Marshmallows & Merlot

the main course would be Kangaroo pizza, yes, you read that correctly – Kangaroo pizza, with cracked black pepper and a great big pile of fresh rocket, served straight out of the oven courtesy of The Australian pub in the oldest part of the city, The Rocks. Washed down with a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc, of course. If the beginning bit of my Sydney experience could be compared to a bag of Cheezels, then the middle bit of my Sydney experience was a more sophisticated experience for my taste buds. As mentioned in my previous post , our accommodation made it very easy for me and my fellow travelers to trade in sleep for sightseeing. Not wanting to levitate above our mattresses for any longer than we absolutely had to, we set new land speed records for getting pretty and trotted out of Kings Cross and through the botanical gardens as early as we could – the sooner we caught a glimpse of the harbour and the iconic opera house, the sooner the trauma of sharing a bathroom with an, um

it'd be a bag of Cheezels followed by a Kangaroo pizza, washed down with a coconut mojito and finished off with Tim Tams and white chocolate gelato for dessert. From the harbour to The Rocks, from Kings Cross to Manly Beach, from the CBD to Bondi Beach... I found the sights and sounds of Sydney as varied as the tastes and flavours we indulged in.  We landed in Sydney early on a Thursday morning – a little knackered from a seriously 'no frills' 5-hour flight from Perth, but any signs of sleep deprivation were pretty well concealed by sheer excitement... we were in Sydney! The city that I felt like I'd seen even before I'd actually seen it. Driving from the airport to our backpackers accommodation I was like a 2-year old at Christmas, staring out the window trying to take as much of the passing cityscape in as I could without getting too motion sick. This was the city that had inspired a million postcards, the city that hosted the Olympics, the city that has seduc

that go together as well as a giant bowl of steaming hot chilli mussels and a chilled glass of WA's world-renowned sauvignon blanc. The combination of the two would be delicious enough in the confines of one's home but when you get to taste a West Australian speciality in Western Australia, in an arty (so casual it's chic) dockside town just as the sun sets over shimmering teal waters... well, it's not just delicious – its downright delectable .  Chilli mussels & chillled wine with friends – this was how my second day in Australia drew to a close in a little town called Fremantle, in a watering hole and eatery called the Little Creatures Brewery . After an afternoon of strolling around the streets, exploring hole in the wall (literally!) galleries, posing for photographs atop a giant canon at the historic Roundhouse (any excuse for the Three Musketeers to up the embarrassment an te), and indulging in a little retail therapy (you gotta love having family birthda

especially when those three weeks are spent on an entirely different continent to that which you usually call home... a strange foreign land where you're as likely to find a kangaroo bouncing around in an urban area as you are to find one on the menu. Apologies to any vegetarian readers who may find the thought of Skippy on a pizza a tad disturbing, but for those who are keen to know – it tastes a lot like ostrich and a little like venison and is deeeelicious on a pizza with cracked black pepper and a sprinkling of rocket.  Figuring out how to translate 21 days of adventures by plane, train and automobile, into easy to digest, blog-worthy posts, wasn't easy. It's kinda like a 40-something woman trying to get into the whitewashed skinny jeans she wore to that Bon Jovi concert back in the day... lack of content is not my problem, it's fitting it all into cyberspace while it's still freshly imprinted on my jetlagged brain. 

'Gone fishing' sign ... this blogger/copywriter/basket case if off to the land of koalas and boomerangs and hats with corks dangling from the brim. It's been two years in the making, but tomorrow at 16h00 the 'reunion tour' becomes a reality as I board a non-stop flight from Jozi to Perth. From tomorrow until 12 December I will be blackberry- and Macbook-free, which means I will have no choice but to shirk my blogging/twittering/facebook stalking duties. Looking forward to having lots to blog about when I get back!

and not paying attention , it seems that my freelancing thing morphed into a proper little business. Somewhere between having the luxury of grocery shopping at 3pm on a Tuesday afternoon and finding myself working 'til 7pm at my own little office in Rosebank, I went from a lady of leisure with the occasional work commitment, to a workaholic with the occasional social engagement.  Need evidence? As I type this, there is a pink Post It paper-clipped onto a file at eye level reminding me to fetch two friends tonight at 19h00 so that we can go out for a 'drinks and sushi' that's been in the diary for weeks. I had to write it down... three months ago I may have forgotten to collect the dry cleaning or book a wax, but I would never have forgotten an excuse for having sushi and vino mid-week. My how things have changed... 

if you're a duck. Before I begin my 'drowned rat' rant let me just point out that I do appreciate the rain, I know its good for farmers and pot plants and burrowing deep underneath a fluffy duvet. I get that lots of lovely wet stuff falling from the sky is a blessing, really I do, it's just that today I was geared up for a warm, dry, sunny 25ºC degree weather – had I known better I would have worn Wellies not Woolies flip-flop inspired flats. I'd like to point out that as I was huffing and puffing my way up one of Sunninghill's nasty little inclines this morning (convinced that I was about to cough up a lung), it did not look like a flood was imminent. Okay, it was stupid o' clock in the morning and I'm not sure today hadn't actually been out of bed long enough to decide what it was going to do with this fine Tuesday, but still... I feel like I was sold down the river (literally). Maybe you've had a rough start to the week, maybe your sense of

all shapes and size s. Sometimes it's in the form of a spotty 13-year old boy not asking you to slowdance at your first school disco, sometimes it's losing that grandparent who made you feel like the most precious thing since Barbie found Ken, and sometimes, heartbreak comes in the form of a nine-month old, 4-kilogram pavement special puppy called Ellie. This time last week I experienced a new brand of heartbreak, the kind I had never experienced before and would rather not (although it's probably inevitable that I will) experience again. Last Monday, Ellie 'Bean' Winderley – my friend, my companion and my Vitamin Water bottle-chewing, cheese-addicted shadow – set off on an adventure that was to be her last in my world. The details are not important... many tears have been shed wondering 'why?' and wishing that life had a rewind button. What is important is that out of even the crappiest situations there are opportunities to learn... I know I sound a little

it's off to Oz I go... well, not quite, but nearly. You see, one month from today I will be jumping up and down on an over-stuffed suitcase full of my prettiest, strappiest, globetrotting gear. I will be glowing courtesy of an oh-so-natural (could've just spent a week in St. Tropez) airbrush tan and my mostly grey (sad but true) re-growth will be a thing of the past thanks to Carlton's finest hair saviour, Rudy. I'll also hopefully be having to hold my favourite jeans up with a belt cos the muffin-top I'm sporting today will have been banished.   The 'reunion tour' as it was coined two years back when the idea of this 3-week holiday was conceived, is just a month away. My flights are booked and I've written my 'out of office' email message in my head – ready to be typed at a moment's notice. The only thing standing between me, two of my best friend's in Perth and 21 days of girlie shenanigans is the dreaded visa application – a pile of p

and I am a berry, berry happy Sandtonite (I apologise for the über cheesy play on words but I'm practically delirious). Vodacom hooked me up and I am back to my BBM-ing, emailing-like-a-ninja, tweet-ready,  'Facebook stalking' self.  Without my smart phone I was like a rubber duck without a bubble bath, a horse without its carriage... you get the idea. The not so starving artist is free again. For the past week I've had to chain myself to my desk in my new super-fabulous office to make sure that I didn't miss an email from a copy seeking client. The thing about freelancing is that there's not much freedom in it if you have to be office-bound. I'm all for hard work but I've never really slotted into the nine-to-five world that comfortably. As hubby says, I'm more like a 3pm to 2am kinda girl. I only really get going when my clients are wide awake and have had their sixth cup of coffee (a.k.a 'personality') – and that only tends to be after lu

Approximately 96 hours ago a stranger adopted my Blackberry... I was having a spur of the moment post-work glass of vino with one of my favourite blondes in the Wild Wild West – what an expensive glass of sauvignon blanc that turned out to be. I hadn't realised quite how smart my smart phone was until I was involuntarily stripped of it. For the past few days I have been finding creative ways to get hold of people, typing rather odd 'out of office' automated responses for my email account and relying on Ellie's morning wake-up (a.k.a 'I need to pee!') to stand in as an alarm clock. It gets worse...  Ask me what I'm doing next week Thursday and, unless I'm at my laptop, I can't tell you. Gone are the days of filofaxes and literally penciling things in. I have gone from being 'lost' 20% of the time to being 'lost' 80% of the time. Having SatNav at my fingertips hasn't made me a better navigator, it's made me more directionally c

Hubby: "I''m soooo tired." Me: "Yip, I'm pretty tired too..." Hubby: *dead serious expression* "It's not the same, I'm MAN-tired. It's far worse." True story. That's a direct quote – 'straight from the horse's mouth' as my grandmother would say. My husband blurts out these little gems at least once a day and even though we've been man and wife for almost two years it never ceases to amaze me that there's never even the teeniest hint of irony in the sentences he states matter-of-factly. I've started to call it what it is: Man-quote of the day Yesterday, I took my almost-rid-of-the-nasty-flu body off of the couch and far away from E!News. I decided that my once beautiful little patio garden (refer to this post  ) needed to be restored to its former glory. You see, Winter has not been kind to my potted painting... gone are the pretty violets and baby blue hues that spilled over the rusted metal of my much l

then I must be a walking hang up . For years, I have been the poster child for hang ups when it comes to my body and this week I had my annual post-Winter wardrobe meltdown. With the warmer weather comes the packing away of the bulky layers and the unpacking of the summer essentials that put every lily white dimple on display. It's an unavoidable opportunity to face the music and get very honest look at what the curries and Ouma's rusks did to your waistline between May and September. You can dodge the scale but you can't dodge last summer's wardrobe staple. Like most women I have a few items of clothing that haven't fitted me since I was closer to 20 than 30. Every Spring I pull the offensive pair of jeans and the designer cargo pants out from the bottom of the pile, brace myself, breathe in and try to wiggle my way into one or (if I'm feeling particularly brave) both. Neither pair every zips up with ease and I'm always left making bizarre promises to myse

to get your mood from the basement to the ceiling . I have been so bogged down by deadlines and 'fat' days and generally feeling a little overwhelmed – from the moment Ellie wakes me up for her morning pee to the moment I hit Club Duvet – that I haven't wanted to blog.  Until I discovered (right in the middle of coming up with ad campaign concepts for a de-worming tablet – oh, the glamorous life of a freelancer!) that VH1 plays pretty fab music at sundown. And I'm not talking about the golden oldies, I'm talking about the brand spanking gotta get it as my blackberry ringtone new stuff that serves as the soundtrack to student nights all over Jozi mid-week.  Anyways, long story short I just spent the past 15 minutes bouncing around my living room singing along loudly (my poor neighbours were subjected to my ode to tone deaf-ness) to the new Flo-rida track 'The club can't even handle me right now' followed by that super cute 'I wanna be a billionaire s

or at least planted my own Vitamin C tree so that I wouldn't single handedly be keeping the Fruit & Veg at The Wedge in the green. Yip, I have my annual bout of charmingly snotty flu – once a year my body wimps out on me and decides that *cough cough* it'd quite like a week's break from normal life and from running at 5am and from generally being useful *sniff*.   Once a year I get really, really grumpy and apparently the presence of flu over rides my genetically inbuilt spell check. I actually forget to spell... which is why I have been firmly in bed (or on my couch) far away from my laptop for the past 24 hours. I know you're probably giving me one of those 'yeah, right' looks but trust me, it's not a clever ploy to get out of work or avoid my blogging responsibilities, it's a very real side effect of my *cough cough splutter splutter* condition. Yesterday morning I updated my Facebook status and only after I'd hit 'post' realised tha

I worked out and it worked. Don't know why I'm so surprised . Everyone always says that there's no quick fix to shifting the extra 'padding' that one tends to pick up over Winter. I am particularly guilty of looking up insane, Hollywood-type diet tricks online when my favourite skinny jeans take up baking – and their specialty is the muffin top.  I often find myself browsing the shelves at Clicks and briefly considering buying meal replacement shakes and capsules branded Diet Fuel and Fat Blocke r. I say I only ever consider it briefly because the price tags freak me out... R300 for a plastic pot of strawberry flavoured powder? I think not. Anyway, the point is that the idea of a quick fix or a 'fit in your jeans by Friday' promise/marketing ploy... often seems way more attractive than 'put down the wine, grab an apple and put on your running shoes'.  Sure, I have Special K in my cupboard but opt for Oat so eas y most mornings. Sure, I have Green

As I sit typing this I can't help but be distracted by my fabulous neon pink nails. Yip, be warned, this blog post is going to be about as intelligent as one of Nicole Ritchie's purse puppies. Why? Well, because when I get bitten by a cosmetic brand it's less like a mozzie bite and more like a remake of Jaws (bigger, better special effects and bigger, better carnage). Much like the Bobbi Brown bug I caught mid-2009, another make-up-bag-must-have has crept into my bathroom cabinet and onto my credit card statement.  Who wouldn't fall for a brand that names its colours things like bachelorette bash  and imported champagne? Okay, maybe you wouldn't but I'm a copywriter. Words are my thing. Its like dangling a TV remote in front of hubby's nose and telling him not to channel surf with it. I was powerless to say no... After months of resisting the R89.95 price tag on brightly coloured, square-shaped bottles at every salon I entered to be (waxed, plucked and tor

That's the story of my week and the very reason why I've been neglecting this blog like Lindsay Lohan neglects her 12-step programme. Since Tuesday I have been firmly seated in front of my laptop. I haven't been online shopping or stalking old primary school friends on Facebook, I haven't been doing my long overdue expense report for my accountant and I definitely haven't been tweeting what I ate for lunch. Sadly, the time spent in front of my laptop has not been its usual brand of time wasting, it's actually been *gasp* very productive.  I have been working 'til stupid o clock at night and waking up at even stupider o clock in the morning to meet the several deadlines I've been juggling like a 60-year old circus pro. On Wednesday I had a particularly thrilling day sitting in a factory in Steeldale (on the non-Sandton side of Springs) for nine hours doing an entire website's copy. But that experience in a blog post all on its own. The good news i

and the medal. Yip, the rumours are true – I, the woman who couldn't run around the block a year ago without coughing up a lung, completed her first half marathon on Saturday. With the help of my ever fabulous, as-smart as-she-is-beautiful sister, I completed the 21.1km race through the Knysna forest in 2hrs15mins... and not only have I lived to tell the tale but I'm chomping at the bit to register for next year's race and super keen to try cross the finish line in under two hours. The bug has bitten. I am a runner and my feet will never look quite so pretty in a pair of flip-flops again. Bruised toe nails and nasty blisters are a small price to pay for the indescribable feeling of accomplishment that washed over me like a wave and made me grin 'til my cheeks ached when I finished that distance. While my sister may have thought of throwing me off one of the verges at about the 10km mark – she handles tired limbs by singing, clapping and being way too chirpy... I, on t

and will be back in Jozi town next week. Where am I going? Well, in less than 48 hours I am due to line up at the start line of a half marathon *gulp* and actually run/jog/hobble 21.1kms with my über fabulous little sister. Initially the Knysna Forest Half Marathon was supposed to be the main event and the key reason for flying to Cape Town and roadtrippin' to Knysna. However, I am thrilled to report that the run is kinda the sweaty side dish to the main meal. You see, this weekend just so happens to be the annual Oyster Festival  and the 2010 World Cup final... Oysters + champagne + five whole days in spectacular Knysna + the grand finale to a truly African World Cup + getting a half marathon under my belt + tri-nations rugby (Springboks kickin' the All Blacks into touch) + awesome, once-in-a-lifetime quality time with my sister = a very very very happy Sandton girl.  It probably goes without saying but this little blog is going to be neglected until the Gautrain brings me

No, me neither... I even had to use the Google translate button to figure out how to spell 'Do you speak German?'  in German, which is a pretty tragic state of affairs seeing as my maternal grandfather (Raymond Roderick Ritter) was pretty darn German – he loved a good Eisbein and was the first to belt out a stirring rendition of the Rogers & Hammerstein classic   Edelweiss  whenever he'd had one too many glasses of white wine (it all makes sense now – my tastebuds are genetically programmed to like the stuff – it's not my fault...) Anyways, there's a very good reason that the title of this post is in German – tonight at 20h30 Durban provides the backdrop for the semi-final clash between the Spaniards and the finest German soccer team to kick a ball around since oh, I dunno, heard somewhere that it's the best team in twenty years. Anyway, I do know that  die Deutschen look to be in pretty fabulous form and in a display of  Vorsprung durch Technik have scor

As the title of my blog suggests I like tasty things... yummy food, more-ish wine, mouth watering fashion and truly delicious moments that make life so worth every stale, fat-free, bland one. In this spirit I need you to vote for my über talented friend's entry into the Woolworths ClemenGold recipe competition... As one of Taste magazines featured bloggers she knows what she's talking about... Don't ClemenGold-infused salmon phyllo parcels  sound soooooo worth the spinning class you'll need to (nearly) die in to counteract the several you'll inevitably munch? The Woolworths ClemenGold recipe competition is live on the  Woolies Facebook page  now so what are you waiting for? Vote for this taste sensation by clicking on the recipe image, and then on the ‘like’ button to cast your vote. Wanna know how the A little sugar     blogger came up with the recipe? Check out this  post   The winning blogger will win a R5,000.00 Woolies Gift Card so share the love! 

The Little Black Dress (or LBD as it's commonly referred to by the fashion pack)... three little words that send a wave of comfort through my veins like Horlicks on a chilly Sunday afternoon in mid-Winter. And, with my brother -in-law's wedding fast approaching – the last of the big family weddings – I find myself re-opening the quest for the perfect LBD.  It's all Gabrielle 'Coco' Chanel's fault... In 1926 American Vogue published a picture of a short, simple black dress and a legend was born. The magazine called it 'Chanel's Ford' – Like the Model T , the little black dress was simple and accessible for women of all social classes –   “a sort of uniform for all women of taste.” I like to consider myself a woman of taste (choosing of course to forget that I ever owned peddle pushers , white pleather bell bottoms or that particularly dodgy fringed suede bikini top that looked like it was stolen from the set of the 2000 film 'Coyote Ugly'

Speak to anyone who has known me since my highschool days and they will tell you that Sandton City and I are like Oreo cookies and milk, like sunshine and strappy sandals, like Thelma & Louise. From as far back as I can remember I have orientated myself by looking at the horizon and spotting that little green triangle atop the old 70s Sandton City tower – when I first moved back from London and the powers that be granted me a driver's license I knew I was lost if I couldn't see the triangle.  Sandton City and I go waaaaaaay back... When I was 13 years old I took pride in being a mall rat. My friends and I would get dressed up to the nines in platforms that would scare off a Spice Girl and do laps around Sandton City – from Entrance 12 to the movies to the grassy patch by the old library and back. We tried doing the same routine once or twice at Fourways Mall when it was first built but we ultimately returned to familiar territory. When I was 16 years old and had moved fro