I should have been in bed an hour ago!

So, I stopped writing in this because I thought it was just a way Mum could nag me and worry about me. But then I missed writing in it, and besides, Samantha wants me to continue =D
So I'm BACK! In black.

I've been waiting to see if I got a job as a receptionist at a (wait for it) fitness and physical rehabilitation centre! I know, I thought it was funny too. But even though I'm not the most avid runner in the world, Dad and Jason have exerted enough energy on those "fitness" things that I feel I have plenty of experience in the area. I went in yesterday for an hour, happened to have a migrane and wasn't myself. So since then, I've been worrying and worrying that they wouldnt hire me based on my glazy-eyed look and inability to remember anyone's names. It's Jim. No, Tim. No... I have no idea. He called today (correction: he was supposed to call this morning, but when he didn't, I called him, then he called BACK) and said the staff liked me and he thought I'd do a good job there, but he wanted to wait one more day to find out more in depth what the girl who will be in charge of me, Jolanda, thought about me. So, I shouldn't be worried, but it's hard, because I hate waiting! I'd rather just have the job! So we'll see.

Rent is ridiculously high this month, Sam says it covers all the bills and we should be set until June or July. I told him Good, because if it carries on like this I won't be able to afford to live here! And it'd be a shame to have to move out. I'm getting quite worried about everything, but if I get this job, at least the assurance that I will have money at the end of the month will ease my fears.

Tonight was a fab night! I went with the Kiwis to Blue Elephant, a thai restaurant in Fulham. THE coolest thing ever, you walk in and they check your coat (for free!), you are greeted by ten bow-ing Thai women (you wonder if they have to be thai to work there, or if they just have to be of any Asian descent because they know most of us can't tell the difference? Or if absolutely anyone (say, me?) could work there!) and taken through the jungle, past the waterfall, over the bridge with the koi underneath, to your table. Then your personal space is wonderfully invaded by a boy placing your serviette on your lap, and they leave you to decide on drinks. Jen and I split a bottle of wine, some of the other girls had glasses of white wine. The problem turned out to be that all of our waitstaff assumed that all six of us were sharing the wine, and that we all needed our glasses refilled without being asked first if we wanted more. So our bottle of wine topped up and refilled others' glasses four times! Which normally wouldn't have beena big deal, except it was a VERY expensive mistake. It happened SO many times! My migrane started to come back. Thai food is also very spicy. If you know anything about me, you'll know that I can't handle spice. None. Nada. Nein. NONE. So finding something I would eat was pretty much a nightmare. And on top of that, it was outrageously expensive! Needless to say, as I crossed that bridge with the koi underneath, I was thinking I'd never come back to Blue Elephant. But then, as we left, each of us was handed a small bouquet of lillies! At least, I think that's what they were; in any case, purple flowers. And in that instant, all was forgiven. I'd go there and suffer spicy food, guard my wine, and spend my money, just to get that flower.

Off we went to the Elk, an unofficial "Canadian Bar" filled with Aussies, as is every where you go in London. I scored one kiss, three times mistaken for a Canadian, and a robot dance. I think we looked pretty intimidating, because not too many guys actually came up to dance in our circle, though lots of them were watching and looking at us. Except Robot guy. He came in the middle of our circle and did the best, nerdiest robot dance I've ever seen! I appreciated him, because he made me feel much better about my dance moves, or lack thereof. There were load of fit guys (as I said, they were Aussies. Aussies are generally pretty fit. And obnoxious. Nobody's perfect) but we went to the Slug and Lettuce anyway, because I was with kiwis, and kiwis love a good Aussie bar.

Of course, I feel insanely uncomfortable in walkabouts and other Ozbars, because I was not blessed to be an Aussie. I may have the passport, but my accent says otherwise. That, and I don't know the music. They listen to rock, Sweet Child of Mine being one of the only I know, but they dont really listen- they YELL along with it. Screw dancing, these Southern Hemisphere-ites only love to yell and point upwards in passionate emphasis. And if you don't know what you're yelling, no matter how passionately you are pointing, you look silly. And finally, the girl to guy ratio was much too even for my liking. MUCH too much estrogen. So, in conclusion, I'm not an Aussie bar type of girl. I only scored one Canadian mistaken identity, and no kisses.

Being mistaken for a Canadian always comes with mixed emotions for me. There's the initial joy that this person thought you were cool, fun and smart enough to be a Canadian. For over here, if you're American you're a Bush-loving, cousin-marrying, Bible-bashing American. If you're Canadian, you're just damn cool. Ay? Yeah. Anyway, after the joy subsides, it's replaced with the awkward feeling that you will have to disappoint this fine person by telling them you are American. Honestly, I always see a look of disappointment in them, like they died a little inside or something. And the final feeling is guilt. Guilt about two things- guilt that I could have let this person happily go on thinking I'm Canadian and noone would have been the wiser (because how are they really going to know- they haven't been to Canada! NOBODY goes to Canada! =D ) and guilt that I shouldn't feel guilt in being American. I should be proud of it. I should wave my flag high, declare that despite what they think, I love King (oops, President) Bush, almost as much as I love Jesus, and that gay marriage is a sin. Oops, sorry, the American-ism got to my brain for a moment. Laura's back now.

So that was my evening. I slowly trudged home in my heels, hoping the arches of my feet didn't break with pain, and when I got home I took about 20 pictures of myself. There is one consistency when I drink- I always take pictures of myself. At some obscene time in the morning I decide I look AMAZING and must capture this moment in time. And then I forget to delete them, so when people ask to look at my pics from the night out, I am forced to explain why there are so many pictures of me with this glazed smile on my face, followed by pictures in the same pose, but with a scowl that makes my jaw look very square, which I had decided was my "sexy" look for the night. And I wonder why I'm single.

Off to the boat races tomorrow. The first doesn't start until 5:15pm (oops, 17:15) which I think is silly because I'm convinced they wont be able to see where they are going after dark! But apparently it's quite the day out! My friends want a repeat of Waitangi Day (Kiwi holiday, basically where we started drinking at 7am and spent the vast majority of the day searching for toilets) but I think I'd like to enjoy this event without alcohol. I know it's a novel idea, it's a bit new and scary for some, but it's comforting and reminds me of home. =)