I'm entering Come Dine With Me SA. I'm a little worried about this entry, particularly because I'm exceptionally worried that I will, in fact, be chosen to participate in said show, in which case I'll have to quickly learn to cook, start cleaning those forgotten nooks and crannies (like the dining room table, book shelf, piano stool, and under the very large wooden table in the lounge). Plus I'll have to learn to be amiable.
I may have to take a refresher course on manners.
You see, I had a wee little think to myself the other day - as I'm wont to do - and realised that I'm seriously (no, like seriously) coming to grips with singledom. And 'by coming to grips with', I'd prefer it if you read 'really fucking enjoying it'. Seriously.
You see, the truth is - and it's a scary truth - that I've grown accustomed to having my own space, not sharing my bathroom, leaving my tampons in a bright pink box on the back of the toilet, leaving used strips of wax (that do not look dissimilar to neat little slivers of rodent fur) in the bathroom bin without a lid. I've only myself to blame when the milk runs out, or there's not enough bread for The Daughter's sandwiches, or I've run out of dishwashing liquid.
(That's not strictly true. In fact, it's not true at all. When I do realise that the dishwashing liquid has run out - which is not very often since am not all that keen on actual dish washing - I usually mutter something along the lines of, "Could kill that Armpit!! What does she do with the stuff? Drink it? Crikey effing moses." It's got me into hot water these little rants I have. The Daughter has often greeted Armpit in the morning in manner of, "Morning Armpit, my mom's going to fire you because you drive her to drink," or, "Armpit, you mustn't drink my mom's imported tea, because it makes her red in the face and sweat from the sides of her head.")
I have also, since being on my own, learned that I am not all that fond of underwear. Or clothes, for that matter. And not in a I-sit-around-in-the-knick-cross-legged-while-watching-telly kind of way. But I've employed an open-door policy in our house. I'm regretting it now, of course, since there appears to be no hiding place. When I was growing up my parents used to escape to the bathroom with their books for hours on end, while my brothers tried to kill each other with knives and I burned incense and felt moved by nature. (God, I was an awkward teenager). When I try that in our house, The Daughter is quite happy to camp beside me, begging to read Curious George on the kindle.
I can't imagine that the guests on Come Dine With Me SA would be all that charmed to round the corner, and find me perched upon the loo, in the knick. Nor would they be pleased to find that there may, in fact, be a chocolate - no that's crazy, chocolate doesn't have a shelf life, since it cannot actually exist for longer than 40 seconds in The Liner Household - an apple, 100 days old, lodged between the trunk and the back of the couch.
I'd be especially upset, though, if I spent a whole week of my life dining with boring people who don't say 'fuck'. I think that's my biggest fear in this whole debacle. Yes. It's boring people who don't say 'fuck'.
And any meal involving pork, bananas, tripe, kidney, rice pudding and sago. And pro nutro. Or anything that is similar in texture to male sexual expulsion.