I blame Mr 747 for this outright – but I couldn't stop speaking in a serious Rand accent practically the whole weekend.
I say 'Rand', cos it could be east or west. See, Saturday morning was spent testing out a new karaoke mic in the lounge, and sing along Sam over there and I were talking in this accent - thinking we were the funniest people on the planet.
But like all accents, once I get going, I can't stop. It takes over me like an elter ego. There was the Australian accent of 2006, the Chav accent of 2007 and now pre-2008, I've jumped onto the Roodepoort bandwagon.
(Funny, since the weekend was filled with British comedy – Death At A Funeral at Nouveau I highly recommend. There's nothing funnier than watching a dude tripping on acid by accident. Good God, it was a scream.)
But. I went to E's final "I'm Off To Egypt" braai on Saturday, and as usual, couldn't shut the fuck up in this appalling tongue. Ripped the ring out of it.
Accents give me the ultimate kick. It's about the facial expressions, coupled with the hand gesticulations; the right accent on the right syllable, and the flattening of the vowels. I was a Virgin Active gym instructor called Lizelle from Weltervreden, and my boyfriend was a mechanic who rode a bark (bike) that was narce. (nice).
Everyone around me wants to kill me, but unfortunately, it cannot be helped. And it's not like I say, “K, going out and gonna talk like a bitch from Weltervreden Park all night.” It happens involuntarily, and next thing you know, E's little brother is introducing me as his mate from Roodepoort.
And there's not a thing I can do about it. When C and I went through our chav phase – which still pops up every now and then - we nearly got kicked out of the Colony this one time.
My folks tended to lose their sense of yuma after I told them I was planning to sell mirrors on the sard of the harway for extra sheckles, over lunch yesterday.
Still. One can get so caught up in one's new elter ego, one can walk into the Shell Garage and bar a par (buy a pie perhaps?) and talk to the lady behind the counter – this one's name was Comfort – not even realising that I was in fact talking lark Lizette.
My next project is the ever-annoying South Beach “Oh my Gah-d, like, Oh my Gah-d” one. If my friends can stand being around me, because this one has to be the most annoying.
It's Monday. Not coping.