Vaal: derived from the Dutch word meaning 'diiirty'

Greetings and happy post-Heritage day.

This weekend was spent at the Vaaaal for a farewell party. The entertainment kicked off within half an hour, when all 17 of us piled into the boat for a booze cruise. Getting it started was interesting in itself. Note for future reference: check the motor before piling in and launching off from pier.

The highlight of that trip (and of the weekend) was watching Peas and company getting dowsed by a wall of water as the nose of the boat dived under a few swells. I’ve found someone more calamity-prone than me… if there is something to trip over, slip on or fall into, Peas will find it first. If the enthusiastic dog is going to bowl into and over someone, it’s gonna be this chick. Being around her is like being around a calamity lightning-conductor.

So, safe from any disasters by default, all I had to contend with was an infestation of mozzie or flea bites all over my legs and body. Hot.

And while we’re on the topic of Hot, it’s time for Koekie’s overshare of the week. If you’re of a sensitive nature, skip the next few paragraphs… You can’t handle the truth.

See, I wax my armpits. (Eeeeew, I know. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya) This is generally not a problem, until I called my wax/beautician chick on Friday afternoon in a panic… “going to Vaal! Must get de-haired asap!”

“Sorry, Daaaahl,” my kugel beautician drawled, “it’s my Jewish New Year. No can do.”

Fek. Problem.

What’s a girl to do? I didn’t want to shave, because you do not want to piss off the woman who you pay to tip piping hot wax under your arms (and in other more sensitive areas), especially if she’s Jewish. So, I plucked.

Well, plucked one arm, because I’m not so good with the left-handed tweezing.

So I had one relatively hair-free pit, and one not so relatively hair-free, but my plan of action was to keep my arms at my side at all times and, if I got stuck in the middle of the river, simply swim left-handed freestyle in increasingly bigger circles until I eventually reached a bank.

Okay, you can open your eyes now… wusses.

The send-off was in honour of a friend heading to Oxford for his MBA. We’re still trying to figure out exactly how he got accepted, because he does a fair job at hiding all signs of intelligence, but despite this, I wish him all the best. And to prove my support, I wore my union jack shirt and undies… not a pretty sight, but one that I was far too happy to show off, after far too many savannahs. I make beloved boyfriend proud, I do.

The gathering was divided into two very separate groups. The one consisted of mainly married couples, who read Home & Garden and discussed loungers and gardening techniques. It made me feel old just to think I was sharing a social time and space with them. They became known as the Garden Furnitures.

Our discussions, on the other hand, largely consisted of comments such as “how did you manage to drunkenly pass out right there in the middle of the lounge?” and whether a big night on the pull should be collectively known as a drool - or a slobber - of lunges.

And how the hell did everyone manage to wake up covered in permanent marker moustaches?