za muzzerland

SB: So…now that I have permanent employ, I was thinking that at the end of this year, I’ll go overseas.
Peas: Oh.
(deathly pause)
Then perhaps we should call it quits now, to avoid the overly-dramatic and circumstantial break-up which will only be exacerbated by irrational emotion at the end.
SB: Why? Wouldn’t you come with me?
Peas: What?
SB: I thought you said you wanted to go overseas?
Peas: Well I do…but I haven’t put a timeframe on it. And I give sweet fanny apples for the whole London-like-the-rest-of-South-Africa exodus vibe.
SB: I’ve done London. Like you I want to work in a strange place, with strange languages and strange people.
Peas: (warming to this idea instantly) Now that I can do. Like Berlin. Learn German and hang with punk-goth underground wienerschnitzel-adoring people.
SB: I was thinking more along the lines of…Russia.
Peas: Beg pardon?
SB: Russia. You know, furry hats, vodka, Bolshoi ballet.
Peas: Russia. Vhere vould I vurk, Glastnost Veekly?
SB: Pretty much.
Peas: They probably listen to a lot of Tchaik there too.
SB: Probably.
Peas: Sold. Let’s see if we last that long first, but otherwise I’m in.

Peas on Toast living in Russia. I sense my soap opera lifestyle taking on a vodka-induced, freeze-my-doondies-off turn.

Prost.

(It's the Blog Awards tonight! *excitement*)