Baglett

WORLD CUP EVAC

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 08:58:00 +0000

On a quick trip to Cape Town recently, I walked into the homestead to find my father in his office talking to an estate agent. I know this because I pressed my ear against the door and fell through it when my Dad opened the door to let the woman out.

Dad: Subtle Baglett. Baglett this is the estate agent.
Me: Great to meet you, sorry about that, let me just help you off the floor.

Once she was gone, it was Q and A with the Dad.

Me: Are you selling our family home?! The place I was brought up in, the home where I took my first steps, where there are markings on the door which measured my growing height? The garden where we buried my first pet? The home where...
Dad: Shutup Baglett, we've only been here for five years. And no, I'm not selling it, I'm renting it out for the World Cup!
Me: Awesome! Does mom know?
Dad: Um, no, not yet.
Me: When are you going to tell her?
Dad: You tell her.
Me: Get the dog to tell her.
Dad: Can't. He ran away when he saw the estate agent. Dogs have a sixth sense about these things.
Me: Where are you going to put the animals when you rent the house out?
Dad: I was hoping you would take the useless pussycats back to Jo'burg with you and the dogs are coming on a cruise with us.
Me: Firstly, I'm not taking the useless pussycats to Jo'burg and dogs aren't allowed on cruises. Only old people.
Dad: Sh*t your mother is home.

Listening to my Dad grovel is like sitting in the front row of a comedy show.

Dad: Love! You're home!
Mom: Well yes, I do live here you know.
Me: Not for long.
Dad: So I was thinking, let's go on a cruise. Let's escape from the World Cup mania.
Mom: For how long?
Dad: I was thinking two weeks or let's go crazy, let's travel for a month!
Mom: You've rented the house out haven't you?
Dad: Baglett, go to your room.
Me: I would but I'm not sure if you've already rented it out.
Mom: And where would you like to animals to go?
Me: Apparently Mom, the cats are going on a cruise to Jo'burg and the dogs are going with you on the high seas.
Dad: Some wine Love?

With that I left them to argue out the finer details of what my Dad plans to do with the entire contents of the house and where the seven animals plan to go for two weeks. If you see a house on the market that boasts the latest security system, it's actually referring to pavement special dogs and an entourage of useless pussycats belonging to the Baglett family.

DRIVE TIME

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 08:10:00 +0000

The Wine Merchant and I were driving yesterday and had the unfortunate timing of hitting the highway after an earlier accident. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes took two hours and 18 minutes which I will never get back. With the two of us embarking on a road trip later this month, I took this as a test. And it was not one we were about to pass. Probably because I get bored ridiculously quickly and have an incredible talent of annoying the life out of any driver.

Me: What does this button do?
WM: Baglett, stop pressing every God damn switch and button in my car.
Me: Ooooh, it's the BACK window. What does this signal stand for?
WM: I have no idea.
Me: I know, I'll read the manual. (Opens cubbyhole) where's the manual?
WM: In the boot.
Me: I'll just get it.

I had now climbed into the back seat, kicking the Wine Merchant in the process and was trying to pull down the back seats to get into the boot.

WM: Baglett, get the hell out of there.
Me: Why?
WM: Because if I accelerate, you'll go flying and no doubt find the button that opens the boot from within and end up as roadkill.
Me: WM, the man in the car next to us is staring at me.
WM: That's because your dress is caught on the seat and you're flashing all the cars around us.
Me: So what are you getting me for my 40th?
WM: Why your 40th?
Me: Because we may be celebrating it in this traffic.
WM: Baglett, I know this may come as a surprise to you, but it is not my purpose in life to entertain you.
Me: Then what is your purpose?
WM: To protect the rest of the world from you. BAGLETT!
Me: What?!
WM: Stop winking at the guy next to us!
Me: He started it. Still looking forward to our roadtrip together?
WM: No. And get your feet off my dashboard. AND STOP CHANGING THE CHANNEL.
Me: I don't blame you for shouting, who can hear themselves over that music. I'll just see what's happening on the waves out there... who are you talking too?
WM: 'Hi there, I would like to book a ticket from Jo'burg to Cape Town, one way yes.'
Me: OK! You've made your point, I'll shutup.
WM: 'No need now, thank you.' Baglett, you're driving me bloody crazy, please try to relax, sit back and become one with the many thoughts in your brain.'
Me: Fine. But now we'll never know what that button does.
WM: We've got a 1500km roadtrip coming up to find that vital piece of information out Baglett.
Me: Can't wait.
WM: Me neither.
Me: The levels of sarcasm in this car are incredibly high.
WM: Aren't they just.

Oh fun times.

CHRISTMAS PARTY MORTIFICATION

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 07:31:00 +0000

The Wine Merchant had his Christmas party on Saturday. I'm very wary of work Christmas parties. I think they're a cruel trick to make you think you can have fun and be merry but in fact, they're just trying to manipulate you into getting transmogrified drunk and make you the topic of conversation at the Monday morning meeting. Anything you said or did will be remembered and blown out of proportion for years to come. And just when you think no one remembered that you danced on the table and said things to the big boss like 'You will be mine and so will your job', the next Christmas party will come around and everyone's sentence starts off with 'Remember last year when...'

So I was justifiably nervous about Saturday night and being well aware of my Foot in Mouth disease which rears its beautiful head when I'm nervous, I decided to take it easy and start with a refreshing coke light. Twenty minutes of angelic soberness later and I was cornered by the Wine Merchant's boss and his tequila bottle. Rescued by the announcement of food, I stood in the queue when my ears were deeply offended by the song they were playing.

Me: Oh my God, this song. FIRE THE DJ! Does he take requests? Because my request is to have him shot.
WM: Um Baglett, the DJ is standing in front of you.
Me: Sh*t.

Before I was able to dig myself a trench and bury myself in it, the big boss stood up, made a speech, called a woman up to stand next to him, put his arms around her and announced that she was finally pregnant. Claps all round and everyone went back their drinks. Thinking I would be a very good employees girlfriend, I went up to the couple to congratulate them.

Me: That's such great news for you guys!
Big Boss: Um no Baglett, I'm not the father.
Me: Oh. Wow! And you seem fine with this – that's really commendable. I admire the two of you!
WM: Um Baglett, no, they're not married.
Me: Wow, not even married! Jeepers, you guys are naughty aren't you?

Silence

BB: Um, no Baglett, she's my secretary.
Me: Brilliant! I love cliches!
WM: Crises Baglett, this is my boss, his wife is over there, this is his secretary and her husband is over there and it's their child.

More silence

Me: I really shouldn't be allowed to talk to people should I?
WM: Not so much.
Me: Well, if you need me, I will be drowning myself in your large pool over there.

In the end I sat with the old lady from accounts whose hearing aid wasn't working. She may not have heard what I was saying but I'm sure I offended her somehow.

IT CAME BACK

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 08:55:00 +0000

I received an email this morning from the Housemate. No text, just a subject which pretty much explained everything.

'The parktown prawn is back and made his re-appearance this morning by crawling OVER my foot as I was getting into the shower!!!!!!!!!!!!'

I think the gazillion exclamation points were a little unnecessary but I saw her point. Enough with hoping the dude had gone back to his roots in Parktown, he was clearly enjoying the creature comforts that our bathrooms were providing. It was time to take action, time to be brave, time to grow up. It was time to bring in the Wine Merchant
.
Wine Merchant: Can't you just leave it under the glass forever?
Me: And when we have people round? What do you want us to do? Dance around it like a group of prawn worshippers?
WM:Fine, give me the broom.
Me: What are you going to do with the broom?
WM: I'm going to sweep it off its feet Baglett. What do you think I'm going to do? I'm going to flick it into the neighbours garden.
Me: But what will the neighbour say?
Well unless the prawn tells her what happened, I think she will say 'Oh dear, I've got a Parktown prawn in my garden.'
Me: Fine, but if it climbs back here, I'm calling the police.
WM: Good idea. We can bring in the Scorpions to get rid of the prawns.

Two seconds later as the Wine Merchant lifted the glass, I instantly screamed, jumped onto the table and closed my eyes.

Me: Is it gone? I can't look.
WM: Why are you whispering?
Me: I'm not sure.
WM: It can't hear you.
Me: Don't prawns have ears?
WM: I'm not sure, but I'm pretty sure they don't speak english. And it's in the neighbours garden now so you're safe from the evil devil locust.

An hour later I looked out the window to see the prawn effortlessly moving his way up the tree that is shared by us and the neighbours. He looked pissed off, tired and intent on coming back to us. If only the Wine Merchant's name was Christian, because my Prawn Again Christian joke would have been HYSTERICAL right there and then.

BAGLETT IS A HEALTHY WOMAN

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 06:27:00 +0000

Noooooo silly, that's not me on the cover. That's Evangeline Lilly! They asked me though and I said noooo, let Lilly, she would be Lost without it. Ha! Seriously though, check out this month's issue of Women's Health with an article by yours truly. It's about sex! No, not really, but it does have a photo of me! No, not really, but it does has a photo of other people.

In other news: Look what The Brother sent me yesterday in a package marked 'From The Brother' – bless.

He sent me stickers! I've stuck them everywhere – my laptop, the Wine Merchant's forehead, on the Housemate's sandwiches, the cat, everywhere! Annoying for everyone else but hours of entertainment for me.

MY FIRST PARKTOWN PRAWN

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 08:00:00 +0000

While chatting to the Housemate this morning I saw something in my peripheral vision that I assumed was a dog. Turning to look into the bathroom I saw what wasn't a dog but something I had never seen before other than in the movie Species.

Me: What the f*ck is that?
Housemate: That Baglett, is what is known as a Parktown prawn.
Me: Well what the hell is it doing here, is it lost?
HM: Go and ask it.
Me: You ask it.
The Housemate: It's in your bathroom.
Me: But you're more familiar with them.
HM: I'm late for work.
Me: No you're not.
HM: Let the cat sort it out.
Me: Brilliant!

The full feral cat that could kill a small child with one swift swat of its paw. The cat that just has to look at a bird and it dies, the cat that brings in rats, birds and snakes as 'presents' and keeps looking at our neighbour with a hungry look in its eye. This was the perfect cat for the job.

Calling the pyschotic animal into the bathroom and pointing it in the direction of the PP, I introduced them.

Cat meet prawn. Prawn meet cat. Aaaaaaand GO!

Expecting bloodshed and one times dead prawn, the cat looked at me, looked at the prawn, and ran out the room.

'Oh I'm sorry, is this your friend? You kill large animals for sport and you won't touch this disgusting langoustine in my bathroom?

He looked at me and meowed which I translated as 'I don't do prawns'

The only option I had was to lock the two of them in the bathroom together and fight it out.

Ten minutes later I opened the door to find the cat hiding in the bath and the prawn staring it down from the sink. The cat skidded out the door and hid in my cupboard. With that I quietly closed the bathroom door and left the house. I've notified that Housemate that I will be using her bathroom from now on and my bathroom has been closed indefinitely or if I can convince her the bathroom never existed in the first place and is merely a fake door, this could also be an option.

WTF?

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 09:10:00 +0000

Please take a look at this.

It's just too much. I'm literally sitting here waiting for an evacuation warning. Coming from Cape Town, I'm well accustomed to rain. It's what Cape Town does. What Jo'burg is supposed to do is force you to buy industrial-sized bottles of moisturiser because your skin is so dry, you're resembling tectonic plates shifting. I had to drive to some Godforsaken place called Midvaal this morning where I almost lost my life five times. In the end I pressed record on my cellphone to verbally state my will. Serious questions like, 'Who would get the pyschotic cat?' and the Wine Merchant, 'Who will get the Wine Merchant?!' 'Will my parents take him in or will be be auctioned off?' But since I made it here in one piece, these kind of questions can be dealt with next year. And if I die in a weather related accident on the way home and my cellphone survives, there will be a recording of my voice asking my parents to bury me at a wine farm in Franschhoek. Fun for everyone!

And now I must rush because I'm frozen from the waist down and need to thaw out in my car for a while. Cape Town - enjoy the weather, Jo'burg - sort yourself out weather-wise for The Marketers 30th tomorrow night and I may just leave you the Wine Merchant in my will.

FIM DISEASE - IT'S REAL PEOPLE

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 08:05:00 +0000

My Foot in Mouth disease has been playing up a lot recently. I'm usually very aware of my disability and act accordingly; I think before I speak, I am more aware of the person I'm speaking too, their likes, dislikes and religious affiliation. But in the past few weeks, it's been mortifying to say the least.

Wine Merchant's mother: Would you look at this preacher on tv?
Me: Oh God I hate them.

One look at the Wine Merchant's mother's face and I realised she was not in agreement with my hatred and in fact loved them, if not was currently practicing to become one. Thankfully I happened to have my head buried in my laptop at the time and blamed my outburst on something I was watching on Youtube.

I had been banging awwwn and awwn about this whodunnit movie that the Wine Merchant just had to see. Finally getting him to watch it, I could see he was on the edge of seat the entire time and was really getting into it. As proud as if I had made the movie myself I sat back and watched his reactions.

Wine Merchant: That guy there, he looks so weird.
Me: Oh him? He's always the baddy.
WM: Thanks Baglett, that's great.
Me: Shit. Sorry.

And with that, the movie was over.

While at a kids birthday party recently, I ended up sitting next to a guy who was more feminine than all the women and their mothers at the party combined. We spoke spas, tanning salons, recipes, and I bored him with running and squash stories. Not that he was interested, but he had great legs and I thought it might move the conversation to sport to see where he got his legs from. A woman joined in the conversation and I asked him

Me: So where's your boyfriend?
Gay man: I'm sorry, WHAT?
Me: Oh sorry, your partner.
GM: This woman is my wife and those are my three kids over there.
Me: Shit. Sorry.

I went to visit the Wine Merchant at a wine show recently (by 'visit' I mean finish all his stock) where I bumped into one of the girls he works with. There was something different about her but I couldn't quite place it.

Me: You look different. Have you cut your hair? No wait, you've dyed it! It was blonde hey?!
Different chick: I've lost 15 kilos Baglett.
Me: That'll do it.

Unfortunately I'm going to a funeral today. Never a fun occasion but when I don't know what to say and am feeling awkward, that's when Foot in Mouth disease is at its worst. The last time I went to a funeral with my mother, she asked me if I could my annoying cousin a lift home and I replied with 'I'd rather die'.

Not ideal really.

ARRIVALS

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 12:22:00 +0000

Crises yesterday was a not a great day for me. After having shit chat with the Leader of the Annoying Ones, my flight was delayed for over an hour. But I did enjoy the woman on the loudspeaker informing us of the situation.

'We regret to inform you that flight BA 112 is delayed.'

'I apologise for the previous announcement. Flight SA 112 is delayed.'

'We regret to inform you that Flight SA 112 is delayed and scheduled to board at 5: 30.'

I checked my watch to see it was in fact 5:30.

'I apologise for the previous announcement. The flight is scheduled to leave at 6pm.'

Apologies, it's specifically Flight SA 112 that'd scheduled to leave at 6pm'

Finally we boarded and I had obviously had to sit next to a relation of the Annoying Girl who also wanted to tell me his dreams and aspirations. Earphones, laptop and a book could not throw this verbal diarrhoea-ridden boy off his track. Two long and painful hours later, I arrived in a freezing cold Jo'burg and spent a good twenty minutes watching other people's luggage worm its way round the conveyor belt. Finally my case came through and I grabbed it, swatting an innocent child with my squash racket in the process and was interrupted by my phone rang to tell me it was the Wine Merchant.

Me: WHAT?
WM: Oh hi, I'm looking for Satan? This must be the right number.
Me: Are you trying to be funny or just annoying?
WM: Actually Happiness, I'm trying to find out where you are.
Me: I'm in hell and on my way to you.
WM: Can't wait.

Bashing through the doors into the abyss that is O.R Tambo's Domestic Arrivals, I almost whacked straight into the Wine Merchant who was adorably standing with a huge bunch of flowers and then asked me the question I'd been dying for him to ask...

Red or white?

And proceeded to whip out two bottles of wine.

What a thoughtful little Wine Merchant.

AIRPORT CHIT CHAT

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 14:58:00 +0000

I'm at the airport. Which hasn't been an easy task. Firstly my Dads fear of missing flights means that I'm always at least two hours early. In this case he was probably right since dipshit here went to Arrivals and couldn't understand why every plane was landing rather than boarding. Getting to departures took about twenty minutes of navigation and finally I entered the very impressive building.

Escalators are not my friends. I once got my shoelace stuck and have been traumatised ever since. Trolleys are not my favourite either. I push when it's in park, I brake when I'm meant to release, it's all too much really. So when I approached the Trolley Friendly escalator combining my two worst contraptions, I pretty much freaked out.

True to form, I pushed the trolley onto the moving escalator, panicked, stepped back, missed the step, and fell back while I watched my trolley move its way up to the second floor. The Trolley Assistance dude eished his way up the escalator, saved my trolley from further embarrassment and helped it off the escalator. Not trusting the escalator and my state of absolute panic and mortification, I did what I should have done in the first place and took the lift.

Fetching my trolley and giving it a stern talking too, I pushed it through check in, said goodbye to it and moved my way to the nearest restaurant to have a stiff drink or get 'trollied' as I said to the barman and then fell about laughing. One thing I don't enjoy is strangers talking to me. Unless you want to buy me a drink or you're hot, I have no interest in listening to you or your absolute waffle. Choosing a seat next to a girl who looked like she was less of a talker than most, I whipped out my laptop and made it quite clear that I was very busy and important.

Girl: So where you flying too?

Sh*t

Me: Jo'burg.
Girl: Me TOO!

Since the next five flights were all bound for Jo'burg, I didn't find this as exciting as she did.

Girl: Do you live in Jo'burg?
Me: Yes.
Girl: Me too. I love coming to Cape Town but I get so sad to leave...

This was followed by five minutes of what she did in Cape Town, where she stayed, her job, her parents job, her friends job and some story about a squirrel which I didn't quite pick up. I had no choice but to beat her off Baglett style.

Me: I'm really sorry to interrupt you but I really have lots of work to do.

She leaned across to look at my laptop, not only violating my personal space issue but violating my laptops personal space too.

Girl: But you're playing Sims.
Me: So?
Girl: You said you were working.
Me: I am. I'm working and then I've got to go home and look after my three kids which I had with my neighbour who won't pay me maintenance. So I have to work hard to get a promotion so I can feed my children.

The chick was gone before I even got started on how I broke up my best friends marriage. If anything is going to scare off a chatter, it's a deranged Sims player.

NEW LAPTOP

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 05:56:00 +0000

Say 'hello' new laptop!

Silence

He's shy. Although there's nothing shy about this bad boys battery life or memory. AND I am also the proud owner of an external hard drive. A pretty ugly looking thing, but if it cuts down the chances of me losing my lifes work, then it suddenly becomes hot.

This wonderful piece of machinery was given to me by my brother, when after a much over dramatised version of my laptop crashing and using the phrase 'My life is over' again and again, he surprised me with a laptop that met all my needs and requirements.

My brother was down in Cape Town for a wedding so with my fear of FOMO in complete overdrive, I spent the week with the complete Baglett family. It doesn't happen often and it was vomit-inducingly cute. But it came to an swift end when yesterday, the brother had to get back on a flight. An hour before he was leaving I found my mother crying in the kitchen.

Me: Awww mom, don't cry. He'll be back next year.
Mom: Sniff. Why aren't you crying?
Me: Me? I'm tough mom. I chat to the guy online everyday and it's only a couple of months till he's back.
Mom: You're not the least bit sad?
Me: Naaaaah, I enjoyed this week with him and now it's time for him to go. It's too tiring to get sad everytime he comes and goes.

Dad: Baglett! Your brother's leaving. Baglett?
Brother: Where's Baglett?
Mom: 100 bucks says she's in the guest room and is hugging your luggage.
Brother: Get off my luggage Baglett.
Me: Don't goooooooooooooo.

Nothing says 'embarrassing and desperate' like your mom, dad, brother and his girlfriend staring at you while your wrap yourself round bags sobbing.

Dad: You're handling this well.
Mom: Where's my hundred bucks?
The Brother: I kinda need my luggage.

The Brother managed to loosen my grip, reclaim his luggage and went on his way. He phoned from the airport to say one final goodbye to my parents and suggested they didn't put me on the phone since it could throw me over the edge. I found my Dad sitting on the couch comforting a crying mom.

Me: Is it like this when I leave?
Dad: What do you mean 'when you leave'? It's like this everyday Baglett.

MONEY BAGS

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 11:02:00 +0000

While shopping with the Wine Merchant the other day, I came across a dress which was vital to my existence. A dress so beautiful and so unique that it could only be worn once. Convincing the Wine Merchant that this dress needed me more than I needed it, he bought it. This was followed by lunch and when the bill came, I pretended I had lost the power of sight and speech and fell off my chair. But when we went to Woolies and I asked him to pay for my monthly shopping, he was not charmed.

Wine Merchant: Baglett, where is your money?
Me: You've got it.
WM: No I don't.
Me: Well someone's got it.
WM: You've spent it haven't you?
Me: Hard to say.
WM: Do you budget at all?
Me: Do I what?
WM: I'll take that as a no.

What followed was horrendous. The Wine Merchant made me sit down and write down exactly what I had spent in the last month and on what. It was humiliating and quite shocking really.

WM: This wouldn't be so bad if you had done this years ago. Budgeting actually helps you Baglett.
Me: *Silence*
WM: Say something.
Me: Can I afford to talk?
WM: Don't be ridiculous. Let me see the list. BAGLETT! You spent R3000 on clothes!
Me: Not all in one day.
WM: And what exactly did you do at the spa that cost R2000?!
Me: Actually, I had a voucher for the spa so that doesn't count.
WM: How much was the voucher for Baglett?
Me: R250.00 BUT I got discounts because I bought products. Yaaaaa, probably shouldn't have told you that.

For the next two hours I was tortured with budget advice, excel spreadsheets and threats of switching to a cheaper hairdresser. When we had finished and I had cut down all my expenses, it made sense. Not that I would ever tell the Wine Merchant that. I took his advice to heart yesterday when I stopped to buy groceries and consciously bought refills rather than the new product. To reward myself I then went and bought a pair of shoes. Baby steps people, baby steps.

In other news:
Apologies for the sporadic posting this week people. My craptop is still having open hard drive surgery and so I'm whoring myself around Jo'burg using whatever poor sods computer I can get my hands on. Bear with me!

I WORKED WINEX

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 06:59:00 +0000

If you ever want to make me happy, take me to a convention centre filled with free wine. Winex in particular. I was beside myself with excitement on Friday night; grabbing my glass and moving from one amazing wine to the next, bumping into familiar faces along the way. My mother always taught me never to waste food, my Dad taught never to waste wine, so I don’t. Which perhaps isn’t the best idea when you’re tasting over a hundred wines. By 8 o clock, I was wafting through the convention centre, having lost all the people I came with, in search of food. The Wine Merchant found me at an olive stand dipping a loaf worth of bread into a bucket of olive oil.

WM: What are you doing?
ME: I’m starving! Where’s the food?
WM: This is a WINE festival, not a food festival Baglett.
ME: I’ve eaten every cracker this place has to offer.
WM: And now you’ve eaten all their olives and moved onto their bread stock.
ME: Well you shouldn’t pour people copious amounts of wine without giving them food.
WM: The idea is, Baglett, that you taste and then spit, you don’t have to drink everything you’re given.
WM: Shutup your face! That’s no fun at ALL! Shouldn’t you be at your stand rather than judging me for my obscene wine consumption?
WM: I need you to stand there for a few minutes while I talk to someone.
ME: Me?! Really?! Out of all these people?! I’m honoured!
WM: Well I’m desperate. And Baglett, it’s a stand, so STAND. Don’t sit there and drink the products.
ME: Can’t promise anything.

The excitement of being behind the stand as a fancy wine person rather than a lowly customer was just too much for me. I was now joining all wine experts round the world, just by standing there, I was becoming knowledgeable. I managed to convince myself that I was now a wine expert. I stood proudly at the stand, very aware of my new position, waiting for my first customer.

Me: Hi there
Customer: Evening, can I try your Chenin?

Awww MY Chenin.

Me: Of course!
Customer: Just a sip is fine. I don’t need a whole glass.
Me: I’ve got a ‘no stingy policy’ at my stand.
Customer: Well I’ve got a ‘not getting drunk policy’.

Tough crowd.

Customer: What grapes do you use?
Me: Green ones?
Customer: Riiiiiight. And barrels?
Me: Big ones.
Customer: No, what barrels are they kept in?
Me: Wooden ones.
Customer: You don’t know much about wine do you?
Me: I know I love it.
Customer: Do you even work in the industry?
Me: What do you mean!? I work the industry.

With the Wine Merchant in earshot and realising quickly I was doing him no favours, he rushed up to the stand.

WM: Hi sir, excuse Baglett, she does not in fact work for us, she was manning the stand.
Me: I was womanning the stand actually, no need for sexism.
WM: Baglett SIT!

Nothing worse than an angry Wine Merchant. Thankfully, from where I was sitting I was able to help myself to the world’s supply of crackers which helped to soak the litres of wine I had inhaled.

To sum up what I learned
- eat before tasting a gazillion wines
- try not to finish all the wine
- barrels in wine making are a very important factor in wine making, it’s not just about them being wooden apparently.

Don’t ever say I don’t teach you things.

BAD DAY FOR BAGLETT

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 02:37:00 +0000

I renamed yesterday Black Thursday. A day I hope I never have to repeat in this lifetime. Acutely aware of the deadlines I had yesterday, I double checked all the relevant documents, and some irrelevant ones just for kicks, attached the first document and hit ‘send’. I’m no IT guru, but I do know that when the screen goes black and the laptop starts making a sound similar to a cat fight, you’re in a world of sh*t.

Rushing to the nearest computer fixing shop, I fell into the shop and ran up to the counter to meet the guy I would now be spending the rest of my day with. Explaining the severity of the situation and the fact that my career depended on the laptop NOT making the cat dying sounds, he tried to revive it. While he attacked it with a screwdriver and me thinking ‘I could have done that’, I was asked to fill in a job form.

Me: What do I put under fault description?
IT Guru: Um, write ‘screwed’, your hard drive has just crashed.

I started to see spots and my knees gave in. I fell into the chair someone had given me and started to take short little gasps of air while trying not to vomit. Four IT guys whipped into action and started performing laptop emergency surgery. My laptop was pulled apart bit by byte. Pieces were removed I didn’t even know existed. It was too painful to watch and I was ushered into the waiting area and given a cup of hot sweet tea.

I was mindlessly paging through a magazine when it occurred to me that a computer shop is very similar to an emergency ward at a hospital. Lots of beeping, I’m sitting in a waiting area sobbing and the IT surgeon keeps coming up to me at regular intervals saying ‘We’re doing everything we can ma’am’. I kept getting up and trying to go around the counter to see what was happening and I keep getting removed with ‘You’re not allowed back here ma’am, I’m sorry.’

Five hours, FIVE hours later, I was given an anorexic looking flashdisk the size of my thumb which contained all the information that survived the laptop crash of 2009 and a ‘We did everything we could. I’m sorry.’ I don’t remember what time I went to bed and I’ve been up since 3am this morning trying to redo everything on the Housemate’s laptop before she leaves for work.

F*ck being an organ donor, I’m becoming a laptop donor.

SO MUCH OF THE TIRED

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 05:38:00 +0000

After a very quiet evening with The Queen consisting of DVDs and pizza, I was responsibly in bed and in la la land by 11pm with a solid seven hours sleep ahead of me. Thanks to The Wine Merchant it was more like a solid four hours.

A very drunk sounding Wine Merchant: Baglett! I’m waiting for you!
Me: It’s 3am Wine Merchant, where am I supposed to be?

I can hear the Wine Merchant mumbling to someone ‘Where’s she supposed to be?’

WM: I don’t know Baglett, I’m outside McDonalds with my friend the policeman and he says you have to come here.
Me: Sigh. I’m on my way.

I arrived at McDonalds to find two policemen standing next to their van and The Wine Merchant feeding chips to plants.
Policeman: Is that your boyfriend ma’am?
Me: No.
Policeman: He says he is.
Me: He also feeds chips to plants. Who are you going to believe?
WM: Baglett! I am, officer, she’s lying.
Me: What kind of identity parade is this? One guy? Where are my options?!
Policeman: Ma’am please take him home.
Me: Fine.

WM: I promise Baglett, I wasn’t driving. I was at a function nearby and got hungry and walked to McDonalds. Next minute two cops picked me up. (Now whispering) I think they wanted my McDonalds.
Me: Definitely. It’s a McDonalds heist. So you promise you weren’t driving?
WM: Nooooooo Baglett, you must never drink when you’re over the limit.
Me: You mean drive.
Wm: No you drive, it’s fine.
Me: Sigh. No you drunk ass, I was correcting you.
WM: Why are you so grumpy?
Me: Because it’s 4am and I have to get up in two hours.
WM: It’s Sunday, take a day off Baglett.

I let him go to sleep thinking it was Sunday. It takes the edge off the fact that I’m revoltingly tired and my eyes look and feel like a patchwork leather jacket.

IT'S ORGANS NOW

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 05:48:00 +0000

I’m nothing if not persistent. After collecting my new driver’s license card (woohoo) I was given an organ donor leaflet. Since it was so soon after my egg donor debacle, I assumed it was a sign.

Me to Wine Merchant: So I’m going be an organ donor.
WM: So it’s organs now.
Me: Yip. Say goodbye organs!
WM: What changed your mind?
Me: I sent out an email to the fam asking for their thoughts on my egg donor situation.
WM: And?
Me: My mother gave me a flat out no, The Brother said I was mentally unstable and my Dad asked me how many omelettes I was making. He doesn’t really get it.
WM: And now you’re becoming an organ donor because…
Me: Because I didn’t realise that you only have to donate them when you’re dead.
WM: What did you think they did?
Me: I don’t know. I guess I had visions of myself waking up in a bath full of ice, with a ringing phone next to me, minus a kidney with a signed receipt from the Organ Donor Foundation.
WM: Um, no. That’s not what they do.
Me: I just assumed they rocked up at your door and demanded a donation of whatever organ you had left.
WM: You know, they may not want your organs, let’s be honest, your liver isn’t looking too great.
Me: Kidneys aren’t in tip top condition either I suspect.
WM: Lungs are definitely a bit dodge.
Me: Do they take feet?
WM: Not yours.

THE PAIN

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 07:13:00 +0000

What a fun-filled weekend. An early dinner on Friday and a run on Saturday to take me to up lunch. A lunch that I will happily repeat every Saturday if the host would let me. My kind of lunch. Where beautiful couches overlook a maize of gardens, mini putt putt course and pool. Where the food is superb and the company entertaining. Where not everyone knows everyone, so before the wine kicks in, everyone is perched at the end of their chair with a slightly pained expression asking the person next to them what they do for a living, calling them ‘sweetie’ because they’ve forgotten their name already. Three hours in and a couple of bottles down, you’re sitting on their laps and inviting them home to meet your parents.

Drinking in the day is great if you go home in the evening. That’s the work of an intelligent person. A stupid person doesn’t and spends the entire evening saying ‘but it’s Saturday night’ with an expression on their face that is similar to a baby screaming. I managed to convince the Housemate to join me for post-lunch drinks which turned into tequilas which turned into jaggermeisters which turned into me not getting out of bed the whole of Sunday while the Housemate died on the couch. I can hear The Housemate from my room so while I lay in bed and she lay on the couch, I saw her once and spent the day talking to her from my bed.

Housemate: I hate you.
Me: You loved me last night.
HM: I loved everyone last night.

An hour later.

HM: Whatchadoooon?
Me: Nothing. What you doin?
HM: Nothing.

Another hour goes by.

HM: Do you want to get some food?
Me: I sent The Wine Merchant out to get McDonalds. Phone him and place an order.
HM: McDonalds doesn’t agree with me.
Me: Me neither.
HM: So why are you eating it?
Me: Because I doubt it will stay down for very long so I may as well give it a whirl.

Five minutes later I hear the Housemate putting in a call to Mr Delivery ordering enough food to feed the complex. I also hear her explaining to the guy on the end of the phone that she is severely hungover so a little speed wouldn’t go unnoticed.

HM: Want a bite?
Me: Will you bring it to me?
HM: No.
Me: Then no.

An hour later

HM: What’s the worst thing that could happen right now?
Me: That you keep talking?
HM: I keep trying to think of something to make me feel better.
Me: I’m wearing my Knysna marathon t shirt to remind me that I’ve suffered worse pain.

Two hours later

HM: Want some wine?
Me: Sure.

MY EGGS

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 10:07:00 +0000

I was chatting to a ‘friend’ of mine yesterday about her battle to fall pregnant. I say ‘friend’ because I don’t see her too often which means we barely know each other. In fact, if she hugged me, I would tell her to calm down. But she is the kinda woman I would want to be my ‘friend’. It’s just taking its time, she’s a lot older than me and thinks I’m slightly mad, but we’re working through all that. Anyhoo, she was telling me the sad tale that she would never be able to fall pregnant and was now going down the egg donor route.

‘Friend’: So I’m looking for a donor.

My hands instinctively went to my stomach and I gasped.

‘Friend’: Don’t worry Baglett, I don’t want your eggs.
Me: Shew. That was a close one. WHAT?! What do you mean you don’t want my eggs? What’s wrong with my eggs?!
‘Friend’: Well, I didn’t think you would be an option.
Me: Why not?! I have great eggs! Well, I mean, I’m sure they’re great. I haven’t seen them in person, but I saw them on a scan once and they look like great eggs. The kinda eggs you don’t mind bringing home to meet your parents.
‘Friend’: What?
Me: You know what I mean.
‘Friend’: I just don’t think I could ask someone to go through the painful procedure to become an egg donor.
Me: What’s so painful about giving over a couple of eggs?
‘Friend’: Well, you don’t lay them Baglett, it involves hormone injections.
Me: Well I’ve got loads of hormones so you wouldn’t have to inject me with any extra guys.
‘Friend’: Are you offering your eggs?
Me: I’m sorry, what?
‘Friend’: You sound like you’re offering me your eggs.
Me: Do I? You don’t want my eggs. They’re terrible eggs. Most badly behaved eggs in the business. Did I mention on the scan, they were fighting with each other? The most intolerable, undisciplined eggs I’ve ever seen.
‘Friend’: Don’t worry Baglett, I’ve already got a donor – I was just winding you up.
Me: Oh thank God.
Me: Could I be your back up?
‘Friend’: Really?!
Me: Well, your back up’s back up.
‘Friend’: Thought so.

I'M NO LONGER COOL

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 08:38:00 +0000

The Wine Merchant’s brother phoned me yesterday on the off chance that I was in the area and 'would I mind fetching him and his mates from gym?'. I was nowhere near the area, in fact, if he had asked me to fetch him from Durban, it would have been closer. But not one to turn down hot 18-year-olds, I said, ‘I’m on my way.’ I had already embarrassed myself the last time I had met his friends (http://baglett.blogspot.com/2009/08/boys-in-matric.html) and was beginning to reevaluate my cool status. A little pep talk on the way there and I was ready to be the coolest twenty-something year old on the planet.

Immediately pulling up to the gym, I felt mommyish. And not in a good way.

Wine Merchant’s Brother: Hey Baglett! What you listening to?
Me: Um, no, don’t press that.

And Frank Sinatra started singing his lungs out to the four hot gym boys.

WMB: Seriously?
Me: I’m doing research for a story on dead singers. Shutup. SO GUYS! What’s the latest with the chick situation?
WMB: I was with this girl last weekend, she was soooooooooo sick!
Me: Shame! What was wrong with her?
WMB: No Baglett, she was hot.
Me: I knew that.
WMB: I’m going to ask her if she wants to hook up.
Me: OK GUYS, everyone be quiet! Turn the music off!
WMB: Um Baglett, I’m on MXit, you don’t need to stop talking.
Me: I knew that.
WMB: Baglett, where are you going?
Me: I’m still trying to get out the parking lot.
WMB: The exit is over there.
Me: But you said, ‘straight on’ earlier.
WMB: I was agreeing with Sean about this girl he met. I meant he must go for her. ‘Straight awwwwwwwwn’.
Me: I knew that.

And feeling like the mom that children try and stuff in the cupboard when their friends came round, I did what every self-respecting person would do to try and be cool – I bought them airtime and a six pack.

A GREAT RECEPTION

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 09:53:00 +0000

I hate going to office parks, you always have to fill out at least two forms, one for you to keep (oh please can I?) and then sign here, sign there, no, that's the wrong block, here. Crises. I always expect them to take fingerprints and a pint of blood while they're at it. After giving all my information to Mr Security man, I was allowed onto the premises on the basis that I had the second security sheet signed otherwise I would never be let out. The thought of being detained forever in an office complex because I didn’t have the form signed seemed highly unlikely but one must follow sheep protocol.

On arriving at the reception desk, I was greeted by Nancy. Nancy was on the phone. I love people who point at the phone and mouth ‘I’m on the phone’, just in case you thought they were merely holding it to the ears having a dial tone date with the receiver.

Five minutes of ‘mmmmmm’ and ‘yaaaaaaaaaa’ and eventually,

Nancy: You can’t carry on like this.
Me: No you’re right, I can’t. I’m here to collect something?

Again with the pointing and the mouthing ‘on the phone’.

Nancy: Maybe he should see someone.
Me: I’d like to see someone!
Nancy: Ma’am I’ll be right with you.
Nancy: You can’t just be another one of his books in his bookcase.

What kind of analogy was that? Maybe it wasn’t, maybe this woman was completely deranged and was talking to a book.

I was debating whether or not I should give up and walk out but then I remembered the importance of having my slip signed for National Security and realised I was stuck listening to this woman’s inane conversation for all eternity.

When I could take it no longer, I pulled out my cellphone and phoned the reception desk.

Nancy: Sigh. Hold on. There’s another call. Hello?
Me: It’s me.

She wasn't sure whether to carry on talking into the phone or put it down and talk to me face to face. Not risking the latter in case she took the book's call again, I continued talking into my phone.

Me: I'm here to collect something. Something for Baglett?

Nancy had the decency to look slightly embarrassed, fetched the package, signed my slip and off I went. Of course, the call was quickly switched back to the battered book girl and as I walked out, I heard

Nancy: You won’t believe what this bitch just did!

PARENTS IN TOWN

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:22:00 +0000

My parents were up here this weekend for a sixtieth birthday party. And while they tried to convince me that the 60th coincided with an already-planned trip to see me, I knew better.

I often look at my parents trying to work out which characteristic I got from which parent. It’s a fun game I like to play with them where they each claim the good ones and blame the bad ones on the grandparents or a distant uncle. It’s a tug of war which always starts with:

Me: At least I’ve got thick hair.
Mom: That’s from my side of the family.
Me: I hate my feet.
Mom: You have your father’s feet.
Dad: She gets her intelligence from me.
Mom: Spell ‘intelligence’.
Dad: Why, can’t you?

And so it goes on. I was apoplectic with excitement for them to arrive, even more so, since they were arriving at Lanseria, an airport new to me.

Arriving at Lanseria, I could not for the life of me, find the arrival terminal. Assuming passengers were just parachuted out the plane into the parking lot on the way to O.R. Tambo, I stood outside to catch my parents as they fell from the sky. A very helpful, very small employee whose name was Lance showed me where the tiny little passage was, in the tiny little airport where the passengers entered through. When I asked if his name was short for Lanseria, he didn’t look very impressed and wondered off into his tiny little office.

I joined all the little kids up on the Viewing Deck as we watched the plane land and I watched in fascination and fear as my parents got off the plane. This time it was not so much thanking the God genes that I didn’t get my Dad’s ability to walk like a duck, but I started wondering ‘Is this what I’m going to be like when I’m older?’

My mother gracefully stepped off the plane stairs and started walking towards the building. Two minutes later, I watched as she realised she had lost my dad. I could almost hear her say to herself, ‘Oh God, where is he now?’ as she turned around and started walking back to find him. She was immediately assisted by a man in an oversized vest, who assumed she was crazy and was trying to get back on the plane. Obviously explaining that her husband was an idiot, the man released her as she walked around the plane in search of my Dad. He was found at the back of the plane fiddling with his luggage which he forgot he had put on the plane in the first place and finally, the two of them fell through the arrival doors.

The rest of the day consisted of going to various venues in Jo’burg where my Dad had left stuff behind on a previous trip and finally the two of them got ready for their sixtieth. It was a fairly formal occasion and my mother came out the room looking sophisticated, glamorous and five years younger than she actually is. We watched as my Dad came out wearing blue polyester pants, shoes that had a hole in them and a short sleeved white shirt.

Mom: Oh my God.
Me: Dad, your shoes have a hole in them.
Dad: Gives my feet room to breathe.
Mom: Love, where’s your suit?
Dad: I left it here the last time I was in Jo’burg. I thought we could fetch it today but I forgot where I left it.
Me: Dad, are those polyester pants?
Dad: My finest polyester pants I’ll have you know.
Mom: Sigh. Are you ready?
Dad: Am I what?
Mom: READY?!
Dad: For what?
Me: The Ice Age.
Mom: The party.
Dad: Oh the party? Yes, let’s go.
Mom: Where’s the card?
Dad: What card?
Mom: The card. For the present.
Dad: What present?
Mom: Sigh. Never mind.

And as I watched my Dad do his duck walk to the car and my mother shouting at him because he said he wasn’t deaf, it was because she wasn’t ‘announciating’ and she calmly said ‘it’s annunciating love, not announciating’ that I realised I’m in a world of shit. I’m twenty plus years younger than them and have a future of forgetfulness and hearing aids to look forward to. And if my Dad’s anything to go by, I’ll be dressing in polyester doing a duck walk to parties.

DINNER PARTY PEOPLE

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 10:27:00 +0000

Today began with a slow start. When I spotted the six bottles of wine that the Single Sidekick, The Marketer and the Cool One and I had polished off last night, the throbbing headache made sense. I also wasn’t sure why the dirty dishes were in the drying up rack until I realised that I ‘washed’ them before I fell into bed. Apparently I was cleaning with one eye because I considered that plates with bits of avo stuck on them were in fact clean and pots with mushrooms stuck to the bottom were spotless.

I do enjoy spending time with these girls. Three very strong personalities mixed with copious amounts of alcohol, are balls of fun.

Amongst the usual subjects of celebrities we were meant to be with, who is dating who and why the cat keeps bringing in dead birds, were the others:

It’s ok to never get married
Me: It really doesn’t faze me if I never get married.
The Marketer: You’re lying.
Me: Of course I’m lying.

Baglett flirts too much and needs to stop giving out the Single Sidekick’s number instead of her own
Me: The Wine Merchant hates it when I give out my own, you know that.
SS: Baglett, stop it. Randoms keep phoning me and I don’t even know who they are.
Me: Don’t think of them as randoms, think of them as potential husbands. I’ve met them, I’ve screened them, and I think they’re perfect.
SS: The one guy doesn’t even speak English.
Me: Don’t be such a languagist.
SS: That’s not a word
Me: Well he won’t know will he?

Interval to watch Dad’s video of the garage door opening

New girlfriends of ex boyfriends and how we hate them.
Me: She may be pretty now, but her looks won’t last.
TM: Have you seen her under harsh lighting?
The Cool One: I kinda like her.
SS: So do we but we don't saaaaaay so.

Embarrassing things we’ve done when we’ve got dumped
Me: I went to his house to pick up a drying up towel just to see him. I pretended it was one of a kind and I desperately needed to have it.
The Cool One: I was tiling my boyfriend’s kitchen. He broke up with me and I continued to go there each day until I had finished it.

Annoying neighbours
TM: Can you guys hear someone?
Me: No
TCO: It’s someone shouting at us to be quiet.
TM: Can’t hear them over the music. They'll have to shout louder.

One day I’m going to be at a dinner party and be expected to discuss politics and the state of the country. That will be a very scary day.

HD - IT'S NEW TO ME

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 07:03:00 +0000

So on Monday evening, while I was sitting on the balcony, rocks started falling from the sky. Giant white boulders. I watched with absolute fascination as people came streaming out their doors, jumped into their cars and started driving. I assumed the correct procedure when it hails in Jo’burg, was to evacuate. So I ran to my car and screamed out the complex. When I looked behind me, instead of a stream of flashing lights of cars, there was nothing. People had merely re-parked their cars undercover and were waiting. Having been doing the exact opposite and driving back up the road while rocks hit my car, the only thing I could do was park it under a tree, jump on it and scream, ‘Nooooooooooooooo!’

The Hail Gods heard me and the hail stopped as quickly as it started. I got back into my car, back into the complex and parked. Hot Neighbour, having watched my evacuation with much interest said,

‘It’s Jo’burg; you’ve got to be careful of HD.’

Not wanting to sound like a complete idiot and ask what the hell HD was, I mentally went through the possible options of what HD stood for: Hors D‘oeuvres? High Definition? Hot Dog? I went with what I assumed was perhaps important to him.

Me: Harvard Dropout?
HN: Um. No. Hail damage.

Well then why the f*ck didn’t he just say that then instead of coming up with a useless acronym that works for any number of things, including Hulk’s Daughter.

A quick inspection of the car revealed that, thankfully, it did not resemble a cellulite-ridden butt cheek but was as smooth and sleek as ever. Unfortunately, following the rocks from the sky was a massive barney between Mr lightning and Mr Thunder. When you couldn’t hear yourself over the thunder and the lightning was now coming through the window, heading down the passage and aiming for the bathroom en suite, you’re in a world of shit.

I’m a grown woman but with the Housemate in London and The Wine Merchant in the dog box, I hugged that psycho cat like my life depended on it. Unfortunately the cat was more scared than I was and spent the entire night shivering under the duvet. Of course I said, 'You’re no Thundercat, are you?’ and then fell about laughing for half an hour.

Housemate come back, I’m losing the plot.

I MET JO'BURG PEOPLE

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 08:03:00 +0000

I was starting to wonder where all the actual Jo’burg people were. Going out, I meet Durbanites, people from Port Elizabeth, other ass-end towns where the children escaped and obviously Capetonians. I’ve met more Capetonians here than in Cape Town and had come to the conclusion that all the Jo’burgers had buggered off when they heard I was coming. So when I went to a relatively Cape Town people-packed dinner on Sunday, organised by a Capetonian, I pretty much concluded it would be another Capetonian-infested dinner. Not necessarily a bad thing, but when you’ve allocated Sunday as Homesick Day, spending the evening talking about Rocking the Daisies wasn’t high on my list of things to make me feel better. I might as well have stayed at home and phoned my Dad while he told me how many more Christmases he had left.

Well kill me softly if the dinner wasn’t full of people from Jo’burg. Actual born and bred, living, drinking Jo’bugers. And what great friggin people. People are always banging on about how friendly Jo’burg people are, but since I had confined my meetings to the male variety and they were indeed super-friendly, I remained skeptical of the girl portion of the city.

Girls are funny creatures; we size each other up in an instant. In Cape Town, the questions usually formulate themselves so the following information is gathered: which school you went to, where you studied, who you know, who you’re married to and where you live. In Jo’burg the questions are loosely based on what the hell you’re doing in Jo’burg, what do you do for money and where did you go last night?

The girls I met were great. Girls who were nursing such severe hangovers, that when the waiter came to take their order, they ordered a hug. By the end of the evening, we were exchanging phone numbers, and making plans. I’m very much to blame for the ‘We must do lunch’ scenario. It’s accompanied with an air kiss and said so flippantly that the person is not sure if you said something or swallowed a bug.

And because perhaps when they asked me for my number and suggested a novice game of golf and I reacted by hugging them, falling at their feet and in between sobs, shouting ‘I’ve been accepted, I’ve been accepted’, I got a call the very next day and a golf ‘date’.

Not the best reaction to being invited somewhere but I’m thinking, I can only improve.

NOT GOING WELL

noreply@blogger.com (Baglett) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 07:32:00 +0000

The Housemate has selfishly left me and buggered off to London for two weeks. One way to make someone miss you and realise how you take them for granted is to bugger off and leave them to fend for themselves for 14 days and nights.

We have a great living arrangement, she does all the cooking, sorts out the maid, does boring things like pay the phone bill and buy the correct lightbulbs and batteries. In turn I entertain with witty comments and funny jokes. It worked when lived together in London, and it works now. So when she left, she was naturally concerned.

Housemate: So you will pay the bill?
Me: Of course! Who’s Bill?
HM: The phone bill.
Me: I’m all over it. How do I do that?
HM: You go a shop and pay for it at the till.
Me: Easy. So I stand in the queue that says ‘Phone bills’.
HM: No. You stand in any queue.
Me: The one that says ‘Less than ten items’?
HM: Sure. Unless you’ve got more than ten phone bills.
Me: Really?!
HM: No. And please, please water the plants.
Me: Those would be the green leafy things.
HM: Well spotted. I’ve left the watering can near them as a reminder.
Me: Good for you. How often do those bad boys drink?
HM: Unlike you, once a day.
Me: Gotcha. Now don’t worry about a thing and have an amazing time. And remember me when you pass though Duty Free.

So far, I’ve managed to break the watering can and kill two out of eight plants. I remember hearing that if you talk to plants, they grow. I’ve been reading to them, brought them inside to watch DVDs, and played every song with the word ‘grow’ in them. These little bastards have done nothing but point their leaves in the direction of the soil as if to say ‘That’s the direction we’re going.’

I also went to pay the phone bill but left the actual bill at home. Two days down and 12 to go. This weekend will be spent at the nursery buying plant look-alikes and trying to find the phone bill which I think the plants stole to piss me off.