I'm sure you were all up late partying on Saturday (the six-monthaversary of this website) so I hope this isn't too early to lay a new entry on you (ha ha).
I've had a few accounts of the festive season but on the whole, a total lack of communication; fifty-three junk emails and all of three serious ones (one a business rejection). Come on people; less complaining about lack of diary and more stimulation. Erm, or something. Which reminds me - I haven't had a copy of Viz for nearly two months now! The last one I received was a while before I went to Pretoria; in fact I was expecting one when I got back. I haven't heard a joke about toilets for such a long time I almost don't find them funny any more. Shocking stuff.
There are a few new entries in the photo album; a couple of pics from a pre-Christmas braai/barbeque (depending on your linguistic persuasion) with Sipho, at which Bob discovered the joys of leftover chicken and decidedly not-leftover boerewors/sausages and I discovered the joys of putting the armchair outside, but under the rain shelter. Bonus.
There's only one picture from Christmas itself; I spent the day in question on the farm. Actually, I spent most of the evening on the planet Zog, but that might have been the combined effect of Andy's cosmic music and a copious amount of lager. I'm sure you're all mystified and crushed that I managed to misplace my camera somewhere in the back of the car, and as a result have no photos for you to corroborate my story (yes, I admit, I spent Christmas under a waterfall, making hermit-like noises). Mince pies, for some reason, had to wait until Boxing Day, at which point the camera resurfaced long enough for a whole photograph, before disappearing again until the 29th, when it reappeared under a mattress five minutes before it was time to leave. Sorry about that.
The holidayette was fantastic; we were treated to a couple of floorboard-shaking thunderstorms and skin-shrivelling sunshine, interspersed with the kind of rain that made me hope.. erm, fear, that I would be stranded for weeks to come. A picnic by the waterfall turned somewhat sour when Bob picked a fight with Storm the Great Dane, who promptly grabbed him by the throat while her two daughters (themselves now bigger than him) laid in from below. We pulled them apart, Andy waved a stick in the air and they all remembered their manners. Bob, sadly, spent the fat end of the rest of his holiday locked in the house, away from prying teeth. He now has a fetching bald patch on his shoulder. Silly bugger.
Eventually, we resurfaced in town, to discover all kinds of emergencies that required attention (and on and on..) but nothing too appalling. Or serious. Will everybody just calm down once in a while? I was just settling down for a quiet New Year when Geoff the Other English Bloke called me and demanded a lift to House on Fire. Dammit. Mind you, after a packet of biltong and a good laugh at the shocking outfits people had chosen, I didn't regret the decision to go. Suddenly - bang! - it was 2003 and immediately I knew cheques would never be the same again.
Geoff had an interesting drive home. If only he'd been awake to appreciate it.
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