Gwen Stefani rocked the house on Friday night - Scarf and I are now officially her biggest fans. One and a half hours, a 7 piece band, 6 Harajuku dancers and one remarkably tiny woman packing some huge punches.... we have a new saying: "No-one is cooler than Gwen." Is it ok to be a bit star-struck at the age of 27? I mean, I thought I was too affectedly world weary and mature for that. If I was chatting to Shoes' 14 year old sister, for example, and she started going on about how rad the Band of the Moment is and how brilliantly Elektra dances / Mos Duidelik raps / DJ Tjek-My-Tjoons mixes, I would smile indulgently and feel very grown-up and sage. Oh my good Lord, I have become my parents. Except with Gwen, I felt far closer to K's 14 than I did to my own 27. Scarf and I jumped around like morons and all you can hear in the video clips we took is us bellowing at the tops of our lungs - Gwen, microphone and all, didn't stand a chance against our trumpeting rendition of Hollaback Girl.
In what turned out to be a very chick weekend, we left the guys again on Saturday morning for our first foray into the world of London's fashion elite at the Natural History Museum. The problem is, it wasn't very elite at all; in fact, it was nothing like I expected it to be. For starters, you'd think Fashion Weekend would be very larney. Lots of fashionistas in the latest catwalk-inspired creations touting big bags of designer gear and saying things like "Daaahling, you absolutely MUST visit Crystal for your next eyebrow wax, she's just genius!" and "Have you seen the new Marc Jacobs sailor-striped muumuu, it's just faaabulous sweetie." You'd imagine the decor to be understated and elegant, yet with an obvious throwback to the days of Old Money - not ostentatious, but no shrinking violet when it comes to showing one who's boss either. What we got was a temporarily erected white (washed) plywood structure, closely resembling a marqee but with slightly more reliable walls. Still, you had cause to be grateful you were not window-shopping in the hurricane-prone Pacific, as you know you would have been the first to touch the eye of that storm. The "designer stores" were no more than hastily set up stalls a la your local Sunday flea market, and their contents were, erm, bordering on the ludicrous. I'm not sure whether the whole thing was an inside joke, as in "Let's put this over-priced junk out and see how many people accept it as the latest style." Either that, or I just do not have Designer Taste. Excuse me for wanting to look a little more classy than your average London chav or stick thin supermodel parading around with clothing schizophrenia (because let's face it, that dress may look good on THAT person at THAT angle for the magazine spread, but you and I would just look like severely misguided children playing in the school dress-up box). Maybe it was Chav Fashion Weekend, and the real deal was rather more exclusive and open only to the likes of Victoria Beckham. There was no sign of Posh - in any sense of the word - at this extravaganza, let me tell you. I needn't have worried about having no money; with the exception of a few pieces of jewellery, I didn't find a single thing I would have wanted to buy, even if I was loaded.
On Saturday night we had a braai with G-Days, OJ and Lareye. Halfway through our second bottle of wine, Scarf and I managed to convince them to go down to the offy to get more beer, and hey presto, we were free to watch Grey's! We were a bit worried about watching Grey's pissed, but luckily we managed to piece together all the major events the next day, and we caned it again on Sunday - 5 episodes throughout the course of the weekend. The reason for the hurry is that Season 4 has just started in the States, and we want to be done with Season 3 by the time it comes on Sky. We've been through a dry spell in TV land recently, what with all our favourite shows finishing and only X Factor to warm our Saturday nights (ok, we're not that sad - we go out on Saturdays and watch the taped show on Sunday). Luckily Prison Break has just premiered its third season, and Ugly Betty and America's Next Top Model are both due to start within a couple of weeks. This is good news, as with our lack of funds and the wintery weather rolling in, the need to live vicariously through others will only increase until our lives are exciting again.
Showing posts with label braai. Show all posts
Showing posts with label braai. Show all posts
Monday, 1 October 2007
Vogue
Monday, 6 August 2007
Walking On Sunshine
We had the most beautifully sunny weekend, and I feel like I'm walking on clouds and sunbeams, with rainbows in my hair and sea lapping at my toes. Ok, maybe a bit OTT on the imagery there, but really, two whole days of 27 degree plus heat and clear blue skies has made me want to wax lyrical about the weather. In non-poetic terms, I feel completely refreshed! I have been happy all day. Even a ghastly pile of photocopying couldn't dampen my spirits.
In fact, the sunshine has cheered me up and inspired me so much that I spent the morning applying for jobs with a vengeance - suddenly I think I might be exactly what someone is looking for, after a good few months of feeling like the dirt scrapings on someone's hiking boot. God helps those who help themselves. I am giving myself such a helping hand right now that I'm practically slapping my own ass. Good for me ;-)
On Friday night we had the braai / eviction party at Neutrino and OJ's place. Was fine, nothing amazing, but we had some drinks, ate WAY too many crisps (what is it about braais and crisps - why are you completely unable to stop eating crisps when you know you're having piles of meat in just half an hour? It's a fact - it's the most out of control one can get around crisps) and enjoyed the company. Saturday was divine - we spent the whole afternoon lying in the sun in Greenwich Park with a picnic, and came back for another braai and an evening of sitting on the balcony talking about life and philosophy (ok, that's bollocks: we were really just talking about our new neighbours upstairs - don't like them - and the weather - really liked that - and what to bring to Portugal). Sunday continued in much the same relaxed vein; Scarf had to work at Wembley Stadium, so I watched some Grey's, lay in the sun with my book, did my scrapbook and baked some muffins, which flopped about as hard as muffins can flop. Our oven blew a fuse the other day, and now only the one element works, so all cooking times have been thrown into disarray. I made strawberry and banana muffins that did a piss-poor job of actually rising, and I'm expecting Dubya to knock at our door any minute, enquiring as to the whereabouts of our hidden weapons of mass destruction - they're that heavy. My dear boyfriend, bless his heart, says they are the best muffins he's ever tasted. Not sure if he has a natural affinity for bland and stodgy lumps of dough or if he is just the best boyfriend ever for saying that, but we all know I should probably go with the latter. All of us got a bit of colour this weekend too, which is just about the best thing that could have happened next to Topshop having an 80% off sale. I am wearing white today, to show off my newly acquired tan. It is the first natural tan I have had in a year - a whole year!!!! Not that I have been white for that entire year of course; I have been various shades of golden, orange and streaky brown, depending on what natural tan disaster I was occupied with at the time. Nothing tans like the sun.
Am starting to get really excited about Portugal now. I know I shouldn't yet, as our visas are supposed to arrive on Wednesday, and until I have that visa-filled passport in my hand, I should keep it down to a mild war cry. Just in case. But the sun has made me almost taste what it's going to be like. Four uninterrupted days in the middle of nowhere, in 40 degree heat, with my best mates and thousands of other revellers partying like there's no tomorrow..... aaah, I can feel the sun on my skin and hear the pulsating trance beats already.
We've bought our tent and sleeping bags, with those stupid roll-up excuses for matresses that actually almost make you more uncomfortable they are so thin; two fishing stools and a tarp to make shade. I can't wait - unlike Mini-Me who grew up, discovered the hair straightener and promptly denounced all ties with my family's favourite pastime, I love camping and would quite happily spend a couple of weeks outdoors with no electricity. I don't even mind cold showers, just as long as there are showers - 2 weeks worth of underarm hair is not something anyone should ever inflict on anyone else, even the most long-suffering of partners.
In fact, the sunshine has cheered me up and inspired me so much that I spent the morning applying for jobs with a vengeance - suddenly I think I might be exactly what someone is looking for, after a good few months of feeling like the dirt scrapings on someone's hiking boot. God helps those who help themselves. I am giving myself such a helping hand right now that I'm practically slapping my own ass. Good for me ;-)
On Friday night we had the braai / eviction party at Neutrino and OJ's place. Was fine, nothing amazing, but we had some drinks, ate WAY too many crisps (what is it about braais and crisps - why are you completely unable to stop eating crisps when you know you're having piles of meat in just half an hour? It's a fact - it's the most out of control one can get around crisps) and enjoyed the company. Saturday was divine - we spent the whole afternoon lying in the sun in Greenwich Park with a picnic, and came back for another braai and an evening of sitting on the balcony talking about life and philosophy (ok, that's bollocks: we were really just talking about our new neighbours upstairs - don't like them - and the weather - really liked that - and what to bring to Portugal). Sunday continued in much the same relaxed vein; Scarf had to work at Wembley Stadium, so I watched some Grey's, lay in the sun with my book, did my scrapbook and baked some muffins, which flopped about as hard as muffins can flop. Our oven blew a fuse the other day, and now only the one element works, so all cooking times have been thrown into disarray. I made strawberry and banana muffins that did a piss-poor job of actually rising, and I'm expecting Dubya to knock at our door any minute, enquiring as to the whereabouts of our hidden weapons of mass destruction - they're that heavy. My dear boyfriend, bless his heart, says they are the best muffins he's ever tasted. Not sure if he has a natural affinity for bland and stodgy lumps of dough or if he is just the best boyfriend ever for saying that, but we all know I should probably go with the latter. All of us got a bit of colour this weekend too, which is just about the best thing that could have happened next to Topshop having an 80% off sale. I am wearing white today, to show off my newly acquired tan. It is the first natural tan I have had in a year - a whole year!!!! Not that I have been white for that entire year of course; I have been various shades of golden, orange and streaky brown, depending on what natural tan disaster I was occupied with at the time. Nothing tans like the sun.
Am starting to get really excited about Portugal now. I know I shouldn't yet, as our visas are supposed to arrive on Wednesday, and until I have that visa-filled passport in my hand, I should keep it down to a mild war cry. Just in case. But the sun has made me almost taste what it's going to be like. Four uninterrupted days in the middle of nowhere, in 40 degree heat, with my best mates and thousands of other revellers partying like there's no tomorrow..... aaah, I can feel the sun on my skin and hear the pulsating trance beats already.
We've bought our tent and sleeping bags, with those stupid roll-up excuses for matresses that actually almost make you more uncomfortable they are so thin; two fishing stools and a tarp to make shade. I can't wait - unlike Mini-Me who grew up, discovered the hair straightener and promptly denounced all ties with my family's favourite pastime, I love camping and would quite happily spend a couple of weeks outdoors with no electricity. I don't even mind cold showers, just as long as there are showers - 2 weeks worth of underarm hair is not something anyone should ever inflict on anyone else, even the most long-suffering of partners.
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