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.

Homeward bound

I have some goodbye drinks with the Wellington/Melbourne crowd, which was triple radness to the extreme and I realised that I've failed miserably to see some people more than twice in the past year. Stupid old London. Mike dubbed me home from the station on his bike, which was worryingly fun, and we ate fried chicken and watched telly and chortled loudly at midnight, much to Skye's rage (she was trying to sleep). And then I had another round with the Christchurch bunch, sensibly, I thought, an afternooon affair so I'd have time to get home and pack for France. I did get home and pack for France but I was mildly pissed at the time. Good times. Red wine teeth not so hot. Sigh, is so hard being so popular and having to drink so much with so many who adore me.

So Dan and I, like, totally did Toulouse. Failed to eat my own body weight in cheese but probably got reasonably close in drinking my body weight in whisky. The weather was not clement and I'm not a good tourist so there was much sitting inside and watching True Blood, in which little Anna Paquin grows the fuck up and gets to have sex with vampires - a dream come true, no doubt.

Dan and I did manage to leave James' house to get to Carcassonne, a walled fortressy type arrangement, where I saw one of the better torture museums - educational and hilarious. Any century that produces an instrument to torture bad musicians is okay by me (of course, any century that produces nasty instruments to torture women who have sex with the devil is not, so that kind of ruined it all).

We ate some stuff that was yum. Ate more stuff that was yum. Drank semi-dubious red wine with gusto. Met all manner of nationalities, but oddly, very few actual French. All in all, had a thumbs-up time and was completely exhausted from all the telly watching when we got back.

Cue my final night in England. For which Skye'n'Mike'n'I invited Kruse and Bibby (so the old flat was together once more) for a Stratford stylez event of Chinese and zombie porn. It was magnificent. Bibby provided the projector (really, the only reason we invited him) and we ordered far, far too many dumplings, which we still managed to eat most of. Skye'n'Mike thoughtfully made me a t-shirt so I'd remember the good times - it's got a photo of our Chinese takeaway shop on the front. Skye wouldn't let me open the door to the takeaway man in it in case he got offended. And then, with the heating pumped up, it was too hot and they all took off their jumpers to reveal that they, too, had the same t-shirt! Hilarious! Oh, how I shall miss them all. Mike promptly got dumpling sauce on his.

So, a late night and then much pottering around the next day demanding Kruse make my laptop taller than God and twice as pretty and then he manfully carried my pack to the station and plonked me on the tube and I burst into tears because I am good at this, and then I staggered on my way to Heathrow. And then 26 hours and one mildly irked man next to me later (had to keep climbing over him in the plane to get to the toilet) I was home. Twenty-three degrees and I haven't worn socks since. My plan to get off the plane and spend the afternoon napping was dashed by Brandon deciding that there was no time like the present to re-blonde me and I spent the afternoon sitting in his salon catching up on the gossip and complaining about all the couples.

Made some cookies, hung with Ruthie, saw all the lads, and now I'm in welly, crashing at H's. Jess'n'me watched some Real Hot Bitches do their thing last night and now I have to start purchasing some day-glo lycra so we can join in the new year. Probably drank too much bourbon last night as well, but at 6.30am, I'm feeling pretty good. Right. Who wants to give me a job? And some new jeans? I darned mine, but I didn't do so well because the next time I put them on and bent over, well, there was more air on my nether regions than I prefer.

You really can't beat Wellington on a good day.

Almost away laughing

Day three of unemployment. It's starting to take its toll. I am bored. I also have far too much to do and I am ignoring it in favour of watching stuff. I started packing and I have nice pile of shoes in my 'probably shouldn't take home but am all in favour of doing so' pile.

Since it's been a couple of weeks since I last attempted to update my reading audience of six, here is a brief description of my life in November:

Roast with Kruse, Gen and Justin where we get to the bottom of Gen's fisting abilities. Oh the hilarity where words have several meanings.
Em turns 31. Drinks. Get harrassed by locals on the way home from said 31st. Yes, my legs are indeed a stairway to heaven.
Conrad gets a girlfriend! Conrad is smug. Resolve to deflate Conrad.
Quiet drinks with Dan and Nic turn into five bottles. Label for one says it is soft and approachable. Do not feel this way the next day. Must not do again on a school night.
My leaving work drinks, which I didn't want to organise so I gatecrash Mike's, from Sales and Marketing, instead. This goes very well and I end up having conversation with a young whipper snapper, who cannot hold his booze so well, about the supportiveness of different men's underpants. Am told by several workmates they regret not getting to know me better now that they know I am the sort of woman who drinks too much tequila occasionally and gets mistaken for a heroin addict.
The election turns me to the bloody marys (red and green) but to no avail. Instead am cheered by Kruse, Caro, Katie, Gen and Dom and roast lunch and rugby. And then we girly up for a cocktail party at the Skanky Palace (aka Chook and Laura's house). Stop off for a quick pint at Kruse's local. Locals are confused by Kruse's red suit and his bevy of beauties. Gen dances with local eldery crack dealer. She looks stunning (in my dress that we have had to wrap around her about seven times she is that much smaller than me, damn her), the crack dealer less so.
Finally get to the party and fail to recognise Simon, who has had his hair done by Laura and now resembles a member of some Emo band. We talk, we gossip, tell lies and make beer blue. Then Gen and I run away so we can make the last tube - we both have busy Sundays planned. Nerds.
I work on a Sunday.
Last day at work - 50 workmates surround my desk, apparently because I am so popular but we all know they are really just there for the cake. I get nice presents and feel sad so eat more cake than should. Then work till 8 and have satisfaction of finally being the last person to leave the office.
Day one of unemployment - wake up at 6am. Emails from workmate who took over my books start at 8.30am. He will never be as good as me. Spend day in pjs watching Anne of Green Gables and swooning over Gilbert.
Drinks with Em, Conrad and Dan so can say goodbye. Nathan turns up - it's been eight years and he seems to have gained a wife and almost a child. I have not. Conrad still smug about girlfriend.
Day two of unemployment. Em and I go to the British Museum and nerd it up. See favourite vase with Achilles and Penthesileia. We spend 90 minutes admiring stuff and then two hours drinking tea and eating cake gossiping. Much like being back in the university halls.
Day three - am absolutely determined to get up and post some stuff home. Right after trawling in the internet in seach of nothing in particular.

France on Monday. Will attempt to eat own body weight in cheese.

Sometimes these things just happen

Caught up in the excitement of a Saturday night at home, Skye, Mike and I get far too excited about watching Annie Hall and decide that what we really want to do is pretend to be chickens.

In other news, my German workmate offered to marry me so I could stay, which was very kind, if not terribly sincere. His reasoning was that as his country has bombed the bollocks out of Britain and he's allowed to be here, it seems very unfair that I, loyal subject of Liz, should be forced to leave. He is a nice man and together we have completely destroyed an author, which has given us no end of delight - I like to think that he will always remember me as the editor who had the guts to purposely forget a foreword, thus bringing a teetering author to the brink of insanity, which led to nasty letters allowing us to break a contract. Unfortunately, I shall remember it as my biggest boo boo to date. But with such a satisfactory outcome.

With only three weeks of work left it is with a great deal of delight that I have started agreeing to some outlandish requests from commissioning editors and authors, safe in the knowledge that I will not have to see them through to fruition. But I shall miss the gang - we've become so close the last few months as we've given each other the flu, in a continuing vicious cycle where one of us gets better only to catch it again from someone in design a month or so later. We compare symptoms with gusto, warning the American that his turn is next. He laughs in the manner of someone who does not yet believe. His time will come.

Socially, there have been drinks, some cocktails, some thefting of condiments that I had nothing to do with, unless you count the fact that the getaway vehicle used to transport the goods was my handbag, some watching of reality tv, which has just led me to hate everyone on the telly, and quite a lot of eating stuff. It's autumn: time to eat and get the all-important layer of plumpness needed to protect one from the chill of London. Which I shall then magically shed when I get home. I just need to lay a trap for the pixies in the backyard so as to get my hands on some fairy dust, which, when applied correctly, works in a similar manner to a gym workout. But way faster. Like overnight. I know it's true, I read it in Cosmo.