Oh dear God - I have the mother of all hangovers.
All my fault. I was bamboozled into a welcoming party for the new neighbours who recently moved into Number 14.
I was quite amazed I cracked the nod. But apparently Mercia - my neighbour, made sure everyone in the street was invited.
We are so democratic here in the leafy suburbs of Hilton. Mercia should really run for the DA - she knows everyone's business and she manages to railroad people into all kinds of community projects.
So there I was meeting Nicole and Tim, lovely couple. The kind that sets your teeth on edge, they seem so perfect.
Beautiful home, beautiful children - a set straight from the pages of Home and Garden magazine.
They have moved up from Durban and are just thrilled to be getting to know the neighbours.
Oh dear - after an hour of inane chit chat about the rain, the traffic, and the crime rate I see the evening is taking a dangerous turn.
The huge TV set is switched on and we are invited to watch a short presentation on their latest business venture. I down my third glass of wine in a hurry. I hear the soundtrack to Jaws in my ears - WARNING!
We see lots of pretty pictures of aspirational couples in exotic destinations, all selling products that are linked to a pyramid scheme of sorts.
Of course they don't say the word "pyramid scheme" but it is as clear as day.
I stuttered and stammered my way out and politely declined their offer to join up and sign on the dotted line.
I blame my mother ... I have never learn't the art of saying "NO!" I always feel guilty and bad mannered and usually end up lying through my teeth and inventing bizarre excuses.
This time I say Greg , my son, is a haemophiliac and is bed-ridden and I need to spend as much time with him as possible so I just cant be involved in any extra commitments.
I rush home and tell Greg that he is not to go near the new neighbours under any circumstances. If they ask who he is, he must tell them his name is Shane, Greg's brother.
"Mom are you pissed?" says Greg eying me suspiciously.