Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Shoe fantasy

Ooooh sometimes a girl just has to buy a pair of shoes.
I have never been able to wear high heels but I like the idea of me wearing a pair of high heels. Nature has colluded with my fear of heights and I cannot balance on anything higher than a centimeter off the ground. But I persist with the delusion that I will conquer this disability.
High heels are the epitome of femininity. I think they add a touch of sexuality to an otherwise ordinary outfit.
I have in the past invested in numerous pairs of these impractical objects and they have all been given away. But this morning I think I see THE pair that will make all others pale into insignificance.
They are black and have a heel like an icepick - cultural weapon perhaps? Good for stabbing muggers in dark alleys.
On the front of the toes are teeny little diamante in the shape of a butterfly. I am mesmerised by the shape and exotic opportunities these shoes possess. My friend Annie would call them "Fuck me" shoes. 
Impulsively I buy them and walk to my car ... it's a Cinderella moment.
 I imagine myself tottering towards a date in a restaurant - all eyes on me ... or my shoes to be precise.
At home I walk down the passage - hmmmm. I will need to practice. My sexy sashay looks more like someone lurching in the bar after a piss up. 
It seems like my vertigo has not diminished. I look sadly at the slip in my purse - oh dear. A lot of money to waste on a fantasy.
Perhaps I can balance on them while using a pair of crutches .. Perhaps not!

Monday, February 27, 2017

Banana republic

Mercia has rallied the neighbourhood together to support Rachel as she takes the stand in court. 
Arrested for poisoning her gardener - she is front page news.
She was released on bail two weeks ago but she has been keeping a low profile deliberately. 

There has been no sign of her at the gym and she does not pitch up for the community police forum meeting.

Today we have been encouraged to show up and support her. We are all standing in Criminal Court 2B. 
Criminal courts are dirty and smelly, not at all like those in the courtroom dramas on television. The whole place has a depressing feel and carries the taint of stale cigarettes and despair.

Rachel shuffles into the dock, wearing a two piece business suit and respectable string of pearls. 

She avoids eye contact. She chokes up when Mercia hands her some banana muffins – in case she gets hungry in the holding cells. 
Her husband has hired a top criminal defence lawyer for his wife. Wessels Bothma is an ex-rugby player and looks as if he simply tackles his opponents before they disintegrate under the sheer weight of his personality. 
The prosecutor, in comparison, looks like a wimp. 

I wonder if the black judge was chosen on purpose. She is no-nonsense and eyes all of the gallery with disdain. 
To be honest, I am not really a supporter but more of a voyeur.

Poor Amos Magide’s family (the gardener) are huddling together at the back of the courtroom, intimidated by the whole scene. 

These humble rural folk are way out of their depth. I wonder how Rachel feels about Agnes, who is called upon as the first state witness. 
Agnes is dressed to the nines in a hideous orange crimpolene dress with a leopard skin turban on her head and matching shoes. She looks like she is the lead actor in a local soapie.

Although she can speak perfect English, she decides she needs a Zulu translator, which has the effect of delaying proceedings. Clearly, Agnes has decided to milk the situation for all it is worth. 

A translator is found and it becomes farcical when Agnes corrects his translation of her Zulu into the correct English version. 
Rachel does not look at Agnes. 

It seems as though Agnes has damned Rachel with her convincing testimony,  we wonder if her lawyer will be able to cast doubt upon it. 
Bothma clears his throat and looks around the room as if to make sure he has our full attention.

In perfect Zulu, he asks Agnes about her relationship with the late Amos Magide. Suddenly, Agnes is not so supremely confident and she answers the question, although warily. 

Bothma has some knowledge that Amos and Agnes were not the best of friends. He cites a few occasions when Amos and Agnes had “harsh ” words.

At one time, Amos was given the Brinks’ old lounge suite, which Agnes felt ought to have gone to her. On another occasion, Agnes and Amos had a fight when Amos received an extra R20 for taxi money, in addition to his wages.

The court case is riveting, like watching a cat play with a mouse, and Agnes is not happy. Her face is sullen and her replies reluctant. Rachel Brink is no longer staring at her feet and a small smile dances around her mouth.

It is also revealed that the Brinks have offered to pay compensation to the Magide family for their loss. A supposedly “generous” sum of R100 000 for their pain and suffering.   
I do not think that this amount is fair, and is mere pocket money to the Brinks, with Johnny having just bought a new Land Cruiser.

By the end of the day, Bothma has punched a few holes in Agnes’s testimony and it seems as if Rachel is going to be let off the hook – or at least she will get a suspended sentence, thanks to her lawyers bullying tactics.

Mercia has found the whole proceedings most entertaining and is urging us to make a habit of attending criminal court cases as a concerned citizens’ group. I immediately beg my leave and escape. 

Thankfully, I find that my car is still in the parking lot. I attempt to leave but am stopped by a large, buxom lady in a luminescent vest who demands that I pay.

It seems that there are new parking tariffs in town. I scrabble around in my purse and find an unfortunate looking R50 note that has escaped the eagle-eye of my son Greg, who regularly depletes my cash flow for his tuck money.

I offer it to the woman and grit my teeth as she pockets it and says: “Sorry! No change!” 

I have a fierce impulse to ride over her ... repeatedly ... but grin and drive off instead. Daylight robbery is fast becoming a national pastime.

Dagga dog dilemma

Greta has phoned with an emergency ... it is also part confession. Her latest boyfriend is a secret manufacturer of medical marijuana. Ok so he is not exactly unemployed - I think.

Apparently he grows dope in a plot outside Howick and then he and a mate convert it to dagga oil - the latest unorthodox health trend to hit the nation.
It seems that he made some of his stuff in one of her kitchen pots (hehe - how's that for a pun). She was unaware that the green sludge was a coconut oil blend of dagga.

Greta thought it was the remains of last night's spinach. Ever thoughtful she mixed it up with the dogs food and gave it to the dogs.
Today the dogs are lying around drooling and  whimpering in doggie oblivion. She is not sure what to do. "I can't take them to the vet, they'll arrest me," she says hysterically.

I tell her to calm down and suggest that she monitors them carefully and makes sure they keep hydrated. The large dogs are in lala-land. Dreaming dope inspired dreams.

Greta is not amused with Jimmy her boyfriend, and Jimmy has escaped to his Howick plot to avoid her fury. 
The dogs are entirely unable to walk in any direction and their eyes are glazed and unfocussed. One of the downsides to this doggy dope fiesta is that they are unable to walk outside to defecate.

They are crapping on her fur pile carpet in great green sludgy mounds. I do not offer to come and clean it up - there are limits to what friends will do for each other. 

 Her panic subsides when she gets an sms from a friend who says her own maltese poodle once ate an entire block of hashish and had emerged unscathed after days of unconsciousness.

I worry about my choice in friends.

Porn movie edit

I am invited to go and watch the final cut of the porn movie, African Heat. To say I am less than proud of my accomplishment at scripting it is an understatement. But Dick Wilson insists I be there. I do owe him for saving me from bankruptcy.

Besides, I am slightly curious as to how the script was interpreted. As I drive to Luscious Productions, I fervently hope this will be the last time I visit this den of inequity.

I am buzzed in and a very excited Dick welcomes me, ushering me into his office, which has been converted into a mini movie theatre.

“The whole thing has been smooth sailing, our actors loved the script and the producer is really keen to use you again,’ he said smiling. My heart sinks.
I am really not keen to become the Leon Schuster of the emerging African porn genre.

A few people settle on the couches all arranged facing a big screen. I sit and wait as the lights dim. The opening scene of African Heat is of the bushveld. The camera pans across the savannah and zooms into a bush lodge. 
A woman lies on a pool lounger, tanning herself. She undoes her bikini top and calls a waiter over to rub suntan cream on her shoulders.

He does more than just rub suntan cream – he starts to fondle her double D bosoms with great enthusiasm. I cringe. 
Did I really write that? I am so going to hell. 

The entire movie is suitably full of sex, semen and state-of-the-art African decor.  I am glad that it is all over. I wish I had brought along some hand sanitiser ... for my conscience.

The buxom Desire, who had a cameo role in the movie, efficiently dispenses peanuts and sandwiches, and everyone smiles and chats excitedly.   

It is quite hard to work out who is who with their clothes on, and I try not to seem like I am staring.
As soon as I am able I make my excuses and head for the door.

Dick seems sad to see me leave and promises that he will be in touch for the sequel. I smile and disappear as quickly as I can.

Dating peek a boo

Today I am thrilled. There seems to be one guy on the dating site who might be a possibility.
He sends me a message:
"Hey you sound nice. I like women who are fiesty and interesting.  You sound like you have a great sense of humour. Send me your picture."
I am torn ... this could be the one.
His pseudonym sounds fairly harmless - Nicedude.
I check his profile out and he seems to tick half of the boxes. No obvious signs of sexual deviance - not too sporty, employed - big plus and locally based. Hmmm.
But he also does not have a picture on the site - damn.  I could be setting myself up for a date with an ogre. But I am tempted. 
"Ok - send me your picture first and I will decide if I am going to show you my photo."
He replies ... "He he you are shy. Well here goes ..."
I wait for what seems like an interminable amount of time and then I click on the picture link.
I am doomed.
It is none other than Mr Ross - the school rugby coach and porn star.
The universe has a sick sense of humour!
I log off.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Love sucks

 Bloody Valentine’s Day, I think, as my eyes open. I am one of those hopeless singletons that will have to endure an entire day filled with romantic couples mooning around with red roses and cheesy grins plastered all over their faces.
I mollify myself with the thought that at least I will not have to put up with Neville - the ex – for the rest of my life. 

My daughter is layering on sparkling lip gloss as if it will magnetically attract the lips of One Direction’s Harry Styles.
My son has the whole day mapped out. He has ordered roses for the girls he really likes and chocolates for those who are friends but who could be romantic possibilities at a pinch. He and his mate Ralph have ordered each other six roses, just to make sure that the girls get the impression that they are highly desirable. I notice that today he has used half a can of deodorant and is likely to asphyxiate any girl who get close enough for a hug.
I rush the kids to school and then notice a red envelope sticking out of my post-box.  My initial feeling is one of suspicion, but deep down inside I am a hopeless romantic and I wonder if I could have a secret admirer. It’s not impossible – is it?
I take the card out and examine it – indeed, it is addressed to me. I open the envelope and see one of those kitch Valentine’s cards. Two cats kissing in front of a full moon – well beggars can’t be choosers.
Inside it says –“Happy Valentine’s Day – you are just purr-fect!”
Corny, cheap and nasty – it has to be from Arthur the librarian nutjob. Rolling my eyes, I stuff it in among the bills in the postbox. I notice that an insurance company is celebrating the month of love by offering two policies for the price of one. 

Clearly, their marketing department has never heard of that segment of the market that is single, bitter and likely to be pissed off at this biased marketing gimmick.
I decide not to go to the shops and to avoid television and radio for the rest of the day.  To say I am sulking would put it mildly. Cheri arrives back at school in a mood. “Boys are sooo childish!” she announces. I agree. Clearly, her lip-gloss smothered mouth did not attract a suitable smooching candidate. “I am so ugly and my nose is crooked and I want to die!” she mutters darkly.
“Well can you wait until I can afford a funeral?” I quip, knowing this will not go down well. But I can’t indulge her theatrics today. 
Greg climbs into the car with his lapel covered with roses. “Ooh, someone is popular,” I say, winking at him. “Nah,” he said. “Ralph and I stole the roses from the prefect’s room.” I give him my “you are such a dick” look and decide not to pursue the conversation.
“Oh and Mom, I saved you a chocolate!” I am bestowed with a small misshapen blob of brown goo that has been dredged up from his pocket. “Thank you, babes,” I say, thinking that at least my son loves me.
At 10.23 pm, I log onto the dating site again looking for fresh prospects ... it does not look good.