Verbal Diarrhoea

There comes a time in every parents' life (of this I'm convinced) that one makes the discovery that there is only one way to cope. Two solitary words that, on any given day, have the power to cause mass joy to surge through the average woman's body. Two little words: red wine.

I know this because as I type, I have four bottles of the finest (cheapest - per kind understanding favour of The Incubator) dumped in a large vase, out of which stick a handful of left-over-from-The-Daughter's-birthday-party multi-coloured straws, through which I am guzzling the crimson stuff. The next best option, I fear, would be warm gin.

You see the thing that they don't tell you at ante-natal classes is that once the changing of nappies is over, and once the cracked nipples and breast dependency ceases, you'll be left with a human: one with a vocabulary, a will, a sense of humour (thankfully). One who likes to talk.

A lot.

It all started - the verbal diarrhoea, that is; not the talking - at 5.08 am on Monday morning. This troubles me especially since I have taken great pride in the fact that, up until Monday, The Daughter was a late riser. But it appears that, with the onset of the discovery that she is able to speak, at speed, without drawing breath for a good 120 minutes on the go, she no longer requires as much shut-eye. I'm shattered.

The Pant: (dreaming of interactions with Patrick Lambie - and not the verbal kind - begins to rouse. Her eyes flicker as consciousness ousts state of euphoria. Begins to open eyes and first sight is of five-year-old angel child but millimetres from her face, breathing the thickness of morning breath) Morning, my angel.

The Daughter: So-Mommy-you-know-I-haven't-stopped-thinking-about-the-hamster-at-Calvin's-house-and-I-really-want-a-hamster-and-actually-I-want-three-hamsters-and-I'm-going-to-call-them-Lily-and-she's-going-to-be-the-queen-and-then-Grace-that's-the-next-one-she's-going-to-be-a-baby-but-they're-all-going-to-be-babies-and-anyway-we're-just-going-to-pretend-so-Lily-can-be-the-queen-and-Grace-can-be-the-princess-and-ooooooo-I'm-going-to-dress-her-in-a-beautiful-pink-ball-gown-and-then-Max-is-going-to-be-the-prince-and-I'm-going-to-look-after-them-because-you-got-scared-when-we-were-at-Calvin's-party-do-you-remember-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom-do-you?-do-you-remember?

I felt as though I'd been bludgeoned half to death by the power of word. Reeling, I made my way to the kitchen: breakfast, I thought, may cause momentary silence - provided, at least, by the swallowing of chocolate Wheetbix.

Not so.

The Daughter: (chew)and-Mom-you-don't-have-to-worry-about-a-thing-not-a-single(swallow)-little-thing-because-I'm-a-big-girl-because(chew)-I'm-five-which-is-the-same-as-five-and-a-half-and-at-my-next(swallow)-birthday-I'm-going-to-be-six-and-when-I'm-six-I'm-going-to-be-so-big-that-I'm-going-to-become-queen-and-then-I'll-feed-my-hamsters(chew)-and-I'll-bath-them-in-the-bath-with-me-is-that-okay-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mommy?-Is(swallow)-that-okay-to-you-know-bath-with-my-hamsters?Mom-is-it?-Can-I-can-I-can-I-PLEASE?

After answering fundamental questions regarding the correct methods for raising polite hamsters (including 1. Can hamsters go to boarding school like Cat when we go on holiday?; 2. How big are hamsters' toothbrushes because hamsters should brush their teeth because they are NOT going to be naughty like Cat who doesn't brush his teeth which is just scusting?; 3. Don't you just love hamsters?; and 4. Can we please get hamsters with babies in their tummies even the boys?), I decided to seek respite in the shower.

Because my me-time had been stolen by The Daughter's larynx, I chose to take my morning tea into the shower, and extend my allocated cleansing time just a smidgen.

With only the sound of drumming water, my brain began to acclimatise. I started thinking my normal 5-in-the-morning thoughts like, 'What am I going to wear today?'; 'What are The Daughter's after-school commitments?'; (brief visual of Jake Gyllenhall in most compromising position) 'What am I going to make for lunches?'; 'Is there bread?', when The Daughter opened the shower door enough to squish her face in to begin the verbal torrent again.

The Daughter: Is-today-a-hair-washing-day-for-you-Mom?-Mom?-Mom?-Is-it?-I-don't-like-washing-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-the-shampoo-goes-in-my-eyes-and-it-hurts-but-when-I'm-six-I-will-only-wash-my-hair-in-the-shower-because-that's-what-big-girls-do-and-Mom-Mom-Mom-can-I-wash-my-hamsters-hair?-Do-hamsters-even-have-hair?-Or-is-it-like-Cat's-hair-which-isn't-really-hair-it's-actually-called-fur-even-though-it-leaves-bits-of-hair-on-my-bed-when-he-sleeps-with-me? Oh-Mom-Mom-Mom-

Two hours later, we found ourselves securely strapped into Brumelda en route to school/school (as it happens to be).

The Pant: (turning the radio up to figure out if WeatherSA had been truthful about the day's weather, and whether or not there'd be any accidents on my drive)


The Daughter: So-Mom-do-you-think-my-hamsters-will-be-able-to-come-to-swimming-lessons-with-me-I'm-sure-Uncle-Swimming-Man-won't-mind-and-then-we-can-get-a-pool-and-our-hamsters-won't-drown.Oh-won't-it-be-lovely-when-we-have-a-pool.My-hamsters-are-so-cute-don't-you-think-Mom-Mom-Mom-Mom?

The hamsters we don't own? I feel I know them biblically.

And so I drink this wine without an iota of guilt. And for this I can be eternally grateful to The Daughter.

Quarts, Sambuca & A Twenty Year Old.

It's always a bit of a gamble when you've spent a good three months building up the reputation of a place to your friends, when you actually decide to take them to said place.  I've spent hours of break time explaining the ins and outs of the infamous Pan and Kettle to my colleagues.  I wasn't sure whether they believed the truth about its Madam, but I am no liar, and so was sticking to my guns.

It just so happened, however, that on Friday night I had the opportunity to share its glory with some of my friends.  Boy oh boy - do they believe me now.  And further, if there were any cobwebs cluttering our brains, they're well and truly blown away.

Girls' Night, we called it.  And 8 of the most mismatched women huddled around The Incubator's dining room table, fervently drinking red wine (the sole purpose of which was to stave away the cold) and eating homemade pies (my mother is, by all accounts, the most gifted chef in the world).  The plan was to move on to the dodgy pub with its toilet in a tent on the side of the road and a madam who thinks that the world 'class' refers to a room in which teaching takes place.

The wine lubricated quickly and within an hour of gathering, the word fuck was being bandied around with such ease that The Father - who hadn't cracked the nod but was rather required to mind The Daughter - was walking around with eyes like those of a deer caught in headlights.

And then we descended.

The women of Durban immediately began laughing.  Out loud.  A lot.  At everything.  Its decor (red and yellow balloons in the shape of little heads with ears), its clientelle (particularly the raggamuffin dressed in bona fida cargo trousers and a fawn checked shirt with... I think they were once sneakers), its musical accompaniment (a tone deaf stoner called Neil with a real Red Indian from Red India on the harmonica) and its owner-cum-barlady-cum-security-company.

This woman is to be admired, really.  I mean she built the bar herself (including the semi-permanent tent structure that houses the toilet on the side of the road), she lives inside the bar to protect it from criminals.  She hires noone to assist her.  Should a patron require a meal, she is more than prepared to duck out back to the garden, fire up a camping stove, and cook on the fire.

But her dress!  Good God, it felt like Back To The Future Into a Rick Ashley Music Video.  Short dress, (no bra - because bikini tops are far more supportive), fuck me boots, and wind swept hair.  Big time 80's style.  Like it stood out at least fifteen centimetres on the side.  Kind of like this:

but not as neat.  Ah she was a treat indeed.

Upon arrival, the one colleague insisted on standing outdoors for a cigarette.

The Pant:  Why are you standing out here in the freezing cold?

The Colleague:  Oh Pant, I'm just dying for a ciggie.  I'll be in in a sec.

TP:  Come on in, girlfriend.

TC:  But I'm smoking.

TP:  And you're expected to smoke indoors.

After our eyes had grown accustomed to all that surrounded us, The Girls and I took to the "dancefloor" - there was a floor, and the moves we made may have looked like dancing if you yourself had a sight impediment - to attempt to gyrate to hip current songs by The Doors and Eagle Eye Cherry (Oh, were we "save(ing) tonight" and "fight(ing) the break of dawn" like it was nobody's business) and whilst doing so, I happened to trip over a young boy child - all of twenty years old - attempting to rhytmically pound on a pair of bongo drums.  He was cute - I thought, although I cannot be held responsible for my thoughts after those icy quarts and delicious sambuca shots.

The Pant:  Why hello, little boy (I said this while bending down with hands on knees as though speaking to the dog of someone who is really into dogs)

Young Boy Child:  Hi!

Young Boy Child and I hit it off immediately.  I enquired about his general education (limited) and work prospects (none), but he was cute - in a Patrick Lambie kind of way - and he thought that he'd hit the jackpot for having found an older woman in possession of a car and more than R30 to her name.

And I've got to tell you, the attention did not go amiss.

Young Boy Child and I had a whale of a time, until some of the other patrons decided to kick in a panel of the neighbouring shop and jump on top of the basin in the ladies', causing The Madam to lose her sense of cool and threaten to destroy us each individually with blunt teaspoons and arsenic.  When that happened, The (sober) Incubator fished me out of the pub by the ear and promptly deposited me in the back of my car.  And drove me home.

But Young Boy Child had found love.  True love.  And so continued his quest to actualise said love per telephone.


Young Boy Child:  Hey babe.

(If you know me at all, you'll know that 'babe' aka 'pig in the city' is my least favourite term of endearment)

The Pant: It's Pant.

YBC:  I forgot your name (extended stoned laughter)

TP:  Well, it's Pant.  Same as it was at the pub.

YBC:  (extended stoned laughter)  So am I going to see you again?

TP:  I'm kind of busy for the next three to six months.

YBC:  Cool.  So can I see you then?

TP:  Did I say three to six months?  I meant years, Pet.

YBC:  And when you're free, are we gonna like, actually like hook up like?

TP:  Like what does hook up mean?

YBC:  Like you know like like like kiss and stuff?

TP:  Like, I'm not like sure that we're you know like destined to be together.  But we'll see.  In three to six years, of course.

YBC:  Uh...(stoner's tone) Where?

TP:  I'm not really sure.  It's still a while away.

YBC:  No like ahwe.

TP:  Huh?

YBC:  It means like I'm really happy like.  But you wouldn't know that because you're old.

TP:  Pardon?

YBC:  No.  You're not like old and wrinkly old you're like old and not young old.

TP:  I've got to go.

YBC:  My airtime's going to run out anyway.  But I'll call you this we----

Old?  Ahwe indeed.

The God Mother.

Last weekend, while celebrating The Incubator's birthday (again?? how many is the woman going to have?) by steadily ploughing my way through bottle after bottle of wine, Good Friend who has recently been part and parcel of the creation and birth of Extra Flipping Cute Small Size Someone, asked me a question. As the answering of questions go, I'm pretty swift, if not wordy. This time, however, my response came with the speed of, well, a sloth. I think it was a combination of over indulgence and incredulity.

My exact position, despite a seriously fuzzy head, remains imprinted on my mind. I was on The Parental Unit's verandah, trying desperately to work out a way in which to unzip the skin on my back, so I could capitalise the skin-surface-area-to-direct-heater-warmth-ratio. (My body, in its entirety, is far more evolved than the average body - each body part seems to have developed feelings. Thus, for example, if I find myself with back to fire, the front of me gets jealous. I think the front of me is sulking, in fact - the boobs they are adrooping.)

The Incubator: So, Good Friend, have you set a date for the Christening?

Good Friend: Next weekend.

The Pant: Glug glug (it's not in brackets because I was drinking with such determination that the sound of it was as audible as my spoken voice, which is pretty effing loud.)

The Incubator: Oh, so soon? And have you chosen godparents?

GF: Well, we've discussed it between ourselves, but haven't asked them yet.

TI: Who've you chosen?

GF: My brother and ... Pant. If that's alright with you, Pant?

TP: (with red wine now dripping from nostrils and eyes the size of a rhino's ashtrays) Pardon?

TI: Oh, she's definitely free. Of course she'd love to.

TP: Love to?

GF: Great. Put on your most pious face. If you can.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm honoured beyond honoured - as I have been when selected to become responsible for the spiritual (and no, that has nothing to do with cane or vodka) well-being of my other Godchildren. It's just that I'm beginning to wonder how it is that there are now three different sets of parents out there with so little sense as to choose me to guide - so to speak - their children to God.

I think, really, it's because there are six individual adults out there who have, on their occasions, hidden themselves in and around a particular shop, in anticipation of my adverse reaction.

It starts with the name: Cum Books. Really? A Christian bookstore? Um... Besides feeling quite baffled - I mean, I'm sure the Christians must have known which 'cum' they were referring to when they chose the spelling - it kind of sticks in my throat. (No pun intended.). But to the think of my God in that way just makes me feel a touch uneasy. I'm Catholic, for crying out aloud. We believe in conception without the act of sex.

The Pant: Pardon me? Would you mind helping me?

Christian Book Boy: I am a servant of the Lord, Child of God.

TP: Pardon?

CBB: I am a serv-

TP: No. I heard what you said. I just wondered why you called me 'Child of God'.

CBB: Because you are God's child. Isn't it great?

TP: Yes. As are you?

CBB: I am. Amen.

TP: As is that person over there?

CBB: Yes.

TP: And that one?

CBB: Yes.

TP: And that one?

CBB: Yes.

TP: And that one?

CBB: Yes.

TP: As is that person, standing outside the shop who clearly is not Christian?

CBB: Yes.

TP: So what you basically called me is 'person'?

CBB: I suppose so.

TP: Don't you think you should show a person who is about to spend money in your store a little more respect?

CBB: I'm sorry: Can I help you, Ma'am?

TP: Say it again.

CBB: (Now a touch confused) Can I help you, Ma'am?

TP: Why, thank you. Do you have any Catholic merchandise?

CBB: (With that raised and drawn eyebrow expression that indicates the stifling of a laugh) I'm sorry, Ma'am, but this is a CHRISTIAN bookstore.

After explaining to the confused youth that, in fact, Catholicism IS Christianity, we perused the bibles on offer. I declined the retincular Bible - I'm a little old-fashioned that way - and settled on a pretty white leather-bound Bible; one that reminds me of the Bible I got for my Baptism.

We headed to the checkout counter and I handed over my card.

CBB: Do you have a 'Good Blessings' card?

Really?

The Food Good and Shwine Sow.

It was Thursday.  The Good Food and Wine Show was on.  And, if you know anything about me at all, you'll know that, apart from The Daughter, Good Food and Good Wine are my two most favourite things in the world.  And so, accompanied by The Daughter, The Incubator, The BF and Carlos, and in possession of a stomach that had not been fed since the morning, I trundled on down to The Durban Exhibition Centre.

My first stop:  the tent that sells tasting glasses.

My second stop:  the stall that has those delicious olives, tepanades and olive oils.

The Pant: (placing glasses down with gay abandon to assist in shovelling as much food into mouth as possible) I've never had an olive before.  I best try one.

The Olive Guy:  What?  I don't believe it!  You've never had an olive before?

TP:  (Yes!  Works everytime.)  No.  I've had a difficult childhood.  Didn't have things around the house like olives.  But I'm working at making something of my life.  And I think food is the perfect platform.  (Foodies eat that shit up as though it were drizzled in truffel oil.)

I then embarked on tasting trickery of the finest display.  While The Olive Guy was watching I'd say things like, "Oh no.  I've already tried the aubergine and thyme infused olives.  I couldn't possibly have another," and while his back was turned, I'd grab whole handfuls of the exact aubergine and thyme infused olives, stuff them into my mouth and then busy myself "looking for my wallet" while attempting to remove pips (or bones, as The Daughter calls them) using the dexterity of my tongue, chew and swallow in a most circumspect manner.

The BF:  Have you tried this corriander and chilli tepanade?

The Pant:  (attempting to swallow huge mouthful of biscuit and chewed corriander and chilli tepanade) No.  (swallow swallow).  Is it lovely?

TBF:  It is.  You should try some.

TP:  Oh, alright then.

My third stop: the very cleverly packaged and mighty delicious chocolate buttons (70% cocoa for the win) stall.  A more difficult one to master, but not one beyond me.

The Chocolate Lady:  .... so I decided to package the chocolate in this manner to assist in baking.

TP:  Very clever indeed.  I am most impressed.

TCL:  And we have customers from all over the world.  I just sent a shipment out to Canada.

TP:  (slightly overdone) I.  Don't.  Believe.  It.  Have you got any samples?

TCL:  Well, I'm not really doing samples, but I'll give you a taste.

Nibble nibble. 

TP:  I'm not quite sure which one I prefer.  Can I taste the bitter one again please?

TCL:  Um.  Sure.  But before you do, how about the sugar-free?

TP:  No point really.  I mean isn't sugar-free chocolate kind of like kissing your brother?

I didn't get anymore samples out of Chocolate Lady after that.

I also learned to team fairly diverse flavours at this exhibition.  I mean, who would've thought granadilla cupcakes and draft would go together?  This, of course was a kind of fusion of flavour created by yours truly.  Given, of course, that the delectable Robinson's ale stall was directly opposite unbelievably cute cupcakes.

My will-power is limited.

This was made even more evident when I stumbled upon a little restaurant that served champagne by the glass - makes you feel like you're spending less even if you do end up drinking eight glasses in quick succession - and oysters.  Fresh meaty ones.  Delivered directly from Heaven to the show, I imagine, mere moments before sliding down my throat.

I do not suggest anyone drink eight glasses of champagne before a) buying decorations for one's child's birthday cake or b) ordering a Green Mamba from a little hottie hot pants young enough to be your son.

The Pant:  I've never had any alcohol in my life before.  And I want to live a little.  Would you recommend starting one's drinking career with Green Mamba?

Hottie Hot Pants Young Enough To Be My Son: Well, it's cane and creme soda, so it tastes just like Lecol Squeezie Juice.

(Cane.  Creme soda.  The Pant.  Scene.)

TP:  Oh, go on.  Let me have a try.

(sip sip)

TP:  I'm sorry, but the flavours didn't quite reach the back of my palate.  Still the champagne - er - infused truffle oil I'm tasting.  Could a I try another?

(sip sip)

TP:  Hottie Hot Pants, you look really sexy when you pour from that bottle.  Could I sample it again?

After 47 tots of delicious radness that tasted more like more than I've ever tasted before, I took out my wallet for a roadie:

TP: (addressing Carlos and The Incubator - The BF was driver) You guys keen on a roadie?

Carlos and The Incubator: (in unison) Oh, go on.

TP:  Can I have three of those bad dogs to go, please.  Darling.

And then I threw Hottie Hot Pants a smile dug out from the depths of my lustful soul.  And as he cracked the bottle, Hottie Hot Pants sprayed himself in the face.

It's great to know I still have that effect on some men.

A Quart With The Incubator.

When The Incubator gets excited, it's truly a sight to behold. I don't know whether it's because she married young and missed out on her jolling days, or whether it's in her genetic make-up, but mention a good time, and she's all over it like wet spaghetti. (I imagine it's the latter, if this whole 'cut from the same cloth' theory holds any weight. Given, of course, that I quite like a good time. Although it must be noted, I'm not a 'good time girl' - ask Rugby Boy.)

So last night, The Daughter and I went on a wee date. We've spent a lot of time with The Parental Unit of late, and if I'm entirely honest, I get a little irritated playing the second fiddle. It seems to always be, "Oh, Granddaughter, come and snuggle with Granny," and, "Why don't you and I leave Mom to relax and go out for milkshakes?" Not to mention, "Mom's always in a bad mood, isn't she?". (For the record, I am seldom in a bad mood. The only time, really, that my mood could be considered bad, is when people say things like, 'Mom's so grumpy, Mom's in a bad mood'. That's enough to cause a release of steam from the ear valve - note 'valve', not 'valva').

The Pant: I'm taking The Daughter to the movies tonight. Do you want to come?

The Incubator: No thanks. But I would like to go to a pub near the movies with The Beautician and drink an excessively large amount of wine and have you drive me home.

TP: Right.

Movies with my girl was super. Half way through Cars 2 (our options were limited), we gave up on the whole two people to two seats ratio, and she snuggled onto my lap and we watched the rest of the film covered in pop corn and love. So much pop corn, in fact, that when I removed my boots (new, bought en route to movies when realised the gaping mouth looking of the left one made me look as though was raised shopping in Walmart) there was enough pop corn to sit through a screening of Gone With The Wind plus intermission.

But it's The Incubator who needs focus at this juncture. I picked her up, banged up the heater and headed to the homestead aka middle earth. Seriously, The Parental Unit's suburb is the coldest place on earth. It rivals Poland. I fear after having spent an extended period of time there, that my ovaries may have solidified and may yield - if ever I get the chance again - part-human-part-milkshake.

So, we were en route to their home, The Daughter and my teeth were chattering such that I feared expensive dentist runs, and The Incubator was chatting away with the comfort that the lubrication of wine alone can bring.

The Incubator: My darling,-

The Pant (addressing The Daughter): Babes, Granny is talking to you.

The Daughter: Yes, Granny?

TI: No, I'm talking to you.

TP: Me?

TI: Yes, you.

TP: But you said 'my darling'.

TI: That's you.

TP: But you never ca-

TI: Oh. Stop with the wounded child persona. I like you. There.

TP: It's just a bit of a shock, Mom.

TI: Get over yourself. We can be friends.

TP: No, we can't.

TI: Why?

TP: Friends talk about sex. I'm not talking sex with you - ever.

TI: But we can go for a drink, can't we?

TP: Are you trying to tell me that I'm your favourite daughter?

TI: After your brothers, yes.

TP: So, I'm your third favourite daughter?

TI: Yes, I mean no. I mean. Ah, can't we go for a drink, Pant?

TP: We can go for a drink. (Thinks a little) You know, I've always felt that they were quite feminine.

TI: Who?

TP: My brothers.

TI: They're not. Apart from the fact that The Brother wears eye cream, of course.

TP: Hmmmm...

TI: Let's go for a drink.

TP: Okay. But where?

TI: I really want to take you to the Pan & Kettle.

TP: Not the place where the lady sleeps on the bar to protect it from criminals?

TI: Yup.

TP: Where they only serve quarts?

TI: Uh-huh.

TP: Where the toilet is in a tent?

TI: That's the one.

TP: The same lady who pees herself while riding her bicycle around the village?

TI: You got it.

TP: The one that says 'fuck' a whole bunch more than me?

TI: The same one.

TP: More than you?

TI: That's her.

TP: The one who-

TI: You know where I'm talking about. Now do you want to go or don't you?

TP: I don't know.

TI: Don't be such a spoilt sport, Pant.

TP: What about The Daughter? I. Am. Not. Taking. Her. There.

TI: I've already asked Dad to look after her.

TP: Have you got hand sanitiser in your bag?

TI: I do.

TP: K. Let's do it.

We got to the homestead, I tucked The Daughter into bed, forced myself to have a wee (I did not want to find myself desperate for relief in Narnia and have to sit on a solid ice toilet seat in a tent on the side of the road). And just as we were leaving

TI: Pant, won't you phone The Beautician and ask her if she wants to come.

TP: Okay. (Dial number. Ring ring.)

The Beautician: Hi, Pant.

TP: Hi Beaut. The Incubator and I are going to the Pan & Kettle for a drink. Do you want to come?

TB: Oh shame, have you?

TP: Have I what?

TB: I'm sure I've got face wash in stock. Shall I bring it round now?

TP: What?

TB: I'm sure The Husband won't mind, silly billy. Let me just ask him (addressing husband) Husband, Pant has run out of face wash and is having a bit of a hectic break-out. Do you mind if I pop over and drop some off with her?

TP: I AM NOT HAVING A BREAKOUT!

The Husband of Beautician: Of course not.

TB: See, I told you he wouldn't mind.

TP: So I'll see you at the pub.

TB: Perfect. I'll be at your mom's house in 10.

And that, my friends, is why I found myself huddled around something akin to a fire in a barrel with a Castle Lite quart (R21) in hand last night. And a merry little pub it is. After a quart.  As in life, most things are better after a quart.

City Lawyer Chunders After Tornado.

In light of the fact that my world had been rocked off its axis - and not in a good way - at the malicious thievery of Wanda, The Incubator felt The Daughter and I needed a little cheering up. This after she'd spent the day hyperventilating at my imminent poverty.

The Incubator: Car repayments?!? Have you thought about that?

The Pant: You know I didn't choose to have my car stolen, Mom?

TI: I wonder. You're just going to have to shave off all areas of your budget.

TP: I guess that means less clothes shopping.

TI: Damn bloody right. Less clothes shopping. Less food shopping. Less everything shopping.

TP: Less food shopping? How so? You know I only cook for two weeks of the month.

TI: Well. Less lunch then.

TP: Are you suggesting I give up the midday meal?

TI: It's a start.

TP: I'm not giving up lunch, Mom.

TI: Well, enough of this fancy cooking then.

TP: Fancy cooking? Like spaghetti bolog-

TI: Stews. With chuck. Each meal under twenty.

TP: (incredulous) Chuck?

TI: And enough of this "I only drink fresh full cream milk in my tea" bullshit.

TP: I do only drink full cream mi-

TI: It's powdered milk for you, girlie.

I knew better than to argue. The Incubator and I have, as far as my personal relationships go, shared a pretty damn long one. As a result of this, I know her fairly well. And it is thus that I knew that a mood of this nature only has a life-span of exactly one day.

So, by the Saturday, the suggestion was that we'd do a family outing at The Royal Show. For those of you who've had the misfortune of growing up in Pietermaritzburg, you'll know that the city's annual calendar has one highlight (and one highlight only): The Royal Show.

The Daughter, The Father, The Incubator and I hopped in her Silver Bullet - scarved and gloved and Ugg booted up - and made our way to this gaudy festival of lights and poorly amplified (but super effing loud) doef-doef music. Our destination: The Fun Fair.

The Daughter is a bit of a daredevil. Likes speed. Wants to go on the biggest, flashiest, scariest rides. While I'm more of a carousel person, she's all about The Breakdancer, The Tornado and The Free Faller. Incidentally, it was The Tornado that she insisted on riding first.

Picture, if you will, a round cage. Its "riders" stand therein, with their backs against the cage wall. The cage then spins so fast that the riders are pushed outwards, against the cage wall by some kind of centrifugal force. And then the cage tilts, while spinning, at 45 degrees.

"Don't worry, I'll take her," I told The Parental Unit as I ushered The Daughter onto The Cotch Vessel. "I don't think you guys would enjoy this bad dog."

They're in the habit of waiting until a ride is at bursting capacity before starting it, are those ride operators. We were chained in, chatting in eager excitement when The Father bounded up the ride steps to take his place beside us.

The Father: Chain me in, Pant. The catch on this one is broken.

The Daughter: Oooooo Crannpa! Yipeeeee!

(The man is certainly not renowned for his stomach of steely constitution.)

The Pant: Dad, I'm not sure this is such a great idea.

The Father: Stop being such a killjoy, Pant. Your old dad used to be somewhat of an adrenalin junkie in his day. This ride? Piece of old cake.

TP: Um. With respect, Dad, I daresay that today, as in this very day, is no longer your day.

TF: Watch yourself, Pant. I may have grey hair in a Richard Geere distinguished kind of way, but I'm not too old to go on a silly little fairground ride with my granddaughter.

TP: But, Dad, it's not even my day anymore. It's a bit more The Daughter's day than it is anyone else's.

TF: I'm going on this ride, okay? No 'ifs', no 'buts'. Believe it. Because it's true.

I found said ride bloody fucking awful. The spinning and the nausea was worse than any post-jol one-leg-on-the-floor-and-a-hand-on-the-wall experience I can remember.

Apparently, The Father's adrenalin days are over too. As the ride ended:

TF: Get me (mock charge) out of this fucking ride immediately!

I left The Daughter chained up while I tried to free The Father (I wasn't having her spew-drenched - least of all in that icy weather). He was a time bomb of chunder, and every attempt to unchain him was met with a mock charge. I envisaged myself being soaked in second hand lunch.

After finally undoing the chain, and setting the old boy loose, he was held up by children - dawdling with excited discussions regarding their flight of fantasy. He responded to their slow movements with, "Hurry the fuck up you little shit faced pizza heads. Before I let (mock charge) rip on all of you."

The youths parted like the proverbial red sea with such alacrity that their movements caused a vacuum that whooshed The Father to the safety of a wheelie bin. Upon which he leant and performed a classy act of counter-peristalsis.

I'm waiting for the newspaper headline: City Lawyer Chunders After Tornado.

Hey, Dad. How does that saying go? Is it 'I told you so'?

xxx

The Election Day Memoir.

If you got the "Hello Mr/Mrs ... (Say voter's surname) my name is ... (Say own name) calling from The DA campaign offices in Howick (don't judge). This is just a courtesy call to remind you that today is election day and that your nearest polling station is open until 7pm" phone call on Wednesday, it was probably me.

If I'd answered said call from self, I may have responded in manner of, "Do you think, dear, that I am a total arsehole? Because I woke up this morning and didn't get up, on a day when I ordinarily would have had to. You know, what with work and all. But I thank you for thinking that I may be living under a stone. Such a compliment."

(If I'd gone on with the script, whilst talking to myself, I would have had myself booked.)

So when a cheap Samsung was thrust into my hand at 630 (a-effing-m), I envisaged the worst: angry public holiday drunkards disillusioned by poor service delivery (yes, I learnt about that yesterday) telling me to get knotted. It's not that I'm a meek push-over who needs constant backing up. It is, in fact, that my personality is an entity of quite a contrary nature. It likes to challenge. This could, I foresaw, pose problems. Given that I was also raised by a mother whose vocabulary was seriously influenced by a seven-year career in politics. (I will never forget being a fresh-faced fourteen-year old private school snob and overhearing my mother having a telephone conversation - or telecon as she buzzworded at the time - with a colleague. She had heard some god-awful news to which she exclaimed, "Fuck me gently" - each syllable perfectly enunciated. My posse was not yet au fair with expletives. Although, we had started experimenting with them. Four-lettered words were just not a common currency in our schoolgirl banter. One friend was so poor in this department that she couldn't quite grasp the concept that the past tense of 'shit' is 'shat'. She used to say things like, "My mom shitted all over me last night.". And I was more concerned about her grammatical error than the fact that her mother had actually defecated onto her. Which, if you think about it, is pretty damn siff. But I digress...)

Yup, I was worried: Me + my often unsavoury diction + rude people = recipe for fucking disaster.

And said disaster started pretty early on.

The Incubator: (pointing) That's your team leader.

The Pant: My WHAT?

TI: Your t-

TP: I heard what you said. Let's just not make matters any worse by giving him any kind of title, okay? I am not led. I am illeadable, okay?

At which point Team Leader, glanced across at me, and began violently tapping at his watch.

The Pant: Oh pick a hand pal, and go fu-

The Incubator: (with both hands covering my mouth, so that I was now looking like someone who'd partaken in a chubby bunny contest) Not yet, Pant. Keep it cool.

Not much later, did the first list of twenty confirmed voters come through. Team Leader became seriously light in the loafers with excitement. It was as though his sphincter had retracted on itself and was placing an arousing amount of pressure on his prostate. He skipped through the office, employing an hysterical tone, yelping, "They've voted. They've voted."

Ah, a truly spectacular sight.

And then I made my eleven thousandth call.

The Pant: Hello Mr/Mrs ... (Say voter's surname) my name is ... (Say own name) calling from The DA campaign offices in Howick. This is just a courtesy ca-

Rude Man: This is the fourth call I've received this week. And if I hear from you lot again, I will be voting for someone else.

TP: Ah, so you've never travelled beyond the borders of Howick, then?

RM: Pardon?

TP: (speaking slowly as though conversing with one whose first language is not English) Have. You. Ever. Been. To. Cape. Town?

RM: I have. And I don't like your tone, girly.

(If Rude Man hadn't pissed me off already, he had to add the "girly" - Cock. Sucker.)

TP: Excuse me?

RM: I don't like your tone. Girly.

TP: Alright, listen to me, you close-minded bigotted fuckstick. If you have been to Cape Town, you will know that voting for The DA will provide you, in this area, effective service delivery. Which will increase the value of your house. So go and vote. Now.

RM: I like your conviction.

TP: I don't give a fuck what you like or ... Oh! Thank you.

RM: (chuckle chuckle).

TP: Thank you Mr (say voter's surname). We appreciate your support. Enjoy the rest of your day off.

But my finest, finest, finest moment of the day was when I telephoned Mrs Govender.

The Pant: Hello Mr/Mrs Govender, my name is Panty Liner calling from The DA campaign offices in Howick. This is just a courtesy call to remind you that today is election day and that your nearest polling station is open until 7pm

Mrs Govender: There are two Mrs Govenders here.

TP: Oh, I'm looking for (check voting sheet) Queen Elizabeth Govender (I shit you not.)

Mrs G: Oh, Queenie. No, she's still at work.

TP: Are you Mrs Princess Maryanne Govender?

Mrs G: Yes, call me Prinny.

TP: Ooooo. K. Prinny, have you managed to get to a polling station today?

Mrs G: Yes, doll. And I voted for yourll.

TP: Thank you. And do you know if Queen Eliza-

Mrs G: Queenie.

TP. I beg yours - Queenie, has she managed to cast her vote?

Mrs G: No, but my husband will vaii that side after she finish work. Place one cross again for yourll.

TP: Thank you, Prince-

Mrs G: Prinny.

TP: Prinny.

Ah, South Africa. I love you.

Dear God, Much Love And Thanks, The Pant.

I've been a complaining sodding whore for the last couple of days, have I not?  And so, in an attempt to redeem myself from whenst you have shelved my whingey self, I have decided to have an upbeat banter today.  In prayer form.  Sometimes we ought to be thankful, I feel.

So, here goes...

Dear God,

While I was a little upset with You about the creation of the bus the other day, I realised that perhaps You had not intended real humans to travel therein, and so I am thankful to You for buses, particularly because, as a result of this particular creation, You have housed my internet imposter gran (GrannyPants) and her digitally challenged husband.  But could You kindly put warnings on buses as You continue to create interesting hippie homes, that humans should not, in fact, go inside them whilst they are attempting to move through streets.  I'd be awfully thankful if You could.

And thanks must go to You for Your invention of the padded bra.  That was a real cracker - well done.  And I'm most impressed by this creation because they are a two-fold life-saver.  On/in the one hand, they certainly do save a flat-chested Mary, like me, a particular amount of face.  Of course, when the bra comes off, the viewer of the wares within the bra might gasp something along the lines of, "What the?  Are you a?  Where'd they go?"  But I'm okay with that.  You know I prefer them when they're drunk anyway.  Or at least I keep telling myself that.  So cheers for the instant extra two cups.  They go a long way.  (PS Could You start making wine bottles the same way?  Like each bottle comes with an extra two glasses.  You of all, um, people? - well, you were once a person - deities?, yup, deities should know how much I like an extra tipple or two.  So I'll be expecting that on the shelves next time I hit the bottle store, right?)

But also, Your creation there has saved my face more times than I'd like to admit.  You know, what with Your decision to turn summer off, I'm left with a nipeel speel so intense that I've carved holes in most of my sleeping tops.  I'm thankful for the small nipples that You gave me, but You know, I've learned to handle the bad with the good, and my nipple stand is something like smuggling a collection of needles.  Let's just say, that when the temperature drops below 30, my nipples get straight to the point.  But You made the padded bra, God, and so now, when I remember to wear a bra, people right up in my face won't be able to check the temperature off my chest.  Good one.

Also, a huge kudos to You on choosing Durban as my hometown.  Although I whinge every morning when I step out of bed something in manner of, "Colder than a witch's teet.  It's effing unbearable.  It must be sub-20!" I know that You chose Durban for me, because there are no other places in South Africa where I can tan mid-winter.  You rock.  Seriously. 

Also, God, thanks muchly for taking Larry away from me.  In the olden days of puffy eyes and anti-depressants, I was probably praying something in the vein of, "Pleeeeeease (sob sob) give him baaaaack!" but I've come to see Your logic in that decision.  Fine logic it was too.  You know I remember the winter that I spent in Jo'burg being his house bitch (well, of course You do, You know everything so You know what's in my mind), well the lack of warmth there really did render me a nasty person.  And as a result of Your decision to set us on different paths, I no longer have to consider enduring another Jo'burg winter.  So, God, I have finally come to see Your light.  Give Larry to a girl who can handle the cold.  Send me a hotter man (please) both in his preference for temperature and in looks.  Thanks.

While we're on the subject of Larry, God, I must just request that You stop sending him to me in brief dreams, like You did last night.  But I thank You for keeping me chaste in said dream.  At least this morning, I woke up without any Catholic guilt.  Or send me those dreams, but could You replace Larry's face with New Sexy Sexy Man who seems to be playing Sexy Sexy Mindgames with my head? You already sent me his body.

And as always, thank You for The Daughter.  And for her profound change in me. And for The Father, The Incubator, The Husband, The Brother, The Sil, The Nephew, The Niece, The BF, Carlos and My Future Ex Husband Who Has Less Than No Desire To Actually Caress My Inner Thigh. And keep them safe.  Please.

Much love to You, God.  You really do rock.

The Pant.

Meet Pat, The (Ex) Snob.

I'm a snob. There, it's out. I probably can't afford to be one, but, I am.

There are just some items on which one can't compromise. Tomato sauce is one. And mayonnaise. And meat. And cherry tomatoes. And perfume. And face wash and moisturiser. And Vanish. And tampons (I cannot get my head around using a cheaper alternative brand in such an intimate, um, space). And tea, coffee, body wash, deodorant, foundation, mascara, eye shadows and soap. Oh, and those built-in support vests from Woolies. Cannot live without them. Must buy two a month. Have even included them in my budget between Ridiculously Overpriced (But Says On The Pack That It's The Best You Can Give Your Cat) Cat Food and (Crikey Effing Moses! It's Not Like We House A Mechanised Production Line) Electricity. Oh, and butter. I'm a real butter girl.

And so as part of the Mother's Day celebration, The Daughter and I joined The Incubator and The Father on a rugby outing. In, no less, The Father's box. When I tweeted that I was currently sitting in my father's doos sipping wine, I received a barrage of replies along the lines "Too much information" and "if your dad has a doos does that make your mom a dyke?"

(It must just be mentioned that Mother's Day is my most favourite of all the days in the year. I suppose that's because it is the label 'mother' of which I'm most proud. I love the little chick that bestowed that name upon me. Flat out. And also, my mother (The Incubator, for those of you confused) is really the grooviest of all the mothers.)

So there I found myself, in a rugby stadium amongst a bevy of teenage girls wearing shorter shorts than some of the knickers I own, with very little clue about how the game actually works. That's not strictly true. I understand sport. I even learned to shout "Rock On" when someone mishandled the ball and it bounced forward. (Impressive, no?)

But being in a box (I feel awkward just saying that) is all kinds of rad. For starters, my tipples were served in glass. And I didn't have to buy a six-pack per half which I normally have to do when I accompany The Brother on such outings. Also, I didn't have to eat an oil-coated wors roll - the type which satisfies only when one has consumed vast numbers of tequilas. Which, of course, one wouldn't do when one is taking one's daughter on an outing.

But the best part about box-side rugby viewing is the little railing that separates the inner circle from the commoner. It's almost like I was Kate Middleton, separated from the adoring fans but close enough to wave. I say 'separate' but that too is not strictly true: A man who found the sheer expanse of his body could not fit the seat for which he'd parted with hard-earned cash thought it would be far wiser to sit on the stairs just next to me, with only a fine whisp of metal betwixt us.

Man On Stairs: I'm Alfie, pleased to meet you.

I leaned across, arm stretched forwards to have my hand completely swallowed by his giant mit.

The Pant: Pleased to meet you.

My initial response to Alfie was one of removed disdain. I avoided eye contact and tried to involve myself in as many conversations with people on my side of the railing as possible. But the thing with rugby is everyone actually watches rugby. And they are thus less than keen to discuss anything that is not-rugby related. Besides which, when The Pant has a glass of wine in the gullet, she becomes far friendlier.

After the official sinking of the second Castle Lite, I clicked my fingers and Manuel (I'm not sure that this was his name, but let's go with it) arrived with a glass (not plastic!!) of the finest red. At which point the liquor took over, and my efforts to appear snobbish by having good posture and not saying 'fuck' flew out the window.

The Pant: Ok, so Alfie, we're friends, right?

Alfie: Yes, Pat, we are.

The Pant: (over screams of "what the fuuuuck are you doing, Ref?") It's Pant.

Alfie: Yes. Pat. We're mates.

TP: Well, could you quietly, so that nobody can hear you at all. And promise you won't laugh, could you tell me who the (hushed whisper) Sharks are?

Not only did Alfie point out that the team I've been told to support was the guys in black, but he also gave me a little run down on how everything works.

The Pant: Okay, so when the guys in black have the ball I must woop-woop loudly and shout their number? Like, "Go 17 you beauuuuuuuuty"? And then I must air punch several times and shout "hooo hooo hooo" like Julia Roberts did when she was at the polo in Pretty Woman?

Alfie: Yes, that's right.

The Pant: And when the other guys have the ball I must shout things like, "Bliksem him!" and "Moer him, ekse"?

Alfie: You've got it.

The Pant: And then sometimes I should randomly shout, "Get your eyes tested you fucking wanker ref"?

Alfie: Yes, that will do.

TP: And also sometimes I should scream "Rock on!"?

Alfie: Knock on.

TP: That's what I said.

As the game coasted towards a close, Alfie and I moved from the hi-5 to those few (special) times when I kissed his large cheek with such vigour that all eight of his chins wobbled with ecstatic delight. We were so tight by the final whistle that I considered baring my "cleavage" and allowed him to motorboat me.

TP: One more thing, Alfie. Before you go...

He gazed at me with that soft-eyed look of deep love, while taking both my hands in his.

Alfie: Yes, Pat, what is it?

TP: That guy in the black. Number 10 jersey. What's his name?

Alfie: Oh him? That's Patrick Lambie. Only 20 years ol-

Before Alfie could finish his sentence, I'd picked up The Daughter and raced down to the field in lustful pursuit of the little hottie-hot pants. I was panting with the mouth of a tired dog.  Classy.
And, so, I've realised that being a snob just doesn't fit in with rugby. And so next time around, I intention to drink draught out of a plastic cup and eat a wors roll. Probably on the steps, next to my Alfie.  But in the meantime, I'm just going to sip ever so quietly on my Sri Lankan tea.