Wednesday, 1 October 2014


It is Day 25. And I would love to say that I stayed strong throughout, and of course I could lie but even in the written word I am a terrible liar. So yes. I cheated. I had cake over the weekend. But now that I’m back in the 011 area code, I have taken control of my self discipline.

Funnily enough, I had started writing this post last week and it began with all self-boasts and flattery about my strong sense of determination and discipline. Whilst “pffffffff" is what I have to say to that now…

But not so much on day 6 (yes, don’t linger on that number for too long now, a temptation is still a temptation be it four days or forty years) when I spied the cutest baby pirate pants I had ever seen. Of course, the infant clothing is certainly not a temptation but merely a distraction from the real problem at hand. That being that I had chosen to attend the Collective that morning with Caraki.

Ordinarily, my bestie is who you would call your eternal fountain [of praise] — the gift that keeps on giving; that friend that insists you purchase that skirt that makes your ass look like an idol upon which all of mankind will worship. Yes. Exactly the kind of friend you want around for a HUGE shopping spree. Except that this was entirely the opposite kind of situation. I remember finding the most delicate necklace from The Makery -- I have become completely preoccupied with the colour of sunshine and sea of which said neckpiece had both— but more so the vivid memory of reluctantly passing into the hands of Caraki who most eagerly purchased it. Self discipline yes, but sometimes it’s enough to kill me.

So I left the Collective bursting with self-pride at having left without purchasing anything for myself. Boom, going strong bitches! And going strong despite the impending trip to Cape Town for the Loeries. I sit wondering at the precision of my timing here, I have this impeccable flair to choose the most inappropriate dates for my ban on shopping vaaib. Not only have I forced myself into a corner whereby I cannot buy any new outfits for the AWARDS, but also Cape Town is known to have the WORST weather over that weekend EVERY year.
What’s a girl to do but pack everything? Four days, 19kg compromising of: 5 pairs of heels, three different coats (a girl’s gotta have options yo) and a multitude collection of outfits for every occasion and weather report.

And then.

Well then, then I got to Cape Town.

But fuck it, I lasted 20 days of zero shopping and it had to be an all black, beaded and wired protea brooch that let my walls cave in. I’m such a fucking tourist. Thank you Cape Town, thank you for proving for the umpteenth time that you are the city of sin where I’m concerned.

And because I’m the worst liar in the world, I have to tell you that it didn’t stop there. Nope. I visited the Woodstock Exchange and despite my valiant efforts to avoid a particular store, markstry convinced me otherwise. “C’mon” he coaxed, “look at their mirrors, I know they’re your favourite thing..”
and so it was that I found an armchair.
a most magnificent and beautifully re-upholstered seatee that was desperate to join his friend the glass display cabinet back in Apartment 177.
I sat glued to it.

“Do you deliver to Joburg?”
“Yes, we do.”
“DONE! What’s next?”

But it wasn’t to be dear friends, for the very next day I was grievously informed that they could no longer arrange the courier to Johannesburg. So instead of holding a glorious quote in my paws, I was now calculating a plan to get the chair to JHB myself. The first problem being my rental car not having enough space for my suitcase let alone an armchair. Second problem being that the store is closed on a Sunday. Gah.

And then the worst news came at 10pm on Monday. The chair had been sold to somebody else. Probably to somebody who had a house in Blouberg and drove a Toyota Fortuner. Needless to say, I did not wake up a happy girl on Tuesday morning.

Cheaters never win.

October 1st, it is SO on.


1 comment:

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