Monday, November 29, 2010
survival for the fittest
A gingah making mulled wine.
Fuck me on a frigging Frigidaire.
It's sub-zero outside, and I'm wearing two vests under two shirts and a jersey dress.
This rotund look is messing with my vibe. It's hard to be mobile when you're in 8000 layers. I'm waddling everywhere, getting wedgies from my stockings, and generally look like a tosser.
When I was told that You In Winter was going to be my biggest personal challenge on moving here, I secretly thought, "It can't be that bad; I mean people haven't died or had frontal lobotomies. Russia deals with worse. In Russia people wear animals on their heads and drink vodka for breakfast."
I was told, by South Africans mind you, that until I live through my First British Winter, I haven't truly lived here yet. One month in, three months to go, and I have to say that you're a cold sneaky little fucker.
It's not like it's just oh so terrible. It's just really dark and really cold. It's not raining (yet? Oh God forbid), however little things have started to change.
1) My mid riff. I'm sporting a tyre around it. A 'racing bike' model. When it turns into a 'mountain bike,' then we'll speak again
2) My incessant appetite for anything hot and carbtastic. Therefore tying in with 1)
3) Horizontalness under covers. If I could stay in bed and watch the entire series of Twin Peaks over and over again until the end of January, that's how I'd choose to spend my existence
4) Hats. I own four new ones now. Of woolen variety.
5) I dream constantly of warm places. I yearn for the farking mistral in France. I dream of any beach, all beaches, anywhere, all the time. Except not British beaches.
6) I don't feel like socialising unless I'm on mulled wine.
The impending gloom and doom sinks in when I realise the next time I will see sun and my naked skin will be exposed to hot, tropical elements, will be in February when the Brit and I escape to Vietnam.
But I shall not be defeated, Britain! I have oodles of fight left in me yet, you frigid old bastard.
I decided last night, over my third cup of mulled wine with some friends, that I will beat Britain and it's cold demons in one way. And one way only.
I will henceforth throw myself into warm alcoholism.
I will survive by getting drunk as much as possible on mulled wine.
I now survive by doubling the time I spend in pubs.
I will solely survive on the likes of hot wine, wearing a hat, and dreaming of South East Asian palm fronds in February.
Take that Britain.
[Guv'nah and drunklord] Peas On Toast