especially when it means I get to leave the shiny, pretentious bubble of Sandton (the North) and head 20-ish kilometres up the highway to the wild, wild west in search of wine, food and friends. You see, even though Sandton City is my mothership – and has been for most of life – the West Rand will always hold a special place in my Christian Laboutin 'lusting after' heart.
You see, when I first got back from London and my CV was more fluff than substance (my work experience consisted of 'art student' and 'waitress' and 'shop girl') I came across a website for an agency and cheekily submitted an online 'hire me' plea. I can't recall what I sent into cyberspace word-for-word but I think the sales pitch hinged on my need to finance my shoe habit. Seriously. I had the audacity to ask for a job as a freelance writer based on the premise that I, as a starving artist, needed money to buy footwear. Oi! To be 23 (and have bullet-proof confidence) again!
Anyways, imagine my surprise when ten minutes after firing off the online job application form, my phone rang and it was a lovely lady with name I couldn't pronounce, let alone actually say out loud (turns out it's Polish and starts with a 'B'... as a stutterer hard consonents are like kryptonite and, well, b-b-b-b-b-b-b-elieve me it didn't roll off the tongue with ease).
Before I digress further, I'll get to the point. Long story short I got an interview with the agency (based in the wild, wild west that is the West Rand) and instead of being offered the chance to do some freelance writing, they offered me the chance to be an Account Executive. The fact that I had zero experience (had never actually written for a publication and didn't even know how to turn a Mac on) didn't seem to deter them. In fact, the man who would become my boss actually said that he was quite intrigued to see if I would cope, was a bit bored with hiring the usual 'just-graduated with an industry-related degree'-type and said, "Well, we've never hired someone with a Fine Art degree before. Let's see what happens."
And, with that, I started my first (and possibly only) proper nine to five, Monday to Friday gig. I remember my parents' friends being so relieved that I had 'finally gotten a proper job and stopped mucking about with that art stuff'.
I spent a year in the foxhole, I learnt a lot, got thrown in the deep end often and managed to get pretty good at breaking new land speed records in high heels (you can take the girl out of Sandton...) But the real highlight? Meeting some really cool people (and learning how to pronounce their names), proper individuals – not the carbon copy non-fat, decaf, soya milk, skinny latte brigade of people that swarm the malls of the Northern suburbs.
My favourite foxes know who they are and never miss an opportunity to tease me about my Northern Suburbs roots. There may be no place like home, but occasionally you get to go on a mini-break that helps keep things in perspective, makes you laugh a little at yourself and builds heaps of character. My year in the foxhole did just that and I'm looking very forward to a mini-reunion this evening...
Before I depart on my roadtrip...
Passport? Check. Snakebite kit? check. Mapbook (that extends beyond Sandton)? check. check. check.
After all, a girl should always be prepared.
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