Lashings of WHIPPED cream

It's the new year, and we all know what that means: The New Year's Resolution. The single-most unbinding promise we make to ourselves. And we can make promises, we can break promises but the one thing we cannot get a handle on is control. There are just too many variables.

Standing at the airport with our family of friends, a close friend (let's call him Pauly D for the always-impeccable, orange physique and ever-present Essex-shades) said "I need to control myself". To which I answered, "How's that working for you?". Maybe what is required is a little less control and a little more going with it. When you are booked to go to a foreign country and the embassy won't grant your visa. Go with it. When your boobs start taking on a life of their own and double in size. Go with it. When you point at a friend and she bursts into tears. Go with it. What's the worst that can happen?

In the first case, you end up in a very foreign country, you never expected to, with so many opportunities. In the second, your little family is blessed with a little alien that has taken up residence somewhere between your ribs and your knees, still not quite sure. And in the final case, the universe drops a doll of perfect contours, sweet heart and fairytale personality into your lap. All because you went with it.

Now one might think, that having gone this far (with it). You could just gone with it some more. But somehow the human condition likes to interfere and strike down these things that we have stumbled upon. We begin to feel undeserving, like we should've or haven't worked for it. We begin to feel like there is no way that this will work out. Unless we intervene, regain control, quantify variables, think through every eventuality and outcome (the more pessimistic, the better). Because this will make us prepared. This will save us from... From what? The amazing things that are happening to us all the time.

To this I say: DON'T. Just DON'T. For every terrifying what-if that drags you into the grips of terror and despair, there is a what-if that can empower you and move you the other way. And when you begin to over think what is happening around you, follow these easy steps:

1. Go to the fridge
2. Open a Castle Lite (or favourite alcoholic beverage)
3. Drain the bottle
4. Beat yourself over the head with the empty bottle for not going with it and possibly missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime
   

Pauly D, do yourself and the world a big favour. Control less. Hell, think less. Go more. More going with it. Because you never, and I mean never, know where it will take you. We took a cab out to Dubai Sport City, had a beer (and a homemade Ice Tea) at the Ernie Els Golf Club. And once our courage was up we walked around. This place is absolutely amazing, we walked past Dave Richardson in the ICC building (I later found out Dave missed our meeting due to match-fixing in India, but I don't let details bother me), we saw the most amazing sporting facilities (you can only imagine), we literally wet our pants. Just when it couldn't get better, we got lost in the staff accommodations. Houses and cars that would take your and Lulu's breath away. Thank heavens a taxi accidentally came to rescue us, otherwise we'd be squatting in one of the beautiful parks.

But I know, that this place is where I want to be. The Big C seems so at home here. I've never seen someone just fit. And if you argue with my Go With It plan for you, I will smack you (and get away with it "because of the hormones") and tell you this. The job The Big C wanted, that he thought he was too late to get, has just been advertised again. And I bet you anything, he's going to get it. Why? Because he just went with it.

Enjoy living in Cape Town! 

   

oh, Frack Off

I remember a wise man once told me about the mountains just outside the Karoo. I remember because it was not so long ago (only last year in fact) and the wise man was an American immigrant farm owner whose surname was decidedly Afrikaans. Not a yoda that you quickly forget. He spoke about the intense pockets of natural gas in the caverns and tunnels under the surface of his mountains. And how, if one could harness the pressure system to create power, we could rule the world. The earth would keep us rich and we would keep the lights on. This Yankee Mountain Guru may have had a point. But are we that desperate for power, that we must build mountain fart capturing turbines? I'm not so sure.

 

We are spending millions of Rands and oil tankers of water to recover gold dust from dump sites we threw away years ago. In Canada, the oil industry is booming thanks to oil extraction from the soil aka 'Oil Sands'. Oil sands are a mixture of sand or clays, bitumen and water. The bitumen is much heavier than other crude oils. Mining of the oil sands involves excavation of the bitumen-rich sand using open pit mining methods. The sub-title here is they have a scorched earth policy on forests, with special reference to carting off the top 5m of soil to processing plants. This is considered to be "the most efficient method of extraction when there are large deposits of bitumen".

 

If we are strip mining dumps for gold and ground for oil, isn't everyone getting a little touchy at harnessing the potential of an arid wasteland? Why are we not laughing at the potential industry of natural gas extraction? Well, while I was pondering popping the cork of the Swartberg mountains, Shell came up with a doosy. Hydraulic fracturing, or "fracking", for the exploration and production of shale gas (aka natural gas). The Karoo, an arid land of sheep and ostrich, would be an energy sector game changer.

 

Fracking, is not a swear word. It refers to a process whereby natural pockets of oil or gas are liberated from the earth by forcing a subterranean fracture, then the fracture is filled up with… and it gets a little hazy here, but pretty much anything will do, to force the desired commodity out of the earth and into the barrels. Then, to avoid a catastrophe, sand or ceramic dust is pumped into the fluid to stop the fracture from collapsing. Simple, nẽ?

 

Hydraulic fracturing has been used for decades to stimulate groundwater wells, underground exploration for mining or measuring the stress in the earth, burying waste and reducing the impact of toxic spills. Still, fracking raises some serious concerns. How does it affect water supply (the fractures could link into fresh water zones), air quality, and/or ground stability so far under the earth? Will our animals and children be safe and poison free? Who's to know?

 

The fracking companies are keeping mum on the subject, as full disclosure of their fracking methods, frack yields and frack fluid ingredients threaten their competitive advantage in a highly competitive market. The anti-frackers have jumped on the silence as confirmation of the presence of toxins and environmentally detrimental fractices (sorry, couldn't help myself). To date, no one has proven either way, beyond reasonable doubt. We want to protect the land and we want to ensure the longevity of earth, but without finding alternatives to oil and coal we are saving the Karoo at the expense of the world.

 

Did you know that South Africa is in the Top 5 Most Carbon Reliant Economies? We emit up to a ton of carbon per dollar GDP earned… Do the math. We are also in the Top 10 Most Energy Intensive Countries. Right behind Libya. Libya only gets on the list because it requires double the amount of energy in a barrel of oil to extract it. That is a massive cost. South Africa is in the same boat because of our coal mines. Fracking may have some serious implications, but studies have shown it is one of the few methods of energy extraction that the benefits far outweigh the costs. And a method of energy extraction that yields more resources than it costs may go a long way to balance the scales in the earth's favour.

 

I'm not saying give the frackers free reign. I'm saying that without serious interventions, South Africa is in serious trouble. Maybe the old ex-American boer in the mountains is less crazy than I thought he was over a Full English breakfast. Let's do the required research in cork popping and make sure it doesn't hit anyone in the eye. The cost is high, but what is the cost of forgoing? They don't want a wind farm in Sardinia Bay (not just there, there are objections everywhere), they don't want a nuclear plant near St Francis, they don't want fracking in the Karoo. What the frack do they want?

 

Where is Yoda when you need him?

Since time began, it's been a battle of the sexes… There are two sides. In the blue corner, weighing in at 529 pounds (including ego): The Man, stalking prey in the jungles of history, competing to be the ultimate Hunter/Gatherers. What the hell are they hunting for? Quite simply, a larder full of provisions to trade for the precious currency of affection and heirs. It's the business of pursuit.

In the opposite pretty pink corner, weight undisclosed for obvious reasons: The Woman. In the economy of love, the reserve bank; the centre of currency production, financial policy summit meetings and committee decision-making on procedures and strategy. So really, the battle of the sexes is no battle at all, but an open economy of trade and negotiation. How can it go wrong?

At least in battle, there are rules of engagement. Both sides follow the Art of War, attacking, defending, counter-attacking and turning tail, running like mad in the other direction. It was a carefully choreographed dance of courting. In primitive times, the dance was simple yet aggressive. Man brings food, Woman accepts food, Man bonks woman on the noggin with big stick, Woman produces child, if you know what I mean. The semi-conscious disco could be danced as many times as required, with many partners, until the dinosaurs ate you for breakfast.

In medieval times, it was a decadent ball set in a soap opera. There was drama, jousting, to-ing and fro-ing. With the dawn of the stock market, the jiving ceased. The Providers of safety and stability laid down their swords and sequins, moving into an arena of buying and selling. A State of Mating where black market trading is totally unacceptable.

This shift in tactics has left a Yoda-less void. Rising to the top of the pile of applicants are the garishly front-covered, fast-paced media of fashion and lifestyle magazines. Bikini clad bodies giving the best advice on packaging, primping and people-screening. This is alright, any assistance in the navigating the stockmarket of relationships is appreciated. My "quibble" is with the quality of the advice. Men get good practical advice, for instance: 'How to stop dry eyes while working at the computer….. Blink.'. Women are given by their bibles: 101 ways to pleasure him, 50 ways to deceive him and 21 ways to knock him out and bury the body.

How useful is this information to finding your one true life partner? You definitely will be able to entice him, deceive him and surprise him by following the latest advice in Cosmo by pressing his 'perineum'. First you have to find it, by navigating some serious potholes, and then apply pressure. This will cause your man to jump up, hurdle over the bed and run screaming down the road. It would be far more constructive just to blink.

Terrible advice columns, however entertaining, undermine the very partnering that is required to ensure the continuation of the battle, dance or trade of the sexes. I am therefore, dedicating my blog to the Art of Trade. I have no idea what sage advice I can dice into the pork pot roast, but it's got to be better than: Find his G-spot, and he will love you FOREVER.

Jazz Hands and Garter Belts

Whenever life gives you lemons and you're reaching for the tequila (I know I always do), there is a plethora of peanuts from the peanut gallery that would like to add to your fruit basket. This phenomenon truly floors me. We will call it Fool's Law. Fool's Law states that should you see someone going through something, it is your sworn duty as care-giver to take the situation, substitute yourself in and bore the person to death with the long and twirly tale of what you would do and how it would affect you… Almost as effective as the cure for the common cold (oh, wait).

It is as absurd, as it sounds. It's like going to a doctor and saying "Doc, I have a sore throat and can't stop sneezing?". To which the distinguished doctor would reply: "I had that once, kind of, but not the same, I found that by rubbing my throat and holding my nose whilst meditating on the benefits of Zen transcendental transformation, I was able to reach a higher state of consciousness.". Gee thanks, Doc, but can't I have a lozenge and a tissue?

So has been the story of my life in the last few months. Searching for the lozenges of life and ducking the ever more laborious twirly tales of Self and the Cabinet of My Life Factfile (I blame Facebook and other self-indulgent online scribe facilitators), I stumbled upon a Strepsil of truth that has gone a long way to fixing the things I have broken. "Shake your hands and let it go".

Sheer genius, really. We are all carrying more than our two hands can handle. Keen juggling, becomes a symptom of this ridiculous occurrence. A management tool for all life's responsibilities. It causes us to hand off balls to inappropriate people. Inadvertently, the source of Fool's Law. How has no one ever thought to just shake their hands and let it go? Somehow our balls have become more important than our happiness.

Well, balls to that. I am grabbing my top hat, feather boa and pulling up my fishnets, over my Big Girl panties. And in full cabaret-regalia I'm going to shake my hands, with spirit fingers and let it go. Because this is who I am, and what I want… The theatre of life and jazz hands. For now, anyway.

Breakfast in Bed - The Ultimate Escape

Sunday mornings may just be the worst thing the Romans invented, besides killing Catholics. Lets face it, waking up on a Sunday morning is hitting the ground after the glowing, free-falling freedom that is a Saturday night. You lie there with the sun taunting you through the curtain crack. Laughing at your semi-conscious body dealing with the reality of the situation you find yourself in by coiling bedding every-which-way any appendage can. Not even the comforting the bandages of a duvet can stop the internal bleeding that Sunday has caused.

We are all prisoners of time. Saturday is our walk in the yard, our taste of freedom. Sunday is the guard that stands by the cell door reminding you Monday will slam the bars shut and the four walls of your chosen life sentence will bind you again. We all despair as the weekend slips through our fingers faster than the proverbial sands of time. But deserts are infinite, bound only by horizons. Weekend sand is not even enough to sufficiently fill the leaky sand box we are all hell bent on playing in. As quickly as Friday fills it up, the box drains of all joy.

Makes you want to give up mud pies and sand castles forever. But life is full of Get Out of Jail Free cards, you just have to land on the right square (right after Lexington before Bond St). In last weekends game of Monopoly, I rolled a 6!

Sunday morning came, there was no sun, thanks to some handy clouds and the Enya soundtrack of rain falling kept all the morning time sounds hushed. I'm not ashamed to say that instead of the usual Sunday's vice grip of terror, I was only teetering on the verge of sheer panic and chaos. Then I got distracted by the smell of coffee being busily brewed by Russell (of the Hobbs family, a cunning bunch who are great in the kitchen). Next thing there was banging, sizzling, crashing, flipping, frying, toasting, popping and a cacophony of other -ing words that would make your hair stand on end.

Still, having not moved from my spot on the bed, nearest the window furthest from the door leading to the cave echoing with -ing words, my body was confused. Checking that it was, in fact, Sunday and life as we knew was, in fact, over, I sat waiting like a girl on the other end of a phone call with nothing but breathing sounds coming out of the receiver. Run up the stairs! Run out the door! Do something, you silly bitch! Frozen, I sat tangled in bedding.

Then, the unthinkable happened. I was presented with a plate of British Best: eggs, bacon, toast, juice, coffee, the works. Although, I take issue with eating in bed, petitions and motions were passed to amend said act with a temporary interdict. And what should have been an invalid spilling food on sleepwear, was one of the most entertaining meals of my jail sentence. Chicken and pigs are to be congratulated on their tireless endeavours and commitment to the breakfast table. Champions of escapism, and the key to feeling the beams of freedom one more time before the week starts.