My Uber rating as a passenger is 3.6 stars. And given that I’m an A type personality and a completely brilliant passenger, I am curious about the missing 1.4. I’ve never been late for a ride. I stand on the side of the road in … Continue reading 3.6 *****
Today I got this letter:
I read about your show and decided to pluck up the courage and go on my own to watch it. I’m new in Johannesburg and don’t know many people.
Your show really made me think about how I need to break out a little, live on the edge, be a bit saucy. Thanks to you I’ve decided to commit myself to one wicked or edgy act daily.
I wasn’t sure how I’d pull it off, not being an experienced woman like you. But a girl has to start somewhere and I started the very next morning while standing in the Hypermarket queue at Sandton City. In front of me was this deliciously handsome man, well groomed, straight teeth and, most important, no wedding ring.
While pretending to search for a chocolate I accidentally knocked him with my trolley. Naturally I apologized while generating a deeply pained expression on my face. He was terribly polite, and I could hardly contain my excitement when I noticed my trolley had ripped his lovely rear pocket. He couldn’t see it, so I had to show him exactly where to find the tear. I insisted he let me pay for the damage and we exchanged numbers.
His name is Peter, and he suggested we meet around the corner from his apartment later this evening.
Here’s my problem. Peter now knows my name, my mobile number and Facebook ID. Okay I wanted to show him my Paris photos. As he said goodbye I managed to look into his trolley.
I was buying vegan sausage, salad and veggies, his trolley, however, held four items – latex gloves, antiseptic, a fungus cream and a bottle of wart ointment.
Violet, I think my ambitions were a bit over-sauced for a beginner. I’ve now got cold (fungus free) feet and a terrible fear that Peter could be an axe murderer. What do I do, he’s expecting me to show up tonight at the Hyde Park Southern Sun at seven.
Yours in utter distress
I replied immediately.
Forget Peter. I know him. He’s mine.
With love, Violet.
N.B Who the fuck eats vegan sausage anyway.