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Their marriage had its ups and downs: They went to counseling several times, and Melissa always suspected that her husband wasn't entirely faithful.

Last year, shortly after the birth of their second child, Melissa, now 36, finally caught him in the act.

Attempts to get comment from the Presidency and Radebe’s office on Sunday were unsuccessful. Political analyst at the Northwest University, André Duvenhage, says he thinks Radebe “has somehow been targeted”.

Cape Town - The “slight” chance Minister in the Presidency Jeff Radebe might have had to become ANC president and president of the country, has become even slimmer, Netwerk24 reported.

It wasn’t until last week that I heard from him again — freshly single, according to some Instagram research — and we met for drinks, which led to a second date at the Met and more drinks, which led to him coming home with me last night. As we pass around the sunscreen, I take the opportunity to grill my friend Lana for the latest on her department’s boss. Creative Director is this crazy hot, 35-year-old higher-up at the company — I’ve been nursing a hugely inappropriate lady boner ever since he interviewed me for my job. While I’m glad to see that the Instagram has staying power, I feel a headache coming on. Last month, I got turned down for a long-awaited promotion, and since then, I just can’t bring myself to do more than the bare minimum. After getting home, I do my weekly phone call with my mom, and she asks how therapy is going. I don’t love watching him chat up anyone who isn’t me. At lunch, I text Harry that I feel like getting drunk on a rooftop tonight. He still seems jittery, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s just a naturally nervous dude. I’m way too sloshed to be saying hi to her and introducing Harry, but part of me secretly hopes that she’ll mention running into me and Harry to Creative Director.

After smoking a cigarette, Harry offers to go get us some coffee. I walk out of the room feeling like the Beyoncé of Google Slides, but my boss doesn’t even say anything, or look at me, as he walks by my desk. Even though I’m not on his actual team, I sometimes help out on projects when they’re overloaded, so we talk for a bit about next steps. I should mention that, somewhat complicating the fact that I want to fuck Creative Director’s brains out, I also want to move onto his team and work for him. I feel bad for making my roommates climb over me to get to the kitchen, but it also feels nicely indulgent to take up some space. I low-key sprint to Duane Reade and invest in some Trojans for Her Pleasure. Harry and I are drunk at this dive bar, which would be a lot more fun if he didn’t keep getting up abruptly to go smoke.

I wake up with Harry — a tall, gorgeous writer with an archangel’s jawline — in my bed. I can’t sleep, so I grab my phone and answer texts from work friends who want to know how last night went. As a joke, I tell him to bring back a continental breakfast, and he actually literally brings back a bag of groceries, a croissant from the bakery next door, and today’s copy of the . While he makes me poached eggs with avocado on toast, I scan the front page and eat half the croissant, feeling Brooklyn-bougie as fuck. Harry finally leaves, probably to go work on his next award-winning exposé or something. I meet work friends at Pier 11, where it’s bordering on 19th-century Ellis Island levels of madness with everyone trying to catch the Rockaway ferry. At home, I rehearse my presentation for work before going to bed early. But we manage to talk a little bit about our backgrounds, like a real couple is supposed to do, I guess.

He and I met last fall when he was freelancing for us, but he had a girlfriend then. The four of us girls all met as entry-level minions last year at the office and have been inseparable, so we spend the two hours doing a deep-dive on the latest office gossip. After having burgers at the boardwalk café, we stake out a spot in the sand. Harry texts back to ask how urgent my tan inspection is. I turn in my one assignment for the week, and spend the rest of the day on Twitter, for “market research.” I love this company, but to be honest, I’m so fucking bored at my job. I sit up a little straighter and watch him joke around with this new girl on the other side of the office. I get home and slam some homemade avocado toast down my throat. I almost cancel, but instead I put on my big-girl pants — a pair of high-waisted short-shorts — and go anyway. I’m happy when I see Harry and his jawline at the bar. I have not yet briefed him on the Creative Director (non)situation, for the record, but plan to soon. We’re walking back to my apartment when we run into a co-worker on the sidewalk — this woman who works directly for Creative Director, I shit you not.

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With the advent of full touchscreen phones, companies like Apple and Google have developed advanced predictive text software, colloquially known as auto-correct, so people could spend less time typing and more time enjoying their shiny new device. You've heard the stories and seen the websites with the countless hilarious horror stories of people's phones saying things other than what was meant to be said—or, as its known 'round these parts, fails.

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