Just one thing

That's all the culture you can apparently do in London in a day, unless you're super organised. Or have a helicopter.

On Sunday I was supposed to go to Musical Event A, meet N.E. for a catch-up, attend Musical Event B, meet P.S. for a catch-up, attend Musical Event C and call it a night.

Instead I missed A thanks to the tube deciding to take two hours to get from Heathrow to central London. It kept stopping at stations that didn't seem to be listed on the map.

Met N.E. for lunch, which turned into waiting long time for a table, waiting long time for service, eating lunch and exploring for long time a fantastic Dali/Picasso exhibition, which made me so late that I missed event B. Not that I minded, exactly. The exhibition was completely fabbalas and there was even Art for sale. Yes, actual Picasso drawings of funny-looking horses (only 500 squids! That's almost affordable even in rondts! I did consider buying one so I could one day say to dinner-party guests 'Oh, that? That's a Picasso. [pause for effect] It's not a print.'), and very very expensive Dali etchings (starting at 3,000 squids for a squiggly nude wench drawn on a piece of paper slightly larger than a 50p stamp) and the loveliest Chagall paintings (supposedly not quite so sought-after as Dali, having a starting price of 1,100 squids).

P.S. brought her sister along and instead of C (Bach's Musical Offering) it turned into rather too many delicious cocktails and lots of nosy questions on my part about the respective love lives of P.S. and sister. Then there was a lot of chatting to a young plaasjaapie working at Giraffe who kept insisting he was not from Johannesburg when I *totally* had his accent placed. How often does an ex-pat get to serve a party of three South African customers on the banks of the River Thames?

Well, probably every day, knowing London.

Vivaldi sets his folio down...

...in favour of a deerstalker hat. It's time to make like Sherlock Holmes and find out exactly how much music there is to hear in London in a 12-hour period.

Just researching the topic has seemingly left me spoilt for choice.

Not broken

My wrist, that is. And before you say anything, no, it was not caused by excessive flapping.

It's a bona fide sports injury, yes it is!

Admittedly, it's from falling while trying to do a Xanadu-esque skating trick on the ice rink, so it's quite possibly the gayest sporting injury conceivable, but there you have it.

So no broken bones then, thank you for asking. It will apparently get better by itself. And in the meantime I am enjoying 400mg tablets of lumiracoxib, which are fuzzy-feeling-inducing. Goddess bless Novartis!

...

Also, and this really is not related to anything written above, do you find your hair has changed colour over the years?

I went from being strawberry blond to mid-range mouse. Then, for a bit in my early 20s, I enjoyed actual chocolate-brown hair, which is the best colour I could have hoped for. Then back came the mouse. Then came a long period of experimentation with various hairdressers. But that is behind me now, and it's very weird indeed, but I do appear to be turning into a bit of a redhead. Look, maybe it's just an optical illusion caused by the fluorescent lights that are invariable fitted above dressing-room mirrors. Most odd.

So, dear Reader, tell me true: has this change of pelt happened to you?

Pet peeve

Or rather, one of a seemingly infinite number of peeves.

I am keep reading press releases saying that consumers should be weary of revealing information to scam artists posing as bank officials.

Gosh, I'm suddenly really tired of this.

Similarly, it bugs me no end to read advice from bank PRs about what you should do when you loose your password.

Go, little passwords, go! Be free!

Mounting Mr Darcy, revisited

I suppose I had it coming, chucking topless pics of myself on to the internet in a bid to find True Love (TM), but I still managed to be surprised and amused at an invitation to star in a gay porn flick.

Yessirree, yours truly has been invited to submit 'face, body and cock/ass shots' for inclusion as one of the eight characters in a movie that somebodyorother is coming to Johannesburg expressly to shoot.* 'We want to get a nice mix of hot man from different backgrounds, body types, ages.'

Then again, it could be that everyone in Joburg on this particular site was invited. But I feel honoured nonetheless.

No, of COURSE I'm not going to participate. I mean, that's just laughable. Me, in a porn flick, hahahaaa! I have enough of a hard - I mean, difficult - time not laughing during sex as it is. It's a remarkably undignified act, isn't it? I doubt I could stop from laughing at the execrable script.
Yeah, baby, give it to me just like that, you know how I like it, uh-huh. *chortle*.

Although I could invent a tacky porn name, like Ryan 'Roughride' McHardy or similar. I wonder if I'll get to wear a leopard-print cowboy hat?

Ooh, I also want to know what the name of the movie might be. Drill Bill?


*Whoa! Call the grammar police and have me up on charges of being convoluted! (This is not related to porn flick auditions, no no no.)