Good things about being a grown up

Cake for breakfast.

Continuing on from the deliciousness caused by Karen and her generousity of DOOM last week, I just spent the rest of the week eating. I am good at eating. I wanted cake, I made cake, I ate cake. And because I made the cake, I know exactly how much butter and sugar I ate.

So, it's like, May. And it's colder at night now - the socks have come out. But it's still ever so lovely during the day and I'm prancing round in a bikini on the beach when I can - you know, because with my hectic life, sometimes I have to do other stuff. I'm just trying to think what that is, because it does keep me busy.

Caught up with Nat and his lovely wife, whom he's knocked up. They also fed me. I waddled home from their place as well. I was also clutching books - I like people who have bookshelves.

And the littlest Whitson turned 30 yesterday. In my head the munchkin is still 12, but apparently she's in her thirties too. Dear God.

You come twice, you pay twice

That's some good 'how this transaction is going to work' advice overheard between a woman (one can only guess at her profession) and a man at a restaurant where Karen works.

Another Monday in Sydney, another marvellous Monday with Karen. The past two she's journeyed over here and slummed it in Manly. Yesterday she went nuts and decided that just because I don't have a job, doesn't mean she can't take me out to lunch at Manly's fanciest restaurant. So she did. A lot of money and four hours later I was slouched in my chair, fancy restaurant be damned, so full of exceptionally delicious food and wine that I did not care what the wait staff thought of my poor posture. I did not want to leave my seat because I was worried the staff would have to roll me out like Violet Beauregarde in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when she ate Wonka gum (that is definitely not a euphemism for anything, all you filth thinkers out there) and ballooned up.

We staggered out. Karen and her loyal steed Betty caught the ferry home and I walked very slowly up the hill home. Home is my new flat, which is just round the corner from Nic, so he can visit for luncheons and whatnot. We have a cat - this was a large part of my enthusiasm for moving in. It's hard to tell who is the bigger affection whore - me or Kitty. She's not so keen on sitting on laps but is more than willing to sit next to you and be petted. Pretty much just like me, really. She's probably a little cuter but I have thumbs so, no competition there.

Still gloriously, gleefully unemployed, thanks for asking. Will endeavour to do something about that this week. Or maybe next week. Will also attempt to not wind up in another lock in at my local pub of dubiousness - although the much, much free beer was very nice, it made walking home with Harriet, clutching the huge meat pack we'd won in a raffle very difficult. We dropped sausages all over the place. The dogs of Manly must have been overjoyed.

Hugs not drugs

I am a hug whore. I'll take them where I can get them. So on Tuesday Nic and I went on a mission to get a very special hug. Hugs from Amma. She's hugged 28 million people and she knows her onions.

We waited three hours to get our hands on this woman. She's pretty good at what she does. People want to hug her badly. So we did. And it was indeed good. I may have cried. I really like hugs.

No job, no flat, but I got hugs. And sunshine. And a scab. But I'm ignoring that. And a bruise that won't go away. But I'm ignoring that too. And possibly a cold but I am giving that serious lack of attention.

Just for Littlejohn who begged for it

Good things about unemployment are being able to spend one's time baking birthday cakes for brothers who hit their middle thirties, and being able to hang out with visitors such as Katie, who graces me with her particularly shiny and lovely presence today, and Travis who used me as time wastage between international flights.

Whilst being used in such a manner we had lunch at a cafe and came across these delightful entries on the menu: cheery tomatoes and trendy beetroot salsa. I can only imagine that depressed tomatoes and uncool beetroot salsa are so last year.

So, anyway, Easter was spent driving 5.5 hours down the coast in search of the perfect wave for Nic, and the nastiest wasp to step on for me. I ate no Easter eggs because this accursed country doesn't have marshmellow ones. Jesus died on a cross so I could have those, damn it.

And I have started reading Grimms fairy tales and have learnt that if I throw frogs at my bedroom wall they'll probably turn into princes. Nic's flatmate unkindly pointed out that until I move out of the living room, I won't have a bedroom wall to attempt this with. No cake for him.

I read a rather good opening line today: 'There was a bird, a mouse and a sausage living together in a house ...' you can't help but read on because you KNOW this living arrangement can't possibly work out.

Mondays with Karen

Other people have Tuesdays with Morrie. I have Mondays with Karen. The first one was for the purposes of catching up on seven years of no-see. It only took five jugs of Pimms to get through the basics, by the end of which I was practically living in the bathroom, such is the inability of my bladder to cope with that much liquid.

So, two weeks in Manly, and what I have got to show for it? A pretty nice tan. Sand in almost everything I own, some bruises from an attempt to learn to surf - not my proudest athletic moment, that one - and no clean or dry knickers because I did a huge load of washing and hung it all out and then it rained. Warmly.

I also did some work for Jessa, where we both went berserk with our red pens and were told we were anal. Given how much we'd let go because of the deadline, we were both a bit surprised by this, but kept on trucking. Because we're troopers. Troopers who drink bourbon in the bath and sing to Icehouse.

Manly Girl Guides. Makes me laugh every time.

Oh, and two references in one week to vajazzling cannot be a good thing. Go on, look it up.

Things that have made my day in Manly

White Lady Funerals - A woman's understanding.

Katie and Pen fail to make a porno

I'm not sure where we went wrong. I mean, we had all the ingredients. Two exceptionally hot women wearing very little in the way of sleepwear, a broken stove, dubious music and the stove repair man. An unattractive stove repair man, which if my knowledge of porn is to be believed, means he's well hung.

He came in, he fixed the stove, he left. Didn't even want a cup of tea.

We're still shaking our heads over how we failed to recognise the potential in this situation. I think we were too busy talking about whether or not to do a load of washing.

We need help.