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.

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.

Whale Oil Beef Hooked.

I can’t get over these british accents. For such a tiny little puddle of mud, it never ceases to amaze me how many different ways there are to say something. Take broccoli for instance. Brocklee, brawclay, brohalay, brawklee, brohlee, glahchenfwilldergrish, if you’re welsh, and, if you’re just an eastend dirty knickers type, dem veg whoh are gween yeah?.
Is this just standard no matter which part of the world you in? Is a different accent warranted for every 100 km travelled? Sorry, make that 62.137 myowz.
Quite frankly, and I’ll readily admit, perhaps my ignorance, if that’s what it is, is due to my decidedly colonial upbringing. For me Durbs, Joburg, Cape Town and a general Vrystaat accent are pretty easy to distinguish between. When it comes to the locals however, the best I can do is ‘he’s from zim and he’s from South Africa’. Is this just me being a typically ignorant whitey?
Being a foreigner here, I really have to engage my ears and brain every time I ask anyone for anything and when the posh old BFG talks about orphans all the time, I take me ages to realize that she’s not pulling a Madonna on the crowd but rather referring to something which happens with regular occurrence. Mind you, if I had a pound for every time I’ve been asked if I’m from Australia I’d never have to wipe another bum or boil a piece of brawklee til it resembles the remnants of some student’s 3am kebab.
I ask you with tears in my eyes, do I look like I’d like to spend a romantic weekend curled up in front of the fire with Dolly the sheep?! For f*ck’s sake.

Reason To Love Your Job No. 1

You don’t have to come home after a long weary day and stand in a 5 litre navy blue bucket, toes curling up the one side, holding a shower head as close to you as possible so as to avoid the post-soap-down clean-up of the entire bathroom as the level rises faster than that of the swimming pool at fat camp.
You haven’t twisted and contorted in ways which, in other careers, could earn you an extra 50 quid an hour, just managing to get all the important bits, only to realize you still have to exfoliate, shave, wash your hair and brush your teeth. And Nicole Ritchie’s probably eaten 4 meals since you derobed. Go and give your calculator a hug. Go on.

Religious Freak Out

Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last bitching session. All the niceties of my current sitution have temporarily suppressed my inner bitch and she is now teetering on the edge of her stilettos in a rabid, pre-m*nstrual black widow kind of way. It is in moments like this that I choose not to ignore her in the interest of personal safety.

England, a country where commercialism is next to godliness and ironically is a religion all on its own. Card shops are it’s temples, garish over priced confection it’s communion, High Streets it’s purgatory. Cross yourselves people, the most religious festival on the calendar is about to begin.

Have you heard the parable about the 20 something girl who bought a bag of the juiciest, crunchiest apples this little puddle of mud has ever seen and stuffed their cores with cyanide and razor blades before rubbing her hands and giggling with maniacal glee as she waited for the doorbell to ring. Guess what kids? It’s not really a parable. There are no hidden meanings. It is what it is. And you’re about to witness a Sunday school lesson you ain’t ever gonna forget if you don’t keep the F*CK away from my front door this Halloween. I shall be waiting with a stake to drive through your hearts, whether you’re dressed up as Dracula in drag or not.

Hello little girl, would you like a sweetie…?

Ode To A Skid Mark.

Oh Intrepid explorer,
Why do you stray so far off course,
Your amber tail streaming out behind you like a comet across a Percale milky way?
Nestled beneath a sea of duck down you lie in wait,
A sardonic smirk upon your face.
Have you lost your way?
Were you unwittingly separated from your herd?
A million questions to ask, but how will you ever answer.
Oh itsy-bitsy smear of repulsion, oh puissant poo,
So tiny your appearance yet so powerful your effect.
Your putridity abhors me to the core.
You may have conquered my sight and my integrity but you will never thwart the Omo army to which I shall now deliver you.
Be gone to the bowels of hell from whence you came!
Be gone!

Of Feet & Mouths

So, like, I can be a little outspoken at times. I know, I know, you wouldn’t think, would you? Well last night I can safely say I truly outdid myself.

The dinner conversation went something like this…

Me: What a lovely painting you have framed on your wall over there
(nose begins to grow faster than a cabbage in a cow pat)
Did one of your grandchildren paint that for you?

BFG: Excuse me?

Me: That painting which bears some semblance of a chicken (gulp) chatting with a see-through fish and what appears to be two fried eggs flying in the sky with a lopsided punk-ass star. (The exact wording isn’t important). Did one of your grandchildren paint it?

BFG: (Insert look of sheer horror/amazement/nausea) That is a Braque.

Me (aside): What the f*ck is a Braque?!? Other than vomit on a canvas.

BFG: He’s a very famous artist.

I pour a dash of single cream into my steaming bowl of humble pie.

Me: Oh. I didn’t realize. It looks like something I could have painted when I was in grade one.

Can anybody spell “apoplexy”?

Breaking The Curse

“Oh I do like to be beside the seeeeasiiiide…”

So. So far so good. But seeing as there are no longer any chickens to count I shall have to resort to not crossing any bridges in a hurry. The night is but a puppy. A Shar pei.

Enter the BFG, the local Bridge club’s answer to Roald Dhal’s gigantic hero. A freak of nature, as old biddies tend to be rather minute on the whole, the BFG is my height. Ok, let me rephrase that. Her hump is my height. Her head hangs somewhere near where her boobs would be were she 70 years younger. Minor details.

Loving being by the sea. In a city. With people. And cars. And shops. And public transport. And coffee shops which don’t have diseases crusted down the price column on the menu where vuilgat country types have dragged their bitten, bleeding fingers down the list in search of a good deal. Oh the common folk, how they turn my stomach.

I think I can cope for another 12 days. Think.

Masochistic Me

So it's friday and whilst all of you bloody sods skip off into your weekends filled with sunshine and booze and tortilla chips and fluffy love cuffs, I am about to do the unthinkable. I'm on the 11.05 GOTM-bound train from Waterloo to Fogeyville where an old dear, just short of a century, eagerly awaits my arrival, gripping onto her zimmer frame with delight. No doubt word has reached her (albeit through a hearing aid) of my fame, my International Domestic Goddess status, my charm and my unsurpassed experience with poultry. She's one lucky woman. I, on the other hand, am not. They say bad stuff always happens in three's, and given the last two loons i've had (and survived!) i reckon there are another two weeks of cynical, potty-mouthed posts coming your way. Or perhaps just three days in I'll run off with a randy sailor. God knows i need it.

My favourite photo of all time: "The Kiss", Times Square, New York, photo by Alfred Eisenstaedt, Life Magazine, Aug. 14, 1945.

Short Live The Queen!!

Nothing says "f*ck you, bitch" quite like a clandestine glass of french "champers" and a bit fat smoke right in the middle of Her Majesty's living room at 12.04am on one's last night.

Thank god that's over. I can't even talk about it, it makes me queasy. The important thing is that i've left, i never have to see the bitch again and i shan't need to look at the sh*t-encrusted butt crack of a chicken ever again in my life.

Somebody hook up my IV to a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Ta.