I have found the answer!

Is shopping a real drag sometimes? Do you want to run away when you see the long line at the cash register and all you want to buy is a carton of milk and a few bars of candy? I have discovered the quick and simple solution to long queues and impatient queuers and cue dramatic drum roll: a pregnant woman.

Pregnant women are the best. I never knew shopping could be so easy until I went with my pregnant sister-in-law. It's like having a VIP pass to all your favorite shops. Jip, just get a pregnant woman to escort you for a day and all your shopping worries are a thing of the past.

Upon receiving the great news of a new arrival to our family a few months ago, my sister-in-law decided to put things in first gear and just take it slow for a bit as she's a financial adviser which means her day is usually spent trying to fix all kinds of intricate money problems and the people that come with it. Really tiresome. Especially the people-part. So she took the afternoon off yesterday and asked if I wanted to go shopping with her. Hmf, what a silly, breath-wasting question. Anything with the letters s h o p in it (and in that order) equals a happy, kind, loving, agile me. It's very peculiar: when I have to run on a treadmill, I barely last five minutes; when it comes to shopping, I give the energizer bunny a run for its money and can last up to five days longer. I love shopping :)

We went to the bank first. I tried to warn her about going to a bank over lunch time: it's about as pleasant as sticking your head in a beehive, but she just smiled and said:

"Just watch and learn," was all she said.

We got to the queue and I was already irritated with the soft music which probably tries to be soothing, but actually just awakes the serial killer in people; you know, like the Manchurian Candidate. But then something strange happened. As soon as people saw my sister-in-law with her pregnant belly, it was like the Red Sea parting for us to go to the promised Front of the Line. It was amazing. I could almost hear the angels singing "haaaaaaa" but unfortunately I'm still waiting for the white light. It was as though someone yelled:

"Preeeeeegnant lady walking, preeeeeeeeegnant lady walking," like the guy in The Green Mile but instead of meeting Sparky, we met the friendly teller called Belinda who just adores babies and puppies and – unfortunately – talking. There's always a price attached to everything, I guess.

I looked at my sister-in-law in absolute awe.

"The belly has powers," I said astonished.

"Yes, pregnancy has its advantages," she smiled.

The bank was only the beginning.

Our next stop and my favorite place: the Mall. While we were walking in the Mall people looked at us differently, like they were almost smiling. Now, I always smile because my dad say it releases stress hormones (like I need it) and makes you feel better after doing so. It's like giving someone a present just because it's Thursday.

But people don't always smile back. Especially the old ones. They look at you suspiciously and grab a tight hold of their walking frame for in case you want to run away with it. Or maybe they just think you're high because what reason could there be for an unmarried twenty five year old blond lady to smile about? I even tried putting a lucky packet ring on my left ring finger once, but I still got the same reaction from the old ladies, only this time they looked at me with pity as if wanting to say: "You can't fool an old dog, little lady; we can sniff the singleness and loneliness on you."

Anyway, people made way for us to walk in the middle of the isle. Maybe they were just afraid to bump into my sister-in-law's big belly and having a law suit on their hands, but it was still nice having some breathing space in the usually busy lunch hour with people pushing up against you and especially horny guys grabbing your butt thinking they can use the close proximity as an excuse. I wasn't born yesterday, you pervert!

The same thing happened at every shop we went to as in the bank: we were immediately promoted to the front of the queue (maybe my sister-in-law could bring the belly to my job and get me promoted as well? Note to self: ask her next time we get together) and because of this we finished our shopping rather quickly so we even had time for a long lunch. But that's where the big belly became a problem.

The tables in the coffee shop were arranged quite close together and it being lunch hour and all, the shop was packed. The only open spot was in the outside section, but in order for us to get there we had to make our way through numerous tables.

Another thing I learned today was that a pregnant woman can't suck her belly in. The guy who ended up getting squeezed between his table and my sister-in-law's belly also learned that. The lady whose coffee ended up all over her pretty floral dress also learned that and the little baby's mother trying to feed him with a spoon when she only ended up stuffing her face with baby food unfortunately also learned that. I can go on and tell you about the milkshake the belly accidentally bumped off a waiter's tray and I can tell you about the credit card machine ending up in a lady's salad, but I think if I say any more about the lunch, my sister-in-law might just get upset and a pregnant woman cannot be upset. By anyone. There's an unwritten law about it apparently.

The food was actually good and aside the fact that my sister-in-law had to get up ever so often and visit the bathroom which made the rest of the customers cringe and duck it was a pretty nice day.

Looking at her I feel so privileged being able to experience the pregnancy from the sideline, like feeling the baby kick, seeing all the sonars (I invited myself several times to see the real deal up close and personal), reading the baby magazines with her, shopping for the most adorable and small booties and clothes. A pregnant woman is a beautiful thing; my sister-in-law sometimes just gives a small smile stroking her belly and I think it's because she hears something only pregnant woman are allowed to hear or feel something only they can feel: the bond between an unborn child and its mother. Like my bond with my dog, Rupert, that people don't really get.

I myself can't stop touching her belly; it's like Humpty Dumpty is right within my reach. I asked if I can paint a little face on it and she looked at me and then asked:

"Can I die your dog black and blue?"

I never dared asking her such a stupid question again.

The before

The after

Wedding crashers gone wrong

The week has been like playing Slow Ride by Foghat in easy mode on Guitar Hero: pretty simple, straight forward with no surprises. It would've been uneventful if I didn't get that phone call from my mother informing me of an upcoming wedding.

Weddings have always been a bit of a problem for me: beside the what-to-wear issue, there's also the who-will-be-my-date issue. The what-to-wear issue can be sorted out quick and painless like a reliable gas attendant: hallo, in, wash window, pay and drive out. But alas, it never quite happens that way.


You need a new dress thanks to the six degrees of separation theory: there's always the risk of someone seeing you wear the same dress you wore to your Cousin Louise's wedding. That's if you can still fit into that dress. The what-to-wear issue then becomes a dragged out affair like a president's speech thanks to numerous visits to the Torture Chamber (aka the Gym) and the mere mention of the word chocolate just drives you to the brink of tears. A woman deprived of chocolate is like a rehabilitated sex addict going to a porn convention. It just ain't pretty, people.

Dress hunting is worse than finding an eligible bachelor: it needs to fit like a rubber glove making you look slim, respectable and gorgeous at the same time whilst not stealing the attention away from the slightly large bride in her white tent. It is her day after all and you need to respect that and be a fabulous wall flower, but a wall flower nevertheless.

Then the date-issue. You can't just take any Tom, Dick or Harry to an Afrikaans wedding. Oh no, no no. There is always the expectation factor. As soon as you invite a man whom the family has never met, he will be interrogated. Guantanamo Bay will be like the Holiday Inn if you are not prepared. See, the man cannot wear a too nice suit because the family isn't stupid and will suspect he has a good job and ask him politely to buy the first round of drinks as he's the "new guy" and "tradition" requires it. Only problem being: it's always someone's first round.

Side note: because of numerous alcoholics in the family, open bar has been phased out and is strictly forbidden at get-togethers. Once our uncle Steve had a few too many and ended up in a swimming pool holding a goose in the one hand (no one knows where he found the poor bird) and his underwear in the other whilst still fully clothed. Uncle Steve: every family has one.

Now if your date has a modern-day mullet, the family will harass him with questions like if he's related to the Bruiser from Benoni where Charlize Theron is from and that is not really a big compliment around here.

The Bruiser from Benoni himself and no, it's not a mediocre version of Sylvester Stallone as you will see in the picture below:

The Bruiser from Benoni: a proudly South African product.

The family will ask if he has a Benoni BBQ-pack at home:

And they will even ask if he has any animals at his house since the only fur in Benoni is that on the dashboard.

I used to always just take Chris to weddings. The family knows him well, loves him and accepts him after they discovered he makes one mean BBQ and in the proper manner too: on a Weber with charcoal. That, of course, is an integral part of Afrikaans tradition and Chris being English it's like the hand of God blessed him with this gift.

I still remember the last wedding Chris and I went to. One of my friends from varsity finally succeeded in capturing a man and I just had to go as we're still a tight knit group even after graduating. It was quite a far drive, about four hours, so we googled the name of the guesthouse on the invitation and the place seemed lovely with a quaint type of feel; there were mostly pictures of the garden and some flowers and also a great shot of the reception hall and that was the best thing about this guest house: situated only a few feet away from where the reception would be held made it the ideal drink and walk destination. Chris immediately booked us a double room. I phoned my best friend a week before the wedding and she said the boyfriend and her will be staying two rooms away from us. We were happy and really looking forward to seeing the rest of the gang.

Chris wanted to leave early that morning so we would have plenty of time getting ready for the wedding and I agreed that it was a good idea. After all, no one wants to be stuck in a car for four hours and pitch up at the church all sweaty and wrinkly. Problem number one occurred when we arrived at the guest house and tried to book in. Due to the number of guests the manager decided on "her own discretion" to downgrade our double room to a single one as she "assumed we were married" since Chris booked it under his name only. She then glanced at my naked ring finger with eyebrows even Elizabeth Taylor would be jealous of.

Problem number two was the room itself. No air cooling system while it was about 40° Celsius (or 140° Fahrenheit), no kettle in the room for coffee or boiling water as I was not going to drink that funny brown-yellow gunk from the tap, no television and seriously gross looking bedding. The bedding I sorted out no problem as I just went to the room next door and swapped it with ours, but the rest of the little issues we had, we just had to swallow, in a manner of speaking.

At least we were better of than my friend because when they arrived to their (also) single room after another judgmental look, their windows couldn't even open. It seemed as though we were stuck in False-advertisement-ville.

But we decided to make the best of our time together and went to the dining room to have a drink. Sadly they only had Coke Light and when Chris asked for some ice, he was informed that the ice machine was broken (surprisingly). Not to worry, the manager said, the barman will just go get some ice from the shed.

Problem number three occurred while we were sipping away at our Cokes and reminiscing about the good old days when all the lights went off. Not to worry, the manager said in a high pitched voice, they are well prepared and will get the generator out of the shed. The shed?

"What else do you guys think they keep in 'the shed'?" Monique, my friend, asked.

"Hopefully a teleportation device to get us out of this shit hole," Chris answered.

Wishful thinking.

When we finished our drinks we went back to our rooms to get ready. Monique said they wanted to first stop at a McDonald's as they haven't had lunch yet, so we were in charge of saving them some seats. But what our dear friend the bride forgot to mention in the invitation was WHICH church the ceremony would be held at. It just said NG church. Chris then decided to find the (only) McDonald's in town on the GPS, but when we got there: no sign of the friends.

"Let's just drive straight. If you hear a church bell or see a church with a lot of cars in the parking lot, it's probably it," Chris said calmly as I was frantically phoning all my friends I knew would be at the wedding, but obviously switched their phones off when they got inside the holy atmosphere of the church.

Eventually, about fifteen minutes later, we found a church with a funny looking old car decorated with streamers and balloons which could only be the wedding couple's getaway mobile. Luckily Monique saved us some seats close to the door and we enjoyed the ceremony with tears of joy and plenty of crumpled tissues.

When we got outside to decorate the bride and groom with confetti, the weather didn't look so good. Dark clouds gathered in the sky and threatening thunder could be heard in the distance. Just as we finished saying a quick hallo to the new Mrs. Korff, the first raindrops fell. It was soon followed by hail. That was problem number four as the drive back to the reception area was on a dirt road. I'm terrified of hard rain and hail thanks to Noah's ark and just hoped and prayed we wouldn't be washed away in that godforsaken town.

Chris decided to park in front of our room at the guesthouse as the reception area was a mere twelve feet away, but separated by a wall which meant we had to take another entrance to the guesthouse. This is the part we still "disagree" on till this day.

Chris never gave clear instructions as to what to do next when we finished parking. All he said was:

"Take of your shoes and make a run for it."

He didn't say where to run to.

I opened the car door and made a mad dash towards the reception area with hail the size of healthy organic eggs hitting me on and all sides thanks to a cold wind blowing. The cold wind, however, was nothing compared to the icy water I had to run through which dammed up on the grass. When I got to the reception area, I saw car after car park in front of the door with a little carport where the lady would get out HIGH AND DRY and the gentleman would find parking in the lot reserved for wedding guests.

Let's just say I wasn't very impressed with Chris at that moment, especially since I looked like this wet cat with my hair sticking to my sore and bruised scull like little telephone cords, my make-up running down my face and goose flesh which probably suited my image of a wet chicken. It was still hailing, but I didn't care. After seeing all the lovely, DRY ladies in the lobby, I ran back to the guesthouse where I bumped into Chris halfway.

"Don't. Say. A. Word," I got it out through clenched teeth.

And he didn't. He just took my hand and ran back to our room with me. As if things couldn't get any worse, we had no power. Nothing. Nada. I just sat on the bed feeling like a turtle on its back while Chris tried to dry our clothes by waving a telephone book like a fan with a determined look on his face.

Apparently the plan was for us to go to our room first (that's why he parked in front of it) and wait for the hail to subside. It really would've been helpful if he had said it in so many words and not just assumed that I knew what to do.

There was no way in hell I was going to rock up at my friend's wedding with my wet hair, jeans and my Superman t-shirt. Can you imagine how much attention we'd be drawing away from the blushing bride? We'd be like a couple of invited wedding crashers and my friend the bride would be furious. No, I'd rather eat an eel. Alive.

After a while Chris stopped and fell on the bed too. He looked at me and gave a cough that suspiciously sounded like a chuckle.

"You look like Gene Simmons after a rough night," he said and started coughing a bit louder.

"You look like … like … whatever."
Because men don't have to worry about wet hair. Or wet clothes, for that matter. That's what all the sexy calender guys get paid to wear anyway.

I had to admit that the whole situation was pretty funny. What were the odds anyway of all these events happening on the same day? Not even those kids on Final Destination could outdo us on this day. We laughed and laughed until we both had stomach cramps.

"I'm hungry," was my next complaint.

"Me too. Let's wait another ten minutes then take the car, go to dinner in town and go see a movie."

It seemed like the only good idea he's had so far that evening and I didn't feel like sitting in the room staring at my beautiful, expensive but wet dress whilst listening to the music coming from the reception hall.

We waited and then we went to a dodgy mall with a steak house where the meat seemed a bit on the greenish side, but after the day we had anything on a plate was pretty edible. There was no movie house so we headed back to the guesthouse with me singing along to Chris's FAVORITE band in the whole wide world: Westlife. I went through a mid-Westlife-crisis in my early twenties. Chris never lets me bring Cd's into his car anymore. Bummer.

When we got back, we discovered the power came back on and after singing and dancing to a few hallelujahs, Chris quickly dried our clothes with my hair dryer while I redid my make-up. We were at least in time for dessert and after that we danced the night away with my wrinkled dress and his shrinking pants.

Chris's favorite saying these days is:

"Never judge a book by its cover."

How bloody true is that.

There is still time

My best friend's mom found out she has cancer a couple of days ago. My friend is sad, but she is hopeful. She is hopeful even though the doctor said its stage four liver cancer and that it had spread to her colon as well. She is hopeful even though the doctor cannot provide her mother with any treatment like chemotherapy because the cancer has spread too far and too quickly. The doctor said it's too late. My friend said there's always hope.

I thought of using those words you grasp at in times like these similar to a person looking for a branch or something to hold them up when he's slowly slipping away in quicksand, but it somehow seemed inappropriate.

"I'm so sorry."
Why are you apologizing? Did you cause the cancer?

"Is there anything I can do?"
How about ripping that poison out of her deteriorating body?

And as my brave friend started talking about work and her squash and their plans for next year, I thought of my dad.

The police found my father laying face down in the middle of Buffelsdoorn Road about 11 feet from his Mercedes with all the car doors wide open, his wallet with money still in the cubbyhole, his jacket still on the backseat, his Rolex watch still on his arm, but he was beaten to a pulp and unconscious. My dad's pants were chafed at the knees as though he was trying to crawl on the tar road. From what and to where, we still don't know.

When my brother phoned me that night at half past one, all he said was:

"Dad's in the hospital. He's in surgery. It's bad."

My dad was on the local rugby club's committee and he always went to watch the practice on a Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. That Tuesday the police found his car on a route that leads away from my parent's house and we all know my dad practically invented short cuts as he grew up in Pretoria (our nation's actual capital) and always complained about traffic. It was also strange that nothing was stolen because, well, it's South Africa. The police could not question my dad and we were all left puzzled as to what really happened that night.

We waited and waited and waited some more and I could see my mother grow older. I could see my sister growing more scared and my brother angrier.

I felt like a statistic. Before we always spoke of crime and how it affected people we knew. Now we were those people.

Our house doctor came to the waiting room and said we could go in pairs to see my dad for a few minutes, but warned us that he was still out of it and that we shouldn't get a fright at what he looked like. He said we should prepare ourselves for the worst as he had little faith that my dad would make it through the night with the head trauma he suffered as well as something about his internal organs and I wanted to ask him if he could for once, just once, speak proper Afrikaans so we could actually understand what the hell was going on and what was happening to my dad. But my tongue was thick in my mouth.

My brother went in with me.

We walked to the bed and I still remember turning to my brother and saying:

"That incompetent nurse gave us the wrong room. I'm just going to check on the white board in what bed Dad's laying."

The man on the bed couldn't be my dad. His face was swollen like a balloon and beaten purple and dark blue beyond recognition; his eyes and nose were one just one big, indistinguishable heap. You could at least tell where his mouth was thanks to a tube coming out of it and there was this monitor constantly beeping with every breath he fought for. There was a weird, pungent smell in the room and for some reason I wanted to scratch myself the whole time.

No, that wasn't my dad. He didn't even wear his glasses and his hair was all messed up. My dad carried a little comb in one of his pockets (not his sock) because he hates messy hair. And he is totally lost and blind without those glasses. At least he allowed me to pick him a new pair the year before as he wore those old school horn rimmed ones and looked like Noah Bennet in Heroes. You're going to scare your patients away, I convinced him as he's a dentist and works with little children every day.

When I checked the white board in the passage I discovered that the man in the bed had the same name as my dad. I just walked out.

We all sat in that waiting room all night drink cup after cup of bad coffee as the soda machine was out of order. Everything was out of order that night. We contemplated on what could've happened and why my dad was on that road. We wondered if there was anyone with him in the car and why someone would beat up a pretty defenseless 61 year old man. I suppose that's where my brother's angry part comes in.

I won't bore you with details of rude detectives and empty promises, physiotherapy and months of rehab. After two years my dad can think, walk and talk like any other guy on the street. He's just really moody now, but so am I for at least one week in a month. No biggie.

I used to know of my parents, but didn't really know them. I never paid a thought to them being young once, a time before me. I never asked my dad what he bought with his first pay check, who was his favorite teacher at school, when he first kissed a girl and if he passed his driver's license with flying colors. I know that now and more. I'm glad my friend is getting that opportunity too.

This is my dad and I at a function a few years ago. He doesn't like wearing his glasses when we take photos because he always says he's a superhero when he takes them off (yes, like Clark Kent) and the camera exposes his secret anyway. We smile politely and nod.

Persistence and unwanted visits

I saw an old friend again yesterday. Gareth. He now coaches hockey at the school where I coach netball. I don't actually know if he can be classified as an "old friend" as we never really got around to the friend stage because being friends generally involve having conversations about the weather and about how your day was and what you did this weekend. I don't think "take of your shirt and get over here" can be classified as a conversation.


We met at varsity in Psychology class. He was the one always late for class and not giving a shit if the lecturer gave him the stank face. I think I'm a magnet for those kind of guys. You see: of all the empty seats in the whole room he chose to plunk down next to me; not next to the sexy red head with a sluttish shirt matching her sluttish make-up or the brunette with the I'm-going-to-put-on-my-teacher's-outfit-and-then-spank-you-all-night-long-you-naughty-boy-face. I guess blondes have all the luck.



He always smelled like freshly cut grass and sweat and good times.

"What did I miss?" he asked me the first day he invaded my personal space.
"Invaded" because I put my bag on the seat next to me as soon as I saw him enter the room, but he merely picked it up nonchalantly and put it on the floor next to his shoes.

I didn't bother answering as I didn't feel like drawing any more attention to us and having to answer impossible questions from a spiteful lecturer who knew no one ever prepared for his boring class. I even considered offering to get him laid to just get a reaction out of his sour old prune face.

Gareth didn't stop there. Of course not. He took my notepad and wrote a number on it.

"Call me when you can't handle not being sexually satisfied by your boyfriend anymore."

Not exactly the type you take home and introduce to the family.

I didn't phone him. Of course not! I didn't feel like getting grass burns on my but, because something about the way he walked and the clothes he wore told me he was probably playing some kind of sport.

Just like he ignored the lecturer, he ignored me ignoring him. He started charming my friends who all just fell at his feet with wide spread legs for a single smile from his lips; he even attended my Afrikaans classes even though he was a pure bred English yuppie from Johannesburg who could only say "hallo" and "when do they come out" in Afrikaans; he waited for me at my dorm when I came back late from doing research in the library and that showed true, pure determination because it was so cold I think his penis shrank to the size of a baby carrot.

That determination night after night reminded me of soldiers slugging through muddy waters and without saying a word, I pulled him up by his hand on one of those cold nights and kissed him with my one hand behind his head and my other on his crotch. It didn't take long for us to get in his car where I started taking off one piece of clothing at a time while he tried to keep his right hand and eye on the road and the left hand and eye on me.

His flat was messy with clothes and plates and empty bottles everywhere so we found the only semi clean place there was: the carpet in the passage right next to the front door. After my first "visit" he at least started cleaning up his bedroom as I also didn't sign up for carpet burns.

He played hockey for the varsity (I suspected rugby, but hoped for a guy with more intelligence) and I went to all his games. I used to think hockey was for sissies and desperate boys pumped full of testosterone with a stick trying to make up for their, uhm, inadequacies. Gareth proved me wrong. He was daring, fearless, skilled and smart on the hockey field (in bed as well) and he was a great dancer. His music collection was so different to the image I always had of him before I got to know him; he always listened to the oldies like Sinatra and BB King. Sometimes he would pull me up and just start swaying from side to side, humming along to the tune and never stepping on my toes once.

The whole thing was pretty doomed from the start, I guess. His father passed away and being the eldest son he basically had to take over and run the family business with his mother. I stayed on to do my honors and masters degree and never heard a word from him since. He never really was the "I'll call you" type. That was four years ago.

And now he's here. In my small hometown far away from the hubbub of the city that is Joburg.

I think if I was better prepared it would've been fine, but everyone just talked about the new hockey coach for the first team of next year who used to play for the university nearby and never really saying his name. The ladies were all flustered and blushing just talking about this "catch." Any man that doesn't wear a kaki hat and socks pulled up to his knees with a comb tucked inside is considered a "catch" in this region.

I never pay much attention to the Gossiping Clan and was thus rather shocked when I saw Gareth walking across the rugby field to the netball courts; so shocked in fact that I glanced away for one second and got a ball in the stomach. Not the best feeling with the sore muscles and all from the other day.

There was no reuniting scene like The Lion King because first of all: Gareth was not as hairy as Simba and secondly I hurried the girls into a huddle, had our little cheer and then I quickly moved (not run) to my car and left.


It's not as though we just hit the pause button and all of a sudden we can pick up where we left off. I'm a respectable, grown woman now with common sense. I'm happy with my life, thank you very much.

Being Rocky Balboa and the cool factor

My arm hurts. A LOT. Just sitting here typing feels like some freaky little animal is gnawing away it obsessively. Stop typing then, you stupid masochistic woman, some of you might be saying to yourselves (luckily in the privacy of your home/office where you're reading this or you would have gotten a kick in the knee Jet Lee-style), but typing this post is the only thing keeping me from taking a few painkillers with a shot of the Goose. They say you should eat plenty of bananas because of the potassium in this fruit for sore muscles, but I've eaten so many already I'm afraid I'm going to start looking like a monkey soon. A monkey with one hell of a hangover and sore arm, that is. Something that seems to help is laying a hot bath, but I had to get out after an hour because I started looking like this:

I didn't even make a trip to the Torture Chamber – also known as The Gym – to deserve this. I merely threw a ball. Very hard, I might add. And none of this would've happened if I just acted my age and not tried to be all cool in front of a bunch of 14 year old girls.

Netball practice started again yesterday and one of the girls had a brace around her arm to support her wrist and was complaining about her partner throwing the ball too hard. So I told her to stop whining – not really, although I seriously wanted to and give her a crack while I was at it – and sit that one out as I would partner up with her friend. That was mistake number one.

Her friend has the nickname Not So Gentle Giant because she is the tallest girl on the team and has this confused look on her face – the one Will Farrell was born with – which her opponents mistakenly interpret as "bad ass from jail" because she really does look older than 14. I don't mind that face; it has won many a match for us so far.

Not So Gentle Giant has a strong arm. Think Hulk meets Iron Man meets The Departed (Leonardo DiCaprio looks pretty pissed off in that movie the whole time) and you pretty much get the picture. I'm 25 now; a 14 year old girl does not scare me. Thinking that was mistake number two.

I emphasized the purpose of this exercise before we started: strong shoulder passes to strengthen the muscles and which can also be used during a game as the girls aren't allowed to throw what we call the "loopy" pass during a practice or a match. Afterwards I was thinking it was one of those times I just should've thought up another bloody exercise.

So my "partner" and started throwing the ball at each other. The girl with the brace says to me in absolute awe after a minute or so:

"Wow, Miss, you're really fit!"

She shouldn't have said that and listening to a teenager who is impressed on a daily basis by a boy who can touch his nose with his tongue, was mistake number three. It reminded me of a guy trying to impress a girl and tries to show off by downing a glass of beer. She is "very" impressed and says to him:

"Wow! I can never do that! You are totally awesome!"

He then feels obliged to improve on his first effort as to not let her see that he is in fact a weakling whom hates beer and thus tries to swallow it as fast as he can the second time around and the third and the fifteenth time until he drops down dead from alcohol poisoning. I've seen it happen so many times before; not the dropping dead part, but the "I need to prove myself" part. I was that bloody fool now.

The exercise we were busy with requires a hundred balls to be thrown: the first forty about 5 feet apart from each other, the next twenty about 7 feet, the next twenty 10 feet and then again ten from 7 feet and ten from 5 feet. By ball number twenty two I was exhausted, but I couldn't quit and risk looking like that "weakling" in front of these girls. Especially with the glances I saw them sneak my way and the amazement in their eyes.

"Coach, did you work out this holiday without us?"

"Miss, where did you learn to pass like that?"
This comment just shows you the attention span of a 14 year old girl as I've even played on the court with them just a month ago, let alone passed a ball or ten to them.

"Miss, will I be able to pass like you someday?"

No pressure after one of them said that, right? I started hearing Eye of the Tiger and wondering why teenagers can't have this much admiration for their parents. Maybe there's a lesson to be learnt from this, Mom and Dad: if you want your child's unlimited adoration just throw a ball f*cking hard at one of them 100 times.

I was starting to sweat and I hate sweating. Men are different. There is something about a sweaty man that is strangely appealing and very sexy to me.

Like the fabulous Cannavaro, a proud product of Italy

and not-at-all-creepy uncle Bill from Peter Pan Leather Land.

When women sweat, other women look at them with a look on their faces saying: "Eew! Haven't you ever heard of anti-perspirant?" I can't help I have sweat glands and don't sit on my ass all day only using them when a hot guy walks past. Judgemental Bitch.

The girls were slacking because they were tired (and hell knows, so was I!), but we were at 75 and not finished yet.

"If I see another loopy, you are all running the rugby field three times!"

I tried to say it very quick as to not let them hear me sound out of breath. Actually I was just looking for an excuse to take a break because I could supervise them just fine from the tap next to the rugby stadium.

By this time my arm felt like someone injected it with fire, but I pursed my lips and thought if the 105 year old Sylvester Stallone could run those steps in Rocky #431 I sure as hell can catch and throw a number five netball ball a few times.

Thing is: Sylvester Stallone didn't run all those steps thanks to cutting and editing and I should've known better as to try and impress gullible, but nevertheless-appreciative-of-my-skills-afterwards-14 year olds. Our next practice is on Thursday again: the 100 ball exercise will not be on the programme again any time soon.

The moral of this story: no one is f*cking Rocky.

Too much wine makes you do stupid things

My weekend didn't start of very well. I didn't go out Friday evening because I just didn't feel like being harassed in any public place offering entertainment by some corny pick up line from a guy I wouldn't even touch with a pair of tweezers. So I ate too much chocolate and watched too many romantic comedies/romantic dramas/romantic thrillers/romantic action movies and woke up with a headache and the song Lucy by Hanson draining my brain cells from any cultivated thought.

(I kind of felt the way this poor kid looks)

To top it all: my heater couldn't stand the cold last night and broke and my geizer went some time after that as well which meant I woke up in an igloo with no prospect of drifting away in a steaming environment also known as the bathroom.

Now if there is one thing I don't think I can live without, it's a nice hot bath. I bath twice a day and sometimes when it's really cold I'll even take a third trip to heavenly bliss. (I think at least I'm "clean" on the outside, like otherworldlyone was saying; maybe there is still hope). It's the only thing that instantly warms me up and puts me in a good mood. No man I've dated could live up to those standards. Sadly.

I thus went to my mom's house to take a bath and feel like a human being again. Shortly after that Mr. Chase phoned and invited me for supper at his flat later that day. He'd been taking me out a few times this past week and I have to admit I haven't been revolted or forced to use the "I have a stomach virus" excuse. Yet.

I dolled myself up and tried to look as desirable as I four layers of clothes allowed me. Mr. Chase has been a great gentleman: opening the car door, standing up when I entered the room, taking the tray from me when I made coffee and regularly kissing my hand for any small and simple reason. I only have to say how spectacular the weather's been (he seems oblivious to my sarcasm) and he takes my hand, looks into my eyes and says with a little smile:

"You outshine everything with your spectacular eyes." Corny, I know, but sweet. Really just a nice guy.

Now I know this man can cook because he's a bachelor and he has amazing hands. Have you ever seen Eric Lanlard's hands (the French guy on the cooking show glamour puds). Or Gordon Ramsey's? Strong fingers: probably to grip the knife tightly as to not lose a finger in the chopping process; short, square nails: so that food or dough can't get stuck underneath. It's a bloody painful process trying to remove dough from your nails. That's another reason I don't bake bread anymore.

Their hands are always clean. In this contaminated day and age it's a bonus to find a man with nice, clean hands. Luckily I'm not obsessive compulsive about that or I'd never be able to have sex.

He made gnocchi and the dessert was this mouth watering frozen chocolate-covered cappuccino crunch cake. I had to refrain myself from not eating six pieces and looking like a pig, but it was INCREDIBLE. The only problem was the wine.

During the course of the meal he poured us wine and was telling me how expensive it was and that he went to great lengths to get this wine and how it compliments the pasta and the rich desert and blah blah blah was all I heard, really, because I'm not the best wine drinker. Sweet wine like a rosé taste like a cold drink to me with the exception being that cold drink doesn't make you giddy or cause your legs to feel like chopped off tree stomps. Wines like a merlot or pinot noir or cabernet sauvignon have an even worse effect on my bodily functions and inhibitions after about four glasses. So to keep my dignity I usually refrain from drinking wine or just stick to one glass. Usually.

Unfortunately he put some music on during the gnocchi. It was some kind of happy French music that made me want to get up, kick my shoes off and just dance with my eyes closed. It made me so happy in fact that I lost track of my alcoholic consumption and before you could say what's under your skirt we were in his bedroom with him having a thorough inspection of that part of my anatomy which intrigued him so much 20 years ago.

He wasn't a bad lover, but it was as exciting and dirty as Sunday lunch with the folks. He was very meticulous and strong and calm and I was too scared to even giggle when he touched my knee in fear of him looking up with a frown and asking if he was doing something wrong. Because he's that type. The type who makes you feel like you’re the parental supervision when you want to hear anything but the phrase "parent" in any way, shape or form.

And then I heard a bell in my mind. I always hear it when I've hit the one week mark with a guy. When you're an athlete and run track, the official rings a bell to announce the last lap. I guess this meant we were in the home stretch with our short relationship. As in me going home and him going away.

When we were both exhausted a few hours later he put his arm around me, he gave me a lingering, passionate kiss and said:

"Wow, that was something else! If I knew it was going to be this great, I would've taken you down like 23 years ago. Good night, baby,"

and curled up against me in the dreaded cuddle position.

First: it would've been considered rape if you "took" me when I was five. Secondly: I'm only 25 years young now and not 28 like you're implying, dimbwit. 28's way too close to 30 for comfort at this stage in my life. 30 means I have to be married with 2 and a half mini me's running around terrorising my dogs. I'm ONLY 25!

I waited for two minutes until I heard him snore. That was the last straw. I slipped out from underneath his clutching, clingy hand and dressed as quick as long sleeved shirts and a skirt allowed me and made a dash for my car. It's not like I have commitment issues, I just don't like messy break ups.

He phoned me this morning asking why I left.


I told him I have a stomach virus.

The moral of the story: stick to whiskey or vodka.

Well, maybe not this one. Not just yet :)

Welcome to my humble home!

Mr. Condescending requested (in a rather demanding manner) an invitation to my house during one of his comments on my blog this week. At first I thought it was my charming personality and spectacular looks that attracted his attention, but I was clearly mistaken. He is merely interested in my South African heritage and the peculiarities it might entail. Nevertheless: I hate to disappoint and decided to show everyone around.

Now: my apologies in advance for the pictures. I'm not a professional photographer as I don't stalk people from behind and snap away to put it on my blog later (wink wink, nudge nudge) but I gave it a good attempt and if you don't like it: GO TELL SOMEONE WHO CARES!

For those of you who doesn't know this yet: I love the Sopranos. Maybe because it was something my brother and I used to do together which didn't happen often as he's ten years older than I and a male at that. It wasn't cool having the baby sister around combing your friends' hair while you're talking about, you know "guy" stuff. In my defence though: his one friend had really nice thick black hair that just begged to be combed and loved and I was happy to answer that call.

I digress. At the beginning of every episode of The Sopranos that super fantastic song starts playing and you see Tony Soprano drive past all the landmarks on his way home. That was the inspiration for my version of Be my guest and yes, I know I'm bending the rules a bit: so sue me!
As some of you may know by now, I'm from sunny South Africa: where crime is as high as a hooker's mini-skirt. Our transportation system is a little bit different than some of the countries abroad as we have no Underground. We used to have this train, but then people started taking it apart for scrap metal and decorations for their houses and now the train has no more doors. So passengers started pushing other passengers off the train and unless you really don't feel like getting to work that day, you walk or steal someone's bicycle.

Luckily, for the 2010 Soccer World Cup, the government decided to design a new train called the Gautrain (it's just the province in which Johannesburg is located) to make us not look like total backwards bastards, but we're not allowed to use it yet. It's like saving the birthday cake until everyone else arrives when you just want to put your face in that vanilla icing and EAT!

We also have what we call the "taxi." It's not like a black cab from London (it's WAY cheaper) or a yellow cab from New York (it's WAY uglier). No: it's the "Coffin on Wheels." I'm not a racist (as I've caught a ride on one before just don't tell my mother!), but only black people make use of this transportation method. You have the newer model and don't be fooled just because it looks like a normal mini bus:

and then there's the dodgy version of a taxi:

The rest of us just drive cars and try to avoid being killed by these skilled drivers.

Please note that those dark marks on the blue taxi are actually not dirt, but mere dents. They drive like they own the road and honk at you when you dare use sign language.

As I was taking this picture in Dodgeville the driver was busy walking back to his taxi when he saw me and started waving his arms. He must have thought I was there to steal his valueble ride.

On the way to my house you will drive past the "Makoekoes" otherwise know as the "Location." This is part of the not-so-nice South African culture that tourists don't always want to or get to see (except for Soweto, of course). I guess it's almost like the ghettos abroad, but no white people or Mexicans (!) stay there and if you have a Makoekoe, it means your house doesn't have any brick walls or a proper tiled roof. That's where those train doors went.

It's extremely hot during summer as some of the Makoekoes have no electricity and thus no fan and in winter it's ball freezing cold. Let's move on to happier sights.

This is the sign you'll see as we enter my town: we're all excited about next year (the men mostly because they're trying to legalize prostitution).

Football is not really a well supported sport in South Africa as most males here started a tradition of their own when it comes to rugby: biltong and booze. It just depends on what team you support because you can't watch them lose when you're sober. Since the Confederations Cup we hope the support situation has changed as South Africa or better known as Bafana Bafana did pretty well.

As you enter town there will be a slipway to your left and if you take it you end up at the Bunny Sanctuary. I made a special stop there for Mr. Condescending:

To my utter dismay I could not spot a single bunny yesterday morning as I suppose it was too cold for them to go near the water. You got lucky, Mr. C. The Bunny Sactuary is just a place people take unwanted bunnies and leave them on the island to breed and feed while imagining they're in the wild. As bunnies can't swim, the municipality thought it was the perfect solution for the breeding problem. Heartless pigs.

About 5 kilometres from my house there is a lion park which I used to visit quite often because they allow you to hold the cubs and play with them. But lately I just don't feel like going there much. The lions don't roar that often anymore. I think they're sad. I made a quick stop anyway to show some of you a real lion and eliphant and because I know the owner really well. He accompanied me inside the cages to have a proper shot at both the lion and elephant (keep in mind I have an EXTREMELY good zoom function):

(Clearly I was twisting the truth as these pictures were taken earlier this year because of all the green schrub. Just checking if you're still awake.)

Let's fast forward to my house:

Welcome to my humble home!

DON'T mock the sign! My nieces made it for me with much love and care and as a good and proud godmother, I will crack you if nothing but a compliment for their artistry comes out of your pie hole.

But please come in! It's very chilly outside this time of year and I don't want you to catch a cold and sneeze all over my things.

This is my doorbell.

Meet Jane. She's a real barker, but a proper lady as a simple scratch on the chest makes her heart warm and leaves her wanting more and more and more and more; you'll be stuck petting her for the rest of the evening. She's ready to go party though as she's wearing her Princess outfit.

This is my bodyguard.

His name is Rupert. Don't let that smile deceive you: he's a real ferocious killer this one. Many a man's heel has been clenched by his razor sharp teeth. He's extremely possesive and hates it when any man comes within sniffing distance of his mommy. Note that he's not wearing his jersey (yet) as he's a big boy and hates being dolled up (I didn't want to embarrass him on camera).

Here is a small section of my book collection. I'm quite the collector as old books and all words fascinate me beyond measure. I don't like buying new books because it feels like they have not yet had time to grow a certain "character"; it's hard to explain but I like the feel of a book that's had a couple of miles on its back, as though it's been places and some of that magic that has been captured in its pages is now lying at the tip of your fingers, ready to be explored. It's a funny thing, I know.

As you can see most of the books are in Afrikaans because that is indeed my mother tongue. It has to be a really good book for me to read it in English but I have a few favorites like The road to Mecca by Athol Fugard, Joseph by Mervyn Jones (which is about Stalin), Picasso by Norman Mailer, Disgrace by J.M. Coetzee (Nobel prize winner and South African at that!) and anything concerning Russian literature. I like the heavy stuff ;)

If you glance to your left you will find my DVD collection. I have to admit: I'm a never-give-backer. If you bring it to my house, it stays in the house. It's almost like Hotel California except you can go by all means, but leave the nice things you brought with behind. Nice things ranging from wine to books to boyfriends, I'm not fussy ;) Most of these DVD's are what friends brought over to watch and was either too drunk or too tired to realize it was mine now when I shooed them out. Except for my 3 Ché Guevara DVD's, The Weddingsinger (which William and I killed by watching it so many times), Schindler's List and the Tarantino box set (which is further left). I vaguely remember buying those in London last year.

Let's move to the place they call "the kitchen". This is where the magic doesn't happen.

On the menu for tonight: freshly bought McDonalds :) We don't have Burger King or White Castle or Gordon Ramsey or any of those fancy and foreign things you people take for granted. I like to go out to my favourite restaurants more than having take outs because it's about the dining experience. When I want a home cooked meal, I go to my mom's house or get a friend to come over and cook.

I have many cookbooks which my mom and other worried females bought me. They probably hope and pray that it will inspire me to actually follow a recipe accurately and not burn the house down like my last failed attempt, but sadly I will not give in to these manipulative gestures. However: I do bake. In fact, I love baking. I love cakes and tarts and anything sweet.

I've actually made the recipe on the left and twelve glasses of water later I felt much better. It's a very rich and moist cake, but worth the heartburn 100%.

Where are my manners: you must be swallowing your tongue of thirst by now! I know I am from all this talking. I didn't have time to go out and buy any new liquor so stop bitching and just take the glass! I apologise for the set up: I used to have a wine rack, but the bottles looked so uncomfortable in there and it was just another place for creepy insects to rest so I decided to put everything in the kitchen underneath the glass shelf as I'm all for easy access ;)

Very similar to Australia: when you are invited to a person's house, you take your own liquor and when they say it's a "Bring and Braai" (braai = BBQ) you have to take your own meat as well because we are cheap bastards and meat is bloody expensive these days. Thus: I never keep any wine on the shelf as people have such varied tastes and I can only please so many men, sorry, guests at once.

I hope you enjoyed the show. It was lovely having you over. After you've helped me clean up the mess I've made, you can leave.

Oh, I almost forgot about Lucy! There she is with her baby Molly. What, did you think I have a REAL giraffe in my backyard?! We're not in the bloody WILD, man! It's only Africa.