Thursday, August 11, 2011

Ageing Gracelessly.

My brother has the worst cell-phone manners known to mankind.  They irritate the bejesus out of me.  He's quite happy to dump a call and then not effing return it.  There should be a little handbook on cellphone etiquette.  Rule one: For fuck sake's, phone your sister back.

So, when I phoned Precious Jo'burg Friend the other morning and she didn't phone me back, I was irritated.  Cross, I suppose.  But I forgot about it.  I was too busy having rad fun without her anyway. 

Then I sent out a broadcast message: The Daughter ages soon.  My heart may not cope.  Please come to her party so that you can support me by staying afterwards for some wine.

She responded, immediately, negatively.

That pissed me off further.

I phoned her.

She didn't answer.

I swore.  Loudly.

She phoned me back.

Precious Jo'burg Friend:  Hello my darling.

The Pant: Oh.  It's you.  Can I help?

PJF:  Sorry I didn't phone you back earlier.  I was at a children's party.  And I was bored but it would have been rude to scamper around speaking filth with you.

TP:  You were where?

PJF:  At a children's birthday party.

TP:  Oh.  That's right.  Go to another child's birthday party and not The Daughter's.  I see where your loyalties lie.

PJF:  It's that time of year, my darling.  I don't have two cents to rub together.  And little sense to boot.

TP:  Well, I need you.  I am freaking the sam hell out.

PJF:  Why?  What's up?

TP:  My child is turning 5.  Not only does that make me a mother of a five-year-old, but I also can't use the family parking bays at malls.

PJF:  Pffft.  My child just turned 8.  And I turn 30 next year.

TP:  Ah.  Thanks.  That made me feel better, because I will, always and forever, be younger than you.

PJF:  It won't matter when we're seventy.

TP:  Ah, but 'we' won't be seventy together.  Because you'll be seventy and I'll be sixty-nine.

PJF:  Shut up, you whore.

TP:  You're not allowed to call me a whore.  You didn't phone me back.

PJF:  Fine.  We're even then?

TP:  So, I think I'm like one hundred and fifty percent over Larry.

PJF:  Again?

TP:  I was only under him once!

PJF:  I thought you were over him months ago.

TP:  I was.  I have been.  It's just that because you don't answer my calls and don't phone me back I wasn't sure if I'd told you.

PJF:  Can I tell you something that'll get you over the fact that I didn't phone you back?

TP:  Please.

PJF:  I've gone grey.

TP:  It's about time too.  It's so the colour of the season, although you're so much older than me that you find out about trends when they're just expiring, not so?

PJF:  Not grey as in clothes.  Grey as in hair.

TP:  What the fuck for?  That'll make you look older.

PJF:  Not by choice.  My hair has, on its own accord, gone grey.

TP:  NO EFFING WAY!  Like how many greys?  One?  Two?

PJF:  Like forty.  Like my hairline is grey.

TP:  But it wasn't like that a month ago.

PJF:  I know!  And I've had a bad dye job so the greys look light brown and the brown bits look black.

TP:  I can cope with that.  It's better than grey.  I mean, apart from my parents and my brothers and Larry, I think you're the first person I know who has grey hair.  That's so taken my mind off the fact that I'm going to a 40th this weekend.  And it's not like one of my parents' friends - it's one of mine.

PJF:  You've got 40 year old friends?

TP:  I know!  But, before you judge, this chick is super effing rad.  She looks younger than me, is more fashionable and behaves equally if not slightly worse than I do.

PJF:  Ooooo.  Can I come?

TP:  And she's promised a bevy of single men.

PJF:  That's right, Pant.  Go for the old blokes again.  Didn't do your head in with boredom the last time?

TP:  Look.  The young ones are hot.  But I prefer them a little more mature-

PJF:  And by mature you mean wrinkled.

TP:  A little more distinguished-

PJF:  By 'distinguished' you mean grey-

TP:  Less physical more intellectual-

PJF:  With saggy nipples and crap in bed?

TP:  I like them to be a little more in touch with themselves.

PJF:  Wankers?

TP:  No, like, understanding.

PJF:  Right.  I got you.  Gay?