The day of the work party didn’t start well. A cracked tooth meant I was going to have to consume a lot of wine in order to anethetise the offending gaping hole and take my mind off the constant worry of how on earth I was going to fund a trip to the murder house.

Then the cricket was delayed so I couldn’t watch that,  I stalled the beast of a car that I’m looking after  - multiple times - in the middle of busy Newtown traffic, and (predictably) I found a stain on the white top I was wearing.

On the upside though, the sun was shining and there was plenty of fun to be had at the annual reporter’s drinkies at a co-worker’s place in Johnsonville.

I’m a Christmas grinch, but I still love the annual work Christmas party.

Our editorial drinkies take place this weekend and after the stories I’ve heard in the past few weeks of other companies’ shin-digs (think girl-on-girl hair pulling fights, drunken incidents where the cops get called, married co-workers caught together in the loos…), I can only wonder what type of debacles will unfold at our legendary booze-up.

Here are my predictions (best read with a hip-hop tone to cover my horrific attempts at rhyming words, yo):

A is for aspirin - two with a glass of water before bed

B is for boss - the person with whom I’m going to watch what is said

C is for costume - or lack thereof (I was the sole supporter of the idea of having a dress-up party)

D is for dog, the day-after hair of

In just one day my transformation to a true blend of Bridget Jones with a splash of Carrie Bradshaw was complete when I moved in to a house - alone (oh, except for the cat).

I’ve always been a bit of a curtain twitcher.

Call me interested, a snoop, nosey neighbour, whatever - I like to be in the loop of what’s going on in my hood.

Last night I met my neighbours at a meeting to combat the recent spate of burglaries in the street (seven, in a street of about 40 houses!).

We got a flyer through the mail, the second in as many months, informing us of yet another break in and information about the gathering of locals to voice concerns.

It was all very novel, exciting and somewhat scary meeting people I share my street with.

Did they recognise me as the girl who has to get in to her car through the passenger side because I’m too cheap to pay someone to retrieve my broken car key from inside the driver’s door lock?

Or do they think of me as the girl who stumbles out of a taxi, slightly tipsy, and struggles against the strong sea breeze to get up the tower of stairs to my door numerous times a week?

Typical, Google travels all the way to the remote beachside blips around the country, up hill and down blimmin’ dale, and they don’t come to Island Bay.

Hmph.

I was one of what seems like thousands who logged on to Google maps yesterday to check what state their home was in when it was snapped by one of the roving fleet vehicles.

I was let down when I discovered that for some bizarre reason the best part of the south coast was left off like some estranged, embarrassing cousin from Levin is left off a family’s Christmas party list.  

Apparently it was something to do with the weather (couldn’t find a “nice” day to take pics!) but I’m not so convinced; it’s always sunny in Island Bay.

My Dad wants to get a Facebook page, bless him.

At the ripe age of 60-something, he’s a long way off Ivy Bean - Facebook’s oldest living member, aged a sprightly 102-years-old (and with almost 5000 fans!). But it’s fair to say that he’s somewhat out of the target demographic.

I’m all for it. He already gets a somewhat disturbing insight in to my life through this blog, which makes the weekly or fortnightly calls home an interesting and almost redundant concept.

“How’s you leg?” he asked the other day.

“How did you know I had a sore leg?” I quizzed, amazed at his apparent psychic abilities.

“Your blog.”

Oh, right.  At least I know one person is reading it - good old whanau, always there to offer virtual support with the click of a mouse.

I always say I’m “not that much of a Christmas person”. I don’t know why, I suppose it’s an attempt to convince myself that it’s okay to offer - yep, offer - to work on Christmas Day for the second year in a row, and to publicise the fact that I’m not from a ridiculously close family of people who feel the need to live in each other’s pockets.

(First, apologies for the comments that were deleted on the last post, it was a stuff-up, across all of Stuff blogs) 

Saturday was a right-off; a hangover, from what can only be described as a loose and rowdy farewell party on Friday, ensured that I spent most of the day on the couch, watching our cricketers, flailing about like a fish flapping around on the carpet after the tank has smashed.

Because of my dismal Saturday, I had decided that Sunday was going to be extremely productive, starting by switching all the furniture in my room around, just coz.

While doing so, I had to undergo a certain veto process that one does when they are trying to get one’s life in to some type of structure.

So, the blonde v brunette debate got a bit testy, and surprisingly everyone assumed it applied to females only.

No one mentioned boys who dye their hair for whatever reason (what are those reasons by the way? enlighten me…) and everyone fired up. Awesome stuff, give yourselves a pat on the back and jog it in.

Whether you’re a man or woman though, it appears we all have our insecurities, which is why this article made me giggle and spit gluten-free brownie over my keyboard (again).

Finally, like a ripe grape ready to be squished into glorious wine, my Wairarapa cherry has been popped.

On Sunday, I was one of what seemed like millions who descended upon beautiful Martinborough to drink away the day at Toast.

As our bus came over the hill from Featherston, I was given my first view of this mystical place that I had previously referred to as the much-touted promised land (and where all the “cool” people in Wellington go for mini breaks).

Finally, I was going to be one of those cool people.

First stop, Te Kairanga vineyard, where the preferred uniform of the day was a straw hat and not too much else.