Happy feet

I had a lot of free time over the weekend, which was spent applying Caribbean Tan (with remarkable expertise I might add, bar my unmistakeable 'carrot fingers') and painting my toenails a blinding shade of pink to match the pretty summer weather. Monday morning – arrived at office in brand new Luella sandals, my feet of vision of bronze and pink. Hard work paid off when feet were offered a well-paid modelling job on Good Housekeeping mag, so will now be spending this evening getting free pedicure and prepping feet for shoot. Always wanted to model... Let's just call this my 'foot in the door'. Or at least a 'step up'... Am really going to put my best foot forward tomorrow.

Unattractive Geyser Man arrives this morning, 20 minutes late, making me irritable and late for work.
Ugly Geyser Man: 'What seems to be the problem?'
Olive: 'Apparently my geyser is leaking somewhere. I think it's a load of bollocks really. I haven't noticed any water anywhere.'
UGM: 'Let's take a look see.'

He climbs up ladder into enormous hole in my ceiling, which I never before noticed. I hear a scream.

Olive: 'WHAT IS IT?! RAT? A DEAD BODY?! WHAT?'
UGM: 'Christ!!! Your geyser has burst. It's flooding up here! How did you not notice?'
Olive: 'Unfortunately I don't spend much time in the ceiling.'
UGM: 'We need to fix this immediately.'
Olive: 'I need to go to work.'
UGM: 'You need to replace these pipes or you're going to be swimming to bed tonight.'
Olive: 'At least that's one of the forms of exercises I'm allowed to do with my bad knees!'


UGM didn't find my jokes very funny and eventually convinced me that this HAD to be dealt with today and that I'd have to come back in my lunch break or my building would be under water by the end of the day.

UGM: 'Put that in your pipe and smoke it!' (The pun being on 'pipe')
Olive: 'Touche.'

We parted on good terms after I realised he had a sense of humour.

Knees are in a lot of pain after God-awful injections yesterday. Lovely friend (who lived in Bangkok for a year) came for support and proceeded to squeeze my hand and educate me on the different versions of Thai salads as they drew blood then re-injected it into my patella tendon. There was so much going on I don't think anyone took any interest whatsoever as to how much pain I was in...

Olive: 'IT HURTS!'
Friend: 'And then there's the salad with paw-paw...'
Surgeon: 'Just a little to the left...'
Olive: 'YOU SADIST!'
Friend: 'Or you can use sesame seed oil...'
Surgeon: 'Right there! In it goes.'
Olive: 'OOOWWWWWW!!!!'
Friend: 'Or you can sprinkle peanuts on top.'
Physio: 'I've had that before...'
Friend: 'It's great isn't it?'
Olive: 'OH MY GOD!'
Physio: 'And with paw-paw!'
Friend: 'Yes, paw-paw.'
Olive: Well I'm f***ing SORE-SORE... Can we quit talking about Thai food and focus on me! I'm in pain, I'm dying... ... I'm...'
Surgeon: 'All done.'
Olive: 'Oh.'
Surgeon winks at me: 'Not so bad, was it?'
Olive (in her head): How would you like me to stick a bloody great needle into your knobbly knees and move it around until I found the most painful spot, you old fart!!!
Surgeon: 'So, who's up for some Thai food?'

We did end up going for Thai last night (er, not with my surgeon). A lovely big bowl of Phad Thai later the colour finally came back into my face. Still in a lot of pain today so feeling tres sorry for myself. Special Vivi & Lola even went and got me a freezo to cheer me up...

Have a great weekend all! I'm pretty sure you know what mine will entail by now. If my knees will permit it...

In the summertime!

These pretty piccies are from gorgeous summery afternoon on Saturday, which was first spent on Wafu deck sharing couch (due to overpopulation) with random elderly Flemish couple (I proceeded to ask them if there was really a country called Phlegm?), knocking back an array of cocktails, dressed in skimpy skirt, fake tan and new Luella sandals, gazing out at glistening ocean and continually having to inconspicuously wipe off upper-lip sweat. This was followed by walk along promenade, dodging runners, dog pooh and falling over from too many cocktails.

So, the most embarrassing part of my weekend was the email I received on Saturday from my physio saying, 'If you'd wanted me to hold your hand why didn't you just ask?' (You need to read Stairway to Heaven to get that – because he clearly read it!). Anyway. Apologised profusely for using him as focal point of my post, not EVER thinking he would read it. He still offered to come with me to terrifying injection appointment on Wednesday. I'm going to hold him to that as this time I really do need something to hold on to, whether it be a hand or a Hunter's Dry. I won't give you the gory details of what I have to have done to treat my Patella Tendonitis, but let's just say it involves drawing blood from arm and injections into my knees. The thought of which caused me to gag at the appointment last week and my surgeon to thrust a bucket in front of my face.

'I'm always prepared for an array of reactions to treatment,' he pointed out, smiling.

He then proceeded to remind me of the time I fainted when he turned on the video of my knee operation. The sheer sight on the interior of my own knee had caused me to black out and almost roll off the bed. When I came round he was sitting comfortably in front of me, legs crossed, sipping leisurely on a cup of tea, my mother flirting with him outrageously. They both gave me a little wave. Had any of them even noticed I'd been unconscious? Hot Assistant was standing by my head:

HA: 'Are you alright?'
Olive, staring dreamily into HA's eyes: 'I am now!'

He quickly left the room.

Anyway, not sure if it's some form of Placebo Effect, but ever since that utter terror I felt when I was informed about these injections on Wednesday, my knees seem to be feeling better... That could also be because this weekend (unfortunately) involved minimal-to-no speaker dancing, or tactical heel balancing. But more gentle promenade walks, and lots of drinks on couches in the sunshine. No strain on the knees. Just on the liver.

Friday night, saw my wonderful Mummy and Step Daddy who were in CT just for uno night. Friday: was so desperate for glass of bubbly after taxing, stressful and seriously long week at work. Needed a drink so badly I cracked open revolting bottle of Ginger Beer-flavoured Hooch (which I got free at work) in the bath. Met parents at Vineyard Hotel for drink then decide to to take them over to Wijnhuis for a spot of dins. Half way through succulent calamari –

'Another bubbly, please,' I say toasting my sted dad, then sarcastically: 'Shot gun driving home!!!'
Mother: 'You are driving home!'
Olive: 'Oops.'
Step Dad giggles in the corner and orders another wine.
Mother: 'How many have you had, Darling?'
Step Dad and Olive: 'Me?'
Olive: 'I lost count after round 5. It's Friday, Mummy! Just let me and Step Daddy have a glass of Port for dessert.'

Glass of Port later, Step Daddy and I giggling childishly over #BraaiMovies on Twitter (we definitely came up with the funniest two: The Wors Whisperer; and Justin Weber: Never Say Never... Although I've got to hand it to the guy who made up Forrest Rump; Star Wors: Return of the Rib-Eye; Steaks on a Plane; and Grillers in the Mist.). Mother, who is too British, doesn't get it. 'What's a bry?' she ask, and ushers us out the restaurant, annoyed.

Mother (with posh Pommie accent): 'You two are hopeless. You're both blotto! Absolutely gaga.'
Olive, singing loudly: 'We were born this way!!!'

Me and Step Daddy collapse into fit of giggles, since 60-year-old retired Step Father actually listens to Lady Gaga in his car and so he got the joke. Mother storms off angrily to car and I continue cackling hysterically as I try squish large Step Dad into tiny backseat of Yaris, who ends up landing face first, cracking his glasses on the seatbelt. Mother clings to car door for her life as I drive us back to the hotel, and leaps out the car the second I stop, thankful to have made it home alive.

Needless to say she rang me on the way home to check if I was ok and safe but then shouted at me for speaking on the phone while I was driving!! Mothers....

On a dimmer note, I'm having my peformance review at work today. I woudn't be worried if I was being scored on my oustanding performance on the Tiger Tiger speaker... I'd no doubt score in the high thousands and be promoted to Cage Dancer. Unfortunately this is for work, taking into account exhausted weekend-hangover Mondays, mid-week benders, and Phuza Thursdays, in addition to long lunches with Vivi&Lola and leaving on the dot of 5 to make gym class drinks with friends... let's hope they can see past all that and focus on what I do bring to the team and the magazine: namely great weekend stories, good puns and Champagne.

A man's health

I realised this morning, while chatting to my wonderful ex-boss back in London, that your first job in magazines is very much like a first love. You'll always hold a special place in your heart for that first magazine – what it taught you, the excitement you felt whenever you saw it, your overwhelming pride when you introduced it to your family… It was new, you were passionate about it, it was totally addictive. It was your first time for everything. I didn't want to spend time apart from it. I missed it we were apart.

Plus I used to ogle the collection of hotties filing through the office each month for cover castings. It bode well for me that I was the only chick on the team.

My first magazine was Men's Health UK. Probably why I often feel I have the authority to preach to my male friends about what they should be eating, drinking, doing, saying... I've even offered valuable courting tips and imparted my excellent knowledge on various techniques in the bedroom. I mean, I used to edit the stuff for Christ's sake!!

I actually worked on this exact issue (above). I auditioned for the part of the bird on the cover but they turned me down for being too thin and too hot.

There were two stories I wrote for the mag back in the day (during the recession) that I decided I'd paste in here for all the boys who read my blog. Enjoy!:

Get your hands dirty
Did the recession force you to let your gardener go? Well you (and your squeeze) are going to dig this: gardening really can help you make the earth move!

A new study from the Medical University of Vienna found that a mere 30 minutes a day of gardening can increase a man’s sex drive and dramatically improve his performance in bed by more than a third. So grab your sheers and tell your wife to step aside as you brave her precious rose bed.

Digging, weeding and mowing the lawn for half an hour has also shown to significantly reduce men’s risk of failing to live up to expectations in bed. 'Erectile function can be maintained by low, regular physical activity,' concluded the study.

Best you get moving: log on to Amazon.com and bag yourself a copy of Alan Titchmarsh’s How to be a gardener: back to basics (BBC Books) and go get dirty in the vegetable patch… In more ways than one.

Want a slice?
Men who are hungry find fatter women more attractive, according to a study by psychologists at Liverpool University's Department of Public Health in the UK. Men experiencing hunger pangs are more attracted to plumper women rather than the emaciated beanpoles of our world, but the researchers also found that – once men’s boeps were filled – their taste in women reverted back to those with slimmer frames.

'Hungry men are much more tolerant and rate obese women more positively than men who have eaten,' says lead researcher Viren Swami. 'In evolutionary terms if you are overweight it means you have more resources. When food is scarce the best chance of healthy offspring is a fatter woman.' In other words boys, if you want to get out of this recession alive – go big or go home!

Good God – the sexual tension at Fat Club meetings must be overpowering.

Stairway to heaven

Knees were on a smooth road to recovery when all of a sudden they swerved off that path... and on to a speaker.

Saturday night: I was a Champagne bottle disguised as a human. Arrived at Tiger after free-bubbly, free-food, free-hot-men Loeries party at The Reserve in skin-tight Kate Moss number, heels and a champagne glass stashed in my clutch. Had asked friends earlier that night at Hudsons to promise me that, no matter how much I begged and pleaded and bargained, they would NOT let me on to speaker that evening. My knees were going downhill and were not happy, and they deserved a bit more TLC from their owner. However, upon arrival on Le Tigre d-floor, I saw the most fabulous thing... A gorgeous little white sparkly staircase had been installed on the floor, leading most magnificently up to the speaker platform itself... Brilliant! Inspired! No more leaping up awkwardly in heels, sitting on spilt Brutal Fruit then flashing knickers to fellow inebriated jammers in an attempt to stand. This was just too inviting... just too tempting. And so... I glided elegantly up pretty staircase to 'stage' and proceeded to rock my socks off for a solid hour, high-fiving the DJ at regular intervals. Bad friends made no attempt to stop me. Bad friends cheered me on and passed me drinks. Bad knees got worse. But good night got great!!

Good night resulted in very bad headache.

Anyway, so three days later and my hangover has finally subsided leaving me with flu, a chesty cough and gammy knees (yum). So am off to see knee specialist on Friday.

Me: 'Is it bad? IS HE GOING TO AMPUTATE?'
Physio: 'No Olive. Relax.'
Me: 'Is this the end of my sporting career?'
Physio: 'What sporting career?'
Me: 'Will I get bionic knees? Will I have to wear Forrest Gump knee braces?'
Physio: 'If anything he'll give you a cortisone injection under both knee caps to help with fluid and movement.

Oh. My. God.

'WHAT?!?!?!?! Injection... under my KNEECAPS??!

The sheer shock caused me to topple off the physio bed.

'Are you f***ing KIDDING?!' I scream from the floor.

Physio not sure whether to laugh or help me up.

I was so pale, physio had to go downstairs and buy me a coke before I could stand up. Told him I needed someone to hold my hand on Friday. He promptly shoved his in his pockets and ended our session... 

A part of me is slightly embarrassed about visiting knee surgeon again. Back in 2007 when I was wild and crazy on the slopes, an unihibited, fearless 20-year-old with no concern for my limbs and life, I tore my ACL in Vail on an evil black-run mogul that totally came out of nowhere. (It was blizzarding and my vision was compromised. Or perhaps that was the wine I'd had with lunch...) Anyway, after my operation, ever so high on miracle-worker morphine (very dangerous indeed to trust me with my own morphine button), I woke up to see surgeon and dashingly goodlooking assistant at his side. Morphine got the better of me...

Me, slurring, eyes half closed: 'I don't think we've met.'
Hot Assistant: 'I'm Von Boorman. I just assisted on your operation'
Me: You're not a boring man at all. Can you assist me in adjusting my robe?'
HA: 'Boorman is my name.'
Me: 'Don't wear it out! You're fabulously goodlooking. Can I have a hug.'
HA: 'Stop pressing that morphine button.'
Me: 'Do I press your buttons?'
HA: 'I think you're being inappropriate...'
Me: 'I think you're inappropriately hot.'

... I attempted to reach out for his doctor's coat, at which point I passed out again, probably drooling, my mum says with a smile on my face. Needless to say, every visit to the surgeon's office after that he'd either avoid my gaze or not attend the session. Hoping he won't be at appointment on Friday. May have to go disguised as a crutch.

Saw Friends With Benefits last night. Absolutely hilarious. But, we all know that that simply doesn't happen in real life. "The perfect man doesn't drink, smoke, cheat... Or exist."

I do now know that I want to live in New York or LA for two years though!... As long as I can take freezo powder and Hunters Dry with me.

Illness stay at bay, so I can dance the night away

I feel an evil niggling in my throat, and the beginnings of an impending cough. I did think my candle was looking a little fried both top and bottom after last week. But I refuse to have my wild'n'wacky weekend sabotaged by a bout of bacteria, and so purchased questionable-brown-coloured bottle of Vicks Acta Plus Cough Syrup, aka instant cough death. Tastes like nine-year-old insect-infused syrup blended with jagermeister and a dollop of bovril. Gagged at desk, but stomached it in light of tomorrow's festivities. Will be up at 7:30 sharp tomorrow, Bok shirt on and ready to smash a freezo/bubbly while the boys drool over the game. Jokes, I'm totally into it! And got my England scarf ready and waiting for Sunday's game. I've gone rugby mad. Have actually arranged all weekend plans this weekend around games ---> like, wherever I end up crashing after night out on Sat must have large TV, waffle maker and myprodol; and organised to go to freezo place at 8am tomorrow instead of usual (and preferred) 10:30am just so can watch the game...

Tonight at girls' dinner I was meant to be the Bacardi Mojito Mix + Ice Crusher Machine supplier chick, seeing as I won these two things at work last week. (When I say 'won' I mean that when my editor held up the bottle and kindly started asking who might want to... ... before she could even finish her sentence I let out some sort of rabid bark and legged it to her desk to snatch up the must-have alcoholic hamper before anyone else in the office even had the chance. Probably wasn't such a good idea right before my performance review. But at least they can see I'm quick off the mark and I go after my dreams.) Have had texts this morning: 'Olive! Can't wait for mojito night.' Shit. How do I inform them that the boys and I got sucked into phuza Thursday spirit last night and drained every last drop of tipple. What was meant to be a quiet eve, a single mojito with chorizo pasta dinner turned into pint glasses brimming with crushed ice and Bacardi mix heaven, showered in limes and mint resulting in sugar high and blurred vision. Came home bottleless. And senseless. As a gesture of apology will take along crusher and turn everyone's drinks into fabulous slush puppies.

Hope I'm still invited.

For some unknown reason I idiotically decided to put entire wardrobe in the wash. Now everything is soaked right before the weekend. And let's just say a tumble dryer is not on my list of affordable luxuries (that would consist of one Mac product a month, one item of clothing a year, leg waxes, and Champagne). So, if you see me wandering round the Cape in bell bottoms you could camp under (a gypsie-esque phase in first year I'd very much like to forget), and a top fashioned from a tea towel... you know why. Will be desperately trying to dry everything on my 5cm by 10cm heater for night out on the town tomorrow. Can prob fit one item per hour. I best start now.

"Don't leaf me behind!"

'Friendship isn't a big thing - it's a million little things'

Sorry about the quote. Am feeling very appreciative of all my irreplaceable friends today. Heart you all.

Arrived at the Hussar Grill last night early. "Another rib craving?"  says condescending waiter, who holds a remarkable resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite. Oh God. I wanted to melt through a gap in their pooh-coloured tiles. It became obvious right then and there, as I shrivelled with embarrassment beneath his judgmental gaze, that I frequent that Rondebosch haunt far too often. Given, I have been there once a week for the last month and a half. But who cannot agree that they have THE best ribs in Cape Town? Why not treat myself to a little ribilicious night out every so often (with friends of course. It's not like I go alone. That would just be sad).

But then again – what is less attractive than a chick, face smeared with rib sauce, bits of rib stuck under her fingernails, sticky hands, basting in hair (yes, that happened)... A real dude magnet!

"The usual then?" he continues.
"I'm waiting for friends," I quickly respond.
"Friends?" he looks around, as if my only friends in the world can only be the rack of ribs I consume on a weekly basis.
"Yes, I have friends."
"Whatever you say, Missy. Passion fruit and water?" 

Sanctimonious shithead.

Crapballs, he evens knows what I drink. This is beginning to mirror my visits to the freezo shop. I don't even need to place an order at Caturra anymore, they start making my freezo before I've even paralelled parked.

Missy? I don't like this guy anymore, or his misshapen goatee, and am glad when my friends file through the entrance and we slot into a cosy table for 5.

Next time I'm getting takeaways...

Vivi&Lola and I are planning a monsterous Saturday night out, starting with a very professional, very formal company Loeries afterparty at The Reserve in town. That's just for the free drinks and food, naturally... Then we shall trail Cape Town with our other tag-alongs for the best d-floor on offer and old, seedy men to buy us Champagne. That's normal, right?

 "We need old friends to help us grow old and new friends to help us stay young"

I heart rugby

Well, suffice it to say after 12.5 hours' sleep last night (yes, got into bed at 7:30. Next-door neighbour was just leaving for Caprice), I'm back in the game! Yesterday I was a non-entity. A waste of space. A lost cause. A sorry excuse for a human being. Plankton.

Now I feel totally immortal. Super Olive! ---> If I can come out the other end of that weekend even partially alive, I can take on anything! An earthquake, heartbreak, the plague... U send it my way, I'll knock it right outta the playing field!

Friday night, ended up snuggled sleepily under blankets on balcony ploughing through bottles of champagne with the girls, gorging on stale chips and conducting an indepth conversation on sex, death and finger nail buffing. From one extreme to the next: an hour later we were rocking out in the car to some eardrum-busting chest-vibrating rave tooons, on our way to HQ where we danced like fabulous morons to a tropical drum beat. Before I was dragged to Dreaded Deco I dived-bombed and hit the sack early in preparation for England's game against Argentina the following morning.

Awoke with HQ drum beat in head, mascara on pillow, still wearing sequined top, one high heel and a sock. Canned pineapple juice (from where I don't know) and half a rusk next to bed. Forced myself into shower then headed off to where else but Caturra to watch the game. Slumped over deliciously perfect freezocino and a crispy croissant layered with bacon, cheese and avocado, in front of large flatscreen, I soon realised I was the only England supporter in the room. Was not at all impressed by some of the rude comments on the new stylish 'charcoal' tops sported by the so-called "The Also Blacks"  –

• "Did the All Blacks shrink in the wash?"

• "The English are like that person who wears white to someone else's wedding"

Was most elated when England scored a try in the final 10 minutes and I leapt onto my chair woooowoooo-ing and cheering patriotically, teeming with revenge and spite. Silence ensued. 'Woo' I quipped again, to the tempestuous coffin-dodger sitting behind me in an Argetinian scarf. 'In your face!'

My friend stared at me, appalled.
Me: 'Sorry, I blacked out... I'm still drunk.'

I screamed so hard when we won that I choked on my croissant.

And so the day progressed – hangover slowly dwindling, we headed for the Biscuit Mill where we purchased a bottle of bubbly and sat with friends in the sunshine giggling childishly at the washed-up Safrican mystriants that flock to the Mill on a Saturday morn to stuff there faces with an array of nosh then wash down their hangovers with novice mohitos. Big, small, fat, thin, gay, straight, white, black, pink, blue, hairy, bald, human, inhuman... At 2 o'clock, tipsy and windburnt, we raced of to V&A, bought a ticket for the worst movie in the world... wait for it... Final Destination 5... IN 3D!!... and proceeded to watch blood, spikes, rolling eyeballs, gurgling and deaths for the remainder of the afternoon. After burger and beer at my all-time favourite Hudsons, popped home to prepare for romping razzle at Tiger with Vivi&Lola. Felt like letting loose – found shortest skirt and highest heels in cupboard and despite gale-force winds and a threatening 14 degrees, discarded my stockings and wrapped myself in a ski jacket to get from flat to car.

Sunday: up early for rugby. Head to Sotano kitted out in Springbok shirt, gold shoes and hangover. Feeling the after effects of two nights out, smashed eggs benedict, an extra bowl of hollandaise, my friend's leftover eggs benedict, a bowl of mushrooms, my sister's leftover fruit, a sausage, a hot chocolate, the rest of my friend's hot chocolate, a coke, a strawberry juice, an orange juice. Not sure it was the nerves during such a stressful match, or lack of nutrition thanks to bender weekend, but my appetite was bottomless. There was no off button. Needless to say I owed 2/3rds of the bill. Left relieved (Go Bokke!!!!!) and stuffed, and spent day melding with couch.

Fun week ahead. Stay toooooned!

Hazy, lazy and crazy daisies

Feel flat and lifeless. Like this guy. Direct result of an entire 5 minutes' sleep last night due to searing leg and butt pain (thanks to retarded knee rehab). Also yesterday's fleeting heatwave meant I had to open the windows. Learnt very quickly that Greenpoint is nothing like Mouille Point ----> tranquil echoes of ocean, seagulls and laughter. Was kept conscious till stupid o'clock by car alarms, engines, cat fights (literal and figurative), and of course next-door neighbour's high heels and her post-night-on-the-town fry-up. Considered joining her for some bacon round 4am. Am so stiff and sleep-deprived today could be suffering from a living form of rigamortis.

Last night was set to do a review of Roberto's Signature Restaurant – exquisite Portuguese spot nestled on the corner of Long and Hout. Lovely summery temperatures meant Vivi&Lola and I discarded stockings and braved [recently de-Wintered] bare legs, and arrived sporting pretty dresses and calf-impaling heels. So excited by the prospect of summer were we that we pretty much polished off an entire bottle of Simonsig before we'd even been handed a menu. Enjoyed an extravagant feast of lobster thermidor and champagne and chatted late into the night about topiary trees, Christian Louboutins, and the mysteries that hail from Brakpan.

On an exciting note, it's Rugby World Cup Eve!! I shall hang up my rugby boot (takkie) tonight by the fireplace place (heater) and hope to find some biltong and beer (Hunter's Dry) in there in the morning...

Chick's pick

Heart my job... Yesterday morning, when everyone else was eating sad cereal at their sad desks moaning morbidly about their miserable monday morning blues, puffy eyes and pile of work, I was in the car oen route to one of my favourite spots in Cape Town for a launch: The Twelve Apostles. After pretty drive along coastal road, Ray-bans on, music blaring, the wind in my hair, sea glistening splendidly, I arrived and was chaueffered from parking spot to marquee, whence I had the above view. Realised immediately I a.) had no friends, b.) was totally under-dressed and c.) still had a stamp on my arm from the club on friday night (totally unclassy amongst a swarm of media representatives). Must've missed the dress code on the launch invite – surely along the lines of: 'Heels, highlights and nine layers of make-up. Boob jobs welcome.' Alone and famished, I proceeded to stuff face with mind-blowing mini brunch goods (which no one else was touching lest it spilt on their designer outfits... or, God forbid, went to their hips!) and stood roasting in the sun inhaling orange juice. (Sensibly decided to forego bubbly. It was 11am on a Monday morning. And I may have visited Caprice the night before. Enough said. Plus the amount of articles at work I would've edited that afternoon would've gone into the minus.) Left with a teeming goodie bag, a boep and a sunburn.

Have been invited away on luxurious retreat at 5-star resort/game farm end of this month. Five days. Eight girls. Unlimited bubbly and chick stuff. 1 x yoga instructor. 1 x masseuse. 1 x chef. 0 x men. Quad bikes. A boat. A pool. A bar. Pool tables... Sounds like some sort of woman's wonderland, a chick's heaven, a gal's pearly gates, a female's fairyland, a dame's dream world...

Before I'd even looked at the price (first mistake) or the fact that I'd have to somehow take a whopping three days' leave (second mistake), I clicked 'attending' and am now a surefire sojourner on said weekend, despite my bank card snarling nastily at me from the depths of my handbag. When I did discover the cost was a small fortune, I skipped lunch today and stashed the R20 in my new '5-Star Fund'. It's a start.

Am so excited. Am so SOoooo excited. Am picturing girls, sunglasses, bikinis, tall glasses of pink bubbly, lazing by the pool with books, gossip and hot tunes. Massages, early-morning yoga, the sounds of nature, the ocean and nail files. Health food, moisturisers... No time. No agenda. Man-free. Bug-free. Traffic-free. Preservative-free. And the best part of it all... A TAN!

Might have to sneak a couple of these Chocolate Cake Pops in my suitcase...

Screams, sweets and sequins

Watched the scariest movie of my life last night. Literally. And I suggested it! Told the boys – Dog and Skeet – I'd had enough of cars, spies and hot chicks in leather, that they needed to man up and watch a thriller. En route home from Simply Asia and DVD store, decided we needed something for the nerves (pudding). The tequila shop was closed so bought a tub of sour sweets from Woolies. There was enough sugar at the bottom of the tub for 17 cups of tea. Those things should come with a free dentist appointment. 

Got home, snuggled with boys under big sheep-skin blanky, tub of potential fillings on my lap and switched on The Strangers. A few minutes in I'd broken into a cold sweat and realised I'd stuffed four sour skateboards and two dolphins into my mouth all at once. After declaring in such confidence that I don't get freaked out by scary movies, refused to show boys I was on the brink on wetting my pants, and that I was imagining getting home later on (to lonesome bachelor pad) only to find murderer with axe banging on the front door. Would have to check back seat for masked blonde chick before I drove home. I pulled the blanket over my eyes whenever said masked murderer appeared on screen. Even let off a piercing scream and begged boys to make it stop. But they were totally into it. Or at least pretending to be. I definitely saw them jump when last night's hurricane katrina caused the windows to rattle violently!

Olive: "Oh my god. I saw a face at the window."
Skeet: "We're on the fifth floor Olive."
Olive: "I heard something in the kitchen"
Dog: "We can see the kitchen. Our flat is open-plan."
Olive: "Oh my god... Did you hear that?!?!?!"
Skeet: "Yes, it's your cellphone."


Whatevs... Bet they were so shit scared when I left that they slept in the same bed. Spooning.

Tonight am sporting sequins and feathers for Burlesque Night at Blakes Bar. Must go easy on the bubbly or may end up stealing someone's corset and busting out a Christina Aguilera-esque number on a bar stool. It's happened before...

BTW - have you heard about the film Constipation? It hasn't come out yet... ;)