From my previous two posts I would assume you picture an irresponsible sex crazed teenager with loose morals and even looser loins. I am in actual fact a relatively boring contributing member of society. I am unfortunately heir to pretty much nothing except maybe my mothers addiction to nicotine. This means that from Monday to Friday I have to work like every Tina Debbie and Harriet to earn my booze money for the weekends. Each day this week pretty much started with me waking up in the morning hoping for a severe (but non-lethal) illness that would render me useless and toxic at work. Maybe even something semi-productive like gastro so I could lose a few kgs in the process. But to my great misfortune I awoke daily in perfect health. This threw a spanner in the works as I could not call in sick without a legitimate excuse. Daily I prepared myself in the morning and went to work to face a day of torture, I would drive the 12kms to the office and pass every robot thinking about the illegal yet easy u-turn I take to seek safety under my bed covers and solace in my mothers food. But my dads voice, instructing me to be a responsible adult and stand up to my problems bellowed in my head and I made it grudgingly, but on time, to work every day.

After an emotionally and soul crushing week at work for menial pay and no recognition I choose to spend this rainy Friday night at home. I stare out the window and I’m so tired that even my severe fomo (diagnosed by myself and treated with large doses of pointless clubbing) has decided to take a break this evening. Sitting on the couch, drinking tea and reading my book about a drug addict (a book which has made it painfully clear to me that I have an unhealthy, but definitely not addicted, relationship with alcohol and bad decisions in general). The bad decisions started young, and I would not change any of them.

My first experience with alcohol was around the same time I suppose any young girls would be. We were a group of idiotic 14 year olds running around gateway with short skirts and high heels. There was something about being that age and strutting around Gateway, away from our parents for the 5 or so hours we were allowed out that made us feel like adults, it was the most liberating experience we had yet experienced. It was always the ‘break-up’ days that were the most eventful. We would all gather as ritual at a friends house straight after the very early school day ending at 12:00. This is where we would spend our time getting ready, preparing ourselves for the fashion show we believed Gateway to be. The mall was Milan and fantasy forest our runway, we couldn’t be convinced otherwise and we made sure we dressed the part. Now that I think back on it, it was probably our over active teenage hormones in over drive that prompted us to be so incredibly excited to go to the ‘movies’. We were all sentenced to 5 years in an all girls school. The prison outfit was s bright yellow dress that made black and white stripes look like designer couture. We were let out under guidance of our parole officers on a Saturday and Sunday and only very rarely were we allowed out with no supervision at all.

We used this opportunity to try as many things as possible which included numerous run-ins with gateway security, and yes Gateway has it’s own jail of sorts. I can’t be certain but I’ve heard they throw people in there for extra-curricular activities (completely pg of course; we were only 14-16) between a boy and girl in the secluded handicapped bathrooms in the gully’s of the mall, how they found us in the first place I will never know but it was easy enough to get out of. The secret was to have friends that knew what you were getting up to. All that was really required was for you to call your ‘parents’ in front of the. Now never myself being thrown into mall prison for lewd acts of semi-public displays of affection, I was more than once on the receiving end of the ‘Mom, can you come pick me up from Gateway’ calls. I was normally inebriated by the time these calls appeared on my phone and would spend the next 3 minutes trying to explain to my friend that they’d dialled the wrong number and I was not their mom. They would continue talking to me as if they had spawned from me, and I would be left standing in Kusina, the only bar that pretty much required you to be underage to be served, with a dazed and confused look on myself. X, my then boyfriend would then jump up, because he was really short, and grab the phone from me trying to figure out what had perplexed me so much. He, with his super power of sobriety quickly figured out what was going on, and that always set in motion the rescue mission of T an X. Those days though not quite innocent always make me feel better thinking that once upon a time an outing to Gateway with my friends could make inexplicably happy and there was no problem that couldn’t be combated with a shot of Liquid Cocaine or a Rocky Bear.

My reaction to work.
Our very own runway
The end of the world was scheduled for 21.12.2012, this of course meant that instead of repenting for our sins and spending time with the ones that birthed us we had to go out and make fools of ourselves in the form of hopping around Durban aimlessly.

The evening began without drama and luckily those Mayans planned our demise (demises?) on a Friday so all parties were in full swing, the plan to spend our last hours of existence was now assured to be in a hot sweaty club with a bunch of coolies with sex on their minds and the taste of cheap brandy on their breaths. This little graphic should give you an indication of the night life in Durban, and no it’s not that we spend our time in dives and holes by choice, what has been described above is a depiction of a ‘’classy” Durban scene.

The evenings processions began as all of ours tend to, as soon as arriving home I began furiously texting ‘the girls’ to find out exactly what each of them had planned for the evening, and because of my severe case of fomo I was also tempted to ask them about their day but luckily I quickly came to my senses and realised that unless it involved random acts of violence in the form of tongue stabbing with strangers I didn’t really care as long as whatever they were doing later included me.

When the responses started pouring in, from all 3 of my friends, things were beginning to look bleak, it seemed my last day on earth would be spent at News Cafe drinking tea over a hubbly while ogling too young white boys with bodies that Indian girls can only hope to feel up in their whickey whickey dreams. On hind sight that may might have actually been the more rational thing to do. A responded with a simple text reading: Vogue. I decided to run with it and amped myself up, the ever ready and always faithful J did not disappoint and quickly hopped onto the amped train with me. It was hard to tell whether or not she was faking it over text but I was still coming to terms with my mortality, and being an atheist no fear of hell or thoughts of running around as a cockroach in my next life entered my conscious to prompt me to be a good person and ask her if she really wanted to.

Armed with hair straightener in hand I prepared myself for battle, if this truly were to be my last day on earth and an unlikely after life really existing I’d hate to pitch up at the pearly gates and turned toward the ‘tamil’ heaven doomed to spend eternity with the likes of Sivaji, Ranjankant and pretty much every other moustached and paedo-looking creep because of my very evident south-indian hair. Grooming now concluded I kissed my parents good-bye, promised to be responsible and sped off at a pace very irresponsible for a little hatch.

The first stop was Cuba… by the stadium. My response was distributed into shock horror and disgust in equal parts. I think we’ve all heard too many indian jokes about gold teeth to make this description feel authentic. To fully do justice to the abomination that was Cuba I will explain my tolerance for filth.
I have been with a Sri Lankan, burdened with a name about 13 syllables long which I can’t care to recall right now. He was the colour of the black spots you see in your eyes when you stare at the sun and I’m fairly certain he did not speak English, but to be fair that night I spoke in slurs and drunken sign language. He was not a lean man either; he resembled a big cuddly bear, but not the type you grip at night for comfort when scared. The semblance between the two was purely based on them having the same waist circumference.
I have also been with someone who in the 5 years we dated probably bathed about 2 times. Needless to say I grew accustomed to breathing through my nose and STILL I could only stomach Cuba for about 5 minutes before I threw a mini tantrum, flipped my recently straightened hair around and demanded we make a swift exit before I delved deeper into the anthropological value of figuring out the mating habits of the classless.

The next stop was Vogue which upon entry looked like the beginning of a matric dance and not just because of the age of the kids. It was that awkward vibe where no one has started sipping from their secret hip flasks yet and are still at the stage when they’re uncertain of their sexuality. Girls crowded in the corners giggling to one another and boys puffed up their chests and ran their hands through their far too gelled hair. The dance floor was empty and people glanced upon it nervously as though it were their wedding bed, or if you know whores like myself, glanced upon it as though it were an empty unisex toilet stall, where magical things happen between you and the stranger you choose to share fluids with that night.
The vibe left a sour taste in my mouth as I prefer places where you can go up to someone, slur obscenities at them and then later jam them, no questions asked. This seemed far too quiet to make a fool of myself, I was not looking forward to the possibilities. Our first response was to run to the bar and guzzle down jager bombs. I looked down at my car keys in disgust and silently rue the day I decided to get my license. We stayed there for about half an hour more before we realised, awkward looking kids was all this place had to offer us. I much prefer my socially inept conquests to be at least 18.

Empyre was a club on North Coast Road, this is a road where prostitutes probably felt cautious to frequent yet someone came up with the idea of putting a club in a hole in the wall there and we of course went running along to check out Mi Casa performing.
This place seemed legit and it was decided that this would be a fine place to prowl. The men weren’t fantastic but we weren’t particularly fussy so male was pretty much the only box to tick that evening. This was of course before we got hit with some epic pick up lines including the go for gold: “Hey girl you married?”, for all I know the poor boy might have just been querying my marital status as a polite conversation starter in order to get to my far more attractive friends, but I, with my egomania and narcissistic personality assumed he wanted my pootang. I rang the silent call for help all woman who move in packs are privy to and we gracefully stepped into our lines as if perfectly choreographed by the Russian synchronised swimming team. The look of disgust and mocking laughter in our eyes sent him scurrying away into a corner, where we preferred him. Out of sight.

It was getting late, our watches read 3am but it may as well have laughed condescendingly at us, the crowd was thinning out more rapidly than some of our prospects hair lines. We skulked to the smoking lounge ready to admit defeat. This is where hope showed its face to us in the form of a Uni-Browed cupid. UB was friendly in a non threatening way, I quickly scanned his mouth for gold and when I decided he could pass by a Lonim worker without threat of being mined I chatted pleasantly with him. Although not unpleasant looking he was definitely the wingman for his far better looking friend, I say this without insult as I am well versed in this role and the Barney Stinson in me was still trying to get my very own Ted laid. The friend appeared finally, glimpsed ‘Ted’, and the rest was set in stone. Polite chit chat resumed, my conversation had taken a turn for the worse where I had blatantly told him I prefer arseholes and refused him a picture. Somewhere in the mix a ‘walk’ was offered a threesome suggested and a ‘just for the hell of it’ jam was granted. It was all very x-rated but I’m a lady, or at least pretend to be, and won’t get into the details. It was certainly not the end of the world but it was an evening for the record books, if we were ever brave enough to actually own up to our bad behaviour.
We had the unfortunate experience of having being invited to a school friends wedding. She was the first to get married and this realisation threw me into a frenzy of what the girls had enduringly termed ‘husband finding’ the activity was neither healthy nor scientific. It in fact mainly consisted of finding a male and then ‘throwing our bones’ in the form of cat-calling and a gruesome display of flesh that perhaps need not be seen. The grooming process for an Indian wedding is not fun, it consists of numerous baths due to the humidity in Durban (all brown weddings are in Durban) deeming any activity used to incite hygiene being made redundant 10 minutes after stepping out of the shower by reducing said bather into a melting, sweaty mess. If your name is Mine it makes the situation that much worse when you have an over bearing mother lurking around your every move to ensure you are presentable and neat.

The days ‘festivities’ begin early and the unspoken tension dance between mother and I begins in the form of polite conversation where both of us try not to explode.
Mother: Have you decided what jewellery you’re going to wear
T: No, I don’t really like wearing any jewellery.
Mother: I know, but you have to wear jewellery because it goes with the sari.
T: Ok, then you tell me what to wear And I’ll put it on.

The first communication ended with both parties in tact and neither of us really wishing the other person in to non-existence. The rest of the day proceeded without any drama in particular until crunch time:, i.e. sari wrapping torture time.

Mother started following me around, in secret she thought (after my third and final bath of the afternoon) but my spidey senses were tingling and I smelt trouble in the air, it smelt suspiciously like my mothers perfume mixed with the faint aroma of a hidden smoker who tries to cover up her addiction with excessive bathing and Listerine. She made her official attack in the kitchen, where she revealed her location and her weapon of choice, foundation! She started her attack conservatively, inching nearer ‘offering’ to do my make-up for me as if it were an offer of reconciliation of sorts. The first move in the battle was epic, me, mid sip of my tea while gazing outside wondering why I had agreed to subject myself to this when I could be sitting at home in my pjs reading; as all Saturdays should be spent; mom made her attack and lunged towards me dabbing my face with foundation without warning. I remained calm and told her to stop. This calmness incited in my mother her true breeding of spoilt brat and before I knew what was happening the make-up container was hurled passed my head with great force landing very dramatically in the sink. Despite my near untimely death, me, not being quick to anger, simply looked at her in disgust, picked up the container and uttered: That was unnecessary. This was the worst possible reaction as dramatic people thrive on conflict, I saw a vein pop in her head and I think it was at this point that she realised I was not going to give her the fight she was looking for.

The rest of the becoming ‘presentable process was all very pg after that.

Arriving at J's house the pressures of marriage were quite evident with jash’s mom instructing us to find our own grooms at the wedding. Feeling quite submerged we hopped into J's car and had the best intentions. Though there was a moment of weakness before getting out the car at the wedding and if our new found ‘real talk’ had been discovered at that point we would have ended up throwing our presents in the doorway and making a run for it. But we were unfortunately still blatantly lying to each other out of a false sense of politeness and ended up going in to the wedding, wide fake smiles plastered firmly on our done up faces. We creeped in; uncertain of ourselves, hoping for a glimmer of familiarity as we tried finding places to be seated. We were pleasantly surprised by a former school mate who also looked like suicide thoughts were running through her head, she seemed to be in the final stages of her planning and if we had arrived 10minutes later I am certain that we would have been witness to the first ever case of death by sari strangling. Her gloomy demeanour made us feel eons better and that was the first genuine smile I think J and I shared that day. If not confirmed before we were now certain that we were in fact terrible human beings. Pleasantries were shared and we sat down expecting the worst, it was unfortunate that we sat next to a wonderful Indian couple that seemed intent on over hearing everything we had to say. Our inability to filter our conversation into age appropriate topics started right away as we gushed out nonsensical phrases about our lack of husbands and inability to catch one. The poor lady caught the gist of our conversation and decided we were still better conversationalists than her rather large husband placed neatly next to her. This began her very friendly and unsuccessful attempt to find common ground with a group of lunatics who seemed to have nothing better to do than hatch evil and ingenious plans of husband capture that ranged from completely altering our personalities to getting knocked up, and then of course ‘mistakenly’ falling down a very long flight of stairs, after the marriage of course. This still did not deter her from offering her son (I think he was an engineer) to J, I think her reasoning stemmed from the fair grand-kids she had obviously planned out in her head, fair trumps crazy every time!