Foot in F*cking Mouth

I’ve only been at my new job for a month, so I’m still getting to know my colleagues and what makes them tick. Or should that be who makes them tick?

I was sitting with Claire, helping her with a TVC script when Sonja, our producer wandered over to Claire’s desk. She’d got engaged the night before and was showing off her beautiful ring. Squeaks of congratulations were flying through the air space of the open plan office. She was glowing, blushing, grinning from ear to ear.

Me: How did he propose? (Nothing wrong with that question? It’s the obvious one, right? WRONG!!!!!!)
S & C, in unison: She.
Me: Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Soooo sorry! (Wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me.)

Just when you think you’ve got the liberal thing down, your traditional worldview, which has probably been lurking in the dark recesses of your conscious jumps up and bites you in the ass. I’m ashamed that my first thought was from my hetro point of view. Have I been programmed or am I just so immersed in my self-centered point of view that I just assumed that everyone’s like me?

Sonja said it was fine, how was I to know. Indeed. The truth is that I don’t really care one way or another what the significant other’s gender is as long as people find people who make them happy and feel loved.

Perhaps we need to find a new derivative of s/he, you know like the “word” waitron. Waiter/esses no long have a gender. Perhaps genders shouldn’t have a gender. Okay, I know that doesn’t make sense, but it would make it a lot easier for faux pas idiots like me.

Juxtaposition

Yesterday evening I was having a smoke on my balcony. When I'm still coming down from the day I tend to lean into the balcony wall and dangle myself over it, with a few feeble pliés thrown in for good measure. What else is there to do when you're just standing there? (It's all part of the music video that is my life.) So, I was in this position yesterday evening when, down in the street below, a man wobbled past on a bicycle.

What fascinated me was that he was wearing a very smart black suit and a crisp white shirt. He had shiny, black formal shoes, doing their best to look convincing on the pair of pedals, sunglasses and dark hair, peppered with grey. And I wondered, what on earth was he doing on a bicycle? I imagined a gleaming Roadster, or a Jag, would be the order of the day. But there he was on his bike! What made it more amusing for me, was that I could tell by the rate at which his legs were pumping, he was in "granny gear". He looked as uncomfortable as his look.

He looked up and caught me watching him. I should have smiled. But I wanted to look, oh I don't know, pensive. (It's all part of the movie that is my life.) He cycled on, watching me all the while. I dragged on my ciggie, watching him all the while. And then he took the corner and was gone.

Corporate-man-on-bike. I will never know you, or your story. I'll never understand why you chose to ride that day. You were there for a few seconds and then you were gone. And if I hadn't gone out to feed my habit I would never have spotted you. Or be left wondering.

But, you on your bike, in your suit, makes me feel alive and real, because not every thing is supposed to make sense.

Language is…

Dynamic and changing. I understand this. Language evolves, over time, which is why we say knight with a silent ‘K’ and no reference to the ‘GH’ rather than the Chaucerian way… hard ‘K’, ‘n’ and ‘i’ and then, mustering up as much phlegm and spit as possible, into gggggggggggh and a sharp ‘t’. I wonder, did those folks mind wiping the spittle off their brow and cheeks? Or is it just me that can’t control my oral fluids when I talk? Hmmm.

But having said that… there’s something that really irritates me. When people abbreviate words, in an attempt to sound cool, with it, down with the lingo. SHUT UP because you really just sound like pretentious wankers. Here’s a short glossary, I’m sure there are many, many examples of these – I just can’t think of any right now:

Cab Sav: Cabernet Sauvignon
Lab: Labrador
Mare: Nightmare
RomCom: Romantic Comedy

A friend of mine uses another, that I’ve never heard before. I’m praying that she’s coined it, and more importantly, that it won’t catch on. And whenever she uses it, I’m almost reduced to violence – shaking and slapping it out of her: Cons. Cons? You ask… Yes, Cons! I say – and we’re not talking about those brutish men living out the rest of their days behind bars. We’re talking about a popular brand of takkie (trainer?): Converse.

Now I’ve been wearing Converse since 1994. Every year, since then, I’ve had a blue or a red pair. Most recently, I splashed out and bought a pair of blue high-tops and red no-tops(?). I’m not just a fan, I’m a convert. (No pun intended.) So, I do feel, since I’ve lived in the brand for 14 years, and my friend has just bought her first ever pair – I’ve a right to express my horror and dismay when out of the blue, people starting calling them CONS. Aaaaack! Say it isn’t so! (Strangely enough, I called my Docs, Docs, and have never had a problem with that! Although in my defense, Doc has been an abbreviation for Dr. for decades, possibly longer, and that could be why.) But Cons? It makes me want to run and hide. It grates my sensitive ear. And then there’s the violent streak.

So my plea is… help me squash the CON drive forever.

Or we’ll all be doomed to listen to:

So I went to walk my lab on the beach, I took off my cons to feel the sand between my toes. I was looking forward to a RomCom and wine at home when I realized that I’d run out of cab sav and the bottle stores were close! What a mare!

Excuse me while I vom(it).

Hush

stories, songs, magic spells
not yet slipping
just sipping the warmth of
whispered wishes
spinning on the edge
every seventh swell is a wave
spilling secrets from the deep

shifting sand between my toes

Cape of Storms

As the US braces itself for another hurricane, Cape Town was battered and bullied by a storm of its own this weekend. Foam and sea water hurled itself on to Beach Rd in Sea Point and the houses at Bakoven stood bravely in the face of eminent destruction. It made the front page. The little haven of a beach vanished beneath the waves.

I experienced my own little piece of the action at The Palms. A tree, torn in two, collapsed and took with it the boundary fence. Thankfully there was no damage to my car, or any others as far as I can tell. The novelty soon wore off as I realized that the tree, lying breathless in the parking lot has made getting in and out of my parking bay even more awkward than it already is. Now, I’m totally reliant on other cars not being there to escape and so, I’ve resolved to park in the visitors/shopper bays. (Actually finding a vacant bay at 17h30, notwithstanding.) I dare them to clamp my wheel. Go on, you know you want to.

No! No! No!

No, I don't think advertising is evil.
No, I'm not going to tint my eyebrows.
No, I'm NOT going to grow my pit hair.

A strange little conversation about cell phones...

So, I finally have a new phone. When I got my "flippy-phone" two years ago, I thought they were really cool. Little did I know how many people I'd cut off attempting the one-finger-flip to open the phone, and then the increase in my phone bill when I'd call them back with "I'm so sorry, I cut you off". Sigh.

Sunday was the day, to get my upgrade. I'm back to Nokia (thank god) and it's really a simple phone. When I walked into MTN I didn't really know which model I wanted, and the SUPER-EFFICIENT sales guy set about helping me:

Me: I'm here for an upgrade but I'd like to see your range on the MyCall100 package.
SESG (Super-Efficient Sales Guy): Here's a brochure.
Me (opening the brochure and scanning the phones): Thanks.
SESG: What do you want to use [the phone] for?

*Blink* Yes, I hesitated. And then I said...

Me: Phoning? (With that irritating uptone on the end, like the Americans.) But SESG was not to be deterred (there are obviously more of me out there)

SESG (still smiling): Okay, do you want to take photos? Surf the internet? Do you use it for work? Etc. etc.

Well kids. That's technology for you. That's progress! A phone is no longer, just a phone. (Now if only I could work out how to tune the FM radio thingy!)

I don’t understand…

Every day, without fail, the following type of email gets “sent to all” at work:

“Does anyone have a charger for a (insert make and model no. here) cell phone?”

Now, there are instances when your cell phone dies… like when you’re at a three-day music festival and there’s no electricity. Or you go away for the weekend and you leave your charger at home. Or you battery is dying, as they do, and you're left yelling down the phone: ifyougetcutoffit’sbecausemybatteryisaboutto… “click”.

But an email a day, begging to borrow a charger? What’s wrong with these people that they don’t charge their phones at night, when they’re sleeping? We’ve all got landlines at work. So they’re not quite in the Sahara. And of course, there's voicemail. I just don’t get it! What did people DO before cell phones? (It's a question I often ask myself, especially at the Kirstenbosch summer concerts - it's entertaining viewing, watching people on the path swinging wildly from side-to-side to spot their posse, and someone in the masses-grappleing-for-space jumping around with arms flailing trying to catch the latecomer's attention.)

In a Word... Attitude.

Hers was bad. And it's put me in a bad mood. She's new. She's a PA. I was helpful and she gave me attitude.

MS Word, as a programme, can be infuriating if you don't know how to use it properly. My solution to this is the Help Menu. (Funny that!) After all, that's what it's there for. A little persistence and perseverance goes a long way and I've learnt many cool tricks and snappy shortcuts in my quest for greater understanding of the tool. The result of this is that I'm often called upon when a colleague has inadvertently clicked on something they didn't mean to, and are facing unwanted blocks, lines etc. etc. on their screen. I don't mind. Especially since nine times out of ten, the victim of word-don't-come-easy-to-me is extremely grateful. To the point of gushing and hero worship. I don't mind that either! But a polite "thank you" will also do.

I was asked to proof read a series of documents for the Media Teams latest newsletter. I did so, and tracked the changes I made for their consideration. "Track Changes" seems to send most people into a flurry of clicking, swearing and dismay. I like to counter this with a quick, informative demonstration on how to accept/decline/deactivate this function... you know, for next time. (Because, there probably will be a next time, especially if I'm checking your work.) Teach a man to fish and all that.

I tried to talk her through it on the phone. She didn't know what I was talking about. So I offered to her at her PC. She sits downstairs on the other side of the building. And she gave me attitude. A whole lot of it. I explained Track Changes and showed her the buttons and options. (This only took about 30 seconds.) She wasn't interested, she just wanted them gone. Her body language said it all. Arms crossed, no eye contact. (Surely a PA should not behave in this manner, aren't they supposed to be helpful and accommodating? Aren't they supposed to know a thing or two about Word?) Once the changes had been accepted, I smiled and said, "there you go" and turned to walk away. She eventually uttered a very spluttery "thanks". (Surely new people are supposed to endear themselves to the rest of the staff, be excited to be starting a new job, aiming to please? A new broom and all that.

I'm annoyed and dismayed. In my book, you just don't mess with a favour. But what can one do? I'm trying to let-it-go. And not call her names. (Out loud.) Bi-ecause it's going to come back and bite you when you least expect it: I wish her many text boxes with anchors that won't align with the text.

another new look...

It's times like this that I wish I were an Art Director, that my knowledge of Photoshop was a bit more than extremely basic, that I were blessed with original visual ideas and that Photoshop hadn't been lost when my machine was upgraded. However, I'm thankful that I work with a studio filled with Art Directors who are sometimes willing to take up my causes... like birthday or baby shower invites and more recently the title/header of U&L. I'm a pretty easy-going "client", mostly because favours are not things to be toyed with.

So, I've been playing around with the blogger settings (we are GMT+2 right?) and limited to templates on the site, I've been toying with ones that are mostly me and will do. PLUS, David helped me out with my header visual which I quite like. Especially the sparkly sun flashes. I'm a bit fickle about pretty pictures. My FB profile pic gets updated regularly. My desktop and screensave are reflections of my mood, which changes rapidly, it's a wonder that I managed to decide on and get a tattoo - no double-clicking allowed there! (It did take me 7 years to decide.) Which is why U&L has tried on so many hats.

Anyway, it's Friday. It's quiet. It's sunny. Thank you Dave! (I pay in chocolate.) And I can't wait for the weekend.

Happy Women's Day all my lovelies!

puppy love

Oh, she’s lovely. Her name is Ruby and she’s a 3-month old Dauschhund puppy. Kim, one of our Project Managers, has brought her to work for the past few days. I first caught wind of her as squeals of delight skipped down the passage and through my office door. Normally, I think that animals should be left at home, and dogs, in the garden. Work is no place for them. But, there’s no doubt that a little piece of fur bounding down the hallways is good for the soul. In the gloomy, stressed, haphazard working day, a little puppy love goes a long way.

Her little legs working double time to keep up with an Art Director, striding, unaware to the colour printer. Her yaps of excitement at the next scarf and tassels to nip and tug. Her shuffling, wet nose in your ear if you let her. All magic spells to snatch away the tension that fingers its way over my shoulders, up my neck and over my skull. I don’t mind that she turned my neat bun into a bird’s nest. I just breathe in her puppy breath and feel content.

She won’t come tomorrow, or again. But her brief, cuddly visit has worked wonders on an otherwise dreary Wednesday afternoon.

bread and circuses

Sunday was a glorious day. The sun was shining, although it wasn’t all that warm, but it made a difference. Roger (my boet) and I went for our first surf in months at Muizenberg. (Please bear in mind that I use the term “surf” loosely!) And as is our habit, we went for coffee and something to eat when we had got out of the water, dressed and packed the car.

It’s been so long since I’ve been there and I was amazed to see how much the beachfront drag has changed. They’ve spent months renovating the old buildings that line Surfer’s Corner and have turned them into what I imagine to be fairly swanky apartments. We all knew (Rog, Alv, Lin, Dodge) that it would change Muizenberg’s personality but I was more concerned with still being able to find parking when going to surf.

Surfer’s Corner used to be home to (you’ve guessed it) surfers, a few taking-my-mutt-for-a-walk-on-the-beach types and the occasional couple out for a Sunday drive. It was mellow, relaxed, comfortable, easy - good. It didn’t matter who were, why you were there or what you looked like since Muizenberg itself was a little dilapidated and comfortable, like an old pair of slippers that have lost their fluff but you can’t bear to part with. Along with the stripped paint of the Art Deco buildings, that gentle vibe has been put out with the trash.

Knead is a new bakery and restaurant that I’d heard about that has set up shop. Roger and I stalked the outside tables so that we could smoke. We pretended to watch the beach while casting eagle-eyed glances at tables that looked as though they could be leaving. It was an assault of the trendy, brunching with their kids dressed in designer gear, and dogs straining on leashes in a vein attempt to get closer to the dogs tied to the next table. They were loud, obnoxious, pretentious. Everything Muizenberg wasn’t up until a few months ago.

The table that left:
A man (late 30s, early 40s with his little girl) glared at us as we edged closer but it didn’t stop there, “I’m leaving, now” was hurled at us through clenched teeth. Okay buddy. He oozed arrogance. His good looks meant he didn’t have to be nice to anyone. We’ll call him Dick. He turned to offer the table to a friend he was chatting to – the friend was holding a takeaway coffee and clearly hadn’t planned to linger. I gasped. Out loud. The friend, taking in my shocked look politely declined. Dick looked furious. Eventually, he left and we sat down and moved his dirty plates away. Suddenly he was back, with a little brown box to take away the half pie his daughter hadn’t eaten. Oh well, how were we to know? He picked up a Grapetizer bottle that only had about 5mls left and growled, “Is this mine?” at me. “Yes” I flung back at him, wishing I’d dropped my cigarette into the bottle.

The manager that swung past:
“Are you a new table?” he rushed.
“Yes, can you please bring us some menus” I sang
He looked put out.
“Is there a problem?” I raised my eyebrows, “Is there a waiting list?”
“We don’t like tables to seat themselves” his lips smiled, his eyes frosted over. “It’s difficult to see who is new or not.”
Say what??? In MY day (yes, I’m channeling my mother) – it was part of my job as a waitress to make sure I new what was going on in my station at all times. The customer was always right. And I was always pleasant and accommodating. Strike 2.

The waitress:
I asked for my bread to be toasted.
“We don’t toast the bread” she deadpanned.
I ran my finger down the menu to where it gives you the toasted option, in print.
“But it says here that I can have it toasted.”
“We don’t do it when we’re busy.”
I was speechless. Strike 3.

I’m shocked by the attitude that seemed to surround the place: that I should damn well count myself lucky that I had the chance to seat my ass on one of their chairs. I was really disappointed. The bread was good. The packaging of the place is cool. But there’s no warmth. No pleasure. And after the zen of surfing has kicked in, the last thing I need is that freak show...

Small, smaller, smallest.

Encounters is on in Cape Town and this weekend I went to watch two films: Bustin’ Down the Door and Note by Note.

The first told the story of a group of young South African and Ozzie surfers that turned the 1970’s surf culture in Hawaii upside-down. They didn’t just open the door to professional surfing; they (as the title suggests) went in kicking and screaming. And for those of you who have watched Riding Giants, you’ll know that the waves that thrash Hawaii’s North Shore are demons – we’re not talking foamies at Muzies here, groms!

The second followed the making of a Steinway Concert Grand. 100% handcrafted and aurally tuned make Steinways one of the best pianos in the world (the other one is Bösendorfer). And the teams of people that produce these magical beasts

We followed the creation of this 9-foot beauty; as the wood was molded into that quintessential concert piano shape until finally it was delivered to Steinway & Sons, ready to be auditioned and hopefully bought. Those that came before them have trained the craftsmen and women that are there today. They are salt-of-the-earth people, dedicated and passionate; juxtaposed with the exceptional artists that buy the pianos in the end.

I was consumed by the fire, guts, drive, fearlessness of the surfers, the confidence, steady hands, and love that radiated from the piano makers and the sheer skill and artistry of the pianists – their dexterous fingers almost a blur on the screen. And I was humbled.

But inspiration can be such a double-edged sword. As much as I wanted to pack my board and race off to Muizenberg, AND hire a crane to get my piano into my flat, I also ended up feeling remarkably average. I’ve not done anything great or noteworthy. I’ve dabbled in all sorts of things, but I’ve not mastered a single one. And basking in the glory of people that have made their mark somehow renders me inert.

And then, there’s a silver lining. At the very least, I can stand on a surfboard and ride a small wave. I can sit at a piano and tinkle out a few tunes. And I get to write for a living. And maybe it’s good just being me! Without giant expectations and a need to perform. And that feels good – and not so small after all!

A strange little conversation about toilet paper...

Last night, visiting Alv and Lin for TAR (the amazing race), emerging from the loo... (it's quite a feat when I only need to go once):

Me: I'm warning you that I've mauled the new toilet roll in your guest loo.

(Although, 10 points to me for actually changing the roll.)

Lin (laughing): It's because it's 1-ply and really stuck down so you have to rip 50 layers off before you have access to loo paper.

Me: Yes! Exactly! Don't you hate it when that happens?

Lin: Or when you finish the roll and the next roll is supposed to drop down.

Me: Totally!!!

Alv: Or when the roll on top is resting on the roll at the bottom so it won't turn!

Me: Or when the new roll is too fat for the toilet roll holder so you break off a square of toilet paper at a time.

We all laugh. And maybe, I laugh the loudest 'cos I've had these thoughts and frustrations many times before, but it's not really something that comes up in conversation. But I've wondered whether it frustrates other people just as much, and I've been too shy to put it out there!

Later that evening... Lin comes back from the loo:

Lin: Wow Wends, you really DID maul the loo paper!

Me: Yeah (grinning... I did warn them!)

the end of punctuation

I'm a copywriter and I work in advertising. I've long since come to terms with Art Directors' resistance to include punctuation in headlines. "It looks funny", they insist. I get that they see letters as shapes, rather than the words themselves. And sometimes, on days when I'm feeling magnanimous or simply don't feel like banging my head against a brick wall, I'll let it go. Come to think of it, I have been known to suggest deleting an exclamation mark to improve the design (?) of a heading.

The longer you're in this game, the easier it becomes to choose your battles. And honestly, for those of you that believe Hollywood's interpretation of advertising, it's a lot less: the sexy Account Director comes up with the award-winning concept/ad with his kooky Art Director and bow-tie-and-tweed bedecked Copywriter let drowning in his charismatic wake; and more: creative teams going to work to ensure that the integrity of their work not only remains in tact, but also reflects their level of education and skill.

Which brings me to my point. I was proof-reading a booklet today when I noticed that 90% of the full stops were missing. Sometimes, when transferring copy from a word document to freehand, things "drop off". So I assumed that this was the case here. A nagging voice kept telling me to ask the copywriter on the job what the story was:

Me: Steph, there aren't any full stops in this booklet?

Steph: I know, client asked for them all to be removed.

Me: What?

Steph: She doesn't like full stops.

Me (thinking I'd not heard her correctly, she sits opposite me, so that's doubtful): WHAT?

Steph: She doesn't like full stops!

Me: Did you push back?

Steph: Yes, she insisted.

Annabel (another writer in the office): She did that with the X poster too.

Steph: Yes, and the Y campaign.

Me: (I'm speechless.)

You see, it floors me that our clients seem to think that they can do as they please with internationally-accepted (in the English-speaking world) rules of punctuation. It happened a year ago when I had included Em Dashes in my copy, which the client didn't like and changed to commas. I fumed about it for a couple of days and then let it go. I placated myself with soothing words like: She probably doesn't know what an Em Dash is. BUT NO FULL STOPS? Where does one draw the line? Someone's taking that email, where the letters of words are all jumbled but you can still make sense of is, a little too far. Call me a nerd. Call me punctilious. You can call me Al for all I care, just let me do my job. And if you're too worried about whether the information (what we call Body Copy) looks pretty, then don't let me work on your job, because clearly, there isn't a job for me to do. It PISSES me OFF. You don't see newspaper stories missing full stops, or textbooks for that matter. So why this?

I know that if I take up this fight, on a Friday, when Repro is waiting for the job bag, I'll be fighting alone. The teams will cast sympathetic glances in my direction but nothing will change or get done. So I'll comfort myself with this: Thankfully, when consumers read the booklet I've just handed back to Traffic in disgust, they'll blame the brand, and not the agency. (The thought of them not noticing the lack of full stops at all is just too terrifying to contemplate!)

Gone Fishing

I was eating a chocolate brownie. I didn’t have a side plate, or a serviette, so I held it delicately and ate it swiftly, sitting at my desk. As I revelled in the richness of my midmorning treat, I slid my mouse across my desk to my left hand (it’s a Mac mouse, so it doesn’t matter which side it’s on). My hand promptly seized in a moment of performance anxiety. It reminded me of piano days, a left hand, heavy and staggering, to a right hand dancing lightly along the keys. Don’t make me play Bach. The paralysis didn’t begin from fingertip and end with to too-thin-wrist, it seemed to travel all the way up to my elbow. And all I could offer myself was a protracted jagged up and down movement, stiffening my arm to retain some control. It was awkward. I finished my brownie, and wished the flavour could stay in my mouth forever and moved the mouse back to the right hand. And I wished I were ambidextrous. Two wishes slipped through the bars of now and never, racing to the place wishes go. I wish for many things. Some are sighs. Some are shrieks. Some are belly-laughs and others are sneaky buggers. But most of all, I wish that the Wishing Girl never leaves. And even now and then, I wish that some of my wishes (just one… please?) come true…

The best of me

For the longest time, I’ve wished that I could feel tipsy all the time. Not in a bourgeoning alcoholic way, but in that warm, everything’s ok, everything’s funny, I’m funny and relaxed and happy kinda way.

I’ve just got back from an extended lunch, and I had a bit of wine. I need to put this in context for you: I’m a cheap date. I’m a two-glass-and-girl-down kinda girl. Bridget Jones said: Now that I’m in my 30s, at least I can hold my drink. I’m 32 and I had to get driven home from a party last week because I couldn’t place one foot in front of the other, let alone string a coherent sentence together. I’m not proud of myself. In fact it took the entire long weekend to put the whip away and be kind to myself – but there in lies the rub.

The sober me is cool but leans towards being serious and tense. I’m fairly tightly wound. I am a work in progress. (And my oldest friends will tell you that I’m much better than I used to be!)

The tipsy me, is fabulous. (Or is that the tipsy me telling the tipsy me that?) I shudder to think. But when I do think about it, I feel so much better about myself when I’m a little lubricated. I’m chatty, I’m confident, I’m naughty, I don’t really have a care in the world. And that’s how I want to be always. No holds barred. No bars held. It’s the perfect balance between lucidity and fuzziness that takes the edge off and makes things look brighter. (For instance, I’m still able to type and spell correctly, and for those of you who know me well, know that spelling, even when I’m sober is not one of my fortes.)

The point is: I like me better when I’m tipsy. And if that’s the way I feel, surely everyone else will? Then again, we are own worst enemies! And my friends are quite forgiving.

Now if I can only get the hang of staying tipsy for longer, instead of plunging headfirst into amounts of alcohol that turn me into a pariah… watch this space.

Everything's changing but I still feel the same...

I think, for the first time, I get that line in Keene's song.

Rob and Tink got married, Alv and Lin got married. Rob's off on an extended Indo adventure. Georgia's pregnant. Diane's pregnant. Mike and Georgia are talking about Australia, and Ally and Craig are talking about New Zealand.

And so it goes... change. I'm still trying to work out how I feel about all of it happening at once. It's the age, it's the time.
And sometimes I get an attack of the "what about me-s?" and sometimes I'm happy to stay right where I am. There was a
time when everything happened together - passing matric, passing your drivers license, turning 21 and graduating. Going
to London and coming home. And now we follow our own paths, banking on friendship circles and for those further afield,
the internet. Or maybe I'm feeling romantic and nostalgic.

Did you know that the pattern on that Keene album is actually piano hammers? Look closely. I think that's cool.

Wax On :: Wax Off :: Part 2

(If you’re a little naive in the ways of waxing, see the glossary at the end of this post.)

A trip to the Hollywood Hills

It’s not what you think. It really amounted to a miscommunication, or non-communication. And, it probably was my fault. But really, before smoothing hot wax on to one of the most sensitive areas of the female body, let’s just double-check, shall we?

I needed a wax. I made the appointment and I went. It all happened within hours. I didn’t have time to plan what kind of underwear to wear. (Yes, you’d think I’d learn the first time. Shut up.)

She left me to undress. This is something I don’t really understand. Why do they bother to leave? They know you’re there for a wax. They know they’re going to spend at least 30mins hovering over your groin, as you lie spread-eagled, submitting to torture. Let’s hurry it up, I’ll whip off my shoes/skirt/jeans and jump onto the bed and you can start. I don’t want to wait for you to come back after a disproportionate amount of time. And how long do you think it takes for me to undress anyway? We’re not talking about seduction.

As she turned to go, I remembered that I was wearing French knickers, which look more like hot-pants, and are not at all ideal for waxing. So I asked her, in an awkward manner unusual for me, whether she had those disposable panties I could wear or whether I should just take it all off. She’d run out of those handy throw-away pants, so all-off it would have to be. Okay, no problem, I thought only too quickly.

When she started trimming my pubes, I should have known something was up. Perfection is something I like, so I thought I’d leave her to it. Then she started waxing, in places she really shouldn’t have been for a standard bikini wax.
“Stop!” I cried, “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry,” she looked startled, hot wax dripping onto my only crop of curls, “I thought you said all off?”
“Nooooo” I wailed, “I was talking about my panties.”
“Oh shit! I’m going to have keep going here, and even it up.”
“Okay!” I squeaked.

At which point we both packed up laughing till we cried. It was a good cover! And I knew it’d be a story I’d tell. And there was no doubt; it’d be a story that she’d tell. And I might have limped a little and opted for commando to allow a brief recovery! But now, I’m very clear, short of actually drawing on a line. You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Bikini Wax: waxing along the bikini line
G-String Wax: a little closer to the lady-bits, waxing along the g-string line
Brazilian: Also known as the landing strip – most off, with a little thin patch of hair
Hollywood: All off. Yip - all of it. Nothing left. We’re talking Lolita here chaps.

Don’t Feed the Animals or Fight & Flight

I know, I know, we all have airport horror stories to tell but it never ceases to amaze me how boorish people become when they are at the airport. Somehow, any sense of logic and calm is left in the parking lot and is rapidly replaced by panic and psychosis. And it breeds. Faster than you can say: .

There is the elderly woman, overly made up with her ill-fitting wig that self-righteously jumps the queue. Back off granny, I’m just as tired as waiting as you are. The Fabinani-suited businessmen that would put hurdlers to shame when check-in for a flight is moved to another counter. The crush of ticket-flapping travelers waiting for the gate to open and of course the ones behind you when boarding and disembarking a plane.

They’re a special kind of quiet violent. I know that the only reason that they hold back from flattening you and using you to wipe their shoes on, is because they know they’d be arrested. Instead they find release in acts of subtle (they would call it accidental) barbarity like catching you behind the knees with their laptop bags. There isn’t enough space for a roundhouse kick, so they’ll settle for klaping the back of your head as they store their carry on in the overhead compartment. And even though you’re in the row in front of them, they’ll find a way, short of climbing over your chair and kneeing you in the groin, to get into the aisle and off the plane before you – all it takes is a swift blocking maneuver with their hang luggage, so you can’t even get up in your seat.

I’ve seen people shoot out of their chair, seconds after landing, reaching for their stash, so they’re off the plane first. The plane hasn’t even parked! If I was the pilot, I’d hit the brakes, just for fun and watch them domino rally down to the door. But I'm spiteful that way.

But when I'm at the airport, all I can do is plug in my earphones (The Magnetic Fields are perfect for such occasions) and brace myself. I might make it out scratched and limping, but if I play it right, I’ll make it out alive.

And I’ll let you in on a little secret, a well-positioned porti bag is a great shield. Okay, okay, weapon. But only in self-defense!

Wax On :: Wax Off :: Part 1

(Not for the faint-hearted or wussy boys.)



This will be a collection of stories of some of the hilarious positions I’ve found myself in as a woman, trying to tame her pubic hair. (If you’ve already shuddered or shrieked at my candor, then may I suggest you stop reading here, and try: Catnip or A Stiff Upper Lip)

When it comes to bikini (et al.) waxes, I’m not a prude. There’s only one way for the hair to go, and that’s to let the beauty “therapist” (hmm) do her job, and help her where you can! Sometimes, the less you have on the better. Sometimes you need to twist in positions reserved for the most intimate of moments, and sometimes you need to lend a hand. It’s all part of the process.

Where You From, You Sexy Thing

She was one of the best beauty therapists I’ve ever had. She came from the UK and had a gentle voice. I liked her straight away. Not too sullen, not too chatty. Just right for someone who’s going to be slapping hot wax on down there. She graciously gave me time to undress and get ready. As I slipped off my skirt and glanced down at my panties, I prayed (something I don’t do often, ever) for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. A raspberry red swept over my face as I realized that I was wearing panties with Sexy Thing in big blue letters on the front. My beauty therapist, I told you she was one of the best, didn’t bat an eyelid (I tried to reassure myself that she’d probably seen a lot worse than my cotton number) and went about doing an excellent job.

I’m still not very good at choosing the right panties to wear to a wax. To be honest, I don’t really think about it. But I have not bought “message panties” ever again. Because let’s face it, actions speak louder than words!

SNLV: This blog may offend sensitive readers

S: Snobbery N: No holds barred L: Loathing V: Vehemence

Sunday was a beautiful day. It was sunny and hot and although it’s early March, there is already a feeling of “make the most of the good weather while you can”. I off course woke up (when it was) too late, having been at a wedding the night before, and in no mood to rouse myself for a beach or other mission. Clearly I’m getting better at not feeling guilty for not worshiping the outdoors on sunny, windless days. Hurrah!

That evening, my friend Ash came through to town, for a chilled night of DVD and girly chatter. She was suffering from cabin fever, and I was suffering for laziness, so we decided to take a walk on the Prom in Sea Point before settling in for the night. The air was heavy with crisp, salty scents and it was strangely misty, but not cold. We went for a short stroll before making our way to Winchester Mansions for a sunset drink on their terrace.

Winchester Mansions carries itself with an air of grandeur. And I often wonder what we’d see if we were invited to a flash of summer soirées from years past. It’s an up market hotel, with seaside luxury and Victorian charm. So, when we pop in there for a tête-à-tête with a sea view, we expect our fellow patrons (mostly foreign tourists) to conduct themselves accordingly.

Oh, how horribly mistaken we were. The reality was so far from the truth that the after The Event, Ash and I found ourselves spiralling through a quagmire of sheer disbelief and disgust right through our dinner and DVD.

As we mounted the steps, we found ourselves behind a man that ambled his way to the last vacant table on the terrace. I thought his languid gait was in the spirit of a lazy, hazy Sunday afternoon, and although frustrated that we didn’t make it to the table before him (there was no way to pass him, without being rude) I didn’t take much more notice of him until the rest of his family arrived. That’s when the fun began…

The wife/mother: I’d put her at 40-something. And I’m betting that she got her new breasts for her 40th birthday. I’m also willing to put money on the fact that it was hubby’s idea. Her baubles were so tightly bound by a tank top two sizes too small that their only means of breathing was to escape out the sides of her vest. Not a look I would go for, but possibly exactly what she wanted. Her mouth was permanently arched as if she had smelt something bad and her over-dyed hair wouldn’t lie flat.

The sons: were loud and obnoxious, pandering for their father’s attention, pulling out every bad manner antic they could think of to get a response from him. They couldn’t have been older than 17 and both were smoking and drunk. The younger decided to shatter a plastic bottle cap with his bare foot as a display of machismo. One of the shards hit my leg, and I wasn’t quiet about it. Of course, it didn’t really help, but I felt better.

The husband/father: it turned out, wasn’t walking slowly to his table, he was stumbling in a drunken haze. Poured whisky after whisky down is throat, stood up to demonstrate the fine art of doggy-style to his family and the rest of us, and lead the troupe in sing-a-longs. Upon leaving, he also ordered a Redbull, which he took, along with one of the bar’s glasses to his car where his family was waiting for him.

The Hotel Pool: At some point, the sons disappeared. We were delighted. Our delight soon turned to dismay, which soon turned to disbelief when the elegant hotel manageress came out to notify the father that his son had gone for a swim, that the pool was off-limits non-residents and that she had had to give him a towel to prevent him from dripping through the hotel foyer. “Did he drown?” quipped the father. “No” uttered the manageress while steeling herself for what she new would be an impossible conversation. “He’s a big boy, leave him” said dad. “The pool is only for residents, are you a resident?” The manageress kept her cool. “We’re checking in later.” I swear I saw his nose grow.

Ashely and I suffered through the entirety of their banal and tacky repertoire. Wondering whether they had lost their way to a sports bar in Milnerton and whether they realized they were on our side of the Boerewors Curtain. We preyed for them to be made examples of and asked to leave. We shuddered at their commonness and gagged at their boarish ways.

As a final swipe, Ashley mentioned to the bar’s manager that one of his glasses had been taken along for the ride home. I think she was hoping that if the guy had paid by credit card, they could still charge him for the glass. The manager stiffened visibly and thanked us. His eyes told us everything we needed to know; he was frustrated but thankful that they had finally left. I commend him though; he behaved, as one would expect manager to in an upper-class hotel to conduct himself, with restraint and respect.

Perhaps my mother is right: we need people like that in life to teach us how not to behave. I think it goes without saying that it wouldn’t even cross my mind to behave in that way. And I’m more than happy to say, at the risk of being called classist or a snob, that those kinds of people are not welcome. Go back to where you came from, and stay there. Please.

Ah penny, brown penny

If I am because I think, and I am what I eat, where does that leave food for thought?

The Primi Dilemma

Last night, I went to dinner with Nicola. She tentatively suggested Primi Piati at the Waterfront. Tentatively because she knows how much I despise going there. She explained that the restaurant had undergone a serious revamp, was much bigger than before, and had a great smoking section (believe it or not, us smokers don’t relish the thought of sitting in a 2m x 2m, glass cage, peering through the fug at an indiscernible helping of something on a dinner plate). So, feeling magnanimous, I put my complete contempt for the chain aside, and agreed to the new Primi Wharf experience. After all, it’s the company that makes the night… right?

The food was great! I enjoyed every mouthful of my Pancetta. The smoking balcony was refreshing. And the company was everything I new she would be (okay, we’ve be friends for about four years now, so it goes without saying). So, what’s my problem then? Well, it’s the “vibe of the thing”.

The Staff: seem to be on speed.
The Waiters: and their fast-talking, wildly gesticulating, cliché-quipping and all-knowing-winking ways leave me cold. Do they have to audition for these roles? The faster you do things, the more likely I am to think that you’re going to forget something (like a clean ashtray or Nicola’s second glass of red wine), and if you do it with a bwa-ha-ha laugh, then I’m willing to put money on it.
The Hostess: and her inane attempt to make me feel like a long-lost family member as she lead us to our table, quizzing us about how our days were.
The Manager: really needs to know that being friendly and being my friend are NOT the same thing. Yes, I like it when you smile, but at my expense –we don’t allow customers to eat their pasta with a spoon at Primi (and there’s that wink again)– not so much. It’s not cute. It’s not funny. And it makes me want to dump my bowl of steaming hot pasta in your lap.
The Agent Orange Thing: is a piece of PP history that I hope they want forgotten but I can’t seem to. Agent Orange was emblazoned on the waitrons’ bright jumpsuits. And if I have to explain what is wrong with that picture, then you shouldn’t be reading my blog.

So there we have it: good food and great company vs. a style that I find at the very least irritating… all I can offer is avoidance of the place as much as possible. The only first Primi is getting, is the top of my least liked location for dinner or drinks. Once in a blue moon you might see me there, but not if I can help it, and if you do, then know that my dining companion is well worth the discomfort.

Catnip or Stiff Upper Lip

Monday evening came like a godsend. If I don’t get some downtime at some point in the week I’m likely to become unlikable. I get twitchy and short-tempered, tired and basically unsociable. And, I’m prone to fantasies of reclusiveness, surrounded by books, chocolate and DVDs. Mmmmm.

And so, I “cooked” dinner, a stop-start approach to a baked potato due to a missing microwave cookery book. (I fear that I accidentally threw it out with newspapers. Argh.) With cold tuna-mayo and ready-made cous cous salad from Checkers. I ate while watching “my soaps” which should be translated as “my defragging time” and enjoyed being at home at a reasonable hour. In fact, enjoyed being at home, full stop.


Oscar was being particularly cute – he has flashes of Mr. Cat mixed with crazy kitten. Yes, I have become one of those people that insist on imparting, in minutia, everything their “child” has done. I scare myself… but you should SEE him! So I decided to indulge him in his favourite game – sometimes-fetch the green ball.

He tears after the green ball, arms flailing, ears down, and so we go, swapping positions like cricketers. Sometimes, for my own amusement, I find the blue ball and throw them together. The results are hilarious! At some point he looked tired or bored, maybe I wasn’t doing it right, so I picked him up and started dancing around the lounge - bouncing and rocking my cat, who saw it as a fantastic opportunity to dig his teeth into my hands and claws into my arms.

It’s all fun and games until somebody loses a lip.

Kittens don’t always seem to be in control of their head movement. So their little heads loll from side-to-side, making them look slightly spastic! I love it, especially when there’s nothing on TV. I was holding him above my head, looking up at him, and as I brought him closer for a kiss (something you would think I would have learned NOT to do after countless scratches on my nose) his head bolted down. The end result was a little but chef’s knife sharp fang plunging into my top lip.

Ack. I was shocked, put him down and bounded over to the mirror to assess the damage. It was small but deep. I gingerly pulled out my top lip to check the inside, afraid that his tooth has gone all the way through. I was slightly disappointed that it hadn’t. But amazed at how profusely it bled. And then did what all 30-something, single girls do… jumped on the phone and called my mom. She would know if I needed a Tetanus shot. She said what most mothers would in that kind of situation, call your doctor. So, holding a tissue to my lip, I attempted a clear conversation with my GP, who said to come in the next morning and to wash it out with antiseptic stuff in the mean time.

I could hardly blame my little lion, who didn’t really know what was going on, and was patiently waiting to resume the Green Ball game. But the mood was gone. And my Monday night had lost its calm indulgence. All that was left to do was flop on to my couch, chocolate in hand and make sure that I didn’t get any of the Germaline that was covering my top lip on anything edible or unwashable. And I realized, just as my kitty needs to learn - I too need to learn... because, the first two times it was my nose, now my lip... next time it could be my eye. Even though he's the apple of it!

The storm before the calm

This was taken from the balcony of my flat in Cape Town. The building in the foreground is the Mount Nelson Hotel.

Virgin Airways

As we landed at OR Tambo airport, I craned my head to see out of my little porthole window. Blinds to be open during landing. The taxi from the runway to the building seemed to take forever. But for me, the thrill of being at an airport/on a plane/at an air show gives me a rush that I'm not able to put into words.

We passed the outlying hangers and buildings that us mere citizens never get to explore. Actually, come to think of it, there is a lot at the airport that we'll never experience. That's okay, my cup runneth over as a simple yet excitable traveler. Anyway, there they were Virgin planes. And I'm NOT talking about Richard Branson and co. I'm talking about sparkling white giants, waiting in eager anticipation for their branding, interiors and to eventually fluff out their tail feathers.

I couldn't tell who they belonged to or what they were to become. And, I was reminded of something my grandfather said: A plane taking off reminded him of a homesick angel going back to heaven. A bit saccharine perhaps, but with angels and virgins, we've got a theme going chaps!

As twee as the picture my grandfather painted may be, there is something magical, awe-inspiring and thrilling about planes. The speed, the way you're thrust back into your seat as they accelerate and rise. And I dare all of you to admit that you don't hold your breath, just a little bit. And as for those ne'er-sayers who so predictably state that something of that size shouldn't be in the sky, I say that you're missing the point Jack.

Feel the pressure and don't forget to take a look outside your window and notice those virgin planes, like all virgins, they deserve your respect.