The charms (and the not-so charming) of market on main.

I recently got my latest fix of ‘indie-cool’ by visiting the Market on Main in the Maboneng Precinct. And I ’aint your typical indie child; in fact, far from it, but I couldn’t help revel in the flower power and free spirit that wafted through this trendy flea market. You can get anything there. From jewellery, bags and clothes – mostly things like haram pants, beach kaftans and woven hessian-looking things – to food, wine, art and sculptures; it’s a market like no other. Music pumps through the newly renovated warehouse, possibly sending subliminal messages to part with your cash at every stall, and the smells of boerie rolls and bunny chows at the outdoor section flirt with your nostrils. 


It’s an eclectic bunch who buy and sell there, and I like that. I appreciate a place where you can walk passed an interracial couple and not feel like the big fat, two-toned-shirt guy to your left is watching you to see if you’re ‘just as shocked as he is’. I like a place where my gay friends are as flamboyant as they are in their living rooms, and the girls with tattoos all over their bodies with beehive hairstyles and bright red lipstick blend in well, like good vodka to cranberry.

I was in a particularly experimental mood and wanted to try everything on offer, including the vegan chocolate mousse. It was gross. And not even mildly gross, or like, “Hmmm … that was interesting”. It was like, “Thank you, that tastes like mud and chick peas, and could be used as an organic torture technique to force information out of people” – that kind of gross.

But all my other gastronomic experiences where wonderful! Mutton samoosas, vegetable spring rolls, green Thai curries, mini lemon meringue pies, chocolate brownies (and probably the fun kind) were all ingested …

I also bought my first thrift-store item of clothing, which actually I’ve yet to try on. It’s a mid-calf, 50s-style, pleated red skirt with black polka dots, that’s actually two sizes too big for me. Okay, the hippie air might have got to my brain a bit, because it’s not exactly my style. But it cost R50! And therefore, had to be bought. My secret obsession with quantity-not-quality often gets the better of me, particularly when something is priced as low as Skirt was.

I’ll definitely go again. The vibrant inner city is the coolest place to be on a Sunday.

My new route home is pretty.

I recently moved from my much-loved Humble Abode [read: teeny-tiny garden cottage that took approximately 13 steps to cover from end to end] into BF’s generously larger, gorgeously renovated, 1940s House. A year of independence, albeit with my two cats to keep me company on the lonely nights, was enough for me to feel like I’d made my point that I could do it alone, and happily.

But there comes a time in life and in forward-moving relationships where you have to make the leap and shack up altogether.

But one thing I’ll miss is the seven-minute drive to work every day. My former home, Blairgowrie, is on CLEO’s doorstep, and that was the main feature pulling me to live there in the first place. Now, I replace my seven-minute hop, skip and jump with 30 minutes of marvelling at beautiful oak trees down Glenhove Road and the better part of Jan Smuts Avenue (while also concentrating on the road …). On my way home, I pass Zoo Lake – one of my current favourite spots to hang out in the sun on a lazy afternoon. I don’t mind the added travelling too much, because the beautiful scenery of Jo’burg, which so often gets overlooked on a stressful, traffic-filled drive to work, makes the extra time spent in the car more enjoyable.

A big plus of moving in with BF is how I no longer have to commute back and forth between his place and mine to feed cats, drop off dirty clothes, pick up new clothes, do laundry, fetch forgotten hairdryer, change bedding – the list goes on – and all in the fear of my old skedonk breaking down. Again.
Now, I can get up, go to work, visit the gym, and go Home. No more back-and-forthing! The simplicity of this detail honestly makes my life happier.

So, the next time you’re huffing and puffing about rambunctious taxis and stand-still traffic, have a look out your window and find something beautiful to appreciate on your way home. And if you can’t find anything, try a new route.

My favourite street.

After three weeks of painful separation, BF – who went to visit his home country of Mauritius – and I are finally reunited. And with nothing to do besides enjoy each other on Women’s Day, and do whatever I wanted for a change (since it was MY day after all) we set out for Parkhurst to go look at things for the house and get inspired.

That’s what I love about Parkhurst, particularly 4th Avenue. You don’t have to have a particular mission in mind; you can just start at one end of the street and move your way up, enjoying all the fantastical boutiques and décor shops until your man starts annoyingly pulling at your sleeve because he’s tired and wants a beer.

And then begins the next wonderful task of picking a restaurant to sit at. There are so many, and between BF and I, I don’t know who’s more indecisive. It’s like the blind leading the blind, up and down 4th Avenue, until someone starts to cry.

I think of Parkhurst as a little bit of Cape Town [I said little]. It’s other worldly – and you can do everything from decorate your house, antique it out, clothe shop, drop the kids off at art class, and eat ’till you can’t anymore. You can even go to church. And if you’re one of the really lucky ones who jumped on the real-estate bandwagon when the time was right, you can do all this, and then walk up the road to your quaint, ultra-stylish house.

One day I will live there. Watch this space.