Okay, okay...

Okay people, a lot of you have been whining about how I never bother to call, write, sms, or post back, and I get that you may think I have all the time in the world to take your calls or post you pictures or take photographs and put them up on flickr.
And thats fine.
Except that there hasn't been any bleeding time, because this past year my life decided to go sideways, and take me with it. I haven't had time to wash my hair. The upshot of this has been that I have emerged, a little bit older, a little bit happier (ok, ok...a lot happier), and a little bit richer for life experience. It's been good. I mean, it hasn't been good, but, you know, now it's good, and that's gotta be something. Right?

So. Why so good, you ask?
Well, other than the fact that I have finally stopped working 18 hour days (which helps, believe me), the most exciting news is that me and Paul are finally moving in together!
YAY!!!!!!
I should note here that I seldom make use of exclamation marks. I think they are tacky. This should give you some indication of how frigginexcitediam!!!!!!!!!!!!!
YES!!!!!!MOREEXCLAMATIONMARKSANDLACKOFPUNCTUATIONWOOOOOOO!!!!!

Ahem.
I digress.

For those of you who don't know who Paul is, a quick recap: Paul is pretty much the only decent thing that came out of four years of drunken behaviour at various parties around Johannesburg, most notably The Secret Party, where we first met. I will leave it to your imagination as to just how very suave I must have been on this first meeting; suffice it to say that I asked him his name and what it is he does. After he told me. Twice.

Anyway. The point is that we met and godammmmmm do I wish I had been single (oh yeah, I SAID IT) at the time because had I been we could all have saved ourselves a lot of trouble and this post could have been written six months ago and I could be sitting on the couch which I have not yet purchased for our living room. Or found. Or saved for.

So me and Paul. Mia and Paul. Paul and Mia. (Not to be confused with Paul and Mia from Black Rabbit, but who I don't have to worry about because they live in London (but just WAIT until we move to London which we are totally gonna do so WATCH OUT, BITCHES).

Where was I? Oh, right, moving in together. So we decided a couple of months ago and I have been eagerly counting down the days until I can leave the pokey little Parkhurst hole I have been living in for the last 9 or so months. For the last while leading up to the endevour I have been hyper excited, but since March 1st my excitement has turned to abject terror. Not at the idea of moving, you understand. Or moving in, together. Rather at the extreme unlikeliness of finding the apartment we want: a 3 bedroom, parquet floored, spacious, cozy apartment with a clean and new (and smallish) kitchen and a bathroom in decent nick. Did I mention that we were only looking in one particular neighbourhood, or that I have two cats that need to come with?
Yeah.
So. With a list like that, and the fact that I am a fussy little bitchypants, I am surprised we even thought we had a chance. The classifieds did not look good. Neither did the google list, the gumtree list or any of the listings on any websites that I had trowled for months prior. Until. Until. Until... (see how I built suspense there? Take notes, people.)
Until I clicked on a link of a link on some arb site and wound up finding 2 available listings.
Two. One of which looked and smelled like an institution for old Jewish grannies who have lost the ability to smile (even at kittens).

And then. We found it. Sweet jesus crackers, it was perfect. Perfect price, perfect size (3 bedrooms!), perfect location (one block away from the Killarney mall) and beautiful finishes. Granted, the apartment has been painted that kind of soul-sucking beigey/yellow colour that they all seem to be these days, but everything else is perfect. All thats left now is to sign the lease. We are going on Monday, and until then it is doubtful that I will be able to relax for a second. My mind is consumed with thoughts of the flat packing itself up and running off, or burning down, or that the estate agent may suddenly require DNA testing before we are allowed to take up residence.

Until then, I have only my tortured thoughts and slowly diminishing couch hunting options to keep me company.
The clock is ticking. It's Thursday now. Wish me luck.