Vogue

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.

Harajuku Girls

Last night Shoes and I decided to go grocery shopping, since the weekend where we supposed to do nothing has somehow turned into a weekend where we're doing a whole bunch of things, and there's no time left for the basics. Sainsburys was really empty. Looking at the fresh produce, I now know why no-one shops on Thursdays. I could scarcely believe the state of some of the things on the shelves. The lettuces were labeled "display until Saturday" but two days before the axe is due to fall on their sorry lives, they look as if they've been ravaged by leprosy; great holes where crisp, dewy leaves are supposed to be and poo-brown edges instead of white.

Then it was off home to change and go to gym. Shoes is on a mission now, after slacking over the holiday periods, and I am sticking to his side like glue, as it's far easier to go with someone than to try and motivate myself on my own. Sometimes - many times - that task is simply too big for me. We got home from shopping at 7:15pm and were at gym by 7:30pm, which meant we were going to eat supper really late. We'd decided on pizza mid-shop as it's the quickest thing to make. The thing is, eating pizza at 9pm was probably not the best way to keep off those kilos that we'd just worked so hard at burning.

On my lunch break today I went to another coven and met the director, Mr Congeniality. Really nice guy. So helpful and sweet, his good intentions were tripping over themselves on their way to wrap me in their warm coat of security. Why do I always get my hopes up with these people? I can't help it. They seem like your best friends when you first meet them, like they'll move heaven and earth to get you your dream job. Had to shake my head violently on my way out to clear it of all hopes and dreams. Luckily it was raining, so passers-by may just have thought I'd got water in my ears.

There's an hour and a half of the day left, and then Scarf and I are off to go see Gwen Stefani at Wembley Arena. We are both acting like excited teenagers about this. Gwen is possibly the funkiest female artist to walk the planet (Scarf is huge on funkiness), and her songs are extremely catchy, annoyingly so if you don't like her. I even hear Shoes singing "There ain't no Hollaback Guuurrrrrrrl" when he thinks no-one is listening. It should be a great night out.