Greetings from the middle of the bush. And by ‘bush’ I’m referring to my parents bungalow in the private game farm situated somewhere in Limpopo. Or is it Mpumalanga? I know it was previously referred to as the Eastern Transvaal, however I am quite clueless as to which province it now falls within.

Without giving away my exact location [paparazzi are always stalking] I can divulge that we border the Kruger National Park and count the Timbavati White Lions as our neighbours. I can further brag about several Protea’s being in residence too. And I’m not referring to our national flower either – wink wink.

But I’ve said too much already, and if I reveal more regarding any schleb’s identities, it will be very difficult to gossip about my fellow bush babies.

That being said, of the 60 odd owners [and/or family members and guests] on the farm, yours truly is currently the talk of the town territory.  Whilst I’ve always aspired to a certain notoriety; I fear that my latest caper has left me rather red-faced and my reputation in tatters.

And the worst part is … I was stone cold sober at the time. I swear!  I have not touched a drop of alcohol since the night of my job interview and cavorting with Clooney. [details of which remain rather sketchy, so I apologies for not relating the full tale.]

Unfortunately the latest story will have to wait until tomorrow as a storm is approaching and I am about to lose my internet connection.  However I will quickly tell you what I saw this morning on my daily drive to my oasis; a breeding herd of elephants [including several calves; a lone  buffalo soldier, a dazzle of zebra; a journey of giraffe; a herd of wildebeest and a mother-fucking shitload of impala [a.k.a. Bush McDonalds].

Over and out.