Marshmallows & Merlot

Dear Zara

2012-01-31T12:53:00.000+02:00

Oh how excited I was when you finally came to our shores! How I smiled like a fool when I walked into your Sandton City flagship store and stood dead still for a moment taking in the merchandise that stretched as far as my eyes could see, as a sea of well-dressed hipsters with your trademark navy shopping bags dangling from their Caribbean tanned arms walked past me making their exit.

Oh how delighted I was to find a beautiful pair of tan leather flats with all the elements I'd been looking for to complete my summer holiday wardrobe. How I couldn't resist grabbing a pair of bright pink flip flops for my newborn niece when they beckoned me from your kidswear section. Handing over my hard earned cash was a small price to pay for a retail therapy victory.

Oh how distraught I was when my brand new shoes broke, the delicate 'in-between-my-toes' leather strap snapping away from the sole as I strolled along the promenade with my puppy en route to the beach. How I searched and searched for the receipt with no success. I'd never planned to return the shoes. I'd bought quality. I'd paid top dollar.

Oh how saddened I was by the outcome of my trip to Zara to exchange the faulty footwear. How frustrated I got when the manager told me that the R499.00 shoes had gone on sale for R199.00 but were now sold out. How speechless I was when I was told that I could only replace my purchase with something in-store to the value of R199.00.

Oh how hopeful I was when I was told that if I could produce a bank statement proving the purchase amount I could get something for the full purchase price. How confused I became when they asked if I had bought more one item. "No, I bought something else, too" I responded. "Well then a bank statement won't suffice," she said, "we can only accept it as proof of purchase if the amount reflected is the exact amount of the pair of shoes that broke."

Oh how exhausted I was when I gave in, tired of fighting an no-win situation. How I hunted the shop floor for a R199.00 'something' to replace my faulty footwear. How shocked I was when found a pair of R299.00 shoes on sale (marked down from R399.00) that I wanted as 'the exchange' and was told that I would need to pay in R100.00 to complete the transaction.

Oh Zara! How angry it made me to have had to pay YOU for YOUR faulty merchandise. How ridiculous it is that your 'policy' resulted in me spending R599.00 on a R299.00 pair of shoes.

Oh Zara! You need to take a cue from Forever New. A couple of hours before you butchered the Consumer Protection Act, Forever New (Rosebank) had exchanged a skirt that I got for Christmas without a receipt. How? Well, the sales consultant simply asked me where it was bought and when (I phoned the gift giver and answered "Sandton, end of November-ish"), she did a quick check on the system and Voila! I left Forever New with a brand new skirt without having to spend a cent.

Oh Zara! It's a pity you sell such pretty things. How sad it is that your customer service isn't quite so pretty.

Sincerely,

One Unhappy Customer

Personal Torture, um, I mean 'training'...

2011-12-01T10:43:00.004+02:00

My latest attempt to de-jiggle comes in the form of a pint-sized pocket rocket who claims to be a personal trainer but, in my opinion, is actually a highly qualified practitioner of jedi mind tricks. You see, not only has she managed to get my wobbly butt and withering calves (not being able to run or wear heels will do that to a girl) to the gym bright and early on a Monday morning but she has managed to make me see wine o' clock as the enemy (Re-read that last sentence if you think you imagined it...) Basically, I'm starting to equate my favourite Sauvignon Blanc with lunges, squats and other forms of legal torture required to undo the calorie consumption.

Bearing in mind that I gave my partner in crime at the gym the nickname of 'The Drill Sergeant' a while back (courtesy of the fact that she single-handedly managed to take me from a coughing, spluttering, sweaty mess who couldn't run 3km's to a half-marathon enthusiast in just six months), when I made the decision to get a personal trainer I thought: "How tough can it be?"

Well, 48 hours after my first session, as I tried not to pass out or toss my cookies midway through the second session, I came to the realisation that personal training was gonna be a little more challenging than I'd initially thought and perhaps, the best way to soldier forward was to rope The Drill Sergeant in... thankfully, my dear friend was only too happy to assist. I think that 'happy' was downgraded to a 'willing' judging by the text message I got from her the day after our first joint session, which pretty much described exactly how I'd felt the week before – basically, every movement (walking, sitting, lying down) felt like I was being stabbed my a swarm of sword yielding ninja mice.

The strange thing is that I seem to enjoy being beaten into submission and I find myself repeating 'no pain, no gain' to myself as I hop around my room on one leg trying to put my skinny jeans on with the arm with the most range of movement.

So, it looks like I'm gonna see this thing through, which means that...

If you find yourself with nothing to do on a Monday or Wednesday morning around 7am and happen to frequent the Sunninghill Virgin Active, then you may just witness the hour-long comedy session that is The Drill Sergeant and I being put through our paces. We're pretty good at the basic stuff, so not much entertainment value there, but when medicine balls, bosu balls, steps and kettle bells make an appearance that's where the situational comedy comes in.

"You want me to do what?" [insert demonstration by personal trainer here] "Um, okay, so do I step up into a lunge and flick the kettle bell or do I swing the kettle bell and then lunge?" [insert second demonstration of same movement by personal trainer] "Okay, I think I've got it..." [said while sticking bum out and thinking there's no way this thing is only 8kgs] "How's that?"

Personal Trainer: "Sho! You really weren't kidding when you said co-ord wasn't one of your gifts."

True story.

So, while I wouldn't advise being within throwing distance of me when I have a kettle bell in hand, I am finding that I feel this huge sense of accomplishment when The Drill Sergeant and I complete a session. The fact that getting in and out of the shower some mornings feels like a carefully planned military operation seems a small price to pay for a firm butt and the annihilation of the bat wings that I currently call triceps. And, if I manage to pick up some extra co-ord along the way – that's just a bonus!

If you thought you saw a pig fly past your window

2011-10-26T16:09:00.001+02:00

last Saturday, there's no reason to assume your next purchase will be a straightjacket or that a mushroom courtesy of Fleetwood Mac found its way into your lunchtime wrap. You may very well have seen a flying pig because, you see, the unthinkable happened...

Hubby spent an entire 8 hours shopping without so much as a whinge, a whine or an 'I've had enough' pout. Surprised? So was I. In fact, if I didn't have fabulous new patio furniture, a 12-piece mirror installation and a couch order to show for it, I too may think that it were all a 'shouldn't have had cheese before bed' dream.

In the three years that I've been a Mrs I have never seen the man on such form. He was a shopping, price-comparing, interior design referencing machine. From Wetherly's to Sutherlands, from Sandton City to Kramerville, from Mistry's to Mr Price, hubby took retail therapy to a new level, putting even this seasoned shoppers stamina, agility and Sales Consultant repertoire to the test...

I realised I may have some competition when, while looking for photo frames in Design Quarter, he dashed over to me, Blackberry in hand, proudly declaring:

"Love, those mirrors you want, they're holding 12 of them for us at the Clearwater branch. Oh, and Hertex says we can keep the scatter cushions on appro 'til we finalise the fabric for the couch."

If it weren't for the mandatory pitstop at Anat in Sandton's food court for his 'usual' – a lamb schwarma packed to capacity with more garlic and brinjals than your average mediterranean-themed deli – I may have been forced to consider the chance that hubby had been swapped with a genetically engineered clone the night before. Thankfully, by 17h30, as we made our way home, his shopping high (a phenomenon I'm as familiar with as curry induced weight gain in winter) begun to dwindle...

"Right, that's me done – for the next year, at least. What's for dinner?"

It's at that point that the flying pigs stopped circling our apartment.

Garfield and lasagne...

2011-09-29T14:15:00.001+02:00

the two things go together like fake tan and cruise ships, like merlot and stinky cheese, and, most recently, like my pavement special pooch and my being overseas for two weeks.

You see, on my arrival back home a few days ago I flung open the front door, let my hand luggage thump to the floor and assumed the position for maximum welcome home cuddles from my adorable puppy. What followed was quite unexpected...

Instead of the lean, lithe canine I had left behind I was greeted by more wobble than bounce. Sure, the big brown eyes were as sparkly as ever, the tail as hyperactive as usual but there was a new addition to her physique – a boep.

Me: "Um, I thought you said that she wasn't eating so well while I was away..."

Hubby: "She wasn't. Was really worried about her..."

Me: *confused expression*

Hubby: "I bought a giant lasagne from Woolies the day after you left 'cos I couldn't be asked to cook and, well, 'cos she wasn't eating I thought I'd try feed her some. And she loved it!"

Me: "I'm sure she did..."

Hubby: *Grabbing the lasagne tray thingee from the fridge and off loading a heap of carbs into her bowl* "Look, it's like crack for dogs..."

Sadie: *turning to face me with a piece of pasta the size of her protruding from each corner of her mouth and a look of bliss across her face* [if she could've spoken] "nom nom nom, now this is what I'm talking about mother. Much better than that Science Plan stuff you've been subjecting me to, nom, nom, nom"

Me: "But she's fat. Looks like she swallowed a tennis ball."

Hubby: *smug look accompanied by toddler-like grin* "Well you always said you wanted a proper sausage dog. Look, I finally got you one."

[Update: Much to Sadie's disappointment she is back on Science Plan and off 'the crack'... the tennis ball looks like a golf ball and she is expected to make a full recovery from Lasagne-gate]

Those who know me...

2011-09-29T13:39:00.001+02:00

know that I am what you'd refer to in Sandton circles as 'a heels girl'. Few things set my pulse racing quite like a sky-high, streamlined, expertly fabricated pair of stilettos. When it comes to pursuing calf-defining height I am a purist. Sure I'll mix it up once in a while with a wedge or a solid cowgirl-esque boot but I believe that kittens belong in pet shops and cones are best served up with ice cream.

So, on a recent trip to the UK, the fact that the footwear department of my luggage contained mostly heels shouldn't come as much of a surprise. Now before you get the urge to chuckle and tease this blogger let me clarify that I left the six-inch skyscrapers at home and made a concerted effort to pack my 'sensible' heels, the kind that I can run up escalators in and are perfectly suitable for chasing after my puppy in the park if need be. As I made the tough calls between black or tan Aldo boots, between Nine West or Europa Art wedges and between matte or patent courts, I imagined myself dashing for the tube, missioning up Oxford street and strutting purposefully between art exhibitions... and came to the conclusion that I was packing the appropriately comfortable footwear.

Let's just say that after day one of exploring Cambridge in my flattest boots – they're barely 2-inches in heel talk – I remembered just why the highest pair of heels I wore during my student days was a pair of vintage cowboy boots...

Not even the three shopping bags dangling happily from my cashmere clad arms could distract me from the toe-crushing, burning sensation wreaking havoc with my pedicure.

Thankfully, in a moment of sheer 'just in case-ness' I had thrown my trusty Woolies ballet flats into my hand luggage. I say thankfully, because those ballet flats saved me a small fortune in podiatrist appointments, becoming the footwear of choice for the first few days of my holiday.

As comfy as my favourite flats are, their colour is a bit problematic... they're green. Yes, the colour of grass, and while grass looks good on England's countryside it doesn't give much flexibility when putting together an outfit. This realisation came on day four when my outfit of choice left me looking like an episode of Rainbow Bright rather than an extra on the Gossip Girl set.

And so I did what any sensible girl would do and headed for Topshop. If I were destined to wear flats and only stand 5 foot 7 inches above the pavement then the footwear would need to be pretty and (yawn!) practical, and few places do pretty practicality quite like Topshop.

The high street favourite didn't disappoint – one pair of cream ballet flats, black patent round-toed pumps and lace-up brogues later, I was happy to report via Twitter that the makings of a wardrobe crisis had been averted. And the most noteworthy thing about this rather long-winded tale? This morning, as I got dressed for work, slipping on a black Forever New dress and tights combo, I reached for my favourite sky-high courts and something quite remarkable happened – I decided to go with the new brogues instead *gasp*

I think I brought more than just new shoes back from the UK... I think I must've caught the (much talked about but rarely spotted in Soya Latte circles) 'flats flu'. For the sake of my shoe collection and stiletto stamina I'm hoping to make a full recovery.

Because sharing is caring...

2011-09-07T13:09:00.001+02:00

Every season I pick up a few great items from my mom-in-law's neighbour, Andy. You see, every quarter she transforms her home into a retail therapy oasis – rails and rails of seasonal fashion, great basics, some gems from overseas and fab accessories. I always walk away with several pretty things and for months afterwards I get the "That's gorgeous. Where'd you get it?" response to my purchases, which doesn't only put a spring in my step it reminds me that when the next Fashion Open Day rolls around I mustn't forget to spread the word. So here it goes...

Leaving the mothership's overrated

2011-09-06T16:13:00.001+02:00

Few things inspire panic in a Northern suburbs woman quite like a shopping emergency. With just two weeks to go before hopping on plane to play bridesmaid in Cambridge I got call from the bride-to-be casually saying that she’s decided it best her entourage pick their own dresses for the nuptials. The advantage? I get to avoid looking like the victim of a cupcake explosion. The freak-out? Shopping under pressure is not for the faint-hearted.

After activating the fashion emergency phone tree (most stylish friend, bargain-savvy mother in law and a handful of people who should put ‘professional bridesmaid’ on their CV) I had a plan of action. My mother and I were going to venture out of Jozi, beyond the familiar cobbled streets of Melrose Arch and the freshly revamped corridors of Sandton City, we were going to flex our shopping muscles in Pretoria – and we were going to do it via Gautrain...

Public transport

We arrived at the Sandton station, wearing our comfiest heels and stocking up on every train timetable, bus schedule and pamphlet that looked like it might be important. Gold cards charged we descended down and down and down some more, like Alice down the rabbit hole, to board our train to Hatfield station.

Taking a trip on the Gautrain always makes me a bit emotional. I’m just so proud. For the thirty or so minutes it took to reach our destination I could have been anywhere – London, Paris, Rome… It really is a first world experience. My mom and I skipped off the train and floated up to the surface on a cloud of optimism, ready to conquer the bus timetable and embrace public transport in the pursuit of unfamiliar retail territory.

Platform hopping

Sadly, our bubble was burst by an eight-letter line of fine print that we’d failed to see and staff at the Sandton station had failed to point out – no bus service on weekends and public holidays. We popped out of the station and into a shopping void, kilometers from anywhere that posed even a glimmer of changing room hope.

Long story short, we re-grouped, revised our plan of attack, did a U-turn and settled on Rosebank where its new Piazza didn’t disappoint.

A pretty perfect Piazza

From a much-needed re-fuel and wine o’ clock pitstop at Piza e Vino, to the ‘can we offer you a glass of champagne’ welcome at heart-skippingly pretty Forever New, this Sandtonista was very impressed. Strolling back to the train station, the perfect mint green silk dress in the bag, I turned to my shopping accomplice and said: “We had to trek all the way to Pretoria to realise there really is no place like home. That’ll teach us to leave the mothership.”

What a difference a week makes...

2011-07-14T17:40:00.003+02:00

This time last week, I was in possession of all ten of my toe nails, my most recent half marathon time was 02:13 and hubby was planning his next round of golf with his beloved set of clubs.

1. Toe-ing the line

As I type this I am wondering if I will ever have the guts to present my beaten up feet to a beautician for a pedicure again. A punishing run/hobble down Knysna's Simola hill has rendered my feet a little worse for wear. It's only a matter of time before the deep purple toe nail on my right foot bids me farewell. Gross, I know, but just be thankful I resisted the urge to post a picture!

2. The PW (personal worst)

My feet aren't the only thing that took a bruising last Saturday... My ego got a tad 'klapped', too. After a promising start, the Drill Sergeant and I launched out of the starting blocks at a comfortable, well-trained pace. It would later emerge that our pace was somewhat impressive as the boys (The Great Dane and 'Brenda') confessed that it took 5km's to catch us.

Alas! The first half of the run was not to be repeated...

although my mind, chest and legs were willing, my right knee was weak. My old nemesis, ITB '(illio-tibial' band syndrome for non-readers of Runners World) made it's grand, painful entrance at the 17km mark and any hopes of achieving a personal best vanished faster than a vintage Chanel bag at a Charity shop.

I hobbled over the finish line in 02:29, the last of my 'team' to complete the 21.1km route. Thankfully, there were pancakes, mini doughnuts, ice cold beers and lots of friends to cheer me up... Oh, and sometimes you really do need somebody to lean on.

3. Join the club...

A few years ago I had the misfortune of being hijacked on the way back from the airport. I'd just arrived from London for my 21st birthday celebrations and a trio of very kind locals decided to relieve me of all my luggage, including one rather large bag containing ALL of my shoes, and the last drop of homesickness I had been carrying around with me since my move to the UK. Being the victim of theft just plain SUCKS, which is my heart really aches for hubby. A couple of nights ago his golf clubs were stolen out of the boot of his car. His wallet and spare cell phone were also taken, but it's the 'loss' of his golf clubs that really adds insult to injury.

You see, as any man who plays golf will tell you, building up a set of clubs doesn't happen over night... And it's not a cheap exercise. Ever since I've known hubby, he's been saving up for a special putter, getting excited over winning a golf umbrella at a golf day, using birthday gift vouchers for that golf bag he's had his eye on for six months, and window shopping at The Pro Shop as lovingly as I do at Jenni Button. Sure, you can replace stuff. I know that. But it just doesn't seem fair that something you spend so long building up can be swiped so quickly.

You can lock your car, you can turn on the alarm, you can keep your handbag on your lap in a cinema. You can be prepared... However, it seems that as South Africans we are often just preparing for the inevitable. Cos while you're beeping your car 'locked' some opportunistic low life is blocking the signal with a remote in their pocket. I love this country. I really do. But sometimes, it's all too glaringly obvious that all the sunshine in the world can't buy you security.

(On the bright side, at least birthday/anniversary and Christmas presents for hubby for the next few years are sorted)

Alice in Wonderland (PART 1)

2011-07-12T13:25:00.002+02:00

I feel like a cross between Sarah Jessica Parker and Alice in Wonderland, with a little urban hippie thrown in for good measure. Since 8am this morning, Cape Town's city centre has been my oyster and let's just say I'm making the most it...

My first stop was AFRAID OF MICE, a curated vintage wonderland that describes itself with the line: "the clothes you wish your mother had kept for you"... Located at 88 Long Street, Afraid of Mice has been featured in Elle and often gets raved about in the blogosphere. I was so keen to try on this little gem myself, that I made it the first must-see on today's vintage shopping hit list. I wasn't disappointed...

Picked up a truly drool-worthy pair of high waisted denim-look wool trousers by Christopher Strong, that make me feel like a fashionista rather than a fashion victim.

The next few stops on Long Street (Second time around, Journey, MeMeMe and Milk) were accompanied by a very happy buzz, not sure if it was my new trousers or the caffeine in my blood stream courtesy of YOURS TRULY a fab coffee spot (175 Long Street) that was recommended to me as the perfect place for my morning latte by @Laxy29. Whatever the reason for the added bounce in my Audrey Hepburn inspired ballet flats, I'm pretty sure that Yours Truly will see me, as their pay off line says, " same time tomorrow".

Another place I will be paying a follow up visit to is STILL LIFE (229c Long Street, Shop3 Victoria Mall, Hout Bay & Shop 104 Cape Quarter, Green Point). Great unique prints, colourful graphics and a sophisticated eye for detail makes Still Life's decor bits and bobs really special. Check out the blog (http://stilllife-decorestore.blogspot.com) to see why I am seriously considering schlepping a ceramic vase, a pair of lampshades and a scatter cushion or two home with me via Mango. I think a souvenir with a bunny print would be a fitting memento of my journey down the rabbit hole of Cape Town's city centre. Just in case I don't have the balls to attempt carting ceramics as hand luggage I bought a couple of quirky laser cut fridge magnets from Still Life to tide me over 'til my next trip with a bakkie.

Oh, and did I mention that I (heart) &UNION on Bree street... You gotta love a place that runs a lunch special that includes a delicious 'meat lovers' lunch, a glass of great Sauvignon Blanc and a cup of coffee, all served by super-friendly, uber knowledgable guys in a so casual it's cool setting for only R95. And, they score points for having a section on their menu that says 'for the hippies...'

Anyways, I just polished off way to much fresh ciabatta smeared with homemade mustard, layered with parma ham, prosciutto and bresaola (think that's how you spell it) and am feeling well-fuelled for round two of my vintage shopping mission...

I'm off to find a cape, high-waisted shorts and maybe, just maybe, head back to AFRAID OF MICE for that pair of vintage tan Salvatore Ferragamo's that are calling my name. Wow, I love this city...

Barking mad

2011-07-11T17:21:00.001+02:00

I buy my dog outfits. A habit which I thinly disguise as being an absolute necessity and definitely not a Paris Hilton moment.

The following conversation recently took place at my home after I was distracted en route to Pick n Pay by new stock in the Vet & Pet window...

"She really has no body fat," I said to hubby, " and this is a particularly cold winter." "Mmmhmm," he said, knowing exactly where this train of thought was headed. I continued, "I know she already has two but the retro 70s jersey is a bit small and her Sharks jersey isn't lined..." Hubby interrupted briefly to remind me that Sadie is in fact a "d-o-g" but recognising the 'yeah, and your point is?' look on my face decided to give me the benefit of the doubt and relented: "Kay, let's see it..."

And that, dear readers, is how my pavement special came to wear a pink and brown checked faux-fur lined parka with a detachable hood for most of this winter, barring the few weekends she showed her support for the Sharks.

This post is for all those who saw the pic on Facebook and thought "she's finally lost it..." Maybe I have. But life's too short to wear bad shoes, eat bad food or put your dog in a bad jersey. I say if your dog needs a jersey then you may as well get a kick outta shopping for it.

P.S: Hubby has requested that I find her a camo parka for the farm (true story)

I'm not the only one! happy dance

2011-07-07T14:59:00.001+02:00

As I type this, I am sitting on a Mango flight from Lanseria to Cape Town thinking about 8-month old Sadie and feeling a bit bad that I didn't do a better job of saying goodbye to her as I juggled handbags, luggage, keys and iPad on my way out the front door this morning...

No, I didn't leave my 8-month old child at home to fend for herself... Sadie is a dog. And yes, in case you weren't aware, I am one of 'those' people. Why blog about this blush-inducing fact? Well, I just came across an article in the in-flight mag called 'Smooch with you pooch' and the article is a city by city run down of dog-friendly restaurants for those of us who have been known to choose our Sunday brunch spots based on which gives Sadie the best water bowl/treat combo (Kay, you can stop laughing now!)

According to the article on page 48 of the July issue of 'Juice' the following spots in JHB are "proudly dog-friendly, with amenities ranging from watering stations to doggie menus and tasty tidbits":

Burnside's (6 Burnside Avenue, Craighall Park 011 326 3970)
Doppio Zero (cnr Barry Hertzog & Gleneagles, Greenside 011 646 8740)
Espresso (23A 4th Avenue, Parkhurst 011 447 8700)
Fratelli's Pizzeria (12 Gleneagles road, Greenside 011 646 9573)
Thunder Gun Steakhouse (Shops 5&6, Palala Centre, Beyers Naude, Northcliff 011 678 7224)
Walkhaven dog park (Plot 77, Zwartkop, 071 212 9955)

And, did you know that Melrose Arch is a dog-friendly mall? I didn't. Not sure how kind this knowledge will be to my bank balance though...

Anyways, if your ears do prick up at the prospect of being able to enjoy good meal at a good spot with man's best friend and you're not from Joeys then there are a bunch of cool eateries in Cape Town, Durbs, the Overberg, the West Coast and even the winelands that won't look at you as if you're 'cooked' when you end a reservation phone call with "it's okay if I bring my dog, hey?"

Cape Town:
A touch of madness (how apt!), Blue Peter, Fugu, Blue Water Cafe, Knead, La Vie, The Food Barn, Rioja, Ons Huisie, Eden on the Bay, Wembley Square

Overberg:
Europa Coffee Shop & Restaurant, The Oak & Vignette Cafe

West Coast:
Oep ve Koep, Die Strandloper, Restaurant Mangiare at Capelands

Durban:
Arts Cafe, Market, The Oyster Box Hotel (yes, really!), Waves Pub & Restaurant

The naked truth

2011-06-09T19:06:00.001+02:00

If you've ever paged through a lingerie catalogue or almost walked into one of those life-size cardboard Wonderbra model cut out thingees in a department store, then you've probably found yourself declaring that your diet starts tomorrow or something similarly reactive.

You see, lingerie models are a special breed... Immune to wobbly bits below the belly button, completely unaware of the existence of the ever-present armpit fat roll and they seem to be produced with cookie cutter accuracy in perfect sizes. Oh, and when they sit, their taut tummies don't wrinkle like the rest of us mere mortals' do. Or at least these are the things I believed a week ago...

However, all my preconceived ideas were shattered into a gazillion pieces yesterday when I saw a lingerie catalogue, pre-photoshop, pre retouching, pre-perfecting trickery. I got to see the results of the most recent photoshoot in the lingerie brochure's layout phase... Before the art directors goto hold of it. One word... REVELATION!

Along with the visual evidence... Muffin tops, cellulite, razor rash, armpit fat and ill-fitting balconette bras, came tales from the shoot. Tales of one of the models being a couple of months pregnant ("we'll just have to photoshop it out, use the liquifying tool on her stomach"), tales of stitching and sewing and totally re-shaping underwear to look more flattering, tales of removing most of the curves from the 'confidently curvy' shots ("she's got such a beautiful face, we'll just have to flatten that bit a little and take that shadow out"), and tales of adding instant tans, altering skin tones and "sculpting her abs a bit more"

Don't get me wrong, the models are beautiful, but they're not 'perfect'. You don't see armpit fat in the posters in the shop windows because an art director airbrushed it out. Lingerie models fit perfectly into the even numbers on the labels because some photographer's assistant nipped and tucked and stitched them into those frilly French knickers. You don't see tan lines or stretchmarks or scars or birthmarks because every image was treated with the magic wand wielded by designers with photoshop.

Proofreading a lingerie catalogue in the pre-production phase was an eye-opener. You hear about retouching and airbrushing, but most of us only ever see the 'afters', we don't have the benefit of seeing the 'befores'.

In an ideal world, the images we see wouldn't be so 'ideal'... They'd be real images of real women with a really good hair and make up team, and an awesome stylist. They'd be images of our prettiest friend, beautiful women wearing beautiful things and the photographic evidence would be just that - evidence. Evidence that even women who look beautiful for a living aren't immune to things like that little dent in your silhouette that a thong causes over the hips.

So, the next time you're grabbing a wobbly bit between your fingers and swearing to start spinning five times a week, or find yourself traumatised by a changing room with 360 degree mirrors, remember this:

It's pointless to compare yourself to that girl on the cover of that magazine, because, in reality, she doesn't even look like that.

Twice as nice...

2011-04-23T17:32:00.001+02:00

Hubby and I have just declared our current 10-day getaway in Hermanus our second honeymoon. Not that there was anything wrong with our first... it's just that since we said 'I do', our 2-week Mauritian festival of romance is the last time we can remember that it was just 'us'. Between weddings and building businesses and family holidays, the past two and a bit years have flown by in a whirlwind of flights, drives, '30-seconds' re-matches and 'who's turn is it to dash to Spar?' self-catering accommodation.

Over this Easter weekend, a time when grace, mercy and a heightened awareness of being blessed abounds, hubby and I have found ourselves smack bang in the centre of a little piece of heaven. You see, apart from the fact that we have an awesome glass-fronted 'beach room', we have a jacuzzi (I know, very 80's, but still such a treat) that sits on the 'edge of the world'. Located at the most extreme point of the en suite deck to our room, we sit in 'our' jacuzzi, sipping on a sundowner every night, with nothing between us and the ocean/lagoon/mountains/beach scene vista but a sheer two-storey drop. It's like starring in your very own 'couples special' episode of Laguna Beach, except without the backstabbing and vapid dialogue...

As I type this I realise that I may be making some readers mint green with mild envy, and others a slightly more sickly shade of green with nausea at the schmaltzy-ness of it all. Well, neither outcome is my intention. As I type this, all warm and fuzzy inside from an incredible lunch at a wine farm called 'Creation' (in Hermanus's Hemel en Aarde Valley), I am not typing this as a result of the multiple wines we tasted as part of the canapé and wine pairings, or as a result of the trio of chocolate desserts that will have me (literally) running my butt off along the cliff paths for the next few days... no, I am typing this post because this getaway, this buffet of delicious moments with hubby, has reminded me that even the best relationships need your undivided attention.

I blow-dried my hair this morning, covered my chipped nail varnish with a fresh coat of Essie's 'Cute as a button' and slicked on a carefully selected shade of lipgloss, not because I needed to (hubby loves me even when I'm a red-faced sweaty mess after a run), but because I wanted to. I wanted to look pretty and polished for hubby... I wanted to be the fresh, rested, funny, wine-loving version of myself that he chose to date once upon a time. And, in turn, he responded by being the quirky, casually handsome, off-the-wall funny boy next door that I fell head over heels for back in 2006:

Me: [halfway through my wine pairing platter] "Wow, that pie looks amazing!"

Hubby: [mouthful of fresh-outta-the-oven homemade beef pie] "mmm-hmmm. So good."

Me: "We have those dishes at home. Would you like it if I made you a pie like that for dinner, with a fresh-baked pastry lid thingee?"

Hubby: [chew. chew. one more front-loader mouthful. over-exaggerated swallow] "Well... my love, Jesus did walk on water... [thoughtful pause] so I guess anything's possible." [followed by a huge grin and a naughty chuckle]

Me: [giggling] "Well played, Winderley, Well played... I love you"

Hubby: "Love you too sweets [great big smooch]. Now stop hogging the merlot..."

I like to think that everybody marries their best friend, the person they can laugh with, 'ooh' and 'aaahhh' with over amazing chocolate brownies with, and have couch potato Sundays with. Hubby is my best mate and the past few days have reminded me just how much fun we have together. Sure, real life happens... you can't dodge it. You can't not work and not do the admin that comes with it, you can't not RSVP to the important social stuff and the family dinners that you're blessed to have to go to. But you can take a little time out every now and then to be the best version of yourself with your other half...

So, as I get ready to spend another evening in 'our' jacuzzi watching the sun go down over the ocean with a full-bodied merlot and a rested, happy husband, I urge you to take a little slice of time this long weekend and give your significant other a snapshot in time with the best version of you. Cheesy, I know... but (trust me) you'll be glad you did.

Little red riding hood

2011-04-11T12:41:00.001+02:00

was onto something... not the whole bringing baked goods to granny and dodging the wolf bit, but the wearing red thing. Ever since opting for a red Essie nail varnish shade called 'Forever Young', I've been a tad obsessed with the colour. This morning I pulled a Gwen Stefani and painted my lips in Estee Lauder's red lip gloss. I'm not talking subtle, I'm talking fire engine red – the shade that doesn't knock before entering, it just arrives.

There's nothing like blood red lips or nails that remind you of Dorothy's ruby red slippers, to put a Marilyn-inspired spring in your step. Like the little black dress, red is a classic – if an outfit's the sentence, then a slick of red gloss or a dash of crimson varnish, is the punctuation mark. Every few seasons red makes a comeback...

showing up on the glossy pages of my favourite mags, being given the stamp of approval by startlets during awards seasons and making its way into 'free gift with purchase' packs at make up counters.

A quick google search (via www.mybbf.com) reveals that red lipstick really is nothing new... "it dates back to Egyptian times some 5,000 years ago, the Romans and Greeks were known to adorn their lips with a mixture of dye and pigments in an oil-wax base and even Cleopatra had lipstick made from crushed carmine beetles to give her a deep red pigment. But Queen Schub-ad used the earliest lipstick on record. She was a Sumerian queen that blended white lead with crushed red rocks to color her lips" (and I thought I was guilty of sometimes being a slave to fashion).

To get to the shade I meticulously painted my lips with this morning (crushing beetles and rocks doesn't float my boat), credit needs to be given to Guerlain for moving beyond 'pots of colour', and making the first bullet shape container in 1870 (the shade was called 'Ne m’oubliez pas'... translation: 'Don’t forget me'). Half a century later in the midst of WWII, Elizabeth Arden made the lipstick 'Montezuma Red' (try saying that quickly after a few glasses of merlot...). The red lipstick's shade was inspired by the hat tassels worn by Marine women and sparked a bit of a fashion revolution, blazing the trail for pop icon Madonna to proclaim MAC's 'Russian Red' her favorite color, and single-handedly turn it into a bestseller in 1986.

In the 1920s Flappers wore dark red lipstick to symbolise their independence, today red is still the colour of choice for confident women who can rock a boardroom as effortlessly as they can rock a pair of six-inch Louboutins. So, ladies, if your favourite nude lipgloss is drying up quicker than the ink on your latest credit card statement, and your french manicure is getting a bit predictable, I dare you to take a beauty-conscious leaf out of the history books paint your lips and fingertips a shade that matches your favourite glass of merlot.

Say Viva! to glam... get to a MAC counter and grab the "rockin red that has helped, and continues to raise tens of millions of dollars for the MAC AIDS Fund." And while you're at it check out Essie's Reds. With names like 'a list', 'fishnet stockings' and 'scarlett o'hara' you'll be seeing red (the good kind) in no time!

Exactly a year ago today...

2011-03-31T12:03:00.001+02:00

I took the plunge into fully-fledged self-employment. I had been 'unemployable' for quite a while, but on 31 March last year I decided to quit being a 'jane of all trades' and put all of my energy into becoming a master of one. Ever since leaving full-time employment at the foxhole in March 2008 I had dreaded the question; "So, what do you do?" You see, I didn't have a neat, one-sentence answer... I made my living in dribs and drabs, some smaller dribs, some bigger drabs as an 'art consultant/ diamond dealer/ painter and (sometimes) freelance copywriter'.

Somewhere between designing engagement rings, throwing paint around in my studio and suggesting art for housewives with waaaaay too much free time on their hands, I found myself being given more and opportunities to write, something I'd always had a knack for but never, ever thought I'd make a living from... well, wrap me up and call me Christmas, I was wrong...

It turns out that the economic meltdown (towards the end of 2009) was just the kick up the butt I needed to stop being an airy fairy creative type – and focus. Three out of the four galleries that represented me, and had been selling my paintings regularly, closed up shop and the fairytale six months of making a living as an artiste drew to a close. As the funds dried up, so too did my desire to spend hours in Sandton City trying to earn commission on a diamond solitaire or an overpriced 'match your couch' piece of art. A few copywriting jobs built my (un-qualified, never went to Vega or triple-A) confidence and it began to dawn on me that this freelance writing thing wasn't just viable, it could be my thing, or as the Drill Sergeant says, my niche.

One bizcommunity ad, proper branding (thanks, Daniel & McKay) and an office (thanks, Dreamstation) in Rosebank's fabulous firestation) later I find myself running a bona fide business. So business-y is my little business that my nasty boss (me) wouldn't even give me the day off on my birthday. Sure, the past twelve month hasn't been a picnic... I'm not such a fan of 30-day payment terms and I've had one or two days where the only copywriting I've had to do was update my Facebook status and Twitter account, but all in all it's been a great, (almost) no pressure learning curve.

What's triggered this little blog post trip down memory lane? Well, this morning I got the ball rolling on actually registering my company. Yip, The not so starving artist is a mountain of paperwork and a trip or two to SARS away from being a registered company. This art fart with a fine art degree is about to become a business owner – wow, I so did not see that coming...

Marie Claire, you beauty!

2011-03-23T15:56:00.000+02:00

Browsing the magazine racks at Woolies en route to pay for a week's worth of food picked with the best intentions (the spinach that'll probably never be salad-ified, the green teabags that'll end up gathering dust behind the never-to-be-cooked wheat-free pasta)... I realise that I have a problem: I am a glossy mag junkie. It's almost impossible for me to leave a grocery store without a last minute impulse buy. My drug of choice? Magazines!

It's very rare for me to bring home groceries without some new 'reading material' in hand. You see, I don't have just one mag I buy monthly... oh no... mid-week it's Elle and/or Marie Claire; post-gym it's Shape or Runner's World, pre- or mid-roadtrip it's Fair Lady (LOVE the crossword) and at the end of the month, when the card's close to melting it's (guilty pleasure) Heat or if the pickings are really slim, You magazine for the 'what were they thinking?!?' pics at the back.

It's a habit that reared it's fashion-conscious head during my first year in London. Hours spent every day on public transport made me a magazine publisher's dream...

Dashing for the early morning train I would grab a budget-conscious black filter coffee and a free Metro paper. By the time I got to Waterloo I would have to pop into WH Smith because I had devoured all my available reading material, including six pages (at least the bits that weren't obscured by a scarf) of the girl next to me's 'Sushi for beginners' or whatever the latest 'chick lit' bestseller was at the time.

At WH Smith my drug of choice was usually one of the cheapies (under 2 quid) but every now and then a glossy Elle or Marie Claire would beg to be bought and I would opt for fashion editorials and an exclusive interview with Britney over actually eating that day (the phrase 'starving artist' is not just a phrase after all).

In my first year in London I must have accumulated just short of 300 magazines... No, I am not exaggerating. At least one mag per day (sometimes two), at least 5 a week... Do the maths. And, before you jump to conclusions, this isn't because I couldn't be bothered to read the 'proper' stuff (in between devouring magazine content I managed to rack up an impressive list of books read & returned in record time at my local library), it's just because I LOVE fashion editorials, 'spree vs. splurge' comparisons, witty columnists' observations and well-researched features on woman from all sorts of places and circumstances.

Who needs a candy store or a shopping mall, when I can window shop and salivate over pretty things from the comfort of my living room while wearing slippers and kinda listening to E!News in the background? Not me, that's for sure. Give me Elle's 4-page summary of the upcoming season's fashion weeks over a Saturday spent scrumming at Sandton City any day. (P.S: Sandton, you know I love you, you will always be my mothership of sorts, but you know that I prefer to spend cash within your walls mid-week when everyone else is at work) So, taking into account all of the information you've just garnered from the paragraphs above, you will grasp why an event last week in Twitterville had me grinning from ear to ear throughout the long weekend...

Last Thursday my Blackberry went 'ding' and I was alerted to a new Twitter notification... being the social media junkie I am, I opened up the notification, read the 'you have new mentions' message and proceeded to see who had been tweeting about me. Well, when I saw that one of my tweets re Marie Claire's latest cover (featuring the exquisite Natalie Portman) had been RT (retweeted for you non-Twitter peeps) by @marieclaire_sa I was gobsmacked and was only snapped out of my goofy grin by another 'beep!' – this time it was an email notification from Twitter that read: "@MrsWinderley: @marieclaire_sa is now following you on Twitter."

My response? To tweet about it, of course:

Finding out that @marieclaire_sa is following little old me has put a decidedly happy spring in my well-heeled step today *blush*

17 March 2011 12:25:14 PM via web

What I wouldn't do for a...

2011-03-22T16:13:00.001+02:00

steaming hot, delightfully frothy Woolies Red latte with two white sugars right now *oh-woe-is-me sigh*. You see, somewhere between my last blog post (and yes, I know I've been shirking my duties as of late) and today I have managed to get myself on a meat-free, dairy-free, wheat-free, (practically) carb-free and (gasp!) wine-free eating plan. I know, can you spell 'i-n-s-a-n-i-t-y'?!?

grape-free expectations

The wine was always on the cards. It had to go. I had to give up something I would really miss for lent... and anyone who knows me, knows that I love (yes, I use that term thoughtfully) LOVE a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc every now and then. When my mom asked what I was giving up for lent and I answered 'wine', she responded by bursting out into laughter (true story). This reaction was partly because I'm not sure she knew I was being serious and partly because lent (the 40-day run up to Easter) falls over my birthday – a day that I like to use as an excuse to drink a bottle of the good stuff (a.k.a the stuff with a price tag that makes hubby a little nauseous). In all seriousness, giving up the vino is a small, really insignificant price to pay for my real birthday present which I am thankful for every year – my salvation. And it wouldn't be such a cause of trauma for me, except that somewhere along the way I decided to give up meat, too...

meat-free, cow-free and no, I didn't expect it to last either

Let me start by saying that soya is not my friend and anyone who tells you that soy milk tastes almost like the real thing, or that vegetarian sausages are as good as a piece of boerewors sizzled to perfection on a braai, should be hooked up to lie detector and brought to justice pronto! How did I get to this point? Well, my mom went on a course based on The China Study and convinced me to join her on a ten-day meat-free, cow-free, caffeine-free challenge. I do like a challenge and happily signed on, unhappily completed it and then begrudgingly admitted that I felt so good as a result that I decided to extend the challenge. A month into this little experiment, I have come to the conclusion that meat alternatives are not really alternatives, they're just stand-ins for the gap on your plate that used to be occupied by something golden, crispy or medium rare. All that being said, with every passing day I miss meat less and less... and that, dear readers, is as shocking for me to write as it is for my lambchop-loving hubby to read. However, not quite so shocking as going... all the good stuff on any menu anywhere-free

So long pasta, farewell pizza, au revoir croissants and totsiens koeksisters, this sister is giving up anything with more than 5-grams of carbs (basically everything baked) for 8 weeks in pursuit of the results that a couple of friends (Mia & Motsumi's 'new and improved' parents) have achieved. I'm talking healthy, toned sustained flab loss... the kind of results that my well-disguised abs have dreamt of but never thought possible. It's a three-step eating plan and the practically carb-free first phase is gonna be tough, but oh, how sweet will that penne arrabiata (Jamie Oliver's version of the classic) taste in phase three when carbs cross the enemy line and we are once again re-united just in time for winter! In the meantime I'll have to settle for a fridge full of butter (yes, proper butter), piles of avocados, stacks of hummus, and enough green vegetables to send Bugs Bunny into a jealous rage. Don't feel too sorry for me... yesterday I read every food label, did the necessary maths and piled my trolley high with antipasto, cream cheese, olive tapenade, mixed nuts and infused olive oils – all 100% allowed on this new eating plan.

the back-up plan

Just in case I fall off the carb-free wagon before my 8 weeks is up, Motsumi's mom shared her secret weapon with me – a Ferrero Ronde Noir – basically, when I get the urge to eat my way through Rosebank's Fournos Bakery one crumb-covered mouthful at a time, I can reach for one of these... guilt-free. Apparently, one Ronde Noir meets the 'per meal' 5-gram (carbs minus fibre = allowance). So, if everything else above this paragraph seems a little, um, nuts... then at least the next time you find yourself strolling down the chocolate aisle you'll know which decadent treat is isn't actually that decadent after all.

Got a comment? Ever given up any of the above and lived to tell the tale? I'd love to here your stories of 'plate politics'...

Sitting pretty

2011-03-16T15:18:00.001+02:00

I spend a lot of time scouring cyberspace for beautiful design, which means that I spend a lot of time sitting – at my desk, at a coffee shop, at home on our L-shaped faux suede (pet fur covered) sofa – and so, as a side effect of what I do for a living, I have become a bit of an expert on seating, based on both comfort and aesthetic merit. Basically, I don’t care how good the ‘must-have’ fair trade coffee is at the newest mid-morning hotspot, if the seating is just plain ugly then I’m not going to be sitting there long enough to order, let alone snack on a low-GI muffin. This fussy-ness served as the inspiration for The Furnishing Touch's latest blog post. Check it out – would love to hear your comments!

Yet another manic monday...

2011-03-14T17:31:00.002+02:00

which is why all I have to offer you (my very patient readers) are these links...

Not just for students... my take on the sleeper couch for The Furnishing Touch

An ode to the colour purple, courtesy of guest blogger Cathy Nolan

It's time to go 'greige'... no, that's not a typo, it's a hot new colour combo (apparently)

Art that you can eat off? That's delicious! And so is this beautiful new blog

And if you want cold, hard, online evidence of what's keeping me away from my (once upon a time) daily therapy sessions (oh, those were the days my friends)... here are links to recent wordmith-ery for Socrati and Ocean Basket. Warning: It's work stuff, so if my blog's neon pink, then it's more dusky in hue.

Taking it personally...

2011-03-07T17:31:00.000+02:00

Since last Friday I have had a neon pink post it on my MacBook that reads 'hubby's PA. I [heart] her. New blog post.' Which in case you're wondering translates as 'must do blog post on my husband's PA'.

Why dedicate an entire blog post to a woman who works for Hubby? Well, she's literally a legend in her own lunchbreak and beyond, a source of calm in the storm that is hubby's workspace, and a much needed dose of organisational expertise in the organised chaos that is hubby's attempt at admin. Hubby has many strengths, many talents and many gifts, but admin is simply not one of them...

This is where superwoman a.k.a Simone, comes to the rescue. Not only does she conquer her mammoth 'to do' list with grace and the kinda efficiency that makes Kim Kardashian's make up artist look ineffectual, but inbetween doing her job she fields calls and emails from her boss's wife.

Yes, I am one of 'those' wives, the kind that occasionally feels totally within her rights to ask a favour of her hubby's PA. In case, you're wondering, 'yes', I am blushing as I type this... But 'no' I don't plan to stop this little habit I have developed. You see, Simone is the reason that I can get cars licensed, hubby's ID docs scanned (hi res, without having to ask) and things brought home that have been sitting on his desk gathering dust...

She is responsible for writing 'TAKE HOME TODAY. DO NOT FORGET' in perfect bold black penmanship on envelopes that contain the bits of paper that I need to do my 9 to 5 job, my wife job, but mostly my job as 'reserve PA'.

Simone is quick, efficient, detail obsessed and has never sent me an email containing a typo (no small feat considering that she was probably typing it with a landline phone stuck to her ear, a blackberry buzzing in her free hand and a toe hitting 'send' on a fax machine, all while lipreading instructions from Hubby).

Last Friday she was like superwoman to the rescue, Batman to my Robin, Lois to my Lane, Sherlock Holmes to my Watson... You get the point, she was the hero and I was the supporting act, conquering admin with the kind of skill usually reserved for Olympic gymnasts on a balance beam. And that, dear readers, is why I simply had to sing Miss Simone De Ponte's praises as loudly as I could, without, um, actually singing (cos that would just be unpleasant for all involved).

This could get hairy...

2011-03-04T13:44:00.000+02:00

As I type this I look like a cross between a scarecrow and a spaceman. There is steel circular thing (it kinda resembles a UFO) orbiting around my head which looks ready to be popped in an oven and baked at 180 degrees. There's more tin foil on my head than hair. In case you're staring at the screen with a confused look, thinking "Sherinne has finally lost it, better put in an order for a designer straightjacket," let me just clarify: I am at the hairdresser.

Every three months I bite the bullet, pick the least battered looking credit card and book myself into Carlton Hair at Nelson Mandela Square for a little lock maintenance. I have been coming to the same hair salon and chatting about Britney's/Miley's/(and most recently) Charlie's tabloid adventures, with the same hairdresser, since late 2005.

Rudi is my go-to guy, the hairdresser who earned my trust one great blow-dry at a time, as I shed the trauma of a string of really bad haircuts courtesy of student hairdressers in London. Together we've cut my first (very safe and easy to grow out) fringe, dyed my hair its natural (okay, a little unnaturally fab) to hide the grey, cut a more extreme fringe (not so 'safe', not so easy to grow out) and met the increasingly enthusiastic grey tidal wave with a daring (at least for me) decision to go with a half head of more blonde than brunette highlights. Rudi and I, we have history...

So, imagine my horror when I discovered that he's so popular these days that I would have to cheat on him with another stylist. One too many attempts to secure his services had been met with an 'I'm sorry but Rudi is fully booked forever' Okay, I exaggerate a bit, the receptionist didn't actually say 'forever' but you get the point...

If I was to address the increasingly horrific regrowth and ever wear my hair in a middle parting again, I would have to take the plunge and go to a different stylist. It was a risk I had to take... There was no way that I was going to go through another weekend of social engagements looking like a frazzled grey-ing zebra.

My time under the UFO is almost up... And I can almost hear Tracey (the senior stylist tending to my locks) sharpening her scissors in the back room. Next up is the trim, the over GHD'd bits that look like they've been through a mini shredder, are on death row... Wish me luck, like Rod Stewart sang, the first cut is the deepest.

Just a few more furnishing touches...

2011-02-25T16:52:00.001+02:00

and then we're good to go. I am like a kid at Christmas – seriously excited about the official launch of my latest adventure into the blogosphere. For the past month I have been up to my keyboard in trend forecasts, furniture catalogues and interior design website URLs, scouring cyberspace for bits and pieces of content for The Furnishing Touch.

I love a trend, I love great design and although I'm not an Interior Designer I am an artist which means that I have a keen eye for colour, composition and well-executed mediums... so, providing almost daily content for a fabulous blog, backed by an even more fabulous brand is the kind of work that doesn't feel like work. In short, I am one happy Social Media addict – getting to talk about Twitter and Facebook and blogging as a legitimate part of my day job is a cyberdream come true.

It's my mission to translate the trends for our readers, breaking down the fancy shmancy industry jargon into bite-sized chunks that you don't need your dictionary to digest. Trust me, while doing preliminary research for The Furnishing Touch I was regularly tapping on my iPad's dictionary icon and going 'huh?'... and hey, words are my living, so if I'm confused... oi vey!

So, you can expect any time you spend on The Furnishing Touch as time well spent – no frills, just straightforward honest tips, info and pretty pictures, like these recent posts:

Home sweet (temporary) home

How cosy can be cool...

Designing ways – turning over a new leaf

Taking the Plunge

2011-02-22T18:32:00.000+02:00

This coming Sunday I am being baptised... I will stand in front of a church full of people and publicly declare my commitment to the Lord, and His will for my life. I will literally take the plunge. This is out of character for two reasons...

Firstly, this Sandton girl usually avoids getting wet, especially on days when the locks have been straightened and the eyeliner freshly applied, and secondly, I don't do public speaking... Not out of a lack of confidence or a fear of crowds, but rather due to the fact that my unreliable vocal cords always hint at the possibility of a verbal traffic jam. My stutter isn't as constant a companion as it was in my younger years but it still likes to pop up and remind me that it's there once in a while.

Reading the previous paragraph back to myself, I realise how silly I sound, but aren't we all a bit silly? Don't we all make excuses instead of just confessing what we're afraid of? Instead of just handing our fear over... To the one person who already knows what the outcome of facing it will be.

Sure, I am scared that I'll stutter through my testimony, sure I'm worried that my words won't do what I'm trying to say justice, but the penny just dropped... "Give up and give it to God."

I have been a Christian for most of my 27 years. I have always been aware of God's presence. We have laughed together, cried together and celebrated together. Like any relationship, we've had our ups and downs. I've drawn closer and pulled away, but He has always remained steadfast. Looking back, whenever I have stepped out in obedience, He has delivered on His promises. My marriage and my husband remind me of this daily

So why get baptised now? If I am a believer, then why get baptised at all?

I am wary of religious rituals for the sake of ticking boxes, wary of getting caught up in the religion and losing sight of the relationship. This is why I have waited to get baptised until I was certain that I was doing it for the right reasons. The pastor at my church compares it to a wedding ring... An outward expression of an inward thing. You can be married without wearing a ring, but wearing a ring doesn't make you married.

So why get baptised now, at this stage in my Christian walk? Well, I am ready to outwardly express this inward thing, this thing that has shaped my past, guides my present and will determine my future. Why blog about something so personal, so publicly? Well, like I said, it's an outward expression of an inward thing.

"So I'll throw my life upon all that you are, because I know that you gave it all up for me..."

I have a confession to make...

2011-02-18T14:35:00.003+02:00

I have been cheating on my blog. Yes, it's true... the reason that a tumble weed has been blowing through this blog for the past week or so, like a scene from an old Western movie, is that I have branched out into a different part of the blogosphere.

Blogging it would seem has become my day job (doing a mental happy dance as I type this) with a new little adventure called The Furnishing Touch. Now, while we don't formally launch until March, I have decided that you, my valued readers (I really do love you guys!) deserve a little sneak peak... so click away:

You're welcome An introduction to The Furnishing Touch.

Got a thing for pink? You've gotta love a colour called 'Honeysuckle'!

Translating the trends Cos those 'experts' do use rather big words...

The upside of upcycling The alternative to hugging a tree...

Work from home? It's time to do your homework

Live it up! Your living room will thank you four trends, for you...

What's cooking? Good design for a start... kitchen confidence 101

'twas a beautiful day (and night) indeed

2011-02-15T15:45:00.001+02:00

I always knew that my first trip to soccer city, the opening game of the 2010 soccer world cup, would be a tough act to follow. I figured that it'd be many years until I felt anything remotely similar to the surge of emotion brought on by Tshabalala's goal... The first of the tournament.

Well, on Sunday night among 100,000 U2 fans (under a blanket of African sky, in the heart of Soweto) an unexpected rendition of Amazing Grace came pretty darn close to topping my first experience of the calabash.

After a visual feast that left me speechless at times, live performances that had me shouting well known choruses at the top of my lungs, and particularly poignant footage of one of Madiba's speeches, I was doubtful that the show could get any better... It was too good, too slick, too mindblowingly impressive and about as dynamic as a live show can get.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, all the bells and whistles were silenced, all the flashy imagery dissolved and the stadium followed Bono's lead with a whisper that grew into a goosebump inducing "amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me..." sung by 100,000 voices. What a sweet sound indeed...

I wasn't disappointed by any of my favourites... From 'Sunday bloody sunday' to 'One' to 'where the streets have no name'... Every bit was pitch perfect, passionately delivered by pro's. Hugh Masakela's guest appearance put a grin on my face that would rival the Cheshire cat's and more than made up for the less than pitch perfect supporting acts, and the mirror ball that sprinkled the crowd with light was a pretty cool retro touch.

I remember my dad telling me, when I was about 15, that U2 was one band that I should make an effort to see live. I remember my friends raving about their performance in 1998, and I remember thinking that I had to get hold of tickets for Hubby and I when I heard that the 360 degree tour was coming to The rainbow nation. I'll always remember the queues and the credit card abuse and the trek to soccer city to get there before the crowds, 5 hours before 'kick-off'... And I'll remember all of it fondly, because my dad was right... a U2 concert is worth every cent.