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Samsung Galaxy S4 Unpacked

Mon, 18 Mar 2013 12:00 +0200

With billboards and big screen adverts infiltrating Times Square for days leading up to the much- anticipated Samsung 'Unpacked' event, it's no wonder the launch of the new Samsung Galaxy S4 attracted a huge audience.

The glamorous event began with media and Samsung partners (by the thousands) queuing in a seriously chilly NYC line to enter the venue - the prestigious Radio City Music Hall, and the extravagance of the iconic venue made the walk in six-inch stilettos worth it. Met by a selection of complimentary drinks and '50s-styled promo girls beautifully adorned in elbow-length black gloves, it was clear that this event would be one to remember.

The keynote speech was delivered by host, Will Chase (ex-Broadway actor, and now popular TV icon), and included an impressive musical theatre performance by some A-list faces from the new series, Smash, as well as a familiar face from the '90s, Tia Mowry, star of the series Sister Sister and Tia and Tamera.

With upbeat numbers performed by an entertaining, vivacious female cast on stage, show-stopping features supported by the new handset were elaborated upon by the stars in a role-play, Broadway-style manner.

With cameras clicking away, media jumped at the opportunity to play around with the Galaxy S4 after the show, while the crowds lingered and enjoyed a bit more of the glitz, glamour and fashion before heading home.

Want to find out more about the new Samsung Galaxy S4? Read our review here.

Oppikoppi Style

Thu, 23 Aug 2012 12:00 +0200

COSMO went on a mission to find the most stylish girls at Oppikoppi.

When you're going to a festival, there's one thing you can be absolutely sure of: at some point or another, you're going to look awful. Not oops-my-eyes-are-a-bit-puffy awful, but awful like your own mother wouldn't recognise you in a line-up. Oppikoppi (bless it) is no different. You'll be covered in dirt, your clothes will probably be torn and your hair will be dripping grease – for a fact. That's why it is some kind of a style miracle when anyone manages to look hot while stomping around a dusty camp site for four days.

This year, COSMO hit up Oppikoppi in Northam. It's one of the coolest festivals in the country and consists of three days of non-stop music from some of the best local and (occasionally obscure) international acts. We trawled through the dirt looking for girls who managed to stand out from the 30 000-strong crowd, and here's what we found.

There are only a few people who look good at festivals; Kate Moss circa-Glastonbury - and these girls.

'Smile – You're at Tomorrowland!'

Thu, 02 Aug 2012 12:00 +0200

Two years ago, a friend of mine showed me a YouTube video. Set to the soundtrack of Tim Berg/Avicii's 'Bromance', Swedish House Mafia's 'One' and the Bloody Beetroots' 'Warp', the 'Tomorrowland 2010 after movie' ensured within the first 30 seconds that this sunshiny, crazy, happy festival would go straight to the top of my bucket list.

Fast-forward to 27 July 2012 (through many, many conversations with friends and colleagues, Internet discussions with those who've experienced it, and obsessive watching of YouTube clips), and I was making my way past the Q Dance stage. It was 2pm, the sun was beating down, the gates had just opened, and already there was a sizeable crowd, fists pumping to the sounds of Activator. Not necessarily my cup of commercial tea, the hard trance/dance/dubstyle prevalent on this stage was, in fact, the perfect preparation for the madness that lay beyond.

The scale of this annual event held in the usually sleepy town of Boom, Belgium, is almost indescribable. A quick breakdown: aside from Q Dance, there are 15 other 'stages' (tents/cellars/music areas) at the festival. Fifteen. As in one-five. Which means that, even if you only dedicate 10 minutes to each act or DJ playing over the weekend, there's still no way you'll get to see everyone. The solution is to find your happy place and leave it only when it becomes necessary to buy more beer. Of which you will drink a lot – trust me. It gets hot and thirsty in that madness.

Because my grungy, dirty, rock-'n'-roll, Mercury-Live-on-a-Wednesday-night upbringing limited my exposure to EDM until fairly recently, my happy place was most definitely the ID&T main stage. Even so, in addition to Fiona & Rebecca, Cazzette, Thomas Gold, Alesso, Fatboy Slim, Avicii, EC Twins, Nervo, Hardwell, Martin Solveig, Dimitri Vegas & Like Mike, Skrillex, Swedish House Mafia, Nicky Romero, Afrojack, David Guetta and Steve Aoki (all on the main stage over three nights), I managed to catch Yousef and John Digweed at Carl Cox & Friends, Laidback Luke at Super You&Me, a bit of Pete Tong at Pearl – and whoever was playing at Q Dance every time I walked past on my way to and from the press area. (That's, like, 21 out of 420 acts. I think. Which is, like, 20% of the acts. I think. Maths was never my strong point.)

The real beauty of Tomorrowland is that the music is literally everywhere. It permeates the air, the trees, the lakes, the brain. As the sounds of one stage's bassline start fading away, the beats from a tent next door start kicking in, making every trip to a food court, every beer run and every meander through the grounds a sonic experience in itself. People don't walk at Tomorrowland – they dance their way from place to place, always jamming, always bouncing, always singing, always smiling…

I could go on and on (no, really: ON and ON) about the incredible organisation (more than 180 000 people shuffle through the festival, yet every day by 10am the cleaning crews will have ensured that the grounds are spotless), the attention to detail (several 'refreshment' stations where you can reapply sunblock, hairspray or gel – and have a beautiful guy or girl give you a once-over with deodorant), the mind-boggling production (almost seamless artist turnover, perfectly timed fireworks – day and night – that would put New Year's displays to shame, and regular flower-petal-confetti drops from a helicopter that circles the grounds), the lobster braais/BBQs that I was lucky enough to smash in my face as a press member, the lack of any kind of aggression from anyone in the crowd – even in instances that would normally try an average South African's/my patience (yeah, I'm talking about that chick who was all up in my space and all over my toes during Swedish House Mafia), and the off-the-charts hotness of the people from 50 countries who attend the festival (I literally perved myself into a standstill day after day, and the Kissing Point and Church Of Love were hives of endless activity), but all you actually need to know to have the weekend of your life can be summed up in these 10 commandments:

1. Dance
2. Smile
3. Love
4. Share
5. Appreciate
6. Embrace
7. Jol
8. Jam
9. Party
10. Enjoy!

You really do have to see it to believe it. I know I'll definitely be seeing you on that dance floor in 2013!

Two More Days In Paradise

Tue, 31 Jul 2012 12:00 +0200

COSMO blogger, Yolanda Bilang, lived like a rock star in Mauritius... from beginning to end.

Monday 30 July

Tuesday 31 July

My day started with 'pieds dans l'eau Breakfast', which simply translates to 'feet in water breakfast'… makes sense, right? Well, I thought it did, and waited patiently by the pool at 8.30am, with my feet in the water, only to realise that it meant breakfast on the beach. Of course; I knew that. Sheepishly, I made my way to what was the most gorgeous setting for breakfast I have ever experienced - a beautifully laid out table right at the water's edge.

After breakfast, I was whisked off to the southern tip of the island by my driver who could seriously give Lewis Hamilton a run for his money. I was to spend the day relaxing in the 26 degree 'winter' sun on an exclusive private little island, five minutes off the mainland, called Ile Deux Cocos. It was surrounded by the most breathtakingly clear turquoise waters I have ever seen. It can be rented privately at R25 000 per night for four people sharing. I believe I shall suggest this to my friends back home in Cape Town… Yeah, right!

I happily accepted a welcome cocktail upon arrival, even though it was only 11am. After making myself comfy on a sun lounger, I opted for a shot of litchi rum, which was one of 16 homemade rums they have on offer. The thought of trying all 16 did cross my mind, but I had to remember that I was here on a work trip…

Upon heading out for my own private snorkelling session, I bumped into a group of six very delicious surfers with their wetsuits pulled down, exposing their rock-hard abs. A bit of flirting and a snapshot later, and I had even more of a bounce in my step. Island boys are hot! The hundreds of colourful fish I spotted underwater were something else too. Olympus have sponsored me with their new 'tough' digital camera, which is not only shock-proof (my middle name is klutz), but also waterproof, so I managed to get a few shots of the fish, too (unfortunately, goggles do not make for a sexy look, much as a girl might pose).

All this exercise meant it was time for an al fresco, island-style lunch (and, of course, a few more potent cocktails) before heading back to the Lux Belle Mare resort where I was to accompany the rest of the swimwear crew for our final dinner together. Everyone was bushed; it has been a long, but fabulous week. The rest of the crew have a 4.45am wakeup call tomorrow to get to the airport. I still have another half-day in paradise. I shall certainly be making the most of it, starting with a lie-in and this time, breakfast in bed. Bliss.

Chillin', Island Style

Mon, 30 Jul 2012 12:00 +0200

Intrepid COSMO blogger, Yolanda Bilang, gives us the low-down on hanging in paradise for the weekend.

Friday 27 July

Saturday 28 July

Sunday 29 July

The COSMO swimwear team have been grinding away over the past few days, so we all indulged in a much-needed day of R&R today (some of us needed it more than others due to an impromptu cocktail party down at the beach last night). The genre of choice was some head-bopping, hip-shaking, dub-step pulsating from the speakers and, as the vodka flowed, so did the funny stories, resulting in lots of loud laughter from our little private part of the beach under a star-studded sky.

Call it Murphy's Law, but the next day dawned drizzly, messing with my intention of being a fun, fearless female and testing out the water sports. So, I decided to make today all about indulgence, instead. Knowing that the rest of the team was taking it easy, I decided to treat myself to a bit of a lie in. Now, I know I have mentioned this before, but the beds here are just the business. You could get lost in them for days and, being so big, you could try every possible Karma Sutra move under the sun without even touching the sides. It is a bit of a shame, really to be all on my lonesome (note to self: bring hot, sexy man along next time).
Indulgence number two was the food. If you generally struggle to order off a menu, you'll get totally flustered by all the mouth-wateringly yummy options available here at Lux Belle Mare. And, worst of all, I discovered it's a cruel, cruel world - Kaone, one of our breathtakingly beautiful swimwear models not only manages to eat her own starter, main course and desert, but she has a habit of tasting everybody else's food, too. Somebody please tell me how it is even possible to still look that bloody fabulous in a G-string?! Oh, and she's an awesome person, too. Indulgence number three was an hour long relaxation massage. For this, four words: orgasm on a massage bed… I felt like I was walking on clouds by the end of it.

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>>>Go To 'Two More Days In Paradise'

Magical Mauritius

Fri, 27 Jul 2012 12:00 +0200

COSMO staffer, Yolanda Bilang, blogs about what not to do en route to a tropical paradise.

As people who know me will testify, I have a bad habit of missing flights as a result of unlucky events occurring en route. So, this time round, I wanted to make sure that absolutely nothing would stand in my way of getting to the tropical paradise of Mauritius to join the COSMO team already there for the annual COSMO Swimwear shoot. My itinerary consisted of catching an insanely early 6am flight from Cape Town to Johannesburg and from there, onto the island. And arriving in time for check-in meant a gruelling 3am start.

Upon arrival at the airport parking lot, disaster struck early on as I misjudged the angle of my parking spot completely and proceeded to wedge my car right into a pole, leaving some serious dents and scratches. But, I was on my way to golden beaches, so I didn't let this phase me. It was so early that there was no check-in crew in sight for another hour, so I perched myself on the cold airport floor and waited patiently in the front of the line, like a good little girl.

Once check-in finally opened, my plan to be super-charming worked as I had the clerk giggling away, as I told her about my bad luck of catching flights. She weighed my suitcase, looked at her watch and said that it was all fine and I was good to go. Then disaster struck again. As she opened my passport, she frowned. I had accidentally grabbed an expired passport! My jaw dropped to the ground. There was absolutely nothing I could do but head back home and try to arrange a flight for the next day. I was devastated.

Getting To Mauritius – Take Two

Due to a fabulous colleague, I was booked on a flight for the next day. The time of the flight was 5.45am. This time round, I decided to take a taxi. It was booked for 4am, but I was taking no chances, so changed the time to 3.30am. The driver, however, had his own ideas and decided to show up and rudely wake me from my slumber at 2.55am. I knew this was way too early, but I decided not to risk any possible further hurdles in getting me to my destination. You can imagine my relief when my suitcase was checked in and I was handed my boarding card. I was finally on my way! Wooohoooo!

A Slice Of Heaven

Through the aeroplane windows, I could see beautiful mountain ranges and crystal-blue waters unfolding beneath me, and the island itself is laced with green palm trees and sugar cane plantations. The Lux Belle Mare resort, which is hosting our crew, is named after the pristine golden beach nearby. I was welcomed by warm and friendly staff, and was offered a deliciously chilled welcome cocktail with lemongrass and ginger. I was then shown up to my room. I couldn't believe my eyes: I felt like a princess! Everything is massive - the shower, the bath and most importantly the bed, which could comfortably sleep six.

I have a gorgeous balcony that looks out to the beautiful golden beach and windward palm trees, as well as the biggest crystal clear blue pool I think I have ever seen in my life. This place is breathtaking, and the temperature is perfect. There are three different restaurants to choose from, including the beach restaurant (yes, please). I had an hour to get showered and dressed before finally meeting my crew and some of the models at the main restaurant. I got to the restaurant too early, so decided to enjoy a well-deserved cocktail down at the pool bar. The bartender offered to surprise me with one of his very own special cocktail creations. The mouth-wateringly delicious creation is called 'Secret Angel' – and, man oh man, was it good! I sat back in my comfy bamboo chair, sipping on my ice-cold cocktail with a massive smile on my face. I might have gotten off to a shaky start, but this is going to be a great week.

>>>Go To 'Chillin', Island Style'

In Search Of Nothing at All

Thu, 21 Jun 2012 12:00 +0200

When was the last time you allowed yourself to do nothing? Nada. Zip. Niks. It's an indulgence few of us get to have, but so many of us long for. To sit and merely think. To walk with no intention of actually getting anywhere. To find quiet.

The Cape's West Coast has quiet in abundance. There's sea, there's road that looks less travelled, there's fynbos. And every few kilometres there are little towns offering up weekends of nothing. Which is how I found myself in Paternoster, with its whitewashed homes and sand-sprinkled roads.

What To Do: Walk and Drink
Minutes beyond the town lies the Cape Columbine Nature Reserve (or Tietiesbaai as it's more commonly known), where there is little more than an easy-peasy hike that snakes along the sea line. Then, head back into town to the famous gem of a pub, the 'Panty Bar'. Carefully hidden within the confines of the Paternoster Hotel, underwear hangs from every spot of the roof. Which sounds ickier than it actually is. It's said that the tradition started years ago after a woman was told that 'no one wearing panties is allowed in the men-only bar,' at which point she whipped them off. When there, order beer. Watch sport. Catch a chill. And these days you're not expected to lose your broeks.

Where To Stay: Somewhere Slicker Than Your Own Home
It's always nicer to do nothing when staying at a place that offers everything. The opulent Abalone House Boutique Guesthouse is a must. Here, old envelopes new in a richly-layered haven of luxury. Modern pieces mix easily with oversized antiques, rugs, old silver-and-crystal chandeliers and the dark wood, African-themed bar with its open fireplace forms the perfect space to relax, sip on a whiskey and just be. If you are in Paternoster with a bigger group of friends, definitely look at renting one of the Abalone self-catering cottages, which are smartly decorated and spacious.

What To Eat: As Much Of Everything As Possible
The hotel's Saffron Restaurant is fine dining at its best, and if you have a little extra to spend, chef Darren Stewart's menu will not disappoint. Afternoon tea is an indulgence you can't skip or skimp on. Ask for Darren's chocolate-kissed profiteroles. You'll die. For an easier, feet-in-the-sand, let's-share-a-seafood-platter kind of dinner, head across to the Voorstrandt restaurant situated right on the beach.

What To Take Away: Crawly Things
On every street corner local kids bend and braid shell wire hearts, the perfect R20 gift for a friend. Also, look out for local fisherman selling fresh crayfish. Just make sure they're still alive, and the right size.

Romance In The City

Thu, 26 Apr 2012 12:00 +0200

With petrol prices going up, most people are under even more financial stress than usual. One of the first things to drop from the budget is a romantic evening out. Now, I’m a big believer in quality time for couples, whether it’s in sweat pants at home or out-and-about being fabulous. When Monte Casino invited me to try out their Night Out For Two promotion, I decided to check it out.

The point of this promotion is to allow couples a night out which includes dinner, a movie, casino vouchers and a hotel stay if you’re keen. I don't usually go to Monte Casino, even though it’s only 20 minutes away from my house, but after my experience, that might just change.

My man friend and I checked in to the Sun Square hotel. The rooms are chic, minimalist and very modern - well-suited to a COSMO girl. Then, we headed to a restaurant called Mondo Vino for a tasty, three-course meal. Even though we go out for dinner quite often, there was something about being away from home and knowing that we had the whole night ahead of us that made the experience even better. Unlike some nights, it really felt like a date. We had time to catch up, time to flirt, and time to remember exactly why we fell in love. Dinner ended up taking us almost three hours and a couple of bottles of wine made us less inclined to go watch a movie. It was nice to have the option, though.

The rest of the evening and a huge breakfast the next day were fantastic - it’s amazing what a bit of quality romantic time will do for a couple. The effect of just one night away stayed with us long after we’d gone back to normal life. I would recommend this special to all Jo'burg-based couples. It’s reasonably priced, you’re guaranteed some quality time with your partner and it feels like you’ve really been away. The Night Out For Two specials range from R325 and hotel stays start at R600 per couple. Enjoy!

How Much Longer Can We Be Quiet?

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 12:00 +0200

South Africans seem to have become accustomed to even the most disturbing news stories out there. I haven’t. About a year ago I decided, against the advice of most people around me, to stop reading newspapers and watching the news. I had simply had enough of the horror stories and the fear that they create. While ignorance is never really as blissful as we imagine, that decision worked out well for me. I’m online every day, so there was no way that I would miss out on the huge stories that I needed to know about.

Today, the news of a teenage girl who was gang raped and filmed in Soweto bypassed my invisible wall and found its way into my life. I was shocked, disgusted, saddened and angered. How do things like this keep happening in our country? What is being done? Who are we raising? And can we see that we are failing dismally? I felt sad for the teenage girl involved; I felt anger towards the young men who had decided that their actions were something to be proud of, and I felt great pity but also a bit judgemental towards their parents. Nobody comes out of a situation like this unscathed.

That train of thought led me to a place where I had to question what I, as an individual who claims to know better, am doing to aid the situation. What are my peers doing to help? Yes, we are up in arms online, expressing our sadness, disgust and dismay. And while not everyone can afford to take time out to speak to young people, each one of us has the opportunity to teach young people through our actions.

Today, I hope more of us will give some thought to what we are doing. I also hope that more of us will consider what can be done. Soweto is my home, where I was raised and really where I should be giving back. When girls are attacked like that, not just in Soweto but in every corner of this country, surely I should be doing a bit more than just tweeting and blogging my feelings away? As the aunt of a two-year-old little boy, I could be doing more to ensure that the day never comes when my nephew is one of those boys. Instead, I should be working towards making sure he would be the boy who would stop that madness; who stops the cycle of violence.

Today the story comes from Soweto; next week it will come from Sandton - there is no one in SA who isn’t affected. I’m already fun and fearless, as are most of you reading this. Now, the onus is on us to make sure that the new generation of women have a healthy self-esteem. We need to raise sons who protect and respect women instead of seeing them as one-dimensional sex objects to be used, abused and violated. We can’t just do that from behind our Macs and BlackBerries. What are you willing to do to help the next generation?

Growing Pains

Thu, 12 Apr 2012 12:00 +0200

‘Growing up isn’t for the faint-hearted.’ That’s the message I woke up to the other day, coming from one of my most level-headed friends. After a bit of digging, we started talking about how difficult it can be to adapt to life as an adult. A lot of us had fantasies about what that would be like - freedom, money, parties, love, laughter and no more worrying about school. While the reality has certainly included a lot of the things we dreamt about, there have been a couple of not-so-pleasant surprises.

My friend was saying that there are days when she feels like she’s failing at life, and that feeling can be so overwhelming that sometimes she just feels like giving up. There are all kinds of theories about the crisis that can occur a quarter-way into life and the hurdles that young adults have to face these days. My friend thought that she was the only person experiencing this. With Twitter and Facebook updates constantly reminding us about how fabulous other peoples' lives are it's easy to start believing that you’re the odd one out. The reality, however, is very different.

In the ten years since I left school, the lessons I’ve learnt have been invaluable. I’ve found that there is something very humbling about life. In matric I thought I had everything figured out. I didn’t think anything seemed terribly hard; I just assumed that my life would fit into a certain mould because I said so. After a couple of knocks, bumps, intoxicating highs and memorable moments, I am now a different version of my schoolgirl self. My arrogance has toned down to a tentative confidence because now everything I have and am has been earned by hard work. I no longer feel entitled to all of life’s highs - instead, I am grateful for every high I’ve been granted. That took ten years of living, of laughing and crying, of failing and getting back up on my feet. As is the case for most people.

Everyone has struggles, and no matter how miniscule they seem to you, they are just as valuable and harrowing as yours. So whatever your struggle is today, recognise that it’s simply preparation for who you are going to be. No matter how exhausting and draining an experience is, coming out on the other side is the reward. So when you think you’re too faint-hearted to continue, tap into that fearless part of yourself, and I guarantee that, in a short while, you will look back and think, 'damn I survived that - and am all the more fabulous because of it.'

Tweeting My Life Away

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 12:00 +0200

After almost two years of a love-hate relationship with Twitter, I think it's time to clean up my timeline.

I'm a Twitter girl. Admittedly, less so than before, but I'm still pretty plugged into that matrix. By now, most people have joined Twitter and some have lost interest along the way. Mine has been a love-hate relationship with the platform. I love its ability to erase borders around the world, and deliver news straight from the source before some network edits out the most important parts; I love that I get links to articles that I would otherwise have missed, and I love getting a glimpse into peoples' personalities and lives - it feeds the voyeur in me.

There was a time when my first action of the day was picking up my Blackberry and checking what was happening on Twitter. It was also, generally, the last thing I did at night. One day I was half-heartedly having a conversation with my boyfriend while having another full-blown conversation on Twitter. When he walked out and told me I could come talk to him when I was ready to give him my full attention, I chalked it off to a silly tantrum.

One day, after months of living more on Twitter than in the real world, I felt compelled to take a break. I was about to go on holiday, so the timing seemed perfect. For the first time in a while, I wasn't having multiple conversations in my head, trying to be witty in 140 characters or expressing my full range of emotions in max two lines.

And it's never been the same since. These days, Twitter reminds me of important events like family reunions, and I get much pleasure from seeing the people that genuinely bring me a smile or a LOL moment. They are out there, even though sometimes you have to look for them. But, mostly I see major intellectual masturbation or a large-scale game of my-life-is-better-than-yours.

I've cleaned out my timeline, so I'm hoping that the next time I log on, my mind will be entertained, challenged and amused. Even though I'm no longer much of a contributor to other people's timelines, I hope that this much-needed break will bring me closer to the people who used to be my real-life companions - LOLs and all.

Birthday Fever

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 12:00 +0200

I've always been big on birthdays. Pictures dating back to the eighties show that I loved to be the centre of attention, posing and playing hostess from the tender age of three. Throughout my life, birthdays and any other excuse for a celebration has gotten me excited and eager to throw a party of some kind.

When I turned 26, I got my biggest gift to date: my nephew was born two days after me, and since then my view of birthdays has changed. A week before my birthday, I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do to celebrate. Eventually, after lots of back-and-forth discussions in my head, I settled on a simple dinner with a few friends at a cosy eatery. One of the things I had to consider was my budget because, since 2010, my birthday budget has gone down by about 80%.

This is because, while planning for my do, I was planning little Bo's party at the same time, and I was shocked by the cost of kids' birthdays. After endless internet searches, I decided on a venue and a menu for the party. On the night of my birthday my friends gathered around, sharing laughter, great food and creating new memories. It was a perfectly stress-free night.

When it was time for Bo's party, on the other hand, I was a bundle of nerves. Would everything be perfect? Would he like it? Would he want to play with the other children? After virtually driving myself nuts, the birthday boy arrived, a bit sulky at first, but quickly warming up and becoming eager to party. When the time came for the birthday song to be sung, my anxiety had evaporated. In front of me was a delighted baby boy, eager to blow out his candles (all two of them) and with a smile that would melt even the most jaded heart.

Again, Bo managed to give me the greatest gift ever, happiness and inexplicable love. Even with a lighter wallet and probably another ulcer, I realised that birthdays just get more exciting on my side of town.

The Power Of Female Friendships

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 12:00 +0200

Reality TV, as we've all come to know, is the furthest thing from realistic. One of the popular themes for this type of TV show is female friendships. Shows such as Basketball Wives depict female friendships as vicious, petty, shallow, and filled with drama and screaming matches. In my experience there are relationships like this, but they are definitely not called friendships.

Female friendships, in my opinion, are some of the most underrated relationships in the world. I grew up in a family filled with girls. I have loads of female cousins on both sides of the family, so female friendships have nurtured me since I was born. From there, I've gone to build all kinds of relationships with women, most of them very satisfying and healthy. I also happen to work in an office full of women. Contrary to what reality TV will tell you, this office is filled with loving and supportive relationships, where laughter and sisterly support are the order on any given day.

Recently, two girlfriends and I decided we were in need of a chill-out weekend, so we packed our bags and headed to Cape Town for a bit of bonding. The weekend was filled with long chats, some tears, loads of laughter and the feeling of security that comes from knowing that you are loved and accepted just as you are. These types of friends are also the first people to call you out when you're wrong, and when some of the decisions you're making seem off-key.

I feel very lucky that, in my life, I have a circle of women that surround me and support me. We have our fights but, more than that, we really love each other. Without female friendships I think most of us would need a permanent break from life.

Music in Your Mouth

Thu, 01 Mar 2012 12:00 +0200

At Dukes, cool music and delicious burgers proved to be a match made in heaven.

Every once in a while Jo'burg has an event that appeals to practically everybody, and this week it came in the form of an invitation from Dukes. Now, Dukes is one of the best burger joints in the city, so when they announced that they were launching a range of new burgers I was excited. You see, these weren't just random, run-of-the-mill burgers; these were burgers created by some of SA's coolest rock bands, including Short Straw, Van Coke Kartel, aKing, Jack Parow and Flash Republic.

We headed out to Greenside (where all the hipsters seem to gravitate), and the venue was packed - all rockers, cool kids and media people. After finding a spot to settle in for an evening of happy munching, a drink helped us summon the energy required to taste the entire range of burgers. This wasn't a problem, as I generally consider myself to have a pretty impressive appetite, and I've never been one to shy away from any food (except maybe the occasional vegetable). Plus, I work in an office where food is the subject of many a conversation and Kodak moment.

Each band had put a lot of thought into creating a burger designed to fit the personality of the group, and I was very proud of myself for managing to taste every single one, including a bite of the vegetarian burger. By the time the night was done, my jeans were unbuttoned and all I wanted to was sleep.

So the next time you find yourself jamming to a cool band, why not pop in to Dukes if you can find the flavour that complements the sound? To see what your favourite SA band came up with, check out www.dukesburgers.co.za.

Welcome To Miami

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 12:00 +0200

Deputy editor, Cathy Lund recently jetted off to Miami. Here's her list of not-to-be-missed activities.

1. MAKE LIKE THE KARDASHIAN'S AND TAKE IT
Having travelled a fair amount of the States - especially its main cities like New York, Chicago and LA - I found Miami disappointing. At first. The famed South Beach strip, to me, was no better than Cape Town's own Camps Bay. Only slightly more murky. The people trying to tempt you into their restaurants and bars are overly friendly. The rest? Not even a little bit impressive. But there's no point in skulking about when you've invested in travelling somewhere new, so I decided to 'take' the beachfront, people, mojitos, energy and sites, starting off on day one by doing the next suggestion on my list.

2. RENT A SEGWAY
Stopped laughing yet? Good. Yes, I did rent a Segway. Yes, I did look ridiculous. And yes, people did laugh. And point. And take pictures. But, dammit, it was so much fun. And it really is a fantastic way of seeing the South Beach ocean stretch without having to actually do anything other than lean forward. (I am a self-admitted sloth). There are loads of rental stores and they cost around $25 (around R210) an hour.

3. SING SONGS ABOUT THE CITY. OUT LOUD.
May I suggest 'I'm in Miami, Bitch' by LMFAO, 'Welcome to Miami' by Pitbull or 'Miami' by Will Smith.

4. HAVE YOUR CAMERA READY
Celebs sure do L.O.V.E this city - they come to play, stay and stray in this wicked Florida town. While I was there, rapper Rick Ross was celebrating his birthday at famed-nightclub Amnesia. Diddy (no 'P') was MCing the gig. At $140 entrance (around R1 000), I made the conscious decision that going without food for the remaining three days was not altogether wise or healthy. I regret that decision now. As does my scale.

5. GO TO THE WORLD EROTIC ART MUSEUM
You cannot not. Artworks, both modern and centuries old, beautiful and naughty, make up this incredible showcase. Sculpted penises, phallic adornments, oil paintings of naked women and naked women covered in oil… there's nothing that won't excite. Where: 1205 Washington Avenue, Miami Beach.

6. CHECK OUT THE MANNEQUINS WITH THE BIG BOOBIES
Some of the bikini mannequins look like they have had surgery. They bring their DD game to the shop storefronts. You will cry laughing. PS. The best stores (Zara, MAC, Armani Exchange, Nine West, True Religion, etc) are situated on Collins Avenue in South Beach.

7. VISIT GIANNI VERSACE'S FAMED VILLA
You won't be able to enter the property, but you can take pictures out front. Like a tourist. Which makes sense… seeing as you are one. Standing on the steps out front where the famed designer was shot dead brings a macabre and surreal sentiment to the gorgeous property.

8. CHILL OUT SOMEWHERE COOL
The days can be very hot and even more humid. The best thing to do is stay at a hotel close to or on the beach. We stayed at the über-funky Surfcomber Boutique Hotel right on South Beach. Its pool just about spills out onto the sea sand and they have a funky beach bar set-up, with live DJs playing numerous nights a week. The rooms are incredibly comfortable and come with all the things a girl needs – a properly stocked mini bar, hairdryer and white towelling robes. To book your room, visit www.surfcomber.com.

9. GET INKED
If you were planning on getting tattooed one day and you find yourself in Miami, you really should head to the Love Hate Studio on Washington Avenue, home of the famous Miami Ink artists.

10. STAY UP VERY, VERY LATE
Miami is most famed for its world-class nightclubs and top international DJs that frequently play at them. South Beach is certainly the city's uncontested nocturnal nucleus. Far from outliving its 15 minutes of fame, South Beach still heaves into the night with clubs like Amnesia, Nikki Beach and Space taking centre stage. But know this: cover charge is pricey and the drinks even more so. Save your pennies, girls.

Whitney Houston Remembered

Thu, 16 Feb 2012 12:00 +0200

On Sunday morning, I woke up and reached for my phone, and the first thing I saw were tweets saying 'R.I.P Whitney Houston'. I figured Twitter was at it again, killing off people who were merrily going about their business. But a bit of digging sadly confirmed that it was true - Whitney 'The Voice' Houston had died. I'm generally not a weepy person when it comes to celebrity deaths (I was sad, but didn't cry when MJ passed away) but for some reason, this death actually reduced me to tears.

Whitney was the soundtrack to my childhood, and those of many people born in the '80s. I remember my cousins and I singing along to her songs while holding hair brushes and performing for our parents. Whitney's appeal wasn't just her incredible voice, but the fact that she was beautiful, black and successful was phenomenal. At the time I didn't realise the enormity of this. As young girls, my cousins and I would put yellow jerseys on our heads, pretending that they were our hair because we wanted to be like Betty from the Archie comic book series. Artists like Whitney made us take off those yellow jerseys because, when we were putting on a Whitney concert, we didn't need blonde hair - we already looked the part. She represented a form of beauty that we could relate to; something that validated our own greatness. The same thing can be said for Brenda Fassie and other musical icons that helped shape our young identities.

My love affair with Whitney Houston and her music didn't end there. In my teen years, songs such as 'How Will I Know' held untold meaning, and countless hours were spent singing them while day- dreaming about my crush of the moment. My cousin, Zanele, and I would dedicate afternoons to singing along to Whitney classics, and when the Waiting To Exhale soundtrack came out, more songs were added to our repertoire. In the latter years, Whitney's name was in the headlines for the wrong reasons. People made fun of her drug use, but the legacy she had created was too big to be overshadowed.

So, as I mourn the death of Whitney, I also celebrate the gift that she left behind for many generations to enjoy. Let's sing and dance - life is simply too short not to.

Friendship Is The Best Medicine

Thu, 09 Feb 2012 12:00 +0200

Most people, no matter how old they are, find a person or a group of people with whom they share a special bond. This past week, I found myself appreciating the role that friendships play in our lives.

My nephew just started going to crèche. At first, I was completely against the idea, dreading the thought that his life was going to be structured from here on out. But after a few days he came back rattling off a list of names which, it turns out, belong to his new group of friends. Up until now, we've been his friends. And while I loved that fact, I don't think I'm as interesting to him as I would like to believe.

As my nephew made his little alliances I was reminded that I have some really awesome people who I call friends. Some are family, and others I picked up along the way. My best friend is my ex-boyfriend's sister, and another really close friend is someone I met on Twitter. Another great friend of mine is the person I live with, my boyfriend. All these friendships fit into my life like a puzzle, feeding and nurturing different aspects of my life. Unlike friendships developed on the playground, these are friendships that have seen me through quite a bit, from major heartache to the simple day-to-day madness of living.

When I was having a rather crabby day last week, some of my friends invited me to a braai. After a few hours of laughter, drinks and catching up, my spirits were lifted and I felt like myself again. The next day I was on the phone for hours talking to a friend who was wondering whether or not to sleep with a new man. It was my turn to be her spirit-lifter, and that job is a very honourable one. For someone to trust you when they are at their most vulnerable is a gift that should never be taken for granted.

So while my nephew makes new buddies, I will work on the friendships I have; the ones that remind me of who I really am when I get lost in the daze of life. Here's to friendship - life is so much sweeter because of it.

Oh-So-Heavenly

Thu, 02 Feb 2012 12:00 +0200

Books, like shoes and accessories, have the ability to lift my mood up in an instant. I've been an avid reader for as long as I can remember, and when I was younger, the library was the go-to place for my word addiction. As I get older, I have a host of other sources and that have brought me hours of joy.

When we were invited to the Exclusive Books Summer Sale Media Preview, I forgot any January blues I may have been harbouring and headed out to Melrose Arch to see what was in store for me. Even though I work with words every day, there's still that 'kid in a candy store' feeling that I get when I walk into a room full of books - books I can take home with me to fill my already overflowing bookshelf. Exclusive Books never seems to disappoint when it comes to providing its wide selection which caters to the literary tastes of just about anybody.

This time round I found myself hovering around the kiddies section a bit more. My nephew is almost two, and we've already started our mission turn him into a book-lover. He's been known to attempt to read a book upside down for about two minutes before he reverts to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Since I want him to grow up with an appreciation of the beauty and intrigue of books, I was fascinated to find out just how much this book store does to cater for little people.

I left armed with novels, cook books and a wide range of other goodies. If you're a reader, I suggest you go and spend your hard-earned money at that summer sale which is still on countrywide. Unlike your shoes, which may be outdated by next season, your books will last forever. And your book shelf - and your brain - will thank you.

Think Before You Ink

Mon, 30 Jan 2012 12:00 +0200

Last weekend brought the fourth annual Cape Town Tattoo Convention back to the city. While the word 'convention' usually connotes business suits and PowerPoint presentations, the tattoo convention is slightly different. Instead of walking in to boring businessman talking about 'blah, blah, blah', you walk in to the sound of tattoo needles buzzing. While the idea of having multiple needles piercing your skin might scare some of you off, it needn't.

While tattoos were once considered a social faux pas, limited to drunken sailors and jailbirds, they're now recognised as works of art, which they undoubtedly are. Now, if you're thinking of heading down the tattoo path, make sure you follow the right route… or you might wake up the next morning with inky remorse.

Here, four tips you should keep in mind before you get a tattoo.

1. Never tattoo a trend. You will probably regret that Chinese symbol (no matter how meaningful you think it might be), tribal marking (why would you ever get a tribal tattoo?) or worse, a butterfly. Or a star. Or a dolphin. Just not cool.

2. When you visit a tattoo parlour, make sure you go to a recognised establishment. You might get ink for cheap in a back-alley, but you're likely to be left with potential infection and in the long-term, cheap-looking, faded designs.

3. Before you go to a respected tattoo shop, make sure you have a printout or picture of the tattoo you have in mind with you. It doesn't need to be exact, as the artists will help you rework whatever you're not happy with, but you can't just walk in and say, 'I want a tattoo of a bird on my ankle. How much does it cost?' Just imagine how many people ask a question like this on a daily basis.

4. Before you impulsively pick your artist, make sure they are on the same page as you when it comes to your design. Look at their portfolios and see what kind of work they've done in the past. If the artist's style doesn't suit yours, it's better to find out before the ink is dry.

So, perhaps the best thing to do is to think on it for a year. There's no need to rush. When the next tattoo convention (where you'll be able to pick from a range of local and international artists) comes to town, you'll be super-prepared and ready to hit the chair. No regrets.

For more information about the Cape Town Tattoo Convention, click here.

Who Are You Going To Be In 2012?

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 12:00 +0200

It's a new year. The parties have dwindled, the jeans no longer fit, our bank balances are traumatised and we've all gone back to work. I'm one of those people who never grew out of dreading the first day of school. I've always hyped it up in my head and made it seem like it was a drastic step I was never quite ready to take.

But the onset of 2012 has been a bit different. After a few weeks of lazing in the sun, eating everything in sight and having cocktails for breakfast, I was ready to go back to life. By life, I mean some kind of routine. When D-day came, I didn't moan or cry over the fact that none of my clothes fit, I simply got on with it. This is also one of the few years that I don't have a long list of New Year's resolutions that will be shelved by March, nor do I really have any regrets from the year gone by. None of this is because I had an amazing year with no glitches and tears, mind you; but, there's something about the onset of this year that has me feeling calm, relaxed and pretty sorted – a highly unusual state for me.

While I was happily riding my calm wave, a friend of mine sent me a 30-day self-love challenge. I figured it can't be a bad thing to do, so I set myself up and was ready to do the first exercise which was writing out 20 things about yourself that you're grateful for. At first I figured that would be pretty simple; I mean, how hard can it be to write down 20 things that you quite like about yourself? Four and a half hours later, I finally finished the project. Which got me thinking: if it takes me that amount to time to find 20 things I appreciate about myself, what am I actually doing with myself?

A week into 2012, I've realised that this is the year I would like to be more honest with myself about my needs, wants, dreams and fears. In the Jo'burg COSMO office, we often speak about people living their dream life and how awesome that is. I think, this year, every COSMO girl deserves that. So, as the new year starts I hope you have the strength and the courage to invest in your own truth, the drive to make your dreams a reality, and the inner wisdom to realise that you, too, deserve to live your dream life.

Here's to a fabulous 2012!

The Detox Wrap

Thu, 05 Jan 2012 12:00 +0200

So January's here. How many of us now wish we'd thought of Last-Month-Of-The-Old-Year resolutions on 30 November - like, 'This December, I will limit myself to one mince pie a day and to one glass of bubbly a night'. But would we have stuck to them? Not likely!

All over the world, penitent gluttons are shutting themselves away in darkened rooms as they try to cope with the unique hideousness that is the detox headache. But there's a much more fun (and luxurious) way to kick-start a bright new you for a bright new year. And you don't even have to give up caffeine - in fact, it's an essential part of the Africology Coffee and Mint Body Wrap.

The treatment starts with an exfoliating body scrub, which incorporates marula shells ground to just the right texture. This gets your skin primed for the application of warm coffee-and-minty mud. (Did you ever hear that song 'Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud'? Bet this is what they were singing about.) The scents that escape are yummy and energising. And yet, cocooned in the wrap, with a warm blanket over you and that unique genre of (spa) music wafting from the speakers, you'll probably drift off to sleep while the spearmint and coffee extracts do their thing - stimulate blood flow, lymph drainage and toxin elimination. (It's apparently highly recommended as part of a lymph drainage treatment, and helpful for water retention and cellulite problems.)

Then, if you want to go the whole hog (after pigging out for a month, why stop now?) and you're having the wrap at one of those hushed temples of hedonism like the Mount Nelson's Librisa Spa, where I tried it out, the wrap should be followed with a full body massage. The oils used during my trial were a combination of energising and relaxing lavender and eucalyptus. Blissssss.

To have an Africology Coffee and Mint Body Wrap is the new-year resolution we're making now, in advance, for every January until - well, forever, quite frankly. It definitely helps one get over festive-season overindulgence and to recover from too many late nights. It's excellent for stress-relief too. What are you waiting for? Try it!

For more information or to find venues where the treatment is offered, visit www.africology-sa.com or book online at the Librisa Spa via www.mountnelson.co.za. Alternatively, phone 021 483 1550 and ask for Michelle.

Merriment In Maputo

Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:00 +0200

Fashion and indulgence are two words that I often associate with each other. So it was with great excitement that I headed out to Mozambique, partly as a holiday and partly to check out Mozambique Fashion Week. I headed out of South Africa, feeling exhausted and uninspired. The plan was to get a boost of energy from long lazy days in Maputo and get the creative 'food' that I needed from the clothes.

We stayed at the Maputo Southern Sun, a place that is a small piece of paradise, located right by the beach. Our room overlooked the pool area and the beach. The view alone seemed to take off weeks of stress that was firmly lodged in my body. With a week of sea, food and fashion ahead of me, I couldn't wait to see what Maputo had to offer me this time around.

One of the things I adore about Maputo is the feeling that you can walk to anywhere you really please without having to feel your safety is compromised. One our first day, I felt like being an explorer and not a tourist. Armed with nothing but some money and some sunscreen, I walked around town, visiting downtown spots that were the playground of the locals. Parched, exhausted and eager to switch back into tourist mode, I headed back to our hotel for a cocktail session by the pool and a walk on the beach. After a nap and some 'get beautiful' time, I headed out to Joaquim Chissano Conference Centre to see what Mozambican fashion has to offer.

I walked in with very few expectations. I feel that South Africans are quite spoilt for choice, I knew that if I walked in there expecting what I was used to back home; I would be setting myself up. The venue was well-decorated and the city's socialites were out in great numbers. Unable to understand what most of the people were saying, I found myself a comfortable seat not far from the runway and immersed myself in the designer's offerings for days on end.

Liz Ogumbo and Odile Gertze were some of the stand-out designers, wowing the Mozambican crowds and managing to illicit a positive reaction from a partially jaded Jo'burger. The other designers also put on impressive shows and it was visible that quite a bit of thought had been put into it. So even though Mozambican Fashion Week isn't in the same league as the shows we have here, I loved the passion and interest that was shown. There was a certain charming naivety about the shows; there was still belief in the eyes of the fashionistas and socialites. That energy and enthusiasm made me hanker for days gone by when South African shows still had that. We now have all the class, glamour and world standards but seem to have lost that youthful spark that the Mozambicans still have.

After the shows were the mandatory after-parties. The locals were up for a party even on week nights and I made sure I was part of that scene. We went party hopping for three nights in a row and since Mozambicans know how to party, our evenings often ended after 3am. The combinations of humid summer nights, cocktails and the splendour of being in a foreign country ensured that my enjoyment of the after-parties were as energised and exciting as everything else about my stay.

Between fashion shows and late nights, I spent my days being well taken care of by the staff at the Southern Sun Maputo. My days were made up of lazy long breakfasts, followed by naps and walks on the beach, which were rewarded by seafood dinners. What more could a girl ask for to top off a long year? Mozambique helped me find myself again, I remembered that I was a fun spirit and I plan on taking that Maputo energy into 2012 with me.

*Zama travelled on BA Comair - who operate 10 flights a week between Jo'burg Lanseria and Maputo. For more information, check out www.kulula.com.

Lapping Up The Island Life

Thu, 08 Dec 2011 12:00 +0200

The newly rebranded LUX* Island Resorts in Mauritius, Maldives and Ile de La Réunion offer everything you could possibly want from an island holiday; ice-cream parlours and secrets bars included.

Let’s not beat around the bush; we South Africans have our own share of delectable beaches that offer all the right amounts of sun, sea and sand. We’re not desperately searching for a beach that satisfies us (there’s one on every part of our own coastline, after all). In fact, if you want us to visit your beach resort in another country, it better be damn tempting. Luckily, LUX* Islands Reports are…

LUX* (that’s Latin for light, you know) Island Resorts are newly-revamped, rebranded resorts in Mauritius, Maldives and Ile de La Réunion. And, because I’ll never miss an opportunity to compare other beaches to our own, I visited their resort in Le Morne, Mauritius (spoiler alert: it’s pretty fantastic). It’s five-star, which means it’s got all the luxuries you dream of when planning a beach holiday, complete with indoor and outdoor showers in your room, king-size beds, flat-screen TVs, a private patio and direct access to the sea (which is actually warm enough to swim in – tisk tisk, Cape Town).

But they’re not just clued up on fancy interior décor and amenities. The idea is that the resort will leave you with benefits that will last well after your tan has faded. They say they want you to come back ‘feeling re-energised, reinvigorated, re-inspired and re-ignited,’ all of which sound like good ideas to us. Instead of simply offering another, same-old, 5-star location (one quick trip around Google will show you just how many ‘relaxing, quiet, luxurious, 5-star’ resorts Mauritius already houses - yawn), LUX* offers an experience; an experience they like to call Island Light Holidays.

They want to give you a less complicated holiday experience. Everything you could possibly need or want is at the resort. Constant flow of booze? Done – they’ll even have secret bars that pop up in different locations of the beach, so you never have to walk very far for a cocktail. You want to sleep ‘til noon? No problem; they’ve got specialised ‘Sleep Tight’ beds that you literally have to drag yourself out of. Want to feel like a kid in a sandy, candy shop? Sure thing; check out the ice-cream parlours scattered around. And everything is provided for you by staff that is actually friendly, helpful and knowledgeable.

They take you back to island life as it should be; fresh, simple, spontaneous. The best bit is that they’re not trying to be your average location, mimicking some hotel chain from the West. They’re entirely about real Mauritian, island life, from the music to the food to the parties. But that doesn’t mean you’re not spoilt for choice. In the two days I was there, I snorkelled around the reef, ate lobster on a boat, swam with dolphins, ate lobster on a beach, did yoga in a forest, indulged in their vegetarian cuisine (for those of you who battle to find healthy food on holiday – they have Honestly Healthy menu options that will definitely keep you filled up with ), had a massage in their spa that offers up tailor-made treatments just for you, ate lobster in a restaurant, and partied in their bar (note to self: never drink rum again). Because of time, I missed out on the art classes, dancing lessons, picnics, kite surfing, monopoly (the winnings of which LUX turns into real money to donate to community projects) and much, much more.

If you want to ‘celebrate the energy, colour and tastes of island life’, you could do a lot worse than the LUX* Island Resorts. Yes, it’s even worth pulling yourself off our own beaches for – especially if you like a well-rounded, experience-filled holiday. It’s all turquoise water and white sand and, yes, it’s beautiful. Plus, surprisingly, it’s quite mountainous - which only means you get the perfect combination of sea time and forest time. So, all of your picky friends will be happy. But, really, beware of the rum.

Packages to any of the LUX* Island Resorts can be booked by e-mailing reservations@islandlightholidays.co.za or calling 011 770 7821.

A seven-day package deal that includes direct return flights, return airport/hotel transfers, seven nights’ accommodation, dinner and breakfast daily, goes for around R17 379pps, depending on the time of year.

I'm Getting Tested, Are You?

Thu, 01 Dec 2011 12:00 +0200

It's World Aids Day today and once again HIV is the talk of the town. In my life, HIV isn't just a day of talks and advertising campaigns, it's a reality that I have been faced with since I was about 16. I know that this story isn't unique to me; many people have uncles, fathers, sisters and friends that they've lost to HIV. There are also many of us who have loved ones who are more than just HIV positive, they are living positively with it.

I first had direct contact with Aids when I was in Grade 11. My friend's mother had been sick for a while and when my mom and I went to go see her in hospital, she was a shadow of who she used to be. In between shallow breaths, she told us about her condition and for the first time ever, I realised that HIV and Aids weren't as far away as I would've liked to think.

Since then I've lost about four cousins to the disease. Their condition was shrouded with secrecy and adamant denial about having HIV or Aids. Instead, stories were made up to explain their deteriorating health.

What I know for sure is that some of my cousins would have still been alive if treatment had been sought. If they weren't in denial, they could have helped themselves.

Despite the casualties I've seen, I've also come across some success stories; stories of people that took their health into their own hands and decided to live positively and not give up. I have good friends that have refused to give up on life just because their test results weren't what they were hoping for.

So when the advertising campaigns go live today, I hope that many more of us will be heading out to get tested. Daunting and nerve-wracking as that process may be, I feel that it's one of the conditions that should come with the decision to have sex. No matter what results may lay ahead of each of us, I hope we take responsibility for ourselves and for our health and continue to spread the good word about safe sex and regular testing.

For more information about World Aids Day, click here.

A Shopper's Delight

Thu, 17 Nov 2011 12:00 +0200

There are several combos that have earned their right as crowd pleasers for women. Champagne and a brand new store lined with exquisite clothes is one of those winning combos. We were recently invited to the opening of Zara and, based on the excitement of the fashion team, we knew we were in for a treat.

Sandton has always been the go-to place for fashion-forward stores, so it came as no surprise that this is where the country's first Zara would be located. We arrived in the new wing of the mall and were immediately impressed with the sleek styling and simple, yet classy aesthetic. As if things couldn't get any better, champagne was being served in every corner.

When I first walked into Zara, my first thought was 'There goes my pay cheque.' Even though I'm not the biggest shopper, I knew that this store and I were going to get well acquainted and that my wallet would be badly affected. There isn't a single ugly item of clothing allowed at Zara. Even though some things may not be to your tastes, you'll still be able to see that they are beautifully created pieces of art.

It took about three glasses of champagne to traverse the entire store and see what they had in stock. Shoes, bags, blazers and dresses were calling out my name at every turn, making me wonder if paying rent was actually important – that's how much the store sucks you in.

My only complaint would be that their sizes will only work for women who are a size 36 or smaller and, considering the fact that a lot of women aren't that size, I thought it would have been nice to create a little something for them too.

I left in a daze, armed with a stunning pair of pants that I think I will live in for the rest of my life. Within five days I was back, looking, lusting and cursing myself for not having more money. There was some new stock and women who looked like they'd just walked into a house made of chocolate, full of awe and gleeful delight.

Girls, I think fashion heaven has officially arrived.

Why I'm a Wedding Girl

Thu, 03 Nov 2011 12:00 +0200

I recently went to a friend's wedding where I was reminded why I'm the biggest cheerleader for anything to do with looking pretty - and love.

I'm a sucker for weddings. I care about every little detail, and I don't mind listening to brides-to-be speaking about linen for hours - all of that stuff is right up my alley. So, when there was a wedding pending in my immediate circle, I knew for sure that fun times were ahead.

When people are in relationships they generally chill out a bit more. Maybe it's just us, but over time my man friend and I have often opted for a night in watching Come Dine With Me instead of dressing up and painting the town red. We don't go clubbing, and our dinner parties are generally laid-back, so there's no need for fancy outfits and done-up hair. The same goes for a lot of our friends.

As the build-up to the wedding ensued, all of a sudden outfits were discussed, shirts were bought and hairstylists, booked. I got to see my friends in a different light. I think some of us had forgotten just how beautiful and fun we can actually be.

When the bride walked down the aisle looking radiant and stunning, and the groom stood waiting for her looking handsome and dapper, we felt proud to be witnessing love and beauty blossom for the people we share our lives with.

Instead of jeans and tackies there were tailored suits and pretty dresses; instead of braaied meat and chakalaka there was gourmet food, and instead of doing the same old thing we do regularly, we were celebrating something special. We danced the night away in celebration of our friends, and in celebration of love. It was like seeing a more polished, sophisticated and grown-up version of ourselves.

That's what I love most about weddings: the sense of hope for the future, the air of happiness, and the constant stream of laughter and smiles that are sprinkled around the room - and the feeling that we are all connected and want the best for each other. So, because we sometimes forget, we all need to attend a wedding now and again to remind us that there is a lot more to us than meets the eye.

Naughty Girls' Night

Thu, 27 Oct 2011 12:00 +0200

Last week I had a bachelorette party and a wedding lined up. That means lots of preparations, lots of excitement and loads of fun ahead. Since the boys had already had their share of fun doing whatever it is that men do when left to their own devices (a-hem), we decided that the girls also deserved a bit of a laugh.

Wine, snacks and some girl talk later, the entertainment for the evening arrived. No, it wasn't a man in a leopard print thong (let's be honest, there is nothing is sexy about a stranger thrusting their pelvis into your face). Our entertainment was 'bachelorette festivities', courtesy of one Lola Montez.

After filling out a form with sexual questions and comparing notes there was much laughter all round, as we discovered that some of us (who work for COSMO, naturally) knew quite a bit about sex.

The next round was the bride-to-be doing a striptease-inspired dance routine. With a soundtrack that would have made any strip-club owner proud, she started making her rounds. The initial bout of being shy soon dissolved thanks to wine and the giggles in the room.

That broke the ice for a game of 'never have I ever'. We thought we'd already learnt a lot about each other, but questions that include whether or not you've had threesome took that into a whole new league. Luckily, we'd all loosened up so much that oversharing seemed like the most natural step.

The sex toy demonstration was next. I don't know how many 'OMG's' I counted. Most of the sex toys managed to get some kind of reaction from the women, leaving many promising to go get their fix at Lola Montez. The Roger Rabbit, in all its splendour, was a favourite amongst the girls, making me wonder if boyfriends and husbands will soon be obsolete...

A few more drinks and giggles later, we all went home feeling a bit lighter in our spirits and promising to have many more naughty girls' nights in future.

Corporate Wednesdays

Thu, 20 Oct 2011 12:00 +0200

In the world of fashion there are many categories, but essentially it boils down to two types of people: those who dress up and those who don’t. I fall into the latter category and my colleagues, Norma and Kim, are in exactly the same boat. A normal day at work involves some variation of jeans, a simple top and pumps or flips flops. In our office (it must be said) we are the 'country cousins'. While many of the fabulous women we work alongside with wear stunning heels, dresses and other fashion-forward items, we are the ones who never quite managed to let go of our 'student look'.

Granted, we aren’t terrible - but on the scale of fashion-fabulous, we aren’t fairing very well, either. Which is why we recently came up with the (not very novel, but new for us) idea of dressing for success. Lots of research has been done around the issue of dressing the part, which means that our assumption that our brains were our only ticket to success might have been a bit naïve. Hence the idea of Corporate Wednesdays. Once a week we have to come to work well-styled: no flips-flops, pumps or anything that looks like it could be worn to a flea market or the beach. Initially this idea seemed great, and served as an excuse for us to shop for items that are more trendy than comfy. Each week, the fashion guru of our office, Tamara, judges our outfits and lets us know if we’re winning - or not.

What Corporate Wednesday has done for us is make us fall in love with fashion. It has to be said, there is something about dressing up that makes a girl feel fabulous. We’ve even started strutting lessons, because apparently when you look good there is an accompanying walk. It’s also been fun, more than anything else, to walk in every Wednesday and know that everyone went to a bit of effort. So, COSMO girls, what are your corporate fashion rules? Help us out - we want to work our way up the fashion ladder...

BlackBerry Woes

Thu, 13 Oct 2011 12:00 +0200

Life in the modern world is very different from what it used to be even just a decade ago. Technology has become the friend that's always by our side offering comfort, companionship and excitement. I've never thought of myself as a gadget girl, as my technological needs are very basic: I need to be able to communicate with my friends and family, listen to music, watch TV and have a microwave at my disposal.

So it came as a big surprise that my BlackBerry being out of service would render me emotional. Day one wasn't so bad - a bit irritating, but bearable. I remembered the joys of SMSing again and I moved on with my day. By day two, I woke up wanting to check BBM statuses. When I could see nothing, I felt a mild sense of panic wash over me - what are my friends doing? Am I missing out on any important news? This was obviously crazy because, to date, I have never received any valuable information through BBM's status updates.

The gap showed up again when I was having my morning coffee. All of a sudden, I had no new tweets to scroll through while letting my body fully wake up. What did I do before BlackBerry while drinking my morning coffee? I've been giving it a lot of thought to this, and I still have no answer.

But the worst part of this whole BlackBerry trauma hit me when I was shopping. I have a wedding to attend soon and was on the search for the perfect dress. Usually when I go on this type of mission, I have my BlackBerry close by, ready to take pictures and BBM my friends pictures so that I can get their opinion. My lapse in memory led to me taking pictures that I couldn't send, and a whole lot of uncertainty. The thing with friends helping you shop for a dress is that you have much better odds of finding the right one. I left the shop wondering if my purchase was more freakum than anything else. Without the advice of my sisters, I felt lost.

As yet another day went by without my trusted BlackBerry, I'm happy to note that I felt less panicky and more focused. I had no one to chat to constantly, I'm wasn't checking Twitter and BBM statuses - all of a sudden it started to seem kind of narcissistic and childish. Maybe it's time I go back to my 5110; you know, the one with the colourful faces... How bad can it be, really?

Shoe-d He Stay Or Shoe-d He Go?

Thu, 22 Sep 2011 12:00 +0200

Our obsession with shoes is legendary, albeit inexplicable. But how do you feel about guys and their shoes? We asked our legion of Facebook followers: ‘Do you care what shoes your guy wears? Or could you make out with a man in Crocs?’

I’m a shoe girl. I guess, to some extent, we all are. Of course there are degrees of shoe-craziness: some will budget for shoes ahead of electricity and food. Some of us have even been kicked out of wherever we’re living as a result of splurging on a new pair of Jimmy Choos instead of paying rent.

But when asked about our feelings on guys and their shoes, we’re less certain of where we stand. Facing a dizzying array of Nine West heels, we know exactly how we feel, but in the unknown territory of men’s footwear, we may need some help. And with an army of more than 30 000 ‘likes’ from fun, fearless females, COSMO asked the question on Facebook – and this is what we found…

THE FIRST JUDGE IS THE DEEPEST
First impressions can be the difference between a second date and a cold shoulder. When all we have is the chance to look someone up and down, shoes can be a very useful guide! ‘That’s the first thing I look at when being approached by a guy,’ says Lebohang Mashwabathi, 24, a student from Viljoenskroon.

‘If eyes are the windows to the soul, shoes are the base of the personality,’ agrees Avanthi Avi Moodliar, 22, a postgraduate student from Cape Town. The uber-sexual man in spotless white pointed shoes might just be a player who spends more time than you do getting ready every morning. And it doesn’t stop at aesthetics – the state of the shoes can say a lot about a man, too. A long-haired hottie in sneakers that look like they haven’t been cleaned in decades is possibly the kind of beach bum who will be living with his parents until his late thirties. As Lorene du Plessis, 23, a hotel receptionist intern from Johannesburg says, ‘Guys should be considerate of the shoes they wear, as we women are. A man who looks good will make his partner proud.’ But beware the man who is more fashionable than you are – he may just be more into guys than you are.

And a man in Crocs? The unanimous verdict appears to be that you should run away as fast as your Louboutins can carry you!

WELL-HEELED
But don’t be too quick to turn a man down purely because of his shoes. A man who is confident in what he’s wearing is much more appealing than a man who spends hours agonising over shoes. A man who is well groomed but not obsessively so; a laid-back guy but not a crusty hippie. It’s about how he carries himself – if he feels good, he will look good.

As Vanessa Hammond, 28, an accountant from Johannesburg insists: ‘As long as he’s a good kisser, he can wear anything he wants.’ Linda Greeff, 23, a somatologist from Cape Town tells us that she made it clear to her boyfriend from day one that she despises Crocs. And what did he do? He got himself a pair! Five years later, they’re still together – but she insists she won’t be seen with him if he ever wears them in public.

You may find a man in modest, no-name sneakers who makes you melt with one kiss. You may find your future husband in a pair of flip-flops. And luckily men can be trained - one shopping trip with you might be all it takes. But no-one is budging on the Crocs…

Man Flu

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 12:00 +0200

I've been merrily celebrating the end of winter for the past few weeks. My electric blankets and coats are safely packed away, and are not being missed at all. Little did I know that two weeks into glorious spring, something I associate with winter would make a comeback into my life – man flu.

I woke up yesterday in a great mood and ready to take on the world. Just as I was about to don my workout gear, I heard a groan coming from the bed. My optimism led me to believe that my man friend was merely turning in his sleep, but what followed was a warning that man flu was about to visit my beautiful new home. 'Babe, I'm sick,' was the next sentence I heard, followed by sniffles and more groans. Even though I knew what it was, I asked, 'What's wrong, lover?' sounding as caring and concerned as I could. 'I don't know,' he grumbled.

Every girl who has ever had a boyfriend, brother or father knows about man flu. It's the flu that surpasses every other ailment known to humankind. It's the flu your doctor doesn't know how to deal with. It's the king of all flus, making swine flu look about as intimidating as a kitten. During episodes of this dreadfull illness men are incapable of doing much. Sadly for my boyfriend, man flu happened to kick in on the same day that the domestic helper comes in. It took 15 minutes of patient cajoling on my part to get him out of bed so that I could remove the sheets. The groans were getting louder, and the agony was obviously too much for any human being to bear – how could I not understand?

As I was about to walk out the house, I did the thing that no self-respecting woman should do when her man has man flu: I asked if he needed anything. The list was long…. very long. Twenty minutes later I left the house. The man on my bed still had the sad man-flu-face on, but now he was armed with head phones, medication and clean sheets – plus, a host of other things that his man flu nurse had arranged.

When I got home, he looked better but apparently still had the inability to do very much. He was starving because one of the symptoms of man flu is that grown men forget how to feed themselves, even in a house full of food. The man flu hadn't taken away his desire to know exactly what he wanted to eat, however. After dinner and more nursing, I was exhausted - all I wanted was a hot bath and some sleep. The man, on the other hand, was wide awake and keen to watch the soccer match on telly. Again, man flu: one. Zama: nought.

As we speak, I'm getting the sniffles, so for once I'm going to will my regular girl flu to morph into man flu and see just how much fun one person can have while sick and in bed (alone). While I don't mind taking care of my man friend (because he does the same for me) I want to cure man flu once and for all. It will be my gift to womankind. You can thank me later.

The Reunion

Thu, 08 Sep 2011 12:00 +0200

Last week I woke up in a state of panic. It was two days until my 10-year high school reunion. Ten years? How did I leave school a decade ago? Me of young skin and a (fairly) in shape body? Surely 10-year reunions are for older people who are almost over the hill - and surely I am not that person? I sat in bed wondering what had happened to all the time; the time they told me was mine for the taking on the day of our valedictory - a full decade ago.

My initial reaction was to ask the fashion department to make me look stunning. Let's face it, who wants to see old schoolmates while looking anything less than perfect? After hours of planning and going crazy, I remembered: 10 years ago I was a laidback, easygoing, cool girl who got along with most people in my standard (yes standard, not grade). So why, 10 years later, was I being a neurotic and annoying version of myself?

Sanity prevailed, and I called off the search for the most stunning outfit in the universe. I decided to come as myself, just as I am. No appointments with makeup people and outfits from shops I can't afford. I simply looked through my closet, put something on and went as Zama circa 2011.09.07.

Going back to my old school was very emotional, and seeing the faces that will forever colour my high school days even more so. Lots of hugs, kisses and 'Oh my gosh's' were shared. Finding out two of the naughtiest guys in my class were now teachers is one of the things that warmed my heart - knowing that we'd all come so far, in spite of who we were or weren't back then.

Amongst my classmates were parents, divorcees, newly-engaged couples, housewives and career-women. Everyone had stories to share, and all of us sported a scar or two from the decade gone by. Yet there we were, happy and celebrating. It was as though we made up the world - so many different stories and so many different callings, yet all of us doing our bit to contribute to the world in the best way we know how. I realised that, as much as my old friends and I have changed over the last decade, we were still the same; we had the same feeling of ease around each other, and a bond that comes from having spent years together, sharing experiences that no one else outside the group can really 'get'. We lost two of our soldiers along the way, and that sad reality reminded us just how much life had changed.

Even though I hadn't seen some of those familiar faces in ten years, there was a real feeling of camaraderie about the evening. There was no need for pretences because we all knew each other before we forged our adult lives. There is something about reminiscing about Geography class and detention that quickly brings you back to earth! I left there feeling grateful for how my life has turned out so far, and even more grateful that I'd survived the last decade - with my health and sanity in check.

I look forward to the next 10 years. Here's to the class of De La Salle 2001.

Hello Spring

Wed, 31 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

My favourite season, spring, is knocking on the door. Slowly but surely we've started swapping jerseys and coats for lighter tops and shorter bottoms. I, for one, am eager to say goodbye to winter, so I haven't been holding back. For me, spring not only represents a change in the weather; I've always seen it as a time to start anew in many areas of life.

This year, spring starts on the same day that I move into what I have named 'The Love Shack.' This is a place that has been giving me sleepless nights and many hours spent on Gumtree, ogling what seemed like millions of properties. House-hunting, as I was reminded, is no joke - but ten apartments, three estate agents and a few teary sessions later, I finally found the love shack. While I managed to fight off a few other couples that were also hoping to call this awesome space their home, the process – which happened against a backdrop of a freezing Jozi winter - left me feeling emotionally depleted.

This winter has been emotionally heavy, with too many tears being shed alongside too many glasses of red wine consumed in the name of sadness and stress. I didn't like it, and I don't think anyone else did either. So, when the sun showed the first sign of coming out I was already looking to buy shorts and summer accessories. Joburg weather, erratic as it may be, has been very pleasant over the last few days, and I'm already donning summer dresses, deliberately ignoring the fact that there may still be more than one last cold front to live through.

Now, with my boxes packed and my new love shack waiting patiently for me to make it home, I can't wait to feel cheery and smiley again. So, while we say goodbye to winter, the visitor that just wouldn't leave, I suggest you pack up any old issues that have been lurking - whether it's friends who aren't supportive or boyfriends that need to get the boot, this is the time to clean out your emotional and mental closet.

Here's to a glorious (and happy) spring!

Not So Grown

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

I'm a teenager trapped in a grown person's life. While most of my life is lived on the slow lane of the reasonably fast lane, the rest of my life is stuck somewhere between December 31st 1999 (my matric year) and varsity. Sure, I've been out of school for more than a decade and I've lived practically a whole life since then, but there are days when the weight of adulthood creeps up and leaves me asking, 'When did all this happen to me?'

The latest reason why I started feeling this way is because I have to move house. While this isn't necessarily a bad thing, it means making grown-up decisions and all of that not-so-fun-stuff.

Many moons ago, when I first moved house, I was 17-years-old. My matric results had just come in and, armed with my mother's purse, we went looking for a place. The hardest part of that process was finding a flat close to my university. I didn't worry about how it would be paid, and I didn't know that deposits cost ridiculous amounts of money; I didn't even worry too much about the moving logistics. Eventually I moved to a flat on Jan Smuts, upstairs from an Adult World (charming). But I loved my apartment and all the freedom it represented. Since then, I've moved a few more times, each time becoming more stressful than the one before, the main cause of stress being that, as my age increases, the more the responsibility grows.

Now, at 27, I find myself looking for another place to call home - a place that will both suit me and my boyfriend's very different tastes and somehow fit our budget. Unlike when I was a teenager masquerading as an adult, deposits and moving trucks are now very much an issue. I can no longer be strolling the streets of Melville while my mother handles everything – not so much fun.

So, while my head sometimes goes into teenage-zone, my life no longer affords me that luxury. Somewhere between then and now I've had to get work done, pay bills, paint my nails, make time for my nephew and live through some other slightly more serious episodes. So, instead of getting myself bummed about becoming a 'grown up', my mission for the next few weeks is to remind myself about the awesome parts of being an adult - freedom, sex, earning my own money and having the chance to be writing for COSMO instead of surreptitiously reading it in Geography class. Here's to semi-adulthood.

Fit For a Swan

Fri, 19 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

'Swan Parties' at The Red Carnation Hotel Collection are a feast of luxury, pampering, fun and female bonding. We checked out what Bushman's Kloof has to offer.

I deserve a Golden Globe, at least, for managing to be both coy and contemplative when the opportunity for me to check out the lodge-style Bushman's Kloof reserve in the Cederberg mountains presented itself. Of course, this reserve all but disappeared as we drove into the super luxurious lodge-style resort. On arrival - after a somewhat gruelling 270km drive from Cape Town - I was chosen as the faux bride for the trip so we could all have the real 'Swan Party' experience. A printout of Jarvier Bardem's face completed the charade and we were soon led to lunch where we were presented with a delicious, healthy spread featuring what must be the best guacamole I've ever tasted.

After lunch we were hurried over to the spa where we each received shoulder and neck massages - the kind where you slip into a dreamlike, yet invigorated state - and lounged about in the tranquillity and steam rooms. I enjoyed the steam room so much that my champagne - to my own personal horror - went untouched. High tea was served in the gazebo which has breathtaking, panoramic views across the landscape and where I, for the first time in my life, passed up on cupcakes. Having packed quite lightly (a single overnight bag) I was ill prepared for the Cederberg cold but, thankfully, the staff at 'BK' were. Armed with wool-stuffed, waterproof ponchos we made our way to Kadoro - a restored shepherd's cottage in the reserve - in an open vehicle.

We viewed game such as bontebok and ostrich, while a shirtless guide named Daniel assailed us with his tattooed torso and chocolate tequila. At Kadoro, games were played - including a fun Q&A session where we revealed our naughtiest secrets. There was also a bra hanging from the roof, and anyone who touched it had to have a shot of something. If only they'd known no provocation was needed...

On our last day we woke up early to embark on a guided tour of rock art - a fascinating look at ancient painting and drawings of the Bushmen who once lived in the area. Then breakfast - by far the most ambitious undertaking - was served high up on the mountains overlooking the best of Bushman's Kloof scenery. We had a delightful champagne breakfast where almost everyone (understandably) opted for the Bloody Mary's on offer. After a sumptuous meal of fruits, juices and bacon and egg sandwiches, we went back to our temporary home to prepare for a long (and woeful) drive back to Cape Town. Note to self: when my time comes to take the long march down the aisle, this is the place I will bring my girls to kiss singledom goodbye.

Fasting - Just How Far Would You Go?

Thu, 04 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

I grew up in a Catholic home, so I’m no stranger to fasting and giving things up for an extended period of time. This year, I was supposed to give up coffee. I made a valiant attempt but after about a week and a half, my sanity and job were at stake, and I went back to my dirty old ways.

Since I have Muslim friends, we’ve gotten into discussions about fasting again because it is Ramadan.
Fasting is supposed to take you out of your comfort zone and build discipline and character, but what does failing at it say about you?

Our conversation led to us discussing whether or not we could do celibacy for 30 days. In theory this shouldn’t be very hard. I mean what’s a month? The reality however can be a bit different. Thirty days when you live with someone that you think is super sexy will start to seem like a painfully long time.

That got me thinking, if I couldn’t give up coffee for 40 days, would I be able to make up for it by giving up sex for ten days less? So even though my track record makes me an unlikely candidate for 'most disciplined fasting dreadlocked girl in the world', I’ve decided that there are things that I would be great at giving up. Vegetables for example, I can go without them for days. Sadly that requires no discipline from my part, so it doesn’t count.

The conversation ended with some of us saying we’ll try a 30-day sex fast, others said no they’ll just stick to their dirty habits and be happy.

What can you live without for 30 days? Sex? Chocolate? Shoes? Do share!

What Kind Of Island Holiday Are You On?

Wed, 03 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

1. When you arrive…
a. You're shown a patch of jungle and told to build your own hut using only the available materials.
b. You wait at reception for about half an hour. When someone finally hands you your key, you lug your bags up five flights of stairs because the elevator is broken.
c. You step off a seaplane onto the jetty of a private island, where a smiling woman hands you a cool facecloth and a glass of refreshing homemade lemonade. Your bags are whisked off as you're led to a soft, inviting couch overlooking a pristine palm-fringed beach.

2. In your room, you find…
a. A baby scorpion, a pile of dry palm fronds and a plastic bucket. You'll just have to use your sarong as a bed sheet.
b. Twin beds (you asked for a double) both sagging in the middle. In the avocado green bathroom is a small cake of soap and a thin, scratchy towel. The view is of another apartment block, with a small corner of sea visible on the far right.
c. A king-sized bed with snowy white sheets wafted by air conditioning. There's a plasma TV and minibar fridge hidden in a dark wood cabinet. Your bathroom is set in a private garden, with two showers, a bath and a pile of thick towels. The gels, shampoos and lotions smell deliciously of mint. A sliding door leads onto a secluded patio with two loungers shaded by a flowering tree. Beneath the arch of its branches are a white sand beach and the glittering sea.

3. For dinner tonight it's…
a. A small fish you caught yourself after spending four hours in the blazing sun hunched on a rock with a pointed stick.
b. Beef curry and rice, coleslaw, bread rolls (only slightly stale) and jelly trifle with tinned fruit. For the second time this week.
c. Fresh salmon and tuna sushi and an assortment of incredible Asian cuisine. Yesterday you discovered Turkish food and tomorrow night there'll be all sorts of American specialties. Your only problem is trying not to go back for thirds of dessert each night - but how do you choose between cassis ice cream, hazelnut crème brulee and crepes?

4. On a typical day you'll…
a. Walk a kilometre with your bucket to find fresh drinking water, squabble over who gets to eat the leftover semi-raw fish from last night, then spend a relaxing afternoon combing the lice out of your hair.
b. Elbow your way past 13 000 overweight foreigners to find a spot to spread your towel on the beach. You decide not to swim because you saw something dodgy floating in the water.
c. Wake up to the sound of soft waves breaking on the beach outside your door. Go for a snorkel or a scuba dive on the nearby coral reef. You swam with a whale shark yesterday and today you'll probably see some turtles. Soak up some sunshine on your lounger after a long, leisurely lunch before heading out for sundowners at the beach bar beside the rim-flow pool.

5. Your Facebook status reads…
a. 'Does anyone know what it means when your whole body is covered in red lumps? Should I be worried?'
b. 'Went to another bar last night. Very bored so drank too much tequila. Think I may have snogged the fat guy from the souvenir stand.'
C. 'Went for a surprise outing on a jet ski this afternoon and swam with manta rays!'

RESULTS
Mostly As: You are participating in a reality TV show. Your best option is to get voted off the island as soon as possible.

Mostly Bs: You're at an average island holiday resort. Next time you'll ask the travel agent to be a little more specific about what she means by 'luxury' and 'idyllic'.

All Cs: You're at Diva Resort in the Maldives and you're one very happy holidaymaker indeed.

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Find out more about Diva Resort here.

The Best Way You Can Start The Day In The Maldives

Wed, 03 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

It's another lazy day in the Maldives: outside my room I can hear the soft shushing of tiny waves lapping on the beach, the more distant murmur of larger waves on the lagoon reef and the call of the Maldivian cuckoo, becoming louder and more insistent, just like an alarm clock. The cuckoo is right; it's time for me to get up because I'm off on another early morning dive.

The Maldives is one of the best dive destinations in the world - some would say it's the best of all. At Diva Resort, we're lucky to have a really good scuba operator, Euro Dive. Temptingly, they offer discounted rates if you do more than one dive, so I've signed up for five.

It's a great feeling to be stepping onto a dive boat early in the morning and chugging off over translucent turquoise water to one of the thirty or so dive sites within easy reach of the resort. We can choose between inner reefs, outer reefs, manta cleaning stations, wrecks and thilas. Thilas are like underwater mountains: isolated coral spires in channels rich with plankton, and full of fish feeding on that plankton. All the dive instructors agree thilas are the best dives in the Maldives.

We have our briefing on the roof of the dhoni boat, are assigned our buddy teams (divers always dive in teams of at least two) then go below to don wetsuits, weight belts, BCDs, fins and, finally, masks. One by one we step off the boat and splash heavily into the water. We all give the okay signal and then the downward thumb to start our descent.

Down we sink, in a burble of air bubbles. As we go, I pinch my nostrils shut and blow hard. With a squeak, the painful pressure in my ears releases. We're close to the ocean floor now: the light is dim and blue, the suns rays slant slowly through the sea, the water is cool and heavy. This is a different world.

As we drift along on a gentle current, I float beside a fabulous jungle of coral cliffs, densely inhabited by flitting butterfly fish nosing at soft corals like sunbirds. Burly but beautifully painted parrotfish crunch stone corals like crisps. A Titan triggerfish cruises past at a safe distance as a school of unicorn fish dart around my face, their long horns making them look rather like aquatic Pinocchios.

Each time I venture underwater here, I see something new and astonishing. Like the hawksbill turtle that swam right up to me and looked me over as if to say, 'Funny fish in the neighbourhood these days'. Or the white-tipped reef shark that cruised straight through an enormous cloud of Oriental sweetlips - who didn't mind him at all. The list of fish I've identified is already close to 100 - and I know there are many I've left out.

It's so relaxing down here, so beautiful. I wish I could stay forever. But one hour is all we've got. We ascend slowly and as we near the surface, I can see hundreds of tiny jellyfish, each one different, unique, like snowflakes of the sea.

On the boat, our tanks are lifted off us, we're handed clean white towels, mugs of hot black tea, and fresh fruit kebabs. We climb the stairs to the roof deck and flop down in the sun, tired, happy and excited. Soon it will be time for our second dive of the morning.

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>>>Go To Blog Eight

Find out more about Diva Resort here.

99 Problems

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

From hair wrapping sagas to pop-star identity dramas, the #whitegirlproblems and #blackgirlproblems hashtags make sure we laugh with each other.

Everyone knows that stereotypes are only funny when they're true, which is why the super-popular Twitter hashtags #whitegirlproblems and #blackgirlproblems kept us busy for hours. Correction: keep us busy for hours.

Besides being funny enough to ensure coffee is squirted from our noses at our desks, these hashtags about the menial problems in the lives of white and black girls give us a little insight into how the other half live. White girls get a taste of the beauty, fashion or lifestyle mishaps that black girls face each day, and vice versa. Whether it's dealing with an itchy weave or hoping that no-one notices you're wearing leggings for the fifth day in a row, the truth is that everybody's got problems. Big or small, these hashtags give mostly-hilarious, sometimes-sad voices to all of our daily annoyances. And, maybe, they're not all that different after all. For every #whitegirlproblem, there's a #blackgirlproblem to match it.

Check out our picks of the best below:

White Girl Problems:

@oldkimcole: Why couldn't Queen have We have no anthem. I would sing that! #whitegirlproblems

@MattIsWar: Bad hair day even though I just showered? Wtf? #whitegirlproblems

@Unemployed Actress: I really need to stop drinking skinny vanilla lattes. It's starting to stain my teeth #whitegirlproblems

@beckybship: I keep confusing Demi Lovato for Selena Gomez. #whitegirlproblems

@elaineparmelee: How many days in a row can a girl wear leggings before an intervention must be staged? #whitegirlproblems

@whatachatch: My pencil skirt is restricting my movement. #whitegirlproblems

@caro_clark: Coke Zero on my white pants. #whitegirlproblems

@lizmatthewspr: Worrying about fitting everything (and everyone) in the Range Rover tomorrow #whitegirlproblems

@clairezettle: Knowing all the words to #whitegirlproblems

Black Girl Problems:

@PrettyYoung_Gee: #blackgirlproblems That line that stays on your forehead after you've unwrapped your hair

@alisoncxo: When you're expected to know all of the latest dance moves, and do them well #blackgirlproblems

@CJdrizzzle #blackgirlproblems Not swimming because you don't want to mess up your fresh perm and no, a swim cap is not an option.

@gottahavemyfox: The way I just scratched my head... I won't be getting a perm anytime soon #blackgirlproblems

@McHIGHver: When someone asks you to braid their hair and they're shocked when you tell them you don't know how #blackgirlproblems

@Jay_Doll #BlackGirlProblems Knowing that if you leave your house without any Vaseline, or lip balm or gloss...You're in trouble

@ay0itskeia_ k3i%≤: People are surprised when your favourite music artist isn't someone in Young Money. #blackgirlproblems

@brandeeshiff: I really despise the fact that all my shorts are tight on my ass and extremely loose on my waist. #blackgirlproblems

@de_la_perry: #blackgirlproblems Another year has passed without me being adopted by Angelina Jolie

10 Things I Learned On The COSMO Swimwear Shoot

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

1. Swimwear models really are that thin and gorgeous in real life. But they eat like normal people. Which could make it easy to hate them, but...

2. The models on COSMO shoots aren't stuck up or stupid prima donnas. We shoot with fun, down-to-earth, happy people.

3. It's possible for a pair of earrings that look like they were made out of a cool drink can to cost more than R3 000.

4. A Mr. Price bikini can look as good as an expensive designer bikini and can be a lot easier to figure out how to put on.

5. With reference to point 4., sometimes even fashion director's can't be absolutely certain which way a piece of swimwear is supposed to be worn. It's not uncommon for several people on a shoot to stand around debating this: 'I'm sure it's meant to go on this way...' 'No that's upside down, isn't it?'

6. Prep (yes, the stuff men use for shaving) is the best thing you can pack for an island holiday. It's great for sunburn, stings, rashes, cracked heels... you name it. If you don't have Prep but you have sunburn, you can ask the resort restaurant for some vinegar to put in a hot bath. It'll sting, but it helps.

7. The fashion assistant sometimes has to pin the bikini bottoms up behind because the models are so tiny (seriously!). We actually used nappy pins so there would be no chance of injury.

8. Models who've just come off Sports Illustrated shoots have to be trained not to model so much on a COSMO shoot. We prefer images of women looking natural and behaving the way they normally would, rather than performing weird contortions for the camera.

9. Getting a great shot doesn't look all that complicated, but it's a combination of many factors that all have to be just right: The light, the location, the styling, the hair and makeup, the model, the photographer, the equipment, the direction, the motion, the moment... The main aim is to capture an image that creates a certain mood or feeling.

10. After a hard day shooting in the sun, there's nothing models love more than karaoke. And tequila! And, for the record, photographers are especially terrible at karaoke.

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>>>Go To Blog Seven

Find out more about Diva Resort here.

How Many People Does It Take To Shoot a Bikini?

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 12:00 +0200

Before I came on the COSMO Swimwear shoot at Diva Resort in the Maldives, I had no idea what went on at a fashion shoot or who actually did what. Here's an overview of the crew:

1. Models, obviously (even I knew that). The number of models can vary, but on this swimwear shoot there were five. Grace and Tsanna from Canada, Isabela from Brazil, Justin from Chicago and Candice from Cape Town. All of them absolutely loved the Maldives and got on like old friends. (There's even a bit of a romance developing between Justin and Tsanna!)

2. A project manager. COSMO's Business Development Manager, Leigh Kinross put the whole shoot together, arranging sponsorships, advertisers, the team, transport and the location. Fortunately, she managed to fit in a couple of treatments at the Diva Spa - after all that organising she must have needed a time-out.

3. A fashion director. Our Special Projects Fashion Director, Robynne Kahn, sourced some of the most newsworthy and desirable swimwear of the season. There are at least 10 swimsuits from this shoot I simply have to have - and some of them I can even afford. She'll pair a show stopping one-piece with an enormous chunky necklace or earrings in ways that will make your eyes pop out of your head.

4. A fashion assistant. Junior Fashion Assistant, Andrea Albertyn keeps everything in order, which is no mean feat when you've got 20 assorted boxes full of bikinis, earrings, bangles, shoes, sandals, necklaces, dresses, hats - and you're shooting about 10 outfits at a time. Andrea makes a note of each item photographed, as well as the designer, outlet and price, in a red-and-white polka dot book.

5. Hair and make-up. Huey Tilley has a way of making hair and makeup look effortless and natural all at once, despite being the victim of an ancient curse that causes his essential M.A.C. powder to fall on the floor and shatter within the first few days of shooting.

6. Photographer. Jacques Weyers has the nerve-wracking job of translating a few simple ingredients (model, palm tree, beach) into endless variations that all have that certain something that makes COSMO fashion spreads sensational.

7. Photographer's assistant. Gerrit Olivier has got Jacques' back - quite literally when Jacques is walking backwards through the sea taking photographs. Other duties may include drizzling water from a palm frond onto moonlit models in bikinis. He tries not to make his friends sick with jealousy.

8. Videographer and general prankster. Roland Sweet has about five cameras, two of which are waterproof – which is lucky, because the crew are occasionally tempted to pour ice-cold water over him while he's napping, in revenge for all the tricks he plays.

9. Journalist. (That's me.) My mission is to hang about watching the weird and wonderful goings on and to write about them. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it!

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>>>Go To Blog Six

Find out more about Diva Resort here.

Nothing But Fruit?

Fri, 29 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

Okay girls, I have a confession to make. You see, I arrived at Diva Resort in the Maldives with every intention of getting ready for summer. I'd test out a new bikini, start on my tan and, let's face it, lose a few of those winter-pudding kilos I've been hiding under sweaters for the last few months.

My plan was foolproof: I'd eat nothing but fruit (and, if possible, drink nothing but Brutal Fruit) and I'd spend all my time doing strenuous outdoor activities in my bikini: snorkelling, scuba diving, beach volleyball, waterskiing. In no time at all I'd be lean, brown and almost possibly a COSMOPOLITAN Swimwear model candidate myself.

So you can imagine how my spirits plummeted when Leigh Kinross, COSMO's stylish Business Development Manager, greeted me with the fateful words, 'Oh my goodness, the food here is the best in the world!'

There are six restaurants at Diva Resort, and, besides all being in spectacular settings (think perched over a limpid lagoon full of tropical fish), most of them serve buffet meals.

Now, in my experience, buffets are not normally anything to write home about. They usually involve various brownish fries and stews, stale soggy sandwiches and sad wilting salads. In other words, they're utterly resistible.

The buffets at Diva, however, are unimaginably delectable. The variety, the freshness, the presentation, the sheer yumminess of it all would be enough to defeat the most disciplined of dietarians.

Let's start with breakfast. Please tell me, how was I meant to choose between fresh sliced fruit (papaya, star fruit, dragon fruit, pineapple, kiwis, passion fruit, yellow and pink watermelon), fresh fruit salad, fresh fruit compote (kiwi, strawberry, raspberry, peach) and stewed fruit? Apparently, even my 'fruit-only' diet was completely doomed.

Each morning, I have to walk past chocolate croissants, custard Danishes, dainty little bread rolls, Nutella, omelettes made to order, egg noodles, cold meats, cheeses, even dim sum. In the end, I usually manage to settle for a three-course breakfast of fruit (hey, I'm sticking to my plan, sort of), Bircher Muesli and fresh pancakes with maple syrup and crispy bacon, washed down with two cappuccinos.

Lunches and dinners pose a similar problem. No matter how hard I try, I simply cannot pass up on the Caesar Salad station, the fresh tuna niçoise, the crispy grilled salmon, the fresh smoked salmon, the prawns, the reef fish stir-fry, the chocolate éclairs, the chocolate mousse, and the coconut, coffee, strawberry and pineapple ice creams.

To top it all, some of the restaurants have themed evenings, so you can try out authentic tidbits from all over the world. On Monday, it was Maldivian evening. Tonight, it's Chinese and Japanese. (Did I hear someone say sushi?)

I'd love to know just how the chefs come up with all these incredible recipes and ideas and how they manage to put together such fresh and varied feasts on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere. But, what I really want to know is this: which joker at Diva decided it was a good idea to put an electronic scale in each room?

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>>>Go To Blog Five

Find out more about Diva Resort here.

Swimming With Sharks

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

Yesterday I wrote about the hot fashion trends being worn at Diva Resort in the Maldives, but truth be told, the hottest accessories to wear here are a mask, snorkel and fins.

The Maldives is one of the best places in the world to see underwater life. The tropical coral reefs are swarming with jewel-coloured fish - around 300 species of them - as well as manta rays, stingrays, sea turtles and assorted sharks, including the real star of the show: the whale shark.

For many people, swimming with a whale shark is a lifelong dream. The lucky COSMOPOLITAN Swimwear shoot crew enjoyed an incredible morning's 'work' yesterday out on a whale shark safari.

After breakfast, we boarded a dhoni boat. These are the traditional boats of the Maldives, which have dramatically tall, curved prows. The dhonis at Diva are double-storied so you can climb the stairs to a sundeck. Since the weather was perfect, we lay sprawled on our towels in the sunshine, supposedly looking out for whale sharks.

In fact, we were lounging around having a fat chat when the crew started calling and pointing excitedly. Although whale sharks are quite common around Diva, it's still a special occasion to see them. And we were luckier than we could ever have hoped.

The first whale shark we saw was swimming quite far down below us. We jumped in with our snorkels, but it had soon gone too deep to see clearly. Undeterred, the crew called us aboard and almost immediately found another whale shark. This one was swimming very slowly, only a couple of metres below the surface, and was totally unbothered by all our splashing and squawking.

Whale sharks look cool in pictures, but they are seriously awesome in the flesh. They're the world's largest living fish (hence the name) but are completely harmless. They're also incredibly beautiful, with skins that look like a cross between aboriginal paintings and a starry night sky. In fact, researchers at Diva use software originally developed for star mapping to identify each whale shark's unique patterns. You can upload your photographs to their database and, if they don't have a record of your whale shark, you get to name it.

I'd been swimming along beside our shark for about 10 minutes when it occurred to me that it would be great if someone took a photo. Perhaps we could call this whale shark 'COSMO'! Looking around to see if anyone had a camera, I saw a sea turtle right next to me. It flapped its flippers in the crystal clear water and stared with its head to one side, as if to say, 'Hmm, some odd fish in the neighbourhood these days.'

I was caught in a terrible quandary: should I hang out with the turtle, or keep swimming along with the whale shark? Turtle or whale shark? Whale shark or turtle? These are the truly tough decisions you face in the Maldives. With an apologetic wave to the turtle, I swam off after the whale shark again.

P.S. Unfortunately, the underwater camera's battery was dead, so we never found out if the whale shark had a name or not. But it will always be COSMO to me.

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>>>Go To Blog Four

Find out more about Diva Resort here.

A Little Piece Of Heaven

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

Every once in a while, city life gets overwhelming and the urge to run to some or other bush retreat calls. I was lucky enough recently to get a freebie weekend away - and the date coincided with my man’s birthday. Southern Sun's Sabi River Lifestyle Resort was our destination, and the only thing that stood between us and our holiday was a five hour drive. Armed with a variety of music, some padkos in the form of snacks and the anticipation of wildlife, we set off on what would turn out to be a decadent weekend of relaxation.

The first four hours of the drive were pleasant; all we did was sing, chat, chill and enjoy the views. But once we hit Nelspruit, we got lost during peak-hour traffic – not an ideal scenario. At that moment, my calm demeanour flew out the window and I became a typical, potty-mouthed Jo’burg girl. But a few detours and an hour later, we arrived at a place that I would call a little piece of heaven.

The staff at Sabi River Lifestyle Resort staff welcomed us with drinks and, before even checking in, we were driven down to the river to see some hippos. With glasses of wine in hand, we watched as a few hippos went about their business less than 20 metres away from us. This is the only place in the country where you can get that close to hippos. Instantly the feeling of calm returned. Instead of being stuck in the jungle of Jo’burg traffic, I was in the perfect combo of wild nature and luxury.

After drinks, we went off to dinner and were treated to yummy meals including Sabi trout stuffed with cheese and feta. As a true foodie nothing, not even a five-hour drive and sore feet, can distract me from good food. Stuffed, content and still excited about sundowners with the hippos, we headed to our rooms for a night of well-deserved sleep.

Saturday had a lot of 'firsts' in store for us. Spa treatments were number one on the list because, let’s be honest, what’s a holiday without a bit of pampering? A couple’s massage from the Eden spa took away two months’ worth of stress and tension and added to overall luxuriousness of the resort. After the spa, I decided to stress myself out a bit by going on a microlight flight over Sabi As this plane is about the size of a kite, there was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing about whether or not I wanted to try this out. In the end, I figured trying something new is what COSMO girls do.

As we went down the runway, I said a little prayer and wondered if I’d told my mom I loved her enough. But the second we hit the air, my fear evaporated. I was seeing the world from a different and glorious perspective. We saw hippos and zebras, and the world was so much more incredible from a bit further up that by the time out trip had ended I didn’t want to get off the plane.

Next on the agenda was a game drive in the Kruger National Park. Although most of the animals were playing hide-and-seek that day, there is something very appealing about being out in the wild. The air is different, the energy is different and I felt a deep connection to nature. We drove to a giant rock in the game park where we enjoyed sundowners. I wanted to stay out there for longer, but my fantasy of permanently living on the giant rock was interrupted by a game ranger who was talking about how animals climb up this rock in the dark. That was enough to make this city girl pretty eager to return to the car and the safety of our hotel.

We spent the rest of the weekend taking in the views, taking long walks on the golf course, eating tasty meals and enjoying the place we’ve decided to make a regular holiday spot for us. For other city girls like me who sometimes need a breath of fresh air, a new perspective and some time to bond with nature over cocktails, this is a place worth checking out. Whether with a group of friends or for a relaxed couples get-away, Sabi is an untouched piece of heaven which you'll never want to leave.

Cutting-Edge Summer Trends

Wed, 27 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

Since we arrived at Diva Resort in the Maldives, the COSMOPOLITAN Swimwear Shoot crew has been constantly amazed by the gorgeous, up-to-the-minute fashion being shown off - not by our own models (although Robynne Kahn has selected some truly smoking swimwear), but rather by the guests!

Many of the guests - particularly the Chinese women - look as though they've hired their own professional stylists to put together each day's outfit for them. We all agree these looks will probably only make it to South Africa in the next two years. So, in case you want to get ready for Summer 2013 now, here are five future summer fashion tips.

1. His and hers outfits.
Try not to choke on your cappuccino! Wearing cute matching ensembles is going to be the thing, especially when it comes to swimwear. Right now, in Diva's East restaurant (this resort has six restaurants), I can see two couples flaunting their togetherness. One pair are wearing pale stone tops and his and hers zebra-print shorts - hers are short, his are long. The other pair are wearing matching cartoon dog shirts and Hawaiian print Bermuda swim trunks - his are blue, hers are red. My vote goes to team zebra: the cartoon dogs are a tad scary.

2. Floaty, chiffon florals.
I'm no fashion fundi, but even I can see that the florals on display here are on a different level to the ones we get at home. Wear them either as full-length dresses with silk and button detail or as adorable, but minimalist above-the-knee babydolls.

3. Silk, lace and beadwork parasols.
So maybe this trend isn't practical for everyday use, but it looks sensational strolling down the wooden catwalk, erm, I mean boardwalk, at a resort in the Maldives. Plus, there's no chance of getting hat-hair.

4. Flip-flops with massive fabric flowers.
How these manage to look stylish is beyond me, but they do. I think the trick is to keep the rest of the ensemble as simple as possible and wear the flowers on your feet as your only accessory.

5. The perfect five-star island resort setting to strut your stuff.
These styles simply aren't going to look as incredible in the city as they do posed on white, sandy beaches under softly swaying palm fronds. Once you've got your wardrobe sorted, book at least ten days at a place like Diva to give those outfits the outing they deserve.

How do I know this is a hot trend? Well, put it this way: At a time when most hotels and tourist destinations are struggling, Diva is operating at 100% occupancy. Apparently after I arrived, there literally wasn't a single room left empty...

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>>>Go To Blog Three

Find out more about Diva Resort here.

Arriving In Paradise In Style

Mon, 25 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

I'm sitting in a thatched wooden villa on stilts perched over water so clear, aquamarine and sparkling it could be an enormous ad for swimming pool chemicals. Except that it's completely natural and the Barracudas in this water aren't attached to a pool pump - they're the real deal.

Hairdryers are going as Robynne Kahn, COSMO's fierce special projects fashion director picks accessories for gorgeous, exotic Grace to wear with the insanely hot swimsuit she's modelling. Laid-back hip-hop is pumping from Jacques' iPod. He's the photographer. He's blonde, tattooed and has a tan that testifies to many a shoot in a tropical location. Perhaps the Maldives is just another day at work for him. But for some of us, they're pretty astounding.

I knew this was going to be one fairly awesome trip when I saw the word 'seaplane' on my itinerary. You see, in the Maldives, the islands are sort of incidental. They're really just there to give definition to all the water. The way you get around here is either in boats, or in boats with wings.

When I arrived in Male, touching down on the world's shortest international runway (which covers the entire length of an island), I was taken straight to the seaplane terminal for my flight to five-star luxury resort Diva, where I'd be joining the rest of the COSMOPOLITAN SA Swimwear shoot crew.

It was a little odd to climb off a wooden jetty into a plane that rocked, helped in by crew wearing flip-flops (some of the pilots were strolling around barefoot). As we took off, I gazed out of the window at little islands, apparently completely given over entirely to one resort each, and lots of what looked like the fairy circles in the Namib desert, except that the patterns here are made in water, rather than sand. These, I'm guessing, are atolls.

We landed with a splash beside a strip of white sand fringed with palms. 'Welcome to Paradise,' said a smiling young woman. Yeah, yeah yeah. Everyone calls every tropical island 'paradise'. It's admittedly kinda a hackneyed thing to say. Except, I thought, looking around at the softly shushing sea, the lush foliage and the luxurious, open air lounge, perhaps this time it's true...

>>>Go To Blog Two

Find out more about Diva Resort here.

On Special Days, You Meet Angels

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

Interviews are a normal part of a writer or journalist's life. Sometimes, scheduling them in is automatic; something I've done many times before and will probably do many times again. Recently while scheduling in an interview, I knew that something was going to be different about this story, I just didn't know what.

It took almost three weeks to find the perfect venue and date, and after a while, I stopped thinking about too much. I went on with my life which included the good - phone calls with my nephew, laughter at the office, cuddles with my boyfriend, conversations with friends; and the bad - complaining about money, crying over some drama in my life and dragging myself out of bed on days when I'd rather be sleeping off an emotional hangover. I wasted most of that three-week period feeling sorry for myself, moping and complaining. Eventually, my mother told me to snap out of it. I was trudging my way through murky emotional waters, but now I had a clear view of what was up ahead.

As scheduled, I left my office to meet a woman whose story I will not share here today. She is younger than me, and, having survived the hardest odds, is the beacon of light that many people need in their lives. Despite the fact that many things had gone wrong in her life and she was even at death's door at one point, she was as alive and as optimistic as ever. Unlike me, who had been hiding under blankets while weeping away into yet another box of tissues, she had faced her challenge head on and continued to fight.

When I asked her what kept her going, she said that the gift of life is what made her go on, every single day, determined not to complain. Even though we all have some problems, there's a way of thinking that often eludes us because we are so self-involved. Maybe like me, you need to meet someone who can share their wisdom with you or maybe you just need to get out of your hole and help someone who is less fortunate than you. Either way life is too fabulous for us to be walking around as shadows of the people we are meant to be.

So, as winter slowly turns to spring in the next few weeks, I'm going to clean out the giant closet that is my life and I hope you can do the same too. You deserve it!

Cool Cocktails

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

J&B shared their prize-winning cocktails with us. We think you should give these a try...

Dash Splash (created by Mexico)

35ml J&B
40ml ginger ale
40ml cranberry juice
10ml lime juice
Orange slice to garnish

Method:
Served ice cold, this is a dry, slightly sparkling mix. Build the J&B, cranberry and lime juice in a flute glass. Stir well and top up with the ginger making sure all the ingredients are chilled to perfection. Add a slice of orange for garnish.

Sunset Blaze (created by South Africa)

35ml J&B
15ml crème de frais
15ml lemon juice
75ml orange juice
75ml cranberry juice
Fresh strawberry to garnish

Method:
Blending different juices and a strawberry liquer, this fruity drink shows the versatility of J&B. Add all the ingredients to a cocktail shaker and shake well. Strain into an ice filled highball glass and add a garnish fresh strawberry to serve.

W Redrock (created by Mexico)
35ml J&B
15ml crème de cassis
125ml sprite
Fresh cherries to garnish

Method:
Using the cassis to add a touch of blackcurrant and inject a flavour of dark fruit into the drink, this is a delightfully refreshing and effervescent cocktail. Add all the ingredients one by one to an ice filled tumbler. Stir well as you add each one to make sure the drink is well blended. Drop a cherry on top to serve.

Ellicious (created by South Africa)

35ml J&B
15ml peach schnapps
50ml mango puree
20ml lime juice
75ml pineapple juice
Pineapple leaf to garnish

Method:
Flavours ofmango, pineapple and peach bring a taste of the tropical to this cocktail. Shake all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker and strain into an ice filled highball glass. Add a pineapple leaf to garnish and serve.

Growing Old-ish

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 12:00 +0200

I remember being 12-years-old and being eager to 'grow up'. Everything about being an adult seemed so much more exciting than my pre-pubescent life with my mother as the boss of all my actions. There was something very shiny and glamorous about being a 20-something, driving around town in my own car, deciding when I went to sleep and when I partied 'til the wee hours of the morning. At 12, all of these things were pure fantasy, pieced together by TV shows, MTV (when they still played music) and stories I'd heard my older cousins tell. I couldn't wait for freedom; in fact I could almost taste it.

Then came the teenage years, those years when I thought I was incredibly cool and resented my mother's presence in my life more than ever. My body was changing, making me think I was all grown up (when the reality is that C-cup breasts don't make a 16-year-old anywhere near an adult). I would seek my freedom in many a shady way – making plans to sneak out, making my dad wait for me even though I promised I'd be done at the movies by 10pm, etc. Those were some of my most fun days, but not always my best. Luckily, back then the consequences weren't drastic - at best, I would be grounded.

Then, I kind of grew up. I got my matric results and off I went apartment-hunting with my mother. Finally the freedom I craved was all mine. I would spend money on going out, live on noodles for a week, party until dawn and still have the luxury of someone else paying my bills. This was by far my favourite 'grown-up' phase.

Now, I'm 27 with a real job, real responsibilities and my propensity to stay up later than 2am no longer appeals to me with as much excitement. While I still know how to party, no matter how many boot camp sessions I go to, my body (and luckily my mind) is no longer 16. Sure I have moments of madness where I feel young and free but these days the consequences (including massive hangovers that take three days to shake off) stay with me that much longer. So, for the umpteenth time in my life, I feel like I'm at a weird middle ground - not quite old, but not quite as young at heart as I used to be. I now crave the security of a cute little apartment with a man who strokes my hair as he reads a book. I now prefer not to eat noodles for a week, but rather a cooked meal with the odd takeaway treat. My mother is now one of my best friends and confidante. I can't believe I went through so many years trying to ignore her.

So while I try clean up my life, dusting off some cobwebs left from more wreckless days, I wonder - does this make me old? Perhaps not, but older - definitely.

Karaoke For Two

Wed, 29 Jun 2011 12:00 +0200

I'm a singer. I do it a lot, everywhere without any real shame or feelings of being self-conscious. I often stand by the mirror and sing while holding my boyfriend's microphone and I sometimes sing on table tops on karaoke nights. The slight difference between me and some of those Idol wooden mic contestants is that I'm under no delusions about the state of my voice. It's bad, really bad, in fact. But, I feel I make up for this with nicely waxed eyebrows.

These days I've been singing more. My nephew, who was once a teeny tiny little man that would sleep on my bosom, is now a toddler. He's not one of those sweet, even-tempered toddlers that quietly play with their toys. He is the run-around-throw-stuff-pull-stuff-stick-fingers-in-electric-sockets-and-pull-the-dog's-tail kind of toddler. This not-so-little bundle of joy is still my favourite person and the more he learns to do stuff, the more in love I fall.

After spending a couple of hours mourning the fact that never again would he be three-months old, I decided that I would have to learn how to play. Failure to do this could lead to a strained relationship and I am not willing to take that risk.

At 27, I think I play quite often. I have friends; we have play dates where we dance, play board games and do other fun things. This and my own childhood have done nothing to prepare me for how to play with my nephew. After some training from my sister, I have learnt a few things: how to kick a ball (not too hard, he's still technically a baby), how to decipher what 'aaai eeei you' means (translated: 'I see you') and how to sing the 'Baby Shark' song.

Discovering the 'Baby Shark' with my nephew has been one of our defining moments, excluding his birth and me permanently putting his name on my body. He loves to hear me sing and I love singing it to him - do things get any better? It also gives me a break from other things he wants to do. Hours can go by and this gem of a song doesn't get tired. When he wants me to sing it he mumbles 'doo doo doo doo' and then I take centre stage and grace him with my rendition of it.

So even though I will not be making a fool of myself on national television, I have a place, a very special place, where my voice and my superb performance of 'Baby Shark' are really appreciated.

Hardcover High

Tue, 21 Jun 2011 12:00 +0200

There are weekdays that represent gloom and doom more than others. Monday is notorious for being that day and no matter how early I wake up or how challenging boot camp is on that day, I always feel a bit weighed down by the prospect of a Monday. For some, a silver lining to beat the post-weekend blues lies in being sent home early or getting to work and finding out that there's no electricity. Recently, my Monday had a silver lining of the best kind – a literary lining.

I arrived at the office to the news that the Exclusive Books Winter Sale was around the corner. Now every reader knows the joys that lie between the aisles of this shop. There are rows and rows of adventures waiting to be discovered, recipes waiting to be cooked, children's books waiting to be read to nephews and a host of other goodies that will make your brain sharper and your bookshelf more impressive. When I heard the book sale was being launched and some books were patiently waiting to be read, I rushed out, knowing there was a book out there that desperately wanted me to write my name on it. It so happens that the date the awaiting book wanted scribbled on its first page was this previous, oh-so-gloomy Monday.

The venue for the launch of the event that's on every avid reader's calendar was La Cucina di Ciro – a cosy Italian restaurant in Parktown North. The setting couldn't have been more perfect. This is the kind of place where I want to bring my book on a weekend and have a long, decadent lunch while I read. Wine, canapés and thousands of books made me forget two things: 1. That it's a Monday and 2. The fact that it's the week before pay day and my bank account is in a tragic state.

I know many girls that get this feeling when they're at a shoe shop (I'm one of them), but the feeling of intoxication (No, I didn't drink the wine) that swept over me for the hour or so that I was going through the books, judging their covers, reading the summaries and secretly smelling the pages is the best high I've had in a while.

So if you're anything like me or if you're one of those people that has a sorry looking bookshelf, do yourself a favour and head to Exclusive Books. The Winter Sale starts on the 30 June and will go on for about three weeks. If you don't get there soon, you may find that other Fanatics and I have taken all the happiness off the shelves. Here's to books and the many adventures that lie ahead – on our couches, on our beds and everywhere else where we can get lost in words.

Older Girls' Night Out

Thu, 09 Jun 2011 12:00 +0200

Friday signals the beginning of the weekend for all of us. For some, this means drinks and a night of clubbing, but for me it usually means a night in with a great meal and some downtime. This past Friday it was a friend’s birthday, and I felt obliged to show up. Not being one who deviates from her normal routine too much, I told myself that showing my face for an hour would be enough. Armed with intentions of an early night and a to-do for Saturday morning, I headed to Melrose Arch. But, there’s something about a room full of people whose company you enjoy that makes an hour fly by. One of my friends said ‘Zam, if you have one glass of wine you won’t leave this place in an hour.’ After giving her the side-eye and gulping down some chardonnay, the journey to a night of alcohol- induced merriment began.

Somewhere between the third glass of wine and a trip to the girls’ bathroom, someone silly ordered tequila. Luckily I have the sense not to drink this vile stuff, but that common sense doesn’t extend to turning down blow jobs – that being the shooter, of course. I recall making a phone call to my boyfriend, telling him I would be home soon – 'soon' being a relative term because then the birthday boy decided that clubbing was in order and while I would normally say no, something (the wine and the drinks with rude names?) made me say yes. This was despite the fact that I was wearing hardly any makeup and Ugg boots. Normally, going out like this would really bug me, but this night, nothing could stop my fun.

My next memory is of waking up in the morning, feeling like I’d been run over by a steam train. Luckily, the next memory made me burst out laughing, numbing my hangover pain, even just for a few seconds. Some of the flash-backs I had included kissing my friend Nick’s belly button (who knows why), giving the birthday boy a lap dance (in my weak defence, we all did), dancing like maniacs with my friends and kicking some people off their VIP table. It was the most fun I’d had in a long time. And the fact that it was impromptu made it even more special.

What I failed to notice while I was at the club was that my friends and I were the 'old ladies'; the ones who are under-dressed and don't care what people think. I remember judging those women some years ago - not understanding why they were in the club in sneakers, tattered jeans and no make-up while I was in heels, a freakum dress and a fully painted face. That boozy Friday night taught me that as you grow older you change. Now, I was on the other side of the spectrum. I was under-dressed because the night wasn’t planned, and part of the reason I was having so much fun was because I was no longer nearly as self-conscious as I used to be. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a closet full of freakum dresses, I just know that they have no connection whatsoever to the amount of fun an evening might hold.

A Fight With Winter

Thu, 02 Jun 2011 12:00 +0200

I don't know about you guys, but every year I go through cycles that have become quite boring. Every winter I get depressed and morph into a bear - the desire to do my hair disappears, I seem to lose my waxing lady's number and a razor is something I don't see unless the temperature is over 23 degrees. Gross as this is, it's what I've come to recognise as my winter personality. Winter also means weight gain, moaning about weight gain, and plotting how I will be svelte by spring. So, this year I decided to take on a new cycle, one that I hope will be less hairy and depressing than my usual one.

Step one: honouring my eyebrow and hair appointments. Step two: signing up for boot camp. I've done this before and loved the results. I also loved meeting exercise buddies and the feeling that only an endorphin rush can give you. Previously, camp was done in summer so it wasn't that hard. I'd also signed up for an evening class, so all I had to do was pack my gym gear into my car and I'd zip there after work.

This time around, I've signed up for morning classes. Yes, I know: talk about self-sabotage. Since I have a date with Oprah at 5.30pm, going to camp after work is no longer feasible, but the problem with mornings is that a) I'm not a morning person, b) it is dark at 6am c) it's freezing at 6am d) my bed is really warm and comfortable. Hauling my unfit self to camp this week is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

Once I arrive at camp, I'm met with other women in layers of clothing looking about as miserable as I do. Knowing that I'm not alone in this struggle makes me feel better. This feeling lasts all of five minutes until we're made to run around the field for a warm-up. I run, but generally to the shops and my car and to the couch with my gin and dry lemon. This type of running doesn't affect a chest that has smoked too many cigarettes and a body that has done no exercise since December. Spluttering and breathing heavily, I manage to get through the hour-long session. I even manage to do the same the next day and the day after that.

Now, four days into boot camp I feel good. My thighs are sore, as are the backs of my arms, but I feel like I've achieved something. I've kept a promise to myself, and that's the best feeling of all. If I can conquer the monster that is morning boot camp and also manage not to become a bear this winter, I will have won a major personal battle. So here's to kicking the cold in the butt and coming out preened and toned by the time the summer sun makes a comeback.

Date Night For One

Thu, 26 May 2011 12:00 +0200

I'm a relationship girl. In fact, my sister claims that some people are born to be girlfriends or wives and I am apparently of that breed. I've been dating since I was 13, and it seems that after 14 years of fun, lessons, smiles and tears, I'm now a bona fide 'girlfriend.'

This past weekend my boyfriend went off to Mozambique. While one part of me was, like, 'I don't want you to go, boo-hoo' another part of me was more, 'Woo-hoo, I've got a date with myself!' If anyone had tried to tell me that you could go on a date with yourself a few years ago, I would have scoffed. But now, a little older and wiser (and knowing the levels of annoyance soccer and X-Box can bring into one's life), I was ecstatic.

I spent Friday afternoon fantasising about what I was going to wear (pyjama pants and a T-shirt), what I was going to eat (carbonara pasta with extra chilli and a stiff gin) and what I was going to do (watch reality TV, read and paint my nails). Now this is all stuff I do regularly but, to do it alone, with no one else there watching, made it all the more wonderful.

As I shovelled down a third helping of pasta while watching Basketball Wives, I realised what it is about solo date night that is so appealing. When you're single and eating toasted cheese sandwiches alone in your PJs almost every night, the idea of going out with a guy is exciting. There's all the dressing up to do, followed by flirting and maybe even a delicious goodnight kiss at the end. When you're living with your boyfriend, all you want is a pyjama night by yourself. It's all about wanting what you don't have.

But, after two days of date night became date weekend, the thrill started to subside. I'd changed my nail polish twice, gone out with my girlfriends and watched endless episodes of Kim and Kourtney Take New York. When my boyfriend finally came home, I was very happy to have another type of date night. While still in my pyjamas, I was now sitting with my best friend and lover, hearing all about his adventures and telling him about mine. Maybe not as exciting as a first date, and not as self-indulgent as date night alone, but better than both put together.

When In Cannes

Thu, 19 May 2011 12:00 +0200

When we were told we’d be jetting off to Cannes to cover the 64th Annual Cannes Film Festival, we couldn’t possibly have been more excited.

Get your hands on the August issue of COSMOPOLITAN and find out what went down on the red carpet, who we met (and drooled over) and what to expect if you decide to plan a trip to the French Riviera. Trust us, it’s worth a visit. Just take a look at these snaps…

*A big thank you must go out to Glacéau Vitamin Water who sponsored us on this trip. You truly showed us a wonderful time!*

The Road Less Travelled

Wed, 04 May 2011 12:00 +0200

This past weekend could have gone one of two ways: bring out the tie-die for AfrikaBurn Festival in the Karoo or the leather for the Harley Davidson Africa Bike Week in Margate. The former would ordinarily be a more obvious choice for me, but with ‘road less travelled’ conviction, I decided on the latter. Close on 180 000 visitors made their way to the South Coast town to listen to great bands, including Van Coke Kartel and Prime Circle, show off their metal machines (sorry, I couldn’t resist) and celebrate all things biker-related. This is what I learnt:

The Strokes’ new album Angles is good.
I shared a lift with three-quarters of Die Heuwels Fantasties on the way down to Margate from King Shaka International Airport, a normally one-and-a-half-hour trip that took close on three due to traffic. Thankfully, the boys had brought along great music loot in the form of Angles, The Strokes’ latest offering. Rock-rich and rewarding, this album, while not their best, will reveal itself after a few listens.

…but all good things come to an end.
The album ended and we turned on the radio. Whitney Houston’s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ started playing and we all sang along. (Sidenote: Have you seen the movie Almost Famous, where a young writer for Rolling Stone magazine goes on tour with a '70s rock band? Remember the cool scene in the tour bus where they all start singing along to 'Tiny Dancer'? It was like that. Only so not. Whitney Houston is not cool. Neither are we, it would seem.)

Biker festivals feel like new-age Viking gatherings.
At least, at night they do. We arrived to a huge crowd of leather-wearing, beer-swigging, butt-slapping, loud-laughing revellers. A jovial, inoffensive bunch that were clearly enjoying the camaraderie of the clan gathering. There was little to do but join in. Which we did. Minus the butt slapping.

The revving of Harley engines in the morning isn’t the worst way to wake up.
If you haven’t gone to sleep 45 minutes before, that is.

The Harley Davidson crew sure know how to swag.
There are heaps of market stores that snake along the Margate beachfront where you can get absolutely anything to accessorise your bike, your look or your body. Being part of the Harley crew means being part of a clan - but not to the extent that your individuality is lost. How you dress your bike and yourself is what keeps you from becoming biker wallpaper.

There are hundreds of ways to wear a bandanna.
As a neck scarf, a head cover, a hair tie, a wristband….

Riding on the back of a Harley for the first time is exactly and nothing at all what you would expect.
You’ll likely give into the clichés and describe it as ‘exhilarating’ and ‘powerful’. Because that’s exactly what it is. I have no need for speed in my life, and have never actively sought out a ride on the back of anything, but I absolutely loved the half-hour trip I took sitting abreast a beast of a bike. Relinquishing control to an advanced rider, but never my tight hold around his waist, I kept my mind and eyes open as we made out way down the coast.

There’s value in the road less travelled.
Biker festivals are not the normal stomping ground for most of the COSMO sect. The crowd is slightly older, but are no less colourful than any other. They seem slightly harder but are the biggest softies you’ll meet. And while you’ll expect AC/DC to be blaring from their sound systems, it’s more likely you’ll hear Gaga. Expect the unexpected.

Easter Fever

Thu, 21 Apr 2011 12:00 +0200

I’ve been doing a countdown – days ticked off my calendar, watching people get excited about the break and planning mini-holidays in quaint towns. I’m not quite sure how, but Easter is upon us. In my head, it seems like not so long ago that we were celebrating New Year Eve and making resolutions that we had no real intention of implementing. So where did the days go?

The weeks leading up to this much-needed break have been filled with work, work and more work. Admittedly, sometimes discussing different shades of nail polishes constitutes work, working in the COSMO office is fast-paced and guarantees that one seldom has a dull moment. And a mixture of the change of season, a heavy work-load and, of course, time-consuming holiday fantasies meant that the last two weeks have left me feeling exhausted – I imagine, not unlike most people in the world.

While daydreaming about my holiday, one of the highlights was switching off my Blackberry. No emails, no bbms, no noise. While I was still smiling at the thought of that, I realised that I better get everything done before my great escape. So, instead of sleeping in until my alarm screeched for the fifth time, I somehow mustered enough discipline and strength to wake up way before sunrise, make my way to the office and drink copious amounts of coffee while I worked. Usually this wouldn’t happen - extra work is usually done in the comfort of my pyjamas, so this was a huge leap for me.

Since all of this newfound disciplined was borne of holiday fantasies, I realised why this break is so important. Four months into the not-so-new year, we all need a bit of time to calm down and reflect. So much has happened since the first of January - a lot more than we give ourselves credit for. First of all we’ve managed to survive up until this point. Then, whether we realise it or not, we’ve grown in small but significant ways, whether it's been mastering the art of getting up earlier learning to change a tyre. And since we’ve grown, then we must (in the words of Charlie Sheen) be winning.

So as you celebrate Easter with your friends, family and those randoms that occasionally pop in during big holidays, give yourself a pat on the back – you’ve lived, laughed, cried, danced and left your print on the first quarter of 2011.

The End Of a Love Affair

Thu, 14 Apr 2011 12:00 +0200

Summer is almost over. To use a relationship metaphor, summer and I are at that point when you’re a step-and-a-half away from a break up: when the phone calls stop and every conversation turns into a fight, and where sex becomes a vain attempt to find one another, but all you actually encounter is soul-numbing nothingness. That’s where summer and I are. Every morning, for the past two weeks, has been a battle. I wake up to grey skies, and the bathroom tiles now have an icy sting that is much like a soon-to-be ex-lover’s deafening silence. I get dressed, armed to battle cold winds, but then at midday the sun comes out, making me look and feel like an idiot – though grateful for a bit of sunshine (like that 'I love you' text from the boyfriend you know will be an ex in two weeks).

Now that winter is around the corner, I feel it may be time to embark on a new relationship. This is very daunting because every year since I turned three (slight exaggeration perhaps) I’ve been depressed by this season. I morph from a fun-loving, smiling and eager-to-dress-up girl to a bear-creature who resembles a bag lady. There was a time when I justified my winter depression with monologues about my African heritage and how I was born for the sun. But the fact that I experience these winters in Africa ruins my theory somewhat, and makes me sound more than a little silly.

Now, as I head into my 27th winter, I’m hoping that years of experience and a bit of optimism will make this dreaded season less painful. I’m hoping that red wine, curry, lots of books and maybe a pretty coat or two will turn this winter into the comfortable stage of a relationship: that place where nights are spent under the covers watching re-runs and having lazy sex instead of the rush of making out for hours on end in restaurants. This may not be the most exciting part of a relationship, but it definitely isn’t an unpleasant one. With the right kind of movies, socks and boyfriend, this time can translate to lots of low-key fun.

So, as I collect bottles of red wine, the phone numbers of every curry restaurant within a 10km radius and a winter stash of books, I go into this season with a smile - maybe not a bright one but a smile nonetheless. I’m hoping that just this once I don’t become the sad version of myself that winter reduces me to. I’m hoping that I can wear eyeliner, shave my legs regularly and manage to not scare my boyfriend into thinking I’m about to commit suicide. So while I say goodbye to the sexy, fun lover that is summer, I say hello to my not-so-exciting but necessary man-friend - winter.

Behind-The-Scenes Kinda Gal

Thu, 07 Apr 2011 12:00 +0200

I love photo shoots - the lights, the rails of beautiful clothes and shoes immaculately lined up, the makeup – the entire production is exciting. And what I love most of all about shoots is that I’m usually behind the scenes. I’m the girl in jeans and a vest with no makeup on who is eating pizza and jamming to whatever music is blaring from the stereo. I’m also the girl who is asking the people in front of the camera lens to smile more, lift their chins, jump three metres into the air and a series of other seemingly reasonable requests.

But last week I had to be in front of the camera. Initially, I was excited: who doesn’t want professional pictures taken of themselves? For days I stalked Lilian, our Junior Fashion Editor, demanding to know exactly out what she planned to dress me in. I also promised to give her my first born-child if she made sure that I looked as skinny as possible and that I’d be in the tallest, most expensive shoes that she could lay her hands on. I even did a few sit-ups in the vain hope that months of non-stop pasta-eating would be rectified in a few days, and performed practice poses in front of the mirror. After all, how hard can it be really?

The big day arrived and I was still picturing myself striking my best model pose. After being in the make up chair for over 30 minutes, I headed to Lilian to see what my kit would be. There’s something almost sacred about beautiful clothes waiting for you to put them on. After trying a few options I had that moment where the heavens open up because you feel so freaking sexy.

But, when the time came to do the deed, the nerves kicked in with a vengeance. I was awkward up there. Gone were the wise-cracks and diva-esque attitude. Every time someone told me to smile, I wanted to cry. I tried explaining that I don’t quite like the way my nose crinkles when I smile. Then, I was told that I’m blinking too much, and the dress that made me feel super-sexy just minutes ago now made me feel like I was showing off too much booty. I remembered all the times when I rolled my eyes at girls that were struggling to smile, not realising that this stuff is hard work…and I don’t like standing in heels for longer than three minutes at a time.

Eventually I got into the swing of things, stopped trying to look perfect and focused more on having fun. I smiled because Lilian was making me laugh, posed because I knew there was a packet of hot chips waiting for me on the other end and I decided to be playful and make it fun because who knows when my next shoot will be? The final product was some pictures of me looking a very well-dressed crack-head with half open eyes, and others of me looking fun and fearless. All in all I had a blast, wore pretty clothes but I think I’ll go back to where I belong – behind the scenes with a slice of pizza in my hand.

From Maputo With Love

Thu, 31 Mar 2011 12:00 +0200

Not only is it ideal for couples, but Maputo has the kind of safety and entertainment options that make it ideal for a girls' weekend away.

Travelling is a staple on most people’s list of things they love to do. And travelling when you don’t have to pay for it is a bonus that comes around only so often and should be enjoyed to the max. I was recently invited to Mozambique to check out the newly refurbished Polana hotel. The hotel, which lies in the heart of Maputo, has been around since 1922 and, thanks to its beautiful architecture and modern face lift, has morphed into a luxurious haven in the midst of a bustling city full of rich culture.

We arrived in Maputo on a Friday evening and got straight to the business of having a good time. Since an evening without cocktails is a wasted evening, five other invitees and I took in the ocean views while sipping on Cosmos and Mojitos. Dinner was served in a separate dining room at Delagoa, making us feel extremely VIP. Our meal was prepared by 2* Michelin Chef Edouard Loubet. Since I’m not one to shy away from good food, I was delighted at the endless courses that arrived at our table. Never, in one sitting, have I eaten so many scrumptious dishes. By the time the trio of chocolate desserts came to our table, I felt compelled to take my belt off because I was too full to worry about whether my outfit still looked perfect. The dinner also gave us time to get to know each other – there’s something about the combo of good food and wine that makes everyone eager to mingle.

After a few more cocktails, most of us were ready to head back to our rooms, a charming mixture of colonial décor and luxurious modern touches. Our over-fed bellies made us sleep soundly, surrounded by the thick air that sensually envelopes the city of Maputo... bliss.

WHIRLWIND SATURDAY
Saturday morning was a rush of activity as we were given a tour of the city. Maputo’s architecture makes you feel like you’re in another era. One of my favourite tour stops was the weekly market. The Dana Tour bus made us immediate targets at the Mercado do Povo because, at a marketplace, everyone loves tourists. Being swarmed by boys and men and boys, all promising to give me a discount, didn’t phase me – the prospect of shopping made this market the most interesting place on earth. Considering that it was over 30 degrees outside, walking around and looking at different artefacts, jewellery and African cloths made our skins glow and become a shade darker – I felt like I’d been away from Jo’burg for much longer than a day.

After we’d negotiated our way past earrings and handbags, paintings and fabrics, we made our way to museums and other popular tourist sites. One of the things that stood out through our daytime travels was that no matter how packed or how dingy some of the places were, I always felt safe. The salesmen (even though they came in groups) always had a friendly, non-threatening way about them. For a moment it made me sad to think about how much of a mental game plan I have to adopt when travelling around the streets of downtown Jozi. In Maputo, there was no need to always be checking my bag to see if my wallet was still there.

When we eventually got back to our hotel, famished and satisfied with our sightseeing, we headed to the Aquarius Sushi Terrace at the Polana. We were served the freshest sushi I’ve ever eaten and, after going through various platters, we spent hours enjoying the giant swimming pool at the hotel. Girl-talk and cocktails took centre stage as we allowed our bodies to fully relax.

After hours at the pool it was time to eat (again!), put on our highest heels and check out the nightlife of Maputo. We were warned that most clubs don’t close until 10am because if there’s one thing Mozambicans have perfected (aside from great hospitality and the best seafood ever) it’s partying.

UNTIL THE WITCHING HOUR
Our first stop was a club called Kampfumo. Located at the CFM train station, this club is a melting pot of age groups, races and as many genres of music as you can imagine. Armed with drinks and the desire to see how the Mozambicans party, we hit the dance floor and found ourselves shimmying with locals and tourists wearing all the local fashion. When the DJ played some Malaika hits, the South Africans came to life. The impeccably styled David Tlale got the crowd dancing and the excitement levels went up a few notches. After a few hours at Kampfumo, we moved to where the cool kids of Maputo hang out, the Ice Bar. This club was reminiscent of many high-end Johannesburg clubs: no flat shoes, and lots of sleek-looking women wearing the shortest of designer dresses. The major difference was that the Mozambican girls take over the dance-floor, and their short dresses don’t stop them performing some of the most sexual dance moves I’ve ever seen. After about an hour of just staring at these mesmerising women, we simply had to join in.

The party moved downstairs to another club, The Lounge, and it was as if we’d moved to a completely different place. The dress code was laid-back, the music was up-tempo dance and an empty pool was the most popular chilling spot. A few cocktails made it very easy for us to join in the fun. Hours whizzed by and it was 5am before we knew it. The club was showing no signs of slowing down and some people were still coming in. I realised that I’m not quite the party animal I used to be, and eventually retreated to bed.

PAMPER FEST
Sunday required downtime and, luckily for us, the Polana has a spa. We went to the Maisha Spa and for the first time I got a full body massage from a man. Before this experience I’d heard people speaking about ‘happy endings’ and all sorts of other dodgy things that happen when massages are given by people of the opposite sex. That wasn’t enough to deter me though because really, who doesn’t want a fully-body rub-down from a pair of nice, manly arms?

I stripped down and lay there feeling a tad self-consciousness. The man was doing his job, but when someone has their man hands on your bum, it’s hard not to feel a bit weird. I eventually succumbed to the good feelings and didn’t even flinch when it was time for me to turn over, exposed breasts and all. I felt relaxed and just a little bit naughty by the time I took a cab to a restaurant called Casa Da Sol.

The cab drive reminded me of Johannesburg in that the driver was trying to rob us blind. Little did he know that living in Jo’burg for 27 years will make you a tough customer. The streets of Maputo were more packed than they were on Saturday. People were hanging out along the beach front, some selling food, others blaring music from their boots. There was a festive mood in the air and, according to the locals this is what every Sunday is like.

After eating an assortment of fresh seafood served with a peri-peri sauce that puts Nandos to shame, it was time to head back to the hotel. A new friend and I had a hard time finding a cab, so our Jo’burg 'hustler spirit' made us quite excited at the prospect of finding a random taxi to drive us back – at a price, of course. He was playing Durban kwaito in his car which was really exciting. If SA culture is making its way to Maputo, maybe the gentleness of the Mozambican culture could find its way over here too...

This place, that made me fall in love in under 72 hours, is paradise. Not in the traditional sense of pure luxury but because of the ambience of the whole city. Feeling carefree and being safe are a huge part of going away on holiday. Mozambique offers both of these together with the twist of a different culture and atmosphere. The entire time I was there, I thought of how I need to come back with my boyfriend. I also thought about how a girls’ weekend away to Moz would leave even the most jaded of Jo’burg sisters feeling light, free and in love with a brand-new African city.

P.S. Thank you to 1Time for taking us to Maputo and back in one piece and with as little drama as possible!

A Room With a View

Tue, 29 Mar 2011 12:00 +0200

Sometimes, taking a break from the city is all you need.

For Capetonians, this might not seem like an idea worth writing about, as any beach is a sand grain’s throw away from most areas. But there’s a big difference between neon bikinis and ice-cream men on Clifton Fourth and a quiet night away (or not so quiet – Penguins, as we discovered, are surprisingly loud) on Boulders Beach in Simon’s Town. Still, a bit of squawking aside, few things are more relaxing than a night away at the seaside.

At 6pm on a Friday, after a hard week of work, the idea of getting back into the car and setting off on a long drive was daunting, and I could feel my urge to complain looming all too quickly. But as soon as we left the city, the stress of the week’s toils floated straight out of the sunroof, and once we arrived (think: clear blue waters, sunset, waddling penguins and a room with a view) stress soon became a thing of the past. Add a candlelit seafood platter and the beauty of the Boulders Beach Lodge into the mix and you’re set for a night of pure bliss.

And that’s all it takes, girls - a little bit of chilling to put everything back into perspective. It doesn’t matter if it’s 50 or 500 kilometres away, sometimes you just need a quick escape and a long breath of fresh sea air to remind you to relax, switch off your phone, stay away from your Wall and leave the tweeting to the birds (or penguins). I know getting away is not what our bank balances like to hear, but, surely we can sacrifice a weekend of card-swiping partying for a night of hotel bliss? It doesn’t matter where you live in this beautiful country of ours, bliss (and a little relaxation) really is only a drive away.

Summer On My Hips

Thu, 17 Mar 2011 12:00 +0200

It’s three months into the New Year and I haven’t quiet managed to work my way out of my holiday hangover. Sure, I’ve sat in traffic enough times to know that the party is, indeed, over and the sound of an alarm clock has made its way back into my mornings – but there’s still something I can't shake off.

Last winter I went on a huge mission to be thin and svelte in time for summer. Painful weeks of a carb-free existence and dedication to my exercise routine worked out, and by September I was confident, lump-free and ready for summer. The last three months were filled with shorts, mini-skirts and vests - all worn with reckless abandon because I felt so good. I vowed that, never again, would those last few kilograms haunt me and make me feel anything short of fabulous.

Then December happened – carbs snuck back into my life (come on - who can resist a good pasta dish when on holiday), gin at midday became something I looked forward to after my sizable brunch, and (again) I started nibbling the chips off my boyfriend’s plate. Then I came back from our holiday, and the residue of holiday love made me want to make roast and potatoes for dinner. I didn’t stress, though, because I knew that once January rolled around, I would be back to being my disciplined, carb-free self. And since holiday-sex was part of my holiday cheer I figured I’d found a great way to keep the bulges at bay.

So, January rolled around and I was back at work. We now had a new office, one with a cheap cafeteria downstairs. Chicken breasts were replaced with burgers and chips, water replaced with Crème Soda (got to get some greens in the diet) and midday sex replaced by midday deadlines. Luckily, my new body was still fairly intact.

My jeans were getting tighter by February, but I liked it. I felt like a sexy and curvy Aphrodite-type goddess. A little bit soft, a little bit round, but still in good shape. If I was smart, that would have been a good time to stop - but I didn’t.

Now, it’s the end of summer - my jeans don’t fit, the curves are morphing into bulges and I’m eating vanilla Oreos as I type this. But, instead of feeling of sadness and shame, I feel happy – this was, by far, one of my best summers ever, and if I ever need a reminder, it's right here on my hips.

Love In The City

Tue, 22 Feb 2011 12:00 +0200

Like most big cities, Johannesburg can be impersonal at the best of times: strangers pass each other in the street without so much as a head-nod or an acknowledgement of the others' presence. This is very different from the upbringing I had in Soweto where we knew the name of everyone on our street (and often their personal business too!) and greeted everyone that passed, including strangers. That’s just how people interacted. Over the years I’ve had to find some kind of middle ground. Generally, I greet most people, and I've learnt not to get offended when my hellos are ignored or met with suspicious sidelong glances.

My boyfriend and I recently went to go watch the final performance of History - This Is It, a tribute to Michael Jackson, at the Johannesburg Theatre. I was expecting a laid-back afternoon, followed by a fast drive home to be on time for American Idol. But when my uncle and his wife called to cancel at the last minute, I found myself stuck with two extra tickets and not enough time to call up other friends to join us. So I had an idea: since it was February and the month of love and giving, I decided I would find a couple on the street and surprise them with free tickets. Great idea, right? Well...

Off to the theatre we went. I’ve dreamt of having an Oprah moment for years, where one day I stand in a room full of deserving people and say ‘You get a car - and you, and you and you, whoop!’ This felt almost like that. ‘You get a ticket and you get a ticket,’ seemed like something really nice to do. The park next door was sprinkled with couples and students, so I figured I was bound to find people who'd be keen on a freebie show. My boyfriend was not at all keen on the idea of me approaching complete strangers and offering them tickets. ‘They might think you’re creepy,’ he insisted. But I shrugged him off, thinking that I would love it if a stranger approached me with free tickets to a show.

The first couple I approached cringed before I even opened my mouth. When I finally delivered my monologue, the woman scowled meanly and said, ‘No!’ That’s the moment that I remembered: ‘Oh gosh, this is Jo’burg in 2011. Where people get mugged in parks, women wielding theatre tickets might actually be serial killers, or worse - a girl on the prowl on Valentine's month.’ I went back to my boyfriend and asked him to come with me this time so that couples didn’t think I was some weirdo trying to be the third party in their relationship. After a series of couples, several no’s, why’s and confused looks, I was getting tired of this giving-away business. Why couldn't people just accept that sometimes someone wants to give you something; not because they want anything but just because they can?

Just before my heart felt like it was about to break, couple number five (the woman was wearing a red top – a sign?) agreed. Actually, they were delighted. They’d not seen the show and, in fact, she had never been to the theatre in her life. We gave them their tickets and when they joined us at our seats, tickets in hand and smiles firmly planted on their faces, something clicked for me. All those hello's that go ignored are worth it if there will be just one person who really needed your hello that day. So maybe my ticket act wasn’t the norm for people living in the jaded big city, but it was enough to make one couple happy, even for just a few hours. That’s what love is all about isn’t it?

Hello, Neighbour Boy!

Fri, 04 Feb 2011 12:00 +0200

My crush, a.k.a. Neighbour Boy, recently showed up at my housewarming bash with a girlfriend in tow. Ouch! Now I have to see him every day. And it doesn't help that my roommate, Sarah is so messy. Grrr.

A Fine Mess
Life with Sarah has its pros and cons. On the one hand, it's nice to have someone to come home to and eat dinner and watch movies with. On the other hand, she's a slob and, like some sort of primordial ooze, her mess is extending outward and slowly moving into my space. It's driving me freaking crazy.

When I got home from work tonight, Sarah was out. She had obviously been cooking, as the kitchen looked like it had been hit by a bomb. Not wanting to deal with the mess right away, I headed back out for a slice of pizza. When I returned, Neighbour Boy was sitting on the stoop, also eating pizza.

'Wanna join me?' he laughed, dimple appearing on his right cheek. I smiled, sat down, and took my slice out of the bag.

'Not how I envisioned our first dinner date,' he said, smirking.

If I didn't have such a raging crush on the guy, I might have been angry at him for flirting with me even though he has a girlfriend. But since I can't help but melt around him, I sat on the stoop for the better part of an hour, shivering in the cold night air and chatting about any inane thing I could think of. I don't know for sure, but I think he was shivering under that coat too...

Black Thursday
If there were one holiday I could abolish, it would be Valentine's Day. I spent my workday going from wedding to wedding, shooting happy brides and grooms exchanging vows, mothers sniffling, and big cakes being cut. Joy.

By the end of the day, I was jaded and miserable. I decided to go home, watch a bad made-for-TV movie or two with Sarah, and shove chocolate in my face. As I walked into my building, Neighbour Boy was walking out. With Ashley, his girlfriend. They were dressed up and laughing about something.

'Hi,' he said, awkwardly. 'You remember Ashley.'

'Hi,' I said with all the fake cheeriness I could muster. 'Happy Valentines Day! Well, I better go.... I'm running late.'

'Hot date?' Neighbour Boy asked.

'Something like that,' I lied, thinking, hot date with my TV. I scurried away. When I got into the apartment, I found a heart-shaped box of chocolate and a note from Sarah. 'Hi! I'm on a date. Don't wait up. Happy V Day! XOXO!' If there's a silver lining; it's that now I have some chocolate. Positive thinking, positive thinking, positive thinking…

Knock Knock
A little after 9pm the other night, my doorbell rang. Sarah was out. I looked through the peephole. Neighbour Boy! He had on jeans and a green hoodie and looked adorable.
'Hi,' I said, opening the door. 'Need to borrow some sugar?'

'ActualIy,' he said, 'I hadn't thought out exactly what I was going to do when you opened the door. Can I come in?'

'Um...' I started to say.

'I broke up with Ashley,' he said.

My heart did a backflip, and I nodded. The second I closed the door behind him, he grabbed me on both sides of my face and kissed me. I sank back into the door, and he sank with me. My hands found their way into his curly hair, his mouth found its way onto my neck, and for what was probably close to half an hour, we devoured each other in my doorway.

'Now that,' he said when we finally came up for air, 'is something I've wanted to do since I came around the corner two months ago and knocked you over.'

'Me too.'

'Can I do it again?'

'Definitely.' And he did. All night long.

A Night To Remember

Tue, 08 Feb 2011 12:00 +0200

A gorgeous invitation, particularly when it's delivered well in advance, lends a great sense of anticipation to a fabulous event. And – as I've come to learn - it's usually the precursor to a party that will be etched in your mind for weeks afterwards. In November 2010 I received an invitation just like this. It was to the private launch of the new Carolina Herrera’s 212 VIP fragrance.

On Thursday I headed to Randlords in Braamfontein - all by myself because the invitations clearly stated that no dates were allowed. Randlords, as Joburgers know, is notorious for its glamorous chic-ness and breath-taking views of the city. In true form, the party's hostesses were clad in LBDs and big smiles as they offered guests a whiff of the new Carolina Herrera fragrance.

Happily, luck was on my side as I bumped into some of my friends, and the event instantly turned into a fun girls' night out. After taking pictures and having our glasses filled with delicious cocktails, we mingled. I’ve always been fascinated by the fake air-kisses that seem mandatory to socialites. It just doesn't make sense to waste a kiss (even if it’s an air one) on someone you hardly know - and possibly don’t even like. This is probably the reason I’m more of a flea- market-and-gin-and-tonic than a champagne-and-air-kisses girl but, weird rituals aside, I was happy to be there.

We were led upstairs where a presentation, snacks and a cash bar were offered to Jozi’s beauty editors, journalists,TV personalities and professional party-goers. It’s not often that people adhere to the dress code, but I have to say that 90% of those in attendance came looking extremely glam. After an hour or so of small- talk and socialising, DJ Euphonik took over the decks and even those that are averse to dancing ended up making their way to the dance floor.

The combo of great music and an open bar meant that inhibitions were shed and new friendships forged. When feet strapped into sexy high heels started complaining that enough was enough, everyone headed home. Goodie bags that had everyone smiling were the perfect ending to a well-organised and exciting event. By the time the clock struck midnight, it had been a great night and we were more than ready to turn into expensive-smelling pumpkins.

Cougar Town

Tue, 25 Jan 2011 12:00 +0200

The Cougar… David Attenborough-style
* Kingdom: Animalia
* Phylum: Chordata
* Class: Mammalia
* Sub-species: Demi Moore

This adaptable species is found in bars, pubs, on dating sites and on nightclub couches. This cunning stalk-and-ambush predator pursues younger men (preferably at least 10 years younger) and lures prey with the aid of camouflage (Botox) which helps it blend into social environments usually reserved for those born after 1979.

The lure of the Cougar lies in their solitary nature (they are elusive with their prey refraining from bombarding it with SMSes and too busy with their own lives to drop everything and mate on many given days). Add that to an ass that can wear gold, pleather and hot pants, and the prey doesn't stand a chance.

It's All Fun and Games… Until Someone Acts Their Age
I myself once dabbled as a Cougar (although he wasn't a Spanish supermodel) so, as a massive authority on the subject, I feel I should tell you this cautionary tale…

It's fun to play the older woman. Even your sagest of sex moves will elicit wow and slack-jawed awe. His friends will all want to meet you: you're sexy – a novelty. Take him out for dinner and watch him try to pay. Ain't he cute! But, at some point, the shiny newness of your toy boy wears off… And it's not so fun. This may occur when you realise his relationship maturity is dog years behind yours and marriage isn't on the cards until 2043. Or, in my case, when you reach into the pocket of his pyjama pants with a cheeky grin and find… His retainer inside.

The Many Faces of Jo'burg

Tue, 01 Feb 2011 12:00 +0200

Johannesburg has many faces – the plush suburbs with their fashionistas, the townships that are buzzing no matter what day of the week it is, and all the other worlds in-between. Downtown Jozi has gradually been turning into the go-to place for the city's creatives who enjoy a colourful life as exhibitions, eateries, vintage shops and a fashion district have bloomed and brought new life to those parts of the city once considered dodgy and decrepit. It’s in this old, but new part of town that I fell in love with Jozi again.

I went to the newly launched Market on Main with no real idea of what to expect, but excited nonetheless. What I found there is a new sub-culture that the city has been craving for a while. The market is made up of stalls filled with vintage clothes, designer clothes, treats to please even the fussiest palates and an eclectic mixture of the city's glamorous arty crowd. The lawn was filled with people eating delicious-looking food purchased from stalls and restaurants, a few surprisingly well-behaved children ran around and there was live music from RJ Benjamin and Pebbles. In a nutshell, it was the city like I’d never seen it before. If you can imagine creativity being various colours, then the Market on Main is the brightest rainbow you’ve ever seen.

After getting my pennies together I walked out with a vintage belt, a designer dress from Loincloth and Ashes on order and a tummy full of wine and tasty, homemade bread. It looks like I’ve finally found a spot worth trading pyjama Sundays for.

This charmingly laid-back Sunday ushered me into the week feeling calm and ready to take on new challenges. The COSMO Sexiest Man event was due and there’s something about half-naked, good-looking men that makes it worth the effort of donning make-up and doing some schmoozing.

My friends and I headed to the Oxford excited and ready to party and, in true COSMO style, the event didn’t disappoint. Pink shooters and chocolate greeted us at the door. Bonang Matheba was the host for the evening and she did a stellar job at putting our sexy men at ease. After strutting their stuff and being brave enough to withstand cat-calls and kisses being blown at them, the winner was announced. It looks like Gregg Hammond had most girls hoping to be Mrs January - and his mother was possibly the most excited of us all.

I personally had (and still have) a thing for Mr June – Frederico Fernandez. In my many years of man-watching as a favourite hobby, I’ve never come across such intense sex appeal. Once we’d soaked in all the perving we could take, we swiftly moved to the dance floor and let loose.

The combo of local creativity and local sexiness, all in the space of five days, made the last week of January exciting. Let’s hope the weeks that follow don’t fall short. Here’s to celebrating Jo’burg with its different faces and fun options for a COSMO girl.

Guys Wide Shut

Mon, 24 Jan 2011 12:00 +0200

Going Home Alone
'He's either a massive freak or he doesn't like me… I don't know which is worse.' These words were spoken to me by a friend after her first date with 'The Rugby Guy.' They have a great time, so she asked him back to her place… he said 'not tonight' and called a taxi.

'Now he either thinks I sleep with guys on the first date, which I don't usually, or he's just not attracted to me. What kind of guy doesn't come back to your place?!' she wailed over the phone.

There was a hopeful silence… I decided to give TRG the benefit of the doubt. 'A gentleman,' I answered.

'Bullsh*t,' she said.

The Blame Game
When a guy won't give it up, we fault ourselves. The act of keeping his pants on lays bare our insecurities. What did I do? What did I say? What's wrong with me? We overanalyse, repressing the memory of men we've been attracted to, yet knocked back with gusto.

Guys Who Say No
To prevent TRG's frigidity from shattering my friend's fragile confidence, I did a little research. Here, tales of women who survived the ego slap:

'I'd been seeing Luca for three weeks. One night I went to his house after a friend's birthday drinks. It would be the first time we'd had sex… except he wasn't into it! I was mortified. The next day he told me I was so drunk I was resting the full weight of my head on his face while kissing him. He just wanted me to know what I was doing. Two years later, we're getting married!'

'A friend of mind went on a date… and she asked him back to her place. But, when they got to her apartment, he ran off into the night. She was devastated. The next day he sent her flowers. It turns out he's a primary school teacher and he didn't want to be late for work or offend her by leaving at 5am.'

'This happening to me… at first I was upset, because I thought that I must have done something wrong, but it turned out he was a virgin – a whole new predicament…'

See honey, maybe TRG's a part-time teacher, or a virgin! Or perhaps he truly is a gentleman… did he pay for the drinks?

Frisky Finance

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 12:00 +0200

Cheap Sex – The Good Kind!
They can take our jobs, they can take our house, but they'll never take our orgasm! This is our defiant cry as we tackle the credit crunch head on, armed with nothing but a condom and a horny spirit… Huh? A British survey revealed that sex was the most popular free activity in these times of financial crisis - ahead of window shopping and gossiping. Oh…

Relieving the Financial Pressure
Sex in a time of crisis… it's not exactly new. Emergency sex in war zones is a standard movie plot. Bombs are dropping all around, the last of the medical supplies are dwindling, the world as you know it is falling apart. When disaster strikes we turn to the one we love to comfort us… or at least the one within arm's reach.

Replace bombs with the South African Rand, medical supplies with superannuation and the world as you know it with the JSE, and you've pretty much got the situation we're in now. Nothing to do but don your naughty nurse's uniform and straddle the nearest soldier! And if you find yourself alone on the front line? Don't worry - you're not. Adult shops are experiencing a sales surge worldwide.

Why are we so uptight when times are tight? Well, I'm not an economist (thank God, or I'd be out of a job), but recession sex is fun, free and literally a way to feel good when your bank balance is really, really bad. So, will you swap your Friday night cocktails for takeaway Thai, a DVD and woman on top?

Singles Get Ripped Off
Hang on a minute… it's all well and good if you've got a significant other you can bonk on a budget - but what about the cost of sex for the singletons out there?

THE URBAN DATING EQUATION:
Bikini wax (standard sexual investment) - R250
Dinner (because, really, a girl still expects a date) R250
Booze (seriously, would you give it up sober?) R150
Taxi fare (if you can't face the walk of shame) R150
Total cost of sex: R800
Having a long-term partner so you don't have to fork out for any of the above? Priceless.

Premature Experimentation

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 12:00 +0200

You're Not Serious! Yes, I Am
Riddle me this: Why would a virile young man decide to pop a Viagra on a Sunday night and rock up to the house of his lady friend… especially when he's only known her for two weeks, and the sparks are still flying?

Stumped? Me too. But this is exactly what one of my guy friends has been up to recently. I call it 'premature experimentation'. Surely he can't be that bored yet?

Too Much, Too Soon
I asked my significant other why our friend would so hastily choose to spice things up in the bedroom? He too is vexed, and chalks it up to friend's giddiness at finally getting some action after weathering a dry spell severe enough to rival the Sahara Desert.

I can appreciate the enthusiasm, but who needs Viagra in the honeymoon phase of their hook-up? That's greedy. What is he going to do when the relationship clocks up three weeks? Surely, to keep our libido from tiring we must leave some uncharted sexual territory?

Cranky!
I'm putting myself in my friend's new girlfriend's Jimmy Choos - what would my reaction be if a new guy who I'd shagged, oh, maybe three or four times, darkened my doorstep on a Sunday night packing V? Slam! Not only is this premature experimentation an insult to intimacy, but Sundays are for organising - not attempting to break the Guinness World Record for Sabbath orgasms. I mean seriously, there are gym bags to pack, brown rice to cook and things to hand-wash because you forgot to get them dry-cleaned.

Call Me a Prude…
But what do you guys think? Should we say to hell with pacing ourselves in the sack and instead get all of our (metaphorical) cards on the (metaphorical) table immediately, saving no surprises for later? I mean, I'm just saying two weeks is a little too soon to get freaky. And surely 30 years old is about 30 years too soon to drop a vitamin V?

In The Name of Sex

Fri, 10 Dec 2010 12:00 +0200

The Things We Do for Sex
Yesterday my partner bought me two new pairs of yoga pants. Nice ones. If a dress-code should ever require it, I now own items befitting of track chic. Smacked him a little kiss in the shop to say thanks for my pressie, to which he replied, 'No worries, just throw out those bloody flannels and wear these to bed please. They're killing me.'

Um, sure. Flannels. Throw out. Yip, cool. Will do. And while I'm doing that, wearing my new pants, I'll try not to trip over the STRINGS ATTACHED! Who knew the blue-and- white polka-dot PJs I'd so thriftily obtained in aisle five of the supermarket would have such a profound effect on my sex life? Not me, apparently.

Like a Candle in the Wind
Unceremoniously stuffed offending flannels in the kitchen bin this morning then stormed off to work. Coffee first. Bumped into a girlfriend at the cafe and got chatting about her weekend. 'I met a guy!' she screeched above the sound of grinding beans. Ohhh - distraction! Where, how, when!? She turned down the volume a bit: 'You know that older guy, a friend of a friend? I was at my local bar and someone brought him along. We had serious flirtation. Then he asked us all back to his place for drinks! Said I'd meet them there - grabbed my bag, bolted back to my place, waxed my bikini line and took a taxi to his place in 45 minutes flat…hee hee!'

There I stood, skinny latte in hand, experiencing a major reality check. I'd been bitter about the fact my favourite jarmies were now covered in bin juice, but clearly I was one of the lucky ones. There were women out there enduring public transport mercy dashes and drunken home-waxing for the good of their sex lives. How could I compete with that?

Oh, and Another Thing…
I know what you're thinking. Yoga pants? Well, maybe your boyfriend buys you leopard-print G-strings. To each their own, I say. I'm comfy - don't judge!

Kardashian Kraze

Mon, 20 Dec 2010 12:00 +0200

The last time I saw large groups of women screaming was in the '90s when boy bands with bad hairstyles were popular. The redeeming quality about that was that the girls were all pre-pubescent and didn’t know any better. Fast forward a decade and those girls are now sleek, chic and stylish. Their clothes are better, their heels are higher and their screams are louder - but there’s no boy-band in sight. Their screams are for the Kardashians. These reality TV queens are more popular than I’d realised.

I’m an avid fan and, since I watch the show so often, my boyfriend has been brainwashed into knowing the characters and he agrees that Scott is possibly the biggest douche-bag in the history of television. It looks like the rest of the country likes these girls even more than I do, and that was evident when the Kardashian Kraze broke out.

Kim and Khloe were here for the Brutal Fruit Cheeky Cranberry launch. This was the second round of parties to celebrate the new flavour, and everyone in town was clamouring for invitations. The event seemed like the only thing that people could speak about on twitter; so, the Kardashian Kraze went digital too.

When the night of the event eventually came around, I headed out to The Rand Club in downtown Jozi where pink was the order of the day. The venue is plush, and has a seductive air of decadence, while the dress-code was chic with a touch of pink, and most people came dressed to the nines. It’s amazing that heels, brand new outfit and newly coiffed hair did nothing to stop people from pushing and shoving to get a glimpse of the Kardashians. Cameras were flashing, girls and guys were screaming, and most people’s inner groupie was tellingly revealed.

After a short speech and a car giveaway, the Kardashians retreated into their VIP area. Many fans were basically offering to their first-born children just to get a picture, and many were disappointed when the girls sat with their backs to the crowd. Kim was on her phone most of them time, but Khloe was a bit better, smiling, dancing and interacting with her fans. Many fans were left with their hearts broken because their reality TV heroines weren’t as engaging as they’d hoped (I’m not sure what they were expecting). My take is this: if you watch the show you’d know that these girls are pretty self-absorbed, so expecting them to go beyond the call of duty (which was just showing face) was unrealistic.

The rest of us danced the night away thanks to the awesome DJs, and at the end of the night, my friend and I left with sore feet and happy hearts. Others left with long faces and rantings on Twitter. All in all, this was the perfect party to cap off a year full of parties.

Now my heels are being pushed to the back of the closet, my make-up bag is being stashed away (every girl’s face needs a break), and my party-girl spirit is being traded in for my Zen-spirit: while you party away, I will be meditating away. Fret not though, 2011 is bound to be even bigger and better. Let’s toast to a good year.

The Day Soundclash Changed My Life

Thu, 09 Dec 2010 12:00 +0200

As much as I’m a bona fide Jo’burg girl, I’m not one to say no to an invitation to party in another city. Red Bull was hosting their second Soundclash and, because I know from experience just how awesome it is, I jumped on a plane and off to Durban I went.

This year’s Soundclash featured two very popular and talented bands – Gazelle and Die Heuwels Fantasties. I didn’t know very much about either band, but that’s what made it all the more exciting. The year before was The Dirty Skirts and Tumi and the Volume, so I'd gone in with a preference and expectations. Sometimes, it's best to be surprised.

We landed in hot and humid Durban weather and headed straight to the beautiful Suncoast Casino Hotel. The concept of having a hotel right next to a shopping centre is one that appeals to me because who doesn’t want to dash from their room to a shop to pick up shoes? On my various trips to the mall I realised that fashion can be very city-specific. I spotted several matric-dance-inspired dresses and a lot of gold – in people's mouths!

After an afternoon of meeting the bands and drinking copious amounts of Red Bull, it was time for the show. The outdoor venue had two stages and a microphone in between the stages to measures the crowd response because it's us who decides who wins.

Ready D was in charge of getting the crowds in the mood for a good time, and he was the ‘musical referee’ for the night. The competition started with the band doing their version of Eddie Grant’s 'Electric Avenue'. Both bands created a unique sound, and the energy was electrifying as the crowds sang along. In the end the crowd decided that Gazelle was the best.

For the second round, the bands had mastered each other's tracks and again the crowd was awed by Gazelle. DJ Ready D made the third round particularly interesting: the bands were forced out of their comfort zones and had to do songs in hip-hop, country and dub-step genres. The crowd was going wild and I, who has never really been into any kind of rock music, was going insane myself. I realised that music isn’t about what you prefer, especially when it’s live; it’s about the energy, and the bands were giving us so much of their creative energy that we couldn’t help but be swept up by the wave.

In the end, Gazelle won the overall competition. Their unique style of music plus their playful and proudly South Africa theatrics on stage (think sangomas and an invisible DJ) are unlike anything we'd seen or heard before.

Post-Soundclash, we partied until the sun came up. While any sane person would have assumed that this was the end of the festivities, we decided that sanity was overrated at this time of the year. We hung out by the pool with band- members, and at about 4.30am decided that going to the beach was a pretty fantastic idea. Frolicking in the sea and sand without a care in the world, I decided that if this is the rock-star lifestyle, then I want in!

We headed back to the hotel and still there was no desire to sleep (I blame the Red Bull) so we stayed by the pool and had conversations about everything under the sun. When the breakfast rush started, we received odd stares from the ‘sane’ people that had slept, showered and were going to be having a dignified breakfast while we ate with wet clothes and day-old mascara. The 'insane crowd' stayed in this state until it was time to catch our flight, Durban had its way with us and we loved it.

Soundclash turned out to be the perfect mixture of music, food, new friendships and freedom. I couldn’t have thought of a better to bid an early goodbye partying in 2010.

Take a look at what went down at this year's Soundclash...

The Weekend Stand

Tue, 07 Dec 2010 12:00 +0200

The Weekend Stand
There I was, sitting in my office earlier today, typing something, when in pops my good friend for a chat. I assume she's here to discuss our faux plans to go to the gym, but no, today she has sweaty news of a far more interesting kind. Yes, you smelled it - sex!
She had lots! With a guy she met on a night out. A one-night stand, you might ask? Oh no: she stayed at his house all weekend! Yes, days! AM and PM times two. Had to cut sordid tell-all short to go to meeting. Attempting to acquire greater detail. Will report back.

Miracle Tea
Called her into my office this morning under guise of work and put on business-looking glasses to divert passers-by. Now, please tell me about the sex! My friend spilled the details while I simultaneously Googled His Horniness. He was hot, of course. What ugly guy has an arousing effect the morning after the night before? But that alone didn't satisfy my curiosity. Yes, I know what you're wondering - I just had to find out too. During the 48-hour sex-athon, what the hell did they eat? Thai food? Pizza? Home delivery? 'Um, nothing,' she replied, with a shrug. 'Oh wait, hang on, we had a cup of tea.' Tea? Yes, just the regular stuff. Who knew you could exist for a weekend on a diet of sex and diluted caffeine?

Why?
Forgot to say, after she finally left they never spoke again. No number exchange - simply thanks and see you never. Typical one-night stand behaviour - nothing unusual there. But, I asked her, didn't you find you'd established more of a connection after a whole weekend together? Her response: 'It was what it was and l needed that.' Typical one-night stand summation, which begs the conclusion that the weekend stand does not fundamentally differ from its one-night counterpart. At the end of the day (or night, or in this case, weekend) we're simply a savvy consumer society. Is this just another way to get more bang for your buck?

Legendary Nites

Thu, 02 Dec 2010 12:00 +0200

There are parties that are optional - ones that you can do without attending, and then there are events that you would go to even if your teeth were falling out and you could barely keep your head up. Last Thursday was yet another Analogue Nites, and these events have become legendary in Johannesburg. The city comes to life and even those people that have been bitten by the stay-at-home bug pop out, put on their party clothes and drive to Moyo’s Melrose Arch. What made this particular Analogue Nites so exciting was that Thandiswa Mazwai was going to be the performer. Her name and voice sends shivers down the spines of even the most jaded party-goers.

The event fell on the same night as the opening of Surreal Eco Boutique Hotel in Bryanston. I tapped into my go-everywhere powers and headed to the hotel with no real expectations. We walked into what I've heard referred to as 'green paradise', just a few minutes from Sandton. You know that feeling you get when you drive out of the city and realise that you feel free – that’s what Surreal instantly does to you. The 100% green hotel not only has the most luxurious rooms but the food is made by a chef who is also a herbalist – can it get any healthier? We lounged outdoors sipping on drinks and tasting as many culinary creations as possible – a girl needs a lot of energy for the night I had ahead of me!

A quick change of clothes and a touch of make up later, my friend Vanessa and I happily headed to Moyo, but when we walked in we realised that everybody and their mother also wanted to see Thandiswa’s performance.

One of the pleasures of a superb nights out is being able to spot hot men that we wouldn’t normally see. In the hustle and bustle of the city, all the hot men seem to be hiding behind office doors, so a sighting has become an almost miraculous event. Before we had even walked the whole room, we spotted a cutie – it was going to be a great night. We marched right to the front, not wanting to miss a thing. Except, again, everyone had the same idea. Groups of men and women kept on standing in front of us! Manners seem to be the last thing on people’s minds when they are dancing to hip-hop beats and waiting on Miss Mazwai to get on stage!

When she finally arrived on stage, Thandiswa displayed not only her talent but an amazing aura of power, and real thought had gone into her vocals. There isn’t a single watered-down pop-like song on her repertoire and, judging by the claps, screams and number of voices singing along, everyone was enchanted.

As though her great performance was not enough, Simphiwe Dana, another well- loved musician, joined her on stage for an impromptu performance. Looking around I saw people on the verge of tears, not believing that they were sharing in this moment. Calls for an encore were not ignored and even those that weren't fans left converted.

After the show, people were in a daze, undoubtedly going home to relive the show in their heads. We chose to stay and indulge in old-school kwaito and hip-hop beats courtesy of DJ 1D and Ken hero. The beats brought other sexy delights that only seem to make an appearance when the sun sets. Dancing, laughter and the sighting of a sexy man in a white shirt left my friend and I thoroughly satisfied and happy to store the memory as a night definitely worth remembering.

Have You Got VBD?

Tue, 30 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

Here's the scenario: you have a friend over for dinner, and before you sit down, she asks if you'd mind if she shut the window, turned up the air-con, switched places and opened her own bottle of wine. Then she tells you she'll have to leave before you've finished eating because she has something important to do. And her boyfriend won't be coming after all.

Not long ago, such behaviour would have been seen as extremely rude, but we now live in a world where everyone feels justified in putting their own needs first. It's perfectly common for guests to ask for a drink that isn't being offered, or for variations on the food you're serving - even alterations to the air-con, lighting or music. If you make a date with a girlfriend, she'll think nothing of postponing it if something more important comes up - or just because she's tired. You could put all this down to a crisis in manners, but these aren't just examples of thoughtless behaviour - they're all driven by the same desperate impulse to be the absolute masters of our own destinies.

The poster girl for such control freakery is, of course, Victoria Beckham, who stage-manages every detail of her life, from her coordinated Hermès Kelly bags to her social schedule. And though we laugh at the lengths to which she's prepared to go in pursuit of total control, the truth is, we're all suffering from a nasty dose of Victoria Beckham Disorder (VBD)… but to a lesser degree.

It wasn't so long ago that being labelled a control freak was an insult. But then 'controlling' turned into 'super-stressed' and almost became a badge of honour. Now, people don't mind being seen as inflexible and demanding, because it suggests a certain purpose, and because we equate getting our own way with power and success. We look to successful celebs like Beckham, JLo and Nicole Kidman to show us the way and they oblige: eating strictly raw food off only white plates, demanding their nannies sign confidentiality deals, and that their chefs and dermatologists are all on call.

We think this behaviour is extreme, but chances are, you've accepted an invitation with conditions, forced a taxi driver to take your preferred route or ordered a coffee to go 'with a dash of milk, but make sure it's red hot, and I'd like it in an extra-small cup'. Previously, we put our faith in God, fate or simply in life and the people we knew. Now, what we believe in is exerting our will in every situation.

'I can't go on holiday with anyone other than my boyfriend anymore,' says a PR exec, who wishes to remain nameless. 'I stress when everyone takes hours to get going in the morning - it's easier to move quickly if there are just two. And l can't bear it when they all want to eat at some pavement cafe, where you can see the food is going to be terrible.' Does she think she's a control freak? 'My boyfriend does. But l don't mind,' she says. 'I think if you've got good instincts, you're entitled to be a control freak. Control freaks give great parties and they run efficient businesses.'

And there is a place for control. We lead complicated, multi-dimensional lives, where exerting more control counterbalances all the white noise, according to clinical psychologist Dr Cecilia d'Felice. 'It's a way of psychologically containing what feels uncontainable. Often, we succumb to controlling behaviour when we're stressed or overwhelmed - women, in particular, can appear hysterically controlling because they have responsibility both at work and at home in a way few men do,' says d'Felice.

Maybe the real reason we leave nothing to chance is that the world seems a crueller place now – it's the reason for commitment-phobia, the R50 000 handbag and the rise and rise of plastic surgery. We have a sense that you get only one chance at life, and you won't get anywhere without pushing your own agenda. It's quite sad, really.

Trial Run

Thu, 25 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

The year is quickly drawing to a close, and since partying has been leaving me feeling more tired than happy, I decided it was time to chill out this weekend. Chilling out meant: not tweeting as much, not over-thinking work and definitely not stressing about one single thing.

As much as Jo’burg is a great city for party animals, there is so much more to explore. One of the positives about the activities that are more day-time orientated is that heels, make-up and pretty dresses are optional. Sunglasses, flip flops and sunscreen, however, are must-haves. My weekend looked like a giant eating plan - everything involved food and lots of rest.

I started out my Saturday morning with a Clinique breakfast. Clinique invited a group of young women to be schooled on their variety of products. Our skin was assessed, products were recommended and we got to fill up on a tasty, but healthy breakfast. The goodie-bag was a bonus treat and, because I’m yet to meet someone who dislikes freebies, all the ladies left with a big smile on their faces.

The next stop was lunch at a friend’s house. The weather dictated that we dine outside, and after lots of conversation and even more food, sleepiness set in. I indulged in something I don’t do as often as I should – I took a nap outside. I love a lot of things about summer, but being able to sleep under a clear blue sky is one of the best perks, and something I used to do a lot more of when I was younger. I figured if I start doing more things that I did when I was younger, peace of mind would become easier to reach.

A sunny afternoon nap was followed by what was meant to be a casual stroll through Bruma Lake flea market, but there’s something about pretty things that are reasonably priced that makes me very bad at window-shopping. After a little bit of convincing (and some ice cream), my boyfriend and I bought a few things for our apartment. Since rest was one of the major themes for my weekend, I got home, and got straight into bed. An hour-long massage had me passing out and waking up 12 hours later – aaaah... bliss.

Not one to be easily distracted, I continued on my mission to eat everything in sight. I’m generally put off by places such as Wimpy and Spur. I have no problem with the food, it's the kids running around freely that gets to me. My 12-hour sleep somehow made me crave the kind of breakfast only available at places with screaming children. I quickly indulged, and then figured that the best way to cap off the weekend would be to share decadent dessert with friends. Some sorbet, cheese cake and sangria later, I decided that I’d had the perfect trial-run for the holidays.

After a year filled with parties, thousands of tweets and lots of general activity, shutting down and rebooting is the only way to prepare for the New Year. Although the invitations are still rolling in and there are still quite a few bashes to attend, I’ve finally found the perfect way to wind down.

The A-Z of DJ

Tue, 23 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

If you were at either of the Godskitchen Boombox Above and Beyond shows this weekend, you’ll know how incredible they were. What you might not know are these snippets I picked up while spending time with DJs Tony McGuinness and Jono Grant plus the rest of the crew between the shows….

Arriving at the venue with the DJs is quite exhilarating. The music inside is already thumping and the crowd are well warmed-up, each person emitting energy heavy with anticipation. People gawk, smile and squeal (yes, even the guys in the crowd).

Boombox production starts weeks before the show, with visuals selected not only to complement headlining DJs, but also to reflect the city being played in. Godskitchen’s Ed Shaw is the guy with his finger literally on the button. ‘There is a split second before every single show, just as I am about to press play, that I have this flat panic about whether I have the right visuals in place. What if I put in the wrong disc? It’s a crazy feeling. And irrational. Until now, I’ve always got it right. Touch wood,’ he tells me.

Crowded House is one of Tony’s favourite bands. Which surprised me. We sang along to one of my favourite songs, 'Italian Plastic'. Well, he sang. I hurt the air with the off-tune squeak that is my singing voice.

Disney World is where Jono spent one of his favourite holidays. He was 9 years old. Yes, that makes sense.

Espresso is the only stimulant the DJs imbibe before the show. After Friday night’s set (which was 3 and a half hours long) Jono was still feeling the caffeine’s tweaky effect. And he only had one. On Saturday he settled for a cappuccino (lightweight!).

Fans adore the duo. Leaving both events, they were flogged by followers desperate for a picture, a signature or just a hug. ‘What does it feel like to be so loved by so many?’ I asked Tony. ‘Mostly it feels quite abstract,’ he tells me. ‘But there are times where it becomes real. I remember a few years back when my dad passed away, my family and I were really struggling to find something fitting to put on his tombstone. It’s going to be there for eternity so you really want to get it right. Not long after, a fan emailed me to say that one of his friends had died. He wanted us to know that they had chosen some of our lyrics to place on his tombstone. I was really moved by that.’

Groupies. Well, yes, there may have been some backstage but I didn’t notice any and if there were, the DJs weren’t, um, biting (!?). Although there were stories being whispered of other big-name international DJs who ask for girls from the crowd to be ‘delivered’ backstage. That’s no surprise, really.

HaloLive are probably some of the most enthusiastic local followers of A&B. They had a South African flag with ‘Above and Beyond’ plus the signatures of all their friends written on as a gift for the duo. It made me proud to see. Read below for their take on Friday night's show

Itineraries aren’t cast in stone, but there are certain daily routines that evolve – probably because they tour so often. Like always having dinner together before the show. It feels very casual, like a bunch of friends gathering to break bread, rather than a precursor to a mammoth show.

James, who played two fantastic warm-up sets over the weekend, is Jono’s brother, manages A+B and is A&R at record label AnjunaDeep. But what he’s most proud of is being father to toddler, Lucas. I spent time looking at pics and vids of his son on Saturday night – hardly the mayhem and mischief I’m sure many imagined was happening backstage.

Kid-like is one way I would describe Jono. He told us about a remote-control gadget he has that can turn off television screens from a distance. With a grin, he recounted how annoyed sports fans get when he uses it in the pub. I asked him whether he thought it would work with the Boombox visuals. His eyes glistened. Ed’s turned fearful.

Like most others who love all forms of dance music, Tony cites Ibiza as the best party place in the world. (Must. Save. Money.)

Many things can go wrong during a show like this. I was told of other Smirnoff shows where plugs were inexplicably disconnected, power cut out just before the doors opened and beer was spilled on the decks just as the headlining act stepped up. In the end, it all came together though.

Nerves don’t come into play. At least, I didn’t pick up on any. The DJs walk through the backstage area and up those stairs to the boombox as if theirs was a job that didn’t involve 10 000 (and often many more) screaming, dancing maniacs hanging on their every move.

Of both shows, Joburg was the bigger crowd but both ‘brought it’ equally. Afterwards Tony tweeted: ‘Final Score in a thrilling SA weekend, Cape Town 1, Jo,burg 1! Thanks to everyone who came, can't wait to come back. Txx’

Pool is not any of these boys’ strength. Andrea Spey (Godskitchen) and I beat the guys while playing at 15 on Orange. (Okay, it was only one game, but still).

Question sessions with journos happen sporadically between gigs and the guys are more than happy to sit and chat. Tony (and the crew) had a good laugh after Roger Goode introduced him as Tony McGuire on his radio show. McGuire? As in Toby? Erm….

Response from the crowd as they get up on stage is immediate. There is an instant roar as hands are thrown in the air. The music is turned louder, the heat becomes more tangible and it’s not long before the audience are losing their inhibitions, their clothes and their minds.

Smirnoff throw good parties. Honestly, this is not a plug or payback. They are tuned into what their market wants, utilise their budgets well to bring out the right acts and treat everyone – from the audience to the media to the artists – like VIPs.

Their set is stored on a tiny chip, no bigger that my thumbnail. ‘That’s tonight’s music,’ Tony told me ahead of Friday’s show as he slipped it into his pocket. ‘What, that?’ I ask, flabbergasted that something so small could hold so much – a multitude of layered, detailed and complicated tracks that were set to form that night’s soundtrack. I don’t know the technical aspects of how dance music is produced, stored or played but I do know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of that music, surrounded by thousands of like-minded monkeys, the sound crawling on my skin and shifting my DNA. It’s a big feeling. Much bigger than that chip.

Underneath the lights and behind the music, the madness, the magic and the fame are two of the most humble, uncomplicated guys I’ve met. It’s a weak cliché: they’re nice guys. But true.

Volume backstage is not as loud as what you’re experiencing up front. Regardless, most people wear earplugs. It’s a wise move…mine are still buzzing.

Wine is the entire crew’s drink of choice with dinner but the Smirnoff vodkas come out to play once the house lights go down.

X. Crap. What could I possibly write that starts with an X from the last weekend? Nothing. Moving on…

Yelling a track request at the DJs from the crowd while they’re playing really doesn’t work. (Yes, I actually did see this happen). They can’t hear you.

Zzzzz is hard to come by. With the erratic hours, you sleep when you can. For the DJs, this meant a little after the show and a little more either in the afternoon or evening. For the Godskitchen crew…well, I don’t actually think any of them slept. As for me, I too got minimal shut-eye. So, with that in mind I sign off and head to bed. For the rest of the week.

A word from the HaloLive boys:

In our recent audio interview with Above and Beyond the question was posed as to what the expectations are of a global electronic dance music act when visiting a “modest” destination like South Africa. But this past weekend a fusion of world-class talent, production and support from the trance and progressive loving South African public came together and there was nothing modest about it.

In the ten-odd years that we have been attending such events there are invariably howls of discontent with respect to some aspect of the production. Either there are issues relating to access control, insufficient bars and staff, the quality of the musical progression through the piece or even the price paid for a ticket relevant to the perceived value of the experience. This time round, though, the only complaints fluttering around Facebook, Twitter and other social media avenues relate to the magnitude of the hangovers and the number of subsequent days written off to recovery. We at Halo have to say a big 'well done' to promoter Juaan and the guys and girls at Smirnoff for pulling off such a world-class event and putting their faith in a genre of music that has previously been much maligned as it struggled to shake off the stigma attached to it from the “rave culture” days of the late 90s and early Noughties. The sound of Anjunabeats, featuring many forthcoming tracks from Above and Beyond’s new artist album, Group Therapy, engineered a tide of swaying hands on a sea of smiling faces, and presented the best face of this music that we so love and enjoy.

To all who came out on a mild November night and proved that Cape Town and JHB can stand alongside London, New York, Moscow and more, thank you. It was magical and we can’t wait for more.

In this shot: Cathy Lund, Tony McGuinness, Giselle, Jono and James Grant.

And if you missed the party, take a listen to this...

The Breakup Sick Day

Wed, 17 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

Put your hand up if you've ever called in sick at work because you were suffering from A Very Bad Breakup. Now, for those of you with hands down (the soldier-on types), raise one if while you were at work, suffering the symptomatic red eyes and sniffling nose, you did stuff-all all day but stare at your desk or the wall, stopping only to check your SMS's - and crying when there were none. OK, hands down, everyone.

Hime & Company, a Japanese marketing group, seems to have developed some empathy for staff going through breakups. They recently announced staff can take 'heartache leave' - employees aged 24 and under are given one day off per year; 25- to 29-year-olds get two; those older can take three days to recover. The sliding scale's presumably due to the fact the older you get, the harder it is to extricate yourself from the logistics of a long-term relationship - there are houses, dogs, Ikea futons and, sadly, possibly kids to think of.

So, how do you deal with a breakup? Do you stay at home or do you go to work and tough it out? I put this question to friends recently and they all agreed that Hime & Co were onto something. 'When my ex and I broke up, all I was capable of doing was sitting in front of the heater at home and crying. I may as well have been sick, my stomach was churning and there were plenty of tissues and snot,' says one friend, who was unceremoniously dumped by her boyfriend of two years.

Another broke up with her boy of four years and went to work the next day, but was far from productive. 'I'd be lying if I said I got anything done except reply to emails,' she says. 'Face-to-face contact was a nightmare, my eyes were so red. I wanted a distraction, but looking back, I should've just taken a day off and cried myself stupid, then come back.'

While a BSD (Breakup Sick Day) might seem an emotional indulgence to some, I think it's the way of the future. We all suffer when a long-term relationship ends but, if we're given a specific day to contain the grieving period initially, we won't mourn endlessly and fruitlessly for the next week. So, I'm calling on all employers to grant staff a much-needed 24 hours to sit at home and sniff their ex's old Billabong hoodie before pulling themselves together. It just makes individual and corporate sense…

COSMO goes Above and Beyond

Wed, 17 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

Many moons ago (and full-moon parties ago) I lived in Anjuna, Goa, a sliver of paradise on the west coast of India. Anjuna offers ‘the island experience’ without actually being an island. It is a moment of quiet in a country that is frenetic and loud. But it is far from silent. Anjuna has an underlying soundtrack that is trance. Deep, thumping, moody trance. We spent our days playing Zen traveller and our nights shuffling in front of DJs like Tsuyoshi Suzuki and Goa Gil. From there I shuffled my way straight back to Cape Town and soon it was places like The Ostrich Farm outside Malmesbury that formed a backdrop to my trance days. That and the living-rooms of Israeli friends I had met along the way. (Few in the world love trance more than Israelis.) And then I got sidetracked by indie-rock. It happens. I lost my tie-dyed ensemble (thank goodness) but never my love for the hypnotic dance genre.

So, years later, I’m super-excited about this weekend’s Smirnoff Experience as they host one of the world’s most popular trance acts Above and Beyond (see below for more details). If you went to last year’s Smirnoff Experience headlined by Armin van Buuren, you will have an idea of what to expect. Again we will be treated to the visual onslaught that is the Godskitchen Boombox. Only this year it’ll be even bigger. And this year COSMO will be capturing the experience behind the experience as we hang out with the crew and DJs involved in this year’s production. Follow us on Twitter (look for the hashtag ABCosmo) and on Facebook over the next five days for updates on what’s happening before, during and after both the Cape Town and Jo'burg parties, starting this afternoon as we head over to the Bellville Velodrome to meet the crew and check out the massive ‘boombox’ scaffolding being assembled. Then check back on Monday for the follow-up blog.

For now, all you have to do is press play below for a half-hour Above and Beyond treat, and read on as local trance and progressive music gurus HaloLive tell us more about what to expect this weekend.

From The HaloLive Boys:
It’s observed, ménage-a-trois aside for those so inclined, that ‘three’s a crowd’. But since the triad that comprises UK trance juggernaut Above and Beyond united in 1999, Paavo Siljamaki, Jono Grant and Tony McGuiness have dispelled this notion.
Since 2004 (coinciding with their critically acclaimed BBC Radio 1 ‘Essential Mix’) Above and Beyond have been regarded as the UK’s leading authority on producing and performing emotionally engaging electronic music. Subsequently exported across six continents, their global appeal garnered two consecutive DJ Mag Top 100 top 5 finishes in 2009 and 2010. Combining punchy kickdrums, grooving basslines, happy/sad lyrics and hauntingly beautiful melodies they have presented both club and commercial hits including No One on Earth, On a Good Day, Satellites and Buzz. The latter was used by Virgin Galactic as its theme when unveiling the world’s first commercial passenger spacecraft ‘Spaceship Two’ last year.

To their legions of fans Above and Beyond are to progressive and uplifting trance what Louboutin is to shoes. And much like that pair of 10cm high calf- and posterior-enhancing leathers staring at you through the boutique window, they’ve been largely inaccessible - until now.

This weekend they make their first official visit to SA, sultrily presented within UK super club brand Godskitchen’s ‘Boombox’. Conceptualised by Parisian design house 1024, the ‘Boombox’ is a 16m-wide, 8m-high and 6m-deep audiovisual extravaganza that debuted in 2009 to 16 000 fans in the Ukraine and subsequently become the most in-demand platform by dance music fans and the world’s most influential DJs alike for delivery of their aural artistry.
Sight, sound and friends come together in climactical proportions in Cape Town this Friday (Bellville Velodrome) and Jo’burg this Saturday (MTN Expo Centre, Nasrec ). Tickets are still available through Computicket.

Freedom To Have Fun

Tue, 16 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

Johannesburg is always a-buzz, and whether it’s day or night means very little to the party-people of this city. With the year coming to an end, invitations are flowing almost as fast as the champagne, and parties are happening everywhere.
The last few weeks have been spent dancing, coming home late and wondering where the next party will be – very different from my usual nights under the covers watching Jerseylicious and Keeping Up With The Kardashians!

The best event I was invited to was the Channel O Video awards, which were much anticipated by people from all over the continent. Being the procrastinator that I am, I waited until the last day to decide on an outfit. Luckily, one of the perks of having a junior fashion editor for a friend is that she always has an idea! After being styled and preened by COSMO’s Lilian, I picked up the rest of my friends, and we were more than ready for a night of decadent fun.

The Sandton Convention Centre was the place to be, and it was a pleasant surprise to see all the new faces. My friends and I hadn’t realised just how cute the guys from Ghana are - it looks like we have a definite destination for a 2011 holiday.

The event was well organised, with the aviation theme was really fun. After the actual awards show, we were treated to lots of food and an open bar. After checking out more eye candy and exchanging hugs with old friends, we moved onto the dance floor. There’s something so cool about having all your friends with you and a DJ that's totally switched on to your musical tastes. We ended up staying longer than planned because we realised that some of the eye candy we were enjoying were – sadly – going to be boarding a plane soon, never to be seen again...

After a series of other parties that included open bars, high-heels and a dance floor, I decided it was time to opt for a relaxing weekend. A friend had a braai and, as usual, his guests were an interesting mixture of opinionated people who, at the same time, don’t take themselves too seriously. Add some home-cooked food, a little bit of gin and a heated game of 30 seconds, and you have a Saturday to remember.

Big parties offer the chance to dress up, have a girl’s night out and hopefully spot some new talent in the eye candy department. Friends’ houses, on the other hand, are safe places to let it all hang out, where people are free to speak their minds, and everyone's more relaxed than they are at events. So, while there are no random cuties waltzing in and out, no open bar and no dance floor, you get to hang out, chill and really catch up with people you know and like. What I love about this city (and my job!) is that I'm able to choose. Here’s to freedom of fun!

The Booty Clock

Thu, 11 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

'And we made love all night long...' You've heard it in the movies and read it in your mom's Mills & Boons, but has it ever actually happened to you? To one of your friends? No. Because, in reality, the bumping about of your delicate bits for approximately nine hours straight would result in severe chafing, extreme cramps and the use of far too much lube. Who wants that? No one. And if you do? Eww.

After years of horny hippie folk chanting the praises of Tantra, and big-mouths in bars boasting about their bedroom stamina between mouthfuls of beer, a poll of 50 sex therapists (published in the journal of Sexual Medicine) has revealed that the best sex happens in 13 minutes or less. That's the same amount of time it takes me to make Marmite toast and eat it, or start wondering what I'm doing in this yoga class in the first place.

The sexperts involved in the study say they've made this info public in an effort to help calm unrealistic beliefs that good sex must last A Very Long Time. Personally, though, I've never needed a stopwatch to help me decide whether doing the deed was worth ruining an expensive blow-dry - an orgasm usually answers that.

But, what do everyday shaggers have to say - is timing the essence of the perfect 'rude hug? 'It all depends on the circumstances,' says my friend Susie*. 'Is it a quickie? If so, then yes, 13 minutes is plenty. Ever put something in the microwave for that long and waited, starving, in front of the door? It takes forever. Having said that though, time flies when you're having fun! If my boy and I don't have to rush to work or somewhere, I'd say 13 minutes is only acceptable for Round One.'

Hmmm… Then this from my colleague, Carol-Anne*: 'Let's remember, it's not a race - but neither do you want to be lying there humming the theme song from The Neverending Story. It's all about quality, not quantity.' So true, Carol-Anne, so true.

But what do men think? Yes, their opinion counts - and we must all fly the flag for equal opportunity. According to a poll, 50 per cent of guys believe 13 minutes is too short, and that 20 minutes is the best average length of time for sex to last. Other responses from the men surveyed included, 'Sex should go for longer on Christmas and on my birthday' - one guess why - and, 'As long as all 13 standard positions are used, time is of no consequence'. Um, excuse moi, 13 standard positions? At last count there were nine less than that in my bedroom But that's another column, for another day…

Doodle Talk

Wed, 03 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

Recently, I went spent a lazy Saturday afternoon sipping wine and catching up with my favourite group of girlfriends. As always, we did the kinds of things women do when there are no men around, like having ice in our wine and talking – in detail - about our sex lives. One friend admitted that she's terrible at giving blowjobs and, after a technical demonstration involving a squeezy bottle of All Gold Tomato Sauce (and much snorting by the rest of us), we agreed. The problem, though, was relatively minor – her oral and manual motions were simply out of sync, so we explained the 'move as one, he will come' theory, and then moved things along with another bottle and some bread and dip.

Then, another friend took the floor, boldly declaring 2010 to be her very own 'Year of No Doodle' - apparently, due to an 'eventful' '09, she'd seen the number of notches on her bed-post significantly rack up.

'No doodle at all?' I asked her.
'None,' she answered dramatically.
'If I want to meet my future husband this year having only slept with a respectable number of men, l need to put the brakes on – now!'
'But what about vintage?' asked another, resourceful friend. 'Surely you can recycle one or two guys from last year and still get some action without blowing your tally?'
My newly virtuous friend shook her head. 'There are slim pickings in old doodle, remember?'
Oh ja, we did… Recedo, the guy with the hairline situation. Yep, old doodle was definitely a no-do-over zone.

But, this doodle-talk got me thinking: women have come a long way in terms of sexual equality in recent years: in bedrooms today you'd be hard-pressed to find a woman who isn't (usually) on top, and we can discuss this fact in magazines like COSMO without shame or fear. But, despite this apparent egalitarianism (which, more than likely, sprang from the fact men like to lie back and have someone else do all the work) when it comes to the numbers game, things still don't add up.

'I don't like the Year of No Doodle,' l told my friend. 'Why should you have to stop having sex to be "respectable", when your future husband is probably out sowing his wild oats like crazy before he settles down? Why not, the Year of Quality over Quantity? Can't you just establish a three-week waiting period before you sleep with someone so you can weed out any dicks, literally and metaphorically, that you might regret later on?'

'Well,' she said, laughing and handing me her glass. 'Maybe you have a point. Put some ice in this chardonnay and I'll think about that.'

A Love To Remember

Thu, 04 Nov 2010 12:00 +0200

I’ve been involved with this guy for the past six months, and the relationship hasn’t been easy. Aside from only two visits a week and tons of emotional upheaval along the way, I'm really going to miss it now that it’s over. As you may already know, in my relationship with Idols I've been completely faithful. I only missed one episode in the entire series, and that was dramatic enough. My (real) boyfriend has had to be extremely patient, watching episode after episode along with me, and listening to my (admittedly, sometimes crazy) rants, and a few moments when I was bordering on being very Mara Louw with all my histrionics.

So finally, the Big Night arrived (feeling a bit like I imagine a wedding day would). And, like many excitable brides, I was in a state. My mind was racing. Would Elvis Blue win? Had I sent enough votes? Should I have bought another sim card to sneak in an extra 100 votes?

Idols fans have been known to get quite crazy, and over the past two weeks, there’ve been hectic disagreements about who should win. Some thought Lloyd should because he's really talented, but also because he's black and there's never been a black winner. Even though I gave some thought to the argument, I stuck to my guns and voted for Elvis because, in my opinion, he was, simply, the more talented of the two and Idols is not a race war. My opinion got me two DMs on Twitter telling me that, as a black girl, I should vote for the black guy. After quickly clicking ‘unfollow’ and ‘block’ on those accounts, I went on to spend half of my month's petrol budget voting for my man, Elvis.

The finale, when it finally came around, was exhilarating: hundreds showed up to the Mosaik Teatro in Fairlands, and it was huge excitement everywhere you turned. Interesting collaborations were put together by the Top 10, and some SA musicians such as Zolani, Steve Hofmeyer and HHP.

I enjoyed the performances as much as I could for somebody whose heart was racing faster than a taxi driver on the highway. To say I was in some kind of trance would probably be an understatement, judging by the look on my boyfriend's face which read, ‘what did I get myself into with this chick?’

After what felt like a lifetime, the winner was finally announced…Elvis Blue. True to form, I burst into tears and started dancing a jig. It felt natural for me to tweet before going on with my private party - after all, Twitter is the place where me and other like-minded fans had been gathering to dissect this relationship we’d all become so involved in.

When Elvis announced that he would be sharing the prize money with Lloyd, it all fell into place for me. Sure this is TV, but judging by the amount of investment we'd all put into it, it had become a lot more to a lot of people. That gesture, and the genuine friendship that had grown between Lloyd and Elvis, showed the country that there’s so much more to we human beings than winning and money, and it laid to rest all the race arguments that initially were being hurled around by disgruntled viewers. It showed that, way after the season has wrapped and after the show is over, love and kindness are what bind all of us together. Here’s to a great love affair.

The 'No Plans' Plan

Thu, 28 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

There I was, making communal kitchen conversation on a Friday morning as I chopped kiwifruit. Office workers will be familiar with the age-old script: 'I'm excited! What are you doing this weekend? I love your outfit, are you going out tonight?' These lines are invariably followed by the verbatim vice-versa come Monday morning: 'I'm tired. What did you get up to? Don't look at my outfit; I've had a big weekend...'

Recently, however, this long-established kitchen discourse has undergone a serious makeover. Everywhere, women are ditching over-committed weekends in favour of gleefully announcing they have 'no plans'. And feeling fantastic for it. It wasn't too long ago that having nothing to do on a weekend indicated your status as a social pariah; it was far from exciting, nor anything to exclaim to co-workers with glee. But there's been a seismic shift in what is considered a 'cool' way to spend your Saturday and Sunday. It's almost as if someone had overheard Kate Moss saying she'd be cleaning the house and watching DVDs of 24 all weekend – yep, suddenly it's the latest trend being 'tried on' by women everywhere. And guess what? It fits.

For me, sending panicked SMSes to pad out the hours between a Saturday manicure and Sunday lunch with Mom is a thing of the past. I've strategically planned to do nothing on the weekends for some time now and the reason is simple: I'm so tired from weekday life, I've had to learn to say no. For example, do I want to go out until 2am, spend the equivalent of a pair of Nine West heels on drinks and taxis, and feel like arse the next day? No, but thanks for asking… can we do coffee instead?

Don't get me wrong, I still have fun, but these days fun is a Friday night drink, backed up with brunch and a day at the beach. Over-committing once made me feel popular, as if my life was full. But, like many women, I've made a new commitment to give myself a break. And my life is 'fuller', because I now have more energy to enjoy it.

Monday rolls around and, creature of habit that I am, I'm chopping my kiwi again, chatting with colleagues about the movies we saw, yoga classes we took, and outfits that resulted from the soul-lifting amount of washing we did. Doesn't it just make you want to… do nothing?

A Rooftop Affair

Wed, 27 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

There are very few people I know who would say no to cocktails and entertainment on a rooftop on a sunny ride afternoon. This is why when I was invited to the NIK NAKS their launch, I ran out of the office at the speed of Lindsay Lohan running out of rehab.

The venue was the Rooftop and the uber trendy 44Stanley in Milpark. Well-known for bustling with fashionistas and arty-types, in a trendy and refreshing setting, there is nothing like it in Johannesburg. After a trek up the stairs, my partner and I were greeted by Parkour Jumpers. As amazing as this form of art is, it made me tense for the first hour. I kept thinking 'If one of these boys falls off this roof, I will die.' In reality they would, but let's not get morbid.

Psyfo was the MC for the event and he took us through the NIK NAKS journey, although there are very few people who don't know the brand. I have childhood and varsity memories of NIK NAKS – mainly me spending my money on shoes while living on NIK NAKS and rolls. When we finally got down to official business, the launch of the new Spicy Tomato flavour, lots of goodie bags were passed around and everyone happily tasted and agreed this flavour would be a welcome snack at 5am on a Sunday morning after a cheese burger pie.

After a brief overview of what plans the brand has in store for the rest of SA, Crazy White boy took to the decks to get the crowd in a weekend spirit. 'Is it too early to be enjoying gin so early?' asked my friend.

I've never enjoyed being the last to leave a party. But this party was an exception. When the maintenance staff began clearing away the chairs, some hung their heads, but I moved onto the next party armed with spicy tomato NIK NAKS.

Cash Crush

Thu, 21 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

I wandered through a department store recently, stroking and fondling things I had no right to. No, no, not the staff – shoes. But not just shoes shoes, I'm talking Prada, Chloe, Marc Jacobs and Stella McCartney shoes. The target of my affection was a pair of superb black-and-gold YSL pumps, which whispered to my credit card in a language only they share. I caressed the ankle straps and considered how much envy they'd inspire in my friends, how toned my calves would look in them, how hot they'd be with… Then l went home with a pair of R300 ankle boots. And an intense Cash Crush.

Just like a crush on your best friend's brother, the Cash Crush is not only based on aesthetic desire but a knowledge that you can't have it. Your salary will put a stop to that. (And if it doesn't, car repayments/kids/the addiction to poker will.) But the fact you can't have an object of desire won't stop you thinking about it. On the contrary, a Cash Crush – especially the fashion kind – consumes you. Until the next one comes along, anyway.

You'll experience little heart flutters when your 'crush' comes to mind, you'll devise 'clothing compilations' around it and you'll find any excuse to bring it up in conversation, with anyone. (Except your boyfriend because he would rather eat shoes than hear about those bloody shoes again.)

Anyone who ached for pink rollerblades as a seven-year-old knows the Cash Crush is nothing new, but the modern day version is out of control: we're punching well above our weight division. This is, in large part, thanks to our obsession with celebs and what they wear. No longer is 'a brown slouchy bag' an acceptable retail craving. No, now we hunger for Balenciaga's brown slouchy bag. And jeans? An R400 pair won't do. We want Ksubi because that's what Lindsay and Mischa wear. It's not that we're unhappy with our stuff from our local department stores… it's just we'd be happier if they were complemented with those hot Christian Louboutin heels we saw Ashley Olsen wearing.

And it's not all about fashion. My friend Sal, who has temporarily elected to spend her money on a stainless steel fridge and a LCD flat screen TV over social activity, says she needs her appliances to look designer, 'Or I get embarrassed when people come round'.

Sal's not alone. We hunger for the latest iPod even though our current one works fine. We dream of buying a R7 000 cockapoodle, when a staffy from the pound would be better karma-wise, and we can't help wishing our trip to Namibia was a trip to New York.

The key to diluting a Cash Crush is to switch your desire into gratitude for what you already have. Take stock of all the cool stuff you own, and think back to how desperately you needed those things once, too. I remember a man once telling me, 'Anyone can wear expensive clothes and look ordinary; it's wearing cheap clothes and looking amazing that's admirable.' Word.

Now I'm aware most of my Cash Crushes are obsessions with objects for the obscenely rich, and I'm enjoying what I already own. I now love my R300 boots. I get loads of compliments and they are exactly like a pair Kate Moss wears. Now all I need is that Burberry trench of hers…

Pink Is The New Cheeky

Tue, 19 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

Thursday nights, or Phuza Thursday as some fondly say, are always tricky for me. Somewhere between cocktails and fun times, lies an eight hour working day. So I tread carefully, trying hard not to upset my free spirited 'let's drink and dance until the sun comes up' and the 'I love my job so let me do it well' self. So when I headed out to the Brutal Fruit Cheeky launch, I knew I would need more than just a cheeky outfit to survive the night unscathed.

Twitter was abuzz with tweeps desperately trying to get their hands on the invitations; some even begged. The plush venue, ZAR at the Radisson Blu GauTrain hotel in Sandton, has become one of Jo'burg's biggest party spots. We arrived to a paparazzi-like wallpaper with camera flashes going off in every direction. The dress code for the evening was black with a touch of pink and true to form, the city's socialites came dressed accordingly.

Everyone was armed with pink Brutal Fruit's, which made it easier to mingle. The touch of pink in our glasses was a great way to compliment people's outfits. Bonang Matheba was the host for the evening and she kept the crowd entertained with her dramatic flair and contagious laughter. She even had a Skype chat with Kim and Kourtney Kardashian – they're heading to South Africa in December for more Brutal Fruit Cheeky Cranberry parties. And a lucky lady won herself an Audi and more will be joining her.

Plenty of schmoozing and air kisses were exchanged and I was happy to see old faces. We ate, mingled and when the hip-hop set came on, it was time to hit the dance floor. My plan was to be home by 10pm but the beats dictated my schedule. After all I met people I hadn't partied with since Varsity days, so leaving wouldn't have fitted the cheeky theme.

A few Brutal Fruits later, I was ready to swap my heels for flip flops but headed out to the balcony for those weird conversation smokers usually indulge in. A slightly intoxicated lady spoke to my friends and I about it raining semen (don't ask, I'm still traumatised). But luckily it started raining had and we managed to escape the rest of the conversation.

A few more cocktails later and about another hour on the dance floor made the balcony experience seem like a distant memory. This was by far one of the best together events of 2010. Look out for the December parties and be cheeky, it could just get you a new set of wheels.

TMI (Too Much Information!)

Thu, 14 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

What some people blog, vlog and flog on the Internet never ceases to amaze me. A few years ago, I was sent a link to a site set up by a UK woman who couldn't afford laser hair removal, so she appealed to cyberspace to raise funds for the deforestation of her bikini line. Online shoppers could purchase a single pube for around R1 350 in exchange for a small homepage ad – with an option to receive the goods in the real-life (RL) mail. And here I am, all this time, going for a budget Brazilian at my local salon and, it seems, waxing away a veritable goldmine.

Using the Internet to appeal for financial help isn't new. Karyn Bosnak, of www.savekaryn.com fame, polarised the trend when she established a site asking for one dollar from 20 000 people to pay off her credit card debt. Since cyberspace saved Karyn, it's amazing how far other 'entrepreneurs' are willing to go – and exactly how much they're willing to give of themselves to make a buck online.

Google it and you'll find women selling their dirty underwear or sweaty workout gear to perves across the globe. We've even seen then-18-year-old UK student Rosie Reid removed from eBay after trying to auction her virginity for £10, 000 (R108 400) to pay university fees. She eventually sold it on her own website for around R135 000. Selling out on the Internet appears to be a lucrative business, but what about the personal cost? The virtual realm enables people to enter to a comfort zone they don't enjoy in RL. Ask yourself: would 'milliondollarpubes' sell raffle tickets at the local pub to support her hair-free cause? No, because in reality, a firewall stands between us and gratuitous over-sharing with strangers – namely, the indignity, regret and shame.

I'm currently saving for an overseas holiday to New York and Mexico. And while it seems I could add weight to my bank balance by inviting cyberspace to splash out on my toenail clippings or old loofah gloves, I'd rather retain my freakish aversion to over sharing on the Internet (yes, friends who send requests, that's the real reason I don't have Facebook) and earn my trip the RL way – by stashing R500 each pay day. It's slower than broadband, but you know what? I can live with that.

Pyjama Jam

Wed, 13 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

I receive a lot of invitations to events, and most of them require me to wear cocktail dresses and look pretty. So when I was invited to a pyjama party, I didn't know what to do with myself. Firstly, I haven't owned a pair of pyjamas in years. I prefer to sleep naked and if I'm really forced to be chained down by restrictive clothes while I sleep, then a T-shirt does the trick.

This event was hosted by Pink Drive to raise awareness about breast cancer, so I called my friends who are into the pyjama theme and we made a date to party in our jammies. And then, of course, I set out to find some – my boyfriend wasn't too happy when I dragged him along without him realising no sexy lingerie would be bought.

That night the girls and I headed out to the beautifully decorated SiSi, a restaurant in Rivonia. The décor was pink (what else?) and tables were adorned with delicious desserts, making many women in their night clothes happy.

After exchanging formalities about the amazing work Pink Drive is doing, we were truly in for a surprise! Out of nowhere music began pumping and Speedo-clad boys flooded the room, gyrating away. Now that's how COSMO girls like to party!

'I thought you said this was a pyjama party, not a strip club,' one friend whispered. Gob smacked, we watched as the 20 or so men began dancing. So we did what any self-respecting COSMO girls would do; we joined them on the dance floor.

After working up a sweat, we tucked into a huge cake which was baked in the shape of boobs in a pink bra.

I hadn't realised until that evening how much fun one can have in pyjamas. Not only was this a great cause to support, even the Speedo boys were doing their part too. (Apparently the boys were trying to raise awareness for prostate cancer, which explains the barely-there bottoms.)

During the month of October, do your bit too; there's lots of fun to be had while helping to educate the masses. Even if it means stripping down a little.

The Disco-Kiss Test

Thu, 07 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

Findings by a New York university has revealed women place more emphasis on a first kiss and are more reliant on kissing as a 'friend assessment technique' than men, with the scientists claiming we've developed the disco-kiss as an evolutionary tool to find the right father for our kids. Insert Cher singing 'The Shoop Shoop Song' here… now there's proof It's In His Kiss. Yeah, That's Where It Is! Oh, Oh, Oh… Hug him…

Sorry.

A kiss, the research says, is a 'complicated exchange of information' – a woman's breath is an indication of her hormone levels and fertility, and a man's is a sign of his virility (with his saliva containing traces of testosterone). Talk about pressure to perform! Surely a first kiss comes with enough butterflies, (tongue or no tongue?). Do we really need the impending fate of marriage and babies flapping in our guts as well?

My own such kiss was at a backyard party with a pirate theme – not exactly the best setting for a life-changing judgment to be made. Was my breath fertile? I'd just eaten a sausage roll… Could I taste his raging testosterone? Actually, I think it was beer… And, guess what? We lived happily ever after, despite sharing 'information' that probably indicated a need to chew gum. This is because the first kiss isn't an exact science, and that's really half the fun. The ritual of kissing is found in 90% of human cultures, and in animals too. It's a universal means of showing affection. But in our world, where first kisses commonly occur as stolen moments in bars, cars and at pirate parties, it's hardly a fool-proof screening technique for finding The One.

Research starts with a hypothesis, and I'd like to propose one requiring further study by white coats: A guy may be a good kisser, but when it comes to relationship potential, for women, it's what happens after the kiss that counts. The experiment: Does he call you, often, and when he says he will? Is he kind and funny? Can he argue without anger? Will he share his friends and family, and the couch rug on cold nights? The result: while kissing is beautiful, chemistry creates a powerful attraction and Cher can sing a catchy tune, if a guy really is the Daddy of your unborn children, a nervous clash of teeth or scratchy beard won't count him out.

… Now, That's Where It Is! Oh, Oh, Oh…

Race Away

Tue, 05 Oct 2010 12:00 +0200

There are very few things that'll get me out of bed at 6am – the prospect of some 'guess who got it all this morning' sex and the sound of my nephew Bo wanting to play. The one brings me great pleasure while the latter is just my way of making sure that when I'm 80 and senile, Bo will be obliged to sneak some gin into my old age home. When I was invited to go on a car racing expedition with the Top 7 Idols finalists, my immediate answer was yes. Being the reality TV junkie that I am, I spend my Sunday evenings in bed watching while I tweet. During this time, no one's allowed to call me; I'm far too busy for that type of random distraction.

After accepting the invite, I was happily planning the event in my head when I got an e-mail saying we were going to be meeting at 7am. It took three days and a lot of whining for me to finally realise this is something I really wanted to do. So I headed out on Monday morning, half asleep but very excited.

I had a strategy; I wouldn't be overly nice to those I'd been talking mess about on Twitter. My heart wouldn't let me be that fake.

When the Top 7 first walked in I was struck by how beautiful Adeline is. She had no make up on and she still managed to look better than she does on TV. Then Elvis Blue, one of my absolute favourites walked in. To say the man is super sexy would be an understatement, so immediately I was awake and wondering why I hadn't bothered to put on any eyeliner.

We split into two groups, a mixture of journalists and Idols. I was in a group with Boki (another favourite of mine), my new crush Elvis, and Adeline. We were taught how to manoeuvre trendy Ford Figo's on a skidpan. After we got over our initial bouts of nerves, we had a blast competing to see which one of us was the most fearless driver.

After a series of other driving exercises, we took time to just hang out, get to know each better and share a tasty meal. I found Pieter West and Jess (who was sent home this week) to be more reserved. Pieter had a boyish shyness about him which I found quite endearing.

I ended up spending loads of time with Elvis and Boki (who I promised to reacquaint myself with when he's five years older). Lloyd was also a pleasure to be around, warm and sweet, just how he seems on the show. We discussed marriage and careers, and it felt like a catching up with friends I hadn't seen in a while. That's the gift and the curse of TV, we sometimes feel like we already know the people we watch on our screens. To find out that they are really cool people off the camera was fascinating.

After a tasty lunch, lots of laughter and a little bit of flirting from me (or maybe a lot, it depends who you ask), I headed home. New friends, helpful driving skills and a new crush was not a bad way to start a week.

When You Fall For A Taken Man

Thu, 30 Sep 2010 12:00 +0200

Dr Thomas Lewis, co-author of A General Theory of Love (Random House) says many women will have feelings for a claimed man at some point, because we're wired to covet things that are hard to get. And these kinds of feelings can seriously disrupt your emotional wellbeing. Crushes are generally harmless if you don't act on them. (If you do, you can expect some major fallout.) Still, there's just something irresistible about the unavailable guy…

Leggings, jumpsuits, ballet flats, shift dresses – these trends catch on because humans have natural impulses to seek out hot commodities. This is true with guys, too: if another woman (especially one you respect) digs him, in your mind he registers as quality goods. But you've got to put it in perspective – he only seems flawless because you are checking him out from a distance. 'You don't know what he's like behind closed doors,' says Lewis. Who knows what nasty habits he's hiding?

Ever wanted a rare handbag so badly, you drove to a shopping centre two hours away to track it down? That same strain of desire is what afflicts you when a guy with a girlfriend catches your eye. 'It's called frustration attraction: the more difficult something is to attain, the more we long for it,' says Helen Fisher, author of Why We Love (Holt McDougal). Here's how it works: every time you have a craving, your brain releases a chemical called dopamine into your body, which invigorates you to go after your goal. When an obstacle (in this case, his girlfriend) prevents you from getting the target, your brain pumps out extra dopamine, making you super-focused on the hunt. To tame it, 'Remind yourself that it may be just the challenge may is firing you up rather than the actual guy,' says Arthur Aron, psychology professor and author of Love And The Expansion of Self (Hemisphere).

Finding The One can be pretty tough. It's hard weeding through the C-listers to meet an A-grade partner, and that may be why you're obsessing about The Taken Man – it means you can avoid the singles scene. Ask yourself, do you have a thing for this guy because it's easier than looking for a partner of your own?

To shift your energy to an available man, pinpoint what you admire in the off-limits guy (i.e, he's funny and kind). 'This will guide you to what you want in a man,' says Dr Lewis. And wouldn't you sleep better knowing you'd got him fair and square?

The Take Care

Thu, 23 Sep 2010 12:00 +0200

I dated this guy once. We fell in lust; played sleepovers; introduced our friends; SMSed each other incessantly, and proposed things we knew we’d never follow through with. It was glorious. Then, he went overseas for two months. At first we SMSed daily. We enthusiastically pursued Skype. Then it trickled down to the odd e-mail. Finally, it waned to sporadic SMSes when we were drunk or lonely. And then one day I SMSed him and got this reply: ‘Hey babe. I’m buying fresh lobster at the markets. Hope everything’s good in your world. Take care x.’

AT THAT MOMENT I KNEW IT WAS OVER…
I had been ‘Take Cared’. And when you’ve been Take Cared, you simply get your coat and leave quietly. Or else you risk being a ‘Person Who Just Doesn’t Get It’ and these are the people who earn the unfortunate role of ‘The Psycho’ in dating folklore.

When the guy you’re seeing finishes a SMS, e-mail or conversation with Take Care, it’s him saying, ‘Hey, we had fun, but I’ve moved on, so look after yourself, and, well, probably don’t contact me anymore.’

‘But, but,’ screams your heart, ‘Can it not just be him genuinely wishing me health and happiness?’ Sure it can. For good. Because what can you write back to Take Care? Aside from, ‘You too’. You can’t write squat. It’s designed to come across as final, because it is final.

The genius of the Take Care lies in its subtlety – it’s at once pleasant and brutal. When I told my friends I’d been Take Cared, no explanation was required. ‘Oooh, ouch,’ said one. ‘What a pussy,’ said another.

Was he a pussy? Well, yes and no. He at least had the decency to use the new universal codeword for ‘It’s over’. But he also took the liberty of playing Relationship Executioner without asking me whether I too thought our expiry date had been reached.

We decided he was an asshole. Below my tough-guy exterior, I was hurt. But on some foul karmic strata within, I knew I deserved my Take Care… After all, how many times had I Take Cared guys?

IT WAS ACTUALLY INVENTED BY GIRLS
Women Take Care guys a lot. We’re too emotionally aware to simply never call again (like guys do), so we say something ‘nice’ instead. (Then we never call again.) For us, saying Take Care is like the ‘Drive Safe’ or the ‘Look After Yourself’. It’s that motherly thing; it’s innate.

Know this one? A new guy you’re ‘not really feeling’ shows some interest. You say, ‘Thanks so much, blah blah, soooo busy. Take Care.’ The words may vary slightly (‘Speak soon,’ or ‘Have a great weekend’ minus the hope-giving ‘xx’ – are popular choices), but the formula is the same: we issue the Take Care and get on with things – happy it ended sans bad blood. And therein lies the reason we ladies hate getting Take Cared; it has always been our relationship-severing device.

THERE ARE WORSE DATING FATES…
The Take Care isn’t a particularly nice thing to experience. But it’s a whole lot better than the deafening roar of silence. So, the next time you see or hear those two little words, remember what you said to the last guy you ‘weren’t that into’. Because if what you said to him wasn’t, ‘I’m gay,’ chances are, you gave him the Take Care.

Seems all really is fair in love and dating. You take care now...

Girls Night Gets Educational

Wed, 22 Sep 2010 12:00 +0200

I like to think of myself as a liberal girl and most of my friends are the same. To maintain a balance in my life, I’m also friends with people who are more conservative than me – this generally means people who won’t think midget porn is appropriate dinner table conversation. But last week I received an e-mail from *Lungile, one of my slightly more conservative family members, asking if I could give her tips on how to give a good blow job.

My first reaction was to laugh out loud. When did I become the go-to-girl for sex tips? Sure I work for COSMO, but I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or not. So I decided to ask *Morgan, a friend of mine who is anything but conservative, if she thought it was okay to hand out these kinds of tips to docile loved ones.

I’ve had my fair share of experiences, most of the ranging from good to great. After my years o trying new things, the last thing I wanted was to rob my cousin of the chance to explore and experiment. Sure I can rattle of the COSMO dos and don’ts, but would it be fair? Probably not, as my very wise gin-loving friend pointed out. ‘The whole aim of exploring your sexuality is that you try things out yourself and build from there,’ she said.

So I invited my cousin over for drinks. Thinking back, I recalled how she used to gag at the very mention of a penis. So for her to be using the word in the same sentence as ‘fun’ and ‘I want to’ was enough to make us break out the finest gin and celebrate.

Two hours into our ‘cock tales’, we decided a little bit of encouragement would go a long way in helping this sister out, and drew up five simple and not very graphic commandments.

BLOWJOBS 101
1. Relax, it’s supposed to be fun and it’s really not rocket science.
2. Don’t do it if you’re not comfortable.
3. No one is interested in your teeth, please keep those to yourself.
4. Balls have a tendency to feel neglected, you don’t have to pop them in your mouth, but you can touch them.
5. Most guys are extremely grateful that you’re willing to go down on them, and often return the favour.

At COSMO we’ve been sharing our best tips with our readers for years. So, should the occasion ever arise when a girlfriend asks you for a few bedroom tips, simply direct her to the experts. Us! Go on…share with your friends.

Rumour Racing

Thu, 16 Sep 2010 12:00 +0200

When the news came through that Michael Jackson had passed away, I was waking up and rolled over reaching for my Blackberry. I checked my Twitter account and gasped ‘Michael Jackson’s dead!’ It was, oooh, maybe two or three hours after the news had broken on TMZ.

I was shocked. Immediately I SMSed my best friend and also boyfriend. Boyfriend hit back with, ‘I know, sad huh?’ Best friend came back with, ‘I know, how sad… it’s a Lady Di moment.’

I was now not only super-shocked about the death, but in shock. How did they know this so soon? I shouldn’t have been so surprised. News, rumour and gossip now possess their own brand of speed. And as it surpasses both the speed of light and sound, it makes things extra-difficult when you prefer giving, not receiving, gossip.

Yep, forget skimming the newspaper – checking gossip sites and blogs to see what’s fresh in Celebrity Land’s has been the before-work ritual for years. See, we need to stay in touch with those who know the gossip first on a macro-scale, so we can be the ones to report it on a micro-scale, whether that’s at the office or within friendship circles.

No Prizes For Coming In Second
Now you have to know the latest gossip to get people’s attention. And you’ve got to know it pretty much the nanosecond it happens, because if everyone already knows the news, you just look out-of-touch.

But why do we care about wanting to break news first? Why do we need to win the Rumour Race? Why do we panic if we get some salacious gossip or the hot new YouTube clip, and can’t re-send it that second because our Inbox is full? Well, it’s less about the fodder and more about the need to report. And report first. After all, what’s more enticing than being able to say to Emma, ‘So… did you hear about Jill?’, when you know Emma most definitely has not heard about Jill. She in the know equals hero. She is the Great Holder of Knowledge.

Is Winning Really About Losing?
Ultimately, gossip is a form of lady one-upmanship. Men have rugby and plasma TVs to illuminate prowess within their gender – we have the Rumour Race. Celebrities aside, if you know the big news within your social/family circle first, you clearly have good moral fibre to be trusted with the knowledge and brilliant sources. It’s a status symbol. The verbal equivalent of a Gucci bag.

Or is it a fake Gucci bag? Is the practice of spreading stories – malicious or not – really so admirable? Is it as empowering as we believe it to be? Probably not.

Yes, providing verbal kerosene gives a thrill, but next time someone beats you to the punch, just let it go. It doesn’t matter. Life is so fast now that by the time the Internet, SMS and e-mail have done their work, news is old in around three minutes, anyway. You’re far better off impressing your friends by reading COSMO and entertaining them with clever new terms…

Spring Fever

Tue, 14 Sep 2010 12:00 +0200

There’s something about spring that not only brings life to people, it comes with a touch of folly as well. This is my 26th spring and for the last 10 seasons I’ve taken part in the craziness – usually with minimal clothing and a cocktail in my hand.

I decided that the spring of 2010 will be my grown-and-sexy-spring. This means just as much fun as before, except kissing random men and drinking more than my weight will no longer be an option. (I used to be quite good at pulling into random men, but I guess growing up changes a lady.)

As I manoeuvre myself around the city, watching the crowds catch ‘spring fever’, I wonder if the seasonal behaviour has anything to do with the sudden burst of pollen in the air. This doesn’t happen in winter, we’re all too busy trying to figure out the warmest way to move from the couch to the bed. A friend of mine has succumbed to the love craze that’s blossomed in Jo’burg. She met a boy, 10 days later decided she was in love with this boy, and is now rearranging her life around said boy.

Another friend has quit her job and is probably having cocktails somewhere as I write this. She has no source of income and no Plan B, but somehow the cocktails will be poured. Despite my grown and sexy summer plans, I am now jealous. Why haven’t I lost myself to spring yet?

When I was invited to an open discussion with my liberal, bordering on hippie friends last night, I knew this could be where the fun finally finds me (minus the Fanta party). We spoke about sex, we laughed until it hurt, but this wasn’t really unusual. So, this morning, I was left feeling slightly empty.

I began thinking that maybe this lack of the uncontrollable need to shake off winter with random men and cocktails had been caused by my newfound aunt status. Then my sister reminded me that baby Bo is six months old and doesn’t care what I do with my life.

So, desperately trying to recapture the spring fever, I decided on something else. I have decided to look at my life as the exciting journey that it already is. Sure I’m not lazing on the beach with hot Greek men or sunbathing on a yacht in St Tropez. I am, however, sipping cocktails at fabulous places, reading books in bed with a man I love, singing karaoke sober, having toe curling sex, and sitting on my roof in a bikini on hot Sunday afternoons. Here’s to my 26th spring!

The Boyfriend Cave

Thu, 09 Sep 2010 12:00 +0200

You and your best friend do everything together. Boxing twice a week. E-mailing/SMSing each other 43 times a day. Performing exhaustive mutual outfit consultation for Big Nights Out. Returning home mid-dawn after dancing and breaking hearts. Then she finds A Guy.

They fall into a wild frenzy of courtship and lust. She also falls off the face of the earth. Your phone goes silent, weekends are lonely and eventually you start to get closer to Other Best Friend, because Occupied Friend may as well have moved to Turkey. Five months later, the perfect couple split and your phone trills. Occupied-Now-Vacant Friend wants a shoulder to cry on, a bottle of bubbly and a new dress for the next Big Night Out.

‘Well,’ you think to yourself, ‘It appears she’s finally out of The Boyfriend Cave.’

The Boyfriend Cave is where a woman retreats when she’s in a new relationship, leaving her life – and friends – to wait expectantly outside for her to re-emerge. That’s if she ever does; some women quite like the Cave life. It affords them happiness, comfort and all the time they want with the only person currently renting real estate in their head. Single life seems hard in comparison – busy, frantic, uneventful… even meaningless.

It’s hard to be the one left behind when a friend enters The Cave. Whether you’re already in a relationship yourself, or you’re single and now one friend down, it’s strange to lose someone you adore to a person they have literally known for weeks. You feel replaced, neglected, indignant. And then, when it carries on past the reasonable honeymoon period – three months in The Cave is all a loyal friend should stand for – you start to feel angry.

You are happy for her, of course you are, but what happened to mates before dates? How dare she simply drop you for a guy, after all you’ve shared? And where is her sense of friendship? Doesn’t she know there’s no better way to keep man interested than by keeping your life while in a relationship! You’d never do this to her! Or would you? Well, you might.

When you’re falling in love you become so dizzy you don’t eat, sleep or breathe much, and you fall behind on calling Mom, let alone your friends. After a few months, the vast amount of time you and ‘Schnooky’ spend together seems natural: you can’t even remember how much you used to hang with the girls, and, well, to suddenly call them up and suggest a drink ‘like old-time’ brings with it unbearable awkwardness.

So you drift further apart; the betrayer housing a blend of guilt and denial, and the betrayees a simmering resentment. Sometimes the damage is irreversible, or you’ll get grudging acceptance with a hint of thinly veiled sarcasm (‘Ohhh, so you do still have my number’), but an apology and genuine forgiveness will work to begin healing things.

While it can be frustrating to watch, you can’t blame a friend for going into The Boyfriend Cave. After all, you may nest in there yourself one day. (But hopefully you won’t after reading this.) What you can do is gently remind your friend that you love her so much that you insist on maintaining at least one activity a week together. And if she still doesn’t make an effort after a while? Tell her how you feel before you go and write her off completely. She may be too scared to broach it with you, and you owe your friendship that much. No love even then? Send her a lady-loincloth and move on. She’s clearly living in the Stone Age.

The Self-Startler

Thu, 02 Sep 2010 12:00 +0200

Picture this: the guy you’re dating has just asked you away for the weekend. He smiles at you expectantly. His excitement is both contagious and astonishing. Since when did guys suggest The First Weekend Away after just 11 days and three hours? Then again, he’s been pretty full-on since you met. Not in an ‘away with you, you slimy stalker’ kind of way, but in a ‘this guy’s not beating around the bush’ kind of way. In fact, he’s all but standing in the middle of the bush with a neon sign saying, ‘I'm so ready for a relationship!’ But what you may not realise is that this guy could be a self-startler.

The self-startler is a fascinating male specimen. He bowls into your life spewing affection, calls, SMSes, dates, kisses and dinners in a way that leaves you spinning and believing there really are people out there who don’t play games. (As opposed to those who say they don’t, but screen your calls and wait two days to return an SMS.) And then, in a quiet moment, he reflects on his behaviour and is startled about how fast the relationship is going. (Hence his title: self-startler). He then disappears.

Self-startlers show 100% interest, immediately. They pounce as soon as you log on to Skype. They call you twice a day. They suggest going to see a movie, then set up a concrete time and day, which they then follow through with, pay for and end with a gentlemanly kiss. In short, they propel a relationship at a pace usually reserved for men in white slacks throwing red balls at men holding bats in equally fetching white slacks.

It all happens so fast and is of such intensity, you get caught up in the ride and start doing non-you things, like seeing him every day or wearing tracksuit pants on the third date. But one random day, it all stops… a seismic relationship shift occurs.

It goes from him gushing ‘l can’t wait for you to meet Mom!’ on Sunday evening to a deafening silence on Monday. No beep-beeps, no bring-brings, no bold name in your inbox; it’s as though he‘s fallen off the proverbial end of the earth. And because he’s been making so much damn noise the past few weeks, you genuinely fear he has actually fallen off something. (Your roof as he was leaving flowers outside your window, possibly.)

When Wednesday rolls around and you haven’t heard a peep, you send a breezy-yet- meticulously-edited SMS, only to get this bomb in reply: ‘Sorry, been busy. I’ve been thinking we should put the brakes on a bit. Take care and let’s have coffee sometime.’ What the hell?!

This is what happened: he freaked himself out. He peaked too early and, well, he scared himself off. You, for the record, had nothing to do with it; you were just a pawn in the whirlwind of his intoxicating courtship.

But how can there exist such a devastating hot-to-cold transition? It’s called a moment of clarity. Somewhere in his head, his bachelor-boy alter ego manages to get five minutes of airtime and grabs his accelerator boy part of his personality (who’s humming love songs and planning The Next Perfect Date), and says, ‘Fool! What are you doing? At this rate you’ll be living together within a week! Have you forgotten what it’s like to be carefree and single?’ At which point Accelerator Boy realises, yep, he’s in too deep and needs to bail. Pronto.

It could be that he was just role-playing, trying the whole relationship scenario on before buying (and finding) it didn’t quite fit. Or he might genuinely have believed he was in love and quite liked it, but then it all became too overwhelming. (His fault entirely, of course).

Sadly, there’s no way to predict whether you’re being swooned by a self-startler. And some guys do actually operate in an intensely romantic Gone with the Wind type of way, so you can’t just dismiss any guy who shows fairy-tale-style interest in you. Sure, keep your head firmly attached when you stroll into Relationship Town, but keep an open mind, too. Enjoy the walk. After all, even if he does suddenly freak out and rack off, if you’ve been dating a self-startler, you probably enjoyed the kind of turbo-romantic courting most of us only dream about. And that would never be something you’d regret, would it?

Jozi Nights - Why I May Start Drinking Beer

Tue, 31 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

Fun and fearless as I am, I’m one of those women who have always had a problem with other women drinking beer. You see, my mothers voice lives in my head; even in my sleep I can hear what she would be saying in any given instance. Through the years I managed to shut out of that voice from time to time but it has always led to disaster – like my smoking habit.

My mom is against women drinking. But the thing that horrifies her (and me) the most is the sight of a woman holding a beer bottle. There's something about brown bottles that screams shebeen, or maybe it has more to do with the fact that I grew up in a township. Although I’m not much better with my double gin and tonic in hand, I’ve always convinced myself that it’s at least not in a brown bottle.

A few weeks ago I was happy with my beer judgement when Peroni decided to invite me to two of their events. ‘I wonder what makes them think I’m a beer girl,’ was my first thought, and then I and decided to go, being the investigative journalist that I am.

On a sunny Sunday afternoon I headed to the first Peroni event – and my first polo game – with my best friend in tow. We walked into a beautifully styled marquis with beautiful girls in red dresses welcoming us in. The food was exquisite, the music perfect for a laid back Sunday afternoon and the crowd was a classy mix of trendy socialites and well-dressed corporate types. Although there were plenty of Peroni bottles all over the room, at no point did it feel like a rugby-match-type occasion. ‘Maybe beer isn’t always so manly and gross,’ I whispered to my friend.

A few days later, it was Phuza Thursday and perfect for a girls night out. Every last Thursday of the month, Jo’burg is graced with Analogue Nites – a mixture of live entertainment and hot DJs on the decks. These nights are for a slightly older crowd, post graduate with no intention of acting the fool and no need to baby sit their best friends. This was the scene for the second Peroni party.

Dressed in pumps and excitement at the thought of a 340ml performance and a few mixes by DJ Kenzhero, I began wondering if my prejudice against beer wasn't a bit old fashioned, and frankly unfair. With these recent events, Peroni is on a mission to personify style, class and a fun attitude. And clearly it's working. It's got an anti-beer girl like me changing my perceptions. Who knows, maybe next time you’ll spot me holding a green bottle, if I can find that mute button on my mother’s voice.

Little Miss Wingwoman

Thu, 26 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

I was at the races recently when an attractive young woman approached me. She smiled, asked my name, commented on my dress and then casually asked if I was there with my boyfriend. I wondered if she was selling something, but she hadn’t mentioned a new brand of vodka yet and I kind of figured she wasn’t chatting me up (she was wearing an engagement ring!). When she started talking about her friend Luke and how great he was, I thought maybe she was a swinger on the prowl. I was quietly flattered, of course, that she thought I was that saucy (note to self: busty, green dress is a winner). Turns out, though, she was a self-proclaimed ‘wingwoman’ – a woman who methodically scouts dates for single guys.

Two minutes later she was gone; four minutes later she was back – with the aforementioned Luke. She introduced us with some nonsensical bit of chitchat, then started chatting to one of my friends. So... Luke and I talked. And he left with my number. Which I realised was the plan all along. The girl had ‘sold’ Luke to me before bringing him over. Slick as a rat with a gold tooth, I tell you.

They wingwomen is an evolution of the wingman – the friendly, confident icebreaker in a group of guys who ‘warms up’ women while the other guys hang back and wait for their invite. The popularity of the wingwoman is largely fuelled by the unpopularity of the wingman. See, us ladies are savvy to wingman ways. We’ve developed reactive defence mechanisms (sometimes, but not always, involving fake and interminable toilet trips) to use on any guy brave enough to come over and prep us for his mate, Barry the trout farmer. Now, on the other hand, if Barry the trout farmer sent over an affable young lady to subtly do some groundwork first, his chances at cracking the group might be marginally better.

The Wingwoman Way
So, this is how it works. Mr Shy Single Guy decides he’s sick of not picking up. So, he asks Good Female Friend to go with him to a bar or hires himself a wingwoman. The two settle in with a drink and discuss what Mr Shy Single Guy’s after. Wingwoman is then given her target, possibly along the lines of, ‘Wow, I wouldn’t kick that blonde in the pink top out of bed for eating Nik Naks!’, but hopefully a little more discreet than that.

Wingwoman sets off, telling Mr Shy Single Guy to come over in five minutes. She advances upon Pink Top Blonde and her friends, starts a conversation and, using flattery and friendliness, is accepted into the group. Wingwoman ensures that she drops into the conversation how great Mr Shy Single Guy is. (Soft lies may be used for efficacy.)

This paves the way for Mr Shy Single Guy to make his entrance. Once there, wingwoman introduces him, ‘Oh, here he is now – just back from his Save The Dolphins conference,’ then chats with another woman so Pink Top Blonde and Mr Shy Single Guy can get to know each other – alone.

So, Is It Better To Just Wing It?
Some women will be able to smell a wingwoman a mile off. I didn’t know what was going on when I was approached, but I did think something was up. After all, the last time a female approached me in such a friendly manner was when I was eight. (Her name was Tara; she decided that as we both had bike pants on, we should be friends). Nevertheless, my wingwoman experience proved this stealthy pick-up scheme works – I did give out my number after all.

Yep, it’s a pretty good bet for guys wanting action. (Plus, having a wingwoman sounds like they’re a superhero and they have a sidekick – attractive in itself, really). Of course, these men could just get some balls and approach women themselves, but why face possible rejection over the face of a pretty wingwoman?

That's a Wrap!

Sat, 21 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

Today is the last day of COSMO SUMMER shoots and everyone is a little on edge. It’s been a hectic stint for the production crew – 10 days that, at times, felt like a weird combination of Groundhog Day and The Truman Show. Wake up, hair and makeup, breakfast, styling up, shoot, lunch, hair and makeup, styling up, shoot, supper, sleep, repeat, repeat, repeat… Ian’s tired of waiting for everyone in the lobby; Anthony’s tired of the vans we use as transport; Kelly’s tired of rubbing oil into models’ bodies and I’m officially tired of drinking sparkling water and feeling spare.

We’re just tired, man.

It’s a hot day, so we hit the Valley Of The Waves early. It opens to the public at 10am, and we need some clean ‘beachy’ shots for the Guess spreads. Too bad the (insert your chosen alcohol distributor here) conference doesn’t get the memo – they waltz across Anthony’s set in a manner befitting a herd of wildebeest as they make their way to the amphitheatre above us for a ‘ra ra’ power talk before they check out.

The Valley starts filling up with parents and kids, so the crew moves around to avoid the crowds. For the remainder of the morning, I’m delegated to watchdog duty – we can’t keep on moving the gear every time we do a new shot, so it stays in one place and it’s my turn to keep an eye on it. Just as well I’m there – a bunch of foreigners who speak no English move in on the reflective sunbounce and, taking it for a blanket, start spreading their worldly goods all over it as if they belong there and plan to stay. I have to resort to expansive and rather firm hand gestures to convey the ‘don’t put your stuff on this’ sentiment, but I’d rather be hated on by a bunch of strangers than face the wrath of Anthony if any of his equipment gets damaged on my watch.

And then, just like that, it’s all over. We pack the gear into one of Anthony’s beloved vans and head back to the hotel, where Groundhog Day continues with lunch. It’s the first time in a long time the whole crew’s been at lunch simultaneously; they all look a touch bemused and lost at the thought of no 3pm call time.

But the feeling doesn’t last long: taking charge, Ian organises a supermarket trip to get provisions (booze) for tonight’s wrap party and outfits (hideous) for our last day at Sun City, which we’ll be spending at the Palace. At the heated pool. With cocktails in our hands. And the possibility of a conga line once we’ve drunk them…

It’s going to be an interesting 48 hours.

Over and out.

Blowing Hot Air

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

If I could travel everywhere in a hot-air balloon, I would. But that’s not the first thought that crossed my mind as my alarm went off at 4am on the morning of Day Nine – the first thought was far more succinct. And rude. Bleary-eyed, I made my way through the casino to the lobby, unbelievably past some slot machines that were already (or still) occupied.

We were picked up by a Game Trackers guide and taken in a game-viewing (read: open-air) truck to the centre of the Pilanesberg Nature Reserve. It was pitch black and freezing cold, and there were fresh signs of elephants in the vicinity of the road. The guide’s shotgun was loaded and ready, and there were three spotlights trained on the surrounding bush. They picked out a giraffe and a couple of hares, but luckily no angry elephant herds.

In the distance, we noticed several bursts of bright light – our pilot was testing the burners, we were told. As dawn began to break, we got closer and closer to the sound of the giant fans being used to fill up the AirTrackers balloon. It was bigger than I imagined and very ‘Around The World In 80 Days’. Soon we were climbing in, blowing some hot air and taking off into the morning sky.

If you ever get a chance to ride in one of these, do not hesitate. It’s the most peaceful and balancing feeling in the world – so calm, quiet and restorative, and pretty much out of your control. The pilot can adjust the altitude but there is no way to control the speed at which the balloon moves or the direction it takes. It’s entirely dependent on the movement of the air. But you don’t think of any of that when you’re up there. In fact, in my ecstasy over not having to deal with accelerator levers, brake handles or anything that involved sitting down, I didn’t think of much at all.

So if I could travel everywhere in a hot-air balloon, I would – but I do realise how impractical it would be as transport in Cape Town. And I don’t even want to think about landing and parking one of these – at least in the Pilanesberg there are wide open spaces (albeit populated by lions and rhinos).

While I was having my lofty experience, the team was busy with underwater shots in the heated Cascades pool, some of them allegedly involving Huey. (These reports are unconfirmed and photographic evidence is scant.) In the afternoon, production moved to the Royal Staircase for the last editorial shots at the Palace. The set was briefly invaded by a troop of baboons; they strolled on through without causing too much chaos.

On the note of baboons, one tried to break into Suga’s room while she was having an afternoon nap. As in, he pulled at the handle of the sliding door – twice – as though to check whether he could get in. Perhaps, like my love-tapping elephant, he was trying to flirt with her… but only succeeded in giving her the fright of her life.

A Pain In The

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

Today, my dreams of owning a Ducati (or, for that matter, completing the Dakar Rally) were ground into dust. Quite literally.

But first things first.

I can’t really swim. I can stay afloat for a couple of minutes without drowning but I look so ridiculous doing it that I try to avoid most aqua activities. Which has nothing to do with motorbikes or dust, but it does explain why I was marginally apprehensive about trying out the Jet Skis at Waterworld on the morning of Day Eight. I hesitated for well over an hour while the team was busy with additional Havaianas shots, before our videographer Roland Sweet finally convinced me that a) I was not going to drown and b) he would not try, in any way, to upset my balance.

I did one lap of the lake with an instructor and realised there was not much trickery to the acceleration lever (you’ll see why this is funny just now). And with Roland not allowed within 10 metres of me, I was pretty sure I could stay upright too.

It turned out to be excellent fun. By lap three, I was branching out into (very slight) turns and zigzags while Roland literally made waves around me. It helped that the Sun City Jet Skis’ speed is limited to, well, nothing; even someone with my (lack of) coordination is pretty safe on them. And my parking, according to the instructor, was impeccable.

Ha.

The rock-star feeling lasted until 3pm, when I was shown how to drive my second vehicle for the day: a quad bike. While an acceleration lever was very much on my level of understanding, once two different brake handles were thrown in, I was in my own personal hand-eye-coordination hell. No matter, though, I thought: I’ll go slowly, I’ll get used to it – this too will be fun.

Negative. By the time I almost drove into a fence for the third time, I lost my sense of humour; by the time I stalled the quad bike for the fourth, so did our Game Trackers guide. Queue tears (mine), mild panic (his), frustration (ours) and the outing was headed for disaster – until Julia (who’s a quad-bike goddess) saved the day by saying she’d drive me the rest of the way.

Ever been on the back of a quad bike? Yeah, they don’t exactly come equipped with a cushy back seat. Metal bars plus rocky roads plus butt equals the fact that I now have to perch on the edge of a chair every time I sit down. And I’ll probably have to do that for a while. And while I’m not too broken up about Dakar, I’m very bleak about my shattered Ducati dream. Because if I can’t cope with a quad bike, I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a vehicle with two wheels. Unless it’s operated by pedals – and even then…

DAY EIGHT’S SIDE NOTES:
On the editorial shoot today, Mala slipped off a rock feature and fell into freezing-cold water, but was quickly rescued by our hero Roland (who lost a pound of flesh in the process. Almost). Her hair and makeup remained miraculously intact.

Daniel, styled in white swimming trunks to match Mala’s bather in one of the shots, caused quite a twitter among the Palace’s female guests. The fan club soon grew into a bit of a crowd – and who can blame them?

Our home base for the day was the Palace’s African Suite where – we all agreed – we would not mind hanging out for the duration of our stay. Even if we had to sleep on one of the (many) couches, day beds or sun loungers. Once the shoot was wrapped and the models vacated the ‘set’ (the heated Jacuzzi on the balcony), the boys – Huey, Roland, Daniel and Ian – hopped in for a bit of bubble therapy and a couple of beers.

Some days, this job can be really tough.

Changing of the Guard

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

Day six of the SUMMER experience is a team down-day, which sees the members scatter across the resort in search of R&R. Some revert back to childhood on the water slides at the Valley Of The Waves, others sip very adult strawberry daiquiris by the heated pool at the Cascades. There are a couple of heavy-ish post-Silhouette heads being nursed back to hydration but in general, the Saturday-night damage seems minimal.

Today is also the day we say goodbye to Avril, Dean and Mignonne and welcome Daniel, Jenna, Mala and Good Hope FM’s Suga to our COSMO family. Jenna and Mala jet in straight from Fashion Week and immediately intimidate me – these girls are TALL, and Mala’s legs especially seem to stretch well into next month. Daniel is beautiful (no, really – see for yourselves!) and speaks almost no English – but he speaks Spanish, Portuguese and Italian, and has an apartment on Copa Cabana. Swoon.

Monday’s shoots are all scheduled for the Royal Baths, which is just as well because the rest of the Valley is being taken over by (insert your chosen alcohol distributor here). The organised chaos of 600-plus conference members checking into the hotel simultaneously leads to one unnecessarily long trip in the elevator and one unavoidably long wait for transport. The afternoon delay results in my first experience of ‘chasing the light’. It’s exactly as it sounds – as the sun dips behind the Palace, Jenna and Mala literally hop from light patch to light patch and pillar to post, while Anthony tries to squeeze an hour’s work into two minutes.

The sun wins and sets; the crew packs up the gear and calls it a day. I skip supper (!) and make full use of my bed and the DSTV in my room, falling asleep to the sweet sounds of Monday night football…

Are You One of Them?

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

1. One of your top-five life achievements is that in the three years the two of you have been together, you’ve only spent one night apart. Well, half a night, really – he ended up coming over at 6am for a pre-work cuddle.

2. You celebrate your anniversary, or Love Appreciation Ceremony, on the 16th... of every month.

3. After only a year together, you have a joint bank account, e-mail account (Josie_and_richie@bigpond.com), garage and – some would argue – brain.

4. One of your favourite games to play is calling up radio stations and dedicating ‘that’ Maroon 5 song to each other.

5. Your Sunday mornings are nicknamed The Ritual: cuddles, newspapers, breakfast, walk, nap then nookie.

6. When you and your friend from way back plan a catch-up dinner, you’re completely taken aback to find that she’s sitting at a table for two... Where on earth was Schnooky-woo going to sit?

7. You’re completely oblivious to the vague, bored look on your work colleague’s face when you happily recount yet another tale starting with, ‘Luke is soooo funny. Last night…’

8. You don’t even ask any more, you just automatically make his (one-quarter cold water) peppermint tea for him to have before bed each night.

9. The terms ‘proposed’, ‘bended-knee’ and ‘princess-cut solitaire’ swim around in your head daily, and you’re gagging for the moment when you can finally gush them out to your friends and family.

10. You get genuinely pissed off when your boss plans a no-partner Christmas party. Then you put up a petition on the kitchen notice board in an attempt to change her mind. If she doesn’t, you propose a boycott.

11. You sign all cards from the both of you – even if he’s never actually met Aunt Shirlene and didn’t contribute to the gift in any way.

12. You cannot physically make it to 12pm on a weekday without getting an SMS, e-mail and phone call from each other.

13. You spend weeks bidding on a signed Rolling Stones microphone on eBay for his birthday present. He then spends months painstakingly re-creating the doll’s house you loved as a seven-year-old (that your brother jumped on because you stacked his bike) when yours rolls around.

14. At fancy-dress parties, the two of you dress as Bananas in Pyjamas. And you practise dialogue to recite to other guests.

15. When you pick him up from the airport at 6am, you wear make-up, heels, a coat and lacy lingerie. He brings you perfume… And that’s just when he goes to another city for one night.

16. When friends invite you both over for dinner, you make sure to ask if there’ll be a red meat dish because ‘Ben needs his protein or he doesn’t feel like he’s had a proper meal’.

17. You talk up going out with your girlfriends for weeks, but then on the big night, after one glass of wine and 18 SMSes from him, you cancel it because you’re feeling lovesick.

18. A trip to Builders Warehouse is your big weekend event. You both get genuinely excited about buying new taps – and immediately agree on which are the nicest.

19. After one week, he’s introducing you as ‘his girl’ and you’ve already picked out names for your children and the Labrador you’ll get together.

20. In any conversation that you two have with each other, the word ‘bubba’ will be sprinkled in no less than once every second sentence.

21. You think that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a bit of a groping in the cinema. Or at the traffic lights. Or in the supermarket.

22. You read articles like this and feel really lucky to be in such a wonderful relationship... then you reach over and give your widdle bugaboo’s hair a quick ruffle.

Paying The Price?

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

I blame it on the coriander rather than the general pigging out I’ve been doing since I arrived at Sun City, but the morning of day five is a less-than-happy one for me. I’m unable to do anything other than curl up in bed, whimper for my mom and fantasise about healing chicken soup. I remain room-bound through the morning, curtains drawn and medicine at the ready, while outside the most perfect day so far unfolds.

I find out later that the crew got a bit of a workout in the morning – lugging heavy equipment cases from the Wave pool to the Royal Baths, then to the tanning pool and then up to the Palace entrance. In all of this, our project manager Julia Pretorius managed to lose several (thousand) Brownie points by getting everyone ‘lost’ in the (er) Lost City’s Palace Gardens and working their muscles just that tiny bit longer.

I can hear Huey and Anthony laughing at the Sun Terrace restaurant at lunch time but even that isn’t enough to convince me to leave the room. I remain ensconced in a sea of pillows and blankets, grateful that the curtains don’t allow even a sliver of sunshine to enter my safe place. Side note: I can report with full authority that if you leave a privacy sign on your door, you will not be disturbed by so much as a whisper, and that my Sun City Hotel bed (room 126, in case you want to request it) is one of the most comfortable I’ve ever been in.

But by supper time, I’m getting cabin fever and feel the need for human contact (and maybe a beer), so I change out of my pyjamas and join the crew for supper. I’m tempted to order dry bread but settle for a grilled chicken breast and a bowl of ice cream. There’s talk of going out en masse to Silhouette, a nightclub located at Sun City’s Entertainment Centre, but… you guessed it. Another ninja bomb, and I’m asleep within minutes – ironically dreaming of clubbing in Ibiza and kissing boys on the beach.

There’s always next week, right?

Making Waves

Tue, 17 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

The morning of Day Four feels considerably warmer to me. Because I have to catch up on e-mails and admin early on, I miss out on the 6.30am call time (bummer) and end up having a quick breakfast by myself at about 8.30am. By 11am, I’m making my way up and down zillions of stairs to the Valley Of The Waves, where the crew has spent a very productive morning shooting AC Activewear. My bag of snacks is welcomed with far more enthusiasm than I am, and is demolished in less than 10 minutes – clearly I’m not the only person obsessed with food on this trip.

Her work for the morning done, Avril has a snooze on the sand. In the meantime, Mignonne shows us the tricks she’s learnt from the monkeys that have been such a prominent feature of our stay at Sun City by scaling the lifeguard’s tower. (The lifeguard himself is on the other side of the wave pool with a pair of binoculars trained in her direction, rather than in the direction of the lone swimmer.) This is the setting for part one of the Guess shoot; part two takes place in the pool itself, leaving me grateful again that I’m not the one getting wet.

As we make our way out of the Valley, we throw a couple of hissy glances at the crew from FHM who are here to shoot lingerie. They’re scouting locations and, by the looks of them, are not above playing dirty in a turf war.

Lunch is a quickie before we head out to the Cascades hotel and make our way to the swing bridge for some more Guess work. The boys on the crew behave in a far more mature way than they did during the reccie and the bridge remains, for the most part, motionless. There are several monkeys around, undoubtedly drawn by the snack basket, and while they keep an eye on our food, makeup artist Kelly Boers keeps an even closer eye on them to make sure they stay out of her kit. A rather strange man swans onto the set and starts snapping away with a camera phone, before Ian chases him away with some well-chosen phrases.

Then it’s off to Waterworld for a bit of Havaianas fun. The shoot goes quickly; while we wait for transport, Dean shows off his gymnastic past with some somersaults and the 10-year-olds inside all of us come out to play on a kids’ slide. This keeps us busy until the van arrives to take us back to the hotel.

We all have tickets to the 8pm show at the Sun City Theatre, but I feel myself falling asleep over my plate of minestrone (which, due to somebody’s misguided idea of soup-making, contains a field’s worth of coriander and is, therefore, rendered inedible to me). I don’t even make excuses – executing a perfect ninja bomb, I’m back in my room and asleep by 8.30pm. On a Friday night.

I must be getting old.

Who's Game?

Mon, 16 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

It’s 8am on Day 3 of the COSMO SUMMER Swimwear adventure, and we’re on our way to the Pilanesberg Game Reserve for a mini safari – a little break from the daily routine of hair, makeup and tiny bikinis. It’s just as well that nobody has to strip down to their unmentionables today – the temperature overnight peaked at a lofty 6°C and my chin is going numb from the cold. Wrapped in blankets we try to ignore the fresh breeze rushing through the game-viewing truck (which is moving at the breakneck speed of 15km/h on the reserve’s dirt roads). Then the engine cuts out and in the comparative silence we hear our guide, Solomon (‘Like the king’, he says), utter one word:

‘Rhino.’

There’s a flurry of activity and camera clicks, and the three male white rhino are immortalised in 25 different ways from 25 different angles. Even I’m snapping away madly and I hardly ever get excited about animals. Unless I’m acting like one, that is.

As game drives go, this one is a roaring success: in addition to the rhino, we see herds of impala, kudu and springbok; a couple of hippos languishing in the dam; a lonely buzzard that looks as though it’s had a bit of a rough night; and some mildly ridiculous warthogs strutting around with their tails high up in the air. There’s also a rare sighting of a pride of lions up on a hillside and giraffes and zebras off in the distance, as well as a rather close encounter with a heard of wild elephants. The dominant male is nothing like the sweet, gentle creatures whose tongues I tickled only yesterday. He looks at us with suspicion and takes a couple of menacing steps forward; this makes Solomon fire up the truck and move on rather swiftly.

It’s rare for the crew to have a morning off, so we make the most of it by stopping at the local supermarket and stocking up on all the junk food we’ve been craving over the past few days. I walk away with bags of popcorn and biltong, and head straight back to the Sun City Hotel for lunch.

Clearly I’m not over my food obsession.

With lunch out of the way, the team jumps right back into the SUMMER schedule. The afternoon’s Edgars shoot is soft and gentle, and quite beautiful; six shots are captured without a hitch before we catch Avril demolishing a bag of crisps. Yes, I know – I was also surprised to see that models eat junk food, like the rest of us mortals. But looking at Avril’s petite frame and hearing how she exercises for a whopping 25 minutes each day. I vow to myself that I will never again let anything other than celery, spinach and broccoli pass my lips…

… And then I find myself sitting at the dinner table at Santorini restaurant in the Cascades, stuffing my face with haloumi, calamari and spanakopita.

Some people, I find, just cannot be helped. But at least I got to have the spinach.

Day 2's Top 10

Fri, 13 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

• ONE elephant got a chance to star in a COSMO SUMMER editorial spread.
• En route to the Elephant Wallow for the shoot, we spotted TWO rhinos in the bush (much to model Avril’s delight).
• All THREE of the models got a chance to pose with the gentle giant during the course of the morning.
• FOUR bites into a tasty lunch, we realised that no garlic farms were spared in its preparation. The good news was we were all eating it.
• Upon (very) close inspection, I discovered that model Dean’s khaki shorts were pinned in FIVE different places. And I have the pictures to prove it…
• Between them, the three models, special projects fashion director Robynne Kahn, hair-and-makeup artist Huey Tilley and fashion assistant Kristy Little demonstrated SIX different ways of wearing a hairpin. As it turns out, it doesn’t have to be ‘worn’ in one’s hair…
• Throughout the day, the members of the SUMMER crew (models included!) consumed SEVEN different types of chocolate bars.
• Our incredible driver, Sipho from Gametrackers Outdoor Adventures, executed an EIGHT-point turn on a single-lane road in a 25-seater truck to get back to the spot where photographer Anthony Friend envisioned his perfect shot.
• Photographic assistant Ian Engelbrecht exercised at least NINE different muscle groups (in each arm) carrying around some pretty heavy equipment.
• What looked like TEN litres of body oil was smoothed and rubbed into the models’ bodies. According to Robynne, they had to look as though they had been ‘dipped’ in it.

BEST FASHION-SHOOT EMOTIONS
1. PATIENCE, exhibited by Sipho for the two hours he was our chauffeur. Driving a crew of 12 around a game reserve looking for the perfect bush is no easy task.
2. DELIGHT, shown by Avril every time she spotted an animal. The South American model had never before seen giraffes, rhinos, elephants or kudus in the wild, and her enthusiasm was contagious.
3. ANXIETY, experienced by model Mignonne ahead of her editorial shoot. She needn’t have worried – she was perfect.
4. EXCITEMENT, expressed by Anthony while shooting Mignonne and Dean together. Apparently, they have an amazing energy.
5. MILD TERROR, clear on Avril’s face despite the big smile when one of the elephants came a bit too close in his search for food pellets. We got some great candid shots out of it.
6. EXASPARATION, shown by Huey in response to a persistent wind, which resulted in some pretty stubborn flyaway hair early on. God bless ultra-hold hairspray…
7. CURIOSITY, demonstrated by a tourist couple who were witnesses to our fashion circus. They got more than they bargained for from their safari experience, but took it all with good humour.
8. STOIC CALM, exhibited by the five adult elephants at the Wallow while we went about our business. The 18-month-old baby female was less inclined to put up with us.
9. SURPRISE, felt by me after one of the elephants smacked my butt when I got too close to his food. Perhaps he was trying to flirt.
10. SATISFACTION, experienced by all of us when we realised how great today’s work was. Look out for it in the November issue of COSMO.

40-Hour Famine

Thu, 12 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

This month my boss told me that as an experiment, I was to live without my cellphone from Friday night until Sunday. 'It'll make for a great story,' she assured me.

Baffled, I tried to understand why I had been selected for this extreme 40-hour famine. However, trusting my boss’ judgement, I said I would give it a go.

FRIDAY NIGHT
When my brand new, innocent Sony Ericsson X10 Mini was ripped from me, doom and gloom wobbled down my spine. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘Friday night and I’ve got no phone and no numbers written down because technology has made me lazy and I don’t memorise digits anymore.’

The devilish contingent of my conscience began whispering wily suggestions into my ear. ‘Call Sarah,’ they said. ‘She’s got everyone’s number, and you can use that home phone thingy.’

I flirted with the idea but decided no. How bad could it be? I settled in for a quiet one, but I couldn’t help noticing how loud the quiet was. Think how glorious it is when you’re cosy at home, and nursing a mug, and you get an SMS hit. My, how quickly a kid with prime couch real estate springs to life when a little envelope lights up their phone. It’s as though SMS validates you, certifying that you’re still loved, even though you opted to bow out of the social soup for the night. But my favourite plaything was far away, and not even Napoleon Dynamite could soothe my angst.

SATURDAY MORNING
No spontaneous coffee meet-ups on the horizon. Or alarm clocks. Instead, I settled for an alarm clock wake-up call and plodded off to my Pilates class, deflated by a potentially friend-dry day.

Trying not to grimace while everyone checked their messages after class, I was determined to snap out of it. After all, having no cellphone was liberating, right? I was free from technological and communicative constraints! I was achingly retro in my shunning of modern-day gadgetry chains! Whatever! Shopping would have to fill the void.

As the sun began to set, my frustration rose. Communication malnutrition was proving a weird, wild affair. I’d acclimatised myself to an evening of room cleaning and DVD watching, but there was a twinkle of resentment. I had things I could be doing. Calls I could be screening… boys I could be smlirting (SMS flirting) with. Plus, people might think I’d been abducted. So, I called my service provider and asked the nice lady if I could check my voicemail. ‘Of course,’ she said. But I’d forgotten my password. And the only place I’d stored it? In my freaking phone.

I frothed with frustration. Partly because I wanted to know what the hell was going on with everyone I loved, and partly because it was brutally obvious I was an inane, phone-addicted loser.

SUNDAY
When I went to pick up my phone on Sunday, I was running late. Usually I’d send a SMS saying, ‘Sorry, running 10 late,’ but obviously I couldn’t. It made me realise sheepishly what a lame habit that is – disguising laziness with a (largely insincere) apology.

I felt dizzy with anticipation as if I were on the way to greet my beloved at the airport. Power on; vibrant beep-beeps infected the air. Thank God, they missed me! Invites, questions, meaningless commentary – it didn’t matter, as these symbols existed. My wonky little place in life was confirmed.

I have to say my ‘condition’ didn’t quite benefit from this exercise because, communication, no matter how trivial, is as crucial to my existence as Scientology is to Mr Tom Cruise. I love feeling in touch. I love having a diary, mailbox, phone, camera and music player in my life, or perhaps more accurately, as my life.

Getting It All In The Morning

Wed, 11 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

I’ve been at Sun City for 24 hours and all I can think about is food. The food I’ve already eaten, the food I’m yet to eat – I literally have food (for thought?) swirling through my brain.

So it doesn’t surprise me that the first shoot scheduled by Special Projects Fashion Director Robynne Kahn for this year’s COSMO SUMMER Swimwear, is Kellogg’s Special K. The three models – Mignonne, Avril and Dean – are up early, huddling over their cups of coffee and slowly turning blue. I’ve forgotten how cold August mornings on the Highveld can be, and this particular morning makes me grateful that my duties involve carrying the merchandise rather than wearing it.

With hair and makeup sorted, we make our way to the Royal Baths, situated on the hillside between the Palace Of The Lost City and the Valley Of The Waves. Everything is still deserted at this hour and the mock ruins around us take on a rather eerie quality in the rapidly rising sun.
I’m a fashion-shoot virgin, so as the crew starts setting up for the first shot of the day, I try to make myself ‘useful’. I soon realise, though, that the most useful thing I can do is stay out of everyone’s way – and preferably out of the shots, even as I try to take my own behind-the-scenes snaps. While Mignonne and Avril are working it at the pool, Dean swaggers around cracking jokes and claiming to be ready for anything. Then he tests the water into which he’ll be getting shortly, and his sense of humour takes a bit of a dive.

Instructions are dished out at a steady pace, and angles and lighting are checked constantly. There’s a never-ending blur of movement and activity; of touch-ups and adjustments; of moisturiser, hair mist, accessories, battery packs, cables and ladders. It’s a well-rehearsed dance of hard work carried out at a steady pace, and it’s a lot to digest – but before I realise it, it’s over. The models gratefully pull on some clothes, we pack up the gear and make our way back to the Sun City Hotel for a buffet lunch.

There’s a Kelso shoot planned for the afternoon, but due to an ‘unfortunate’ scheduling mishap, I have to make my way to the Gary Player Health Spa for a full-body massage. The adjoining gym, which is in the same building as the Gary Player Country Club, is full of people with far more energy than I could muster in a month, but I feel absolutely no remorse as I get ready for a de-stressing session.

My massage therapist is small in stature but clearly takes no nonsense from her clients: she warns me that she has ‘strong hands’ and that I must tell her when the pressure gets too much, because she doesn’t wish to kill me.

Yikes.

But in reality, the pressure is just right and an hour later I walk out of the spa feeling a little drunk. I assume it’s because the toxins have left my body and actual blood is getting the chance to circulate for the first time in months. Or something.

The security guard in the parking lot offers to walk me back to the hotel; it’s only 200 metres away but my brain has shut down during the treatment and I feel a definite need for adult supervision. I crawl up the stairs to my room, draw the curtains and have an afternoon snooze before the Asian-themed supper at The Orchid. Day one – done.

Confessions of a Message Checking Addict

Thu, 05 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

Location: desk. Time: 9.42am. Type 56 words in a fury of loud, important-sounding tapping. Open Outlook. Excited to see three new e-mails. Respond like lightning to fun ones; leave any that require thinking for later. Pick up cellphone. No missed calls, but spot a little envelope. Edit reply several times then send. Do 35 minutes of work. Check cellphone. Still nothing from the male specimen currently renting head space. Double click on MSN Messenger icon and send silly message to friend on other side of office. Wait impatiently for reply. Do 20-minute work stint. Check e-mail.

I think it’s fair to say I’m a little bit addicted to checking. I check stuff all the time. I can’t help it. E-mail, cellphone, MSN Messenger, what’s on MTV while I’m watching Channel O – even corn to see if it’s cooked (despite the fact there are no visual clues to aid such a diagnosis). It’s easy to become a checking addict, because today’s communication networks are so instant and so socially acceptable you feel you’ll miss something important if you fall momentarily out of touch.

The addiction to checking has crept up on us all. Before cellphones, we had to get home before we discovered who wanted to speak to us.

But now we’re conditioned to being constantly contactable to the point where it’s unbeneficial. I go to bed with my cellphone on, even though I suffer disturbed sleep from trashed friends calling at 2am, I list items on eBay and check how many people have viewed them. And I feel deflated if I come back from lunch to find no one’s tried to contact me.

But why do we check? Is it for confirmation that someone is thinking about us? When we turn on our phone to find no messages, we think no one loves us, but deep down, do we actually believe that?

I’m all for losing my addiction. My thumbs hurt, I’m increasingly impatient and after re-reading this, I seem a little needy. When I visit my parents in the country, I have no service. What I do have is mild anxiety, wondering what I’m missing out on. Mom and Dad say I’m living life too fast and need to enjoy my present environment. And they’re right – there have been times when I’ve walked under rainbows and over quaint roads without taking my eyes and thumbs off my Nokia. And that’s just sad.

We should all work to loosen technology’s grip on us. We need a backlash. I’ll limit my e-mail checks to hourly and make a rule not to SMS or check for SMSes when I’m in company. Hell, l won’t even check the time. Because deep down, I’d rather miss a call than another rainbow.’

Jozi Nights - Attraction In Joburg City

Tue, 03 Aug 2010 12:00 +0200

Jo’burg nights can be easily compared to buzzing nights of many cities around the world. The days, however, go unnoticed, even though so much happens. My mother used to say no good comes from the night, only unwanted sexual advances, babies and STDs. But what about the danger that comes with daytime? Especially in a city where petrol attendants and construction workers feel it’s their duty to hit on every woman who happens to have a pulse (I suspect a pulse is an optional extra for some).

I was raised in a home where we were taught to greet everyone, but no one specified if this included the creepy furniture removal guy who is checking out my ass. On Friday, I had to move house. Considering that this is the ninth time in 10 years, you’d think it wouldn’t be painful. But it was. The removal guys were an hour late and I still had to get back to work. By the time they arrived, I was furious and one of them had the nerve to say I look cute. While moving my stuff, he asked if I had a man because a woman like me (whatever the hell that means) needs a man and he is that man.

As I sat on the curb, watching these men dismantle my home and my sanity, a very attractive woman walked up to me to ask if I was okay. ‘How nice of her I thought,’ I thought. She said she lived in the complex and was wondering if I’d like to go out for dinner. I said yes and then she said she was lesbian, so it wasn’t just a friendly dinner.

Now, having grown up in this city, I’m used to all types of scenarios. This normally wouldn’t have been a shocker for me but she literally made my jaw drop. Not because she was lesbian but because she was clearly hitting on me… and I liked it. After stuttering for a few seconds, I said I was straight but would love to go to dinner anyway. She said sure and took my numbers.

I couldn’t explain why this woman was so appealing to me. Maybe it was because the conversation was so much more pleasant than the one I’d been having with the moving guys. There wasn’t anything blatantly sexual about her advances and she seemed genuinely interested in me and not the ghetto booty that I happened to be dragging with me since Philip left.

I really hoped she’d call me, it’s been three days and she hasn’t. I’ve been thinking about our conversation but has she? It’s not everyday that I’m hit on by sexy women but maybe she’s used to picking up girls who are frustrated by furniture removal men and has forgotten about me.

I told my boyfriend about her and he thought it was hot (same IQ level as the removal guys I suspect). I said I want to kiss her, he said cool, as long as he can watch. This was the second time the possibility of a threesome crossed my mind. If she was keen, how far would I take it? I figured it’s safer with a lesbian girl, she won’t fall in love with my boyfriend and most of her attention would be on me. As usual my mind was racing. What would I wear? What would we do it? Is it cheating if I hook up with her and only tell my man later? Will I like it? Will I like it too much?

Just as I was running wild with my mental fantasies, my boyfriend ruined my mood, much like the removal guys had earlier. ‘If she hasn’t called you yet, she probably won’t,’ he said. And there went my fantasy, and I was left wondering why we keep men around.

The Dilemma of Dating GPS

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

OK, I’m a stalker. So are you. But we don’t mean it, not really...

Technology has made us this way. See, depending on how ‘new media’ The Guy You’re Seeing is, at any given time you’ll be able to ascertain if he is awake (Skype), online (iChat, Yahoo, AIM, Google Talk, Facebook), what he’s doing and with who (Twitter), and even the exact moment he opened your last BlackBerry messenger or SMS. (Really. They’re called delivery reports. Proceed with caution.)

Now, there’s a good chance you don’t actually want to know these things. However, as anyone with an Internet connection and a propensity for social networking knows, this information is hurled at you whether you want it or not.

It’s like a GPS system, only for dating. But, unlike that nice woman with the British accent in your car, this system isn’t quite as wonderful as it appears. Sure, it’s feverishly exciting when you first meet, but ‘dating GPS’ can morph into cruel and unusual punishment when the relationship tapers off.

It begins innocently enough. When you’re infatuated with a guy, you can’t know enough about him. You’re a big, fat, thirsty sponge, soaking up every little drop of information on him you can find: his star sign, his job, who his friends are, who his ex-girlfriend was... It was always like this, well before MacBooks and MySpace, only back in the ‘old days’ we had to do our stalking verbally by subtly asking about him to people who knew him, hoping it wouldn’t get back.

(Obviously, stalking via Google in the privacy of your own home is far more convenient, not to mention more beneficial in maintaining that crucial allure of indifference. With one simple search, you have photos, a place of work, comments he’s made on blogs or forums and, most importantly, his finishing time in the 1999 City2Surf.)

Mesh this hunger for knowledge combined with our addiction to being in touch with everyone we’ve ever met, and we begin to amass a constellation of communication channels for The Guy. We get their number. Then e-mail. Their BlackBerry Messenger pin. We find them (or they find us) on Facebook, AIM, iChat, Skype and Twitter. Pretty soon, we have an impressive dossier of communiqué and, before long, we’re scooting between the various mediums with great speed and familiarity – an e-mail here, a wall post there; a Skype here, an instant chat there... (And to think, 10 years ago, all we had was a landline and a street address for throwing rocks at windows at 4am. How utterly primitive.)

The appeal, l must concede, is strong. Logging on and seeing that he, too, is online creates a little shiver of excitement. Will he see that you’re online and contact you? Will he wait for you to contact him? Who goes first? Someone has to – I mean, you can’t both be online at the same time and pretend you haven’t noticed. That’s just silly, right? While you are waiting, you might just check his Facebook wall...

Of course, the downside to having access to all of this information is that the more ways you have of knowing where they are or what they are up to when you’re smitten, the more torturous it is when you’re not smitten. Instead of logging off disappointed he didn’t contact you when he was online, you log off pissed off. It’s like SMS Reply Rage, but worse, because you know he’s there and therefore can’t even make the excuse that he must have gone for a surf and so isn’t near his cellphone and that’s why he hasn’t written.

With devastating velocity, the fun and excitement that accompanied tracking their online life turns into impatience, insult and rage. How is it that he has no time to respond to your SMS when his Facebook status says he’s hungover and glued to the lounge? It’s like an office relationship – working together is the best fun ever when you’re in love, but not so fantastic when the love has gone and you want to stab each other in the eye with a fork.

Whenever a friend of mine saw her man come online, she’d pounce. He pounced equally, and it was a gas. But then he backed off. Started calling less. Became elusive when asked about weekend plans. Which made it awkward when my friend saw he was online. Should she contact him? She defiantly hadn’t SMSed him, but was online different? Trump the usual contact protocol? I mean, they both knew the other was right there at their computer, so it would be weird not to message him, right?

Uh, no. lf you see your mom pop up on your Skype list, do you automatically feel you two should chat? No. Just because he’s online, don’t mean it’s chat time. The key to navigating these waters calmly is to remember that, for every communication channel you enter with a man, there may come a time when the two of you aren’t so chummy, and that it will be tender to see he’s online or what he’s up to.

Of course, the obvious (slash most difficult) solution when things go bad is to simply delete him from your online contacts, Facebook friends and phone so you no longer know or care. However, this is often the time when you want to stalk him the most. Which is precisely why you shouldn’t; you should stalk a new guy instead – loads more fun!

Jozi - The Party Don't Stop

Wed, 28 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

VUZU’s birthday party attracted all of Johannesburg’s socialites and despite a little of drama, the party was a hit.

Winter is on its way out it seems. This means I must get out too, naturally. Last week the Interwebs were abuzz about VUZU TV’s first birthday party. The gossip and entertainment channel has become a favourite in many households and of course, they were going to celebrate it in style.

The VUZU party happened to fall on the same day as the boyfriend’s birthday. Now while the boyfriend doesn’t believe in celebrating the same way every year, I do. So I tried to compromise (after all it wasn’t my birthday) and dinner for eight it was.

After treating him to cake and laughs the day, we headed off to O’ Galito at Benmore Shopping Centre. Because the dinner was intimate, animated conversation was a welcome guest (as opposed to the screaming matches we usually have in clubs). After the happy birthday song and watching everyone chow down on chocolate mousse cake, we decided to hit the VUZU party.

Even though the night was still young, on the way to the party I was left feeling the cake had been spiked. I accidentally rear-ended my beloved Nina into a friend’s car. Luckily the damage wasn’t too bad and we could laugh about the situation, instead of exchanging insurance details.

Finally reaching our destination at Turbine Hall in Newton, we were greeted by a crowd of musicians, models and everyone else linked to the entertainment industry in Jozi. Booze was free, local artists were on the stage and Johannesburg socialites were more than keen to have a good time.

Fashion was a big part of the evening too; lots of short, sequined dresses paired with killer heels and eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. And a trend the city seems to be catching on to must be big hair (much like Janelle Monae) and mismatched outfits. I spotted at least six girls who looked identical.

Then I spotted the best weave I’d ever seen. However, the head the weave was attached to had a very deep voice and after closer inspection, I discovered it was a man! Fabulous! Here’s this man in a black suit and high black boots, in the ladies loo! Soon everyone was alerted to the extra Y chromosome in their presence and the conversation turned to his extra ‘member’ – whether he has one, or if he’s gotten rid of it. Quite expectedly, he shrieked at the drunken ladies, saying he’s basically a girl and we should mind our business.

We danced until the early hours of the morning, while watching partygoers take pictures with their favourite celebs from Nonhle to Khuli Chana. But every party has to end, so we dragged ourselves outside, headed home and as I tucked the birthday boy into bed I smiled at the thought of the weave again, thinking that this city is a lot of things, but boring isn’t one of them.

The Baggage Handler

Thu, 22 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

My three best girlfriends and I have a talent for dating men who provide terrific anecdotal value. However, after all the rosé-fuelled stories, a girl must reveal whether she, you know, ‘likes him’. So we devised some simple labels to categorise a guy’s potential.

The first is the Twelve-Year-Old, which means the guy in question is too young/silly/inappropriate to be anything other than a bit of fun. (No meeting of the parents.)

The next is Not The Father Of My Children, meaning he’s good on paper, is definitely relationship-able, but falls just shy of being The One. Perhaps you just don’t ‘feel that spark’. (Fine to meet the parents.)

The third is the Baggage Handler. He could be The Father Of Your Children, except for the fact that he’s hauling around a mountain of issues that may include, but are not limited to: the ghosts of ex-girlfriends, deeply entrenched insecurities, or a pathological inability to commit. (Will freak out at the very idea of meeting the parents.)

The BH’s issues, which are initially hidden beneath veils of infatuation and lust, will inevitably stop your fling from developing into a relationship of any substance. You’ll be forced to eventually write him off, citing intense head-screwing as the reason. (Provided he hasn’t already written you off.)

Maddeningly, it’s often these confusing suitcase-carriers that we like the most. Their nonchalance and unpredictability become addictive and, even if we know in our hearts it can amount to nothing, we keep buying tickets to their performance.

Maybe we like them because of that human reflex to gravitate towards a challenge. In theory, we all eventually learn that the nice guys are the ones that deserve our attention. But until then, we will dance with men staggering under baggage so heavy they can barely see what’s in front of them, let alone you standing right beside them.

Curiously, they’re aware they’re carrying baggage. In fact, they wear it like an accessory – it defines them. And they almost always warn you, if you choose to notice. They cloak you in affection and SMSes one day, and cite a need for ‘space’ the next. Their baggage causes them to be cautious and unreliable, because… they’ve been heartbroken or ego-stomped previously.

They tell us they might have feelings for their ex, and still we hang around. Sadly, fewer things are more compelling than a slice of lukewarm rejection. But it’s not our job to unpack their bags. Don’t be fooled by his veneer of being tortured: it’s self-indulgence propelling him to play victim, and if you’ve dealt with your issues, he can face his.

Of course, it isn’t just the boys loading up the Louis Vuittons. We too are guilty of flitting around Single Town with handbags full of unresolved emotions. But generally, it’s the boys who fail to properly exorcise their relationship demons.

Invariably, the Baggage Handler will collapse under the weight of his own load. And if you’re not careful, you’ll come tumbling down with him. Because he will go back to his ex; he will rack off overseas; he will find another girl to distract him. It’s just a question of when. Don’t doubt the word of a boy who tells you he’s unfit for loving. If he doesn’t know what he wants, how can he possibly give you what you want?

Until the Baggage Handler finds a way to lose all that excess luggage, you’re better off with a guy holding a slick little carry-on – he’s got a free hand to clasp yours and he’s able to stand up straight to see that glorious, clear blue sky.

Jozi Nights - Things That Make Big Girls Cry

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

There are women who cry, a lot, and there are those who don’t. I don’t. That’s why I was shocked I cried almost five times last week. Five times. In one week. This type of behaviour is usually reserved for the big things in my life – death, break ups and not being able to fit into my favourite pair of jeans. So why was I in tears all week? I’m still blaming it on Phillip.

I know that he’s been gone for more than a week now, but like I said last week, he left some excess baggage behind – mainly on my butt. So while I’m working through my post-Phillip-blues, I’ve embarked on a high protein, low carb diet, recommended by a professional.

When I first looked through the diet I was shocked at the amount of vegetables I was expected to eat. I haven’t eaten veggies since the 90’s – that’s the last time my mom had a say over my diet. I do, however, eat chicken and mushroom pies as well as potato chips, so technically I am getting my veggies. And for my greens? Well, a can of Crème Soda does the trick.

But back to the diet.

I did ok on Monday; the first three days consists only of protein. Deadlines made sure I didn’t think about food and I was feeling pretty chuffed with myself. Then I got home. While I picked at the lonely, grilled chicken breast on my plate, my boyfriend stuffed his face with cupcakes. I went to bed hungry, grumpy and snugly wrapped in my ugliest winter pyjamas. If I couldn’t have some sugar, neither could he.

The next day was hellish, and I was miserable, to say the least. The day dragged on and the fact that I was excited about eating two boiled eggs for lunch made me feel worse. By Thursday I was a nutter, but at least I could now add veggies to my meals. This would normally make me cringe, but after three days of eggs, chicken and fish, I was ecstatic!

That night while cooking dinner, I felt like Nigella. Who knew veggies actually taste good, and cooking can be fun, especially when you have a goal in mind.

These days I’m not starving (I actually feel pretty full), but I’m moving off the hardcore healthy stuff. Two kilos have disappeared from my frame, my skin is looking healthier and I’m more determined than ever. I figure if I keep this up and turn to Billy Blanks for a little more help, then when Spring rolls around, I’ll be confident and showing off my healthy curves.

Here’s to healthy living.

Superman Sheets Syndrome

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

Ten-year-old boys with Superman Sheets and cricket trophies are cute. Thirty-three-year-old guys with the same set-up are not. But often guys of the most extraordinary calibre are quite content to live in the proverbial nest well beyond the onset of adulthood. The whole him-staying-at-home thing when he’s over 25 may seem like a sound decision to him. But any lady with a pulse will tell you that as magnificent as his mum’s lasagne is, his living with the parentals will eventually drive you mental.

Why? Because you want to be able to make out on the couch without being busted. Because you don’t want to have to play the Polite Chitchat game with Mom in the kitchen every time you go over. Because your own flatmates are repellent and you crave some peace and quiet (instead you get three siblings, two dogs and arguing parents).

Of course, if you’re both still living at home, you’ve got all the makings of a hefty Outrageous Public Indecency fine right there, haven’t you? Because when The Couple has nowhere to go and enjoy sordid activities – without the fear of getting busted – The Couple may be forced to get creative in automobiles.

I asked some friends what grinds their gears about Superman Sheeters. There were a lot of these: ‘It’s annoying that to have our “own space” we have to leave the house’; a considerable amount of these: ‘He always has to check in with the parents’; and a whole lot of these: ‘It affects your sex life. You can’t relax and you can’t make noise.’ But I think the real reason the boyfriend-living-at-home thing gets to us is because we fear that if/when we move in with them, they will have shuffled from one woman’s care to another’s. And the last thing we want is to become a mother figure. Of course, if we ladies still live at home too, who are we to preach? But the thing is, when we move in with a guy, generally we’re the ones relegated to the role of housekeeper, not the brat who leaves dirty towels on the floor for Mom to pick up.

But there are some positives. For instance, if he’s living at home to save cash, that overseas trip/flat/Ferrari is going to come a whole lot quicker than if he were renting. And if he’s living at home to look after Mom/Dad/Granny? Shows he’s a caring soul, doesn’t it? And at least those Superman Sheets will always be freshly washed.

It’s worth noting that l myself have done my time with a Superman Sheeter. His parents had a nice place and gave us so much privacy that they virtually ignored us. But still l complained. SS swore he’d move out as soon as he found the right place, and he kept his word. But still I found something to complain about. (Neighbours/noise/no parking.)

In any case, next time a guy fervently insists on going back to your place, be very wary. Odds are he’s going see those Hello Kitty sheets of yours.

Jozi Nights - Post-Phillip Regrets

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

The last week has been a quiet one for me. Unlike the unruly nights that came with the World Cup, my nights were filled with soft music in the background, a lot of reading and a lot of reality TV. This was all very pleasant, but it did nothing for my weight loss plan because who wants to watch TV without anything to tasty to eat?

And this is why I couldn’t fit into my jeans a few months ago. I managed to fix it though by adding Tae-Bo to my life. Initially I was so excited, and even worked out with a little sports bra because I’d somehow convinced myself that seeing my tummy when working out would push me to do more.

Then Phillip arrived and partying swayed me off the fitness track – because who really has time to work out when there are foreigners to meet and soccer matches to watch? So, it was burgers, pizzas and curries. Bliss!

Now, Phillip is gone and I’ve taken a break from partying. The only thing that’s left behind is a small tyre around my waist and a few uninvited dimples on my thighs. I want to commit to healthier eating, more Tae-bo and less gin. But how many times have I had this conversation with myself? In an attempt to fool proof my plan, I’ve created an army of weight watchers. They too went overboard with burgers and wine and are now paying the price. So three friends and I on a mission we’ve dubbed ‘Operation Summer Bunny’.

All four of us have had many botched weight loss missions before but this is the first time we’ve had to encounter post-Phillip regrets. To celebrate the beginning of this journey we headed to the Alex theatre in Braamfontein to catch Blk Sonshine on stage. The group only performs locally about once a year because one of the members has relocated to the US. It was evident Jo’burg had missed their local music because the venue was packed, and as we sang along Blk Sonshine proved they were as talented and charming as Jozi remembers.

Later we headed to Catz Pyjamas in Melville, they’re the only place that serves a decent meal after midnight. So, in celebration of ‘Operation Summer Bunny’, we had meat platters, pizza, and other yummy treats that we’d have to say goodbye to for a while.

With just under 12 weeks until the sun starts shining again and we shed our layers of clothing, what are your plans? Do you have your own ‘Operation Summer Bunny’? Please share with us; I need all the help we can get.

S&TSG - It's 1991 and I like pancakes

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

Last weekend, I was back at my parents’ house. I was finally de-cluttering my childhood bedroom after, ooh, about 27 years of putting it off. I haven’t lived there for five years and my dad is itching to turn my room into a study. Like any spring clean, it was cathartic – and The Salvation Army now love me for the six bags of loot I wrestled through their door. But by 10pm that evening, I was still thinking about what I’d discovered in the bottom of the wardrobe. Coated in two inches of dust and nestled beneath my birth certificate was my 1991 diary.

It was red, faux-leather and handily fannypack-sized. My gran had handed it to me on Christmas Day 1990, uttering the immortal words, ‘You’ll never regret keeping a diary.’ I didn’t believe her. I was 10 years old and, quite frankly, annoyed because I’d wanted a pair of roller skates. But now, as I sat cross-legged on my stupidly narrow single bed, wondering how the hell I never fell out of it, I realised she was right. Harking back to the days of yore was comforting. Back when the most important things in my life were fish fingers, going to Brownies on Friday and climbing trees with Ann next door. What’s more, apart from my dad, brother, granddad and Jason Donovan, men didn’t feature.

These days, however, my diary would run something like this: ‘Had meetings all morning. Tried to sort electricity bill – failed – try again tomorrow. Thought about calling him – hid phone in drawer to stop me from SMSing. Booked bikini wax. Stayed late at work. Arrived late for pub quiz. Almost SMSed him during the music round.’

Thankfully, life wasn’t always like this. In fact, my diary entry on the exact same day, 18 years ago in 1991, read: ‘Played my recorder. Done Roman numerals at school. Mum made pancakes again. I like pancakes.’ Wasn’t life simple when all you had to do was write about pancakes, pull on your Tommy Takkies, fix a ponytail to the side of your head and skip next door to knock for your best friend? A day in the life of me, aged 10, was little more than a procession of meals, hobbies and hanging out with whoever my favourite person was that day.

The truth is, life only started getting complicated when I discovered boys. I haven’t written a diary since 1991, thank goodness. I can’t imagine anything worse than stumbling across an Adrian Mole-style record of my angsty teenage years. (‘Do I take my retainer out to kiss him? Why, oh why, won’t Levi Bailey notice me? He’s, like, the coolest boy in school!’) I’m not about to start keeping a diary now either. These days, I barely have time to write down appointments and friends’ birthdays, let alone my innermost thoughts and feelings or what l had for lunch. I’m quite happy to forget the more recent string of disastrous dates or the moment l was dumped by SMS. Why would I want to document this kind of information? Just in case l wanted to reminisce about it one day?

Likewise, l don’t need a hardback day-to-day diary in order to remember my happiest, most life-changing experiences from the past 27 years in all their technicolour glory.

I’m not saying I want to go back to 1991. After all, I had bad hair and a flat chest. And boys? Well, they smelt. The older and wiser me now knows that boys turn into men. Yes, they can still be nothing but trouble, but they’re also the source of much excitement, mystery and passion. What’s more, some of them are gorgeous and, even if they’re not, they can still make you laugh and treat you like you’re dead special. Some don’t smell too bad either.

Yes, now I like boys. And boys like me. Not often the ones who I want to like me but that’s all part of the challenge, right? Which is why today’s diary reads something like this: ‘Hit YDE for a new outfit for tomorrow’s date. Thought about calling him but decided to send an SMS. Watched Greys. Ate Romany Creams. I like biscuits.’

Jozi Nights - All Partied Out

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

A few weeks ago, I embarked on a mission to prove I was still a bona fide party girl. The World Cup offered more parties than usual to attend. Latinova in Rosebank has been my club of choice recently – MTV Base has been hosting their parties there. Soccer matches followed by live performances from local artists and then a night on the dance floor sounds like the perfect night out, right?

After three weeks of this, I finally figured out why party girls have an expiration date. Partying is hard work and like everything else that requires hard work, wear and tear is inevitable.

When my party run began, it would take me 45 minutes to get ready. Makeup was easy to apply, outfits easy to pick out, and then I would hit the Jozi streets running. A few drinks every night eventually equalled too many drinks when calculated over a three week period. This means more time needed to recuperate; the fact that I’m no longer 18 probably does nothing to help my cause.

Two weeks into my late nights, early mornings and at least two gin and tonics a night, I noticed my skin wasn’t glowing. At all. This meant more bronzer and more concealer for those dark circles under my eyes. And picking outfits became harder because I’d gone through my cutest outfits already. Sigh.

My wallet was taking quite a beating as well. If you pay R45 for a drink and you have more than one a night, it adds up. Add to that my regular pit stop at the 24-hour Wimpy on my way home from a night out. It doesn’t take a mathematician to figure out doing this four to five times a week had me in tears. I don’t mind spending money, but I do like having something to show for it. The only thing the last three weeks has given me is memories (which I appreciate), a puffy face and an empty bank account.

I figured I had enough smarts and energy to keep going. Even though my get-party-ready routine began stretching to 90 minutes and I started testing how far I could drive with the petrol reserve light flashing, I marched on. I wasn’t as lively as before and I found myself spending more time sitting rather than dancing. But last Thursday was my breaking point.

I went to the Blues Room for a night of live entertainment and good conversation and I found I had zoned out and was losing my mind – literally. Too many gin and tonics and lack of sleep turned me into that loud-mouthed girl who doesn’t know when to go home and refuses to listen to anyone. Everyone knows that girl and more importantly nobody likes that girl. Even my usually patient boyfriend gave up on me.

I woke up on Friday, head pounding with regret (and those gins) and looked at my mug shot in the mirror. This reminded me that a real party girl knows when it’s time to stay home and she knows when it’s time to detox.

So this party girl has gone on a hiatus, even though the World Cup parties are still roaring. I’m sure there will be lots of other fun things to do next month. When I find them (and I will), I’ll impart my wisdom and save those party girls from themselves. No one wants to stray from party girl to that party girl.

S&TSG - Just Because You're Married!

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 12:00 +0200

I recently went to a high-school reunion. Okay, there was a big tiered cake and my friend Julie was wearing a full-length wedding gown. But the guest list was a Who’s Who of school friends, so essentially it was a Class Of 2000 reunion (even the church hall had the same polish-meets-damp smell as our school gym). The only difference now is that pigtails have been replaced by feathered fascinators and we’re all sliding reluctantly towards 30.

The night started well. I’d applied some sparkly goo to my eyelids, slipped into my favourite frock and headed to the reception with that excited anticipation only a single girl gets when faced with a party. But as I walked through the door, I got the feeling that I was missing something. After subtly stroking my hip to check that I’d actually remembered to put pants on, I was still stumped as to what was lacking. Halfway through the Jive Bunny megamix, it clicked. While all of my old classmates had come along with added extras – a baby bump, a toddler knee-skidding on the dance floor – all I’d taken to the proverbial table was my new French Connection beaded clutch bag, which until that precise moment, I’d been really excited about showing off.

This fact alone wouldn’t normally bother me – I’m a seasoned pro at being ‘the single one’ in a crowd of couples. But this time, I found myself talking to a heavily pregnant ex-classmate who I hadn’t seen since I was 16. It went like this...

Me: ‘Wow, look at us all grown up.’
She-who-shall-not-be-named: ‘I know! Where’s your other half?’
Me: ‘Oh, I don’t have one right now.’
She: [Head cocked to the side with a sympathetic half-smile] ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll meet somebody soon.’

She may as well have ruffled my hair, turned to father-of-the bump and said, ‘Bless’. What I should have said is, ‘Actually, I’m waiting on a call from a guy I met last night, I had a fantastic date with another one last week and I have a gorgeous-but-dim man on speed dial should I have any special requirements.’ But instead, I lied and said something about being too busy for a boyfriend, then nodded along for 20 minutes as she wittered on about baby names.

I’m sure she’s very happy and didn’t mean to offend me, but I don’t want to be doing what she’s doing. I don’t want to settle down with a man and find the one thing guaranteed to get our pulses racing is a change in the interest rate. Don’t pity me while I’m having fun at the moment. Why all of a sudden has marital status become a measure of success? Isn’t this 2010?

Because, for a minute, I thought I was trapped in a Jane Austen novel, bringing shame upon one’s family for still being single at (gasp) 27. When did singlehood become the social equivalent of last place? Had Mamas & Papas’ poster couple looked beyond my bald ring finger and asked where I’ve travelled or what I do for a job, they’d realise I’m far from stuck on life’s starting blocks. I can handle smug couples. I can even handle being patronised. What I can’t handle is the realisation that I’m expected to have physical evidence – a joint bond or at the very least a boyfriend – as a trophy to prove my life’s worth (and no, a hangover doesn’t count).

Facebook doesn’t help – every week a friend uploads wedding snaps. While I’m chuffed for my settled-down friends, I can’t help but feel like we’ve been forced into competitive life syndrome. My friend Ann just returned from a holiday of a lifetime with her boyfriend of seven years. She told me: ‘I went into work and the girls crowded around my desk saying, “So, anything to tell us?” Apparently they’d had bets on whether I’d come back with a rock on my finger. Even though we’d had a lovely holiday, to them, I’d failed. Why is everyone trying to marry us off when I’m happy as I am?’

My married friends are the same. They choose to drink lemonade minus the vodka and suddenly everyone’s speculating that they’re ‘expecting’. Now, I’m all for a bit of competitiveness, but shouldn’t we give each other a break? I thought life was supposed to be a marathon, not a true-love trolley dash. What’s the rush? After all, the tortoise trounces the hare – every time.

Jozi Nights - Forever Young

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200

The freedom to make your own decisions is one of the great perks of adulthood. Gone are the days when you had to get permission to eat ice cream for breakfast or follow curfew. On the flip side, there are added responsibilities such as waking up every day to go to work and paying bills. I take time out often to enjoy the liberties that come with being old enough to make your own rules but young enough to break them.

While I was busy living the life of a young and fabulous Jo’burger, things changed in my life. I became an aunt, which changed me in unimaginable ways. A little man entered my life and made me see things differently; he truly makes me a better person. Extra money that I would have blown of seven bottles of Essie nail polish now goes to the cutest baby stuff I didn’t even know existed. Then I realised that I was now officially Aunty Zam. Aunty? Me? Surely I was too young, and quite frankly too hip, to be forced to wear such a label? I’d prefer to stick to Louis Vuitton and Christian Lacroix – thank you.

Then, every month I found I was attending a baby shower, engagement party or receiving a wedding invitation. The engagements and marriages didn’t scare me much; after all, beautiful, young people fall in love all the time. I was wearier of the baby showers, they represented a new generation of people who would one day think I’m old and uncool. My tales of wild parties and random kisses shared with foreign men during the World Cup would bore them. Attempts to make them follow my tweets (so they could see how interesting) I actually was, would have them dozing off.

I spent the next week reaffirming my youth by doing the respectable thing… partying. Thursday night I headed to Latinova, a club in Rosebank. I watched performances from SA’s hip-hop greats – Jozi, Maggz, L-Tido and Zubz. Afterwards I danced like an oompa loompa on a sugar rush and then went home at a ridiculous hour. I wasn’t happy to wake up two hours later, jump into the shower and head to work (remember that responsibility part of adulthood). Friday night was supposed to be recovery night but I partied at a friend’s house instead – further making me feel like I could still hang with the best of the young and exciting. It turns out shots of tequila at any age are a dumb idea.

This rush came to a screeching halt on Saturday. It was time for quality time with my new nephew. He didn’t care that I have a cool job or that I was partying up a storm the night before. He wanted love, affection and his milk.

Sunday was no different; I headed to a friend’s house for her son’s third birthday party. I was surrounded by jumping castles, a Winnie the Pooh cake and children high on fizzy drinks. After almost having a panic attack, I looked around and realised I was also surrounded by my friends, the people who make me laugh and hold my hand when I cry. I realised that even if the demonskids who were running around like certified lunatics didn’t know or ever appreciate that we were so funky and hip, we would always know it.

We would always remind each other of who we were and more importantly who we are growing to be. So maybe all aspects of adulthood have their place. I do, however, draw the line at not partying at all. I am, after all, a bona fide COSMO girl.

S&TSG - Aussie Men Want You (And Me!)

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200

Heading home from work, I picked up a newspaper screaming the headline, ‘Aussie men want you!’ If you’re wondering where all the hot, single men have gone, it turns out they’re in South Australia – where the sun shines for 3 000 hours a year and 50% of the male population are single. What’s more, they’re bored with bikini-bronzed Aussie chicks. That’s how I found myself, a week later, on a flight to Adelaide – land of sun, sea and sexy surfers. Was this my passport to guy heaven? Would I come home? This sheila was about to find out.

DATE 1: James, 27
WHERE: The Aussie Outback
I had no time to get ready as I met James straight from my 24-hour flight, feeling jet-lagged, with a face puffier than a packet of in-flight crisps. He was a whopping 1.8m to my 1.2m. ‘Wow, are all Aussie men gigantic?’ I wondered as I half-walked, half-trotted to keep up with him. James took me on a rickety, four-man plane across the Aussie outback to the world’s most remote cattle farm. In an attempt to impress, I ordered cow’s tongue for lunch, then felt distinctly like a Z-list celebrity. I asked James what he thought of South African women and almost choked on my tongue (and the cow’s) when he replied, ‘They’re brash, overweight and unhealthy, aren’t they?’ I spent the rest of our date speaking in my poshest accent, holding my tummy in and claiming I just love playing netball, even though I haven’t thrown a ball since I wore a PE kit. Maybe we’re not the healthiest nation but I objected to being judged. After all, I grew up on Home And Away but I didn’t expect all Aussies to wander around with corks hanging from their hats á la Alf Stewart. That aside, by sunset, I’d fallen in love. Sadly not with James, even though he turned out to be fun and even suggested hitting the beach together tomorrow (a second date already?). I’d fallen for the Aussie outback, tinged only by the disappointment that I didn’t have somebody special to share it with... yet.

DATE 2: Andy, 26
WHERE: Kangaroo Island
Andy’s another six-footer, but given the wild kangaroos, wallabies and dingoes roaming the Aussie bush, I was happy to be protected by a big, strong man. I’ve never dated a guy tallers than 1.7m back home, too paranoid that we’d resemble DeVito and Schwarzenegger in Twins. But maybe bigger was better. Joining Andy and me on our date was Brenda the tour guide – so much for a romantic trip for two! I usually know if I like a man within 60 seconds of meeting him, but after two hours with Andy, I still wasn’t sure. He was a true gent and when Andy told me I was his first date in a year, I felt a) Pressure to make it good and b) Relieved I’m not the only person in the world still looking for love. I knew Andy wasn’t holiday-romance material when Brenda chirped, ‘Look at the size of his feet. Good sign, huh?’ They were huge, but while I giggled, Andy blushed like a self-conscious teenager. Laughs come before sex appeal and spontaneity on my man wish list, so I wasn’t convinced Andy and I were compatible. Lovely as he was, I couldn’t help thinking I’d have enjoyed the date equally if it had been me, Brenda and a stuffed koala.

DATE 3: Paul K, 25
WHERE: Adelaide’s Nightspots
Thus far, the men had been overshadowed by our stunning date locations. So I chose simple, Friday-night drinks for my date with Paul – the kind of date I’m used to back home. When I spotted Paul across the crowded bar, my first thought was: He. Is. Hot. Paul looked like a sexier Adam Sandler, with Wynand Olivier’s rugby-buff body. I managed 10 minutes in his company before dashing to the bathroom to scream silently and SMS my best friend the good news. Paul was flirty, charming and a total heartbreaker, I imagined. I loved his honesty when he confessed to looking me up on the Internet before our date (I passed the test, apparently) and he was upfront about enjoying singledom and all its perks. I’m not sure if it was the red wine or the knowledge that I’d be jetting back to reality in two days’ time, but I was equally open with Paul. I suddenly realised that knowing exactly where you stand makes dating fun and easy instead of an anxiety-ridden ordeal. Stop worrying whether he’ll laugh at your jokes or call you the next day and you’ll have a brilliant time. Paul and I partied until 5am before he walked me back to my hotel in a haze of tequila and drunken kissing. It didn’t take much convincing to let Paul come in and prove that Aussie men have better bodies and more stamina than our South African boys. As the sun came up, we agreed that whilst finding The One will be amazing when it happens, there’s nothing like enjoying the scenic route getting there. We certainly did.

DATE 4: Paul S, 21
WHERE: Adelaide’s Marina Pier
Move over Coleen, I’m trying my hand at being a football WAG for my date with AFL (Australian Football League) player Paul S. His team, Port Adelaide, are the Manchester United of Australia and Paul is their Ronaldo. But if I expected him to share our Premiership players’ penchant for bling, busty glamour girls and Chinawhite nightclub, I was wrong. Despite the attention Paul attracted – because he’s handsome and a local celeb – he was shy and endearingly unpretentious. His dedication to his sport was admirable and he stuck to a healthy diet of meat, veg and zero alcohol. I was glad to give my liver a break after last night, but I couldn’t help thinking I’d get bored with this healthy lifestyle if I were to become Paul’s girlfriend. No wonder WAGs develop expensive shopping habits to pass the time of day. I countered Paul’s shyness by talking enough for both of us but our five-year age gap was obvious. I predict he’ll step out with a Hollywood supermodel next – somebody much more in his league than an over-talkative 26-year-old with a stiff neck (dating tall men should come with a health warning).

DATE 5: Peter, 31
WHERE: Vineyard, Adelaide Hills
A picturesque backdrop, fine wine and a man who knows how to use his hands: what’s not to love about my date with Peter the winemaker? I was intrigued to learn about Australia’s finest export – wine, not men – and should Peter and I hit it off, I need never stand in a bottle store looking confused again. It wasn’t until my date with Peter that I realised I’d missed the South African sense of humour. He had that same cheekiness and wit that always attracts me to guys. And after he pulled an expensive bottle of champagne and two glasses out of his car’s cubbyhole whilst driving through the vineyard, I felt suddenly sad that my romantic Aussie adventure was coming to an end. Giddy after sampling 10 varieties of fine wine, Peter dropped me at the airport, promising to call when he hits South Africa next year. And you know what? I hope he does.

Tempting as it was to ‘accidentally’ miss my flight home and stay in South Oz forever; I was excited about coming home, armed with a new approach to love. South Africa was the same as ever but it somehow looked different, in that way your bed looks bigger when you get back from holiday as a kid. I hadn’t quite left my heart in South Australia, but I’d brought back a much clearer idea of what Mr Right will be like when I am finally ready to meet him. Maybe I’ll see Peter again. Maybe I’ll have a sexy reunion with Paul K some day. Maybe I won’t. But I do know that no matter what corner of the world you’re in, there’s always romance, dating disasters and unforgettable flings to be had. And that’s what makes being single so damn exciting, right girls?

Jozi Nights - World Cup Euphoria

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200

For me, soccer has always had the same appeal as shopping for shoes at Green Cross. It makes sense to a lot of people but I’m drawn to other things. The excitement of the World Cup caught up to me round about the same time that the tag line ‘Feel It Is Here’ turned into ‘Phillip is here’. One day life was normal, the next I was the proud owner of a vuvuzela, a Bafana Bafana jersey and I was running up and down the streets of Sandton, crazy excited to be a South African.

The spirit of the World Cup is so infectious that even those who want to ignore it can’t – except maybe Cape Town, but they’ve always been a country on their own and I don’t want to get political. When it was announced that Jo’burg was going to show their support for our team two weeks ago, I figured I didn’t want to miss out.

Thousands of people lined the streets of Sandton as the Bafana bus drove around the block. For me it was a true representation of our country and the illusive concept of the rainbow nation has never been more real to me than it was that day. No barriers between the races or classes, just sheer pride at the fact that we were all lucky enough to be experiencing this part of world history. It was also the fist time I’d held a vuvuzela to my lips, after months of sneering at it.

When I finally came down from the high of the parade, I receive a call that lifted me back up there. I’d been given a ticket to the World Cup concert, one of the most exciting shows to hit our shores! So the next day I headed out, with my All Star takkies, friends and the excitement levels of teenage girls at a Justin Bieber concert. The Park and Ride system was smooth sailing and Orlando stadium, which is 5 minutes away from where I grew up, was buzzing. Foreign cuties, and young and old South Africans filled the venue and enjoyed a show I can only describe as a once in a lifetime honour to attend. I never thought I’d see the day when Alicia Keys performs Brenda Fassie’s ‘Too Late For Mama’ alongside Blk Jks. The sight of flags waving furiously as K’naan sang his ‘Waving Flag’ will live in my memory forever. I never thought Tumi would share a stage with Shakira and I definitely never even imagined that a stadium full of people of all races would toyi toyi to Blk Jks ‘Join Umzabalazo’. Despite the criticism that there were too many American acts on stage, it was no doubt an African celebration – one that will live on for many decades to come in the memories of even the most jaded. The opening celebration concert cemented that we, South Africa, had indeed done it. We’d forever go done in history.

That Friday of the opening match, my missions sent me to Innisfree Park, one of the many fan parks that will keep the spirit of this tournament alive. Driving around Sandton was a joke, so we walked, in numbers. The streets were a sea of green and yellow jerseys. When the national anthem was sung, tears were in the eyes of many and national pride was the order of the day. Tshabalala’s goal not only got the whole country on its feet but it’s yet another moment for the history books. The first goal of the first ever World Cup in Africa was scored by an African, a South African.

Now, I basically live in my soccer shirts, I pay attention to matches (instead of just the cute faces) and my vuvuzela blowing skills are pretty impressive. I no longer care if we win or lose because in the bigger scheme of things, Africa has won. This one is ours and if you haven’t already joined in, I strongly recommend you do. If nothing else, go out, meet people, and show them just how amazing our country is. Feel it, it is most definitely here.

S&TSG - The Naked Truth

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200

Welcome to June. Yes, it’s scientifically proven that men find us more attractive in summer, when our pheromones are dancing around like Brendan Cole on a pogo stick. And yes, it’s difficult to feel sexy in winter. It’s definitely tricky to feel in a flirty mood – but not impossible.

Imagine this: you creep from under the duvet, step away from the family-sized tin of Quality Street and brave the outside world. There, you discover a semi-naked male model, magically transported to your front door by gale-force winds, Mary Poppins-style. What do you do? Invite him in to test your mattress springs or tell him politely that you’ll have to decline? After all, it’s chilly June, and this is not the month for sex. Right?

Wrong. I know it’s unlikely that a D&G hunk-in-trunks will come knocking (unless you head out to the Fifa Fan Fests or World Cup stadiums) but that’s no excuse for a defeatist attitude to dating. Mr Right can be found in all manner of places – on the train on your way to a stadium, queuing in the bank to extend an overdraft (‘You’re skint? Me too! We have sooo much in common...’). June doesn’t have to be a man-free month. You just have to look that bit harder to find him and, most importantly be prepared for the moment you do.

Last June, I met Danny – cool, fun, ruggedly sexy – through a friend. I liked him immediately and, by the end of the night, our tonsils were well acquainted. But when he asked me back to his place for a drink, I found myself backing off with excuses of an early start in the morning. For me, sex on a first date is a no-no, but Danny was a test of any woman’s willpower. The real reason I didn’t go back with him was that my body was in no shape for sharing. Murphy’s law dictated that Danny didn’t come into my life when I was at my summertime sexiest. My body hadn’t seen daylight for months and I’d missed a waxing appointment. Typical!

Getting naked in front of a new man is always scary. Doing it in June is truly terrifying. When you’re in a long-term relationship, sex is a given, so you’re always ready. Even if you let your grooming slide, it won’t matter, as he loves you. But sex when you’re single is unpredictable and much more high maintenance.

A straw poll of my male friends reassured me that my concerns were in vain. While women everywhere are busy worrying about lighting plans that will flatter our cellulite, you can guarantee all that’s going through his mind when you strip off is, ‘Wow, she’s actually naked and I’m about to have actual sex with her!’

When it comes to body fascism – I hate to say it, ladies – we’re the guilty ones. A friend of mine recently confessed to a one-night stand with a guy who had such substantial man boobs she almost felt obliged to lend him her bra. Not that he cared – he was getting some action. But with scrutiny like that, it’s no wonder men are becoming the new women, enrolling in the David Beckham school of male grooming. So I think it’s time we took up the old male mantra of enjoying the moment instead of getting side-tracked with body hang-ups. And who knows, this could turn out to be your sexiest June ever. Countless books, films and ageing relatives have taught me that love happens when you least expect it. So expect the unexpected – and book yourself a Brazilian and a spray tan.

S&TSG - Single & Skint

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200

My week started off badly, with a phone call from the bank. ‘Miss Ramsden, you appear to have gone over your overdraft limit quite substantially. Are you aware of this?’ I wasn’t. What’s more, I still had two weeks left until pay day. Surely there was some mistake? So, at lunchtime, I stormed into the bank, with all the grace of Sylvester Stallone in stilettos, and demanded to see the manager.

‘I think somebody’s defrauded my card,’ I declared, torn between crying and cursing. A quick look at my on-screen statement and my toes started to curl with embarrassment. Some thieving swine hadn’t sadly racked up R500 in a swanky bar, R1 000 in Woolworths and R1 500 from an ATM in Sandton City. I noticed the bank manager’s raised eyebrow as he clocked my shiny new handbag and I had to confess who the culprit was who’d played fast and loose with my bank account: it was me. And now all I had to look forward to was endless nights at home, with nothing but my expensive new bag for company.

There’s only one thing worse than being broke. And that’s being broke and single. If you’re a cash-strapped couple, at least you can spend evenings cuddled up on the sofa or weekends in the bedroom. But when it’s only you, a bottle of cheap red and a Jackie Collins bonkbuster before bedtime – well, that’s just rubbish.

Worse still is being asked on a date when your bank account is redder than Dorothy’s ruby slippers. If a man asks you out, chances are he’ll pick up the bill, but I like to at least offer to go Dutch. Secondly, the key to a hot date is in the preparation: a new outfit, a haircut – hell, even a bikini wax if you’re feeling really hopeful. Finally, what if you need a get-out clause? There’s nothing worse than being stuck on a date-from-hell in a remote bar without enough cash for an emergency taxi home. Trust me, I’ve been there for four hours and it wasn’t pleasant.

I’m not against budget dates – some of my favourites have been low-cost picnics in the park or strolls on the beach. But I’ve learnt that scrimping on a first date can be a recipe for disaster. Like the time l agreed to go on a blind date set up by a friend: Date Boy told me excitedly beforehand, ‘There’s this amazing Chinese restaurant I’d like to take you to.’ Brilliant, l thought, as l headed to meet him with an empty tummy and a head full of expectation. But when we arrived at a café-cum-kebab-house, with neon signs screaming, ‘Two courses and a drink for under R50!’, I half expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out and tell me I’d been ‘punk’d’ (if only). I spent the next two hours sitting in a plastic chair, eating chow mein out of a polystyrene dish, wishing I’d worn my jeans instead of my best party dress. And, sadly, my date turned out to be more bland than my sweet-and-sour chicken balls.

Thing is, I don’t expect to be whisked away in a chartered helicopter for a first date (although that would be cool). It’s just that cutting corners from the start doesn’t bode well for the future. Like my date with Internet Ian*, a guy I met on a dating website. Minutes after spotting him and before I could say, ‘Hi,’ he piped up with, ‘Just so you know, I’m in the middle of buying a house right now so I only have R100 left in the world. How does it feel that I’m spending my last hundred on you?’

Actually, it felt really uncomfortable. All I could mutter was a meek, ‘Er, shall I buy this round?’, followed by some tedious small talk before he told me at 9pm that he’d ‘let me go’. Thanks, I thought, after nursing a vodka and orange (bought by me) for two of the longest hours of my life.

You see, I think first dates should be seen as a long-term investment. We devote time, energy and money to building a great shoe collection, or saving the deposit for a flat. So why not put the same expenditure into your love life? J.Lo might insist that Love Don’t Cost A Thing, but I beg to differ. When it comes to relationships, you get out what you put in. And I like to think I’m worth slightly more than a crumpled hundred Rand note.

*Names have been changed.

Jozi Nights - The Party Never Stops

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200

Much like Benni McCarthy has had no shortage of pies, Jo’burg never has a shortage of events. I’ve now mastered the art of knowing that it’s okay to decline some invitations. Quite frankly, I can’t hold down a full time job and go to all these functions and preserve my sanity. Jo’burg has become a maze of events and trying to get out of some of them is damn near impossible.

Last Thursday the boyfriend (who is a rapper – I know, I know, I’ve been warned) was going to be performing so I couldn’t get out of making an appearance despite being exhausted, bloated and forgetting where I’d put my makeup bag. Zubz was hosting his Golden Mic Nights, which have become quite popular among those who love live music and hip-hop. On this particular night, he was featuring Tumi of Tumi and the Volume fame. The crowd was a balanced mix of arty types gone corporate and hardcore hip-hop-loving types. The scene was set by Pops Mohammed who performed alongside Zubz and Ntsiki Mazwai with a combo of the Kora, hip-hop and poetry. Tumi then jumped on stage, telling stories with a hypnotising flow. He featured the beautiful and talented Zakii Ibrahim, Pebbles, MXO, Brickz and HHP. Over drinks and good music, I discovered the maze that threatens my sanity is sometimes necessary. This particular event always seems to leave most of us feeling good about hip-hop, specifically hip-hop in Africa. If you’re in Jo’burg and like the genre (or hope to pick up a rapper - I kid, I kid), this is the only place to be every first Thursday of the month.

The Friday night trap caught up with me before I’d even gotten over Thursday’s ‘festivities’. Puma was hosting a party in celebration of the World Cup and their headlining act was Die Antwoord. Exhaustion was looming and the realisation that I’m no longer the party machine I was at 19 set in. During the night I found wondering if my I’d switched my electric blanket on or not. But back to the party...

As soon as the Newtown venue filled up, my excitement levels shot through the roof. Roger Goode got the crowd warmed up and by the time Die Antwoord took to the stage, the masses were literally buck wild. Pushing to the front of the stage was the bravest thing I’ve done in years. Rugby-player sized men (and women) were jumping up and down and trying to squeeze my Smurf-sized self between them seemed like a suicide mission. Eventually I gave up and did what any self-respecting vertically-challenged girl would do, I jumped onto the ottomans to catch a glimpse of Die Antwoord. Sadly, the rugby players were still blocking my view. Now I’m checking to see when their next show is so I can arrive early, on stilts.

The combo of exhaustion and disappointment at not being able to see the stage didn’t take away from the fact that Puma hosted a great gig. As I was about to head home, I received two more invitations to events that were happening the next night. ‘Parties or sanity?’, I asked myself.

Luckily I manage to manoeuvre out of that maze. Then I headed home for a weekend of sleep.

S&TSG - Dating Tips From Around The World

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 12:00 +0200

I love living in a city – the people, the clubs, the music, the fashion... But being a single girl in one can be tough. Yes, a gorgeous man can walk past you in the road and make flirty eyes with you, but he'll just as quickly disappear and your chances of bumping into him again are as slim as Posh's legs.

Mind you, small-town singledom is just as tricky. Dating in my tiny home town was like an episode of Days Of Our Lives – any potential new man had usually slept with Lisa* from the beauty shop, cheated on her with Katie* who runs the local bar and kissed my best friend before meeting me. Unless you live in Cumbria – where there are 10 men to every lucky lady – it's pretty much slim pickings.

I don't want to blame geography for my ongoing singledom, but I did wonder if all women around the world have the same dating dilemmas as me. Surely if I lived in Italy I'd have been seduced by an Armani-clad hottie called Fabio by now? Or maybe it's just as complicated wherever you are. To find out, I sent a shout-out to all the global editions of COSMO, asking single girls everywhere for their dating advice.

So, where does Mr Right hang out? In Croatia, COSMO singletons tell me, 'We're more likely to find Mr Right in unexpected places, like the grocery store or on a bench, enjoying the view.' Sadly, my local park bench doesn't look out over the Adriatic coast. It overlooks a car park and is usually occupied by a bunch of hoodies.

In Brazil, 'the best place to meet men is in dancing bars, where you come across as fun and carefree, not desperate.' Clubs are a good place to pull in Korea too, where women entice men with dirty-dancing moves known as the 'Bubi Bubi'. But, sadly I'm no Beyoncé – I was booted out of ballet school and my Jason Donovan dance routine only came fifth (out of five) in a school talent contest.

Maybe I should take advice from the Aussie COSMO girls: 'We've learnt not to take dating too seriously. Enjoy meeting new men and remember there's nothing wrong with being picky.' Ah, music to my fussy ears – as was German COSMO's attitude: 'If you're after a relationship, sex on the first date is a big no-no. But a lot of women just want casual fun, so they should go for it!'

Not everywhere is so carefree. If I'd grown up in India, my parents would've chosen my husband for me. Cue visions of being shoved down the aisle at 18 with my cardigan-wearing neighbour. What's more, in some parts of Africa I'd be forbidden to make the first move on a man. And in Russia, I wouldn't even be allowed to hold a guy's hand because it's 'unfeminine'.

Suddenly I feel lucky to live in a country where decisions about men, dating and sex are all mine. The city may be too big and my home town too small, but at least if I want to date five men a month, or one man every five months, I can.

Most single girls have moments where they feel they're the only ones left. Mine was last week. Gathering for a group photo at a friend's party, all the couples were wrapped around each other while I had nothing but an empty wine glass to cuddle up to. But the truth is, I'm not alone. Because if you're enduring an 'I want him but can't have him' phase, or revelling in an 'I know I shouldn't but he has a huge penis!' moment, chances are that millions of other single girls are
too. Whether you live in Norwich or Norway, Inverness or Indonesia, Leeds or Latvia, being a single girl in today's world is empowering, exciting, sometimes heartbreaking but never, ever dull. And if things slow down on the man front, treat yourself to a long weekend in Cumbria...

*Names have been changed

Sex And The City: Reunion

Thu, 27 May 2010 12:00 +0200

There are two pop culture icons that have been apart of my circle of ‘friends’ for almost a decade now – COSMO and Sex and the City. These two institutions played a role in shaping the woman I have become. They have also been with me through terrible dates, some pretty great dates, engagement, marriage and even the harrowing experience of divorce. Throughout my journey, these two companions have stayed with me – never judging me and offering words of wisdom. So it’s a great moment for me that I'm now 26, working for COSMO, and writing about Sex and the City.

In 2007 I went to the premier of the first movie. Back then my friend and I waltzed in and met like-minded women who were also keen to reconnect with their old friends – Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. I, like many other die-hard fans, loved the first movie but when news of a sequel was released, it was just another opportunity to reconnect. At the reunion this week, undoubtedly their lives had changed, much like ours.

The fashion conscious, savvy women (and gay men) of Johannesburg came out in droves to Hyde Park. Armed with faux fur, killer heels and designer grooming, the VIPs sipped on Moet and Cosmopolitans while the red carpet was lit up by Lee-Ann Liebenberg and Khanyi Mbau as I lost count of the amount of air kisses that were exchanged.

Anyone who is a fan of SATC will enjoy this movie, no doubt. The four ladies (immaculately dressed as always) once again share experiences many will relate to – stale relationships, babies, jobs that kill your spirit etc. Abu Dhabi sets a great backdrop to the ever evolving lives of the fabulous foursome. I don’t want to give anything away but there are twists, turns and various truths that can only be shared with those you trust and love. I found that like some friendships, people’s personalities and quirks do become irritating over time as I found myself annoyed at Carrie's behavior at times. But like best friends do, you simply get past it.

Eye candy comes in the form of sexy shoes and even sexier men – including Big, who seems to get sexier with age. I also found myself thinking how hot it would be to make out with a sexy Arabian in his guthra (figuratively and literally).

So, if you do anything over the next two weeks, round up your group of girls, head to the best cocktail spot you know and then reunite with the Sex and the City gang. This ideal girls night out will remind you that age, circumstances and life’s hurdles are never a reason to stop being the fun fearless female you are – especially when you have the love and support of your girlfriends.

How To Get A New Wardrobe

Thu, 27 May 2010 12:00 +0200

Hi my name is JanieB and I'm a CrossFit addict. All it took was the introduction class, and now I can't go without getting my fix on a daily basis.

Make no mistake, after four weeks my muscles still take a hammering but that actually reminds me that I am in fact getting a proper workout as opposed to just hanging around gym ogling other gym hangers. Now I don't have a dormant muscle in my body and it shows when I walk, I sit more upright at my desk and a lot of my old slouchy aches and pains are gone. Yes truthfully, that tightness in my neck and shoulders after a day at work has disappeared. After just four weeks I've lost 4kg and 4% body fat.

In all honesty, I don't like all the exercises – for instance, pull ups. I am rubbish at them and still can't even do one. But that is the beauty that is CrossFit, I'm allowed to do jumping pull ups. That means a box is put under the bar which allows me to reach the bar and from there I jump up and grab hold to complete the motion. One drawback though, is if the class calls for 21 pull ups, I have to do 42 jumping pull ups. From not being able to even engage my shoulders, I can now pull my feet about 10cms off the ground. (Watch this space for the day I complete my first full pull up.)

As a child I never took part in the skipping games. I think was lazy to sing and count and I wanted to only jump not swing the rope. Now that I have to swing the rope for myself it shows. I look like a grade one kid: big steps and slow swings. I very quickly acquired my own skipping rope and can now jump at a steady pace. No, no double unders yet, working on that and the front of my shins tell the story. It's like giving yourself a whipping, just not for fun…

With the help of my new eating plan, a daily class and the knowledgeable coaches, I'm already rediscovering my wardrobe. It was sadly neglected for the last year since I was unable to squeeze all of me into quite a few items patiently waiting on their hangers. I was also shocked when I saw what my body-fat percentage was, but more about that in the next blog.

My body and mind are in a wonderful state and my energy levels are way up, but while I'm sounding all Zen, I have to admit I'm even sleeping better. Best of all, people around me are starting to notice the change.

Pretty soon I'll have to invest in a completely new wardrobe! Isn't that every COSMO girl's dream? The only drawback though, is your shoe size always stays the same.

Jozi Nights - Germiston Calling

Tue, 25 May 2010 12:00 +0200

I'm an easy going girl most of the time, but there are a few things I've promised myself I would never do. They include wearing white diamante kitten heels, drinking tequila and driving to Germiston. Over the past few years, I've tried to find a good reason to venture out to that side of the world. The fact that I'm 20 minutes away from the artsy feel of Newtown, the glitz and glamour of Sandton and the laid back vibe of Soweto has spoilt me. A lot.

When I received my invitation to the Smirnoff Experience party featuring DJ Tiesto and Blk Jks, I decided to relax my rules (a little) and head out to Germiston. I SMSed the people I love telling them I was about cross over to the other side and asked the boyfriend to check that I was in bed by 4am – if I wasn't, he was to send a search party to all the white diamante kitten heel shoe shops in the area as I might have been brainwashed.

The venue was Sky Raiders at the Rand airport, which is pretty different from any other party I'd been to. The only time I've been at a party anywhere near an airport was when my cousin and I drank too much on a flight to Cape Town. And speaking of Cape Town, the crowd was gay. Not Ricky Martin gay, just super duper happy to be in the presence of the world's number one spin master, DJ Tiesto.

The music was brilliant. Or so I was told. I'm one of those people who never understood dance music; I always used my high melanin concentration as an excuse. After a few minutes of feeling awkward and left out, I slowly got into the mood, or should I say groove. After a while I entered a 'zone', which I assume this is the place trance lovers go to when the number one DJ in the world entertains them. I was chilled but excited, tipsy but not drunk and the music was moving me in strange ways. On any given day you couldn't pay me enough to dance to sound without lyrics, but this night was different.

By the time I finally snapped out of it a few hours later, I still had a Smirnoff in my hand, I'd somehow taken off my jacket and I felt like a new person.

Unfortunately, like Cinderella, I had a curfew for leaving Germiston. But I left a changed woman. I hadn't fallen prey to the lure of the white diamante kitten heels but I'd realized that there's nowhere in South Africa I can't have a good time, especially when I open my mind and let the music take over.

S&TSG - Popping the Question

Thu, 20 May 2010 12:00 +0200

As far as questions go, this is the biggie. And I'm not talking about marriage proposals (the last gorgeous guy who knelt at my feet had just dropped his wallet). I mean the other big question. The one that single girls up and down the country still can't bring themselves to mutter aloud: 'Will you go out with me?'

I've never asked a man on a date, slipped a guy my phone number or told a stranger I'm into him. Which is kind of shocking in a world that's bred such feisty, go-getting women as SATC's Samantha Jones and Angelina Jolie. Women today are striving to be equal in every way. And we're brave – we can even ask a new boyfriend if he minds taking a trip to the clinic before we ditch the condoms. But asking a man if he would like to spend a pleasant, flirtatious evening with you in a bar? You must be kidding!

I realised I wasn't alone on a recent girls' night out when my single, gorgeous and über-successful friend Emma suddenly shrieked, 'Wow, check him out!' We all bruised our chins on the floor when we spotted the male-model type who looked like he'd just stepped out of an Markhams catalogue. 'Go over there,' nudged one of the girls. To which Emma replied, 'No way, I'd never make the first move!' And I couldn't help but feel the same.

Thing is, this means I've let many an opportunity slip through my fingers because I was unable to grab life by the, ahem, balls. Walking to work one morning last month, I almost caused a 10-person pile-up when I stopped to ogle a husky-voiced busker sporting skinny jeans, bed hair and a sexy grin that made my tummy flip (in a good way). I smiled all the way to the office, imagining what would've happened if I'd dropped my phone number into his guitar case. In my head, it was a fantasy of being swept off my feet and into his bed. In reality, I simply didn't have the guts. But why not?

It could be that I'm shy. But given that I share my personal life with thousands of COSMO readers every week, I can't play that card. It could be that I'm afraid of rejection. But I've met my fair share of 'he who never calls' and rejection is par for the course. The real reason I – and, I suspect, a large proportion of the female population – won't ask a man out is simply down to good old-fashioned romance. Who wants to do the chasing when you can be pursued?

A straw poll of the office confirmed my suspicions. One of COSMO's designers, agreed, 'When I was single I never made the first move. I reckon most men would say yes to a girl. But if he's gone out of his way to pursue you, it's a sign he's really interested.' For me, there's nothing sexier than a man who takes the lead. Even if you don't fancy a guy, you still get a warm, fuzzy feeling when he asks for your number or offers you a drink. And if you do fancy him, there's nothing better than him taking your face in his hands and planting a long, lingering kiss on your lips like they do in the movies.

Of course, if you have the courage, taking the initiative can be empowering. One of the staffers from our fashion team says, 'I used to sit opposite the same gorgeous man on my train home from work every day. We exchanged smiles for weeks but I didn't have the confidence to say anything. Then, when I saw him in a bar, I downed a glass of wine, strode over to him and said, 'Hey, you're the guy who gets on the 5.45pm on platform 11...' We ended up going on a few dates, and he told me how impressed he was that I'd made the first move.'

I remember finding my courage once... at the bottom of five mojitos. I'm not sure if I was overcome by alcohol or just by how damn pretty he was, but I walked up to a guy to tell him he had beautiful eyes. And you know those movie kisses I mentioned earlier? Well, he gave me one of those that I won't be forgetting in a hurry. Neither of us made the first move; we just met in the middle. And maybe that's the secret. I still felt desirable and he still felt like the hunter and protector. So, while women have in many ways, thankfully, achieved equality in our work, financial and sex lives, there are times when it's OK to leave the role of date hunter to the men... and keep that little bit of romance in our lives.

S&TSG - Subject: You Have One New Admirer

Thu, 13 May 2010 12:00 +0200

I popped my online cherry last week. With 48 men! And I didn't even move from my couch. Yep, I finally joined the weird and wonderful world of Internet dating. Weird, if we're talking about Chris* from Liverpool, who describes himself as 'a dish best served hot and accompanied by chardonnay – want to see the rest of the menu?' Er, no thanks. And potentially wonderful, if we're talking about Sam* – 'Play guitar? Tick. Messy hair? Tick.' Brilliant, I love messy hair and guitars!

It started like this... My editor: 'Tracy, you must try online dating!' Me: 'Gulp.' But two days after posting the glowing profile written for me by my mother and best friends, 48 men had ticked my 'Yes, I'm interested' box and I had 17 new messages. Yes, I was terrified and, yes, it was a minefield. But I have lived to tell the tale and if you've been considering downloading yourself a date, read this first for all you need to know.

RULE 1: Lose Your Inhibitions
My clammy hand was shaking as I clicked on 'submit' to post my profile and admit to the world, 'My name is Tracy and I'm looking for a boyfriend.' (I'm still cringing as I write this now.) My first thought was, 'What if somebody I know sees me on a dating website? Worse still, what if my ex-boyfriend sees it?' (It doesn't exactly fit my fantasy of bumping into him with a sexy new man on my arm, exclaiming, 'Ooh, have you met my new boyfriend? His name's Orlando. He's in films, you know...') But I decide to take the plunge and be the kind of strong, independent woman that Beyoncé sings about.

RULE 2: Honesty Is The Best Policy
I have to confess to a little false advertising on my profile. In my defence, I'm competing with some gorgeous single girls, all cheekbones and pouts. So, I 'accidentally' put myself in the 1.5m to 1.8m height category. I didn't mean to, honest. I just thought telling potential men that I barely scraped 1.4m might mean they'd write me off as an Oompa-Loompa with a wardrobe from Ackermans Kids. Trouble is, when Tony*, 1.9m, asked me out, I couldn't find a pair of heels high enough, so I bottled it. But the truth is, if a guy didn't like me in all my smallness, then he wouldn't be Mr Right anyway. Plus, Aldo has some fabulous skyscraper wedges this season.

RULE 3: Be Selective
The joy of window shopping for men from your laptop is that you can ogle the hotties and delete the duds, without feeling too guilty. Admittedly, I was more likely to click on guys with cool hair, a cute smile or a ripped torso. Let's be honest, you've got to fancy him, right? And if he follows it up with a witty e-mail, even better. For me, the upside of meeting men in cyberspace is that it's much easier to make the first move. I'd never dream of asking a man out in a bar, but adding Stu*, the sexy snowboarder to my 'I fancy you' list was easy-peasy. And I didn't even feel rubbish when I never heard from him (well, not much anyway).

RULE 4: Talk The Talk
As a cyber-dating virgin, I had no idea about the etiquette of flirty e-mail banter. But I quickly learnt which messages left me hitting delete. Firstly, there were those sounding like they'd been written by Blazin' Squad ('Sn ur pic. U luk hot. Wanna hang?') Seriously, what?! Then there were the messages with added 'look how fun I am' icons – think smiley faces :-) or worse, winking faces ;-). Instead, I actually found the most attractive e-mails I received weren't trying to be clever, but just fun. Like the guy who referred to the daffodils in my profile pic by asking, 'Did you steal those from a roundabout? He went straight into the 'yes' pile. So keep it simple and just be yourself.

Since closing the lid on my laptop hunt for love, I've learnt that, while cyber-dating may not be the direct path to true love, it's certainly the scenic route. I'd say go for it and don't take it too seriously. Even if you don't find The One, you'll have a good laugh looking. So how did I fare? Well, I've got a date next week with sexy Sam*. He's in a band and has a cute smile. All achieved while sat on my couch wearing Winnie the Pooh PJs. And hey, one out of 48 ain't bad ;-)

*Names have been changed

Jozi Nights - Weighty Matters

Tue, 11 May 2010 12:00 +0200

Weight is one of those uncomfortable topics for some women; it makes most of us as happy as thinking about a root canal. Personally, I love the subject, especially when I'm feeling fabulous, fit and can comfortably slide into my skinny jeans. Now that winter is here with all its temptations – stews, red wine and my personal favourite, curry – I'm traumatising myself thinking about all these warm treats and the declining desire to wake up and go to gym. Even though winter has just made an appearance, I have already accumulated winter weight and this has turned me into one of those slightly obsessed women who can only think about days gone by when tiny clothing was the norm and svelte thighs were my pride and joy.

I hit rock bottom last week, when the jeans I'd been squeezing into for the last six weeks decided I needed a wake up call. They simply refused to go over my hips. This couldn't have happened at a more inopportune time. It was early in the morning (and I am not a morning person). So I tried again. And again. When it finally dawned on me that my hips had increased in diameter and that my jeans did not shrink in the wash, I had a melt down.

There I was, a grown woman weeping on the floor like an infant with jeans around my ankles. My boyfriend, who is usually very excited at seeing my jeans around my ankles, soon realised this was not one of those happy moments. To a man who claims to not know the difference between a size 30 and 38, understanding comes with difficulty to him. His response: 'Why not just buy a bigger size, these are a ridiculous size anyway. You're a great size; those jeans are just made for children.'

I wanted to beat him and kiss him at the same time. Beat him because if the solution was that simple I'd have thought of it myself and kiss him because he sweetly forgot those jeans had once fit me.

After much deliberation, I roped in my fellow COSMO colleagues. We are now embarking on a very public fitness and weight loss quest for winter – public food diaries, public weigh-ins and meetings every two weeks to track our progress. It sounds a bit extreme but when the enemy is love handles and dimply thighs, we need all the ammunition we can get.

So wish us luck on our quest for toned thighs and bright smiles.

S&TSG - Single Girl WLTM Rock Star

Thu, 06 May 2010 12:00 +0200

Call me old-fashioned but I don't believe in making love happen. I don't believe in joining dating websites to flirt with total strangers (and potential psychopaths), or 'poking' random men on Facebook. I believe in the fairy tale. I don't want to go out and find true love, I want true love to come to me – preferably in a shiny sports car. Then again, I've been waiting for some time now and there's still no sign of him...

So when my editor challenged me to create the ultimate 'single girl' profile and, gulp, post it on a dating website, I was feeling sick – like you do when you bump into an ex while wearing your tracksuit bottoms and no makeup. l mean, I have friends who've found true love online, but I can't help cringing at the prospect of having to PR myself as a potential girlfriend. And could I really fancy a man who falls for it?

However, never one to refuse a challenge (or to say no to the boss, of course), I log onto a dating site to see what, and who, I'm up against. The first thing I notice is how attractive the other girls are – I've got serious competition. My initial reaction is to pick up the phone to see if anyone has an airbrush I can borrow, but maybe I'll settle for a haircut and a spray tan instead. If I'm going to do this, I might as well do it properly.

The second thing I notice is that, to my surprise, the men don't all look like my old geography teacher. A few of them are actually rather gorgeous. I make a mental note to revisit Stu*, the cute surfer-come-snowboarder; Chris*, whose comedy moustache makes me laugh (at least, I think it's fake...) and Ben*, who looks like an Athena poster boy in his black and white portrait. What's more, the guys' profiles are written by their best mates, so they sound cool and fun, rather than sad and desperate, or big-headed bores. Maybe I've been missing a trick all along.

Being a cyber-dating virgin, I have no idea how to write an online profile to win the hearts of hundreds of handsome men. All I can think of is: 'Single girl, almost 1.5m, WLTM rock star with GSOH.' And, quite frankly, I'm as likely to land a date with this as I am to stumble into Johnny Depp when he's next in town. So I decide to rope in my nearest and dearest to write my profile for me. They know me better than anyone else, right'? Here's what they had to say...

My best friend, Debbie:
'It isn't often in life that you come across somebody who has a good heart and also makes you laugh uncontrollably, but that's Tracy. I know everyone thinks the world of their friends but, honestly, I love this girl and any guy lucky enough to spend time with her will soon feel the same way.'

My mother:
'What can I say about my daughter without being biased? Tracy has filled me with so much parental pride for who she is and what she has achieved... except in the boyfriend department because there haven't been many of those recently! That shouldn't put you off, though. She's lovely, thoughtful and smart, except for when she put a stone up her nose and told me it "fell" up there. But she was only four. Nowadays she's funny, caring and pretty much the worst cook I've ever met. That aside, any man who captures her heart needs to treat her with love, respect, understanding and humour. If you manage to do this, you'll be rewarded with a very special young lady indeed. And I'll personally throw in a copy of Delia Smith's How To Cheat At Cooking for the lucky winner.'

My friend, Richard:
'Tracy is one of the funniest people I know, and a pleasure to be around. She's intelligent and can talk about pretty much anything, especially after a few beers. She's a beautiful girl and doesn't notice how much attention she attracts when we're out. I'm hoping she meets someone who makes her realise how fantastic she is.'

My housemate, Andy:
'There's nothing stereotypical about Tracy. She dresses well (but has appalling taste in slippers) and makes a mean cup of coffee. She has to stand on a chair to reach the microwave, but they say the best things come in small packages.'

How embarrassing – but I didn't pay them. Even if my cyber-dating doesn't land me the man of my dreams, it's made me realise how lucky I am to have such fabulous friends and family. Who knows, this time next week, sexy Stu the snowboarder might just have landed in my inbox...

* Names have been changed

Jozi Nights - The New Boy In My Life

Tue, 04 May 2010 12:00 +0200

There are girls who like boys and then there are girls, like me, who absolutely love boys. This love affair with inkwenkwes began at birth, with my father. To date he's the best boy I know; always reliable and generous, he calls daily, has been known to randomly deposit money in my account and loves me unconditionally.

When I was 12-years-old, my luck changed. My heart didn't just belong to one anymore. The boys have been plenty but some of my experiences have been nothing short of dodgy. Never one to be deterred by obstacles, I've dated all kinds of boys and am now armed with more experience, including a starter marriage.

This love for boys grew the most when two days after my 26th birthday another one entered my life. Unlike previous boys, he came into the relationship in tears. But I loved it. All I wanted to do was protect him. He was beautiful and had that moody, artist vibe about him. He didn't say very much – actually he said nothing at all, but I was smitten, already planning our future together.

When I was told the two of us could spend a weekend together, just the two of us, I was so happy and was envisioning a weekend of cooing and cuddling. So I left my house, armed with comfortable but cute clothing, a good attitude and butterflies in my stomach.

The first few hours we delightful, I looked into his eyes and he gazed back at me. He would smile at me and my heart would melt. He smelled so good I just wanted to hold him tighter. It was a lot like a cheesy, romantic comedy. As the weekend progressed my new boy proved to be a lot like my exes. He demanded my attention and couldn't stand it when I was doing something else. He woke me up for no good reason at night, wanted to be fed at odd hours and was constantly trying to grope my breasts. He even pulled an R. Kelly move – he peed on me, more than once. I'd always told myself that golden showers were a no-go area for me, but with this boy my morals went out the window.

The experience reminded me that watching too much TV will delude even the smartest women about what life really is about. I, for the first time, understood why some women leave the house looking like they'd just rolled out of bed – and not in the sexy, TV ad kind of way. I even found it in myself to not judge women with chipped nail polish.

It turns out motherhood is no joke. My baby sister's new baby boy, 7-week-old Bo, reminded me why I love boys, but he also reminded me why the ones I prefer are house trained, potty trained and able to do more than cry. Am I still in love with boys? Yes, more than ever. But I was happy to leave Bo with my sister again and head home to my other older one, the boyfriend. Although he's not perfect (who is), he speaks and has been known to cook the odd meal. But most importantly, he knows better than to ever think about peeing on me.

S&TSG - He's Lovely, So Why Can't I Fancy Him?

Thu, 29 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

'Just lie,' my sister Sally advised. 'Tell him you've got a new job and you're moving to Johannesburg.' It was a tempting idea. My Easter holiday romance with Poolside Paul had continued after we got home, but four weeks later, it wasn't working out. And the thought of breaking the news made my toes curl with embarrassment.

It had started out so well. After the holiday, we exchanged flirty SMSes and I was enjoying that nervous/excited feeling before our first date. And as far as first dates go, it was good. Paul was interesting, fun and cute in that shy-boy kind of way. In fact, apart from a dubious beaded necklace, everything about him was perfectly nice. But something was missing. And it wasn't just the sunshine and sangria.

'You might as well give him another date,' said my friend Jess. 'Maybe he's a grower and was just nervous.' She was right, he was a nice guy and I wasn't exactly batting away admirers, so I arranged to see him again. After all, my friend Julie says she never fancied her man until the moment he kissed her and then all sorts of feelings were let loose and they're getting married this year. Maybe I just needed to wait patiently for that light-bulb moment.

By date five, I still wasn't feeling it. Not when he kissed me goodbye, not when he took me to see one of my favourite bands and not when he told me he was looking for a serious girlfriend and hoped I was her. The thing is, Paul was missing the sexy gene. He was like Russell Brand without the big hair and skinny jeans, or Simon Cowell without the smirk. Yes, he'd make a lovely boyfriend, but not for me, sadly.

I knew l was running out of excuses when I'd missed four of Paul's calls and left three SMSes unanswered. I'd used the 'manic at work' trick – it was true; things had been busy. Then I tried the 'I'm moving house' excuse (also true; it was a stop-gap nightmare that involved three long weeks of squeezing myself into a 13-year-old's bed back at my parents' house).

I could see five dates turning into five pointless months if I wasn't careful. I felt icky just imagining him naked – how could I face the live show? So the Johannesburg lie was an option, but the trouble with lying is that it creeps up on you. I couldn't risk bumping into Paul in Camps Bay two weeks after my supposed departure to the City of Gold. I had to tell him the truth. But how?

There was the 'ignore him until he gets the message' plan. But I've been on the receiving end of the silent treatment and it's not nice. Last January I cured the winter blues by getting snuggly with a gorgeous music producer-type called Sam. All was going brilliantly for two months – he even talked about me meeting his mother and the romantic trip to Greyton we were going to take. Frankly, I liked him. So imagine how gutted I was when he blew out our date on Sunday, forgot to call on Monday, ignored my SMS on Tuesday and left me single by Wednesday – it was like Craig David in reverse and it was depressing. So I knew I couldn't leave Poolside Paul in limbo. Honesty had to be the best policy.

Armed with a glass of wine, I sat down to thumb the text message I should've sent weeks before. I figured if it were me, I'd rather be ditched (gently) by SMS than be forced to make awkwardly pleasant conversation in a phone call. Twenty minutes later I'd crafted something about not wanting to give him the wrong impression. To my relief, Paul replied with a very sweet, 'I had a feeling you were going to say that and it's a shame because I really liked you. But thanks for being honest.' I realised I liked him a little bit more for being so understanding. Had I made a mistake? Would he turn out to be Mr Right if I gave him one more chance?

Just in time, I managed to stop myself before SMSing him to take it all back. I forced myself to de-friend him on Facebook and wiped his number from my phone. Because now I had to be honest with myself and I couldn't imagine a future with Poolside Paul when all I could picture was him naked but for his beaded necklace. And I still wasn't feeling it.

Jozi Nights - Freedom Is The Real Party

Tue, 27 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

I live my life in the slow parts of the fast lane. The allure of the fast life made up of parties, champagne and celebrities is very enticing, and the brave tackle it head on. I, on the other hand, merely dabble in it. Some days when I'm at an event, I fantasize about my couch and the remote control. Now that it's winter my fantasy includes an electric blanket and curry. So it was a big surprise when I had all the time in the world to bond with my couch last week that I began to crave the interaction and air kisses that come with being out and about in the City of Gold.

I was attacked by a super flu. Usually I'm grateful for a little down-time and maybe a little weight loss, but my last week was nothing but antibiotics, missed-deadlines stress and not a single kilogram lost. I was cooped up all day and night, and had to turn down quite a few invitations to all sorts of parties. Which got me thinking: what is the ultimate party for a COSMO girl like me?

Before I could draw any conclusions, I received an invitation to attend Kelly Rowland's event. It seems the international superstar is collaborating with a few local artists for an official MTN Soccer World Cup song. As a diehard Destiny's Child fan, missing out wasn't an option. Dragging the boyfriend wasn't that difficult either because the hip-hop fraternity was also out that night. Unlike most media parties, I ran into quite a few corporates decked in power suits and poker faces. Jozi jumped on stage first, impressing the crowd with their talent and charm – a big feat considering we all know how hard it is to impress the Jo'burg crowd. By the time the main attraction took to the stage, we were all well warmed up.

To say Kelly Rowland is stunning is an understatement – flawless skin and legs that go on for days. Kelly's talent is authentic; she doesn't need funny effects or gimmicks to distract from her voice. A little nostalgia set in when Kelly sang a few Destiny's Child singles, but then mixed it up with her solo hits and was joined by rappers who make Africa proud. The World Cup song is fun and encourages the spirit of the unity – the room was filled with energy I hope will come alive when the World Cup starts.

Boyfriend and I finally left the party in the early hours of the morning, which is rare for me on a week night. The truth is, I didn't want to leave. After saying 'We'll leave after this song, I promise,' for the 20th time, he literally had to drag me away from the party.

Once I'd recovered from the party and the super flu the next day, I had time to rethink my thoughts on what really makes a COSMO girl like me happy. My answer is a simple as freedom. The freedom to go out until dawn on some days… and to stay in my pyjamas on others.

Crossing the Fitness Line

Mon, 26 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

Imagine my surprise walking into a beautiful gym with amazing views of Table Mountain; windows all around and a vast open workout area. Completely different to the busy, often bruising, gym environment I am used to.

Jobst, the only level two qualified CrossFit* coach in the country, took me through an introduction on how it all started, and then introduced me to the other coach Roland. The two guys seemed to know their stuff, judging by their qualifications, but once the niceties were out the way, things got a little less nice afterwards…

Every student gets taken through an 'introduction', which is timed to give the coach and idea of your fitness level – from this he'll be able to know how far to push you and also track your progress. My torturous introduction went as follows: 500m row (on a rowing machine), 40 squats, 30 sit ups, 20 pushups and 10 pull ups. Sound easy? Not so much. Before CrossFit I'd been going to gym pretty regularly, so the introduction didn't scare me too much. (Well, apart from the pull ups.) I climbed onto the rower as Jobst counted me down and pulled away with gusto. After what felt like at least an hour I was breathless as I struggled to free my feet from the straps.

Now while you're allowed to catch your breath as often as you like, the clock never stops. So I quickly moved on to the squats and then pushups. Cutting corners when I'm exhausted has become a habit, and I was more than pleased to not hear Jobst shout 'that one didn't count', especially after my chest didn't quite touch the floor during the last few pushups – see there are advantages to having big boobs. By the time I was rigged for the pull ups, I was ready to roll over and do nothing but breathe.

In reality the introduction workout lasted just short of 15 minutes. Not in my mind though. Slouching on the floor and inhaling water, Jobst proudly announced me a 'beginner'. Nothing I didn't already know…

Today my muscles are singing (not a lullaby, something more emo) and I've re-discovered a few muscles. As I type this without trying to move my arms too much, I do know one thing, I will be back for more. The endorphin rush is comparable only to my first bungee jump and rafting down the Zambezi River. But, watch this space. Chris Brown isn't the only one who can transform himself.

* CrossFit is definitely not for the fainted-hearted. Find out more here. Then watch Zoopy's take on it…

S&TSG - My Celebrity Boyfriend (Almost)

Thu, 22 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

OK, I have a confession to make – I have a man in my life. He's about five years younger than me. And he's a celebrity. And I'm kind of stalking him... My one-way love affair with Paolo Nutini began when I heard him sing the line, 'I kissed you in the hallway and took you straight to bed'. Yes, he had me at 'hallway'.

I've been fortunate enough to interview Paolo four times (unfortunately, my editor won't let me talk to him any more than that through fear of a restraining order). I even saw him play live twice in one day. I didn't mean to – l had an unexpected second invitation and, well, it would have been rude not to. But I knew my crush was spiralling out of control when my friend Marie spotted the Paolo Nutini wallpaper on my cellphone. I was busted. And she hadn't even seen the wall beside my desk...

Suddenly I was embarrassed that, while most other COSMO girls have loved-up snaps of their boyfriends taped to their computers, I have a work area bedecked with my favourite 'celebrity men I want to sleep with'. Had I been single so long that I was now living in fantasy land?

A little concerned, I decided to quiz my coupled-up friends: so, do you still have celeb crushes when you're attached? 'Hell, yes,' says Laura, who's been with her boyfriend for two years. 'When I'm on the train, I daydream that Peter Bishop from Fringe sits opposite and makes flirty eyes at me before slipping me his phone number. It makes the journey go quicker and my boyfriend need never know!'

Reassured that I'm not alone in fantasy land, I headed for a night out with my girly friends. All was going well until Paolo came on the jukebox and I suddenly turned all misty eyed. (In my defence, I was only half joking with the girls when I conjured an image of Paolo and me skipping through cornfields, hand in hand.) My friend Kath sighed and said, 'But aren't celebrity crushes only meant for teenagers?' Well, yes, I did dream of marrying one of the 'N Sync boys at 13. But, at 26, my celebrity fantasies are altogether more X-rated and somehow more do-able – I mean, I'm old enough to get into bars and everything now. Still, was I mad or just man-starved?

With only one way to find out, I called psychotherapist Emma Gold, under the guise of it being 'work' (because I don't think l need therapy just yet). She said, 'Fantasies are a good thing – they help you work out what you really want so you can go and get it, or at least something similar. The only downside is that the reality is never as good as the fantasy.' And you know what? She was totally right. I know that from experience...

My fantasy goes something like this: a chance encounter in a hotel bar with Paolo, followed by drinks in his hotel suite and staying up until sunrise talking about life, love and the universe. (I know what you're thinking, but the sex doesn't happen until date number three and I can tell you it's worth the wait.)

The reality, however, is more like this... Last year I succumbed to the charms of a cute, rather cocky 21-year-old I met in a club. Like Paolo, he was five years my junior, so I thought I'd find out if dating a toyboy would actually work in the real world. Now I'm not in the habit of seducing young boys, but my last three boyfriends were all pushing 30 and that clearly wasn't working out, so this was worth a shot. His SMSes were flirty and fun – a refreshing change from the Mr Hard-To-Gets I'd been used to. Maybe toyboys were the way forward? Then I remembered what my friend Claire had said to me: 'The thing with toyboys is that they're great kissers but they're terrible in bed.' And, well, she wasn't wrong. Turns out he wasn't too gifted in the brains department, either.

So, armed with this special knowledge, I'm setting off to find myself a nice man, aged 28 or over, with massive, messy Paolo-style hair. And I guess I'll just have to live with the fact that he might not be able to write me a love song... Then again, didn't Katie Holmes admit to having a childhood crush on Tom Cruise?

S&TSG - Wanted: Mr. Perfect

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

'Can't you see beyond his ear?' my friend Sarah asked when I told her why Eight-Date Dan wasn't getting a ninth try, let alone a Valentine's Day card. 'Seriously, it was like tracing paper – the light shone behind it and I could see the veins!' I said. Sadly, although I clearly saw through his ear, I just couldn't see past it to a future with Dan.

This is me, the girl who once ran out on a date after discovering he had a belly-button piercing. I had visions of his penis resembling a rusty breaker's yard and, quite frankly, I wasn't about to hang around to see if my imaginings were accurate. After him, there was Chris – with the body of a COSMO Guy Candy but the charm of a chimpanzee. Then there was Too-Short Steve, Clingy Gavin, the list goes on…

So, yes, I guess you could say that I'm fussy. I know you shouldn't judge a guy by his T-shirt, but the truth is, I do (vintage rock = yes please; tennis whites = game over). First impressions count, and I bet I'm not alone in this.

I've never seen the harm in aiming high. But here's the thing – I've been single for three years. There, I've said it. OK, in that time I've had the odd three-month fling, been 'seeing someone' for six weeks (six hours in one case), I've had 'friends with benefits' and an ex on speed-dial for times of need. But a bona fide, meet-my-parents, spend-Christmas-together, share-a-toothbrush boyfriend? Zilch. Nada.

I haven't been brave enough to admit my ever-increasing relationship drought, until now. Maybe because I didn't want people (read: men) to think I was the unsexiest thing since flannelette pyjamas. Faced with the dreaded question, 'So, how long have you been single?', I've generally shaved a year off the true length of time.

So why am I still so fussy? You need to know my boyfriend back catalogue to understand. It reads something like this... First there was Lee, the coolest boy in the school, who dumped me after two months, even though I'd let him get to second base. I was 15 and spent the next six weeks crying to the soundtrack of Phil Collins's Against All Odds on my Walkman. Then there was 'A', my first real love, with whom I shared my teens and early twenties. My mother hoped I'd marry him, but I wanted to explore the big, wide world and, sadly, his idea of adventurous was a Friday-night braai and sex with the lights on. After a mending period, I hooked up with Ryan – all flowers and romance for three months, until he acrimoniously dumped me by e-mail. And so began my dating dry spell, and the start of a boyfriend-checklist that would soon spiral out of control.

The trouble with a man checklist is that the longer you're single, the more specific it gets. So what began as 'Wanted: someone fun, thoughtful and great in bed', has morphed into this:
• The sex appeal of Jared Leto
• The wit of Dane Cook
• The charm of Clive Owen
• The danger of Colin Farrell
• The self-assurance of Simon Cowell
• The mystery of Johnny Depp
• The body of David Beckham

OK, maybe I'm punching above my weight, but you wouldn't buy a pair of shoes it you didn't like the look of them and were worried they might hurt you. So why settle for that in a man? In a panic, I turn to my brutally honest (and happily married) best friend, Debbie, for advice. 'It's all well and good having high standards,' she says over dinner, 'but how would you feel it a guy dumped you because of your ugly big toe?' She's totally right – about the toe, which is hideous, and about my shallowness. While I'm waiting for my brooding rock star, I'm writing off another potentially fabulous boyfriend because of his ears/iPod playlist/navel architecture, before I've even got to know him properly. That's the real reason I've been single tor three years.

So, although I don't intend giving up on my knight in battered Converse just yet, I have decided – for now – to ditch my ridiculous checklist. And to prove it, this week I've agreed to another date with the smart City-type my friend set me up with. Now, if only there was something I could do about his too-shiny shoes...

Jozi Nights - Bundu Bashing

Mon, 12 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

I'm a city girl, and for me that generally means bright lights, Blackberries and over-worked friends who hardly have time for long, deep, what's-the-meaning-of-life conversations. That's why it was refreshing when I was invited to attend RJ Benjamin's show at the Carousel Casino a few weeks ago. I knew that it was in the woods somewhere and wondered if I should pack heels or whether I should be sensible and rough it.

After what seemed like forever getting out of Jozi's traffic, road works and fellow irate drivers, I was finally off the highway and in the bush. The kitsch décor of my lodgings reminded me that in the bush, modern style isn't always the first thing in mind. But the fresh air resurrected the free-spirit in me and I was happier than I'd been in a while. Until I was on my way to the actual show and I almost drove Nina (my beloved car) into a ditch. Shaking off my city manners was harder than I thought as I forgot all about my newfound calm and caught myself cursing my dark surroundings.

Luckily RJ Benjamin saw to it that my blissful mood was restored with an impressive show; he, his dancers and guest artists created a memorable night for a very enthusiastic crowd.

Once the enthusiasm had died down and the gin and tonics set in, the boyfriend and I conversed with a few other city people (we seemed to have been drawn to one another) and it made me wonder just how much the concrete jungles we've come to worship are changing us.

Then we drifted towards the more arty group of musicians, writers, film producers and poets, who decided for some bizarre reason to play charades, the bush version of 30 Seconds (who needs the board and cards when you can improvise with a pen and paper) and then a pretty slurred (read drunken) round of word association.

On the girls' team was myself, an amazing musician called Pebbles, and Nandi, a film producer. On the boys' team was rapper Zubz, a bassist named Saki, and Kabomo, who happens to be a musician, former magazine editor, poet and now film producer. We all figured we were pretty clued up, so you can image how tense the situation became. But the girls had intelligence, oestrogen and the country air on our side so, naturally, we won.

That night, I like to believe, I made new friends; ones I hope to keep for a while. Who knew a bunch of arty city types who barely have time to grab lunch together could bond over great conversation, much laughter and the fresh night air.

Sunday morning, we all headed back to the city, grateful for the clarity the bush had given us. But after two hours on the road, I realised I actually missed the city with its bright lights and Blackberries (especially seeing that I had tons of messages to reply to). So after a long shower and a wardrobe change (my bundu outfit wasn't quite Sandton chic), the boyfriend and I were off to Red Bull's picnic at Innisfree Park. The conversation might have simmered down to laidback banter, but the company was still great.

S&TSG - So Long To Singledom

Thu, 08 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

Last month my single status hung in the balance as my relationship with long-term friend Tim moved on to a new level. Now, with a mix of sadness (about waving goodbye to my wild and misspent youth) and excitement (about the future), I can confirm that my bachelor-girl days are over. I moved into Tim's flat on Saturday, so you could say things are serious.

But I won't gloat about how great it is to be loved up. In fact, this is a warning to all singletons suffering from 'grass is greener' syndrome. You see, the whole falling-in-love thing happened so naturally in the end that I didn't have a chance to think about what I was giving up. Not until I arrived at his flat with all my belongings. Then, all the best bits of my single life flashed before my eyes. Not obvious things like first kisses, an SMS from the guy you swapped numbers with the night before or random flirting on Internet dating sites, but the little privileges you take for granted when you have only yourself to think about. The single-girl privileges I didn't know I'd miss include:

PRIVILEGE 1 – Soft furnishings
11am: Unpacking my boxes at Tim's flat

Tim: 'Oh, you're unpacking those?'
Me: 'My cushions? Don't you like them?'
Tim: 'Well, yes, but are you planning to arrange them "carefully" on the bed?'
Me: 'Yes, like I had them on my bed. Why?'
Tim: 'Well, it just seems a bit pointless. Isn't that what pillows are for?'
Me: 'They weren't there for practical reasons. They were there for visual effect.'
Tim: 'But you used to throw them on the floor as soon as you got into bed because they were in the way.'
Me: 'Fine. They're all I'm adding to your decor to make me feel at home – but if you think I've got no taste, that's fine.'
Tim: 'No, no, go ahead. Sorry. I like them.'
Me: 'No, it doesn't matter. You've put me off them now.'

PRIVILEGE 2 – Irrational eating habits
3pm: Our first supermarket shop

Tim: 'Shall we have pasta for dinner?'
Me: 'Not pasta. I don't eat carbs after 5pm and I don't eat wheat.'
Tim: 'What?'
Me: 'I don't eat wheat. It makes me bloated.'
Tim: 'Well, it didn't stop you last night.'
Me: 'What do you mean?'
Tim: 'You had four beers. And beer's got wheat in it.'
Me: 'It hasn't. Anyway, liquid's different.'
Tim: 'Well, it didn't stop you eating half my pizza at midnight either.'
Me: 'OK, we'll have pasta... Ooh, chocolate brownies. Chuck them in, too.'

PRIVILEGE 3 – My powers of seduction
9pm: Time for bed

Me: 'Mmmm, this is nice, isn't it, kissing on our couch…'
Tim: 'Mmmm, it's lovely.'
Me: 'So... shall we go to bed? I thought we could have an early night.'
Tim: 'Yeah, good idea. I'm knackered after all that moving.'
Me: 'Tim... I didn't mean let's go to sleep. It's nine o'clock on Saturday night!'
Tim: 'That's OK, sweetheart – it's your home too now. You can come and go as you please, stay up for as long as you like...'
Me: 'Whoever said the passion dies when you move in together, eh? I've just had a scary vision of me knitting in bed with you snoring away next to me.'

PRIVILEGE 4 – My tales of mischief
10pm: Going through old photos

With Tim out for the count, I carried on with the unpacking, only to stumble on a photo album I'd compiled in my single days. Each page brought with it a new set of memories. People used to queue at the office water cooler on a Monday morning to ask what I'd got up to over the weekend. But how can 'I bought a new laundry bin at Mr Price Home' compete with, 'I gate crashed a fancy-dress party at 2am and woke up with Batman…'?

PRIVILEGE 5 – My Sex & The Single Girl blog
Ever since I was a teenager, I've had two dreams: to be a relationship blogger and to fall in love with the perfect man. Little did I imagine the two would have to be mutually exclusive. But I can't complain because, after weeks of spilling the secrets of my love life, I've ticked the blogger box. But there's only so long I can ban my man from reading it. And, as I discovered when he woke me up on Sunday morning, the knitting phase hasn't kicked in just yet.

So it's time to hang the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the bedroom door and pass on the single-girl mantle to someone new. Who wants to read Sex & The Nine O'Clock Bedtime Girl? Coupled-up life is pretty good – but single life makes much better reading.

S&TSG - Will He Say Those 3 Words?

Thu, 01 Apr 2010 12:00 +0200

At what point do you go from being single to 'seeing someone' and then to being 'in a relationship'? For me, I know I'm in a 'serious' relationship when I can comfortably take a pee in front of my man while he's brushing his teeth. It's about when I can truly be myself with someone. My friend Susie has a different benchmark: 'You know your relationship has legs when you can sit together for an hour, without saying a word and feel completely happy and relaxed.'

OK, so sitting in silence with unshaven legs and hair-bleaching cream on your top lip isn't everybody's idea of a romantic vision – that's why so many people find the honeymoon period the best bit. But, sadly, I'm not one of them. I love being single and I love being in a long-term relationship. However, the journey from one to the other means being in a state of blind panic. And that panic is always about three key words: the F-word, the G-word and the L-word.

The F-word: Does he fancy me?
I'd already said the F-word to Tim when I confessed I had more-than-friends type feelings for him. Fast-forward to the next morning and this is what went through my hungover head on waking up (although in real time this process took approximately four seconds):

'Ow... what was I drinking last night? That wallpaper is making me feel a bit queasy… Where am I, anyway? Oh yeah, Tim's friend's house... Oh my God, TIM… NO…! I told him I fancied him last night... I'm never drinking again... That's 14 years of friendship down the drain... he's probably halfway back to Johannesburg right now. Hmm, what's that noise?... it's snoring... Tim's in bed with me! Hang on, it's kind of coming-back to me now... yes, there was kissing, yes, definite kissing... he must fancy me, too... but then what? No, it's no good, it's all a blank... oh, hang on... I'm still wearing my top... oh, and my jeans... and my shoes? That's not a good sign. Wait, ooh, he's putting his arm around me... he must like me. Then again, he can't like me that much if I'm wearing my shoes in bed...'

The silence was deafening on the drive back from home, and l still couldn't work out if he fancied me or not. Work the next day was no less agonizing. I eventually crumbled at 4.46pm and sent him an SMS: 'Hey how's your day?'
Two minutes later, he texted back: 'Fancy a drink after work'?'
I won't bore you with the details of our impromptu night out, but let's just say the F-word question was finally laid to rest.

The G-word: Am I his girlfriend?
We saw each other almost every night since then, but nothing was really said about what was going on. Was l his girlfriend? Was he allowed to see other people? How could I find out without losing my cool exterior? And then I hit upon the perfect excuse: my blog. So the next evening, at dinner, I brought it up. 'Hey, I was just wondering... You know that blog I write?'
'Yes,' he replied, cautiously.
'Well, if it was up to me I'd take each day as it comes and not over analyse, but the blog's called Sex & The Single Girl – not 'seeing someone' girl or 'hanging out' girl or 'going with the flow' girl.'
'Right...' He wasn't getting it.
'Yes, I mean imagine if the newspapers get hold of it – COSMO Single Girl Not Really Single. So to preserve the reputation of COSMO and the heritage of the blog, I need to know where we stand. I have a meeting tomorrow with my editor and if I'm, well, a girlfriend now, I kind of need to know by 9.30am.'

Tim laughed for about five minutes before saying, 'Of course you're my girlfriend, you numpty.'
Phew! Stage two complete. Thank you, COSMO.

The L-word: Does he love me?
Will we live happily ever after? It's too early to comment because I don't want to tempt fate. Let's just say that my future as COSMO'S resident single girl hangs in the balance. And I really must wind things up now because I'm bursting for a pee! Tim's in the bathroom brushing his teeth, but he won't mind if I nip in there quickly. I don't know where the future lies but all I do know is, for now, Tim's in it. And that suits me just fine.

Is this the end?

Jozi Nights - Girl Power?

Mon, 29 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200

My week of entertainment started with hip-hop (one of my greatest loves) at Ludacris' Battle of the Sexes album launch at Moloko. The hip-hop heads came out in droves, and even the swanky Rosebank bar/lounge had to relinquish its strict dress code – trying to get rappers into square-toed shoes is futile. Good music and overpriced alcohol made it feel like a normal night out, but then a nipple was shoved into my face. Judging by the cheering, no one else thought it odd. Now I generally have no problem with nipples, and I've been to a strip club or two, but maybe I was a little naive in thinking there wouldn't be any nipple action while sipping on cocktails at a hip-hop party. From there the night turned into a 50 Cent music video – charming ladies in miniskirts squatting at the request of Metro FM DJ, T-bo Touch. Clearly these actions aren't limited to American music videos, but that got me thinking – is this what sexual liberation is about these days? Surely not. Being in touch with your sexuality is one thing, but parading (and degrading) yourself for the sole pleasure of the man next to you is another. Surely?

But, after venting about my night of nipples on Twitter the next day, life went on. I needed a pick-me-up and as fate would have it, I was invited to the Essence of a Woman at Cantare in Monte Casino. Scarred by my nipple experience, my faith in the emancipated woman was restored by the event which was a celebration and affirmation of women, and not in a creepy kumbaya way. Well-dressed women of all ages enjoyed music by Idols' Kesha (from the all-girl NKD group), a discussion reminding us that as women we can overcome any adversity, tasty food and a tasty goodie bag – bonus!

Next up on my diary was the VUZU launch party for a new season of Vixens. In a nutshell, it's about six attractive girls tempting a man in a committed relationship to cheat. Obviously not the most dignified of shows; I'm still cringing at what television 'entertainment' in South Africa has become. Shuttled to the vixens' villa in Fourways and welcomed by the third season contestants in skimpily clad in French maid outfits, the male members of our press contingent were a little more than simply delighted. It felt like I'd walked onto the set of The Girls Next Door – the stunning villa is kitted with a love den, outside bar and Jacuzzi. The journalist in me put aside my reservations and I spoke to a few of the French maids (it seems they live in lingerie for the show's duration), who said they have boundaries but are all determined to be the most seductive in the house. (If you'd like to catch a peak at what I experienced, the steamy show premiers on Wednesday 7 April at 7pm.)

This past week's adventures may have sent me on a journey analysing (and maybe judging, just a little) the behaviour of my fellow sistas, but has 'feminine freedom' evolved into doing whatever you feel is right for you, even if that means flashing people in public? Quoting Ludacris himself, what happened to being a lady in the street but a freak in the bed? For now I'll stick to being a prude by day and a vixen by night.

S&TSG - My Dating Dilemma Club

Thu, 25 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200

OK, so maybe I was a bit cocky when I entitled last week's blog, How To Pull 10 Men In 10 Minutes. I thought being bombarded with e-mails the second my Internet-dating profile went public meant I was a man magnet. Mistake!

David, my first online date, sounded great and by the time we met I'd already started planning the decor of our starter flat. I clocked him immediately, sitting at the bar with a draught. I walked over and leant in for a peck on the cheek but, as I did, he slipped off the bar stool and vanished from sight. His eyes were now level with my cleavage.

Yes, David was shorter standing up than sitting down. I felt a wretched mixture of guilt (how could I be so shallow?) and disappointment (how could he be so small?). He was lovely, though, and the Parlotones gig was amazing, but I found myself wondering if I should offer to let him sit on my shoulders. It just didn't feel right.

'Of course you're not being too fussy,' said my friend Tim the next day. 'If it's not right, it's not right.' Tim and I had known each other for years, but as the last standing singletons in our gang, we'd been spending more time together lately. He was having a work dilemma and had called to ask if I'd mind lending an ear in return for dinner. His timing was impeccable – I couldn't think of a better antidote to a disappointing blind date.

Two bottles of wine and two courses later, Tim thanked me for helping solve his problem. If I'm honest, he lost me in the third sentence – all I did was smile, nod, frown and shake my head between mouthfuls of duck breast, but I think he appreciated having someone there to listen. And I appreciated listening. Weirdly, it was much more fun than talking about my favourite band with David.

But I wasn't going to let my disappointing first date put me off. I decided quick-fire elimination was the key and booked three dates in a row for the week ahead.

Monday: After an hour of Phil droning on about his ex-girlfriend, he lunged towards me for a kiss. I pulled away, knocking his drink over his crotch. 'I'm so sorry,' he sobbed, while his eyes welled with tears and his groin welled with Guinness. 'You just really look like my ex. That's why I contacted you – I thought it was fate.' I left Phil with a hug and a packet of tissues.

Tuesday: When John said he'd buy me a drink after work, I assumed he meant a glass of wine, not a bottle. I was even more surprised when I returned from the loo to find he'd bought another bottle. 'I'm having one more glass and that's it,' I said. When I returned from the loos a second time to see two sambucas, I said, 'Rohypnol would have been cheaper,' and left. I didn't want to sound flippant but I knew what he was trying to do.

Wednesday: I was tired, hung-over and over it, but when Mark walked into the bowling alley, my jaw dropped. He was hot, funny, charming – and my God, didn't his bum look cute when he was bowling?

Thursday: I stared at my phone all day waiting for a text from Mark. I received one at 11.30pm. It read: 'Sorry, probably should have told you, but I kind of have a girlfriend. You're cute, though. I could come to your flat.'

Friday: I e-mailed Tim with the subject 'Dilemma Club', as it was my turn to swap dinner for a dilemma. As I recounted my week of disastrous dates, I noticed he looked really sexy in the T-shirt he was wearing. If he'd only give Internet dating a go, he'd be a huge hit. 'It sounds like my idea of hell,' he said. 'I mean, I admire your enthusiasm, but why don't you slow down? These things happen when you least expect it.'

I'm taking his advice and am keeping this week date-free, but I can't relax – something is bugging me. When Tim called last night to ask if I fancied house-sitting at his friend's place with him, I felt relieved.

'What's missing?' Tim said at dinner. 'I know – we need a dilemma to solve.'

'OK, how about this,' I said, feeling a sudden surge of nerves. 'What do you do when you realise you see one of your best friends as more than just a friend?'

Jozi Nights - Moonwalking in Heels

Fri, 19 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200

I've been hitting the party scene a bit harder than usual recently, mainly because I'm mourning the impending end of summer nights and because I have a few new pairs of shoes that needed their debut. So I treated myself to musical events, as one does.

Live shows in Jo'burg are usually characterised by dingy yet trendy venues where jeans and sneakers are the order of the day. Imagine my (and my new sling backs') delight when I was invited to a show featuring musicians from East and South Africa and the invitation christened the dress code as smart casual.

The scene was Cantare restaurant at Monte Casino on a balmy Saturday night. The restaurant is upmarket without being pretentious and usually reserved for those who are part of the supper club, but this night it was filled with trendy art types. I spotted the odd dashiki, but at these kinds of events they're bound to emerge.

The evening was laid-back and talent-filled, and reminded me of the abundance of talent our continent possesses. MXO and his raspy voice, an amazing guitarist named Bheki Khoza and stunning model look-a-like Liz Ogumbo from Kenya called their showcase South East Soul, celebrating music from the two regions. Conversation for the evening turned towards to arts and culture, a topic I always find easier when I'm armed with cocktails. Liz Ogumbo impressed me with her rich voice and chocolate legs that seem to go on for days.

The following week was quiet; no weekday events to fill my calendar but Friday more than made up for that. I was invited to one of the biggest parties of the year – MTV Base turned five and the DSTV channel wanted to celebrate. Big. The weather threatened to spoil well-planned outfits, but MTV Base's fully-stocked open bar ensured no one was cold, or cared about getting a little wet.

Not far from bling-filled Sandton, some of SA's best artists (Flash Republic, Jozi, JR, Tear Gas and The Parlotones) graced the stage at Urban Tree. DJ Switch and Milkshake hit the decks, making sure there was never a moment of silence amongst the fascinating mix of Jozi's fine and fabulous. If there was ever an ideal rainbow nation, this crowd was it. Rappers, rockers, comedians, businessmen, socialites, poets and everyone else worth knowing in this town rocked the birthday bash. Thankfully everyone brought their modest attitudes with them.

Now while JR's 'Show Dem' is a big hit on radio playlists across the country, it was an even bigger hit at Urban Tree. So much so he had to perform it twice. We were all having too much of a good time and my friends and I figured we'd stay until the bar tab closed. That didn't happen and we danced the night away, literally. When the sun threatened to come up, my beautifully-heeled feet threatened a go-slow. Saturday morning was difficult to say the least but worth every moment. This was by far one of the best parties I've ever been to.

Next week I have Selwyn's album launch at Club Inc., a freaky play Foreplay and whatever else Jo'burg wants me to explore.

S&TSG - How to Pull 10 Men In 10 Minutes

Thu, 18 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200

I was asked out by three men last Saturday night. What's more, it happened from the comfort of my own sofa, while I was wearing an old dressing gown and no makeup. Who said Internet dating was for losers? Well actually I did, quite emphatically, for months. In fact, I swore that if one more well-meaning friend suggested I search for love online, I'd tell them where to stick their Cupid's arrow. That was until my friend Sarah called me. 'So you know Leather Jacket Guy from John's party who you said was your perfect man? Guess what – he's got a girlfriend,' she chirped. 'Er, great. And you're telling me this because...?' I replied irritably. 'Well, he met her online. He's been Internet dating – and all his friends are, too.'

A couple of hours after Sarah's phone call, I was facing a single girl's worst nightmare – a Saturday night in by myself. My flatmate Lucy was on a romantic weekend away and my new pulling partner had bailed out on me at the last minute. I caught a glimpse of Lucy's laptop in the corner of the lounge. Were there really loads of men like Leather Jacket Guy online, looking for a date? There was only one thing for it – I poured another glass of wine and reached for the laptop.

I was slightly alarmed by the first site. The last time I'd seen so many oddballs in one place was when I walked past a queue outside a Star Trek convention. But I wasn't going to give up just yet. After all, I loved finding hidden gems on eBay, so surely 'heBay' could be fun, too. I began scrolling through, scanning the images for good signs (scruffy hair, stubble, a vintage T-shirt). Nothing was jumping out at me but I did notice a number of common themes...

The black and white moody shot: Everybody looks good in black and white, particularly when their face is hidden in shadow. But what are they hiding? And what kind of man has a professional photo taken for his Internet-dating profile?

The extreme shot: Man standing on top of a mountain, man flying through the air on a snowboard and man surfing a giant wave. Men with no fear have a definite sex appeal but we'd probably be incompatible because my own idea of extreme is running for the-bus in four-inch heels.

Then there's the best friend's wedding shot: l must have seen at least 15 burgundy waistcoats and white carnation buttonholes. I've never been one for the groomed look – give me a pair of battered Converse any day.

Decoding the language of Internet daters was becoming quite addictive but it was just a bit of fun, until l found David. l don't know whether it was his big brown eyes or the opening line ('Primarily what I'm looking for is someone who's prepared to lie about where we met'), or maybe it was the fact that I'd just polished off a bottle of wine, but before I knew it I was typing in my credit card details and whipping up a profile of my own.

I uploaded a picture of myself laughing, carefully cropping out my Sienna-lookalike friend. I kept the profile short, sweet and enigmatic.

I wrote, 'Ideally, I'd like to meet someone with the wit of Stephen Merchant from The Office and the rock 'n' roll sex appeal of Razorlight's lead singer Johnny Borrell. But, failing that, cheeky banter with anyone who has a sense of adventure and mischief, and is passionate about music and film, would be a good start. NB: Black and white shots will be considered provided the look isn't too pensive and wistful. Sunglasses are OK provided they're not worn indoors, and topless shots need not apply.'

I hesitantly clicked on David to add him to my favourites list and popped to the bathroom to brush my teeth. By the time I'd come back, I already had 10 e-mails waiting, including Donald, whose opening gambit was, 'l know I'm 20 years older than your 38-years-old limit...' and Hans, a German taxidermist who invited me to his house to see his 'collection'. Hmm, complete stranger + non-public place + dead animals? I'm thinking no. Then I saw another message... oh my God, David! His e-mail simply said: 'I've got a spare ticket to see Kings of Leon on Wednesday. Fancy joining me?'

Forget lounge bars – my favourite pick-up joint is my own lounge. I have a hot date next week and scored it while brushing my teeth.

S&TSG - Man Wanted, Sundays Only

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200

When Lucy – my best friend and long-term pulling partner – uttered the words, 'l think I might be falling in love with Craig,' I knew that was the end of single life as I'd known it. 'Wow, that's... Wow... That's really... You must be over the moon, Luce. I'm so... Oh, I could scream.' I wasn't joking.

Don't get me wrong – I wanted to be happy for her, I really did. She is, after all, the girl who once pretended to be me on a blind date to help me out with a double booking. But I couldn't help feeling, well, a little bit pissed off.

My single life had been supercharged, thanks to Lucy. In a twist of fate, she was dumped the same weekend that Matt ditched me, and for the first time in 10 years we found ourselves minus the men, sharing a flat again like we had in the old days.

Single life was sweet – I had various men's numbers in my cellphone and a 'friend' in my drawer to look after any physical needs. And for all the fully-clothed, no-tongues, 'coupley' stuff, such as moaning about work, having dinner, going to the cinema and nights out in town, I had Lucy. It was a win/win situation... for a while.

For the first few days after the L-word announcement, Lucy and Craig tiptoed around the flat as if the floors were covered in broken glass. If I walked into the living room and they were cuddled up on the sofa, one of them would dash across to the uncomfortable chair to let me sit down.

They started inviting me on their dates and Craig even bought me flowers one day. I wanted to say, 'I'm not sick, you know.' I knew they were just trying to make me feel loved, but it made this sulking business difficult.

Once I realised that being resentful towards the happy couple wasn't giving me any pleasure, I settled into a routine of quiet and self-contained misery. I replaced Lucy with soap operas – 7de Laan, Isidingo and Scandal!. I could always rely on the residents of Horizon Deep to join me in my abject depression.

Then one night, a few weeks later, while I was sitting in bed consuming a family-sized Top Deck, Lucy came in looking more miserable than Pauline Fowler at a wake.

'What's up? I thought Craig was taking you to that swanky restaurant tonight.'

'He is. The thing is, we ate out for his brother's birthday last night, we're out for dinner again tonight and I've missed my gym sessions all week – I've put on half a stone. Plus, my room's a mess and I haven't had a chance to do any washing, so I've got nothing clean for tomorrow's meeting at work. And I snapped at him last night because I was tired and he didn't reply to my text. I think he might have gone off me. Do you think it's that half a stone? Anyway, I'd better go. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Craig's fit friend Mike is out on Saturday night and he's gagging to meet you. Wear your red top.'

Maybe my life wasn't so bad, after all. I certainly didn't have anybody getting in the way of my independence. If I wanted to stay in, watch crap chick flicks and stuff my face with chocolate, I could. More importantly, 'fit Mike' wanted to meet me.

For the first time in ages I felt really lucky to be single. When you're attached, you don't get that intense feeling of hope and nervous anticipation before you go out. I figured that if I went 'nil by mouth' for the rest of the week (well, no chocolate) I'd be looking pretty hot by Saturday.

Unfortunately, my pre-date butterflies fluttered off five minutes into my first chat with Mike. He seemed more interested in his own reflection than me. Red top? He wouldn't have noticed if I'd been topless.

I woke up the next day feeling a bit deflated, and when I saw Lucy and Craig chilling out with the Sunday papers, it hit me. What I really want is a boyfriend for Sundays only. During the week I love my freedom, on Saturdays I want excitement and on Sundays I just want to be loved. Oh well, six out of seven days isn't bad – and until I meet the Sunday man of my dreams I can always live vicariously through Paula's love life in the 7de Laan omnibus.

Sex & The Single Girl - Textual Healing

Thu, 04 Mar 2010 12:00 +0200

I met Dan in a bar three months after Matt and l broke up. During that time the only man I'd been intimate with was Gino Ginelli and he was no longer giving me the satisfaction I needed. So, after 13 weeks of abstinence, it was time to shoehorn myself into my tightest jeans and drag my flatmate, Lucy, into town. Dan was like a gift. Six foot two – tick. Cheeky grin – tick. Musician and writer – tick. Looking to have some fun – bingo! So why the hell didn't he ask me out?

Lucy consoled me the next day. 'You know what those tortured artists are like,' she said. So l was pleasantly surprised when he texted me that night. In fact, he texted every night that week. But texting was all he did. The distinct lack of 'meeting-up' talk from Dan was beginning to concern me. Was he just looking for friendship? On day eight, my question was answered, in four little words.

I was performing my bi-monthly home hair-dyeing ritual – and while l was waiting with a plastic bag on my head for the colour to take effect, my phone beeped. It was Dan - 'What are you wearing?'
If we were sticking to the truth, the conversation would have gone like this:
Him: 'What are you wearing?'
Me: 'A Snoopy T-shirt, a Tesco carrier and a pair of rubber gloves.'
Him: 'What are you doing?'
Me: 'Rubbing milk into my head – a dye-stain removal trick.'
Him: 'Are you wet?'
Me: 'Yes, there's milk and red dye all over the place.'

But dating isn't about the truth, is it? I'll spare you the details of the conversation, but let's just say the words 'milk' and 'head' were replaced with 'baby oil' and 'breasts'. And that marked the start of a beautiful textual relationship. I was too busy stressing about my hair to get any physical satisfaction, but I certainly got satisfaction from the knowledge that I could turn a man on with just a few words. It was the perfect post-break-up ego boost. It did the trick for Dan too, because from that moment, we were 'virtually' inseparable – for an hour at bedtime, on the train to work, in my lunch break... And as our textual relationship grew, so did our confidence. The more experienced we became at dirty talk, the more addictive it was.

Dan had a vivid imagination and a way with words. More importantly he made me sound like a goddess, because in his mind I was a goddess. No cellulite or streaky fake tan – imagination comes with an airbrush facility. In our fantasies, he had Superman's stamina, I had the moves of a pole dancer.

Of course, when we agreed to meet up after two months, the reality was very
different. Dan turned up at my place and pulled me straight into the bedroom, but he was clearly embarrassed about his generous descriptions of his vital statistic, and the sight of me looking nervous in a pair of slouchy vintage boots didn't quite match his vision of a dominatrix in thigh-highs. The sex was pedestrian, and so our first date marked the end of our relationship.

That's not to say I regret it – if you're over the worst of a break-up and dipping your toe in the dating pool again, no-strings text is perfect, as you can indulge your sexy side without any messy mixed-up feelings. But before reaching for the phone, take heed of some textual wisdom: one – 'Dan' is one letter away from 'Dad'; two – 'lick' comes up as 'kick' in predictive text; three – text sex in your lunch hour is a tease, text sex before a meeting is torture. And lastly – cybersex is best kept in cyberspace.

Sex & The Single Girl - Every Type Is My Type

Thu, 25 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200

When a friend tells me about her latest single male acquaintance/workmate/bus driver and declares, 'He's just your type!', I have two questions to ask. First, how do you know your bus driver is single? (Jumping red lights = frustrated = not getting any?). And second, what exactly is my type, lady? Because you and I both know l don't have one.

No, l refuse to be typecast. There's no 'Tall, dark and handsome for me, please!' When it comes to dating, no type is safe from me – for l have been out with them all! A 6ft 4in ex-St Stithians; a bald, heavy metal-loving music journalist; a blond high-flying City boy; a squat-living crusty; a depressingly beautiful sound engineer who was 10 years my junior (please don't judge me...) And the list goes on. Now, you could think me insufficiently discerning, or really rather cheap. But I'd prefer to say I'm just exploiting and enjoying one of the most wonderful aspects of being single – that you can experiment with all types of men until you find The Man.

And why not? Why limit your experiences to only one kind of man (even if he has multiple-personality disorder, there's still a limit to what one 'type' can show you) and deny yourself a thousand different adventures? I can see why some women get stuck with a type; it's easily done. Your first love was an Ashton Kutcher lookalike? Then of course you'll be drawn to crazy pretty boys in the hope that heart history will repeat itself. You grew up in a family of builders? Then, yes, muscly men with rough hands will be reassuringly familiar. But there's a wide world of men out there and restricting yourself means you'll miss out.

If I hadn't dated the ex- St Stithians l wouldn't have met his 'from another planet' friends. (Friend: 'You should've put a bet on that horse.' Me: 'Why, did it win?' Friend: 'No, because I own it.') If I hadn't dated the music-industry boys, I would have missed out on brilliantly glam backstage parties (I once drunkenly invited Travis's entire entourage to impregnate me). I wouldn't have dined in expensive restaurants (thank you, City boy), or been entertained by exotic tales from abroad (thank you, crusty), or had a song written for me (ah, bless you, young pup)...

Of course, there were some downsides: the ex- St Stithians nicknamed me Class Warrior Lynch because I didn't have a friend who owned half of Port Alfred; the crusty would make me get on night buses; and the man-cub came to pick me up in his 'wheels' – which, honestly, turned out to be a skateboard. But it's all experience, right?

Best of all, you can learn stuff about yourself, too. I was surprised to find I have quite a strong sense of self; it doesn't matter who I'm seeing, I'm still me. I don't adapt my dress sense or my behaviour. I also learnt that I could never, ever enjoy heavy metal. But the man who taught me that could just as easily have introduced me to politics. This is the thing: different men have different interests that may resonate with different aspects of your personality. If you stick to one type, you may never discover those bits of you.

So has this all-embracing approach got me nearer to finding The One? Well, I think that's missing the point. Yes, a big love would be a sweet PS to my story, but I'm more interested in enjoying the journey. I didn't start dating like this deliberately, it was just in my nature. Dating (and falling for) a zillion different types of men has taught me there's no specific 'type'. It's all about the individual and anyone out there could be The One. And you'll have more chance of finding him if you haven't ruled out 99% of the male population! Do the math, as our American friends would say. Ooh, an American... Now I haven't dated one of those yet…

Sex & The Single Girl - The Sex That Got Away

Thu, 18 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200

I was 18 the first time I realised I'd let great sex slip through my fingers. The night before, I'd been sitting on a Goan beach, watching the sun go down. And, apart from the unfeasibly beautiful man sitting next to me, I had the place to myself. He was 25, Dutch and, despite being called Eric, about as perfect as they come.

My best friend Rachel and I had spotted Eric in a bar a few nights into our trip. Six feet of rippling bronzed muscle, messy blond hair and cheekbones you could cut your lip on. What's not to like? Rachel in particular went into lust overdrive.

Then, one evening, I went for a stroll along the beach and found Eric sitting by himself. The night was balmy, the sky was red and the waves were lapping at our feet. It was everything my cliché-loving 18-year-old heart could desire. Eric put his arm around me, looked into my eyes and kissed me, before saying, 'I've been wanting to get you alone for ages. I've never made love on a beach; have you?'

I stared at him, my mind still reeling from a kiss that had gone straight from my lips to my knickers. Then Rachel's face popped into my head. She'd kill me. I just couldn't do it to her. So I made my excuses, leaving alone probably the sexiest man I've ever met. I went back to our hotel feeling gutted and frustrated, but at least I knew I'd Done The Right Thing.

Rachel turned up the next morning, bright-eyed after going at it all night like a frog in a sock with an Israeli named Ofar. I admitted what had happened with Eric. Her response? 'Are you crazy? You so should have shagged him!'

She had, of course, got it right. She'd seized the day with Ofar and had a fantastic time, whereas I simply had a massive metaphorical bruise from where I'd been mentally kicking myself – and I carry it around to this day.

The thing with 'the sex that got away' is that the reason you let it go seems so ridiculous the following morning. By which time, of course, it's too late to go back and do some retrospective ripping off of clothes.

The second time it happened I was at university. Cassie and Steve were in their late twenties and ran the local club. I thought they were the sexiest, coolest couple I'd ever met, so I was flattered when they befriended me and invited me out partying with them. One night the three of us ended up back at their (achingly hip) flat.

'You can stay if you like,' said Steve. I wondered why Cassie was stroking my leg.
'With us, he means. In our bed,' she said. Huh?
'We think you've very cute,' said Steve. Cassie leant over and kissed me. Steve stroked my hair. What the…? Call me naïve but I hadn't seen that one coming at all. I was also tempted and very curious. But a little voice in my ear kept saying, 'What if it's a disaster? What if your mates find out?' So I legged it. I've regretted it ever since.

It's not just me either. In a survey, British pensioners were asked what their biggest regret in life is – and what did they say? That they wished they'd kicked more ass during the war? Put more money into their pension? Nope. They wished they'd had more sex. With more people. While they still could. Similarly, I've lost count of the number of friends who, about to get hitched to their long-term love, confess to feeling a little miffed that their younger selves hadn't put it about a bit more first.

While we all hope we'll eventually find The One, there are advantages to living life to the full before that happens. Experience is what makes us, after all, and as long as it's safe and doesn't hurt anyone, single girls should grab every opportunity they fancy.

Because who really wants to be old and incontinent, thinking, 'If only I'd jumped that gorgeous guy while I had the chance... Now what time's Egoli on and where the hell did I leave my teeth?' Not me. I learnt long ago that the only sex you should regret is the sex you didn't have.

Sex & The Single Girl - Live Single-y Ever After

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200

‘Sometimes I feel like the last single girl in the world,’ I blurted out to my friends Maggie* and Tanya* one Sunday brunch. They looked surprised – probably because they were also unattached at the time – but I meant what I said. I’m truly, passionately single, whereas Maggie, 31, and Tanya, 29, are ‘between boyfriends’, devoted to husband-hunting and counting the days since their relationships ended.

Just as picking the right man can make you live happily ever after, actively opting to go solo can, too. It’s the other happy ending. But to do this, you have to accept that being single isn’t something that just happens to you, like measles or a bad day at the office. It’s something you choose.

I can’t remember the specific moment I made that choice. It could have been the first time a married friend complained about the money rows she was having with her husband. Or the day l raced through the city doing back-to-back job interviews, then collapsed on the sofa with a magazine and thought how nice it was not to have to answer a single other question – not even ‘How was your day, dear?’

But being deliberately single doesn’t always mean moments of big revelation. Often it’s the result of the small, medium and super-size decisions we make every day, such as where we live, work or work out. For example, if you don't religiously frequent target-rich environments, such as trendy gyms or dating sites, you could subconsciously be choosing to remain unattached.

And although I may feel like it, I’m not really the last girl in the world to live that way. ‘Why not be single?’ says my friend Laura, 29, a pharmaceutical sales rep. ‘The choice isn’t marry or die!’ The fact is, her life’s too full to worry about scoring a man. Her ‘before-I’m-30 to-do list’ includes playing billiards like a pro and scoring a Marc Jacobs bag. Other friends are focusing on their careers, their friends or just themselves. They don’t subscribe to the myth of ‘the unchosen’; neither should you.

I’m not saying it’s always the easiest choice. I’ve been pretty solidly solo since my divorce 10 years ago. I missed clinging to a warm body at night and hated the ‘poor baby’ looks I got from friends. But like getting out of bed in the morning or forcing yourself into the gym, being single in a coupled-up world was excruciating at first, then it became a healthy habit I couldn’t kick. I painted the kitchen fiery red; I went away for the weekend and didn’t tell a soul; I invited friends over for reality TV marathons. Finally, I admitted to myself that I’d come into my own as a party of one.

Single-by-choice doesn’t mean man-free. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the company of the opposite sex; it’s just that I’d prefer to commit to a few hours rather than a lifetime together. And without the pressure to settle down, I’ve realised that good men aren’t that hard to find – and you don’t need to hold on to one just because he shows up and likes you. Letting go is OK.

So go ahead – value your single-mindedness. Where the between-boyfriends brigade sees endless evenings alone, you see endless options – and our multiple-choice view lets us amuse and delight ourselves.

Choosing to be single means not being captive to the tyranny of ‘We’. No asking for permission or begging for forgiveness; you can have a better life than you ever thought possible.

Am I against marriage? No. Will I tie the knot again some day? Maybe. But, right now, I’m choosing to be single. Tomorrow, I may change my mind. That’s the great thing about singledom – the decision is always yours.

*Names have been changed.

Sex & The Single Girl - Why No Strings Means No Deal

Thu, 04 Feb 2010 12:00 +0200

I’ve been officially single since June 2009. That’s eight months to mend a broken heart that had been smashed to smithereens. Since then, I’ve wanted nothing to do with any kind of relationship; Brad Pitt could have begged to marry me and I’d have turned him down.

Instead, I decided to enjoy dating as a sport. I tried to fit in as many meaningless dinners and anonymous encounters as possible and spent in-between evenings with friends, raising large glasses of wine to self-reflection and trying to work out why the hell I always end up falling for Mr Unavailable. Not unavailable as in ‘taken’; just not available to me.

My first boyfriend Alex started the trend when I was 18. He always maintained his aura of unavailability by being cold, aloof and downright mean on a regular basis. It’s been downhill from there: Dave, Jim, Mike... I’m talking about you.

My friends, who are all specialists in broken-heart surgery, decided on a remedy: I was to make myself Miss Unavailable for a year. Dating was allowed, but I had to tell my suitors (early on) that I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship. And I had to mean it.

For a commitment-craver like me, dating someone but not planning to spend the next five years with them felt quite refreshing – and, at the back of my mind, I knew men would love a girl who played by their rules.

The dating experiment began last August with Chris, a guy I met at a party. After a couple of dinner dates, I told him straight: ‘You know I’m not looking for a relationship, right? I’m still getting over a break-up.’

‘Yep, you said.’ he replied. I waited for his eyes to light up. ‘Did you mean it?’ he asked. I confirmed that, yes, I did, but his eyes remained firmly un-illuminated. What was going on?

Then he dropped the bombshell. The thought of a no-strings lust-fest just didn’t appeal. ‘There’s no point in us seeing each other, then’ he said. ‘I’m not waiting months for you to be ready for a relationship.’

I was totally bewildered. Here was a man walking away from me because he wanted a relationship. The broken-heart brigade dissected this strange behaviour over more wine and decided that Chris was a complete freak. It was time to try my new approach with some more willing candidates.

Enter John, a handsome friend of a friend who maintains he’s not looking for a relationship. We’ve been on several dates now but, truthfully, I’d baulk at actually calling him my boyfriend.

Thinking the boundaries had been set early on, I felt no guilt – but on our last meeting, John uttered the fatal words: ‘There’s not much point in us seeing each other anymore if you don’t want a relationship.’

Is it me or has the world gone mad? Just to clarify, John also had previously professed to not wanting a relationship. But it turns out that he’s only interested in girls who’d want a relationship with him if he wanted one, which he doesn’t.

So guys only want ‘no strings’ relationships if they’re the ones holding the strings in the first place. When we women steal the approach, the relationship’s suddenly much less attractive – mainly because the men aren’t willing to put in the effort with a woman who may not be that into him or the relationship as a whole. Which has got me thinking... Maybe it’s not me who needs to raise a few more glasses to self-reflection...

Earning My Stars and Stripes

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200

7.35pm: After a long day of touristing, treat myself to a beer at a bar just off Times Square. Beer costs $7.

7.45pm: Beer goes down too easy. Order another. Only have $20 in my purse.

8.15pm: Order a captain and coke. Decide to make it a double. Open up bar tab.

8.16pm: Ask bar lady to please not let my bar tab exceed $50.

8.23pm: Bar tab exceeds $50.

9.02 m: Tell bar lady she has pretty eyes.

9.03pm: Old guy next to me tells me I have pretty eyes.

9.07pm: Order another double captain.

9.30pm: Ask bar lady with the pretty eyes where's a good place to party in NY. Somewhere where the tourists won't find me.

9.31pm: Bar lady suggests I go to Arlene's Grocery on Bleeker Street in Greenwich Village

9.55pm: The captain pulls up a seat next to me at the bar. I decide it may be time to leave.

9.45pm: Close bar tab. Cry a little on the inside as I sign credit card slip.

9.49pm: Hail cab.

9.50pm: Ask cab driver to take me to Arnold's Laundry.

9.51pm: Cab driver looks confused.

9.52pm: Ask cab driver to take me to Arlene's Bakery.

9.53pm: Cab driver looks irritated.

9.54pm: Run inside to find out the bar's name again. Meter is ticking.

10.07pm: Cab driver drops me on a random road with no clubs. Tells me to get out. He is parked behind an NYPD patrol car. I don't think it's coincidental.

10. 08pm: Have overwhelming desire to ask the NYPD where the vic was found and if they have any leads on the perp.

10.09pm: Instead ask if they know where Arlene's Grocery is.

10.09pm: NYPD look irritated.

10.15pm: Find Arlene's Grocery on my own.

10.20pm: Think I may have discovered the coolest club in the world. Looks like Mercury. Smells like Mercury. Is not Mercury. Awesome.

10.21pm: Pay cover charge.

10.22pm: Find spot at bar as band begins.

10.23pm: Think I may have discovered the coolest band in the world.

10.46pm: Think the band could rip Korn another one.

10.47pm: Think the lead singer is the hottest guy I have ever seen.

10.46pm: Send tequilas to the band. Open up another bar tab.

11.27pm: Band come over to thank me for the shooters. Suggest more.

11.28pm: Order more.

11.31pm: Drink more.

11.49pm: Tell band manager they absolutely have to come to South Africa.

11.55pm: Tell band manager that I will actually organise their South African tour.

12.07am: Tell band manager I could get thousands of people to their shows.

12.08am: Think I should possibly not talk anymore.

12.28am: Sit outside smoking with my newfound friends.

12.48am: Think they are the coolest guys I have ever met.

12.52am: Think I want to be naked with the lead singer.

12.53am: Think I should possibly not think anymore.

01.08am: Bid my newfound friends goodnight.

01.09am: Hail cab.

01.10am: Pretty sure it’s the same cab driver as before. Grateful that it’s not the NYPD from before.

*SIDENOTE: The club’s name is Arlene’s Grocery and really is that cool. The band’s name is afreudianslip and really are awesome. Check them out on MySpace.

Sex & The Single Girl - Are You His Dirty Secret?

Thu, 21 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200

There are traffic lights for falling in love. Green: move in together, plan big dress and babies. Amber: almost ready, but exercise caution. Red: don’t go there. And in some relationships, the red light doesn’t change. You never move from where you began (bed, usually).

With Ian, 25, I’d fallen hard before I realised the halo around his head had a red hue (perhaps l was too engrossed in his body). It was months before it struck me that we only ever saw each other on our own. We were having an affair, but neither of us was married.

‘That happened to me, too,’ my friend Alison, 33, said. ‘I really liked him and introduced him to everyone on my side, but he kept me separate. He wouldn‘t let me meet his friends.’

Friends weren’t the issue for me; after a casual complaint, they were phased in. No, it was everyone else. He still lived at home, in the same city as me, but I wasn’t allowed to visit him there or meet his family. His office was near mine but l never saw it or met his colleagues. And, thinking about it, the friends I had been allowed to meet were recent acquaintances, not the oldest, ‘we go way back’ best-man-material sort.

There were no two ways about it – I had been compartmentalised. He denied it, of course, and talked about ‘taking it slow’ (well, that’s just a red light masquerading as amber). That’s when I started thinking of myself as the ‘capsule girlfriend’ – I seemed to be the human equivalent of an item in a capsule wardrobe. I was on the hanger labelled ‘sex and fun’, but always worn on my own and washed separately.

Of course, we’ve all experienced some form of dating segregation: weekends only, work nights only, no Valentines or Christmases… Then there’s what I call ABH (Anything But Holidays), which was what got my friend Jo, 28. She and her man were inseparable until she suggested the two of them spend a week in the sun. ‘He looked at me as though I’d just fouled on the pavement. Then he said, “But I always go away with the boys!” After that, he became really distant with me.’

Distant is one thing, but behaving as though you’re on a witness protection programme is another. With Ian, I discovered little lies, like when he said he was away for work but had really been in town. He never wanted to sit at tables outside bars or hold hands in the street. By this time, l wondered if Ian was even using his real name. Why was he being so paranoid?

After six months, the answer was revealed: his mother. She was a Victorian throwback who could vaporise modern-day floozies like me with a single glance. Of Ian’s three sisters, one had been disowned for her choice of partner and the others remained at home under strict jurisdiction. They were all, in her mind, virgins until marriage and boys were not exempt from this rule. He was protecting me, Ian said, not her. Better we went on like this than come clean; she’d only force him to get rid of me. Strangely, l swallowed this explanation, but the relationship slowly petered out.

Looking back, I wonder if the monster-in-law angle was just an excuse. A capsule girlfriend is a convenient arrangement, after all – as handy as the wrap dress, ready meal or PVR. Get what you want, when you want. None of those nerves the rest of us have to deal with over important introductions: when, where, what food, what wine. No embarrassing farts from Grandpa or sharing of cringe-making childhood stories.

But the point is to share, of course – to share yourself and everything that makes you you, farts and all. Ian didn’t get it.

I asked a male friend why men do this. ‘Some men,’ he corrected me, looking insulted. Then he said, ‘I guess they just think, well, is it worth the trouble if it’s not going to last?’ Ouch.

Sex & The Single Girl - A Girl's Real Best Friend

Thu, 14 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200

Being single can be difficult sometimes. OK, the solitary life does have its positives: you can get your beauty sleep without any annoying snoring and you never find toenail clippings (that aren’t your own) hidden between the cushions of your sofa. But there’s one area where the attached girl has an advantage – she can still get regular sex on tap.

Of course there are many nice things about having a boyfriend other than 24-hour access to his penis, but even taking into account the loving companionship, heady romance and mental stimulation a relationship brings, I think regular nookie is the best thing about being partnered-up.

So, faced with an empty bed each night, what’s a single girl like me to do? Go and pick up a man, of course, and hope I get lucky. The problem is, it isn’t always easy. In fact, I’ve found many drawbacks to this random approach. Finding a decent shag is hard; it’s a shame men aren’t available for purchase in a supermarket – life would be so simple if they were. ‘Would madam care to peruse our “finest” range? We do have a delectable selection on offer. Or is madam feeling cheap today? If so, our “value” range may be of interest to you.’

No, even with all that choice, a girl’s got to be picky or she’ll bag an ‘own brand’ version, disguised with a flashy label.

This means meeting men in bars or nightclubs is usually out. Who’s to say that charming man you’ve spotted will be any good in the sack? Once, I fell for the best-looking guy in a bar, only to find out later that his bedroom talents consisted of being able to get to level five in Super Mario Bros (the only moment that night when someone scored). It taught me that good looks aren’t a guarantee of sexual prowess, and ‘cockiness’ should not be taken literally.

Another night, I tried picking up a guy on the Internet. Minus the bar-room bravado and with the safety of the keyboard to hide shyness, we had the freedom to talk in a relaxed way. Plus, my feet didn’t hurt from being squeezed into stilettos all night – an added bonus.

Post-chatroom, we met up in a cafe, where I realised there’s no substitute for a ‘live’ encounter. Though he’d seemed intelligent online, face to face he could barely converse. Not a sexy trait, in my opinion, and I knew instantly I didn’t want to bed him. Giving enough time to be polite but not long enough to give him the wrong idea, I beat a hasty retreat.

Now I think about it, it was sort of like scheduling a delivery from a catalogue; even down to the realisation that when it arrives, it isn’t what you ordered. Back to the drawing board again...

If you’re desperate, there’s always the possibility of resorting to using an ex to fill the gap, so to speak, but in my experience men are history for a reason and they should stay that way – even if you have had four martinis. You could call an old shag-buddy to do the ‘honours’ but I’ve discovered dabbling with those is also risky. Mine frequently imagine the sex means more than just a little fun – even if I don’t.

So, for the single girl, casual sex can be complicated, hard work and with no guarantee of a decent climax. The answer, in my mind, is quite clear: if you want some fun, there’s always one thing you can rely on, one route to regular pleasure – a decent sex toy. Guaranteed to satisfy, always available and never inconsiderate, a good vibrator is certain to create delight as and when you need it most. And with daily orgasms as part of the package, it’s the best way to ensure you always get what you need in bed. As long as you don’t run out of batteries.

Sex & The Single Girl - Like a Virgin

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 12:00 +0200

One of the first things people asked me when I broke up with my ex was, 'When are you going to have your rebound fling?' In the initial shock stages it was the last thing on my mind – I was too busy deluding myself that said ex would miss me so much he'd beg me to have him back. But slowly I realised it wasn't going to happen and that I didn't even want it to. It was then that the idea of a fling didn't seem so bad; the problem was, just how was I supposed to make it happen?

For nine years, if I wanted sex all I'd had to do was turn over in bed and give my partner a nudge. But the rules of seduction had changed now I was single. It would take effort, it would take cunning – it would take skills I'd lost long ago. I tried to remember what I did when I was last single but I seemed to be suffering from sex-etiquette amnesia. I'd been a different person then and it seemed like the whole dating/having sex scene had changed, too. I felt like a born-again virgin and incredibly nervous about sleeping with someone new. I needed a whole new education.

So I bombarded my more experienced single friends with questions. Is it OK to make it clear you want sex? How do you bring up the subject? And if I'm dating someone, how long do l wait before sleeping with them? Is it A) three dates, B) one month, or C) until I've finished dessert? My friend Tania, 35, a graphic designer, recommended option A, but Sam, 29, a solicitor, told me to wait until I was sure the relationship had an 'after-sex future'. Definitely not C, then.

'Internet dating,' suggested another friend, Martha, 33, a fashion buyer. 'It's the perfect way to get laid – you get the getting-to-know-you part over and done with by e-mail and have sex when you meet up. It's very efficient and makes for a really cheap date,' she promised. I felt even more out of touch; since when was cheap date a good thing?

Undaunted, I signed up and, although l wasn't exactly swamped by eager e-mailers, there was a man who did stand out. We were developing a flirty cyber-banter so he suggested meeting up.

Why not? I wrote.
Are you going to wear Lycra? the reply came.
Er... no...
Don't you like the way it feels?

Internet flirting is one thing, but we'd gone straight from Internet chat to Internet foreplay and there was no way I was ready for that.

I decided to go back to the old, time-honoured dating method – hang around bars with friends until you meet someone you like the look of. Sure enough, after three months of singledom, on a visit to a friend, l was introduced to James. He was cute, 36, and he made me laugh. It was the first real male attention I'd had since the break-up and I thought, perhaps, I wouldn't mind going on a date with him. That was the point I should have stopped drinking.

Instead, the whole group of us went back to the flat I was staying in and James and I started kissing. Then, to cut a long (and slightly blurry) story short, we ended up in my bedroom. It wasn't until he started to strip that I sobered up and reality hit. There was a near-naked near-stranger in my room and I'd only been with one naked man for nine years. I felt sick, horrible. I was physically shaking and told him he had to go.

That's when I learnt one rule hadn't changed: Do not take a man to your bedroom if you don't want to play doctors and nurses. James didn't come out and say it but I could see he was angry, and I was angry with myself, too.

I'd allowed myself to get so caught up in re-learning sex etiquette that I hadn't stopped to decide what my own rules were. And here's rule number one: I'm not going to have sex just to get back in the habit. It'll be with the right man at the right time and, until then, I'm saving my energy for girls' nights out.

Sex & The Single Girl - It's Single Season!

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200

‘You gave me socks?’ he said, pulling two pairs of R500 cashmere socks from their designer box. ‘Who are you, my grandma?’ No, l was his girlfriend and I’d spent an entire afternoon staggering from one department store to another hunting for them. But my efforts were lost on my other half. ‘So, anyway‚’ he said, ‘Rob and Katie need to know if we’re going to theirs for dinner on New Year’s Eve...’ Suddenly, all l could think about was how my single girlfriends were jetting off to Mozambique for New Year.

This was two Christmases ago, and that’s when l realised the truth: that despite romantic visions of sipping cocktails poolside, having a boyfriend for the festive season isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You half-kill yourself looking for that perfect present (to me, cashmere socks are a luxury; to him, the scratchy underwear he’d bought me was ‘sexy’ and ‘chic’). Then you argue about whose friends you’ll spend New Year with. The season of goodwill becomes about as relaxing as the scrum on the first day of the January sales.

I was happily single again by the following Valentine’s Day, and since then I’ve enjoyed Christmas solo. In fact, there’s no better time to be single than in December. What other month gives you the excuse to go to two parties a week, blow hundreds of pounds on sparkly outfits – and get rip-roaringly hammered without anyone batting an eyelid? Then there’s that great bastion of singleness, the office party, which gives you carte blanche to make a play for the hot guy in design you’ve been bumping into in the lift all year. And if he ignores your advances, you can both come back after the Christmas break and pretend it never happened.

That’s the beauty of the festive fling; it’s truly disposable. For my friend Paula, 31, it’s a tradition to hook up with at least three wildly inappropriate men every December. Come January, she lets them all go with the handy line, ‘I’m sorry, I want to start the year with a clean slate.’

As a couple, you’re on the wrong side of an apartheid system. You go to parties and spend the whole evening talking to each other, or other couples. Go single and you can talk to anybody. And the segregation gets worse: take a New Year break I spent in St Lucia. The couples were consigned to one cottage, which also contained children. They went to bed early. In the singles’ house, we stayed up all night. My engaged friend Sarah, who was in the couples’ house, was livid. She spent most of the trip being forced to bond with other people’s toddlers.

Of course there are ordeals for singles, too, like that midnight moment when you desperately look around for someone to kiss. But pity your coupled-up friends who may well find their partner doing the same. On that St Lucia holiday, we spent the big night itself at a pub and on the stroke of midnight my friend frantically searched for her man, only to find him stumbling around grabbing everyone but her. She then experienced another classic bit of seasonal couple hell – saying ‘Happy New Year!’ to your man, quietly suspecting you won’t be spending the rest of it with him.

So here’s my advice: if you’re single, make the most of it. Have a pre-Christmas dinner with your girlfriends and get the presents you really want (stockings from Agent Provocateur, please). Go to every party you’re invited to and feel no shame about owning that mistletoe. And book a New Year trip somewhere hot. Last year, I was sipping cocktails by a pool in Zanzibar with a friend. Sometime in the future, I could be spending the season arguing over in-laws and buying socks, so I’ll enjoy my freedom while I have the chance.

Sex & The Single Girl - The Boys of Summer

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200

I pulled Mark last December, after seeing him play touch rugby in the park. He was gorgeous, a carpenter, and – as I soon realised – my complete opposite.

I’m a neurotic writer who is incredibly focused on my career. Mark, meanwhile, was permanently chilled, hadn’t read a book in years and admitted he was still ‘finding himself’ while living – wait for it – at home. But he was 30, tall, kind and had a perfect six-pack, so when he invited me to a day out with his friends, I happily agreed.

I’m still not sure if it was the sunshine or the bottomless jugs of sangria, but the braai wasn’t the only thing that turned out to be cheap and easy that day. Because, five hours after watching him racing his super-fit friend to reach the ball, I was tackling him into bed.

Personally, I blame summer. Every year, after coming out of months of winter hibernation, I lose all sense of reason and am completely focused on the hedonistic pursuit of pleasure. For me, a hot-but-totally-inappropriate man has become as much a must-have summer accessory as flip-flops, denim shorts and the perfect pair of sunglasses. Though said boys may not be Mr Right, indulging in a short-lived fling feels like turning the pages of a trashy beach novel. I’m on holiday (well, in my mind anyway!) so it’s guilt-free and even to be expected.

I’m not the only one – a lot of my friends also believe dating is easier in the summer, when tantalising glimpses of flesh cause us to lose our inhibitions more easily. As the days get longer and warmer, the possibilities for social and sexual interactions seem limitless. It must be all that serotonin the scientists are always talking about – sunlight triggers you to release more of this feel-good hormone, which has been depleted all winter.

Whatever it is, I'm not sure that my relationship with Mark would have lasted a week if we’d met in June. Like winter fashions – cashmere sweaters and luxurious leather boots – dating is inevitably much pricier once the weather turns colder.

Once April rolls around l start craving creature comforts, like downing morbidly expensive bottles of wine at swanky Italian restaurants and snuggling in a taxi home. But in December, Mark and l bonded at an outdoor music festival, where the noise kept conversation to a minimum. At least until we hit the bedroom, where talking wasn’t really required. And I'm not sure our late-night walks on the beach would have seemed quite as sexy in freezing weather with hail the size of golf balls pelting us.

But in summer everything’s easier and more casual. Many of the rules of holiday romances – when his sell-by date is stamped on my return ticket – seem to apply at home, too, and with everyone trying to schedule around their holidays and weekends away, it’s easier to juggle several men at once.

But girls on the prowl would be wise to remember that what goes around comes around. My friend Victoria went out with a guy last year who told her he was moving back to his native Italy in three weeks.

‘He made this huge deal out of saying how we had to make the most of every moment and “live for today”,’ she said. ‘Then l randomly ran into him a couple of months after he supposedly went home – it turns out home was actually in Essex! Luckily I was able to laugh it off – he was a bit too cheesy for me anyway.’

Summer is also the perfect time for a quick fling because there are loads of newly single people on the market who couldn’t bear to pull the plug on failing relationships in winter. But once the days start getting longer, they break free – and with their libidos in full bloom, it starts to feel like hunting season.

As for Mark, our relationship had run its course by the end of February. It was an amicable split – he went to Spain to surf and drink Schnapps, while I started dating an entrepreneur who thrived on intimate conversations by the crackling fire in his flat.

That said, I’m single again this year, so if l run into any beautiful boys I’m totally game. Our romance may fade before my tan lines and the relationship may be completely shallow and based on sex. Still, I’m going to relish my moment in the sun.

Sex & The Single Girl - Three Strikes And He's Out

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200

First dates are always worth going on. How hard can it be to spend the evening with someone about whom you are at least mildly curious? For example, l recently re-met a man I'd vaguely known years ago. The next day he rang and asked me out to dinner. I accepted, thinking, ‘what have l got to lose?’ He’s nice, he’s single and it’s only dinner.

Except it wasn’t. When is it ever? Halfway through, my date (let’s call him Jamie) said, “This
is going well, don’t you think?” I said l did. Jamie was handsome, funny and confident. He paid the bill, made me laugh, flattered me and put me in a taxi home – alone. The next day he phoned and arranged a second date. He called the day after that to see how l was, and the following day he rang again because, l think, he felt that by then it would be weird not to. Suddenly, just one date and five days after meeting, we were in a relationship. By our actual second date, having sex seemed long overdue, so we did.

But the only thing we had in common was that I’m in the market for a single man and Jamie is a single man. I didn’t grasp that on our first date, because first dates can be deceptive. They run on their own energy – likewise second dates can survive on the coat tails of the first. But third dates? When Jamie turned up on my doorstep that third time, all l wanted to do was slip out of the back door.

Third-date break-ups tend to follow a torturous rhythm, taking a never-ending evening to complete. All you are doing, after all, is rejecting someone nice and attractive enough to have warranted two dates. You can’t row about anything because it’s unlikely either of you have had time to behave badly. Instead, I greet my date with half-hearted enthusiasm. I verge on being cold, or at least preoccupied.

‘You seem different?’ he says.
‘Mmm,’ I say, with a forced smile.
‘What's wrong?’ he asks. Then, after a silence, I add, ‘I feel a bit weird.’
Finally I come out with a lot of rubbish about wanting to be alone, it not being him but me, and so on and so on...

This wasn’t the first time it had happened. Before Jamie, I’d had three dates with a man who worked in TV and another three with a gardener. Sometimes I wonder why I go on a third date if all I'm going to do is stage a break-up. But often the end of a fledgling relationship happens when you’re not looking, in between dates two and three. It’s like that bit of cheese in the fridge that’s just on the turn but not yet ready to be thrown away. Only next time you fish it out it has, sadly, gone green and furry.

Third-date break-ups are similar. You know in your heart that the date is a non-date, yet you still go through the motions. You make some, not extensive, effort in dress. Jeans, low heels, underwear that’s basic and comfortable. The venue is a low-key bistro or noodle bar – painfully public for a break-up, but on the third date you’re not at the takeaway and TV stage.

Some people get past that problem by prolonging the dating process. I once got to date five with a college lecturer and was enjoying myself. I wasn’t in love, but I hadn’t come out in my usual third-date allergic rash. That night we shared a curry at home, then went to bed and didn’t even have sex. That’s how far we’d come. We snuggled. We slept. When I woke up I could feel his body was rigid.

‘I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,’ he said. ‘You’ve been snoring.’
This did not bode well.
‘Why didn’t you wake me up?’ l asked. Then I noticed the mouldy cheese expression on his face and knew what was coming.
‘Because it seemed a bit mean, only to tell you that I don’t think we should see each other anymore,’ he said. It had finally happened. Mini break-up karma had caught up with me.

Sex & The Single Girl - Meeting The New 'You'

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 12:00 +0200

Meeting an ex's new girlfriend is either a badge of honour or an ordeal – it depends on the way you broke up. But lunch with my ex and his new girlfriend, Samantha, is cosier than I expected. As the three of us eat meze, he turns petulant. 'Why do you wake me in the middle of the night to tell me you love me?' Ian asks. Glancing at my successor, I hope she can't read my thoughts ('rather you than me'). But her response – 'Because I do, darIing!' – puts it in perspective. Five boyfriends ago, I was too sensitive to weather this man's banter. Were I his girlfriend today, I still would be. Fortunately, we're friends and there's no chance of resuming our affair.

Despite our differing attitudes, Samantha put me at ease. We're both Ian's 'type' – dark, chatty, slightly obsessed with our nails and careers. Meeting the new woman in your ex's life isn't always this easy. Having too much in common can make women competitive rather than cosy. And it's only natural to size up your successor. I check out Samantha's waist-hip ratio because it's the weak spot on my body. Looks aren't my only concern, though. I always hope my ex won't be as gossipy about me (with her) as he was about other women with me. How realistic is that?

As the ex, you still have an advantage – you know all those things that she has yet to learn. One ex, Brian, introduced me to his fiancée, then mentioned he was taking her home for Christmas. I couldn't suppress a smile as I recalled the holidays I'd endured with Brian's mother, a meddling alcoholic overflowing with (well-meaning) advice.

You might feel pangs if your ex has 'upgraded' to a younger model, but if you're over him, she's no threat. More often, it's you – the ex – who's the threat, as my friend Melissa discovered.

At first Melissa was relieved when Helen, the 'new girlfriend', took her hyper-sensitive ex off her hands. 'Until then, Alec was intent on winning me back,' she says. 'He was even forwarding me the romantic e-mails I'd sent him in our first year of romance.' His ploy was working – up to a point. 'I felt guilty about falling out of love,' she explains. 'Then Helen came along and distracted Alec from our messy break-up.'

Alec might have been distracted from Melissa, but Helen wasn't. Within weeks, she was invading Alec's laptop, reading his archived e-mail, exchanging messages with him – and copying in Melissa. 'She told him she knew where I lived! People who met her said she was obsessed with me.'

Negative attention can be perversely flattering but this was too much, and Helen wasn't helping Alec to move on. When he finally met someone who did, Melissa was grateful, but she's not ready to thank his latest girlfriend in person. Or meet any of her exes' new girlfriends ever again for that matter.

Sometimes you can't avoid encountering your ex-boyfriend's fiancée or your new boyfriend's ex. Unfortunately, there aren't any rules to get us through this increasingly prevalent rite of passage. My friend Lewis recalls an ex-girlfriend who came to a dinner party and 'jokingly' told the new (and enraged) apple of his eye, 'Some girlfriend YOU are'. Every woman handles 'ex-hood' differently.

If you have to meet your ex's new girlfriend, try to put yourself in her shoes. There's a temptation to come across as Her Royal Ex-ness but I think that's a mistake. Would you want to hear a woman from his past calling him darling, as if he's her perpetual romantic subject? If you still see him in that light, by all means keep him in your life as a former flame, but don't feel obliged to meet his new love interest.

The 308 CC Way To Have Fun

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200

The first thing I did when I got my hands on the keys was to drop the top, naturally. It gleamed in the sunlight and screamed, 'Drive me!'

That is what I did for three days, and nearly cried when I had to give it back.

I know that girls read car reviews different to guys. There's no talk about antilock ABS and torque and 0-60 in milliseconds. It's all about the luxury, the beauty and the serenity that surrounds you, and of course the pull. And believe me, the new Peugeot 308 CC is packed with pull.

Here's my list of 10 reasons why you need to get yourself a Peugeot 308 CC:
1. There are way too many black and white cars on the road, don't follow the sheep. The 308 comes in Abysse Blue, Babylon Red and Ocean Blue.
2. It takes the press of one button and 25 seconds to take the roof down (or put it back up). It's a hard top that folds itself neatly away.
3. Yes, there is enough space in the boot for your beach bag, umbrella, glamour kit and another outfit even when with the top down.
4. You won't need to splurge on a petrol bill. The 1.6 turbo charged engine keeps up with the other bigger toys on the road while it lightly sips on unleaded.
5. Summer or winter, you'll feel snugly surrounded by the tunes of your choice. The 308 comes MP3 ready.
6. The leather interior not only smells good, it looks gorgeous. But don't leave it in the summer sun too long, else you'll think you've forgotten to switch off the seat warmers.
7. Even if have left it in the sun too long, that's what air conditioning is for. The 308 allows you and your co-driver to individually control your temperature settings.
8. The two-door design gives the car a racier look, but there is ample space in the back and you can easily fit in three friends on your road trip.
9. Your lights and wipers turn on automatically when it gets too dark or rainy.
10. The 308 is comfortable to drive, park and get in and out of.

So there we sat early on Friday morning overlooking the ocean in Mouille Point, the Associated Magazines PR manager and myself. We were having an early breakfast after little joy ride on a stunning summer's morning.

'You know what?' says Jaco-Louis.
'No I don't, but tell me.'
'If we drive to Riebeeck Kasteel, have tea there and then drive for another five hours, we will be across the Namibian border. We both have Namibian passports, what's holding us back?'

Oh the temptation… But then my mom did always say I had to give other kids' toys back after I played with them. Thank you Peugeot, one day I might just appear at the dealership's door.

Take a look at the pictures we snapped when we took the 308 CC for a test drive.

Sex & The Single Girl - Snap up a Second-Hand Man

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200

Until a few years ago, a second-hand man (SHM) was about as appealing to me as second-hand undies. Why bother, I thought, when there were so many box-fresh boys on the shelf, begging to be picked up? I had no room for the baggage – all that endless angst about a failed marriage, a bank account in a worse state than mine and maybe even a few kids lurking in the background.

Then I met Andy. He had the pertest buttocks I'd ever grabbed and a need to disprove his ex-wife's bitter accusations about his performance in bed. All it took was one night and I was a convert to sex with someone else's cast-off.

Andy didn't stick around for long, which suited me in the end. He put on a Variety Performance worthy of Westlife every night and it was costing me a fortune in cranberry juice. I felt less like a lover and more like the bendy doll I'd owned as a child, whose limbs twisted in any direction, until the day her knees snapped. Andy was never up for those half-asleep, 'but I haven't shaved my legs, oh all right then' quickies. He'd had his fill of them with his wife, so we parted company. But my appetite for second-hand men had been whetted.

My friends were skeptical. 'Too much trouble,' one told me as we waited for a phone call that never came from her commitment-free toy boy. Boys versus men, she said: 'It's like the difference between a cute little puppy from a pet shop or visiting the SPCA and choosing the sad-looking specimen that cowers slightly when he sees you.'

I soon became an expert in SHM-spotting. In clubs they'd either have that rumpled look (because they couldn't use an iron) or they'd be bouncing around the dance floor in newly acquired 'trendy' gear, with a grin that screamed 'just divorced'.

And I quickly learnt that you need to carry your own condoms if you plan to pull an SHM. Most doubt they'll ever get laid again so they never come prepared. On the plus side, they're well prepared to make you come, but that could be down to years of tinkering with one careful owner.

Occasionally, I did wonder whether the faraway look of a lightly used lover was ecstasy or a nostalgic memory of the ex. But don't go there. The most dangerous thing you can ask an SMH is, 'What are you thinking about?' If she dumped him, he'll be thinking, 'I hope I'm good enough' and dreaming up new ways to prove it. But if he dumped her, he's probably thinking, 'so many women, so little time'. Great if you're after the same thing, not so good if you want a keeper.

So can an SHM ever commit again? Yes, but not necessarily with you. One sure sign you're not heading for a happy ending is Body Double Syndrome. I don't mind if he shouts out her name at the crucial moment (mistakes happen), but once I was with an SHM who kept licking my eyelids. When I protested for the third time, he said, 'But my ex used to love that.' A ménage á trois with his ghost-ex wasn't top of my fantasy list. In the end, I left 'them' to it. If his technique hasn't changed since he was someone else's guy, it's game over.

But that didn't put me off. I kept trawling the second-hand market until I found the perfect SHM. A bit tarnished at first, but he's scrubbed up well. And, in case his previous owner is reading, no, you can't have him back. Finders keepers!

Sex & The Single Girl - Don't Leave Home Without Her

Mon, 23 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200

A fortnight after I'd walked in on my boyfriend cheating on me with two (yes, two) women, I found myself in a bar frantically snogging a man whose name I can't remember. What I do recall is my best friend Lydia intervening just as his hand was heading up my shirt. 'What the hell do you think you're doing? My friend is in a really fragile state,' she barked at the guy, before grabbing my hand and pulling me away.

I protested vaguely, but she was having none of it. 'Chelsea,' she said, 'I understand you've been through a very traumatic experience, but that guy isn't going to make you feel better. One: he's not your type and he's shorter than you. If you want to pull, at least let me find someone who won't make you feel nauseous in the morning.'

By that point in the evening feeling nauseous the next day was inevitable, but she was right. There was no point in adding fuel to the fire. Lydia, my wing woman, my faithful pulling-sidekick, understood this.

A wing woman is a precious thing. She can scan a bar and know within seconds which men you'll fancy. When a relationship breaks up, a good wing woman will retrieve your belongings from your ex's house, and a great wing woman will dunk his toothbrush in the toilet, for good measure.

I was 14 when l first discovered the power of the sidekick. I had a crush on a boy named Antony who sat behind me at school and was playing hard to get. So my friend Teresa and l devised a plan in which she 'happened to let slip' that a boy named Douglas was going to invite me to a party (a lie). This information sent Antony into a tailspin of envy. Not only did he ask me to the party that very night, he also ended up being my first snog. A snog so bad that it made me consider becoming a lesbian, but my first, nonetheless.

As you grow older and more mature, your wing woman's responsibilities mature, too. She becomes the friend who will force you to go out when you feel fat, lonely and depressed; the girl who reminds you why it's important to shave your legs even if you're feeling unattractive, because you never know how the night will end.

Of course, as with any relationship, there will be ups and downs. Like the time I begged my friend Ivory to talk to a cute man for me, only to be left alone for an entire hour at a party where I knew no one, while they chatted and exchanged phone numbers. 'It's not like you were dating him,' Ivory said in her own defence. She did have a point, I thought, after I'd had a few hours to calm down.

But then came an incident I couldn't overlook. I was talking to a boy all night at a bar, only to take my eye off him for five minutes and come back to find him lip-locked to Ivory. 'I didn't think you liked him; you fell asleep on the sofa!' she said. 'I was resting my eyes,' I protested.
'And I was interested.'

That wasn't the last time I've fallen asleep in a bar, but it was the last time Ivory kissed anyone I was interested in. We took a long break from our friendship after that night, which allowed some time for a little self-discovery. And what I discovered was that nights out aren't nearly as much fun when there's no one to laugh about them with afterwards. So, two months later, I called Ivory. She apologised for her kissing offences and we agreed that, in future, whoever spotted the guy first had first dibs and that was that. Our friendship was far too important and far too much fun to let some man ruin it.

To make it easier, we decided I'd get the dark-haired men and she'd get blonds and redheads. And it does work – kind of. Because we both understand that, while men come in and out of our lives all the time, a great wing woman is irreplaceable.

Sex & The Single Girl - Decent Single Men

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200

The drawback with being part of the post-Bridget Jones generation is that the problems associated with meeting a Decent Single Man (DSM) have become more legendary than Michael Jackson.

As a result, our expectations are lower than a rapper's pants and moaning to our friends about having no date/disastrous dates has become the only part of the process that's any fun. But what if, by nurturing such a date-negative attitude, we're wrecking our chances of meeting a decent guy? I mean, I spent many years either out with my friends having the 'all the good ones are married or gay' conversation or going on mercy dates (the man's wrong but you've been single for sooo long) to stay in the game, which only seemed to confirm there was no one out there.

But then I thought maybe l was setting myself up to fail – a bit like wanting to stick to a diet, then buying food at the petrol station while drunk on the way home. After 10 years in London, the only men I ever met were more interested in drinking than dating, and all of them had serious baggage. But after crawling out from a particularly nasty relationship, l decided enough was enough: no more getting by on 'relationship patches' (like nicotine patches, staving off the desire without satisfying the need); I was going to establish if DSM really existed

I resigned from my job to undertake an exhaustive search. l wrote a 'relationship resumé' to trace the pattern of my dating history, then a 'soulmate job description' to outline Mr. Right.

'I'm 5ft 10in and want to meet a man tall enough to put his arm around my shoulders... who makes me laugh... tells me things I didn't know... doesn't smoke but absolutely does drink... has books on his shelf (self-help and sci-fi don't count)... a waist bigger than my thighs... and is not a pothead or a poet – if I want to see the beauty in anything I'll go to the YSL counter.'

Seeing it all written down on paper, I realised I wasn't looking for the impossible. I didn't need an Adonis or a multi-billionaire; I just wanted to meet someone normal. Someone like me. My date-wrangler friends around the world e-mailed my description to their friends and, within a fortnight, I was getting up to 200 e-mails a week from DSMs. Seriously, these were lovely guys. They didn't have 27 kids in Idaho or believe aliens were 'behind it all'. They were like us: singletons who had their fingers burnt but still hoped to meet someone they liked and fancied.

After years of being date-negative, I was suddenly a date-positive lady as I slapped on the mascara and set off to meet my 80 DSMs from around the world. Obviously, not every date was what I expected: Italian Davide (Date 21) was in love with a woman after seeing her picture... on her gravestone. I spent a cold evening counting 4 500 penguins during my date with the Australian penguin ranger (Date 68), and part of my foot was accidentally cut off during the reflexology date (Date 72) in China. But dating swoony Anders (Date 5) on his floating sauna on the Scandinavian archipelago, watching the sunrise over the Champs Élysées with Olivier (Date 12), floating lotus flowers with Toi the Thai supermodel (Date 58), plus all the other amazing dates l went on, made me forget about the SFR (Single For a Reason) duds I'd met.

I know I sound like a smug-date-hog, but acting positive (believing in DSM and tracking them down) transformed my dating experience from train wreck to dream ride and, two years on, that's still the case. Think of it like the tooth fairy: put your hand on your heart and say, 'I believe in Decent Single Men' and, suddenly, you'll find... they really do exist.

Sex & The Single Girl - The Wedding Planners

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200

Like most of our post-work pub sessions, it was only a matter of time before we worked our way through the office gossip and got on to the evening's most important topic – men. And that's when Anna, the new girl, announced, 'I'm getting married this year?' Cue much squealing with excitement and requests to see the ring – until, embarrassed, she had to admit the truth. 'Um, I haven't actually met anyone yet,' she confessed. 'But I've promised myself that this time next year I'll have a husband?'

It sounded ridiculous, but the more I thought about it, the more I admired her determination. After all, while most of us are reluctant to admit it, who hasn't set a deadline to find a man- whether in five hours ('I refuse to go home alone tonight?') or five years ('l will be Mrs X by 30')?

I know a lot of women who have been so determined to find a husband, they've embarked on the kind of strategy once reserved for job hunting – putting a 'CV' on an internet dating site and enduring a string of intensive 'interviews', before narrowing it down to one candidate. But can you really fast-forward a genuine connection?

As your deadline approaches, there's a danger of dropping your standards – less a case of 'I do' than 'he'll do'. We all know someone whose boyfriend seems to have 'compromise' stamped on his forehead. One friend of mine, a wild, party-loving actress who could drink Johnny Vegas under the table, recently married a bloke who makes Alan Partridge seem exciting. 'Well, he's a decent, caring man,' she says. But what she doesn't say is he's the love of her life. That's because, unfortunately, love doesn't run on a schedule. You could fall in love at 16 or 60. And I learnt the hard way that a wedding is only the end of the story in a Jane Austen novel.

I was so set on getting hitched in my early 20s that I shoehorned my first serious boyfriend into a husband-shaped gap. On paper, he was perfect: handsome, clever and considerate. I ignored the lack of passion and the fact that sex was merely a pleasant bedtime routine – like moisturising. The result? We drifted apart and the marriage petered out.

When we split up, I was desperate to meet someone within a year, because then I'd just be a hot divorcee between husbands, rather than a 'real' single person. When I went out with friends, I chose the venue according to its hot–man ratio. A movie was a wasted flirting opportunity; a meal at a friend's flat meant missing a valuable night out. I was one of those annoying people who pretend to listen to what you're saying while scanning the bar for prey. I spent a fortune on clothes and actually believed that by dolling myself up, I'd net a (preferably wealthy) second husband.

Of course, l only succeeded in attracting sleazy pick-up artists. At the end of the year, all I had were cringe-worthy memories of one-night stands, the mother of all hangovers and an enormous overdraft. And I was so focused on my goal, I hadn't even enjoyed those nights out with my friends.

The trouble with deadlines is you're concentrating on the future rather than making the most of the present. It's natural to feel anxious – especially when another New Years Eve rolls around and everyone's snogging at midnight, except you. But putting all your energy into a manhunt – Instead of living in the moment – is a waste of time.

Deadlines worked for Anna – she joined several online dating sites and found someone who did fit the morning suit. And, by all accounts, she's blissfully happy. But I've decided to confine my deadlines to work. Forget about getting a man – it's time to get a life.

Thoughts On Therapy #8

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 12:00 +0200

It has been a few weeks since that all encompassing sadness over took me. And it feels as if that was a critical turning point in this therapy journey for me. Right at the beginning when I sought The Therapist out, I assumed that everything was at its worst and that I desperately needed the extra help and insight. However, it turned out that the worst only really came in those few days of sadness when I allowed myself to feel sad and grieve – around three months later.

And as dreadful and scary as those days were, the most empowering thing about that low point was the confidence I found to pick myself up and dust myself off when I was ready. It was to know and understand myself and my emotions that much more deeply and honestly. It was to learn the methods of acknowledging how I feel but not letting that own and destroy me and my life. It was to know that my feelings were valid – no matter how enormous, selfish or freakish they seemed.

After those dreadful days, we spent a bit of time in therapy mopping up, interrogating the outcomes and putting it all to rest – as far as is possible. And then it was time to move on. Over the months I had come to a new and more healthy relationship with my mother. We had always had a wonderful closeness, but at times it had seemed overwhelmingly pressurised. I felt like my mother was my responsibility and my actions were directly connected to her happiness. But therapy helped me set up some more realistic boundaries and now I feel like I have all the goodness of the relationship but only a small amount of the sense of obligation.

I had also come to understand that I have trouble asking for my needs to be met. I feel that somehow I am being overly demanding when I ask for something. I am not sure that I really am deserving of someone else putting themselves out for me. I have some work to do in this department but last week, as I had lunch with some friends at a cafe of my choice, I realised that I did not feel guilty and responsible when the service was particularly bad. Whereas in the past I would have been mortified that I had somehow been responsible for the discomfort my friend felt when she didn't get her drink order, now I see that it is not actually my fault.

I also found myself confidently asking an intern to do some work for me, without apologising for the request. There was no 'Sorry, but can I ask...,' just a simple request issued with respect and expectation that it was what she was there to do. Considering how long this small thing has been plaguing my life, I can't tell you the liberation I feel as I have come to understand it and start to get to grips with it. I now marvel at how something so small could have brought me a lifetime of unhappiness and stress.

So last week I started the discussion with The Mighty Therapist about how we disengage with this process. How I feel that the journey has come to a natural break and that maybe it is time for me to go it alone again. I know that she is always there for me when I need her. I know that this process works for me and that it can be very helpful. But for now, it is time to stretch it out and begin the solo portion of life's climb once more. It's a bit scary, but it is exciting and hopeful. Wish me luck.

Thoughts On Therapy #7

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200

So it was a Friday morning when I decided that I would give it a try to 'be present' in my negative emotions. The Shrink had made a good point about the emotion leaking out in other ways if I bottled it up all the time, so good old fashioned fear propelled me to embrace this change. It was a scary prospect – actually giving in to the anxiety, the sadness, the loneliness. I have spent so much time and energy blocking out these things out of fear for what might result, that it seemed ironic that fear itself drove me to test out this new approach.

And so on Saturday morning I met up with my girls for brunch, as ever. I really didn't feel like it. I just wanted to be alone at home feeling the sadness that had enveloped me in the couple of days before. If I was going to really feel the emotion, I was quite nervous about doing so in public.

The girls were pretty concerned. I thought that I was covering up quite well, but their genuine niceness and tender manner made it quite clear I was not fooling anyone. They were tripping over themselves to make sure I was ok, to make suggestions for outings and activities for the rest of the weekend and to make sure I felt looked after and supported. They really are a wonderful collection of friends.

And yet, all I felt was guilty. I felt incredibly uncomfortable being the object of conversation, the focus of their concern, the burden that they seemed to want to help carry. In fact, I was quite irritated and short with all their efforts to offer comfort and solace. And then I felt bad about that. This situation was spiralling out of my control pretty rapidly.

And so I declined all their offers and took myself home to the relative safety of my sofa and bed. And there I stayed for the rest of the weekend, licking my wounds and comforting myself with frozen yoghurt and pizza. I allowed myself to feel the sadness – to really mourn everything that I felt I had lost in the past year. I allowed myself to be very, frighteningly present in my emotions.

And so it came to pass that by Tuesday morning, on hearing my alarm, I lay in my bed and tried to think of any reason at all to get out of it. I tried to find something to get excited about, something to motivate me, something to look forward to and I could think of nothing. In four short days, my sadness had taken over completely and had eradicated all the positivity and joy that I had worked so hard to ensure was present in my life. And as I lay there I decided that this new approach simply was not working. That as helpful as my lovely Therapist meant to be, she underestimated the power of my negative emotions and the reality of allowing them free reign. Right there I decided to revert to my former position and banish the sadness. And it was then that I could get myself out of bed.

Of course I discussed this 'failure' with the Shrink. And she worked with me on a process that allowed me to acknowledge (not deny) negative emotion, and then move to deploying distraction techniques, as they are called in Cognitive Behavioural Therapy so that we didn't have a repeat of this experience. And I am much more comfortable with this approach, much more confident in its success for me and my life. Therapy is not a perfect science. You have to take some risks to get the right answers for you – but it also teaches you about yourself and how instinctively you know how to survive even when you don't know why.

Thoughts On Therapy #6

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200

This week my therapist said to me, 'I have become overwhelmed by your sadness.' As I sat there battling to keep the tears from overflowing – and losing it altogether – all I could think to respond was, 'I'm so sorry I have made you sad.' Things had taken a rather sudden and depressing turn.

Of course I felt bad. I didn't want to make my therapist unhappy – nor did I want to do anything to destabilise the good relationship that we had developed. After extolling the perfection of our match, the last thing I wanted was for her to break up with me – in a doctor-client kind of way, of course.
I looked at her and could tell that she had several responses for me. She started with, 'Why on earth would you apologise to me for my own feelings? You have to stop feeling responsible for other people's happiness. You had no control over how I was feeling and you needed to be true to your own emotions and you were. You don't do this nearly often enough so this is a good thing, please don't apologise for it.'

She wasn't done yet, but she let me reflect a bit on what she had just said. Having spent a lifetime feeling responsible for my mother's happiness, sadness, anguish, confidence, love and anxiety it was hard not to assume that my behaviour and actions directly reflected on the way others feel. And surely I express my emotions all the time – I am practically a gaping wound of emotions, all out there for anyone to see. Apparently not. According to my therapist, I don't allow myself to feel negative emotions. I forbid it unless I can control it and this means that they are going to come out in other ways. This is not a good thing, I am told, but a subject for discussion another time. As I said, she wasn't done yet.

She explained counter transference to me then. And how it was a useful therapeutic tool to gauge the honesty and strength of my emotions by tapping into them rather than distancing herself from them and looking at them analytically. She could literally feel my sadness rather than feel sad herself. I kind of felt exposed at that point and couldn't decide whether giving in to how I was feeling or continuing to fight it off was the way to go.

I just don't understand why one would voluntarily choose to feel rubbish. I don't understand how one feels fear or depression or anxiety and decides to stay feeling that when they know that a change in thoughts or a shift in action will make it go away. Why wouldn't you protect yourself from these negative emotions? And what would happen if I allowed myself to be anxious – a panic attack surely? If I allowed myself to be sad, a spiral of depression seems an obvious outcome.

But in the quest to grow as a human being, today I am allowing myself to feel sad. I am trying not to distract myself, not to go for a brisk walk and work it out. I am just going about my day with the knowledge that I am sad and that it is ok. That if I just let myself feel this way, it will follow a natural path and I will come out the other side a more settled person, without all the suppressed feelings threatening to explode. Who knows how this will turn out, but this time I am going to try.

My Weeks of Chemo 4: First Day of Spring

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200

It seems this whole summer thing will be more difficult than I thought. I was excited at the beginning though – the streets in my area are lined with bright pink and white blossoms, jacaranda trees everywhere are starting to fill up with flowers, the electricity bill has been cut in half, and Joburg has already had its first storm. Just lovely. But I knew there would be a down-side. If this year's taught me anything it's that there is always a down-side. I let myself get sucked into it while I sat on the patio on those warm spring evenings watching my cat (Kimbo the Warrior) pounce at moths in the garden.

It didn't turn out quite as expected though, because what I was missing in my analyses is unfortunately quite central to the new season. Heat is not the friend of a cancer patient. I realised this when, after four months of using it, my wig suddenly felt horribly uncomfortable. It really does get helluva itchy in there, and you can't just scratch and be done with it. Firstly, it's far more effective if you're able to scratch under the wig, but it kind of defeats the purpose of wearing one if you're willing to just give yourself away in public like that. Also, at least with my wig, the initial putting-on is quite a process. It has to be arranged perfectly and well brushed into position. It's then relatively easy to keep it looking good for a couple of hours, if it's just been washed and you have place for a hairbrush in your handbag to use throughout the day and when you do use it you're careful not to pull the whole thing off the back of your head (that was embarrassing!). My wig is long and beautiful (think Natascha McElhone as Karen in Californication) but there's not much point in trying to look pretty if you get itchy and sweaty and a pounding head to make it happen.

More important than aesthetics though, is the issue of bed. Bed has become of utmost importance to me over the past months. It's one of the few things I can boast about – while the rest of Johannesburg has been keeping up the fast-paced slave-labour lifestyle, I spent a good 60% of winter snuggled up under covers (and much of the remaining 40% in front of the heater on the couch). I got PVR and just about every series box-set on the planet and focused on entertaining my 20-minute concentration span, while the rest of my friends and family were doing some kind of work or probably freezing somewhere. There's not much that can make you feel lucky as a cancer patient, but waking up at 6.30am when it's dark and chilly outside and simply rolling over and knowing that you can sleep for as long as you want is just the kind of sick gratification that can make a real difference to a very ill person's life. And now summer will rudely snatch it away from me.

It's only spring and already I find myself spending half the night rearranging the blanket so I don't get too hot, but have enough cover to feel like I'm still in bed. As before, I spend a lot of the day horizontal, but who's ever been jealous of someone being on bed? Being in bed is where the money's at. Worse still, it's pretty much the end of cuddle season. Where once we were spooning, my boyfriend and I now slowly levitate towards opposite ends of the bed in an attempt to avoid body heat. Occasionally our feet may touch, but it really is difficult to make sleeping back-to-back comforting.

The days are getting longer, the nights more exciting, yet I'm stuck on my bed trying to bide away the hours until an acceptable sleeping time (in my case at the moment around 9pm). Whereas last month I would think of my friends out enjoying themselves and think 'But it's so cold, what would I even wear?!' I now look at my stack of pretty summer dresses and know that it probably would be more fun being out than at home watching the third season of How I Met Your Mother, again.

But the worst part is that I had thought (illogically, without any proper medical proof) that it would all be over by now. I liked the idea of my new life beginning in the spring time. I pictured it being like the end of the Lion King where, out of the desolate, hyena-ridden mess, the sun starts to shine and the grass grows greener and all the lovely baby animals come to pay homage to the new prince. With a few minor exceptions, spring this year would be just like that for me. I would have finished my treatment, and everything would be fresh and new and wonderful.

I know that sooner or later that day will come and until then I'm just going to have to learn to deal with the heat and the discomfort that comes with it. I love wearing pretty floral dresses as much as the next person, but sometimes there's nothing better than snuggling up in bed with a movie, a nice boy and a steaming cup of tea. Still, for now I need to focus on the leafy oaks and the summer storms and the fact that even if it's not quite the same when it's light and warm outside, I'm still one of the few people who never has to wake up to an alarm.

And I know that when I do get better, whether it's in the middle of summer or into next winter, it'll feel like the first day of spring all over again.

Thoughts On Therapy #5

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200

One of the things about therapy that you have to learn – and it is not an easy lesson – is that so many of the things you believed to be real are not necessarily actually true. It is a weird subtle shift of your entire world on its axis. Not by miles, just a tilt of about three or four centimetres to the left. When people talk about their world shifting on its axis, you imagine that it is a traumatic and profound adjustment. But in therapy, the shift is actually far more measured and it gives you the time to adjust to the changes before incrementally shifting a little bit more.

All those hard deadlines at the end of a session are frustrating when you feel you have really got into a meaty subject. But actually the benefit of these is that it gives you what I have come to call 'digestion time'. You can reflect on the stuff you have been hammering out and let the modifications in thinking actually bed themselves in. By the time you come around to your next session, you have pretty much assimilated this budge to the left and can build on it.

Having said that, some of these re-alignments are a bit harder to take than others. Sometimes you have held a notion too true and dear to your heart that letting go of it and replacing it with a more sensible, realistic and helpful truth actually doesn't seem like a fair trade off. Today in my session I was forced to confront something so dazzling in its profundity, but so fundamental to me that I really struggled to reassess it and make it real. And, let me tell you, it is based on a very tenuous premise – one that I am actually a bit embarrassed to tell you about.

But of course I will, in the spirit of total self humiliation and over-sharing. So here is the thing. My star sign is Cancer. It is a water sign. All my life I have subconsciously surrounded myself with other water signs – for those of you unfamiliar with the 'science' of astrology, these are Pisces and Scorpio. It has not been a deliberate move, simply an unassailable truth of my life. I come across another lovely human being – find them to be 'my-kind-of-people', bond and share, develop relationships, recognise the chemistry – and then discover that they are Pisceans. Just like that.

There have been housemates, new BFFs, the oldest of my BFFs, workmates, employees (I know, odd) and of course lovers, boyfriends and an ex-fiancée. And I have loved them all. Like a moth to a flame, stick a water sign person in front of me and I will fall just a little bit in love with them no matter who they are. Just like that.

And yet, it appears that in intimate relationships – you know the ones I really, really wanted to last the distance – these water people are not actually the most ideal match for me. Every single one of my significant girl-boy relationships in my life has been with a water sign. And they have all failed at some point. And it has taken me this long to realise that maybe the very core of what I have believed to be our fundamental bond, is in fact the very reason for the failure. Seriously? Seriously.

So far in my life, any list of ideal characteristics for a future husband would have included a notation on star sign – Cancer, Pisces or Scorpio. And yet, what is clear is that these people are wonderful as dearest friends, but must forever more be stricken from my list of potential husbands. I must seek out someone with characteristics that bring out the best in me and can meet all my needs. This is my new life truth. One that I am going to struggle to assimilate, but in the interests of growth and development I am going to do my best. Know any lovely single Capricorns people?

My Weeks of Chemo 3: From 20 To Retired

Wed, 07 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200

In an attempt to take control of my situation I try to think of this experience as one of gain and not of loss. I know that when I come out of this I'll be a survivor; I'll have dealt with the worst case scenario and I'll be stronger for it. Still, that deep-seated self pity keeps coming back to me, and I'm reminded that I'm facing a life threatening illness and I'm only 22 years old. I logically know that being young and strong can only help, and that I'm so lucky to not have any responsibilities to have to deal while I'm going through chemo. I also know that if I'm going to feel sorry for myself, there are people out there much younger than me dealing with a similar, or worse, problem. The thing is, I've gone from 20 to retired in a matter of months. And while it may be fairer than some things, it is still very unfair.

I miss being able to exercise, being in the sun, getting dressed up and going out with my friends. I miss being able to go out in public without worrying about picking up all kinds of diseases because my immune system has been destroyed. I miss being able to go an hour without worrying. I miss my eyelashes. I miss not being tired all the time. But the irony is that these things only matter to me when I'm really doing well, because when I'm sick or I'm sore then nothing matters except for not being sick anymore. Sometimes I feel like I would be able to deal with anything if only the painkillers would start working properly, or the inflammation in my mouth would go down, or the horrible underlying nausea would go away.

Last week I sat next to a wonderfully inspiring granny in the lazy-back chairs while we were both plugged into our drips. The worst part, she said, was losing her hair. She described how one night in the shower her hair gently parted down the middle and wrapped itself around her arm; and that was that. She admitted she only came to talk to me in the first place because she was insanely jealous of my slightly patchy number 3. As we got talking I found out that this was a woman who had been, in her words, 'disgustingly healthy' up until breast cancer hit her in her late 70s. Last year she was climbing trees and swimming in lakes on her farm with her grandchildren. Now she is 77 and makes it through the day with humour.

Still, neither her mastectomy, nor the very real possibility that she may not be able to play with her grandchildren as she did before are as scary to her as what she looks at in the mirror. I've heard that many women feel this way, though to be honest I've never really understood it. I've come to terms with the fact that I look more like an alien every day, and only managed to convince myself that I was pulling it off like Natalie Portman for about a week. I packed away my GHD and shaved off my beautiful blonde hair. I cried for hours, but for me the hair was more symbolic than anything else. I was now a cancer patient, and my life would never be the same.

I've never dwelt on wondering 'Why me?' because I know it can just as easily turn around and say 'Why not me?'. I was always one of those children who couldn't understand why I was lucky enough to be born to my parents while others were born to drug addicts on a street corner, and I know that in the greater scheme of things I really have been exceptionally lucky in life. What I can't understand is why such bad things have to happen at all and if they do, then why now?

This question of why is aggravated by the obscurity of it and many other types of cancers' origins. While there is speculation, there is no proven cause. It is not definitively hereditary, nor does it stem from lifestyle factors (like smoking/bad nutrition) or from external exposure to carcinogens. So it's almost inevitable to at some stage blame yourself or believe that you're being punished for something. I've searched through my life, trying to find the moment that could have caused this. I heard a story about a guy who awakened a tumour by hitting his head hard and for a while I settled on that because I'm seriously clumsy and always knocking my head on things. Even though I know logically that it's not true, I still get really angry with myself every time I bump into something (which is probably a good thing for the breakables at home). But I think I've reached a point now where I can see that bad things happen without explanation sometimes and that trying to assign blame is a lost cause.

Many people have tried to tell me that these things happen for a reason. I don't believe that for one second. I cannot believe that the God that I trust and have faith in would make bad things happen to good people to teach them a lesson. I think that bad things happen and that if you're strong enough, and lucky enough to have proper support, then you can use that bad thing and get something good out of it.

No matter how young or old you are, cancer changes everything. And there are many common experiences that draw together all patients, regardless of age or any other factor.

I know that I am so lucky to not have the responsibilities of children or a steady career or even being on my own medical aid. But at the same time, I am so horribly scared that I will never have to be responsible for those things. There is the possibility that I'll be infertile, but then I suppose there's also the possibility that I'll die. Deep down though, I know neither will happen. Well, at least I think so.

Thoughts On Therapy #4

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200

You know you have the right therapist when you say to her, 'He is the kind of man who wears Bronx' and she immediately pulls a face and says, quite seriously, 'Oh my goodness, no you are right, he really isn't for you.' You also know that she is the right choice when she understands when you are joking and jokes back sometimes when the moment needs it. It is really so important to find a shrink that fits with you – so that you are not constantly explaining yourself or being misinterpreted – especially when you really are just joking.

The sofa this week was less about doing all the hard work to try and uncover my issues, and more of a chat. I was feeling sad in the last few days because of some stuff that had been going on and I really didn't feel like talking about it. The Therapist got it immediately and didn't push which was such a relief. And sometimes you just need that – someone who gets you.

The only problem is that I am paying many genuine South African Rands an hour to get this. I am starting to feel like a prostitute's john. I totally understand how people fall in love with their therapists because you really do develop an intimate relationship, where the ebb and flow of your honesty and communication is critical to its success. Actually it sounds more like a marriage – albeit one in which you get invoiced for your partner's time.

My therapist is a woman, however, so I am unlikely to have that problem. But it did get me thinking about how lucky I was to find someone so perfect for me immediately – and how rare this probably is. I also thought about real intimate relationships and how serendipitous all the best ones are. You just never know when you are meeting someone for the first time, that this person may turn out to be one of the most influential and special people in your life.

I guess the lesson in this is to always be open to possibility and accept even the most peculiar or boring invitation because you never actually know who you are going to meet. But I prefer the Paris Hilton quote, which has now made it into the dictionary, 'Dress cute where ever you go, life is too short to blend in.'

If I had set out to find a shrink with a sense of humour and a finely honed appreciation for footwear in the beginning, it would probably have been an almost impossible quest. The fact that I found someone that seemed nice and kind and appreciated my intellectual prowess and sense of purpose seemed good enough to start with. I accepted that this was more than enough for the process. That she has now turned out to be so much more, so subtly appropriate for me, is a gift and one that I would never have come to if I had just taken a recommendation from a friend.

And aren't all amazing relationships – with friends or boys – also wonderful, delightful, unexpected gifts? And to stay open to more of these we should probably accept a base level of decency from everyone we meet rather than being prescriptive about what they should be to us from the start. I definitely went through phases in my life when I believed that I had more than enough friends, but today I think differently. Everyone we meet brings something new into our lives, and can probably teach us a few new things. This week I feel really positive and open and I can't wait for next week when we can talk more about how this can impact my life.

Biker Chick

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 12:00 +0200

Life at COSMO is exciting. Last week I was invited on a two-day Harley Davidson Press Ride. I'm no biker chick, and have actually never even been on a bike, so I was a little hesitant. Still, it took me only a minute to make up my mind before I accepted. Boy, am I glad I did!

I was excited and nervous – not so much for the ride but about being ill prepared in an unfamiliar situation. As soon as I arrived at the Harley Davidson dealership, however, all my reservations vanished. The Harley guys were absolute honeys and kitted us out with everything we'd need: helmet, jacket, gloves, the works. (I also spotted a super sexy pair of stiletto boots – I'm definitely going back for those!)

We set off from Cape Town, heading towards the Bainskloof Pass, and one of the first things I noticed is how I experienced the ride through all my senses: the smelly farms, the temperature dropping as we headed into mist, etc. Going round a corner, leaning into the bend, I almost felt like sticking my arm out and running my hand through the little waterfall next to us.

There were nine bikes in the pack, a couple of which were the new 2010 Electra Glide Ultra Limited touring bike, a very large, super comfortable ride with all the technology you could ask for. My rider Louis was the leader of the pack, so he used a GPS pre-programmed with the route and a shortwave radio to stay in touch with the other riders, and, of course a radio and CD player.

For the first few legs of the trip we did not listen to music and I loved the luxury of riding in silence for a few hours. Thinking and listening to all the stuff in my head and making sense of it all. And doing all of this while the beautiful landscape was flying past. Later, Louis did put on some music. And his choice proved that he's probably not that tough after all – he chose Katie Melua.

Riding pillion is rather intimate, and there may be a few ladies who wouldn't enjoy holding onto a stranger all day long. But I'm a very affectionate, tactile kind of girl and really loved the way our bodies bonded and communicated while riding together. I do get the feeling that the more in sync you two are the safer the ride is, although I was told it wasn't necessary to hold on. I chose to hold onto my big biker boy and really appreciated the occasional squeeze on the knee, a thumps-up from him as a question and then a thumbs-up from me in response. Clearly if you could do this with your man, it would be 100 times better.

I had a good laugh at this peculiar tribe we call the male race, though. They really are something else. As Louis was the leader of the pack, he briefed all the other press riders carefully on the rules of formation riding before we set out from Cape Town. After the second stop he agreed that they could go ahead of the pack at times, once we hit the open road, to test the new bikes, but hey, give a boy a pinkie... Try as he might to rein them back in again, he soon realised that it was very difficult the keep this pack in formation and had to eventually throw in the towel. These boys were just given a new toy and they were not going to be harnessed in. They wanted to hit the road and hit it hard, and so they did!

I must admit I enjoyed being one of only two ladies surrounded by 12 awesome guys – nothing wrong with that. And, much as it was wonderful to arrive the afternoon, jump in a shower and transform into a pretty, sexy, feminine lady for dinner, it was awesome to just be a biker chick during the day – no fuss, just one of the boys, riding the Harleys. I learned there was a club (or a chapter as the riders call it) called the Ladies of Harley. It would be interesting to go on a similar ride with them and see how different the vibe might be, though.

When we arrived at our final destination in Knysna, I was a bit perturbed to see three girls in the new group of journalists were all glitz and glamour – and about to join us on a sunset cruise. I knew my hair was mess when I took that helmet off and the last time my lips saw lipstick was 9am that morning. But then I realised none of this really mattered. I was on such a high from the two days of riding, that I really couldn't care less about my hair or dirty jeans. I had arrived! I felt an amazing sense of achievement. I was one of them now. I'd fallen in love with riding a Harley and couldn't wait to get back onto one. Lipstick or no lipstick.

My Weeks of Chemo 2: Life's Plan

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

I've always been a compulsive planner. I used to break down my days into lists, and counted every tick as a real achievement. I may not have finished the prescribed reading for the next day's class, but I'd said that I'd get KFC for lunch – and I'd got KFC! And I'd watched the episode of Desperate Housewives at the time intended. I'd go for a long run (and by that I mean slow jog, bordering on quick walk) four times a week and yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I had home-made fruit salad every morning, except on weekends when breakfast generally became a quarter pounder with cheese after a night out.

By my 22nd birthday, my Greater Scheme of Life plan was pretty much worked out. I had two years left to study and had been assigned articles at one of the most prestigious law firms in the country. I had (and still have) a wonderful boyfriend, but was giving myself four more years before I started thinking about settling down. I had no reason to doubt that things would work out perfectly because they always had.

This whole cancer thing can only be described as obnoxious. I can no longer believe that the world will fall into place around me, and can't rely on myself anymore to make it happen. Life as a whole has become uncertain. When I was first diagnosed, after the shock and fear wore off I managed to convince myself that I was actually really lucky to have gotten the cancer that I did. Hodgkin's is very curable. My doctor gave me an 80% chance of a complete cure after six months of treatment. I felt like I had won the cancer lottery. I got through each session knowing that in six months time I'd be able to start my life again. I planned a holiday to stay with my best friend in Mauritius, and pictured myself back in December with a tan and a short head of hair.

I thought I was envisioning an end, keeping myself going through the longest months of my life. What I was really doing though, was setting myself up for serious disappointment. After my first CT scan at two months my doctor told me that I would definitely need four to six weeks of radiation after my treatment. In hindsight this ranks only about a three on the scale of one to shit, but at the time it was a blow that warranted an afternoon of crying.

After my second scan I was convinced the battle was over. My allotted six months would soon be up, and I knew that it was expected that I would be tumour-free at this stage. Unfortunately, I hadn't quite grasped the nature of the beast. I may have been lucky in comparison to Lance Armstrong, or Izzy on Grey's Anatomy, or even Britney Spears (I know she never had cancer. I'm just really happy I'm not her), but I still have a life threatening illness and it would be a little bit moronic to expect never to be scared. Last week we discovered two of the tumours in my chest haven't shrunk at all in the last couple of months. It seems they have become resistant to the treatment, but I won't know for sure until I've finished my last couple of sessions and had another scan. There is now a real possibility that I'll have to get a much stronger kind of chemo, with stem cell transplants, and other scary things I don't really understand. The scariest thing though, is realising that I have absolutely no control over this at all.

Two weeks ago my boyfriend's father had a heart attack. He was 57 and healthy. There was no warning, no reason. He was here, and then was gone – along with the countless unmade memories of holidays, of retirement, of grandchildren… Unfortunately life has another plan. And it really, really sucks.

Everyone at some time will be confronted by the fact that, whatever the power of the human body and spirit, life is truly fragile. One moment you're planning a fishing trip, the next you're mourning a father. If I have learned anything so far in this experience it's that no matter how hard you try, you can never write your own story. You can only take what you're given and use it as best you can and hope that, somehow, you get what you want from life.

Thoughts on Therapy #3

Mon, 28 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

So, following from last week's session, we were going to work on defining my perceived value in relationships this week in therapy. I had spent a lot of time thinking about it and getting no nearer to any kind of answer. That's really the pisser with therapy – you start to understand everything that is wrong with you but it seems like climbing Everest to get to any kind of answers or fixes for these newly identified problems.

And so when I got to the rooms for my designated time and plonked myself down on the couch, luxury coffee from across the road in hand, I really couldn't think of anything to say that really progressed our discussion. All I could really think of was how much my assistant at work was annoying me and how she never did anything that I asked of her. Really. Nothing. Even when I said please and thank you a lot and told her how much I appreciated her help.

'You mean you thank her for not doing what you asked of her?' The Therapist enquired.

Even worse, actually, I mostly apologise for even asking it of her. 'Sorry,' I say, 'but please could you...'

Now you may think, based on this pathetic little exchange, that I am some sort of doormat, that I am a simpering, shy and retiring sort of gal. Let me put that to rest – I am quite patently not. I am a kick-ass chick who strides through life with plenty of confidence and a clear sense of identity. I am the girl that has been accused by her family her entire life of being 'difficult and demanding'.

But, you see, I am also the girl that was put into a management position in my brief life in England and was then systematically bullied for being South African in my tone – to the point where I was told to put the word 'please' in the front of the sentence rather than at the end, as this syntax contributed to my perceived 'bad tone'. I started to apologise then for asking anything of anyone and it has now become stuck.

The wise and lovely Therapist shook her head and said no. No, it did not start there, you see. It actually started long before when I was made to feel as if I was being demanding by asking for what I needed as a child. When you are three and you ask for something, you simply think that it is a need that must be filled. You have no other agenda at this age. When I was labelled as 'difficult and demanding', I was just asking for my needs to be filled but soon learned that this was too much to ask for. It was, in fact, then that I started to apologise.

Well, well. Now isn't that interesting.

And then came the breakthrough. I realised in that moment that I am too scared to ask for my needs to be met in relationships as well – just in case I am exposed as 'too demanding'. And the net result of this is that I am not true to myself at all in these circumstances and I am actually a doormat. Bloody hell, my worst nightmare.

And so how does this relate to understanding what my value is in a relationship? Well, unfortunately we have to examine the links next week because our time is up for now.

My Weeks of Chemo 1

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

Sometimes life throws you a curve-ball. Sometimes it throws you a curve bullet. This is characterised, firstly, by its being entirely unavoidable, and secondly by the fact that it really, really sucks. You then get to choose between biting that bullet and, well, a gory death. My curve bullet hit me in my neck two days after my 22nd birthday, and spread to two other chains of lymph nodes before I discovered that the lumps were in fact tumours. My initial thought, after many an internal – and external – expletive was I'm too young for this, but the truth is that every person in the world is either too young or too old for chemotherapy. Yet it's as unexpected and as petrifying regardless.

At my last chemo session I overheard one visitor speaking about what an eye-opener being there with her friend was. (As cancer patients we are allowed to eves-drop. We're also allowed to spend money recklessly and lift our wigs in public places to guilt people into giving us good service. I swear, it's in the rule book.) This woman reminded me of what I'd already discovered from so many of my friends: if you haven't had chemo, you probably don't know a thing about chemo. And you really can't learn it from Grey's Anatomy. This is quite scary considering that, according to my fabulous oncologist, approximately 20% of us will have chemo in our lifetime.

I hope my blogs will demystify the process a bit; give the clueless at least one clue. I don't want to go into all the gory side-effects, but suffice it to say that it affects everything and that as soon as you feel normal something else happens and you realise that you're not.

A TYPICAL DAY AT CHEMO…
Step 1
I always arrive on time for my appointment and always wait for around an hour and a half. My doctor is brilliant and deals with a lot of dying people. I can wait.

Step 2
Get my blood taken to make sure my white blood count levels are high enough so I won't peg if I get the chemo. Don't want to peg. If they're low, I inject myself with bone-marrow stimulating medicine and go back in a couple of days.

Step 3
Go in for my appointment. Get chemo script and top up on painkillers and good doctorly advice on the side-effects. Always get reminded I'm doing well. (I really love her!)

Step 4
Play the authorization game. Right now I pretty much hate my medical aid company, even though they're coughing up a couple hundred thousand to keep me alive. I suppose I would also be reluctant if I was them, it's a lot of money, but I'm skeptical of institutions that make it more difficult for cancer patients to start their treatment because they want to save money. Luckily the centre I'm at organises just about everything for you, and even the lady that consults with the medical aids for us is lovely.

Step 5
Give the chemist the script. They mix the drugs wearing so much protective gear they look like they're about to take a space walk. Stoked that this stuff is going into my body. Awesome.

Step 6
I get my miracle anti-nausea drug. I have had some incidences, but in real terms, I have not thrown up once. I'm completely amazed that anyone survived chemo four years ago, before this drug was available. Sometimes, when I can't imagine feeling any worse, I think about that and count my blessings. The chemist is, as I'm sure you've guessed, lovely.
The medical aid is now refusing to authorise the miraculous anti-nausea drug because it is expensive. Clearly the company directors feel that cheap movies and gym memberships are a fine consolation.

THE CHEMO
I am now under the jurisdiction of the nurses. Somehow they're always cheerful and remember all the details of my family and friends. They also seem to know everything about every treatment, which is really impressive considering the hundreds of different cancers out there. They are one of the few things I'll miss when I'm done.

The room has about 20 lazy-back chairs and three beds for the really tired guys. One of the (lovely) nurses puts a needle into my hand, the drip is attached, and it begins. I have two anti-side-effect bags first, followed by the four chemo bags, taking about three hours in all. I'm lucid for about an hour before I begin getting spaced out and a headache.

I spend a lot of my time dreading the last chemo bag. It's called DTIC and one of the doctors described it as 'a pot scourer on the veins'. Firstly, I'd like to thank him for a wonderful mental image. But in all honesty, it hurts like a bitch. Sometimes it feels like needles repeatedly stabbing me all over my arm; like it's under a sewing machine.

But all treatments are different, and all people are affected differently. One woman sits across from me most sessions and always wears smart suits and beautiful shoes. She comes straight from work and seems to spend her time responding to e-mails. Thereafter she apparently goes to Woolies to do her weekly shop. I'm very impressed, and a little bit jealous.

Most of the people you meet at chemo are amazing. Each patient has a story to tell, whether heart-breaking or encouraging. The truth in the room is virtually tangible: some can be seen in strength, and some in a resignation that can only occur in people who have really been through it. I haven't quite decided on my story yet. I know that this has been the hardest period of my life so far, and right now can't believe that I will ever experience anything harder. But the message of the masses is that we get through it. Life gets back on track and a new stream of patients are forced to deal with the Big Life Questions. The real sadness is that the care and respect found in oncology rooms is not reflected in the world outside. As scary as it is being here, I'm a little scared to return to the world. I can only hope that I learn a thing or two.

Thoughts on Therapy #2

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

Having formed an almost instant bond with my therapist has some advantages. The first, and most important, is that I feel like I can tell her any number of vile things about myself and she won't judge me. Sometimes I have pretty shitty thoughts about other people, but The Therapist simply takes these in her stride and tries to get to why this is the way I feel. So now we have developed a rather lovely rhythm. I turn up for sessions, I talk and she listens. Them's the rules of this particular game.

And so over the first few weeks we have ascertained that I have some key issues that need some work. Uhm, yes. That was the point I suspect.

The first and most fundamental of my particular brand of crazy is broadly an issue with my intimate relationships. Boyfriends are an area that I don't appear to be getting right and we need to find out why. Secondly, my relationship with my parents, most specifically with The Mother, needs a bit of tweaking and possibly a bit of loosening of the ties that bind. And finally, we have most recently uncovered a twist here and there with my new career and who I am in this new milieu.

And so last week we were starting at the very beginning, because, I am told, it is a very good place to start. We were chatting about relationships – what my expectations were and how I had landed up where I am currently – on the brink of ending my twenties, alone and mostly just confused.

You see, while I am definitely not a conventional person, I do actually want to get married. I grew up always believing that I would get married, and despite my un-maturing revolutionary approach to life, I still want the big wedding dress (and shoes, more specifically) and the whole dancing in the moonlight as a bride on my special day shtick. Then I told The Therapist something that I had never admitted before. I told her how there were girls I knew from school who were not very fun or interesting and really not terribly pretty who had got married and that it really confused me. I simply couldn't understand how that could be fair.

What? Seriously, I said that. I knew that I sounded like a complete brat, but really, if they can find someone willing to marry them, how come I am single? Short of stamping my foot and folding my arms aggressively across my chest like a sulky teenager, I had pretty much exposed the very worst of my character. But it really was what I was thinking and there really isn't any point to therapy if you are not going to go into it, warts and all.

The wise and lovely Therapist just nodded, asking what getting married really represents to me.

'I want to be chosen,' I explained. 'I want someone to love me enough to choose me, to stand up in front of all our friends and families and publically say that from all the girls in the world, he has chosen me to love and spend his life with. I want to be that girl for someone.'

And that is why I am so hard on the ones that have got this right. By being single amongst all my peers, I feel like the girl who is left standing there once all the other girls have been chosen for the teams on the sports field. I feel like I am not good enough but I don't know why.

The Therapist made some notes, 'Defining your value in a relationship is something to work on next time, but I'm sorry our time is up for this week.'

Thoughts on Therapy #1

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

The decision to start seeing a therapist wasn't my own. I am at a bit of a life crossroads at the moment. Nearing the end of my 20s, I have totally changed my career path and am newly-single. According to my loved ones all these changes have had an adverse affect on my personality and I seem to be angry and stressed a lot. And maybe a bit moody – or as I like to say – pensive. So The Mother and many of The Friends started making helpful suggestions about checking out the therapists available in my neighbourhood. Some even suggested specific ones that they knew or had used. And it was at that point that I decided that I had better take control of this situation before I was involuntarily committed to some hospital like Britney and Mischa.

The idea of using a therapist that someone else had used seemed akin to the sharing of a toothbrush – way too intimate and just a little bit unhygienic. So I really did want to find one of my own. It's funny how one can be possessive over something as professional as a head doctor, but there it is. No sharing allowed in this department.

I set about it in the age old tradition of deploying Google. With a degree in psychology, I was au fait with the jargon that was used to describe types of therapy on offer – and I was quite clear that I didn't want to go the route of Freudian or Jungian therapy. Mostly because I have little patience for attributing all quirkiness to the failure of our parents to raise us right. But also because these are somewhat intense therapies that require a LONG investment and many months before a breakthrough is achieved. And this can be a super-costly approach, something I cannot really afford.

So I found a cognitive behavioural therapy practice a bit of a trek from home-base that no one else had suggested. I felt that this was my choice, my safe place, and duly called up and made an appointment. I got one right away.

I was pretty trepidare on arrival for my first session, especially when greeted by a room that was tastefully decorated with a large sofa, prominently positioned, accessorised only by a large box of tissues. Now being a gratuitous crier in situations where it has no real importance (like in movies, adverts, happy greetings at airports, etc) and gloriously stoic in the great tradition of my British parents in all appropriately traumatic ones, I was slightly offended by the tissues. But I took my place on the sofa and thus began my journey into self awareness and a tiny bit of self actualisation.

The first order of business was, of course, to make absolutely clear that this was not to be a self indulgent couple of years of navel gazing. I may actually have used those exact words when I introduced myself The Therapist. I had a few small problems that needed fixing, in the most practical way possible, and I wasn't about to re-mortgage my home to pay for this. It needed to be swift, pragmatic and focussed. Oh, and I wasn't about to make this an exercise in crying either, so the tissues were unnecessary.

It was the way she smiled sweetly at me that made me realise that I was maybe saying a bit too much about myself and my control issues right off the bat. I stopped and then started again saying, 'Sorry, I hope you understand that I can't afford to be in therapy for more than a few months, and I really want to work some stuff out. But I trust that you know more than I do, so please take what ever approach you need.'

Then she smiled properly and told me that we were probably going to be fine on this journey together.

The Handshake

Wed, 09 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

It's Friday night and a whole month has gone by since I met Blue-Eyed Boy. If I'm honest with myself (and who really wants to do that?), I know he isn't right for me. The hunter-gatherer in me requires my man to kill the cockroaches. I know it's old-fashioned and in this city I'm clearly capable of killing my own cockroaches, but it's a sign of things to come.

That doesn't mean I don't want to sleep with him. If anything I think the only way to get over this one is to get under him – because until I know if he's any good in the sack, I will always have the suspicion that he isn't.

The gang and I headed out to a bar and were jostling for position between some of the nicest, straightest-looking men anyone of us has seen in a long time. I've always had the suspicion that somewhere in Cape Town there was a place where all the hot guys were going, I just didn't know where it was. We might have found it or maybe it was the Jack and lime.

We were talking to two cute boys when Grace poked me in the ribs. There across the room was Blue-Eyed Boy. Shit. He spotted us, and headed over. I had to practically bite my tongue to stop myself shouting: 'Why haven't you called?!' Instead I told myself, 'Be cool, Lola.'

Seeing him again changed my mind about how hot he actually was. Was it all in my head? But the ensuing conversation made me realise that there was definitely something about this guy. Maybe it was just the challenge of him clearly not being that into me or maybe it was because it's been a while and I am a sucker for blue-eyed boys.

I lost interest in the two cute boys I was initially chatting to and thinking back, it didn't matter how many other better-looking, more appropriate men there were in that heaving bar of hormones – it was Blue-Eyed Boy or bust. When his mate came over, I tried gingerly to make conversation, but the bromance didn't allow for a blonde gal's interference. In the end his friend won, and off they went into the throws of the crowd while The Killers asked 'Are we human, or we dancer?'

By then my stiletto boots were killing me. I had stupidly arranged breakfast with a girlfriend (which was only a few hours away), and the only thing between me and the exit was Blue-Eyed Boy.

'So, I'm going to head on out now,' I said as I crossed his path.
'Where else you going?' [Is it only South Africans who always have to have somewhere else to be going to? Can we not just go to one place and stay there?]
'Nowhere, I'm going to continue the evening on my balcony.'
'Oh, we're going to J--------'
'So, does that mean you're not coming home with me?'
'No, I can.'

Score!

Or so I thought. The next thing, from out of nowhere appears Giselle Bundchen mixed with Halle Berry.

'Blue, you're still here. I came back, the other place was closed and I wanted to see you,' she says. 'Oh, hi,' Halle Bundchen finishes, finally noticing me, and reaches out to shake my hand.

Blindsided in the second-last minute of the game, damn. There was no way I could come back from this one – sucker punched with the handshake. The handshake! The ultimate weapon in the art of war. Nothing says 'you are not a threat to me and I will win this one' more than the handshake. I know because I have successfully played this maneuver on previous occasions.

Outplayed and outclassed, I conceded defeat. Another unrequited rhymes- with- luck! Oh well, as a Stormers fan I know you can't win them all, but at least I have fun playing! And who knows what next week will bring?

Diary of a Breakup - Week 10

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

How do you know that you've got over your ex boyfriend? Is there a time table? Am I taking too long and do people, therefore, think I'm a bit pathetic? I worry that I'm not moving forward fast enough – not just getting back on the horse as everyone helpfully suggests. And I do want to move on. Really I do. But there's just something that doesn't feel right yet. Does that make me an idiot?

It's been 10 weeks now and I feel mostly fine. Sure, I still think about him and get a bit sad or angry. Actually I feel sorry for myself for a little while on most days – but I don't cry or wail or anything like that. And even if I just found myself a rebound fling, I know that it wouldn't really change the way I feel inside. Although almost certainly it would put a spring in my step!

I just feel that I haven't completely squared away what happened. Because I can't apply any logic to it, I really don't know how to rationalise it, understand it and see the outcome as real. Oh, don't worry, I know he's not coming back – and I am not sure I would take him back if he did – I just can't really seem to make any sense of it and move on. See, it's pathetic, I know.

But then something happens and I think that the picture is so much bigger than just the everyday trappings of a relationship. For example, I was reading the Saturday papers the other day – the property section just for fun. And I came across a picture of his sister's house. It was up for sale. That's some big news. I spent a lot of time in that house over the years and his sister and I were close. We don't talk anymore because it's too hard for me and too complicated for her, but selling her house... that's big news. And I only found out because I read about it in the paper.

Over the years the month of Ramadan was always an interesting time for our relationship. As a Muslim, he used to mostly observe the practices of the holy month and as an agnostic, I used to respect these and participate in quite a lot of the eating parts. But it always shifted our actions and behaviour in some way and we used to land up spending quite a lot more time with his family. It's very alienating to be on the outside of this now. I miss his dad and I know that this year would be particularly hard without his mom's cooking as she passed away just eight months ago. But I can't offer any support or comfort. I have no part to play in this anymore and it feels very isolating.

I spoke to the shrink about this in our last session and she said that as long as I am actually having emotional responses to these things, I am not over him. But she also said that just because I have not moved on yet, does not make it wrong because everyone moves at their own pace. So why did that feel like a platitude? And why do I still feel desperate to be completely over him?

I realise that I still have a lot of work to do to work through this – particularly my own responses to it. I am intrigued as to why I seem to feel the loss more around elements relating to his family, traditions and practices – and therefore what this says about my own sense of self and security. And then I realise that I have stopped worrying about him, per se, and am now focused, as I should be one how it relates to me. I am now the object; it is no longer about the demise of the relationship. And I think that this is moving forward. It is moving forward in a constructive way and I am just a little bit proud of myself.

The Locals

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 12:00 +0200

Sadly, the date ended like it began. A peck on the cheek, a nice-to-see-you and then we both walked off to our cars.

The initial excitement and nervousness was replaced by anxiety and remorse. I shouldn't have made such a big deal about the cockroach. I should've laughed more at his jokes. Did he even make any jokes? Maybe getting into an esoteric conversation with our tourist guests about reincarnation, astrology and astro-travelling was a little bit too out there for a private school boy? If it was The Secret that had brought him to me, would it be this revelation that took him away? Maybe. And we were such a good astrological match. I'm Virgo. He's Taurus. I really was prepared to take the bull by the horns.

I sent an SMS saying 'Great seeing you and next time drinks are on me'. I haven't heard back. So I was glad to get out last Wednesday night and attend a birthday party at Caveau. Being with my girlfriends and drinking copious amounts of wine has always put all ills right.

At the table next to us were a bunch of Brits. I have always been partial to foreigners; there's something about a man with an accent. My friend, Jenny, jokes that if a man has eaten airplane food in the last 48 hours I will find him. I have fallen in love with men while standing in the queue at Pick 'n Pay just listening to them talk. Of course as soon as they turn around the illusion is shattered, but it was always great while it lasted. I once had a brief affair with a French man just because I liked the way he said my name. After a while the whole accent thing started to feel affected.

But back to the Brits. The guys were eyeing us and we were eyeing them. I took one for the team and tapped the one closest to me.

'Hi, can I borrow your light.'

'Ja, sure hey,' says this straight-out-of-Pretoria accent.

WTF?! False advertising! He was wearing an England Rugby shirt and I would've sworn I heard a British accent. I excused myself to the bathroom and let my friends deal with the local. Thank goodness we aren't all accent-snobs.

On my way back from the loo I saw the damndest thing. I saw Jesus. Seriously. This bloke was sitting with long hair and a beard in a tan-coloured jacket, eating a burger. It always amazes me who people channel and how there really is something for everyone. I can't remember which dead guy said 'One man's meat is another man's poison', but he was right! I have seen umpteen Tom Cruises (personally a bad look at any stage) and lately High School Musical-looking boys, but seeing Jesus was a first. Joan Osborne was right, what if God was one of us?

When I got back to the girls I saw our table had merged with the boys'.

'Lola' Grace shouted. 'Come meet Paul, he's from London'.

Big deal, she's met someone who lives in the same town as the Queen. I just saw the son of God – but he couldn't tell me if Blue-Eyed Boy would call next week.

Diary of a Breakup - Week 9

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

So since my last blog entry I have not actually stopped. I know I said that I would, but it was Fashion Week and so the dancing and the late nights and the exhaustion are actually even worse now. I work in fashion and so I have to be there, you see. Unfortunately it's a stark reminder of that hideous day nine weeks ago when I was at the last one. Where, right there in between two designer shows, the dreaded break-up conversation began.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the heaviness of the air around me, the feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me to run away as quickly as possible so that this conversation couldn't happen. I remember the look on his face and the tension in his body. I remember thinking that I really didn't have time to have my life turned upside down because I needed to go and see a show from a new designer in 20 minutes.

Then there was the blur that set in from that moment till about three days later when, starving and broken, I headed back home from the fashion week, with my life utterly different from how it was when I had set out only 10 days before. The pain was so raw and the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again, so strong. And that was when I decided to start this blog and write down how I felt, no matter what. And just this short time later I find myself back at another fashion week, unable to stop thinking about the last time. I find myself unable to stop wishing it all away so that I could return to who I was when I arrived at that one, happy and in love.

But of course I can't. And so getting through this past week has been a bit tough. I have cycled through all the emotions again – disbelief, anger, sorrow and resignation. Surviving on sleep deprivation and the worst type of canteen food, I have pushed aside all the dark thoughts and just focused on getting through it. I sat in the shows, remembering how it felt as if it was happening all over again. And then the shows were over, the set started coming down, the models stripped off the hair, makeup and fantasy garments and everything went back to real life.

And so I sit here at my desk, reenergising and rebuilding, and I realise that I have actually completed an entire cycle. I have passed in, though, and out the other side and I am still standing. I am still able to laugh with my friends, still able to work and focus and commit myself to new projects. I have caught up on long conversations with my mother, sister, friends and work associates and am now back on track with my life.

I actually think that I am now ready to spend some time on my own at home – not rushing around filling up my time with work and friends. I think that this week really will be the one where I reflect a bit and take time to be present in my thoughts and maybe do a bit of cooking and tidying up around the house and feel at peace again with who I am and my place in the world.

I know it will be scary facing up to being alone, but it has to happen if I am to move forward. My shrink is right, I need to get some balance back in my life and so this is the week to start this process. By the way, my shrink also thinks that we need to start a list for all the issues we need to tackle in our sessions. Now that is really scary. But I can't think about that right now. Maybe next week?

Squashed

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

He SMSd! He wrote that it was great meeting me and that he hoped to catch up soon. Hehe. Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day. Of course I wrote back and said Thursday works for me.

I never got a reply back.

Surely he got my message? Right? I don't have the function on my cellphone that tells me if a recipient received my message and read it. Note to self: get that function. That has to be the best application, ever. Never mind Caller ID. By the time Wednesday rolled around, I was pretty anxious. I took my life into my Nokia hands and SMSed him: 'So, we on for tomorrow?'

Instant reply: 'Yes, how about a drink at Winchester Mansions.'

Winchester Mansions is halfway between our respective abodes, reinforcing my first impression that he's funny, sexy, smart and considerate. At that point it dawned on me that there is a God and that he has forgiven me. Needless to say I was a jack rabbit at work on Thursday. By the time 8pm came along it was a miracle my shaking hands could get the key in the ignition, let alone drive me to the hotel.

We arrived at the same time, from different directions. Blue shirt, blue jeans, blue eyes and as tall as I remembered. The awkward peck on cheek and nice-to-see-you over with, we searched for a table outside, but then acknowledging that I was actually cold we ventured indoors. The main room was full, but from previous visits I knew of a semi-private room near the bathrooms. It was empty. Just me, Blue-Eyed Boy and two roomy leather couches.

The 'date' began simple enough, getting to know each other and talking about our travel experiences. And then out of a corner of my eye I saw it. A cockroach crawling across the floor. My toes immediately curled up and the rest of my body hopped onto the couch. 'Cockroach!' I practically shrieked.

Blue-Eyed Boy just looked at me. 'I hate cockroaches,' he said, but refused to kill it.

'What?!' I thought. 'This is Sea Point dude; there are trillions more where this one came from. They will outlast all of us in a nuclear war. Kill. The. Cockroach.'

What did he do? He got up and shooed it away. You shoo dogs and cats, not cockroaches.

Maybe he was just trying to show his sensitive side, and the cockroach was gone after all, so the conversation resumed. But then it came back again, crawling towards me. Jiggling my open-toe-stiletto-clad feet a little in its direction, the cockroach made a diversion. Back to talk about Thailand.

A few minutes later and halfway around the world, I needed the loo. As I stood up, the cockroach reappeared, as if to escort me. I prayed Blue-Eyed Boy would turn his back a little so I could scrunch the damn thing as I walked past. Except then I would feel its gooey death on my little pinky toe. Urgh.

At that moment a group of tourists walked in, and nearing us, I warned them of Sea Point's wildlife. Thankfully, one of the gentlemen in the group promptly stood on the cockroach. 'Damn, did I just emasculate Blue-Eyed Boy?' I asked myself. Frankly I didn't care; I was finally able to relieve myself and when returning, would be able to concentrate on every word he said.

When I got back I saw my savior group of tourists was now sitting on my side of our couch, engaging Blue-Eyed Boy in conversation. So I did the only thing I could do. I sat down and joined in.

So much for concentrating on his every word... I'll fill you in on the rest next week.

>> The Locals

Diary of a Breakup - Week 8

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

I am utterly exhausted. Every time this roller-coaster ride of recovery takes an upward turn, it's almost inevitable there'll be a downward swoop pretty soon after. And it's not like it's a backward movement – it's actually all some type of progress. It's just that learning about yourself, fixing yourself, putting yourself back together is quite an arduous process, one that requires effort and dedication and, most tiring of all, facing up to who you are no matter what you see.

And so from an emotional stand point, I'm finding this long process of becoming whole again just grindingly hard. It's been eight weeks since we broke up and I am still hurt and confused and sometimes it's just easier to push all of the dark thoughts aside and get on with things. Sometimes I don't really want to be growing and becoming a better, more complete person. Sometimes I just want to forget and go dancing.

Luckily I have friends who are more than happy to go dancing with me. And I'm finding that I'm actually having fun. There's a wonderful pleasure in finding you're able to laugh from your belly again. Taking comfort from the gentle teasing of girl friends that just want your happiness and success – but don't let you get away with too much. There's an unparalleled joy in going out into your city and rediscovering all the congenial places and fun activities it has to offer.

And most of the time I can forget. Of course he comes up in conversations every now and again. And there's a relief in realising that I'm not alone as the girls always seem to have a story that beats mine – from which they have recovered. But for the most part we go out and laugh at people and their funny outfits and the guys who dance like their dads and enjoy some delicious food and totally overpriced cocktails and just have fun. And then I get home and crawl into bed and sleep.

It's these moments that make me realise my life is going to go on and it's actually not all bad. I forget sometimes about the joys of coupledom and relish the freedom and fun of living the single life. I remember what it was like before, when I lived loud and proudly solo, just totally independent and self sufficient and whole. And I know that this is not a bad place to be. I'm definitely starting to piece it all back together.

But all this living it up is also taking its toll. And I am exhausted. The shrink is concerned that I'm not taking enough time to reenergise – by just being in my own space and centred in my own thoughts. I'm concerned that just being alone quietly at home will become a safe habit and that I'll never want to go back out there again. But I'm so very tired. Emotionally and physically, this process is just a little overwhelming at times and I know that I need to rest.

And so, next week I need to find a place of compromise. I need to continue to go out and have fun and try and heal through laughter and the love of friends. But I also need to introduce some spaces in between all this gallivanting to reflect and restore, to shore up my energy and emotional resources so that the process of rebuilding can continue. But right now I've got to run. It's dinner with old mates in Camps Bay and you know it's going to be a laugh. I will tell you all about it next week.

In Bed By 10

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

I'm really not one for singles parties. I don't mind the singles bar or being picked up at a nightclub, but private singles parties at people's homes seems too, well, obvious.

When I got invited to one of these 'parties' this week, I tried fooling myself by thinking I was really just going out for a couple of drinks with the girls at someone's house, where maybe I'd meet someone or maybe I wouldn't. But the 'BYOB (bring your own booze) and a single person of the opposite sex' invite made me cringe. Also, if I had single straight men to bring, would I need to be at a singles party? And don't we know all each other's friends anyway?

I had somehow managed to convince myself that I was really going just to support my friend, Grace, and that it would only be a bunch of friends getting together and therefore I really wouldn't have any expectations. But I still spent a considerable amount of time on my makeup. And had my hair blow-dried. And tried on a whole lot of clothes. Because you never know. Maybe, just maybe, I would be telling people the night 'we' met I had no intention of going out and really didn't think I'd meet anyone. So with all that in mind, I finally decided on the purple dress and Spanx underwear – the ones that make my boobs look bigger and arse smaller.

I didn't have any single guys to bring, so with a couple extra bottles as consolation I kept my eye on the door for the blokes other friends had roped in. And in He walked, Blue-Eyed Boy. 'Be cool, just be cool,' I told myself. Yes, he was tall, dark and very handsome. Who was this guy and which friend of mine had been hiding him?!

And then, without even trying, there he was, in front of me, talking to me, and only me. Of course I had to play it somewhat cool and excused myself. Had to make sure my lipstick was on my lips and not my teeth, and had to appear to mingle and not be too available. These damn rules! I don't believe in them (I don't even know most of them, I swear) but at times of extreme attraction I find myself playing them.

Eye contact continued from across the room and it was pretty 'coincidental' how we both found ourselves at the kitchen table pouring glasses of wine.

'Last one for me,' I said, trying to sip provocatively.
'It's still early,' he countered.
'Yes, but my mother says: If you're not in bed by 10, go home.'

OK, just for the record, my mother would never say anything like that. My birds-and-bees chat was me coming home one day from school with a book Everything A Girl Should Know placed on my pillow.

'So will you take me home?' he asked coyly.
'Um, well (Shit! I'm wearing Spanx!)… I can certainly give you a lift if it's in my direction.'
'Ok.'
'OK.'

I surreptitious eyeballed high-fives with friends and we drove off in my car. One of the good things about Cape Town is that it's a small place, so you can pretty much get anywhere in 15 minutes. When you're riding in cars with hot boys, it's also a bad thing.

Idling outside his house, he asked if I'd like to come up. But I just couldn't go in. I had an evening bag in which my cellphone barely fit, never mind the Spanx, and there was no way in hell I was taking them off in front of him. Damn these modern chastity belts!

But even after being rejected, he took my number! More about that next week…

>> Squashed

Diary of a Breakup - Week 7

Mon, 17 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

And so the final nail in the coffin of my nine year relationship has now been hammered firmly and decisively into place. Thanks to some very helpful people, I now know that the ex spent the long weekend with his new lover. Someone who, I am told, is not a patch on me in looks. But, I was assured, they looked very happy together. How lovely to hear that. Thanks very much. That is just bloody dandy.

It has now been just over seven weeks since my forever came to an end. Is seven weeks enough time to grieve over the passing of such a significant emotional investment? Is it enough time to move on, let go and plan a new future? Is it enough time to be ready to make a fresh start with someone completely new? For me it is definitely not. I can't imagine how it could possibly be. Of course I don't think of him as much as I used to. I have made wonderfully empowering strides forward in terms of letting go and moving forward. But they are just steps on a much longer journey.

Some of my friends think that it is just rebound sex for him. They keep reminding me that men are different to women. And that they move on to move on, rather than having it be an emotional process. Of course. And that would be very helpful if I didn't know him as well as I do. If I didn't know that he is an incorrigible and gratuitous romantic who just adores the whole being in love thing. Who loves to be all coupled up, who dreams of weddings more than most girls do.

Most of my friends think that a spot of rebound sex would also do me the world of good. Again, most helpful of them. As if the movie-version of my life was playing out in front of them, and all I needed to do was walk into a bar/restaurant/work environment/location of choice and a suitably hot and single man would gaze at me wolfishly and off I would go for a bit of restorative rumpy pumpy. But that really doesn't work quite so well when all the men at work are gay and most of the men in bars and restaurants are married or pretty skanky. Even if I remotely wanted to.

And yet, giving testament to the healing process, I remain relatively glass-half-full. When I was told the news of the new girl, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I continue to be undoubtedly confused as to how he has managed to move on so briskly. And I am quite sad as I need to process a fresh reminder that this relationship is now well and truly over. But I am also a bit relieved. I simply cannot pretend that he is coming back to me. I can't sit around waiting for him to come to his senses and bang down my door to get back together with me.

And that realisation, that he is definitely not coming back, is liberating. It gives me permission to really let go. It frees me to stop focussing on what happened and start honing in on exactly what I want my new future to look like. It is motivating me to concentrate on what I want from my future loves. And that no longer scares me like it used to.

Lord knows I am not ready to go into new man-territories yet, but I am certainly ready to get ready for it. It may even be a bit exciting. All that brokenness is starting to heal, and who knows what new discoveries next week will bring.

Diary of a Breakup - Week 6

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

It is now just over six weeks since that hideous break-up night when my life was irreparably changed forever. And I haven't heard from him in three weeks. They say it takes 21 days to break a habit so it is safe to say that I have moved past the rituals and routines of our years together and found my own, solo rhythm in this time. But, sadly, it's going to take a lot more than 21 days to break the habit of loving him.

It's bizarre how, when you have a traumatic experience like this, you suddenly find so many other people in your orbit that are going through similar experiences. And you inevitably start to drift closer together. In the past six weeks I have become friendly with a girl who is also trying to cope with the end of a long-term relationship. We actually laugh together (a lot) and compare notes on our shrink experiences and know what it's like when you have a sudden memory of something that you did together. It's comforting to know you are not alone.

But as bad and harrowing as my own break up has been, hers was so much worse. And in that, I can't help but feel a guilty relief. He promised me forever, and meant it. We made plans for our life and family and home and travels. We dreamt of a life that was as intertwined as it had been for the nine years we had been together. But in all this, we had not made specific plans to marry in front of our friends and family. We had not finalised our children's names and how we were going to raise them in a mixed-faith family. We had not shared our finances and most expensive possessions with a certainty of an integrated, interdependent existence. We couldn't, because I always needed to feel strong and independent. And now I am so glad that I insisted on it.

My friend's relationship ended three weeks before her wedding. She told me how, on the day she was supposed to get married, she went and sat in the church and pictured how the day should have been. But wasn't. She told me how she had leaned on her mother to unravel the year of wedding planning in the small time frame they had available. How she had to get her own flat in a hurry, with no furniture. How she was still driving her ex-fiancé's car but had to get her own now. How the thought of him not being in her life has incomprehensible and so she would simply wait for him to come back. And I really hope that he does. She is beautiful and clever and funny and great at her cool job. But, for now, she is broken. Just like me.

Something tells me that there is a lesson in this. Holding on to your independence ensures a much less painful split, when it happens. But can you ever really commit to another person if you are holding on so tightly to your 'me-ness'? Isn't a forever relationship supposed to be about 'we-ness'? And maybe this realisation teaches me more than anything I have learned at the shrink so far. Maybe I was never 100% committed to my own relationship because I was always protecting myself just in case we broke up. And so we did.

Maybe I had more to do with this breakup than I ever realised. And, with that realisation comes the question of whether I would have been different had I known this is what the end result would be. And if I am honest, I don't actually know that I would. Would you?

Week 1: In the beginning...
Week 2: Cry me a river
Week 3: The angry phase
Week 4: Something begins to shift
Week 5: Happy birthday to me

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 10

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

Today is our last day in Port Ghalib, so I'm determined to cram every bit of indulgence and beauty into it in an attempt to escape the reality that I'm about to return to a freezing winter and the daily grind of Johannesburg traffic. Freaking hell, as the Americans would say.

But the harrowing fact that I'll soon be spending countless hours in the gym trying to shed that last schwarma/bowl of homemade hibiscus ice-cream/syrupy waffle/caramel pancake I just couldn't resist will not get me down. I've resolved that there will be many transgressions today and that 'It's my last day!' will be the justification for every single one of them.

Somehow I manage to abandon my much-loved Egyptian cotton sheets and my Ultra pillow 'fitted with soft hollow fibers' at 5.40am to amble down to the quiet beach and catch the sun as it rises over the Red Sea. It's a spectacular sight as the red orb of the sun pulses up over the horizon and colours the entire ocean a throbbing red. This bold, red painting is actually one of the reasons for the Rea Sea's name. There's also the justification that it comes from the Bible when Moses crossed the 'sea of reeds', which then became the 'Red Sea' over time – amongst other lengthy, historical explanations which are probably best left for Wikipedia to explain (yawn!).

Next is a hearty breakfast of slices of yummy watermelon, orange and pineapple, rounded off with a caramel pancake (cue: 'It's my last day!'). My next mission is to fry my skin round the pool. I've unfortunately been a bit over-zealous with the application of sun block since we arrived so I'm not sporting a killer tan and have decided to take drastic action. Gulp, I'll just have to avoid my killjoy dermatologist for the next few months, as I know 'It's my last day!' won't cut it with her. (Wait a minute: guilt isn't allowed in heaven or on last days – ha!)

I get a bit of a shock though, when I go to reception to finalise my bill. I only called my Significant Other six times (and the longest call was a mere 11 minutes) but I'm being charged almost R1600 for the necessity! Stern note to self: either bring Significant Other along next time or dump him.

But undeterred ('It's my last day!'), and clutching my frugal Egyptian pounds, I head for Port Ghalib's Marina to plunder the curio shops bursting with obligatory souvenirs such as Sphinx and pyramid statues, intricate backgammon sets, delicate perfume bottles, camel toys and Sheesha pipes.

I pick up some beautiful silver and turquoise Ancient Egypt-themed pendants for a steal (about R100 each), two mini black and gold pyramids and then can't resist buying a statue of the black-skinned god Min. He's the god of fertility and orgiastic rites, and proudly clutches his erect penis in all depictions of his splendour. (I can already hear the COSMO staff tittering over their new mascot and the endless discussions his huge member will illicit.)

Later, we enjoy the most incredibly memorable last night. First the COSMO SUMMER Swimwear crew and I watch the sunset from the beach, then languish over our last Egyptian banquet and finally return to the jetty to watch the swollen full moon dapple the dark sea with dancing light. I've never seen a full moon like this before and I know I never will again. Heaven on earth indeed…

Somebody please kick me before I lose my COSMO street-cred and collapse into my weepy-gushing-Gwyneth-Paltrow-accepting-an-Oscar routine! But, it's been real.

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 9

Thu, 06 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

The strenuous snorkelling regime, the incessant lugging of heavy plates after plundering buffets at every meal and the hours spent languishing round the Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort's sparkling pool precariously balancing my book (or my head on my neck) have finally started to take their toll.

In an effort to save my body and skin from irreversible damage and make sure I survive our last two days in paradise (if only barely), Rebecca has ordered me to the hotel's exclusive Six Senses Spa. Of course I protest (albeit a bit limply), but as COSMO's business development manager, Rebecca doesn't take no for an answer (and could probably even teach pyramid hawkers a trick or two).

We decide on a Cleopatra Facial – after all, the legendary queen of Egypt reputedly had flawless skin because she often bathed in milk and honey – to be followed up by a back massage.

My therapist Bua, from Thailand, is an absolute angel with a firm, feather-light touch and treats me to the most wonderful facial. She exfoliates my skin with crushed almond, smothers it in a milk and oat mask, refreshes it with cucumbers and rejuvenates both my face and arms with a languorous olive oil massage.

Thankfully though, she doesn't torture me with a Thai back massage – I had one of those in Krabi in Thailand two years ago and suffered back and neck pain for three days afterwards! No, Bua gives me one of those soothing deep massages where afterwards you toy with the idea of blowing your entire salary just to keep the masseuse's hands kneading your body. Yes, I'm an unapologetic massage whore and the way to my heart is through my shoulders and neck (swoon!).

Two hours later I emerge as my old self and famished from all the relaxation (I assume?). It's Egyptian night at Souq Al Hana restaurant so we're all in for a real feast. I also happen to be a pudding whore, so unfortunately I spend a large part of every meal hovering around the pudding buffet – in fact, I always visit the puddings first to satiate my greedy eyes and then retreat to the main meal options.

Tonight the tables are groaning under traditional Egyptian puddings. There's Konafa, an angel's hair pastry topped with whipped cream and crushed pistachio nuts, the coconut cake Harissa and Becklawa, which are little round balls that taste just like koeksisters. But I must behave myself so I peruse the main meal tables and load my (first) plate with Koushari, a combination of rice, spaghetti, macaroni, black lentils, chickpeas and onions, Okra Tagine, which is a tomato stew containing the local marrow okra, and Calamari Tagine. One chef opts to inform me that calamari is 'good for six'. I finally manage to work out that he means 'sex' when he elaborates further with 'You can go all night'. Priceless information indeed.

But the winning dish of the night is undoubtedly the Beef Schwarma. Chef Mustafa Mohammed explains that the beef is marinaded for an entire week in a mix of orange and lemon juice, white vinegar, nutmeg and garlic. Rebecca and I can't help but load up on two of them and manage to find out that they will be served the night before we leave Egypt – such luck!

The rest of our evening is spent watching dancers perform different traditional dances including a regal pharoah number, a Nubian jig and sensual belly dancing. Triple wow!

P.S. If you want to know more about what InterContinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort has to offer you, click here.

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 8

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

Every morning, while I'm lightly snoring beneath pure white Egyptian cotton sheets, COSMO SUMMER Swimwear's creative team and five superhot models are slaving away to bring you the hottest summer trends. Of course I should feel guilty that I'm snoozing while they slave, but thankfully guilt is an emotion relegated to hell.

Nearly every single morning since our arrival in heaven, their call time has been just before the crack of dawn, so photographer Anthony Friend, his assistant Jonathan Gooch and videographer Roland Sweet can capture the beauty of our environment and the sizzling models in the perfectly clear light of sunrise. Any time after 8.30am in Egypt, equipment and makeup literally start to melt.

Yes, most mornings these worker bees arise at a criminal 4am so makeup and hair artist Huey Tilley, COSMO's Special Features Fashion Editor Robynne Kahn and her assistant Petro Steyn can primp and preen our hottie models into even sexier versions of themselves (I tend to not stand anywhere near their enviably toned bodies in my bikini if I can help it).

Today we're shooting a COSMO Swimwear cover option and Hang Ten. Model Maritza Veer is up first – she's from Worcester and has been affectionately nicknamed 'Casper, the friendly ghost' (aka Spokie) thanks to her pure-white skin, which almost shines when she poses next to Brazilian Olivia Redmond and French-Senegalese-Moroccan Jessi M'bengu. But once Maritza dons her green, white and gold bikini for her cover shoot, she's the ultimate staggeringly sexy swimwear model with her long blonde locks and lithe body. I almost start grinding my teeth though, when Olivia and Jessi explain that they can't gym too often, as they build up muscle too quickly (gimme a break already!).

Of course it's great fun watching Zack van der Merwe from Port Elizabeth and Curtis Hardin from Ontario, south of Los Angeles ('Not Ontario in Canada,' the hunky American explains), beef up before every shoot with pushups et al…

Anthony and Robynne work closely when it comes to the direction of each shot and they've certainly had their fair share of challenges including a renegade camera light pole nearly skewering Anthony's left eye, a wayward horse, a few grumpy camels and chubby Egyptian kids with inflatable sharks threatening to mess up their perfect shots. But everyone knows Anthony has captured the shot when Robynne delightedly shouts, 'Fucking gorgeous!' – and thankfully she bestows this ultimate accolade at least five times a day.

Today's specific challenge involves emptying the popular hotel jetty of its holidaymakers (and a fully-covered Egyptian girl determinedly clutching an inflatable crocodile) so we can shoot Zack jumping into the sea off the jetty. Thankfully they're excited about the shoot too and happily accommodate their exile. Zack has to hurl himself off the jetty six times but then 'Fucking gorgeous' rings out across the jetty and it's a wrap.

To celebrate another successful day of shooting, the team congregates over a chilled glass of white wine in the swanky Look Out Bar, while Maritza and Rebecca surprise us all by singing and playing the bar's piano like pros... Wow!

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 7

Tue, 04 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

To liberally quote The Beatles, this morning 'We lived beneath the waves in our yellow submarine'. Yup, my and Rebecca's next adventure was an underwater excursion in the SeaScope Yellow Semi-Submarine off Port Ghalib Marina's pier. But unfortunately the SeaScope's male-only crew members weren't Beatles' fans and preferred to entertain us with booming Egyptian techno music and dodgy belly dancing moves while we sailed out to the reef.

But what an expedition it was! Just outside the marina, which can house up to 1 000 larny yachts, we spotted not only five spinner dolphins gliding through the luminous blue waters but also our first turtle. It was incredible watching the turtle sail past us through large panoramic windows built into the bowels of our yellow submarine. Thankfully the bowels were air conditioned, although we did start feeling a bit seasick after an hour of avid watching.

The submarine's windows actually contain magnifying glass, so we were able to get rather intimate with loner balloonfish and schools of angelfish, trumpetfish and zebrafish, amongst many others. The reef is a veritable veggie patch filled with vivid-coloured coral including Mushroom Coral, Cabbage Coral, Leather Finger Coral and the aptly named Elephant Skin Coral. It was a bit unnerving getting so close to the coral, as it looked as though we were going to crash into it thanks to the magnifying glass – a crew member explained that it was in fact three metres below us. At one stage it even looked like we were going to flatten a scuba diver below us but thankfully he waved and smiled, so we knew he was safe.

We'd also been hoping to spot an elusive Dugong, which is a large grey mammal related to the manatee and elephant, but this enormous vegetarian obviously wasn't very impressed with the variety of veg in this specific patch of Red Sea.

To celebrate another day in paradise, Rebecca and I decided a sunset cocktail at The Palace's Look Out Bar, which looks out over the picturesque saltwater lagoon, was long overdue. I couldn't stop giggling though when Rebecca asked our waitress what cocktail she would recommend. 'I'm sorry but I'm not a professional alcoholic,' the young Muslim woman replied sweetly, completely oblivious to the shocked then guilt-stricken reaction on Rebecca's face. Lost in translation indeed.

Thankfully though, our waitress's strict religious leanings didn't influence the yumminess of my Nefertiti cocktail (vodka, watermelon liqueur and pineapple juice) and Rebecca's Banana Daiquiri. After all, both Rebecca and I are devout COSMO girls and what is a beach holiday without the worship of wicked cocktails?

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 6

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

Camels are renowned for being foul-smelling, bad-tempered creatures with a serious aversion to their suppressors (humans) and a penchant for spitting up their oily, dark stomach contents when annoyed (which is always?). But how can any self-respecting Fun, Fearless Female not ride a camel when in Egypt?

Of course, COSMO's business development manager, Rebecca Whisson-Smeda, and I instantly regretted our gung-ho decision to ride these eternally-grumpy animals as soon as we spotted their 2m-high humps up close on Saturday afternoon. The fact that one particularly disgruntled camel was snapping aggressively at its owner Franco when we stepped out of the safe, cool confines of our van just added to our growing hysteria.

As it happened, this particular camel was mine and he'd been misnamed the innocuous 'Charlie' – 'Devil's Spawn' seemed more appropriate somehow. The lead camel, ridden by the slight Franco, had been dubbed Moses, and Rebecca got to ride Mike (hilarious name choice again, especially considering 'Mike' is Rebecca's dad's name, she pointed out).

I started giggling hysterically as soon as I straddled Charlie's colourful Bedouin-carpeted saddle. Even when he turned his long neck towards me and glowered, as only camels can. I couldn't quite suppress my fit of giggles. Rebecca, who looked almost colonial in her sweeping hat and beautiful scarf (all thanks to her mom's strict orders to keep herself covered at all times lest the sun fry her olive skin), was a lot more contained as our camels hoisted themselves off their knees in a seesaw motion onto their impossibly long, scrawny legs… although she did threaten to abort the mission immediately if there wasn't a rider to steer her camel. There wasn't – there was just Franco in the front on Moses, then Charlie connected via a rope to him and then Mike.

But, as our torturers started their sedate trip along the shore line and into the desert, all hysteria and threats dissolved. Both having ridden horses before, we were expecting to hang on for dear life by gripping with our thighs and feet. But camels are not known as 'the ships of the desert' for nothing. Their surprisingly smooth and rocking gait is thanks to the fact that they move both legs on one side and then both legs on the other. We just had to perch on their wide saddles with one hand holding onto a saddle handle for a bit of stability, but could allow our legs to swing freely.

Amazingly, their feet are also padded and absorb the shock of walking. In fact, I think Rebecca and I spent half of our two-hour trip chatting about the fabulousness of their incredibly soft-looking huge feet.

Thankfully Charlie and Mike turned out to be the best rides of our life (excuse the innuendo), and when we rolled off their backs as the sun set over the desert we wanted to thank them. But, as I was about to pat dear Charlie, Franco blocked me and told me I'd be safer stroking Moses – one look at the hatred in Charlie's impossibly big left eye showed Franco was right.

Rebecca gave Mike a good stroke or two but unfortunately also stroked over some sticky, foul-smelling black goo plastered on his neck. Only later did we realise this was the putrid liquid spat straight out of a camel's stomach – and there was no doubt in my mind that Grumpy Charlie had spat at poor Mike. Just glad I hadn't been his next victim!

Diary of a Breakup - Week 5

Mon, 03 Aug 2009 12:00 +0200

Bloody hell I am pissed off. Really, really, really angry. Yes, with the ex. How dare he? Just as I was thinking that I could face the future and move on, he pulls this move. I guess I had better explain it to you. But be warned – you are going to get pretty angry too. Idiot. How could he?

Ok, so this last week it was my birthday. I am a birthday kind of gal. We all are in my family. You know, lots of presents, high levels of fuss, pre-birthday meals, drinks, parties and maybe even some tea somewhere posh before the birthday week is over. Because no birthday goes unnoticed in my family, and we all stretch it out as long as possible. I love birthdays.

In all the years that we were together, the ex never fully embraced the extent of our family birthday festivities, but he realised that once a year it was his turn too, and so he did his bit. Even though we have not spoken much in the five short weeks since the breakup, I never expected that my special day would pass by unacknowledged by someone who had been a part of my life for so long. I didn't expect actual physical presence, but I did think he would call at best, maybe only send a text message at worst. I expected that he would think of me, if only for a few minutes on that day.

And so my birthday dawned bright and clear. My mother woke me up at 06.55am because she is crazy and because that was the exact time of my birth. But I bounced out of bed and set about enjoying my day. I had more than 100 calls, texts, e-mails and Facebook messages. I had flowers delivered and a wonderful meal with my family. And by the time I went to bed that night – looking forward to another three or four days of various celebrations – I had still not had any contact from him.

I brushed it off. It was entirely possible that, without me to remind him repeatedly in the days leading up to my birthday, it may have slipped his mind. But I did expect that I would get a fraught and apologetic communication the next day. Almost even better, I thought. Make him squirm just a little bit. But the next day passed, and the next, until it was a full week and all my parties and presents were delivered and done. Still I had heard nothing. And so last night I thought that I would call him. Again. I just wanted to know what was up. I wanted to know why we had not chatted for a couple of weeks and why he hadn't wished me a happy birthday.

I could hear the phone ringing. And ringing. He didn't pick up. He didn't return the call. I sent a text, putting these questions into words in a light hearted way. No response. I'm not stupid, I get it. He has severed contact with me entirely. And he chose to mark this new phase in our (non) relationship with my birthday. Who. Does. That?

The irony of this situation is that, had he just sent a message last week, I would have continued to move forward with my life. I would have been sad, but carried on taking baby steps into the future. Instead I am angry and obsessing about him. Ah, the cruel twistedness of it all! Maybe next week I will figure this all out. But until then, I am furious – I just don't understand it at all. Do you?

Week 1: In the beginning...
Week 2: Cry me a river
Week 3: The angry phase
Week 4: Something begins to shift
Week 6: More than 21 days

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 5

Fri, 31 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

I had the most awfully strenuous morning yesterday: I had to struggle out of my deep bed, leopard-crawl down to the Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort's Olive Restaurant, laboriously munch through a boiled egg, toast, fruit and coffee, then return all the way to my room to painstakingly apply layer upon layer of sun block, then trek all the way down to the beach and march along the entire jetty. With the last ounce of my strength, I barely managed to pull on my snorkel and flippers, fling myself off the jetty into the blue waters below and make friends with the fish. Oh, what torture one has to endure just to deliver entertaining copy and inspiring fashion photos to COSMO readers…

Yes, it's remarkable how a delightfully torturous Egyptian adventure can help a headless chick(en) all the way from Johannesburg rediscover her playful sense of humour and every single idle bone in her body. This has got to stop! But not until I've snorkelled at least seven more times.

I've never seen such an incredible array of fish so close to shore. There are the elongated trumpetfish whose tiny fins make a dash to safety near-impossible, the yellow goatfish with their beards, the cheeky orange and white clownfish, the multi-coloured angelfish and the coral in burst of purple, red and yellow.

'Barracuda' (aka Mabrouk Abdel Fattah), the lifeguard, also promised that we would see turtles and dolphins from the jetty before we returned home – and maybe even manta rays and sting rays. That's the beauty of Marsa Alam, you don't even need a scuba diving course under your belt to experience the rich diversity of the Red Sea's oceanic life (and the incongruous sight of devout local Muslim women snorkelling fully clad in black trousers, long-sleeved shirts and scarves!).

But you do need to preserve your skin, so it's always best to snorkel before 11am and after 4pm here. In fact, most of us spend the early (and not-so-early) afternoons holed up in our chilled rooms working on blogs, catching up on e-mails, watching Egypt's version of MTV Melody Tunes ('All Engleeesh all the time') on our plasma TVs, or paying a visit to Club Duvet (DJ Pillow plays guaranteed killer tunes every afternoon at about 2pm).

Another side effect of the blistering heat and the change in environment for us Egyptian first-timers is the inevitable traveller's tummy bug. Yup, unfortunately most of our team have come down with it and have been sharing Imodium, Valoid and Rehidrat liberally amongst ourselves – thankfully I can report though, that the messy business is under control. Hey, what is heaven without a bit of hell? And at least now we won't be going back home fat, just happy… Don't hate me?

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 4

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

This morning we woke up to the most awesomely romantic news… Last night Davidoff Cool Water's Coolest Couple winner Chad organised a candlelit dinner for his blonde sweetheart Lera and proposed. (Of course she accepted!) The two hadn't seen each other in months, as Lera was visiting her family in the Ukraine, so Chad had decided that COSMO SUMMER's exotic adventure was the ideal opportunity to propose to his four-year long girlfriend. Kind of sad though, because they're leaving at the end of the week and won't see other until October. But congratulations nonetheless guys!

And I'm happy to report the day only got more memorable. It was time to head into the desert to explore Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort's Bedouin-experience encampment, Fustat. Thankfully we didn't have to brave the mountain bikes parked outside the front entrance – an air conditioned bus was at our disposal.

A plain clothes' army officer Khaleed had also been appointed to accompany us – Egyptians take the safety of their tourists very seriously and in Cairo there's even a special police force to keep an eye on us fumbling foreigners. Khaleed assured me his presence was just a precaution though, but I was hoping for a free helicopter ride, as he also informed me that we'd be airlifted out in an army helicopter if anything went wrong.

But nothing could go wrong as the only living things in the Eastern Desert we traversed were five lonely trees. Curtis and I decided to dub our trip a 'tree safari' – we decided that being lucky enough to spot a hardy desert tree was akin to spotting one of the Big Five. But our arid safari was quickly shoved from our minds when we swept into the mountainous valley of Fustat. Tucked up against one mountain was a stunning stone amphitheatre surrounded by thick walls and castle turrets. It had been constructed from the mountain's rocks, explained The Palace's senior PR officer, Ramona Rack. Inside there were terraces, where on designated nights, guests could enjoy the snaking hips of belly dancers and other entertainers while lounging on deep cushions and indulging in a feast fit for a pharoah.

Amazingly, this entire area is safeguarded by a Bedouin clan – the once-nomadic clan had settled here with their camels and goats. We were introduced to the clan's newest member, a baby camel, who moaned incessantly at our presence and tried to tuck into model Maritza Veer's blonde locks when she cautiously posed next to him. We were then invited to try a Bedouin speciality, gabana (coffee). It's made out of a green, caffeine-less desert herb and is mixed with cinnamon and other herbs in a tin container over an open fire. It tastes like an incredibly pungent coffee and was a delicious accompaniment to a mesmerizing desert sunset.

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 3

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

Excuse the cliché but this morning I was sure I'd died and gone to heaven (or hell, depending on your philosophical outlook). I'd been craving a dip in the beautiful deep-blue waters of the Red Sea since our arrival, so I rushed through a scrumptious buffet breakfast and then hot-footed it down to the water's edge.

I couldn't believe my luck – there wasn't a soul in sight so I didn't have to worry about blinding anyone with my luminous winter skin. And I wasn't disappointed when I waded in. The water was purrfect: not too hot like lukewarm Durban's sea and not Camps Bay-freezing either. The sand is soft, the waves almost non-existent and the salt content high enough, allowing you to easily bob on the surface. Which is what I did for half an hour, letting the long trip ease out of my bones.

I then strolled over to the hotel's jetty, which stretches almost 200m into the sea. Peering over the edge, I was completely blown away by the clarity and depth of the deep-blue water. The shelf drops off 17m and you can almost see all the way to the bottom of the ocean. Colourful angelfish and parrotfish circle the reef and you don't even need a snorkel and mask to spot them.

Barracuda, the jetty's lifesaver, somehow managed to coax me into jumping off the 2m-high jetty into the stunning sea below. I'm normally a complete wuss when it comes to flinging myself off heights, but today felt like one of those days where anything is possible, thanks to the staggering beauty that surrounded me. I've swum in Zanzibar and Thailand's seas but I can honestly say the Red Sea completely blows these two out of the water. I guess Belinda Carlisle was right when she rocked the '80s with her hit song, 'Heaven Is A Place On Earth'.

I did have to tether myself to earth again though, as today was our first shoot – and it was a tough one. COSMO SUMMER's photographer, Anthony Friend, and special projects fashion director Robynne Kahn decided to start shooting at 4pm, but the sun was so blisteringly hot that makeup artist Huey Tilley had to continually reapply makeup and hair products that almost slid off the (melting) models.

There was the added challenge of working with a grumpy Arabian mare for the Davidoff Cool Water's Coolest Couple shoot – she'd just had a foal and was detesting being parted from it, and wasn't scared to show it. Poor Davidoff winner Lera had told us she was scared of horses and now she had to stand next to one and still look superhot and unflustered. Fun, fearless female indeed!

But these little obstacles didn't deter Anthony's uncanny eye, Robynne's innate sense of super-sexy COSMO-styling and Huey's inspired makeup – the COSMO SUMMER team still managed to pull off the most incredible shots.

Of course, we all collapsed exhausted again later with only the silence of the desert and the hum of our air conditioners to accompany our sweet dreams. And I'm certain I grinned the whole night through…

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear 2009 - Day 4

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 2

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

Exhausted but exhilarated from our whirlwind introduction to Cairo, we arrived at Marsa Alam International Airport on the southwest coast of the Red Sea, just an hour's flight from the capital. Flying in you can see why Marsa Alam has earned its reputation as one of the triad of top diving destinations in Egypt (and the world). The sea here is a deep, clear blue and you can spot its renowned coral reefs from the plane – an amazing contrast to the brown eastern desert with its dark mountains that flanks the green belt of Marsa Alam.

And just five minutes up the road from Marsa Alam is the oasis of Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort – our unbelievably luxurious five-star home for the next two weeks. Originally built by magnate Sol Kerzner's Sun International, it was taken over by Intercontinental six months after being completed. And like The Lost City, it specialises in pure luxury (somebody pinch me please).

We're greeted by a long row of staff members handing out glasses filled with Hibiscus tea and the traditional Egyptian beverage Dome, and cool hand towels to mop our sweaty brows. It's tough to hide our collective gloating when the hotel's senior PR officer Ramona Rack shows us round the Arabic-styled hotel. There's a massive man-made salt-water lagoon, a huge pool and a myriad restaurants to choose from, as the Crowne Plaza has two hotels flanking Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort.

The private beach stretches as far as the eye can see and there are piers where you can dive straight into 17m-deep waters. We each get allocated a beautiful room – some with views over Port Ghalib's beautiful marina.

We celebrate our arriving-with-our-bums-in-the-butter at Souk Al hana restaurant with its frighteningly extensive dinner buffet. We get to choose from Asian, Indian, Italian and Mediterranean dishes and then round it all off with puddings even Willy Wonka would be proud of (coconut tart, apple torte, brownies, coconut biscuits, banana-nut pudding, ice cream… gulp, we're in trouble).

Hey, even COSMO SUMMER's sizzling models tuck in and conveniently forget about their imminent swimwear shoots – yes, contrary to popular belief, models do appear to imbibe solid food. I'm just not sure where they put it all (I'll keep my eyes peeled and report back to you about this oddity in two weeks).

And then it was off to a bed bursting with big, fluffy pillows. In fact, this is the kind of hotel where you get to choose your favourite pillow: Downy, Extra Soft, Midi Pillow, Comfort, Ultra or Buckwheat. Niiiiiice!

At this rate, there's no doubt we're all arriving back home well-rested, tanned, fat and happy (and jobless, in our potentially size 10 models' cases)!

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear 2009 - Day 3

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear Shoot Day 1

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

Sixteen super-excited COSMO Swimwear team members, including Davidoff Cool Water's Coolest Couple winners Lera Koryt'ska and Chad Meihuizen and five sizzling models, and more than 35 pieces of bulging luggage (weighing in at 600-odd-kg) all met up at OR Tambo International in Jozi on Friday evening. Our destination was Cairo, and Egyptair was going to get us there in style.

Eight hours later we were whisked through Customs and stepped out into the blistering 40-degree heat in Egypt's capital, sleep deprived but determined to absorb as much of Cairo's ancient history as possible before jetting off to our ultimate destination, the Red Sea.

I'd been warned that Cairo's infamous traffic congestion and daredevil drivers put Johannesburg's rush-hour traffic and kamikaze taxi drivers to shame, but thankfully it was a long weekend so the streets were relatively open and safe. That said, it was still unnerving getting my head around the fact that Cairo's drivers use hooting to indicate left or right instead of their flickers!

We crossed the lifeblood of Egypt, the Nile River, into Giza, which plays host to Egypt's most fascinating treasures, the pyramids. Our tour guide, Yasser Elsayed from Excel Travel, pointed out the silhouettes of the very first pyramids any of us had ever seen peeking out between the rows of high-rise flats. Everyone in our group exclaimed in wonder – it was just so surreal seeing these ancient wonders we'd only ever spotted in the media and heard about in history class.

Our first stop was Sakkara, the 'City of the Dead', which served as a burial ground for Egypt's ancient capital, Memphis. It's also home to the famous Step Pyramid of Djoser, which was designed by high priest Imhotep (villainously characterised by Arnold Vosloo in The Mummy) and was the prototype for all pyramids.

Then it was on to Egypt's most spectacular attraction, the Giza Pyramids, which include the Sphinx and the Pyramid of Khufu, the largest pyramid and the only remaining wonder of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It doesn't matter how well-travelled you may be, these marvels will astound you with their tales of god-like monarchs, the thousands of men who took at least 20 years to build each pyramid (with stone blocks that weighed anything from two to 15 tons) and the theories behind the loss of the Sphinx's once-perfect nose.

Just a head's up, watch out for the hawkers who haven't learnt that 'no means no' when you've already declined a ride on their camels/horses. A few will even attempt to shove a 'free souvenir' into your hand and then demand to be paid for their beads. Hilariously, Californian model Curtis Hardin also proved a hit here – countless Egyptians were enamoured by his accent and skin and almost-reverently dubbed him 'Obama'.

'We love Americans, Obama,' one infatuated Egyptian raved, while Curtis flashed a winning politician-like grin.

Then it was lunch (our first Egyptian banquet) at a local restaurant called Andrea – think freshly-baked pitas, garlic-infused brinjal spread, delicious lamb meatballs and succulent grilled chicken. Stuffed and content, we had to race back to Cairo International Airport to catch our flight to Marsa Alam on the Red Sea. Next stop: the sumptuous five-star hotel, Intercontinental The Palace Port Ghalib Resort…

*Keep checking back for more from the COSMO Swimwear 2009 shoot in Egypt. Videos to follow soon!

COSMO SUMMER Swimwear 2009 - Day 2

Diary of a Breakup - Week 4

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

I went out for dinner with a few friends the other night. Nothing fancy, just burgers on Kloof Street. And as I sat there enjoying my meal, I realised that I had been in the same place with the same people about three weeks ago – just ten days after the breakup. And I remembered how I felt then. I remembered the numbness and the searing pain and the almost complete lack of appetite. And something imperceptible shifted in me at that moment as I realised things had actually changed.

Sure I was still feeling deeply sad and a bit confused and angry. And of course I was still living with this great, big boyfriend-sized hole in my life. But as I sat there in the light of the tea candle, I realised that I really had moved on emotionally. Even if it was only just a tiny little bit.

The joy of discovering something about yourself by accident, the tentative emerging of hope for the future, these are the grand triumphs of my days at the moment. They seem like things we take for granted, or are of only minor importance in the landscape of a whole life. But for me right now they are the finger and foot holes in the scramble that I am making back up the slope of a life gone unexpectedly awry.

I have to say that The Therapist is certainly helping with this. It's funny, I always saw therapy in one of two ways – either as a self indulgent, navel gazing crutch for the weak or something I advocated for people I cared about who were teetering on the edge of total annihilation. I never really saw it for myself. My self-image has always been of a strong and resourceful woman, one that is a survivor and sensible enough never to get into a situation too deep to get out of. But somehow the emotional brokenness that I have recently come to identify with myself is apparently able to live side by side with these other personal characteristics.

And so once a week I have been sitting on a sofa and chatting about my life, the characters in it including family and friends, choices that I have made and the way that I feel about stuff. I have come to realise some pretty fundamental things about myself that are in no way earth shattering for anyone else. Like, I understand how much I like to be looked after – who knew that? It's not really something that anyone would identify with me, but there you are. It changes nothing really but my own understanding of myself. And almost certainly how I will move forward with any future relationship, my expectations of it, and the way in which I relate to the other person.

And that is where the real change has emerged. You see, I am actually thinking that one day I may find someone else with whom I will form a trusting relationship. I am no longer terrified of a lonely and empty next 50 or 60 years, without this one person. I am starting to believe that I may find someone else to love and nurture – and who will look after me.

And then I start to panic a bit. I am nowhere near ready yet to start that journey. But the first tiny steps have been taken the past week. I still cry all the time, but the tentacles of lightness and hope have started to form deep within. There is still much work to be done on that sofa and who knows what I will learn about myself and my relationships this week? I'll let you know...

Week 1: In the beginning...
Week 2: Cry me a river
Week 3: The angry phase
Week 5: Happy birthday to me
Week 6: More than 21 days

Diary of a Breakup - Week 3

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

This past week has been a bit different to the others, and at first I thought it was a good thing.

I started out strong and determined to get on with my life. I thought about the prospect of new possibilities and focused firmly on never having to listen to him snore again. I lifted my chin and stood up straight, ready to face the world. I channelled all my energy into regaining some control on my life and embracing a different – and maybe even exciting – future. But then this positive outlook somehow faltered.

On Tuesday evening my chest felt like it wanted to explode. I was missing him so badly I could barely breathe. I didn't understand. How was this possible? Just two days before I felt everything would be alright, like my world hadn't crumbled around me. A mere 48 hours later I felt worse than ever. Suddenly, the tears I had held at bay for a while came flooding back, with a vengeance. But these tears were different. These tears weren't the pathetic kind – they had an edge to them. These tears signalled the start of what my friends had warned me about: The Angry Phase.

By Wednesday night I was in full flight. I called him up. Yes, we all know it's a stupid thing to do, but I did it nonetheless. What we want to hear in these situations – the reason we call – is that he's realised what a terrible mistake he made letting us go. We want to hear that he's suffering and he desperately wants to come back to us. But, no, this isn't what we hear. Well, it certainly wasn't what I heard.

What I heard was quite to the contrary. Of course he was so sorry he had hurt me; he never meant to (do they ever?). He was sorry I was struggling with the breakup and 'really' sorry he was the cause of my unhappiness. But what he wasn't sorry for was ending it. He was even surer it was the right thing to do and he had, in fact, already met someone he thought was intriguing.

And, so, I got angry.

It started small – a sarcastic comment. (He didn't respond well to that.) And then I felt myself give in to the words that came pouring out my mouth. The frustration and the hurt and the confusion and the resentment all manifested into words and spilt over into the telephone receiver. I said things I really, really meant but never thought I would say out loud. I said things that were true and honest and not remotely mitigated by a need to please or hold back. I said exactly what I thought and I was incredibly, ridiculously and unashamedly angry – and so I said so.

Ultimately the anger led to tears. The frustrated kind, the kind that exhausts you and leaves you feeling spent. Even now, a couple of days later, I feel raw and fragile – and not altogether myself. It's almost as if I still have more in me that needs to surface. When it has, only then will I be freshly reborn, and I will start to learn how to live my new life.

And so, this fourth weekend of the breakup, I have a plan. I am going to watch the last four episodes of Grey's Anatomy back to back. It's going to make me cry and wail and beat my fists on the arm of the sofa. But that's the point, because when it's done I hope I will be a little closer to the new me.

So far my plans have not been terribly successful – hopefully this one changes the pattern.

Week 1: In the beginning...
Week 2: Cry me a river
Week 4: Something begins to shift
Week 5: Happy birthday to me
Week 6: More than 21 days

Diary of a Breakup - Week 2

Mon, 13 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

Crying is apparently a theme in my life at the moment. When you break up with someone who has been a part of your life for any length of time, there are so many reminders everywhere of what you have lost.

So this weekend I attempted to eliminate everything from my life that made me cry. I thought it would give me something to focus on and the ritual of cleansing would help me start the process of letting go. Or so I thought. Before I could begin the cleansing I needed to know what to rid myself of. I decided to make a list, a list entitled THINGS THAT MAKE ME CRY, and it went a little something like this:
1. Songs on the radio that remind me of him, our time together, our jokes, our conversations, our fights, our serious times... well pretty much everything. (It was as if we had a soundtrack to our lives and the soundtrack had all of my absolute favourite songs on it. And now they all made me cry.)
2. His towel on the back of the bathroom door (which I hadn't noticed before).
3. His sister sending me an e-mail to tell me how sad she was that we weren't 'family' anymore. (That resulted in some hard-core crying.)
4. An old, miniature kist (inside which I have stored all my love letters from him).
5. Any kind of emotion-inspiring advert on television. You know like the one that is a rousing celebration of South African sport. (That makes me cry all the time.)
6. The phone not ringing at 8.30 am. (He used to call me to say 'good morning' properly then – when we were both fully awake and about to dive into our respective work. My day only really began after that call. Now I just sit there. And cry a little.)
7. The thought of not being able to make him laugh with the phrase 'The Russians' (from the movie Burn After Reading. It was a part of our short-hand language, a kind of shared vocabulary that only we understood.)
8. Photographs. (Hundreds of online photos that rotated randomly on my desktop. Photos of our holidays together. Photos of him in contemplation. Photos of his brothers and sister. Photos of his gorgeous little nephew. Photos of us together. Mostly that one. Just thinking about it makes me...)

It was at this stage that I abandoned the list. I was too sad to complete it, let alone find the energy to deal with removing each of these things from my life. I know that crying has a function. And I know that it can be therapeutic and a release. But I feel like I have a strange crying disease – and no one wants to be around the pathetic girl with the crying disease.

So I have retreated back to my cave. Technically, it is my lounge and more specifically, my sofa. I have seen through my third weekend of the breakup by barely moving from this spot. I have licked my wounds and allowed myself to be sad. I have not tried to stop the crying and I have indulged in self pity.

Because tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow I will start the process of drying my eyes and dusting myself off and starting all over again. Tomorrow I will square my shoulders and lift my chin. Until then I am here on my sofa with my box of tissues and my television for company. Tomorrow is a different day. I will let you know how I get on.

Week 1: In the beginning...
Week 3: The angry phase
Week 4: Something begins to shift
Week 5: Happy birthday to me
Week 6: More than 21 days

Diary of a Breakup - Week 1

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 12:00 +0200

So you think the first weekend after a major breakup will be the worst? Wait for the second one. By the second weekend, the numbness and shock has worn off and you are left with the empty space and a whole lot of nothing to do. It's been nine days since he and I broke up now. And if I'm completely honest with myself, no amount of keeping busy and positive and chin up can mask how much I miss him every second of every day.

Of course, that's normal. Ever noticed how keen people are to tell you how normal your feelings are? If I flew into a violent rage and ran across the street to the construction worker and snatched the jackhammer out of his hands and started beating the ground and crying to the heavens (and I so desperately want to because the noise is driving me insane), I'm quite sure someone would put their arm around me, lead me tenderly back home, whispering, 'She's just had a rough week. A break up, you understand.' And then with a sorrowful smile and maybe a wink, the construction worker will nod sagely and whisper back, 'Well, it's normal to feel like that then. Rather get it all out.'

What? No, lovely people, it is not normal behaviour. It's sheer craziness. And breakups make you dip into the crazy pot a little bit, I should know. So I decided I would handle this one a little bit differently. It's been a while since the gut-wrenching horror of my previous break up and I had forgotten how the hideousness of it can send you to a place where you question your self-worth, your value as a woman, your place in the world and your future. But, of course, you know it is really and truly not you – it really, really is actually him and all his unresolved, male stuff. As I keep telling myself.

I decided this time I would get hand-holding help. My wonderful and wise girlfriends always play that role so well, but this time, I think a professional perspective may be useful. So I deployed the Google-ator and found a shrink practice that seemed level. I called and was quite surprised when they felt the need to get me in to see someone as soon as possible – something in my voice maybe? Those tears that are still choked at the back of my throat threatening to erupt at any moment? Especially the moments in public? Well, it must have been something and so, with a whole lot of scariness and just a little bit of hope, I went to see My Therapist yesterday in a bold attempt not to repeat the mistakes of breakups past.

And, we chatted. About me, which is always fun. She nodded and smiled gently and told me my feelings were normal. I almost cried a few times. I could have, it wouldn't have been that embarrassing. I felt sad that I was proactively taking steps to let him go, even though I really didn't want to. She told me this was normal. And you know, despite all my cynicism, I did feel as if it was quite normal – terrible, gutting and heart-wrenchingly sad, but absolutely normal.

Now I just need to get through this weekend somehow, with nothing much to do but cry. I have no idea how I am going to make it.

Week 2: Cry me a river
Week 3: The angry phase
Week 4: Something begins to shift
Week 5: Happy birthday to me
Week 6: More than 21 days

Meet The Parents

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200

It's only been six weeks. Meeting the parents shouldn't have factored into my relationship at all. Mom-and-Dad-lunches should only have been a worry of a very distant future. But no, last week I was on my way to Stellenbosch, to meet my very new boyfriend's parents.

I decided to drive and tried my luck taking the wrong off-ramps to delay the premature inevitable. After a few not-so-pleased looks from my passenger I stopped fighting it. But it seemed the drive was far worse than the actual first encounter with the parental units. You try listening to a more-than-slightly distressed boyfriend giving you directions to his family home. With each 'turn left' and every 'turn right', I gripped the steering wheel tighter as he sunk lower into his seat. In an attempt to ease the tension, he turned to me and smiled. Half-heartedly. It wasn't reassuring, at all. Then his nervous twitch kicked in and we both looked at each other thinking What the hell are we doing?! But it was too late to turn back.

Somehow, as he nervously patted his leg, I'd managed to drift and zone off to my happy place. Barely 10 minutes later my thoughts were abruptly interrupted. 'We're here, and my parents are peeping out the window,' he squawked.

But before I could begin hyperventilating, again, he was out the car. Oh, fabulous! I thought, no time for a quick hair and make-up check. And no time to make sure there was no evidence of my earlier poppy seed muffin binge.

I resisted the urge to run screaming in the opposite direction, put on my brightest smile and strutted towards the front door. I was the English girl meeting the highbrow Afrikaans parents.

And there they were. We shook clammy hands and smiled broadly at each other for a few awkward minutes. After a bit of Tannie-this and Oom-that, 'Pa' pottered off into the garden and 'Ma' moved through to the kitchen with a not-so-subtle-wink, leaving the two of us alone to breathe in post-introduction relief. Clearly, they'd been through this torturous process before and understood that we needed a moment or two to compose ourselves.

And that was it. We just kind of sat there. For 45 minutes. Alone.

It's easy to over analyse these situations. Your imagination runs wild with visions of dark-room-spotlight interrogations, but it all seems so silly in the aftermath. Once it was over we all sat down together, drink in hand, and watched the Springboks kick Pommy butt.

Square Eyes

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200

I was locked up in my house last weekend. Yes it's as bad as it sounds. My significant other had a bout of the flu and I was the 'nurse' on duty.

Having our bedroom redesigned to fit onto a mezzanine level wasn't as appealing while my tight uniform and cute heels made balancing large glasses of water, plates of food and bottles of pills a nightmare. Every now and then the meds would actually kick in and I'd be able to kick off the heels without puncturing the precious fantasy I had good-naturedly (but thinking back, rather foolishly) created.

Now usually, our weekends are spent out with friends, so having 48 hours to myself surfing TV channels had some sort of appeal. Or at least it did until I tried to find something worth watching.

Friday night is Reality Night, but these shows have been edited so heavily the only reality left was that I was wasting my time watching them. Did I know who the main sponsors were? Yes. Had the annoying jingles ear-wormed me? Yes. Had I actually learnt anything? No. I've been more entertained and educated watching Pumpkin Patch and Bananas in Pajamas. I gave up at 10pm, checked in with the patient and made my bed on the couch. (Would you sleep in the same bed as a germ cesspool?)

Saturday morning brought breakfast duty (I'm beginning to understand why hospitals charge so much) and then back to the square box for me. I flipped through a movie, Ryan Seacrest filled the world in on some celebrity scandal, and I caught something about someone being the sexiest somewhere. Then I got hooked on the Discovery channel. They make great commercials to lure you in. So great in fact that I'd set an alarm to remind me about the discovery of new scrolls in the Dead Sea. But while these kinds of programmes begin with promise, they leave lots of unanswered questions. After the first ad there's a three-minute recap (in case I anticipated the break and made for the loo early?) then more unanswered questions, another ad, and then another three-minute recap. In the final two minutes the scientists shrugged their shoulders admitting the scrolls were fakes. The day and then the night wore on, but when I accidentally flipped to etv the ridiculously soft porn told me it was time to say goodnight.

And then there was Sunday. Infomercials-and-13-episodes-of-Generation-Kill Day. The show is a great programme filmed throughout southern Africa, but the 10-minute infomercials which followed every 20-minute episode of the miniseries drove me to tears. Does this drivel actually convince people their lives aren't complete until they pick up the phone and order the exercise dance routines on DVD with Shaun T's six exhilarating workouts to tone, sculpt and firm your abs! And what's with the decimals? Why advertise killer abs for R999.90 instead of R1 000? What difference is 10 cents going to make? After the 13th episode I was no closer to having curves in all the right places – no, I didn't buy the Trim n Lift for R159.90. I don't have it, so I guess I won't flaunt it. But my patient was very happy with the frequent checkups.

I'm glad to say that a weekend of television has forever cured me of my yearning to become a full-time couch potato. Come Monday morning, the inside of the gym had never felt so good. Soon I was running off into the sunset on the treadmill while watching BBC News on the screen above me.

Beam Me Up, Scotty

Mon, 15 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200

What do Luke Macfarlane (Scotty from Brothers & Sisters), the 'running man' and a bottle of tequila have in common? Absolutely nothing, really. But if you imagine all three of them together, you'll have a fairly good idea of how my evening turned out last night.

Luke and his equally adorable co-star Dave Annable (Justin) were in Cape Town this week promoting the show, and COSMO couldn't miss the opportunity of showing them the city – our way.

We started at Wakame, a popular beach-front restaurant in Mouille Point. The boys had been out the night before and had had a day packed with media interviews, but their stamina showed no signs of fading. They were full of energy as they arrived.

Both guys are the friendliest, warmest, most sincere celebs I've had the privilege of meeting. And cute. The 'it's-hard-to-breathe-around-them' kind of cute. We instantly tumbled into conversations about their trip to Cape Town, my recent trip to the US, their new president, our new president, and more. They're both enthusiastic travellers. Grass-roots travellers at that. They told us they would choose a tent over a plush hotel any day. They asked me which animals are in the Big Five. I couldn't remember (I am such a city girl!). I rambled off a few animal names, trying to sound knowledgeable about all things bush-related. They didn't look convinced.

Our meal was fantastic and the champagne was even better. Not ready to call it a night, we suggested they join us at Jade, a drinking spot in Green Point.

Jade was heaving when we arrived. In true Cape Town form, few people made a fuss about the boys (we are too cool for that down here!). But there were a couple of mandatory squeals from enamoured fans catching sight of their favourite TV hotties for the first time. And the guys were gracious and obliging, chatting to the fans who encircled them.

Beers were ordered. Tequila was ordered. Pictures were taken. More beers were ordered. Assurances were made that we would get them to the airport in time to catch a flight to Jo'burg in the morning. Champagne was ordered. More tequila was ordered. I started to regret the assurance I gave them that we would get them to the airport in time to catch a flight to Jo'burg in the morning…

Luke and I informally challenged each other to a dance-off. He came with a shimmer shoulder. I came with the 'running man'. In heels. No contest – I won. Hours of dancing and singing and high-fiving and partying followed. And then their eagle-eyed publicist suggested it was time to go home. (I'm sort of grateful that at least one of us had the good sense to call it a night…)

The boys did make it to the airport on time. I, however, was a little late for work.

Mini-Crises

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200

The shock was followed by a slow realisation of how indispensable it had become to me, not only as a professional tool, but as a way of seeing the world differently. Predictably, I sank into a sudden stupor over it. If my good friend from abroad hadn't been here to give me a reality check, I might not have found a way to see my own situation from another angle.

A mini crisis is a far more common sort of crisis in most of our lives than a major one. And that's what makes dealing with it (properly) really important. Mini-crises come round more often, and can pull you down if you don't bounce back properly. I can't stress enough the importance of having a loving someone to give you another angle on such a situation. Jacqueline reminded me that bad things happen to everyone, and that I should focus on replacing it as soon as I can, instead of on the loss and violation. I saw her wisdom, and got to work on fixing what I could. (Doesn't help that the camera cost more than my car.)

And yet, there's another angle to this loss. On some level, I feel a little lighter without my camera. It was worth a lot to me, but all the photographers I know have had equipment stolen at some stage. The reality of having such a tool is that you have to constantly watch it, and those five (tipsy) minutes when friends arrive at a pub and you neglect it is when it walks out the door. That's the pressure of owning something precious – you remain aware of it on some deeper level all the time. (What was the first thing I grabbed when I had to evacuate my house during the mountain fires in Cape Town? My camera. I am still mourning the loss, and I hate the idea that somewhere, someone is fingering something that belongs to me, but at the same time I've been relieved of that responsibility, and suddenly don't run that risk.

Years ago a similar thing happened. A thief stole all my CDs and electronic equipment. Once I got over the initial loss, I laughed. And never painstakingly decorated my blank CDs ever again. The lesson then was of course to insure stuff people like to steal. Then it's only a sentimental risk. Unless of course you've taken naked photos – that's a social risk.

Luckily I have learnt to download after every session, whether it's in bed, or in the boardroom. And to back up, too. Pity I didn't name the files more cleverly… but that's another story.

Trains, Planes and Halitosis

Tue, 19 May 2009 12:00 +0200

It could be going to bed with dirty feet, or our partners' driving, or even something as simple as needing a little 'personal space'. Me? I need lots of personal space.

Cue a big plane with small seats.

When travelling, I will bitch slap anybody for the window seat. Stick me in the middle and I'll wilt like last week's celery; add jabbing elbows from both sides and some twit kicking me in the back and you have air rage on your hands. Just that little bit of extra space saves me from turning seriously violent. Now, if I were flying from Cape Town to Johannesburg, I might survive, but anything longer than two hours and I'd have to fake a serious illness to either have the jabbers removed or for me to be moved. Preferably to first class.

Recently I went on a European holiday. I'd secured the window seat on five of my flights, but it was the sixth and final one (from Dubai to Cape Town) Murphy had decided to intrude on. I'd been travelling for 12 hours by then was not only tired, but also irritable, grubby, jet lagged and had eaten crappy airline food.

Before our flight, my travel buddy and I hung back, read magazines and waited until the last possible moment to board our plane. As fate would have it, all the rows were relatively empty, except ours. There he sat, in the aisle seat. Not only strapped in, but tray out, game console on, movie started and earphones plugged in. Tapping him on the head (he clearly wasn't going to hear my polite 'excuse me'), he sprang up and tried to organise the mess he'd created, only to be pulled back down by the seatbelt still strapped across his lap.

After much fuss we settled in, fluffed our mini pillows and opened our blankets. And then I sniffed the air. I looked over at my partner in the middle seat who rolled her eyes towards Mr. Isle. My forehead scrunched into a question mark as I tried to read her lips: h-a-l-i-t-o-s-i-s. My heart sank further into my feet when I realised he was a 'mouth breather'.

I started thinking of possible solutions: feed him mints, had none; take a sleeping pill, was too hungry to sleep; call the air hostess, they don't like it when we make our problem their problem; kill him, I will never see SA again.

So I did nothing. We buckled up, covered our mouths and noses with blankets, squashed ourselves as small as possible and tried to sleep towards the window. We got two meals during the flight and those were the only 10 minutes during which normal breathing was possible.

When we finally taxied at Cape Town International I prayed that the universe would never challenge me with a halitosis friendship. I have never been so glad to breathe fresh air and promised myself that I will never ever complain about a garlic kiss ever again.

A Broken Heart

Mon, 11 May 2009 12:00 +0200

Whatever we might have to say about Destiny's Child or those Brit pop princesses who made garish hair and melodic giggles all the rage back in the day, girl power is here to stay. And thank the goddesses for that. My goddesses, I mean.

Recently I've been through a rough romantic patch. No sorry, that should read 'recently I've had my heart torn out of my body through my eyeballs'. In the absence of understanding and the abundance of the obvious fact that he's not going to answer my calls, I did everything you're supposed to do: long baths, walks in nature, comfort dressing (it's the perfect season for it), watching copious comedies. But it all made me cry.

Being plagued by unanswerable questions would have killed me weeks ago if it weren't for my ladies who mopped up my tears and reminded me that it's not the why, it's the what – not the reasons but the actions (and the choices behind them) that count.

'Love is as complicated as we make it,' was one wisdom from a beautiful babe in Johannesburg. That's hard to argue with, but it's also hard to accept when you're riddled with doubts about whether you loved someone enough for them to see safely into your soul. But my ladies listened lovingly. They were gentle when I argued against their insights. They took me out, they fed me (food, wisdom and comfort) and they helped me understand my process as they watched on worriedly. They didn't demonise the darling who disappeared after declaring his love to me. In fact, they may have helped me understand him more, and understand that love is about taking care of yourself as much as others; no less, no more.

Knowing this makes it no less painful, but no more than it needs to be, either. So the next time somebody rolls their eyes when I am moved to tears by a sad film and says, 'You're such a girl,' I might just turn around with those burning eyes and say between sniffs, 'You're quite right!' before unloading my popcorn onto the ungrateful oaf's lap and finding another seat.

Time to Change

Mon, 04 May 2009 12:00 +0200

While I wouldn't have recognised him if it weren't for his signature hairstyle, I remember one very kind thing he did for me when I was a (bad) waitress about to pour champagne into wine glasses and be fired on the spot. I got fired later, I believe.

I simultaneously had one of those uncomfortable, cringe worthy moments when I remembered a few other things he'd saved me from. Anyway, we reminisced.

'I remember!' he said, patting my face, 'You had curly hair, and you were so sweet.' I did not, and I was not. We all like to think of ourselves as ball-busters in retrospect, but never in the present. With a dozen years of ball-busting experience behind me, he was half as charming and as long-winded as he'd been 11 years ago. By his own admission I'd become 'a lady', so that meant he wasn't going to make a move on me, at least not overtly.

For all intents and purposes, he came across as a nice enough guy, just different. He tried to impress me with talk of his celebrity friends. (He and Bono are like this, hey.) But what impresses him now just amuses me. What impresses me now is people not trying to impress me.

Chatting about him later with a mutual acquaintance, we were amazed at how time has flown by, how much we've learnt or as he posited, how much we've forgotten. And I had to laugh at myself – I've changed, yes, and become 'a lady', sure, but like the long-lost almost-lover, my hair hasn't.

I wonder if it's time to change something a little more superficial about myself...

Deathlike Sophistication

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200

One of my best friends popped down for a visit from London last week. It was her first time and between poetry sessions, live music and other unique Cape Town experiences, we threw in a few touristy must-dos. And one of them was, of course, wine tasting.

Unfortunately, an unroyal Caesar salad the day before gave me food poisoning, so I'd been up most of the night and felt suitably disgusting. I would much rather have been horizontal than staring at the mountainous horizon, but my friend had travelled more than 10 000km for her holiday – who was I to ruin it? So, with her and my man debating whether to spit or swallow, the three of us drove off to sample Stellenbosch vino. Iron will, yes. Iron stomach? No way.

From farm to farm, they spoke of the 'boo kay', blends and harvests. When questions about wood and vats came up I had to sit down. When they lifted their glasses I had to lie down. They swished and swilled and I groaned and turned green. They clucked and cooed about the nose, while my own nose twitched and twisted. A few times my jealousy got the better of me and I hauled myself up to have a whiff of whatever they were sampling. Once, I even managed to taste some – and ceremoniously spat it into a silver dish, feeling both deathlike and kind of sophisticated at the same time. A messy combination.

Luckily, pain killers, anti-nausea pills and other medication helped keep me conscious, and we ended up at a delightful, young farm where they laid it on thick with über-European charm – much to my friend’s disappointment. She wanted 'lions!' on her trip. 'And dolphins!' But tasting handmade, homemade chocolate with their wines gave the experience certain flair and it was a brilliant way to end to a beautiful (if agonising) day.

My friend bought a sparkling white wine, I bought a slab of dark chocolate with bits of salt in it and we played Boules with heavy iron balls. Well, they played. I lay on the edge of the fountain and wrote my last will and testament.

So while the wine tasting was an exercise in endurance and taming the green-eyed monster, I do look forward to another round when my stomach and my nose can agree on a blend. And anyway, I still got to taste the best of the crop in the comfort of my own home a few nights later.

RELATED LINKS
- How to choose good wine

Moonwalking

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200

This past weekend, however, I became a makeshift-royal and got to layer on the gear and slide down pistes in the pretty town of Zermatt – in the Alps right under the shadow of the Matterhorn (it's the little mountain on the Toblerone wrappers).

The drive was spectacular, being ferried across rivers of freezing water. But it wasn't long until we started the hike towards our hotel, trailing bags of ski boots, jackets, more jackets, pants, goggles, more jackets and snowboards. I've always wanted that cool 'skier' look the ESPN regulars at the Winter X-Games have on TV. But in real life, it's unwieldy – our gear weighed tons and we still weren't fully equipped and had to rent more.

The next morning I strapped, wrapped and zipped myself into everything and looked chic enough for the X-Games. That's when the problems began: I couldn't move my ankles in my almost-knee-high boots, my pants whistled when I walked, and could barely fasten my helmet because my gloves were too thick. But trudging up almost a kilometre from the hotel to the ski lift was the biggest.

It was -12 degrees and all around us people were milling about with skis and climbing gear and snowboards, from barely-walking toddlers to vacationing pensioners. As we piled into our gondola and were carried up towards the Matterhorn, the beauty of the Alps struck me as I wondered what would happen once my orange board finally hit the snow.

I fell on my face is what happened. Again and again and again. Until I wanted to cry and stomp off down the mountain. My only saving grace was "The Magic Carpet" – the little travellater three-year-olds use to get back to the top of the Learners Slope. After what must have been my 100th time to the top, I was exhausted and frustrated, but unfortunately unstrapping my feet while still standing turned out to be not such a good idea.

I lost my grip, the board escaped and picked up speed as it zig zagged towards the mini Michelin people on skis. I screamed, in English of course (my German's not so good), and some hero daddy caught the board as it nearly sliced a little helmet with legs in half.

As I moonwalked down to collect my board from the unsympathetic parent I realised snowboarding is not something that can be learned in a couple of few hours. The next morning rigor mortis set in, and as I inspected my snow-goggle tan I realised one should not believe everything you see on TV. I am sticking to golf.

Pretty Words, Ugly Truths

Mon, 13 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200

It’s difficult to differentiate between the two when a so-called friend-slash-lover doesn’t even know what he wants, let alone what he’s trying to say.

Months back I invited a long-time on/off lover from abroad to visit. Spanning ten years and three countries, our trysts were ambiguously erotic but never set in stone, so I didn’t insist on it being a romantic visit. He, on the other hand, ran himself through an emotional-rollercoaster. He came full circle, first demanding we be exclusive lovers for ten days of sex, then saying he wasn’t coming because he’d met a girl he didn’t care about. And then insisting he'd come as a friend only because sex makes things so complicated. So, like, ten days of staring at the stars?

I was exasperated and told him so in no uncertain terms, and that got him really excited. Really excited. I think he just about had an orgasm on the spot. Luckily Facebook doesn’t have an application for that sort of thing. I should've known then that he was only in it for his own entertainment and he had no concern about my thoughts, plans or feelings while he indulged his own.

So he finally declined the offer to visit with some excuse about a new contract at work and that he’d get back to me in a fortnight. (No one who really respects you gets back to you in a fortnight about anything; they get back to you in a few days.) And then signed his rejection e-mail with 'love and kisses'. As if.

Two months of silence ensued, which didn't bother me because actually, who needs all this emotional see-sawing for something as simple as a holiday. Then suddenly, last week, an e-mail popped into my Inbox.

'There are more and more gorgeous pictures on your site,' he began, 'Are you improving with age?'

He tried lathering me up through my ego, possibly the oldest trick in the book, and then the truth was revealed. He’d met this girl, who's 'very sweet and stimulating and filthy in bed… what more could one want?'

A man with integrity, perhaps? I wish her luck, but I want none of what she’s got.

More Than a Manicure

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 12:00 +0200

I then had to get my mini talons sorted out, because, to tell the truth, the real reason I bit them in the first place was because they’re paper thing and tear like toilet paper.

So after yoga one morning, I popped into a beauty salon. I met Marie, a warm, witty lady with a rounded body and very Frenchly-rounded vowels. It seemed fitting to ask for a French manicure.

While her colleague brought me coffee, Marie got started filing and shaping, and we ended up having a lovely chat. The topic? Relationships, of course, we were in a salon after all.

First coat of varnish: I began by moaning about how washing dishes makes my nails break. 'Git ze glervs', she recommended with a raised eyebrow, as if everybody knew that already. My tales of domestic unbliss got her laughing about her friend who just started dating a hot guy, but can’t seem to handle how genuine he is, except by being controlling. 'Olriddi shizz traan tew change hees theengs,' she marvels, and clucks some more. 'Yew no, hee not liking thees. She must git respect fo heem.'

As the story goes, Marie's friend's hot guy rather unceremoniously removed Marie's friend's girlie things from his house after she'd snuck in a 'few' of her possessions and delicately decorated his place with her trinkets. He put them back in her car, gently kissed her and asked if they could put a hold on the home improvements as they’d been dating less than a month. It was my turn to tsk.

Second coat: 'And shi complain thett he never col her on the phone een the day'. Ah – that old thing. I’ve read men’s magazines where relationship gurus insist a man must call his girlfriend or wife if he plans on staying in the relationship.
'Maybe it’s because women are more communicative and men more prone to external activity,' I proffered.

Top coat: 'We are virry diffren, the men and thee wimeen. Maa husband – he kunt wash deeshes, he try. These ees gut. If you lerv somewaan. Ees gutt, but I do thee deeshes by maaself.'

Finally all done, I wriggled my newly capped fingers. Lovely. We kissed cheeks once, twice and thrice, and part ways. Little did I know the very next day I would be back for more wisdoms. Nothing stays on my paper thin nails, though everything stays in my head. The dishes, unfortunately, will stay in the sink.

I Have to Set You Free

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200

Well, actually, there is; I have to get rid of my beloved. No matter how I look at it, that is what needs to be done.

We have been together for the last three years and it was so easy. We very quickly became comfortable with one another. There were racy moments, there were times of quiet contemplation and there were a lot of sexy times. My friends even said we suited each other perfectly.

But the last few months have not been good and Clio's been to the doctor more times than I can afford. As I made that unforgiving call to the dealer this morning, I felt like a deserter. There was my pretty little chariot, dark blue and faithful, with her lifesaving aircon and demon heater, and I am deserting her.

I know this is not how it is supposed to be, one should never fall in love with inanimate objects, especially not cars, but hey, it happens. Honestly though, I believe that if you treat it well, look after it, wax it, vacuum it and love it, it will love you back.

So, after having thrown a mountain of money at it, the time for goodbyes has come. I will miss your tunes, the feel of your safe embrace, and it will take me a while to not look for your dark blue shape patiently awaiting my return to the parking lot. I will have to get used to the new sounds; I knew yours so well and even understood when on cold winter mornings you needed a little more nursing than usual.

So, to whoever becomes the new owner, look after Clio and she will look after you. Don't smoke inside or near her, she's not that type. Don't slam her doors, close them tenderly. Be gentle with her front left safety belt, sometimes it has a stutter.

This is my goodbye to you Little Blue, it's not that I don't love you anymore, it's just, well, it's time to move on.

Boys' Night Blues

Mon, 23 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200

My neighbours, on the other hand, had not been to bed yet. Or at least one of them hadn't.

She was outside cellphone in hand.
'Michael, can you hear me!' at the top of her voice. She is a few years older than him.
'Hallo, hallo Michael? Answer me! Michael, for f**k sake, talk to me.'

Hmm, I thought as she disappeared into the house, thank goodness that was over with. Not quite. A few minutes later I hear a commotion in the street, decide to go downstairs to make sure everything's hunky-dory and I just manage to catch the tail end of a police van driving off. But I think nothing of it because we're used to vans patrolling our area pretty regularly (we have a tik house on the other side of our street) and walk upstairs, ready to snuggle back into the blissful sleep of a Sunday morning.

By this time, Michael's walked up to the door where she is waiting for him. I peek out of the window, just to make sure everything's still hunky-dory, and it looks as if he's had a very good boys' night.

'Michael! Why didn't you answer the phone to let me know where you were?!'
'Shhh, I was with the police, I could not answer my phone.' Michael gestures, along with his slurred speech.
'What do you mean you were with the police? I phoned you six times in the last half hour and you never once answered your phone!'
'But I…'
'You are four hours late, why did you not phone me to let me know where you were so I could pick you up, you should not be driving in this state.'
'I told you, the police brought me here and I was with friends.'
'That is not the point, why did you not let me know where you were?'

Michael now sits down on the bench, blinking into the sun, he can't stand anymore.

'Why are you allowed to get trashed with your friends but I am not?'
Exasperated she stomps her foot, 'It's not about that, it's about you not letting me know where you were and that you were going to be late.'
'No, that is so unfair; when you come home trashed I don't fight with you, why can I not party with my friends?'

At this point I'm ready to go next door and give her some advice about what I've learned. Never argue with a drunk person. They do not understand, they do not remember and mostly they do not really care. This particular argument with Michael carried on another half hour or so and then peace returned to the early morning.

I was lying in bed wondering why she just didn't wait until he was sober before she sat Michael down. Little did I know she cleverly saved that part for after lunch, when Michael woke up feeling not so well and mistakenly thinking all the speed bumps had been smoothed over.

As I sat outside enjoying a cool drink, I heard her picking up where she had left off.

'Michael, I really thought we were going to spend a nice day together next to the pool.'
'But I am here, we can do that now.'

I had to fight myself from bursting out laughing and tried hard not to swallow a block of ice. Instead I quietly went inside to give my partner a big hug. Sometimes we just need to learn that boys will be boys and it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Below the Belt

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200

The Cape Doctor (otherwise known as gale force Cape Town wind) is tearing through the sky, checking our undies like a regular school mistress. Yesterday, somehow, I was caught wearing the flimsiest, lightest white cotton skirt that flapped about like a frantic Auntie.

Getting out of my car I began to argue with the hem in the hopes of subduing it long enough to get inside my building. The hem wanted up; I wanted down. We managed a compromise, and I stepped out into the street to be faced with a full audience of lunchtime souls taking a cigarette break on the sidewalk. Walk tall, I kept telling myself, Dance like nobody's watching. So I glided by, clutching the cotton to my thighs and nobody really noticed.

Until I passed a lamp post one young 'gentleman' was helping to hold up. Just then I realised I'd left my laptop in the car, and as I spun around on one foot I caught the 'gentleman' leaning towards me, arm stretched out, trying to take a photo under my skirt with his camera-phone.

Walking past him I sliced him with a glance. 'If you take that photo, I will sue you.'

'No-man, lady, man, I was juss checking my connection,' he stammered.

I smiled.

Back at my car, the wind picked up. Loaded with my laptop, the wind got wilder and my hem became even more insistent on climbing up my thighs. I believe it was intent on getting to my waist. Clutch, clutch, tug, tug. Ok, we're good to go. Turning to my audience and with a sardonic smile only I can understand, I offered them a bit of dark humour on the catwalk.

'Take two,' I called. They laughed and off I walked. But this time, it was really awkward because I was fighting hard not to reveal my underwear to everyone.

'You nearly gave that old man a heart attack,' scolded my paparazzi admirer.

'And the young one, too,' I retorted.

Turning the corner I was so glad I at least chose the right underwear this morning, if not the right skirt.

'Does My Bum Look Wet In This?'

Mon, 09 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200

You don't have to drive anywhere, you don't have to do anything; you can just sit around, listen to bands, clap and, well, drink.

Whisky is less beautiful when followed by red wine, then white wine, then Red Bull. And another Red Bull. It's 10.30pm and The Dirty Skirts are about to punch a hole in a Saturday night – just for a change, since every other Skirts gig I've ever attended has been on a Friday (what's up with that anyway?). It's raining. And suddenly my hangover kicks in. Serves me right.

I abandon The Skirts and Wonderboom, who are meant to play next, and stumble up the hill towards my tent. I find it – a minor miracle. I also manage not to wake my tent-mate, MacLuvin, as I gulp down two painkillers and collapse on the (by now seriously deflated) mattress. Close eyes, check. Pitter patter of rain, check. Pass out, check.

Wake up. Music still playing. Pitter patter. Pass out.

Repeat four times.

Fifth time… hang on, my arm is wet. What the…? I've rolled off the mattress, blessedly not onto MacLuvin, but towards the tent wall. Upon closer inspection, I find that my arm is, indeed, wet. It's not a dream. Leg is also wet. And big toe is wet. And mattress is wet. Why is it raining in the tent?

I wake MacLuvin. 'We need to move towards the centre of the tent.' We do. Kind of. She goes back to sleep. I pass out.

The phone rings. It's a friend of ours, Landie Man. It's 3.30am. He's at Mercury Lounge in Cape Town, about to trip and fall over his own bad decision – the one that spurs him to drive to Swellendam in the middle of the night. MacLuvin gives him directions in a semi-daze. I'm miff and very wet, and in the kind of mood that makes me whinge with gusto, regardless of the time of day.

'You don't get to go back to sleep,' I tell her as she gets off the phone. 'I'm awake now and I need an audience.'

Whinge whinge whinge whinge. And some more whinge. You had to be there, I guess, but it went a little something like this:

[3.45am] 'This leaky tent is putting a damper on my spirits… not that I have any spirits left, since I consumed my own weight in whisky today.'
[SMS to Jimmy, the owner of the leaky tent, 4am] 'You suck. And so does your leaky tent.'
[4.10am] 'But what I really want to know is… does my bum look wet in this?'

The hill is alive with the sound of cackling as MacLuvin and I succumb to hysteria. We briefly wonder whether the people camping around us can hear what we're saying, then decide we couldn't give a continental. Cackle cackle cackle. We shuffle around the tent to move further away from the wet wall, until we realise we're moving too close to the other wet wall. Four-man tent? In which universe, Jimmy?

There's another sound in the darkness. The sound of wind. No, not that wind – that wind. It takes a lot to silence me; this has succeeded.

'Was… was that you?' I ask MacLuvin hesitantly.
She falls about laughing.
'Le… hehehe…'
'What?'
'Le… he… he… hahahahahaha…'
'WHAT???'
'LEGLESS!!! It was Legless!' He's sleeping in the tent next to ours, clearly letting off some festival steam. 'How could you say that about me? I would have at least apologised!'

Oh sweet heaven. I need to sleep now. Before I start picturing in my head what Legless's tent must look like after that particular cracker.

Pitter patter. Pass out.

Finally

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 12:00 +0200

Thank God. I only received one rose this year and I blame the credit crunch for that little faux pas. It was given to me by the Wine Merchant who visited on Saturday night with a few of my favourite things: wine, food and a DVD without subtitles.

We've established that this boy is a slow worker. Three dates and no kiss proves that. He phoned on Saturday morning while I was taking a champagne breakfast very seriously.

Wine Merchant: Where are you?
Baglett: Are you ever going to kiss me?
WM: I'm a gentleman Baglett
Baglett: Well take a day off.

So the poor guy was under severe pressure when he arrived at my place on Saturday night.

Having come straight from an eight-year-old's birthday party, I was covered in cream soda (sans Cane), the insides of Caramello Bears and was walking funny from two straight hours on the jumping castle so was in desperate need of a long shower. I left him to his own devices, which included looking at my assortment of books (I have a WW2 fascination and he was slightly perturbed at my Stalin collection) and looking through my DVD collection, which consisted of Dirty Dancing, Muriel's Wedding and The Sound of Music. Thankfully some guy had left a copy of Pulp Fiction behind so I didn't look like a complete asshole. When he opened the fridge to chill the vino, I cringed as he brought out various containers that were all harbouring different fungi, of various colours. Convincing him I was one humus tub away from finding a cure for cancer, I lured him back onto the couch.

We sat there on our separate cushions for at least half an hour both pretending to watch the movie. I may as well have been 12 years old again with my mom popping her head round the corner asking if I could see without my glasses. At one point he yawned and I was pretty much expecting an arm to extend over my shoulders. I won't tell you what lengths I went to get this boy to kiss me, but he did. He was 10 seconds away from being enrolled into the Gay Fairies Association.

And no he didn't fall through my ceiling. There's more chance of the food in my fridge having a scientific breakthrough.

Baglett.

Hot

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200

Set in expansive vineyards, shadowed by mountains, and a wonderful couple - the bride looked absolutely incredible.

Problem was the sheer, crazy heat man. No honestly, Stellenbosch is in direct parallel with Hell, temperature-wise.

Jeez Darryl, I was sweating.

So much, I started to hallucinate and dropped a c-bomb in front of a group of older people. (The whole talking-to-oneself outbursts don't stop at weddings). Everyone was melting.

See, there's heat right. Then there's the fiery blazes of hell. The kind of heat where two metres in front of you looks like a mirage. Where you're worried when you get off your seat, you have two perfectly formed ass-shaped lakes. Where there's a sweaty crazy funk going on in your belly button. Where you wonder if you'll ever make it to the dance floor to cut some shapes, but the clawing across the floor will take all your energy once and for all.

So, yes, it was hot.

Dry, baking heat that makes me relieved I was never a student in Stellenbosch. Hell's tits.

Luckily the heavens opened and dumped a load of water on everything, because the heat was apparently partly due to a whole bunch of raging veld fires going on around us.

It was festive, up until I put my wine glass down on the table a little too confidently, and it broke, driving the stem right into my finger.

When, after one or two, or maybe four glasses of wine, the concept of free-flowing blood exiting from your finger is almost quite fascinating. I just kept on staring at it in complete disbelief until someone jammed it into a bowl of ice and wrapped a napkin around it. And then grooved around like Edward Scissor Hands, except minus scissors plus towel, wrapped around the offended finger.

For more PEAS ON TOAST visit her blog at http://www.mushypeasontoast.blogspot.com.

The Cosmo Call

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200

Screams of joy, thankfully. I had sent in my CV nearly two months prior to that auspicious day and had already assumed it wouldn't happen. After hanging up and eventually starting to speak at a normal pace (instead of the lightening-fast broken English) my friends could finally figure out that in just two days I would start my six-week internship at COSMOPOLITAN.

My first day at COSMO was breathtaking in both the figurative and literal sense. Figuratively, because of my excitement and awe at how fabulous everything was, and literally, as my first task was transporting boxes of old magazines from the first to the fifth floor. But despite my peep-toe wedges taking on a little more exercise than what they are used to, I had no problem putting in a little sweat (and, of course, took my shoes off later in the day when no-one was looking).

Champagne and cupcakes, pink and orange walls... some dreams really do come true. My first Friday on the job brought with it an early ending and spur-of-the-moment edible gifts for the few staff still working through the festive season. A delicious surprise and I'm sure a source of encouragement for those of us who couldn't help thinking about all our friends and colleagues on holiday.

But getting to know the team was the best. The office always felt welcoming, comfortable and fun. And even though compiling a good issue is hard work and it's something like 15 women to one man (wait a minute, there is only one man here) the oestrogen levels, scanning, typing, printing, photocopying, emailing, filing and sorting were all more than bearable.

Looking back, working for one of the world's best-selling women's magazines – be it only for a short while – was one of the best experiences of my life. In less than two months it feels as if I've absorbed enough knowledge about what it takes to bring just one month's issue into production to fill a house.

My passion for the media industry has been heightened and I feel more certain that I was made for this line of work. All that's left to do is finish my studies and then it's back to the fast-paced world of glossy magazines. See you soon!

Pets and Partners

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200

If it wasn't for his tail and the fact that his head reaches my knee, I'd say he is quite a catch. He's a sleek, sexy beast; affectionate, endearing and always willing to interact. He wants love. Lots of it. He gives love. Lots of it. And he doesn't drool. 'If only he was mine,' I lamented last week. 'If only he was human.' But even if I could find some way to get my neighbour to give him to me, it would never work. You see, I already have a cat. And, in some ways, cats are like men.

Let's say, for argument's sake, that my current cat somehow accepted another male in the mix and they got on great (hey, why not? The more the merrier, right?), there are other cats in the immediate vicinity that would object. Probably at the tops of their lungs in the middle of the night. Cats are territorial. For real. They spend large parts of their lives doing one of three things: eating, sleeping and fighting for their territory. Cats lift their tails, and men lift the roof when they think someone else is trespassing.

Even if I did get the two puddy tats to play nicely, they'd both want to sit on me at the same time, fill any available space on the bed with their bodies and weave tai chi–like between my legs every time I stumble sleepily to the loo. The male version of that is needing affirmation, confirmation and information.

And so the lesson is, maybe some things work well only in your imagination. I mean, if I coveted a friend's man, what then? Same story. There'd be territorial issues, fights and ruined nights. And if I could get two men to share? I'd never have a moment spare.

Maybe I'll just get a dog. Men aren't like dogs, are they?

Oh, and I asked my neighbour what the cat's name was only after I'd fallen for him. 'Gracey,' she replied. Gracey? He's a she?! Maybe I'm after the wrong sex, not the wrong species, after all…

Don't Forget to Remember

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 12:00 +0200

It's another thing to forget what you're doing there in the first place.

Remember much of the New Year's celebrations? Me neither. Not surprising, after throwing back the season's cocktails. But what do you do if you don't remember anything at all? You stick close to your friends, is what. That's exactly what one young Captain learnt after a prank on the super tube went quite wrong on Avontoer.

Avontoer is an annual music phenomenon sponsored by MK and organised by De Plate Kompanje. It's a rock 'n roll road show deluxe – two busses and 10 bands swept the Western and Eastern Cape coasts for a fortnight in December. They drowned holiday towns in good, clean rock music and spent a lot of time in the sun. With hot, young acts like New Holland and The Pretty Blue Guns, established ones like Foto Na Dans and veterans like Tidal Waves gigging almost every night from Langebaan to Jeffreys Bay, it's not something you easily forget. Or, in some cases, easily remember.

Cape Town band Captain Stu are a wonderful, rowdy bunch. The kind of party band that keeps you on the dance floor long after you've run out of energy. And they've got a fixation with bums and taking their pants off in public. So it's Super Tube Day in Mossel Bay and two of the Stus jump on a slide with the bright idea of swapping their board shorts on the way down (we'll never understand why). But things didn't go quite as planned. Perhaps it's the general lack of sleep and excess alcohol that is synonymous with touring, but one of the poor lads whacks his head halfway down and lands in the pool, unconscious and with his lily white bottom in the air, giving new meaning to the term 'bottoms up'.

After fishing him out and reviving him, he looks around and can't remember who anyone is. Least of all himself. For days he wanders around the campsite with the names of his friends written onto the back of his hand and with the general emotional turmoil that must accompany waking up in the presence of a bunch of hairy animals otherwise known as rock stars. But he coped well mostly because a lot of people kept an eye on him when his raucous band mates couldn't. (The ingestion of inhuman volumes of a strange muti called Tassies makes babysitting a bit difficult.)

He had coped well until the naughtiest and nicest of girls felt the need to take 'advantage' of the situation.

Very soon after he returned to camp, bewildered and beleaguered by his general situation (the showers attack you and so do 15- year-old groupies), Eloise walked up to him. Eloise is not 15; she is my very mischievous and delicious tent mate. So Eloise asks him wide-eyed and innocent-like if he remembers the other night. 'You know… you, me…' she gestures awkwardly with some weird hand movements that resemble chickens doing the tango. (We practiced animal puppet shadows on our tent ceiling late into the night.)

'I've hit my head and lost my memory and I'm on tour with my friends,' he answers, bemused.

'So you don't remember anything?' She asks starting to look horrified.

'No, I'm sorry, I don't.'

He's confused, sincere and apologetic. Her hands are in the air in a defensive gesture and she says with an insulted, pained look. 'I'm just going to walk away…' Exit Eloise stage left. Drama queen supreme. We pack up laughing.

The bottom line? It's all fun and games, until someone knocks their head and forgets to remember something that never happened, instead of everything that did.

The Art of Spaghetti Stretches

Mon, 26 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200

But I've never found myself in a position where I didn't know my tail end from my toes. Until last week.

I was keen, but after a year of indolence I was a little apprehensive about a new yoga class. However, I'm naturally supple (in certain places, we all are) and always game for a challenge. What I didn't know was the parts of me that are the least flexible are in my mind, not my body.

We're in this lovely, peaceful room, with mantra music playing. We've done a sun salutation, the downward dog, the upward dog, the eagle, and now for squats. Okey dokey, I can squat. But what the hell is that? My yoga teacher's wrapped her arms around her legs and woven them into her groin, only to have them join somewhere by her ear? No, wait, that's her knee. Is that even legal?

'Come on, what is it? Trust yourself,' she calls, noticing my frown and sudden stillness. Trust myself? I don't trust her is what. Maybe she can do this because she's been a dancer for more than twenty years. And maybe I'll just sit this one out.

'You've done so beautifully so far, I think you're more than capable of this one,' she says looking at me with the kind of authoritative kindness you understand in military situations as a do-or-die order. So I do.

I don't even want to know what they'll put on my gravestone if I break my neck in this posture. 'R.I.P. Snap, Crackle, Stop'?

After breathing out and extending, the twist is easier than it looks and I'm suppler than I seem. Presto! I'm Miss Pretzel, and I'm loving it. The class applauds me, because you know these yoga people, they're like so aware and stuff. We get to playtime and she pairs me with the hottest guy in the room, whom I have a secret crush on. I'm glowing from the satisfaction of having bettered myself. Don't you just love unisex classes?

Face it, You're an Open Book

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200

Well, so what, right? That's why we love it? Spying with permission, watching the world through a virtual window.

What few of us may have thought about, as we let a social networking site reduce our communication to comments, notes, photo tags and a million little applications, is that it is also channelling our behaviour – into very unsubtle and sometimes uncouth patterns.

Gone are the days when you dug around in your social circle to find out about your crush or paid said person's little sister to drop your name at the right time. With Facebook you can decode the dirty and trawl the trails people leave. It is wicked entertainment, and sometimes in a not-so-cool sense. Because, back at my friend's profile, I'm picking up a pattern.

He has gone around commenting on images of a particular(ly beautiful) friend of mine. In one night, he has left a series of silly comments on about five different acquaintances' photos. All of her. I've seen that sort of behaviour before. Post a pretty profile pic and everyone leaves lame posts on your wall, asking how you are, what are you doing these days, stuff like that. The sort of self-concerned shallowness that makes the social networking world go round.

Now, if he hadn't recently changed his romantic status a hundred times, this might have escaped my attention. But I know he's going through emotional upheavals, and I know boys when they do this – they go wandering, in the unconscious hopes that some action will re-centre their romantic dial.

So before he lets things get out of hand on this very public platform of self expression, I send a suggestion that he not expose the inner workings of his soul to the 400 odd souls connected to him who probably don't give a toss. And what does he do? He posts his raw feelings about love's labours in his status update, and a plethora of positive comments are left, proving me partly wrong and partly right. Wrong about which Facebook attributes would work for him, but right that he, and everyone else on its books, is a bloody voyeur. So to save face, I posted a status update: 'Jezebel is in a relationship with Facebook'.

*Jezebel blogs because if somebody doesn't say these things, insights go awry. Of course, because she and COSMO get on so well, her friends are starting to be slightly better behaved around her. Slightly.

Housemate Woes

Mon, 12 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200

If he or she is neat, they're often not very nice. If they're nice, they smell funny. If they smell nice, their partner smells funny. But my housemate is fun, easygoing, has great taste in music. I like his friends and he likes mine. Plus it's a great celestial match – Aries/Sagittarius. And most importantly, we get along really well. Or, we did.

It's not that he doesn't do his dishes (he doesn't, but he doesn't dirty an awful lot of them so I don't mind). It's not that he leaves the lights on (he does, despite power shortages, but I switch them off). And it's not that he leaves his dirty swimming trunks in the middle of the bathroom floor for me to pick up (last time I took a picture and put it on Facebook, he doesn't do it anymore).

It's that he's a pyromaniac.

Either that or he's a moron. Anyone who repeatedly leaves candles burning, stoves on and incense burning is missing a few chinks in the brain chain. And I'm not being paranoid; I've had my apartment burn down before because of someone else's neglected tea-light candle. Four people lost everything in 40 minutes – except their lives fortunately. Being lax about flames is asking for trouble. From me. So I gave him trouble.

But he made me laugh, the bastard. (How does he do that?) I wasn't asking to be entertained, I was asking for a sober awareness. But maybe that's where the trouble lies – in sobriety. This is a guy who starts and finishes the evening with gin and tonic. So maybe he's not a pyromaniac; maybe he's an alcoholic.

I suggested he make a mental checklist every time he leaves the house or goes to bed: 'Thirteen steps to domestic bliss' I called it. And I poured the gin down the drain. In front of him.

*Jezebel blogs because if somebody doesn't say these things, insights go awry. Of course, because she and COSMO get on so well, her friends are starting to be slightly better behaved around her. Slightly.

Working it Out

Mon, 05 Jan 2009 12:00 +0200

The sun is sizzling and everyone's out and about. And then there's me – resident Trojan, trying to finish off the year's work in less than two weeks. The holidays haven't even really begun and already there's a rush.

But it's not just tying up loose ends in preparation for the end of the year that's taking its toll. I'm caught between trying to make up for the time I'll be taking off over the holidays while making plans for them as well.

Friends keep calling, inviting me to laze on the beach or celebrate so-and-so's second cousin's birthday. Others need confirmation on a camping trip, and my growing to-do list won't even allow me to commit to sleeping late on Saturday mornings. At this rate, my deadlines are going to kill me if I don't kill them. Part of me is beginning to wonder if it's still a metaphor.

It's doubly ironic that there's loads of advice and warnings about holiday indulgences and activities, but very little on how to survive working weekends and double volume workloads. Right now, instead of planning for the future, it's time for some tips on surviving and still having the energy to party like Paris on New Year's Eve.

So, I've taken it upon myself to create the COSMO Girl's Pre-Holiday Checklist.

• I will take a break (and not a Kit Kat) because frequent resting and stretches are better to rejuvenate your energy supply than the tricky sugars of processed foods.

• I will not skimp on exercise. Staying active means staying invigorated and engaged. I might have to cut my running time down or try more intense exercise for shorter periods, though.

• I will clear the clutter – from my desk and from my mind. It'll be easier to focus and find things.

• I must budget my time and energy. There is only 24 hours in a day and our bodies have a limited amount of energy to burn. If there are certain tasks you can put off until the new year, leave them until 2009. This will help you maintain a sense of control.

• I either do it or delegate it. If you can't handle something, maybe somebody else can. Rome wasn't built in a day, but more importantly, it wasn't built by one person.

• I must be realistic about deadlines. If you can't make your deadlines, you let yourself as well as your boss and colleagues down. Set deadlines that are within reason given the extra workload and skeleton staff over the December period.

• I will learn to say no. There'll be ample opportunity to party this holiday season. For now or until you take time off, focus on your work priorities and make the extra effort.

Good luck with your end of year rush and happy holidays.

*Jezebel blogs because if somebody doesn't say these things, insights go awry. Of course, because she and COSMO get on so well, her friends are starting to be slightly better behaved around her. Slightly.

My First Time With James

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 12:00 +0200

I've even heard from others about their experiences with him, which left them weak in the knees, yet exhilarated. But he and I have never met.

He dresses stylishly, has the best manners, drives fast cars and you can even take him home to your parents. Unfortunately I have also come to know him as a flirt and a bit of a bragger. And then last night the inevitable happened… we met. I imagined my first time to be special, something I would treasure, but I'm sad to say this was not the case. Let me explain.

Last night I was invited to meet him. At the venue, my girlfriends and I were having cocktails and eating off roving platters that floated by, but I had my doubts. I had a second cocktail to ease the tension and help me relax so I could make easy eye contact with the other people in the room. Slowly we made our way into the dark room, away from the noise.

His blue eyes popped into view and his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to keep the Aston Martin on the road while several baddies fired machine guns at him. He was in his signature black suit and white shirt and getting grubbier by the minute. It was loud, very loud, and the camera darted all over the place trying to follow him and his pursuers. Things exploded, cars crashed, people drove off cliffs. And as I expected, there were other pretty women in the picture. But with James' good looks, who could resist? We started our journey in Italy and then jetted to Bolivia. It was all just too much.

The scriptwriters were clearly taking it easy. The stuntmen and special effects guys on the other hand were working overtime. I was losing interest fast and was begging Bond to do something (anything) that would bring me closer to that edge of ecstasy I was promised. I tried not to think of England, I changed position in my seat, I even breathed slower. But that just made me want to fall asleep.

And then I gave up; 007 did not do it for me. Quantum of Solace ticks all the Blockbuster checkboxes: beautiful cars and countries, deafening explosions, pretty girls, boats, busses, airplanes and hordes of villains. Yet, this girl walked out of the cinema unsatisfied.

I felt like the guy Daniel Craig left behind in the middle of the desert with only a can of motor oil to drink. It slipped down his throat easily, but it still left him thirsty.

No Grey Area

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 12:00 +0200

Grey's Anatomy: The programme that brought us hours of entertainment, introduced us to the gorgeous Jeffrey Dean Morgan, got us thinking up our own McNames and initiated our love affair with Snow Patrol.

And the programme, I suspect, that has caused quite a few of the mostly female viewers to pick unnecessary fights with their guys. Senseless fights. 'Why don't you love me as much as he loves her' fights. 'If you ever cheat on me like he did, we're over' fights. Fights where the question 'seriously?' punctuates every senseless point we make.

Or maybe it's just me.

I've always prided myself on being pretty level-headed when it came to dating. But this week, something changed. With the weather in Cape Town as gusty as it has been, I found myself watching a Grey's omnibus of note. One particular scene between McDreamy and Nurse Rose triggered something in me. They had slept together and – because of his plethora of surgeries – he had not made contact with her in the days following. Nurse Rose was mad.

And, suddenly, so was I. Days before I had hooked up with a boy who I have been casually seeing for just over a month. I had sent him a message, but heard nothing back. 'How dare he not get back to me?' I thought. The cheek.

I slammed pause, grabbed my phone and called my dearest guy friend for advice.

'Goddam boys,' I wailed. 'I don't know what's wrong with you lot. I saw him a few days ago, sent a message and have heard nothing. Nothing. What do I do? Leave it to lie or call him on it?'

'I think you should wait until he contacts you,' was my friend's (in hindsight) sound advice.

'But I don't want to wait. It's important that he knows how I feel.' And then I did the embarrassingly unthinkable. I actually stole Nurse Rose's line from the episode and used it – rather dramatically – as my own. 'I wish I was strong enough to pretend my ego isn't bruised but I'm not.'

It wasn't my words. And my friend knew it.

'Cath, what have you been doing tonight?' he asked sceptically.

'Watching Grey's Anatomy,' I sheepishly replied.

'Aah… Grey's Anatomy. Again, wait until he calls.'

But I couldn't. That scripted one-liner had got its claws into me and I fired off an accusing text, questioning completely irrelevant things from when we first met and actually ended off the message with the question 'seriously?'

After an hour of listening to the crickets, my phone went.

'Hey there. I didn't get your message, sorry. Was wondering what was up but because of the casual nature of us I thought you were busy too. No harm intended. I apologise.'

I could actually picture his puzzled face trying to figure out where the onslaught had come from. Because he was right. Many times before we had gone days between seeing each other with no contact. Why was this time any different?

Honesty hour with myself followed. Was I mad before I started watching Grey's? No. Had it really been plaguing me for days? Hardly. I pressed stop on the DVD, closed up the box set and placed it back in my cupboard with a post it note on that read: 'Proceed with caution'.

Because seriously?

Yes We Can (Register to Vote)

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 12:00 +0200

I couldn't believe it. When I came back from the shower, she was still there. 'We won!' she shouted, tossing her cell phone across the bed and throwing off the covers. I screamed.

What she meant was Barack Obama won the United States 2008 presidential election race. The shift from conservative to liberal leadership in the U, S and A suggests that those stars and stripes really do stand for something positive. As the world's largest social networking tool, Facebook, of course, had its say too.

In six days 1,745,754 people registered with its handy Election Rally application, which 'borrowed' a user's status to encourage voting. It sent 4,919,071 motivational messages out across the earth.

The Facebook rally told everyone who and how thoughts were being picked up on. And those thoughts spread faster than 100 000 people an hour. Sure, you could say it is part of the opinionated, voyeuristic formula that makes Facebook so popular, but it also points out that virtual, social mobilisation is making waves in the real world. Online social mobilisation plays a major part in the spirit surrounding elections. This year saw record numbers of previously apathetic American citizens go out and vote; many of them are young and restless like you and me.

But why should we care – Obama didn't become the president of South Africa, did he? No. But what turned out to be the largest online rally in history has set a precedent for our own chances of choosing a president (or a party) we actually want.

In a global display of high jacking, Obama's name came up whether or not people's status's actually mentioned anything vaguely political, and lots of concerns about our own upcoming election were expressed. And the same can be done for South Africa and our 2009 presidential elections. All we need to do is harness the power of social media and we too could encourage fellow South Africans to vote.

This weekend we are registering to vote. It could change your life.

Check if you're registered online or to find out how, where and when to.

Now what Facebook can't explain is the woman in my bed. I remember a lot of Southern Comfort and lemonade going down my throat the night before. Maybe all I'll ever know for sure is that it really IS a woman's drink…

Trouserless

Mon, 24 Nov 2008 12:00 +0200

The night wears on, the liquor wears in and people wear less. Trouserless to be exact. It's different from motherless, but only marginally.

Breezing by a comfy couch that should have swallowed the guy standing on it, I came eye-to-eye with someone's boxers. Picture it. His jeans are around his ankles and his friends are around his podium, brawling and braying just as inebriated as he is. 'Ok,' I wonder, 'What is he going to do next...'

Before I could finish my thought and in an alarmingly deft display of dexterity for someone so drunk, he whips out his willy. It's a gregarious display of God-given manhood (the kind of moment that would normally make me laugh), but being drunk he gets titillated by his gumption. Within seconds I am suddenly less than half-a-meter from a waking willy.

So now I have a bone to pick with this poor fellow. The Penis is a national symbol of sex and sexiness, of longevity and length, of love and lust and longing. But it's also an icon of inanity when silly men who can't quite help (or control) themselves do the Full Monty in public. Kind sir, next time, consider giving your audience a choice of how far from your genitals they'd like to be when they stare at you open mouthed. I know, now that I've put it that way, you're going to be hard-pressed to comply. But if the truth is not too hard to swallow, you might appreciate that your performance will probably involve less spitting that way.

Could I Speak To

Mon, 10 Nov 2008 12:00 +0200

I was buried in Excel spreadsheets when my cellphone began vibrating. It was an almost welcome distraction from those dull numbers. Here's the transcript of what happened next:

ME: Hallo, Janie speaking.
FEMALE CALLER: Hi, can I speak to Andrew.
Shaking my head, do people ever listen?
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Don't know Andrew, goodbye.

ME: Sorry I don't know Andrew.
FEMALE CALLER: Who am I speaking to?
Irritation creeps up my spine.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Did you not hear me when I answered the phone and gave you my name?

ME: It's Janie speaking.
FEMALE CALLER: Is this your phone?
Should I burst out laughing now or later?
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Oops, no, sorry, you caught me out. I just stole this from some other guy, maybe his name is Andrew, hold on, I will see if I can find him.

ME: Yes this is my phone.
FEMALE CALLER: Are you sure?
Ok, surely someone is trying to string me along.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: No, not really. In fact, this does not look like my phone at all. Wow! How did you figure that out?

ME: Well it's in my hand and it looks like my phone.
FEMALE CALLER: How long have you had this number?
Unreal, this is when it becomes hard not to dish out a full serving of sarcasm.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Not very long, I still have to write it on my hand in order to remember it, but it's getting easier every day.

ME: I have had this number for 15 years.
FEMALE CALLER: Are you sure?
I'm struggling to remember my breathing exercises to keep from exploding.
WHAT I SHOULD'VE SAID: Well if you will just hold on for a minute, I will dig through my drawers and see if I can find my original contract. Sorry for the inconvenience, one moment please.

ME: Yes I am sure and I don't know Andrew. Goodbye.
I hang up and look forward to those numbers again.

Why can't people just learn from me? When I dial a wrong number I try to apologise and end the call as soon as possible, no use wasting any more time or money. Thinking back, I'm glad the call came through during the day and not in the middle of the night. It might've gotten ugly.

Andrew, next time tell her you don't want her to call you instead of giving her a wrong number. Or, if you have to, please refrain from using mine.

Street Sense and Soft Hearts

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 12:00 +0200

He had a beautiful face, a warm smile, was humble and happy. Each time I saw him, my heart just exploded.

But let's clarify. Patrick wasn't your average guy. Hunched over his crutches with his leg in a cast, asking for a little assistance at the roadside, he seemed one of those unfortunate souls who didn't belong on the street. My policy is never to give money to beggars directly as it encourages dependency in the long run. It's far better to donate food, old clothes or even your free time to a progressive, development agency or charity that supports and empowers people living on the street. But when Patrick was on the beat, my resistance to beggars would vanish.

Once I scanned his traffic intersection for that smile and a friend rolled his eyes at me from the passenger seat, mumbling sympathetically, 'Everyone has their bergie'.

'Cynic,' I thought to myself, but when I reconsidered the idea, I had to agree. Everyone has someone that represents the underdog to them, the beaten-but-not-broken side of their psyche. That someone pricks their heart and brings out their inner philanthropist. And don't those 'entrepreneurs' know it.

I lost my bergie. Not to unjustified police incarceration or the winter weather or alcohol abuse. I lost him to reality. Last week, driving no less than a block and a half from his haunt, I saw him striding strongly along in the sunshine, crutches under his arm like props and not prop-you-ups. It made me wonder about his business savvy. He knew most people would forget him the second they drove past that traffic light and he'd be able to swindle a few bucks at the next intersection, perhaps even from the same drivers. I'm not most people.

I'm over it now, but I'm still worried; my eyes have seen his ruse, but my heart is blind.

Ladies Love Poker Too

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 12:00 +0200

It's a cashless, points-based league, with the best players making it to the final at the end of the season. You don't play for money, you play for bragging rights.

Up until recently, I played the odd game online from the anonymity of my living room. But last night my confidence was pretty high and I decided to indulge in a bit of Texas hold 'em and brave real, live poker faces.

Registration went smoothly enough, but my "stay calm it's only a game" mantra didn't hold up very long in the smoky, noisy room when the players at my table sat down and the intimidation began. Before the cards were even dealt everyone had their game faces on and the trash-talking began. The guy on my right, dressed in a three piece suit no less, was speaking in code with his buddy across the table. Behind me was a guy who refused to take his hood of his jumper down for the three-hour duration of the tournament and at another table was a woman whose game plan seemed to include annoying other players with her incessant chatting.

I was so busy taking in the different characters around me I didn't notice my rapidly diminishing chip stack. Every 20 minutes the blinds (the amount you have to pay to play the round) were raised.

But I grinded it out and soon five people at my table were out, including The Suit.

It was then I realised the real game had only just begun. Pressure began to build as I was shuffled to a new table and started gathering supporters. Impromptu fan clubs formed and suddenly it wasn't "only a game". I had to make it to the final table. I couldn't disappoint my fans; I couldn't face the walk of shame. My new table's players seemed to share my feelings. No eye contact, no trash talk, just cold emotion. A few times I actually thought someone would physically launch themselves at the dealer because the cards weren't dealt fast enough. I shrank deeper into my seat, hoping no one would notice me.

And then there were eight.

When I reached the final table the music was turned up and the '80s classics that placated the crowd earlier was replaced by metal rock. The atmosphere had changed, the air became electric. Onlookers perched on top of the tables surrounding us, egging on their favourites. I felt like I was playing for a million dollars and the World Champion title.

At this point I couldn't have cared less about my poker face, there was way too much action at the table. Two people were suddenly eliminated and I was the only woman left. I won't lie, it felt pretty damn good.

Then I got ballsy. I made a King pair and had an Ace kicker. I went all in... And then The Hooded Recluse laid down a straight. Crap!

I was pretty amped as I stood up to leave, but I thanked everyone that had supported me and headed straight for the door. I must admit I couldn't sleep that night. I kept replaying my different hands, dwelling on the decisions to check, raise or fold and grinning at the egos that were on display. It was the most fun I had for free in a long time and I'll definitely be back next week. If you can't beat them, join them.

If you're ever in Cape Town, you have to Play the Nuts. And if you find yourself in a poker game (cashless or not), here are my tips: be careful of too much booze; don't pat yourself on the back too soon; and most importantly, have fun!

Kiss and Tell

Mon, 29 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200

Even if you saw your friend an hour ago and spoke twice on the phone in the interim. And even if you don't like somebody. We all pucker up; one for local, two for French and three for Turkish (for Asian greetings, rather dip your head like a chip in a dip).

The irony is that the hidden art of body language is decodable if you're paying attention, so there's a lot more to that social kiss than meets the eye. Or the cheek. Men's body language in public tends to reveal the inner workings of their private lives (or their private parts). I'm no behaviour analyst, but I've noticed my male friends' kisses are directly related to their relationship status, and you don't have to check Facebook on this one.

Last week I had a business meeting with a client. In past meetings it's been purely professional. In past meetings he had a girlfriend. This time he greets me with open arms, a broad smile (which is normal) and kisses me hello in customary Cape fashion. But his lips can't decide if they're on my cheek or on my mouth, so I get a half-and-half. 'Hmmm,' I wonder, half amused and half confused, 'something's changed with his girlfriend.' We're already halfway through our lunch when he tells me she left him. I cough, wipe my lips and try not to smile. Lip service indeed!

If your guy pals' lips start slipping from your cheek to chin and settle on your lips, start wondering where his mind is. Obviously, it's not in his cranium. You don't need a ruler, but you do need some rules!

If you suspect something's up (and it's not your eyebrow), remember:
- It might be unintentional, he is a guy after all so he probably hasn't thought about it.
- Just like his smile, the motion behind it is broad so it's mostly about him, not you.
- He might still have a girlfriend, even if they're on a 'break'
- You kissed him on the cheek, not the lips.
- If you're picking up on his hidden messages just make sure you're tapping into your own and not sending signals you don't want returned.

The New Dating Scene

Mon, 22 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200

But then winter came and my partner was away for a long time, so I decided to go after work instead.

I couldn't have been more surprised had I been warned. I wasn't even at the entrance turnstile when I felt eyes all over the place casing me. I made it to the changing room feeling like my every move was being watched and dressed as if I was on display in a glass box. My six years of monogamy was beginning to show and I felt my palms getting sweaty as I plugged in the MP3 player. Surely earphones would send the message to those vultures that I was here for a serious workout?!

I'd barely made it up the stairs and was flashed the biggest smile – which made me turn around thinking I might actually really know this guy but no, I didn't. He happened to turn around at that exact moment, which unfortunately made it seem as if I was 'interested'. I hurried along and stationed on the treadmill. Finally I could breathe easy, and had a look around.

It was the afternoon crowd. Some were working out, others just hanging around beside treadmills and here and there people were standing in groups chatting – no sign of a bead of sweat anywhere. I kept scanning the room and found these little interactions everywhere.

I was still digesting what I was seeing when I felt a tap on my arm. This time it was someone I knew and quickly unplugged my ears. Yes, he confirmed, this is the new place you go to find a hot date to share a glass of wine, dinner or maybe more with. He laughed at the shock registering across my face as I relayed what happened during the last 10 minutes. But he retorted pretty fast: 'Come on, look around you. Beautiful people, friendly faces and if you are single, why would you not take someone up on an invitation?'

So I've concluded that in the mornings it's about fitness, reaching a goal. In the afternoon, it's about a different goal altogether. Well, at least this way you know and can see who you're chatting up – no fantasy avatars, no Photoshopped photos, the real deal wrapped in a bit of gym garb that barely covers the necessary.

One way or another, you'll find your preferred exercise routine.

The Nicest Gift Ever

Mon, 15 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200

We'd just been having a heart to heart about his fiancé and he'd confided in me that when she's upset or aggravated it helps to 'put her in water'. Smiling at his wit and wisdom, I grabbed the roses.

'Mmm, wait. Water isn't just good for bad moods,' I replied. 'Run her a bath with her favourite oils, and sprinkle the petals all over the water. Just because.'

He did. He even made a trail of petals leading to the bathroom. I can tell you it got them in the mood! But then again, you never can tell…

I once met a hot, Californian, lover in the sultry city of Istanbul and was surprised to find myself drowned in gifts. It was a gift enough to see his face, his arms and his smile again after five months apart. He gave me clothes, trinkets from San Francisco and even Jelly Bellies (which are hot property on the sweet tooth market, mind you. Especially on the edge of the Middle East, where oil is gold and water is diamonds!). Feeling like I'd just gotten the cream and the cat, I looked at him in wonder and wondered what next. Then he dropped the bomb. He'd had more lovers in our few months apart than I'd had in my whole life and he hadn't bothered to tell me, as we'd agreed. He'd also decided that as much as he wanted a fairytale adventure with me in the land of blue turbans and bright skies, he didn't want a relationship beyond that – even though he said he was 'deeply in love' with me.

His guilt – not his love and adoration – had prompted him to spoil me and that really spoilt it for me. But being a slow learner in the Art of Love and a bit of a sucker for the promise of love (even when it's just been broken), I gave in to the illusion. But after Turkey, and a lot of heartbreak, I gave away all his lovely little gifts. To bergies (and friends who'd warned me about him).

The lesson? The real gift is in the intention. Find out why he's doing what he's doing before you gush your 'Thank Yous'. And if you really mean it, spoil him right back with something sublime.

Bag of Contradictions Part Two

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200

Yes, anyway, where was I? In complete contrast to that whole scene was something that happened a few months ago. Something very positive in the gender war. Something encouraging.

There we were at a thumping club on Long Street. Well, actually, no, I lie. It’s a wicked music venue with a bar and a balcony known for bird watching. It was funky Fong Kong Bantu Sound System Saturday night, with thumping beats and hunky guys and hot... uh... birds. We were two ladies with our own hunky guy (a friend, mind you) and we were all loving it – close encounters, wiggling hips, jiggling bits, real get-down and dance stuff.

Of course, it was hot and sweaty and at this point my friend peeled off her (rather sizeable) handbag like a banana skin and handed it to our hunk with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow. He smiled his brilliant, pearly smile in triumph as if he’d just won a prize, and with a twinkle in his eye slipped it onto his shoulder. And carried on boogying.

The irony? Said Bag (with studs and dangly bits) became a babe magnet. No, seriously. He went to the bar to fetch us beer and came back with babes on his arm instead. Incorrigible. Ok, they’re foreign, and they don’t speak much English, but sexy is sexy, right?

I was left a little in awe with how natural some men are about things. A real man doesn’t need to prove his masculinity; he needs to prove his femininity, a fact quite lost on the last Manbag Who Wouldn’t.
The Cambridge Women’s Porn Cooperative has a point when they suggest that it’s the small things that are sexiest. Guess who got lucky?

Bag of Contradictions Part One

Mon, 08 Sep 2008 12:00 +0200

Men are the unemotional ones, but bruise their egos and they’ll scream blue murder. Something’s wrong with the rules. We look at those who make them and those who break them (and the mould).

The other night I needed a man. Actually, no, I just needed an extra hand, and I happened to have one with an ego in disguise as a date next to me. So I asked him to hold my bag for a moment... he refused. His reason? He doesn’t hold anyone’s handbag, because “the next thing they [the bag’s owner] are off and distracted and don’t come back and you have to carry on looking after the thing, like a bedraggled poodle.”

This isn’t really about inconvenience, is it? It’s about masculinity. Even if I did trot off to the bar to get him a drink and left him with The Handbag, it’s smaller than a croissant and has no frills. It would have fit quite comfortably (and unnoticeably) under his armpit like a good little puppy till I came back.

Funnily enough it didn’t occur to him that he’d gain points by helping me out, but being the Grrrl that I am, I gave him a slicing look, flicked my hair back, pinned The Handbag between my legs (thinking it was probably the wiser thing to put there) and pulled off my cardi. Standing like that made my bum stick out a bit, of course, which he didn’t miss, and my bet is it only made him sorrier that he’d just lost major kudos, and the chance to hold anything else of mine! How inconvenient.

Watch out for part two of Bag of Contradictions: The Man Who Dared.

Taxi Idols

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 12:00 +0200

One of my worst pet hates is when people sing in taxis…out loud. And I’m not talking about the beautiful, soul-wrenching national anthem singing that gets all the commuters going in a show of solidarity and national pride, like the television ad that ran a few years ago. I’m referring to the person who probably got a tongue-lashing at Idols and decided to avenge their public humiliation by re-enacting their performance of Whitney Houston (complete with Falsetto notes) on the way to work.

There are two different culprits here. Everyone should be familiar with the sing-along-er. This is the person who competes not only with the original artist by trying to surpass their highest notes, but also the sound system, and usually wins because the drivers are too polite to turn up their volume.

Then there are the ‘pod people’, who seem to exist in a little world inside their Ipods, where belting out your favourite tune is as natural as, well, auditioning for Idols. They’re the worst to come across because they sing along to music that no one else can hear!

But the worst is yet to come. The nightmarish result of these ungodly performances is that their particular song will get stuck in your head, looping incessantly. Except it’s the pod person’s voice instead of the artist. By the time you eventually get to work, you’ll be frantically googling the song on Youtube to get that person out of your head. An excruciatingly unnecessary punishment for public commuting, don’t you think?

So if you’re one of the culprits – stop! Think before you sing, and consider this. As suped-up as taxis are these days, I have yet to see one with a microphone hooked up to the cigarette lighter waiting for its next karaoke star. So take a hint and save your song for the parents’ fiftieth anniversary, I’m sure they’ll appreciate it more.

Dan In Real Life

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 12:00 +0200

The nightclub chosen by the All Blacks for a bit of post-match tipple was filled with imposing, tattooed men in jeans and very well-fitting T-shirts. My finely tuned rugby eye (hey, everybody has a weakness; sport just happens to be mine) wandered over the mulleted Ali Williams, the surprisingly sober Jimmy Cowan, the quiet and understated Piri Weepu and the rather yummy Stephen Donald. I was in groupie heaven.

And then there he was.
He walked past our table, heading for the little boys’ room. Much nudging and pointed noises ensued from my friends – Q, Kraai, Japie, Jons and Orca, who had all come to Cape Town to watch the game with me at Newlands – as if there was any doubt that I had already spotted the most beautiful man ever to walk the earth. I barely had time to draw a breath and Q was off after Dan, stalking on my behalf.
Three minutes and a fortifying Jägerbomb later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I don’t know what Q had said to him (and I don’t think I ever want to), but my future ex-husband was standing behind me. He was shorter than I expected, but the smile designed to sell underwear and stop female hearts was the same. I reached for his hand, fully intending to shake it and reassure myself that I wasn’t having one of my very involved fantasies. He was having none of that. He leaned down, possibly dragged by the irresistible force channelling through my arm, and kissed me on the cheek. I could actually feel my eyes crossing.
Our conversation went something like this:
Ania: Hi!
Dan: Hi, nice to meet you.
Ania: It’s a privilege to meet you. You’re a rugby genius and the hero of millions, and it’s a pleasure to watch you play. In fact, it’s a pleasure just to watch you….
Dan: Thanks, that’s very kind. Did you enjoy the game?
Ania: Not so much [the Boks had crashed to a depressing 19-0 defeat]. But I’m having an excellent evening now….
Etc etc etc; cue soppy music, diamonds, white dresses and flower girls.
At least, that’s how it happened in my head. What actually came out of my mouth was a strangled sound caught somewhere between a whimper and a wail, with a bit of a ‘gah’ thrown in for good measure.
Not my finest hour.
I recovered quite brilliantly, I thought, by flashing a winning smile and directing his attention to the rest of the table. He chatted with Q and Mrs Q, and I snapped a champion picture of him with Japie – a coup, considering I had lost all feeling in my arms and legs, and needed the command of all my limbs to line up the shot. But when Kraai tried to point out that I might want a photo as well, I balked. I was barely breathing as it was; another second of physical contact with the stuff my wildest dreams are made of would have surely killed me.

Yes, I’m an idiot. But I’m a giddy idiot – and I might never wash my face again….

Room For Rent

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

Okay, we were blatantly thrilled and celebrated with champagne. We were finally getting rid of our very non-COSMO man; an overstressed, underachieving, unsociable sloth. Don’t get me wrong, I love wallpaper – but not for a digsmate, thanks. Even worse, he was also the puppet to a non-COSMO, loony girlfriend who organised his life and controlled his every move. She even gave Paul house rules to follow such as ‘shirts must be kept on at all times’. That made absolutely no sense to us. What’s the point of having a male digsmate if you can’t perve at them now and then? Rookie error number one: no jealous girlfriends next time.

With Paul’s bad energy and even worse hygiene habits gone (plus a few hundred sticks of incense later), Jen and I set out to find a new, fabulous digsmate. We were unaware that the chance of finding the ideal guy in the middle of the year is about as high as us getting lucky with Wentworth Miller. Especially with only three months left on our lease. We didn’t think our criteria were particularly strict. We thought we would easily find a somewhat attractive, single (lesson learnt), well-educated, balanced, party-loving, car-driving, self-sufficient, useful-around-the-house kind of guy with plenty of hot friends, and who could socialise but also give us our much-needed female space. That’s not too much to ask for, right? Um, apparently it is.

We began the interview process with a dazzling example of what’s available in the digsmate market. He was an older guy who had dreams of commuting to work and back on his bicycle – from Gardens to Table View every day (about 10-15 km). We believed him when he said we would never have to drive him anywhere (because we weren’t intending to), but the cyclist took more interest in our cleavages than the rent. Freaky. Next option, please! We were introduced to Kyle, who just happened to have been thrown out of his last house and from his university for drunken behaviour, illegal substance abuse and theft. Perfect! But four very unusual and wayward men later and Kyle seemed a highly tempting option. We met men who adored women a little too much, a man who hated women and a man who I think actually was a woman. One guy even asked whether he could stay without paying us on a monthly basis – he promised that at the end of the year he would pay us what he owed us. ‘Yes, okay, no problem, please stay free of charge and then run off with all our worldly belongings in December. Welcome home!’ I suppose it makes sense that with the weak offer of only a three-month lease, what you get in return is a small pool of interesting guys. And not the good kind of interesting – the weird kind. Even though we felt for these roomless men, we had no intention of opening up a mental ward any time soon.

At the very least we got to meet some, er, different guys, and learnt some lessons in living – no more random roomies or jealous girlfriends. At least we got in some girlie giggling at the end of the day. We still haven’t found our perfect male roommate and have begun thinking about converting the extra room into our own gym which at this rate would be more useful to us than any of these, potential digsmates!

* Name has been changed

It's a Wrap

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

Our last morning was a stormy one and the weather was determined not to let us have a sunny day at the market.

Port Louis is the capital of Mauritius and this is where we headed for a bit of local culture. As a standard the roads all over the island is really narrow and speeds limits are quite low but it does not help much. If there is a truck loading or off-loading, it has to stop in the middle of the road this also goes for busses, taxis or any other vehicle. The road has no shoulder full stop.

With the wind and driving rain all of us had our eyes on the road, not that it helps the driver of course but it does for peace of mind. Cyclists are really vulnerable and a few times I looked back just to make sure the poor chap is actually still pedaling as we zipped past.

The city traffic is exactly the same and we eventually stopped somewhere in a side street in order to depart. From here there was a subway that allowed us passage without having to brave the traffic on foot.

I was overwhelmed by the smell of fish as we approached the market. Not sure if I should breathe or rather just suffocate I slowly reminded myself to concentrate and breathe normally. It became better until I actually encountered the fish stall with several kinds of salted and dried fish on display. The stall owner explained to us that the fish is cooked for it to rehydrate and is then eaten with rice or bread. I might turn into a super model within a few weeks if that was my daily meal. I find fish most attractive in an aquarium, as biltong neither the look not the smell attracts me in the least.

On sale there are baskets, spices, sarongs, t-shirts and every other conceivable piece or memorabilia ever thought of. Dodo’s carved from wood or stone, cast in metal, with or without feathers and even with a bobbing head. Every single price is negotiable. Just a bit further up from the market are the street sellers and here as in every country I have ever visited Chinese imports are at the order of the day. Watches and perfumes along with sunglasses seem to be the favourites.

The fresh fruit and vegetable market on the other side of the street was a feast to all the senses. All displayed in little or huge pyramids the reds, greens and yellows mixed with the voices of the sellers and a myriad of smells wished for one on my local street corner back home. At one stall I noticed at least four different varieties of tomatoes for sale. Another one was mainly made up of potatoes and unknown root veggies. All sold by weight it is constantly busy and people have a friendly disposition unlike the trinket sellers that are desperate and over powering.

An experience not to be missed. If you feel like discovering a different world not too far from South Africa, visit this island, you might be pleasantly surprised.

Thank you to Le Telfair and Max Factor for making the 2008 Swimwear shoot a great experience. Don’t forget to buy the November issue to see all the new must have fashion for summer.

The Wheels of the Bus Go Round and Round

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

The rules of the road are the same as in SA. The speed limit is 40km/h. But the difference is how narrow the roads actually are. There are no lay-byes, and certainly no emergency lane to make space for the buses or sugar cane trucks to go past. Drivers give you a warning with a short toot on the hooter before whizzing by. On occassion, I got caught out; boxed in by a vehicle on the one side and the sea on the other, I got soaked by a wave splashing across the road.

Sights and smells are stronger when in the saddle, as opposed to rushing by behind the window of a taxi. It was late afternoon and we could smell the household dinners being cooked. People were coming back from work and children were on school holidays so they all greeted and waved as we cycled past. Owners of restaurants waved enthusiastically at us in the hope that we would remember them on our way back for a dinner stop.

We stopped for some fresh coconut milk - straight from the shell. The top is skillfully whipped off with a machete. Just enough was lopped off so that a tiny hole is created, a straw is inserted and wha-la, it’s ready for consumption. Of course, for a few extra rupees, something a little bit stronger can be added - from coconut cooler to coconut cocktail!

At the halfway point we casually asked how far we had cycled. 'What? 12 kilometers?', we all cried. This meant we now had to cycle back the same distance, without the wind pushing us nicely along.
That’s when the down-pour gave us a last good soak.And seriously, this was one of the best afternoons spent on the island. You couldn't wipe the smiles off our faces.

We are here courtesy of Le Tellfair – www.letelfair.com

Fashion Victim

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

Or at the very least, made to spend ten hours walking around in 6-inch stiletto heels, looking like heaven, but feeling like hell.

In my normal daily life, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground. In flats.

But a special occasion called for special shoes: Only the biggest horse-racing event in the country. There’d be cameras, hot men and most importantly, other women in teetering heels.

Race day arrived. I found myself flirting fabulously with the fashion crowd. But no matter how many ‘lurve your stilettos, dahling’ came my way, all I could focus on was the burning and throbbing down below.
I felt alone in my pain.

I looked at the well-heeled crowd around me. Models and actresses prancing and posing with gargantuan grins plastered on their faces, all footloose and fancy-free. Why wasn’t I smiling? Was I the only one in foot hell?

I blame you, Carrie Bradshaw. You who made me believe, believe, that external glamour was worth any kind of excruciating torture. I even purred ‘Hello, lover’ just like you did, when I first laid eyes on said foot-wreckers. (Of course, Carrie was talking about Christian Louboutins. I was wearing… anyway, that’s besides the point.) Irresponsible propaganda, I say. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t bitter… I was blistered.

Then… a revolution. It could have been the copious amounts of champagne. But as night fell, the conversation in the fashion tent shifted. The glamazons started talking about their feet. More importantly, the pain in their feet. I wasn’t alone anymore. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. (I still thank God that I hadn’t.)
Two weeks later, my feet are slowly returning back to normal. The scars are fading and disfigurement is minimal.

I may even wear my 6-inchers to a party this weekend.

Salade Du Millionaire

Tue, 22 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

The chef in charge of this establishment is Carl Kheeroo, and besides his ability to charm visitors with food, he is also a keen dancer at local clubs.

Carl showed us how to prepare three of the local dishes. On our recipe sheets the difficulty-rating was average but you should have seen the ingredients list!
He started off with a Crab Meat and Palm Heart Salad. I don’t think I have ever eaten palm heart and our video guy was a little twitchy at the thought of eating ‘heart’.
The specific palms do not grow far from the Chateau and when the outer bark is stripped off, the middle is white. Palm hearts come from the White Palm which is now cultivated on the island specifically for gastronomic use and can be eaten raw or cooked.
The salad is given the pompous name of Salade du Millionaire, probably because the trees need to grow for at least six or seven years before they are cultivated. Once the tree has been chopped off, it’s head never grows back.

“This you have to marinate quickly, otherwise it goes brown,” he explained about the slices of palm heart, in a thick French accent. Once the crab and palm heart has been marinated separately, they are then combined and served with sliced tomato.

The main meal he prepared was chicken curry. With a large part of the island’s population being Hindu or Muslim, chicken or fish is the preferred staple. Beef, lamb and pork is imported from Australia, New Zealand or sometimes South Africa. It was a mild curry given a bit more of a zing with the addition of a side dish containing chopped onion, tomato and green chilli. Served with some plain white rice or bread, the flavours were inviting and the food colourful.

He ended the demonstration meal with banana flambé with rum and cinnamon. To make the dessert would require four bananas some sugar, rum a cinnamon stick and orange juice. Served with vanilla ice cream it turned out to be the favourite dish of the three.

What was there to take from all of this? The simplicity of the ingredients. Nothing is over complicated, nothing is spiced to death, it is a combination of flavours that work well together. And of course presentation which I think is an art but something that can be taught.

We are here courtesy of Le Telfair – www.letelfair.com

Day 6 Blue From Every Vantage Point

Mon, 21 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

I was lucky enough to be able to play 18 holes on Le Golf du Chateau which is a course designed by local South African designer Peter Matkovich. With very few trees the hazards consists mainly of sand, water and clever layout so that sometimes a ball has to be hit blind. What struck me was the views on this course combined with the lushness. While waiting to tee off I was watching the ground staff do what they do best, maintain the growth of all things vegetation.

They were inside streams making sure water can run freely, taking care of weeds and clipping edges with tiny little scissors that one would expect to find in a hairdresser. The course manager says that insects and fungus are their biggest problem and takes the most time. There are huge snails all over the grass. They are pencil shaped and much bigger than any land snails I have ever seen. I was particularly careful not to step on any of them, could not imagine that it would be a pleasant experience.

We also had the opportunity to be taught by a golf pro during a golf clinic. The golf pro is another ex South African that now lives and works on the island. It can be a very intimidating sport to start with no experience and I have been told by quite a few people that they would never even try. The three newbies that took part in the clinic was loving it. The approach is more an explanation than turning you into a snap champion. What makes up a golf swing, some of the myths around what you should or should not do and the opportunity to hit 25 balls while he helps you a bit. I think I might see a few new faces on the driving range when we get back home.

When visiting it is also nice to know that the golf is included in the room fee so visitors can book and play as often as they like. Should a golf buggie be required that is charged extra and hitting balls at the driving range is also a few rupees extra.

Today we are taking part in a Mauritian cooking course and I will be telling you all about that tomorrow.
Check out today's pix.

We are here courtesy of Le Telfair – www.letelfair.com

Work the Light

Sun, 20 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

This means that the models have to get ready for hair and make-up when it is still dark and mostly look exceptional at breakfast when the rest of the people have clearly just woken up. The male models don’t get off scot free but mostly their morning routine consists of a gym workout before getting ready.

To actually get to a location with all the necessary props, clothing and camera equipment is easier said than done. We used two mini buses to transport 11 people. One is basically filled with boxes full of sunglasses and jewelry, bags of swimming costumes and hard cases containing camera equipment.

At the location we piled all of this into boats and were taken out to the catamaran. This is where the real hard work starts. All the models, hair and make-up, fashion editor and assistant stay on the main boat. The photographer and his assistant work from a smaller boat on the sea. The photographer sets up the shot with the models telling them what he has in mind before pushing off. Now it is the job of the skipper to angle the catamaran so that the sun is on the models and behind the photographer.

He approaches the models in the smaller boat, gets ready and as soon as he is close enough starts counting to three and then shoots. He only manages about two to three shots before they have to turn around, get away from the main boat and then approach once again. For these shots he also uses what is called a ring flash which basically sits like a silver dish around the lens of the camera and gives him better illumination. Everytime the clouds move in front of the sun he has to wait and the models try to contain their hair and their footing.

For the afternoon we were on a different beach where a horse was booked to be part of the scene. He was dapple grey and had quite a strange name, Pigeon Post. Then I learned that he is actually originally from South Africa and loves to swim, so the model riding him had to be very careful with him in the water since she was wearing a expensive chiffon dress that is not really made to be submerged in the sea.

While I was sitting on the beach watching the photographer and his assistant use a gold bounce (backboard of gold material that reflects light onto the model’s skin) to use any available light, I noticed some men out at sea. What was strange was that they were on foot and very far out, I would say nearly a kilometer but only submerged up to their hips. The owner of the horse explained to me that because of the coral reef the sea breaks very far out, I actually noticed that the first day we arrived. The front shallow bit is referred to as a lagoon. The guys in the water were fisherman, they know their way through the coral garden and because they do not own boats, they walk out to the break to go and fish. I was perplexed as to how they get back in the dark? When I asked he just smiled and said they walked back. I felt the tips of coral the other day and they are sharp as nails, I do not know how they do it.

Every last little bit of light was used and as the sun sunk completely behind the horizon before the photographer was happy and announced that the day was a success. Having never been at an outdoor shoot I realized how much planning was necessary and how much easier it is in a studio. Yet, I looked at the pictures once they were downloaded onto the laptop and were told that there was still a lot of work to be done.

It seems like the need for more or less light never ends.
We are here courtesay of Le Telfair - www.letelfair.com

Wrong Way Round

Sat, 19 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

With light switches up is on and down is off. Are you confused? Try this in a shower. I have heard some good Martin Scorcese screams the past few days and they were not excitement screams.

Try new things are our motto for the story. So we snorkeled on a, no I lie, next to a coral garden and quad biked up a mountain. We saw parts of the original Mauritian forest and heard all about the Dutch introducing sugar cane (for Rum and not commercial sugar), as well as pine apples.

Rebecca had blisters from hanging on as we raced through mud puddles but in the next instant being speechless at a water fall. For me personally finding out that hunting was a big tourist attraction was a tad too much, but that is easily avoided.

Mauritian people must be some of the most friendly, helpful and generally content human being I have ever met. Hindu, Muslims, Buddhists and Christians live and work peacefully in the same space. Always with the aqua marine backdrop of a sea with waves breaking far out.

Both Stuart and Mike celebrated birthdays. Look it’s not often that a person gets an Italian chef to prepare a gateau sporting your name. Getting the chance to enjoy this at the top of a hill on the veranda of a 150 year old Chateau is nearly making it feel unreal.

We have days filled with lots of hard work and laughter. Here is our second video that Roland put together for us.

It is a pleasure creating COSMO Swimwear for you. Let us know by commenting if you have questions.

Visit our location at www.letelfair.com

5-Star Frenglish

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

The first fashion challenge began with having to iron five crates and three suitcases full of fabulous fashion: the plug on my iron would not fit their sockets.

So as one does when staying at a 5-star hotel, I call housekeeping and ask for an iron to be brought to my room.
The housekeeper, alarmed at my request of wanting to do my own ironing, tells me she will send someone immediately to collect my suit.

`No dear` I reply, `it is not a suit, but three suitcases (I don`t have the heart to tell her about the crates). `No problem Madame. I will send someone immediately.`

Well I don`t know if that someone came and saw the amount of ironing and fled in fear, but I am still waiting for her to arrive.

The second fashion challenge arose when trying to order a Sundae as a prop for the Pringle swimwear shoot, and the bartender had no idea what I was on about.
`Please can I have a Sundae?`
`No, it is Thursday.`

Fashion is a tricky business.

Check out all the photographs, shot by our official photographer Anthony Friend. And these are the pix we're not going to use...

Visit www.letelfair.com for great accommodation offers.

Day 1
Day 2

COSMO Swimwear Shoot: Day 2

Wed, 16 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

We were eager to see Paradise, as Suga calls it.

Rebecca and I were given the Le Telfair grand tour and we were surprised to learn that there was another three tiers of suites; even more luxurious than ours. It became clear to me why people come here for honeymoons and naughty holidays!

Door 1604 leads to a private sitting room and through the glass sliding doors on the doorstep, a little beach. A personal butler is at your beck and call. He will run a bath dotted with with floating flowers and surrounded with candles. He’ll also make sure that my favourite brand of chocolate is sitting neatly on my fluffed pillow each evening. Nice.

If you don’t have at least three saucy ideas in your head by now, you need to read the paragraph again.

While we were oohing and aahing over the hotel, fashion ed. Robynne and the crew were shooting poolside glamour. I have never seen so many people clean one bit of water. But it sparkled! Roland was ever-present with his video camera and put together a highlights package for your entertainment - watch it now.

Tomorrow Rebecca and I may be sipping cocktails, poolside, or dipping our toes in the sea or even strolling along the white sand – who knows? Check back to share the excitement.

Visit www.letelfair.com for great accommodation offers.

Day 1
Day 3

The COSMO Swimwear Crew On Location

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

Check back daily for blogs, video clips and galleries on how we achieve the perfect summer look that no COSMO girl should be without.
Our first blog introduces you to the crew. Remember their names, you will get to know them well over the next ten days.
Also make sure that you tune your radio to Good Hope FM daily between 9am and 12pm to catch Suga broadcasting live from white beaches and a fabulous five star resort.
I squeezed out the crew's innermost secret, just to get us warmed up.
So, here's the crew that will be bringing you Summer 2008!

REBECCA - COSMO BUSINESS DEVELOPMENT MANAGER
"Been on the Swimwear gig for five years; Senegal, Bali, Mauritius, Zanzibar and now Mauritius again. P.S. Tough job but someone has to do it."

ROBYNNE - COSMO FASHION EDITOR
"I want to be known as the only person in the entire world that gets paid to sleep."

HUEY - HAIR AND MAKE-UP ARTIST
"I miss London every day but I am happy to be here. I love hair and make-up."

ANTHONY - PHOTOGRAPHER
"When I shoot, I want the person`s emotion to show."

KIM - TECHNICAL PRODUCER FOR GOOD HOPE FM
"When I land up on tropical islands I realise how much I hate my job."

STUART - MODEL
"I have been a model for 10 years and this is the first time I am working on a tropical island. I have been waiting for this job for a lifetime."

ROLAND - VIDEO PRODUCTION TEAM
"My pet hate is when I am vj-ing at events and people come up to me and request songs. I DO VISUALS!"

MAX - MODEL
"I always wonder if the photographer feedbacks on shoots are truthful. Am I always great, spectacular and beautiful?"

CANDICE - MODEL
"People need to stop asking me if I am related to Mark Boucher."

ELIZABETH - MODEL
"I only sit in aisle seats when I fly, I am terribly claustrophobic and I hate staying in hotels. But I immerse myself in my job and surroundings and love meeting new people. That is what keeps me coming back."

TT - FASHION ASSISTANT
"I have OCD and am constantly tired because I'm always checking stuff, but I have peace with it."

SUGA - DJ GOOD HOPE FM
"This is my second time on a Swimwear trip and a dream come true. I own every COSMO magazine from 1994. I also collect several other international titles. A very expensive hobby."

TAL - MODEL
My name is Tal and whenever I introduce myself people ask me what my full name is? So I automatically spell it when I introduce myself, I'm Tal, T-A-L. It is one of the most common names in Israel and it means morning dew."

MIKE - PHOTOGRAPHIC ASSISTANT
"I swear too much. I think I might be suffering from closet Tourettes Syndrome."

JANIEB (me) - ONLINE PRODUCER
"My friends call me OCD; I think I am tidy. My friends call me a techie; I think I am an early adopter. My friends call me mad; I think I'm funny."

Visit www.letelfair.com for great accommodation offers.

Day 2
Day 3

Sick and Tired

Mon, 07 Jul 2008 12:00 +0200

It broke my heart. Tyres aren’t cheap these days and, having fitted my car with four new tackies a year ago (and having done less than 3 000km on them), the prospect of purchasing new rubber was not a pleasant one.

It broke my spirit too. The basics of changing a tyre are not a mystery – open boot, remove spare, remove tools, jack up car, loosen nuts, take off wheel, put on spare, tighten nuts, lower car, pack away tools, pack away broken tyre. Simple, right? Not really, as it turned out. Not when your car is trying to break more than just your ego and your bank balance.

Hanging my head in shame, I called one of my guy friends for help. He was as gracious as it was possible to be on a Sunday morning, and allowed himself to be dragged away from the grand-slam-tennis finals. He became progressively less gracious as he tried to get the wheel off. And tried. And tried again. The thing would not budge – and it very nearly broke his back.

I called him a weakling – unfairly, considering he’s well-built and one of the strongest guys I know. He called me a reckless ‘parker’ and accused me of messing up the suspension. His girlfriend, the voice of reason, called us both of childish – then she called the AA.

The mechanic was prepared. He arrived with a can of Q20 and a rubber-headed hammer roughly the size of a small European country. Just as well – it took him all the applied knowledge in the world and 20 minutes of hard graft to pop the wheel off. The reason? Apparently it was rusted to the rest of the car, as a result of all the rain we’d had.

There’s a lesson here – several lessons, in fact, and I’ve filed them all for future reference. One: park carefully and avoid mounting the kerb. Two: keep some kind of lube and a large hammer in the car – you never know when they will come in useful. Three: the next time the car goes in for a service, ask the mechanic to remove all four wheels and lubricate the hell out of everything. Trust me, it’s easier to have that conversation than to find yourself stuck on the side of the highway at 10pm, unable to change a tyre for reasons that have nothing to do with your abilities.

My spirit is on the mend, and my friend’s physio says his back will be sorted soon. My heart is still broken, though – tyres really don’t come cheap these days...

Kicking Butt, and Keep Safe

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 12:00 +0200

I could say safety begins at the COSMO Kicks Butt self-defence workshops which begin in August (and which I certainly encourage you to attend) but really, safety begins with you and your attitude.

I could say safety begins at the COSMO Kicks Butt self-defence workshops which begin in August (and which I certainly encourage you to attend) but really, safety begins with you and your attitude.

Do you walk with confidence and generate a strong, positive energy? Do you hold your head up high so that your surroundings are visible to you? Ask your best friend to watch you while you walk - you might be surprised to find out that you are totally unaware of your suroundings - in lala-land, as I say. Or your friend might tell you that you walk with a soldier`s march and an attitude that tells the world `Don`t mess with me!`

Do you have that look of confidence on your face when you open the door to a complete stranger? Consider your tone of voice. Does it tell the world: `I am in control. I am sure of myself’. Practise `the look` in the mirror - it might be all it takes to scare off a chancer who thinks you`re an easy target.

And trust your intuition. If you have a gut feeling that the person standing in front of you is no good, you`re probably right!
Here’s what else you need: an urgent desire to get out of a bad situation; a willingness to do whatever it takes to achieve that desire, and a firm belief that you can succeed. This could mean doing things that you never dreamed of doing, or never knew your body was capable of doing. You have to learn to believe that you have the mental, emotional and physical strength to grab a man by the groin, to twist and turn it until he shrieks with pain and not to let go until he is crawling around on the floor in agony, begging you to stop.

Do this, and you would have made the mind-shift from being a victim to being an empowered human being.

Hope to see you at one of my workshops! Click here to find out more.

Till my next blog, practise the walk and the talk, and remember that these basics could stop an attack before it starts!

Email me with your questions or experiences. If you`d like to order my book, email Margaret. To find out about our workshops and other presentations offered by Self Defence Workshops cc visit www.selfdefence.co.za

Ok, Ok I'm Going Organic Already

Mon, 23 Jun 2008 12:00 +0200

My aim has been rudely interrupted by my housemate`s grim revelation. `Erm…,` I say. In fact, I have no response. It`s early and I haven`t had any caffeine yet.

She`s gleaned this information from Go Further, a Woody Harrelson documentary promoting sustainable, organic living. Cows apparently are pumped full of hormones in order to produce more milk. Their sad over-used udders struggle to keep up with demand, becoming raw and painful and well, you know the rest.

I`ve always lived by the belief that when it comes to food, what you don`t know can`t harm you - that, and the five-second rule. But the problem is I do know now and it`s caused me to question way more than my milk-drinking habits.

The weekend following The Milk Episode I`m staying with my boyfriend and his eco-friendly housemate. I`m making myself at home and place my shower gel filled with chemical ingredients I can`t pronounce, next to Sarah`s herbal cleanser filled with lavender, lemongrass and rosemary. Her bottle looks so proud, so righteous; mine just looks like it`s embarrassed to be there. My environmentally friendly to-do list is growing by the second: organic milk, herbal cleanser and…

…worms? Yup, worm farms are big news in eco-circles and Sarah`s got one. The worms (housed neatly in a rubber tyre) eat all your organic waste - potato peels, banana peels, eggshells, even paper - creating a nutrient-rich super-fertiliser for the garden. I keep forgetting that orange peel and onions are big worm food no-nos. So, not only am I funding the abuse of cows by buying non-organic milk, I`m stamping a gigantic footprint on the earth with my non-organic shower gel and poisoning the good guys while I`m at it. I fear there`s only one way to rid myself of my growing eco-guilt. I`m going to get some worms…

A Good Steak or a Bad Shag?

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 12:00 +0200

We’ve heard good things about this place, and the manager, as well as being easy on the eye, is an exceptional cook. The conversation turns to sex and food – as it does when four girls meet up after an honest day’s work. And while the talk falters during the main course, there is still enough of a chewing gap for a question to be asked. “What would you rather have – a tasty meal or bad sex?”

Granted, the timing may be a little off – it’s difficult to focus on anything but the messages between my taste buds and my brain when the lasagne is THAT good. And perhaps it’s not surprising that the answer is unanimous: all four of us would rather eat a dream of a pasta than lie on a bed/couch/kitchen counter pretending to enjoy ourselves while thinking about the awesome pasta we COULD be having...
Strangely – or perhaps predictably – this choice is not as easy for men. A week later, at a mixed-company dinner, I pose the same question to the male members of our party. They pause and think about it. “What do you mean?” asks one. Well, er, it’s self-explanatory, really – would you rather have a good steak or bad shag? How hard can it be?

Hard, apparently. Men are logical, slow-processing creatures. They need all the facts in order to answer a question or solve a problem. They need to know whether the tasty meal would be provided at a restaurant, or whether it would be cooked by their girlfriend (with whom they could have sex, good or bad, afterwards). They need to decide what actually qualifies as a good meal. They have to thrash out the probability of something such as bad sex even existing. And, quite frankly, after you have a good meal, won’t the sex be good anyway, since you’re already half-satisfied?

Opinions are divided. Some of the guys at the table cop out, asking whether they can have both. Greedy. Others concentrate on their (tasty) meal and pretend the conversation has nothing to do with them. One chooses the bad sex (“because who needs to eat anyway?”) and another wants to call a friend, having used up his “ask the audience” lifeline.The next day my best guy friend emails me: “Tasty food. Bad sex is available everywhere – but one has to go looking for good food.”

A testament to our times, perhaps, but it seems that, in some areas at least, SOME men recognise the value of effort and hard work. So next time I have a “potential” over for dinner, I’m spending more time prepping ingredients and less applying eyeliner.

Luckily I can cook.

We're Online

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 12:00 +0200

Let's just say it: Cosmo's where it’s at! And now COSMO is right here: online. Which means you can get your fun, fearless fix 24/7.

It’s everything you love about the magazine at your fingertips, every day, plus much more. Here’s your guided tour:

Guys, sex and relationships Start drooling! Here’s where you’ll find the tastiest guy candy (and where you can rate him). You’ll also find seduction secrets, saucy sex positions and reliable relationship advice from experts.

Fashion and beauty From fabulous fashion finds and flattering figure fixers to beauty masterclasses and gorgeous styling tips, you can keep your finger on the style pulse here. The COSMO experts will be on hand to answer your styling questions.

Your daily diary This one is just for you! Sign up here and get a daily personal horoscope, the celeb scoop, a new sex tip and more must-know news, to keep you in a COSMO frame of mind all day. It sits on on the home page, down the left.

COSMO community Hang out in the COSMO chatrooms and talk to us or talk to each other. Post comments on stories, spill your secrets and swap advice. And get an inside look into who’s who at the mag from the COSMO staff bloggers.

Celeb gossip Updated throughout the day, you’ll be the first to know.

Polls, quizzes and competitions Have your say in a COSMO poll, learn more about the inner you from our interactive quizzes and enter to win some fabulous prizes.

We think you're going to love www.cosmopolitan.co.za and if you've got any ideas, suggestions or just want to say hi, email me.

Pack Up the Pick-Up Lines

Mon, 26 May 2008 12:00 +0200

The reason I was at said Cuban establishment in the first place was to hopefully land a continental, coffee-skinned export. Someone who knew the words to ‘Guantanamera’… not ‘O Danny Boy’.
And I’d been to this bar before – they had a blow-out launch party a few weeks ago where I had eyed quite a few Latin lovelies.
My expectations were high.
On this night, the bar was packed. And for once in Cape Town, the men outnumbered the women. In one corner, were two poker tables surrounded by a dozen tequila-drinking, cigar-smoking, foreign-sounding hotties.
So why then did the one non-Mediterranean guy pluck up the courage to approach my girlfriend and I? And with a name like Seamus* too?
And to then go ‘I’ve just come back from Ireland and can swear I’ve met you ladies before.’
Riiight. Because both of us were just in Ireland too. What a coincidence. Not!
Call me daft, but at this point I’m not really sure if he’s chatting me up, or my girlfriend. Or worse still, he’s trying his luck with both of us and seeing which one takes the bait.
Guys, a little heads-up: if you’re going to use a pick-up line (and I am in no way recommending that you do), but if you absolutely must, it needs to be original and witty. And should we call you on it, there needs to be a cute, charming personality to make up for it.
As in the case of poor Seamus, even on the backs of four cherry-topped Cuba Libres, the only thing he saw was the backs of these cherries leaving.

*His name wasn’t really Seamus. That would just be too awful. His name was actually Donal.