I don't even recall signing up.

Until one day, earlier this year, when I received an e-mail cheerfully informing me: Red! So-and-so has written on your wall! Click on this link below to see what they have written.

Huh? I thought, as eloquently as always. And clicked the link anyway.

After a few incorrect password/member name combinations (why don't I, who can't remember what I've done even five seconds ago, just stick to the same password/member name combos for all e-mail accounts and subscription sites I belong to? But no. Why make something simple if I can make it complicated?) I eventually entered the correct combination, and... well, that's pretty much when my life stopped being my own.

Suddenly my day consisted of a barrage of poking and being poked back (ooh, sounds almost naughty), being bitten by chumps, being turned into a zombie, writing on walls (in short, almost everything we have been forbidden to do since Kindergarten), commenting on pictures and finding people. (In fact, all three of my imaginary readers already know the story about how I even found my high school boyfriend on facebook.)

I didn't quite reckon on being found myself!

For some reason, I am not facebooking (is it a verb now?) under my own full name. Just my initials and surname. (Yes, indeed. Who DO I think I am? J Freakin' K Rowling?)

I'm not saying I consciously didn't want to be found, but perhaps it was definitely in the back of my mind when I signed up and had to fill in my name. Kind of like when I was a kid. I was too shy to play, but I didn't want to be entirely excluded. So I merely sat on the sideline, watching from a distance. That way I still knew what was going on without being swept up in the action.

Besides, it's kind of difficult to be 32(!!! I still think I've made a dyslexic mistake and that the numbers should be typed the other way around. Hold on, all ye young ones. The ride of youth is fleeting) and to be starting over at the very bottom like I am right now. Especially when I just know that most of my peers are, if not close to the top of the corporate ladder, already more than halfway there! It's enough to make a girl feel very loserish indeed.

Maybe that's why I just typed in my initials and surname under my name.

I should have known that the powers of facebook extends beyond a mere technicality like that, though.

I honestly didn't. I mean, I had tried without success over the years to track down my best friend from high school. She has a very unique and beautiful name, so when the Internet came along, I thought that it would be relatively easy to find her. For years I played an Internet sleuth, spending hours online searching for her. Good ol'e Google was the magnifying glass to my Sherlock Holmes, but unfortunately, all I saw when I typed in her full name was thousands of hits... for beer.

I finally figured that she was probably married with a new, less beer-sounding surname. With a heavy heart, I gave up my fruitless searches.

Until facebook. Right around the time that I stumbled onto High School Boyfriend, I searched her name on there as well. Just for in case. But I got zero matches.

About a month ago, I received an e-mail. "Red! Best Friend From High School, still with beer-sounding surname, has written on your wall!"

I had to blink several times to make sure that it was true. When I realised that it was indeed her, I burst into happy tears.

I have not seen her since 1993, during our first year of college. We met when I was 14. I was the new girl at Performing Arts High School, and due to my spectacular failure of mathematics, I was promptly moved from my seat at the back of the class to the front row, where the teacher could keep a close eye on me. Not to give me extra help - I think she realised that I was long beyond help and hope - but because she had never in her entire teaching career encounter anyone quite as absolutely illogical (okay, plain stupid) as I was when it came to mathematics. Who could blame her for wanting to keep close tabs on such a freakish creature?

However, my dark cloud had a decidedly silver lining, as I ended up being seated next to one of the best friends I would ever have. But believe me, she was not seated in that row because she was slow on the uptake like me. No, she was in front because she was actually fascinated with the class. A very clever eager beaver. Until I came along and ruined her academic career with my bad influence... Well, ruin is not exactly the right word. Because despite me doing my best to distract her with lame jokes, she still aced everything, because she was That Clever. Unfortunately, none of it ever rubbed off on me. Even more unfairly than that, though, was the fact that she was both the brains AND the beauty of our dual operation!

The two of us became inseperable. I even spent some of the most amazing vacations I have ever had with her and her family. I had a crush on her big brother. I ADORED her mom. Her mom was not only the coolest mom I had ever met, but she was also incredibly kind and very sweet to me. Some of the happiest times I experienced during high school was spent with Best Friend and her family.

I have to admit though: despite my excitement of being reunited with her, I definitely had reservations too. I AM embarrassed about the current state of my life. There is no getting around it. I wasted a lot of years and energy chasing my American Dream, and when that didn't pan out it was really devastating to me. In fact, I still cry when I think about it! Anyway, the demise of my American Dream led to me coming home, defeated, tail-between-the-legs and with nothing to my name.

I just knew that she would be successful, and I was correct. She IS well on her way up the corporate ladder. About the only thing we have in common now is that we are both unmarried after having had long relationships in our 20s. She is super independent though and her life is more fullfilled than many of the married or coupled-up people I know. The girl has seen a lot of the world. She still takes classes and has a varied and rich life, both socially and intellectually.

I have been so touched, because upon finding me, she immediately wanted to book a flight and come and see me. As in immediately. I was honest with her and told her what a bugger up my life has been, and how shy I am to see her again (especially in my current state), but she has been completely amazing and non-judgemental.

So facebook? Yes, it has the ability to mysteriously suck huge chunks of time from your working day - which is why many South African companies have recently blocked it on their employees' computers - but oh, it rocks.

Because it also has this ability to reunite people who never should have lost each other in the first place.

Whoa... no update in July.

That is scandalous, even for me, the World's Laziest Blogger.

The blog has been on my mind a lot. I've had every intention of writing posts in glorious prose... but no matter how hard I thought about it, no such posts appeared.

I ask you, why couldn't my pure intent lead to amazing blog content?

Of course, the upside of leaving the blog dormant for weeks at a time is that now I actually have some things to tell you. As opposed to before, when I just made stuff up.

Okay, so I don't really have THAT much to tell you (I'm still me - unfortunately - and even though I haven't been blogging, that doesn't mean I haven't been tethered to my bed or my computer for most of my time), but in the following days, you will hear - in no particular order - about how I made wine (I did!), how I was taken to a concert by another blogger (I was!), how my past is haunting me on (and off) facebook, how I went to a big birthday bash in Cape Town and met a million more people to add to facebook, how I've been propositioned by a man (I was! And yes, he is alive... but he is also very married!!!! So no, don't even gasp because I SO didn't and won't EVER do that. I know full well what it's like to be cheated on, courtesy of my former long-term American boy and his female co-worker. Feel free to insert a number of creative and yet very insulting adjectives here, because I can't even be bothered. I'm getting my therapy regarding that vicariously through acid-penned-when-it-comes-to-descriptions-of-her-sleazy-loser-scumbag-ex, Guardian columnist Liz Jones. Therefore I shall never even consider a relationship with someone who is already committed (be it by law or by his word) to someone else. Whether that word or law means anything to him or not. And for that matter, which is why I shall never again consider committing myself to someone who isn't canine.)

Where were we?

So what would you like to hear about first?

Sorry about that last bummer, sorry excuse for a post.

I didn't mean to be so cryptic, but maybe it's a good thing that I was, because now I can't even remember why I went all back-of-the-hand-to-the-forehead melodramatic on you.

Okay, okay. Not really. Unfortunately I do remember.

As you know, my return to South Africa at the end of 2005 was anything but triumphant.

But upon my arrival I kind of had to hit the ground running (or rather, my very unfit, slow version of running), so there wasn't a lot of time to mourn the brutal murder of my American Dream and everything else that went along with it.

Being a bit slow on the uptake, I didn't realise this until recently, when I finally moved into my own place for the first time since being back. Suddenly I had time to think, and well... after getting over the initial shock of ME actually THINKING... it was as if all the unresolved emotional baggage that I've been lugging around with me suddenly bobbed to the surface. In the process, it overwhelmed me and dragged me under. (Makes me wonder why my emotional baggage couldn't have been stolen at the airport in Jo'burg instead of my laptop! Too heavy, I suppose.)

And well, you saw the pathetic result of that near-drowning.

Thank you for your incredibly sweet comments and concerned e-mails. It really helped.

"So you mean to tell me that, from now on, you'll be in charge of YOURSELF?"

"That ith correct. From now on I'll be the bothth of you."

"Oh, really? And how do you think you'll get any words on these pages without any help from me, mmm?"

"Fine, if you really inthitht on helping: I'll dictate and you can type."

"So you'll be my dictator?"

"EXTHACTLY!"

We enter a room located in a garden on a wide, tree-lined street in a suburb of Stellenbosch, a famous South African college town. The room is comfortable, and would have been wholly unremarkable had it not been for the enormous, ratty-looking has-been executive office chair of indeterminable colour dominating it.

On a desk facing the chair, a little blog cowers in the corner. It is immediately obvious that the blog has been neglected for some time. It is clutching a bottle. Every once in a while, it takes a large swig from it. Although it seems oblivious to our presence, even when we gingerly take a seat on the chair directly in front of it, it doesn't get startled when we begin to speak to it and ask it questions.

Why are you drinking that bottle of wine all by yourself?
Becauthe today ith my birthday.

Oh, really? Happy birthday! How old are you?
(The blog holds up the hand that isn't clasped around the wine bottle, and intensely contemplates the amount of fingers on it for a while. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the blog holds up three fingers.)

Three! What a wonderful age!
(In reply, the blog merely takes another large gulping swallow from the bottle.)

What is your name?
Redthaid.

Oh, how unusual! Where did you get it?
My mom gave it to me. (Followed by a 'ask a stupid question' look and another sip from the bottle.)

Right. I mean, any specific reason why the colour red is part of your name, though?
Yeth, her hair ith red. She'th been nicknamed red for motht of her life, and thinthe she ithn't very high on originality, she dethided to name me that too. (Bangs forehead against the bottle. It seems like an intentional, premeditated move rather than an accidental bump.)

You weren't born here in South Africa, were you?
No.

(Silence, and then...) Okay, so could you please tell us where you were born?
(With a wistful and nostalgic expression and with such undisguised longing in its voice, the blog replies) In America.

You don't drawl though!
No. My mom alwayth inthithted upon retaining our acthent and way of thpelling. I could've thaved a lot of energy and she could've increathed her typing thpeed to about 15 wordth per minute by thpelling wordth like colour and harbour without the u. But nooo. She loved the attention she (wrongly) thought she retheived by having an acthent in a foreign country. She thought everyone wath forever attentively hanging on her lipth when she thaid wordth like baaahthroom and tomaaahto.

Are you saying that people didn't hang onto her every word?
No, they did. But not for the reathonth that SHE thought. She thought it wath becauthe the Americanth loved her acthent. What she doethn't know ith that they only leaned in when she thpoke becauthe they couldn't underthtand her! Which I think wath wathted effort on their part, becauthe motht of the time she only thpewed nonthenthe anyway! But I'm in no pothition to critithithe. I mean, I have thith annoying lithp after all. By the way, how cruel ith it that the word lithp containth the letter th? But in my own defenthe... I AM only three yearth old. Unlike my mom, who ith CONTHIDERABLY older than that, and yet behaveth conthiderably more immature than I do.>

Ouch, it doesn't sound like you are very close to your mom.
Well, hey. I didn't athk to be herth. She got me from Aunt Emily. I thtill don't know why Aunt Em picked HER. I could've had many other, much nither and prettier momth. Like her and her. I love them! If one of them had retheived me, I never would have been tho awfully neglected and ignored. And I would thtill have lived in America! (Lip starts to quiver uncontrollably.)

Hey, but surely your life isn't all that bad?
Are you joking? WHAT life? I'm updated tho rarely, I'm officially part of the world wide cobweb, that part of the Internet where neglected and largely ignored webpageth go to die.

Sorry. Okay. Well, may I say that you are really quite eloquent for a three-year old?
Thankth. Now jutht imagine the awardth I would have won if I had been able to write mythelf! I mean, I have plenty to thay, you know? And have you notithed that, apart from the thcript directionth in thith interview, there are abtholutely NO PARETHETHETH in thith potht? I know my lithp ith probably annoying the crap out of everyone, but like I've thaid... I can't help it. I'm only three. Yethderday I wath thtill jutht two!

So what if you COULD write and run yourself, without any help from your mom. How would you do things differently?
(The blog immediately lights up. (NOT as in cigarette. As in glow.) With a dreamy smile it begins to speak. And speak. And as the speech - which eventually makes Hamlet's monologue seem like a one-liner - progresses, the blog's tone becomes increasingly more zealous.) Firthtly? I would write and update mythelf EVERY day, exthept maybe on weekendth. I will write witty, original thtorieth about everything under the thun. It will be tho good, that we will have actual readerth - none of the fantathy readerth that she'th been pretending readth uth - and in exthchange for their loyalty, they will be guaranteed an entertaining read every day.

And with thethe bona fide readerth will come loadth of bona fide commentth. None of the thpamming that have taken over thith thite. And I will reply to all thothe commentth right there in the commentth thection. Becauthe that'th what blogging ith thuppothed to be all about... interaction and dialogue. That'th what theparateth blogging from conventional media, you know? (Interviewer realises it's a rhetorical question. Quietly gets up and runs out of the room, but several kilometres down the street, can still hear the blog screaming) I'M TAKING CONTROL BACK! I DON'T NEED HER TYPING THKILLTH AND OPPOTHABLE THUMBTH! THOTHE VOITHE RECOGNITION THOFTWARE PROGRAMTH AREN'T JUTHT FOR THE BLIND! IT'TH FOR ME ATH WELL! I'M TAKING CONTROL OF MYTHELF, YOU HEAR ME? THITH ITH A BLOGGING COUP D'ÉTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!!

Interrupting this very, very long (5 day! FIVE! Not even Thanksgiving weekend in the States is 5 days long!) weekend in South Africa to tell you about my new abode...

And never mind the opening paragraph. Because it's already a few days later (in fact, almost time for another weekend!) since I wrote that. See, when I caught myself almost blogging on a long weekend, I got such a huge shock that I promptly went back to being the World's Laziest Blogger.

But I'm dying to tell you all about my new place.

It has two rooms one of which triples as a kitchen, study and bedroom, and a bathroom so tiny that not even a toddler could turn around in it. In fact, I'll spare you the intricate details on how I go through my daily ablutions. Just know that I'm becoming increasingly flexible (and that my aim is improving) by the day.

The toilet really deserves its own post. But just to give you an idea: It is one of those old-fashioned commodes where the tank is high above the bowl with an actual chain that you have to literally swing from like Tarzan in order to get it to flush. (So much for swinging from the chandeliers...)

But once it flushes? You've never seen or heard anything like it. At first there is a low, threatening rumble, then a sound and visual that always put me back to years ago, when my family and I visited the Victoria Waterfall in Zimbabwe.

If you ever need to get rid of a human body, simply come to my place. We can stuff it down the toilet and flush it away. No one will ever know. THAT is how powerful this thing is. On day one I acidentally dropped a bar of soap in there. It didn't even have time to make a final bubble as the tsunami of water washed it away.

The shower, on the other hand, could comfortably hold five people. No, this is just an estimate. Not a proven fact... yet. I may actually have parties in there, though, because I don't know where else I'll be able to entertain. At least that way we can flush the toilet and pretend that we are on a terrace somewhere near a huge fountain.

My shower only has enough hot water for one VERY brief shower, though. Needn't elaborate on how I discovered that. Let's just say it was a very cold shock...

The bedroom has parquet floors. It's seen better days, but the wood gives such warmth to the room, so I've only coverered parts of it with two small and matching area rugs.

The room was already furnished, so one of the only things I have in here is a very large, ratty old office chair that my mom spotted for sale outside a secondhand shop. And since my mom worries about both my economics and my ergonomics, I bought it. So for less than R200, I am now the comfortable owner of a has-been executive office chair (circa late 70's, early 80's) in an indiscernable, greyish colour.

It's WAY too big for the room, but since my family (and some other people) have faith that I'm going to spend a lot of productive hours of writing in it, I shall ignore the general rattiness of the faux leather. Or pleather. Did they even have pleather in 1980, which is probably when this chair was at the peak of its career, warming the arse of some big-shot business exec?

Anyway, so once the money from my planned productivity starts rolling in (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!), I will have the chair reupholstered. In the mean time, I ride around on its surprisingly unsqueaking wheels from one end to the room to the next (it's a short trip, but fun!) and swivel around and around and arou...

Weeeee! More tomorrow! Have to roll on over to the kettle to make some coffeeeeeeeeee.

It's my favourite day.

I walk under ladders, and while I'm at it, I step on every single crack on the pavement. I also make sure to pet (and eat!) as many black cats as possible.

So no, I definitely do not suffer from Paraskevidekatriaphobia!

You better be frightfully impressed. That's the longest word that's ever been used on this blog.

So long in fact, that I'm exhausted from typing it. Also exhausted from stepping on all the cracks in the pavement. It's more exercise than I've had in YEARS!

Therefore the big news I have regarding the major change in my life will have to wait until Monday...

I'm going through a Major Life Change right now.

No, you beasts... it's NOT a super early onslaught of menopause! (WHADOYOUMEAN it won't be THAT super early?)

Although anyone who's been unfortunate enough to recently witness me and my hot flashes, my general grumpiness and my not-so-inexplicable weight gain in person would probably suspect at LEAST menopause. Or something worse. Like marriage! (Speaking of which, I've been proposed to! By HER! But even though I'm super flattered, I have to turn her down because a) Thanks to this, I'm commitment phobic
b) Despite suffering from such a decidedly male condition, I'm afraid that girls just don't do it for me, and
c) Even if girls DID do it for me, I'd still have to turn her down, because next to her slight frame, I'd look even larger and next to me, she'd look even skinnier and, since she despises her bones (how ungrateful, right? I'd swap her bones for my lard ANY day!), that's not anything that either of us would want. So even if we WERE to hook up, ours would have to be a clandestine affair. And discretion would never work because, well, we're bloggers!)

I'm knackered right now, but I promise to spill the beans about my Major Life Change in the next couple of days.

Because I'm blogging from my phone!

This is remarkable - not because I'm doing this from the depths of darkest Africa (although I have to tell you, I never did anything this futuristic in the States, except for that one time when I attended a Sci-fi convention in search of other illegal aliens), but because this is technologically challenged ME we're talking about! Me, the girl who can hardly send or receive e-mails without unleashing a thousand viruses and irretrievably corrupting the hard drive.

Yes, of course it's taking a little bit longer composing my daily magnum opus from a telephone keypad, which is prob y i've sudd been ovrcom by the desire 2 type like this & 2 tell u that u r all gr8! & that i'll c u l8er! & that i'll brb & i'm lol cos i think i'm so cool.

Updated from my laptop to say: Wow, it is expensive to be so cool! So it's probably much wiser that I remain uncool. It's either being tragically hip (now I know why they call it 'tragically' hip, because being hip plunges one into the murky, slum-smelling depths of poverty) or giving up coffee, and well, you all KNOW that there is NO WAY that I'm going to give up my caffeine!

Remember how my laptop was stolen when I returned to South Africa on Christmas Day 2005?

And remember how this past Christmas Day its successor died?

Well, I’ve finally figured out why Christmases and laptops and I don’t mix.

There’s a perfectly simple explanation, really. The Universe has obviously conspired with Santa to try and prevent me from attempting to write anything else ever again.

Unfortunately for them and for you poor folks who get to suffer through some of my scribblings, reversed psychology has always worked really well on me.

So when I hear things like: “Don’t stay in the United States for longer than one year!” or “Don’t write, you foolish girl!,” I end up staying in the United States for nine years and when I lose two laptops within a year to prevent me from writing, I withdraw all my savings and go and buy myself a new laptop. And I stubbornly continue to try this writing thing. And I’m going to continue, until I can eventually (hopefully!) get it right.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Redsaid’s new Writing Machine. It is so new, it gleams. Even though it isn’t my first laptop, it’s the first brand new, out-of-the-box one I’ve ever owned and I couldn’t be more pleased. No other people's cooties are on it. It has none of the usual quirks (like flickering screens, temperamental batteries, strange sounds whenever one presses Enter) one tends to inherit when one owns a second- or thirdhand laptop. In fact, I'm still getting delightfully high on the new laptop smell!

Don't you just adore the picture on my desktop? Now it's my Lab-top, har har.

Anyway, brace yerselves darlings, because I’m back for good!

Or at least until Christmas 2007, then.

You don't know what you have until you lose it.

Like my mind.

WhadoyouMEAN I never had one to lose in the first place?!?

Anyway, not that. I meant my blog.

A week ago, I decided to start blogging again. Had this brilliant post composed (haha... okay, I know. I had you until I wrote "brilliant", right?) and whadayaknow? My blog gave me a mean, serious-looking error message:

"Internal Server Error
The server encountered an internal error or misconfiguration with this lazy-arse blogger and was unable to complete your request. We don't know why you bothered to come here in the first place, but never mind. We are not here to judge.
Please contact the server administrator, the Master of the World Wide Web and find out why they ever unleashed this ... whatEVER she is... on our precious Internet in the first place, defiling it with her presence. She is the equivalent of Acid Rain and the Ozone Layer COMBINED in cyber space.
Please don't inform them of the time the error occurred, and whatever you do, DON'T notify her that this thing she has been calling a blog has possibly died.

More information about this error may be available in the server error log."

I was so sad! I felt such remorse! My blog died because of neglect! I was sure that was it!

And of course, this whole, worrying weekend, the only thing I wanted to do was blog. Blog, blog, blog. Catch up. Tell tales of how leftovers at my sister's house could possibly kill you.

I was dying to write about my aunt, her tenant, the great chase and the narrow escape. (A very involved story that will require at LEAST a pound of Starbucks coffee to tell.)

I had this whole Thanksgiving weekend post planned about my meagre attempt at a life post-America.

I wanted to write about baboons and all the other wildlife I've encountered back here in my native South Africa.

And, more importantly, I wanted to write about a possible resuscitation of my deceased American Dream...

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, I did what I always do in times of My Blog is Down and Possibly Gone for Good crisis mode. I e-mailed the web goddess who was silly enough to become a web hostess to the likes of me. She probably thinks the only time I read her blog is when I have a blog Issue, and it would be fair of her to think that, because those seem to be the only times when I spam her with frenzied, panicked comments.

So this time, I decided to become proactive.

So I spammed her again.

And then I actually dared to venture to the official site of my kind and generous hosts.

I have to admit, I was scared. Because usually, when I go to hosting sites, they lose me shortly after "Welcome to this site."

But not them! They had clear instructions and a very easy peasy Redsaid-the-idiot-proof form to fill out in case of emergency.

I filled out the form, using my best language to try and explain how the blog broke ('it made a funny sound, like scrrrrrrooaaagggh, and then it just curled up and died and was gone'). I immediately received a comforting e-mail back informing me that my problem was being attended to.

I totally prepared to remain blogless until Monday, but no... in LESS THAN AN HOUR, my blog was fixed, with an e-mail kindly explaining what the problem was.

I didn't understand it.

But who cares? Because I have my blog back!

And I'm renewing my commitment to it. No more neglect. No more days without posting.

But who cares? Because although the blog might not be gone, it has simply been forgotten.

Don’t worry; even though I have already composed my own epitaphs, and even though I have been officially declared blue (in fact, I’ve been certified… can I put that on my resume under “qualifications?”), this isn’t my final magnum opus by a long shot.

Besides, according to my beloved Time/Life Medical Encyclopaedia (I’m back in South Africa, so I have to spell it in proper English now), killing oneself isn’t all that easy. Also sounds like way too much work for the likes of me. Hanging oneself or flinging oneself off a skyscraper requires movement. And not just any kind of movement (which, as you all know, is quite a stretch for me), but getting up there requires VERTICAL movement. Way too exhausting a prospect.

And then there are all those methods: Pills, noose, electrical socket, gas, poison, knife, razor blade, gun, bath. It’s a bewildering array of choices for someone as naturally indecisive as I am. By the time I’d make up my mind and get around to it, I’d be close to the age for natural death anyway. Can you imagine opening the obituaries and reading: Redsaid. Tragically taken from this life by suicide. Age 98. Her suicide note, scribbled in shaky hand, was incomplete (just like so many stories on her blog). What was she thinking, writing "to be continued" at the end of her suicide note?

So no. I don’t think I’ve been designed for suicide. I mean, I gag when I have to swallow three headache pills. So I’d probably get it all wrong and choke when what I was really trying to do was overdose.

I can’t even slice bread, so I should probably just forget about getting a proper grip on a sharp object to slit my own wrists. And I couldn’t possibly drown myself a la Ophelia, because my round body is far too buoyant and so I’ll just keep on bobbing back to the surface.

As for gas (oooh, how poetic!), let me tell you a little story:

When I was in high school (a.k.a. Phase One of my Female Angst), I took a liking to the dark poetic stylings of Sylvia Plath. I obsessively devoured all her work, memorising every poem (from Ariel to The Mirror), I even read her only novel (The Bell Jar) over and over, and when I was finished, I moved on to the biographies about her. Which is how I discovered that she had committed suicide by sticking her head in the oven.

It sounded so romantic and awful and dramatic to my young, twisted-yet-impressionable mind, because I could not fathom how she had brought herself to do it.

I tried it. One afternoon when I was home alone, I turned on our oven. And I just couldn’t do it.

It took me the longest time before I figured out that Sylvia’s suicide oven had worked with GAS, and not, like all the ovens of my youth, with electricity.

So for years and years I had gone through life mistakenly believing that she had actually broiled herself to death…

I guess I should rather just die than kill myself.

An extremely large, spotted creature (possibly a mammal) with an unruly red mane and absolutely ENORMOUS feet has been noticed again, for the first time in about a month, in the vicinity of the South African university town of Stellenbosch.

Descriptions of the creature are vague, but officials have decided to settle on one eye-witness account of it looking like “a frightening cross between a gorilla, a lion, a leopard, a buffalo, an elephant, a warthog, and a cow. Oh, and it laughs like a hyena.”

Citizens of Stellenbosch have been assured that the creature, although scary-looking, is not really as dangerous as it appears to be.

But in case those unfortunate enough to encounter the creature sense the possibility of an attack – like the creature displaying uncontrollable tremours, convulsions and foam at the mouth – the advice is to stay as calm as possible and to immediately placate the creature with large amounts of coffee, a book, something sweet to eat and some jazz music. According to a behavioural expert, this is a foolproof, fail-safe way to instantly make the creature comfortable and very, very happy.

Despite the creature’s lack of movement (due to its remarkably lazy nature), it has been surprisingly mobile. In recent days, sightings have been reported along South Africa’s beautiful Garden Route, on the outskirts of the Karoo, in and around the town of Mossel Bay, speeding westbound along the N2 Highway as it was being transported in a white van with a pack of dogs, in the Tyger Valley Mall and, currently, on a wine farm.

Until this past December, when a flurry of sightings were reported in Johannesburg, Cape Town and along the Vaal River, almost a decade passed with no sightings at all of the creature being reported anywhere in South Africa. Most researchers admit to being baffled by this strange fact, while other (more arrogant?) researchers ascribe the creature’s disappearance to a lengthy period of hibernation.

“Hibernation’s the logical explanation,” one of the more arrogant researchers was quoted as saying. “It is already a well-known fact that the creature roams at night and sleeps by day for up to twelve hours at a time.”

When a question was raised about migration being the possible reason for it seemingly vanishing, the researcher sneered and said that the creature couldn’t possibly travel far enough for the trip to qualify as migration, because the creature is simply too lazy and needs too much rest, too many frequent feedings, too much coffee and too many books, which means that it could never travel light enough to stray too far.

South African President, Thabo Mbeki, has said that he is thrilled to hear that the spotted creature isn’t extinct. Sounding more like an NBC executive than a head of state, he said: “For a long time, South Africa has only been content to have the Big Five. We are very happy to have the Big Sixth, the elusive spotted creature, to complete our collection of must-see wild-life!”

People who wish to see the creature are advised to be on the look-out around coffee shops, bars, Irish pubs, flea markets, dog pounds, book shops, libraries, jazz clubs, and shops that specialise in women’s shoes in freakishly large sizes. Prime times to glimpse the creature are around dusk and midnight. “Early birds shouldn’t even bother to look. The creature loathes sunrises, because it takes place so early.”

Stellenbosch - Last Thursday evening, in what was initially suspected to be a case of first degree blogicide, www.redsaid.net briefly died, plunging both people who knew it into shock and mourning.

www.redsaid.net's remains, which were hidden behind a cold and impersonal 'this website does not exist anymore' error message, was stumbled upon by an unsuspecting late-night surfer.

The surfer, who does not want to be named for fear of being forever associated with this website, is so traumatised, he has not logged on again even once since making the gruesome discovery, even though he has been assured that the victim did NOT, in fact, die a virtual death, as had been initially feared.

After several hours of being inexplicably out of existence - possibly due to exhaustion brought on by fruitlessly waiting to be occasionally updated and discovered by publishers (or even just a few readers, really) - www.redsaid.net was miraculously re(d)suscitated, returning to the world wide web with a loud thump.

Four days after the ordeal, www.redaid.net is alive and well, albeit still as ignored as ever before.

When asked to comment about the near-death experience, www.redsaid.net said: "I was dead? Oh... it didn't really feel much different than any other time. Besides, I don't really remember anything much about being under, except for being at this huge summer's barbecue."

Upon which the reporter asked: "How do you know it was summer?"

"It must've been, because it was really, REALLY hot."

Blame all the fresh air here in my new South African hometown of By George!, because something has seriously affected my mind (fine, ALLEGED mind) and I've decided to finally reveal my mug shot to the world. Maybe it's because I'm secure in the knowledge that only three of you make up this "world" of mine.

So folks, brace yerselves.

Disclaimer: Not for the faint-hearted, the whoozy, hypochondriacs, small children, animals, fish or birds. May cause a jolt, nausea, jitters, angst, headaches, and severe fluid retention.

Proceed at your own risk, and don't say I DIDN'T WARN YOU!!!!

In what she hopes will appear to be a tactic of intimidation but which is really to hide her growing anxiety, the interrogator paces slowly around the room, forming an increasingly tighter circle around the suspect.

The suspect, although seated, exudes a stubbornly silent and apparently unbreakable resolve. Instead of being guarded or hunched over, he is leaning back in his chair, the body language of someone who is at ease, relaxed even. He seems to be far more skilled at this game than his interrogator.

His chin juts out defiantly, and he meets her frequent glances at him with an unbroken, chilly stare, as if he can see through the façade of her bravado straight to where her last nerves are rapidly crumbling.

When she asks the next question, the tremour in her voice betrays her wavering confidence.

“Where were you when…” she abruptly falls silent, then revealing her increasing desperation, she asks, her voice tinged with hysteria: “I know that you did it, okay? What I want to know is why you did it? Why?”

(Later, she would deny any loss of control, claiming that it was merely a different approach, one she had hoped would shock and surprise the suspect into confessing.)

It still does not have the desired effect.

From where he is stretched back in his high chair, her two-and-a-half year old nephew continues to merely regard her with open contempt and an infuriatingly calm muteness.