The World According To Me

I woke up with a bit of a scratchy throat this morning, which has rapidly escalated into biting pain, just on the left side. I said to a colleague "I wonder if I can see my tonsil and see if it's icky", because I am a bit of a grot at the best of times. I pulled out my hand mirror, opened my mouth and took a peak. Yes! It was most definitely gross. Yellow. And swollen. I couldn't see it very well , so I tentatively poked my finger in my mouth to see if I could touch it.

I clean forgot about the gag reflex until it was almost too late.

The new house is good. No, it's great. The girls and I are settling in, fighting for space in front of the actually-functioning-warmth-producing-heater. I am burning candles and incense like a crazed hippie to try and make the place smell like my own. I have found that it doesn't matter who was living in a house before you, it always smells like 6 nannas and a couple of pops when you move in. I still haven't unpacked everything properly, but will get there. It is amazing how much better your furniture looks when it's against a neutral background, as opposed to crazily patterned carpet from the 1950's.

I had to spend two days last week in Melbourne, learning. It wasn't particularly fun. What was fun was sneaking off to meet with mates in the evening, legitimately drinking ciders on the street (I'm really not adjusting to the no-smoking laws). We got completely mangled in just over 3 hours, which was a fair effort in the circumstances. I then slinked back to the firm's apartment and tried to act straight whilst dropping bits of dressing-covered lettuce from my burger all over my black coat. Classy.

Each time I go into the CBD, I fall back in love with Melbourne a little bit more. The narrow streets and the grime and the noise and the eclectic wonder of everything. Yes, that sounds bumpkin.

On a more personal, let's share everything with the internerd type of note, I finally gave up on my 'it's my body, you can't touch it' campaign of too many months to mention, on the weekend. I'd forgotten how it felt. I'd actually forgotten how it felt. How bizarre. The old riding a bike adage applies, however.

I am tired, disorganised and desperately sick of work. The man who I am supposed to have my babies with* is leaving town and I am quietly devastated. I need me some time off to sleep and regroup and get happy and iron my clothes.

Not that things haven't been happening, oh noooooo, just that I haven't blogged about them. Something about getting a call out of the blue from my ex who was up-to-date in all of my goings on despite us not having spoken in some six months….slightly disconcerting. But I don't want to be put off because I like this here blog. Also I am a narcissist and enjoy rambling about myself.

Moving at the end of this week - hurrah! I cannot tell you how excited/ fearful I am of moving house. I like the idea of having a new space to live in and to make my own, with just my very own memories to colour it. But it's the details of moving, all of the things I am convinced I will forget to do, and the packing and unpacking…if only I could cross my arms and blink in some I dream of Jeannie type of manoeuvre. Yeah, that would be good.

Cute boy of a few weeks ago who I kissed turned out to be a bit of a weirdo/knob. Never mind, found another cute boy to kiss the following week. How great is drunken pashing? It makes me feel young.

Agnes caught me another rat on the weekend. It did not appear to be on steroids as the last one was, but it was big and dead nonetheless. And she barged into the toilet to snook around my feet and purr and let me know that she was pretty bloody pleased with herself. Clever girl she is.

I have taught Lucy how to 'High Five', initially causing her much confusion as the hand signal for 'High Five' is the same as the one I used to use for 'Sit'. She has worked it out now however and patiently indulges me as I still find it amusing.

Esme is still a bit dumb.

Had an overdue haircut last week which has transformed my mop into a sleek curtain of shiny goodness. My miracle worker of a hairdresser took a lot of hair off/out, and I amused myself by collecting the bits that fell on me into a pile on my lap, happily telling him how I could make a wig, before realising that I was very close to compiling a mirkin over the top of the cape. I quietly brushed it to the floor and said nothing else. I am in love with my new hair, as I always am when I get it 'done', except this time there is a flippy bit that is falling over my eyes and causing me to get cross from time to time.

We had our staff reviews last week and mine took one hour which could have been summarised simply by saying "Hey, we love you and we love your work, just not enough to give you a decent pay-rise". I drank heavily on Friday night and once again am having a crisis about wtf I am doing. Not a baaaaad crisis though. I have rediscovered drinking and socialising and that takes the edge off somewhat.