Aace, snackwich machines, pies for breakfast

We went to The Mandog on Friday. If it’s not a different experience when your arms and lips are attached to someone else’s and you’re not scoping out the meat market. We were standing on the top balcony overlooking the throng of skimpily-dressed individuals dancing down below and I threw a piece of ice on a guy’s head. You know, just to check if it bounced.
It did.

Well. He marched upstairs and:
Dude: [Addressing Sort Of Guy] China! Did you just throw me wiff a piece of ice [aace]?
Guy: No. And neither did she.
Dude: You bladdy well did throw me wiff a piece of aace, don’t bladdy deny it bru.
Guy: Dude, fucking relax. I can’t believe you walked up here to ask us that.
Dude: Fucking don’t tell me to bladdy relax bru. No one throws me wiff a piece of aace and gets away wiff it where I come from china.
Guy: Where do you come from?
Dude: That’s none of your bladdy business!

By now they’re shouting at each other, puffing out their chests, and it looks like Steroid Dude is about to punch Guy I’m Seeing wiff a bladdy fist.

I am starting to yell too:
Stop, guys, stop. Hey! Stop. Stoppit! Hey!

My hands are holding both of them apart – like a traffic cop, I have one hand on Guy and one on Dude – keeping their chests apart.
Hey! Stop! Both of you. Christ it’s just …aace. Stop!
He went down stairs eventually, not wiffout throwing us wiff a hairy aaball first.

I saw my pops on Saturday. He was only down for one night. During the middle of my fatherly meeting, I suddenly thought about the sandwich toaster. And wondered whether I’d actually switched it off after a toasted cheese that morning. Fuck.

Was my apartment going down in smoke? Was Chad being combusted because of my own stupidity? Was there a fire engine outside, with firefighters using the jaws of life to penetrate the iron gate to get in and dowse the raging inferno? Would anyone even notice?

Fuck. I drove like a mad women home, only to get stuck in a 40 minute traffic jam on the M1 because everyone was rubbing-necking a bloody accident on the embankment next to the road. I sat with millions of rubber-neckers schvitzing like a Baltic pole vaulter after winning the gold.
That is stress.
Like no other. Sitting in a traffic jam, while trying - desperately, irrationally, catatonically - to get home to the snackwich machine while imagining my house being engulfed by flames.
I was properly stressing.
Luckily, luckily, it was off. Yikes.

I rode a 40-kayer on Sunday. Correct. On a bike, with padded pants and no back breaks with my cycle-crazy colleague. At the fart’s of sparrows – 6 am. Fuck around. I didn’t stop to smoke/cough up lung butter/throw a temper tantrum – although it does feel as though I’ve been impaled with a blunt instrument. Afterwards Guy I’m Seeing offered to take me for breakfast.

We were driving behind each other merrily along – and by now I’m fucking starving – until he veered off somewhere like a poen and because he left his phone at home, we missed each other.

It’s all fun and games until someone loses breakfast.

Feverishly, we both drove around, looking for each other in the greater Melville-Auckland Park area. Eventually, I got severely hacked off. And started to cry. I was that hungry, and my starvation was just manifested by frustration. Sobbing, I bought a pie. And drove home completely fucked off, only to find him on the road.

It was rather funny. I didn’t even want breakfast anymore – but he took me along regardless. It was wonderful. Bless his cute little boxer shorts. Then we spent the latter of the day at his folk’s house in Westcliff – a gorgeous house on the hill – they were away. We watched David Attenborough’s account of strange copulation methods in nature (fish that fuck each other on leaves, that sort of thing) on the Discovery Channel.
We had a lovely doo doo; he played his guitar and I played the piano.

Came up for air and met C at the Jolly last night, for some pizza smashing.

PS: Very nice to have met you on Saturday Other-Duke!