As most “wannabe” writers will find, they need to “read and review” their handy work from time to time.  I re-read my latest blogs and although they are all truly authentic, and from the heart, they are all jolly serious.  The truth be told, in the words of one of my favourite authors, Elizabeth Lessor, my soul has been “broken open” by pain in recent times, and whilst this is part of life (let’s face it, at one time or another, we have ALL had our hearts broken by various events and circumstances), it has also been a huge learning curve for me, as pain often is, and the growth has been staggering, and mainly, in hindsight, positive.

So, enough of that – I tried, “it” failed, I need to move on, and move away from the pain.

And now on to the still authentic, but far more humorous… my cousin’s bachelorette this last weekend in the Eastern Cape.

To paint the picture – eleven young, nubile, very pretty girls out for a party, and then there was me.  The oldest by more than a decade, it was my task to take care of this lot, and let me tell you, this was not a very easy job at all.  In fact, there were times I envied Obama, as his job at the moment, including his running for the presidency, is just dead easy compared to what my task at hand was.

We had dressed up my cousin in a bridesmaid dress of a very good friend of ours, whose wedding was in the ‘80’s.  There were spills and frills, and a list of “to do’s” which included proposing to two strangers (not necessarily at the same time), getting the phone number of a married man (which happened, in front of his very understanding wife – he was also about 101, so was very excited), having her wedding song played by a DJ still to be found, getting a stranger to take off his shirt and flex his muscles… and on we go.

We were VERY responsible and got a party bus, which was fabulous, except for the poor bus driver.  Within a minute, he had been proposed to, and asked to take off his shirt and flex his muscles.  He declined.  We were horrified.

My cousin eventually found an unsuspecting chap to remove his shirt, and I have to admit that this was the most focused I had seen the group of girls for the entire evening.  The same said chap was asked “what part of Ireland are you from?” and his reply “the Free State”.  Enough said.  Paddy the Irishman was sitting with a chap who told me he was an artist, and when I enquired as to what he did in the art line, he told me he designed stained glass windows.  I tried to move on quickly, but not before he attempted to ask me out on a date.  I think not.

Things got more and more eventful as the night wore on, and performing the head count as we moved from bar to bar became more and more difficult for me as the wine took hold of my counting abilities.  Eleven is a very large number after all, and involves more than two hands.  At one stage, I was three chicks down, and a wave of panic hit me.  I have no idea why I was worried though, as there they were, in one of the main roads of Port Alfred, my cousin, the bride, inside a shopping trolley, being pushed by two of the nubiles, while the local police man drove slowly by… needless to say, we did have a run-in with the same said police man a little later in the evening, but that is another story.

Apart from all the fun, and the reminders of how I used to party in my twenties, I also learnt a new term, called a “T.C.” – a “technical chunder”.  Whilst I am very proud to admit I did not partake of this, those that did felt a whole lot better on Sunday morning than I did, so I feel there may be something in this T.C. thing.  I feel, however, that the less I say about this party term, perhaps the better.

And to end, we need a moral of the story:  whether you are young, or tapping on the door that is 40 like I am, it is possible to let one’s hair down, have good, clean fun, see a few clenched muscles and the odd chest hair, and come home in one piece, via the shopping trolley.  I do have to admit though, that if that was the practice run for the wedding, we are all in for a large ride in six weeks’ time… watch the local newspaper headlines for details.