I heart my broadband provider. Oh sorry, I mean hate.

Heh. So, it seems I am useless at pub quizzes. Last week’s efforts were something of a wash-out after it because apparent that it was a Hallowe’en themed quiz, and we know bugger all about Hallowe’en. The Fiance redeemed himself with a couple of music questions that to be honest even I would have gotten had I not been in the loo or at the bar for both of them (“Which medieval torture instrument is also the name of a heavy metal group?”); and K saved us from complete annihilation thanks to some knowledge gleaned from seasons one to six of Buffy, but on the whole we were completely rubbish.

Yet, in testimony to my comment below, we still won a prize – in the shape of four cans of Castlemain XXXX. I didn’t even know they still made that. Anyway, our two cans are chilling in the fridge, where they will stay until we either move house or K and I have one of those nights where we consume all the alcohol in the house and resort to desperate measures to get more (limoncello was the tipple of death last time. Skanks.)

I was enormously entertained by the group of people quizzing next to us. It was a group of blokes who gave off an air of smugness usually found in those who have been on University Challenge; and one girl who was very much all about the boobs, and seemed to have a rather bad case of PMS on her hands (“Fine. Don’t listen to me then. No, Dan, don’t even bother. I know I’m right. Just ‘cause you’re all blokes and I’m the only girl…” etc.). Anyway, contrary to their smugness, they only came one above us and stupidly sent the girl up to the bar to get their prize – confident, no doubt, of soon being in the possession of a can of non premium lager each. Ha. She came back with a massive bar of Dairy Milk. The boys all looked like their dogs had died. One of them even said, “That’s the last time we bring her, mate” to the bloke next to him.

Anyway, many apologies for the lack of blogging. The broadband has gone crazy and every time I try and post the net goes down. Bah! After many strange and not wonderful conversations with various buffoons based in Christ knows where, it seems to be on the road to recovery, so I should be around a bit more than I have been.

Not that much though, as all this wedding stuff has suddenly kicked off big style, and for the first time in 14 months I’m starting to panic.

For starters, when we were down at the Australian Embassy the other week I noticed that my passport runs out in April 2007. This is something of a bonus, as my current passport photo makes me look like a Romanian boy. Seriously. I was 17, yet for some reason I have this haircut from hell, and this really sallow skin that I totally do not have apart from in passport photos. For the record, I am also sporting a No Fear T-shirt and massive hoop earrings. Anyway, while the chance to get a new passport and getting to have a Post Office (Post Office? Royal Mail? Consignia? I have no idea any more) official snigger at whatever vile new photo I get taken is a jolly one, I was rather hoping to do this in April next year, when I’ll have a new name and everything. Not the case. To go to Australia and Thailand, one must have at least six months left on it from the time you depart said country. Which means I now have to have literally weeks of fun desperately trying to get a new passport in time. And yes, I know they say it’ll take two weeks. But if I get the bloody thing in two weeks, I’ll be amazed.

The main pisser is that it costs £66! I don’t have a spare £66 lying around for sensible things, for God’s sake! Well, I would if I stopped smoking and stopped going for crafty pints in Mabel’s most nights after work. And stopped buying shoes. Besides, all my spare cash is going towards actually having some beans to spend on this holiday of a lifetime.

In short: Bite me, Passport Office.

The current high alert of panic has not been helped by a dream I had the other night in which the entire flight was a complete disaster. I am not a good flyer. I am one of those people that others laugh at because on take off I am gripping the armrests to death (yeah, like that will help if we crash hideously to the ground) and every time we hit a bit of turbulence I get this look on my face like someone’s just surprised me with a cucumber up the arse.

In this dream, I forgot my new passport. Then I realised I had forgotten to bring a single thing to read; my laptop; and my MP3 player. Then we got on the flight and there was a five year old kicking the back of my seat from the minute we sat down. Then the alleged in-flight ‘entertainment’ broke. Then the Fiance started snoring. Then I cried for 20 solid hours and was threatened with a lifetime in a bouncy room wearing a straitjacket by some terrible air hostess who had orange make up that cracked when she frowned at me. Then I got to Sydney and the baggage handlers had lost my wedding dress. Then I woke up in a cold sweat and asked the Fiance if we could just get married married in the town hall with me wearing a beige twinset, and have our wedding meal in the local chippy, .
In short: help.

I am consoling myself by hoping that the fact I am going to roll up to check–in with a great big wedding dress might get us bumped up to first class. Yeah right, as if this is going to happen. Still, I can dream, because look how much fun first class with Thai Air is!

Is that a chateaubriand she's carving up there? I love it! Also, check out how blatantly both the passengers are checking out the air hostess's arse.

As I say though, I fear I am destined to spend 20 hours stuck in Pauper Class with my knees up around my ears, and not for reasons that one might enjoy. If anyone has any tips on how to survive a long flight from hell once the laptop's packed up and their beloved has started snoring then I would be most grateful.