The Master's Mare

I am currently living in Cape Town. But this is what went down at my home in Jo'burg in the early hours of this morning…

Lovely Brother decides: today he is going to get up extra early. Today he is going to wake up early so he can have a leisurely shower, enjoy a relaxing non-rushed breakfast of bacon and eggs, get changed into his ironed pinstripe suit and waddle off to work when he feels refreshed and awake and ready to take on the corporate day. Today he is going to not hit the snooze button on his alarm seven to eight times before moving, consequently waking up the rest of the house (something ALL men are guilty of!). Today he is going to get up straight away and take his time to enjoy the morning round The Jolly Olive household.

He walks sleepily, boxer-clad, to bathroom. Shuts bathroom door and hops into shower. Twenty minutes later, towel round waist, cleanly shaven, teeth brushed, aftershave applied, he tries to exit bathroom. But as he reaches for the door handle... the WHOLE STUPID THING COMES OFF IN HIS HAND!

Shit.

Now my mother is one to wake up early. Shuffling round the house, fixing flowers, opening the curtains, feeding the dog, opening windows, putting on the laundry. However, this morning, not feeling well she lay comatosed in a deep sleep, far away from the depths of the bathroom in which Lovely Brother now stood stuck in his towel. After trying everything in his manly power to open the door – kicking, scratching, pushing, pulling – for a good 40 minutes he began shouting… and shouting… and shouting. But Step Daddy was miles away in the land of Cape Town, and mother had drifted into Dreamland. When he realised his incessant screaming inside the house was going to do no good, he turned around to face the only other portal in the room – an eye level miniscule 10cm by 10cm window... He stuck his face through the bars and began yelling.

Fifteen minutes later, our faithful Thandi (who was getting ready for her day's work in the maid's quarters) became aware of a shreaking coming from outside. She raced out the door head-to-toe in the floral kit we gave her for Christmas, and realised it could only be the Master's voice. But where was it coming from?!?!?!

"Master? Master?"

She raced around the garden frantically, for fear of the Master's life, and came to the conclusion that it was coming form outside the front gate and he MUST be being hijacked on the street.

"Master, I'm COMING!!!!" she screams reassuringly as she presses the panic button, grabs a bread knife and hurries up the driveway.

She races on to the street to save her beloved Master, yet… he is nowhere to be seen. But the screaming continues. Thandi stands confused.

"MASTER? WHERE ARE YOU!?!?!"

It took all of an hour for Thandi to figure out that 'Master' was actually locked inside the house in the spare bathroom. By the time she arrived, Lovely Brother was shivering with cold, dishevelled, exhausted and had lost any sign of his voice after all the screaming.

Mother, who had finally risen from the dead, thought the whole situation was so hilarious, she could not stop laughing and promptly rang me to tell me about it, giggling so much she couldn't get the story out for a good five minutes. Lovely Brother was not amused, was late for work and is still not answering Mother's phonecalls.

It really was a fabulous start to my day.

The things I miss I at home...

Take me home...

That fine-looking pad is my Home Sweet Home. Flying back to good ol' Joees tomorrow night for a weekend of family time.

It's my birthday next week. I turn the wrong side of 25 – not particularly something I want to celebrate. Or advertise. Mother has enthusiastically labelled this my 'Birthday Weekend', told all her friends, and mine, and has assembled a birthday schedule for me, including large drinks party on Saturday evening, following a day of various hair (highlights at last!) and beauty (ouch) appointments, birthday shopping (Zara!!) and family meals.

Mother rings on Tuesday night:

Mother: Oh we are just so excited to have you home, Darling. Aren't you excited?
Olive: Reeling.
Mother: It's going to be such fun!
Olive: Mum, I'm rushing out to dinner, can't really talk..
Mother: Have you packed?
Olive: It's Tuesday.
Mother: What do you want to do on Saturday?
Olive:  Sleep in, tan, watch TV.
Mother: Oh. And Sunday?
Olive: Sleep in, tan, watch TV.
Mother: How about we go to the market.
Olive: There's a market in Cape Town.
Mother: Let's go on a walk?
Olive: My legs will be on leave.
Mother: Well we need to go buy drinks and food for your big drinks party.
Olive: Champagne should be fine.
Mother: What about food?
Olive: I don't understand.

Basically mother soon realised that I won't be lifting a finger at home, as usual, and that I intend to sleep, tan, eat and socialise from my deck chair from Saturday through Sunday. And I can't wait!

I shall return refreshed and ready for a week of birthday festivities.

The Early Bird Catches Nothing

I'm not a morning person. I never have been and don't think I ever will be. This morning, still dark, not even a bird chirping, I was fast asleep dreaming of my Champagne house with Champagne pool and Champagne husband when...

VIBRATE VIBRATE VIBRATE... ... VIBRATE VIBRATE VIBRATE...

I choose to ignore. But...

VIBRATE VIBRATE VIBRATE... ... VIBRATE VIBRATE VIBRATE...

I look on the phone and see 'Home Sweet'.
Home Sweet my ass.
I answer.

Olive (still half asleep): Really??!?!?!
Mother: Sorry Darling but there's a Kulula sale!
Olive: Stop traffic.
Mother: Shall we book flights?
Olive: It's stil dark outside.
Mother: And the sale's already started! So when do you want to come down?
Olive: When I've had more sleep.
Mother: Come on Darling. What about just before your birthday. I'll take you shopping for presents?
Olive: Book it!

So now I was awake. So I did the unthinkable. I got changed and went to gym. I repeat: I am NOT a morning person. I gym at 5pm. And I don't like change.

Random Gay Man In Pink Gym Top And Spandex: Er, are you using that machine?
Olive: Shhhhh, I'm sleeping.
RGMIPGTAS: Sorry, but if you're not using the machine, can I?
Olive: I'm just having a warm-up nap.
RGMIPGTAS: That's really very selfish of you. I'm calling a PT.
Olive (with the hand gestures and everything): OMG. You wouldn't.
PT: Are you using this machine or can this man get on?
Olive: Man? It's wearing a pink top!
PT: That's very rude. I think you need to give up the machine.
Olive: But I'm using it!
PT: For what?
Olive: As a headrest.
PT: Ma'am...
Olive: Fine!
RGMIPGTAS: Yay!
Olive: Ug, could you BE more gay?!
RGMIPGTAS: Whatevs! 

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.

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!!

'Joyeuse Pacques'

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

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

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

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

Better left unremembered!

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

Evidence of Friday night can be found on Facebook.

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

On your marks, jet set

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

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

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

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

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

Under my umbrella...

I'm alive! No one worry. I'm safely back in Cape Town. No bricks through windows, no driveway highjackings, no streetside muggings. I made it through unscathed. But, unfortuantely I brought back the shitty weather that I endured all weekend in the City of Gold. But hey, my new pink winter beanie is more than fashionable, and is the snuggest, most awesome thing I've ever thrown away cash on. So am sporting it everywhere I go to bring some colour and happiness to this ghastly mood-dampening meteorology.

 This week is great because I have nothing in store, which means a little 'me' time – everyone needs that now and again, right? Plus it's the end of the month so am hanging by a short frayed thread until payday Friday. So a few tins of sweetcorn and some TV nights in should do the trick. Maybe a bottle of Champagne or three. 

There's always a great, heart-warming feeling when you've been at home with family for the weekend. Firstly, it's great leaving at the end of it – you always appreciate your independence more than when you arrived! (This was particularly relevant to me this weekend when we were leaving to go out for Sunday lunch and my Mother decided I could not and would not, even if my life depended on it, leave the house in the 'dreadful' sweater I was wearing. Apparently it was grubby and stretched (er, totally stylish). I, naturally, threw a tantrum, but when I realised I was holding everyone up I was forced to go upstairs and change. Much to my boiling annoyance.) 

But secondly – that feeling of being loved and cared for and having that closeness with people who would do anything in the world for you is comforting and reassuring. It means a weekend of letting go, feeling secure, and being looked after. Everyone should be allowed this once in a while. It's important to recognise and cherish the love that's available to you.

 Before I go all sentimental on you (vom), I'm going to go get my muesli as, in my utter excitement of landing back in the Mother City last night, I totally forgot to get me some grub and my tums has been growling angrily at me all morning. Cheers!

Long weekend!

It's fabulous Friday! After a shaky start this morning (dinner at the amazing, quaint little Italian Il Leone, accompanied by a bottle of bubbly of course), my freezo sorted out any sign of a hangover and I arrived at work ready to take on the day. Until I glanced at the clock on my screen and realised it was only 9:30 – I feel like I've been here for at least three hours already and was starting to look forward to lunch! Not ideal. I'm thanking my lucky stars that after all the pleading, persuasion and drop-lip I pulled last night after dinner, lovely boyfriend still didn't give in to taking me for a 'quick dance and a drink' somewhere. I was almost pathetically desperate to hit the town – must've been a combination of the heels, the veal, the champagne and the 8th of Italian in me. But I wouldn't have felt too sparkly this morning. But I think it was because I'm heading home tonight (Jo'burg) and I know it's going to be a rather family-orientated weekend, whereas lovely boyfriend is going to be back here with all his best school mates (who are down for the long weekend) painting the town all sorts of colours without his handbreak (that would be me) tagging along. Oh well, if all else fails I shall find somewhere cool to go for the rugby tomorrow night (with my father since he is the only one in my family who cares about rugby in my family) so I can have my routine Hunters Dry wand watch the Stormers annihilate the Bulls – this will have to qualify as my fair share of 'fun' for the weekend.

I had good news this week: I am finally allowed to do what I absolutely love and that is writing restaurant reviews for my magazine's blog. (This means free beverages! Oh.. and meals, of course.) I might also do bar and hotel reviews, and some show reviews considering I have pretty much taken up residence at Artscape since I moved to Cape Town. I also do online book reviews (alert the media!). I would love to post the link for you (of my recent restaurant review) but maybe I shouldn't associate my gorgeous glossy women's fashion and beauty mag with a Champagne-downing, rib-scoffing frequently-hungover rugger bugger with a lifelong dream of being on the stage or in front of a camera. The other day I had to look up what a gilet was. And I don't even use an exfoliator.

Been the insatiable dancing diva I am, I flung myself, far too overenthusiastically, straight into modern dance on Tuesday (having not done it since last year November) and attemped to push myself into the splits after two hours of intense exam work. I am so stiff, even three days later, that I can barely sit down or stand up elt alone walk, and had to ring my flatmate this morning to ask her to pull me out of bed. And dress me...

 This does not bode well for me since I'm signed up for an advanced contemporary class tomorrow morning. Could be interesting.

Have a great weekend. Joburg awaits me. Oh and - ENGLAND WON THE CRICKET!

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!