The last week has been a heady whirl of glamorous parties, premieres, photo shoots, and jet setting off to Monaco to sip truffle daiquiris on a super yacht with Caroline and the lads . . . No wait, that’s someone else’s life.

In mine, Husband returned and we spent the next three days making sweet sweet love when we weren’t enjoying candlelit dinners and floating candles on the balcony. Needless to say, we are not only exhausted, but also several kilos lardier! No wait, that’s not my life either – although it sounds like it should be only without the lard.

I’ve been busy writing my fifth runaway blockbuster, while engaged on an exhilarating schedule of global book tours, tv shows and – woah! Have I stumbled into a parallel universe? Hey – maybe it’s a future timeframe! Ooh, exciting. But in the meantime, I’ve been editing my second novel following feedback from my editor.

Two days after Husband arrived home, we embarked on an exciting round the world tour of many different, exotic locations to experience new things and see sights we had never seen before, like Niagara Falls.

Well, we flew down to see the Outlaws in Oamaru.

Close enough.

Today Jed and I were menaced by a herd of zombie cows.

Sadly, that one is true.

Q: How many ears does Captain Kirk have?
A: Three. The left ear, the right ear, and the final frontier.

On Saturday evening, Jed and I went to MarkJ’s house, where his brother supplied the latest Star Trek movie. It was an amusing, entertaining film, and if you think I’m only saying that because I don’t know MarkJ’s brother well enough to slag off his taste in movies, I appreciate your dilemma. You’ll have to use your discretion. Sorry.

Star Trek 2009 is a reboot of the Star Trek franchise, telling the back-story of the crew and the series of flukes via which James Tiberius Kirk comes to be captain of the Starship Enterprise.

No idea what the plot is about. It involves a fleet of Romulans. I’m not sure why the producers didn’t choose more compelling intergalactic villains for the franchise premiere – for example, the horny-headed Klingons; or the terrifyingly ridiculous-looking and inalienly strong Gorn. But there you go.

Anyhoo, the Romulans pootle around the universe applying impressive special effects to planets. Apart from that, even Eric Bana’s freakishly small head fails to make the Romulans look the least bit threatening. They have no exoskeletal anomalies, no surplus proboscises, no multiple recessed jaws; they are even a standard Caucasian colour. Although their blood is greenish-yellow, there isn’t half enough of it splattering about the set.

I suppose they do have impressive cranial tattoos – but then so do lots of people – I mean, it’s hardly chillingly blood-crawling.

Q: How many Star Trek landing party members does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: Only one, but the extra red-shirt will die in the attempt

The movie introduces Kirk as a foetus, and unfortunately the character does not appear to mature in any measurable way throughout the course of the movie apart from a rudimentary mastery of his motor functions. Impossible as it may seem, Chris Pine’s incarnation of Kirk made me wistfully yearn for William Shatner.

Even Uhura, embarking on her mission to boldly sleep her way to the top, keeps Kirk firmly at bargepole’s length. Which tells you all you REALLY need to know.

But since you asked nicely, I will of course tell you more.

Kirk is so whiny and boisterously annoying, you want to ground him until he reaches adulthood – about 20 years. The only new life forms he is interested in seeking out are the female variety (demonstrating a disturbing fetish for bottle-green redheads).

Q: Does Kirk become the first cadet in the history of the Academy to outwit the Kobayashi Maru Simulation with his blistering intelligence and encyclopaedic knowledge of Klingon war strategy?
A: No, Kirk CHEATS.

Q: Following his suspension from the Academy, does Kirk unexpectedly disguise himself as the First Officer and blag his way on board the USS Enterprise?
A: No, he is smuggled aboard by his friend.

Q: Does Kirk detect a Romulan trap using his powers of deduction and encyclopaedic knowledge of Romulan war tactics?
A: No; by pure chance, he overhears Uhura talking about it in her underwear (although the fact that he recalls the information at all with Uhura clad only in her underwear is undeniably admirable).

Even worse, Kirk’s bravery does not translate to skilled combat.

Q: When a Romulan is stamping on Kirk’s fingers as the rest of him hangs from the edge of a drilling platform, does Kirk lunge for his assailant’s ankle and pull himself back onto the platform while simultaneously hurling the Romulan to his death?
A: No, Sulu saves Kirk’s dangling ass with a timely sword thrust.

Q: When another Romulan is in the process spanking Kirk with nothing more than his fists and a big sneer, does Kirk distract him with a talking newt before bludgeoning the Romulan’s head to a fine paste with his thumbs?
A: No, he pulls the Romulan’s own gun on him.

And this is the permanently pubescent person chosen to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilizations and boldly pilot the USS Enterprise where no man has gone before.

In fact, the only positive character attribute exhibited by Kirk is a totally unfounded bravery.

Well, Kirk might be brave, but so is Rambo, and I wouldn’t hand the reins of the Starship Enterprise over to him.

Although I would if the only alternative was Kirk.

The vaunted friendship between Kirk and Spock is made possible only by virtue of Spock’s paucity of emotion.

For some reason, the story features two Spocks. Obviously, this is a good thing – but replacing Kirk with Spock altogether would have been better still.

Spock’s ears appear to have been ‘modernised’ into immobile wax sculptures on either side of his head. Why? WHY? What was wrong with Spock’s original aural devices? I’ll tell you what: NOTHING. Spock’s ears used to be sublime perfection: those delicate pinnacles of silicon pointiness that looked like they might fly off into the control console at the slightest hint of turbulence; that, when you flicked them with your index finger, made a satisfying thwippety thwippety sound that resulted in a cochleal orgasm.

Q: How can you improve on that?
A: You can’t.

Terrific movie; well worth a watch.

Here are some of the treasures I discovered during a recent expedition across the Internet.

• The literal translation of Kloskvaltare - Swedish for best-selling book - is: ‘it knocks the sales booth over’.
• In Italy, Salma Hayek might be described as a baffona or ‘attractive mustachioed woman’.
• In Germany, a young man with suspiciously good manners is called Tantenverfürhrer, or ‘aunt seducer’.
• Gwarlingo is Welsh for the the rushing sound a grandfather clock makes before striking the hour.
• In Namibia, Hanyauku means walking on tiptoe through warm sand, which is a lot less syllables than ‘walking on tiptoe through warm sand’.
• Jayus is Indonesian for someone who tells a joke so unfunny you can’t help laughing.
• In Scotland, to tartle is to hesitate introducing someone whose name you can’t remember.
• And if you find yourself thinking lustful thoughts when presented with a head of garlic, you are probably physiggomai – ancient Greek for ‘excited by eating garlic’. I wonder how you pronounce that?

I have no idea why no handy English words have been coined to match the rest of these expressions

Smart/Casual has shot up to #9 on the best-seller list for the week ending September 2009. Ok, I’m still not sure to WHERE this best seller list applies. The whole of Malaysia? Kuala Lumpur? Seri Kembangan? The bookshop on the corner of Jelan Besar and Jelan Utama?

Oh, whatever, I don’t care. Any list in which I compete with Stephanie Myer, John Grisham and Tony Parsons has to be good (Dan Brown doesn’t count).  Never mind that I’ve beaten Sophie Kinsella into the #10 slot.

At this rate, Smart/Casual should hit #1 by 2017 (assuming optimal weather conditions and a natural decline in the popularity of vampire literature)

Here’s what else you missed (warning: don’t get too excited).

• The weekend after Husband’s departure, I was invited to lunch with The Grandparents.

  Such a grand occasion warranted picking the dog hair out of my good jumper, and a shower. I thought it would be nice if, for a change, I didn’t look like I’d just tumbled off a fucking tractor (even if it sounded like I did).

  I really pushed out the boat by blow-drying and straightening my hair and treating it to some high-tech formula hair shiner for super soft and shiny hair.

  It was a beautiful day, and I had the window down as I drove to Mt Wellington, pouting and tossing my super soft, shiny hair around. I may be skidding towards middle age, but I looked downright foxy; I felt sexy, carefree – although not irresponsible (after all, I am nearly middle aged). Therefore I wound up the window when my vision was impaired by wind-borne hair.

  I only noticed I had trapped half my hair in the window when I nearly scalped myself checking for cars over my left shoulder.

  That’s NOT a good look, especially at 100kph on the SH1.

• One day, I reversed down the drive forgetting I’d left my mobile phone on the spare wheel on the back of the car.

  I treat the spare wheel much like a hall table; in repose, it is normally strewn with keys, wallet, phone, sunglasses and garage opener. In many ways, the spare wheel is the perfect receptacle: it’s curved, often clean, stainproof, waterproof, and – most significantly – right there.

  Halfway down the road, I remembered my mobile on the back wheel – except, when I stopped to check, it wasn’t. On the back wheel. Any more.

  So I drove back to the house, and there it was lying by the gate.
  At least I didn’t drive over it. No no, I made that mistake once before.

  I am currently rethinking my storage policy for valuables.

• Another day, there was a pounding on the door. These days, the only things that pound on our door are the meter reader and falling branches. However, in this instance, it was our neighbour, Hairy Dave.

  “Hai-ey, Dave!” I exclaimed. No doubt, the day is not far off where I will address him as Hairy Dave to his face and he will wreak a horrible and unusual revenge with his beard. “Are you- are you here for a cup of tea? Or- what?”

  In fact, Hairy Dave was present to perform a community service by informing me he had sighted my dog 2km down the road – instead of pootling around our fenced yard.

  Well, I am ashamed to admit I rudely left Hairy Dave on the doorstep; and furthermore, nearly reversed over him as I backed down the drive at high speed.

  I took it slower going down the road, expecting to see Jed’s mangled little body – oh god! – around every bend. Ok, that’s artistic licence; I only got around the one bend, when I encountered The Jedster charging up the center of the road: covered in mud and a big, happy head on him.

  Jed obviously forgot the subsequent discussion we had, since he embarked on another expedition yesterday afternoon.

• I bought Jed a set of panniers. Apparently, making your dog carry things around gives him a sense of purpose, a feeling of belonging in this world.

  Also, it means I don’t have to carry my own waterproofs.

  

  So far, I’ve only stored waterproof items in his panniers, since his extra baggage doesn’t stop him plunging into every stream, drain, pool, puddle or quagmire in the vicinity.

  Jed loves his panniers and gets all excited when I bring them out – probably because he knows it signals a walk – although he squirms when I take too long doing up the straps.

• Last Sunday, I attended Jessica’s tenth birthday party. There were a LOT of kids. They moved really fast. It was a bit scary.

  I had no idea what to buy a 10 year old for a birthday present, so polled Husband. He said, “Well, think about what YOU’D buy a 14 year old, and get that”. How flattering that Husband considers me only four years behind The Times.

  I considered buying Jessica a crop top with ‘Bouncy’ written across the chest – which, according to the magazines, is the sort of thing every hip kid is wearing in the playground – however, I didn’t want her mother banning me from the house.

  In the end, I turned up with nothing, which I understand is a HUGE faux pax at a 10 year old’s birthday party, possibly even worse than the crop top.

That’s about it, really.

He clasped her to his glistening chest.

“My one true love,” he rasped, urgently.

A frown creased her perfectly proportioned alabaster forehead. “I don’t- I don’t feel so good,” she said.

“Darling one!” he exclaimed, his eyes moving questioningly over her face. “You’re trembling.”

“You might also notice I’m a bit whitish-green as well. Actually, I think I’m going to- excuse me- I- BLEURGH!”

“My love!” he gasped. “What’s wrong? Don’t die!”

“Right, the melodrama is starting to grate. Seems to be a tummy bug. Probably something I ate. Urgh.”

“What- what can I do?”

“Well, you can get your perfectly formed features out of my face, for a start. And could you maybe bring me some water, and a banana?”

“Anything!” he muttered, holding her tenderly. “I would pluck the stars from the sky for you! I would tunnel through mountains, turn back the tide, if you but only say the word-”

“Ok, let’s start with a goddamn banana.”

-

So, Husband left for Dubai. On the morning of his departure, a family ritual is that I get up early and make pancakes. Well, I was up early all right – 5am to be precise – trying to dissuade my spleen from bursting out my nose.

While Husband packed bags, I lay in bed and moaned. Around mid-morning, I feebly requested a banana. I took one bite and actually felt it navigate my oesophagus and plunge into the turbulent maelstrom of stomach acid, before it turned around and surfed back out again.

I managed to heave my carcass out of bed long enough to huddle in the passenger seat next to Husband while he drove himself to the airport. I was in no mood for a touching adieu. The farewell clinch was regrettably memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Therefore, Husband directed all his pent-up passion and despair at Jed, who magnanimously accepted a kiss on his woolly poll.

Although the nausea only lasted a few hours, the lethargy and aching joints took about three days to dissipate. At first I thought it was something I ate, but poor Andrew came down with the same thing upon his arrival in Dubai 24 hours later. Combined with the jet lag, it sounds as if it was nearly fatal.

Husband returns on 4 November. Although he claimed he would be gone for three weeks, it turns out to be more in the region of four really. I can’t wait to see him again.

I have a big surprise for him, which I have NO DOUBT he will find EXTREMELY ‘interesting’.

• The customer is never right.
• Furthermore, the customer is always wrong.
• And stupid (be sure to communicate this via disdain).
• Lie.
• If the customer shows signs of life, kill him with jargon.
• Insist the problem is their modem – that should get rid of them.
• Keep ’em on hold for half an hour – that’ll take care of the rest.
• Tell the customer Slingshot is working on it but instead of logging the call, just laugh.
• Blame Telecom.
• Lie.

For nearly two weeks, I have been lost without Internet access. It’s been a disaster. I haven’t been able to use my landline, update Deadlyjelly, check email, surf Wikipedia, buy crap on Trademe, find out the history of fleur de lis, look up Maori face tattoos, view photos of drunk strangers on Facebook, or research the reproductive cycle of the fruit fly.

On the upside, this has freed up HOURS every day; in the region of six. I have done loads of writing.

This morning, Slingshot called to tell me I was back online. ONLY KIDDING! Haha, got you there. Of course they didn’t, because that would involve a modicum of proactivity and/or basic customer care.

Instead, I fought the crushing miasma of despair and hopelessness to fire up my browser in the unlikely to improbable event Slingshot had fixed the problem. I mean, last Saturday during my bi-daily call, I was told I would be back online within 24-48 hours, but that’s one of the things they say to snuff out your will to live. Because it’s not as if I hadn’t heard it before – on no less than five occasions during the previous 12 days.

Of course Slingshot offered to recompense me for any downtime and inconvenience. ONLY KIDDING! They agreed to refund $40, which covers maybe one of the international phone calls to my mobile from Husband who is currently in Dubai – and I had to call them to request the rebate. At least I wasn’t on hold for half an hour – ONLY KIDDING! Goodness, the laughs just keep coming.

Slingshot is evil. If you are employed by Slingshot: shame on you. Why don’t you go and work for a more ethical company, like big tobacco or a munitions manufacturer?

I is bein da writin dis at da world wide web of da MarkJ. Dis is cos of da world wide web of Da House Of Jelly Dat Is Deadly bein in da poke, ya know wha I is bein sayin iff?

Yo may have bein noticin a degration of da grammer an da spellin, dis is because of da collabration wid da MarkJ an da Deadlyjelly. Da enproduk of dis juxtasition bein resultin in some funky Broho yo, da name of whim bein da callin of ‘Tab’ an what is bein wearin da jeans down aroun da knees da enproduk of wha is bein to stumbel aroun da place an trippin over da arm of da law wha is bein long an dough like in constancy. Ya know wha I is bein sayin iff?

And then there was Proof, during which I was mentally violated by Gwyneth Paltrow.

To avoid charges of bias, I will fess up right here. I mean, you can still charge me with bias, but since I will have admitted it, there seems little point, hmm?

Here is the basis of my bias: Gwyneth annoys the crap out of me. There is nobody else whose hair I want to pull more. And Baby CHEESES will someone ever give the woman a carb? She is critically in need of a feed of rice pudding. You can actually see her wasting away on screen.

Gwyneth evidently attended the Tom Cruise School of Acting, whereby as long as you have a minimum freaky charisma allied with plasticity of skin, you can employ one, single gesture to cover all human emotion and pass it off as acting. (In Tom Cruise’s case, this is of course the double-hand point. In Gwyneth’s, a bewildered frown with eyes crossed.)

Director: Cut, cut, CUT! Goddamit! Babydoll, get your sweet ass over here!

Gwyneth: I presume one is referring to me.

Director: Who? Yeah, whatever. Gwynnie honey. Since your features are so pale and indistinct, we need you to – what’s it called again? – oh yeah. We need you to ACT more.

Gwyneth: I can act you know. I won an Oscar for Shakespeare in Love.

Director: What’s that? You might want to speak up while you’re at it. I want you to EMOTE. I want to see the spit, I wanna FEEL the sweat. Set to it, there’s a good girl.

Director (aside to sub director): Stupid bitch. Needs a good feed of rice pudding.

I have no idea how she won an Oscar, although I can only conclude she must have donated many varied and nasty sexual favours to the entire Academy.

Now that’s out of the way: in Proof, Gwyneth plays the petulant, whiny, lank-haired daughter of a brilliant mathematician. She gives up her own studies when dad goes woopdewoohoo and then misplaces his mortal coil. Then her father’s student finds a notebook containing a mind-blowing proof to some theorem, which Gwyneth claims she wrote.

Honestly, it’s a stretch believing Gwyneth is capable of forming coherent sentences, never mind that she is a mathematical genius.

Gwyneth’s character is consumed by the likelihood of following her father into insanity. She appears to be crazy because she fears going crazy. Which is undoubtedly tragic but no more than, say, genocide – or any number of other things.

Her sister is supposed to be a harridan, but all I felt was sympathy for her. She turns up the day before their father’s funeral try to persuade Gwyneth to wash her hair – I completely understood where she was coming from – and Gwyneth gets all snotty about hair being dead tissue so Jojoba Oil won’t make any difference. Well, I’ve used Jojoba on my own dead tissue and the stuff is a miracle, so that shows you how much she knows.

Jake Gyllenhaal is her father’s former student, the drummer in a rock band of maths geeks. This time I suspended disbelief – hung it by the neck until dead – and then tried swinging it around and juggling it a while, but it was no good: maths geeks are just not that good looking. Trust me. I studied maths, and we were a dull looking bunch of monobrows. The best bit in the movie is the band’s song ‘i’, comprising three minutes of silence.

Disregarding all that, the movie is worth a watch.