catastrophic mountain baffs

Fuck.

Has a lot happened in the month I was away. Just catching up with friends and family over the weekend, and it seems, the sex politics is on fire.

As a result, it’s possibly the first time I’ve started to be a leetle concerned about South Africa’s current political situation.

Malema nearly made me cry.

There is clearly no accountability here, and why is he still allowed to talk?

Then there’s the Don’t Touch Me On My Studio. And the aftermath of this, now downloadable as a track. It’s so fucking ridiculous you have to see it as downright hilarious.

I’ve been away this long. I started slowly packing up some of my stuff for storage this weekend; ripped photos out of albums to whack in one big box, went through old papers, took pictures of things I’m keen to sell.

Getting ready for my relocation, my work transfer to Inkland. Where politics are yawnworthy in relation to what’s going down on our soil. Crisis.

Then there's the eensy fact that I fly to Paris at the weekend for a work conference. I would be exceptionally excited, if it weren’t for Iceland exploding and spewing it’s ashen load across greater Europe.

From a mountain nobody can pronounce (except Bjork), and predicted to explode by a geologist named Thor.

You can’t make this shit up.

I’m meant to be flying to Paris with my team on Friday night for a conference. That's right, France twice in a month.
I'm a lucky lucky girl - IF in fact we can fly.

(And if so, for this one, the red beret is coming with me. I will henceforth jam a baguette under my armpit, and be La Touriste.)
My Brit is meeting me there too; the excitement.

I’m going to Paris for a week, so excited could hump my plant.

However, if Iceland decides to fuck the world over with its ashen volcanic catastrophe longer than Friday, we won’t be going anywhere.

Will put it out of my mind an concentrate on getting Highly Skilled visa for UK (I can apply! I get all the points!) and not on Paree, Franch people, My Brit and work conferences being annihilated by an explosive mountain baff.

The Dove and I got ready to go to a cocktail party Saturday, where we had to dress up as cocktails.
I put on a frightfully foofy gold skirt, a Mexican sombrero and my white Berlin communist boots and called myself Tequila Gold. Tried to convince Dove to dress up as Liquid Cocaine in my blue euro dress, but she wouldn’t have it.

Decided to sack it off, and rather drink J&B in my lounge, listen to cheesy music and talk shit all evening instead.