Monday, June 09, 2014

The Gokwe Kid and the Mystery of the Plastic Meat.

Sometimes even I worry about me. That is because no one else does. No one phones, no one pops around, no one invites me out. T
hat is because they think I am a weird. Even my own children avoid me. The people I work for placed me in an apartment at the end of a cull in a sack on the outskirts of town, to rot away without causing too much chaos to their idyllic, peaceful life.

Well, last night, whilst cooking the pork belly, I noticed a funny smell. A bit like burning plastic and then BOOM, everything went off, plunging me into a shaft of light from the dying sun, via the loft window.

For a moment, in my panic, I thought maybe I had bought ornamental meat. I recalled when I nearly died in Rhodesia whilst visiting a china. Starving as usual, I spotted some fruit in a bowl. Grabbing a shiny, rosy apple, I took a huge bight and masticated like a an Ethiopian getting some Band Aid.
Suddenly, whilst my china stared in wonder, I noticed that it tasted rather odd. The nearest I can describe the waxy goo was when in one of my 'strange thoughts in my head', I wondered what a candle tasted like.

Anyway. With all the lights off, along with everything else, I found my torch by standing on it barefoot, nearly breaking a metatarsal, and went back to the hob to investigate. (I am not the greatest Bush detective for nothing hey!) To my horror, I realised I could have DIED. Some complete idiot, had turned on the wrong ring, and instead of frying the pork belly, the back ring was frying the kettle's electric wire!

Totally traumatised, (I unplugged it, reset the fuses), cooked the pork belly, and still shaking with adrenalin, went early to bed...only to hear the fixed phone ring! I was already half asleep and in my delirium sort of listened with half an ear and brain as TGK member, Petra Thynne's, husband droned on the answering machine that he sadly can not meet up today because they are obligated as members of a Norwegian ex-pat club in Munich, that they must help in some ritual of seal pups clubbing down at the zoo.

And – just as I was using my own version of counting sheep (I pretend that I stole a nuclear submarine and loaded with missiles, I bomb places like Mecca and the Vatican), one of my mobile phones rings! Eish. I looked this morning. A Munich number. Very dodgy...

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