You look like a whore’ said Thembie, our housekeeper, as I was dressing to go out for lunch.

I looked in the mirror.

“Elegant!” I thought to myself, admiring my tight fitting black dress, fish-net stockings, high heeled shoes and thick red lipstick.

She muttered something in Tswana under her breath, and pulled out a few dresses from the cupboard for me.  ‘Try this’ she said, handing me the plain brown sack.

“I hate that one!” I said.

“So why did you buy it…

I’ve often been accused of having no patience. I fucking well do have patience, and I don’t have time for anyone who says I don’t.

To prove my point, I took up golf. A game where one needs nothing but patience. My boyfriend laughed. ‘You’ll never play golf’, he snorted.

I was determined to prove him wrong.

I signed up for six lessons, thinking it would be a breeze. After all, I played tennis for Zimbabwe when I was 12. How hard could golf be?

Look down at the ball, lift…

Coffee this morning, and white suburban women moaned about the problems with the Gay Pride Parade.  The noise from the car guards directing cars that didn't need directing, the music, the beer bottles, the fact that it went on well into the night, unstructured, unsupervised, very unsuburbanish.

I wasn't overly sympathetic.

'I guarantee you that no-one in Alex is sitting round their coffee tables, moaning about the chaos from the Nike Jozi Run' I said.  'First, I guarantee this…