peas on toast

I fucking jinxed myself.

I have 'flu. My skin is still in tact, but my face feels like it's falling off.

Burning candle at both ends, big nights, and Blatic temperatures. Plus grief and stress.
Standing in bus shelters when it's -8 outside, flitting between hospital and the office to see my aunt and hold her hand.

The excitement of knowing that this time next week I'll be in South Africa. Then immediately jaded by the concept that I'll need to say goodbye to my aunt. Forever.

Few weeks have been so bittersweet.

And flu-riddled. Again.

It's amazing what a sprightly train driver can do for a journey.

There I was, last train home after visiting my aunt in hospital, followed by more drinking in Belgravia with my European colleagues, (posh gin and tonics. With grapefruit slices in them, in case you're wondering).

Not completely shitfaced this time, more Sensible Drunk. (Which is kind of right on target for the sweet spot. Drunk but not stupid. This is what you should aim for at 31.)For the first time this week, I actually got it right.

Anyway two things happened, worthy of description.

The first was mortifying. The second was just funny.

The Europeans are over for a conference this week, and so mass binge drinking ensued. As I've become known as the bitch who sings Usher's Love In This Club and this unfortunate infamy is now turning into tradition, I eventually took up the offer of the mic (again, was Sensible Drunk, so I [uncharacteristically] needed a lot of coercion).

So, office karaoke. Not a good springboard for one's career, sure. Except if you're singing in a whole group, everyone's festive - from the MD down to the trainee assistant - everyone's voices blend together and it's all a bit of comaraderie and fun.

Then there's what happened to me. I was singing away in the group, alongside She Who Loves Tweed, giving it some real horns. You know, really accentuating the magical words, I wanna make love in dis club..in dis club,, while putting on my best RnB gangsta voice for prize lines like, I wanna bag you like some groceries...on the floor, on the couch...on the table...I'm watcha you want, whatcha need....

I was singing into this yellow microphone, Tweedy next to me was singing into a red one.

After the song was finished, high fived and started strolling to the bar.

When, "Dude. Do you realise that your voice was coming through the rest of the building."

Peas: No, what are you talking about?

Group of people: "Dude. That microphone you were signing on? Is tuned so that your voice gets relayed to speakers beyond this room. So down there, reception area, the meeting rooms..."

Peas: I don't think I quite understand. My voice, singing by itself? Across the entire building? [squeaking]...while singing about shagging in a club?

Group: Yup. Your lines making love song, interrupted an important conversation all the exces were having down there.

Peas:...And no-one else's were heard?! Could they hear the music or just my voice?!

Group: Just your voice.

So yeah. That was fucking mortifying.

Had a drown my embarrassment somewhat, and then headed home on the last train, where I think the train driver was drunk.

Luckily, rails force the wheels to literally stay on track, but it was his awesome approach to the announcements that I loved. And he was very posh.

"Lllllllllladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard my train! Hurry up and get inside, stop jamming up the platform. Get inside and come with me to....East Croydon! Via....Norbury!"

He kept going throughout the duration of my journey:

"Llllladies and gentlemen! We are approaching...Battersea Park! Home to the dogs and cats home and ....Battersea Park! If you get off, mind the platform. Or don't Because I don't care!"

"Lllllladies and gentlemen! Let's get going and get to East Croydon! Stop scooting, or is that skating? On the platform! It's unsightly and dangerous! But mostly unsightly!"


When I got out, I went to his window and gave him a thumbs up. He looked like he was 18. So clearly practicing for his career in the West End.

Now to deal with Bridget Jones Karaoke Fuck Upgate.

"Mommy" being Aunty Peas..

Dude.

I haven't really been drunk drunk - drunk like I was 25 - since New Year's eve. And even then, I wasn't seeing double and I do vaguely remember how we got home.

Friday changed that. There comes a point, where your workload and propensity for tolerance start to form their own Pythagoras.

I'd draw the graph, but I can't be fucked.
It's a triangle, based on axes x and y, and they invariably meet.

Getting to grips with how sick my aunt is at the moment, and how quickly she's suddenly turned, coupled with the thoughts around what happens next, and visits to the hospital every other day, is all very devastating to me and the rest of the family.

If there's one window of opportunity to block out these thoughts - even for a few hours - as well as thoughts around how I'll get all my work done before going to South Africa - I'll take it.

So I went out with the team on Friday. Devoured a bottle of white white with She Who Loves Tweed, and then continued to consume a string of gin and tonics at a place called "The Sapphire Lounge," which had a bar counter stickier than the tip of Russell Brand's dick.

It was superb. To be so thoroughly shitfaced, that I don't remember which train (or was it even a train?) took me home, or how I got from the station to the front door.

I don't really get drunk these days. Caveat, I don't really get drunk-drunk these days. 'These days' being the last 6 months or so. Unless the situation really calls for it, most of the time I aim for the sweet spot.

The sweet spot is that point between three glasses of champagne and four. You're teetering, but you know the next glass will make you want a cigarette, and you know that the fourth glass is the fine line between a hangover and just Monday morning.

It's part of being 31. Being strategic about who you get drunk with, and how you get drunk.

Anyway, so on Friday I got drunk. It was absolutely fucking glorious. I couldn't feel my fingers I absolutely loved fucking everyone.

I made a new best gay friend. (This happens from time to time. I'm very 'gay fickle.')

The Brit luckily - and strategically - managed to merge his evening nicely so that we collided on hangover.

And spent the whole of Saturday - from start to fucking finish - lying in bed, necking paracetamol (and each other). The entire day was dedicated to Chez Duvet. Rendered useless, thanks to white wine hangover. (I'm a fuckstick for choosing such a stupid alcohol.)

Sunday was dedicated to my aunt. This is all very hard.

Henri, the toff who snaps people wearing red pants.

There's this dude - Sir Henri de Pantalon Rouge - who runs a blog solely dedicated to red trouser action.
So impressed and tickled am I, I found him elsewhere too.

Now I have a pair of red pants and a pair of red tights. Apparently they're not interchangeable, and the red tights do not hold as much gravitas as the pants.

But Red Trouser Finding Machine Man - Henri Pants - did snap this. With a warning to brace yourself.

Think it's fair to say:
1) I won't be wearing my red tights ever again, in fear that I might look even 1% like this
2) This woman has to be from the Ukraine. Right?

She Who Also Loves Tweed reckons they're red jeggings. I reckon her name is Olga from Lviv, wearing the Sergey 3000s.

But my red jeans? The most amazeballs piece of attire I've ever owned. This year.

-------------

Welsh people with British-like tea instructions (Is Wales a real country?)

Welsh colleague: "It's your turn to mek a brew."

Peas: Fine. How do you take your tea?

Welsh: "Rye-te. It must be the cull-er of a tea bis-kitt. Lyk-e when you come off a tan-ning bed. Tan in cull-er.

Peas: So lots of milk?

Welsh: Nor. Well yes, but nor.

Peas: Dude.

Welsh: And don't put the milk in be-forr the tea bag. It clogs up the horles.

Peas: I always put the milk in before the tea bag.

Welsh: Why is it that ornly peep-ul from the Yoo Keh can mek tea? It's such a sim-ple exer-cyze.

Peas: Dude it still brews and blends at the end of the day.

Welsh: Nor. Yer me out. Bag first, milk sec-ond. Cull-er of a tea bis-kitt.

Peas: Yer me? You mean hear me out right?

Welsh: Nor. Yer me out.


Apparently I can't make tea. Chaos and dis-acceptance prevails.

------------------
Male advice on hair - voluntarily given

The Quiet American: Dude. Isn't time to cut your hair?

Peas: And when would I have the time to do that?

[pause]

Hang on, what?

Quiet American: I'm merely saying that it might be time. You know, to try something new.

Peas: I don't 'do' new hair. Are you suggesting that it's crap? And I look like a raving Socialist?

Quiet American: No. I am just suggesting that you could try something maybe a little like this.

Peas: Eva Longoria? You ralise she has a stylist that travels with her everywhere and does all that shit for her, right?

Quiet American: It's more the layering.

Peas: Layering?

Quiet American: Yeah.

Peas: Right OK. You know you don't have hair right.

Quiet American: Yeah. but once someone told me to grow a beard. And I laughed in the face of facial hair for 6 months. Then I grew a beard and it changed my life.

Peas: Fair enough.

I've booked the appointment.

I may be wearing red tights, but that doesn't mean I'm not serious about being serious.

It's about two weeks until I get to South Africa. Nerves and anxiety have been replaced - refreshingly - with pure, unadulterated excitement.

I don't really care if shit has changed or if shit hasn't - I'll be seeing mates, family and I'll be reintroducing my skin to an old friend called Sun.
I'll be celebrating Poen's wedding, and showing the Brit around new places.

I can't control what it's going to be like, I can only go home with an open mind.

It's just getting there without drowning in work before I do go.

While I'm all excited and happy for a holiday, I have a fuckload to do before I go. My calendar is filled with shit I have to finish at work, or stuff I have to handover while I'm away.
I have launches I need to rocket into space while away and when I'm back.

Shit has never been so chaotic and flat out. All in preparation for my trip away.

Being away for three weeks, is a lifetime, not a holiday. Three weeks without checking mail or taking calls from journalists? Now that's what I'm scared of. The length of time involved and whether the world will fall apart while I frollick along the Garden Route blissfully unaware of what is going down in London town.

But shit never really falls apart, the world continues to spin when you're away, someone has to step up in your absence and they always do.

My aunt has also taken a turn for the worse. My aunt has been battling with the Big Horrible C for a while now, but it's become crucial over the last year or so. And especially crucial now. I am her only family relative here, and I fear for her while I am away. So besides focusing on work, my mind is definitely on my aunt at the moment.

There's a lot to get through over the next two weeks. And it's emotional.

So Zurich was nice.

I mean, it's your classic banking city. I did prefer the French side of Switzerland. I used to love going to Geneva when I lived in France. It was a a more dramatic setting, with Mont Blanc rising out of the Alps in the background.

But Zurich isn't exactly ugly. It's just a little more random. And Swiss and straight-laced as to be expected.

It was fucking freezing, so the Brit and I didn't climb any mountains, but instead did chilled out stuff like amble the through the Old town (all European cities have an Old Town. So even if there's absolutely nothing to do, there's always an Old Town), eat a lot of cheese and get a couple of massages and do some thermal bathing.

Dude. Cheese and bathing? Perfect weekend.

The best was this thermal spa we found near the Brit's hotel. It's an old brewery-turned thermal spa, with a rooftop open air bubbling pool on the roof, with 360 degree views of the city.

The city is surrounded by mountains, and has a few spires poking out here and there (that's on thing England misses. Spires motherfucker), so the views weren't shabs at all.

You'd poke a toe out and because it was -1 outside, you'd immediately freeze, so as long as you kept most of your protrusions in the water you'd be fine.

Inside, people were walking around naked. You know, how people of Germanic nature tend to do. Jam out with their clams out. They won't jump a traffic light, but they'll walk around naked in public spaces.

Ate a fair bit of Lindt.

Ate my boyweight (before WeightWatchers) in cheese. A Swiss fondue consists of two things:
1) A pot of bubbling raclette cheese
2) An entire loaf of bread, cut up into saures for dipping

I used to be an extreme cheese eater. I ate cheese like I took breaths. We're talking sizeable quantities here.

Then cancer started running amok in my father's side of the family, I got diagnosed with endometriosis, and diary in general became the enemy and now don't eat any.

No milk, no yoghurt, no cream and [it's hard to even write this] no cheese.

Mostly. Life would be a prison sentence if I couldn't have cheese at least sometimes.
Well. The Brit and I shared an entire cooking pot full of cheese. And managed not to die, but it was hard. It was hardcore.

No cheese to a kilo of it.

How do the Swiss do it? Like, regularly? Cheese and bread, like twice a week?
It's extreme cheese eating, and they're not crazily obese either.

Anyway, that aside Zurich was great. The Brit gets home tonight. Yayballs.

So. Not a normal Friday.

1) I'm going to the Royal household
2) [Then] I'm going to Switzerland

Best Friday ever?

I'm going to Buckingham Palace. Not for the changing of the guard or to wave a flag about. I'm going inside.

It's for work. It's days like these I really do love my job, even if it does take up 90% of my life.

I'm wearing a Kate Middleton-esque Zara dress (Cream. For virginity. Natch). And my signet ring on my pinkie finger to demonstrate...good breeding.

Mainly so that they know I am with the general palace vibe.

Oh my God, I'm actually nervous. I'm not meeting HRH or anyone like that, but I am nervous.

Then afterwards, I'm flying to Zurich. The Brit is there for work, and am going to meet him for the weekend. I have been to the French side of Switzerland, but never the German.

Besides banks and suits, I'm expecting snow and good food. And trains that run on time. And chocolate.

Eidelweiss (and er, how do you do?)

Better go check to see if there's anything in my teeth before heading to the palace.
Gak!

PS: Is this really happening to me?

So, I'm bath-obsessed. Allow me the indulgence of a long post to geek out on this.

I usually write about having a bath at least once every two years, because some people just don't understand bath people.

Bath people are those who don't shower, they bath. They feel lost and incomplete if they don't have a bath at least once a day. Having a bath is £100-worth of therapy for them. They think about it hours before they actually do it, to the point of visceral excitement. Maybe some people get excited about having a shower, but I haven't met those people yet. Bath people are willing to spend large amounts of cold cash on the products and concoctions that go into their bath.

Packaging is very important for a bath snob. I pay for the packaging. Blatantly. It needs to look good on my bath shelf, bitch.

Bath people know that having a bath is more than getting clean.
Bath people know that having a bath means cooking up a recipe of essential oils, bath bombs, candles and music, and therein, watch all your days' troubles disappear into the steam.
It's time by yourself. It's the warm enveloping nature of warm water. It's fucking wonderful, that's what it is.

And most of the world doesn't bother to, have access to, or want to bath. Which is pretty sad. They have no idea how great the simple pleasure of lying horizontal in a tub full of hot, scented water actually is.

Having a bath is a fucking necessity for me. Especially when it's cold and dark outside. I won't rent or buy a house without a bath, because to me, that's like renting a house without a front door.

As a veteran member of the Bath Club, I am very particular with my bath. I have a cabinet dedicated to shit to throw in my bath. This country is filled with shops that sell amazing bath products, and I'm a willing client at most of them.

Every night is different, depending on my mood, and what I feel like.
But these are the essential essentials I always have:

Lush

The Brit is very good at bringing me home a bath bomb or creamy massage bar from Lush. It has the same effect as flowers.
You can crumble some of the products into the bath bit by bit, so it lasts ages. And always smells ridiculously good.

I love their creamy bars, especially after a good scrub.

Neal's Yard
I use their shampoo and conditioner, orange body wash, rose body scrub and their essential oils. I love Neal's Yrad. It's all natural and organic. Packaging is great, and always smells incredible.

No real bath addict would be seen without something from The Body Shop in their bathrooms. That would just be undignified.
My favourite bath products from them are their ginger shampoo, Vitamin C face spray for when you're finished, strawberry shower gel.

Then there's the unbridled territory. The luxury-end stuff that many fear to tread.
The products from individual stores that are usually wrapped in crepe paper with little bows.
My shop is on Northcote Road, a vintagey bath store run by an elderly lady, with products such as bath salts infused with Moroccan Rose and Honey, creamy honey bath oil.
I don't even know the name of this place.
But it sells some pretty sick bath shit. That kind of looks like this:

Dude. It's like the best stuff ever. I just wish I can remember what it is.

So I'll be sanctimonious and keep it to myself for now.

Aromatherapy oils


Dude. A few drops of these bad boys is meant to, like, change your life and relax your muscles.
Fuck it, even if they don't, whatever.

I put Epsom Salts - straight - into the bath with the essential oils. I like to think of it as a 'cocktail' of relaxation. Epsom Salts are meant to relax muscle tissues, so after a particularly arduous day, I'll make myself a bath cocktail using those ingredients.

Epsom Salts don't look very nice. I have to hide this bottle at the back of the cupboard. Someone up at Epsom Salts marketing could make a fortune if they made Epsom Salts look luxurious.

Burt's Bess
Totally amazeballs dude. Smells kind of like wood varnish, but then it's all natural and it makes you think it really does work. Comes in a nice tin with an old dude - Burt? - on the front too.

Posh candles

I always switch off all my lights and set ablaze a string of scented tea light candles (usually rose or vanilla) or a Yankee candle in the bath room.

Then make sure I can hear the Top 50 Love Ballads of All Time on MTV from the lounge.
Or dirty gangsta hip hop when I'm feeling bolshy.

This post wasn't meant to be a sales pitch for bath products. And oh my God look at the time.
I'm just saying, Fanatical Shower People, you're missing out on a whole hobby here.

I'm back at my desk.

I'm on the pills, and there's a little party going on in my head, but am back at work.

It's good not to be horizontal. And have come up with a few theories in my delirious, deskbound state.

"Gym" is for Socialists and Satanics.
It's in inverted commas, because I believes it belongs in them. I'm sick of January, and I am sick of the word gym. They go hand-in-hand, so frankly I can't wait until everyone breaks their new Year's resolutions. It's such a ghastly thing, is the gym.

My New Year's resolutions. Speaking of
I still don't have any. But now that I have had plenty of time to think, and dribble, on myself, mostly, I have a few hard and fast ideas for 2012.

1) Buy an Audi
2) Go to Ukraine
3) Practice being nice, even if it's all a lie

On the Audi
This isn't a decision I have made in haste. I have wanted an Audi A3 since 2003. It's the turbo coupled with the fact that it has two doors and looks aesthetically pleasing, that I always said I'd own one once in my life. If I am to have babies one day, best I buy the fast, sexy car now before I have to drive a fucking Volvo.
My friends are having babies; I am having a quarter-and a half-life crisis. So the time and temperament is right for a German sports car.

Besides, the Brit and I will share it.

Having a car is independence. I think about driving everyday. In London you can survive quite happily without one, for years on end. The trouble is I don't want to survive, I want to drive.

Even if it means I pay congestion charges, can only drive it on weekends, have to change my driver's license.

It's time for less "where is the fucking bus, my Saturday is a-wastin'," and more "Vorsprung durch Technik," as far as I'm concerned.

It's going to have a mahoosive sound system. And we shall drive to France in it.

I'm still in pain
Did I mention the pills?

Holy shit. I'm going to South Africa in three weeks.
Three weeks! Jesus, how will I ever get the workload I'm carrying done before then?
I have four launches to organise.

I have a [classily non-orange] fake tan to get.

The one thing we have done, the Brit and I, is get our itinerary together for our road trip. We're hiring a Yaris and driving all over the Western Cape in it.

I saw two movies lately worthy of praise
Limitless - about a dude who pops a black market pill that raises his IQ/accesses his entire brain at once. Bradley Cooper, Robert de Niro. Gripping and fantastic.

The Iron Lady - I love Margaret Thatcher more than ever. To the point where the Brit has advised me to pipe down in front on Northerners. Inspiring and amazing, with a love story blockbusted in.

Both come highly recommended.

The frustration continues. While I can kind of scupper around, it's difficult to actually move.

But I'm getting somewhere today. The pain is subsiding, as is the swelling, and also not bursting into tears all the time, which is great.

The things I remember most from this entire ordeal is this:

Asking the anaesthetist what happens when I go to sleep
...and her reaction to my question. It's like no-one's ever bothered to ask?
Peas: So apparently you put a pipe down my throat.

Anaethetist: Er...yes, why? [completely taken aback]

Peas: Well what happens?

Anaethetist: We put this down your throat, alongside a [box thingie] and this helps you breathe, as you'll be on a ventilator. I'll need to paralyse you, as this operation needs your reflexes to be completed paralysed. So we'll need to make you breathe through a machine.

Peas: Jesus H. Christ. Somebody get me a tranquiliser.

Anaethetist: See?

The gas
I got the gas when I had my wisdom teeth taken out when I was 15. I asked for gas again this time, because if you can avoid getting a needle stuck into you, then fair play.

You take a few breaths, and this wonderful really relaxing high hits you for about 4 glorious seconds. I remember holding the gas mask to my face and saying, "That's better," when it started to work. If only you could float on the lights like I did for 4.2 seconds.

Then complete blackness, literally out of nowhere, boom. I remember nothing more.

Falling in and out of sleep in mid-sentence, all day long
"My Brit, You're here, can I...zzzzzzzzz."

"I last had a pee when...zzzzzz"

"Hi. Sorry I was saying about my pee. I last peed....zzzzz"

"Hi. Back in the room. I need to pee....wait....zzz."

I'm scared to hear what's next. Drugs involving putting me into a "pre-menopausal" state have been tossed around. And I've blanched at the thought and said no.

But perhaps need to do research. And find out why.
Exhausted.

It must be said, my Brit has been an absolute Godsend. How I managed to get so lucky, I dunno. But he has been absolutely amazing. Bringing me all the right stuff when I need it, including the really important items like the latest copy of Hello and high doses of codeine.
He's been doting and incredible.
I don't know what I would've done without him.

I don't know if I'm coming or going, but I can tell you this:
I am in a lot of pain, I'm drooling and I am wearing a ginormous set of paper pants.

I have three cuts over my stomach, and I can't walk.

The diagnosis isn't great. I have 'severe' endometriosis and it was a difficult operation, as it was found in some really difficult areas, like on my kidneys (!) and bladder.

I didn't think it would be severe. But it does at least answer for the crazy pain I experience every month.

The good news is that my tubes aren't full of it, so I will be able to have babies.
The bad news is that there's still work to be done. It's not over.

I woke up from my delirium yesterday and the first thing I asked, apparently, was "CAN I HAVE KIDS?"

Oh dear.

Everyone has been very supportive. Just haven't heard anything from my parents. Which is kind of hurtful, but in some ways to be expected. Besides they have more important things to deal with like areoplanes and admin.

My out of office. The whole "I'm away, don;t email me, email my colleague" thing is really old and stupid. People think you're lying on a beach sipping diaquiris. When in fact you're being cut open.

With so much work going on, and deadlines, and other shit, me being erstwhile is not helluva convenient. And so I need them to know that I'm not in fucking Aruba, I'm on the operating table.

So. Ahem. Which?

Hi. I am unable to respond to your email right now, as I am literally unconscious. Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias.

A bit honest?

Hi. I am totally offline. Medical procedure. Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias

Not enough explanation. Will still think I'm not in a hospital.

OOO: Sick leave. I am undergoing something.Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias.

Then they'll think it's a cold.

OK OK. Hi. I am in the hands of the medical community today, and won't be online. I'll respond to your mail on Thursday. Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias.

That's fine right.

Adios. I'm scared. The Brit has landed. He's back from Sveeden. Thank fuck for small mercies.

Just looking at this swatch makes me feel excited. And in a weird way, not a 'oh yay I'm so excited' way.

I'm having minor surgery on Wednesday.

Minor is major when you're an insatiable neurotic.

Jittery and on edge, the Brit's plane better not be delayed from Stockholm, oh my God I can only think of scalpels and wind pipes. (Apparently they stuff tubes down your throat so you can breathe properly?)

The less I know the better. But I'll find out anyway because I'm a cat and curiosity kills me.

Look, I'm scared of a lot of shit. Like:

Snakes

Egg boxes (texture thing. Have dropped egg boxes trying to overcome said fear)

Innards (in soups, stews, pies, on the telly)

Socialists

Anything that moves that I am not the driver of (planes, cars, motorbikes)

Anything that moves that I'm inside of that I have no control over (rollercoasters, ferris wheels, water slides, any theme park rides)

Bungee jumping (and this isn't completely unreasonable, frankly)

Drugs that people put up their noses or inject with needles

Drug addicts (it's the hollow look in the eyes, and the inappropriate nosebleeds. That picture of Daniella Westbrook's septum, or lack thereof, doesn't help either.)

Water and what lies beneath (currents, sharks, don't get me started)

Being cut open, even if it's a little cut (ref above)

Lifts (got stuck in one in Kenya, read an article in You when I was 8 which showed in graphic detail a dude's legs being snapped off when he got caught in the doors)

Germs (public railings, public pin pads, things that Londoners touch)

By that list, you'd probably ascertain that I am a quivering, agoraphobic, OCD, ADHD, wreck. One would think. And it's quite plausible, that when I eventually lose my mind, that I might just become one or all of those things.

I like to think I manage to balance this out by being ballsy in other areas. Like:

In the boardroom. I'll speak when I'm not spoken to. Chick with a dick?

Writing about snippets of my life in the public domain. With references to my frequent use of lube, using the word 'fuck' a lot, having a bit of a rant about a person or a company, opening myself up to attack.

When I do drive a car, or moving vehicle that I am in control of, I do all sorts of wonderful high-speed things.

Openly admitting to idolising Margaret Thatcher. Which is apparently 'controversial.' (Grow a pair, Socialists)

Travelling to weird, sometimes dangerous places, quite happily on my own. (Or in rare cases with my Mum) or for work. I'll try to make friends on the other side.

Going to dangerous neighbourhoods for the sake of education and/or great photography and/or stories. Favelas, council estates, Hillbrow, townships back home. I've loitered in all of these places, and loved it. I always had a camera on me, and a notepad in my hand - especially in my journalism days. The only place I didn't go is the...western front. My photography course portfolio was based on Hillbrow.
(Maybe more stupid than brave?)

Similarly, telling hijackers to fuck off as 'it's my cellphone upgrade and I just got it.' While there's a knife to my throat. That was definitely dumb and wouldn't condone such behaviour.

Eating tons of garlic. More than the average person. Most people fear garlic. I only fear the fear of garlic.

Pilfering. (Only when I'm drunk. Get very excited about a good pilfering. From traffic cones to low hanging fruit. (I pilfered this at an Hawaiian party once). Again, more dumb than courageous?

Riding a bike in London. Some people are too scared, because lots of people die on their bikes in this town. Fuck it. No car, will bike.

Wearing red. It's my favourite colour. There is a lot of red in my life, and I'm not afraid to pile it on my body. My bike is red, my chairs, my Wellies, and I have a fair number of jumpers and pants in the colour. Red makes me feel happy. I get a little flicker of excitement when I look at something red. Everything has to be red, to the point where I've had to compromise a lot with the Brit. I've had to learn that not everything can, in fact, be red. Red is amazing.

And no. I don't know why this blog is pink.

I've put red under the bravery list, because lots of people are scared of colour. Wearing it especially. And particularly in London where the normal grey, blues and blacks are standard winter uniform. I say No! Embrace the red! Feel the vaab!

Oh God they're going to cut into me on Wednesday.

Took me an hour this morning to select which shade of tweed I'd be wearing today.

Why? So glad you asked.

I went to 10 Downing Street for a meeting. One of the only reasons why this week was rad, is because of the run-up to this.
I went to the house of the prime minister, and for the occasion I took out my finest tweed and Woman Cravat. She Who Hates Socialists pointed out that my cravat was a "nice Tory blue." That's right.

Exhibit A:

Which took me to:

..posing like a teapot in front of number 10.

...and getting all excited and flailing wildly.

One day when Hugh Grant (really) gets to run for PM, he can do it too.

It's more a galvanised door than a wooden one. And it's polished so nicely, it shines.
The other thing is that there are other doors nearby with '11' and '12' on them. Why doesn't anyone want pictures next to those?

I had a whale of a time. To be fair, it was a meeting, but I felt very privileged to see the inside. And all the relics from past prime ministers. As My Brit said from Sweden, I was lucky to go in as a foreigner - many Brits never get to go near this. And walking through the sea of tourists to enter through the gate of Downing Street felt particularly nice. And important.

To substantiate all things political (and just merely in the celebration of tweed for being tweedy), me and She Who Also Loves Tweed (appropes?) are going on a magical day of shopping, champagne sipping, The Iron Lady watching and dim sum eating on Sunday in Mayfair.

Dude. It's like the perfect day in the capital. First a stop at Selfridges to look at more tweed, whilst dressed in tweed (obligatory), and then to watch the blockbuster on the best female prime minister of all time. Apparently they don't paint her in the best light. They being Hollywood. So to commiserate, we will have slow gins afterwards.

2012 is looking up. Satan didn't try to strangle me through my own body last night, either.

So my Brit's in effing Sweden.

And while I have full-on tonsillitis and ear infection, I had what I can only describe as a night terror last night.
Dude. I had a dream that I had been possessed by Satan.

Dude. Not a ghost or The Blob or even a random demon, Satan himself.

Peas: I missed you in bed last night.

Brit: Tell me more?

Peas: I woke up screaming and hysterical because I dreamt that I'd been possessed by Satan.

Brit: Oh. Boring.

Peas: No. Not boring. Trust me.

Brit: What happened?

Peas: When I woke up, I still thought he was in our room.

Brit: That's funny. Are you 6 years old?

Peas: Right before that he was strangling me in my own body.

Brit: Woah.

Peas: And he was making my body parts do weird things. Like grow an extra thumb out of my hand and make me talk backwards and slowly. He was living inside my body.

Brit: That's horrific.

Peas: That's right.

I was freaking terrified. I know I've been all cynical about the start of 2012 and everything, but is this an omen? Or is it that I'm turning into a Satanist? Or even worse, a [gasp]...goth Satanist?

Jesus. I couldn't handle all that black lipstick.

But seriously - and no pun intended on the word 'Jesus,' I just thought he'd better be in the room for this, because frankly I'm a bit scared - am I a devil woman?

I know I can be a bit crass and rude and say fuck 8000 times a day, but I'd like to think I'm still a good person deep down who doesn't let scary cloven-hoofed arch demons into my body.

Even in my dreams. Will do a self-exorcism tonight through the medium of candle burning and scrubbing myself raw in the bath tub, after I've taken my tonsillitis antibiotics.

I miss my Brit. I'm freaking terrified to go to sleep tonight.

Fuck. It's fucking January.

Happy New Year to all those with big hopes and dreams for 2012. And to those too, like myself, who are feeling slightly more cynical about the whole affair.

It's January. Meh. Meh OK. January in the UK is the reason why people immigrate back to South Africa. It's mostly a frightful time of year.

Not because I saw hundreds of very sad looking Christmas conifers being blown about in the wind, discarded at people's doorsteps. Or because I had to be back in the office today. Or that I realised the blouse I bought in Ted Baker still has the fucking tag attached to it, so it looks like I am a freeloading pilferer.

Have to be honest - I face this year with a certain dread. Most people were happy to see the back of 2011, not I. Here's why:

1) Another year ----> I'm older.
2) I have an operation next week on my uterus.
3) I'm still sick. Now on the antibiotics.
4) The Brit is going to Sweden tomorrow on business for a week
5) I have an aneurysm's worth of work to do between now and heading to South Africa.
6) Ah, South Africa. How do I handle you, I wonder.

Before I get into the convoluted feelings I have for my birth country, allow me to share our New Year's in Amsterdam. Before all the magic is completely thwarted by my post-Christmas depression.

It was probably the first trip to the Dam where I actually appreciated my surroundings. In times past, I was way too fucked to recognise my own name nevermind that I was in a Dutch city.

Sure, we indulged. But it was relaxed and low key. There was a time when I once visited Amsterdam and couldn't feel my legs for 4 hours.
Our New Year's was spent in an awesome bar-cum-club. But all very quaint and cutesy, if you can call club decor 'quaint and cutesy', WTF.

There was a rooftop terrace where we could watch the fireworks, which had been going off like gunshots throughout the day. There is a law in Holland that forbids fireworks on every day except New Year's Eve. So people were setting them off all over the shop.
Watching it all erupt from the safety of a rooftop was wonderful - mainly because you avoided injury and also because it looked what I'd imagine Beirut burning looked like.

Amsterdam was on FYE-YER.

We ate pancakes the size of my ass (which is 2 kilos beefier. I'll sit on you if you fuck with me), and at one time the Brit and I spent 3, or was it 4? hours in a sex shop, thereafter leaving with 55 quids worth of merchandise.

In our less-than sober states, we spent 50 quid in a sex shop. And we don't really recall why we needed, say, pulsating ass beads and luxury lube. Trust me.

And now South Africa. I'm freaking terrified. And I don't even know quite how I suddenly became more scared than excited, but I'm gonna need a Xanax if these anxiety levels don't sort themselves the fuck out.

Basically, it's a fear the unknown. I have never been away from South Africa for so long. I'm scared that I've been totally left behind. Or rather I've left it totally behind. I've moved on to the point of no return. I'm scared that all sorts of mixed feelings will come back. I'm scared nothing has changed. I'm scared too much has changed. I'm scared of the fact that many of my friends there have babies and picket fences and I cannot relate. I'm scared they cannot relate to my experiences here. And we aren't interested in each others lives at all. How can friends I grew up with for practically 30 years feel like strangers to me?

This is how: leave the country. Travel to over 20 new countries. Experience new things like living with manky Australians in a digs in the middle of a ghetto, move in with an Englishman, start drinking tea with your fish and chips. Start a new job. Start a new career. Basically start a whole new life.

So this is why I am nervous. The other side to this, of course, and this is why I haven't come back yet is, what happens if I don't want to come back to the UK? It's crossed my mind that the smell of the grass, the sun on my pasty skin, the freedom of driving a car, seeing my family might just make me take 5 steps back.

I've tried really hard to settle into my new little country. And I feel like I have adjusted accordingly. I like this place. What if visiting South Africa makes me unlike it?

What if I hate it? Where everyone's small-minded and stuck in a bubble they believe is the centre of the universe? And I fly back to London with a "thank fuck that's over?"

It's my best mates wedding. I'm one of her bridesmaids, and for that I can't wait. She's someone I am dying to see and polish off a bottle of wine with. A wedding is a great way to bind old acquaintances after all, so perhaps it's the best reason, if any, to visit home.

I'll also have a Brit with me. I'll need to show him things he hasn't seen before. Like rhino guano, Plett and real suncream.

Mixed feelings. And since it's about a month away, it's keeping me up at night.

PS: I haven't made a resolutions list. I'm feeling extra special cynical this year, to the point where I know making resolutions never works because they are always broken. All I care about is losing those two kilos on my backside so that I can show off my rump on the fucking beach.

Spent the last 48 hours doing the following:

Massaging my face, watching docu-dramas on Bio channel, lighting candles, running baths, massaging my scalp with my new Headonistic™ head massager that L gave me for Chrissie, nipping down to Chelsea on the bus because of the telegraphic beckoning of Zara and Ted Baker and their prospective December sales, buying some awesome crap at both places for half price, eating Waitrose food, sleeping, reading chavnificent tabloid magazines, working from my couch (a little), gargling, necking vitamin C, trying on my new red pants, packing for Amsterdam.

Dude.

It's been the best 48 hours ever. Just what a sniffling 30something needs to prepare for one mentaltastic New Year's weekend in Amsterdam.

We haven't had a lot of weekends lately at home. Those awesome hibernation-slouchy ones that have involved walking around naked/one piece of pyjama on.

Christ, I did the dishes in my pants. I thrust open the tea cupboard, and got through 8 different teas today. I stuck my head in the fridge about 6 times.

God it was pleasant.

Having some time at home - half working, half lying around doing sweet fuck all, has been brilliant. My throat still hurts, but I am ready to take on the 'Dam tomorrow.

By some random tangent of destiny, I have been to Amsterdam 5 times. Since I was 10. The last trip was with Dove a few years ago, where we watched a live sex show - I mean shex show - and got up to all sorts of mischief. So I'm feeling quite nostalgic and miss my little mate.

Well it should be interesting in any case. I'm slightly skeptical, and wonder if this may damage my perception of Amsterdammage forever - as in, it could be the worst most chaotic New Year's ever - or maybe, we'll end up spending out evening curled up next to a dijk.

Or a dyke.

Whatever. It might be surprisingly chilled out. Hope yours is too. Happy New Year!

After 4 days of Christmas haze, spent in a converted barn on a farm in the hills of Swanage, it's the end of another festive Christmas. Mostly.

Twas the kind of scenery that makes you want to buy a combine harvester (totes appropes) and eat full-fat butter. (Gasp! As if?)

The days were punctuated with Disaronno's, flutes and flutes of prosecco (I bought along 5 bottles. One needs to be continuously pissed to survive Christmas indoors in the UK). So in the haze that can only be described as mass over-indulgence, I am now back in London to see friends and my aunt before we head to Amsterdam for a (fucked up?) New Year's.

I'm not very good at [British] Christmas. But then, I really and honestly think it's because I'm South African.

If I whittle it down, it comes down to one thing: climate.
At home we can go outside, run around, go for a swim, chill out in the garden. It's hard to get on top of each other when there's more space. The outdoors is counted as more space.

Here? People are indoors. All day, everyday. The thing is, Brits are used to being inside. They can quite happily sit around, filling the time by pottering around anything that is digestible. Either making food, eating food, or reheating food. And on top of one another. The Brit has been doing this his whole life, and he loves it. I'm the weird foreigner who, at the end of it all, is quite relieved to go home and be alone.

I am also not good at Christmas when I am sick. I've been trying to nail down a throat infection that's turned into a cold for a week now. Being inside with lots of humans - oh dear God - the germs - obviously hasn't helped, and now am sicker than before.

I'm chugging on Lem Sip like a motherfucker. And it still hurts to talk. I feel more subdued than Kim Jong Il's funeral attendees.

To be fair, this year in the run up to Christmas, I was more festive and in the spirit than any other year. I have been drinking mulled wine since November, I sent out 8000 Christmas cards, I sent all my family members presents back home, we got a [midget] tree.

But I really struggle with being cooped up inside with lots and lots of people. I get cabin fever something chronic. So one just gets blotto, riding on a tide of ethanol to get through it all alive.

I ate a small country in food. Had about four food coma's in as many days, where you eat the state of Montana and then pass out on something horizontal, and wake up drooling all over your Christmas jumper.

Anyway. That said, we all had a lovely time. It was as Christmassy as Christmas can be in the UK - family, politics, turkey, Brussel sprouts and passing wind (not me, everyone else. In close proximity. Pooey).

And the thought of January, February and the rest of winter without faerie lights, fizz and mulled wine makes me want to cry. It's cold and yet there's no festive shit anywhere.

I'm depressed.

Except. Except! This is why I we take our long holiday in February. See? We do have something to look forward to - South Africa! When it's dark, the winter is just dragging on and on, the rain is coming down, everyone's on a diet, or withdrawing from nicotine, basically the worst month in England. And we won't be here for it.

YES. PLEASE.

Last year we went to South East Asia, this year we're hitting the hotspots of Saffaland.

Thank God for it. Now back to feeling flat after Christmas.

I haven't actually seen much of the UK this year. I've been focused on using the nugget of gold that is adhered to my passport in the form of a 2 year Schengen visa - to buggery before it runs out.
Which meant going over to the Continent a fuckload more than to other parts of Britain.

When it does run out, (April. Noooooooooo.....) I'll be stuck here. Which means Wales, Scotland, the Cotswolds, and all those other lovely little places where Kate Moss has a country cottage and Jeremy Clarkson has a manor house - I'll be exploring all of you in the near future.

For now, these are the pictures that sum up my first full year of living in Britain. And what a year it's been:

The Royal Wedding, April. Being in London for such an event was spectacular. It made me very proud to be British be a resident of Britain. Everyone dressed up, there were street parties everywhere, people were throwing around flags and cupcakes, and most just got very drunk. Like me.

Oxford Circus, April. The place is busy as fuck. You just don't go there on weekends, unless you've shipped in for a spot of shopping from another country. The thing is, when something is to be celebrated, like Christmas or a Royal Wedding, the street is the first place to adorn itself with lights and flags. I got to see it from a rooftop while on a work shoot with the BBC. One week before the Wedding.

The London Marathon, April. I don't run, pretend to like it, pretend to want to like it, pretend to like others that like it. But watching the London Marathon brings more than running to the table. Fancy dress costumes, and other funny shit worth supporting. We stood at Canary Wharf cheering everyone on, while drinking cold cider. It was great.

Jubilee Line, on the way to aforementioned event. We climbed onto the same tube and carriage as Sir Richard Branson. He gave me a polite middle finger when I took this picture. I like to think he was just saying hi in his own Spock language.
The week previous, I got a smile from Rowan Atkinson when I cycled past him in Battersea Park.

Speaking of cycling, April. If my bike was a car.....it would be this, as seen in Chelsea. I bought myself a spanking new Pashley Brittanica called Dennis (which, I guiltily add, I haven't ridden in the last little while because winter is pants on a bike), but he has given me much joy. And I've seen a lot more of London as a result.

Ma boyz, May. Waynie and Dwaynie make for somewhat juvenile entertainment. As seen here in our new flat.

Tea and our love affair thereof. This was taken at Deli Boutique, the most unEnglish place in our village. It's like stepping into Normandy. It's 100% owned by French people who flail wildly and greet you with a 'Bonjour,' and it's fucking amazing. If not for the crepes and other Franco heaven, they actually serve quite a decent brew. To English standards even. Oui. C'est vrai.

Haslemere, June. My friends got married at their English manor house in Surrey. It was gorgeous. We got lost in the gardens. I blame the champagne.

Battersea Park, June. Summer in England is a very important, very talked about, very controversial subject. It's like the Second Coming. And this is why. You take yer bike to the park, roll out a blanket, lie in the sun, on your boyfriend, on the daisies, and forget all your problems.

Spencer Park, July. You spend a lot of time in parks in summer - you don't take summer for granted in the UK. This park is across the road from our flat.

Rye, July. My mates and I headed to Rye for a day trip, a town on the Sussex coast which is home to Paul McCartney and, according to the cab driver, "Tom from Keane." It was really pretty - typically English from the cobbled streets to the roving wild roses.

Tea room, Rye, July. I loved this picture. Because this is Britain to its very core. Sitting on the pavement, drinking tea, eating a crumpet, watching the world go by. It's that cheery, traditional, 'taking advantage of every slice of sun' thing that makes Britain so stereotypical wonderful.

Pimms, May-September. What you drink in the summer(ish) months. Standard.

Victoria Station, August. This is what happens to British people when they spend more than two minutes in the sun.

Lavender Hill, Clapham Junction, August. The burnt-out Party Store in my neighbourghood. The London riots threw the country into a political purgatory - forcing it to assess if delinquent youths are a symptom or cause of "broken Britain." I am of the opinion that it's a symptom of all sorts of things, and the Tories have since managed to catch most of them. I do love those Tories.

That said,, Clapham Junction formed a broom brigade and cleaned up all the shit left by the looters. British people really bandy together when the shit hits low flying fans. They really just get on with things. Here, bunting was pinned up on the end of my street to show solidarity.

Flowers from my Brit, August. This isn't a forum to talk endlessly about my boyfriend (anymore...in 2005 this blog started as just that, ironically). But it has to be said that my Brit is just wonderful from time to time. He buys me flowers, and if they come to my desk, I'll just take them home in my bike's basket.

Bestival, Isle of Wight, September. A group of us headed to the Isle of Wight, and for me it was my first British music festival experience. Hundreds of thousands of tents, fucked people, and great music. This is what we awoke to for 4 days.

The Village Poeple. We did a real-life live YMCA at Bestival. Bless.

Outside our flat, October. Summer might rock, but don't mock Autumn in Britain. The golden hues of the leaves, all totes lovely jubbly. It starts to get fresher, people start to dread the winter....and then you find a patch of sun. And just stand there in it.

Dude. I totes went to Scunthorpe. My work takes me to a lot of...bleak places in Britain. Part of my work is focused on helping the British economy. So I get to go to those awesome places you won't find on any TripAdvisor list. like Liverpool, Birmingham, Belfast...and Scunthorpe. Places that need help, basically.

Christmas, Oxford Street, December. It's honestly a wonderful time. Freezing of ovaries and other shit aside.

I go to Dorset with the Brit's family for Christmas this year. They've rented a large farmhouse on the cliffs. I'm rather excited. To get drunk and eat fuckloads of hot Turkey and other stodgy foods that seem to make sense in this climate.

Happy Christmas everyone!

It's been a helluva year.

2011 has been like 2008. The realisation of some dreams for me. My big thing of 2008 was the launch of my book. In it's real, printed pages format.

This year has been more personal accomplishments, by way of work, love and travel. In 2011, England felt more like home to me than a cold, little muddy island that's obsessed with football and tea. Like:

1) My boyfriend and I bought a flat and moved in together.

2) I started to think about the future. And a future that doesn't just have me in it.

3) I took a lot of aeroplanes (about 22 flights) and trains this year. I squeezed all I could out of business and personal travel.

4) I won an award at work.

Countries visited this year: 15 (not incl. UK)
Of these, totally new countries: 7*
Total countries visited in my life: 42
Total number of countries in the world: 196 (I have an infinitely fucklong way to go don't I.)

This post is my year in travel.** I've deliberately chosen one favourite picture from each country in my e-albums, which invoked tons of emotion. (I should add, I'm also pre-menstrual.)
So, what do I spend most of my pocket money on? This:

Khao San Road, Bangkok, Thailand, February. I love this picture, as it sums up the chaos and choice that is Thailand's busiest city.

Hoi An, Vietnam, February. It was hard to choose for Vietnam. We saw the country from top to bottom, so it's fair to say we saw a fuckload more than silk lanterns hanging from a window on a quiet street, while waiting for a bus.

Meribel, Haute-Savoie, France, March. Skiing in the Alps is, like, totes hedonistic. Beyond having five massages in a row. We were lucky to stay with friends who own a chalet there.

Lagos, Algarve, Portugal, April. It was shit cold. But very unique and unexpectedly beautiful.

Hamburg, Germany, June. I went to the city for work, and had a thoroughly raucous time. I blame a bottle of Riesling and a willing German colleague.

Nyhavn, Copenhagen, Denmark, June. I loved loved loved Denmark. Granted I went in mid-summer when the sun only set at 11:30pm. But if there's a city that can be described as near as perfect as fuck, Copenhagen it is.

San Marco, Venice, Italy, July. The Brit took me to Venice for a dirty weekend. Hot, romantic, always a feast for the eyes, stomach and nasal cavities. (The canals smell a bit rank in the hot months.) I loved this picture because with all the crazy architecture around, no one observes the lamps. I love the lamps.

Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, United States, October. My annual work trip to the lovely city. Picture = no brainer. I rode over this bad boy on a bike. And thought I'd die. (I always think I'm going to die.)

Hotel Del Coronado, San Diego, United States, October. I'm cheating as I promised only one picture per country. Well shoot me and call me Marilyn. I dined at this hotel, where said name (of the family Monroe) shot Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.

Krakow, Poland, October. A nun walking down the street where Pope John Paul lived. Apt much?

Plášťovce, Slovakia, October. Possibly the most extreme mustard-coloured Skoda I've ever seen in an old Communist country. In the history of mustard-cloured Skoda's.

Budapest, Hungary, October. I loved Budapest. I thought it was more vast and just as beautiful as Prague. If not a titch more interesting.

Horky, Czech Republic, October. I liked this [random] picture, as it sums up what my mother and I did for 10 days in the red Skoda. We would take a left, into an arb little village, like this one. Whenever we felt like it.

Dublin, Ireland, November. That's me. Dressed up like Pat Benatar threw up Maggie Thatcher's head, while clutching an inflatable crocodile. Best party of the year. Hands down.

Kairouan, Tunisia, December. The world's fourth holiest city. Debauchery of above picture would've got me jailed here.

Amsterdam, Holland, December. Future picture. Apparently fireworks go off everywhere, so here's hoping nothing explodes near the face.

Here's to another 15 next year. Starting with South Africa in February. It's weird to think I now count SA as a country I visit away from home...

* We are going to Holland for New Year's. So at the time of writing this post, strictly speaking, it was 14.
** These are pictures outside of the UK. England will come later this week. Old Blighty deserves its own time in the sun. Partly because it never gets any.