it's off to Oz I go... well, not quite, but nearly. You see, one month from today I will be jumping up and down on an over-stuffed suitcase full of my prettiest, strappiest, globetrotting gear. I will be glowing courtesy of an oh-so-natural (could've just spent a week in St. Tropez) airbrush tan and my mostly grey (sad but true) re-growth will be a thing of the past thanks to Carlton's finest hair saviour, Rudy. I'll also hopefully be having to hold my favourite jeans up with a belt cos the muffin-top I'm sporting today will have been banished.
The 'reunion tour' as it was coined two years back when the idea of this 3-week holiday was conceived, is just a month away. My flights are booked and I've written my 'out of office' email message in my head – ready to be typed at a moment's notice. The only thing standing between me, two of my best friend's in Perth and 21 days of girlie shenanigans is the dreaded visa application – a pile of paperwork that makes end of the month invoicing look like a silly little post-it note.
I am not a fan of visa applications. I'm not a fan of the checklists and the driving back and forth to obtain 'originals' and the extra admin that comes with being self-employed. Thankfully, I am married and not taking hubby on this adventure so the fact that I have to come back to my Mr. is a great big point in my favour as far as the Aussie embassy is concerned. I'm sure Oz is lovely but I am a proudly South African meisie whose great grandfather wrote Shaka Zulu. There's no soil I'd rather be teetering on in impractical heels than African soil. Arnie said it best: "I will be back!"
The annoying thing is that for all the advantages that come as side effects of being self-employed, there's one big disadvantage – no employment contract, no official letter of employment and no payslip. So, where one piece of paper would usually tick a box on the checklist, I need several, including a letter from my accountant which is just a pain in the proverbial buttocks because it has to be an original which means I have to drive to Randburg to collect it.
Probably doesn't seem like such a big deal, and it wouldn't usually be... it's just than among all the deadlines, the changing briefs and the brainstorming sessions with clients, a drive to scenic Randburg may prove a tad tricky. Add to that the fact that I need to make a trip to the bank around the queue-infested lunch hour and find my passport in one of the many 'safe' places in my house during the course of tomorrow and you have a recipe for epic sense of humour failure.
Wednesday may need to evolve into Wine-day. Perhaps an Australian blend may be fitting.
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