Excuse me whilst I go into {further} overdraft and buy a painting ….

I stumbled across this exhibition that is running at the Bellville Library Art Gallery.

My understanding is that these are part of the entry for the SPI National Portrait Awards which has been hosted by SANLAM


Sanlam Private Investments, in collaboration with Rust-en-Vrede Art Gallery, Durbanville, has initiated South Africa’s first National Portrait Award.

A significant single prize of R100,000 will be awarded for the best portrait. In addition to the prize, the winning portrait along with a selection of approximately 40 entrant works will be exhibited at the Rust-en-Vrede Gallery in Durbanville, after which the exhibition will tour to venues around South Africa in collaboration with the Sanlam Art Collection and VISI magazine.

Artists are challenged to enter works which exemplify their ability in the medium of their choice, excluding lens-based media (photography, video, etc).

A panel of three judges will identify the winning portrait, and select additional works for the national touring exhibition.

All works will be judged anonymously as artists are requested not to sign the work. The panel convened by Stefan Hundt, head of the Sanlam Private Investments Art Advisory Service, and Curator of the Sanlam Art Collection.
I believe – and any incorrect information here can be exclusively blamed on me and my inability to remember information, because I did not write it down – that there is limited space and these portraits were not displayed, so the Bellville Library Art Gallery asked  for artists who had entered, whose work was not displayed in the final 40 were then asked to display at the Bellville Art Gallery.
I am not sure I have words to describe how incredible the work is that I saw.
These are taken with my camera phone, any lighting issues, any variations from the work on display is due to me and my inability to hold my phone still whilst I am drooling and trying to do mental calculations as to how long it would take me to purchase one of these.
Here are a few images – I took photographs of the little cards next to each piece so you can see who the artists are.
Incredible.  Incredible work.  {falls on the floor in admiration}
There were so much of these that I loved – stood with mouth opened loved.
But this one by  Carien Jordaan made me stop and stare and come back and stand in front of it for a long time – not sure why. I tried to google her to see more of her work, I could not find her.
Do you know how Carien Jordaan is – let me know — please.
After looking at these pieces do you not find that something inside you has shifted?  Just a little?

Off the couch and out the door ….

You know how when you work, you are so busy, but make these mental plans that if you had an afternoon off you would re-arrange the spice rack, cure cancer, and figure out how to reset the flashing time thing on the oven.

I also had those dreams, aspirations and misguided delusions that all full-time working people suffer from.  If only I had some time.

Since finding myself in my altered state of employment,I have proceeded to do next to nothing.  Last week I sat on the couch. Okay I lay.  Not as in the grammatical incorrect “to tell an untruth.”

I literally lay on the couch from Monday through to Wednesday.  I just did not feel like doing anything.  What I did instead was curl up on the couch, with a blankie, a cup of tea and two seasons of Game of Thrones.

That series is brilliant, if you do not mind full frontal nudity (boy and girl) people randomly having explicit sex (this makes Californication look like something you would put on for the kids).

There is a lot of having sex, killing people (sometimes at the same time) a very complex system of kingdoms, and wildly different seasons – but if you look past that (or are motivated by that) a really brilliant miniseries.

I did push myself up off the couch on Thursday and decided to finally get down to the South African Jewish Museum, and the Holocaust Museum in Cape Town.

I have never been, and have been meaning to go there for years.

I had some time after that – what with not exactly needing to get to work and found myself at the South African National Art Gallery.

I must confess that I really had a fabulous day.

But then I sat in traffic for 1 hour and 40 minutes for a drive that should have taken me 20 minutes, and that did take away from the shine a little.

{photographs taken with my iphone using instagram}

The Bookery … love books? Get involved

I love books.

I love books to a degree that I can’t describe, without foaming at the mouth and my eyes growing freakishly large for my face.

I love the feel of them in my hands.  I love the weight of the pages.

I love that feeling of cracking a book and feeling the spine give way, as it forms a lovely groove where you opened it across your chest, as you close your eyes for an afternoon doze with your book resting under your hand.

I buy books for my kids and they each have a fully stocked bookshelf in their rooms, that creaks with the weight of the books.

I do love books, and I wish everyone loved them as much as I do.

Kennith bought a Kindle for me as a present, because I had been mooning over one for such a long time.

I was so excited about the Kindle, but I missed my paper-and-ink world. I felt like I was cheating on my books my spending time with my Kindle.  Kindle got put into my desk top right hand drawer, and there it has sadly been lying for months, whilst I returned to the world of big books, cartridge paper and the use of Caslon font.

My idea of a truly good time is to spend hours in a book store …. hours … with no limit on how much time I can spend there {or limit on my credit card}.

The inevitable result is that hours in book stores = piles of books in shopping bags coming home with me.

To prevent myself turning into the mad-cat-lady-with-piles-of-books-everywhere I have limited “book packing space” and when the space is full, then I need to take books out and give them away/sell them {to make space for the new ones I have bought.}

Second hand books have little to no resale value, but I am not going to throw them away, so I take them to second hand books stores because I do not know what else to do with them.

Introducing The Bookery – located at 18 Roeland Street, Cape Town.

The clever {and generous} folks there stock and service libraries in every single school in South Africa.

“The idea is to bring in as many suitable books to either high school or primary school kids as possible,” he says. Conyngham, who has been managing the Bookery since January works closely with EE colleagues in Khayelitsha. “The whole organization is engaged in a campaign for school libraries,” he said.

This is definitely where I plan to take my books in future.  Imagine a child from an improvished school able to use my books, and read and experience the happiness I have.

Imagine the gift of a journey through their imagination you are giving.  It makes me giddy excited.

Get your books, get in your car and take them to Roeland Street.  If the Bookery is closed, nip close by to 17 Roeland Street, to the Book Lounge, they have a “collection box” where you can place books for The Bookery.

The Bookery, 19 Roeland Street or if you have suitable books to donate, call 021 461 4189.

Valentine’s Day Massacre …

Last night around 19h00 – Connor tells me he has an oral to present today.

I try not to smack him along the side of the head.  But he reasons with me that he already knows what he is going to say, so it really is not a big deal.  I ask him does he needs props or posters, or pyrotechnics, like previous orals?

He looks at me in a way that indicates “yes, there needs to be a light show and some solid gold dancers…”

I take a deep breath, and try to remember that I actually do like my children, but for a moment there understand why one would send a child in to the woods, with a little red cape, a basket of food and knowing full well that a wolf might well eat your little darling en route.

Knowing this, you still send them off.  And pack some food into the basket to elicit the interest of wild hungry animals.  I now so get these little fairy tales.  All makes sense.

I suggest that I print some pictures out for him, and he can use that. Connor agrees that will be fine.

I sit down to do this task, trying very hard to keep the anger I am feeling at bay.  I am so tired of being told last-minute things from my kids.  It is exhausting.

Anyway, I do the pictures, we get kids into bed – as Connor comes in to say goodnight he reminds (insert tells me for the first time) that tomorrow is a Valentine’s Day picnic, and he needs to bring a picnic blanket and picnic stuff!

I freak the hell out.  Kennith tries to calm the situation down, and explains that we have enough odds and sods in the cupboard to put it together, so really nothing to go bezerk about (however bearing in mind no one packed this basket with goodies, as it was added to the things I should tackle in the morning, you know, because my mornings are so breezy and relaxing……)

This morning, I am getting Connor’s stuff together for his picnic, I am chasing kids to the car, the usual chaos of the morning – you know how it goes.  Packing bags into car, and Georgia goes: “We have a picnic at school, please can I also have a picnic blanket ….”

I think the vein in my neck popped.  Like through the skin – blood pumping against the garage wall — or it just felt like it.

I know I swore like a sailor.  I do think my kids all took one step back from me, because this was what they knew was going to happen, and the day had arrived.

I mean seriously, it is their stuff, how am I meant to remember everything? And whilst I am remembering, rushing to work, doing all the other shit that is life, I must have the “crystal ball” skill to know all the stuff I am not told, but have to prepare for.

It really annoyed me this morning.  Like EPIC PARENT lose your mind stuff.

I stand there and weigh up whether I should just say “well fk it, if you did not remember it, you do not get it …” and then know they will be the only kid at school without.

That will be fabulous, so of course I can’t let that happen, and now I kick into higher gear than I was before.

Get them in the car, get them each a picnic bag, blanket, we drive through the traffic to the shop – traffic is hectic.

I am sitting there quietly trying to work through why I am so angry, and that I should not use the time to rant in the car, because Connor will take it all on as “his fault” and I am not wanting to make him feel bad.  I have the radio off, as I think I will kill Kino Kammies this morning if I hear his stupid voice.

I am focussed, I just want to drive and not kill anyone.  Just get them to school.  To their safe place.  I promise myself a McMuffin if I behave.

So we are driving, and I am thinking about what I will get at the shop, and that this really is not a big deal, it is fine, no worries, just remind kids AGAIN to please tell me with sufficient warning.  It is fine.  This chaos is fine.  Really fine.  I am trying to remain in my “calm” place.

Then suddenly I get this feeling.

This morning I told Connor twice to put the “photographs for his oral” into his school bag.  Twice!

My hands grip the steering wheel a bit tighter.

Me: “Connor, please let me you put the photographs in your school bag, like I told you twice.  Please tell me you did not leave them lying on your desk table.  Because I sat up late last night to do them.  And I reminded you twice they were on the desk and you must put them in your bag.  This morning.  Twice.  Do not tell me that they are still lying on your study table…”

Silence … and this little voice “sorry mom….”

I really do not know at which point it would be acceptable to lose my frikn mind!  I swear on my Mcmuffin, that if I do not remember it all, and do it all, it fkn just does not get done!

I am seriously at my wit’s end – and it is February.

Please bear in mind, I have notice boards with notes on them in each kid’s room.  I tell them – clearly – that they need to do something.  I remind them.  I remind them again.

I try to stay on top of all this stuff – for them.  But I get no warnings, I am constantly been put on the back foot.

They do not have the milk the cow, or walk 25 kilometers to school – most of it is done for them, I give them 2 or 3 things to do per day.

Small things.

The problem is they still do not do it – unless I remind them over and over again.

And then really it is just easier to do it myself.

But I don’t – they must do it – they must learn some responsibility … right?

I swear how the hell are these things happening in other people’s homes?  I have clearly got this entire chapter on child raising wrong …. horribly wrong.  Are there study notes someone can send me?

Is the solution to just let kids eat, sleep and shit, and you pretty much do everything else for them, because they do not appear to retain a memory of anything.  Nothing.  Except of course if you promise them a lollipop and forgot to give it to them – then they remember if forever and bring it up repeatedly as a sign that your promises are worth sh&t.

It does not matter how much you scream, threaten, curse, promise treats, threaten to take things away, give things for doing, buy stickers are prizes for getting it right – I am so over this stuff – nothing works for a long time.

I have officially been beaten in this parenthood malarky.

I really need a holiday.  From my life.

Freaking hell it is hot … and not in a sexy way

Today the temperature in Cape Town was registering 30 degrees, and that was at 8am.

By 12h00 it was around the 38 degree mark.

Fortunately I was firmly placed directly under the company air conditioning that blasted cold air onto my face.  Bless, bless, bless them. I sat there thinking cool thoughts, and feeling sorry for anyone who had to do manual labour in this heat.

Like all great moments, it came to a rather abrupt end.

Isabelle is at a new school this week.  The school is about 15 minutes walk from home, so Pepe is meant to fetch Isabelle.

This week the temperature is just too hot to expect Pepe or Isabelle to walk anywhere, so I have left to fetch Isabelle, and then the kids.  I go home and work a few hours from home to ensure I have done what needs to be done.

Today I spent an hour in my car fetching kids and trying to get them home.

It was not a little warm, it had passed fucking hot somewhere on the N1.

I suddenly realised that black leather seats in a car are not ideal.

I also realised that my road rage is definitely apparent when the temperature goes over 35.  I also realised that at a certain point you cannot turn the car air conditioner any higher.

I soon realised that I am willing to drive off a steep embankment if I am packed in to a car, with three children and it is so hot that my air conditioner just decides that it might as well send out hot puffs of air, as it is being asked to do too much.

It was an excruciating hour, and the kids were arguing constantly.  I really started to rethink why I have not run away from home sooner.  I had fantasies of the single life, and wanted to go on a 10 school tour to explain to school kids the benefits of remaining celebite and childless.

We get home and the arguing escalates.

Isabelle is screaming blue murder. Granted she started when I stopped at Pick ‘n Pay.  I told the kids I was running in to get them three times ice cold Fantas.  The reality was I needed to run in to grab myself a bottle of wine.  I realised there was no way I was going to make it through the evening without.

I had already stopped at Woolies before that, but thought, yep, I would be the bigger person and not do wine tonight.  15 minutes later, in a car, with three screaming kids and the outside temperature bouncing between 38 and 39, I felt a little pit stop was not a choice, it was a life necessity.

I am sitting here and I have little rivers of sweat running down my back and gathering in my Mr Price polyester underwear.

Kids + hot weather + short patience level = no fun!

I really love Jimmy Carr …

Jimmy Carr is in Cape Town – bless his skinny, shiny tight suit, and dapper hairstyles arse.

Kennith was generous enough to spend the children’s school fee money for a term on a set of tickets for us.  We sat in row K.  Row K is close enough to see the blush on Jimmy Carr’s cheeks and foundation on his chiselled jaw line, but not too close to be randomly picked on by him.

I love Jimmy Carr.  His straight-faced humour, that senseless joking and his very off-key way of delivering a one liner joke.  He has the ability to make me laugh and then recoil in disgust in the same joke.  He is talented like that.

His jokes do not do well repeating.  What makes them funny is the way he delivers it, and the look on his face at the end of the joke.  He sometimes has this little chuckle, which is as funny as his joke.

Loved the concert, enjoyed nearly the two hours I spent in his company.

What I enjoyed less was the 5000 people at the Grand West Arena.  4 950 of those had paid their money and were happy to sit there and be entertained by someone who was clearly a well-trained and experienced comedian.  That is sort of why we parted with our hard-earned cash and ate a bad takeaway as we rushed from work to the show.

What I got instead was 50 yobs who thought that it was “really funny” and kept throwing random comments out.  Stupid stupid hecklers whose sole function was to scream at Jimmy Carr in the hope, the desperation that they might be able to share the stage or the spot light with him for just a few seconds of their rather sad and really pathetic lives.

I love a clever witty heckler, it livens up the show – actually it is what made Julius M even funnier.  He had one guy who asked a question in an interview, and Julius treated him like a heckler.  And then had his body guards frog march him out – that is how you should treat a heckler!

But Jimmy is a polite guy at heart.

There was the girl who wore large PINK GLOVE HANDS who sat in row E or F and kept trying to catch his attention.  She also started to tell two jokes – out loud, in desperation.  I mean really What the Fuck are you thinking – and more importantly are you not getting enough love at home that you feel you must come to an arena and try to get it there.  Get counselling!!!

I felt an overwhelming urge to shove my hand – inside her stupid pink glove – down her fat throat, just so she would shut up and then I could hear Jimmy, who I had paid to hear and not her stupid voice.  She was really taking my happy buzz away.

There was guy behind me in row M or N who insisted on screaming random words out.  Fuckn hell this guy was desperate to be noticed … he kept doing it.

I think if he just stood up and in a loud voice said: “Jimmy I will bl*w you after the show, call me on 083 666 6666” that might have been more effective and then at least he would have stopped – the guy not Jimmy.  That way he could have got his 15 seconds of fame, Jimmy would have used it as a line in a joke, and the guy would have finally shut the fuck up.

So the thirty to fifty odd people kept screaming random things out – in the hope it would be interpreted as a great heckle and Jimmy Carr would take them on.  You know, cross swords in the arena of Gladiators that is the World of Comedy.

Jimmy’s show does allow for “audience participation” – but audience, you also need to realise when those times are, and when to leave Jimmy to just do his thing..

The audience kept interrupting him at the one point, and it totally lost his joke, which he was in mid-sentence with.

The hecklers did not stop – and you could imagine them knocking their friends with their elbows or winking at their mates going: “I”m funny huh, I’m funny huh…. see I can go a few rounds with Jimmy”

Two fantastic moments was when one audience member Simon had to go on stage and he had to read a joke with Jimmy.  The card Simon was given said “audience member” and then the blurb he had to read – clearly because they did not know that he would be Simon and “audience member” is sort of all encompassing.

Simon, bright boy from Table View, which he was not,  looked at the card – leaned over to Jimmy Carr – and said “audience member” I don’t know what that means or something like that — Jimmy replied with something like “that’s you Fuck Wit!” and that set the tone for young Simon.

Jimmy wanted to interview someone with an interesting job or a South African claim to fame – Jason volunteered.

Let’s just say Jason was left wanting on both those departments.  He seemed so proud of himself, and his girlfriend was totally gasping with excitement.  You know of course Jason will now tell everyone “he was on stage with Jimmy Carr…” when in reality “he made himself a toss infront of 5 000 people at Grandwest and Jimmy Carr just happened to be sitting next to him …”  But I am sure he is a good soul.

I did like the part where Jimmy asked him what his girlfriend was studying and he goes “uhh……. religion or something …..”  it turns out his girlfriend studies Anthropology….and he either had no idea what it was, or did not know the word ….. but it is sort of religion …..

Surprise warm up act – the brilliant and formidable John Vlismis – he was brilliant.

Initially I felt a bit uncomfortable for John –  I was worried he might be eclipsed in the brilliance of Jimmy. Being the opening act for someone of Jimmy’s stature is quite daunting and often supporting acts are not of the same calibre as the bigger acts that follow them, but John was so good – I could have happily spent another 30 minutes in his company.

Happy birthday Cat (who also bounded on stage) – you are too old, to be bouncing around a stage and waving like you are a five-year old!  But you were reasonably funny and held your own for the three minutes you were there.  Nicely done.

Jimmy thanks for the show.  Grand West hecklers, not so much !!

Simon good luck in getting another job selling “the internet….”


<….thanks to Simon for the note …. it was indeed Jason’s girlfriend …… and not Simon’s….>

Home sweet wine Home ….

Finally got home <I have been playing airport lounge since Sunday lunchtime, so I am pretty much done>

I had my bag — I have seldom been so happy to see something yellow on a carousel.  I have not seen that bag since Sunday morning, so I was pretty emotional about our reunion.

I am a guilty traveller.  I always assume I have done something bad and it is just a matter of time before a custom official with a latex glove finds out.

At Heathrow, travelling back, I had to get out of my boots and take my belt off – there were no drinks involved, or mutual sexual attraction – it was me and the nice customs official.  It is a challenge to hold your pants up and unpack your things out of the black plastic boxes, while trying to look nonchalant about the entire process.

My handbag = large really overpacked tote bag kept getting beeped, and they had to keep unpacking it.  Of course I was then convinced that there was something smuggled in there.  I started to look guilty.  I started to act guilty.  I started to sweat profusely.

They had also taken my deodorant can away, so really it was me and fast yellowing armpit shirt!

I get to the check in section and the man checking my passport directs me to a smaller-glassed-in-lounge away from the other passengers.

Me = sphincter a bit tighter than it was before.

I must confess I eventually begged ignorance and when my row was called for the flight I just stood up and walked out of the “holding area” and climbed on board.

I had a great seat.  I had all my bits and bobs – which is unusual for me.

I had sufficient overhead space to shove my stuff in to.

I did not have clean underwear, but I had washed the pair I was wearing and was now wearing wet underwear.  There were bright orange flight socks, which I was so excited to get in to – just so I could get my boots off and my no-longer-white-socks off my feet.

Ah the happiness.  Really the happiness.

I was seriously stoked.

Flight was pretty good.

My best part was that Nicole the flight attendant who was serving my side, appears to be straight out of Mitchells Plain accent wise.  I could not get enough of her.  It was so disarming in comparison to the rather “british accents” I had been hearing for the past few days.

She also had no qualms about serving me repeatedly with little bottles of wine.  Bless her.

It really was a good flight.  Thanks SAA.

Got to carousel, security had two Beagles who hung around my baggage.  The handler kept going: “Find it, find it!”

Me = very very tight sphincter ….

It appears Beagles do not find it.

I got my stuff and skipped through the “nothing to declare” section – they pulled over the two people in front of me for a quick “hey lets see what you got then.”

I might have squeaked in relief.

I got home.  Finally.

Had a cuddle with Isabelle, a bath and then a nap – I would like to say it was a little nap, but it resembled a coma victim who had lost all control of their salivary glands.  Pepe had to come and wake me up so I could go and fetch kids from school.

It was really great being away, but it is even better being back.

Dear BA … please get me the fk home!

I got off the plane at Heathrow.

I knew my Cape Town flight was long gone, so I joined the queue at the help desk at BA.  Got to the front, and was told the next flight was Monday night.

I am in London, little to no money, no SIM card, and way-way too much hand luggage, that is really heavy.

I also have no access to my baggage i.e. clean clothes and other comforts, and no way to know where those bags actually are.

I had to venture out to Section E in the land of where-the-fk-am-I-of-Heathrow to get to the “client services” desk of British Airways.

I thought I was special and would get oh-god-we-are-so-sorry-for-the-inconvenience-and-what-can-we-do-to-make-this-really-shitty-situation-any-better-for-you.

I joined a queue that was about three hours long, and filled with nearly every nationality and it appeared I was no longer as special and unique as I had thought, and clearly my problem was pretty minor based on the rather haggared and over worked faces of the “client services” staff.

I was one of several dozen/hundred people who had been dropped by BA into the nether lands of all-things-wrong-with-travel.

Fortunately I was on a BA flight, that was delayed, and it was BA’s fault.

Fortunately the connecting flight was a BA flight.  Fortunately I had both check-in vouchers so I could prove I was there and available.  This is a total BA problem.

There were few things to hold on to and take comfort from, but this was definitely one of them.

Basically BA has had a shocking day and there were phrases about fog and other weather issues thrown around.

I stood in this queue that just did not go anywhere.

Eventually (=three hours later) a very nice customer representative started working her way through the queue and sorting out people.  People who looked like they were ready to drop.

The 4 behind me had been delayed on the Paddington>Heathrow Express train and had missed their flight to Paris as the Express train was experiencing some problems.

After more than three hours in the queue, they were told that their problem was not BA’s problem, so sorry for you, but no hotel, no vouchers, but come and stand in a corner while we all speak in raised voices and try to sort this out.

Total humour failure.  Glad I was not them.  I decided to remain in the queue, rather than walking vaguely around after a person with a hotel voucher.

Jenny – the BA person – I told I could get onto a Wednesday flight!  W.H.AT.? I might have severely cussed at this point. But there is a sign in CAPS LOCK saying you are not allowed to verbally abuse the staff.  I think if you write anything in UPPER CASE it must be pretty serious.  It is not as bad as UPPER CASE WITH BOLD AND ITALICS.

Wednesday – seriously??  I really wanted to poo in my pants.  But good sense held me back as I knew I did not have a change of underwear or more jeans.

Good sense reined supreme here, and I tightened my sphincter, and rested my face in my hands for a moment.

Jenny spoke with a bit more determination to whom ever was at the other end of her cellphone.

I got onto a SAA flight for Monday night.  I was  given a voucher for a hotel and a bus, and then directed out of a large door into the general direction of …… I really had no idea.  It’s late.  I have too many heavy bags as hand luggage.  And I have seriously lost my good-humour-shine.

I sort of followed the signs to where I hoped would be a bus going to be hotel.

I sat there for about 60 minutes …. then the right bus came … two of them actually.  But it appears 300 people trying to squeeze onto 2 busses that really only take 100 people does not fit.  It wasn’t one of those 200. I don’t squeeze, I hang back and wait for a polite gap.

Needless to say, this was survival of the fittest and good rules and polite behaviour seemed to have been abandoned.

The buses left and I was still standing there.

At this point it was after 23h00 and I was getting a little tired of this jamboree festival I was starring in.  There was one more bus coming, but a ton of people had already started milling around.

I sensed we would repeat the cycle, and again I would not make it on to a bus.

I hooked up with two other people who looked equally despondent as I was as I was.  We were all going to the same hotel.  We grabbed a taxi and said “heigh-ho Silver” and off we went.

Because it was a fun night, we arrived at the hotel and yay, another queue to stand in to check in.  My brain was telling me there was a finite amount of rooms, and at some point, well things would get ugly.

On the bright side > we (the 3 who hopped in to the taxi) arrived before the bus carrying the rude people  who pushed in before me, so that was a bit of a moment that made me smile with glee and a bit of delight.

Eventually got a room.  On the plus side it was a really nice room.  It’s really a nice hotel.

I had a toothbrush and toothpaste, and well, pretty much nothing else.

I had a sleep, a shower in the morning.  Weighed up whether to wear the same underwear – but not really a wealth of choices available to me …..

I negotiated with the Eastern-European housemaid if she can clean two other rooms first and then I could have another 30 minutes sitting on the bed watching Jeremy Kyle Show on BBC (I think this is a British version of the Jerry Springer Show…..) and checking out.

I have found a corner of them hotel bar/lounge to sit in that has wi-fi, reasonably comfortable couches and annoying music …. this is what a cup of tea that costs £4.22 looks like … not dissimilar to one that costs R6.50 from the Wimpy it would seem …..

I also realised I do not have any pounds on me, I used it on the taxi last night … interesting little mystery how I am going to pay for the tea … I already ate the little muffin thing, so can’t send it back now …..

RAPE is the problem, not our clothes!

On Saturday 2 000 people came together and staged a SlutWalk in Cape Town.

I only found out about it on Thursday,so I was a bit of a Jane-come-lately to the idea.

The more I find out about this campaign/project the more I like it.   I have spent a small portion of my night googling and stalking a few people on Facebook.

I was really sad that I had not known about it earlier.  At the very least I could tell the two people who read my blog about it.

They in turn could have worn their underwear and we could have hooked up.  It would have been awesome.

The original Slutwalk organiser saw it as a movement against “victim-blaming” and it originated after a police officer in Canada told a group of women that they should stop “dressing like sluts” to avoid getting raped.

These parades/demonstrations/walks are about sending a powerful message.

That women are judged as the cause of the crime IF RAPED BECAUSE OF WHAT THEY WORE.

I seldom use this phrase.  But I think I have been saving it for a special occassion.  How fked up is that shit?

I will confess to being one of the ignorant masses. When I see a scantily clad female, the little voice in my head goes: “Yep, she is asking for it!” I am a girl and that is the first message that pops in to my head.

How did I get programmed to think that if a girl or a woman chooses an article of clothing from her wardrobe, and she gets raped, then it is her fault?

How shocking is my mental “default stance?” 

I dress my children conservatively so they “do not become targets of rape or p.aed.ophil.es.”

I raise my eyebrow when I see a young girl dressed in such a way that she looks sexually appealing. Because my internal message goes “she is asking for it!”

Who gets to decide what provocative is?  Who gets to decide the line between “the right dress” and “the wrong dress?”  Who gets to be the clothing police?  And who gets to measure the “range” for what is acceptable?

What if it is Riaan Cruywagen and Patricia Lewis and they become the committe who decides?

I think this concept speaks volumes about the society we are in.

I really hope that this walk takes place next year.

As mothers and women who read this blog, you will consider taking part, and dragging your children along with you.

<Then you have to sit and start the entire conversation about what a slut is, and that alone must be a mine-field, but you have a year to work that skillfully into conversation. I am also not sure how that is going to go down when the pre-school teacher asks Johnny if he did anything interesting this weekend.>

These are some amazing images from the walk taken by the über talented Tarjei Langeland. 

If you are interested in finding out more about this insanely brilliant movement, join them on Facebook.

Excellent article here on the SlutWalk and why you should do it (or should’ve done it, in my case)