"It tastes like real meat, honestly. You'll love it!"

Thus spoke our earnest vegetarian dining companions. Pete had asked me tag along to a dinner, and seeing an opportunity to eat food that I didn't have to cook, I happily obliged. When I asked where we were going, she said "It's some vegetarian place where they have stuff that tastes and looks like real meat but it isn't."

Hmmm.

While the others carefully pondered the menu, Pete and I sniggered at the illustrations. There was a photo of the chef with a big fake grin, his arms spread wide displaying his delightful range of big fake food. There were chicken drumsticks, prawns, spare ribs and even lobster! All carefully moulded into the appropriate shapes from tofu and whatnot.

There was something interesting on the menu called Mocked Chicken. Prepared fresh from their big vat of Mock out the back I suppose. Or as someone suggested, maybe the chef yells at the poor little fakeass chicken, "Oh you are crap! You're not a real chicken!" and that gives the dish its mocked goodness.

We let the vegetarians pick the dishes, but had to choose our own entree. I went with the Curry Puffs, nothing in those would need to be imitated. But brave Pete chose the "Chicken" Drumsticks.

And what a bizarre concoction they were. Layer upon layer of something that resembled a bandage wrapped around a paddlepop-stick drumstick. Pete ate very slowly and carefully and smiled very slowly and carefully.

"Isn't it great!" beamed one of the vegetarians, "It's just the real thing, the texture, the skin..."

(... the paddlepop stick!)

"Yes!" said Pete with alarming conviction. "It really does taste like chicken!"

The mains were interesting. There was Honey "Chicken" and Mongolian "Lamb" and Asam "Fish". It was even moulded into a fish shape. I expected they'd put a thousand toothpicks inside it to simulate pesky fish bones, but no. It looked quite fishy, but no fish I know wobbles back and forth in spongy fashion when you try to cut it.

The "chicken" was actually alright, except for the way it dissolved in my mouth after one bite. The "lamb" wasn't very lamby but not too bad.

Then they urged us to try the Chili Mushroom dish.

"This one is so wild and hot, you'll have really wacky dreams tonight. And it's funny, the mushrooms taste more like beef than mushrooms."

Urgh. It was like a mouthful of shoe. Hot chilli shoe. Why did they feel the need to fake a mushroom? What's wrong with a real mushroom?

But overall it wasn't too bad. Before I knew it, the impatient waitresses had snatched our plates away and we were out in the chilly night, chatting away. I felt my stomach twinge slightly.

Back in the car, I asked Pete how did she like her drumsticks.

"They were fucking disgusting!"

"Oh! Thank god!"

"What about that bit where they said I bet you could put this food in front of a meat eater and they wouldn't know the difference!?"

"Ha! Yes! If it wasn't for the paddlepop stick, I wouldn't have known!"

So we fled to the pub to cleanse our palettes, but this only increased the tumbledryer turbulence in the tummy. I feel much better today, but I think I am all Mocked out for the rest of my life.

There was a delightful gathering of blogging types last night. M & M, Rachael, Brad, Dee and Jen all came along. They really are a brilliant bunch of people. Last time I met Dee, she was very hungover and fragile, and I thought we'd all overwhelmed her. But last night she was in tiptop condition and incredibly witty.

Some highlights: Monkey chasing after a barman who cleared up our glasses before she'd finished her drink, Jen learning Zippo lighter tricks from Brad, Jen and Dee's ultrafoxy t-shirts with WENCH emblazoned across the chest. Handpainted and all.

I was in a weird mood all night and kept saying really stupid things. At one point Brad accused me of never reading his site.

"I check your site, dammit."

"You do not!"

"I chook it last night!"

Like 'take' is to 'took', the past tense of 'check' is chook. Of course.

Late last year I was bored at work and decided to start sticking all the stickers from my pieces of fruit on an old Expense sheet in my company diary. Since I do no work of real consequence for said company and never have any expenses, I could think of no better use for a beautiful blank page.

Soon I became rather obsessive about it, and decided to set myself the Great Apple Challenge. I was determined that by the time the page was full o' fruit, I would have a new job. Each time I was cruelly rejected for a position, I'd say to myself, "Oh! Well! That's because I haven't eaten enough fruit yet! Ahem."

Last Thursday I ate a mandarin and attached the sticker to the last little bitty of space left. If you click on the pic below you can see this glorious work of art in full:

Then I counted the stickers: 72.

Then I did a tally to determine how many of each different fruit I had eaten, including the various varieties of apple:

Then I made a pie chart to show off my stellar secretarial skillz:

Then out the blue, just as I saved the file, I got a call about a job.

Then on Monday I had an interview.

Then an hour after that they offered it to me.

Then today after almost three years with the same employer, I handed in my notice with a "woohoo!" and I finish next Wednesday.

The new job is only a shortish contract but I've decided what the hell, it's time to take a risk. After all these bloody entries about needing to find a new job, won't it be a refreshing change for you lot?

Plus I am really sick of apples.

HUZZAH!

Discovery while putting away the grocery shopping tonight: being whacked across the back of the thighs with a leek really bloody hurts.

My reflexes are notoriously slow. By the time I wheeled around and yelled Hey!, my sister had already scampered to the other side of the room, cackling as she waved her garden fresh weapon around, "Oooh, I didn't know leeks were so hard! I thought it would have made more of a limp lettucey tap..."

Alfred Hitchcock was trying to kill me. He usually only makes those little cameos but in this film he had a starring role. It was a bizarre combination of Rear Window and Vertigo. Hitch had hired a woman to pretend to be me in order to make my death look like suicide. I looked nothing like Kim Novak, but I had a broken leg like Jimmy Stewart. I was hobbling up the bell tower and could see Hitchcock's gelatinous jowls silhouetted on the walls. And Harry was trotting beside me. Remember Harry?

I got to the top and looked out, realising I had nowhere to run. I saw my sister running over to the church and she yelled that she was going to save me. I told her Alfred Hitchcock was after me and he had quite a bit of speed on him despite his hefty frame: "Don't save me! You have to run for your life!"

"But I'm the only one who knows how the movie ends! I can stop him from killing you!"

"It's too late! I'm a goner! But we can save Harry!"

A basket appeared out of nowhere and I put the squirming hound in it, like the lady does in Rear Window, and lowered him down to the ground with a rope.

"Quick! He hates dogs! He'll sushify Harry and bury him in the garden!"

After much screaming and arguing, Rhiannon finally ran off, Harry barking and bouncing behind her. Then I felt pudgy hands seize my ankles and suddenly I was dangling out over the edge of the tower.

This is it, I thought, he'll let go and I'll splatter all over those terracotta tiles.

Then I spotted the Mothership standing by a fence. She looked up at me and waved nervously, like a bit-part actor not wanting to screw up their 15 minutes. Suddenly three tiny sparrows bombed down on her out of nowhere.

"Arrgh!" she screamed. "It's the birds!"

"What the hell are you doing?" I yelled, dangling by one foot now.

"I'm screaming. The birds are attacking me. You know, The Birds?"

"This isn't The Birds! It's Vertigo with a bit of Rear Window except Alfred Hitchcock is trying to kill me!"

"Are you sure? I mean it's your dream and all, but it's possible you could be wrong."

Interpretations, anyone?

If you were ever a curious teen, you may recall Forever by Judy Blume. There was a young lass, a young lad and a whole lot of shaggery.

And a penis named Ralph.

It is only referred to as Ralph for the entire story. You can imagine the millions of naive young pups across the globe, relying on Judy Blume as their sole means of sex education, growing up thinking that Ralph was the official anatomical term for this wonderful contraption.

But really, what an unappealing name for a penis. Ralph. Was the young lad in the novel inspired the collected works of Ralph Waldo Emerson, the overpriced elegance of Ralph Lauren, or the antics of Ralph Malph on Happy Days?

Or perhaps he really liked the Karate Kid movies and thought Ralph (Macchio) was a more memorable moniker for his member than The Old Dude Who Plays Mr Miyagi.

Recently there was alarm raised over the copious amounts of Everybody Loves Raymond screened on Network Ten, the people's network.

This here website has often been dismissed as lacking in real substance and not tackling the big issues. But this is all about to change with my first foray into political action, the Everybody Is Shitted Off By Raymond petition.

I represent a ferocious lobby group that is committed to stopping this senseless saturation. The petition is going strong and currently has one (1) signature. Once we've gathered more support, we plan to harass Rove McManus or Bert Newton or any other of Network Ten's galaxy of stars until the madness stops. Please help.

UPDATE: 43 58 91 signatures! Holy crap on a stick! This is great guys. Please spread the word! World domination can be ours! I mean, um, a few more signatures and I might send it all off to Channel 10.