My Flat, Cresta

Tuesday, March 23, 2004

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

I'm tear soaked and sapped right now. Just came home from couples therapy. I had decided that I couldn't take more of this space, and handed Jacqui all of her things before the session started. We'll be seeing each other one more time for her to hand me my stuff.

I've been wondering if there's anything I could have done differently. And I'll certainly be exploring this with my therapist in the months to come.

In the meantime, supper is a handful of stale CHEEZ NAKS. They're on the other side of the flat, and I can't really be bothered to get up and get them. My car's parked outside. I had intended to come upstairs, grab my gym stuff, and head out for a vigorous workout. But I'm gutted.

I wonder what this is all about. I've spent all of my adult life learning how to be a better person. I've spent tons of time in therapy learning about myself. I'm normally a pretty astute judge of human nature. So what makes it so difficult to stay in a beautiful relationship? (And from what I've gleaned in couples therapy, Jacqui also found it beautiful.)

Anyway. I'm going to be very sore for a while. And Jacqui is too. And I wish we were able to reach out and comfort each other. And be with each other. She said in therapy today that she thinks it may very well have been a factor of timing for her. Maybe we started our journey together a little too early.

I know this is soppy, but at the end of the session, I told her that I would like her to know that the door is open, and that maybe we're both incredibly reactive right now, and that maybe given time, some possibility might open up.

Ah well. I think I'd best go and watch some soppy movie. Even popcorn is better than stale CHEEZ NAKS.

And who knows, maybe I'll meet the new love of my life in the cinema?

Mugg & Bean, Cresta

Thursday, March 11, 2004

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

My t-shirt is a little clammy. That's because I've just gotten out of the Virgin Active gym down across the parking lot, seconds before closing time. That's cos I got there late, due to having been at work late. But hey. I'm dedicating myself to getting to gym three times a week now.

Back at the gym there was a pleasant dude in the changeroom who turns out to be a property development construction mogul. We got to chatting cos of the good-natured grunts and groans he was making while changing.

"Rough workout?" I ask.

"Two hours," he says. "Arms and stomach. Yesterday I overdid it a bit."

Two hours! Jeepers! The longest I've stayed in gym has been two hours, but an hour of that was over a cup of Kauai coffee!!!

He tells me he makes his living by building places like shopping centres, holding them for a few years, and then selling them at a profit. I ask him if we can get together so I can pick his brain. I've been taking tentative steps in this direction for some time now, spurred mostly by the Rich Dad, Poor Dad books.

"I'm rushing to get to the rowing machine before this place closes," I say. "My name's Roy, by the way."

"Jeff," he says, and we shake hands.

I write his name and number down in my notebook. And yup, I carry it with me wherever I am. If I don't have my palmtop and my notebook with me, you know there's something really odd happening in my life. "I'll sms you my business card later, and we can connect," I say. He's happy with this, and I rush for the rowing machine.

Which is why I'm sweatily sitting in Mugg & Bean picking at their smoked chicken salad, and sipping at the biggest strawberry juice in the world. Mugg & Bean likes big.

The salad is unfortunately sub-standard. The chicken slices a quite thick, and it's from some kind of pressed loaf, which has a gristly rind which hasn't been removed. It squeeks against my teeth when I chew. But I'm hungry, and it's okay. And the honey mustard dressing makes up for it.

I call my brother, who's in town from the Transkei (or whatever it's called these days). He's doing some wheeler-dealing, and leaves on Sunday. So I arrange to have breakfast with him on Saturday. "Gimme a call on my cell at about ten," he says. "I sleep on the Buddhist principle. Sleep when I need. Wake up when I wake up."

I call my mom. Her cellphone's broken, and the only way to use it is with one of those walk & talk handsfree earpieces. Which means that all the ambient noise in Mugg & Bean is amplified on her side. "Who's laughing like that???" she says.

I have to look around to know what she's talking about. Some dude at a table about ten metres away is chortling. I tell my mom how far away he is. "It's Joburg," she says. "Everyone lives so fast there. You should move to Cape Town. Much more laid back."

She tells me about being rained in, and unable to get into Port St Johns in the morning. The roads are made of clay, which, as one might guess if one were a qualified civil engineer, is extremely slippery when wet. So she can't travel. Very frustrating for her, cos she lives on top of a very, very, very big hill (someone from Joburg might call it a mountain; someone from Holland would be unable to call it anything at all, since no Dutch references exist for such tall things). And there are lots of big hills between her and Port St Johns. And her car literally slides down the roads.

I tell her about the situation between me and Jacqui. I'm not all that sure I understand it myself. We went to our second couples therapy session on Tuesday, and it was very hard for me. Basically, Jacqui needs space. Lots of it. She's willing to see me twice a week for the next while... once at couples therapy, and then a Friday movie date, or something of equivalent lightness.

There are two parts of me that respond to this request. The pleasing, logical side of me, the part that says, "Roy, there's a beautiful relationship here waiting to be healed!", absolutely agrees to whatever request Jacqui makes. The vulnerable, damaged, scared side of me says, "What the hell is WITH this woman!!??? Is she insane? Has she lost touch with reality??? How did I go to sleep one night blissfully in love with her and her with me, and wake up the next morning seeing her twice a week????"

My mom says, "She's got beautiful, kind eyes." She's looking at the photo I sent her in a book parcel.

I say goodnight, and an sms comes through. "Roy why the word love?" says Jeff, the property mogul. I had sent him my details, and signed off with my habitual and regular "Blue skies, love, Roy" signature. He's probably freaking out now about handing his number out to some dude in a gym changeroom.

But hey. It's not the Houghton branch, and I'm very much NOT interested in dudes. So I send him an sms explaining that it's about spreading light and joy in this weird, soulfree universe we find ourselves in. No reply. There's a good chance he thinks I'm a total flake. Damn. I really wanna pick his brain about becoming a property mogul.

Noma, my waitress at Mugg & Bean, is one of the more attentive waitresses I've encountered in a long time. She's there when the plate is somewhat bare. She's there when the strawberry juice is at last finished. Definitely worth a 20% tip.

Now the sweat has cooled, and the rain is spattering down. Jersey on. Time to go home to my empty flat to be anxious about my date with Jacqui tomorrow night.

Jacqui bought me a little toy sheep for me to use as a gimmick to give to my voice-over clients. It -- she -- has a little bell attached to her collar. And we call her "Sleepy Sheepy". I'll cuddle up to her tonight. Luckily I haven't inserted the voice recording device into her gut which says, in my voice, "Tired of BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD voice artists? Give Roy Blumenthal a bleat on 082 659 3165!"

The Radium Beer Hall, Orange Grove

Saturday, March 06, 2004

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

Tonight at the Radium there's no-one too worthwhile looking to start with. But that's gonna change as the night wears on. Wendy New definitely pushes the babe count over the threshold.

I'm here cos Wendy's doing a gig, and her supporting act is the Durban whizzkid, Ian Henderson. It's quite glum not having Jacqui here with me. But I'm feeling confident-ish that she and I may be able to work something out in this relationship of ours. Last night's date has given me hope. Still, it would be ever so cool to be enjoying the music with her.

Anyway.

Ian Henderson gets introduced by Damon Berry in his most showmanly Master of Ceremonies mode. I've seen a few MCs in my time, and even been introduced by several of them in my time as a standup poet. But Damon must be the most rousing of all of them. He can whip a rotten banana into an enthusiastic roar.

Damon says, "Ladies and gentlemen... all the way from Durban. He's single! He's sizzling! He's Ian Henderson!!! Any groupies here, please give generously!!! Put it together for Ian Henderson!" And the applause rises.

And Ian doesn't disappoint. I've got his CD, and I've given it many a spin on a Sunday afternoon and on late nights at the computer. And he's bloody good.

Looks-wise, he's incredibly similar to Tom Waits. Long, horse-like face. Brown hair. Craggy face. Dazzling smile. Musically, I think he's a bit of a mix between Dave Matthews, David Grey and Joshua Rouse.

Very quirky, very listenable. And very cool live. Tonight is his first gig as a new Johannesburg resident. He's moved up from the coast. "I didn't think I'd ever like living here," he says, "but I have to admit that I'm kinda enjoying it." Starts his set. Just him and a guitar. And a time delay pedal so that he can do some experimental stuff a little later.

Damon buys me an imported Orange juice. Ten bucks I don't have to pay. And it doesn't take TOOOOOO long for the bartender to get it.

Everyone's very supportive of me in my bereavement. Shoulder massages from Wendy. Pats on the arm from Damon. But it's not really bereavement anymore. It feels like I'm really just giving Jacqui space. I figure that if we're going to go the distance, I'd like to wake up forty years from now saying, "I gave this woman space to be herself. The Jacqui I love is the real deal. It's HER. It's not some projection. It's not her acting out a version of herself that she thinks will please me. It's the Jacqui who had space to discover herself, with me supporting her in that."

And you know, if it doesn't happen, if in this space, she finds that she needs to be alone, that's cool. That's real. And reality is what I'm keen on. What's more, she's worth it. Every dip and peak in the roller coaster trip I'm strapped to at the moment is fine. Cos she's still the woman of my dreams.

Ian's set is over. "Hey!" he says when he gets off stage to join us. "Let's go compare babies." He's just bought a brand new Mazda MX5. And I've got the original model. Managed to park opposite his.

"So you're going through some stuff," he says. He's just bust up with his babe, and it's been hard on him too. We get to the cars. His is a midnight blue. Killer colour. A true beaut. Mine's red, and has pop-up lights.

Wendy's tuning up. We go back in and I order tea before the set starts. Frances Charlton has stepped onto the stage to tune her ultra-chic didgeridoo. That ups the babe count. A babe with a didge. And she doesn't even have dreadlocks. And her didge is a thing to behold. It's brushed aluminium, with a high-tech mouthpiece. And she's truly tuning the thing! It's a two-piece tube, and it's got stops for the different notes. Very slinky, Ms Charlton.

And then the set starts. And the tea arrives. And it's warm and fine.

And Wendy is at her best, even though she's been dreading this evening with all her heart, cos her wrist is wrecked. She's a shiatsu practitioner, and she's developed some type of tendonitis which has flared up in the last two weeks to such an extent that she can hardly hold her guitar.

But she's been psyching herself all day, and she's ready to burst past the pain threshold in the name of art. And she does. And she's rocking as good as I've heard her. Beware... if you don't have her cd, you're missing out bigtime. It's at CD Wherehouse and Look 'n Listen, I believe. And if it's not, ask for it. And force those suckers to stock it.

Inevitably, the evening wears down. There's a Dublin rain that's been dribbling down like an old man's prostate discharge all day and night. And it's just reminding me totally that I'm all alone tonight. Jacqui's been watching Charlize Theron winning her Oscar in MONSTERS. I haven't seen it yet, but my editor at the Ethiopean Educational TV project, Stephen Foster, tells me that it's hardcore, and brilliant, and a humungous downer. I hope Jacqui's okay after it. Sigh. Would love to be there to hug and comfort her. And get some of that hugging and comfort for myself.

Damon and Ian start applying the peer pressure. "Come on," says Damon. Come to the Blue Naartjie. You're single. There'll be babes."

"I'm not single," I say, suddenly grumpy and snarling. "I'm just giving her space. And I'm not going to the Blue Naartjie." It's almost one in the morning, and I've got to work tomorrow, cos of the day I had to take off last Tuesday because of the breakup.

Damon and Ian smile. That's the answer they've been looking for.

The Ocean Basket, Sandton City

Friday, March 05, 2004

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

Tonight the babe count is at maximum. That's cos the babe sitting across the table from me is Jacqui, love-of-my-life, looking gorgeous. And what's more, she's smiling tenderly at me.

Now I know I'm reading WAY too much into this, but that's what I wanna do for the moment. I WANT my hopes up there. I WANT to feel that maybe she and I will be able to sort things out and love each other for ever.

We're on a date, one we arranged to go on back at couples therapy on Tuesday.

I admit to having felt terrified of tonight. I feared the worst.

This morning, driving to work, tears welling, I phone my shrink. Ask her if I should cancel this evening. Chicken out. "Roy," says Zahava, her kid screaming in the background, "I think you should go with it. Feel the fear, but have supper and see a movie with her. Whatever you feel tonight will be a good teacher for your future."

As I'm listening, a beep sounds in my earpiece. It's a message. "Uh, hang on, Zahava," I say. "There's a message. It could be from Jacqui."

I look at the phone while driving in the rain. And yes... it IS from Jacqui! And she's very keen to meet tonight, and she's looking forward to seeing me. And she's suggesting a nice light movie... RUNAWAY JURY. And suddenly I'm feeling unbelievably relieved. But still petrified.

I tell Zahava, and read the message to her. "Go tonight," she says. "And phone me if you need me. Are you okay? Getting through work?"

We end the conversation when Saul shouts at his mom. He screams, "It's not fair!!!"

"Zahava," I say, "I have to agree with Saul. It's not fair."

So here I am with Jacqui, eating the fish and chips special at The Ocean Basket. We're upstairs, and it's surprisingly noisy. But the fish tastes fresh. I've forgotten once again about the standard option they offer... if you just ask them, they'll do a Cajun burn on the dish you order. So I just have to settle for the normal grilled hake. Which is very nice. And I'm astounded to find that I'm able to eat. Cos my tummy's been queazy all day today, and I haven't been able to eat very well.

And Jacqui looks so lovely. I just want to reach over the table and kiss her. And them make love with her. And all that sorta stuff. Which I don't mention, seeing as we're kinda in break-up mode.

But she's very clear about some stuff. Namely she loves me. Adores me. Thinks I'm one of the most special men around. And thanks me for giving her space. Specifically thanks me for not sending her any messages yesterday.

Phshew. I set myself the goal of refraining from sending her any SMSs yesterday. Not cos I didn't want to contact her. But simply to prove to myself and to her that I could honour her need for space.

It was a very very very very difficult day to get through.

And she tells me, "Roy, I've been forcing myself not to get into my car and drive over to your flat. I've been forcing myself not to send you any messages too. But I've really needed the space. Thank you."

I raise the serviette to my eyes. Swallow hard about five times. I don't want to break down here. I don't want to start crying. If I do, I can tell that it'll be the whooping howling version, the type that comes from deep despair and violent relief. This woman loves me! And she might even want me.

We watch the movie. I nice, workmanlike legal thriller that doesn't challenge too much, and only preaches a bit about gun control. And it's fun, and just what a strained couple might need.

We go walking around Sandton City after, and sit down on one of the benches outside Loads of Living.

It's time for a bit of heart to heart. "Roy," she says, "I feel so guilty."

"Because you feel you're stringing me along, and you don't want to hurt me, but you know I'm hurting. Because you're in a hectically ambivalent space."

She's agreeing.

And I say, "But you're not hurting me, Jacqui. I'm hurting, sure. But it's not YOU causing the hurt. It's the situation. What you're doing, what YOU'RE doing, is giving yourself the space to find out what you want. And you HAVE to do that. If you don't do that, you won't know what you want. And I'll go through any hurt to know at the end that it's me you want."

Or words to that effect. I don't recall exactly. It's a tad emotional here in Sandton City tonight on this bench.

"Roy," says Jacqui. And this time, I recall exactly what she says, cos it's burned into my brain stem. "Roy, if it's okay to ask this without getting your hopes up, I'd like to ask you to wait for me through this. And I'm committed to doing whatever work we need to go through."

We hug. I say, "I'll wait."

Piatto, Cresta

Monday, March 01, 2004

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

If sorrow is supposed to be such an aphrodisiac, why'm I not feeling horny?

Jacqui and I met an hour or so ago at Graasroots in Village Walk. We were going to have supper, but things went a little pear shaped. As things do when break up speeches are delivered.

Got an sms from my shrink this morning. She's sick, so she was unable to have our inaugural couples' therapy session this afternoon. Which meant that Jacqui and I got to meet this evening without the benefit of mediation.

This is where we've left things... we'll be in touch with each other next at the rescheduled therapy session, whenever that might be. Jacqui has agreed to my request that she keep an open mind as to the slim possibility of this relationship resuming. I've agreed to her request that I start thinking of letting go.

Who knows? Surely there must be something at least one of us can change to make this a successful relationship?

What's really bewildering for me is that I truly don't know what went wrong. I mean, there are the obvious reasons. Pressure from outside sources. Blah blah blah.

But I got it profoundly wrong.

For me, this was the relationship of my dreams. This babe was a full five-star wonder for me. Was? Make that IS. She IS my full five-star wonder! My fantasies had li'l babies running around. Cats. A house in Tuscany. All that mushy stuff. And I can say with full conviction that this is the only woman I've ever felt broody with. She can be the mom of my kids anytime she wants.

For her, this was not the relationship of her dreams. This was a beautiful ten-month journey that has now ended.

Okay. I'll admit to being a little alarmist. Maybe she's just premenstrual. Maybe this'll all blow over somehow. But I'm also aware of being way too optimistic. So I'm fearing the worst, even though I'm hoping for the best.

And my Cajun chicken salad arrives. The Piatto philosophy seems to be about offering abundance. So there's a LOT of Danish feta cheese, and delicious, tender chicken strips. But a heck of a lot of dressing, which I'm not fond of at the best of times. So I plod through the eating, thinking about Jacqui.

I wonder if yearning has some kind of energetic impact on the universe? D'you think that if I yearn hard enough, God might prod Jacqui in the arm and say, "Hey, haven't you noticed how much you love this bloke??? Give him a try! And change the way you two do things together so you don't feel trapped!"

Okay. I'm going to give the yearning my very best shot.

Manhattan Grill, Cresta

Friday, December 12, 2003

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

It's eleven o'clock at night. My shoe soles are still smouldering. I have tiny splinters in my hands and arms. My eyebrows are a tad singed.

Funnily enough, Troy Bentley's suffering something similar.

And so is Bonnie Pon. But with the addition of a pressure bandage round his ankle from when he fell in the hole.

Bonnie is the head of the Pon family, the dudes responsible for many of the night-sky fireworks spectaculars you see in South Africa. They go all over the place, and they've got state-of-the-art equipment. This year they've synchronised their explosions to the music by using an amazing computer program linked to various detonators. These people are WAY up there on the technological wizardry scale.

So lemme start at the beginning of the evening, before the burning started.

I'm in Bookdealers of Rosebank, trying to find some suitable new screenwriting books. Or sketching sourcebooks. Or anything that a compulsive book-buyer might want, really. Jacqui is off at the Hoogland Hydro for five days of pampering, and I'm killing time till tomorrow, when Damon and I will recommence work on writing our B-movie horror screenplay.

My phone rings. It's Troy Bentley, Damon's cousin. "Get your butt to Cresta," he says. "Fireworks starts in half an hour!" I discuss where to find him, and skedaddle, after only buying one book, something on how to structure corporate social investment programs.

The traffic is crazy. Getting to my flat just across the way from Cresta Shopping Centre is sheer mania. But hey. Fireworks! I park. Walk to Cresta and find Troy.

Every year, he helps the Pons out with setting up, monitoring, and packing up the show. Last year he also invited me, and I ended up helping load the trucks at the end. Hard, dirty work.

Tonight, I'm early, and Troy is on fire duty. He's got a team of six guys, and they've all got fire beaters. That's cos Cresta borders a nature reserve and office park, and noone wants a fire now, do they? Specially not me.

So the show starts. And it's absolutely unbelievably mindnumbingly wonderful to be allowed into the restricted zone, and see the fireworks from below. To feel the vicious thud of the big rockets as they smash out of their metre-long plastic launchers 300 metres up into the air. To smell the spent gunpowder as it pelts down like hail. Yeah! This is the life.

And all's going perfectly well, really. Until the very last minute of the 21-minute show. That's when the corkscrewy sorta sperm-like explosions happen, with the white flames showering down under power. Carried by the wind. To the ground. Into the dry grass.

So of course, no fewer than three fires start. And Troy and his men are gone, sprinting into the dark. So I figure that a bit of heroism is a good thing on a Friday night. I go sprinting after them.

And boy, do I find out just how difficult it is to fight fires on a dark night in marshland with thorn trees? From about 8pm till 11pm when we finally get into the restaurant, we all battle the blazes manfully.

Troy and I team up, working as a pair, beating the advancing fires against the wind. Of the six fire beaters employed to do this job, only one guy is effective. The other five kinda hang back, superstitiously warding off the flames with broken branches held over their eyes.

So it's basically me, Troy, Bonnie, and the tall dude, whose name I don't know. We put out three goddamn fires all on our lonesomes.

Except Bonnie walks to some reeds and then disappears. A calm yelp from him, and he re-emerges a minute or so later. He's fallen into a human-sized hole, and his ankle is wrecked. He limps back to the real world.

There's a romance involved in firefighting. I'm sure it's one of those esoteric things that only firefighters know, and that noone can know unless they've been there. It's this... the grass sings like a billion serpents all writhing in a high-pitched orchestra-tuning pit. And the singing is tangible... it feels like there's something like razor-wire just below the surface of the grass, ready to uncoil and slice your legs off. Scary as all hell, but beautiful.

At some point, the wind changes, and starts blowing towards us. I've been going to gym, but not enough. I'm winded. I'm thirsty. I'm scared that I might be hallucinating. I hand my fire-beater to one of the five branch-wielders, and fall back. I see some torches on the horizon, and I head for them. They turn into red revolving lights. It's the firebrigade.

I stumble up to the truck, feeling as though I'm about to pass out. "Please can I have some water?" I say to the driver.

"Sure," he says. Climbs out of this monster truck, heads to one of the vast taps on the side of it, checks the valve number, and lets rip. I can report that I'm the only person I know who has drunk straight from the mouth of a fire engine. And the water is hot. But that doesn't stop me from drinking around two or three litres of the stuff.

Sated, I head back to the front. The fire truck can't navigate the marshes, so they're driving around to meet us at the road.

Troy and his guys are already at the fence. The fires are out. "Hey!" I shout, and he flashes his torch at me. I've got this tiny Maglite, the smallest one, but it allows him to locate me.

I see red flicking lights again as I draw closer. Troy says, "Hey! Hang on! There's two more of us here! Whoah!!!" The truck drives off without us. We walk back to Cresta, about a kilometre.

We find Bonnie overseeing the loading of the trucks. He's sitting awkwardly. He gives us two bottles of mineral water each, which we down in seconds. "How's your leg?" I say.

"Sore," he says. He drives a Merc, so I ask Margaret, his wife, to let me hunt for the first aid kit. I find it, find a pressure bandage, and draw on my three months of Boy Scout knowledge to fashion a pretty neat immobilising wrap round his ankle. He'll need help in the morning, but it's not broken, since he can voluntarily move his toes, and a light finger touch to the skin doesn't make him strike dragons or un-crouch tigers.

And then it's off to supper. With about 16 members of the Pon family. The service isn't diabolical. Just ultra slow. We've been saving the world, and it takes the kitchen staff till midnight to get our order out.

And of course, it has to happen. Bonnie orders his meat rare, and it comes out well done. Seems as though his steak got caught in the fire.

Jacqui's Flat, Fourways

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

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

Oh, shame! Poor Jacqui! She's sick in bed with flu, and I'm upstairs in the loft playing with my iPAQ 2210 palmtop computer.

I've just taken delivery of a Stowaway XT folding keyboard that is nothing short of miraculous. The absence of the keyboard is one of the reasons it's taken me so long to actually update this site.

In fact, one of the reasons I'm doing up in the loft -- instead of downstairs, close to Jacqui -- is that the cellphone reception is way better up here. I've sorted out my GPRS connection to the internet, so I'm able to surf to my heart's content up here. Using a bluetooth connection.

Which basically means that I'm finally happy with my Nokia 6310i, a phone which steadfastly refused to connect with my previous palmtop, my trusty Psion 5MX.

So what can I tell you? Tons really. I'll start with the food. Not great. Just a few arbitrary things in Jacqui's fridge. Such as a Tupperware container filled with long green tendrils attached to the remnants of some extra-mature cheddar. And some Primi Piatti gnocchi from a few nights ago.

Babe count is great, cos even though Jacqui's been nailed by the flu, she looks lovely lying there in her sweatsoaked white nightie.

As for the service, it HAS to be great. After all, I'm the one doing the serving! And I'm the model of a caring boyfriend. I've told her that if she's too enfeebled by the flu to call loudly enough for me to hear, she must phone me on my cell.

On the work front, I'm mightily happy to report that I'm finally leaving SABC3, after three very productive years. I've made about 900 promos, learned to edit on the Avid (I've been editing all of my promos for the last year), and logged hundreds of hours of audio post-production and sound design. I've also helped make several dubious shows into stars. Like BUDDY FARO. But that's another story.

Right now, I'm looking forward to an easy and slow start to the year. I kinda feel the need for a bit of relaxation before blasting into the bunch of things lined up. One of these might involve me running a screenwriting workshop in Nairobi. Another might see me creating educational television for Ethiopean schoolkids.

One thing I'll definitely be doing more of in 2004 is voice-over work. My showreel is ready, and I'm just waiting for a custom gimmick to arrive from an American online gadget shop and I'll be ready to carpet bomb the ad industry. Keep your ears peeled. You'll be hearing my voice a lot in the future.

And before I log off to go check on my delicious love-bunny downstairs, I'll just mention that my art will be notching up to a new level next year too. I'll be paying quite a lot of attention to getting my stuff into galleries. I haven't got much to show you right now, but that's not for lack of work. My scanner's a bit on the messed side at the moment, and the artworks I'm producing on this iPAQ are in BMP format, and I don't yet have a converter. As soon as I find one, I'll pop them on for you to see my new direction. And it involves colour.

Thanks for sticking with the site and reading my stuff. I wish you an incredibly rich festive season. And a superb 2004. I'll update things more often from now on, so hopefully I'll see you before the end of this year.

Right now, I'm off to go look at Jacqui's clinging wet white nightie. Sigh. Fever can be a wonderful thing.

Blue skies, love, Roy

My Flat, Cresta

Wednesday, October 08, 2003

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

Ugh. Guess who's at home with tick bite fever? Guess who's alone at home with tick bite fever with his beloved Jacqui cavorting with Swiss mountain goats in driving snow on an Alp? Guess who's resorted to eating plain Pro-Nutro breakfast cereal with Milo for flavouring cos he's run out of stuff to eat?

If you guessed, "Roy", then you're psychic. Here... I'm thinking of my bank account details. Receive them telepathically and deposit large amounts of karmic cash into my account.

If you guessed, "Swiss Army Knife", then you need help. Urgently. Cos unless you've got your own corkscrew, you're a goner!

Jacqui's in Switzerland for work. She's staying at a friend's house, and we're smsing each other madly. And being in touch via ICQ too. So it's lucky I'm off work, cos my machine there doesn't allow ICQ due to network security blocks. Here at home I can surf to my heart's content. Which I'm doing tons of, cos I recently acquired a tiny HP iPAQ 2210 palmtop computer, and I'm loading it up with software.

Very soon I'm going to have to buy a 4 gig IBM microdrive for it. Right now I'm still trying to locate the STOWAWAY XT foldout keyboard on the web, since nobody here stocks it or even knows what it is. So far, only two web companies ship to South Africa, and one of them is charging USD65 for an item that costs USD80!!! The other one wants to ship for USD35, which is still quite high for something that literally fits in the palm of the hand, and weighs only an ounce or two.

But surfing with a tick bite fever headache is unbearable for large swadges of time. So I spend most of my day sleeping. And eating Vitamin-packed gunk.

I'll say this... if you have to eat Pro-Nutro, flavouring it with Milo is a pretty good plan. Stops it from being slimy, and gives it quite a delicious chocolate flavour. Yummy yummy in my tummy.

Now I'm going to sleep. Thanks for the convalescent visit. I'm feeling better already.

The Valley Lodge, Magaliesberg

Saturday, September 27, 2003

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

Hats off to Natasha for exceptional service! The only reason this place doesn't get five stars is because of an incident involving the inhouse restaurant, a waiter, a manager, and a pair of shorts. More on that later.

Back track a couple of days to when I was phoning around to book a place. Jacqui says, "Have you tried The Valley Lodge?" I hunt up their number. Get through to Natasha. Ask about rooms. Yup. They've got some space available. She quotes me a cost. Not massively expensive, but way over budget.

I explain the situation to her. "Natasha, it's not really a holiday. I'm taking a writing break. My writing partner and I are co-scripting a b-movie horror, and we're basically keen to get away from Johannesburg to do it. Is there any way at all we can get a lower rate?"

She takes down my details, promises to phone me back within fifteen minutes. Calls me back in about three minutes. "Okay," she says, "I've just spoken to our general manager, and this is what we can do for you. We'll give one of you the normal rate, and the other one will come in at the spouse rate. We're basically giving you a special married couple package."

"Wow!" I say. Cos the price she quotes is exactly right. "But," I say, "can you make sure there are two beds? Cos Damon and I aren't actually married! And we just writing partners!"

"I'll see what I can do about upgrading the room. But I'll only know closer to Wednesday."

So, it's Wednesday, just after lunchtime. Our room is actually a suite. Two bedrooms, a huge bathroom. And Damon and I have rearranged everything so that his bedroom is the working room. The beds are big enough for four people each. If Damon and I were typical Hollywood-scum moviemakers, we'd probably be scheming on how to make more effective use of those beds.

We immediately pin flipchart paper over the cupboard walls, flip out the laptops, and start procrastinating. "They've got a mini gym here," I say.

Damon says, "Should we take a paddle out on the river?"

Nah. We decide to work. Which sets the tone for the next ninety-six or so hours. Work for four or so hours in the afternoon. Take a two-and-a-half hour supper break. Work for three hours more. Sleep. Wake up. Morning ablutions, breakfast up in the restaurant, at work by ten for about three hours. Lunch. And so on.

And it totally works! We figured that we'd be happy to get a third of the way through the movie at the end of this short long-weekend. By the time Saturday comes along, we'll have completed 51 pages of tight horror movie script! That's just more than half of the movie, and all of the plotting. We are mightily impressed. If we'd been able to take off a week instead of a midweek, we'd have finished the film by now.

---

Supper. Thursday night. Damon and I took a short break to paddle up and down the river in little kayaks. Dipping the oars deposits water into the vessel. Which wets the pants. My pants are sopping wet. So they're hanging on my door. I'm wearing a pair of shorts.

We walk into the dining hall, and start pulling our chairs out. The maitre d' hotel scurries up to me and says, "I'm sorry, you have to wear long trousers."

I look around the place. There is one other table occupied. "You ARE joking," I say, and continue to pull my chair out.

He pushes my chair back in. "We have a dress code."

"Call the manager," I say. "This is ridiculous. My trousers are wet." He shows me the way to the door. I decide that I'm not really interested in pissing myself off toooooo much, so Damon and I step onto the terrace.

The manager comes, three minutes later. "Sorry," he says. "There is a dress code, and there's nothing we can do except for maybe room service, or laying a table out here in the terrace."

This is a classic case of "Sorry, Can't" thinking. I'm used to "Can Do" thinking. My first response to any challenge is to wonder how I can solve it, rather than thinking about the multitude of reasons something can't be done.

I say, "What about your second dining hall? Noone's there now."

He looks ungainly and broken, as if I've just asked him to commit a fireable offence. If this were my hotel, his original attitude would have guaranteed at least a disciplinary hearing. He bows to the pressure of my intransigence, and opens the door to the second dining hall.

The food is nothing special in this place. Very competently made, mind you. But no real variety. And the menu doesn't change from night to night. They can feed about 150 people, I'd guess, and there is a tiny bit of institution about the taste. But it's fine. The breakfast is superb though. Everything you could dream of. In abundant quantity. And fresh.

---

Coming back from supper at the Fat Man on Friday night (see entry above), Damon and I run into the general manager, Mike. "I'm so sorry about the incident in the restaurant last night," he says. "Please, next time, if you're in shorts, please, just take a seat. You're our guests." He's a genuinely good guy, someone who's only been there for a few months, and who passionately believes in the "Can Do" ethic that I love. He's the guy who made the Mount Grace in Magaliesberg the talked-about attraction it is today. Was there for eight years. "No," he says, when I mention this to him, "it wasn't just me. Natasha was my right-hand woman. It was both of us. And we're going to make this place just as great."

Fifty-one pages. That's great! And thanks to Natasha for giving us the space to do it.

And thanks also to the tick that bit me down near the river for giving me tick bite fever. (See Wednesday 8 October above for details.) It gave me another holiday from work.

The Fat Man Restaurant, Magaliesberg

Friday, September 26, 2003

Phone: +27 14 577 1802

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

Damon and I have taken a break from the Valley Lodge, and came to town for Friday night supper. We want to get a taste of the local colour.

"Are you an artist?" says Ilze, our waitress. She's twenty-years-old, and walks like a model.

This must be the number-one most-asked question I get in restaurants when I whip my sketchbook out and start flicking ink across the page. Every time someone asks me, it flabbergasts me. Really, what does it LOOK like I'm doing? Exterminating termites?? I answer her. "Yeah," I say.

"What are you drawing?"

I'm twisted around in my seat, facing the only fat man with a moustache in the restaurant. I'm sketching. Ilze's looking at the drawing. From my angle it looks like a drawing of a fat man with a moustache. I whisper, "I'm drawing that fat man over there."

"Him?" she says, mirth erupting from her mouth. She claps a hand over her lips and squeals. "He's the owner's husband!"

"Did she name her restaurant after him?" I've just finished the quiche, which was very tasty, but a tiny portion. Not really enough for supper.

Ilze has graduated from modelling school. She occasionally models for catalogue shoots. I'm too scared to ask if she's one of the underwear babes on the Game broadsheets. I'll never sleep again knowing such intimate details.

The fat man looks up, aware of all the attention. Ilze says, "Can I show him?"

"Ya," I say, "but please ask him not to punch me."

"No, he won't punch you! He's not like that!"

She takes my sketchbook over to his table. He studies it. Nods. "Interesting," he says. "Who is it?"

I point at him, and Ilze says, "You!!!"

He looks again. Suddenly he delivers a vast bellylaugh, and the owner comes running out from the kitchen. "Swannie!" she says.

"This man drew me!" he says, still laughing. She takes a look and smiles. Swannie gets up and comes over to my table. I stand up, and we exchange handshakes. "Hey," he says, still jiggling, "are you an artist?"

He's battling to speak English, so I switch over to Afrikaans. I used to have an Afrikaans girlfriend, so I'm fully bilingual. "Yes," I say, in the vernacular.

He's so relieved to be speaking Afrikaans. He says (in his mother tongue), "So, uh... is this me?"

Jeepers. How many more fat men with moustaches can he see?? "Yeah," I say.

He laughs some more, and takes the book round to everyone in the restaurant. Seems I've become a minor celebrity.

"Ilze," I say, in Afrikaans, "is there any chance at all that I might be able to taste a tiny bit of Helena's famous bobotie? Just a taste."

She comes back with the plate heaped with bobotie. And it's delicious. And yeah, it's actually worth travelling all the way to the Magaliesberg for lunch one day to have it again.