sylvia's club

Had our final French lesson for the year last night.
So we decided to go to someone’s house and get drunk on good French wine, eat cheese and tell stories.

I have swapped numbers with my French teacher – she’s my age, single and awesome. Frankly, I want her to be my new best friend.

We’re going to go for a glass of wine next week. Whether we speak French or English, whatever. Her first love was a clown in the circus – word. She’s effortlessly blasé about things, is completely theatrical, beautifully French, and pretty darn hysterical. She doesn’t say things like, ‘I can’t talk about stuff like that anymore, I’m married Peas.’

I swear I got that the other day. (I assure you it was innocent enough – I was going on about penis-area grooming.)
And you wonder why I want to whack my head in an oven with a stickie note on my back that says ‘Hey, I’m Sylvia Plath.’

I had a feeling I had almost nothing in common with some of my closest friends way beyond this week, but hell, was this the writing on the wall. I find it both sad and baffling that marriage seems to define a before and after effect on people. Before they crossed over to the other side, while I wave at them from the other bank.

Anyway, although feeling more isolated than ever before and desperate to leave the country and be in England in 12 days, I am so happy I have made a new friend – my French teacher – who is completely fabulous.

Maybe it’s because the onslaught of the silly season has bestowed its jingly self onto us, that I’m feeling a little lonesome and in need of some loving. And sexy time. (With another person besides my bad self.)

Or maybe had too many glasses of French Bleubleubleu last night, and thought, ‘Fuck it. I’m chilled. But I’m also in need of a change of fucking scenery around here.’

Or maybe Baka dying has made me feel blah overall.

Maybe I’m sad French is over until next year February, and that I’ve made some very interesting friends out of it. From all walks of life, across a big age spectrum, and are all quite interesting people. Maybe it’s because we talk about all sorts of profound conversations in another [more romantic] language, and we have one common goal: To sound fucking cool when we parlez-vous.

Peas: Dude when Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven, did she leave a stickie note on her back?

Dove: I don’t think so.

Peas: Was it an old school oven or a Defy.

Dove: I’m pretty certain it was an LG. But it definitely wasn’t a….Bosch.

Peas: Do you think the person who wrote her biography said; ‘Sylvia then stuck her head in a Bosch oven of non-descript brand, because they only worked with anthracite stoves in those days.’

Dove:……yes.

Peas: Cool.

PS: On that note, it is Christmas. And each year, someone I know, always does something special for those children whose Christmas is a non-affair. During the week of the 14th December He, dressed as Santa, and a few elves visit the hospitals and childrens homes around Joburg to hand out presents. Presents need not be expensive and just need to be wrapped with an indication of the childs age group and gender. You can get involved and make a difference today!