tourist

At 4:30pm yesterday, I left my office, with a backpack from my overnight stay at Small Bum's the previous night, and walked to Norwood to wait for Third World Ant to pick me up.

I really felt like a tourist in my own town.
I looked like one, firstly. I knew where I was going, and realised that we actually have a bus service. Which stops almost outside our flat. But this concept is as foriegn to me here as it would be in, say, Bucharest.
Immediately self-conscious at the thought of getting into the bus and asking how much a ticket was, and where the bus was actually going.
Especially because I looked so bloody pitiful, with my rucksack and metallic shoes.

Never before have I actually sat on Grant Avenue, sipping on coffee, waiting to be picked up. Usually I can leave whenever I like. It was cold and misty, and I kept on flashing back to April last year when I travelled Europe on my own. Even the waitress that usually serves me here looked at me funny.

Paranoia perhaps?
And for the rest of the evening, once home, I still felt strange. Seeing my town in a totally new light.
To rectify this feeling of wierdness, I pulled out my trusty Bushwacker 3 000 and made happy with it.

Still didn't help. Was worried that Third World Ant's sister, who is staying with us at the moment, could hear it.

Paranoia.

I wake up this morning to an sms from [fuckhead] Ex S. Since the unravelling of my blog and his banging of a close family friend, we have not conversed. He says he misses me and "can we meet to talk about all of this?"
He only misses me because he has been in Cape Town, our city, and because he's a fuckhead. Am shaking.