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.

Have Your Kyk And Eat It.

Nobody, but NOBODY tries to sneak a birthday past here, no matter what side of the mountain you think you're from!

HAPPY BIRTHDAAAY!!!

(from me and the lizard who *insisted* he be allowed to don a party hat for the occasion).

mwah mwah mwah, air kiss, air kiss, dahling!

Dumb With An Amazement Too Fathomless For Words.

Wednesday's story (unedited) courtesy of http://www.bestrx8.org/ - the home of cheap Viagra prices (only $2.00 per pill!). Pay attention, there are contextuals at the end.

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For 25 marks:

What flavour soup contributed to their garden faces?

or

Was the brusquerie taurine induced?

**UPDATE**

Goddamnit. Just received a way better one about the cake prince who enjoys chatting without low a real vesical bind pause. *sigh*.

Keynesian Economics And Dignity’s Demise.

Listen very carefully for I shall say this but once and only once. I am dof.

Late one particularly rainy Friday afternoon, last Friday to be exact, an email circulated my department as they are, vexingly, wont to do in this city. Cape Town Friday-Grab-A-Drink-At-3pm afternoons they are not.
This particular piece of communication was a teaser for Monday's little department get-together (read generally hideously boring weekly meeting). Cleverly disguised as a bit of incentive, the instructions were relatively simple: Choose a number between 1 and 100 and send it back. The person who’s figure was nearest to two thirds of the average result would win a prize. Magic words those. Within nanoseconds I was proud and delighted with my carefully considered number and eagerly sent it off, knowing that an entire weekend of Christmas Eves awaited me - the fitful insomnia in anticipation. As Monday dawned, I skipped in, acceptance speech in hand, having practiced my “Oh I *really* did not expect this at ALL! I dedicate this prize to the pursuit of world peace and accept it on behalf of Africa’s starving orphans” face in the windows of Selfridges en route. Cue weekly meeting, complete with three members listening in from New York (oh I do so love an international audience) and flashy presentation slides. Within the first sentence, I felt my face beginning to turn a delightful shade of puce and the rising nausea was making composure maintenance a little tricky. “As we all know, if every one of you happened to choose 100 as their number then the highest number possible to be closest to two thirds of the average would be 67, and the chances of that being the case are very slim.” Obviously. So glaringly freaking obvious. The ascent of the carrots had begun. Cue large colourful graph splashed across screen. There, in all hues known to modern physics,were the results. Results, all dangerously clustered around the left hand side of the chart, of some very serious high brow mathematical calculations. And just to balance it out, on the far right hand side of the screen, in the brightest and highly visible green was a lone bar, extending a mile high and most definitely visible to the New York office, if not from outer space. The Bar Of Great Hilarity. Yes folks, Yours Truly, in all her intelligent glory had chosen a number she thought was “pretty”. No calculations. No lateral thought. Nope, 77.5 just seemed like a friendly number. Except it was 10.5% higher than is even mathematically possible. HeyZEUS.

21 won.

I can assure you I will never be able to glance at Selfridges windows ever again. I am suitably ASHAMED.

Ever So Slightly Dark.

Ok, Threshold Has Officially Been Reached.

I'm a little disturbed. Ok make that more than a little disturbed. I’m *horrified* beyond human horrification (it is a word if I say it is).

Ever since yesterday’s list was published, my hits are going through the roof. And it’s not link-love, regular readership or even the curious ones having a little google session to see what crops up. It’s the fact that allofasardine there are all these search terms nicely bundled in one page and the search engines are going ouma-pomp-bevok!

The dilemma is: Do I take it down in it’s entirety? Do I leave it up with a message emblazoned across the top saying something along the lines of ‘Hey you sick f*ck, I bet your mother’s proud, now sod off and don’t you dare darken my doorstep ever again!”. Or do I call myself something else, set up a new blog and move to Panama and take Michael Schofield fairy cakes in his prison cell? (Oops, sorry)

URGH, I can’t stand being associated with such depraved, saturnalian scum-of-the-earth. You people make me sick.

Getting Buffed.

Hit And Miss.

I've lost the will to blog. I'm no longer a Granny Wrangler, I'm a freaking PaperCut Wrangler... Which holds a certain appeal, as far as a name goes although I'd be a little hard-pressed as to how I'd typeset the word PaperCut and what on earth would I do with the knickers? A pair of the disposable paper ones they give you when you go for a Brazillian maybe? I digress.

The point is, at the end of every day I trudge home. I'm f*cking tired, even more f*cking grumpy and more often than not devoid of any form of humour. And I *like* making people laugh, be it with me or at me, although the former is generally the more preferred of the two.

I miss Benson & Hedges, I miss Muppet's constant bloody indecision, I miss my little silver 1 Series. I miss running through the wheatfields, I miss chatting endlessly on google chat with my friends who are really trying to get through an honest day's work and could do without the smutty innuendos i throw about mid-spreadsheet. I miss the Farming magazines which I was convinced were copies of Hardcore Hussies & Their Favourite Kitchen Utensils. I miss being made to turn left and go through the village to find a safe turn around point because Muppet thought it was too dangerous to turn right out of the driveway. And I miss the cat crap. Every single little perfectly formed poo plopped on the bathroom mat. I miss it all so much it hurts.

Do you really want to listen to me bitch and moan and churn out reams of profanity, as unclassy as it may be? Do you really care to read my vicious self-deprecating diatribes? Do you give a flying continental f*ck whether or not I was lascerated by the entire population of the 90gsm block of Xerox paper in the stationary cupboard? If I howl and sulk like a spoilt child because I don't get my way in everything I do will you even bother coming back... ever? And most of all, if i neglect my writing from time to time will you forget about me?

Off(washing)line.

I have a mountain of dirty laundry to sort so please excuse me.

I See Wed People.

They're everywhere. Strolling around like regular people. Standing at bus stops. Grocery shopping. Buying super absorbent tampons at Boots. Ordering cappucinos, no espressos, no maybe lattes, no baby, what do *you* think i should have, ok cappucinos but maybe just skinny ones. Catching the Tube in the morning. Everywhere.

Let's face it. Nothing says "i love you possum" quite like causing a stranger to vom in their freshly-colgated mouth before the sun has risen or the Tokyo Stock Exchange closes. Nothing says "aaaaw bubba, i want to make wickle babies with you forever and ever and EVA" like slurping and guzzling eachother's necks inches from someone's face in a crowded sweaty train. Nothing. Nothing at all. Because yes, Coupled Freaks, your very public salacious suck-fests are clearly what dreams are made of. They make our day. They make us want to hug everyone around us and make love to everybody in the carriage. Twice. In fact, if we started now, everyone could be impregnated before we even get to Fulham Broadway. Minus the Chav in the corner - she's already got one up the duff with a foetus queue to rival lunch hour at Home Affairs. But everyone else is fair game.
I do not shitting care how much you sodding 'wuff' eachother. If you're that desperate, wake up 5 minutes early and flip her over for a depraved pre-breakfast rogering but then for God's sake get on with functioning like a normal human being once you walk out of the front door. Keep it in your pants. And here's an idea: instead of groping at eachother's bits the entire way to work, why don't you use your hands to hold the rails because hey, when Retard-Bob the train driver slams on brakes, you'll find you're able to actually stand upright instead of toppling over and continuing your dry humping on my lap. Rocket science, i know.

Straight From The Tart's Potty Mouth.

Ask, dear public, and ye *shall* receive.

Over The Hedge.

Totally and utterly over it.

Yes, Yours Truly has a job. A job in Finance. Yours Truly, the one who has a strong design/creative/writing background, is working for a Hedge Fund, and sweet weeping Mary it is *diabolical*.

It's a bit like this really: Take a body. Say for example you're a gonad cell. You work away in a creative role. You like what you do. Other people like what you. You make pretty stuff. And whilst you're not a heart cell or a liver cell, you still perform a very necessary role in the body as a whole. You are by no means a toenail. Then one day, the blood stream knocks on your door and whisks you off into the dizzying heights of the skull. You're in the brain and everyone's wearing grey. They're all talking in ones and zeros and zipping to and fro, frenzied and freaky. And you start to feel stupid. Completely and utterly f*cking useless. Whilst you're specialised in what you do, this is clearly faaaar away from home. Except, of course, if you happen to be a male gonad cell, in which case the two types of cells are practically one and the same.

Whilst it may sound like I'm working as the treaurer for a tiny branch (hahaha. ahem.) of National Parks, or a charity for prickly vermin, this is not the case. There are numbers. There are acronyms. There are codes and Index thingys. Bar charts, pie charts, squiggly lines. Every f*cking email is cc'd to every creature in the ENTIRE f*cking hedge, and what makes it worse is that it means nothing to me. It might as well have been written in a Japanese dialect of Siberian Yiddish (spoken predominantly in East Timor) whilst on acid and chewing a donut. Gigabyte upon gigabyte of nonsensical numeracy. And there's a lot of paper. I'm scared of the paper. Ridiculous but true. It wants to cut me. It does. Every piece i touch taunts my delicate little hands and i can actually hear a potential paper cut creeping up on me. The A4 Xerox wants to slice me and suck my blood, leaving me lacerated and twitching amongst the 4 billion different recycling bins and endless supplies of chocolate Hobnobs.

Screen Grab.

Muggles Need Not Apply.

In the run up to Harry Potter mania in July, Yours Truly has decided to run a little competition. It's called:

Who Wants To Own The Dark Lord?

The Prize:

Voldemort himself.



Beautiful, pristine, and enshrouded in mystery and magic of a dark and terrible kind, He Who Must Not Be Named has lain, hidden from the world since November 2005, gathering strength in a secret chamber far below the city, venturing out only in the dead of night, his shiny blackness a shadow against the night sky. The PortKey within has carried dark wizards for 12 000 kilometers, and comes with the balance of a 2 year Reparo charm. With more enchantments than your heart could ever desire, the magic under his dark hood will amaze and Stupefy you.

The Competition:

The first person to deposit 2666 Galleons, 10 Sickles and a Knut (roughly R90 000) into my secret Gringott's account wins.

The Rules:

The use of charms, spells, jinxes, curses and other incantations is severely prohibited. This includes and is not limited to: Accio, Evanesco, Wingardium Leviosa.
Voldemort is protected by a Finite Incantatum spell and a Hex Deflection as well as a Shield Charm which will cause any forbidden spells to rebound upon you.
This competition is open to Death Eaters, members of Slytherin, and Parseltongues over the age of 18.
Potters, Muggles, Mudbloods, their families and advertising agencies need not apply.
E&OE.

Failure to adhere to any of the above rules will result in prosecution by the Ministry Of Magic with the threat of an extended period in Azkaban.

For more information please direct any queries by Owl or email (thegrannywrangler@gmail.com).