describes them as the Macbeths? They sound like the couple next door you never want to ask over for dinner - 'Oh, no, not the Macbeths, he's okay but she's always bitching about something ...'

Friday night was whisky and fondue with the Christchurch posse, plus a few others. This was magnificent - particularly when it was discovered that Will owns a fearsomely large banana.

I might have a nap now. Because it's Sunday, the house is mostly clean and I've hung out my washing - literally, not metaphorically.

Fleeting Extreme Radness

Fleetwood Mac are coming! They totally deserve an exclamation mark. I swoon at the very thought of the Mac and am lolling on my living room carpet listening to them right now. It's just me, a large cup of tea, this charming block of chocolate that insists of smearing itself all over my face, and my broken laptop with the Mac blaring and I'm sprawled inelegantly (who sprawls elegantly? Maybe Coco Chanel would have?) doing the crossword and I am totally relishing being the only one home.

Not that I don't adore my flatmates, who are very good at being flatmates and super rad into the bargain, but it's been a social few weeks and I am rather tickled at the opportunity to be alone - I've been having some good conversations in my head lately and it will be nice to air these with myself openly. If only I wouldn't be so pigheaded sometimes and would just listen to me, I'm sure I'd be doing much better at this game of life.

Eighties dance party last night - I am sore. But I pulled some sweet as dance moves whilst wearing hot pink lycra. And this morning Ruthie and I watched Girls JustWant to Have Fun and got ideas for more dance moves that are guaranteed to make us so many friends on the dance floor.

Still working for the man. I feel like such a traitor.

Oh, and Captain Morgan is back. I sense trouble.

Sex, lies and videotape

There is no sex. That would be the lie. I saw Pump up the Volume a while back on the old video though. Phwoar Christian Slater back in the day.

And it transpires that if the moon is in the right spot and the sausage rolls are just so and I've had just the right amount of Battlestar to get me through till morning, and the Singstar is in a separate room to the rest of the party, then by jingo I'll enjoy it. And I jumped off furniture whilst doing so. Will and Sara throw a good party. Except for the wine thief with pink hair. The act did spark a rather good conversation on the morality of booze thefting at parties - a glass is fine, taking the whole bottle is a no no.

Saw Harry Potter tonight. And the utter highlight was making it through a 2.5 hour movie without having to disrupt my row by stumbling to the toilet in the dark. Go me and my bladder.