A nice distraction from my currently A3-two-litre-turbo head yesterday, was a lunch break spent under a duvet (my gad, it's cold), eating Woolies soup with a currently very-green looking Mr 747. Men are funny when they sick, like they need extra affection and attention - which I don't mind giving on any occasion – I mean, I'll stroke a stomach, sure.
And yes, to his credit he ate an off-pie. (Who ate all the pies now eh?). The pie went down like a Croatian shithouse, clearly. 'Cos the man's bowels had taken a beating. Or so he nicely described to me.
But there's nothing nicer than spending a lunch hour in front of a couch, under a duvet, with a nice male.
It's a public holiday tomorrow. I only found out yesterday. Whaddoyoumean it's Women's Day already? Fuck – see? See where my head's at? Everyone's been talking about a 'long weekend' like it's next century, and hark! - what a pleasant surprise – it's bloody tomorrow.
Me and Mr 747 are driving out to the country for some time out. When I say country, I essentially mean Midrand. The town of Irene, that little oasis between Pretoria and Joburg filled with cows, the fresh stench of bovine by-product, trees and shit.
Distractions are good for my mental health. But I sure feel guilty by them right now. This public holiday, although nice, actually scratch that - although fucking fantastic - sets me back a day. A day of business; a day of finding a new flatmate. How am I not going to stress? I'm turning into one of those, No can do, Kevin. I'm working. Christmas Shmistmas! Step aside Santa, I got shit to do types. Who knew?
I went out for a fantastic dinner last night with the usual crew. Fuck, another distraction and time away from the desk. Time is money.
Tick tock tick tock.