Feeling très ADD today.

Managed to write one riveting article on pedestrian road safety (yes, I know, the excitement) and have now been paging through job bags not really achieving anything that could be construed as work.

On a nicer note, am going to a little meeting tonight about the launch of Papergirl in South Africa (if you don't know anything about it, clicky clicky). I'm quite excited about this project (can you tell? I'm piggybacking on meetings that really have nothing to do with me, just so I can spread the word). It's probably something about the whimsy of girls on bicycles spreading the art love around our city that makes me think, wow, isn't the world a lovely place?

Hmmm, what else?

Oh, this made me laugh:

Valentine's Day is here

Okay so not really. It's almost a month away. But I always know when Christmas is over because Woolies replaces everything ho ho ho with all manner of pink and red heart-shaped paraphernalia.

And because I work in magazines and we run to a schedule a couple months ahead of the real world, Valentine's Day started sometime around Guy Fawkes for me.

Since then however, I have come into contact with:

• An ensemble-cast movie with a storyline that goes something like: we repackaged Love Actually, set it in LA and gave Jessica Alba and Biel starring roles. And we're releasing it in time for February 14. Oh and we're calling it Valentine's Day.
• Jewellery houses all desperately trying to shift their stock of 0.25 carat diamonds as 'the perfect gift this Valentine's Day'.
• The 5FM / DStv Vuzu collaboration party, Love Sucks.
• Multiple magazine cover-lines pandering either to couples ('the perfect date' – everything V-day is also by definition perfect) or singles (Single this Valentine's Day and loving it! – sure, we believe you).

Jeepers, it's only January 19 people...

Anyway, my feelings about this Hallmark holi have always been pretty neutral. My first red rose was a thrill of course, but I've never taken it all that seriously. Neither am I of the leftist, down-with-V-Day crew who thinks the occasion was invented by greeting card and chocolate companies as a means to bleed us dry another day out of 365 and make singletons buy tubs of ice cream and cry about never finding the perfect mate.

I have been single for all but four February 14ths of my short life. It hasn't killed me, and certainly never made me break out the Gino Ginelli or feel despair at my lack of a plus-one any more particularly than I might have on any other given day. And when I was loved-up, well ... let's just say the ceremony of the day pretty much passed me by anyway. For the one February le Boyfriend actuel and I have been together, we stayed put in our respective cities and I saw a chick flick with some girlfriends.

My theory of Valentine's now goes like this:

• If it's a day both marked and driven by consumerism, who cares? What holiday isn't? What day of the whole year isn't? We're a consumerist society. Deal with it.
• If one day out the year a girl who is not usually spoiled by her dude can expect some kind of romantic gesture – a bunch of roses, a box of chocolates – is that so bad?
• If you're single and desperate not to be, why not kill yourself on March 4th rather? I hear it's going to rain.
• If your best friend's guy takes her out dancing and for a moonlit walk on the beach on the big day ... then he's gay and you have nothing to be jealous of. (Actually you do. I'd kill for a GBF. I am in the market. Please direct all inquiries to the comments section of this post. PS, yes I am stereotyping. Get over your-PC-self).
  

Saw The September Issue last night.

Pretty interesting documentary about the making of the September 2007 issue of US Vogue, their biggest issue ever clocking in at 840 pages (727 of those were advertising) and nearly five pounds.

The main attraction of the film is, of course, finally getting a tiny glimpse into the life of the inscrutable Anna Wintour (you know, the Ice Queen who pretty much singlehandedly drives worldwide fashion and inspired the book/movie spin-off The Devil Wears Prada).

The real Anna's not quite Meryl Streep's Miranda Priestly, but the chill did occasionally leap from the screen into the theatre. And wow, that is one woman who knows her job and does it better (and works harder) than anyone else ever could. Vogue is her life, fashion is her oxygen.

You know you've made it when:

• A quiet 'excuse me' causes underlings to leap backwards in fright.
• Prada reworks their fall line with a different fabric because you happened to mention it was 'a little heavy' (from wool and mohair to silk and mohair. 'To fur or not to fur' isn't really a question Anna quibbles with. The answer is always 'to fur').

Was I perhaps all-too-easily manipulated by the film's format? I found myself feeling a tad sorry for Ms Wintour towards the end. It can be heartbreaking when the things you think are important – what you've built a career, a name, a life out of – are met with derision and amusement by the people you love.

I think the fashion world is nuts most of the time, but even in my jeans I can appreciate the fact that couture is living, breathing art. Nobody laughed at Da Vinci's contribution to the world, so why do they laugh at De La Renta's?

The weekend in numbers

Number of hours spent actually concentrating at work after 1 pm Friday afternoon: about 0.5 in total. I have been the poster child for ADD since getting back from Botswana.

Number of girls in the Assembly bathroom wearing the same outfit: 4. High-waisted leatherette skirt with tucked-in pink vest and statement heels. Apparently Cape Town is not only too small in that you will always know somebody who knows somebody who has slept with your boyfriend/girlfriend before you, but there aren't enough outfits to go around on a Friday night either.

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeah that's it really. Still not quite in the swing of life. Happy Monday everyone.

Now that the Brother Figure has all but well and truly moved out, and I am for all intents and purposes an only child, I'm starting to really feel the itch to move out.

In the meantime though (possibly because of the emptier house, my recent absence and my rather contemplative state of mind of late) I am suddenly noticing things about my parents.

Like the fact that for every year that I get older, they do too (I know, it's taken me longer than most to come to this realisation). By the time I am thirty, they will be well into what one euphemistically calls their twilight years.

The shock of realising my parents are human beings who are aging is supported by certain irrefutable evidence:

• The level of enjoyment they derive from cruising the streets around our house with the Neighbourhood Watch.
  
• The fact that they know not only all of our neighbour's names ('Kevin, Jade, Kevin. The one who drives the white Jeep. Jack's son. Lives next door to Ida and Louis. No of course you know Ida and Louis...') but also every piece of what could possibly be construed as gossip about their daily lives.
• BBC World is always on.
• I can no longer get a straight answer from either of them that does not involve the events of two preceeding hours, a few strange coincidences, random thoughts on a tangential topic and more names of neighbours. (Thanks, I was just wondering if Woolies stayed open till nine.)
• They bicker. Not the all-out, scream-the-house-down fights of my formative years (ah, an insight into the root of my many issues), but arguments about, for example, the whereabouts of the DSTV remote.

God love 'em.

Holiday (n) leisure time away from work devoted to rest or pleasure; eg 'I recently spent nearly three weeks on holiday in Botswana'

The plan:
Nine people, two 4x4s, seventeen days exploring the wild spaces of Botswana.

The route:
Cape Town. Witbank. Palapye. Makgadikgadi Pans and Khubu Island. Planet Baobab. Maun. Drotsky's Caves. Nguma Lagoon. Maun. Moremi. Maun. Witbank. Cape Town.

Saw some things that blew my mind, things that made me question the trivial nature of my day-to-day life.

A few things Botswana taught me:

• I can drive through 50 degree heat and live to tell the tale.
• I can survive for eighteen days without wearing makeup or endlessly straightening my hair (in fact, I think I prefer this laid-back me).
• Extreme heat affects one's alcohol tolerance.
• Hippos are inexplicably attracted to Chris Wilkinson.
  
• Management, even at rest camps in Botswana, will never tell you about a complimentary breakfast.
• Lions do not really sound like the Goldwyn-Mayer one does.
• Bat guano between your toes feels pleasantly like beach sand.
• Beetles, even ones bigger than my thumb, will not hurt me.
• I do not get airsick in a 4-seater Cessna.
• Never underestimate the goodwill of a family of inbred hillbillies.
  

A few adjectives:

• Sweltering (the weather)
• Sweaty (me, us, everyone)
• Scenic (er, the scenery)
• Sexy (le Boyfriend)
• Sozzled (brought back a few cocktail recipes)
• Smiling (Botswana's entire population)
• Starry (the night sky)
• Serious (getting stuck in a swamp for five hours)
  
• Surprisingly sad (crossing the border back into SA)
  

Regrets:

• Just one. Boyfriend gave me (along with a signed copy of my favourite blogger's book) a lovely bottle of Moët et Chandon for my birthday, which careless, thoughtless silly silly me accidentally left behind in Maun.
• Maybe two – the fact that it is currently unfeasible for me to pack up my life and go travelling around the world for the foreseeable future.

Congratulations to Lo and Kim, who got engaged in a baobab. May you continue to have sex.

The biggest thank you, with bells on, to the rock star C-team, Candice and Chris. You were, hands down, the most amazing travelling mates ever. May Vodka Fizz flow from the heavens, and hippos become fully aquatic and trouble you no longer.

Feeling a little melancholic this morning.

After a three-hour delay (thanks 1Time) I arrived home at 10 last night, and was at work promptly at 8.30 this morning. Only unpacked insofar as the definition can be extended to me turning my suitcase upside down on my bedroom floor.

It feels somewhat surreal to be back at my desk, editing copy, as per usual. Come to think of it, it felt weird to be in my bed last night, in my room, at home. Hell showering with a roof over my head seemed kinda odd.

I am ... restless.

More on the incredible incredibleness of the Botswana trip soon. Just need to crawl my way out of a tottering pile of job bags.

Back!

Well, kind of.

Arrived 'home' to Boyfriend's place last night, and hopping my flight back to Cape Town and home home later this afternoon.

Was not savaged by lions. Just thought I'd let you know. More soon.

This is it.

Getting on a plane in a few hours.

What does one say in what could possibly be their final blog post, given the now increased statistical likelihood of my being eaten by a lion?

Hmm.

It's been real.

(Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to everyone, and Happy Birthday to me. I expect presents upon arrival home.)

So as of 10 am this morning it will be T minus 24 hours till my flight to Jo'burg leaves, which will then make it less than a day till we're on the road to Botswana (Boyfriend, myself and three other couples in two 4x4s, in case you haven't been following).

Can you handle it?

Excitement is being temporarily put on hold by the fact that I haven't started packing. If you know me, you'll know it takes about 10 hours of running around like Mike the Headless Chicken followed by thirty minutes of manic suitcase stuffing before I consider myself packed. And even then I forget strategic items, like underwear, or my toothbrush.

Not to mention, I spent the last four days drinking, staying at Boyfriend's place, catching up with the lovely Kat visiting from England and not really doing all that much in the way of getting ready for a mammoth cross country overlanding camping trip.

Whoops.

Must buy a hat.

Drunkity drunk drunk drunk drunk

Okay so that plan about being sober at the office party? Out the window somewhere between the third glass of bubbles and sleeping on Boyfriend's lap on the drive home. Open bars and I, we make the best of friends. I cannot count the drinks (mostly because of all the black spaces in my memory bank).

Nobody should have that much fun at a work function. For god's sake, we were drinking Patrone at one point (a fact I was only enlightened to last night). Oh yes. Then we got in the hummer and hit the jacuzzi with the honies and our bling (not really).

'Festive' is how I'm choosing to describe it. Festive, and oh my I'm never stepping on to the sales floor ever again. Those boys. Bargepoles from now on.

Had to get up frightfully early to go and have my Hepatitis shots for Botswana, and then a wax. Two things you really shouldn't do when hungover, so it's quite lucky then that I only sobered up a few hours later at lunch.

So don't feel like work this morning. I love my job, but am just in too much of a holiday mood.

You know you're old when one late night of awesomeness knocks you out for a few days following. And when the car guard calls you 'Lady' instead of 'Girrrrlie'.

Turning 23 soon. Can't I still be 'girlie'?

In other news, it's the company Christmas party tomorrow night. My very first opportunity to behave inappropriately and embarrass myself in a work environment. Not going to happen. I will be the picture of professionalism. I will be Grace Kelly meets the publishing world at a pretentious bar in Camps Bay.

Am I lame that I'm kind of excited?

Of course, that could be because Boyfriend is coming down this weekend specifically to escort me to said function. Very nice of him, especially given partners are only allowed into the damn thing at 10.30 (it starts at 6, kill me now, will have to protect myself from being engaged in conversation by anyone from sales for four and a half hours).

Barely working tomorrow either – we're disappearing just after noon to a celebratory lunch for one of the magazines, and not coming back (ever).

Love December. So much of party. So little of work.

Saw the Killers last night.

Hands down the best concert ever.

In a word, electric.

In five, holy god fuck me wow.

'I can't help falling in love with you.' (If you were there, you wanted to marry Brandon Flowers at this moment.)

Despite the mission out to Franschhoek and the killer three-hour traffic just to get out of the actual wine estate and then the long drive home ... I would go again in a heartbeat.

'Let me know, is your heart still beating...'

Again, holy god fuck me wow.

Oh how I chuckled...

If you're anything like me and are over the whole Cape Town cool kid phenomenon, you'll laugh yourself silly at this blog.

If you're tired of my low self-esteem stop reading now

So it's exactly two weeks tomorrow morning until I get on a plane, fly to the Banks, spend the night with Boyfriend and then we all pile into two '90s Hiluxes and set off on our two-and-a-half-week mission to Botswana.

And this time I won't roll the car like I did in Malawi last year.

Mostly because I won't be allowed to drive.

Getting very excited about it, but at the same time, shopping for suitable camping-type clothing is getting me down a little. For three reasons:

a) I must resist the allure of all the pretty floaty dresses and silky harem pants and flimsy sandals and body-con party dresses floating around.
b) It's taking me forever to amass said clothing – you'd think it'd be easy, but I've tried on about a million pairs of brown shorts and am now stumped as to what else people wear in the bush.
c) I am not the casually beautiful oh I just threw on a little vest and my bikini and some shorts and managed to look gorgeous girl.

Seriously, it takes advance outfit planning and heavy-duty grooming before I feel like I can reasonably be seen in public. I can only imagine what I'm going to look like after a few days' camping.

Not helping matters is that this time we're four couples, as opposed to the 8 to 2 boy-girl ratio of last year. And while I do play nicely with girls, this means I get to spend a few weeks comparing myself to a gorgeous blonde surfer-girl type, a British bean pole and one unknown, who, given the way things are going, is probably going to turn out to be an Israeli supermodel.

While I honestly like these girls (well, apart from the one I don't know of course), there's a special kind of downer that comes from knowing you're always going to feel like the ugliest person in the room (or desert, as it were).

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.

I don't know who she was...

... but Pearl S Buck said something damn intelligent once:

The secret of joy in work is contained in one word – excellence. To know how to do something well is to enjoy it.

Yip, yip. Totally agree. And I thought it was just my perfectionist streak that always made me completely dissatisfied with work unless I'd done something hands-down, 100% poi-fect.

Argh been a bad blogger this week. Seriously just too busy/lazy/uninspired to write. Quick update then...

Work
Getting crazy busy – we've eight magazines to finish within two weeks in November. Double print dates are no laughing matter. Will be working Saturdays through next month, and I foresee large quantities of tea and banana bread in our future.
In other work news, my three-month performance review is this morning. Will keep you posted.

Weekend
Glorious sunny day in the Mother City today, made all the more glorious by the following:
Boyfriend coming home last night.
Restaurant opening to attend tonight.
Bikini shopping tomorrow morning (horrifying, yes, but also means summer might actually, finally, be here).

Wimple
This word makes me laugh. Almost as much as ruched snood.

Water
Okay so it's a bit of a lame one, but this week I decided to try kick-start some healthy habits for summer by guzzling two litres a day. So far so good (apart from constantly needing the loo).

Wardrobe
As in, what to wear tonight, what to wear...

Dear Cup Thief

(A note for the reader: this letter serves only as my non-confrontational need to vent, and will probably expose my numerous neuroses and occasional small-mindedness. Therefore, if you like me at all, it is advised to stop reading now. Thank you. Otherwise...)

Dear Cup Thief

In our office on the eight floor of the MetLife building there is a kitchen. It's a small one, but it serves its purpose. In this kitchen are two shelves, upon which you will find a selection of cups.

Now listen carefully, this is where it gets complicated.

The lower shelf is stocked with plain white porcelain cups. These are provided by the company for office use. This means anyone in the office can use them. Want a cup of tea? Here, use a white mug – nobody will mind. (I'm not sure how much more fully I can explain this).

The ones on the upper shelf are slightly different. Observe the array of around twenty patterned mugs of different shapes and sizes. Notice the homely-ness of each. Little pictures of shoes and handbags. The NYC skyline. 'I heart cats'. 'World's biggest idiot'. Clearly these are cups brought from home by employees who are quite attached to their creature comforts and prefer to drink only from something designated for their own personal use. This is not out of the ordinary – it happens in offices around the world. It is in fact a fairly common occurrence...

...which is why I fail to understand the level of stupidity that prompts you to repeatedly help yourself to my cup. How dense can you be not to know that this mug belongs to someone. Were the white ones just too boring-looking for you? Was it the pink vine motif of mine that made you select it from the shelf every morning this week?

Perhaps I'm being insensitive. Perhaps you have a rare strain of colour-blindness that makes it impossible for you to discern patterns as well.

Perhaps I'm not. Perhaps you are just retarded.

Oh, and when I iChat you after a week of cup misdemeanors, please – for the love of god – do not say, 'Oh sorry! Didn't realize [with a z] it was yours.'

The point, my dear, is not that it is mine, but that it is quite, quite obviously not fucking yours.

Regards,

The girl who gets pissed off by general stupidity, inconsideration and having to sip her tea from chipped office-slut mugs.