That Saturday began at 10am, when I woke up to hear my lovely mother, or something to that sort, screaming at my brother to get the fuck out of the shower, there's 5 other people in this house! Groggy and groaning, I lay in bed until I heard them all leave the house, my little brother had football practise or a basketball game or some drug deal he had to attend to that all my family except I, wished to see. Who knows. A shower where I stand for 15 minutes, 10 minutes past the allowed limit until my skin is burning pink from the heat, and then quickly dress myself and dash outside for a quick cigarette. With my book, I had a book. It's called Love Medicine and talks a lot about alcohol, sex and Indians. I love that book.
I saw some students on the school roof, some were reading and some were just sitting there. They had clothes on that I would not wear in my dreams, but then again I'm sure they wouldn't wear mine either. The bell went and they left, and they left and left a guitar behind. Some people are quite careless.
Then of course my family came back, after my reading of some alcoholic Indian sex, a cup of coffee and creation of cancer. When they come back it's like Charlie Sheen- you have one gear: "GO." Clean, cook, call bank, transfer money, clean, cook, check dishwasher, wash clothes, clean, forget something, eat, clean, empty dishwasher, finish laundry, breathe... and then realise you have to leave to town in 20 minutes and your hair's a mess and you're wearing sweatpants. Whisk on some clothes and slap on some slap and you're good to go, girl.
I've never been much of a material girl, I'll tell you that much. But when I walked in there and saw the sparkly floors and soft light, the people in suits and skirts, I understood why people like money. Of course you need to swat away a few of the 44 year old perverts and sweet talk the barmaid on your birthday to get some rosy drinks cause you're a rosy cheeked birthday girl.
In the end I wasted 90 euros, because I don't care much for money.
It's always a little surprising, or shocking, or gut-wrenching, to bump into someone you used to know. Then you feel a bit giddy and happy and you get those little crawling bugs in the pit of your stomach because let's face it, you're a tiny bit tipsy and all your insecurities sort of disappear, and you feel whatever you want to feel. And I felt happy. Until I realised it was a bit awkward. So then I became sad.
My taxi driver was an Indian-South African called Farid or Faarid or something. He has lived here in Holland for 16 years. He didn't speak much English, but he told me I was a good girl, going home on time like that and with about as much as a glass of wine in my system. He said I was pretty too. I said I lived in Johannesburg. He said it was a very bad place to live.
And then it was silent.
I saw some students on the school roof, some were reading and some were just sitting there. They had clothes on that I would not wear in my dreams, but then again I'm sure they wouldn't wear mine either. The bell went and they left, and they left and left a guitar behind. Some people are quite careless.
Then of course my family came back, after my reading of some alcoholic Indian sex, a cup of coffee and creation of cancer. When they come back it's like Charlie Sheen- you have one gear: "GO." Clean, cook, call bank, transfer money, clean, cook, check dishwasher, wash clothes, clean, forget something, eat, clean, empty dishwasher, finish laundry, breathe... and then realise you have to leave to town in 20 minutes and your hair's a mess and you're wearing sweatpants. Whisk on some clothes and slap on some slap and you're good to go, girl.
I've never been much of a material girl, I'll tell you that much. But when I walked in there and saw the sparkly floors and soft light, the people in suits and skirts, I understood why people like money. Of course you need to swat away a few of the 44 year old perverts and sweet talk the barmaid on your birthday to get some rosy drinks cause you're a rosy cheeked birthday girl.
In the end I wasted 90 euros, because I don't care much for money.
It's always a little surprising, or shocking, or gut-wrenching, to bump into someone you used to know. Then you feel a bit giddy and happy and you get those little crawling bugs in the pit of your stomach because let's face it, you're a tiny bit tipsy and all your insecurities sort of disappear, and you feel whatever you want to feel. And I felt happy. Until I realised it was a bit awkward. So then I became sad.
My taxi driver was an Indian-South African called Farid or Faarid or something. He has lived here in Holland for 16 years. He didn't speak much English, but he told me I was a good girl, going home on time like that and with about as much as a glass of wine in my system. He said I was pretty too. I said I lived in Johannesburg. He said it was a very bad place to live.
And then it was silent.
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