what was in this?

I don't know what exactly was in my curry last night, but hell I experienced more than a few very lucid, very vivid dreams right up until my alarm went off this morgen, much to my immediate hatred.

A group of us tried out this new curry den down the road. Something's up. I swear I was tripping last night. The dreams. All night long.

In one dream, I was in my school uniform, flying. I had the ability to fly and was - wittingly and cunningly - flying across the hockey fields by the seat of my pants. It was rather embarrassing since the whole school could see my doondies, and there were boys tottering around too, but I was flying with my dress up and my pantyhose on display.

Other dreams included uploading pictures of people singing karaoke at varsity onto this blog by mistake, and then another was electrocuting Big T with some scientific equipment, which was very amusing - because it made his hair stand on end.

The dreams got stranger and stranger. Now I had the braised and curried chicken breast with garden peas, (everyone around me, C especially, had order envy. My dish was great. Until my head hit the pillow that is.)

Good curry, but fuck. Did they sprinkle acid onto my dish or something?

toilet roll, cycling & curry

Just a question – my toilet paper has little clouds on it. And little dogs.

Does my ass care? Does it honestly care though? Like does my bottom have eyes or something? TwinSaver, I appreciate your need to sjoosj up your bog roll for all those hoity toity doetpipes out there....but is it completely necessary?

Given, my ass is a larny ass. It likes a bit of cushioning and won't turn it's nose up at at a little bit of Three Ply, when on offer at the Westcliff Hotel.

It also gets scrubbed with a loofah everyday to ensure it's general well-being.

However, the floaty puppies and stupid clouds are a bit dumb. Because my eyes are in fact in my face, not my backside.

Just a thought.

I went on a 20 km cycle with Big T yesterday. I feel as though I have been sodomised ever-so-gently (possibly over a table or something...), but shit it feels good to get back on the saddle again. This was followed by a cheap and delicious Bismillah curry with Big T and Mr 747 in Fordsburg. A poppadum ladled in a bit of chicken masala is frightfully orgasmic.
Curry makes me horny. Just another thing I discovered about me yesterday.

curry & an aeroplane

Well.

So.

I met someone on an aeroplane last week.

(Well not on the aeroplane, just before that.)

One doesn't expect to meet, actually get on with, and later on, be attracted to someone on an aeroplane. That only happens in Hollywood Blockbusters, let's not lie.

If I take the general propensity of airline travellers that I have been lucky enough a bitch to sit next to: it's usually the Michelin Man who oozes onto my seat. And drools in his sleep, and eats all the free pretzels. Or a mother with a scrrreaming bambino.

So I'm usually prepared. As in I don't make eye contact, I stuff my iPod into my ears and refuse to engage in any more conversation other than, “Bathroom, I need the bathroom. Please dislodge your [large and grotesque] bottom from your seat so that I can get past”. Some passengers are chatty, especially people from PE (the Friendly City doesn't have that name just because), but I'm a hardcore, don't-fucking-look-at-me type on aeroplanes.

But I spoke to this person quite a bit. Even though he knows how much I was dreading sitting next to him to begin with. It's a long story.

Anyway, back to the point. I had a napover with the aeroplane dude on Saturday night. I haven't smiled properly in, oh about four months, in general, and I found myself inclined to feel less sorry for myself after this weekend. Maybe I shouldn't be smiling, because it could end up being a une grande catastrophe like everything else seems to become in my life, but whatever.

I also drank cane at the Colony, belted out some Roxette for everyone's aural pleasure, ate a curry at Bismillah, drank gin and tonics at the Country Club, and flicked a hoof at the Manhattan Club, just 'cos I hadta. (Also a mate needed rescuing from a man only known as Fanta Pants. Desirable.) Also witnessed Big T dry hump a few walls, which is always entertaining.

It's strange how things turn out.

PS: One of my mates, ever on her quest to find me the love of my life, suggested a guy whom, she described as, “Well, he's fantastic really. A real pants man. Who probably has a drinking problem and loses everything, but he's lots of fun.”
Let me think. How about no, [you crazy Dutch bastard?]

She's trying to set me up with a skirt-chasing alcoholic amnesiac? She must be bloody joking. Must be. I'm good for now.