stuff that i find fun now

A few things I've started to notice, as time storms ahead to my next [gulp] birthday in September.

I am getting worse and worse at small talk, socially.
I am getting better and better at small talk, professionally.

My perception of fun has really changed. Fun used to be going out, getting rowdy, caning a few bottles of wine with friends and smoking myself retarded on Marlboro Lights.

Before that, fun used to be going to a club and dancing like a primate in a retro club, while slotting Z-Grade cane.
Now, having fun is:

Buying a handbag
From Mulberry or my current, and less-sell-your-kidneys favourite, The Cambridge Satchel company. That do embossing and everything. It's been my summer bag - I took it on honeymoon, on holiday to Malta and day-to-day wear it all over London.

Can't really wear it in winter, because it's a bit bright. Too many bright colours in winter here is a little bit bolshy.

 (All my names. Every single one of them. One needs to max out when one gets embossed.)

Isn't it a work of art? I know the creator too. She spoke for me at an event, and she is an absolute doll.

Shopping in London and following fashion blogs and street trends
Without a doubt, London is the best place - in the world - to shop. Shared with Paris and New York.
Hands down.
No question.

I've traveled a lot of places and I shop in all of them, and as far as classic style, cutting-edge trends, price - yes price - you can buy for cheap here if you want to - my town is a shopper's fuckin' paradise.
And now, part of my job involves being on the PULSE when it comes to fashion and trends.

I have to say, I was disappointed by Singapore. I was promised a shopper's paradise, but price-wise and style-wise, it just didn't do it for me.

Absorbing lots of women and fashion magazines. I am doing more consumer focused PR, which means I need to know what people buy and want.

As you can imagine, this is the BEST part of my job at the moment. I am fucking loving this gig.

My desk does look like this though:

Messy.

But it does mean I know what's hot, what's going to be hot, and what is definitely ridiculous.

Anyway, back to fun. I love shopping. I do a lot of it. I live in a place that was built for such a hobby.
Except today, it did look like I was on my way to a baby shower. So I wouldn't consider myself an expert.

Driving a car around on a Friday night
It's becoming my Friday night thing to do. I might even hashstag that shit.
While normal people go to the pub, I get in the car and drive to a random village in Surrey, to look around, while listening to really loud music. Like Rythym Is A Dancer.

Wierd. But driving is still a novelty because we have a new car, and I haven't driven much in my 3 or so years here.

Going out to eat a really good meal
With people where the conversation flows really really easily. (See above.)

Running
I'm in my own bubble, listening to my own thoughts, sweating and purging stuff from my pores. Not sure how much it helps flatten my backside, but it doesn't wonders for me mentally.

Average for my hind; great for my mind.
I just made myself a mantra there.

Sometimes it is a slog, but I always feel fucking tremendous once I have got off the treadmill, scooped myself off the floor and recovered from the run itself.

Watching Breaking Bad
Jesus H. Lock me up in a padded cell with Netflix and a remote control. Who isn't completely obsessed with it right now? No one, that's who.
We are only on season 2, and we are as addicted as the dudes that take all that crystal in the show.
And it's not even winter, we usually only try and watch stuff when it isn't amazingly sunny outside.

Lying around in a park
Oh Great London Summer of Light, Mirth & Happiness. Please stay forever.

it's well bad

Oh my crap.
This is well shameful.

Friday was dumb and boring – we had a Baron session.
Saturday, was fun. I think. Fuck. Don't do what I did, kids. Ever.

I checked my phone Sunday morning – head reeling in post-debauched headache – and I found that I'd tried to send all of my phone recipients this message:
Vietecal hugetiontiontt homet at all is increming. Vietecs the AMAZING THERE IS GOD.
I imagine I tried to send that to C, probably trying to tell her I was home safely at 2:00am, but honestly, I cannot be sure.

I remember singing karaoke at a Big In Japan party. I remember meeting new people. I remember getting acquainted with a watermelon, and handing around the diabolical punch inside it with a ladle. I remember enjoying this punch immensely. I remember dancing like Scatman John. I remember karaoke, and general overindulgence and fraternisation. Jesus, then that's about it. Because I don't remember anything in between leaving the party and waking up the next morning. Hollllly fuck.

There must be angels. I believe finally that there have to be a group of saccharine angels looking over me.

Martha Stewart filled me in on the details. I got home with a whole lot of snacks. (I stopped at the Engen garage?) - the next day finding Fritos next to the toilet - then spilt coke over my nice new polka dot shorts, then I told her that “you know those white things in the middle of the road?” Martha: The lines, you mean. “Yes those things. Anyway, I couldn't see them.”

I was so wrecked, from the cane in the watermelon (I drank cane?! Ah. It all makes sense now.) that I don't remember stopping off for snacks, leaving the party, and driving altogether.

That is terribly shameful. And kids, you don't want to ever do that. Had the cops stopped me, they wouldn't have needed to breathalise me. I was dressed up like the Japan flag – had red lipstick all over my face, looked rather disheveled and was monumentally and properly fucked.

I won't do that again. How did this happen? And I am alive? Seriously? That fucking watermelon and its contents. Damn you watermelon punch, damn you.

I blame the oke dressed like Elvis Presley dishing out the punch out of the said fruit. God, everyone was tucking in. And we were singing Britney Spears on the karaoke machine and I was pretending to be the human version of the Japanese flag (no one really go it – white and red guys, how hard can it be?) and like C, kimono's from her granny's closet.

L2 phoned me the next day to ask what the fuck happened. I drove from Riverclub to Illovo; she drove from Riverclub to Rivonia. And C also drove home. Bad girls. Bad, bad, bad. I thought I was becoming quite responsible lately – turning down the chance of multiple Jaegermeistering, leaving before the heat gets too hot in the kitchen, generally piping down.

What the fuck was this then? A moment of insanity maybe. Martha Stewart and I did go on a whoring shopping spree Saturday afternoon after all...and I suppose I felt like a young un again.

Memory loss and red lipstick on my face, coke all over the floor.

Apparently thanking God, Allah, Buddha, Jah, Jesus and all those religious dudes for keeping me alive.

Had to play in a croquet tournament the yesterday, at the Joburg Country Club. Quite an apt little punishment.

But I was Big In Japan, apparently.