Festive fun

You see that right there? THAT is my absolutely out-of-this-world, drool-over, lick-up-and-down, rub-all-over-your-face, amazing, mouth-watering, succulent Christmas gammon. Yes, it's no family-sized feast. But have you tried to buy one lately? It was a choice between a whole gammon or two tanks of petrol.

This gammon was so delectably palatable there are actually pigs lining up to become one of my gammons. Randoms knocked on the front door because their noses had led them thus. We all fell asleep after Christmas lunch in a gammon coma... floating away on a gammon boat, in a sea of gammon basting...

Mother rings after lunch. Me, ensconced on sofa, bubbly seeping out eye balls, watching Vivi&Lola do the actions to 'The 12 Days of Christmas' ---->

...while friend Bree attempts to pick stray bits of tinsel out my hair...

Mother: Hi Darling!
Olive (singing): The holly and theee ivvyyyyy...
Mother: What is that?!
Olive: I'm singing carols!
Mother: I thought it was a cat. How was your Christmas lunch?
Olive: Excellent. Can I top you up?
Mother: I'm not there?
Olive: I knew that.
Mother: Are you drunk?
Olive: Just in full Christmas spirit!
Mother: You just sound like you've drunk too many spirits.
Olive: Nonsense. Port isn't a spirit.
Mother: Have you had port?
Olive: After the brandy... Or was that before?
Mother: Brandy?
Olive: I bought it for the Brandy Butter. I just forgot the butter.
Mother: Darling. I think it's time you went to sleep.
Olive: Why, is Santa coming?
Mother: And go get some water!
Olive: But he drinks milk?
Mother: Go to bed! Ring me in the morning?
Olive (singing): Hark the Herald Angels siiiiinnngggg....
Mother: I give up.

'Friendship isn't a big thing - it's a million little things'

Sorry about the quote. Am feeling very appreciative of all my irreplaceable friends today. Heart you all.

Arrived at the Hussar Grill last night early. "Another rib craving?"  says condescending waiter, who holds a remarkable resemblance to Napoleon Dynamite. Oh God. I wanted to melt through a gap in their pooh-coloured tiles. It became obvious right then and there, as I shrivelled with embarrassment beneath his judgmental gaze, that I frequent that Rondebosch haunt far too often. Given, I have been there once a week for the last month and a half. But who cannot agree that they have THE best ribs in Cape Town? Why not treat myself to a little ribilicious night out every so often (with friends of course. It's not like I go alone. That would just be sad).

But then again – what is less attractive than a chick, face smeared with rib sauce, bits of rib stuck under her fingernails, sticky hands, basting in hair (yes, that happened)... A real dude magnet!

"The usual then?" he continues.
"I'm waiting for friends," I quickly respond.
"Friends?" he looks around, as if my only friends in the world can only be the rack of ribs I consume on a weekly basis.
"Yes, I have friends."
"Whatever you say, Missy. Passion fruit and water?" 

Sanctimonious shithead.

Crapballs, he evens knows what I drink. This is beginning to mirror my visits to the freezo shop. I don't even need to place an order at Caturra anymore, they start making my freezo before I've even paralelled parked.

Missy? I don't like this guy anymore, or his misshapen goatee, and am glad when my friends file through the entrance and we slot into a cosy table for 5.

Next time I'm getting takeaways...

Vivi&Lola and I are planning a monsterous Saturday night out, starting with a very professional, very formal company Loeries afterparty at The Reserve in town. That's just for the free drinks and food, naturally... Then we shall trail Cape Town with our other tag-alongs for the best d-floor on offer and old, seedy men to buy us Champagne. That's normal, right?

 "We need old friends to help us grow old and new friends to help us stay young"

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.

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

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.

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?