Post-Easter predicament

This is [not] me, on the yacht in Turkey... here's why:

Everyone kept telling me how cold it was in Cape Town this weekend. But I haven't been able to feel the cold, even though the temperatures here have been lower than those in Jo'burg. I am attributing this to the colossal mass of Lindt I consumed on Easter Sunday. My family actually couldn't believe their eyes as they watched their sophisticated young offspring transform into some sort of barbaric Easter mutant, chocolate smeared down my face as I inhaled one egg after another. I now have an unwanted layer of additional Winter padding. Unfortunately, as you know, I somehow need to squeeze my pallid, pasty (and now pudgy) self into a hot skimpy bikini next weekend as I board the luxury Turkish yacht. How am I to impress Lovely Boyfriend (and potentially attractive boat crew) now? Hoping the calorie-conquering task of moving house on Sunday will do the trick. Although this may quickly be cancelled out by the Cheese and Wine Festival in Franschhoek on Sunday afternoon...

I give up.

'Joyeuse Pacques'

Got my mac, wellies, scarves, gloves, hot-water bottle, fleece, beanie and ear muffs at the ready for Jo'burg. Also have my pepper spray, panic button and baton safely stowed in my handbag. I leave Friday morning – finding a lift to the airport proved more difficult than I thought. After asking seven friends who all gave me the same 'I'm going to be too hungover' response, I almost gave up hope.  Then I realised it's best to ask friends who are running the 2 Oceans since they've all been tee total for an unrealistically long time by now – (don't know how they do it). Jo'burg is kicking off to a fab start – with rain and an empty bank account. So until payday am stuck in the confines of my Houghton home listening to the mother rattle on about what an untidy, unkempt, unreliable, irresponsible human being I've morphed into because I've left my bed unmade, my towel on the floor and a coffee mug next to my bed. But when you go home those things are totally meant to be done for you, right? Why else do we go home?!

Am looking forward to Easter. CHOCOLATE!! Easter is like Christmas in my house. CHOCOLATE!! Everyone gets excitedly childish (CHOCOLATE!!), we all go to church and the table is laid with eggs for Africa (I specified in advance that I will eat Lindt bunnies, and only Lindt bunnies). CHOCOLATE!! How EGGciting! However, Mum has decided my brother and I are too old for an Easter Egg hunt this year. Whatever –  'Chocolate is the poor man's Champagne' (Daniel Worona) so I will be hunting inside my step dad's booze cupboard instead. I know he has a stash of French Champagne for special occasions. Just having me home should be special enough, Easter or no Easter!

So one more day of work! Then I only have four days of work till I depart on the longest flight I've ever booked (unfortunately my savings would only cover a flight that made a few stops) to lovely happy London, then on to a distant Turkish Delightful land with Lovely Boyfriend and tanning oil in tow. If I don't get on here before the Easter weekend, Happy Easter to all, and to all an EGGcellent break!

"For I remember it is Easter morn,
And life and love and peace are all new born"  ~Alice Freeman Palmer

Better left unremembered!

 Not liking bubbles so much today. This is owing to the fact that I practically inhaled a bottle and a half on Friday night at the house-cooling bash, before finding myself locked outside Power and the Glory, pleading with the bouncer to let me in or I'd report him for causing me to catch pneumonia. Since I was practically wearing a boob tube for a skirt my threats seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. Once I'd managed to sneak in when he wasn't looking, I continued to lash out on poor innocent souls, cursing the bartender for not having Hunter's Dry but rather some Sparletta-coloured apple juice with not-enough-percent alcohol. From there I blinked and found myself in Fez, attempting to redo my makeup in the bathroom mirror. After carefully applying eye liner everywhere but my actual eyes we hit the dance floor for a solid two hours of what can only be described as bopping. If only I had a video since I can barely walk in my new heels let alone dance in them and am sure, if my memory serves me correctly, people were actually moving aside to allow space for my violently swinging limbs. And then suddenly I was in a karaoke room, holding a mike and a Hunter's Dry and shouting Britney Spear's 'I Love Rock 'n' Rock' while I tried to immitate her seductive hip movements, but I was struggling to keep my balance and kept having to steady myself on a chair. It was at this point that I looked at my phone only to realise it was 4:15am. Somewhere amidst the singing, blur and tray of shooters I found some sense and promptly departed (leaving Lovely Boyfriend and friends) to stuff my face with the leftover nachos at home and navigate my bed. Family lunch on Saturday was torture.

Evidence of Friday night can be found on Facebook.

So still in recovery mode, I'm trying to figure out when I'm going to find the time to pack up my house. I hate moving. I really really hate moving. I know I've been banging on relentlessly about my new pimpim' bachelor pad but I wish I could wave my magic mover's wand and BAM, I'm moved in. Everything unpacked and the last house dealt with and a big deposit back in my bank account. I have easily kept Vodacom in business this month having had to call electricians, plumbers, carpet cleaners, DSTV... And the fact that I have a trip to Jo'burg (unfortunately) then I'm off to London and Turkey kind of leaves me with three days to pack, move, unpack and settle before I'm off! I don't want to be a grown up. I want to grow back down again.

*Tiny bubbles*

You may well notice that to your right I have removed the fairly commonplace illustration of an olive or The Olive (that's me!) and replaced it with a picture of what you should by now have established is my one of my most favourite things in the world (second to Lovely Boyfriend, of course. Third place is drinking it with Lovely Boyfriend). The reason for this being that 'Champagne' has (before I post this blogpost) been tagged 12 times and 'bubbly' 7 times already on my blog. Evidently it plays a large part in my day-to-day existence. Not that I drink it for breakfast (although I wouldn't put it past me), but in the words of Madam Lilly Bollinger:

'I drink champagne when I'm happy and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I'm not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it – unless I'm thirsty.'

What a a suitable quote. And now the night of our house-cooling bash hath finally arrived. And guess where I'm going after work? The Champagne Shop (some call it a Bottle Store)!! 

Have a great weekend! Thanks to all my new followers for coming on board!

On your marks, jet set

Am having writer's block this week. Sorry. I tried to write a post on Tuesday. And made a couple more attempts yesterday again. I now have at least five drafts saved, and they all start with 'Am having writer's block this week'! 

All I can think about at the moment is **London** – being back in my bustling Bristish hometown and trawling the King's Road alongside fellow poms, clutching a Starbucks frappucino (equivalent to freezocino), my arms lined with Top Shop shopping bags (I'm allowed to, it's London) after a morning in Oxford Circus (officially my favourite place in the world) and Covent Garden. Heading to the pub after a full day of walking and shopping for a jug of pimms and some pork scratchings beneath the spring blossoms, then dining on the Fulham Road with Lovely Boyfriend and all my amazing friends and family whom I cannot WAIT to see! Bliss! (And bankruptcy... Blasted ZAR.)

(I think I forgot to mention that on my way to Turkey for amazing free-food-and-bubbly media-elite week on luxury 14-person ketcha with private crew and chefs, we are actually stopping in to London for a day. I literally am reeling, but wish it was longer since we have to be up actually before dawn cracks to get to Gatwick. But who can complain about being whisked away on Monarch Airlines only to arrive in Turkey for 5-star free-of-charge treatment. I certainly can't.)

Anyway, what with the trip in 3 weeks, moving house in 2 (to previously mentioned pimpim' bachelor pad), and flying home for Easter in 1 (we all know how I feel about Joburg), my mind is ticking like a metranome on acid. I haven't even thought about packing yet and am trying to focus on the fact that we are throwing a 'house cooling' chicks-only bash tomorrow night! (As opposed to house warming, in case you didn't quite get it.) I have been instructed to make my famed, gloriously cheesy culinary masterpiece nachos, oozing with salsa, dripping with juicy mince, and dipped in fresh guacamole and ice-cold sour cream. (Did I just make you dribble? You dribbled didn't you.) So am going to be frantically busy tomorrow eve cooking up a nacho storm, while sipping (or gulping) on my flute of Villiera Brut Rose between tasks, and dressed in lumo gear (remind me why we made it a themed evening again?).

Must get to gym after work to work off rather large 19-cheeses Death Quiche I inhaled (literally devoured it in no more than three mouthfuls) over lunch. (I believe that when an anorexic pictures the devil, she visualises this exact quiche.) Am only allowing myself my regular glass of Thursday Night Champagne if I conquer an hour's workout. Say goodbye Death Quiche!

Flying high

I've definitely lost a handful of hair and shed at least 8kgs over the course of the morning. Trying to sort out flights to Turkey (via London) has without doubt been one of the most maddening and stressful experiences of my life, especially while simultaneously trying to do my job. My father decided it was absolutely urgent we booked the flights immediately before they a.) went up in price, and b.) we lost the seats, and he rang incessantly at 10-minute intervals to ask me if I had done it yet. Not like I have a serious job to do, and my morning muesli to eat. But I also still had to confirm flight details with Lovely Boyfriend, and break the news that we were on different flights and spending a day in London! It was all very dramatic and my colleagues have now seen my dark side as I let loose on the phone to my father, consequently knocking over the vase of roses on my desk and spilling two-week-old plant water into my handbag, which merely added to the morning melodrama.

I went to an engagement party at The Bay Hotel on Saturday night. After drinking my weight in Champagne, consuming all the spring rolls, and spending a good hour trying to convince all the parents that I'm awesome (I have a thing about parents liking me, even if I don't know them), I managed to persuade (or bribe, whatever) everyone to go to the gruesome Decodance. Why? I don't know. I don't even like that sleeze pit – it's seedy and smelly and greasy and filled with creepy brides-to-be wearing veils and sipping from penis straws, pole dancing in barely-there clothing and hitting on all the other creeps in the club. I kept my hand sanitizer close by as am convinced one could easily pick up a range of life-threatening viruses from the bar top. But I was on some kind of high (delayed excitement from all the free bubbly) and went so mental on the d-floor I almost popped a hip. At this point, I think it may have been me who also suggested we get the hell out of this place.

Setting sail...

You see that? That's a yacht. Do you know where it is? It's in Turkey. Do you know who is going there? MEEEEEEEE! 

Picture spoilt-brat me sprawled across a Turkish deck chair, the Turkish wind in my hair, 5th Turkish G&T in my hand, the Turkish catch of the day in my tum, a Turkish olive tan (I hope) and the endless unparalleled views of the Turkish coast, and maybe some good-looking Turkish boat crew. Yup – am now a very important journalist being whipped off on a travel story for my wonderful, amazing, fabulous magazine, which consists of a week's sailing down Turkey's coastline with none other than Lovely Boyfriend on a luxury 14-person 'ketcha' (ya, me neither). So I have one month to tone up, find my sea legs (sure I put them somewhere), and wangle some highlights out of my mother (if not, I heard lemon works?). And also to save – despite it being an all-expenses-paid trip, I doubt this will cover my obsession with buying rings, necklaces, watches, bracelets, sarongs (I could go on) in foreign countries. Last time I was in Turkey I'm pretty sure I bought enough jewellery to accessorize my entire extended family. 

Anyway – great news to start the weekend with. I think it'll be a real Turkish Delight (see what I did there?). This calls for some bubbly...!

Confessions of a shopaholic

When I lived in London I developed a mild but unmistakeable shopping addiction. (Who doesn't?) It's safe to say that Top Shop inherited no less than a quarter of my salary each month. At one stage they even offered me a position since I knew the store like the back of my hand. I was eventually unable to actually close my cupboard door and would spend a good hour each morning deciding what I was going to wear, and like most girls, I still wanted to borrow clothes from my flatmate. Having moved over to London with no more than a standard-sized suitcase, moving back proved far more difficult. After shipping off two colossal sasquatch-sized boxes, I still arrived at the airport with four suitcases only to be told I had to pay somewhere in the region of 250 pounds if I wanted my precious clothes to join me in SA. Tip for girls – just cry hysterically, it really works. Every time. 

Once back in amazing Cape Town I decided to put a sturdy end to my shopaholicism. It wasn't too difficult since I deem it totally impossible to find a decent piece of clothing in South Africa – something that isn't three seasons old and made from pathetic fabric hastily stitched together into something that is desolated after one wash (you know who you are... *YDE. Cough!*). And if you do happen to stumble across something nice, you need to take out a loan just to walk into the shop.

Anyway, so back to present day. I have since been two years clean, aside from the odd must-have essentials (ie leggings, a few summer dresses, some heels, one or two tops, underwear, cardigans... Oh you know, the basics). But this month, a month when I really needed to save considering I'm moving into my pimpin' bachelor pad in May, I suddenly liked FOUR things at once! Shit. I think I went into some sort of catatonic trance because before I knew it I was shying away guiltily from V&A clutching a myriad shopping bags, cursing my credit card and scaring away fellow pedestrians.

I love my new tops and have had many a good comment. But I don't love the current state of my credit card account and I must now suffer the consequences of my actions. So have had to come up with some ways to save cash each day so that I can pay off my debt before the month is up:

• Have one less bottle of Champagne on my evenings out

That should do it. 

No butts...

So I was sitting in Cubana this weekend, taking great pleasure in my Saturday early-evening view of Hermanus' astonishingly beautiful, glistening ocean and lush, green mountains, when my field of vision was grossly sullied by a man's unwieldly butt cheeks. Why is it that so many men choose the seedy Cubana as destination bachelors?! Said man was wearing a pair of disturbing leather-strapped underwear with buckle, his blushing butt cheeks uncovered and nauseatingly blotchy. Suddenly my chilli poppers lost their appeal, so I ordered another Hunters Dry and turned my focus to booze and rugby. Stormers won so it was a great start to the evening, which consisted of getting as far away from pending bachelor anarchy as possible. Bottle of rose in hand, we headed home to set up Scrabble.

Now, Scrabble for Lovely Boyfriend and myself is not just a game. It's a highly competitive, cutthroat dual. No talking, no laughing, no affection... Pure concentration and an obsessive determination to claim the Scrabble title and win Most Literate, Intelligent and Well-read Significant Other. Unfortunately on this particular night, we finished the rose before we finished the game, and I had to retire to bed since I was slurring half the words I attempted to spell. 

Back to the drawing board for me - my sleeping pill from last night doesn't seem to have quite worn off, which means I'm working at a senile pace this morning... So far I've watered the roses on my desk, eaten a bowl of muesli, written this blog post and planned a promenade walk for after work. Maybe I should get on with it...