“….An early morning stroll
is good for people on the whole.
It makes your appetite improve.
It also helps your bowels to move.” Roald Dahl’s Revolting Rhymes – Goldilocks and the 3 bears.
But I digress …
Last night we were invited to a good ol’ SA bring ‘n braai in celebration of our friend, C’s birthday. Nothing too big or extravagent, although I did notice that her Biggie Best jug was out on the table, and we were treated to chip AND dip! Everything was lovely, the conversation was intelligent and mature (from my side, to start with) and we only crept out of there after midnight. The chops were nicely sizzled, the slald had zest, if one goes according to the number of times a cherry tomato jumped off A’s plate and the choc sauce was yet again good enough to lick off the side of the jug. But eager to prove that I was finally able to handle my drink, I had to insist that a bottle of Chardonnay was packed into the pick ‘n pay packet, along with the cream soda. It all started off innocently enough … small wine glass, with plenty of ice – and me discussing the current trend of yarn-bombing with the GM of SA M@#$#R. (Yes, we actually do have people of that calibre residing in our town!) By glass two, ice was not in the mix, I was still trying to thread the boerie down my throat and my mental health had become part of the conversation? In the meantime, pudding was adored by all, C’s Choc Sauce was worth sipping out a beer mug with a straw, and I must say that Black Forest cupcakes were not too bad, although falling apart as a result of all the Kirch I had drizzled so liberally on them. OK – back to the chardonnay (or troll’s toilet water, for that matter – as if I could tell the difference). With Adele setting fire to the rain in the backround and the other adults politely having tea, I gunned for the finish and set about syping the last 1/3 of the bottle. At thish sshtage, I knew I wash just the life of thish gathering. And out came the ‘puking-down-Cape-Rd shtory (A whole other drama), how I hated my shrink, the in’s and out’s of medical lighting and how unfocussed I wash. To C’s credit, she shat by my shide and cheered me on, and shoaked it all up (along with all the people who stay in a 1km radius of their house). By the time the clock struck 12, I was hoarse and if the dog had not farted, I would have gone on for another good hour. Adele had given up (and so had the husband). And home we went. Happy Birthday, C! And remember that the apron is for the kitchen and not the bedroom.