SURPRIIIIIIISE!!!

I'M IN CAPE TOWN!!!!

Just before I begin, I’d like to state for the record, that to my knowledge I haven’t told a single porker! At least I think I haven’t.

So. Where to begin? Well basically, this is what happens when you have friends who read your blog and they happen to be the same friends you’re planning on surprising with your whole “hey okes, I’m baaaack”. You’ll forgive my need to be sneaky and devious.

Shortly before I left The Trunchbull, a couple I met in the godforsaken little village I was in, said they had a place for me to stay for two weeks before I went back to Cape Town (they didn’t realize I couldn’t afford the trip at that stage). His mother is Candy Floss. A legitimate case. And she lives 10 minutes away in the pokey little town I’ve spent the past two weeks in. And of course it wasn’t a placement through the agency so it wasn’t a fixed 15 day arrangement. And I could then afford the trip home. And so I did. And now I’m here. And it’s absolutely f*cking FANTASTIC!!

Culinary Prowess

Right, well, i'm pleased to announce i've pulled myself togther again. Sunday was not a happy day. At all. Anyway, moving along swiftly .

I thought it would be appropriate to brag right about now. Just because i can. And i feel like a little bit of admiration at the moment so please, don't hold back on the praise and compliments, oooos and aaaaahs and general disbelief.

Ladies and Gentlemen, pray silence please. The Domestic Goddess strikes again...

A Pint At The Typhoid Arms

Bleurgh. I feel like crap. Cabin fever is getting to me in a big way. It's a Sunday afternoon and in an attempt to escape I've found myself stuck in the dingiest little pub England has ever seen, terrified of even looking at the menu in case an insidious blob of salmonella leaps off and makes babies on my face, amidst a sea of poms whose sole purpose in life, it seems, is to put the 'arse' into Arsenal Supporter.
Hazy action replays of premier league football are silently blaring from about 43 screens throughout the room (I counted them). If it's one thing the English are good at (and it probably really is only one, if you don't count making a damn good Peshwari Nan) it's ensuring that even if you are so sh*t-faced you couldn't tell the difference between the end pocket in a pool table and a urinal, you will still be able to see the game on at least 7 different screens, depending on at which angle your lager-filled neck has decided to hang your flushed and pimply little head. Despicable.
I'm only here because some idiot has left their nearby wireless connection un-password-protected and I'm milking his stupidity for all it's worth. That and the fact that a taxi to the nearest outpost of civilization will cost me £30, which, when the only movie playing there is Casino Royale, sounds about as appealing as riding the escalator in a central London tube station with my tongue sliding lovingly up and down the handrail whilst i fondle the members of the menagerie nestled in the resident Jamaican busker's dreads with my freshly manicured nails.
Oh I'm just such a bundle of joy today.

The Merry-Go-Round

Well bring in the clowns, my life just became a fairground! It's taken a while but i thought it was now high time i introduced you to the latest addition to the list at the top right hand side of this page. May i present Candy Floss: Pink and sweet but that's about it. Bless.

After my treacherous adventures 'oop north' with Lemony, i vowed i wouldn't take anymore jobs with Alzheimer's patients. I have also vowed never to smoke in bed, never to have a one night stand and never EVER to succumb to England's hideous fashions this season. Of course as i write this I'm in bed with a pair of black footless tights on and a Marlboro Light. And any offers of a one night stand would be eagerly accepted at this stage.

My newest Alzheimer's ouma has just headed off to the day centre for the day. The things we do for money huh? Although to be fair, Candy Floss, whilst sharing a vague confection-connection with Lemony, has nothing else in common with her. She is a real sweetheart who lives in a haze of confusion, bewilderment and unhappiness, and is fully aware that she's losing it, even if she doesn't know who i am from one minute to the next and has revolving conversations which spin at a dizzying pace. She thinks I'm from Australia. I have decided to let that one slip. My heart just breaks to see it.

Hands up who didn't realise i had a soft side?

TGW Requests The Pleasure Of Your Company

In the spirit of spreading my International Domestic Goddess status further afield, I have accepted an invitation to be Sommelier at Revo’s intimate little dinner party for 10, which in turn means I have been tagged and must now organize my own. Now seeing as it’s for 10 and I count as one (simple maths, people) herewith my proposed guestlist of 9 dinner-worthy people who are cordially invited to spend an evening in my company, tempted with an endless supply of Cristal and decadent desserts:

Wentworth Miller (I’ll be seated next to/on top of him)
Robert Mugabe (Sushi a la Polonium Mr President sir?)
Gareth Cliff (I just adore the precocious little shit.)
Chelsey & Harry (As if! I wouldn’t be caught dead at the same dinner party as her. But Harry can come. His Nazi costume will add a touch of controversy to the occasion)
Borat (For make nice talkings with Harry The Prince)
Katie Melua (So I can get drunk and vomit on her)
Brendan Cole (for a little after-dinner-hip-action. The man makes me melt in little places I didn’t know existed!)
Mr Kipling, the cake man (My thighs owe it to him)
Donald Trump (To foot the bill)

Hired Help (Consider yourselves formally invited boys): The man on the other side of the mountain, Monsieur Kyknoord & self proclaimed ‘Boffin Jock’, Mark Forrester, both topless, buffed and wearing little black bow ties and leopard print banana-hammocks.

This intimate little soiree will be held atop a luxurious little houseboat on Lake Kariba. That is of course if I am entitled to choose my location?
Petrol and bullet proof vests will be provided in the event you decide to drive to the party.
itsu, Piccadilly, will be providing a special starter for Mr Mugabe. We don’t forsee him staying for dessert.

I Spy.

God, i just had to share this. Seth rocks my world.

Two Hips But No Hooray

If you followed my insane head ramblings of yesterday, well, congratulations. Revo didn't but then he was pissed so it was probably damned near impossible to get a handle on it, bless.

What i didn't make clear i realise, is the fact that these ramblings took place about a week ago, when there could have been the minutest possibility of getting a two week job which would cover the cost of my next return ticket. See when i came over i had to give a random date to return on with the plan being that i'd just change it to April when i head home to The Wedding of the century. That date is a week away. And I just got a new Ouma. And agency placements last 15 days.

*Sniiiiiiiiiiiffffffffff*

Looks like the only sundowners i'll be looking forward to happen at 3.30pm.

Voices In My Head

Not so long ago, one cold grey wet miserable English day (unusual that), the following conversation took place inside my head.

I’m bored. Me too. Lets do something crazy. Like what? You know, like craaaazy. But where do you start looking for a Kurt Darren CD in London? I said crazy, not retarded you doos. Oh. I feel like flying home. Lying on Camps Bay beach for two weeks. What about Clifton? Do I look like a herpes encrusted stick insect with a penchant for organic lettuce leaves and a nose full of cocaine. Nah, Herschel girls have suntans. Precisely. Ok, so how we gonna get there? We’ll fly. Oh. How will we afford it? Hic – sorry, that cider’s given me hiccups. Did we have a cider? Aren’t ciders for Chavs? Who are you? Is it time to go to school? 5 more minutes. Please?

** CRACK**

(1 X Poes Clap aaaaaand we’re back in the game.)

We'll get a job immediately after we leave The Trunchbull, work for the two week placement, leave straight from the granny's place to Heathrow, jump on a plane (coz we have a return ticket booked for that day already) and head home. Easy. Listen, The Agency couldn't organise a c*ck-up in a strip club, let alone get us a two week booking with surgical precision on the exact dates we need. There's no margin for error. It's exactly 15 days between leaving The Trunchbull and our booked date. It can't be done. F*ck you. I hate you when you're sober.

Only in Afric... Uh, England.

Hell i could have just stayed in Africa.

Saved From The Bell

Right. Feeling a bit like Dorothy now, wandering around with a glazed look most doughnuts would give, well, their nuts for. There goes me tempting fate “ooo I’m off to the countryside, hope it’s nothing like the wales incident blah blah blah” Not imagining for a second I’d be plonked in the middle of Rural Bloody Dorset with nothing but a bare fridge and a heinously overweight cat/men*pausal panther to keep me company, and seeing as the fridge was lacking substance and kept moaning about how ‘empty’ it felt, it was pretty much down to the cat, it’s claws and me. Hey I’m sure it’s time to get my prescription renewed?

So much has happened in the past two weeks I don’t know whether I should even attempt to string anything together or just put it down to a black hole in my immediate past. I’ll go boring point form again.

Little village. Population 85. In summer.
No. of shops: nil
No. of sheep: Enough to put a smile on an Aussie’s face every night for 11 straight years.
No. of South Africans excluding me: One.
No. of Pubs: One. Bonus.
No. of very sh*ggable barmen: One. Double Bonus.
No. of sh*gs with said bar man: Nil.
Cr*p.

My ex-GOTM, the formidable headmistress Miss Trunchbull (forgive my Roald Dahl theme of late) was quite a piece of work. She may have both hips intact and more marbles than most 28 year olds, let alone 98 year olds but that just made it worse. Boarding school hell was what it was. The bell was constantly ringing, the food was pretty crap and I stood sneaking fags outside the back door at 11pm, back pressed against the wall as close as my expanding deriere would allow so as not to set off the security lights and alert the Dobermans. My International Domestic Goddess status took a knock most nights where, upon completion of our meal, I was told “hmmm, could try harder”. No seriously. Oh and my printing on the crosswords could “do with a bit of work”. Dead f*cking serious. It was pretty crap. And bloody lonely. And the dining room smelled like cat piss, dry rot and Brussels sprouts. Where can I sign up for another term?

Hello Kitty

Man i seem to be rolling these old ducks off like $50 bills in a wh*re house.
Another day, another fossil and this f*cking chilly Tuesday morning sees me reporting for rolecall in the direction of Stonehenge. I am about to meet the headmistress from hell and her heinous venom-spitting, pernicious poes-y cat for a couple of weeks of fun in the countryside. Countryside spelt OHMYGODIFTHIS TURNSINTOANOTHERF*CKINGWALESJOBIMSCREWED. I can only imagine the look on the woman's face as i asked her over the phone "do you have chickens by any chance?". Or, depending on the volume of her hearing aid, "Has Charles Dickens taken you up the arse?". That would account for much gasping and stretching of one's eyes i suppose. The question, not the act. Mind you... URGH enough!

Anyway, i have ascertained that the only foul fowl belong to the neighbours and shan't be requiring any wrangling for the duration of my stay. Thank god. Now i can focus all my attention on the bitchy little poes-y cat.

Jagshemash!

The weekend that was:

Left a rather forlorn BFG behind, having survived two weeks without ever reaching forward to yank the 3 inch whisker protruding from her chin, which was constantly trailing in her Baxter’s Mushroom Potage.

Very proud.

Had the first decent shower in weeks, sans little blue bucket.

Watched Borat and nearly burst a blood vessel or six.

Suffered severe neck trauma from watching an incredible fireworks display in Wimbledon park. Worth every hour spent at A&E.

Tip toed my way through the squalor that is Clapham. First and last time.

Had to be poured into several taxis. Not very proud. Almost back to A&E.

Finally accepted that ‘he’s just not that into me’. Eina.

Whale Oil Beef Hooked.

I can’t get over these british accents. For such a tiny little puddle of mud, it never ceases to amaze me how many different ways there are to say something. Take broccoli for instance. Brocklee, brawclay, brohalay, brawklee, brohlee, glahchenfwilldergrish, if you’re welsh, and, if you’re just an eastend dirty knickers type, dem veg whoh are gween yeah?.
Is this just standard no matter which part of the world you in? Is a different accent warranted for every 100 km travelled? Sorry, make that 62.137 myowz.
Quite frankly, and I’ll readily admit, perhaps my ignorance, if that’s what it is, is due to my decidedly colonial upbringing. For me Durbs, Joburg, Cape Town and a general Vrystaat accent are pretty easy to distinguish between. When it comes to the locals however, the best I can do is ‘he’s from zim and he’s from South Africa’. Is this just me being a typically ignorant whitey?
Being a foreigner here, I really have to engage my ears and brain every time I ask anyone for anything and when the posh old BFG talks about orphans all the time, I take me ages to realize that she’s not pulling a Madonna on the crowd but rather referring to something which happens with regular occurrence. Mind you, if I had a pound for every time I’ve been asked if I’m from Australia I’d never have to wipe another bum or boil a piece of brawklee til it resembles the remnants of some student’s 3am kebab.
I ask you with tears in my eyes, do I look like I’d like to spend a romantic weekend curled up in front of the fire with Dolly the sheep?! For f*ck’s sake.

Reason To Love Your Job No. 1

You don’t have to come home after a long weary day and stand in a 5 litre navy blue bucket, toes curling up the one side, holding a shower head as close to you as possible so as to avoid the post-soap-down clean-up of the entire bathroom as the level rises faster than that of the swimming pool at fat camp.
You haven’t twisted and contorted in ways which, in other careers, could earn you an extra 50 quid an hour, just managing to get all the important bits, only to realize you still have to exfoliate, shave, wash your hair and brush your teeth. And Nicole Ritchie’s probably eaten 4 meals since you derobed. Go and give your calculator a hug. Go on.

Religious Freak Out

Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last bitching session. All the niceties of my current sitution have temporarily suppressed my inner bitch and she is now teetering on the edge of her stilettos in a rabid, pre-m*nstrual black widow kind of way. It is in moments like this that I choose not to ignore her in the interest of personal safety.

England, a country where commercialism is next to godliness and ironically is a religion all on its own. Card shops are it’s temples, garish over priced confection it’s communion, High Streets it’s purgatory. Cross yourselves people, the most religious festival on the calendar is about to begin.

Have you heard the parable about the 20 something girl who bought a bag of the juiciest, crunchiest apples this little puddle of mud has ever seen and stuffed their cores with cyanide and razor blades before rubbing her hands and giggling with maniacal glee as she waited for the doorbell to ring. Guess what kids? It’s not really a parable. There are no hidden meanings. It is what it is. And you’re about to witness a Sunday school lesson you ain’t ever gonna forget if you don’t keep the F*CK away from my front door this Halloween. I shall be waiting with a stake to drive through your hearts, whether you’re dressed up as Dracula in drag or not.

Hello little girl, would you like a sweetie…?

Ode To A Skid Mark.

Oh Intrepid explorer,
Why do you stray so far off course,
Your amber tail streaming out behind you like a comet across a Percale milky way?
Nestled beneath a sea of duck down you lie in wait,
A sardonic smirk upon your face.
Have you lost your way?
Were you unwittingly separated from your herd?
A million questions to ask, but how will you ever answer.
Oh itsy-bitsy smear of repulsion, oh puissant poo,
So tiny your appearance yet so powerful your effect.
Your putridity abhors me to the core.
You may have conquered my sight and my integrity but you will never thwart the Omo army to which I shall now deliver you.
Be gone to the bowels of hell from whence you came!
Be gone!

Of Feet & Mouths

So, like, I can be a little outspoken at times. I know, I know, you wouldn’t think, would you? Well last night I can safely say I truly outdid myself.

The dinner conversation went something like this…

Me: What a lovely painting you have framed on your wall over there
(nose begins to grow faster than a cabbage in a cow pat)
Did one of your grandchildren paint that for you?

BFG: Excuse me?

Me: That painting which bears some semblance of a chicken (gulp) chatting with a see-through fish and what appears to be two fried eggs flying in the sky with a lopsided punk-ass star. (The exact wording isn’t important). Did one of your grandchildren paint it?

BFG: (Insert look of sheer horror/amazement/nausea) That is a Braque.

Me (aside): What the f*ck is a Braque?!? Other than vomit on a canvas.

BFG: He’s a very famous artist.

I pour a dash of single cream into my steaming bowl of humble pie.

Me: Oh. I didn’t realize. It looks like something I could have painted when I was in grade one.

Can anybody spell “apoplexy”?

Breaking The Curse

“Oh I do like to be beside the seeeeasiiiide…”

So. So far so good. But seeing as there are no longer any chickens to count I shall have to resort to not crossing any bridges in a hurry. The night is but a puppy. A Shar pei.

Enter the BFG, the local Bridge club’s answer to Roald Dhal’s gigantic hero. A freak of nature, as old biddies tend to be rather minute on the whole, the BFG is my height. Ok, let me rephrase that. Her hump is my height. Her head hangs somewhere near where her boobs would be were she 70 years younger. Minor details.

Loving being by the sea. In a city. With people. And cars. And shops. And public transport. And coffee shops which don’t have diseases crusted down the price column on the menu where vuilgat country types have dragged their bitten, bleeding fingers down the list in search of a good deal. Oh the common folk, how they turn my stomach.

I think I can cope for another 12 days. Think.

Masochistic Me

So it's friday and whilst all of you bloody sods skip off into your weekends filled with sunshine and booze and tortilla chips and fluffy love cuffs, I am about to do the unthinkable. I'm on the 11.05 GOTM-bound train from Waterloo to Fogeyville where an old dear, just short of a century, eagerly awaits my arrival, gripping onto her zimmer frame with delight. No doubt word has reached her (albeit through a hearing aid) of my fame, my International Domestic Goddess status, my charm and my unsurpassed experience with poultry. She's one lucky woman. I, on the other hand, am not. They say bad stuff always happens in three's, and given the last two loons i've had (and survived!) i reckon there are another two weeks of cynical, potty-mouthed posts coming your way. Or perhaps just three days in I'll run off with a randy sailor. God knows i need it.

My favourite photo of all time: "The Kiss", Times Square, New York, photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt, Life Magazine, Aug. 14, 1945.

Short Live The Queen!!

Nothing says "f*ck you, bitch" quite like a clandestine glass of french "champers" and a bit fat smoke right in the middle of Her Majesty's living room at 12.04am on one's last night.

Thank god that's over. I can't even talk about it, it makes me queasy. The important thing is that i've left, i never have to see the bitch again and i shan't need to look at the sh*t-encrusted butt crack of a chicken ever again in my life.

Somebody hook up my IV to a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Ta.

The Chicken Wrangler

Just to prove to you that i don't tell fibs...



Or you can view it here

Coming and Going

So, s*x with a client…

(Knew that would catch your attention)

First off, may I categorically state that I have NOT participated in ANY activities of a perverse or s*xual nature with this woman. I have, however, unfortunately borne witness to some extraordinary and darkly disturbing near-org*smic activity which in turn has scarred my mind with both visuals and a soundtrack of old wrinkle-tits in the sack with her ankles behind her ears squealing like a wild boar on merry-go-round!

Methinks an explanation would be somewhat beneficial at this point.

Maam, my GOTM who’s nanny must have left the lid off the Royal Jelly back in the dark ages, has what can only be described as a rather noisy approach to appreciation. In short she appears to org*sm every 7 minutes. Every time the woman so much as chews a mouthful of something as banal as a poached egg or has a swig of her very own pressed apple juice, her royal highness practically slips off her chair in excitement, groaning like a goat in labour. God forbid you should bring out her tomatoes from her garden for dinner; the neighbours will need a cigarette after THAT performance!
Regulated to mealtimes, this kind of behaviour can be bearable to some extent but, for my sins, extends far beyond the confines of the dinner table. The bowls from Provence, the orchid on the windowsill, the bloody metal fire prod thingy her father ‘invented’ and the cabbages in the veggie patch, all wield the supernatural power of a 200 volt vibrator in a bath tub. Christ Almighty!

Luckily, having learnt a lesson from my joyous stay with the demented bat Lemony, I told The Agency I’d only agree to the first two weeks upfront, as they had asked me to do four. Gave them a little tinkle on my newly acquired Vodafone sim card yesterday (the only network which works in this godforsaken little backwater) to say that I would be packing my bags next Wednesday and getting my freezing cold, chicken shit covered bum back to civilization. Sorry but if she’s coming, I’m going.

** I've had to amend this slightly due to all the complaints of firewalls blocking my humble scribblings! Funny that they don't seem to mind the F word but heaven forbid one should say org*asm!!!! What is this world coming too (pun unfortunately intended)?

Rustic Hell 101

Coursework (1st Semester)

• Poultry & General Husbandry
  o Avoiding Bone Fractures When Slipping in Fresh Excrement
  o French Manicures & Chicken Feed
  o Wellies & You – Farmyard Haute Couture
  
• How To Live Without An Internet Connection
  NOTE: This will be the first in the "How To Live Without’ series. Other subjects include How To Live Without A Microwave, How To Live Without A Daily Cappuccino, and most importantly How To Live Without A Cigarette Every Hour. The series will be concluded with a final seminar entitled "How To Live."
  
• Roasting a Guinea Fowl, Eating It, and Keeping It Down
  
• Operating an Aga (Suggested reading: What The F*ck IS an Aga?!)
  
• "CHRIST ALMIGHTY!" and it’s many uses
  
• How To Serve The Gardener His Coffee Whilst Maintaining A Smile
  NOTE: The practical examination will test your ability to sustain unfaltering composure when the dirty old pr*ck exclaims he wants more milk and orders you to fetch it from the fridge immediately.
  
• Carbon Dating Cutlery & Crockery With Panache
  
• The Symbiotic Relationship Between Firewood & Arachnids
  
• Items Which CAN Go Into The Dishwasher
  This subject will consist of only one lecture

NB
Campus transport is in short supply. It is strongly recommended that you budget at least an hour and a half out of your daily two hour break if you intend on seeking out civilization.
Tea is served every thirty seconds.
Straight jackets need to be fitted for size and ordered well in advance. Please reserve these as soon as you arrive to avoid disappointment/suicide.

Suggested reading for Post Graduation:
Gumtree.co.uk - This is an excellent resource for long term accommodation in Greater London.
Creative Review – Advertising jobs in London
The Guardian – Publishing jobs in London
Belle De Jour – Excellent advice on becoming a High Class Whore in London (Not to be confused with Advertising).

Welcome to Hell.

The Princess Of Wales

All rise for her royal highness Madame Granny Wrangler of Wales.

(Cue Baroque music, crazed screaming fans, Hello! Magazine photographers wetting themselves in excitement and exhilaration, and the odd distant gunshot fired off by bodyguards at wayward bratty children who happen to breach the perimeter)

Yours truly is officially off to Cymru today on an all new wrangling extravaganza! Details are sketchy but when i alight from my fast train this afternoon, i am due to be collected by taxi (complete with name card touting dude) and chauffeured a very long way to the manor house where i shall kick off my shoes and collapse into a heap of duck-down filled bliss atop my large bed next to my very own en suite bathroom, whilst my contented sighs echo down the 19th century stone corridors and through the countless other bedrooms.

I don't particularly want to speculate and get all shot away in case it doesn't end up being as wonderful as it sounds, but some of the things Google has been whispering in my ear are pretty promising. I'll need a day or two to suss out the area and find myself an internet connection so if things are a little quiet, i've either been eaten by a rabid mountain goat at the foot of the black mountains or i'm just sodding miles away from civilization. Could have just stayed in Africa in that case!!

Even if it isn't all it's cracked up to be, as long as the only bloody dragon in the picture is the one on the flag, i'll be happy. And so on and so on and so forth.

Sobriety Sucks Ass

Well so much for my weekend of foul behaviour. I was jumping up and down trying to convince all and sundry to put on some dancin' shoes and bust a move at The Ministry of Sound or somewhere equally hedonistic (hell i would have settled for The Puzzle if push came to shove!) but they were having none of it. Sigh.
I did, however, meet up with the Camel Man today and had an amble through the city before stopping at a cute little italian place (run by argentinians. go figure) for bottle of rather nice red which, on an empty stomach, was probably not the best of ideas. We always seem to do that and the results are always a little shabby. I staggered onto the tube, but i'd like to blame the shoes for this one. Borrowed them for the day from a mate and was completely crippled half an hour into the day. After limping down the road like i had a guitar up my arse, the CM finally told me to stop whingeing. I threatened to show him whingeing. In the middle of the road outside St James' Palace. In front of the guard with the grizzly bear on his head. It nearly got ugly and i nearly got sectioned. Never a dull moment.
So, whilst this probably isn't the most inspiring stuff you'll read today, it was good and chilled and happy and will prepare me nicely for my next GOTM who i start with on wednesday. Here's hoping she's not as psycho as the last one! More anon...

Schnaarfing Coke

I think the doos who runs Coca Cola deserves a bitch slap.

I remember the old days. If you liked coke, you drank coke. If you didn't, you could sod off and drink meths or petrol. They couldn't care less, because at the time, roughly 2.6 billion people (excluding the pygmies, various refugees and most probably George W Bush) knew you couldn't beat the feeling. Coke was coke was coke. And lumo roll down socks were hot. Things change.

Fast Forward to 2006 where, when you walk into any shop in England, you'd better brace yourself for one monumental branding c*ck up. There are now a staggering NINE different ways to banish toilet stains or de-crust the build up on your car battery.

The latest little variant which the brand pimps are whoring around like a lady boy with 6 nipples and a Corvette, is Coke Zero - a sugar free variant targeting men who won't drink Diet Coke coz they think it's faggy. I'll give it to Coke that they do deliver on their promises - it has Zero appeal. It tastes just like the normal stuff. But then it's got a swanky black and white label with flashes of silver here and there which they believe makes it all manly and stuff. "Hey boet, i just dropped my Coke Zero, won't you bend over and pick it up for me?". Give me a goddam break. Their pay off line couldn't get more camp if it lived in a pink tent and worshipped Zsa Zsa Gabor - "Enjoy Coke-ness, with Zero Calories" - have you ever heard such piffle?

Open their industrial fridges and you'll now find Coke Cherry, Coke Lime and Coke Lemon (we're splitting hairs on the flavour frontier on the last two) and if that's not bad enough, let's introduce the sugar free versions of all of those too. I can't wait until they bring out Diet Coke Roast Beef With Shallots And Mushy Peas. Don't laugh - i reckon it's in the focus groups as i type.

One cautionary heads up for South Africans who pop over here: woe betide you should ask for a Coke Light when you're ordering from your more-often-than-not dof pommie waitress. She'll look at you aghast, her eyes bulging wildly in a 'something large and prickly just dropped out of my bottom' kind of way, gum chewing coming to a grinding halt, pen suspended shakily in mid air (which is really just for show coz she probably can't read or write). Much like good manners and well behaved children, Coke Light does not exist in this country. It is Diet Coke. Coke Light - Diet Coke - Coke Light - Diet Coke. Am i just dangerously above the average intelligence of a protozoan hiccup or is it simply impossible to approach this with a degree of logic and/or (let's be lenient here) plain common sense? I sense another addition to the Bitch Slap list coming on.

If this is what they call 'The Coke side of life' could somebody please pass the razor blade?

Spending Money Chasing Cars

Sainsbury's shopping list, Thursday the 28th:

Milk
All Bran
Grapes
Pasta Salad
Snow Patrol
Diet Coke
Roasting veg

I never cease to amaze myself. Nobody i know could walk out of the house with the aim of buying a couple of staple foods to tide them over and end up coming home with something they really don't need, cleverly packaged amongst all the organic bullshit. But see there's my arguement (i'm arguing with myself now and i believe that's not a particularly healthy sign) - the new Snow Patrol cd could definitely be categorized as a 'staple' in that it is a little piece of plastic which is essential to my well being on this planet (ooo the mind boggles!).

This is why i found it necessary to forgo the larney 'Taste The Difference' pasta salad in favour of the cheaper boring one, and why i put the uber slab of Aero back...

Keep Your City Beautiful

I've always been a sucker for a man in uniform. Of course that doesn't literally mean I'm a Fellatio Slave for the good looking half of the British Army. Keep it tidy. Or at least keep it vaguely beneficial to me. I digress.

So I woke up this morning with a very large smile on my face (that's better) and sauntered into the kitchen scantily clad in a fabulous pair of La Senza knickers and a little vest, to plunge a cup of real coffee which i planned to enjoy with my morning nicotine hit. I breathed in that heady scent of freedom. No brown curtains, no smell of rotting teeth and toenails, no scabby granny pants the size of an Irish Wolf Hound lying on the floor waiting for me to come along and pick them up with a stick. My facewash was untouched. My food was still in the fridge. I hadn't woken up in the middle of the night with a Daddy Long Legs burrowing up my nostril or a rain spider galavanting across my pillow. I hadn't been shouted at at the crack of dawn by that crotchety old bitch. Yip, I am a billion miles away, free at last and loving every goddam second of it! And although i woke up alone (aaaaaaah - the bit about the big smile and the lacy french knickers was just a tease) it was still unbelievably fantastic.

With a little bit of celebrating on the cards, although just a teensy bit - i'm saving myself for this weekend, i thought i'd head into London for a bite with best mate A, in the swankiness that is Liverpool Street. Believe me when i say that the second those tube doors opened and i had finished gasping for fresh air after having my nose shoved in some McDonalds poster child woman's armpit, the heavens opened and i swear to God i could hear angels singing. There, all around me, as far as my big brown eyes could see, were men in designer suits dashing to and fro, Starbucks in one hand, financial gazette in the other. And we're not talking ancient here. We're talking "I'm a hot young Boss model who's just being paid to walk around here in my fresh-off-the-med tan and my dark tousled hair purely to bring joy and happiness to innocent little Granny Wranglers who have been cruelly cut off from society for weeks on end'. We're talking hundreds of religious experiences on legs. We're talking my language.

Ok I got a bit carried away there. I could go on for hours but that would just be revolting and the tone could get a tad grubby so i'll stop. I just deemed it very necessary to paint a picture of my perfect day which i believe i fucking deserved!! Long live me. And long live the hot little investment bankers swarming all over this beautiful city. Watch yourselves boys, there are a few things I can think of that i'd like to do with those expensive silk ties of yours...

God I love this city.

1 More Sleep

Today is my last day and unfortunately, due to internet restrictions i don't have too much time available to write anything substantial... excuses excuses. So i shall leave you with a list of all the things i'm going to miss about my little stay with Lemony in the dungeon of doom:











Have a great monday, i know i will.

T Minus 5 And Counting

Thank the good Lord and all his happy little wing-ed cherubs I’m into the home stretch. I can officially say that today is my last Thursday in this squalid little hovel. On Tuesday next week I’m jumping on the fastest train National Rail has to offer me and I’m roaring into London to go and get sh*t-faced (god, I’m so common it gives me a nose bleed) with ‘The Crowd’ until I can no longer remember my own pin number, let alone the 3 weeks in hell I have endured. That is providing that I don’t saw my own limbs off with a cheese grater and die from a severed artery before then. Be it the light at the end of the tunnel fast approaching (no thanks to Eskom) or the couldn’t-give-a-flying-f*ck attitude I’ve adopted in light of her recent behaviour, I’ve decided to do exactly as I please and couldn’t give a stuff about anything she has to say or do (whilst of course maintaining a degree of professionalism and all the other job mandatories). Up yours and the demented f*cking mule you rode in on lady, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here!

Sulk.

Following up on the 'face scrub in the loo' story, i now have it on good authority that this little incident was indeed a 'f*ck you, bitch' directed at me and is by no means the first time it's happened i believe. She also went through the fridge this morning, picked out a couple of my things and threw them away out of pure spite. Of course i only noticed once we got back from our weekly shopping trip to Sainsbury's and when i confronted her she blatantly lied to me. Like the ham grew a pair of f*cking wings and did an olympic somersault off the milk bottle and into the bin whilst my back was turned. For f*ck's sake, do i look like a f*cking imbecile? I'm grumpy and COMPLETELY humourless this afternoon.

Hollandaise Sauce!

I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to mention Exceptionally Delicious Bum (EDB – which, ironically, could also be a shortened version of EDiBle). There’s a family connection there and he often pops in to see Lemony, mow the lawn (a la desperate housewives) and do all the general boy stuff which needs doing (I make a little ‘to do’ list from time to time. He’s on it.). If you were to see the kindness and selflessness you’d be knocked off your feet. He is an exceptional man – with an exceptionally delicious bum. Oh and he’s Dutch which makes him all yummy and foreign-like too. And don’t get me wrong, when I say Dutch, we’re not talking your average Vrystaat oke from Kimberly. This one’s a proper clogs and café one, fresh off the streets of Amsterdam, baby!

So anyway, it is the little visits from the EDB which keep my sanity at an acceptable level and make the trials and tribulations of atomic explosions in the bathroom which need mopping up, just that little bit more bearable. Just the prospect of being able to have a conversation without shouting my head off and enunciating every syllable, even if it is for only an hour once or twice a week, is fantastic.

The EDB has just been round now (he hasn’t been for a whole week!) and we’ve been sitting in the sunshine smoking up a storm and using the F word quite a lot. Aaaaah – someone on my wavelength for a change. Terribly un-ladylike, I know, but the reprobate in me needs a little oxygen from time to time. Give the girl a fucking break! Now that he’s gone however, it’s safe to shoehorn my way into my bikini and attempt to soak up a smidgeon of sun before it disappears for the next 11 months. Vaarwel!

The Loo Gets a Facial

So Sod paid me a little visit yesterday to remind me that his little law still exists, just in case i'd forgotten (hardly bloody likely!). Naturally things always seem go awry just after one thinks everything is looking hunky dory. I, stupid f*cking moron that i am, rang the agency to say that i'd be happy to extend my little visit by a week which means as of today i'd only be halfway through as opposed to only 5 days to go. Anyway, as you know, she absolutely loathes me going off for my two hour break every day . I would imagine she walks around the house calling out ‘Hello? Hello? is there anybody here?’. I do feel sorry for her and often have to force myself out before my conscience gets the better of me (I care too much sometimes). Anyway, she was particularly unhappy when I left yesterday but she had been crotchety and weird all morning so I didn’t feel too bad. Upon my oh so hapy return I went into the bathroom and noticed mountains of this chunky white stuff floating in the toilet. I was absolutely horrified as it looked like she had been sick, until on closer inspection I realized it was my very expensive Neutrogena face scrub!! (I only know this because it’s white with distinctive little red scrubby bits in it) Total sense of humour failure - exceptionally un-f*cking-funny. She must have rummaged through my wash bag which sits in the corner with all my stuff in it and squeezed it into the loo?!?! I'll admit i initially thought it could have been a malicious little ‘f*ck you’ but by the same token I don’t imagine she’d be that switched on. I mentioned it to her daughter on the phone last night and she said she’d probably mistaken it for the Harpic or something?!?!!??!?!?!??!?! Stupid me - I mean of COURSE you keep the Harpic in a bath bag next to the toothpaste and tampons, how dumb am I?! F*ck sakes man, maybe advertising wasn't that bad. On the bright side, looks like the toilet bowl is gonna be the prettiest damn loo on the whole block - and glowingly blackhead free at that! Who'd have thought?!

Objet D'Kak

So when I opened my eyes this morning (sans suicide note and body, thank fuck) I thought I’d take a little amble with my camera and snap a couple of my favourite pieces of crap scattered prominently throughout the house...

Exhibit Number One:

Description: “Swan” Compact Teasmade.
Location: Dangerously close to my bed.

Firstly, I’d like to open the discussion by posing a rather important and exceptionally intellectual question. What the fuck is it?!

Could it be a time capsule where miniature evil swans from the future teleport themselves into your room late at night and peck you to death should you fail to leave a sacrificial fresh tea bag as a humble offering before you turn out the light? I haven’t slept a wink knowing that this portal of death sits ever so dangerously close to my head, it’s two little red eyes glowing in the darkness. A street lamp flickers on the pavement outside and every hair on the back of my neck stands on end as I swear I can hear the demonic flapping of molten bionic feathers beating against my window pane.

On the bright side, at least it has a 6” x 4” slot where you can slip a picture "of your choice" in so you have a happy memory right before you as your blood spills onto the pillow and you begin your slow and excruciating decent into the bowels of swan hell.

Exhibit Number Two:

Description: Execrable Totem Pole.
Location: The fire place.

So I’m guessing this household doesn’t dig old Father Christmas all that much? Why else would you want this heinous little technicolour, migraine-inducing carving keeping a watchful guard at the entrance to your chimney? Perhaps it was left by the swans as a friendly little ‘reminder’?

Exhibit Number Three:

Description: Old Coffee Jars Filled With Nails And Shit.
Location: Garage shelves.

Need's no explanation. Just mirth. In fact I laughed so hard I almost had a little accident right between the WD40 and the spare tyres. Fancy a steaming cup of rusty nails you old hag?

** Footnote: Should any members of the British Police be reading this, please note that last comment was merely a little joke and in no way hostile or threatening. Amen. Oh and do sign the visitors book.

who-what-where-how-when-why-me?

Who’s coming today?
Are we the only ones in the house?
Is there anybody else here?
Is anybody coming today?
What day is it?
What are we going to do today?
Are we the only ones in the house?
What day is it?
Who’s bedroom is this?
Are you alright dear? Can I get you anything?
What day is it?
Can I get you anything?
Is this door open for a reason?
Can I get you anything?
What day is it?
Shall I open this door?
Hello?
Is there anybody else here?
Where did I put my glasses?
How many are there of us in the house?
Can I get you anything?
When are we going out?
Who’s bedroom is this?
Hello? Is there anybody in the house?
What day is… ooo, is this door open for any particular reason?
Can I get you anything?
What day is it?
Who’s coming today?
Are we the only ones in the house?

And then it’s time for breakfast where halfway through my cup of coffee she threatens suicide.

Perhaps we could look into that?

I'm BLIND!!!

Oh my god oh my god oh my god! I'm BLIND! I can't breathe! Christ on a crutch, MY EYEBALLS ARE ON FIRE!!

breathe breathe breathe
Excuse me whilst i take a moment in the name of composure...

Ok, i'm good... uh...no...

breeeeeathe

Ok. I've just seen Lemony STARKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have bolted from the house to take a few hours off and get out of the corner i've been rocking in, muttering incoherently, since the ordeal. My pulse is yet to return to normal. I have decided i never want to get old and have two insipid shrivelled pancakes flapping on my thighs (i swear to god) and what looks like the remnants of Tutankhamun's flattened test*cles hanging off the back of my knees! AAAAARGH - flashbacks - eyeballs drenched in acid. I can see a bright light. Must...not...walk...towards it...it's so prettyyyyy...

KitKat In The Hat

One ring, two ring,
red ring blue ring,
Em is going to be a During!

Mark is dashing
Mark is bold
A most romantic story told.

I want to hug them on a box
I’d hate to hug them near a fox
I want to fly home, cheer the man,
I want to hug them,
Sad, I am.

Yay you two! Lots of love xx

Lemony Snigger

So I’m sitting in a new room drenched in brown velvet curtains and mouldy wicker baskets, on what seems to be one of those hospital beds which has a remote control thingy to put your feet up or head up, depending which part of you is dying first. Yep, I’m officially with the Granny Of The Moment, hereafter referred to as the GOTM. You know how all these legal documents get away with it – they say it once, and then they abbreviate or acronym-ize the bloody thing out of sheer bloody laziness. I’m bloody lazy. (And also bloody English using the word bloody at every turn). Would probably make a good lawyer in that case but then I’d have nothing decent to write about. Today was successful. I picked my nose. I lied a lot. The end.
I wonder if Thabo Mbeki ever dabbled in the law – the right side of it anyway?

So going back to the GOTM – I have managed to survive 48 hours. And when I say survived, I mean to the full ‘Out wit, out play, out last’ if-I-win-I-deserve-a-million-dollars, kind of thing. I have decided to affectionately dub this GOTM ‘Lemony Snigger’ due to a strange obsession with little iced lemon sponge cakes which she eats by the boxful, and the fact that she truly is a bit of a laugh. My initial nomenclature included the likes of Agent Orange and Ditzy D, but the first seems a tad harsh and the second made me sound intellectually bereft and lazy. I’d hate to be thought of as thick. So Lemony it is.

Vital Stats

Age: 88 (she thinks)
Nappies: No
Wheelchair: No
Hobbies: No
Friends: No
Short term memory: No
Taste: No
Appetite: No
Will to live: No (Apparently she often threatens suicide)
Objection to my smoking: No
Gardener and Maid: Yes!!!

All in all, Quite a granny I tell you, and what a piece of work. Her dress sense is hardly appropriate for a woman of 60, let alone nearly 30 years older. She tends to favour quite racy skirts and smears herself in fake tan every morning so she’s a delightful shade of orangey brown. Her hair is whitey/blondey/yellowy, so in order to paint a mental picture for you, plonk that coiffure atop the carrot-coloured leathery skin and you’ve got what looks like a rather melty vanilla cone, dripping in gold. Or picture that lady from There’s Something About Mary. It’s quite a scream. Literally. She’s as deaf as a post (I don’t think she can hear herself farting), and clinically demented. No really. Not like a raging lunatic, just early stages – a bit ‘forgetful’ from time to time it the politically correct term I believe.
Stay tuned, this one’s going to be interesting…

Still Alive... Barely.

So I managed to survive the whole Zimfest ordeal although there are a few people who, had they not been protected by law and some kind of weird dark magic, would surely be choking quietly to death on their own blood, had i had my way. I'm too sulky to go into it in all it's glory so i shall give you a quick run down of the happenings.

• 12x savannah dry
• 10x port-a-loo trips
  
• 4x apple fizz pops
• 1x box of koeksisters
• 1x enormous boerie roll
  
• 7x Heathrow Injection Victims
• 1x Ex
• 1x very thin jersey (in 16 degree greyness)
• 2 sticks biltong
• 1x chick who i haven't seen in a few years who said "Oh my god, how are you? What's been happening? The last i heard you were a lesbian?"
• 1x exceptionally large sense of humour failure.
• 4x urges to commit homicide. consecutively.
• 1x Savannah Dry
• 2x Alabama Slammers
• Nando's Burger with Cheese
• 1x large glass of water.
• 2x trips to the loo in the middle of the night to heave my lungs out.
  

Dumb bitch. Sorry, i'm still sulking.

Boerie & Bollies

The reason i've been so quiet for the past couple of days is a) nothing short of a miracle, and b) because i have a weekend of sheer debauchery bearing down upon me like some bergie with exceptionally pungent halitosis seeping out from between the gap in her front teeth. Aaauugh - makes the very hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Zimfest 2006 is upon us. God help us all.

Every year, a billion relocated 'Zimbos' and their Saffa (FOK that's such a stupid word - the person who invented it deserves to have Manto Tshabalala-Msimang shoved up their arse) mates, who just wish they were Zimbos, get together for a day of boerie rolls, Bollingers beer, homegrown tunes and one hell of a laugh bumping into all the ex's from schooldays and checking out who's voluntarily turned themself into a massive billboard for the infamous Heathrow Injection.

Of course i'm the new kid on the block so, against my better judgement, i thought it best to put on a brave face (and a squirt of Uber-Dork-Repel on my neck) and brave it into the masses to see what all the fuss is about. This little 'day in the rain' must get disgustingly out of hand if the last minute change of venue is anything to go by. Apparently residents who live near to this year's proposed location, caught wind of it and complained to the police... 5 days BEFORE IT EVEN BEGAN. If i make it out of there alive and without someone else's carrots all over my shoes, it'll be a small miracle. May the farce be with me.

The Music Of The Night

In the interest of saving time and the prospect of stirring up maximum jealousy, this is going to be straightforward.

I went to watch Phantom Of The Opera at Her Majesty's Theatre in London's west end on Saturday night. I cried through most of it. I sang the whole way home. I am still singing 3 days later.

The fruits of my labour are starting to ripen and damn it feels good (danananananana) I knew that it would (danananananana).

Step Aside Gordon Ramsey...

Well it's official. I'm leaving.

The Mr and Mrs, for all their slave driving faults, have actually been really sweet me. In light of my imminent departure, they said they'd miss me TERRAHBLY and wished they could keep me on as their personal chef. No, i swear. Maybe it's true - taste IS one of the first things to go?! I must admit though, i really have been showing off and half the reason i was so relieved to be leaving, was that i'd completely exhausted my list of "FPCD's" (fail proof culinary delights) and would have been screwed had they made me stay a day longer!

Probably picking up on this, intelligent, decorated people that they are, the old ducks threw me a curve ball - probably another of their little (heehee) 'tests'. Seeing as i was no longer going to be around, they'd simply loooove it if i whipped up a little something or two for their freezer, for them to enjoy once i'm gone. Could you, said she, would you said he, oh fuck said me.
Now please believe me when i say i shat myself at that point. Right there in the middle of breakfast, half way between the reaching for the sweetner and plunging my coffee, i shat myself.

Needless to say, once i'd stopped hyperventilating and they'd both buggered off to do their morning business, yours truly had a little squizz in the cupboards to see what she could see. I had this little realisation, courtesy of brother dearest who was immediately sms'd for help, which made a hell of a lot of sense: i'm not going to be around when they eat the bloody thing so i might as well fling open the fridge, throw whatever i see into a pot, chuck it in the freezer, grab my money and run like hell. So that's exactly what i did, and god did it taste good. No, seriously. May I present the sexiest, most delicious (no SERIOUSLY) 'casserole' to have ever been dreamed into creation. It doesn't have a name yet but i'm open to suggestion.

2 chicken breasts chopped into fancy bits
handful fresh black cherries
50g chopped walnuts
small handful black olives
half a jar preserved red green and yellow peppers
4 tomatoes
1 cup chicken stock
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp mixed spice
2 bay leaves,
and finally...
an almighty dash of Pimm's!!!

Serve that on a bed of piping hot Couscous and sit back to wait for BBC Food to ring...

Hmmm, maybe O2 cut me off? Or there's no signal here? Oh come on goddamit, RING!

Little Miss Mavis Big Bucks

In the wake of my new found “International Domestic Goddess” status (thanks em) things are beginning to look as bright and sparkly as the hall mirror I polished yesterday. Hold onto your post-its people… she’s goin’ home.

Ok, so technically I’m not going home home. I’m just not going to be HERE anymore.
As I trudged wearily into the kitchen this morning, hoping to grab my cup of coffee and sneak out again without being noticed, just so I could have my morning constitutional, complete with nicotine and caffeine, I was pounced upon with rampant vigour by the Mr and Mrs.

Them: So, we’ve been thinking. And now, this may come as a bit of a shock, but we’ve decided that Mr H here is doing soooo much bettah and really doesn’t need a carer. We’ve been trying so hard to keep you occupied (Nooooo. Really?) but it’s become apparent that it’s quite a silly idea and we think it’s best if you leave on Saturday. It’s nothing personal whatsoever, and we have every intention of paying you for the full 14 days…

I’m not too sure what they said after that – all I had ringing in my ears was ‘leave on Saturday’, ‘paying you for the full 14 days’ and the washing machine beeping to let me know my 73rd load of laundry was ready for collection. Mavis became, at that very second, the luckiest little toilet-scrubbing bitch on the face of the planet and she was loving every second of it! Now I must mention that, as with most things in this line of work, this isn’t set in stone just yet – we’re off to the cardiologist dude today who, if he knows what’s good for him, is going to declare miraculous health, which would in turn negate the necessity of my presence. I’m crossing my fingers and toes but can’t promise on the legs I’m afraid... And that’s for the lovelys in London town of course - Sis on you if you thought I was talking about doing the Geriatric Jig – the man’s heart is dodgy, Christ!

Mavis The Marvellous.

Yours truly seems to have landed herself in a bit of a spot. In fact, this spot is so ginormous and grotesque it makes all the big okes at Clearasil a little edgy. Allow me to elaborate.

So I arrived at this half-horse town full of the optimism of a paedophile in a playground, looking forward to utter-chilled-out-ness and stuuuufff. (How did we know this was coming?) So it turns out that gramps ain't exactly your average 'nappies and napthalene' old fogey, actually he's not even a gramp, but instead, a rather a spritely chap recovering from a little cardiac mishap, who doesn't really need or want me around. The wife, however, tends to disagree. There are no bed pans, chair lifts or crusty underpants with which to contend, and he is completely in charge of his own breakfast, lunch and pill cocktail every so often. In all honesty, i'm a little surplus to requirement.

Now this is where it starts to get fun. Instead of me doing the carerly thing and hanging around should he need me for anything (which we've already established he doesn't), wiping a sink here and preparing a meal there, they are terribly concerned that i'll be bored stiff. The conversation went a little something like this:

Them: I rather hope you won't be terrahbly booored.

Me (somewhat brightly): Um no, i'm sure i'll be alright thanks.

Them: Well here's a monster pile of killer laundry which needs ironing (I made up the scary adjectives), and the stairs could do with a vacuum, oh and the 5972 living rooms are in need of a dust - do make sure you do them thoroughly - and our room could also do with a once over. Oh could you iron all the sheets and pillow cases in the entire village as well? If it's not much trouble. Oh and one last thing, we've got a little test (heehee) to check how well you clean but we won't tell you what it is until you either pass or fail.

Me: Are you kidding me? Are you seriously goddam f*cking KIDDING me?!?!? (So i thought it, who cares.)

What i actually said was: SURE (big beam and all that crap.)

Well paint me brown and call me Mavis. DUMBASS - i don't know what came over me, i really don't. Maybe it was the fresh air and the Pimm's. Maybe i was just being a really f*cking stupid MORON. Either way, none of the above really falls under my job description - what they really need is a bloody Polish maid to live in and take care of the housework for a week or two.
I seriously couldn't be less charmed than if i multiplied into 3 sisters and went on a demon slaying expedition.

Now if you'll please excuse me, i'm off to inject myself with a pleasant mix of crack and Domestos and then burn myself on the iron for the umpteeth f*cking time today. F*ck f*ck f*ck. F*ck.

Oh by the way, they're actually really nice people. No, really.

What the FOX that?!

So i've officially been acquainted with a real live fox. Not those cute little fox 'n the hound type red fluffy kinds you see talking and smiling and cavorting in story books, bursting into song about how great the flowers and the rain are. No no, this one was a mangey, jackal-like mongrel, grey and bedraggled and most probably rabid (although i must admit i would have needed binoculars to check for a foaming mouth given the distance i maintained between predator and prey). No bloody WAYS are they all small and fluffy like poodles. They are nasty smelly scrofulous vermin that terrify the living shit out of me and make my evening Marlboro trips downstairs a living nightmare. How the bloody hell i'm going to survive my walks in the countryside when i'm on assignment god alone knows. Bugger the whole anti-hunting things here, i say call in the hounds, or failing that i'll need the sawn-off shotgun i have under my car seat back in SA. Fluffy better get the hell off my property. Run bitch run!!

Ka-CHING!

Ladies and gentlemen, we have our first job.

Got a call from The Agency today and it's all systems go for monday morning. A little country air never hurt anyone and this one sounds a little chilled so we should be cruising for a couple of weeks with any luck...

Couch Surfing 101

Surf's up people and despite the excitement of a reunion with the mates in good ol' London town, sleeping on floors (and the occasional nap over here and there;) ) can get to a point where it's just not fun anymore. Apart from feeling a bit like a freshly clipped toenail in a Caesar salad or a Bacon sandwich at a Bar Mitzvah, the tennis elbow one acquires from opening and closing a suitcase, the callouses forming on one's hands due to the absurd amounts of housework one does in an attempt to contribute in any small way possible, and the lower back pain from 10 nights on your standard Argos blue blow-up mattress, is enough to drive you and your poor housemates to drink. Make that 'walk you to drink' - Cars? Good god man, what is this of which you speak?! (Princess is not too chuffed with this whole public transport vibe by the way). Don't get me wrong, i am so eternally grateful for having a roof over my head, great food in my tummy and a bunch of very cool mates 24/7 who so don't seem to care that i'm becoming part of the furniture at all. Despite all this, you inevitably find yourself winding up your own arse, making yourself out, in your own head, as a real pain in the left buttock to everyone else around you. And so, in a guilty dwaal, the time to bugger off and blend into the carpet of another housefull of helpless victims will come. And on it goes.
The great thing is tho, couch surfing is a bit like the local bicycle - everyone's done it. So there's a lot of sympathy and understanding. And also a lot of carpet burn. Hey, you take the good with the bad.

Chavin' a right fab time, innit.

Welcome to England - the home of Coldplay, the breeding ground of colonialism, bastion of sheer bloody-mindedness, the land of plenty. Plenty of strikes, plenty of rain, plenty of people's sweaty pits dripping onto your iPod on the tube, and of course PLENTY of Chavs.

The 'Chav' (not sure what it's short for - although 'Council Housing Average Vuilgat' wouldn't go amiss) is an English phenomenon which i can't seem to grasp, and with which i have been told i harbour an unhealthy obsession. Now i have obsessions but they tend to be regular stuff, like turning the light switch on and off 7 times before i leave a room or drizzling my honey into my cereal in neat little 'z's every morning. That's pretty regular innit? Not a fuck i hear you say. Maybe all that therapy has been a waste of kleenex. I digress. So anyway, in a haze of burberry and prams, scraped back ponytails and milky white tractor tyres spewing forth from beneath short waisted puffer jackets, i tiptoe past bus stops (What do Chavs use as protection during sex? Bus shelters) and the stairs outside Centrecourt, clutching my bag as one would do on Strand street at rush hour, making sure not to make eye contact for fear of being politely asked, "whatha fook you lookin' ah?!". Its all a tad disconcerting and a little creepy but at the same time disgustingly fascinating. The novelty will soon wear off i'm told but until then i shall continue to be in awe of these beings who cannot be equated to any other culture on earth. Seeing is disbelieving.

The Sum Of Old Farts

So my bags are packed, my Visa is through and i'm about to leave the comfort of Sarf Efrica to seek my fortune.

Literally.

(CareWork + Granny) x 6months = $$$ Therefore Prague (and Sardinia and Marbella and NewYork and Budapest and full circle to a week in the luxury of Sabi Sabi)

If anything, this should be interesting.