Merda profundo (in a bikini)
Oooh affirmation... That's rather nice. I'll try to include more pictures for you Matt, but I don't have any ones from the weekend spent in Hermanus in a mate's country house. At least not any that I can publish until Elle McPherson withdraws her injunction against them since I, in my bikini, threaten to supplant her as "The Body". Chill, Elle, there is room for two!
Speaking of bikinis, a friend in the US sent this to me this morning:
I dreamed I went back to London and was visiting the RR office, and they had turned Research Fortnight into a very fancy, glossy magazine. And you had written a feature in it, and it was called “Research Africa: Writing from South Africa (in a bikini).” And there was a big artsy-fashion photo spread of you lounging about in a bikini and looking very hip and talking about African research policy.
Sorry Nicole, the swimsuit edition of Research Africa won't be out until July 2007.
The Christmas issue, however, is turning into the biggest nightmare. At this very moment in time as I am in what in ancient Rome they used to call merda profundo. Press day on Wednesday and I'm being collectively bullied by all of my contacts. The judases that promised to write pieces for me haven't, and if I survive the next forty-eight hours it will only be due to the energy that the thought of kicking their ass afterwards gives me.
If this were a Hollywood film, this would be time when I'm hanging off a cliff with twenty velociraptors snapping at my heels and bounty hunters and cannibals jumping on my fingers, with me crying: father why have you forsaken me?. And then Gandalf or Spiderman would come and turn them all into slugs crawling on a newly salted road.
Or, in my slightly less photogenic case, emails would actually appear with something other than Eggs and Spam in them... Ooh! An email! Hang on... "Louk no futher!!! C*I*A*L*I*S to your doorstep... Only $1." Hmmm... It seems that life does not imitate art.
The bags under my eyes could be patented by Louis Vuitton. All that's needed is shoulder straps and a bullet in the head. BLAM! Oh dear, blasphemy and suicide all in one post. Someone call McDreamy...
Speaking of bikinis, a friend in the US sent this to me this morning:
I dreamed I went back to London and was visiting the RR office, and they had turned Research Fortnight into a very fancy, glossy magazine. And you had written a feature in it, and it was called “Research Africa: Writing from South Africa (in a bikini).” And there was a big artsy-fashion photo spread of you lounging about in a bikini and looking very hip and talking about African research policy.
Sorry Nicole, the swimsuit edition of Research Africa won't be out until July 2007.
The Christmas issue, however, is turning into the biggest nightmare. At this very moment in time as I am in what in ancient Rome they used to call merda profundo. Press day on Wednesday and I'm being collectively bullied by all of my contacts. The judases that promised to write pieces for me haven't, and if I survive the next forty-eight hours it will only be due to the energy that the thought of kicking their ass afterwards gives me.
If this were a Hollywood film, this would be time when I'm hanging off a cliff with twenty velociraptors snapping at my heels and bounty hunters and cannibals jumping on my fingers, with me crying: father why have you forsaken me?. And then Gandalf or Spiderman would come and turn them all into slugs crawling on a newly salted road.
Or, in my slightly less photogenic case, emails would actually appear with something other than Eggs and Spam in them... Ooh! An email! Hang on... "Louk no futher!!! C*I*A*L*I*S to your doorstep... Only $1." Hmmm... It seems that life does not imitate art.
The bags under my eyes could be patented by Louis Vuitton. All that's needed is shoulder straps and a bullet in the head. BLAM! Oh dear, blasphemy and suicide all in one post. Someone call McDreamy...
posted by Linda at 17:33
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