What an odd weekend.
It started with a quiet drink with Mr. 302. Him of the exquisite taste in jazz. Who makes quintessential mixes that make for perfect mood music. Him of the impeccable taste. Appreciator of the elegant. Sartorial commentator.
We met at La Perla in Sea Point, which hadn’t changed a bit in the 20 years since I’d last had a decadent lunch there with my granny. We migrated from the chilly balcony to the deep, soft leather seats of the bar. Drank Peroni and pondered the imponderable. How corporates fuck up the resource that is their humans. How good it can be when your bottle store knows your name.
We wandered back to his flat for a night cap, to talk about films and the elegant manners of a by gone era. I giggled too much and snooped around his flat, instantly impressed with his “spa girl” mug and the half bottle of Dolce Vita Prosecco in the fridge. Combined with a little Crème de Cassis, it was delicious and two glasses later I had to roll out the door to find my car.
It’ll be a while ‘til I can forget the sight of the moon glittering on the night sea, though. Mr. 302. You are a flawless host. Thank you. (And I shall return the nympho nun DVD shortly!)
Saturday was a mojitoless mojito tasting and Blue Pete’s birthing day dinner. The former, which required the imbibing of a large amount of margueritas, impacted directly on the latter, which actually included mojitos. I was decidedly weavy by the end of that. Stardust diner is hilarious. Where else does your waiter get on your table to belt out “You be good to mama. She’ll be good to you!” Bring. It. On!
Sunday was lunch with my most favourite aunt (well, one of them). I was nervous. I was hung. I wasn’t really up for it. But Wakame in the afternoon sunlight, Sushi, MUCH wine and some half naked surfers improved me enormously. Except for when it appeared that my aunt might be leaving my uncle. Which would really, really break my heart.
Then home. And a little BUI. So. Dex. Arb. I actually wrote this, long hand, with a pencil, just for you:
The problem with being drunk for pretty much a whole weekend is that your resistance is down. They layer is gone. The convex film between is intangible. Disappeared, in fact. And everything feels too real. To close to the surface. Too much to the bone of truth. And you can’t do anything but be. I’ve cried non stop, this weekend. I have been weak with alcohol and emotion. Not something I allow myself. Not something I do. But need. Sometimes. Weakness. I understand those who need this crutch. Either to mask or reveal. I live such a controlled life. So to let go. To give a little over to booze and hungry need. The pain of others too raw to block. The overwhelming desire to shut out the world and curl up alone too huge to ignore. A catastrophe of funerals and extra marital affairs. A world of yes and no. Made both more and less real by ethanol and grief. Perhaps this is why I don’t drink that much. Perhaps this is why I should drink more often.
So, ja. Perhaps this BUI stuff isn’t such a good idea. But there you go.
Oh. And Saturday morning included a little indulgence shopping. I’d introduce B.O.B., but he’s run out of B.