This weekend was decidedly sober, despite Champagne Heathen's best attempts at convincing me to join her in adopting a streetkid at 3:30am in Melville. I maintain it’s the same streetkid who relieved me of my cellphone about a year and a half ago, so I politely declined.

Fortunately there was some quality TV viewing to be had (and not just e-tv porn). With Police Academy 2, Shark Tale and The Addams Family Values on, who would want to go out? I ask you.

Oh, and the Currie Cup final. What a let down. Hey ous, let’s just call it a draw, hey. That way everybody’s happy. Except the teams (woo fucking hoo. You hold that half, and I’ll hold this half), and the fans, and especially not the bookies.

Not that I really give two hoots for who won. My rugby interaction consisted of:

• How does Rassie get down from the roof so fast? This lead to further super-hero speculations; the possibility of a foofie-slide attached to one of the rugby posts; and a 007 pulley-system gadget.


• What does the word “Rats” on the Cheetah’s collar mean or stand for?


• Where is Pierre Spies? I like Pierre Spies. Why aren’t they showing him more? And Bryan Habana with his top off. He doesn’t even have to be on the field.


• Now that Ollie has grown his locks, does he look more ugly than the ugliest of ugly rugby players: Phil Waugh (easily mistaken for a cave troll from Middle Earth)?

On Sunday, Boyfriend and I decided to get our cars washed at a friendly looking car-wash/coffee shop down the road from us. I’m not going to name names, but I will say that it’s on the road that goes past Wanderers, and it’s somewhere between number 182 and 184. And the service is shocking.

Besides being treated as nothing more than an inconvenience, there was also nothing in the coffee house (that advertised all sorted of mouth-watering delights) other than coffee, and coke. I asked if they had anything more to eat – besides the array of two flavours of chips behind the counter. “Biltong,” says the not-so-helpful teller, pointing behind her, “and cappachino.”

Now that’s a well-balanced meal if I ever saw one. A good, solid cup of coffee. Idiots. (I don't drink coffee. A journo who doesn't drink coffee, or smoke. Go figure)

So I pulled out one of the biggest Sulks I’ve managed to produce... Bigger, even, than the Great Sulk of '88 (I’ve been pouting for a long time). I was hungry, and when I don’t eat I get grumpy, and I wanted the damn milkshake that was advertised so proudly on the board outside. There I sat, legs stretched defiantly on the chair in front of me, arms folded across chest, and bottom lip dropping to my lap.

That was when the other staff arrived. This caught my (and Boyfriend’s) attention, because they had left the rest of their skirts at home. Boyfriend and I got to thinking that perhaps the car wash was a front of um… some other kind of business (think etv porn). It would make sense – I mean, we really were inconveniencing these guys if we were actually here for a damn car wash. Maybe if I hadn’t been accompanying Boyfriend, he would’ve been offered more value for money for his ‘Full House’ service… That said, our cars were spectacularly clean by the end of it.

Finally, last night, Boyfriend suddenly pointed out that I had the letters ‘CKS’ printed across my chin. I have no idea how they got there or how long they’d been there. The next 45 minutes, and various moments after that, were spent trying to establish what I had managed to press to my face to leave the mark. We’re still baffled.