Unsurprisingly, the Dove didn't fall for my 'I'm moving to Guam' bullshit, and the colleague didn't want to adopt a kangaroo my on behalf either.
This really didn't matter. I had a hearty whale of a time creating the aforementioned bullshit especially for their prospective inboxes.
So I went through Staines this weekend.
Staines is known for two things.
1) being the fictional home of Ali G;
2) being the biggest shithole west of London.
So you can imagine how keen I was to spend 3 hours waiting for the next train down to Bournemouth to join my boyfriend over the weekend.
This is Staines, the pop culture version:
This is Staines, the real version:
In all seriousness, I thought, "I'll wander around and find an Ali G memorial."
Jumped onto the train, fresh out of southwest London, and got off, wearing a red polka dot summer dress (this is important) and double-breasted blazer (even more important), and navy neckerchief (probably the most important thing in this entire story), to this:
The only thing around was a highway and five tyre shops.
I walked down the street in search of something, anything, and was accosted verbally by a group of 12 year olds in lumo shell suits and waterfall mullets.
Something about my blazer and neckerchief didn't quite fit into the local scene. Must try better next time.
I was pretty much convinced after 5 minutes of walking that this, was on the scale of Shit-as-Scunthorpe on a wet day, when I turned a corner to find this:
What could that be, in this hiatus of hell? Why, a blerrie Saffa winkel.
And even better still, it sold fuckloads of wine.
To set the context right: I haven't seen a bottle of Diemersfontein since I stepped foot on this island 10 months ago. That's a long time to be thirsty for, sistah.
And hark! In the middle of Staines, El Sheethole Del Mundo, was a dude called Ross who sold gallons of the stuff.
I bought three bottles. I found Diemersfontein in Staines.
And threw in a bottle of Mrs Balls for good measure.