We organised on Friday evening to have a little surprise get together for L’Ant in Norwood, and as we arrived, a girl came up to me and said four incredible words: I want your handbag.
It is indeed a smashing hold-everything sack. Gold, big, flashy, Parisian baroque. (It sounds appalling on paper/screen, but you’re going to just have to trust me on this one.) I quite liked her bag. Hers was in fact better. More slouchy, silver, newer.
We swopped. Poured out our belongings on the table where I proceeded to exchange bags with a complete stranger. Rock. And. Roll.
She got the raw end of the deal I’m thinking, but I suppose it did match her gold shoes, gold belt, gold shirt and excessive gold eye makeup. But have you ever stopped to see the detritus at the bottom of one’s handbag? It’s nasty.
Millions in coins, a sachet of cut flower mix, a sachet of foundation, two cigarette butts (Good God), tissue, pens, sea sand, a stray Beechie, three lip glosses, a flash disc, credit card slips, a cork (a fucking cork), the inside of a pen, followed by a separate nib end and Bic casing, a Listerine Pocket Pack, a Brutal Fruit lid (no guesses where that came from), a tampon, two hair bands, a remote control for the gate, a piece of biltong (serious. Biltong), a lost Myprodol capsule, leaves, an AA battery, a safety pin, a loose spring, a paperclip, two business cards, a lighter, and other indescribable and unidentified flotsam that would probably need to go to a lab for testing.
This is stuff I didn’t even know was in there. Because above it sits the usual stuff like sunglasses, wallet, two sets of keys, a camera, an iPod, cellphone, hands-free kit, cigarettes, hairbrush, ID document, Elizabeth Arden’s Eight Hour Cream, perfume, and a Magic Marker.
Anyway, it’s Christmas, I have a new handbag. The lining is way better than my old one. Score. I also bought three pairs of shoes at the Oriental Plaza. Fuck. But good fuck.
On Saturday, we went to the Knee, The Spastic Colon. After a picnic at Zoo Lake, a food fight with Third Roommate involving coffee cake being smooshed into hair and clothing, we made messy at the Coloknee.
Ten The Knee points:
1) I didn’t drink cane. Vodka forever.
2) The Ant and I did two dreadful reflex-ear-blocking renditions of The Spice Girls and Roxette. We. Were. Hot. (“Chuck us your undies!”)
3) One pick-up line I’ll remember for a while. Apparently I look like Princess Fiona. From Shrek. (Isn’t she green?) I’m also Miss South Africa apparently.
4) We humped the wall a few times.
5) Third Roommate and I pretended we’d literally taken a trip to Maritzburg for the weekend. At one stage I think we convinced ourselves we were actually there. “You gotta love Maritzburg hey.” “Glad we made the trip.” “Maritzburg is underrated hey. Natal prices, salt of the Earth people…”
6) Air guitar.
7) I smashed someone in the face with my ass.
8) My new pair of white mock-croc stiletto are full of Knee scum, and need to be Handy Andyed.
9) Some dude was break-dancing to Vanilla Ice. Like headbutting the floor, jumping on his elbows, that sort of thing. Impressive, yet a little risky all the same.
10) Love the Knee. Bless the Knee. Because no matter how messy you are, nobody will remember. Love that they serve John Deere (cane and cream soda) in cut off two litre bottles, not jugs anymore. Classy.
On Sunday, a glass exploded in my face at Primi Piatti, it just broke in half in front of my eyes, spilling Grapetiser all over myself. And I went with The Ant to an Italian film festival. One of the Itie Society members, Fabrizio, was such a porn star. In a debonair-Lacoste-wearing way. I actually cracked a smile, during an Itie movie most heavy and dark.