sylvia's club

Had our final French lesson for the year last night.
So we decided to go to someone’s house and get drunk on good French wine, eat cheese and tell stories.

I have swapped numbers with my French teacher – she’s my age, single and awesome. Frankly, I want her to be my new best friend.

We’re going to go for a glass of wine next week. Whether we speak French or English, whatever. Her first love was a clown in the circus – word. She’s effortlessly blasé about things, is completely theatrical, beautifully French, and pretty darn hysterical. She doesn’t say things like, ‘I can’t talk about stuff like that anymore, I’m married Peas.’

I swear I got that the other day. (I assure you it was innocent enough – I was going on about penis-area grooming.)
And you wonder why I want to whack my head in an oven with a stickie note on my back that says ‘Hey, I’m Sylvia Plath.’

I had a feeling I had almost nothing in common with some of my closest friends way beyond this week, but hell, was this the writing on the wall. I find it both sad and baffling that marriage seems to define a before and after effect on people. Before they crossed over to the other side, while I wave at them from the other bank.

Anyway, although feeling more isolated than ever before and desperate to leave the country and be in England in 12 days, I am so happy I have made a new friend – my French teacher – who is completely fabulous.

Maybe it’s because the onslaught of the silly season has bestowed its jingly self onto us, that I’m feeling a little lonesome and in need of some loving. And sexy time. (With another person besides my bad self.)

Or maybe had too many glasses of French Bleubleubleu last night, and thought, ‘Fuck it. I’m chilled. But I’m also in need of a change of fucking scenery around here.’

Or maybe Baka dying has made me feel blah overall.

Maybe I’m sad French is over until next year February, and that I’ve made some very interesting friends out of it. From all walks of life, across a big age spectrum, and are all quite interesting people. Maybe it’s because we talk about all sorts of profound conversations in another [more romantic] language, and we have one common goal: To sound fucking cool when we parlez-vous.

Peas: Dude when Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven, did she leave a stickie note on her back?

Dove: I don’t think so.

Peas: Was it an old school oven or a Defy.

Dove: I’m pretty certain it was an LG. But it definitely wasn’t a….Bosch.

Peas: Do you think the person who wrote her biography said; ‘Sylvia then stuck her head in a Bosch oven of non-descript brand, because they only worked with anthracite stoves in those days.’

Dove:……yes.

Peas: Cool.

PS: On that note, it is Christmas. And each year, someone I know, always does something special for those children whose Christmas is a non-affair. During the week of the 14th December He, dressed as Santa, and a few elves visit the hospitals and childrens homes around Joburg to hand out presents. Presents need not be expensive and just need to be wrapped with an indication of the childs age group and gender. You can get involved and make a difference today!

grenouilles & gym

I can hardly move my upper body today but am otherwise alive.
Changing gears on the way to work this morning was another story. Ow ow ow ow.

Had to write out a few stories last night for French homework, where the class would decide whether each was true or false.

In English, mine were:

1) Normally I hate any form of exercise. However today, I cycled 8 kilometres, did 30 push ups (no seriously, the dude at the gym said ‘Drop down and give me thirty,’ to test my ‘endurance’ for my assessment. Fuck me on a Kelim rug), and then 30 stomach crunches. Then I ran around the block.

2) My friend won the lottery. She didn’t win the whole thing, just R5000.

3) Last year was a big one for me. I bought a piano by mistake and published a book.

4) I made a huge meal for my family over the weekend, a French dish in particular. I bought frozen frog’s legs from the supermarket, and whacked them in the oven. It wasn’t good, but I tried.


Which stories are true and which are false?

(Considering one woman said she knows a pig that swims – and that was her true story – anything is possible.) Everyone thought my true stories were for real, and my false one’s were true.

I should do this more often. Confusing groups of people by means of pseudo-sophisticated calibration really is, de facto, rather fun.

They never thought anyone could buy a piano by mistake on the Internet, and really thought I cooked frog’s legs for my folks.

No sirree, not in this lifetime. And now the piano is out of tune because it’s been sitting next to the fucking office server for too long.

Had such a long and fantastic chat with E last night. She’s been back in The Pit for 2 months now, (previously having lived in Cairo for the past two years) and confessed that she’s feeling like a hermit and is it normal.

Yes! Yes It’s normal! Please say it’s normal? Welcome back to Johannesburg two years later –where then we were mucking about in pubs three times a week with the young, nubile kinetic energy only seen in 26 year olds!

We chatted for ages and she said, ‘Am soooo sorry for being a hermit.’

‘What? No I am. I am sorry. For beign a hermit.’

Yip, things around here are conducive to hermitage. She was preaching to the choir.
And the choir felt relieved.

She’s one of my best friends, and she understands. Although married and settled, she understands how I feel – as she feels the same.

Sometimes there are people sitting in my little lonesome boat. It’s comforting.

On gym, dude there – with the bulging calves – told me I was 1.70m tall. That means I’ve shrunk two inches. That can’t be right. Surely? Good God, panic. It’s one thing growing sideways, but shrinking? Do I LOOK like Eric Cartman?

The good news is I have almost no cholesterol. And that’s about the only good news. And I have low blood pressure. That’s better than high surely.

little slice of

Doing French classes is the best thing I’ve done for myself since living in this place.

That, and remembering to put a teaspoon in the champagne bottle, before retiring it lovingly and tipsily to the fridge last night after dinner. It really works! The stuff is as crisp and as bubbly – if not more – than the night before.

Honestly though, escaping to a little world of Europeaness once a week really does wonders for my general disposition.

It’s like a slice of fuckberry pie without the fucking.

I missed three lessons since I’ve been away, and I realised last night how much I should’ve done this yearsago.

Fuck. Wasted time.

People have definitely become more animated as we’ve got to know each other.
In that we’re not scared to sound like jibbering non-sensical idiots when we open our mouths, and people’s personalities are definitely starting to come through.


Through the word of spoken French, that is. Which is always fuck off animated in itself.

It’s hysterical.

The Belgian from Bedfordview has taken to finger shaking when he’s trying to make a point, which is again, worth any money in entertainment, even if I am absorbing nothing else.

My French teacher doesn’t so much as dictate a story as she does acting it out, just because that’s what French people do. Arm gesticulations, facial malleability and general movement is how one tells a story Mediterranean-style.

We also have three poms in my class, which is entertainment on a stick right there.

A lovely German girl.

There’s a haute couture designer who owns her own boutique-like label who is always impeccably groomed and dressed, and although older than us, is a gas in her own right.

Last night we were talking about sexiest accents ever.

Of course, most people voted for the generic Irish accent, some went for Italian and Spanish accents as rated most sexy.

Peas: ‘Les accents ANGLAISE.’

Chic designer lady: ‘Cockney?’

Peas: Non non……un petit….Dorset.

Pom: ‘Bish bosh bash - I’m from Dorset, my father’s a fisherman.’

Peas: Is that right.

[pause]

‘Hang on. Did you just say bish bosh bash? Fucking. Classic.’

So anyway, good times.

Except for one disturbing moment. She made us watch a scene out of Paris Je T’aime.. Where this non-descript senior American woman learns French and goes to Paris for a holiday, on her own.

French teacher thought the scene was beautiful, some of us – me – thought it was so sad. As she sat there in the Jardin de Luxembourg, munching on a sandwich, tears in her eyes, alone, on a bench.

I thought. ‘Me? In 30 years time?’

Except she wore a moonbag/fanny pack. And I’ll never do that.

ancestry, seychelles & stuff

Peas: Dude, I need to apply for leave first week of October. I'm going to the Seychelles with the extended French family.

Crusoe: Why you going there? You related to the Creoles or something?

Peas: [cough, splutter] You're lucky my Gran wasn't around to hear that. She'd chop your balls off.

Crusoe: Well, your family lived there right?

Peas: Moved there during za vorre. But we're French Royalty dude, don't mock it. The Creoles weren't part of the equation. In fact, to keep the bloodlines pure, half my cousins there are probably inbred.

Crusoe: So, your cousins fucked your cousins?

Peas: Imagine French Catholics in a confined space for a second.....got the picture?
Royal Catholics, might I add. So bow down and give your employee some friggin' respect.

Crusoe: What finishing school did you go to, 'cos, Jesus, the shit that comes from your mouth doesn't exactly scream 'Princess Diana.' And you're only really Royal if you're British.

Peas: Oh yeah? You think Prince Harry never says 'fuck?' My great great grandmother was a Bourbon, dude. Top that.

Crusoe: So lemme get this straight...you're going on holiday to a tropical island full of your half-bred royal cousins. My question is....what if you find one of your cousins has an exceptionally large wanger?

Peas: Well, I wouldn't go there if that's what you're asking.

Crusoe: And what if it's ginormous?

Peas: Why would I want to see it in the first place?

Crusoe: 'Cos you have been known to stare at people's crotches lately.

Peas: Dude, even if he had a dick the length of your garden hose, I wouldn't go there.

Crusoe: So why're you so Royal again? What was the family name?

Peas: D'Agniel d'Assignet de Bourbon....and by the way, the more 'de's or 'd's' in a surname, the more aristocratic you are. We have three, bitch.

Crusoe: ...Her Highness, Peas de de de Toast?

Peas: Am I bovvered?

Crusoe: Royalty wouldn't say that.

Peas: Royalty can say anything they want.


PS: My dad, on the other hand, wants to call his new dog...Norman. Somebody please, we need a reality check here.