Weeekeeeeennndddd

Today I am taking half a day, which effectively means I finish in 30 MINUTES! GaaadZOOKS I'm happy! My office is like the 3rd Reich this week, so a weekend away in Simonstown couldn't be more welcome than a hamper of Freezos and Bubbly delivered to my doorstep. Mother rings me last night:

Mother: Are you alive?
Olive: No, I died on Tuesday. Didn't you see the obituary?
Mother: You've fallen off the map this week. Why haven't you returned any of my calls?
Olive: What, all 47 of them?!
Mother: Darling, I just worry when I don't hear from you.
Olive: I've been busy, Mum.
Mother: Busy with?
Olive: Would you like a play by play?
Mother: I just hope nothing is wrong. Have you got some food in your fridge?
Olive: If you count Hunters as food.
Mother: Are you becoming an alcoholic?
Olive: Define alcoholic?
Mother: Oh dear. I'm coming down...
Olive: Mum, it's just for the weekend away.
Mother: Away? Where?! Who is driving you?
Olive: An unhinged, unshaven, unemployed drug-addict on his motorbike. He's picking me up just after dark. Unfortunately he has no spare helmet, so I thought I'm just put a fruit bowl on my head.
Mother: WHAT?!?!
Olive: It's okay Mum, I'm driving with friends.
Mother: Make sure you eat vegetables. You need them for your weak little knees.
Olive: Yes, a piece of broccoli should fix that tendon right up. And a carrot might help it see in the dark!

Mother gave up at that point, made me promise to wear suncream and hung up the phone. Mothers. You got to love them.

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.

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.

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...

Heatstroke in winter

I felt positively ghastly this morning. At first I thought it must be the whopping three Hunters Dry I drank last night (apparently I'm a lightweight) with my flesh-searing chilli poppers, and that rancid Blowjob shooter we ordered at the end (really? First year?). But then, a memory came flooding back to me...

It was 10 degrees when I got into bed last night. My in-built temperature guage told me so. (When the temperature drops below 15 degrees my eyes start watering and my nose turns a brilliant shade of scarlet.) I got into bed wearing 4 jerseys, 2 pyjama pants, a beanie and a pair of ski socks. I also had 3 fleece blankets over my bed, and I left the heater on. Not a good idea.

I floated into a wonderful, clown-free dream-filled sleep of freezos, Hunters Dry, bubbly, chilli poppers, healthy knees, dance, chocolate fondants, Tiger Tiger, sequins... Then suddenly I remember being so thirsty in my dream and I turned around to find one of those 5 litre bottles of water presented to me on a red velvet pillow. There was Hunters and freezos and bubbly there too. But all I wanted was the water! And I drank the whole thing. But I was so hot and so parched it wasn't helping and so I started to panic as I needed more water...

Seconds later I awoke... Drenched in sweat, I quickly removed my four layers, the ski socks, the beanie, and the 3 blankets. I saw the little orange heater light glowing away maliciously in the dark and I hastily switched it off. I grabbed the water next to my bed and drank... and drank... I filled it up... and drank. Three bottles later I realised what a banging headache I had and came to the conclusion that I was suffering from mild heat(er)stroke and severe dehydration – a lethal combination of scorching radiator air, Hunters Dry/Blowjobs and remarkably hot chilli poppers (which definitely turned everything in my stomach to ash)! I popped a pain killer, got back into bed, my stomach a swimming pool, and fell back to sleep. Needless to say I woke up this morning utterly freezing, numb toes, in only a T-shirt and no blanket on the bed, with some newfangled version of hangover/sunstroke. I think I need to go get a freezo.

'Girls' night' tonight. That's French for 'lots of fattening food, gossip, and a glass of pink bubbly'.

A good run

So I did a trail run on Saturday. What they failed to tell us was that the run was in fact a killer 7km as opposed to the proposed 'easy-going' 6km in the email. And at least 1km of that was a very deadly, calf-and-shin-impaling uphill. And I should've taken better notice of the word 'trail'... After all my no-incline treadmill training, I don't think I was quite ready for dodging ditches, rocks and sticks, and nearly running into a wire fence. On a brighter note, it was a beautiful sunny day and running through the Constantia vineyards is probably one of the most serene experiences I've had in a while. Time for 'me'. To lose myself in the exquisite, tranquil surrounds. A much-needed time-out... A time-out primarily because I'm such a snail-pace runner that all my friends shot off ahead of me in the first 100m, when I was already complaining of a stitch and sore glutes! But I made it through and was applauded as I crossed the finish line by the boys, who were convinced they'd have to send out a search party for me, and had the ambulance's number on hand in case. Part of the package was wine tasting. Yes. At 9:30 in the morning. But after that run you feel like you're on top of the world. And that you've been running for hours and that it just must be midday by now. So we sat and sipped on Sauvignon Blanc in the sun as they did the prize giving... Numbers were picked at random and lots of people won hats, socks, T-shirts, watches, sports bands, wine... I won nothing. I left with sore shins and no present. I don't want to do trail runs anymore...

The day carried on in a similar fashion. We headed over to Pastis and watched the Boks get thrashed by those kiwis as we devoured buttery croissants layered with bacon and bree and avocado, and sipped on more alcohol (if you've already started why not carry on, right?). And then we went to Forries. And we left Forries at 8pm. Need I tell you the rest. Picture me, once again, atop a very large speaker at Tiger Tiger, rocking out to Pittbull like there's no tomorrow. And let me tell you. There was no tomorrow. I stayed in bed the entire day and managed to keep down half a piece of toast covered in melted chedder cheese by about 5pm. Never again.

Sorry for my lack of posts last week. Put simply, I had nothing to write about. I had so many restaurant and hotel reviews to write (Oh what a crazy night that was. I'm sorry I never got around to telling you about it but just think loft suite, free food, flowing champagne and friends. And of course a sneaky razzle out on the town) that I had no creativity left. Well, I couldn't be bothered. Anyway, am off to the dreaded Jo'burg this weekend again. It's that time again. Mummy wants me home. Back to hijack hell. For family time. And TLC. She's worried about me. I'm worried about me too. Only a small bag required - to fit in taser, mase spray and panic button. And thermal underwear. And a generator. Have already supplied Mother a list of things I need (face products, hair products, Woolies food, champagne, new clothes, essentiale, electricity...), and a number of appointments to be booked (hair dresser, dentist, optometrist, beauty treatments). May as well get the most out of this time! What are families for?

So apart from the fact that I can't walk today (worst shin splints ever, calf spasms, glute cramps, quad pain... liver pain) and am hobbling around the office like a hobo, I officially had one of the best Saturdays of the year and after 11 hours sleep I feel like a human being again. Bring on the week!!

Oh, and by the way: funniest film I've seen in a while...

Thoughts and things

Yikes. You would think being excessively emotional would come with a keen hand and a mind teeming with creative ideas. But it's the complete opposite. Coming up with a suitable topic for a blogpost has proved particularly difficult since I decided to start writing again. 

Why not just take a break from it all, I say? Am currently coming up with cunning courses of action to escape for a short time and have shortlisted the following options. Some of them rational, well-thought-out realistic plans, some of them... well, not quite so much:

• Depart for the romantic city of Florence and take it upon myself to complete a TEFL course. Then teach English to little bambinis and big tasty passionate desirable Italiano businessmen in Rome, and while away my evenings visiting the sites, trawling the cobbled streets eating tubs of Italian ice cream, and inhaling pasta. I have a friend who wants to join me – this is great news as it means someone to share my pizzas with. At least we can get fat together.

• Get a job on the US's Disney Cruise Ship as a Disney character lookalike. I wouldn't quite make the cut for Rapunzel for a number of reasons: I don't like small spaces so a tower definitely wouldn't do; my blonde hair stubbornly refuses to grow any further than mid breast, at which point it begins to fray so wouldn't be near strong enough for my prince to cling on to anyway; it is about an 11th of the thickness of Rapunzel's and not quite as golden. So am thinking: me as Sleeping Beauty (except with a tan), strolling around deck gracefully in a blue gown and dazzling princess crown, flushed cheeks, red lips, singing to bluebirds and talking to owls etc etc

• Go waste away on a remote island in the Mediterranean, work behind a bar in hot pants and a bikini top and a striking tan, whipping up creamy pina coladas and eating olives, until a young, brave and dashing Australian/Irishman/Kiwi/Canadian sweeps me off my feet and takes me home with them to live in the lap of luxury.

• Go live at home (in Joburg). Actually... I'd rather stay here... (There are no good images of Joburg that don't contains guns, knives and robbers.)

• Teach dancing in London, live off Heinz tomato soup and Starbucks frappucinos, and couch surf for a few months until I've exhausted my options, or have lost all my friends... 

• Sell my car and depart for India. And do... I don't quite know what. Eat samoosas, do yoga, wear saris and a bindi and learn to bob my head.

• Take a French course in Montepellier and ride to class every morning on a red bicycle adorned with strings of garlic, a basket of fresh baguets, myself in a beret and floral dress chanting 'Au Clair de la Lune' and drink wines with rude Frenchmen in the evenings in the vineyards. And waitressing at un petit cafe serving cafe au lait in order to afford all of this, of course... until I get bored and long for Vida muffins and Caturra freezocinos and Hunters Dry and Table Mountain.

Er, I think that's about it. But on the other hand I heart my job, I heart my friends, my dancing and Cape Town's scenic, magical, unparalleled beauty and all it has to offer... like freezocinos. And Hunters Dry. And the promenade. And weather like today! So if something's going to pull me away from it all, it's got to be good!!

Life's Little Pleasures

There's so much on my calendar right now (get in there fast!), I barely have time to get a freezo, let alone find the time to get a good night's sleep – everything from Bastille Day to The Nutcracker, to Harry Potter, dinners, birthdays, drinks, coffees, walks, reviews, movies... But busy is good – it's my plan over the next couple of months to avoid any contemplative existential moments. Any empty hours are filled up by dancing, baths, hot chocolate and watching Friends. 

Of course, things haven't exactly been going my way luck wise, which doesn't help the situation. Having just got my car back from the panel beaters after some fabulous freak decided to ding it and duck without so much as a note, I arrived at a tap class last week (the scene of the first crime) and started preparing for my class. Spilling out my tales of woe to my lovely teacher whilst tying up my shoes I heard a blasting smash, followed by a piercing alarm, and looked out of the window only to see an evil man standing by my car. He had evidently got the fright of his life by the shrill cacophony my car produces and he legged it across the field within miliseconds and had vanished before I could even stand up. That incorrigible thief thought it would be fun to smash my very very expensive window (which I was soon to find out) and then NOT steal anything! – Look, I'm not complaining. If he had nabbed my D&G glasses or my tog bag with my fave takkies and my new tub of hot chocolate I would've been distraught to say the least. But what a waste! What was the point really? He races off with an adrenalin rush and I'm left to pick up the pieces, file a report, get quotes, claim on insurance... The best part of the incident (there actually was a best part) was when my tap teacher whipped out her arm-length hi-tech taser gun from nowhere and raced outside yelling 'Let me at 'im', whilst I cowered behind the curtain, knees wobbling and teeth chattering in fear for my life!

I went to Scarborough this last weekend. Everyone asked how it was, if it was a pretty place, if I walked on the beach, what the town was like... The usual questions one would ask. Unfortunately I can't say I could respond to any of these. Being the lazy introvert I've been over the last few weeks, once inside, I stayed inside – under a rather suspect fleece blanket that belonged to the villa (I won't elaborate on the stains but let's just say I could actually crack parts of it). I put on a large pink woollen hat, ridiculous woollen pink slippers (with a pom-pom on the toe), and we drank wine, ate slab after slab of Top Deck, played 30 Seconds, played Kings, cooked elaborate meals (like only a group of 10 females would), ate cheese platters, watched Wimbledon, watched rugby, slept late and read magazines. It was far too cold and energy-sapping to actually get up and leave the house, and far too creepy to venture in to the so-called 'town' - which consists of a number of lurking odd-looking inbreads, a single shop complete with flies and old meats, and a 'pub' called Camel Rock. Some people braved the beach. The furthest I went was the villa's 'game room' (yes, I did get off the couch once), where I shot some pool and enjoyed a few pitiful ralleys of pingpong, while simultaneously feasting on blue cheese, figs and hummus. Feeling exhausted from the over exertion I collapsed back on to the sofa with a Hunters Dry and stayed there for the rest of the trip. Well... I believe (thanks to photographic proof) we got mildly carried away after a dangerous game of Kings and decided to bust some moves in the kitchen to Party Rockers...

Dancing is closed for the holidays right now. I'm miserable. I need my dancing like I need my freezos. So I have had to make a plan and tonight am trying out one of the 'jazz' classes at Virgin Active. I lampoon the latter merely because these classes usually consist of a blonde elderly ex dancer in latex, now in her 50s, buffalo wings and arthritis, trying to relive her glory days back in the studio or on stage. Within 10 minutes she has a pool of sweat by her feet, as do the rest of the rusks in the room, whereas I generally don't feel warm after a few enthusiatic kicks, jazz hands and a pas de bourree to a Bump 5 CD. I end up longing for the end as we learn routines fit for a 2-year-old, and then I race off to do half an hour on the treadmill. Anyway, here's hoping that tonight's class is different. I might just ask if I can take over...

Everybody's shuffling...

I'm sorry I've been out of action. Am slowly pulling up my woolly winter socks and attempting to integrate back into society. So much so that I even braved the infamous, and positively ghastly 1st-year-haunt Tiger Tiger on Friday night. I drowned my self-pitying sorrows and 10 minutes in you could find me atop a large speaker in leopard-print stilettos performing a series of pouts as I 'shuffled' to 'Party Rockers' aside a gorgeous, slim coloured girl (whose smooth rhythmic moves made mine look like an allergic reaction) who kept telling me to 'go lower'! Any lower and I would've been sitting! I was practically in a squat position, which caused the bouncer to politely tap me on the shoulder and point out the bathroom. As I attempted to gesture a 'No, I'm ok, thanks' I managed to somehow lose grip on my Hunter's Dry, which flung forcefully into his brick-wall chest and shatter to the carpet (seriously). At that point I thought it best to leap off the speaker and scramble away into the hoard of inebriated fellow clubbers. 

As proof of 'how low I could go' on that damn speaker, I woke up to searing quad pain on Saturday morning. At least it took the focus away from my headache.

As I proceeded to voice my woes that morning and decide that I would not get out of bed today, or any day, ever again, I was dragged to The Biscuit Mill by a friend, apparently our new dude-spotting local. Dude spotting?! I was already seeing spots. So I pushed past the dudes and got me a fat pizza and a glass of Champagne to ease me into the afternoon.

The weekend carried on in a similar pattern. When you're going through a tough time, I've found Champagne is the best solution (and a freezocino as the non-alcoholic option. But who would opt for that?). As is (and I have never believed this before) hot chocolate, 'Friends' (the series), carbohydrates, hot chocolate, carbohydrates…

 And dancing off course... So here is my quote for the day. There are so many amazing studios around Cape Town. Just ask me! Find one you love and take some classes. It's the hidden language of the soul. (Yes, even if you're just doing it on a Tiger Tiger speaker!)

"There are short-cuts to happiness... Dancing is one of them" – Vicki Baum

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.

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...

Thank GOODNESS it's Friday!

I'm more thankful that it's Friday today than I have ever been in my whole entire life. I would've given up my car, my home, my hair, my fingernails... anything since Tuesday for it to have been Friday. I tried to watch Disney movies (and sung along to Ariel's 'Part of that World'), I went for drinks, I went to dancing, I got my hair done. Nothing made Friday come quicker. Nothing made the time go faster. You know those painful, neverending, torturous weeks where everything has gone wrong... Everything. Well times that by 80 thousand million gazillion and you're right on target. 

It's friday... IT'S FRIDAY! Thank the Arch Bishop and the Pope and the Rabbi that it's Friday. I actually want to send God a bottle of wine or a quiche or a barbershop quartet to thank him for bringing Friday at last. 

Now I'm just counting down the hours so I can go home and open up cold Hunters Dry and then join my amazing, amazing friends for some deliciousness of chilli poppers and many more Hunters Dry at Neighbourhood on Long Street. I will be watching England play Sri Lanka tomorrow and the Stormers play Force in the evening but that is the extent of my weekend's activities. After contemplating the 2OceansVibe party I decided against forking out200 bucks to stand around on the beach and still have to pay a fortune for drinks and food. Not much of an odyssey of a weekend then, but I just need a timeout. I also need a freezocino. Catch me at Caturra.

Home Sweet Homeward Bound

So I'm off home to Jo'burg this long weekend. Aside from the fact that I am sh–t scared of that place – I tend to drive round in utter fear, expecting someone to bust through my window with a brick at every traffic light – I am really looking forward to being home and having a much-needed reprieve from gorgeously sunny but dizzyingly active Cape Town. I have a brilliant big homely home in Houghton, an awesome boxer and an even more awesome family. Of course, being the tres efficient person I am, I have already organised some dance classes to go to at Dance Junxion and planned a few lunches and drinks with friends (checking out The Attic in Parkhurst on Sunday eve) – my mother is not at all pleased with my numerous, fixed plans and keeps reiterating that she was flying me home merely for 'family time' and not to meet up with every person I've ever known. My step dad has, as usual, stocked the fridge with Hunters Dry – a sweet little gesture he does every time. And Mum buys Woolies muesli rusks, mint tea and fills the fridge with avos, hummus and sweet chilli sauce – key additions to my every meal. Now all I need is a haircut, maybe a few new items of clothing and perhaps a few expensive toilettries. Will see what I can wangle...

Had an absolutely stunning weekend and got to watch lovely lovely boyfriend complete (in excellent timing) the Argus. You may have spotted me: I was the hungover, screeching lunatic at the finish line wearing my thick-rimmed purple reading glasses (was really worried I might miss him since I have the eyesight of a fruitbat. But it was either that or a squinting idiot), waving frantically at him, beaming with pride, as he passed by looking more attractive than ever in his flourescent yellow, sweat-filled Rawsons kit. We then proceeded (take note: on a Sunday) to drink solidly in celebration for the next four hours at Doppio Zero. Was such a great vibe, swarming with prawns, vibrant outfits, overjoyed faces and plenty of Hunters Dry (my one true weakness). Needless to say my Sunday ended earlier than usual...

My lack of posts over the last two weeks is a result of me having an abnormal amount of work. Hopefully I'll be posting more regularly over the next few days. Until then!

Monday, no-fun-day

This is what I feel like doing right now. Unfortunately if I did, I'd no longer work for a glossy women's fashion mag. Not that I look the part today – combination of far too much rugby, sun, Hunters and sheer weekend frivolity has left me dishevelled, lethargic and leather skinned. Can I go home now, please?

Speaking of glossy women... I realised this weekend I'm becoming too boyish, and am going to make a new, exerted effort to be more ladylike, prim and proper. Saturday night, after watching rugby at Newlands, the boys and I (and one boy's new girlfriend whom I had just met) decided to get some dinner at Kelvin. 

New girlfriend is pretty, in white dress, heels, blonde, big tits. Me - baggy T-shirt, sunburt, flipflops, chipped nail polish. New girlfriend orders sophisticated glass of wine and sips on it daintily throughout meal. I order manly Hunters Dry, drink it out the bottle and am on my second one before she has even added her ice cube. 

 New girlfriend orders small portion of chicken and eats an eighth. I order man-sized rack of ribs and finish them, using my hands, and managing to get basting smeared down my shirt. 

 New girlfriend giggles femininely at jokes. I cackle and joke raucously with the boys, getting questionable looks from other customers. 

 New girlfriend speaks intelligently about her job in on-line credit card purchases. I lose track of this conversation one line in and focus on licking my plate clean.

 But WOW those ribs were good. As was the rugby, cider and a good laugh. 

I've changed my mind. I kinda like who I am.

Looking forward to next weekend as am off to Breede River for a little skiing, tanning and all those awesome things you do in the middle of nowhere with great friends. 

But until then, nose to the grind.

Your mouth's watering now, isn't it?

It's been a while

I haven't written in a while. Probably because I've been trying to keep myself frightfully busy. When everyone else seems to be swamped with plans I feel a strong need to also fill up my schedule till it's teeming with sports, drinks, dinners, movies... Whatever I can squeeze in there really. So that's my next few days. And excited about it I sure am. 

I saw Burlesque last night, which was simply spectacular. Lights, sequins, razzle and dazzle. But it left me sad at my pathetic lack of performing talent and long-lost love of the stage. I drove home with a strong desire to find a stunningly sequined, very revealing, boob-lifting eye-catching barely-covering-anything outfit, and a feather headdress, grab a chair (to dance around, obviously) and burst into song in a crusty pub. I considered The Slug & Lettuce on Greenpoint Main Road, but by the time I'd driven home from Newlands to Seapoint I had exhausted myself with all the planning as to how I was going to become a world renowned solo Burlesque dancer, and have Christina Aguilera as my best mate. 

Tonight I am going to Wakame. For a change. (blatent sarcasm)... It's definitely a weekly outing for me. Well, in summer. But that's because it's fabulous in summer. A deck, cocktails, the sea, sun... And it's also about 10 steps from my front door. Yes, I'm lazy. But also, petrol prices have shot through the roof... so I'll keep organising dinners there until someone realises the true reasoning behind my planning!

I hope you're all coming to the Cape Town Tens this weekend. Apart from a massive beer tent teeming with whopping big jocks, there are great bands and real live famous rugby players actually walking around as if it's their backyard. So I'll be there, Hunters in hand, stalking sportsmen. Oh yes, I'll be watching my boyfriend play too.

Hope it cools down a bit. At this rate I'll be pissed after one drink and prob try steal the mic (and the stage) and finally whip out my hidden bonafide Burlesquian moves... The thought makes me cringe. But it could happen.