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.