Yesterday my crickety karma once again revealed itself as Pip and I tried to understand the financial forecasting model (thrilling I know) over a cheese scone and much coffee at Arabica. Kevin Peiterson was breakasfting with his poptart two tables over. After England ‘won’ the Ashes in 2005, he was heralded as something close to Jesus. Though coverage of his week long bender to celebrate, and even the way he sipped his coffee yesterday, suggests he is actually a bit of a twat.
Last night I was out with corporate lackeys to celebrate the last day at work of a colleague moving across the ditch. Eight glasses of champagne on an empty belly, followed by drunk dialling (stupid phone), means this mornings hangover had to dealt to with a gigantic long black and two hot cross buns slathered in butter. Now praying to Jesus that lack of dinner last night means breaky calories are rendered ‘neutral’.
I’m off to Dunedin this afternoon to nestle in the bosom of my surrogate family. And not drink. And keep an eye out for Paddles :) This weekend will also see me camping. With small people. Jesus.
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