A glimpse through a crack in the wall

First of all, thanks so much to all of you guys who left messages on yesterday's post.

I need to be careful about the time I choose to write this post – and right now I’m in a positive stage – which can completely unpredictably could swing to out of control depression in a few seconds time. I think it’s some weird kind of coping mechanism.

Things that are still okay:

• Just in case I had any doubt ever, FD continues to prove himself to be the most incredible human being on the face of this earth.
• Work is miraculously firing ahead
• My family and friends are all healthy
  

Things that are not at all okay:

• My father, who started his company almost 30 years ago, is going to go into liquidation over the next few days. My father, who has always been the bastion of success, the ultimate provider, the most generous man I’ve ever known – is going to be forced to shut the doors of what he’s spent his entire life working towards, as a result of the greedy, stupid mistakes of his business partner.
• My father, who has always enjoyed his life to the full by heading to the bush (his favourite) every couple of weeks, cracking open bottles of beautiful vintage wine, and spoiling those he cares most about – will be forced to give up his car, cellphone and even medical aid as the bank takes over EVERYTHING he’s spent his life building up.
• My father, at the age of 62, is going to have to sit in the office of self-important CEOs, begging for a job, after almost a lifetime of being his own boss.
• My father is going to have sit down dozens of his loyal employees – some who have been with him for almost 30 years, and tell them they don’t have a job anymore.
• And, of course, there’s a major possibility that the flat where I live, which is my father’s name, will be repossessed by the bank.

And there’s so much more...

What completely breaks my heart is what all of this is doing to my dad. That unscrupulous and devious acquaintances will be sniggering as they watch the demise of a good man. The best dad in the world.

Right now I’m feeling okay, but can almost tangibly feel the wall I’ve put up between my conscious self and my emotions – which crumbles down every couple of hours as the reality of what I have to face bludgeons its way through.

Struggling...

I got some really bad news yesterday and I’m still trying to process it all. Things are going to be different – but I’m not really ready to blog about it yet, maybe tomorrow.

The wrath of The Evil PA

A few months ago, FD found himself in the unfortunate situation of his long-term PA leaving to take on a half-day job at another company.
Although fairly glum about it at the time, he had no idea that this would set off the cataclysmic set of events that followed her exit (okay... cataclysmic is a little dramatic).

He embarked on a search for a replacement, and his requirements were quite simple. A people person, who’s comfortable on the phone, can deal with admin efficiently, and shows an interest in the creative field his company is involved in. Easy huh?

Au contraire.

Enter – The Evil PA.

She seemed nice enough at the time – a fairly quiet and diminutive middle-aged woman, a facade which hid the true wickedness that lurked within.

The first week seemed okay... she functioned fairly normally as FD showed her the ropes. But by week two, things started to crumble. At the end of the day, FD told me that he was quite concerned over the erratic behaviour of The Evil PA. She would walk into his office, and start pacing up and down, while she asked him questions, refusing to leave for about 30 minutes at a time. I acknowledged that this was a little bit odd. But we shrugged it off as new job jitters.

Half way through Week 2 – at around 6am, FD’s phone beeped with an SMS from The Evil PA. She wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be coming into work. FD was almost relieved, but disappointed that he was going to have to spend the day fielding calls from clients. The next day, once again at 6am, the phone beeped with another SMS saying she wouldn’t be in. And the same the following day. Three days off within two weeks of working at a new company was definitely weird.

The next week she finally came into work, and FD asked her what was wrong. She said there was something wrong with, and I quote, her brain. Fabulous. She said she had been visiting a neurosurgeon to find out what was wrong with her because she was having ‘episodes’. By this stage, the red light was blinking frantically, and I encouraged FD to send her on her loony way. But FD is soft-hearted, and couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The next day she came in with a blue tongue. FD admitted that this was definitely getting creepy.

The following weeks involved many early morning SMS informing FD that she wasn’t feeling up to coming into work – including once when she said it was because” it was that time of the month”. Eventually, FD realised that it wasn’t working out – and gave her the option of leaving at full pay for the rest of the month (even though she was still on probation at this stage) – and she took it.
But this was not to be the end of The Evil PA. She started phoning him at all hours over the weekend, swearing down the phone, and crying, saying that he had tricked her. And then it all culminated with a phone call from her lawyer niece, saying that she would be taking him to the CCMA and he has since been summoned with court papers.

And now poor FD is too traumatised to hire someone new, for fear of the enduring the wrath another evil PA all over again.

Being a protective girlfriend, I’m inclined to hunt down The Evil PA and give her a piece of my mind. But her blue tongue scares me.

PS – this is my 100th post – woohoo!!!!

Reasons why being a journo rocks…

1. Free stuff. It doesn’t happen that often, but it’s good when it does. (What does it say about my ethics that this is first on the list).
2. Every day is completely different from the day before – new stories, new events, completely unpredictable.
3. It’s one of those jobs that people seem interested in when you tell them what you do… much unlike the response elicited when one mentions they’re in real estate or finance, for example (and no offence to those that are).
4. I’m not stuck behind a desk all day and I have a cute little laptop.
5. On the odd occasion (very infrequently these days) I’m paid to go on holiday.
6. I get to meet interesting people almost every day.
7. I get a bunch of hits when I google my name.
8. I’ve been given the opportunity to become a bit of an expert on a very niche subject – and can finally hold my own when chatting with people in the industry.
9. The feeling of accomplishment when I’ve put an entire magazine together, from cover to cover – once the finished product lands on my desk.
10. I get paid to write. That’s pretty cool.

Reasons why being a journo sucks… (and brace yourselves, this is a rant post)

1. People blame the media for everything that’s gone wrong in the world.
2. Deadlines…arrrgghhhhh!!!!
3. Having to deal with public relations people who a) want to know when their stupid press release will be published and b) if they can approve the article before it goes to print.
4. When you make a mistake… its usually pretty public.
5. Having to deal with hundreds of people who don’t return calls or emails.
6. Functions after hours that take me away from FD
7. So much admin…. So much admin.
8. Dealing with government…. arrggghhhhhhhhh!!!!!
9. Freelancers who think it’s okay to plagiarise, hand articles in late and lack creativity.
10. I don’t get paid much to write, that’s not so cool.
    

The dangers of alcohol

Another fab weekend has come and gone – loads of highlights including climbing my first ever 18 – woohoo! A sympathy vomit from FD and meeting a gorgeous group of gal bloggers. (Please note, the list of highlights is in no particular order).

This despite a fairly disastrous Friday evening...

The workday had provided ample reason to celebrate, and our newest team member, The Frenchman, decided we should celebrate by drinking wine glasses of Pongracz from about 4pm in afternoon. By the time 4:30pm rolled by, I was already a little unsteady on my feet and flushed in the cheeks. It was too early to go home so I decided it was time to take care of some emails – including one to the managing director detailing the direction I felt some our special projects should be moving (in retrospect, possibly not the best task to undertake with thousands of champagne bubbles popping in my head).

Then the crew from the office decided it was time to move across to the drinking hole across the road from the office – where I proceeded to shoot my first tequila in eons and a couple of glasses of overly fermented nasty white wine. FD was stuck at the office and dying to get out – and as I was about to polish off my second glass of vino, he called to say that he was waiting for me in the parking lot of my apartment complex. I said I’d be done in 5... and then promptly forgot and continued to pour my heart out about whether journalism really is the way forward for me... to my manager (I blame the tequila).

Around 40 minutes later, my phone rang again – as I realised a very hacked off (and justly so) FD had been twiddling his thumbs in the basement parking lot for almost an hour. Yikes. I sped back home to my hungry and dejected boyfriend and almost immediately burst into remorseful tears (alcohol tends to make me extremely dramatic), inhaled a Nando’s cheeseburger and passed out for the night. How is it that this boy still loves me?

Luckily I had remembered to down almost a litre of water the night before and woke up feeling astoundingly chipper. FD and I packed our climbing gear and headed off to Hartbeespoort for a fantastic climbing session where I unknowingly conquered my first ever 18 – only confirmed once we got back to the car and checked the route guide.

That evening we headed off to watch Defending the Caveman and hit Rodizios with some of FD’s mates. With my ego overinflated from the successful climb, I felt like I could take on the world – and decided to join the group in some shooters. Bad idea. As soon as the 35% alcohol content Jagermeister hit my stomach, I felt my body scream in protest. As much as I tried to get past it, I couldn’t – as a very sweet FD kept taking me outside to get some air. Eventually he realised there was no chance of recovery and decided we should go home. Feeling desperately sorry for myself as we walked towards the car, I asked FD: “Can’t you just throw up for me???” I miserably climbed into the passenger seat, only to hear poor FD wretching away outside. This is the second time the sympathy vomit has happened. The first time I had motion sickness and felt like death, and FD, who had been feeling perfectly fine a second before, suddenly began heaving away on the side of the road. This boy really loves me.

Then Sunday I headed off for the first ever bloggirls event at Nde Bush in Fourways. It was a lovely afternoon and I’ve come away with a whole bunch of fantastic new blogs to read – including Doodles of a Journo, Angel, The Jackson Files and Sleepy Jane. Not to mention Phillygirl’s and Sweets’ blogs, which I’ve been addicted to for ages now. Everyone was lovely and the afternoon flew by.

And I was officially chided for not keeping up with my blogging. And not only by the bloggirls – also by FD, who still doesn’t have a clue where to find it! And yes I know, I’ve said it before, but I’m going to try my best to keep on posting!

That time of year again....

There’s no doubt about it... if Jozi is the pulse of the country and Cape Town the soul... Durban is officially the butthole of South Africa.

If anyone who reads this hails from Durbs, I apologise. Not for calling your home a butthole, but for the fact that you have to live in it.

I’ve just returned from a working weekend in this city and returning home was like arriving in nirvana.

I flew in to Durban at 08h00 on Saturday morning and by 08h05 I was suicidal. My hair had gone all kinky, my skin felt clammy, the air was so thick with humidity I felt like I had to chew and swallow each time I took a breath.

But without a doubt, the highlight of my time there had to be Saturday night. I was there with work colleague for the annual Tourism Indaba, which always features a beach party on the first night. A party on what is called ‘New Beach’ on Durban’s beachfront. Now if any of you have any experience with Durban’s beach front – you will know that this place is a cesspool of all that is wrong and evil in this world. C and I were stuck in bumper to bumper traffic for about 45 minutes – at 9pm at night, witnessing about three fights breaking out on the streets around us.

After searching for a parking space for a further 30 minutes, we eventually turned up a dark side street, where we found an empty parking lot. As we pulled in, we saw a man running after another man waving a stick at him. As I climbed out of the car (which contained two laptops, two wallets and two cameras), a lady watching the two men having a go at each other remarked “Oh yes, that’s the guy who always breaks into cars”. By the time we reached the beach, we had already seen another two fights as drunken men poured out of the shebeens around us. So unbelievably dodgy!

What I also don’t understand about this city – is the fact that most roads seem to have about six lanes – which will suddenly reduce to two – and then back to six, almost as if it was designed the sole intention of chaos as much traffic mayhem as possible. I also noticed that Durban is essentially one giant parking lot – with busses stopping in the middle lane, in the middle of an intersection, in the CBD, in front of traffic police, to offload and load up on passengers.

But I’ve made it out in one piece and have vowed to do whatever I can to speed up construction on Cape Town’s convention centre so that Indaba can be moved out of the butthole permanently.

Blogging chickitas - take note!

Phillygirl is ready to launch bloggirls - She had the fab idea of a monthly meet up for girl-bloggers - read more on this site...