2)It whiles away much time when my friends smash tequila in their faces at the pub.
3)It's a new distraction from knitting 1 x crapper covering for the water closet.
4)It's a map. Jesus Christ, it's a 3D, rotating, zoomy-inny, global, map. I'm sliding off my chair as I write this. My libido reaches a new level of insanity when the word "map" is thrown around a room. Maps turn me on. Maps make my groin tingle.
5)It makes me feel like I'm travelling, even if I'm stuck in this load-shedding, politically unrestful, rainy old town filled with
6)It procrastinates me from pasting a hectic post about why I'm really not drinking and the issues surrounding it all – involving divorce and erasing the past.
7)It's Google Earth, what's not to love?
Look! It's my apartment block! Hey hey hey. It's my res building in Cape Town. It looks like a tampon from the side, but it's more like a...flailing, bursting concrete flower from above. The guy who built Tugwell Hall (and Leo Marquard) threw himself off the top of the building some years back, due to harsh architectural criticism...and probably manic depression. Or maybe insanity. Whatever, there it is: The ski resort I lived in for three months. In Colorado. This photo was obviously taken in summer, which makes it look like an...airfreight facility. But it really is beautiful, promise. The house I lived at, in France. The Guignards next door – what a treat. The house is directly below the “38320.” He used to look at me suntanning in the back yard through his binocs. But that's neither here nor there. My home in France was ideally located. 3 hours by high-speed train to Paris, a mere trot to Italy and the French Riviera; an hour from Geneva, Switzerland. (Banking city? Sure. But also huge party city, FYI.) The best and possibly most amazing part was that I lived in a village, (Herbeys) about 20 minutes from a large city (Grenoble). And! It was in the Alps. You don't get better than that. Now with the current stock market crashing, my retirement isn't looking so good. And thus, a future of frollicking in lavender fields eating wheels of camembert in Menerbes, in the Vaucluse in Provence, with a husbank, isn't looking bright. Aunty Peas with 8 000 cats living on dog food, holy Jesus, say it won't be so. But in case I win the lottery: My childhood home. Diagonally opposite that park, directly opposite that very bushy line of trees to the side of the park. It's now a National Heritage Site. I want to live in Berlin at least once in my life. Why? So I can own a fine German canine, the Dobermann Pinscher, which I shall name Schnappsie. I will only talk to the dog in German. (SCHNELLER, Schnappsie! Fuss! Gud hund! Wo bist mein kleinen uber hund? HALT Schnappsie, stop mauling the nice man's face.) And also, besides the language, Berlin sounds like a helluva interesting place. I love ze Germans, I love the food, the beer, the language and let's face it, it'll take months to get through Berlin's historical sites. Joburg CBD. Or at least the financial district. It's an old map, so the Nelson Mandela Bridge isn't there (so I cut it out of the picture.) I work very near to where the upper blue dot on the picture is. (The blue dot is the Johannesburg Public Library.)