35 sleeps + 60

I'm fighting again on 04 April - yay! yay! yay!

In preparation, I am picking up my pre-work runs with Mr Starke. If this morning is anything to go by, I've got quite a bit of work to do this next month. I picked him up at the usual time, blessing him with the musical genius that is ZZ Top, and we hit the Promenade. He was wearing his bling trainers again. Seriously, picture disco balls on your feet. Those are his trainers. He says that, at half off the ticket price, he can put up with the blinginess. (Fair enough - but can your run buddy?) Anyway, I hit my wall about 14 meters in. He set a brisk pace (well, anything beyond a crawl was a brisk pace for me this morning) and I managed to keep up most of the way. Then, with about 400 meters to go, he suddenly took off - sprinted - bounded - into the distance, like a cheetah chasing a dikdik, leaving me laying in a puddle of my own wheezing sweat and wounded pride. I must face it - Mr Starke now OWNS me on the morning runs.

But that's fine. As far as the fight goes, I've got a month to fine tune this body of mine into a machine of note. I'll just keep eating my spinach and practising my CrazyFace until I get it right.

36 sleeps + 60

A conundrum from the NotTheBlog of Mrs Starke:

You're trapped in a well with a goat and a slinky. Describe how you will escape.

91 sleeps

What a glorious weekend! Canadians, sit back in your goose down waterproof windproof ice resistant snow suits, wrap that scarf tight, pull the beanie down a bit more and read on…

It was a proper Cape Town summer weekend.

On Saturday I went rose-picking with Mrs SS at the Chart Farm. Fellow Canadians (and uneducated South Africans, if you dare admit this) who don’t know the Chart Farm: you can pick apples, cherries and peaches when they are in season and you can also pick fresh roses from their rose garden. I picked a huge bunch of white and golden yellow roses (Johannesburg Sun) to match the lilies I picked up earlier in the week. Between the lilies and the roses and the gardenias, our lounge is a flower paradise! Quite literally, you walk through the front door and you get hit – hit! – with the aroma of fresh flowers. It's rather divine and, as theGreek would say, chickified.

Saturday night was braai (aka barbeque) night with some friends in Sea Point. Fellow Canadians, this is the South African tradition of gathering with mates in the out-of-doors at someone’s house in the late afternoon and taking in a spectacular sunset over a quiet drink. Then, you consume vast quantities of meat (lamb, chicken, rump steak and the ever present boerwors sausage featured) with a leaf or two of lettuce. After the meat induced shock subsides, you listen to some chilled music, have a glass of wine, enjoy the moon and the stars, then go home. Delish.

Finally, Sunday rolled around in spectacular fashion. Cloudless. That’s kind of rare. Windless. That’s so totally rare that I almost fell off my balcony in surprise. HotHotHot. Like me.

There is only one thing to do in that situation – HIT THE BEACH. And so we did. Jools (henceforth known as FantaPants, courtesy of Mr Starke), Mr DW, the Crazy Scot and I spent the afternoon at Llandudno. I love Llandudno. I have fond memories of that beach, especially from the late 1990s, and always enjoy my time there. We debated Clifton and Camps Bay, but both were so packed that you could run from end to end of each and be in the shade the entire time. Umbrellas umbrellas umbrellas absolutely everywhere…. No joke.

I’m really going to struggle with the weather adjustment. Cape Town has two seasons, really: Hot and Windy and Mildly Chilly and Rainy. If it gets down to about 5 degrees, the entire city is apoplectic. Canada’s four seasons run to the opposite extreme: Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter and Construction. I don’t think I’ll go outside for the first year I’m back. As my mother succinctly put it - she's enjoying the weather now. It's - 14 degrees, which is balmy compared to - 40 degrees. *shudders*

98 sleeps

(A point in limine for my mom: don’t freak out when you read this; all’s well that ends well)

Santa sucked this year.

I went to the family SS for Xmas, which was great. We had the standard present-and-turkey day; the food was a delicious traditional hot lunch. ‘Twas all lovely. I woke up the next day with a horrific pain in my stomach. What is this?, thought I. Did Mrs SS go a little too ballistic on the spices for the turkey stuffing? Was I getting flu? Was it a latent injury arising from the last time I trained? (PAH! Pfft! That’s funny even as I write it… one must actually train hard for an injury to arise.) I went to the emergency doctor (after I went to the bookstore and purchased myself three – three – more books). He did his cursory examination on the table by tap-tapping on my stomach. Flu? No. Torn muscles? Hell no. The doctor said that my symptoms were consistent with someone who had either an inflammatory pelvis or ovarian cancer.

[sound of needle scratching on record]

Or what? What? Can you repeat that please? What? How the f*ck can this happen to me?

Ok, we can deal with this. We can deal.

I went back to the flat and locked myself in. This was on the Friday. I was booked in for the sonogram on the Monday. I made a big pot of herbal tea (shameless plug: Cape Town Nights Black Tea blend from the Tea Emporium in Cavendish) and hopped into a hot bath (shameless plug: with mint and eucalyptus bath salts from Rain in Waterfront). Then I drank my tea and sat in the tub until it was cold. Then I re-ran the bath and got back in. And did the same thing over again. I think that’s what emotional shock does. Wash, rinse, repeat in some sort of Jung-ian return-to-the-womb fashion. I spent three days drinking tea, bathing, watching adventure movies (Pirates; Lord; Indiana), hiding in my flat and sms-ing Mrs Starke, Sister SS, DomTastic and Little Mouse, who were all supportive and provided rational arguments for the whole process (thanks guys!!!).

When Monday finally rolled around, I half-ran, half-crawled to the radiologists. Being petrified by circumstance and difficult by nature, I made the radiologist show-and-tell the entire process. After twenty minutes of examination, they gave me the all clear. OC eliminated as a problem.

Phew!

With that, I hopped into TheNotTheBullet, threw Sister SS in the passenger seat and screamed up to Little Mouse’s spot on the Breede River. We were meant to stay one day; we ended up staying for four. What a fantastic spot! Fishing for kabeljou! My favourite thing! Riding waves in Blaublass! My favourite thing! Reading by the beach! My favourite thing! Braaing with the folks! My favourite thing! Riding in the rubber duck to the Bush Bar! My favourite thing! Carrying the rubber duck across the river at low tide in the dark for a vodka lime! My favourite thing! Laang-araming with the hotel cleaning staff on NYE! My favourite thing! I’m sorry I missed Beaverlac with Mr and Mrs Starke, the Dunbar Whittakers, Heids et al, and I’m sorry I missed out with the Queen and her crew, and my housemate theGreek and his crew, but I had an absolute blast at the Malgalas hotel on New Year. In my mind, you know you are doing New Year’s right when you are barefoot, on a dirt road in the bush, listening to a blend of saakie music, 80s pop, current hits and hip hop and trying to speak three different languages.

108 sleeps

All I can think about is food; food of the Asian variety. Tom yum goong, shiitake dashi ramen, agedashi dofu, dim sum, gai lan, miso soup, Peking roast duck, tuna nigiri … argh!!! I want it all! [Drools; clutches heart; falls over backwards]

I had an impromptu fabulous Minato sushi dinner with Mrs Starke, Jools, Barbarella and B followed by an after-dinner drink at Julep that had one of the best music spinners I have heard in years. That man was mixing an awesome blend of blues, funk, soul and early-Prince-ish-style stuff. You couldn’t help but groove along in your seat.

Minato has achieved a legendary status in Cape Town, definitely because of the food but equally because of the chef. The restaurant has been going for at least 10 years. Given the combination of Minato-san’s fiery temper, the complete lack of stylistic decor and Cape Town’s general fickleness (downright pomposity on occasion), one should be surprised that it has lasted this long.

Minato-san has been known to throw all of his patrons out at 9pm on a Friday; only two waitresses service the entire restaurant; he has blacklisted people who have ‘insulted’ his food; he does not allow anyone under the age of 12 in the restaurant; you must book in advance; there are signs, handwritten scrawls on white typing paper, along the corridor from the main entrance to the restaurant that say things like “Order everything at once” and “No changes”. He makes the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld look like a walk in the park. The décor includes such gems as a laminated poster of sushi and an old kimono. The restaurant has no windows. The wine list is limited. The tables are cramped.

The food makes it all worth it. The agedashi dofu melts in your mouth, they serve thick, fresh portions of nigiri, the inside-out crunch roll is ToDieFor. Some of the swishier, swankier, “must-be-seen” joints in Cape Town should sit up and take note (I’m talking to you, Bel- and Wak- and even, I daresay, KG). Minato does sushi and Minato does sushi right. I completely understand why some people will stand outside in torrential rain, clutching the iron-gate entrance to the restaurant with a look of quiet desperation in their eyes, waiting for Minato-san’s “Ok. Come!”

Alas, Minato-san is no longer part of Minato. Apparently he sold a while ago. The food is the same, the décor is the same, there as still only two waiters for the restaurant… but… but… we were allowed to place our miso soup orders before ordering our sushi mains. Who knew that you would see that day?

113 sleeps

I went for a run with Mr Starke this morning. We haven't been running together since I cracked my rib about six weeks ago. We used to aim to run together twice a week before work. Running on the Sea Point promenade (see photo) is a great way to start your day - I highly recommend it for all Capetonians.

Mr Starke and I have a routine: he'll sms me the night before to confirm, I'll confirm back, like this:

Mr Starke: Run tomo?
T-Lo: 710am. Rod Stewart.

At 710am, I'll rock up in TheNotTheBullet, Rod Steward blasting out the stereo. We'll hoof it down to the promenade, have our little run (where I usually OWN him about 2 kms in. OWN!) then head home. He usually jests that the music of my choice assaults his eardrums on a regular basis, but I see his head bopping along. I know he is a closet cheesy 80s and disco fan. Don't deny it, Mr Starke!

Well, today, all started off as normal. I rocked up at 710am, Michael Jackson blaring (who doesn't like Billie Jean?!). We started off on the run, Mr Starke pointed out his bling new trainers. Then it happened. I hit my wall about 700 m in.... wheezing, gasping, huffing, puffing...then the stitch started (granted, on the rib spot, but still)...then more wheezing, more stitching. Phew! This.Cat.Is.Out.Of.Shape. We'll see how the runs go next week.

147 sleeps

Para 6 of this article is good news:

http://www.canada.com/montrealgazette/news/business/story.html?id=cd279da0-107a-485e-9ca5-098daebba6d4


But then there is this:

http://www.newswire.ca/en/releases/archive/November2008/13/c7984.html

It is high time for a Song of the Day:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viPWb3ieH6o

I was positively apoplectic at 03h13am. I went from dreaming away (Mrs Starke - you featured with a green car and a bad attitude) to clawing the ceiling in 0.03 seconds flat. The wind, 'affectionately' known as the Cape Doctor, blew over our wooden coffee table on the balcony, sending me into a claws-out fur-flying hissy fit. I couldn't fall back asleep after that. On a positive note, the Greek didn't come lurching out of his bedroom, golf club in hand, battle cry on lips, ready to take down the bad guys.

In other news:

I think I need to get sort of anti-out-with-Domtastic-VtotheRB-login feature for my laptop, like I must answer an asymptotic space complexity algorithm query before I'm allowed to access the internet. It would save me so much trouble.