I was run over by a train

At least I think so. What other possible explanation could there be for me feeling this way?

Oh. Wait. It might be last night's red wine. And maybe the Jager. And the tequila. And the martini. And the lethal chocolate cake shots.

Yeah, could be those.

In about half an hour when I sober up, I am going to feel awful.

All I can say is, thank god for Barusso's. If it weren't for leftover pizza for breakfast, I doubt I'd have made it out of bed this morning.

And...

....I have a hangover. From four measly drinks. Not even – two drinks and two shooters. This is ridiculous.

I've had just under four hours sleep. For most people, this isn't too big a thing, but you need to understand that I clock at least eight hours most nights. I mean, four hours is less sleep than I've gotten at some trance parties, which is really saying something.

Picked Boyfriend up from the airport last night and we spent the rest of the eve having a very late and mostly liquid dinner at Peddlar's with his workmates, who're all down for the company team-building weekend away (which, yes, means I am robbed of a full 72 hours of Boyfriend time).

Woke up at sparrows to get back into town (Boy lives in the south – laadidah), hit the gym and still make it into work an hour early so I could get some stuff done before the passive aggressive cleaning lady starts vacuuming my feet.

Also before we all troop off to the funeral of a close colleague, who recently lost her (blessedly short?) fight with cancer. Thank god I don't wear mascara, because I can already feel this is going to be waterworks central. A strange phenomenon for me, who usually only cries in sad movies with the appropriate tear-jerking soundtrack. Does this mean I'm not quite as cold-hearted as my own mother once told me I was?

I'm sorry to get all heavy...

... but sometimes I hate keeping up with the news.

This morning I woke up at sparrows so I could get to work early in order to leave the office this afternoon in time for a wax, where I will pay someone enough to feed an impoverished family for about a week so she can rip my hair out by its follicles. I weighed out my cereal for breakfast, because my biggest goal in life isn't staying alive, or eking out a living really, but to lose weight and look good. And at the moment I'm in the process of editing a high-end lifestyle magazine in which we showcase watches that cost roughly the same as sending a child to school for a month.

Elsewhere in the country, a family woke up after having had two of its members shot, one fatally, and its youngest daughter raped in front of her father. Another family of five, including two boys aged eight and two, didn't wake up at all, having all been shot in the head by the same drug-crazed gang members that traumatised the first family. I'm almost not sure who I feel more sorry for. Probably the first family, because they have to pick up the pieces and try to remember what everything was like before it didn't hurt to be alive.

It's dizzying, and heartbreaking, and makes me struggle to breathe.

In light of our political climate, and our political nincompoops in particular, I thought my Dicitonary.com Word of the Day for today was pretty funny...

juju

\ JOO-joo \  , noun;

An object superstitiously believed to embody magical powers.

Well. He certainly seems to think so...

NOBODY PANIC

I will be back to blogging just as soon as work settles down to, say, breakneck speed...

Random Friday thunkin'

I have an unexplained bruise on my right hip bone. It's kind of oddly shaped too. In fact, it looks a bit like a blotchy prison tattoo of the Playboy bunny logo. Tacky much? Hope it doesn't stick around.

A blood vessel/muscle in my upper upper, inner inner thigh is twitching from time to time. It's starting to freak me out a little, which is a natural side effect of watching too much House. I worry some important artery is warning me it's about to explode. Also, it's very disconcerting to drive while watching your thigh jump about.

Got horrible, horrible news yesterday morning. The crying kind. What a day Thursday was.

Found out yesterday I won a copy of Paige Nick's book, A Million Miles From Normal after entering a competition on her blog of the same name. Yay me! Second blog comp I've won in the past few months. I'm feeling lucky.

Is this day over yet?

Tee gee eye eff

It's been a very long, very busy, very up-and-down week, and I'm sure we're all pleased as the proverbial punch (how can punch be pleased, I'd like to know) that it's the weekeeeeeeeeeeeeend baby.

My brain feels like it's been on speed all week (job bag, no, tea, no, office drama, no, concentrate – job bag, oh whoops must get to the gym soon, oh look an email, reply, another email, no, CONCENTRATE, job bag, wow I'm tired ... spoon) so pardon the non sequitur (thanks Erin) kind of post to follow shortly, but Me, Jade the eloquent writer is officially on flatline.

Dear Blog
I have been neglecting you. Please don't hate me. To make amends, here's a little round-up of the week so far...
All my love and affection, your wayward writer
Me, Jade

• Work took a right off easy street on to Busy Busy and within the next few weeks it's going to go careering down Manic Boulevard (hence the blog silence). We're bracing ourselves.
• Everyone should read Gareth Cliff's open letter to the government (clicky clicky). Even if you don't particularly like him (I do though), he makes some sterling points. And as he said this morning, sometimes you just gotta say what needs to be said. (Wonder how badly the presidential committee is going to grill him next week?)
• I saw a new Madonna video while hitting my cardio this morning. How many times do I have to say this lady? Flashing so much inner thigh falls under the category of Not Cool.
• Last night I learnt how to change a tyre, jump start my car and a bunch of other things I previously had about zero clue about. Feeling super chuffed, and I don't care if everyone else in the world already knew that tyres need to be rotated and that you have to unscrew the spare wheel before you can take it out the boot (I just thought is was really heavy).

Jingle bells, jingle bells...

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but the problem with working in the magazine world is that you live about two months ahead of everyone else. Right now this means that even though it's not even halfway through October, I'm already getting into the Christmas spirit.

I love Christmas in a big, big way. It's my favourite time of year, and I just don't get people (like Boyfriend for one) who feel all bah-humbug about it. What's not to like? It's summer, it's the end of the year, if you're not on leave you're almost certainly not working very hard, there are parties, there are presents, you can spend time with your family (okay maybe therein lies the rub for some people) and the whole world seems to be more cheerful about life in general.

Sure there are the manic malls, the endless Christmas shopping and the inevitable broke-ass-ness come January, but ever heard of taking the good with the bad?

Anyway, thanks to the December issues being processed at the mo, Frank Sinatra is now crooning carols in my head and I'm thinking about baking Christmas biscuits and making gifting lists. This is also the first summer/Christmas in three years that I'll be home for the holidays, so I'm looking forward to the ole yuletide even more.

Okay, not another word though until Halloween's at least over...

Only a few weeks ago, it was still dark when I'd drive home from gym at 7 am. This morning, upon leaving my house at 5.30 am, the sun was already starting to come up, and by the time I was out the shower after my workout, it looked like a summer afternoon outside (minus the bending trees of course).

Earlier sunrise = longer days = unequivocal proof that summer is approaching, despite it being yet another blustery day in Cape Town.

This is not only great news because it means shorts weather, holidays and drinking on the beach, but because it makes getting back into my gym routine that much easier.

I confess, I've been a slacker for the past couple of weeks, snacking on peanut butter toast and slowing down to a record low of two gym sessions last week.

I'm not going to complain about my weight loss grinding to a halt (it's my own fault after all) but what is frustrating is that most people start gymming and eating healthily to lose weight, whereas now, I have to hit the gym five times a week and eat like a rabbit just to maintain. The second I stray from the straight and narrow path of the treadmill, I seem to gain. Tis very frustrating dear readers...

Rocking the Daisies in numbers

Number of units of alcohol consumed: unknown, due to inability to count after finishing 1 x halfjack of vodka and 1 x bottle of jager.

Number of very cool live acts seen: a good handful (won't go into details for fear of being heckled)

Number of cracking hangovers: 2, but swiftly sorted out by a food tent offering the likes of Miss K, Knead, Hudson's and Butler's. You have to love this festival – the difference between a trance party and RTD is that there's more on offer than butternut quiche and organic carrot juice. Pity the Vida queue was always miles long.

Number of showers while at the festival: 1.  I've come a long way from the prissy, pre-African-road-tripping girl I used to be.

Number of oddly shaped sunburns: 0. Hah! Finally.

Number of Seth Rotherham sightings: 1. He's short. Hahahahahahaha.

Number of pretty, teeny, tiny girls wandering around in shorts and bikini tops: plenty. Sigh. Nothing like being surrounded by hotness to make one feel like the elephant in the room, especially if one is back to being seven kilos from one's goal weight.

I leave you with this absolutely essential fact

Anatidaephobia

The fear that you are being watched ... by a duck.

This week's been alternately dragging and flying by, so it only really hit me this morning that it's already Thursday, which means dashing out of here at 3.30 (hells yeah), rushing home to pack and make myself beautiful (attempting to at least), picking up Boyfriend from the airport, and then heading off to Darling and Rocking the Daisies tomorrow.

Must pack (oh you know how much I love to pack) this afternoon quickly too. Made a mental list at gym just now of stuff NOT to forget:

• Toothbrush. I don't care how manky the rest of me is (well, I do, but there's not always much to be done about it), I cannot handle furry teeth.
• Mints. See above.
• Suncream. I refuse to spend the latter half of the weekend as the butt of various lobster jokes.
• Wellies. For in the boot, in case it rains and Cloof Wine Estate turns to mud-wrestling central.
• Sunnies. The ultimate protection not only from the sun but from having to subject people to my morning face.
• Red Bull. Getting old, can't party like I used to without some kind of rocket fuel.
• Toilet roll. I do not trust port-a-loos. Period.

Should be a good weekend. Friends of ours are leaving at 7 am tomorrow morning to get a good spot, and another guy is dropping off a gazebo at my house this afternoon (one of two, just by the by). These people are serious.

Just saw the recently released untouched pictures of Madonna (it's a well-known fact that I hold the former queen of pop in the lowest possible esteem, so people regularly send me nasty things about her). Starting to wonder about celebs and their self-image...

I doubt any woman's perception of herself is exactly spot on (at least I'm hoping not, given what I see in the mirror) but I wonder if constantly seeing yourself retouched to within an inch (sometimes at least 20) of your life doesn't screw with your sense of reality.

For example, if you're a 52-year-old ageing pop star trying to hold onto your glory days of leotards and pointy cone bras.

I'm sure when Madge looks in the mirror she sees the sexy, photoshopped D&G self, and not the tired, manic, I-have-scary-veins-because-I-live-on-yoga-and-ambition self. Maybe someone's even papered over all her mirrors with the first version, to protect a mind clearly teetering on the edge of dysmorphia.

I just feel sorry for little Lola really. Imagine trying to grow up normal when Mum's practising full plies in high-leg onesies on MTV.

(For the record, Madonna is said to be pissed off about these shots being released without her consent. So it's not another well-intentioned publicity stunt a la Britney.)

Revamp in the works

Things are changing around here, so if you arrive and the blog is hideous, in little bits and pieces, or shocking orange, don't be alarmed – it's a work in progress.

Later...

Okay so nothing's changed dramatically yet, but keep an eye out next week after my Daisies hangover has worn off ;)

Wow, I'm surprised nobody offered me some cheese with my whine last night.

Yet another day of sunshine here. I was about to tentatively announce that Cape Town has finally caught on to the fact it's summer, but I see rain forecast for the weekend. Quelle horreur, because Boyfriend and I are going to Rocking the Daisies this weekend, and I would be much obliged to the universe at large if I didn't have to camp in the mud.

In other news, it's Cape Etc listings time again, which means days of phoning up restaurants asking them anything from 'Do you still do double-baked, three-cheese souffle?' to 'Is there really a live TV feed from the kitchen to the bathrooms?' and 'Are your chandeliers shaped like cabbages?'.

Most people in the office now think I've lost it (either that or have a serious penchant for oyster carpaccio, which I was shouting down the phone at a waitress, trying to make myself heard over restaurant din).

In other, other news, I have a feature about online dating to write, if anyone fancies volunteering either a success story or (more excitingly) disaster stories?

Just a random shitty Monday

Which is weird because
a) I woke up really happy.
b) I said no to cake.
c) I'm only working a four-day week.
d) I had muffin (no article necessary, see below) for lunch.

Actually, maybe that's the problem. I came in to work early and therefore missed gym, and then proceeded to eat – if not a lot – then some quite random shit today, including a muffin spread out over most of the afternoon, a handful of walnuts and a chunky slice of cheese all on its own, half of which wound up in the bin because it promptly made me want to vomit.

So what's the answer? Never, ever, ever skip Monday morning gym again? Remember to do my healthy food shopping before Woolies closes on a Sunday so that I'm not left eating the bizarre contents of my office drawer and perenially empty kitchen cupboards?

It's like as soon as I mess up my perfect little routine (I'm boring okay?) it feels like the whole world is being weird and I just want to go to bed and start the day over again, making me almost certainly the only person in the world who wants two Mondays in one week.

Why can't the world be like a video game? Save and reload baby, save and reload. That's what I want to do to the last 14 hours.

The weekend in numbers

(How long has it been since I did one of these??)

Number of birthday dinners on Friday night: 1. Perfect combo of cheese and wine, cake and conversation for Noodle's 24th (gosh we're getting older every year).

Number of lie-ins on Saturday, instead of going into the office as planned: 1. So sue me, my keen bean spirit wore off when I weighed up the relative comforts of my bed and office desk chair.

Number of what I'm going to call 'road trips' because it was Biscuit's first really long drive: 1. To Romantiques in Hermanus to continue the birthday celebrations. Romantiques, apart from being the most legendary antiques/vintage clothing and accessories/china/WW II memorabilia shop, is a 20-seater cinema that screens old movies (for free). It's so old-school, the owner sits in the back and changes the film reel, and the popcorn costs R4.

Number of  fashion shoots helped out with: 1. Okay, okay, it was for Bunny's mock mag for her thesis, but we had a photographer and a super skinny model and multiple wardrobe changes in our trailer (Warren's truck with sheets hung up for modesty) and I got to stand around holding the big light reflector thingy like a dork and used industry speak like 'Well, see what the art director thinks' and there were tourists pointing at us and taking pictures, so was all good fun.

Number of excess kilojoules consumed: about 10 000, between Friday night's three courses and Sunday night's pizza. Not going to gym this morning hasn't helped me feel any less mammoth, though resisting having a slice of one of the four cakes in the lounge for our office manager's birthday gave me some semblance of self-control back.

The first!

5.8 kg from goal weight (yes!) 

Happy October first dear readers (and happy birthday to TheUlandaGirl).

I love it when the first of the month rolls around. Makes me feel all new-starty and full-of-potentialy. Especially when I wake up nearly two full kilos lighter then a mere four days ago (yes, yes, it's probably just water weight).

And not only is it the first, it's also Friday – tee gee eye eff everyone, are we used to five-day weeks yet?