I hate it.
The Northerners have it right with their whole daylight savings thing. Actually, the cold-blooded reptiles did one better with hibernation. Bugger all happens in winter, expect either wallowing in summer nostalgia, or avoiding it through warm smooth red wine.
I have just informed my boss it is time to institute Day Light Savings in this office. He said some rubbish about people with kids and school hours. Then just inform the teachers of your new life policy! He suddenly then promised to bring me a bottle of red wine tomorrow. I’ve been working here for too long. Or just long enough.
But really, what’s new in the world right now?
No one is throwing champagne around in celebrations of new shags, new lottery winnings, new…new… there ain’t nothing new. And there most definitely hasn’t been champagne touching my lips, let alone anywhere else, in too long a while now. We’re meant to be on pause, or decline right now. That’s how this season works.
Darfur continues to be a bugger up. None of us commoners have a real clue what is going on. And I am willing to bet my last glass of Tassies that neither do the top officials. We’re all just waiting for the indy movies to explain it all in a decade, when we can hold Anniversaries and declare that never again should we let such atrocities occur.
We haven’t been really pissed off with old Bob for about a month now. I’m sure it’s time for him to spring a rehashed power-ravenous act on us. Just so we can state that “how can America move into Iraq to implement democracy, yet be blind to Zim”, that our president’s greatest screw up is his “Quiet Diplomacy”, and oh those poor good normal citizens of what was once the Bread Basket of Africa. And then we’ll let it go for another month.
One pompous asssed Brit replaced another. And those without a clue think this makes a difference in the world.
Paris Hilton made headlines.
Our rugby players might be about to be incredible. They might crumble under the pressure.
My street kid is freezing to death on some Jo’burg street.
Even the bludy strike is in slow winter mode. Not really rising to the fiery occasion.
In an attempt to get my head out of the world screw ups. To stop dreaming of African caricatures. (The other night was about trying deal with African bureaucrats. Gawd. I think my subconscious needs to lay off the drugged flash backs). I braved the Exclusives sale yesterday.
I was attempting to find a GOOD, light hearted, funny, page-turning book. Ultimately – Chick Lit at its best.
I worked my way through Bridget Jones & Marian Keyes years back. As well as Tony Parsons. Spud. Adrian Mole. Not so much Nick Hornby, but then I know bugger all about football or I’d watched the movie. I’ve done a Terry Pratchet. It ain’t for me. I’ve o.d.ed on Tom Robbins. As well as The World According To Garp guy.
There are other criteria though. There is nothing more painful than trying to read your day through a rehashed story. One that’s attempting humour. And just not making the grade. I need GOOD & ORIGINAL books here.
Do you realise how many book blurbs I read that stated: This is the next Sex & The City!!! …for the next generation… the Asian version… for the intelligentsia… for the drug-twisted insane woman. Who knew old Cary Bradshaw could be so dynamic!
And I don’t want intelligent humour either. I want light hearted. Rubbish. Jabber. A skill that proves not at all easy to create.
And if the words “death” or “war” or “problems” appear, I’m turfing it. As soon as. I don’t need any temptations. One book looked decent, but it was about a woman who was a bounty hunter. No no no.
Any recommendations??? Please???
When you think up something, you can find me, hanging over a glass of red, in the pub next door.