The Guy from Harlem is a fittie (but I’m at the bar with my Mum)


The Guy from Harlem is a fittie (but I’m at the bar with my Mum)

When you want to work your magic or make flirty eyes at some unsuspecting fittie , having your mother with you is most undesirable (as is the feeling that you are going prematurely grey)

It had been an eventful day to say the least. Eventful most notably, in regard to my fear of premature aging, especially in the form of nasty little grey hairs. I was being a little vain I suppose, checking out my reflection under the unforgiving luminescent light of the lift and all of a sudden I noticed one.  A sparkling little strand caught my attention and suddenly, like a Magpie I was drawn to its shiny and alluring demeanour.

“Mummy”, I nearly screamed “I am going grey” and the tears began to stream down my mascara smudged cheeks (on reflection I can see that this was a little dramatic.) My mother fiercely searched through my hair (as the little strand danced around my head) and professed that she could not in fact see ANY grey hairs, but with my tantrum now in full swing and the German family in the lift now awkwardly gawking at me, I demanded that she continue the search, if anything to prove I was not going totally bonkers and I suppose to validate my juvenile outburst.

After pulling out a number of probably very healthy, brunette hairs, I realised it was time to stop this somewhat ridiculous exploration and terminate this bodily regression from within. Off I marched to the local “Apteek” and kitted myself out with a lifetime supply of Calcium tablets (apparently fabulous for preventing grey hairs.) After I gulped down a handful with a huge glass of milk I calmed down a little and the brightness of life was suddenly restored.

With this little dilemma now over I decided it was certainly time for an alcoholic beverage and a slice of cake and off my mother and I ventured to ‘Harlemmerstraat’ – a gorgeous little street on the outskirts of the Jordaan – a picturesque and quite magical part of the city.

The moment I walked in, I realised I was somewhat in love with the barman, with his dashing good looks and golden locks, but after my best (and evidently failed attempt) at impressing him with a sexy rendition of “Please can I have a G&T” I resigned myself to the fact that he was just not that into me (in a somewhat delusional attempt at making myself feel better I convinced myself this was because my Mum was with me, obviously) and thus, did not have to face the fact that I was a) unattractive, b) going grey and c) ensuring that my thighs would soon become a single entity, thanks to my chocolate brownie pudding with cream.

Oh, but it was scrum-tidely-umptious!

After a few more drinks (and a few sneaky glances) we decided it was time to hit the road. With a spring in my step (thanks to Mr. Dreamy) my mother and I strolled through the beautiful streets of the Jordaan, peering into the windows of its numerous art galleries and café’s – oh everything seemed a little romantic that evening really, (even the two seductively seated lady-boys in lingerie, who were peering through a residential looking window with their legs wide apart, seemed somehow a little amorous.)

I fell asleep dreaming up little plans of meeting Mr. Dreamy & delicious once again (obviously without my mother as a sidekick.)

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