Wednesday, February 13, 2013


Once again, dear gentle reader, we are but lapping at the moist ooze that is the fountain of inspiration. Gone is the gushing geyser from the loins of the muse. (Actually, now that I mention it, I could have used an entirely different picture...)

Excuse the ramblings above. It's my way of admitting that I have neglected you, my treasured few followers... my preciouses...
Friday wasn't my fault. Skipping out of the house brimful of vim and vigour, I very quickly had both my vim and all of my vigour viciously ripped out of me by a very uncooperative car battery that had finally given up the ghost and decided to retire overnight. Permanently. This facilitated a "day off". Which means I wasn't in the office. It also meant a healthy constitutional to the battery shop and back with a wallet soon to be unburdened of its bulging contents. And then the delivery bike got stuck in the gutter in front of my house. Never a dull moment, eh.

Saturday was a sad day indeed. I was forced to return a few items of retail therapy, and not because I had just discovered I couldn't afford them. The first was a jeanpant that had the near catastrophic effect on me of  turning me into a whimpering woman convinced I'd just picked up a dress size without noticing. I have NEVER struggled to glide into a pair of trousers (much less out of...) but this was something else! Picture a white carpenter's ruler trying its utmost to bend gracefully its unyielding frame into a too-tight sheath, with all the natural curvy grace of a character in the "before" part of a Kelloggs Special K commercial. Yes. That was me. The store had misprinted the size, much to my relief, I found after a lot of investigation.
The second return was a bit of a disappointment. I took my new TV back. It transpires that sales folk do not know anything about the product they're selling. The damn thing didn't do what it was supposed to - a function the salesman swore high and low that it did. I eventually had to resort to reading the manual to figure out that it didn't. And of course the store didn't have the model that does do what I want it to do, so now I get to go through the entire exciting schpiel all over again.

Saturday also revealed that braaing with a horde of UCT hippies is not what it's cracked up to be. For one, they don't braai. Or own clothes that haven't first been through the Salvation Army. Or own hairbrushes. Or, in most cases, socks. Hippies, hipsters, I can't really tell the difference. I think it has to do with the one studies art and the other one studies something else.
Sunday was spent horizontal, in preparation for an evening out eating pizza with the in-laws, which was pretty fucking cool. The Hot Girlfriend forbade me from wearing a button shirt. How cool is that!

And she did it again last night, when it was once again time for dinner out with the in-laws, only this time the whole family, sisters and "aanhangsels" included. It was the one sister's birthday. She chose a restaurant that specialised in Ethiopian cuisine, a misnomer if ever I've heard one. Only after circumnavigating an entirely closed off City Centre, and with an ever-growing pang of misgiving, we approached the restaurant and the sign "Mesopotamia" hove into view. You'd understand the lurch in my stomach if you'd ever read about my previous experience there... Luckily we veered off into a place called Addis In Cape and I had visions of everything being served in Tupperware. If only I'd been that lucky...

The waitress had the resigned air of one who has had to explain to inexperienced idiots one too many times the intricacies and etiquettes of Ethiopian food and how it is served or enjoyed. Thank goodness there were chairs (of a sort) haphazardly arranged around 2 large Lesotho Mountain Ranger Rondavel hats that turned out to be serving tables. The food - it turned out - was little heaps of whatever you ordered unceremoniously upturned on a communal sheet of something that resembled a large pancake and was made from rice flour. The addition bandage-like roll-ups of rice flour stuff served as utensils. You broke a piece off and precariously dabbed a dollop of your "main course" mouth wards. This was followed by coffee served with the obligatory frankincense burning away. I fail to understand how this could have been considered a gift for the Baby Jesus as it was the most horrifying olfactory experience ever.

Which brings us conveniently to something resembling a connection to the pic above. I won a CD hamper! Courtesy of the redoubtable Nerine Dorman, author and blogger, and my correct answer. And the fine gents of Tunes Of Dawn. They're (so far) a kind of thrashy Type O Negative and immensely enjoyable if you're a fan of that sort of thing. They also happen to have a song called 'I'm So Goth I Shit Bats'... Thank you Nerine, Carrie Clevenger and Tunes Of Dawn for the wonderful goodies! I might even write a more thorough review when I've had the chance to listen to all of it a bit more.

And tomorrow is that most hallowed of hollow Hallmark Holidays, Valentine's Day, after the patron saint of fuck-knows-what. All that has reliably been proven of his life is that he died a martyr. Which is probably a close enough indication that he had something, somewhere, somehow to do with the opposite sex...

NGDG: Vatican exit interview: "Do you believe the Universe is 6,000 years old?" asks HR. Pope: "Undoubtedly." "Well then, by my calculation, your one-month notice, starting now, will be 7.3million days." Because no one diddles the Papacy Pension Fund.

Spread The Love. Gimme Utensils...

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