I introduced Small Bum to the life last night. The life of the rich and famous that is.
We watched the Superbowl last night at Brenthurst. We got shitfaced at Brenthurst. With a group of Ivy League preppy Americans. You've got to love it.
Brenthurst, in Parktown, is a house owned by South Africa's richest family. It consists of twenty bedrooms, original art pieces worth millions, around fifteen bathrooms, eight living rooms, halls full of antique furniture and paintings, greyhounds walking around willy-nilly, and a garden so large, there are no less than eighty (80. EIGHTY) gardeners to primp and preen the hedges. People take tours of the gardens. But no one is allowed inside. That is, if you don't know anyone inside.
I happen to know the heiress of this place. Who, being American, hosted a Superbowl get together last night. Small Bum's eyes nearly popped out of his cute little skull, bless.
"Where is the bathroom?" he asks politely, then laughs, "Which one out of the twenty do I use?"
Small Bum lived in Boston for a year, so knows the rules to this game, of which he explained to me, but I still don't get.
As a result, I spent most of the evening quaffing drinks at the bar set up especially for us, locked myself outside by accident, left my coat behind, but cannot remember in which wing of the house it was, stole a couple of sheets of 3-ply toilet paper for Third World Ant (she has a penchant for these things), got Small Bum to drive us to his flat for a bout of energetic sex where we tried a new position, which didn't execute as originally planned, but was good anyway.
I didn't want to get up this morning. Hangover, was horny - no wanted to devour him again is more like it - and it's fucking cold.
The weather in Johannesburg is not unlike Scotland at the moment. Can it possibly rain anymore?