Shitters, I’ve sold out. I’m a changed woman. Any preconceived ideas about the town and Rhodes U have been irrepressibly reversed.
I mean, people me it's a dump. Not true, it's beautiful. Exquisite.
Did I have so much fun, learn so much and meet the most incredible people, or what? I will be at Festival next year, that much is certain. I’ve already convinced mates to come down for a debaucherous weekend with me before the year is over. (And I’ll stay at a B &B, not a male res with a communal shower. Total score.) They’re keen as mustard. I told them the men are breathtakingly hot, charming, fun and [the majority] are intellectual writing geniuses. I won’t need to ask them twice.
Anyway, the DCI delegates and speakers had a final goodbye bash on Friday evening, where I, The Most Hungover Person On Earth had to embark on excessive tab drinking again. Luckily I managed, only just.
It seems every time you look at watch in this town it’s 4:00am in the morning.
The Schnitzel had a little chunder into a post box – I jest you not – sometime during the course of the evening. Hilarious. Gonna miss the Schnitzel. A top notch individual. I got walked home again (but this time I knew where I lived, which is half gratifying). It was sad to say goodbye to everyone. I was actually really bleak to be getting back to the Big Familiar Smoke.
The plane journey home was nothing short of terrifying. As I get older (22 last Thursday) I get more and more irrational about landing. And I’ve flown in enough aeroplanes; including my dearest dad’s little vomit comet, yet still. The crosswinds as we flew into Joburg were making me mock charge, get schvitzy and have an apoplexy all at once. Attractive. The plane was bouncing all over the tarmac, veering out of control, I was screaming. There was a scene.
Never a dull moment to be had ever, in my life at least, my mates dragged me off to the Joburg Day rock fest as I disembarked from the terrifying airborne metal capsule that transported me from RAT and the town in which it is conveniently placed, and immediately a Fitzy was shoved into my trembling hands. (E invented the Fitzy. It’s a hardcore beverage.) I wore my Rat shirt and had everyone asking me whether I went to Rhodes (No, I’m from PE Tech, sorry), and giving me more drinks because they thought I waitressed at The Rat. (C thought this whole Rat t-shirt thing was h.i.l.a.r.i.o.u.s. As predetermined.)
Went home to catch up with Third Roommate, he bought me
3RM: Dude, something strange just happened.
3RM: The pizza delivery person just gave me fifty bucks. Plus the pizza.
Peas: As in free pizza and money just willy-nilly?
3RM: Correct. I don’t think she realised that I have to pay for the pizza, yet on top of that gave me fifty bucks. But I felt bad so told her how it really is.
Peas: And how is that?
3RM: “Lady, your customers need to pay you, you don’t need to pay them: you don’t need to give your money away. Besides I never did you any favours by asking you to deliver pizza here.”
Peas: Imagine if that’s what happened every time you ordered: free pizza and money.
3RM: Yeah, we could make a killing.
Peas: Get rich quickly: there actually is such a thing.
3RM: We order three pizzas a day, breakfast, lunch and dinner, and they’re free. Plus get fifty free bucks every time. We could quit our jobs and become pizza smashers full-time.
Peas: Get fat and get rich. We could outsource. Like sell them from here as well, like an illegal franchise, and then make even more moolah.
3RM: Yeah, but I’m thinking she’d be fired before next week. And we have consciences.
Peas: Yeah I guess.
E and E2 came round after E had a hair disaster involving a possibly very drunk hairdresser wielding scissors.
PS: Doc sent me the most awesome birthday present for my birthday. It was postmarked from Austrayleeah. This got me excited before I even opened it. What a little beefcake he is, that Doc. Inside this package are the first and second series of Kath & Kim. A ridiculous series that deplores taste extending to The Castle and my favourite Australian white trash soapie, Home & Away.
(“Is it a crim to feel trim, Kim?”) I’m in heaven.
PPS: I left half my clothing at The Rat. Would someone please do me a favour and ask Deon (or is it Leon?), the manager guy, if he has seen a certain yellow tracky-top around? (And any remaining threads of my dignity, interspersed between the tables?) The chances are slim, let’s be honest. But any enquiries about aforementioned apparel would be very much appreciated. I’ll pick it up when I’m down for a dirty weekend.