Tyred.

For those of you who have seen A Good Year (girls for Russell Crowe, or, guys, because you wanted to get into her pants so decided to go in order to swop a chick-flick for a chick-lick) you will soon realise, before this sentence is out, that this post has absolutely nothing to do with that movie at all. The title of it says it all and yet has not been deemed fit as a witty or exciting headline.

Were it not for the insane hours I’ve been working in preparation for an interview today and my utter lack of profane content due to the fact that the soldier of my dreams has swept me off my little well-heeled feet and rendered me devoid of any sentiment with which to offend, I would have posted this yesterday, the 1 year Anniversay of The Granny Wrangler (all presents, monetary gifts and general felicitations most welcome). Alas, it is today that I write, and my intense inner perfectionist is riled. It will have to cope I’m afraid.

A year has passed on Mud Island and as I look back on my very first post I realise how much has happened, what was not achieved and then what was – the unexpected, the awful, the happy, the desperately sad, the magical, and it only seems fitting that I call it a day. Or call it a year. One hell of a year. In all senses of the word.
I have loved it, I have loved you all being here – to laugh with/at me, to pick me up and dust me off when I was inundated with cat crap, chicken crap and one particular trail of ‘puissant poo’ of a geriatric nature. I would say it’s been crappy. But you’ve made it all worth it.

Should I ever decide to start up again, I will stealthily sneak out of the shadows under another disguise and you’ll have to discover me all over again but to be honest, for now, do not hold your breath.

With so much love, cynicism, profanity and gratitude (now get outta here you clowns! )

The (ex) Granny Wrangler.

*SMOOCH*

**UPDATE** Apparently, contrary to broadcast, our hero is an officer and not a mere lowly soldier. Thank you Sandhurst. I shall consider myself spanked. Mmmmm.

Teacher, Teacher!

One of the many advantages of living in the UK, alongside Waitrose home delivery (O-ka-O-ka-DO) and stab-wound-free public transport (except in Tooting where bloodstained shirts are all the rage this season), is the plethora of musicals and shows which ooze from every street corner. A cultural injection just waiting for you to excitedly present a pale cheek. And the other night, I did just that. And in fact, I wasn’t the only one.

Showing in a theatre in the heart of Camden, and described as “Cirque du Soleil without the Disney and disinfectant”, we, being the intelligent individuals we are, expected something a little different - astounding acrobatics but without all the bright costumes, which, in hindsight, is pretty much what we got.

Imagine if you will, the horror that befell Yours Truly as the house lights dimmed to the painful hack-sawing of a perfectly decent cello by a rather unsavoury looking character, and a sudden glaring spotlight revealed our first acrobat ambling across the dingy insipid little stage. Naked. Like the chef. Only nakeder and ten times hairier. And as this was a woman, I was a more than a little disturbed.
Inching over to a laundry basket, she proceeded to pick out pair after pair of large ‘granny pants’ (so *that’s* why I went) only to hold them to her nose and inhale deeply in a quest to find a relatively suitable and odourless pair. This took so long I nearly whipped my own off and hurled them on stage in an effort to cover her up, but I think red with polka dots would have been a tad gaudy for her.
Poen finally put away, but mammarys all a-flap, she took to the trapeze as the audience gazed up in horror and I scrabbled for the program to see if we were watching indeed ‘Acrobat’ or actually a production of ‘Milkshake’.

As winter follows autumn, so too does penis follow poen and it was only a matter of moments before a man appeared on roller skates, his various appendages flying willy-nilly (ahem), taking great delight in shaking them and wiggling them with obscene pelvic thrusts as he roared around the stage, before starting to extract silk scarves from his bung-hole like Sodom The Magnificent. When he too took to the high ropes, I shrieked, squirmed and closed my eyes, convinced I was about to witness the world’s first ‘castration by rope burn’ incident. In what was an hour of sheer horror, I sat agape as the ‘meaningful’ and ‘arty’ acrobatic display played out its course, with only one question on my mind: are the ‘2 veg’ all that huge??

Where You Love From.

You've so distracted me,
Your absence fans my love.
Don't ask how.

Then you come near.
"Do not..." I say, and
"Do not...," you answer.

Don't ask why
this delights me.

| Rumi |

Any Unattended Luggage Will Be Destroyed.

This is a final boarding call for all passengers on flight FO 69, that's Foxtrot Oscar 69, to Anywhere But My Sodding House, now departing from gate 1. Passengers are advised that all bags will be subjected to a thorough search and any silver, jewellery, electronic equipment or money found will be confiscated and Bitch Slaps will be issued. Please ensure you have all items of clothing, including cheap extensions and unwashed microscopic thongs, safely stashed and refrain from any form of hugging or kissing as you leave the boarding gate as infectious diseases and sheer violation of basic human rights are not tolerated by the Airports Company of My House. All liquids on your person must either be swallowed or be restricted to 100ml containers. This includes any form of lubrication, Gentian Violet or gynaecological ointments. Thank you for flying with us, we look forward to never seeing you ever again. Now Foxtrot Oscar, you sif little skank.

Strip Search.

Must remember to breathe. Must remember to breathe. Rainbows and fairies and squirrels, oh my! Granadilla lollies. Pony rides. Smarties. Breathe in... freshly cut grass. Breathe out... freshly lit grass. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts.

Dear Sweet Housemate has tired of The Stripper. The Stripper is, after all, an anatomically artificial, narcotic inhaling psychopath. Who has apparently been going through Dear Sweet Housemate's phone whilst he slumbers and has happened upon some rather unsavoury texts pertaining to his new found thoughts on the living situation. Whilst my phone and laptop accompanied me to work for the last two weeks, I have however noticed some things lying around my room which i swear were tucked away, only to appear mysteriously on my carpet. Granted, i noticed these things when i blindly stumbled through the door in a green haze of Jagermeister post-birthday celebration-ness, so I can't profess accuracy here. But still.

She has been told in no uncertain terms to, and i'll put this politely, F*CK THE HELL OFF. Tomorrow. Did i mention that she's a narcotic inhaling psychopath who reads strangers' text messages whilst they're in the throes of some serious theta waves? Did i also mention that she didn't take the news particularly well? Or that her ex boyfriend (the reason the slapper's here in the first place) said "ja, i suppose she can get a little vindictive. changing the locks might not be such a bad idea really". Sweet weeping Mary. I think i'm going to f*cking throw up.

Monthly Performance Report

Today's the last day at el Hedge Fund, so herewith my final Monthly Performance Report:

The Temporary K.A.T.E* Fund finished June with a return of 100%. Temporary markets were volatile in the first quarter owing to highs in the Acronym sector (AS). Resolve fell early in the month following strong figures in the cupboard stocks. Gains in the Waistline, resulting from high levels of inflation, were driven by Hobnobs and Chocolate Digestives. The Company bread basket suffered the biggest loss. Hawkish activity by the IT Fund ensured Apple stocks were kept at an all time low although a lot of movement was experienced in Workstations. The long positions in currencies were severely affected by the close proximity of Selfridges and Pret. In spite of all this, June was an excellent month, helped by strong performance by the Distribution Fund and a diversified Company Fund. The Temporary K.A.T.E Fund ended the month flat to down owing to retirement of the Fund.

(Yay for Monday's lie in)

And, unlike all these other secretive little bloggers, I hereby proclaim it's my birthday tomorrow so bring on lashings of love, champagne and small chihuahuas in diamond collars. I think i may need that lie in on Monday more than I anticipate.

* Keynesian Aggregate Trading Equity - I know, so technical.

Not Your Average Tent Pole.

In a scene reminiscent of Zimbabwe 2004, I have once again found myself subject to living in close proximity to what can only be described as a squatter camp. In so many more delightful ways than just your basic ‘smoke rising amidst the chickens’ vibe (aaargh, chickens, *shivers*). But fear not, there is still smoke. Plenty of it. And, as the saying goes, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. Serious fire. In a Bloodhound Gang denying their requirement for water kinda way. (Eeesh so much angst this morning lady)

The squatter camp sprang up suddenly about a week ago with the arrival of a ‘lady’ who was here from Joburg to stay for the proverbial ‘couple of days’ with my dear sweet housemate. Upon arrival, madam flounced through the door, peroxided to the hilt, far too orange to be taken seriously, and reeking of make-up in a relatively scary Pretoria-Chic kind of way. Immediately, as one naturally does when confronted with such an overwhelming dose of fake, I realised something was amiss.

Night after night, morning after morning, I endured the stench of stale cigarettes clinging to the walls of our rather airless little flat as she insisted on smoking inside, and I was as charmed as all hell to traipse into the kitchen each morning to find the cereal bowls had been used as ashtrays. Charmed I tell you! If *I*, self confessed princess, can grab an umbrella, brave the urban foxes and trek out into the pouring rain to drag on a Marlboro in the wee hours, then so can bloody she!

It was late the other evening, when I happened across a scrap of material lying halfway between the washing machine and the dryer, that a whole wallet full of copper dropped in my mind. On closer inspection, it wasn’t in fact a little clothing label which had dropped from one of my Dior shirts as I had initially expected, but rather a teeny tiny little thong. The size of an actual Brazilian on dental floss. Only, it was blue. And not as fuzzy. Picking it up with a pair of tweezers, my eyes out on stalks, I flung it back into the washing machine from whence it came, just as I heard the door open. She had just arrived home from a job interview she told me. At 11pm. An eyebrow raised (on the inside of course), I politely enquired what line of work she was in, bracing myself for what was to come. I’m a stripper came the answer, as if she was telling me she was a shelf packer or a chartered accountant.

A real life squatter indeed.