Baglett

Oh I do love Cape Town.

I have yet to see my parents but plan to squeeze them in on Friday. I did manage to put in some time with The Gran, who, when telling her my plans to see The Ex for dinner tonight, booked me in for a makeover. I thought that was quite harsh but she pointed out that time is of the essence and she's clinging on just to see me walk down the aisle. Or running. She also suggested that I propose some sort of deal with him that if neither of us are married in two years time, I drug him and get him to sign something.

Off to the 2Oceansvibe radio launch...

Must rush, I'm off to the airport. Flying to Cape Town to drink with the friends, annoy my parents and find out how my inheritance is coming along.

I just smsed my Dad to say 'I land at 4:30, not 5.' His reply was 'Ok Airbag!'


Chat tomorrow!

I had the joyous task of going to the Wine Merchant's house his morning tto fetch the last of my boxes. A box that apparently, even though it was under the bed, was really 'in the way'. I made sure he was not going to be there and the maid let me in. Just as I was pulling the offensive box out from under the bed, he walked in.

Wine Merchant: Where are the spoons?
Me: Mmm not sure, did they run away with the knives?
WM: This is not funny Baglett, I had loads and now I have none.
Me: What I would do is count how many teaspoons you have. The big ones may have shrunk in the wash.
WM: And did you take all the towels?
Me: Just the nice ones.
WM: Baglett, you can't take all of them.
Me: Don't make go all divorce lawyer on your ass. They were my towels.
WM: What am I supposed to use?
Me: Wrap yourself up in your conscience?
Wm: Why is that box still there?
Me: Because we were trying to solve the mystery of the runaway spoons which is clearly more important.
WM: And where is my knife sharpener?
Me:Listen Tom Petty, buy new ones.
WM: Just bring back the spoons.
Me: I'll see if I have time.
WM: What else are you doing?
Me: I've also got to bring sexy back, so I'll see if I can squeeze you in.

With that I threw in some immature comment about 'get forked' which I thought was pathetic but all I could come up with, slammed my car door and he watched as I dramatically threw my car into reverse and stalled twice as I tried to do movie-type exit. Didn't help when I had to phone him to ask

'Can you open the gate please?'

The Cool One recently approached The Housemate and I with a question - How do I put on weight?

The Housemate: Bitch.
The Cool One: Guys, I'm seriously underweight and am starting to look gaunt.
THM: Again, you're a bitch.
TCO: So what do I do?
Me: Do nothing. Don't move a muscle. Just sit there and I'll throw food at you.
TCO: I need a proper plan.
Me: Stop moving your eyeballs, that's a calorie burner.
TCO: I need to go out just now.
Me: Move. Very. Slowly.
Th: Right bitches, I'm going to gym.
Me: Cool One, that's what you DON'T do. You are no longer allowed near gyms. Here, eat this.
TCO: That's a scale
Me: It's a start.
TCO: I don't look that bad guys.
TH: If you stand to the side, I can't see you.
Me: You borrowed my hat yesterday and it came down to your waist.
TH: You shop in the kiddies section.
TCO: Ok guys I get it.
Me: For everything I eat, you eat double.
TCO: You ate your pizza and mine yesterday.
Me: So?
TCO: We went out for dinner one night and while I went to the bathroom you cleaned my plate.
TH: Is anyone seeing a pattern here?
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about?
TCO: Baglett, get out my fridge!

I work from home. I like working from home. But lately my concentration rivals a six-year-old suffering from severe ADD.

Tuesday morning, not one for sleeping in, I woke up at 07h30 and checked my mails on my phone. Nothing too urgent, but quite exhausted from reading through them, I thought I would take a nap. I woke up at 9am and decided to go for a run. I got lost and ended up in suburb with a name that was made up of vowels.

Got home at 10am to a phone call from The Gran. By 11h30 I was showered, dressed and ready to start my day when it occurred to me I hadn't updated my iTunes in a while and I cannot work without music in the background.

I was done just in time for my lunch break which consisted of going out with The Married One and various others. It was not my fault the waiter gave me the wine list - I assumed that was all there was. I managed to get home at 4, just in time for a phone call from my Dad who said he was in town for one night and one night only and suggested dinner. I checked my emails again and once I had finished my To Do list, I was completely exhausted and had just enough time to have a nap before dinner.

The Cool One: Baglett, I've got a plan.
Me: I hope it doesn't involve working, today was exhausting.
TCO: Yes, I noticed you're working yourself to the bone. You're working from my house from now on. For at least three days a week.

Yesterday, under serious duress, I arrived at The Cool One's house to be supervised. I managed to put in three hours of work before I got distracted. Sighing did nothing to break the Cool One's concentration nor did humming, giggling at nothing or shouting 'Look! Your neighbour is naked!' So I resorted to gmail chat even though she was a couch away from me.

Baglett: Whatchadoooooin?

While I thought this was hysterical, she looked up from her laptop, resisted the urge to laugh and shouted:

The Cool One: BAGLETT! For God’s sake, do some work!
Me: We've been working for three straight hours! What time is lunch?
TCO: It's 11h30.
Me: Brunch then.
TCO: Help yourself to what you can find.

An hour later and The Cool One looked up from her laptop to find me with an apron on, a whisk, a mixing bowel and my entire face covered in flour.

TCO: What the hell are you doing?
Me: Baking? You said I could help myself...
TCO: You are banned from working here.
Me: YAY!

So the date with The Music Man. Ya. Well. Just um, sweet to the point of creepy. And I know every guy's answer to this would be 'Crises, it's never enough with you chicks!' but there's a fine line between first date and marriage proposal.

Don't
Invite a girl on a first date to a restaurant so far out of town you are conjuring up every thriller movie in your head and assume the worst: That your head is going to join the other dead date heads on his mantelpiece. I was texting people madly giving updated coordinates and leaving strands of hair on his seat as DNA evidence.

Don't
Stare at the girl as if she is a gift from God. While my parents think I am (that’s a lie), a stranger staring at you with such intensity and for such long periods of time makes you look like you want to eat her.

Don't
Compliment the girl to the point of scary. Saying 'You look gorgeous' is fine. Saying 'Scrap that - amazing.', 'Scrap that, incredible'. Ya, just scrap that altogether.

Don't
Say 'I can't WAIT to have children.'

I crossed my legs so fast, I almost knocked the table over. While I had no intention of sleeping with this man, I took three birth control pills just in case he was planning to spike my drink with his sperm.

So ya, music man hit all the wrong notes. And while he plays a mean guitar, I explained I won't be stringing him along. Sorry, couldn’t help that…

I went away this weekend with clients. Mainly because I like them, and mainly because one of the clients is so hot, the thought of sleeping in the same house as him was as exciting as living in a wine cellar. The email to all of that went out on Thursday stated 'Baglett, it is minus 5 in the morning there, this is not a fashion parade, please dress warmly.' With my main intention being to snare hot client man, the thought of me in a polar bear outfit with a beanie and Ugg boots didn't really ring any sex appeal bells so I dressed like I was going on a ski weekend. By the time we were sitting outside a restaurant on Saturday evening and the sun had set, I could neither walk, talk nor breathe since my lungs had frozen.

Hot Client Man: Baglett, aren't you cold?
Me: Warm heart.
HCM: Your hands, where are they?

I was in fact sitting on them for fear of them falling off. It came to me that perhaps this whole hypothermia problem could work in my favour and I could come across as a damsel in arctic distress.

Me: They are a little cool, if only there was some way to warm them up.

Thinking his response was going to be 'Why not wrap them round me', he came up with

HCM: Here, take my gloves.

They were the size of the Indian Ocean and made me look like I had elephantitis in both hands. I tried to pick up my glass, missed my mouth and so when he turned to speak to me, I had red wine pouring out my mouth like a drain and a trail going down my top. From a distance I looked like I had been shot.

Things went further downhill from there. While I thought I was going on a drinking, eating weekend, this was not the case. We were woken up at 7am by some freak drill sergeant with the announcement that we were climbing what looked like Kilimanjaro. I'm fairly fit, but I'm not trained for climbing 90 degree rock faces. Two hours into the hike, Hot Client Man decided this was the best time to get to know me. My lungs had long since fallen over a cliff somewhere and I was seeing spots. I had twisted my ankle on a rock earlier and so my right foot was pointing backwards and my left one was trying to follow suit. He gave up when he saw the colour of my face.

I was just coming to terms with the fact that he was just not going to give me the hot client love when we were about to leave for dinner and he came out the room. While I may not be able to dress warmly, drink with gloves on or run up Kilimanjaro, I still look better than he did in his leather skoene and patchwork leather jacket. AWESOME.

So not much happening here since, I think I'm sick. It's hard to tell really since I haven't been sick in so long, I can't remember the symptoms. Or tell them apart from hangovers. But since I'm not hungover, I'm going with sick. It also might have something to do with the fact that I have hung out with the Cool One and the Housemate all winter. And at one time or another they looked like they had become zombies, were dating zombies or were possessed by zombies.

My head feels like someone of great mass is standing on it and I may or may not be hallucinating. My fluffy pink cow slippers given to me by The Queen keep mooing at me.

I'm going back to bed. If I can find it. I last saw it outside doing some gardening....

My liver is glad the World Cup is over. Until I introduced it to the Tri-Nations on Saturday and it started crying.

Don Juan invited a bunch of us round for a champagne breakfast to watch SA vs. New Zealand on Saturday morning. Every breakfast should be a champagne breakfast. The only problem is the tendency to continue drinking the entire day.

By 12 o'clock we had moved on from champagne to G and T’s. By 2 o’clock we had run out of those and decided to have a braai. By 3 o'clock I was having a trolley race with Don Juan in Woolies while he piled the trolley full of wine and braai paraphernalia.

By 6 o clock, we had worked out way through the vat of wine and I had whipped out 30 seconds. Four hours of ‘Baglett, would you stop showing everyone your card!’ and ‘Helsinki is NOT the capitol of Holland you idiot’ and ‘I refuse to be on Baglett’s team ever again’ and we realised we had been drinking for a solid 12 hours.

While we were congratulating ourselves on ‘maintaining’ so well, I looked up from my vat of Chenin Drunk to see the Housemate standing on the sofa screaming to Whitney Houston's ‘I will always love you’. The Cool One was singing into her bottle like her life depended on it and Don Juan was outside turning chicken on a braai that had gone out about four hours before.

It was when I turned to find a boys face on mine and I screamed ‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!’ and he replied ‘Trying to kiss you! I’ve liked you since…. this morning’ that I thought perhaps, we weren’t maintaining that well…

I was set up on a date yesterday. I know this because my friend said ‘I’m setting you up on a date’. I’m clever like that.

While she promised it would be a relaxed evening with a bunch of people, it was in fact only, myself, my friend and my future husband. We got on quite well, he laughed at my crap jokes and told better ones. He was entertaining, witty and all in all a great guy. But I just wasn’t feeling it. I was mentally switching him from potential partner to NBF when I noticed a guitar leaning on the wall behind him.

Me: Is that yours and do you play?
Music Man: Yes and yes.
Me: Well I play the piano but I don’t carry it around with me. What’s the story?
MM: I’m on my way to band practise.

Things just got interesting. It took no convincing for him to whip it out its case and start plucking away. When he started singing Tears in Heaven, I pretty much went pale and proposed. There is something stupidly sexy about a guy that can sing and play a guitar like a God. I was mesmerised and wondering if he was going to be able to play at our wedding or would we have to get his band members involved? Would he write a song about me? If it was a smash hit, would we travel the world together promoting and be this generation’s version of Sonny and Cher? I was mentally writing Baglett at Tiffany’s when I got hit with:

MM: Sing along.

Sing along? Are you friggin kidding me?!

I’m good at many things but singing is not one of them. A batch of screaming kittens fighting with another batch of screaming kittens sound better than me. The last time I sang, the Housemate threw a wooden spoon at me and said ‘For the love of God, shutup’.

I protested until he threatened to stop his God-like playing if I didn’t join in. I gave it my all until he stopped and said:

MM: Really?!
Me: So no Sonny and Cher?
MM: What?
Me: I was going to be Cher and you were going to Sonny.
MM: Really?!
Me: In my head…

I left, slightly deflated about my diminishing rock star career, and listened to the recording of him that I had secretly recorded on my dictophone when my phone rang.

MM: Baglett?
Me: Music Man?!
MM: I was thinking we could meet up again sometime this week? If nothing else, we could work on that voice of yours.
Me: Ya I think there are some notes I could fine tune.
MM: Yes - all of them. Is that me singing in the background?! Did you record me?!
Me: Pffft no.

What they don’t tell you when you break up with someone is while yes, you go through the five stages of grief, you also go through the sixth stage – On Heat. Not ready for another relationship, someone suggested a booty call guy. I thought it was brilliant – all the benefits of a boyfriend without picking up dirty socks or getting lambasted for having too many glasses of wine and attempting to dance on the ceiling.

What gets confusing is the fine line between booty call and boyfriend and I’m f*cking it up royally.

Me: Why hasn’t he phoned me today?
The Cool One: Because he has no interest in how your day is going?
Me: I’m sure he does.
TCO: He doesn’t. Unless your day is going in the direction of his bedroom.
Me: Let’s Facebook stalk him. Why does his relationship status say Single?
TCO: Because he is you freak.
Me: He is and he isn’t.
TCO: They don’t give you that option on Facebook. Listen Baglett, I’m beginning to think that line between booty call and boyfriend is becoming a little hazy.
Me: Pffft. It’s clear as day.
TCO: How many times have you smsed him today?
Me: Twice. Once to ask him what phone he thinks I should get and then to ask him what his favourite colour was.
TCO: Seriously?
Me: I saw these really great hoodies that he might like…

Silence.

Me: I see your point.

So much of the happening! Bought a new car, turned Baglett into a business and got a booty call. Most exciting one? The booty call.
I celebrated my release back into the Getting Action Society (GAS?) by going to the Ghana game on Friday with the Cool One and the Media Mogul. I was completely overexcited and bought any Ghanaian paraphernalia that fan shops had to offer. By the time I got to the stadium it looked like Ghana had vomited on me.
It was when I spotted a film crew that my intention to be normal went out the window. I danced in front of that camera like I was in a Lady Gaga music video. I thought I was sexy, I thought I had charisma, I thought I had presence. When I strangled myself with my Ghanaian scarf, I thought I better stop.
Not one to miss out on the spotlight, I gave it a second go, jumped up onto the stage and waved my Ghanaian gloves at the camera while screaming to Waka Waka. Successfully getting myself onto whatever channel they were filming for, I gave it a rest and stepped down. When the cameraman approached me for an interview, I cannot believe this is what I said:
‘No interviews please, I just want to live like a normal person.’
OH.MY.GOD.

I've spent the last two days car shopping. Since my current car (Jacques Cousteau) is owned by both myself and The Wine Merchant, the custody battle was slightly more complicated so I have had to say au revoir to my lovely car and get a new one. By Monday. No pressure. Since I know nothing about cars, car financing, motor plans or anything really, it's been a learning experience. I went to a dealership yesterday and sat across from a man who used terminology that makes sense if you're vaguelly car intelligent. I am not.

Me: Can I interrupt you there? Would you mind if I phoned my Dad?
Car salesman: Sure.

Me: Dad?
Dad: Baglett! What's up?
Me: I'm sitting across from Scott the Salesman. He's using big words. Can I put you on speakerphone?
Dad: Sure!

The next twenty minutes were spent with the two of us head on head speaking into my phone while my Dad asked pertinent car-type questions as did I.

CS: Now let's talk about interest.
Me: Well I am very interested.
CS: Sir, your daughter is now sitting in the car.
Dad: Just make sure she doesn’t drive away in it.
Me: Are the mags self cleaning?
Dad: Self cleaning mags!?
CS: Um, no, I'm afraid they're not.
Dad and me: Pity.
Me: What's the fuel consumption to seatbelt ratio?
CS: What?
Dad: Good question Baglett!
Me: Thanks Dad!
CS: I have no idea what you're talking about.
Me: You’re a car salesman, you should know this.
Dad: You go Baglett!
Me: Thanks Dad!

When I left there, the salesman looked completely frazzled and I'm pretty sure he is checking the fuel consumption to seatbelt ratio. Today I’m off to the Porsche dealership to pretend I’m loaded and tomorrow I’m looking at boats. Woohoo!

I should not be allowed to talk to guys. In the last few weeks I have become a babbling idiot. Having met a ridiculously cute boy at the soccer, I decided he needed to be mine. What I didn't realise is that I've lost the ability to flirt (not sure now I ever had it) and embarrassed myself to a new level. I managed to find topics of conversation so random that I would have bored a deaf mute. I not only sounded stupid but completely insane. A combo that I'm becoming altogether too familiar with.

Me: Hi, I'm Baglett.
Cute boy: I believe you're a writer.
Me: Seeing is believing.

WHAT?!

CB: I'm sorry?
Me: So am I. SO! Where do you stay?
CB: Lonehill
Me: I've also thought that sounded so lonely. Like Sunninghill sounds like a happy place to stay!

A voice in my head begged me to stop talking but alas I vomited out a couple more incoherent ramblings about Sandton and sand and Morningside and morning. I didn't think I could produce any more ridiculous statements until:

Me: Do you live alone?
CB: Well my girlfriend and I broke up a few months and she moved out, so now I do.
Me: She broke up with YOU? What is WRONG with her?

Really Baglett? You're really going down this road? Whatever you do, don't mention your break up. Please.

Me: I just broke up with the Wine Merchant.

And there you go.

Eventually I was saved by the Cool One who said she had never seen such an embarrassing display of flirting and could see from a distance that I was going blood red and he was starting to sweat. He scampered off into the distance looking like a deer in headlights.

I now repel men. Awesome.

I spent the weekend at the Marketer's farm. I was possibly the most excited person this side of the bush and declared myself a professional wildlife photographer with the first ant I photographed. I realised quickly I had missed my calling as a National Geographic correspondent and was going to move to the rainforests and save whoever lives there and needs saving. An hour into our first game drive and I realised my knowledge of wildlife, birds and anything bush-related was limited to:

Me: I saw something move! It's realllly fast.
The Marketer: That was a truck Baglett. We haven't hit the farm yet.
Me: Sorry, I thought it might have been a tiger.
The Housemate: We're two hours outside of Pretoria, not two hours outside of Asia you idiot.
Me: Listen David Attenborough, since you know everything, what bird is that?
TH: A Crimson Breasted Shrike
Me: Of course it is. It's flying alongside the double barrelled apostrophe.
The Marketer: I think you're thinking of the Black Shouldered Kite.
Me: I can also make up names you guys. OH MY GOD A ZEBRA CROSSING!

Not au fait with the whole rules and regulations of a game drive, I screamed, climbed out the roof of the car and shouted 'Here boy!' to the fleet/school/pack/party of zebras walking in front of the car.

The Marketer: Weird that he didn't come to the car Baglett.
Me: I know! Is there some sort of zebra call I should know about?
TH: It's called sit down and shut the hell up.
Me: I'll try it next time.

Three game drives later and I now know the difference between a truck and a tiger, a bird and a smudge on my lens and I also learned that animals don't like to be whistled at. I'm going to be purchase some camo gear this afternoon and an open an account at Cape Union Mart.

I was driving in Parkhurst this morning and spotted two labradors running in the road. I stopped my car and called them. Within two seconds I had two happy, slobbering canines licking my face. Not sure what my next move was, I asked them where they lived. I can't say I was expecting them to answer but I thought I should at least try. Getting another lick, I explained to them that I was going to drive down the road and they should bark or wag excessively when I drove past their house. I was just about to ask labrador no. 1 to remove himself from the drivers seat when I heard,

Lady: Excuse me. What are you doing with my dogs?

I glanced at the two mutts to see the one had his paw on the dashboard and the other had both paws on the steering wheel.

Me: Teaching them how to drive?
Lady: Those are my dogs in your car.

I could see how this looked to the owner and I panicked.

Me: Please may I state that I am no way stealing your animals.
Lady: It looks like it.
Me: Nooooo, I have two cats! And I just moved, you see my boyfriend and I broke up which is why I had to move. His brother moved in, which was ridiculously hard on me and then I found out he was cheating on me! Cheating! Can you believe it?!
Lady: May I have my dogs back please?
Me: Sorry. Sure.
Me: Marley and Me OUT!
Lady: Marley and Me?
Me: I felt a connection.
Lady: Are you crazy?
Me: I may just be.

So this handy man thing is for the dogs. I came home yesterday to find my cats doing breaststroke around the kitchen. Turns out the rubbery thing (washer to the boys at Mica) I had fitted was the wrong size. Refusing to call a plumber, I got the correct size and gave it another go. While I waited for another scene out of Day After Tomorrow, I excitedly lit my fireplace for the first time. Ten minutes later, after burning everything from paper towels to the inner soles of my boots, I finally got the thing to light and looked proudly at the raging inferno before me.

Me: So I've lit the fire but I can't see.
Mom: See what?
Me: My hand in front of my face.
Mom: What are you burning?
Me: Well right now, my retina. But I was burning wood.
Mom: Is the vent open at the top?
Me: The what?
Mom: Look inside the fireplace.
Me: You want me to stick my head in the flames.
Mom: No, I want you to pull the lever on the side to open the vent.
Me: Well, would you looky at that.
Mom: Are you alone there?
Me: Just me and the swimming cats.
Mom: I don't think that's wise.
Me: Don't worry, I've got the plumber coming to look after me.
Mom: Why the plumber?
Me: Because I've just seen the cats blowing up a lilo.
Mom: I'll leave you to it darling.
Me: Tomorrow I'm fixing the shower!
Mom: God help us all.

I've been trying to get hold of my parents this past weekend to no avail. The family home's phone either rings or I get nothing. Eventually got hold of my father on his cell.

Me: Hi Dad
Dad: Baglett!
Me: What's wrong with the phone?
Dad: Nothing?
Me: It says 'number not in use'.
Dad: Oh right, that's because we changed the number!
Me: And you didn't think to tell me?
Dad: Didn't we? LOVE! DID WE NOT TELL BAGLETT WE GOT A NEW NUMBER?! She says she thought she had.
Me: She didn't.
Dad: Baglett?
Me: Ya?
Dad: Did we tell you we als0 moved?


With that my Dad dropped the phone and almost went into cardiac arrest from laughing.

I have taken it for granted over the years, that anything involving a tool of some kind would be done by either my dad, brother or boyfriend. Having none in the near vicinity, I decided it was time to learn.

Electricity scares me. Words like 'earthed' and 'conducter' mean something completely different to me and I've managed to avoid any actual contact with electricity through the years. Realising I was going to have to put a plug on the washing machine, I searched for YouTube videos showing me what do with the three copper wires that were currently sticking themselves into my fingers and drawing blood. Not sure if US plugs were different to SA plugs, I took the safe option and put a call through to mom.

Me: Mom, how do I wire a plug?
Mom: Darling, I wouldn't.
Me: I'm not calling an electrician to come through to wire a plug Mom. I need to know how to do this.

She then spent the next 30 minutes painstakingly explaining to me how to do the deed while my maid Miriam looked at me shaking her head. I said thanks to my mom and cut her off as she was saying '...and then you buy a fire extinguisher...'

When I started to make funny shapes out of the copper and giggling, Miriam took the plug and showed me how to do it. I insisted on tightening the screws and then called my mom to tell her I had missed my calling as an electrician.

Two loads of dry washing later, I realised I hadn't switched the water on at the wall and the pipe exploded.

Me: Mom, you know the pipe thing that goes from the wall to the washing machine? There's more water going on the floor than into the washing machine.
Mom: You probably need a new washer.
Me: I just got this washing machine.
Mom: No dear, the washer is the rubber inside the pipe that stops it from leaking.
Me: That's what I said.

When the new washer didn't work and I resorted to masking tape, Miriam showed me that the rubber in fact doesn't go on the outside of the pipe, but rather the inside. I then called my mom to tell her I was basically an engineer and that the washing machine was good to go.

Excited at my new found handiness, I decided to change a lightbulb. Trying to smash in a screw in bulb into a clip in light fixture is not ideal and Miriam has now banned me from doing anything else today. Tomorrow I'm putting my bed together. For the second time. The first time, I forgot to put the stabilising screws in and I landed in a mattress sandwich on the floor.

Miriam has asked that I wait for her to do it because, in her words, 'you're retarded.'

A bit harsh I thought.

Waawaaweeewaa what a weekend. I haven’t been so excited since I had my first glass of wine. For the Opening Ceremony The Housemate and I stood amongst the thousands of people at Innisfree Fan Park I looked like a plucked chicken from goosebumps. I looked over to the Housemate who was bawling like a small child and inbetween gasps of breath said things like 'It's...so...emotional'.
So I blew a vuvuzela in her ear and tears were replaced with 'Baglett, get that f)£$")£(% thing away from me'

Here's a note to the boys at SAB - two beer tents? Are you kidding me? There was more beer at my Dads 50th. By the time the game started the first tent had run out and we called in back up in the form of juice bottles filled with Cane and Sprite. Classy. An hour later and myself, The Housemate, The Divorced Guy and various others found ourselves dancing in the street and hugging absolute strangers.

By the time we hit Melrose Arch we were partying with men that were as sexy as they sounded and it occurred to me, a little late, that I was panting.

The Housemate: Oh my God, so this HOT Venezuelan man just took my number.
Me: Me too!
TH: Baglett! Please stop doing that.
Me: Doing what? I'm trying to be hospitable.
TH: Is that why you had extra business cards printed?
Me: I'm making international connections here.
TH: Could you connect somewhere else? I just spotted a Parisian that looks like Bradley Cooper with a Gladiators body.

Before I could say 'Give him one of my business cards', the Housemate's sister came running up to us.

HMS: So the guy who's been flirting with me all night just announced he's married with two kids back home.
Me: Yes. Because every man who is here for the World Cup is looking to find a stable relationship with a South African girl, marry her and take her back to their palace in a foreign land.
HMS: Really?!
Me: No. But steal their passport if you can. Or identity.

When I realised I was speaking Russian to a Brazilian, my brain exploded and I called it quits. I left The Housemate teaching some guy Zulu. Since she doesn't speak Zulu, I found it very amusing.