Punchdrunk workerbees

The weekend was far from Zen-like.

It kicked off with a gargantuan display of first-year student-like behaviour involving:

Blue punch (like being ankle-tapped by a Smurf)
Michael Jackson “Heee-HEEH”
Running around barefoot on wet tiled floors. Result: swart gevaar soles.
Fireman-lifts around the kitchen, up the stairs, ad hoc on the dancefloor
Bum-dancing
6 Springboks
Peggy in the pool, fully clothed
Lunging, and some blocking of lunges
Unnecessary aggression over music choices. What sad farker puts Snow Patrol at a house party?

It was extremely huge. I woke up feeling like a bergie had left his blanket in my mouth. Opened my eyes and saw Peggy face-down on her pillow. I briefly wondered whether the bird was even breathing. She’s a small person, but turning her over required an enormous effort.

It was High in Dubai (my wingbitch)’s last day in the UAE. Fortunately all of our sadness was numbed by the hangovers engulfing our senses. Some of us drank through the pain at a 5 star Dubai brunch (merlot). Others, like Swamp Donkey, simply watched. And felt sorry for themselves. Anyway, H in D had a fine send-off, and we all went and saw The Good Shepherd. At first I thought the Artic air in that cinema was some kind of April fool’s joke. Then I realized it was June, and I was the only one curled into a ball with two pashminas wrapped around me.

Saturday was a day of colossal Admin. I am fortunate not to have been on the top of a seventeen storey building, as the temptation to end it all may have won in the end. Salik, that son-of-a-tollgate-system-byatch has come to Dubai. So I started out queuing for half an hour with my fellow man at a filling station for a sticker that would save me a 1,000 Dirham fine.

If that was bad, work was stinking. Yes. Work. On a Saturday. Panic stations have set in and I was obliged to make an appearance at the group IT office, or sweatshop. The place is a 24 hour frenzy of programmers and developer worker bees from India. Unfortunately I was not feeling their buzz. After a 6-hour mental teeth-pulling exercise, I was home free. Then two bad things happened. 1) My parking had expired. 2) My front left tyre was sagging, deflated, lifeless. If this was an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel, the implication would be that I was feeling the same as that tyre. Minus my wingbitch. Tired. Hungover. Disheartened.

Anyway, I found a new mate most likely called Mohommed, who fixed it and got 20 Dirhams in return.

You could say I got some Yang with my Ying and no sleep.