Being abroad or on holiday is a marvellous excuse for revelations of the fleshy kind. Rotund Ronnie,s , tubby Timothy's, obese Oswald's and stick insect Simon's all believe that the moment that they leave home on vacation they have a license to abandon decorum, style, good taste and dignity as they subject their bleached white bodies to inappropriate attire – namely shorts.
I was suffering from blog-block and then I saw them not 1 but 8 (in a group) men in shorts.
What does one call a group of 8 men in shorts? – probably a belly-laugh.
At this time of the year Cape Town is still a holiday destination and is filled with, both, local and international bodies of every description, shape and size. Being on holiday, men who usually hide their hairy legs, flabby chests, large paunches and white bodies beneath dignified business suits take the opportunity to let it all hang out, and if the shorts are too short I really do mean HANG OUT! I bent down to pick up a serviette in a crowded beach front restaurant and blushed from ear to grinning ear.
The too short and much too short shorts linger on the memory like tight-lipped smiles with bulging cheeks. Worn by the young and lovely they can, at a stretch, be acceptable – especially to middle aged matrons with vivid imaginations.. On the slightly older they raise an eyebrow and a giggle – on anybody over 55 they are, frankly, disgusting. From the front, from the back (stuck in the crack) and from the side – DISGUSTING!
Next we have the just above the knee variety favoured by game rangers, bushwhackers, wannabe bushwhackers and the over 50's who were once boy scouts. Worn in the right environment i.e. The bush or on the farm these, usually khaki, garments can be condoned but over white knobbly knees, with belts, either over or under the beer belly, in Art galleries, on buses, and in fine dining restaurants they do not cut the mustard.
Finally the Baggy – they mercifully do hide the knees and other bits but on the downside make the wearer look as if he has something distasteful lurking in his undergarments and has not had a chance to clean it out. The crutch hangs down, almost to the knees making walking difficult and I am surprised that they are able to defy the forces of gravity as they hang on for dear life to non- existent hips. The baggy must surely be somebodies idea of a fashion joke that has gone too far. What is astonishing is that it is a world wide phenomenon and is worn from Australia to Aberdeen and beyond.
Shorts do not stand alone in the cacophony of fashion nonsense. No pair of self-respecting (or not) shorts would be seen abroad without the appropriate footwear. Sandals and flip-flops - 10/10 docksiders no socks - 9/10 sandals with socks - 0/10. Even worse the white socks pulled up to mid- calf stretching and straining to keep upright against all odds. Dear God please spare the world from men in shorts with socks and sandals. I have even seen one with a handbag across his chest from right shoulder to left hip. Perhaps this unfortunate is living in expectation of a mugging – what more does he have to loose when his dignity is already so far gone.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
The IN Crowd
The IN Crowd:
Who the hell are the 'IN' Crowd and who and what are the in? We have all read about them in cheap tabloids and expensive magazines. They have names more suited to foodstuffs and acrylic fabrics than people and we are constantly reminded of their existence on mindless reality (?) TV programmes, but none of the factionalized information ever gets to root of why, who and what the IN crowd really is.
I was recently an innocent bystander at a gathering of the IN crowd on one of the fancier wine estates in the Wastern Cape - the estate must remain anonymous to protect this innocent bystander – and was able to observe from behind very large sunglasses, the IN crowd out of doors, and alternatively laugh and weep into my, not too shabby, wine.
IN men - the hunter of the species can almost always be recognised by his white of beige chinos, docksiders, probably brown but I have seen one black pair, and a Polo shirt mind you these days cotton, linen or lawn long sleeved shirts are quite acceptable provided that the sleeves are rolled over twice. Hair can be short and sleek or long and unruly over tanned faces and very loud voices.
The female is willowy, thin, tanned, expensively dressed, vacant expression with extensive smile revealing a set of perfect teeth. High pitched voice and irritating giggle. Because they all shop at the same boutiques in Cape Town, London or New York they all look depressingly similar. Dress sense dictated less by inherent style or good taste than by money. I generalize there are those that stand out like beacons in a sea of banknotes but one is forced to wonder if they are IN or on the fringe.
What do they do? - They attend openings. Any up-market opening will do. Art exhibitions, Theatre, Buildings, Galleries and restaurants. Not at all that sure about the Opera falls into the ambit. On second thoughts it is very 'in' to boo insensitive directors who create alarming images of overweight Brunhildes' struggling to look seductive in Gymslips and Doc Martins – in Germany.
Now to why. Well they do support the sales of expensive wine, crayfish, and scallops (very 'in' right now). Being a fickle bunch no estate or industry can really rely on their consistency. The flavour of the month being just that.
Do they work? - As little as possible.
Do they have children? Not in public.
Pets are always pedigreed, cars are fast and fancy, holidays are frequent.
Activities are for the most part leisure orientated.
Don't be alarmed they are for the most part quite harmless.
Question: What is the difference between a Bergie/Hobo and the IN crowd?
Answer: Money.
Who the hell are the 'IN' Crowd and who and what are the in? We have all read about them in cheap tabloids and expensive magazines. They have names more suited to foodstuffs and acrylic fabrics than people and we are constantly reminded of their existence on mindless reality (?) TV programmes, but none of the factionalized information ever gets to root of why, who and what the IN crowd really is.
I was recently an innocent bystander at a gathering of the IN crowd on one of the fancier wine estates in the Wastern Cape - the estate must remain anonymous to protect this innocent bystander – and was able to observe from behind very large sunglasses, the IN crowd out of doors, and alternatively laugh and weep into my, not too shabby, wine.
IN men - the hunter of the species can almost always be recognised by his white of beige chinos, docksiders, probably brown but I have seen one black pair, and a Polo shirt mind you these days cotton, linen or lawn long sleeved shirts are quite acceptable provided that the sleeves are rolled over twice. Hair can be short and sleek or long and unruly over tanned faces and very loud voices.
The female is willowy, thin, tanned, expensively dressed, vacant expression with extensive smile revealing a set of perfect teeth. High pitched voice and irritating giggle. Because they all shop at the same boutiques in Cape Town, London or New York they all look depressingly similar. Dress sense dictated less by inherent style or good taste than by money. I generalize there are those that stand out like beacons in a sea of banknotes but one is forced to wonder if they are IN or on the fringe.
What do they do? - They attend openings. Any up-market opening will do. Art exhibitions, Theatre, Buildings, Galleries and restaurants. Not at all that sure about the Opera falls into the ambit. On second thoughts it is very 'in' to boo insensitive directors who create alarming images of overweight Brunhildes' struggling to look seductive in Gymslips and Doc Martins – in Germany.
Now to why. Well they do support the sales of expensive wine, crayfish, and scallops (very 'in' right now). Being a fickle bunch no estate or industry can really rely on their consistency. The flavour of the month being just that.
Do they work? - As little as possible.
Do they have children? Not in public.
Pets are always pedigreed, cars are fast and fancy, holidays are frequent.
Activities are for the most part leisure orientated.
Don't be alarmed they are for the most part quite harmless.
Question: What is the difference between a Bergie/Hobo and the IN crowd?
Answer: Money.
Panel van people
Panel Van People.
For the past 4 years, in Scotland, I have been observed behind the steering wheel of a Silver-Pink Rover 1600 Sedan. A sedate chatelaine demurely negotiating the wet and windy highways and byways of the rural West Coast and the Highlands.
I now find myself in Cape Town, South Africa, basking in the sun, in a borrowed white diesel Peugeot Panel Van – What Joy!
Alarmed at first, not quite sure if I would be able to cope with the idiosyncrasies of driving a vehicle with no rear side windows. I was delighted when I soon mastered the techniques of wing mirrors and parking where it was not necessary to reverse – a large tip to an anxious parking attendant can always facilitate a smooth exit from an overcrowded parking area.
The real joy of, like Mr Toad, taking to the open road in a Panel van is the camaraderie. On my first diesel powered outing I was speeding – well not all that fast – along the freeway on route to the winelands of Stellenbosch when suddenly I heard a thumping. Alarmed I slowed down and prepared to pull over, certain that I was in the middle of some desperately awful mechanical moment. I looked to my right to find a gap in the traffic and into the grinning face of a young man in the passenger seat of another van. The thumping was him banging the door to attract my attention. I saw them - they saw me seeing them - they waved energetically before speeding off.
Several repetitions of this phenomenon had me returning the compliment, and there was I, a middle aged matron thumping, waving and bridging the generation gap on the highways of the Wastern Cape.
Driving out of the city three jolly fellows drew up level with me at a traffic light. “ Hey Ma got any beers in the back?” “ No sorry – I don't drive my drink.” We both sped through the next two sets of lights and were caught at the third. “ Hey it's us, we're still here!” and me “Still no Beer” Much laughter and we went out separate ways.
So you middle aged conservatives in your Mercedes Benzes 4X4's BMW's and Saabs you don't know what you're missing. Abandon convention, kick up your heels and become one of the Panel Van People.
P.S. My little van is in Hospital with an oil leak – I am desolate and wish her a really speedy recovery.
For the past 4 years, in Scotland, I have been observed behind the steering wheel of a Silver-Pink Rover 1600 Sedan. A sedate chatelaine demurely negotiating the wet and windy highways and byways of the rural West Coast and the Highlands.
I now find myself in Cape Town, South Africa, basking in the sun, in a borrowed white diesel Peugeot Panel Van – What Joy!
Alarmed at first, not quite sure if I would be able to cope with the idiosyncrasies of driving a vehicle with no rear side windows. I was delighted when I soon mastered the techniques of wing mirrors and parking where it was not necessary to reverse – a large tip to an anxious parking attendant can always facilitate a smooth exit from an overcrowded parking area.
The real joy of, like Mr Toad, taking to the open road in a Panel van is the camaraderie. On my first diesel powered outing I was speeding – well not all that fast – along the freeway on route to the winelands of Stellenbosch when suddenly I heard a thumping. Alarmed I slowed down and prepared to pull over, certain that I was in the middle of some desperately awful mechanical moment. I looked to my right to find a gap in the traffic and into the grinning face of a young man in the passenger seat of another van. The thumping was him banging the door to attract my attention. I saw them - they saw me seeing them - they waved energetically before speeding off.
Several repetitions of this phenomenon had me returning the compliment, and there was I, a middle aged matron thumping, waving and bridging the generation gap on the highways of the Wastern Cape.
Driving out of the city three jolly fellows drew up level with me at a traffic light. “ Hey Ma got any beers in the back?” “ No sorry – I don't drive my drink.” We both sped through the next two sets of lights and were caught at the third. “ Hey it's us, we're still here!” and me “Still no Beer” Much laughter and we went out separate ways.
So you middle aged conservatives in your Mercedes Benzes 4X4's BMW's and Saabs you don't know what you're missing. Abandon convention, kick up your heels and become one of the Panel Van People.
P.S. My little van is in Hospital with an oil leak – I am desolate and wish her a really speedy recovery.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
The Ladies who Lunch
The Ladies who Lunch
You've seen them, every lunch time in restaurants across the country. Sipping White Wine and Vodka Martinis while the peruse the menu and harass the waiters.
Now you may be wondering what brings these paragons of polite society together on such a regular basis and in such public contentment. My first thought was camaraderie! We or is it the Scottish wee girls getting together to share thoughts, ideas philosophies or anecdotes on children, grandchildren, long suffering husbands or world peace. Perhaps the opportunity to get out of the house of office, to show off a new outfit and escape the mundane world of the wife and mother. How about networking. No my dears it FOOD!. Edge a little closer and eavesdrop and you will discover that the ladies who lunch talk about food.
First the current diet, then the impossible task of making a menu selection. Impossible? I hear you ask. Yes impossible, there are so many factors to consider. Is this to be the main meal of the day, if so it had better be substantial. If not you could just push a cherry tomato around your plate and look both smug and virtuous, raising an eyebrow when anybody orders anything not, Hi fibre, Low GI, F-plan, South beach, Beverly Hills and if you are old enough not Scarsdale. Because you see my dears its a food competition: who can eat the least with maximum taste, minimum fat/carbs, kilojoules or calories and still fit into that seductive little number 2 sizes too small hanging at the back of the closet just waiting to come out. Then there is the issue of who is watching, because, as all serious dieters know, food eaten unobserved has no calorific value what so ever. It would be really frightful to be seen to eat too much or, for that matter, too little – this might inspire gossip in beauty parlours about anorexia. To be anorexic is not all that awful but to be suspected and talked about behind, ones very thin back, is totally unacceptable.
Having made the all important menu decision it is time to order and God help the waiter!
“I'll have the spinach and feta quiche with salad on the side.......... oh is it Goats cheese feta?” the waiter vanishes into the kitchen and returns with the good news that the feta is indeed the fruit of the Goat and that “......Madam can eat it with impunity.” Now it's time to move onto the pastry..... is it Gluten free, are the eggs free range and so on and on and on. The waiter rushing backwards and forwards from the kitchen, is returning ever more quickly and bravo, all is well and the waiter moves to lady no 2 who wants salad but without lettuce. She loves salad but loathes lettuce....... a special salad is arranged.
By the time the whole table has placed its orders the young waiter has aged visibly and the air in the kitchen is cobalt blue....... and that was only the first course. More wine and Vodka Martinis have loosened the inhibitions so madam with the dairy allergy is now ready to order desert and settles for cheese cake and cream with “....... a tiny dollop of that delicious ice cram on the side.”
By the time the dessert orders have been placed the waiter is rather relieved to note that nobody cares any longer what slips past their lips and onto their waistlines. - he has probably been sharing a few Vodka Martinis with the chef.
Desert and coffee are served with the alacrity of somebody hoping for a large tip. Which if he has cute buns he will certainly get!
You've seen them, every lunch time in restaurants across the country. Sipping White Wine and Vodka Martinis while the peruse the menu and harass the waiters.
Now you may be wondering what brings these paragons of polite society together on such a regular basis and in such public contentment. My first thought was camaraderie! We or is it the Scottish wee girls getting together to share thoughts, ideas philosophies or anecdotes on children, grandchildren, long suffering husbands or world peace. Perhaps the opportunity to get out of the house of office, to show off a new outfit and escape the mundane world of the wife and mother. How about networking. No my dears it FOOD!. Edge a little closer and eavesdrop and you will discover that the ladies who lunch talk about food.
First the current diet, then the impossible task of making a menu selection. Impossible? I hear you ask. Yes impossible, there are so many factors to consider. Is this to be the main meal of the day, if so it had better be substantial. If not you could just push a cherry tomato around your plate and look both smug and virtuous, raising an eyebrow when anybody orders anything not, Hi fibre, Low GI, F-plan, South beach, Beverly Hills and if you are old enough not Scarsdale. Because you see my dears its a food competition: who can eat the least with maximum taste, minimum fat/carbs, kilojoules or calories and still fit into that seductive little number 2 sizes too small hanging at the back of the closet just waiting to come out. Then there is the issue of who is watching, because, as all serious dieters know, food eaten unobserved has no calorific value what so ever. It would be really frightful to be seen to eat too much or, for that matter, too little – this might inspire gossip in beauty parlours about anorexia. To be anorexic is not all that awful but to be suspected and talked about behind, ones very thin back, is totally unacceptable.
Having made the all important menu decision it is time to order and God help the waiter!
“I'll have the spinach and feta quiche with salad on the side.......... oh is it Goats cheese feta?” the waiter vanishes into the kitchen and returns with the good news that the feta is indeed the fruit of the Goat and that “......Madam can eat it with impunity.” Now it's time to move onto the pastry..... is it Gluten free, are the eggs free range and so on and on and on. The waiter rushing backwards and forwards from the kitchen, is returning ever more quickly and bravo, all is well and the waiter moves to lady no 2 who wants salad but without lettuce. She loves salad but loathes lettuce....... a special salad is arranged.
By the time the whole table has placed its orders the young waiter has aged visibly and the air in the kitchen is cobalt blue....... and that was only the first course. More wine and Vodka Martinis have loosened the inhibitions so madam with the dairy allergy is now ready to order desert and settles for cheese cake and cream with “....... a tiny dollop of that delicious ice cram on the side.”
By the time the dessert orders have been placed the waiter is rather relieved to note that nobody cares any longer what slips past their lips and onto their waistlines. - he has probably been sharing a few Vodka Martinis with the chef.
Desert and coffee are served with the alacrity of somebody hoping for a large tip. Which if he has cute buns he will certainly get!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Widows
A friend (?) said to me “...... so now you are a widow.” I stopped in my tracks she was right I was, in fact, a widow. I wasn't wearing black nor was I hiding behind a veil. I was embarrassed by my pale blue trousers and my white shirt. I wanted to go home and change. Change what? My clothes, my hairdo, my make-up what did it matter I would still be a widow....... The Widow Folley!
Being a widow is quite different to being a spinster or a bachelor girl. A spinster implies, old grey with bun, sexless, dowdy, dull, dry, stern a school teacher. A bachelor girl gives the impression of sexy, young, party animal with fun job probably in advertising and loads of friends of both sexes. Where does a widow stand?
I'll tell you where a widow stands..... she stands alone! After 5, 10, 15, 20 or even 50 years of being a part of a couple, the other/better half, suddenly you are only half. Half a person? Your other half is no longer at your side either out shopping, at the cinema, in bed or on the sofa just watching television. The awful 'table for 1' in a restaurant, having to decide on your own if your bum looks to big in the new (black) jeans. Is that what being a widow means...... I suppose so but there is another side.
The monstrous loneliness that envelopes you like a tidal wave. This wave can move in at any time and any place. It can sweep across the table at a dinner party where you are surrounded by friends all of whom are carefully tip toeing around any subject that might create a memory. It could be on the bus with you or in an art gallery where suddenly for no reason at all you feel awfully and terminally alone. Does this ever get better? I don't think so not if you are a widow.
What about the indecision? How does one come to terms with that. There just isn't anybody to discuss the pros and cons of anything with. Sure there are friends and family all ready to offer advice, help and suggestions but to be fair they all have their own agenda for you and anything they think is subjective. Before, when you were part of a couple, discussion about life changing decisions was a shared thing..... you both wanted what was good for both of you . You discussed, debated and made all the decisions in unison and always felt that there was backup as you charged into the unknown. Lots of widows do have backup in their children but its a funny thing going from being the leader of the pack to the ageing relative who needs help.
Touch! Now there is something we all take for granted. But when you're a widow who is going to touch you and I don't mean shake a hand or hug you in sympathy. I am talking about a back wash or a back scratch, holding hands in the movies, being guided across a busy street . Touch is what I miss more than anything. I'll not even go into sex....... cause widows and sex aren't synonymous, but after however many years of quality, loving sex suddenly nothing.
In the words of Noel Coward. “How potent cheap music is.” Even the dreadful cacophony that you both hared brings back memories of hating it together. The music you enjoyed on the other hand is charged with sentiment and memories. Quo Vadis? Send the Hi-fi into coventry? Box up the CD Collection and give it to Oxfam along with the sentimental books, DVDs, ornaments, crockery, paintings, linen and memories.
I wonder who goes into Oxfam and purchases (cheap) a box of the Widow Folleys memories.
Being a widow is quite different to being a spinster or a bachelor girl. A spinster implies, old grey with bun, sexless, dowdy, dull, dry, stern a school teacher. A bachelor girl gives the impression of sexy, young, party animal with fun job probably in advertising and loads of friends of both sexes. Where does a widow stand?
I'll tell you where a widow stands..... she stands alone! After 5, 10, 15, 20 or even 50 years of being a part of a couple, the other/better half, suddenly you are only half. Half a person? Your other half is no longer at your side either out shopping, at the cinema, in bed or on the sofa just watching television. The awful 'table for 1' in a restaurant, having to decide on your own if your bum looks to big in the new (black) jeans. Is that what being a widow means...... I suppose so but there is another side.
The monstrous loneliness that envelopes you like a tidal wave. This wave can move in at any time and any place. It can sweep across the table at a dinner party where you are surrounded by friends all of whom are carefully tip toeing around any subject that might create a memory. It could be on the bus with you or in an art gallery where suddenly for no reason at all you feel awfully and terminally alone. Does this ever get better? I don't think so not if you are a widow.
What about the indecision? How does one come to terms with that. There just isn't anybody to discuss the pros and cons of anything with. Sure there are friends and family all ready to offer advice, help and suggestions but to be fair they all have their own agenda for you and anything they think is subjective. Before, when you were part of a couple, discussion about life changing decisions was a shared thing..... you both wanted what was good for both of you . You discussed, debated and made all the decisions in unison and always felt that there was backup as you charged into the unknown. Lots of widows do have backup in their children but its a funny thing going from being the leader of the pack to the ageing relative who needs help.
Touch! Now there is something we all take for granted. But when you're a widow who is going to touch you and I don't mean shake a hand or hug you in sympathy. I am talking about a back wash or a back scratch, holding hands in the movies, being guided across a busy street . Touch is what I miss more than anything. I'll not even go into sex....... cause widows and sex aren't synonymous, but after however many years of quality, loving sex suddenly nothing.
In the words of Noel Coward. “How potent cheap music is.” Even the dreadful cacophony that you both hared brings back memories of hating it together. The music you enjoyed on the other hand is charged with sentiment and memories. Quo Vadis? Send the Hi-fi into coventry? Box up the CD Collection and give it to Oxfam along with the sentimental books, DVDs, ornaments, crockery, paintings, linen and memories.
I wonder who goes into Oxfam and purchases (cheap) a box of the Widow Folleys memories.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Prams
It’s the prams I hate, and the people who push them. I like babies very much, in fact I had two to prove it and was one once myself ….. a long time ago. But PRAMS on the street, on the bus ,clogging up the trains and the lifts, in supermarket isles and generally invading my space.
What about those dreadful women who stop to talk to others of their kind, also with a pram? In the middle of a busy pavement, they chat , then a mobile rings, then they chat some more light up a cigarette and continue to talk as the rest of the shoppers/commuters struggle to get past them and their bloody prams.
Then there are the prams on the busses, clogging up the already narrow space at rush hour. Surely there could be commuting times for people with prams so that the rest of humanity can avoid having ones toes flattened, shins bruised, stockings laddered and nervous systems strained as we struggle to get to work on a crowded bus.
What is really frightful is that these women who push their infants in a variety of prams are totally oblivious to the mayhem they are causing. Arrest them I say impound the prams and sent the babies to walking school!
What about those dreadful women who stop to talk to others of their kind, also with a pram? In the middle of a busy pavement, they chat , then a mobile rings, then they chat some more light up a cigarette and continue to talk as the rest of the shoppers/commuters struggle to get past them and their bloody prams.
Then there are the prams on the busses, clogging up the already narrow space at rush hour. Surely there could be commuting times for people with prams so that the rest of humanity can avoid having ones toes flattened, shins bruised, stockings laddered and nervous systems strained as we struggle to get to work on a crowded bus.
What is really frightful is that these women who push their infants in a variety of prams are totally oblivious to the mayhem they are causing. Arrest them I say impound the prams and sent the babies to walking school!
Friday, November 9, 2007
Christmas in September!
Isn't it enough that we have to cope with the shortening days, gale force winds from the North Atlantic , rising fuel costs, global warming and the National Health? But why, I ask, do we have to be subjected to Christmas in September? From the beginning of September all the major stores start, tentatively, displaying their Christmas fare. Shelves fill up with dreadful kitsch cards and puddings wrapped in purple paper. By the beginning of October the decorations are out in force and the isles are clogged with busy little Santa's helpers putting out the Christmas goodies - surely mince pies made in October will be disgusting by December the 25th - or are we expected to eat them for three months in advance, in which case I can only say that that the Nation will have had its fill of Mince Pies by the time we get round to the season for them. All the charm of eating a warm pie in front of a crackling fire as one wraps the presents on Christmas eve will be lost for ever. November sees full supermarket isles dedicated to decorations, food, toys, wrapping paper and fairy lights. Children badgering their parents for pre-Christmas treats and the subsequent tantrums as little Hamish is refused, makes any civilised shopping experience a nightmare. From the beginning of December the rush is really on as overstretched bank cards are over used and people hurtle from store to store creating traffic problems, extended shopping hours, and all the other stress's inherent in making sure you haven't forgotten anything. After all the stores will be closed for 24 hours on the 25th........... presumably to start stacking up on Easter Eggs and Hot Cross Buns. December also sees the start of the Christmas Musak. Endless self respecting artists cash in on the sentimental trash that is pumped out of endless systems across the world - If I have to listen to another Little Drummer Boy and his fucking drum I will probably run berserk throwing Turkeys at the speakers. Oh by the way in all this commercial humbug whatever happened to the true message of Christmas, peace, harmony and families coming together for some quality time.
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