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.