Bacon, Eggs and Moemas White Chocolate & Pistachio Tartlets...

How utterly heavenly...

We (Jamie and Myself) had breakfast with my dad this morning, he collected us in his Barbiemobile and showed Jim where the "SuperFastButton" is... she was thrilled.
He took us to a place I didn't know existed (Blush) at the lower end of Melville, called "The Service Station", it was lovely, and included a bookstore, a deli, and black coffee - sigh....
Ruda Landman was having breakfast with other Afrikaans people, snore, as was Lindie - of Marion and Lindie - or so I'm told, wearing two small children and an Alexander McQueen silk scarf which I would have stolen right off her if it wouldn't have embarrassed my dad (180 Pounds - Net A Porter, sigh....)...
Jamie borrowed his Fat Boy Slim when we got home, so I am currently listening to a combo - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Fat Boy Slim, its delightful, or as Shredder just said - "Buahahahaha...total chaos!!!"
My dad offered me Pocket Money and I said no, I may have to write that down as my stupidest moment of the week, along with blogging in the middle of a Saturday morning child hurricane and walking into black coffee.
The bookstore was notable for its old school ladybird covered notebooks, a reading corner and a great chair or three... I may have to visit again, that is, if I can keep myself out of Black Coffee...
As words seem to have been sucked into the vortex of the parenting chaos I will tell my story in pictures, these were a few of the things that made the morning rainbow flavoured...

How Trashionista does Jim look?
The Notebooks all have old Ladybird covers, but have blank pages, and are absolutely divine... little rectangular slices of happiness.

Nicotine Addicted Souffle

So I had this dream last night, yes, I know, it can only get better, but anyway, I smoked an entire packet of cigarettes sitting at a low wooden coffee table talking to some Kerouacian beardy man, it was amazing, I distinctly remember grabbing handfuls of extinguished butts out of the overflowing turquoise ashtray and crushing them in my hands – how grotesque in reality, but to a heavy smoker on her third quitting month it was absolute bliss.

Quitting smoking is like waiting in a hospital to find out of somebody survived an operation, everything becomes drab and institutional, the walls of every room become smokers yellow, clocks become slow lumbering beasts, booming out every second of your looming failure. People talk too loudly, and too much, and too little, and too quietly, and use the wrong words, and the right ones, complexity disappears entirely, absolutely everything is simple, everything is absolute – every person barring yourself is thoroughly and horribly twisted and wrong.

My skin broke out, I got the shakes for weeks on end and began to have these irrational, but thoroughly enjoyable, fantasies about killing people in obscure ways, the guy behind the counter at the bookstore, the one who had never heard of Nabokov, he would be dismembered slowly by crowds of little girls reading excerpts from Pale Fire…The apelike gentleman who cut me off in traffic was to be trampled by marauding Romans, ripped out of the history book by the magical accident which was also responsible for the decapitation of the old lady who bumped into me with her shopping trolley. Bodies were strewn through the streets of Johannesburg, the balance of nature was all wrong and I was stuck in the waiting room two doors down from all that should be, but wasn’t.

Then suddenly it was over, I am not even sure when, but the sky cleared, my number was called, and eight kilos heavier, with the skin of a thirteen year old boy… I emerged from the cocoon of my self induced mania and into a brighter day, a lighter existence, a land of rainbows, flowers and feminine body shaping underwear commercials, I am reborn, with a body destined for trailer parks and tent dresses I rise up to face the world, I am, the non smoker….

Deer Pie Leftovers

The promised images arrive, I managed to stay in my delightfully mediocre character all day, but fell into a pool of soupy melodrama on the way home and am almost 78.2% myself again,
So, Saturdays bits and pieces are below...The Deer Jar is comfortably ensconced on my desk, The Floral embroidery is hanging on my bedroom wall, and the pictures propped up shopfront probably went home with somebody else, but I'm smiling...I will blog merrily and most proudly about Sunday when I'm not feeling quite so deliciously sedate.

Deer Pie with Sage and Mint

They call her “she who urinates silently”, because, well, she does. She shops on Saturdays, sleeps on Sundays and works all week. Her life is disgustingly average, but she is happy that way. She is the Apple Pie and Cream on the dessert menu, the plain black V neck in your wardrobe, the nice girl your mother hoped you’d marry.
She doesn’t understand the lack of contentment she sees in those around her, the constant striving for adventure, the desire to achieve, but it doesn’t bother her for very long either. She has exactly what she wants.

That’s my imaginary person of the day, I have decided to be quiet, contemplative and content, but we will see how long that lasts…I can’t decide what her name is, I guess that makes her truly vanilla, a no name brand kind of life. It’s a little sad I suppose but hey, if it gets me through the day…

I had breakfast / brunch on Saturday with a bit of an odd assortment of people, it was vaguely uncomfortable and the bill was high, but we ambled through the morning sleepily, a Checkers Pick n Mix from the mid nineties, attempting conversation without speaking the same language at all. Deer Hunter had some lovely bits which saved the morning to some degree, I will post pics of one or two this evening, when I’m home.
Kalliebree from work, whose name is so unusual I haven’t even made one up, came along too, she wanted to blog about Deer Hunter, on her blog I guess, which is here: www.safarafly.blogspot.com I’m writing lazily, thinking lazily, and generally mumbling my way through the day, I guess I’m completely in character, however nameless she may be. A tentative blog, a possible day and a maybe life, does anyone have a perhaps name for me?

slow cooked goose

There are such lovely gleaming pots bubbling on my stove today, and I appear to have locked myself out of the kitchen. I can see them, I can even smell their lovely delicious cooking smells, I just can’t make them cook faster, and that drives me absolutely insane. Tomorrow is so inviting, like rich soup on a cold day, and today is the dried out crust of bread your husband put in the fridge a week and a half ago. What would you choose?

What is the point of a bright and glittery world title grinning future if the present is a dried up old crack addict sleeping on the pavement? There are a few things I don’t understand on a base level, one of which is life, another is reality, I don’t believe I ever will just “get” these things, I understand statistics, bad jokes and Quentin Tarantino, but life, acceptance and baking are completely beyond me.

How do normal people come to terms with these things, with their general uselessness, I want to punch something, absorb the knowledge of the universe through osmosis alone, and run around naked, screaming my head off and then I look around me at the calm, the limitation accepting, the brave and am ashamed of my ridiculous inner tantrum. Perhaps I should give up on trying to accept that things don’t just happen instantaneously because I thought them and try to accept that this frustrates me, a step in the right direction at least?

What is the pipeline really and how does one turn on the tap?

Pea's and Carrots

Rolling over into the fitful sleep of the discontented, the wicked, the alone but not accepting, their backs almost touching yet separated by a universe of semi voluntary blindness. Skin reaches out instinctively for skin, its brains that recoil, human emotion, stupidity.

The wasted years, wallowing in self obsession, bitter in the spin cycle that is existence. Existence, not life. Different & the same, the process is there but the action is far removed, soak vs wash, rinse, spin.
Dried out cake of mixed media soap flakes underneath the washing machine in a laundromat forgotten by time, walls yellowing and ignored, fluorescent lighting creating glare right where there should be glow. Ignored and disrespected words, a self unknown and a partner forgotten, where will we be, and who?

Pigeon Thermidor

Oh, what a strange fish I would have caught, had we gone fishing, but we didn't.