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.