Well, turns out Ben was right. When I took off the hairnet, one hour before we had to leave for the party, my hair did not look fantastic. In fact, it looked pretty bad. I think the hairdresser had failed to take into account the excessive thickness of my hair, as well as the fact that it is already pretty curly to start with. So the whole thing looked like a big mess. Disaster. Vanessa and I fussed over it for a while, combing bits out and spraying various different kinds of goop onto my head, with me growing more and more hysterical as all our efforts only seemed to make it worse. Thought about staying home, but we managed to get it into some semblance of a not-too-terrible hairstyle, with the aid of two cherry bobby pins and copious quantities of shine spray. So I decided to go after all. Reluctantly, I might add. All that wrestling with my hair had left me in a rather terrible mood. To Vanessa and Ben, who witnessed the whole ugly spectacle, apologies. Thanks to Vanessa for being positive throughout my hour-long bad hair tantrum. I'm not sure if I could have been so patient.

Anyway. The party was, as usual, an anti-climax. I drank, ate and forced lots of smiles. The highlight: the platter of miniature cakes and slices delivered to our table after dinner. (This blog ain't called 'the life and times of a girl who likes cake' for nothing). I squealed with delight at the sight of a caramel slice the size of a postage stamp and ingested it joyfully. The miniature friand caused similar excitement.

Ben's big boss told me that he was the 'hero of the company'. A few colleagues boasted about the drugs that they had taken. Why on earth you would waste drugs at your office Christmas party, I cannot begin to imagine. There was a piano in the foyer which Ben and I descended upon for a bit of drunken 12-bar blues. Nicholas, you know the calibre of music-making I'm talking about. A few people were impressed by the fact that I could play 'Chopsticks'. I had a nice long chat to a colleague of Ben's called Aleks, who is a lovely girl. Incidentally, we have matching hair. I ended up with two plates of dinner, one vegan and one vegetarian.

After we got home I was slugged by bone-crushing sadness. It had been brewing for days. I finally managed to get to sleep, fortunately.

The house is currently filled with the smell of mushrooms and garlic. It's pulling me towards the kitchen against my will.

I've just had my hair done a la Marilyn Monroe/1950s housewife, at the old lady salon in Newtown. It was hot and musty in there, with a bizarre smell, old pictures stuck to the mirrors and a bench cluttered with numerous period bottles of styling products. Vanessa came along to watch. The lady had a massive cockatoo and an equally massive cat. The cockatoo seemed rather restless, letting out plaintive squarks from time to time. Lola (the hairdresser) informed us that it was probably because he hadn't had his toast with butter this morning. Reminds me of my mum, who used to give our dog weet-bix with milk for breakfast every morning. I can see why her pets look so well-loved and well-fed. All three of them were very friendly (Lola, the cocky and the cat, that is).

I left with my do bundled up neatly in a hairnet, and endured the journey home on the bus. It was most stressful, what with the constant fear of the breeze ruining my locks, and the curious stares of everyone I walked past. Fair enough, I suppose it isn't every day you see someone walking along with a black-and-white bouffant hairdo. I made it safely home, only to discover that Ben absolutely hates it. I'm not at all surprised, but I still feel completely deflated. I know that I'm not supposed to care, but I do. Very much.

The reason I had it done was for his Christmas party tonight. Now I don't even want to go, if I'm going to be a huge embarrassment. I think I 'll go see the Louisville Sluggers instead. At least my hairdo will be appreciated there.

I really should update this blog during the week, but, for some reason, I can't seem to think of anything to write until the weekends. By then there's just too much. So I'll try to condense my week into the edited highlights.

Christmas Shopping: I had been looking forward to this for the past fortnight. It was the reason I've been toiling away at work, every day. I love buying presents for people, especially for my favourite people. I received a nice fat pay on Tuesday night and left work early on Wednesday afternoon. Obviously I can't say what I bought for everyone, but let's just say I think they will be very happy on Christmas morning. I ran all over the city, securing the perfect gifts, and then headed home with a satisfying number of shopping bags.

The Dress: Finally, a tale of joy in this blog. I was looking for a dress to wear to Ben's Christmas party (having decided that I need a new one, despite the fact that I already have a sizeable collection). I found one in Portmans that seemed to fit the bill. Small, black, tight, etc. It didn't fit too well, but nothing major. It was a bit baggy at the back.
About a week ago, I'd wandered aimlessly into a boutique in the city. And I just happened to stumble upon...THE DREAM DRESS. Black with white polka dots, fitted bodice, big 50s skirt, halterneck with wide-set straps. The Problem: It cost $250. So I left the store without trying it on and tried to put it out of my mind. Such finery was not for the likes of me, obviously.

Anyway. On Wednesday, I was back in Portmans, trying on the other dress and trying to work out whether or not I could ignore the ill-fitting back. I decided that I couldn't and left empty handed. So I decided to swing by that little shop and sneak another peek at THE DREAM DRESS. Not sure why I wanted to this, perhaps to torture myself? Anyway. I walked in, found it on the rack, and looked at the price tag...

It was on sale. Reduced to $99.95. And they had a size 6 left...

And from there it was a blur. Dress fitted perfectly. Ran to bank in a daze. Tried to block out the amount that I was about to spend. Handed over cash with minimal pain. Took dress home. Hung it lovingly in wardrobe. Stroked it occasionally. Considered building shrine to it.

And now I might not even have anywhere to wear it, due to my being a spineless wimp. I'll just have to find somewhere.

(I'm now completely broke. whoops...took me all of 1 day to go from flush to skint)

The Medieval concert: Last night I helped sell programs etc at a concert given by my uni lecturer's ensemble, The Renaissance Players. They put on quite a show..costumes, dancing, the whole bit. There was even audience participation in two of the songs, which I greatly enjoyed, as I don't get much of a chance to get out my classical voice these days. or at least what's left of it, after all the smoking and neglect. At interval I got to stand behind the merchandise stall and look approachable. I was in charge of the T-shirts, however didn't sell any. I think that this had more to do with the fact that they were ugly than my poor sales skills. There was a man reciting poetry, which was kind of fun, however tended to drag on a bit. He recited one poem that consisted entirely of words beginning with the letter C. Clever and amusing, but after 10 minutes I was ready to yell out 'Giddofff!!!!' Overall, an interesting evening.

You know those seedy Indian takeaway places that have curries sitting in bainmaries, usually with a thick layer of orange oil sitting on top?

Is it abnormal for me to find said thick layer of oil extremely offputting?

I've just been informed, in a rather curt manner, that this is 'wierd' and, even better, 'limiting'.

I can't even begin to contemplate the joy, ecstasy and delight that I might be able to experience, if only I could throw off the 'limiting' shackles of my aversion to visible inch-thick layers of orange oil.