Mortification, there is nothing like it.
You would think that the older you get, the more you would learn from your mistakes and not make them again.
Unfortunately I tend to have the habit of making the same mistakes over and over, especially when it comes to men.
For example:
I always go for the bad boys, the worse they treat me, the more I like them. The saying: ‘Treat em mean, keep em keen’ was made for girls like me.
When Oprah first publicised ‘He’s just not that into you’ I zoomed to the shops and read it cover to cover.
I was one of the ‘yup he REALLY REALLY isn’t into you’ kind of girls. It didn’t stop me, bad boys are like a crack addiction, you know it’s so bad for you, but you love it so much, you just can’t give it up.
And you would think that by the age of almost 28 after having my fingers burned countless times I would learn. But no.
I remember back in my hey day, I had such a wonderful, good looking and kind boyfriend who would have done anything for me. He told me I was funny, pretty and perfect wife material. He wanted to make me roasts on Sunday and snuggle up and watch dvds.
But then the irresistibly posh, disgustingly smug and gorgeous looking bad boy from my office started sending me filthy emails.
I loved it. I couldn’t get enough. I was like f*** the boyfriend, let’s shag and shag the filthy bad boy.
So I did on numerous occasions - and after a while I felt bad for shagging 2 boys at once, so I dumped the boyfriend for the filthy bad boy. Said bad boy (obviously) dropped me like a hot potato as soon as he found out I had dumped my darling boyfriend. And now the kind, lovely boyfriend is about to be engaged to his faithful new girlfriend..
Karma can be a bitch.
Needless to say I am doggedly trying to find the ‘Mr Perfect’ which is absolutely impossible as he doesn’t really exist as we all know. I think I need to lower my standards BIG time.
But to make it worse, I keep on making such terrible faux pas (plural?) and what is worse… I have done it in writing. The problem with social media these days is that you get to stalk your exes on Facebook, follow Ashton Kutcher on Twitter and check out your ex hot boss on LinkedIn, however sending a message can be detrimental to your reputation as it is smack bang there in black and white.
So now I am having an absolute cringe - worthy, spine shivering, ‘ok blind’ experience as I sent a hot guy a private message on Facebook – 2 weeks ago. And guess what? No response. And I know he has been on Facebook. So now I have horrifying images of him taking a screen grab of my message and sending it to his friends labelling me the bunny boiler like Demi Moore in Fatal Attraction.
Seriously, I need help. Can someone please, please wean me off my bad boy addiction?
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Teeth
I wonder how many other girls feel the same way about...teeth.
I know that I am rather fussy when it comes to boys' looks but the one think I thing is an 'ay or nay' is teeth. When I lived in London I used to shudder at those tea stained, neglected teeth of many Brits who would rather spend money on a Man U football shirt than go to the dentist. However, in their defense I was pleasantly surprised as a lot of the men do have lovely sparklers.
I had an ex boyfriend once who was stubborn about brushing his teeth. He preferred to go to bed with 'the taste of food in his mouth'. How I put up with that I have absolutely no idea.
But I recently finished a very very brief fling with a British guy and upon recollection, I never saw his teeth. And come to think of it, his lips were really thin so I have no idea how he managed to hide them. With increasing horror I thought, well maybe that's why he's not keen - he has no teeth!
So, I think the moral of this story is: Always check out a prospective mate's, if you can't see them, they must be hiding something!
I know that I am rather fussy when it comes to boys' looks but the one think I thing is an 'ay or nay' is teeth. When I lived in London I used to shudder at those tea stained, neglected teeth of many Brits who would rather spend money on a Man U football shirt than go to the dentist. However, in their defense I was pleasantly surprised as a lot of the men do have lovely sparklers.
I had an ex boyfriend once who was stubborn about brushing his teeth. He preferred to go to bed with 'the taste of food in his mouth'. How I put up with that I have absolutely no idea.
But I recently finished a very very brief fling with a British guy and upon recollection, I never saw his teeth. And come to think of it, his lips were really thin so I have no idea how he managed to hide them. With increasing horror I thought, well maybe that's why he's not keen - he has no teeth!
So, I think the moral of this story is: Always check out a prospective mate's, if you can't see them, they must be hiding something!
Friday, March 18, 2011
BBMing and Whatsapping
Technology is brilliant and fascinating, it's growing at such a rapid rate that I can barely keep track and I'm 27. I still remember getting my first cell phone at school... it was one of those brick Nokias that weighed about 3kgs and you had to pull the arial out. Before that I had a 'beeper' remember those? Now my stepsister tells me everyone plugs their iPhones and Blackberries into charge during class.
So I love the whole BBming and Whatsapp vibe. But I want to know what guys think about it as I am equally tormented yet thrilled at the whole tick with the 'R' for read delivery notes. So I have spent some agonizing hours thinking ok:
'The only reason he is writing back is because he knows that I know he has read the message and he feels he has no choice'.
Or worse, when you can see they have read your message but don't write back.
I actually did this the other day and felt a smug satisfaction at him having seen that I had read the message but not replied. I did this deliberately and he obviously took the hint as not another word has been exchanged since. The twat.
But I think at the end of the day, if a guy likes you, he can do more than BBM/Whatsapp and rather pick up the phone and say 'hi, how would you like to go out?'
If that is too much to ask, he could just send me a hot naked pic of himself -that would suffice.
So I love the whole BBming and Whatsapp vibe. But I want to know what guys think about it as I am equally tormented yet thrilled at the whole tick with the 'R' for read delivery notes. So I have spent some agonizing hours thinking ok:
'The only reason he is writing back is because he knows that I know he has read the message and he feels he has no choice'.
Or worse, when you can see they have read your message but don't write back.
I actually did this the other day and felt a smug satisfaction at him having seen that I had read the message but not replied. I did this deliberately and he obviously took the hint as not another word has been exchanged since. The twat.
But I think at the end of the day, if a guy likes you, he can do more than BBM/Whatsapp and rather pick up the phone and say 'hi, how would you like to go out?'
If that is too much to ask, he could just send me a hot naked pic of himself -that would suffice.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Teenage angst
Sometimes I quite like to 'hang' with my 16 year old sister. She is funny and opens up my eyes to the world of teenagers again. I was quite convinced that I was like 'in with the crew' but quite frankly the age gap is pretty much the same as the dad in 'Modern Family' who says 'Yo homie what's up' to his daughter's boyfriend.
I often also forget how old my stepsisters are because they have grown up so quickly or slowly for that matter.
So the other day I was like:
'Lisa, why aren't you driving yet?'
Her response: 'Uh because you need to be 18 to drive, like obviously...'
My response: 'So why don't you have your learners?'
Her response: 'Because you need to be 17 to have your learners obviously...'
Ok so this is how I figured out for about the 100th time she is only 16. But the other stepbrat Katie is 18.
I was greatly entertained when Lisa told me how much she liked 'Rammstein' which I hear is a satanic band where they sacrifice cats on stage. She thinks this is hilarious as apparently they only spit burning booze into people's eyes occasionally! So now she wants me to accompany her to rammfest whatever the hell that is. I was going to play the cool older sister and be her '+18' till I heard it was in Midrand...forget it, I don't leave the parks of JHB!
She also told me that most of her grade (in my day it was standards) is clinically depressed and quite literally on anti depressants. To which I was like 'WTF - they are teenagers for god sakes, they are supposed to be morose and depressed and hate their parents and teachers.' Seriously, Doctors and parents are way too indulgent went it comes to prescriptions for horrible little teenagers these days.
Last but not least I gave one of them earnest advice when she was complaining that she had put on weight so I told her to get on with it and 'start sticking her fingers down her throat like the rest of her grade.'
Now that's what I call being a good sister.
I just want to have as high expectations for the steps as Asian Dad has for his kids:
I often also forget how old my stepsisters are because they have grown up so quickly or slowly for that matter.
So the other day I was like:
'Lisa, why aren't you driving yet?'
Her response: 'Uh because you need to be 18 to drive, like obviously...'
My response: 'So why don't you have your learners?'
Her response: 'Because you need to be 17 to have your learners obviously...'
Ok so this is how I figured out for about the 100th time she is only 16. But the other stepbrat Katie is 18.
I was greatly entertained when Lisa told me how much she liked 'Rammstein' which I hear is a satanic band where they sacrifice cats on stage. She thinks this is hilarious as apparently they only spit burning booze into people's eyes occasionally! So now she wants me to accompany her to rammfest whatever the hell that is. I was going to play the cool older sister and be her '+18' till I heard it was in Midrand...forget it, I don't leave the parks of JHB!
She also told me that most of her grade (in my day it was standards) is clinically depressed and quite literally on anti depressants. To which I was like 'WTF - they are teenagers for god sakes, they are supposed to be morose and depressed and hate their parents and teachers.' Seriously, Doctors and parents are way too indulgent went it comes to prescriptions for horrible little teenagers these days.
Last but not least I gave one of them earnest advice when she was complaining that she had put on weight so I told her to get on with it and 'start sticking her fingers down her throat like the rest of her grade.'
Now that's what I call being a good sister.
I just want to have as high expectations for the steps as Asian Dad has for his kids:
Monday, March 7, 2011
Too posh to push?
This is what the Brits call having a 'Caesar' which I wholeheartedly agree with.
I like the Brits. I like the fact that they 'try to be classless' but are the most class/society driven nation that I have encountered. I mean, just look at Tatler magazine... It shows you the 'who's who' of British society and advises on what Lords are single and have castles in Scottish hills.
I also love the society pages at the back, especially where they show for example :' Viscountess of ra ra land who had her 18th Birthday party at the Royal Albert Hall where Cirque Du Soleil created a special ensemble especially for her, was wearing Balenciaga couture and Van Cleef and Arpels emeralds.' Those poor, poor poshos. They must live SUCH a tough life!
In my 5 years in London, I frantically searched for a quiet, conservative Lord/Baron/Fortune 500 heir, and I wasn't fussy, I didn't mind the gingers, the freckles, the white potbellies or the slightly squint left eye, unfortunately none of them liked said South African lady for that much time, they preferred to gallop with their own breed: Pale, posh, buck toothed British girls with similar titles who can shoot clay pigeons and reside at the family estate close to Balmoral.
I mean, I think the closest I ever got to a title was bumping uglies with Tony Blair's godson.
Pity I can't even remember his name so I could Facestalk him.
But on the note of Poshos, I had to laugh at my old friend from primary school's email to me about her view on this guy she WAS dating:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Went out with XXX on Friday but I think i am going to end it with him ebcause although we have fun- we are just way too different.
1) He dislikes posh people- whereas I strive to be a posh person
2) He does not like Fulham / Parsons Green as he thinks it is too snobby- well I believe location location location.
3) He does not believe in Private schooling- whatever!
I just think that we want completely different things out of life- so no point in pushing it.
Love XXX
(Posh and proud to be posh)
GOT to love her for her frankness!
I like the Brits. I like the fact that they 'try to be classless' but are the most class/society driven nation that I have encountered. I mean, just look at Tatler magazine... It shows you the 'who's who' of British society and advises on what Lords are single and have castles in Scottish hills.
I also love the society pages at the back, especially where they show for example :' Viscountess of ra ra land who had her 18th Birthday party at the Royal Albert Hall where Cirque Du Soleil created a special ensemble especially for her, was wearing Balenciaga couture and Van Cleef and Arpels emeralds.' Those poor, poor poshos. They must live SUCH a tough life!
In my 5 years in London, I frantically searched for a quiet, conservative Lord/Baron/Fortune 500 heir, and I wasn't fussy, I didn't mind the gingers, the freckles, the white potbellies or the slightly squint left eye, unfortunately none of them liked said South African lady for that much time, they preferred to gallop with their own breed: Pale, posh, buck toothed British girls with similar titles who can shoot clay pigeons and reside at the family estate close to Balmoral.
I mean, I think the closest I ever got to a title was bumping uglies with Tony Blair's godson.
Pity I can't even remember his name so I could Facestalk him.
But on the note of Poshos, I had to laugh at my old friend from primary school's email to me about her view on this guy she WAS dating:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Went out with XXX on Friday but I think i am going to end it with him ebcause although we have fun- we are just way too different.
1) He dislikes posh people- whereas I strive to be a posh person
2) He does not like Fulham / Parsons Green as he thinks it is too snobby- well I believe location location location.
3) He does not believe in Private schooling- whatever!
I just think that we want completely different things out of life- so no point in pushing it.
Love XXX
(Posh and proud to be posh)
GOT to love her for her frankness!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
My idol
Blair Waldorf from Gossip Girl is the best. She is beautiful, wealthy, impeccably turned out and has the sharpest wit and best quotes. Not to mention Chuck Bass gave her a Harry Winston diamond. Sigh.
My best quotes from her are:
'Once men have tasted caviar, it baffles me how they settle for catfish.'
and another
and let's not forget her gorgeous pout and fabulous alice bands!
My best quotes from her are:
'Once men have tasted caviar, it baffles me how they settle for catfish.'
and another
and let's not forget her gorgeous pout and fabulous alice bands!
To shag or not to shag?
All I want to know from any red blooded heterosexual males out there is:
If a girl who likes a boy and a boy who likes a girl get into the same bed (they haven't kissed yet) and the electricity is palpable, one would expect the male to make a move and at least try to kiss said girl, n'est pas?
Ok so say we know someone (someone's cousin's, mother's brother) who had this situation and the guy DIDN'T make a move...
Can one assume that he is one of the following:
1.) Gay
2.) Has an std like genital herpes
3.) Has a really small willy
4.) Has a really big willy
5.) Has a secret girlfrind/ fiancee/wife
6.) Just not that into you
7.) Chronically shy
8.) Or quite frankly just a gentleman?
If a girl who likes a boy and a boy who likes a girl get into the same bed (they haven't kissed yet) and the electricity is palpable, one would expect the male to make a move and at least try to kiss said girl, n'est pas?
Ok so say we know someone (someone's cousin's, mother's brother) who had this situation and the guy DIDN'T make a move...
Can one assume that he is one of the following:
1.) Gay
2.) Has an std like genital herpes
3.) Has a really small willy
4.) Has a really big willy
5.) Has a secret girlfrind/ fiancee/wife
6.) Just not that into you
7.) Chronically shy
8.) Or quite frankly just a gentleman?
Thursday, February 24, 2011
White white wine...
I am kind of singing the song, you know the one that goes 'Red red wine' by the Beejees, Gypsy Kings, Bob Marley or whomever actually sings it. If anyone heard my singing they wouldn't know who I was talking about anyway.
I question why no-one has ever praised or lambasted white, white wine in a song...
Let me tell you most of my friends and I have an irrevocable relationship with this lovely nectar.
White wine can be like your best friend or your worst enemy. It's like Bridget Jones's nemesis in the movie, that sickly sweet girl she names 'The jellyfish' who can be sooo nice but then let's out a lashing sting without any warning.
But like many women, white wine can be temperamental. Sometimes I can drink a bottle and be like, as sober as a cobra. Other times I can have 2 glasses and feel absolutely paralytic. Most of the time, I feel utterly fabulous and confident- like I really do have the best time ever and do you know what, after 2 glasses, I love to give my opinion and advice, I just know I have the best advice to give at that present moment and it makes it even better when you have a cigarette in hand and gorgeous Hotel Costes music pumping in the background.
And why get 2 glasses psshhhh, what a waste, when you can get a bottle, it's much cheaper I say. My friends and I always start off with, 'ok let's meet for 1 glass of wine'. I don't think it has ever been one glass. Either the night ends in frayed tempers, dancing on tables, or the placatory ...'it's ok he's a nice guy, I've known him for 2 hours, he's cool!'
White wine is also horrid because it gives you possibly the worst hangover in the world. Especially when you are in a dry climate and wake up with what feels like a dead hamster in your mouth and your pallet stuck to your tongue er or tongue stuck to pallet. With your makeup still glued on and your pillow smudged with mascara and your clothes lying in a crumpled heap next to the bed.
I fail to comprehend that something that tastes so nice, that can give you such a warm, fuzzy feeling or other times this sense of disquiet, yet calm and confident streak, can leave one hanging over the loo bowl in a dizzy mess thinking that death would be preferable the next day.
Here are some classic faux pas that some of my friends who shall remain nameless and me have done while under the influence:
- Spanked strangers and friends and even her little brother with a bread board that we said looked more like a sex paddle. Needless to say the only thing it's christened is bums.
- Sent a druken facebook message to said love of life with this looong message which when realised how long it was, shortened it to 'Simon = whatever' OMG cringe
- Had sex with ugly men who were like Brad Pitt the night before (ahem wine goggles)
- Had sex with own housemates
- Stomped foot and insisted on staying night at new crush's house even though you haven't smooched yet
- Admitted to sexual fantasies about Simon Cowell
- Accused best friend of stealing Woolies card and handbag
- Pretended to be Danish and ask for a cigarette in said fake accent
- Fallen alseep in the bath naked with bath mat as blanket
- Puked in a cab
- Drunken dialled parents (yup not even a crush)
- Danced in lounge to Whitney Houston...by yourself
- Shouted at a guy for not committing and wanting children on a 1st date
- Jumped on your best friend's boyfriend's brother in wait for it your best friend's brother's who used to be your boyfriend's bed, yup that's true
My verdict to this travesty? Drink champers instead, it gets you less drunk, less quickly.
Cheers
xoxo
-
I question why no-one has ever praised or lambasted white, white wine in a song...
Let me tell you most of my friends and I have an irrevocable relationship with this lovely nectar.
White wine can be like your best friend or your worst enemy. It's like Bridget Jones's nemesis in the movie, that sickly sweet girl she names 'The jellyfish' who can be sooo nice but then let's out a lashing sting without any warning.
But like many women, white wine can be temperamental. Sometimes I can drink a bottle and be like, as sober as a cobra. Other times I can have 2 glasses and feel absolutely paralytic. Most of the time, I feel utterly fabulous and confident- like I really do have the best time ever and do you know what, after 2 glasses, I love to give my opinion and advice, I just know I have the best advice to give at that present moment and it makes it even better when you have a cigarette in hand and gorgeous Hotel Costes music pumping in the background.
And why get 2 glasses psshhhh, what a waste, when you can get a bottle, it's much cheaper I say. My friends and I always start off with, 'ok let's meet for 1 glass of wine'. I don't think it has ever been one glass. Either the night ends in frayed tempers, dancing on tables, or the placatory ...'it's ok he's a nice guy, I've known him for 2 hours, he's cool!'
White wine is also horrid because it gives you possibly the worst hangover in the world. Especially when you are in a dry climate and wake up with what feels like a dead hamster in your mouth and your pallet stuck to your tongue er or tongue stuck to pallet. With your makeup still glued on and your pillow smudged with mascara and your clothes lying in a crumpled heap next to the bed.
I fail to comprehend that something that tastes so nice, that can give you such a warm, fuzzy feeling or other times this sense of disquiet, yet calm and confident streak, can leave one hanging over the loo bowl in a dizzy mess thinking that death would be preferable the next day.
Here are some classic faux pas that some of my friends who shall remain nameless and me have done while under the influence:
- Spanked strangers and friends and even her little brother with a bread board that we said looked more like a sex paddle. Needless to say the only thing it's christened is bums.
- Sent a druken facebook message to said love of life with this looong message which when realised how long it was, shortened it to 'Simon = whatever' OMG cringe
- Had sex with ugly men who were like Brad Pitt the night before (ahem wine goggles)
- Had sex with own housemates
- Stomped foot and insisted on staying night at new crush's house even though you haven't smooched yet
- Admitted to sexual fantasies about Simon Cowell
- Accused best friend of stealing Woolies card and handbag
- Pretended to be Danish and ask for a cigarette in said fake accent
- Fallen alseep in the bath naked with bath mat as blanket
- Puked in a cab
- Drunken dialled parents (yup not even a crush)
- Danced in lounge to Whitney Houston...by yourself
- Shouted at a guy for not committing and wanting children on a 1st date
- Jumped on your best friend's boyfriend's brother in wait for it your best friend's brother's who used to be your boyfriend's bed, yup that's true
My verdict to this travesty? Drink champers instead, it gets you less drunk, less quickly.
Cheers
xoxo
-
To be OCD or not to be OCD
I would like to know if this recital I have in my head is a product of being an only child or it is something everyone does but rarely talks about.
Sometimes when I do things, like for instance put my contact lenses in (clear contacts due to my piercing blue eyes) I say to myself: 'Ok you have, have to, get your contacts in the 1st time because if you don't, you will never have sex again.'
Or I will be driving to the shops and say to myself 'if you don't reach the shops by 22.22, you will...never have sex again'
Or I will be walking briskly on the pavement and I try to hop, skip and jump over the cracks and only walk on the flagstones and I say to myself...' Ok if you stand on the crack, you will never have sex again'
Or I will lock my door and being fully aware that I have locked the door, go back not once, but twice and check it is firmly locked...or never have sex again.
Or I will get a text message and I will think in my head: 'Oh please please let it be him, but if it isn't and rather a text from a friend, I will NEVER hear from him again and guess what I will never have sex again....'
I must admit it's not always the 'I'll never have sex again' quote at the end, but to me I think this is the WORST CASE SCENARIO anyone could ever be in so maybe that's why I tend to use it a lot.
I do find though that the older I get, the more OCD I become. For example, if I go to a restaurant and the serviette, knife and fork is on my right I will move it to the left, because it goes.on.the.left in my opinion. OK?? Also if someone puts my wineglass on the left hand side...no no no! It must be on the right, perfectly aligned with the knife.
Similarly when someone takes plates away when other people are still eating...hmm this makes me uppity. And stacking, tsk tsk. This is not to say that I don't mind doing this, it's just when you go to a restaurant you expect them to know to wait for everyone to finish.
I kind of get OCD in other ways, sometimes, sometimes, to be honest to get attention. One time in London, I went to a BBQ. I had to face a very brief ex date who had f***** off to the Caribbean without a backward glance and now had to face me after his rude behaviour. Anyway I had bigger fish to fry. I was smitten by a hottie that I have known as a friend forever.
Needless to say that I got onto the bus with said hottie and another drunken friend who kept on slurring 'You're beautiful' from the row behind me. I was acting like a little priss (think Bree Van De Kamp from Desperate Housewives) and vigorously wiping my hands with hand hygiene gel and wrinkling my nose. I visibly sighed when we got to the place in Fulham where we were going to, as I heard a horrendous ablution story about a person leaving the dancefloor in disrepair, needless to say after flicking and flouncing my hair and trotting about with my nose in the air, I left the hottie intrigued but sans smooch. I heard later that he had in fact tired to follow me but I had ponied away too quickly. Damn!! Sometimes being over clean and anal (so to speak) appeals to men.
Going back to my point of my little OCD quirk, to sum up I MUST have:
-not put my contacts in first time
-not reached the shop by 22.22
-and stepped on every crack whilst walking briskly
FML.
Sometimes when I do things, like for instance put my contact lenses in (clear contacts due to my piercing blue eyes) I say to myself: 'Ok you have, have to, get your contacts in the 1st time because if you don't, you will never have sex again.'
Or I will be driving to the shops and say to myself 'if you don't reach the shops by 22.22, you will...never have sex again'
Or I will be walking briskly on the pavement and I try to hop, skip and jump over the cracks and only walk on the flagstones and I say to myself...' Ok if you stand on the crack, you will never have sex again'
Or I will lock my door and being fully aware that I have locked the door, go back not once, but twice and check it is firmly locked...or never have sex again.
Or I will get a text message and I will think in my head: 'Oh please please let it be him, but if it isn't and rather a text from a friend, I will NEVER hear from him again and guess what I will never have sex again....'
I must admit it's not always the 'I'll never have sex again' quote at the end, but to me I think this is the WORST CASE SCENARIO anyone could ever be in so maybe that's why I tend to use it a lot.
I do find though that the older I get, the more OCD I become. For example, if I go to a restaurant and the serviette, knife and fork is on my right I will move it to the left, because it goes.on.the.left in my opinion. OK?? Also if someone puts my wineglass on the left hand side...no no no! It must be on the right, perfectly aligned with the knife.
Similarly when someone takes plates away when other people are still eating...hmm this makes me uppity. And stacking, tsk tsk. This is not to say that I don't mind doing this, it's just when you go to a restaurant you expect them to know to wait for everyone to finish.
I kind of get OCD in other ways, sometimes, sometimes, to be honest to get attention. One time in London, I went to a BBQ. I had to face a very brief ex date who had f***** off to the Caribbean without a backward glance and now had to face me after his rude behaviour. Anyway I had bigger fish to fry. I was smitten by a hottie that I have known as a friend forever.
Needless to say that I got onto the bus with said hottie and another drunken friend who kept on slurring 'You're beautiful' from the row behind me. I was acting like a little priss (think Bree Van De Kamp from Desperate Housewives) and vigorously wiping my hands with hand hygiene gel and wrinkling my nose. I visibly sighed when we got to the place in Fulham where we were going to, as I heard a horrendous ablution story about a person leaving the dancefloor in disrepair, needless to say after flicking and flouncing my hair and trotting about with my nose in the air, I left the hottie intrigued but sans smooch. I heard later that he had in fact tired to follow me but I had ponied away too quickly. Damn!! Sometimes being over clean and anal (so to speak) appeals to men.
Going back to my point of my little OCD quirk, to sum up I MUST have:
-not put my contacts in first time
-not reached the shop by 22.22
-and stepped on every crack whilst walking briskly
FML.
The Barbara saga continued and my new hair
Ok this story just gets worse and worse. I told everyone in my office that my trainer told me I looked like Barbara Streisand. Firstly they asked if the trainer was gay...apparently gay men LOVE Old Barbs and then they tried to console me by saying that 'you look like Barbara in her youth'. To which I googled 'A Young Barbara Streisand'. This is what came up. WTF.
Anyway so I decided to have a drastic haircut with Bangs (aka fringe) and try to look like the absolute gorgeous Rose Byrne from that fantastic, nail gripping legal drama 'Damages'. This is Rose Byrne:
So I had it done and some people were very complimentary.
Others weren't as kind.
- My mother asked if the hairdresser had a hangover when she cut my hair
- My gay uncle told me I looked like...Barbie
- I got told I look like a JAP (Jewish American Princess - I get this a lot and take it as a compliment, I want to marry a Jewish guy and don't mind Mighaing, I mean, if they look after their wives as well as they look after their mothers, I am sorted).
- I also took a self portrait of myself and whatsapped it to mates in London, one didn't believe it was me, she thought I took a snap of some quasi chinese Victoria Beckham
Needless to say I love it, I mean who doesn't love a BANG?
Anyway so I decided to have a drastic haircut with Bangs (aka fringe) and try to look like the absolute gorgeous Rose Byrne from that fantastic, nail gripping legal drama 'Damages'. This is Rose Byrne:
So I had it done and some people were very complimentary.
Others weren't as kind.
- My mother asked if the hairdresser had a hangover when she cut my hair
- My gay uncle told me I looked like...Barbie
- I got told I look like a JAP (Jewish American Princess - I get this a lot and take it as a compliment, I want to marry a Jewish guy and don't mind Mighaing, I mean, if they look after their wives as well as they look after their mothers, I am sorted).
- I also took a self portrait of myself and whatsapped it to mates in London, one didn't believe it was me, she thought I took a snap of some quasi chinese Victoria Beckham
Needless to say I love it, I mean who doesn't love a BANG?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Barbara Streisand and me at the gym
Last night I eventually succumbed to going to a personal trainer. The overeager sales rep who was bursting to get my John Hancock on the dotted line recommended this guy. I enquired whether there were any women trainers as I feel more comfortable with them. Apparently there are no women trainers. Hmm this made me feel slightly suspicious. I looked around the place and it is predominantly dominated by big, buff over-muscled men who are probably on steriods and have tiny dicks. Maybe they harassed all the women till they left.
Anyway all of the trainers have those cheesy pics up on the wall, you know the ones, with their arms crossed and their biceps bulging. I chose the oldest guy with grey hair, less chance of him being a dodgy perve. He eventually phones me about 5 days later, talk about great service, and we arrange a time to meet up. So I meet up with him last night and he frogmarches me to the treadmill. 'What do you want to work on?' he asks abruptly. 'Um I thought that's what you were supposed to tell me?' I enquire. Great start, he is clearly lacking in professionalism and service. I tell him the obvious: 'I want to focus on overall weight loss and toning of arms etc.' He then minces to the floor mat where he says 'I work very quickly, you know' and then proceeds to make me do pelvic thrusts on a pilates ball in front of about 10 men. I almost died. I used to train out at Virgin in London, at least they have a women only section. Pity Planet Fitness sucks.
So while I am panting and pelvic thrusting, he is checking out the breakdancers spinning on their heads next to me. (I kid you not). He then makes me do so many exercises with dumbbells I almost expire. We then move onto the weight machines which he says aren't effective but he makes me do them anyway. I'm struggling to lift the weights, (please bear in mind that I haven't exercised in 3 months) and he exclaims: 'Are you serious? You can't lift this? You are like soo weak..' I retort 'Um that is quite rude' meanwhile I'm raging inside....'Shut the fuck up you mothertrucker, I am your client, just zip it and nip it.' Ok so now he is seriously hacking me off. Oh and he is also speaking in a fake french accent and keeps on saying 'D'accord?' in his high pitched voice and when I try to respond in french, he looks at me blankly. GRRR. Last but not least, he asks me whether anyone has ever told me I look like Barbara Streisand? At this I snapped 'No because that's the biggest insult I have ever heard.' Ok that is apart from when a random dude told me I looked like Fred Durst from Limp Biskit. But I think this was his inadvertent, reverse pyschology way of getting into my pants.
So horrible trainer was like 'But I think Barbara's beautiful.' Seriously I have never been so enraged. So now I'm paranoid that I need a nose job but oh god, I've just had a boob job. If I'm not careful I might end up looking like Heidi Montag that has-been from 'The Hills.'
Needless to say, I refuse to go back to him, the bitch.
I mean, Barbara and I may both be performers - but that's where the similarity ends.
Anyway all of the trainers have those cheesy pics up on the wall, you know the ones, with their arms crossed and their biceps bulging. I chose the oldest guy with grey hair, less chance of him being a dodgy perve. He eventually phones me about 5 days later, talk about great service, and we arrange a time to meet up. So I meet up with him last night and he frogmarches me to the treadmill. 'What do you want to work on?' he asks abruptly. 'Um I thought that's what you were supposed to tell me?' I enquire. Great start, he is clearly lacking in professionalism and service. I tell him the obvious: 'I want to focus on overall weight loss and toning of arms etc.' He then minces to the floor mat where he says 'I work very quickly, you know' and then proceeds to make me do pelvic thrusts on a pilates ball in front of about 10 men. I almost died. I used to train out at Virgin in London, at least they have a women only section. Pity Planet Fitness sucks.
So while I am panting and pelvic thrusting, he is checking out the breakdancers spinning on their heads next to me. (I kid you not). He then makes me do so many exercises with dumbbells I almost expire. We then move onto the weight machines which he says aren't effective but he makes me do them anyway. I'm struggling to lift the weights, (please bear in mind that I haven't exercised in 3 months) and he exclaims: 'Are you serious? You can't lift this? You are like soo weak..' I retort 'Um that is quite rude' meanwhile I'm raging inside....'Shut the fuck up you mothertrucker, I am your client, just zip it and nip it.' Ok so now he is seriously hacking me off. Oh and he is also speaking in a fake french accent and keeps on saying 'D'accord?' in his high pitched voice and when I try to respond in french, he looks at me blankly. GRRR. Last but not least, he asks me whether anyone has ever told me I look like Barbara Streisand? At this I snapped 'No because that's the biggest insult I have ever heard.' Ok that is apart from when a random dude told me I looked like Fred Durst from Limp Biskit. But I think this was his inadvertent, reverse pyschology way of getting into my pants.
So horrible trainer was like 'But I think Barbara's beautiful.' Seriously I have never been so enraged. So now I'm paranoid that I need a nose job but oh god, I've just had a boob job. If I'm not careful I might end up looking like Heidi Montag that has-been from 'The Hills.'
Needless to say, I refuse to go back to him, the bitch.
I mean, Barbara and I may both be performers - but that's where the similarity ends.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Yoga
So last night I went to my first yoga class at my new gym. I was immediately sceptical as the teacher, no offence to her, had the biggest ass I have ever seen. (Similarly my dietitian looks like a fat buddha, WTF, it's like having a dentist with rotten teeth).
Back to yoga instructor, surely she should look like an emaciated stick insect and make all the bulimics in the room do a little mock charge in excitement?
I also always look at the people in the class: Indians (obvious), the normal slightly overweight white ladies like me, the skeletal bored housewife who is probably banging her trainer and then of course there always has to be the one straight man. He enters the room, chest puffed up in pride and you just know he is saying in his head: 'I am MAN enough to be in this class. I know who I am, I am straight but I am metro.I do yoga because I believe in the flexibility it gives me.' You can just imagine him beating his chest like a silverback gorilla. He is of course also wearing tiny shorts where you can see his tiny budgie wrestling to escape the barriers of lycra. My best thing about all men in yoga classes is that they almost have to prove to everyone else that they know how to breathe properly, so now one has to get used to these deep inhales and exhales because you must know, you MUST know he is a big man in the lung department and he wants everyone to know it. Quite frankly, I much prefer pouffs in yoga, at least they shave their legs and know how to breathe quietly.
Back to yoga instructor, surely she should look like an emaciated stick insect and make all the bulimics in the room do a little mock charge in excitement?
I also always look at the people in the class: Indians (obvious), the normal slightly overweight white ladies like me, the skeletal bored housewife who is probably banging her trainer and then of course there always has to be the one straight man. He enters the room, chest puffed up in pride and you just know he is saying in his head: 'I am MAN enough to be in this class. I know who I am, I am straight but I am metro.I do yoga because I believe in the flexibility it gives me.' You can just imagine him beating his chest like a silverback gorilla. He is of course also wearing tiny shorts where you can see his tiny budgie wrestling to escape the barriers of lycra. My best thing about all men in yoga classes is that they almost have to prove to everyone else that they know how to breathe properly, so now one has to get used to these deep inhales and exhales because you must know, you MUST know he is a big man in the lung department and he wants everyone to know it. Quite frankly, I much prefer pouffs in yoga, at least they shave their legs and know how to breathe quietly.
Dick....Tracey
I am no Dick Tracey but is Sony Ericsson going into the inflatable sex toy market?
Va Va vroom!!!
Advertising sucks...sometimes
I actually have to write this now as I am sooo unbelievably irritated by an ad. It's that really annoying radio ad for Toyota which sounds like an incontinent, mentally unstable bald guy jerking off while he sings 'Jingle Bells' and tells you to buy a Toyota. As if we haven't had enough of 'Jingle Bells', I mean give us a fucking break it's only February and we're still recovering from the Valentine's day malarkey.
It fills me with so much rage that I think on principle, I will NEVER buy a Toyota based on the sheer level of irritation and rage that is bubbling inside me. Or maybe it's the fact that I just never would drive a car that hadn't been manufactured in Germany...you know how ruthless and militant those Jerrys can be.
Marketers/advertising agencies would argue that like it or not, here I am writing about the ad therefore 'no press is bad press' and WOM (Word of Mouth) is spreading as we speak, but I will still think you (yes you, Toyota tits) are the biggest fucking twats ever who annoy people like mosquitoes in the night - I will resent you forever.
Speaking of ads, please don't even get me started on every single perfume ad where a willowy blonde wearing a slinky D&G/Givenchy/YSL/Carolina Herrera dress gyrates her crotch in the cameraman's face, licking her fingers and standing on the 'Venice-imitation' balcony whilst gazing longingly at her dumbstruck lover bent on one knee with a let me guess...red rose. I mean, cmon, seriously, seriously can they not think of anything original?
I'm trying to think of more ads I hate but there are just way too many to write about.
The only ones that stand out as being impactful/funny TV ads in my head are the following:
The VW ad for the new Beetle:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ulbjaKmKG0
The Cadburys Gorilla, old I know but it still made a huge impact in the UK when it first came out
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SP8E6ouSiC0
The Evian Roller babies
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQcVllWpwGs
The child tantrum I LOVE this
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_0bhT98g9Y
Red and Yellow taught us that there are 3 principles of advertising: ABC.
Animals, Babies, Children and judging from my above choices, they were actually spot on.
It fills me with so much rage that I think on principle, I will NEVER buy a Toyota based on the sheer level of irritation and rage that is bubbling inside me. Or maybe it's the fact that I just never would drive a car that hadn't been manufactured in Germany...you know how ruthless and militant those Jerrys can be.
Marketers/advertising agencies would argue that like it or not, here I am writing about the ad therefore 'no press is bad press' and WOM (Word of Mouth) is spreading as we speak, but I will still think you (yes you, Toyota tits) are the biggest fucking twats ever who annoy people like mosquitoes in the night - I will resent you forever.
Speaking of ads, please don't even get me started on every single perfume ad where a willowy blonde wearing a slinky D&G/Givenchy/YSL/Carolina Herrera dress gyrates her crotch in the cameraman's face, licking her fingers and standing on the 'Venice-imitation' balcony whilst gazing longingly at her dumbstruck lover bent on one knee with a let me guess...red rose. I mean, cmon, seriously, seriously can they not think of anything original?
I'm trying to think of more ads I hate but there are just way too many to write about.
The only ones that stand out as being impactful/funny TV ads in my head are the following:
The VW ad for the new Beetle:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ulbjaKmKG0
The Cadburys Gorilla, old I know but it still made a huge impact in the UK when it first came out
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SP8E6ouSiC0
The Evian Roller babies
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XQcVllWpwGs
The child tantrum I LOVE this
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_0bhT98g9Y
Red and Yellow taught us that there are 3 principles of advertising: ABC.
Animals, Babies, Children and judging from my above choices, they were actually spot on.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The difference between Blighty and Seff Africa
I have had the privilege to live in both England and South Africa and France for a bit actually, but I don't relish rehashing stories of France where I went from being a skinny 48kg Diesel jeans clad innocent teenager to being quite literally an enormous 68kg sexually tainted croissant of a teenager.
So after living in London and JHB and CT respectively let me enlighten you first on the similarities of the countries:
1a.) They both love cricket
1b.) They both have twats as cricket captains (even England has an SA captain that Kevin whatshisname)
2.) They both love Rugby even though SA wins the World Cup more
3.) They both are slightly disdainful of those other antipodeans, the Kiwis and Aussis because they are really, like common and full of convicts
4.) They both like South African girls (well some at least)
5.) It rains the same amount in Newlands and London every year (supposedly)
6.) South Africans are starting to get more into soccer post World Cup, let's just hope the chav fans don't follow suit
7.) They both work on the metric system thankfully
8.) They are both significantly class divided societies
9.) The TV advertising is equally bad
Now for the differences:
1.) The sun shines in JHB, it pisses with rain in England
2.) In JHB West Highland Terrier Dogs are white, in London they are brown with filth
3.) In JHB your skin is less spotty but more leather - like in appearance, in London you're more dirty but have youthful, alabaster skin
4.) The UK has a queen, SA has lots of queens
4b.) SA has a president from the bundu and the UK has a prime minister who went to Eton
5.) You get biltong in JHB and black pudding in the UK
6.) 'Just now' in SA means 'in a bit' in the UK
7.) A 'Monkey's wedding' is met with perplexed faces in London, someone thought I was talking about an actual monkey's 'willy'
8.) In SA there is road rage, in the UK there is tube rage, road rage, cycling rage, walking rage, bus rage you name it
9.) The teenage boys' deodorant is Ego in South Africa and Axe in the UK
10.) In SA people don't really take taxis, in the UK no-one is scared to get in a black taxi
11.) In SA we have 'Seattle Coffee Company' in London they have the real deal 'Starbucks'
12.) It's called soccer in SA and Football in England
13.) London's Hyde Park is exactly that, an enormous park filled with horses and daffodils, JHB's Hyde Park is filled with cougals and cars
14.) In SA we have hands on staff on a fulltime basis, in England you have a Polish maid once a fortnight, if you're lucky
15.) In SA good schools are private, in the UK they are public
16.) In SA, the chicks and guys are...hotter than the UK!
17.) In JHB, you have to get on a flight to East London, in London you pop on the tube and are in the heart of Shoreditch
18.) In the UK you drink diet coke, in SA it's Coke Lite
19.) In the UK everyone looks at you strangely if you ask for a 'Rock Shandy' in SA it's the most thirst quenching drink around
20.) I think there are more South Africans in SW London (especially Earlsfield) than Brits...
So after living in London and JHB and CT respectively let me enlighten you first on the similarities of the countries:
1a.) They both love cricket
1b.) They both have twats as cricket captains (even England has an SA captain that Kevin whatshisname)
2.) They both love Rugby even though SA wins the World Cup more
3.) They both are slightly disdainful of those other antipodeans, the Kiwis and Aussis because they are really, like common and full of convicts
4.) They both like South African girls (well some at least)
5.) It rains the same amount in Newlands and London every year (supposedly)
6.) South Africans are starting to get more into soccer post World Cup, let's just hope the chav fans don't follow suit
7.) They both work on the metric system thankfully
8.) They are both significantly class divided societies
9.) The TV advertising is equally bad
Now for the differences:
1.) The sun shines in JHB, it pisses with rain in England
2.) In JHB West Highland Terrier Dogs are white, in London they are brown with filth
3.) In JHB your skin is less spotty but more leather - like in appearance, in London you're more dirty but have youthful, alabaster skin
4.) The UK has a queen, SA has lots of queens
4b.) SA has a president from the bundu and the UK has a prime minister who went to Eton
5.) You get biltong in JHB and black pudding in the UK
6.) 'Just now' in SA means 'in a bit' in the UK
7.) A 'Monkey's wedding' is met with perplexed faces in London, someone thought I was talking about an actual monkey's 'willy'
8.) In SA there is road rage, in the UK there is tube rage, road rage, cycling rage, walking rage, bus rage you name it
9.) The teenage boys' deodorant is Ego in South Africa and Axe in the UK
10.) In SA people don't really take taxis, in the UK no-one is scared to get in a black taxi
11.) In SA we have 'Seattle Coffee Company' in London they have the real deal 'Starbucks'
12.) It's called soccer in SA and Football in England
13.) London's Hyde Park is exactly that, an enormous park filled with horses and daffodils, JHB's Hyde Park is filled with cougals and cars
14.) In SA we have hands on staff on a fulltime basis, in England you have a Polish maid once a fortnight, if you're lucky
15.) In SA good schools are private, in the UK they are public
16.) In SA, the chicks and guys are...hotter than the UK!
17.) In JHB, you have to get on a flight to East London, in London you pop on the tube and are in the heart of Shoreditch
18.) In the UK you drink diet coke, in SA it's Coke Lite
19.) In the UK everyone looks at you strangely if you ask for a 'Rock Shandy' in SA it's the most thirst quenching drink around
20.) I think there are more South Africans in SW London (especially Earlsfield) than Brits...
Monday, February 7, 2011
The gems and germs of India part 2
(Written in April 2010)
Good Morning again from the country that has a new Prime Minister, at least he's hot!
Conversation surrounding English politics never ceases to amuse me, terms such as up in arms, disaster and antiquated mingle with proud quotes by the wives of the leaders such as 'He's the best husband ever because he makes scrambled eggs in his dressing gown and heeled slippers'
Please, cry me a river. They're not Hilary Clinton, so they must really be shoo shooed back to lunching in Notting Hell and drinking skinny, decaf, organic, fair-trade-from the Congo-cappuccinos.
Back to the much awaited sequel of Gems and Germs, much more entertaining than 1st World Politics, don't you think? I've even sacrificed an episode of 'Desperate Housewives' to write this. Now that's sacrifice for you.
So I must say I am feeling somewhat deflated after 3 weeks back from India, whether this can be blamed on the freezing weather, mind numbing work or porn star martinis on Saturday night is up for debate...Nevertheless I recall I had got to the stage of being in Jaipur buying glittering gems?
Well after buying these glittering gems and cashmere scarves we zipped to a restaurant called LBW. (I've suddenly realised this must be a cricket innuendo).
At LBW, although we had serious Delhi Belly, we tentatively sampled the lentil balls soaked in curd and the stuffed steamed tomatoes, mmm what flavour, actually I almost threw up but never mind. After going to the truly heinous bathroom and silently cursing those lace thingies that hang off 3/4 trousers which lapped up the loo water and banged against my legs, I cast my mind to finding a 'Mango Dolly' is that not the best name for an ice lolly??
We got back to the hotel and quickly had an afternoon swim and prepped ourselves for the trip on train back to Delhi. I was excited for the Times of India again and the clean, civilized seats. OH my crisis. This first class should have had massive inverted commas around it or a skull and cross bones to warn people of the dire state of 1st class. It was dirty, filthy and brown leather - need I say more? Grubby polyester curtains threatened to rub against us, children stared at me and tried to pull my hair until I turned around growled and scowled at them and pulled out my tongue at them. I really did you know, children really should be seen and not heard. I refused to drink anything in case I needed to wee, Tia, poor girl on the other hand didn't have a choice. I truly understood the term green faced when she came back from the loo, she was shell shocked. After enduring burps and bumps in the night we got back to Delhi. I've never been so pleased to be in a dirty, dinghy yet delightful city.
The next day I think we went to explore Old Dehi, where not a lot of tourists venture. Katie had an old friend who was a seasoned 'guide' who took us around the inner city lanes of Delhi. Here we bumped about on the bicycle rickshaw and clutched onto our bags like true tourists as we ogled stooped old men painstakingly hand printing 'Bank of India' Files and watched men spit out the blood red paan and stare at us curiously.
We haggled with merchants for brightly coloured ribbon, I hand picked strings of wooden beads in burnt orange and dirty blue and we ventured into the Spice Road where pepper and curry spices made our eyes stream with tears and the narrow alleys echoed with heaving sneezes.
After the culture shock of Old Delhi, we went to the heart of the back packing district. This is where you see Canadian backpackers flaunting their maple red flags and you look in sheer amazement at the 50 year old bedraggled bearded rejectionists of the Western World searching for an answer to their lives in the heart of India. We shopped for little goodies, shopping bags adorned with elephant prints, buying beautiful scarves and the best, hand made leather jackets from 'Baba'. Baba was a great character, sitting comfortably and rather smugly in his leather chair in his air conditioned shop while we deliberated what leather jacket we wanted. Needless to say, we had handmade leather jackets tailormade for us from Yak leather nogal, at the mere price of £40 and to top it off, had them hand delivered to our door 2 days later, now that's what I called service!
At around this time we were hearing whispers of a volcanic cloud causing calamity in Europe. We laughed it off, another crisis that the UK was getting into an unnecessary flap about. A few days later we weren't laughing anymore. Try talking to 'Scare India' in Delhi. Hmm. After being lecherously followed by panting dogs of men in the Air India office we admitted defeat (much to my glee) and retired back to Katie and Guy's house where we were served freshly cut papaya and tea and toast on a tray every morning - not a problem for me! I was quite content to be stuck in India. I immediately and happily got involved in full body massages, manis, pedis and more books such as the 'Monk who sold his Ferrari'. This expat life was agreeing with me.
We had morning tea at the Imperial, oh what a decadent, colonial beautiful hotel, I adored it!
We visited Katie's tailors with her, we walked around 'New Friends Colony' and we drank Pimms in the 5 star hotel in the pool while we 'mourned' the loss of our flight. We went to the Delhi gardens and I tried to point out birds while Katie and Tia laughed at me aka the bird nerd, we visited Humrayah's tomb in the slight coolness and stillness at 8am, we admired India Gate (Arc De Triomphe of Delhi) and we explored Kahn market and drank cold chocolate drinks.
After a few days of increasing frustration at the unpronounceable volcano, Tia and I got our driver to drop us off at Neemrana Fort. See pics on Facebook for reference. It was a 14th century fort which housed royalty and has now been turned into a 'hotel that's not a hotel' er great strapline....
Anyway it's renowned as a romantic retreat and Ti and I rolled our eyes, first the Taj is supposed to be seen for the 1st time with the 'one you love' and now we were in this fort, up on a mountain, which was adorned with candlelit tables on the terrace as ferry lights twinkled in the lemon trees.
The pool was an oasis, we sat and soaked and dipped in the pool every twenty mins- you know you're getting old when you swim with hair in bun, sunglasses on face and only do breast stroke very slowly and lazily.
The first day I got extremely excited when we got the pool as there was what looked like, a single 20 something male. I looked at Tia and excitedly whispered 'Daar is in SEUN, daar is n seun!!!' I don't think I have EVER been so excited to see a boy. But unfortunately he got up and as his muscles rippled, he walked away and as my eyes travelled down his shapely calves, I saw the sight of Crocs...Need I say more?
So as there was nothing to do at this place and I was almost bored of reading, Tia wheedled with me until I eventually relented to zip line aka foofie slide down a mountain with her. WTF. We left in the morning and I made a deliberate and very obvious attempt to sulk and huff and puff the whole way up and grumble at this ghastly Xtreme adventure with harness strapped in between my legs no less. So we got to the top and the guide reeled off about 20 co-ord things to do at once and of course I was the only one to have about 3 practice attempts.
Anyway I grinned and bit the bullet. It was actually quite a whizzy, extreme rush until I got the other side of the cable with my legs in the air and my face all red with sweat and squished to see 'the seun' from the pool photographing our first zip line- great. I then discovered the gift of the zipline kept on giving, the first 400 metre cable where you fly along at 40KM/H was just the start of 1 out of 5. But after that climb up that mountain climb I was quite happy to risk my life and squeal down the mountain on a cable. We arrived back and I grudgingly admitted to Tia that it was fun, I faced my fears and got on with it.
To sum up, after Neemrana, we went back to Delhi to try and get on a flight. Unfortunately the corrupt, bureaucratic f*ckwits at the airport refused to even let me in to the airport and I cursed myself that I wasn't a Bollywood piece of *ss. After much chagrin, we got onto a flight to Paris, by the skin of our teeth. We were bumped to business, to which I laughed, if I had paid business prices for that, I would have demanded my money back. I entertained myself by watching Harry Potter in German and picked my way through Masala nuts. I was so appreciative to fly into London, the sun believe it or not was actually casting a beautiful pink glow over the city, I watched the glass of the London Eye catch the colours and reflect onto the Thames.
We arrived sans luggage but at this point I was beaming as the friendly passport official warmly welcomed me 'home'.
So I think that draws a close to my India chapter but I will leave you with a few wise words by Robin S Sharma
'Awaken yourself to the power of your own mind to make things happen. Once you do, the universe will conspire with you to make magic in your life'.
And one more for the road...
'The price of greatness is responsibility over each of your thoughts.' - Winston Churchill
Good Morning again from the country that has a new Prime Minister, at least he's hot!
Conversation surrounding English politics never ceases to amuse me, terms such as up in arms, disaster and antiquated mingle with proud quotes by the wives of the leaders such as 'He's the best husband ever because he makes scrambled eggs in his dressing gown and heeled slippers'
Please, cry me a river. They're not Hilary Clinton, so they must really be shoo shooed back to lunching in Notting Hell and drinking skinny, decaf, organic, fair-trade-from the Congo-cappuccinos.
Back to the much awaited sequel of Gems and Germs, much more entertaining than 1st World Politics, don't you think? I've even sacrificed an episode of 'Desperate Housewives' to write this. Now that's sacrifice for you.
So I must say I am feeling somewhat deflated after 3 weeks back from India, whether this can be blamed on the freezing weather, mind numbing work or porn star martinis on Saturday night is up for debate...Nevertheless I recall I had got to the stage of being in Jaipur buying glittering gems?
Well after buying these glittering gems and cashmere scarves we zipped to a restaurant called LBW. (I've suddenly realised this must be a cricket innuendo).
At LBW, although we had serious Delhi Belly, we tentatively sampled the lentil balls soaked in curd and the stuffed steamed tomatoes, mmm what flavour, actually I almost threw up but never mind. After going to the truly heinous bathroom and silently cursing those lace thingies that hang off 3/4 trousers which lapped up the loo water and banged against my legs, I cast my mind to finding a 'Mango Dolly' is that not the best name for an ice lolly??
We got back to the hotel and quickly had an afternoon swim and prepped ourselves for the trip on train back to Delhi. I was excited for the Times of India again and the clean, civilized seats. OH my crisis. This first class should have had massive inverted commas around it or a skull and cross bones to warn people of the dire state of 1st class. It was dirty, filthy and brown leather - need I say more? Grubby polyester curtains threatened to rub against us, children stared at me and tried to pull my hair until I turned around growled and scowled at them and pulled out my tongue at them. I really did you know, children really should be seen and not heard. I refused to drink anything in case I needed to wee, Tia, poor girl on the other hand didn't have a choice. I truly understood the term green faced when she came back from the loo, she was shell shocked. After enduring burps and bumps in the night we got back to Delhi. I've never been so pleased to be in a dirty, dinghy yet delightful city.
The next day I think we went to explore Old Dehi, where not a lot of tourists venture. Katie had an old friend who was a seasoned 'guide' who took us around the inner city lanes of Delhi. Here we bumped about on the bicycle rickshaw and clutched onto our bags like true tourists as we ogled stooped old men painstakingly hand printing 'Bank of India' Files and watched men spit out the blood red paan and stare at us curiously.
We haggled with merchants for brightly coloured ribbon, I hand picked strings of wooden beads in burnt orange and dirty blue and we ventured into the Spice Road where pepper and curry spices made our eyes stream with tears and the narrow alleys echoed with heaving sneezes.
After the culture shock of Old Delhi, we went to the heart of the back packing district. This is where you see Canadian backpackers flaunting their maple red flags and you look in sheer amazement at the 50 year old bedraggled bearded rejectionists of the Western World searching for an answer to their lives in the heart of India. We shopped for little goodies, shopping bags adorned with elephant prints, buying beautiful scarves and the best, hand made leather jackets from 'Baba'. Baba was a great character, sitting comfortably and rather smugly in his leather chair in his air conditioned shop while we deliberated what leather jacket we wanted. Needless to say, we had handmade leather jackets tailormade for us from Yak leather nogal, at the mere price of £40 and to top it off, had them hand delivered to our door 2 days later, now that's what I called service!
At around this time we were hearing whispers of a volcanic cloud causing calamity in Europe. We laughed it off, another crisis that the UK was getting into an unnecessary flap about. A few days later we weren't laughing anymore. Try talking to 'Scare India' in Delhi. Hmm. After being lecherously followed by panting dogs of men in the Air India office we admitted defeat (much to my glee) and retired back to Katie and Guy's house where we were served freshly cut papaya and tea and toast on a tray every morning - not a problem for me! I was quite content to be stuck in India. I immediately and happily got involved in full body massages, manis, pedis and more books such as the 'Monk who sold his Ferrari'. This expat life was agreeing with me.
We had morning tea at the Imperial, oh what a decadent, colonial beautiful hotel, I adored it!
We visited Katie's tailors with her, we walked around 'New Friends Colony' and we drank Pimms in the 5 star hotel in the pool while we 'mourned' the loss of our flight. We went to the Delhi gardens and I tried to point out birds while Katie and Tia laughed at me aka the bird nerd, we visited Humrayah's tomb in the slight coolness and stillness at 8am, we admired India Gate (Arc De Triomphe of Delhi) and we explored Kahn market and drank cold chocolate drinks.
After a few days of increasing frustration at the unpronounceable volcano, Tia and I got our driver to drop us off at Neemrana Fort. See pics on Facebook for reference. It was a 14th century fort which housed royalty and has now been turned into a 'hotel that's not a hotel' er great strapline....
Anyway it's renowned as a romantic retreat and Ti and I rolled our eyes, first the Taj is supposed to be seen for the 1st time with the 'one you love' and now we were in this fort, up on a mountain, which was adorned with candlelit tables on the terrace as ferry lights twinkled in the lemon trees.
The pool was an oasis, we sat and soaked and dipped in the pool every twenty mins- you know you're getting old when you swim with hair in bun, sunglasses on face and only do breast stroke very slowly and lazily.
The first day I got extremely excited when we got the pool as there was what looked like, a single 20 something male. I looked at Tia and excitedly whispered 'Daar is in SEUN, daar is n seun!!!' I don't think I have EVER been so excited to see a boy. But unfortunately he got up and as his muscles rippled, he walked away and as my eyes travelled down his shapely calves, I saw the sight of Crocs...Need I say more?
So as there was nothing to do at this place and I was almost bored of reading, Tia wheedled with me until I eventually relented to zip line aka foofie slide down a mountain with her. WTF. We left in the morning and I made a deliberate and very obvious attempt to sulk and huff and puff the whole way up and grumble at this ghastly Xtreme adventure with harness strapped in between my legs no less. So we got to the top and the guide reeled off about 20 co-ord things to do at once and of course I was the only one to have about 3 practice attempts.
Anyway I grinned and bit the bullet. It was actually quite a whizzy, extreme rush until I got the other side of the cable with my legs in the air and my face all red with sweat and squished to see 'the seun' from the pool photographing our first zip line- great. I then discovered the gift of the zipline kept on giving, the first 400 metre cable where you fly along at 40KM/H was just the start of 1 out of 5. But after that climb up that mountain climb I was quite happy to risk my life and squeal down the mountain on a cable. We arrived back and I grudgingly admitted to Tia that it was fun, I faced my fears and got on with it.
To sum up, after Neemrana, we went back to Delhi to try and get on a flight. Unfortunately the corrupt, bureaucratic f*ckwits at the airport refused to even let me in to the airport and I cursed myself that I wasn't a Bollywood piece of *ss. After much chagrin, we got onto a flight to Paris, by the skin of our teeth. We were bumped to business, to which I laughed, if I had paid business prices for that, I would have demanded my money back. I entertained myself by watching Harry Potter in German and picked my way through Masala nuts. I was so appreciative to fly into London, the sun believe it or not was actually casting a beautiful pink glow over the city, I watched the glass of the London Eye catch the colours and reflect onto the Thames.
We arrived sans luggage but at this point I was beaming as the friendly passport official warmly welcomed me 'home'.
So I think that draws a close to my India chapter but I will leave you with a few wise words by Robin S Sharma
'Awaken yourself to the power of your own mind to make things happen. Once you do, the universe will conspire with you to make magic in your life'.
And one more for the road...
'The price of greatness is responsibility over each of your thoughts.' - Winston Churchill
The gems and germs of India part 1
Good Evening all my fellow South Africans, Happy Freedom Day!
This may come as a shock to all you that know me as a materially obsessed, 'anorexic in mind' wannabe Blair Waldorf (for you ignoramuses she's the hot brunette in Gossip Girl.)
But I am proud to announce that I am giving up all material possessions and am going to live and practice under Yogi Sharmanana in Goa, India as of the next lunar eclipse. We practice principles such as following the dolphins' ripples in the ocean and the whispers of the palm fronds. Here we will coat ourselves in coconut milk and be blessed by Shiva and Shakti, the sacred Hindu gods.
Ok for any of you who actually believed that, tsk tsk. I've just had 2 glasses of pinot grigio (didn't have ANY in India) and 'Sharmanana' rhymes with 'Banarama' so thought I would give it a bash. So I am finally back in the Western World, who knew it held such brimming promise and virtue?
Anyway back to my extraordinary adventure in India. Ti and I jetted off on the 1st April and arrived in Delhi, this is after I loaded myself with Chanel perfume and Clinique Mascara at Duty Free where I still envisaged that I was going to look 'Safari chic'. Hmm.
We arrived in a blanket of heat at Delhi International. Katie Pitman welcomed us with beautiful marigold laurels that looked pretty until a caterpillar crawled out of mine and I almost had heart failure. I was charmed by the hooting, tooting, buzzing and heady hum of the Delhi traffic. Oh how darling the barbers and limejuice makers were, how pretty the oleanders and flame trees were that blazed along the rubbish ridden road.
Delhi made my head spin. I have never seen so many people in my life. I think they should take a leaf out of China's book in the future and implement the one child policy. It was hot, dizzying in fact, like 47 degrees Celsius, my makeup couldn't handle it, I had to resort to no makeup or hairdryer, no sleeveless tops or short skirts. Basically I had to transform from a Western hoochie into a subservient woman - ok not quite. I do tend to exaggerate. For once I wasn't lapping up the male attention that is showered on me. I thought Western men were unsubtle, but these guys take it to another level, you could basically see them leaning over the toll booth with their tongue rolling out at a piece of pale western flesh, but I guess, fair enough.
So the first weekend we went to the most stunning palace called Patardi Palace. It was built and then nurtured by Colonial England. You could just imagine 40's clad, pretty white English girls nursing Mint Juleps with their uniformed, stiff husbands standing awkwardly at their side, while their Indian servants lugged their trunks to their rooms.
It was so pretty, the gardens dripped with fragrant roses and trellises of star jasmine. Walls of vibrant tangerine and crimson bougainvillea coloured the landscape. Peacocks lazily strolled the grounds while kingfishers dived in the pool and oriels let out their haunting call. To make you jealous, Patardi Palace housed Julia Roberts and her family for a month while she filmed 'Eat, Pray, Love' and Ti and stayed in the room she stayed in, aptly named 'Pretty Woman'.
The pool was gorgeous, we drank salty lime juices as we lazily read on chaise lounges and I got stuck into Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series (ok who else thinks he was a dirty perve in real life?) We swam, we slept, we played badminton and drank pastis on the roof, and it was epic.
The next day we went to Goa. The flight was hilarious. You know how in the Western World one turns up their nose in disdain to those who dare to clap at take off? Well, no such thing in India, it was swinging Samoosa parties, cheering, chanting, standing and socializing on this ride.
We got to Goa and hitched a lift in a mini van adorned in fake tiger fur - in 40 degree Celsius humid heat. After fearing for my life after swerving donkeys, dogs and god knows what else, we arrived in Agonda in South Goa. It was beautiful and tranquil. We settled in for a couple of days and had long walks on the beach, swam in the warm sea, watched fisherman at dusk haul in their catch of the day. We admired the sacred cows on the beach and oohed and ahhhed at horses galloping at sunset. We slept, read, and practiced yoga at dawn on a roof with views of the ocean and swaying palms.
We ate curries, strangely lots of boiled eggs on toast and I drank a few mojitos and G & T's... I didn’t have one cig or hangover this holiday so I might be able to proclaim 'I am a new woman'! The first place we stayed at, reminded me of a Doll house crossed with a shack, one where every hippie had stayed in the past. But as I was with the McCarthy’s and didn’t want to substantiate that I am the biggest snob ever, I tried to tolerate the smell that exuded from the grubby sheets- I had to sleep with my Gap shirt as a pillow and Ti and I were in hysterics about the manky mosquito net. The bathroom had a pink bucket and the shower was over the loo, uh uh I couldn't deal with that after one night. Not this South African Princess.
The next day I was fully happy to fork out for ‘luxury’. Luxury came with fuchsia pink covers and zebra striped cushions next door (very Ibiza in the 90s). It was actually amazing in comparison to the last place; we had an outdoor shower, a day bed on our patio and undisturbed views of the ocean 20 meters in front of us. You know you're getting old when you appreciate silence and sanctity. No hawkers, hippies or haberdashery, just undiluted relaxation.
We went to Palolem for the day where I proceeded to confuse 50 and 500 Rupee notes and mused why the locals gave me beaming grins for a few quaint souvenirs. Drinking luke warm Pina Coladas and eating rubbery calamari, we idly watched local Indian boys get drunk with Western woman and stumble in the ocean, (for the Indian boys, it's a status to ‘kiss’ a white woman and for the Western woman, it's a bonus to get a six pack laden local boy that wants a bit of fun). Additionally, so many sari clad hawkers admired our pale skin and exclaimed that white = prosperity and freedom. How hectic but true. They were entranced by my feather earrings from Accessorize, all the men laughed at me and said the feathers were sacred, which led me to believe I was part of some cock and bull story so to speak.
After a sumptuous few days in South Goa, we moved to North Goa and went to one of the best restaurants of my entire life. A sheer cliff, dancing palm trees and the deep ocean was the centre point of this Greek restaurant in Vagadore. Wow, you have NEVER seen anything like it. The beach huts we were staying in next door were amazing and a bargain at about £8 a night! Right next to the restaurant, we were watching the sun go down and Katie and I noticed a massive splash in the sea, it was wild dolphins literally jumping out of the water, it was like Sea World gone mad. What a memorable and humbling sight!
We then moved on to uber luxury of Goa. We stayed in exquisite white canvas tents decorated with a Philippe Starke twist and even better, owned by a gorgeous French man. Splashes of turquoise and blue featured throughout the tent from the cushions, to day beds and lanterns. We went with a few expats from Delhi and it was so much fun. From the scattered pomegranate seed fruit salads in the morning to La Plage, the understated and French beach restaurant that served fresh fish and a mean cashew and green papaya salad, it was bliss.
After a dreamy week in Goa we went back to Delhi for a couple of days and then Ti and I headed to Agra to see the Taj. We know it's one of the 7 wonders of the world, but for the life of us couldn't recall all 7, can you? We took a train from Delhi and as Tia and I pondered over all of the people squatting along the railways, I got stuck into the 'Times of India', and drank Darjeeling tea and munched on sugar and aniseed as a refresher. The Taj as you can imagine was exquisite, a site to be seen. Afterwards we decided to go to the Oberoi and have lunch and splash out, it's like the poshest hotel in India hmm, like the Mount Nelson in Cape Town. I had smoked salmon and buffalo mozzarella and wine, and ironically my most expensive meal in 3 weeks made me so ill afterwards.
To add to this adventure, we were picked up by a truly psychotic driver who was taking us from Agra to Jaipur. He had his hands permanently on the hooter of his car and swerved everything from camels to downtrodden Tatas and mammoth trucks - without the bat of an eyelid. It made Hoi Chi Min and Manila look tame in comparison. I literally thought I was going to die at least 1000 times. I kept on nodding off but was rudely awakened every five minutes by the abrasive hooting. I was also desperate for the loo after glugging back liters of water and Coke out of dusty glass bottles. I looked out for a spot in the bush to go as one does in South Africa in the Karoo, as there was no ways I was going to public loos, but that's when I realised that quite literally, not a piece of India is left to the land, there are people EVERYWHERE!
Said ‘acid’ ridden driver drove us to Jaipur, the 'Pink City', in Rajasthan. It was painted Pink when Queen Elizabeth or some such royalty visited and the tradition and ceremony has remained. We arrived at sunset, just as the sun cast a rosy glow on the city. It looked like a burning ember; I will never forget the colours and energy of Jaipur. We got to our hotel and immediately jumped into the pool, a little hidden oasis. As we lazily floated in the pool, Tia had a mini panic attack at the bats that skimmed our heads as dusk approached.
The next day we went to Amber Fort in Jaipur and rode up on an elephant to the top. I was silently freaking out, due to the smell, heat, height and petrified the ellie behind me would try and bonk mine, luckily they are all girls. Amber Fort was transfixing, a place where Royal Rajasthanis resided for centuries.
We then went to a hand printing fabric museum (think Liberty of London) and then local fabric shops that were adorned with brightly coloured Rajasthani umbrellas. We haggled for reams of beautiful table cloths, quilts and sheets, ones that made Oka and Anthropologie look pitiful in comparison. We also picked out glittering gems and I bought a beautiful champagne coloured quartz that I intend to have made into a glittering rock on my finger seen as though I can’t seem to nab a husband to do the same with a black diamond…
*End of Part 1*
This may come as a shock to all you that know me as a materially obsessed, 'anorexic in mind' wannabe Blair Waldorf (for you ignoramuses she's the hot brunette in Gossip Girl.)
But I am proud to announce that I am giving up all material possessions and am going to live and practice under Yogi Sharmanana in Goa, India as of the next lunar eclipse. We practice principles such as following the dolphins' ripples in the ocean and the whispers of the palm fronds. Here we will coat ourselves in coconut milk and be blessed by Shiva and Shakti, the sacred Hindu gods.
Ok for any of you who actually believed that, tsk tsk. I've just had 2 glasses of pinot grigio (didn't have ANY in India) and 'Sharmanana' rhymes with 'Banarama' so thought I would give it a bash. So I am finally back in the Western World, who knew it held such brimming promise and virtue?
Anyway back to my extraordinary adventure in India. Ti and I jetted off on the 1st April and arrived in Delhi, this is after I loaded myself with Chanel perfume and Clinique Mascara at Duty Free where I still envisaged that I was going to look 'Safari chic'. Hmm.
We arrived in a blanket of heat at Delhi International. Katie Pitman welcomed us with beautiful marigold laurels that looked pretty until a caterpillar crawled out of mine and I almost had heart failure. I was charmed by the hooting, tooting, buzzing and heady hum of the Delhi traffic. Oh how darling the barbers and limejuice makers were, how pretty the oleanders and flame trees were that blazed along the rubbish ridden road.
Delhi made my head spin. I have never seen so many people in my life. I think they should take a leaf out of China's book in the future and implement the one child policy. It was hot, dizzying in fact, like 47 degrees Celsius, my makeup couldn't handle it, I had to resort to no makeup or hairdryer, no sleeveless tops or short skirts. Basically I had to transform from a Western hoochie into a subservient woman - ok not quite. I do tend to exaggerate. For once I wasn't lapping up the male attention that is showered on me. I thought Western men were unsubtle, but these guys take it to another level, you could basically see them leaning over the toll booth with their tongue rolling out at a piece of pale western flesh, but I guess, fair enough.
So the first weekend we went to the most stunning palace called Patardi Palace. It was built and then nurtured by Colonial England. You could just imagine 40's clad, pretty white English girls nursing Mint Juleps with their uniformed, stiff husbands standing awkwardly at their side, while their Indian servants lugged their trunks to their rooms.
It was so pretty, the gardens dripped with fragrant roses and trellises of star jasmine. Walls of vibrant tangerine and crimson bougainvillea coloured the landscape. Peacocks lazily strolled the grounds while kingfishers dived in the pool and oriels let out their haunting call. To make you jealous, Patardi Palace housed Julia Roberts and her family for a month while she filmed 'Eat, Pray, Love' and Ti and stayed in the room she stayed in, aptly named 'Pretty Woman'.
The pool was gorgeous, we drank salty lime juices as we lazily read on chaise lounges and I got stuck into Stieg Larsson’s Millennium series (ok who else thinks he was a dirty perve in real life?) We swam, we slept, we played badminton and drank pastis on the roof, and it was epic.
The next day we went to Goa. The flight was hilarious. You know how in the Western World one turns up their nose in disdain to those who dare to clap at take off? Well, no such thing in India, it was swinging Samoosa parties, cheering, chanting, standing and socializing on this ride.
We got to Goa and hitched a lift in a mini van adorned in fake tiger fur - in 40 degree Celsius humid heat. After fearing for my life after swerving donkeys, dogs and god knows what else, we arrived in Agonda in South Goa. It was beautiful and tranquil. We settled in for a couple of days and had long walks on the beach, swam in the warm sea, watched fisherman at dusk haul in their catch of the day. We admired the sacred cows on the beach and oohed and ahhhed at horses galloping at sunset. We slept, read, and practiced yoga at dawn on a roof with views of the ocean and swaying palms.
We ate curries, strangely lots of boiled eggs on toast and I drank a few mojitos and G & T's... I didn’t have one cig or hangover this holiday so I might be able to proclaim 'I am a new woman'! The first place we stayed at, reminded me of a Doll house crossed with a shack, one where every hippie had stayed in the past. But as I was with the McCarthy’s and didn’t want to substantiate that I am the biggest snob ever, I tried to tolerate the smell that exuded from the grubby sheets- I had to sleep with my Gap shirt as a pillow and Ti and I were in hysterics about the manky mosquito net. The bathroom had a pink bucket and the shower was over the loo, uh uh I couldn't deal with that after one night. Not this South African Princess.
The next day I was fully happy to fork out for ‘luxury’. Luxury came with fuchsia pink covers and zebra striped cushions next door (very Ibiza in the 90s). It was actually amazing in comparison to the last place; we had an outdoor shower, a day bed on our patio and undisturbed views of the ocean 20 meters in front of us. You know you're getting old when you appreciate silence and sanctity. No hawkers, hippies or haberdashery, just undiluted relaxation.
We went to Palolem for the day where I proceeded to confuse 50 and 500 Rupee notes and mused why the locals gave me beaming grins for a few quaint souvenirs. Drinking luke warm Pina Coladas and eating rubbery calamari, we idly watched local Indian boys get drunk with Western woman and stumble in the ocean, (for the Indian boys, it's a status to ‘kiss’ a white woman and for the Western woman, it's a bonus to get a six pack laden local boy that wants a bit of fun). Additionally, so many sari clad hawkers admired our pale skin and exclaimed that white = prosperity and freedom. How hectic but true. They were entranced by my feather earrings from Accessorize, all the men laughed at me and said the feathers were sacred, which led me to believe I was part of some cock and bull story so to speak.
After a sumptuous few days in South Goa, we moved to North Goa and went to one of the best restaurants of my entire life. A sheer cliff, dancing palm trees and the deep ocean was the centre point of this Greek restaurant in Vagadore. Wow, you have NEVER seen anything like it. The beach huts we were staying in next door were amazing and a bargain at about £8 a night! Right next to the restaurant, we were watching the sun go down and Katie and I noticed a massive splash in the sea, it was wild dolphins literally jumping out of the water, it was like Sea World gone mad. What a memorable and humbling sight!
We then moved on to uber luxury of Goa. We stayed in exquisite white canvas tents decorated with a Philippe Starke twist and even better, owned by a gorgeous French man. Splashes of turquoise and blue featured throughout the tent from the cushions, to day beds and lanterns. We went with a few expats from Delhi and it was so much fun. From the scattered pomegranate seed fruit salads in the morning to La Plage, the understated and French beach restaurant that served fresh fish and a mean cashew and green papaya salad, it was bliss.
After a dreamy week in Goa we went back to Delhi for a couple of days and then Ti and I headed to Agra to see the Taj. We know it's one of the 7 wonders of the world, but for the life of us couldn't recall all 7, can you? We took a train from Delhi and as Tia and I pondered over all of the people squatting along the railways, I got stuck into the 'Times of India', and drank Darjeeling tea and munched on sugar and aniseed as a refresher. The Taj as you can imagine was exquisite, a site to be seen. Afterwards we decided to go to the Oberoi and have lunch and splash out, it's like the poshest hotel in India hmm, like the Mount Nelson in Cape Town. I had smoked salmon and buffalo mozzarella and wine, and ironically my most expensive meal in 3 weeks made me so ill afterwards.
To add to this adventure, we were picked up by a truly psychotic driver who was taking us from Agra to Jaipur. He had his hands permanently on the hooter of his car and swerved everything from camels to downtrodden Tatas and mammoth trucks - without the bat of an eyelid. It made Hoi Chi Min and Manila look tame in comparison. I literally thought I was going to die at least 1000 times. I kept on nodding off but was rudely awakened every five minutes by the abrasive hooting. I was also desperate for the loo after glugging back liters of water and Coke out of dusty glass bottles. I looked out for a spot in the bush to go as one does in South Africa in the Karoo, as there was no ways I was going to public loos, but that's when I realised that quite literally, not a piece of India is left to the land, there are people EVERYWHERE!
Said ‘acid’ ridden driver drove us to Jaipur, the 'Pink City', in Rajasthan. It was painted Pink when Queen Elizabeth or some such royalty visited and the tradition and ceremony has remained. We arrived at sunset, just as the sun cast a rosy glow on the city. It looked like a burning ember; I will never forget the colours and energy of Jaipur. We got to our hotel and immediately jumped into the pool, a little hidden oasis. As we lazily floated in the pool, Tia had a mini panic attack at the bats that skimmed our heads as dusk approached.
The next day we went to Amber Fort in Jaipur and rode up on an elephant to the top. I was silently freaking out, due to the smell, heat, height and petrified the ellie behind me would try and bonk mine, luckily they are all girls. Amber Fort was transfixing, a place where Royal Rajasthanis resided for centuries.
We then went to a hand printing fabric museum (think Liberty of London) and then local fabric shops that were adorned with brightly coloured Rajasthani umbrellas. We haggled for reams of beautiful table cloths, quilts and sheets, ones that made Oka and Anthropologie look pitiful in comparison. We also picked out glittering gems and I bought a beautiful champagne coloured quartz that I intend to have made into a glittering rock on my finger seen as though I can’t seem to nab a husband to do the same with a black diamond…
*End of Part 1*
Dentistry
I went to the dentist this morning, not really phased as I have always been told that I have lovely teeth. This is probably as a result of years of my father harassing me about brushing and flossing. I remember when I first go braces too. I actually loved it. It was like, the cool thing to have in Std 5. I especially loved the elastics which I used to shoot at boys during class.
I am slightly distrustful of dentists' assistants. Seriously what do they do apart from hover over the dentist and look petrified? One horrible assistant once left that suction tube under my tongue on the thingie that attaches your tongue to the bottom of your mouth and then tried to pull it out while it was still sucking. I was kicking my legs and squealing and eventually she got the message. The witch. Also another really annoying habit of oral hygienists is when they insist on talking to you and asking questions while they have the polisher in your mouth. It's like what are you supposed to say, mmmomomm nneee mmm?
I then got the lecture about flossing more and also had her take out the fake teeth and using a toothbrush, demonstrate how to brush my teeth properly. Yuck, those dry bristles give me the heebie jeebies.
I always wonder who wants to be an oral hygienist, and for that matter a gynae, I mean seriously who wants to look at human cavities all day?
I am slightly distrustful of dentists' assistants. Seriously what do they do apart from hover over the dentist and look petrified? One horrible assistant once left that suction tube under my tongue on the thingie that attaches your tongue to the bottom of your mouth and then tried to pull it out while it was still sucking. I was kicking my legs and squealing and eventually she got the message. The witch. Also another really annoying habit of oral hygienists is when they insist on talking to you and asking questions while they have the polisher in your mouth. It's like what are you supposed to say, mmmomomm nneee mmm?
I then got the lecture about flossing more and also had her take out the fake teeth and using a toothbrush, demonstrate how to brush my teeth properly. Yuck, those dry bristles give me the heebie jeebies.
I always wonder who wants to be an oral hygienist, and for that matter a gynae, I mean seriously who wants to look at human cavities all day?
Waxing and then waning
On waxes:
I am actually incredulous that I still wax my nether regions after the experiences I’ve had. And oh my crisis, after the stories I’ve heard from girls at book club, you would think that all of us would just give the fuck up and not bother.
I remember my first wax at the tender age of 12 when I was having my first mixed party, with silver disco ball and robot lights nogal. I was having my legs to the top of my thighs, done. I screamed like a little girl. My mother just glanced over and said to me “Get used to it doll, beauty is pain.” And my god, she’s right. How much I’ve done subsequently to try look purrtty for boys is actually ridiculous.
Anyway I’ve had it all, from an amateur getting too scared to whip the wax off which subsequently resulted in me sitting with olive oil trying to get it off myself, to people cooking wax on a 2 hob stove in brown floral cooking pots and me lying on a dirty brown towel, ugh mock charge. No ways. Then there was the place on the Kings Road in London that insisted on saying they needed 45 minutes to wax while others took 5 minutes. Or what’s actually worse than that is when they leave the wax on and seal you together.
My one friend had a terrible experience too. The friendly mama took a massive swab of wax and proceeded to coat her entire ‘flower’. With sleeves rolled up, she tried to rip it off in one go. My friend staggered out ashen faced and clammy - I still don’t think she’s recovered.
There are so many more stories I could enlighten you with, as I am sure every girl can, but I am thinking, very seriously, that laser is the way forward. Waxing is way too barbaric.
I am actually incredulous that I still wax my nether regions after the experiences I’ve had. And oh my crisis, after the stories I’ve heard from girls at book club, you would think that all of us would just give the fuck up and not bother.
I remember my first wax at the tender age of 12 when I was having my first mixed party, with silver disco ball and robot lights nogal. I was having my legs to the top of my thighs, done. I screamed like a little girl. My mother just glanced over and said to me “Get used to it doll, beauty is pain.” And my god, she’s right. How much I’ve done subsequently to try look purrtty for boys is actually ridiculous.
Anyway I’ve had it all, from an amateur getting too scared to whip the wax off which subsequently resulted in me sitting with olive oil trying to get it off myself, to people cooking wax on a 2 hob stove in brown floral cooking pots and me lying on a dirty brown towel, ugh mock charge. No ways. Then there was the place on the Kings Road in London that insisted on saying they needed 45 minutes to wax while others took 5 minutes. Or what’s actually worse than that is when they leave the wax on and seal you together.
My one friend had a terrible experience too. The friendly mama took a massive swab of wax and proceeded to coat her entire ‘flower’. With sleeves rolled up, she tried to rip it off in one go. My friend staggered out ashen faced and clammy - I still don’t think she’s recovered.
There are so many more stories I could enlighten you with, as I am sure every girl can, but I am thinking, very seriously, that laser is the way forward. Waxing is way too barbaric.
What to do to turn me off
• Wear black polyester pants with cheap looking black shoes
• Wear Oakleys, of any kind
• Have a personalised number plate
• Name drop on Z list celebrities that no-one gives a fuck about
• Say howzit and bru too often
• Think that Toast is roasted bread and not THE pedi place in JHB
• Take me out for dinner to some tacky Italian and expect me to foot the bill or conveniently ‘forget’ your pin, like whatever
• Take me to a Quentin Tarantino blood and gore movie (unless I can jump on your lap and cuddle for comfort)
• Get more excited about going to the Roxette concert than a 30 year old woman
• Overdo fillet on the braai
Absolute no no’s in my book on couples:
• Picking each other’s spots
• Sharing a loo
• Sharing a toothbrush
• Throwing up in front of a mate unless absolutely necessary*
*see Leigh reference
• Smooching at a dinner table while people try to act cool with this unnecessary gropage
• PDA of affection on facebook – please, cry me a river, we all think it’s SAD
• Not having your own opinion but a shared one: You might as well be fucking Brangelina
* To cut a long story short, we listened to grunting and growling of Leigh throwing up the entire way back from the Magaliesberg- it took us 3 hours to get back. If you don’t believe me, ask Reece T for the video recording!
• Wear Oakleys, of any kind
• Have a personalised number plate
• Name drop on Z list celebrities that no-one gives a fuck about
• Say howzit and bru too often
• Think that Toast is roasted bread and not THE pedi place in JHB
• Take me out for dinner to some tacky Italian and expect me to foot the bill or conveniently ‘forget’ your pin, like whatever
• Take me to a Quentin Tarantino blood and gore movie (unless I can jump on your lap and cuddle for comfort)
• Get more excited about going to the Roxette concert than a 30 year old woman
• Overdo fillet on the braai
Absolute no no’s in my book on couples:
• Picking each other’s spots
• Sharing a loo
• Sharing a toothbrush
• Throwing up in front of a mate unless absolutely necessary*
*see Leigh reference
• Smooching at a dinner table while people try to act cool with this unnecessary gropage
• PDA of affection on facebook – please, cry me a river, we all think it’s SAD
• Not having your own opinion but a shared one: You might as well be fucking Brangelina
* To cut a long story short, we listened to grunting and growling of Leigh throwing up the entire way back from the Magaliesberg- it took us 3 hours to get back. If you don’t believe me, ask Reece T for the video recording!
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Board Game stories
I thoroughly enjoy playing board games. I would hedge on saying that I am fiercely competitive, actually my friend Margaux would swear on it as she refuses to play Scrabble with me anymore. I think it was after a particularly heated debate where I was insistent that ‘Yacht” was spelt phonetically: ‘ Yaught’ and I would.not. believe her. (This is before we had the dictionary App on our iPhones).
I get edgy in Scrabble if I don’t get the ‘X’, ‘Q’, ‘Y’ ‘J’. I mean think about how many amazing words you can make with these: Sexy, Queue (yes this is how you spell the one where you stand in a ….). Or even better ‘Quiz’ on a triple word score, the joys and slight smugness of getting an over 60 score is unbeatable. It despairs me when virgin Scrabble players use the ‘J’ for say ‘Jam’ and it gets them a measly 12 points. But even more funny is that I was playing recently and words such as ‘Botox’ cropped up, nice one Plastic Surgeons.
On Balderdash: I think this must be the best game ever invented. Not only have I learned words such as ‘Ululate’ I have also learned that even the most innocent of my friends can be the biggest bulshitters.
On Trivial Pursuit: Let’s face it, the only people who actually like this game are people like Ryan (you know who you are) who memorise the answers like parrots and know the answer to ‘Who was the first Prime Minister of Timbuktu’.
Quite frankly most of my friends who are in their late twenties, still cry out that Trivial Pursuit Teens is way more fun.
When I think of Trivial Pursuit, I think of when I played it in Chamonix with a bunch of Swedish boys who translated the questions which ran along the lines of ‘What’s the deepest lake in Scandinavia?’ to which I retorted ‘Fuck this game, let’s go shag instead’. Needless to say it was much more fun.
On Backgammon: I used to love this game so much, especially the little briefcase it comes in and the noise the di (note plural of dice morons) make when they rattle in their cutesty wutesy leather cases. My 28 year old friend (also competitive) taught her nephew to play backgammon recently, apparently he is such a pro now, he beats her every time – he’s 6.
On Monopoly: This is one game I remember being so tedious, and I wasn’t particularly good at it either. I could never afford the properties on Ellof and Jan Smuts and instead would have to borrow money from my mother to afford the properties on Marine Parade. It’s suddenly dawned on me why I didn’t particularly like this game: Nothing’s changed: I still don’t have the faintest clue about owning my own property or what the hell VAT stands for. On that note, does anyone know what APR means when credit card companies seduce you with their rates? Hmmm.
On Celebrity: I particularly like this game as it makes you laugh like you have never laughed. It’s even better when you get to play with people that you don’t particularly like and then seeing these macho men on their hands and knees enacting ‘Lady and the Tramp”. Quality.
On 30 seconds: I love this game…sometimes. I like it when I’m on the same team as Ryan (parrot reader of Trivial Pursuit cheating above). However when Ryan and Nicole (his wife) get together it’s ridiculous. He’ll be like: ‘you know that guy..” and she’ll scream ‘Marco Polo’ and he’ll be ‘You know when we were in..’ and she’ll shout ‘Mexico’. I mean WTF, it’s like spouse telepathy. I am kind of good at 30 seconds until it comes to politicians or sportsmen, then I am screwed and it’s like uh no clue and afterwards people shout ‘Who was it?’ and I’m like: ‘Some dude called Sean Pollock’ and everyone just rolls their eyes.
I get edgy in Scrabble if I don’t get the ‘X’, ‘Q’, ‘Y’ ‘J’. I mean think about how many amazing words you can make with these: Sexy, Queue (yes this is how you spell the one where you stand in a ….). Or even better ‘Quiz’ on a triple word score, the joys and slight smugness of getting an over 60 score is unbeatable. It despairs me when virgin Scrabble players use the ‘J’ for say ‘Jam’ and it gets them a measly 12 points. But even more funny is that I was playing recently and words such as ‘Botox’ cropped up, nice one Plastic Surgeons.
On Balderdash: I think this must be the best game ever invented. Not only have I learned words such as ‘Ululate’ I have also learned that even the most innocent of my friends can be the biggest bulshitters.
On Trivial Pursuit: Let’s face it, the only people who actually like this game are people like Ryan (you know who you are) who memorise the answers like parrots and know the answer to ‘Who was the first Prime Minister of Timbuktu’.
Quite frankly most of my friends who are in their late twenties, still cry out that Trivial Pursuit Teens is way more fun.
When I think of Trivial Pursuit, I think of when I played it in Chamonix with a bunch of Swedish boys who translated the questions which ran along the lines of ‘What’s the deepest lake in Scandinavia?’ to which I retorted ‘Fuck this game, let’s go shag instead’. Needless to say it was much more fun.
On Backgammon: I used to love this game so much, especially the little briefcase it comes in and the noise the di (note plural of dice morons) make when they rattle in their cutesty wutesy leather cases. My 28 year old friend (also competitive) taught her nephew to play backgammon recently, apparently he is such a pro now, he beats her every time – he’s 6.
On Monopoly: This is one game I remember being so tedious, and I wasn’t particularly good at it either. I could never afford the properties on Ellof and Jan Smuts and instead would have to borrow money from my mother to afford the properties on Marine Parade. It’s suddenly dawned on me why I didn’t particularly like this game: Nothing’s changed: I still don’t have the faintest clue about owning my own property or what the hell VAT stands for. On that note, does anyone know what APR means when credit card companies seduce you with their rates? Hmmm.
On Celebrity: I particularly like this game as it makes you laugh like you have never laughed. It’s even better when you get to play with people that you don’t particularly like and then seeing these macho men on their hands and knees enacting ‘Lady and the Tramp”. Quality.
On 30 seconds: I love this game…sometimes. I like it when I’m on the same team as Ryan (parrot reader of Trivial Pursuit cheating above). However when Ryan and Nicole (his wife) get together it’s ridiculous. He’ll be like: ‘you know that guy..” and she’ll scream ‘Marco Polo’ and he’ll be ‘You know when we were in..’ and she’ll shout ‘Mexico’. I mean WTF, it’s like spouse telepathy. I am kind of good at 30 seconds until it comes to politicians or sportsmen, then I am screwed and it’s like uh no clue and afterwards people shout ‘Who was it?’ and I’m like: ‘Some dude called Sean Pollock’ and everyone just rolls their eyes.
On Esio Trots bonking
So I asked my mum how the farm in the Klein Karoo was and she said it had been fantastic apart from my stepdad spending all his time watching the rugby at the the Bosvark. The farm was lush and green and as they drove into the property, kudus sprang into the dense bush and baboons gazed at them from trees.
I asked how the goats were… as a couple of years ago I had proudly named the snowy white pets Brie, Feta and Babybel. Apparently the goats had started breeding like rabbits and eating the lucerne so they got rid of them. Similarly the ostriches had been a bit of a nuisance, too much sticking their heads in the sand and all of that denial so they were given to the surprised neighbours. Can you imagine that: ‘Hey, we've come to give you some er, ahem, ostriches.'
So Mum has been telling everyone that will listen that we have like 20 leopards on the farm. Let me tell you now this is a gross exaggeration. Mum and Ian have been so excited due to some passionate Rhodes scholar who is doing his PHD* on the Cape Leopards. In fact, they’ve set up cameras on the farm and have found at least 2 male leopards that have passed by. A cat whisperer from Texas has even come to collar the shy spotted cats. Therefore from 2 leopards, we apparently have 16-20 leopards, if they extrapolate that. Ok ‘extrapolate’. Has anyone ever heard of that word? I learned that word at the tender age of 27.
*Mum has already told me he’s far too nice for me. In case you’re wondering, any male between the ages of 20- 40 gets screened as potential husband material. My stepdad is apparently supposed to be taking me on a ‘tour ‘of the trading floor at Absa so I can see what it’s like, rather what the men are like.
So the leopards may be the main draw card but apparently much to my mother’s chagrin there are several big fat tortoises that are drawn to the green grass surrounding the farmhouse, far preferring it to the dusty, rocky terrain that they ordinarily inhabit. As everyone was settling down for an afternoon nap, a rather awkward, strangled noise started in the garden.
My mother is describing this as we’re sitting in a trendy Parktown North restaurant where everyone’s picking at their salads and covertly people watching. I was in hysterics by the time mum started to enact and imitate the noise these creatures make when bonking. She really got into it, sticking out her neck and tongue and bleating in a strangled and stuttered way and clacking her tongue to show the clacking of the shells. Apparently it’s like watching an old man having sex. My stepfather heatedly denies knowing what that would be like and snidely remarks that my mother may know since her past liaison was with an ‘elder’ French gentleman.
I asked how the goats were… as a couple of years ago I had proudly named the snowy white pets Brie, Feta and Babybel. Apparently the goats had started breeding like rabbits and eating the lucerne so they got rid of them. Similarly the ostriches had been a bit of a nuisance, too much sticking their heads in the sand and all of that denial so they were given to the surprised neighbours. Can you imagine that: ‘Hey, we've come to give you some er, ahem, ostriches.'
So Mum has been telling everyone that will listen that we have like 20 leopards on the farm. Let me tell you now this is a gross exaggeration. Mum and Ian have been so excited due to some passionate Rhodes scholar who is doing his PHD* on the Cape Leopards. In fact, they’ve set up cameras on the farm and have found at least 2 male leopards that have passed by. A cat whisperer from Texas has even come to collar the shy spotted cats. Therefore from 2 leopards, we apparently have 16-20 leopards, if they extrapolate that. Ok ‘extrapolate’. Has anyone ever heard of that word? I learned that word at the tender age of 27.
*Mum has already told me he’s far too nice for me. In case you’re wondering, any male between the ages of 20- 40 gets screened as potential husband material. My stepdad is apparently supposed to be taking me on a ‘tour ‘of the trading floor at Absa so I can see what it’s like, rather what the men are like.
So the leopards may be the main draw card but apparently much to my mother’s chagrin there are several big fat tortoises that are drawn to the green grass surrounding the farmhouse, far preferring it to the dusty, rocky terrain that they ordinarily inhabit. As everyone was settling down for an afternoon nap, a rather awkward, strangled noise started in the garden.
My mother is describing this as we’re sitting in a trendy Parktown North restaurant where everyone’s picking at their salads and covertly people watching. I was in hysterics by the time mum started to enact and imitate the noise these creatures make when bonking. She really got into it, sticking out her neck and tongue and bleating in a strangled and stuttered way and clacking her tongue to show the clacking of the shells. Apparently it’s like watching an old man having sex. My stepfather heatedly denies knowing what that would be like and snidely remarks that my mother may know since her past liaison was with an ‘elder’ French gentleman.
The politically correct animal
I was clearly bewildered when I heard that there was such a thing as a politically correct animal.
Yup that’s right.
My savvy 16 year old step sister casually informed me that being black, white and asian made the Panda the racist free animal. And another thing about Pandas: They are unquestionably the cutest animals alive, apart from Ranger, my golden retriever puppy.
So old news is that baby pandas are now being looked after by their carers in what looks to be a giant panda suit, see above for proof. I’m not sure what exactly the carer is doing, but if you ask me it looks like he is about to smuggle the baby panda to some rich brat's party in Dubai. Hmm maybe this is a conspiracy. I also want to know whether the Panda carer is naked underneath this suit or at least has a pair of tightie whities on?
The reason I question this is because during a recent episode of 'The Inbetweeners' a gawky teenager stripped off his teddy bear suit at Thorpe Park to reveal a naked, pimply bottom to his mates' disgust.
I know I am far behind, but that one episode cracked me up. Where else do you hear about pikey teenage boys gagging to have 'a muff on the tea cup ride?' I think my mother was mortified that she gave this 'hot new series' to my young teenage sisters a couple of years ago. They have now been officially tainted.
What a wonderful word...
I adore words. I love how they are written, the sounds of them as they curl over the tongue and the power and sensousness that they can exude. That's why I chose the name 'Truffle Licker'. From the average person's point of view, this probably sounds quite delicious, decadent or just plain filthy.
Others may appreciate the onomatopoeic aspect of the words. On holiday in December, we were discussing what the best words in the English language are. Things like 'moon' 'smooth' 'moss' were discussed as lovely words, and ones that sent shivers down spines were 'bristle' 'moist' and 'muffin' so throughout lunch we would slip in 'moist muffin' once in a while to watch our friend squirm in her seat. The one word that also stood out for us in the Afrikaans language is 'Spookasem' which directly translated into English means 'Ghost Breath' but what really describes the incredible lightness of 'Candy Floss'.
I always love words that have an 'x' in it. The obvious one is, yup you got it...sex.
But others are just as eXpressive (see): Pox, Poxy, Box, Luxe, Luxury or Gravlax or Lox is you fancy a bit of salmon. Now speaking of food, the title of this blog is also indicative of what is important in my life. Food. Nom Nom. And no, I am not a fat woman that licks her fingers while she's cooking like Nigella.
I was first properly introduced to truffles when I was a London virginer. By that, I mean I had just arrived in the Big Smoke, to live, again. A clever friend took me to a place she knew I would adore, Borough Market under the eaves of London Bridge station. God I love that place. If you don't know about it, put it on your number one priority to do when you are in London. It oozes antiquity but has such a buzzy vibe, from the fishmongers shouting out the catch of the day to the green grocers selling bunches of asparagus and strawberries for a fiver or sizzling Chourizo sausages hissing and spitting on a BBQ.
Not only does Borough Market boast the best, locally sourced fresh produce, it also offers a wealth of buzzy restaurants that surround the market, from Roast, to Fish! to Neals Yard Dairy. I also used to drink quite heavily at the pub around the corner with work colleagues when I luckily found a job quite close by. I was thrilled to find out that his pub was also featured in Bridget Jones's Diary. Amazing, Colin Firth had stood where I stood. Starstruck.
Anyway back to truffles. As my friend and I leisurely perused the quaint stalls and quietened our growling tummies with pancetta, rocket and buffalo mozarrella sarnies, we saw these odd looking fungus type things in a glass jar. Immediately intrigued, I pulled off the cork lid to have a delicate sniff. By jove, I was transported to heaven with that gorgeous scent. My love affair with truffles started there and it has continued ever since. From my friend Rox the chef cooking with truffle oil to languidly eating open leek and truffle lasagne under the stars in Cinque Terra, Italy, it is developing into a long relationship indeed.
Others may appreciate the onomatopoeic aspect of the words. On holiday in December, we were discussing what the best words in the English language are. Things like 'moon' 'smooth' 'moss' were discussed as lovely words, and ones that sent shivers down spines were 'bristle' 'moist' and 'muffin' so throughout lunch we would slip in 'moist muffin' once in a while to watch our friend squirm in her seat. The one word that also stood out for us in the Afrikaans language is 'Spookasem' which directly translated into English means 'Ghost Breath' but what really describes the incredible lightness of 'Candy Floss'.
I always love words that have an 'x' in it. The obvious one is, yup you got it...sex.
But others are just as eXpressive (see): Pox, Poxy, Box, Luxe, Luxury or Gravlax or Lox is you fancy a bit of salmon. Now speaking of food, the title of this blog is also indicative of what is important in my life. Food. Nom Nom. And no, I am not a fat woman that licks her fingers while she's cooking like Nigella.
I was first properly introduced to truffles when I was a London virginer. By that, I mean I had just arrived in the Big Smoke, to live, again. A clever friend took me to a place she knew I would adore, Borough Market under the eaves of London Bridge station. God I love that place. If you don't know about it, put it on your number one priority to do when you are in London. It oozes antiquity but has such a buzzy vibe, from the fishmongers shouting out the catch of the day to the green grocers selling bunches of asparagus and strawberries for a fiver or sizzling Chourizo sausages hissing and spitting on a BBQ.
Not only does Borough Market boast the best, locally sourced fresh produce, it also offers a wealth of buzzy restaurants that surround the market, from Roast, to Fish! to Neals Yard Dairy. I also used to drink quite heavily at the pub around the corner with work colleagues when I luckily found a job quite close by. I was thrilled to find out that his pub was also featured in Bridget Jones's Diary. Amazing, Colin Firth had stood where I stood. Starstruck.
Anyway back to truffles. As my friend and I leisurely perused the quaint stalls and quietened our growling tummies with pancetta, rocket and buffalo mozarrella sarnies, we saw these odd looking fungus type things in a glass jar. Immediately intrigued, I pulled off the cork lid to have a delicate sniff. By jove, I was transported to heaven with that gorgeous scent. My love affair with truffles started there and it has continued ever since. From my friend Rox the chef cooking with truffle oil to languidly eating open leek and truffle lasagne under the stars in Cinque Terra, Italy, it is developing into a long relationship indeed.
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