With the advent of Easter weekend, I suddenly have nothing to do, a fact that makes me wonder exactly how thrilling my life really is. With the advent of the "pathetic personals" competition at Worth 1000 I rediscovered my limitless capacity for self-pity when, even after several rewrites, I still found my entry touchingly poignant. I think the point at which I gave up and went back over to browsing stupid animations at B3ta was this:

Days spent stranded 5,000 miles from home, trying to have fun in a one-donkey town surrounded by maize and nights passed trapped in a house with a hyperactive, teething puppy should be a good enough reason to smile.. but something is missing, somehow. A parrot maybe.

Good grief. I need help. Or maybe a hobby. Fixing the car would be entertaining except the Golf is, as always, running perfectly and we don't-like-to-talk-about-the-other-one. This morning I lay down in front of my "Blue Crush" promotional porn and read an engrossing novel called, "the tribes of paulos verdes" - capitalisation theirs, Spanish spelling errors mine - about a young woman finding herself through surfing. There may be a pattern emerging, but unfortunately I have lost contact with the only Californian surfer in my life since she (a) nabbed herself a hunky boyfriend with good teeth and (b) realised that it would cost her less to buy me a computer and Internet connection than to keep phoning me.. and that she couldn't even afford that.

So I'd better drop that one. Swaziland has no coast, so the only surfer in town is Jen's son Marlin.. and after last week's drunken misbehaviour at the strip bar I'm sure I would never be allowed to date him. Mum, don't ask, hem-hem.

Well, I should at least be entertained tomorrow when I pop over to the farm for Easter. I have been warned to bring a bag of nine inch nails and two stout planks. I'm intrigued.

And not a little concerned.

Happy Easter, all.