Bit of a boozy weekend. And the Pope is Catholic, or so I hear.
Friday was shenanigan central at the popular Sandton drinking hole which has become everyone's Local. C and I drank a few Jaegermeisters and somehow I ended up at Melrose Arch afterwards. A little blotto.
Saturday was spent on the couch with Ant and Baze. Couldn't move except to drag myself the 15 metres to the kitchen to chow on cheese and other foodstuffs immentionable herein. So I lay on the couch for around, oh 24 hours, until I got a visitor who laughed himself silly – howled himself senseless actually – for about 30 minutes solid – at around 2:00am. Amusing.
Sunday I went to the Inanda Polo and drank a teensy little bit of champagne. E is amazing – how does she do it? She always seems to land her backside in Lurpak – like how she managed to find herself with Press Pass halfway through the event. Me and a mate embarrassingly got ourselves turfed – no escorted - from Big T's tent. Not for gross misconduct, but because I was clutching a Savanna Dry. It was cold and overcast, but I had a nice time. Argentina won the polo. Bummer.
I woke up this morning at 5:00am tossing and turning. When I'm worried about shit, I have this inconvenient habit of waking up before dawn and worrying about stuff. My flat, my job. God please may everything work out.
PS: Porter loos. OK, so we all know they're minging and everything. But the conversation I overheard while I hovered whilst spending a penny: “Jackie! Can you hear me?” ('Jackie' responds.) “I have no toilet paper in here.” (Um...can I pass you some Jessica?) “Well...how you gonna do it, since I'm already halfway through my pee and you're halfway through yours?” (I'll come over to your porter loo.) By now I'd already finished up - hovering is a bitch, but completely necessary – so I'm unsure how Jackie managed to pass Jessica the bog roll mid-bladder.