sandtonites only. no jeans, no sneakers.

picture the setting: club in the middle of poser-ville rivonia, ladies dripping sparkly fake diamonds counter-balanced by white boots and shrinking minis. now, put my head on one of those lasses. gasping? i thought so. yep, on saturday i descended to the level of the cliquey masses - and, it gets worse - i had a fabulous time. so while the title of the par-tay was a little deceptive (when they said playboy everyone assumed it was associated with the magazine), there were still ladies and gents strutting their sort-of-hot-but-not-quite-Playboy material on the ramp. come 11pm, oiled up by countless free whiskeys, just relieved of the boyf's presence (he had to sleep for early cricket the next morning) and spurred on by my equally frivolously-clad pal tammy, wild lolo came out to play. was there dancing? and humping the fake-rock wall? and frightening the poor scared hired dancer off the platform with uber-cool moves? and enticing innocent passers-by to partake in dance-sandwiches? and trying to pull off the sexy hired male dancer's pants mid-performance? and demanding to be snapped by strangers' cell-cameras and insisting that they be saved as background images? to the above: yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. now, the ignorant reader may assume that being so rat-arsed and doing all these stupid things, i would have emerged with my dignity impaired. wrong! if anything, i think it got upped a little, even if the big boss was watching (yes, he was there, yes we hauled him into a dance sandwich, yes, he bought me many of those free whiskeys, and yes, i still have a job). so moral of the story? none really, but i guess fun can even be had in the dark tacky depths of rivonia too. who'd have thought?