Secret Society.

I will admit that sometimes I’m a bit envious of wannabe somewhat famous people/blogger for being invited to events which serve free champagne and macaroons. Usually I’m not. I prefer to buy my own drinks and treats and enjoy the freedom of not having to feign excitement over a not so exciting goodie bag. Or having to write about an evening even when it didn’t surpass a re-run of Friends on the entertainment scale. I realized a while ago that in these cases, working an event with easy access to the bar stock can be way more fun than receiving a personalized invitation which will only soothe my ego.

Last Saturday I wouldn’t have minded being an official guest, but attending in the function of mingler, decorator, baby-sitter, food pre-taster, hug giver, and enthusiastic noise maker while eating the food was much better…
My wonderful, talented cousin Thekla was asked to cook for one of the Spier Secret Festival dinners. Her parents own one of the original houses on Dorp Street in Stellenbosch, which they currently rent to Rheta Erichsen, who was hosting the secret dinner. The house itself is magical. It is full of nooks and crannies filled with memorabilia and stories of generations. The centre has always been the kitchen with various family members and selected friends cooking, tasting, exploring, eating, and sharing. It seemed almost logical that such a house would make the perfect stage for a special secret dinner and that Thekla, daughter of the house, should cook, sharing family traditions and even some secrets from this kitchen.

I had won tickets for the Toffie market so Adam, Thekla’s husband, and I started the day by drinking our way through some barrels of Chenin while chatting to old and new friends. We also stuffed our faces with everything there was from dumplings to Eton Mess and smoked cheese braai broodjies, so it was actually surprising I was still able to eat anything at all in the evening, not to mention the amounts.
In the afternoon we made our way over to the house where we were put to work and art&crafts was mixed with bubbly and posset tasting. From there I went on to baby and cat sitting while decorating the garden. While the house is reminds of the wardrobe of Narnia, the garden is as if Alice in Wonderland has sprung to life and the cat perfects it as it looks like the Cheshire cat sans grin. The property is small, but there are paths and a fountain and a pond, tables in different corners, a swing, and a platform which used to host my aunt’s summer bed, but was now converted to a stage for the musicians. That’s right – we had our own private band! Rheta had already decked the trees with lights and I was allowed to add pincushion proteas to the tables and work on perfecting the welcome cocktail.
That was all well and good and a fun way to spend an afternoon, but now I want to rave about the main part: the food. I learned through various historic novels that back in a day when a noble person was holding a banquette they not only served several courses, but each course consisted of several dishes. That’s how I imagine what it would be like if you were to eat at El Bulli every night and that’s what we got on Saturday, but without any explosions or test tubes. Thekla’s whole approach to food is simple and she cooks with an almost off-handed ease. Her menu was based on local, seasonal ingredients and childhood memories of cooking in her mother’s kitchen.

Summer was in the air with the first mozzies and rugby fans roaring over the walls when guests started to pour in. Each host was allowed to pick the amount of people they could cater for, but somehow Rheta was assigned everybody who was left and so we ended up with an eclectic group of almost 30 people and so everything was served buffet style.
We started with a variety of dips, crudité, and pot baked bread which revived the meaning of ‘breaking bread’ and was a nice touch to add for a group of people who didn’t know each other. If you think I got in by nepotism, you are right; if you think I’m biased, you are probably right too, but still…the dips already won over the toughest food critics amongst the guests and it only got better from there. The main starters were a raw Asian salmon trout salad and a plate of artichokes, which led to lots of laughter when Thekla was explaining how we needed to eat them as it involved lots of sucking and licking. And before you accuse me of a dirty mind and because some guests didn’t understand the subtle difference: you suck the leaves and then you lick your fingers and not the other way around.
For the mains we were snaking around the kitchen island and had the opportunity to make new friends over duck and lamb, both falling of their respective bones, rice pilaf with roasted vegetables, and mozzarella with peaches on greens. With smacking lips people went back for seconds only to be told that there was going to be not one, not two, but three deserts, which still required space. And so we also queued for hazelnut apple cake with koeksister ice cream, rice pudding with berry compote, and refreshing Mrs Moxon’s Posset.

After desert I decided it was time for a nap. So holding my full belly I quietly snuck out and made my way home. When I went to bed I dreamed of meals fit for a king and when I woke up I thanked the gods that I can call such a cook family and just invite myself for dinner whenever I need to feel like a queen for a day.

p.s. If you do wonder where the pictures of the food are, which will make you lick your screen, you will need to ask the master of the kitchen herself as my camera refuse to work after dark.

Thekla shot by Walter Koeppe.

Pride and Silliness.

Sometimes people do very silly things in my opinion, which leads to the companies they work for do very silly things. Usually I try to let it go for my own peace of mind, but sometimes I simply cannot. Some things just irk me too much in their incredibility or ridiculousness and then I have to get it off my chest. I think I will blame David Thorne. I’m fully aware that just like him this makes me somewhat of a condescending arse and so far I haven’t had much positive results from any company, but I just can’t help it. Sometimes you need to speak up out of principle regardless of whether you change a stupid person's mind or the world.Today I’m also a bit bored, so I was in the right mood to make a little mountain out of this pool cleaning company:

Dear Pride Pools,

Just for your consideration: Today I found your flyers in my mailbox. Which surprised me, because as anyone can clearly see, when standing in front of my mailbox, I live in a block of flats. I would assume before you send someone to drop flyers off, you would do some research as to the areas in which people actually have pools and may need your services. The next pool I know of is in Company Gardens and it's really a pond and the neighbours like it nice and green. But hey, it's up to you if you want to waste the money and effort on an area which is completely pool-less.

However I engage actively in improving the environment and plant a lot of trees - hard work, let me tell you - so I'd appreciate it if your flyer dropper (I’m sorry if I sound flippant, I really don’t know the proper job title) would only leave one flyer (which as you may have gathered I still think is too much) and not four in my mailbox. Four are just annoying and I would never contact such an annoying company even if I had a pool!

Sincerely,

Any

 

I know, I will probably be stuck in the hell of eternally dirty pools and no pool cleaners in sight if I ever move to a house with a pool.

Seeing purple.

Yesterday I was feeling a bit funny. Not quite blue, but not quite right either. So I decided to do the world a favour and not leave the house after work except for a quick stop at the shops. Coming home I was realizing that I wasn’t blue, I was a bit purple. I was in a purple mood of sorts. Whatever this may mean, I saw that there was quite a bit of beautiful purple, lilac, and lavender around my flat so I started to take some pictures. Funny enough by the end of my mood had turned quite rosy so you may just get a pink post next, but for now I give you my little purple world…

1. Purple basil in front of my purple chair cushion.
2. Some fresh lavender.
3. Camera Obscura, a band I have never listened to, but a poster I love.
4. Purple section of my colour coordinated book shelf - children's books only.
5. Dinner before it became dinner.
6. My favorite oversized shot glass.
7. Spicy sprouts.
8. French violet sirup to be mixed with some bubbly soon.
9. A pizza box with model z-cards instead of pizza. I love the stencil.
10. My lilac wall thanks to Carmen and Gunther, because otherwise I would have never finished it.

Secret inspiration.

A somewhat happy Monday to everybody!

 I mean as happy as a Monday can get. The quotation mark was purely inspirational. I’m trying to make the Monday sort of okay by reading a bunch of inspirational quotes – I know, what am I thinking? – and it seems to be working. If found some that I really like on Laws of Modern Man via Miss Emma Jude and realized that though I’m obviously not a man, most of them still apply. For obvious travel agent of doom reasons this is the one that has stuck most:

So, thank you Mr. Robert Brault from Connecticut! I think those words of yours are very wise and I’m working hard to make them true for me.

On a completely unrelated note and inspired not by a quote, but by all the secret suppers popping up like there is no tomorrow, I have written a secret story. If you read it, you will understand why it’s secret. Limited edition only and never to be published, email me if you want it: anysroad at gmail dot com.

Coco love.

I think we have sufficiently exhausted the fact that I love all things coconut, right? Lucky for me I double checked my old blog posts to see if I had already written about my love for coconuts before writing this one. NOT! I found the one where I did and I even called it life lessons from a coconut, because that’s how important I think they are. You can read it again here and then go out into the world and eat/drink more coconut.
The drinking part was always a bit tricky in Cape Town as it was really hard to find coconut water for a long time. PnP carries fresh ones sometimes, but I learned that lesson in the Seychelles – they are bloody heavy and won’t easily fit in my yoga bag.
Luckily Wellness Warehouse has caught up with my wishful thinking and is now carrying nicely bottled coconut water from Coco Life. Tada. Let me just say having my little bottle after class yesterday was the highlight of my day. And yes, it was even better than the kittens. That's why I thought I should work on more of these highlights and I wrote this letter:

Dear Coco Life person/people/owner/marketing/PR team,

will you please sponsor me? Feed me coconut water trice a day or at least once after each Bikram class? I will even wear a t-shirt with your logo if I have to though I'd prefer little shorts. You know cotton, tight, short shorts, saying coco life across the bum. Smart people and cute boys looking at my behind in class would surely get the reference to the Coco de Mer coconut which actually looks like a bum. What do you think? You can also just send me coconut water if you are not keen on the shorts/bum idea, I won't be upset, promise!

Sincerely,
your biggest fan*

Any


I will keep you posted on the progress.

 *I know it sounds a bit creepy/stalkerish, but they need to know that I'm not joking around, I really am their biggest fan.

Pending.

Again I have a pigeon nesting underneath my balcony. And this time his/her/how does it work with pigeons? cooing sound is driving me insane. It’s day and night and already started to infiltrate my dreams. It drives me up the wall. Other people shake their heads at me, by other people I mean my mother, as this is apparently a soothing sound for some. For me it is worse than a jackhammer and it makes me want to bang my head against a wall. So I started to seek advice and after more head shaking the general consensus seems to be to drown the little pigeon eggs in some sort of acid in hope that mum/dad pigeon will jump off the balcony in sorrow afterwards. Problem with this is a) hitting the eggs correctly while not dissolving my balcony with the acid and b) getting over the fact that I will be destroying two little pigeon eggs. And while I’m not a vegetarian or think pigeons are cute (especially the ones with the evil red eyes!), I can’t get myself to do it.
Call me crazy, but to give the pigeon babies a chance at a happy yet annoying life and my mind a chance at some peace, I made a deal with the universe: they are allowed to live if I get my money back from the travel agent of doom. Since I handed the whole case over to my lawyer, their lives is now in his hand. This is really good news for them since I would literally trust him with my life, so surely two little pigeons will have no reason to complain. They will get a proper knight in shining legal armour to defend their nest.

Anyhow… that is the latest on this issue and I’m now trying my hardest to ignore my crying credit card and snap out of my bad mood in the meanwhile. Today at the office it was easy, because guess who joined the team?

One is called Basti as it was mistakenly thought to be a boy and got stuck with the name. He is napping in the pending tray. Pending cuddles and kisses of course.

The other one, a real boy, still needs a name. I call him Professor in the meanwhile, because he looks like an old professor with tufts of white hair sticking out his ears.

Needless to say productivity was low and shrieking was high around here today. The good news is that they will be back tomorrow – hooray!

Honey, I hate you.

After a rather crappy week, my weekend was nothing but sunny and filled with loveliness. I wanted to tell you about it, but then I got side tracked by reading tweets I hate. And I thought why not and who wants to read about a great weekend that is over on a Monday anyhow?
You may or may not think me weird, but I follow quite a few people on Twitter who make my blood boil. On a good day I can restrain myself to respond, but just like watching a car crash, I cannot not read them. I have recently decided to unfollow all Born Again Christians to save my poor heart rate from climbing too high, but I still sometimes secretly sneak a peek at what they have to say instead of having a second cup of coffee. I don’t know what it is and yes, maybe I need to see my therapist for it. Secretly I believe that I am not the only one though. Am I? Please say no!
It starts with certain words that people use, which can drive me crazy. Mind you, I know that is a very personal thing and it probably irks as many people when they read me talking about bubbly as when I read the word champers. I mean, come one – what are you doing to a beautiful word like champagne (Freudian slip as I wrote world instead of word first). It ends up sound like a mix between chipmunks and hamper and all together quite like JC Le Roux. Another one is rad. There are few people, in very few situations who can get away with rad. Just because you are born and bred South African doesn’t necessarily qualify you. I guess a lot of it is about context. It sounded cute when Dorothy quipped about Lions and tigers and bears! and added a charming Oh my! to it. It didn’t sound so cute when the girl from 50 Shades of Grey uses the phrase 79 times (this girl actually counted* and that’s the first book only!) and in various situations ranging from being spanked to great alleged sorrow because the spanking stopped.
Then there is the habit of calling people lovelies. Not even my favourite yoga teacher can get away with that one. That is not Twitters fault, but I should mention once and for all that I am quite allergic to most terms of endearment by strangers. Surprisingly enough I have only told a person once that I wasn’t his dear and I think I sounded so harsh that we both got a fright. Usually I will just return the favour and savour the secret knowledge that if I call someone honey or darling, you are at the bottom of my shit list and not my new best friend. I should add that in this case I don't love to hate these people. They just simply annoy me downright.
Twitter is different and if you are unfamiliar with the concept, you’d be surprised by how much junk one can write with 140 characters and why I still read it. There are the obvious, boring, mundane I had a banana for breakfast tweets, which I can easily ignore and accept that probably not the entire world is enticed by my excitement about eating Sushi on Sunday either. Then there are the ones that are clearly geared towards steering controversy, which I also usually ignore quite easily. But then are the ones that really hit me somehow. Yesterday a girl tweeted about a typo done in an article about a horrible charter accident in Hout Bay. The article talked about a diseased person, which was clearly a typo and she pointed that out in not one, but two tweets. Nobody likes a know it all, even journalists are allowed a typo once in a while, and I simply failed to see her point all together. If you read the article, surely you would get what they meant to say?! Which by the way was horrible, so who the heck cares that you spotted a typo?? Obviously she must have been as annoyed by the word ‘diseased’ as I was subsequently by her tweets. Am I annoying anyone yet? I could apologize for the rant, but I needed to somehow blow off steam by other means than talking about the travel agent of doom. And don’t we all have them - the things, people and words we just love to hate? What’s yours? Please share so I know I’m not the only one.
In the meanwhile I will try to simply unfollow this person and write a story about bunnies and kittens, better for my mood and for my heart rate.

*Read her review – very funny and very true and you may just feel inspired to read the actual book afterwards just so you can add your snarly comment.

 

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Call me naïve, but I don't understand how people can just lie to your face. To my knowledge nobody has ever cheated on me and if any of my friends have ever lied to me, I will believe it was in my best interest. I don't understand how people you actually know can be devious and deceiving for their personal advantage. Yes, I know there are bad people out there who steal and kill from individuals or entire nations, but that to me seems a more faceless transaction that I can understand on some level. I can get that – some people are bad people. What I can't get is that I lived with a girl for almost a year and in the end she cheated me out of last month's rent. After promising she would pay it, she refused once she had moved out. I was completely baffled that someone who I had shared dinners and wine with, chatted and laughed, would just lie to my face to her own advantage. In hindsight I shouldn't have trusted someone who drinks JC LeRoux and puts peppers on her pizza and cheddar instead of mozzarella, but I just thought we were a tad different. Mind you, I got my money back through the deposit which came to me, but still...I was more upset about the feeling that she betrayed me in some way.
Now it has happened again. I have been hinting at the travel agent from doom and just found out that she and not the airline has made a mistake. Apparently she booked me on a one way flight to Morocco and conveniently forgot my return. A return flight, for which I had to pay again almost double of what the initial ticket had cost me. For the past five weeks she pretended to chase up my refund with the airline and only yesterday, after doing my own research, did I find out that she fucked up. The money is one thing. Having this amount off my credit card makes me incredibly nervous, but somehow the personal betrayal feels worse. She cheated me and lied. It’s that simple. Or she made mistake and then lied. I don't know yet. It doesn't make a difference. She lied and not once, but over and over again.
So, sorry, if I have been a bit drab, but this story has been weighing me down since I got back from holiday. I have been anxiously waking up each morning, checking my phone first thing to see if I have gotten the refund into my account and then more anxiously trying to get her on the phone with answers. My calls which have been dodged and her promises to call back broken. I'm just feeling really sick and tired of it all. What and when will be the end of it? I don't know yet. Luckily I do know that one of the best lawyers in town is family and he shall set her pants on fire on my behalf!

A curious assortment.

There are different yoga studios for all sorts of different people. There is Kundalini and Iyengar and Jiva Mukti, there is Ashtanga and Vinyasa, Bikram and good old Hatha, and those are just the ones top of my head. The idea that all these different styles could not only co-exist in peace, but also be taught under one roof, seemed impossible for a long time and is probably still snubbed by the true defenders of (insert your kind of yoga here). Cape Town is a liberal melting pot not only for people, but also for yoga styles. So we are blessed, or cursed, depending on which side of the mat you stand, with multiple studios offering a blend of yoga styles like Hot Vinyasa, Express Bikram, Acro-Yoga in the forest, or Yoga with weights. Seems like we Capetonians like to mix it up. Interesting enough all these studios still have their very own set of followers. There is the old, established studio that gets all the newbies, the one where all the suburban Mums go and a few pro Rugby players (which might explain why all the Mums go there), the one with the really serious yogis and where all the teachers practise, and then there is the one with the models, the acrobats, and the yoga Barbies. That’s where I currently go and yes, I like it. Though sometimes I’m astonished by this curious assortment of who considers themselves yogis today.
The other day we were all in the room before class started; some chilling, some stretching, and some performing circus-like acts. Only one girl was checking emails on her Blackberry. Apparently I was the only one slightly disturbed by the sight of a phone in the room, because nobody else even looked. Back in the day I remember people would ask us politely if they could take a phone in on silent. These were usually doctors or midwives and on emergency call. But she? Call me judgemental, but for some reason she didn’t look like a doctor or a midwife and surely a call back for a go see doesn’t qualify as emergency?
She wasn’t alone though in her profession and it made me wonder if models get sponsored yoga clothes. They always wear colour coordinated outfits, which need to be adjusted frequently throughout the practise to stay coordinated. Well, it’s a tough world out there right in front of the mirror, so you gotta look good while sipping on your designer water bottle. Same goes for the long, swooshy hair and why would anyone tie it up properly beforehand so it won’t come undone while you are hanging out in downward facing dog?
The acrobats are a whole other story. I once saw a guy in tight biker shorts worn over tights. I wasn’t quite sure if that was his regular ballet dancer look or if he was hoping for added sweating thus more weight loss in the heat. I didn’t think he needed it as he had a nice six-pack and strong arms which pushed him in and out of handstands for a warm up. There is usually quite a few of them. One I have seen a couple of times and I swear he must have escaped the circus, because that was the last time I saw such upper body strength and control. I didn’t think what he was doing qualified as yoga, but I will admit I was starring. It was kind of like getting an exclusive sneak-peak at Cirque du Soleil.
Then there are the proper yoga Barbies. They are usually a mix of girls who have either been practising for years or are just blessed with incredible flexible limbs. They look like a proper pretzel while they make you feel like the Weisswurst to go with it. It takes a solid ego to put your mat down next to them and you have to remember really hard that yoga is not about what it looks like from the outside, but what it feels like from the inside. And before you think me really mean, I used to love my Barbies and yes, I’m simply also a bit envious of these genetically blessed ladies.
My mother, a yoga teacher for most of her life, would probably shake her head at what we call yoga these days and who does it. Sometimes when I wait for class to start I do too. But then the acrobats, the models, the Barbies, and I all get into Child’s Pose and the room becomes quiet. That’s the moment when I make my peace with this assortment of so called yogis. At the end of the day whatever brought us onto the mats, now we are here, all doing yoga. Who cares if someone came for spiritual enlightenment or a slimmer waist line? Yoga is for everybody. Even if your hair is too shiny to be true.

P.S. After last night's class I think it is vital for your information that I add another group to this assortment: the moaner. Monica Seles had nothing on the girl I was next to yesterday. She may have just voiced her annoyment with me as I was late (may I add second ever class only!!) or because she was having a hard time, all well and good, but boy I was confused by these sounds coming from her. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind sounds when doing yoga at all, let it all out if that works for you... but she, she must have been practising for a porn star audition. Nobody makes sounds like this when they are laying still and not think of a certain something!

And then there was Dior.

Rember what I wrote yesterday? That was all AD. As in ante Dior. As in before I saw that:

How much would I love to get married in a black and navy dress? And can you tell it has my name on it?
And call me easily distracted or flaky these days, but I also changed my choice of groom after seeing the video below. I don't think it gets any better, sexier, intriguing, smart, mesmerizing than him.

Crazy beautiful.

Admittedly this post is a bit random. It’s a funny Thursday so just bear with me and go with it, okay?

My friend sent me a poem about a Martini and I thought it a good opportunity to tell you why Martinis are like boobs and why I don’t drink them anymore. Then I saw the new Saint Laurent collection and now life will never be the same again.
Fashion rarely makes my heart beat faster anymore, but this - I mean can we talk about these dresses? Or maybe not, we could just sit here and stare at them. Yup, that’s what I will be doing for the rest of the day.

I call it The secret meeting of the Witches of Eastwick and Cardinal Richelieu at the Jardin Majorelle. From now on I will be just like all the other girls, dreaming of my wedding day, picturing all the details. I shall be wearing the crème dress with cape and my groom will be the master himself. After all who cares if you have a gay husband if you can wear things so beautiful every day of your happily ever after?

One ring.

I realized I haven’t told the story of when I was 21 and madly in love with the older man. Older only he was 36, which at the time seemed significant, especially because he still managed to behave like a 15 year old which caused all the tragedy in the end. Oh yes, I forgot to mention – it is a tragic love story. The reason why it came back to my mind was that the ring he had given me broke yesterday. No, not the kind of ring you think now (and I would sincerely hope a diamond ring doesn’t just break like this), but a ring he had given me as a Mitbringsel from a trip to Berlin… but let’s start at the beginning…

So little 21 year old me was interning at an ad agency and waitressing at a nearby hip restaurant for some H&M spending money. We had a lot of regulars and one them was Oli. I’m not sure how he ended up with this cutesy nick name, because he was anything but, but this was how I called him. He was a generous and polite guest, a photographer, stylish, and I should add for full disclosure: he looked like a turtle. Mind you, I’m not being mean, I’m being objective and it didn’t matter a thing to me.
One night he and his friend were the last customers and annoyed me to no avail, because I wanted to leave and started very loudly to clean the tables next to theirs. Next thing I knew his friend went to the bathroom and he stood next to me awkwardly. I think this is when I started to melt because if a grown man can look so awkward and shy when asking you out – ups, I gave it away – it is quite endearing. In hindsight I don’t know if the way he asked is officially stupid, but to me it was even more endearing and scored him a big yes.

Oli: What do I need to do that you go out with me?

Me: Dah. Ask me!

No, that is a lie. That would have been the witty answer. I was a perpetual broke intern with a love for fine food so in fact I told him to ask me out for dinner, which he did and we were happy to find out that we shared the same favourite restaurant.
Off we went and on we got. We became the bestest of friends. Well sort of. In hindsight, again there is a lot of hindsight here, but I was little so forgive me for being so stupid, it wasn’t very nice of him to ask me out while he still had a girlfriend. Which was why we were just friends. Friends with desert. Not what you think. Real desert. We would always only have mains and deserts, but never starters.
At some point the girlfriend was no more. And then came the weekend he had to go to Berlin for work. Have I mentioned that since knowing him I refuse to go out with still life photographers? They are a funny breed. If you fuss about inanimate objects all day, you kind of lose your way with people. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. So we said our goodbye, as friends do, and I jokingly told him to get me a Mitbringsel from the trip. In fact I was only half joking, because who doesn’t want presents always?
He came back with a very pretty little bag. Girls want pretty little bags, the smaller, the better in fact. Mine must have been the smallest one ever, because it came with not one but two rings. A pink and a blue one and though for the untrained eye they may have looked like toy rings out of a gumball machine, I knew designer when I saw it. More than that they were me! That was the night we first kissed. I’m not even going to try giving you a feministic pretence that the jewellery didn’t have a part in this. Don’t you even dare to think badly of me for going out with a turtle just because he gave me nice stuff and deserts! I was crazy about this man deserts or not. If I wouldn’t know better now, I would say I was even madly in love with him and so attracted to him, writing this story now my heart is still racing just a little bit.

So that was the good part of the story. The tragic part I prefer to tell quickly: he rekindled with his ex, lied about it and unfortunately got caught. You all saw that coming, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t and it led to some door slamming and messages on his answering machine á la I meant what I said when I told you to never call me again! from my side. Guys, if a girl says that it is usually a lie and she wants nothing more than for you to call her. He knew that and even called at parents’ house where I had fled in my despair and was greeted my laughing mother Ooh, so you are the man who broke my daughter’s heart!?I guess everything is a bit dramatic when you are 21, right? I gave one of the rings to my friend afterwards to make a statement, but I don’t think I was fooling anyone and he never knew about it anyhow. There was also a steamy sequel in Paris a few years later, which probably wasn’t a smart move, but who can think straight when overlooking Paris at midnight?

And now the ring broke. Just like that. I’m not even sad, the ring and the story had done their time. I think unlike Frodo I won’t make a big fuss and a trilogy and just put it in the trash.

Happy happy for Miss Cotton Candy.

Ja, ja, I know I said I usually don’t do birthday posts…whatever… I hereby declare birthday posts the new 3D pop-up cards! We all pretend we don’t want one, but secretly we are dying to be young enough again to qualify to get one. Luckily there is no age limit for a birthday post. Not that the receiver of this post should be worried as she is only my age anyhow. Wink*.

A birthday post (toast to follow in private) to my most wonderful, cotton candy friend (read the whole story why she is called such and how to spell cotton candy in Arabic here) , Julia – happy Birthday!

Wishing you lots of …

…and something cotton candy colored:

…and of course:

I love you dearly my friend and am so happy and grateful to have you in my life!
xxa
 *Yes, I actually wrote wink. Sue me.