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Bitter Sweet

Posted by amber | My Diary | Posted on May 22nd, 2011

I got to thinking that my life is a like a bar of dark chocolate – 70% delicious and 30% “what the f**k”. I mean when I am eating the stuff I am not really sure I enjoy it.¬† know its healthier than most but is the first taste bitter and the aftertaste sweet or visa versa?

Last night I went off to this glorious Nederburg/hot new socially conscious babe’s party. …very determined not to wear black but tottering off in impossibly pointy heels we arrived. After negotiating the 90 degree driveway, we surfaced into the tranquil and horizontal lobby where we were handed a elegant flute of golden bubbles – but I declined. CF and alcohol ARE a lethal mix. But for non drinkers the choice was aqua, with or without bubbles! Stunning. So clutching my nerdy glass of bubbles we floated into the soiree. It was a sea of black – pleated, sheer, sequined, ruffled, but none the less BLACK. There was the odd glowing ember of a cigarette or a smooth shiny pale moon of flesh, but generally still black. God we can be boring and safe. With the black came the insecurity of our decade – botox, silicone and ankle breaking heels.

But the food was great – butternut samosas with tzaziki dipping sauce, mini calamari and chips, Barbie size spring rolls, Paris Hilton size fishcakes and steaming bowls of mash and gravy lamb. Or silver buckets groaning under the weight of glistening oysters.

The crowd – single hungry and desperate men and women; trying hard to look anything but single, hungry and desperate. Ex models still posing and primping for the camera. Androgynous “Victor Victoria” look alikes; a gaggle of Lindsay Lohans and a smooth of Brad Pitts. There was even a George Michael look a like, more the post Wham/public toilet debacle version, with sunglasses and a tyre. One creature was swanning around in a Ostrich feather creation, more drag queen than fag hag. A couple of brave anti-PETA types were coiled in furs, whilst some desperate to be noticed billionaires bumped chests over whose Ferrari track times were faster. Heavily lashed (fake darling) coquettes puffed away elegantly discussing matters of the day – the latest shoe designer and the IT bag phenomenon. If they all blinked together they could have summoned a tsunami. Then there were the swingers. They came , divided to conquer. The husbands soon juggling tipsy blondes and the wives slithering enticingly around mesmerised¬† potential prey. And everyone is content – free champagne!

So, the pay back has to come. I crawled into bed, my body aching all over. My arms felt like I did 12 rounds with Bernard Hopkins; my legs felt like I had auditioned for “Black Swan” and the rest was sort of 6 car pile up stuff. But it was still, sort of, worth it!