Do you know what type of flowers these are?

They are HELLO I WORK FOR THE GOVERNMENT NOW flowers. A brand new, better-paying variety, generally given when somebody is going to leave a job where they have to talk to a large number of twats each day for a job where they will hopefully sit at a computer and drink many cups of tea.

That is, for reasons which I am yet to fathom, I have been offered a new job, which I gladly (FEROCIOUSLY) accepted, and I start on the 11th of December.

OMG LOLZZZ!!111111@1!!!!!!

Living in Brisbane during The Ashes is an experience you would be glad to miss. There is a reason for this... well, a few thousand reasons actually, who collectively go by the name of The Barmy Army. Cue the mental imagery of masses of loud British men, singing incomprehensible songs at the same time as guzzling beer, grabbing girls' arses, slobbering, tripping, falling, and acting like absolute tits in general.

John is trying his best to cover up his British accent, and it amuses me no end. The most recent incident to make me giggle:

[In a pub just after lunch for a Booze Break, mid-shopping.]

John: I'll have a pint of cider. Oh, and a glass of water.

[John has been on a health kick lately and is drinking so much water that I suspect he is solely responsible for the Level Four Water Restrictions.]

Randoms at the bar: WOAH! WA-HAY! Water, 'ey?! The Pom's PISSED already! HAWHAWHAWHAW!

He looked sheepish, took his drinks and left. I mean, what sort of comeback can he give? "Actually, I don't even like cricket that much. So there."

We have been gallavanting about the city today thanks to a handy-dandy Myer sale voucher which offers massive discounts on just about everything (thanks to my best mate). And, quite typically, I could not find one thing that I wanted to buy. I managed to get a strapless bra that fits me properly, which I have been meaning to get for ages, but which is largely useless because my ridiculous tan means that I look like I have straps regardless of what I'm wearing.

John, on the other hand, strolled up to me looking very pleased with himself and informed me that he had purchased NINE Christmas presents. Punk! With my encouragement, he bought a new business shirt and HELLO. Boys in tailored business shirts who smell nice could in fact be the best boys in the world.

I hope your weekend was mucho enjoyable, lovely people.

Today we are having a picnic!

• It will be at Mt Coot-tha, and I have decreed that terribly posh wine and food shall be consumed. I am quite set on sipping wine, looking at the view and saying, "oh, I say! What a delightful day!" and such. Though we have no picnic rug to sit on and I will most likely end up covered in grass stains with ant bites all over my rear.
• No news on the job front. I still have a faint hope, especially as the Job Wench called me on a Saturday last time, but I am being very grown-up about the whole thing and haven't chucked a tanty once. I have even applied for another position with Crap Insurance Company which would see me no longer talking to arseholes about insurance but spending my days arsing about and printing off reports and the like. Hurrah!
• John cooked me breakfast this morning, and it was completely awesome until I noticed that it was served on last night's dinner plate.
  
  "There is dried carbonara all over this plate," I said.
  "Oh, I thought you wouldn't mind."
  
  You mean it wasn't a mistake?!?!
  
  "Um. You do realise that I am a girl, don't you?"
  
  Boys. PFFT.
  

Gah. Today is No Motivation Saturday.

Why I should never drink alcohol, Part 453.

God. Damn.

After two pints, I was pleasantly tipsy, but felt compelled to top myself up with approximately three hundred litres of vodka directly afterwards. Jesus. After the first two hours, the rest of the night was a blur and a half and my memory is suffering from more black spots than a teenager's face, mid-puberty, post-chocolate binge.

Things that I do remember:

• Having two glowsticks down my top.
• Accidentally whipping the glassie in the face with said glowsticks, because I was swinging them around like nunchucks.
• My drink being smashed out of my hand on the dancefloor.
• Tripping over said drink several times whilst dancing.
• The drunken wanker who hurled his Coke at us, and walking around with my jeans drenched and brown.
  

To top this off, I apparently danced like a dirty great slut with one of my best mate's co-workers, and while I have a vague awareness of some sort of dancing incident with a member of the opposite sex, I actually have no proper recollection of the event at all. Hurrah!

Oh, wait. Sorry. To top THIS off, I was awoken the next morning by my mobile phone alarm. I started picking it up and slamming it around, frantically trying to hit the button to shut the son of a bitch up, before I was conscious enough to realise that it was actually ringing.

"Herghuh."

"Oh, hello, is this GBE?"

"Ungh."

"This is Important Lady from That Job You Really Want. Did I wake you?"

Ho. Ly. Shit.

Turned out she wanted to get my supervisor's contact details but I convinced her to hold off until she's certain she's going to give me a job. She probably felt sorry for me, because I sounded like I was about to collapse in a hungover heap and DIE. I gave the convincing argument of "How about I DON'T tell my supervisor that I'm desperate for another job when you're not even sure if you want to hire me or not? HMM?"

And then.

I won a dodgy espresso set at work.

The end.

Friday arvo bullet points, hurrah!

• I put myself just a little more in debt a few days ago and now have a TV! and a DVD player! and a stereo! Which is very exciting because I can now throw away my best mate's 23-year old TV that flickered constantly, could hardly ever get any reception and loudly fizzed 95% of the time. Unless she wants it back, of course. And hey! Who wouldn't.
• On this marvellous new TV, I have watched the entire first and second series of Little Britain. I am continually saying "computer says no" and "I'll write the theme toon, sing the theme toon. Duh-do-do-dodo." And on the subject of my newfound love of DVD-watching, I watched the entirety of Pride and Prejudice (the Colin Firth version, is there any other?) on a day off. And then I followed every sentence with "make haste!" and continually slow-mo'd the scene where dear Colin is walking around sopping wet in his (gasp) underclothes. Oh, Mr Darcy! I say!
  
  
  
  
• On a whim, I clicked a link for RSVP. Purely out of curiosity, you see. I pulled up a list of people in the general Brisbane area. I was about to close the page and go back to google to search for rude words, when I spotted somebody I went to high school with. Hello! Five minutes later, and I spotted TWO MORE people, this time former co-workers. And these are just the people willing to publicly post pictures of themselves. I cannot help but think that maybe there is something about me that causes former acquaintances to end up looking for love online. Not that there is anything wrong with it, mind you, but hey! Strange, no? Or is that not strange at all? Is everyone into this RSVP thing?

I am so out of touch.

Aside from my hair being an absolute shit, I managed to look the part pretty well. I even checked my teeth for stray bits of parsley. The handshakes went ok, and when they offered me a drink I confidently accepted.

And then the interview started. Pre-interview, they gave me a sheet of paper with questions on it and I was required to write down my answers. Fair enough. What I wasn't aware of was once I made my way into the interview room and sat down in front of The Panel, I was required to present my answers.

Present! My answers! Present!

"You'll be required to manage your own time," said the Head Panel Chap, gesturing towards a clock leaning up against the wall. "We won't interrupt you."

And then they all sat back and looked at me.

Jesus Fricking Christ.

I guess I'm used to the old-fashioned 'you ask questions and I answer' scenario, because I freaked out. All of a sudden, the frantic scribbling that I'd packed into my initial half-hour meant nothing. It wasn't long enough. It wasn't elaborate enough. It was all stock-standard. Everyone had written the same thing. I was just another name to cross off the list.

To be honest, it went ok. They all smiled encouragingly as I was talking. I managed to make light of my barely-audible teenage girl voice and they all smiled again. And at the end, I kicked arse at the Question Asking bit and it all turned pretty conversational, which I liked.

As one of The Panel walked me out, she asked me how much notice I needed to give at my work, which was probably the most encouraging part of the ordeal. But she was one of those ladies who sees me and decides to immediately adopt me. You know the ones. I'm surprised she didn't lick a handkerchief and start dabbing it at my cheek.

And now I have to wait Two Arsing Weeks. Gah.

So there I was, waiting for something exciting to happen. I was tapping my toes and drumming my fingers and clicking my tongue. And then, the phone rang.

Do you recall a brief mention of a marvelloussuperfantastic job that I had applied for? About a million years ago? I knew that holding my breath wasn't overly smart, because it's government and government folk need frequent tea breaks, but I had pretty much given up hope and was checking my e-mail with the expectation of finding The Rejection Letter.

But the phone rang!

"Your application has been successful, and we would like to arrange an interview time."

OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!

My face flushed and I started leaping about in front of the elevators. And I know I shouldn't be staking my life on this thing because it's only an interview, and we all know that I perform as well in interviews as a large stone with some dirt on it, but hey! Saying 'I'm pretty good' instead of 'I'm mediocre' really does work!

The interview is on Monday.

I must:

• Dress up. Professional, yet feminine. Must look like I could hold my own in a Proper Business Talk yet also twirl my hair and smile coquettishly.
• Shake hands firmly. This is my biggest flaw. I am always so flustered by the thought that somebody could possibly want to shake my hand that I end up with a limp and wonky arm.
• Remember everyone's name. This thing takes place in front of 'The Panel.' I don't want to accidentally refer to Glenn Robbins as Rob Sitch or vice-versa.
• Pretend that I know what I'm talking about. "What do I think of the current business model? Well. I think it's pretty good. Great even! Uh."
• Do. Not. Crack. Crap. Jokes. This is VITAL. There is nothing worse than the uncomfortable silence that follows a particularly dodgy joke. I don't want them to put the 'Unfunny Bitch' stamp on my application and throw it in the bin.
  

Any tips?

Somebody found my blog by searching for 'girl shagging gearknob.' "Gosh, people really are getting quite inventive these days," I thought to myself as I checked to see where I stood in the Google rankings.



What would we do if Google didn't try and work out what we were thinking? A girl SHAVING a gear knob! That's exactly what I need! Thanks, Google.

Adam has posted an interview with me on his blog. He has even left all of the rambling bits in there. Go see!

I'll stay here and wait for something exciting to happen.

Today I had a customer with the first name of Chard.

Potential names for my potential children:

• Legume
• Cabbage
  
• Turnip
• Spinach
• Potato
  

"Go out and play, Potato. Leave mummy with her wine."

Because, hey, it's the In Thing.