Why do bad things always happen in threes?

I have to apologise for my very poor blogging form over the past few weeks. You see, it’s not that I have run out of stories to tell you, it’s that I no longer have a laptop (I unfortunately had to hand it over when I resigned from my last job) and I have been forced to beg, borrow and steal computers and 3G cards in order to post anything.  Sorry…But here’s a little something something for you to nibble on while I save up for a laptop of my own.

Two weekends ago the Hot Fisherman and I left the big smoke and made our way to a game farm close to Thabazimbi. Since my Ford Ka is not exactly designed to carry more than 60kg and the Hot Fisherman’s (almost extinct) Citi Golf is not much better, we hitched a ride in Jacko’s car (the Hot Fisherman’s housemate’s car) along with Jambo (the Hot Fisherman’s other housemate) and Lenski (my housemate who is engaged to Jacko). Before I go any further with this story, I need to give you the background scoop on Jacko.

Jacko is a successful CA with short arms and deep pockets – as the Hot Fisherman puts it. But what he lacks in height, he most definitely makes up for in confidence. He is one intelligent guy. So intelligent in fact, that he is able to manipulate people into doing whatever he wants them to do. His best friend, Phillip, is wrapped around Jacko’s pinkie finger and does just about everything for Jacko, including getting his Subaru serviced. Unfortunately for us, Phillip is overseas and therefore Jacko has been left to deal with the harsh realities of everyday life all alone. And this is where our story begins…

We left Joburg at 3:30pm on Friday and sat in peak hour traffic along William Nicol because the lights were out at Main and William Nicol and surprisingly nobody volunteered to skip Friday afternoon drinks to direct traffic. We stopped for a Steers burger in Britts on the way there. This according to Jacko is where it all fell apart. The Hot Fisherman ordered a King Steers Burger, waited half an hour for his order and then received a Steers Rib Burger instead…twice. When we finally got back into the car, it was already 7pm and the sun had long since vanished.

The road to the farm was hair razing to say the least. There were potholes that would hold a small rhino (or a Ford Ka) every hundred meters or so and we had to dodge these for the last 80km of the ride. About 30km from the farm, we smashed into a particularly colossal pothole. It jumped out at us from nowhere and the jolt was enough to confirm what we had all been dreading. We had a puncture…in the middle of nowhere…on a dodgy road…and Philip was nowhere to be seen.

We stopped on the side of the road and began unloading all the bags, booze and bikes off the back of the Subaru. Every few minutes, a titanic truck would drive past and produce enough wind to blow-dry a mammoth, which made standing a mere meter from the road quite terrifying. When we eventually pulled the spare tyre out, we all breathed a sigh of relief to see that it wasn’t flat. The Hot Fisherman began loosening the bolt-things on the flat tyre while Jacko continued to rummage around in search of the jack. Jambo pushed Jacko aside and had a look for the jack too. Then the Hot Fisherman had a look. The jack was MIA. This was Jacko’s first offence.

We phoned Jacko’s dad who was already at the farm and told him the story. He told us he was on his way.

In the mean time, Jacko took out the triangle and placed it a hundred paces in front of the car. Jambo decided to flag down a car with the triangle and discovered that Jacko had placed the triangle the wrong way around (reflective side facing away from the oncoming traffic). This was his second offence.

After 20 minutes of dust blow-dry’s from passing trucks, we managed to flag down a dude in a 4x4 with a large trailer on the back. Jacko ran to where he had stopped and began directing him to reverse closer to where we had pulled off the road. The Hot Fisherman had a bad feeling and said, ‘Please don’t let Jacko reverse them into a hole’ under his breath and not a second later, the left hand side of the trailer disappeared into a large ditch. The trailer was almost on its side in the bush and Jacko just stood there with his hands on his head in disbelief while the other two boys raced over to help get the trailer out. To cut a long story short, the boys managed to maneuver the trailer out of the ditch and the owner of the trailer got out his jack. The Hot Fisherman changed the tyre and we waved goodbye to the friendly dude with the trailer.

While we were all smiling and waving goodbye, Jacko attempted to start the Subaru. Nothing…The battery of the Subaru was dead and we were stuck…again. This was Jacko’s third offence. Luckily, Jacko’s dad arrived with jumper cables and saved the day.

All I can say to Jacko is: you got away with murder that weekend son, but the baby rhino sighting more than made up for the dismal start to the weekend and I won't soon forget this little outing.

Chicken run

When hunger strikes and I suddenly feel a craving for a succulent chicken fillet accompanied by some perinnaise and a warm, soft bun, I can concentrate on very little else until I satisfy my hunger. This particular yearning struck like a wet hand across the face while watching Desperate Housewives (practically the love of my life), so you may well understand how devastated I was when I had to peel myself off the couch and away from the TV in order to scratch the itch that was Nando’s.

Arriving at Nando’s several minutes later, I was pleasantly surprised to find the shop empty. I approached one of the women behind the till and greeted her with a: “Hello, how are you?”, which was met with a somewhat chilly: “Fine”. Giving the Ice Queen the benefit of the doubt, I smiled back at her with my toothiest smile and said, “Can I have a chicken burger? Just the burger thanks”. Ice Queen looked blankly at me while punching in my order. I was impressed by her well-trained peripheral vision but slightly disturbed by her perpetual gaze.

After a few seconds of awkward silence (like that experienced after greeting someone and accidently planting a kiss on their left ear instead of on their check because they were simply going in for a hug), Ice Queen asked me if I would like to make my order into a meal. I replied with a, “Uh…no thanks. Just the burger”. Ice Queen was enjoying this. She turned to her equally icy accomplice behind the second till and said something to her friend under her breath which I couldn’t hear but probably wouldn’t have appreciated if I had. The two of them sniggered before the Ice Queen returned her icy stare to me. [Another long, awkward pause]

I blinked once…then twice before she clicked her tongue and said, “Lemon and herb or perrrri-perrrri?”

“Lemon and herb”, I replied.

“Pineapple or cheese?”

“Sorry?” I responded.

“Do you want extra pineapple or cheese?” Ice Queen said, getting annoyed.

“No thanks”, I answered.

[More punching of buttons with more staring. I begin to feel slightly hot and shaky]

I handed the Ice Queen my debit card saying, “It’s a savings”. Ice Queen swiped my card with such violence that I felt my heart quicken and suddenly felt the urge to swallow the lump developing in my throat.

“Cheque or savings?” Ice queen asked. [Is she kidding?]

“S-a-v-i-n-g-s”, I answered.

Ice Queen handed me the key pad. I pressed in my 4 digit code as quickly as possible and handed it back to her. Looking evermore unimpressed, she took the key pad from me and handed me my slip. I signed my slip and pushed it back towards the Ice Queen who was by this stage, leaning on her right elbow with the copy of my slip in her hand. Pissed off at her obvious attempts to be as rude as was humanly possible, I snatched my slip from her hand and without another word, turned on my heel and stormed towards the waiting area, hearing agitated clicking and muttering from the direction of the tills.

A few minutes later, my order number was called out and I jumped up, eager to avoid being turned into stone by the Ice Queen and excited to return to my beloved TV show. I walked to my car in disbelief, unable to fathom what I had done wrong while scratching around in my industrial-sized handbag for my car keys.

[Scratch, scratch]

[Scratch, scratch, scratch]

Nothing.

[Arrive at car and begin emptying contents of bag onto floor]

Nothing.

#@%*!!!!!

[Put everything back into bag, throw bag over shoulder in a huffy and storm back into shop]

As I reentered the shop, the Ice Queen looked up at me, a sly smirk plastered on her round face. I asked: “Did I perhaps leave my car keys on your counter?” – my voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. She slid her hand out from behind the till to reveal my keys. I thanked her and walked straight out again. 

I could think of nothing but four letter words for the remainder of Desperate Housewives...but the burger was worth it.

Mr Spondy

Recently I took a leap of faith, resigned from my position at the consulting firm I was working at and returned to physiotherapy. I had completely forgotten how entertaining it is to work with clients so closely. Currently I am not based anywhere permanently. I decided instead to make a slow transition back into the field by working part-time at several different private practices around Joburg. So much of fun…

I had a particularly entertaining treatment session with a 75 year old man last week. The decrepit little old hunchback walked into the practice complaining of back pain. I initially put on my sweetest and most compassionate voice, assessing his movements and posture with gentle explanations and nudges while he chatted on and on about the degeneration of his spine (known as spondylosis) which he has sweetly nicknamed his ‘spondy’. After almost 10 minutes of polite conversation, I finally managed to coax him onto the plinth to begin his treatment.

I began working on Mr Spondy’s neck and upper back while he garbled on about how ‘in his day’ he was a fantastic tennis player, how he has been married and divorced twice (both blondes) and  how he is currently dating a beautiful brunette ten years his junior. As my hands moved progressively lower down his back, the conversation seemed to move in a similar direction. 

The first impression I had of Mr Spondy (that he was a polite and sweet old dear) were diminishing faster than Julius Malema can retaliate to a news reporter. Before I knew it, Mr Spondy began telling me of a time he visited a Chinese massage parlour. He told me that he does not frequent ‘those types of organisations’ but rather that he had gone because he felt he really needed it. He also added that he does have friends who still enjoy the occasional outing to Teasers. By this stage I was planning my excuse to cut the treatment time short and make a swift dash for the door.

Mr Spondy continued with his dodgy story, saying that after he had been ushered to a private room by his Chinese masseuse, he had been instructed to remove his clothing. He dutifully obliged, removing his pants and shirt and lay face down on the plinth. The masseuse returned and told him to remove his underwear too. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, he did what he was told. The masseuse began her massage. After several minutes, the masseuse said: “You hot? You feely hot?” Feeling embarrassed and a little confused, Mr Spondy said, “No I am fine thank-you”. The masseuse continued with the massage. Two minutes later, the masseuse popped her head under the plinth so Mr Spondy could see her face and said: “You hot, you want fun?” Mr Spondy was by this stage more than a little uncomfortable and reacted with a very abrupt “No, no. Thank-you but I don’t want fun”. The masseuse then said: “No, you need fun” and left the room (during which time Mr Spondy had begun to clamber off the plinth). The masseuse breezed back into the room only to find Mr Spondy clambering off the plinth as fast as his little legs could carry him but he stopped in his tracks when his gaze fell upon the masseuses hands…she had returned with a fan.

I can’t wait for Mr Spondy’s follow-up visit!

Mr Tighty Whities saved my night

It’s been a week of overindulgence. It all started with a shopping basket laden with Woolies marshmallow eggs, speckled eggs, hollow eggs and white bantam eggs on Monday, which I bought with the very good intention of playing Easter bunny to ‘The Hot Fisherman’, the parentals and my siblings on Easter Sunday. Unfortunately when the overwhelming craving for crunchy, candy-covered hollow eggs hit at approximately 8pm on Monday evening, not even hiding the eggs in the hardest-to-reach places of my cupboard could save me. I attacked those eggs with all the feverish excitement and enthusiasm of a three year old and not even throwing the empty box away after the annihilation could hide the evidence since the corners of my mouth bore the residue of sticky white candy. Tuesday and Wednesday were no better. Let’s just say that the stash of eggs I had purchased had diminished to a few dismal dregs. Pizza and jam jars at Primi on Thursday, a boozy rib braai at my folks on Friday evening and several draughts at the St Johns rugby festival on Saturday was a great way to warm up my jaw and digestive system for Sunday. I played a game of hot or cold with ‘The Hot Fisherman’ in order to locate my hidden Lindt Bunny Easter egg and spent the rest of the morning nibbling off one body part at a time (ears, then head, followed by neck and feet). All that’s left of my decapitated bunny are the back paws and a bit of the bum. Later on, lunch was a meal of McDonalds chicken nuggets, chips and a coke. I had a faint urge to do some sort of energy expending exercise after lunch, and hence the blog post. I am going to continue spewing my weekend experiences on this page in the hope that I may burn a few more calories.

So as I said, yesterday ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I went to the St John’s rugby festival. I don’t want people to think that I have a ‘thing’ for porta-loo’s, but once again, I had an unfortunate experience at the porta-loo’s that I have to share with you. It was approximately 6pm and light was fading fast. I had had several ciders in the beer tent and felt the inopportune urge to pee. I made my way through the rowdy crowds of teenagers with mullet haircuts, tribal tattoo’s and shirt dresses towards the porta-loo’s. The walk there was nearly as unpleasant as the porta-loo’s themselves. Squelching through mud puddles, dodging masses of youths high on hormones and walking through clouds of cannabis smoke, I finally made it to my destination. I expected worse. The queue wasn’t too bad and someone in the line ahead of me even handed me a roll of loo paper. I stepped inside the dark plastic container and did what I had to. I emerged from the loo, well impressed at the survival instincts I had obviously developed for withstanding the extreme conditions within the confines of the porta-loo and made my way to the hand washing facilities. After dispensing a small amount of hand soap into my palm, I rubbed my hands vigorously and then began pumping the foot pedal furiously wash off the soap with water. To my utter disgrace, I found that the water canister was empty and I was by this stage, up to my elbows in foam. While attempting to remain calm, I began shaking my hands violently to get rid of as much of the soap as I could. Seeing my obvious predicament, one of the young guys in the queue came to my rescue and offered to rinse off my hands with his beer. Bless his little cotton undies (which I could see since his pants were hanging half-way down his bum). I obliged politely and rinsed my hands off under the steady stream of his beer. So this post is dedicated to Mr tighty whities. Thanks dude.

Sour body parts

Few things excite me more than a bag of chewy, gummy, sour sweets. I am puckering and salivating like a bulldog before breakfast at just the thought. My dilemma is that my favourite brand of deliciously juicy ‘sour body parts’ (not the most appetizing name mind you) happen to only be sold in very select stores. The only place I have seen them is in garage shops.

Unfortunately, I happened to come down with a pretty severe craving for sour body parts at 9pm last night while sitting on the couch with ‘The Hot Fisherman’. The conversation went a little something like this:

Leggi: Hmmmm. Sour sweets.
Hot Fisherman: ?
Leggi: Hmmmm. Sour sweets.
Hot Fisherman: What are you saying?
Leggi: You know what would be awesome right now, is a packet of sour body parts.
Hot Fisherman: Sour body parts? I tell you what, I won’t shower for the next three days and then you can have sour body parts.
Leggi: That’s disgusting.
Hot Fisherman: Mwa-ha-ha-ha [Laughs nastily]

It was clear that I wasn't going to get anything out of 'The Hot Fisherman' last night. After sulking for a few minutes on the couch, I gave up and went to bed. So this afternoon I will be on a mission to find myself a packet of sour body parts which I shall place in the freezer for about an hour prior to consumption (so they get nice and hard). [Squeels like a little girl in anticipation]

Vampires and porta-loo's

I did it. I ran my first ever 21km on Saturday morning and what an awesome race it turned out to be. My housemate and I woke up at the crack of dawn (3:45am to be precise) to drive through to Hartebeesport on Saturday morning. We arrived at the race start at 5:00am, still no sign of light breaking on the horizon, and then stood in a queue for the porta-loo for half an hour behind the weirdest man I have ever had the displeasure of coming across. Evidently he had either been locked up in a dark cupboard with little human contact for a significantly long time or he was a vampire (which makes more sense because it was still dark). This dude could not stop staring at my housemate and me. So not only did we have to stand in a queue at 5 in the morning, with the smell of urine and poo-gas filtering through the air every time someone exited and entered a porta-loo, we also had to deal with a psychopathic, ex-murderer/vampire eyeballing us while plotting our deaths (he had by this stage conveniently done a 180 degree turn and was now facing us).

After losing the gawking vampire in the crowds, we headed for the starting line. At 6:20, the gun for the race fired and we were off. The race was relatively flat with views of the mountains and dam along most of the route. There were plenty watering stations along the way and on the whole, the race was very well organised. I noticed something during my run, however, which freaked me out. While running behind a man, I noticed him spraying his legs with sachets of water. This could only mean one of two things:

1. He was very hot and was trying to cool himself down.
2. He decided that running into the bush for a number 1 would take too much time and therefore decided to 'go' while running, and was rinsing off his legs while relieving himself.

I desperately hope it was the first. I also noticed a lady blowing her nose by blocking one nostril and forcefully snorting out the unblocked nostril (I was once again lucky enough to be positioned behind her), and also noticed how many runners spit. The road along the entire length of the race is splattered with lovely mucous patches which I had to run through. I can only imagine what is now stuck on the bottom of my Purple Nikes.
I completed the race in 1 hour and 56 minutes, averaging 5.5mins/km and had the most ridiculously tasty cinnamon pancakes at the end of the race (well worth running 21.1 km for). This is a race I will definitely do again.

Om die dam

Tomorrow is the fateful day. I will be jogging the Om-Die-Dam half marathon at Hartebeesport dam in my Purple Nikes. I have not been training for it and don't feel particularly confident. My self-belief baloon was slashed this morning after looking at a training programme for the race which commenced in DECEMBER. Not sure who designed the programme but the person was obviously smoking some good stuff. 12km on the first day?? An average of 42km a week??? Are you berserk? I have been averaging 25 - 30km a week. I can only shudder at the thought of meeting drill sergeant Om Die Dam. Hopefully he/she won’t be bringing up the rear with a whip and a loudhailer tomorrow…because I have a feeling I may be the ‘butt’ of the race group.

Vanishing act

I often wonder what Nokki, my domestic worker, does when left alone in our apartment. It must be tremendous. I can just picture her having a field day going through my cupboards and drawers, mentally filing away bits of information to profile my personality, like the state of my bra’s and g-strings, the stash of chocolates I hide from myself and the purple negligee I keep disguised underneath my pajamas. I know for a fact that she:
• Likes to watch the movie magic channel,
• Loves Oros,
• Unwraps and then scruffily rewraps presents that were bought for friends or family,
• Makes use of the toasted sandwich machine,
• Likes reading anything of a personal nature left unconcealed (I know she particularly enjoyed the Valentine’s day card the Hot Fisherman gave me which I left tucked away in my drawer and later found on my dressing table),
• Uses my housemates I-pod,
• Uses my housemates hair brushes (leaving short, curly evidence on the bristles) and
• Enjoys time-outs on our couch with her feet up on our coffee table.

I don’t mind that she does some of these things because if I were in her position I would take advantage too, but I can’t help but feel that she is invading my personal space when she unwraps birthday presents and reads my cards.

Yesterday I arrived home early from work (to my domestic workers evident surprise and irritation). She had been chilling on the couch, sipping on a cool glass of Oros, taking considerable pleasure in watching Will Smith in Seven Pounds. I said nothing and walked straight to my bedroom, closing the door quietly behind me and feeling like I had invaded her quiet time. I was too nervous to leave my room in case I found Nokki basking on the couch and wouldn’t know what to say, so I just sat on my bed for a while. I eventually built up the courage to emerge from my bedroom. Like magic, the TV had been switched off, remotes had been neatly stowed away and there was no evidence anywhere of her lunch or her Oros. It was like it never happened. Two seconds later, she appeared out of nowhere and asked if there was anything else I wanted her to do before she left. Then, poof…she was gone. Harry Houdini could have learnt a thing or two from my Nokki.

Once a pirate...

Need I say more?
I saw this sticker on the back of a car driving through Braamfontein this morning. I performed a James Bond stunt to attempt to catch it on camera especially for you. I can't believe the following I have already! Ok, ok...so maybe its a sticker for Orlando Pirates (the soccer team), but a girl can dream right?
If you are confused or you need a refresher, see my post: http://purplenikes.blogspot.com/2010/02/i-heart-pirate-hookers.html

Do you know the muffin man?

I had the most delicious breakfast on Saturday. I have to admit that fewer things in life beat a frothy cappuccino in the early morning. It was well worth waking up at dawns crack to meeting Snow and Slacky (physio varsity mates) at Tasha's in Melrose Arch at 8am. After hearing a muffled growl coming from somewhere beneath the table, followed shortly by something which sounded like earth-moving operations (which I soon realised were coming from my echoing stomach), I decided to have a quick squiz at the muffins on display. The muffin man was clearly not on strike that morning because the assortment of muffins that lay warm and inviting in the cake display cabinet were more exciting than popcorn and a coke at the movies (I have been known to go to movies simply for the popcorn and coke). There were blueberry, chocolate, carrot, banana and pecan and bran muffins all glistening invitingly with fancy assortments of decorative toppings. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. The thought of ordering French toast or scrambled eggs after seeing that display would have been like hiring Fight Club to watch Edward Norton and looking away in every shot of Brad Pitt’s abs. I ordered banana and pecan and it was delicious. I am talking Meg-Ryan’s-restaurant-scene- in-When-Harry-Met-Sally-delicious. It took me several minutes to decide which flavour to go for, but that bad boy stood no chance once it was served to me on an icing-sugary platter. There wasn’t a crumb left and the manager even came up to me to ask if I wanted a second one on the house because he had witnessed the punishing of the first. I politely declined. Idiot!

No coincidence

My drive in to work this morning was pure bliss. The traffic had practically built up to my complex driveway; there were windscreen washers threatening me with squeegee’s and bottles of diluted sunlight liquid every direction I looked; and I got stuck behind a bakkie travelling at 30km/hour carrying 30 workers who all stared at me, blinking in unison, their heads nodding back and forth like the little bobble head dolls you see through tinted back windscreens of dodgy 1979 Mazda 626’s. Yes it was pure ecstasy, and I say this without a hint of sarcasm.

“Don't worry a-bout a thing, 'cause ev-ry little thing, gonna be all right.
Singing' don't worry about a thing, 'cause ev-ry little thing gonna be all right!"

Have you ever noticed how the lights of a robot are the same colours as the rasta flag? This is no coincidence. Bob Marley is THE man in traffic. "This is my message to you-hoo-hoo."

Gym fail

The benefits of exercise are blindingly obvious when you are sitting on the couch feeling guilty about eating yet another piece of cherry nougat. All I can think about at that stage is how much healthier I feel after exercise, how much better I eat after exercise and how wonderful it feels to be fit enough to run 8km’s in the mornings without keeling over half-way from exhaustion. I felt this familiar nagging sensation after eating a steak laden with creamy red wine sauce on Friday night, after polishing off an insanely scrumptious chicken lasagna with ‘The Hot Fisherman’ on Saturday evening and after licking my plate clean of any visible traces of chocolate croissant on Sunday morning. After spending a considerable amount of time weighing up the beauty and informational benefits of an extra hour of shut-eye followed by an hour of long-distance stalking of Will Smith through the E True Hollywood Story vs. going to gym, I finally let ‘The Hot Fisherman’ bundle me into my car late Sunday morning.


After spending a small fortune on two bottles of water (I chose an expensive brand of water which is supposed to be equivalent to taking vitamins – great marketing gimmick that) we finally loped through the turnstiles of the gym. Coughing up half a lung and sneezing from the insult of chlorine on our mucous membranes, ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I ascended the stairs to the weights section. There, we performed a series of death defying exercises such as:

• A gazillion lunges with 6 kilo weights in each hand,

• Squats with weights,

• Quadriceps extensions,

• Hamstring curls,

• Abduction exercises or the ‘Yes/No machine’ as The Hot Fisherman refers to it,

• Leg press AND

• Ab exercises

Finally, after an hour of torture, ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I limped out of the gym to the car.

The second day after gym is always the worst. The benefits of exercise are no longer relevant when you wake up in the morning with legs so stiff that the only way you can get yourself mobile is to walk with straight knees. I am a walking stick man...or woman. It looks like my legs have been placed in Plaster of Paris. Forrest Gump in braces has got nothing on my limp. Worse still, my bum is so stiff that every time I sit down I have to let loose a little groan of pain like an old lady after a hip transplant. I have to hold onto the railing when ascending stairs as I may pass out from the throbbing in my quads and I am considering buying some ice during my lunch break to attempt to reduce the inflammation in my calves (I had to wear high heels this morning because it was physically impossible for me to put my heels on the floor). This evening, I will most definitely make a date with Will Smith on my couch and that piece of nougat I have been saving will never taste sweeter.

Muddy socks

Official time: 00:32:07.
And no, I am not talking about the ‘Fit at 40: 32 Minute Advanced Workout’ or the 32 Minute Messenger Bag Tutorial from ‘The Diary of a Quilter: the confessions and obsessions of a stay-at-home quilter’. I am, in fact, talking about my time for running the JP Morgan Challenge last night.


Not bad considering:

• I was soaked to the bone from standing in the pouring rain at the start.

• I had to run through someone’s flower bed.

• I had to jump over several garden gnomes and,

• I ‘dodged, dipped, ducked, dived and dodged’ through hordes of people who all started the race in the sub-20 seed although it was pretty obvious that they had never seen a pair of running shoes, let alone run a road race in under 4 minutes a kilometer.

To those people I say this: Either shape up, buy yourself a decent pair of running shoes and actually DO some running or be a little more considerate and stand where you are supposed to – in the 40 to 50 minute seed.

My Purple Nikes are no longer purple, but now have a lovely reddish-brown hue to them thanks to the selfishes (a selfish person who is similar to a shelfish i.e. no backbone or brain) whom I had to leap onto pavements and trudge through mud pools for. P.S. You selfishes owe me a pair of Puma socks since mine are slpattered with enough earth to build an apartment garden. Okay? Lovely.

JP Morgan Corporate Challenge

Yes its tonight. SO much of excitement...


It’s, wait for it…not 5km, not 6km, but 5.6km. Because 5 km is not enough and according to some, 6 is too much.

Last year I ran it in about 36 minutes but I started in a batch that were supposed to run at about 5 min/km. However...there were some remarkably unfit and over nourished individuals in my batch and therefore I spent the entire race dodging the walkers, looping round trees to avoid the shufflers, ducking underneath the flaying arms of the boozers and completely ignoring the talkers.
But not this year…I have a cunning plan.

You see, my company sponsors our race entry and has a tent at the JP Morgan each year. Unfortunately, this is one race when it helps to be catastrophically unfit. What tends to happen is that all the booze in the company tent is consumed by the walkers DURING the race so that those of us who actually RUN the JP Morgan Challenge (why would they call it a challenge if it’s meant to be a gentle stroll) get nothing upon finishing.

Yes…so this year I have a plan. I received a little email communication from my company this morning to say that no alcohol will be served before the race. Mwa ha ha ha! So I shall be running…as fast as my Purple Nikes will take me, in the 4 minute/km batch (yikes) so that I can quench my thirst with a few ice-cold Sav’s (Savannah Dry) and wait patiently for my fellow ‘runners’ to join me. I know that people will have to pass me this year if they genuinely are hoping to finish in fewer than 30 mins, but that’s ok. I will pretend to have a stitch if they give me funny looks.

Love thy neighbour

Living in an apartment block has many advantages. There’s security, a garden service and friendly neighbours in every direction when you need to borrow a cup of sugar. But there are also distinct disadvantages, one of which is the close proximity of your neighbours…in particular, the close proximity of your bathroom window to that of your neighbours. I often picture my neighbor in his bathroom, sitting on the bog…mere meters from me while I brush my teeth. Our bathroom windows are so close that if I leant out of mine, I could probably see into his. This doesn’t bode well for either of us…because humans need privacy in a bathroom, a luxury neither of us have anymore.


I have grown quite accustomed to his routine, however. I know that my neighbor has fairly good oral hygiene. I know he brushes his teeth (probably a little too violently judging by the amount of scrubbing and brushing I can hear in the mornings) and I know he uses mouthwash – which is more than I can say for myself. I know that he takes baths and very occasionally showers (which is quite bizarre for a man) and that he is in there A LOT. I also know my neighbor lives with his wife/girlfriend because they have conversations through the bathroom door which I have the ‘pleasure’ of listening in to.

What is scary to accept is that my neighbours can probably hear everything that my housemates and I do during our own ‘quality bathroom time’. This was confirmed when we were Cc’d in an email from our neighbour to a glass fitter, requesting a special tint on their bathroom window which would make it less transparent. In the email, the question about whether this glazing would make the window more sound proof was also raised with a comment below it that made me chuckle. It stated, “Will the glazing assist in sound proofing our bathroom because this morning I could hear my neighbor sneeze?”

I think most people would agree that stage fright in the bathroom is a very serious problem when you think that someone could be listening in on you. So imagine what it’s like when you KNOW people are listening in on you.

Barbie and me

Last night I attended a class held at one of the local sweating holes with my housemate. I don’t have a membership at the gym we attended, but I managed to get in on the pretence that I was interested in joining. I was dragged along to the gym, thinking we would be doing our own thing and I would get the chance to do some much needed lunges and squats. Unbeknownst to me, on our arrival, I was whisked into the gym by my housemate and told that we urgently needed to ‘reserve our spot’ in the class. “Which class?” I casually asked. The response wasn’t exactly what I was anticipating. We were attending a ‘Running Class’. What is a running class you ask? Why, funny you should inquire, because that’s EXACTLY what I was pondering. Does everyone climb on a treadmill and run in time to music? Does everyone learn preparatory techniques like stretches and core strengthening exercises that will help improve your running? The answer is no…and no.


A running class, my dear friends, is literally a class where you either run on the spot or run in a circle around the class…FOR A FULL HOUR.

Okay, I am exaggerating just a bit. The instructor does try to mix it up by including lunges of death, suicidal squats and killer push-ups in between sets of ‘running’. My point is that these classes can’t be good for you because firstly, we ran in the same direction around the class each time. Don’t even ask what that’s doing to your knees and ankles. Secondly, the whole class is covered in floor to ceiling mirrors and therefore seeing yourself ‘running’ in the mirrors is unavoidable. Thirdly, there is a blonde Barbie ‘running’ next to you and she quite enjoys watching herself ‘run’ while thrashing her ponytail so wildly that every now and then you get a mouthful of hair or a whip across the face.

I will admit that even though I am skeptical about classes like these, I was pretty pooped afterwards. The best part about the class was the instructor. She kept us all amused with her pelvic gyrations to Mango Groove, hysterical screaming and the occasional inappropriate comment about her futile sex life. It’s no wonder her classes are brimming with people of all ages and sizes. I have to admit, if I get dragged to one of her classes again, I will gladly participate…as long as it’s not a ‘running class’ and I don’t have to stand next to Gym Barbie.

Fundamental differences between men and women

I received this email and I had to share it. It couldn't be more true. I always wondered, growing up, why I could hear my brother blowing his nose when I could also hear the shower running. I even asked 'The Hot Fisherman' if this was normal - to which he replied, 'Ya, pretty much'. Hopefully this clears up why we women take at least 20-30 minutes in the shower...on a rushed day :)

How To Shower Like a Woman:

• Take off clothes and place them sectioned in laundry basket according to lights and darks.
• Walk to bathroom wearing long dressing gown.
• If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
• Weigh yourself on the bathroom scale.
• Take off dressing gown.
• Look at yourself in the mirror to see if there has been any visible reduction in your cellulite/love handles - make mental note to do more sit-ups and squats at gym. Vow never to eat chocolate again.
• Get in the shower.
• Use face cloth, arm cloth, leg cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.
• Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.
• Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean.
• Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner.
• Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 10 minutes, until red.
• Wash entire body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash. Rinse conditioner off hair.
• Shave armpits and legs.
• Turn off shower.
• Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.
• Get out of shower, being careful to stand on the mat and not wet the tiles.
• Dry with towel the size of a small country.
• Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.
• Return to bedroom wearing long dressing gown with towel on head. If you see partner along the way, cover up any exposed areas.  

How To Shower Like a Man:

• Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.
• Walk naked to the bathroom.
• If you see partner along the way, shake willy at her making the 'woo-woo' sound.
• Look at your manly physique in the mirror.
• Admire the size of your willy and scratch your bum.
• Get in the shower.
• Wash your face.
• Wash your armpits.
• Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.
• Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.
• Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.
• Wash your hair (if you haven't washed it for at least a week).
• Make a Shampoo Mo-hawk.
• Wee.
• Rinse off and get out of shower.
• Partially dry off.
• Fail to notice water on floor because curtain was hanging out of bath the whole time...
• Admire willy size in mirror again.
• Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, light and fan on.
• Return to bedroom with towel around waist.
• Throw wet towel on bed.
• Prance around naked while deodorant dries under armpits.

Nom nom nom

I have a bit of a morbid fascination with gyms. They are strange places and they seem to attract some very interesting stereotypes. It makes me wonder whether gyms buy the stereotypes online and have them delivered in little labeled boxes. Let me illustrate:


Body Nazi’s:

This package includes tribal tattoos, bulging biceps and tiny calves, army haircut, visible scars, skin-tight gym shirt or vest, golden-orange skin and a heavy southern accent. Known to use at least one of the following words after every sentence: ‘boet’, ‘bra’ (as in brother and not as in the underwire garment), ‘right hey’ or ‘shweet’.

Desperate housewives:

Includes fake boobs, pink lip-gloss, frilly bra, tight gym pants with matching low-cut top and towel and bleach blonde or dyed black hair. This package comes doused in perfume and is often seen hanging around the water cooler or weights section. Been known to dig her manicured nails into innocent young boys and beefy, body Nazi’s if given half a chance.

Peacocks:

Includes a majority of the items in the desperate housewife package except these girls are half their age, don’t smile, never seem to break a sweat and never leave the cardio or mat sections. Looking good is top priority and therefore doing something which expends energy at gym jeopardizes this. These girls are on ‘display’ and therefore come fully clad in all the latest gym kit with matching I-pod.

Salmon:

These guys spend their entire life in the gym working out until they are pink-in-the-face and exhausted. Ultimately, they get screwed in the end with a fairly tragic outcome - they never get any bigger.

Elephants:

Usually pair up with the Body Nazi’s or are found in pairs. These guys barge in, make a lot of noise, drop weights on the floor and broadcast to the entire gym in their trumpeting voice how many weights they can lift. These packages move through the weights section leaving devastation and sweat patches in their wake.

Tourists:

People who attend one class, once a week, pretend that they are practically dying in the class and leave half an hour before the class ends. Usually overweight, wear tight Lycra leggings and large baggy t-shirts.

Yuppie schoolboys:

Vest or t-shirt, shorts, sneakers, protein shake and I-pod. Always found in the weights section, usually in pairs. Aim to lift the heaviest weights possible in order to catch the eye of a Skinny, no-fun package as she walks past.

I am not sure what I would define myself as. Definitely not any of the stereotypes above. I always wondered how girls looked so perfect at gym because I look more like a blushing beetroot after a work-out. I suppose I could categorise myself as a hamster. I am the type of person who goes to gym to run on the hamster wheel, just so that I can go home and stuff my pouches with delicious food and not feel guilty! Running on a treadmill is the most mind numbing exercise, but when you can’t get out of your cage to run on the road, what else is there to do? :)

My Jamie Oliver apprenticeship

It’s the end of the month and money is tighter than a kiddies swimming cap at this stage, so I have to be 'prudent' about my spending. I did the only thing that any intelligent, money-savvy person would do...I hid my credit card in my cupboard. What this means for me however, is that I can't purchase any food until Friday. Luckily, while rummaging through my freezer in my ravenous, post-work-out state last night, I managed to find the following: two packets of bread (each containing the two end slices of bread that I keep but never eat), a container of frozen coconut milk, 2 chicken breasts and a packet of frozen wraps. YES!!!! Chicken wraps for dinner.

Here's how to make the perfect juicy chicken wraps with very limited ingredients...

What you need:

• 1 wrap (Weigh less make their own wraps which you can freeze for a bloody long time considering how long they have been in my freezer for).

• 1 large chicken breast

• 4/5 cherry tomatoes

• Feta cheese

• 4 Baby spinach leaves or 1 lettuce leaf

• 2 tbs Soy sauce

• 1 tbs Olive oil

• Blob of Sweet chilli sauce

• Salt and pepper to taste
Method:
• Chop up the salad ingredients finely (the smaller thay are, the more you can stuff into the wrap).

• Heat the oil in a medium, non-stick frying pan.

• Add the chicken to the pan and stir-fry until cooked. Don't turn the chicken until the underside has browned since stirring too soon prevents the chicken from turning a golden brown colour and makes it look pale and pasty.

• When the chicken is nearly cooked, add a pinch of salt and pepper and the soy sauce.

• Remove chicken from pan and allow to cool slightly.

• Warm the wrap on a plate in the microwave for 20-30 seconds - don’t let the wrap bubble or get crispy since this somehow makes folding the wrap that much more difficult.

• Place a blob or two of sweet chilli on the wrap and spread with a knife.

• Add salad ingredients and chicken.

• Fold approximately a 1/4 of the wrap up from the bottom and then fold the left and right sides over this.

• If you can get this right without losing any ingredients while eating, then you deserve an award and I humbly applaud you. I won't judge if your wrap bursts open and all the ingredients pour onto your lap while taking a bite. This is normal.

Bon Appétit!

Just call me Mother Nature

I bought an Orchid from Woolies the other day. Yes, it was a spur of the moment buy but now I realise it was meant to be. I have found my true calling in life, and all this time I thought I was meant to help people, not plants.
I am a living, breathing, horticulturalist specialising in Orchids bought from Woolies. I know it sounds very specialised and perhaps there is not a very big market out there for horticulturalists specialising in Orchids bought from Woolies, but at least I have discovered a niche market.

I am thinking about putting an ad on Verimark:

Is your Woolies Orchid looking sad and shriveled? Are you struggling to remember to change your underpants, never mind remembering to water your Orchid? Have you forgotten to prune your Orchid in the last few months? If you answered yes to these questions, then you need the help of Leggi, specialist Woolies Orchid horticulturalist. If you phone now to arrange a personalised session with Leggi, you will also receive a free bottle of pre-mixed orchid food absolutely free. That’s right. Absolutely free.

You should see it. All pretty and pink and stuff. ALL the blossoms have opened (9 in total I might add). Have you ever seen an Orchid with 9 blooming flowers? No, I didn't think so! Just call me Mother Nature.

Flying tortoises

This weekend I went to see ‘The Hot Fisherman’ in the Eastern Cape for a little Valentines getaway. We stayed on a gorgeous hunting farm 2 hours outside of Stutterheim. On one of the game drives we saw a number of territorial Bontebok males courting the females with a display which looked very much like they were all constipated – tails curled up over their backs horizontally while holding their heads low with outstretched legs. It made me wonder what sort of display ‘The Hot Fisherman’ would put on if he was in rut. Maybe he would show off with his rod…excuse the pun.


On one of the game drives, we saw an old tortoise next to the road. We got out the car to have a look at him (I made sure the farm didn’t have any animals that could eat us before I got out). The tortoise wasn’t too impressed with all the attention and made a sluggish sprint for the closest bush. Shame…I felt bad for barging in on his chill time.

This story is going somewhere I assure you, just keep reading…

The time finally arrived for ‘The Hot Fisherman’ and I to get some shut eye at around 12pm after several Savanna’s and a few glasses of vino. I plonked myself down on the bed and fell asleep before my head hit the pillow, and that’s when it happened…

All of a sudden, I heard a noise on the roof. Startling from the clamor, I looked up towards the roof and saw hundreds of tortoises all looking down at me. I could ‘see’ how frantically they were all trying to get away from the edge of the roof as more and more tortoises appeared out of nowhere. I grabbed ‘The Hot Fisherman’s’ arm with one swift motion crying out, ‘Shit, shit, shit’. ‘The Hot Fisherman’ sat bolt upright in the bed requesting an explanation for my very strange behaviour. I told him hysterically that, ‘the tortoises were on the roof’. He then calmly asked how I knew that they were tortoises, to which I replied, ‘…coz I can see them’. At this, ‘The Hot Fisherman’ candidly turned over and told me that I was dreaming. Flabbergasted at how abruptly he had written off my obvious concern for the lives of the innocent tortoises, (which could have been on the roof for all he knew) I called him an asshole and turned over, fuming in the darkness.

Needless to say, I felt like a tool the next morning (on Valentine’s day nogal) and I think ‘The Hot Fisherman’ has placed me on a waiting list at the Happy Campers mental health clinic.

Fly fishing is not for ants

Over my December holidays, I spent two weeks with ‘The Hot Fisherman’ in the Eastern Cape. On one particularly sizzling day, we decided to trek to Stutterheim to do a little fly-fishing. I thought our little fishing trip would be quite romantic. Hells bells, could I have been more wrong?


I caught everything – dead trees in the dam, reeds, the branches of trees behind me and I even managed to hook myself (twice). After just about every cast, I found myself trudging up the hill to locate my fly (prickly little suckers those flies are) which had lodged itself in some immovable object. The funny thing, is that I could cope with the leeches burrowing little holes into my feet and ankles (unfortunately they weren’t big enough to justify quitting for fear of blood loss) and I could cope with the Horse Fly’s making mince meat of my calves with their little serrated mandibles, but what I couldn’t handle, was the fact that I was undeniably a terrible fly-fisher woman. To make matters worse, ‘The Hot Fisherman’ has been doing this since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. There I was, stuck on the side of a leech infested dam, bleeding and feeling about as useless as a pork chop in a synagogue. It did get better though. Eventually, I was only fetching my fly from the grass behind me on every second or third cast!

Here is some common fly fishing terminology I learnt on my outing:

Stripping line – the point at which you begin removing your saturated clothing, because you are dripping sweat like a sumo wrestler in a sauna while waiting for the bloody fish to bite.

Unloading the Rod – when your hot fishing partner gets turned off by your dismal attempts to cast, your bleeding legs and the mud splattered all over your face.

Wind Knot – the knots you get in your line because of pathetic casting.

Sink Rate – the speed at which you become submerged in mud while attempting to retrieve your fly from the immersed branch you just caught.

Impressionistic Flies – the mark the hook of a fly leaves in your skin after catching you in the back.

On the whole, I would say it was a very successful trip and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

How to lose your thighs in 10 days

Catchy isn’t it? I thought so too. If this were a diet, I probably would have tried it already. Maybe that could be my next career move - inventing names for diets and diet food. ‘Lose the wobble with no trouble’. ‘Fat Combat – the all new diet pill and weight loss fitness program’.

With so many different diets out there, all promising you will look like Jessica Alba and Jennifer Aniston sooner than you can say starvation, how can you choose a diet that will work? Luckily for you, I have tried them all and am willing to reveal them to you:

Myth No 1: You can eat as much as you like, as long as everything you eat is fat free.

I believed this and I stuck to fat free everything for almost 7 months. I sacrificed creamy milk for milk flavoured water, chocolates for marshmallows and wine gums (nom, nom, nom) and pizza for tuna salads and stir-fry’s. All my fat free dieting ultimately resulted in hungry bum (when your pants begin to ride up between your bum cheeks while you walk) and muffin tops (rolls of fat - better known as love handles which fold over the tops of your pants) because I wasn't exercising and I was consuming tons of sugary foods with the belief that all that sugar would magically dissipate while I sat watching Grey’s Anatomy re-runs.

Myth No 2: Eating nothing all day will help me lose weight.

I call this the acetone breath diet, because that’s what happens to you. Starving yourself results in breath that smells like the inside of a nail salon, skin break-outs, brittle hair and nails and most of all, irritability. Sounds appealing right? Then, when you do decide to snack on a celery stick or two, your body believes that this wholesome goodness needs to be preserved for the duration of the fasting period, and deposits it on your inner thighs and buttocks for ‘safe keeping’.

Myth No 3: Drinking all my food will help me lose weight.

How ridiculous is this concept? I chuckle at the very thought of this absurd theory. Do you want to know why you lose weight? BECAUSE WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND BLENDS A CHICKEN BREAST OR A STEAK? The only stuff that tastes ok blended is cooked veggies and fruit. Any guesses as to how long you will last on a diet like this?

Myth No 4: Drinking apple cider vinegar will burn away my fat.

Seriously? If you are truly that desperate for a miracle cure that you are willing to drink litres of apple cider vinegar which is thought to help reduce appetite instead of following a healthy, well-balanced diet, then nothing I say is going to convince you otherwise.

Myth No 5: Diets that promise more than 0.5 – 1kg of weight loss per week.

Anything more than this and you are losing water. Don’t be an idiot and attempt to lose 5kg in 7days. You will just end up really dehydrated. Slow weight loss over several weeks is much easier to maintain over the long term.

What worked for me is this:
1) Get your lazy @ss off the couch and go to gym, go for a run on the road or walk for AT LEAST thirty minutes 4/5 days a week. A combination of weight training and cardio will give you the best results (more muscle = more energy burned).

2) Eat 6 small, low GI meals a day. Foe example:
Breakfast: ½ cup of All Bran Flakes with 1 cup low fat milk.

Snack: 175g low fat or fat free yoghurt (plain is best but I eat the flavoured ones.)

Lunch: 30g whole-wheat bread with 50g of chicken breast and a side salad.

Early afternoon snack: Piece of fruit (green apples, plums, and any berries are best).

Late afternoon snack: Piece of whole-wheat toast with peanut butter.

Dinner: 50g pasta with steamed fish and a Napolitana sauce or one chicken breast with plenty of salad or veggies and 2/3 tablespoons of cous cous.

3) Allow yourself one cheat day a week where you can eat all your favourite foods. Fat Fridays are my favourite day of the week.

4) Weigh yourself once a week. No more, no less. This will give you a much more accurate indication of your progress because your weight fluctuates each day depending on hormones, how hot or cold it is, whether you have exercised or eaten etc.

5) Don’t let weight loss consume you. Too many women lose sight of themselves and become wrapped up in a world of size 8’s. Have a healthy goal in mind and stop when you reach it. Skeletal is not sexy.

I heart Pirate Hookers

There is an expression my friends and I use to explain the incredible transformation which occurs whenever the consumption of alcohol and the wearing of black stilettos occur simultaneously. This expression has gained quite a bit of recognition in recent times, so much so that it could almost be called a movement. The first time it happened was at a little club in Greenside called Tokyo Star. As Barney Stinson would say, it was “Leg.En.Dary” and the Pirate Hooker was born.


Now it may sound derogatory, but a Pirate Hooker is not what you are thinking. All girls, no matter their size and shape, no matter the colour of their skin or hair, will act like a Pirate Hooker when the time arrives. Let me explain…

Time: 1:30am

Location: Dance floor, Tokyo Star

Parties involved: Myself, TTB and Snow

Dress: To-the-nine in heels, LBD’s, push-up bra’s and bling.

All of a sardine, the most incredible, all-consuming song starts playing. Immediately, the transformation begins and before you know it, all three of us were busting out the best Pirate Hooker poses we could muster…unintentionally. The Pirate Hooker pose cannot be taught. It’s already there, hidden somewhere in that X chromosome just waiting for ‘your’ song for its big reveal. Have you ever heard a bunch of girls on the dance floor all yelling in unison, “It’s my song”? Pirate Hookers. Or have you ever noticed a girl with her eyes closed, one arm in the air, bobbing her head back and forth and swaying her hips in time with a song, as if in a trance? Pirate Hooker. At that moment in time, that girl is not thinking about you, she doesn’t care how she looks, and you better not interrupt her because it’s HER time, HER song, and all she wants is to dance.

Yes girls, we all have a little Pirate in us…the only reason the Captains Pose originated was because the male species were beginning to feel a little left out. I am proud of my inner Pirate Hooker, as we should be, because for those two or three minutes on the dance floor, or in the car, or in the bedroom with the music blaring, I couldn’t care less about what people think and I embrace every inch of myself. If only we could learn to do this all the time. What a beautiful sight the Pirate Hooker is.

How not to run 5km

Secret confession: I run because I have to.

I am not going to sit here and tell you that running changed my life, or that for those 30 minutes or so on the road, I feel free. Nope. Perhaps, you would disagree with me if you like the idea of cars full of young testosterone-injected students whistling and hooting at you, or being attacked by swarms of miggies (tiny fly-jobs that lodge themselves in your nostrils or the back of your throat when attempting to breathe). So to be blatantly honest, I run 5-6 km on average and I try to get it over with as soon as is femininely possible – I say femininely because I was once told I look like a giraffe on steroids when I am running and since then I have attempted to shorten my stride length to look more like a female. But, and this is a big resounding but, on some occasions, running feels…great. It’s addictive. If I don’t run at least three times a week, I struggle to sleep, I eat whatever edible thing I can find in the fridge and I feel like a puff adder – fat, lazy and ready to strike at anything that moves.

So, shortly after moving into my new apartment, I decided to go for a little 4km jog to check out the area and hopefully learn the back roads to beat the morning traffic. I asked my flat mate, to tell me her 4km route, which she dutifully did.

Unfortunately, I did not listen and the leisurely 4km run turned into a 6km run-walk, to be known from here on as the '6km Run of Death'. Now I know what you are thinking. "6km is manageable" and "2km is not that much more". To both of these responses I would say "yes I agree", except that I was completely unprepared for the 'Extra 2km of Death'.

I was buggered, to say the least, when I arrived back home, gasping for air and sweating like a foot in a plastic shoe. I threw down my iPod, smashed two glasses of Oros, choking and spluttering because I was still sucking air like an acute asthmatic and vowed never to run in my area again…and then ran the same route the following day. So there it is. Running is addictive and it feels incredible when the routes you initially found so tough start to get easier.

Here is some practical advice from my own personal experience in my purple Nike’s:

I. Measure your routes and don’t take to the road willy-nilly or wear a watch and time how long you have been on the road for so you have an idea of your distance. You are not Bruce Fordyce (but if you are then I would like to take this opportunity to say hi and tell you what a huge fan of your work I am sir), so unless you are training for Comrades, keep to your target distances and times.

II. Don’t run faster when cars full of young talent are approaching and then slow down when they pass you. Firstly, this can be extremely tiring and secondly, nobody is really looking at your running style or speed. They simply want to check out your bum.

III. Carry tissues in the little pouch they sometimes put on the inside of your running shorts (I am convinced that’s what it’s for). Your nose will inevitably run or you will need to do some heavy trumpeting to get those delightful little flying jobs out of your nasal passages.

IV. Run with someone a little more experienced than you are, but at your pace. You have two options for this. A) Run with someone hotter than you. This obviously has advantages and disadvantages. The advantages are that if they run ahead of you, you get to watch and you will also try to push yourself a bit harder because you don’t want to look like a moron. The disadvantage is that they will probably see you at your worst – red faced and smelling a little funky. B) Run with someone who really encourages you and has your best interests at heart (alternatively someone who is not as hot as you). This way, you can exert yourself, push a bead or two and still take comfort in the fact that your running partner will not suddenly leave you in a cloud of dust when the inevitable car full of young talent approaches.

V. If you are one of those people (like me) who doesn’t usually (ever) spit, don’t attempt to do this while running. The odds are against you…seriously. I tried, I failed, and it landed on my left shoe.

I am a sucker for tears

Jozi has a vast array of beggars, drifters and hawkers at every thinkable street corner, robot, stop street, intersection, parking lot and sidewalk. They are super sneaky and have developed many astounding ninja tactics to entice you to buy superglue, hangers and black plastic bags by the truck load. I know all this because I have the evidence on the floor of my passenger seat. Now there was one particular run-in I had with a drifter I wish to share with you. This sneaky traveling worker has gained the force of red weepy eye, and he is not afraid to use it.

So I stopped at a busy intersection, window down, sunglasses on, listening to John Meyer...as you do…when out of nowhere, the weepy red-eyed travelling worker appeared. Squinting down at me, he asked if I had some change or cigarettes for him. I told him I didn't smoke and that my wallet was in the boot. At this, the travelling worker looked directly into the 12 o'clock sun for a split second, and back at me. I was horrified. His eyes had welled up, and tears streamed down his face. I crumbled. I took the glasses off my face and handed them over to him, telling him that 'it is important to protect your eyes from the sun'. And just like that, he was gone.

Beware the force of red weepy eye, for it attacks without the slightest warning and leaves you squinty and exposed.