Agent Provocateur and the Lingerie Phenomenon

Lingerie. Why do we spend so much money on it? One silky negligee will put you back about as much as a pair of Levis, if not more. I wore some killer lingerie today, but the only person who ended up appreciating it was the chick in the loo when I was adjusting my bra strap. It was lovely though, white with black polka dots and pink trimmings. 

Women buy lingerie that is either comfortable enough to get through the day or the type of stuff you put on in the hope someone will remove for you in the next twenty seconds before you die. We also choose our underwear depending on our mood.

Sometimes, when we have a horrible meeting, we will don siren red underwear. We do this so when some pinstriped suit is telling us how we just got passed over for promotion, we can say to ourselves with a small secret smile “I’m wearing siren red panties so go... yourself!” And all the while he stands there wondering why on earth we are smiling and are we about to go postal.

Men buy lingerie that is made of lace and itches like you have rubbed yourself down with poison ivy or that is utterly impracticable to wear for any length of time. Hence most of men’s lingerie purchases for women fall into the category of “get it off me now” – which is exactly what they intended anyway.

The thing is that when you’ve spent upwards of 45 minutes (not including all the prep work – waxing, trimming, scent, make-up etc.) doing up a million tiny clasps and lacing yourself into a corset that would make an Edwardian lady blush; you’d like it to be appreciated for more than a nanosecond. Especially if you’ve also spent an additional 20 minutes trying to make the bloody suspenders do up with the stocking seam going perfectly down the back of your leg. You might find suspenders sexy and they are, on other women. Suspenders are designed in a stupid way that mean that the back clasp digs into your thigh leaving you supremely uncomfortable and doing a Sharon Stone all night long.

It is not easy, which is why women are frequently late for dates and why we have the 3 date rule. The 3 date rule is not there to preserve our maidenly virtue. It is there to give us at least 2 dates to figure out if going to all the primping and preening is worth it. Trust me, if we’ve gone to all the effort, had our hairs pulled out by the roots, had the manicure, the facial, the hair done and the makeover, do not make the error of disappointing us. Remember what they say about a women scorned? She isn’t scorned, she’s pissed off that the ROI is practically nil.

I once had the amazing opportunity to purchase some lingerie at Agent Provocateur in London. The women were spectacular. On the day I arrived they were dressed in nurses’ uniforms, under which they modelled a startling array of the latest line. 

Men could walk in with no idea of their girlfriend’s cup size and just point to the one that matched the closest. They’d even model your choice for you. Most importantly for me however, they did not touch me. Madonna buys her panties there and I can see why.

It couldn’t have been more different than the horror I experienced at the French Shop. I went in there to buy my wedding lingerie. At the time, 11 odd years ago (you tell how it scared me) the French Shop was about the only decent place in South Africa you buy some fancy French thong. I was not served by the AP supermodels. I was served by a Granny. Much to my fiancé’s amusement she proceeded to follow me into the changing room and brutally fondle my breasts into submission. I wanted to die. I felt like Joey in that episode of Friends when finds out that tailors are not to supposed to touch you quite so intimately. I didn’t buy the lingerie, I flew to San Francisco and bought some at Macy’s.

Cup sizes are another bizarre and often misunderstood thing. The girls and I figured it out today – the rating system, I mean, so here goes:

A is for Adequate

B is for Better

C is for Comfy

D is for Downright delicious

E is for Enormous

F is for F@#%ing hell!

G is for Good God!

H is for Hide me quick, the cops are coming!

Finally, if you think the underwear she wore on the 3^rd date is what she wears all the time, man are you going to be disappointed when she moves in.

PS: To my husband who buys me beautiful underwear (11 years of training, ladies!) thank you.

The Cougar and the Cub

What is it with the Cougar Phenomenon?  

For some reason I am okay with Demi and Ashton – they are both freakishly good looking and they basically live on another planet. I am not so okay with a 25-year-old employee and his 45-year-old boss getting frisky in my world.

Is it because they are not gorgeous?

Is it because I think it is a flagrant abuse of power in the workplace?

No, its because the thought of getting it on with someone 20 years my senior makes me feel dirty – and not in a good way. 

His girlfriend is the same age as his mother. Oedipal much? I am not going to get into Freudian theory here, suffice to say it would make me uncomfortable if my son dated one of my peers. It seems to be that I have uncovered a bias within my psyche. I'm embracing it, acknowledging it and hopefully letting it go.

Once upon a time I was 19 and dating a man 10 years my senior. Looking back, I am so grateful his friends were so kind to me, because I must have seemed like a right idiot. Not for dating an older man, but for being infected by the arrogance of youth and sheer stupidity of teenage hormones. They had jobs, careers and families. I was in my first year of university. They were buying homes, my biggest concern was if I had bus fare. I was so consumed with angst that I couldn’t see the wood for the trees.

Arguably, older women do not go out with younger men for their brainpower or GSOH. Biologically, women reach their sexual peak in their thirties and forties, men in their twenties, so perhaps cougar relationships make a twisted kind of sense. Certainly younger men might have faster recuperative powers, but what do you with them out of bed?

The couple that provoked this train of thought are a good case in point. She likes to go to the casino on a Friday night and spend an hour or two or three on the slots. He likes to go to a club and party until the sun rises. So, I guess they stay home a lot. Oh, except he lives with his mother, so he stays over a lot. She refers to him as “my boy toy”, a term that makes my blood run colder than “cougar”.    

I happen to think the cougar is a beautiful animal, filled with power and fluid grace. Older women with middle-aged spread – myself included – do not fall into this category. Perhaps with botox, a boob job and a personal trainer, but in general – no.

An age gap either way doesn’t faze me too much, but when your current lover is younger than your children it raises some awkward questions. I can understand the money factor, but being treated as a walking, talking, breathing sex toy gives me chills down my back. The boyfriend is a father in his own right, however instead of buying toys for his child, he is playing with the ten grand remote controlled 4x4 purchased by his older lover.

Describing the lady in question as “hot” he proceeded to provide an eloquent metaphor on her body, which also provided another telling sign of the social age gap. “Her breasts are a lot like Flubber. You can stick your hand in and then pull it right out.” First of all, no woman of any age wants boobs like Flubber. Secondly, she doesn’t know what Flubber is, because she was too old to watch the movie.

Forget the gaping age difference for a moment and examine the professional implications of this relationship. This lady has never had a boyfriend over 26 years of age. This gives the current boyfriend a gap of about 6 months. What happens then? As his boss she holds an axe over his head that could see his career destroyed. Office gossip is like the Ebola virus, only it spreads quicker.

I may have painted the cougar in this case to be a Cruella de Ville. I am sure she is a lovely lady, albeit with issues, but we all have those. As for the male party? I think he is desperately naïve if he thinks this is going to end in a happily ever after – which he does. If I were him, I’d enjoy the moment and then wave it goodbye and get a new job in the Kingdom of Far Far Away. 

Home Renovation and Eternity

I now know why construction workers smell like construction workers. In an effort to preserve my clothing I purchased a set of terribly unfashionable builder’s wear - a denim-like jacket and awful pants that rise to the waist where they clinch in with a boa-like grip. I am prepared to suffer the embarrassment of bad couture, but was unprepared for the bad odour. They look like denim, but they are not denim. I think they are made from recycled plastic bags. 

 

I know there are women who pay thousands to go off to a spa and have some sleek creature mummify them in saran wrap then encase them in a plastic suit and force them to run around like crazy Tellytubbies. 

My mother actually did this. It is quite one thing to do this by choice, but when one is heavily involved in DIY a little breathability wouldn’t go amiss. They should make these things out of the stuff climbers wear… Gore-tex?

Sadly, I am not like the women in Benny Benassi’s Satisfaction. I don’t wield an orbital sander in a manner that is erotic. I have also discovered that Daisy Dukes don’t provide a great deal of protection from paint, sparks and all the other dangers that lurk. 

I have a very interesting looking Hazmat facemask that makes me feel like a CDC agent, but has now clogged with so much paint that it provides little or no oxygen. With the plastic suit and the lack of oxygen I soon resemble a cast member from The Walking Dead.

So, why am I doing something that patently does not come naturally to me? Good question. After my beloved husband fired no less than 3 contractors for total ineptitude, he decided we could do it better ourselves. Blithely I assumed we meant the Royal we, but he didn’t, he meant we as in him and me. HAH!

The not-so-Royal-we has now been extended to include Small boy aged 9, Small boy aged 6 and Small girl aged 5. All right I extended it first and co-opted them into helping paint during the week in hope of a day off this weekend. The problem with child labour is that the parent with the most interesting offering get dibs on the help. Father got the skilled labour of the boys while I got the unskilled labour of Small girl aged 5 to help me clean and polish her grandmother’s Merc.

The sad thing is that DIY and home renovation is a lot like eternity. My life stretches ahead of me – endless weekends of painting, sanding, hammering, sawing, reupholstering and so on. Once you have realised you can do it yourself, you resent paying someone else to do it for you. 

Strangely this does not extend to other areas like vacuuming and house cleaning, where I am perfectly content to pay someone else to hide the chaos that I leave in my wake.

The Friday Ultimatum

It’s official.

Mondays are for admin.

Tuesdays to Thursdays for work.

Fridays for networking.

This means that meetings may be arranged on Fridays, but only if they involve lunch and wine and last all afternoon. Briefings, last minute jobs and emergencies can only be attended to between Tuesday and Thursday. Any work related calls or emails received after 11:00 on a Friday will be attended to on Monday after 10:00.

Clients may not stroll in to the office an hour late on a Friday morning and proceed to make amendments that they should have made over a month ago. They certainly may not ask me to drive to Woolworths so they can have honey in their tea. Actually, they can’t do that on any day.

It is a source of intense irritation that clients feel they can breeze into my life and make it hell every Friday. It is not as though the sky was falling or the Apocalypse was nigh. It is inevitably easily avoided by simple time keeping and some forward planning.

I know, they know, that I know, that they know, that I know the only reason they do this every week is so they can get out of their offices and then go for a long boozy lunch using me as an excuse. Leaving me punching the keys on this stupid keyboard as if my life depended on it, which it probably does. 

I’m making this a formal notification. Clients are welcome to call on me on Fridays as long as they take me to lunch. I might even concede a breakfast meeting on any day of the week if it actually involves breakfast at Tashas or Fournos. Stale croissants from the Engen Quickshop do not count. Of course, if you are looking for intelligent input said breakfast must be later than 08:00 preferably 09:00. Otherwise I’ll just stare at you and mumble incoherently until the caffeine enters my blood stream and kick starts my brain.

You’ve been warned.

Tequila and Mid Life Transformation

Tequila is a wonderful drink. It is also like a horrible truth serum. It’s not the hangover that casts a pall of the following day, it’s the knowledge of those moments of truth that just won’t go away and leave you in peace.

What my friend and I realised on about the fourth tot of truth serum is that we are having mid life crises. The Chinese are always good for a proverb or two, and apparently the pictogram for crisis comes from two symbols, danger and opportunity.



Of course I did what any sensible person would do. I went to Google. The articles on mid-life crises are extremely similar to those spam emails that tell you how much God loves you, but if you don’t send it on to 200 people you will never get to heaven and burn for an eternity in the pits of hell. Each one ends with a nauseating sales pitch for some self-help book, hypnosis or incredibly costly therapy.

What I did learn it that it is terrible un-PC to call it a mid-life crisis. Nowadays we call it a mid-life transformation. It’s like puberty, backwards. There is an uncanny similarity between the symptoms of puberty and a mid-life transformation (I think I’ll call refer to it as MLT from now on, it’s too long to keep typing), but of course in reverse. You don’t get acne, you get liver spots. Your breasts don’t grow. They sag. It goes on, it’s just too depressing to keep listing them.




I found this list of symptoms. Most of these seem quite normal to me, but I’ve always thought that going to the gym obsessively is a sign of personal angst and impending doom.

1. Looking into the mirror and you no longer recognize yourself.

If this happened overnight, it would scare anyone.

2. Desiring to quit a good job.
What makes a job good? The salary? Sometimes you just have the realization that your employers don’t give a damn about you, that you’ve given the shareholders vast pots of gold and you’d rather not die of a heart attack in your cubicle only to be discovered by the cleaners in the dead of night (Don’t laugh, this actually happened at my last “good job”). A good job should make you happy. If it doesn’t, I don’t care what age you are, you are having a crisis and you need to get out.

3. Unexplained bouts of depression when doing tasks that used to make you happy.
If you do anything enough it gets boring. Here’s an example. I love sushi. If I had to eat it everyday for the rest of my life, I’d hate it.

4. Changing or investigating new religions, churches or new age philosophy.
Definitely flaky. You need professional help. Not for your MLT, but because most cults will refuse you membership based on the fact that you’ve quit your job so you have no money to give them and are too old to marry the High Priest of Pedophilia.

5. Change of habits. Activities that used to bring pleasure now are boring. Unable to complete or concentrate on tasks that used to be easy.
Hence the depression on point 3.

6. It feels good to get hurt.
Sorry, but cutting is an affliction that teenagers and Emos (Goths with feelings) suffer from, not middle-aged women.

7. Wanting to run away from everything.
Like carrying on reading this list?

8. A desire to get into physical shape.
Definitely a sign you are going off the rails.

9. Irritability or unexpected anger.
We are women; we suffer this every month like clockwork.

10. Change in allergies.
Like a sudden allergy to fools?

11. Desire for physical -Free Flowing- movement (Running, Biking, Dance, Fast red sports cars, Sky diving, etc).
I’ll focus on the car. This is because for the first time we can afford it, thanks to the good job we just quit.

12. Exploring new musical tastes.
Listening to a new band is a sign of menopause. Stick with Dylan or the Sex Pistols.

13. Sudden desire to learn how to play an instrument.
Like an Uzi?

14. Sudden interest in drawing, painting, writing books or poetry.
Because we now actually have something to write a book about? Unlike Miley Cyrus aged 14.

15. Shifting sleep patterns (Typically to less).
Kids’ll do that to you.

16. Thinking about death, wondering about the nature of death.
It’s a flashback to teenage angst. Also you now have to deal with aged relatives dying and for the first time have to find out what goes into a funeral, how to choose a casket and where the hell to find a make-up artist for dead people? (I know one actually if you find yourself in need of her services.)

17. Changes to the balance of vitamins you take. Or taking dietary supplements for the purposes of extending life.
Somehow taking vitamins to help you study seems silly when you need something to slow Osteoporosis.

18. Excessively buying new clothes and taking more time to look good.
Yay, because our advanced age means more credit and we can buy stuff now. If looking good is a sign of a MLT bring it on.

19. Hair changes. (Natural changes in thickness, luster, color or Assisted changes in dying hair suddenly or shaving your head bald)
Britney Spears was not having a MLT. She was having a mental breakdown.

20. A desire to surround yourself with different settings.
Redecorating from beanbags and futons to actual couches and a mattress is progress.

21. Hanging out with a different generation as their energy and ideas stimulate you.
If you have children, you end up spending time with them. It’s part of parenting not the beginning of the end.

22. Restarting things, which you dropped 20 years earlier.
Um… like my filing?

23. Upset at where society is going. Experience a desire to change the world for the better.
OMG! You must be having a MLT, or you are just reading too many newspapers. Go out and buy Rolling Stone instead.

24. Feeling trapped or tied down by fiscal responsibilities.
Somehow, I doubt the reality of debt is synonymous with MLT.

25. Desiring a simple life.
Damn, I knew something was wrong with my desire to suddenly grow vegetables.

26. Excessively looking back to one’s childhood.
How bad were those hairstyles? And what the hell was my mother thinking letting me wear my jeans that high?

At this point I can’t be bothered to keep reading this pointless list, but I have to comment on the last symptom of impending MLT.

Are you ready?

27. Someone unexpectedly exclaims: “You are going through a midlife crisis!”

Now please pay me lots of money to make it all go away.

Perhaps I am having a MLT:

I have changed my job. I left the one that made me a nervous Xanax popping wreck and became a freelancer.

I’m not sure if I tick the death-defying behaviour box, but I have enjoyed ramping my son’s dirt bike.

I’ve made a hair appointment and am trying to make an effort to dress like Kate Middleton so that a definite yes on the MLT list.

Am I reverting to 20s type behaviour? I did go out last night and drink the best part of a bottle of Tequila, so yes.

Exercise frenzy seems to have past me by. It lingers in my head, but so far all I’ve managed is one cycle around the block that I needed two days to recover from.

Yes, I have made some outrageous purchases, not the boots, they were brilliant, but perhaps the 1976 VW Kombi wasn’t the best purchasing decision of my life.

Have I become a flirt? I don’t know, I work with women, but I did wear a low cut shirt last week and got excellent customer service.

Seeking out old loves is the joy of social media. Finding out the prick who dumped you for the cheerleader is fat, divorced and broke is astoundingly self-affirming.

Irresponsibility, like getting a tattoo? I haven’t succumbed to that, I did it when I was 18. Alright I did get a piercing last year, so I guess that counts.

Excessive reminiscing, it’s inevitable when you end up your high-school reunion and it usually takes the form of other people remembering things you are quite happy to forget.

Oh no! I am having a crisis, damn sorry, a MLT!

If last night was anything to go by, I think I am going to enjoy my MLT.

Periodically going out and having fun is awesome, what was even better was the 8 hour stint at Club Duvet when I got home. I have a VIP pass.

The Crows and the Frozen Food Section

“Do you think it wise to put in your blog that you take medication for anxiety and depression?”
This question was posed to me this evening. The answer is simple. It isn’t a matter of wisdom. It’s a matter of truth. I do. I’m not Tom Cruise and the people who developed the medication I take have my eternal gratitude.

According to Wiki Answers 9 million Americans suffer from depression, 340 million people in the world, 1 in 4 women and 1 in 10 men. According to the US National Institute of Mental Health about 3-5% of the US population have PD and it is twice as common in women as in men.

I have suffered from panic attacks since I was 5. They started with swimming lessons and the noxious odour of pool chemicals still turns my stomach 30 years later. I left university halfway through my thirds year when they became so bad that I would arrive at university, be ill and go home.

Having a panic attack is a bit like having asthma. Once you are in it, it’s too late to avoid it. Panic attacks are not related to any rational reason. They come at you from nowhere and are usually triggered by the most inane thing imaginable. For me it starts with a fluttering in my chest until it feels as though a flock of crows are clawing their way out of my ribcage. I can’t breathe. I get faint. My vision blurs. I start to sweat and shiver. I feel like I am in a tunnel and the walls are closing in.

It sounds as though I am a basket case, but nuts I’m not. I can handle a client presentation, speak to a crowd of people and deal with highly stressed career without blinking an eyelid. I just can’t go to shopping centres or supermarkets. My panic disorder is linked with agoraphobia, which means that I have a fear of having an attack in a public place, which of course I do. So, I tend to avoid places where I do not feel “safe”. Work is safe. Home is safe. Kids’ birthday parties and frozen foods – not so safe.

Apparently shopping for groceries is enough to have me reaching for the nearest strait-jacket and checking myself in. Online shopping is a godsend. Why does it freak me out? I have no idea. I worry that I’ve bought the wrong thing, or that my credit card will bounce, or that I will forget something and have to come back. From the way my body reacts to these minor issues you’d think I was under attack by nuclear missile.

As for the numerous birthday parties my children must attend, they render me exhausted and a nervous wreck. It’s not the chaos of 30 odd children running around that terrifies me, but the ordeal of talking to their parents. Who, by the way, are lovely people. They just scare me. I never know what to say and I am aware enough of my own failings that I know if I open my mouth it’ll take a tube of super glue to shut it and all the wrong things will spew out of it. My friends know this about me. People I have just met may not share my absurd view on the world and the need for a petition against bubble skirts for grown-ups.

I let panic rule my life. It dictated the route I took to work, where I shopped, where I could meet my friends for a drink. I’d always take my own car, so I’d have an escape route. Okay, I still do. The thing is that I never stopped to ask for help. I had too much pride and not a little fear. I didn’t want to be mad.

When I was finally diagnosed with post-partum depression, the medication I was given changed my life. I went back to university and got my degree. When I stepped on that stage to receive that certificate I was far more proud of the fact that twice a week for two years I had managed to set foot on that campus without being sick, then I was at receiving the qualification.

Nowadays I don’t need to pop a Xanax each time I pop out for bread and milk. I talk myself through the experience, step by step. I take a list and don’t deviate from it. If I need to, I find somewhere to sit down and just breathe. I take a book with me so that if I need to distance myself I can lose myself in its pages and have a glass of ice water before trying again. I know when to leave. I also know that most people are too concerned with their own lives to be staring at me. Most of the time no-one notices.

The upshot is that I am not certifiable. That asking for help is not a bad thing. That if more people spoke about it, acknowledged it and recognised it, suicides, familicides and infanticides would be less likely to occur. It is not the end of the world. It doesn’t have to run your life. It doesn’t stop you being brilliant, ambitious and successful. It doesn’t mean you are an unfit parent. It just means you have a challenge to overcome and you can learn the skills to do it.

While I am horrified at how many people suffer from bi-polar disorders, depression and anxiety, I take comfort that I am not alone. That there are many people just like me. You probably know some. I know I do.

Anxiety and Depression help:
If you live in Johannesburg, I recommend Dr Hanan Buskin at the Anxiety and Trauma Clinic email hanan@atclinic.co.za or (011) 883-4552. Hanan is the in-house psychologist for SAfm and his show is aired weekly, on Thursdays at 11am.

Sometimes, the best help comes from people who have walked a mile in your shoes, in which case an excellent place is Panic Survivor.

The Strait Jacket and the Spray Gun

When you are losing your mind when all around you are keeping theirs, it is very irritating to have someone tell you that truth. It hurts less when it comes from your mother, although knowing that everyone else was thinking it is hard to bear.

Mother: “Darling, I’ve been reading your blog.”
Me: “Oh.”
Mother: “I know you’ve had a hard week, but have you been taking your anti-anxiety pills?”
Me: “Um...”

Bugger. I hate it when she’s right. I had run out of both the anti-anxiety pills and more importantly my Eltroxin. The thing is when I’m taking the stupid stuff I feel fine and forget why I’m taking them in the first place. For some reason unknown to medical science my thyroid ate itself a few years back and I have to take hormone replacements. Without them I pass out, become irrational and believe completely that I am sane and it is everyone else who is nuts. That’s why we have mothers – to remind us that sometime is not them, but you.

Hard truths don't only fall to mothers. On a lightning trip back to these sunny shores from San Francisco to get married, my beloved father met me at the airport. Let’s bear in mind that as far as he is concerned I am the most beautiful, perfect being on the face of the earth. Whether I am or not is debatable, but he and I are allowed to think the other is perfect.

After 3 months of American supersized portions I was not as sleek and svelte as I was on leaving. My dad gave me a huge bear hug and then said gently, “My angel. You’re looking a little... podgy.” I spent the two weeks prior to walking down the aisle living on apple juice and spending about 3 hours a day in the gym. It was a truth only my father could have told me. Coming from anyone else it would have resulted in a total destruction of self-esteem and a possible cancellation of my wedding.





Truth comes from all shapes and sizes. One came from my son this afternoon. I was trying to master the art of the spray gun with mixed success when my mother called:

Small boy aged 9: “Mom! Granny’s on the phone.”
Mom: “Tell her I’ll call her back, I’m painting.”
Small boy aged 9 to Granny: “She’ll have to call you back she’s painting herself.”
Granny: “Sorry, is she painting the wall or herself?”
Small boy aged 9: “Both. About the same amount of paint is going on her as on the wall.”

From the mouths of babes.

Thor and the Temper Tantrum

Around 13:00 on Monday afternoon Thor got into a snit. He did as he always does when he has a temper to burn off. He climbed to the top most turret of Valhalla and flung a spear of lightning into the clouds. Feeling better, he went downstairs and had a nap. I doubt he spared a thought for that spear of lightning shooting its way through the atmosphere towards some arbitrary human.

That arbitrary human was me. The lightning struck at about 13:00 on Monday and lodged itself firmly in my temple. It pulsed there for a bit and then shattered into a million smaller lightning shards, each which embedded itself in my brain tissue.

Dazed and confused I struggled helplessly with the childproof Myprodol packing at last freeing two of the elusive little pills and dry swallowing them in a single gulp. An hour later it became clear that these manmade gizmos were no match for Thor’s fury. I took two more. And then I took two more and a Valoid to stop the seasick lurching of my stomach. The ensuing dull ache allowed me to get some sleep.

Day 2 dawned and I was convinced I had won, but it turned out it had only retreated to plan and strategize a new offensive, lulling me into complacency. When the second wave hit, I prayed to the Gods to let me die and end the pain. Either they weren’t listening or they just don’t give a damn. I downed the rest of the Myprodol. I may as well have eaten a box of Smarties.


I lay in bed watching the purple bolbs edged with a acid green halo, ooze and pulsate around my eyelids. I opened my eyes when the lightshow started me feel ill again.

By Day 3 I was exhausted. I admitted I could not do this alone. I slouched into the doctor’s office and mumbled at her incoherently for awhile. She must have got the gist of it for I walked on with new scripts for my Thyroid medication, the lack of which must have lowered by tin foil brain shield against Thor’s little tantrums, new anti-anxiety medication and some Xanor to serve as a migraine Agent Orange.



I have waited all day, lovingly figuring the blister pack in my pocket and waiting for this blissful moment when the pain will not ebb or gently recede, but explode into beautiful serene nothingness.

Hindsight and the Kingdom of Pleasure

When I happily thanked the RCI man who offered me a weekend at Sun City, little did I imagine it would lead to a partial mental breakdown and the destruction of workplace harmony. 20/20 hindsight, what a view!

None of this was on my mind as I slipped home late Friday afternoon to pack the car and set off on an unplanned road trip. Then I was filled with joie de vivre and seeing the surprise on the faces of three small people. I packed with the speed and efficiency of a mother of three. On arrival I discovered that they had everything they needed, but I had forgotten to pack any underwear for myself. Typical.

The Sun City complex is the largest construction in the southern hemisphere and the largest theme park in the world. I am not convinced on the last, but I have it on good authority, so I’ll go with it. I hadn’t been there since a debaucherous Loeries Awards ceremony sometime in the mid-90s. I don’t remember a lot of that trip except that I had an utterly gorgeous dress.




RCI had managed to fit us in at the Vacation Club – Hippo 204. I think these might have been staff quarters at one point. Regardless of their ancestry they are pretty nice. Their antiquity means that they are spacious and you can lie down in the bath. Of course, if your width is proportionally greater than your height you may not fit in sideways. The heating system worked like a bomb and sounded like a Cessna.

Question: Is it unreasonable to expect toilet paper in a timeshare unit? We usually potter down to the coast for our vacation and there’s always been loo paper and soap as well as a little complementary basket with a tea bag and some instant coffee. Regardless, thank God the lord and master of the house had packed a roll or we would have been up the proverbial shit creek without a paddle.




As we stood on the porch admiring the cascade of the Milky Way in the middle of the night, the quiet serenity was broken by the sound of a television set exiting a window. Well of course we went to investigate, as did half the resort. We all hovered in the shadows ducking the various implements and pieces of furniture that came airbourne out of the unit on the corner. I never saw the arguing pair, but they managed to destroy everything not actually nailed down. It was spectacular.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny and off we went to the Valley of the Waves. I’ve always found the contrived nature of Sun City and the Lost City garish, but seeing it through the eyes of three small people, it was magical. However, it is a real pity you have to enter it through the cavernous pit of the casino.




Bright and sunny it was, but it was also 12 degrees in the water. We floated lazily down the river our bottoms turning a lurid shade of blue. By then we were inured to the cold and hurtled ourselves down water slides like crazed apes. The water may have been just above freezing, but the joy of this time of the year is that the place is fairly empty. Eventually, we retired to the beach where an ice-cold pina colada hit the spot and I defrosted happily in the sun. Small girl aged 5 and I agree totally that this is our kind of beach experience. It was very civilised. The prices for our drinks were not.

Sunday we set out into the wilds of the Pilanesberg Game Reserve. Small children do not enjoy driving aimlessly around and after they’ve seen one zebra they’ve seen them all. Nonetheless we enjoyed beautiful birds, elephants, wildebeest, impalas and gorgeous lazy turtles. I liked the turtles best of all. I’ve never seen them in the wild before their wizened little faces and bright eyes remind me of old men with tall tales of tell.

There is never peace for the wicked and so I ensconced myself by the complex pool with a cocktail and my laptop while my offspring – who have no temperature gauge – happily darted in and out of the freezing pool. By the time I had finished my job I was a fount of totally useless information. Here’s an example, did you know South Africa is the world’s largest exporter of Macadamia nuts? No, I bet you didn’t. Well, now you know and can drop that little gem of information to impress your friends.


My spouse’s business associates soon arrived to mark the end of the family portion of the weekend. With great reluctance he dragged himself off to pow-wow and sing kumbaya. It is a universal truth that there is nothing more annoying than a drunken oaf when you are sober. By the time my better half arrived home he was livid with rage at said drunken oaf who had disappeared leaving his bill unpaid and in the manner of drunken oafs everywhere, had managed to offend every person with whom he had come into contact. Needless to say the man in question did not attend the following day’s leadership conference. Apparently his uncle, three times removed, was ill and he was feeling sad. Really? Did anyone buy that?

Now, when the sun shines, Sun City is the Kingdom of Pleasure. When it doesn’t and you have three children under 10 to entertain, it is the Pit of Hell. Check out was at 10am. Perhaps, if I didn’t loathe underage gambling aka The Magic Company, I could have kept them entertained. What we ended up doing was going up and down the glass bullet lifts at the Cascades.

The much-lauded aviary was a supreme and smelly disappointment, so we ended up with the crocodiles. Crocodiles are not particularly riveting to watch for any length of time. In fact they don’t do anything. They just lie there. However, I was determined that my young brood would learn something so I persisted in reading out the facts posted alongside the pens. Upon later recollection they only recalled the number of kills each male had racked up.

Arnold, the biggest croc has killed 5 other males already, so has been removed from the general population and he and his harem lie happily in a secluded corner. Looking at his enormous bulk – my daughter could lie down in his tummy – I couldn’t imagine him being able to manoeuvre himself into any sort of fighting stance. His rival, Footloose, has 3 kills to his name, including the aptly named Three Speed. Apparently, looks can be deceiving.

By the time my husband extricated himself from his corporate get-together I was exhausted, cold and happy to go home. Then came the rain, a precursor of the nightmare to come. The slight throbbing in my temple became a full-blown migraine somewhere near Hartebeespoort. We pulled into Pick A Pancake and I threw my family out of the car while I dry swallowed half a pack of Myprodol and closed my eyes praying for relief.

In case you are ever up that way, avoid Pick a Pancake. Their pancakes don't look anything like this picture. The food takes disgusting to a whole new level, even the dogs looked at me as though I was poisoning them when I foisted the leftovers on them later. So don’t pick a pancake, pick somewhere else entirely.

The best part of going away is coming home. Not this time. My feline friends were so unimpressed by our departure they had liberally decorated my duvet for our return. The geyser was off, the water was cold and I ran out of tea bags. My husband retreated to the Laundromat with the duvet and I endeavoured to make peace with my distraught and highly agitato boss.




Was it worth it? Having the first weekend this year not renovating our house, going to birthday parties or navigating city traffic? Damn right!

Was it worth having my boss yell at me, my co-workers snipe at me and my dedication to my job called into question? Unequivocally yes.

I’m not sorry. I did try to be. But I’m not. Not really. Not at all. Sue me.

Chicken Little and the Polar Bear

Straw. Camel. Back. Broke. That. The. Arrange to your liking.

There are days when I have had just had enough. This is one of them. God help the poor bastard who gets in my face. I might just pull a Columbine for the greater good.

I almost managed to pack my bags and leave my lousy office job this morning. It was actually a massive come down to discover myself still sitting here. In answer to my boss, I don’t want to be here. I’d rather be on a beach in Tahiti sipping a Pina Colada. Hell, I’d rather data capture then bear the brunt of office gossip and sniping. I swear the Taliban has nothing on these girls.

I need an out. A life raft. A parachute. Barring any of the above I’ll take a Xanax. It might mean the difference between life and death for someone. So, Mr GP, think carefully before denying me. You wouldn’t want to have their blood on your hands.

What it boils down to is one lousy day of leave and no mobile coverage in a game reserve. You’d think Chicken Little had come to town. Regardless I had a nice yell at my boss who has disappeared in fear of his life and I feel much better. Although, I’d rather have just been allowed to leave. There are times when a cardboard box and a shopping trolley are preferable to a cubicle and awful coffee.

What have I learnt about myself:

1. That I hate working in an office
2. That I hate living in urbanised, cookie cutter sprawl
3. That I want simplicity and order
4. That people can piss me just by breathing the same polluted air
5. That what society deems as priorities are actually empty shell casings
6. That I need to find an income generating option that allows me to stay away from other people for their safety and my sanity
7. That I am a polar bear

Let me elaborate on point 7. There is a difference between being a loner and being lonely. Lonely people crave the company of others. Loners eschew the company of others. Hence, polar bears. We don’t like sniffing in the wafts of germ laden air circulating around an office pen. We don’t like sharing our pens, our chairs and our coffee mugs. We need our own space. We march to our own drum. It’s not our fault if it is a different beat to yours.

I’m just not cut out to be a drone. I’m not a worker bee. Neither do I want to be the Queen. I am not a honey maker. I am a troublemaker. Hammering at me is not going to change the simple fact that I do my day job for the paycheck and not because I subscribe to some ideal utopian vision about advertising changing the world. Your print ad is never going to change the world. Making someone buy something they don’t need with money they don’t have just adds to the recession.


You are never going to solve the world’s problems by selling soda pop.
Live with it.
Own it.
Move on.

I still do a damn good job. I work weekends, I work even when 3 hours out of surgery and drugged on morphine. I do it well because I took off my rose coloured glasses back in 1995. I do it well because I am not confused between my job and my life. I know where a company’s loyalty to me begins and ends.

Maybe illusions offer a more comfortable existence, but I’ll take reality any day. And the reality is… your employers don’t give a damn about you, your personal problems, you bad hair day or your blocked drain.
Don’t take it personally.
It is not all about you.

The Gautrain and the Irate Commuter

Today I attempted to be a fulltime commuter on the much lauded Gautrain.

The morning stretch went pretty well all things considered. However, it was not faster than driving my car, not once I factored in waiting for the train and then the infuriating 20 minute wait for the bus in peak time. Apparently, the promise of every 12 minutes is not worth the paper it is printed on. Lesson learnt, walk to work from the station.

As for price, for me alone it is pretty comparable and prevents me from having to go to useless meetings thanks to not having transport. Should a meeting be very important, do not rely on the Gautrain system to get you anywhere. Once the small fry are back at school the car is much cheaper, faster and reliable.

All things considered I was still pro-Gautrain when I got to work.

But that was all about to change...

I happily pottered down to by bus stop – Number 15 on RB4 – conveniently located at my office gates. There I found a fellow commuter. I engaged him conversation only to discover he had been there for 30 minutes – so much for the 12 minutes promised during peak hours. As we stood along came a bus a block away neatly avoiding the route altogether. And then another one. By then we were both on the phone to Gautrain operations to utterly no avail.

30 minutes later I caught a lift with a colleague, leaving the frustrated commuter at the bus stop. I did offer him a ride, but he was adamant to take the bus if it killed him. I eventually arrived at Marlboro and hour and a half after I had set out and not in a good mood. The Customer Care Line has an effective means of stopping complaints, they just hang up on you.

I laughed at my husband when he regaled me with how while waiting to collect me at the Marlboro Station he had asked if he could use the loo. The loo is inside the turnstile and to pay nearly fifty bucks to pee is a little steep. They refused and politely suggested he urinate outside the Station entrance. Charming. Customer Care answered his call and assured him steps would be taken. A week later they had no record of his call.

This is South Africa so I don’t expect first-world customer service, but I’d like to have some.

The Pretoria Station was closed this morning too; apparently some entrepreneur stole the power cables.

Welcome to Africa boys and girls, and don’t trade in your car just yet.

London, The Clash and the Alien Probe

“London's burning! London's burning!
London's burning with boredom now
London's burning dial 999”
The Clash

Is it the fact that the rioters are children or the fact that they are English that appalls people the most about the situation in London? Let’s face it; if they were Islamic jihadists the police would be happily bombarding them with teargas and live ammunition. But they aren’t, they are little boys and girls.

When I lived in London back in 2002 it was the children I was scared of. The pizza delivery guys wouldn’t even deliver to our flat in Islington they were so scared of being mugged by 9 year olds. My husband cracked one day as we pulled up to our office to find the bus shelter being vandalised again by a bunch of kids. He grabbed one as the others ran like hell and forced him to clean up the mess.

Yob: “Why me? I wasn’t the only one.”
Husband: “No, but you ran the slowest.”

Instead of relying on the police, it could be time to clean up your own neighbourhood. Take some responsibility for your own children. Unless you've just sent them out to loot because they run faster and you need a new telly?

News reports make full use on the ambiguity of the English language. They are not children when they are rioting and looting, they are youths. Until one is killed and then it reverts to being a child again with all the innocence the word conveys.

Our society’s treatment of under 21s as children is fairly recent. Boys as young as 15 were fighting in the trenches during World War 1. A family member was shooting Nazi soldiers in occupied Holland at the age of 5. This coddling of the young is a new and problematic construct. We bemoan underage sex and forget that Juliet was all of 14.

Perhaps it is time to start empowering our children not disempowering them. Maybe we should bring back apprenticeships? My great-great grandfather was apprenticed at the age of 9 and stood before the mast by the age of 13. If the great social malaise is boredom, cure it. Give the little blighters something to do! Allow teachers to actually teach. They wonder why most university graduates come from their public school system. It’s because they learn something there. You cannot learn from a person who does not hold your respect. English teachers are terrified to go to work. They can’t give a detention without wondering if their car is going to be petrol bombed.

Above all what we need to impart to our children is the importance of responsibility, duty and the old mainstay, the Ten Commandments. I mention these, not because I am a religious zealot, but because these basic tenants appear in all major religions. Cutting them out of education without replacing them with a secular version has left the youth bereft of a moral compass.

The problem is not one of inadequate policing, but of inadequate parenting. We cannot rely on schools and the governments to raise our children. We have to do it. We need to set an example our children can respect. Some of these kids had their moms pick them up to take them home with their ill-gotten gains. Really?

When I found out I was pregnant I did some research in the UK. My well-paying job would just cover full-time child care, while my social services pay-out would cover almost three quarters of my salary and leave me with free time on my hands. Here is a society that rewards underage, unwed pregnancy. At 24 I was considered too old to be pregnant in London. The average age was 16. The more kids you produce the higher your social security payout. Why bother with a high-school education or a job? There are enough immigrants who can’t claim the dole slaving away to add to the coffers of a blatantly lazy population of Brits with a bad case of entitlement.

I've always laughed about British mentality and queues. Try this out. Get two or three friends and stop on the sidewalk in a line. Wait a few minutes and then look behind. Guaranteed there’ll be a bunch of Brits standing in a queue waiting. They like to queue. Hence the looting. One person starts it and everyone queues to get on the action. It helps that there’s no real consequence.

The best quote I have found so far was from a woman who said, “If I have learnt anything from this experience, its that my next phone will be a Blackberry.” Social networking cannot continue to be ignored as a platform for mobilisation be it good or bad. Its time is here and we cannot keep holding on to outdated media as a means of controlling the masses. The crowd mentality loses the individual and becomes a hive mind. In this case the hive mind is taking over.

Soldiers know that you cannot hesitate in a war zone for a child. In Africa, Iraq, Afghanistan, those children are highly trained soldiers who will not hesitate to kill you first and ask questions later. It is time the UK police stopped playing nice and worrying about bad PR, and disciplined these kids the old fashioned way. With luck, you might actually earn their respect.

What we are living through may not herald the hoofbeats of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, but may well be the end of days of Western Civilisation. It won’t be the hoardes who destroy our way of life, but ourselves, through our own capriciousness and greed. It is not democracy that will save us, but leadership. Weak governments, weak teachers and weak parents make for weak children.

"Man has much more to fear from the passions of his fellow-creatures than from the convulsions of the elements.” Gibbons, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire

In other news a British woman claims aliens have infiltrated Facebook and MySpace. She was lured to a spot in the woods nearby by an anonymous Facebook email warning her that her boyfriend was cheating on her.

When she arrived she was abducted for 13 days and subjected to anal probes and other intrusive experiments of a sexual nature. What disturbed her the most was their predictions for the end of the world in 2012, mainly, however, she was relived that her boyfriend was not doing the nasty with someone else.

Question: If abducted by aliens and used as a willing sex toy, is that cheating?

My boss, Montblanc and the Gautrain

I just received an impassioned call from my boss-at-large. He believes utterly in the power of social media to correct all ills and solve the world’s problems. More specifically, to bring back the lost Montblanc wallet left on the Gautrain in Hatfield on Sunday between 3 and 5 pm.

I’d like to share his optimism, but my cynicism is crippling. Nonetheless, I am blogging, Facebooking and Twittering as requested in the vain hope that somebody will give a damn and return the bloody thing.

The chances are pretty slim, but I promised.

So…

If you happen to have picked up a black Montblanc Wallet on the Hatfield Gautrain this weekend, drop me a line won't you?

I need the brownie points.




Bugger! I just remembered I was supposed to be taking the damn thing today. I guess the desire to drive my mother's C-Class Merc, overwhelmed the part of me that wants to try public transport. What a pity.

The Walking Dead and the Penny Farthing

The time of the vampires has ended. Zombies are the new vampires. There’s no emotional blurring of the line between good and bad here. Zombies equal bad. Very very very bad. There’s no chance of redemption through true love, eating vegetables or finding your soul in the depths of hell. Edward, your time is up. Take your tortured immortal soul and catch the next train out. The zombies will eat you alive.

I’ve spent a happy weekend scaring myself silly with good old-fashioned horror – The Walking Dead. I haven’t slept for all weekend, just grabbing naps in the sunshine, not because I have been watching one after the other, but because I’m too scared to sleep in case I wake up to Zombie hell. It’s exhilarating fear, the type that reminds you that you are alive. Watch the show and tremble…


Trembling describes my whole body. After agreeing to something while not really listening to the question, my body is in pain and I feel physically ill.

Picture this…
Sunday morning 7am. I am lying warmly cocooned in a mountain of duvet.
Husband: Darling, it’s time to get up.
Me: Piss off, its Sunday, God’s day of rest. You wake me and I’ll strike you down with great vengeance and furious anger.
Husband: You promised to ride bikes with the boys.
Me, coming awake: I did not!
Husband: Did too.
Me: Did not!
Pause….
Me: Bugger, I did, didn’t I?



This is what happens when you multi-task. I have not been on a bicycle for 20 years and even then I was hardly Lance Armstrong. The bike in question was a dark red Western Flyer. The bike I rode this weekend is some high tech piece of torture. First off, it has gears. Not easy to understand gears like my car, but 16 gears all in different combinations. You need a degree in mechanical engineering to figure it out.

Then there is the seat. Whoever designed that has a special place in hell waiting for them. It is not, as my husband promised, designed for feminine comfort. It is designed to cause maximum pain and injury. I now know why cyclists stand up so much. It’s because it’s too damn uncomfortable to sit down. I feel violated and not in a good way.

Halfway around the block, my firstborn offered to ride home and get his father with the car. Not a bloody chance! My pride couldn’t stand it. So while I fought with gears that made me spin like crazy and not go anywhere. I still managed to make it home. Then I went upstairs and crawled into bed, emerging periodically to moan, “My bum! My ears!” very theatrically. Not that anyone noticed or cared.

Even more bizarrely I refuse to be beaten by a glorified penny farthing. I am determined to do it until I can get around the block without collapsing into a coma. Also, I cannot stand the looks of pity and condescension on the faces of all of the men in my family. I am the alpha female and I will not submit!

Now, does anyone have a haemorrhoid cushion, my ass is killing me?