The Year of Living Dangerously

Something for those who have the Knead for pastries....

2010-06-29T21:10:00.000+02:00

Forgive me, imagined readers.
I made a good start.
When I have time I will write a longer post to explain what it is that I've been working on that's been keeping me so busy!

In the meantime, I just want to tell you about Knead! Some of you may already know of Knead, as it already has branches in Wembley Square and in Muizenberg, but it most recently opened in a nearby haunt of mine, the Dean Street Arcade.

Knead is kind of a boutique bakery - but it's better the the Limmos kind, because it doesn't bother with fancy namby-pamby icing and sugar sculptures. It's just an honest-to-goodness, delicious breads and flaky pastries heaven.

It does also offer some savoury foods, including pies, curry and a pretty effing delicious toasted sandwich, which comes with a side salad. This makes it an excellent lunch spot for people who work in the area. A word of warning, though, they charge a cheeky R5 extra for takeaways "to cover packaging costs". Next time I think I'll take a tuppaware along.

What I really want to tell you about is the pain au chocolat though. It's clearly made with some superior quality chocolate, because it is positively orgasmic. And it's only R12.50. Not cheap, by snack standards, but it is by pastry standards. And it's totally worth it.

Image courtesy of kthread.com

The thing about Pancho's...

2010-06-01T10:27:00.002+02:00

Pancho’s is a Capetonian institution you absolutely must visit. As far as Mexican food is concerned, it has the best (and most value for money) nachos and quesadillas in town, and the margaritas are in close competition with the Fat Cactus’ for the number one spot. Some friends and I met up there on Friday night for some cheesy goodness.

Me! One of my favourite things about Pancho's is that if you go on your birthday they let you wear this outrageous sombrero and give you a free shot of tequila.

I have just one quibble with Pancho’s though. I have been eating there since my sister turned 21 (now more than 10 years ago), and as a loyal patron, I find it very sad that I am not able to eat there as freely as I once did. Booking has become mandatory (they will literally laugh at you if you try to walk in on a weekend night), and even booking has become difficult – a friend of mine tried to book for a Wednesday night on a Monday and was turned away. I booked a large table (20 people!) for my birthday last year, weeks in advance, and was phoned days before the date by the manager, who complained that whoever allowed me to reserve a table for 7pm went over his head, as they only do 6 and 8’o clock seatings on Fridays. Even though I stood my ground, and said it was hardly my problem if someone at their end made a mistake, the experience left a bad taste in my mouth. Then the manager had the cheek to request confirmation of my booking on the day via SMS!

It is a great shame to me that when restaurants become successful they become unattainable to walk-in customers – who are usually responsible for the restaurant’s success anyway! A reservations-only policy should be the reserve of fancy establishments, like La Colombe or Maze. Pancho’s is not an upmarket eatery, it is your friendly neighbourhood Mexican joint, and should remain accessible to its clientele. Being told rather officiously that you have to be out by 8pm and that your table WILL be given away if you are 15 minutes late puts a serious dampener on the experience.

Pancho’s could learn a thing or two from Royale Eatery on Long Street. There has been a lot of hype about it, and it is ALWAYS busy, but the entire downstairs section, which is very much the larger portion of the restaurant, cannot be reserved, and is exclusively for walk-in customers. Even so, you are never guaranteed a table unless you book, but at least if you give it a try and are turned away, you feel like you were in with a fighting chance. A walk-ins-only section I think should be compulsory in every restaurant.

FYI: Pancho's can be found at 127 Lower Main Road, Observatory. Call them (really, call them!) to make a booking first on 021 447 4854.

Let's go down...to Chinatown

2010-05-28T10:52:00.000+02:00

Not really in the same vein of leisure activity as a visit to Superette, Chinatown does make for a fun day out with your girlfriends. Located opposite the Pick n Pay Hypermarket in Ottery, Chinatown is not the Chinatown you’d expect from American TV, but it is an excellent place to pick up a bargain. A collection of stores that have just one thing in common – all their contents hail from China – you can buy anything here, from a dish rack or light fitting to a pair of panties or a wig. High quality is not exactly the soup du jour, but you can count on everything being extremely cheap.

It doesn't look at all like this

I returned from a daytrip with Crystal and Bianca with the following:

Knee-high argyle socks - R10
Laundry hanger peg thing – R10
Sequinned mini hat (for New Year’s costume party) – R33
Even mini-er mini hat clip (for shits and giggles) – R9
Grey panties with pink lace trim and bow – R10 (upon trying these on at home, discovered that China’s approximation of XL is a little bit too small for me, but I’m going to take this as a challenge that I REALLY need to get back to gym)

I was tempted to buy 50 plasters for R5, but resisted.
Pretty amazing, huh? The shop from which I got the hats has an extensive party section, with loads of decorations, gags, accessories and costumes, and I will definitely be returning to pick up my Halloween costume in October. Chinatown is a great place for sourcing costumes of any kind really – if you need a specific item of clothing for an outfit, but don’t want to fork out for something you’ll only wear once, this is the place to get it.

The entire experience took us about two hours. If it takes you longer, you can always stop at the food court for some (also cheap!) sustenance. If you want a shopping experience that is recession-friendly, or just want to browse somewhere completely different, try Chinatown. And let me know if you pick up a bargain!

Breakfast of champions: Superette

2010-05-27T10:36:00.001+02:00

A Saturday morning haunt in Cape Town that definitely does not need any more press is the Old Biscuit Mill’s Neighbourgoods Market in Woodstock. If, however, you wish you could enjoy the market’s glorious food without fighting the indie hordes, then you’ll definitely want to check out Superette. Just a couple of blocks down from the Biscuit Mill, Superette is an old school-style deli with fantastic food, quirky decor and a sunny, upbeat vibe. A bright yellow counter greets you as you walk in, and the menu is innovatively written in black marker on the white tiled walls. A small selection of very interesting fresh produce (think courgette flowers, unusual lettuces and Jerusalem Artichokes - don't worry, I'd never heard of them either) can be bought, as well as the best of what the Neighbourgoods Market has to offer (such as the mouthgasm-inducing Dunk cookies).

Le decor

If you’re there for a meal, you can either sit at one of the large communal tables or prop yourself up on a ladder-stool to eat at one of the counters overlooking the street. The breakfast menu is positively drool-worthy, and I wish had suppressed my urge for a small bowl of ProNutro on the morning I went, because I would have liked to have sampled several dishes. They have some creative fresh juices – I had the pressed pear juice, which tasted like summer in Provence, but I am keen next time to try the pressed banana juice out of sheer curiosity.

Le menu

For the meal, my friend Bianca, whom I must thank for introducing me to this spot, had the poached eggs (for which Superette is best known), which are served with fresh asparagus, a slice of homemade bread, rocket and a deep-fried courgette flower. My own meal of Nutella-filled French toast with crispy bacon and a pecan nut and pear compote is one of my top three breakfasts OF.ALL.TIME. Really. French toast, when made well, is delicious in itself, but stuffed with melty, gooey, chocolately hazelnut goodness – I was ready to die there and then just so I could die happy.

Le food (okay, this isn't what I ate, but doesn't it look good?)

I intend to go back as soon as possible – whether I’ll try one of the other very appetising dishes or succumb to my desire to go to chocolate heaven again is debatable. If you want to check it out for yourself (and you really should), get there around 10am as it gets very busy. Enjoy!

You can find Superette at 218 Albert Road, Woodstock. Check out their website here. All images courtesy of Superette.

Hometown glory

2010-05-26T09:51:00.002+02:00

I have a new love in my life. He isn’t tall, dark and handsome, nor is he broad, blonde and built. He doesn’t take me to dinner or hold my hand in the dark of the cinema. He isn’t even human, or a ‘he’ for that matter. I have fallen in love with my hometown.

Clifton. Don't you wish you were here?

Sounds ridiculous, right? I’ve been lucky enough to live in the Mother City my whole life, and have always had great affection for it, but in the last year I have seen my city through others’ eyes, as if anew, and like what I see. So many of my friends have moved away – mostly to the UK and to Jozi for work – and they are all rather homesick. They pine for Cape Town, and their longing has made me realise how very lucky I am to live here. One friend claims to have such a spectacular reaction to being reunited with his favourite city that “it’s like I’m on drugs!” he says. I suggested it might be the change in altitude between Joburg and Cape Town, but he promptly pooh-poohed the idea, saying “It’s definitely more romantic than that.” The kind of dizzying, heady daze he experiences when he visits the Mother City is not uncommon, and it’s starting to rub off on me.

We Capetonians get a lot of flak for being smug about our city, and I have no doubt that we are thoroughly annoying to be around, or Facebook friends with, particularly in summer. Endless updates of “Ryan had the BEST weekend, like, EVER. Wine tasting at Constantia, cocktails at Caprice and Goldfish at La Med. Hells yeah!” have got to grate after a while. And when we’re not deliriously happy in recounting our weekend exploits, we’re either bitching about the heat or moaning about the wind. During our two-week mini ‘heat wave’ in February one of my friends living in London commented “We get it, Cape Town! It’s hot there. Stop complaining already!” She was right. We practically live in paradise, what on earth are we bothered about?

But we’re entitled to be smug. While I admit my snobby prejudgement of Jozi was ill informed (here) - nowhere else in this country can you go wine tasting, sunbathing, hiking, surfing, and picnicking in one weekend (one day if you’re feeling energetic). And if you don’t get too comfortable with your routine activities, there is always something new to do. In the coming weeks I aim to explore some new places, revisit some old favourites, and generally bask in the sheer beauty and vibrancy that makes this city a place I will always be proud to call my hometown.

Weekend in the City of Gold

2010-05-19T10:18:00.003+02:00

Living in Cape Town, you are constantly reminded of how lucky you are to be here. When people ask me where I live, I usually respond "The Most Beautiful City in the World", because as far as I'm concerned, it is. As Capetonians we are smug and rather derisive when it comes to talking about our northern counterpart, Johannesburg. When people try to defend Jozi we exclaim, "But where is its mountain? Its beaches? What's the point of a sunny day if you can't spend it by the sea or winetasting in Stellenbosch?" There is an inherent distaste for the hole that we consider Joburg to be.

I don't understand, where's the mountain?

Having spent a long weekend there recently there, though, I am afraid I misjudged it. I went up to visit some friends of mine who work there now (this being part of the reason for my loathing of the city: it's like a black hole that sucks in cute guys and good friends), and I have to admit that I was unfair on it. The city has a number of strong points. For example:

It's like a first world city in Africa. There is something very glamorous about five enormous hotels on one block. That, and the fact that basically every major company and firm in the country has its headquarters up there. When you're in Jozi you feel like you're really part of this big, buzzing THING. I can understand why the locals find Cape Town infuriatingly sleepy.
Consequently, there are a lot of other first world characteristics - the shopping is fantastic (well, I believe so, I didn't get to do much shopping up there), there are some excellent restaurants and, well, a lot of strip clubs. I know it's sleazy, but it's also kind of cool. On my first night we went to a great steakhouse called Chef & the Fat Man, and in the same complex we discovered, to my guy friends' delight, that a Hooters is about to open. Only in Jozi.
The nightclubs - a) more selection and b) they are just bigger and better in Joburg. On the Friday night my friends took me to the notorious Hat (the Manhattan Club) and it is about three times the size of our Mother City version, Tiger Tiger. There's also a novelty Top Hat bar (just for men) and a ladies-only bar (of unremembered name). The music was a bit dodgy, but altogether the experience was very charming.
The weather is also pretty awesome. Although, let's face it, a blue sky is a lot less thrilling over the Joburg cityscape than it is over mountain and sea, at least in Jozi it doesn't piss rain for weeks on end.
Lastly, and probably only lastly because I was there for just three days (and spent a good portion of those on the couch recovering from the nights), there are some good people up there. I felt very welcome and included by my friends' friends who had only just met me, and it was extremely cool to catch up with some of my good buddies who are living there.

Sometimes bad cities happen to good people. Usually this is because of work. But sometimes those bad cities aren't actually all that bad. Us Capetonians, I think, should learn not to judge so swiftly. I for one will definitely be visiting again in the near future.

We wants, we wants!!!

2010-04-15T14:02:00.001+02:00

A cup of tea really does make everything better. It doesn't necessarily solve anything, but the world certainly looks less bleak and sinister when peering at it over the rim of a cup of steaming Jasmine green tea (Jazz, as my old housemate Sash calls it).

What would make my cups of tea INFINITELY better though is if they were poured from the Teatoaster, available at the Teapottery. Isn't this just too adorable? It would look perfect in my kitchen, which is a) accessorised with pastels and b) suffering from a cupcake paraphernalia overload at the moment.
But this is exactly why I think I would be very bad at living in England - yes, the weather sucks, but there's just too much goddamn stuff to buy! This little darling would set me back £37.95, but if I lived there I'd simply HAVE to have it.

And they will play Florence + the Machine at my wedding and funeral

2010-04-07T10:48:00.004+02:00

Oh.Em.Gee. Eargasm alert! I have a new music love and, three weeks in, it looks like this one's going to last.
Florence + the Machine's Lungs is the first truly original sound I have heard in years - probably since I started listening to Tori Amos as a child.

Florence, my nightingale. Courtesy of here

Now to UK residents Florence is not exactly news, but in South Africa she is virtually unheard of! I once caught the tail end of You've Got The Love on the radio, but otherwise that's it, so I have my dear sisters in London to thank for introducing me to her/them. My one sister even prefaced giving me the album by telling me it would "make me believe in God". If I were that way inclined, this would definitely be the music to do it.

Florence + the Machine is the recording name of Florence Welch and her various backing artists. Her music is sublime - it's the kind of epic soundtrack you wish your life had. “I want my music to sound like throwing yourself out of a tree, or off a tall building, or as if you’re being sucked down into the ocean and you can’t breathe,” says Florence on her officical website. “It’s something overwhelming and all-encompassing that fills you up, and you’re either going to explode with it, or you’re just going to disappear.”

That's exactly how it feels. Howl is reminiscent of Twilight-esque angtsy passionate romance, the kind that makes real-life love affairs seem rather dull in comparison. Between Two Lungs makes my heart soar, and Cosmic Love makes me feel like it's going to leap right out of my chest. And it's easy to understand why: “Everything is about boys!” says Florence. “The whole album is about love – and pain. People see my lyrics as crazy, but to me it’s an honest, heartfelt album. I didn’t set out to be wacky. I just want it to be emotive.”

Go buy it now. NOW. For reals.

PS. Favourite lyrics:
"There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep,
Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks
then it walks, then it walks with my legs
To fall, to fall, to fall, at your feet.
though but for the grace of God go on
And when you kiss me, I'm happy enough to die"

A trip to the Planetarium (and back to my childhood)

2010-03-31T11:59:00.001+02:00

One of the myriad things I love about my hometown is the variety of things to do when you have some spare time. No two weekends need be the same in the Mother City when you have the options we are spoilt to have.

Image borrowed from here

On Sunday some friends and I walked down to the Company Gardens for a picnic and spent a happy two hours in the late summer sunshine, eating cheese on crackers and mini muffins and contemplating the flocks of pigeons (some of whom appeared to be stalking us in a not-so-stealth fashion). As Capetonians we often take for granted what is available to us - until my second year of university I hadn't been up Table Mountain in the cable car (at least not since I was about three, and certainly not that I could remember).

We also tend to associate picnicking with Kirstenbosch (which, though beautiful and not to be missed, requires an entry fee). The Company Gardens are almost as scenic, in a European, well-manicured way, and are open to the public. This does mean that you get some riff raff in the gardens, but I like to think it adds to the charm. There is a gorgeous rose garden to visit too.

One of the other forgotten delights of this area is the Planetarium. This I hadn't been to see since I was in primary school, but it is well worth a trip. My friends and I booked to see the Bad Astronomy show (just R20 for adults and R8 for my student buddies), which also allowed us entrance into the South African Museum. So before the show we wandered around, sat in the whale song booth (an aside: whale song is actually quite creepy to listen to - apparently they sometimes use it for sound effects in horror movies), gawped at the stuffed animals and browsed the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition.

The show itself was entertaining - a little hokey, but all in good fun. As a recovering fan of The X-Files (my sister and I were obsessed in high school), the theme of debunking myths appealed to me. The theatre (?) itself is not as big as I remembered, but that's to be expected. If you want to go yourself, be sure to take a jacket - it is FREEZING in there.

I hope to do more of this in future - exploring the forgotten nooks and crannies of my beautiful hometown. So much to do, so little time!

Broken telephone

2010-03-16T15:08:00.001+02:00

Image courtesy of...

I feel how this lady looks. I have spent the better part of two weeks on the phone doing research for a project at work. A project which involves spending an exasperating amount of time trying to extract information about museums in the Western Cape from people who are either a) stupid b) unwilling to help c) not English first language speakers or d) all of the above. I would have thought that having the backing of the Department of Cultural Affairs might lend my credibility some clout, but on the private sector this seems to have the opposite effect.
In the provincial-aided sector, the excuses for not being able to provide information range from "our server is down", to "we have no electricity" to "we don't keep hard copies of financial statements" to "the curator is only coming in on Friday" to "our computer crashed" to "our internet connection has suffered weather damage". There is little more discouraging than spending an entire day on the phone harassing people and having nothing to show for it by the time you leave. It's like my colleague said, it's a particular type of person who can work in government, who has the tolerance for this level of inefficiency and inadequacy. People like you and I would go out of our minds.

Say what???

2010-02-17T14:50:00.000+02:00

Apparently February, the month of Luuuurve, they'd have us believe, is also the month to contact your old flame. Or at least, that's what happened to me. The douchebag ex who gave me the ice trays (a few of my girlfriends actually refer to him as Ice Trays because of this unfortunate incident) sent me a message on Facebook just two days before Valentine's Day.

This is not unusual in itself: I've received roughly the same message twice a year since we broke up two years ago, but this is now the third time he's sent me a "How are you?" note since I told him very politely that although I wish him no ill, I have no interest in being his friend. The two messages he sent after that were duly ignored.

What the hell??? Surely he'd have to be to be mentally imbalanced in some way not to have got the message by now? He even signed off "Chat soon xx" - er, no. We will NOT chat soon. I don't want to speak to you! Now take your douchey profile picture of you and your current girlfriend (who has a disturbingly large gap between her eyebrows, btw) and bugger off!

The thing about Valentine's Day

2010-02-10T15:19:00.000+02:00

While I am the first to admit that I have a rather biased view towards this holiday, every year when the garish pink and red paraphernalia start appearing in the shops I pause to reflect on it, and always come up with the same result.

It's a crappy holiday. The only people who really enjoy it are the smug, obnoxious couples who rub their happiness in everyone's faces every other day of the year anyway. It's an arbitrary date that celebrates something which, if you have it, you should be celebrating it all the time (in private, of course. Nobody wants to see that stuff on Facebook). And if you don't have it, regardless of how or why, you feel like a bit of a loser.

If you've just started dating someone, it's super awkward. You have to acknowledge the day, but to what extent? One year I had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day, things were pretty new but quite serious. He made me dinner at his place, so I made him a card. It was a cute cartoon guy wearing boxers with hearts on them - Mr Lovepants, his name was. My boyfriend said me he got me something, but I'd seen it before. "It's not your penis, is it?" He laughed, went to his room and returned with a familiar-looking shopping bag, which I opened to find two ice trays inside. "Ice trays?" you ask. Ice trays indeed. We had purchased them the day before, and I was under the impression that they were for his new apartment. I'm certain they were, actually, he just forgot to get me something and didn't want to say so. I should have run then and there...

I'm not bitter. I relish being single a lot of the time, but if you happen to be single on Valentine's, it's like you're defective or something. I'm not knocking the entire concept - everybody loves being in love - who doesn't aspire to that? But for some of us it's just not in our grasp yet. That's why this year I will be using the day to celebrate what I love about being just with me!

A few (of many) things that are great about being single:

You can do what you want, when you want, and don't have to run your plans by anyone else (or worse, have your plans vetoed by anyone else!)
The world is full of possibility - if you meet someone amazing, you are free to flirt with them
You can watch the movie/TV show you want to watch, always
When your friends complain about their douchebag boyfriend who is being grumpy and impossible, you can smile to yourself and think "not my problem!"
No fighting over the duvet - you have your king-sized bed all to yourself!
You don't have to shave conscientiously if you don't feel like it
You can focus all your attention on your own dreams and ambitions without needing to consider how they affect someone else.

Now that's something to celebrate.

Last night I died and went to Indie Rock 'n Roll heaven

2009-12-07T09:39:00.006+02:00

That sparkly K was on stage last night!

Last night I went to my first legitimate big concert - The Killers live in Cape Town. Wow. Just wow. I wish I had a video of the entire crowd waving their arms from side to side in unison to "This is your life" or a recording of everyone singing "I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier", drowning out Brandon Flowers.
There is something so powerful about being part of something in that way. For their finale they played "When you were young" (one of my favourites), and at the very peak of the song the band was showered with sparks from the roof of the stage and I actually got a bit teary! The whole crowd was mesmerised.
Of course, we did spend an hour and a half trying to extricate ourselves from the parking lot afterwards, but considering that some people did that for three hours, I can't really complain!
It was totally worth it.

Monday giveaway!

2009-12-07T09:31:00.005+02:00

I don't usually post about this kind of stuff, but I am just dying to win the Romance Pin from toujours toi - to find out what on earth I'm on about visit Daily Bits of Beauty

A DIY project

2009-08-06T12:21:00.003+02:00

Something I've always wanted to try is Red Velvet cake. Apparently it's been around since the 1970s, and its distinctive red colouring is a result of a reaction between buttermilk and acidic vinegar in the ingredients. These days, red food colouring is commonly used to achieve the same effect.

There is a kind of glamour about it though, and I'm thinking that with the long weekend coming up I'll try to make my own. This is the first year that I have a properly functioning oven, so it may actually be a success!

An interesting story about Red Velvet cake - Wikipedia reports a story about the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in New York's "secret" RV cake recipe: a woman eating at the restaurant was so impressed with her slice that she asked for the recipe - only to discover later that she had been charged $100 for it on her bill. Outraged, she sent the "secret" recipe to her friends as a chain mail in retaliation.

A 'real' professional

2009-08-04T14:58:00.003+02:00

Well, it's Day 2 of my new job and I've spent approximately all day amusing myself on the internet.

I'm working as a copy editor for a media company that produces two magazines and several contract titles (i.e. the in-house publications for a few companies). Because it's the beginning of the month there is very little to do: most of the articles haven't come in yet, so I've basically been sitting around for the better part of two days, waiting for stuff to do. Don't I feel all grown-up and important now?

This grown-up thing is going to get pretty old pretty soon, I think. Leaving home in the dark and returning in the dark is a novelty that has already worn off.

How 22 year olds have fun in Cape Town

2009-05-14T12:00:00.004+02:00

This afternoon some of my friends and I are going to Sexpo, a sexuality and lifestyle expo at the Cape Town International Convention Centre. I went last year, so there's a good reason I'm going this year.
I enjoyed it - mostly for the fact that I was a little bit in awe of the whole thing, but probably not for the reasons you think. Sure, there were human size penises and boobs wandering around, and strippers poledancing, and vibrator demonstrations and all of the other things you'd expect to find at such an event.

What I love about Sexpo though, is that all of these naughty things are taking place in an atmosphere which is welcoming, educational, and friendly. Nobody made me feel dirty for being there, the whole experience was very matter of fact and normal. The shop assistants, many of them normal-looking women, were friendly and helpful. The clientele ranged from just-turned-18s who looked a bit nervous to be there, as if someone might throw them out at any moment (wait, maybe they weren't 18); people my own age, middle aged couples, old couples, gay couples, interracial couples, and also lots of friends (probably not family).

I had expected to be made to feel like a complete fraud for going there and looking at these things when I had nobody with whom to share them, but one of the overarching themes of the exhibitions was, as one brand of sex toys puts it, "love yourself".

That's something everyone can learn from.

Election overload

2009-04-23T11:25:00.002+02:00

I am breathing a sigh of relief today, when, once the results are out, hopefully we can put all this election crap to rest. I look forward to a time when something else is the first item on the news again, and we can all get down to wrapping our heads around the fact that that shiny headed creature with an uncanny talent for hauling himself out of trouble is our new president. Biko must be turning in his grave.

The Good Samaritan

2009-04-14T11:44:00.001+02:00

The other night when I was out, as I was leaving the bathroom, a girl behind me reached towards me and tucked the label of my dress back inside the garment; it had obviously been sticking out.

I was so touched by this gesture of kindness from a complete stranger, and from a girl, no less, because at nightclubs the usual form of female interaction is something between latent competition and outspoken derision.

It's a tough, scary world for us girls - betrayal and disappointment lurk around every corner. We would do well to stick together and look out for each other - God knows there are too few decent guys to do it for us.

Missed the boat

2009-04-01T11:32:00.003+02:00

With the number of people I have reading this blog (i.e. one, that is, Twanji, who only pretends to read it because I pretend to read his), I have a feeling that my posts here are more private than the things that I write in my journal at home.
Well, if I kept a journal, that is.

But it feels good to write again, I'm kind of hoping that exercising the muscle will bring back those mad skillz I had back in Varsity. I was putting together my writing portfolio for a job application last night and found myself saying, "Damn, girl, but you can write!", and I think I might have lost some of the magic.

I also have a feeling that I should have started this years ago, in the heyday of the blog, when all of our new media classes were devoted to the blogging phenomenon. But in this, as in most areas of my life, I have been a late bloomer.

Clubthumping

2009-03-25T20:51:00.001+02:00

There’s something about being a young person living in a big city that requires you to do all sorts of stupid and unsatisfying things with your Friday night. Leaving school, I had this foolish idea that the years of peer pressure were over, and that arriving at varsity or work on a Monday morning didn’t have to prompt an in-depth discussion of the weekend’s pursuits. Even more naïve was I, it seems, to imagine that the absence of an answer involving clubbing, drinking and dancing (preferably on the tables) would be met with anything less than a scandalised silence, and the awkward enquiry, “Oh, were you sick then?”(the implication being that surely nothing else could explain such an oddity).

The parameters of acceptance change as the years pass. First and second year of varsity are generally of the “How drunk did you get?” persuasion, whereas third year and well into the working world appear to stress the quality rather than the quantity of drinking (meaning that it’s where you got drunk and with what, not how much, that counts). No longer content with the boring yet reliable fun that is offered by our staple club diet, we venture further afield, shelling out exponentially larger sums for cover charge as we go. The more exclusive the establishment is reputed to be, the better.

To my dismay, however, I found myself the unwilling participant in one of these endeavours one Friday night not long ago. I was persuaded due to the occasion being a friend's birthday, and because she had taken the care to organise a guest list, without which our chances for getting in were, at worst, highly unlikely, and at best, possible provided we part with a cover charge equivalent to my weekly grocery budget.

Our night at this particular version of cool begins well enough: my companions and I arrive at the entrance while my other friend, the birthday girl (and more importantly, the one with the guest list) is already in deep conversation with the bouncer and the hostess. A word on hostesses: These creatures only exist in the parallel universe that is the cool club. Is it a job requirement that they be blonde? (Doesn’t this have some kind of nasty employment equity implication?) Being politely cruel also appears to be part of the job description, along with the thinly-veiled sneer and haughty attitude. I think the idea is for them to exude an air of sophistication that says, “I’m so cool they actually pay me to be here.”

Anyway, snapping out of my ruminations I am delighted to see that my friend has made progress, as the tiny blonde rolls her eyes, sighs, and beckons for us to come through. Standing on the other side of the ropes from the entrance, I make the ill-conceived suggestion that they simply unhook one of the ropes to let us through from where we are standing so that we don’t have to go all the way around, prompting an incredulous “no” from the waif, who looks like she might have a coronary at this impudence. Don't I know the rules? We practically run upstairs lest she change her mind about letting us in.

Once inside, I am surprised to find that the club's clientele is not nearly as sophisticated as they'd have us believe in the queue. For one thing, it's surprisingly empty, considering the block-long waiting line, and for another, none of these people is nearly as pretty or well-dressed as you'd expect them to be. For the most part, our fellow clubbers appear to be a good few years younger (and in some cases, a good few too many years older) than we are. Most of them are wearing an air of reverence, like they can't believe they actually got in here, instead of the expression of weary disdain you see on socialites in the papparazzi photos from posh clubs in New York.

Well, our status as guest list members and hence VIPs (according to the stamp on my wrist) grants us access to the VIP lounge upstairs. Maybe if we head up there we can get away from these imposters. I lead us over to the entrance to the lounge, show the bouncer my VIP stamp and make my way upstairs.

It is definitely cooler up here, there is way more seating, as well as a private bar so we don't have to fight with the riffraff to get a drink. What is distressingly strange about this oh so effortlessly cool lounge area, is that there is practically no one in it. There are a couple of guys at the bar who look up hopefully when I wander in - they have the same expression as the only patrons of a restaurant seeing a passerby stop to pick up a menu. It's that look that says, "Please, please come in!"

Except that we can't, apparently, because when I turn to point this oddity out to one of my friends, I find that none of them is there. Returning to the entrance, I find the birthday girl embroiled in a heated argument with the bouncer. It seems that when he saw that it was not just me going upstairs to the hallowed empty halls of the VIP lounge, he suffered a small-scale heart attack, from which he recovered quickly enough to deny everyone else entrance. Apparently he absolutely cannot have too many people in the VIP area, and apparently five is too many. Dawdling at the top of the stairs, I am torn between rejoining my friends and taking advantage of the impossibly empty bar. My conscience gets the better of me, and I reluctantly go back down the stairs.

After one R50 drink, we're all pretty much over it. On our way out, one of my friends asks the woman who takes the cash what the VIP stamp means if it's not to get us into the VIP area, to which he gets the enigmatic answer, "You need a stamp to get in, but sometimes you need more than a stamp." What does this guy want, sexual favours?

That was our awesome Friday night, as young carefree city youths are supposed to spend their Friday nights. I would have had more fun playing scrabble with my cat. Save your money, kids. It's so not worth it.