Hey man, look at me rocking out, I'm on the radiooooooooooooooo

Not with Danny and Lisa though. Close. With Josie and Luca, on 2OceansVibeFm's Lunch Munch show.

Well, it's not really me. The Luxury Cape Town girls – for whom I have the pleasure of writing – now have a fortnightly Tuesday slot at 1.15 pm to chat about our outs-and-abouts in the Mother City.

You can listen here if you feel the uncontrollable urge.

I was quaking in my riding boots yesterday morning, convinced I was going to fumble my words and make a tit of myself on air while everyone else was being very cool, calm and collected but it was actually SUCH fun, and I almost can't wait to get headphone hair again.

Nearly called in sick today

Well no, not really, that's not quite how I roll. But I was a little late for work, thanks to a wardrobe crises.

Haven't had one of those in ages. You know, when you stand in front of your cupboard in your bra and undies, freezing because it's 13 degrees outside, but can't see a single thing you feel like wearing. And then you try on a whole bunch of outfits but everything seems wrong or unflattering or just plain ugly, and then you're back to the staring contest, wearing one boot and an earring, surrounded by clothes in heaps on the floor, only this time you should have left the house ten minutes ago already and you seriously, seriously wonder if you'd get fired for arriving at the office in your Sheepy Time pyjamas.

Hate those mornings. Could have something to do with the fact that the sight of my wardrobe causes Imogen Heap to spontaneously break into song in my head: 'And all of my clothes feel like somebody's old throwaways / I don't like it...'

I feel like going home this afternoon and donating all of my clothes to charity and buying an entire new wardrobe. Of course, as it stands, I can hardly afford to keep myself in moisturiser at the moment for some reason, let alone go and clear out Country Road and Jo Borkett.

What's a girl to do?

The weekend in numbers ... er, creatively.

Feeling too lazy to write proper full sentences, and since my concentration's at an all-time Monday low, you won't even be getting half-assed ones. Instead, for your reading/viewing pleasure, here's a word cloud...

Courtesy of Wordle.net

And it's even more exciting, really, because for all you know, this weekend I may have invented something called Telly Toast or had croissants on the couch with Johnny Depp in my Wonder Woman panties (was he wearing them? was I? that's what you get for bad sentence construction).

A fat attack

This morning I got up at the crack of dawn for gym, and nearly dived back under the duvet to go back to sleep after standing on the scale.

My highest weight ever. Again. How did I get back here?

Oh yes. Six months' worth of eating pretty much whatever I felt like, whenever I felt like it.

After some furious scrawling in my dairy along the lines of 'What the fuck is the point?' and 'Maybe I should just accept that I'll never be skinny?', I dutchman-ed up and headed for the step machine, mulling over my dismal weight situation along the way.

I think the problem is that I delude myself into thinking that I eat fairly healthily, because I live on cottage cheese, nuts and Ryvita at work. But you don't have to be Patrick Holford to realise that letting go on weekends (need I remind you of the three pizza nights?) makes all that pretty much nul and void.

I've had at least six dozen fresh starts in my life when it comes to my struggle with my weight, but driving home from gym this morning (so perhaps it was the endorphins?) I suddenly had all this clarity. Being at my highest weight might suck, but it also means that I'm exactly 10 kilos away from my ultimate goal weight now. Being somewhat OCD, numbers like that appeal to me. Plus we're nearly exactly halfway through 2011, which means I can put the first half of the year behind me, and embark on a serious mission to lose these 10 before I turn 25 on 1 January, almost another six months to the day from now.

I'm feeling very now-or-never about this all of a sudden.

But please, whatever gods of skinny are out there, make it now, and not never.

The long weekend in numbers

Number of days of weekend: four. Took Friday off. I could get used to this whole being on leave thing. Considering taking a whole week off sometime in the near future...

Number of pizzas consumed: three. I'm not even kidding. One at Woodland's Eatery on Thursday for a birthday dinner, one ordered in from Butler's on Saturday night for dinner and a movie on the couch to cheesily christen Boyfriend's new flat, and one last night with the family for Father's Day (and I know I could have had pasta or a salad, but really, who – who? – goes to Bacini's and orders a salad?).

Number of times I got to say 'I'm on a horse': two. Once on Friday at a riding lesson, and again on Saturday during a two-hour outride on Noordhoek Beach. And I didn't fall off, not even when my horse took off down the beach at what I'd like to say was a gallop but was probably more of a canter. Look at me go!

Number of lovely, thoughtful presents received from Boyfriend to say thanks for helping him move and sorry for being such a nightmare (you may remember this post): one. This one

How lucky am I? It's from Hello Thula, on Etsy.

Number of minutes' stirring it takes to make real Hollandaise sauce from scratch for a Father's Day eggs Benedict breakfast: at least 20. I thought I was going to get a repetitive strain injury. 

Number of times I had to snooze my alarm this morning so I could go back to sleep and pretend for a while it wasn't Monday morning, and a five-day week: three. Sue me.

I've been a lax blogger this week. My sincerest apologies.

But more importantly ... it's the weekeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeend bay-bee!

Hello to four whole days devoid of the office, my office email, job bags, advertising clients and endless edits.

i may even end off this post all in lower case. because i can.

Okay really now...

When I said TGIF this morning, I really, really meant it. This week has not been kind. There was...

• The team-building fail on Monday
• The dead car battery
• The R725 to replace the dead car battery
• The fact that I can no longer pretend my muscle stiffness is from Pilates – I think I'm officially sick.
• The three-hour delay of Boyfriend's flight from Joburg last night
• My first ever speeding fine, with a nice little picture of me dashing home from Boyfriend's house on Mother's Day to cook my mater breakfast.

All in all, not the best of weeks. Still, I'm choosing instead to focus on these positives:

• It's Friday
• It's not raining or windy in Cape Town today
• Boyfriend is staying at my place this weekend while my, er, housemates, are away, so for once I don't have to worry about packing after racing home from work this afternoon (seriously, how am I supposed to decide on a whole weekend's outfits, when all I want to do is find my way to bottom of the nearest glass of Pinotage?)
• Being sick has taken away my appetite and I've hardly eaten the past two days
• I am now all stocked up on fabulous ghd products, thanks to the lovely Eloise Dreyer
• My speeding fine is only R100
• Tonight's plan so far begins with pizza at Borusso's and at least half a bottle of Diemersfontein

Yes please...

Moving and Mondays, two things that suck

On Friday le Boyfriend became the proud owner of keys to his new flat (he also owns the flat, in case you were wondering). This was very happy news, which we promptly celebrated with too much sushi and wine on Friday night at Wasabi.

Spent the rest of the weekend moving beds, couches, a fridge and various other paraphernalia, and enthusiastically painting the bathroom and gawping at the ridiculous price of curtain rails.

Sounds fun doesn't it?

Some of it was. As for the rest, I'm sure moving must be responsible for the dissolution of more relationships than infidelity. Couldn't decide whether to break up with Boyfriend or murder him, but I know which one would have been more satisfying. And given his exasperated sighs and very carefully controlled voice, I'm sure he was thinking the same.

By Sunday we'd cuddled (that's a euphemism for sex by the way) and made up. He should be all moved in by the weekend with a bit of luck. Happy days. Picking out cushion covers is far less taxing on our patience than 'Turn it, turn it ... NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Which way are you going? UP! This end ... this end ... okay, here we go ... NO, COME ON! You dropped your end...'

In other news, we had another copy eds' team building day yesterday. You may recall the two hikes I went on, somewhat against my will, last year? Well, this time my junior copy ed ally and I suggested horse riding, which was amended to horse riding and a boozy, three-course lunch at The Food Barn by our boss. Great plan, we all thought.

Well, it was certainly a team building exercise. We weren't mounted for two minutes, and not even out the paddock, when Yam (no, that's not her real name) fell off her trusty steed and snapped her wrist.

How's an afternoon at Cape Town Medi-Clinic for office morale?

And after an abbreviated lunch with what was left of the crew, I tried to head off to gym. Cue dead car battery, AA call-out and a replacement cell at R725 I had planned to spend on Chocolate Block and shoes.

Sucky Monday much?

A piccie quickie

(I'm on deadline okay?)

Please tell me you've seen these fantastic pencil journeys into the mind of Katrin of Berlin (originally South Africa). No? Then make Mischief Champion a bookmark on your browser k? Because you need these in your life.

'Mischief Champion is a collection of regularly updated drawings based on my everyday experiences and thoughts,' says Katrin. 'Sometimes these drawings are harsh, sometimes silly. Other times, they're quite insane.'

Agreed:

Better than va-va-voom

For anyone who isn't following me on Twitter (my cue to say, well, why aren't you? @jadetaylorcooke), last night was my VW Date Drive (click here for details on the campaign and competition if you've been living under a rock).

Omg.com

(Yes, I just said that.)

I've never been a car person, never been able to get excited about kW and Nm and torque and horsepower and gearboxes and turbochargers and whatnot. But bless my six-inch heels, the Polo GTi changed that. It was beautiful. It was like driving a bottle of your favourite pinotage – smooth, deliciously throaty and with a surprising kick you don't notice until you're cruising in seventh.

Or that's the analogy I'm going with at least.

It's fast. really fast. Seven gears, three different gear options (automatic, automatic sport mode – hells yeah – and manual), seat warmers (I've never had such a toasty bum before), steering wheel shifting paddles for when you're in manual (like a rally car, innit?) and and and ... oh I forget, but it was pure animal ... in an Armani suit. Or something.

VW provided us with a box of goodies including perfume and an ironic CD of classic love songs to play during the drive, and the curvy coastal road to Hout Bay for dinner at Pure Restaurant did the rest.

Had to drop it back at the 12 Apostles Hotel this morning, but I managed to find a little bit of M3 to open her up to 150 km/h 120 km/h (that's our speed limit right?) and really enjoy the purr (I know I sound like a right Jeremy Clarkson wannabe but I don't care). That may not seem impressive to anyone else, but being not the bravest of drivers, and also night blind, it was like a thrill ride for me.

I nearly clung to the keys this morning. In fact, I got so reluctant about handing them over, I sort of made to shake my VW contact's hand instead, but since the keys were still in my palm, it ended up looking like some sort of shady drug deal.

Whatevs. I think I'm in love.