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.