As Cape Town pumps season time. Hard.
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I would say that Prada's clever arms with varying frames played a role in their very obvious majority chunk of the Atlantic Seaboard's sunglasses market share this season. Versace came in late with the Kim Jong il range of shades with the stretched-triangle arms (includes the Versace 2034b's, which I'm fine with) and were therefore relegated to third place by the deafening influx of Dior's new range featuring the hollow "D" at the front of the arm, linking to the frame. Some of them are a complete fuckshow with the entire arm being made up of the letters "DIOR", joined together, forming the arm. Are you with me? "DIOR" is not WRITTEN ON the arm - the letters ARE the arm! Not good. Don't buy those. Pull out. Cancel. Cancel!

I must stop talking about Dior because my P.A. wears Dior (Dior "Glossy 1's" - fine) and I am reminded how she has gone AWAY for the week and has rendered me useless. I even had to answer my phone this morning. It's all work, and no P.A. around here. Come back, Piglet, all is forgiven.

James Brown is dead.

A "season's greetings" group-sms infested (Merry Merries and happy happies and a blessed 2007 and a wank this and a wank that) Christmas morning included breakfast at Caprice with the Fabrics Guy which ended at 12h00. It was only then that we realised how silly it was to have eaten breakfast at Caprice when we would have to return only moments later for our 1pm Christmas lunch booking. Lunch included 10 of us orphans who had no parents in town. It lasted from 1pm to 2am. That's 13 hours. Taking into account the breakfast earlier, you're looking at 15 hours of mayhem. That's not bad going. Dave.

Caprice sunset, Christmas Day, 2006.
Frankincense, mehr and tequila

I would have been there longer and am the first to admit that it was foolish of me to misinterpret an sms saying "Call it, or I'm going home", as anything more than an invite to enter into high level discussions about respect and the fact that I never called. Sorry for the confusion - my fault. Apologies to the crew at Cappers for sneaking off like that - I shouldn't have chosen a 1-stop strategy.

Best T-shirt of the day - "I am not a football player".

Apart from a 12 hour sleep and an audience with The Comeback Kid's kid, the whistle stop tour to Hermanus for the night of the 26th offered dinner conversation laced with some wonderful insight into the inner workings (or lack thereof) of one our more over-exposed local "celebs". I'll let you work it out. Which apostle recently took a young lady on a date to Wakame and, when it came time to order the main course, snatched the menu out of her hands before she could chose her meal and declared, "I pay, I order!"? You know who it is. Pick him.

"I pay, I order". Are you fucking kidding me?

I'm playing entire albums at the moment and, having just finished Prince, am now moving over to Chris Isaak. Isaak's 'Wicked Game' just seems to work as I gaze over Cape Town's Mighty Atlantic Seaboard (CTMAS). CTMAS - that's how you spell 'XMAS' if you're spending it in Cape Town. Because it's not like someone else's XMAS, it's XMAS in Cape Town. Those who've done it, know it. And they all agree - as cheesy as it sounds, there is just something in the air. It's a photoshopped wonderland and it's fucking wild. I have lived here my whole life and done good time overseas. Believe me, you will never come across another city in the World whose inhabitants and visitors spend more time discussing how incredible it is to live and visit there, as you do in Cape Town. Look, make no error, I've had a couple of joints and a bottle of wine on my own in The Safe House and I'm getting emotional. But a quick glance at my options on this (again) perfect day in Cape Town, proves my point.

At this exact moment in time, I could be having a boozy lunch with The UK Entertainment Guy and family at a restaurant in the middle of the world famous Groot Constantia vineyards. I could even be with The Stockbroker on the pool deck of the Fresnaye pad. The C.A. beckoned for a session on Camps Bay beach with 28 degree heat and a metallic blue ocean that I want inside me. Big H put in an invite to the pool at Number 1 Chapman's Peak - over the rocks, with the ocean ten meters below. I got up too late to join The Kitesurfer for a trip on the boat to get some crayfish for dinner, so that's out of the question. And, to top things off, Nick Goldblatt threatened Caprice - but I don't know if I can handle the attention. "Seth is actually very shy", they'll tell you - those who know. Those who know the lonely, frightened little only-child, who hides behind the cool, tanned, sex robot image that was created as a defense mechanism to overcome the confusion created by the constant tirade aimed at me as they try, uninvited, to get inside my mind, to give me something that they know I secretly long for - love.

Now, let's get those panties off, darling.

As the sun sets on the fourth last day of the year (I wish it was the second last day so that I could have used the word "penultimate") I have decided to spend it here, in The Safe House - with the so called "internet" at my fingertips, the new 2.5m sofa under my ass, the Sony Bravia on the wall and CTMAS sprawled before me.

Today we detox.

Today we reflect.

Today, is just another day.

Amen.

(Mum, I was only kidding about the "joints" earlier in the story - I just say that because people think its cool)

Seth Rotherham
Editor
2oceansvibe.com
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