peas on toast

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

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

This is my office, not Ibiza.

Or is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was high as a kite.

Eventually had to take a step back and apologise.

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

Abruptly said I'd write the minutes and left.

Good grief.

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

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

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

[pause][Huh?]

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

Ozzie: Yeah but we have water restreections.

[Pause]

Ozzie: You obviously don’t have water restreections.

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

[breathe in, breathe out]

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

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

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

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

Peas: Yeah back in the 1600s.

[pause]

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

Ozzie: Roight, Just saying.

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

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

I didn’t quite anticipate this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Verbosity, even truncated, is gargantuan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm officially struggling.

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

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

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

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

I think I need to have another little cry.

I have had 30 pairs of shoes delivered to my house by two very robust looking Polish men.

30 pairs of shoes, about 7 coats, 45 dresses, 8000 shirts of autonomic description, 5000 scarves (one knitted by me when I was going through a grantastic phase), and 6 bikinis.

What the fuck am I to do with this stuff?

Options:

1) Dispense to council estate across the block
2) Dispense to council estate across the block and get merged with the sharp end of a broken bottle because someone'll complain that this shit isn't Burberry
3) Find an Oxfam
4) Send it back to Africa and hope it gets dumped on the sandy expanse of Chad
5) Have a pavement sale of said items and with the profits buy a bunch of accessories for the toilet
6) Whack it up in the attic and forget about it

I know my mother's going to read this now and Skype me with a strident I told you so.

Of which I'll reply, 'Do you want me to send you some clothes?'

So I've moved into my new place of...lieu.

Me, an Ozzie bird and two Brit guys. Digs-style, in Clapham. Juxtaposed next to a council estate, but other than the random 'Nice one bruvva!' screams filtering from the block, all is pretty quiet.

This is world's apart from my Joburg flat. Where I had the luxury of selfishness. Where I didn't need to share my shitter, or ensure the hand towel wasn't being used as the dish towel.
(Ozzie bird is rather particular....God I hope I don't stuff up, I was Monica, but now I'm not so sure), but needless to say I have to keep reminding myself:

I need to learn to live with people again. Two years in my own flat was a phase of luxury; now I am in London, shit is different.

And hey, I have a little pebble garden here to sit in. Didn't have that in Jozi right? Oh and the last thing I see before I go to sleep, are chimneys through my window.

I have the big room, which in itself is grand, although God knows where I am going to stuff all my furniture when it arrives in 6 weeks. There's an attic I think.

I am conscious of the fact that it's homely and neat, and that the shower is eccentric.
I am living in a digs again. Should I be worried or liberated? I might almost be 30, so it's not that bad surely?

Albeit, to feel better that I've essentially stepped down in living quarters to step up in city quarters ("London is a world class city with amazing adventurous stuff for me to do and discover." Repeat and rinse), I blew a coupla pound on bedding.

I've never owned a duck feather and down luxury duvet set, as it was emblazoned across the box. It's all crunchy and soft. With pillows and this thing called a 'mattress topper' that my Brit insists is a Must Have, not a Nice To Have.

So in a world of disarray, at least I have great pillows.

I anxiously await the arrival of my clothes today. The air cargo has apparently arrived over the skies of Britain. Which means I don't have to live in a suitcase anymore.

When your clothes arrive, is that when you can officially call it home, or is it when you start using Windex to scrub stray pubes out of the bath before you get in?

The evidence of last night's supper picnic.

How chuffed am I that the Brit is as obsessed with cheese and cold meats as I am? How's this for a protein platter?

Starting to get into a rhythm now, I am happy to declare. Wandered back to my flat after a few gin and tonics with Poen (Hell it was good to see my mate. Yestuhday,) and met up with Brit for dinner.

Where we pillaged Tesco's and bought a fuckload of cheese to eat with our wine. The supermarkets here have a mound of choice when it comes to the good things in life - so 8 types of goat's cheese and a whole bunch of cheesy exotica like 'Shropshire Blue Navel,' and 'Channel Island Double Cream Brie.'

Heaven.

Now that's what I'm talking about. It's moving day! I move to my new pad tonight. Both nervous and excited.

Well that did me the world of good.

The Brit and I headed down to Bournemouth for the weekend. The Brit grew up in The New Forest, in Hampshire close by. And so we went down to stay with his folks for the weekend, chill, go out, meet his mates and eat an extraordinary amount of food.

I go mental for bangers and mash. And if I'm not careful, that Heathrow Injection is going to evolve into a Deathrow Injection.

God it was nice to get into a car again.

The Brit drove us down south, me a cold beer in between my thighs, and wind in my hair.

Got down to Bournemouth to stay in this impressive and hilarious beachfront hotel, The Royal Bath. It was the Brit's Dad's birthday (the main reason for us coming here for the weekend), and went to a huge bash held at this beautiful, white hotel.

It was properly Fawlty Towers, albeit more luxurious. The Brits are eccentric, if only by their hotels.

Although hammered, we didn't get much sleep. The chandelier would rattle if someone on the top floor closed a door, and we had stairs above us, because we could hear every creak and step the whole night. The curtains were plaid. There were little blue crests embroidered into the carpet. The carpet looked like the floor of a pub, come to think of it.

Just quintessentially British - grand, unchanging, fraught with quirks and 1970s florals.

I love it.

Brit's home town, or village, rather is gorgeous too. I stayed here with him and his family over Christmas, ('It's 3 'o clock! Queen's on!') but it's amazing in summer. Green, tiny little muddy streets, and wild ponies everywhere.

It's one thing going to the bush and seeing a stray lion. Quite another going to the English countryside and seeing wild ponies just running amok.

It's amazing. There we were, drinking a fine pint of Ringwood Ale, when a wild horse comes up to our table and starts rubbing its rump. It was scratching it's arse on our table.

There are everywhere, just running across roads, lying on the side of the road, chewing the cud in the forest. If you love equines, then Ringwood is one place you should probably visit in your lifetime.

Poen is back in London this week, and I move house tomorrow. I think I may be starting to settle in, ever so slightly.

Went to a bar called The Ship tonight to see a mate.

It's on the banks of the river, slap bang in the middle of Wandsworth.

I am having issues at the moment, in the terms of mind fuckery, which is putting strain on everything. Tonight, however, I felt especially foreign and especially incomprehensible.

Vulnerable and out of place.

Wearing socks with my heels. Because wearing takkies is just not me. And now wear socks with my heels, I mean what the fuck?

I need space to adjust, but I need someone to care for me. God it's hard.

I decided to take a bus straight from work to Wandsworth. This in itself was a whole procedure. Actually had to open the PDF on my Mac and scan, with the help of a British colleague, as to exactly where it stops, as its final destination was Tooting.
Wanted to make sure I got off waaaay before then.

The problem with buses is that it seems to tell you each and every stop, and yet it lies. No, it wasn't 8 stops to Wandsworth Town, it was in fact 12.

Slide around the bus, as the driver decides to break at every conceivable stone in the fucking road, and eventually ask him to just tell me when we get to Wandsworth, now haggled and bruised.

About to step off the bus when I see two very very very scary looking chav mothers standing on the pavement.

Chavs, like Vicky Pollard, usually make me howl with laughter. These chavs sent shivers up my spine, to the point where I decided to remain on the bus. Broad daylight, people around, I opted for the next station.

Why? I'll try to describe it. The one, with greasy long blonde hair, was scowling into the window. She might've been around 16, no more no less. She was sucking on a fag, while her three children. THREE kids were milling about her. She looked like she wanted to pick a fight with passersby, she had that, 'I want to claw your eyes out mate' look.

The smallest child had a mullet. He might've been 9 months old, it's hard to tell.
The second and third were kind of standing there. The chav herself is standing next to her mate, ALSO with three kids.

You can't make this shit up.

The mate is also 16, lights up a smoke. I couldn't help staring. From the safety of behind the window. They were absolutely terrifying. They had this look which made me suddenly realise why Britain doesn't dare do anything about its delinquent teenage nation. This, in a picture, was why.

It has to be said that the smell on this Tooting bus made the image that much more surreal.

Go to The Ship; sink a few ciders.

Come home at a reasonable hour and wait for the bus. In a sort of dark area, under a bridge. Suddenly, out of a pub, bursts another two chavs having a full on fucking barney on the street. Screaming at each other, one with crutch in hand, (but still walking like a normal person), bright pink velvet tracksuit, herself with a backside the size of a bus.

I would feel sorry for them, if they won't so flipping insane.

They're sca-reaming at each other colourfully - 'fuck you, fuck off, your muvva's a c&nt,' sort of dialogue, and I'm standing a few meters away staring at the sky begging the universe to send a bus to swallow me up before they reach me.

No such luck, they're having a cat fight right next to me. Me in corporate wear, Mac on back, heels and socks, pretending I can't hear them. The one chav has a child who was crying and asking in between hysterical sobbing, 'Why are you fighting with Aunty Trace, Mummay?'
Mother turns to the daughter and says, 'I told you not to geh involved! Trace is just pouring her frustrations out on me, I'd 'ad enough. Fuckit.'

It was hectic and horribly sad.

By the time I got home to my temporary flat in Earls Court, I lay down and had my first cry.

Been here just over a week. I suppose it was due. The chavs made me do it.

Signed the lease on my new house.

The one that lies next to the ghetto. Council estate.

Am rather excited to take up the master bedroom, wherein I will place my fluffy rug, pictures and other furniture that's being hauled across the planet as we speak.

Still very stressed out and overwhelmed, still trying to suss everything out, and most of all - cannot believe I've only been here one week. One week, are you fucking kidding me? I've packed this all into one week and it feels like months.

I think I need some time out. Like go to the country this weekend or something and just sit in a field.

It's not a cliche. It's a real self-diagnosis, courtesy of Wikipedia, of what I'm going through right now.

Information Overload, people just seem to throw this term around willy-nilly, not quite comprehending what the fuck it really means.

But when I walked out of the office today, head spinning, drooling slightly, not being able to make simple decisions between a glass of dry white or a glass of dry red at the obligatory after work-pub visit, and just staring at people like I am retarded, completely overwhelmed, I consulted the Pedia.

This happens, I guess, when one starts a new role. We've all been through it; me a few times with my various career paths. And changing thereof.

However I feel feverish with retardation right now. Perhaps it's because I have new country, new city, new day-to-day boyfriend, new office, new job.

I mean, I came home and had to do a load of washing for two people. Now don't get me wrong, even those with IO - too tired to write i-n-f-o-r-m-a-t-i-o-n-o-v-e-r-l--o-a-d - can do a fucking laundry, but now I have to account for two of us. My head, she is bending with all the new change.

Or maybe it's my role. I have gone from strategy to public affairs. And I am experiencing exactly what Wikipedia seems to sum up rather fucking accurately:

Information overload is a term popularised by Alvin Toffler [citation needed] that refers to the difficulty a person can have understanding an issue and making decisions that can be caused by the presence of too much information.

It's like you absorb everything you have to do, but you cannot conceptualise how the FUCK you're going to do it. Or, like me, who has this 'perform amazingly well or don't bother at all' first-child only-child complex, whereby I need to ensure I grasp everything straight away.

When do the symptoms fall away? It does go away right? Head spinning, not knowing where to start? Gimme a time limit here. Realised getting to know my home country is nothing compared to the stress I'm feeling about my workplace and having a drool at the bar, comatose, at what I am going to do.

I'd say I needed a tranquiliser, or at the very least that infused with speed, but don't think anything across this Grade A spectrum is going to help me. Just need to go through the motions and do the best I can, even at retarded overwhelmed levels. t does go away right? Whw

So. In two, three days I've accomplished the following:

1) Given myself a mammoth Millennium Dome-esque blister on my foot (from walking 10 miles a day, and now have to wear obligatory sock on foot that makes me look like either of two things: retarded; and/or into a trend whereby one wears a sock on one foot)

2) Explored a few council estates. Without meaning to.

So. In a manic quest to find myself a permanent living arrangement, have been house hunting. The Brit has been terribly obligatory in traipsing around with me to view houses, even after I've gone from wanting an apartment the size of Qaddafi's penis, to wanting a house share in a more questionable area, that might be frequented with a bunch of antipodean hooligans.

I respond to an ad in Battersea. (Close to work, financially accessible).

Peas: So it's somewhere down this road. Chick is proper Italian. Like Ant, except directly from Umbria.

Brit: There are a lot of council estates around here babe.

Peas: By this you means these blocks look like Hillbrow blocks.

Brit: Don't know what Hillbrow is, but they are questionably viable blocks filled with women called Tracy, 20 stone, with 8 kids, and earns 25 000 grand a year from the government because she has 10 kids.

Peas:......awesome.

Brit: So what street is it?

Peas: This one. She says something about 'cream outside...brown on the edges...oh Jesus Christ, it's a council estate.

Brit: Haaaaa ok this is funny. Yesterday you were looking in Chelsea.

Peas: Jesus what am I going to tell this woman, I can't live here?!

Brit: I'll be in the pub. Let me know when you re-emerge.

Peas: Shit. 'Hi, this is lovely Great views from the 25th floor, no balcony, thanks so much bye?'

Brit: Exactly.

So. I found a house. An Aussie bird and two Brit guys, in Clapham. The dodgy side. Seven minutes to work, right of Northcote road which is a 'high street,' just...slightly off the wrong side of the tracks.

Just one con in a bagful of pro's.

I, in two works, will be moving out of Earl Court - Chelsea high-brow - and onto the border of a council estate. Not in a council estate, just...next door. But 5 minutes away it's all good, with high streets and shops, pubs and cafes.

And a cool house with a big master bedroom (mine), garden, and cool digs-vibe.

It's going to be ...different. But hopefully fucking heap loads of fun.

My first day at work was interesting. I'm absorbing everything around me, eating sushi or lunch and wearing a sock on my right foot.

It's awesome. Even if on one serious learning curve.

Oh my God. (Again).

All I can really paraphrase so far, is the following:

To have my boyfriend around - as in day-to-day - and knowing I won't have a traumatic airport goodbye to do in a few days, is really amazing.
He's learning as much as I am at the moment, particular about areas in London. I am being put up in Earls Court for 2 weeks, so we're trying to establish things like 'Is this a cool place to live? Is there a pub within walking distance?'

Et cetera. He has to move soon too, and we're discovering where the best places are to buy, to rent, and to be, based on what we can afford and what we want.

That said, we've decided not to move in together straight away.
Who said chivalry is dead? And too much too soon can't be a good thing. I want to ease into London, be courted, and above all - make good decisions.

Also, I want to make friends, inhabit a digs and re-integrate into communal living. Then we will see after some time has passed, and possibly buy something together. I am so excited for both.
God I'm a sensible bird. Almost 30 and almost wise?

The shops here offer around 45 different varieties of sandwich at Tesco.
Something I hadn't noticed before either.
I had 'roast chicken & stuffing' for breakfast. Although 'poached salmon & watercress' looked nice.

I have viewed some pretty epic shoe boxes in the last day.
And by that, I don't mean a box of Jimmy Choos. Rooms for rent, in good locations. Except all there is room for is to stand up. One bedroom didn't even have a window. Now I know London-living is dense and small, but this is ridiculous.

So I have changed knack. I am no longer looking in South Kensington or thereabouts. Simply because they're too fucking small.

I am now looking at house shares in Clapham, Fulham and Battersea - where there is a possible garden or terrace, a room I can do a star-jump in, and some cool flatmates.

I am going shopping this weekend.
I have purposefully not bought any clothes for myself (give or take....ok maybe a few items here or there....) for at least 9 months. I gave away half my wardrobe on leaving South Africa, and now I'm ready to invade and conquer Top Shop with a disturbing vengeance.

I never thought I'd consider this, but...
I'm gonna have to get myself some, eeek, gasp, takkies. Commuter-shoes. Shoes that men should only wear. Because teetering around in my ballet flats and high heels isn't feasible in this place. Trust me.

Takkies. God. Who'd a thunk it.

Oh my God.

I'm here. I've made it to the other side. Amongst tears and angst, I've made it into the EU unscathed and so tremendously happy.

I keep thinking, 'Jesus. I live here. I actually live here.'
This is my new city. I am a Londoner. I can walk around with my iPod in, pay in pounds, and absorb my new country.

I can't believe I'm here. I've done London enough times to know a fair bit about it, not to mention through my Brit boyfriend. But now I'm seeing it all with completely new eyes.

This is my new home. It's the start of a new life, a new re-invention, a new everything.

And as to be expected, my arrival comes in lieu of drizzle and a hurricane outside.

Despite that, I am absolutely walking on Cloud 9.

PS: Might've been also because, being collected by my Brit with a bunch of roses in his hands, does make this transition that much sweeter. Sigh.

My heart, she is brekking.

The trauma. The sheer embarrassment of running behind my car, hugging it, and bawling like a toddler, tears and snot everywhere, as someone drove away in him this morning.

The most handsome, ridiculously gay Beetle in history. God he was perfect.

In the nick of time, I sold my Beetle this morning. And did I cry. I'm a mess. I am heartbroken.

I fly out tonight, and am staying with my folks - and haven't started crying yet on leaving them. So compound cry factor with beloved car, and the airport is going to have one helluva cry baby on its hands.

Bye my precious precious Ludwig.

Who has earmarked the last five years of my life, here he is, on the day I bought him.

I miss you so much already.

God I'm devastated. His new owner is currently driving him down to Durban. He's going to be a Durban car now.

Is this normal talk? Like, is this normal behaviour? Do people pine after their cars or get attached like I do? Fuck, it's like losing a pet.

I have been numb and pulling my hair out over the 6 months. To the point where I it hasn't really started sinking in that I leave South Africa tomorrow.

I am crying big hot tears as I write this. As I have been doing all morning.
It's starting to feel real now. A day before I go. It might've been the migraine I had last night, while tossing and turning in my mother's borrowed sleeping bag in a shell of a house, no curtains, no furniture, nothing.

C2, Dove and myself sat on my bare floors last night just talking, friends calling to say goodbye, and even then it didn't seem real that I'm leaving my loved ones behind.

Got into my car this morning for my last run to work, to tie things up and say goodbye. And bawled all through the traffic. When will be the next time I actually drive a car after today?

Basically, will I forget how to drive?

I have lost 4 kilos over the last few weeks. Either being too stressed to eat or forgetting altogether. Very not me.

The nation is pretty depressed as it is, now that the World Cup is over and Paul the Octopus has been turned into calamari, but to leave home - as a now very patriotic and proud South African means I'm on a complete roller coaster.

I'm scared and excited. I'm crying. I'm going to miss home. My stuff is sitting ready for two months of ship-time from Durban harbour.

It's happening. It's the end of my Johannesburg era - spanning almost 7 years - and the beginning of Peas in London.

Discovering a new world all over again.

They're packing up my house today.

End of the World Cup, end of South African domesticity as I know it.

I type this from one lonesome chair.

I am camping here until tomorrow, then head off to my parents for a last night.

It's all so surreal.

The Brit and I are booked for our next voyage.

Vee are going to Sveeden ja.

Long weekend late August, when it's still mid-summer and the sun only sets at 10pm, we are planning to buy ourselves viking hats and call each other Bjorn.

Always wanted to see the the Nordics. And thought Stockholm would be a good entry into Scandinavia, although I have visited a few IKEA outlets in my life before.

Won't eat herring; will drink Absolut vodka.

We are going to stay in the city for a night, and then on this gorgeous green island for two other nights. With a private beach.

This exact one, to be precise.

Svenk, I'm chuffed.*

Our first little Euro weekend away, admittedly the Brit is making a sacrifice. He's been to Stockholm before, and I haven't. However, I promised next time we'd go to Berlin, where I've been and he hasn't.

We thought booking RyanAir would be best for our budget. Well the one problem with RyanAir is that although it seems budget, by the end of the transaction you've ended up paying the same price as your would on Norwegian Airlines (which we are now flying.)

You pay to pee on RyanAir, ok. (One euro, in case you wanted to know how much your urine was worth.)

You pay £40 to take a 20 kilo bag.
You pay to get your ticket SMSed to you.
You pay to stand in front of the queue, as it's a first-come-first-serve to get seats.

Norwegian Airlines rapes you, but at least you get a free sandwich.

At first Brit and thought we'd go without bags. Take our toothbrushes, a spare pair of underpants.

Then buy Viking uniforms when we're there and walk around in those for three days.
I'm still considering the Viking uniforms, even though we now get to take a suitcase.

It seems being allowed to take a suitcase in Europe is a luxury. Now I know why the French supposedly smell.

*Assuming Svenk is 'fuck' in Swedish.

something i haven't accounted for.

my electronic love wand. the bushwhacker 3000. the quasi-copulatory appliance. my dildo.

what the devil do immigrating people do with their sex toys? I mean, i've been told that uk customs will open my boxes. and frankly, i've moved on from the bushwhacker. it was great three years ago, but now, there's, er, zootier stuff on the market that fulfills my basic animalistic needs.

so. where does one put a big pink dildo? do i throw it in the bin and hope the gardener doesn't find it? do i throw it in the neighbour's hedge? do i leave it with a mate for a rainy day/the day bushwhacker's come back in vogue?

basically. i have 6 days left to decide what will come of this sexual instrument.

ps: yes i know i'm typing in lower case. that's the world's fault for using a shift key and making such a fuss about it.