It may be Monday. I may be beating myself up emotionally for something that's no longer in my control. I may be feeling that familiar twinge (more like TWANG) of regret at having spoilt things a little by being drunk and disorderly. I may be feeling sad at the fact that the weekend's over and Boyfriend's flown back to work and I won't see him again for weeks at least.
But...
What a weekend.
Finding yourself in a beautifully decorated, luxury self-catering apartment in Franschhoek with a jacuzzi and a kitchen thoughtfully stocked with supplies by the incredible boyfriend who's already driven up that morning to make sure everything's perfect and switch the jacuzzi on to warm ... there's not much better.
Unless it's followed by a lovely French dinner, a jacuzzi under the stars, a salmon and scrambled egg breakfast, a wander around picturesque Franschhoek, wine tasting at four world-class cellars, a leisurely lunch of cheese, biscuits and more wine, another dip in the jacuzzi and a dinner reservation at the must-book-weeks-in-advance Reuben's ... well that's even better.
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Thank you
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Reasons why today is a Good Day
(in no real order of importance, with the exception of reason number 1, which nothing can top)
Reason Number 7
It's Friday, and that's always a good day.
Reason Number 6
I slept the deep sleep of a girl who has painted her nails and fallen asleep with her fingers accidentally very close to her nose.
Reason Number 5
I woke up lighter today than I did yesterday.
Reason Number 4
The weather man has promised me a high of 23 degrees today. This means that summer might really be just around the corner.
Reason Number 3
There's a Woollies salad waiting in the office fridge for me for lunch. At 1600kJ it's a bit of an indulgence, but since I woke up at 5am, came into work early, am not taking lunch and have, with incredible self-discipline, been avoiding the other copy eds' toast runs all week ... well I think I deserve a little something something. And Woollies salads are right up there on the yum scale.
Reason Number 2
I'm at work early, which, though otherwise might not seem like a good thing, means I get to leave early too this afternoon. Why, you ask? Kindly see below...
Reason Number 1
Boyfriend is taking me away for the weekend to a surprise destination to celebrate our first anniversary.
I know...
Reason Number 7
It's Friday, and that's always a good day.
Reason Number 6
I slept the deep sleep of a girl who has painted her nails and fallen asleep with her fingers accidentally very close to her nose.
Reason Number 5
I woke up lighter today than I did yesterday.
Reason Number 4
The weather man has promised me a high of 23 degrees today. This means that summer might really be just around the corner.
Reason Number 3
There's a Woollies salad waiting in the office fridge for me for lunch. At 1600kJ it's a bit of an indulgence, but since I woke up at 5am, came into work early, am not taking lunch and have, with incredible self-discipline, been avoiding the other copy eds' toast runs all week ... well I think I deserve a little something something. And Woollies salads are right up there on the yum scale.
Reason Number 2
I'm at work early, which, though otherwise might not seem like a good thing, means I get to leave early too this afternoon. Why, you ask? Kindly see below...
Reason Number 1
Boyfriend is taking me away for the weekend to a surprise destination to celebrate our first anniversary.
I know...
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Wearing a green sack today
Watched the Secret Life of Bees last night.
It's a great movie, it really is, but when I kept catching myself being distracted by long-shots of the now-fourteen-year-old Dakota Fanning and thinking, 'She's so skinny', I thought I might be kind of missing the point.
This happens fairly often. My obsession with thin (although far from that holiest of holy descriptions myself) drives me to distraction quite often. I lose whole threads of what intelligent women are saying because I'm surreptitiously (at least I hope it's surreptitiously) checking out their thighs or arms and wondering what they eat for breakfast.
It's a fairly mainstream preoccupation I guess. I mean, at least I'm not wondering what underwear they're wearing. Or what it smells like. But still, I can feel people getting tired of me. I'm tired of me sometimes.
You see, the thing is, while I have this drive for a waif-like body, and religiously count my kJs and hit the gym for a few conscientious weeks, they're swiftly followed by days of endlessly shovelling food into my mouth, then whining about how I've gained the measly two kilos I managed to lose in the preceding starvation.
Case in point, last night. Dinner and a DVD at the uber-petite Bunny's house. Veggie pizza, followed by popcorn followed by tea and rusks as a nightcap (we're hardcore like that). Rolled outta there.
Woke up at about 3am with my stomach in knots, feeling violently nauseated – an actual physical sign from my body that it's time to stop feeding myself.
First thought: oh fuck not swine flu
Second thought: gosh gee maybe you should have rethought that fourth rusk, idiot
Third thought: get a hair elastic ... if dinner decides to make a reappearance, better to be prepared. There's just not always somebody around to hold your hair back...
Luckily (or perhaps not?) the veggie pizza decided it preferred my stomach after all. Probably because so many of its buddies are hanging out there...
It's a great movie, it really is, but when I kept catching myself being distracted by long-shots of the now-fourteen-year-old Dakota Fanning and thinking, 'She's so skinny', I thought I might be kind of missing the point.
This happens fairly often. My obsession with thin (although far from that holiest of holy descriptions myself) drives me to distraction quite often. I lose whole threads of what intelligent women are saying because I'm surreptitiously (at least I hope it's surreptitiously) checking out their thighs or arms and wondering what they eat for breakfast.
It's a fairly mainstream preoccupation I guess. I mean, at least I'm not wondering what underwear they're wearing. Or what it smells like. But still, I can feel people getting tired of me. I'm tired of me sometimes.
You see, the thing is, while I have this drive for a waif-like body, and religiously count my kJs and hit the gym for a few conscientious weeks, they're swiftly followed by days of endlessly shovelling food into my mouth, then whining about how I've gained the measly two kilos I managed to lose in the preceding starvation.
Case in point, last night. Dinner and a DVD at the uber-petite Bunny's house. Veggie pizza, followed by popcorn followed by tea and rusks as a nightcap (we're hardcore like that). Rolled outta there.
Woke up at about 3am with my stomach in knots, feeling violently nauseated – an actual physical sign from my body that it's time to stop feeding myself.
First thought: oh fuck not swine flu
Second thought: gosh gee maybe you should have rethought that fourth rusk, idiot
Third thought: get a hair elastic ... if dinner decides to make a reappearance, better to be prepared. There's just not always somebody around to hold your hair back...
Luckily (or perhaps not?) the veggie pizza decided it preferred my stomach after all. Probably because so many of its buddies are hanging out there...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Are we the next Brazil?
South Africans are so hot right now.
(Well actually, at the moment if you're in South Africa you're likely to be ass-clenchingly freezing, but anyway.)
I fear we're the next hot foreign thing, like the world's love affair with Brazil after City of God, very personal waxing, a bikini design that lets it all hang out and the event that is Giselle.
It may be a few years since Charlize clasped that little gold figurine in her Benoni-paw, but in the meantime the country's slowly inching its way – sidling, if you will – onto the world stage.
What got me thinking about this this morning was the surprising success in the States of the all-South African cast, all-South African crew, all-South African concept movie release District Nine. Yay for a full SA cast ... no more half-Aussie-half-Austrian-fully-non-South African accents to endure (sorry Mister DiCaprio, you're lovely, you are, but you sound like a retard).
Oh wait, I just remembered the soon-to-be-released Invictus. Matt Damon, please don't let me down.
Anyway, with 'South Africa' being thrown around by TV CIA agents and pop singers more and more frequently, I worry that we're the next new thing. Sure it'd be great for tourism, raising the country's international profile etcetera etcetera, but the next new thing eventually becomes so five minutes ago. I don't want to be last season based purely on my nationality, do you?
Of course, a coworker's friend at a medical conference in the States was recently asked by an incredulous American, 'South Africa? But you speak English! How did you learn it?' – so maybe we're still underground cool, which is so the best kind to be.
(Well actually, at the moment if you're in South Africa you're likely to be ass-clenchingly freezing, but anyway.)
I fear we're the next hot foreign thing, like the world's love affair with Brazil after City of God, very personal waxing, a bikini design that lets it all hang out and the event that is Giselle.
It may be a few years since Charlize clasped that little gold figurine in her Benoni-paw, but in the meantime the country's slowly inching its way – sidling, if you will – onto the world stage.
What got me thinking about this this morning was the surprising success in the States of the all-South African cast, all-South African crew, all-South African concept movie release District Nine. Yay for a full SA cast ... no more half-Aussie-half-Austrian-fully-non-South African accents to endure (sorry Mister DiCaprio, you're lovely, you are, but you sound like a retard).
Oh wait, I just remembered the soon-to-be-released Invictus. Matt Damon, please don't let me down.
Anyway, with 'South Africa' being thrown around by TV CIA agents and pop singers more and more frequently, I worry that we're the next new thing. Sure it'd be great for tourism, raising the country's international profile etcetera etcetera, but the next new thing eventually becomes so five minutes ago. I don't want to be last season based purely on my nationality, do you?
Of course, a coworker's friend at a medical conference in the States was recently asked by an incredulous American, 'South Africa? But you speak English! How did you learn it?' – so maybe we're still underground cool, which is so the best kind to be.
Monday, August 17, 2009
ARGHHHHHHHHHHH
Yesterday saw me diligently hitting the gym for my Sunday afternoon twenty lengths of the pool (I have no idea where this 'Jade thou shall get off the couch and exercise' willpower comes from but I'm making the most of it).
This was all well and good except that I woke up this morning with a seriously blocked left ear. Argh. Feels as though I'm walking around with one of those fishbowl bubbles over my head, and hearing my own blood pumping is more than a little strange, not to mention the disorientation that comes with it. And yes, I've tried blocking my nose and breathing out, to no avail. Nearly braining myself with an earbud this morning didn't help much either.
The world is all bloop bloop bloop, and I have to constantly turn my head when people speak to me and shout, 'What? WHAT'S THAT? Speak into my good ear, if you care to be heard.'
Oh wait...development! I yawned and it's just semi-unblocked itself. Only now it hurts something well awful. Ouch.
Happy Monday all...
This was all well and good except that I woke up this morning with a seriously blocked left ear. Argh. Feels as though I'm walking around with one of those fishbowl bubbles over my head, and hearing my own blood pumping is more than a little strange, not to mention the disorientation that comes with it. And yes, I've tried blocking my nose and breathing out, to no avail. Nearly braining myself with an earbud this morning didn't help much either.
The world is all bloop bloop bloop, and I have to constantly turn my head when people speak to me and shout, 'What? WHAT'S THAT? Speak into my good ear, if you care to be heard.'
Oh wait...development! I yawned and it's just semi-unblocked itself. Only now it hurts something well awful. Ouch.
Happy Monday all...
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Just another Friday night
So bumped into somehow I knew from high school last night (yes that's right, I actually ventured out into the big wide world, which means I'm not really a hermit right?).
She looked vastly different, and I nearly didn't recognise her, even though for a few of my formative years we were what you could loosely call friends. She's always amused me...
Me: 'Oh my God your face is so much thinner, I nearly didn't recognise you! (Not my best opening line, I'll admit, but I was taken by surprise.)
Her: Yeah, it's because I'm not throwing up anymore.
And then we passed the next ten minutes catching up, not skirting around her months-long stay in rehab, her recent epic breakup that followed on the heels of him and her buying a R 1.5 million house cash up-front (suspicious boyfriend character much?) and her subsequent relapse onto the hard stuff (read: stuff you use with needles).
Now, I'm never sure how much of what I hear from this dear old friend is true. If half of these random chats we've had over the years have contained actual fact, she could sell the rights to her life story to Hollywood as a grown-up, no holds barred version of that movie Thirteen.
What I love about her is her total heart-on-her-sleeve candidness. Sure it probably makes some people feel awkward, but you can't have a boring chat with the girl. Maybe I'm being cavalier about something quite tragic, but so is she, so it feels quite harmless. And with such larger-than-life confessions being spilled into the night air, it makes it easy to let off a few of your own, which suddenly seem completely trivial and/or manageable. It's a great release...
She looked vastly different, and I nearly didn't recognise her, even though for a few of my formative years we were what you could loosely call friends. She's always amused me...
Me: 'Oh my God your face is so much thinner, I nearly didn't recognise you! (Not my best opening line, I'll admit, but I was taken by surprise.)
Her: Yeah, it's because I'm not throwing up anymore.
And then we passed the next ten minutes catching up, not skirting around her months-long stay in rehab, her recent epic breakup that followed on the heels of him and her buying a R 1.5 million house cash up-front (suspicious boyfriend character much?) and her subsequent relapse onto the hard stuff (read: stuff you use with needles).
Now, I'm never sure how much of what I hear from this dear old friend is true. If half of these random chats we've had over the years have contained actual fact, she could sell the rights to her life story to Hollywood as a grown-up, no holds barred version of that movie Thirteen.
What I love about her is her total heart-on-her-sleeve candidness. Sure it probably makes some people feel awkward, but you can't have a boring chat with the girl. Maybe I'm being cavalier about something quite tragic, but so is she, so it feels quite harmless. And with such larger-than-life confessions being spilled into the night air, it makes it easy to let off a few of your own, which suddenly seem completely trivial and/or manageable. It's a great release...
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
So waking up at six o'clock on a chilly, wet Cape Town morning is not most people's definition of fun (certainly not mine), unless of course it's for a very good reason. And I don't mean something like work, or gym, I mean:
a. catching a flight to an exotic holiday destination
b. snuggly, half-awake morning sex
c. hitting the sales
This morning saw Mum and I waiting elbow to elbow with other shoppers outside Woolworths at the V&A, anxiously awaiting the 7.30 opening of the doors to account holders so we could gorge ourselves on shoes, accessories and cosmetics.
I know, most girls my age probably wouldn't admit to being a Woollies addict, but screw it, I love them. It's the old rule about buying good basics and building onto them with your trendy boutique buys etceteraaaaaah.
Sadly, Woollies let me down today. Not only were the Country Road heels I've been lusting after since the day I was born (I am meant to have these shoes I tell you) not marked down, there was precious little in the way of beauty booty. What happened to row upon row of discounted mascaras, eyeliners and delicious creamy things?
Sigh...
a. catching a flight to an exotic holiday destination
b. snuggly, half-awake morning sex
c. hitting the sales
This morning saw Mum and I waiting elbow to elbow with other shoppers outside Woolworths at the V&A, anxiously awaiting the 7.30 opening of the doors to account holders so we could gorge ourselves on shoes, accessories and cosmetics.
I know, most girls my age probably wouldn't admit to being a Woollies addict, but screw it, I love them. It's the old rule about buying good basics and building onto them with your trendy boutique buys etceteraaaaaah.
Sadly, Woollies let me down today. Not only were the Country Road heels I've been lusting after since the day I was born (I am meant to have these shoes I tell you) not marked down, there was precious little in the way of beauty booty. What happened to row upon row of discounted mascaras, eyeliners and delicious creamy things?
Sigh...
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I am at peace with the world
The long weekend was fantastic, but what was even more ridiculously cool was coming in to work this morning looking forward to my massage.
Yes, you heard right.
My new job is awesome, as far as jobs go. As far as first jobs go, it's insanely, supremely hands-down the best. Not only do I work in a cool office on a spanking new MAC with nice people who feel the same way I do about a cup of tea and a biscuit (which is that the aforementioned combination could lead to world peace), we're also treated by our company to monthly massages.
I know. Please don't hate me. Something's bound to go wrong soon.
This may come as a shock to those of you who know me, because you'll know my obsession with grooming and pampering in general, but I've never actually had a massage before.
Oh heavenly god please don't make me wait a month for the next one. I could happily have stayed horizontal on that table all day. I would have skipped lunch for it...
In other news, this video made my night: clicky clicky yo
It's Taylor Swift (of teeny bopper Love Story fame...admit it, we all secretly love that song) rapping with T Pain.
What? What? I knit sweaters yo...
Yes, you heard right.
My new job is awesome, as far as jobs go. As far as first jobs go, it's insanely, supremely hands-down the best. Not only do I work in a cool office on a spanking new MAC with nice people who feel the same way I do about a cup of tea and a biscuit (which is that the aforementioned combination could lead to world peace), we're also treated by our company to monthly massages.
I know. Please don't hate me. Something's bound to go wrong soon.
This may come as a shock to those of you who know me, because you'll know my obsession with grooming and pampering in general, but I've never actually had a massage before.
Oh heavenly god please don't make me wait a month for the next one. I could happily have stayed horizontal on that table all day. I would have skipped lunch for it...
In other news, this video made my night: clicky clicky yo
It's Taylor Swift (of teeny bopper Love Story fame...admit it, we all secretly love that song) rapping with T Pain.
What? What? I knit sweaters yo...
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Must. Stop. Shopping.
Seriously.
Yes, I may be a working girl now, but that doesn't mean it's not still three weeks until I'm in the financial black - as opposed to this season's black, which is purple, which I am in, thanks to my latest little spending attack.
I try, I do. My plan this morning was to quickly pop to the shops to return a pair of shoes that I'd bought on a whim and since decided I probably won't wear after all (all very spendthrifty of me). I had every intention of dashing in and out, my purse slightly heavier upon my exit for a change.
Whoops. Returned the shoes ... and picked up a dress and some leggings. Then I popped to Woollies for a 'quick look' at their sale. I should know better. Left with pair of sandals and a really cute white top. That weren't on sale. And I can't even wear until summer.
I'm usually so good at living cheaply - I mean, I've had to, what with the joblessness and so on. But lately, I seem to be on a never-ending run of finding items I just have to have (you know how it goes). Most of them are pretty cheap, or on sale, but still, I have to stop sometime, before I end up like Isla Fisher's character in Confessions of a Shopaholic. Only not so pretty, not a redhead, and probably with a less happy ending.
I think - and here comes a psychological theory - that with winter and near-insolvency making me reluctant to go out partying and spend my money on booze and taxis, I'm drowning my sorrows in material things like clothes and shoes.
And really, what better way is there?
Besides, always having something in my cupboard that still has it's tags on means that, so far, I've managed to avoid any sartorial meltdowns before work. Which is worth running up a little debt for, isn't it?
Yes, I may be a working girl now, but that doesn't mean it's not still three weeks until I'm in the financial black - as opposed to this season's black, which is purple, which I am in, thanks to my latest little spending attack.
I try, I do. My plan this morning was to quickly pop to the shops to return a pair of shoes that I'd bought on a whim and since decided I probably won't wear after all (all very spendthrifty of me). I had every intention of dashing in and out, my purse slightly heavier upon my exit for a change.
Whoops. Returned the shoes ... and picked up a dress and some leggings. Then I popped to Woollies for a 'quick look' at their sale. I should know better. Left with pair of sandals and a really cute white top. That weren't on sale. And I can't even wear until summer.
I'm usually so good at living cheaply - I mean, I've had to, what with the joblessness and so on. But lately, I seem to be on a never-ending run of finding items I just have to have (you know how it goes). Most of them are pretty cheap, or on sale, but still, I have to stop sometime, before I end up like Isla Fisher's character in Confessions of a Shopaholic. Only not so pretty, not a redhead, and probably with a less happy ending.
I think - and here comes a psychological theory - that with winter and near-insolvency making me reluctant to go out partying and spend my money on booze and taxis, I'm drowning my sorrows in material things like clothes and shoes.
And really, what better way is there?
Besides, always having something in my cupboard that still has it's tags on means that, so far, I've managed to avoid any sartorial meltdowns before work. Which is worth running up a little debt for, isn't it?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
to market, to market
Lunchtime rolled around and I headed out into the freezing weather that's hit Cape Town for a stroll. Ended up at the Food Lover's Market for a quick perv (yes, I look at food. yes, it's weird).
So there I am, walking at a glacial pace past the sushi counter, about to head over and make friends with the sight of the pizza/pasta deli, and then possibly visit the bakery for a quick peek, when I was accosted by a flamboyant Italian - 'Senorina, you are bee-yoo-ti-fool. When you are feenishhed you come haf a cappuccino with us,' indicating his tall, equally Italian friend.
Now I'm not in the habit of accepting spontaneous coffee invitations from strange European men. You'd be surprised how often it doesn't happen. But I was bored. And they seemed like fun. And the Market was busy, so the chances of my being kidnapped and sold into white slavery seemed minimal (the last time this kind of thing happened I was ten and some Egyptians tried to buy me from my parents during a family holiday in Cairo).
So we had a cappuccino. Who am I to turn down free coffee?
What a completely out-of-the-ordinary fifteen minutes. Little, flamboyant Gianni, it turns out, is here opening a lingerie shop in the Cape Quarter. Flavio, lounging in a very Italian fashion against the coffee bar, is an architect who teaches Salsa in his spare time.
I'm sorry, but seriously? Could they be more European?
Was all very entertaining and without the ickyness of feeling like you're being picked up - call me naive but I think they were genuinely just being friendly, as only Europeans can be. For a start, they were well older than me. As Gianni put it: 'You are so young! Like a leetle cheecken coming out of an egg.'
So as we're parting ways, Gianni is scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, which he hands me most ceremoniously in the midst of a chorus of 'Ciao! Ciao!'. Walking back to the office, I'm thinking, oh great, here we go, it's his phone number and there goes the lovely innocence of our spur-of-the-moment, friendly meeting after which we'll never see each other again and I'll just have a nostalgic memory of some random Italians I happened to have coffee with once. Now it's all ruined.
But unfolding the slip of paper, trying to decide whether I'd be able to sacrifice the amazing Market in an attempt to never run into them again and avoid having an awkward 'Why deed you neverrr tellyphone?' conversation, I see it simply says:
'Did somebody tell you today you are beautiful?'
Thank god. Sweet, self-esteem-boosting, and not expectant of anything in return. So there are still some moments in life that don't devolve into base hit-ons.
And yes, actually. Boyfriend tells me quite often. He's rather beautiful himself, and has an added bonus in that he doesn't speeek like theese.
So there I am, walking at a glacial pace past the sushi counter, about to head over and make friends with the sight of the pizza/pasta deli, and then possibly visit the bakery for a quick peek, when I was accosted by a flamboyant Italian - 'Senorina, you are bee-yoo-ti-fool. When you are feenishhed you come haf a cappuccino with us,' indicating his tall, equally Italian friend.
Now I'm not in the habit of accepting spontaneous coffee invitations from strange European men. You'd be surprised how often it doesn't happen. But I was bored. And they seemed like fun. And the Market was busy, so the chances of my being kidnapped and sold into white slavery seemed minimal (the last time this kind of thing happened I was ten and some Egyptians tried to buy me from my parents during a family holiday in Cairo).
So we had a cappuccino. Who am I to turn down free coffee?
What a completely out-of-the-ordinary fifteen minutes. Little, flamboyant Gianni, it turns out, is here opening a lingerie shop in the Cape Quarter. Flavio, lounging in a very Italian fashion against the coffee bar, is an architect who teaches Salsa in his spare time.
I'm sorry, but seriously? Could they be more European?
Was all very entertaining and without the ickyness of feeling like you're being picked up - call me naive but I think they were genuinely just being friendly, as only Europeans can be. For a start, they were well older than me. As Gianni put it: 'You are so young! Like a leetle cheecken coming out of an egg.'
So as we're parting ways, Gianni is scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, which he hands me most ceremoniously in the midst of a chorus of 'Ciao! Ciao!'. Walking back to the office, I'm thinking, oh great, here we go, it's his phone number and there goes the lovely innocence of our spur-of-the-moment, friendly meeting after which we'll never see each other again and I'll just have a nostalgic memory of some random Italians I happened to have coffee with once. Now it's all ruined.
But unfolding the slip of paper, trying to decide whether I'd be able to sacrifice the amazing Market in an attempt to never run into them again and avoid having an awkward 'Why deed you neverrr tellyphone?' conversation, I see it simply says:
'Did somebody tell you today you are beautiful?'
Thank god. Sweet, self-esteem-boosting, and not expectant of anything in return. So there are still some moments in life that don't devolve into base hit-ons.
And yes, actually. Boyfriend tells me quite often. He's rather beautiful himself, and has an added bonus in that he doesn't speeek like theese.
Monday, August 3, 2009
It's Monday...
...and time for (drum roll) The Weekend in Numbers:
Number of Saturday morning tea parties, complete with teapot, scones and cream: 1 and it was pure loveliness, thanks Noodle and Twins.
Number of successful shopping trips: 1. Why is it that when I have an impossibly sad-looking bank balance I find all kinds of goodies that I must have? Anyway, picked up some fab-ulous jeans/leggings (London's hipsters are calling them 'jeggings' of course). Think uber skinny jeans but comfortable like leggings because - and this is the awesome part - they have elasticated tops instead of a button-and-zip combo. It's a miracle, but the elastic somehow contrives to be flattering, and it's a delightful return to childhood to just pull them on and go. I might go get a second pair just in case something happens to the first ones. Seriously.
Number of nights getting all dressed up, smoky eyes and everything, to go and see the Dirty Skirts at Assembly, and then ending up staying at home because my lift plans fell through and I couldn't bring myself to spend my precious little cash cabbing it back and forth, when I could just change into my sheepy pyjamas and snuggle myself into bed for an early night: 1. Winter makes me so antisocial...
Number of hours spent at work: 4. Yes, that's right, I'm still mining the rewards of part-time work, but only until the end of August and the arrival of my very first pay cheque.
Number of trips to gym: 1, and on a Sunday. How proud are we of me?
Number of kilos I can bench press: 7.5 - I had to laugh at myself.
Number of alcoholic drinks consumed in the last seven days: 0. Look at me go. Will keep this up until the two weeks are over, which shall be precisely after work this coming Sunday, upon which time I shall be found at Baraza taking full advantage of their R10 Sunday cocktail special.
Number of Saturday morning tea parties, complete with teapot, scones and cream: 1 and it was pure loveliness, thanks Noodle and Twins.
Number of successful shopping trips: 1. Why is it that when I have an impossibly sad-looking bank balance I find all kinds of goodies that I must have? Anyway, picked up some fab-ulous jeans/leggings (London's hipsters are calling them 'jeggings' of course). Think uber skinny jeans but comfortable like leggings because - and this is the awesome part - they have elasticated tops instead of a button-and-zip combo. It's a miracle, but the elastic somehow contrives to be flattering, and it's a delightful return to childhood to just pull them on and go. I might go get a second pair just in case something happens to the first ones. Seriously.
Number of nights getting all dressed up, smoky eyes and everything, to go and see the Dirty Skirts at Assembly, and then ending up staying at home because my lift plans fell through and I couldn't bring myself to spend my precious little cash cabbing it back and forth, when I could just change into my sheepy pyjamas and snuggle myself into bed for an early night: 1. Winter makes me so antisocial...
Number of hours spent at work: 4. Yes, that's right, I'm still mining the rewards of part-time work, but only until the end of August and the arrival of my very first pay cheque.
Number of trips to gym: 1, and on a Sunday. How proud are we of me?
Number of kilos I can bench press: 7.5 - I had to laugh at myself.
Number of alcoholic drinks consumed in the last seven days: 0. Look at me go. Will keep this up until the two weeks are over, which shall be precisely after work this coming Sunday, upon which time I shall be found at Baraza taking full advantage of their R10 Sunday cocktail special.
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