Well the birthday did end up with me passed out in 747's bed. Whilst boys ran around quasi-naked and being general hooligans, I lay in a coma oblivious to it all.
This was a booze-filled evening, and passing out was the obvious result to it all.
The one great thing with birthdays is: it's the one time of year where you get to see all your mates in one room at one time. And while tequila flows and flows (Christ, I must've had about 8 on Friday night...and two cosmopolitans...and God knows what else I imbibed), it's just great to be around all my mates together. I got horrifically smashed. I haven't been that blotto in a while, considering the stupendous amount I consumed.
I should've really had a tactile – but managed to avoid it.
Everyone who is unbelievably important to me was there, barring Moogs and Doc who are teeing off in Scotland on a buggers holiday. Even my ex Dick made an effort to come through, which was sweet, and Ant came through from the Poenda.
I didn't even feel old. Probably because of the amount of alcohol being thrown around, and after a thousand down downs, one starts to feel like a kid on her birthday again.
Saturday was spent with Mr 747 and his mate in Irene again. Very chilled, awesome day. This little place (the tables under the oak trees at the dairy, with cold white wine) may just become a regular thing. Thirty minutes from Joburg and you're in the country, smelling the pungent yet delightfully farmescent, bovine by-product.
Lucas asked where I'd been for the last two nights. (I have to check in?) I explained I was “at my new boyfriend's place.” He then said, “I'll kill him.” Ant was around during this conversation and indignantly said, "Why didn't he ever get protective with me? He never so much as looked at the Gilb!"
I don't know. Good question. I have no idea why he has taken it upon himself to want to kill my boyfriends.
Lucas has shifted into psycho gear, officially.