I’m going to host a large dinner party soon. I’ll whip up a three-tiered culinary fantasy, a gastronomic smorgasbord involving oodles of hot dill sauce to drizzle not-so-frugally over seared Scandinavian salmon steaks, while setting the table in my mother’s expensive linen, even using napkin holders, the nice cutlery, and ordering a few bottles of Saxonburg Merlot online. The starter, most formidably, will be mushy peas on little melba toasts. (Generously lashed in balsamic vinegar and slivers of parmesan.)
Then I’ll invite the people, which my ex very kindly informed me of, who read my blog in my social circle(s).
The conversation should be mindblowing. (“Peas on toast, anyone?”) I wonder who’d manage to control a stoic flinching. Blatant irony is always amusing; irony laced with sarcasm tickles me pink.
Shit I can’t wait. No seriously.
My blog has very wittingly become unsolicited material, after the unraveling of it was had. First by my current boyfriend, Small Bum, then by my ex boyfriend S, who justifiably had a cadenza, and then by my poor mother who also wondered where she’d taken a left turn. So it shouldn’t really matter who encounters my blog here on out.
Or does it?
The acquaintances I fraternise with on an infrequent basis in Johannesburg, either through a book club, or an occasional piss up at the Jolly, or even through air kissing ad tedium at communal braais, had no idea I wrote a blog a year ago. Much less a blog on the daily transpirings of my manic life.
Yet not a word has been uttered to me about the regular indulgence of this.
I know Iwould’ve said something. (“So like anyway I found your blog. Tell me more.”)
So imagine how impressed I was on receiving an email from a mate in London confessing to finding my blog and apologising profusely. Words like ‘moral dilemma,’ ‘I’ll pretend I never found it,’ were professed so sincerely, I was rather fucking touched. Especially since he is a close mutual friend of mine and Ex S. Another friend fessed up the other day, after my ex told me she’d known about it for months, saying she’d felt like a spy so hadn’t said anything. Respect. I appreciated the heads up and told both parties by all means to continue reading.
For in this extravagant list of people my ex kindly gave me, many frequently engrace themselves in my presence. For instance, three are in my book club, two are siblings who went to varsity with me and came to the most recent party I held, one plays hockey with my ex, and the rest I pretty much see at other overcompensatable venues in Joburg.
Perhaps they really know nothing about me, so find my psychotic ramblings somewhat enlightening.
Now they know that I know that they know.
So back to my dinner party. Setting the scene: Shamefully transmutable small talk involving who is going to the exotic location of London next, why people shnarf coke in the film industry, and job dissatisfaction. I will listen with feigned delight, while becoming increasingly amused, until I cannot possibly hold it in any longer:
“Another mushy peas on toast Chester? There’s one here with your name written all over it.”
Or “So… Vern. Do you really want to talk about your lactose intolerance all fucking night, when I know you’d prefer to discuss my freak drinking problem/sexual nymphomania?”
It just makes you wonder about society in general.
But it also lets me off the hook rather sneakily. I have a license to bitch and moan about anyone. I don’t need to consider anyone’s feelings here if they aren’t considering mine by perhaps throwing me a frigging bone along the lines of ‘hey man, found your blog.’
And while it is only slightly annoying, for the most part I find this whole cloak and dagger blog reader capsicum absolutely hysterical.
PS: Ex R wants to hook up with one of my best mates C over the long weekend which we'll all be spending at the Vaal. By all means shag the living daylights out of each other. It's too close for comfort, but then, who am I to stop it?