Stop the Music!!!

26 07 07

My mother turned 57 last night, despite her recent conviction that she was, in fact, turning 67.
So my family traipsed off to Harrison’s in Rivonia for dinner to celebrate.
I’ve been to Harrison’s once before for a work function last year, which I enjoyed.
It’s a decent place, with excellent steak. In fact, everyone enjoyed his/her meal, which is a frigging miracle if you know my family. Not one thing had to be sent back, not one dish was overdone/underdone, not one glass was cracked (which would naturally have led to an all out hepatitis panic among the five of us.)

There are two things with which I had a problem, however.

Number 1: The ridiculously dimmed light, designed to create a ‘romantic’ ambience. Whatever! Dull light = dropping your food on your lap/boobs = date staring at his piggish girlfriend/wife = embarrassment and not so much of fun.

I’ve never really understood why romance can only take place in an almost pitch black room. It’s never worked for me. Added to that, I regularly almost set table cloths on fire when all there is to guide me through the menu is one, measly candle.

That irritated me to an extreme I never thought possible. However, I quickly learnt that no matter how wound up you are, you can always be just a bit more irritated.

Enter problem number 2….the ‘musician’ the place hired for the night.

He started with some very popular pop ballad which took me about two minutes to recognise. By the time I realised that the music was not piped and was not some dreadful cd of covers, he was into his rendition of “Tears in Heaven”. For many moments I wished I was in this place called heaven, far, far away from this man who sounded like Kermit the Frog when he sang.

To say he was useless is just not an adequate expression. I’ve heard standard one music classes with more talent, tone and ability than this moron. On and on he went, murdering song after song, creating his own tunes and flourishes. After about 20 minutes of this torture, my almost-80-year-old very together grandmother asked “When is this terrible cd going to end? Doesn’t it seem endless to you?” Imagine her horror when she turned around and clapped eyes on the source of the droning.

I seriously will not go back to Harrison’s when this guy is singing. I think this restaurant should realise that the busker in the Rosebank Mall who plays the recorder very very badly, is still better than Kermit.

Walking the Talk

23 07 07

The weekend was a blur, as I am sure they are for most people who predict nothing but boredom on their return to the workplace.

Yesterday was exercise-filled and good fun. Golden Beagle and I walked the 8km event at the 702 Walk the Talk. Team Screw You, as we so cleverly named ourselves, was initially meant to comprise three walkers, but since Chicsa Fashionista abandoned us for the lure of New York, G.B and I were forced to go it alone. But we reckon C.F nearly had the last laugh when we discovered that the two of us were actually entered for the 21km walk. Two scenarios are possible for this ‘mistake’:

1) C.F, deciding to make this the most memorable of exercise sessions for us without her, crossed out our checked 8km block on the application form, ticked off the 21km option, and handed them in, cackling evilly to herself all the while.

2) 702 or Discovery made a balls-up and issued us green numbers, denoting the 21km race, because they are stupid, inefficient or both.

Personally, I’m leaning towards option 1.

So as we were squishing our way towards the beginning, an official-looking bloke said to us: “You’re very late for the start.” Looking around us and noticing thousands of people also snaking their way to the start of the ‘race’, we were suitably confused. “What do you mean?” we said. “The 21km walk started much earlier,” the official continued.


“Meh!” the official-looking bloke said, “do the 8km, whatever!”

Highlights of the walk included:

  • Stopping off for a wee break at Golden Beagle’s parents’ abode where G.B briefly considered putting her mad grey cat, Bob the Hob-Nob, on a leash, and making him walk the rest of the route with us.
  • Two women behind us, who must have been in their 70s, responding to the question printed on the back of our T- shirts “How is my walking?” with this concise answer….”TOO SLOW!!” (Note: we did not conceive of this stupid slogan…Discovery is to blame)
  • My near-hijack of two water sachets from a fellow participant after mistaking her for an individual who hands out water sachets. She wasn’t that impressed. G.B laughed and I turned red.

All in all a fun morning, though I do think that the prams and the dogs should be banned from the walks longer than 5kms. It’s just too chaotic. Anyone else there yesterday?

The Seven Wonders of My World

03 07 07

A competition is taking place as you read this (unless you’re reading this after 6 July) which seeks to name a new set of seven wonders of the world. You can vote until Friday for anything from the Taj Mahal, Stonehenge, the Great Wall of China, the Sydney Opera House, the QEII and a good few others.

The “New Seven Wonders of the World” campaign was launched in 1999 by Swiss Bernard Weber. Something like 200 nominations were received.
If you want to vote
, go to
The seven winners will be announced on Saturday in Lisbon, Portugal.

I’ve seen some of the nominees, and many I’ve yet to get to but will hopefully see many during my life’s travels. Until then, I will share with you the seven wonders of my world, which continue to astound me regularly:

  1. My hair: no matter how regularly I have it cut, split ends seem to emerge as quickly as Homer Simpson’s beard grows back. Some days it’s greasy, on occasion it’s unworkable, and it almost always looks its best immediately before I go to sleep at night.

  1. My neighbours: The concept of respect for one’s neighbour in the form of being quiet at sensitive times appears to elude my neighbours. Whether it’s the Australian woman who bolts down the echoing stairwell outside my window in heels and mad rush every morning, or the half-wit couple who’s revolting sausage dog yaps between the hours 23:00 and 1:00 on school nights, my neighbours are some of the most insensitive sods I’ve come across ever.

  1. Paris Hilton: Her consistent idiocy paraded before the world earns her nothing but increased popularity and curiosity. Why? Her lame-brained inadequacy is flaunted and showcased with amazing precision by the world’s media, and yet she emerges entirely unscathed, and, most recently, a child of God. Never has a person produced such an immediate gag reflex in my so consistently and immediately.

  1. My plants: Mostly, they refuse to die, barring two gerberas. I hate watering my plants, despite loving having plants and flowers. When I saw it snowing the other night, one of my thoughts was that this would excuse me from having to water them for another week (never mind them nearly dying as a result of the snow). My plants are super-duper extra-strength flora, and I think they rock!

  1. The Simpson family: My favourite television show, with a bunch of misfits who make me laugh till I snort.

  1. Harrismith: The fucking worst town on earth. Just driving through Harrismith is like coming close to a Dementor (Harry Potter)…it sucks the will to live right out of you. How such a place remains inhabited is a mystery of the greatest proportions to me. Nothing redeems that town, not even the knowledge that you’re just a little before halfway to Umhlanga.

  1. My bookclub, the Dorothy Parker Divas: We had our first meeting in three months on Sunday. Despite it being a “bookclub” meeting, I forgot to return my books. We also managed not to buy any new books either. In fact, only three of the seven of us reading a bookclub book(s) since the last meeting. The highlight of this meeting was when Alex, as penance for not hosting Sunday’s meeting because he couldn’t get it together to do so, presented a ‘gift’ as penance. This gift was a book he bought for us. It is called “A Restless Knight” and features a picture of the bare torso of a muscular demigod on the cover. Always the sign of a true work of art. It has since been verbally entered into our constitution that whoever hosts the bookclub must read this Scottish epic. That means me.

Thus concludes my seven wonders. A noteworthy list, I feel, particularly number 4.