Well I am outraged, appalled, aghast and generally quite jolly pissed off with humanity.

Today an injustice was perpetrated against my law-abiding self (OK except for the time I nicked the postcards from the Vatican bookshop, but hell God has enough cash.) and I am totally slutted off.

The day began very pleasantly.

I had a costume fitting for our upcoming Wellington show; "Austen Found: The Undiscovered Musicals of Jane Austen" where I wrangled the G-Cups into an empire line dress, and was pleasantly surprised to not look as pregnant as you would imagine.

I then hit Les Mills for a Body Attack.  Now in case this alarms you, relax.  That wasn't the injustice in the form of a random Lesbian relation of Heather Mills laying into me with a meat cleaver, but rather me going hard out at my local gym.

Then I got home and indulged in a new porridge creation whilst reading the paper.  I have splashed out on some mixed spice, some cinnamon and some caramel essence and can very much recommend the results.

Martha Stewart eat your heart out.  (Or maybe your cellmate anyway as a forced exchange for super tampons.)

Then Esta arrived to watch me assemble a salad to take with us to the Grey Lynn Festival.  We then dawdled down to Grey Lynn Park via a mate's place AND more importantly the bottle store for some well deserved bruskis.  (I am always an advocate for exercising to create space for more calories of the non-nutritional liquid variety.)

Once a spot was selected amidst the THOUSANDS of very funkily dressed, expertly coiffed, organically fed masses of Grey Lynn, my blanky was unleashed.  

SIDEBAR:  My blanky has been with me since before the dawn of time.  To the ignorant the dawn of time is 1974 because as I am the centre of my universe obviously nothing existed before me.  It is decorated with lions and elephants and bears, oh my, and is a fetching shade of orange, black and brown.  

Once ensconced on the Blanky there was much merriment in drinking, eating salad and generally talking shit about some of the drunken bimbos around us.  We waited in vain for the bands and became disappointed to realise there was actually going to be no real entertainment of any nature. Apparently this was to deter drinking, but if the volume of the bimbos was anything to go by they could have put Kevin Costner onstage explaining Waterworld and the girls would have still been doing tequila slammers everytime he said "post-apocalyptic". 

To escape the tittering tits I decided it was time to go for a wander about the craft and food stalls and see if I could find some stereo saturated fats to clog up my arteries.  I got up and went to put on my trusty Havaianas.  Havaianas that took me months to find in the right colour and size.  Havaianas that I spent a stupid amount of money buying for a pair of bloody jandals.  Havaianas that have travelled the world with me.  Havaianas that I love.  

And they were fucking gone.

Some butt munch had stolen my bloody JANDALS!!!  From underneath my nose.  Some twat burger of indeterminate parentage put their festering pustulous dickwad feet into my jandals and waddled off to no doubt soil themselves in a corner crying softly and rocking backwards and forwards like the socio-psychopathic jandal fetishist fuckface they no doubt are.

Angry, me, no, where do you get that idea?

Is funny actually I am REALLY angry about it, which on dissection is a little weird.  I mean it's not like I was forced into a group orgy with Brad Shipton, my 2 million barrels of oil weren't hijacked and I didn't just land the cleaning contract at Guantanamo Bay.  I just had some shoes nicked.

I haven't felt that attached to some rubber since, well, um, never mind.

I have decided the reason for my misplaced mountains of vitriol is that as a Kiwi my jandals are sacrosanct.  To steal them is to turn your back on the All Blacks as they Haka, it is to tell Kate Sheppard to "Shut up and cook me some eggs bitch", it is to punch a Hobbit in the face and it is to draw the Goodnight Kiwi and that cat doing it with a Kangaroo.  

In short it is wrong.

So shame on you Jandal Thief of Grey Lynn.  Shame on you.  I just hope that walking in my shoes will change you.  As you follow my footsteps so too will you follow my path.  The fact that this path leads to excessive consumption of Sauvignon Blanc and inappropriate face-raping of dodgy boys shall be your punishment.  

So there.

(Oh and if you're wondering how I got my delicate tootsies home I just nicked a pair of jandals I saw lying about.)

PS Tune into Dirty Girl with Penny Ashton Spoken word radio extravaganza on December 9th on Fleet FM as I stand in for Dirty Wordz with Shane Hollands!  My very own radio show for the very first time!  Very excited.