With VIP guests arriving in Cape Town from all over the world for the FIFA World Cup draw on Friday, my parents are also popping in for 7 days “on their way” back from Australia to the UK. The it’s “on their way” excuse kind of works if you are flexible and fold the map to make Australia look closer to Africa with Perth and Durban merging to form one megatropolis called Purban or Derth or something. Last time they were anywhere near a World Cup event, back in France ’98, my Mum was mistaken for Prince Charles at Boulogne and there were huge issues with her Visa card being in the wrong name. Since Prince Charles is (as far as I am aware) wholly unconnected with the goings on at the CTICC on Friday, I have high hopes that they will have an uneventful stay, credit card wise.
I’ve worked damn hard today preparing the house and garden for our visitors. After all, it’s not every day the heir to the monarchy of Great Britain comes to stay with you. Wait – I’ve got that wrong again, haven’t I? Anyway, lawns were cut, flowers were planted, some painting was done and then I went out to a birthday party and drank 6 Peronis. I know. You’re amazed I can even type straight, aren’t you? So am I, although currently of course I only have my perception of what this looks like. It could actually be complete gibberish. I may well look at this in the cold light of morning and wonder what I was thinking. Actually, that often happens, if I’m honest.
Once again, I’m making excuses for not blogging earlier. Experience has taught me that you get less readers to posts that you write late at night under the influence of Italian beer brewed in Johannesburg (one of the lesser known outposts of the Roman Empire) and that some of them don’t even read to the end of the third paragraph. Thanks if you’ve got this far – I really won’t keep you much longer. The reason I’m blogging at all is to keep up my almighty task of a post a day, which began on January 31st and was originally just going to be for the (short) month of February. That I have kept it going on in various guises for a mighty 302 days so far has cost me readers, my sanity, several hundred hours of sleep and virutally all that remained of my reputation. That I still feel it necessary to come and document my feelings just before midnight and just after 6 Peronis smacks of OCD.
That you’re still reading probably means that you have completely finished the rest of the internet and now only have a choice between So You Think You Can Dance and this. Incidentally, though I’m not a big fan, SYTYCD is actually pretty entertaining after a couple of litres of beer.