Always connected Queenie – great minds and all that.
You gave me one hellva a fright with the title of your last post, not to mention some of the content – who is this non-drinking, oat eating home body you talk of? Brace yourself for my leave in February because I WILL undo all your good work.
Woelf has already suggested that he has a) become richer and b) healthier since my departure, which can’t be true surely? Not after I had laid such solid ground work for general bad behaviour … sob … You were supposed to supervise. Explain yourself Queenie?
I’m still in a state of disbelief that people pay to have their feet nibbled by fish?! Give me strength … I will require photographic evidence and full disclosure on this please. Until such time I am convinced you are making it up to pull punters in for pampered, which BTW FYI I love but can’t look at without being aswash with envy.
It actually made me think of the little luxuries I miss – the sleeve on Starbucks coffee, Pret Croissants, traffic lights .. that work, and the more fundermental home appliances I now realise I would like to marry.
Not to be taken out of context, I absolutely love being back in Uganda, but while straddling the bath this morning covered in blue omo washing powder, I realised perhaps I have had too much ‘Kellogg’s’ and am not as African savvy as I once was …
As part of my interview P asked if I had had too much ‘Kellogg’s’. As you can imagine I was somewhat taken aback and more than a little confused – had I missed some vital clinical study on the productive benefits of Kellogs vs.Weetabix or did P measure one’s ability in the work place by the food they ate … thorough, if a little weird.
Fortunately he went on to explain that living in London is essentially a luxury, with access to anything and everything you could possibly want and Africa, is not … in the conventional sense.
Only too true I found last night when I I was straddling the bath, trousers rolled up, hair pasted to face. Why you might ask, and with good reason. The answer – when rooting around the kitchen of my current digs at the office I realised there was no washing machine and having run out of pants, I would have to hand wash.
Somewhat of a foreign concept, but undeterred and feeling intrepid I headed out to the staff quarters to ask Sam if I could borrow a bucket and some washing powder. ‘Why?’ was his response, followed by shock, disbelief and utter horror as I explained my plan – as I left, after some reassurances that I was perfectly capable, with buckets balanced on my hip and washing powder in hand I’m sure I glimpsed a smirk …
High on my apparent practicality and obvious ability to adapt to any and all situations, I jumped on a boda boda (kamikaze style motorbikes that originally transported people between borders) to hot tail it to the supermarket for bleach (recommended by Sam for whiter than white) and a few supplies.
The traffic was absolute gridlock so in an effort to get through Boda man weaved at break neck speed between three lanes of tightly packed land cruisers and then, faced with no alternative, hopped the curb and hoofed it down the sidewalk.
The driver responded to my muted squeals with a matter of fact ‘you are not used. We make it’ and bumped us into a higher gear – nerves spent, I buried my head in his back and pulled in my knees for fear of losing them to an NGO bumper.
I managed to negotiate the supermarket despite the mismarked aisles (note to self for future reference washing powder is in the canned fruit aisle) only to be berated at check out for not having weighed my fruit – who knew?
I hopped a boda and headed home windswept and slightly traumatised.
This morning having soaked my laundry I rinsed, wrung out and hung my pants in the shower (I wasn’t about to put them on the communal line) and headed up to hang the rest to the mild amusement of the accounts department.
C stopped me in the corridor to confirm the rumours and when demonstrating my technique and the effort involved, burst into a loud cackle at the mad white girl with the laundry detergent – turns out it’s common practice for Sam to do it … you live and learn.
So in summary Queenie, hug your washing machine because I for one miss mine.
Big love, B xx