Meeting people

The first time in my life I had to start over completely was when we moved to New York in February 2007. No friends, no car, no house, no job…even no cat (I had to leave poor LeRoy Brown behind in Cape Town with a friend). And it was damn tough. Much tougher than I could have ever anticipated. But then you meet someone who introduces you to someone else and before you know it, you have a steady group of friends. You find a place to live and with the help of many trips to Ikea and mom-sent gifts from ‘back home’, you make it home. You stroke strange cats in the street and learn to rely on public transport. Soon, you feel comfy and relatively settled. And you tend to forget how hard those first few months were.

Then you up and you do it all over again. And, like a fool, you think this time will be different. It’s not. Moving continents is damn tough. And I’ve added another whopper to the mix by deciding to not get a job, but rather, I’ve started my own company. Nothing like a challenge to make life really tough, right? So, six months in, we have a home. We have once again become quite acquainted with the London public transport system and we still stroke the neighbour’s cats! But the friends bit have been much harder this time.

In New York I was lucky enough to have found Annie shortly after we had both moved to the strange place and we truly were one another’s salvation. This time we’re having to rely on lengthy Skype calls with her in Hong Kong and me over here on the soggy island! But I haven’t yet found my new Annie. I’ve searched a bit, but am lacking the motivation to go out there and find my new friends. It’s exhausting.

But this week my Google searches offered a new solution in the form of Meetup.com! Groups for any interest or activity you can imagine! Need to go urban hiking? No problem. Want to knit? No problem. With my serious book addiction it was only a matter of time before I found a booming bookclub, right? Enter the Wimbledon Bookclub stage right! It’s a different format from any of the ones I’d belonged to before, but it has me excited about meeting people who love to read. On the list are The Help, The Poisonwood Bible and one of the scariest books I’ve ever read (seriously, it changed the way I’ll view basements forever…): Let The Right One In.

Who knows, maybe my new Annie is out there somewhere!

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This weekend

We were lucky enough to crack an invite to go to Switzerland for a Bank Holiday weekend of hiking, red wine and fireplace cuddles. Sadly, with us having to wait until the very last minute to hear whether or not I’d be lucky enough to be granted a Schengen visa, our flights to Zurich now are so expensive that we’ve decided not to go – seriously, it was going to cost more than it will cost us to fly back to New York for a week of Big Apple fun! So here we are, on a Thursday afternoon, with very little planned for a long weekend. John hasn’t been home for four weekends in a row, so he’s looking forward to doing as little as possible. I figured that it may well be time to give it a final push and try to get our living room sorted. With Annie’s help I found these rather darling pouffes which I might go check out this weekend as an extra seating solution.
We’ve also taken the plunge and ordered an Eames chair for the living room – perfect solution to our current sofa-not-large-enough-for-two-tall-people-to-lie-on situation. John will have his very own reclining chair and I get to keep the sofa all for myself! I’ll share some photos of the apartment soon – I promise.

On Saturday we have tickets to go to the LED Festival (London Electronic Dance) – yes, yes, I know. But we mainly bought it because current hot SA act Die Antwoord are performing and after rave reviews of what they did in New York, we’ve been so keen to experience it for ourselves!
I will no doubt be singing ‘A-hee-haaa-hee-jaai, I am your butterrrrfly, I need your protekshion, need your protekshion’. Can’t wait!
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Christmas? Really?

Today we received our first invitation to a Christmas party – IN DECEMBER. What has happened to this year? How is it almost the end of August? Where did the summer go? It feels crazy to think that we’ve been in London for a whole season, nevermind the fact that we’ve been here for over six months already! How did this happen?

It’s been raining and last night I was cold for the first time in months. I fear summer is well and truly over. Which means we’re headed for the dreaded dark, cold and dreary winter. Which I honestly don’t feel ready for. Now we’re furiously working on that plan to be able to spend six months a year in Europe and the other six months in Cape Town (You figure out which six will be spent where!)

If you have any ideas, please feel free to share them. I’m all (cold) ears.

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Bye-Bye Towers

Another landmark experience I missed by not living in my beloved Cape Town anymore happened yesterday – the demolition of the Athlone Cooling Towers. Now let’s be honest, no one’s going to miss those hideous things, are they? But it would have been cool to have been able to say ‘I was there’. (Though, after missing the recent World Cup, this is nothing compared.)

Had to share this great video by my friend Rowan Pybus – undoubtedly one of the most talented and creative people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting!

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Wedding craziness

Before November 2009 I was one of those girls who never could understand the fascination with the whole wedding thing. I mean, you spend the equivalent of a house deposit on one party which, was it not for the super expensive photographer constantly in your face capturing every single move, you wouldn’t remember much of in anyways.

But then John put that rock on my finger and everything changed. A bubble machine to open the dancefloor with? Yes please! R2,000 per fire brazier? Oh, we need at least six of those! (What exactly IS a fire brazier?). And it’s not just the party… There are the shoes, the underwear, the wedding bands, the car to take you to the party, the ceremony venue, the bridesmaids dresses, the hair, the after party, the pre-party, the guestlist, the invitations, the ‘favours’ (who ever keeps those expensive little gifts?) and the bus to get everyone everywhere.

The list is never-ending. And it all costs major money. But it seems that I’ve now joined the ranks of crazy brides. It’s one day. But it’s (hopefully!) the only day of its kind in my life. And damn…it had better been something special!

So, for now at least, we are shutting our eyes and pulling that budget together. And it hurts. In a good way! (And today in six months’ time exactly, we’ll be saying ‘I do’ again. Can’t wait!)

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Jimmy Who?

After months of being frugal and adjusting to earning my own income in a new town, I finally broke the no-spend-ban I placed on my (brand new!) credit card. And once I swiped, I did not stop! First the background information…I have a friend who has a friend who works for Jimmy Choo. And through this friend of a friend I managed to grab a much-sought-after spot on their annual ‘friends and family’ sale. Gasp! After a sleepless night, I headed out in shoes that would slip on and off easily enough for me to be able to try on many pairs. At the same time if needed. Alas, by the time the plebs (that’s the category I fell into, sadly) got access to the sale, all the size 41 shoes had been plundered to death by the staff and media the day before (is it just me or do all journalists have large feet?). There were pale pink satin pumps, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then my eyes roved over to the top shelf where hundreds of bags were screaming my name. “Take me home!” they seemed to say. And I did. Three of them. ...And this one in greenAnd it wasn’t easy, I tell you! My arms were sore from the weight of carrying all the ones I wanted to take home, but in the end I had to leave some to the clutches of other desperate shoppers. And I got three. One black basic. One gorgeous olive green basic (I could only find a photo in purple online). And one divine silver basic. And I love them. What do you think?

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Ascot…I just don’t get it

* Let me preface this post by saying that I am potentially about to expose myself as a huge hypocrite. After all, I have been to the J&B Met about three times and I loved it. That said, this is crazy on a whole new level…

I am confused. Hugely confused. Today John and I went to Ascot. A day at the races. The ultimate show of British class. And, as I may have said, I’m confused.

Firstly, the weather sucked. It got to a maximum of 15 celsius (for about five minutes before it started cooling down again) and there was a crazy wind howling the entire day. The sun peeked its head out for short bursts, but mostly English weather fully lived up to its reputation for being shitty today. At least it didn’t rain. Thank god for small mercies, as they say.

But this event has been on the cards for weeks. The Pimms and lemonade had been bought. The fresh fruit was cut up and mint (from the garden!) was ready to be mixed for the ultimate summers drink. Marks & Spencers had yielded the perfect picnic selection and we were (mostly) ready for a day at the races. Until we woke up this morning to find a cloudy, grey day with a thin wind. Oh boy – what to wear? I’d heard about the outfits and knew that a hat was a huge bonus (in this wind?), as were heels. Pretty much compulsory. But you know me – I like to break all the rules.

So I donned a maxi dress with my long leggings underneath (for warmth), a cardigan and then also my down-filled jacket on the way out. Oh, and I did NOT wear a hat nor heels. A girl has to dress for comfort after thirty. (Quote me on that one.) But the other girls went all out. And I mean ALL out. Never have I seen higher heels (in satins and sequins) or more squeezed-into-peeptoe toes. And the ‘fascinators’…oh boy, the fascinators. One bigger than the other and in all the colours of the rainbow. But I’m getting way ahead of myself.

We left the house and started our journey to the town of Ascot by taking a bus, followed by a train and then we finally arrived at the station from which we would take the overground National Rail train. And the platform was crowded. Insanely so. Trains only run every fifteen minutes and we couldn’t squeeze onto the first two that came past. Finally managed to make it onto the third one where John and Jill got in first and I physically forced my way into a space meant for breathing only to avoid having to spend another fifteen minutes on the platform without them. Then I proceeded to have my butt massaged by various unknowns as the sardines were shuttled along the rails. The longest forty-five minute train ride of my life, hanging onto a pole with one hand and trying to not get separated from the picnic bag in my other. And I mentioned the butt massage thing. Not fabulous.

About two hours after we left home we finally arrived at Ascot and bargained with a ticket scalper to buy GBP14 tickets for GBP35 each. Then we fell in line to get into the actual venue (add another half hour or so) and finally made it onto the lawn where we spread our picnic blanket on the only free square meter we could find. Phew – we had arrived. The picnic stuff came out and the first jug of Pimms was mixed. We didn’t see much of the horse races, but man, did those grilled chicken drumsticks from M&S hit the spot!

After the last race was run, thousands of people filed out of the stadium and into the pubs that surely survive purely on the money made during this weekend, for who ever would go there during the rest of the year? And here’s where my confusion sets in. All the girls were now in their flipflops (why even bother with the high heels when you’re heading to a huge lawn?) and there were more guys than girls wearing fascinators (Fascinators are pieces of artsy sculpture that British women wear instead of hats in their hair) and, here’s the big thing, people were absolutely wasted.

Which is fine and fun. There was crazy dancing. Crazy making out on the ‘dancefloor’ and crazy drinking. Crazy drinking. And I realized how crazy only when we decided to tackle the journey home at around 9pm. On the train? Absolute debauchery. The girl across the isle from us vomited into her boyfriend’s bag and then passed out – face first – into said bag. The guy in front of her turned towards me, vomited into his hand, swallowed it back and then, as one does, proceeded to vomit all over himself, the seat and onto the floor before staggering off the train. The ones who were not vomiting were screaming or passed out and I felt like giving these ‘classy’ Brits a piece of my mind.

Why even bother? Dresses that have never seen the light of day will see the next light of day with huge rips, vomit stains or grass burns on them. Fascinators are not cheap. Satin shoes are ruined once you’ve dropped your drink on them. And why, oh why, would you go out in your summer’s dress when it is absolutely freezing out? Maybe it’s a sign of getting old, but I’d have been much happier drinking my Pimms at home with some good music, good friends and, you guessed it, some Marks and Spencers drumsticks!

If ‘getting’ Ascot is a sign of class, call me a chav.

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Now I Dislike Easyjet too…kind of

For John’s birthday on the 20th of May I had planned a surprise weekend trip to Berlin – flights bought, hotel booked, dinner reservations made, you name it, it was planned. Then, at around lunch time the day of his birthday, and about eight hours before we were due to depart, I came down with a flu of almost 40 and a chest infection that had us waiting at the emergency room and canceling our trip. Poor John…birthday dinner consisted of take-out Indian, delivered at 12am after we got back from hospital, and then he had the luck of sleeping on the air mattress for the next three nights. As someone pointed out, luckily I have another 75 birthdays in which to make it up to him. Phew!

With us missing our Berlin flight, we are putting a claim in against our travel insurance and needed a letter from Ryanair, confirming that we did, in fact, not make the flight. After ten minutes (at 10pence per minute, of course) of holding on the phone, Victor the friendly call center helper informed me that he would be delighted to send me this letter, but, wait for it, I would have to pay £17 to receive this. What a laugh we had about that, I tell you. After I stopped laughing out loud, I kindly asked Victor to please make a note on his system to confirm that I would NEVER be flying Ryanair again. I hate Ryanair.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and I am finally on an Easyjet flight on my way back to London from Ibiza (more about that later…Oh My Word…). I say finally, because we were meant to take off last night at 01:55am, yet here I am at 21:12, the next day, on my way back home. Turns out cabin crew aren’t allowed to fly longer than a specific number of hours and if earlier delays are messing that up for you, that’s your problem. We waited for our ‘delayed’ flight until about 02:00am before the ‘delayed’ sign turned to ‘canceled’. Ugh. We had to line up to get our checked in bags back and then about 200 passengers were bussed out to various corners of the island and put up in crummy three-star hotels for the night.

In all fairness, the process was quite a bit more painless than it could have been (I didn’t have to sleep in an airport), but still, it sucked. The upside was that we were forced to spend our sixth day in Ibiza and it was glorious. I guess having your flight canceled from Ibiza back to rainy London is waaaay better than the other way around. It’s the small things that make me happy these days…So I’m not complaining too much. But still. I am more of a five star kind of girl.

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I hate Ryanair

Don’t get me wrong. I love the fact that I get to fly all over Europe for very cheap with them, but I hate every minute on that plane.  See, they are the cheapest airline around, and also the most profitable. What does this tell you about their business model? They have to make all that profit somewhere, right?

Ryanair has a no nonsense approach to customer service. If you want it, you will have to pay for it. Dearly. No nonsense. If you want to check a bag on your flight, you have to pay for it. Dearly. Feel like having a cup of water? Yep, that will cost you. Dearly. Want them to print out your boarding pass?You guessed it. It will cost you. Dearly. They even fly their own staircase with on the plane to ensure they don’t have to rent one from the ‘stairway’ company that all the other airlines use! What’s more, they recycle their airline crew – the same girl who checks your (printed-at-home) boarding pass, is also the same one who guides you through security and then she welcomes you on the plane. These poor cabin crew members are worked off their feet.

And it only gets worse once you step on the plane.  Thought you could sit back and relax on your European flight? Nooooo sirree! That would be too much. From the moment you step onto the plane and dash for a seat (yes, they don’t assign seats either – you have to take what you can get!) the direct selling starts. From smoke-free cigarettes to scratch-cards-that-benefit-hungry-children-somewhere to cosmetics to hotdogs to bus tickets from the airport to the city center to your favourite flavour coffee or a totpack of brand-less vodka to mix into your expensive Cola, you can get it all on your one hour 50 minute flight. And I have a strong suspicion that the cabin crew earn commission on their sales…It’s a constant barrage of “Get your scratchcards / hotdogs / perfume / bus tickets / drinks” thundering down the isle while all you want to do is forget about the fact that you’re on a plane.

I have now resorted to making no eye contact at all with these stewardesses, employing the same tactics I use when I walk through the cosmetic section of a huge department store. The less eye contact I make, the smaller the risk of them trying to sell me something!

Apparently Ryanair is about to start charging £1 to use the toilet on board. When we were on the plane this weekend I was almost disappointed to find that they weren’t doing it yet. I was all prepared with my response. When the stewardess said “That will be one pound”, I was going to pipe, “No Honey, this is an emergency – we’re talking at least three pounds here!”

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All you need is…?

While I don’t necessarily consider myself an absolute expert, I do feel that I know quite a bit about love. I know that I love MyJohn so much that sometimes it feels as though my heart might break with the intensity of it. I know what it feels like to be truly loved as well – and there is nothing in the world quite like it. I know what it feels like when love disappoints you and I know what it feels like to fall in love for the first time, or all over again. I know love when it is platonic and I know love for generic ‘things’ (like that new pair of 4″ heels I bought the other day…it’s pure love that!). I have experienced love in most ways and am truly a richer person for it.

There is a new kind of love, however, that I’m being exposed to here on the soggy island (which is rather sunny today, I’ll have you know). And that’s the love you get from strangers. It’s the love used by the homeless guy sitting on the way to the tube entrance when he says ‘Can you spare the homeless some change, Love?’. It’s the love used by the guy who fixed my bicycle wheel and said ‘That’ll be a tenner, Love’ and it’s the same type that the policeman used after I asked him for directions and he said, ‘Just straight down the path, Love’ and it seems that this kind of love, too, is universal, or at least very British.

So call me naive or even a little silly, after all, I know they say that to all the girls, but when someone calls me ‘Love’ I do feel special and yes, a little loved…

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