So, to summarise, I have hit 32 and - apparently - middle age. You know how on dating sites people always write,"I'm just as happy staying in with a bottle of wine and a good book as I am dancing the night away"? (Don't lie - I know you've looked even if you've not subscribed). Well, I have come to discover in 2013 that I am happy staying in. Period. Give me hot a bath, 'The Best of Enya' on Youtube, a bottle of wine and a copy of 'Brighton Rock' (I am an English graduate remember. Three years of Book Critiquing = Literary Snob) and I am one Happy Granny. No dancing the night away, no flaming Sambuccas or Jagerbombs for ME thank you very much. I need to be in bed by at least 930pm or I'll never get up for body attack tomorrow.
Just re-read the last paragraph. I think I need a night out on Broad Street pronto. Key Largo anyone? Oh, that's right. It shut down in 1998.
The down side of staying in is that I'm more likely to encounter Sid The Cockroach at some point during the night. I'm calling him Sid, but in fact there have been several Sids over the last few days. For three consecutive days now I have woken up only to discover a GIGANTIC cockroach lying on its back, antennae going mad, legs flaring, on my bathroom floor. I have no idea where these bastards are coming from, but to keep discovering them one morning after the other is not unlike some kind of Groundhog Day of the scene in The Godfather with the Horse's head. I feel like I've starred in The Cockroach 1, 2 and 3 this week.
Of course, my friends at work think this is hilarious. My first encounter with a cockroach in New Zealand occurred in a very public and shameful manner. Picture the scene: it's 0617am on a Friday morning and a very sleepy Sarah decides to fill up her protein shaker at the water fountain in the gym. As I was standing there staring into space, I suddenly felt something move on my hand. I looked down only to see a massive, shiny, black shield perched on my hand. I screamed the house down, threw my protein powder all over the floor and fled to the other side of the gym. This greatly bemused the massive Maori blokes who were doing incline chest presses in the weights area. My friend Blyth thinks it's brilliant now to peer furtively at the floor when I'm around, in a manner suggestive of several cockroaches (cockroachi?) scurrying around.
One is not amused.
I went out on my first date in New Zealand last week, are you proud? It's only taken me 5 months. It was a guy I found surfing on the beach, I'm so Kiwi bro....... anyway, before you get all excited I need to tell you that I've not heard from him again so no need to rush to House of Fraser to snap up a hat. It wasn't a promising start anyway. In our first conversation I asked him if he was a member of the gym I work at and his reply went like this: "No. I did a 3 week trial but it was too gay for me". I was so taken aback by this reply that I said, "Are you serious?!!" Apparently getting checked out in the men's changing room was too much for him. "I'm pretty homophobic". Being the little Fag Bangle I am I was not a little distressed by this, but I still went out for a drink with him because.... well, mainly because he's the only person to ask me out here and he has big arms. Call me shallow. So I've not heard from him again but perhaps it's just as well. I did feel like I was cheating on my Gay Sisterhood the entire date. I've put YEARS into becoming the camp, cliquey, friend of Friend of Dorothy that I am. My record collection alone would cause most gay men to turn green with envy.
(Celine, anyone?)
KIWI 101 TO BRUMMY
That's mean, bro = that's good, friend = yam alrooight, bab.
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