ballet and flying saucers

So, on all things ridiculous, I attended a formal dinner with, um, you know, um, my boyfriend, where we had to come as a sport we wouldn’t participate in. Well, naturally, I came as a ballerina. And I don’t do things half measures: I hired a meringue tutu with satin shit all over it; a short and very flouncy net thingie-costume. And pink tights. And I bought ballet shoes. I have a large shoe collection, but I don’t own any of these guys, and I will wear them again. To The Zone at Rosebank, so be it.
Anyway, God I love feeling like a bloody princess, all pink and girly and ridiculous.

I put the outfit on for the entire afternoon before the dinner and bounced around the house, only to take half of it off for a cuppa break with N at E at Moyo Zoo Lake to veg and talk shite, and then put it on again when I got home.

I had a scary thought, mid-pliez, envisioning myself as an 80-year flouncing around at dress-ups and my old age home condo in Baja in ballet outfits. I know my eccentric behaviour will only worsen as I get older – it has already – so when I’m 80, I’m definitely going to be weird Grandma Peas.
(Who’s that old lady downing shots with the hot barmen at this dignified family wedding?) “Ah yes…that’s my gran…at the whiskey again. And yes, that is a ballet outfit she’s wearing. She thinks she’s Margot Fonteyn, just go along with it.”

I went to the Free State on Sunday. I crossed the border. We met at the Vaal Dam and had breakfast at an establishment shaped like a flying saucer, making the name pretty apt: The Flying Saucer.
I jest you not.
A big fuck-off UFO-shaped building complete with dining tables, a bar and lots of people that have three eyes, (I’m not being snobby – but seriously) plonked, somma, on the side of the Vaal Dam. It was brilliant. So brilliantly, randomly ridiculous and hilarious. I got lost in Vereeniging/VanderbijlPark/Sasolburg/YourGuessIsAGoodAsMine on the way down there, where a man who looked like a cyclops told me (incorrectly) where to go. Still, was fun for a Sunday drive.

I went back to Moyo (I should have shares here), and met up with mates I haven’t seen in a while. They do great strawberry daiquiris. They’re, you know, street.

PS: Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is having to OPEN your door every time you enter a parking lot which requires you to pull a ticket out of machine before the boom rises because your window doesn’t open? The security guards look at you like you’re retarded, not to mention the perplexed gazes I got when asking for directions this weekend. My aircon is at full blast any hour of the day. If it packs up, I’m as good as roasted. Hello summer.

PPS: Windows broken, burnout, my dumb job aside, I’m good. I sense exciting things. In all areas of my life. Somehow. I may be wrong, but let’s hope not.