Woe is me. I have just had the most delightful email from my friend C which tells of a recent outing had by The Ladies Who Lunch – a loose conglomeration of women for whom a long and largely alcoholic lunch is an annual occurence. And guess what. I’m in Queensland so I missed out. I am assaulted by wild depression, enhanced by constantly having to update and rework this BLOODY poster I’m doing for my boss, and alleviated by the arrival of my Masters In Writing certificate that just arrived by registered post. (Up here, registered post means that the little white car that delivers the mail will lean on it’s horn until you prevail on handyman/boyfriend to run out to the gate as you are still pyjama-clad.)

I digress. The Ladies Who Lunch bloody excelled themselves in my absence *sob* Their lunch went so well and for so long that it then morphed into dinner! I quote:

“Then somehow the sun was setting and it was time to go home – but NO came the cry (especially from the ladies with small children waiting for them), so more pints were ordered, mobile phones were busily engaged in explaining to the various men folk that we had turned into ladies who dinner. Menus where extracted from reluctant waiters who felt it wast time for the ladies to leave, but, as it was clear they were staying the waiters agreed that more food was a good idea.”

The ‘Lunch’ actually went for eight and a half hours, in which time (I must quote again):

“The tally stood at 1 glass of bubbly, 1 stubby, 1 pot, 1 bottle of sav blanc and 22 pints.”

Goddamnit! What am I doing up here?! Oh. Trying to make money on a house. That’s right. Now which would I rather have if I got hit by a bus tomorrow – a hangover from the longest, most gossipy lunch this year, or a house in Queensland that I have to wait until June 2004 to sell? Grrr.