….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….