While eating a 1kg rack of pork ribs at the forgettable Trumps restaurant on Sandton Square my mother phoned. The power of my unconscious had willed her, across Kimberly and De Aar all the way through  Beaufort West to Milnerton in Cape Town. It was my split-off kosher guilt that made it into my mum and all the way down her phone to me in Johannesburg. I was dining with my client Charles Hughes who will confirm this. She hadn't called while I was sipping my water or between mouthfuls, she called as both hands were lifted to my mouth and my cheeks covered in porky basting.

The very next evening, dining at the outstanding Villamoura in the Sandton Sun Hotel around the corner, a similar thing happened. Not as offensive as the pig but certainly equally forbidden, I was feasting on queen prawns (perfectly done) when a flock of rabbis walked by. Not one or two but 15 or more attending a wedding at the hotel and flashing a collective disapproving eye at my evil ways. It is as if I can't do naughty foodie things without being found out. Like this afternoon. I was munching at KFC's Darling street branch - never frequented by anyone I know, and I see fashionista Jan Malan and his chiseled, drool-worthy boyfriend waiting for him in the SLK!

The power of my unconscious amazes me again.

Charles declined breakfast. I sipped an energizer - a fruit smoothie of sorts while wiping my hands on the warm towel. As a regular economy flyer I know that at about this time I'm trying to press my baggage into the over-filled overhead, avoid breathing in the possibly rancid breath of my shoulder companion and engage in prayer - dear lord, please let a hottie sit next to me. Yet again my non-belief is confirmed as time after time - well against the odds given the frequency of travel , hotties are always seated elsewhere.

Ashleigh was serving me. We used to be on visiting terms years ago so I wasn't especially impressed he knew my name. I was impressed that he knew everyone else's though.  The initial breakfast serving was a plated fruit salad along with yoghurt and coffee. Next came an option of muesli or omlette - veg or with bacon. I selected the latter while dipping the corner of my croissant into my coffee. I wanted to look jaded so I paged first through the Highlife and then lowlife - oops the whatyoumacalit local in-flight mag but quickly got bored (this is a prerequisite for Club Class) and read my Fortune instead.