Living for Disco

This blog has been rather quiet of late. Rather than think it’s something to do with blogger’s block, I think it’s more likely that I’ve come to an end. Alot has been happening lately. I’ve been back in the UK for a job interview. I’m getting married. My return-to-the-uk weight gain has already begun. I just don’t have that old blogging mojo these days. I feel that Disco is most definitely dead.

This doesn’t mean that I won’t start again somewhere else. I probably will. But until then, I’d like to thank everyone who reads, and say, hey y’all, you’re fab.

Sayonara

xxx

We sit in the new swanky pizza restaurant, sipping our cocktails. This is our recently established Saturday afternoon ritual, brought about so that we can sit in the sun with fancy drinks in martini glasses, saying “I never imagined that being a VSO volunteer would be like this” and then trying to get a better look at the waiter’s bum.

We decided that on this occasion, the thing that would make our lives complete would be a dish of olives, which we could nibble delicately while sipping our cocktails and looking like film stars (albeit film stars with eyebrows like Julia Roberts circa 1988, a wardrobe from Mr Price, and filthy 8 month old plastic flipflops).

“Excuse me,” we said. “Could we please have a dish of olives?”

“?” said the waiter’s face.

“Olives? Do you have olives?”

“Yeeees,” said the waiter, uncertainly, looking at us as if we were dangerous criminals recently escaped from straitjacketed incarceration.

“May we have some please?”

“Yeeees,” said the waiter, backing away.

Now, it isn’t unsual here to be able to get a little bowl of olives to snack on. This isn’t beyond the realms of the reasonable. We could not understand why he seemed so thoroughly discombobulated, especially as this restaurant is relatively posh.

The waiter returned and laid the plate down in front of us. On it, staring gently at us, lay two olives, and a toothpick each.

We thought it best not to ask for any more.

I’ve been doing really well for the last few months, as far as being depressed goes. By this I mean that generally I’ve been happy. There are some days, naturally, when the washing up glares malevolently from the sink as if bent on destroying my mental wellbeing, and just waking up turns me into a bitter, self-loathing witch. However, these days they are pretty few and far between.

That said, there are a few reasons why I might have another appointment with my psychotherapist, who I haven’t seen since May. See if you can guess which one it is:

1. I have the fear about going home. I’m worried that I’m going to miss Namibia more than I have bargained for. I think sometimes that I take the vast blue skies, the balmy days, the hazy mountains and the splodgy bright bougainvillea for granted, and once I go home, everything is going to seem eternally grey.

2. I have the fear about what’s ahead. What happens when I go home, start a new job and a new life with a new man? What if it doesn’t work out? What if I don’t get this job and have to work in MacDonalds, or sit transcribing insurance dockets from an old tape machine for 2.50 an hour? What if the pair of us find that we can’t live together? What if what if?

3. I’m worried that I’m still on the anti-depressants. I don’t want to be on them for much longer. I’d like to stop now please.

4. She wants to find out how my international blind date went.

Answers on a postcard. The correct answer wins a packet of smarties.

UPDATE! So, no-one got the correct answer, which was, in fact, number 4. She wanted to catch up and see how I’m doing, particularly as she was interested in the outcome of the date. So, while I am worried about those other things, it’s certainly not to the extent that I’d seek professional help. I’m just a worrier, naturally. I think I’ll keep the smarties.

I have been a bit quiet these last few days because my head has been like one of those bingo ball machines. I have been all a-flutter, and haven’t known what’s going to be spewing out next. There are a number of reasons for this, some of which I won’t go into in case crazy ladies start spitting up bile all over the comments box again, and you know how I hate having to go and get the bucket of sand from my special blog cleaning cupboard.

However, one reason is that yesterday I had a job interview. It’s for a job that sounds absolutely brilliant, and which I would very much like to get. The interview was over the phone, and so I found it difficult to gauge how I’d done, but it seems that they want me to go in and meet them, so I’m flying home for a week, in two weeks time.

Over the last few hours my head has been filling with all kinds of things, both good and bad, that I can look forward to in the UK that I don’t get here. These include:

my boyfriend
real ale
more kinds of cheese than you can shake a stick at
jaffa cakes
crumpets
rain
news features about pointless morons trapped in a house
sausages
clouds
ben and jerrys ice cream
book shops
television (not sure yet whether this is good or bad - I suspect mostly the latter)
grass (the kind that lawns are made from)
traffic

It’s alarming me how many of these involve food.