My wisdom teeth are making their presence known. I wish they wouldn't, as it's not at all necessary.
But, other, more important issues have arisen lately, namely, being identified as a possible pervert at the local library.
I have been to our local library four times. On each of those occasions I have ventured into the children's section to try to obtain all the Harry Potters, so I can read them in order and in under seven years, as well as reread, as I do most years, Arthur Ransome, Noel Streatfield and L M Montgomery. Yes, I rather like children's books. I never before thought this was much of an issue. But on Sunday I was informed that unless I was accompanied by a child, I was not allowed to be in the children's section. I went very red when I realised why. The librarian kindly said I could stay, but that she would have to hover by me. This made me feel worse - and concerned - I mean, what if I were operating with someone else? I'd distract the librarian and they'd go and chat up the kids with cool talk about Pokemon or whatever it is that the munchkins are into now. The previous times I've been in the children's section the librarian (a different one) has merely asked how I am - although now, of course, I know that they were probably watching me, and whispering into a walky-talky the entire time.
I slunk out of the children's area and stood in front of the crime section for quite some time, waiting for my face to resume its usual pink and whiteness. And then felt very cross. And then I stalked home and ate most of a block of chocolate and Skye and Mike and Kruse all laughed at me.
The day before this was the messy Waitangi Day pub crawl in London. Which we didn't do - instead, eleven of us opted for lunch in the sun, several bottles of wine, a few pints and then a few cans for the walk down to parliament where various people show off their national pride by doing the haka. Except we couldn't see anything. Too many drunk Kiwis loitering about. So Kruse and Mike climbed a tree and confirmed that nothing was happening. So we waited. And waited. And drank some more cans and ran into people we had not seen for a bit and then we got bored and realised we'd run out of beer so we left. And found another bar. And then some Chinese. And then another bar. And then some blurry bits and then I caught the last tube home and then Kruse turned up at 9am, having caught the first tube home the following morning. And engaged in some verbalness with football hoodlums about why he was wearing a skirt. All the Kiwis we'd met had congratulated Kruse on his 'skirt' - football hooligans don't seem to know much about Polynesian daywear.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Waitangi Day
I made Anzac biscuits. They were good. My workmates scoffed them down. One workmate ate four - she was having a bad day and therefore 'needed' them. Fair enough. Workmates wished me a 'happy Waitangi Day', which sounds odd, because I don't think anyone has ever said that to me before.
I made an attempt to explain Waitangi Day to a workmate - after which she said 'Well, you're still doing better than the Australians, aren't you'.
Pie and pint had been decided upon as a suitable way to celebrate our national day - so eleven of us met up in town and did so. The pies were not great. The pints were quite acceptable. It was put forward that instead of attending the Waitangi Day Pub Crawl with all the other Kiwis in London this weekend (carnage, by all reports - 8000 very drunk and patriotic Kiwis on the tube is not quite so appealing as it may sound) we would instead opt for a semi-civilised luncheon (which probably won't be that civilised, really) and then join the end of the pub crawl for the haka at parliament. Whether or not we actually achieve this remains to be seen.
Back to my dreams - last night's one had an actual Stairway to Heaven. Oh yes, quite the tourist drawcard. We (me and some of those faceless people who so often turn up in dreams) were being rather scathing about said tourists, but I was secretly thinking 'I want to go and have a looksee'.
In a moment of madness I joined the gym. And then had to suffer through a ridiculous induction that everyone has to go through, presumably so you don't sue when you fall off the treadmill.
'Out of ten, how do you feel when you walk in the door of the gym?'
Quietness. I am pondering, wondering if it is somehow a trick question.
'Ah, seven?'
'Hmm.' Writes it down. 'And how could we make that a ten?'
Thinking hard - Fuck off and leave me be does seem like the obvious answer, but I'm not sure this is what they want to hear. It would probably be a ten if they gave me money for turning up.
In the end I mumble some bollocks about finding winter a bit disheartening so if they could just make it summer I'd probably give them a ten, purely for being on those kind of terms with the magic Weather Man.
I have made the mistake of wearing a tightish T-shirt over the bra that has little beads on the outside of one cup, thus making me look as though I've had an outbreak of warts on one breast.
I made an attempt to explain Waitangi Day to a workmate - after which she said 'Well, you're still doing better than the Australians, aren't you'.
Pie and pint had been decided upon as a suitable way to celebrate our national day - so eleven of us met up in town and did so. The pies were not great. The pints were quite acceptable. It was put forward that instead of attending the Waitangi Day Pub Crawl with all the other Kiwis in London this weekend (carnage, by all reports - 8000 very drunk and patriotic Kiwis on the tube is not quite so appealing as it may sound) we would instead opt for a semi-civilised luncheon (which probably won't be that civilised, really) and then join the end of the pub crawl for the haka at parliament. Whether or not we actually achieve this remains to be seen.
Back to my dreams - last night's one had an actual Stairway to Heaven. Oh yes, quite the tourist drawcard. We (me and some of those faceless people who so often turn up in dreams) were being rather scathing about said tourists, but I was secretly thinking 'I want to go and have a looksee'.
In a moment of madness I joined the gym. And then had to suffer through a ridiculous induction that everyone has to go through, presumably so you don't sue when you fall off the treadmill.
'Out of ten, how do you feel when you walk in the door of the gym?'
Quietness. I am pondering, wondering if it is somehow a trick question.
'Ah, seven?'
'Hmm.' Writes it down. 'And how could we make that a ten?'
Thinking hard - Fuck off and leave me be does seem like the obvious answer, but I'm not sure this is what they want to hear. It would probably be a ten if they gave me money for turning up.
In the end I mumble some bollocks about finding winter a bit disheartening so if they could just make it summer I'd probably give them a ten, purely for being on those kind of terms with the magic Weather Man.
I have made the mistake of wearing a tightish T-shirt over the bra that has little beads on the outside of one cup, thus making me look as though I've had an outbreak of warts on one breast.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Naked
I seem to have been a trifle slack over the past few weeks. No one complained, however, so I didn't do anything about it.
I've had the flu. This has been a particularly unenjoyable experience and has not made me deliciously thin, as so often happens in books. If anything, appetite has gone beserk but, interestingly, only for things savoury. Had very strange week of not wanting any chocolate at all. Was obviously very ill, indeed.
Have had some stranger than usual dreams lately, as well. The best (or worst) involved Chook and me being very fat, naked and hanging out with a talking pig. Last night's dream, where Justin and I were dancing to Milli Vanilli and enjoying it, was much less stressful.
Have celebrated two 36ths and one leaving party in the past few weeks and probably overindulged slightly in the drinks department. During one such evening, Skye and I managed to get off the tube at the wrong place, losing Kruse and Mike, so when we eventually got to Stratford we decided, in our slightly boozed state, that we should not go straight home, where they would very likely gloat about the fact that we made a navigational boo boo, but instead go to the local. This proved to be a brilliant move for our egos, as people tried to chat us up. Hugely cheered by this we charged home and proceeded to have a few more drinks, which in retrospect was not a good idea. Sore head in the morning.
The weather has not been particularly clement. Sometimes it looks as thought it might be and you get all excited and go outside and then find out that it's exceptionally cold and the bra you are wearing shows your nippples.
I've had the flu. This has been a particularly unenjoyable experience and has not made me deliciously thin, as so often happens in books. If anything, appetite has gone beserk but, interestingly, only for things savoury. Had very strange week of not wanting any chocolate at all. Was obviously very ill, indeed.
Have had some stranger than usual dreams lately, as well. The best (or worst) involved Chook and me being very fat, naked and hanging out with a talking pig. Last night's dream, where Justin and I were dancing to Milli Vanilli and enjoying it, was much less stressful.
Have celebrated two 36ths and one leaving party in the past few weeks and probably overindulged slightly in the drinks department. During one such evening, Skye and I managed to get off the tube at the wrong place, losing Kruse and Mike, so when we eventually got to Stratford we decided, in our slightly boozed state, that we should not go straight home, where they would very likely gloat about the fact that we made a navigational boo boo, but instead go to the local. This proved to be a brilliant move for our egos, as people tried to chat us up. Hugely cheered by this we charged home and proceeded to have a few more drinks, which in retrospect was not a good idea. Sore head in the morning.
The weather has not been particularly clement. Sometimes it looks as thought it might be and you get all excited and go outside and then find out that it's exceptionally cold and the bra you are wearing shows your nippples.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Friday, January 11, 2008
Snap, crackle, pop
Bubble wrap. There's no finer invention.
Wet shoes and socks disappeared when I opened up the new heater and found it wrapped in bubbles. My workmates ignored my ecstasy and popping - perhaps they found it distasteful, as if I was masturbating in public (I did have a pretty good smile on my face).
But now it's all popped and I don't think my workmate wants to share the piece of bubblewrap that came with her heater - perhaps she's going to take it home for some private popping.
I've think I'm going to steal her bubblewrap when she goes to the bathroom.
Wet shoes and socks disappeared when I opened up the new heater and found it wrapped in bubbles. My workmates ignored my ecstasy and popping - perhaps they found it distasteful, as if I was masturbating in public (I did have a pretty good smile on my face).
But now it's all popped and I don't think my workmate wants to share the piece of bubblewrap that came with her heater - perhaps she's going to take it home for some private popping.
I've think I'm going to steal her bubblewrap when she goes to the bathroom.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
I might have been wrong
Mashed potatoes might actually be as good or even better than a fresh chicken roll. I realised this last night when I was feeling a trifle peckish at about 10.30pm and opened up the fridge where lo and behold I found a bowl of mash.
The thing about mash, though, is that it's got to be good mash. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has suffered through inferior mash. I make acceptable mash. Kruse makes mash of the gods.
And now, off for a pie and pint with the gingers.
The thing about mash, though, is that it's got to be good mash. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has suffered through inferior mash. I make acceptable mash. Kruse makes mash of the gods.
And now, off for a pie and pint with the gingers.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The big questions
Is there anything better than a chicken roll?
Nothing - except a cask that I found in the supermarket today labelled 'Good French Wine'.
I really, really hope that somewhere else there is a 'Pretty Good French Wine', 'Very Good French Wine' and a 'Manifique French Wine'. And, of course, waiting hopefully somewhere in a cheap booze shop near you: 'Not So Great French Wine', 'Bad French Wine' and Positively Awful French Wine'. Marvellous marketing ploy, the use of 'good'.
But, yes, Christmas. It started off well, the week leading up to it, with me dodging calls from copy-editors and authors about commas and whatnot, and Skye and I slugging back the bottle of Moet that someone foolishly left at our party the weekend before. Christmas Eve saw us both attempt a run around the block (me looking remarkably attractive in my shorts-and-t-shirt-over-polypro combo), after which we rewarded ourselves with a lunch at the local. Because we deserved it.
Christmas (in a quaint village with 23 houses) went something along the lines of:
More cups of tea that you can poke a stick at (and why would you want to?)
North-Hamptonshire skittle competitions at the local on Christmas Eve
Christmas morning without my mother asking why won't I and my siblings get up and open our presents and drink this here bottle of champagne (very sadly missed, ma)
Mad English relatives that I am not related to and have never met before insisting on kissing me and giving me presents because I am Mike's Katie's orphaned Kiwi friend
The Queen's message (of course)
Dogs
Learning how to set a table properly English country stylez yet being given contradictory directions from people
Brussel sprouts that didn't make me vomit
Charades
Boxing Day races (won 125 pounds because a horsie fell over)
Boxing Night dinner with more relatives, more booze, more mad games and the exciting discovery of a very good bookshelf and suddenly no more was seen of Penelope until it was home time.
And then I got a Kruse. In defiance of the weather Kruse came out of customs wearing a Panama (technically Ecuadorian) hat and jandals. And nothing else.
That last part is a bit of a fib.
But, no time to apologise for that for we were off for a nauseatingly couple-filled New Year's in the Lake District. Three couples in a lonely cottage next to a lake - obviously there ought to be have been some gruesome murders but, sadly, no. However, there was a pub next door (doesn't sound that lonely at all, does it?). Pub was full of what we'd call trampers and the English call ramblers. Many had dogs. One in particular smelled uncannily of blue cheese.
Speaking of cheese - Caro found a really good horseradish cheese. Thoroughly recommended.
And then we came back to London and Kruse already has talked to people about the prospect of him becoming a nerd again, where he will once again earn about a million more pounds than me and I shall have to console myself with the thought that as long as I really enjoy my job, the money doesn't really matter.
But money buys SHOES.
I think what is so very important about a chicken roll is the hotness of the cooked chicken (which I didn't cook but got from the supermarket so it's undoubtedly full of evil additives and preservatives and cocaine and possibly soylent green) and the freshness of the roll.
Nothing - except a cask that I found in the supermarket today labelled 'Good French Wine'.
I really, really hope that somewhere else there is a 'Pretty Good French Wine', 'Very Good French Wine' and a 'Manifique French Wine'. And, of course, waiting hopefully somewhere in a cheap booze shop near you: 'Not So Great French Wine', 'Bad French Wine' and Positively Awful French Wine'. Marvellous marketing ploy, the use of 'good'.
But, yes, Christmas. It started off well, the week leading up to it, with me dodging calls from copy-editors and authors about commas and whatnot, and Skye and I slugging back the bottle of Moet that someone foolishly left at our party the weekend before. Christmas Eve saw us both attempt a run around the block (me looking remarkably attractive in my shorts-and-t-shirt-over-polypro combo), after which we rewarded ourselves with a lunch at the local. Because we deserved it.
Christmas (in a quaint village with 23 houses) went something along the lines of:
More cups of tea that you can poke a stick at (and why would you want to?)
North-Hamptonshire skittle competitions at the local on Christmas Eve
Christmas morning without my mother asking why won't I and my siblings get up and open our presents and drink this here bottle of champagne (very sadly missed, ma)
Mad English relatives that I am not related to and have never met before insisting on kissing me and giving me presents because I am Mike's Katie's orphaned Kiwi friend
The Queen's message (of course)
Dogs
Learning how to set a table properly English country stylez yet being given contradictory directions from people
Brussel sprouts that didn't make me vomit
Charades
Boxing Day races (won 125 pounds because a horsie fell over)
Boxing Night dinner with more relatives, more booze, more mad games and the exciting discovery of a very good bookshelf and suddenly no more was seen of Penelope until it was home time.
And then I got a Kruse. In defiance of the weather Kruse came out of customs wearing a Panama (technically Ecuadorian) hat and jandals. And nothing else.
That last part is a bit of a fib.
But, no time to apologise for that for we were off for a nauseatingly couple-filled New Year's in the Lake District. Three couples in a lonely cottage next to a lake - obviously there ought to be have been some gruesome murders but, sadly, no. However, there was a pub next door (doesn't sound that lonely at all, does it?). Pub was full of what we'd call trampers and the English call ramblers. Many had dogs. One in particular smelled uncannily of blue cheese.
Speaking of cheese - Caro found a really good horseradish cheese. Thoroughly recommended.
And then we came back to London and Kruse already has talked to people about the prospect of him becoming a nerd again, where he will once again earn about a million more pounds than me and I shall have to console myself with the thought that as long as I really enjoy my job, the money doesn't really matter.
But money buys SHOES.
I think what is so very important about a chicken roll is the hotness of the cooked chicken (which I didn't cook but got from the supermarket so it's undoubtedly full of evil additives and preservatives and cocaine and possibly soylent green) and the freshness of the roll.
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