I went out with some friends last Friday night and launched my middle-aged Zimbabwean bod (with back-ache – damn those stretches!) into the unsuspecting press of preppy 20-somethings crowded around the bar. Thankfully there weren’t many teenagers present. There is something pathetic about them drinking as much as they possibly can before mum comes to collect them but I suppose I should be grateful they aren’t doing lines – it may be that they just bring back uncomfortable memories? Those that were around were covered, if not flatteringly in some cases, at least, for the most part, modestly. The blissful ignorance that winter brings. I was spared the kitsch tattoos and piercings and bum cracks and g-strings and hints of front fluff.

The boys were more disappointing, giving truth to the fact that fashion does not always equal style. There were ¾ pants and tracksuits rolled up to make ¾ pants.  The poor unfortunate had obviously spent his entire allowance on hairspray – he was artfully windswept and coiffed – a peacock would’ve been proud.  And they were all wearing an unattractive off-shoot of the commonly spotted (staying with our bird theme) tommy takkie, but without laces.  There were sawn-off T-shirts a la Bruce Springsteen, sadly without the muscle, in more ways than one.  There were windsurfer dudes with shaggy bobs that had also seen the better half of a tub of hair wax – evidenced by the lack of movement even in the stiffest breeze and despite vigorous head banging!

I’m afraid to say the music was less than inspirational. I wasn’t moved to hit the dance floor, and didn’t even tap my foot occasionally.  And I am one of those who considers themselves incredibly sexy after a few drinks – nothing keeps me from dancing. The evidence the next day suggests that the “sprinkler system” dance move is less than sexy, and sometimes, not even funny.  And yet it remains a firm favourite, oh how I laugh!  I should’ve been forewarned when we spied the lesser warbling duckie perched on a bar stool with his guitar as we arrived – never a good sign. I think he was singing “A la Bamba”…. enough said.

Easter is almost upon us, where did the time go? It seems like we’ve only just taken down the Christmas tree! On the home front the kids and I are busily preparing maps of the garden for our Easter egg hunt, cards for the Easter bunny, cards for everyone who will be joining us for Easter lunch, a birthday card for cousin Stoff whose big day is tomorrow, a welcome home banner for granny who has been in Edinburgh for 6 weeks welcoming the newest addition to the family. Welcome Sean Thomas – although I had hoped you’d give your mother as hard a time as my first baby gave me – colic for 3 months, bags under the eyes and a trigger-happy temper, usually directed at dad. I am all artsy-fartsied out! We’ve done the paper mosaics, the painting, the pointillism (or something like it), the wax and paint, the fabric – I don’t have an original thought left in my head.  All this before I put the menu together. Both my husband and I are hospitality trained so the competition to be inventive is fierce when we decide to entertain. This doesn’t happen often, typically only 4 or 5 times a year; just imagine the production!

Can I also mention, before you think what a weed I am, that parallel to this artistic and culinary explosion, that the gate has stopped working. Beeper, electrics, lights and all. The roof over the spare bedroom collapsed (bringing down the fascia boards and the gutters and breaking several tiles – which, I discover are no longer in production, and I am blithely told to re-do the whole roof, it’s only about $30,000 – pocket change!). Then I drove over Daniel’s bicycle (one fairy wheel badly damaged, mom’s reputation irreparable – oh the accusation in those eyes!). And my oven has stopped working (I suspect sabotage).

Sometimes everything seems to go wrong and it is hard to keep your focus on the things that are really important. So I will try to keep my eyes on the prize – a gathering of friends and family, my children’s squeals of delight as they find their eggs, and a feast to mark the end of Lent – which I have started with a plate full of treats from friends down the hallway. I am eyeing the Cadbury’s Easter egg lasciviously … but I shall force myself to finish my cornflakes first. Must be my Catholic upbringing.

I don’t know if it was the worst kiss so much as my expectations had been raised to dizzying heights by Sunday soap operas. Dallas, Dynasty, Falcon Crest. Go on; say you didn’t watch . . . we all know that there was nothing else to watch at the time!

Having powered through “The Nation”, after an afternoon of football and the “Baker Show” (religious fraudsters), we deserved a treat. I have an excuse though, for watching so much Sunday TV. We lived in Kamativi (Matabeleland North) and while it was a bustling metropolis of sporting and drinking activity for much of the week, on Sundays everyone collapsed on their own sofas to snore and fart and hopefully wake refreshed on Monday for the next round of work and play.

Anyway I digress, back to kissing.

The first kiss was the worst for a few reasons. The hard chin thrust into my tender, spotty cheek. The grinding motion, like a pressed-on, Stevie Wonder mime, which was actually quite a good impression of Dynasty’s steamier moments. The sodden sucking mess he left as he pulled away to grab some air. The smell – his mouth closed not only over mine, but also over my nose!

At school the following Monday, long socks slipping and mascara tracks under my eyes, having brushed all memories of the weekend out of my life (and mouth with “Close-up” toothpaste), I was left with the ravaged landscape of my lower face. A severe ac-attack, redness, puffiness, prickle spots of deeper red – he had the beginnings of a beard, bless his socks. All the exciting details hashed and re-hashed for friends as I joined the queue at the school call box, twenty cent coins clutched in my sweaty palms, to put a call through to Plumtree …

THE worst kiss ever, maybe, but still the first kiss, and I can remember his name even now.

I was sitting watching TV last night, not for long mind, because there is nothing worth watching on a Thursday. And there is everything worth watching all at the same time on a Tuesday. If you are not the proud owner of a PVR you are either in an agony of indecision or in a fully-fledged-TV-remote-sharing fight on a Tuesday and forced into early retirement on a Thursday (even with the PVR). I was in bed by 7.

In the not-so-brief advertising break a particular ad caught my attention. Picture this: stunning brunette in skimpy bikini and tan, strides along white sandy beach, dives into azure waters, finds herself swimming with pears and other assorted fruit (underwater – no sign of fish). She chooses a pear and rises to the surface glistening with pearls of water, her hair artistically arranged (mine always clumps together, nothing “artistic” about it), smiles with her strong white teeth and suddenly disappears behind a box of Liqui Fruit. Yes I remember the product – sometimes I am so blown away by the advert itself that I couldn’t tell you what was being advertised – like the Schumacher/car advert where he drives on the ceiling of a tunnel – who can remember the make of the car?

I had to laugh. I said to my husband that I often take a dip on a hot afternoon with my fruit basket, and he should come home earlier, because I also leave the water looking like that … must be the pears.

By the way, my daughter wants a bar of Lux soap. She thinks it comes with the pretty sweeping pink dress in the advert.

Disappointment is just around the corner.

For those of us less than talented in the sporting arena, night golf is a welcome relief from critical eyes. If you’ve tried teeing off in broad daylight in front of the clubhouse, you’ll know what I mean. The pressure, your hands start to sweat, you mutter to yourself “head down, watch the ball, eyes ON the ball!” And then you keep looking over your shoulder as you do a semi-jog, as opposed to a full sprint or a walk – more conspicuous and involving greater hip movement – after your ball, hopefully down the fairway, but inevitably not.

I get totally put off by any sign of water. It doesn’t matter how near, how far, how off to the side, how small, I will find it or hit my ball in the entirely wrong direction JUST to avoid it. I also just dribble it off the tee box (thereby really falling short of the water).

Anyway, night golf is for those who don’t own golfing outfits to match their Callaways. You can encourage your caddy (it is best to pay for one if you don’t know the course – distance and direction becomes an issue even for the most geographically-savvy) to levy fines against you when you do something wrong. This includes hitting fresh air instead of the ball, what I call the “practice swing” (my son always blames on the wind, bless him), or landing in the water – lucky the balls glow.

Remember to get your cooler box from the bar. Each player gets a free six-pack to start (a word of advice, take an extra 2 per person and don’t forget your shooters for spot fines) and then merrily stumble and sing (and swing) your way round nine holes.

Normal golf rules apply. Treat the course, your surroundings and fellow players with due respect. And please pee before you start – white buttocks in the moonlight are made for target practice!

If you’re not much of a golfer, you might consider packing a towel and a change of clothes in case you have to go swimming to retrieve your ball. While eau-de-swamp seems to deter mosquitoes, it doesn’t do anything for the rest of us. And if you’re hoping to hit the town afterwards, and get lucky – make use of the club’s showers!

Next date for night golf at the Borrowdale Brooke is Friday 13 May. Come dressed ghoulish (or pay a fine) and book early – they are always over subscribed.

I am limping.

To make it worse, my wobbly, awkward hobble makes the other parts of my body ache. Which means by bedtime I am an aching mass of tension, and feeling very sorry for myself. And I don’t get a massage or even a little sympathy. Instead, as soon as one of the kids starts screaming, for water, or a pee, or a monster in the bed, I am met with a sudden suspicious stillness next to me. Yes, if you close your eyes, don’t let your eyeballs twitch, regulate your breathing, add a gentle snore and a muscle spasm or two, I might believe you are asleep. Except nobody can sleep with the shouts reverberating down the hall, and you will ask me what was wrong, as soon as I get back to bed.  Without fail.

But let’s discuss husbands and selective hearing another day. It is an inexhaustible topic and we could be here forever. (I have just googled “bobbit”.)

I was asked to speak at my daughter’s School Open Day on Wednesday evening. So I thought it best to dress up to create the right impression. I was going for young and fun so I tugged on my white Versace jeans, a shirt and my platform heels (I NEVER wear heels) and teetered off to the school. I gave my talk, which by my watch lasted less than a minute – a full A4 piece of paper is deceptively quick to read – and listened to everyone else waffling on, in comparison to my speed reading, before I figured it was appropriate for me to leave, this involved some sidling I admit.

So, I hustled and teetered off to the car, paying no attention to the lack of outdoor overhead lighting. My foot disappeared down a hole, cunningly covered with lawn and I gracefully pirouetted “a over t” landing with my full weight, and considerable momentum (maybe it seemed faster because I was higher?) on my knee. I rose after taking a moment or two to curse under my breath, dusted off my grass stained jeans (a gift from my older sister, so yes, really Versace) and gathering my dignity, limped to my car, significantly slower than previously. Which is a shame as it has since come to light that I was spotted, slinking off you understand. I have been avoiding the Principal.

It would be ok if it were an isolated incident. But like my 4-year-old son, I still seem to be finding my feet and learning to judge distance and space and size. Unlike my son, it gets harder to pick myself up. But nothing a slobbery kiss and a bit of vampire blood (Gentian Violet) can’t fix.

Eventually.