And breathe...

Phew.

It's over.

Three long weeks of dreaming about tracking and waking up in the middle of the night with caption ideas and spending all day highly strung to the point of vibration in fear of having missed a font screw-up or an errant full stop (I thought it was a toast crumb).

Three weeks of trying to come up with a 100 different ways to say 'serves great cocktails', of fighting with designers to actually read our edit notes and of generally making sure eight magazines make it to print on time and as pretty damn close to perfect as is humanly possible.

And what better way to celebrate the end of all that than with Le Boyfriend, who flew down on Thursday.

Apart from a little sunburn and the actual circumstances of his visit (to go to a friend's father's funeral), the weekend was lovely, thanks for asking.

Finally getting into the swing of using my hooter

There are a few things on the streets of Cape Town that really (excuse the horrible pun) grind my gears, all of which I have encountered in the last few days:

1. Carguards/random street people who step out into the street in the dark so that you have to slam on the brakes and/or swerve to avoid hitting them and going to jail for culpable homicide or whatever screwed up law is on their side when they are so clearly in the wrong. It's happened to me no less then three times in the last week, and only half an hour ago I came close to ending a drunk bergie's life, or at least his legs, when he toppled off the pavement inches from me turning a corner. Used my hooter.

2. SUV drivers who come flying over stop streets, safe in the knowledge that, hey, if there was a car coming along, they'd come off second best anyway. Some dude in a double-cab hopped a stop sign into oncoming traffic (me) yesterday on my way to gym. Used my hooter.

3. Seapoint taxis. No need to explain. I can't drive to Noodle's place without my fingers getting cramps from gripping the steering wheel for dear life as these maniacs go flying up and down. I'd use my hooter, if I wasn't afraid of the possible ensuing of taxi violence.

4. People who think indicators are pretty flashing Christmas lights and, for instance, indicate they're turning but carry on straight, resulting in a near collision with the person pulling into the road who assumes (oh such naivete) that a right hand flashing indicator indicates one is turning right. Used my hooter.

5. Inconsiderate idiots who decide they can't possibly go around the block but must have the parking space currently being vacated on the side of a busy street, resulting in a ten-car pileup on uber busy Rheede Street while they wait for the guy to leave and then perform a leisurely attempt at parallel parking that holds up traffic for a full five minutes.

And yes, I know I may not be the world's greatest driver. But really now, with these idiots on the road, I think I deserve a gold star for pausing at stop signs and having fully grasped the complex science of Using Your Indicator.

Le weekend

Ok so number of minutes spent at Home Affairs sorting out this name situation: about 45, which actually included getting there fifteen minutes before they opened, waiting around for fifteen minutes after they should have opened for somebody to come and let us all in, and then a fairly quick and painless process in which I went straight for the person who looked like she was running the show and laid out my predicament (much to the chagrin of everyone else there I'm sure, but I'm sorry, in some circumstances my usually quite considerate nature goes out the window).

After this woman accused me having filled the form in incorrectly – because, you know, it would be impossible for holier-than-cow HA to have messed something up – she dug out a copy, discovered it was their own damn fault and assured me it would be rectified and that my ID would be reissued.

So that's that. Crises averted. Although you can be sure I'm going to be on the phone checking up on them every few days to make sure they don't suddenly drop my last name or something equally catastrophic.

The again, plain Jade Taylor has a nice ring to it.

In other weekend news, spent a rather lovely Friday night with Princess at The Mobile Boutique launch at the Biscuit Mill (working on Saturdays sort of precludes any Friday night shenanigans of the party party party variety). Some nice work by Cape Town designers, and, for a change, reasonably priced. Of course, the Princess and I got rather more worked up about an early edition of the complete works of Oscar Wilde than we did about most of the clothes, but that's English majors for you (sadly, it was only part of the display, and though we considered attempting a 'You flash him and I'll grab it and run' manoeuvre, we decided it best not to make a spectacle of ourselves).

Spent most of Saturday and Sunday working (work work and freelance work) but managed to slip in a Pickwick's milkshake (hello heaven in a glass) with Bunny, The Serbian and The Giggler on Sunday arvi. Why is it that whenever our old high school gang gets together we end up having hysterical this-could-only-happen-in-a-movie-or-to-us moments? Ah, what larks...

Then toddled off on my high heels to the Cape Town City Ballet's 75th birthday party last night for a lovely gala evening of nostalgia and theatre glamour – and, incidentally, a nearly crippling stomach ache ... was it the milkshake? Say it isn't so!

I don't get angry easily, but my fuck if I'm not going to go to Home Affairs tomorrow morning and throw my toys so far out the cot, those incompetent fuckwits won't know what hit them.

And let them try and be unhelpful or surly or patronising.

How hard can it be? Fill in 'Addition of name' form. Jade Cooke should now become Jade Taylor Cooke (my sort of second name that Mum only half settled on, and has therefore never been in any official documents). Simultaneously apply for new ID book, so name reads Jade Taylor Cooke (accompanied by more recent picture of me where I have discovered the flattering nature of a fringe, and learned not to over-pluck my eyebrows as in previous ID picture of fifteen-year-old, somewhat awkward self).

Called to check on application status today. Not only do they suddenly say it takes between six and eight months for a new ID book (I'm sorry? you said four months four months ago. fucker.), but I thought it decidedly odd this woman kept calling me Taylor.

Well fuck me if Home We're-so-fucking-inefficient-we-couldn't-find-our-own-asses-if-you-showed-us-a-map Affairs has not cocked the whole bloody lot up, and changed my name to Taylor Cooke.

Do you KNOW what this means if I don't straighten them out? I won't exist. I can say goodbye to my bank account, my medical aid, my IRP5 form, the whole lot.

And now, thank you very much, have to be up and in Wynberg at the crack of seven am tomorrow morning.

Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Oh the wrath...

(Sorry about all the 'fuck')

Tiny (JC Le Roux) bubbles ... so divine...

Only semi-deaf today, thanks to having my ear syringed yesterday (if you've never had this done to you, let me paint you a little picture: large, scary Victorian-looking steel syringe, meet my ear. Ear, I'd like to introduce you to Pain.)

Ouch. Not cool.

Less cool? Am going back tomorrow to have it done again.

On a much lighter note, not being the kind of person to let a hearing impairment and end-of-the-year fatigue stand in the way of epicurean delights, I toddled off to Liquorice after work (which, for anyone who doesn't know, is a digital ad agency doing some very hot stuff at the mo).

(Yes, that was shameful publicity-punting.)

Anyway, the lovely girls at Liquorice had organised a nougat and bubbles tasting for a group of us, including the lovely Anel from Spit or Swallow.

Two things:
1. Bubbly and nougat tasting = better than a chocolate and wine tasting. I'm serious (deadly so, because you know how much it would take for me to choose anything over chocolate). The nougat does this lovely little fizzy thing when it starts to tango with the wine in your mouth. Heavenly.

2. Though I'm not a huge fan of sweet sparkling wines, I'll challenge any girl's girl to resist the temptations of those teeny pink handbag-sized (does this make me sound like an alcoholic?) bottles of JC Le Roux La Fleurette. Of course, I was more interested in quaffing some of that new La Vallée Rosé, an off-dry Pinot Noir Cap Classique. With its pretty salmon blush, it looks like a girly drink but tastes like a grown-up bubbly. Best of both worlds...

Reasons to stay in bed this morning:

1. Am somehow exhausted and it's only Tuesday. We pretty much hit the ground running every morning on the work front these days, and I've started editing layouts in my sleep, so that could be the reason behind me waking up feeling as though I've only just closed my eyes.

2. Swam at gym last night and managed to seriously block my ear (was walking around going, 'What? What? Speak into my good ear!' like some parody of an octogenarian). Of course, being me, I couldn't just leave it alone – after trying all night to extricate whatever water was in there with my towel, my fingers and finally a cotton bud, I now have an earache from the inner circle of hell. It's entirely possible I have cotton wool clinging to my eardrum.

Reasons to get up and go to work:

1. Have a JC Le Roux tasting at Liquorice to go to tonight. Very nice. I do feel like this (sorry I have to say it) previously tacky brand has pulled up their socks and come to the sparkling wine party lately, with some very nice Cap Classiques being released. And I'm a sucker for anything as delightfully girly as pink bubbles.

2. Not going to work could result in death by avalanche of job bags tomorrow – even with us all coming into the office on weekends, we're still barely swimming with our heads above water.

3. If I were to stay in bed for the rest of my life I would never have the chance to wear any of the clothes or jewellery I bought over the weekend. And that would be a real tragedy...

Dear Milk Thief

Your identity is safe (lucky you), because clearly you are a well-practiced sneaky pilferer of dairy products.

Let me explain this slowly just in case you're on the same level of intelligence as the Cup Thief of October oh nine (although I suspect you are not stupid, just a bad person).

The reason I bring a litre of fat-free woollies milk with me to work on Monday and keep it in the office fridge with my name clearly marked on it is because I'm not exactly a huge fan of full-cream, long-life box milk (that's if this communal milk lasts past 10 am anyway) and I like to know that, come Thursday, I don't have to worry about going to the kitchen in desperate need of a cuppa, only to find there's not a lactose molecule in sight.

I do not do it so that you can help yourself willy-nilly to the milk that I have brought (and bought just by the way, so that's technically stealing) and then leave the tiniest of drops in the bottle so that it masquerades on the fridge shelf as actually containing liquid – that is, until I go to make a cup of tea...

I would be especially grateful if you didn't finish it by Tuesday afternoon.

I am not a selfish person. If you had asked me, I would have given you all the milk from all the cows in all the country. But no.

And now, being alerted to the existence of someone with such an intolerable sense of entitlement, I am keeping an eye on my cottage cheese, which appears to be disappearing rather a little too quickly as well.

You have been warned.

Regards,

The person whose name was clearly marked on the bottle of milk.

This evening, not 24 hours after I posted about the neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed to move out of home, my brother comes home to announce that he's found a flat and is moving in on December first.

Huh? What? Hello?

*sound of universe shattering*

Okay so maybe not exactly a huge surprise. I mean, he had been looking at flats on gumtree rather seriously for a few weeks now. And unlike me he's not vehicularly-challenged. But I always thought he was like me in the whole motivated-about-life stakes – you know, pretty half-assed.

Guess not.

Wow. My brother – who I always talk about appreciating more and spending more time with – is flying the nest. And given that I barely have time to wash my socks these days, how on earth am I going to see him?

Suddenly having all kinds of nostalgic memories about when we were little and he'd tie me up with duct tape and put me on my bike with my underwear on my head.

Ah brothers...

Co-habitation can be a bitch.

Especially if the person you're living with is acting like one.

I need (need need need neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed) to move out of home. Families are only supposed to drive you crazy for so long. There has to be a cut off point, and I reckon it comes just as soon as you jingle the keys to your first apartment – even if it is a two-bedroom hole shared with twelve and a half other people and a mouldy cabbage (which, of course, mine won't be, because I am picky as all hell).

Got into a screaming match with the Mother today. In the car. About laundry. I mean of all the ridiculously petty things to fight about...

I suppose it doesn't help that we share a car as well. Which is, really, the biggest obstacle to my whole move-outta-home thing.

Vicious circle much?

So, who wants to help me buy a car? Anyone?









Anyone?

So in my continued attempts to become a Responsible Adult, I went to apply for a credit card a couple weeks ago.

Mucho frustrating. The bank won't approve my application because I don't really have a credit record.

Um, yes. I know. I want to build one. That's why I'm applying for a credit card. What, did you think I just wanted some Jimmy Choos?

Stupid recession. (Yes, yes, I know the Credit Act is there to protect our economy. Still.)

Anyway, so got back on the credit horse this weekend, getting my affairs in order, redirecting my cellphone debit order, applying for a woollies account and all that jazz. So hopefully next time I go to visit the Absa Ice Queen (her real name is Bonnie, you'd think she'd be friendlier wouldn't you?) I won't feel like Carrie Bradshaw when the bank tells her she's 'an unattractive candidate for a loan.'

In other weekend news, I put in a day's overtime at work on Saturday. Which actually wasn't so bad, what with the miserable weather making being out and about in Cape Town less than desirable anyway. And it's for a good cause after all – overtime now = accrued in leave = taking leave in December = road trip to Botswana with Boyfriend and six of our friends.

uh huh uh huh uh huh. I know.

Popped to Fat Cactus last night for a quick dinner with Noodle and Darling. Saw some guy get his arm broken in an arm-wrestling match. Saw two thirty-something sisters pole dance on the outdoor umbrellas and get asked by the manager to pay their bill and leave. Ate a whole plate of quesadillas.

All in all, a good Sunday night's entertainment.

So we made a cameo (ah! the self-importance!) at Night of 1000 Drawings at the Word of Art Gallery last night. Pretty cool evening, what with all the art and arty people and art-tractiveness swilling about (seriously...how did Cape Town manage to produce so many gorgeous people?). Didn't buy a doodle, but possibly was only saved from that particular impulse spend by the fact that, by the time we actually arrived, all the good ones had been snagged by early birds.

It's kinda cool how well the Cape Town art scene is doing, even though I think a large portion of people who go to these things show up to see and be seen (so really, it's exhibitionism at its best then isn't it?).

Something else I'm quite excited about is PaperGirl coming to South Africa. Give it a click.

So anyway, The Vixen was there last night. This is a girl I sort-of-kind-of know, a friend of a friend of Boyfriend's who I've seen out and about a couple of times. The last time we saw her, it is my personal opinion (which, fine, may have been somewhat vodka-clouded, but still in good working order) that she ignored me completely and lavished all the talents of her big bambi eyes and pouty mouth upon the unsuspecting Boyfriend.

Now, I am not a jealous girl by nature (a sense of pride and all that). But when an exotic beauty sets her sights on your other half ... well, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Which includes pretending not to know the beeyotch at all following social encounters.

It's a well-practised manoeuvre: return her warm smile with a half-hearted (but still congenial – this is important) one of your own, combined with a slightly confused look, as if to say, 'I am ever-so polite, in the manner of Grace Kelly, and am therefore returning your friendly greeting but I'm so sorry dear, you are just far too unimportant for me to remember who you are.'

Okay, so no, in all honesty this whole mean girl thing freaks me out and ruins my evening, and it's not exactly a part of myself I'm proud of (or practised in, just by the way). But, well...every now and again I have to remember that I am a female, and play by the rules.

'I seriously believe that you should rethink the length of your sideburns.'

So everyone seems to be feeling the end-of-year burnout, even those of us who have only been working since August (hey it's not like I was on a beach for the first seven months of the year – unemployment is pretty stressful you know).

Woke up feeling absolutely exhausted – not exactly ideal after a full eight hours of sleep, even if I was dreaming about job bags. And slept through my alarm for the first time in forever (literally).

Lots of tea in the next few days methinks.

Spent last night in my bed watching Bridget Jones's Diary again for the first time in years. This may sound like the case of the Sad Lame Boring Person, but it was actually rather pleasant to ditch my workout, ditch dinner with the folks and just snuggle up alone having some me-time (with what some people consider a clever piece of uproariously funny social commentary just by the way, so don't you dare say I was in bed with a chick flick. What blasphemy.)

Things I learned last night:
- I weigh the same as Bridget Jones. WTF?
- Colin Firth can actually be sexy (when he's not doing his carrot/bottom thing).
- Bridget Jones's Diary really is a chick flick.