VISUALISE FENNEL

By the way, Laurence and I are thinking about throwing a party.

The problem is that I live waaaay far out, and the trains stop running at midnight, so it would be kind of difficult to have it at my place. Yes, I know, the housemate would have a fit, but I don't care. He's kept me up every night this week, in spite of interviews. He can deal. I pay rent, I can have a party. And Laurence's place is really tiny. So we're not sure. But we might throw one, mainly so that I can have a good excuse to bake cookies and he can have a good excuse to drink too much and make passes at my friends.

It's very weird living in a city where nobody cooks. I watch television, so I know that people like Jamie Oliver can actually make palatable food, but where do they buy their ingredients? Do you know, in addition to my previous "I CANNOT FIND VANILLA" tragedy, I have found it nearly impossible to come by basic spices. For example, this week, fennel has become the Holy Grail of the pantry.

I did realize why it is that I cannot stand to cook or eat with Peter in the house. It's because he's so invasive when I do it. He stands over me and watches what I cook, asks what I'm making, and clearly wants me to share. It feels sort of like having a garage sale in San Francisco and having all of the homeless people keep coming over and picking through everything and asking if you're going to leave everything that doesn't sell. You feel like there are vultures or something.

And most of the time, I'm just making something to be not hungry, as opposed to making some fantastic meal. I wouldn't make a fantastic meal in front of him anyway, because then he would covet. But if I'm just making rice and putting a tablespoon of curry paste on it for my dinner, I don't want him watching me. It's a very bizarre feeling.

The Office Christmas Party phenomenon over here is really weird. I mean, it's this kind of universal thing, where all of these uptight Brits get madly drunk every year at the Christmas party, and snog in the filing cabinets. I mean, it's this really serious thing--everyone talks about it. Peter was telling me that in his office, the women scope out ahead of time who they're planning on attacking.

He was saying that he's the guy in the office--and every office has one, although I don't think Peter knows this--that always complains about the party, and says that he wishes they would give him the £30 bonus or whatever instead of spending it on this party. And he boycotts it.

So as I was talking to him, he started complaining about the fact that nobody in his office fancies him. It soon became clear that the *real* reason he doesn't go to the party is that he has this vision of everyone pairing off and snogging and him not getting any.

Again, hilarious!

There is some kind of a fire at one of the train stations, which is affecting my commute. Just incidentally. I guess the train station itself isn't on fire, but there's so much smoke that they are worried about people's health.

There's also this really disturbing news story today about this little girl who was tortured to death by her parents. The social services people didn't save her, because they quit going to her house because they were afraid of her parents. I find this appalling. I mean, geez, if you're afraid of her parents, do you think, oh, I don't know, just maybe, their daughter might be in danger from them as well?

Granted, social work is a difficult field, I think. There are instances of people getting involved with parents who aren't actually bad to their kids. I mean, whether or not I agree with spanking, I think there's a definite difference between spanking a child and beating them, and I think it's sad that someone who spanks a child has to worry about maybe having the kid taken away from them. But, geez. That poor little girl.

Well, I'm off to go frolic in the acres and acres of loo rolls in my bathroom. Don't get into any trouble while I'm gone.