PEAS ON TOAST

train commentators and karaokegate

2012-02-01T09:11:00.004Z

It's amazing what a sprightly train driver can do for a journey.

There I was, last train home after visiting my aunt in hospital, followed by more drinking in Belgravia with my European colleagues, (posh gin and tonics. With grapefruit slices in them, in case you're wondering).

Not completely shitfaced this time, more Sensible Drunk. (Which is kind of right on target for the sweet spot. Drunk but not stupid. This is what you should aim for at 31.)For the first time this week, I actually got it right.

Anyway two things happened, worthy of description.

The first was mortifying. The second was just funny.

The Europeans are over for a conference this week, and so mass binge drinking ensued. As I've become known as the bitch who sings Usher's Love In This Club and this unfortunate infamy is now turning into tradition, I eventually took up the offer of the mic (again, was Sensible Drunk, so I [uncharacteristically] needed a lot of coercion).

So, office karaoke. Not a good springboard for one's career, sure. Except if you're singing in a whole group, everyone's festive - from the MD down to the trainee assistant - everyone's voices blend together and it's all a bit of comaraderie and fun.

Then there's what happened to me. I was singing away in the group, alongside She Who Loves Tweed, giving it some real horns. You know, really accentuating the magical words, I wanna make love in dis club..in dis club,, while putting on my best RnB gangsta voice for prize lines like, I wanna bag you like some groceries...on the floor, on the couch...on the table...I'm watcha you want, whatcha need....

I was singing into this yellow microphone, Tweedy next to me was singing into a red one.

After the song was finished, high fived and started strolling to the bar.

When, "Dude. Do you realise that your voice was coming through the rest of the building."

Peas: No, what are you talking about?

Group of people: "Dude. That microphone you were signing on? Is tuned so that your voice gets relayed to speakers beyond this room. So down there, reception area, the meeting rooms..."

Peas: I don't think I quite understand. My voice, singing by itself? Across the entire building? [squeaking]...while singing about shagging in a club?

Group: Yup. Your lines making love song, interrupted an important conversation all the exces were having down there.

Peas:...And no-one else's were heard?! Could they hear the music or just my voice?!

Group: Just your voice.

So yeah. That was fucking mortifying.

Had a drown my embarrassment somewhat, and then headed home on the last train, where I think the train driver was drunk.

Luckily, rails force the wheels to literally stay on track, but it was his awesome approach to the announcements that I loved. And he was very posh.

"Lllllllllladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard my train! Hurry up and get inside, stop jamming up the platform. Get inside and come with me to....East Croydon! Via....Norbury!"

He kept going throughout the duration of my journey:

"Llllladies and gentlemen! We are approaching...Battersea Park! Home to the dogs and cats home and ....Battersea Park! If you get off, mind the platform. Or don't Because I don't care!"

"Lllllladies and gentlemen! Let's get going and get to East Croydon! Stop scooting, or is that skating? On the platform! It's unsightly and dangerous! But mostly unsightly!"

When I got out, I went to his window and gave him a thumbs up. He looked like he was 18. So clearly practicing for his career in the West End.

Now to deal with Bridget Jones Karaoke Fuck Upgate.

on white wine

2012-01-30T12:46:00.003Z

"Mommy" being Aunty Peas..

Dude.

I haven't really been drunk drunk - drunk like I was 25 - since New Year's eve. And even then, I wasn't seeing double and I do vaguely remember how we got home.

Friday changed that. There comes a point, where your workload and propensity for tolerance start to form their own Pythagoras.

I'd draw the graph, but I can't be fucked.
It's a triangle, based on axes x and y, and they invariably meet.

Getting to grips with how sick my aunt is at the moment, and how quickly she's suddenly turned, coupled with the thoughts around what happens next, and visits to the hospital every other day, is all very devastating to me and the rest of the family.

If there's one window of opportunity to block out these thoughts - even for a few hours - as well as thoughts around how I'll get all my work done before going to South Africa - I'll take it.

So I went out with the team on Friday. Devoured a bottle of white white with She Who Loves Tweed, and then continued to consume a string of gin and tonics at a place called "The Sapphire Lounge," which had a bar counter stickier than the tip of Russell Brand's dick.

It was superb. To be so thoroughly shitfaced, that I don't remember which train (or was it even a train?) took me home, or how I got from the station to the front door.

I don't really get drunk these days. Caveat, I don't really get drunk-drunk these days. 'These days' being the last 6 months or so. Unless the situation really calls for it, most of the time I aim for the sweet spot.

The sweet spot is that point between three glasses of champagne and four. You're teetering, but you know the next glass will make you want a cigarette, and you know that the fourth glass is the fine line between a hangover and just Monday morning.

It's part of being 31. Being strategic about who you get drunk with, and how you get drunk.

Anyway, so on Friday I got drunk. It was absolutely fucking glorious. I couldn't feel my fingers I absolutely loved fucking everyone.

I made a new best gay friend. (This happens from time to time. I'm very 'gay fickle.')

The Brit luckily - and strategically - managed to merge his evening nicely so that we collided on hangover.

And spent the whole of Saturday - from start to fucking finish - lying in bed, necking paracetamol (and each other). The entire day was dedicated to Chez Duvet. Rendered useless, thanks to white wine hangover. (I'm a fuckstick for choosing such a stupid alcohol.)

Sunday was dedicated to my aunt. This is all very hard.

hair, tea & red trousers [again]

2012-01-26T10:19:00.008Z

Henri, the toff who snaps people wearing red pants.

There's this dude - Sir Henri de Pantalon Rouge - who runs a blog solely dedicated to red trouser action.
So impressed and tickled am I, I found him elsewhere too.

Now I have a pair of red pants and a pair of red tights. Apparently they're not interchangeable, and the red tights do not hold as much gravitas as the pants.

But Red Trouser Finding Machine Man - Henri Pants - did snap this. With a warning to brace yourself.

Think it's fair to say:
1) I won't be wearing my red tights ever again, in fear that I might look even 1% like this
2) This woman has to be from the Ukraine. Right?

She Who Also Loves Tweed reckons they're red jeggings. I reckon her name is Olga from Lviv, wearing the Sergey 3000s.

But my red jeans? The most amazeballs piece of attire I've ever owned. This year.

-------------

Welsh people with British-like tea instructions (Is Wales a real country?)

Welsh colleague: "It's your turn to mek a brew."

Peas: Fine. How do you take your tea?

Welsh: "Rye-te. It must be the cull-er of a tea bis-kitt. Lyk-e when you come off a tan-ning bed. Tan in cull-er.

Peas: So lots of milk?

Welsh: Nor. Well yes, but nor.

Peas: Dude.

Welsh: And don't put the milk in be-forr the tea bag. It clogs up the horles.

Peas: I always put the milk in before the tea bag.

Welsh: Why is it that ornly peep-ul from the Yoo Keh can mek tea? It's such a sim-ple exer-cyze.

Peas: Dude it still brews and blends at the end of the day.

Welsh: Nor. Yer me out. Bag first, milk sec-ond. Cull-er of a tea bis-kitt.

Peas: Yer me? You mean hear me out right?

Welsh: Nor. Yer me out.

Apparently I can't make tea. Chaos and dis-acceptance prevails.

------------------
Male advice on hair - voluntarily given

The Quiet American: Dude. Isn't time to cut your hair?

Peas: And when would I have the time to do that?

[pause]

Hang on, what?

Quiet American: I'm merely saying that it might be time. You know, to try something new.

Peas: I don't 'do' new hair. Are you suggesting that it's crap? And I look like a raving Socialist?

Quiet American: No. I am just suggesting that you could try something maybe a little like this.

Peas: Eva Longoria? You ralise she has a stylist that travels with her everywhere and does all that shit for her, right?

Quiet American: It's more the layering.

Peas: Layering?

Quiet American: Yeah.

Peas: Right OK. You know you don't have hair right.

Quiet American: Yeah. but once someone told me to grow a beard. And I laughed in the face of facial hair for 6 months. Then I grew a beard and it changed my life.

Peas: Fair enough.

I've booked the appointment.

flat out nancy

2012-01-25T13:48:00.004Z

I may be wearing red tights, but that doesn't mean I'm not serious about being serious.

It's about two weeks until I get to South Africa. Nerves and anxiety have been replaced - refreshingly - with pure, unadulterated excitement.

I don't really care if shit has changed or if shit hasn't - I'll be seeing mates, family and I'll be reintroducing my skin to an old friend called Sun.
I'll be celebrating Poen's wedding, and showing the Brit around new places.

I can't control what it's going to be like, I can only go home with an open mind.

It's just getting there without drowning in work before I do go.

While I'm all excited and happy for a holiday, I have a fuckload to do before I go. My calendar is filled with shit I have to finish at work, or stuff I have to handover while I'm away.
I have launches I need to rocket into space while away and when I'm back.

Shit has never been so chaotic and flat out. All in preparation for my trip away.

Being away for three weeks, is a lifetime, not a holiday. Three weeks without checking mail or taking calls from journalists? Now that's what I'm scared of. The length of time involved and whether the world will fall apart while I frollick along the Garden Route blissfully unaware of what is going down in London town.

But shit never really falls apart, the world continues to spin when you're away, someone has to step up in your absence and they always do.

My aunt has also taken a turn for the worse. My aunt has been battling with the Big Horrible C for a while now, but it's become crucial over the last year or so. And especially crucial now. I am her only family relative here, and I fear for her while I am away. So besides focusing on work, my mind is definitely on my aunt at the moment.

There's a lot to get through over the next two weeks. And it's emotional.

zurich

2012-01-24T09:46:00.005Z

So Zurich was nice.

I mean, it's your classic banking city. I did prefer the French side of Switzerland. I used to love going to Geneva when I lived in France. It was a a more dramatic setting, with Mont Blanc rising out of the Alps in the background.

But Zurich isn't exactly ugly. It's just a little more random. And Swiss and straight-laced as to be expected.

It was fucking freezing, so the Brit and I didn't climb any mountains, but instead did chilled out stuff like amble the through the Old town (all European cities have an Old Town. So even if there's absolutely nothing to do, there's always an Old Town), eat a lot of cheese and get a couple of massages and do some thermal bathing.

Dude. Cheese and bathing? Perfect weekend.

The best was this thermal spa we found near the Brit's hotel. It's an old brewery-turned thermal spa, with a rooftop open air bubbling pool on the roof, with 360 degree views of the city.

The city is surrounded by mountains, and has a few spires poking out here and there (that's on thing England misses. Spires motherfucker), so the views weren't shabs at all.

You'd poke a toe out and because it was -1 outside, you'd immediately freeze, so as long as you kept most of your protrusions in the water you'd be fine.

Inside, people were walking around naked. You know, how people of Germanic nature tend to do. Jam out with their clams out. They won't jump a traffic light, but they'll walk around naked in public spaces.

Ate a fair bit of Lindt.

Ate my boyweight (before WeightWatchers) in cheese. A Swiss fondue consists of two things:
1) A pot of bubbling raclette cheese
2) An entire loaf of bread, cut up into saures for dipping

I used to be an extreme cheese eater. I ate cheese like I took breaths. We're talking sizeable quantities here.

Then cancer started running amok in my father's side of the family, I got diagnosed with endometriosis, and diary in general became the enemy and now don't eat any.

No milk, no yoghurt, no cream and [it's hard to even write this] no cheese.

Mostly. Life would be a prison sentence if I couldn't have cheese at least sometimes.
Well. The Brit and I shared an entire cooking pot full of cheese. And managed not to die, but it was hard. It was hardcore.

No cheese to a kilo of it.

How do the Swiss do it? Like, regularly? Cheese and bread, like twice a week?
It's extreme cheese eating, and they're not crazily obese either.

Anyway, that aside Zurich was great. The Brit gets home tonight. Yayballs.

palace & swiss

2012-01-20T09:35:00.003Z

So. Not a normal Friday.

1) I'm going to the Royal household
2) [Then] I'm going to Switzerland

Best Friday ever?

I'm going to Buckingham Palace. Not for the changing of the guard or to wave a flag about. I'm going inside.

It's for work. It's days like these I really do love my job, even if it does take up 90% of my life.

I'm wearing a Kate Middleton-esque Zara dress (Cream. For virginity. Natch). And my signet ring on my pinkie finger to demonstrate...good breeding.

Mainly so that they know I am with the general palace vibe.

Oh my God, I'm actually nervous. I'm not meeting HRH or anyone like that, but I am nervous.

Then afterwards, I'm flying to Zurich. The Brit is there for work, and am going to meet him for the weekend. I have been to the French side of Switzerland, but never the German.

Besides banks and suits, I'm expecting snow and good food. And trains that run on time. And chocolate.

Eidelweiss (and er, how do you do?)

Better go check to see if there's anything in my teeth before heading to the palace.
Gak!

PS: Is this really happening to me?

how to bath for dummies

2012-01-19T12:29:00.015Z

So, I'm bath-obsessed. Allow me the indulgence of a long post to geek out on this.

I usually write about having a bath at least once every two years, because some people just don't understand bath people.

Bath people are those who don't shower, they bath. They feel lost and incomplete if they don't have a bath at least once a day. Having a bath is £100-worth of therapy for them. They think about it hours before they actually do it, to the point of visceral excitement. Maybe some people get excited about having a shower, but I haven't met those people yet. Bath people are willing to spend large amounts of cold cash on the products and concoctions that go into their bath.

Packaging is very important for a bath snob. I pay for the packaging. Blatantly. It needs to look good on my bath shelf, bitch.

Bath people know that having a bath is more than getting clean.
Bath people know that having a bath means cooking up a recipe of essential oils, bath bombs, candles and music, and therein, watch all your days' troubles disappear into the steam.
It's time by yourself. It's the warm enveloping nature of warm water. It's fucking wonderful, that's what it is.

And most of the world doesn't bother to, have access to, or want to bath. Which is pretty sad. They have no idea how great the simple pleasure of lying horizontal in a tub full of hot, scented water actually is.

Having a bath is a fucking necessity for me. Especially when it's cold and dark outside. I won't rent or buy a house without a bath, because to me, that's like renting a house without a front door.

As a veteran member of the Bath Club, I am very particular with my bath. I have a cabinet dedicated to shit to throw in my bath. This country is filled with shops that sell amazing bath products, and I'm a willing client at most of them.

Every night is different, depending on my mood, and what I feel like.
But these are the essential essentials I always have:

Lush

The Brit is very good at bringing me home a bath bomb or creamy massage bar from Lush. It has the same effect as flowers.
You can crumble some of the products into the bath bit by bit, so it lasts ages. And always smells ridiculously good.

I love their creamy bars, especially after a good scrub.

Neal's Yard
I use their shampoo and conditioner, orange body wash, rose body scrub and their essential oils. I love Neal's Yrad. It's all natural and organic. Packaging is great, and always smells incredible.

No real bath addict would be seen without something from The Body Shop in their bathrooms. That would just be undignified.
My favourite bath products from them are their ginger shampoo, Vitamin C face spray for when you're finished, strawberry shower gel.

Then there's the unbridled territory. The luxury-end stuff that many fear to tread.
The products from individual stores that are usually wrapped in crepe paper with little bows.
My shop is on Northcote Road, a vintagey bath store run by an elderly lady, with products such as bath salts infused with Moroccan Rose and Honey, creamy honey bath oil.
I don't even know the name of this place.
But it sells some pretty sick bath shit. That kind of looks like this:

Dude. It's like the best stuff ever. I just wish I can remember what it is.

So I'll be sanctimonious and keep it to myself for now.

Aromatherapy oils

Dude. A few drops of these bad boys is meant to, like, change your life and relax your muscles.
Fuck it, even if they don't, whatever.

I put Epsom Salts - straight - into the bath with the essential oils. I like to think of it as a 'cocktail' of relaxation. Epsom Salts are meant to relax muscle tissues, so after a particularly arduous day, I'll make myself a bath cocktail using those ingredients.

Epsom Salts don't look very nice. I have to hide this bottle at the back of the cupboard. Someone up at Epsom Salts marketing could make a fortune if they made Epsom Salts look luxurious.

Burt's Bess
Totally amazeballs dude. Smells kind of like wood varnish, but then it's all natural and it makes you think it really does work. Comes in a nice tin with an old dude - Burt? - on the front too.

Posh candles

I always switch off all my lights and set ablaze a string of scented tea light candles (usually rose or vanilla) or a Yankee candle in the bath room.

Then make sure I can hear the Top 50 Love Ballads of All Time on MTV from the lounge.
Or dirty gangsta hip hop when I'm feeling bolshy.

This post wasn't meant to be a sales pitch for bath products. And oh my God look at the time.
I'm just saying, Fanatical Shower People, you're missing out on a whole hobby here.

horizontal theories

2012-01-16T14:42:00.004Z

I'm back at my desk.

I'm on the pills, and there's a little party going on in my head, but am back at work.

It's good not to be horizontal. And have come up with a few theories in my delirious, deskbound state.

"Gym" is for Socialists and Satanics.
It's in inverted commas, because I believes it belongs in them. I'm sick of January, and I am sick of the word gym. They go hand-in-hand, so frankly I can't wait until everyone breaks their new Year's resolutions. It's such a ghastly thing, is the gym.

My New Year's resolutions. Speaking of
I still don't have any. But now that I have had plenty of time to think, and dribble, on myself, mostly, I have a few hard and fast ideas for 2012.

1) Buy an Audi
2) Go to Ukraine
3) Practice being nice, even if it's all a lie

On the Audi
This isn't a decision I have made in haste. I have wanted an Audi A3 since 2003. It's the turbo coupled with the fact that it has two doors and looks aesthetically pleasing, that I always said I'd own one once in my life. If I am to have babies one day, best I buy the fast, sexy car now before I have to drive a fucking Volvo.
My friends are having babies; I am having a quarter-and a half-life crisis. So the time and temperament is right for a German sports car.

Besides, the Brit and I will share it.

Having a car is independence. I think about driving everyday. In London you can survive quite happily without one, for years on end. The trouble is I don't want to survive, I want to drive.

Even if it means I pay congestion charges, can only drive it on weekends, have to change my driver's license.

It's time for less "where is the fucking bus, my Saturday is a-wastin'," and more "Vorsprung durch Technik," as far as I'm concerned.

It's going to have a mahoosive sound system. And we shall drive to France in it.

I'm still in pain
Did I mention the pills?

Holy shit. I'm going to South Africa in three weeks.
Three weeks! Jesus, how will I ever get the workload I'm carrying done before then?
I have four launches to organise.

I have a [classily non-orange] fake tan to get.

The one thing we have done, the Brit and I, is get our itinerary together for our road trip. We're hiring a Yaris and driving all over the Western Cape in it.

I saw two movies lately worthy of praise
Limitless - about a dude who pops a black market pill that raises his IQ/accesses his entire brain at once. Bradley Cooper, Robert de Niro. Gripping and fantastic.

The Iron Lady - I love Margaret Thatcher more than ever. To the point where the Brit has advised me to pipe down in front on Northerners. Inspiring and amazing, with a love story blockbusted in.

Both come highly recommended.

day two

2012-01-13T10:51:00.005Z

The frustration continues. While I can kind of scupper around, it's difficult to actually move.

But I'm getting somewhere today. The pain is subsiding, as is the swelling, and also not bursting into tears all the time, which is great.

The things I remember most from this entire ordeal is this:

Asking the anaesthetist what happens when I go to sleep
...and her reaction to my question. It's like no-one's ever bothered to ask?
Peas: So apparently you put a pipe down my throat.

Anaethetist: Er...yes, why? [completely taken aback]

Peas: Well what happens?

Anaethetist: We put this down your throat, alongside a [box thingie] and this helps you breathe, as you'll be on a ventilator. I'll need to paralyse you, as this operation needs your reflexes to be completed paralysed. So we'll need to make you breathe through a machine.

Peas: Jesus H. Christ. Somebody get me a tranquiliser.

Anaethetist: See?

The gas
I got the gas when I had my wisdom teeth taken out when I was 15. I asked for gas again this time, because if you can avoid getting a needle stuck into you, then fair play.

You take a few breaths, and this wonderful really relaxing high hits you for about 4 glorious seconds. I remember holding the gas mask to my face and saying, "That's better," when it started to work. If only you could float on the lights like I did for 4.2 seconds.

Then complete blackness, literally out of nowhere, boom. I remember nothing more.

Falling in and out of sleep in mid-sentence, all day long
"My Brit, You're here, can I...zzzzzzzzz."

"I last had a pee when...zzzzzz"

"Hi. Sorry I was saying about my pee. I last peed....zzzzz"

"Hi. Back in the room. I need to pee....wait....zzz."

I'm scared to hear what's next. Drugs involving putting me into a "pre-menopausal" state have been tossed around. And I've blanched at the thought and said no.

But perhaps need to do research. And find out why.
Exhausted.

It must be said, my Brit has been an absolute Godsend. How I managed to get so lucky, I dunno. But he has been absolutely amazing. Bringing me all the right stuff when I need it, including the really important items like the latest copy of Hello and high doses of codeine.
He's been doting and incredible.
I don't know what I would've done without him.

the diagnosis

2012-01-12T09:32:00.003Z

I don't know if I'm coming or going, but I can tell you this:
I am in a lot of pain, I'm drooling and I am wearing a ginormous set of paper pants.

I have three cuts over my stomach, and I can't walk.

The diagnosis isn't great. I have 'severe' endometriosis and it was a difficult operation, as it was found in some really difficult areas, like on my kidneys (!) and bladder.

I didn't think it would be severe. But it does at least answer for the crazy pain I experience every month.

The good news is that my tubes aren't full of it, so I will be able to have babies.
The bad news is that there's still work to be done. It's not over.

I woke up from my delirium yesterday and the first thing I asked, apparently, was "CAN I HAVE KIDS?"

Oh dear.

Everyone has been very supportive. Just haven't heard anything from my parents. Which is kind of hurtful, but in some ways to be expected. Besides they have more important things to deal with like areoplanes and admin.

ooo

2012-01-10T17:54:00.003Z

My out of office. The whole "I'm away, don;t email me, email my colleague" thing is really old and stupid. People think you're lying on a beach sipping diaquiris. When in fact you're being cut open.

With so much work going on, and deadlines, and other shit, me being erstwhile is not helluva convenient. And so I need them to know that I'm not in fucking Aruba, I'm on the operating table.

So. Ahem. Which?

Hi. I am unable to respond to your email right now, as I am literally unconscious. Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias.

A bit honest?

Hi. I am totally offline. Medical procedure. Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias

Not enough explanation. Will still think I'm not in a hospital.

OOO: Sick leave. I am undergoing something.Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias.

Then they'll think it's a cold.

OK OK. Hi. I am in the hands of the medical community today, and won't be online. I'll respond to your mail on Thursday. Should you require any assistance between now and Thursday, please email our press alias.

That's fine right.

Adios. I'm scared. The Brit has landed. He's back from Sveeden. Thank fuck for small mercies.

what i'm scared of

2012-01-09T17:10:00.015Z

Just looking at this swatch makes me feel excited. And in a weird way, not a 'oh yay I'm so excited' way.

I'm having minor surgery on Wednesday.

Minor is major when you're an insatiable neurotic.

Jittery and on edge, the Brit's plane better not be delayed from Stockholm, oh my God I can only think of scalpels and wind pipes. (Apparently they stuff tubes down your throat so you can breathe properly?)

The less I know the better. But I'll find out anyway because I'm a cat and curiosity kills me.

Look, I'm scared of a lot of shit. Like:

Snakes

Egg boxes (texture thing. Have dropped egg boxes trying to overcome said fear)

Innards (in soups, stews, pies, on the telly)

Socialists

Anything that moves that I am not the driver of (planes, cars, motorbikes)

Anything that moves that I'm inside of that I have no control over (rollercoasters, ferris wheels, water slides, any theme park rides)

Bungee jumping (and this isn't completely unreasonable, frankly)

Drugs that people put up their noses or inject with needles

Drug addicts (it's the hollow look in the eyes, and the inappropriate nosebleeds. That picture of Daniella Westbrook's septum, or lack thereof, doesn't help either.)

Water and what lies beneath (currents, sharks, don't get me started)

Being cut open, even if it's a little cut (ref above)

Lifts (got stuck in one in Kenya, read an article in You when I was 8 which showed in graphic detail a dude's legs being snapped off when he got caught in the doors)

Germs (public railings, public pin pads, things that Londoners touch)

By that list, you'd probably ascertain that I am a quivering, agoraphobic, OCD, ADHD, wreck. One would think. And it's quite plausible, that when I eventually lose my mind, that I might just become one or all of those things.

I like to think I manage to balance this out by being ballsy in other areas. Like:

In the boardroom. I'll speak when I'm not spoken to. Chick with a dick?

Writing about snippets of my life in the public domain. With references to my frequent use of lube, using the word 'fuck' a lot, having a bit of a rant about a person or a company, opening myself up to attack.

When I do drive a car, or moving vehicle that I am in control of, I do all sorts of wonderful high-speed things.

Openly admitting to idolising Margaret Thatcher. Which is apparently 'controversial.' (Grow a pair, Socialists)

Travelling to weird, sometimes dangerous places, quite happily on my own. (Or in rare cases with my Mum) or for work. I'll try to make friends on the other side.

Going to dangerous neighbourhoods for the sake of education and/or great photography and/or stories. Favelas, council estates, Hillbrow, townships back home. I've loitered in all of these places, and loved it. I always had a camera on me, and a notepad in my hand - especially in my journalism days. The only place I didn't go is the...western front. My photography course portfolio was based on Hillbrow.
(Maybe more stupid than brave?)

Similarly, telling hijackers to fuck off as 'it's my cellphone upgrade and I just got it.' While there's a knife to my throat. That was definitely dumb and wouldn't condone such behaviour.

Eating tons of garlic. More than the average person. Most people fear garlic. I only fear the fear of garlic.

Pilfering. (Only when I'm drunk. Get very excited about a good pilfering. From traffic cones to low hanging fruit. (I pilfered this at an Hawaiian party once). Again, more dumb than courageous?

Riding a bike in London. Some people are too scared, because lots of people die on their bikes in this town. Fuck it. No car, will bike.

Wearing red. It's my favourite colour. There is a lot of red in my life, and I'm not afraid to pile it on my body. My bike is red, my chairs, my Wellies, and I have a fair number of jumpers and pants in the colour. Red makes me feel happy. I get a little flicker of excitement when I look at something red. Everything has to be red, to the point where I've had to compromise a lot with the Brit. I've had to learn that not everything can, in fact, be red. Red is amazing.

And no. I don't know why this blog is pink.

I've put red under the bravery list, because lots of people are scared of colour. Wearing it especially. And particularly in London where the normal grey, blues and blacks are standard winter uniform. I say No! Embrace the red! Feel the vaab!

Oh God they're going to cut into me on Wednesday.

ten

2012-01-06T14:30:00.009Z

Took me an hour this morning to select which shade of tweed I'd be wearing today.

Why? So glad you asked.

I went to 10 Downing Street for a meeting. One of the only reasons why this week was rad, is because of the run-up to this.
I went to the house of the prime minister, and for the occasion I took out my finest tweed and Woman Cravat. She Who Hates Socialists pointed out that my cravat was a "nice Tory blue." That's right.

Exhibit A:

Which took me to:

..posing like a teapot in front of number 10.

...and getting all excited and flailing wildly.

One day when Hugh Grant (really) gets to run for PM, he can do it too.

It's more a galvanised door than a wooden one. And it's polished so nicely, it shines.
The other thing is that there are other doors nearby with '11' and '12' on them. Why doesn't anyone want pictures next to those?

~~I had a whale of a time.~~ To be fair, it was a meeting, but I felt very privileged to see the inside. And all the relics from past prime ministers. As My Brit said from Sweden, I was lucky to go in as a foreigner - many Brits never get to go near this. And walking through the sea of tourists to enter through the gate of Downing Street felt particularly nice. And important.

To substantiate all things political (and just merely in the celebration of tweed for being tweedy), me and She Who Also Loves Tweed (appropes?) are going on a magical day of shopping, champagne sipping, The Iron Lady watching and dim sum eating on Sunday in Mayfair.

Dude. It's like the perfect day in the capital. First a stop at Selfridges to look at more tweed, whilst dressed in tweed (obligatory), and then to watch the blockbuster on the best female prime minister of all time. Apparently they don't paint her in the best light. They being Hollywood. So to commiserate, we will have slow gins afterwards.

2012 is looking up. Satan didn't try to strangle me through my own body last night, either.

satan be gone

2012-01-04T15:10:00.001Z

So my Brit's in effing Sweden.

And while I have full-on tonsillitis and ear infection, I had what I can only describe as a night terror last night.
Dude. I had a dream that I had been possessed by Satan.

Dude. Not a ghost or The Blob or even a random demon, Satan himself.

Peas: I missed you in bed last night.

Brit: Tell me more?

Peas: I woke up screaming and hysterical because I dreamt that I'd been possessed by Satan.

Brit: Oh. Boring.

Peas: No. Not boring. Trust me.

Brit: What happened?

Peas: When I woke up, I still thought he was in our room.

Brit: That's funny. Are you 6 years old?

Peas: Right before that he was strangling me in my own body.

Brit: Woah.

Peas: And he was making my body parts do weird things. Like grow an extra thumb out of my hand and make me talk backwards and slowly. He was living inside my body.

Brit: That's horrific.

Peas: That's right.

I was freaking terrified. I know I've been all cynical about the start of 2012 and everything, but is this an omen? Or is it that I'm turning into a Satanist? Or even worse, a [gasp]...goth Satanist?

Jesus. I couldn't handle all that black lipstick.

But seriously - and no pun intended on the word 'Jesus,' I just thought he'd better be in the room for this, because frankly I'm a bit scared - am I a devil woman?

I know I can be a bit crass and rude and say fuck 8000 times a day, but I'd like to think I'm still a good person deep down who doesn't let scary cloven-hoofed arch demons into my body.

Even in my dreams. Will do a self-exorcism tonight through the medium of candle burning and scrubbing myself raw in the bath tub, after I've taken my tonsillitis antibiotics.

I miss my Brit. I'm freaking terrified to go to sleep tonight.

cynical resolutions

2012-01-03T13:16:00.014Z

Fuck. It's fucking January.

Happy New Year to all those with big hopes and dreams for 2012. And to those too, like myself, who are feeling slightly more cynical about the whole affair.

It's January. Meh. Meh OK. January in the UK is the reason why people immigrate back to South Africa. It's mostly a frightful time of year.

Not because I saw hundreds of very sad looking Christmas conifers being blown about in the wind, discarded at people's doorsteps. Or because I had to be back in the office today. Or that I realised the blouse I bought in Ted Baker still has the fucking tag attached to it, so it looks like I am a freeloading pilferer.

Have to be honest - I face this year with a certain dread. Most people were happy to see the back of 2011, not I. Here's why:

1) Another year ----> I'm older.
2) I have an operation next week on my uterus.
3) I'm still sick. Now on the antibiotics.
4) The Brit is going to Sweden tomorrow on business for a week
5) I have an aneurysm's worth of work to do between now and heading to South Africa.
6) Ah, South Africa. How do I handle you, I wonder.

Before I get into the convoluted feelings I have for my birth country, allow me to share our New Year's in Amsterdam. Before all the magic is completely thwarted by my post-Christmas depression.

It was probably the first trip to the Dam where I actually appreciated my surroundings. In times past, I was way too fucked to recognise my own name nevermind that I was in a Dutch city.

Sure, we indulged. But it was relaxed and low key. There was a time when I once visited Amsterdam and couldn't feel my legs for 4 hours.
Our New Year's was spent in an awesome bar-cum-club. But all very quaint and cutesy, if you can call club decor 'quaint and cutesy', WTF.

There was a rooftop terrace where we could watch the fireworks, which had been going off like gunshots throughout the day. There is a law in Holland that forbids fireworks on every day except New Year's Eve. So people were setting them off all over the shop.
Watching it all erupt from the safety of a rooftop was wonderful - mainly because you avoided injury and also because it looked what I'd imagine Beirut burning looked like.

Amsterdam was on FYE-YER.

We ate pancakes the size of my ass (which is 2 kilos beefier. I'll sit on you if you fuck with me), and at one time the Brit and I spent 3, or was it 4? hours in a sex shop, thereafter leaving with 55 quids worth of merchandise.

In our less-than sober states, we spent 50 quid in a sex shop. And we don't really recall why we needed, say, pulsating ass beads and luxury lube. Trust me.

And now South Africa. I'm freaking terrified. And I don't even know quite how I suddenly became more scared than excited, but I'm gonna need a Xanax if these anxiety levels don't sort themselves the fuck out.

Basically, it's a fear the unknown. I have never been away from South Africa for so long. I'm scared that I've been totally left behind. Or rather I've left it totally behind. I've moved on to the point of no return. I'm scared that all sorts of mixed feelings will come back. I'm scared nothing has changed. I'm scared too much has changed. I'm scared of the fact that many of my friends there have babies and picket fences and I cannot relate. I'm scared they cannot relate to my experiences here. And we aren't interested in each others lives at all. How can friends I grew up with for practically 30 years feel like strangers to me?

This is how: leave the country. Travel to over 20 new countries. Experience new things like living with manky Australians in a digs in the middle of a ghetto, move in with an Englishman, start drinking tea with your fish and chips. Start a new job. Start a new career. Basically start a whole new life.

So this is why I am nervous. The other side to this, of course, and this is why I haven't come back yet is, what happens if I don't want to come back to the UK? It's crossed my mind that the smell of the grass, the sun on my pasty skin, the freedom of driving a car, seeing my family might just make me take 5 steps back.

I've tried really hard to settle into my new little country. And I feel like I have adjusted accordingly. I like this place. What if visiting South Africa makes me unlike it?

What if I hate it? Where everyone's small-minded and stuck in a bubble they believe is the centre of the universe? And I fly back to London with a "thank fuck that's over?"

It's my best mates wedding. I'm one of her bridesmaids, and for that I can't wait. She's someone I am dying to see and polish off a bottle of wine with. A wedding is a great way to bind old acquaintances after all, so perhaps it's the best reason, if any, to visit home.

I'll also have a Brit with me. I'll need to show him things he hasn't seen before. Like rhino guano, Plett and real suncream.

Mixed feelings. And since it's about a month away, it's keeping me up at night.

PS: I haven't made a resolutions list. I'm feeling extra special cynical this year, to the point where I know making resolutions never works because they are always broken. All I care about is losing those two kilos on my backside so that I can show off my rump on the fucking beach.

48 hrs of girlie bliss

2011-12-29T21:48:00.003Z

Spent the last 48 hours doing the following:

Massaging my face, watching docu-dramas on Bio channel, lighting candles, running baths, massaging my scalp with my new Headonistic™ head massager that L gave me for Chrissie, nipping down to Chelsea on the bus because of the telegraphic beckoning of Zara and Ted Baker and their prospective December sales, buying some awesome crap at both places for half price, eating Waitrose food, sleeping, reading chavnificent tabloid magazines, working from my couch (a little), gargling, necking vitamin C, trying on my new red pants, packing for Amsterdam.

Dude.

It's been the best 48 hours ever. Just what a sniffling 30something needs to prepare for one mentaltastic New Year's weekend in Amsterdam.

We haven't had a lot of weekends lately at home. Those awesome hibernation-slouchy ones that have involved walking around naked/one piece of pyjama on.

Christ, I did the dishes in my pants. I thrust open the tea cupboard, and got through 8 different teas today. I stuck my head in the fridge about 6 times.

God it was pleasant.

Having some time at home - half working, half lying around doing sweet fuck all, has been brilliant. My throat still hurts, but I am ready to take on the 'Dam tomorrow.

By some random tangent of destiny, I have been to Amsterdam 5 times. Since I was 10. The last trip was with Dove a few years ago, where we watched a live sex show - I mean shex show - and got up to all sorts of mischief. So I'm feeling quite nostalgic and miss my little mate.

Well it should be interesting in any case. I'm slightly skeptical, and wonder if this may damage my perception of Amsterdammage forever - as in, it could be the worst most chaotic New Year's ever - or maybe, we'll end up spending out evening curled up next to a dijk.

Or a dyke.

Whatever. It might be surprisingly chilled out. Hope yours is too. Happy New Year!

christmas

2011-12-28T13:33:00.006Z

After 4 days of Christmas haze, spent in a converted barn on a farm in the hills of Swanage, it's the end of another festive Christmas. Mostly.

Twas the kind of scenery that makes you want to buy a combine harvester (totes appropes) and eat full-fat butter. (Gasp! As if?)

The days were punctuated with Disaronno's, flutes and flutes of prosecco (I bought along 5 bottles. One needs to be continuously pissed to survive Christmas indoors in the UK). So in the haze that can only be described as mass over-indulgence, I am now back in London to see friends and my aunt before we head to Amsterdam for a (fucked up?) New Year's.

I'm not very good at [British] Christmas. But then, I really and honestly think it's because I'm South African.

If I whittle it down, it comes down to one thing: climate.
At home we can go outside, run around, go for a swim, chill out in the garden. It's hard to get on top of each other when there's more space. The outdoors is counted as more space.

Here? People are indoors. All day, everyday. The thing is, Brits are used to being inside. They can quite happily sit around, filling the time by pottering around anything that is digestible. Either making food, eating food, or reheating food. And on top of one another. The Brit has been doing this his whole life, and he loves it. I'm the weird foreigner who, at the end of it all, is quite relieved to go home and be alone.

I am also not good at Christmas when I am sick. I've been trying to nail down a throat infection that's turned into a cold for a week now. Being inside with lots of humans - oh dear God - the germs - obviously hasn't helped, and now am sicker than before.

I'm chugging on Lem Sip like a motherfucker. And it still hurts to talk. I feel more subdued than Kim Jong Il's funeral attendees.

To be fair, this year in the run up to Christmas, I was more festive and in the spirit than any other year. I have been drinking mulled wine since November, I sent out 8000 Christmas cards, I sent all my family members presents back home, we got a [midget] tree.

But I really struggle with being cooped up inside with lots and lots of people. I get cabin fever something chronic. So one just gets blotto, riding on a tide of ethanol to get through it all alive.

I ate a small country in food. Had about four food coma's in as many days, where you eat the state of Montana and then pass out on something horizontal, and wake up drooling all over your Christmas jumper.

Anyway. That said, we all had a lovely time. It was as Christmassy as Christmas can be in the UK - family, politics, turkey, Brussel sprouts and passing wind (not me, everyone else. In close proximity. Pooey).

And the thought of January, February and the rest of winter without faerie lights, fizz and mulled wine makes me want to cry. It's cold and yet there's no festive shit anywhere.

I'm depressed.

Except. Except! This is why I we take our long holiday in February. See? We do have something to look forward to - South Africa! When it's dark, the winter is just dragging on and on, the rain is coming down, everyone's on a diet, or withdrawing from nicotine, basically the worst month in England. And we won't be here for it.

YES. PLEASE.

Last year we went to South East Asia, this year we're hitting the hotspots of Saffaland.

Thank God for it. Now back to feeling flat after Christmas.

blighty 2011

2011-12-22T11:07:00.028Z

I haven't actually seen much of the UK this year. I've been focused on using the nugget of gold that is adhered to my passport in the form of a 2 year Schengen visa - to buggery before it runs out.
Which meant going over to the Continent a fuckload more than to other parts of Britain.

When it does run out, (April. Noooooooooo.....) I'll be stuck here. Which means Wales, Scotland, the Cotswolds, and all those other lovely little places where Kate Moss has a country cottage and Jeremy Clarkson has a manor house - I'll be exploring all of you in the near future.

For now, these are the pictures that sum up my first full year of living in Britain. And what a year it's been:

The Royal Wedding, April. Being in London for such an event was spectacular. It made me very proud to ~~be British~~ be a resident of Britain. Everyone dressed up, there were street parties everywhere, people were throwing around flags and cupcakes, and most just got very drunk. Like me.

Oxford Circus, April. The place is busy as fuck. You just don't go there on weekends, unless you've shipped in for a spot of shopping from another country. The thing is, when something is to be celebrated, like Christmas or a Royal Wedding, the street is the first place to adorn itself with lights and flags. I got to see it from a rooftop while on a work shoot with the BBC. One week before the Wedding.

The London Marathon, April. I don't run, pretend to like it, pretend to want to like it, pretend to like others that like it. But watching the London Marathon brings more than running to the table. Fancy dress costumes, and other funny shit worth supporting. We stood at Canary Wharf cheering everyone on, while drinking cold cider. It was great.

Jubilee Line, on the way to aforementioned event. We climbed onto the same tube and carriage as Sir Richard Branson. He gave me a polite middle finger when I took this picture. I like to think he was just saying hi in his own Spock language.
The week previous, I got a smile from Rowan Atkinson when I cycled past him in Battersea Park.

Speaking of cycling, April. If my bike was a car.....it would be this, as seen in Chelsea. I bought myself a spanking new Pashley Brittanica called Dennis (which, I guiltily add, I haven't ridden in the last little while because winter is pants on a bike), but he has given me much joy. And I've seen a lot more of London as a result.

Ma boyz, May. Waynie and Dwaynie make for somewhat juvenile entertainment. As seen here in our new flat.

Tea and our love affair thereof. This was taken at Deli Boutique, the most unEnglish place in our village. It's like stepping into Normandy. It's 100% owned by French people who flail wildly and greet you with a 'Bonjour,' and it's fucking amazing. If not for the crepes and other Franco heaven, they actually serve quite a decent brew. To English standards even. Oui. C'est vrai.

Haslemere, June. My friends got married at their English manor house in Surrey. It was gorgeous. We got lost in the gardens. I blame the champagne.

Battersea Park, June. Summer in England is a very important, very talked about, very controversial subject. It's like the Second Coming. And this is why. You take yer bike to the park, roll out a blanket, lie in the sun, on your boyfriend, on the daisies, and forget all your problems.

Spencer Park, July. You spend a lot of time in parks in summer - you don't take summer for granted in the UK. This park is across the road from our flat.

Rye, July. My mates and I headed to Rye for a day trip, a town on the Sussex coast which is home to Paul McCartney and, according to the cab driver, "Tom from Keane." It was really pretty - typically English from the cobbled streets to the roving wild roses.

Tea room, Rye, July. I loved this picture. Because this is Britain to its very core. Sitting on the pavement, drinking tea, eating a crumpet, watching the world go by. It's that cheery, traditional, 'taking advantage of every slice of sun' thing that makes Britain so ~~stereotypical~~ wonderful.

Pimms, May-September. What you drink in the summer(ish) months. Standard.

Victoria Station, August. This is what happens to British people when they spend more than two minutes in the sun.

Lavender Hill, Clapham Junction, August. The burnt-out Party Store in my neighbourghood. The London riots threw the country into a political purgatory - forcing it to assess if delinquent youths are a symptom or cause of "broken Britain." I am of the opinion that it's a symptom of all sorts of things, and the Tories have since managed to catch most of them. I do love those Tories.

That said,, Clapham Junction formed a broom brigade and cleaned up all the shit left by the looters. British people really bandy together when the shit hits low flying fans. They really just get on with things. Here, bunting was pinned up on the end of my street to show solidarity.

Flowers from my Brit, August. This isn't a forum to talk endlessly about my boyfriend (anymore...in 2005 this blog started as just that, ironically). But it has to be said that my Brit is just wonderful from time to time. He buys me flowers, and if they come to my desk, I'll just take them home in my bike's basket.

Bestival, Isle of Wight, September. A group of us headed to the Isle of Wight, and for me it was my first British music festival experience. Hundreds of thousands of tents, fucked people, and great music. This is what we awoke to for 4 days.

The Village Poeple. We did a real-life live YMCA at Bestival. Bless.

Outside our flat, October. Summer might rock, but don't mock Autumn in Britain. The golden hues of the leaves, all totes lovely jubbly. It starts to get fresher, people start to dread the winter....and then you find a patch of sun. And just stand there in it.

Dude. I totes went to Scunthorpe. My work takes me to a lot of...bleak places in Britain. Part of my work is focused on helping the British economy. So I get to go to those awesome places you won't find on any TripAdvisor list. like Liverpool, Birmingham, Belfast...and Scunthorpe. Places that need help, basically.

Christmas, Oxford Street, December. It's honestly a wonderful time. Freezing of ovaries and other shit aside.

I go to Dorset with the Brit's family for Christmas this year. They've rented a large farmhouse on the cliffs. I'm rather excited. To get drunk and eat fuckloads of hot Turkey and other stodgy foods that seem to make sense in this climate.

Happy Christmas everyone!

photos of 15 countries

2011-12-19T13:44:00.025Z

It's been a helluva year.

2011 has been like 2008. The realisation of some dreams for me. My big thing of 2008 was the launch of my book. In it's real, printed pages format.

This year has been more personal accomplishments, by way of work, love and travel. In 2011, England felt more like home to me than a cold, little muddy island that's obsessed with football and tea. Like:

1) My boyfriend and I bought a flat and moved in together.

2) I started to think about the future. And a future that doesn't just have me in it.

3) I took a lot of aeroplanes (about 22 flights) and trains this year. I squeezed all I could out of business and personal travel.

4) I won an award at work.

Countries visited this year: 15 (not incl. UK)
Of these, totally new countries: 7*
Total countries visited in my life: 42
Total number of countries in the world: 196 (I have an infinitely fucklong way to go don't I.)

This post is my year in travel.** I've deliberately chosen one favourite picture from each country in my e-albums, which invoked tons of emotion. (I should add, I'm also pre-menstrual.)
So, what do I spend most of my pocket money on? This:

Khao San Road, Bangkok, Thailand, February. I love this picture, as it sums up the chaos and choice that is Thailand's busiest city.

Hoi An, Vietnam, February. It was hard to choose for Vietnam. We saw the country from top to bottom, so it's fair to say we saw a fuckload more than silk lanterns hanging from a window on a quiet street, while waiting for a bus.

Meribel, Haute-Savoie, France, March. Skiing in the Alps is, like, totes hedonistic. Beyond having five massages in a row. We were lucky to stay with friends who own a chalet there.

Lagos, Algarve, Portugal, April. It was ~~shit~~ cold. But very unique and unexpectedly beautiful.

Hamburg, Germany, June. I went to the city for work, and had a thoroughly raucous time. I blame a bottle of Riesling and a willing German colleague.

Nyhavn, Copenhagen, Denmark, June. I loved loved loved Denmark. Granted I went in mid-summer when the sun only set at 11:30pm. But if there's a city that can be described as near as perfect as fuck, Copenhagen it is.

San Marco, Venice, Italy, July. The Brit took me to Venice for a dirty weekend. Hot, romantic, always a feast for the eyes, stomach and nasal cavities. (The canals smell a bit rank in the hot months.) I loved this picture because with all the crazy architecture around, no one observes the lamps. I love the lamps.

Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, United States, October. My annual work trip to the lovely city. Picture = no brainer. I rode over this bad boy on a bike. And thought I'd die. (I always think I'm going to die.)

Hotel Del Coronado, San Diego, United States, October. I'm cheating as I promised only one picture per country. Well shoot me and call me Marilyn. I dined at this hotel, where said name (of the family Monroe) shot Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.

Krakow, Poland, October. A nun walking down the street where Pope John Paul lived. Apt much?

Plášťovce, Slovakia, October. Possibly the most extreme mustard-coloured Skoda I've ever seen in an old Communist country. In the history of mustard-cloured Skoda's.

Budapest, Hungary, October. I loved Budapest. I thought it was more vast and just as beautiful as Prague. If not a titch more interesting.

Horky, Czech Republic, October. I liked this [random] picture, as it sums up what my mother and I did for 10 days in the red Skoda. We would take a left, into an arb little village, like this one. Whenever we felt like it.

Dublin, Ireland, November. That's me. Dressed up like Pat Benatar threw up Maggie Thatcher's head, while clutching an inflatable crocodile. Best party of the year. Hands down.

Kairouan, Tunisia, December. The world's fourth holiest city. Debauchery of above picture would've got me jailed here.

Amsterdam, Holland, December. Future picture. Apparently fireworks go off everywhere, so here's hoping nothing explodes near the face.

Here's to another 15 next year. Starting with South Africa in February. It's weird to think I now count SA as a country I visit away from home...

* We are going to Holland for New Year's. So at the time of writing this post, strictly speaking, it was 14.
** These are pictures outside of the UK. England will come later this week. Old Blighty deserves its own time in the sun. Partly because it never gets any.

snow & strategy

2011-12-16T10:00:00.007Z

It's snowing!

For an antipodean, snow never gets old. Even in London where it immediately turns to slush and goes all brown and dirty (or yellow, from copious amounts of piss).

Oh and halfway during the above sentence, while opening Blogger in a frenzy, it stopped again.

But that's not the reason for this post.

Christmas shopping. The Brit and I have either gone completely fucking mental, or it's because we haven't had a moment to do it yet, but we are doing our Christmas shopping tomorrow.
On a Saturday. In a mall.

Does anyone have any suggestions (or free offers?) of drugs that I can take for all the screaming children and bat shit crazy people that I have to contend with?

Women grabbing blindly for the 2 for 1 specials on 'FloorFillers 2000" - I'm going to need some kind of tranquiliser to get through this. Our strategy alone simply isn't enough.

I'm gonna need a dart gun, loaded with enough ketamine to floor a rhino. For myself. I'll aim it at my own rump, if it means I get through this alive.

Up until this point, I've, at large, felt very Christmassy. More so than in previous years. Being drunk most of the time always helps.
So in order to spread the joy, The Brit and I have a plan in place. And we've even written it down on a doc, shared it, and added comments.

The end result is a SWAT campaign for Christmas shopping:

Exit house at 7:00am, Saturday morning, GMT.
Enter Deli Boutique, purchase to-go coffees.
Pull into shopping centre complex, Westfield, at approximately 8:00am. Secure parking at front of lifts.
Pull out floor plan.

Execute delivery of floor plan, that has been memorised in memory banks.
Enter Level 1, put on night vision goggles.
Assemble blinkers, bought from horse accessories store, on head.
Pull out shopping list.
Proceed to item 1, in a passive-aggressive directional stance, buy item.
Buy online, from Amazon, while in the shop. To save time.

That's how far we have got. It's all written down and everything.

This is going to ruin my weekend isn't it.

christmas parties & hangovers

2011-12-15T13:19:00.003Z

Was our office Christmas party last night.

I swear I can still taste Moet in my mouth. Doesn't taste as great the second time around.

Twas a fun party. Fueled by champagne and gin and tonics, the last thing I remember before dragging my ruined carcass home, was running around in the snow blower.

The party was held at a gay club in Charing Cross, the walls adorned with ~~rainbows and man-spunk~~ Christmassy stuff. Elves greeted us at the door, then groups of them randomly played live rock on the stage and others did the electric slide on the dance floor.

All very surreal. But the best was the snow blower machines. Spraying out flecks of foam, and fake cottony snowballs being tossed at people's heads, and lots of awesome retro 90s techno.

Someone made me do a Jaeger, She Who Also Wears Tweed and I ordered a cheeky bottle of Moet to wash down all the gingerbread men we'd smashed in our faces, and eventually after deciding that my Kate Middleton shoes were too fucking uncomfortable to stand anymore, evacuated the building and climbed - stumbled - into bed past midnight.

In my old age, I have really become quite fond of Christmas. If not for present sharing, but for the mere fact that you can be as stupid and fucked as you like.

Everyone seems to be in a slightly better mood. The food's good too.

But here's the schtick: most people can while away their hangovers behind their computer screens or under the bed covers. Me?

I have to go to the gynae.

I. have. To. put. My. Legs. in. Stirrups.

Dude. You haven't had a hangover until you ~~wake up to find an inflatable reptile in your bath tub~~ you have to open your legs for the gynae.

All in the name of sorting my endometriosis out for my future babies. That I've vehemently decided that I definitely want.

Hope he doesn't smell the Moet. Er.

tunisia

2011-12-14T11:32:00.011Z

I'm back from Tunisia. I'm alive, there is no war! That I saw. Of.

Way too fucking short. And really annoyingly, didn't get to ride a camel. Instead got to ride a quad bike to a bunch of camels.

It was quite weird to touch African soil again. I haven't touched African soil for a fuck long time. So texted all my mates down south in a flurry of cocktail-infused excitement, Am back on the continent, motherlovers. Although I guess I might as well be in fucking Latvia, since I'm only two hours from London.

I haven't been to a lot of Muslim countries, (Turkey only really), and certainly never been to North Africa before. So this is what I learnt as a fly-by-night tourist in Tunisia:

Never argue with airport officials
Yes I know this already, but I mean really. Really don't argue with them.

The trip didn't begin well. This always happens to me. I get questioned why I don't have the right visa, chaos ensues, I end up crying, and then they kick me out of the country (Canada, 2002.)

Anyway, this time, the dude just took mine and the Brit's passports and made us wait in a pleather-interiored waiting room with TV footage of the revolution happening in front of us. The Brit was only there by association, given his passport gets him in everywhere.
The visa stand at the airport in Tunis had no queues. There was nothing going down. The only thing going on was a fuckload of smoking. Officials in uniform, gaffing away, indoors. More about this later. And yet, he had issues printing out my visa.

"Should've got it in London," he says.

"No I shouldn't have. I should've got it right here. As every single embassy site told me to do

"No. They are all wrong. Tell me why I should give you visa."

"Dude. The woman at Air Tunis let me on the plane. "WHY IS THERE A VISA STAND HERE? IS THIS FOR SHOW? IS THIS FOR OTHER PASSPORTS? IS THIS A DREAM?"

[Lots of heated discussion. He lights another cigarette.]

Eventually got it, with a firm warning that next time I should get it in London.

Arabs gaff like it's a national sport
I thought the Greeks were bad. Muslims don't drink alcohol, but they know how to smoke.

Some dropped cigarettes on the floor in the middle of the airport and didn't bother to stuff them out with their shoes. Fire hazards aside, there's nowhere that is smoke-free. So wear a gas mask.

Tunisia is a beautiful country
Bar cigarette smoke everywhere and cunty officials, it's a diverse little place. With a lot of green areas too. We went to the world's fourth most Holy City, Kairouan.

Mecca is the first, God knows what the other two are (New York?). We also saw 'Africa's largest Colosseum."

Dude. There are other Colosseums? Outside of Rome? In Africa?

El Jem - where it's based - is insane. Where people fought...camels. We stayed in Hammamet, which had this beautiful old 'medina' (old walled city) there.

We took quad bikes into the back country where we saw four old tanks from World War II. Just parking off there, discarded and preserved by heat and dust.

It's cheap
We got two full course meals a day, where they served chocolate mousse for breakfast. Four star hotel, transfers, flights, all inclusive.

We smoked a lot of shisha. Shuddup. It doesn't count as normal smoking.

The only thing that'll make your balls drop is the price of alcohol, but then it's London prices all the same.

You will get hassled
Apparently it's not as full-on as Egypt or Turkey, but you do get hassled. They see you coming miles away.

Most of the time it goes like this.

Them: "Hello!"

"No thanks we don't need to buy that tagine pot you're holding."

Them: "English? French?"

"Non merci."

Them: You don't recognise me? I'm from the hotel."

"Non. Goodbye."

Them: It's free. Here take it, it's free."

"Non merci." [Now running]

Them: "I give it to you one dinar. Just one dinar." (about 50p)

Wash, rinse, repeat. That same conversation will happen at least 10 times a day. You just power through.

It's 3 hours from London
I'm quite keen to explore more of north Africa now. It's the same distance to Sicily or Malta.

The food is very agreeable
A little bit of spice, but nothing that blows your head off your shoulders. Tagines are made up of the finest cous cous, and then a stew made of chicken or lamb.
Lots of olives. Olives fucking everywhere, and tapas-y Mediterranean type fare.

We ate like it was 1998. (When I had a metabolism)

Their second language is French
We got by with my French for four days. As English is not speaky very good. I had a long chat to the cab driver in French about how he chooses his wive(s). C'etait vraiment bon, oui?

why i love my second home

2011-12-08T10:41:00.006Z

So it's almost the end of another year; I've been living in Britain for 18 months.

When does one cross the line and become more British than South African? It'll take years to chip down my Africanness (in all manners speaking - though to be fair I haven't had a tan in 18 months).

Anyway, this tumultuous love affair I have with my new country certainly has its ups and downs, but generally, I'm able to safely call the old place home now.

It's fair to say I have grown rather fond of England.

And as ludicrous as this may sound to someone from a sunny, exotic country - it's not difficult. England is a homely place.

I've had a few troughs of course where I've thought, Jesus fuck. Why am I here again? Usually, this happens when I'm pushed into a train with another 20 people all at once, and people are prodding and poking but really weirdly still not making eye contact or speaking.

Rail rage has become a real affliction for me.

But I do love this funny little island.
And here are just a few reasons why:

Going 'abroad' means going to Europe
Dude. When you go to Spain, that's going 'abroad.' Going to Tunisia, means I'm going to 'die.'
It's the Brits that have put the fear of God into me about Arab extremism. And somehow still manage to make it funny.

My daily tea consumption is at an all time high
There's the obligatory slide into fanatical and extreme tea drinking, even if you used to drink a lot of tea before living here.
I'm on about 12 cups a day on average. (Herbal mostly.) There is such a large variety and choice of teas here, it would be impossible to taste them all in a lifetime.

There's organic, white tea, dark tea, infused tea, tea that comes in little satin pouches, 'red bush', tea that has lavender and aromatherapy oils in it. If you can put it in a bag, you can drink it.

The tea culture here is more insane than I even imagined.

Brits are always cheery
Shit might come raining down from the sky, but they never fail to make light of any situation.

It usually comes in the form a of a cheery, "Yes, my leg got cut off yesterday, but on the plus side we still won the war back in 1945."

"Unemployment is at an all time high in the UK, so it's a jolly good thing Tesco is selling teabags at half price."

"Fuck, my thighs are the size of The Shard building. Oh well. Better have another glass of chianti."

"It's dreadful about how the world has been taken over by aliens who are shooting balls of AIDS out of their machine guns, aimed at humans with ginger hair....better get me haired dyed then, ey?"

Dim sum
Those little Asian fusion dumplings things that make me dry hum my plate like a tween after a plate of Viagra tartare.

My favourite foods: pie, salmon and dim sum. All widely and readily available in the city of London. If you want cheap and cheerful, it's there. If you want expensive and posh, it's there. Any type of cosmopolitan food - any street, any corner.

Cool stuff

Harvey Nichols, Harrods, Zara, Ted Baker, John Lewis, House of Fraser. And that's just clothing. Decor, clothing, shoes, bath products - it's a capitalists wet dream here.

I knew I'd found home when I found whole shops dedicated solely to luxury bath products.

Just need a few pound to unleash the fury.

English country pubs and tea rooms
Original places with a sticky bar counter, tudor walls, pictures that hang crooked that serve a great ~~pint~~ champagne and/or a great cup of tea. What's not to love?

South west London

~~If it isn't in South West London, it doesn't exist.~~ Yeah, it's there, but who cares? My village is SW.
London is made up of thousands of little villages. Each village has a high street. One village can be one road away from another village. You stick to your village. London is so vast, sometimes it's just easier to stay where you are.

To be fair
I say that now. Because every other person around me says it. I've osmosed it.
Everything can be justified or asserted with one sentence.
"To be fair, the Germans do make a great sausage."

It's part of that cheery thing.

Christmas
Christmas here is wonderful. People of any age send out Christmas cards. (What?)
So this year I thought I'd get with the fucking programme and did the same. On asking my Saffa mates for their postal addresses I got back from one: "You don't expect me to send one back do you?"

The lights are out, the shops are buzzing, mulled wine is being drunk, people wear hats (I love a good hat), and Christmas trees are being bought, captured, uploaded to social networks, and compared.

Word.

I was sucked into a Christmas tree compare-off. Dude.

Mine was the midget tree that I bought in a mulled wine stupor, from a stationery shop.
The balls I hung on it are too big.

I lost and it was embarrassing.

Christmas jumpers! Everyone has one - it looks like a sort of Nordic blanket, sure, but everyone has a Christmas jumper. They're all the rage, especially this year. Snowflakes, reindeer, even ones that have knitted Christmas puds on them.

So. This is home. I'm almost quite comfortable with it now.

PS: And all this, just before we die in Tunisia tomorrow evening. Eek! Bye.

is tunisia a warzone

2011-12-06T14:47:00.011Z

So, a few weeks ago, the Brit and I got onto the Information Superhighway in a bid to find a:

1) warm
2) close

place in which to spend a long weekend. Burn off the rest of our leave.

Last year we went to Austria, did the whole Christmas market, gluhwein and gingerbread thing and proceeded to get stuck there for a whole week because of dire levels of snowfall across Europe.

This year - it's all about finding some Dry. Heat, Motherfucker. And we don't ~~have time~~ want to fly to Australia, and so conveniently remembered that: Dude. The Sahara Desert is like right on our doorstep. It's closer than London is to Liverpool. Virtually. Well. Say.

Morocco looked good, but it involved me having to queue for a bastard visa. Obvs. So based on what the top of Africa was looking like, I figured:

Just a week before, Colonel Gaddafi kicked the bucket and Libya exploded, and there was this giant Arab revolution and/or uprising. While I heard smatterings and murmurings about it everywhere, I never really followed the story. Like a good PR person should. If I am truly honest here.

Tunisia sounded nice - and besides, there were these fucking amazeballs deals going down it seemed. Don't mock post-revolution deals, dog. "Craig" the awesome travel agent got us a five star hotel, flights inclusive, 300 quid each, on the edge of the desert in some place called Hammamet (which kind of sounds like hammock if you chop the 'mock' off.)

You see where this is going.

Turns out, Tunisia is in the middle of some kind of stand off involving a fuckload of turbans and machine guns.

Look, I'm all for adventure. Driving around four ex-communist countries in a Skoda with my mother? ~~No sweat asshole~~. No sweat now that I'm still alive, asshole.

Backpack around the Ukraine wearing a fanny pack? No. Problaymo. (Haven't done this. Yet. Only a matter of time, only a matter of time.)

The issue is, I'm not actually prepared for a fucking warzone. And trust me, when my boyfriend finds out, he's going to be well pissed. Because he definitely wasn't up for driving around eastern Europe in a shit car, and tends to prefer first world countries even if he refuses to actually admit this.

"You do know that there's still a war raging on there?" someone from work casually asks me.

Peas: No it's all done dude. Gaddafi died.

Person: Yeah...that was in Libya.

Peas: yeah...that's next door dude. We are going to Tunisia.

Person: You're going to die. They hate Western world.

Peas: No we're fucking not. [Defense mechanism]

Person: Best you don't leave your hotel. Can you even drink?

Peas: Yes we fucking can. [Defense mechanism]

Person: Whatever you do, don't be British or American. Or carry a flag.

Trying not to appear visibly rattled, and wondering whether "Craig" the call centre agent offered refunds to the Ukraine - I did my own investigation.

Want I want is a little less of this:

And a little more of that:

So here's a profound question: is the internet a lying bastard?

And, is our holiday perpetually and unwittingly taking place in the midst of an Arab uprising?

And, why the fuck didn't we just go to Dubai?

food crisis & darkness

2011-12-05T15:23:00.005Z

Must. Stop. Fucking. Eating.

I didn't lose 8 kilos to put it back on again, motherfucker.
And yet, I find myself flailing blindly in Sainsbury's for those awesome chewy slice thingies with lumps of chocolate in them, because I can't fucking stop myself.

I've tried the Jennifer Aniston approach of trying to say No, and I try to imagine skinny models in the pages of magazines, but that's got me nowhere.

The biscuit tastes way better than being skinny. Sorry.

I know every woman out there says, "Oh my God, I ate sooo much this weekend, I'm so fat, I had like two slices of pizza and a cream egg."
Well they're fucking LYING. They're say this to make other women around them feel better. I know this because I do it. EXCEPT THIS TIME.

The Brit and I drove down to the New Forest to see his parents this weekend, and all the way down there we stopped for things like cupcakes with creme brulee icing (WTF? WHO EVEN THOUGHT OF THAT? SATAN?) on top and chicken nuggets from Burger King <-----That's a crime. Right there. Not only for my thighs, but for chickens in general. Were they even chickens? Or just things that looked like chickens because they were reared in appalling conditions? Yes. I'm one of those tree-hugging organic people. So this was like manslaughter for my intestines.

Then about five glasses of Disaronno because it's Christmas and the lights are out and everyone is all excited and wants it to snow.

At the risk of sounding like fucking Ebenezer Scrooge, I blame Christmas. And darkness.
It's making me fucking grumpy. And the only relief I find out of darkness and contempt is that large slice of gooey cake.

Lots of cakes here seem to have balls of chocolate and/or custard in the centre. When you break them open, the chocolate oozes out in this choccano explosion. Having one wouldn't be terrible, but I can't stop eating after one.

When the sun sets at 3pm, I eat whatever I can see. To dull the feeling of needing to go to bed.
It basically feels like when I first gave up smoking. The cravings and irritation that took over my life for the first 3 weeks were just insatiable.

Now, I'm craving shit I shouldn't go near and one isn't enough, I need to ~~smoke a whole packet~~ eat a whole bag.

By the way, I've been a non-smoker for almost 7 fucking months. ~~I'm so clever~~ I'm a non-smoker, like officially officially.

Just eating like a feeder and might need a crane to get me out of bed in the morning.

Look I'm not complaining that I live in a country that sees 5 hours of light a day.

I'm man enough to accept that the dark and cold may have something to do with wanting to eat five loaves of bread for starters and the whole bakery for dessert.

Any suggestions?**

**Besides puking after I eat/laxatives/speed/ecstasy/wiring my jaw shut - something more sociably acceptable please.

the wheel turns

2011-12-01T17:30:00.005Z

It's a variety of factors, kick-started no doubt by the influx of baby pictures that roll all over Facebook (now renamed Babybook), coupled with my aunt being very ill, my grandfather dying, and perhaps just my ticking body clock - but something in me started to turn a few months ago.

The slow slide into, and quick fucking realisation that the time has come where I have to sort my ovaries out.

And that nagging sensation coming from my uterus that says: Peas, listen here you crazy bitch. I want you to want to have a baby. I want a fucking baby one day. Please can you want a baby one day

I'm 31. I'm not getting any fucking younger.

My friends have babies. Those who do can't really talk about anything but their babies.
I'm five steps behind. I'm not even married for crying out loud! Why can't the world just stop? Why can't time just stop, what the fuck is happening suddenly? WHY AM I PANICKING SUDDENLY?

IS THIS NORMAL?

I don't blame them. What else do you do when you're on maternity, wiping up vomit and crap? I just can't relate to it.

All I see is babies on Facebook. And for the first time in the 4 years I have had a Facebook account, I'm seriously considering getting off the fucking thing forever. I'm. So. Bored.

I don't have brothers and sisters. So if I don't have a baby one day, I will be old with no one else's children around me as a substitute.

My friends are slowly but surely taking the names I liked for my non-existent children.

Fuck not again. Another name I had liked gone. To some kid I will never meet, but see splayed across Facebook every day. Great.

I have endometriosis and I am now in my 30s. Do I freeze my eggs?

No. I need to pull my shit together. Acknowledge the fact I want children at some point, don't panic, don't think about my ovarian follicles and if my eggs will last another five years, and get my uterus fixed.

I have booked the appointment with the gynae surgeon here. And will get an op early January. No more excuses, no more dragging my heels. I will sort this fucking endometriosis out now.

I'm broody for my own child, but I don't like other people's children that much. Is that normal?

If I don't have children, will I have anything to live for when I'm old and my career is finished?

Fuck. Pregnancy gives you piles [trust me. You don't want one. Don't try to get one], and stretches your nethers out of shape. Why the hell would I want that?
Giving birth fucks you up.

God, and let's not even talk about private school education fees. In the UK.

Or teenage tantrums, or finding out my daughter took cocaine or something.

Would I even be a good parent? I don't know. Probably not actually.

I wouldn't be able to travel like I do anymore. Fuck! I would actually have to consider another human being's life over mine and The Brit's.

I am finding it very annoying that I have to even start thinking about this stuff. And that I'm FORCED to.

And yet, despite all of the inconvenience of the above, and endless analysis thereof, I can only conclude one thing:

I want to have a baby someday. Someday within the next 5 years. Above and beyond anything.

rip grandad

2011-11-30T13:33:00.003Z

My Grandad passed away yesterday. He was a war veteran.

Dad got home just in time, 24 hours. Thank God for that.

Grandad was 92; he lived a long interesting life. He owned his own architecture firm in Cape Town and worked right up until two weeks ago. Literally.

Work kept him alive all these years, he loved it. He went into the office day-in, day-out until he lost the ability to read. Frustration was his ultimate demise.

The man also fought in the war, and had a broken bullet in his leg to prove it.

When I turned 21, he told me that on his 21st birthday he was sat under a truck in the middle of the desert avoiding bullets.

Grandad was a character - he's my Dad's dad after all.

So RIP Grandad. I am sorry I wasn't there to say goodbye, and even more sorry I haven't been able to see you for the last few years.

My aunt, who was also unable to see him, and I will conduct our own little home-made memorial for him here in London.

May you be happier and at peace, wherever you are in the Universe now. You'll be with Granny Bonne, so that in itself should make you pretty happy.

I have one grandparent left. I've been faced with the concept of mortality a lot lately. And it's made me start to think very seriously about whether I should start thinking about having a family. Before my immediate one all dies off.

What a shitty thought.

Bye Grandad.

deadmau5 & light

2011-11-29T13:07:00.002Z

Last night, a few of headed to Mill Bank, on the river, to watch a free gig and 3D light show.

Strictly speaking, the whole thing was for the launch of a Nokia smartphone, but whatevs.

Where else in the world, can you rock up on the edge of a river in a city, where giant projectors are throwing all sorts of crazy 3D light shapes onto a building, while a well-known electronic band from Canada plays a gig, on a Monday?

London, that's where. Innit.
Come on over everybody, free show.

The 3D show projected onto this building was mindblowing, the below video doesn't really do it justice. Deadmau5 played, and within half an hour it was over. Deadmau5 worse a yellow mouse outfit like he always does.

Two of The. Biggest. Fans. Evah were in front of us, and totes got overly excited when he came on. She claimed to have snogged him. Which is a bit farfetched, considering he supposedly never takes his big fuck off mouse suit. Ever. Maybe she stuck her tongue in his [fabric] mouth?

We were really there for the fresh smell of the Thames.

Huddled altogether, swigging on cider, we wondered how many people had rushed down there, popped a few hexstacy pills and then just as the show ended, they were like:

"Fuck. Show's over. [grind grind on the jaws] what the fuck shall we do now?" And so ended up trying to make snow angels on the grass, fucked off their heads, wondering where the techno and groovy lights went, on a Monday night.

Some dude had a yack as we walked past.

It's super random really. But super random stuff involving lights and shit usually goes down well in London it seems.

sangria, broken down car & bus delivery to your door

2011-11-28T11:51:00.005Z

Dad's gone back home. That was a quick, intense, angst-filled, funny couple of days. He's mad as a bag of wasps. Sometimes its funny.

He's somewhere in between Doha and Cape Town as we speak.

I feel the void and worry about my crazy Dad, even if we did barney during the week.

Some memorable moments of having Dad visit London:

When he poured another dude's gin and tonic in his own wine glass at a comedy club
He poured this random guy's drink into his glass of red wine, as he thought it was water. He also put a lime wedges in his red wine from my glass.

He made his own lethal sangria cocktail, using other people's drinks, at the table in a club, and got blind drunk as a result of this.

Fuck.

The Brit had to run off and buy the guy another drink, and all through this, Dad was oblivious to what was actually going on.

He also was also perfect heckler material, obvs. The comedians all took the piss out of Dad. Possibly because Dad announced loudly he was from 'Bethnal Green' as he arrived, and also accused one guy of looking 'Australian.'

Now that was funny. Him being ridiculously drink on gin and wine was not so much.

When the Brit's car battery died in the middle of Putney high street
Dad and I pushing the car to get it started, Dad screaming, 'RELEASE THE CLUTCH! RE-LEASE THE CLUTCH!" And two other dudes joining in to push, one with a fag hanging out of his mouth, the other clutching a glass of whisky and coke.

It was funny. But only after the car started.

When Dad had the bus driver drive him to the front door
Dad gave himself the week long project of finding a bus map for the whole of London. Despite my telling him this isn't possible, he finally found one for the area and insists he will frame it once he gets home.

When he got lost, the number 200 bus driver drove him directly to the door to drop him off. This is literally unheard of in London, having a red bus pull into the driveway. And yet he did it for Dad. Bless.

Having him visit was great for both me and my aunt. The Brit and my dad are firm friends it seems - how cool is that - they laugh at all each others jokes, and the Brit gets him. Which is more than I can say for myself.

For this I am truly fuckin' thankful. The Brit had to pick up a few pieces this week. Mine, mostly. He really is the bees knees. The fucking kindest, big-hearted boyfriend you'll find in the world. He doesn't read this, so I don't have to say this.
I do love him so.

immigration check & name conundrum

2011-11-24T16:29:00.005Z

Two mildly disturbing things.

Dad calling the Brit by the name of my ex-boyfriend.

Thrice.

Three times last night. The first time was almost negligible. Second was mildly annoying. The third meant taking Dad aside.

Mortifying?

Or as someone pointed out, the real awkwardness is the conversation afterwards.
"Look you can call me anything you like, but you don't need to apologise every time, let's just move on and not discuss this. Ever."

The Brit took it well.

In other news, a few of us foreigners got notified the other day that immigration is doing a random check on whether all of us have the right papers.

Dude. Do I work in an airport?

Dude. Are there lots of illegal immigrants [also] working the corporate ladder?

I work with a handful of non-EU people, Americans mostly. The Quiet American being one, who is also Jewish:

The Quiet American: "Dude. We need to get outta here."

Peas: Dude. We have visas.....right?

Quiet American: Yeah but don't you see. This is just the start. We're going to need to leave that day.

Peas: I agree it's total balls, but we're OK dude. We have work permits.

Quiet American: No. I see what's happening here.

Peas: What's that then?

Quiet American: Starts off with a "paperwork check". Next thing you know...

Peas: ...it ends with an anal probe?

Quiet American:...I'm wearing a little star on my coat.

Peas: Woah.

Quiet American: That's how they roll in Europe.

[pause]

....So. Time to go. Packing up. Flight tomorrow.

Peas: Yeah you're totes right. Time to get the fuck out bro.

Quiet American: They'll probably make us do an English test too.

Peas: Yeah. In that case we're really fucked.

Quiet American: And what about the Australian? That guy doesn't even speak the language.

Peas: Yeah I don't understand half the shit he says either.

Quiet American: They want my gold fillings.

Peas: Where are we going to go?

Quiet American: Scunthorpe?

new windows, a gilet & censorship

2011-11-23T10:58:00.002Z

What men think when you wear a gilet:

The Brit: "Oh my God, it's the...gilet."

The Quiet American: "That's made outta ostrich right?"

The Welshman: "Are you wear-ing a rab-bit?"

What women think when you wear a gilet:

Canadian colleague: "Oh my, you look lovely."

She Who Also Loves Tweed: "Ooh, can I touch it? Oh sorry...didn't mean to touch your breast."

Tory colleague: That's very Made In Chelsea.

Oh I know love, I know.

To be clear, it's 100% fake fur and made neither of rabbit or ostrich. Crafted from fine, 100% lifelike, silky polyurethane wool fibres.

Worn with black pleather pants. Obvs.

The secrecy bill in South Africa
Everyone's had their say across social networks and so forth, myself included, but frankly it's devastating. Enraged the fuck out of me.

I spent most of my working life writing for the media. And now the ANC is making a mockery of it. Fighting for freedom and then destroying it.
It doesn't make me relieved I'm here; it makes me angry that no one can stop the landslide into censorship and communism there.
Stalin would've approved.

We got new windows
Dad arrived, and obvs this fell on the same day the builders came in to give us new windows.

In Europe, most houses have double glazed windows. Essentially this means a double-glassed window, with Argon gas in between the two panes. A double thick heavy duty window.

Because it gets donkey fuck cold.

Our flat had single pane windows, and the Brit's balls were starting to fall off and my ovaries were beginning to seize.

Now we are warm and cozy. And! We can't hear the traffic as much on the road below.

It's these small things that make one fuckload of a difference.

dad's in town

2011-11-22T12:59:00.004Z

Been a bit of a chaotic week.

I got back from Scunthorpe - in one piece - this is still relevant, to my Dad.

Dad's in England. I haven't see him for a year and a half. Last seen in June 2010, as I was packing up my house in Joburg.

The circumstances in which Dad visits aren't great ones - his sister, my aunt, who lives here and is someone I have grown very close to since living here, is not well.

Either way, he's here, in all his eccentric glory. I love my Dad dearly, but this doesn't come without its complications.

He's staying at our place and my aunt's in Wimbledon. Getting him between the two places has caused me a certain amount of cranial autism. But more about that later.

The Brit has met him for the first time.
Which is pretty daunting for a dude, sure.

Dad is harmless, the opposite of intimidating. However Dad is also weird. The Brit is patient and kind, and laughs at all of Dad's jokes but hell if I don't get a clump of new grey hairs each time I see Dad.

If the world does something one way, he needs to - there's a need here - to go out of his way to do it differently. And for no reason whatsofuckinever. As entertaining as this is, he can be unbendingly impractical.

Most of the time, it fucks me off, other times I remind myself that Dad has been through a pretty tough over the last year. And he's still my Dad. And my only Dad.

It's funny when he theorises shit, like below:

Dad: "What the fuck is this, why do people have kitchen cupboards? If you ever have your own kitchen, do not get kitchen cupboards."

Peas: I do have my own kitchen.

Dad: Well take out the cupboards.

Peas: No.

It's not so funny when he refuses to listen to anyone that is trying to help him. Like this:

"Dad here is a travel card. With this you can get on any bus, train, tube in London. For the whole week."

Dad: As long as it involves a journey I don't need to change. Can't be bothered to change.

Peas: To come to our house, you'll need to change. But only once.

Dad: I'm not doing journeys that involve changing.

Peas: I'll tell you how to do it, it's easy I promise.

Dad: No. Too much hassle. I'll take one bus from start to finish.

Peas: Sure you can. But you'll end up in Ealing or worse, Watford. Or Scunthorpe.

Dad: I need a bus map for the whole of London I'm afraid. Before I get on a bus.

Peas: There is no such map. There are too many buses. There are 'area' maps. Those will be fine. Each bus shelter shows where you can go anyway.

Dad: No.
-------------------

Anyway in light of the fact he's only here until Sunday, I've taken off Friday to travel to Horsham with him to see some friends.

Take him to the comedy and to the pub. So he can experience the best of British. Although he insists he's done it all already.

Sometimes I wonder how I turned out so fucking sane.

Yes me. Sane even. In comparison.

sunny scunny

2011-11-21T11:43:00.003Z

I went to Scunthorpe on Friday.

And I survived.

Similarly, once I swam in a zambezi shark-infested lagoon in Mozambique without knowing and also survived.

Good. Times.

the inflatable

2011-11-16T11:56:00.002Z

Wanna see my croc?

That's me in the corner. That's me in the spot light ~~losing my religion~~, jamming with a crocigator.

Huge 80s party last night, I found this inflatable and a group of us proceeded to walk around the party venue collecting shit to put on it, like legwarmers and glowsticks.

People were dry humping it, lifting it up in the air, surfing with it, Jesus knows what else.

Mate.

Got to bed at 3:30am; and woke up to find the croc in our bath tub this morning.
It's The hangover, but lamer because it's a blow-up reptile not a tiger.

Hanging like an Irish bastard.

ireland & shorts

2011-11-15T08:39:00.003Z

Flight was delayed by a few hours yesterday.

When I'm in an airport, with nothing to do, I do either one of two things:
1) Shop
2) Drink

If I can do the two at the same time, then all the better. (Drinking + shopping is the best way to have instant fun and spend your pension! Totes irresponsible! Totes amazeballs!)

Anyway, so I went and bought myself a ridiculeux pair of tweed shorts from Ted Baker.

These exact ones. Fuck. Yes.
It's a small miracle that I only walked out with the shorts and not a pile of other shit that I probably don't need, but had to have in that moment in time.

I blame Aer Lingus (Cunnilingus? You guys didn't think of that in Ireland?) for my hasty spending in the Gatwick airport branch of Ted Baker.

The shorts are totes amazing though. Am wearing them today. In cold, grey Dublin. Tweed is so hot when it's cold. Let's be honest.

So I'm at this conference, and there are 3000 people here. All from my company. After a few sessions yesterday, the bulk of people - myself and my team member included - were shunted over to this ginormous Georgian warehouse, somewhere in Dublin.

Therein we had a few well-earned Guinness' (Guinness in Ireland tastes dreamy. In WeightWatcher terms, it's the equivalent of a whole chocolate fondant.

Bitch please. I know this. I pay ten quid a month to use the super duper 'food tracker.'

A pint of Guinness is also the same as one serving of roast potatoes. Or two servings roast chicken. Or a pie.

And I had three last night. Feeling like a donkey's scrotum when I woke up, and almost stayed in my bed, laughed off the conference, and ordered in a bowl of potatoes and watched Irish TV.

But I would've got into trouble for bunking, and besides, my tweed shorts won't get to shine inside a hotel room. These motherfuckers need to be seen in public.

Huge eighties party tonight. More Guinness I suspect.

These tweed shorts might not make it to the end of the week at this rate, what with all the potatoes and black beer.

dublin

2011-11-14T08:51:00.002Z

Can this be the most epic travel-family visitng month ever? Almost forgot that I had to board a plane today for Dublin.

I got to Ireland once a year for work. Just this year its fallen on the same week I am going to fucking Scunthorpe.

That old chestnut. So after the Irish capital with a few colleagues from Europe, I'll be heading to Scunthorpe. All just as my father arrives in England.

Dude. My dad is visiting on Friday. Visiting me and my aunt.

It's all crappening. And its 9:00am, I need a coffee, I have waterproof shoes and my heavy winter coat because Dublin this time of year is not exactly balmy, and am ready yo get my Guinness on once the day is over.

Ireland, how do you do.

food fury

2011-11-10T17:32:00.002Z

Had the girls from work over last night.

Was a little nervous, as I've been promising to have them over the moment we finish our flat.

We basically finished the decorating, bar all the serious renovation, months ago. Except for one small but pretty major thing.

Plates. For three months we had two plates.

I'm a happy housekepper. In that, my house has to be freaking perfect when I have guests around; the Brit is the same. Shit's gotta be perfect. Clean, swell and swoonworthy.

We take pride in our castle. Cripes, he was even nervous for me to have the work girls over.

Anyway, now we have plates. Which means we're booking ourselves up for dinner parties. Hiberantion now in full swing, I want to spend the slide into winter feasting, around our table with bottles of red wine.

So I had a girl's night Pizza and Prosecco night.

Cos I only drink bubbly, see. Thatcher made me do it.

And can I just say, I went fucking ballistic. I ate a family-size pizza, twenty amoretti biscuits and a handful of fucking chocolate-covered almonds.

I unleashed a fury most furious, and then ate everything in fucking sight.

Winter sugar cravings are not a fucking joke.

So I'm on the salad and dick weed for the rest of the week. After tonight. After we go to Shoreditch and eat canapes and drink mulled wine at a charity event.

Rah. Then I'll eat dick weed and air. To pay. To recompense. For biscuitgate.

PS: The girls loved our flat. Yay!

oil painting, winston & oak panelling

2011-11-09T15:06:00.003Z

Me and Margaret. In oils.

Context first. My class trips at junior school involved a trip to a Voortrekker museum (at least once a year), a trip to the beach and/or aquarium, and a trip to the mangrove swamps.

The Brit tells me that school trips he went on, growing up, involved a 'culture trip' to France, going to Windsor Castle, and there was one trip to the Houses of Parliament.

Well, today, I got to do my first trip to parliament, obvs, and I did feel like a school child, especially when I found this giant oil painting of ~~The Iron Fist~~, my totes favourite person Margaret Thatcher.

She always wore blue. It was her hue, was blue.

I was there for a work project and got to meet some MPs, but most excitingly I got to shake the hand of Winston Churchill's grandson.

Dude. I totes got to shake the hand of a member of the Churchill family.

It's up there with the other random crap I've put on my Life List.*

Below us, out the window of the room I was in, (wooden panelled. Oak. Obvs), was a large student demonstration, and dudes camping out in tents on the pavement.
And Big Ben was connected to the building I was standing in.

Loads of school children were on tours, so I'm not sure how special it is to them, but going into parliament and meeting some local MPs was pretty awesome to me.

On the way out I had my moment with Mags. She's such a fox.

*Life List, for those interested:

1) Met Nelson Mandela. Twice;
2) Driven across four Eastern Bloc countries in a red Skoda Fabia, with my mother;
3) Published a book at 28
4) Ate 1 x snail at 18 (drenched in garlic and butter, obvs)
5) Climbed the world's third largest pyramid in Teotihuacan, Mexico
6) Worked in 4 different industries in my life - journalism, copywriting, PR and advertising
7) Is related to French Royalty
8) Once ate two pasties, one straight after another
9) Made a radio with my Dad when I was 14
10) Looked after 7 children for a year in France

bubbly, croydon & trains

2011-11-07T14:16:00.009Z

More. With shopping. Obvs..

Remained safely on the champagne horse on Saturday.

Before I introduce you formally to my alter-ego (I've schizophrenically spoken about her here before I think. But talking about a non-existent extension of yourself, in the third person, is always great.)

She Who Hates Socialists suggested a few of us meet at Europe's longest champagne bar.

To bitch and natter.

So my alter-ego, Peas On Toast-Fairfax, (how do you do?) loves a bit of champagne. She totes has a double-barrel surname (obvs).

She's a bit of a lash hero, is Fairfax. She gets on the lash and she fucking enjoys it. Always manages to stay posh, and wear fur too. Which is outrageous, but then it's not me, it's my alter ego.

Are you keeping up?

So she comes out to play, at apt times, like at Europe's longest champagne bar. Nestles between the Eurostar tracks at St Pancras International.

I'd imagine many a group has cancelled the rest of their weekend plans in London because they got fucked at the champagne bar and ended up on a train to Paris.

The spantaneity! The reckless abandon! Of just jumping afoot a high-speed train, lashed on champers, to be in the French capital 3 hours later!

~~For those of us who have a Schengen visa and/or EU passport.~~ Obvs.

Well we nearly fucking did it. If it weren't for L not being able to fit in She Who Hates Socialists' ginormous handbag, (she is sans visa), we would've spent the rest of 'le weekend' <----you like that? in Paree. In a champagne haze. ("How did we get here again?")

Fuck it, I was game. I might've even suggested to my friend without the bastard visa that we chop her legs off and stuff her upper body only in the handbag. But I think that was the champagne/Fairfax talking.

Schengen's do take the piss out of spontaneity don't they. My two year Schengen expires in April next year. Which means, I'll be stuck, trapped, fucking forced to holiday in America instead (gasp! Animals! Les animaux!)

Shudder. Package holidays to Florida? Fairfax is all over the bottle of Zanax at the mention of it.

Anyway, so after the Paris-le-weekend idea was quashed, Peas On Toast-Fairfax got on the wrong train.

The usual train home, I don't know what the fuck happened, but next thing, me and Fairfax - the two-one of us - were not in Zone 2 anymore.

Now in a full blown champagne haze, she took herself off to fucking east Croydon instead.

Which is a very very bad, Labour government, unFairfax-like ghetto in south London.

Well. When Fairfax realised we weren't stopping at Clapham Junction, and headed instead to East Croydon, she went fucking ballistic.

Champagne train came to a grinding halt. Weren't we meant to be in Paris? Why the fuck are we in Croydon? Why is this happening to her? She was so scared.

This is Croydon. East side.

She had to take her trembling body under the underpass, up to platform 3, dodging gangsters and women in outfits from Footlocker. She stealthily waited on the platform for the right train.

Sobering up like a motherfucker.

And then Fairfax left the building, and Peas went home.

The End.

PS: I'm not schizophrenic, because I know (or one of us knows between me and Fairfax) that Fairfax is a made up alter ego.

death metal, new mates from croydon & tassled tItties

2011-11-04T13:08:00.012Z

Dined on beds, in a club setting, last night.

Dude. I am hanging like a motherfucker.

Champagne. All night long.

We had to sit with an older couple (read: in their 60s) from south Croydon called Denver and Shirley, (that's right, his name is a state capital. Which raises an interesting question - could I call my future child Helsinki? Because I've been thinking about it) on our bed.

So ended up just poshing it the fuck up, drinking drinks with bubbles in it and snacking on chocolate mousse. One of the nicest dates the Brit has taken me on. There we were, chilling in our socks, in a night club, with a couple from Croydon.

Our new bezzy mates, Shirl and Denver - are planning a trip to south Africa, and so we managed to fill most of the night talking about malaria tablets and why Mandela is such a hero.

Obviously. That's pretty much what foreign strangers want to talk to Saffas about. Mandela and/or apartheid, guns and lethal diseases.

We didn't swap numbers after the meal.

Mate. I had a smile on my face. You'll have to take my word for it.

After you polish off each course, you watch circque-du-soleil-type entertainment.

This bird, took her top off to reveal a set of tassles covering her nipples. A bit of burlesque.

This one was swigging from a bottle of vodka, while breaking into ~~song~~ opera:

Yeah. It was bizarre as fuck.

The night before last, I went out with my mate from Manchester and we ended up in some heavy metal sanctuary for the undead, in Soho.

It was a bar serving whisky and beer, by barmen clad in leather and studs. To the background accompaniment of heavy metal regurgitation.

It was great. There we were, me in tweed and she in a floral frock.

Catching up over lyrics that talk about Satan's crotch, death, coffins and darkness.

Then we got headaches and went to bed.

But to conclude? There's something for everybody in London. But I've figured out that most of the time, you happen to just stumble upon these gems without meaning to find them.

Fucking good laugh, innit though.

PS: My mum found this amazing vintage woollen thing for me at a charity store when she was here.

It's very Made in Chelsea wouldn't you say? It's a coat, FYI.

other people's germs & gourmet bed dining

2011-11-03T14:32:00.006Z

OK how rad is this.

The Brit got a couple of tickets to London's Supper Club.

You arrive, lay down in a bed, in a club, get fed a three course meal, while you watch a show, and then dance.

Dude, it's like the perfect night out. A bed, food, scantily-clad humans doing acrobatics for your entertainment while you lie in the bed, and then once you're done, you can have a tipple in the adjoining night club.

Food, bed, dancing and a show. All in one place. Fuck I love this city.

(Supper Club is also available in Miami and Amsterdam, just in case you're there and are so inclined.)

My colleague went to the one in Miami and reckons they definitely wash the sheets, so one shouldn't worry.

Not that I am or anything. Actually a little.

It has to be said - either living in London and taking lots of public transport, or the fact the Brit is OCD, has made me fucking OCD.

Dude, I've noticed lately that if I don't wash my hands immediately after evacuating a tube, I start to panic. Not hyperventilate-panic, but in the back of my mind, like Chinese torture, there's a voice continually banging away at me, "wash your hands wash your hands you touched a railing wash your hands motherfucker wash your hands."

I used to be candid about touching railings. I wouldn't lick my hand afterwards, but I wouldn't die or anything.

Now I don't touch railings. At all. Ever. In the train I rely on my ~~amazingly shit sense of balance~~ my non-existent sense of balance to remain upright when the train goes around corners or shudders and jolts. I do not hold onto anything, and now just fly around the carriage, flailing, bouncing off the windows and other people.

I don't touch escalators, I don't even like touching the fucking elevator button. I've turned into....an overly hygienic bitch.

The other day I was forced to lean again someone to remain upright on a particularly jolty journey from Oxford Circus to Tottenham Court Road, and I physically couldn't get myself to hang onto anything.

Noticed I don't like touching the ATM buttons to key in my pin code either. And let's not even venture into public bathroom territory - I positively balk.

Is this something I should be concerned about? Now that I wash my hands about 6 times a day?
Fuck. It sounds bad doesn't it.

Don't. Fucking. Touch. Me. With. Your. Semen. Infested. Fingers. Innit.

PS: Will wear bio-hazard suit to Supper Club. And heels. And bring my hand sanitiser.

plastic pants, brutalism & chocolate biscuits

2011-11-02T15:15:00.004Z

I want to go to Ukraine. And this picture is why.
So that was me. On a bad day.

What do girls do on a bad day? They make it good.

How do they do this? In no particular order:

Fall asleep on couch in chocolate digestive biscuit explosion. Crumbs and shit everywhere.

While watching Tool Academy, a wonderfully cuntish series involving scorned bitches who send their boyfriends off to boyfriend camp. Dicks who learn how to be nice, in 12 sizzling episodes of reality TV.

Sensational viewing. Except I fell asleep and the Brit had to carry me off to bed.

Masturbate and/or shag and/or shag your hand
Fell asleep on sofa last night in chocolate biscuit delirium. See above.
Good intentions of sexy time foiled by coma.

Buy a book on communist buildings for the coffee table
Saw this guy's work in a magazine in Poland. Scribbled his name down. He's amazing. Travelled the whole Eastern Bloc to take pictures of fucking ugly buildings, spawned by Communism.

What a bastard. That's my dream fucking job, motherfucker. I want to take pictures of brutalist-style architecture and travel around war-torn countries that were occupied by Russians.

I put my jealousy aside, and chose instead to buy his book.

He's good. He bleaches the photos to make them look like postcards. And now I am content in the knowledge that I have visited many of these cities and seen these buildings myself.

The buildings are so ridiculous, so ugly, and yet so beautiful. Check out some of the pictures.
This is the kind of shit I saw on our Skoda tour.

Anyway, bought it to make myself feel better. Boom.

Wear pleather trousers

Well no, not plastic leather., But jeans that have been painted.

It's my new schtick. Jeans that look like they've been dipped in black, shiny paint. Sounds hideous? You're wrong. They're fucking fantastic. They hold my fat in, there are no bulges, I feel like Rod Stewart and they're also fucking waterproof.

Where's the problem?

sobville

2011-11-01T12:11:00.002Z

Had a bit of a cry last night.

OK, if I'm gong to be honest, it was like an unpopped cork, and my head nearly fell off from all the bawling.

My mum's gone back, and something I've been grappling with for a while has come to the fore, while another member of my family, is not well.

My father is coming out to London in two weeks as a result.

So I spent the evening crying and blowing snot bubbles into my Brit's chest. Bless him for being so understanding.

More about this another time.

Oh. And the clocks have gone back an hour. Plunged into darkness and hibernation.
Good times.

scale lies

2011-10-28T11:09:00.007+01:00

So, while traversing across the Eastern bloc in a Czech car, my mother's sweet tooth combined with my compulsion for...well, food, ended in a mighty and colossal consumption of shit.

Which I have henceforth named Goulashgate.

Goulash is a Hungarian stew. The food in the Eastern Bloc is three things: heavy, solid and virtually indigestible. One eats stew, dumplings and beer all meals, if one wishes.

So whenever I spoke to my Brit, he'd end off the conversation on the phone with something like, "Everytime I speak to you you're tucking into dumplings and beer."

(Meanwhile, while I was erstwhile - he stuffed his face with pie. Because he missed me so much and was pining like a motherfucker.*)

So given that my diet consisted of hops and dough for 9 days solid, move aside Michelin Man, Peas and her mother rolled across the dewy dales of Slovakia with WeightWatchers points all but forgotten.

Well, again, something extraordinary has happened.
I have lost a kilo or two.

Chuffed as fuck. But also more suspicious than Julius Malema's lawyer.
Honestly, I get that female inconveniences like water retention can tip the scales, but seriously, I wasn't imaging the cake and doughballs I've stuffed in my piehole.
That really happened.

So where the fuck did it go? I'm definitely not complaining, but I'm asking in the name of scientific research. Did it sublime when it hit my oesophagus and vaporise right out of my mouth?
Did my tapeworm eat it?
Is my scale fucking broken?**

Tonight we are all going out for curry. And more beer. It's my mum's last night. I'm going to miss her when she's gone, it's been nice to show my mum where I live, our new little home, our neighbourhood, the local.

* and he was probably bored.
** actually, that's what it is. It's been fucked for weeks. Someone rotund stood on it at work and it's been throwing out crazy numbers ever since.

Wank.

alien space ships, puppets and sausage

2011-10-27T15:04:00.014+01:00

Looking outside, at the drizzly grey, it's nice to know that my mum is at home in my flat making us dinner for when we get home.

Having her stay in London an extra week to check out our digs, has been shweet.

Although that said, she could be rummaging through our cupboards right now. God may she not find the lube.

Judge as she might, knowing she's at home, polishing off the digestive biscuit stash, is very comforting.

Unlike like this puppet who is hanging himself, in Prague.

Or this fucking ancient, and ridiculously cool, Skoda, cunningly used to lure tourists into a sushi restaurant. Also in Prague:

Or, perhaps this statue of Lenin bolted to a table in an ex-communist restaurant, because too many people were wanting to steal it?

Or how about this thing. Check it the fuck out. Locally known as "Skeletor," this building never got finished during the Cold War.
Ugly or...misunderstood?

In Poland, if someone wanted a church built - and this happens fairly regularly I believe - then one had to build it according to communist architectural rules.

Which, if "Skeletor" is anything go by, it's probably going to make you queasy.

So, this is a communist Catholic church:

Is it a church, or is it a Martian cruise ship? Is it a building or is it a result of Stalin molesting the concrete, motherfucker? Hang on. That's where I've seen it before. The NG Kerk in Standerton?

Then you get a view of Budapest and the profane church is almost forgotten.

The thing I love about Hungary, is that they love decent sausage. Just like me.

Rural Slovakia - above - is beautiful. With the autumn colours out, the ridiculously slow pace of life, I loved it. I've been to Slovakia before - crazily - but not this part. It was also very Twin Peaksy, with mist on the mountains, and Douglas Firs everywhere.

And now back to worrying about what drawers my mum might be going through while I sit here fannying around with communism pictures.

cars, locks and bridges

2011-10-26T15:57:00.015+01:00

Eastern Europe might lack white sand, Levi jeans and Earl Grey tea, but Jesus, turn any corner in any town and you'll find a host of quirky shit you wouldn't see anywhere else in the world.

If one thing's for fuckin' certain.

The Polish off-license, for example, is called an Alkohole. Obviously. Why the fuck didn't we think of that?

The one thing that made the Skoda Adventure mostly palatable was the fact that the sun shone like a motherfucker.

It's surreal to walk around Auschwitz, say, when the sun is blazing down like Spanish inquest. In my mind, Auschwitz is a cold, grey place filled with darkness.

So it's helluva surreal to amble around the place when the sun is shining, strange as that may sound.

The Nazi's killed 1 300 000 Jews in Auschwitz. I don't need to give you a history lesson - that's why Wikipedia exists - but something I didn't know before I went was this:
1) The gas chambers are underground. Small hatches on the roofs would be the delivery vehicle for the Zyclon B cannisters. Zyclon B is the 'gas' that killed the Jews, except it was in granular format and would evaporate once delivered down the hatch. Fucking horrific.

2) Most of the Jews killed at Auschwitz were Hungarian.

Before you throw a toaster in the bath, something slightly more positive:
The locks fence in Prague.

Stumbled upon this fence that has thousands of locks attached to it.

Couples and lovers alike attach a lock to the fence for eternal love. Genius.

Nuns. They're fucking everywhere. Communism ideals dictated that religion was not allowed. So churches in all countries - bar Poland - kind of just sat around for 30 years.
Polish people are the most Catholic in the world. They were the only country in the Eastern Bloc that was allowed to practice their faith - well, not allowed, but it was sort of accepted.
The pope was from Krakow, and we saw his old house. He's like the national poster boy of Poland. They love him.
So. Basically. You see a lot of nuns running around.

The thing that intrigues me most about Communism is the architecture.

It's so fucking ugly, it's beautiful. I took about 300 photos of the ugliest shit you've ever seen. I might run a competition here to vote on the ugliest structure in my photo album.

Bad ly designed, prefab, box living, designed to make people less imaginative, orderly, oppressive. Grey, monoblock structures.

Like this place above. A town created next to Krakow, called Nowa Huta. It consists of a steel factory (obviously) and a lot of shit housing. The communists didn't like tradition and culture and opulence. So they forced people to live in places that didn't conform to that.

The thing with Communism is that it's still there. The Berlin Wall only fell 20 years ago, so everything still kind of looks the same. And change is slow, so especially the older generation still very much function on the 'old regime.'

Another 300 photos I took were solely dedicated to fucking fabulous cars.
Now THIS is a Skoda. In fucking mustard motherfucker.
I almost stole it and bought it back to the Brit in London.

Old school, shitty communist cars (socialism and/or communism mean there's generally no money. Which means the cars were generally quite unreliable and shitastic. I fucking LOVE them.)

This one was found in a tiny town in rural Slovakia.

The steel factory we visited. The loudhailers are something you see in most small towns across Czech, Slovakia, Hungary and Poland. They were used for the commies to do keynote speeches and other indoctrinating shit through them.

Charles Bridge in Prague is lovely - when there aren't 800 tourists clinging to it. Nice when they play a little jazz though.
Very satisfactory indeed.

Oh look. Another fucking great car.

i didn't get eaten by communists

2011-10-25T09:36:00.014+01:00

Comrades, I'm alive.

I drove 1800 kilometres across 4 countries, in the Eastern Bloc, with my mother, a killer playlist, in a red Skoda, for 9 days.

And I'm fucking alive.

Sure, Goulashgate did nothing for my thighs, but then when your choices of food are dumplings or stew, one must do the best they can to survive.

By the way, this is the Skoda. The red one on the right. I gotta say, I got quite attached. I miss the little bastard. Skoda's are made by VW now, so he's all red and shiny.

Bless.

My favourite country on the trip
Poland. No one goes on holiday to freaking Poland. Let's be honest. People go to Spain. And Greece. (Before the Eurozone teetered on the brink of collapse). I found Poland extremely interesting. It's both painfully beautiful and sinfully ugly. Its past is fraught with shit. It's for these reasons I give it the top drawer prize.

My mother's favourite country on the trip
Was Czech. The Czech Republic's scenery is the most beautiful. Rolling hills and forests, dotted with little towns, onion-domed churches. Czech people dress like they're going on a run, though. It has to be said that the Communist years of polyester still significantly influences their style. The French need to move in.

The country we got most scared in
Poland. We got stopped by a couple of ex-Communistic cops on a mountain pass who no speaky any English, whatsofuckingever. They disappeared with both our passports, my driver's licence and car papers for half an hour.
Half an hour in Poland without your passport is A. Fucking. Long. Time.
When Mum investigated, they were punching in all our details into this giant screen in their cop car.

Auschwitz is also in Poland. That was scary for its boundless reasons, but for me, the most terrifying aspect of the death camp was walking through the gas chamber.

And witnessing piles and piles of human hair.

We also got very scared in rural Slovakia. When we almost ran out of petrol because "someone" forgot to check the fuel light.
No gas station for miles and miles, and just freeway and forest. Tense times.

The country with the most beautiful city
Unanimously, we agreed that we preferred Budapest to Prague. And no, they're nothing alike. At all. Even though we were told they were.
Budapest has less tourists and is more spread out. Prague is like central London in some places. They're both beautiful and worth a visit.

You haven't lived until
...you've crossed a five lane road on two wheels in a Trabant 601 in Poland.

....eaten a bowl of soup that looks like blood.

... gone through a town in Slovakia called Poznamcock. We had tea in the 'Cock. I think. She didn't speak English either. Not even 'hi' and 'bye.'

....You only hear that Gaddafi died three days after the fact.

...you've drunk Budweiser from the source motherfucker. Budweiser, like Guinness, is not American dude. It's from Budvar, Czech Republic. And it tastes 8000 times nicer here. Not like the cat's piss one finds in, say, Indianapolis.

...when you've had to talk to someone using Google Translate on a laptop so that you can communicate. Again, in the small towns, don't assume anyone even knows what the word 'hi' means.

...trying to explain to a waiter what 'water' is. No. She had never heard of water. At least not in English.

...Been to a club in Hungary with a local friend (I have an Hungarian friend who lives in Budapest)...with my Mum.

One must watch local TV in order to gain insight into a nation

In Nowhereville, Hungary:
Peas: Mum, one must watch local TV in order to gain insight into a nation. Let's turn this thing on.

[flicks on TV and picture of woman dressed as a French maid being taken from behind by a giant, throbbing cock].

Mum: Oh god oh god

Peas: Oh god oh fuck, turn around don't look, oh my God

Insight into Hungary? Porn.
Ironically, Hungary is known to be the largest consumer of porn in Europe.

I'll share the highlights of my trip in photo format
I'll try to make it a little bit interesting.

2011-10-14T11:44:00.005+01:00

By some miracle bestowed on me by [xxxxx<---(Universe?) please feel free to add your name here], I have lost weight this week.

I thought the smorgasbord of Mexican food, basin of dumplings and pizza slices I Hoovered like a motherfucker in the States was still finding its way to my thighs this week, and yet, Hark!

All hail ye, I am a mere two kilos from my goal. How is this even possible? Do I have a tapeworm?

Maybe it's because more calories are used trying to stay awake when you're jetlagged than going for a fucking jog.

I fear I might not escape Death By Diet in Eastern Europe though. I might not be so lucky.

Dude. I checked the weather last night in Prague, Krakow and Budapest.

It's fucking Baltic.

London hasn't hit the single digits yet, and yet these places are practically Icelandic.

So here's the vibe.

4 countries, 1 Skoda, 5 layers of clothes, 4 different currencies, my mother, 1 iPod, 0 language recognition, 1 GPS navigational device, 10 days, 1 visa, 1 jangly nerves, Czech, Poland, Slovakia and Hungary. BOOM.

I'll be driving on the wrong side of the road.
For six hour legs at a time.
Between three cities.
Along roads that are apparently "in some places, appalling condition."
In a Skoda. A Czech car that, in the past, has a notoriously bad reputation.
With my mother.
While listening to euro trash techno.
Wearing five layers of clothing.
Eating slop.
Avoiding Communists.

I'm terrified. So will think of someone I know who drove a tuk-tuk around Sri Lanka, and people who motorbike across Vietnam and are still alive.

Trying to man the fuck up. And seize the adventure. I created for myself. And now must face.

To be honest, I feel like that dude from Idiot Abroad, Karl Pilkington. Just anti everything. And having to visit exotically weird places.

If you never hear from me again, it's been great. If you hear from me in 10 days, then you'll see that I am actually alive. For now though:

Bye.

xx

shit you miss when you travel

2011-10-13T15:29:00.005+01:00

A couple of things that have punctuated my existence this week at home.

I have a pair of driving gloves.

Margaret Thatcher would adopt me as her personal Tory slave if she knew. Frankly.

I got a beautiful pair of red leather numbers, with brass buttons from the Brit's sister. Genius.

So now I'll be driving a Skoda whilst wearing gloves. I've always wanted to do that.

They might look like something your Nan would wear, sure. But they're all the rage, I swear. Swear I tell you!*

I thought I knew - and generally stayed clear of - all the Saffa bars in London

Until the Brit and I drove past this chestnut yesterday. In the leafy, slightly dank suburbs of Southfields. In other words, a place that is about as unDurbz as, say, Moscow. Classic.

Dude. They serve bunny chow.

The funny thing is the Brit saw it first. He's the only British person I know who would 1) Know what 'Durbz' is ("What's a Durbz? It sounds like a...pie");

2) Actually think it's hilarious and know that they probably serve boerewors on Sundays instead of an English roast.

It looked like a dive. Totally going there. At some point. When I'm here.

It's been great to be home this week.

The mundane amazingness of sprawling all over the sofa watching amazeballs British TV, (Jesus Christ, there's some great stuff on TV at the moment - the line up is amazing! Amazing I tell you!)* eating a meal at the table, being able to bath with candles all around me.
The simple shit you miss when you are travelling. In other words.

This is the mail I sent Dove this morning:

Oy M8
Sorry I've been MIA and OOO. Been catching up on the 'lag while I can. My mum is getting here Saturday, we are flying to Prague, hiring a freaking Skoda and driving through four Eastern Bloc countries in quick succession.

I hope this isn't the last email I ever send you.

Sorry we couldn't catch up on Skype, I was zzz'ing up a storm. Probably snoring while doing so.

So what's happening at home, it must be so nice and warm now. It's getting kinda cold and grey this side of the bubble, so remind me to pack my driving gloves. And a mix tape. Hope my mum likes rave, is all I'm saying.

Dude. My guinea pigs have decided to start sitting in their food bowl. Then dragging it into their house to sleep in.
Don't you think that's rather odd behaviour for a guinea pig? Just suddenly sitting in the bowl and then sleeping with the bowl?

They're guinea pigs. They're meant to squeak and eat shit, not sit in bowls. It's unbelievably cute.

It's good to be home.

Stuff I don't miss: forgetting to buy toilet paper, making the bed, hanging up my clothes, Hoovering, the commute, the queue at Sainsbury's after work.

* I wasn't on prescription pills when I write this, in case you think my enthusiasm for TV and/or driving gloves is misplaced.

skoda tour nerves

2011-10-12T10:36:00.002+01:00

I got about two hours sleep last night. Don't mock jet lag. It's up there with piles, passive-aggressive chavs and dandruff.

Not especially painful, but fucking annoying.

I'm lying there, staring at the ceiling, shit going round in my head. (Because if you can't sleep, what else do you do? Worry about other shit like admin you haven't done or work deadlines to fill the time. Gah)

When suddenly:

Brit: "...Did you witness that?"

Oh yay! He's awake! Now he can talk to me and entertain me with wonderful British jokes.

Peas: "Did I witness what?"

Brit: "Did you witness that?"

Wait. Is he awake?

Peas: "What did I witness?"

Brit: "At the table! Alan Sugar's mistress just got a hammer put through her chest, oh my God oh my God!"

Peas: "Babe you're having a nightmare, wake up! And then...talk to me."

Brit: "This woman just got murdered with a huge hammer in front of our eyes. Alan Sugar's mistress, she was."

Peas: "Hectic. Where was Alan Sugar then?"

Brit: "Out making money, babe. Obviously."

..................
(Doesn't remember this conversation when he wakes up)

My mum arrives on Saturday. I'll meet her at Heathrow and we'll fly straight to Prague.

And therein, the adventure starts. A colleague has lent me his GPS - for that I can be grateful - I mean fuck - for when we're barreling down the (potholed, communist roads) of Czech, Poland, Slovakia and Hungary.

Things that I'm scared for, on this trip:

1) Being eaten by ex-Soviet ex-Communist neo-Communist Eastern Bloc factory workers who have a taste for capitalists (us)

2) When we visit Auschwitz. Fun times in the Skoda.

3) Driving on the other side of the road. (This is freaking me out to the point where I lose my motherfucking large appetite whenever I think about it)

4) Roadsigns in a Cyrillic alphabet

5) The food. Slop?

6) If we break down and have to talk to people using the Google Translate tool

Things to look forward to:

1) Meeting ex-Soviet ex-Communist neo-Communist Eastern Bloc factory workers. Then surviving the experience.

2) Pretty Eastern European architecture.

3) The times when we aren't in the Skoda.

4) Hungarian thermal spas, in the parks.

5) Beer. They do beer. Especially in Czech.

6) If we break down in Poland. Poles are good with cars. Right?

Oy vey. What will become of us.

this is america

2011-10-11T15:16:00.011+01:00

So I haven't seen the kids I au paired in France since, like, forever. And now they're in fucking high school.

Dude. I'm showing my age.

The light sure is stark in San Diego. I forgot about stark light. As in, the blazing ganglions of angel's wings, bandy down and make one's retinas burn out of their face if one stares at the sun.

I got to peek into their lives now that they're teenagers. I got to step into a classic all-American family's world, one that, like me, lived in France once. Which had changed the course of our lives considerably.

I went to the local school and saw the little girl I used to babysit captain the cheerleading squad.
Dude. I thought this only happened in movies?

She had pomp poms, did the splits in mid-air and had an iPhone. She remembered me though, as she was 4 in France. And ran up to me and gave me a bear hug, which reduced me to tears.

Her cheerleading friends were the funniest.
I was sitting on the bleachers wearing my tweed get up, when one came up to me with a big, bold American voice and said:

"Aw! You're the babysitter! You're adorable."

Hang on. I'm 31 years old.

"You're so European. Oh my GOD, look at you!"

She's 16. And I'm adorable. I'm a lot of things, but I don't think I've ever been described as adorable.
This is my 4th trip to the States and I have only now discovered America for the first time.

Peas: Why thank you. I think.

"We love love LOVE H&M!"

At this stage, I was surrounded by a bunch of 16 year old cheerleaders, and found myself telling them all about the joys of sales at Zara. And how we wear stockings like they wear jeans. And how everyone wants to dress like Kate Middleton, and that wedges are the new stiletto.

The little boy I looked after - who was a fallen angel, and if I ever have a child, he will be cloned to be like this little dude - is also all grown up. And got to see him skateboard at his 'skate park.'

There are 'skate parks' in southern Cali. It's what dudes do. Huge parks made of concrete with cool stuff to ramp off. They skate like it's a proper sport.

I got taken to lunch at the hotel Del Coronado, which is on the beach front and where Marilyn Monroe filmed Some Like It Hot.

At night, they made me a full on French meal, swapped stories, flicked through old photos, got loaded on good Californian red wine.

It was amazing. I have missed them. And 28 hours later, I flew back to San Francisco after a platter full on Mexican food.
You can see Mexico while eating Mexican food in San Diego.

Let's not talk about my fucking diet plan.

Fourteen hours and one day later, I am back home in London. So good to see my Brit who I missed so much.

I am so jet lagged, I don't know whether I'm standing or swimming. That sentence was meant to make sense.

On Saturday I will drive across four ex-Communist countries in a Skoda with my mother.

Christ. I'm terrified.

san diego

2011-10-10T17:37:00.003+01:00

So I have man flu.

Shit's going down on my tonsils and nasal cavities and it ain't pretty.

I arrived in San Diego, wearing a skirt, stockings, cashmere jumper, tweed blazer.

I don't think I could've looked more out of place if I tried. San Diego is the California we see in the movies. Palm trees, excessive sunglasses wearage, people in tank tops.

I don't think Tweed blazers and stockings is something you can even buy here.

People were staring; I was sweating like a glazed ham.
Then a large SUV pulled up, with a petite blonde inside wearing ginormous shades.

Just like I last remembered her, 12 years ago in France.
She was one of my two 'surrogate' mothers on my gap yah - and she might be small, but hell she was fun.

We screamed, threw our arms around each other and for the next 28 hours I was in San Diego we didn't stop talking.

As a result? Man flu. So more tomorrow. California dreaming.

sausalito and bike rides

2011-10-07T14:30:00.002+01:00

Firstly. It's my Brit's birthday today. And I can't be there to share with him. We had a present-opening Skype session together at 4am this morning. But still. I am really missing him and wish this trip hadn't fallen over his birthday.

Anyway. Another observation:

There are two types of people in the world.
1) Dicks; and
2) Dicks who wear sunglasses inside.

I have been doing a lot of number 2's (in this example, not the mainstream one), this week.
Fluorescent lights and jet lag are so much better when you're wearing sunglasses.
That's all I'm saying.

A group of us went cycling around San Francisco yesterday. I woke up with a sore throat, and it was raining outside, and the fire alarm went off, and after a chaotic morning, we tooled up and hit San Francisco.

There were these fighter jets practicing for a large airshow happening in a few days. Crikey, they were flying above our heads, as we made our way through Golden Gate Park, it was incredible.
Then we cycled over Golden Gate bridge.

Dude.

I was scared. The wind was waai-ing, and the structure is fucking high up - let's be honest - so I had a mini freak out and had to be pacified.

Well, not pacified, but I had to stop and chill out.

Heights dude. If I was Jewish I would've platzed. Being a non-Catholic, I just went ahead and shat myself.

Had dinner in lovely Sausalito and felt a huge sense of deja-vu. The place is the closest thing I've experienced to Cape Town ever.
This place is very very like Cape Town.

Then I got sick. My glands are swollen, can hardly swallow. It's 6am and have to fly to San Diego now.

Find me a chemist. And fast.

i'm gonna go ahead and...

2011-10-06T14:17:00.005+01:00

Firstly: RIP Steve Jobs. Your Apple products are amazeballs, you legend. It's weird to be in the Valley with this going on. Chitter chatter buzz all round. Anyway. A few new American observations.

Americans - at least in California - start many of their sentences off with:
"I'm gonna go ahead and..."

Mate. Every sentence.

"I'm gonna go ahead and get you all set?"
"I'm gonna go ahead and get you all set with your table?"
"I'm gonna go ahead and go ahead?"
"I'm gonna go ahead and have you look into the situation?"

You'll notice each sentence up there pocked with a question mark. Yes, in case there's failure to engage, I'm gonna go ahead and point out the obvious here - every sentence, is so like, a question? You know?

Well. After Chinese at a chain called PF. Chiang's, and more Napa Valley pinot noir, I went ahead and started speaking like an American all night.

I always do that.

Then after giant bowls of floating dim sums and other Chinese comestibles, a few of us went to a dive down the road of our hotel for a nightcap.

Dude.

It was, like, totally like the movies man. Like, I'm gonna go ahead and assume I was in a movie about small town America.

I mean, Silicon Valley is kind of like Somerset West. Or Krugersdorp, except without the churches and Afrikaans. Malls, fast food, cars and big roads.

The lady behind the bar had a red mullet so fucking perfect, I ended up needing to stare at it for whole minutes at a time. She looked like Billy Ray fuckin' Cyrus.

She said things like "Honey, what'll you be havin'? Should I go ahead and get you a drink?"

She served us glasses of 'Faileys' because Baileys was not on the menu.

The place had a jukebox and a flickering 'Bud Light' sign.

There was a dude in there with his dog. Propping up the bar.

And I had a dance off with a guy who looked like Mr Chow from The Hangover II.

Mr Chow won. But then again, it was because someone had put Shania Twain on the jukebox.

So that was fun. Today, after hearing from our CEO, and a few more meetings, the team is doing a fun activity - cycling across San Francisco and the Bay Area, ending in Sausalito.

After all the dumplings and doughnuts I've made love to, a small bit of exercise wouldn't be a bad thing. Especially if it involves going over golden Gate bridge.

Last I checked though, San Francisco was the most hilly city in the world.

I'm just gonna go ahead though and have them set up my bike.

lasers and californian wine

2011-10-04T14:56:00.000+01:00

Day 3 of titivating around 'The Valley.'

I'm more grumpy than I was last year. Age and jet lag obviously don't bode well, and come late afternoon I'm either drooling in a chair trying to stay awake or otherwise running off to find a doughnut I can eat.

That's the other thing. My worst fears have been confirmed. Although my Diet Buddy is here with me and we are trying our best to avoid the giant fucking portion sizes of death - it's fucking hard when the food is in your face the whole time.

I mean, fresh baked cookies are part of the offerings for breakfast here. As well as breakfast burritos, cheesy stir fry, anything you can dream of.

We walked into a cafe for lunch yesterday and had to literally stumble around the chaos, trying to locate the soups and salad bar without being distracted by the pizza stand. Then ended up eating a bunch of other crap anyway.

America might be the best goddamn country in the whole goddamn world (well, no, not especially, but i heard that somewhere), but the food will be the death of me.

I didn't lose 7 fucking kilos only to put it back on again because Monsieur Hershey found me in the United States, you know what I mean?

Anyway enough of the bitchin'. Jet lag and falling off diet wagons aside, we had a fun activity yesterday after our seminars.

Laser Quest. Dude.

Everyone seems to have played it in their misspent youths. Not me. You put on a jacket with lots of flashing lights, grab a laser gun and then a group of you run off into a dark labyrinth and try not to get shot while shooting other people.

No bullets, just lasers motherfucker.

Well blow me down and call me Cerys.

I nearly didn't do it, because I was wearing a blazer and heels, but I'm freakin' glad I did in the end.

Armed, I unleashed the fury. And came 4th out of 40 other players in my group.

"Peas, you did so well because you're from Johannesburg right?"

Peas: Right. Because I had a machine gun in Joburg, yeah?

"Yeah you know, all the guns and shit there you must be a pro at shooting."

Peas: Totes. Like we all just shoot each other all the time. It's like the wild west there.

Yip. the legend of my hometown has hit America.

But suffice to say, I was running around in heels and a blazer with a laser. And I fucking annihilated the crew.

Then we went for dinner, and drank a lot of Californian wine. Napa Valley style.

So no real complaints. Just gotta lay off the doughnuts.

2011-10-03T17:50:00.003+01:00

I'm here.

I didn't sleep for 27 hours solid.

Arrived San Francisco, hit it hard - with the catalytic sentence being "From now on, I will only drink champagne..".

Five hundred dollars later, a group of us were hosting a room party and drinking the good stuff and dancing on the bed to Outkast's (?) Greatest Hits.

When you make 3am decisions at 7pm (jetlag), then anything can happen really.

I gotta say, a champagne hangover is fucking horrible. Balls.

Went shopping in San Francisco with the rest of the girls, with the shakes and sunnies on inside, and ate organic food at the harbour.

So far so good.

on it like a car bonnet

2011-09-30T09:02:00.004+01:00

Dude. See that? See that right there? That's a graph, motherfucker..

Dude.

I've lost 7 kilos.

I'm now at my '10% goal,' which evidently means I've lost 10% of my total body weight.

Mate.
Check it out. I've been tracking it for weeks.

You can clearly see the week where I went to Venice. 'Italygate,' is the incline from too many [fucking tasty] carbonaras and wine.

I have 3 kilos left to lose, and apparently these are entirely optional. And idealistic.

I'm happy where I am now, but if I'm going to be honest, I want to be a skinny bitch.

I want to change my look. I want to remember what it's like to be skinny. Not scrawny, skinny.
Where I can wear whatever I want - a hessian sack? - and it still looks good.

Where people say, "Something's different, did you change your hair?"

No bru. I've changed my body shape.

And if I fluctuate from my goal weight of 58 kilos, a few kilos here or there, it won't be the end of the world.

One big obstacle in the way of getting there is going to America for a week.
Where portion sizes are larger than the state of Montana, and the food is so processed you could leave it under a car seat for 12 years and nothing would happen.

(That's a true story, by the way).

So the chances of consuming a fuckload of bacon and maple syrup is a strong reality. Especially in Silicone Valley - which is a great place if you're a computer nerd starting up your own .com, but it's generally an area filled with offices, takeaways and strip malls.

Oh well.

America here I come.

champagne drinker, beer dresser

2011-09-29T10:30:00.004+01:00

I had the privilege of attending an awards ceremony last night, on behalf of my company.

It was one of those events where the memo obviously didn't quite make it to my desk.

I arrived, in a tweed jacket, a shirt that says 'I love Bratislava' on it, shorts, blue stockings and my gold brogues from Amsterdam. My usual attire.

Problem is, I walked straight into the set of The Bold & The beautiful. Think Gucci dresses and Louboutins. Hairspray and heels.

Jesus was I out of place. So, like all self-respecting girls who wear metallic flats to an event that's actually the set for Made In Chelsea (I was less Chelsea, more 'Communist Slovakia'), I doused my horror with champagne.

You know, I just don't drink champagne enough.

Honestly, I'm in my 30s now. I dabble with the grape, but really I should by drinking champagne a whole lot more than I have been. It's some rad stuff.

I've since decided to actively integrate champagne into my diet. Sure, it's an expensive habit, but then I don't do cocaine.

From now on, I'm going to doing less wine and more champagne. It just about made me enjoy myself immensely at this thing.

dude. fuck off.

2011-09-28T11:50:00.005+01:00

Work has suddenly got very very very busy.

Bend me over a barrel, call me Duncan, and then shit on my chest. Why don't you.

Europeans all go on holiday, to fornicate and bake on the Spanish seaboard, during August and September. It's peaceful and warm in London.

My favourite time of year in England. Which is why I don't leave. I leave London when it's shit.

It's 28 degrees outside, sun streaming down - which arouses a suspicion most sharp - am I missing something? What's the catch? - and yet my inbox is bursting at the seams, everyone wants a piece of me, everyone wants to suddenly launch projects that need my involvement, everyone needs a spokesperson, I'm fielding calls from the US this week, it's my company's birthday (which garners attention in the .com world), and, because it's beginning of quarter, we are in 'planning phase.'

Suddenly I'm sweating like Schwarzenegger during a paternity test, I'm talking on two phones at once, and I feel myself aging.

I'm haggled, not sleeping because my cogs are going round and round on overtime, and the fact that I'm even pausing to write this fucking post is more than a little bit ludicrous.

The fact that I am having to go to America for a whole week's work is great and all, but it's also put a major fucking backlog on other shit going down in Blighty that I have to take care of.

So that's my first world problem.

If you want something from me today - and Jesus it had better be fucking important - I'd approach me with extreme caution.

I'm a walking human bio-hazard.

the eagle landed

2011-09-27T11:34:00.006+01:00

Paint me red and call me a carpet. Cripes. What a crazy few days.

I am flying to America on Saturday and fear I won't even be caught up on everything before then.

The eagle landed - Dove arrived on Friday afternoon, and we immediately set about catching up on the balcony over a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.

Look, if you can't get Diemersfontein, best you substitute with a bottle of Provence's finest.

We have one of those lucky friendships where it can be months or like now, a year between last seeing each other, and everything just slips into place like we saw each other the previous day.

I've realised that obviously living here, that I am very out of the goss loop at home.
I'm caught up on most things, it only took about half an hour.

It was good to have someone to skinner with about everything. And say 'fuck' and 'c%nt' a lot with.

We caught up with a wider group and the Brit in Camden, hit some live music and Peas managed to get so hammered, I have at least three hours I cannot account for.

I'm speaking in the third person, because Peas might as well as not even been there. We went to a cocktail bar, I apparently told Dove a long-winded rhetoric about Made in Chelsea this wanky yet addictive quasi-reality series everyone watches here, about my stance on drugs (?), and other shit I can't remember.
I was the protagonist of all those conversations, but I don't remember a fucking thing.

I've noticed this lately. More than three glasses of wine and Peas is talking and talking but remembering nothing. Ever again. I get Alcoholic Alzheimer's.
I'll be sitting there, walking and talking, apparently fairly coherently and the next day it might've not even happened.

Some people pass out when they're drunk, I get memory loss. Badly.

Dude. It's a bit scary.

Anyway, so the next day after sitting until 3am with the Brit and the Dove, talking shit - again - I was there?, I woke up to one monster of a hangover.

Fuck me and call me Cagatha. It was ferocious.

Armed with paracetamol, we took a walk through Chelsea and South Ken, to do some high street shopping with the Dove, to insatiate her Zara craving.

When Saffas visit London; they go to Zara. Apparently there's one opening up in Joburg now, but until then, Saffas spend their pension funds at Zara when they visit. The Dove is no different, and neither was I when I was a visitor to London.

Every now and then, I'd duck out from behind the tweed blazers (fuck yes! I got one! Yes I did!), and go outside to engage in a tactile chunder.

I didn't chunder, but hell's teeth, it was close a few times.

Then we took the Dove back to her cousin's to leave London, and that was it. My two days with Dove were gone in a whirlwind.

Felt majorly emo on Dove leaving. Then realised that I'd be home in 4.5 months, which is like, five seconds away.

Woke up on Sunday and felt like someone had intra-venoused me with e-coli. I got one of those "24 hour bug" things that people harp on about when they pull a sickie.
To me, a 24 hour bug is this mythical made-up sickness; an excuse for staying in bed.

Bullshit. I was sicker than a motherfucker. I couldn't leave my bed. Basically had swollen glands, bad stomach, a headache, basically eating dry toast and water and being nursed by my amazing Brit.

On the possibly last sunny day of the year. I had to stay in bed. I watched about 5 September 11th Ten Year Memorial documentaries and bawled my eyes out - crisis - and that was the last day I spent summer.

I say this, as it's now dark and grey outside.

Bring on a bit of California.

bits from our house

2011-09-22T13:43:00.024+01:00

I'm gearing up for The Dove's visit.

She will be the first of my friends from home to visit.
Besides a few things, it's pretty much 'finished' for now.

Until next month anyway.

We have to get double-glazed windows fitted before it becomes so stonking cold we walk around in slankets all day and potentially sabotage our own sex lives by doing so. Next year we will get a new bathroom.

(Our current bathroom is workable, we bathe. We wash. We floss. Sometimes. But it's small and old. It's time for a fuck off bath and cool things like shelves.)

Anyway, I wanted to showcase a few areas of our flat. The bits and pieces I've collected over the years from travels, from South Africa and now here, that define our space. It's small, but it's ours.

The boudoir. A wall.
This chair has been with me forever, from South Africa. I spray painted it purple. The pictures are prints from the States. The light is from @Home, at home.

A lamp from Dwell. It sits on the dressing table, inherited from the Brit's granny.

Our dining room table. Book case is filled with both our books, which for when we start having winter dinner parties, is a good conversation starter - hence its proximity. Transparent vase thingie is from Denmark.

Sideboard in the lounge. From India. A wire protea from the side of Jan Smuts Avenue at home, the Brit's "ice light", containers made from bamboo, a glass flamingo from Dwell, and a gold leaf goddess from my mother from Burma.
You'll notice there's a Louis Vth chair in the reflection. From Holland. (eBay. Never again.)
A wankworthy Andy Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe [read: pride and joy] in the background, I've also had for ages and has by pure godly miracle not broken in the move from South Africa or even between same-city moves.

Couch pillows. Our couch is the Brit's pride and joy. It's this huge thing that a grown man could happily sleep on and wake up thinking he was on a bed. It's so comfortable, you needn't leave it for any other purpose except to go to the toilet and feed yourself. And go to work. The cow hide cushions and bar code cushions don't really do anything.

More sideboard stuff. Vases, the ball from Habitat and the cool 'Sides' perspex one from Illums Bollighus in Denmark. Cactus from the Brit. Because I kill plants and cactuses rarely die.

Box I got from Chappies back in the days when I was a journalist. They sent me this box, filled with a lot of gum. The box is wrapped in one large Chappies cover which I have amazingly not lost or fucked up.

One side of the mantlepiece. Mirror from a vintage store in Battersea. Record bowl from a random little shop in Berlin, rubber money box owl from a design store in Copenhagen. The owl rocks, because not only can you lop its head off, and it's a red - my favourite colour - there's a coin slot for random change. The Brit leaves a lot of change lying around. I find it fucking everywhere. What's with dudes doing that anyway? Makes me beserk. The owl helps me cope.

Side table in the lounge. Frames have since been filled with pictures of our families. The gnomes are actually salt and pepper cellars from Oliver Bonas. I bought the lamp on eBay. The table is from an antiques store in Albertsville, Johannesburg.

The front door. With purple hat that barely survived Bestival. The Fleur-de-Lys mirror hook is from a charity store in Clapham Junction, the bag is from Top Shop and the fancy brollies (which, sadly, will get left somewhere, someday), are from Peter Jones in Sloane Square (white one for the Royal Wedding celebrations!) and the purple dotty one from Jani Murkel.

Our balcony. Plants indicative of Brit who has green fingers. We use the basil and peppermint quite a bit.
Table from Debenhams. Eat breakfast in our dressing gowns and flash the traffic below.

Other side of mantlepiece. Clock from Oliver Bonas, candlestick from Debenhams. When Colonel Mustard visits, I will be keeping a beady eye on him.

The Esc key stool. My Brit is a techie. He's got one of those amazingly geeky minds, and yet, it's not to the detriment of his personality. He can do science AND banter. A rare breed indeed. This is his ~~stool.~~ seat.

That's our old school landline. Which we never use. Candlestick from Copenhagen (I bought a lot of shit in Denmark), lamp from Dwell.

That's all folks. You've now seen my bedroom wall and a lot of my lounge.
Next time, I'll show you our toilet room. It's like the pool room from The Castle.

california dreaming, visitors, scales

2011-09-21T10:35:00.007+01:00

Southern California is calling my name.

Oh my God.

Three things.

My non-blood sister has landed in the country

1) The Dove is coming to visit me! She got diverted from New York two weeks ago, but has literally got back on a plane to come out here to see her family and me.

Jesus H. Jones, I cannot possibly begin to describe how excited I am. One of my best mates in the world, who I haven't seen for over a year.

Friday she comes to stay with us. Well slap my face and call me Bertha. Two more sleeps.

Has my scale gone bat shit?
2) Dude. Can you lose a kilogramme in your sleep? Because I just did.
I weighed myself today and yesterday and I am a kilo under. The clothes I am wearing roughly are the same as yesterday's - dress, pantyhose, belt.

From my internet diagnosis, it's all about water. Water ebbing and flowing through your system. So clearly am less water-logged than I was yesterday.

I am almost at my target weight. I have around 2-3 kilos to go. By the time I shed these it'll be Christmas.
Where you eat anything that isn't nailed the fuck down.

Roasted birds, stuffing, mulled wine, stodgy warm shit.

On that note, it's worth mentioning that Autumn is here. It's grey and crap outside and I am wearing a jacket to work.

So, to rebel, I booked a flight to San Diego.

From San Francisco.

I'm going to be in California in about two weeks. For work. Fuck yes. So, what I've done is booked a flight to southern California, bordering Mexico, to visit the family I used to au pair for when I lived in France.

I haven't seen the family since 1999; the babies I looked after then are like...teenagers now.

They listen to punk rock, know what the word fuck means, and have Twitter accounts.

Jesus. That's what I was doing when I looked after them. Minus the Twitter account. I had a Hotmail address, which was a big fucking deal back in '99.

I am so excited to see them. They made my year in France.

And, now I'll get to go to a tropical beach, La Jolla, before winter truly fucks with my mental state.

Delay winter for me - something only a California beach can do.

celebratory shifts

2011-09-20T12:40:00.007+01:00

I can't eat pies anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't fucking love them.

So, really, turning 31 was alright.

Got most of my London friends into a room, which to me, is why birthdays beyond the age of 26, should exist.

To see all the people you like, in one place. Boom.

Anything pre-26 involves being a lash hero. You get fucked, and you usually wear a funny hat.

Birthday parties pre-30 involve things like:
- Party at the Rat & Parrot in Grahamstown, don't remember the details (my 26th)
- Jacuzzi tubs, cigars, carnage and mampoer (my 25th birthday party);
- Hip hop gansta-themed house party carnage (my 24th birthday party);
- Pimms and lemonade garden party with inflatable swimming pool carnage (my 23rd birthday party);
- Liquid picnic on Clifton 4 beach in Cape Town, sand, carnage, wine out of a silver pillow (my 22nd birthday party)

Basically, the general theme is 'dress up; get fucked up.' At the scale only someone in their early-twenties can take.

My 31st was spent exactly how I wanted it. In a good English pub, with a small group of good friends, in normal clothes (well I did wear my I Love Pies t-shirt, but you know what I mean), casually sipping on vodka and sodas, talking shit.

What's a birthday without banter?

Talk shit, or die. Might've had a cheeky Jaegie. Even.

Vodka is my choice of alcohol these days - as I can almost function on that hangover, and the calories don't fuck with my diet.

Yep, times have changed. But I'm comfortable that I've done all that crazy stuff, and chinwagging over pints and pies in London - with friends from work, from school, from South Africa, from the UK - was the best way to spend it.

We did finish off some Cornish 'cyder' off at home, from a rather large glass jar a friend had bought - yes. That knocked us flat. Jayzuz.

I got tulips from my Dutch friend, bless:

One of my mates made me milk tart! Little mini ones!

Dude. I forgot that 'melk tert' even existed. And she baked these from scratch?

Dude. I have to ration myself and only eat one every two days.
I can't open the fridge, as they're right there calling my name.

I got really spoilt, and it was such a superb afternoon.

To balance out the debauchery, The Brit and cycled through Richmond Park on Sunday. It's a proper nature reserve to the west of London.

See? In my 20s I never would've done that. I would've eaten dip and crisps for dinner and watched Kendra, not moving from the couch for 24 hours. Chain smoking.

Actually. That sounds quite nice.

Must remember new diet has helped me lose 6 kilos. And will ~~never~~ try fucking hard not revert to ~~fiendish~~ old ways as tempting ~~and fucking amazing and fun and awesome they were~~ as it can be sometimes.

bestival - part deux

2011-09-19T14:50:00.011+01:00

September, sometime

No rest for the wicked. Not on this clock.

Up. Wet wipe my body and wash my pits and face under the bag shower we bought.

"Bag shower." Mate, I'm not even fooling around.

Some of the others are queuing for the showers. This is my opinion on the matter: pants.

You don't shower at a festival ok. You live and embrace the dirt, motherfucker. You sanitise yourself with Nivea wipes, non-fragrance. Queuing for a shower not only is a waste of two hours, where you could be eating a breakfast baguette stuffed with eggs and other breakfasty detritus, but also, what the fuck.

I mentally prepared to be dirty for three days. I'm not going back on my word. You're a pussy if you shower. If you're going to be a hippie, fucking be a hippie already.

That said, I didn't have a great night's sleep. Too much party party party has given Aunty Peas a giant headache. And a fucked up neck from sleeping in a tent.

Am grumpy face.

Later
Well that's slightly better. I walked around the 'esoteric' field. They have the obligatory palm reader, tarot reader, crystal punter, but they also have massages and shit.

Mate. If my feet were cleaner, and my back - to be fair - I'd have done it. Nothing sorts out a festival hangover like a good rub. Pampering I'm happy to pay for.

But I instead went to the Vegan stall.

Was worried my consumption of crap had given me scurvy in the last 3 days, so hit myself up with a hummus salad pita.

The bird behind the hummus tub had dreads and was wearing something that looked like a human Dream Catcher.

Then went to find the tea place. Where they serve you a brew in a mug and you can sit and relax. Momentarily take yourself out of the festival's madness.

I sat sipping on a tea, served to me cheerily, behind the back drop of a soothing Ella Fitzgerald soundtrack and watched the world go by, for what was probably hours.

I've become more British than I care to acknowledge. Tea actually does improve the world. It actually does make me feel better. Tea is the fucking biscuit people.

Much later

Dude. The Village people are playing. We congregated at the main arena, me now on a fuckload of Red Bull, and did - in real time - a mass LIVE YMCA.

The 'C' in YMCA.
Me and 40 000 other people. Did a huge, large YMCA.
What a riot. You hear the song in every random bar in Pietermaritzburg and/or Grahamstown, and here, I was watching the little gaylords live!

The 'A' in YMCA.
Got my second wind. And we all went onto the second act. The CURE.

Big, indie and awesome. They played my favourite - Lullaby - a song in my top ten - definitely - and it was truly awesome. We all dressed up again.

Missioned around checking people, sounds, dancing tents and other random shit about - saw a lot of fucked people.

I've never seen so many fucked people - and I mean - off. Their. Heads - in one place in my life. So fucked, there is no fighting or aggression going on. Everyone is just super loving and nice.

We went to the Moroccan tent for some shisha and watched the world go by until the early hours.

I'm torn out. But wow.

Last day
You mean after four nights in a tent - we have to LUG THIS SHIT BACK UP THE HILL?

Well punch my arm and call me Warren.

The Brit and his brother must've seen the looks on our dirty little girl faces.
And henceforth "commandeered" a trolley.

Not stole; commandeered. Was too chuffed to argue ethics and values and we put all our tents, bags and other shit on the trolley and all pushed it up the hill.

We have been spectacularly lucky with the weather the last four days. It's rained once, and at night. Only now is there a bit of slushy mud. That we can actually get our wellies dirty in.

After pushing the thing up the hill, we gave it to someone else.
obviously. This is what people do at festivals. Steal and then give away. It's the whole ethos see.

Much later
Took about 6 days to get home. Ferries, bus, car, taxi and back to London.

And a week later as I write this, can say only now, that I have recovered. Sleep deprivation and constant partying will do that to Aunty Peas who is now 31.

But Jesus that rocked. I've ticked the box, I've done a festival and I loved it.

And taking a hot shower at home? Fucking. Magic.

In some ways my 31st birthday was better than my 30th. It has to be said.

four days of madness - part un

2011-09-16T10:18:00.013+01:00

8 September
I think we have way too much stuff. I know we're camping in the middle of a field, but 8000 wet wipes in my backpack feels like I'm carrying a fucking Steinway.

Later
Yip. Too much stuff. Fraught with irritation. The queue for the ferry across to the Isle of Wight is longer than a Dick Cheney biography.
I also can't wait for my mate to be employed. I seem to be paying for all her lunches. I'm also grumpy because we have tents, camper chairs (one is a recliner. The dude at Black's camping shop upsold us. Fuck it's a hack to drag around.)
Oh and the boys have like, 20 kilos of beer.

This lugging shit around schtick wasn't in the brochure.

Much later
JESUS FUCK, ANOTHER QUEUE?
We have managed to blag a ride with a few locals across the island. Sweating like an animal.
And have come across the third long, snaking queue of the day, entering the site. Which - to be fair - is a series of rolling green hills in the middle of this island, and all is very pretty and green.

Much much later
Just fucking kill me. I'm never ever fucking doing this again. I'm too old for this shit. The boys have dumped us in the middle of this place, with all 50 000 people trying to do the same thing - while they cart stuff to where we will pitch our tents.

Angry, grumpy and sore. I might as well crack open a beer.

Night fall
It's taken us about 7 hours to get here. I'm sitting in the middle of a meadow, drinking merlot out of a squeezie bottle, on the camping reclining chair.

Once I get drunk, maybe I'll forget what an effort it was to get here.

Midnight
Thank fuck for wine, motherfuckers! We are at Bestival! We have wind up lamps and our tent is pitched. Everyone around is super friendly, and everyone is wearing wellies.
There are tons of different food stalls here, pity I'm on WeightWatchers. I'd go bananas otherwise.

There's even a Pizza Express. I bought a hot jacket potato, drenched in cheddar anyway.
Fuck it.

9 September
I've been woken by a series of doofing. In the stark light of day, a shitload of people have come in the night and put tents next to us.

Music is starting to blare from the 8 bandstands and stages dotted around the place.

There are flags and flowers and hippie stuff everywhere. I'm....in a hippie commune.
This is either hysterical or I'm way out of my depth.

Christ. I'm turning 31 and I'm at a festival.
If anything, this is one helluva'n experience. I've never seen anything quite like it.

Later
This place is insane. There's so much stuff to do and see, I doubt we'll even get to all of it. If you have no interest in the music, you can go and chill out in the 'Ambient forest,' where there are hammocks strung up. You can even join a yoga class.

We did a pee behind a tree. As nature intended. And frankly, it's so much better than those Porta-Loos. I cannot begin to describe what I saw this morning. If you're looking for diet tips, inbox me. Basically.

Much later
The food here is phenomenal - anything you want, done so beautifully. Paella, French crepes served to me by dudes wearing stripey t-shirts, organic soups, teas. I can drink a cuppa tea from a vintage tea cup in this London bus:

We're on the drinks now, hoping to catch some live music this arvy. And get off our faces. Yay!

Night fall
Yeah, so we're off our faces.
I'm dressed like a post box, the Brit is dressed like a doctor, and his brother is dressed like Colonel Gaddafi.

Yes it's random. We had to go to a dress up stall last minute and these outfits were all that was left. The other girls in our crew have fa-jazzled their faces. People here can paint and gem your faces up.
I'm in all red, top to toe, stockings and wellies included.

We found ourselves raving - as in making funky shapes and doing the Post Box dance (?) - at Arcadia. They were at Glastobury this year, and basically set this structure up in the middle of a field, that blows out fire balls and laser lights.

The Brit thought his hair had caught fire at one stage. It hadn't.

Some dude in spectacles sits in the structure and throws out some banging beats.

Then we met some random dude called Dave who joined our party and became our instant new BFF. He'd lost his mates and his tent. As one does.

Then we missioned up to another oomcha oomcha tent, and basically followed the thronging crowd all over the site.

It was mad. We saw some pretty interesting costumes, not to mention behaviour. And people chewing on their jaws.

One dude, only wearing a pair of red pants, and chewing his face off, was escorted out by two cops.
The costumes are outrageous. I could watch these people all night.

The Brit's brother in his Gaddafi outfit looks like an African leader. It's hysterical. It looks like he stepped out of Ghana, with his flowing outfit billowing out behind him.

Night two sleeping in a field.
40 wet wipes used (10 facial, 30 other). And counting.

21 again, mostly

2011-09-15T08:51:00.002+01:00

I turned 31 yesterday.

Mate. I was working like a bitch in Liverpool.

I was in Liverpool, of all places, for the whole day working on a press launch, staggering home at midnight after the longest and busiest work day in a while.

But even so - getting old and working - the best part of any birthday has to be hearing from people.

It felt so good to come back from a pretty arbitrary birthday in northern England, to wishes from friends and family on my Facebook wall, on my phone, on Skype, in my inbox. Fielding calls, and catching up with everyone.

So even though I am now in my 30s - I am on the verge of freaking out but am containing it as much as possible - the best part about getting old is connecting with everyone on the day. It's an excuse to speak to my mates back at home and feel the love.

Being so far from home makes me often wonder whether I've been totally forgotten. You know, out of sight is out of mind and all that. But hearing from the people that mean the most to me was so special.

And having my Brit to come home to, and spoil me with pamper presents is also something I am truly lucky to have.

So this birthday? I choose to be grateful AND old.

PS: I have started lying about my age. Some people thought I turned 30 yesterday. I didn't correct them.

am i even alive

2011-09-13T11:25:00.003+01:00

Well punch my arm and call me Matthew.

Mate.

Four days of absolute crazy mayhem, British festie-style.

I'm now at work trying to bang together a presentation for our MD, and am so retarded, when I went to the toilet, I discovered my watch on upside down and my panties on back to front and inside out.

That's how no sleep for four days will affect you.

I can tick the box - I've done some crazy stuff now. That I probably never need to do again.

God it was fun.

I will diarise tomorrow.

It is the eve of my [gulp, fuck, loser, arrgh help me, this is torture, why can't I stay young, Peter Pan save me motherlover, fuck fuck fuck] 31st birthday.

Tomorrow, after all this debauchery, I turn 31.

I'm no longer just thirty. I'm in my thirties. For the first time in my life, I am absolutely dreading this birthday.

I cried about it over the weekend. But that might've been the cider.

The best gift for an almost 31 year old non-married, non-pregnant girl though? By far a ticket to a four day top-rated British festival in the middle of an island.

Wow. Mental.

Mate. Will document tomorrow when I've stopped drooling and can read properly, and when have caught up on sleep.

my first british music festival

2011-09-07T11:28:00.006+01:00

Baptism of fire about to happen.

I'm going to my first English music festival tomorrow.

Four days of camping, ~~possibly~~ most definitely, in the rain at Bestival.

The Brit bought me a ticket for my upcoming birthday next week (eeek! fuck!), so a few of us are going along.

For four days of hippie, Wellington-wearing festival madness.

Bestival is kind of like Glastonbury, except more boho I'm told. There are hippies everywhere, and am told I will be squatting in a pit should I need the toilet.

No sirree. Not on my clock. I will not urinate or otherwise with the masses. I point blank refuse.

People dress up, get off their faces, and live the dream each year on the Isle of Wight, where it's held.

I will be a hippie bastard for four days AND convince my boyfriend and everyone that we need to wear a pair of Madonna conical breasts.

As our dress up. This year's theme is 'Pop Divas,', so who better than Madge and her pointy tits?

So. What the fuck am I letting myself in for. Here I type wearing a blazer, a power dress and clutching my smartphone. You have to queue for two hours to charge your phone there. You're literally at the mercy of the elements.

Mud, rain and music.

And all from my tent, I will be able to hear Bjork screaming like an Icelandic swan.

Dude.

I am rather fond of Bjork. Mad as a bag of wasps, sure, but she'll be there. As well as The Cure, DJ Shadow, and dude. Dude. The. Village. People.

If I can stand up and am not too shitfaced, I'll release myself from our foldable camping chairs and YMCA like a motherfucker.

The Brit's bought a mining lamp to attach to his head, and I have bought 8000 wet wipes.

So we can stay hygienic during this four day music campathon on the Isle of Wight.

I'm getting seriously excited now.

PS: No. The Vivienne Westwood bubblegum boots are staying safely at home.

t- five kilos and counting

2011-09-06T11:15:00.005+01:00

Was inspired yesterday by an email asking if I am battling with cancer, and is that why I am dieting.

Short answer, no. Long answer - some of my loved ones have or are battling with the disease. It's all too prevalent in this day and age of processed bullshit we eat, so yes, as it runs in my family, and now that I am in my 30s, I have changed the way I eat.

I have lost 5 kilos.

It's taken 10 weeks, but that's fine. I've still lost half my Heathrow Injection. I am almost there.

I see my twenties - years gone by - as a golden age of amazingness. Where I enjoyed every cigarette I smoked, I drank tequila, and I ate KFC burgers without thinking twice about anything. My twenties were a youth well spent.

I wouldn't have had it any other way. I fucking miss those days, when your body could bounce back from almost anything. When a hangover lasted one hour. Kind of thing.

In order to feel like I am still young and youthful however, I've had to do things.
1) change my attitude
2) go on a diet

So. I stopped smoking. And I stopped eating crap.

This wasn't an overnight transformation, you understand. I first tried Atkins, where I ate bacon and cheese - and only bacon and cheese - for two months and probably almost gave myself a coronary. In fact, it's a small wonder that I didn't have a fucking heart attack.

Atkins is a bullshit diet. It's not healthy, it damages your body. So don't waste your time, FYI.

Then I started doing some reading. I read up on diets that fix and heal your body. That make you lose weight naturally. That encourage healthy fuckin'sustainable living.

I read up on basic nutrition. I studied it, threw myself into it. Then came back with some golden rules.

Before I tell you what they are, let me point out one thing that's become very obvious.

Food is like religion. The moment you try and inflict your rules on someone, they get uptight.

When my mother nagged me in the past, I ate another pie. Telling people stuff they don't want to hear makes them rebel and make love to a bath full of KFC Pops.

So never preach about your diet; answer questions when asked.

For those who are interested in how I eat and these days, this is what I do. Based on two principles. 1) Science; and 2) Science.

I am actively trying to avoid getting cancer
This means I try and eat foods that are alkaline. Our bodies are meant to be alkaline. Most shitty food out there is acid. Cancer thrives in acidic environments.

Meat is acidic, dairy is acidic (and creates mucous which is also cancer causing), sugar and coffee, all acidic. Bread = acidic.
I try and keep acidic foods to a minimum, and balance it out with eating more alkaline stuff.

Green tea - all day long - potatoes, fruits, veg.

Acidic foods make you fat
When acidic foods enter your system, fat cells are produced to try and counter-balance it. So this is why bread and sugar make you fat.

The acidic/alkaline diet is followed by the likes of Kirsten Dunst and Gywneth Paltrow.
Citrus fruit isn't acidic. It's actually alkaline.

I eat smaller portions
Dude. I won't eat a whole piece of cake. I'll eat half a piece of cake. So I get the taste and stop the craving. I'll eat bad stuff. But in half the quantities I used to. I'm human. I need to taste cake and shit.

I have endometriosis
Hormones and other shit found in dairy and meat are bad for my condition. I have cut out most dairy.
There are antibiotics, hormones, adrenaline, all sorts of shit in meat and dairy. Most people can eat it and have a great life; I can't.

This has meant that I cannot eat cheese. I live and die by cheese. But cheese is fucking fattening and it makes me double over in pain and cause the worst fucking cramps at that time of the month. Like you won't believe.

Since I cut out dairy, I lost weight and I can function when Aunt Rosie comes to stay.

Not to say I never eat cheese or ice cream. I do. I'd die without a piece of Camembert every now and then. But it's once a week. And it's always organic.

I eat a fuckload of fruit and vegetables
I've come up with some tasty ways to prepare it - usually in the form of soup. I get my calcium from broccoli. I get my iron from spinach.

Look. It's fairly simple. When shit is processed, it's bad. People also do bad things to animals.

My diet is 70% vegan. I save the other 30% for times when I need a pie, a brie smothered on a piece of warm bread.
Or smash a hamburger, like I did on the weekend.

And now? I can fit into my jeans. And have more energy than I ever had. I used to need nine hours of sleep a night.

Dude. I can now function on seven. Margaret Thatcher functioned on five a night. I'm guessing this was her secret.

thanks viv

2011-09-05T11:22:00.006+01:00

This is a box. Made from cardboard.

Spent a lot of the weekend doing cool London shit.

Like eat a tower of dim sum with friends in Liverpool Street, cruise Spitalfields market, get toasted on red wine with the Brit.

I also visited Harvey Nicks. Joanna Lumley talk about this in Absolutely Fabulous, every five seconds if you've never heard about it before. It's in Knightsbridge, opposite Harrod's just about.

They sell things like Chanel bags and Victoria Beckham jeans.

If you go in there, and get lost in the rabbit warren of designer clothes and handbags, prepare to have your financial testicles lopped off.

There is something very intimidating browsing an aisle of Valentino and Vera Wang.
Your eyes are on stalks, because you've never seen such beautiful clothes, and yet you feel embarrassed reaching for the tag in case the fucking shop assistant judges you.

One should always keeps one's poker face in tact when one browses the latest line of Chanel handbags.

Because when one casually spots a price tag of £3000, one must not do anything except push a bead.

Anyway, I struck gold. I walked up to the Vivienne Westwood section. Always loved the old tart. She is the only person I know who has publicly dissed Kate Middleton. (For being boring with her clothes. Obviously.)

She is also ridiculous eccentric, with unbelievebale hair. She cycles on a Pashley.

My bike is a Pashley. She lives in Battersea. I live in Battersea.

But whatever. The most remarkable thing about Vivienne Westwood, arguably, is her shoe collection. I don't particularly warm to her clothing lines, but her shoes are great.

Why? They are manufactured to smell like bubblegum.

That's right..

She's a fuckin' genius. And so when I visited the Westwood section, I found a pair of bubblegum-smelling mini Wellies and they cost me only £70. Even her velvet shoes smell like bubblegum.

Dude. Best buy at Harvey Nicks Ever.

I've been making people my my shoes all day.

I've been told they'll never lose their smell. Even if I'm riding to work with them.

The smell of bubblegum is emanating from under my desk as we speak. And the boardroom of the Monday Morning Meeting smelt like bubblegum too.

Fucking amazeballs.

ripper tour

2011-09-02T10:07:00.014+01:00

The tour was fantastic. Who knew that so many of the little alleyways in Whitechapel still retain the eerie, misty atmosphere of 1888.

(Year of murderous intent, Jack-style).

We set off with out guide - a bubbly little rotund Irishman who claims he's been studying Ripper since he was 12. Bless.

He had this little hand-held projector with images he'd project onto a wall - you know of victims with their bowels slung over their shoulders - and photoshopped pictures of what that particular building looked like back then.

He was very good.

The evening was ended with a Rogon Josh on Brick Lane. Just how all good evenings should end. With a fuck off curry and a vodka.

In the beginning, we immediately veered down a side alley where he told us about life in the East End back then. You didn't wanna be living there as a woman, trust me. Your prospects were most likely alcoholism and/or prostitution.

The original cobblestones. Jack the Ripper almost certainly walked on these exact stones. They haven't changed. If walls could talk, we'd know who he was.

This is an old remaining 'dors house.' It's the equivalent of a prostitute hostel. It was the cheapest place to sleep, in a wooden box for a few pence. For those who couldn't afford the box, they'd sleep standing up over a strung up piece of rope. No kidding. And I thought I had it bad when I was backpacking around Europe in my gap year with no tent or money.

The last bit of Thrawl Street, the rest was blitzed during the war and now new ugly buildings sit in its place. Some of the first murders happened near here, and its alleged that the Ripper lived on this street. It's just off Brick Lane.

Ye Olde Frying Pan was a drunk house pub that many of the victims and most likely Jack himself, used to frequent. It's now a curry house - obviously - as it's on Brick Lane.
The top gable, painted red, hasn't changed. The embossed bits are two frying pans, intertwined with the name "Ye Olde Frying Pan" in there somewhere.

A typical East End street. One side is modernised from the blitz (fugly), and other side is listed Victorian houses that can't be torn down. The original gas lamp posts remain, but are now electrified. These features are heavily preserved now.

The atmosphere is very eerie - as night fall comes, there's this mistiness and darkness around the lamps and dark streets that hasn't changed since the days the Ripper was around. We were freaked out, and I wouldn't walk down here on my own even today.

A victim was found here. Well, there was no parking lot there, but a row of houses with little back gardens. She was found disembowled pretty much where that shiny black Audi is parked.

Whitechapel and the East End was squalor and awfulness then. But now, original Victorian houses go for around £2 million pounds a pop. (Small, two bedroom, period features.) Whitechapel is colourful and trendy.

Another dors house. Women had to enter at the front door (with the sign), and their male 'visitors' around the back. It's now a student res. So still lots of shagging going on then.

Projecting images on the wall of an alleyway, leading onto Mitre Square, where another victim was found.

...and there she was found, at this exact spot. Ten out of ten for him redramatising the whole thing.

For those in London and interested, here is the link for the tour. And a short video to show you what he does. His name is Richard. It was excellent.

scary tourism

2011-08-31T12:47:00.005+01:00

A group of us are going on the Jack The Ripper tour tonight. Been wanting to do this since I got here, and have finally organised it.

We all meet at Aldgate East station after work and get taken around the spots where the dude murdered people.

Dude. Scary tourism is all the rage. Didn't you know?

I have been fascinated with the Ripper case, like, forever.

The concept that some of the buildings, still remaining from Victorian times, that survived two world wars, know who the Ripper was, always fucks me out.

I mean, bricks don't have eyes or nothing, but the buildings on the East End had to have witnessed who the person was. That disemboweled seven prostitutes. In a manner most foul.

There are a few tours around London's East End, by 'Ripperologists,' who have studied the whole thing for decades on end. The latest theory - only published this month - is that the Ripper was the chief inspector on the case..

Some say it was a member of the Royal family, people will speculate until the end of time.

We are being taken around as the sun sets, and I have a hip flask of whisky on me to swig. Like real detectives do. I think. (Did Magnum PI swig on whisky from a hip flask? On the job? Bad Magnum, bad boy!)

First stop is a pub (The Ten Bells) where he allegedly picked up some of these women, then a wall that still exists where he left one body, as well as a square where he left another.

The East End was so badly blitzed during the war that many of the original buildings turned to dust, and now really fuck ugly ones stand in their place.

But still, it blows my mind that London's history is so deep and rich - and violent - involving knives and bowels and bombs and squalor - and these places still stand. The pub, for example, still stands. Not as a museum either. I can go in there and order a pint.**

We can freak ourselves out because we are literally in the same place he was.
[Cue Jaws music.]

Good thing I'm wearing my black pleather trousers and have celery sticks in my back pocket just in case.*

* I ate a packet of Battenburgs this weekend. I discovered Battenburgs in Britain. Square-coloured cake wrapped in a layer of marzipan. Fuck me in a fjord, they are mindblowing....and now I have to starve for the rest of the week in penance. Again.

**More like a vodka, soda and fresh lime. The least calorific drink there is. Ever. Take note ladies.

meh

2011-08-30T11:16:00.003+01:00

That was a bit of a blah bank holiday yesterday.

The weather is changing, and it just wasn't the nicest of long weekends. I should've gone somewhere. Perhaps I just have itchy feet and should've visited a new place.

Hate a wasted bank holiday. At the very least, a happy bank holiday.

And! I was meant to see The Dove this week. And because she's in New York, and the country literally called a State of Emergency on this Hurricane Irene business that turned out to be more of a Meh Storm than a freaking hurricane, her flights have been backlogged.

Which means I won't be hanging out with her this week at all. She has to fly straight back to South Africa now, due to delays.
I was imaging bottles of red wine and Dove-Peas talk. Talk I can't have with anyone else.

What a load of old balls.

oh hello

2011-08-26T13:26:00.004+01:00

That's right.

~~Richard Hammond's social media person~~ Richard 'Amazeballs' Hammond added me on Google+.

I added him first and ten minutes later, there it was.

Sha-wing.

Then my Welsh colleague added him and the same thing happened.

Balls.

At the very least, maybe he'll read my letter(s) now.

(Not that I care as the Brit is 8000 times more good looking and, yes, taller than Hammond. But you know what I mean.)

first journey home

2011-08-25T14:32:00.006+01:00

Booked our flights back to South Africa for February and Poen's wedding.*

Three whole weeks.

Am so scared and so excited.

Fuck me.

Excited to see everyone, spend time with my family, view Jozi and Cape Town with tourist eyes, show my Brit more of my country.

Scared because I'll have to leave them all again. Scared in case seeing South Africa with tourist eyes makes my vision biased and make me not want to go back to England. (Especially as it will be mid-winter here.)

Scared of the nostalgia. And what I left behind.

Scared because I wouldn't have been back for over a year and a half. On purpose.

Scared as he'll meet my Dad for the first time.

But so excited to be a part of Poen's wedding, embrace home like I never have before, enjoy the sun, enjoy the cheapness of the Ront, see my whole family, drink Diemersfontein with my friends, take the Brit along the Garden Route and to Natal to see where I come from.

(He may be pleasantly surprised at how English the Natal Midlands is, for example. Will make sure we eat lots of scones.)

I am completely torn about going home, mostly because after being away for so long you forget the bad stuff. Your brain behaves like it does after a bad break up when you immigrate.

As time passes, you forget the shit times. You only remember the good stuff. Like the sun, the large gardens, driving everywhere, how chilled out it is, braais, friendly South Africans, biltong - oh my fuck biltong.

I left home at the end of the FIFA World Cup - when the country was celebrating, festive and blowing each other's vuvuzelas.

I have to remind myself of the bad stuff when I get home sick. Like the traffic. Like drunken driving. Like always looking over your shoulder in case you're hi-jacked. How dry it gets on the Highveld in winter, how bored I was. How everyone has a house, 1.4 kids, a picket fence and life insurance.

Joburg left me behind, I didn't leave it behind. I don't have children, am not close to being married, and while my friends give birth, I travel around random places like Slovakia in my spare time. So I cannot complain.

Regardless, it's my home. And I will always attribute a huge chunk of my existence, experiences and life to it.

And even though I have a new home, and live in one of the most exciting cities in the world, it'll be good to see how much I miss England after my three weeks there. Probably more than I expect.

I am very excited. I wonder if it's different or same same?

*Jesus. I'm not going for at least another five months still.

bus seat contamination

2011-08-24T17:28:00.006+01:00

Was having a casual conversation with my two mad friends about whether it is, in fact, possible to catch a disease from a manky seat.

You know, a seat on the train. Or the bus. Or the tube. Which comes into contact with thousands of asses every day.

And those asses may be riddled with, say, crabs. Or syphilis.

They argue that there's no way I could catch syphilis from a bus seat.

I beg to differ. Maybe someone sat there without their pants on? (It's totally feasible on the night bus. Come on. The night bus is riddled with vomit by 1:00am.) What if someone with syphilis sat on the seat without knickers on, and then someone else sat there without knickers on?

Boom. Hello syphilis.

Think about the 345 from Peckham for a sec.

They say it's not possible. I say if it's possible to get syphilis from a toilet seat, it's possible to get syphilis from any other kind of seat. Wrapped in cloth.

(And frankly, any article about syphilis starting with "Ok, here's the deal has gotta be good.)

We are pontifying this and I came up with an equation to prove to them that one could catch a nasty disease by making contact with a bus seat. I thought maths would make them shut up.

public person carrying disease + bus seat = disease on seat;
public person carrying disease + toilet seat =disease on seat

(x) + (bus)y = z
(x) + (toilet)y = z

Only variables are bus and toilet.
Which both equal z.

Which means you can catch something from a bus seat. Yes?

I was kind if jesting though.

Until a scientist came along (thanks P-BP! You're a frigging genius. With a lot of time), actually sat down, and literally created an equation to prove that one could get syphilis by sitting on the bus. Naked.

Dude.

He uploaded it onto my wall. And we are well impressed. (more so, me, as he goes to conclude that my theory is actually correct.)

Which kinda means we shouldn't be sitting on bus seats naked. In case you do do that. No judging here or nothing.
The master copy:

Wow.

dear margaret

2011-08-23T12:18:00.004+01:00

I wasn't joking about kick starting my political career.

I have henceforth written to Margaret Thatcher, CC'ing She Who Hates Socialists, because she's threatened to CC me in an email to Phil Collins where she tells him about my pile.*

Dear Baroness Thatcher,

Thought I’d drop you a line, as you are impossible to get hold of.

I work in Belgravia; you live in Belgravia - coincidence? - so just short of knocking on your door, I have befriended a girl up in the legal department whose Dad is an active member of the Tory party. (Nouveau Tory, mind you* shudder* ). After all that she said she wouldn’t be able to introduce me to you first hand. She made some excuse about you getting a lot of bed rest and not wishing to be disturbed these days.

I saw evidence otherwise - you sitting on top of an armoured vehicle in a pair of safety goggles. (Please ref attachment), so you can’t really be in bed if you are at war with the socialists can you?

So let’s get down to business. I have a few very light requests, if you wouldn’t mind answering these. Fabulous handbag collection by the way. Mulberry?

So let’s kick off with the whole ‘Thatcher the milk snatcher’ thing, which has sadly armed the socialists with a - frankly - annoying rebuttal to any pro-Thatcher talk.

Who did your PR? If only I was alive at the time, I would’ve stepped in. Because had you said milk should only be fed to humans 6 months and under, and you’re doing this for HEALTH reasons and not budget reasons, it probably wouldn't have caused such a media circus.

The whole thing should’ve been positioned differently. Grown humans (ie those 6 months and older) shouldn’t be drinking milk anyway. It’s completely unnatural. We are the only species in the Kingdom animalia that drinks milk as grown ups. But the vegans loved you nevertheless. Which is very nice.

2) My friend SWHS also loves you by the way. She’s cc’ed. Hi SWHS!

3) Is it true that your late husband, Denis, is quoted as saying only this in the history of his life:

I don't know what reception I'm at, but for God's sake give me a gin and tonic.

He’s fantastic! I'd drop him a line himself, and almost did, when I momentarily forget that he is dead.

4) You grew up in Grantham. Is it nice in the summer?

5) Dude. The socialists attempted to assassinate you in Brighton. Frightful. Apparently he stuck a bomb under his bath tub, and - thank fuck - it only demolished your bathroom. You and Denis survived. As you would, because you are the Iron Fist! Yes you are!

6) Dude. You refused to visit South Africa until Nelson Mandela was set free. You even visited most of southern Africa during the time, but not us. You were also the only PM that didn’t sanction our asses, to keep that trade vein well and alive.

I think you were a big part of South Africa managing to recover economically from apartheid. And at the same time you never ever condoned it. Respect.

7) Do you like the soothing sounds of Phil Collins?

8) When I Google you, images of you shaking hands with Mikhael Gorbachev come up. Just thought I’d bring this to your attention.

9) Have you ever read The Guardian by mistake?

10) My constituency is Tory. (Wandsworth). I’m scared it might be Nouveau Tory. *shudder*. Nouveau Tory is just like the nouveau riche. Very, you know, David Cameron. How does one keep your idealism alive?

Holla me back. And word to your mother. I love you.

Peas O'Toast-Fairfax

Do you think she'll reply?

My other friend is writing to Rob Lowe. She can't find her email address. This little bit of comprehensive information told her why.

* Yes, I still sort of have one.