Wiesenhof, Killarney

Monday, July 21, 2003

Service: * * *
Food: * * * 1/2
Ambience: * * 1/2
Babe Count: * *

Ah! The taste of victory! I've just thrashed Jonathan 21--14 in my first game in the new cycle of our backgammon club. I've made the cut into the B-division, and life smells like organically grown roses. And my beard smells like chicken breasts with peppadew and sweet-onion topping, served with Greek salad. Which just happens to be the dish on special tonight here in Killarney.

It's definitely a recommendable light supper. For only R22, this is enough to fill the gap caused by a long Monday at work, and it's tasty enough to be called a victor's meal.

"Roy," says Matt, looking up from the pounding he's giving Doc Pete. "How's your relationship with Jacqui progressing?" He throws his dice, shrieks a fist-pumper, slaps Doc Pete's lone blot onto the bar, and says, non-sotto-voce: "Please please please... give us the sordid details. All of them!"

Well, it's gotten to the stage where Jacqui and I are trying to work out pet names for each other.

I've rejected 'Boy Roy', which is what I was called by Stan Katz back in the days I was the sound controller on his afternoon show on 702. I've rejected 'Royco', cos I don't really want to be associated with a brand of instant soup, even though it's hot and steamy and likes being stirred vigorously, whereupon it foams lightly. And I'm uncomfortable with 'Enormous Boy', cos it's untrue. Mostly.

Jacqui has rejected 'Lust Bucket'. I don't really know why. 'Honey Bunny' is just too mundane for both of us. I don't really feel that calling her 'Jax' is appropriate, cos all of her friends call her that, and it seems to me to be too reminiscent of an incident involving a headmaster and a cane when I was in primary school. (I don't know what they called the administration of corporal punishment in your school, but in mine it was called 'Jacks'.) She's given a provisional 'yes' to 'Jacquilicious', but only in private.

"Excuse me," I say to the Wiesenhof waiter in the privacy of Jacqui being in a different part of the world from me, a waiter who I haven't seen for forty-minutes. "I seem to have drooled all over my beard. I've been talking about my girlfriend and she's so Jacquilicious I can't control myself."

He doesn't seem to know what the hell I'm talking about. Which just proves that Jacquilicious could be obscure enough to be uttered in public.

"Please can I have a serviette?" I ask the waiter.

"Ah," he says, handing me one. "Are you Boy Roy from the Four-to-Six-Afternoon-Fix with Stan Katz in 1989?"

The Garden of My Flat, Cresta

Sunday, July 20, 2003

Service: * * * * *
Food: * * * * 1/2
Ambience: * * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Jacqui and I are lying on a blanket in my garden, covered by a purple sarong. It's mid afternoon, and the winter sun is warm. It feels like spring is almost here.

My next door neighbour -- Pauline, I think is her name -- is sitting on her stoep making a patchwork quilt. She's also preventing Jacqui from allowing me to try to get up to no good under the sarong.

"No, Roy!" she says. "That woman can see us!!!"

"That's okay," I say. "It's her daughter who's the one keen on me." Her daughter stayed with her for a while, but moved out when she got a better job. She sends me religiously inappropriate SMSs like, 'Jesus Loves U2'. I replied to that one, 'That's amazing! Bono must be thrilled!' I didn't get a reply.

We've just been to gym together for the first time. "You know what?" I say, trying to get my leg between hers. "We should make a ritual of this Sunday gym thing. It really felt great being there with you." I'm aware that I'm talking in syrup bubbles, but love will do this to a man.

"Cool!" she says. "That can be one of your three days a week. And maybe it'll spur me to get to yoga more often too."

Sigh. We're so supportive of each other. It's just delicious. Almost as delicious as the rosemary and herb ham on three-corn rye with cumin gouda, tomato and avo sandwiches we're busy digesting. And it's amazing that Steve's Spar on Beyer's Naude Drive sells kosher ham.

"Show me a yoga position," I say, shifting into a position where I can maybe see how lovely her contorted body will look. She's wearing her tracksuit, so I should be able to learn more about the position if I study her carefully enough.

"Pervert," she says, and we nestle together like spoons in the decaying winter sun.

Tokyo Star, Melville

Saturday, July 19, 2003

Service: * *
Food: * * 1/2
Ambience: * * 1/2
Babe Count: * * * * *
Jacqui-Babe Count: * * * * *

Basically, whenever I'm with Jacqui in a public place, I have to modify my babe count scoring system. Cos Jacqui is the babe-ist of them all. But just cos I only have eyes for her doesn't mean I don't notice whether other babes are present. Like tonight, here in Tokyo Star, owned by Matt Hoffman, Antoinette's brother.

Tokyo Star is where young people hang out. It's next door to the Melville barber shop in the premises that used to house the butchery. I haven't asked Matt if it's his sense of irony that caused him to leave the old sign up on the roof. It says, 'FRESH MEAT'. And it really means it. We're talking trainer bras.

Jacqui and I are here because Antoinette is back from New York having a belated birthday- and 'I Love Joburg'-party. She's invited me and Jacqui cos she wants to meet the new love of my life and pass on a message to her.

"Antoinette," I say. "Don't you have something to say to Jacqui?" Antoinette is the last real love of my life, the one before Heidi, who was probably just a surrogate. Antoinette and I had a marathon stretch together. Two years and four months. Give or take a day or two. And we've been broken up for about two years. Give or take three days and two hours. But who's counting?

"Oh ya!" says Antoinette. "Take care of my ex-boyfriend, okay?"

"Uh, no," I say. "That's not what you wanted to say." I prompt her: "Tell her about the kneecaps."

"Ah! Yes! Well, basically, if you hurt him, I'm going to break your kneecaps," says Antoinette. She's looking remarkably like Cleopatra. She hugs Jacqui. "You two look so good together!" And she means it.

She and I had chatted a bit while she was in New York. She had some husband troubles there involving flower pots smashing against walls, a sugar bowl and lid that went through the open window to the street below, her husband deciding to commit suicide by beating himself over the head with an industrial-size rolling pin, the topless ex-girlfriend of mine running down the stairs while trying to put her t-shirt on, a vastly oversized Polish woman shrieking "I'm terribly scared!" in an incomprehensibly thick immigrant accent while this same ex-girlfriend of mine hid behind her, this rolling-pin bloodied husband burying his head in a New York sidewalk rubbish bin screaming, "I'm so worthless; I deserve to die", and the two of them finally resolving their troubles on a park bench with the husband sitting a respectful distance from the ex-girlfriend due to the stench emanating from his head.

"But you're not allowed to tell anyone about this!" she had said.

But tonight, here in her brother's pickup spot for meaty teenagers, she mentions this to all and sundry. So I figure I can mention it too. But just don't tell anyone, okay? Your kneecaps are at risk.

The Question Mark, Melville

Saturday, July 19, 2003

Service: * * * 1/2
Food: * * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * *
Juacqui-Babe Count: * * * * *

We're taking a chance on the Question Mark. In recent years it turned into a bit of a drug-addled dive, with cruddy food and useless staff.

But Jacqui and I are totally surprised at the transformation.

There's excellent art on the walls, along with a catalogue and price-list. Two of the artists are sitting on a brand new funky couch nursing cocktails. And the menu is enormous. It's like we've discovered a brand new restaurant.

"Wow," I say to the maitre d' hotel, a young man with what could possibly be a wisp of moustache tickling his lip, "this place has changed!"

"Yes," he says, "it used to have somewhat of a communist slant before."

Jacqui and I look at each other. Two things are clear. Firstly, it's possible English is his second language. Secondly, he probably only knows the word 'communist' from Apartheid propaganda days, and is a little out of his depth. After all, he's only about eighteen, and can't be expected to know what such things mean.

I figure he means that because the old place used to have a load of Soviet-realist film posters on the walls, this could be construed to mean that the previous owners were Soviet-realists themselves. In a limited field of experience, this could be interpreted as being of the communist persuasion. But it's fine. We kinda figure that he means that the old Question Mark used to have somewhat of a Bohemian slant.

Jacqui orders the oxtail with veggies. It arrives in a small potjie, and smells delicious. I've ordered the bacon and avo burger, "Welllllllll-done," I tell the waitress, "with no fat on the bacon, and please toast the insides of the bun."

"Is jy eintlik Afrikaans?" she asks.

"No," I say, "I'm English."

"Oh," she says, "you speak with an Afrikaans accent, so I thought you were actually Afrikaans."

"I had an Afrikaans girlfriend," I tell her. And in fact, that's why Jacqui and I are at the Question Mark. We're catching a bite to eat before heading across the road to Tokyo Star for Antoinette's welcome-home party. She's been in New York for several months working on her masters degree and being with her new husband, a writer and filmmaker.

But frankly, I'm baffled. Many people ask me if I'm British, and I'm not aware of having any serious Afrikaans in my vocal makeup. In fact, one of Antoinette's favourite laughs was to ask me to say the word 'strikkie' whenever her other Afrikaans friends were around. And while my spoken Afrikaans is pretty damn good for a scurrilous half-Jew like myself, my mouth just cannot bend around the rolled-R coming after the ST. Yeesh. Hilarity ensues whenever I try that. (But just try getting Antoinette to say the Yiddish word, 'Schmooze'. We'll see who's laughing then.)

My burger arrives just after Jacqui's dish, and I wish I'd ordered hers instead of mine. But the burger's great.

"Would you like a taste?" she asks. I nod, and she assembles an assortment of the veggies and some of the tenderest oxtail I've seen trembling off a bone. The gravy smells divine. She prods the fork into my mouth. And it's delicious.

"Everything all right?" says an older gay-looking man of the straight-looking, straight-acting variety.

"This oxtail is worth coming here for," I say.

"Thank you!" he says. "We're rather famous for it nowadays. I'm Ivan, the owner." He goes on to tell us that he bought the Question Mark in September, and got back from Malaysia, where he owns a factory manufacturing hand-drying machines, to find that the managers he'd installed had run the place into the ground. They'd gone so far as to steal plates of food to get enough money for their next drug fix.

"I love the art," says Jacqui. Which gets us a guided tour around the gallery, and an invitation to the next drag show on Wednesday.

"A very classy act," says Ivan. "And your R120 includes dinner and the show."

Wiesenhof, Killarney

Monday, June 30, 2003

Service: * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * 1/2
Babe Count: * * 1/2

The only reason there's a babe count at this place at all is cos I'm playing Renee, newly a mother for the third time, and she's pretty slinky. The waitresses are also gorgeous. But it seems as though Killarney on a Monday night has about as much voomah as a spent scud missile in a Palestinian second-hand shop.

But I'm not complaining. And that's cos I'm tasting victory. (Not to mention the solid, workmanlike flavour of the chicken schnitzel with cheese, no mushrooms.) Renee has just succumbed to the humiliation and despair of losing to me in backgammon, thereby securing me a place in the B-division of our backgammon club. Viva! Amandla! Power to the Blumenthal!!!

Yeah. That feels good.

"I'm going home now," she says. "I've been away from my baby too long."

She leaves.

I hand my score sheet to Matt. "Sheesh," I say, sheepishly. "I think I may have caused her lactose-generating hormones to dry out!"

"Beat her, did you?" says Matt. He's catching up nicely against Andreas.

"Yup," I say, and I can't keep the grin off my face. I just can't hide the fact that I love the pain and humiliation and suffering and despair I cause in others when I beat them. Naturally, I don't really enjoy being on the receiving end of that myself. But that hasn't happened in a while. I've had a very hot winning streak.

I send an sms to Jacqui, letting her know that her boyfriend is champion of the universe, sex-bomb with a set of dice, god of the white and red tiles. She is suitably impressed, and my groin vibrates madly when she smss me back to say how proud of me she is.

I so love being in love.

"Hey," says Matt. "Update your website, you hobgoblin! I want to know sordid details!"

Da Vincenzo's, Kyalami

Saturday, June 28, 2003

Service: * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Erich is now officially a married person. Jacqui and I are at table three at the reception. And guess who's with us? Yup...

"What line of work are you in?" I say to the smooth looking guy with very large jowels.

He sort of blinks, wondering why I haven't recognised him. "I'm a minister," he says. "A priest." He waves his finger dangerously at the crowd of people. Maybe he's trying to tell me something?

Oh.

Bloody hell. He's one of the two dudes who sealed Erich and Janet's wedding covenant. Eek. I should pay more attention in church.

And the guy next to him? Yup. The other priest. There were two of them. And Erich, given that he's got as perverted and twisted a sense of humour as I have, has put me, a scurrilous half-Jew, at the same table as the emissaries of the Christian Deity.

But it's all right. I went to an Anglican high school. So I kinda know what to say to priests. Nothing.

Instead, I turn to my right and fondle Jacqui's neck.

"I love you," I croon.

"I love you," she croons back, and it's lucky the wedding ceremony is already over, cos at this rate, we could easily have skipped up the aisle and joined the queue.

Primi Piatti, Rosebank Zone

Friday, June 06, 2003

Service: * * *
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

Jacqui and I sitting having coffee at Primi Piatti, a spot where the beautiful people hang out. And the ugly people hang out to hang out with the beautiful people. And we're being beautiful together, oblivious to any surrounding beauty. This is our second date.

We're here together because of a quirk of fate. A mutual friend is getting married. Erich Viedge... Cool dude extraordinaire. Multilinguist. Man with a huge cd collection. Man who brings his friends together.

Last Saturday a bunch of us found ourselves at Cafe Cafe in Village Walk to have our wedding invitations personally issued. I'm on the list. I made it to the cut, being a close friend and all. So did Jacqui.

"Okay," says Erich, standing up and tapping a glass with a pen. I'm blowing soap bubbles, and they're popping on Janet's head. Janet is the lovely fiancée. "Listen up," says the Viedge. "We've set up a gift registry at the HOME store in Rosebank. If you want to get us anything, that's where to go." He sits down.

I say, "Erich, what would be a really meaningful present from me to you? What would you like ME to give you?"

He thinks for a while. Snaps his fingers. "Gottit!" he says, eyes bright. "There's a Patrick Rorke painting I've set aside at the Stewart Gallery in Parkhurst. It's R1500. If you can contribute something to that, I'd be very very very happy."

"Done," I say. I own a Rorke already, a beautiful nude that hangs on my bedroom wall. And Antoinette, my ex, has another of his nudes on her bedroom wall. It was a present from me to her after we broke up. "Which painting of his do you want?" I went to the opening of that exhibition, and had my eye on two of them -- a Muslim Girl, and a Woman Playing Guitar.

Erich says, "There's this amazing painting of a woman playing a guitar. That's the one." This fellow has excellent taste. "Hang on," he says, with another snap of the fingers. "Guys," he says, standing up again. "Roy asked me what I REALLY want, and it's a painting by Patrick Rorke. If you'd like to contribute to that, give some bucks to Roy. He's the contact person."

Everyone's keen, and it's a really meaningful gift. I collect a whole bunch of money, but a few people haven't given any. "Jacqui," I say, "will you contribute?"

"I don't have cash on me at the moment," she says. "Can I transfer some into your bank account during the week?"

I don't realise it at the time, but this is a delicious ploy on her part to ensure that we make contact during the week. "Sure," I say. And the party dissolves, and we all head for the sunset.

Now, sitting here at Primi Piatti, I find out what Jacqui was up to. She says, "If I gave you money that Saturday, there would've been no reason for us to get together." Excellent! This chick is total babeness. "And when you emailed me to say we should meet so I could hand over the money instead of transferring it, you made my day. People at work kept looking at my smile and saying, 'Who's the guy?'"

She and I did coffee on Tuesday night. Strolled down to the Stewart Gallery and looked at the painting through the window. Strolled some more. Stood in a doorway and kissed for about an hour. Yummy!

For our second date, we've just seen BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE, a movie that blew the top of my head off.

And that's hopefully the last time I use the phrase, "blew the top of my head off". Quite a negative phrase, don't you think? And a phrase that just invites trouble, seeing as Charlton Heston is still alive and mostly-well and advocating gun ownership. And seeing as he has Alzheimer's, he might not remember how many times he's pulled the trigger. What's more, George Dubbya Bush is still finding enemies under every fig leaf.

Here's an SMS poem I wrote to commemorate Mr Bush's victory in Iraq...

WHAT'S IT FOR

by Roy Blumenthal

If the US troops wore Nike boots,
if the Burger King would only serve sin,
if Saddam's soul could be heard from hell,
if dollars were in
stroking Levi-clad skin,
if pulling the pin
meant Palestine would win,
if Bush's spunk could be spiked like junk,
if Korea were clean instead of lean and mean,
if war-wound cots were the price of loss,
if second-hand Jeeps were ours to keep,
then that's what war is for.

So here Jacqui and I sit, adoring each other, and wondering why on earth it's taken so many years for us to finally get together.

And suddenly I'm out of the "shag-anything-that-moves" mode I've been in since Heidi dumped me. I'm now firmly in the cross-hairs of "looming relationship" mode. Sheesh. Where the hell does this stuff come from??? And can it be trusted?

JB Rivers, Hyde Park

Sunday, May 25, 2003

Service: * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * *

I've just dropped Darryl off at her parents. They're all going through to visit a cousin of hers who lost a husband to kidney failure last week out of the blue. I've been at her place most of the evening after she and I decided to go to an art exhibition. "Wait," says her mom. "Come in. Have you eaten? Would you like some chicken? An apple?"

"Uh... just an apple, thanks," I say.

"What happened to your hair, Darryl? Have you been driving in an open convertible?" Her mom's pretty observant. I like driving my MX5 in winter with the top down and the heater on full blast. It's very romantic.

There's a wedding photo on the wall. "Who's this babe?" I say, knowing that it's Darryl's mom in her heyday.

"Trevor! Come here! Come listen to what this young man has to say!"

Darryl's dad emerges from a room. Handshakes, greetings, introductions.

"Tell him!" she says. Darryl's standing there shaking her head gently.

"I said," I tell her dad, " 'Who's this babe?' "

"I had good taste," he says.

So now I'm in Hyde Park. Still sex-starved, cos as romantic as my car is with the top down and the heater snarling its dragon breath all across my and Darryl's bodies, somehow sex just didn't raise its lovely head today. Sigh.

But heck. Hyde Park is an antidote to that. It's sex city tonight. Babes extraordinaire all over. Two in particular. So I whip out the sketchbook and surreptitiously start a slow drawing. I normally crank them out really quickly, but I'm working on technique at the moment, so I'm using very controlled strokes. This means that I'm observing much more intently than usual.

I've just finished eating my usual JB Rivers feast... their Cajun Chicken Salad. Lots of decaff cappuccinos. Excellent. A new waiter though. Keeps mishearing me. But no harm done. He'll still get my customary 20% tip. I believe that waiters deserve to be treated as humans. I get very pissed off with people who bark orders at them and then don't tip.

So now I'm really observing this girl's breasts as I massage the paper with my ink-soaked pen.

Which means that any second now I'm going to be bust. Cos the waiter is standing behind me peering all around the restaurant to see who my model is. "Who are you painting?" he says. I cock my head in the general direction of the blonde babe with the sumptuous breasts and the rather prominent nose. He points right at her. "That one?" he says. Everyone at her table looks up. They look at me.

I want to throttle this waiter. Or jab my trusty Maped Ruling Pen in his crotch, like I did to Janine's Matthew in Kaapschehoop. "Yeah, her," I say.

An envoy from her table comes up to me. There are three boys, three girls. All three girls are just totally luscious. The three boys are biceptuals... they spend a lot of time in gym getting slinky so girls like these will go for them. Clearly a very good strategy. Which is why I've been going to gym quite a lot recently.

"Hi," says Greg. "Do you mind if I see your drawing?"

I show him. "Is that Linda???" He laughs. Beckons.

Linda gets up. Comes over.

"Oh my god!" she shrieks. "I look like a witch!!! Oh no! Is my nose THAT bad?"

"Please don't beat me up!" I say.

A bit of small talk. They look through my sketchbook. Smiles all round. They head back for their table. I sneak a super-quick sketch of her. And she catches me again. Immediately back to my table.

"Who's this?" she says.

"Uh," I say, "it's your friend." She buys the story.

"Oh, good. Thank god. Ilana," she calls, "he's drawn you too!" A pause as she flicks through the book again. "You've got a thing for hooked noses, hey?" Back to the table.

I hear one of the guys say, "Hahahaha! Ask him where her broom is!"

Then I turn my attention to Ilana. If this is possible, she's even more desirable than Linda. And I've been studying her panties peeking out from above her jeans. A dark, rich brown. Velvet. Love. Lust. Renewal. But trying to steal these drawings unobserved is impossible right now. Six waiters are standing behind me watching. And the babe-table is completely aware.

Another super-quick sketch.

Ilana comes up to my table. Yeowch. She's breathtaking. She looks at my drawing of her.

"Can't you draw women so they look MORE beautiful than in real life?" she says.

I have to improvise here. So I say, "You're both WAY too beautiful to capture in an artwork."

Greg says, "Is THAT how you get away with it? You use that line?"

"Yeah," I say, "but I normally get beaten up by boyfriends who can't stand to see their girlfriends humiliated. Did I get away with it this time?"

Both Ilana and Linda say emphatically, in unison, "Yes, you get away with it this time."

Erich Viedge's Home, Greenside

Sunday, May 25, 2003

Service: * * * * *
Food: * * *
Ambience: * * * *
Babe Count: * * * * 1/2

Erich has invited 40 of his closest friends to breakfast at his place. Most of us arrive around 35 minutes later than the stipulated 9:30am.

Now one of the things about Erich is that he knows some seriously attractive women. And luckily, he's about to get married, so it's okay to flirt with as many of them as I want to.

By 'okay', I mean, okay by me. In other words, I'm not treading on his turf. Except when I flirt with Janet, his fiancée. But I do that in front of him, and he knows my errant ways. And he knows I'd never try and shag her. Cos I'm not into relationship-busting.

But when I say 'okay', I have no idea whether or not I'm coming across to the hordes of babes as some kind of sex-starved drooler. Hmmm. Actually, I've thought about this statement for about a quarter of a second, and I withdraw it. I have a pretty good idea that I do INDEED come across as a sex-starved drooler. Which is pretty darn accurate now that Heidi in Somerset West is off the scene. Praise be to Jah.

So anyway. Jacqui is emminently flirtable-with. So's Darryl (as in Darryl Hannah). So's Claire. And countless of the others, whose names I don't recall, and who are married or attached anyway.

I spend my morning walking from cluster to cluster with Roger von Oech's CREATIVE WHACK PACK in my hand, offering people the opportunity to pick a card to solve a problem they're facing.

"Oooh, no," says one of the delectables, clutching her chocolate croissant as if it were garlic warding off a vampire. "I don't really like tarot cards." She pronounces it as 'tah-rot'. I correct her...

"That's 'tah-row'," I say, "but these aren't them. These are just idea jolters. Try one. They're not evil."

So she draws a card. It's number 45... DON'T FALL IN LOVE WITH IDEAS. It advises her to "let go of a previously cherished idea. Be free to look for new ones. What part of the idea are you in love with? Kiss it goodbye!"

"Oh!" she says. "This is so cool! Can I try another one?"

Crystal walks down the driveway. Her shoulders are all hunched, and she's pretty dazed. "What's wrong?" says Erich. He's wearing some kind of North- or West-African sarong. When he springs up, his tackle shows briefly, and he rearranges it quickly.

"They've stolen both of my back wheels!" says Crystal.

Her car is parked just behind mine in the street outside. Unbelievable. Broad daylight. Back half of the car on bricks. These dudes are experts. Sheesh.

Always one for a pun at someone else's expense, I can't help myself. "Hey Crystal," I say, "you a wheeler dealer?"

Jacqui groans, and covers her head with both hands. Four of us are sitting on a blanket out in the winter sun in Erich's garden. She's lying just out of reach. Not that I'd try and reach her, you understand. Cos that would blow any chance I might be under the illusion I have with her. But I think the pun blows things worse than any invasion of body space might.

And then I clinch it.

"So, Crystal," I say, plowing in where angels fear to tremble, "are you feeling... TIRED?"

Jacqui sighs extravagantly and starts talking to Darryl. And I start having fantasies of them being lesbian lovers on my futon. And I sigh extravagantly.

Stones, Cresta

Friday, May 23, 2003

Service: * *
Food: N/A
Ambience: * *
Babe Count: * * * * 1/2

Aryan Kaganof, Dick Tuinder, and I, are here to play some pool. It's Friday night, and kiddies' curfew hasn't yet kicked in. So Stones is filled with an abundance of cross-cultural under-age babeflesh. Most of which seems to be attached to gorilla boys, most of whom are going to strike it a hell of a lot luckier than I will tonight.

Tables are all booked. But there's one that's being dominated by two succulent honeys. The one, the dark one with the sun tattoo between her shoulder blades, the one with delicious, broadish hips and a tiny waist, is dream material for me.

I kinda wish she were older, cos then I'd consider working my way round to proposing marriage.

Instead of marriage, I propose that Dick and I challenge them for the table. The blonde one points at the pile of coins on the edge of the table. "Everyone wants to challenge us," she says, a smug smile on her face.

"Beauty will do that," I say. It just slips out. I had no control over the statement, and I expected retribution and further smirking from them.

Instead, a pause. "Okay," says the blonde one. "You're on. We'll call you just now." A shared look between the two of them.

I dunno. I certainly TRY to be a charmer. And I often succeed. But I really don't understand how it works. Surely a statement like, "Beauty will do that," MUST be regarded as Hick-honcho dorkiness incarnate? Surely?? I mean, heck, it's not as if these two honeys have run short in the looks department. They must have creepoids pawing them constantly. So surely originality has to enter the equation. I dunno.

In the interim, Kaganof has engaged the attention of a tall strawberry blonde in a pencil skirt. She's trying to get him to dance. But he doesn't do that sort of thing. So she eyes me from the dance floor, and beckons me to join. This is a babe I spotted as I came in, and she and I had done a bit of eye-contact swapping.

I join her. "I didn't catch your name," she shouts into my ear.

"Roy," I shout back. "You?"

"What?"

Her name is Catherine. "Cat for short," she says. I make a clawing cat motion with my hands, hissing as I do. "No!" she says, and throws back her head and laughs. "More like a kitten!" And she purrs, and tucks her hands up under her chin as if she's sleeping. I think this might be love. She's got that perfect cello shaped body. Curvy all the way. And such a pretty face.

We chat a bit off the dance floor. She's about to study graphic design at Damelin, so she can join an ad agency. "But that's not my dream," she says. I spur her to reveal more. "I want to be a pilot." That's so cool. A friend of mine is a pilot. Leigh. Has his own microlight plane. He's pretty impressive. "But right now I'm just a receptionist." And she shrugs, and her face looks all defeated. And all I wanna do is take her home and give her a big boost of self-esteem.

I show her my sketchbook, and she sits looking at it, enjoyment all over her. It's so gratifying having one's art appreciated. Thanks, Cat.

Her friend has been hovering around, looking all svelte and breasty. Her name's Cindy, and she wears a hat, despite the Stones 'No Headgear' policy. "I was in a car accident," she explains, and pulls the hat off very quickly. Her face took a bit of glass. Now she wears the hat to hide what she thinks is her hideousness from the world.

"Do you really think you're hideous?" I say. "Cos you're serious babe material."

"Well," she says, "before the prang I was seriously pursuing the supermodel route." And sure, this chick is model material. Blonde hair. Incredible tits. (I know they're incredible, cos they're pretty much in plain view.) Very slim.

Aryan kicks in at this point. "My camera is in for a service right now, but gimme your number and I'll call you in three weeks, and I'll make you a video portfolio."

Aryan happens to be one of Europe's most prominent filmmakers. He's the first filmmaker to have made a feature film using digital video. It's called WASTED, a drug movie that made it huge in Holland and the rest of the world. About twelve South Africans have seen it.

"But," says Aryan, "I have some conditions. I film you without makeup, with your scars in plain view. I want to show you, on video, how beautiful you are." She flaps her hands. "Wait," he says, "sure, we can do a version with all your makeup and stuff. But a no-makeup version too. Okay?"

She writes her numbers in his artist's notebook. And he'll call her in exactly three weeks.

Cat's finished looking at my book. "I'm also an artist," she says. "I do oil paintings."

Dick says, "Hey! You should carry them around with you, like we do." He mimes putting huge framed paintings under his arm. "That way you can attract the attention of nice boys."

"Let's go," Aryan says to Dick and me. We're off to play pool in Fourways, near Tovey's. The babes I tried to get a game from earlier have some younger and better suitors, ones with better lines. And Cindy and Cat are ready to go home, not party some more. Sigh. These young people are just not made the way they used to be.

But I've got to try this line on Cat, cos between Cat and Cindy, I would LOVE to make love with Cat. She's just totally sumptuous. Not that Cindy isn't. It's just that Cindy is way too thin for me. Forty-nine kilograms! And she thinks she's overweight! Tells me her ideal weight is forty-three! Jesus. I can bench press two of her.

So I say to Cat, winking extravagantly, as if I were being ironic, and demonstrating said irony, "Hey Cat, since we're both artists, how about you coming round to my place and modeling for me? And if you like, you don't even have to take your clothes off at first."

"At first?" she says, and she's smiling. And oh god, I wish pickup lines worked. Cos she's kinda almost vaguely contemplating the idea of modeling for me with her clothes on.

But it's okay. The line hasn't worked. And I know that lines don't work. So it's time to go shoot some pool somewhere. But just in case, I hand Cat and Cindy my 'Coffee-Shop Schmuck' business card, and get more laughs. Cat comes up close to me, and purrs in my ear, "How do you pronounce this? Is it 'Sh-muck'? That's so funny!!!" Please phone me, I think, as I'm walking to my car. Prove me wrong.