Enough Already.

This rain is putting a dampener on my spirits. This winter seems to have dragged on rather interminably, but for the most part is actually quite cheerful, with chilly days best spent under the covers with a DVD and hot chocolate*. It's nice to take hot showers and baths, although some idiot insisted on turning down my geyser because it was "too hot", so now the water is never hot enough. However, the current level of wetness puring from the sky, combined with thunder**, is quite misery-inducing. Being carless, I end up doing a lot of commuting during pissing-downs, and having wet feet for a considerable part of my day. I don't think that this is particularly healthy or hygenic***, and it's also uncomfortable.

Frankly, I'm bored. Nobody wants to go out and do anything, everyone is cocooning, and it's too wet, wild 'n windy to have much fun. I'm getting cabin fever, and my laundry won't dry. And I'm tired of wearing layers, and choosing interesting outfits that nobody sees under the piles of sweaters, scarves and jackets.

It would be nice if I could wash my hair and get it dry in under two hours, and if the humidity and rain didn't immediately bring on the supreme frizziness and weird hair angles of winter. I get super-annoyed when I spend 2 hours getting my hair ultra-straight and sleek and then 5 minutes outside gives me asylum-head****. I'd like to wear a dress, and sandals, or even-gasp- shorts.

But mostly I'd just like to have warm dry feet.

*Nestle, not Cadbury's, which is always watery no matter how much powder you add.
** eek! the little caveman in my head say "gods in sky go boom! verr' angry.ugh!"
*** I have an idea my feet are rotting. Okay, I know they're not but the idea persists throughout the day.
**** Like bedhead, but crazy. Trust me, I worked at Valkenberg, I know asylum-head.

I know the Feeling...

It hasn't happened to me, and I hope it doesn't. I think I've been lucky in that my little blog isn't wildly famous*, or particularly offensive (well, as far as I can tell). But I've noticed that as soon as a blog starts getting a little more well-known, the haters start popping up.

Some of them are the more rational kind, who object to a specific post, find a statement offensive, or perhaps just dislike the writing style. Whatever the case may be, they present their arguments in somewhat more measured terms, probably because they want to strike a balance between getting their (annoyed) point/ opinion across, and seeming like some sort of harping fishwife loony.

Which brings us to the harping-fishwife-loony quotient of the blog-commenting population. With their misspelled, spewed invective and ranting diatribes, there's more than a whiff of the Springer** about them. See, they'll take personal offense at everything the blogger says, and spam the comments section with vitriol, of the "your so fat + ugly + stupid, why r u people even reading this sh^&, U R A LOZER PIG FRIED SPINACH EVIL, I h8 this blog u r a waste of air in the internet, ppl if we stop rdng nw s/he will hav 2 quit!"***variety.

They will then copy-past this comment a few dozen times. Every day. Ad infinitum. Over the protests of the people who are actually enjoying reading that blog. It's some sort of modern conundrum that people will force themselves to read blogs they hate, seemingly for the pleasure of getting their hate on. Because as far as I know, it's all still voluntary... right?

*yet...my plans for world domination have been laid and include ice-cream..but more of that later, minions.
** as in Jerry, not as in the dogs. Dogs are cool. Although I expected Springers to be more... bouncy, frankly.
*** sic.

Boringest Days So Far.

Yesterday, I had my informal six-month employee review. Basically I'm doing a good job ("what you do is wonderful, and spot-on...") but I'm disorganised("when you do them"). Hmmm. Also the Untidiness of My Desk came up, as it has been bothering "people". Oh, I cannot guess who that could be. Oh who would have mentioned this*. A Mystery. In any case, I did protest this point, as I have been pretty good about the tidying of the papers and moving the random bits of obsolete equipment to where they can't be seen... as much. So that's a win. Oh, and also I apparently spend too much time on the Interweb. Pah. "Define too much time", I would have said, had I been the innately cooler, more rebellious person I am in my head. But I didn't. But I thought it.

So, the last few days have been a blur of trying to look more organised, which it is hard not to be, as it is so quiet. I've been able to get through a multitude of tasks I haven't had time for but are, I guess, important. I've been bloody cataloguing all the DVDs, VHS cassettes, and cd's in my office**. With descriptions. Seemingly an easy task, except most of the cassettes are hand-labelled, with maybe one post-it bearing a scribbled nametag. So, lots of IMDB research and finding obscure dutch film sites***.

So, that's done. Although I'm sure they'll find some way to make it need more work out into it. I can feel it in my bindles. In the meantime You'll find me doing a stocktake, and then maybe when I'm done I can find something to collate.

Do you think it's wrong to order a beer while I'm working?

*this, children, is what we call Sarcasm. Or perhaps Dramatic Irony. Fine line, fine line.
** and there are lots. Many of them, oddly, in Czech.
**Not porn, you dirty-minded reprobates!!!

FAQ

What's up with you and the bunnies?
pygmy bunnies are super-cute, especially with the big eyes and the flopsy-forward ears. Also, I'm desirous of a pet, but I read Bridget Jones' Diary a while ago* and the thought of dying old and alone and being devoured by my cats/ dogs/ pet rocks became sort of a theme in my more obsessive moments** rabbits are a) vegetarians and b) mostly live in cages, so they don't get to live off my body. A horse would probably also be okay, but they're a bit big, aren't they? A teeny tiny horse, therefore, would be perfect.

What's the weirdest birthday present you ever received?
Mr Flinn sent me a full-frontal naked picture of a young Tony Danza. I'm now pretty convinced that He's the Boss. Tony Danza, I mean.

What's your natural hair colour, anyway?
Sort of a dark-blonde-to-light-golden-brown. It's unexciting, except that in sumer it used to go pretty light. But since I was 16 I've had red hair, auburn, champagne blonde, black, brunette, platinum blonde, and even a brief, accidental period of purple, which taught me the lesson: don't dye your hair in Israel. All of which has been way more fun than my "natural" hair colour, aside from the occasional need to remove all my hair.

Axl Rose: what's up with that?
I dunno. He used to be the epitome of bad-boy cool. Mind you, that as when I was about 11 or 12, but still, everyone that year had the bandanna or the sticker or the little Gn'R pendant/earring whatever. Then he got all weirdy, tubby, and...ginger. How do you suddenly become an eyebrowless Ginge? was he not blonde, most of the Cool years? How does it take ten years to record an album? Actually it's more like 15 at this point. Whether or not the album is good or not is somewhat moot: would people spend money on what is essentially a joke band at this point?

Mind you: people buy Michael learns to Rock***, Avril Lavigne, and Nickelback. Next question.

What's the longest English word in the world?
According to Wikipedia it's (deep breath, now) pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, a 45-letter word which refers to a lung disease contracted from the inhalation of very fine silicious particles, which just goes to show research scientists have as much of a sense of humour as the rest of us. When I was in junior school, however, I was taught that it was Floccinaucinihilipilification, the act of estimating something as worthless, which ironically enough, was what I was doing earlier with Nickelback. Think about it, very time you find yourself contemplating Urine...I mean Irene Bester, you're engaged in Floccinaucinihilipilification. Don't you feel more well-rounded and interesting already?

Why do you swear so much? And why is your blog so relatively sweariness-free?
I can't swear so much on my blog because I'd get blocked, or some shit. The kids read this stuff, you know what I'm saying? But swearing is fun, satisfying, and also it juxtaposes nicely with my cute, sometimes ladylike exterior. Belching loudly and being cynical are also hugely entertaining, especially if I can do all three at the same time.

Better yet: making up my own obscure cusswords. People are never sure how to react when you call them a bok-dancing monkeysmuggler. Or a pituitary-glandular Robespierre. They look at you funny, and that's the cue to feel smug and superior.

What are we having for dinner tonight?
I dunno, what are you cooking?

Don't be like that. I made Sashimi last time.
Yeah, sashimi is hard to make.

Biyatch.
dumbass. What kind of questions are these anyway?

* I'll never admit that again.
** All the time.
***he actually learned to suck.

I'ma Slap A Beyatch.

My boss (well, one of them), tends to get supercritical when she's tense. This means that if I've missed a detail or left out even the most infinitesimal of things (one of the participants didn't have pen!! How did you manage to MISS that!!!??), I get bitched at in the most condescending manner possible. All my faults-real or imagined- are brought up. Past infractions have included:

• not serving tea in the correct silver service manner
• not regulating the airconditioning temperature carefully enough
• the photocopier producing copies that are too light
• not taking enough photos, taking too many photos, taking photos in the wrong area of the exhibition, being too obtrusive while taking photographs, using flash.

The problem is I keep learning from experience, and not making the same mistake twice. Ferinstance, after the great "there were no evaluation forms" debacle of last week*, I made sure to copy double the amount of forms, put them right in front of her, clear a space around so that they are easy to see, and then tell her them about them, twice.

Which means that she has not so much to critique. Win-win, you'd say, right? Nah so much. This morning, she came in, handed me a letter it took her 4 weeks to type, sighed, and started complaining about how untidy my office was, and how it offended her. She was adamant: Surely I had enough time to maintain a decent level of tidiness?

Short answer, uh, no. Also: it's my office, not hers. Her office is large and has cupboards and a window and is nice. Mine is a cupboard, where everything is stored. There is even a kitchen sink, rusting noisily in the corner. our offices are far, far away from each other. 7 Cubits at least. She spends an average of 8 minutes in my office a week. How do my piles of paper become her issue?

I'm totally going to make her look fat in all the photos I take from now on.

* there were, and they were right in front of her, but whatev
**MCBeeeeyaaaaaatch!

A Horribly Traumatic Experience

Last night it rained, and this morning, it was damp. It was quite nice actually, there I was in my cute beret and chunky scarf, feeling very cosmopolitan and vaguely French*. The birds were all: "Hey tweet y'all" and the autumn leaves were falling, albeit damply. And I wasn't running late for work, which was a nice change. I was listening to the new NIN. I was finding it quite cheerful.**My morning walk through the Company gardens looked to be a pleasant one. Crazy-dog lady*** passed me by.

And then I looked down.

There it was, glistening pinkly, oozing itself across the pathway. An earthworm. They do this, you know, after the rains... Some bizarre instinct tells them to flee the muddy soil and head for the safety of...tarmac and concrete. Right. Not known for their intellectual capacity, they.

So, having narrowly missed mashing one long pink wormy with my right shoe, I became somewhat paralysed. Because there's never only one. I became obsessed with the idea that the path would be strewn with dozens upon dozens of earthworms, a veritable minefield of squoosh and subsequent guilt. it didn't help that entire sections of pathway were obscured by sticks and leaves, which can look very much like earthworms if you're having a bit of a Nutjob Moment.

So, it took me almost twice as long to traverse the distance to work. I almost had a panic attack. I felt very close to ralphing publicly.

I stood on an earthworm barefoot once. It wasn't very nice.

*in a Paris Fashion Week ; rather than an arrogant un-deodorised; sense.
**I find Year Zero quite poppy, for NIN.
***the dog is crazy, not the lady. His legs are too short for his body, his eyes are all googly and his fur is tufty. It's adorable.

If anyone asks, I was with you.

I hate my upstairs neighbours. I've given them so many chances to repent, and make up for their arseholery, but no, they have to keep pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and now I have to stab them in the heads. So, I might need an alibi. I'm just letting you know, in advance.

It started off small, the odd Saturday morning at 9am with some rap music insinuating its way into my morning, and the smell of weed drifting in alongside it. But it wasn't too bad, or too offensive, and it was at least some Jay-z and Snoop Dogg. But then, as most major crime sprees* do, it escalated. Soon, there was an onslaught of cheesy R&B, boyband ballads, and commercial chart hits. At club volume. With way too much bass.

Lying in my bed began to resemble living in a left ventricle, all doef doef doef and no peace. I'd also like to add that aside from their musical assault, apparently the little frickers have a bad case of the dropsy: all day and night they drop things on the floor... small and large, pins, pans and possibly anal beads. They move furnishings, bang metal objects against their cage bars**, yell, scream, and have deep and meaningful conversations about how cool they are and their smoking styles. They have not yet discovered the concept of "indoor voice", it appears.

Teenagers. I know this because I've gone to complain a few times, and the PFY*** that answers the door every time, shielding my view with his body like I can't figure out there's a party goin' on around here if i can't see it looks about seventeen.

I could totally take him down if it weren't for those cage bars. But I guess I'll just have to hope and prey that they catch some sort of STD that withers their genitals. And a tapeworm.

* and serial killers too. Just thought I'd add that. It's relevant.
** burglar bars, whatever.
*** just google it, okay?

15-year-olds, dude.

Stomach empty, brain wired and woozy, ready for the day's programme to be over, I directed the scholars (or do we call them learners now, I'm never sure) towards the hall.

"Through the door, go stand in your groups. Through the door, stand in your groups. Stand in your groups, once you're through the door. Door, through, groups, stand". I can handle this. Then one of the little hormone factories, who's been giving me the crazy-eye all morning, makes his move. I can see what's coming: not the exact wording, but the general gist.

"Miss", he starts, sweeping his eyes up and down me as if he's being subtle about it "miss...I like your pants".

You must surely kid me. This is testing my sanity.

"Okay, well, thanks for that. Now, through the door, and stand with your group." you smug little bastard. I need some lunch.

Anyway, so the group activity goes as the group activities go. The boys and girls self-segregate, as if they could catch gender like a communicable disease. Ah, the universal truths of hormonal discourse. Then crazy-eye and a couple of his posse get kicked out for being little pricks. They scurry towards the door, thinking, perhaps, that they were free to bask in the sunshine. Not on my watch. If I'm not having fun, neither are you.

Closing the door behind me, I find them in the corridor. "Boys." They wheel around, surprised by my arrival, but pleased nonetheless. Until I break the news to them: there are no free rides* in this vale of tears!**"Boys... [herewith following a brief speech in which they were crapped upon from a godllike height, ending with] AND I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH DISRESPECT"***.

They looked a little sad as they traipsed into the museum. Good. GOOD! HOW D'YOU LIKE THEM PANTS, HUH?

*or lapdances, depending on who you're talking to.
**in this case, the corridor
***this was said in the tone of voice that implies emasculation and possibly worse. Ladies, I think you will know what I mean.

Eek! Eek! Eek!

It's getting worse. I can feel them, watching me from the shadows as I pass, from the foliage of the trees, from the undergrowth. I can hear them, as surreptitious as they may try to be, their furtive rustlings and the hissing of their breath. They taunt me, chattering and giggling, an endless stream of crazytalk. Jumping out from behind trees, following me as I make my way home; roving gangs of them leaping around, stoned on whatever it is that makes them this way. I can see it in their dark, beady, soulless little eyes, the hunted, haunted glare that screams out: BUGGRIT! Fnoo feet kill feet Jasper Icecreams fnoo!*Dirty, diseased a scourge on the city, they prey on our sympathies and our pity. But underneath it all, they hate us, and await their moment to exact their revenge.

man, those squirrels freak me out.

*I know, it makes no sense to me either, but there you have it.

unnecessary coverage

You know, there are some cool cover songs out there in the world. Mostly, they're the ones that explore the song from a new slant... ferinstance, Cat Power's take on Wonderwall, Hounds of Love by The Futureheads, Easy done by Faith No More and so on.

And there are some truly woeful covers that have become classics by dint of their tackiness, their surrealism, or their blatant bad taste. The best "bad" cover version I have ever heard is William Shatner mercilessly interpreting Mr Tambourine Man by channeling some nutjob stalker. The man is quite obviously insane, in the best possible way. It's actually better than the original, because it's funnier, and somehow more endearing*.

However there are a lot of mediocre covers of mediocre or bad songs. Or good songs that were fine as they are. And they border on offensive. Ronan Keating covering the Goo Goo Dolls' Iris was playing this morning as I got to work. How malign a piece of work is that? Like a photocopy of a photocopy, he managed to suck what little soul and emotion lurked in that song in the first place. As bland as white rice. Unsalted!

A special (read: dark and oozy) place in my heart is reserved for the likes of I love Rock 'n Roll as molested by Britney (you love rock 'n roll? then why are you hurting it so much?), American Pie trashed by Madonna (no no no no). Atomic Kitten doing The Tide is High made me want to drown myself, Mandy by Westlife made me want to drown Westlife, and Uptown Girl by... yes, Westlife, just about made me ready to commit my life to destroying Billy Joel, since he was ultimately responsible.

Let's not talk about Light My Fire as ruined by Will Young. Because Will is adorable** and I want him to be my GBF, and we couldn't ever do that after my harsh, harsh words relating to that atrocity.

* I've just discovered Boston Legal. It is Fantastic.
**although I've seen disturbing evidence recently of premature baldness. That makes me sad. say it ain't so!!!

If it's worth saying...

it's worth saying right.

Since I've been back, I've become a lot more aware of (and a lot more annoyed by) the South African inability to pronounce things correctly. This inability is coupled with a downright stubbornness, or perhaps it is a dogged, nay mulish contrariness that amounts to a refusal to say it properly: " I am a South African, and that's how I say it." Oh, well that makes it okay then.

No, it doesn't, so there.

If it's a bona fide Seffie* word, then by all means, then there is a Seffie pronunciation to go with it. Borewors, moer, rooibos, jol, kif, boep and poes are all lovely words that we often teach to foreigners, so that we can laugh at their pronunciation.

However, words that are not South African, or southafricanised, should be pronounced correctly, because that is just what you do. That is why dictionaries have pronunciation guides, and don't just say: "oh fuckit pronounce it however you want, we don't care!" Most places in the world, if you don't even bother to try to say it right, you come off as some sort of redneck.

And so children, please repeat after me:
purr-sjoh, not pyew-joh.**
sjee-von-shee, not give-enn-chi.
renn-o not renn-orlt

And for god's sake: One Rand, many Rand. Rhymes with canned (in English) and runt (in Afrikaans). Not Plant.

Okay?

PS To the person with the "BIAACTH001" vanity plate: spellcheck, you 'tard.

* this is a Saradiaism, if I'm not mistaken.
** Oh how this one annoys me.

Atrocious Displays of Vulgarity

5 things that are neither funny nor clever:

1. cellphone screensavers: oh, you're the number one bitch? you like a hot stud on your phone? or maybe a stripper? because, god knows a two-centimetre stripper makes even the strongest knees weak.... see also -->
2. "funny" ringtones: ah, your phone farts. or moos. or makes orgasmic groaning noises. how original. I wish to fellate you immediately.
3. "baby on board" stickers. because I was going to prang your car, but now I can't, damnit!
4. dolphin tattoos and belly rings: you are a wild and untamed hellcat. you're a tigress between the sheets. You prowl the streets, a crazy rock chick, blasting your Offspring into the night. Another Klippies and coke, please!
5. T-shirts with "witty" statements, or designer names: Gucci doesn't make t-shirts. and If they did they'd cost 500 dollars and be artfully ripped. You are not a princess. I'm not scared of this bitch biting. One tequila two tequila three tequila bore. My little Princess is your little whore. I get it, you're a hardcore bitch/ pimp and you like to drink a lot.
   

I admit it. I'm a) elitist and b) a snob. I don't see a problem with this.

" I will rip his head off and crap down his neck"

I am horribly premenstrual at the moment. I know this because everything makes me a) horrbly depressed, b) intensely, insanely enraged and c) weepy. Usually simultaneously. so it doesn't take much to send me off the deep end. say, being cut off at the post office. or some shithead humorless little teenager joining a group that i moderate and calling me stupid and pointless because god forbid I should joke about him being underage. man. teenagers take themselves so goddamn seriously. it's moments like that that make me wonder if I was like that. I see them in bars and clubs and stores and outside colleges and they are all hairstyles and pose. I'm totally generalising. But, frickit, hormones!!!!!! I can generalise, or i can smash things, and that won't go down too well. And, you know, I'm sure he's a perfectly nice little boy once you get to know him, and I'm sure we just got off on the wrong foot. but, dammit, HORMONES!!!!! totally wrong time of month!!!!!!

and who calls a moderator stupid anyway? I could totally block his ass! or replace it with a note reading "post removed due to high levels of being a TOOL!"I could also say something about people WhO tYPe iN mIxed CaPS but that would be too easy. Also I already said it a while ago.

Sigh. the worst part is is that as annoyed and infuriated and psychotically homicidal as I now feel, I also feel guilty for a) hurting his feelings and b) venting my spleen online. I feel like I should take the moral high road. Because, you know, I'm an Adult. Yeah. Its one of the things you must accept in exchange for being able to drink whatever you want, getting to eat candy for breakfast, and not having to have sex in cars.

Hmm. I fell a little better. Still kinda want to make with stabby-stabby inna throatsicle.

edit: I just realised that when I have PMS, I totally turn Klingon. That is kind of awesome.

Whine and Roses.

I'm not a Valentine's day fan. I actually loathe it, to be honest. I don't have a problem with love, or romance, per se, it's just that in my opinion, valentine's day isn't really about that any more. It's become the Xmas of romance: commercialised and sentimentalised and gooey and nauseating. Personally, I prefer not to have romance forced down my throat until the gag reflex kicks in. It's as if someone decided that the essence of romantic love, lust and desire could be distilled into roses, cadbury's milk tray, and stuffed toys holding a cutesy message on a heart. And the obsessive, let's-have-everything-in-red thing. red boxer shorts. red lingerie (whorey, but that's for another blog post). red envelopes. red wrapping paper. red kitchen utensils. red socks. red newspapers. you know, romantic stuff like... oh, wait, you mean that's just a marketing ploy? who'da guessed. not me, oh no.

I wouldn't even mind the blatant mercenary zeal with which hallmark and co. attempt to part us from our hard-earned cash; it's the sense of desperation that pervades the entire day: couples that attempt to squeeze in a year's worth of romance into one day, singles who feel that if they don't have a date on this one day of the year, they are a romantic failure doomed to die alone and have their corpses nibbled by their 17 cats.

Well, at least this year I don't have to give giri-chocolates* to my boss.

*Ahhh bugger it. I'm not explaining that one, so you're just going to have to Google it.

the female DJs: they annoy me.

so, I don't listen to the radio anymore. Partly because the music they playlist is total and utter commercial crap ("aaaaaaaaargh! it hurts my ears! more Indie! more Indie!"), but mostly because the DJs make me want to scrape out my eardroms with a spoon. Or, maybe their eardrums. I'm no masochist (another reason I avoid the radio). Gareth Cliff is the King of the arseholes, aims for controversial, and misses wildly, often landing squarely in middle-aged-ladyland (which is not the same as electric ladyland, okay?).

However, my dislike of the male DJ's that blight the airwaves pales in comparison to my utter loathing for the girlyDJ's these days. I mean, they're all right as long as you don't expect a) intelligence b) informed opinions c) musical knowledge or d) the ability to coherently string two thoughts together and have them come out of their mouth in an interesting and engaging manner.

okay, Jeannie D was an exception, but Top Billing have her in their clutches now and she'll soon be lost to us. But so many of them seem to be hired, not even on the basis of their looks, or big boobs or something, but because they have nice shoes, or are really enthusiastic.

I admit, Maybe there's some lovely MetroFm DJ out there who is soulful, sultry and has the brain of a ninja robot (that's a good thing , see). But the Female "Radio personalities" I have had the good luck to experience...have made me long for the good old days of inequality.

Your Schadenfreude is my inconvenience.

damn you sea water!

yesterday was a day of reckoning. Well, no, not really. It was more a day of...cleaning. And Laundry. I went to the laundrymat and gave my stuff to the lady with the strange nose (it's squashed, bulbous and asymmetrical, and doesn't really fit in with the rest if her face, yet it gives her a somehow pleasant, garden-gnomish sort of appearance), bought a floor-cleaning-spongy thing, swept and cleaned the floor, and finally threw out the last of the cardboard, boxes, plastic and polystyrene that have been hulking next to the tv since I moved. it's amazing how much more space you have when your flat isn't overwhelmed by crap.

So, at about 2pm I realised that there would be nothing better on tv than cricket (ugh...zzzzzzzzzzzzz) and Mr Deeds (not my favouite Sandler movie), and the women's world cup of golf (help me I think I'm going to wee in my boyshorts from excitement, oh yes). So I decided, hey, I live 5 minutes from the beach and I haven't been in... weeks, and I can sit in the sun and tan. So I packed a little bag (blackberry mineral water and Mini heart biscuits, SPF, my library book and a towel), and marched over to Queen's beach.

all went well, and I was enjoying the sun, surf, and even the screaming fishwife who was calling for her son at full decibelness rather than, you know, moving closer to him ("Derryn! Come heeeeeeeeeeere!!! DEEEEEEEEEEEE-RRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYNNNN!!!). Then the freak wave hit. the freak wave that moved past where the tide had been gently hitting the shore (ten feet away from me), and thoroughly soaked me, my towel, and my library book.

cue me running home to attempt rescue of the novel through judicious sand removal, blow drying and clamping of book to prevent warping.

I'll let you know if it works.

But seriously. these things only ever happen to me..... I mean, I was nowhere near the sea! and the sea came and attacked me without provocation!!! And hurt my library book!

also, the people behind me laughed at my predicament. I hate them now.

Arbitrary and slightly insane.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Nosebleeds. Nothing like staunching blood flow from your face in the workplace on your second day there to create... an impression. Perhaps if I worked at Harga's House of Vampires, or somesuch, this would not be an issue. I'm pretty sure elegant people do not get nosebleeds. or perhaps they do, but it is elegant. I'm not sure how one would accomplish such an effect.

The Christmas spirit is starting to take over the country, which is a bit... tacky, as usual. You know, the Christmas thing in Japan was great, very subdued, and lots of emphasis on cheesy romance. also it was snowy and somehow the whole tree/ tinsel thing worked. But (and I must emphasise this point most strongly) it is very hot here (nosebleed possibly related to this), and the whole christmas thing somehow ends up all..sticky. And Christmas Braais are just not very... convincing.

Also, I'm not going to get any presents, which sucks. I love presents. I would like: chocolate, those red shoes at Zoom with the big ribbon, A big fuck-off external hard drive, and Eddie Izzard.

I love Eddie Izzard.

it's a small town, but it thinks it's a city.

Cape Town. Slaapstad. The Mother City.

there's this song by the beams that may or may not be about my little city, something about there being "only two degrees of separation in this town". It's a truism. everybody I meet already knows people I know. people I have the most arbitrary connections to (such as flickr contacts) are friends of friends. or, more likely, acquaintances. Cape Town is a city of acquaintance relationships, big crowds of people that know all the gossip about everybody else, lots of work buddies and study buddies and see-you-around-at-whatever-trendy-bar folks. But most people (especially those who moved here from Durban, or Joburg, or Potgietersrus) complain bitterly about how cliquey Capetonians are. And how superficial.

to be fair, I think that's kind of a harsh generalization. But Cape Town really does suffer from that small-town feeling. Being back after 2 years "expanding my horizons" (cliche alert, cue vom) just brings it all home just how small... the majority of people here are having the same conversations and going to the same clubs and listening to the same bands and not really testing the waters or experimenting or trying to be different. Even the nonconformists wear uniforms.