Every weekend there is a squad of beautiful young things who crave the club culture, only to be restrained by their empty savings accounts.
Deep in their bra pockets, safely nestled against their perky boobs, is a few coins folded in a rouge bank note. They have enough to get them to the city. They are set.
As they settle into their dark den of choice, under smoky lights, attracting a night riding philanthropist whose over-flowing alcohol tap is well renowned in dance circles.
"Niphuzani?" (What's your poison?) That icebreaker. A favourite for young hunters whose prowl has set them upon new acquaintances.
The question, for thirsty young ladies, is as tricky as solving for x in higher grade algebra.
Sober lasses entrapped in the company of a deep-pocketed wolf may find this particular inquiry rather limiting. They are suddenly cornered into a position of choosing a single type of drink.
Firstly, there is that lingering uncertainty as to how much, and how long the buyer is willing to spend on them. If they order their usual - not knowing how the buyer's bank balance is set - they may just miss out on those nectar glazed bubbles they only ever see on the 'gram.
Secondly, they are thirsty!