Tuesday, September 27, 2011

the eagle landed

Paint me red and call me a carpet. Cripes. What a crazy few days.

I am flying to America on Saturday and fear I won't even be caught up on everything before then.

The eagle landed - Dove arrived on Friday afternoon, and we immediately set about catching up on the balcony over a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.

Look, if you can't get Diemersfontein, best you substitute with a bottle of Provence's finest.

We have one of those lucky friendships where it can be months or like now, a year between last seeing each other, and everything just slips into place like we saw each other the previous day.

I've realised that obviously living here, that I am very out of the goss loop at home.
I'm caught up on most things, it only took about half an hour.

It was good to have someone to skinner with about everything. And say 'fuck' and 'c%nt' a lot with.

We caught up with a wider group and the Brit in Camden, hit some live music and Peas managed to get so hammered, I have at least three hours I cannot account for.

I'm speaking in the third person, because Peas might as well as not even been there. We went to a cocktail bar, I apparently told Dove a long-winded rhetoric about Made in Chelsea this wanky yet addictive quasi-reality series everyone watches here, about my stance on drugs (?), and other shit I can't remember.
I was the protagonist of all those conversations, but I don't remember a fucking thing.

I've noticed this lately. More than three glasses of wine and Peas is talking and talking but remembering nothing. Ever again. I get Alcoholic Alzheimer's.
I'll be sitting there, walking and talking, apparently fairly coherently and the next day it might've not even happened.

Some people pass out when they're drunk, I get memory loss. Badly.

Dude. It's a bit scary.

Anyway, so the next day after sitting until 3am with the Brit and the Dove, talking shit - again - I was there?, I woke up to one monster of a hangover.

Fuck me and call me Cagatha. It was ferocious.

Armed with paracetamol, we took a walk through Chelsea and South Ken, to do some high street shopping with the Dove, to insatiate her Zara craving.

When Saffas visit London; they go to Zara. Apparently there's one opening up in Joburg now, but until then, Saffas spend their pension funds at Zara when they visit. The Dove is no different, and neither was I when I was a visitor to London.

Every now and then, I'd duck out from behind the tweed blazers (fuck yes! I got one! Yes I did!), and go outside to engage in a tactile chunder.

I didn't chunder, but hell's teeth, it was close a few times.

Then we took the Dove back to her cousin's to leave London, and that was it. My two days with Dove were gone in a whirlwind.

Felt majorly emo on Dove leaving. Then realised that I'd be home in 4.5 months, which is like, five seconds away.

Woke up on Sunday and felt like someone had intra-venoused me with e-coli. I got one of those "24 hour bug" things that people harp on about when they pull a sickie.
To me, a 24 hour bug is this mythical made-up sickness; an excuse for staying in bed.

Bullshit. I was sicker than a motherfucker. I couldn't leave my bed. Basically had swollen glands, bad stomach, a headache, basically eating dry toast and water and being nursed by my amazing Brit.

On the possibly last sunny day of the year. I had to stay in bed. I watched about 5 September 11th Ten Year Memorial documentaries and bawled my eyes out - crisis - and that was the last day I spent summer.

I say this, as it's now dark and grey outside.

Bring on a bit of California.

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