OLD

I am old. There is port. Port is good when it is old. Ergo, so am I.

Logic possibly not so good right now. Oooh, look at those teaspoons. I should collect them. That's what a spinster would do.

Somewhere, in a parallel universe ...

Penelope actually updates. Sadly, here she has her grubby little hands on a book and is going to sit in bed with chocolate and get crumbs on the sheets.

If I look out my window I can see the shadow of 31, trying desperately to hide behind a lampost, as it hopes to eventually leap upon me and overpower the lesser number 30. I see you, 31. I know what you're doing. And you can wait until I'm good and ready for you.

The neverending story of my bung finger

So in order not to bleed all over stuff I afix a plaster to my finger, which seems quite keen to pump out a great deal of the red liquid that I would quite like to keep in my body because of its magical life-giving properties. I have to raid the first aid kit at work where they only have the superior cloth superglue plasters, none of this childish sticky plaster with novelty images on it nonsense. Unfortunately, I seem to be mildly allergic to the superglue ones, but I wear them anyway, because they are so superior. But they make me itchy, bring me out in lumps, although only where the glue has touched my usually pristine skin, and eventually cause me to peel. They also make my finger somewhat numb. I can use my finger and I can feel through it but it's jolly darn odd. Perhaps this is what wearing a condom feels like?

I work for Internal Affairs, right? The translation section, right? The phone calls we get, disturbing our day as we try to destroy people's lives by not doing their translations properly. (I just stamp them, am not smart enough to be allowed near the dictionaries with their fancy foreign lingo.)
'Can you send cheese to America?'
'I think my rental company is lying to me - can you tell me if they are?'
'What's shadow in Yugoslavian? That's what we want to name our dog.' (They did at least have the right department, but . . .)
'I have a forklift license - do you have any vacancies?' (They wanted Tranzlink, not translate)

They just keep coming and it's so hard not to laugh. I've only had one woman shout at me but I have high hopes of many more.

Still hurting

In which I prove that I sometimes cannot multitask when not being paid to do so and attempt to slice off the tip of one finger whilst simultaneously trying to chat to Debs, drink gin and chop spinach. A few days later I get another finger with the bread knife and H's kitchen does not improve with blood all over it.
(This is my index finger, without which I cannot do up my increasingly tight jeans, as it's the only one that can get the button to do what it's told. I need this finger and must stop trying to cut it off when distracted and carrying knives.)

In other depressing jeans-related news, I was wearing the freshly washed buggers today, doing some lunges in order to stretch them back into some semblance of acceptable tightness, as compared to what, frankly, is quite unacceptable at the moment, whilst also eating chocolate with my good hand, when they ripped. Again.

I moved. We have views. They don't quite make up for the jeans situation, but they're pretty good. Two bits of sea. Oriental and the other one. I have already pissed off the neighbours with my parking skills. Neighbours nil, Penelope one.

In which Penelope has an owie

I have been covered in bruises for much of the last six weeks. Bruises I got when sober from walking into furniture, tent ropes and things that might not even be there but go bump in the night. The final straw has been the hole in my tooth. It's been there for ages. The dentist said if it didn't hurt then I could wait. So I am waiting, but now, NOW, it's making my cheek hurt, don't ask how, I think I chew my cheek in my sleep. So, dentist on Monday. I love my dentist because he is ever so charming, has lovely soft hands (I quote my dad there) and makes charming and witty chairside banter and if he weren't a million years old I would totally ask him to marry me.

There was karaoke last weekend. There is video footage. My nose is huge.

Bringing it down from within with gin

I am a lackey.

But I am very good at it. I lackey with style and a hangover. Pate sandwiches are quite nice and shiny and help a great deal if you turn up hungover on your third day.

There is no publishing work in Wellington right now. Oh, how I have tried to find some. Whored myself, even. There's work in Auckland, you know. It's like being lured by the devil - one's almost dream job but on the north shore. No fair.

So I am a lackey. It is not difficult but me and admin have never been the best of chums so I've made some spectacular feck ups, but I'm sure Internal Affairs are used to that. I get to play with languages all day. Hindi and Punjabi are just a little too similar for my liking.

As for the Christmas/NY-ness, this was all good and included PN, Chch and Castle Point, a fair amount of sav, bourbon and Lindauer, one hens night, the loss of my Lady Penelope jacket (who nicks a pink nylon jacket with gold buttons, aside from someone like me?), Jess and I enthralling/horrifying Castle Point with our version of the Time Warp, and the utter highlight - taking our overseas visitors home to PN which we assured them was a dubious place at night time and, lo and behold, on a night out we managed to see a chap take off all his clothes and dive onto a pool table.

Am subletting a room at H's - which is ever so convenient on Kent Terrace, even if it doesn't have an outsidey bit. Have restarted the Thursday drinks with the gingers. Prefaced with swimming at Oriental, which is so totally better than a pie and a pint at the pub in London.

Am feeling, however, with the new year madness behind me, that I am somewhat at a loss to explain what I'm doing with my life. I have a nasty case of itchy feet. Am supposed to be at a wedding in London in April, and have the ticket. However, am now supposed to be back here for two weddings and a reunion-type thingy in June/July. Might be a year of loitering about places, wearing big hats and quaffing booze. Which doesn't sound so bad, except I miss my job in London and the prospect of temping for a year, no matter how nice the workmates and how delicious the free fruit bowl, is enough to make one contemplate suffocation by teddy bear.

More importantly, do I need orange shoes? Surely everyone should have at least one pair? Even if they are broke?

Oh, and the gin reference. There has been gin. Have, in fact, gone a little off it.

Sorry about this but

Feck. Long time, no bloggetty blog. Will definitely get round to it soon. Like in about a week when I get back from doing stuff that is more fun than typing.