*bashes at keyboard*

If there a preponderance of spelling mistakes in this entry it is most likely due to the fact I gained about 10 kilos in the weekend and am now, along with the AI-astro-predicting monkeys, bashing my ham hock hands into the keyboard at a futile attempt at communication.

The amount of food and alcohol consumed stuns me. A group, quite a large one at that, went away for the weekend to hole up in a holiday house and cackle amongst the throb of oestrogen. It was glorious: a gaggle of glamazons and smorgasbord of seafood, sugar, booze and carbs (sweet carbs).

As a notorious introvert, a fact possibly unknown to the glamazons, I must admit that Saturday night had me itching for a little oasis to filter and recharge, just find a spot out of view to slip on my headphones and drift off into a sweet reverie. Such need for privacy and solitude is hard to explain but such a sweet relief when applied.

It should come as no surprise then that I feel completely uninterested in any sort of commitment or relationship.

So, in light of that, let’s take a look at Mr Banks, joint holder of Perfect Man status with Meester Jack. And a sign that some endlessly fascinating men are out there…just roaming.

In a sign the heavens were shining on my uncaffeinated self, all sorts of packages awaited me this morning. A delightful gift from Yabby, which is ostensibly for the Seagull (who currently answers to both SpiderMan and Jolly Roger), but I’m conspiring ways to claim them as my own. Plus some deliciously minxesque art arrived to inflame and soothe and set my wallet aflutter. Damn, life is good.

True friends share sexual deviancy and starsigns

No, it’s true….they do.

I find that, as I get older, making new friends is almost akin to dating – a cheeky coffee here, a mischievous text message there, long languorous dinners spent confessing all and heartfelt phone calls. Suddenly it sneaks up on you; “I really like this person! Why haven’t they called?” For a woman, the most intense relationship she will ever have is with either her daughter or another female. Not male, in my opinion. Female. We mourn broken friendships like death and giddily delight and share all in the new. It just intensifies as you get older.

There are those rare lassies who you befriend that reduce you to a blushing teen, toeing the dusty ground and altogether too anxious to maintain such intense eye contact. And it was my extreme delight to be in contact with three of them today.

Twittering about the apartment this morning waiting for a gentleman caller of the valuating property kind, I received a most unexpected phone call from the Goddess. The Goddess is the sort of woman who could possibly curse you and your entire family to eternal damnation and yet say it in such a nurturing, silken way you would feel soothed. And she called. Me! On a whim and with her effortlessly brilliant timing. Naturally, it was far too short and nowhere near enough was said – we’re like two seagulls squawking over a dropped chip before one of us has to fly off.

Then, the font of all that is right and good in this world, Miss Yabby (also known to Clairee to my Ouiser – spot the reference, Chick Flicksters) inadvertently let me know that a package was on its merry way to me via Brussels (the country, not the lounge). Not directly, for that would be far too gauche and gauche is not even on the same settee as Miss Yabby, let alone postcode. Just an email tracking mechanism of the parcel to let me know that it, along with her beautiful and caring thoughts, was on its way.

And, just to cap off this most glorious day, I farewelled the sunlight with the Effusive Complimenter at a luxe lounge sipping champagne and mojitos whilst divulging amorous tales and ascending astrological signs.

As I sipped my mojito, I told the lovely and willowy lass of my penchant for mint. It is my catnip. Mint would grow wild and untamed where I grew up (not unlike myself for I was the world’s most painful and eccentric child). It took over a quadrant of the backyard and would abundantly provide absent plucking potential, letting you trace the raised veins of leaves and smell its crushed oils. It still drives me wild with energy and distraction.

When we said goodbye to each other (always enjoyable for the herculean hugs dished out by the lass), the Effusive Complimenter presented me with a parting gift for the train ride home: a sprig of mint, fished from my glass (or even purloined from the bar staff) as we departed. It almost made me sing out in tears. It was a blackened mess by the time I reached my destination from my continual scenting and grasping. Such bliss from such a beautiful gesture.

Please remind me to revisit this post anytime I ever feel alone. Because it is impossible to ever be so when surrounded by such truly amazing femmes.

Fat Pigeon

Yabby, this pigeon is fatter than yours.

It’s all due to the winds

I’m quite sure that wind is responsible for 90% of any movement or change in Singapore. It gets touted as the explanation for everything.

So far, I am amazed:

Highlights:
Chinatown – a state of sensory explosion where the heat cannot stick to you as thickly as the salespeople.
Tiger Beer – when is it not welcome, I wonder?
Sri Mariamman Temple – an amazing Hindu temple that took my breath away.

Lowlights: seeing the state of cats here and how they are treated.

As an extremely idiotic traveller, I have no photos to share at the moment as I forgot a camera cord. I will try my luck with the camera/electronic stores today. Well, after I drag my kind hostess to Sentosa.

Singapore

Singapore is like being hit with a hot wet towel.

I can say that quite comfortably while sitting in an airconditioned apartment. I’m staying with the wonderful Miss Yabby who, as always, had the wonderful foresight to rent an apartment with three air conditioners.

Anyway, I’m off to offend the locals which, given my winning personality, should be quite easy.