Ilovemyflatmate.blogspot.com

Yes yes, I know I haven’t written in a while. The reason will become apparent shortly. But before I go into that, let’s recap the frenzy that was the past two/three weeks:

- house sat for my manager in her swish Melville house while she was away one weekend. Both the Gilb and I are allergic to cats, so we were puffy-eyed and sniffling the whole time, which is both amusing and highly unromantic while making love, or what some would call a lovemaking session (yeuch! Does anyone say these dreadful words?!)
- I moved out of my house, and in with Peas last weekend, hence the blog title. While it’s only temporary till a suitable male moves in with her next year, it’s still tremendously exciting coming in to the flat and screeching “Honey I’m home!” over the din of Peas on a microphone, wailing to Frank Sinatra/B.E.P/Michael Bolton (seriously) while simultaneously trying to quaff (or smash it in her face, as she quaintly puts it) a G&T. Vices: she doesn’t do dishes the way you or I would, which is to say “clean” them in the strictest sense of the word. Virtues: many. Although singing’s not one of them. Highlights are: she’s a wonderful conversationalist, a drama magnet with thousands of intrigues to share daily, a quirky dresser who allows me to make strong suggestions about which belt to combine with which earrings, a less-than-gifted dancer who nevertheless dances with the confidence of Fergie (B.E.P fame), someone who can tell you all about the décor at the Brenthurst (not the clinic, the Oppenheimer residence) and various elite Westcliff households, all in the same sentence as using her charming phrases like “Bless!”, “Shut up! Get out of town!”, “Oh my Christmas!” and the now-famous “Smash it in your face!” (which can mean let’s eat, let’s kiss, let’s get this over and done with etc etc). To us, Peas!
- After a year of emailing a handsome, dark, mysterious stranger I only met once, we ran into each other (more design than fate, actually) at the Pinkies party in Sandton last weekend. He was every bit as fabulous as I remembered him, not sure I carried my own torch as high as he remembers it, though. We had a decent face-to-face chat, which will hopefully not change the divulge-all nature of his emails in future. Till next time, mate  The party itself was so-so, I expected a bit more debauchery than I saw. Does one have to do all the misbehaving oneself these days?!

Right, enough catch-up, the reason for the sparseness of my posting lately: again, that favourite four-letter word of mine, work. Given the frequency of the unusually long hours I’ve been putting in lately, I decided to keep a day-by-day log of the hours I put in. I’ve only had it going since the 21st November, but to date it reveals: a) I’m a bit of a geek for keeping a log of working hours, but more importantly, b) in the ten days since, I’ve worked an average of 15.35 hours a day. Yes, that includes weekends. And last night, when I pulled an all-nighter for today’s deadline. In the nine-odd remaining hours each day, I’ve barely had time to perform the rudimentary hygiene routines, smash food in my face, keep up my highly-demanding social profile, let alone sleep or post blogs. But, there’s hope: in exactly fourteen days, I’m off to Mozambique with Peas and her great entourage, followed by Christmas and New Year’s with the Gilb’s famdamily in Plett. Oh, and I’m off to the Natal Midlands this weekend for a rustic two days in a lodge. Viva holidays!