Got invited to a braai at one of G’s friend’s houses this weekend. I’m usually kept away from such events but cracked a nod this time round, for some reason…
Anyhow this is how it goes:
So we get to the dude’s house. He’s a recently-single-again dad of a baby boy (he gets to see him regularly following a round or two with the mom at the mediators) and his bachelor pad is pretty cool, out in the Noordhoek ‘countryside’ with, sweetly, a baby changing station in the bathroom and baby shampoo in the shower alongside the Axe showergel. Less sweetly, the dude spent the evening spading a PYT, we’re still not sure whether he scored on that front.
As we arrive my heart sinks – there’s a whole load of people standing around, none of whom I recognise immediately. They all seem to know G of course. Long gone are the days I can stick R on my lap and hide – he instantly vanishes to play away from parental eyes (large garden and skate-perfect cul de sac and other kids = winning event for him) and G fetches me a beer and promptly joins the boy-huddle round the fire, leaving me to my own devices. Yes, for the most part it was that kind of braai.
So the only other members of my species I see are a young mum with a toddler on the go – she’s chasing him around the garden and I’m not going to join in with that activity – and two youngsters – let’s call them 12 and 13, tho in reality they must have scraped in at 20. Someone’s girlfriend and someone else’s cousin.
12’s sporting teeeny tiny denim shorts and big shades and a faint Aussie accent. 13’s blonde and cute and annoying. I think they got lost en route to a Two Oceans Vibe party.
I do the big girl thing, shake hands, introduce myself in a friendly way, sit down. Silence. Then 12 turns to 13 (in front of me, note) and sighs ‘I feel so YOUNG here. I don’t think anyone else is, like, under 35 or something.’ Both giggle and stir their green cocktails with their cocktail umbrellas.
WTF?I was never that rude, even at 12. Or 13. And where did they find cocktails? This is a deep south braai.
Possible come-backs claw their way up my throat to my lips, which I clamp firmly around the neck of my Black Jack beer (yay! now sold in Noordhoek!!) in an attempt to drown them.
Lucky for me a friend arrives (one of G’s friends’ partners who I have been allowed to meet) – she’s almost as ancient as I am and we both hail from the FRIENDLY city of PE and know how to play nice…so we sit and chat and drink and watch rugby and wish aloud that it was football rather because there’s no perv value in the Stormers but then get super excited about the match any way and it’s a good night out.
Meanwhile 12 gets in a huff when her boyfriend walks past her and doesn’t ‘acknowledge’ her. And 13 is the one being spaded by the bachelor host dude, and gets unattractively drunk and stoned (by this time the kids are all bundled up watching DVDs in another room, thankfully).
They do deign to speak to me once. Just before we eat, I’m pulling on my VERY COOL handmade sheepskin boots and they’re suddenly all over me begging to know where I got them. Happily, the place is now closed (was the Dream Shop at Imhoff’s Gift). Besides, as I tell them, their pocket money wouldn’t have covered the cost. And besides, do they really want to be seen wearing something a past-it old woman would wear?**
Gah. I’m clearly too well brought up to actually say what I think. But seriously. Fighting words, girls. Hope I don’t have a chance to speak my mind on the outside any time soon.
I think I’ll book some down time at the local old age home next time instead…
** I did say these things. On the inside.