Ok, sans doute the best concert I have ever, ever, ever been to in my life. Was already a crazy stalker Coldplay freak fanatic who balls her eyes out to all their music and quotes their lyrics, but being with my two besty chickens only a couple metres away from sex-on-legs Chris Martin (and his radical multicoloured piano) was just so freaking emo and so darn amazing. Literally had 'tears streaming... down [my] face...' Feeling like I drank, bathed in, slept in, washed my face with, and cleaned my ears out with Cranberry Brutal Fruit this morning after consuming gargantuan goblets of the stuff throughout the evening. Luckily pink skinnies happened to match pink drink. Ever so fashionable. And totally convenient with regards to spillage.
Am dragging man friend to beach with me on Saturday, since all my chicks have chosen to bugger of to wear daisies and throw rocks, and the forecast says it's going to be a cancer-inducing 30 degrees. Had to specify some rules beforehand.
Olive: It's gonna bake on Sat. Let's go to the bitch and burn our bums off!
Man Friend: Sounds good to me
Olive: Am wintery, wobbly, pasty and pudgy. Plus I need a leg wax. So keep your sunnies on, and no looking down.
MF: Great, am going to the beach with a sasquatch.
Olive: I pride myself on the fact that I'm not your average blonde-anorexic-airhead Capetonian.
MF: Damn - that means you'll actually want to eat at lunch? I better bring cash.
Olive: Yes. And talk about politics.
MF: I'm bringing my iPod.
Olive: Beach bat?
MF: Not sure they allow dogs to play on that beach...
Olive: Am not even sure I fit into my bikini anymore. May just have to wear knickers.
MF: Do I have to sit next to you?
Olive: Yes. Otherwise people might think you're a loner.
Tonight must find bikini. I fear it may have decomposed in back of cupboard.
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