No. I'm Not A Lesbian.

You know the reason I'm visiting my homestead?  Well, The Mother's off to London and I thought I'd, I don't know, hang out with her.  Help her pack.  Show her which jerseys to wear with which shoes and which scarf.  Write down all the things I need from various outlets, and hide in her coat pockets, handbag, travel pack, passport, amongst her traveler's cheques.

I've spent a grand total of 4 hours with her in the last three days.  She's been off having her hair done (Matrix Straightening Thingy!  Again!  Amazingness!), nails done, waxes done, eyebrows done, eyelashes done, facial done, pedi done. She's so done that she barely looks like my mother.

But the times that we have spent together - you know, sitting on the verandah face down in a glass of red? - have been really cool.  We've discussed the big things in life.   Take this conversation for example:

Mom: So, did you meet a little lawyer up in Jo'burg while you were with PJF and Bradlow?

TP:  No, Mom.  I've told you.  I'm spending the next six months being Down With Love while I make changes to my life and then I'll consider dating again.

Mom:  Six months?  You're not a lesbian, are you?

TP:  Oh God, Mother.  I've just had my heart ripped out of my chest and then run over several times by a Superbike.  No, I'm not a lesbian.  Let me go and check on my sleeping child.  You know, the one I gave birth to?  Product of heterosexual relations?  (That's not strictly true.  I made The Daughter.  All by myself.)

I scarcely need to comment on the conversation.  Except, I think it necessary to say that I got me some good advice from CT Hairdresser those many moons ago.  So Mom, don't worry, I don't carry a backpack, nor do I wear t-back vests.  And I intend to breed again.  (Can you hear that sigh of relief?)

And last night.  Ah, it was fabulous:

Mom:  Babes, have you heard from Larry?

TP:  No Mom.  I told you.  I texted him after Christmas - wishing him a happy Christmas blah blah blah.  And he never replied.

Mom:  Well, you didn't honestly expect him to reply, did you?

TP:  I did.  I honestly expected him to reply.  But if you don't think I ought to have expected a reply from him, why then are you asking if he's contacted me?

Mom:  Well, he can't reply.  He's been told to leave you alone.

TP:  Again, why do you think I might have heard from him?  (By whom??)

Mom:  Well, I thought you might have contacted him.

TP:  Why would I contact someone who hasn't replied to my texts?  Isn't not replying to your texts pretty much the same thing as saying, out loud, "I'm Just Not That Into You"?

Mom:  Because you love him.  (I think my mom might be a hippy.)  Follow your heart.  Phone him.

TP:  And the, "I'm Just Not That Into You" part?

And this is where family is fabulous.  They are arrogant on your behalf.

Mom:  Oh no.  Larry can't do better than you, my darling.  Of course he's into you.

At which point The Father walked in.

Dad:  Don't you dare ever get hold of that guy.  Ever.  Rather find yourself a decent man.  Stop playing with boys.

(Larry is ten years my senior.  I've never really considered him a 'boy'.  But if he is a boy, who does my father expect me to date next time around?  A man who has already retired from the bench of The Constitutional Court?  Crikey.)

I don't want Larry back.  I think I'm ready to be his friend.  But I don't want him back.  I don't want my next six months of being Down With Love to be interrupted.  But I'd like to be his friend.  I think, honestly, that it's my star sign.  Us Taureans are just not designed to have people dislike us.

But I aint going to phone him.  Hell.  No.

So, it's been good being at home.  Other than worry about the fact that I'm single (I'm still under 30 for crying out loud!), my mother has been a fabulous shopping companion.  She's great.  And today we had the most educational day.

As a result of going to The Midlands Mall, I am more than ever driven to be successful this year.  The place was full of sub-humans with atrocious dress sense.  I mean, there was a little girl, 8 maybe 9, in a pair of high heels, stonewashed denims from the '80's and a t-shirt that read 'Too Sexy To Touch'.  And there was an image that could've been pudenda.  I think it was supposed to be lips.  But looked more like abstract vagina art.

And, shame, there was this little Indian boy with a hair cut that would rival the chick from Die Antwoord's.  The poor boy had a mullet mohawk - all the way to his bum!  With bits that were peroxided.  Child abuse?  Pretty close.

AND!!  These people do not know how to walk.  I nearly sustained concussion on several occasions when people in front of me would just stop.  To look.  At nothing.  I'm going to design Mall Tail Gates.  So you know whether the person in front of you is stopping or turning.  And in some shops, even reversing.