hot and sticky in a not very interesting sort of way

Sydney. Waiting for the plane to be ready for my lolling. Three hours into this whole flying back to London nonsense and I already smell like I've been going for a day. Must invest in a better deodorant.

On the road again

Let me tell you about my toe. You want to know this.

I ripped the toenail back. Not off, just back to a 90 degree angle. I made a sound like a kitten being squished. That was ages ago and the nail is all dead and still not doing what a nail ought to do and still quite the owie. So I've painted it pink. A nice, jolly shade of pink.

So, yes, have been a trifle slack on the updating front, which would lead you to believe that I have a very exciting and busy life. And I do. It is thrilling. It's been a bitchin' summer. Being unable to get my bung toe into sneakers to do exercisey type things has meant I have had to find other ways to fill my days. I drank a lot of tea, had a lot of guests, had not enough sleep on several occasions and then managed to stub my sick toe which had very bad results. And then I was told I had toes like a budgie. I am going to Google budgie toes to check the validity of this statement in a moment.

I have been taking Spanish lessons. I'm not so good at Spanish.

You know, I'm not really 'feeling' this blog tonight. It's not rolling like a homie. So I will end with the fact that I had a delightful trip to Palmerston North to celebrate pa and I turning 99, an enchanting stay in Christchurch where I practised my cackling, a very brief but awfully good fun time in Wellington last night that involved a small amount of violence on the way home as we free hit each other, and am now in Auckland, having had pints with the gang and then a nap because Penelope is no longer 23 and cannot function so well on four hours' sleep, preparing to not enjoy my flight to London on Tuesday.

OLD

I am old. There is port. Port is good when it is old. Ergo, so am I.

Logic possibly not so good right now. Oooh, look at those teaspoons. I should collect them. That's what a spinster would do.

Somewhere, in a parallel universe ...

Penelope actually updates. Sadly, here she has her grubby little hands on a book and is going to sit in bed with chocolate and get crumbs on the sheets.

If I look out my window I can see the shadow of 31, trying desperately to hide behind a lampost, as it hopes to eventually leap upon me and overpower the lesser number 30. I see you, 31. I know what you're doing. And you can wait until I'm good and ready for you.

The neverending story of my bung finger

So in order not to bleed all over stuff I afix a plaster to my finger, which seems quite keen to pump out a great deal of the red liquid that I would quite like to keep in my body because of its magical life-giving properties. I have to raid the first aid kit at work where they only have the superior cloth superglue plasters, none of this childish sticky plaster with novelty images on it nonsense. Unfortunately, I seem to be mildly allergic to the superglue ones, but I wear them anyway, because they are so superior. But they make me itchy, bring me out in lumps, although only where the glue has touched my usually pristine skin, and eventually cause me to peel. They also make my finger somewhat numb. I can use my finger and I can feel through it but it's jolly darn odd. Perhaps this is what wearing a condom feels like?

I work for Internal Affairs, right? The translation section, right? The phone calls we get, disturbing our day as we try to destroy people's lives by not doing their translations properly. (I just stamp them, am not smart enough to be allowed near the dictionaries with their fancy foreign lingo.)
'Can you send cheese to America?'
'I think my rental company is lying to me - can you tell me if they are?'
'What's shadow in Yugoslavian? That's what we want to name our dog.' (They did at least have the right department, but . . .)
'I have a forklift license - do you have any vacancies?' (They wanted Tranzlink, not translate)

They just keep coming and it's so hard not to laugh. I've only had one woman shout at me but I have high hopes of many more.

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.