What just brightened my day

I was just leafing through an old notebook that I have been carrying with me for years (lost contact with it for a while - it was drowning in dirty tissues in my purse), and on one page was this, in my own handwriting:

"Jesus is very much on his way to becoming an excellent engineer."

It took me a drawn out 30 seconds to realize that God was not speaking to me about his immortal son, but that this piece of information was an excerpt of a recommendation for a Mexican named 'hey-zeus'. How normal is it that the thought 'Jesus is changing careers, from a carpenter and motivational speaker to an engineer' crossed my mind?

Where I stay - a partly pictorial

Since you must all be wondering what's up with this woman who hasn't left her house for more than two hours this past week, while she is supposed to be all adventurous and shit, here is a novel post giving you some more or less valid reasons why her house is a good place to hole up in, or perhaps not so good.

I might even attach some of them grainy photos. (The fancy camera is with the Hubby, 'cos as you know it's all about the camera, not the talent of the photographer in the least.) 

In South Africa you don't live somewhere, you stay, and where you came from is 'over there' or 'over on that side'. And I'm from way over on that side, which is becoming quite evident.

Here I stay, for reasons not under my control, in a superduper secure compound, that actually has it's own postal code, a grocery store, two restaurants, two fastfood places (the all encompassing and important pizza and burger), an assortment of useless shops, a different kind of assortment of illegal hair and nail salons that people run from their houses, a gym, a school, and a golf course. In short I stay in a bubble of luxury and Tuscan mockitecture. I might have mentioned this eyesorish feature before? Yes, I believe I have, perhaps even more than once.

This bubble comes secure with all kinds of walls, electrified and not, and no less than three different gates, two of which have guards (must check if they're armed with something else than batons) posted at them. To enter the gate Big Brother a machine reads your fingerprint. The guards at the gates are nice, but still, they're guards. Which must mean that I'm a target, which must mean that leaving the house isn't a good idea. You see how this could happen...?

The house that we are renting for the duration of the expatriate assignment is not one of the Tuscan wonders. It is a two story military grey box of concrete, but at least it comes without carpeting, and with floors sort of reminiscent of actual wood. Laminate, I believe. There is a sizable backyard with a covered patio, a braai, and a lawn. You may also know this back yard under such signifiers as 'the last resting place of the unfortunate tree' or 'the space never used but should be to avoid scurvy or whatever one gets from lack of vitamin D'.

Now, the house for us, as expats and unable to really own anything and always choosing a house after a long hotel stay and willing to take the first decent place, is just a shell to dump our crap in. This is where the reasons to hole up come in and the pictorial part (almost first ever... exciting) of this post begins.

Why I'm holed up here (besides the obvious reasons of this is where my wine, coffee and computer are):

I like my seating better than Seattle Coffee's (which is also now closed, so double whammy).

I have plenty of creatures, who don't resist my dictator leadership, to hang with.

And of course then there's the office with a bay window, offering ample opportunities for pigeon gazing. Now with seating.

And the mandatory cup of coffee is on the table.

Aren't I all artsy and whatnot. 

Not. 

Dang.