o'gradyscrinklecutcrisps

Fantastic.

I've made an Irish friend before I go there. Jolly hockeysticks, GET IN.

Now, I don't understand a word she is saying. But if I string every third word together, and please bear in mind she calls a bird a “boarrrrd”. (A board?), and I've had to say a few times, “Huh, sorry what?,” “Beg pardon?”, “Could you repeat your sentence just one more time please,” and plenty of “Yes...sure....right...absolutely's........”

She said that Irish people have the gift of the gab and never stop talking, they're friendly. That's cool. That's more than cool.
More pointedly, however, she said they don't actually wear green.
At all.
It just doesn't make sense in the idealised part of my brain.

“Em, in fact doodlymacallithoofallay the folk actually wear more green in Sath Africa doodlyo'connor o'grady.”

Peas: People wear more green here than in Ireland.

“Em...doodlyyeah.”

Peas: No. This can't be right. My friend said the same thing, don't crush my dream.

“Em guinness.”

Peas: I suppose there're no rainbows either.

“Em, yeahdoodly. Oirishcoffee.”

Peas: Please take me to a pub in Dublin where people play music and talk about leprechauns and possibly wear a little bit of green.

“Em, yeahsure...flanaganskettlefriedcrisps.”

Peas: Flanagans! Did you just say Flanagans?

“Em, no. roightflanagans...look! A board! Inna sky!”

Peas: Cool...yeah...sure...absolutely.

“Em, enwhotabootpaddyo'grady?”

Peas: [WTF?] “Um.....we have a restaurant chain here called O'Hagans.”

“Em, what?”

Listening to her is like listening to lyrics. Her speech is so lyrical and so...incomprehensible to the naked ear. But nevertheless I know a local! And she's taking me to an authentic Irish local pub when I'm there. She says by the time I'm done with Dublin, I'll understand everyone.

Or at least I think that's what she said.

(“Tahpo'themorrrnintehya.” Crikey, what. Ohhh. Top.Of.The.Morning.To.You...Gotcha.”)

Apparently on one of my days there, there's a big bank holiday festival going on. O'MYSACK. Geddit? O'MySack. How terribly exciting! And there's a statue of a poet called Paddy pretty much next to my hotel.

It's a picture.

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.

would you like to explain what you doing, sistah

Went to Little C's birthday party on Saturday night (Poen's little sister), where Moogs, L and I decided thereafter we would go to the Jolly Roger for a night cap.

Once inside, it's too predictable.

One guy winks at me and gives me the galloping guns. (Oh come on. Seriously) Then sidles up next to me at the bar (Please don't do that – especially if I don't return the wink), while his mate wraps his arms around Moogs, and screams in his ear: YOU LEGEND! YOU ARE A LEGEND!
Moogs a little taken aback mutters a very polite “thanks” and sips on his Bells and soda. The guy then goes: Girls...do you think I'm a legend?

Now let's see. We could have fun with this. Let's help this man believe – with his popped up collar – that he is the king of the fucking world. This can only be fun.

“You're such a legend.” “I can't believe you're talking to me. Hug my mate Moogs again, he loves that. Ruffle his hair in fact. He loves that more.”

No doubt, there's a certain “ah but bless” about this expected juvenile stuff, a certain “Jesus. Can men grow up already” and a “it's a bit of a laugh” around the whole thing, and these guys were entertaining, no doubt.

But then there was Lusitoland. Chaps, this year, my parents came along. My mother, the Colonial French princess, and my step-father, the German. They wanted to experience a Portuguese Afrikaans “get fucked” festival. Can't deny them that experience, come on – they suggested it. I dragged 3RM for support. He's [quarter – whatever] Portuguese, so I figured he'd be the best buffer.

Every year I have done it with friends and gone absolutely crazy. My mother after two caipirinhas was dancing very liberally to a Boereguese rendition of La Bamba. My German step-dad was drinking tankards of the stuff and waltzing around in a backpack. 3RM and I were both cowering in embarrassment and rejoicing at my old ducks doing their thing.

Then, I went to the porter potties to take a slash. And I had a small altercation with three 300kg Afrikaans women who were well plastered. I suddenly realised that this is how it must be with dealing with chavs in England, and a good lesson at that.

One has to drop their heads, avoid all eye contact and pretend to be engrossed with the grass at their feet when approached by chavs.

These three Bettys were going on in high pitched sonerations about how much they all needed a leak, and then proceeded to tap my shoulder in the queue, wanting me to join in their attentive conversation. I just smiled, dropped my eyes, pretended to be doing a complicated maths formula in my head.

They continued, asking me whether I think all men are bastards. I pretended to be mute and deaf and just smiled. Because either answer, good or bad, would've resulted in a klap, most likely.

Then I'm hovering on the said toilet, and they're all in there, singing and dancing about this and that – basically being loud and rambunctious – and one comes up with a
“Dalene! DALENE! Kom ons [just buy more booze] or the likes. [I need more booze].
To which: “Nee man, EK SOEK 'N FOK. I JUST NEED A FOK.”

Holy crapballs.

Then I remember why living here is an endless battle in paranoia and safety.
We almost got smash and grabbed on the way home.
I swear to God. WHAT THE FUCK. HOW MUCH MORE?

He came up the car, cupped his hands to stare into my window in the back seat – I dove across the seat and screamed at my mother who was sitting in a caipirinha daze up front: MUM THERE'S A FUCKING GUY AT YOUR WINDOW, FUCK!

He saw all our alarmed faces and...skipped across the pavement and awaited his next victim. He just fucking carried on and wasn't going to stop, because no one was going to stop him. Fuck that for a joke. This place and it's apathy towards crime has become almost too fucking FUCKED UP for me to handle.

That was me. Six caipirinhas later, being a recent crime statistic myself, and then this, I burst into tears and cried like a baby all the way home.
Fuck this. South Africa and it's crime (and that is also [worse] crime done to friends of mine, and recently my father who was completely robbed this weekend) is starting to resemble Dante's Ninth Level of Hell.

green, and why it's a cool colour

Peas: Dude I treated myself. Bought myself a bright green jersey for Ireland.
3RM: Dude, what - do you think people run around there solely wearing green?
Peas: I'd imagine they wear more green than the average international Green Standards.
3RM: You've read one too many Lonely Planet books.
Peas: Dude, you're telling me that I won't fit into Ireland more than say if I was wearing red?
3RM: No dude, I mean do you think Ireland is a place of rolling green hills and little rainbows with pots of gold at the end?
Peas: Yes. I do. Give or take.
3RM: Dude.

[pause]

3RM: Oh wait, it says here in this book you can take a...Paddywagon.
Peas: What? Show me!
3RM: [shows me bright green advert - so green my eyes sting]
Peas: Oh there's NO GREEN there 3RM, none.
3RM: They know who their target market is dude. There's a leprechaun sitting on a pot of gold sipping on a Guinness.
Peas: Oh look! 100% Irish drivers. Classic. Do you think they've had complaints? “I wasn't 100% happy with our Paddywagon. Our driver was from Hounslow.”

[pause]

Peas: C'mon dude, I know people that go to Ireland and kiss the Blarney Stone and stuff.
3RM: Oh dude, it says here...if you're ever in distress in Ireland, like an emergency, you just have to wave a piece of green clothing about to get help.
Peas: Fuck off.
3RM: Dude, the fire engines there are green.
Peas: Yes, I suppose their straight jackets are also green too.
3RM: Oh wait dude, you actually need to go to Scotland.
Peas: Why's that?

[holds up book]

The Wild & Sexy Highlands. Free Haggis on sign-up
[Picture of an exceptionally hairy bagpipe-laden man in a kilt, juxtaposed with a furry animal yak thing.]

The Ireland ad on the other hand:

Ireland: It rocks!
[Cue beautiful naked man (with a graphic clover over his nethers) standing next to an archaic statue holding up a Guinness with a look of pure glee on his face.]

That's more like it.

Peas: You can't tell me that on St Paddy's Day in Ireland people rock up in red.
3RM: Yeah maybe if they're colour blind.
Peas: I'm not sure I'm going to understand a word they're saying. In London, it's all good. In fact, it's chavtastic. I can't wait to ask a chav on the tube whether they're bovvered.
3RM: Dude you'll be beaten up.
Peas: I'll wear my scarf. In my scarf....I'm untouchable.
3RM: Dude, if you ask a chav whether she's bovvered...I'd say it's probably best not to.
Peas: How am I going to help myself? I'm in London for six days. It's going to happen.
3RM: Don't wave a green cloth around.
Your jersey is like one of those My friend went to London and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.
Peas: Hey! I am a tourist.
Martha Stewart: She's a tourist, she's allowed. Stop being so critical, pour me another drink.

The man immediately shuts up.

PS: I think I maybe might've sort of found me a new home!

bob's your aunty

Went out for a drink with Dick last night, before embarking on an evening with my girls for dinner and a few drinkiepoos. He's out from Australia for a few days for a wedding and such (the oke hasn't really had a chance to settle in his new place of lieu, although did say he's bought a Ute and has seen a kangaroo in the wild. Highlarious. )

He bought me this equally highlarious little book called Oz-isms. Where such phrases and words can be directly attributed to the Ozzie dialect, (and here I was thinking many were of Brit origin. I was wrong.) Translated directly from this book, here are some of the words I found particularly highsterical:

Bewdy - Beauty
Bluey - Redhead. (I thought that word started with a g?)
Bruce/Dong - A willy (How big's your bruce, Bruce?)
Brisvegas - Brisbane (abbreviated to Brizzy)
Cobba - a mate
Drongo - an idiot
Fizza - big build up; small outcome
Garbo - a trash collector
Hoyfaloy / Hoytee Toytee - upper class
Merkin - female nether region hair
Never Never - The outback
Pork pie - a lie (Is this cockney actually?)
Punished- smashed (love this)
Scrubba - a chav
Shark's biscuit - a body board (bewdyful)
Shemozzel - a large mess
Sparky - an electrician
Strewth - goodness me (I just love that the book includes this)
Tazzie - Tasmania
The Coathanger - Sydney Harbour Bridge
Trackiedacks - a tracksuit (most likely worn by a scrubba)
Unit - a big muscular man (Vernon is a Unit)
Vickta - a lawnmower (Can you just imagine: "The Vickta needs a Doctor, A Doctor for Vickta, Bruce - Doctor, Vickta! It won't start!")

Then there're the phrases:

Arse over tit - fall over
Blow ya stack - lose your temper
Did you come down in the last shower? - naïve
Fair dinkum - same as “True's Bob”
Flappin' ya gums - talking the hind leg of a donkey
Give 'em some curry - lay on the heat
Have a chardi and a vommi - drink wine then throw up
Lickedysplit - quick and smart
Lookamoy - look at me (Directly from the mouths of Kath & Kim)
No flies on you - you're sharp
Off like a bride's nightie - leave quickly
Pack a wallop - hit hard
Pain in ya pinnie - stomach ache
Tinny in a stubbie - beer in a cooler cup (they have an expression for this? Dinkum!)
Tight as a fish's arse - tight with cash (because fish's asses are toight?)
You pullin' me third leg? - you having me on? (And thereby yanking my Bruce?)
Two bob short of a quid - not the brightest crayon in the box

And my favourite favourite:
HAIRY CHEQUE BOOK - another name for a husbank.

C, Klo, L and I all went out and got a bit blotto, punishing ourselves on bottles of piss. (That's a beer FYI. A bottle of piss. Third time round: Highlarious)

so much change, so little time

So, for almost three months now, I have been interviewing with an incredible company, and have been offered a job with them. It's been a long tough process, and the process itself has been an enormous learning curve.

My feet are still, five days later, not quite on the ground as I write this. Honestly, it hasn't sunk in yet.
All this change is kind of overwhelming, exciting and terrifying at the same time.

I figured - when all that shit of a few weeks ago happened and continued to happen...and continued to happen – only if I got this job, I'd stay in Johannesburg. That was the plan, give or take, at any rate.

In the meantime, I'd been organising an ancestral visa to the UK in case I didn't get this job. Why the UK? (And not Berlin – my first choice?) It is the easiest and quickest place to get to. And there was a time when I wanted to leave here pretty fucking quickly. As a result, I had all the paperwork ready. I was already imagining my life over there: and it would be fairly obscure. I was going to go start over, and make Brit friends and eat Spotted Dick. I applied for 7 jobs in London in a wild frenzy.

Then I got the job here. And frankly, I'm ecstatic. I am so excited, I can't even begin to describe it. I've looked up at the clouds and said to whomever is listening OK, so what the fuck. Is this why? To balance out all the shit you've dished me? How is it you have helped me achieve something against every fucking possible odd out there?

The great news is I still get to go to London and Dublin at the end of May. For training. I am absolutely so excited, Jesus, I am so chuffed and excited I could literally dance about the streets flashing my fanbelt to whoever is willing to notice.

Never been to Dublin before, how surreal. All this change, everything, it's all so insane. Dooblin!

When my notice period is up for my current apartment, I'll be moving into a little place all on my own. I'm scouting out new homes at this very moment, the pressure is on. I saw the first place last night. It's strange looking for a place on your own. I've only ever done it with boyfriends and flatmates. The place seemed very cold last night, and I don't want to live in a cold place. It has to be something that immediately grabs me. I'm not sure if I want to leave my house, it's become that much of a comfort zone. Maybe I should just stay. Arrgh, what to do, what to do.

So much to do and organise before I start working full-time again.

The universe works in the most mysterious ways. And I still don't understand it.

poenda

This weekend, I went to the place that named a thousand vajayjays.

The Poenda. Or Secunda for out of towners. Which you can smell, mind you, as you peak over the hill to be met by the welcoming arms of the Sasol plant, replete with about five cooling towers, lots of firey flares, smoke and a sky that smells like a toilet. Also, a plant whose reactors one sees on the back of a R50 bill: Ant's boyfriend gave us a tour of the place, which, in the thick of it, smelt so bad, my head started spinning and I could taste sulphur. It's a mixture of coal, sulphur and so forth which, when the wind blows in the wrong direction – you really wish you had a gas mask. I just wonder how these people could get used to working in a place like this – as in on a plant or reactor that eschews the smell of a thousand rotten eggs. They all seem to be alright though, somehow.

Anyway it's a masterpiece. A wet dream for engineers by anyone's standards. The safety regulations are something else – we needed IDs, special clearance, phones and cameras were confiscated, and I had to wear my seatbelt in the back seat.

The Ant has a dog and ev'thing. Called Roma, naturally. We went to this nightclub which I needn't really describe, for it fits any cliché that may spring to your immediate mind. The lasers. The Afrikaans techno music. The langarmming. And all after a meal of potjiekos at the Bosveld Lapa beforehand. I know two other people that live in this town amazingly, and they joined us for one large bosbefok in this unbelievable place.

Firstly the guys aren't scared. They charf like they own a set of bulldozer keys. And their spading tactics go along the lines of bumping you, giving you the wink and the galloping guns, then unshaken staring, which is a little offputting.

We were squeaking takkie like it was nobody's business, cutting a rug with moves that wouldn't be acceptable in Johannesburg – and yet these dudes made a beeline. Mostly to stare, mostly to can like to come right with these Engelse mense, and this one specimen whispers in my ear: “You...dance...awesome.” One mulleted-dude gave me a smile and I swear to God his bokkie then screams “Hey!” to him, and the other women tried to nudge us off the dancefloor. Ant was daring me to score one of these people, but sorry, there are limits. It probably would've ended in a catfight with some poppie or me administering a tactile before I closed the deal. No ways china.

It's the kind of place you go to ogle. I mean these dudes come up to you, ask if you're married in Afrikaans, and then like my one friend who is, abruptly leave because they're scared they're going to get Vernon Koekemoered by the large rotund man watching with a beady eye in the corner.

Eventually some oke sweeps me up and tries to langarm with me. Yeah, it didn't work out too well. For one he smelt like he'd bathed in a bucket of Old Spice, and for two I didn't fancy being that close to him, because it meant his crotch was in my loin area. But nevertheless he “Een, twee, drie'd” me and tried to patiently teach me the basic moves, eventually just giving me a thumbs up and ducking because I was trying to ballroom and he was doing his up-close-and-arms-like-a-boat-sail thing.
And my potjie was giving me a stitch.

Wow. There's this sprawling casino golf course called Graceland (fashioned most likely on Elvis' very own play palace in Tennessee), which kind of dichotomises the landscape with the Sasol plant, in a very Twilight Zonesque manner.

It was wonderful seeing my friend again. And now with white picket-pallisade-fenced home and Italian dog in tow.

Also, very importantly, this weekend was filled with celebration. But that's worth an entire post all on its own. My head is in the clouds.
My life as I knew it, has just changed.

caffeine shakes

Yesterday, I somehow managed to spend, yeah at a coffee shop and all that, but some adequate time with my new Coffee Friend. Four hours, in fact. That's a lot of coffee.
Shitters! I have either developed a crazy caffeine habit (God, these cappuccino's are so underrated. I used to get a jones for tequila, but now it's a good cup of Joe with froth on the top), or I've met a lovely person in the process, while balancing a growing caffeine addiction.

I lay on the couch last night with a friggin' heating pad on my lower back. Granny was half-crippled by nightfall, I think due from untimely duress.
Luckily Grey's Anatomy bought some light-hearted entertainment in light of Seth Green (cool cameo dude) bursting an artery right onto Meredith's unassuming sister, who'd just been fucked over by Alex.

Good times. Grey's never fails to entertain and thought provoke, on some shallow level, at any rate.

(Except the blood was a bit icky and all that.)

The Dove and I are proceeding with our series writing. She wanted to write a movie, but I think that might involve too much structure and plot analysis. And after mein buch, I think a series is far more doable and perhaps not too time-consuming in light of other career stuff.

We're going to be alter–egos, as our personal characters. Or people we aren't basically. This should be fun.

wicked witchcraft

I had a swift tingling of something yesterday.
It wasn't my groin area.

I gave some thought into, or perhaps even imagining, myself putting on some heels, shaving my legs and pulling on a miniskirt. And then going somewhere nobody else can find me, indulge in a cocktail and charf a whole lot of men in a bar.

In other words, I felt a tiny beam of normality yesterday. I felt like me. (“Hi Peas. It's Peas. I'd like to come back.”) I'm going to do this on Friday with two mates. I don't want to pick anyone up, that's way too predictable and boring, I just want to meet new people. People with penises. I want to be friends with more of them, and that's a good start isn't it?

I sang in the car yesterday for the first time in a while. Broke out in song, with drums and everything. I haven't done that in ages, mainly because every second is spent watching from my rearview mirrors. Wow. But I have since come up with a short-term solution to driving and not feeling threatened and all that: voodoo.

Voodoo chinas.

Collected a few feathers, a small jar of red dye (blood from a sacred goat), an embalmed claw (the claw), and banged it all together with twine. A fake, but hopefully realistic voodoo concoction, right there, a-swinging where they can all see – and fear – it.

Fuzzy dice go; in comes the black magic.

And, since my dashboard is so large – can have a dinner party on this baby – I'm placing a very real looking rubber cobra (with fangs and ev'thing), on it.

Beware the criminal who comes too close, my car reeks of superstition. Which means I can maybe slightly relax, not get speeding and jumping-robot fines, and sing a little more. Life's too short not to fucking sing. Seriously.

Was discussing sex toys with someone t'other day, yesterday maybe, and imagined maybe walking into Adult World and thinking, “maybe I'll buy a strap on.”
Interesting thought. A dildo with straps. Imagine the damage you could do with that?

Like knock vases off the table, or whatever.

No seriously.

(Um, can someone explain how I suddenly have 16 970-something hits today?? WTF is going on?? This is scary!)

diving faces

Right, so I'm settling into freelancedom nicely. Being the starving writer, starving for her art actually sounds quite glamourous, doesn't it?

Sure, I don't own the house Colin Firth does in Love Actually, and write books overlooking the lavender fields of Provence. I live in a 60s-style apartment block off Oxford Road, and the lightblub in the lounge has blown.

However, I will be moving. Whether it's relocating here in Joburg or to Uranus (ha ha ha...ha), I'm moving domestic venues. It's going to be hard, I've lived in this place the longest of my adult years.

Anyway, I went to Vida yesterday, dressed the part. Scarf, blue sunglasses, frightfully flared pants.
This is much better! Sitting in the sunshine, sipping on great coffee and writing while I do it. Instead of SkyNews, I'm getting out. Shit.
I looked down in horror as I was going about the business of being one of those “I-go-to-cafe's-everyday” types of people, writing a little, and realised:

I look like a hippie bastard.

Oh well, sign of the times. I'm trying to take this freelance world by the horns. I never anticipated making a salary off bits and pieces of writing until I was like...a lot older. But either way, I'm trying to relax and remain positive. For the first time in ages I've had some big options. I can do or go in any direction my instinct tells me to, which is exciting, but I'm cold sweating it as well. A lot.

The funny thing is, I'm living that hand-to-mouth unpredictable writer's-on-their-own type life for the moment...and I have to giggle. It's not going to be like this forever, but I might as well enjoy it while it lasts, right? I'm living an existence as a struggling writer, in a dingy apartment and doing what writers do at some point in their lives.
Next week I'll be embarking full-time on my book. I've never done my book full-time. My manuscript is mine to play with for most of the day. Heavy.

I have to remember to thank heavens that I don't have a mortgage or children. I own a rat. And he doesn't eat that much. Oh and a car....he's quite expensive....and rent. And insurance, and, oh God.

OK I will not think of that stuff right now.

No no no.

Baze has lent me hundreds of DVDs. I watched Human Traffic last night with a mate. What a slice. Love that movie.

weekend treks and stuff

So went to, like, a party and everything on Friday. Took a fair bit of mental preparation, but C and some of my good mates were there, and it would be my first driving challenge.
Illovo to Sunninghill.
Epic dude, that's the fucking Great Trek.

Then of course I got lost in the veld somewhere, properly freaking out, landing up at Leeukop Prison asking the warden dudes where the fuck I was...hoping they wouldn't steal my car...inside a prison. Fear is about as rational as hair curlers.

I was thinking fuck that for a joke, I nearly turned around and went straight home. It was a close call.

I decided to doll up properly for this shindig. I threw on a Wonderbra and my highest gold heels. Not because I wanted to pick up okes, because I fucking love my Wonderbra and my heels are only but the greatest invention on earth. I feel like a fucking woman. Haven't worn heels in a few weeks, and have missed it. Heels=Woman Who Means Business. Sore after a long night, but bugger you, I'm heeled.

I did a trek and I did a party. I'm brave, and amazingly courageous.

On Sunday, I joined N at a picnic she was having at Zoo Lake with a family of disadvantaged children. She does this a lot, goes out with them, does stuff with them, helps them. I swung on the swings with the kids, played games with them (I got knocked out of cricket first wicket. Nice.), and just observed these little guys. I was Aunty Peas again for the day. (“Aunty Peas can't swing anymore Thomfuti, because she's going to vomit, so how's about Aunty Peas having a smoke break for five seconds?”)

They were cute. They really were, and I taught Thomfuti a new word. “Ooh la la!” Seems she picked it up and was therefore “Ooh la la-ing her way through the rest of the activities. Bless.

But, to be honest, a month on from my catastrophic week, I had an emotional weekend. I am terrified. Big stuff is about to happen, and I'm scared as hell. Amongst these changes, and this hugely transformative time, I have never felt so alone. So alone, so misunderstood. So alone in fact it's like I feel invisible enough that the Universe itself has forgotten I'm there.
So the only thing to do next I suppose is make myself the complete centre of my own universe.

I believe they call this “enlightenment.” Reading a lot of Eat Pray Love at the moment, and she seems to think so. In that case, fantastic.

Yip, I'm going through some big self-realisation thingies, a lot of changes due to what happened to me a month ago. I guess it's only [fucking] natural that it will all take effect.

Things to do today:
Go for a walk (like everyday)
Go to a place for a good cup of coffee (like everyday)
Write two stories (deadline)
Be enlightened.

Cool.

urban art

So I went to an art gallery last night. Hilarious. I went to a fucking art gallery.

In my jeans and scarf and had to be told not to place my wine glass on the statue that I clearly didn't think much of. That was selling for a whoring amount of ZA ronts.

And the artist was standing right there of course, but at least this time I wasn't wearing itchy doondies and they didn't have it on video camera, me having a good scratch, like last time.

I'm certain half the people there suddenly developed Ascot accents. Which is why I spoke like a chav in the lavatories.

You only live once, come on.

I saw one of my great friends who is out from Singapore. She is of the first of my closer mates who is pregnant. And you know, she looked so beautiful.
Her belly button hasn't popped out yet, and all us women could do was fondle her stomach. Me, more for the buoyant, round, unfamiliar feeling of a round stomach, (there's something growing in there, good God!) and less the popped out belly button....because a popped out belly button...not really my bag.

Anyway, it was a slice.

I forced myself to admire the art, (some of it juvenile might I add, but this was apparently the wrong thing to murmur when I was there. Please. It's juvenile.)

Anyway, I saw some of my mates and we chatted about this and that. One reminded me about a little bit of this and a little bit of that, and I agreed with her and said I had my suspicions about this and that anyway.
But was surprised that she confirmed a little bit of that, and I thought maybe I should do a little bit of this, and she agreed with me that maybe I should do I little bit of that.
Because a little bit of this is the reality of the situation, and a little bit of this has certainly gone down before, and I'm thinking “Fuck, maybe I really should do a little bit of that, you know for shits.” The most amazing thing is that a little bit of this seems to be quite a regular occurrence, which makes me feel...all that.

And she's saying, “a little bit of this and that indeed, so I don't see why you shouldn't do a little bit of this, and inquire about a little bit of that,” and I'm thinking... “I'm down with that.”

And that was that. Maybe I should investigate this option, as encouraged by my mate? Inquiry never hurt anyone, except for silly journalist types like me that can't help themselves. Must bear this in mind.

And now I'm going fall into the weekend and really fucking enjoy it.

doodiloo doodiloo

OK enough's enough – I need to get some kind of non-permanent job soon or I'm going to go crazy. I am still waiting on a few things, so that's why I have to drag my heels. I have two huge options, and sadly, these could only fall into place a month from now.

I'm so cabin fevered I could literally...start a cult religion.

I mean, for one – I have watched seasons 1-9 of Seinfeld. I love Lainy, I want to be Lainy, I am in love with Elaine. She's ruthless. She does whatever the fuck she wants. Lainy is amazing. Get me out of my apartment!

Secondly, The Internet thing was good for a few days. It lost it's edge. And now it's freaking me out.

I have finished my scarf. With tassles and everything. What the fuck am I going to do now? I mean, 3RM told me I looked very Parisian yesterday. (Quoi?)

It's a very flattering compliment. And a small victory in my day, when one has no big goals, small victories turn into huge things.

I look very... Rive Gauche, he said. Not like a small cretin that lives on the banks of the Seine River? No, no, I look like a frustrated French artist. Ah, so I'm still me. Only better. Good.

“But I don't own a beret!”
3RM: “Only American tourists wear the berets, come on. You have the slightly disheveled hair, the sunglasses, the scarf and the demeanour.”

Wow. (Mais merci, mon invalide. Passez-moi les Gauloises Blondes!)

3RM, an experienced slacker, was trying to teach me how to be one. Because slackers generally don't give a shit, or plan for the future and all that – and now would be an apt time to try it out properly. I need to learn though. I'm way too ADD to be a slacker. I need to do shit all the time, or else I go a little bit mental.
So I can't really be a true slacker. Slackerism doesn't come au naturelle to me, sadly.

I'm unemployed and not really enjoying it. Although just looking at my scarf for a few minutes feels like I'm on drugs. It's this psychadelic I-just-took-acid, all-colours-of-the-rainbow woolen specimen. And if I stare at it long enough – I have the time, let's face it – it makes me feel like I'm tripping.

Arrgh. At least I have a few freelance writing opportunities, and one of my contracts has just been renewed. Yay! But still, I can't even rent movies from the shop across the road because I owe them 400 bucks. (Turns out the DVD was under a pile of magazines for 3 months.)

Chrysler Neon.

PS: Eminem has a track on his Greatest Hits CD entitled “Fack.” Now I love Eminem, I have an extraordinarily soft spot for the Detroit trailer prodigy. But Fack? Dude. I expected more from you. What was ever wrong with a good old fashioned Fuck? Is Fuck too risque for you suddenly? You going soft on me big boy? Jesus man, FUCK. ITS FUCK, NOT FACK.

Anyhoo.

Had dinner with The Dove last night. In a public space. Daring, not to mention great that they served cold wine by the glass. (Can't afford, or be asked to consume the entire bottle.)

The Dove is in film, and more recently has ventured into full-time advertising. She's a talented talented girl. We've decided we're going to write a script together. Maybe an art film, maybe a sitcom, maybe even a slasher movie. Whatever. Might as well give it a bash.

thanks monsieur koekoe[sic]moer

There's more than meets the eye here, but it's been a horrific week for more reasons than just a mugging, PMS, no water, job frustrations.
Until yesterday I was pretty much a "down server." Couldn't send or receive, was just an empty shell of a woman.

Until Vernon Koekoemoer entered my life.

Briefly, I had the pleasure of actually laughing.

This guy was found at H20 this weekend. (H20 is a regular old school rave, occurring on the fibreglass waterways of Wild Waters in Boksburg.)

This is he. Then someone named him, for heavens knows his real name isn't Vernon (but imagine how coincidental or funny it would be if he really was Vernon Koekemoer.)

Anyway, as you can clearly see – this individual has it all.
I mean look at him.

He's everything you ever wanted to walk down the street and tell your mate, "Dude I really just saw the most amazing thing...no really...it was like I was in this bad dream..."

The Buffalo's, the mullet, the nutcracker shorts, the steroids, the wifebeater, the over-the-wifebeater ballet blouse, the chain. Vernon is now famous. His photo has been everywhere, and a Facebook group was started which, in 24 hours had more than 1 100 people join. Members were encouraged to make photos using Vernon as their...muse.
Oh and “Vernon” (although not Vernon) started a profile of himself, so you can be his friend too if you want.

Here are some of the mock ups that came out of it:










(These ones are my favourite, but there're heaps more, really worth looking at if you want a giggle. And it's hard to make me giggle at the moment.)

The creator of the group has threatened to leave because he is scared “Vernon” will find the group and sue him. Let's think of the possibilities of this happening. Hmm, no. Vernon clearly found Buffalo's yesterday; and they came and went in 1991. So chances are, he has no idea what the Internet is, nevermind Facebook. Vernon is also alone at H20, so probably doesn't have any geeky friends. Vernon should also be well chuffed! If not very flattered – I mean the oke has done some serious travelling. To Mount Rushmore, to the moon, to New York, to the Great Wall of China. Vernon is a new legend - he's starred in films, sitcoms, soap operas.....

He really shouldn't fret. It happened to the Hoff and Chuck Norris. (Chuck who?)

A dude on ChumpStyle reckoned there's been a Vern spotting at the Benoni Virgin Active. What a sight that must be! Vern in the flesh, pumping iron! A sight for sore eyes indeed.

They're making t-shirts and bumper stickers now. I've already placed an order. Random humour really really works for me.

problem solving 101

So, once robbed, the next mission is to get a new sim card (and phone.)

Well.

Can't really say that storming a Caymans bank or assassinating Robert Mugabe would be more difficult. It wouldn't.

Go to MTN shop in Rosebank. My phone has been stolen before; I know what to do.
Firstly, they opened the shop when they felt like it. Opening hours on a Saturday are 9:00am. I waited outside until 9:20, only to find the man who was to work there chilling outside, watching us customers wait for him outside the door with a semi-amused expression on his face.

Once inside, the service is bad. They're neither friendly or helpful. I buy a new sim, hand over my ID, yadda yadda. He ensures me that my number will be reactivated in 2 -24 hours.
These hours come and go. It would seem that the fucking retard didn't activate it at all.

He simply fucking didn't reactivate fucking anything. Or even at least queue it.

So, at a braai on Saturday night, I call MTN from another phone to say that it hasn't been done. “Oh no, it hasn't. You need to confirm in writing you need it done.”

Well THANKS for the fucking tip.

“Lady. Please, I'm begging you. On my knees. I had my shit stolen, what details do you need from me in order to activate this thing. Banking details?”

No. Turns out I need to submit them everything except maybe a blood sample. In writing, as it has to be signed, etc etc. Above that, she'll only get into work at again at 2:00pm the next day, which means I will have to undergo this process all over again in the morning and she'll only see my letter after that. No ways man. No ways.

I'm at a braai. So this is what happens:

I write a letter by hand on the carpet. Sign it. 3RM takes a picture on his phone of my ID and this letter. Stating I want a reactivation, with all the necessary codes, pins, PUKS, you fucking name it. He logs onto my Gmail on his phone, only to find that WAP web doesn't support FUCKING PHOTO ATTACHMENTS. Or any attachments in this email whatsoever. That's an issue. That's a big issue that the science fiction dudes need to sort out.
3RM also can't find an underscore for the email address on his phone, and eventually does, but we can't send these images. We try a few other things phone-wise, but mobile isn't going to help us today.

So. We set up a laptop – we find one. The hostesses. Unfortunately the laptop doesn't have bluetooth, nor does 3RM have a data cable for his phone on him. We can't transfer these pics from his phone to the laptop. Fuck. We find another laptop. (I do realise, ironically, that luck is on my side.) Pull out a camera and redo the whole picture taking of ID-and-letter process. Scramble in a drawer for a cable.

In the meantime, Eskom is doing its fucking thing, and the electricity is going on and off. But of course it is. So the Internet is intermittent and we need to start up every single time. Tensions are running high, but I will get this information to this MTN woman come hell or high water. Right now.

We load the camera pics to the laptop. This takes time and endless patience. All around me people are scoring, drinking and singing karaoke into SingSong. We plug laptop into ADSL - still intermittent given the electricity shortage – and I prepare the email.
I'm almost there.

Except the computer's “@” key function is not working. It's fucked. And I now have the documentation (3 megapixel jpgs – not bad quality at all), a sort-of-internet connection, and I can't work the fucking “@” key. So I find an “@” on my Gmail page somewhere and copy and paste the @ into the email address. Computer switching on and off. I will not give up. I am a mad woman.

Attach the files and send. It takes forever to send, but it finally goes through. Hurrah! I can have a mojita. I do.

Then I phone the MTN lady again to determine whether she received my email. After another long “press 0 if you wanna speak to another fucking operator” shpeel, and giving them ID numbers and pins and a fucking history of my life, they then say to me: “We've stopped your sim card as you asked.”

Nnnnnnno...I stopped it yesterday, I need you to REACTIVATE IT AGAIN LIKE I SAID IN MY WRITTEN LETTER

“Oh sorry, that's what I meant.” She says to me, while I'm trying to comprehend how this woman doesn't quite have it altogether and yet is a call centre operator. Not that we're surprised, mind you.

“So she reactivated your sim card on your first call, actually.”

Hold on a second. I didn't just need to write you a fucking letter, photograph it, with an ID, tolerate electricity going on and off, find a camera, laptop, another laptop, telephone, copy and paste @ signs after all?

“No you did.”

Ah. They told me 2-24 hours. Exactly what they told me at the shop/Idiot Baron.

So in conclusion:
1)I'm a Virgo through and through. If I need to sort something out, I will fucking do it. At any cost.
2)Technology is incredible. Except there are drawbacks – like WAP and email attachments. Just a suggestion – coders maybe work on this a bit, if you can create WAP to begin with, you need to fine tune the email attachment vibe on Gmail.
3)You can solve a problem if you consider all options; and
4)If you want something to happen and you don't accept anything less, you'll fucking make it happen. Even if the incompetent bureaucracies around us make it FUCKING difficult.

Oh, FYI, the phone was reactivated about 8 hours later, Sunday morning.

oh, that's happened to me before, no biggie

I became a statistic on Friday afternoon.

A smash and grab. It was only a matter of time – and it is with sadness I write this, because smashing and grabbing and raping and pillaging and robbing and mugging and hijacking is such a norm in our society – but yeah, it finally happened to me.

I work in town. It was on Friday afternoon, the most likely time for shit to go down as criminals need money for the weekend, etc.

It was actually a push-window-down and grab. Waiting at a robot on Rissik Street. My window is down two inches. The laptop is in the boot; the bag is under the seat. I'm aware that there are hundreds of people walking around me and I'm in back to back traffic.

Two guys sticking closely together walk up to me. I see them before they get to the window, and I know what's about to happen.

One thing for sure as no matter how many times you go through a scenario like this in your head, you cannot control how you're actually going to react in a real situation. I could've done up window properly, in those 2 seconds of time, but I didn't think of that. I don't know what I thought.

They came up, pushed it down. Then there were arms everywhere pushing me, smacking me, smacking my face, and fumbling for things. I was aware of everyone around me – in that they could see exactly what was going on, they knew, and they didn't - or simply don't – get involved. Why would they? These guys could blow their heads off.

But that troubled me. People were watching from their cars, and did shit. The arms were everywhere fumbling screaming at me to give them my phone and whatever else was on me. I screamed back, I screamed at the top of my lungs and I fought. They hit me, I hit them back. They yelled, I yelled. I told them to get away from me, stop touching me, fuck off, and they persisted. Then the one said, If you don't give us your stuff, I'll stab you until you die. Over and over again.

Again, there was a part of me that hesitated and thought, “But does he really have a knife on him?” Surely I would've seen it by now? I handed over my phone, and as I did that, the one grabbed the carkeys from the ignition. My car went dead, obviously, and I didn't think of this, but I suppose they either wanted my car, or they wanted to get into the boot. I believe they did it to piss me off even more and prove a point that they were the ones wearing the pants here. I was still screaming and pushing at them to get the fuck out of my space, my face, and stop fucking touching me.

Miraculously, they dropped my keys, after I gave them my phone, cigarettes and some loose change. They didn't find my bag, which I found odd. They took the stuff and ran. I restarted my car and drove like Richard Hammond to the Empire Road BP.

By now, I didn't know what to think or do. So, I burst into tears and continued to wail for a day. 24 hours of crying like a baby, mainly because I was SO PISSED OFF that they a) would kill me for a cellphone and b) they got into my space. They bombarded into my life and fucking traumatised me. I don't give a fuck about the phone, I give a fuck that they can do this and it's the fucking norm. And I cried because it could've been so much worse. They could've hurt me. They could've killed me. They could've raped me, they could've taken more things. The truth of the matter is I got off lightly. It was a best case scenario. But I almost feel guilty of that now.

I was and am, very angry. I couldn't remember any numbers. I was panicking properly, and in shock. I ran through the BP asking for a call box, no one could help and the one I found eventually wasn't working. But I couldn't remember my mother's cell phone number. Which is permanently ensconced to memory.

I drove on, still wailing, mascara fucking everywhere, and got to Rosebank Engen. I finally remembered her number. I left a message on my mum's phone at the call box, to ask her to cancel my sim card.

Then as I ran to my car, making a right spectacle of myself, a man called to me and asked if I was alright. He handed me his phone, helped me with numbers, helped me call MTN myself, calmed me down and basically fucking reached out. What a lifesaver. And Tremaine, if you're out there somewhere – hi, it's me. The shaking, crying Northern suburbs girl who clearly reacted like every other Northern suburbs girl out there. Thanks for helping me and taking the time to actually care and offer your phone to me when you could've turned a blind eye. People still care somehow. Which means I haven't lost complete faith in basic humanity.

So there you have it. I'm now part of the It's Happened To Me Club. It was only a matter of time. I don't want to drive into town now. I don't. I had faith in town, how I could walk around, be in a city, love it and build a community there. But I'm scared. I'm now one of those ultra-paranoid people, and I've never wanted to be one of those. I drove in convoy with friends the rest of the weekend.

However, I was terrified driving back into town this morning. Terrified and ready to kill if anyone came near me. The arrogance of these tsotsis fucking pisses me off beyond all hope. However. Fuck them! I will NOT stop going to my city, and I will NOT compromise on my independence or driving because crime dictates I must. I will never live in a boomed off area, and I will try and get over my fear. It'll take time, because now I'm jaded. I will also keep R100 in the car with me from now on – to give to these guys, because believe you me, I will have NOTHING in the car with me from now on. Boot or bust.

So I'll have something to give them, cold hard cash – that I fucking WORKED FOR AND EARNED AND I EARNED IT FUCKING HONESTLY AND WITH HARD WORK -and maybe then they won't smack my face or threaten to kill me.

when you're in limbo

(And by limbo I mean mental purgatory.)
When you're forced to accept a grey area for a while, which usually drives control freaks like me insane. It's the only thing I can do right now, I owe it to myself. But if there's one thing I've learnt, it's that I'm way stronger than ever I imagined myself to be.

Jesus, seriously. We think we can only handle so much, but we're capable of handling and enduring way more than we believe. “If one more bad thing happens, I'm going to crack.” Yes, you might crack - and it might be the simple thing of finding the neighbours cat fornicating on your bed – but usually you don't.

'Tis true that experience, adversity and time really do make you strong as steel. As does age. And for that, I'm going to lean over and give myself a hearty pat on the shoulder.

There.

When the world is at its most confusing, most volatile, it still fucking rotates. If only during times of severe mental duress we can just go, “Stop. Everybody just fucking freeze, I need time to have a panic attack out of the real world. Can the population of the world just wait for me to pull myself together please, have some fucking consideration.”

That's the clincher. If only we could freeze raindrops, running people, important functions, and deadlines, just so that we have a moment to think and be sad. But people are still doing stuff. Like bartering yaks in Yemen and talking in West Ront accents in Southfields, UK.
While I lie in a foetal position at the bottom of my bed wiping away tears.

Right, so granted I am not God, I don't have his number on speed dial, and well, we're merely far distant acquaintances. In fact God and I stand at a disrespectful distance from each other, and don't toy with the other's lives. (Disclaimer: Well he toys with mine on occasion – like now – because I believe he finds it amusing.)

So. All I can do is remain functional as best as I can. And that's the surprising part: I am managing to do this. My work is thriving in fact. I just reworked, rewrote and submitted one of the final drafts of my entire book, while at my day job, we have new projects we are embarking on that I am throwing myself into with gusto.

What certainly helps during excruciatingly testy times is to:
Look at the bigger picture
This too shall pass. Nothing stays the same. It's a month or two out of my life, which on general terms, is not terrible. Things oscillate from good to bad all the time. Just three months ago, I remember driving down the M1 South thinking, “Whoever is up there, or if anyone is listening, I'd like to say thanks for everything I have. I am truly blessed and so happy.” That's oscillated into everything opposite, but if I have achieved that before, surely it'll swing back when the time is ready?

Routine
I can be functional if I stick to my routine. That's coffee with Jam, Lion (the new guy – yay – he's fabulous) and Hot Pink on the rooftop of our incredible building in the middle of town, first thing in the morning. I can survive if I rigorously stick to my exercise, 2 litres of water a day, regular sleep, comedy, and a fascinating story to work on. A regimented routine. If I can't control my mental purgatory, I will control my routine.

Support and admittance to hard times
I, before stopping regular boozing, was your classic case of “plaster smile on and pretend all is alright”. Mainly because I hate feeling judged. But really, what's the worst thing about being judged for going through a hard time? It's not like it hasn't happened in the past – Wibble, my relationships, my decisions, my vices, my ability to spill out much of everything on this blog. So yes, things are hard. (And sadly, you don't know the half of them.) By admitting you're on a low rung, you can get support.

Fucking try to see the light side of it all
It's one thing trying to fake a belly laugh – don't do it, it's only for the professionals – but trying at all costs to laugh at something can take the focus off your troubles for maybe 5 seconds. I'm a serious person who takes stuff frigging seriously if it's important to me. I'm trying not to take it too detrimentally and have faith it'll right itself in good time.

If anxiety pills help me function...
...or if being human and fallible is what I am, then, it's what I am. Thank God really. Because living for eternity as a robotic immortal machine would really be a fate far worse than death. Who wants to live forever?

I'm delivering unto the universe
Here is it Universe. (Hands Mr Universe a parcel full of problems). Make of it as you will, and help me make sense of it all. May I not be in limbo forever. And please try not to screw me over to the point of me wanting to hurl myself from the upper storey roof/throw my hair tongs in the bath tub. May whatever happens be for a fucking good reason. I'm trusting you. So be nice.

I went for coffee last night with The Dove. She is one of my best friends on the planet for a few reasons: she's protective of me, she wants the best for me, she's brutally honest, she speaks her mind, she listens and she works with what I am, no bullshit, I can be exactly myself with her. I am so grateful to have her in my life.

wanna know what's really going on?

I'd be lying if I said the past week or two has been easy. For they have in actual fact been hell. It's just been a trying, trying time.

Someone who knows about what happens when you stop drinking, said to me, “I know why you have this anxiety and crap at the moment. After 8 weeks, the shit finally starts to come out.”

It's like the clarity has become to much. And the one thing I cannot deal with or bear right now is anxiety. I am having around 2 to 3 panic/anxiety attacks a day.

This last week has been especially hard, because:
1)My relationship with my father, well I love him, he's my dad I'll do anything for him if he needs me, but I just can't be close to him right now. In fact, we are not in contact at the moment. I don't think I've ever been close to him, actually. It's heartbreaking, and hopefully after we both sort our shit out, we can try the bonding thing again.

2)My mother doesn't understand why I can't be close to my dad.

3)747 has been away a lot lately, and very stressed at work, and it's been quite hard. I have missed him.

4)I am having salary issues (late payment). Stop orders have flung me into the negative. Because someone at the top forgot to pay us. Again.

5)That's why I'm frigging just about to crack. Oh wait, I did. I screamed at work yesterday to the point where passers-by in the passage turned to stare, not to mention the attendees in the office itself. I properly lost my rag. Who knew I had such a BOOMING voice? Impressive. So let's assume, safely, that this 'salary stuff' will become a priority from now on.

I am a natural worry wart. That's normal, but this newfound anxiety has been quite debilitating. I had three drinks on Friday– as promised - at my mate's birthday party.

It went like this:

1 x white wine (what the fuck was I thinking)
1 x celery juice
1 x white wine (christ woman, not again)
1 x celery juice
1 x bubbly stuff that I presume to be a champagne of sorts (....)
1 x celery juice.

Maybe one more glass of wine. But the jury is still out.

I'm quite chuffed. I mean I stuck to my guns, and sure, I felt a little not-quite-completely-sober after that, and I certainly hobbled to my car, almost breaking an ankle, but whatever. Oh and I indulged in one of those stupid shit-talking philosophical conversations one tends to have after a few toots, which made about as much sense as algorithm coding, and I also found most of the jokes going around to be really funny. It's amazing how alcohol makes you do such predictable things. But! I certainly didn't go hammer and tongs, and politely declined the shooters going around. Ha!

I think my liver thought I'd booked it a ticket to fucken Malibu, when in fact it was clearly on its way to Newcastle.

But it must be said that I was on tranquilisers the whole time.
After tears and angst this and last week, including some untimely attacks where I thought I might possibly die, I have been swallowing many a tranquiliser. Panic attacks consume you, they are fuccccked uppppp.

Where have they been all my life?
It must be said that the insert does state that these particular tranqs aren't addictive, don't have they any side affects like drowsiness, nausea or the feeling of being stupendously high the whole time. Not that I'd give a shit. Because I'm going to be taking Biral for as long as I live. Suddenly you're not in a fucking panic! Biral speaks sense, it shuts the world up, it just makes me not overreact and not panic as a result of my thoughts.

Everyone say “Hi Biral,”, to my new guardian angel. Despite a few fine motor-coordination effects, (like dropping a few things?) they don't do anything except help my mind to rest a helluva lot more when I should be almost in tears. To stop thinking and spiraling into this fucking abyss of self-doubt and chaotic angst at least 4 times a day, it does it's best to affront this. It just.....smoothed the rough edges.

I'm hoping today will be yards better than yesterday. Last night Ant was in town and popped in for dinner. Again, hell I miss that girl, if only Sepoenda wasn't so far away.

dusting off the machinery

I'm officially back on my bike!
As the sting of my apparently-existing hamstrings starts to eat away at my Arty Brain (Arty Brain: a concept of being that prefers to lie on the couch watching telly/read a book/discuss an art movie/listen to 80s music) kicks in, I just remember a few things:

I want to be a friggin raging supermodel machine.

I will feel happy afterwards. Apparently there are little things called “endorphins” that kick in and make you feel super. Well I'm lacking clearly, because the only thing that used to make me feel instantly high and happy was A Grade pot. The Rastas will agree with me here, no doubt.

It means I can have super duper acrobatic sex.

And. I'll garner respect from those fitness freaks that tend to bombard me haphazardly during my weeks and make me feel like she who not only ate all the pies, but she who ate all the pies, the pie shop and Mrs Miggins. And bloody well enjoyed it.

Somewhere beneath the ruddy exterior of my thighs, there's a muscle screaming to come out.

PS: Like all habits, getting into a regular fitness routine takes five tries. Then you're in. You're part of the “I Exercise On A Regular Basis” club.
Smoking takes longer. And quitting makes you fat, psycho and dumb. Dumb because you have no idea where to put the hands. Fuck it. One thing at a time. Assholes.

the state of the nation

Went to see a fantastic play at the Market Theatre last night with 747 and his madre. Blood Orange, the story (book based) of a liberal dude throughout his life at school, the army and then into exile. It was marvellously acted out, and the man deserved his standing ovation at the end.
747 then said whimsically in the car, on the way back: Hell, I'm proud to be a South African boy.

Just as I nearly lost a wheel in a trench, on the way down Jan Smuts Avenue. Not a mere pothole, a proper donga.

For the first time ever, I'm skeptical about South Africa. I'm really sad to say this. I'm in no way over-the-top Proudly South African or believe I will live here forever and ever and ever, but I've also been serene about the country's future, it's basic downfalls, and most political situations. I'm complacent; chilled if I stay here forever. Until now. I'm starting to wonder if things will get better at this moment.
The loadsheddings. Like many people in this country, this has belied a new kind of panic.

Because without electricity, a basic necessity for a thriving, stable country, we're stuffed. Not because we're sitting in the dark a few hours a day. That's the least of our problems.

The crime has soared. Corruption is still at an all time high, and Selebi gets an extended holiday. What with electric fences off and gates on manual, you best hope you have a Rottweiler. People are rebelling by burning trains in Shoshanguve township because they are two hours late due to lack of power.
Businesses are losing production. Generators are using more fuel, and we're running out of oil too.
Traffic is becoming another kind of nightmare. The Stock Exchange crashed a few weeks ago and we were at the same level as on September 11th. Fifa? Gautrain? Overseas investors? Potentially, if there's a fuck up and the whole country goes out for one or two days – people will go ape. Strikes, mayhem. It could very well be The Rapture.

OK, relax. That sounds pretty hectic. It's 3RM's theory anyway. But frankly, it's scary. This is when I wish I had an EU passport.

But! Let's remain positive, or strangely apathetic. My Dad insists I stay positive – and although in his own little bubble of self-deception - he's a good embassador. He thinks the loadshedding is “a good idea.” Yeah maybe in 1975, but not right on the verge of a Gautrain and a World Cup.

But beyond that, we supposedly have one of the best climates, and some of the most beautiful and varied scenery in the world. Maybe I just need to climb in my car, head to the middle of nowhere and sit in complete isolation and drink in the surroundings, and appreciate the basic core of what Africa is.

We're a friendly, happy-go-lucky nation and are one of the only nations in the world to not go into civil war after such right-wing oppression. Apparently we're also ridiculously good looking, (barring the Scandinavians and Venezuelans), and we're just...special.
Let's hope it never comes to that. The bad stuff.