An open letter to parents in bad relationships

 
As I get older and friends with children have increasingly become the norm in my social circle, I've had more and more conversations with good people making tough decisions about leaving a bad relationship. As parents, the decision is never a simple one, whether getting into or out of a relationship. But from what I have seen, getting out of one in particular, especially if the relationship is between both parents of the child, is very tough. 

As a child of parents in a very unhealthy marriage, the undoing and relearning I have needed to do as I have grown up has been an ongoing and steep learning curve. Some of my friends have found my sharing of my own experience to be helpful. Maybe you will too. 

I think that because kids are so "me" focused, it's sometimes difficult to see the impact their parents' lives have on them. But I think part of being "me" focused is being hyper aware of what impacts how you are treated, who spends time with you and how much energy your parents are able to give you. Kids also can't help but normalize the situation they find themselves in. They assume their experience is universal until they grow up enough to see others' lives clearly. So they absorb. 

My experience was maybe more dramatic than most peoples, and both parents also had a couple bad relationships after getting divorced. But as a result, these are the things I have needed to learn as an adult because I didn't learn them from the relationships around me. 

1. I never learned how healthy anger should be expressed - anger around me was always explosive, or silent treatment. No one ever sat down together or had a conversation. Instead, the anger or hurt I witnessed was cruel and cutting. As a young adult I was downright mean to my partners - I did not have the vocabulary to express hurt or anger in another way. Learning to be kind while furious was a long and difficult lesson.
2. It was normal to talk shit about a partner, sometimes in social situations in which the partner was also present. I can't remember how many times I overheard or saw my parents saying truly awful things about their partners to other people. I came to believe that was just how people vented. I was never exposed to compassion, or at least the understanding for the hurt that both the rant, and the sharing with others, might cause. Worse, they then stayed with this person they talked like that about - leading me to internalise that it was normal to hate and vilify parts of your partner, or to air grievances in public.
3. I never saw true apologies or forgiveness - I witnessed justifications, excuses and defensiveness, with peace finally being restored by one person just giving in. It took a long time for me to learn how to offer or receive a true apology, or compromise. 
4. I seldom saw random acts of kindness for the sake of kindness. I saw grand gestures in lieu of apology, or kindness with the expectation of repayment. I still struggle to accept help with random things from my partner (ask him about how it never occurs to me to give him half the shopping bags, I always grab all of them before he takes them from me!) I also came to think that grand gestures sufficed in lieu of true remorse and behaviour change, and struggled to see the difference when my own partners later followed the same pattern. 
5. I never saw anyone stand their ground or maintain a boundary in a healthy way. "Standing up for yourself" was a negotiable position that a person could be wooed out of. "You may not treat me that way" was always followed by wheedling and rationalization. Sometimes, withdrawal of love and affection was described as a boundary but was, in fact, a punishment. It was hard for me as an adult to learn that a boundary was not negotiable, or a rejection - which made it hard to both make and accept healthy boundaries. 
6. I never saw love expressed in both good times and bad. In bad times, pain was handled alone, support was seldom asked for, or given freely. Or if it was, then it had a cost. Later it would be used as a weapon: "Remember how good I was to you with XZY". It's been hard to learn to accept support. For most of my adult relationships, I never got genuine support, and didn't notice because I didn't expect it. I still feel anxious when my partner is really there for me when I'm having a tough time, like I need to somehow pay it back.

Finally, I think the thing that I learned most from my parents and their various relationships, is that I was least important on their list of priorities. Not intentionally, I am sure they gave me what they had to give, but a bad relationship takes up a lot of headspace, energy and time. A good relationship frees your time and gives you the energy and support you need to be the best version of yourself. My parents were always drained, tired, focused on appeasing or aggravating their partner, fighting for their needs to be met or just generally emotionally depleted. What was left for me was negligible, not necessarily in terms of tasks done (like school lunches or help with homework or whatever - sometimes these were done as 'evidence' of good parenting) but in terms of emotional availability, the ability to focus on me or see my own needs for love and connection. Instead I learned self sufficiency, and caretaking of them, rather than the other way round. I became hyper aware of the mood of the house, so I could avoid drama, or simply avoid weighing my parents down with my own needs. I never felt able to ask for attention, love or support - there never seemed enough to go around, and I didn't want to be the reason for further distress. 

So that's been my experience. Obviously, every house, situation, life, is different, but I think unhealthy relationships have a lot of overlap, regardless of the cause. I hope you find this helpful, and that some of it will help reinforce that being healthy, fulfilled and having your own emotional needs met is the best gift you can give your child. 

Sleeping pills and Amazon

This is my life now. My literal, true, happened last night, honest to god story of my life.

Last night I was tired but couldn't sleep, business as usual. Monday morning meetings with no sleep are, frankly, worse than waking with a hangover to a 5 year old learning the violin, so I popped a sleeping tablet, hoping to present the world with a less violin-smashy version of myself in the morning.

My bedtime routine includes removing various creatures my cats have brought in during the day and checking under the covers for any cockroaches that may have escaped their claws (one night I failed to do this, which resulted in my extremely abrupt ejection from the bed, doing the "ITS STILL ON ME" dance in the nude in the middle of the night - zolpidem notwithstanding. I assure you, a 10cm cockroach does NOT make for a pleasant bed-mate). Once all was clear I settled in, launched the kindle and awaited the fluffy effects of the pills.

I awoke this morning feeling refreshed and well rested, with no obvious signs of co-sleeping with small creatures, ready for a day of meetings with irate people about the water crisis. As usual, I took the first few minutes of my day to clear my phone of all the marketing emails and SMS' I get overnight, and checked my calendar to make sure I haven't forgotten an appointment with the apocalypse or something. This morning however, I had an entire bevy of SMS notifications that made no sense, and which I had no recollection of generating. I spent some time re-creating a timeline and the following is what I have pieced together from notifications, my banking app and my Amazon account.

It would appear that I finished my book shortly after lying down to read. Not feeling ready to sleep just yet, I browsed online on my kindle to find another book and made a purchase. This purchase was declined, due to insufficient funds on the card registered on my Amazon account. I appear to have been in denial, for I then attempted to purchase a further 23 books, all of which were declined.  I then (I assume) logged into my Amazon account and tried to change the card assigned to Kindle purchases. However, when one changes a credit card, Amazon will prompt you to verify security, usually by asking you to complete a phone number. The last phone number on my account is from my stay in India, and I have about as much memory of it as I do of  Pi. At some point I must have locked myself out of my account as I appear to have tried to reset my password. I know I was persistent though, as I had 9 reset password emails in my inbox.

In what I can only assume was an almost insensate drooling state of book-reading desperation, I must have finally twigged that perhaps just checking the card might be a good idea. I logged into my banking app and transferred R100 to the card in question though it’s possible I meant to transfer R1000. The book (God knows which one by now), was R121 and the payment was once again declined. At this stage I must have given up on reason completely, and I accepted one of those "INCREASE YOUR CREDIT LIMIT TO SOMETHING OUTRAGEOUS NOW" offers. I awoke this morning to a brand new credit limit of R125,000.00. It would also appear that every one of the book purchases went through, all 23 of them. That was one seriously expensive sleeping pill.

The Moth-apocalypse

What follows is in no way embellished. I sorely wish it was.

Last night, I was in bed. I've recently gained a little so my clothes aren't as comfortable as they could be, so I had decided to sleep in my usual summer gear - knickers only. This may seem like T.M.I. but it becomes important later. Anyway, I'd just finished an amazing book, which naturally I had to finish before I could possibly sleep, and at 1 AM I was finally ready to pass out. I was pretty exhausted, and had pretty much been using matchsticks to keep my eyes open while I finished the book, so it was with a sigh of relief that I switched off the light and settled back into the fluffy sleepiness.

Naturally, this is when I heard my cat, Jinx, growling and the distinct sound of some sort of winged creature frantically fluttering. Part of me was thinking "it's going to die soon, its probably beyond help, I'll just let it go", and the rest of me was thinking "WHAT IF IT GETS FREE AND FLIES INTO MY FACE WHILE I AM SLEEPING?!?"

So I switched on the light, preparing myself for the worst. I mean, those wing beats did not sound petite. I looked around the room, and could see nothing. No cat, no winged creature, nothing; but I could hear it. I cautiously got out of bed, peeked around the wall into the toilet area and there sat my cat, one paw resting lightly on one wing of the most enormous moth I have ever seen. Dinner plate seized, fly into your face and scream sized.

Jinx was sitting quietly watching the moth struggle under her foot. She turned to look at me with an expression that clearly said "nothing to see here, move along human".

Task one was to disconnect cat from moth. She knew what was coming and started growling at me, low pitched and frankly quite terrifying, coming as it did from the cute furry face that usually nuzzles up to me at night. I steeled myself and grabbed her, heading at speed for the bedroom door while she struggled as if I was heading for a deep-fryer. I literally threw her through the door and barely got it closed before the hissing growling fury that was Jinx darted back through. She nearly lost her head in the door slam. I was immediately treated to frantic scrabbling from the other side, while I leaned against the door and breathed heavily in an almost picture perfect horror-movie type "escape from the monster" scene of relief. Until I realized that I was now stuck in the bedroom with the fucking moth man prophesies and no way to capture it, and all possible capturing vessels were on the other side of the door. With Jinx.

At this point, I still had not got round to putting any clothing on. Part of me was thinking about the potential horror of trying to capture an enormous moth and the risk of it getting near my vulnerable exposed chest. However, the rest was thinking that it wasn't like I was going to lose a nipple or something, so I just steeled myself and darted back out of the bedroom door, slammed it behind me, and went searching for a family-of-30-sized tupperware container with which to catch the moth-apocalypse. I finally found something suitable, made it back into the bedroom and with relative ease was able to capture it, cover the container with a piece of cardboard and triumphantly hold the trapped bastard aloft.

It was then I realized that since I was largely naked, I could hardly pop out the front door and toss the mutant beast over the fence. I settled for through the bathroom window. As I opened the bedroom door (with an elbow, since both hands were busy holding the fluttering beast) Jinx dashed back into the bedroom and frantically searched for her prey. I am not ashamed to say I felt some distinct pleasure at her consternation over its sudden disappearance. I may have even stuck out my tongue.

Heading into the bathroom, I stepped into the bath, reached both hands through the window and tossed the moth-monster out. I breathed a sigh of relief and reached for the window to close it, with which the bloody fucking stupid asshole of a mutant beast from fluttery hell FLEW BACK THROUGH THE WINDOW!

I swore loudly to myself and prepared to try catch the bloody thing again, at which point I felt my cat join me in the bath and heard her yowl at the giant winged freak. What followed can only be described as naked human versus furry clawed yowling insanity as I dashed back and forth across the bathroom, naked breasts swinging, bum jiggling, and arms flying as I tried to beat the tiny hunting machine at my feet to the capture of the moth monstrosity. It was with a barely suppressed shout of triumph that I beat her to the post, captured the prize and with absolutely no grace whatsoever threw the whole bloody lot, moth, tupperware and cardboard through the window and slammed it shut.

I collapsed onto the closed toilet seat and took a shuddering breath, and just hung my head. When my heart rate had returned from "about to jump off a cliff to certain death" to something more like "ran up a mountain because a hot shirtless man was waiting for me"  I wobbled back to bed. Naturally, Jinx curled up on my shoulder, gave a satisfied purr, and went to sleep.

--------------------------------------------
For visual reference of size, please see HERE

(Ok, so it was probably more like this, but it was the middle of the night and I was tired and NAKED)

Champagne is for idiots

Finally, some time to write the rubbish that happens in my life. I seem to be in a phase where there is to be no significant travelling for a while. And though this is a very sad thing for me, I did recently make it up to Victoria Falls, and I shall be having adventures of a different kind shortly.

I have decided to venture into the world of business. Yes, I know I am crazy. But I figure I have started and run enough businesses for other people that I should be able to do it for myself. Hmmm...  More on that later.

In the mean time, I was reminded when trying to explain to a friend why I don’t have a smart phone anymore, of one of the reasons that I have decided to leave the world of events behind me for a while. I currently work for a company that runs and caters about 25 events a week. We have three event coordinators. Basically, you won’t have an event coordinator at your event unless you are willing to pay extra. Usually we send a waiter supervisor, and a head chef to run the catering side (as there is generally also a bar manager and a venue manager on site).

For this particular wedding, we sent a chef, a manager and a staffing manager. The only person not on site was me, the initial event contact. Why? Because I had booked the day off long before the client had even heard of us, and I was due to be on a party bus, drinking mojitos and celebrating the 2^nd anniversary of my friends 30^th Birthday.

That is exactly what I proceeded to do. About an hour into the bus ride (and three double strength mojito punch glasses down) the manager calls.

Manager: Miss P, the bride is going nuts, we don’t have the right champagne.

Me: Of course you do, I delivered it to the venue myself yesterday afternoon, and put it in the fridge.

Manager: No, you can’t have, because it’s not there.

Me: Look harder.

I then proceeded to have three more mojitos. The bus broke down, so we had an extra shot of rum. Then my phone rang again.

Manager: Miss P, there is no champagne here at all! There is only the cheap stuff, and the bride is furious and almost in tears and the barman doesn’t know what to do!

Me: Yesh, it’sh definitely there. I promish, I delivered it myshelf *hic* and I put it in the frid- frid – uh... fiddidge-y thingy.

Manager: Are you drunk?

Me: YESH! Now go away

The bus got moving again, so we had an extra shot of tequila to celebrate. It took a really long time to get over the mountain pass, so naturally, when it reached the top, we had a a shot of Jaegermeister  to celebrate.

My phone rang again, and as I looked blearily through fuzzy eyes, I spied the name of the bride. I briefly considered answering it, realised I couldn’t actually articulate anything other than a faint gurgle and some woop woop sounds, and simply tossed the phone, still ringing, out the window of the bus.

Two days later, when I had recovered from my hangover, I went back to the venue to see what the hell had happened. There, in the bar, blocking one whole side of the access hatch, was the champagne. The storeman had very helpfully placed the chilled wine in the bar, ready to serve for guest arrival, and the barman had spent the entire wedding carefully stepping over the boxes as he ran to the walk in fridge for the cheap stuff.

Nostalgia

I have, on occassion, entered one or two writing competitions (generally the type that gets you a free trip) and while I know that my writing is not prize-winning, I continue to hope that the judge will have really bad flu, be completely fuzzy and oblivious and just choose mine so that he/she can just go to bed already. But it occurred to me that the article I wrote for the last one predated the existence of this blog, so I am now adding it to the repertoire. For a brief time before I headed into Sudan I lived in Kenya, and did a little travelling there as well. What a gorgeous place....

Amboseli Game Reserve


Having never stayed in a Kenyan National Park before, and the sum of my experiences to that point having been South African National Parks, it hadn’t crossed my mind for a second that finding food and drink would be a problem. Until we arrived at our ‘rest camp’, and discovered how loosely they use the term ‘camp’: Waist high fences are your ‘protection’ from the animals, and long drops and cold showers are the extent of your “convenient and adequate ablutions”. Café or food stalls? Sorry, what?

Luckily our driver, Mariepe, was a Maasai man who lacked the ‘safe’ gene, and, ignoring all signs saying “animals will rip you limb from limb after dark if you leave the camp”, with us in tow he headed out into the bush with his panga and found us the local Masaai tribe. To their obvious hilarity and many repetitions of ‘crazy misungu’ (white person), they finally led us to a goat carcass hanging from a tree, chopped us off a couple of hind legs and added some ‘ugali’ (local version of maize meal) to the package. I am sure the price we paid funded the purchase of at least one herd of goats.

With our rather dubious meal packaged in two-year-old newspaper we headed back rather quickly to the relative safety of our camp and fire. Mariepe volunteered to prepare the ugali, and proceeded to cook it into a state not unlike play-dough. By this point I had diced and braai’d the goat, so Mariepe gave us a brief lesson on how to eat. One must pick up a piece of ugali, flatten it in ones right hand (the left hand should not to be used for eating) and use this as a spoon to scoop up a piece of meat, some meat drippings and some salt, and eat it as a whole parcel. Wish some shyness, and much giggling, my travel partner and I complied with instructions and found ourselves eating a very respectable meal.

There are few things quite as beautiful as watching the sun set behind Mount Kilimanjaro, eating something local and surprisingly delicious, and listening to hyenas call to you from the other side of a one meter fence you pray they can’t get over. ..



Passport Stamps!

One of the most annoying things about my trip to the States being cancelled is that I had ordered a brand new spangly passport, had a lovely new exciting looking visa pasted into it, and gone.... nowhere. It has been many many years since I had a naked passport. I was starting to feel uncomfortable.

Enter my friends. One of the awesome things about staying in one place, is that I have now redeveloped a lot of my friendships that had been left flapping in the breeze. Some of these friends are awesome holiday planners. I have traveled with one friend, I have traveled with a boyfriend, but never before have I traveled with a group.

The journey started with a big 4x4 and an overloaded trailer, and LOTS of booze we thought we might not get through. Heading straight from Cape Town up country for 10 hours we landed our asses in Augrabies falls National Park, whereupon the booze supply was rapidly done away with.

Augrabies National Falls

Having rested, got in the holiday spirit, and begun the inevitable destruction of our livers, we headed out two days later in search of game drives, and predators. A brief stop over at a desert camp gave us our last night in a real bed, and a covered porch from which to watch the thunder storms, before heading to Kgalagadi Transfontier National Park.

What was meant to be desert and barren, turned out to be lush and grass covered. With rains that like of which havent been seen in a decade, the dunes and red earth had turned lush and green, with golden grass fronds reflecting the sun and bringing to mind Sting and his Fields of Gold...

Kgalagadi national Park

The only down side was the complete lack of animal sightings. We saw lions twice, but both times they were doing a very good job of pretending to be rocks, and little else stood out above the grass. Could this deter us? Na-ah! A bottle of Tequila became the shot of choice for ever predator spotted, but its amazing what becomes classified as 'predator' after the first few.

"Hey guys I saw a snake! They eat mice right? Well, actually, it was only a mouse. Don't they eat insects or something?... No?.... You sure?.... then it was DEFINITELY a snake I saw. Yup. DRINK!"

A lack of decent tasting drinking water, along with a generally accepted suspension of road rules (aside from the 50kmh limit) contributed to a rather raucous group of passengers, and eventually we felt for the sake of the park rangers and the carefully hidden animals, it was best to head to our next destination. Namibia!

Having used the border post as a spot to turn the car around once, the actual crossing of the border lacked a little oomph, but we all got our stamps, the search of our vehicle completely missed all the cocaine, herion and sawn off shotguns they were sure we were hiding, and eventually we found ourself in Namibia on a road to... nowhere....

Namibia

Blinding heat and a road that stretched endlessly before us was the most significant thing about the majority of the actual journey. Luckily what lay 6 hours ahead of us was a Spa based at Ai Ais Hot Springs, and the gorgeous views of the Fish River Canyon. Second only in size to the Grand Canyon, the Fish River Canyon was a surpising and giddying rift in the flat land we had driven through. Awesome in size and fascinating in its creation and composition, we would have stayed many long hours at the view point, had the wind not been so cold, and the call of the hot springs so loud.

Fish River Canyon

All good things end, and after 12 days of camping and driving through dusty deserts we were a sad group to head home, but grateful that when we got there we could have a hot shower and sleep in a bed that didn't slowly leak air all night.

Next year: Caprivi Strip and Okovango Delta? Or lying on sandy beaches, eating massive lobster and swimming with Dolphins in Mozambique? I love where I live...

Proposal Number 5

Its a little strange to think that after 5 marriage proposals I remain single and unmarried. Because I am. Single and unmarried, that is. Not strange. Well... maybe that too.

I recently ended a relationship, and although there is a large part of me that is sitting curled up in a corner sniveling to myself, there is also a small part of me that is indignant that I have once again ended an engagement and... wait for it... have no ring to show for it!

At the end of the day, what is a good breakup without a little fight about belongings? It gives you something to focus on, really. I mean, you haven't broken up for no reason. Usually its a culmination of all the little arguments, and 'discussions' and tiffs that you have had, but when breaking up its nice to have something new to fight about. And what better than who gets to keep the ring? I mean, THAT argument can keep you full of anger and and in denial about your grief for years.

Alas, so far I have been robbed of that luxury. Five times. By now I should really have a collection of them. To be fair, the first one was a 17 year old boy who thought that because I was the first girl that liked him he should marry me, so the ring would probably have come from a Christmas cracker. That being said, number two was only 20, but he had already designed the house we were going to live in. Still no ring. He proposed to all his girlfiends though, so I imagine that had he bought a ring for all of us he would be eternally broke. I am sure he thought that a house designed 'just' for me was proof enough of commitment. He proposed to a friend of mine a year or two later, and as far as I know he showed her the plans for the house as well.  She got a ring though.

Proposal #3 was a little offhand really. I said yes to this one though, and we had planned to announce it to family and friends after we finished studying. We had a future planned and it involved traveling and he said, "well yes, I think we had better get married, it will make traveling and visas easier." Aren't you just swooning with the romance? No ring, because that would be the same as announcing it...

Proposal #4 was just before I left on travels of my own. I think the reason I didnt get a ring with this one was that I was leaving the country. Letting that R20k investment out of your sight is quite silly, really. Why spend all that money if she stands a chance of being swept off her feet by some half clad Adonis-like Greek on a white sandy beach somewhere? Good thing really, because I didnt make it back to the area for 4 years.

Proposal #5... well. I really should have had a ring for this one. The plan was to get one once I actually arrived in the country (I am still in South Africa and he is across the pond) but since the continental divide proved as large as always expected, I am single and ring-less. We cant even fight about who gets the frying pans, or who the house warming gift was really for, because neither of us is going to send it across the pond anyway. Handing back the others belongings isn't quite the same when its delivered by postman by necessity, rather than as an indication of vitriole and an unwillingness to deign to be in the others presence.  

I am kinda curios to know if there will be a Proposal #6. And if there will be a ring. Let this be a warning to all future prospects... I want a ring. And if you break up with me after I accept it... I am keeping it. Thanks.

Safari Bliss

I will be the first to admit that as a South African I am just a little snobby about this whole idea of 'safaris'. Technically, 'safari' is just a Swahili word for journey. In Kenya one will often say, "Oh I cant wait, I am going safari this weekend" and when asked where to, one would reply "oh to the beach, soak up some sun", for example. For the rest of the world it has come to mean khaki coloured clothing and long hours sitting in the back of a game viewer truck driving past massive quantities of lions and leopards all ready to wow you with their ability to kill, and waiting to pose for your photograph.

The reality is quite different, really. Animals are hard to spot, the rainy season means long grass and low visibility and the dry season is generally at a time of year when people dont like to travel. Going to a game reserve and having high expectations of seeing leopard is somewhat like going fishing and expecting to see a shark. Just because you cant see them doesn't mean they aren't there, they are just hard to spot.

For me, game viewing was always about driving up for the weekend (or long holiday) and spending days with beer in a cooler, driving at super low speeds chilling out in the bush with friends or family, and stopping when you felt like it. I always laughed a little at the tourists piled into their guided trucks stopping to view the abundant impala, and stuck with a schedule not their own.

No more! I have been converted! My company is a tour operator and one of the occasional perks is going to a lodge or on a tour on 'business' to do a site inspection. Which is what a friend and I did this last week. Oh wow, the place was wonderful. Rustic but awesome, we stayed in tree houses! The game drives were not as terrible as I imagined, but rather gave us a wonderful insight into what was going on around us, with guides that keep you informed.

The treehouses were so cool, with separate but private bathrooms on ground level, open air. Showering naked in the bush with monkeys sitting on the branches above you watching with fascination is a rare experience! The first morning we woke up and got out of bed to head down the stairs, only to blearily open my eyes to discover that our little hideaway was surrounded by buffalo! Luckily when we started talking loudly they headed away and I was able to make my way down the stairs, maul free.

That day we spent almost 8 hours in the open  top trucks, and had the most phenomenal luck. A leopard actually just sauntered up to our car! So rare that despite the many reserves I have been to in several countries I have never seen one! And it just wandered up to us to say hi.

One of the highlights of the trip was a game walk. After days of telling you how important it is not to let a hand dangle out of the truck, or step out of the vehicle at any time that isn't prearranged by your guide, they then get you out of the car and walk you off into the bush. Although warned that we were unlikely to see any big game, you cant help but see an elephant in every rock and a hungry lion behind every tree. The idea of the walk, however, is to take in the little stuff, pick up rocks and scare the scorpions, learn about tracks and the animals in the area. The joy of walking through bush that has never been tamed and is home to so much life is just phenomenal.

Lest I gush and suddenly make myself out to have gone soft, I shall end it there. Needless to say, coming home was a little sad, but this country makes me proud to be African. Below are some highlights from my trip. Till next time...

I apologise for Vuvuzelas

I know my wanderings have taken me many a place, and many a city, but my home town is Cape Town, South Africa. When I left the country in 2004 I never thought I would return to stay. I imagined all sorts of places I would live my life, but none of them included moving back to Cape Town.

However,  life being life, and mine in particular having a tendency to spit me out at random locations around the world, I ended up back in the Mother City. The idea was for my long distance relationship to stop being long distance, and for him to move here to this gorgeous city to live with me.

However, South Africa being what it is, and him being the mountain man and small town boy he is, jobs are tough, pay is bad and cities are still noisy.
So..he's back in CO, USA and we are back to limbo.


Isnt it funny though, how often our view of our country can be so dramatically altered by one event? Ok, so here I speak not of the mundane or the average, or of a small passing comment that shifts the universe as a butterfly fluttering its wings in a canyon. The Soccer World Cup is hardly inconspicuous. But it is just one event. And this one event has irrevocably shifted how I see my country.

I admit freely that I was one of the people who saw with dreading heart the unveiling of the decision to host the event here. Along with many of my countrymen, and a large portion of the world, I had images of strikes and transport problems, undeveloped infrastructure, unfinished stadiums. Crime, not so much, but only because unlike the propoganda of the international media I know the violence is generally limited to areas where the people who live there have few other options. Would you walk through the ghetto in your city late at night carrying a camera? Unfortunately, our ghettos are bigger than most countries, so the statistics are scarier.

The way the people of South Africa have risen to the challenge has amazed, delighted and impressed me. The response of visitors and the awe I have seen in their eyes as they walk round my beautiful city, stare at the cultural peculiarities of my countrymen and gape at the mountain range in the middle of our CBD has caused me many a moment of smug pride that I get to live here and they dont.

When it comes to 'feeling it', I have to say that few countries have quite thrown themselves in the way we have. First, we came up with a 'sound', that although it has probably deafened half of South Africa, and will forever outdo the most annoying sound in the world, will forever bring to mind thousands of drunk football supporters straining to outdo the person next them.

Maybe it helps that our flag has so many ridiculous colours? I think the simple fact that we stand out in the crowd by default is helpful to our cause.

All in all, crime rates dropped (even the crooks were watching the games) and our spirit was maintained, most South Africans supporting one team or another after we inevitably didnt make the quarters. Never to be left out, one could even see the occasional tearful South African sobbing into their Netherlands scarf at the final, and watching with grief as our new-found foreign friends flew back to their home countries.

I dont know how to express the patriotic welling of emotion I feel when I see how well we have done. The pure love for the people here that have warmly welcomed the world and blown them away with beauty, culture and variety. We have a long way to go, but dear God, we have come so far.

I have only one apology and that is for the ongoing prevalence of the vuvuzela. Admit it though,  I bet you only hate them so much because you cant blow one yourself...

N.D.A

If you didn’t know, NDA stands for Non-Disclosure Agreement. And mine has come to an end. This warrants a huge big sigh of relief, not so much because I was burning to tell people, but more because I just don’t like having a piece of paper tell me what I can and can’t say.

On the other hand, I can now talk about a truly wonderful meeting I had in Sudan before the end of my employment with that truly awful security company (I never wrote a post specifically about the company but read through July 2008). In fact, it’s the very meeting that spelled out the end of my employment there. Could I talk about it at the time? Ah… no. NDA. Was my boss willing to cite my refusal to be immoral as a reason for firing me? Hell no! So I got a list of absolute bulls**t instead.

For those of you that aren’t aware of the terms of the peace agreement in Sudan, one of the provisos was that the SPLA (Sudanese Peoples Liberation Army, formerly the rebel party- now in power of South Sudan) would receive formal training and become the military arm of the new government, rather than an untrained rowdy homicidal mass. To me this sounds a lot like training a bunch of rebels to kill better, but hey. Who am I to speak, it seems to be working.

With this is mind, one of the services that our security company was offering was Officer and Intelligence Training, which is a large part of why I was running around to VIP’s and being nice. On a fairly boring and uneventful day one of our contacts came to the office and told us that a colleague was interested in training for a large group of soldiers. Excellent! However, the boss was back in England at the time and he asked me to meet with them on his behalf. So I did.

I was invited to one of the nicer ‘hotels’ and I met with a very large and quite frightening man in the main cafeteria. He and his 3 HUGE ‘collegues’ invited me to their room (and when I say ‘invited’ I use the term to mean squashed in on four sides by huge men and spirited away from the public areas in haste). I think it’s quite understandable that I was a little nervous. When we got to the room, the main guy and two men escorted me inside, and the fourth stood guard outside the door. What struck me first about these men is that they looked Arab. In South Sudan the people are mostly African and in North Sudan they are mostly Arabic. It’s not often that the cultural lines mix for the same reason that seldom do you see Palestinian people in Jerusalem. Its considered unwise. I chose not to say anything about it because I needed my fingers for writing, and instead made it quite clear that I was just taking notes on requirements and structure of the training on my boss’s behalf and for the purpose of quoting. They were scarily excited to be meeting with me.

So, we began with the usual. How many people, what level of training are you interested in, do you need any basic equipment (radios, computer training, etc) and little by little I became very suspicious. Firstly they wanted training for 2000 people. Then they needed all equipment and weapons (which I chose not to point out was illegal for us to supply- thought I would leave that one to the boss) and then they started going on about basic training. Now all SPLA have had basic training…. So who the hell were these guys? I thought the best way to ask was to pose a question about uniform. Which colours will the uniforms have to be in? He laughed outrageously and said, “well, anything so long as we can tell the difference between us and the SPLA when we fight them!”

Ahem. *cough*

I was meeting with rebels from Darfur.

Yup, go right ahead and let that sink in for a moment.

Done? Good. Lets move on then. At this point I started trying to wrap up the meeting as quickly as possible. “Is there anything else you can think of right now that you would like me to hand on to my boss? “ He thinks for a second and then he says, “I think what we really need is some support from the UN. That would really get the world on our side. Please can you arrange for us to meet with them?” My jaw dropped and I was speechless for just a moment. As I regained my voice and prepared to speak he said, “oh, and we would really like to get some support from Tony Blair. I know we can’t meet with him, the man is busy, but could you arrange a phone call with him? That would be great.”

I took a sip of water, thanked him so much for coming to meet with me and said that I would pass on all the information to my boss, and he would be in touch soon. I then almost ran from the room, found the nearest bar with lots of people that I knew and downed a few whiskeys.

When my boss returned a week or so later I handed over all the information to him and prepared to have a good laugh and then a serious discussion of how we were going to tell these guys to bugger off without being killed. Instead his face was thoughtful. “Well, if we did the training in Chad then technically we wouldn’t be contravening the laws…”

I told him in no uncertain terms was not I going to be involved in an endevour that would put peace at risk for a country that had enjoyed peace for only 4 years in 40. I was fired the next day.

As far as I know, the man is currently in Chad, but I have no knowledge of his dealing, business or position there. I do wonder if he ever got that call with Tony Blair?

New Year and Resignations

Before you read the following harrowing story of insanity and stupidity, you may want to familiarize yourself with New Year last year.

So, having come full circle, I seemed to think it was a good idea to go back to working for these people. Let’s put it this way… they headhunted me and offered me 30% more (net) than I was earning at the time….

So this time, I was working for their new venture, a restaurant with a private beach. Sounds awesome, doesn’t it? It really is a gorgeous location, but the running of the place leaves much to be desired. I will explain.

The plan for New Year was this:
Exclusive entry, bands and entertainment, with a front row view of the fireworks and use of the private beach…
2 menu options:
Seafood option (3 course meal with deluxe seafood platter – crustaceans etc) R1500
Non-seafood option (3 course meal with no seafood – mostly for our Jewish clientele) R1000
Menu price included a bottle of bubbly, entry and entertainment, but not service.
Deposit must be paid in advance (everyone pays a R500 deposit). Total and tip to be paid on the night. Non-payment by the 24th of December would release the booking and the waiting list would then be contacted.

The restaurant seats 160 comfortably if the weather is horrible, and it being Cape Town you have to expect the worst, so we all agreed to book that many people.

Please see below the disintegration of my plans:

• Before the restaurant even officially opened we were fully booked for New Year. It was crazy. The problem being that all the ‘regulars’ who hadn’t managed to make a booking began to get all indignant that they hadn’t been ‘invited’. Now, our darling boss has never, and I mean never, even heard the word ‘no’. Heaven forbid that we don’t let the poor psychotic entitled horrible bastards in for the night. Next thing I know, I have 200 people booked for the night and nowhere to seat them.
• I chat to the boss, manage to convince her to pay for a Bedouin tent for the evening so that we can cover the deck, and to rent chairs and tables. She agrees, which means that I then had just enough for the people booked.
• Both the boss and the Head Chef (who honestly thinks he is God) decided that now that there was all this extra space, they could overbook again: and added an extra 90 (yes I did say 90, that isn’t a typo) people to the bookings.
• At this point I tell everyone that we are overbooked and that we cannot under any circumstances take any more bookings. 290 people, in a restaurant that seats 160…
• On the 16 December the boss decides that we have too many VIPs on the waiting list and that everyone must pay IN FULL by the 20th December or they lose their bookings. You can’t do that. You can’t just call someone up and say, “Hi, I know we said that you only had to pay R500 but really, we want the whole amount. No, no, not by the 24th. By the end of the week.” That’s not how it works. But that’s what she decided to do.
• At that point we started having REAL problems. I had a list of bookings that had paid a deposit, a list of bookings that hadn’t paid yet (but were also VIPs so I couldn’t hassle them for money before the 24th) and then for fun and games we had the bosses list of people who had now paid the total in full. Since she has never actually worked in a restaurant before it didn’t cross her mind that they might have to pay the service on the total paid in advance (if it isn’t paid when they pay the total, the waiter works all night for no tip. Who is going to tip on a bill they paid a month ago?), so she didn’t charge them service. To make it all really interesting, some of the people on the different lists were seated at the same table.
• On the 30th of December, the boss added another 20 people.
• I managed to call the rental company and they managed to help me out with some extra tables and chairs.
• Finally the night before the event, I sat up until 2am in the morning to write out a manual for the event. I listed every single booking, their menu choice, their seating requirements, allergies and special requests, and table number. I also created table plans (one for the floor staff with numbers of seats, one for the chef with the menu requirements, and one for the manager with the billing requirements).
• I felt I was ready
• On the day of New Years Eve, we started setting up the restaurant. The boss looked at it and decided that she didn’t like how it looked (maybe because we had 130 people more than we could actually accommodate… maybe not).
• I changed and reprinted all the table plans.
• She changed it again.
• I changed and reprinted all the table plans.
• She shouted at me for wasting my time on table plans. Then changed the table layout again.
• In secret I changed and reprinted all the table plans.
• We all agreed that everything was as it should be, most peoples requests had been accommodated, and that nothing was going to move. Mostly because we had decided that to prevent confusion we were going to settle the incredibly complicated food bills as the group sat down so that they could get drunk and just pay for drinks later.
• The Head Chef changed the menu. No kidding. 30 minutes before we opened for New Years EVE, for a fully booked restaurant full of customers who have paid in advance, he changes the menu.
• I went and got dressed up, wiped the fury from my face, convinced myself not to walk out and prepared to stand at the front entrance with the guest list.
• The very first table that walked in took one look at their table, decided it was too tight and demanded that they sit at the next table over. The Head Chef (aka: God) – who had AGREED that we must NOT move anyone, told them, “sure, no problem” and seated their group of 10 on a table set for 16.
• The table of 16 arrived, and had nowhere to sit…. From here on out I am going to just jot down the highlights because I think that you get the picture:
o No one got the table they had requested
o No one got the food they had pre-ordered
o The tables moved around so much that the waiters had no idea who they were serving or what their requests had been
o The billing was a complete disaster because the managers had no idea where the customers were. I was still processing bills at 4am.
• We ended up having approximately 400 people in the place, and maybe 60 happy customers.

I handed in my resignation the next day. I now work for an IT company.

Caviar

I am back! Yup, I know. Faint. If there any of you left to faint, that is….. I bet that one or two of you had me on their ‘following’ list, and for just a moment when my new post popped up you went ” Um… WTF? Oh yeah! THAT chick.”

Moving on. You know, I do keep choosing jobs that engulf my life. Luckily, I also choose jobs that have hilarious moments, or this blog would be something along the lines of ‘today I pushed paper round my desk and one of the guys in the office made a joke’. Unfortunately for you, and fortunately for my sanity, I now have EXACTLY that kind of job. What this means is this:

• I am (for the first time in about 8 years or possibly ever) working a 9-5, Monday to Friday job.
• I have my sanity back and have stopped swearing at random people in the streets.
• I no longer foam at the mouth if anyone asks me a stupid question.
• I have time to spend with my boyfriend, who has finally settled in Cape Town
• I occasionally sleep
• I have time to write blog posts.

In an effort not to bore you to certain death, I shall not discuss the ins and outs of my new wonderfully normal job, but rather I shall reminisce in bits and pieces about my jobs in the last year, and the fun and games they have brought.

And I would like to bring to your attention a story about how NOT to eat caviar. One of the quirks of having a ‘New’ South Africa is that you have a huge percentage of the population who have come into money (whether by restitution, guilt, or sudden employment) who wish to appear wealthy and worldly, but in reality have very little knowledge about how the other half lives. When people suddenly find themselves with enough free cash to afford a nice restaurant, they sometimes find themselves in confounding situations. This was one of those situations.

A table of 4 people came into the very fancy restaurant I worked in for a while. One of them was a newly appointed government minister celebrating with his wife and two friends, very clearly members of the Newly Rich. Naturally, they ordered the most expensive items on the menu, but even the minister balked when told the price of the Beluga caviar ‘on special’ for R5000. Not a problem, his wife simply waited until he had left the table for a moment, and imperiously signaled the waiter to take her order. R5000 Beluga Caviar please.

The restaurant takes pride in how it serves the caviar, because it is presented in such a way that one can either use or ignore all the extra bits that come with it. The caviar itself is served traditionally in the tin it comes in, perched on top of crushed ice, in a martini glass, with a hand carved mother of pearl spoon. A shot of premium vodka, also kept cool in crushed ice, is served on the side. The martini glass itself is served standing on a small plate which carries the standard extras of melba toast, grated egg, etc etc. Its beautiful really. Imagine something like this, but with a martini glass:

Mrs Minister, when presented with this array, and while studiously avoiding her husbands horrified expression, had a clear moment of panic. She gingerly reached for the vodka, and then changed her mind. Then picked up a piece of melba toast and hurriedly put it down. At this point she realised that if one was to appear worldly and wealthy, one must appear to be comfortable with expensive food. With a quick shrug and a sudden set of her lips, she reached confidently for the tin of caviar, grabbed the mother of pearl spoon and simply scooped it all out in one big black eggy glob onto the ice in the martini glass. At this point 3 waiters and I all stopped what we were doing and turned to stare. The restaurant was engulfed by a wave of silence as everyone turned to look at what we were all staring at. Oblivious, she snapped up the vodka in her other hand, dumped it unceremoniously into the martini glass and vigorously stirred it with the aforementioned mother of pearl spoon. I swear the whole world held its breath.

She stopped, looked at what she had created, evicted the brief look of terror from her face, set her shoulders and took a sip.

Have you ever seen a whole room full of disgusted faces? Every one of us had a notion of just how unpleasant that must have been.

I will give her this though: She finished the whole damn thing.

Hard work

Its amazing how little time I spend online, now that I am working my ass off. I am loving my job abd working really hard and spending almost no time online, my friends think I have deserted them, my housemates think I am partying till the early hours, and my blog is looking woefully neglected.

However, I now have internet at home! Finally a first world comfort! Bizzarely, I had better access in Sudan. Crazy though that is.

Now I just need my own laptop/pc. Currently I am on a housemates one, and the keyboard is German, so trying to find the letters is frustrating. This is just a quick note though, to say a couple of things.
1. I DO have every intention of writing a proper post soon
2. I didnt REALLY put the phone down on that woman. I actually managed to control myself enough to say goodbye (sweetly.. you know that voice? The type you use to speak to a person you arent sure will understand you..ever?), and put down the phone (rather firmly I´ll admit) and went and had a cigarrette.

In other news, The Magnificnet Long Distance Boyfriend arrives on 27th June. Go ahead. Count.... yup, thats 38 days from today. I try not to count but I mentioned it at work, and now all the waiters say things like:

God, man, only 38 days till she gets laid. Maybe then she´ll get off our backs.

OR.. the simpler version.

Morning Sarah! 38 days! *wink*

Its getting painful. Anyway, more updates soon. Any person that counts down days to me may be subject to a violent reaction...

I found the new crazies!

You know, I always thought that it was just the nature of the jobs I had that I work so hard and such long hours. I realise now that maybe it why I chose them..
Anywhoo, thats my excuse for no posts in ages. Life has been hectic, settling back into my routine, getting to know my friends again, finding places to live. (I currenlty live with Uncle Nazi. He starts sentences with 'now, you KNOW how tolerant I am.. BUT... and goes on to explain 500 reasons why he isnt. Its a temporary measure. Own place to follow soon)

I do, however, have a new job. Which I absolutely love. I am the Guest Relations and Training Officer for a gorgeous pair of restuarants in Cape Town. Despite the massive dip in restaurant sales, and tourism, our restaurants are booming. We walk around and the restaurants around us have more empty tables than full, and we have a waiting list as long as my arm. Its wonderful.


However, one of my roles is Events Coordinator. This means that every group of over 30 that comes through our door, I have to look after. Everything from set menus to corporate functions, to special dietary requirements, to tables for bodygaurds. Thats me. It can be fun, it can be stressful, and every now and then I have a desire to shoot people in the head. Must be a hangover from Sudan.

To give you an idea of the people I deal with, I shall relate a story. I havent exaggerated in any way. I promise.

A woman I shall call Sue contacted me for an Event. The group is a a bunch (35) of businessmen in the booze industry being entertained by a local brewery.
No problem, we can turn on the style and make it a great corporate event. I send her all our set menus to choose from, as well as a form to fill in for any dietary requirement. I get all the info back except the dietary info. No problem. I hounded her for a few days, and finally, the day before the event, she sent me the form. On it are two Kosher people. *blink*

I called her immediately and asked her how Kosher these two are. "Are they the sort that say steak with creamy muchroom sauce, but hold the bacon... or are they the separately packed, signed and sealed sort?" I asked apprehensively.

"Not sure", says Sue, "I will get back to you."

About two hours later she called me back
"Yup, fully Kosher"

"Um.. Sue, you know we arent a Kosher restaurant, right?" I asked.

"Well, what do you mean?"

(Has the woman never MET a Jewish person??? This is Cape Town for heavans sake!)

"Well, we serve meat and milk, we serve crustaceons, and we serve pork.. ALL of which are completely outlawed for Kosher food," I explain.

"Oh". She sounded dismayed, as if she had had no idea we might not be able to cater. "Well, cant you do something for them, like prepare just a kosher meal for them?"

I stifled a scream of frustration, and managed to explain that no, we cant prepare kosher food, because we dont have a kosher kitchen. This woman knew so little about the requirements of people with special diets, it kinda amazed me she was functioning as a tour leader.

I called around, and managed to find a local Kosher deli that would not only prepare and deliver a sealed Kosher meal, but would also match the food as closely as possible to the set menu planned for the night. It was getting on to 4pm in the afternoon when I called her to tell her that all was confirmed and that I had managed to arrange some Kosher meals for the clients.

"Oh one last thing," she says as I close up the conversation. "I just found out that one of the guys is celebrating his birthday. Can you make a cake for him?"

3 long deep breaths.

'We dont omake cakes here, and thats a large order, cake for 35 people.... but you are welcome to bring one with you."

"No that just wont do. can you outsource one for us?"

*sigh* "yes, Sue, let me see what I can do"

I rushed around, found a bakery that was willing to take the order so late in the day and managed to get in the order just before they closed for business at 5pm. I called Sue back and told her the cake would be ready when they arrived, told her the exorbitant cost, and she just accepted it, then said "Hey, can you ask them to make it Kosher?"

Grinding my teeth together I told her no. I told her that the Kosher people would have to go without cake. Then I told her that I had another call coming through, and to have a nice day, and put down the phone.

I stood in the restaurant for a few minutes, and breathed. Just that. Breathed.

The next day the event group was due to arrive at 6.30pm after a sunset cruise round the bay. No people at 7pm. No one at 8pm.

Finally they arrived at 8.30pm, drunk as lords. No problem, I can handle this. got them all seated, fuond the contact person, aske dher where the Kosher people sitting so I could tell the waiter.

No idea she says. Ask around. I finaly found the names from my list, approached the customers, and endured their drunk and scornful laughter as they cracked up at the very thought that they might require a kosher meal. Apparently, no one at the table had requested Kosher. they had mentioned they were Jewish. Thats about it.

Next I went to the contact person again and asked who the birthday boy was so we could bring the cake out at the appropriate time. "Oh hes not here" she slurred. "dont worry, we will take it with us and have it at the lunch at the brewery tomorrow."

I sighed and walked away, banged my head against the wall a few times, and left. The waiters could handle the rest.

I arrived at work the next day, and at about 12 noon, I recieved a phone call from Sue. I had just finished reading the manager handover report from the night before. 'Group was riotous and had to be repeatedly asked to be quiet, for disturbing other customers. Group was rude to the hostesses, claled them cheap escorts to lure in the rich men. group make a speach mid way through dinner service. Customers asked to be moved away from the group... etc'

"Hi Sarah. Thanks so much for the function. They all had a wonderful time, food was great, very happy customers. Thanks for getting the cake too. By the way, the customers forgot to take it with them. Just deliver it to the brewery for them. they will need it in about an hour. Thanks."

'Uh, Sue, we are a restaurant, we dont do deliveries"

"Oh I am sure you can find a way to have it delivered, cant you?"

"No..... I cant," and put down the phone.

Oh to be paid to be beautiful

This is the night of the 3rd. New years has passed, the madness is over, but half of Johannesburg is still in Cape Town, as are half the celebrities.

I started my evening with a fairly standard section. One table that seats 14 people and two 2 seater tables. This is a pretty good section actually, right up until you realise that at 9pm the 14 seater is leaving, an extra table is being added and 20 people are being seated there.

I try desperately to get the early seating to bugger off, they know they only have a limited amount of time, as they only booked that afternoon. They are still slow to leave. Finally I get them off the table, and the booking arrives. I havent yet got enough glasses on the table, but the manager seats them anyway. They are clearly middle eastern. The host of the table turns to look at me, an expression of obvious disdain on his face.

'This.... (he waves at the table) ... is not good enough. The service is rediculous. The Sheikh is going to be at this table!' He then turns to the trainee (male) that I have shadowing me for the evening, and says to him, 'sort this out'.

Another waitress comes over to me with a look of horror on her face. 'You serving 'The Bastard'? Oh dear. Ok, hun, this is what you do. You smile, accept the crap. I will have a gin and tonic, double, in the back area for you to sip on, and just grin and bear it. He is an absolute C**T but he tips.'

With this information in mind, I sip my G&T and return to the fray. As I am hurriedly placing glasses on the table a dark skinned Arab man arrives with a bevy of beautiful women on his arm. 3 are Russian, 2 local, and as they sit down The Bastard answers the phone.

"Yes, they have arrived..... Yes, I am happy, they are very beautiful... of course, I will let you know if there are any problems..." he says, looking the women over one by one as they sit down and sharing a wink with the man, whom we now know to be the Sheikh.

With this transaction completed, he starts giving me wine orders, which I rush to collect. As I speed back into the restaurant, a man touches my arm, and very politely asks me if I can give him some directions, holding out a piece of paper with a street name on it. I start to explain where it is as rapidly as possible, knowing that The Bastard will be tapping his feet imperiously, but as I look up I realise that the man I am talking to is Richard Branson. Against every anti-celebrity bone in my body, I start to blush. Luckily I am able to keep talking as if nothing has changed, and manage to keep going with the directions. He thanks me, then pauses and asks me the inevitable question.

"So what is an English girl doing working in a restaurant in Cape Town?"

I explain that I am indeed South African, and that I just have a habit of picking up accents where I live, having just returned from the UK. And then apologise and tell him that I am sorry to cut him short, but that I am in the middle of a wine order. He rapidly apologises for keeping me, and I run on to deliver the wine.

As soon as the wine is delivered, I go back to the service area and have another sip on my G&T at which point the other waitress comes in and looks at me, and we both simultaneously have a girly moment including holding each others arms and bouncing up and down squeeling 'Richard Branson was here!' I am not a celebrity follower. I am not even that impressed by famous people, but for some reason Richard Branson tickles the heart of almost any woman. The richest good looking man out there. Its definitely worth noticing...

Anyway, the evening continues much as before, tables get served, my two seater tables keep asking me for gossipy updates on the going ons of The Bastards table, and the Bastard continues to live up to his nick name. I grit my teeth and continue, thinking of the money to get me through.

Finally the end of their meal approaches, the bill is asked for, but as I walk outside with it one of the other members of the party intercepts me, and says he would like to pay the bill himself.

'Has service been added?' he asks me.
'Yes, 10% service sir," I reply. Normally at this point very rich people add on another 5/10%.
'Thats fine', he says, and waits for me to put the black American Express through on the machine. Damn Damn damn fuck and damn. The Bastard #2.

I did, however, see him slip a few R200 notes into the hands of one of the 'ladies' for hire. I think I may be in the wrong industry. All she did was sit there and look sultry.

I can do sultry...