Month: February 2009


I watched the final of The Bachelor (and for those of you in the States we are about 7000 seasons behind) and I still think it’s weird. I was so into Tessa and I actually think she’s a fruit loop for saying she loved Andy – who has to be the wimp of the year… While I think he has lovely abs, I’m not so sure about the strength of his backbone. I googled to see where they are now and I believe they were engaged for 6 months but went their separate ways (funny that!) and Andy started dating some older big-boobed woman with a bit of a reputation…

Sing with me: “But I see your true colours shining through…”

I don’t like him… but the fact that I even give it a response is why I love reality TV. Throw away the scripts Hollywood… lets get REAL!


By popular demand…

Here are the aformentioned shoes that I heart and have wrapped around my feet as we speak…

Now please don’t slobber on your screens. I know they are pretty and black, and given the responses to my need for pretty black things and your mutual enjoyment of all things dark and attractive, I know this may make you seethingly jealous.

That’s okay… feel free to tell me how jealous you are..

Because, well.. they’re pretty, and black…


I heart my new shoes

Sometimes I go to a launch and I get to drink wine and chat to people I have never met before. Sometimes I go and I get a nice branded pen which looks a lot better when I drink lots of wine and talk to people I have never met before.

But today was different.

Granted, there were lots of people I have never spoken to before.

But, I never drank wine… and this time, they gave me a goodie bag of note. It was big and had a shoebox, and inside were a pair of my new favourite shoes. Geox were showing off their new store and they let us try on shoes we liked. I tried on a few but seriously liked this pair of black ankle boots. They cost R2000 so I looked longingly and remembered I wanted a big, pretty, black LCD TV. I then tried to talk myself into it saying these were pretty and black, but no where near as big as a big screen TV. So I lost that battle.

Then Anna…

Lovely, lovely Anna…

Anna said, well if they fit, then they should be yours.

I heart Anna…

And my pretty, black shoes…

Women may relate…

I have no idea why, but I suddenly have this strange desire to buy an LCD TV. The bigger the better. To think that just last week, I was watching TV with bunny ears and now I’m scanning the department stores for pretty big screens that can fuel my Saturday Series Sessions…

It’s not simple, let me tell you… You have to make sure you buy HD or HD-ready – but no one really knows what that means – probably that you’ll need a converter for hi-definition TV. And there’s various makes. I get told LG is best, then someone scoffs when I tell them and they say Sony is the only way to go, especially if you want the 42″…

What no one seems to realise is… I really don’t care. If you ask me what car a friend drives I will tell you what colour it is and if it has a boot or not. I may be able to tell you if it has more than two doors (sorry, three doors) but I will not be able to tell you brand, valve size (or what ever it is 14oo or 1600 or w’ever), or if it had mags or metallic paint. I will tell you if I thought it was pretty, but I don’t care if it is functional.

Start talking about torquing and I will fall asleep immediately…

So when I say I want a TV. I mean I want it to be pretty. And I want it to be bigger than my present one. And I want it to have a black casing.

That’s all…

No need to engage any further… and if I choose one you don’t like… that’s okay… all that matters is – it’s pretty, and black, and big…


I decided a while ago to read a book by Stephen King. I read Pet Cemetary when I was in school and had nightmares for about a week about pets crawling out of graves to come back and kill me. What made it worse was that we had random cats at boarding school that used to hop onto your bed. One used to climb under the covers and suckle you.


Well, after the book I would wake up with Cujo cat sucking on my rib cage and scream blue murder until I realised it wasn’t ripping me apart, merely pretending I was it’s mother that it was clearly taken away from too early.

It really shouldn’t be suckling. It was gross… and I had love bites for days. I wonder if it did it to anyone else. Hmmm…

Anyway… that was so not the point of my blog.

What I wanted to say was that I read his book On Writing, which he wrote after his horrific accident and ended up bed ridden for a long time. He writes about how he crafts his novels. Now, don’t scoff about Stephen King writing about writing. After all, he may not be Pulitzer Prize winner, but I’d like to sell a tenth of the amount of books he has. He clearly knows a thing or two.

It was probably the best book about the craft I’ve read. It’s totally conversational and filled with good tips. Basic stuff through to good meaty advice that you can only get from the pro’s.

So, this afternoon I sat in front of my PC trying think of what to write. You see my blog is not just a place to share my views or my stories, but a place to find my style and voice. I write for a living, and would like to write more than restaurant reviews and profiles on people who love Johannesburg (which I love doing, let me add).

So today I took Mister King’s advice. He says if you’re a writer – you write… and need to be disciplined in that. So even though I have nothing to write about, I have decided to write…

I’ve done it before and some of my most commented on pieces have been as a result of just writing. So no longer will I make the excuse that I have no blogging mojo. I will just write.

Talent renders the whole idea of rehearsal meaningless; when you find something at which you are talented, you do it (whatever it is) until your fingers bleed or your eyes are ready to fall out of your head. Even when no one is listening (or reading, or watching), every outing is a bravura performance, because you as the creator are happy. Perhaps even ecstatic.
Stephen King

Nostalgia continued

Yesterday’s post was surprisingly fun – the responses were great. It’s good to look back and laugh. And cringe…

I was surfing the net for green jeans and saw that coloured jeans are making a huge comeback, although the green seems to be far less insipid than our baby-poo tone. More lime than toddler faeces. I feel like Meryl Streep in Devil Wears Prada describing just what that colour green really means. Ah, why have Vogue not picked me to write about clothes?

On a far more exciting note… I have something to look forward to this weekend. As you know, I moved in with FJ last weekend, and after a day of hauling boxes and trying to be sympathetic about FJ’s runny nose (which I’m sure was a clever ploy to keep me from snapping orders at him), I sat down on the newly moved couch to watch, the newly moved TV with a newly moved glass of already there wine.

Turned on the TV, flicked channels and then sat screaming for 2 hours while FJ finished blowing his nose to pay me attention. How this man has lived with no TV is beyond me. Well, let me be exact. The house has no aerial, so he bought bunny ears.


I didn’t know you still got bunny ears. It’s like having a typewriter. Antiquated.

The TV can only pick up SABC3 and eTV, and after living in a home where I could leisurely flick through all channels available in English (and a few others, and, oh, there are sport channel thingies apparently, which really make for an elongated flicking time).

Anyway, I digress.

The worst thing about the two channels is that you can hardly see them. SABC 3 runs like a vertical teleprompter, so you’re exhausted by the end of the ad break, and eTV is all fuzzy – so I had to watch half naked wrestlers looking like they were grunting in the snow. Really off-putting. Well, being forced to watch it is off-putting enough.

So I decided to move these ear-ials to see if I could get a better view. When I held them I got a perfect reception. As soon as I let go, back to TV-on-acid. After a half an hour of holding on to the ear-ials and having to lean back in a yoga pose with my belly in the air and my hair cascading on the floor, I was exhausted. I mean – try all this with a glass of wine in your hand.

Oh, and FJ was around but no help. I heard him blowing his nose in the distance every two minutes, purposefully, I’m sure, so I wouldn’t yell at him for leading me into a receptionless home. It’s seriously not good. It’s like putting a human in an oxygenless tent. Inhumane.

Needless to say, after I got myself out of the crouching dog in lily leaves, I immediately decided to buy a decoder and get a bit of civilisation into ear-ial estate.

She arrived yesterday and will be ready this weekend. Hopefully in time to catch my marathon Saturday series session.

Ah, life is good.


Facebook is a really odd thing. I find myself strangely addicted to it, and mildly offended by it too. I can’t knock it. FJ and I first started chatting on facebook, so it will always have a fond spot in my heart, but it has other facets that scare me.

I find myself checking it continuously just to see if some long lost soul has found me after all this time. I have reconnected with a number of old high school, primary school and even nursery school friends. When I say reconnected, it’s never been more than a few emails:

longlostfriend: oh my word! Clive! How are you?

Clive: Long lost friend! Fine and you? What are you up to… it’s been almost twenty years!

longlostfriend: I know! You still look the same. Me, I was married, have three kids, divorced and still live in Benoni. You?

Clive: Well, my boyfriend and I just moved in together and we’re hoping to adopt one day.

A few days pass.

longlostfriend: Sorry for delayed response. That’s great.

Generally the chatting ends there. Not because of the gay thing. But really what is there to say? You’re really strangers even though you got your first pubic hair around the same time.

What’s worse about facebook is when the aforementioned friends tag you in old photo’s. I think that’s the main reason I check in all the time. Is it really necessary for you to haul out old photo’s and present them to all I know so they can see how Benoni-like I was?

You see, I was a skinny kid. Who never got Valentines cards (only from Jesus). And there was a reason for that.

Somehow I just never cracked it in the looks department. Or the fashion department either. I wore stone washed jeans when everyone stopped. I wore skinny jeans when everyone started mocking guys for wearing them. And I wore leatherette shoes. What I spent in foot powder to avoid the smell, I should have put into decent shoes. You know, really.

I also had a very full head of hair, that had a tendency to curl when long – especially in the fringe – so I had what looked like a big rose corsage above my right eye. I never knew how rose-like it was until I was tagged in a photo.

I mean seriously. Can someone not have taken me aside to suggest a bit of a trim. Maybe a weedeater session? And here I was asking for Valentines cards, when all they saw was rosehair boy…

What sparked this blog off was a group on facebook devoted to a club I used to love, called Idols. It used to be in End Street in the centre of Joburg, and I spent many a Friday and Saturday night there, dancing with my hands in the air, waistcoat over my denim shirt, green jeans and freedom shoes. I even had a studded belt (that looked like I had gone mad with the parental’s bedazzler) which I wore proudly. So when I saw the group I thought I’ pop across. To my horror there were 114 photo’s. I have spent the last two hours scrutinising each photo to make sure I could not be seen. Thank goodness, not one pic. But then I saw what everyone else looked like. Gosh, it feels like yesterday, but it’s already 15 years ago… and you can see!

I’ll let you into one pic from the time… just so you can see I lost the rose, and assumed a new Roger Moore-type style…

To think I’ll be looking back in 15 years time shuddering at what I look like now… C’mon, share your fashion woes and even your pic’s… I dare you…