So, according to Ms Regina Lords in my guestbook, I'm a pretentious Bridget Jones wannabe.

I'm just wondering how she knows what I haven't told the rest of you yet. Because, really, most of this weekend felt like a Bridget Jones moment. Excepting that Ms Jones has curves, which I don't, and usually manages to look glamorous no matter what, but that's because she's in a movie and they decided not to show us the bit where she drinks so much vodka that she pukes.

Can't blame them. It doesn't contain much entertainment value.

"What did you do to yourself?" they asked, as I went staggering down the corridor, panda-eyed, newly arisen at 4pm and in search of toast and vegemite.

I paused and blinked. "Five glasses of wine and a Long Island Iced Tea," I croaked in response.

I considered the fact that this monster truck hangover (at least a 6 on the scale) might be one of those Acts of God designed to prevent me from meeting Shauny and the 'Berra Bloggers (sounds like a band, don't it?) and that fired me with sufficient determination to get up, dressed and out the door.

So, what do nine bloggers and associates talk about when they sit around Shauna's place and eat cake? All-natural bodycraft homewares (a sterling example of what happens when the conversation goes Too Far), blogs and bloggers (of course) and the fit ball. Go for a dive on it. You know you want to.

(PS: Why do you think I got that 'Bridget Jone wannabe' label? D'ya think it's because I swear so much? Fuck that: that's not being BJ, that's being young and Australian. And ditto the drinking.)