Will and I have spent the afternoon talking about Joe's hot mother, Janine, or to call her by her full name, The Hot Janine, Former Miss New Zealand 1972. Joe doesn't particularly like that.
Will and I have never met The Hot Janine but judging by the reaction Joe received from the BRC's female staff at my leaving drinks last night I think it's safe to say she's a bit of a looker. I haven't seen that much flustered giggling since year ten, when my school's 22-year-old art supply teacher, Penny Jane Phitzner, turned up wearing a semi-transparent white t-shirt over a black lace bra. Sure, on that occasion it was mainly me doing the flustered giggling, but other than that the reaction was pretty much on par.
The best thing about last night was that Will and I schooled Katy, who Joe had previously never met, to greet the young Kiwi with a series of probing questions about his mum. Joe looked pleased.
I woke up this morning feeling slightly dusty and certain in the knowledge that the previous week of demob happy drinking had invariably brought on a thundereing cold. Sadly no one at home seems particularly concerned by what could well be a potentially fatal bout of man-flu. My housemate Magalie hasn't made me a single cup of tea or baked a tray of ginger biscuits, despite the fact I'm clearly suffering. She hasn't even brought me a hot towel. There's no love. She'll miss me when I'm gone.
It's nearly time to hand over the keys and walk out on the house which has kept the rain off me for nearly three years. I'm still not sure how I feel about that. Okay I think.
I stood in my bare-walled empty room this morning and stared at the carpet for what seemed like an hour. I just couldn't believe how well I'd vacummed.
That's enough for now. Emirates flight 0004 takes off for Dubai at 20:30 tonight. I'll be in Cairo by 10am local time. You might get an update then.
Unfortunately Bubbles isn't able to contribute today because he's been safely stowed for the journey. I suspect he'll be pissed-off and articulate by the time we get to Egypt.
That's it.
Dale Atkinson
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Egypt is no place for a sock monkey, the men pinch my tale. Dale has developed a rash already. His travel buddy, Steve, seems ok, but he has strange fascination of Egyptian cotton. He said he’ll make me a new waste coat with whatever material he has left over, after he makes some karate bandanas from all the colours he’s purchased, but I don’t think he will make me anything. He might make something for Dale, like a thigh length bath robe, but he won’t make me anything.
That doesn’t mean they don’t talk to me. Dale sat me down today, after unpacking me from his bag. It was nice not being squashed in beside his hair dryer and his 'Charles in Charge' t-shirt. He sat me next to the window, which I liked, the breeze was comforting. Dale then did an interpretive dance about himself, it was oddly intriguing up to the point where he wept and then hugged me. That bit was uncomfortable, especially with his unsightly rash. I can't stand it here, it’s lonely.
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