The Ex Granny Wrangler

04 July 2007

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.

17 comments:

Anonymous said...

Classy. At least she wasn't the webcam-toting work-from-home sort.

ChewTheCud said...

Wahaha - here's betting she'll be making more money than you in 2 months time ;)

Life is just super awesome sometimes!

Anonymous said...

Ex GW I think it is time I come visit.

Anonymous said...

No freakin way.

I take it she hasn't set up her practice pole in the lounge yet?

Damnit, just realised you used that angle in the title already...

Anonymous said...

A paint-stripper? I don't know... that sounds quite useful to me.

Betenoir said...

hunh! she sounds...charming. Can't you "dispose" of her somehow? I assume your flatmate is male...

Revolving Credit said...

Could I query the Tent pole reference??

You thought she was a prostitute, not a stripper!!!

Helping lots of gentlemen pitch their tent.

On the bonus side, maybe she can give some pole dancing lessons in the flat - you get to exercise in the comfort of your own home.

The xGW said...

kyk: god alone knows what she does whilst we're at work. thong in the middle of the kitchen?

chews: bet she'll make more money tonight than i will in two whole months.

mark: make sure you bring a wallet *full* of £5 notes. half for her, half for my psychologist.

martin: no need, she's using my housemate's.

mrs b: pantie-stripper mrs b, pantie-stripper. paint stripper might help to wipe the dof expression off her orange visage however.

betenoir: my army mate said he'd show her something she'd never seen before and blow her up with one of his tanks, but i'm sure she's blown up a lot of things in her time. poisoned £5 note in her mouth perhaps?

revo: she's a squatter (in both senses of the word) hence she has a tent. just because you're pitching a tent at the news, doesn't mean i'm wrong. i'm never wrong. but this whole thing is *bursting* with double meanings. pure genius on my part i thought.

Anonymous said...

So she's not a handywoman, then? That's just pants.

Insane Insomniac said...

She gives strippers a bad name...

But, if you're short on cash, maybe she could hook you up with a job..for the night...a once off...kind of...ok, i'll shut up now.

The xGW said...

mrs b: for the right sum i think she could be.

insano: dude. about that 'bar job' you have. would that be behind or on top of, hmm?

crayola dude said...

Shame honey, that's awful!

Now can I have her number?

The Lush said...

Keep your shirt buttoned up high - invest in a Bible - start telling her to cover herself up - act motherly.

If all else fails go watch her at her place of work when she gets a job. Start making inappropriate comments. Behave like every disgusting asshole you've ever truly despised. I am sure she'll move out in no time. Or you could have a girlfriend.

Yes that plans seems somewhat flawed.

The xGW said...

ekke: can't think off hand but i know it begins with an 0909.

lush: i wouldn't be surprised hon, i wouldn't be surprised at all. urgh, think of the diseases!

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