street markets & stress

Right. I need a holiday.
I'm stretching myself extremely thin right now, and although I haven't had a chance to read my Lonely Planet: Argentina, and have merely sped-read the Rio de Janeiro one, I haven't had the time to even think about my up-coming Latino adventure on the wild continent that is South America.

Or how me and Dad are going to get through this thing alive. (He gave me stress advice last night. His suggestion? “Vitamin B. Pop those buggers like your life depends on it. Oh and sleep.”)

I kind of am sleeping.

And now I'm thinking: I need this holiday yesterday.

I may have just lost half the hair on my scalp yesterday, amidst thinking about fucking off to the Falkland Islands and living my life as a coconut-slotting sun junkie that makes houses out of reeds and leafy detritus. And who wears a loincloth and creates fuck-off bonfires, and who plays her piano...that washes itself up onto the beach, just somma....with no delivery fee.

Anyway. Found myself in Parkhurst last night in a desperate attempt to imbibe a much-needed glass of wine, as Doc was part of the street market that is going on there at the moment.
Shops are open until 10pm or such, and people with alimony and divorce credit are but banging away at circa 1800's furniture, while the rest of us – who have mistakenly bought pianos – and are aware of the global credit crisis – sort of hang back, ooh and ah, and drink the free wine.

Am so very proud of Doc. His business, consisting of beautiful Indian and Provincial furniture, is doing well. Mainly because he doesn't inflate his prices to the point of distraction.

Anyway had a couple of glasses of Stony Ridge and touched something reeking of citronella, which somehow made its way into my mouth, and next thing, on the way home was having one epic allergic reaction to this stuff. Everything kind of swelled the hell up. My tongue was the size of a surfboard, and for about 4 hours thereafter, everything tasted like lemongrass.

Besides that, two of us made a faux pas about the inflated mark-up of Doc's usually reasonably priced pieces in front of the eccentric shop owner, who sprightly at 55, was wearing her Dolce & Gabbana shades inside.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

I need a holiday. This place, my existence in general, is driving me crazy.