twenty nine

I love my friends; they buy cards like this for me:

Quite a nice pre-birthday weekend, if I may say so myself. And and I were up at sparrow’s on Saturday morning to do a Makro Run.

Makro Run’s on Saturday morning’s take full-on mental preparation, and you need to know exactly what you’re going in for (Booze.) Otherwise you’ll go completely mental. I don’t do large supermarkets/wholsesalers/shopping where fat people bring their screaming children along.

I pride myself for convenience shopping, because it keeps me sane[r].

Anyway, we set up a party venue at her parent’s place, spawned out salads and punch and basically drank vodka punch in the sun all afternoon, surrounded by good friends. Not a bad way to bring in 29.

Sat in mud in my party dress, but that’s what happens when you’re 9 going on 29.

One of my mates – love this guy – bought along his guitar – as he does – and strummed out a special song just for me. He’s amazing at impromptu, using his best acoustic rock chords, and he used all my favourite words. Highlight of the day, I almost wet myself properly:

Cunt Cunt Cunt, oh you’re my little cunt. Pussy. Pussayyyyyyyy, yeah pusssssssaaaaaaaaay.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck you….oh yeah fuck you…..fuck, you’re such an asshole,
Asshole, fuck you’re such a fucken dickwad,
Cunt…Cunt….Oh Cunt……you’re a fucking cunt…….
Shit. Oh shit…shit shit shit….fuck……..oh yeah fuck……

It was magic. If he doesn’t cut a record, I’m gonna fucken cut it for him.

Ended up getting quite rowdy and all punched up, so a few of us headed to Giles for some stiff ones afterwards.

And crashed a wedding.

Rock and roll.

Question: Who has a wedding at Giles?

Dunno, but we threw ourselves out onto that makeshift dance floor, cut a rug and broke an egg wide open, pretending to be a part of that bridal party.

My mate was climbing over the bar counter at one stage to teach the barmen how to make shamrocks in my Guinness froth. Bless her.

Except my mate was wearing jeans and I was wearing a cap that said ‘Go The Sharks’ on it.
Even got the photographer to take a few pictures of us, screaming, mouths open, pulling peace signs, like true upstanding individuals of society, and cutting some serious shapes to Grease Lightning. In the middle of the circle.


The cameraman got a reprimanding from, what I imagine, was a bridesmaid and his camera was confiscated. He loved us and she ruined his fun. Buggery.

But wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when those snaps come out.

(‘Hang on, who the fuck are they?’)

After crashing the wedding, I drank a Guinness for good measure (Ireland here I come!), and then suddenly my head felt as if it were about to fall off, all that sooping in the sun all day long can kill a 29-year old.

But left before I thought I was going to vomit from the pain.

Poen is back, and so we cracked out a bottle of champers last night on my balcony for good birthday measure. Got properly tonkled and ended up giggling for hours, and yes! Poen is going to be in London when I am.

I bought in my real 29th - this morning - in true Joburg style.

Was awakened at 3:30am this morning by two ginormous gunshots that ripped through my complex.
Lots of screaming, yelling, gun shots, running, crisis I was terrified.

I lay in bed shivering and wide-eyed, not quite sure whether I should check what was going on outside, or if I should just duck down and be a woman. Scary stuff. There was this whole syndicate going down on my road it seemed, with dudes running over my roof to get away.

Awesome. And now I’m 29.