Possibly updating when tired is a bad idea but you've come this far, read on, you poor mofo

Right. Long time, no babbling of the Penelope variety. Forgive me, tiny reading dancers. My home 'puter is entering its teens and I think might have hit the emo stage. Consequently, in revenge for me making it into a desktop (it was an accident, I swear) it is finally taking revenge and now refusing to access the wonderful world of the internets. Basically, it's sulking. If it could, it would be painting its nails black.

So I have my work laptop - which in turn doesn't like me blogging. Probably it senses I should be editing instead. So I've had to steal someone else's magical nerd box to publish this. Please appreciate the lengths I go to to tell you sweet nothings.

Obviously some sort of round up of the past however many weeks is required. I know how you all pine to know the smallest detail of my magnificent life.

In short - went home. Ate a lot. Stayed with many, many people. Will now make a list and grade them.

Hazel - I didn't actually stay at Hazel's exactly, but she did let me use her shower and her iron and gave me cider in the few hours between flying into Auckland and having to go to someone's birthday party. And she gave me a bottle of wine. So far, so good. Hazel has made a flying start - what if it goes downhill from here?

James - In the approximately 11 hours that I spent at James' house I was impressed with the comfiness of his couch. It was also long enough for a Penelope. Extra point for the novelty toilet seat. And for offering me his last tea bag. However, points knocked off for the fact that he left his house at 7am or some such nonsense, and thus did not actually make me a cup of tea with that last tea bag. I refused to make myself a cup of tea and rolled on to the next place.

Brandon - Well, he gets a million points for doing my hair and offering a home to Nic and myself for two nights. And so many more points for suggesting that while we wait for the peroxide to set, we watch Game of Thrones and eat Rashuns. Best hairdresser ever.

Morgan - Has a view out over the bay and Wellington airport. Which means that while I have to work, I do have a better view than usual. However, and this will no doubt seem petty - I keep looking at the bloody view instead of reading reports. Points might have been taken off but then I found the chocolate cake.

Sara - She has kittens! And made Nic and I bacon sandwiches. But then did convince us to watch some programme about fat gypsies at Christmas that involved some weddings.

Jody - She has a cat! And made us fabulous pasta. And might have also watched a rerun of that gypsy programme. It did not improve but, of course, I could not look away.

Robin - Dad has an insane cat. And a magic fridge that is always full of food and booze. And my teddy bear. And a garage full of my stuff that I really ought to do something about but let's face facts, I won't. So many extra points for producing penguins at his work - want a pet one. Daddy says no. Points deducted. Consider stealing one but think customs might make this difficult.

Gloria - Which means Fleetwood Mac and breakfast made for me as if I was 7 and not 33. And many, many cups of tea and feet up with Arthur Ransome. Downside - she was moving and I had to offer to help.

Harriet and her family's bach - I can't blame Ratty for the rain, so shall congratulate her on putting a roof over my head. And the comfortable sofa. And the massive cooked breakfasts. But -that rain. And the local pub that didn't do cocktails (look, I'm a Sydney wanker now, I demand Flirtinis).

Hayden - Homekill venison. Small child and massive dog. Small child throws plate through glass coffee table. Small child falls out of high chair. Small child is utterly adorable and shows me his toy chainsaw and pretends to chop my arm off. Consider stealing him but think Hayden might make this difficult.

Fi - I also can't blame Fi for the quakes. And while I like to think I'm hip with the quakes, it turns out that I do still find them a bit scary in a city with a bit of a rep for big, nasty, killer quakes. However, Fi has a cat that won't get out of bed for a quake that's less than a 6, which is rather spectacular. And she took me shopping, let me work and best of all, let me treat her house as my own. Possibly she regrets that. I'm not very tidy.

While home I also attempted 'networking'. I am not a good networker. The reason I carry business cards in my wallet is so I can put them in bowls in bars to win stuff. I now have several other people's business cards that I must remember to put somewhere else so I don't accidentally put their cards into bar competitions instead of mine. However, it was an enjoyable few hours but I think maybe that was the wine. Which I need to make polite conversation.

Met my editor in Auckland, the lovely Hazel who lets me blog on the website she works for. She shows no signs of regretting this which leads me to conclude that possibly she's a heavy drug user. However, I have now been to her apartment and I swear, she looks clean.

Dripping hot

It's bad sign when you rock up to your 8pm hot yoga session and they announce they're not bothering to turn on the heat because it's already so hot outside that the studio's already at the correct temperature. Actually, over the correct temperature.

Sadness

It's taken me a few months but I've just finished smashing season 7 of the West Wing, which I saw off with fellow fan Karen and far too much cheese and not much wine because concentration is required for all the witty banter. Sweet baby Jesus I will miss it. It's as bad as the obsession Oren and I had with Battlestar. Possibly worse because I watched most of this by myself and therefore went on binges that resulted in my flatmates calling the show my porn - because I'd closet myself in my room for hours and emerge announcing that I loved them all and would lick most of them.

So I need new porn. It's probably going to be Game of Thrones.

However, a reason to leave the house on the weekends has emerged, and that is summer, complete with the Manly girls in their dresses so, so, so very short and their high, high heels they cannot walk in properly but instead adopt a bizarre, pigeon-toed clomp for. Some of the best entertainment around.

Give me a P

A P party in Sydney is quite different to one in NZ, which I imagine is illegal and much less fun. However, a P party over here is also fraught with difficulty, namely, what the phuck to go as? I refuse to hire costumes because it's lame. You can hire parts of costumes, yes, but not the whole thing. That means you're lazy. It also means you can't fall over, trash it, lose part of it or give it away.

For this particular party I dismissed the obvious, going as myself, realised my bank account said I couldn't purchase much in the way of accessories and then realised that with ten of us going, we could probably manage a posse of something. Pirates, as it transpired. Which, I grant you, could sound a bit old hat, a bit so 1998. So we had to throw in another P. Pregnant for the ladies, proctology for the chaps. Because we just happen to have a suitable amount of small cushions and vet rectal gloves lying around the house. A smear of marmite for the gloves, an extra plump to the pillows and we were off. Accompanied by the usual German porn star. There's always one.

As always at such parties there are the people who cannot think outside the square and the women who feel the need to wear as little as possible. I'm sure you could add pirates to that, except we were all up the duff and wearing tights to support said ... duff? So the usual assortment of playboy bunnies, prostitutes, police officers and so on. What became alarmingly apparent quite early on was that apparently a posse of pregant or proctologist pirates was just a few too many p words for the average punter. Consequently most just assumed that we were in fact pregnant or proctologists who had come dressed as pirates. Not even the sight of Ann and I necking back rum stopped some believers. Or the fact Nic is quite clearly not responsible enough to be allowed to wear rectal gloves for any occasion other than a dress up party.

At any rate, eventually people braved the bellies and enquired after our health. I'm not sure I should have lifted my dress to show them my tights straining to contain my cushion but it made for a good photo.

Regret of the night - not convincing the two ladies dressed as Pocahontas to fight it out for number one. Pochahontas A was far, far sexier than the Pochahontas B. Definitely a reason to fight to the pelt knickers.

Important to note - I look quite dashing with a moustache. Maybe I should have given my belly one as well.

Lockjaw

I appear to have been clenching my teeth a great deal in the last 12 hours - in my sleep no less - because today I have quite the sore jaw. The more filthy among you will leap to the first dirt-ridden conclusion and assume I had one hell of a good night. Or my bed partner did at least. WRONG, mofos. I have no bed partner. This is very sad, obviously but right now we're focusing on the fact that I have a sore jaw for no good reason.

I suspect I was clenching my teeth at having had my previous bed partner of one week, the lovely Jody, taken away from me by ... AirNZ. Admittedly, Jody doesn't put out but in her week with me she did cook, clean, snigger, provide port and cheese and discuss her favourite Gary Larson cartoons so she's pretty much perfect.
Apart from the no putting out bit.

I have not yet watched any of the World Cup. My workmates are flummoxed by my blatant lack of patriotism. I, in turn, am flummoxed by the fact I don't want chocolate this morning.

What's hot in China right now

Right. China. It was ace, thanks for asking, and I came back with trinkets and knickknacks and a bit of a muffin top from such things as breakfast coke. I ate more fast food in two weeks than I normally do in two years. I had no self control at meals - and why would I when dumplings and Peking duck and hot pot are on the table? It would be rude to not hoe on in like a four-year-old who's spotted a chocolate bar at a birthday party. Or myself having spotted a defenceless four-year-old holding a chocolate bar.

And now, instead of a long essay about the things I did and how amazing they were, I am going to talk to you about fashion. Every country has its own fashion - over here in Aus, jandals go with everything. Frenchmen look good in cardigans. And in China, women like to wear flesh-coloured ankle high stockings with their heels and skirts. Somewhat sadly for the women of China, despite the stockings being flesh coloured, they are still highly visible. Often they create a sort of ankle muffin top. To my eyes, they actually quite hideous. But I'm certainly no Vogue editor and they are extremely popular so I clearly have no idea about what is hot.

Moving right along. Invisible bra straps. Like the aforementioned ankle stocking - these are not actually invisible. No one looks good wearing invisible bra straps. You merely look as though your underwear is made of some very cheap sort of plastic bag.

Saving the best for last - glasses with no lenses. I loved this. Glasses are tres cool but if you don't need them then all you need are frames! It took us a bit to work out what was going on but a guide confirmed for us that yes, glassless glasses are so in right now. Mostly just among the teens though. Traveling as I was with three wearers of optical help, I was sorely tempted to make Will, Sarah and Tim that much more fashionable but suspected they enjoy being uncool. And able to see.

And that was China. Good times, folks. Good times.

Smashing China

I have a great deal to write about intriguing fashions worn by people in China that I will be attempting to start a craze for here, but something much more important has come up and we need to focus on that instead.

While I was shamelessly touristing round the Far East, a decision was made by my higher ups back here in the Sydney office to terminate the free Tim Tams. I am under no illusions about the 'coincidence' that this decision was made while I was absent. A hunger strike for free biscuits covered in dark chocolate hiding a smooth creamy centre seems a little ridiculous so I think the only way to get round the Tim Tam prohibition is to buy my own - and sell them at an astronomical price to those workmates I know cannot resist. I will, in effect, become a Tim Tam dealer. Already I can see that some co-workers are suffering the shakes from being deprived of their favourite biscuit, so really, I'm being a good samaritan.

In the mean time, RIP breakfast Tim Tam. We had some good times. I'll miss you. There were days where I thought you were the only one who understood.

Signs I'm a corporate wanker

I just spent $9 on a sandwich. Twenty-three year old me is horrified. But likes my dress.

There's lots in a name

This is somewhat belated given the event occured a few weeks back when once again I was watching the rugby. The Super 15 final, which NZ did not win. We'd toddled off to the local for a few drinks and some watching of the big screen. Mainly to get out of the house, to catch a few friends and to soak up the atmosphere - which was, sadly, verging on violent. No actual fisticuffs but there were some angry people out that night. None appeared to be drunk but all were in favour of shouting abuse at the telly, mostly at the ref but also at the Crusaders. One chap, in particular, was very much of the school of thought that says screaming in a crowded pub at the telly is bound to win your team the championship. In fairness, no one stopped him, I think we were all too scared. His team won, for which I was somewhat grateful - he was still muttering in an angry fashion after 'his' victory was assured by the final whistle. His girlfriend sat though the whole thing calmly sipping wine. I'm guessing he does this on a regular basis.

The blokes behind us attempted to be a little more polite in their disgust at some of the moves the Crusaders were showing on the field. One of them shouted 'Don't be a poof, ref', and as we looked at him said, 'Sorry ladies. At least it wasn't the c-bomb'.

And I couldn't help myself from answering with, 'I'd rather hear cunt than poof'.

We left not long after.

I can see that to several people poof is a great deal less offensive than cunt. Cunt 'sounds' harsher to the ear for starters and has a nastier rep, if you will. But if you call someone a cunt, I don't think you're calling them a vagina. You're expressing your distaste for them on some level but it probably isn't specifically in regards to their gender. You can be a good cunt. A total cunt. An utter cunt. A very bad person indeed. But if you call someone a poof you are in effect saying that they're gay - and that it's not a good thing to be gay.

Am I making any sense? Talking out my lady bits?

Points to ponder

I had to work from home last Tuesday because I had what ranks right up there as one of my top ten worst periods of my life (so far). I got to work and then I went back home again, but, like a trooper - took my laptop with me and proceeded to do more work than usual, while scoffing chocolate, being quite ratty to the brotherman and refilling my hot water bottle at regular intervals. I may have also been wearing pyjamas. Anyway, apparently in some Japanese offices you are legally entitled to take days off during your bleedy time - this is separate to your 'normal' sick days. I'm not entirely too sure how I feel about it. On the one hand - days off for bleeding - woot! On the other, galloping on the heels of that chap that lost his job in NZ for making some terrible statements about women and their bodily functions - is it condescending?

'I see you've got your period (I'm not sure how your boss knows this, maybe you have to wear a scarlet letter P?) - you'd better take some time off because you're probably in pain and incapable of working.'

I brought this up with our latest houseguest, Courtney, who said, screw that line of thought and roll with it, baby. Which of course I can't because I'm in Australia. Not Japan. A workmate pointed out that if men had periods, this rule would be mandatory worldwide. Also, a cure for period pain and PMT would have been found years ago.

I wasn't sure what to think. My poor little head was too busy trying to remember how many neurofen you're allowed in an hour.

This was even less fun than a few weeks before when I suddenly had what we shall politely describe as VERY, VERY SORE BOOBS.

They seemed to think they had a period coming, only I knew, in my not necessarily infinite but quite definitely more knowledgeable wisdom, that they did not. Because I'm on the pill and I dictate the bleeding.

I'm not sure why they do this. It's like a phantom period - all the symptoms but no actual period, for which I guess I am grateful, but usually I just get concerned that something is wrong, that I'm with child (lack of sex life suggests phantom baby), as old ladies like to whisper, or some female acquaintance has fucked up my cycle and I've got a two for one deal I didn't ask for and the no actual period is about to become a full-on neurofen popping bloodbath, for lack of a better description.

They're not all like that, in fact, most of them aren't. Afterwards I barely remember them. But all women have at least one nasty period story. They recall them with involuntary body clenching as though this will ward off future visits from the period demon, let's call her Trixie. We talk about periods like old people do about the war and summers of long ago. 'Do you remember the one of '94? That was a shocker. Now these young folk, they've never seen anything like that one. Whew, when I think about how many sanitary pads I went through and that night I had to sleep on 14 towels so as to protect the mattress, it just brings me out in spots thinking about it.'

Men will often leave the room at this point and from the kitchen will come the sound of a bottle being opened and swigged from.

Anyway - it transpired I'd forgotten to take the pill for a few days so actually, it was all my fault. Feck.

Indoctrination complete

I'm watching the State of Origin. Men in tight, tight, oh sweet baby jesus, they're too tight, shorts. A distinct lack of biffo so far.

A wino tried to talk to me about the Super 15 while I was waiting for a bus yesterday. I am concerned I am exuding an air of 'rugby fan', although I can see that complaining about that while watching the State of Origin might not be sensible.

The wino also said that if I got home and my husband or boyfriend hadn't cooked me dinner then I should demand he go out and get me takeaways. I suddenly regretted not having a husband to demand this service of. I want takeaways! Stat! There is a nagging wife buried in me that just wants an outlet.

Won't someone think of the children

Ways to make volunteers for Save the Children laugh in disbelief: When they ask 'Do you like children', the correct answer is 'definitely not'.

A small child had tried to run me over on the pavement moments earlier and I was feeling less than maternal. However, I very much dislike charity volunteers who cannot be content with collecting in a bucket. I will give money to a bucket. I don't to the ones where I have to sign up out of guilt and bullying. It's not that I think the charities don't need more money, it's that I really don't like being bullied into anything and I find an encounter with such volunteers usually ends with me feeling less than charitable.

Basically I'm a capitalist bitch and I need all my dosh to buy more materialistic items I don't actually need.

I gave blood yesterday though so I think I've redeemed myself in my own eyes. Because I dislike giving blood a great deal. Needles! They're for sewing, not sticking in flesh.

The not so silent sounds of me getting dirty with a bagel

I am eating bagel of such deliciousness that I fear a unicorn might have died in the making of it.

Except I made it so I know that didn't happen.

We go on a wine hunt

We found a lot. My gallant companions (Charles and Mary) and I, driven by our not necessarily faithful and definitely quite abusive companion, Tim, went out fully prepared with wallets containing credit cards and mouths ready to sip and spit and make faces behind the backs of dedicated wine makers who do, sadly, spout a great deal of nonsense. So do I, but mine is at least all sorts of nonsense and not just specifically in regards to squashed grapes.

We drank some, we tipped some out, we nodded some, Mary got points for knowing fancy words and I behaved like a spoiled Sydney wanker.

Look - if someone serves you a soy chai latte (my wanky non-boozy drink of choice) and it tastes like coffee and when you complain you are informed that chai latte syrup contains coffee (LIES) I really do think you have the right to be a wanker. I was informed by my wait person that all the shops in Sydney serve chai lattes made from such syrup. It was at this point I uttered, 'I'm FROM Sydney and that's not how chai latte is made there'. Wanker? Yes. But really - it's a chai latte. Not a java chai latte (which Mary kindly looked up on her nerd phone and it's a real thing).

I think we ran away at this point.

Despite that small blip, it was an ace weekend, although Tim failed to get his girly cocktails for the spa and had to make do with dessert wine but I don't really care about Tim so, yeah, it was ace. Nerd conversations abounded, an obscene amount of cheese was hoovered up (there's no polite way to describe how we ate that cheese) and we stayed at a brewery - although that did let us down in the case of the ginger beer. Which was explained to us as being a beer flavoured with ginger - actual ginger mind you, not that other stuff. They also had chilli chocolate porter. Novelty beers sold in champagne magnums? I'll take two please! Which is when Charles and I discovered the folly of waiting until the last moment to purchase crazy beer flavours. They'd sold out of most of them. We gnashed our teeth and pulled out our hair and decided we'd just have to come back again (fabulous marketing ploy).

Things that don't go with wine - toothpaste. The difficulties of wine tasting straight after breakfast.

Warnings I would like to see

Do not touch the white Tim Tams for they are the source of much unhappiness.

Last few updates have all been a trifle food obsessed. Ha - trifle! Oh dear LORD I need to stop finding myself hilarious because I am beginning to suspect I'm not.

Very little of interest aside from food-related happenings has gone down lately - but this weekend Tim and I are escorting Charles and Mary to the Hunter Valley where I have no doubt much wine will be consumed and a fair amount of trash will be talked. WhatI find amusing about the Hunter Valley is that somehow by going to visit wineries, an air of sophistication is given to what is basically the guzzling of free booze, disguised as 'tastings'. We are also staying at some place with a brewery. For Charles, you understand.

And in the best news since my discovery that you can get vegetarian oyster sauce, Nic and Kajal are back and they got me a royal wedding commemorative thimble. I am so touched. Because although I am a spinster, I was lacking a thimble. My tea towel collection is coming along nicely though.

Cooking with failure

Where I manage to fail at the simple task of cooking fish. Inedible and in my bin.

When terribly simple becomes simply terrible

I am a fan of the potato bake. It's simple and delicious and involves cheese. Yesterday, however, after a rather blah day, I decided to zhoosh it up a little. Mainly because we had other veges in the fridge that need devouring. So it became a potato, pumpkin and eggplant bake. Which probably would have still worked but then I decided to add a layer of sliced tomatoes. And then Kajal asked for a layer of peas and at this point it would have been churlish to say no and green is such a pretty colour anyway, no? So in it all went, over went the cheese sauce and into the oven and we wandered away to watch something trashy on the telly because even really sophisticated women such as ourselves occasionally feel the need to stare aimlessly at a box in the corner of the living room.

Some time later I wandered back to check on my precious and discovered after opening the oven that our three smoke alarms all work very well. The bake was overflowing, the oven was smoking, but even more alarming - the delicious cheese sauce had curdled. It was still edible but only really if you managed to forget how a proper potato bake dances on your palate in a saucy and bewitching manner.

Oh god it was so SAD. I can only blame the tomato. Or the peas? Eggplant? I refuse to blame the potato or pumpkin. They are blameless victims. This is even worse than the time I discovered that hot porridge, milk and a kiwifruit are not a delicious combination because chewy milk is never nice.

Food for thought

I gave myself mild food poisoning - mushrooms, why must you turn on me like that, cruel - yet oddly attractive because I know smurfs live in some of you - little bits of fungus?

Since the departure of Nic'n'Kajal, we have tried to use their room as a brothel but no one would come - I think our surf nerd theme, complete with authentic sand and sci-fi/fantasy novels of the non-erotic kind may have not been sexy enough actually. So we allowed a Canadian to come and stay. His name was Ian, which actually makes up part of Canadian, so we just called him that: Canadian. Possibly not very friendly of us, but we made up for that by drinking all his beer. In return he cooked us dinner. My personal favourite was rasagne. Lasagne that needed another layer. What better than leftover risotto? And it was really good, so, hey, I probably shouldn't have mocked it so much. However, he also introduced us to clamato juice, which isn't necessarily a beverage I will be rushing out to buy if I ever make it to Canada, so maybe the rasagne mocking was for the greater good.

Canadian left, and our livers started to recover. Until we let the Chilean move in. Likes a drink does the Chilean. He also cooks well. He made a sort of shepherd's pie, although with hard boiled egg under the mash, which I thought was both odd and disgusting because I see no purpose for hard boiled egg in a perfect world. However, the rest of the pie was delicious. But when I took a piece, the Chilean did tell me that I could add either salt or ... sugar.

Sugar and hard boiled eggs make poisonous mushrooms appear quite attractive.

Less OMG, more OMP

In yet another thrilling example of how I am that much better at just living the dream* than most folks, but especially you, dear reading audience of seven, I have managed to burn myself - which I realise at first may not seem spectacular BUT - I now have a somewhat wonky and 10% incomplete letter P burnt into my left hand. I have no idea how I managed to do this but I am in no doubt as to it being proof that even when I fuck up - I come up trumps.

Also, new informative thing - don't fill up a water bottle in the dark. Because you will burn yourself and then have to go to bed with a both a hot water bottle and a tea towel full of ice, which sort of cancel each other out.

* I am actually not sure I want to live the dream after last night's one where Fi's brother Gary accidentally killed someone by throwing a spade at their head and then we all had to help hide the evidence.

Zombie chick lit - coming your way soon to eat your brains

Nic and Kajal have buggered off to London because they're massive fans of Wills and Kate and they NEED TO BE THERE, MAN. Also, Nic is meeting the family for the first time. Nothing to worry about there, we're a charming family, whatever all those wankers say, and any other family would be overjoyed to have us join them. It saddens me, though, this absence of brother mine and Lady K, because they are a large part of my social life. They are in fact half of my social life so Harriet and Karen need to up their game plan.

However, we can keep in contact via the magic of le phone, and Nic has already expressed his horror at a book topic through this very medium. Book synopsis: About to break up couple go to therapy only to find she has been infected and is a zombie. They must survive and learn to love each other again.

If ever there was an OMG moment, this is it, people. O M G. Where O is not for awesome.

Sweet and very sour

Yes, yes, I know. Two posts in two days. I must be drunk. Or ill. Probably ill because I have just eaten the most godawful biscuit. Two salty crackers with lemon icing placed squarely (no human applies icing in that manner) in between them.

And I only ate it because some utter wanker in my office ate my breakfast Tim Tam and I need my early morning sugar injection and I was pretty desperate. I concede that if I didn't want the last biscuit in the pack to be eaten by anyone other than me, then perhaps I ought to have hidden the Tim Tam until such time as I deemed it necessary to smash said oblong of Not Good For You into my slavering biscuit embracing unit.

It just didn't occur to me when I left the office at the terribly late hour of 5.10pm last night that anyone would be so foolish as to eat the last Tim Tam after that because I have become infamous for eating them first thing in the morning. Clearly the Tim Tams would not be replenished before 8am so what the hell was the Tim Tam taker thinking?

Upside down and inside out

So, as no doubt many other 33-year-old adult women did today, I got to work and discovered my knickers were on inside out.

And then there was a fire drill which was pretty much an excuse to stand about outside in the sun discussing what the different coloured hats on people's heads meant - which is probably not such a good sign given they are the floor wardens/first aid wardens. I should know that stuff. There's just so much stuff to remember as a grown up. And apparently I can't even remember to put my knickers on the right way round which makes me, gosh, I don't know, a really honest dunce?

The Tim Tam or the faux Mellowpuff?

I think I'm almost back to not being exhausted. Turns out a weekend in Melbourne for Skyke's wedding (bloody gorgeous, cried through the whole thing) catching up with a truly ludicrous amount of people and their babies and drinking a very pleasing amount of champagne and whiskey, along with the drainingness that is turning 33 whilst realising that Japan is going through some truly terrible times that I watch on the telly while quaffing pricey booze like some sort of capitalist bitch will totally and utterly shatter me and make me remarkably incompetent at work on Monday.

I followed that up with a weekend of houseguests and our flatwarming/belated birthday spinster party. Which, whilst being terribly awesome, primarily due to the hot French dudes walking around in jeans and my leopard print leotard, as well as the cucumber sandwiches and asparagus rolls and sherry punch available for quenching thirst, was also somewhat tiring. But our houseguests - Debs, Clare, Kruse, Adrian and Steffen - get points for being very, very able with brooms and dishes, and for displaying agility after swilling booze from tea cups. Steffen perhaps gets the most points for waking up at a different house and calling us to say said other house had very nice ferns and he'd be home as soon as he worked out where he was.

Kruse gets slightly less points for making roast lamb because he also beat me at Scrabble. Debs gets no points for winning Scrabble. Adrian can have one point for showing me his third nipple. And Clare can have a few more points for turning up to a party, where she knew no one, gamely wearing scratchy old lady nightwear and actually enjoying the sherry punch - both acts that require a fair amount of bravery.

So, 33. It seems to fit. It also seems to be making me tired and prone to making purchases of items such as sewing machines and food processors. I can only imagine that by the time I finally get to cougar age (only seven more years!)I will have reached my goal of owning 100 cardigans - I currently only have 15.

33. And still eating chocolate biscuits for breakfast.

Home sweet homie

Having just spent two weeks in NZ I have been pondering what home is and whether or not it's greedy to have more than one. Homes, I mean, not houses. I wouldn't mind having a couple of houses to suit my different moods. Somewhere dark and cold for grumpy Penelope to hide in as she sulks and kicks the furniture. On the surface, Palmerston North would probably fit that bill - except it was all lovely and sunny when I went there (I can hear your gasps of amazement from here) so I'll have to find another place to practise my Eyeore impersonation.

But, PN is home. And so is Wellington. And now so is Sydney. Manly, really. Mantown. Where wearing Speedos down the Corso is acceptable. London was home, but it always felt a bit short term. Ditto Xiamen and Homeashil-Dong (I don't think I've spelt that right but it's so bloody small I can't find it on a map). And working backwards we eventually wind up in Christchurch. Home for three years and I when I left I said I could never live there again because we were a little incompatible despite how good we looked on paper - and while that still holds true it didn't stop the tears after the quake. Or the guilt. Having had the good fortune to have flown out of Chch the day before, the feeling of total helplessness and worry has not gone away, despite having received cheerful emails from people there. Who all seem to be making the most of their dwindling booze supplies.

Anyway - NZ is home but once again so is Australia. For reasons I can't explain and cannot be arsed even bothering to look into, Sydney has grabbed me like Melbourne didn't - and I loved Melbourne. Mocked Sydney. It would be rubbish. Like Auckland (another place I'd prefer not to live again - I am picky, no?) but it's not. Oh how my taunts have fallen into tiny little puddles of embarrassment. Although, given I live in Manly, someone is bound to try and drink them.

I was asked if I would move back to Wellington and the answer is of course yes. Because it's, um, home. But I couldn't say when because Sydney is home. But if I have kids would I want to bring them up here, and sweet baby jesus, deal with them having true blue Aussie accents? Which probably suggests that much as I love Sydney, perhaps it's not quite as much home as I think it is ... will learn to embrace the accent eventually I'm sure.

As is no doubt obvious by the nonsensical babble above, I got back to this home from visiting my other home a bit sad and confused. However, I was cheered no end by getting to my new place with Nic, Kajal and Ratty at 10pm to discover the girls had made my bed for me - which given they moved houses without me as well, seemed awfully nice.

However, there is one small snag to our nifty new place - the combination of our wooden floorboards and the baby downstairs. We've been told off twice. Given we're not holding parties, playing footy or using our drum kits, I'm not too sure what we can do about this. We'll get rugs, yes, but basically, four people in an apartment make noise. Maybe I shouldn't have put the washing machine on at 7am this morning.

Birthday this weekend - and I'm spending it doing what spinsters love to do best, aside from eat stale crackers and drink sherry out of tea cups. I'm going to Mike and Skye's wedding. I asked Skye what she wanted for a wedding gift and she replied 'get shitfaced and misbehave'. She's pretty much the perfect bride. Although, as her mother-in-law is my Sunday School teacher, I shall be on my best behaviour - which means I shall try very hard to only talk about polite things (which will be hard as I just read this article about Japanese toilets and I want to ask people about it). I'm pretty sure the other guests, which include my brother, Kruse and Bibby, can provide plenty of excitement though.

The fruit bowl of emotion

Not the grapes of wrath; today I suffer from the pears of disappointment. Actual pears of disappointment, as compared to the small sighs I utter when contemplating my bottom some days.

A mushy pear. Possibly one of the most soul destroying experiences in life. And it looked fine, cunning little pear-shaped seductress of evil. They have powers of deception, do pears. Not too firm, not too soft, they suggest in their enticing and fruity way, and you get sucked in. But the mouthfeel is utter mush. Floury mush. And I think they've contaminated all the other fruit in the bowl because now everything tastes bad and I'm just going to have to eat a Tim Tam instead to get over it.

41 degrees on Saturday. Felt like the inside of a hair dryer, to quote the big brother. And I moved house. It's a temporary move as we look for a place that is neither infested with huntsmen spiders, nor below a herd of water buffalo preparing for their ballet debut at the Opera House. Or up a hill. And close to the beach. And the ferry. With a good kitchen. And decent bedrooms. And flow. Flow is just so important.

And the big hand says it's beer o'clock

Well, it definitely is in NZ. Boozing in the office always feels a spot naughty though. And let's be honest - even though my ability to play pool and speak foreign languages improves dramatically after a few drinks, my ability to edit does not.

And in other news I am having possibly the worst PMT in years. My cousin is staying and she's bleeding (she's going to love that I've blogged that) and despite going on the pill recently to control what I lovingly call the blood tsunami, my lady bits are desperate to join in with hers. As long time and possibly quite sickened readers will know, I have quite the weak vagina. And so the normally happy state of Penelope has been hijacked by the emotion troops with their sharp and pointy javelins of bitchy.

So I'm drinking beer. I know this won't lead to happiness. You know it won't lead to happiness. But I'm going to do it anyway. And later, if Harriet and Carrie are very unlucky, I'll show them that the ingrown nipple hair (which I already showed them on Australia Day Eve) has scabbed over nicely. It's not just my body that hates me. I think the baby Jesus is behind this somehow. Must stop swearing on Sundays.

Let's list again. Like we did last summer

It's time for a list. And what better topic than things I would lick off dead people if encouraged to do so:

Aoli
Guacamole (homemade, none of that store-bought, contains no actual avocado rubbish)
Cashew, brazil and almond butter
Proper mayonnaise
The pate from the restaurant I took Karen to last month that I forget the name of but sweet baby jesus it was some good shit
Champagne spiders
Chocolate icing

For Roxette fans only

I've got the look!

It was Christmas Eve, babe. In the drunk tank that is the Manly Wharf Bar. As I waited to be served, the chap next to me attempted to make flirty conversation. With my breasts.

He opened with, ‘Are you in a gang?'
I’m an honest soul so I answered, ‘No. I’m not in a gang. Do I look like I’m in a gang?’

Apparently I do. Mother will be overjoyed. I don't know why we bothered with private schools. I am informed that I have ‘crazy’ hair and this is an important attribute of being in a gang. And then he asked if I have any tattoos. My denial didn't put him off - and he showed me his.

Roll on one week and it's New Year's Eve and having a cape with an eagle on it did not make me invisible to unattractive men determined to get their New Year's pash. I shudder in recollection.

If anyone would like to join my new gang, which I started this morning, all that is required is a cape. And sarcasm. Crazy hair and tattoos are optional extras. Willingness to debate the Bangles versus Bananarama looked upon highly.