Wednesday, August 26, 2009
This is La Ithla Bonita. My satin pumps on the Ithla Bonita.
Madonna wrote the song for me, with the lisp for added humourotic value – that’s right. Satin pumps are very ‘African island safari’, didn’t you know? Yeah, wear your Crocs, wear your strops, wear your Strocs, see if I care.
Always taking pictures of my shoes in situ. Because it’s proof I stood on the soil/sand/ground, and didn’t nick my holiday images off someone’s public Picasa album.
Yeah admit it. You’ve thought about it.
Just remembered - during a fleetingly clismatique and fevered dream last night – without freaking out or nuffing, we flew an airline called ‘LAM’ (Lineas Aeareas do Mozambique’ or somesuch) to Vilankulos.
The locals call it ‘Lost Around Mozambique’ and also, the very compelling ‘Late and Maybe.’
So, like, whatever, that’s why I’m a living, walking tough sticker.
And look. I’m not even dead or anything.
It might’ve bounced around in the sky like a pinball, but that’s neither here nor there. Besides, I took a chopper, right. Where the pilot said we had to wear our life jackets the whole journey. In case the bleeding thing fell out of the sky.
After sorting though a gazillion emails and workshops to catch up on – panic stations when I’m not in the office right – totals – September is the month for craziness.
I have some dashing and sexable plans in the month of my birthday. As it should be. Bringing in my year of turning 29, the last year of formative craziness and disruption that it is being in the last year of your twenties, as one would expect.
Right, so that sentence doesn’t make sense, but then, that’s what getting old is all about: I totally don’t give a fuck.
So I have a little sexy stint with someone coming up this month that is September. Spring has sprung, and let it be fraught with nakedness. Please.
I’m travelling Oop North this month. With someone. Oh yes. Well that’s the plan, and I’m so excited I could cut out tabloid pictures of Richard Hammond and plaster them all over my bedroom walls – and ceiling – it’s that exciting.
But I won’t. I promise. I’m cool dog. I’m always cool.
Now just finding a place to go – Oop North. A collaborated holiday with E in Egypt? Or maybe a little bit of burritos and fajitas and quesadillas and tortillas and tacos in Spain?
We’re talking 5 days here, so one has to choice location wisely. Also I only have two pages left in my passport, so I’m pretty fucked until I get a new one.
I have just enough days to go to London and Ireland (visa) and anywhere else (visa.)
Until I have to stand in a queue, smelling the sweat and the corruption at Randburg Home Affairs for my new fucken passport.
Can’t believe I’ve run out of pages. In the two years I’ve really been travelling.
Bureaucracy blows. I’m going to throw my CDs everywhere. And they’ll be clattering.
WTF am I talking about. Benguerra Island fever has got me by my non-existent scrotum, and yet the DoisM is no longer in my midst.
My dildo’s gone on the blink. Fuck.