Keep an eye on that girl OR Just a hair in my cup of tea over wheat-free crunchies at the table with Tink

"You're like a completely different person!" she blurted.
And I laughed.
"This is who I normally am, you just haven't seen it for a while."
Or ever.
Or ever? Thought thought. You've known each other for 6 years, has it really been that long or is something new brewing, boiling, rising, ready to spill over? Which do you see more clearly, the red, or the green? Red, green? Red ... green ....

- i'm nearly drowning in her sea. she's nearly crawling on her knees.

Tip

When smoking white-tipped cigarettes. Always, and I mean ALWAYS, check which end you're putting in your mouth.

On the way to work ...

I saw two guys wearing the same hoodie. It had broad white and dove-gray stripes. They were on opposite sides of the road, they walked in opposite directions, they were pretty much the same height too. One had his hood up (it's raining here and cold).The other spotted him as they reach the same median and turned to look back at his counterpart. I wondered what he was thinking:
1/ Damn that guy's got good taste
2/ Damn that guy looks hot
3/ Fok!

In the morning ...

I shower, make tea, feed the cats and shuffle back to my room to make my bed.
The covers are still warm. And I resist the urge to dive back in.
Then I pull open my curtains ...

08h04. July 31, 2009.

IT'S OVER/rated

I finally watched “He’s just not that into you” last night. I I’ve seen the Sex and the City episode that kicked off the phenomenon. I think the book came out when I was mid breakup. Natch, the last thing I wanted to hear was that he just wasn’t that into me. Sadly, my mom had picked it up (the phrase, not the book) and in trying to consol me blurted it down the phone. Ah, tough love. Needless to say, that put paid to my ever reading the book.

So too, when the movie came out, I didn’t want to see it. But since our server has been sterilized of all (illegal) movies and series that have enabled me to spend whole Sundays in bed watching season 2 of Gossip Girl and season one (and only) of Kitchen Confidential on my laptop, I popped down the video store. (I know, I know, DVD store, whatever, I still say taped, shoot me.)



Honestly, the writers of HJNTIY sold out. Despite a great cast, I was pretty bored and spent most of the time trying to work out whether the girl who looked alarmingly like a redheaded Kirsten Dunst, was Kirsten Dunst. (I was tired okay!)



Three out of five of the principle relationships had happy endings. Come on! The girl who spent the whole movie learning that she was The Rule and not The Exception, ended up being The Exception. Puke. The guy who was adamant about never getting married, asked the girl to marry him AND you could see it coming from about a third of the way in. Please! The final straw was when Drew Barrymore’s character’s delightfully quirky hairstyles vanished in favour of GHDness the morning she met her man. Sigh.

I was expecting a movie that exposed the trials, tribulations and desperateness of dating with harsh light of day in a witty, funny, inspiring (I don’t NEED a man) way. Instead I got yet another completely forgettable Romantic Comedy that wraps everything up neatly in the end and promotes the Life-is-a-Hollywood-Movie myth.

The ONLY thrill was the scene with Some Kind of Wonderful, a true 80s classic romantic comedy – they sure don’t make ‘em like that any more.

The kicker is that when I was at the video store, it was a toss up between HJNTIY and Vicky Christina Barcelona. Or I could have just watched BJD or Love Actually again for FREE!

I feel cheated.

Beauty in the Breakdown

After a week of arguing about compound adjectives, hyphens, upper case vs. lower case and ellipsis, I'm frustrated, tired and seriously considering becoming a receptionist. So, I immersed myself in my favourite design blogs and stumbled upon a new one after following a link posted at Hot Buttered Toast and found these two Absolutely Beautiful Things:

I wish I could see more of this dress. I love the colour (even though I wouldn't normally wear orange), the bow detail on the sleeve but most of all I love the pockets:

And, in a time when "no one reads the body copy" it's always refreshing to find a print ad like this:

Now and Then

Every now and then I get to travel for business. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, mostly because I don’t actually go anywhere glamorous or vaguely exotic. People I know jetset off to distant lands like Morocco, unheard off countries in South America, Europe; per diem in hand. When I travel on the company, I’m never asked to take my passport. One day I’ll be asked to go somewhere exciting, somewhere I’ve never been before and I’ll be the one to take leave and extend my stay of Hope Springs and feast on new experiences.

Last week, I went to Durban.

Durban. Home of the Zulu, the Gunston 500 (depending on the year you were born), the start or finish of the Comrades Marathon (depending on the year it is) and many, many happy memories of Christmas holidays with Granny and Grandpa. We’re talking late 70s, early 80s. Summer holidays in Durban were a staple of South African childhood – a time when ignorance was bliss. (You know what I’m talking about blankes.)

I was a babble of excitement when I discovered that we’d be staying on The Parade. And bubbled over when I realised that we had an hour to kill before meeting client so that I could take a walk around the Fun Park on the parade. I had been there before – I have the Kodak Moments to prove it.

I walked through clusters of petrified rides, around a splash of turquoise pools and there it was. A tiny seed tucked away in a dusty corner of my memory. It started with a spark and became a steady glow of something visceral, something just beyond my grasp. I had been here before - a time when strawberry soft serve made my day, Tupperware was used for games of skittles in the passage and my brother and I took turns to press the buttons in the lift.

The rollercoaster Rog got sick on isn’t there any more. But, I guess, things change. What thrilled and floored me was how much hasn’t changed. Things I’d forgotten about were still there. And the feeling that my 6-year-old, Elephante’d feet had walked, even run, where I was standing at that very moment was surreal and breathtaking.

The numbers on the bumper cars aren't there anymore.
Seems I loved the colour red from a very early age (something else I don't remember) and I'm digging the Adidas trackie top.

I got me a car, it's as big as a whale...
(Now sans number plate and bumper, but still there!)

I also think these pics are a good indication that I would one day love driving! Okay, or maybe that I always like to be the one in control. And for that, I make no apologies!

Blink 182

Every so often, I arrive at work to find my telephone blinking at me. Innocent enough, but it becomes infuriating when, after frantic button pushing, it. doesn’t. stop.

I. WANT. IT. TO. STOP. Pleeeeeease. Make. It. Stop.

I know what you’re thinking – technophobe. (Is it because I’m a girl? Would you like to meet the soul of my fabulous new boots?) I’m NOT a technophobe. I pour over website after website to crack whatever it is I’m trying to do in Word, online, etc. Asking someone for help is always a last resort. Not because I’m stubborn (okay, maybe I’m a little stubborn) but I get huge satisfaction from teaching myself new MS Office tricks and solving those niggly little problems that bring one’s productivity to a grinding halt. And I have little time for people who refuse to Google, see and conquer. (Lazy fuckers.)

Blink. Blink. Blink.

But this phone thing has left me baffled. I’ve scanned the laminated instruction card over and over again. I’ve Googled Alcatel Easy Reflexes™ (see how they’ve cunningly called it Easy Reflexes). And I can’t seem to find the section in the Pdf labeled: My phone is blinking for no reason. Because let’s face it, what else would that section be called? (Yes, I’ve checked for voice mail and “text” whatever THAT is.) My reflex, which I’m trying very hard to control, is to hurl the thing across the office – now THAT would be Easy, not to mention satisfying.

Previously I’ve called my office manager (I might have whined), who’s managed to solve the issue, but can never explain to me how to do it. Once, I successfully stopped the blinkin’ thing myself, but I just struck it lucky and don’t actually remember the order in which I pressed the buttons. I know I have to press 3 at some point, but that hasn’t worked this morning.

Shitnuts!
What to do?

I think I’m just going to cover the lit slit with something. Like a Post It Note. Or prestick. And carry on with my day.

Yeah, I'm lying. I'm not going to be able to do any work until I've solved this problem. Time to roll up my sleeves-metaphorically speaking, it's frikkin' freezing today-and pray for darkness.

Alice Banned

I got sucked in AGAIN. And got a headache for my trouble. The trouble is I love cute alicebands. And trouble doubled when I popped into Woolies recently to buy a hen party present and walked out with six alicebands. I couldn’t resist. Even though that little voice in my head was shrieking: don’t do it. You know they hurt you. You know you only wear them for 10mins before you pull them off and hurl them into your draw at work.

And what did I do? Ignored The Voice and raised my arm to the display to grab: the skinny satin black one with the little bow, which also came in gunmetal grey and silvery grey. And then, the chocolate brown faux crocodile one, the tweed one and the brown on with neat beige stitching. Before I knew it I was on my way to Mitchell’s Brewery for a pint with the studio peeps. (I know; if I’d already been drinking I’d have had a better excuse.)

Of course, reason was right. The ones with the cute bows hurt like mofo’s. In fact, the gunmetal grey one is lying forlornly on my desk as I type. I’ve been pondering possible solutions for this for a few weeks now:

1. ABs need to come in small, medium and large. If the ends ended higher, they wouldn’t hurt. I think.
2. Find a way to bend them back without breaking them.
3. Find a spongy cushion for the ends, but one that is unobtrusive and doesn’t leave me looking like Dumbo.
4. Stop buying ABs? Nah. I will not consider this until I’ve exhausted all the above options (and other's I haven't thought of) or my tolerance of headache pills means prescription drugs.

Raging over head/ache

It's May. I've shaken out my feather duvet and mohair blanket. I've dusted off my oil heater. Slippers don't get put away and Oscar has started sleeping on my head and wakes me up in the morning by scratching to get under the covers and curl up in my stomach/groin/thigh crook. It's cold and it's getting colder.

Yesterday was a freakishly warm, almost tropical, day. The prom in Sea Point buzzed with strollers, runners, dog walkers - folk making the most of the weather and the beauty of Cape Town. Yesterday, it felt good to be alive!

This morning at about 4am, it didn't. I woke up with a cracking headache, after a spontaneous and soul-filling-lovely evening with one of my closest friends and too much wine. I got up to take a headache pill, realized to my horror that I only had one left, which I dropped and had to crawl around on the floor to find it. Curses.

Not much later, I was dozing, nauseous, praying I'd keep the only thing that would deliver me from evil down, when the sky unleashed it's furry on Cape Town. The heat of the day culminated in the biggest thunder and lightning display I've ever seen. (Okay, heard - normally I would have bounded out of bed to behold the force. Normally, I'm not hungover.)

But, email prevailed and these made their way to me this afternoon.

Sadly, I don't know the original source of the photos and can't credit them.

Motor Skill

This weekend, I need to have one of my tyres repaired/replaced because at some point before last weekend, I drove over something (it's looking like a nail) and by Sunday afternoon my back passenger tyre was pap.

I KNEW something was wrong with my car.

I heard a weird noise, coming from what sounded like my back passenger tyre. I actually stopped the car to check it out. Couldn't see anything, so left it.


Righty-tighty, Lefty Lucy.

So when I pranced downstairs to head out to Ashley's for a Grey's marathon and saw the droopy rubber, I wasn't at all surprised. Luckily, I've had four flats in three years, a few of them within weeks of each other... so I know how to change a tyre. I'm not going to make it into a F1 pit crew any time soon. But this time, (other time), I got my hands dirty, and worked out how to attached all the parts to the jack so that raising and lower the car didn't include scraping my knuckles against the tar.

Wheeling and dealing.

Now, what I know about tyres is: not. much. I know it drives me insane when they do the alignment and they don't get the steering wheel straight. I know that I should rotate the tyres every so often. And I know where to look on the tyre to see what size it is.

BUT

I'm always wary of being tricked into buying things that I don't need for my car! Just because I'm a girl and don't know all that much. (I fear this happened the last time I bought new tyres, and ended up buying two when I only needed one. I'm not going to let that happen again. Bastards.) And so began another Google search for: car tyre/tire puncture repairs. And I stumbled across this site: The Car Bibles.

Hallelujah

Ok. You need to read a lot. And, it didn't say any thing about punctures. BUT it did have a LOT of other info. That may be useful one day. It's all put in layman's terms. There are plenty of well labeled tables and diagrams. And I thought. This is something every driving dame should have in their bookmarks. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Power to the pretties I say.
But look out for those pavements.

Photo: Pictures of the Great Depression

Emotive motoring

I finally saw the new VW Golf ad last night, after hearing friends and breakfast show DJs talking about it. There are few ads out there that I'm happy to watch over and over and over again. This one is one, and another stellar from O&M. We played it in the office, not a dry eye in the house!

Great work O&M and well done to the VW client for buying into an ad that is at the opposite end of the spectrum from the usual hardcore, adrenorone we usually see from Golf.

Peticure

I desperately want to get a new couch, but can’t bare the thought of Oscar scratching it to bits. Yes, he has a scratching post. Yes, I should’ve been a lot tougher on him when he was a kitten. Anyway… I started taking him to the vet to have his nails clipped. It had reached the stage when it wasn’t just my furniture that was bearing the brunt of his sharp claws, but my arms and legs too. You could actually scratch on the words dried blood.

My vet showed me how to clip his nails myself and he’s quite good at sitting still for me while I do it. (Of course, I have him in a crossface, chickenwing hold while I’m clipping, duh.) The little bastard has got clever. As the nail clippers start to close in on the extended claw, he lets out a helpless little meow. Which, of course, makes me think I’m hurting him, and stop what I’m doing. But I’ve wised up, and it doesn’t work any more.

I decided to check “clipping cat’s claws” on Google just to make sure that I was doing it right, aka how far down could I cut without hurting the little tyke (the more I can cut off, the less often I have to do it, natch). Just when I thought I'd seen everything... I stumbled upon Soft Paws:

Image by robbie.

WTF??? I’m all for pet grooming. There was a time when I thought that red ribbons behind poodles’ ears were kinda cute. I was six. But coloured tips for you cat’s nails? What kind of lunacy is that? Those of you who grew up in SA in the 80s – I’m having Knersis flash backs. (He had looooong red talons. Fantastic and evil!)

Not only can you choose from a range of colours; blue, pink, yellow, green, colour combos; white/purple, yellow/green, red/green (on each tip), you can also choose from a range of “exclusive” palettes like: the Mother’s Day combo or the sprightly Spring combo. And if you’re feeling patriotic the Red, White and Blue combo – did I have to say this was an American product? Seriously?

From the testimonials page (with pictures!):

- Suzette claims, "our Milo doesn’t mind them at all." Like Milo had a choice.
- Larry shares, "Bought the hot pink, goes well with her color, she's a blue cream point." Hot pink Larry? Wait a minute... LARRY?
- Tara and Eric, "I have attached a picture of one of my cats, Oreo, with her SoftPaws on. She is practically smiling!" I'm willing to put money on Tara being the brains behind Oreo's latest look and Eric just going along with it. I'm also willing to put money on Oreo smiling as he hatches his latest retaliation plot.

I’m okay with becoming a spinster, cat lady in my middle-to-old age but if I ever resort to this kind of insanity and decide Oscar would look good with Orange claws you know what to do kids.

Hang on a minute; he’s a ginger, so maybe Orange claws would look cute.
Awesome!
I'm. Kidding.

Spring Clean, Sunshine

It's been a crazy few weeks in my world, between work, a wedding, birthday and birth days, a christening and everything in-between, I’ve had no time to potter at home and find my zen.

After 3 days of intense, eerie, thrilling, midweek mist, I woke on Saturday morning to startlingly clear skies, warm-hot sun and a beautiful day. So after schloefing around in my jammies, a couple of cups of tea and rescuing Oscar from 603 (he makes his way up, and stands at the door meowing, thinking it’s home but hasn’t realized that he’s got to go down again – stupid cat!) I decided it was time for to pack away my summer clothes, pull out my winter clothes and get tough on all the shit I hoard and don’t even remember owning, let alone look at!

I tipped out my drawers on to my bed, pulled clothes from their hangers and got busy. Oscar got stuck in too, natch!

A couple of hours, a few more cups of tea and 4 huge shopping bags (filled with clothes, towels, blankets, and general bric-a-brac) later, I was done! I was really surprised that I didn't get bored with the whole indaba. I usually start with gusto, pull everything out on to my bed and 30min later I'm over it! And then, stuff it all back into cupboards and draws so I don't have to look at the mess!

But here is the end result. I estimate 2 weeks before they return to their usual state of chaos...

My favourite new storage items are the white shoe boxes (from Merry Pak) with little windows so you can see your shoes inside!

If you're wondering why I didn't chuck that fugly brown and cream windbreaker with the red stripe on the arm, it's because it's the only really warm jacket I own, and until I replace it, I'm not going without. (If you're wondering why I bought it in the first place, well, let's just say beggars can't be choosers!)

Of course, there are a few items that I can't bare to part with. My Depeche Mode 101 T-shirt (before the days they made fitted girly Tee's). My official-issue London Fire Brigade sweat-shirt, given as a leaving gift. (Yip, I used to work for the London Fire Brigade. No, I never got to slide down the pole. Yip, they really do have poles.) My Henry's Cafe Bar waitress shirt: my first job in London, after swearing I'd never waitress again! And my matric jersey. Aww!

In honour of winter, fast approaching... I removed all the funky bags I had hanging on my coat hooks and tried something new with my scarves. I LOVE scarves. There are more, in the cupboard, hee hee! Scarves make me happy! It's not quite working for me, but I'll live with it for a while and see... (I think I should move the pink-y ones to the middle hook.)

With another chore done and feeling very house-proud and satisfied, I packed the four big bags into my little car and set off to donate the hoard to Nazareth House. Which made me feel even better - there's nothing like a little giving (not to mention recycling) to brighten up the day.

As for my zen, it's back in full force! Woot!

Trading Traditional

A friend of mine got married recently and, for the first time in my life, I was asked to be a bridesmaid! So in the run-up to the wedding (she had only 10 weeks to plan it, and no, she isn’t knocked-up) I immersed myself in Google Image searches (from bridesmaids to dress and all the variants in-between), Vera Wang On Weddings and as many wedding blogs I could find!

My bride had a vision and a fairly traditional spec for her three maids (which ended up looking incredible), so I couldn’t stray from that. But I found things that really struck a chord with me, and even though you’re not going to hear the opening notes of the Wedding March played for me, any time soon, I just wanted to share these:

Now, I’m a Converse girl, and always have been… PLUS heels have never really been my friends (sad, but true). So these totally ROCK!
[From Wedding Paper Divas]



But, the tiny princess in me (that loves all the pretty heels I can’t wear) also loves shoes that DON’T match the dress and are bright and bold and sassy!
[From Wedding Paper Divas]

Still with shoes… this time for the bridesmaids. I love the black dresses (so easy to choose something you can wear again) but even more so, the individuality of each maid stepping to the fore! (Especially the peep-toe reds with ankle straps!)
[From The Laura Kay Blog]

Once I'd stumbled onto The Laura Kay Blog I was hooked! Great photography of all kinds. And I fell in love with the contrast in these pictures:

I would love my wedding photos be full of the unexpected!
[From The Laura Kay Blog]

And then, the tour de force of wedding guests’ gifts: A wedding mix!

This is the BEST pressie for guests I've ever seen! And I'm SO going to do it too... if I ever get married, that is.
But that's a whole other conversation :)

Running on Empty

I recently did one of those personality profiles at work (you know the ones). I was impressed with the results, it was pretty accurate (ha! the details go with me to my cremation) except one: Roles that require empathy or sympathy may not suit her. My knee jerk reaction to this was: WTF?! I have empathy and sympathy (cue indignant glare and pursed lips).

BUT in observing my interactions with others since, I’ve realized that it’s not that far off the mark. Don’t get me wrong; in certain situations I display huge amounts of empathy. And sympathy. But only when it’s really called for. Most of the time, I’m a hardarse.

I encountered TWO people yesterday, TWO, who had petrol issues. The first, a colleague, had actually run out of petrol (I’m still shaking my head about it) and needed another colleague to drive her to a petrol station to fill a bottle. (She keeps a bottle and funnel in her car; apparently this has happened before!!!)

The second, a friend, was driving us around town last night, and was on reserve. So Nat and I were chatting about needing to fill up last night before she took me home, otherwise I’d be the friend she’d SOS. I said: I’d help her out, natch, BUT I wouldn’t (here it comes) be very sympathetic. (After all, it’s something that can so obviously and painlessly be avoided.) She was shocked! She said: she hates filling up with petrol. I was shocked. How can running out of petrol, or even the potential to be stranded by the side of the road be better than putting in R50?

It makes me nervous, when my petrol gauge needle hangs around the ¼ mark, I get twitchy, check my mileage counter, and pull in to the nearest petrol station. I have never, EVER, run out of petrol. There’s no excuse for it! I think I’ve seen my petrol light once – and that was only because my car was new, and my previous car was old and didn't have a special light to warn you, and I wanted to see the little glowing petrol pump icon.

So, I’m okay with my empathy/sympathy stash being at an all-time low, sorry for you, mainly because I’ll still bail you out if you run out of gas. I’m might not be terribly graceful about it but I’ll still coming running – with a full tank and some chips!

P.S. I do realize that this post might mean I'm the last person you'll call... that's okay too!

Time to kill... or getting ready to murder a margarita

I don't really have anything important to say other than it's T minus 30 before I kick back and enjoy the sweet taste of a strawberry margarita, a plate of nachos and the company of great gals I used to work with. We try and get together once a month. (I think we're averaging once every 6 months, on account of working in advertising, The Amazing Race and Cath's Italian classes.)

Outside, the sun is setting and the mountain is draped in gold and a thick mist is moving in from the harbour. The Liesbeek River looks like it's smoking and the traffic on the M5 shuffles forward mechanically as everyone makes their way home or, perhaps, out.

The idea of being part of mass transit has always tickled me in an abstract way. Whether it was pushing through a Tube station in London to slip between the almost-closed doors or driving to work, radio blaring, I always feel a small thrill at being part of a bigger movement. Even if it is just capitalism. I can't explain it. Maybe it's the feeling of not being alone. And I can't help but wonder how many commuters share my routine, my route and I just don't recognize their car, so I don't see them. Sometimes I don't mind just being another number, or invisible. Sometimes it feels good to be just another face in the crowd. Because sometimes just being in the crowd is what matters.

Happy Tuesday!

Thumbs up to all voters!

Ally and I have voted together for the last couple of elections because we vote at the same spot. So this year, we agreed to meet at 7 at Vida for a takeaway latte and walk up to Laerskool Jan van Riebeeck. Voting stations opened at 7am so we thought we’d get there, get in, make our marks and be out of there in about 30 min!

So I woke up in the dark and debated whether to have a shower or just pull on my clothes there and then. Hey, I would have voted in my pjs if I could’ve. Propriety won and after my shower, I had a pre-election cuppa on my balcony. (Even though a cup of Vida was minutes away, two caffeine shots in 20mins, you can’t go wrong. In fact, we’re you’re the furthest thing from a morning person, it’s the only way to become remotely intelligible.) (PS Just ‘cos I’m taking photos doesn’t mean I’m awake.)

Then I scurried out the door, plugged in my sound and skipped down Kloof Street on my way to the best coffee in the world. As I past the primary school, I saw Ally waving at me from the queue. Schizer. Vida’s still closed. What was worse, it was 07h05 and the queue was easily 80 people long. Nuts! Everyone seemed to be in a pretty festive mood though, and it’s kinda contagious. We might be voting differently but we’re all there to vote and it felt good.

Ally and I caught up. Chatted about politics (she’s in the know as journalist for the Cape Times) (this is something I try not to do, I’m just not interested but I can get into on voting day), her 10-days-away wedding and other girly stuff. At 07h30, we’d shuffled a few meters forward and I tripped down to Vida again for our fix. Shitnuts! Still closed. Back up the hill. Sigh.

Then we got to talking to the couple standing behind us. They couldn’t stop kissing each other, which made me nauseous. (I’m not really into PDAs, other than holding hands and a greeting kiss.) The subject: a 21-month-old called Liam. The mother was doing her best look-at-me-I’m-a-cool-mom-and-my-adorable-son impression for the crowd. Adorable he was not. What gave it away? It had a mullet and no shoes. It shrieked and took great delight in throwing its soft toy at people in the line. Over-indulged brat. Every time it looked at me I glared and hissed. (Okay, I didn’t hiss out loud, the mom was much bigger than me.)

Half an hour later I was back at Vida, in another long queue that almost had me standing in their toilet. (I completely believe they missed a whopping sales opportunity here. Not only were they not open early, but they also had a captive audience, barely moving. They could have made thousands!)

Over 2 hours later and a cup of coffee down (one more and I would have needed to wazz) we were at least in the building. By now the brat was tired and acted out a clearly tried-and-tested routine that involved it: lying down on the floor, in a straight line, checking to see who was watching and then letting out a piercing scream. Mom or dad would pick it up, only to be kicked to be let down and it would start all over again.

All too soon, it was over. I’d made my X on two ballot sheets. Dropped them in the boxes. Waited for Ally and we were on our way. By now the queue was almost to end of the block. I felt sorry for the people standing at the end. But hey, I also felt sorry for myself when my alarm went off at 6am.

Today I’ve been checking out my colleagues’ left thumb for the mark of the voter. I’m horrified when people say they didn’t vote. I’m proud that I did and I’m crossing my fingers that the results will be, well, favourable. So far, so good!

“Dissonance” Op. 503 Arranged for a Trio

ff

After a brief respite, 503 was at it again. And this time, they were not alone. As a rule, I don’t believe in god. But there are some nights where I’m convinced that the god-I-don’t-believe-in really does exist and is furiously conducting his latest work just to teach me a lesson.

So, I’m in bed. It’s 11pm. Wa-hay past my bedtime and as I nestle into the warmth of my duvet and hide my toes from my cat (this is a bitch, because I like to lie straight but he’s basically making that impossible – little bastard), I take a deep breath and savour the still of the night. And then, in some cruel twist of fate, the silence is shattered but none other than my fun-loving, laughing, singing, dancing, drinking, whine-o neighbours. I almost burst into tears. And tonight it’s the extended remix: 1+3+4 = straight to the top of the charts of royally pissing. me. off. And this time, they’ve included guest artists. Ladies and gentlemen, may I please present 503 featuring drunk girls in the street below and the chorus of night shift workers from the Mount Nelson Hotel. Fan-fucking-tastic.

503 adds to their latest opus, sneezing loudly enough to rock the block. And playing speed-bowler with something heavy. And of course there’s the usual whooping, laughing, and shouting. Oh, and clapping.

Cue the drunk chicks: They’re sitting in a car, one is getting dropped off. (How do I know this? Because I’m an unashamed curtain-twitcher, and I’m so furious at being kept awake that I’m standing on my balcony smoking.) The one in the passenger seat has a white poodle on her lap. Where were they that allowed dogs? The passenger gets out, with a helmet and (pr)(l)oudly shows her scooter to her friend, who’s still in the drivers seat of the car. They’ve left the door open. Of course, that means the poodle escapes, and they start shrieking. And then singing. Drunkenly. I accept that nothing is rational when you’ve had a few toots, but I still want to slap them silly.

Enter the Mount Nelson end-of-shift staff. There are about 30 of them. No hope at all that they’re going to be considerate. (Even though I’ve phoned their HR department and I know I’m not the only one. “Thank you for being so calm, Susan in HR said. “I wasn’t so calm at 2am this morning.” I counter.)

Lord? Have mercy! And just in case there is no god (er), I pop a couple of horse tranquillizers (I’ll deal with the sleeping pill hangover tomorrow) and try and settle my rattled soul. From there, sleep is swift. I’m considering ear plugs or asking one of my really tall guy friends to help with some intimidation tactics. Then of course, there’s always an envelope of Oscar’s pooh in their postbox.

No man is an island...

But shitnuts, I wish I was sometimes. It helps that I live alone so I can go home and not have to talk to anyone. This week has been exceptionally crazy. Working late. Full-focus mode at work. Not enough hours in the day. Playing Creative Director-Creative Director. Did I really sign up for this? The only thing that's holding me together is the long weekend ahead and getting away to Yzerfontein.

So when I can't curl up in the fetal position on the studio floor. (Yes, I've done this and it makes me feel better.) I go to my happy place. My island.

It's a tropical island (where mozzis and Dengue Fever don't feature). I live there in a little one bedroomed wooden hut. I have my books, my music, my surfboard, my kitty and a bicycle. I'm the only Western Girl on the island and I work in a local plastic-chair restaurant, can speak a smattering of the language and know all the locals. They love me so much, they've given me a pet name in the local language. I eat mostly peanut butter sandwiches - Black Cat crunchy, which gets sent to me by my family. And I have a basket on my bicycle so that I can carry watermelons home for dessert.

There's never any drama on my island. Except when there's a huge tropical thunderstorm and the electricity goes down for a couple of days and we laugh over candle-lit dinners of noodles and tofu. And I don't really have to worry about anything except when the postman comes and the stock in the restaurant that I work in.

Ah, life is good on my island. All naysayers will be ignored. Of course. And visitors welcomed!

Haiku for last-minute lane changers

Cars that cut me off
In morning rush hour traffic
Make me want to kill

Take a tampon but...

I'm fascinated by signage in public toilets. I'm not talking about advertising on the back of toilet doors, I'm talking about signs that the establishment types up in word, prints and prestics to the back of the door. I'm horrified that people need to be reminded to flush! There's a certain amount of irony that this is needed in a Ladies loo!

This one I found in the Ladies toilet at Oblivion, a wine bar in Kennilworth.

(For those of you [men] wondering what the green things are, they're tampons. The kind with applicators.)

For emergency only? Oh, so I can't take these back with me to the bar to whirl around, lasso-style to the beat of "She's a man eater"? Or drop into my date's beer, for a laugh. You're no fun!

Don't get me wrong, I think it's great that they've got free tampons in the ladies loo. I mean, what else do you get for free these days? (This weekend I bought nail polish that came with a "free" top coat. When she swiped the top coat it cost 5c. I don't mind paying 5c. But it's not really free is it?)

Of course tampons are also great for blood noses (I think I saw it on a movie once) does that qualify for an emergency? I wonder.

Haiku for right-hand lane hoggers

right-hand lane hoggers
especially on de waal
make me want to kill

We are gathered here…

Last night I went to watch Dear Reader (formally Harris Tweed) at The Assembly for the launch of their new album. It was with much anticipation and excitement that I bought the tickets weeks ago – I’ve been waiting for their new album for months. I wasn’t disappointed. The evening kicked off late, but anyone from Cape Town will shrug and disclaim: it’s Cape Town. (Something I’ve never really got used to.)

The Simon van Gend Band kicked off the evening. I’ve known of them for years, but have never heard them. I want their CD. Desperately. And I will hunt them down, even if it means sitting on a dusty floor, straining to see over a lanky boy’s fedora and getting pins and needles.

Dear Reader, I’ve seen them many times. I am a fan. I’m awed by their talent, their guts, their perseverance. (And I covert Cherilyn MacNeil’s shoes.) Their live sound envelopes you and I love that their new drummer knows every word to every song and sings along, even when it isn’t his part. Even he can’t resist the push and pull of strings and sound. It’s as it should be.

They’ve just got back from a tour in Germany and France. They’re from Jo’burg and have played all over South Africa. And it seems, that their audiences are as idiosyncratic as their music! They said that German audiences clap for a very long time, for each song, far longer than South African audiences. And, apparently, Cape Town audiences are just like French audiences: we sit on the floor, we’re quiet. (The last time I saw them play she said it was like playing in a church.) And we dress well (her words, not mine)!

I guess it’s kinda obvious that different cultures react and express themselves differently. But when I’m at a concert, I only ever really think about my own reactions and my immediate surroundings. And to have someone actually point out similarities or differences is cool. Who needs flags, when how they’re waved is much more interesting? Well, I think so anyway!

Sometimes, I surprise myself... OR blessed are the forgetful

It doesn't happen often. In fact, I can't remember the last time it did - but then, why would I? Firmly in my 30s, there's a lot I don't remember. It used to only happen to people my parents' ages: you know, walking into another room to get/do something, only to completely forget as soon as you step over the threshold. It's a mystery. And, to my horror, it's happening to me more and more.

There's only one hour left of what, without a doubt, has been the longest Monday of my life (I needed a weekend to recover from my weekend) and we've got a creative review first thing tomorrow morning. Which means that I needed to write another bit of copy for a second poster option so the AD could lay it out before then. Ugh. No! Please, say it isn't so. All I wanted to spend the last hour of my day doing was staring blindly at various, easy-on-the-brain blogs and sites.

I forced my right hand to take hold of the mouse, hover over the folder, and click away to open the word doccie. (At this point, I wanted to cry.) Opened it and scrolled down to discover that I had written it already!!!!!!

I nearly pranced around the office doing the dance of joy (except that I've been wearing my scarf around my head for most of the day - cos I have a cold and I'm sitting under the frikkin' aircon and that gave the kids plenty to laugh about already.) (Also, I think I pulled a muscle in my leg doing stripper moves at a party on Friday night, so it'd be more like the hobble of joy - tequilla has once again been banned!)

Horrah! Now I have 45 mins to kill, without feeling guilty.

Neighbours or 503 and their increasing repertoire of disruption

503: It could be the name of a new club that’s opened in Cape Town. Come to think of it, considering the amount of noise that comes from 503, it could be a new club that’s opened in Cape Town. Unfortunately, it’s not. It’s the flat above me. And I’m going (not-so-quietly) insane.

I suspect, since I knocked on their door to (very sweetly) ask them to shut-the-fuck-up, that they’ve begun devising new ways to irritate me. No, scrap that, they just a bunch of inconsiderate plonkers who are making my life hell. (Mostly because they’re interfering with my very precious sleep.)

1. The trance parties:
These usually happen on a Sunday night. A SUNDAY!? (My horror has nothing to do with religion. Rather, it’s the night before Monday, when everything should be quiet and peaceful as you savour the remnants of the weekend before being hurled back into another blurry working week.) Not only does their loud doof-doof music, thump through the walls, they also clap in time, bleat, shriek and laugh. A lot. This goes on until the wee hours of the morning, unless someone else in the block bangs their door down. (I prefer to lie in bed cursing them, plotting my revenge – which includes an envelop of Oscar’s pooh in their postbox – than actually face the music. Hey, I don’t like confrontation.)

2. The time their window blew out:
I was on my balcony when it happened. Ha! I thought: karma. That was until Dick start knocking out the pieces of glass that were still clinging to the frame with absolutely no regard for who might be walking down below, or the South Easter or me on my balcony below. (Why I was surprised? I don’t know.) Then I realised that the Trance Parties would be worse with a pain of glass missing. Ugh.

3. Bowling Night
So I’m lying on my couch watching TV when all of a sudden, something heavy is dropped directly above my head. Over and over again. It sounds like a ball. A bowling ball. On tiles. Fab! Eventually I rush to get my wooden-handled mop to thud at them from below. At the sound of the bang of my utility cupboard door (on my balcony) they stop. I spend the rest of the night, mop in hand, telepathically daring them to try-that-again. They don’t.

4. Let’s play Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy - Queer-Eye-for-the-Straight-Guy!
And move the furniture around, at 10pm at night. (This happens at least once a week.) Three words: tiles, heavy, furniture.

5. Three’s-a-Charm
Monday morning 1am – rip-roaring fight ensues and wakes me up. Lots of shouting, banging, dragging of furniture (¿).
Monday night – Trance Party (see no. 1)
Wednesday morning 2am – he gets home (I can only assume) drunk and pumps up the volume. This time, “I think you’re a-mayyyyy-ziiiiinnnng” rings out into the night. And wakes me up.

It’s after three nights of being kept from sleep that I decide I can’t take anymore and decide to have a little word. (I've been drinking beer with Ashley, so my confidence and indignance are at an all-time high when I get home.) He’s not home. I wait. Suddenly, the thud of something from above. Ah! I march upstairs and knock before I lose my bottle. He’s sulky, sullen, mumbling, I repeat myself, smiling, until I get an apology. Next time, I’m not going to be so nice.

6. Heels
On tiles. It’s 11pm, I’m trying to sleep. Do I need to say any more?

This tips me over the edge. I’ve contacted the Body Corporate. She's sympathetic, but naturally won't lift a finger. It’s going to take some time, but I’ll canvass the other neighbours this weekend and bombard the letting agent with complaints.

Game on!

It’s aaaaaa knockout!

A regular occurrence in the loading zone outside my local grocery store. This time, I had the camera ready.

And then, to my delight, it happened twice in ten minutes!

Notice how there’s always one guy who just stands around and watches while everyone else pitches in to help pack up. Wanker.

(I’m not sure why I find it so funny since I’m the poor sod that might end up buying whatever landed on the guano-infested pavement at-the-back.)