Trophy Wives Anon

New potatoes and hummus. Now I smell a bit garlicky but it was worth it. Not sure my workmates appreciate it, but I don't really care.

So, being the very popular person that I am, last weekend I had two parties and a barbecue to attend. Sadly, this being London, I failed to make it to one of the parties because it was ages away and straightening my hair took somewhat longer than I had anticipated. I had to straighten my hair because we were going to a stereotypes party and trophy wives wouldn't dream of having a haystack on their head like I do most days. I was rather pleased with my outfit. Never before have I had an excuse to wear white denim stretch capris. And a gold bejewelled Grecian tunic. The pink heels are an everyday wardrobe staple, however. I was also accompanied by the ultimate accessory - an ex-husband, resplendent in his tuxedo with lipstick marks on his shirt from other women. I don't think I saw Kruse without a bottle of champagne in his hand all night. Or the next day, as having woken up in our clothes in Chook's bed (me squished in the middle), we carried on carousing to Caro's 30th barbecue. Not enough sleep, more than a little too much booze and we were a trifle tired by 10pm on Sunday night when we finally got home. Work on Monday was downright hard. Probably worse for Kruse because it was his first day.

Yes, that's right, Kruse got a job. And has discovered the joys of the morning rush-hour tube. He is now determined to move somewhere closer so he can walk to work.

Best conversation had all weekend - what does milkshake, as in the milkshake song, mean to you? Great ice-breaker. Some very odd definitions from people, all of whom thought they were right. Best one came from Ebony who apparently once used it in a conversation as a pick-up line. I'm not too sure how you'd manage to make her suggestion look sexy, but, it takes all types.

Dirty old town

Thought de jour is my love-hate relationship with tomatoes. I lurch from adoring them as little, round, red pockets of deliciousness (this really only applies to the cherry variety) to detesting them unless they are somehow disguised, i.e. cooked/pureed/combined with vodka.

But anyway, back to dirty old London. Except I was wrong to fear the weather for it is summer. Twenty-three degrees, I'll have you know. No more wearing of the hated tights or socks - it's sandals forever. Which does mean, unfortunately, that my awful toes must be bared. I've tried to brighten them up/disguise them with nail polish, only there's always one nail that never goes according to plan. I was, actually, feeling a bit better about my icky toes recently. Usually when someone spies them for the first time, as a Pen toe virgin, the comment goes something along the lines of:

'Look. At. Your. Revolting/Scary/Incredibly Unattractive. Really. Long. Toes.'
'Thanks.'

I have been known to mutter something that rhymes with 'luck off' at this point. But in Sydney, Nic's flatmate Dave uttered the words, 'Wow. You have long toes.' I was waiting for the inevitable 'And they are so revolting, how can you live with yourself' comment but it never came. I think it made my year. Admittedly, Dave was hungover and sleep deprived and might not have even been seeing straight but the point is that for the first time in years I felt okay about my toes. Even the one with the possibly rotten nail. Which I have covered in polish and plan to ignore. I was so chuffed with Dave that I let him try on my pink suit as a reward. I wasn't quite so pleased when this resulted in him looking better in it than me. Stupid men and their skinny little girly hips. Try pushing a baby through those.

My 27-hour flight/stopover/flight was non-stop fun. The passenger next to me did not enjoy his trip quite so much as I had to wake him up several times so that me and my bladder of unhelpfulness could traipse to the bathroom. Also, I caught him eyeing up my music selection in the in-house entertainment selection - going by his facial expression he is not a fan of Prince. Or Dolly Parton. Philistine.
On the second leg I got an actual knife to eat with. A steely knife. I looked for a beast to stab but none were forthcoming.

And then customs and ages on the tube and then home and I just threw everything in my pack in the washing machine - books like water, surely - and then fell into bed and had utterly stupid dreams of the kind where you think you're awake and cannot sleep even though you are asleep and when you do wake you're even more exhausted than when you got into bed in the first place.

And then work. I like my job so this wasn't as bad as it could have been and only one book is truly screwed up and it's not my fault although I'm pretty sure I could have prevented the all-out rotten situation that has developed had I only been here. It's the sort of situation that has me wanting to rant about the office with pencils in my nose and ears shrieking 'Amateurs!' whilst tearing up 600-page manuscripts with my bare hands. But this will pass.
I also got to have a five-minute phone conversation with an author of one of my books, only when he introduced himself I had no idea who he was or what he'd written and consequently had to spend the whole five minutes faking it. We both seemed quite pleased with ourselves at the end of it so I must have faked it well.

My workmates were not nearly grateful enough for their Pineapple Lumps/Whittaker's/marshmellow easter eggs/Tim-Tams/Cherry Ripes - in fact, the Pineapple Lumps were universally loathed. I even caught one workmate taking a bite of one and then throwing the other half away when she thought I wasn't looking. The fact that I don't actually like them much myself is, of course, beside the point. Why is the concept of faux-pineapple (4.5% fruit juice, even) and chocolate so hard to accept? It was as though I'd produced a bag of faeces. Chocolate covered faeces.

All the tea in China and where I put it

I think I almost reached my capacity for tea this week - I didn't think it could be done, but, well, we can never predict these things. Once again, I found myself admiring bathroom decor, this time at Fi's new house. I also got to spend most of an evening in James and Teena's bathroom at their new house. These are all nice places and I thoroughly recommend them.

My five days in Christchurch were plum lovely and will need repeating at some point - especially Thursday powersuit luncheon. It was discovered that where size matters - shoulder pads - my pink suit of loveliness was lacking but that Sara's shoulder pads could have doubled as pillows. And there was much seeing of people and places - points to Pete for taking me to Taylor's Mistake so I could see the greenery and sea and feel dreadfully homesick (can you feel homesick if you're actually at home?) and to Fi and George and Gary for their hospitality and general superness - although I did find myself becoming increasingly jealous of their house. I want a house. All the cool kids seem to have one.

I drank far too much on my final night (when will I learn? I thought 30 came with instructions on maturity?) and I can't say that I enjoy flying on a hangover - so will be avoiding doing that again this weekend. However, Jess'n'Debs are in town and they are evil so I can't make any promises.

Am now at Nic's house in Sydney where his flatmate is murdering Knocking on Heaven's Door on the guitar - the fascination first time guitarists have with this song is awful. Right up there with chopsticks and the Entertainer for pianists. There might be a nasty incident with scissors and guitar strings, soon.

Nic's house overlooks the sea and I fell asleep to the sound of waves, which was all nice but I still had awful dreams about runaway wheelchairs. Wheelchairs in my dreams can hit very high speeds and always head for steep flights of stairs. They are, however, not as frustrating as the invisible helicopter dream I have where I always get caught in powerlines.
Nic, for reasons that I cannot explain, warned me not to sleep in the garden. Apparently when he did he woke up with ticks. As you do.

Three more days of holiday - then 27 hours of nastiness on a plane and then work! Fun! Can't wait! Maybe some more exclamation marks are needed here to make me sound more convincing . . . or perhaps not.

My personal war with exclamation marks continues.

But for now I will have another cup of tea (am glutton for punishment) and sit on the balcony in the sun and will not think about what the weather in London is like. Thursday's boozy suggestion of moving to Spain with Sara and Nic looks positively enchanting at this point.

You can't beat Wellington on a good day

It's true. You just can't. You can, however, have the best first view of Wellington (rounding that final corner on the motorway, coming into the harbour) utterly destroyed for you by a ranting bus driver intent on telling his victims/passengers exactly why the lights at Waikanae are to blame for the constant traffic jams on State Highway 1. If only Helen Clark would drive to Auckland - it'd get fixed quick smart, etc.

But I digress. I love Wellington. It is the most beautiful city in the world - it was only with a great deal of self control that I managed to not stroke the pavement/houses/sea/Fin clothing shop with a loving hand. Instead I lavished affection on the smaller sister and gave out hugs to people I know there. And there was much catching up and meeting of people's new special friends (I go away for six months and everyone gets lucky - was it me that prevented this from happening before - was I the blight?). Gen's flat had drinks so I whipped out the gin and made sausage rolls like some sort of adult and proceeded to talk nonsense until 4am with old chums and woke up at 9am to go shopping - with no hangover. Possibly I was still mildly intoxicated - but I prefer to think that I have managed to tame the booze.

And then there were new clothes and the elation that goes with that, which carried me all through waiting for the airbus and the plane to Christchurch and the baggage carousel and falling into Fi's arms, whereupon she said all the right things, such as 'I like your ring, and your shoes, and your jacket', proving once again that we are friends for all the right reasons.

So now Christchurch until Thursday. So far I've been sleeping a great deal, and have managed to seduce Fi's cat into sleeping on my bed, instead of hers - worst night's sleep ever. Cat needs a lot of affection and enjoys kneading one's body with her claws.

I finally got my new credit card and it looks hungry for action so I'd better buy a few more things - just to make sure it works as it should. And I got all my money (overdraft) back from the bank after the bad people stole it in Bulgaria so it's shaping up to be a top week.

On the looking for toilets when desperate front - Fi demonstrated that the law library is pretty good, as is George's mum's house - but only when you can get a park outside it, otherwise the service station round the corner is quite acceptable.

Only one sour note about Wellington - I seem to have fleas. I'm not criticising - just making a note. It could have been a really rampant mosquito, actually. Probably was. I'd prefer it to be that. Yes, that's what it was. Not fleas at all. Ignore that first bit.

Hypothetical question for the week - should one have to go to the baby shower of someone that one cannot stand but is sort of related to? And before my family starts wondering which family member is eating for two - this is not about me for once - just a situation that seems to have arisen for someone else. Should you have to go especially if the mum to be is going to be passively aggressive to one as well? Because you can't slap pregnant women. I was thinking, after watching Good Morning today, where they had a doctor demonstrating a very phallic aid for helping with pelvic muscles after having babies, that perhaps one of these would be a good gift. Given with a saccharine sweet smile and some sort of very pink card. Does this thought make me a bad person? The actual thought made me feel warm all over - but that's not really the point, I suppose.

And I'm blonde again

Thanks to the mighty power of Bran and his scissors and bottles of magic stuff I am now blonde-ish again. And Bran has kindly pointed out that I have clean hair now. I hate Bran. It might be clean but it is also incredibly fluffy and I think I look sort of like a sheep.



Saw the rest of the Auckland gang - there were some drinks, some food, a dubious video of that Canadian who eats dental floss and then does the 'body floss' which made me retch and quite a bit of filth talk - mostly initiated by Demelza. Poor Mark came to visit and was subjected to all this.

Saw Ruthie and her new chum from Ireland. He passed my very poor interrogation and then later I realised that I had forgotten to ask him the most important question of all - how does he feel about canned pineapple?

Having been let down by Auckland's weather, I hired a car and drove to Rotorua to see Angela and Hayden. This was all good, and then it was suggested that we go out to meet Hayden's new lady. Having never been out in Rotorua, I was keen. Angela declined, suggesting, quite sensibly that having been at home sick, if she went out, the rules firmly state that she would have to bump into a workmate. So Hayden and I made sure we were not wearing steel caps and ventured out. And by golly, the effort was worth it. Never before have I seen a man dressed in leather, with a half face moko dance with sequined pom poms. And he wanted to be our friend! It was so my lucky night. However, as midnight approached, and all the university students rampaged in their togas, I decided that perhaps I ought to call it a night. And then, just as I was leaving the bar I saw that they were having a sausage sizzle. Yes! Could my night get any better? I think not. I had two and felt rather satisfied with their white-bready, oniony, tomato-saucy, nasty sausage goodness.

And then I drove to Wellington because that's where the hire car lives. On the way to Wellington I stopped in at the bank in PN so to pick up my shiny new credit card so I could pay for things. Alas, it was not to be. Apparently it had never turned up. So they ordered me another one. To be picked up in Christchurch. That's three credit cards in two weeks. A personal record.

Having thoroughly enjoyed my drive down the island, although I probably scared several people with my driving, I caught a train with Gen back up to PN, to be all family like for the weekend.

Because Gen and I were both home for the weekend and some birthdays have been and gone, we all went out for dinner in our gladrags. Sadly, the meal was not up to standard and dad told the waitress that whoever cooked his potatoes should be shot and could she please at least throw the offending veges at the chef. Shooting people seems a popular choice with the older generation as today my rather charming dentist told me that if waited another four years before I came to see him again, he'd shoot me. My tartar build up had horrified him.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

Hong Kong hides its public toilets very well. Which is awkward when it's all hot and sticky and you drink a lot of water.

But that's okay because I am home now. And it is raining nice NZ rain. (It only seems nice because I am at home. I'm sure this will stop being nice the moment I have to go outside.)

And last night I tried to give Bran, Jase and Demelza food poisoning by cooking roast chicken in Bran and Jase's very badly lit kitchen. Mood lighting, sure. Pinkish chicken? Maybe. But no one complains. And then there are marshmellow eggs, which make everything all shiny.

Am rather tired because despite the stopover and both my flights being under 12 hours, and the fact that each time I had an empty seat next to me for lounging over, I failed to get much sleep - so was wide awake at 3am this morning for quite some time. And then was rudely awoken at 9am by Jase wanting to show me where he keeps his car so I can drive it.

"Drive to the conditions, Pen."
"Uh?"
I was listening, mostly. I was also reeling from inadvertenly getting a whiff of my morning breath.

But I'm almost done watching informercials now - so addictive - so it must be time to do something. Except it's raining. Perhaps going back to bed/mattress on the living room floor is a good idea.

HK

One of the advantages of being an adult is that you get to test those potential lies your parents told you as a child. Like if you don't rest for 30 minutes after eating before leaping into a pool you will get cramp and this will more than likely kill you. And if you eat too many cashews you will feel sick.

I feel sick.

But, if you're going to be ill, why not in Hong Kong? Free internet at the airport - although no access to Facebook as it seems to be classified as a dating site. Fair enough.

My 32 hours in Hong Kong have gone nicely - did some shopping, ate some cashews, got my fill of dumplings for breakfast, which was really the only reason I stopped over, and I paid too much for a hostel room but I was desperate to use a toilet so my negotiating skills kind of disappeared.
However, didn't have to share a room and it came with a TV that didn't work and a toilet/shower combo that entertained me no end, given that was smaller than your average cupboard but yet you could do so much in there at once. Like shower AND brush your teeth. Utter brilliance.

I do seem to have a caught something though, along the lines of a scratchy throat, which is probably the beginning of some romantic tropical wasting disease.

And now - to duty free.