'Sunny bananas' from a soccer-befok South Africa

Even fashionable Parisian ladies will be wearing the colours of the South African flag this season! Check out these Christian Louboutins.

When the Fifa World Cup Soccer took place in Germany in 2006 it sparked off an unexpected reaction in the Germans. They had been too ashamed to fly their flag since the end of the Second World War, but when every visitor unashamedly waved their flag around the Germans decided to join them and every house and business sported the German flag in a display of unparalleled patriotism and national pride.

With just EIGHT days to go until the opening ceremony of the 2010 FIFA WORLD CUP the eyes of the world are on South Africa in a way that hasn't happened since 1994, and the South Africans have outdone themselves in the patriotism department. The country has began in short to resemble a giant flag. The South African flag, naturally, with its distinctive colourful, Y-front underpants design. In a word, we are soccer-befok, to use a South African expression (it's not as bad as it sounds, it just means obsessed with something, mad in other words)!

This burning patriotism is putting to shame any bad media reports about a lacklustre response from soccer fans, Fifa's thoroughly unprofessional handling of the ticket sales, and general malaise over our political situation. A friend of mine who has relocated to far-away Dubai expressed sadness that she could not be here for the World Cup and I sympathise as the madness from Matjiesfontein to Mapumalanga is completely infectious. That said, the flag vendors are also selling enormous Blue Bulls flags for the diehards.

The airports are looking gleamingly spick and span. The stadia are truly beautiful, masterpieces of architectural engineering. The Gautrain will be working, we are told. The teams have started arriving. The giant screens are going up at the fan parks. It is a reality. For once we are not going to let the woes of the world get us down: ash clouds, terror threats, accommodation fall-throughs, British Airways's strike, soccer hooligans, the Israelis behaving like hooligans,etc, etc, etc.

The main highway leading into host city Joburg is lined with the flags of the participating countries which flap energetically in the wind as well as Fifa banners (sleepy Cape Town is naturally a little behind and hasn't started putting up their decorations, I hear) and giant national flags adorn businesses and townhouse complexes alike. Flags are huge business at the moment,and of course there are those rear-view mirror covers which look like abbreviated underpants in the colours of the SA flag, "makarapas", vuvuzelas, beanies, scarves, jerseys and everything else soccer-related. It's all a bit mad and in your face. Schoolgirls wave giant England flags at the side of the road and shoppers wander the aisles with their Italia shirts on. Football Fridays have been in vogue for some months now and yellow and green Bafana Bafana shirts are everywhere.

The "entrepreneurs" at the side of the road who can sell you practically anything under normal circumstances have got positively aggressive in their marketing techniques. They are doing a roaring business so I don't understand the pressure tactics. I was returning from my grocery shopping the other day when I had to stop at the robots (that's traffic lights to those who don't speak Seffrican). About 20 vendors ran up to my car and assessed the number of flags and various soccer paraphenalia (or not) which I had invested in, in a vocal and very collaborative manner. I felt quite threatened, especially by the scary dude in the wheelchair with sunglasses. I have since done my bit, and adorned the bead and wire monkeys made by the Zimbabwean craftsmen who live in my treetops with various tiny flags which they wave at all the passersby.

It is interesting to see the ways in which people have interpreted the soccer theme. A nursery has put out an array of seedlings which were designed to flower in the colours of the South African flag. Another favourite is water features done out with the distinctive black and white shapes. My favourite shop, Ilovecupcakes, has placed iced cupcakes in the appropriate colours in a rectangle in their shop window. R450 for the lot - a bit steep for cupcakes, I think. Local is lekker store Woolies are selling "do it yourself" makarapas (the makarapas originated from mining hard hats which people wore to matches to stop being hit by flying bottles, and have now developed into artworks which had taken their place in soccer lore. I even saw an American fan wearing one in his own national colours). Beaded vuvuzelas of every nationality abound in the African craft markets. The French companies are on board and Total has enorrr-rrmous balls tethered outside each one of its garages (the French are delighted to be playing 60th (?)-placed Bafana Bafana). The guy that I call the "Mime of North Riding" has dressed up every day with a soccer theme, he is quite brilliant (I want to interview him, but how do you interview a mime?) Even the expensive designer shops have window displays, including 2A at Hyde Park Shopping which is selling distinctive "six-color", stacked Christian Louboutins platforms. Even the new Sex and the City movie had a reference to the World Cup and featured some of the gorgeous Argentinian players who will be heading here next week.

A South African publishing company has come out with a Hello South Africa Phrase Book which has common phrases and phonetic pronunciations in each of the 11 offficial languages. The national anthem is a scream, in itself. I can just see those British tourists greeting everyone: "Sunny bananas, do you know the way to So-wet-toe?"

The Striding Man awards

My favourite function of this week was the JOHNNIE WALKER STRIDING MAN AWARDS, held at Turbine Hall. On arrival I met decor magician Rudi de Wet, who had done the tables, settings and food.

The Turbine Hall is one of Joburg's best spaces, interestingly because I remember it in the 90s as a derelict shell populated by squatters, with every single window broken. It has since been transformed into a fabulous venue, next door to solar-powered AngloGold Ashanti's offices, and Rudi's touches did justice to the space. I have been to several events here, and loved every one because of the light and shadow, the artwork, the nooks and crannies and industrial infrastructure of Turbine Hall. Rudi had set up two long tables inside the venue, set with tall perspex candles, silver tableware and the most fabulous floral arrangements (for example sections of equisitum aka horsetail, bent and twisted in interesting shapes in bulbous white ceramic vases, and then leading into secondary vases). The place glowed with light and reflections and images from the ad campaign flickered on screens on the wall, a black and white shrine to the brand.

Johnnie Walker could have chosen to make the event a conspicuous consumption affair - a party for the likes of the ANC Youth League and their tenderpreneurship cronies all guzzling up the Johnnie Walker Blue and Gold, a la Big Bad Bob. Instead the brand chose to be socially responsible and had four categories: business, environment, art and design with three finalists in each, all powerful players in their own fields.



Arts category winner ... Welcome Msomi, an accomplished author whose name has become synonymous with Zulu literature. He is the founder of the IZulu Dance theatre and Music and responsible for launching the Zulu version of the Lion King, which he launched for Ster Kinekor.



Business category winner ... financial rights activist Max Maisela who pioneered the formation of an independent company, NBC, to help protect and best benefit the unique retirement needs of black employees in apartheid South Africa.

Talented photographer Andrew Brauteseth had been commissioned to shoot the portraits of each finalist, as well as stills for the Striding Man ad campaign - a mammoth task which involved ten locations around the country in two days, from the lofty columns of UCT to the poorest townships of the Cape,



... from the urban landscapes of our cities such as the interior of the Market Theatre to the wind whipped coastlines.



These are his pictures that you see on my blog ... I just love them!

The wonderful thing about the awards was that each winner received a R125 000 prize package was he spends, not on himself but on beneficiaries of his own choice.

Simon's bursary fund will cover tuition for course work programme or M Phil degrees in the environmental and geographical studies, urban design with emphasis on sustainable cities, architecture with emphasis on green buildings or engineering or science to develop sustainable technologies.



Winner of environment award ... planner and urban designer from Cape Town, Simon Nicks. He is a committed environmentalist whose aim it is to “design places that are nice to live in with minimal impact on our planet's resources”.

Welcome's prize money will help resuscitate a community art centre and theatre in Durban called the Stable Theatre. The funding will help rejuvenate the centre which offers performance and rehearsal space as well as an easily accessible venue for workshops or seminars. The venue is a home for all arts and allows artists to present exhibitions, writers to host book launches, film-makers to premiere their films and poets to entrance audiences with their work.

Max on the other hand is using his R125 000 prize money to pay for tuition fees for eight elected pension fund trustees for a Graduate Diploma in Trusteeship at Monash University South Africa.



Design star ... young architect Mokena Makeka, who is currently redesigning Cape Town Station for the new public transport system. His first professional assignment was to design a series of police stations at key railway stations. He will use all his prize money to create an Academy for Creative Excellence to help others succeed.

PS: See my column in The Citizen next week for more on the Striding Man awards!

Falling in love with real leopard print

A leopard? Ha ha, fooled you, it's a cheetah!

There are times when Joburg is a Sodom-and-Gomorah city, when the daily smorgasbord of nastiness served up in the news illustrates the limitless depths that human depravity can sink to. Times when the Orc-ish neighbours wake you up with night after night with their doors slamming over and over, with their visitors, loud voices and saucepans crashing at 12.30am, 3am, 4am. When you do nothing but sit in traffic, sometimes for four hours as fights break out around you between frustrated motorists. You toss and turn, hoping for some respite from the ambulance and police sirens, the alarms, the dogs barking, the loud squinch-squinch house music that doesn't stop, the endless demands of work, cleaning and cooking and paying the bills. Every body cell screams for you to go back to the bush ...

There is a hunger and thirst for the bush bred in the bones of anyone who has grown up in Africa. I remember crossing the Zambezi River as a child and hearing the great steel bridge flick-flick-flick-flick past the windows of the car as we left Zambia en route to the Kruger Park. We drove with our windows wound tight in those days, in a sun-drenched car and no air-conditioning. What excitement when it was me who spotted the first animal of the trip: an enormous giraffe. We stayed in bush chalets in Skukuza Camp which had curtains with the animals which we had seen that day on them (some of those curtains are still there!). The wide open spaces, grass the colour of bone, the sharp acrid smells of territorial urine and dung, the taste of the dust, the sweat of the high midday sun, and the bush quiet.

So when CEO of THE THORNYBUSH COLLECTION Nic Griffin said to me at a party: "When are you coming to stay with us?" I couldn't wait to pack my safari bag. My second cousin once removed was coming out from Cologne and what could be a better opportunity for a long weekend break and to introduce the Cuz to the real Africa, with all the trappings of a five-star lodge? Nic organised a weekend for us at SIMBAMBILI GAME LODGE, two private suites with their own plunge pools and, wait for it, a daybed.



Five star luxury .., time to relax on the deck while the monkeys watch!

The drive down was pretty torrid as the heavens decided to open and poured liberally. I took the Dullstroom road, thinking it would be prettier but you couldn't see much through the rain-smeared windows. After lunch in the town which consisted of hot chocolate shots, followed by trout pie, like a seasoned Grand Prix driver I dodged potholes as big as an elephant's watering hole until we got past Lydenburg. And then like a fool I decided to go on to Ohlrigstad, thinking it would be quicker.

Past Hoedspruit, ten hours of driving and now it was dark. Trying to avoid drunken Saturday night revellers and speed bumps from hell at Acornhoek, we phoned the lodge to try and find our way as the signage was non-existent. Finally I found an incredibly corrugated dirt road and hurtled down it at high speed, praying my tyres would not burst, for what seemed like forever. By now I was having a minor meltdown and my city-locked neck was burning ... was this the wrong way? And no one was answering the phone!

Then the Gowrie Gate appeared in the darkness. In the Kruger Park at last we "hugged the fence" until the lodge appeared before us, all the lamps and candles lit in the driveway and entrance hall to welcome us in. The young couples who ran the place were waiting with glasses of port and a roaring fire as the rain mizzled down. We were finally at our destination ...



Port in a storm ... the lounge area.

We were shown to our rooms by our guide, Amos, who went ahead with his torch flicking through the dark and along the pathway. The water buffalo found the grass at chalet no 3 the sweetest in the world, we were told, and a leopard sometimes passed through the camp like a shadow. Then he stopped and told us to listen. "Lion," he said, with the faintest smile. The roaring was coming from ten kilometres away - not enough time to come into our camp and eat us before dinner, even though there were no fences. The males were moving to the next camp, we found out in the morning.



The big boys ... Mapogo lions at Simbambili.

The lodge is renowned for being one of the most romantic spots in the Kruger and did not disappoint. My room had a mosquito net pulled around the bed, gauzily tied on bamboo canes hung from the ceiling, which was lit softly from within by two bedside lamps. Outside the plunge pool was lit and beckoned seductively. The bath was enormous and stone, with a big saucer of crystal bath salts. I decided never to leave my room again, but I was starving after the long drive so Cuz and I decided to drop our bags in our respective rooms and brave the pathway back.

Supper was glorious: kudu served up by Nico the butler for Cuz (who had struggled with a rather tough meal of gemsbok the night before at the Intercontinental Hotel at OR Tambo) and a lamb curry served in a poppadum with sambals for me. Cuz had a chat at the fire with a couple from Dusseldorf (who knew there was a rivalry between Dusseldorf and Cologne that rivals that between Cape Town and Joburg? It's so bad that there are no signs for Dusseldorf from Cologne!) but it was time for my head to hit the pillow. Why is it that pillows at a five-star lodge are always plumper and enticing and the linen whiter and crisper than anything you could ever buy? And the mattresses softer and more sleep-enducing? Especially after a long hot soak in a never-ending bath tub.

Only one problem ... "We'll knock on your door at 5.30am for a game drive," said Karen who was manning the reception desk. Oh no, you won't! Cuz went off early in the morning with the Dusseldorfers but I died until 8 the next morning when I found it very difficult to get out of bed. After finding out that the doors to the bedroom and bathroom folded up completely, opening up the whole space to the heavenly smelling air, I staggered off in a big fluffy robe to my daybed, overlooking a dried-up river, where I devoured all the peanut brittle, dried mango and other snacks on my tea tray, plus two cups of hot chocolate, and lolled around like the Queen of Sheba waiting for the monkeys to come and try to steal my sunglasses, as I had been warned they would do. Perhaps they were watching me quizzically from the trees waiting for me to snooze off again.

Closing my eyes I succumbed to the absolute quiet. Not quiet really, but completely different sounds from those in the city. The sounds layered one over another and I tried to distinguish each one. They all seemed so far away. The fan whirring in the room, a little fountain playing at the next-door spa, the staff going about their business in the distance with armfuls of linen, the sound of the wind in the trees and a fine rain falling, a door shutting and, best of all, all the different birds singing liquidly, their tunes overlapping like a fine choir. Something barked in the trees down below.

It was hard to leave but time to go for breakfast, wielding a snazzy Burberry umbrella against the mizzly rain. A little duiker was grazing near the main lodge, as tame as can be. No sign of the water buffalo, although one guest said he looked out of his window at 4am and saw one right outside the chalet.



En route to chalet number 3 ... a water buffalo.

In the breakfast room the staff shivered dramatically, saying it had been 45 degrees a week ago. Twenty degrees seemed cold for them. Everyone was back from their game drive and boasted of the leopard they had seen, courtesy of Grant the ranger and Mumps the tracker. The foreigners, who consisted of a jolly couple from New Zealand, a quieter duo from the UK, and the Dusseldorfers, seemed disappointed that there were no lion, but for a southern African the thought of leopard was excitement beyond measure. And I was in for a treat. The SABIE SANDS GAME RESERVE, where Simbambili is situated, is home to the world's biggest leopard population. Leopard are my favourite animal, and up till now something I had only glimpsed in half-shade or in a tree on a night drive. It is a combination of their gorgeous markings, their exquisite elegant shape, the white tuft on their tails which they carry always erect like a weapon, their silence and stealth, their grace and endangered status. How could anyone kill such a beautiful animal for sport or even wear its fur?



Breathtaking ... a leopard in repose.

After lunch overlooking a well visited waterhole...



Wallowing at the waterhole ... water buffalo heaven.

... and a wonderful neck massage at the spa it was time to see the leopards for myself. We were given green blankies with rain ponchos to match, and after a few hours on the trail looked very much like a bunch of lappet-faced vultures huddled bedraggled in the game drive vehicle. But we did see leopards, three of them, one after another, walking openly in the road, looking as at home in the attention as Mandela at a state banquet, but flinching a little at the constant flashlights.

Our first was an 18-year-old female, a Grizabella of the leopard world who had lost one eye and sustained various injuries over the years. Still beautiful with her one milky eye she stared in bored fashion at the game drive vehicles which pulled up for a better look. One vehicle bumped over the horizon with each inhabitant wielding an enormous camera with an even more enormous zoom lens and flashes going off like the Oscars. The scene was material for a cartoonist's pen. They were a photographic club who went off to various lodges every month and took piccies of wildlife. This was hitting the jackpot, even for them.



Not another photoshoot ... such a bore, all these cameras going off all the time!

After we went off road onto a dried-up river bed, thorn tree branches whipping at our eyes, hooking our ponchos and making us lie flat on our seats, our tracker Mumps found fresh paw prints in the dust (how do trackers do that?) and told us he was off to find the next leopard, armed with a slingshot. Before we knew it he had disappeared into the thick bush while Grant swung the vehicle round and went round back on to the road (all the roads have names, you could find it with your GPS system). I was terrified. "Oh he's completely mad," shrugged Grant who was explaining all the dead-looking trees to us. They were called leadwood trees and were kinda tough as they just refused to keel over, or let the termites eat them. Fortunately we picked Mumps up again safe and sound after ten minutes and we saw our second leopard, a young male with much paler markings this time.

Leopard number three was not far behind and we followed him for a short distance, trying to get the foreigners not to stand up in their seats (leopards recognise the "man shape", but see the game drive vehicle as one big animal. Who knows what they could do, they are so beautiful and deadly). I asked Grant if there were hyenas around and they said yes, they were always around and were his favourite animal. Not mine though, and the sworn enemies of leopards. A case of the ugly and the horrible threatening the beautiful and special. Happens in the human world, too.



Lapping up the attention ... leopard number three.

The hippos were yawning pinkly in the river bed, one enormous male with a bum like a Putco bus, as the rain made ripples in the water. The waterbuck huddled under a tree, their distinctive markings on their rear "looking like a toilet seat", said the Kiwis and the Poms. We saw elephants moving through the bush, their trunks snapping at branches. Time for sundowners, and more snacks, biltong and nuts with liberal gin and tonics (did they pour me a triple by any chance?). It was getting dark and Mumps had disappeared again. For a wee break, this time. We set off for the lodge, a hot bath and dinner (a three-course meal of soup, fish and fresh fruit, that wonderful Lowveld pawpaw) followed by another heavenly, Orc-less sleep.

I thought of how my grandparents lived and how the things which were necessities in the bush have become part of luxurious bush life. The hurricane lamps, the mosquito nets, the open verandahs, the sundowners, the rifle in the vehicle, the anti-malaria tablets, the little cool breezes at night ...and was glad that modern living has improved the human lot while allowing us to still enjoy Africa.



Bye bye baby ... see you next time.

Autumn and the art of the scarf

There is a different blue in the sky. The shadows are longer and the piled-up leaves rustle restlessly from one side of the road to the other. The suburban streets and gardens are full of last-minute autumn glory, but the nights sink in colder. It is changing from rain-sodden summer into winter. Time to start thinking about dressing warmer, eating differently and coming to terms with the cold, dark, soul-searching months ahead.

In short, it's time to start wearing ... a scarf. Most of the "autumnal" poets (Keats, Blake, Elizabeth Barret Browning, John Donne, Shelley) have been inspired by this season's beauty and elegiac quality, and some must have at some stage addressed the humble scarf's literary merit. Emily Dickinson certainly did...

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.
Emily Dickinson
Nature XXVII, Autumn.

A scarf can certainly be considered a trinket, and its lure wholly belongs to autumn and winter culture. Women and men in Europe have a lifelong romance with The Scarf, particularly the French and Italians (little French girls learn the art of the scarf at their mother's knee). They wear them with such flair, such style and such know-how - even with a plain white shirt. They sling long skinny scarves round their necks, wrap bandanas, knot short necktie scarves, slither on silk scarves from Hermes or Chanel (which come with booklets on how to tie them), double-wrap head scarves, twist neckwarming woolly scarves over coats, tie cravats and toss on pashminas. It's all in the imagination and today's scarves are a far cry from the mufflers that your granny used to knit to keep your chest warm! They are now the ultimate fashion statement - bang up there in the style firmament with shoes and bags.

The universe has finally smiled upon me and allowed me to find the perfect scarf-maker, right here in Johannesburg. Her name is Sanny Nijkamp and she is a Dutch artist who paints on silk. Just perfect for poetic autumn style!

Sanny, whose real name is Sara (her father visited South Africa and liked "Sanny") loves the art of the Japanese kimono, as well as traditional French silk painting, and it comes through in her love of bright colours. She has a signature style in her scarves: lots of geometric shapes, the use of dots, squiggly quill writing and lots of different coloured squares. It's literally art on a scarf.

Sanny's home is like one of her scarves. An eggshell blue ceramic stove dominates her living room and a steel flue leads into the ceiling. The house is full of light, colour and artistry. Three funky white recycled light fittings from lighting designer Heath Nash form a vertical line leading the eye down to the stripped wooden dining room table, and the walls are covered with local art.

She has been working in silk for 26 years and she sold to three shops in Holland before she moved to South Africa. Now I find her Sarasilk scarves in second-hand shop Rags and Lace where stylish saleslady Matilda Montanari wears them with her usual panache, giving tips on scarf-wearing to the uninitiated ("this is the hangman's noose ...").

Sanny's work is painstaking as she hand paints every detail on the white silk which she imports from China. After planning the design beforehand she stretches a silk rectangle on a homemade wooden frame in her studio and use silk paints made in France. "I love silk,"she says. "The colours are so beautiful and the paint flows. You can't make anything ugly." Luckily she has a supplier who gives her wholesale prices.

"Sirti" glue is one way of separating layers of colours from one another. It can be painted onto areas which need to be paler, which then stand out. After the hand painting process she fixes the colour by steaming the scarves. "I make a big roll in a white cotton cloth and put it in a steamer."

But the most incredible thing of all are the prices: R160 for a handpainted scarf? That's about sixteen euros!

Sanny's piercing blue eyes are testament to her Dutch genes, and she says that in Holland they love bright colours, particularly blues (to match the eyes). Everything around her, including her art and pictures, is an inspiration. I fall in love with the soft blue silk swatches from cocoons which she has arranged on a table, prior to it being made glued into paper and made into packaging for jeweller Marcel van Tonder's upcoming exhibitions.

Sanny has been experimenting with new techniques and I am captivated by a delicious medley of gold, sky blue, and violet squares and rectangles on a light-red silky background: it's ornamented with doodles, sunbursts and stars on the ends. I imagine it with a plain black dress and red cowboy boots ... and, even though I already have three other scarves by Sanny, I melt and buy my fourth.

Now I have an autumn scarf for my scarlet gown. Emily would have approved ...

The "lazies who lunch" find a secret garden

A "lazies lunch"? Sounds like a good plan for a bunch of hard working journalists and media types! We were told by chief lazy, Allison Macdonald, to meet at The Birdcage in Saxonwold, recently voted one of the top ten al fresco eateries in Joburg. I was early, as I was stressed that I would not be able to find the place. One hour to be precise, and I was starving, with a neck as stiff as a board. It wasn't so hard to find in the end, just off Cotswold Road and a block from Zoo Lake. The parking was a bit of a bind, but what a delightful spot ... a secret garden change from our usual Ocean Basket, fast-lane lunches.

The Birdcage lived up to its name - there were several attractive wicker and wire bird cages (sans canaries) dotted around the garden. It was a little gem of a hideaway tucked under tall trees and adjoining nearby boutique hotel the Villa d'Este, with its five-star spa. I love places like that, especially at the weekend, when all you want is to retreat from the traffic's roar, find yourself a newspaper and settle down with a lovely glass of Belgian hot chocolate while you wait for all the other "lazies", who clearly were not as lazy as me, to arrive. My sunglassed fellow lunchers were working on their laptops, feeding their children or just gossiping quietly with friends in the sun.

It had been a very tense week in South African politics. I was afflicted with our usual bipolar outlook, and was very down and depressed (the Saturday Star did not help with its sensationalist story of Eugene Terreblanche's murder accused. Although it did get an unwilling and disbelieving laugh out of me).

So the hot chocolate blocks which I stirred with my spoon to make decadent mocha swirls at the bottom of a tall glass of hot foamy milk eased both my hunger and my mood. Yum, yum! And the setting was so pretty, a feast for the eyes. Inside was a small, simple space with a tiny fountain and three big jars of fresh-cut, pretty-as-can-be pink roses at one end. A crystal chandelier gave a touch of luxury, with an array of tarts, cooked chicken, salmon tarts, pies, salads, asparagus dotted with bacon bits, breads, and baba ganoush dotted with slivered almonds on a generous buffet table. Guests filled the tiny space at regular intervals, each holding a plate, and proprietor Lara Meter patiently explained to all of them what every dish was, before their plates were weighed. I smiled at two little girls who wandered over to stare at me with big dark eyes.

A big table had been booked for us in the courtyard so I went outside after my hot chocolate and sat in the dappled shade. The "lazies" started to arrive at around 1'ish. First was Allison, in whose name the table was booked. She had spoken to our waitress Cleopatra (no, that was her name) or was it Patty? It was hard to get confused, especially as the afternoon wore on. Allison was looking relaxed and expressed pleasure at her choice of venue. Then Nia, Lesley and Andrea arrived, and we started to order drinks and wonder about lunch. Jane was in Paris, lucky woman that she was, working on a film, so no Jane.

It was one of those spots that, although the space seemed tiny, you always bump into someone that you know. Brandon McLeod from Newsclip suddenly appeared with his friend Roan from ModelCo and we invited him to join us as a fellow "lazy". Brandon and Roan ordered some Waterford Rose and settled down at the other end of the table. I have a soft voice and found it hard to speak to them so moved down to their end. By the time our table was in full swing and getting loud and happy. Our fellow lunchers gave us indulgent looks from time to time as our laughter burst forth under the trees.

"There's a hole in this bottle!" Brandon told Cleopatra, who grinned and went to get him another one. He held up his glass to the light, revealing the tiniest hint of pink in the wine. The cut glass jar with the ice was doing the rounds, and I put some into my wine.

Then Helen arrived. She was late because her daughter Layla was turning nine and had a birthday party later in the afternoon. We all had to admire pictures of 9-year-old Layla, looking beautiful and "schmodelish" in her mother's garden.

We went inside for lunch and loaded up our plates with the goodies on the table, using the funky salad servers (one printed and one dotted, in red). It was so good that I could not speak to anyone for at least ten minutes. But afterwards the conversation flowed, naturally touching on the events of the week. The setting, glorious food and afternoon sun somehow diluted some of the horrors that had passed and helped ease the wounds.

The smokers retired around the corner for their fix, and en route to the loo I went to see the gardens of the Villa d'Este, which were immaculately clipped and topiaried. Each space was more delightful than the next. Why had I never discovered this place before?

After pudding for some, tiny puffed up chocolate souffles oozing over ramekin dishes which everyone dipped their spoons into for just one taste, our bills arrived individually, a coil of paper in a rose-pink, Moroccan water glass set at each place. The lazies only started to leave at around 5pm, when Cleopatra, Patty and their fellow workers had to pack up for the night. It was hard to put an end to what had turned out to be a very fruitful and lazy day.

The Birdcage beckons with a date for a future long lazy lunch!

How to have fun in a recession

It's 2010, the year that everyone said would be better, the year of the 2010 Soccer World Cup, the year that would lift us out of the doldrums of 2009, the annus horribis. 2010 seems to be the year in which I have officially joined the ranks of the nouveau poor, as opposed to unofficially.

One has to learn to have fun while being a recessionista. Even if my life has become a series of ever-increasing restrictions and frustrations, some newfound penny-pinching habits have become a source of comfort and amusement. They appeal to the bargain basement diva in me and I intend never to desert them in better times.

1. Watching TV with the lights off, and enjoying an unearthly flickering on the walls which looks as though the aliens are in conference in my flat. Living by candlelight is terribly romantic so I get those little tea light thingies and float them in water, which makes the place look cool. Those solar lanterns from the Cape Union Mart or The Space are also quite fetching, especially out on the balcony. You could guide Boeings in with those things. They remind me of the hurricane lamps which my grandparents used on their farm.

2. Buying my loo rolls at Diskem for R24 for 10 rolls (in fact, buying all my toiletries there, instead of at the supermarket, as every time I buy something it creates points which means I can get something free somewhere down the line. Yay, free stuff!). You know you are down to the wire when you have to use your paper napkins when the R24-for-10 pack is finished. Or the tissue paper that you stuff your shoes with. Or you have to nick some from the nearest shopping centre loo. But I am always grateful for something to wipe my bottom with as my ancestors had to use grass.

3. Putting stuff back on to the supermarket shelves and remarking loudly to other shoppers: "Can you believe these PRICES?". Giving the manager level stares as you do this. In other countries you get to clip coupons but our mean supermarkets doesn't believe in letting us get soft and, shame, they have to make a living as we starve. I have also got very good at saying NO to myself especially in those queues in Woolies where they put all the good stuff along those lanes.

4. Buying Lotto and Powerball tickets every chance I get, just in case I hit the jackpot. My ticket showed two correct numbers and a Powerball number yesterday ... the machine made melodious little noises five times and I thought: "Gosh, what would it do if I won all six numbers?" Probably explode into a great ball of fire! I have given up SMSing numbers from Coke can tabs or Easter eggs as even in my desperation I have lost the power to suspend disbelief to that degree. Those guys are just scam artists.

5. Cooking on a Cadac gas stove. I was thrilled when I found that the garage up the road fills gas bottles but mine has lasted me since February 2008 so I don't need to use their services just yet. Even my tea is made on the gas stove. Sucks to Eskom. Outside braais are good too, but with the colder weather coming, gas is better.

6. Shopping at secondhand clothes shops. Thieves probably look at me on Facebook and think, well, she's a rich bitch, but I forgot to mention that the designer threads always go back. Instead I go off to Rags and Lace in Craighall Park with my old schmutters and find amazing things like Chanel sunglasses or suits from Paris or beautiful hand-painted silk scarves from a woman called Sanny Nijkamp who lives in Emmarentia.

7. Using pay as you go on my cellphone. Friends are used to conversations being cut dramatically short as my airtime runs out. I have found a way to recharge via the phone now, so this should no longer happen. But usually in my newfound thriftiness I ask them to phone me back. SMSs are also good.

8. Trying to do all my errands at once in a particular area so I don't have to drive around and use up all my petrol.

9. Watching movies with the old age pensioners on Tuesdays. Tickets on Tuesday are ostensibly half price for the OAPs, at R25, but the price is still equivalent to what it was about eight years ago. I have also invested in a movie card, so I accumulate movie moola and get to watch a free film once in a blue moon. Ster Kinekor has made it easy to save money on snacks as the Coke machine is generally on the fritz whenever I visit their establishments.

10. Finding a good backyard mechanic. If you like me have a Renault or an imported French car you know the pain of dealership prices for parts and labour. These cars break down a lot and are expensive to fix ... If you have a look at any passing towtruck you will always see a Renault Clio on board! It's important to know when you can use a generic part or ask your mechanic.

11. Shopping for appliances at places like Cash Converters/Cash Crusaders. So many people have left the country or sell off their worldly goods to these secondhand dealers that it is easy to find practically brand new appliances here at half the price. DVDs and CDs and jewellery are also nicely priced.

12. Using a laundromat instead of a home washing machine/tumbledrier. This does mean that you get nasty people who take all your stuff out and leave it in a wet pile while they do their load but they are in the minority. Laundromating is a great way to catch up on all the gossip too, who's doing what to whom and all that.

13. Buying your veggies, fresh produce in the country, or at a food market. I used to go and get a huge box of stuff (fruit, nuts, vegs, honey) at a fruit and veg shop but now I go and pick stuff myself from the soil for a fraction of the price.

14. Shopping around for car, hospital and household insurance. I was glad I was with Outsurance when I had an accident as I had a car hire policy and could keep the car for 31 days. Each insurance policy has pros and cons so you need to check out the small print before committing yourself.

So there you have it. Joining the ranks of the nouveau poor can actually be enjoyable as you figure out ways to beat the system. Or you could just go on moaning about everything. Do what you've got to do!

Of cheesely delights, Diski dancing and Scottish scams

This week I decided to indulge my inner foodie, as parties were scarce and the food markets beckoned. Robyn Higgins invited me to the party to celebrate the Codfather Food Market in Rivonia. We were all very worried about Robyn as all her friends received a message about her being stranded in Scotland and please, please could we send off a Western Union order to help her with her hotel bill and flight as she had lost everything. The odd thing was that the bank account was based in Cambridge, which wouldn't have been much help. It turned out to be one of those M19 scams that the Nigerians are getting so good at. Robyn is one of those people who would have travel insurance, but I felt quite awful I couldn't help her, until the scam was revealed.

Robyn was safe and sound however and getting ready for the CODFATHER FOOD MARKET in Joburg, the only Saturday market which has a selection of meat, fish, vegs, breads, jams, delicatessen stuff and herbs under a covered roof. I love the food markets in Joburg and visit them as often as my budget will allow, so this was a new treat. First person I saw was Mirella who makes the best pizza in town, just a simple thin crust pizza with a tomato base. So I got two of her closed pizzas with artichoke and salami, pronto. Then it was time to visit Rosemary, the herb lady (what else would a herb lady be called? A man would obviously be Basil!), and grab a big pot of healthy thyme to replace my one that died.

I popped upstairs to see Andy Green who used to run The Chocolate Room in Lanseria. He and his wife Marlize are running SI SI, upstairs from The Codfather (and there is a Cowfather, too, by the way for those who love their steak). Si Si was participating in a promotion whereby you can pay for a visit to the four restaurants in the block and get great value for money). Si Si is a lovely space, very simple and white with a few black and white illustrations (of a Vespa and an Italian scene) on the walls and a splash of colour over the bar. Andy is still doing his gourmet pizzas and cheese platters, this time with an Italian twist. And they are opening a new outside bar called The Office. Thank heavens the hot chocolate is still as hot and chocolatey as ever, so I had the coconut flavour. Their staff are all the same too, friendly and helpful.

Mid-week I decided to pop in to Jo Dick's cheese shop, THE CHEESE GOURMET in Linden (apologies to Jo, but her name always conjures up a secret South African joke for me, as in "jou ma"!). It's been something I have meaning to do for some time now and when Easter is upon you you need to do all those little indulgent things that time would not otherwise allow. Apparently Jo is one of the award winners in the 2010 Eat In, but the problem is that the publication of the magazine keeps being put off and put off. Remember I couldn't get hold of a copy in January? That's because there weren't any. And still we wait ...

Jo is an advocate of note for great South African cheeses. Her shop carries some of the finest examples of local cheeses, which have raised the bar for the cheese world and giving cheeses worldwide stiff competition. We chatted about local hotels and boutiques, and why they should be choosing local produce rather than lavishing cash on imported stuff. The Saxon used to be a very good client, she told me, but there is always a turnover of chefs in big hotels and new brooms sweep clean. I think they now offer platters of (pricey) French cheeses (which, I hasten to add, I am sure are world class).

Philippe Wagenfuhrer of Roots has also contacted Jo's cheese emporium; he's the one who told me about The Teak Place in the Cradle of Mankind where you can pick your own veggies and stagger off with R50's worth of seasonal goodness in a basket (I love their green tomatoes). Philippe loves good home-produced foodstuffs, and that's what South Africa does best. Even though the Cape is very snooty about their food, they can't touch us Highvelders in the good taste department. It's something about the big sky, the big rains, the electricity in the air, the endless sunshine and the mineral-laden soil. If you go out to the Magaliesberg, you could put a stick in the ground and it would grow, the soil is so good. Or is that just me being partisan?

I spotted a jar of homemade mulberry jam, which my Australian based sister would adore if I could manage to smuggle past the dreaded Tasmanian sniffer dogs, and asked Jo what would go best with it. She shaved off a sliver of Hester Hoogendijk's pecorino and offered it to me on the point of a cheese knife. "It's slightly salty," she ventured, and would go admirably with the dark-purple, seed stuffed mulberry jam, which carried the label "Homemade on Zondagskraal" and was decorated with a blue gingham frilled lid tied with raffia. Pure goodness in a jar. I had written about Hester's Hijke cheeses last year when I did a story on Joburg markets for Good Taste magazine and had intended very hard to get to her farm Doornkraal, outside Bapsfontein, for a taste but Jo's shop was clearly much closer. Hester won third place at the World Cheese Show in Dublin for her Gouda Light, and her cheeses are outstanding.

It's bloody hard to choose one cheese in Jo's shop. It's kind of like eating one peanut. The next taste she offered me was an "Oud Gouda", which was much sweeter and crumbly when she sliced it with an enormous mezzaluna knife. I had to have both and how satisfying it was to walk out with my squares of cheese wrapped up close in greaseproof paper. I am trying to give up plastic but it like being on diet in a world full of sugar. It requires the utmost willpower. Inside the paper the cheese was wrapped in plastic - and it seems so natural, as that is how cheese has always been wrapped my whole life.

I said goodbye to the bead and wire goat in the window which food reporter Hillary Biller had donated to the shop. It was all done up in a tiny Bafana Bafana jersey with a green cap stretched over its horns. Jo likes to dress it up in different outfits every week. On the subject of soccer, Jo's husband said that he wanted to try his hand at Diski dancing - I know if I tried it with my luck it would be Slipped Diski dancing.

Outside the Kia Piccanto which had been following me around all morning was waiting. Apparently Julius Malema (who to my delight no one has heard of outside this country) has decided that it is in the public's interests that journalists be followed and their private lives chronicled, as he feel that the boot should be on the other foot and he is (poor dear) the victim of a political conspiracy. It had, had, had to be the ANC Youth League, who was following me! Who else would take the trouble? What amazed me was not that fact, but the ineptitude of their technique. Same car, same numberplate, no attempt at disguise. Whatever happened to the art of surveillance? Was it because I joined the Facebook page, Helen Zille for President? Perhaps this could explain my missing number plates?

Anyway my life must have been ultra boring - no visits to brothels, no coke scores or visits to Nigerian drug lords in Hillbrow, no bribing of police officers (although this is probably the only country where you get locked up for not bribing the cops). No fun of any kind, not even a movie. The Kia Piccanto was gone by mid-afternoon. Obviously I need to do something much more scandalous with my life than go to markets and cheese shops. A tenderpreneurship or two? A fake driver's licence? A little porn?