Third day in a row of people being kind enough to inform me of the very seasonal heat. Thank you everyone. Were it not for your keen detection skills, I'd really have been left "out in the cold", as it were. No really. Office aircon taking care of atmospheric heat. Cold beer taking care of core heat. Unfortunately nothing can take care of my smouldering charm...
In news so earth-shattering I expect Tom Cruise to play the lead role when the movie is made, I planted over some seedlings last night. And "mowed" the lawn. Between the cricket innings. During which I assumed the official cricket watching (re)pose of lying out full stretch on the couch and lightly seasoning the immediate surroundings with a pinch of snore. It's like watching the highlights package. You're torn from your peaceful snooze every time one of the retards doing the commentary gets excited. This usually signifies a boundary or a wicket. Then the rain came and for once our very mathematically proficient Proteas had done their calculations correctly and we won! Cue wild standing around in the dressing room looking anxious.
I won't bore you to death with a fantastical recount of my first meal featuring something from my garden. Properly.
And on that note, I'd like to share with you a lovely little poem I wrote for myself and the vast unwashed masses populating FaeceBoobs today:
I'd rather be at Frankie's place, a-braain' and a-swimmin
Or stretched out on a beach somewhere, eyein' out the women
But fuck my life as here I sit, in front of a computer
When all I really want from life is another beer and shooter.
And they say modern language use has killed prose!
Speaking of, has anyone ever wondered what happened to our "ladies of ill repute" that used to stand on every single corner of Somerset Road in Greenpoint? They were obviously given their very own version of the District Six Treatment for the FIFA World Cup, but where are they now? Did they all suddenly discover virtue or find employment of a higher moral nature? Doubt it. The hoere down by the truck yards are still out in full effect. How do I know, you ask...
Anyway, on that rather sordid note, I shall leave you to your evening.
NGDG: "I always regret saying to the waiter give us a few minutes only to realise suddenly that I'm famished as the restaurant rapidly fills up, and know I didn't pay enough attention to which one he is so as to make eye contact and remind him that it's enough minutes now thank you."
Spread The Love. On Crushed Ice.