How to look half your age

Sheila remarked the other day, 'your skin is so soft; what's the secret?' As a gay man I pay more attention than your average woman to my looks. My daily regime includes a foaming cleanser, a base of sun protection factor 25 moisturiser and finally a thin mask of a re-hydrating moisturiser. Currently I find that Clinique products work best for me so I've deployed the full arsenal to my dressing table (see pic) with excellent results.

Previously I used Creme de la mer regularly (courtesy of Christmas, birthday, anniversary, fuckfest prezzies from a grateful ex, lol!). I still have half a tub left over sitting by my sink. However, even though it's very effective at hiding wrinkles there's no way I can justify the chunky price tag.

Neighboursdontmind?

This is a new phrase that I came up with this afternoon while holding on the line to my bosom buddies at Kenya Revenue Authority (KRA). Basically it’s how to respond when a friend keeps on telling you of all the wonderful noisy sex marathons he's been having but you don't want him to know how wracked with spite you are because you’re not getting any.

Example of use

Tommy: Man, the other morning Don and I only had sex for two hours but he had to untie me midway from the balcony railings of our apartment to check the condom was okay and to add some more lube. Don also smoked a spliff and downed two Redbulls. He then stuck a Viagra up my ass before we continued for another three hours...

Martin (shaking head chlorophylled with envy): WHAAT? Neighboursdontmind?!

Gay to gay living

Greetings, fellow travellers. The heavens opened late this afternoon when I was out in town. Nairobians hate rain, the splashes from muddy waters stain their crisp business clothes and that means expensive dry cleaning bills. What never ceases to amaze is how many people seem to be caught up when the weather changes: if it rained yesterday at 5 pm-ish (which it did) and you were drenched because you hadn’t carried a brolly, it’s also likely to rain today (which it has) and you’ll be drenched again without your brolly. Makes perfect sense to me. So for a second day running I was treated to the spectacle of elegantly dressed women covering their heads with supermarket plastic carrier bags to save their precious weaves. I’ve heard that some weaves can shrink causing the wearer much embarrassment attempting to account for loss of hair bounce to a husband or lover. That’s the explanation for some of the unwashed nests you see some women carrying on their heads.

Recently a Kenyan friend who lives in Germany entrusted me with some cash to assist him purchase a property. He absolutely loved the internet pictures of the maisonettes at Greenspan at the eastern part of the city. I viewed the show house and confirmed that they are indeed very good value for money at 7.8 million shillings. Armed with a registered power of attorney, I’ve found myself deep in a maze with scum-of-the-earth ( aka lawyers), robbers (aka bankers) and con artistes (aka real estate agents). And I’ve been down some seriously dubious parts of the city trying to conclude this deal - for instance today I was dodging other pedestrians on Luthuli Avenue. Yes, you’ll find drug-addicted prostitutes, a witch-doctor’s practise and money counterfeiters on the same floor as advocates engaged in conveyancing. Poetic justice if you ask me.

On my way back to the car I popped into Tuskys supermarket and bought garden shears because the handle on ours fell off the other day. I also picked up a plant sprayer, because I’ve been trying to grow petunias in a pot and I discovered that the usual watering-can holes let out too much water meaning the seeds didn’t stay buried. When I got to the car there was a light drizzle starting and I spotted a young lad hawking pirate dvd’s. He was standing by a shop entrance wearing a faded t-shirt announcing Hardrock Café - Maui. I asked him his name as I flicked through his wares and he answered Kama which is short for Kamau. He looked very interesting and with much potential if you know what I mean, judging by the well-toned forearms. But I’m not looking - because I’m happily almost married to George - but if I was looking I wouldn’t have attempted anything with Kama because I prefer guys who’ve at least attained the legal age to buy alcohol in Iowa. I said thanks very much fella and paid him just 50 shillings for the dvd of Knight and Day, I didn’t feel even a twinge of guilt because I think Mr Cruise and Ms Diaz don’t need to watch the pennies.

Now we’ve just had our dinner. Imelda made a lovely minced beef and vegetable sauce stuffed into al dente ruote pasta wagon wheels. Sinfully delish. Looks like an early night for us watching the dvd and then I’ll see if George is in the mood. Don’t you lovely people stay up worrying about me - I have my secret tricks to get him crazy and I know exactly what buttons I have to press, hahahaha. Night, night.        

What I did on Wednesday

Woke up in the morning just before 8 to find George had already left for work. After a quick shower and change I came downstairs to the kitchen where Imelda had my breakfast waiting. I find it too chilly nowadays to sit out in the veranda in the morning. Imelda asked me, did you have a nice sleep and I lied and said yeah we even had the most amazing sex. Truth is I hadn't been getting any, George is working late at a new site on Ngong Road where they're fitting CCTV and other security gadgets. So in fact it had been one month, two days, nine hours and forty-two minutes since we last mauled each other. Anyway after Imelda cleared away the plates I asked her what about you Mel, are you getting your pipes cleaned out regularly, she laughed coyly and said don't worry Tam, a girl always finds a way. Hmmmm ok. I said good, let me know if I can be of any assistance or there's any facilitation required towards fulfilling that enterprise. Note to self: must remember to get Imelda some new rechargeable batteries for her bedroom 'sat nav'.

Ten o'clockish Zawadi, my friend Mike’s wife, came by bearing gifts (pun intended). I'd done some work last week for Mike and some other of his business associates. We never discussed pay, I've often said to people whenever I accept to do consultancy work to pay me what they think is fair. Some of you would say 10 shillings but that's just to be mean. Most times it actually works, so I took the 330k that you see here and said thanks very much Zawa, not bad for three days’ work. Don't worry Mr KRA, I'll file on time. Sorry, what's that about 'itemise all earnings', I'm slightly deaf in one ear you know, haha.

Then I went online to deal with some mail, I also read Cassandrae's blog which is just insane because I've not come across that level of psychosis recently. But it's funny and clever unlike this blog. When I finished I came back to the kitchen and we had a lettuce, pears and olives salad with some garlic bread and prosciutto ham. Imelda needed to be at college(accountancy) by 2pm so we got in the car and she drove leisurely till Parklands via Sarit Centre where we stopped so I could stick the 300k in the bank.

The lovely teller called Stella - I think she's in love with me - she asked in a lost girl's voice where have you been Bwana Tamaku, I said shughuli mingi with work and stuff but now I'm here and so happy to see you. I was thinking hello darling I've got an ATM card why would I want to be in the bank every day. However I do encourage women of all shapes and breast sizes by flirting back at them like a good Bashanova so I leaned closer to the window and said you're never out of my mind Stesh in fact right now you're driving me out of it, oh and blue really is your colour, you sexy minx you. She giggled back the squeal that a dolphin would understand to mean come and take me right now here on this counter I don't care if the other customers want to watch. I said cool it baby by fanning yourself with this 1000 shillings note when you go for lunch, nice day mwah, mwah. Then I grabbed my receipt and escaped back to the car.

I stayed in Parklands, went to the sports club and did some cycling while thinking about lots of stuff like Isaiah 58:Verses 1 to 14 (one of my favs - the only ones I can recite from memory). I thought what if the Belmez Faces are really true, and who stole my pet kitten Daisy when I was only six years old which is when my heart was first broken into little pieces. Could that be the root cause for my homosexuality - a pussy snatched from a boy? Definitely some food for thought there. I still had my Oakley black whiskers shades and earphones on listening to Mbilia Bel’s Nakei Nairobi - it's simply genius, makes me sad and happy at the same time, nostalgia sometimes has that effect too.

Afterwards I did some weights to tone up my wrists and neck muscles and then had a shower. Because I'd sweated so much I didn't pee in the cubicle nor did I rub one out though I must admit I was feeling very horny from the lack of it. I also had two sneaky cigarettes in the car. When I was still in the car park George rang and asked where are you I said I'm at Parklands Sports Club. He said wait for me I'm coming. So it was a wonderful surprise, prophetic even, because we picked up Imelda and drove home like the happy family we are and then later that night George and I really got off. I'm surprised you didn't hear us if you live around Kiambu Road, the racket we caused, woooiii, hehehe.

New look

Hey, how are my fellow homos, lezzies, t-girls, bi’s and straights? Hope you are all well and happy enjoying life.

I was bored with the other blog template so I decided to go for a new look. Also Lindsay said she didn’t like the previous one because of the colours. So here we go yet again. Happy with this one sweetie? This particular template is Ribena-red and not Rutonomics-red, lol. You should all know by now that I’m all for passing the draft Constitution on August 4th. Nothing much been happening with us lately, just sleep a lot, play scrabble, cook sometimes and wait for it - I’m even learning how to knit!! Yes, I’m knitting George a scarf which he has promised to wear in the evenings when we go out. Imelda has been teaching me how to weave some magic with wool. I must admit it’s very enjoyable, I might even knit some legwarmers for him keeper-of-the-key-to-my-heart. I'm not sure if he'll wear them to work, hahaha. Otherwise I’m bored as hell waiting for next week when lives will resume with a renewed hope for the future (fingers crossed).

I’ll be back soon. Just tell me what you think about the template. Love ya. xxx xxx

Bashanova

This is a new word that I’ve coined to describe a secretly gay man who plays around with women’s emotions by getting them to fall hopelessly in love with him. It’s formed from the Swahili word for homosexual - Basha - and the name of that serial heart-breaker, Casanova. A Bashanova’s actions help him cope with the burdens our conservative society places on his sexuality.

Bashanova-ing involves targeting women by graciously accepting to accompany them on shopping expeditions for devilish lingerie and outfits. He never complains about the time spent waiting outside changing rooms and will never ever say it’s time to go watch Ghana vs Uruguay. Instead he’ll suggest that they enjoy double deep heat treatments and seaweed masks at a spa. Intimate lattes at Dormans after work are standard followed by going back to her place where he’ll conjure up a sumptuous lasagne from scratch before cuddling together on the sofa to watch multiple episodes of Ugly Betty while nibbling on chocolate and sipping icy Baileys. A successful Bashanova is the envy of other men because women want to spend so much time with him from the minute they look into his eyes. Women swear that they can hear the sound of their ovaries pinging like an elevator when he brushes his hands on their hair. Not surprisingly, he also understands that sex is not everything and that true love waits, yada, yada, yada - he might even whisper the L word but only on the phone when he calls to check whether she received the flowers he sent to the office on Monday morning.

I’m sure some of you have also come across these Bashanovas. Sadly a true Bashanova can never be converted although many women will attempt all manner of tricks in a futile attempt to move their relationship to the next level.

Sobering times for BP and UK

Hint - for many years branding and PR used to be my bread and butter (I'm sorry).  Ridiculously, the global village today still finds itself even more driven by spin and posture. That’s why my observation of multi-billion BP’s handling of the Gulf Coast oil spill is so difficult to swallow.  Without a doubt, ‘Tony Hayward-I’d-Like-My-Life-Back,’ the public face of BP, was a huge PR blunder. Never go before a critical world media looking like you’ve still got a hallmarked silver-spoon lodged deep like a thick one between your oesophagus. Whichever way you look at it , unless  you are  Oprah Winfrey, you will surely get roasted because envy makes lesser men feel better about themselves.  Add to that, an unfortunate tan that looks like the guy was fished out of a barrel of sweet crude before being hosed down in duckling urine and paraded to defend the indefensible. There’s now premature talk of BP staring down the abyss of corporate oblivion but it’s the same talk that you hear from Western powers about Kabuga frolicking in a Nairobi suburb getting his grey hairs dyed to fool bounty hunters. However another lesson that I’ve learned is that it’ll never be clever to go against the grain unless you are one paunchy Diego Maradona tickling Tevez’s balls with a gouty-toe in a jacuzzi.  Which gets me to a crucial question: how much of the frothy stuff including Scotch whisky does one of our deputy prime minsters imbibe? Eish, really, can someone please tell him to go easy on the cause of life’s many problems.....

‘Safaricum’ spurts out the good stuff

Thank you Michael Joseph and staff -MJ, how about a moonwalk at the next AGM? - for guiding Safaricom to spectacular profits and an improved divi yield in a challenging environment. I’ve been waiting for the results ever since that evening when I realised just how expensive your network is for browsing gay porn on my netbook as I waited for George sitting in the carpark at Fogo Gaucho. I try not to be too antisocial so I didn’t jump on the restaurant’s wifi and gobble up their bandwith. A couple of times you’ve even left me hanging just when I was starting to enjoy taking matters into my own hands. So I hope you’ll appreciate this picture - your modem which beams to me those delightful filims, and a representation of the proverbial cash cow (here modeled by George’s piggy bank).

My patience has paid off - as they say it’s been good business doing pleasure with you. Which reminds me, I heard an analyst on the telly the other night speaking with a corrupted American twang advising that Safaricum is an accumulate and hold for generous medium term gains.

That’s music to some ears.

Even Charles Darwin can’t explain Quincy Timberlake

People, I really feel your confusion having to watch this trio once again hogging our airwaves. Many men have written, words inked in email-tears of anguish, to tell me they are in Esther-shock but I pleaded with them please don’t chop off your dicks because this is not a new phenomenon. The pain of disappointment does subside once you start dating other men as it happened to me years ago when I heard the news that Whitney was marrying Bobby.

I’ve also been really struggling to understand this Quincy Timberlake. Presidential aspirant Hellon seems harmless enough, in fact I think he’s been over metrosexualised. Just check out those long manicured surgeon’s fingers and the delicate baby curls, aaww, how sweet. Just what we want in a president because that’s how you can tell the country will be in good hands. As for Esther, well you can’t say she doesn’t look like she’s getting it good and regular from hubby Quincy also known as Zuma Wambita. I mean just because his brain isn’t working properly doesn’t mean his slim shady won’t stand up and do a real job. You can bet there’s a lot of nightly babbling wooowiii, wooowiii out of Mrs Timberlake, it’s written on her face the way her fringe is flourishing, and everyone knows it in their heart of hearts that she must be on to some seriously good zuma wam-beating it. So let’s just put jealousy to one side.

But Quincy as a person? He’s such a closed book perhaps because he‘s never opened one. And it’s painfully frustrating when he uses that language that only he speaks so fluently. I’ve tried my best to find a human who’ll teach me but to no avail. George is urging patience, he says come 2012 when the trio are in Statehouse, by a landslide, we’ll all get lessons because they’ll ask us over for sleepovers. We await in a state of anticipitalitis.

Love (Feel no shame, come get some)

Hello World! I knew there were so many ways to be in love even before I posted this dedication to the wonderful Lindsay. However that's not even the half of it. Truth is there’s enough love to go around if only we all open up our hearts but I don’t mean you should all become raving homos. Allow me to take very good care of that perversion. Years ago I was introduced to Anita Baker's music by ex-girlfriends who still remain much cherished friends. Mwaah, hey to you fabulous LO and MM, you know who you both are. Time for some more confessions - yes, I had many wonderful and beautiful girlfriends in the past - way before I acknowledged my persistent and explicit homosexuality . So, as you can see there’s enough deep and nondiscriminatory love to go all round. I hope you enjoy the vid, and have a great week ahead. Tomorrow I plan to tell all about what happened when a very hot and handsome repairman came to our house last week. xxx xxxx

Gay man’s biological clock

Last time we identified the first words made by a gay baby. Now I’ve found out that the sound of a gay man’s biological clock dicking ticking is dick, dock…lol!

Have a lovely week folks. I was away in London (yeah, again) last week, just got back on Saturday. Mini post coming soon…

A parent’s guide to the finger of god business (pg rated)

Some concerned parents wrote to me when TV anchor Esther’s saga broke out. They said please Tamaku my kids are scared when they hear about Freemasons and people wanting to kill others and they’re asking difficult questions. Can you find us a way to explain what’s happening to their role model? So I obliged and embellished the story somewhat so that youngsters could understand. You can read it and dramatize it like a game for the kids at bedtime in nice Harry Porter style to get the message home:

Once upon a time there was a famous and very beautiful girl from the telly. One day she decided to run away from her handsome boyfriend who had smooth and well manicured fingers to a wizard called Timberstick. When he got her to a castle in Runda he began the ancient and secret game of 4ply (here you can sing a little lullaby, 1ply, 2ply, you get the drift). Not to be confused with foreplay which all boys know is just a waste of playstation time, 4ply is a spell practiced under a moonless night to the hypnotising strains of a lone saxophonist. However when you grow up and if you don’t study hard and go to college, you will hear it mentioned in player parlance as ‘short-circuiting a babe’s cpu’. So, this is what Timberstick did with his talented guitar-calloused and blinged up one digit, which came to be known throughout the kingdom simply as da Finga. It was studded like a courgette’s skin and curved like an aubergine, lovely vegetables that you must always eat whenever mummy cooks them for you. They are excellent sources of nutrients but only when chopped and cooked. Now, when boys were still writing with pencils, the wicked wizard was already printing in colour. He was also very experienced in the art of taking off a girl's bra with only one hand. Soon the beautiful girl was frothing at the lips close to dying but not at all in a bad way. She was riding through the sky without a care like a runaway helium balloon. Higher, higher close to heaven, when she saw how bright and beautiful heaven was she cried out: ‘Woooi , OMG…. Oh My God, what is that?’ (Note to parents: feel free to adapt the cry to suit your child’s deportment, religiosity etc, but keep it real)

The evil 4plyer cackled back to her, ‘That my princess is the finger of god’.

And the moral of the story, children? You must tell your teacher if someone wants to put your finger in the electric pencil sharpener. Goodnight my angels, night night….

(Editor’s note: We are trying to see whether Disney will make a movie)


Moving on swiftly here is a finger joke for the adults:

One day John rang his wife from the offshore rig where he worked.
‘Honey don't worry, I’ve had a serious injury but am ok. An accident occurred and my finger was cut OFF.....'She yelled, ‘The hole finger?’ He answered, ‘NO, NO, the one right next to it. ...’

Names

What do you call Kenyan homophobes?

Gay-nyans!

Baby cooked in oven

Do you recall the time last year when I was broody and dreaming about being a dad? Well, after that post I received an amazing amount of emails from people (women?) who were willing to offer their help. My euphoria quickly dissipated before you could say wank, cup and turkey-baster when I realised that all those offers were shocking rent-a-womb. I haven’t come across any laws which prohibit these arrangements, though it’s a grey area fraught with legal pitfalls. Turns out these scammers were only after my money offering to bear my biological child, one even asked me to M-pesa ’commitment fees’!!! Aaargh. But the real reason why I didn’t pursue it was on my mum’s advice. She said just be patient son, someone will come along with whom you’ll fall in love and you’ll be blessed with many kids. Problem is that mummy doesn’t know I’m in love with George but he’s never liked the idea of wearing a maternity dress though he’s partial to nibbling a nipple now and again, hahahaha...

Anyway in the course of my research I also discovered a place in Nairobi that offers IVF treatment. I just typed into google ‘nairobi ivf baby cooked in oven’ (as you would) and that was the top result. And I also discovered other such facilities in wonderful places like South Africa and India. I’m so excited but all I can say at this point is that I feel a whole new world of possibilities has opened up for us. Hint: Arrival of Tamaku Jnr may involve a lesbian friend.

Since you are now like family, and always so nice to me (unlike some people) you can all be uncles and aunts…

Toyota

I was up late last night thinking about all the hullabaloo surrounding safety issues and Toyota. I’m sure it’s all one conspiracy to try and resuscitate America’s auto industry, but it may backfire because the Toyota brand has already seeped deep into people’s consciousness. I love Toyota cars even though I’ve never owned one myself. If you can guess correctly what car I drive, I swear I’ll come over personally and tickle you until you cry please, please Tamaku stop but I won’t stop until you pee on yourself, lol! However I detest those models that look like freestanding wardrobes on wheels, here I’m talking about Toyota Voxy and it’s ungainly cousin Toyota Noah. Sorry but it’s very easy to confuse one of these in the hazy Nairobi traffic with a pregnant Zebu cow. Not too sexy unless you’re a farmer’s wife called Mrs Noah who’s getting ready to go on a cruise (speaking of which, does anyone know what her real name was please, I promise I won’t come and tickle you unless you want me to).

My wonderful George, who is now sitting at my feet on the floor watching a good bootleg copy of City of God as I type this (oh, the irony), is like a Lexus LS460 with heated leather seats, warm and a joy to cuddle but he can make your ass sweat when he’s in the mood. I think I’d say I’m more like the 'humble’ Avensis, good thrust when needed and with a decent trunk which shuts well, lol! Which reminds me - George wrongly says I like to wield power around here. I don’t know whatever gave him that impression but I don’t mind so long as he does what he’s told. And forget all that nonsense about gays having faulty 'brakes', take it from me nothing wrong with our 'brakes' after many miles on the clock never had even one skidmark…

Ok, mmmmm, now let’s see if I can pick on a couple of lovely fellow bloggers and pair them with a suitable model of Toyota: In my mind I think Shiko-Msa is like a red Toyota Solara with the top down cruising through Mama Ngina Drive on a hot afternoon, classy and interesting ;) while Rox is like a canary-yellow Toyota Supra in 17-inch gunmetal rims and tinted windows, distinctive and fun (NOT a euphemism for easy by the way, hehehehehe. Dear sweetie, Rox, darling, sugar, honey please don’t hit me). Let me stop there before I get myself in more trouble than I already am. Hahahaha…

Big Car, Small Dick

Tuesday afternoon I was standing in a queue at the bank. There was a man ahead of me at the counter getting serviced served, he was being quite loud so much that everyone could hear his business.

So there he was, standing in dusty shoes and wearing a mismatched suit which are sure signs of the Kenyan billionare, wobbly belly swaying over cantilevered trouser-belt which is the third sign of Nairobi's obscenely wealthy. I was wondering how much money you'd have to get paid to sleep with someone like that (zillions at least) or how much alcohol do you have to imbibe before you can do it with the lights on. Meanwhile his short, chubby but surprisingly athletic fingers (It's not the size of the finger that matters, but the size of the ring. Lol, big fat lie!) were banging away to the annoying crescendo of the note counting machine as he transacted small fortunes across multiple accounts, setting up standing orders, getting bankers' cheques and just for good measure he also drew a few hundred thousand 'to pay the workers, haha ha ha'. I even saw him slide the cashier a couple thou, for lunch. The people in the jittering lunchtime queue were far from impressed. BTW, my bank offers me teas and coffees while I'm waiting but nowhere to powder my nose, where is the sense in that?

After 'beached-whale trucking mini-waterfall-cascading-down-the-crack-of-bum (lovely sweat, mmmm)' waddled out of Barclays the young woman behind me muttered: 'These sad men who want people to notice them - it's all about the size of the cock!'


Just be yourself, you are somebody and the world belongs to you too. Glenn Jones

Gorilla on steroids

My sister whispered to me when I got back to our table at the restaurant where we had lunch the other day bro you really mince when you walk. I just laughed in her face because many years ago she told me I used to walk too agressively with my feet pointing ten to two, so I taught myself a new walk. Perhaps I've been swish since then, managing to conceal the wriggle in my bottom under suit jackets.

But now I'm at the point in life where I can't be bothered with doing stuff just to please people. So I'm not going to stop wearing fishnets or listening to Madonna and I'm definitely not going to start walking around like a gorilla on steroids.

I'll just be me.

The Doctor

I recently saw a poster on a roadside utilities cabinet near the City Stadium (Italics are mine):

'Dr Hodari - Consultant Doctor (tel 0721 xxx xxx) helps in -

* Love portions (Stir-in and drink from a horny goat's horn?)

* Man Power (This deficiency is not about the lack of employment, lol)

* Woman weakness (Casanova's cure?)

* Family Affairs (Dear Dr, I have the hots for my son...?)'

It's a mad world for sure.

G touring on two wheels

My best friend Mike lent me his new Honda 250cc motorbike for the day so I thought I’d take it for a spin on the outskirts of Nairobi to a place called Kitengela . I cruised gaily feeling like one of them from CHiPs in my Oakley whisker black shades up to just after Mlolongo where I’d forgotten there are diversions due to road works. So much plant – Bomag rollers, Shantui diggers, Caterpillars with buckets the size of an average lorry. The Chinese really do know how to build roads, I think it’s all in the stir-fry. But this section of road is rough terrain and I was breathing in serious dust especially from the lorries around Bamburi Cement and East African Portland Cement. The air quality around those parts doesn’t feel too healthy.

I got to Kitengela town at about 2pm and stopped at Tarino Butchery (what happened to Tarino the soft drink from the 80's?) for a change, we normally have our lunch at Mariakani Meat Park which is directly opposite or at Hotel Nomad which is further up the road. My helmet visor was covered in a chalky dust which I wiped off on my jeans’ bum. They usually have meat ready cooked so I ordered chemsha (boiled beef) and mbavu choma (roast goat ribs), ugali with kachumbari salad which was excellent . I laughed when I saw the sign next to the sink where I washed my hands: tafadhali usiteme mate wala kunawa uso kwa sink (please do not spit or wash your face at the sink). When I read it first I thought ‘mate’ (Swahili for spit) was ‘mate’ as in friend. Lol!

I also saw two handsome Masai men in traditional dress holding hands and carrying heavy rungu’s (clubs) so I didn’t ask them if they were gay because there was 50:50 chance I may be very wrong.

After lunch I thought I can’t stand that section of rough road again or else I’ll bring up my lunch on Mike’s new toy so I turned off towards Tuskys Athi, vroomed past the Ministry of Livestock Development Meat Training Institute (I swear that’s what the sign said, so next time you have a disciplined steak you’ll know where it’s come from). I joined the Mombasa Road at Devki Steel Mills and stopped at Zahra Service Station (please pave your forecourt) for petrol and to make a phone call to the other half who was so jealous because he was at work. I said honey please pray for me I’m on Mike’s bike on Mombasa Road and there are trucks and buses driven by maniacs everywhere.

When I got to River Park Estate more dust went up my nose which made me wonder for some few seconds why people ever bother snorting cocaine but I was more curious about the modular houses which look like upside down teacups. So I went off to have a look but when I got there it was just a big black gate and no one to ask. Please if someone knows what they are please let me know.

Nearer to Nairobi after City Cabanas I walked the bike in traffic for about 40 minutes because I know it can be fatal for cyclists when inconsiderate drivers suddenly open their doors. I was next to a 40ft Kuehne Nagel container truck wondering how flat as a pancake I’d be if it toppled over. I saw two youngish lads riding precariously standing on the rear bar of a pickup truck, just another way to get home.

Luckily I just beat the real rush hour headache when I arrived at our house. I’ve just had a long shower and I’m relaxing in the study waiting for George. Imelda is making one of my favs for our dinner which is tilapia caught this morning but soon to be swimming in a rich tomato sauce served with KPL Super Aromatic Rice in coconut milk which is just so delish. That’ll put me in the mood for what-you-are-thinking-of-when-you-are-not-sleeping- which- is- sex. Goodnight all.

A pussycat growls?

I don’t know what to make of claims that the world’s greatest golfer is ‘horrible in bed’. Part of me wants to cry and send some tips because it’s not nice when someone says that about you especially when your first name is Tiger - the grrrrr. The other side of me wants to just lol! thinking it might be a case of putting in the wrong hole....mmmm? Mmmm? Lol!