First Class
‘Nom-nom-nom,’ that is the sound of me enjoying my complementary First Class Smoked Salmon sandwich. After finding myself in the First Class carriage of my train down to London I have come to the conclusion that I will always entrust the booking of travel tickets to my Husband, even if he does use my credit card to book and then blame his techno-phobia for the upgrade.
I have been travelling for approximately 1 hour during which time I have consumed: 4 cups of tea, 1 glass of orange juice, 1 gin and tonic, 1 salmon and horseradish sandwich, 1 bag of cheese and onion crisps (the hand cooked larney* variety) and a banana. I am tapping into my complementary wifi Internet allowance with unbridled glee and frankly there is very little more value-for-moneying that I can do. I’m fitting in beautifully with all the posh 'yars' in their business suits and tweeds as I am dressed in muddy ‘Hunter’ wellies and a Marks and Spencer knitted jumper that is into it’s 5th day of wear. I am exuding a strong smell of the country as I have been back in the Bus for the last 5 days. Despite becoming extremely adept at balancing my unmentionables over buckets of boiled water and washing my hair under a cold tap I find the smell of wood smoke hard to shake. And as I say I’m wearing a 5-day-old jumper, now adorned with two spots of 1st Class tea. My only complaint about 1st Class is the tea - on two separate occasions now the stewardess has splashed said beverage down the back of my laptop. Luckily the G&T I am currently imbibing is doing wonders to wash away the pain caused by the near-death of my Mac.
As I am on my way down to London to take on another G.A.P.E role I am enjoying every moment of being served as opposed to being the servant. Tomorrow I will take charge of Mr Dementia on a farm in rural England and my 6 weeks of servitude will begin.
But I have rather enjoyed my leisure time camping out in the Bus and enjoying country pursuits like hill walking and cycling. The Husband was home for a time before going off fishing and in the spirit of physical betterment decided to go for a Jog. Being a little unfit, I offered to cycle alongside him in the capacity of his trainer shouting encouraging slogans like, “Run Fatboy Run!” and “Move it or lose it!” or my personal favourite, “You better check yourself ‘fore you wreck yourself!” Now I say cycle, but the only bicycle available to me was a rather rusty BMX ‘Hopper.’ Undeterred the fact that the BMX was designed for a 7 year old or by the fixed seat set to Midget position, I dressed for the wet Autumnal weather in the Husband’s: waterproof trousers, 2 raincoats, gumboots** and black fishing beanie. When I emerged from the Bus dressed in my sporting apparel, the Husband let out a loud guffaw, smiled tenderly and told me I looked very ‘cute’. He’s very lucky the Bus only has a rear view mirror in which to view one’s fashion choices and that I didn’t check myself in it before we set off. For when we returned and I did catch sight of myself I found myself gazing upon the Michelin man, with what looked like a prophylactic nib on my head.
If anyone had driven past us they would have seen a man jogging along at a respectable pace with a deranged marshmallow-shaped woman (approaching her 30s), riding what appears to be a child’s bike, her knees going like the clappers around her ears, with most of purpling-face obscured by a French letter-like hat. After sprinting up one hill my heart was (to borrow a phrase from Whitnail and I) ‘going like a fucked clock’ and I considered lying down in a drainage ditch to rest.
Obviously change must come as I will be a Bridesmaid in a South African wedding on 17 December and we cannot have guests commenting, ‘Who’s your friend? Ag, shame, it’s just your butt.’
Now where is that complementary snack cart?
*Larney – a South Africanism for posh.
**Gumboots – S.A slang for wellies.
I have been travelling for approximately 1 hour during which time I have consumed: 4 cups of tea, 1 glass of orange juice, 1 gin and tonic, 1 salmon and horseradish sandwich, 1 bag of cheese and onion crisps (the hand cooked larney* variety) and a banana. I am tapping into my complementary wifi Internet allowance with unbridled glee and frankly there is very little more value-for-moneying that I can do. I’m fitting in beautifully with all the posh 'yars' in their business suits and tweeds as I am dressed in muddy ‘Hunter’ wellies and a Marks and Spencer knitted jumper that is into it’s 5th day of wear. I am exuding a strong smell of the country as I have been back in the Bus for the last 5 days. Despite becoming extremely adept at balancing my unmentionables over buckets of boiled water and washing my hair under a cold tap I find the smell of wood smoke hard to shake. And as I say I’m wearing a 5-day-old jumper, now adorned with two spots of 1st Class tea. My only complaint about 1st Class is the tea - on two separate occasions now the stewardess has splashed said beverage down the back of my laptop. Luckily the G&T I am currently imbibing is doing wonders to wash away the pain caused by the near-death of my Mac.
As I am on my way down to London to take on another G.A.P.E role I am enjoying every moment of being served as opposed to being the servant. Tomorrow I will take charge of Mr Dementia on a farm in rural England and my 6 weeks of servitude will begin.
But I have rather enjoyed my leisure time camping out in the Bus and enjoying country pursuits like hill walking and cycling. The Husband was home for a time before going off fishing and in the spirit of physical betterment decided to go for a Jog. Being a little unfit, I offered to cycle alongside him in the capacity of his trainer shouting encouraging slogans like, “Run Fatboy Run!” and “Move it or lose it!” or my personal favourite, “You better check yourself ‘fore you wreck yourself!” Now I say cycle, but the only bicycle available to me was a rather rusty BMX ‘Hopper.’ Undeterred the fact that the BMX was designed for a 7 year old or by the fixed seat set to Midget position, I dressed for the wet Autumnal weather in the Husband’s: waterproof trousers, 2 raincoats, gumboots** and black fishing beanie. When I emerged from the Bus dressed in my sporting apparel, the Husband let out a loud guffaw, smiled tenderly and told me I looked very ‘cute’. He’s very lucky the Bus only has a rear view mirror in which to view one’s fashion choices and that I didn’t check myself in it before we set off. For when we returned and I did catch sight of myself I found myself gazing upon the Michelin man, with what looked like a prophylactic nib on my head.
If anyone had driven past us they would have seen a man jogging along at a respectable pace with a deranged marshmallow-shaped woman (approaching her 30s), riding what appears to be a child’s bike, her knees going like the clappers around her ears, with most of purpling-face obscured by a French letter-like hat. After sprinting up one hill my heart was (to borrow a phrase from Whitnail and I) ‘going like a fucked clock’ and I considered lying down in a drainage ditch to rest.
Obviously change must come as I will be a Bridesmaid in a South African wedding on 17 December and we cannot have guests commenting, ‘Who’s your friend? Ag, shame, it’s just your butt.’
Now where is that complementary snack cart?
*Larney – a South Africanism for posh.
**Gumboots – S.A slang for wellies.
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