hey So last night was indeed the Big Night. Not quite the intimate affair I was hoping for; there were 9 of us there, after all, then 7 after two left; still, it was an awesome night spent in good company with far too much (cheap) red wine drunk and fabulous if entirely vegetarian cuisine for our digestive consideration. And there was loads of Emo on the cd player; well, emo and the older equivalent which I call angst-rock. Think Counting Crows and REM and Coldplay and John Mayer and Dave Matthews. And I bought flowers, which went down a treat. She'd asked me before, during one of the numerous times we sat and chatted over the harsh fluorescent lights and sterile air-conditioned cleanliness which is the Division's Tissue Culture unit where we grow malaria parasites and cancer cells for our research, which flower is my favourite. I asked why she wanted to know. She said it's her way of remembering people. Like when you hear someone's favourite song and you think of them - she's like that with flowers. So I guess it's kinda cool that she asked me what mine was, then. Hers are tulips and daffodils, so I shot out last night to get some from the flower shop across the way from Hell's Video Store. Apparently, though, they are out of season at the moment. So the guy there recommended purple Irises and he quickly stripped some lime-green goldenrod to offset the yellow in the purple iris petals and wrapped the lot in purple paper with a yellow ribbon. I always thought he was a real prick, but he seems like a good oke after all - amazing how first impressions can alter perception, huh? I scored big points with the flowers, according to her housemates. So we sat and ate and drank and chatted until after 1am along with 4 housemates and her best friend in the whole world and I was quite sad when I had to eventually call it a night. I ditched my Monday night boys to go, although I did pop in to make sure that everything was going okay and nobody was getting, you know, killed there at Fight Club before heading out and my young'uns were certainly impressed. I was even asked if I was wearing my lucky boxers by the youngest of them, who is a walking testicle at age 16. In the meantime, the clock is ticking. It all ends on the 3rd of November, which is next Wednesday, 8 days' time, when she packs up her stuff for good and drives one and a half thousand kilometres to Johannesburg and home; and then two weeks after that the Great Canadian Adventure begins. Every time she talks of it, her eyes light up and I can hear the excitement in her voice. And I am happy for her. Really. I am, really. Doesn't stop me feeling such an extreme sensation of sadness every time I think about it, though. -D-