Do you leave dents where you sit?

yum yum robbie lick robbie kiss robbie rub robbie stroke robbie tickle robbie hug robbie.


hurry robbie, come robbie, sing, robbie!

….and this weekend (also entitled, how they wipe their arses)

Right, last weekend was all boules, this weekend all croquet. The scene: recent 27-year-old decides since he’s beenon the planet as long as Mandela was in jail, he’ll celebrate his birthday by paying tribute to South Africa and its cultures. So, all decked out in African kit (so my steelo, baby), off we traipsed (that’s Peas, her hot French/Swedish friend and myself), to Saxonwold, to play croquet, drink Pimms, then have a braai. No kidding.

While the company (excluding the aforementioned mates) might have been lacking (Miss Hostess declared that she never swears except while cycling uphill. Ooops. I guessed my routine profanity hadn’t gone down well, then), the abundantly flowing Pimms helped a hell of a lot. So did the little sneaks into the house to check how rich peeps live - much like you and I, except for a few things: Ming Dynasty vases, stuffed and mounted kudu heads, topiary, croquet lawns of course, and… and…






…three-ply toilet paper! I’m barely a fan of the two-ply stuff (I like it rough, baby!), but this sorry excuse for butt-wipes felt like cotton wool. Like it wasn’t removing anything. So that explains the need for bidets in rich people’s houses. Hmmmm….

Last weekend….

Too far off now to relate in great detail, but amusing to observe is my descent into immorality when drunk. Picture 3 rambunctious 25-year-old 18-year-old-wannabes at a picnic hosted by Investec at the Inahnda, dahling, for its honourable clients (most of whom are 40-plus 60-year-old-wannabes). To this mental image, add a free picnic basket (nice place to store stolen goodies) and free bar (Johnny Walker Black all day!)

Now think of the innocent kids trying to have good honest fun on the trampoline while the overgrown drunk kids try to kick them off… and what of the septuagenarians playing English bowls on the lawn, heedless of the evil twisted overgrown drunk kids nearby? Well, to stop beating around the bush, I stole six French boules balls as they mysteriously rolled down the hill, and hid them in our generously-sized picnic basket. I have been prattling on about how I wanted to start bocce/boules/bowls, so I thought this would be a fabulous beginning to my collection. The Gilb, not present that day, got the story progressively over the phone. “I’sh shtoooolen shixsh (hic!) boules ballsh, lieeefieeee!” I proudly pronounced.

Then, on to Melville, a couples of tokes and some tea later, somewhat less drunk (and having forgotten the conversation with The Gilb earlier), “Liefie! I stole six boules balls from Inahnda – how cool hey! Poor sod who lost them I guess, but hey! I got balls!”

Then, the next morning, hung over and remorseful, “Liefie, I feel like kak. Some poor dude is going to hang himself because his beloved shiny (so so shiny!) boules balls are gone! I think I’m going to take them back.”

You’ve been warned. Don’t put out the silver when I come over for dinner, unless you spike my alcoholic drink with lots of water…

My boyfriend's soooooooo clever

I'm bursting with pride today at my boyfriend's achievement, and I'm going to brag about it to all of you.

For those of you have have no inkling of what the Gilb is like, let me sum him up briefly: really intelligent, but looks like a slacker, never wanting to give the impression that he's smarter than most of us. He also has a huge revulsion for studying, and one of his most endearing qualities made itself evident a few months into our relationship when I was still at varsity and we'd study together (you can all guess how unsuccessful that ended up being, without fail, every time!)... in the hour or so when we actually managed to concentrate on our work, I'd lie on his bed reading a Chemistry book, while he'd sit at his desk opposite the bed, and attempt to study. He's like an ADHD kid, he stares at his book for 5 minutes, then stares at the ceiling while rocking on his chair for 25 minutes, then back at the book for 5 minutes, then the ceiling for 25, etc etc. Not finding it as cute and adorable as me? Oh well, different strokes for different folks, I guess.

Anyway, with a study routine like that, his marks have never been stellar. But, this year, he got to enact most boys' wet dreams: he (and three other engineering students, who must get some of the credit, I guess, but really just a minor portion) built a hovercraft for his 4th year project! Incidentally, it almost became my wet dream too - I thought I'd convinced him to paint it pink, how fab that would have been - but what can one expect of our narrow-minded school of learning just up the road from broad-minded Wits?

So, last night, they had an honours function, where the top four students/teams had to make presentations on their projects to their classmates, parents, elites of the engineering industry, etc. Naturally, the hovercraft made the top four! Of course, the other three projects were distinctly average creations (someone made a premature baby incubator from what looked like a material version of a kennel) that were vastly outshone by the hovercraft (me, baised? Never.) Then, they got an additional prize for the best posters made to present the project for their thesis! I was positively beaming from ear to ear after the ceremony - of course, he just scuttled off in an awkward fashion to go hide in the snacks queue and avoid the limelight.

Guess I'll have to give him that nice bottle of whisky, after all.


Peachy weekends to all of you :) I'm picnicing with Investec-ians at Inanda (but in those circles, I shall pronounce it as In-ah-nda) on Saturday, then hopefully playing with Cotlands kids on Sunday. Oh, and let's not forget all the work I didn't do in the office today because I was fucking around. Bummer.

What I saw in the bowl this morning…

You’re all going to read this, and then realize you wish you hadn’t. Of course, the reverse psychology I’ve just employed will positively guarantee you read it – in fact probably turn down the iPod volume so you can concentrate really, really hard…

Last night, I went to the Whisky Festival. This morning, as I accidentally (I promise!) glanced in the toilet bowl after my de rigeur after-alcoholic binge poo (I told you this was gory!), what did I spy? Lo, and behold, nestled there in the midst of it, was one of those little Cape Apple stickers you get on apples bought singly – no doubt ingested unnoticed while careening down the N1, calling a colleague to say I was on my way to the Festival, trying to line my stomach before indulging in copious amounts of strong alcoholic beverages (with an apple?!? What the hell was I thinking?) If you ever wanted confirmation that paper is not, in fact, food, and that the body will not absorb any of it, I can now confidently assure you of it.

Of course, you’re all repulsed by my revelation, but count yourselves lucky: Peas was forced to smell my pee once after eating asparagus (some of you, the more evolved ones with the necessary enzyme, will know what I’m talking about; the others, don’t ask). Nasty indeed. I lured my poor unwitting friend to the bathroom – halfway during a meal, nogal, and the scent accosted her halfway down the passage!

But enough. The Festival was fabulous, I discovered that more people read this little spill-your-guts (and the contents thereof) blog of mine than I realized which is a…. good thing, and I now have a fine Cigar Malt whisky, not available in our little Southern Hemisphere country, sitting on my table waiting for a suitable occasion. Had bought it with the intention of giving it to the Gilb as a graduation present, but really, what kind of message is that? Getting horribly drunk to celebrate your entry into the “real” world? No no no, I think I should drink the fine spirit on my own, and get him something far more appropriate, like a tie or something.

Well, peaches, I will write anon. Apart from the booby entry I promised, I’ve had another unusual week with men (no nudity, no kisses, before you think bad things of me… again). Honestly, this is beyond me. Can blonde hair really make the difference between wallflower and highly desirable object? It would seem so.

Till next time… safe pooing, all!