peas on toast

So I buy a shirt at most destinations that I travel.

I haven't been to Pofadder [yet], but will aim to buy a wardrobe full of so-entitled Pofadder tat, including a fistful of fridge magnets (everyone in my family is a winner!), the coffee mug, the shirt, and the obligatory snow globe with 'I [heart] Pofadder' on the base.

For now though, I managed to find the above t-shirt ("Absolut Svensk") on the streets of Stockholm. I have a Berlin one too, which I wear to board meetings, Green Peace picketings, and for when I met the president.*

The thing with tourist shirts as that you have to be so careful.

Peas: Look! A Sweden shirt for only [mental calculation ensues]...er...R5000. No wait. Five pounds.

Brit: You should get the 'I love Swedish girls' one.

Peas: They don't have my size.

[pause]

Peas: I'm going to wear it with my power suit to work tomorrow.

Brit: No. You have it all wrong, princess.

Peas: And why is that?

Brit: You can't wear a tourist shirt the moment you return from a destination. It's too keen.

Peas: Can I wear it in Sweden then?

Brit: Definitely no, on all accounts.

Peas: I have to wear this thing, it taunts me. It says 'Wear me now, wear me now.'

Brit: No no. You need to wait at least three days until you wear it to work. It's the fine line between cool and 'she-hasn't-done-her-laundry-in-five-weeks-so-has-to-buy-tourist-tat-at-tourist-traps.'

Peas: Three whole days?!

Brit: If it were me, I'd wait three whole weeks. THEN you wear it. Then you might get a , 'Say, didn't you go there this year?' As opposed to, 'Dude, did you get your clothes stolen in Scandinavia?'

Peas: Oh right.

Brit: I know it's hard. You just have to exercise some discipline. Your street cred is counting on it.

It's been two days. I wore it to work today. With a pencil skirt. I know I have jumped the gun, but frankly, I'm feeling a bit flat.

Already, my Welsh colleague: Nice shirt.

Peas: [blushing with pride and joy] Wow! Thanks so much!

Welshman: Where'd you git it?

[pause]

Peas: er, Sweden.

Welshmen: I know. I can see that. I was being ironic.

My Brit is in San Francisco for another week, I had to say goodbye to Poen last night, and two weeks yesterday, I turn 30.

Fuck.

For Poen's last night in the Big English, we drank champagne and ate dim sum. It was Ladies Night, so we got everything half off.

Score.

*I met Hillary Clinton once. She was almost the president.
I have also met Nelson Mandela, but it doesn't really count because I wasn't wearing my Berlin shirt.

So Poen leaves London for good tonight, and my Brit is in the States for 2 weeks for work.

Shit times.

I'm going to miss having my best mate around. London is amazing in all its senses, but she's been a huge part of it thus far.

Sigh. Drinkie time tonight near Goodge Street (the names in this country, I mean seriously), a final thrash before she heads back down south.

But first I'll cheer myself up by bowing down to English place names.

Most aren't unusual, or by any means crazy, but I hear them on a daily basis, and I smugly smile to myself and think, 'Ah yes. I live in Britain.'

It's not like Fucking, Austria. *

Because if these were names in South Africa, or anywhere else, no one would take them seriously at all.

It usually goes like this: (The overland, which is what I take to work, not the tube. It has air-con and I can see out the windows into the stark** light outside. Plus the seats are less minging. And I smell less armpit.)

"This is a South West train service to [slight pause while the automated voice slots in]...Tadworth.........
This train will stop at Bognor Regis, Chertsey, Teddington, Chessington, Wadden, Chipstead, Moreton-in-Marsh...............before terminating at its final destination in Dorking.............Please mind the gap between the train and the platform."

*pronunciation Fookeeng. Which makes it even funnier.
**It is stark. Grey mixed with pale sunlight is stark.

If you’ve always been obsessed with Sweden or hot not-dykey looking Swedish lesbians the city of Stockholm, then it’s your lucky day.

If you don’t give a fuck or even a few rocks about Scandinavian shit, then I suppose you can stop reading.

However, hello? Durban has been bumped off my Top Five list (sorry Durbs, but I simply have to squeeze in Stockholm somewhere), and now it sits pretty next to Rio and Berlin as one fuck off incredible city.

Why?

It’s clean
Surgeons could perform hysterectomies on the pavements. There was a leaf blower at the airport at 2:30am, blowing away dust – I can only assume – it’s pristine. The air smells like Canada.


It’s socialist
It’s been researched and apparently Swedes are one of the happiest nations on Earth. They don’t see the sun for almost nine months during winter, and yet they’re flag-waving blonde, blue-eyed bundles of Scandinavian happiness.

The one thing I can only fathom is that it’s highly socialist. Sweden doesn't even like the EU much. It’s almost a communist state, except that everything works, people are happy, and there's pop music everywhere.

University is free. Nannies and childcare is free. Mums AND Dads get between them 450 days of paternity and maternity leave. The health system is free. The streets are clean, and shit works.

Stockholm has a population of just over 2 million people, so it’s hardly crowded. A third of it is made up of waterways of inky black Baltic sea, and the other ‘eco-parks’, running amok with elk.

Bjorn Borg and the Abba members aside, they’re a humble, rule-abiding nation, but without the [German] extremist bent.

It’s free until someone pops a cork
It’s all free. With one minor concession. You’ll get another asshole ripped out of you with taxes.
Taxes are synonymous with clean, well-run ‘everything’s free’ cities. But then you pay up to 80% tax on a cocktail.

We had a fair bit of Absolut Vodka (when in Sweden), and subsequently spent a night repaying a mortgage. Booze and food is expensive, as is accommodation.

What I spent in Stockholm in 4 days, is what I can happily live on in Africa for 3 weeks. (If nothing breaks. Which it is prone to do in Africa. So maybe it’s all even at the end of the day.)

You can cycle and not die
There are cycling lanes on every piece of road in the city. There are an abundance of parks and bridges. We cycled almost 30 k’s, across 4 islands in one day.

If you like islands, you might like Sweden
There are 14 islands that make up the city of Stockholm. There are another 24 000 off the coast further north.

We stayed in a prison cell
We paid for doing time. The Brit and I are getting good at this. We stayed in a converted prison in Oxford, and now on Langholmen (‘Long Island) in Stockholm. This one came with striped bed linen. Nice touch.
And so clean and nice, you could lick the walls.

Swedish sounds like something off the Spaceship Galactica
Honestly, we were in hysterics. It sounds like a script out of Star Wars.

”Zorg torg smorgasbor? Snus, hej. Sok torg! Hurney gurney hurney gurney?”

The people.
Are all Barbies. Even the boys. They are so exquisite, I found myself staring open-mouthed and drooling at this one girl in a coffee shop (alongside my boyfriend who was doing the same), to the point where I actually had to wrench myself away before she thought I was a lesbian.

They are a very very hot race. Strapping, but crafted from wax. Ridiculously beautiful, the lot of them.

The men all wear their hair in these gelled coifs, which is vaguely amusing.
And all of their jean pant are turned up.

We went to the Stockholm Ice Bar
Cost a fucken packet – but you go in, they give you coats, gloves and Viking hats (nice touch) and you drink Absolut in this ice cave. The glasses are made of ice, the walls, and the bar counter. It’s cold, so you can only really have two shots before it starts getting uncomfortable.

We saw Bjorn Borg’s holiday house
The barge guide told us so. Also a member of Abba.

We ate herring and pickled salmon for brunch one day
Should’ve bought a Volvo. Would’ve cost the same.

All houses are either red clapboard barns, or look Flemish-like, or are otherwise castles with full on turrets.
They sound more ostentatious than they are. Stockholm is a rich city.

It was so beautiful.

Can you say, what the fuck did we do in Guernsey last night?

Arrive on the island to driving, pissing rain and wind. Umbrella immediately turns inside out.

Go on cute coastal walks, check out the war barracks that the Germans put up when they occupied the island, went shopping, ate a fuckload of seafood.

Went around this random manor (everything in Guernsey is random. It's Guernsey), where this dude showed us around and gave us a ghost tour. All very pretty and quaint, giggling the whole time.

Then went out last night and thought I didn't have gas left in my tank now that I'm almost fucking 30, and discovered that I was pleasantly wrong.

We met these random people, one dude reckoned he was famous becuase he spins the wheel on the national lottery at 1am in the morning, but bought all of us bottles of Moet.

Therein lies the craziness. Saffa girls on tour, gone wild. On a Channel Island.

Christ I'm hungover.

We kidnapped this dude from his sister's birthday party, made him buy us a shooter, and then delivered him back to his table (wtf?), and then got invited to a lock-in.

Now a lock-in is a very very cool thing to be invited to.

The pub owner chases everyone else out, doors get locked, music gets pumped, everyone smokes inside - unheard of in normal circumstances in Europe - and he hosts this private party. We were bouncing around everywhere, one of my mates carrying some dude's wallet around with a pair of tongs (wtf?), Poen and I doing that drunken 'I love you so much you're my best friend ever' hugging, me rolling off a chair.

And this all started with them insisting we celebrate my 30th early and therefore had to choose one of four dares. ("Chaps this isn't my hen's party. Fuck off.")

The dares:

1) Stand up in the middle of the cocktail bar and say Bridgette Jones' speech about the launch of Kafka's Motorbike. ("The greatest book of our time. Yours wasn't bad either, Mr Rushdie. I'll now introduce you to Mr Titspervert.....because...that is his name.")

2) Leopard crawl along the floor of the cocktail bar. (I was keen.)

3) Walk up to a bunch of dude's and get their digits and ask what they think of Chechnya.

4) Go behind the bar and make my own cocktail like I owned the place.

Got the digits, we joined their party and henceforth got hammered.

We all thought we were hilarious. I haven't laughed this hard in ages, fuck it was cool.
Especially to jam with my mates on some random island called Guernsey that's definitely not exotic and beachy like Spain.

Tonight I go to Stockholm for some Scandi fun with my boy.

Best I smash a pie and sort myself out first.

How's this for some spontaneity.

Yesterday, at around 2:00pm central atlantic time, a group of us have decided to go on a girl's trip.

Bearing in mind, i'm going to Stockholm this weekend with my boy, I have a few South African mates out at the moment, so we're going to Guernsey.

Channel island, wedged next to France. It's so random. Girls weekend! Let's go to Ibiza! No lets go to Guernsey! Wtf, so darby, we are in hysterics.

One mate doesn't have a Schengen, usual story, so we have to stick to the British Isles. Guernsey seemed nice.

We're flying. That's the most hysterical part of the whole deal - I mean, we will be in the sky for all of 15 minutes by the looks of things. Take off, then land in Guernsey.

Orioginally we were thinking Mallorca, or Menorca or something Spanish and sizzling.

Now, we're going to sizzle in Guernsey. And weirdly enough I've been to Jersey before too.

Bring on the wine, quaint little quasi Franco-Anglo cottages and sea decks, I'm about to fly to Guernsey.

Then it's Sweden. Too much excitement for these little trips away.

1 x honeymoon period
As about 4 days ago, very very much in love with London.
It feels like it's all coming together and that the city might even be warming to me. Or maybe I'm just toughening up.

1 x manflu
My poor Brit caught my manflu.

Peas: You've just been on a wild and crazy stag do in Edinburgh. So you didn't catch it from me.

Brit: I did catch it from you. It's just come out of incubation.

Peas: You can't blame me for this. At least not entirely.

Brit: And why not?

Peas: Because...that sucks.

1 x British experience in Brighton
We ate fish and chips, as one does, on the cloudy, windswept and pebbled shores of Brighton. When asked what we want to drink with our fish and chips, everyone unanimously chimed, 'Tea.'

Peas: Tea? With fish?


Team: Yes. Why?

Peas: Erm...I know you all love your tea, but with your savoury meal? Don't get me wrong, tea with a scone, sure. With fish drizzled in vinegar?

Team: What else would we drink with our meal?

Peas:....a beer? Glass of water? ...a Coke?

Team: No. Tea.

Peas: Right. Well best I drink tea then...with my cod.

And henceforth cradled a milky cup of tea in a polystyrene cup, and realised that those who chide the English for bland food, in in this case, 100% correct. (Zing it up with a coke, come on).

4 x shoes
After meeting mates out for a long liquid lunch over the weekend, I shopped when I was drunk. And came home with a bagful of shoes. None, luckily, the cash equivalent of Elton John's Riviera pad, or aquamarine suede. (As I've done before.)

But 4 pairs of shoes nevertheless. Post-purchase guilt has firmly set in, and next time I will refrain from getting off the tube at Kensington High Street after cocktails. Maybe.

45 x herbal tablets
My aunt took me to a Dr Hong over the weekend. To 'balance out my hormones and re-coordinate my body. Pounds later and a dude holding my pulse and telling me it was 'weak' (I'm frail?), this is what happened:

Doctor: ching chong ya ya haha honk kond dong nihaw.

Translator: He's worried about your body not being balanced.

Peas:...and he got that how?

Doctor: [concerned and shouting] Nihaw yak! Jyutping jutpin mah!

Translator: You have digestive problems.

Peas: Well sometimes after a large night on the piss, I get a bit bloa...

Doctor: Yak! Shaojiang Deng Xiaoping!

Translator: Your body is hanging onto toxins and throwing your whole body out of balance. Do you experience PMS?

Peas: I will snap your head off with a scythe.

Translator: Here. Two weeks herbs for only 70 pound.

Peas: What the FUCK.

Translator: Next time, you acupuncture.

Peas: Awesome.

1 x eyebrow waxing

Was looking a little woolley. She plucked me to buggery. My eye area looks a bit bald, mate.

1 x Brit
Love my little Anglo-Saxon.

Went to Brighton today with my team.

Purchased this fuck off scarily yellow skirt. Sorry, can you hear me over my skirt? Or is it too loud?

................

Sleeping over always necessitates some form of logistical admin.

The overnight bag filled with [in no particular whoreder]:
1) Lube
2) Fresh doondies
3) Outfit for next day [crease-free items that can be scrunched]
4) Toothbrush and deo
5) Makeup bag
6) keys, iPod, wallet, travel card, phone
7) laptop

Except that after a few glasses of South African piss rouge with the flatmates, I left my makeup bag.

Late and frantic this morning, I exited the Brit's house without my face on.

Look, if I was wandering the streets of Cambodia in cheesecloth pants, I wouldn't care. If I'd just been on a run, [very fucking likely], I wouldn't care.
If I didn't have a crusty nose and sinus-induced bags under my eyes from a cold, then I probably wouldn't break into a sweat.

Except that I had on a new ho-pink bright dress and smart blazer for a breakfast meeting on Oxford Street - dressed for the part, save my mug. Not a drop of foundation on me.

I even checked the Brit's underwear drawer to see if he had a secret stash of foundation in there. Just in case. And in hindsight, bloody good thing he didn't. That would, I imagine with horror, deserve it's own blog post(s).

So having no makeup in one of the world's most stylish cities, where everyone looks tooled up and ready to fight using a Maybelline sabre, isn't ideal.

So I dashed into Boots, bought myself a whole blush and foundation pack, had no mirror, so just kind of rubbed it on, missed my train, and only realised after aforementioned breakfast meeting, that I looked like a cast member out of Priscilla Queen of the Desert.

The blush I had purchased in a frenzy and had emblazoned all over my face was discotastic, the type with glitter in it [gak!].

And so, I have been going about my day of spokespersoning in very serious tones with Barbie powder on my cheeks.

And nose.
And chin.
And forehead.

What a slice.

It's Poen's farewell to London drinks tonight. I envisage cocktails and pink blusher making a comeback.

This is me. With a slightly different face. It pertains to below.

When you wear a girl t-shirt with heels, that makes it formal
Offices in London are corporate. I work at a 'playful' company, yet I still see enough pinstripes around to make me squint.

So I wear my tourist shirts (like today: I [heart] Berlin) with heels. Am I a fashion genius? The correct answer would be yes.
How do I know this?

The PA: 'I love the way your shirt compliments your heels.'
Peas: Er...really? (Wonders whether he just found this and read it.)
PA: You're just too cool for school. And that's something coming from the gay guy.
Peas: I love you.

My British aunt is taking me to a Chinese herbalist
Apparently Dr Hong is going to cure me of any ailments I even DON'T have.

I've been booked for a consultation this weekend, and he's that Chinese in that he needs running commentary from his personal translator to tell me if he finds anything. My aunt is very new age and very esoteric and says he's a genius.

Still deciding about the acupuncture that he throws in with the consultation. Does having needles stuck into, say, your temple, painful?

It was sunny all day today
I know this because I was staring out of a window.

I wasn't licking the window
Which is something I may or may not do when I feel...retarded.

I have a hair sticking out of my nose that I've wanted to wrench out all fucking day
Will go home and yank. And then wank. My Brit gets back from Dublin tonight. Grand.

I'm really starting to enjoy my job
I'm starting to cash checques and get numbers. Not actually, but I just wanted to say that. I'm getting there though. Dealing with journalists all day is proving more and more interesting.

I'm going to Brighton on Friday
Group trip. I believe it's Britain's most visited beach town, a few hours from London, pebble beaches, a huge gay culture, amusement park and fish and chips everywhere. Sounds alright, innit then?

Was told by a colleague the other day, unless you get a streaming cold for at least a month, your iniation into London hasn't happened yet.

Well, then I'm initiated. My immune system from the last few month's immigration stress has finally caught up, and I have an amazingly beautiful sounding cough, a streaming nose, the shivers, and a red nose.

Sightly.

Luckily, thanks to my latest books - fuck it's good to have some time to read again, the Brit is in Dublin for business this week - and I'm learning about British culture [above], and reading a sterling disposition on Jack the Ripper at the same time.

[I do that. Read a couple of books at the same time, all at once. Just to keep my brain on its toes.]

The Jack the Ripper one takes me through each one of the victims, each of the suspects, where and how it happened. As a 21st Century investigation.

Next time I'm in Whitechapel or the East End, I'm going to do the tour. Definitely.
I mean, I have my phone on my chest, Streetviewing where all these murcers took place as I read about them. Geeky or freaky?

Did a hang of a lot of exploring this weekend with the Brit.

Asked him to take me to Brixton Market. Sit in a square that was dedicated to the Sharpeville massacre, with Jamaicans putting on a show about Jesus nearby. Word. While the fresh waft of fish from the market stung our nostrils.

Was interesting.

Also chowed down a curry in Whitechapel before seeing my flatmate's birthday in. The dudes I live with are nothing short of fantastic. The one (who's birthday it was), wear's a blue velvet blazer to work everyday and red corduroys and a cravat.
They are both lovely lovely boys.

In lieu of trying to befriend the British, and trying to understand the bizarre foibles that may crop up as my journey into English life goes on (one month yesterday!), I went to a bookstore and bought Watching The English:The Rules Of British Behaviour.

I have only dented the first chapter on weather, cunningly written by an anthropologist. So far it's fucking fascinating.

For one, she refutes the whole 'the Brits are obsessed with their weather' scenario. For although they don't experience tornadoes, golf-sized hail storms raining from the sky, crazy blizzards, the entrance point to almost every conversation will start off with:

Nice day isn't it?, or It's a bit cold, wouldn't you say?, or Oh dear, didn't think there would be rain today.

This much I know, as do people that live in Yemen even.

The part that's interesting is how you should interact with weather-speak. There are rules I didn't know about. And these are, simply put:

1) Never, ever disagree with the person that starts the commentary;
2) Never not say something back.

Basically this is right:

Brit 1: Ooh, turning into a bit of a cloudy day isn't it?
Brit 2: Yes. It is isn't it?

This is wrong. And will make the weather-speaker feel awkward and uncomfortable, and is very much frowned upon:

Brit 1: Ooh, turning into a bit of a cloudy day isn't it?
Brit 2: No, I think it's rather warm actually.

Always agree, as etiquette usurps logic. You can turn it around and contradict yourself - apparently that's absolutely fine (?) - but always start the sentence with Yes, it is cloudy. Although I don't feel the cold much, so feels rather warm to me.

Never just ignore someone or nod when they spark up a conversation about the weather. It's considered the height of rudeness, because although they're talking shit, it's seen as a greeting. Weather-talk is a greeting, it's code for 'how do you do.'

Then there was a whole chapter on 'Weather hierarchy.' Which means you'd rather talk about or focus on the positive aspects to the discussion. For instance you'd rather say:
It's cloudy, but luckily it's still warm isn't it?, as opposed to It's cloudy and cold, everything sucks balls.

God. So much to absorb. I excitedly showed my Brit the book with an enthusiastic, 'Look sweetie! I'm going to learn all about you and your nation!' with two little Brits on the cover, shivering in the rain, whilst reading the Torygraph. He wasn't that amused, and said that the weather speak is probably bollocks.

It was the 'probably' in his sentence that will make me read on.

In other news, cor blimey it's happened again. And this time, I am going to strike back.

Peas: I was so retarded the other when I thought it wouldn't rain.

Ozzie: Did you just say...'retarded.'

Peas: Yes.....

Ozzie: OK. In this country, the word 'retarded' is very offensive.

Peas: [Wondering whether she should ask 'As offensive as, say, the word cunt?'] but instead, said 'Er..sorry I say that all the time, not in reference to the mentally unable, but in reference to myself and how...retarded I can be.'

Ozzie: No. You can't say that.

Floored. 'But but...' Luckily my Brit steps in.

Brit: Look, we call each other retarded all the time. You are in social work, so that's probably why it's more offensive to you. So we understand.

........

We go out and call each other retards for the rest of the afternoon. Outside. In open spaces.

We come home, to a small window of television, flop on the couch, where an ad pops up, loud, clear and wonderfully awesome:

Retardex! The latest in mouth cleansing technology! Mouthwash so unreal, you'll taste it for hours afterwards! Retardex can be found on shelves NOW!!....Retardex! For your mouth!

I just burst out laughing and couldn't stop. Whoops, how juvenile and retarded.*

*For the purists, who will no doubt get their knickers in a twist. I would never refer to anyone who is actually, physically or mentally, or otherwise, mentally challenged, in my midst/proximity, a retard. Before you bleat. Can't believe I even have to say this.

Poen and I are going to (try) and paint the town red red wine tonight.

I say 'try' simply because we don't have as much gas in the tank as we used to.

In about a month I'm 30. But might as well make hay while the sun shines, in that Poen is moving to Kenya permanently at the end of August.

But before we go to Piccadilly, to fight crowds and get sloshed.

[Sidenote: two things that I knew would affect me in London.
1) clouds; and
2) crowds.

The latter is fucking ridiculous. This place is a constant throng of human sweat and bodies. I have taught myself to meditate as I bob through the morning and weekend human traffic like a leaf bourne to the wind, and not freak out, panic and stab them with my umbrella]

...I need to know what to do with my underpants.

Fuck.

Yesterday I wore one sock to work. God knows where the other one went, or why I only realised I was wearing one sock three hours later.

Today, I slipped into my jean pant. Where a pair of doondies I failed to notice this morning, found themselves wedged between my leg and the inside of my jeans.

I've been waltzing around the office all morning, with a pair of French knickers scrunched up in my leg. I'm wondering how they didn't slip down and fall out of my trouser at breakfast.

You know, while grabbing a bowl of berries in the communal cafe, and while trying to look intelligent and important, they drop out of my trouser leg onto the floor. In front of 8000 other people.

Thank fuck they were unwittingly trapped, taken hostage by my strident thighs, or some such.

I only noticed this when I booked in for a corporate massage - that's right, my work has one of these, complete with effeminate masseuse - and saw I had a spare pair of doondies stuffed into the leg of my bloody pants.

It must've looked like some weird growth formation.

Anyway, any idea of where I should put these before Poen and I go out and get smashed? I was thinking they would make a nice lacy hat for when it rains, or maybe just stuff them down my jeans again and call myself a ....man.

PS: They're in my pocket right now. Safe or stupid?

So on chavs.

I get a link sent to me by a colleague in South Africa the other day, saying 'Mate, are these the types you're hanging out with in London these days?'

The answer is a flat no.

It's difficult to tell whether this person is on drugs, is purely psycho, on drugs and angry, or just insanely vexed.

To give you context, the suburb of Peckham is located south of south of the river. And is known for it's propensity for this sort of thing.

(Watch with earplugs. Watch til the end, trust me it's an education of illusionist walking-straight-through-doors-ing. It's wild.)


Like, what would you do? I'd run off the bus and take refuge amongst the bowels of the underwear section of Top Shop.

Either way, this is not normal.

In my neighbourhood, where I'm surrounded by rather...arcanely quiet council estates.
When the Brit and I were walking down the street, one little chubby 8 year old bounced up to us and said:
Oy. Can I 'ave a fag.

Brit: No. Sorry.

Peas: We don't have any. Hang on, how old are you dude?

Kid: Fiftayne.

Peas: Like hell you're 15. Go home and give your mummy a hug.

And that's about it really. My ghetto is chilled compared to Peckham.

Thank fuck.

Soaring through London's numerous museums one weekend at a time.

I wandered around the London Transport Museum on Saturday. Besides the ten pounder I had to fork out, it was worth the perusal, just on the fact that I am tube-obsessed.

I don't like taking 'em, but I DO like talking about 'em.

Just to be clear.

I was part of a story campaign a few years back, when Woollies launched it's Twist label and got a few of us to write stories 'with a twist.'
I chose to write about the Tube.

I digress. I went to a museum filled with Victorian tubes, the old red buses, the new tubes - like whole trains - and how it's developed since the 1800s.

The part where the Brits have used the tube stations as bomb shelters for both World Wars was rather interesting.

Lots of people have died underneath London's earth crust. Either by hurling themselves on the live railings, or by bomb, or by fires (from cigarette butts catching alight on the wooden staircases), or by someone tripping during a stampede.

One oke, driving the train, drove it straight into a wall, killing over 70 people. He basically committed suicide and bought the entire train along with him, as they found no brake marks or any indication it was an accident otherwise.

Bearing in mind I'm about to take a train home, and now am a little scared that the driver suddenly develops psychotic amnesia and does something insane.

My life is now at the hands of another driver. Everyday. Twice a day.

Fuck. I'm almost scared to leave work. Almost.

Anyway whatever, the real win of the weekend wasn't going to see a museum full of last centuries modes of transport.

The win was this conversation.

Ozzie: Peas, so I had a bath.

Peas: What.

Ozzie: I had a bath mate. I was intrigued as to why you found them so great and have to say I'm a changed woman. I forgot how good they were.

Peas: Wow. Seriously.

Ozzie: That's roight. Thanks for the suggestion.

She's bathing. I don't believe it.

Another strange and yet deeply touching scenario was when, on Friday, I came home after a few glasses of wine, flopped down on the couch and promptly fell asleep with a wine glass stem wedged between my thighs.

And after nudging my arm, removing the wine glass, she put a blanket over me. And I only woke up dazed and confused 10 hours later.

She also bought my washing in from the rain. Pants, bra's, the whole schtick.

Now I realise why I wanted to move into a shared house. These are the aspects I've missed.

Having friends at home. I think I can almost start calling her that.

(I've clearly underestimated her. I think. One can never be too sure when it comes to the Ozzies.)

Decided to take course of action, as per Poen's suggestion.

I left a Sticki Note on the boiler with, Dig's dinner Thursday? on it.

Poen is a bright spark you know. What a difference it's made, wow. The Ozzie and I were even hugging last night, over bottles of South African wine (the dodgy kind, sold at Tesco). The guys made dinner - two amazing curries, complete with Naan bread and all the bits, we pulled the table out and had an awesome dinner.

Th concept of my 30th coming up in September came up, and the Ozzie says:
'I know! We'll have a broi for Peas!'

A broi?

Ah. A braai!

'We have all the equeepment, a bahbeque outside, we'll have a broi party!'

I must say I was touched they're even considering have a braai for me. Bless, none of them are South African and yet they're willing to do something for me that reminds me of home.
I thought that was seriously sweet.

(On the domestic note, haven't talked about bathing versus showering again. Think this isn't going to be a subject we throw around lightly in future.)

My Brit came over after moving into a new place himself, and we finished off the night with a few nightcaps and flopped into bed.

I feel much happier about the home situation. At least for now. And it's the weekend.

And the weekend in London - even though I'm hanging today - is always a boundless concept.

PS: I am missing my mate Dove. So much. And thankfully she's missing me too:
To: peasontoast@gmail.com
From: thedoove@gmail.com
Subject: I think it's truly unfair that you left me here and I think your should reconsider.

Hello. I miss you fuckbag. Would you mind coming back? You can move into our spare room. With the Brit. Think about it...

To: thedover@gmail.com
From: peasontoast@gmail.com

He's such a grump in the mornings, it's hilarious. 'Baybe? Babe. Seriously. Will stop slamming the bloody door?'
Had a dinner party in my digs last night. My head is pounding this morning after drinking cheap South African wine from Tesco. I might be making friends tart....I think. You never know with weird foreigners. Especially those who are funny about bathing.

To:peasontoast@gmail.com
From:thedove@gmail.com

Great. So that means you'll consider it? Superb. I can make you toast every morning. Does the Brit like peanut butter?

She'll be here for a few days in September. I can't wait.

I mistakenly drank a double espresso yesterday. Prior to a meeting.

Usually, when you drink or consume something in a workplace environment, one is of the knowledge that it's not going to fuck you over.

This is my office, not Ibiza.

Or is it?

It was a perfectly great concept whereby I was lovingly made a caffeine concoction from a seemingly inconspicuous machine.

All manual, beans ground, steam foamed, whatever. I drink coffee like a baby drinks breast milk. It's my vice. Along with the (occasional.....semi-regular...Marlboro Light).
Point is, I am a robust caffeine-imbiber, where I get the buzz I need, embrace the Java full flavour raver behaviour, and don't completely lose my mind.

I had my coffee, and nothing happened. Walked up to my desk, realised I had a meeting, grabbed my laptop and notebook.

Sat at the table, in order to have one of those 'think tank' sessions, and something started happening.

It began with the usual redundant meeting talk that speaks volumes and actions nothing.

Peas: 'So yes, I think if we mind map the year's plan, that's a good start.'

Lady: Yes I'll send you document X, for your sign off, and you can give your thoughts on we can implement Document Y, and then collaborate from there.'

(It seems all meetings start with these exact same sentences. Any place, anytime, anywhere. You could be sitting in the Sahara litigating Charles Taylor's Liberian jail time and this is how it would begin. I'll bet you a fiver.)

Peas: [ping, oh dear Christ what is that?] Soguyswhatdoyouthinkwhatdoyouthink...we syncupwithJohninmarketingandhecanyes! yes! YES! Let's have an event! Aneventanevent,eventanyone? Whatdoyouguysreckonwehostanevent?

I was high as a kite.

Eventually had to take a step back and apologise.

'JeeezizChristwhatwasinmycoffee? Think I just got given a doubleespresso seriously helpme.'

Abruptly said I'd write the minutes and left.

Good grief.

Oh dear. Shitkicker. Why did she have to go and do that.

Peas: Oh wow, I just had the greatest bath. Ever.

Ozzie: Oi’m from a country that has seeereeous drought problems.

[pause][Huh?]

Peas: Er….I’m also from a country that has serious drought problems.

Ozzie: Yeah but we have water restreections.

[Pause]

Ozzie: You obviously don’t have water restreections.

Peas: Actually we do. In fact we have starving children everywhere and regular famines. And loadshedding. Oh and…. AIDS.

[breathe in, breathe out]

What the fuck [don’t explode] does that have to do with me having a bath …in England?

Ozzie: Notheeng. It’s just that I don’t bah-th. I shower.

Peas: Great. I bath. Everyday. I love Bath Culture.

Ozzie: Well in England, they used to bath twoice a week.

Peas: Yeah back in the 1600s.

[pause]

Peas:…….. hence the term, ‘baby with the bath water,’ because they were so filthy, FYI. I like to be…clean. As strange as that may sound.

Ozzie: Roight, Just saying.

OK now I’m just annoyed. I'm being judged for bathing.

Not to be self-righteous or anything, but for GOD’s sake, now I have to feel bad about having a bloody soak?

I didn’t quite anticipate this.

‘We recycle,’ is a phrase I did anticipate, on moving in.

And unfortunately am a bit dumb at it. I tend to sometimes put the wrong shit in the wrong bin, but not for lack of trying.

First Worlder’s are just shit hot at recycling. Me? My talents lie in managing to switch off lights when I leave a room and trying not to waste expendable energy.

We recycle at work and we recycle at home. I can be a recycling whore - sure - just as long as I’m not drunk. And therefore don’t put tin foil in the compost bin, like the other day.

But my bath? This is serious. This has got under my skin. And I’m NOT going to take this lying down.

My shoes are starting to fit me better. The blisters on top of the blisters are starting to grow a pair and heal the fuck up.

My London Feet are well on their way to becoming accustomed to long, plodding journeys to train stations.

I'm starting to get to know my house mates. One who is this green energy global environmentalist who flies around the world and has lived in 11 countries.

I've been so over-tired - this place both exhausts and energises me - that I had to be carried to bed last night after the Brit ran me a bath.

However, I've noticed a slight shift - could it be that I'm starting to settle in a bit? Work may be confusing and strange, but I am starting to feel more indifferent about the stress and the pressure I'm putting on myself.

Could this mean, could this actually mean I'm starting to get this big city, little country, work space and environment a little more?

Or is this a cruel foil by the universe to lead me into a false sense of security? If so, damn you draconian dork of a universe!
I am still reeling at how much I have to fit into a day everyday.

This is how the Dove and I have decided to communicate with each other from now on. We both hate textese.
When people LOL themselves to death and rip the ring out of LMAO, it drives me nuts.

So we henceforth decided to embrace a new style of long distance communication.
Because we love to hate it.

Peas: LOL! LMAO! WTF! U R such a G8 M8, LUV U! MISS U! U MAKE ME LOL SO HARD! ROFL!I ♥ U! We shud hav a Gr8 Db8, or a dubbel d8! btw brb! L8ERZ M8! PS: ASAP, howz lyf @ home? text mi.

Dove: Hey, hzt? Hw R U doin? Wzp there in Lundun Twn? Tings R gud here, Gr8
ac2ally. M8. R U goin' 2 da paa t in Scunthorpe ts wknd? So x i td 4
it. Gunna tk sum x t c m8 (minus the '..ight') B ? Going 2 B awsum M8.
Pty @ m i joint afta. L8r. innut.

Peas: OMG LOLNESS! W0000t! U 2 ad x t c wuz it gr8? i l♥ v tha w8-t you say 'ac2ually', it's gr8 m8, neva 4get the gud tymes. Wen R U @ Berlin l8erz hzt brb btw asap, I wuz lyk 'WTF?' and he wuz lyk 'WTF ROFL?' text mi.

Dove: Sup bbfeaeae hw u doin?!?
So 2 day i did summin dat wuz awsum cz, like, saw dis dude, right, a e
sed “wzp” ’nd i sed “wsp wit ju? M8?!” ‘Nd e sed “nufink, like. Wsp wit ju?!” ‘Nd I fawt, ang on, i jst sed dat. ‘nd den i
sed, “m8, we bof jst sed dat 2x, like!!” LOL. ‘Nd e sed “Oh.” ‘Nd i fought: wha’
a wnka. Enywy m8 jst wn2 say miss u cuz u mk mi LOL LMAO.

Peas: Holler mi back m8, lyk R U Nsyde or wot lyk? 4eva dis will B lyk LOL x5000.luv u 4eva, FYI. YT?

Now back to being an all important serious PR person - did I mention that by the way? I'm a PR pony now? - and use big words for small things.

Verbosity, even truncated, is gargantuan.

I have bags under my eyes, but I suppose this is a sign of a good weekend.

Spent the latter half of Saturday spread out on a picnic blanket with Poen, the Brit and some other people, quaffing (and it's important to say this is in English accent) 'Pinot Grigio.'

Brits go bonkers for Pinot Grigio it seems. This light, wine, summery wine that won't make you pissed, just helluva mellow.
We sat there for hours soaking up the sun and talking shit.

This is what I've been wanting to do since arriving in London - doing the summer park hang-out thing, over wine and cold meats. And finally.

Yesterday we went to visit my aunt who lives in Wimbledon. Amble around the village there and catch up. Was lovely to see a familial face, even if the did mutter those terrifying words to the Brit, 'When we get back, I'm going to show you some pictures of when Peas was a baby.'

The album was opened, and there I was, henceforth emblazoned across the album pages with my bowl haircut and security blanket.

Aunt: Oh yes I remember that night babysitting you clearly. You had done a massive pooh, and we didn't know what to do with you. It was everywhere. So we held you upside down in the shower and blasted you down with water.

................

Brit laughs, I just say, 'I grew out of poohing when I was 3.'

New week at work. God may it just be better.

I'm officially struggling.

It's been two weeks and 1 day. And my job is still confusing, overwhelming, what the heck do I do?, I've yet to see much of my housemates, I feel like a loser, and like today, feel very very flat.

(Might've been because Poen and I went out to smash mojitos and feel wiped out this morning), but on that note - there's one thing I thank fuck for, and that's having one of my best mate's here. Poen leaves to go and live in Kenya in a month. So we have a lot to pack in. But she's also been amazingly supportive in a time where I actually have no idea what I'm doing.

I'm oscillating between kind of knowing a bit about my new job and then realising I know nothing at all. I hate being like this. I need to know how to do something straight away.

I don't know whether I'm putting undue pressure on myself or whether this is normal or what.

I think I need to have another little cry.