My incredible father has done it again: the predictability of his unpredictability has left me floored.
My father. Semi-retired and flying around the country in his new baby, an aircraft the size of a small desk. The same man who voluntarily flew over Lesotho last week in his new plane, after telling me he wasn’t allowed to. The country’s government doesn’t allow for non-commercial air transport to fly over Lesotho before prior permission, because of the navel base there. Dad didn’t want to deal with the bureaucratic red tape, (“It’ll take at least a week to get official word, bugger it, I'm just going to fly.”) so just went along and did it.
(Dad! Bloody hell, you’ll get shot down! “No I won’t. I’ll fly low and fast. Low and fast is the answer Peas. I need to be in Kokstad by noon.”)
Yesterday. Phone rings. It’s Dad.
Peas: Hi dad, what’s cooking.
Dad: [Peas!] Can you hear me?
Lots of broken signal, sound of wind rushing past, an engine.
Peas: Where you’re driving to Dad?
Dad: I’m in my plane my darling. Flying above the wild coast. It’s beautiful.
Peas: Right. Dad I’m going to hang up now, I needn’t explain why.
Dad: It’s beautiful! Jagged rocks, untouched beaches, lovely.
Peas: Dad does the air traffic controller know you’re using a cell phone at the minute?
Peas: Ok then. Best I leave you to concentrate. Besides the signal at 3 000 feet isn’t great.
Dad: It’s clear skies! OK, well how are things?
Peas: Great Dad. I’m going to go now – phone me when you land. When you’re standing on the Earth.
Dad: Okey doke, check out this sky! Beautiful!
Peas: Bye Dad.
Do you even think he used a hands free kit?
In other news, shait. Somehow managed to crack an invite to a party tonight, a digs filled with Small Bum’s friends. Well. What to do? In two minds. Either way if I do go, I’ll have to put on Perfect Peas face and be very brave. And ignore Small Bum completely. Shitting myself, shitting myself.
I want to go for the morbid curiosity and get to the bottom of why I cracked the nod in the first place. I told Ant I’d increase her rent if she didn’t come with me. And I’m dragging my posse along to protect me from the possible onslaught of Hell and/or fantastic party I may have this evening. It's a Christmas in July theme (yawn), so will probably go as Santa's Little Ho. (Santa's Little Helper wasn't sexy enough.)
In more news, I finally got my hands onto the direct translations of my trademark line:
Bless your little cotton socks.
French: Bénissez vos peu de chaussettes de cotton
German: Segnen Sie Ihre wenigen Baumwollsocken
Italian: Benedica i vostri pochi calzini del cotone
(Silly Itie man obviously also had too much tequila on Wednesday, as this is a far fetch from what he said it was.)
Spanish: Bendiga sus pocos calcetines del algodón
Dutch: Zegen uw weinig katoen mept
Portuguese: Bless seus poucos socks do algodão
Swedish: Välsigna dina lite bomullssockor
Right. So now wherever I go in the world, everybody will be enthralled by my catchy, yet shallow and highly unprovocative jingle.