Christmas shopping in January

I’m one of those typical Christmas-shopping procrastinators. I leave the dreaded trip to Sandton City until a mere two weeks before the big day (sometimes a week *ssshh*). 

I love shopping, but I hate crowds. It’s an oxymoron really. If I could have it my way, my shopping experience would be like the ones I have in my dreams. I’d have the entire mall to myself, with no one bumping and grinding my thigh in the queue, their hot breath cascading down my back. I’d have endless access to the complimentary treats on offer, which no one else has spoiled with their dirty, germ-infested hands. I’d be able to choose the Christmas tunes I wanted to hear, and confiscate any evidence of Boney M. And then, since this is Christmas dream shopping, I would get everything for free.

Unfortunately this isn’t the case for me. It doesn’t help that I can almost hear the countdown to Christmas echoing in my ear every time I drive passed any Pick n Pay, Checkers or Mr Price Home store. “You’re leaving it to the last minute you know!” threatens Pick n Pay. “Come see all my pretty-shinys!” coaxes Mr Price Home. “I’ll beat any price they offer!” challenges Checkers.
Aaaah! 
I’m going to do something extraordinary next year. It’s the stuff organised housewives, savvy grannies and cheapskates do. I’m going to do my Christmas shopping in January, when all the unbought 2011 festive presents get chucked out for a quarter of the price.

Please wish me luck, I’m battling the Sandton germ fest this weekend …

My Indian preoccupation

I’m obsessed with all things Indian – the clothes, the weddings, the dancing, Bollywood, but especially the food. I think I could happily eat curries, tikka masalas, kormas and naan bread every day for the rest of my life. But I won’t, because I wouldn’t want this delicious, bold food to lose its appeal. 

The best Indian restaurant I’ve been to so far (unfortunately hasn’t been in India since I’ve yet to go) is in Sandton City, and is called The Raj. The greatest way to enjoy the food here is to order a bit of everything and share it among the table. The Raj has great atmosphere, amazing service, and the food is just out of this world! It’s a bit on the pricey side, so don’t feel bad for splashing out; it’s that good. 

Another Indian restaurant closer to home (as in a two-minute drive for me) is Shahi Khana in Norwood. It’s a quaint restaurant and take-away joint on the corner of Grant and William streets. The décor is bad, cheesy even, but the food is exquisite and doesn’t match the low prices. You can get a huge amount of chicken briani for under R60! It takes me two days to finish mine. Shahi Khana’s chicken tikka masala is almost orgasmic. I didn’t want to offer more than two bites away.

Go to http://www.therajrestaurant.com to find out more about The Raj,
and call 011 728 8157 for Shahi Khana.

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

It’s my birthday today! And I’m not that excited about it.

I’m now closer to 30 than 20, and that makes my breath get caught in my throat, and my heart flutter worriedly in my chest. You’ll roll your eyes and scoff at me, but birthdays haven’t been exciting for me since after I turned 21.

Growing up, all I ever wanted to be was 18. That way, I could drink legally, go to clubs without having to sneak out the window, and claim my adulthood with pride and entitlement.

Nineteen and 20 flew by unnoticeably in an always-half-drunk blur of varsity. Then came 21, with its big party that took three months to plan, involving a gold tutu and some drunk people resembling the likes of Tina Turner, Bob Marley and the pope.

In my old age I find I often forget how old I actually am. When I was 22 I received a call from an American summer camp, asking if I was interested in joining the team for a year. When asked how old I was, I matter-of-factly replied, “Oh, I’m 19!” Except I wasn’t. I’d just forgot I was actually 22.

So today is my birthday and I’m celebrating it with my CLEO team, eating baked goods and wallowing in my silly misery. At least I’ll always be more than a decade younger than BF!

What’s that I hear next door?

Three months ago I left quaint cottage life to join BF in his Big House. The worst of the noise interruptions I dealt with during cottage living were the usual suspects: dogs barking, house alarms going off [I’ll never forget the time the neighbour’s alarm bleeped for a week] and fighting cats.  

In Big House, things are a little different. The dogs still bark, the alarms still bleep, and the cats still fight, but these sounds are tolerable background fluff compared to the ones that now top the list.
One set of neighbours have what we think are Rastafarian / Wiccan / Voodoo spiritual evenings around a blazing bonfire every other Sunday evening. And by evening, I mean from 3pm to 9pm … At around 4pm, the monotonous banging on a drum begins. It’s not melodic; it’s not even trance-like. It’s just pure banging! Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong … for hours!? 

The chanting in an unrecognisable language begins. We surrender our sundowners on the patio and rush around to the dividing wall with wobbly green plastic chairs, in the hope that they’ll hoist us high enough to get a peak over the wall. I can’t reach. BF reaches high enough to just get his eyes over it. I try not to snort with laughter because he looks like Wilson from Home Improvement. Eyes as wide as saucers, BF launches off the chair, stumbling toward our overgrown rose bush, trying not to laugh or burst his spleen. “They’re naked! They’re dancing around the fire with spears!” We haven’t looked over the wall since. 

At least the fire dancers sing together. On the other side of the wall lives Midnight Karaoke Performer. The strange part is that we never hear the music she shouts along to, so she’s either busting out the chorus of every song she knows every two minutes, or hopefully, she’s dancing around the house with an iPod in her ears, oblivious to the volume of her voice, or the tuneless parade we have to endure for all hours of the night. 

Just recently, while enjoying a hot bath together, BF and I stopped dead in the suds to listen, wide-eyed in horror, to “From London to Africa … London to Africaaaaaa …” 

And just when you think it’s over, out comes Bad Romance by Lady Gaga, sounding very similar to the way the girl on the Sloggi advert, which sponsors 5FM’s Gareth Cliff’s Old School song of the day, sings it [wrong]. 

But who’s worse? Naked spear-holding fire dancers, midnight karaoke singers, or the people in the middle peeking over the wall and singing along?

What’s hot and happening in Jo’burg

Like you didn’t know, David Guetta is in SA and performing what’s expected to be a rocking live spectacular this Saturday at the Wild Water Complex in Jo’burg. Performing alongside him will be Akon and DJs Joe Bermudez and Jenny LaFemme. Jax Panik, Dean Fuel and Poppy Ntshongwana are representing the local flavour. Tickets start at R350, so go to Computicket.com and book quickly! 

For some more music shizz, hit Tanz Café tonight where aKING will be performing! These guys are making serious headway in the South African music industry, so get there to check them out live. Show starts at 20:15, tickets are R130 online and R150 at the door. 
Go to Tanzcafe.co.za for more info and directions to the venue. 

Photo credits: www.last.fm/

SA welcomes the Nokia N9.

Marko Ahtisaari

I was recently whisked away to Cape Town for the Nokia N9 launch, hosted by Marko Ahtisaari, head of global design at Nokia. And what a speaker! He pulled me into his presentation – which took place in a beautiful roof-top venue facing Table Mountain – with absolute awe. There’s someone who’s passionate about his trade. The phone is described as a “work-of-art” smartphone, with unique swipe technology and cutting-edge design.

Now, I’m no techy geek. I had to consciously hide my phone – a repertoire from the Ark – whenever someone called or SMSed (the only functions my beloved has) in fear that I’d be found out.  But I managed to negotiate my way around the N9 quite easily when given the chance to play with it, so I redeemed myself to any of the techno journalists who caught a glimpse of my personal museum piece. 

The event began with a beautifully choreographed dance group, who represented the similarities between dance and the ease of the phone. The champagne flowed like the easy conversation, and I had a blast.

The Nokia N9 is being launched in SA in November, and retails for around R6 000.
So, start saving.   Some of the features include:

• 8MP autofocus camera with high performance Carl Zeiss optics 
• Facebook and Twitter
• Bold all-screen design
• Body made of one piece with smooth shapes 
• Free turn-by-turn drive and walk navigation with voice guidance 
• Vivid 3.9” AMOLED screen brings brilliant colours and content right to the surface   

Jo’burg drivers need to keep calm and carry on.

I’m going to have a little rant. Every day for the past two weeks, I’ve encountered angry people driving recklessly on the roads. And it’s not even justified anger; it’s just utter rudeness and irritation. 

Just because I drive a 1992 Toyota Corolla (which I love, btw) does not mean you can drive aggressively up my rear end, flashing lights and flipping the bird, when I’m driving the Speed Limit! Remember that? The little practice that sets the rules for how fast you can drive on the roads, particularly in residential areas? 

It’s all kinds of people who drive like deranged lunatics as well. Old ladies (yes, they are often the worst!); young student boys pumping their bad music while smoking and hanging their skinny arms out the window; arrogant businessmen who think they’re more important than you in their stuffy suits; taxi drivers, oh taxi drivers; and koogals, who are usually too busy trying to SMS and drive, and/or are looking at themselves in their rearview mirror instead of at the road behind them. Oh, and mom drivers in big 4x4s, so harassed by the brats in the back seat that they take their anger out on me and poor Car. Sheesh. 

In Jo’burg there seems to be an unwritten rule that the more expensive your car, the more you can bully those who drive more ‘economical’ ones. There should be a disclaimer on their licenses then, I think. It could say something like [caveman speak], “Me have big car. Me drive like asshole.” 

Just this morning, while driving up Glenhove Road and travelling at the 60km/hour speed limit mind you, a large BMW came screaming up behind me, as if to say, “Go faster! How dare you obey the law and drive the speed limit! Can’t you see my big fancy car is on the road this morning? Move over, or better still, drive up onto the grassy pavement and make way for me and my sense of entitlement!” 

To make matters worse, I actually drove faster. BMW looked as though it was about to ram me right up the rear end then! When impatient BMW finally passed me, only to stop at the red robot at Oxford Road with all the other lesser urchins anyway, I was appalled to see the driver was a well-dressed old woman! The kind you might consider carrying a grocery bag across the street for. Well, I ain’t carrying your grocery bag ever you pompous ponce.