Le weekend

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.