granny's back's been put out

Oh how I love my new Irish friend! She's too great for words. She's gone back to Dublin now, and she was right – by the end of the week I knew exactly what she was saying. Her accent is like a song, and there are some things worth mentioning: “Thirty three and a third” is “Turty tree and a turd” quite literally. What's her favourite day of the week? Torsday. Anyway, she's taking me to a beer garden festival on my first day in Dublin. Yay!

I ended up going to a Chino Pants Popular Drinking Hole in Sandton thereafter, at about midnight with a mate for a nightcap. Spur of the moment thing. Twasn't as traumatic as I thought. The pick up lines are so gung ho in these meat markets, I've even missed it.

And on Saturday 3RM and I hauled buns. We hauled boxes in his step-mum's Condor to my new shag pad.
Hauling boxes is a mission. Especially when you're moving to what seems a quiet suburban neighbourhood. (Although must reiterate, the Colony is within rolling distance of my flat). But my Daffyt Thomas mug, the one from The Dove? Was animatedly yakking away while we moved.

3RM: Dude something's talking to me in this box.
Mug: THAT'S EXACTLY THE SORT OF HOMOPHOBIC BEHAVIOUR I'VE COME TO EXPECT IN THIS VILLUGE....GOOD DAY!
By which an old lady and two hot guys walk past. Neighbours I presume.
I'M THE ONLY GAY IN THE VILLUGE!

...MFAMWY, THESE HOT PANTS ARE GIVIN' ME TERRIBLE CHAFIN'

With boxes all around me and two awesomely pukey yet full of charm 70s pleather chairs 3RM has lent me, we sat and quaffed wine. C and L came too, with champagne and snacks – and we sat on the balcony and had an unofficial little gathering of a roof wetting.

Next week I do the rest, I'm half moved in. I have bruises on my arms from boxes, and something in my back went 'ping' yesterday, I swear to God. Carrying boxes, scraping against my sort-of excuses for biceps.

Then some of us went out for dins and wine and got all political – well 3RM and I especially – and it all started with a debate around the fact that 3RM calls an orange light an 'amber light.' So yes maybe in the fucking Learner's Manuel you call it that, but my argument was based on the fact that nobody says 'I jumped an amber and got a fine.' It's an ORANGE LIGHT. Everyone but everyone calls it orange. And to prove my point, we phoned a few people.

Teddy said he called it a yellow light. So it wasn't a substantiated answer.

Ant said it was mainly orange, according to the consensus around the room. L said it was orange, even my father said orange: Dad, quick question: the colour between the red and the green on a traffic light. The colour, give me a colour swatch for this middle light. Thanks.

Was just trying to prove a point with 3RMs verbose dialect, and I think I did. Not out of anything except that he calls jerseys jumpers and Simba chips crisps and he's very English and so forth, and it's all very entertaining.

Anyway, I can't stop thinking about my home and where I'm going to put what, and how I'm going to finance this and that and gosh it's exciting!

new home

Well. About 45.6 seconds ago, I tumbled out of bed, phoned the agent and said, "THE LEASE FOR THAT APARTMENT IS MINE! Er, please can it be mine?"

The weekend has been spent tossing around a decision on two places. One is a reasonably sized garden cottage on a property in Parkhurst, close to the shops, and with garden and pool; the other is a swish parquet-floored apartment in Craighall with a large balcony that could happily seat 15 of my friends.

It came down to making a pro's and con's list. And budgeting, and considering things like domestic maintenance and security. If I'm living on my own, the place has to be secure. The Craighall kitchen has been renovated and is ultra-modern and all that, as well as the bathroom. It also has a spare study. And heaps of storage space.
And, although not within walking distance of shops (The Colony is close by...but the new me doesn't go there anymore), and Hyde Park is a block away. I've decided to take it, moving end of this month before I go to the UK.

I have a new home! Scary. Jesus. It's really happening.
But out of all these learning experiences over the last few months, and all that fucking character building mumbo jumbo and bullshit – or not bullshit – but bullshit right now – stuff....the most emotional part for me is moving.

I've been waking up before the birds tweet cold sweating The Big Move. I've been here for four years, it's going to be hard to leave. It's really been home. The reasons for moving are paramount though, and it has to be done: change, new start, the place I reside is now shabby, I can afford to move, I want to live by myself, etc etc etc.

But this place holds a lot of memories. I've been boxing and throwing out stuff for a week now – the stuff I don't want is going to charity, Pretty and Lucas – but it's a serious change out of all the changes that have happened to me. My flat has always been my one constant. My refuge where I sing karaoke and where Lucas, the security guard, takes it upon himself to indoctrinate all my men.

I haven't had the heart to tell Lucas I'm moving yet. It's going to be horrible. You have to realise that Lucas, who kind of works sometimes, sometimes not – has been in this building for over 30 years. He's like 70 years old. He found out I was from Natal when I first moved in, and never really forgot that. (He's from Eshowe and in his limited dialect – for I don't know what he says half the time – he's just animated about his family holidays.)

He doesn't only look after my friends cars, he has taken it upon himself to be my legal guardian. Which has its up and downsides, believe you me. Every guy that comes for a napover or is my boyfriend gets a hard time with Lucas. He's poked them: ([poke poke] “Who are you and why are you here?”), he's asked what their intentions are before, he's basically embarrassed me more times than I can remember.

But...his intentions are good. The only person he has really liked in recent times is 3RM. I suppose Third Roommate bribes him with beer and other sweet talk, but I suppose he also knows 3RM doesn't have dodgy intentions. Lucas has actually been a good judge of character from if I look back on things, but he's also been a liability.

If I traipse in drunk late on a Saturday night, Lucas wags his little finger at me. I swear to God. “Where have you been?” Or before I get to my car: “Where are you going and with who, a BOYFRIEND?” It's hectic.

Telling him I'm going is going to be awful.