Riddle answered

Hmm, so I am, indeed, alone in my Pudding Dog thing. I phoned my mother this morning to find out if, perhaps, I had just made that name up, but, no, it is something from my childhood, we always called them that. Dalmations - they look like they're covered in raisins, like Spotted Dick Pudding. Speaking of which, who on earth thought of naming a pudding with such an absurd name? Perhaps that's just my inner 10-year old boy speaking, though.

I googled it, to check, and we are not alone in this, although the reference seems to be to fruit pudding rather. Interestingly, on googling, my blog post on the Pudding Dog came up. I didn’t realise these blogs went into google searches…

Anyway, I’m back from a wonderful weekend involving champagne tasting, beautiful winelands, and the feeling of being a child pretending to be a grown-up in a very smart hotel. We brought all the mini bottles of bubble bath and tiny soaps back. I fear I will never be comfortable in those over-the-top five star-type places. Although, admittedly, the ENORMOUS bed that swallowed us for the night was extremely pleasant!

And then we breakfasted amongst the red-clad couples, the waiters with cardboard hearts pinned to their chests, sweet sentiment abounded. The whole Valentine's thing has never really held much esteem in my eyes. If it's real, it's everday. And, pleasingly, this is.

The Pudding Dog

* Warning, this may be a bit of an inane story, but I'm at Real Work on a Friday, which is Against The Rules, so I feel justified in my inanity.

I saw the most beautiful Pudding Dog yesterday. I have always loved Pudding Dogs, from when I was a little Shiny. It was taking it's owner for a jog. It really looked like it had done its research and was quite sure of the health benefits of jogging (which I, personally, think is a load of hoo-ey... all that jarring on your body can't possibly be good for you), and had instructed its owner to put on her best jogging kit and off they'd gone.

Pudding Dog had chosen a very specific route to take, one that ensured maximum exposure to the public, because Pudding Dog was, very obviously, quite aware of how beautiful it was. I was pleased that it had chosen that route because I got to see it, and it really was the most beautiful Pudding Dog. It looked almost like a Disney version, or a (very artistic) child's drawing.

I gushed about it to a friend of mine, who looked at me entirely blankly, almost as if I'd lost the plot. This happens relatively often to me as, quite regularly, I think I have lost the plot. This was not one of those occassions, though, so I was a bit flabbergasted, it was a simple story, no lost plottedness to it at all.

Shiny: "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Friend: "A Pudding Dog? What the fuck is a Pudding Dog?" [Said with distinct look of disdain]

Shiny: "You don't know Pudding Dogs?" [Said incredulously, in return for look of disdain]

Friend, [looking at others at the table]: "Am I alone in this? Any of you know what she's on about?"

Various mumbles and grumbles and, I swear, I heard a vague "not a cooking clue" amongst them.

Good grief. Am I really alone in knowing what Pudding Dogs are?

Pop the cork

Phew. That nasty mist is rising. It’s a terrible thing, it is. Thank you for all the kind words. This bloggy world thing is quite incredible in that way. Pretty amazing really. So, yes, I’m feeling a lot more like myself, thank god. A combination of sleep, love and, I guess, just time, has pushed the monster back into his hole. Long may he stay there.

I have to go over the weekend to do some research for my Other Job, sigh. Over a weekend. It shouldn’t be allowed, weekend work things. Remember the urgent meeting I had to go to last time on a Friday afternoon? This is, well, if it’s possible… worse.

You see, I’m going to have to drag myself and Unwilling Companion (for who wouldn’t be unwilling to do this?) all the way out to an incredibly beautiful, secluded valley in the winelands. Vineyard after vineyard, beautiful old houses surrounded by majestic oaks, frolicking lambkins (maybe too far? I’ll stop there). I know, I know… what a schlep. It gets worse, though.

Once we get there, into that hellish place, we’ll have to be hosted by a rather well known champagne-maker, who will show us around the place, and then force us to taste the five different kinds that they make there. Ugh, doesn’t it sound awful? That’s not the end. We might even be forced to taste some homemade nougat with it.

And then?

Unwilling Companion and I will have to spend the night in a really beautiful old hotel in that breathtaking valley to allow us to quaff on said champagne without worrying about driving. And we will be forced to eat a three course dinner as part of the deal. And… wait for it… breakfast the next morning. Sheesh, the cheek of it.

You can see why I hate my forced outings for the Other Job, can’t you?

Sad. Still.

My feet are cemented to the ground. I turn myself inward, into my head. And run.

I hold on so tightly to you, I'm sure your arm goes numb. If I don't, I fear I'll float away. A helium balloon tied to a child's wrist. But the bow is too loose. I need to cling.

Good grief, enough already. My sadness flits by every so often but normally doesn't stick about for so long. This one is lurking about in the corner, looking at me with its' glinting eyes. Back off, you bastard, you're making me too watery, I might wash down a drain and into the sea. Away.

Apologies for this morbid morosity. Normal service will resume shortly. The grey, twisting mists of sadness even cause me to make up vocabulary it seems. Is morosity even a word?

Melancholy

It's insipiddly grey. Not even. It's invisible, but grey, as it creeps slowly toward me, pushing its' foul breath into my space... a warning about which I can do nothing. I can feel it coming, my heart fills with tears and becomes squelchy and small as I try to flee from it and slam doors in its' face, but I am rooted to the spot. No matter how hard I try, my legs are leaden, my feet concrete, it will get me, again.

I fill a day with the inane tasks of life, feign jollity on the phone, take another sip of beer and smile too much, wrap myself in a false sense of okay. But back home, it's dark outside, and it's dark in here too, and my heart clenches more, as I try to stop my mind from going there, into those murky recesses, but the door has swung open, I heard it's ominous Hollywood-horror-style squeak, and I know nothing will take this away. I'm in it. And stuck. It's too late this time to turn my back on it. It's tendrils are around my neck.

Do you think, perhaps, I'm a little melancholy today?

Birthdays and history

It is 20 years today since the ANC were unbanned in a monumentously historic announcement by then-president, FW de Klerk. It was my 15th birthday. I remember being incredibly proud that it happened on my birthday, and have to admit, that I still feel a little shudder of pride about it. Even better was when, 9 days later, on my mother's birthday, Mandela was released. In my up-your-own-arse teenage mind, I was directly involved in these wonderful moments.

Which, of course, leads us to the fact that I am 35 today. Middle aged. I'm not actually all that perturbed by age. It seems a silly thing to be hung up on because, really, what are you going to do about it? Stop time? A friend of my mother's has never told anyone her age. Bizarre. I plan to grow old gracefully (well, ok, I'm not exactly the most graceful creature* but you know what I mean) and be brazenly honest about my age.

Unfortunately, regardless of my Birthday Girl status, I have to be at Real Work, but I am not being particularly productive and am answering lovely birthday calls instead. I just got one from Aisha, my personal banker. Hmm... Funny thing is: I didn't even know I had a personal banker. I was going to say: "Thank you, but it might be better for you to spend more time improving the service at your bank, and less time phoning people to say Happy Birthday", but then I thought that'd be ungracious. Then I felt a little bad about not knowing when HER birthday is, to return the favour. Luckily another friend phoned, so my guilt flitted away like confetti on the breeze. Shows you what a solid character I am - focused is the word I like to use.

So, happy birthday to me. Who could ask for more than to wake up on one's birthday, loved, and be able to look forward to a lovely meal, al fresco, with delicious friends and delightful food, later?

*Understatement of the year

Middle ages approach

I am turning 35. Tomorrow. Which makes the name of my blog even sillier than before. I knew that'd happen when I started it. I think I even wrote a post about how silly it was. Naturally, though, as I am wanton to do, I ignored my sensical side and went with the nonsensical side. Even though I'm turning 35, as I just said, nonsensical Shiny seems to win most arguments still. I am beginning to accept that I may never grow up and become sensical.

So, in this vain, I had a little birthday party on Friday, in the garage, with music, and a mirror ball. There was champagne and lovely friends and fairy lights in the trees and I got spoilt with beautiful presents and the only difference between my youthful garage birthday parties and this new era of middle-aged garage birthday parties (because the garage parties are traditional at this point... I get complaints when I miss a year) was that everyone left by 12. Like in Cinderella.

Tonight I will dine out (look, I'm using phrases like 'dine out' now that I'm almost middle-aged) with my parents and their best friends who have known me, well, since I was 0, and my love, and then tomorrow night I shall go out with a little group of friends, to the same place I celebrated my birthday last year because it was just so fabulous. In that post I couldn't say what the newses were, but the first was that K was pregnant, with my now-Goddaughter, the beautiful Ava, and the second was that my sister was having not one, but two babies. Who now look like this (Allie, especially for you):

I may be an over-zealous, biased Aunt, but aren't they just too sweet?