Better late than never, eh?

Forgive me, reading audience of eight, I couldn't be bothered.

Skye came home from Australia very, very poor but with a house for herself and Mike and a bag of cherry ripes for me.

Kruse got a bit older and I gave him socks. He went house sitting for Caro and Dom and I went round to visit and the cat bit me.

Work is ever so busy and it's all gone to hell and no one knows what the feck's going on. Which means it's a good time for me to come home. So five more days. And then a day buying some Rolexes in Hong Kong (anyone want one?) and then Brandon will meet me at Auckland airport wearing a red carnation so I know what to look for next Monday. Three days in Auckland, one in Reporoa hanging with some cows, raging it up in PN for a week, two days in Wellington buying trousers of the like not seen in the UK, then Christchurch for five days to try out the comfort of Fi's spare room and then Sydney for three nights to see brother Nic and the world's tallest man, Tim. And then home in time for work on 6 May, when I discover that all the books I sent to print before I left have mistakes in them. I am a very good production editor.

We had people over for my birthday brunchy lunchy (featuring asparagus rolls, bloody marys, truffles and fairy bread - all class) and there was a greatdeal of nonsense spoken, a history lesson, cake in face, probably a bit too much booze and all in bed by midnight. Thirty is looking as mature as 24 did.

I finally stretched my jeans to an acceptable fit and I was overjoyed but then they started to smell (hadn't washed them for a very long time) so I had to give them up to the washing machine and now I have to start the whole process all over again. I'm eating a caramello koala in an effort to help with the stretching. And then I'm going to make a huge effort to finish off my third birthday cake - is it cheating if I just lick off the icing? Mad Laura made it and it's awfully good.

I got some very good books for turning 30, and marshmellow eggs from Simon, which went straight into the freezer because that's where marshmellow eggs live. You can't get them here so I'm hoping that people are stockpiling them for me. James bought me coffee machine. I loathe coffee. James knows this. Skye is very pleased with her new coffee machine. I think it's going to have an accident. Those things fall off the bench into a hot oven all the time.

And this morning Skye burst into my room and demanded I look out the window. And despite the fact we started daylight saving last weekend and it's been rather warm all week - it was snowing. Was rather pretty but, oddly enough, when I went outside to take some cheesy photos, it was fecking freezing and my toes got cold.

My toenails are disgusting and I don't know what happened to them. One is definitely bruised, but the others? Perhaps it's winter toenail sadness? They just need sunlight? Or heaps of nail polish.

Oh, and some utter bastard in Bulgaria stole $1000 out of my NZ bank account. Fuckers. Once I'd rung the bank and explained stuff (like the fact that I have never been to Bulgaria and I still have my credit card) and wrote an email to explain more stuff, they rang me back to talk some more. Only they forgot about the time difference.

'Penelope? It's Trudi from the National Bank. How are you?'
'What? Sure. Fine.'
'What time is it there?'
'What time is it in New Zealand?'
'One thirty in the afternoon.'
'Then it's 1.30am here.'
'Oh.'
'Yeah.'
'Did I wake you up?'

And so on. So now I have forms to fill out and eventually I should get my money back. Or rather, I should get my overdraft, which is really the bank's money, back.

More about toilets

I haven't written about public conveniences for some time - this probably has a lot to do with the fact that there aren't many in London. The same with rubbish bins. Too easy for the naughty people to put bombs in them. This makes London awful sometimes. I have carried rubbish for ages and ages and ages and oh you get the idea, looking for somewhere to put it, and not opting for everyone else's 'litter' policy. Litter makes me quite cross. So does really needing to pee and not knowing where the public toilets are because they are secrets known only to the few. I have become one of those people who stride into pubs looking like they're about to order some lager only to swerve into the loos first and then sneak out without actually buying anything.

St Pat's yesterday and Kruse got well and truly into the spirit of things and drank an impressive amount of Guinness. I loathe Guinness for it is all nasty and so on and when I asked for a Guinness shandy last St Pat's in PN, I got the evil eye. Did get my shandy, though. By the time I got home from work, Kruse had had 13 large cans. And also managed to make a very good Irish stew. I had a glass of wine and fell asleep on the sofa. Have become a pathetic drinker. Kruse was still up and drinking at 3.30am, making calls to Ecuador and NZ. He finally came to bed at 4am, and then managed to sleep talk a great deal of gibberish, which seemed to be very important to him at the time, and was the kind of sleep talk that needed someone responding to it else he just kept repeating himself. Gibberishly.

In other news:

Work has suddenly become very busy as I start to take over someone else's books - and it transpires that I have no idea of stuff. However, I shall just fake it until they fire me.

I need to have words with the mothership (you know who you are, Gloria) about texting me at 4am my time. Five o'clock in the afternoon is not a good time to text your eldest daughter, although thanks for the dosh.

I have new red boots. I gave them to me for my birthday because I deserved them.

Penelope out.

Let me eat cake

Cake for breakfast is a rather good way to start one's thirties.
I also finished my first day of thirty with cake - a different one.

So, how did I spend the last night of my twenties? Having a dream I pashed Chuck Norris. Definitely time to leave.

Nearly got hit by a motorbike on the way to work the other morning and was ever so pleased that I managed not to, especially when I got to work and discovered that my underwear was on inside out.

Back to my all-important thirtieth - my workmates gave me flowers and I gave them cake. Win win. Then I skived off early and went to the Tate Modern with Kruse in an attempt to be cultured. And then met up at the pub with Katie to recover. And then went home to have fush'n'chups and Kruse made me a cake and we watched more Twin Peaks and it was all pretty good, really. Points to Ruthie for her T-shirt and Mother for the book of Katherine Mansfield stories. Had completely forgotten about KM, but was reminded by James and requested it for my birthday. Mum says she went into Whitcoulls to ask if they had a copy and the young lass behind the counter said 'Who?'. What are they teaching them in schools these days?

Right -will finish today pondering bananas. I only like them if they're sliced and with something. Disguised, if you will. Had very long conversation with workmates about pros and cons of bananas and other people's weird food 'things'. I looked positively normal in comparison to the baked beans on toast but only a spoonful in the middle and the butter has to be completely melted - no lumps or I'm not eating it, girl.

!

Have been made a permanent production editor - what fun. Although new contract doesn't start until May, allowing me to take three weeks' holiday, which will be spent at home in NZ. Oh, the glories of Palmerston North, once more you will me mine to adore.

All morning I have been receiving congratulatory emails from my workmates, which is nice, however I think I might need to have a word to some of them about their constant overuse of exclamation marks, the use of which makes their emails sound suspiciously as though they were written by 13-year-old girls.

My immediate superior had her hen's night on the weekend and has kindly brought in the remains from her afternoon tea party. I was extremely disappointed to discover that Snickerdoodle cake does not contain any Snickers. False advertising.

Had a particularly bizarre dream that a burglar was trying to steal Skye and Mike's bed. And that Kruse was setting dwarf traps, using pound coins and cask as bait.

The weather has become complete rubbish - it's viciously cold and windy and rainy and it's very hard to concentrate on footnotes when one would much rather be at home in one's jim jams reading Agatha Christie. Or watching Twin Peaks. We've just started the second season and I heart Agent Cooper. Oh, he is such a dreamboat.

As 30 slowly approaches this week, giving me the glad eye over her shoulder and come hither glances that I am incapable of resisting, I ponder the truly important things in life: just how many new flavours have Whittaker's chocolate bars brought out since I've been away? Only five more weeks of not knowing!!!!! All right!!! Look at those exclamation markers go!!!

I have to admit that the main reason I am coming home is that I need a haircut and Brandon is the only person I trust. And I also miss my shoes. And all my clothes. I suspect my father is going to come from work in mid-April to find me buried beneath a pile of dress-up outfits and ludicrous shoes, muttering 'I love you, I love you, please forgive me for abandoning you for so long'.

Nose picking

Nose picking is personal sort of thing and on the whole people do seem to hide that they may indulge in a bit of nose mining. Fair enough. But one brave soul on the tube, a crowded, jostling tube, felt no fear. He was picking with gusto. And then flicking his nose treasures into the crowd. Such kindness. I was too far away to thank him but I think he felt the full force of my mental gratitude as I stared at him intently. And in princely fashion, as befits someone so far above me on the social scale, he closed his eyes and ignored me.

It's all about looks

Had a dream that I was having plastic surgery on my fingers. Because they're so fat, you know.

Have spent the day wading through a sea of references in a bibliography of the damned. Why would anyone use two different systems? And why would any company, especially mine, let an author take in the copyeditor and proofreader's corrections to his own manuscript? Strangely, he's left out anything that he doesn't agree with, but then further on has changed his mind, resulting in chaos.

And the one-kilo block of Dairy Milk is still haunting my desk. I've put it where I can't see it - but I know it's there. And even though it's not dark chocolate, I have given in to it a few times. Just so it feels wanted.

I've met my match

My boss took his children to the Cadbury museum/factory and brought us back a kilo of chocolate, which he has (oddly) given to me for safe keeping, so the thieves from Sales and Marketing don't eat it. A kilo of chocolate is quite heavy. Sadly, it's Dairy Milk - not my favourite, so it probably was quite sensible to give it to me to look after. I really ought to have given him instructions as to what to get (Dark chocolate, DARK), although considering that my jeans are still taunting me with their tightness, perhaps it's just as well.

A quietish weekend - goodbye drinks and dinner for young Cazz, during which I embarassed myself after six pints by trying to talk about adjectives (I don't know why, blame the pints) and then used a verb as an example. Yes. Well done, Penelope. Worst editor ever. Kruse and I then progressed to arguing about grammar and I came to the conclusion that I am awful at explaining things. And perhaps I ought to change professions.

A slight baking semi-disaster when James came for afternoon tea on Saturday. Was lying in bed thinking about going back to sleep to get rid of the persistent headache left over from the night before, next to a lightly snoring, occasionally sleeptalking Kruse who had come in at 9am, again, when Skye texted from her room (the laziness of our house is one of the best things about it) to say I should get up and bake because James was coming to play. To the kitchen - where I made scones and possibly, in my hungover state, put too much baking powder in. The scones rose to a size beyond belief and looked downright stupid. So I cut them all in half to show them I was boss and baked them a little further so they weren't still doughy and explained to all that they'd look better if buried under a layer or two of butter and jam. And, as usual, I was right. And after a few shandies, I didn't care about them, either. And my headache cleared up - shandies are medicinal, you know.

And then some other stuff happened and then we went to bed. The end.