So for the first time in 3.5 months, I hit The Manhattan Club on Friday.
There might’ve been the dry humping of walls and staircases.
It was Little Ant’s (Piccolo Ant’s) birthday, and during some 6-inch stiletto squeaking on the dancefloor, a woman – a woman, a frau, a ragazza, a mademoiselle, a sinorita - tried to stick her hand up my top while I innocently executed my own version of the electric slide like an emu on ecstasy.
We decided to call it a night thereafter.
Beforehand, C held a delightful cocktail do at her place complete with silver water jugs. She has all the bells and whistles when it comes to culinary utensils. We have half a set of cutlery, ten steak knives, a plastic jug or two. C has the full range. Splendid.
Sunday was a blast – literally. We went shooting. Clay pigeons and rabbits, that spring out of a machine when you scream your preference in gun jargon: AUTO PILOT, DOUBLE TEALS! PULL! PILOT MINI RABBITS PULL!
I have a massive bruise on my right scapula, a sore hand and a rather large right cheek bone from rifle thrust.
Team Pigeon were the shit, except for me.
The experience, had on the outer stretch of Jo’burg’s veld, was more so that I could shoot a gun and see what it feels like (fucking marvellous), notsomuch so that I could actually hit something.
God it felt great to squeeze a trigger, and imagine my former house mistresses face when aiming (but not hitting) the targets.
Ramone, C and a couple of others were brilliant – that’s because they’ve been shooting stuff their whole lives.
Out of twenty-five rounds, I managed to shoot one clay rabbit. I also released smoking bullet cartridges into Ramone’s face by accident.
I am a hero.
Gung ho jolly hockeysticks.