Baking Day: Resurrection

In which Dan and I decide to bring back Baking Day. But we had to have it on a Saturday because we no longer seem to have spare time on weekdays, what with our jobs, hectic social lives, etc. It was decided that Baking Day UK-Stylez probably demanded pie. So pie we did. Good pie. Marvellous pie. Mostly made by Dan. Alex and I watched him and admitted that neither of us had ever seen anyone peel celery before. I made apple pie - it was not as good as Dan's chicken pie but I think I kind of buggered up the pastry owing to Alex plying me with wine. Disappointing lack of people wanting to participate in Baking Day - I suspect they're still terrified that purple death trifle will somehow make a comeback. This is foolish as one cannot find purple death here.

Working backwards over the past few weeks for a moment - I was abandoned by the other ginger twin and am still sulking. And then I ate some Peruvian with Kruse which was great fun especially once I worked out that I sort of understood the waitress. Sort of. And then Roger turned 30 so there were drinks. And then I did some work and then another weekend came about and Amanda was down for the evening so we sampled some wine at a pub and I watched an old man try and chat her up, which was hugely entertaining for me. And then we crashed at her brother's house. He is a chef and, much to my disappointment, had an empty fridge because he eats takeaways mostly. And then I had to wake up a little hungover and work out how to get to Toast NZ where I was meeting Kruse and Caro'n'Dom. This was difficult, made worse by my inability to think but I was only half an hour late and as a reward I got to have steak and cheese pie and L&P and it was delicious. As was the NZ wine and beer that I also partook of. Disappointment of the day was Supergroove - awful accoustics meant we couldn't hear feck all.
I cannot recall if I did anything on the Sunday. I probably cleaned the bathroom and did a white wash.

All of that brings us up to Baking Day, and then roast lunch at Kruse's with Chook and then drinks at the local and then rolling home and being dreadfully tired at work on Monday.

Yesterday I tried to purchase some sensible work-type shoes that are waterproof as it transpires that all my other shoes are not waterproof and this is irksome. But, you know how it is when you actually need something and have the cash - couldn't find shoes that fitted EXCEPT gold sparkly dancing heels which I thought 'Fuck it, I want those' and they were on sale so it makes it okay, but the shop had bloody lost the left shoe of the pair. Oh the cruelty of this situation. So I bought a jacket instead. I sort of needed that as well.

And then I bought a flight home so will be getting to NZ on 25 November.

The new American workmate is settling in well. We have adjusted mostly to the fact that he is a little bit louder than we are used to, and so fucking happy all of the time, which we are still coming to terms with. Clare in design was so suspicious when he asked how she was early one morning, that she turned to him and demanded to know what he wanted. Learning curves for all. His teeth are not nearly white and straight enough though, which leads me to believe that perhaps he spent his teenage years outside of the States as I thought it was mandatory for all Americans to get their teeth done at this stage in their lives. When he leaves the office he says goodbye to all of us by name. And just that little bit louder than what the English deem necessary. I helped him make his first cup of tea - he looked flummoxed at the potential addition of milk. And he told us that he proposed to his wife after watching the Matrix. The poor thing is about to inherit some of my nastiest books, which I was going to try and get as nice as possible before I left but the imp inside says it'll be a good learning curve for him if I don't.

This weekend - it's looking all nice and empty. Which means I can spend that time waiting for Ben to update his blog instead of complaining that I don't update this one nearly enough.

How sick is sick enough?

I managed two hours at work this morning, most of which was spent under either my desk, or my workmate's, or the spare desk that will be filled on Tuesday, not giving out random sexual favours as would no doubt be the case if this blog was an episode of Green Wing, but trying to make the telephone go for the new guy. I think under our desks in my corner is where all the telephones in the building are hooked up. But we managed to only crash one computer in the process - and hey presto, new guy has a phone so he too can be harassed by freelancers needing work and angry authors who have just found an error that needs to be corrected except their book is currently printing.

I have the flu. But I woke up at some ridiculous hour as Skye seemed to be making a great deal of noise, and decided, what the hell, let's go infect some people with my nastiness. Skye, it transpires, was up most of the night vomitting. As I didn't cook last night, this is not my fault. Anyway, after two hours at work, I think all my workmates wanted me to leave, such was the blowing of nose and sounding not so hot. Problem is, I don't really feel sick enough to be at home - however, judging by yesterday's performance at work, where it took me ages to write an email because it felt like I'd been at the cooking sherry all morning, I should not be trying to communicate with suppliers right now. So home, pondering what to read, should I start my proofreading, and just how many litres of orange juice can I possible have? And trying to avoid Skye in case we cross contaminate each other.

There is chocolate and I don't want it. This must be serious.

Pillow fight, pillow fight

For each book I produce I have notes, which I sensibly use to remind myself about aspects of said book. TodayI went to check something as was about to email the author and came across this: 'Author is insane'. Useful.

Last weekend was slightly more energetic/booze-filled/tiring than I had anticipated. The perils of last minute drinks on Friday with Dan, Alex and Nic - this swiftly turned into a Tequila Hunt. For the record, it is hard to find the good tequila on the Strand.
Not enough sleep and then time for luncheon on Saturday at chez Kruse. Only we had to drag Mike away from the telly, which had the Tri Nations on - he is a firm believer that if you yell at the telly, things will get better onscreen.
Kruse lives at Oval - when we left Stratford it was a murkyish day - 30 minutes later when we climbed out of the tube station, Oval was sunny. There was a farmer's market - with cheese, truffles, etc., and we indulged. Got into an accidental conversation about how downloaders are responsible for EFTPOS machines taking so long at the booze shop. To be fair, it wasn't really a conversation, it was a man ranting. The owner, who still had my card, so I had to listen.
And then an afternoon of drinking Lindauer, which Kruse had found somewhere, eating roast lamb and generally talking quite a lot of nonsense - before we toddled to the pub for one last drink because Skye insisted. I was already late for my next appointment, but she's quite convincing when she wants to be. So jagermeister all round. And then again. And then I made a break for it, sensing that if I didn't, I'd never leave. So only made it to Lauren's place two hours late. Just in time for a sleepover. Only, as we were both extremely tired, we managed two drinks, excellent soup, 15 minutes of Labyrinth (David Bowie in tight pants - who wants to miss that?) before we both fell asleep at midnight. There were no pillow fights in beribboned, lacy negligees and definitely no sniffing of each other's hair - as was suggested might happen.

Sunday - I cleaned the bathroom. Lolled some.

And today I handed in my resignation. Eight more weeks and then unemployment looms. But so does New Zealand. And my workmates are envious that going to New Zealand for four months is even an option.

So home in ten weeks - just in time for summer. And a hair cut. Which is the real reason I am coming home. There's no stylist like Bran.

What does worry me is how much it's going to cost to post my shoes home.

Mental note to self

I embarrassed myself quite thoroughly yesterday by not plugging my headphones in properly to the little mp3 gadgety thingy, and consequently most of my tube got to enjoy the Beegees along with me. Until, after about 20 minutes, someone tapped my shoulder and mentioned it. Obviously not a fan of Islands in the Stream.

I also discovered that if, at 3am, you get up to use the bathroom and then remember there is Whittaker's Dark Caramel and you are peckish and you eat some but leave the rest on your dresser then caramel will be everywhere in the morning.

Eternally flaming for you

Another childhood ambition realised: I saw the Bangles live. Am still swooning. Sadly, I also got to watch Peter Andre live. Am not swooning over that at all, but apparently he's still got a scarily large fanbase. And he had three number one hits? I can only recall one, but he kept telling us these other two songs were also number one - although he carefully failed to tell us in what country this occurred in.

Last week I launched an expedition to Edinburgh, safari suited and pith helmeted to the max, to find an Amanda and to see if I could drink more tea than ever before. Successful on all counts. And I also got to attend Retrofest, dressed in a hot pink ra-ra skirt, with matching leather belt and lipstick and a variety of other attractive 80s paraphernalia. I was so hot. As were the many, many people who were wearing 'Frankie says Relax' or 'Save Ferris' t-shirts. Full points to the woman in her late forties who was wearing a black ra-ra skirt that barely covered her bottom, fishnet tights and a white g-string. We saw it all. I watched bits of The Breakfast Club, Top Gun (why do people find Tom Cruise attractive?) and the last hour of Ghost. And stood in mud for several hours watching the likes of Nik Kershaw and Bjorn Again, the Abba tribute band that got the most cheers and dancing drunkards on the day. I queued for toilets, which was not fun. Drank very sweet cider and sat in a sandpit. A mildly intoxicated man dressed in a pink tutu told me my hair (imagine a palm tree sprouting from my head) was the most authentic 80s hair he'd ever seen. Got home at 1.30am completely sober and very tired but pleased to find that my boots were mud-proof. Sadly, the next day I discovered that they are not waterproof. I cannot work out how this can be.

Caught up with Hannah, of working in China at the same school as me fame. We had two hours of snorting with laughter at the bizarre lifestyle we lived there, whilst enduring the worst customer service ever, sadly commited by a New Zealander, eating an absolutely pathetic attempt at pancakes with fruit compote and three sauces. When translated this meant three pikelets, one strawberry and five blackcurrants and, when requested, manky maple syrup. We did not tip.

Last week saw the passing through of many people, en route to a wedding, so there was much catching up and kissing on the cheeks and squealing for joy, and pie and pints. I miss people.

Skye turned 32, so she, Mike and I got gussied up and then ordered in Chinese takeaways and watched the documentary Designer Vaginas. Fascinating topic ruined by the worst presenter ever. And if, at the age of ten, someone had told me that in twenty years, I and Mike, son of my Sunday School teacher, would be watching a programme about ladies' bits, I'd have ... well, probably not done much at all, really, but I might have been suprised.

Out of the mouths of babes

'Shoes are precious, aren't they?'

Overheard being uttered by a small child whilst I was out destroying my credit limit on Saturday. It made me feel all warm inside.

njordskjy

The joys of checking proofs where almost everyone has a Scandavian name and the author has made his revisions in a hurry so I have to translate his handwriting and there are difficult letters such as j next to letters I'm not used to, like, say, d. I cannot guarantee this book will be error-free. In fact, it won't be. But I won't be able to see them because they're in a different language. Won't be as bad as the cover we had to redo (not my error, so hilarious, really) that had Terroism written on it.

But my cold has mostly gone - leaving me with a dodgy nose that generously keeps producing nasal waste at a decent pace and a semi-phlegmy-ish voice if I don't talk for ages, which often means that I answer my work phone with a splutter. It's not husky good - it's husky bad.

Whine of the day. Adult acne. Not fair. When will it go away? Ranty rant rant. Might be time to kick up a fuss and have a tantrum, complete with arms a'flailing and legs a'kicking.