In which I report back on yet another weekend. It's almost like I have superhuman reserves. Unfortunately not, dear friends, as you will soon come to realise. When I'm being airlifted to the nearest bottle store for immediate resuscitation.
I can't remember Friday.
But Saturday started off like Saturdays are MEANT to start. The neighbours removing (think Nicholas Cage saying "Face...OFF!") the entire facade of their house in order to build an extended carport. This required a number of large power tools and an inordinate amount of bashing stuff with sledgehammers. Oh yes, now I remember what happened on Friday night. I drank my body weight in wine whilst watching movies at home, preparing a particularly zesty hangover. Back to the neighbours. I am not allowed to be upset at their ungodly act of terrorism. Mainly because they have for 6 years put up with innumerable parties and band practices, not to mention my own renovations. So I reckoned - after unsuccessfully attempting to block out the thud and racket - to join them, since I wasn't beating them. I wondered out in the morning sunshine with my coffee and watched the demolition happen brick by painful brick, speculating how long it would take one of the flying chunks of plaster to hit my car...
Anyway, this was quickly interrupted when I was shaken from my reverie and realised I had an hour to be ready for the big day at the races. And I'm not talking about swanky outfits and "Move your bloomin' arse, Dover!" either. I'm talking about the thrill of avoiding the piles of tyres - the only thing between me and a concrete structure of certain death - whilst travelling with my arse 3 inches from the ground at a million miles an hour and wearing a hairnet. Add the most strenuous arm workout I've had since I was single and you have...
...Go Karting!
Gathering at the Kenilworth Ring Of Death, erm, Go Karting place, I eagerly parted with the national debt of Somalia and drew numbers to find myself not only at the back of the starting grid, but only in the second heat as well. After watching the first batch of my friends have the life-threatening time of their lives and taking notes on how to take corners, I donned the helmet the fine establishment had kindly donated to me and thanked them for the hairnet. Lice, it seems, were very much a possibility. As was the shocking revelation that if you neglected to tuck your hair INTO your helmet, you ran a serious risk of being scalped if it got caught in the rear axle. Apparently there is a documented case of this having happened. Filled with horror now, on top of shitting myself at the prospect of moering into a wall and being told that I couldn't have a quick pre-race beer, I revved up Kart Number 4 and settle in at the start. Apparently when the lights go green you're supposed to be looking up and taking notice and not concerning yourself with the child's seat biting into your hip. So it was off to a bad start. After a while I seemed to get the hang of it and started to enjoy myself, taking in the sights and sounds at a leisurely pace. No sooner had I gotten used to the decibel level, the steering wheel that wouldn't turn and the overpowering au-de-petrol, than I was overtaken by a small Mancunian fucking maniac who seemed hell bent on killing himself and all others on the track. Being shaken from my lethargy I decided to concentrate on the hairnet in front of me (belonging in this case to TDB) and making a fist of it. Successfully avoiding crashing and any altercation of any kind (I let the faster guys pass me the same way I avoided the "ruck" in grad 1 rugby) I eventually finished. In tact. Although I was the only competitor among our friends that didn't stall I still managed to come stone last overall. A success in my book, since I had visions of blood splattered remains having to be identified by their dental records before I started. It was - in the end - thoroughly enjoyable, but I think it's safe to conclude that I'm no motorsports enthusiast. Besides, the look of grim determination and enjoyment on Commander Conker's face was what it was all about.
On to the rugby at the Tafelberg Tavern. Now this is more like it! Booze on tap and a nice chilled atmosphere. THIS is a sport I can say I rather enjoy. Spectator!
Adjourning to the home of Commander Conker and Rose Thorn, we were treated to a delightful Spaghetti Bolognaise, the same as I had made on Thursday, had had for leftovers on Friday and was to have last night as well. If I SEE another tomato based pasta sauce...!
Then, after a brief trip home to change into our fancy clothes, it was off to Van Hunks for the 30s Gangster themed birthday party of Up Side Down Girl. I love Van Hunks. Like I love wearing a broken glass catheter. Anyway, despite myself I was having fun, mainly because The Hot Girlfriend was there and the designated driver...
Sunday was earmarked for staying beneath the covers and making the most of a dreary day and one of the last before an extended study hiatus. Obviously it was one of the nicest days of the year and we found ourselves at Dune's in Hout Bay along with the rest of the delinquents for the birthday celebration of Slappy. Fun was had, drinks flowed and I came home with a Jose Cuervo straw hat. Tarty Farty Tequila Party was there. She sat next to some bird who, get this!... claimed not to know what tea-bagging is. I sent her this link.
Anyway, here we are, back at the grindstone, earning a living and whatnot. Tonight it's band practice again and Rose Thorn's turn to cook. Oh please, let it not be bolognaise related!
Enjoy this beautiful Monday, people!
NGDG: "Here's a failsafe way to extend your weekend by at least half an hour: buy your beer on Thursday."
Spread The Love. Dunk. Dunk. Dunk.
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