More about toilets

I haven't written about public conveniences for some time - this probably has a lot to do with the fact that there aren't many in London. The same with rubbish bins. Too easy for the naughty people to put bombs in them. This makes London awful sometimes. I have carried rubbish for ages and ages and ages and oh you get the idea, looking for somewhere to put it, and not opting for everyone else's 'litter' policy. Litter makes me quite cross. So does really needing to pee and not knowing where the public toilets are because they are secrets known only to the few. I have become one of those people who stride into pubs looking like they're about to order some lager only to swerve into the loos first and then sneak out without actually buying anything.

St Pat's yesterday and Kruse got well and truly into the spirit of things and drank an impressive amount of Guinness. I loathe Guinness for it is all nasty and so on and when I asked for a Guinness shandy last St Pat's in PN, I got the evil eye. Did get my shandy, though. By the time I got home from work, Kruse had had 13 large cans. And also managed to make a very good Irish stew. I had a glass of wine and fell asleep on the sofa. Have become a pathetic drinker. Kruse was still up and drinking at 3.30am, making calls to Ecuador and NZ. He finally came to bed at 4am, and then managed to sleep talk a great deal of gibberish, which seemed to be very important to him at the time, and was the kind of sleep talk that needed someone responding to it else he just kept repeating himself. Gibberishly.

In other news:

Work has suddenly become very busy as I start to take over someone else's books - and it transpires that I have no idea of stuff. However, I shall just fake it until they fire me.

I need to have words with the mothership (you know who you are, Gloria) about texting me at 4am my time. Five o'clock in the afternoon is not a good time to text your eldest daughter, although thanks for the dosh.

I have new red boots. I gave them to me for my birthday because I deserved them.

Penelope out.

Let me eat cake

Cake for breakfast is a rather good way to start one's thirties.
I also finished my first day of thirty with cake - a different one.

So, how did I spend the last night of my twenties? Having a dream I pashed Chuck Norris. Definitely time to leave.

Nearly got hit by a motorbike on the way to work the other morning and was ever so pleased that I managed not to, especially when I got to work and discovered that my underwear was on inside out.

Back to my all-important thirtieth - my workmates gave me flowers and I gave them cake. Win win. Then I skived off early and went to the Tate Modern with Kruse in an attempt to be cultured. And then met up at the pub with Katie to recover. And then went home to have fush'n'chups and Kruse made me a cake and we watched more Twin Peaks and it was all pretty good, really. Points to Ruthie for her T-shirt and Mother for the book of Katherine Mansfield stories. Had completely forgotten about KM, but was reminded by James and requested it for my birthday. Mum says she went into Whitcoulls to ask if they had a copy and the young lass behind the counter said 'Who?'. What are they teaching them in schools these days?

Right -will finish today pondering bananas. I only like them if they're sliced and with something. Disguised, if you will. Had very long conversation with workmates about pros and cons of bananas and other people's weird food 'things'. I looked positively normal in comparison to the baked beans on toast but only a spoonful in the middle and the butter has to be completely melted - no lumps or I'm not eating it, girl.

!

Have been made a permanent production editor - what fun. Although new contract doesn't start until May, allowing me to take three weeks' holiday, which will be spent at home in NZ. Oh, the glories of Palmerston North, once more you will me mine to adore.

All morning I have been receiving congratulatory emails from my workmates, which is nice, however I think I might need to have a word to some of them about their constant overuse of exclamation marks, the use of which makes their emails sound suspiciously as though they were written by 13-year-old girls.

My immediate superior had her hen's night on the weekend and has kindly brought in the remains from her afternoon tea party. I was extremely disappointed to discover that Snickerdoodle cake does not contain any Snickers. False advertising.

Had a particularly bizarre dream that a burglar was trying to steal Skye and Mike's bed. And that Kruse was setting dwarf traps, using pound coins and cask as bait.

The weather has become complete rubbish - it's viciously cold and windy and rainy and it's very hard to concentrate on footnotes when one would much rather be at home in one's jim jams reading Agatha Christie. Or watching Twin Peaks. We've just started the second season and I heart Agent Cooper. Oh, he is such a dreamboat.

As 30 slowly approaches this week, giving me the glad eye over her shoulder and come hither glances that I am incapable of resisting, I ponder the truly important things in life: just how many new flavours have Whittaker's chocolate bars brought out since I've been away? Only five more weeks of not knowing!!!!! All right!!! Look at those exclamation markers go!!!

I have to admit that the main reason I am coming home is that I need a haircut and Brandon is the only person I trust. And I also miss my shoes. And all my clothes. I suspect my father is going to come from work in mid-April to find me buried beneath a pile of dress-up outfits and ludicrous shoes, muttering 'I love you, I love you, please forgive me for abandoning you for so long'.

Nose picking

Nose picking is personal sort of thing and on the whole people do seem to hide that they may indulge in a bit of nose mining. Fair enough. But one brave soul on the tube, a crowded, jostling tube, felt no fear. He was picking with gusto. And then flicking his nose treasures into the crowd. Such kindness. I was too far away to thank him but I think he felt the full force of my mental gratitude as I stared at him intently. And in princely fashion, as befits someone so far above me on the social scale, he closed his eyes and ignored me.

It's all about looks

Had a dream that I was having plastic surgery on my fingers. Because they're so fat, you know.

Have spent the day wading through a sea of references in a bibliography of the damned. Why would anyone use two different systems? And why would any company, especially mine, let an author take in the copyeditor and proofreader's corrections to his own manuscript? Strangely, he's left out anything that he doesn't agree with, but then further on has changed his mind, resulting in chaos.

And the one-kilo block of Dairy Milk is still haunting my desk. I've put it where I can't see it - but I know it's there. And even though it's not dark chocolate, I have given in to it a few times. Just so it feels wanted.

I've met my match

My boss took his children to the Cadbury museum/factory and brought us back a kilo of chocolate, which he has (oddly) given to me for safe keeping, so the thieves from Sales and Marketing don't eat it. A kilo of chocolate is quite heavy. Sadly, it's Dairy Milk - not my favourite, so it probably was quite sensible to give it to me to look after. I really ought to have given him instructions as to what to get (Dark chocolate, DARK), although considering that my jeans are still taunting me with their tightness, perhaps it's just as well.

A quietish weekend - goodbye drinks and dinner for young Cazz, during which I embarassed myself after six pints by trying to talk about adjectives (I don't know why, blame the pints) and then used a verb as an example. Yes. Well done, Penelope. Worst editor ever. Kruse and I then progressed to arguing about grammar and I came to the conclusion that I am awful at explaining things. And perhaps I ought to change professions.

A slight baking semi-disaster when James came for afternoon tea on Saturday. Was lying in bed thinking about going back to sleep to get rid of the persistent headache left over from the night before, next to a lightly snoring, occasionally sleeptalking Kruse who had come in at 9am, again, when Skye texted from her room (the laziness of our house is one of the best things about it) to say I should get up and bake because James was coming to play. To the kitchen - where I made scones and possibly, in my hungover state, put too much baking powder in. The scones rose to a size beyond belief and looked downright stupid. So I cut them all in half to show them I was boss and baked them a little further so they weren't still doughy and explained to all that they'd look better if buried under a layer or two of butter and jam. And, as usual, I was right. And after a few shandies, I didn't care about them, either. And my headache cleared up - shandies are medicinal, you know.

And then some other stuff happened and then we went to bed. The end.

Teething problems

My wisdom teeth are making their presence known. I wish they wouldn't, as it's not at all necessary.

But, other, more important issues have arisen lately, namely, being identified as a possible pervert at the local library.

I have been to our local library four times. On each of those occasions I have ventured into the children's section to try to obtain all the Harry Potters, so I can read them in order and in under seven years, as well as reread, as I do most years, Arthur Ransome, Noel Streatfield and L M Montgomery. Yes, I rather like children's books. I never before thought this was much of an issue. But on Sunday I was informed that unless I was accompanied by a child, I was not allowed to be in the children's section. I went very red when I realised why. The librarian kindly said I could stay, but that she would have to hover by me. This made me feel worse - and concerned - I mean, what if I were operating with someone else? I'd distract the librarian and they'd go and chat up the kids with cool talk about Pokemon or whatever it is that the munchkins are into now. The previous times I've been in the children's section the librarian (a different one) has merely asked how I am - although now, of course, I know that they were probably watching me, and whispering into a walky-talky the entire time.
I slunk out of the children's area and stood in front of the crime section for quite some time, waiting for my face to resume its usual pink and whiteness. And then felt very cross. And then I stalked home and ate most of a block of chocolate and Skye and Mike and Kruse all laughed at me.

The day before this was the messy Waitangi Day pub crawl in London. Which we didn't do - instead, eleven of us opted for lunch in the sun, several bottles of wine, a few pints and then a few cans for the walk down to parliament where various people show off their national pride by doing the haka. Except we couldn't see anything. Too many drunk Kiwis loitering about. So Kruse and Mike climbed a tree and confirmed that nothing was happening. So we waited. And waited. And drank some more cans and ran into people we had not seen for a bit and then we got bored and realised we'd run out of beer so we left. And found another bar. And then some Chinese. And then another bar. And then some blurry bits and then I caught the last tube home and then Kruse turned up at 9am, having caught the first tube home the following morning. And engaged in some verbalness with football hoodlums about why he was wearing a skirt. All the Kiwis we'd met had congratulated Kruse on his 'skirt' - football hooligans don't seem to know much about Polynesian daywear.