These newly scheduled 7am Monday morning French classes are proving interesting. I am being forced by a hyperactive Gaulic woman to think before 10am. AND to think not even in my mother tongue, but in some tongue of romance. I am as romantic as the bluddy Pope in Ankara on Mondays. The worrying thing is actually how talkative & on the ball de français I am proving to be at this hour.
I think she might be spiking my coffee.
Or perhaps it has to do with me being heavily involved in a bit of French practice at some 3am stage this weekend, thanks to the overfriendliness of a Democratic Republic of Congo man. Nothing like one’s new found ability to parle away after one glass and then some…
Ooo baby, but after this weekend I have decided it is all about the Rosebank clubs! By the end of the night you are left feeling like one of the hottest, most attractive women to have graced Jozi.
Two new phone numbers in my cell, and my number now apparently gracing the contact list of several men. May I add that one phone number belongs to a female who was set on giving it to me. A friend of hers, also female and cute, seemed set on giving something else to me… I was approached during some wild bit of solo dancing mid-club by this chickie, where she proceeded to snuggle herself into my lap, and then rub, twist and dance herself all over me. Much to my surprise and amusement. And the amusement (enjoyment?) of my mates.
I had woken up on Friday morning wanting to cry I was so exhausted. I managed to sweet talk myself into getting up and going and lasting through the day by the assurance that I’d be on my couch by 8pm latest. I had one task, and that was to suip a few drinks at a mate’s chilled birthday celebrations at her flat. I was estimating latest ETA on my couch to be 10pm. This was pushed to 11pm by some good company, conversations, and catch ups.
I then slept-walked my way through Rosebank Mall to my car only to stumble directly upon a sweet friend, and his friend, who were mid-sentence into deciding whether one glass of wine after their movie would go down well. My presence seemed to seal the “just one glass” deal.
I think the shape of the pear started to appear when it was decided that this should happen at Katzies. Two glasses of wine down, a closed bar, and well, I owed them a round…why not head to Divine Lounge next door!
….and that’s where it remained till 4am. Dancing. French speaking. Lesbian contemplating. Wine suiping. Random talking. New friends befriending. Laughing. Enjoying. Number swapping. Ducking into the MENS toilets cause of women’s queues. Tequila-substituting. Stranger flirting. Friend of a friend very suddenly doing a sneaky exit home (and if you're reading this - GREAT to finally meet you! You rock!). All great fun till my sweet tired friend had to take me back to my car.
It was now home time and, in my drunken mind, it was also “deep conversation to finally establish a few things”-time. I can’t say my drunken mind liked what was established, which may have been why the car convo lasted over an hour outside of Fournos.
Damn those “One Drink” nights!
So from 5am till 5pm Saturday I finally found sleep. And a stomach bug. I blame not having tequila for the second weekend in a row. Jack Daniels just does not seem able to kill off the germs like a good old shot of “Ole!” does!
Otherwise, it was arriving late for braais. Chats and chilling. And wine, pizza, and coffee with two of my most darling darlings late into Sunday so as to escape the Sunday night blues. An excellent plan of defence, for future reference.
Otherwise; When my grandmother died, I was given two pairs of her expensive Kurt Geiger sandals. Being the stylish trendy chick I am, I ended up predominantly wearing them in Orange Farm, in the dirt and mud and child-stampeding chaos. Women in that township would often declare that they loved my shoes, and where did I get them from. I’d laugh that these shoes probably cost more than their annual income. This weekend, my puppies chewed to shreds one Kurt Geiger sandal.