Number of mother's cars scraped while turning too close to a pillar in the Kloof Street Lifestyles Centre parking lot: one. Not only did it make the most horrible noise so that everyone milling around their cars looked at me like, 'Ooooh, fail', it's also going to be quite pricey to patch up. Sorry Mum. Sorry bank balance.
Number of sushi lunches, bringing the number of times I've been for sushi in the last eight days up to four: one. Met some friends at Beluga after the car scraping incident (two couples actually – yes, that's right, I fifth-wheeled). And here's a life lesson: never sit at the corner table of the inside section. It must have bad feng-shui, because we instantly became invisible to any of the staff.
Number of Saturday nights curled up in bed with a book when I could have been out partying up a storm and being a social butterfly: one.
Number of alarm clocks ringing at 6 am on Sunday morning: two (in the whole city probably). Mine and my parents. Mum and I tagged along to Hermanus with Dad, who had to pin someone down for a meeting at their holiday home. Getting out of the city was rather refreshing, as was having breakfast at the cutest little bistro (really, it's called The Bistro) on the seafront, all done up French Provencal-style with wrought iron and toile everywhere. Googling to check I'd spelled 'toile' correctly, I found these:
Love. Love love. Silly, pretty things make me happy. I'd never wear them, but I would put them on a shelf somewhere and look at them.
Number of people who asked me this afternoon why I hadn't put up my usual weekend in numbers yet today: two. Very exciting. People actually read me? (Apologies, work was manic, as was my mood until a lovely blonde cheered me up).
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