Love thy neighbour

Realised I am just never going to be as cool as my next-door neighbour. She knows how to party it up till dawn. I don't.

Remember my trail run? As I was leaving my flat at sparrow's fart for Constantia kitted out in running shoes, spandex and water bottle, she was only returning from her night out on the town, kitted out in heels, belt and bubbly bottle! (It was an awkward moment. I really wanted to stay and convince her that usually I'd totally still be out! But I still had to get to the shops for a banana before the race.) And then, on Friday night – after Vaudeville and Fez – I fell into bed thinking it was awfully late and what a daring diva of a party animal I now was, only to be woken a whole 2.5 hours later by the clicking of heels marching up the stairs, an inebriated giggle and the keys jiggling in her front door... I almost got out of bed, put on my heels and went back to Fez!

I wonder if we'll ever come home at the same time? I wonder if we'd hit it off? Maybe she'll invite me in for wine and we'll become best friends. And can cook hangover breakfasts together. And share wardrobes. And watch Friends and drink hot chocolate, or go for freezos...

Or maybe not.

Let's face it. I'm never going to be as cool. We wouldn't even be able to share taxis out because I'd fade at 2am and she'd still be shaking a takkie at 5!

She's probably ugly and mean anyway.

All work and much play

Je suis tres tres desolée that I haven't written all week. I don't think I've ever been this busy in my life. I barely had time to breathe let alone think up blogpost ideas. The pile of work looming on my desk just doesn't seem to be getting any smaller. Quite the contrary – it seems to be growing bigger... and bigger... I actually heard it laughing at me this morning. I swear I saw teeth. (Or maybe that was just a result of the preposterously strong pain killers I'm taking for my knee.)

This rain is doing nothing for my weekend plans. Me and my lovely girlfriends (including Vivi&Lola) are heading to Vaudeville later. I intended to wear my very small and very tight and very black, hold-my-breath-to-zip-up, no-lunch-allowed Kate Moss dress out on the town tonight. But screw that idea if the heavens are still open. It's back to winter skinnies. Luckily, in Joburg last weekend, I had a moment of sheer sagacity and realised I needed a new look to match my new socialite tendencies. Mother, who was even more excited about this than me, drove me straight to Sandton City and we spent the day looking in Mango, Forever New, Sissy Boy and Country Road for hot new going-out attire. She continued to load my changing room with everything from lace and sequins, to leather, silk and spandex, and I came home with a new eclectic wardrobe with which to grace Cape Town's nightlife. But what I find always happens is, my first night out arrives, and I actually struggle to put together an outfit as nothing matches! Or rather, the things I picked were so outrageous and daring (I must've been in a shopping trance) that I'm simply not brave enough to sport them out in public! Oops.

So I have injured my knee (blasted trail run... Or was it the stilettos and dance-floor moves?). This is shitty for a number of reasons. Firstly I can't wear heels. I know right – I mean WHAT in heaven's name am I supposed to go out in tonight? FLATS?? People will stand on me or mistake me for a drink stand! Secondly I am not allowed to dance for 2 weeks. Not only will the Tiger Tiger speaker suffer from severe withdrawel symptoms, but not being able to tap and do modern leaves me feeling very much unfulfilled at the end of each day.

 ...I am allowed to cycle. Whoopee. Let's have a cycle party. Not.

On top of that I have to endure an hour of pain twice a week as my physio pummels the shit out of my ITB and nails my glute muscles, while I cling to the bed with white knuckles and curse him for the agony he is causing me. I think to be a physio you have to have an element of sadism in your personality.

On Saturday a friend and I have decided to hit V&A. To find sequins. We crave sequins. And we have heard via the grapevine where we can find tops with said sequins. Unfortunately new sparkly tops means we must go out for 'Round 2' for world to witness new sparkly tops. After a Tashas lunch we intend to find some rose bubbly (and also create a new look for my blog because I am not vibing with the current design) and prepare for a second night of revelry. I'm so excited I would literally jump up and down if it weren't for my blasted shifted knee cap. I'll have to clap enthusiastically instead.

And last but not least, I got home last night to water cascading down the steps from my apartment front door. Staring stupidly at the sky to check if it was raining without me realising, I was soon to find that it was coming from my front door. Rolled up my jeans and waded through 4cms of water to fetch the mop and bucket and spent a good 2 hours playing char and flicking water out the front door, then doing an attractive towel shuffle round the kitchen to try soak up the remaining H20. Lame washing machine decided to implode in my absence and give me my very own indoor swimming pool. Had to read my book with goggles instead of reading glasses before bed. But swam a few laps before work today.

I must get back to the pile of work, which is now starting to lean to the left like Pisa. I've got till 5pm and a bag of muesli to get me through. Ready, set, go >>

Viva la Diva

There has been no internet all morning in my office. This is an epic fail in a publishing house for many a reason, but it certainly does nothing to help a fact checker (such as myself) check facts, let alone play on Facebook and update my tweets. So have been remarkably unproductive over the course of the morning, of course using the ‘free’ time to BBM friends about what’s going down this weekend. Incidentally, I must make sure that absolutely nothing is going down. When I go to Jo’burg I get a mild (okay, severe) case of FOMO and would much prefer if Cape Town somewhat froze in time for the weekend to avoid anything unforgettably bodacious occurring in my absence. Especially since I have become Cape Town’s spontaneously-social, slightly-unhinged, devoted and dashingly daring diva over the past couple of weeks. Anyway, thankfully it doesn’t seem like much is happening – I’m actually taking the party with me and have already organised an agglomeration of drinks, dinners and one night on the Jozi town with my Gauteng crew (yes, as much as I renounce the place, I do have a ‘crew’).

The trail run and the mortifyingly monumental night out last Saturday, plus a highly advanced and straining dance class on Tuesday has left me battered, bruised and exhausted, with a bad knee. Have spent the week wrapped in Transact (I look like a burn victim), which is so not cool when it’s so cold. Essentially I’m sitting in 13 degrees wrapped in ice patches, and I smell like a strip of spearmint chewing gym; am blue, shivering, limping and swollen. Can you say ‘attractive’?

Actually looking forward to being at home. What I love about my big family home nestled amongst the lilac jacarandas in Lower Houghton (and the murderers and thieves lurking on every Joburgian corner), are the heated carpets. I don’t have that luxury here in Cape Town, and probably never will... unless I marry a suit. I spend most of my day embedded in a fleece blanket, since Joburg refuses to budge from below zero, snuggled on the heated floor next to my boxer (best dogs in the world I might add). That and a glass of wine, along with the mindless chit-chat of my wonderful yet categorically crazy family, will do me just fine for a few days.

Managed to snag me a voucher on CityMob for Vaudeville next Friday. And somehow (and I’m still in disbelief considering Capetonians display phenomenal expertise in an inability to commit) I managed to get a whole six people to buy one too. For R130 we are off for a 3-course meal and show at the fiendish Fez. And I can’t wait. Yes I’ve been before but I would go every night of my life if I could. Talk about my dream night – I am obsessed with food. I am addicted to Champagne. I love my friends. I love the stage (hopefully this time I won’t attempt to actually climb onto it clutching a half-empty bottle of Pongracz mid-performance). And dancing is my life (the tappers are excellent). Put it all together and what have you got? Spectacular-spectacular – a shindig, a night of pure revelry, fabulous entertainment, drool-over food, breaking down on the d-floor post-show dressed in masks and adorned in feathers cabaret-style, inspired by the on-stage acrobats! Note to self: must drink less before the show even starts this time so can actually remember said performance. This will be difficult when I’m at a table with http://viviandlola.blogspot.com/. We share a similar passion for (or should I say dangerous infatuation with) rose champagne. Us two together = lethal combination.

Ok that’s all from me. I’m off till next Wednesday so I’ll see you then. Hopefully in one piece. And with some great stories.

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.