Personals ad, and other stories

Wanted:Trillionaire. Octogenarians with faulty hearts/chronic illnesses/terminal illnesses preferred. Penchant for Viagra a must. Debonair good looks not a requirement. Numerous offspring essential (as this womb is not for hire). Own transportation required, wheelchair or hoist will do, as long as both are motorised.

Geriatry comes a-knockin’

It’s official – I am past my prime. You know you’re well past your sell by date when you intentionally leave the house with a book in your handbag as you head out to a club. The book being the back up plan to staving off boredeom an hour or so into proceedings because either…

So many Christmases…

Talk of music from back in the day made me realise that my spring chicken status is fast becoming an off layer status (without having laid; being laid doesn’t count). I have eaten many Christmases. This prompted a quick trip down the memory lane of my misspent youth. Don’t regret a minute of it though.

Ndafunga dande

I want to come home. And I don’t say this lightly. 4 odd years of wandering around in the wilderness more commonly known as the diaspora has brought home the reality that really, there is no place like home.

The face of the 21st century

So I am currently in the process of selling my soul to the devil, whose present physical form is the credit card companies. The price of souls is overrated anyway, what with trying to keep mind and body together, souls are just excess baggage. And hey, if the Messianic head is valued at 30 pieces of silver, I could do a lot worse.