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.