Last night, the second since we arrived home from our nine-day trip to Nevada/Utah, was both a full and surreal one.
I worked until 7 pm, amidst crewmembers toting fake bones - both broken and intact - as well as stories of severed fingertips, all of which were in pursuit of effects suitable for a paranormal gangster thriller.
Then I went to the MWG's member meet and greet, which included an inflatable, lit-from-within palm tree which was supposed to jibe with their tropical theme but only served as a strange reminder of my recent trip to the Las Vegas strip.
When not mocking the hawaiian shirts of fellow attendees, I feasted on the fruit platters on offer, having not yet had the chance for a grocery shop and craving fruit sugars.
Then I went to the birthday party of a one-year-old of my acquaintance, where his parents were tongue-trippingly reading from an edition of Robbie Burns' poetry, it being his birthday as well. No haggis, neeps and tatties, but there was plenty of chocolate cake...
The baby kept on lunging for the tempting yellowed pages of the book. I kept on reaching for another fingerful of chocolate icing.
Eventually, M pulled out his portable MP3 player and played several renditions of the sound to be found in my slowly-expanding belly (apparently, mostly static but also some baby-related percussion) from a pre-work doctor's appointment.
And today, again at work, I'm dangerously crabby. None of the words, in any of the documents assigned to me, seem to want to line up.
But I suppose that's what happens when you get burnsed on a Wednesday night in January.