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

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

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

Hope I'm still invited.

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

"Don't leaf me behind!"

I heart rugby

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun week ahead. Stay toooooned!

'Freezo girl'

I seem to have a knack for getting other people obsessed with freezos. I have officially become known as 'freezo girl' and people appear to associate them with me. Friends (and strangers!) actually text me:

'Having a freezo, made me think of you.'
'Having a Starbucks coffee frappucino on the King's Road, wish you were here.'
'Popped to Caturra for hangover freezo. You're right – best hangover cure ever!'
'I love freezos and I love you!'

(I made that last one up...)

It's all quite endearing really. I feel somewhat proud to have passed on the Caturra legacy. I only realised the true extent of it the other night when I rang my friend, who was at her 5-star apartment, hanging out with her Friend (who I've only met about 3 times):

Me: 'Can I come over and watch The Bachelor? I'm downstairs at Hudsons.'
5-Star: 'Ya definitely come up, am just chilling here with Friend.'
Friend (in background): 'Is that The Jolly Olive?'
5-Star: 'Yes, she is coming over to watch The Bachelor.'
Friend: 'Does she have freezos?'
5-Star: 'It's 8.30 on a Friday night.'
Friend: 'Can she please organise that we get freezos?'
Me: 'The freezo place is closed!'
Friend: 'Use your key.'
Me: 'I don't have a key!'
Friend: 'But you're freezo girl?'
Me: I'm on the Champagne tonight – I can bring some of that?'
Friend 2: 'It'll do. But this can't happen again. You got to live up to your name freezo girl.'

All this freezo talk is making me salivate. Guess where I'm going for lunch today...

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'.

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.