Yesterday marked five years since What's New Pussycat started. It may actually have been slightly earlier but I went on a deleting spree in 2001 when I coverted from Blogger to Movable Type. Nine hundred entries were purged! Can you believe I used to write that often? And my installation of MT was so ye olde that you could only delete ONE ENTRY AT A TIME. It took me weeks and they released an upgrade the day after I was finished. Bastards.

Five years on, there's signs this blog is letting itself go. In 2000 I redesigned ten times; but now I've had the same template since 2002. There's dead links and broken images galore. I get 2000 comment and trackback spams a day, 95% of which are blocked by MT Blacklist but the load on the server is so great that many folk can't comment because the pages time out. Either that or their comment gets blocked because I went too crazy adding words to the blacklist and have inadvertently banned perfectly innocent phrases.

So from a technical and aesthetic perspective WNP looks like it is wallowing in mid-life crisis, stopped-trying, frequent-farting mode. Just like the last anniversary, I still strain and grunt to push out each infrequent update but ultimately it's still good fun. And Good Fun is more important than GOOD LOOKS or clean code or regular updates. Right? Yeah? Are you with me?

The stinking invitations have been sent. Thanks to all who offered to be guests; I have you all on standby!

GARETH:  Can't we just run away from the wedding party?

SHAUNA:  You can't elope when you're already married!

Gareth and I quite often forget we got married. It still feels like we just went on a really excellent holiday and there was that guy in the Elvis suit. That's why we can only blink confusedly when asked how the Wedding Party Preparations are going. Luckily Mary, Gareth's Mum, knows how lazy and inept we both are and has done much of the organisation already.

We had a Planning Summit around the dinner table last Sunday. It's surreal to find yourself with Parents-in-Law, but mine are lovely and I like going to their house. They have our wedding photo on top of the piano! I've never been on someone's piano before. They've tolerated our haphazard approach to marriage with grace and humour.

"So," said David, Gareth's father, "Your mother's now telling everyone you two eloped, haven't you Mary? Because it sounds more sordid that way!"

"Well! It's a good story!"

Gareth's brother entered the room and announced, "There's a fiddler on the phone."

"Oh! The fiddler!"

"The fiddler?" I whispered to Gareth as his Mum dashed out.

"Yes. For the ceilidh band."

There'll be none of your mulletted Foreigner-playing dodgy DJ's at our wedding party, thanks very much. We are having a traditional ceilidh dancefest, complete with twelve-piece band. It will be kilts ahoy. I can Strip the Willow with the best of them but I am already worried my wedding dress won't contain my boobs when confronted with such jaunty exercise. Then there's the high heels that make me stagger like a trainee drag queen. That was the beauty of running off to Vegas - I only had to look nice for ten minutes then I could get back into my slob gear.

The first order of business was the selection of items for the buffet. This involved Mary reminding Gareth and I that it was Our Party and it was really up to Us, Gareth shrugging, "I dunno", me giggling at how Scottish people pronounce it "boo-fee" and David saying, "As long there's no vol-au-vents! I can't stand vol-au-vents!"

"Now what about the wedding cake?" Mary asked. "Do you want a round cake or square cake? Fruit cake or sponge cake?"

I could see Gareth's head turning crimson, a sure sign of confusion and/or stress. "I'm not a fan of fruit cake."

"Me either!" I piped up, helpfully.

"Then we'll have TWO tiers with one of each flavour!"

"Good good, that's all settled!" David tapped his wine glass with a knife. "Meeting adjourned. Mary, I haven't seen you have this much fun since we were buying the new piano!"

This past week didn't sail as smoothly. First we started calling guests and found that many were on holidays or going to T in the Park. I don't know how you could turn down some accordion action for the likes of Snoop Dogg and Foo Fighters, but people have strange priorities. Then it seemed the ceilidh band were unavailable. Mary seemed gravely concerned that there'd only be half a dozen people in the giant room she'd hired, munching vol-au-vents in ceilidh-less silence.

"Don't you have any more friends?"

"I dunno!"

There is nothing that skyrockets a mother's anxiety levels than a listless "I dunno" from an ungrateful child. She suggested we invite all my work colleagues, random strangers from the phone book, bums off the street; anything to boost the numbers.

My favourite stress-filled exchange of the week:

"What's wrong with you today anyway, you're very grumpy!"

"I've got a lot on at work, that's all."

"Oh. You're not taking it out on Shauna, are you?"

"Nooo!"

"Well a friend's daughter's partner just came back from Iraq and he's taking it out on her."

"I'm not taking it out on her!"

"Well, I was just saying."

Good news came though on Sunday - the ceilidh band have made themselves available, after Mary explained the Bride was Australian and would really appreciate a dose of Scottish culture. We may end up with more band members than guests but for the moment there's an air of calm on Planet Wedding Party. Ahhh.

I took Rory along for protection to the Scottish Blogmeet on Saturday. You can never be too careful! Why, I still remember the days when everyone from the internet was a pervert and/or axe murderer!

But there was not an axe blade in sight. Just lots of Guinness, nice folk and good conversation. I met Gunella, David, Wee David, Richard, Elizabeth, Martin and of course Gordon, the godfather of Scottish blogging. I only wish I could have stayed longer to meet Peter whose blog is a cracking read and Alan who has written a book about Jack The Ripper. How could you not want to meet someone who's written a book about Jack The Ripper? Exxxxcellent :)

Meanwhile, Gareth and I went walking up the Dollar Glen on Sunday and later saw this one-eared sheep. READER CONTEST! WIN WIN WIN! In 25 words or less, please come up with a witty and imaginative explanation for the missing ear. Best entry wins a prize! That has yet to be determined! Does anyone not have a Flickr Pro account yet?

Just outside the Lithuanian city of Siauliai is the Hill of Crosses. Without doubt this was highlight of our Baltic trip last September, but I've spent months faffing around trying to write about it. After a dozen false starts I still can't get the words right to convey what an incredible exeperience it was. So I will just crap on a wee bit and show you the photos.

From the In Your Pocket guide:

"The history of the area is a hotbed of dissent... Most believe that the crosses probably were planted a few decades earlier to mark the Lithuanian uprising against the Russians in 1831. The amount of crosses burgeoned after the death of Stalin, when Lithuanians returning from the gulags began planting crosses in memory of those who never returned. In Soviet times, the crosses here were bulldozed repeatedly with the largest campaign against the area taking place in 1961 when wooden crosses were burned and metal ones sent to the scrap heap. The hill was even guarded by the KGB while plans to flood the area were being discussed. However almost as a testament to the local significance of the monument, the crosses continued to swell."

In 1985 the Soviets finally gave up and the Hill flourished again. Today there are tens of thousands of crosses crammed onto the twin hillocks, planted by locals and thousands of visitors from around the world.

Our pilgrimage began at dawn in Vilnius. We boarded an aging bus with generations of body odour trapped in its orange carpeted walls. It wobbled through every town and tiny village along the way, stopping for cows that sat in the middle of the road, and collecting old ladies with headscarves and battered suitcases.

By the time we arrived at Siauliai we'd missed the bus that went by the Hill so we splurged on a taxi. After a brief exchange of halting English and pathetic Lithuanian (the only words we knew were yes, no and ham) the driver said he'd wait for us. He lit another cigarette and went off to chat with the folk selling crosses by the roadside, leaving us to gawk at the Hill in awe.

Beneath a blinding blue sky, thousands of crosses smothered two little hillocks, then spilled down each side like giant outstretched arms. For once in our lives, Rhi and I were lost for words. Instead of our usual tourist routine of chit chat and chocolate bar demolition, we wandered off seperately and silently. Giant carved crucifixes loomed over as I made my way up the wooden stairs. There were crosses of all shapes and sizes; as well as statues, photos, inscriptions and paintings. Crosses hung from crosses. Some were piled high with rosary beads, all tangled up like seaweed. Narrow dirt paths forked from the stairs, leading to even denser rows of crosses amongst soft weeds. It was haphazard yet so completely calm and peaceful. The silence was broken only by the eerie chime of the rosaries in the breeze, and me oofing and grunting coz I'd forgotten I was wearing a backpack and had become wedged between a giant iron cross and a peeling statue of Mary.

This Catholic site calls the Hill "a potent symbol of suffering, hope, devotion, and the undefeated faith of the Lithuanian people". Even for non-religious clods like us it really was an unforgettable sight, the perfect place for some quiet reflection on all we'd seen and learned about the Baltic countries during our trip.

As we headed back to the taxi, a group of American tourists were watching a local man unload a giant crucifix from the back of a truck, the latest addition to the Hill.

"Did you see that concrete Jesus? Oh my god. He was like, totally staring at me."

"Ahh, that's coz Jesus is always watching you!"

Even the taxi driver rolled his eyes.

Tea People used to piss me off. It was the smug clank of their spoons in china mugs, the dinga-dinga-dinga as they stirred in the sugar, the AHHHHH after their first slurp. As a non-teadrinker they annoyed me no end.

It probably all stems from growing up with a Mothership obsessed with tea. She must have downed a dozen cups a day. "Ooh I'm dying for a cuppa," was her number one phrase, even on the hottest summer day. It seemed the only reason she brought Rhi and I into the world was to have two handy tea-making slaves. Our pantry was choked with boxes of Earl Grey bought on special, so if the apocalypse came at least our rations would be aromatic.

Once I'd left the nest I vowed my tea-making days were over, but whenever I arrived home for a visit Mum would greet me with, "Oh great timing, I could do with a fresh cup." One time before Christmas break Mum was perched in her armchair, a trashy paperback in one hand and the TV remote in the other, in full relaxation mode after completing another hectic school year.

MOTHERSHIP: Hey Shauna.
SHAUNA:  What?
M:  Shauna!
S:  What?
M:  Shauna.
S:  What!?
M:  Are you going to make The Mother a cup of tea?
S:  No.
M:  Why not?
S:  Coz I don't wanna.
M:  Oh.

[Five minutes pass.]

MOTHERSHIP:  Shauna!
SHAUNA:  What!?
M:  Hey Shauna.
S:  WHAT?!
M:  Are you going to The Mother a cup of tea?
S:  Nope.
M:  Why not?
S:  Because, that's why!

[Mothership purses lips, turns back to Oprah , then mutters poutily...]

MOTHERSHIP:  Shauna's being a bitch!

But recently I've gained an appreciation for Mum's obsession. It happened the fateful night before the day Gareth and I got together. He asked me did I want a cup of tea and I replied, "Oh no thanks! I don't like tea!". It reminded me of a time many years before when a guy asked me did I want to come in for coffee. It was just like that Seinfeld episode where George turns down a late-night cuppa and it sparks a lengthy whole "Does coffee mean sex" debate. Except I didn't think of that at the time, even though it was 1AM. I just said, "Oh no thanks! I don't like coffee!" and drove away into the moonlight.

Anyway, Gareth's question was perfectly innocent - tea really did mean tea. We were still too shy to even make eye contact, let alone sweet love down by the fire. But he was astounded that I was tea-less at 26 years old. Eager to establish myself as a wild adventurer, I agreed to try it. As he rattled cups and spoons and kettles, I examined the box of teabags and tried to think of something charming to say.

"So... it says here this tea is Scottish Blend tea. Is there such a thing?"

"Oh yeah," He smiled. "It's genuine Scottish tea from the Scottish tea plantations."

"Tea plantations? In Scotland?"

"Yeah! It's special cold climate tea. They grow it down in the Borders!"

Gareth loves to tell people how gullible I was that day, but I still insist that I didn't believe him. It was just that I was so keen to get into his pants that he could have told me that the Scottish tea plantation was right next to the haggis fields and across the road from the oatcake orchard that I still would have squealed, "Really, how fascinating!".

I will never forget the first sip. It was scalding hot; I hadn't thought to let it rest for awhile. It burned a path down my throat until POW! It was like a punch in the chest, hot and liquid. It was bloody amazing.

"What do you think?"

"Oh yeah. Not too shabby!"

I proceeded to drink five more cups over the evening as we chatted away. When I told my sister later how I didn't get to sleep til dawn, she cackled "Ooh! Saucy!" but I explained that there'd been no hanky panky -- it was just the effects of tea on a body that had been a complete stranger to caffeine for the previous two and a half decades. At 6am I was still staring at the ceiling and squeaking, "I can't sleep! I can't sleep! Hee hee!"

After that I was a dedicated Tea Person. It was a strange and wonderful new world. Now when I went to friend's houses I didn't have to ask meekly, "Umm, can I get a drink of water? From the tap is fine!". Now I could have a collection of mugs on my desk at work and a jumble of teabags in the drawer. But the biggest revelation was how tea transformed eating. The most humble foods become something special when taken with tea. That is, if you define humble foods as those laden with sugar and/or fat.

There's something so magical about crumbs and butter and sugar and hot liquid rolling round in your mouth like socks in a tumble dryer. Let's start with toast. Buttery Vegemite toast, peanut butter toast, avocado with fresh ground pepper toast, grilled cheese on toast; white bread, brown bread, multigrain; they're all elevated from tasty to gobsmackingly superb when taken with a fresh cuppa.

Then there's the great Scottish Bacon Roll - hot crispy bacon and runny egg on limp white roll - the perfect hangover cure. Or a buttered scone with strawberry jam. Oatcakes topped with mature cheddar. Or my favourite - fish and chips by the sea with scalding tea in a polystyrene cup.

Then there's the wonderful world of biscuits. Tim Tams and Mint Slices rule, and even mangled Anzacs get better with a brew. I love taking a bikkie bite then a gulp of tea - unladylike but delicious. The chocolate Hob Nob, my favourite British biscuit, becomes a floaty oaty chocolatey mess. Even the cheapest, crappiest Custard Creams explode beautifully leaving crumbs trapped in your teeth.

And let's not forget the melty pleasure of chocolate bars, all their careful manufacturing coming undone with a good gulp of tea. Kit Kat layers crumble, Mars Bars turn to mush. My favourite indulgence is a Twix, there's nothing better than dissolving chocolate salty caramel with soggy biscuit chaser.

Eighteen months on, I wonder what I did all day before I had tea. What did I do with conversation lulls before I could say 'Shall I put the kettle on?'. How did I waste valuable minutes at work? How did I deal with a crisis without a fresh cup? Best of all, Gareth still makes a great cup and you don't have to call him a bitch to get one!

I once wrote something startlingly profound about how Dawson of verbose teen drama Dawson's Creek looks like ALF, and how the toothy grin of smouldering co-star Katie Holmes reminds one of a dolphin.

And now two-and-a-half years later she's trotting about town with Tom Cruise. Is this not a match made in orthodontic heaven? Can you imagine the fangs on the kid if they breed?