peas on toast

Back to the airport today, in lieu of my trip to London. (And hopefully a little bit of France while...in the area.)

I'll be gone for around 3 weeks. It's a long time to live out of a suitcase.

As much as I love travelling, and I live for the next trip, the one thing that starts to wear thin pretty quickly is the security process at each airport. Each is different, and below describes some of the worst and best scenarios I've faced in the past.

(I'm loving my lists lately, can you tell?)

Easiest airport
Vilankulos, Mozambique

It's a hut on the side of a short grassy stretch of dodgy-looking tarmac, that looks more like a driveway than a runway.

You walk in, flash your Saffa passport (which for once, is recognised as SADAC, and therefore no visa needed. This is big). Bags are deposited on the runway. You choose which is yours. If you're waiting for another plane, you can have a Laurentina at a table located about 10 metres from the plane.

Have had shit stolen here before, so it's imperative you find your stuff fast.

Any first world airport - not including the States
Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle, Dublin, etc.

Have picture taken. Stand in long security queues, while you take belt, jewellery, boots off, while at same time, whack your 50 ml bottles into a little plastic bag.

At Dublin airport you have to buy the plastic bag, for a euro. That's R11 for a plastic bag that they want.

Take PC out of bag, expose plumber's crack to rest of queue as you grapple with the yanking off of boots.

Prepare for inspection of 50ml bottles and possible lip glosses. If you've lost the memo and packed wine (read: Diemersfontein pinotage) in your bag, then prepare to hand over to security. If you've bought liquids at Duty Free (read: Limoncello from Rome), hand it over and accept the fact you've just wasted 100 euros.

If machine beeps when you walk under it, be prepared for full body rub down by a surly woman with a female 'tache.

On the other side, prepare to be asked by a Pakistani man in a turban why you're entering his British nation in a manner that makes you feel like you should be sent to the Nuaghty Corner, even though you don't know why.

First World, isolated case-airports
Auckland, New Zealand.

They're a little paranoid that their entire sheep population is going to get annihilated by disease. So if you're coming in from Africa, the beagles at the conveyor belt generally make a beeline for your bags.
I had an apple in there, and they freaked out.

Don't even think about taking biltong over for a mate, or anything food-related.

Third World Countries: admin and chaos
Buenos Aires, Mexico City, Nairobi.

Security may be slacker, but be prepared to have to fork out cash for the most ridiculous things, while fighting with hoards of angry people who don't know how to form a straight line, in a different language, while mass confusion and frustration occurs.

Mexico City: we lost the Brit's immigration form, he was supposedly meant to keep the whole trip. Nobody tells you this stuff, or if they did, it was in Spanish.
Have to pay 600 pesos penalty fee. (About R500).
Fight queues, pay more tax on other shit, stand in long queues and dream of First World efficiency.

Nairobi: also some funny form you have to fill out, while paying a tax fee. In Nigeria they have been known to take your passport and you have to pay to get it back. Bribery and corruption is a normal thing.

Buenos Aires: somehow ended up paying double airport tax. WTF. At $60 US each time, was a little annoyed. Long queues. You'll stand at immigration waiting for them to stamp your passport for hours.

Third World countries: where drug trafficking means death
Bangkok, Thailand

Even if you're aren't a cocaine mule, you're going to sweat when you leave Bangkok. You're going to check every pocket in your backpack in the event someone planted something in there. There are scary signs everywhere reminding you that if you're carrying anything illegal, you die. Or otherwise spend the rest of your living years in one of the world's more notorious prisons. They have people wondering around in plain clothes watching body language.

Second most difficult airports to get through
This may be surprising to you: The United States.

Now, granted I was last there in 2002, when the Twin Towers had just come down. It's become worse as the years and terrorism racks up, of course.

However, this is what happened to me when I was there:
Boots off, watch off.
Watch inspected, under suspicions that a bomb may be in it. (Denver airport)
Tweezers thrown in bin.
Backpack swabbed for bomb residue.
After x-ray machine, had to unlock all the pockets for inspection.
Interrogation of what I'm doing in the country, more questions of what type of work I'll be doing there in line with my J-1 student/working visa (JFK airport, New York).
General 'criminal until proven guilty' system until you clear through immigration.

Most flights out of Mexico fly through the States. Luckily ours didn't. However, at that stage you weren't allow to buy any liquids from Duty Free because of the Nigerian terrorist situ that just happened.

Most difficult airport
Tel Aviv, Israel

What I find strange is that entering Israel is pretty easy. South Africans don't need visas, although you do get a stamp in your passport which means you can't enter various Arab countries thereafter, until you get a new passport. Dubai included.

It's leaving though, that shit comes down. Perhaps it's because of terrorism pertaining to plane hi-jackings and bombs. I don't know, but this is how it works at Ben Gurion Airport:

Arrive 3.5 hours before your flight. Any time afterwards, you will miss your flight.
Have letter from work in hand, with special clearance reference number.
It'll probably be 3:00am in the morning.
Stand in a long snaking queue.

Have an interrogator ask questions to every person in the queue, one by one.
('Why did you come to Israel? What did you do here? Where do you work? What is your name?' These people supposedly look at your body language.)

They will come around again. And ask you the same questions. Again.
If you look slightly dodgy, you'll be taken to a room for further questioning. Cooperate. Or again, you will miss your flight.

Put all luggage, including checked-in suitcases through x-ray machine.
Stand in new queue.
Have security officers go through your bags with bomb scanners and gloves - all mandatory.
Worry that they'll find your kinky underwear, hold it up, and investigate.

Stand in new queue.
Go through another x-ray machine.
Run onto plane.

Moral of the story is: cooperate and don't carry bombs. Or objects that look like bombs. It's worth going through this crap to see a new place of course, but sometimes it's a long road getting there.

I'm pretty excited about getting to London tomorrow.

...well Cape Town has since turned into a tropical paradigm since I was last here. Have jetted down for a meeting today, and hell, is it not a scorcher.

Could not sleep last night at all. Crisis.

If I were allowed to move, to England that is, I’ve become particularly and astutely aware of what will terrify me and what I’d love about the place. If I get to go there, I want to be prepared; rose-coloured shades are pants.

I’m terrified at the prospect of being torn from a comfort zone, but also desperately yearning for the challenge of a new place.

Here’s my list. If I ever get there, it’ll be interesting to see if any of my predictions are right.
This said, I never said immigrating would be easy. Adapting takes months, if not years.

I’ve spent enough time on Blighty over the last two years to make estimated decisions on what to expect. I fly to London on Friday for two weeks again. For a lot of hard work.

Things Guaranteed To Piss Me Off At Some Time Or Another (In descending order of annoyance):

1) The darkness.

The cold, the grey, the rain = all irritating. But bearable. British Winters are notoriously shite. The fact that in winter it gets dark – not twilight dark, midnight inky black dark – at 2pm, is going to be rough to deal with.
In December I made a pub announcement in the office at 3pm because I thought it was 7pm. My colleagues there may think I’m a functioning alcoholic, but really, the truth is that I thought it was almost bed time. Fuck.

2) Tubes during rush hour.

Won’t be able to sing long loudly to myself like I do in my car; in my own bubble. People don’t look at each other on trains, nevermind talk. So singing out loud will be considered Freak O’ Nature. Sharing armpit space with sweaty chavs and/or bankers will take some adapting to. Also lugging my Sainsbury's groceries bags around, up stairs, escalators, platforms, standing with them.

3) Wind with rain.

The horizontal rain that hits you at 90 degrees in your face, and your brolly has turned inside out, and you’re far away from home and a hot shower. That might be a bit miserable.

4) Living with someone again.

I’ve got very used to my own space over the last 2 years. I come home and my little castle is as exactly as I left it. No rotting dishes, total control of the remote, walking around naked, my own toilet. This will take adapting to – because in London, you can’t afford to live on your own unless you’re farking coining it.

5) Dare I say it….Rugby jersey-wearing South Africans in London.

The types who braai in the rain, visit the Puzzle/Walkabout/White Horse/Slut & Legless and talk constantly about how great home is, while waving a flag about.

The Top 5 Things That I’d Love About London

1) It’s London.

One of the world’s great cities, with mounds of cultural and fun shit to do, amazing architecture, general grandness, high streets, The Queen. Red buses. Selfridges. Parks, pints, curries, cobbles.

2) The crisp air.

No seriously, for some reason, my skin glows in cold climates. The place is also prepared for cold climates. Indoor heating, 8000 types of coats to choose from at Top Shop, cozy pubs.

3) The feeling that I’m a small fish in a big pond.

I feel like I know everyone in Johannesburg. Not that it’s bad, but I wouldn’t mind starting a new chapter, finding some new interesting friends, being anonymous, and being normal. Normal in that at almost 30, I’m not married or expecting childbirth. In London it’s normal to be like that. Thank God.

4) The Brits.

Unless I’m attacked – verbally or otherwise – by a chav, I tend to find them fucking amusing. Chavs aside even, I love the Brits. Their humour, their cheery yet very dry and plain-talking approach to life, their eccentricities. Their lingo. I find many of them wildly eccentric, not to mention extremely funny.

5) Nothing is really far away.

On a general scale, it’s a small island. And Europe is a hop, skip jump away. Did I mention that I have a two year Schengen visa? And that I cried tears of joy when it was handed to me? It’s meant to BE. I can go to….Sweden. And, and, Estonia. Or ‘Hey guys, let’s go to…Latvia for the weekend.’ Generally, getting around is not a problem. What with all that fantastic public transport.

Things I Won’t Miss About Home

1) The expense and time I spend on weddings. Other people’s.

I’m a sucker for love, and I am honoured to be involved in their joy. In their commitment. I just don’t feel like I fit in with all the change going on around me; mainly because I don’t.

2) Taxis.

Hiace, Toyota brand of death. I don’t think I need to elaborate. Or else I’ll get road rage just typing this.

3) Scared every time a guy walks up to my car.

Similarly, beggars on every corner. Like everyone, I’m tired of being paranoidly aware, on edge and feeling guilty and shit every time I stop at a robot. Being scared of crime in general.

4) General incompetence.

This is generalised – but Home Affairs, people printing fake passports and therefore fucking up our chances to get visas overseas, that slow sort of approach and uncaring attitude in any service industry. That said, I have to expect it’s probably like this in all bureaucratic offices across the globe. Right?

5) Feeling bored with surroundings.

I am. I don’t even bother to explore or date anymore. Haven’t in years. Hugely unbalanced. I see it as work, the concept itself is exhausting. So taht's mostly what I do: work. That’s not really living, is it.

Things I Will Miss About Home

1) Sun and reasonable daylight hours.

See ‘Darkness’ in first London list. Will invest in a Vitamin D lamp like people in Seattle use, and possibly sleep under it. I fear seasonal depression.

2) My family and friends.

Of course I’ll miss them terribly. And hope I get to see them at least once a year.

3) Biltong.

Yes, even if there are Saffa shops there, I won’t make an out-of-the-way trip to go and buy biltong. Dad used to send me biltong when I lived in France. Maybe I’ll get him to send packages this time too.

4) The Rand/our cost of living versus London cost of living.

I’ll be spending half my salary on rent, for a place half the size of what I have now. And will have to share with someone else. I’ll miss the space we have here. Besides the rent, I’ll also be paying for council tax, indoor heating and public transport. It’s not cheap.

5) The friendliness of South Africans.

We are a very friendly, open nation, in general. I find we’re more rambunctious than Brits on the odd occasion. (I’m not including football fans after 8000 pints at a Man U/Arsenal match in this benchmark). Saffas are sunny people, at least in sunny countries.

Was watching – amidst a hangover so dire, it made donkey’s balls seem elevated - from a massive night on Friday, an apocalyptic documentary on The History Channel.

So there is stuff to watch on dsTV after all.

It was mindblowing. About what would happen when humans disappear.
Along a time line of 1 day to 10 000 years.

(Scientists say that on the 10 000 year mark, any traces of our existence would be gone. Save debris that have somehow been submerged below the rock or seabed, therefore fossilised and trapped in time).

Despite the doomsday soundtrack in the background, engineers, historians, and the likes predicted what would happen to some of the world’s biggest man-made structures, if we just disappeared. The computer graphics were somewhat terrifying.

I was glued. Glued.

Life After People doesn't show the actual apocalypse, but rather the natural disintegration of things in a rather Oh My Fuck manner.

Basically, although we hammer the Earth with our methane gas and bad bad eco ways, without the constant maintenance of our structures, and assuming the entire Earth didn’t disappear when we did (by way of meteor or the theories around 2012 being The End; supposing everything inanimate was still left.)

Funny enough, the Sistine Chapel ceiling was estimated to only fall/crumble/die after 500 years of no people. Was surprised by this.

Towers would be the first to go, for obvious reasons.

After 200 years, the Statue of Liberty’s arm would fall off, closely followed by her face. Embedding itself deep in the ocean sand, later fossilising.

Most buildings and roads would, after 5 years, be completely overgrown by wild vines and weeds; domestic animals would die after just 10 days, while wild animals would re-emerge into the cities.

Bridges would collapse after 50, and obviously cities that lie on a seaboard would disintegrate quicker – salt is the biggest natural corrosive.

Already, this has happened. In 1974, an island off Japan, in the Nagasaki precinct, lies completely skeletal, abandoned and it downright freaked me out. Coal stopped being mined here and everyone was evacuated. Leaving – 50 years after humans:
And Chernobyl, Ukraine, of course:

The ominous background track really left me concerned. And what for? We’d all be dead anyway.

Still: From Day 1 to 10 000 years ‘Tis a little cataclysmic…

Went round to my mates place last night for some dinner, and a bond with Brian.
Brian’s been a naughty boy. He’s made his sister pregnant. (Brian is my god dog, before you react).

Bless, he’s going to be a dad.

Took him home last night. He’s become quite camera shy when I took pictures of him (read: photo shoot), but fuck, he’s cute. I’m sorry, but just look at his liddle huge face:
He’s totally coming to work with me today.

Brian Time in between stress attacks.

...which somehow landed in my inbox. Opened it, and felt a little pukeworthy:

Could you watch me?

Hey, I'll keep this short. I'm a friend of a friend, you do know me. I'm a
girl with black hair, that's all I can tell you because I'm to embarassed.

I get off on touching myself on camera and people watching me. I've just
f*ngered myself on camera without showing me face and want you to watch me.

I'm wearing nothing but a pair of knee high socks, I put my fingers in my
mouth and then and slowly bring myself to a climax thinking about sending
you this email, and you watching me. My toy is actually a little too big
for me, it really makes me squeel in the middle

Please do not send the video to ANYONE else. It's just meant for you.

[link to cash download file]

It gives you the option to pay for it, or use a regular download. Use
regular, you don't need to pay for anything.

If you like it email me back and tell me, if you guess who I am PLEASE
don't say anything to my friends or family.

Heavy going. Since when did spam sound so intense?

There were tears, on Saturday afternoon, when the Ant stepped into her amaaaazing Victorian dress. In all the years I've known her, she's never looked more beautiful.

On the way down to Clarens, I drove down in a car full of female doctors. So, for those four hours, learnt a frightening amount about scary diseases. This kind of talk really taps into my hypochondriac morbid fascination with things that can kill me, and so after drilling them about AIDS, diseases that are airborne, syphilis; I am now terrified about getting heptatis.

A, B or C. I can't stop thinking about the Hep. Good times.

Albeit, my little Ant was getting hitched. And after we'd all quaffed a fair bit of champagne to remedy the nerves, Ant was ready to walk down the aisle.

Clarens (in the Free State), is quite the setting for a wedding. The sandstone mountains seem to just absorb and dispel this golden light, and the ceremony was based under weeping willow trees, in a forest dappled with sunlight. It was so secluded and romantic, I kept on sprouting tears, even trying not to cry as I walked down the aisle. She looked amazing, and it was difficult not to lose my shit altogether when looking at her.

Had an emergency stitch-up of my bridesmaid dress - it was sitting very very funny, so Ant and the other bridesmaid stitched me up at the back using a sewing kit. Geniuses, you could hardly tell the difference at all.

The reception was in a decked-out hall, with fairy lights and such and such, in a sandstone building at the back of the farmhouse venue.
A good party was had - jeepers, we all got shitfaced.

And something that's never happened to me before: I caught the bouquet.
Usually I try to step aside from such a tradition, mainly because women get psycho and tear each other's hair out to catch it, and I don't want to be a part of such a tussle. As it turns out, I wasn't half wrong.

I lifted my arm and the thing just landed square in my hand. Eyes as wide as saucers I just stared at it, all confused, and suddenly out of nowhere, a chick wrenched it from my hands, in an explosion of petals, trying to snatch it away. I just dropped it, deer in headlights, on the floor.

Wow. Hectic. Had to dance with the dude who caught the garter - he tried langarmming, but being the Anglo bitch I am, didn't really manage so well.

I lost my camera for about 2 hours, and frantically was lifting tables, searching through Granny's handbag, everything. Got very very bleak. But a mate ended up having it in his pocket the whole time, 'Oh Peas, here it is.' God, luckily.

Was a truly fun party. Lots of bouncing around to old classics. Woke up on Sunday for the wedding brunch feeling like Satan himself had planted a pipe bomb in my insides.

Was sick the rest of the day. Was a big night. Don't handle those so well anymore.

But Ant and Gilbie are hitched, and it truly was a spectacular weekend.

Have, in many ways, gone off humans completely over the last few months.

Humanity, in general, I think, is the root of my hibernation and wanting to flee for something more interesting and cultured at the moment. I’ve been in this awful ‘phase’ for almost a year now.

It’s really dragging on.

Generally, I’m just fed up with humanity at the minute. I’m only really enjoying a few prize specimens, and it made me think hard about the ‘If You Had A Dinner Party’ question.

The generic ‘who would you invite if you could invite anybody’ one.

Well. This is how it would be:

1) Bridget Jones.

Bridget is my favourite non-real person on the planet. Honestly, I think about Bridget on an almost-daily basis. Mostly just comparing our misfit lives, and reminding me to always have a sense of humour about it. I relate to Bridget in a very affable way. When she comes for dinner, (‘I am wearing. A carpet’), that’s what she’ll say. We’ll be instant best friends.

2) Richard Hammond.

He’s hot. I’m in love. He makes my heart sing. And I’m owed a meeting with him anyway. Surely Karma (Esq?) should be working on this?

3) The person I love.

The one I really love. He should definitely be there.

4) Marie D’Agniel D’assignet de Bourbon.

French Royal. Had head chopped off when she didn’t give the peasants cake. My great great grandmother.

That’s right, and I’ll say it until my face is as blue as the blood in my veins: I am French Royalty. Watered down. To the point where I can’t claim French citizenship. Damn my ancestors for exploring Africa then settling and procreating here to the detriment of our EU passports. Damn them.

5) The Universe.

If indeed he’s a tangible thing. I see the Universe as a male, for some ungodly – quite – reason. The Universe to me is nature-slash-Jesus and/or Buddha and/or God and/or guardian angels and/or whoever might be listening, rolled into one. We have things to discuss, the Universe and I. So he’d better bloody pitch up.

6) Marilyn Monroe.

She was great.

7) Sergey Brin and 8) Larry Page.

They practically created the Internet as far as I’m concerned. Or at least made it accessible to most.

9) Eddie Izzard.

So he can regale us with stories about flans, British camping sites and the French. Which might piss my royal ancestor off, but then that’s half the fun.

10) Nelson Mandela.

It’s become quite de rigueur to invite Madiba to fantasy dinner parties. Trendy more than anything, but the man is filled with insane iconism and history, and I have been fortunate to have met him. Twice.

The first time was when I was 16; it was Dad’s doing, he was involved in the Freedom of the Town memorial day with him. I started crying like a proper girl when he shook my hand, and back then I didn’t quite fully understand the impact this man had had on our personal history. Yet, he still had this thing about him that was overwhelmingly special. The second time was more frenzied, at a press conference a few years ago. So he has to come.

11)(In case someone can’t make it) Nikita Khrushchev.

He led the Cold War. Stalin is too evil to be invited to a dinner party, but Khrushchev, now there’s a communist whose brain I’d like to pick. I have a morbid fascination with Communism. My first novel (unpublished and hand written), was a decidedly Marxist tale. He’d be a slice; I mean what the fuck was he thinking when he ordered that the Berlin Wall be built? (For example?)

Right. I’m off this arvy to the Ant’s wedding in Clarens. I’m excited about being her bridesmaid, and more than anything, I’m excited for her.

Discovery of the century.

Was told about the concept of 'donk' last night. Donk is a very localised sub-culture, pertaining to the small, industrial city of Bolton, northern England.

It's sort of ravey up tempo music, comprising 3000 beats per second. 'It doesn't export well,' said my friend, 'Hence why you've never heard of it. Hence why most of Britain hasn't heard of it.'

Donk is too sophisticated for those in southern England, and by 'southern England', that means anything south of Manchester.

Wow.

It's farking hilarious, not to mention slightly scary. Donk culture and donkland can be seen in this unbelievable donkumentary:


You need to put a bangin' donk on it yeah.

Finding the microwave-TV appliance statue a little distracting, so as I do, I turned to Street View.

If Google Street View was a man, I’d marry it.

It’s arguably the most overwhelming, incredible technology on the planet. And it’s just getting better and better:
Herbeys, France

This is the tiny little village I lived in in France. Comprising a few houses, a boulangerie, and this little square. I used to sit on this fountain sometimes wondering how it came to be I was Maria Von Trapp. Looking after 7 kids in this tiny little piece of heaven.
Whistler, Vancouver, Canada
They’ve Street Viewed the Winter Olympic village. You can now ski down the pistes. Fucking incredible – check the little dude even has skis.
Northern Finland

They’ve done the Nordics. The Scandinavian northern expanse can be seen, if you’re planning a roadtrip in a Volvo, to see the Northern Lights. This is what it would look like in summer.
Look, it’s Sveeden. And that is someone’s Sveedish house, with Ikea furniture inside.
Climax, Michigan
Really.

Looking forward to seeing these gems, and these are real: (Did they smoke crack on the Mayflower?)

Ding Dong, Texas,
Dickey, North Carolina
Crappo, Maryland
Goofy Ridge, Illinois
Frog Suck, Wyoming
Bible Grove, Missouri
And perhaps the best: Tightsqueeze, Virginia.
Bible Grove, Missouri
Colorado City, Utah

Where Mormons thrive, subject of many a documentary. Can’t find any wandering the streets. Or anyone for that matter. Looks a little desolate. Maybe because people who come here get bashed over the head with a wooden crook/stack of Bibles/find themselves married to a guy with 53 wives.

Where I want to be right now:
Going there for a bit in March means much frenzied excitement.

My microwave is sitting on top of my television.

The plug point behind my fridge, which ensures my fridge is kept cold and my microwave cooks, has decided to fucking die. There might've been a forage of sparks, sythesized by a large explosion and gasps from my lesbian neighbours. The scene, however, is based on pure assumption and I can only speculate.

I am too much of a wuss to stick my fingers in the plug hole/change the cables in the event I fry myself.

So, the microwave, so that the cable can reach another plug point, is sitting on the TV. Classy.

And my fridge, well, that's why I ate everything cold out of it last night. Now it's just a big white ornament in my kitchen.

Who has the time to organise an electrician? Not I.

I actually had to cook something in the oven last night. Have you ever? I haven't used my oven in 6 months, and I had to actually serve my Woolies meal up onto a platter, and pre-heat and wait, and wait and wait - what a bloody bother. God, how housewives do it, I just dunno.

So if you're a mate of mine, and you're coming round for dinner anytime soon, just be awrned that my lounge looks like a redneck's back garden. But while you wait for your cottage pie to warm up, you can watch Keeping Up With The Kardashian's at very close range.

Threw Ant’s hen’s party on Saturday.

After weeks of carefully integrated hyper-organisation, it’s always good to see it all come together.

In a cataclysmic display of Ant dressed up as a tart, while having a lapdancing teacher gyrating on top her.

We dressed Ant up as a slutty nurse (she should’ve been a doctor, so this worked well), and had a lapdancer come and teach us how to, basically, have sex with a chair.

Which is fitting, as many of us** appreciate any tips in the inanimate object shagging department.

Knowing how to turn a chair on is a very useful skill to have. If, like me, you aren’t dating anyone [in this country.]

Started with a high tea, all billowy and country-like, complete with tiered cupcake trays, and cucumber sandwiches. Ant loves her tea, and besides her Nona – the Italian matriarch in the form of her grenadmother – wasn’t going to stick around for the kinky stuff. Or was she?

Nona hung around, also moving her hips, for the lapdancing session, which was a treat for the eyes, let me ya. Ant’s Italian aunt’s, cousins and grandmother were the feistiest of the lot. Proclaiming ‘Mama mia!’ – I swear to God – as they did so.

We played the obligatory bachelorette games, which involved a trolley load of sex shop consumables as prizes, most with batteries included.

Took a London cab to dinner at Fino’s and then headed to Tokyo Star to break an egg on the dancefloor. I don’t club anymore. This much was evident, in that I wore a sundress and head scarf to Tokyo Star, looking like I’d just stepped out from high tea, which I had.

Going to clubs in Joburg is something foreign to me these days. As I stepped in, murmuring ‘hello old life,’ I realised that I had missed it. Even.
Making shapes on a dance floor in inappropriate anti-scoring gear is helluva fun. If only I had the energy to go out dancing more often really.

Someone even slapped my bum. No kidding, seriously?

Either way Ant seemed to have a good day, so that’s good.
I’m preparing for a trip to London and France in March. To help my efforts to move. The work – back to the real world – doesn’t end.

** me and/or single ladies.

So in between not remembering what it’s like to sleep, and not remembering how it last felt not being strung out, I went after a work event yesterday for my third bridesmaid dress fitting.

The lady is very sweet, and rather religious judging from the crucifixes dotted about her doiley home, although the shuffling kind of reminds me of my old school housemistress.

Except about 1000% less draconian than her.

Either way, she’s sweet, pedantic and relatively harmless, chatters on. Each dressfitting takes a couple of hours, hectic, but our dresses are looking beautiful, and each design has come out well. We all pretty much designed our own dresses with the help of Ant, who’s been amazing in that the colours are awesome and she’s given us some freedom with our dresses.
And this lady has done a great job.

And yet, she did it again.

She bloody farted.

Seriously. The first time, because we change and pin in this rather hot room, there was suddenly this horrifically tangible and highly odiferous baff odour about us. Like a freight train. No noise, just pure lethal smell.
She carries on clucking away, while sticking pins on our straps and shuffling along, when it hits you like a frigging meat cleaver.

And it lingers. While she carries on like nothing happened. You almost wonder who did it, because she acts like nothing’s wrong, but it can only be her.

The second time – last night – I asked the other bridesmaid, ‘Dude. Is…..she farting? Seriously.’ The other bridesmaid duly confirmed, while holding her nose.

It’s insane. It’s actually freaking hilarious. If it weren’t for the honage. Minus that.

So that was a festive wedding.

It involved a bunch of British expats out from Singapore, as my mate was marrying one of ‘em.

Because it was about 38 degrees in the shade, with humidity thicker than the by product of a hippo, in addition to an open bar, that’s probably why the said poms were running about in their Russian reds just after dessert.

It was mayhem, probably the most festive weddings I’ve been to, like ever.

And not only because I was carrying a baby goat through a location, on beach sand, in patent red killer heels and a silver bubble dress at 5 in the morning.

(A local mate organised ‘lobola’ for the Brit marrying our mate. Hence the goat logistics, in my wedding attire, through the location from whence the cloven animals hailed.)

It replenished my soul this weekend. It was great to be in Zululand again after so many years, and the sugar cane is looking shweet. At least from the beautiful colonial lodging in which we stayed.

Think we even all skinny dipped at one stage in the pool, but cannot be hundred percent sure. The sweat was dripping Darryl. Love seeing the pictures in the aftermath – everyone has this really attractive oily sheen going on.

My mate got married in a bush clearing – literally a space was made for chairs and a bucket load of paper fans in the middle of the tropical scrub. One expected a hippo to come bursting through the din, or at the very least, a swinging gaboon viper.

The Brits had to wear morning suits – all very dapper and high brow, that is until they took them off to rumble in the bushes; dance about in their doondies. Hell it was festive – how bloody refreshing.

The bride went to bed the same time we did, at 5am. We all got shitfaced, completely bat-eyed fucked actually, and it was a glorious affair. Saw old friends from school by the dozen and partied like it was 1998. The festivities just carried on the following day.

It completely revived my soul – being out of Noburg, going to a beautiful part of the country, being with mates, sweating out half my body weight, carrying goats around and seeing my mate from Singapore of course, on her happiest day.

We also had a night out in St Lucia - God, when was the last time anybody did that?

Quali-ee. As one pom said.

I've got some sort of crazy stomach bug.

On the day where I'm flying to Durban, meeting mates, and all of us are stuffing ourselves into a Golf Chico and driving up to Zululand for a mate's wedding weekend.

Lest I forget that February humidity on the Natal coast is only navigateable with a meat cleaver, and I'm gonna need to stop at all the Shell Ultra Cities dotted amongst the sugar cane in order to take a ladylike yack.

In thirty five degree heat.

Awesome.

Albeit, am rather excited to get out of Joburg and hit some sugar cane farms with awesome friends and attend a beautiful colonial wedding. Haven't been to this neck of the woods since I was a lightie.

Found two grey hairs in my head this morning
Two new ones. On the other side. Where they don't normally grow. Yanked them out in the traffic and have taken a Denial Approach to the whole thing. It didn't really happen.

We did Knife Craft last night.
The Ant's wedding is fast approaching, so us bridesmaids have been given tasks. Luckily Ant made us drink a lot of merlot during, however cutting shapes with a craft knife is not one of my recognised talents.

What else can I get rid of this week.
I'm thinking either the defunct and useless Verimark stationary bicycle in my study, (everyone falls for buying at LEAST one peice of useless gym equipment in their lives. If it's not the fucking Stairmaster, you'll buy that electrode belt that vibrates your fat away from the comfort of your own couch while watching Kendra.) Or, maybe, my pots and pans. Haven't used them in 2 years, let's be honest.

Watched Grey’s last night sandwiched between a bunch of males. Not a bad way to spend a Monday night.

Noticed that the chit chat around the world’s most emo series, is slightly different amongst men.

While chicks will go, ‘Oh shame man,’ or just cry, guys will do this:

Dude 1: Bru, is that chick still munching the other’ chicks rug.

Dude 2: Ja bru.

Peas: Hey would you date your cousin if she looked like Angelina Jolie.

Dude 3: Ja bru. Why.

Peas: No apparently my mum says I have a hot cousin in Seychelles. This propelled me to a new low. Where the only way now can be up, or die.

Dude 3: If this oke gets a liver transplant he’ll be right as rain.

Dude 2: Ja he’ll be hundreds.

Dude 3: Ja good to go.

Dude 1: If that guys squeezes his balls he’ll get a hard on.

Peas: Guys I also have a family member that lives in Australia that sells Pool Gobblers. He’s an agent. Am I living in The Castle.

Dude 2: Check there’s an ad on for Pool Gobblers right there. Is it the same as a Kreepy Krauly?

Peas: Realised have researched my family history to the point where it becomes ugly. I should’ve done the French Royalty side.

Dude 1: The oke just pegged.

All I can really do right now is wait and see whether they make changes to the Highly Skilled visa.

That may happen in April.

I can’t sit around anymore waiting, in this depressed cocoon of hell, so instead I’m doing this:

Getting rid of all my stuff.

Why?

1) If they make the changes, I want to be able to move quickly. All this shit is weighing me down. If I haven’t worn it/looked at it/used it for 6 months, it’s going.
2) It’s working towards the move. It’s pre-empting the universe will help me sort this all out.
3) It’s therapeutic. Spring cleaning and throwing out material possessions will make me feel better.
4) It’s streamlining my life.

I can’t live like I’ve been living lately, and I think if I organise everything around me, that’s a start.

Scrubbed my house from top to bottom. Maybe it’s the Mr Muscle fumes, or maybe it’s just turning my house into a clinic, I don’t know, but it’s better than lying on my couch feeling sorry for myself while reading books on how to live in London.

I got rid of - wait for it – fifty pairs of shoes yesterday.
My mum’s delivering them to charity for me. They are shoes in my spare cupboard that I haven’t used in ages. I might’ve had a shoe addiction problem, yes, definitely, but now with only 25 pairs left, now I’m almost normal.

The rest I’m leaving to fate (if there’s such a thing), to fall into place.

Of Sax Appeal Rag magazine if you live in Cape Town.

Why?
1) Sponsor the students. They need drinking money.
2) I am in it this year - I wrote my bit for it, as a proud ex-UCT alumnus.
3) It's for a good cause, proceeds go to charity.
4) It's twenty bucks. Seriously.

Am off to give a talk about my book this afternoon. Haven't prepared. Better have aglass of wine. It's also for charity - Animals In Distress.

At least it's keeping me busy while I claw myself out of this dark hole.

It is with a heavy heart from whence I write.

The full gravity of the situation, has, 24 hours later, begun to sink its gnashers into my hypothalamus. Which, I think, is where humans process emotion. Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, because I don’t give a fuck either way.

Peas, the tragic and defeated heroine, throws, with lacklustre, an electrical appliance into the bath tub with her in reckless abandon. To the accompaniment of a clutch of violins.

The appliance would be a Defy. FYI. As it rhymes with deny. Which is coincidentally the word that defines my life story right now.

Let me explain. I won’t harp on, as it’s a sore topic. This weekend was meant to be my silver lining. Amongst my Departue Lounge living. I feel like Tom Hanks in the fucking Terminal right now.

Albeit.

I prioiritised family peace for Richard Hammond. I blew Hammond off. Again, never thought I’d say that sentence in my life, as I dangle the ghd dangerously above the bath, but there you have it.

I had family concerns, and couldn’t meet Hammond. I was meant to meet him after the show, he couldn’t make it, and then we reorganised for the next day when I couldn’t make it.

Am I a martyr? No, I am a solutions architect. I suggested to a mate that he dress up as Richard Hammond for a party, so then I can officially say I have met him.

But since he has met Hammond he said : ‘No I can’t go as someone I already know.’

Good one. Even if I do let the cord go, to a cataclysm of sparks and lavender bath bomb shrapnel.

(In turn, and as a true example of fatal comebacks, I suggested to my mate that he looks exactly like Bryan Adams. Was your favourite summer in 1969? Is your favourite name Ryan with a b in front of it? Do you know not what you do and do you want forgiveness? What age do you want to be until you die? Do love Canadian power ballads from the 90s?)

I was going to write Hammond a letter pretending he did meet me, as if I really was at the Top Gear post-production party at Sapphire in Camps Bay. [Getting an invite was a good shout I suppose]:

Dear Richard

So great to take body shots from your belly button last night. You were a such a card.

Then thought better of it, in case he was drinking Vitamin Water the whole night.

So, might as well write the real deal:

Richard my sweet,

I put on my finest red heels, a skirt, eyeliner, I peacocked myself up a storm. I outpeacocked everyone, save the bird in the shirt with ‘I Love Hammond’ on it, and when you said to the audience she was your favourite,’ I was insane with jealousy.

When you entered the Cage Of Death stunt, surrounded by maniacking French motorbike drivers with a thirst for blood, I didn’t want to look in case you [almost] died again.

The fact that I saw your physical self about, er, 100 metres away from a dizzy height, was, in itself an orgasmic experience. You are really a yummy yummy Brit. And I can’t believe the opportunity to meet you is lost.

Maybe after my immigration court battle, if all goes well, I’ll bump into you grabbing a coffee off Holland Park, with a newspaper stuffed under your fragrant armpit, and I’ll resist the urge to pounce on you like a fat kid on a tray of petit fours, but instead look so beautiful your eyes will start watering. We can talk about the weather like it’s a surprise that it’s raining, and the millions of ways one can get to Shepton Mallet from Church Stretton, really, I won’t mind.

Or maybe even I’ll invite you over for a pot of Earl, and you can advise me on the pitfalls of buying a 1960 Fiat 500 from Italy and driving it back up to England with my boyfriend. I am told I won’t pay road tax for such a vehicle in London, which has to be a bonus.

Stay amazing. I will try not to cry in the meantime.

If you’d like me to run your official fan club site, hi if you’re hiring.

Peas

Xxxxx

PS: I was Google Imaging your bad self to find a picture of you to whack up here. But got too depressed, so laughed it off.

PPS: I’m listening to Twin Peaks as I write this. It’s a catharctic thing. Not especially healthy, and it does remind me of pine trees, but it seems appropriate, given my mood.

PPPS: My horoscope in the latest Elle says I’m about to come into some money. That’s all very nice – to pay fees and such – but really all I want is a visa. So if you’re a Virgo [not you Hammond. You’re a Sagittarius.], but other Virgos, enjoy the splurge.