Yup. You heard me. This weekend, we took the kids to Umhlanga and stayed at the Oyster Box, where Al and his Poppie were enjoying a few days of KZN hospitality. My husband tricked me into thinking we were staying at some small hotel in an office park, so you can imagine how excited I was when we pulled up to the OB. What a place. Colonial Africa meets Miami--retro-chic: over-the-top, fantastical and decadent. (in retrospect, we should have packed tasers for the children, who didn't behave in a particularly fantastical way).
So I walk into the lobby with 2 ratty children hanging onto me, and while David checks in, I meander down a passage, planning to show the kids the red and white striped storybook lighthouse just outside the hotel. Because I am a celeb whore, I knew full well that HRH and Runaway Bride were staying there, but I never could have imagined my good timing.
Within 4 minutes of arriving at the OB, I bumped Al. He walked past me, smiled and nodded and then joined a crew of low-key 'handlers'. He was dressed in a good suit, walked briskly and purposefully and if you were born under a rock, you would have mistaken him for somebody's balding uncle.
The hotel staff had obviously signed confidentiality agreements. I tried to get some juice out of the spa therapist during a very pleasant back massage, but she wasn't having any of it.
"Yes, Her Majesty did come to the spa. His Majesty didn't. She came with her family."
"And.....??? Did she tip well? Does she look miserable? Does she have cellulite?"
Nothing.
The good news is that I played it really cool. My friend Davina and I once bumped into Samuel L Jackson at a golf course and we giggled like a pair of 9 year old girls in front of him. It was really embarrassing. This time, I gave Al a nonchalant half smile and went about tending to my children. Cool.
And then I sprinted to my husband, almost forgetting about my offspring, signalling furiously behind Al's back and giggling like a 9 year old girl.
