Matchmade in hell....

Now this might come across as ungrateful or callous. But I’m in no need of some small town bum who has now desire or inclination of reaching more in life than the local fast food joint or car-wash. Look, a jobs a job, but have some ambition and drive.

I’m very sure my mam and nan have only my best intentions at heart. I’m equally sure that parents would like to see their children married, settled, happy etc with a person they love and respect. This does not however mean that said child wants to be set up with various social rejects from (no disrespect) church, auntie’s so and so’s son, nephew, brother, cousin, neighbor or whoever else they scared or blackmailed up from the gutter.

I’m sure, in time, I’ll find my own man by my own means. Granted they haven’t been brilliant in the past, and I’ve been out on some howlers with some equally abhorrent creatures from the depths of Dante’s inferno.  I couldn’t have been more surprised if some of them sprouted horns and a tail. At least then I’d know what I was dealing with.

But as with psychopaths and deranged killers, they look just like everyone else and can come across quite normal. Until they open their mouths and you witness what’s spewed forth. 

No i wouldn’t like to be trussed up as the Christmas gammon, with a ball gag, ta. I’m clipping my toenails the next 600 Sundays from now. A shame, I’m sure.

This same rather frightful specimen actually dragged out a studded collar and leash and told me quite up front that I could have these if I wanted to experiment! Before I could gather my thoughts enough to come up with a reply, hê also told me rather nonchalantly that hê could procure several “gimps” that would be willing to wear said trimmings. 

I jump up, right, terrible thing’s just happened, flatmate rung, I left the iron on, fire brigade en route. Must dash.

I literally run out of said fashionable establishment coat, bag, travel-card in hand. I get on the first bus i see, never mind that it’s going to Shoreditch and not anywhere near London Bridge. Gracious sakes alive. I don’t know whether i should laugh or cry.

What hope does mankind have if society is filled with these poor delusional characters that think that what women want is to be tied to a radiator while he walks around in leather shorts pretending to dominate you?

Give me strength.

After changing buses about 3 times to eventually reach my destination, I sit and wait for the train to arrive. Not long after I’ve boarded I slump into a seat rather defeated and crack open my book.

A figure does the hesitation shuffle down the aisle and plonks himself next to me considering there’s a whole train carriage full of empty seats I start to worry.

 No matter how much I frown, or pretend to be reading hê tries to draw my attention.

Why me? Why now?

You know he says, I like stamps. I like licking stamps. I’d like to lick some stamps and stick them on you.  

At first i thought he was joking, but when looking up from my book, eyebrow raised, hê seemed quite serious. Right, I’ve just about had it now.

Sir, would you please mind sitting elsewhere, I inquire? Like outside? While the train is still moving?

Idiot wont budge.

Now he goes on to tell me he likes sticking nicotine patches on (you’ll never guess where) a certain part of his anatomy as he likes the tingling sensation.

The creep still won’t move and I’m forced to gather my belongings, gird my loins mentally and stand up.

Getting off so soon love? He slurs.

I choose to take the moral high road and smack him in the head with my bag while i move two carriages on to sit by myself and read.

Hurrah, next stop is mine and I get off to walk home. 

My plight will finally be over and I can relax in the privacy of my own home before i have to brave society again tomorrow.  Hopefully I’ll have mended my mental armor before then.

Two blocks before I reach my destination, I’m accosted by some man asking the time. Do I look like a talking clock? 

I choose to ignore him and just soldier on home, but there I made a mistake again. He’s obviously after something more than just the time. He's wearing what looks like a fake Rolex circa 1975 and it’s left a lovely green tinge round his wrist. So now we know what kind of character he is.

Oi, you uptight cow (censored for sensitive readers), too good to give the time aint ya?

You know what you need, dontcha? You need to be bent over....

Before hê can finish his rather crude sentence, i lose it. Hannibal Lectre that I normally keep chained up on his little trolley has gnawed through the restraints and he's out for blood.

I bash the creep with my handbag as many times as possible, he trips over the curb and ends up in the street. In the handbag bashing the contents of my bag is now strewn everywhere, I chuck everything i can find at this lowlife in the gutter, book, hand-cream, perfume bottle, keys, even my orange I was going to have for lunch.

By now he's gotten up, running away yelling at what a crazy b!tch I am.

Probably, but what did you expect from an Opera? A happy ending?

Feel the burn....

It's a great Jane Fonda line, feel the burn, although it was technically something that was last heard in the roaring, brightly coloured 80's.

Everywhere you turn nowadays you're lectured on eating healthily, drinking plenty (of water mind) and exercising.

I've never been much of an exerciser, as I'm an instant gratification type of gal. I want to do three sit ups and see a difference, NOW dammit, but since relocating back from London I walk a lot less as one; it's too dangerous and secondly, South Africans are a lazy breed and we drive everywhere (Not me, i get chauffeured I'll have you know).

Less walking, equates to much more lard accumulating around my midsection and i wobble worse than the Pillsbury dough boy, or to put it differently i resemble a vertical water bed. That's about to spring a leak.

The good Lord in his infinite wisdom, was most kind and gracious and blessed me with an ample bosom, so running, skipping, jumping or things along those lines are not the best of ideas. Ever. What's a girl to do you ask?

I don't think we have the luxury of personal trainers in this one chicken town and even if we did I'm not really sure I want to fork out any of my hard earned money only for someone to yell at me to do any of the above mentioned things that will cause massive trauma to my head and other extremities. 

Light bulb moment. Like everyone else of my generation I'll Google it.

I start typing, low impact, non strenuous, bad back exercises, hmm. Let's see. Google reckons I need to go get something called an exercise ball (Oh Lord, does Google realize where I live? Does Google realize mozzarella is a luxury that has to be ordered in and delivered in some hyper cooled, big behemoth of a specialized German manufactured lorry?), or yoga ball and proceed with the following exercises. Looks harmless enough. How hard can it be? (Never dear readers, ask that question, because it can be very very hard).

Anyhow, off to the local sports shop I go. This is all very new territory to me, I have no idea what half these gadgets do, let alone how they work, all I want is an exercise ball! I've even brought a picture of some smiley lady sitting on said exercise ball, hardly breaking a sweat!

After much explanation, hand gestures, frowning and jabbing at the picture, I finally leave the store with said exercise ball in tow. Right, flab beware, you're going to be sorry you've settled on my derriere.

Schlepping all my shopping home I finally realize quite late into the night that I'd bought said ball, and that it probably needs inflation of some kind.

Bugger, now what? Rip open the packaging and find something that resembles my great aunty Tessie's icing gun. Riiiiggggghhhhhttt, they want you to exercise, but then give you clues as to cake baking? How's that work? Do ten of these and have a cupcake after? Strange exercise program this.....

I decide to leave it for some man person around the house to do said inflation. Friday dawns and my kid brother volunteers to do the inflating.

What do you want with a beach ball in anyway, he enquires? We're miles from the sea? And shouldn't it be stripey or colourful at least? Can't you just take the umbrella? You know, the big green one. You don't tan well at all....

No, i say, it's not a beach ball, it's an exercise ball. Exercise? He says, YOU are going to EXERCISE?

Yes, alright, i mutter, i'm going to try in anyway by Jove.

Much effort goes into this inflation malarkey. The inflation nozzle that they provide to inflate said ball doesn't quite fit into the ball correctly which means half of the air escapes into well, thin air, and you have to put twice as much effort in to inflate the thing.


Finally, after much grunting and profuse sweating (before I've even started exercising) the ball is inflated. Hurrah! Now i can go do another cursory study of my carefully downloaded exercises (with pictures) and get rid of this flab! Right? Well....

Donning my ever so stylish exercise garb with super support and everything elasticated and breathable (that's just the shorts) I now face my Rubicon. The point of no return.

Bringing my bits of paper with me for guidance as to what goes where, i start off with the plank position. Sounds harmless enough.

Oh, how sorely mistaken i was. While getting the hang of the positioning of the plank and breathing correctly, two of our sausages (dogs) come to investigate. This is too much fun for them to lose out on...

I hadn't noticed they'd crept up on me and it was only when i was propelled forward by a great gust of wind and smacked into an ancient wardrobe being sanded down, that no, this wasn't the Armageddon, or the second coming, the ball had simply popped.

The little blighters had thought this a most fun plaything and decided to give it a bite, or two, instead of just puncturing it, they bit a massive chunk out of it and it went bang, and I went flying. Not what I had in mind for my first exercise session. I think I'll be traumatized for life and the therapy will last for decades. 

I now have carpet burn all the way from my elbow to my pinky which is most unsightly, I squint out of my left eye where i'd smacked into the wardrobe, the ball is no more and the dogs in their flight out of the room in horror piddled on the newly washed carpet until they reached the safety of outside. All in all, a most productive 10 minutes!