Le weekend

Was going to write and tell you about how I came home on Sunday to find that some bird (no feathered friend of mine) had assumed my bedroom to be some sort of public ablution facility, and kindly flew through the window, promptly shat himself on my fresh clean linen, polished tiles and even on my poor teddybear's head, knocked over a lamp or two (as you do), and shed a few feathers for good luck. But then I decided that no one particuarly cares about my woes with nature. So, instead, I'll tell you about Saturday:

I went to review the new Societi Brasserie in Tokai. It's lovely. You really should go. Given you might not be able to try 4 different dishes, plenty of Champagne, two puddings and dessert wines for free. But it'll still be cool. Just not as cool. Sorry. This is one of our starters: a goat's cheese and watermelon salad with mint-vokda dressing... drool, ogle, pass out etc

 
And one of our mains: a mushroom risotto... shrooms, parmesan, 'nuff said

I would've photographed the chocolate nemesis and cheesecake, but that would've meant sharing them, and I wasn't prepared to do that physically or photographically. They were just too good.

After what felt like 4 hours, now drunk, fat and ready to roll (literally), we decided to visit Queue Shoes and blow the money we didn't spend on lunch on something else. (How mature.) Unfortunately the second we arrived, friend and I fell in love with exactly the same pair of pink, suede heels, sent from heaven. On a velvet shoe pillow. Yes, we bought the same pair...

Arrived home so excited about new purchase that we sported them round the house simulatenously drinking pink bubbly and eating pink cupcakes in pink boxer shorts. I have photos. You'll have to kill me first.

Sunday went and played with my new godson, Cosby. Look how oodle woodle noodle shnoodle pookums he is...

Cape Town Tens this weekend. Essentially watching buff men do their thing while sitting in pretty skirts tanning legs and sipping on alcopops in sexy plastic cups. Sounds like my cup of... Brutal Fruit.

Room Service

Drunk dialling has long since been a problem for many a drunken idiot. I'm usually pretty good. I rarely ring males or exes. You're more likely to find me ringing a friend to check they got home safely, or ringing the club to ask if by some miracle they found a MAC Eyeliner lying around the d-floor, or an earring down the loo. 

Last weekend, my friend and I were mystery guests at the Vineyard Hotel, which essentially meant walking around in gowns and slippers racking up a phenomenal bill on room service, bubbly, 5-course meals and raiding the minibar. On Saturday night, after a day by the pool, spa treatments, cocktails etc, we decided to visit our local haunt... grrrrrrrrrr.

Covered in shimmer-bronze, sporting new outfits, stilts (heels) and surfer hair, we hit the town – squeaked a few takkies, drunk our weight in Tiger shooters...

...and finally arrived back to the hotel room at 3am – at which point we decided that it was crucial we eat food. Deep-fried food. Immediately.

Olive: Leave it to me!

I pick up the phone to dial '2' for room service. Unfortunately in my paralytic state I used my own phone instead of the hotel phone and '2' happened to be the speed dial for my mother.

Mother: Hello?
Olive: HELLO!!!
Mother: Olive?
Olive: You know my name? That's AMAZING!!! Hic...
Mother: Darling, what ARE you doing?
Olive: Darling? Er, ok Honey... I'd like to... hic... order some room thervice, pleath.... hic....
Mother: What?
Olive: Two battered fishes and... hic... chips... extra cristhpy chips... oh, and... waaaaater. And tomato thauce. Lots of tomato thauce.... hic...
Mother: It's your mother!
Olive: No not butter. I said tomato thauce!
Mother: Darling, you need to hang up and go to bed.
Olive: ... ... er... Mum?
Mother: Yes.
Olive: Why have you rung me at 3am??...
Mother: I give up.

The Naked Truth

It's official. Each and every person in the block of flats opposite me has now seen me naked.

Not something I particularly wanted to happen. But something that had to happen, given this unbearable heatwave that has recently struck the Mother City.

Not that open windows actually help – but when you don't possess the luxury of aircon in your flat and can only boast a medium sized fan... well, you need to keep open any possible portal to the outside world... Just in case, by some confounding miracle, a small breeze happens to waft through, to temporarily alleviate what has now become a consistent state of perspiration.

Ergo, I keep my windows wide open, curtains wide open, front door wide open... And due to the fact that I find it inconceivable and profoundly challenging to wear clothing in this heat, I wander about my flat the way God intended, totally ignorant to any possible onlookers from the opposite building.

This was until last week, early evening, when I was – once again – naked, bending over (as you do) to apply moisturiser to my (very tanned, even though I say so myself) legs, while standing directly in front of the fan... when I became aware of a faint giggle in the background.

I stood up.

And there, on a balcony opposite, I spotted two boys, leisurely kicking back on deck chairs, eating from what could only be a bowl of popcorn, (one was even wearing his glasses!), and watching the whole show, high fiving one another at regular intervals.

CRAP

Instead of instinctly doing what any normal chick would do – grab a nearby item of clothing, book, photo frame, anything to cover self, or at least run the opposite way to the bathroom to find suitable attire – the only thing I simply HAD to do, in my mind, was to close the curtains... so I deemed it appropriate to run straight up to the window, consequently giving them a full frontal, just before I pulled the curtains closed and was enshrouded in darkness.

Their laughter rang out as I slunk to the floor and my room slowly morphed into Inferno.

Suddenly, phone rings. It's Vivi&Lola

Vivi&Lola: Hi Plum!
Olive: Shhhhhhh
Vivi&Lola: What on earth are you doing?
Olive: Can't talk.
Vivi&Lola: Are you alright?
Olive: Naked.
Vivi&Lola: WHAT?
Olive: Hiding.
Vivi&Lola: Where?!
Olive: They saw me naked!
Vivi&Lola: WHO saw you naked?
Olive: The men.
Vivi&Lola: Are you ok? Should I call the police? Should I come over?
Olive: Will you bring a few extra fans? I'm gonna need them.

E-mare

I arrived in Breede River over the holidays bookless, having just finished my 5th novel. I started to get in a state at the thought of having nothing to read for 5 days (am a confessed literary nerd). This was until a fellow Breede-rer offered me his Deon Meyer book – 'Thirteen Hours'. I instantly turned my nose up at it because it was a.) by a South African author, b.) based in Cape Town, and c.) a crime novel. There were small water insects that had more appeal to me. But by day 2, with nothing to read, I had had enough of derailing ants and squinting to pretend I'd spotted a rare bird, while everyone had their nose stuck in a book. Jealousy made me nasty. I told everyone they were boring and I picked up Deon's offering and began.

Oh. My. Sack.

Safe to say I became the most introverted person on the trip and two days later I'd finished the South African author's masterpiece. It was possibly one of the most exciting things I've ever read. I even skipped a meal. And a glass of bubbly, lest it muffled my focus. I was a sorry sight.

Arriving back at work last week I decided to call in Deon Meyer's new book 'Tracker' (it bodes well for me that I'm a books editor and can get whatever book I was at the snap of a finger), and to email the man himself about a possible interview for my magazine. I began my email...


Dear Mr Meyer


I am a huge fan of your books bla bla bla bla bla


Three days later, a reply


Dear Miss Olive


It's so wonderful to know you're such a fan. I would be honoured to answer some questions for you... bla bla bla bla


I then scrolled down to re-read my original email, which is when I noticed a cringe spelling mistake. Instead of writing 'Dear Mr Meyer', I had actually written 'Dear My Meyer'.

Er.

Shit.

Being a Copy Editor, this does not reflect well on my proof-reading abilities. I replied.


Dear Mr Meyer


I am so so sorry about my spelling mistake in my first email! That is so embarrassing! Below are my interview questions bla bla bla bla


A week later I get an email back with answers to all my questions. The email began with...


Dear (My) Jessica


I merely replied:


Touché... Touché.

Bounced

So it was just after Christmas when we left Jo'burg at sparrow's for Hermanus for the big Family Holiday. Hungover from excessive amounts of Boxing Day plonk, and so fat from Christmas I would need to be shoehorned into my airplane seat, I popped down to the O R Tambo Mug&Bean to grab a freezocino, intending to meet my family in the BA Lounge. (Step Daddy is some form of Gold or Platinum Executive Club member... red carpets, upgrades etc.) I head up to the lounge, while ice cold freezo works its caffeine magic on my head, and arrive at the doors only to be turned away. 'Sorry, but your father already has two other people with him. We cannot allow anyone else in on his behalf.' Er, what? Unfortunately it was a woman, so no amount of leg or cleaveage was going to get me through. Irritable, I ring Mother.

Me: I'm stuck outside.
Mother: Yes, they won't let anyone else in. Sorry Darling.
Me: Well what should we do?
Mother: Well, we're just helping ourselves to the free buffet... Oooo, chocolate croissants, delish!... Um, so we'll meet you at the gate?.... Ooo fresh orange juice... Bye Darling!

I couldn't believe it! Family was in the lounge, making a large dent in the free buffet, reading the free paper, helping themselves to the free bar, and enjoying the cricket on a free flatscreen, while I paid for my own freezo, my own muffin, my own magazine and sat at the gate humming Christmas songs to myself for 45 minutes.

Needless to say I boarded alone and they arrived late, still laughing about something hilarious that had happened in the lounge, and covered in croissant crumbs.

Me: Where's mine?
Mother: Your what?
Me: My takeaway breakfast!?
Mother: Oh, did you want something, Darling? The food was so incredible. We ate so much.

Me: I hope you all get fat and implode.

They didn't even hear me.

I didn't say another word the whole flight, feeling angry and excluded. And on arrival I said I wanted to drive to Hermanus on my own in my car and they could all go in the hired car. My family felt so bad they took me out for lunch at Bientang when we arrived and ordered a bottle of bubbly. I have to admit – the gorgeous view, mindblowing food and serenity of the setting was enough to calm me down and help me relax in to holiday mode.

Just as I was feeling so great and had forgiven my family... I got back to my car after lunch only to find I'd left the lights on and the battery was flat.

Awesome.

To keep you busy over the festive season...

My Top Posts of 2011... ENJOY!

• Festive Fun 
• More Cheese Please
• Santa's Workshop
• Family Jolly Olly Holiday
• The Early Bird Catches Nothing
• Stairway to Heaven
• Chick's Pick
• Awkward Moment
• Thoughts and Things
• A Good Run
• Screams, Sweets and Sequins
• Friendship isn't a big thing. It's a million little things.
• In The Summertime

T'is the season to be jolly [olive]...

5 more days till Christmas!

So I realised this weekend where I get the persistently stubborn side of my personality...

Mother was due to fly to Cape Town with Step Daddy and Brother on Friday morning for my Big Sister's Wedding on Saturday. The three of them arrive at the airport with minimal time to spare. Yet, much to Step Daddy's annoyance, Mother disappears to find the 'Bag Wrap' man.

Regardless of whether my Dear Mother is flying to New York or Nelspruit, she will ALWAYS wrap her bags if she is flying into or out of South Africa... She is inexplicably British and believes any Saffa system is naturally corrupt and that we (and our belongings) will never be safe.

Step Daddy: Beanie, we really don't have time to wrap our bags.
Mother: This is South Africa. Everything will be stolen!
Step Daddy: We're only going to Cape Town.
Mother: And I have Christmas presents and my wedding outfit in there.
Step Daddy: You won't be going to the wedding if we don't check in in the next 20 minutes!

Step Daddy and Brother know not to bother arguing and tell Mother they'll meet her on the plane. Mother joins the end of what is an unfathomably long queue spiralling the width of the airport to get cling wrapped, all the while texting me about how she has to wear her wedding hat on the plane so it doesn't get squashed. A kilometre forward, at the front of the queue, stands one man very leisurely wrapping each bag, cutting holes in the cling wrap then sorting out the customers money. Estimating about 10 minutes per person.

Half an hour later Step Daddy and Brother board plane and arrive at their seats expecting to find Mother happily nestled in seat 7A (or 7 alpha as the air hostess referred to it), bags wrapped, crossword out... But her seat remains vacant. Step Daddy whips out his phone:

Step Daddy: Where are you?
Mother: In the queue...
Step Daddy: For the plane?
Mother: For the bag wrap...
Step Daddy: But we're taking off!?!?!??!?!?!?! 
Mother: Oops.

Step Daddy, furious, hangs up phone, rings ME and says: 'Get your mother on a plane. I can't deal with her.' 

Needless to say, Mother missed the flight. And was still in the cling-wrap queue 20 minutes later. After that she said she didn't want to come because Step Daddy had shouted at her. After much begging and pleading, I managed to get her on a plane by lunch time, but she was referred to, by all of us, as 7 Alpha for the remainder of the weekend. When we were tidying up after lunch on Sunday we asked if she had any cling wrap left to cover the food.

I mean, honestly...

Am off to Joburg for Christmas on Wednesday. Not sure if I'll get around to posting while I'm on my Jolly Olly Holiday, which is a whopping 3 weeks and consists of Joees, Hermanus, then Brede River. I'll be gone until Monday 9th January. So if you don't here from me, I leave you with piccies of my simply whacky family at Carols by Candlelight last night. From not wanting to go and accusing me of 'dragging' them there, they ended up being the most spirited in the entire garden, belting out carols at octaves only dogs can here, and managing to set fire to the bobble on my Santa hat. I was not impressed. Needless to say we ended up with our own 100m radius as people quickly moved their blankets to a safer spot to sing their carols in peace.

Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good night...