Girl Bloggers Unite! Well we did anyway on Friday, for champagne and tequila. Jam, Champers and I somehow started and ended the evening off at Turtle Freak. Was nice. Not that I fit into The Freak. You see, freaks don’t go to The Freak, as strange as that may sound. Financial, stable people go to the Freak. Those that fly a freak flag tend to stick out. But anyway.
On Saturday, Guy I Am Sort Of Kind Of Sort Of Kind Of Seeing, since he entered me into the 94.7 cycle race - yes, that was him – fixed my bike. You have gotta love a guy who has a spanner. And can use it. And gets grease on his face and fiddles with my brakes. Then we cycled around Greenside, stopping at the bottle store. We rode five kilometres. I’m not going to say it killed me, because I’d be lying. In fact it was fine, almost like I even enjoyed it. Now 94.7 kms is going to be a different story. I’ll go on longer rides with him before this damn thing.
C, N, The Dove, The Ant and I got dressed like pornstars at our place before hitting an 80s birthday party. Oh my shattered va-jay-jay.
Can I puke a Morkels couch set over myself?
No seriously. It was a peach bridesmaids/matric ball satin monster from Orkney. The wrong side of the Free State if there’s such a thing. A big fuck-off bow on my ass, shoulder pads as big as mattresses, poofs and puffs in all the wrong places, buttons and ruches. Moogs asked whose curtains I stole in Eldorado Park. (Not that he looked especially handsome, in Bjorn Borg nut-crackers). Purple leg warmers and gold air hostess shoes with diamonds on the heels. Frightening. People came up to me during the evening to ask whether I was from Sasolburg, and openly gasp at this thing in shocked amazement.
C wore a blue shoulder padded, sequined specimen, N looked like a secretary from Vanderbijl with satin purple bows all over the place, while The Ant looked like an air stewardess. People kept on asking her to do the ‘when the cabin pressure drops, air masks will drop from the ceiling’ repertoire and enquire about when the flight was landing. The Ant just insisted she worked for Alitalia. Naturalemente. Corporate power-suit 80s. All she needed was a Commodor 64, and a badge that said ‘Sales Person from Amway 1987’ or ‘I am an Air Hostess’, and she’d have been set. Bloody perfect.
Guy I Am Sort Of Kind Of Sort Of Seeing raided his father’s cupboard and borrowed a matching peach shirt. Bless. At the messiest stage of the evening, N poked us and with an “Oy, stop sucking face!” Nap over.
I went to an art gallery with my mum on Sunday. Where she again insisted on bringing up the Wall experience she so amorously shared with me last week. I’m all for her loving relationship, but seriously.
Peas: Mum do you want to know where I’ve had sex before? It’ll knock your socks off.
Peas: So why you telling me again?
Mum: Cos it was awesome.
Peas: Hey look at this lovely painting…cows and shit. A landscape.
Kind Of Sort Of Seeing Guy and I went to The Westcliff for a cuppa Earl Grey. It’s been a while since I did the colonial thing. You know, what with frequenting establishments which deplore in buggers puking under the bar, straight caning green beverages and snogging bottom feeders in dark corners.
PS: Speaking of cane – I had one cane at the 80s party. And for ten minutes thereafter I became Impossible Peas as I do when I imbibe this stuff. I put the glass down, and drank Savanna as planned. And became Good Peas again. Cane. That stuff. Is the liquid devil.