saturday night blues with the bastard-chef

ricebag went out last saturday for the birthday of her goold ole mate, the bastard-chef.

Started off inauspiciously enough with the Piggies (the University Rugby Union team) and a couple of cartons of SP out the back of MrDiamond's new warehouse in an old part of town ... Industrial Gordons. Luka dropped me off to meet with the 3 gals and 30 boys under the aluminuium sheds on the blue plastic playschool stools with some daft light from the massive spotlights on the cornices of the warehouse. The bastard-chef was very glad to see me - most probably because I have been helping to resuscitate a relationship/friendship of his that he had with my beautiful galpal Shelby ... a budding romance that promised big-time-foreva-kind-hubba-hubba-stakes-lovin' ... and he stabbed and gutted the potential when he unceremoniously picked someone else to hold and failed to tell Shelbs. And now he wants her back (of course, because she's brilliant and beautiful). BAD!! Oh Olly-O I said, you are such a bastard-chef ...

And since then Shelby has stopped reeling and isn't mad anymore, just maybe sad, and she's hugging him now in a very platonic way and he's pitching for the for-ever kind of love that could have been his if he hadn't stuffed it up so selfish-royal. Shelby is moving on, my dear friend. And so she should.

It's a little strange ... ricebag has only known Shelby for only a year and the bastard-chef for 15 years ... and we stick with Shelby today because the bastard-chef is a boy and he got it wrong big-time ...

but but but we never say NEVAH ... and

and I digres ...

I was going to say that Saturday Nite out led from a warehouse to the most prestigous hotel in town and a fair few orange-coloured drinks. I want to tell you more but the truth is ricebag is feeling quite conflicted. And just funny inside. Over someone. A boy she knows well. One thats 100% platonic and has been forever - boy-chum material ... but its one of those times when we're both single at the same time ... and ... well, lets say we never say NEVAH.

And we went back for illegal beers at the bastard-chef's crash-pad and he cooked us something yummy and fresh and ... yummy!! And he put his pride on the side and begged Shelby back ... poor bastard. Wearng her down is going to take more than sticky rice and words.

But I love you man. And the best piece of advice I can give you is to forgive yourself and move on. Move On. She is. And you need to too. Absorb the impact of the crash, lick your wounds, recover - and you're going to have to do this alone coz Shelby isn't scratching your tummy through this. And then ... and then - a loooooooong way then ... well ... lets just never say NEVAH.