Beautiful Dreamy Brothers

Occasionally, Murphy and I have our spats. But he’s always a bitch about it and to spite me, he goes into overdrive, cramming those extra hours into his work schedule. One such occasion arrived on a day I decided to do some spring cleaning. Now I’ve mentioned before how much I thoroughly enjoy a good cleaning session, regularly throwing out anything that I haven’t used in a six month cycle. And nothing beats that feeling that you’re not only cleaning out your closets and cupboards, but your soul too.

A good few sweaty hours later, I found myself glazed in soot and muck like a Krispy Kreme donut hot off the press. With aching satiated muscles (a direct result of being put to good use for once), I decided that a long hot shower was in order to scrub away the grime, get the blood circulating again and instigate feel good sensations of freshness.

Fifteen minutes later, the bathroom mirrors were steamed up, my hair was gelled into a mound on the top of my head with a blob of Pantene and there were soap suds everywhere. My joints and tendons had already succumbed to the intense heat of the water pounding on my back when all of a sudden, it just stopped. With shampoo dripping down my forehead, trailing its way down to my eyes like a malicious snail secreting fire, I frantically turned each faucet with both hands. Nothing. I stepped out of the shower annoyed, muttering profanities and screaming for someone to tell me what the hell had happened to the water.

After it was established that we had no water at all, I heard Mother dialing the neighbour next-door to find out if they had the same problem. All was fine and dandy on their side but they had heard that a pipe burst a few blocks away and that water was gushing out in torrents like Niagara Falls; and presumed that it could have affected our water supply. Aggravated, I quickly dressed in a shorts and t-shirt, wiping away all the suds with a towel.

In the meantime, mother had asked the neighbour if we could have some water in a 5ltr bottle to tide us over. Always generous and too kind, the neighbour decided to loan us their hose pipe, which was attached to one of their faucets. The long pipe dangled over the wall that separated our houses, rolled out on to the grass and came with an adjustable nozzle that controlled the stream of water at varying degrees, so that we had water at our disposal for the entire day.

My neighbor then asked if I’d like to use their bathroom and have a shower over there, but I knew her beautiful-dreamy-brother (that I’ve been crushing on for what seems like forever) was visiting and there was like no way in HELL that I was going to let him see me like that. So I graciously declined, thinking that I would just rinse my hair with their hose pipe and that when the water returned, I’d finish what I started.

Of course that is not the end of the story because like I said, Murphy is a dedicated, driven employee…an over-achiever that takes his work very seriously and I am the eternal sado-masochist (really by now you shouldn’t expect any different from me). Unbeknownst to me at the time, the neighbours psychotic dog Borat was on the loose. And I don’t know what they’re feeding this dog because he’s humungous and I swear he’s either on steroids or acid or both. So I was trying to rinse the shampoo out of my hair when Borat (the-humungous-acid-tripping-dog-on-steroids) decided that he wanted in on the action and jumped over the wall into our yard. All I saw out of the corner of my eye was this huge bear-like creature come over the wall and naturally I FFFREAKED out and started screaming because firstly, I hate dogs. No, I mean I HATE DOGS!!! And secondly because he started running after me, thinking that I wanted to play.

So there I was, shampoo suds and soapy water streaming down my face stinging my eyes, wet hair dripping from the tangled mop on my head, sprinting down the effing street in my old shorts, barefoot. And of course all the neighbours heard me screaming like a banshee and came running out to see what happened. And of COURSE, I had the neighbour’s sons and beautiful-dreamy-brother sprinting after me, trying to grab a hold of Borat-the-bloody-monster. AND OF COURSE, the beautiful-dreamy-brother had to take my arm and ask if I was okay, eyes concerned but sparkling with amusement and a sneaky smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth (yes I notice everything!). In those moments, I even forgot about Borat-the-schizo-monster-dog because I was too busy contemplating all the ways I could die while he escourted me home.

I should know by now, that when it comes to such things, my humiliation knows no bounds. Feeling terrible about what had happened, my neighbour INSISTED that we have dinner at her house. I refused trying to keep at least some semblance of my dignity intact, but Mother couldn’t resist having a good laugh at my expense and accepted the invitation; because we kids are an endless source of amusement for her and she's not one to pass up such opportunities.

And like some evil conspired plot, I was placed at the end of the square table, adjacent to beautiful-dreamy-brother but in such a way that he was literally in my face the entire evening and no matter where I looked, I couldn’t avoid his gaze. Then throughout the meal, instead of drinks, there were jokes all around and every round was on me, on my tab, at my expense (I wanted to shoot the 'Bar-man'). They were asking me things like...would I like Borat to join us at the table…if I’d like some shampoo with my steak…if they should reserve the hose pipe in case I had the urge to shower outside etc. etc...In retrospect it was hilarious, but seriously sitting at that table, I WANTED TO DIE!

But being the gentleman he is, beautiful-dreamy-brother said nothing…even when I blushed something crimson and looked like a tomato’s cousin, he just looked into his glass of coke and smiled. The glint in his eyes said that he was laughing quietly to himself. The combination of bliss and mortification on my face said oh beautiful-dreamy-brother with your tacitly charming charismatic demeanor, magnificent muscular physique, exquisite hazel eyes, delightful honest smile and smooth flawless skin; when you look at me like that, I could SO learn to love you :)

Some Perspective

I mentioned a couple of months ago, that someone I’d grown quite close to passed away very suddenly. Well, some of her final words were “Don’t take people for granted, appreciate them every day”. It’s a simple message, something we all know but don’t really grasp until it’s too late. Those words have stuck with me ever since and they hover, flitting about my wits like butterflies. One of my fears is coping with losing a parent – not that I couldn’t live without them – just that it would be so much more difficult to do so.

I often think that one of the biggest illusions on earth is our concept of time because we're fooled into thinking we have so much of it, when we really don't. We’re so caught up in every day trivialities that we are not mindful of the expiration date on our lives and the lives of our loved ones.

To put things into perspective, let’s assume that each person lives an average of 65 years, give or take a few. Now you weren’t born with your Mom and Dad – they had entire lives before you came along – so let’s assume that they had you at an average age of 22. That means that you only really know them for 43 years of their lives. But that’s just it, you know them for those 43 years – you don’t necessarily spend every waking moment with them in that time.

Click on image for a better view

And from those 43 years, roughly a third of our time is spent sleeping which is approximately 14 years; and another third is spent either going to school, university or work, which incidentally adds up to another 14 years. Then there’s all that time you spend cruising the highway in peak hour traffic, running errands that are essential for daily living and engaging in activities that require you to be alone, like pee-ing and bathing…and at an average of 3 hours a day it all adds up to 6 years of your life dedicated to maintenance. Then there are other family members and friends that require your attention, some daily, others less frequently and at 10 hours a week, you’re looking at 3 solid years spent on sustaining relationships.

That leaves you with a grand total of 6 precious years of quality time with your parents, which (assuming that you’re living with them) is only around 7 weeks a year. And with the natural procession of life, you’ll probably decide to get married and move out. So if you get married at the average age of 25, the time you would have spent with your parents for the remaining 18 years of their lives, decreases substantially. At this point, you would have only spent a little over 3 years with them and assuming that you’ll get to see them for 5 hours a week when you’re married; those other 3 years meant for quality time will be reduced to almost 28 weeks, or a mere 6.5 months.

So there you have it folks. Even if you’re one of the extremely fortunate few that will get to see your parents alive for 43 years, only around 4 of those years will be dedicated to quality time with them. And that’s not counting all the time wasted on silly arguments, petty family feuds, the days or weeks or months spent not talking to each other; or those occasions you’re out of the country or working over-time etc.

Can you wrap your mind around less than 4 years at the most?! Make it count.

The Male Ego

Women in general have to endure a lot of pain and angst in their lives. Think about it. There’s the pain of PMS every month when it feels like a kitten is trying to claw its way out of your womb, or you're about to give birth to a calf. Then when a woman gets married, she has to give up everything – her life, her family, her home etc. for the man. Then there’s the agony of childbirth. And what about the hundreds of other twinges that come from being a self-sacrificing being – something that is so innate to most females.

But from ALL the pain and anguish suffered by women worldwide, nothing is more agonizing than dealing with The Male Ego. A natural by-product from the Hunter gene, The Male Ego has illusionary qualities and is intangible in nature, so giving it a kick in the ass is out of the question. It has the same physical qualities of a human soul – so you know it exists but you’ve never actually seen it – but sometimes it could easily be mistaken for a poltergeist. To describe The Male Ego in more tangible terms, it will most likely resemble a creature that is an amalgamation of a peacock and a rat.

My very first encounter with The Male Ego was as a pre-teen, with my Father. “Doting” was never in his vocabulary and throughout my early years we fought like monkeys. I remember one particular day, when we spent the better part of the day arguing about how to make Jelly. He had a specific method in mind and I dismissed his approach and substituted it with my own (yeah I’ve always revolted against authority). Both of us had strong personalities and were hell bent in our ways, so it was always a power struggle of some sort (thankfully that changed in my mid teens).

My next rendezvous with The Male Ego was in early adolescence, with my very first infatuation. Now I was one Fugly Betty in my pre-Bosch & Lomb days with my thick glasses and braces and curly mop of hair all over the place. He was my aunt’s neighbour’s son and every holiday I’d conveniently move in so that I could polish those stalking skills. We were a bunch of kids spending our days playing insipid games, pranking the neighbourhood and entertaining ourselves for hours on end. But even back then, I was not one for subtleties and after months of friendly banter, flirting, equivocation and prevarication (fancy words for beating around the bush) I went up to him one day and declared my Sweet-Valley-High-version-of-love for him…in German. He stood silent and contemplative, staring at me, knowing full well what I’d disclosed to him. I had no expectations. I didn’t want anything from him. I just wanted him to know. And then I walked away casually, happy and relieved that I was unburdened with the heavy secret.

Then something weird happened. When we were alone in conversation – he’d open up and tell me all sortsa personal stuff. We’d talk for hours completely absorbed in each other, oblivious to everyone else. But the minute we were around other people, he’d pull a Merlin and magically transform into the biggest asshole I’d ever known. We fought a lot because of this and I’d often go for days without speaking to him…it was like my own personal Jihad against his Ego. I hadn’t stopped caring for him, but like a bad Jessica Simpson tune, he quickly plummeted to No. 13 on my Billboard Top 20 list.

It was when I got to Junior High School that I was forced to learn how to go to war with The Male Ego. The Indian Muslim guys were especially terrible, displaying their lack of respect and exerting their false sense of authority and dominance on the girls in their classes – behaviour and characteristics they no doubt learnt from their fathers. There were a few in my class who would tell the girls what to do, where to sit etc etc. All the girls always complied, either out of fear or because they saw nothing wrong with it – reactions they no doubt learnt from their mothers. Of course, all except moi; I had issues taking instructions from my own father, never-mind from a bunch of retarded hooligans. So they would try to terrorize me because I refused to conform. I say try because none of them ever succeeded or even came close.

My policy of “anything you can do I can do 1000 times better” meant that revenge was mandatory, always sweet and somewhat perverse. Some of the guys' would pull at the girls' bra straps from behind – meant to sting if it slammed back in place, or unhook if done properly. One guy made the mistake of trying to do that to me and got a pencil stuck 4 inches into his leg. They hated me; and would verbally abuse me whenever they could. I retaliated by recording everything they said to me on a tape-recorder and played it for all the head teachers and principle. Then I stood back and watched them cry like little girls when they got the shit beaten out of them in front of the entire school, while I laughed hysterically in their faces.

Tired of the drama, I changed schools and was introduced to La Dolce Vita- The Sweet Life. It was the equivalent of flying first class as a VIP on Emirates after years as a passenger on a cargo plane with goats, chickens and donkeys. There were guys (from all races, including Indian Muslims) oozing charm, respect and charisma, and I was swooning every day like a love-sick puppy. Chivalry was the school anthem and for the next few years I never had to pick up anything I had dropped on the floor, or open any doors, or carry any heavy loads etc. The Male Ego wasn’t out to hurt me and we became respected friends. I was singing hallelujah because I had left the zoo and all the filthy animals to swim with the dolphins in the blue tranquil waters of the open sea.

It is perhaps fortunate that I was unaware I was to joust with The Male Ego several times over the next decade, well into post-adolescence. Because had I known what awaited me, I would have seriously considered a monastery-ic lifestyle, bounded by seclusion. In the duration of the years that followed, I met every variation of The Male Ego, in every classification as well as all the sub-species associated to it. It was kinda like meeting every member in a family of reptiles; the snakes, the crocodiles, the lizards, the chameleons etc. They came in many forms; some of them were friends or family members, others potential ‘love’ interests. There were even a few complete strangers because The Male Ego knows no boundaries.

Once, I made the mistake of telling an acquaintance (Ego1) that I thought he was handsome. It was purely an observation on my part, with no romantic inclination what-so-ever…but it was like I had opened Pandora’s Box of delusions. For some reason Ego1 convinced himself that I was head over heels for him. I didn’t even know and had long forgotten about the compliment when I started noticing a change in his behaviour. Every time I was around he was flexing his muscles, puffing out his chest, running his fingers through his hair like the men in those Nivea commercials. It was when he began telling others in our social circle that I “wanted his ass” that I got peeved off. I went straight up to him, seething, “ …just because I gave you a compliment, it doesn’t mean that I want to marry you”.

Unfortunately for me, that wasn’t the first or the last time that I’d Waltz with The Male Ego and have him misconstrue it for a steamy Salsa session. I had a conversation with another acquaintance (Ego2) and offered him some Sprite (because I’m hospitable like that) and for some or other reason, he had also convinced himself that I was planning the wedding. And then all of a sudden I found it odd that whenever I was in a 2km radius, he went to great lengths to avoid me. I caught him off-guard a few times but there were times he’d even pretend not to see me. On one such occasion, I’d had enough of his shit, tapped him on the shoulder and said “Listen, I don’t like you – never have never will – so you can stop running and hiding like a pansy ok”.

It was Déjà-moo when the same thing happened with Ego3, but in reverse. Ego3 and I were never friends or acquaintances, nada. I knew him from my school days and that was just about it. I had absolutely no interest in him and we hardly ever spoke to each other. He was engaged to be married to his high school sweetheart. So it was peculiar then, to have him try to impress me whenever he could. I got the distinct feeling that he wanted me to like him. He wanted me to want him, even though he wasn’t interested in me romantically. Talk about Vain. It’s like his version of The Male Ego went out, got married to Narcissism and had a hundred little Egotistical babies.

When I lived in London, I encountered The Male Ego in friends who thought they could dictate how I lived my life:

Ego4: Where are you going?
Me: I’m off to the HMV sale.
Ego4: You can’t go.
Me: Excuse you? Who died and made you daddy?

There was even an incident at a restaurant once, when I tried to locate our waiter to request an extra fork. Since she was not in plain sight, I looked around the room intently but at no one in particular. Two hours later and upon exiting, this freak approached me:

Ego5: I saw the way you were looking at me and I liked it.

Me: If you’re talking to me, you’re mistaken.

Ego5: Just admit it, I know you want me.
Me: Bwahahaha... Boytjie, I wouldn’t even piss on your teeth if your gums were on fire.

In a way, The Male Ego is a funny thing. It has the ability to inflate and expand to astronomical proportions, but the tiniest perforation will make that balloon pop so fast that it will literally disappear. My experiences have taught me a lot, made me cynical and sometimes defensive. BUT, I believe that even some of the so-called ‘bad’ guys are inherently ‘good’ in nature (because people in general can never be underestimated and are capable of all sorts especially when provoked by circumstance) but that their learned bad behaviour, sinister intentions, motives and actions is the mask that conceals the truth. People can be good people, but still do bad things...does that make them bad people? Not necessarily. It just means that they're asses because they don't make the right choices. Fortunately for us, there are still good guys out there, hidden in the crevices of life like rough diamonds amongst the rubble …I’ve encountered quite a few. Waseem, Irfaan, Edge, Mohamed, Uzayr are just a few of many that can testify to that ;)

Who Makes Up This Shit

So my cousin sent me this chain mail because she’s a superstitious cow (but hey “I don’t tell her what flavour jam to eat outta her bosses ass” so I’m not judging). It was titled “25 things girls don’t realize about guys” and as I read through it I thought to myself, what bullshit. When this kind of crap is circulated, it’s dangerous because it validates and perpetuates false perceptions from people who are already retarded and delusional – it’s like giving a crack addict cocaine labeled as Vitamin C. My comments in green.

You HAVE to read all of them and if you don't your going to come across with problems on your relationship for the next month! (You sound drunk, I can’t take you seriously)

1. Guys may be flirting around all day, but before they go to sleep, they always think about the girl they truly care about.... (Please. The only thing he’s thinking about is getting laid)

2. Guys are more emotional then you think, if they loved you at one point, it'll take them a lot longer then you think to let you go, and it hurts every second that they try. (Yeah I’m sure it hurts all of the 2 seconds it takes to let you go)

3. Guys go crazy over a girl's smile. (Er, you mean boobs)

4. A guy who likes you wants to be the only guy you talk to. (Duh, even if he doesn’t like you he wants to be the only one, they’re jealous and selfish like that)

5. Boyfriends need to be reassured often that they're still loved. (Only if his Momma still breast-feeds his pansy ass and he’s an insecure overgrown boy seeking approval)

6. Guys don't care how gorgeous you are. (Ok, now you’re just lying. Rosebank or Sandton on a Saturday night…the amount of slutty plastic girls is directly proportional to the amount of tongues dragging on the floor)

7. Giving a guy a hanging message like "You know what?..uh...nevermind.." would make him jump to a conclusion that is far from what you are thinking. And he'll assume he did something wrong and he'll obsess about it trying to figure it out. (No.1 Guys don’t think, unless its about sex – so you’re more likely to get freshly squeezed orange juice from a rock then to get an assumption. No.2. Unless you tell him to his face, he’ll never “assume he did something wrong” out of his own free will)

8. If a guy tells you about his problems, he just needs someone to listen to him. You don't need to give advice. (Not the guys I speak to)

9. A usual act that proves that the guy likes you is when he teases you. (So he must be crushing on Harry in Accounts because he calls him ‘Porky’ every 2 minutes)

10. Guys love you more than you love them. (Bwahahahahaha, I’d like to meet this guy)

11. Guys use words like hot or cute to describe girls. They rarely use beautiful or gorgeous. If a guy uses that, he loves you or likes you a whole heck of a lot. (Either that or he’s gay – “its gorgeous darhling”)

12. No matter how much guys talk about whats on the outside, personality is key. (I might just believe you)

13. Guys think WAY too much. One small thing a girl does, even if she doesn't notice it can make the guy think about it for hours, trying to figure out what it meant but some know that it was just prolly nothing so if it is supposed to mean something then make that meaning noticable so that they can react on the spot. (Didn’t we cover this in #7? This guy sounds more and more like a girl)

14. If the guy does something stupid in front of the girl, he will think about it for the next couple days or until the next time he spends time with the girl. (Because he'll wonder if it ruined his chances of getting laid)

15. If a guy looks unusually calm and laid back, he's probably faking it and he is really thinking about something (You’re right, he’s really really thinking about getting laid)

16. When a guy says he is going crazy about the girl, he really is. Guys rarely say that. (It’s because he never got laid)

17. When a guy asks you to leave him alone, he's just actually saying, "Please come and listen to me” (No, he’s actually saying 'fuck off' but he's trying to be kind because he still has hope that he'll get laid)

18. If a guy starts to talk seriously, listen to him. It doesn't happen that often, so when it does, you know something's up. (Because we women know that those bouts of wisdom come around as often as Haleys comet)

19. When a guy looks at you for longer than a second, he's definitely thinking something. (Yeah, he’s undressing you with his mind. Stab him in the eye, it will create a distraction)

20. Guys really think that girls are strange and have unpredictable decisions and are MAD confusing but somehow are drawn even more to them. (That’s the slutty clothes calling)

22. No guy can handle all his problems on his own. He's just too stubborn to admit it. (Tell us something we don’t know)

23. Not all guys are jackasses. Just because ONE is a jackass doesnt mean he represents ALL of them (No, only 97%. The other 3% represent the handicapped :P)

24. When a guy sacrifices his sleep and health just to be with you, he really likes you and wants to be with you as much as possible (He’s hoping you’ll take pity on him and that he’ll finally get laid)

25. Even if you dump a guy months ago and he loved you he probably still does and if he had one wish it would be you to come back into his life (That would explain him burning everything you ever gave him and the “Die Bitch” sprawled across your driveway in red paint)

Everything said in this bulletin is TRUE (And I’m Sigourney Weaver on Steriods)

JANUARY

I’ve always wanted to go jet skiing, but never had the opportunity until we went to Saldanha Bay. I thought it could be my challenge for January and a great way to start off the New Year. I had to coax my sister to join me and after a 15 minute briefing in Afrikaans on what not to do, off we went.

I must admit that I was very confident and brave about it, until the instructor mentioned that we should be careful when we return because if we come in at too high a speed, we could crash into the “muur”. And then all of a sudden I was shit scared and wanted to turn back because I was like “We could crash into a wall? No one told me we could crash into a wall. I didn’t sign up to crash into walls”. I also seriously under-estimated the power of that little machine and that added to my fear.

But I went through with it, very trepidatiously at first. I went out to sea and about a kilometer later, I realised that I was too scared to turn, envisioning the jet ski tipping over with me on it or even worse, throwing me off. Then in a panic I slowed down to a stop and had a strange feeling…like I was sinking. Too afraid to see if I was actually sinking, I thought that maybe this is not the kind of machine that you can stop in the middle of the ocean and decided to keep on going.

I eventually managed to turn around and it was much easier than anticipated. Ten minutes later and I was practically a pro, racing on the water, hitting the odd wave, drenched with the taste of salt on my lips. I assessed my limitations, got used to the feel of jet ski and then really began enjoying myself. It was an exhilarating experience and something I will definitely do again. And the best part? I didn’t crash into any walls :)

To Infidelity And Beyond

I was reading Hamish’s post on Cheaters and found it quite amusing. About 3 decades ago, cheating was largely reserved for men and regarded as a rite of passage to some…the old clichéd wife at home with the kids while the husband is out of town on ‘business’, with his trophy mistress. I find that these days, infidelity does not discriminate and both males and females have taken this country’s policy of equal opportunities to a whole new adulterous level. It has even surpassed the likes of Louis Vuitton and Prada to become this decade’s fashion ‘must’. It’s quite sickening really, to watch moral decay in real-time. I know at least 50 people in a 2km radius that have cheated on their significant others at some point in time. It’s sad that people don’t have any values anymore.

This is the part where I blame both men and women. I find that contemporary male cheaters tend to replace their wives with ex-porn stars or one of their daughter’s teenage friends. But it gets worse folks, because as we move into the 21st century, men have suddenly acquired a certain shallow and unrealistic penchant for all things supermodel. So the wife HAS to be an Alessandra Ambrosio or an Aishwarya Rai that cooks, any thing less is unacceptable. Sorry for all the Ellen Page’s and Vidya Balan’s of this world. And of course, anything that’s aesthetically pleasing to the eye always comes with a price and a very high price too. Money attracts beauty and beauty attracts money, it’s a symbiotic relationship giving birth to acquired status devoid of any real emotion.

Eventually the Alessandra gets bored because she only really married him for the money, is uneducated and can’t relate to his friends. Add to that her lack of basic skills, other than pouting for the cameras and shopping, and before you know it she develops a very keen interest in the garden gnome that comes around once a week or one of the husband’s friends who always compliments her on her ability to find the best caterers for their little soirees. Less extreme cases always involve an abusive husband of some kind. He’s either physically, verbally or emotionally abusive, inattentive or emotionally unavailable and she’s too willing to run into the arms of another trying to fill adolescent voids with Mills and Boons’ fantasies because her father never loved her.

For me, the most amusing cases are the quiet ones. She’s the girl in the headscarf at Varsity that refuses to sit near the boys during classes while she gossips and looks down upon other non-hijaabi-fied girls with two of her closest friends. Come full moon and she pulls a Vanessa Hudgens by smsing stark naked pictures of her merchandise to one of those boys accompanied with pornographic text (true story). He’s the guy that sits in the corner texting furiously on Mxit. He hangs out with a raucous group of guys and hides behind them when they chat to girls because he’s shy and slightly insecure. He’s the Lance Bass of the group and hardly gets any attention from anyone, let alone females. Most people think that the loud and obnoxious one who enjoys whistling at passing women and humping trees is the man-whore of the group, but they’re often wrong. It’s always the quiet, unassuming ones – the devil in sheep’s clothing. Then one day this non-gay Lance gets married, Dr. Jekyll becomes Mr. Hyde and his new status gives him ‘dom krag’ – a false sense of confidence – and it’s not long before he’s chatting to anything with a Vajayjay and inviting them out on long non-scenic drives.

The worst of the male and female lot has to be those spouses that have it ALL and still cheat. They’ve got nothing to complain about, no plausible excuses. Their partners are close to perfect but they soon tire of the monotony of serenity because they are drama whores with more than just a flair for theatrics. They’re like crack addicts and get their adrenal fixes from their fear of getting caught. It’s all a big poker game until they raise the stakes, come up short and have to face the ramifications of gambling with their families lives. And sadly as everyone knows, the House always wins and they eventually walk away with nothing. A few of the lucky ones will get a second chance attached to distrust and trepidation, but it’s never the same again.

What I found particularly intriguing in Hamish’s post was his preferred course of action – the ‘What Would Hamish Do’ (WWHD) – if he caught his future wife cheating on him, documented impeccably, mostly in legal terms. In terms of legality, and if I were in Hamish’s place or any other male for that matter, this is what I’d do (inspired by a true story).

The first thing I’d do is tap all the telephones she uses and record every conversation…it’s relatively easy and inexpensive. Thereafter, I’d sell most of my assets, which include any businesses and property and pay off any large debts incurred over time. The ownership of any asset I choose to keep, including my house and car, will be transferred onto a relatives name…parents or siblings. Then I’d officially declare bankruptcy, so that she’s more than welcome to have half of nothing. I’d eventually find a sleazy phone sex conversation (or something similar) recorded from the tapped line and make several copies of it, as well as transcripts. I’d then send a copy to court, and another to the Muslim Judicial Council for review so that any false claims she may be tempted to cite will be dismissed under the weight of the evidence. For added kicks, I’d find a radio station willing to air the conversation – preferably the most popular Islamic radio station in the country. Any and all children from the marriage will be sent for paternity tests.

From a female perspective, if my husband ever DARED to cheat on me I’d employ similar tactics, as well as other not-so-lawful activities. But I’ve mentioned that before ;)

West Coast Highlights

I would have found it difficult to believe that half of the world goes through December in the throes of winter, had I not experienced it myself. A scorching Christmas Day at the beach is a foreign concept when you’re alone with a 750g jar of Nutella (because Nutella UK knows what a woman wants & that 400g just won’t do), stuck indoors watching cheesy Christmas specials on TV with the wind howling eerily outside your window. The Lord knows that not only have I been there and done that, but I got the t-shirt, wrote the script, made the movie, recorded the soundtrack, previewed screenings on IMAX – in 3D, released the DVD, got ordained by the Queen and planted the flag on the fucking moon too.

So I’m officially NOT on holiday which sucks big time. I’m at my best when I’m traipsing and frolicking and my brain usually operates at its full capacity, sometimes even surprising me. It’s when I’m not on holiday that I come crashing back to reality and the medulla oblongata threatens brain-wide strike action unless there’s a 20% rise in serotonin levels. I always go through a mild depression after a holiday. See, I was not meant to work or even live in reality for that matter.

Anyways, onto happier thoughts and reminiscings. We’ve been practically everywhere in South Africa (most places more than once), but we hadn’t had the opportunity to travel up the West Coast until recently. A lot of people don’t know that I lived in Cape Town for about a year - back in the day, even went to school over there (absolutely hated it at the time…CT for me was a fantastic place to holiday in, not so fantastic to live [as a kid] but that’s a whole other story for another sad day).

My parents have ALOT of friends in the Mother City and I’m not only talking individual friends alone, but their entire families too (brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents etc etc). And they all go waaay back, like 30-odd years. These people became our family during our residency over there and over the subsequent years, their children became the Capetonian cousins we never had. So when I talk about my ‘family’ in CT, they’re not actually my family – but they are…blah blah, you get the point.

As you can imagine, every trip to Cape Town involves a lot of visiting and catching up and laughter and the odd “Haai-julle’s-groot”…because it’s unfathomable that children grow over time…but over-all, it was a great trip. In the midst of all the "yeah-I'm-doing-my-MBA-no-she's-doing-her-Masters-London-was-great-no-I'm-not-moving-back-there-yes-my-hair-is-very-long-no-I-don't-have-a-boyfriend-and-I'm-not-bothered's", we got to drive up the West Coast on a mini road trip, just like I always wanted to. Here are some of the highlights of my trip (only some because I took over 1000 photos):

Upon arriving in Cape Town, one of my ‘uncles’ introduced us to his baby. This pimped out ride took us around CT in vintage style and garnered a lot of attention from admirers. I felt like I was in one of Snoop Dogg’s videos. For added entertainment, the V8 engine set off every alarm of all the surrounding cars as we drove by:
The view of Hout Bay from a scenic mountain drive. There are many picnic spots dotted along the route and the drive is nothing short of spectacular, the stuff beauty is made of:
The Lighthouse at Kommetjie...more beauty and splendor:
Ok, so we decided to skip Cape Point and drove further along to Castle Rock. This view blew us away and at first, it seemed like a great idea to climb down the freaking mountain to get up close and personal with the idyllic private beach. Needless to say, climbing back up the damn mountain was a fucking Indiana Jones mission and a half:
But in retrospect, it was so worth it. The best things in life are indeed free...or on loan since this is a private beach and we were only allowed there through the grace (and generosity of spirit) of the residents. Interestingly enough there are no roads leading here, the only way up or down the mountain is on foot. Words can't describe the elation:
The night market in Cape Town's city centre. We had a good laugh putting on our fake British accents and watched with glee as many patrons nudged each other eyes wide, pointing in our direction like we were part of the circus or something. It doesn't occur to most that brown people may have other accents, apart from the standard Southern African variation:
Table Mountain from The V&A Waterfront. Can't get tired of looking at this:
Waving goodbye to Cape Town City as we headed further up north, the West Coast:
The West Coast National Park has some stunning views of the Langebaan Lagoon. This is a slice of paradise, one of South Africa's best kept secrets:
One of the beaches on the Lagoon. There is literally a strip of land that seperates this lagoon with the Atlantic ocean:
And of course, before I could even take off my shoes I was in the water. It was divine. Unfortunately, my cellphone thought so too, I'd forgotten that I had it on me. But even that little misfortune didn't ruin it for me:
We went for a cruise on the Lagoon on this Catamaran. Yeah, I re-iterate, I need a yacht. Or a catamaran...as long as it has a room, I'm not fussy:
Our next stop was Saldanha Bay, which was to become our base after Langebaan, and this is the view from our hotel room. The room was situated on the ground floor and had a balcony that opened up to grounds, a few meters away from the ocean:
During the days we drove even further up north, to small quaint towns like this one called Paternoster. These places are intriguing because they're quiet and reflective. I suppose this is where the locals come to hide away from the hoardes that descend on Cape Town every December:
We were blessed with a full moon almost every night we were there. It was breath-taking...
Just a few moments in the life and times of moi ;)