AlmostThirtyThree

Monday rainfall

2012-01-23T17:22:00.002+02:00

The incessant heat was momentarily broken by delicious, fat drops of rain falling hotly on the tin roof of The House in the Middle of the Street as I woke, turning my tired sigh of an impending Monday morning into a pleasure-filled one. It rained, heavy and strong, for a short while, interspersing rain clouds with golden sunshine and rainbows to make leprechauns leap.

You could almost hear the plants yelling out in delight and the soil slurping greedily. Almost.

Wordless

2012-01-21T08:49:00.003+02:00

It's been hot. Thick, sticky, hot. The kind that makes you feel like you're breathing in hot soup and makes you gasp slightly. We do hot here, in Summer, it's par for the course, really, living in Africa, and I like the warmth, but this is humid. We're not used to humid. It makes me feel like I can't get enough air.

It may not be just the weather. I'm having that stifling city feeling again. The good news is that I am working on a plan that might offer some repreive, there are just a couple of ducks that need rowing first. More on that later. In the meantime I am trying desperately to breath enough to make me write. I've been slacker than slack and I miss it.

I wake in the early mornings, the quiet grey light of dawn peaking through my curtains, and the words prance and dance in my head, stories beginning, emotions flowing, epiphanies abound. Once I'm up, though, they skitter away, scattering in the sunshine and noise of the day in the city and I am left, wordless.

Perhaps I need to get back and finish those Writing Prompts.

Hotel foyer

2012-01-14T10:30:00.000+02:00

Suspended between a coffee shop playing French love songs and a cavernous, modern-designer hotel foyer playing loungey Jazz I feel like I've been dropped into some strange vortex between worlds. The women here all wear higher-than-high heels and tight pants. I'd never noticed before but those higher-than-high wedge heels actually really do make one look taller.

At one end of the cavernous foyer, which reminds me of my school hall but more designer, is one of those floor polishing machines dragging around a tired-looking man with the demeanour of someone who'd rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Three crumpled businessmen pulling bags on wheels roll across it's newly-polished floor, little track marks across the only-just-there shine. There must be a pool somewhere in the hotel. I see a small boy wrapped in a towel skid across the business men's tyre tracks, his barefeet making no imprint.

For some reason I can't shake the feeling of anxiety in this place filled with transience. Nothing seems stuck down. Even the (designer) lamps seem to be trying to escape. Everything echoes and reverberates, the air rushes out of the door, making an escape each time it slides open on its designer tracks, sensing someone in its little electronic beam.

I feel very, very alone as I wait for the other Eager Beavers to arrive. It's book club night and we decided to meet somewhere else, and this is it.

Heartbreaking

2012-01-12T17:37:00.000+02:00

There's photographic proof. Year's of it. They were the beautiful, young lovers at university, she blonde, waif-like, beautiful, kind, smiley; he skinny, long-haired, just as beautiful. It was at that time, the one when everything seemed perfect, the air was clear, we were filling our brains with learning and love and the freedom of youth and they were like a snapshot of it - the perfectness of young love.

Their's lasted, it wasn't a fleetingly beautiful moment in a small, dusty town that swelled hearts, broke them and swelled them again, their's was more. As is the nature of leaving university we all scattered in the wind. They married, more photos of love, and with the invention of Stalkbook, suddenly those pictures were there for all of us to see, to be allowed to believe in love. The photos documenting them, and us, growing slightly older, possibly wiser (or not), but settling.

That's what the photos showed - them, love, a clarity in it all that I've seldom seen. It was tangible through the pictures although I didn't see them in 'real life' after varsity. In a moment it was over. No, that's not true, I heard the whole story, it wasn't a moment, it was over time, as cancer ate her alive, that beautiful, waif-like creature, so young, so lovely, so in love. And he was left. Alone.

My heart breaks at the cruelty of it. She died a couple of years ago now but an old friend was here over the holidays, a good friend of his, so it came up and I recoiled, again, at the heartbreak of it.

She saw him while she was here and reported that he is healing, smiling again, and I'm almost 100% certain that that is making her smile too, in the ether.

On safari with a green milkshake

2012-01-10T10:30:00.001+02:00

The lime green milkshake caught my attention first. It just seemed so incongruous to be drinking such a bright green, milky drink with a huge seafood platter – prawns, crayfish and all. I wondered what flavour it was – lime, as its colour suggested, or cream soda, as its colour could also suggest. I wondered if she’d like to join us but looked at her face as she sucked some green milk up and decided, perhaps, she didn’t wish to be disturbed. Her face was not one that invited conversation.

Dressed in camoflauge clothes that shouted “I’m a tourist”, she sat alone in the restaurant. Well, not exactly alone – she had her green milkshake, and the company of various well-cooked creatures of the sea. Again, I was compelled to make conversation, but saw her sullen face, and decided not. I wondered if I was being silly and she was just genetically doomed to have a sour look. It just seemed impossible for her not to at least look vaguely happy about the feast before her, not to mention the cheerfully-coloured (if incongruous) green milkshake.

For some reason there’s a type of tourist that come to The City Beneath the Mountain and insist on wearing safari gear, even to the most cosmopolitan of shopping malls, such as the one we were unlucky enough to find ourselves last night. It’s as if they think they may need to hide behind a bench in one of the passages in case of an elephant seeing them as they walk out of the Louis Vuitton shop, new handbag hanging off their trunk.

And that's when I decided why she looked so unhappy – perhaps she had been misled somehow and was cross about not finding an elephant shopping for a Louis Vuitton handbag, or a giraffe looking for a long enough tie in the Hugo store (I had to look that up… my designer clothing knowledge leaves a lot to be desired.)

I just hope she’s going to go out into the African wild, all got up in her safari gear, to see the real deal… where designer gear is not only unnecessary, but is simply ridiculous.

2012? Seriously?

2012-01-04T12:17:00.003+02:00

Good grief, it's 2012, just like that. Happy, happy to everyone and may it be prosperous and happy and filled with love, good food, friends and laughing like my little nephews do. The kind 2-and-a-half-year olds do, shrieking with delight at the golden retriever that chases a pilates ball around the garden, completely unabashed, completely delicious.

That's what I've mostly been doing for the last week, staring in wonderment at the fun of my twin nephews, laughing at them and with them, as they talk up a storm. They're fabulous - bright, engaging, chatty and really, really funny. And cute, did I mention that? Doting aunty? Me?

The Big Black Dog thought she'd died and gone to heaven, trailing after them as they dropped a constant supply of muffin crumbs, peanut butter sandwich bits and, on one occassion, and enormous nougat-type lolly, which she, much to their horror, swallowed in one large gulp. They're kind, though, despite being at that age where one is completely and utterly self-absorbed, and the other one shared his lolly with the forlorn one, the Big Black Dog looking on hopefully, wishing for a second helping, being admonished by the little guys who took to a safe spot, high on a couch, out of dog reach.

They stayed for a week, waking the house at 5:30am with delighted excitement at it being a new day, I showed them how to take apart their beds and move the matresses onto the floor and make tents and tunnels (I'm not sure their mother's appreciated this particular tutorial...), we read Dr Zeuss and we played and laughed and chattered.

Now they've gone off down the coast to an idyllic beach-side house, where I will join them for more holiday fun on Thursday. Who could ask for a better way to start a year? I haven't made any resolutions yet, I've been too busy giggling and loving. I think that's a pretty good excuse.

Christmas Eve

2011-12-24T17:27:00.003+02:00

And then, suddenly, it was the night before Christmas, with no warning whatsoever, the year barrels to an end. I had such good intentions of reading, and writing, and getting back into my blog and then work got busy and then I got a blood clot in my leg and the doctor packed me off to be still in bed so it didn't pop off and rush into my head or heart, making me feel like a ticking time bomb, while people stuck needles in me and I swallow ludicrously pink pills to thin my blood. Wierd.

So, I have spent the past week in bed, gorging on Downton Abbey, to which I am now completely addicted; reflecting on the year that has flown by; feeling overwhelmed with nostalgia of years before. House arrest is an interesting phenomenon, my thoughts flit, like birds from tree to tree, with wild winds fluffing their tail feathers.

December has been filled with things that should be blogged about, that should've been blogged about immediately, while my heart was exposed, my nerves raw, but I guess that's how it works, the stories are still forming, incubating, and in the meantime, I'm going to catch up on everybody else's stories, and then watch the last two episodes of Downton Abbey, which I'm trying to devour more slowly, to make them last.

Happy Christmas, all.

Yoohoo

2011-12-15T22:00:00.003+02:00

I did it. I wrote 50 000 words in a month. I have to admit that they're not brilliant words, I have not written the next amazing South African novel, not by a far shot, but I wrote fifty thousand words in a row, to make a story. There will be no awards for this one, or any other I write after, but I did it. 50 000 words. In a row.

And now I'm exhausted, but I've missed being here. Mostly I miss Candy Sandwich's amazing adventures; I missed Livvy coming back, beautifully; Kitty admitting the painful truth, heart-breakingling (Precious Things, that's it for you, Kitty); Miranda, Tamara, Geli, I wait; Family Affairs, I long for you to be able to write freely again; and so, so, much more. I have words bubbling up again, though.

I'm back, as much as I can be. I'm waking up. A new year is beckoning, there will be things going on.

In the meantime I watched some Cape Town schmodels mingle with two Catholic priests, like something out of a ridiculously fabulous Tim Burton story. I'm back, I hope. I have a new soundtrack. It makes the words line up, a good soundtrack.

Tori Amos

2011-11-21T11:27:00.001+02:00

A moment’s respite here in my little corner, which seems fabulously comfy when I face the last 15 000 words of NaNoWriMo. I hit a hump last week but luckily escaped to the countryside over the weekend and caught up. I fear the second half of the novel is really, really bad (as opposed to the first half, which is just bad) but I’m feeling inordinately proud of myself for pushing through. I must just not speak too soon. It’s far from over yet.

Last week we went to watch Tori Amos in concert. I have loved Tori Amos since she first appeared on the scene: I desired her red hair and many of my teenage relationships, and more importantly and aptly with her music, break-ups, were set to a soundtrack which featured her songs prominently. In fact, scrap the ‘teenage’ bit of that. Show me a good break-up since forever and I’ll match a Tori song to it. Not only break-ups, though, I love her music for its raw beauty, the piano, her voice, happy parts of my life include Tori Amos tracks too. You can see why seeing her live was such a thrill…

It is seldom that one can say that a person’s live performance is better than the CD. Tori Amos is. We, along with the biggest number of red-headed women I think I’ve ever seen in one place, and a large smattering of gay men, were enthralled by her voice, her piano playing (two, at one time!) I shed tears and, by the looks of some people after the concert, many people bawled. She is emotive, her voice is as raw as her lyrics. Incredible.

Just one thing saddened me. She is plastic-surgeried to the point of actually looking puffy. Botox? Collagen? Whatever. It makes me sad to think that someone so incredibly talented, who writes such real lyrics and puts them to music that can turn a thousand-strong audience into a gushing mass of emotion, should feel the need to “fix” themselves so.

My fandom, however, was only marginally minimised by this, as she sang ‘Precious Things’ and literally sent tingles coursing down my spine. The woman is a musical genius.

NaNoWriMo

2011-11-13T11:32:00.002+02:00

I'm still alive, just so busy, with words flowing out of me in a surprising gush of completely trashy chick lit. I'm amazed and feel slightly schizophrenic, like my lead character has taken me over and is making me write. Bizarre, but very pleasingly so. I'm afraid to say it, in case I jinx it, but I'm really enjoying NaNoWriMo.

I fear that probably only 5000 of my (hopefully) 50000 words may, in some future where I really sit down and write a book, be useable in some form but that doesn't matter. At this point, what matters is that I've managed to get over my 1000-word block.

It's a different thing to blogging, and I feel a little tongue-tied here. I wanted to check in, though.

I'll be back. Maybe only in December. Forgive me.

NaNoWriMo

2011-11-02T19:49:00.003+02:00

So, I signed up for it, and it's Day 2 and I'm loving it and I'm, surprisingly, on track. Like I said, it is but Day 2. I am, honestly, scared by the trash that is so easily flowing out of me and know that, if I do manage to finish it, there may, if I'm lucky, be about 8 000 usable words, the rest being relegated to the dirty corners of my computer. But I'm loving it.

NaNoWriMo. 50 000 words in November. That's 1 666.66667 words a day. Every day in November. Write a novel, focus on quantity, not quality. That can come later.

I'm tired. Already. I keep waking in the early morning, words swirling around in my head, flying out of me into my dark bedroom, playing movies on the backs of my eyelids. Then, later, the words are gone, and mainly trash falls out onto the page. I'm exhilirated (how do you spell that? It looks wrong) by it, like a fire is burning, somewhere deep within. This will not be a beautiful, prosaic story, but it'll be 50 000 words strung together. All in a row, all together and, hopefully, in amongst it all, will be some bits, a skeleton, that I can flesh out, fill with blood and breath, and bring to life.

If I can just keep the momentum going.

Nowhere Boy

2011-11-01T10:27:00.002+02:00

There is a moment in the movie where I literally lost my breath. I can’t remember that ever happening before. It’s not like it was some scary thriller perfectly suited to being watched on Halloween night, not at all. It was a sweet, beautifully shot portrayal of the early life of John Lennon, basically his adolescent years, before the fame of The Beatles, when he was just a naughty school boy in Liverpool - Nowhere Boy.

With stellar performances from Kristin Scott Thomas, as his strict aunt Mimi, who brought him up, and Anne-Marie Duff as his all-over-the-place but absent for most of his life mother, it tells a story of a boy discovering his roots, being adolescent, getting into trouble and causing his aunt much consternation and learning to love music.

I just got so engrossed in it that the completely unexpected moment, which I won’t divulge here, in case it spoils the movie for anyone reading this, took my breath away. Just like that.

I was saying to G afterwards that I always find it astounding, no matter how many times I am reminded by stories like this, that famous people, at least initially, are just like normal people. In fact, they are just normal people, famous or not. I hadn’t realised, however, how chequered John Lennon’s early history was. Let’s just say his wasn’t an easy time and a lot of the lyrics to his songs now make sense.

It’s a heartbreaking, interspersed with purely joyful scenes, story that reminded me that everybody, regardless of who they are or become, have amazing stories to tell. We all have our fair share of heartbreak and happiness, it’s what we do with it that matters.

John Lennon called his Aunt Mimi every, single, week, from the time he left home until he was assassinated. He was just a nice guy.

Writing Prompt Six: Thumblessly happy

2011-10-31T12:52:00.002+02:00

So I've crazily signed up to do NaNoWriMo - write a 50 000-word novel in November. I don’t have the time, but I’m going to try. If it doesn’t work this year, I will try again next year when, hopefully, I will be in the place my heart swells and have plenty of time on my hands, and inspiration. In the meantime I fear this blog may be a little neglected for the month. Here’s another Writing Prompt for now – they are such deliciously bizarre prompts, see at the end, after my little story…

Alice had always known she was a little different. It had started with her not having thumbs, and the endless string of childhood taunts that elicited. Then that whole trip to Wonderland. Why she’d told them, she herself couldn’t fathom. The fact that she kept going back there reinforced her differences, despite her keeping her dalliance’s with the Cheshire Cat and what had developed into a rather passionate affair with The Mad Hatter, quiet. He really wasn’t all that mad, after all, and damn, he was good in the sack. It was the only place where people didn’t stare and snigger at her lack of thumbs.

It was just a pity that she had to work so hard to earn the money to go, and then pay to stay. Despite that sweet storybook tale, which made it sound free, her trips to Wonderland, like any fabulous holiday, cost. As sweet as the Old White Queen was, she had a business to run and staying in one of the hundreds of rooms in the castle added up. Alice had tried camping, once, but the campsite was owned by The Caterpillar and his incessant smoking had made her sneeze. It wasn’t free, either.

So she’d been going back and forth, conducting this long-distance relationship with The Mad Hatter, missing him when she was away, loving him there (but not enough to move in with him – he was a slob, she could never share a bathroom with him). Knowing this, he kept sending her e-mails from Red Heart Realtors with pictures of properties for sale, but they, too, were exorbitant.

And so it went, year after year, Alice being inconsolably unhappy each time she had to return to the Real World, slaving away, making doughnuts for a living, saving each cent, until she could return and then being happy as a lark for her time there. But always she had to return to the teasing and grey Real World.

And then, one particularly damp and miserable day, she won the lottery, packed her worldly belongings and moved to Wonderland with not a look back, where she lived thumblessly and happily ever after in a beautiful house with candy floss wall paper, next door to her love, The Mad Hatter. The sun shone all the time, unless they felt like a bit of rainy weather, and then it rained. The End.

Prompt 6: Imagine if your favorite character from 19th-century fiction had been born without thumbs. Then write a short story about them winning the lottery.

Halloween in the hood

2011-10-30T11:58:00.003+02:00

We went there last Saturday too, to watch the rugby. Well, to do the usual deal, where G watches the rugby and I read my book. I liked it. It's close by, it is enough of a divey kind of pub/restaurant to suit my desire for such dives, and the guy who owns it made a toasted sandwich for a woman who walked in off the street with a baby and asked for help. She was another blogpost, but one that's been filed way back in my head, possibly not to come out. Yet. The people, all around 40+, and mainly manly-kind-of-men watching rugby, seemed to all know each other.

Anyway, we decided to go again, it being some rugby final and me loving the idea of reading my book and watching people. I was rewarded splendidly. The same crew were there, but arriving a bit after we did was a pretty and friendly blonde woman with a whole armload of plastic bags which she dumped on the big table in the middle of the room. Intriguing. She was greeted by most people in the room and I saw many an admiring glance from the male contingent.

It turned out that she was decorating for the Halloween Party later on that night. She had the whole bang shoot - bats, full moon pictures, zombies, fake spider webs and pumpkins. Well, sort of. She didn't really have pumpkins, but instead four butternuts and ten gemsquashes.

I became engrossed in my book for a bit, G completely focused on the rugby. I was reading the latest Fannie Flagg, you see, and I adore her writing and become completely entwined in her stories. Twenty minutes later I looked up and saw, seated all along the side of the table from which you could see the TV, three of the manly-men, all of them armed with a sharp knife, all of them shelling the "pumpkins" and cutting out scary faces.

What a perfect picture. They reminded me of family Christmas lunches when the women would all sit around a table, preparing the feast and chatting. As we left after the rugby, checking out their, suprisingly really good, handiwork, one of them looked at us and said "You girls leaving? Why don't you stay for the party?"

I replied: "Perhaps next year we will. Have fun!"

And I think we might very well just do that.

Gossip Girl

2011-10-29T12:27:00.003+02:00

I watched Season 4 of Gossip Girl. There, I said it. I devoured it as The Big Black Dog devours each of her meals - as if she hasn't been fed for months. Admittedly, I feel slight shame in admitting that. I know it's a load of hogwash about far-too-rich-for-their-own-good kids living a ridiculously glamorous and silly world with little to no regard for anything that's real and true or, for that matter, kind.

But...

Despite all that, I love it. It's unrealistic escapism that requires absolutely no concentration or thought. The scheming and planning and focus on all that is only skin deep is astounding in its excess. I feel myself falling in love with each character, waiting for the kiss that's meant to happen as they carelessly throw each other's hearts around. The drama, the angst, the passion, the ultimate me, me, me-ness.

Last night, though, we were out for dinner and we sat next to a table that had five squealy 14-year olds at it, out for dinner on a Friday night. I don't remember going out with just my friends on a Friday night when I was 14. Sure, we spent hours at each other's houses and went out with each other's parents but alone? Maybe we did and I've forgotten in the mists of time.

It was like watching a real, live, version of Gossip Girl. They were all dressed in similiar outfits - skinny jeans, fresh faces, long hair. All of them. Attached to their cell phones, they took pictures of each other, presumably to upload directly to Stalkbook, so that those who weren't invited knew they hadn't been, a' la Gossip Girl. They spoke of holidays to LA next year. Rich kids. Young kids.

The thing that horrified me, though, was when I watched them order. All of them ordered and ate, except one. She had a water bottle filled with some milky thing, presumably a diet shake which she sipped on throughout the meal. She was tiny, skinny, beautiful. My heart broke when she, literally, asked her friend opposite to smell her food. Smell it. She did, a look of pure pleasure crossing her face as she inhaled the aroma of the food, before passing it back.

Not a thing passed her lips except for the shake. I wanted to hug her, shout at her mother, tell her she's beautiful. And then I realised how dangerous media can be. These were bright young things who are the real audience of Gossip Girl and, I fear, they're not considering it as fun, frivolous, silly entertainment, but as something to aim for. And that is just frightening.

Writing Prompt Five: A diary entry from Humphrey

2011-10-27T11:34:00.003+02:00

These writing prompt things are completely bizarre, but fabulously so. Here’s number five. It was gross but I actually really enjoyed this one.

San Jose, 27th October 2011.

It’s not that I wished to have been involved in such crass behaviour, it was just that I was born into it. I opened my little compound eyes and wiggled what I now know are my antennae and looked around. I was not alone, but surrounded by my brothers and sisters and the biggest feast I’ve ever seen. All around us, a living spread of food.

Thinking back I cringe at such unbecoming behaviour, all of us chomping away at that tarantula flesh, not even stopping between bites to wipe our mouths. It was a feeding frenzy. I blame youth and pure naivete. My brothers and sisters think not, of course, but I consider them all simple.

I only realised the error of my ways once we’d eaten up the entire feast. I gagged on the fur on the outside and realised what we’d done. Now being five hours old and far more worldly, I stopped, spat out the fur, and swore to go vegetarian. It’s been three days now and I’m just getting used to the ridicule from my brothers and sisters. I swear the copper in my wings shines much more brightly than theirs, though, on my vegetarian diet, so I'll push through.

Humphrey Tarantula Hawk, the 12 674th, aged 3-and-a-half days.

A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn’t that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.

Gift horses

2011-10-26T17:06:00.003+02:00

It's a funny story really, how it came about that I am about to head off to that beautiful stadium down by the sea, beneath the mountain. After going to watch Coldplay there, exactly three weeks ago, and swearing never to go to a big concert again, here I sit, about to go back.

I love Coldplay. I love the stadium. But a whole bunch of factors twisted and angered themselves together to turn it into one Big Bad Experience, despite there being all sorts of reasons for it to have should have been a great night. What an awkward sentence, what an awkward, cold, disorganised night it was. Honestly, the sound was so bad that it was hard to discern which song they were playing, when. And it was cold.

I'm a good consumer, though, and I complained. Bitterly. To everyone involved in the organisation of the concert. Result? Free tickets to go and see Kings of Leon, tonight. So off we go, G and I, never being able to look a gift horse in the mouth (thanks, Miranda, for the teachings on the origins of that funny saying), we are off to the stadium for the second time in three weeks.

I thank Miranda for her teachings because, yesterday on Stalkbook I said something about the tickets in my status update about said tickets, followed by the comment:

I'm also now going to spend a productive day researching the origin of "Never look a gift horse in the mouth" because 1. WTF is a gift horse? and 2. why would you look it in the mouth in the first (or second for that matter) place and 3. if you decided you wanted to, what would be the harm? Would the gift horse lick your eyeballs or gnaw on your eyebrows?

And the lovely Miranda explained:

‎1. A gift horse is a horse that has been given to you as a gift. 2. You look at its teeth to see how old it is (long teeth = old horse. As in 'ooh he's a bit long in the tooth') 3. As our mothers told us, Its just rude, really to see if the gift you've been given is a dud, as opposed to a stud. And also horse slobber is disgusting.

And now we all know.

Writing Prompt Four: Enough already

2011-10-19T15:50:00.004+02:00

Back to the writing prompts. Sheesh, they're bloody difficult! Again, I'm not entirely happy with what I've done with it but I've been sittting on it for two weeks and then just decided to write and get on to the next one so, here goes:

When he’d retired early, at 46, Bob had made a deal with Debra. After being married for 21 years and working hard for all of those, he’d done extremely well and retired with enough money for them to live very comfortably and do all the things they’d always wanted to do. They would now have the time to fully appreciate their farm in the Winelands.

Debra was worried about having him home full-time, she’d got used to only having to deal with him in the evenings when he got home (usually late) from the office. Over weekends he played golf which suited her perfectly due to its long hours. Now he’d be home morning to night.

Bob had always loved horses and had learnt to ride at an early age growing up on a farm in the Natal Midlands. He’d always wanted one of his own. Debra thought it was a yearning of his to be one of the horsey crowd, he had always been a snob. Regardless of its roots, she’d always stopped him from buying a horse because she knew she’d land up looking after the bloody thing and she was mortally frightened of horses.

He’d retired though so they made the deal: he’d buy the horse and she’d get a hot air balloon and lessons on how to fly it. Seriously, it was all she’d longed for and she loved it.

That was five years ago. Debra is now a seasoned hot air balloonist and Bob… well, he rides every now and again, and leaves his sweaty, smelly, riding shoes just inside the front door, every. single. time he rides, despite Debra’s first asking nicely, then not-so-nicely for him not to. Despite her irrational fear of horses she hates how cruelly he treats the poor thing.

She hasn’t got used to him being around all the time, especially because he treats her as, she assumes, he used to treat his secretary at work and as he treats the poor horse – not very well. In fact, he is being mean to her too.

Debra is seriously thinking of leaving him, despite their being together for 26 years now and actually thinks she doesn’t really like him at all.

"I'm going away with Nigel and Mike for Christmas, we're leaving the day after tomorrow" Bob said, walking into the kitchen as she opened the pot to stir the soup she'd made for supper. She looked up at him, surprised by this sudden announcement, a week before Christmas. "Oh. What about the horse? The groom is already on holiday."

"Oh, you can give him his food, surely? It's Summer, he'll be fine for a week outside. You can just chuck his food over the fence." Debra shuddered, her dislike rising in her throat like bile, making her feel quite queasy. As much as he'd been particularly unpleasant, she'd never quite expected this degree of neglect for anything she felt. At the same time she grinned slightly at the thought of being free of him for a whole, blissful, week.

Mistaking her grin for agreement Bob smiled back saying "Oh good, you're fine with it then? That soup smells revolting, I'm going down to the pub. See you later." She mumbled and watched his ample shape leave through the back door. The last iota of her tolerance slipped out of the door with him as he slammed it behind him.

It was easy enough to do, she used Google, searched "Painless death for horses". She did hours of research, finally coming up with a plan. On day one of his trip with Nigel and Mike she first put the entire contents of Bob's sleeping pills in with the horse's food, mixed with poison she'd bought at the hardware store (who knew?) She hoped Bob was having trouble sleeping, what with his sleeping pills having been swapped with plain old aspirin.

She felt terrible watching the horse get drowsy and then lie down and then it was still. "Sleep tight, may your next place be a more peaceful one." Four days later she went back down to the field and was pleased to see that the horse, now well on its way to rotten in the hot Summer heat, had not moved. She was relieved that she hadn't caused any extra suffering.

The soil was hard and dry around the horse's body but she persevered with her shovel, digging a trench right around it's body, the stench almost unbearable. Scattering the wild flower seeds into the trenches she said a little prayer and covered them, hoping they'd bloom.

Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.

Prompt 4: Write a story that ends with the following sentence: Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.

Sunday meat market

2011-10-17T12:14:00.002+02:00

I watched him nudge his friend and make lewd signals as she got up to go to the bathroom. She was dressed head-to-toe in white flowing things that made her look vaguely biblical. As she passed me I felt a desperate rush of air. He played on his phone while she was away and I could imagine the Twitter update or Facebook status he was writing, his face lit up blue by the screen. The smile he gave her on her return allowed me to know that he knew exactly what he was aiming for.

Leaning against the bar was a woman wearing an outfit that was far too small for someone her age, presumably to show off her numerous tattoos, some of which were beautiful. She’d obviously been there all afternoon and was just a little too loud as she flicked her bottle blonde hair while chatting up a body builder gone-to-seed at the bar, or being chatted up, I couldn’t quite tell and hadn’t been paying attention when it started to know who’d started with who. My money would’ve been on her if I had to bet. Again, I could see where their story would end.

My attention had been distracted by the beautiful young woman in the corner wearing jeans that fitted her so snugly I worried she might not be able to ever take them off. Her dark skin glowed in the candlelight from the table in front of her, the same candlelight that shone through her glass of white wine that was being kept full by the much older man next to her, his wedding band glinting. Beside us, a suave guy watched them, not secretly but unobtrusively. Her pimp.

It sounds like I was out at some dodgy bar. I wasn’t. It’s an upmarket place on the sea with a beautiful view over the ocean. Last night the waves were crashing over the rocks outside and sending spray twelve feet in the air, their spray looking in the window. I’m convinced the waves, like me, were fascinated with the goings-on in the meat market I found myself in on a gentle Sunday evening.

We left after the band started up and the ebony-skinned woman began dancing to the beat. Breathing in the sea air of the harbour, I wasn’t sure if it was the scenes I’d seen in the bar that were making me feel slightly queasy or the bobbing boats in the harbour giving me flashbacks to my childhood of sea sickness.

Drag racers

2011-10-16T12:03:00.005+02:00

I hear them sometimes, late-late Saturday night/early-early Sunday morning, when the air is still. Or maybe it's when there's a slight breeze blowing from there, that death-trap ribbon of tar.

Whichever it is, sometimes I hear them, the sounds of their cars roaring at way-too-high speed. I can almost taste the testoerone on the night air. The illegal drag-racers taking over the quiet early morning city highway.

I've never seen them, but I've read the stories in the paper. The ones where they've killed themselves showing off how much bigger their engine is than the guy's next to them. Bigger engine, shinier wheels, more power, slam into a lamp post and all that's left is a glinting silver mag wheel, winking as life drains out of someone far too young, a streak of adrenaline on a cold tar road.

I heard them last night and sent a little prayer of sorts to the gods or whoever looks after us to keep them safe, those young urban cowboys doing their thing, thinking of their mothers, worrying at home.

Topsy-turvy, be mine

2011-10-14T19:34:00.006+02:00

It's a strange world, this one we live in, a twirly-whirly ride of ups and downs over which, sometimes, we think we have control and, most of the time, we realise we have none. Whatsoever. I'm quite glad of that, though. There is magic everywhere.

Gadzooks, I'd hate to feel like I had any kind of control. Out-of-control has always appealed, despite my being a particularly organised sort. Organised in some aspects, the ones that, I am hoping, hoping, hoping, allow the rest to be completely and utterly and mind-blowingly, topsy-turvy all over the place.

The fat moon laughs at me from high in the sky, taunting and teasing.

I'm craving topsy-turvy, I am.

I owe an apology

2011-10-13T11:47:00.001+02:00

I think I owe an apology. In fact, I know I do. In a most roundabout and completely unintentional way I have been badly behaved. It happens sometimes, when I feel a little trapped or think that someone else is feeling trapped. I get prickley and build a wall you see. The wall has little airholes, though, which allow me to smile through. I’m not entirely sure this is a good thing. It may just be confusing to the person on the other side.

There are certain aspects of living and being that are hard for me. I don’t mention them much because, honestly, it’s a bit boring, even to me in my most navel-gazing times. They’re things that make some stuff impossible and make me want to scream and cry until I can scream and cry no more. It wouldn’t help, though, so instead I get the prickles, build the walls, and ignore it all.

The problem is that I then don’t give anybody the chance to get in. I assume how they’ll be, how they’ll react, what they’ll do and, in my mind, I save them from it all by moving steadfastly away in a prickley fashion. And, in the process, I fear that I can even be a little bit mean. This makes me sad. Like I said, I think I owe an apology, or two, possibly many. I just have no idea how to go about it.

Pearl Jam

2011-10-12T13:13:00.001+02:00

I found it strange that we were amongst the few women in the cinema. Groups of men kept arriving. I’d had fun in the foyer with G, guessing who would come into our cinema and who was going to see “The Smurfs” or “Friends with Benefits” or the other mainstream offerings. Yes, I was being a movie-snob.

The ratio of men:women was about 6:1. I mentioned this to a male friend on Stalkbook and asked why he thought it so. His reply? “Because chicks generally have appalling taste in music. There, I said it!” I could only snort in derision and make a derisory (is that a word?) comment. I’ll tell you what it was at the end.

Being more an art nouveau kind of movie watcher I’d forgotten that the mainstream cinemas have enormous screens, so huge I wanted to squeal with delight. I waited until the movie started, though, before letting out a discreet squeal. Pearl Jam Twenty, one of only two screenings here – a commemorative documentary of this band that I have loved since, well, they began!

It’s a visual and aural whirlwind. I cried, I smiled, my heart soared with their story, which I hadn’t realised has many heartbreaking twists in it. The sound in the cinema was superb, filling the room and climbing right into my soul. I’m not a huge fan of their really heavy stuff but there, in that dark room, on that enormous screen, it was perfect.

And then there’s Eddie Vedder. Swoon. Double swoon. And his voice that trickles at first and then gushes through me. If I were to have to describe sex in sound I would say, simply: Eddie Vedder. And then there is the rest of the band, each one a genius in their own right. The guitarist that seems to just fly through those riffs, the bassist who always just looks happy, and they all seem to have so much fun!

I left the cinema feeling like I’d been thrown back into my youth, the energy coursing through me, the music filling my head, Eddie talking to me. We stayed until the last credit had rolled. I was interested in the fact that there was a Bootlegologist mentioned. I think I’d like to have that title.

So, in answering my Stalkbook friend’s reply, I said: “I fully expected an answer of that calibre. There, I said it. Of course, being a chick and all, I was not there to appreciate anything about the music. I was purely there to look at Eddie Vedder’s arse.”

I failed to mention the fact that, lyrically and musically, Pearl Jam is one of my ultimate favourite bands and Eddie Vedder’s oh-so-beautiful arse and face and lips and…, just make the whole deal so much sweeter.

Tuesday afternoon epiphany

2011-10-04T16:42:00.000+02:00

One sentence, a beautiful, complementary one, reduced me to tears. It was somebody else’s thing but then it was mine. A completely unexpected Tuesday afternoon, a testament to the power of Social Networks, despite my complete cynicism toward them all.

Clicks of a mouse button in places far away, the realisation, again, that I was never alone in this. The heartbreak flooded in, drowning out everything else, filling me with tears, like a blow-up doll water balloon, but a loved one. Lucky, lucky me.

Writing Prompt Three: Dottie

2011-09-30T11:01:00.002+02:00

Another writing prompt. This one I struggled with and I think the story is a little silly, but I don’t have the energy to write/think of another and I want to do them all, to complete the full thirteen prompts, as tempted as I was to just ignore this one. Historical figures are not my forte and so I did cheat slightly – I’m not sure she really falls under “historical”.

My mother never thought I’d amount to anything. It’s not really expected, you see, for imps to amount to anything, so my mother’s attitude was not unreasonable. I, however, had other ideas and from when I was knee-high to a flea and scribbling poems in my tiny imp diary, knew that I’d prove her wrong. My goal – to use a human to take me to greatness, even if it was unrecognised greatness, my mum would know it was me, and that’s what mattered.

Imps are, essentially, set on this earth to be, well, impish. We were of the New Jersey Imps, a particularly good breed, if I may say so myself, known for impishness pertaining most often to baking. That cake that flopped in the middle and tasted soapy? Probably one of my uncles, swapping the baking powder for washing powder. Not that we were only into baking, we did the common garden imp stuff like hide one sock behind the couch too. I, however, wanted more.

Luckily, I grew up under the floorboards of a Manhattan apartment lived in by the Rothschild’s, a family prone to tragedy with a daughter who they referred to as “difficult”, Dorothy. She was indeed difficult, but I knew I could make her clever and witty and so I moved in, just behind her right ear and started reciting my poetry to her. She wrote them down, my poems, thinking they were hers.

As she grew into a feisty woman, I started giving her my one-liners too, and watched how people laughed and called her “ascerbic”. She got our poems published, we ran with an artistic crowd, she fell in love, over and over, married three times (I can’t claim that as my doing, I was the poetry, the wit, she was the passionate lover.)

I also can’t claim to be responsible for her political aspirations or views, imps are just not into politics. I could’ve done without having to be arrested with her that day in Boston but there you have it: the joys of being an invisible imp behind a famous person’s ear.

Also, I tried so very hard to make her happy. I thought my funny, witty one-liners would perk her up and that our poems, despite them not being of a frivolous nature, would make her smile, but she was a dark soul and the drinking didn’t help. All through those suicide attempts I was fearful, and sad, and became inspired by it in my (her) poetry.

I got her notoriety though, and recognition, and almost an Oscar, twice, and, most importantly, I showed my mother that I could (under cover) make something of myself, despite being a tiny, invisible imp behind somebody’s ear.

If wild my breast and sore my pride,
I bask in dreams of suicide,
If cool my heart and high my head
I think "How lucky are the dead."

Dorothy Parker

Prompt 3: Choose your favorite historical figure and imagine if he/she had been led to greatness by the promptings of an invisible imp living behind his or her right ear. Write a story from the point of view of this creature. Where did it come from? What are its goals? Use research to make your story as accurate as possible.

Writing Prompt Two: The lake

2011-09-29T11:33:00.002+02:00

Further to my writing block deblocker challenge, here’s my second attempt. The city has again wrapped its little fingers around me and is leaving me feeling slightly deflated or, rather, paralysed when it comes to writing. Here goes:

It was one of those grey days that wraps itself around you like a damp shawl. The mist hovered over the lake and twirled amongst the bulrushes around its edges. Next to the path the trees rustled and whispered to each other, telling the secrets of the night before in the early morning coolth. It was strangely quiet and perfectly still, as if even the birds had burrowed back into their nests on seeing the chilled mist.

The man walking along the path looked young, but wasn’t. He walked slowly, struggling slightly with two plastic bags from a grocery shop in town filled with something heavy. Around his neck hung four brightly-coloured ropes that made him look as if he were about to be part of something fun. But he wasn’t.

He walked out along the wooden jetty where he’d fished as a child, the worn planks familiar beneath his feet, and sat down at the end, his legs splayed in front of him, the heavy bags between them. Threading the ropes through the plastic bags he sighed, an exhalation of pure relief that joined the swirling mist.

Once the bags were tied, firmly but not too tightly, he stood up and shuffled awkwardly to the edge of the jetty and looked down into the clear water while inhaling the earthy smell of the tiny gardens of moss on the jetty’s edge. He looked up, smiled, and stepped off, sinking rapidly to the muddy floor where he rested, still smiling and looked up through the water, watching his air bubbles rise, to see a milky sun pushing its arms through the mist, turning it golden.

As the sun poked through, the dull cries of the hadedas interrupted the stillness as they called their morning greetings to each other.

Prompt 2: Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and shit. Throw some birds in there, too.

Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart

2011-09-27T08:49:00.001+02:00

There’s something really comfortable about reading a book that’s set in your home town. Finuala Dowling’s Homemaking for the Down-at-Heart is exactly that – comfortable. I read it in a day, and was sad when it was finished because I really liked the characters and I wanted to interact with them more.

You see, they’re real and believable and imperfect, like us all. And they’re living in my world, well, just down the road from my world, but in places that are familiar and doing things that are equally as familiar and flowing between happy and sad and disinterested and guilty-for-being-disinterested and tired and productive and just-bloody-getting-on-with-it, determinedly.

It’s essentially a book about a late-night radio presenter who is an ex-wife to a serial-cheating, unhappy and unfulfilled, pseudo-comedian; a mother to a daughter entering adolescence with an imagination that’ll save her (my favourite character); a daughter to her mother who’s falling into the heart-breaking clutches of dementia; a girlfriend to a guy with a surprising character not shown by his shell; and a landlady to an alcoholic friend who’s a psychic and a dreamer.

It’s written from all of their perspectives, with snippets from her mother’s guide to living, which includes the philosophy that a house must have dirt and mess to be lived in and loved. It also documents her mother’s decline into dementia and the messiness and disappointment and frustration that this devastating disease causes. But it’s not a depressing book about dementia, its real and raw and honest and about life and living it, mainly from the lead character’s perspective.

What I’d really love to do is invite all the characters over to my messy house and drink wine with them and discuss, honestly, the messiness of life as we know it.

Soul music on a Saturday

2011-09-24T10:51:00.006+02:00

Is there anything better than putting headphones on and feeling music coursing through your blood, through every cell of your body to each nerve ending, a soundtrack to life. The magic of hearing a song that makes your heart contract and your stomach do a somersault. I love it.

While in that magic place in the Karoo, the place where my heart swells-to-bursting, I heard a new band sing a new song (well, new to me) and loved it. I thought of them this week and did a bit of YouTubing, as one does. Yet again, the magic of the place followed me, throwing out this video, pumping hearts and all (headphones, top volume necessary. Feel it):

The complete joy of the song made me get G to drive with me, miles and miles through the blastedly depressing factory lands to get to the only place that had the only one of the CDs left in The City Beneath the Mountain and drive back, music blaring, windows open to our first Summer day's heat, and smile the smile of one who's found some music that hits the soul in one fell swoop. And there, in amongst it all, another song with perfect lyrics for my ever-expanding life soundtrack.

And then to our other ally, who came with us, for a cooling beer, where we drank the last bottle of that spring water brew from that magical place and began some serious plotting to get back there. Perfect Saturday afternoon of sunshine and magic and music to keep the deep red blood flowing through a strongly-beating heart with bass to kill for.

Pavement conversations

2011-09-23T12:00:00.004+02:00

It's one of those streets where The Beautiful People hang out, seeing, being seen, strutting. We were just passing along it, on our way between food and movie, when we heard G's name being called from across the road, an old university friend of hers. Introductions, hand-shaking, behind a sun-aged face, deep beneath a life-filled-with-stories, kind but desperate eyes. I could see he'd been good-looking, once upon a time, in a place far away from this.

We walked together along the narrow pavement, dodging the open drain on the right, careful not to fall off the ledge on the left, into the 5-o'clock traffic filled with irate people in their tin can cars hurrying home to their suburban lives. I listened to their conversation, one of those catching up after ten years, skimming the surface, and watched his skinny frame as he nervously rubbed his hands together.

He lives on the mountain, in the mountain and was on his way into town to beg. He's been their for six months and says he always knew it was where he'd land. "I'm bipolar and an addict." Straight-forward, simple, the facts, laid bare like a slaughtered pig on the narrow pavement.

We separated at the corner, us to go further down the road into a warm, delicious-smelling little Italian place for dinner, him further into the city. He asked for money, I couldn't say no, and as we handed it to him I saw the monster behind him grin and rub its hands in glee, a dark alley filled with smacked up grins. I wish I'd given him food.

Skoonheid

2011-09-22T08:45:00.001+02:00

I was left speechless by it. This, as you can imagine, does not happen often. Not only my being speechless, but a movie leaving me so. Skoonheid, a South African movie about a conservative Afrikaans man trapped in his conservative life. We stayed until all the credits had rolled and the lights were up. Speechless.

There is a generation of South African men who went to the army at 17 or 18 and saw and did things that no person should see or do, ever, let alone at that impressionable age. South African society (or a certain section of it), too, is known for its stoic conservatism. Men are men - they don't cry, the don't talk about things, they bring home the bread and protect their families and watch rugby and drink beer.

Skoonheid is about one such man, living "The Dream" in a conservative South African town - he has the wife, two daughters, a successful business, everything society expects from him. Only problem is that he is a closetted gay man who sees in one of his friend's young, beautiful son, something he wants. It is shot incredibly slowly, with minimal dialogue and a couple of toe-curlingly devastating scenes. The mindfuck comes in that you feel (or I did) sympathy for this man, even in a scene of such utter violence that you feel physically ill.

It is brilliant in its social commentary, the search for that abstract and fleeting beauty of youth, the danger of keeping it all in, the flaws in our society, laid bare. It being South African, it was all too familiar and that, I think, was why I was speechless. He could be my next door neighbour.

Jumping in, heart beating wildly

2011-09-21T08:45:00.004+02:00

I had a friend at university who was scared of everything, from tasting anything she didn’t recognise to throwing herself into love and everything in-between. I often wonder now, where she is with that.

My mother ~~forced~~ taught us as children that we were never to turn our noses up at food, until we’d tasted it. I am eternally grateful to her for that and have tried to put that philosophy in place with everything I do – from food, to visiting places to reading books to falling in love, and by falling in love I mean not only with lovers, but friends, places, things, all of it.

I live in fear of not doing things and gaining no experience. This has, of course, at times put me in line for looking like a fool, for heartbreak, for silliness, but I figure it’s all been for a good cause. Where would I be if I hadn’t thrown myself into the midst of a Spanish protest or into the arms of an unsuitable suitor? Somewhere else, that’s where. Somewhere with fewer stories, fewer scars on my heart that make it beat more breathily and with more urgency.

Because, yes, for sure, my heart still breaks at the thought of some of those loves – my first, the one that was never resolved, the one that I never actually met but had a deeper connection with than I have ever experienced who turned out to be married, the years-ago one that could never be – they all add up into the life force that runs through me and makes me believe, completely, that the heart break is worth it. And that kissing a wizard in a dark night club and going to places that make the heart swell and driving out into the open spaces is what makes the world go around and the stories sprout. Each experience a beautiful, magical thing.

So here’s to remembering this and keeping on falling in love with people, places, the world. Here’s to jumping in, arms flailing, heart in your hands… into the free-fall of life.

Angry Shiny

2011-09-20T09:33:00.002+02:00

Warning: This post is extraordinarily, self-indulgently, navel-gazily me-me-me.

I just realised something. I’m cross. Not just a little bit cross, but seethingly angry, as if my insides are snakes. On the outside I have my Shiny Suit on that makes me look just like Shiny – dark-haired, smiley, even-tempered and relatively good-natured. It’s just a shell, though, that looks like me. Inside the snakes are a-slithering.

I’m angry at everything, everybody, the world and its brother. There are a whole lot of different snakes, the work frustration, the other frustration, the admin pile, the unhappy pile, the other pile, etc… each a snake, slithering and sliding, snapping at each other’s tails, and me.

I know I need to get out, to get air, to breathe and at the same time I know I have to gain some kind of acceptance of where I am now but… I. Don’t. Want. To. That acceptance stuff all sounds like a bunch of self-help hoo-ey. And you know how I feel about self-help hoo-ey.

Instead, I’d like to lie on the floor and kick and scream and stop breathing until I’m blue in the face and then take a huge lungful of air, and scream some more. Which all sounds very adult and productive and, we all know, including me and my slithery snakes, that it probably wouldn’t make me feel any better anyway, so I shan’t subject the poor people around me to it.

Instead, I’ll keep hatching plans in my head, looking up into the sky and breathing, breathing, breathing.

Desperate mecca

2011-09-19T18:12:00.002+02:00

We drove in around the back, by mistake, past the big black bins oozing waste, past the back doors of the restaurants, past the chef with his greasy hair and nicotine-stained finger nails, puffing away sitting on the pavement. He didn't even look up, as we drove around the corner, into yet another non-descript parking lot filled with people hunting for bargains with fistsful of cash.

The thing that struck me first was the wierd silence, despite the people. Each little shop crammed full of shiny, plasticky stuff and "brand name" takkies, people inside quiet, the only sound some high-pitched Chinese pop music, as synthetic as the rows and rows of polyester panties and matching bras. Each shop with an owner sitting higher than the shop and one or two shop assistants, acting like they'd never seen each other, were strangers.

We stayed a while, until we both admitted to being overwhelmed by a sense of despair, this little shopping mecca had driven us down and we couldn't decide whether it was some kind of spiritual aura left in all that merchandise probably made in sweat shops behind closed doors, or if this was just the desperation of a displaced population seeping into us like damp, people living oh-so-far from home in a country with a strange language, trying so hard to make a living out of their sweat shop merchandise.

Chinatown. Not somewhere I'll be rushing back to. It did, however, make me want to pick fresh spring flowers and deliver bouquets to each of those sad, silent, people. To hand them over with a hug, and a kiss on the forehead.

Silence, here, is not golden

2011-09-19T14:52:00.001+02:00

It’s not often I rear my head from its apathetic little resting place. No, that’s not true, I often rear my head but don’t often move my butt. On Saturday I did and it felt good to be shouting “Viva” with hundreds of other red,black and white-clad protesters marching against the new Secrecy Bill that is threatening to endanger our beautiful country’s freedom of speech.

There’s something about group action that turns the very air around a gaggle of protestors electric. It’s as if all the atoms are rubbing together from the heat of people’s anger and passion for something they truly believe in.

It was a beautiful, hot day and I’d overdressed, not having paid attention to The Weatherman’s forecast. Luckily there were people handing out little blue bags filled with water. I have to admit to us getting particularly juvenile with them, but what do you expect on a very hot day with passion in the air and tiny blue plastic bags of water you can bite and squirt like a water pistol?

Now we wait with bated breath to see if our protest not to be silenced fell on deaf ears.

Spring

2011-09-15T11:36:00.002+02:00

Each year, without fail, I forget what a grumpy monster I turn into during the dark days of Winter. All I can say is thank the gods I don’t live in Europe with its way-too-long Winter, I might not have any friends at all if I did! Then, again without fail, Spring comes along and I feel the dark cloud lift and my personality starts wiggling around in the sun and I can feel the smile coming back.

This year is no exception. Our trip into the beautiful Karoo was the perfect celebration for the beginning of Spring – breathing fresh air, meeting new people, clearing the cobwebs from my head, opening me up to the newness of another Spring, all fresh and light-green-leaf-budded. Is there anything more beautiful than a tree in its new Spring dress?

And so, I’m welcoming it all, opening myself up to all that life can offer me, crawling out from the Winter darkness and blinking in the sunlight, its warmth on my face to the sky. I have had one of those weeks that have restored my faith in humankind. Despite having a momentary wobble (again) about privacy on this here blog, I reminded myself that it’s my stream of consciousness, be it egotistical, fantastical, or real, and I love it. I still claim my anonymity, even though it's not quite as anonymous as it used to be.

I’ve got back into watching movies, seen friends, met people, remembered my personality and (here I’m going to sound egotistical but I’m referring to the world, not my personality as such) it is good.

Happy Spring.

Handwritten letters

2011-09-14T12:53:00.001+02:00

My mother and grandmother wrote to each other weekly, from the time my mother went to boarding school aged ten, until my grandmother died, aged 70-something. Those letters chronicled their lives and mine and… they threw them all out. What a pity. I would’ve loved to read them, a personal history from the 1950’s onwards, from two different perspectives. Now there would be a fabulous book. But they’re gone, those pages and pages of life, lovingly recorded.

I, too, have done my share of letter-writing and, unfortunately, letter-throwing out. I found a box of old letters the other day, though, and was reminded of the beauty of letters, specifically written, carefully folded, addressed and stuck with a licked stamp.

They were all handwritten, some posted with stamps on them and handwritten addresses (various, according to which stage of my life they were from), some notes that were just letters, hand-delivered, envelopeless – under doors, across desks, under windscreen wipers. They all filled me with nostalgic emotion, from ecstacy to melancholy and back. I miss handwritten letters.

And how I wish that I’d kept them all. I realise that kind of hoarding may result in me living in a house with tiny passageways made between boxes and boxes of ‘stuff’, but I’m not wishing to be logical here. What a beautiful record they are, of lives lived, loves loved, hearts broken and hearts mended.

Karoo Dreaming, Part 5

2011-09-12T14:50:00.003+02:00

There was a buzz in the air all week we were there, above the one made by the bees having their first Spring orgy in the peach tree overflowing with pink blossoms across the road. It was a low hum, something exciting was up, in this little heart-swelling place. An unusual Friday night occurrence apparently, similiar to the circus coming to town but in this case, it wasn't the circus, it was The Cabaret.

Everyone we spoke to asked: "Are you coming to The Cabaret?" A cabaret in the middle of a dusty-streeted, no street-lighted, magic place? Hell, yes. Visions of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert flitted through my mind.

On Friday night off we traipsed to the restaurant across the road from The Owl House, its warm light welcoming us in from the cold night air. It was packed, with the village people (snigger), their dogs, their babies, and a group of bright young teenage girls all dressed in the same school hoodies. They were singing. Fortunately they were not the act. And, also fortunately, they were there. You’ll see why.

We settled in a row on the side, big bottles of beer next to us, near the door, behind a lady with a computer who was to be the music maestro. We chose near to the door because I’d made everyone promise that if there was any sort of audience participation we could sneak out. I loathe audience participation. I needn’t have worried.

The room was buzzing, louder than the week's buzz. It was warm, friendly, filled with laughter. Two ladies dressed up in evening gear and very-much-make-up and very-high-heels appeared through the door and settled themselves in front of the two microphones, looking as continental as they could. The room went quiet as Cabaret Lady One started to speak in a high-pitched, not-very-well-put-on French accent.

They sang, sweetly, the kind of songs one should hear at a cabaret, accompanied by the computer music and back-up. They tried to get people to join. Thank god for the school girls. They dropped their accents every now and again and they chattered between songs. Let’s say it wasn’t quite Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, but that was the point. That was the beauty of it in this magic place.

Two small town ladies (from a coastal small town nearby), bored with the mundaneness of it all had been brave enough to do this, to play dress-up, to put together a repertoire of sweet songs, to entertain an audience, and to make themselves feel happy. Even when she slipped into Spanish momentarily and said “Si, zee night eez steel young”, it was okay because you had to admire their courage. Especially in the place where the stars shine so brightly.

Bravo.

The Case of the Missing Of

2011-09-12T14:30:00.001+02:00

I don't get it. What happened to the lovely little word OF? Somebody seems to have murdered it or, perhaps, just kidnapped it. Is there a ransom we could pay, to get it back? I am pretty sure we could gather together enough people here in Blogland and maybe even in the Real World, who would happily donate a couple of cents/pence/pesetos to the cause and get the poor tyke back. I really miss him, even though he's small, he has a big, um, presence.

Are you with me, people, or have I lost you with this one? I have been told that I can, on occassion, be a bit obscure. I don't mean to, it just happens that way. I am perfectly up-to-date with what I'm talking about, I'm on the same page as me, so I'd expect everybody else to be. Perhaps I'm expecting too much. Reading that back I'm thinking I should be really glad that I'm the same page as me. Imagine if I wasn't? Shudder. Sometimes, I'm not. But I digress. Back to the lovely OF.

To explain, can I just give you an example of a sentence I read this morning:

House big enough, with plenty bathrooms and rooms to make a group visit comfortable.

The poor OF so blatantly left out. I thought perhaps it was just an omission (these things happen) but then... I stumbled across TWO more sentences that had left it out. Chilling, isn't it? Has some wierdo made off with OF?

Hatching a plan

2011-09-12T13:09:00.001+02:00

So, there I was thinking. Not an unusual thing for me, perhaps even “too usual.” I was thinking of the surrealism of it, the difference between this world I live in, here in the city, and the one I long for, there under the wide sky. Trying to rid myself of the feeling of suffocation that it is (has always) instilled in me.

The thing is that it is so hard to quantify. I do love it here, too, of course. I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t (or would I?)… It is beautiful, I am blessed with mountains and sea and vineyards and wonderful friends, what more could I ask for? To be rid of the claustrophobia, that’s what. I am trying hard not to be whingy and ungrateful, because I have so much to be grateful for. I’m just struggling with it.

I keep looking out of my window, like those sad penguins at the aquarium staring out of their glass cage to the sea beyond, and wishing for that big sky, that fresh air, that magic. The magnetism of that place seems to pull more each time I go there, until, at some point, it will become impossible to ignore. At some stage, I get the feeling that I will be pulled back there, even if I try to stay.

G felt it too. We’ve decided it’s time to hatch a plan, to get it right, to make it work. We're aiming for next Autumn, and I'm putting this in writing because, well, then it'll be more tangible.

An aside

2011-09-07T17:51:00.003+02:00

Did you see what happened there? I went into the Karoo and the stories just tumbled out of me, are tumbling out of me. And I'm loving the writing, not having to force myself like I have been for the past few months, they're just there, pouring out, unstoppable.

I'm sitting in my lounge, in the House in the Middle of the Street, watching the sun set over the mountain and hearing so much city noise and missing the stillness of that place out there, under the huge sky, where the biggest noise is the hadedas coming home to roost in the evenings.

Across the road, through the gate, I have just watched a woman park her car on the pavement, get out, and place five tiny vases, each with a different, also tiny, bouquet of flowers in it, on a tray. The magic continues. The question is just how to keep it going...

Karoo dreaming Part 4

2011-09-07T10:07:00.001+02:00

There is an icy wind that blows. It seems incongruent with the perfect sunshine as it rustles the leaves and coldly whips our hair around our faces, forming tiny dust devils on the untarred road. We walk past the beautiful old church, it's spire poking into the sky, defying the wind. Past the tiny post office and left. On the corner we find a black and white cat, also dusty, and exchange morning greetings.

He follows us down the road, to the bookshop whose glass doors are closed against the wind. The owner, a woman with the sweetest smile, trailed by a beautiful Siamese cat, opens it for us: "I see you found Leftover," she says, looking at the dusty cat who has slipped in with us and is cleaning his toes in the sunshine that pours through the glass.

The bookshop is like a treasure trove, heavenly. Filled with all the books you've loved and ones you've heard you'll love, and more. We stay for a while, feeling like the proverbial kids in a candy store. Every shelf groans under the weight of the books and it smells so delicious. There's just something about the smell of books.

We leave, each with a precious parcel of books wrapped in brown paper bags. It feels like Christmas as we walk back to our little cottage in its huge, wild, garden in this place where everything just gets more and more magical.

Karoo dreaming Part 3

2011-09-07T08:20:00.003+02:00

I put it down to some happy holiday frivolity but now that it’s gone I feel devastated. And stupidly like a forlorn teenager. I keep wanting to burst into tears. It seems to have changed me completely. I had an experience while in Nieu Bethesda that has blown me away. A seemingly fleeting encounter. I’d like to say it was superficial but I just can’t because it wasn't. It was deeply profound and shook me up in the best way possible.

We saw him at the bar, dark-haired and beautiful. He was playing music, fabulous, carefully chosen music that also belied his age. His smile was like something I’ve never seen before. G succinctly put it that he came straight from heaven. Cliched, yes, but it’s impossible not to be.

Our first night, there, in that place where my heart swells so huge that I swear my chest puffs out, we go down to the pub for a potjie. Behind the bar is a beautiful dreadlocked boy writing reams of poetry in between serving drinks to his tiny audience. Sitting at the bar are the dark-haired boy, a blonde boy and a grey-haired woman drinking beer out of pint bottles.

The floor-to-ceiling windows look out across the river bed to the mountains on the other side as the sky turns that blue that takes your breath away. The moon is new and fresh and looks like a toenail as it sinks behind the mountain. It is cold and the dreadlocked barman makes a fire that would make a pyromaniac have an instant orgasm. It’s cosy as an unlikely couple walk in from outside and request Jack Parow from the dark-haired boy. He obliges with a grin.

Of course as the stars come out in the dark night sky (there are no streetlights here) they all join us and we chat. The blonde boy is the son of the grey-haired lady who shares my name. They are a strange pair, interesting and complex. The dark-haired boy is an old soul. His smile will break hearts yet he is a gentle and sweet and will hate to be the breaker of those hearts.

I see my first boyfriend in him, but this one is oh-so-much nicer. Under a blanket of Karoo stars, the cold air disappears and I am back in the past, but so, completely, here, at the same time. We’re all smitten by him, though and he comes with us wherever we go, joins us for dinner, plays Trivial Pursuit with us, all the while playing us wonderful music and smiling his beautiful smile. This place is magic.

And now I twist and twirl my thoughts and try to make sense of it, to make it all work for me, this unexpected but profoundly beautiful experience. I have written and rewritten this post numerous times and cannot, for the life of me, explain this properly. Kisses fall to the floor and tiny purple flowers look up from between blades of Karoo grass and my blood runs redder, my heart seems to be working at a deep, low, murmur and my throat keeps constricting.

This experience needs to be wrapped in a silk blanket and placed in a box to be stored, safely, beneath my bed, a reminder both of things that cannot be, and those that can.

Karoo dreaming Part 2

2011-09-06T14:59:00.004+02:00

He came home with us from the pub on our first night there, we couldn’t resist his big brown eyes, his fawning look. He was to be our constant companion for our stay in that magical valley, set between the mountains, the air crisp and fresh. He brought with him delight, and an angelic human with whom he was besotted, unsurprisingly. We welcomed them both.

He was quiet, and gentle. In fact, I never heard him open his mouth to speak, not once. He slept, happily, next to the fire while we played round after round of Trivial Pursuit, or traipsed alongside us as we walked anywhere. We went in the car, once, to a further place. He ran beside the car and joined us anyway.

When we left that beautiful place, my heart breaking, he stood on the corner and watched until we could see him no more. Sweet thing.

Karoo dreaming Part 1

2011-09-06T11:29:00.004+02:00

It’s what you’re told never to do when driving through the vast open spaces of Africa: take chances with petrol. Always fill up at the petrol station when you see one, you don’t know when you’ll see another and on those roads other cars are few and far between.

So when the fuel light went on under the vast Karoo sky we panicked a bit and felt like silly city girls. When the car spluttered to a halt fifty kilometres later under that same sky, we just felt like fools.We pulled off the road and ate some chips while watching for a car to come past, much to the amusement of the five teenage cows in the field next to us.

Fortunately we were only 10kms from the nearest small town so we phoned their “Tourism Office” and embarrassedly explained to the lovely Mrs Watermeyer that we’d found ourselves in this sorry predicament. She laughed and told us to hang tight, help was at hand.

A while later (and some leftover fillet we’d brought along had been consumed, sorry cows) through the mirage on the road we saw a small, brave, blue bakkie come chugging along. Inside was Duimpie de Beer in his blue overalls, all smiles, shy giggles and small town welcome.

He asked where we were heading for and we replied "Nieu Bethesda. Have you ever been to The Owl House?" His reply: "No, I don't leave Small Town unless I have to." Nieu Bethesda is about 100km away. You gotta love small town.

Ten litres of petrol later and we said goodbye to our cows and trailed behind our new friend Duimpie to fill up the poor Silver-Winged Unicorn in the dusty small town and pop into Mrs Watermeyer with a bar of chocolate to say thank you. There were sheep nibbling on the lawn along the road.

And then we waved them all goodbye and headed further into the Karoo, to the place where my heart swells and my insides smile, every last bit of me tingles with joy. And at that point I had no idea of how much more the place would give me this time, how my heart would swell even bigger under it's sky so heavy with stars.

Off to the Karoo

2011-08-30T10:23:00.001+02:00

I’m so excited that I can hardly breathe. Tomorrow we set off in The Silver-Winged Unicorn to the vast expanse of The Karoo, one of my favourite places in the world. Two of my favourite people in the world, and I. We will stay in Nieu Bethesda where the air is clear, my heart squeezes in pleasure and the stars are sprinkled liberally in the night skies. A place where donkeys amble about on the dusty streets and there is no petrol station, no grocery store, no ATM. Bliss.

I hope to be inspired, to write.

Writing Prompt One: Melting ice

2011-08-25T11:09:00.003+02:00

I’ve decided to do a thing, due to my blocked writing channels. A couple of years ago I wrote a month of 100 words – basically 100 words exactly, every day, for a month, it’s a fabulous website and documented a very beautiful time in my life and I really enjoyed it so I've decided it's time for something like that again.

A while ago I downloaded a list of thirteen writing prompts from a website somewhere and I’m now going to do them. Some of my blogs will be stories I’ve made up, using the prompts. They’re quite cool, and a bit difficult, but I need a challenge. I’ll tell you the prompt after each story. Here’s the first:

The walls of the flat are thin, and it’s a hot evening so the balcony doors are open to let in what I hoped would be some cool air. In fact it is only letting in more of the hot, still breaths of the sweating city and the noise from the next door flat. The air fills with the shrieking that one expects to hear when something really bad happens. It’s followed by some ineffectual interjections from a lower voice, one of those overly calm kinds that would certainly make me shriek louder.

I step onto the balcony in search of the non-existent breeze and because I’m a voyeur and can’t hear properly, the thin walls muffling the noise. As I settle into the canvas chair on my balcony and put my glass of wine filled with ice-fighting-for-its-life-in-the-heat, I see a flurry of letters being thrust from the next door balcony and I smell a tiny whiff of cheap perfume from the papers that flutter lazily downwards. Someone’s history, left to fend for itself on the hot city pavement below.

Contemplating running down the stairs to gather them up and read them but too hot to move, I sip on my wine. The ghosts of the melted ice form condensation on the side of the glass and cool my lips momentarily. The shrieking continues but moves further away, finally punctuated with the slam of a door. I take another sip and watch a black cat hunting a chip packet on the other side of the street.

Prompt 1: Write a scene showing a man and a woman arguing over the man’s friendship with a former girlfriend. Do not mention the girlfriend, the man, the woman, or the argument.

I’m not sure that I got it quite right but I had fun doing it so that’s okay, right?

Computer geek conversations

2011-08-24T09:41:00.002+02:00

My one CD-drive on my computer at Real Work suddenly decided not to work yesterday afternoon. It was a wet and grey day here. You may think I’m losing the plot and flitting from computers to weather illogically. There is method to my madness. The link will soon be made clear (well, sort-of.)

I work at one of the largest tertiary educational institutions down at the foot of Africa so one expects the pimply youths running our IT department to be of an extremely high grade. This was the conversation I had. I’ll let you decide:

IT Geek: IT Helpdesk, Pimply Youth speaking, how can I help?
Shiny: Hi Pimply Youth, it’s Shiny, from up here in The Ivory Tower. My CD drive… blah blah blah…
IT Geek: Ah, yes, hmmm, um. Have you tried switching your machine off?
Shiny: Yes. Twice.
IT Geek: Ah, yes, hmmm, um. Can I connect remotely to your machine and I’ll see what I can do.
Shiny: Sure, go ahead.
IT Geek: Ah, yes, hmmm, um.

Silence.

More silence.

Shiny: Hello? Pimply Youth?
IT Geek: Ah, yes, hmmm, um. The network is a bit slow. I’m just waiting for remote access.
Shiny: Ah, okay. Slow? Yes. I’ve noticed.
IT Geek: It’s cloudy you see.
Shiny: Yes, I’ve noticed that too. What does that have to do with remote access?
IT Geek: Well, you know when a woman has a caesarean section?
Shiny: Urm, yes?
IT Geek: Well, when they’ve had one, and it’s cloudy and grey, they get moody and slow.
Shiny: (completely stumped silence)
IT Geek: Network access and, therefore, remote access are the same.

I couldn’t make this shit up. He did, however, after this gem of wisdom, fix the problem so I guess I should just be grateful.

Another letter I should send: Women's Day

2011-08-23T15:44:00.000+02:00

Remember last year’s Women’s Day treat that was organised by Real Work? The talk on post-partum depression? Well, this year, they outdid themselves, inspiring (yet another) Letter I should Send. In order to celebrate women, which is the point of Women’s Day. We were invited to a talk and ‘light refreshments’. The topic this year: “Alcohol Abuse: Do we care?” Seriously.

Dear Real Work Party Planning Committee,

Thank you, again, for thinking of us and rewarding us with a little treat to celebrate Women’s Day. Unfortunately, “Alcohol Abuse – Do we care?” is honestly the most awful topic I’ve ever heard of. I didn’t think you could beat last year’s awful topic, but you seem to have managed. I’m amazed, but in horrified way.

Why on god’s green earth would you think that we’d like to celebrate our womanliness discussing such a depressing topic, with the added assumption in the title of the talk that we don’t care about it? Next year you could go for something more upbeat, perhaps “Toenail infections – when to seek medical help” or something like that?

I do want to say, though, thanks again for organising ~~lunch~~ snacks. You sure know how to make a lady feel good on Women’s Day. Thank you, too, for putting in the effort to plan the celebration. How does one get onto the committee? Just a question… I’m not planning on ousting you all or anything, really.

With love,
Shiny x

Uggh.

Turmoils of thought

2011-08-22T17:23:00.002+02:00

I want to write, and I've started about four gazillion (give or take) blogs and lost momentum. They're piling up over there, on the other side of my desk, past the Ferrero Rocher wrapper (empty, unfortunately). I have so much to say, my mind is bouncing between the darkest depths and knowing stuff needs to be outed and complete inertia.

See? Completely turmoiled, my head is.I really do have lots to say. Hell, I haven't even begun with all the Spain stories and we've been back for, what, three months? Ai. How does time fly so? The Spain stories are going dull at the edges, losing their distinct lines, they must be written quick, before they curl up like Autumn leaves and fall off the tree into nooks and crannies that I can't reach.

So here I am, waffling, in an attempt to get the momentum going. Enough already. Hopefully you'll see me again tomorrow. I can't promise intelligable writing - is that even a word? - but I will, at least, try to write. Before the thoughts in my head devour me alive.

The mist

2011-08-11T12:41:00.000+02:00

There’s something about mist that is lovely. Perhaps only for those of us who don’t have to experience it too often, though, I’d think. It just feels to me like a hug from The Weatherman, albeit a slightly damp hug.

It seems to me that in thick mist, like that that fell over The City Beneath the Mountain this morning, the trees and plants get away with doing things they can’t (or won’t?) normally do. Like jumping up and down, or wiggling their trunks, or dancing a little. They know, that, if we humans notice, we’ll shake our little heads and blame it on a trick of the mist on our eyes.

There is the most beautiful huge old Wild Fig tree down there, on the other side of the river. It’s so big that it’d take about six tree-hugging hippies, depending on how long their arms are, to hug it. It stretches into the sky with its branches waving very much toward the direction in which the wind blows, like a wild hairstyle. Today, as I looked across when we drove past on the way to The Ivory Tower, I swear I saw it, through the mist, wave one of its ancient tree hands at me.

I waved back, in the hope that a human response might encourage it to wave again, even when its not misty.

In memorium

2011-08-01T13:23:00.000+02:00

She thought that if she carefully opened up her chest and took her heart out it might help. She did it gently, knowing the fragility of it all and wrapped it in layer upon layer of the softest, reddest satin and put it in a beautiful engraved wooden box that her grandmother had given her as a child. She’d said it was a magic box and could be used quite safely to hold secrets and valuable things.

Carefully she placed the box in her bedside cupboard and whispered some unintelligible words as she closed it and lay down on her bed. It didn’t help, though, the box couldn’t protect her heart. Her despair leaked out of her, a gush of red, a waterfall of disillusionment, into a puddle of hopelessness. And her heart gently stopped beating in its beautiful red satin outfit. She sighed and was peaceful at last.

Friday night party

2011-07-30T16:40:00.003+02:00

When he sat down next to me I could almost smell that rich, earthy, moss smell. He reminded me of a beautiful, old tree with gnarled bark that tells a thousand stories, its tree toes snuggled in the rich earth, a coat of moss to keep it warm. I can't pinpoint exactly why, but he was the closest thing I've ever come across to a tree, other than an actual tree of course.

He had an air of sadness, though, that I recognised instantly. A loneliness that coursed through his veins, although we were surrounded by people at the party. A country creature in the city, we discussed my country longings and I envied his home in the hills.

She had bright red lips and flaming orange hair. She painted my lips the same red and, momentarily, I felt slutty and beautiful. I hadn't met her before, but I'd heard about her. The now-not-so-new girlfriend of a friend of mine. I was pleased, she's lovely and they seem truly happy and well-suited.

A drummer started the dancing. We all gathered, the cool crowd and me, a heaving mass of party people, noisy, vibey, but still, the loneliness, as I felt the beat go through me and shouted out for more. He was obliging and I wished I could take him home, put him in a corner of my lounge and get him to beat a life-affirming rhythm whenever I felt the urge.

A tree man, a girl with flaming orange hair and blood red lips, a clutch of old friends around flames in tin cans, then home to bed with avo on toast. Friday night in The City beneath the Mountain.

Bumping back to reality

2011-07-27T09:57:00.001+02:00

Coming back from our idyllic mountain stay I landed back in the city with a series of heartbreaking bumps. We bought a newspaper on the road back and G read the devastating report of the tragedy in Norway. It worries me that, as a society, we seem to be breeding this kind of violence. My heart goes out to the families of those children and, mostly, to the children who were there, who must surely be gripped by a fear and horror that is hard to imagine.

Then the news of Amy Winehouse – not unexpected, but still sad. She was a talented and obviously conflicted woman. Hopefully she has now found her peace. If only the gossip press would leave it alone. All this talk of speculation about how she died? Honestly, we all know. Let her be now, just let it go.

The most devastating and the point at which my heart really boke, though, was when I logged in to Stalkbook, the bearer of all news, good or bad. A wonderful friend of mine from school was found dead in her apartment by her husband. Her daughter is three. She was 36-years old. A strange story really – they lived in South America, so far away from home and family, and apparently she said she was tired and went for a nap. A while later her husband went to check on her and she was dead.

It just all seems so wrong and out of sync but I suppose that’s the nature of death. It’s incomprehensible, despite the fact that it is a truth for everybody at some point. Things like this, though, make me sit up and pay attention because so often I forget to do so. Life is so incredibly fragile, every interaction with every creature may be the last you have. Because of this, I am reminding myself to be a little kinder, gentler. To be sure that the people I love, know that I love them.

In the mountains

2011-07-26T11:54:00.001+02:00

Despite the grey, the place is spectacular. In fact, the grey may even make it more spectacular. The mountains tower above us like ancient giants and the quiet is interrupted only by the hundreds of weaver birds who are building nests in the pepper tree in front of the verandah, their other birdie friends and the “hee-haw” of Milly, Tilly and Violet, the three donkeys who amble about the valley, wherever they like. Truly free-range.

The house is 150-years old and overlooks an apricot orchard, beyond which the mountain towers. Behind it, the second range reaches even higher into the sky, their tops shrouded in cloud. There are raptors here that nest in the crags and soar through the crisp, clear, fresh air. Idyllic.

The baby boys love it. They run and look and explore, dragging Grandpa behind them, running to tell Mummy, Granny, me, G, what they saw – water, mountains, donkeys, piggies, sheep, the list seems endless. They, and we, sleep like babies, in the oh-so-dark night, undisturbed by any lights from the city. The isolation is blissfully complete.

Away we go

2011-07-21T15:28:00.002+02:00

The sun is shining in preparation for our weekend away. We’re all going – my mother and father, sister and the delicious now 2-year old nephews and G. Unfortunately N, my sister’s partner has to go to Ghana for work which is crap, so she’s not coming. We’re going off into the countryside, in the mountains where we’ll celebrate my father’s upcoming 70th and the babies 2nd birthdays last week.

It’s shining now, but the forecast is rain for much of the weekend. It doesn’t matter though, we’re going to a house up in the mountains where the air is fresh and there are donkeys. The baby boys have galoshes which they love to the point of wanting to wear them instead of slippers in the morning and after their bath, to bed.

The baby boys are bliss-inducing. They turned two last week, can you believe? It seems like yesterday that my sister was on the verge of popping. They’re intelligent, engaging, funny, highly verbal and interested in everything. Delicious. Such fun having them to stay all week. It’s been a whirl of animal noises, fish fingers, giggles and running around after The Siamese Princess who is, I fear, not as impressed as I.

And then, away we go tomorrow. Into those faraway hills. Yipeee!

Just to show you how big they are - a picture of them at the aquarium, above, which they loved.

Gone dreaming

2011-07-20T16:15:00.001+02:00

I've been busy having something I would liken to a mid-life crisis I think. Mild anxiety with a strong urge to flee into the countryside where the air is fresh(er) and the sky is vast. In between mid-life-crisising, I have been having some fun, fretting about how I could possibly have become old enough to have a mid-life crisis, and attempting to do a lot of work to keep the wolves from the door.

Life, I guess, is what you'd call it. I keep having sudden moments of clarity, though, when I think that I'm sticking around too long, waiting for something to happen. It's not going to happen without a push and there's nobody in my vicinity who's going to make the push for me, so best I get myself going. Half the time I'm so tired that I have to drag myself out of bed, though, making the task of going to buy a firecracker, then light it, and stick it under my bum just too exhausting to contemplate.

I'm trying, really I am, and that's the most I can do. I'm trying to keep those clear moments at the fore, hatching plans, dreaming things, trying to catch the dreams and make them my reality. In the meantime, I'm trying to remain grateful for what I have which is, don't get me wrong, a hell of a lot, and I'm looking out of my turret across to the mountains far away there and dreaming. There's a woman in the building opposite who seems to be doing the same thing - I can see her leaning out of her window in the sun, just thinking.

Dreaming of wheat fields

2011-07-04T14:07:00.003+02:00

We followed the ribbon of tar that leads upupup into Africa to the desert, drove past the Ugly Duckling Beauty Salon and looked into the Lucky Lips Café in the small town that boasts that it’s the cleanest town in the country.Then we left it behind us and drove through fields of bright green lucerne, to the even smaller town, the one that doesn’t even have a petrol pump, the one where Tannie Anna stood outside the bottle store, red guitar in hand.

To a cottage with thick stone walls and a fireplace, surrounded by stillness. I could breathe, huge lungsful of clear, crisp Winter air, the sounds of birds twittering. We ambled over to the pub, me with my book, G to watch the rugby upstairs. The view from my window looked like a painting – two adjoining fields, one golden, one emerald in the fading afternoon sun before the clouds came over, bursting with big, fat drops.

She’s from Holland, so doesn’t speak Afrikaans, the pretty girl that walked in looking for Oliver. He was upstairs, watching the rugby, but she sat next to the bar and ordered a tomato juice. It was taken to the kitchen and seemed to be taking awfully long, which we started discussing. I asked if she wanted a Bloody Mary, because it seemed that was what was coming and she told me that no, she couldn’t, because deep inside her a tiny foetus is growing. I clasped this secret information to my breast, a beautiful little glimpse into somebody else’s life, as I explained to the bar lady in Afrikaans, feeling protective of this stranger and her little secret burrowed inside her, that just tomato juice was required, no vodka.

We chatted for a bit, then I returned to my book until a disappointed-in-the-rugby G came down and we ate tomato bredie in front of the fire to warm our tummies and cheer her up. A young girl and her boyfriend were entertaining the boyfriend’s parents in the next room and she kept escaping and coming to chat, exclaiming they were the only two in the village under 50-year’s old. We spoke of longing to be in such a place and her boyfriend basically invited us to stay with them, desperate for young(er) company.

And then back to our little cottage with its fireplace and rietdak ceiling, the rain playing music on the tin roof. Even the manager was away for the weekend so it was all ours. Blissfully quiet, woken by birds and the sound of the church bells up the hill.

Driving home we took a back road, through emerald lucerne fields dotted about with lambs, it was surreally beautiful and I wished not to go back to the city. I pleaded with G to turn left and not right, gulping air, feeling wistful. She was feeling the same as we trudged back into the city lights. My heart feels heavy with a longing that I fear may consume me.

Spain 2: Barcelona

2011-06-29T13:44:00.004+02:00

It’s true that Barcelona never sleeps. It positively throbs. We stayed in a beautifully central apartment within walking distance of many of the Gaudi buildings and a couple of fabulous little squares, including one with a towering clock in the middle with a tolling bell and the most amazing ice cream shop on its corner. It had Nutella ice cream that tasted as if it had dropped directly from heaven into the old, glass-fronted, wooden-panelled shop with a beautiful, smiley boy behind the counter. Then the Poppy ice cream, like lying in a field of poppies with a Spring sun shining on your face. Sublime.

I’m the first to admit I’m a small town girl so I was initially a little intimidated by the city’s hum, but then we walked through its ancient narrow streets, exploring the back alleys that looked like scenes out of a gothic movie, washing hanging above, little balconies with potplants on them, ancient walls and new graffiti, and I got into the rhythm.

We spent a lot of time just wandering about the back streets, behind the tourist-tat-filled ones and sitting at street cafes, drinking ice cold beer, eating tapas, watching people. One day we wound our way through a narrow alley toward Barcelona Cathedral, confused by the ever-loudening rock music. Popping into the sunshine of the cathedral square, we were met by a stage made of a double-decker bus on which a Spanish rock band were rocking to a large audience of Spanish youths. To the left, some fabulous wall art, to the right, the cathedral herself – beautiful, ancient, intricate.

We stayed and rocked for a bit and then went into the cathedral, her thick stone walls blocking out the noise, her air thick with hundreds of year’s of people’s prayers. I’m not particularly religious but here, in this cavernous building with its many beautifully decorated, gold-bedecked little chapels, I was stunned into silence. I felt like the very air I was breathing contained so many hopes and dreams, mine included. Mainly the shattered ones, although, I’m sure the fulfilled ones were there. I was overcome by sadness and I cried, big, fat tears, the kind that drip off your face and land in your lap, for all the lost souls.

I lit candles in the courtyard outside with the pretty geese and I watched their flames flicker, little lights, symbols of warmth and love and hope and I breathed again, the warm air of Barcelona. Afterwards, anyone watching would've seen three girls disappearing down the side street to find the hidden coffee shop in which to drink carajillos, write postcards and watch life pass us by.

A visit to the gallery: Tretchikoff

2011-06-28T09:43:00.002+02:00

I’ve always liked Tretchikoff’s work, so when I saw that they were showing the first retrospective exhibition of his work at The National Gallery, I was very pleased. H, C, and I traipsed off there on Saturday morning, wrapped warmly against the icy Winter’s day.

I love The National Gallery. It sits in The Company Gardens looking like a beautifully iced simple wedding cake, the old kind, back when they were always a square fruit cake with white icing over and you slept with a squashed slice under your pillow, to dream of your future husband. It looks out over the ponds of the gardens toward Signal Hill and inside it is still and the air is thick with art. It always makes me want to sing out loud.

The gallery types, especially, make me want to sing loudly. You know the ones – they all look terribly intellectual and have scarves wrapped artistically around their necks and they say things like “Ah yes, this was in his flower phase, when he was depicting the intricacies of the social system of the time, using a floral motif, ” where I say “Ooo, look at those pretty flowers he painted!”

I did, in fact, say a lot of that, because I especially liked his big, colourful, highly-textured flower paintings. His iconic Chinese Girl is there too, and a whole lot of others. I hadn’t realised how prolific he was, and how wide a range he had – from still-life to nudes to portraits to animals (which I didn’t like) to some haunting and disturbing war images, he did all sorts.

It’s always nice, though, to go to an exhibition. To see something creative, to admire a great man’s talent, to be allowed to look through somebody else’s eyes, just for a little bit, and to wonder what they were thinking and know that what you’re thinking they were thinking is probably a thousand miles away from what they really were thinking at the time.

Joan Rivers: A piece of work

2011-06-27T13:01:00.002+02:00

I went to the documentary festival on Friday evening and watched Joan Rivers: A piece of work. When we went into the dark cinema, I knew very little about her, other than that she was famous for two things: being funny and being plastic-surgeried to the hilt. After leaving, I had those two things confirmed and had learnt a whole lot more.

She’s 75-years old and looks about 55-years old, but in a stretched and strained, far-too-much make-up, unnatural kind of way. Don’t get me wrong, she’s an attractive woman, but in a desperately clinging to youth manner, something I have never found graceful. When the credits roll at the end there’s a scene where there are two of her and one moves suddenly – it’s her. The other is her wax double at Madame Taussads (sp?). It provides the perfect analogy for her plastic surgery – she looks waxy.

The thing that struck me most, though, was her battle for perfection, her insatiable desire for recognition, not as a comedienne, but as an actress. She will never be satisfied with how well she’s done and she is so terribly sad for it. It’s also made perfectly clear that she’s lost friends because of it. Underneath her side-splitting funniness (and she is extremely funny), clear as day, is a creature so vulnerable, so terribly tragic that I longed to hug her and say: “It’s okay, relax, you’ve done well.” I think I'm going to write her a letter to say just that, even though I'm sure she hears it from far more important people than me, all the time.

Lift music

2011-06-24T15:19:00.001+02:00

I'd tag her at about 49-years old, give-or-take five years. Her hair is dyed blonde, cut well and looks like it took a good amount of time earlier in the evening to get it to its current state - long, smooth and loose. She wears an unsuitably-tight-for-her-age white lace top. Underneath it she either has a boob job or a very good push-up bra, which we can clearly see. A little off-putting, really.

She breezed in as if she owned the restaurant, with a strangely-shaped large black suitcase that looked like something a mafioso might carry. She had various other boxes and a suitcase with her, all of which she placed next to us in the space left there after she ordered the waiter to remove the table and chairs. Right. Next. To. Us. Close enough for me to look at her perfect make-up, lots of it.

Collecting a bar stool from the bar, she placed it in the spot next to us too, and then led a power cord under our table and plugged in a small computer which she placed on a small table that she'd found somewhere while I wasn't looking. Her white lace top and dyed-blonde hair glowed in the blue light from the screen.

We were finishing up our food, chatting voraciously about books. It was book club, after all, a haphazardly put-together meeting of The Eager Beaver's Reading Circle because one of our circle, our host for last night, had to rush away to see her sick mother-in-law. We'd decided not to just cancel, but instead to meet at a restaurant, just to chat, because we can.

At this point the lady opened her mafioso suitcase and I wondered whether I should duck under the table, seeing the headlines in my head: "Eager Beaver's Reading Circle members injured in bizarre mafioso shootout at local eatery." Luckily, my sense came to me before I made a total fool of myself, as she pulled out a large, very shiny, saxophone.

She then began to play, using her computer to make background beats, what I can only refer to as Kenny G-esque lift music. Basically, my worst musical genre. Luckily, we were done with dinner, so could pay the bill and leave hurriedly, the dulcet sounds of the saxophone haunting us all the way into the parking lot.

Not another one

2011-06-23T16:10:00.000+02:00

I’ve known her for years although, in the past four or so, I have seen her less and less. She moved back home to the small town where people know her and knew her parents and their parents before them. I was glad for her, she seemed lonely here and unsafe in the house she shared with her sister and son and she was always ill.

She called me two weeks ago, when I’d just got back from Spain and was sitting waiting for a friend at a restaurant. It was that dreaded, heart-sinking, scream-inducing phone call. The one where the person on the other side says: “I have cancer.” And you want to cancel the call and throw your phone into the pond next to you in which two goldfish swim, not noticing a thing, in the hope that, by throwing it there the call won’t have happened and it won’t be true.

Yesterday afternoon she popped in to visit with her son who used to be a little boy and is now a grown man. She looked tiny and fragile, despite being wrapped up in layers of clothing. Always prone to being a little morbid previously, she was surprisingly upbeat, if pale and wide-eyed.

At Real Work yesterday I had a discussion with a doctor who had been soothing another collegue whose mother has brain cancer (monstrous thing is everywhere). He said something I hadn’t thought of before: “We all die,” he said (I had thought of that, not the next bit), “and, in some ways, it’s a better option to be given a time frame. It gives you time to tie up loose ends, to say goodbye, to tell people you love them.”

A difficult concept to grasp. I have never been okay with the thought of death. Of anyone else dear to me’s death, that is, not mine. Mine, I’m fine with. Maybe that makes me intrinsically selfish?

I didn’t ask her what the prognosis is. She’s being given some treatment, and I hope it works but, mostly, I hope that in this whole process she doesn’t feel too sore or yukky and that she will be loved as she should be, to make it all as okay as it can possibly be.

These things remind one to hug the people you love closer, to be nicer, gentler, kinder. Time is limited, always.

This cancer thing is a bitch.

Alone time

2011-06-22T10:11:00.002+02:00

I sat alone. Luxuriously alone. Well, really, I wasn't alone. Who is, in The City Beneath the Mountain? But I was alone in a generic coffee shop, at my own table, frequented only by a smiley waitress asking me if I wanted things. Being on my own is something that doesn't happen often.

I had my book with me and I delighted in spreading my (rather small) handbag over the whole table, making sure anyone who looked at me knew I was not expecting anyone else. I was just waiting for a friend who would not be joining me, but rather just picking me up. Then we were going shopping. In the meantime, though, I was fabulously alone.

To celebrate, I ordered a glass of wine. And I drank it, all alone, in-between reading my book and just sitting. Everyone around me was drinking coffee, it being a coffee shop, so I felt especially decadent. They were also all eating American-sized slices of cake and muffins that were aimed at Gulliver as I, again, questioned why such huge food is necessary... It's SO wasteful, nobody ever finishes those slices.

I was disappointed that I hadn't arrived half an hour earlier, as the table behind me contained two ladies who could've been in their 40's, 50's or 60's, maybe even 70's. It was really hard to tell because their skins were stretched and tucked, their lips plumped. They were plastic. It's beside the point, though, because unfortunately they were paying their bill, after what sounded like a long session.

"And then, my latest, was such a wonderful man. We were so in love and filled with passion, but after two months I realised he was just using me, so I kicked him out." She'd obviously just regaled her entire romantic history. And I missed it! But still, I was luxuriously alone, with my glass of wine and my book. Glorious.

I watched a woman interview a young girl in the corner, her hands twitching and wriggling beneath the table, which I could see from my vantage point. It was a job for a PA to a chartered account, one that is "well-known in Cape Town" and needs discretion. I'd have loved to know the back story to that too. Maybe he chartered accounts dodgy strip bars in the seedy parts of town.

Then C arrived and we did adminny things like paying bills and shopping for soap. I'm a sucker for a bargain and found an enormous bottle of the 2-in-1 shampoo I used in Spain, so bought it. It contains 150 washes, according to its label, so I hope I didn't love it so much in Spain because I had my Spain bliss on. Otherwise it's going to be a long hairwashing year!

Even the admin seemed fine in the afterglow of an hour with just me. That sounds terribly vain but is not meant in that vein. Snigger.

Glad-wrapped and pizza-ed

2011-06-21T14:58:00.002+02:00

There was a sweet, young couple at the table in the corner. It was the most dimly-lit space in the otherwise quite-bright-for-a-restaurant pizzeria. He looked like the stereotypical computer-geek from teen Hollywood movies, she was young and pretty. They shared a chocolate brownie for pudding and left holding hands.

I needed to go to the restaurant, one I’ve driven past on my way home from work for nearly 14 years but never been in. I had a voucher you see, that needed using and a disposition that’d make a bipolar sufferer off their meds look like a kitten. That’s why I needed it. The cling wrap is too tight, I needed out. G, too, was wound tight as elastic inside a golf ball. An old family-friendly place that smelt like pizza ovens was a good choice. It catapulted me back to a childhood place and wrapped me in its warm flour-dusted embrace.

All around us were families, each seemed to me to have an anomaly of some sort. The family with grown-up children next to us had a mother who is obviously going through chemo, her hair almost gone. They were talking and laughing and shared a salad to start. When their pizzas arrived the table was suddenly too small as they shared those too.

Next to them, another family – mom, dad, teenage daughter and boyfriend and much younger, very pretty blonde princess daughter in a spangley outfit more suited to a burlesque club. The parents were huge, their children tiny. They, too, were deeply engaged in conversation and handed phones around to show photos, Facebook statuses, heaven-knows-what. The princess threw her head to the table when they didn’t listen to her story.

Behind us two fresh young boys (oh, I sound old… they were in their early 20’s) sat with an older wealthy-looking lady, possibly one of their mother’s, talking passionately about music. We decided they were hoping she’d fund their band. They reminded me of various boys I went out with in my university days.

There was an old-fashioned carpet on the floor in deep, rich colours, highly patterned. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much red wine, how many pizza crumbs and olive bits and parmesan sprinklings were crunched into those patterns. How many family dramas, delighted celebrations, declarations of love and declarations of unlove... just stories of people's lives does that carpet have woven into it? We drank wine, ate pizza, spoke of plans to see things, get out of the city, breathe. The feeling of suffocation is just there making us both tetchy and short-tempered and that makes me anxious, a gnawing in my stomach that something in my life needs to break open.

I’ll plan it slowly though, tentatively. Start with a night, look to see not just to look, breathe it in, smell the smells, feel the wind, writewritewrite. Turn it into something that’ll keep me. Something that’ll keep me happily, most importantly.

Cotton wool mist

2011-06-20T17:25:00.003+02:00

It wasn't that misty when I drove up to Real Work today. It was just the kind of misty that makes you feel like you didn't wash the sleepy dust out of your eyes properly. In Winter it's still dark when I take the metal-box-full-of-people-pretending-not-to-know-each-other to my top floor perch in The Ivory Tower at Real Work.

I'm not a fan of Winter, as you know, but I do like watching the sun rise out of my big windows that look all the way to the mountains on the other side, all alone with only my music, or silence, before the others arrive squwaking and preening. I'm spoilt, I know. In Winter, dawn often dresses herself in the oranges and pinks of a child's box of crayons. She throws colours on the clouds in great swarthes (sp?). Very pretty indeed.

This morning, though, the sleepy dust mist had an orgy while I caught the metal box up from ground floor to my high-up perch and, by the time I'd reached my big window, had reproduced and filled up outside completely. It was like being in a jar packed in cotton wool. It licked damply at the window and I changed that simile in my head. I was a little pea, left to germinate between two soggy bits of cotton wool, like we did when we were children, marvelling at the wonder of plants growing.

That sense of marvel, that hope to grow into something delightful, I think I'll keep that with me for the week.

An open letter to Ronald McDonald

2011-06-15T11:19:00.003+02:00

During a visit to Stalkbook yesterday to play Scrabble and voyeuristically mess around, I came across an ad that made me need to write another letter:

Dear Ronald (I hope you don't mind me calling you by your first name - you seem like the kind of ~~clown~~ guy who wouldn't mind),
I play Scrabble on Facebook. I love it. It supplies me with a wholesome activity to break up the tedium of my day. You should try it. If you make friends with me on Facebook, we could play a game together. There's something about words that makes me all mushy inside. But, let me not stray from the point. You're a busy ~~clown~~guy, and I'm sure you don't have time to hear about my love affair with words. Do think about trying though, won't you? It's a wonderful stress-reliever.
Back to the point. While playing my beloved Scrabble my eye kept getting distracted by an ad for a competition to win a year's worth of McDonald's Breakfasts. Seriously. You probably know about it. It was amongst those other ads, the ones that advertise jobs from home that earn R40 000/month and 30kg weight loss in 2.5 days. You know the ones? The ones that surely only people whose brains have been turned to mush by eating too much junk food could believe.
Now I know that you are merely the head of a huge corporation with capitalist leanings, tending to focus more on the amount of money you can extricate from your adoring public by handing out 'free' plastic toys to fill our landfills and clog our drains with your nutritionally-questionable, ginormous, fast food, but surely even you can see the disadvantages of such a deal?
It can't possibly be healthy to eat McDonalds for breakfast every day. And who would want to? Oh, wait, maybe I'm alone in that thought. Forgive me, I'm medically-minded. Perhaps offering a bag of oranges a day for a year might be better? Or, if you really wish to please the tree-huggers (you do, don't you?), a bag of locally-sourced, seasonal fruit a day for a year.
Suffice to say, I probably won't be entering your competition. Please don't forget to join Scrabble so we can play a game, though. I might even allow our first board to be food-orientated if that'd entice you. I think a bit of word play is just what you need to save you from your corporate hell.
Much love,
Shiny x

Perhaps, this one, I should really send.

Oh, enough already

2011-06-15T10:10:00.002+02:00

So there I was, whinging and whining and bemoaning my place in this unjust and nasty world we live in, when I looked out of my window and saw picture-book clouds (admittedly building up into a storm), that had turned bright pink in the glow of the sun setting over The City Beneath the Mountain. My heart scrunched at the beauty of it.

At the same time, I received a Real Work e-mail with photographs of a woman living in a faraway rural area with little access to anything, let alone medical help, who is having a nasty skin reaction to her medication. I cried. Not purely because it looked so sore and uncomfortable, but because of her eyes. They were dull. Not blank dull but the kind of dull that reflects a life of poverty, harshness and struggle.

I landed back to earth with a bump. How dare I be miserable in my kushy (sp?) job, a warm home with full cupboards to go home to, people who love me on the end of numerous telephones, all with their accounts paid? How dare I get cross because my personal space is forever invaded? Those people care for me, anger is not allowed.

So I cried, deep down crying, and pulled myself up by my bootstraps and made a vow with myself to spend more time finding nice things to do, for me and other people, and to spend less time navel-gazing in a quagmire of self-indulgent misery.

Forgive me for making you all (my two readers) have to be audience to it.

Flitting fug

2011-06-14T15:35:00.000+02:00

Somebody called me brave this morning. I stopped myself from screaming “No, I’m not”, throwing myself on the floor and wailing loudly only because he’s a kindly old man who I adore and would hate to make feel silly in any way. You see, I can feel my brave cloak slipping horribly and, when it slips, all manner of ghastly things might show that’ll make people run and scream even more than I felt like running and screaming this morning.

Yesterday I was fugged, today I’m flitting. Fuggedly flitting. From to-do-thing to to-do-thing, getting not one of them done. I have the concentration span of a flea on acid. Or maybe more a flea who’s just smoked the biggest spliff on earth. My senses seem dulled, yet my mind fires at a million firings a minute. I’m sure there’s a better word than ‘firings’ but I can’t get to it.

And through it all I’m struggling to keep the cloak closed because it’s cold out there and my exposed bits are shrivelling and shivering and crying to be looked after. I’m just not sure how to do the looking after right now, being flittingly fugged or fuggedly flitted.

The fug

2011-06-13T10:47:00.001+02:00

I’m in a bit of a fug. Post-holiday blues, I’m sure. I don’t want to be getting up in the cold dark and plodding off to the same office each morning. I don’t want the minutiae of my life to take over my thoughts and fug me up. But they are. Minutiae are fugging me up.

In between, I had a lovely weekend with coffee with my old besties, then some admin to ward off too much guilt, a lovely welcome back visit to the market with a bowl of delicious chorizo goulash soup and a glass of bubbles, the perfect combination. Who would’ve thought? Then a rugby beer (again, who would’ve thought?) followed by a surprising birthday party.

It was surprising in that it was a party at which I knew a little of the people well, a couple of people a little bit, and the rest not at all. I’d been daunted by the thought of them, they’re the ‘cool crowd’. I now know how to get over that: place yourself at the bar. It also makes for a cheap night out, as everybody who buys a drink buys you one too. I knew about it on Sunday morning.

While propping up the bar though, I made some new, fun, interesting and, do remember, ‘cool’ friends. Maybe I’m in the In Crowd now? Nah, who’m I kidding? It turns out that some of them are, well, quite cool, and I often forget to put myself out there meeting new people, especially as winter spits her cold breath on us.

Despite the fun that was had, I am still fuggy. Very much so. I want to write fun, happy, stuff, especially that chronicalling our Spanish adventures before the memories start to get buried under those minutiae again. I just don’t seem to have the energy. I just feel sad.

Lucky Fish

2011-06-08T13:20:00.002+02:00

While we were in Spain I left The House in the Middle of the Street with The Siamese Princess, Big-Boned BabyCat and The Big Black Dog in the capable hands of my friend, The Pond. When I landed in The City Beneath the Mountain after our trip to Spain I turned on my phone, as one does. There was a message from The Pond:

Hello, it’s me. Everything is fine at your house. Call me if you have any questions about the dog or cats. Or fish. Byeee.

Fish? I wondered if I’d heard right, having just flown and my ears being slightly blocked. I was sure I’d misheard, so left it at that, choosing to make numerous happy-I’m-home phonecalls all starting with the obligatory “Hola! Como estas?” that is necessary after a Spanish holiday.

On entering my kitchen I realised that my ears had not in fact been that blocked. There on the kitchen table in what I can only explain as an enormous champagne glass was a lone goldfish, swimming around and around, as goldfishes are meant to do.

We nodded (well, I nodded, he kind of waved a fin) in slightly embarassed acknowledgement of each other’s presence, not really knowing what to say, and I sidled off to wash airport off me, not seeing him again until the next morning.

In between time I called The Pond and exclaimed my horror of her not telling me the name of my houseguest, and therefore causing the embarrassed encounter.

His name is Lucky. I introduced myself at breakfast while he eyed my oatmeal porridge. The Pond says I may not give him any, no matter how much he looks at it. I enquired whether a boiled egg and toasty soldiers were a better option and she tutted and mumbled something about coming to collect him, possibly within minutes.

In the meantime, I’m to give him only three little flakey things each day. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not a goldfish, even one called Lucky Fish.

Spain 1: Talking about a Revolution

2011-06-07T15:35:00.006+02:00

There is 21% unemployment in Spain. It's hard to believe for someone like me, coming from a 'poor' Third World country. It's full of big buildings swamped in history, pretty, trimmed parks and public transport systems with undergrounds and busses. That work. No swerving taxi's full-to-overflowing, disregarding road rules and stopping mid-stream. The busses stop at appointed places, the Metro tells you how many seconds until the next train arrives. All things that, somehow, don't gel with unemployment.

But there you have it. 21%. And, when we arrived in Madrid, airport-dirty, plane-air-filled, slightly weary but thrilled by the feeling of being in Europe, we were surprised to find a little bunch of tents at the manicured park across from the station, banners announcing angry things in Spanish. We had heard about the revolution, of course, on the news, but weren't expecting to see it.

Two hours later we found ourselves at the Puerta del Sol, where, the previous weekend, the 15-M march through Madrid (which included some nasty incidents with police) had ended with a group setting up tents and camping, long-term. The day before we flew, apparently 160 000 people gathered there, under close police scrutiny. It was a Spain-wide protest against the political and financial state in Spain and Europe. Look at "2011 Spanish protests" on Wikipedia if you want the full story.

What we found was a Spanish square surrounded by beautiful, old buildings that had been solidly bedecked with protest posters, a fascinating contrast of old and new. I wondered how many protests those old buildings had looked over, what stories they could tell, what they thought of the large group of very ragamuffin-looking creatures camped out at their feet?

Because, essentially, it seemed, that here we had a bunch of hippies, each with a cause, ranging from animal rights to gay rights to refugee rights to what I think must've been marijuana-smoking rights by the looks of them., all camped out on the square. There was a lot of lying around going on. I'm sure it was just post-protest fatigue, as opposed to apathy...

Across the road the Spanish police camped out looking serious. G and I thought they looked just like policeman in the movies - all clean cut, dark and swarthy, with uniforms tight enough to show their pecs and Ray Bans to finish off the look.

Then, in Barcelona, we caught the Metro into where we needed to collect keys and came out of the mole-inspired underground, our eyes adjusting to the bright sunshine, into Placa Catalunya, where the Barcelona arm of the protest was happening. Here it seemed a little cleaner, more focussed. On day three in Barcelona we came across a march, streets closed, helicopters overhead, electricity in the air. And in Valencia too, the (even cleaner) Placa Adjuntement, covered with people, an incredible drumming group providing background noise. This was no small revolution.

I loved it. Not the apathy/layabout post-protest fatigue bit, but the combined human spirit bit. Because, between the dirty lying-about people there were highly spirited people fighting for things that many of us believe in, things we take for granted sometimes, Important Things. It's so very important to look up and take notice. And what a treat to witness something so big, something that's in Wikipedia, that'll probably be in history books!

So now I know what talking about a revolution sounds like (apologies Tracy Chapman - it's not so much like a whisper, more like a throbbing rhythm, an electrical pulse coursing through cities, a human stream of, urm, conciousness I guess. Ole!

*All Spain pics are courtesy of G, who took fabulous pics! This one is Peurta del Sol in Madrid.

Back from Spain

2011-06-07T13:36:00.003+02:00

I'm back. I'd like to say that I'm oh-so-pleased to be home. I can't. Of course I'm pleased to have the comfort of my own bed, and a bathroom used only by me, and to see my friends and the animals and all that. But. It is officially winter in The City Beneath the Mountain, and you know how I feel about that.

Also, my head is filled with stories of Spain. I am going to attempt to write them all in the next couple of weeks - narrow streets, ancient buildings, history dripping off them all, a modern revolution taking place, Dali and Gaudi and beautiful, quirky, statues in Valencia, a French photo exhibition in Madrid, an incredible exhibition by an unknown-until-he-died American cardboard artist, street performers, musicians down below in the murky Metro with its tell-tale stench of, well, Metro, sweet orange juice, cold beer, hot caffe con leche, tapas, chorizo, jamon, the list goes on...

All in the hot, Spanish sun. Spain just has a frisson (not sure if that's the right word) of passion. It's in the air. The people don't seem friendly and then you're surprised by their smiles when they smile. They're openly affectionate. It was obviously Spring and love was in the air. And in all the parks, on street corners, in the bus... You get the picture.

It was wonderful. I'll be sprouting stories I hope. If I don't get drowned in the avalanche of admin and work that has met me. I need to keep reminding myself that the world is oh-so-much-bigger than this all.

Ole!

The Visa

2011-05-17T09:17:00.002+02:00

G needs a visa to go to Spain. Being organised by nature, I called the embassy two months ago and was brusquely given an appointment, a month later. 11:40, on the said day which was the ‘earliest possible’ I was told by the man on the phone, busily. The day was last week.

We had checked the website and read up on the hundred-million things needed, got them all together, filled in forms in duplicate, photocopied them, photocopied the photocopies, had pictures taken (turn left, turn forward, face front), showing her ears, in colour, 0.2mm white border, no-more-no-less, photocopied them, drew blood from her finger to smear on them for DNA, cut a lock of her hair to stick on the visa application, put her toe nail clippings in the envelope provided***, got all the letters from the people we’re visiting in Spain declaring their allegiance to the country, etc.

We checked and rechecked and arrived at the embassy’s big wooden door in the city and rang the bell in the wall, early, at 11:20.

Voice in the Speakerphone: Yes?
Us: Hello, we’re here for a visa appointment.
VitS: Who are you?
Us: G and Shiny.
VitS: You’re late. Your appointment was 10:40.
Us (with tone of shock and abject apology): Oh no! Sorry, we were told 11:40.

The speakerphone seemed to sigh. Bzzzzt. The door was opened by a smiley, very unSpanish-looking (pure South African) man who welcomed us through. Let’s call him Ben, so as not to get confused. Ben ushered us through the doors, through the metal detector, which obviously doesn’t work as it was stonily silent despite my knowing I have metal in me that sets them off, and through to a large room with seats around the edges and a post office-style counter with two windows at one end and a door on the side leading to some fancy stairs. There was a very Spanish-looking man at one window, the other was empty.

A couple was at the window with the man and the room was otherwise empty. Ben pointed at the seats and told us to wait our turn, we’d be called, smiled, and disappeared through the door. A minute later he popped up at the window looking oh-so-serious. Another minute and G was called by him. He showed no sign of recognition as he bureaucratically asked for the forms, toenail clippings and the gazillion South African rands this whole process costs. Dead pan. It was at this point we realised we’d left half the forms on my desk at home.

G and I tittered to each other, trying not to get too stressed by this situation while Ben very seriously stamped what forms we’d given him. Finally we admitted our error. I phoned B, asked her to bring the forms and Ben told us it was fine (still unsmiling), as long as everything was there by close of day. If all was fine, the visa was to be collected a week later, between 11:45 am and noon. This I am not exaggerating. The window of opportunity is small.

We took ourselves out and over the road for a cup of coffee while we waited for B to return with the errant Important Documents. About fifteen minutes later we saw the big wooden embassy doors opening and out popped Ben. He saw us, waved, and smiled, friendly as can be. Then he walked down to a very large BMW with diplomatic plates, got into the driver’s seat, and sat. G and I discussed what we were going to do when the Important Documents arrived – give them to him in the car or take them to the other dude inside? It was a wasted conversation because another ten minutes later he drove the big BMW to the wooden doors through which an important-looking Spanish man emerged and climbed into the back seat. This all happened within a meter of us, his driver’s window open to us. He looked at us, unrecognising, and did up his tinted window.

A multi-tasking man. And so serious in all his official roles! Thanks to Ben, we are now in possession of necessary visa and ready to leave for Spain on Sunday!

***Some of these requirements may be slightly exaggerated.

A blogging rant

2011-05-12T13:00:00.000+02:00

This blogging thing is fascinating. One of the first blogs I got hooked on is Family Affairs, a blog written wittily, truthfully and very funnily by a woman who has been through a divorce, has three growing children, a new (well, not anymore new, years-old now, but he was new) boyfriend called BB, and an ex-husband who has recently married her boyfriend’s ex-wife. Yes, you heard correctly. They met after she’d been together with BB for a good while and they (the ex-husband and boyfriend’s ex-wife) married within a year! Jerry Springer-esque indeed. She’s not though (Jerry Springer-esque).

The interesting thing is that I feel like she’s one of my friends now, despite being on different continents, and never having met. But I’ve read her blog for years now and gone through the dramas and ructions and plenty of happy times that she’s gone through, throughout the whole thing. She’s struggled and, I think, dealt with numerous verysticky situations admirably. It’s not all drama, by no means, in between there’s loads of fun and just every day stuff, like any blog.

The drama has just come to the fore because suddenly the boyfriend’s ex-wife/husband’s new wife has discovered the blog and now she’s feeling funny about writing things and feeling, I would think, limited. Not that she’s ever used her blog for mud-slinging at all. For the first time ever she had a nasty comment yesterday and, if I can be all judgemental, which I can, this being MY blog, it was bitchy and rather silly. It is also quite suspicious in its timing.

Now don’t get me wrong. I think comments are wonderful. And they don’t need to always be nice – a bit of intelligent debate about any topic, or sound advice even if it’s not what you really want to hear, is welcome. Uninformed commentary and harsh judgement on your life choices, parenting skills or pretty much anything for that matter is, however, not welcome and frankly is unhelpful and unnecessary. There's something to be said for being kind. Always.

I’ve always had an issue with privacy on my blog, which is why I remain (relatively) anonymous. I feel for her over there at Family Affairs. She’s always written honestly and now she must be feeling censored on her own blog. I censor myself, but would hate to have a real reason, like somebody breathing down my neck.

It also brings her to the point of deciding how far to take it. Respond? Ignore? Respond once, then ignore? I guess nobody really wants the kind of back-and-forthing that could result in full-on cat-fighting on their blog, but I’m sure she also feels she should stand up to this person who has made some fairly harsh comments. And on one hand I feel she should, having not deserved the comment she got, in my opinion.

Funny, I get very protective about my friends and, although we’ve never met I count her as one of them. I wanted to write a letter to the nasty commenter and tell her to back off. I had more choice words to use but they’re unladylike so I’ll just use ‘back’ and be all polite.

It got me to thinking what I would do. Honestly, I think I might run into a corner and hide. I’m a sissy with confrontation though. I’d love to be one of those people that gets cross, shouts and walks out, slamming the door behind me. I’m not though, I cannot, ever, leave something festering. With me, it gets sorted out now, even if it means I have to back down.

This is a rambling post again. I wanted to be succinct and sensical and say something wise. I fear I haven’t. For L, from Family Affairs, though, I’d like to shout at her nasty commenter, tell her to bugger off and slam the door in her face. And here, in blogland, where everything is metaphorical, I can.

SLAM.

Absurdly real

2011-05-11T09:40:00.001+02:00

I love the theatre. In small doses, mind. A play longer than an hour makes me fidget, unless it’s really good. I went to a production last night at one of my favourite little theatres in The City Beneath the Mountain. It’s little and close and you almost feel like you’re in the play itself.

They’re a young theatre company known to be slick and funny. And that they were, making fun of various theatre forms cleverly, wittily and making spurts of physical theatre look like a walk in the park. They mixed ‘old-fashioned’ with modern and basically took the piss out of all of them, the whole concept of theatre and drama. In the theatre, in a way that had the audience in hysterics. Brilliant stuff.

I needed the escape, the real world being a little tiresome for me at the moment. I was whisked away into another place, where the absurd is real and the real is absurd and when it was done, I didn’t want to come back from the absurdity, where the situation could be changed by moving two chairs and three frames around the stage.

But I had to bump back into reality. At least I had my favourite spaghetti and meatballs in my tummy, although, honestly, the bump was still, urm, rather bumpy. Lack of sleep. That’s what I’m blaming my lack of shininess on. I’m bad on lack of sleep. Just horrible. I’d like to be able to change situations by moving two chairs and three frames.

Junkie

2011-05-10T11:00:00.002+02:00

He had that pretty boy look, beneath the grime. If he’d had a good shower, washed his jeans-hanging-moodily-below-his-bum-showing-his-boxers, had a R450 Bieberesque haircut and cleaned his finger nails, he could’ve been one of those private school boys I see being dropped off by their mommies in their gas-guzzling 4X4s each morning. But he wasn’t.

I was sitting alone in the passenger seat of the car at the garage. B had gone in to pay, leaving the driver’s side window open to petrol fumes and the lemony scent of the dishwashing liquid in the bucket next to the window – the water for washing windscreens. I smelt it as I riffled through my purse looking for change to tip the petrol attendant, my cell phone (the new one) lying quietly on my lap waiting to be put back in my bag. A clean smell.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him swagger over. Looking up, I watched him fill his syringe with the sudsy water, squashed up bugs from trips to faraway places rushing through the needle and into the syringe. He squirted it out, shattered dreams from a different type of trip joining the bugs being forced back into the bucket. And again.

I pretended to not look, hid my phone in the door of the car, put my purse between my knees, and watched, acutely aware of the sharpness of that needle. He was completely unthreatening yet I felt threatened, not by him, but by my inability to stop him from walking away, to inject whatever noxious chemical he’d buy around the corner, along with the dishwashing liquid and squashed windscreen bugs now coating the syringe into his young veins.

As we drove away I saw him loitering outside the café waiting for whichever dealer would come by first, licking his lips with delight, swapping death for cash. The scene was watched over by the big old lady of a hospital across the road. A hospital filled with the ghosts of young boys just like him, and I wanted to scream out of my window: “Don’t do it, please. You’re beautiful, and you deserve more than this.” But I didn’t.

This morning, driving past the café, up to the big old lady of a hospital I wondered where he and his dirty, dishwashing liquid-smelling syringe spent the night last night. Winter is coming and the evenings have a decidedly biting edge to them.

Mother's Day

2011-05-09T16:49:00.004+02:00

It wasn't a culinary affair by any means. Mother's Day yesterday. I suggested we try the new Italian down the road, the one with a view over the parking lot next to the railway track. The one neighbouring the building that the council says may fall down any second due to bad building practice. It was a sunny day, lovely for a walk.

And a lovely walk it was, along the railway track, marvelling at what gets thrown out of trains or perhaps what happens next to railway lines. Many condoms over a short distance. Ugh. Despite the yukkiness, deep down I'm grateful they're being used in this beloved country of ours, riddled with HIV. The sun is wintery, the wind has a bite but it's clear and the sky is brilliant blue. Mothers are being appreciated all over the place.

We sit next to the window so we can make the most of the view of the parking lot. The table next to us have two little girls, a jolly father, a pinch-mouthed mother, probably so exhausted even a smile is too tiring, but she's being a mom, being treated to lunch, in-between making sure the 2-year old doesn't run into the parking lot. Said same 2-year old smiles and waves at us, two-minutely, as she makes for the door.

The menu is basic, with pizzas and pastas reticent of the Italian place we went to in the '80's, the bar is big and has a few hangers on. The brochure on the table proudly announces R10 beers on rugby days. I realise I've brought my mother out for her Mother's Day lunch to a drinking hole.

And she loves it and that's why I love her. She revels in the blackboard menu, the over-cheesed pizza, the slightly cold pasta, even my dad's dry chicken roast. She wants to come for the live music on a Sunday afternoon. And she gets free pudding for being a mum - ice cream with chocolate sauce sprinkled sparsely over it.

I under-appreciate her, often. But really, she's an amazing woman who has gone through some tough things and always dealt with them with the utmost grace and strength of character. I'd be lucky to have inherited even a fraction of that character.

I'm ba-ack!

2011-05-08T14:30:00.003+02:00

I keep meaning to write. I have things to say. They're always important and, in hindsight, I convince myself they would've been beautiful, prosaic posts far beyond anything I'm capable of writing. In my head, they are. But life is getting in the way, not giving me my outlet. I'm not letting it. And I must. I miss my blog, and I miss reading everyone elses. I try desperately to catch up every now and then. Listen to me... whinge, whine, moan.

I had my phone stolen on Friday night. This is not an unusual occurrence for South African phones. It happens. First time for me, though. It was at a food fair filled with bourgeois (sp?) people looking beautiful, wanting to be seen. One of them stole my phone. I was surprisingly calm about the whole thing and quite enjoyed being phoneless and having a springclean of phone numbers forced on me. The admin around cancelling, replacing, organising bored me a bit though.

A rambling blog post. I want to get back into it before I fly off to Spain, in TWO WEEKS! So exciting! I'd like to say I'll be blogging all my lovely stories from there but I fear I'll be too busy just being. on. holiday.

I'm going to try to be more regular until then though, I have stories to tell. They're blocking up my head. They need out.

MI(tm)A

2011-05-03T08:25:00.005+02:00

That is Missing In (too much) Action. Some of it good, some of it boring-old-admin. I'm going to bullet point, because I need to be quick. Just some of the things that have kept me away, which each deserve a full story and not just a bullet-point:

A night on a farm in a house that had no books, but waking to only birds

Being offered rabbit stew on Easter weekend (oy vey)

Working my little, um, well, okay, ever-expanding butt off on Other Work, between doing the same on Real Work

Getting sorted for Spain! Off to the embassy now to organise G's visa

The Wedding - I wasn't all that into it, then I was. There's something about a story that mirrors the fairytales we read as children that gives it an air of magic. As long as you keep the sharp edge of real life out of it

Watching The Wedding at my mother with eight women, average age about 67, eating cucumber sandwiches and chocolate cake

An afternoon at the market meeting The Farmer and his helper, a young law student with a twinkle in his eye and a melting smile gave me hope for this country's future

And more, but I must rush, or I won't have time to brush my teeth before going to charm the Spaniards. Ole!

The old man

2011-04-19T16:05:00.001+02:00

He was old. The kind of old that squishes up your face with wrinkles that tell a million stories of a long and difficult life. He was crippled, limping along with a crutch to help him, up the long hill to the hospital where he’d sit all day, waitingwaitingwaiting for somebody to see him.

We stopped in our big-comfy-car-with-just-two-people-in-it, he struggled to get in, his one leg stiff and sore. Close up, he was even more wrinkly, his face filled with stories I’d love to have time to hear. We glided up the hill, dropping him at the entrance. He quietly thanked us, unnecessarily, as we helped him out, asking for his little plastic bag which he’d left on the seat. Inside: some dry bread, to keep hunger at bay on the plastic chairs while he sits waitingwaitingwaiting.

And again my throat constricts at the great divide as I try to swallow my priviledged tears and try to think of how to make it better.

Disappointment

2011-04-18T11:31:00.001+02:00

Sometimes I disappoint myself. I know that at the beginning of the year I promised to try to be easier on myself, more gentle. I promised to try, and it’s not working. I am also perfectly aware that my standards for myself are sometimes impossibly high, but being aware of it and being able to stop myself from beating myself into a pulp about it seem to be unrelated. Reading that sentence back I realize it’s so full of ‘myself’ that I should really stop right here. I’m not a fan of navel-gazing.

It’s just that I have some pretty big stuff going on in my life, things I need to organise, things I don’t want to organise. If I don’t organise them, though, I’ll land up in a puddle in the corner. In between organising those big things I need to do Real Work, and keep up with Other Work (the deadlines loom and growl over there, in the corner, where the puddle might land). And in between those I need to make sure my household runs, people get paid, there’s petrol in the car, electricity in the machine. Slogging admin stuff that bores me to tears. I don’t have time for tears, though.

And I don’t have time to disappoint myself either, so why do I? Crapsticks.

Operation Action

2011-04-13T10:58:00.002+02:00

I had to wait outside the door of our office the other day because I ~~lost~~ had a mishap with my keys. While waiting, I decided I’d make the most of my time and read the nicely printed out note on the wall on emergency procedures for our building. It’s a very big, five-storeyed building full of people and laboratories and all manner of ‘potentially dangerous’ things, so it was probably a good thing for me to read. In ~~losing themselves~~ having a mishap, my keys were just making sure I keep up-to-date.

But. And there’s a huge but, I was horrified by a certain aspect of the (very long) procedures to be followed, in case of fire. It necessitated my writing one of my ‘letters I should send.’

Dear Safety People,

Firstly, thank you for trying to look after our safety, a thankless task I would imagine, involving much sitting around tables discussing and getting agitated and making procedures. I’m not a fan of meetings, or making procedures for that matter. Beauracracy makes me yawn. So, really, I’m thankful that you guys do it.

I must, however, make a suggestion. In the case of fire, you recommend that the person alerting everyone should shout “Operation Action”. Now, had I not ~~lost~~ had a misshap with my keys, I may never have read the whole procedure and known this. I do realize that we’re all supposed to have read it but, honestly, when faced with a choice between reading the Health and Safety Policies and, well, pretty much anything else, I’m afraid many of us would chose pretty much anything else. It’s just the way it is, I’m afraid. So, other people who have not ~~lost~~ had a mishap with their keys may not have read it.

Back to my point. I did read it, and was horrified by the “Operation Action” signal. Honestly, if I were to see some panicked soul running around the building shouting “Operation Action” I would fully suspect that he was either (a) escaped from the psychiatric unit, or (b) pretending to be in a computer game, or (c) part of a film crew filming an action adventure in our building. It would not cross my mind that there was a fire. At all.

May I suggest, therefore, that perhaps it’d be better for the alerter to shout something more simple and understandable to mere mortals like me, who are not part of the Health and Safety Board. Perhaps something like:

Fire!

Just a thought, take it or leave it. I do realize you’re the experts. Again, thank you for trying to look after our safety. It is appreciated.

Love, Shiny x

Even I couldn’t make this stuff up. “Operation Action.” Seriously?

"I want to marry an oyster"

2011-04-12T09:50:00.002+02:00

That’s what she said, in Chinese-overtoned English: “I want to marry an oyster. Then I can wake up in the night and nibble on him.” With this, she made little eating motions, a bit like a hamster really. It's an understandable statement, the market oysters being of the most delicious I've ever tasted. In her little grey dress with a flower on the left breast and pearls, she and her husband sold sushi to the market’s hoardes and she wished he were an oyster.

That’s what I did on Saturday, to temper my claustrophobia. I went to the market filled with bustlingbusy people, eating and drinking and being noisy and fascinating. I watched a lot and felt hot tears in my head, deep inside. And we spoke to the market people, who each have a story, and who we’re getting to know and growing to love. The honey guy had a baby with the (I think) herb lady last year, the first market baby... See? Stories. I’m involved by proxy, courtesy of my lovely friends, who are market people themselves.

I’m not sure it did my claustrophobia any good. That spiralled into a massive torrent on Sunday, but I don’t want to talk about it.

The market was worth it, for many reasons, the main one being the sentence, which has reverberated since, creating fabulous little stories in my head:

”I want to marry an oyster.”

Claustrophobia

2011-04-09T08:59:00.003+02:00

It's not that I wish to be ungrateful. I suppose nobody 'wishes' to be ungrateful. I know I live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. We've got a mountain on one side and the ocean on the other and vineyards just over there and, oh wait, some more ocean yonder and then... more mountains. I can't deny it, it's gorgeous. But it's the city.

Between that mountain and that sea are claustrophobic house after house after flat block all cut through with two-lane, three-lane, four-lane roads filled with shiny cars pushingandshovingandrushing places. From one big building with reflecting windows (the mountain showing itself again, in reverse) to the next, filled with glitzy shops and the sound of tills guzzling money for useless things that are pretty. While there, below the bridge, people sit on stained matresses, eat tossed-out leftover chips and watch those shiny cars filled with useless but pretty stuff pass, pushingandshovingandrushing places.

Oh yes, I know those people are in Small Towns too, some worse off than those below the bridge. It's just that there, over there, the four-lane highway doesn't exist, the lady at the guzzling till knows your name and when you step out of the shop, still with some useless but pretty stuff, there is air. And it just seems that, with that amount of air, and not too much pushingandshovingandrushing places there may be a little more time to care.

Claustrophobic, me?

Not okay, just not

2011-04-07T11:44:00.001+02:00

Sometimes I want to scream and cry and shout at humanity. They’re just a crap lot a lot of the time. Let me back track. I don’t often talk about Real Work here because, well, I just don’t. My Real Work is fascinating, excrutiating, depressing, ecstatic at varying times. I work in HIV, and that’s all I really need to say to quantify my previous statement.

I try very hard to separate work and the rest of my life. I try to leave the stories I hear while I'm at Real Work there. I have to, otherwise I’d throw myself from a bridge. Some/many of the stories are just tragic. Don’t get me wrong, there are some incredible, inspiring, wonderfully happy stories too, I just don’t get to hear those very often, due to the line I’m in. I do get to help, though, which I like.

So back to trying to leave the stories behind. I’m not very good at it, because they’re unfortunately, not just stories. There are people behind them. Often people who are trying really hard to survive in a world that just keeps on kicking them – on the shins, in the back, on their faces.

Mostly, I manage, but then I hear something that makes me want to scream, and cry, and shout, and hit out. Like this morning. A 6-year old girl, who had been raped. There are no words. My faith in humanity shatters a bit more every time I hear of these things. Hers, I’m pretty sure, is broken terminally. How could it not be? She’s 6-years old. Six. If I knew the fucker responsible I could not be held responsible for what I’d do. Instead, I do what I can, and do my tiny bit to help mop up the mess that he’s left, as my heart breaks for her.

Frieda, the flappy insect

2011-04-05T16:49:00.004+02:00

And then there was Frieda. One of those big, flappy night insects, she was seated quite comfortably on my curtain, in front of the open window (note: open window... this is an important point in the story). I said "Hello", politely, as my mother taught me to do on encountering visitors. She was a big, flappy insect, as I said, but not quite big enough to see her little head nod in acknowledgement, but I'm sure it did.

From then on, we got on with our own things - me getting ready for bed, her doing whatever it is that big, flappy insects sitting on curtains do. Maybe flossing her teeth? Only later did I work out what it was she had done. And then I turned off my light to go to sleep. And sleep (oh delight!) I did, after my abortive night the night before.

That is, until my alarm decided, at about 2:23am, to throw a hissy fit, for no reason. It woke everybody up, including half the neighbourhood I'm sure. After much fumbling and cursing, the plug was pulled out. Alarm guys came today. I don't want to talk about it.

I slept again until, through my dozy haze I heard flapping and bumping and flapping. Frieda. Trying desperately to go somewhere. Obviously not out, as the window was open (see above) and she was throwing herself at the walls, one at a time, then ignoring the (open!) door and throwing herself against the ceiling. Her poor flappy wings bashed loudly against each of these (very obvious) barriers, but Frieda continued.

And it was then that I realised. Frieda had not been flossing her teeth while she sat sedately on my curtain... She'd been taking out her contact lenses. Doh.

Sigh

2011-04-04T14:24:00.001+02:00

I couldn’t sleep last night, at all. First my body turned into some kind of roaring furnace. I was so hot I thought I might explode. Then I was just awake. And when I’m awake in the dark I get to thinking and over-thinking and those shadows, you know the ones, flit about and try to suffocate me. I got to a point where I was so tired I just wanted to cry. But I was too tired for even that.

I’m not good without sleep and there are some big, important things I need to deal with that I don’t really want to deal with and they weigh on my mind. Which makes me not able to sleep. Which makes me unable to think straight. Which make things seem even more impossible. And then I can’t sleep. You see how this works?

So I’m a bit miz really. And I fear if anyone prods me, physically or metaphorically, I may dissolve into a puddle on the floor and drip away into nothing.

Sunday

2011-04-03T19:04:00.001+02:00

Sunday. Coffee with varsity friend, of many, many years. Easy, cafe latte conversation while cute child distracts us. Then admin, bill-paying, shampoo-buying, rewarded with drink with in-love boy moving cities for love, even though he thinks he's not. Admirable I think.

Delicious sausages and German beer with Pop and Shuzie for lunch, comfortable.

Bumping into work friend, joining her for a glass of wine while her husband looks after the baby, her sweet, new, flannel pyjamas with lady bugs on in the trolley next to us.

G looks on quietly and we laugh in the car on the way home, a happy day

Lucky Shiny.

The man at the bar

2011-04-02T17:24:00.004+02:00

I wondered why he was staring, from the other side of the well-designed, super-interior-decorated smoking lounge of the smart new hotel that we were having a drink at. It was Friday, I was splashing out and having a cocktail to celebrate the end of a long week - the ominous sounding Strawberry Haze. It was sweet and pink and in a champagne glass. I thought, perhaps, that's what he was looking at. But it wasn't.

He was a round man, a typical-looking South African man. He didn't quite fit in with the bright young things at the next table in their designer clothes and put-on animated expressions. They were talking about a company golf day, cars with big engines, girlfriends who have facials. He wasn't talking about anything, being alone. And staring. I decided to smile.

A minute later he came over and offered us a drink. G mistook him for the waiter, very funny. We fumbled our way out of that and he joined us, apologising for staring. Not some mad, starey, stalker, just a small town man in The City Beneath the Mountain for a conference. Alone, lonely, and sweet-as-can-be.

I can't remember when last a man offered to buy me a drink (oh, except that rugby lout occassion, which hardly counts), or met a stranger in a bar and made friends with him, exchanging numbers because he knows a guy who knows a guy who could be a great help to me. It just doesn't happen all that often in the city. I miss Small Towns and their Small Town People, like me.

The Roundhouse

2011-04-01T14:57:00.002+02:00

I was very surprised to find, on arrival, that The Roundhouse is really round. I hear you sniggering in the corner there, it shouldn’t have been surprising, I know. It’s been a long week. So, it’s a round house that was used by Lord Somerset as a hunting lodge. He used to hunt lions there. Lions! I was surprised by that, too. I didn’t realise we had lions down here. Had being the operative word.

I am always rather scathing of (mostly American) tourists who have the very skewed idea that lions and giraffe roam our streets (how disappointing it must be to find they don’t). I must now bite my tongue, because I had no idea that, in fact, until quite recently, they really did. I thought lions were only found further north.

They are now, of course, due to nice people like Lord Somerset and his cronies who shot them, all dead. And then some other bright fellows came and deforested the beautiful hillside skirts of the Twelve Apostles (mountains) to make way for the millionaires of Camps Bay to build their cocktail bars and showy houses over which The Roundhouse looks.

The view is spectacular. It must’ve been even more so before us humans planted our bricks-and-mortar-and-electricity thumbprint on it. Or maybe not. Watching the lights come on as the sun set behind the grey cloud over the bay was very pretty and twinkley indeed. In them olden days I suppose the view was just, well, dark, when the sun set. And possibly quite scarey, with the roar of lions. Oh, it must’ve been wonderful.

It was wonderful last night too, though. It’s a Very Expensive restaurant. One of those where you pay a set price that could pay for a small car and then choose four courses from four options for each. Everything was delicious. I started with a Blumenthalesque organic garden starter complete with ‘soil’ made from reduced/dried/some-other-fancy-word-for-dessicated mushrooms and the tiniest, sweetest, whole mushrooms.

Then I had smoked tomato risotto with crayfish and parmesan. Yum. Smokey tomato is good. Interspersed with sweet pieces of crayfish: even better. For my ‘main’ course I had the slow roasted pork belly with an apple brandy gravy. Succulent and fatty (as pork should be). I’m started to sound like a food crit. I’ve been spoilt this week with eating out.

Pudding, my best part, was a beautiful chocolate nut mousse concoction served with tiny cinnamon doughnuts. It had a larney name that I can’t remember and tasted like heaven.

On taking our orders, the waiter asked each of our names. At the end of the meal, he took my plate and said: “How was that, Shiny?” Of course he didn’t really say Shiny because that’s not my real name (my parents aren’t that cruel) but called me by my real name, which is an uncommon and not particularly easy one. Impressive to say the least.

The staff were incredible. It always makes me slightly uneasy having people rush to my every whim, it’s not my thing. It’s wonderful to be treated to an extravagant meal like that in such a beautiful setting with fabulous company but I can’t help wondering what goes through the waiter’s minds as they serve beautiful but little food for exorbitant prices to perfectly manicured people with lots of gold jewellery, present company excluded.

Somebody jumped to attention each time anybody got up to go to the bathroom, opening the interleading door, then folding their napkin while they were there. Shuzi, one of our party, made it her mission to rush off to the loo as soon as nobody was around. The maitre’D came running, but missed her. How we laughed (him too).

I did wear my pretty filigree silver earings in honour of the occasion, and enjoyed it thoroughly and slept like a baby thinking of those little, tiny mushrooms frolicking about in my tummy. It’s lovely to be treated every now and again, isn’t it?

The Eager Beaver's Reading Circle

2011-03-31T13:40:00.002+02:00

I finally did it. I’m an adult. Okay, scrap that, I’m one step closer to being an adult. It’s going to take a lot more than this to make me a complete adult. Hell, this 13-year old boy brain is here to stay I think. I stray. I am now, officially, part of a book club. In fact, I would even go so far as to say that I’m a co-founder of a book club. We had our inaugural meeting a couple of weeks back. A book club! Indeed.

The Eager Beaver’s Reading Circle.

That’s what we’re called. There are five of us thus far, although one couldn’t come to the inaugural meeting. Does that mean she gets thrown out? We’re unsure of book club etiquette. We knew we needed some food, some wine, the book club/reading circle members… Oh, and, of course, books. The rules, though? That we're unsure of, being virginal book clubbers. We decided to each bring a book we’d read and loved, and a suggestion for another.

It was great: we have an architect, a nutritional therapist, a copywriter and a some-kind-of-computer-worker (well, maybe we have her, depending on the rules). We ate yummy food, discussed our books and pulled two out of a hat for discussion at our next meeting. We plan to be as environmentally correct as possible and not buy too many new books, preferring rather to support second-hand bookshops, and always to have one South Africa book.

Our books:

The Valley of the Dolls, by Jacqueline Susanna, ‘cult classic’. I am still to read it, I’ll report back when I have.

The other one, our South African option, is The Au Pair, by Michele Macfarlane, a true story about a married woman who left her husband for… you guessed it… her au pair. I read it in two days. It’s like reading someone’s diary, something we’d all love to do, but don’t (I hope!) because it’s rude to do that. This, however, is allowed. I liked it for its brave honesty. It also contains some hot and heavy lesbian action. (I wonder what hits that sentence will bring on Google…)

So, there you have it, Shiny moves one step closer to adulthood, at her advanced age. I’ve joined the sacred book club circle and we’re serious about it. No drinking wine while discussing the blurbs on the back cover for us, we plan on actually reading the books and talking about them. While drinking wine, of course. Now, if someone could just send me the Book Club Rules, please?

Habitual dinner

2011-03-30T09:52:00.002+02:00

I go out for dinner regularly with my parents and their old friends who I call That Other Lady and That Other Lady’s Husband. They’ve known me since I was born so they’re always a comfortable kind of dinner. We always go to the same steak house around the corner, owned by a grumpy man who I adore.

It’s all very predictable always. That Other Lady’s Husband brings a bottle of red wine which they share, although sometimes That Other Lady abstains and drinks lime and soda instead. My father brings a bottle of white wine, which we share, with lots of ice.

We all order the same things each time, altering only the choice of baked potato or chips, according to the time of the month. My father allows himself chips once a month, otherwise goes for the healthier baked potato option. I normally have the baked potato, because I like the sour cream. My dad always orders his steak: “Rare, underdone.” My mother and That Other Lady have their’s medium, I have mine rare and That Other Lady’s Husband has his medium rare.

We talk about how much fun it is to be retired (them), how busy I am at work (me), whatever sport is going on (oh, our boys at the World Cup, sigh) and, newly, because they too now have their first grandchild, the grandchildren.

Last night was a little different, though. A shared close friend of ours, a woman whose kids I grew up with, died on Saturday after a long battle with cancer. She was a warm, generous character with three sons who were the most destructive creatures ever created. She loved them, despite this. I remember being mortally affronted when they broke our much-loved hammock when we were children. She longed for daughters so loved my sister and me and we loved her.

Her youngest son produced a daughter with his girlfriend aged 16-years old about 16 years ago. She was there to catch the baby and had a most joyous 16 years helping raise her. The daughter she’d never had. She was oh-so-brave, and went through three sets of chemo and then decided, with the last recurrence, that enough was enough. We spoke about her a lot last night, remembering her loveliness, her abundant love. I hope she’s peaceful now.

Also different last night, was the empty red wine bottle. Well , not that it was empty, that's normal. However, unbeknownst to those drinking it, them being my dad and That Other Lady’s Husband (That Other Lady was on lime and soda), in amongst the delicious wine were four floaty things, which we only noticed, stuck to the side of the bottle, when it was finished. Four, differently lengthed, furry-looking things.

I tried to fish them out with a long spoon but had no luck. It provided much amusement during pudding as we wondered how many had been in there to start. I have e-mailed them and wait to hear. I’m hoping to get a case of wine out of the deal…

Hello Sailor

2011-03-29T11:00:00.003+02:00

Observatory, fondly called Obz, is a student area of The City Beneath the Mountain filled with beautiful old houses, mainly digs and a main drag called Lower Main Road. A street filled with restaurants, pool bars and hidey-hole shops, it has an air of vague degradation, yet some youthfulness. The youthfulness probably comes from the plethora (of?) tattooed, earringed artsy looking, well, youths. Versions of me, twenty years ago. I spent a lot of time there then and don’t so much anymore, but G and I went there last night.

She’d had a rough day, emotionally, having been to the funeral of a much-loved friend. I could almost see her nerve endings fizzing with emotion, and it was catching, I felt it too. As we drove down into Obz a sad, grey mist was flying in from the sea, going up our nostrils, chilling our skin, a meteorological version of how G was feeling.

There’s nothing like the death of somebody close to you to shake you up and throw the fact that life is so fleeting straight into your face, knocking the breath clean out of you. I’d read the lovely Miranda’s account of her friend’s death in the morning, a beautiful, heartbreaking post that made me cry and cry.

So we went to the place where we played as youths and had two glasses of wine at Hello Sailor. A sweet little place that has moved into the centre of Lower Main Road. The owner/maitre’D was so yummy, clean and fresh looking I almost wanted to lick him. I didn’t, though, I know better. He was the perfect type of attentive – there, but not in your face.

It’s in one of those old shops with beautiful wooden windows and doors and is most tastefully and simply decorated with many sailor-inspired pics and a wonderful wooden-framed old mirror that’s so old it’s got that mouldy look. I loved it. I felt like I was in a wonderful old companionable house. It was full – an eclectic mix of businessy-looking people and oh-so-cool youths. The two pavement tables, on either side of the door, had a man at each, drinking coffee, one reading the newspaper, the other engrossed in his book.

G and I philosophised about life, chatted about the world and drank icy white wine. The two glasses of wine, despite my watering them down, as I do (I know, I know, I’m a Philistine) went straight to my head. I’m such a bloody lightweight these days. I tried to soak it up with their special – Shepherd’s Pie and salad, which was actually a kind of stew with mashed potato on top. Not what I expected, but delicious none-the-less.

And then we went home, passing the youths only just starting to go out. I watched as a girl in the flat above the tattoo parlour primped and preened in front of a (non-mouldy) mirror, adjusting her top repeatedly to get it perfect and wondered about humanity. I wanted to tell her she was perfect, just as she was.

Death, breathing heavily, just around the corner, an inevitable, frustratingly unannoucing visitor, makes me want to pull everyone closer, hug them tighter, tell them they’re beautiful, just so.

The circus comes to town

2011-03-28T10:11:00.002+02:00

It made me want to rush home, find every colourful piece of clothing in my cupboard, put them all in a suitcase, and join. Only one problem: I have no special skills that they’d be looking for. I thought maybe I could let my middle-aged lady hairs grow on my chin and be The Bearded Lady, but I don’t think that’s what Cirque du Soleil are looking for.

It was, literally, breathtaking. The colours, the silliness, the fun, and then the acrobats – swooping through the sky like superheros, throwing each other around as if they were weightless… seriously, I found myself taking in huge lungsful of air every now and again at the astounding stunts.

And to add a cherry on the top, I know one of the characters. Back at Small Town University his older brother was my first love and they included me in their family for a good proportion of my varsity years. I used to help him with his maths homework when he was little. Back then he was friendly and funny and sweet and now: he’s friendly and funny and still sweet and incredibly talented and I kept wanting to jump up and shout: “I know him!”

And to add another cherry on the top, his family were there from Small Town University town, including Nanna, the granny, who I haven’t seen for years! So lovely to see them all and bask in their pride. Well deserved pride, too.

What a treat to spend a Sunday afternoon in a Dr Seuss-esque glow, eating popcorn and Whispers and gasping in delight, then seeing old, old friends.

Kissing

2011-03-17T16:28:00.002+02:00

It is twenty years, today, since my first ‘real’ kiss. I was sixteen. I made sweet sixteen. Not through a lack of wishing I hadn’t though. The opportunity just didn’t arise before. I would never remember the exact date as a rule but for one thing: the green beer. We were out, at a bar in The Big Smoke, with the parents of friends. I realised this morning that it was twenty years, because… well… I’m 36. And good at maths.

Yes, you didn’t read me wrong, I did say green beer, we were celebrating St Patrick’s Day. . Served in 500 ml plastic beer tankards. Ugh. I am thankful to it, though. I was a shy teenager you see, having had little to do with boys. No brothers and an education at a prissy Girl’s School will do that to you. The (green) beer helped ‘bring me out of my shell’, allowing me to snog away happily, in front of the friend’s parents (cringe), a boy with a disturbing nickname.

He was a year younger than me (shock, horror… 15!) and shorter than me (not hard, being 5”11’) and I can’t actually remember if it was fun or not. We wrote to each other a couple of times after but it was not meant to be. It was sweet, innocent, and the beginning of a wonderful relationship of me and kissing. I love it. It took me until university to properly get the hang of it but when I did… there was no stopping me. I’ve experienced it all (well, some of it, I hope not really all, yet) – the washing machine, the inhibited, the wild, the innocent, the devilish, the unsolicited, the unwelcome, the gentle, the prohibited, the secret, the voracious, the ones that lead nowhere and the ones that lead everywhere…

Twenty years ago. Sheesh. When did I get so old?

Flying

2011-03-17T16:24:00.000+02:00

I dreamt I flew last night. Hesitantly at first, I had to work out how to change my gears, gain momentum, and then swoop. Who knew you needed gears to fly as a human? It was scary at first and then wonderful, once I got the hang of it. I flew through an amazing canyon filled with art installations and then landed in a house on a rugged coast, also filled with more art.

Outside it got dark and I swooped out again, away over the bay which was protected on all sides by huge cliffs. There were lots of other flying things (helicopters? Fireflies?) all lit up like chinese lanterns, flitting about. It was beautiful.

Then it turned all sexual and I’m feeling shy today, so will leave it at that.

A visit with the baby nephews

2011-03-15T13:18:00.003+02:00

I've just returned from visiting my sister and her twin sons, aged 20 months. Despite my being ill with some wierd fever-inducing, yukky-feeling lurgy for the first two days and the one baby having a nasty tummy bug, then the other, then my sister, it was fabulous. My poor sister has lost 3kg in as many days and was looking positively green. The boys, however, are delicious and delightful and interested in everything and trying very hard to speak.

I have never before been so intimately involved with babies and small children and observed how they grow. It is incredible and enlightening to watch how something as small as a little flying insect can inspire such wonder. They honestly are at such a fun age and to see my parents soak up grandparenthood is such a treat.

And to feel the love for those little boys as they grow up too fast is inspiring too. I was discussing it with my sister - the temptation to wrap them in cotton wool and keep them safely in a cupboard, to protect them from any harm, to shield them from The Big Bad World is almost overpowering.

Lucky for them, though, they are WAY too fast on those little feet and WAY too curious to be wrapped in cotton wool and, I suppose, they will have to get hurt, see things we don't want them to see, learn things the hard way. Sometimes. Then, hopefully, they can wrap themselves in the love of their family, and still be okay.

There is honestly nothing like seeing those four dark little eyes look around the door in the early morning light (now that they've learnt how to climb out of their cots) and see their little smiles break through when they see you're awake. Delicious. Delicious. Delicious.

A day away

2011-03-04T17:18:00.003+02:00

Through the back streets to avoid the traffic, I forgot to take into account the weekday working people, poor things, sweatily going places importantly, driving too fast, frowning too much, not seeing four pretty girls chattering in The Silver Unicorn, heading for the hills. Girls, I use the word lightly, more for our presence of mind than our real ages.

We left the choking traffic behind and found ourselves amidst vines all ready for the changing season, the tips of their leaves yellowing, the ground dry and hard, waitingwaitingwaiting for the Winter rains. In the air, the smell of the grapes being 'stomped' and starting their fermentation was thick and, honestly, not entirely pleasant. Not surprising I suppose, it being fermentation and all.

We threw our bags into the beautiful rambling Cape Dutch house that was ours for the night and drove out the other side of town where we drank champagne as the light faded next to a dam with a lady who had a skirt made of rocks. The farm's ridgeback puppy, already enormous, fell in love with us, and us with him.

Back to our wooden-floored, thick-walled house, they dipped themselves in the pool and I watched the steam come off them as I listened to the hadedas heading home through the clouds that turned pink as the sun disappeared behind the towering mountain. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? It was.

A dinner filled with laughter and stories, we were the only guests mid-week out-of-season, our waitress answering "Why not?" each time we asked for anything, and showing us pictures of her son and daughter on her phone. Red wine from down the road, rich, deep red, vampirical (I know, there's no such word, but it just suits it) like the mosquitoes that swarmed and buzzed.

We sat on the stoep and it seemed the word had spread as the quiet street suddenly had numerous cars driving past and slowing to look at us. Four women, on their own, out in the middle of the week, seemingly with no cares in the world. Just for tonight Little Town, just for tonight.

Sleep in a house filled with hundreds of years of other people's dreams and breakfast in a cutesy shop filled with cutesy things and homemade jams with computer-printed labels. I want homemade jam with a handwritten label, please. Demanding City Girl.

Moments of confusion, moments of clarity and home again, to moments of a different kind completely.

Four friends

2011-03-02T09:25:00.002+02:00

We met when we were 18, 19. Fresh-faced, naïve (some of us), lusting for life, ready for university. We were in res together in first year and quickly became friends. Our small town university was conducive to a social lifestyle, to the forging of intense, passionate, lively friendships. The kind that last. Four girls, all very different, but sharing a most incredible friendship.

We have shared triumphs and traumas, love’s beginnings and love’s heartbreaks, marriages, babies, moves to different continents. For a good wad of years I landed up being the only one living here on the tip of Africa, the others doing time up there, in the UK. On The Mud Island. Throughout it all there has been constant contact – mails, phone calls, visits. The type of visits that, while they may be a year apart, feel like they’re a minute apart. That’s how comfortable it is.

Now we find ourselves back in the same place (three of us) and the fourth visiting from Sydney, with my fabulous godchild. We sat at D’s table last night, eating delicious coconut milk fish curry under the stars, revelling in the coolth (well, relative coolth) of the evening air, with the husbands and partners and chatted and laughed and reminisced and I was so awfully proud of the choices they’ve made in husbands, they’re lovely. Our little foursome has grown, with some added adults and some kids in the mix too. And it makes a mighty fine little group, I must say.

This afternoon, however, the four of us will leave husbands, children, partners and pets behind and we’ll drive into the hills to spend a night together, just us. To eat, drink, reminisce and laugh… Not as fresh-faced, nearly twenty years on, with a fair amount of middle-aged spread (me, not them, they’re all ultra-slim, even the two who’ve had babies), scar tissue (both internal and external) and a few more ~~wrinkles~~ laugh lines, but just as fun.

Hot. Hot. Hot.

2011-03-01T15:41:00.001+02:00

I’m hot, and tired, and frustrated. The more I do, the more I have to do. It’s a never-ending parade of admin, chores, Real Work, Other Work, interspersed with hot nights in what equates to an oven on its top temperature.

It’s a sweltering 35 degrees (Celcius) today in The City Beneath the Mountain, and it did us the favour of going down to a balmy 26 last night. This does not make for easy sleeping and allows for swirly thoughts to, well, swirl. And, honestly, I’d prefer not to have them, thank you very much. They’re turning me inside out and making me feel exposed and silly.

There has been much fun and frivolity and lovely friends visiting and trips to the theatre and funny stories involving my parent’s dog, Daisy, under my bed, but I am just. Too. Tired. To tell them. I’m feeling sad and tumbley-turny, but was feeling oh-so-terribly neglectful of this, here, blog that I thought I must pop in. And grumble, apparently.