So I went to an art gallery last night. Hilarious. I went to a fucking art gallery.
In my jeans and scarf and had to be told not to place my wine glass on the statue that I clearly didn't think much of. That was selling for a whoring amount of ZA ronts.
And the artist was standing right there of course, but at least this time I wasn't wearing itchy doondies and they didn't have it on video camera, me having a good scratch, like last time.
I'm certain half the people there suddenly developed Ascot accents. Which is why I spoke like a chav in the lavatories.
You only live once, come on.
I saw one of my great friends who is out from Singapore. She is of the first of my closer mates who is pregnant. And you know, she looked so beautiful.
Her belly button hasn't popped out yet, and all us women could do was fondle her stomach. Me, more for the buoyant, round, unfamiliar feeling of a round stomach, (there's something growing in there, good God!) and less the popped out belly button....because a popped out belly button...not really my bag.
Anyway, it was a slice.
I forced myself to admire the art, (some of it juvenile might I add, but this was apparently the wrong thing to murmur when I was there. Please. It's juvenile.)
Anyway, I saw some of my mates and we chatted about this and that. One reminded me about a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and I agreed with her and said I had my suspicions about this and that anyway.
But was surprised that she confirmed a little bit of that, and I thought maybe I should do a little bit of this, and she agreed with me that maybe I should do I little bit of that.
Because a little bit of this is the reality of the situation, and a little bit of this has certainly gone down before, and I'm thinking “Fuck, maybe I really should do a little bit of that, you know for shits.” The most amazing thing is that a little bit of this seems to be quite a regular occurrence, which makes me feel...all that.
And she's saying, “a little bit of this and that indeed, so I don't see why you shouldn't do a little bit of this, and inquire about a little bit of that,” and I'm thinking... “I'm down with that.”
And that was that. Maybe I should investigate this option, as encouraged by my mate? Inquiry never hurt anyone, except for silly journalist types like me that can't help themselves. Must bear this in mind.
And now I'm going fall into the weekend and really fucking enjoy it.