Look at what that pleb’s wearing! It’s scandalous!

So, along with SA’s assorted shlebs, I made my way to Fashion Week on Saturday – yes, I too was indirectly associated with the shlebs as I got a free ticket to the Holmes ramp exhibition from a friend of a friend who works for a modeling agency supplying the models for the show in question.

I arrived a little early on Saturday afternoon, and while waiting outside the exhibition hall for my friends, I perched myself on a marble counter and marveled at the fashionistas that passed by. See, I was dressed as a golf ho for a party later that night – mini skirt, white takkies, green collared t-shirt (with holes at the back through which my red bra straps were exposed, in true golf ho fashion), a red Srixon peak cap, and my own brilliant design item, a silver-hoop-and-leather-woven belt through which I’d forced a number of golf tee’s (I coerced every designer I spoke to, to look at this creation in awe and admit I was a fashion force to be reckoned with. No surprises, my Inbox was not flooded on Monday morning with requests for orders or even job offers). Apart from my company, who were dressed in chic, understated clothes whose purpose was not entirely to say “look at me! I have the entire latest Versace collection on my body right now!”, the larger portion of Fashion Week attendees that day were there more to show off their wardrobes than to see the latest creations of SA’s most celebrated designers.

Some memorable sightings:

Jacques van der Watt (of Black Coffee fame) mincing across the entrance hall, nose in the air, eyes scouring the hordes of common folk (very surreptitiously, of course) for a worthy fashion companion

An old chick with cropped red hair wearing a crown, three-quarter length tights, mini skirt and shiny silver stilettos

A man (probably a who’s-who, but I couldn’t put a name to the face) dressed as Jean-Paul Gaultier (corset with nothing underneath)

Half the audience in the Holmes fashion show (in a dark room with no lights other than on the makeshift ramp) wearing big sunglasses during the show. Because looking with unshaded eyes is just so uncool.

Me telling (rather loudly and animatedly, in a “I’ve drunk too much Moët way”) Themba Mngomezulu (designer of Darkie) and his amused friends that “I’m really black on the inside. No, really!” I bought a fabulous jersey with the word “Darkie” on it and a pic of an Afro comb, as well as a t-shirt for me proclaiming “I was discovered on the dusty streets of Soweto” and one for the Gilb saying “Previously Advantaged”.

Everyone drinking from mini-Moët bottles. Apparently, drinking straight from the bottle is too pleb for us discerning fashionable peeps. But providing glasses is not an option – too passé, you understand. It’s far more trendy to drink from the bottles with a little plastic funnel thing stuck in the opening – not unlike the broken bulb necks crack addicts will use to feed their addictions. Ouch – was that a little close to home in this environment?

And in other news, it was a weekend of pick-ups. The Gilb spends one weekend away from me in Secunda, and I clearly smell like fresh meat to the rest of the market. Peas and I um, “graunched” (Gilb was cool with that, bless him), which led to a hot blonde bisexual woman trying to pick me up on Friday (yes! It’s been so long since the last time that happened). Darkie man made a mild attempt while I was waiting for everyone to arrive at Fashion Week, then two guys at the Tennis pro’s and golf ho’s party tried to pick me up too – bastards, they weren’t even offering me money, expecting free ho services is soooo cheap. What’s interesting is that both the chick and one of the guys used the same sneaky tactic – bringing up a boyfriend I had not mentioned (as in, so why isn’t your boyfriend here tonight?), a subtle way to confirm that there was one. I’ll remember that one for a future occasion if I ever have the need to be on the prowl again.

The things I’ll do for MedLemon and a ladder…

The image I’m going to try and project is one of a dutiful daughter, who sacrifices the sauvignon blanc clone tasting she was looking forward to for two weeks – failing which, Third Roommate had enticed her with the alternative plan of a heavenly Trabella avocado, salami and feta pizza back at the comfy, relaxed (and need I say, ever more spotless thanks to Pretty’s magic touch) flat – all to grace her parents (and her uncle and aunt, and her parents’ guests) with her presence. Yes, so dutiful even as to gloss over the fact that they’d chosen to “dine” at the Spur in Bryanston (contradiction in terms, perhaps?) What I didn’t think too hard about was why they’d chosen the Spur, but hey – free meal, and only a stone’s throw away from the parental abode, no doubt teeming with (free) flu medicine… and even more importantly, a ladder for Pretty to use today to reach the curtain rails (I’m positive these curtains have not been washed in over three years) and windows (likewise).

So, dramatically – to create the effect that I’d made a great sacrifice of time – I entered the Spur, the de rigeur 15 minutes late, with laptop in tow (this was legit, I had just left the office). “I’m looking for a really fat man with a lot of people,” I explained to the waiter. No need – a huge rowdy noise in the corner drew my glare, and naturally this was the table I was destined to sup at. In the kids corner. Which was exactly why the parentals had chosen the Spur, of course. Of course! I have little cousins I see so rarely, I forgot. Coupled with the guests’ kids. As I approached the table, I sighed with relief to see that there were two tables – one for the kids, one for the adults. Except the adult table looked a wee on the full side. “You’re sitting there, Ant” my Dad says, pointing me in the direction of the table with the sweeties (probably laden with fumaric acid, upon reflection) and ice cream and Coke and crayons and helium-filled balloons and hyperactive kiddiwinkles. Oh grief! Out of sheer sympathy, my Mother left the comfort of the post-40-somethings and joined me with the sugar crew.

Don’t get me wrong – I adore kiddiwinkles, but I have to be mentally prepared to see them, and if it can be in any context, a table in a restaurant is the last place I’d choose. They drive the waiters mad, other patrons nuts, and me utterly loony. I couldn’t have been like that when I was a kid, surely? I’d sit and diligently eat my meal – and I probably wasn’t given the luxury of choice as to what that meal might comprise – then colour in the picture thing this kind of restaurant always supplies.

But last night, the kids were crazy. For starters, I can see that my girl cousin (somewhere around 9 years old) is a Britney Spears in training, sporting a pair of candy floss pink furry knee-high boots that Britney would fight J Lo to death over in Celebrity Death Match, plastic jewellery that I’d probably find too expensive to buy, and the attitude of a tween star in training (she rolled her eyes at me 7 times in the evening – first time, cute; second onwards – appeal completely lost). Then, the boys with their PSP’s, whose mothers had to come shovel food into their mouths because they couldn’t be bothered to remove their eyes from the screens. FYI, this Spur also has a game room – by which I mean a room with free arcade games – so that any couple wanting to go to dinner without the kids could quite conveniently forget they own little monsters without having to find a child minder for the evening. Society’s gone a bit haywire, I think.

I took brief respite outside to call the Gilb, who spent the whole conversation laughing at my predicament, and trying to use my whinging as ammo for his argument against having children (despite my wailing and gnashing of teeth in my post here, I really do want some mini Ants of my own, except raised in a rather different fashion to what I was immersed in last night).

So, I sat in reflective reverie, made silly child talk with the kugels-in-waiting and monologues with the game-playing boys, gnawed on my ribs, then gratefully dashed over to the parental abode to steal MedLemon and a ladder.

The irony of it all is that I get to play lift club to a bunch on kids on Saturday morning… same shit different day, eh?

Little things

Wine

I passed my exams! Got a B for theory, and a B for the tasting! I’m debating the merit of starting the next course (Diploma) in August – this runs in four modules of courses, with a tasting exam only at the end (after a year), so it’s a huge investment of time (and needless to say, money) – the former not something I may have in sufficient supply if my recent workload is anything to judge by (though happily this ensures the latter doesn’t have sufficient time to be spent too frivolously).

Also, I bought and drank my first bottle of Chilean wine, which has further reinforced my conviction to buy a wine farm there and turn its very average wines into a heavenly ambrosia. Since the exam, I’ve been invited to wine tastings left, right and centre (and of course, have even organised one), so wine is clearly not going to exit my life in the immediate future, regardless of whether I do this course now or not.


Taste buds

On a brief grocery shopping spree to Killarney on Friday afternoon, the daunting aisle of sweets at the cashier queue at Woolies wore me down, and a bag of sour worms inevitably made its way into my basket. But this was no ordinary bag of sour worms – no, this one, “specially packed for Woolworths”, has fumaric acid as a key ingredient. And no, I’m not entirely certain what fumaric acid is, and yes, that shouldn’t freak me out as we all know that Coke has phosphoric acid in it, milk has lactic acid, rancid butter has butyric acid etc etc, but my taste buds were telling me this was a whole different pH level, seeing as I could taste blood in my mouth after I had consumed a smallish number of the worms. On Sunday afternoon my tongue was still tender, the little frazzled papillae still shrinking away from spices and alcohol. And I haven’t yet finished the bag of sweets…


Snobby flatmate

We all know she loves her high heels, swish parties with absurdly wealthy people, and some of the elite northern suburbs of Joburg, but my dear Peas cannot put one and one together to conclude that she is in fact a huge snob, preferring to be acknowledged as a great appreciator of colonial tastes (“I’m from the Midlands – it’s the last bastion of colonialism in South Africa”, she explains). We had a (friendly) shouting match about this the other night, where I bandied about the possibilities that the (as yet undiscovered) love of her life might hail from bizarre Boksburg, mundane Milnerton, or even scary Secunda (if she’d ever allow me to drag her there for a weekend). Peas very nearly fainted at the suggestion. Stereotypes may exist for a reason, but not everyone in Fourways or Lonehill or Randburg is bad – after all, the last few years before I moved in with Peas were spent living in my parents’ house in nouveau riche Bryanston, and I’m not all that bad, am I? And neither is my Afrikaans Linden-bred boyfriend, surely? Darling Peas, wake up and smell the frappuccino! It’s one of the many reasons I love you, after all – and perhaps you can’t be blamed, hailing from one of South Africa’s most prestigious schools, while I had a (slightly) broader view at Hahd Pahrk Hahr.

In Peas’ defence, she does frequent the Colony Arms (colonial fortress, perhaps?) and drink cane and cream soda with the ordinary folk on a regular basis.


Desperately horny flatmate

Momentarily disregarding my previous comments, Peas may just lower her standards briefly for a shag. I arrived home on Friday to hear her despairing wails from the bathtub about her hymen growing back. “My angel wings are flapping about aimlessly in the night sky, desperately seeking a wiener to enter betwixt the chapel gates.” We then discussed in great detail the size of said chapel gates, and came to the dubious conclusion that due to the drought in her sexual activity (spanning all of two months) her chapel gates are in fact quite small. So, if any Peas hopeful prospects are reading this post and have just written off their chances with her based on the locations of their dwellings, now the small window of opportunity is open and they should give it a shot.


Carpet burn… on concrete

My right kneecap is covered with a gigantic scab, courtesy of an embarrassing fall on the road right in front of Hahd Pahrk Hahr during one of my now regular early morning jogs with Third Roommate. Thank God the kiddiwinkles are too young to recognise me as a former scholar. Ironically, I inflicted an almost identical injury on myself on almost the identical spot of road in Matric when I was running to the robot one morning to perform my “robot duty.” Good times.


Poll

Another one of my many arguments with Third Roommate has resulted in the need for me to conduct a mini poll amongst my small blog following: is, or is not, Meatloaf’s I Would Do Anything for Love a seminal work? [The Collins Pocket English Dictionary ed. 1991 – adj. highly original and influential] (And yes, dear Third Roommate the very word spawns from the same root as that for ‘semen’, meaning seed). My gut instinct says no. (The mental image I have of the man performing the song live while doing some bizarre hop/skip/headbang move suggests that his dance moves might be, however).

One of those weekends

…when you drink far, far too much, and let your indignance vent itself in malicious manipulative ways. But that’s Saturday’s story.

On Friday night, my first-ever solo-organised Italian Society event went down, in the form of a wine, port and cheese tasting at a cosy little Italian restaurant (what else?) in Greenside. The Gilb, my sis, Peas, C, Third Roommate, Moogs & L, J and a colleague and his wife all succumbed to my threats and joined us, where we predictably gorged ourselves on the likes of ciabatta, mozzarella, provolone and assaggio, amply accompanied by wines and ports from Calitzdorp estate De Krans. Then, back to the flat for some karaoke-on-a-whole-new-level a la Songstar Rocks (Play Station game), where the Gilb, thanks to his high school choir participation, kicked serious ass out of boys and girls alike, and Third Roommate exposed a gaping lack of singing ability. The guests left, the Gilb and I did the deed we now have a whole week to fantasise over, courtesy of the long distance relationship, only to be interrupted very shortly afterwards by a soddingly drunk Unshaven. The man I had barely heard of, never mind met, barged into the room as I was putting my underwear back on, though truth be told he was probably too drunk to remember anything. A highly agitated Peas had a desperately-needed quick ciggy then dragged the Gilb and I with to drop Unshaven off at his house – “You’ve been dismissed!” was clearly running through all of our heads, hopefully Unshaven’s, too.

Saturday morning started on a good note (yes, I got some again) but was marred by the Gilb’s early departure – he mentioned he wanted us to join his friends later for the rugby, I said cool, no problem – as long as that gave us time to go to Sandton so I could replace the lounge chair I broke the night before performing karaoke too avidly, and go scream at people at the VodaShop. So far, so good. But then he finds out the rugby started in a half hour’s time (yes, we got up rather late), and makes the rather unsound decision to ditch me in my hour of need to join his friends. Like a bad puppy that knows it peed on the carpet and is going to be punished, he leaves with a defensive “and I’ll take you out for dinner tonight, okay Liefie?” “We’ll see”, was the stony reply. I went to Sandton alone, found two spectacular chocolate leather chairs, and as I carried the heavy bastards up to the parking lot, thought to myself that this kind of situation was precisely one of the reasons why girls had boyfriends – to help them carry heavy shit to the car. Getting angrier and angrier, I stormed into the VodaShop and had a rather public screaming match with the manager: “this, ma’am, is precisely why Vodacom will lose substantial market share when number portability is introduced!” I screeched – this did not have the effect that launched Charlize Theron into the public eye, but did serve to calm me down to the point of rational, evil and conniving anger at the Gilb. I remembered he had found a hole in his brand new pyjamas that morning, and thought I’d attempt to lead by example in how a loving and caring partner would act towards their significant other, by buying a needle and thread to stitch it up for him. I am not at all ashamed to say that I was more concerned that the act should trigger immense guilt in him, than that it should protect his flesh from the harshly cold Secunda winter nights. Perfectly on cue, he called me as I was paying for the needle and thread. “You said you were going to come and join us once you’d finished in Sandton” he said. “Oh yes, I’m just about done – I’ve looked the centre up and down to find a sewing shop that stocks the correct grey colour thread that matches your pyjamas to fix that hole.” 15 love. “Aaahhh, Liefie, that’s so sweet and thoughtful of you.” 30 love. “Yes, I’m also running late because I was carrying two heavy, heavy chairs up to the car when some really sweet guy insists on helping me, and I bought him a coffee afterwards to thank him”. 40 love. Pure, evil lying genius. “Oh”. “But I’ll be there in 20 minutes darling, I promise.” Game, set, match! I hung up abruptly, congratulating myself for maintaining a very sweet even tone during the conversation, then head on over to his friends’ place. He did throw in a meek apology of sorts, but I was not about to lose my resolve in being thoroughly pissed off with him.

We then head on to a party of another friend of his, my anger subsides as my wine bottle empties – after all, I thought, I can’t be completely pissed off with him if he’s taking me to dinner. So I meet some fabulous people, have all kinds of arb conversations with the strangers (bumped into another random who knows Peas’ blog) then the Gilb alerts me we’re going to meet yet more of his friends at the Jolly. “But what about dinner?” I ask, in retrospect a little viciously. “You didn’t sound like you felt like it. Besides, I haven’t seen these people in ages.” Oh, what a bloody moron! “Well, we can go as soon as I’m finished with this drink.” And then embark on pseudo-intense conversations with the people at the braai, nursing the last drops of my wine bottle until he dragged me away. Not to be outdone, I say “actually I’m glad we’re going, I’m starving!” We get to the Jolly, they bring menu’s, I don’t order anything. “I thought you were ready to eat a horse?” he asks. “If I have another pizza this week, I’ll puke. I’ve had four already.” I can see the guilt building up inside him, so I say “but don’t worry, I’ll just drink more so I don’t notice. Now don’t waste any more time speaking to me, you haven’t seen these friends in ages, get as much face time in as you can!” – still said with the even sweet voice. The friends, naturally, had another set of friends there which they hadn’t seen in ages, either, and seemed intent on spending more time catching up with them than the Gilb, and this state of affairs had not gone unnoticed to him. “I guess it’s just one of those days when you’re cross with me for the whole day” he sighed. “Yes, it is.”

Genuinely hungry and totally stubborn, I refused any offer of pizza slices (I may have had four last week, but as in the famous line from the movie Threesome, sex is like pizza. Even when it’s bad it’s still good) and tucked into three double Jamesons. I was well oiled at this stage, and the friends of the friends felt the need for us to join them in downing shooters. Now I’m not a fan of shooters, give me my wine/whiskey/beer or any combination of these, and I’m a happy camper. But peer pressure always wins in these situations, so we knocked back a few sets of a toxic combination of absynthe, tequila and suitcases. As my vision began to blur, I suddenly felt my resolve crumbling as I decided that the Gilb’s lap would be far more comfortable than the wooden chair I was in, and after a few neck nuzzles, shots and good-byes later, I even forced him to stop at a petrol station (apparently) so I could buy a pie. I woke up on Sunday morning feeling – in the following order –

Head pain
Stuffy nose
Remorse at my extended sulky treatment of the Gilb

So I even fixed his pyjama hole for him while he recounted the events of the night before that I had no recollection of. He apologised thoroughly, as did I, and today, as on every day after a stupid fight, I am filled with even greater love for the guy. You just can’t win, can you?

Tick tock tick tock...

I’m sitting at my office desk, it’s 9:54pm, I’m waiting for my boss to call me with questions about the financials behind a presentation he’s showing the global CEO of our client’s office, and I’m kakking myself because:

a) the CEO is an exceptionally perceptive and
argumentative man, and will poke at the
numbers till he finds a hole in them
b) the project manager has a personal grudge against
me and elevates any error I make
into a major crisis
c) I’m frightfully drunk after a colleague team
building event this afternoon (I was unaware that I
might be summoned into the office ‘on call’ for any
number-crunching activities) and I’m not sure that
the work my boss asked me to do urgently in my
drunken state actually got done

So I’m awaiting the dreaded calls…

While I do so, I thought writing a post might while away the time quite effectively. (It’s now 10:04pm)…

The only thing of vague interest that has happened over the past two days since last I posted is my commitment to early morning runs with Third Roommate. I set my alarm for 6:40, force myself out of bed and change into running gear, then get back into bed and wait. Promptly at 6:55 he gives me a missed call, I answer the door, he strips off his tracksuit and slippers to reveal similar running attire, we try to outdo each other at warm-up stretches with feigned professionalism, then we start. A total of 2 km either way: down Oxford Road, past the traffic circle on Fricker Road, all the way down Third Road (past my high school, Hyde Park High, or Hahd Pahk Hahr as alumni so eloquently pronounce it) and then the nightmare return path, up the long sloping hill of Third Road – with two-and-a-half stops along the way (it’s my blog so I can blame Third Roommate for these and get away with it) – and down a brief 50m respite past Fricker Road, then a race back up Oxford Road to the flat.

For the whole duration of the journey on these past two days, I’ve had “Shut Your Fucking Face Uncle Fucker” in my head, which would be less painful if it wasn’t the Peas rendition. Every 200m or so, Third Roommate spits a mouthful of gob, which on the three occasions I tried to emulate, ended in disaster: my spit is so coagulated from the exertion that it ended in it dribbling down my chin rather than on the pavement (and yes, you needed to know that).

(10:18pm)…

We arrive back at the flat as Peas is ready to leave for work, Third Roommate lights up a ciggy (how on earth can you do that with the taste of blood in your mouth? Argh!) and then we take turns to shower in our newly-exposed white enamel bathtub (thank God Pretty will be there next Monday to ensure it maintains this pristine state) with Sky News blaring in the background. Come 9am we’re all done, and off to the office for a day (and often a night) full of work… I’m hoping to see some reward in the form of inches flying off my midriff for the effort (can’t take these damn love handles anymore). In fact, I’m convinced I can see the effects already!

Spare a thought for coughing, hacking and spluttering me while you’re all snoozing away in bed in your state of obese slothiness!

Good Fridays and weekends to all of you!

(10:29pm…)

Eat. Meat.

It’s a very small point, but it happens so often that it bears mentioning: why, if when you’re at a restaurant or calling Mr Delivery and you happen to order a dish that does not contain meat, are you deemed to be a vegetarian? Does a pasta or a pizza with a vegetable topping not constitute a meal, that people must ask why you haven’t ordered any meat?

Don’t get me wrong – I am very much an omnivore, one of those insensitive individuals that believe if the animal is lower on the food chain then it deserves to be killed and eaten (providing it’s not an endangered species) – but there is certainly an inordinate amount of stigma attached to those who graze on greens rather than masticating on meat.

I have felt keenly aware of this judgement before – once, while working in a client’s office in Pretoria (surrounded by hefty Afrikaans men) for a few weeks, one of their employees, who I’d got to know quite well, said, “that’s not usual for a vegetarian”. Now, apart from the judgement of what is and what is not normal for a vegetarian, the man had clearly seen me eating pepper steak pies and ham sandwiches before, but due to my pale skin (yes, I asked for reasons) and (fake) blonde hair, he chose to ignore all evidence that might disrupt his world order of who eats whom and who eats shrooms. I felt compelled to prove to him that I was in fact an avid meat eater – because in my mind I was a lesser person in his eyes for being a supposed vegetarian, so for lunch the next day I brought a rare cooked fillet, and relished somewhat theatrically in the bloody juice running down my chin as I crammed the carcass into my mouth.

In another incident, I was gift shopping for a vegetarian friend of mine in Cape Town. Out of ideas, I resorted to buying her a vegetarian cook book, and I can remember that the anxiety I felt while waiting in the queue to pay for my book, instilled by the chance that someone might spot me carrying a vegetarian cook book and assume I was a vegetarian, far outweighed the anxiety I felt when waiting in a queue at an Exclusive Books in Jozi with a book with a woman’s naked ass on the cover entitled… (the name eludes me at the minute, but it definitely had the word ‘anal’ in it).

So from whence does this stigma arise? I never see any advertising campaign that markets vegetarians as lesser people – in fact, I have a fair number of close vegetarian friends that are quite remarkable people – yet somehow, the stigma exists. Is it because the alpha-male image in South Africa is considered to be a staunch Afrikaner standing next to the braai, and anything that is incongruent with this image is considered to be less than alpha-male? Though why does this affect me, a female?

A is for….

In the spirit of the letter game every blogger’s playing:

-Azzurri! Not quite the victory I wanted, but a
victory nonetheless! Mamma’s boys have made her proud…
-Adamantium – the indestructible metal covering
Wolverine’s skeleton
-Anus – often used to refer collectively to the brown
eye and the delectable cheeks surrounding it, but
actually it is the end of the large intestine, where
coils (if you’re a guy) and roses (if you’re a girl)
are excreted from the body interior and unleashed
upon the toilet
-Anal – adjectival form of the noun anus; often short
for ‘anal retentive’, an apt description for my one
of my company’s current clients, as a matter of fact…
derived from the mental imagery of someone who needs
to lay a coil/rose but just can’t let it all out, so
to speak
-Anal sex – a sexual position which is nowhere to be
found in the Kama Sutra, strangely. Current favourite
term for the act: Bournville Boulevard
-Ass – a person’s buns you’d really like to squeeze.
This word is also metonomy for a hot person you’d
like to pull, as in “Let’s go get some ass”
-Ass fixation – when a man likes the buns more than
the boobies
-Amos, Tori – intriguing singer of the song ‘Cornflake
Girl’. Produced an album whose cover photo featured a
piglet suckling on her
-Abysinthe – a once hallucinogenic (and widely banned)
alcoholic drink watered down for contemporary public
consumption; its consumption may very well result in
your having anal sex
-Apocalypse – if there isn’t already a club by this
name, I’d open one under it – cool brand, eh? As long
as you don’t think too hard about the actual
symbolism of the word, life’s peachy. Otherwise, the
word is associated with fire, bloody battle, angels
of darkness etc etc (for most people, this is a bit
of a party-pooper)
-Asphyxiation – when the throat closes up and no air
can be transported to the lungs. A posh way to
say ‘strangulation’
-Antique hunting – a favourite pastime of mine,
enriched by such delightful BBC programmes as ‘The
Great Antiques Roadshow’ and ‘Bargain Hunt’
-Archery – playing with bows and arrows – although
this conjures up the image of shooting an apple off a
boy’s head, I have been informed that this is seldom
done today, hence the decline in popularity of the
sport in recent centuries
-Anticlimax – Peas’ term for ‘when you don’t cum’
-Ant – little black social insects that always find a
way of entering your house and infuriatingly marching
through your kitchen and bathroom to find water
-Ant, Third World – one of these black social insects
with an annoying habit of drinking your water – from
your kitchen or bathroom. Although not so much. For
one, she’s white (black on the inside, though), and
would rather tipple on your Jamesons or 1992 Reserve
Cabernet Sauvignon. But she’s one of the millions
teeming on the planet’s most mysterious continent.
Also has a penchant for Earl Grey, trip-hop –
although she’s a dancing whore and will boogey to
anything, even country music if that’s all that’s
available - antiques, the occasional bout of sex with
her boyfriend living 150km away in The Poenda,
swearing in Italian, cooking pasta.
-Amperes – unit of current flow, used in daily lingo
in the form ‘amped’ to mean “I’m psyched”, “I’m
energized”, “I’m keen”
-Agoraphobic – someone who’s scared of large open
spaces, and prefers the hustle and bustle of
cluttered cities and invasions of their personal
space, to being alone with only their thoughts to
keep them company
-Antihistamine – drugs to counter an immune reaction
to foreign antigens introduced to your body; will
prevent asphyxiation and a violently unpleasant death
-Altruism – what people like Mother Teresa and Gandhi
were renowned for; what the rest of us will never
accomplish
-Apoplexy – the word that Peas spells as aboplexy; the
former is what she experiences on a frightfully
regular basis, the latter is a figment of her
imagination
-Annie – the movie whose soundtrack will cause Peas to
get us evicted from our flat in the not-too-distant
future
-Amor Vittone – the wife of Joost, (in)famous for her
singing and ongoing rivalry with equally (in)famous
Patricia Lewis. Remarkably, regarded as one of SA’s
most prominent personalities. The daughter of an
Afrikaans woman and Italian man, hopefully the
extreme opposite of the offspring of an Italian woman
and Afrikaans man (a little too close for comfort!)

ATW, now pwetty pwease obwige us with your w’s.

Forza Azzurri!

Wow. I think the entire world’s population was collectively stunned during the last minute of extra time in that game…

With all their antics – diving and rolling and grimacing – the Italians got through the impenetrable German psyche and unnerved them, and literally not a moment too soon.

I’m not going to say much more, after all, what is there to say? Had the game gone to penalty shootout, the victory was theirs. The reason the Azzurri won is the same one that sees the humans defeat the Borg from time to time…

Anyhow, I’m now breaking with my rule of never proclaiming that my team will win the Cup – to hell with that, Forza Italia! Avanti Azzurri! (And pretty please bring on cutie-pie Alessandro del Piero for the whole game, too!)

Meet the parents, and the Durban July

Yes, yes, it’s been a full week and a bit since the bringing together of the Gilb’s parents with mine, but it still bears telling. Well, only sort of. To be truthful, there was no melodrama beyond the expected foibles of our parents. The assorted adults (including the Gilb’s friend’s buffer parents) arrived on time, bearing polite gifts of chocolates and wine.

Dad herded the flock into the never-before used lounge (all other social events take place in the family room, I still don’t understand why this shouldn’t have been the case here, but, whatever), then promptly herded them into his cluttered study to show it off (which he refers to as a ‘drawing room’ in particularly pretentious moments, such as this one). I made sure that everyone had copious volumes of alcohol to drink while we waited those agonizing thirty minutes for dinner to be served, during which Dad spoke lots and everyone else nodded dutifully.

Mom announced dinner, we all went through to the table, and the ice was broken. Old long-forgotten tales were unearthed by my nosy father, such as the fact that I have crashed into both the Gilb’s gate (the first time I went to his house to visit – the gate completely derailed and had to be straightened by the Gilb and his DIY Dad, d’oh!) and a tree in his driveway (in a drunk moment in Dad’s car) – both stories I had kept from him to keep melodrama to a bare minimum. Ah, well. Then my father proceeded to tell them he was disappointed they didn’t like opera music (why oh why can’t you shut up for a change, Dad? I completely made that one up to prevent him from blasting Pavarotti or Bocelli while we tried to eat and digest), and of course that lie caught me out, embarrassingly.

Thank God at this point people were pretty well-oiled, and lots of shrieking and uproarious laughter was omitted throughout the rest of the meal (over nothing in particular, really), not so much by the Gilb’s parents, rather from my Dad and the buffers. The Gilb and I had to leave before the adults did, to go to a birthday party, and it would appear no calamity occurred during that period. The verdict? “His Dad’s terribly reserved, his Mom’s quite nice”, my father says. “Her Mom’s lovely, her father doesn’t ever shut up”, his parents say. All as expected.

Since then, of course, more interesting things have happened, most notably the Durban July. Peas, Guy She Has Eye On and Moogs winged it down to the city mid-Friday (which I realised I haven’t visited since 1999, I know more of Bloemfontein than I do of Durbs, which I plan to rectify soon), and got us put up a surprisingly posh hostel right on the beach in La Lucia. I joined later that evening , and after wandering around aimlessly in the airport with Moogs trying to find his lost parking ticket and forcing him to drink a Red Bull before driving me to the hostel on two hours of sleep in 48 hours, I insisted we go watch the Italy-Ukraine game in a public place (I had not seen my team play a single match in this tournament, shockingly). So we hit the local Italian restaurant, I screamed profanities loudly at the tv while my team lazily hit the ball around the field (much to the dismay of other patrons, who didn’t share my enthusiasm), all the while threatening the waitress that the outcome of the game would affect her tip, and downing red wine (Sangiovese, what else at a time like this?) copiously. It all turned out favourably, as you’ll know, so the weekend got off to a good start.

On far too little sleep the next morning, we got up collectively (we had no choice, four loud people sharing one room will do that) to coif and groom and down some pre-races G&T’s, then headed off in our ludicrously fancy outfits for a right old piss-up, with the pretense of watching a horse race or two. Moogs, R and I placed bets on horses in 6 of the races, and thanks to some almost-scientific selection, coupled with excellent insider tips from a girl with a really posh accent I figured must know something about the horses, we each netted R20 (which would’ve been R60 if Moogs hadn’t lost another friggin’ winning ticket!) While the boys went off to score lasses (neither accomplished anything we were told), Peas, Em and I got down and dirty (quite literally, we couldn’t keep our teetering heels on all night, and the ground was very muddy) on the dance floors in four different tents – one for which we had legitimately paid entrance fee, one in which I posed as a certain Nomhle Sithole while Em convinced everyone she was Craig Hoskins, the Tilt tent – for which I convinced the ticket lady that our friend inside had our tickets and wasn’t bloody answering his phone, and the Millers tent, where Peas and I convincingly barged in the back through the bar unhindered, while Moogs’ dodgy face got the boys thrown out.

There was ass-groping aplenty from dodgy old men who wouldn’t take the hint that we weren’t into them, booty-shaking of the highest order, and quaffing of a huge quantity of Jaeger bombs that plundered our bank balances in a big way.

I will leave most of the story for Peas to elaborate on far more wittily when she returns tomorrow (the lucky lass and the boys have stayed on in Durbs for an extra day), and will end with the bizarre (yet very responsible) behaviour of the boys when we eventually did leave to climb back into our beds in the early hours of Sunday morning – while walking back to the car, the boys headed off towards a police van (“Moogs! R! What are you doing?!”) to get themselves breathalysed to see if they were drunk (if you ask me, that’s a sure sign of the fact that you indeed are). To us three girls, the humour of the situation is that it did not occur to either of them that they should simply ask one of us to drive. I indignantly took the car keys, for once being the most sober of the lot, and took us home safe in one piece. Needless to say, getting up early on Sunday to catch a flight back to Jozi (and convincing one of the team to kindly drive me to the airport) was a difficult task, one I nevertheless thoroughly plan to repeat at a future Durban July.