Robyn’s Secret Passage

I just was listening to Dr Dre’s 1992 gangsta rap masterpiece, “The Chronic”. Now, I’ve listened to it a number of times and thought I knew it pretty well. Heh.

So along came track four, “The Day the Niggaz Took Over”. There’s a line in it that goes, “Got myself an Uzi, and my brother a 9.” Except that prior to this evening - for well over a decade - I thought the line went, “Got myself an Uzi, and my brother a nun.”

Really. Really, truly. I thought that’s how it went.

It doesn’t make sense. Why would the brother of a ruthless criminal gangsta villain have a nun and not a 9mm gun? If the Niggaz were going to take over, it would make sense to arm themselves, not nun themselves.

God, it’s going to take a lot of effort to not automatically associate nuns with gangstas any more.

I’m been getting over a bad-arse cold. It struck last Sunday, which was good, because it means I didn’t have to use sick leave on that day, but also sucked because it meant half my weekend consisted of feeling awful.

Being sick on a Sunday also posed another problem - the two local pharmacies were closed, and the effort of getting out to somewhere with an open chemist was too much. So, tragically, I was unable to partake of my favourite over-the-counter cold/flu remedy - you know, the stuff they make P from. My achy, snotty symptoms persisted.

I also discovered that hobbling down to the local shops in my weakly state was not a good idea, and especially not a good idea after waking up and not yet having anything to eat or drink. I found myself walking down the street with the realisation that if I didn’t sit down soon, I’d faint. I located a public bench and made a bee-line for it.

I waited until my energy levels had increased slightly and, in absolute survival mode, I walked around the corner to a dairy and bought some Lucozade. Another sit-down was required and after drinking the Lucozade, I was able to make the trip home.

Then that night I started itching. WTF? It was the return of the hives! Yes, the same affliction that had struck in sunny, tropical Samoa had returned for some more inflammation and itching. Every place on my body where my skin had undergone previous trauma had gone all itchy and red. It was like a greatest hits of every cut, scrape and graze I’d endured over the years.

So finally Monday came and I got my poorly arse along to the local medical centre where the doctor I saw prescribed some antihistamines. I was really excited by the tiny white pills. I mean, if pills are really small, they must be really powerful, right? Excited by my new drugs, I Googled them, only to discover it was generic Claratyne. Well, it did the trick - no more itching.

Another day on the couch and I was feeling relatively all right, except for a bit of an annoying phlegmy cough, so I finally got to get some stuff from the chemist.

The pharmacy lady recommended Benadryl Chesty Forte (which sounds like the name of an actress in a Russ Meyer film). Chesty Forte proudly proclaims to be “sugar, colour and alcohol free”, which sucks. I mean, if I have to put up with the inconvenience of a cough, I at least want something fun out of it in the form of sweetness, tiddliness or the diabolical side-effects that artificial colourings bring.

But just to add to the arseness of Chesty Forte, it also claims to have a “great berry flavour”. Well, after having consumed several 15ml doses of it, I can definitely say that there is nothing “great” nor “berry” about its flavour. It’s more like that tang you get when you drink orange juice after brushing your teeth.

I am very much looking forward to getting over this illness.

On my 30th birthday last year, a friend of mine gave me a bottle of Bollinger (Bolly, sweetie, darling) and it had been sitting in my fridge ever since.

See, I’m not much of a boozer, but not only that, I have a thing about champagne. It’s not so much champagne itself, but champagne bottles.

I think it stems from a fateful Christmas in 1998 when my kind-hearted employer saw fit to give all employees a bottle of Lindauer (classy, yes), a box of scorched almonds and a leaky pen. I took my Lindauer home and started to open it. As soon as I’d loosened the wire, I felt the cork start to move. Suddenly it shot across the room, and sparkling wine jizzed all over my bed. I wasn’t happy about that.

Add to that the fact that I’m super flinchy. I hate, hate, hate anything that’s thrown near my face. This rules out me participating in any ball sports and it also means I get tense and nervous when opening bottles of champagne as the cork may fly out and hit me in the face, which would suck.

So last night I finally decided to open the Bollinger. I went into the bathroom and carefully peeled away the foil and unscrewed the wire. Then I eased the cork out. It came out with a satisfying pop, but didn’t become a high-speed projectile, nor did it spew down the bath plug hole.

I had a glass, mused upon the fact that I was getting boozed up in my lounge, alone, on a Saturday night, had another glass then went to bed. It was good.