And now, the eight o'clock menu

Now, let me not advocate drinking, for it is a wicked, wicked habit that has landed me in bed with strangers, er, in trouble.

But the following, had at the very lovely and terribly trendy Fino in Parktown North, is so completely delicious I had to share:

Take one double tequila (gold, not silver, and real tequila please - the kind that tastes rich and smooth and not the student version that immediately induces the gag reflex).
Take one half-slice of orange, dip both side in brown sugar and the thin edge in ground coffee.
Down tequila, eat orange slice.

I couldn't believe how good this tasted.

The news!

Tickled, I was, to read on the wires that Britain was going to have its warmest October 27th since 1888. Not autumn, not October. No, it will be the warmest October 27th on record.

Then, as if to confirm that there is no real news in Britain today, I read the following wire headline: BLAIR TREATS EU MATES TO ENGLISH WHITE WINE.

Stop press. Now, I agree that I'm ignoring the reading-between-the-lines that this implies, but reading that 'British Prime Minister Tony Blair treated fellow EU leaders to a modestly priced English wine during lunch Thursday' (less than nine pounds a bottle: quite reasonable!) was only marginally less amusing than reading a course-by-course description of their lunch.

That's not news, that's a menu.

The fat fairy visiteth

(Yes, I've just discovered another item of clothing that no longer fits.)

Look, I'm fairly sure that it's a good thing to be a (2) fairy.

After all, with that predisposition one genetically receives a near-limitless supply of snappy comebacks, an infallible sense of which colours work well together, an entertaining flair for self-dramatisation*, an understanding that any dress-up party requires feathers or glitter or both, and the ability to sing all the verses of any Abba song no matter how obscure.

Then there are certain things that are better when they are (1) fat, such as wallets, cigars and salary raises.

But (1) + (2) = a most unfortunate circumstance. I may never have sex again. Without paying for it, I mean. Because it's also mostly true that my brethren who know how to make souffles are body fascists, as I believe I am, deep down. Yes, deep down, under all that newly acquired bulk.

Though I must say I am encouraged by my totally babely friend G.A., who now looks amazing thanks to Body For Life or similar. Hey! Someone's brought Turkish delight!

* This post is certainly not an example of that kind of behaviour.

Santa's here

Or rather, a big plastic version of him in the Rosebank Mall, according to this week's Metro.

Reader (for at the moment I can boast but one), your roving reporter will soon confirm this, working in Rosebank as he does. And it looked like there was fake snow. In a southern hemisphere city where it snows for perhaps five seconds once every 20 years, cheerful bearded Father Christmases wrapped in velvety red and white are ludicrous. But a big plastic statue version is Just Not Right. I mean, what's that about? Ja, we really want to buy into this Christmas spirit idea with a northern premise that completely doesn't work in the heat of a Highveld summer but we totally can't be arsed, so let's just put up a big old Santa doll that just needs dusting every now and again and all the kids will be thrilled.

Let's not get me started on a couple of other horrifying Xmassy items that are being foisted on the unsuspecting public. Or, let's. Viz.:

jamie's italy. I'm fairly sure Italy belongs to Italians, if not the world, and I can guarantee that it had its own fabulous cuisine for manymany years before Mr Oliver 'discovered' it, and subsequently Britpopularised it. Much like chicken tikka pizza, there are some things that really ought to be left alone.

Woolies' homeware catalogue. None of the items listed therein can go in my house, because it all requires that you possess an immaculate and completely colour-neutral house of limed oak floors, with lots of crisp white cotton and sandy linen everywhere.

And let the gods forbid that you get given any of the current SA bestsellers as presents this Christmas:

Rich Dad, Poor Dad
He's Just Not That Into You
French Women Don't Get Fat
and let's not forget that ghastly perennial favourite, The Da Vinci Code

I've been prompted

7 THINGS I CAN DO (how about you?)
Sing. Give me the score of a twiddly Baroque opera aria and I'll quite happily lock myself in a room until I've got it. Signature song: The Catalogue Aria from Don Giovanni.
Cook. Chocolate mousse from scratch? It's really not as difficult as you think. Signature dish: coffee-chocolate semifreddo. I won't do dinner parties again, but I'll cook just for you with pleasure.
Entertain. It's a compulsion, what can I say?
Hear. You won't believe how annoying it is to me when people are slightly off their notes.
Make daunting, seemingly impossible projects happen. It's spooky, really.
Self-dramatise. Oh, don't give me an opening.
Appreciate beauty. Yes,everything must be functional - just make it beautiful too.

7 THINGS I CAN’T DO
Lirpe. That's the word for clicking your fingers, thanks to her. I just never worked out how.
Put up with bullshit. Really, are you so much more important than everyone else?
Deny myself anything. I can diet perfectly - by accident. The minute you tell me I can't have something, that something is all I want. Budget.
This may be linked to the denial point above, and explains why other people have furniture and I have the world's most incredible CD collection. Polyphony R us!
Be organised. That's why I'm always at work at 10pm. I drive myself mad.
Stay focused. Erm. Ditto.
Like Barbra Streisand. I've tried, really I have, and I'm letting the side down, but: no.

7 THINGS THAT ATTRACT ME SEXUALLY
Eyelashes.
Big, strong hands.
Tallness.
Beefyness.
Tall, beefy men with big hands wearing crisp white shirts.
Suggestion. (The actual doing often spoils the fun.)
Bergamot.

7 THINGS THAT I SAY MOST OFTEN
'What is it about...?!' - always in irritation.
'The thing is...'
'Right'. If said with deadpan voice, it means I'm completely not listening to you.
'Dude, pick a lane' - my pet hate about Jozi drivers.
'Lank tit graze, China!' - because a certain someone keeps on asking for the bloody story.
'So...'
'DDR!' Stop laughing, you lot.

6 THINGS THAT SCARE ME
Growing old.
Nobody wanting me.
Being a failure.
Spiders - and it gets worse every year.
Heights (but they are easily avoided).
Not knowing what I'm supposed to do on this planet.

7 THINGS I PLAN TO DO BEFORE I DIE*

Hear Vivaldi played in Venice.Ergo, go to Venice. And Rome, again.

Fall in love. Yes, I'm nearly 30 and no, it's never happened. Obsession has happened, and I don't want that. I want to know what the big deal is. And dammit, it would be so much easier if I didn't always have to do everything myself.

Sing baroque music on stage overseas. And receive applause because I've worked at it so hard for so long. And with that, re-record my arias. Better get cracking.

Allow myself to make mistakes, because I do - but I can't ever get over them, and it's exhausting.

Own a glam flat in London, another in Rome and a third in Cape Town. My house will be in Joburg. Not copying the Scrivener - we merely think alike.

Stop waiting for my life to start. It's been going for three decades and I haven't noticed.

* Impressive things I'd always wanted to do before shuffling off, and now have: I've heard my ultimate, absolutely favouritest piece of music performed live, in an appropriate church, in historically informed manner. That would be the young Handel's Dixit Dominus. Wow. Less dear to me but certainly always impressive, and rarely performed, Thomas Tallis's Spem in alium - three times in total. Bizarre, since it requires such massive resources to perform it and I simply got lucky with the Handel, despite its comparitive ease of production.

Let's be clear from the start

This blog exists not because I feel the need to opine (keep it to yourself, I say), nor because of a desire to encourage work-avoidance behaviour (Dragons like their work, they do - especially when they have Capricorn rising) but simply because it's most tricksome to be asked for comment on other blogs and having to explain one's anonymity.

Yes, no, I'm the other Anonymous, really I am.

You see.

So, poppets, here I am. Expect not masses of erudite musings (cf first paragraph), and know that I respond well to being prompted. And a little nagging will help move things along.