peas on toast

I'm not here. Well I am, strictly speaking, or else I wouldn't be writing this would I.
My mind has basically been left in Rio de Janeiro though. Now rated my favourite city on this planet. So in a bid to keep the holiday spirit alive (Happy New Year by the way), I am reliving my experience.

The red Moleskine that has scribblings, tickets and my memories, at least when I hadn't had too many caipirinha's the night before, holds my holiday.
(Was niiice to catch up with Ches yesterday though...)

14 December, 2008.

This is the travel diary of Peas On Toast. Running away from Christmas back home. Inspired by colonial latino architecture,latino's I have a boyfriend now, so I will behave, may lose mind to father but all will be recorded until dementia occurs.

Arrive in Buenos Aires. Dad remarks, “They've stolen all our bloody trees.” He thinks Argentina looks like Cape Town. I reminded him we hadn't left the airport yet.

Went to the waterfront area of Puerto Madero in hunt of a fuck off steak and a cold beer. You get what you ask for. They loaded a cow the size of a Lexus onto our plates.

Knife slid through it like butter, but I'm so full if you dropped me in the Rio Plata right now, I'd surely drown.

Buenos Aires is no doubt beautiful. Colonial architecture mixed in with modern buildings, it's like a slightly more downmarket Paris. Sun goes down at 11:00pm.

The only Spanish I know is the get-by-basics, and they say 'll' as a 'sh' not a 'y'. So a quesidilla is a kaysideesha, for example. I also know how to say “You are a steak.” Which is how I ordered from the perplexed looking waiter who was dressed up like a gaucho. Everyone loves an Argentinian cowboy.

Eva Peron has saint status here. They hate that Madonna played her in the film, but they love Evita.

Staying on Corrientes Avenida. The main street through the centre, filled with theatres. These people eat, sleep and drink live shows. Some are live naked monkey porn – I could relive Amsterdam.

Walked to the Congress buildings. Where all the shit happens. Argentina has a hectic political history involving embarrassing and bloody wars (The Falklands), 30 000 people disappearing under dictatorship, and Evita, the power hungry first wife. The nation is also still recovering from an economic collapse cum meltdown in 2001. You cannot find change anywhere. Coins are a high commodity. And yet it's all the bus will accept annoyingly.

(Which is why Dad and I walked this place flat. I did about 10-15 km's a day in BA. That's right.)

15 December, 2008

Made some mates in our hostel pub last night. A Canadian from Winnipeg who'd just done a three day bus journey, a Brit who was studying Spanish for 6 months, and 'Dangerous Dave,' a dude on his gap year and coming right in each South American city he visits. Dad thinks he's from Dorset ('Dave from Dorset'), when he's actually from Staines.

I haven't backpacked in so long – all my recent trips have involved good hotels and work, I am remembering what it's like to be 18 again.
Shooting the breeze with random travellers, God I have to do this more often.

But so far, my impression of Buenos Aires is good – the people are friendly, the girls and boys are hot and poised, they all HATE a bit of football.

How to start a conversation in a youth hostel pub:

Chilean dude: Did someone put on Bryan Adams?
Brit: Fuck. He's a nightmare.
Chilean: I hate Bryan Adams.
Peas: Hi. I love Bryan Adams.
[silence]
Peas:...um, well I do.
Brit: I suppose he's so bad he's good. I personally like Bonnie Tyler. She's all wo-man.

...and get down.
OK so after Mendoza and Bariloche - still trying to decide whether I like Mendoza - diary will follow later on - but for now, all I care about is that I am in Rio. The moment I saw the meandering rivers on landing, and the moment I literally stepped foot in this amazing city, I have been in love.

I am in love with Rio de Janeiro.

Now look, I have had two caipirinhas on Copacabana Beach. I am staying a block away from the beach, and they serve them in little stalls alongside a setting resplendent of mountains filled with, like, lush jungle and favelas or slums dotting these mountains, but seriously, I am absolutely struck by this place. I have always wanted to go to Brazil, and especially Rio. And now am in a caipirinha´d awe-struck daze, whistling to myself The Girl From Ipanema.

You talk to yourself a lot when travelling alone. I miss Dad, but this is an experience I tell ya.

I am in love.

It´s Chile here. (¿Geddit? Chile. Although I´m not actually in Chile, but I´m close enough.)

It´s a little cold here in the Andes. Bariloche is a little ski town, and although mid-summer, there is still snow on the mountains, and one fuck off lake, amongst many.
It feels like Switzerland, but a little more decrepit. Although decrepit may be the wrong word, more sort of chilled and things don´t run here like in Switzerland. Staying a a hippie place, where people hang in hammocks and do a lot of hiking.
Made more friends yesterday over copious bottles of Malbec tinto, and Dad woke up again, in his underpants and exclaimed, ´Fuck. I´ve lost my keys, MP3 player and my bus ticket out of here,´to a very-alarmed looking Ozzie girl who was in our dowm. While dad was packing his johnson in his underpants right in front of her face. Dad you also lost your dignity last night, but whatever.

It´s been heavy going being with Dad 24-7, I won´t lie.
We got shitfaced last night with the dudes here, and ended up in some biloche or pub, where everyone picked up an instrument and started a makeshift hostel band on the stage.

It´s beautiful here, and tomorrow I´ll be climbing two fucken mountains. With amazing views.

For now, I´m just hungover.

God there are a lot of gnomes in this town. With fankly, scary-looking faces man. I´m bringing back gnomes for everyone, lucky bastards.

Someone told me, amongst the plethora of people I know who have come here before, that Buenos Aires has this way of getting under your skin, and you{re not quite certain exactly what it is that does this.

He was quite right.

It has been four days of craziness. And I absolutely love this city. It's a wonderful fusion of old and new, where parts of it remind me of Paris, and other suburbs like Boca I feel like I'm in Cuba, what with the brightly coloured buildings. The old buildings are so grand, all with big shutters and balconies, and Art Deco is the flavour of architecture wherever you look.

Our hostel is in the Microcentro, or middle of town, a great vibey sort of place to hang, the sun is only down in this place 6 hours a day. I have been getting to bed at 2.30am every night, and Dad has been especially ripping the ring out of it, finding mates and crawling in at 4.30 in his underpants like this morning. That was great.

So much history here too, I walked across this city twice and have seen pretty much everything it has to offer. My legs are aching. Eva Peron has saint status here, her museum has her original clothes therein and amazing footage of her life as an actress, before she married the president and found fans in the middle working class.

I have the soundtrack from the movie ensconced in my head. All day. It's getting intense.

Made a couple of friends in our hostel too. A great girl from the UK who is living here and studying Spañish, and like last night, a whole bunch of Brazilians and a Canadian chap who has been here for months and has shown me the ropes and local spots.

So much of this place cannot even be explianed with mere words. But it's hot and beautiful to be precise. Can't mention the Dirty War apparently. Argentines, who are so friendly and poised and fashion concious, will not speak of it. 30 000 people just disappeared during the disctatorship, missing, kidnapped, tortured etc. And they're still looking for some of these missing people.

Sounds a bit like South Africa's past.

We go on that fucking bus to Bariloche tonihgt. But buses here are muchos buen, I hear. They serve whisky and hot food and you can recline your seat right back. Most of the trip will be over the Pampas, or plains. It's going to be heavy going.
What with only the odd tumbleweed to see.

But Bariloche will be a backwater change to this crazy city, right on the edge of the Andes and in the lake district.
With shitloads of chocolate and ...gnomes apparently. Gnomes in whop windows are the vibe.

Interesting.

PS: I wonder if 'Que sa jorra' which means 'Go fuck yourself' in Catalan would be understood here¿ No particular reason, but I always liked using it with gusto in Spain.

And other useful phrases. I kept calling the waitress a 'You are a lovely steak!' last night in my limited Argentiñas. (You like that? They have an ñ on this keyboard. So you can just make everything ñ. Like mañaña and baña and añaña....Not to emntion and upside down ¿. Fuck. If I didn't have so much to see or do, I could play on thiskeyboard all day long¿¡)

Tell me, when you order a steak here, ?do you starve yourself for eight weeks before¿
'Tell me, do you scoop the entire cow onto the plate or what¿'
Never in my life have I experienced such gargantuan sized pieces of bovine. And shitloads of potatoes to go with it.

Not gonna sit here and tell you what I've seen and done so far. I'll save that for the 24 hours bus journey. I got Buenos Aires to rip the ring out of first.

Hasta luego!

So I hit Buenos Aires on Sunday.

'Tis going to be a 36 hour day, the 14 December, what with travelling back in time.

Thus has come an appropriate moment to reflect back on one of the most crazy 365 days of my life. If not the most insane year I have ever had to live thus far.

2008 has simply been two things for me: a year of extreme lows and a year of extreme highs. Nothing much in between.

Beginning of the year, I was on a completely different path as to what I am now. I was the editor of two websites; basically set to follow that vibe for the rest of eternity. Not a bad existence, until it all went tits up, that is.

Come March, in the space of a week, my life changed forever.
In one week, I got made redundant, experienced someone willing to stab me by getting into my face for my cellphone, my pet died, and I broke up with someone.
That week was the hardest of my life – and I'd say mainly because I felt like I'd suddenly lost everything. My safety and salary especially.

Fuck it was hard. I still panic when people walk up to my car. Driving can still be a serious issue for me, especially at night – and sadly, I hardly venture into town (where the smash and grab occurred) anymore. A part of Johannesburg I absolutely loved and embraced.

But I think with all that fuck off hardness, something changed in me this year. A lot of things changed, and thank fuck for it – although at the time I couldn't understand why this was all crappening. I certainly got fucking strong. It takes a lot now for me to wilt, in fact sometimes I think I'm too hard for my own good.

And then things suddenly went majorly right. I landed the job of my dreams; and since May have been working for an incredible company. I changed my career. I also travelled, in the space of seven months to:
London – twice.
Ireland.
Israel. (Never would've considered going there, and my job opened up this opportunity for me)
Greece.
And now, on my own steam, South America.

I launched my first novel. The most surreal and incredible experience of my humble little life.
I took charge and control of everything – as a single person – this was important – sorting through all my shit, coming out, I believe, as a much better person than I have ever been.

I hurt someone, and I also experienced a long-distance liaison with someone who lived in the northern hemisphere. I moved out of my Illovo flat and into my own place. I was part of breaking a Guinness World Record in Zorba Greek Dancing.

I quit boozing for two months, and bought a piano by mistake. I won a blog award, and sat writing freelance articles for my supper for two months while I knitted scarves.
I nearly moved to London, all the documents were ready to go.

Who'd a thunk it after that disastrous week in March, now I don't think I've ever been this content and happy.

And. Currently and very recently, I am sleeping on Chester's Pillow.
Ches and I met each other about two years ago and have over these years, become great friends. And now we are, you know, seeing each other. He's really so great - inside and out, of course. We're having a lot of fun.

And another amazing thing – The Ant and The Gilb got engaged last week.
It's been coming for years; and he proposed to her at a fuck-off crazy altitude in Nepal. Somewhere near the base of Everest. I am so chuffed for my fabulous old Italian friend, I tell you what. And I am going to be one of her bridesmaids. I'll be two bridesmaids next year – what an honour, seriously.

So with that, 2008 has been one helluva ride. Can't say it's ever been boring – Jesus Christ – it's been fucking nuts.

And that's why I need a holiday. To absorb and reflect all of this – shoot the breeze, bond with Dad (who is bringing only an overnight bag, or so he tells me. Sigh) and experience a continent I've never been to before.

Thanks for sharing this year with me.

I will very irregularly keep you informed while there, on my travels, of:

1) If I'm alive and haven't been kidnapped/lynched/trafficked for cocaine
2) If Dad hasn't finally lost his marbles
3) What the glaciers in Patagonia look like
4) Experiencing Eva Peron fever (The truth is I never left you through all my wild days and mad existence....)
5) If Copacabana and Ipanema beaches are really what the songs say they are
6) Salsa and Latino and steak and espanol and mojito and peso and leather and, you know, stuff.

'Till then, Malaysian Airlines, (WTF is that all about....wrong continent, wrong direction), is flying me out at 4am on Sunday.

Hasta soon.

Went round to an old friend's last night for a few glasses of fermented grape.
Talk turned to the global economic recession – as it does – and as gloom descended on us like a wet blanket – her brother, an economist, walked in and told us exactly how tit's up everything is:

“Chaps, secure your place in the soup queue because it's going to become a whole lot worse.”

Jesus. Pass me another glass of wine.

(Whilst pushing all thought of piano purchase to back of brain, also considering the dang thing is so out of tune, it sounds like the background accompaniment to The Ring 2. So can't even play the fucking thing right now, without making people die on the spot from aural sodomisation.)

Anyway, lest us not forget, we've managed to avoid being a part of two world wars, but if it's bad now, shit is going to hit the fan next year.

“Imagine though, “ says my friend brightly (might've been the wine), “all the hot guys that one could potentially meet in a soup queue.”

But I'm thinking, will we be able to afford shampoo? With which to wash our locks?

You're standing in the bogroll & bread line, waiting for your one ply, when Usher strolls up behind you, takes one hard look at your hair and thinks, “This economic crisis blows. This chick needs Pantene like I need my Hummer to be de-impounded right now.”
And you're thinking, “He's digging the vibe with my hair right now.”
And he's thinking, “Fuck, do I really need bogroll.”

So in light of all of this, because I'm more freaked out than the other 7 times I have received neurotic emails from my panicked mother about advising me not to buy anything ever again and aliens are going to impregnate our livestock and we're all going to die of The Clap.

...anyway, in light of this – Dad and I are taking buses around Argentina. They're cheap and cheerful...and we'll be on at least two that will run non-stop for 24 hours. Fuck, I need a new iPod battery. We're going to lose our marbles.

Heard about something rather interesting on the Net the other day, speaking of crises in general. In the States, sex offenders are, by federal law, meant to register where exactly they live at all times. For record purposes, and also for obvious reasons of safety.

Where this comes in. Say you're a yank, and you want to buy a house in Mobile, Alabama. And you have 4 kids and a golden retriever. And you want to know whether your kids can roam the streets willy-nilly safely.

Simply go to the Offender Locator website. Fuck. It's scary. You load the map, zoom into your street, and then right click the little animated bodies that pop up.
And there are shitloads.

There you might find a mug shot of a sexual offender (it's hectic), what he did exactly, and his exact address.
It's Maps gone insane, and it's a little hair raising.

For instance, I lived in Crested Butte, Colorado for a while. No sexual fuckfiends there, but go twenty clicks to the right to Gunnison and you'll find a fair few. Manhattan is littered with 'em.

On that fine note, the weather's been nice hasn't it?

I woke up this morning, to find a goddamn man in my goddamn bed.

Cogida y mierda.

He helped me write this post this morning. After a really amazing dinner of truffles and chicken pie at Thomas Maxwell's restaurant, as I stared into his blue eyes. Or were they brown. Fuck, I don't care, they were eyes.

Kidding. Seriously.
We sat up and drank the rest of our corked wine on my balcony before the thunderstorm.

He's really rather lovely. I got a compass as part of my Christmas present. Not a bad present considering I have absolutely no sense of direction. I think I'll use it in Sandton City for starters.

Learnt a couple of choice phrases for Argentina:
¿Qué lo hizo la cogida yo beba anoche? What the fuck did I drink last night?

Enséñeme a la salsa en este contador de la barra. Teach me salsa on this bar counter

¿Hizo el soporte del Evita aquí? Did Evita stand here?

¿Hágale los latinos como música del techno Do you Latinos like techno music?

Qué usted significan '¿demuéstreme sus bragas?' What do you mean 'Show me your panties?'

¿Este chile picante va a hacer que mi asno lastima mañana? Is this spicy chili going to make my ass hurt tomorrow?

¿Usted las grietas usa los speedos en la playa o no? Do you chaps wear speedos on the beach or no?

No haga grito de t para mí, la Argentina. Don't cry for me, Argentina..

As Manuel says in Fawlty Towers: I learnt it from a boooook.

Was pondering the types of sex two people can have.
There's so much scope when it comes to sexercise. It's not like running on the treadmill day-in, day-out and there's only one way you can run: forward. And with formidable stride.

There's the gentle shagging on the rug type;
There's the take me on the countertop where I'm not wearing underwear but am wearing a skirt type
There's the let's have sex in this secluded rock pool type
There's the is everyone out of the office yes they are let's take advantage of the scanner surface type
There's the get on me in the passenger's seat type
There's the hell look at this view let's may hay on the bonnet type
There's the public-private enterprise under a park bench hidden by foliage type
There's the I have no time for foreplay missionary bang bang type
There's the sit on top of me and ride me like a showhorse in the Olympics type
There's the spank my ass like you're my Std 4 teacher and I mean it type
There's the you dress up like a nurse and I'll dress up like a doctor type
There's the let's make love in the club on the couch on the table on the bar on the floor on the barcounter type (but you usually have to be an r&b star called Usher to pull this off without getting arrested)
There's the touch me like that one more I'm going to pull you across the table and have my way with you type
There's the I'm taking a shower, you want in type
There's the hang on you're not wearing doondies that's a pleasant surprise type
There's the this bath isn't enough for the two of us but let's try type
There's the I'd like reinact the scene in Legends Of The Fall type (before he goes mental and dies)

Basically, there are a multitude of ways to fornicate. I'm just saying.

On another topic, been getting a lot of questions about the characters in my book.”Who is that person?” “Is that person that person?” “Is that person real or not real?”
And my favourite: “That person thinks that this person is that person.”
And other variations thereof:
“Is it true that this person is actually that person?”
“My mother read your book and wants to know if hat person is that person or this person.”

And the best really:
“Am I this person?”
“Is that me?”
“Is that me mixed with a bit of that person?”

I can't remember which person is which anymore, myself. In fact, is anybody real? That is the question. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking with it.

The Dove stayed over last night, so I could help her with some work. She's a funny sleeper though, generally doesn't sleep at all and came through from the couch in the middle of the night but couldn't fit into my bed – so had to sleep on my study floor.
“Why didn't you just get into my bed?”
“Because you were spread out like Christ on the cross. That's why.”
Oh.

She had crafted earplugs out of cottonwool balls which she'd stuffed into her ears so to block the sound of the traffic out. And sang It's Too Late To Start A Braai to it's It's Too Late To Apologise in the shower this morning.

Yes, sometimes I miss having having a flamate.

I am suffering from exhaustion.
Look, I know when I'm tired and I know that everyone is fucking tired.
But I have never experienced the disfortitude to even talk.

Friday I had a quick gin and tonic with Doc at his furniture emporium. Knew I was tired because I didn't have the energy to even stand up, so kipped briefly on one of his Indian beds at the back of the shop.

Saturday, after twelve hours of sleep – twelve hours – I said 'yippee-yi-yay' to a fabulous party invitation at a loft above 44 Stanley. It was a Wimbledon-themed thing, set in this amazing loft apartment just above the Refinery. Complete with minimalist industrial finishings, I wish I had the mental capacity to absorb it all.

There were bar tenders serving mojitos from the huge kitchen counter, the tunes were playing and everyone was sparky.

I knew something was wrong when I couldn't speak. I had had twelve hours of sleep and a little snooze in the afternoon, but I still felt like I hadn't slept for five years. It was beyond the feeling of being run over by a bus, because I could feel that sections of my brain had literally shut down.

I nipped down to the garden for some quiet time and just so that I didn't have to talk to people, which is strange, because usually I love talking to people – especially after two strong as fuck cocktails. I had to sit, and also my mouth simply wasn't working or moving.

Just creating words like, 'Hello my name is Peas, pleased to meet you,' took monolithic effort. It was like I was dead.

I got more and more irate, almost panicking completely, when random strangers would approach me in the garden, to chat. Small talk is one thing, but small talk when you don't have the energy to even smile at a person?

Eventually after mistakenly plonking my posterior into a puddle, I lost it and burst into tears.

Doc, now on his ear, had to explain to me how I was to open his gate after he got a nice dude to take me back to where my car was parked at his house.

"Press the yellow button first, then the brown one. That's for the beams. The yellow first, then the brown. DON'T press the red, it's the panic button, and don't press the blue one because that'll wake my folks up."

Fuck. Getting into Joburg houses is more hassle than it's worth. Seriously.

Then I vaguely remember him saying to the guy who took me home, "She's terrible company. You don't have to talk to her, in fact, don't. She's too tired to talk."

I got home and slept for another twelve hours. Surely that would sort someone the fuck out? Twenty four hours of sleep in a weekend has to have some bearing, surely?

But no. On Sunday, I woke up and still felt like my asshole had been ripped out of my body. Mustered up enough strength to get the fuck to Clicks and buy me some vitamins and energy boosters. All in a vacuous haze.

I don't know what this is, or why I have zero energy to even walk around, straighten my hair or simply answer phonecalls from friends.

Been a sterling example lately of how you really can sit around staring into space doing fuck all. With no intentions of moving or doing anything except sitting, listening to your own breathing.

It's, I think, a mixture of the book, the overwhelming feelings coming with it, the hype, too much partying, work – work is a huge one, I have been working my butt off – a long, crazy year.

This holiday in a week's time, (I hit Argentina on Sunday), might, literally, save my life. Rehab. I've never felt so tired in all my years.

I'm feeling more chipper this morning. As in, I can engage in conversation without falling asleep midway through a sentence.

This week I have to:
1) Learn Spanish. (Aunt bought me a disc: Learn Spanish In One Week. Let's give this baby a crack and hope for the best.
2) Go on a date (yay!)
2) Try to claw through the week.
3) Decide, now that I have gone through my guidebook on Argentina, on whether l'll go north through Rosario (where Che Guevara was born), and up to Iguacu Falls or south to Bariloche and the glaciers.

Hmmm.

Haven't done that in a while.

Pizza and a DVD on the couch with a nubile lover, whipping my ass, covering my nethers in cream and talking dirty to me.

Kidding.

But seriously. A day whereby my saving grace was curling up in the foetal position under my piano during lunch. Couldn't even string a sentence together yesterday.

Flung open the doors to my balcony like I owned Italy, and for the entire evening, thoroughly enjoyed one of the most thrilling, long thunderstorms Johannesburg has experienced this season.

All in lieu of the couch.

With The Castle on in the background.
(“See that lace on the corner of my house? It's fake. Adds a bit of Victoriania to the place don't you reckon?”)

A bit off the topic, but the person with whom I spent the evening knows a thing or two about snakes (not trousersnakes, the other snakes), which humbles even my knowledge of the slithering, venomous crazy-as-fuck creatures.
I'm terrified of snakes, so therefore I know my enemy – I know which snakes can do what to me, should they sink a set of fangs into my skin.

But I didn't know that the Puffadder stores venom just behind its fang, like a vile of always-releasing poison, ready to turn your hand into a gangrenous dead thing.

And the black mamba's neurotoxin won't only stop your diaphragm and therefore you asphyxiate and keel over and die, the poison stops your heart as well. So anti-venom is useless, it's better to have a lung respirator machine. Because that's convenient.

Fascinating.

Anyway, the thunderstorm transfixed me last night.

Also, gotta appreciate a dude who knows his cabling. Had DVD player issues, so he rewired my ...home entertainment system. There's nothing like a dude throwing out a, “No, your output cable needs to reroute through the RCA.”

Dude. Hubba hubba?

I mean, a dude who rewires shit/gets grease streaked across his face/knows how to hold a spanner/fiddles with electrical equipment/plays with machinery – well it's not a cack attribute. Let's face it.

I mean I'm all for changing my own lightbulbs. But hell men are hot when they do it instead.

Fuckcunt.

So. We all clamoured into a shuttle bus and headed out to the Cradle Of Humankind for our office party, where I slotted kudu carpaccio and lamb shank, and, well, that's pretty much about as much as I can recall without wincing.

The office had a lot of gas in the tank yesterday.

The problem with ordering a shuttle bus, is that you're going to ensure you get as fucked as humanly possible so that you take full advantage of the chauffeur situation.

We all got bliksemmed, overlooking a very Africanesque stage setting of thundering skies and green plains, whereby tequila just wasn't enough, someone had to go and order blowjobs and liquid cocaine. If we weren't going to get wasted, we were going to get wasted trying.

Arrived back at the office last night, with talk of going to Eldorado Park for a little drunken adventure, ("we've never been before, so let's go to Eldo's")then someone passed out on a beanbag, and somehow we just carried the hell on - banging away at shooters until, well, actually I still managed to stand. That's resilience for you.

But let me tell you, breakfast running back to my office, and then sitting in traffic on the way home bargaining with God for a shower, with encrusted drool on my mouth and hair that looks like the back-end of a goat's scrotum, and a mouth that was filled with the residue of a nomad's sandal, is no picnic.

Stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, where a knobhead fucking Chrysler Street Cruiser of a driver kept cutting in and cutting me off, and all I could see in front of me was a billboard with an oiled up porn star posing with an axe over his shoulder claiming You Know A Bar One Man When You See It, or the likes.

And you're thinking, "Fuck this for a bag of cashew nuts, I am in the fiery blazes of hell."

I have an LC the size of Zuma's ego, and the only thing that's going to get me through the next hour is imagining the look on Poen's face when she sees the press photo a journalist took at my launch - where C2 quoted her name as Gertrude Viljoen.

Now that's highlarious.

Of course, I wore my Bridget Jones fluffy snatch bloomers yesterday too. Oh dear God.

Wow. Bit of a late start this morning, and my head is still spinning and my thumb actually has this little throbbing thing going on from signing copies of my book.

I have thumb cramp. How fucken hilarious.

It's all completely surreal, but hell, I am the happiest girl in the world today. My book is out, I actually got to touch it for the first time at 6:00pm, and couldn't really stop stroking the thing for the rest of the evening.
Bailey Schneider from 94.7 was the emcee, whereby we sat at a table with two mics and she asked me questions. I was so nervous, the sweat was dripping - but also because the bowling club was like a sauna last night. It was schvitzy. Bailey was the ultimate trooper,

Anyway it seemed to go off nicely and informally, and better than I expected. I didn't laugh like Jack Nicholson in The Shining into the mic, which some of my mates were concerened about, and I didn't break into song.

Sank a couple of gin and tonics, and signed the books - in retrospect I wrote the lamest messages to people ever - but I didn't quite feel all there. I was having an outer body experience with this whole launch, and I suspect it will sink in once I start getting the phonecalls. ("You didn't really do that did you? Holy fuck.")

The greatest part of the Evening was having all my mates wearing bright green GROUPEA shirts. Having my mates cheer and laugh at all the right moments (I briefed them: If I snap a heel - cheer and laugh. If I vomit from nerves onto somebody's feet, just cheer and laugh...and hold back my hair please.)

And of course, the guy I'm kind of seeing was there to help replenish my gin and tonics and take me home.
Mum was a hoot. Especially telling a group of people what a little butter ball I'd become during my gap year. Nice one.

I cannot believe how happy and lucky I am.
It's our office Christmas Party today, we're all going to the Cradle Of Humankind.
Thank goodness. Because I'm still not all there right now.

To those who came through to my launch to support me, slot a couple of gin and tonics, and buy my book: thank you. Seriously. I am so touched.

(In more ways than one. Tee hee.)

The piano arrived yesterday, in all it's glory. Heavy piece of machinery that.

The delivery truck didn't have a crane on them – which I find odd, people always have cranes lying around – so they couldn't hoist the bugger over my balcony and into my overstuffed lounge.

Instead I had it delivered to the office. We have a very funky office set-up as it is, so a musical instrument isn't classified as out of the ordinary. In fact my boss thinks it's the shizzle. Fugly shizzle, but shizzle nonetheless.

I downloaded some new sheet music for the occasion – you know, a little bit of Keane (the band only plays drums and piano, so it should work nicely), and I asked Ches and Dove if they'd like to request anything in particular.

Dove: Dildo Detention by Vaginal Carnage.

Peas: That's amusing, but slightly fucked up. Even for me.

Dove: The song actually exists.

Ches: How about Fuck Me Like You Hate Me by Seether. That's nice, easy listening.

Dove: I got the song from a dude that works in my office. He seems like a most respectable citizen, what with the button down shirt, 2.4 children and a dog. But you should see his iTunes collection. It's all death metal where not one song is exempt from the lyrics 'death', 'blood' or 'depths of hell.'

Peas: Never fuck with him. Give him your last Rolo, always say hello. Basically never piss him off. Because one day he is going to crack. And when he runs through your office with a scythe, you going to want him to be like, “She gave me a Rolo. I'll rethink this one.” He's going to slay something, and you don't want it to be you.

Dane Cook even did a skit on this. Your case is not uncommon:


Dove: Metalheads. There's a documentary I watched on these Norwegian headbangers, who worshipped Satan, burnt churches down and had a disarming penchant for the colour black. You know, the type of guy you want to bring home to read Christmas stories to your grandad by the fire.
Except maybe not too close to the fire.

Luckily Lionel Richie and Keane are more my vibe, and I'd suspect, my office's. That hateful, hostile edge that causes people to mosh the fuck out isn't what I'm going for, I don't think.
Although I did find a band name called Gee That's A Large Beetle I Wonder If It's Poisonous, last night. They sound rad.

As well as Touch Me Again and I'll Break Your Arms, where the editor of the blog wrote: “I believe it's a metal band.”

So it's my book launch tonight. I've been told to imagine everyone naked. I'm thinking that might just freak me out.

But I'll actually get to hold my book in my hands – a hard copy of this thing I've been working on for almost 3 years - tonight. I'm completely surrealed-out.

Planning to sink a few gin and tonics.

It's amazing really. You get out of Joburg for one weekend, and you feel like a new person.

Poen's farm weekend involved us regular bunch – about 16 of us - doing what we usually do when in the mielie belt that is Viljoenskroon.

We get pissed, loll around the pool, eat lots of meat, smell cow shit, have sundowners in the peanut fields, and generally play the fool.

Had a lot of fun myself. My personal life has suddenly taken an interesting turn.

A couple of things that marked the weekend:

1) C2s story about this dude she went home with at varsity who, after whipping his kit off, revealed a pair of mustard-coloured tighdie-widies. With a hole in the front with a little run down the side. With a leering stare he said, “Hey baby, let's get it on.

I can't think of anything at this moment that would be more traumatising. I mean the Woolies 3-pack jock set is horrific enough as it is, but Autumn mustard? With a hole? I'd make a beeline for the door and never ever, ever, look back. As he went to the bathroom, she phoned a mate: “Pick me up now, please mustard coloured doondies, not coping.”

2) The car in front of us ran over a tiny kitten that was still alive. We stopped, and Ches had to break its neck to put it out of its misery. So actually, that was more traumatic than the vision of holey-mustard briefs.

3) Ches and I apparently did a little bit of our Hip Hop dance, but I can't remember. Video footage slightly-jogged the vague memory, in between Zulu dancing, shirtless men and a broken chandelier on the ceiling.

4) Stopped in Parys for breakfast on Saturday, and besides the shitloads of two-tone and people hooting in the streets because maybe Steve Hofmeyr had just released his latest album, it's a cute little town.

5) The smell of bovine by-product cannot be emphasised enough.

6) We made mojitos, which is especially fantastic, since that's what I'm going to be drinking in Buenos Aires in two weeks, and it's only fair I give my liver notice.

7) Reacquainted myself with the golf club that smacked me in the face during a party in first year. The guy who owns this particular golf club – called The Peas Driver – came on the weekend. This time the club didn't come into contact with my face, which is always nice.

The best thing was feeling yourself completely unwind. I didn't think too much about my book launch tomorrow (gasp nerves tomorrow), or work or anything.

Which is another reason why I love that Poen lives in the Free State.

Ooh.

OK so I went to my Christmas party last night, at Trabella in Illovo. What fun. With quite an unexpected ending, have butterflies in stomach.

I wore the lewd cap most of the time, the Heidi Santa hat didn't last lon, in case you were even slightly interested. Problem is the cap actually says 'FUCK YOU!' - it's been that long since I saw it - and not just 'FUCK.' Which is slightly more aggressive but what the hell.

During the latter half of the evening, Ches and I thought it would be fun to play the Gum Game, where everyone was spitting their gum into other people's hands and then chewing this gum and then passing it on.
Just casually all sharing each other's spit.

You know, good clean fun. Ended up dancing a little in the streets.

And then my mates decided that Sing Us A Song You're The Piano Man was an appropriate song to sing, because one of us bought a piano see – and we just sang that all night long at the tops of our voices.

Anyway. Ahem.
Lots of Jaeger, only got to bed at...not sure actually. Haven't slept at all, but am still smiling despite a headache.

Wow.
Thank God it's Friday.

PS:

So I went on a blind date last night.

With a very hot blonde bird.

Fuck yes.

See? I still have it. I've still got it going on. Despite, you know, having thrown my life and self into...work.

Maybe it didn't involve prolific foot nuzzling under the table, and this is perhaps because a) she has a boyfriend, and b) again, I really still am as straight as a cock-loving straight person, but we did meet at a Meat Market and proceed to talk about all sorts of things over big servings of medium-rare meat and a couple of vodkas.

I met The Blonde Blogshell last night. I promised her I'd be wearing red heels so she could recognise me, and she said her locks were messy, so that's how I'd recognise her. (Her locks weren't messy though. In case you were wondering.)

We chatted like old friends, and it was so wonderful to get to know a little bit about her outside of the blog realm. She has a very refreshing aspect to her; very down to earth, wears her heart on her sleeve just like me, and if I didn't have one breker of a Christmas party to attend tonight, I'd have ordered Jaegermeisters and ensured that me and my blonde female date shook our collective posteriors on a precarious surface.

So the theme for tonight's Christmas do is such: black with a red and/or crazy headpiece.

Not helluva sure why the general constituent involves the very festive colour that is black – I'm hanging with goths here - but my concern is that I have no idea what to wear on my head. My study cupboard is filled with dressing up clothes, I'm always prepared for whatever occasion, but I'm having trouble deciding.
My choices are:

1)The antler aliceband? (It's very 'XXXmas Kinky Karaoke 2007'and Office Party 2004 though)
2)The Santa hat with the Heidi plaits that chill on the side (Who designed this? And why?)
3)Beanie and skiing goggles?
4)Nurses cap (comes with nurses outfit)?
5)Trucker cap that has 'FUCK' embroidered across the front?

The others -nNot a chance against Number 5. The FUCK hat rocks my world. Bought this guy in the States. The super militant Go Red Or Be Dead Christmas types might find it slightly off-colour though, yet no one can deny that it is a great conversation piece.

I think I might have to go with the nurses cap during starters, the beanie & goggles combo during mains and the FUCK cap after the predictable 'ho ho ho's' start rolling off tongues because everyone is up to their tits in sherry.

Ches and I had the last hip hop class of the year last night. A group of us are going to Poen's farm in the Free State this weekend to chill in the mielie belt for some much needed rest and relaxation.

Maybe I will get my head around my book launch next weekend amongst a throng of Massey Ferguson tractors and the deceptive yet earthly-pleasant stench of bovine manure, and just how I'm going to quell my nerves. Speaking in front of people always scares the bejayzuz out of me.

Anyway. So we've perfected our hip hop routine, and plan to show about 15 of our closest friends this weekend, just what we have learnt over the last month.

I'm gonna wear cargo's and a tank top.

Ches is gonna wear high tops and a backwards trucker cap.

We will become Rihanna and Justine Trousersnake. After we're maybe suitably caned to the eyeballs and everyone else can bear to watch.

Personally, I think our dance routine will be just great, if I manage to do that turny thing properly. And with poise. Christ. Missing the poise. Must find poise. Must somehow find poise.

So our dance instructor is upping and moving to Australia, as her husband has been relocated. So, she, Ches and I, and another girl we've got to know well in our lessons – who Ches thinks looks like Denise Richards – we all had a drink or two together at Billy's after our final lesson with her.

Interesting bird, is our dancing instructor. She's lived everywhere. Buenos Aires, Rio, Sudan, Ghana, name it – she's bought furniture in the country, basically.

So she was giving me the lowdown on the highlife and where I need to take my sambaring ass when I'm in the South American cities.

She lived in the jungle. How cool is this Betty? They lived in the jungle where anacondas spawned, terrifying, dangerously venomous and fang-infested snakes kind of willy-nilly slithered everywhere, and spiders, and parrots just chilled in their back yard in Brazil.

I mean, she had to scythe her way through the back garden to get to her washing line.

Now, seriously – that's cool. That's taking yourself out of a comfort zone and throwing yourself into the depths of...lethal creature hell – and embracing it.

She said in Rio, the common phrase is “Do You Bang?” It doesn't mean in literal terms “Do you fornicate,” it means “How you doing.”
I'm going to be Banging that term home wherever I go. That's if that is the correct phrase. We did have one or two drinks last night, after I'd schvitzed out half my body weight while dancing non-stop.

I reckon I'll be fine throwing out terms like, “Bom Dia Lourenço Marques Nando's Espetada Obrigado Bartholomew Dias,” as an entire sentence like I know what I'm fucking talking about.

And in Argentina, “¿Valenthia Quesidilla Que, Manuel? Castenettes Burrito Tortilla El Gringo, Sangria?” you know, just string a few well known nouns together. Some men may even think I'm charfing in a barbaric fashion.

Or just show them a copy of the song I once composed. That should impress the fuck outta them.

Last night, I finally got a cabinet delivered to me that I ordered months ago from Doc. A beautiful piece of Indian somethingorother, with doors and everything.

Makes a difference from the industrial looking steel shelf it was sitting on.
Anyway after months of waiting, it arrived and it's looking beautiful. Furniture that would even stand the test of time, and has some element of taste to it.
Pity though the TV makes it look fuck off ugly.

See, my TV is twelve years old. It's one of those original vintage LGs that is gargantuan.
It's about 600 times thicker than the thickest flatscreen out there.

Originally bought this puppy in second year varsity, and besides the solid green stripe on the screen down the right hand side - which is only distracting when I have a hangover - for R200, it was a steal.

That cutting edge design of the mid-90s that didn't quite stand the test of time.

It's also sitting on top of my video machine that I refuse to get rid of, only because all my Twin Peaks movies are still on VCR.

So for someone who works in the tech industry, my lounge looks like my grandmother's, and not the gadget garage it should be.

No bovver, though. I got other fish to fry: overseas travel. (Oh and a mistakenly purchased piano.)

Was, however, idly watching Girls Of The Playboy Mansion on it last night. And yes, this reality show has scraped the lowest depths of depravity in light of modern day capitalist trash, but last night was especially worthy of mention.

Holly, Hef's main squeeza, reckons for his 82nd birthday, she's going to get a chocolate moulded out of her vagina.

While the other girls ordered more contemporary and perhaps more palatable moulds of their body parts, such as their noombies and buttcheeks, Holly had a dude brush silicone moulding paste over her frou frou, and then proceed to turn it into a large piece of poen-shaped chocolate, which she then presented to Hef over dinner with guests.

(One including Pamela Anderson, but that's neither here not there.)

So that was interesting. “I know. I'll give him a chocolate crotch for his birthday.”

Especially when she waltzed into the chocolatier and said, “Hi there how are you super thanks for asking. Could you make a mould from my vagina? It's Hef's favourite part of my body.”

Well it worked. Apparently his other two birds are no longer. They've moved out.

Not that I'd suggest you do this for your boyfriends or anything.

PS: A bit like the Christmas Wish List, you want to do something cool this Chrimbo? How about giving away the stuff you don't want, or even collect your own gifts for those who can't afford it? Visit Ronald's Christmas-Jozi Style page for more details.

I nearly paralysed myself on Friday night.

What a week. I buy a piano by accident, my car breaks down in the middle of a busy intersection, work is crazy insane, and then I nearly break my own back on Friday.

Held a little impromptu dinner party chez moi.
Four of us including Ches, where about 8 bottles were consumed and a lot of music was played. My other girl mate then put on Dirty Dancing, and we thought it a great idea that I just swan dive into her open arms. Like in the movie. She would be Patrick Swayze, and I'd be Baby, and she'd catch me no problems.

“I'll catch you, trust me.” After 8 bottles of wine between us, one could trust a legless hamster to catch me. As I leapt into her arms from a distance, I twisted mid-air and promptly changed direction and from five feet, came crashing down, resoundingly, directly onto my spine.

There was a large thud. And for about 0.02 seconds I lay there in a daze, and thought, "well this is fucken it." Then I could feel my toes and fingers, and luckily I only got one fuck off migraine as a result.

Then I put on 80s gear and we all stumbled to the Colony for jug of John Deere and restumbld back home to sleep at mine.

My rug was christened. But not by me. Some of my mates had a good time on my carpet. Savages.
I'm glad at least someone's enjoying it's soft, fibrotic softness.

Saturday I went to Whale's birthday party where we all ended up at this crusty but quaint little dive called the Corner House. Love a good dive hey.

They were playing – one man band Dick van Dyk style – cover versions of Monster Hits 2.

I think I may have found a new local.

Pity it's in North Riding/A million miles away.

We were dancing on tables and swinging from the rafters. Seriously. Someone was swinging from the rafters.
Even got a chance to catch up with 3RM, who is now living in the Poenda with Ant. (Or at last until she comes back to Jozi in December). He has a real job and everything. He's on the payroll, and it was so nice seeing him again after what seems like months.

When I saw the folks on Sunday this is what my stepdad had to say:

“Peas. You do realise that in Argentina, you're not going to get hit on with your old man around.”

And why not?

“People are going to think he's your sugar daddy boyfriend. Or...that he's your dad. Which he is. And they'll steer clear.”

Great.

“But I have a suggestion. Why don't you get a t-shirt made with an arrow pointing that says This Is My Father. But I'm Available.

In Spanish right?

“Yip. And one for our dad that says the same thing.”

What a fucken great idea, actually. It's kind of like the “I'm With Stupid” shirt, but not. Plus our team tour shirts could be a great icebreaker at samba drinking holes.

So I'm getting a shirt made that says: Éste es mi padre. Pero Estoy disponible.

Good one. Gotta love the Germans for their endless unwavering logic.