94 splendour

Last night was awesome. I got to dine with a 94-year old lady. She lives in an area called Killarney Hills. It’s in the hills above Killarney. (Who knew there were hills above Killarney?)

This old dear has been living here since 1978, and is a family friend of Ramone Allones. She’s incredible. She doesn’t look, speak or adhere to a day older than 60, and is an abosolute gas. The cook is currently having a hip replacement, so the butler had to cook us dinner. Her Audi A8 and Rolls Royce are sitting in the garage, while she told us about her life, her husband, her honeymoon in Fiji, her not wearing a brassiere, and drank muchos wine with us.

I was duly impressed.

If I get to live half her age, do half of what she’s done, be half as happy, be half as healthy, I would’ve done well. A bloody good dinner, with Ramone’s Bollinger champagne magnum and lots of Shiraz in tow.
I’ve arranged to visit her for tea sometime. We’ll chat about the Ponte building, which is seen from her dining room window, as well as Commissioner Street during the shanty town days, and bling jewellery. (She loves bling: but hers is well more De Beers than mine.)

On another note, it’s been almost 2 years since I started blogging. Readers from around the world have helped me find perspective in broken relationships, bad hangovers, revelling when I am in love and having great sex, to when I am depressed, or have an interesting encounter. And most of the time, my line: I am unapologetically crass about my overly-dramatic, binge drinking, socialite, shoe-loving and sex adoring behaviour that should otherwise be clandestine has not diverged from the truth.

My blog has got me into heaps of trouble, has won me awards (astoundingly), has won me readers, has caused controversy, and thus even so, I so enjoying writing shit about nothing everyday. But one has to constantly evolve, and change with the times, and, although not unlike my above line, I am now:

PEAS ON TOAST: Writing is how I deal with life. Not everybody is going to like it. I usually feel bad about bitching a day later. But hell, if it doesn't make me feel better at the time.

In other news, I had a little reminisce before dinner. Ex S was the only guy I ever considered marrying, at some point anyway. Although it was clearly wrong, I’ve only ever thought about marriage with only one other half: and that was Ex S. Why I pondered this, is beyond me, but I suppose it comes from the over-analysis of being single. Since I’m willing to buy a cat right about now, at least one is comforted in the knowledge that one knows the option could’ve been there. You know, so it’s not like it ever wasn’t. That’s nice to know. I suppose.