Conversations

We lowered the age category of the restaurant by about twenty years and, let's not kid, we're not youngsters anymore. As always, I was fascinated by the conversations around us, especially by the non-stop gossip of the table of four seventy-plus ladies at the table right next to us. Who wouldn't be when one hears this:

Very grey-haired Old Lady One: They've been together for fifty years.
Very grey-haired Old Lady Two: Is it really that long already? How time flies.
Very grey-haired Old Lady Two: Yes. You should know, she's your sister. There must be something more to it. I think they must have great sex (tittering giggles.)
Very grey-haired Old Lay Two: My sister? (Incredulous expression) Carol?

I had to take a big gulp of my most delicious chanpagne cocktail and then smile at the elderly man next to me to stop myself from guffawing loudly.

Conversations, I love them.

Three years

It's not something you can anticipate. Not something you ever expect. Not something that happens very often. When it does, though, it's like finding a pearl in an oyster or eating an enormous bowl of homemade chocolate ice cream. With chocolate sauce made from melted Bar Ones.

Meeting a kindred spirit. Someone who gets you, who you get. Someone who likes the same things, and other things, things you'd never thought of liking, but realise, perhaps, you could like them too. Or not. It doesn't matter. Someone who makes you think, makes you laugh, makes you want to do stuff. Someone who you feel like you've known forever, someone you will, now, know forever.

It's a lovely thing that, meeting kindred spirits, and it deserves celebration. And a shared bowl of homemade chocolate ice cream with melted Bar One sauce.

At the mall

It was only after G pointed them out that I realised. They were, frustratingly, sitting behind me and two tables away so I had to surreptitiously keep pretending to look at the clothes shop behind them by unobviously turning my neck 180 degrees. It's what's expected when you find yourself eating dinner in a mall, you know... the looking around thing. Isn't that the idea of trapping people in a table with food and a glass of wine, surrounded by shops. It's the cleverest form of commercialism I know of!

Back to the couple, who we initially thought were having an affair. In their mid- to late-fifties, they were both dressed smartly (obvious in the bright light of the mall), more smartly than was required of a shopper having a quick meal. She had incongruously pink finger nails, he'd carefully brushed his straggling strands of hair across his head to feign hirsutism. It wasn't working, but we gave him points for trying.

They were paying very close attention to what each was saying, laughing, looking into each other's eyes. It just seemed a wierd and very public place to be taking your mistress for dinner and it was then that G realised (she had the seat facing them) - internet date. The attention to detail, the perfect dressing, the fascinated concentration of conversation... the choice of public, well-lit place.

Finishing our pasta and wine, we walked past them on our way out, feeling suffocated by mall, and I silently wished them great love and an immediate connection because, honestly, I couldn't think of anything worse than internet dating.

The thought of having to meet some stranger in a mall, watched by curious people like me, fills me with fear and makes me come out in instant hives. Having to do it more than once sends me screaming, while sweating and getting hives, so my wish for her, with her 'I'm still fun' pink nails, is that it was her first attempted meet-up, and she will need to go on no more because he's her soulmate, straggling hair and all. They actually made a sweet couple but then I'm a hopeless romantic.

P.S. Note to self: you really, really, don't like malls. They make you feel like you can't breathe, despite endless voyeur opportunities within them.

500th Post: An announcement

Five hundred posts. 500. This is my 500th. It should be memorable then, shouldn’t it? I have chosen it, therefore, to announce the plans that I’ve been mulling over, talking about, polishing up. G and I are hoping to go and live in that heart-squelching place in the Karoo, the one that makes my entire being smile, for two months from October.

The seed was sown after our last visit in September. I’ve always loved it, and the city has been feeling crushing for a while now. The vast, open Karoo sky, blue in the day, scattered with a billion stars at night gets my creative juices flowing and, hopefully, will allow me to write. Well, that’s the plan. To write or just to be still for a bit, in a place without pollution and hooting cars and city-harangued people.

I have permission from work, we have a house provisionally booked, we’ve made lists and budgets and twirled ideas and dreams. The boxes are, slowly, being ticked. The next big one is for G to get permission from her work, to work remotely (oh, how delicious! Remotely! How it rolls off my tongue…) This is not as easy for her as me, she having been there less than a year, as opposed to my almost fifteen years at mine. Hold thumbs.

And so, there, with my 500th post, hopefully a long time dream will be turned into a big-skied-lungs-filled-with-air reality.

Halloween in the hood

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.

Hatching a plan

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.

Off to the Karoo

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.

In the mountains

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

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.

Dreaming of wheat fields

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.

MI(tm)A

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!

Sunday

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

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.

Hello Sailor

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.

Pudding

I just received an indignant mail from G saying: “You didn’t mention the pudding.” And she’s right, I didn’t. Forgive me, because it was worth mentioning. There under the hot night sky, we made ourselves fatter, just like the moon, while I listened in to the plastic-surgeried-to-the-hilt lady at the next table going on-and-on-and-on about healthy lifestyle choices and self actualisation. She ordered a burger. When it arrived she threw her arms up, put her hands to her cheeks and exclaimed: “Chips!” What did she expect? Twit. She then scoffed them down at great speed.

Across at our table, the pudding was delicious. Vanilla Swiss Roll with chocolate sauce, espresso ice-cream and a good whallop of cream. We shared it, because pudding, in my opinion, should always be shared. It just tastes nicer that way.

The 40th surprise

I had to shush, it's not like I had a choice. I was keeping a secret and I knew that if I wrote a blog post I would (inadvertently, mind) let something slip out and then it wouldn't be a secret anymore and the surprise would be spoilt and I'd feel horrible and bad and possibly even give myself a stomach ulcer. I'll stop, I'm taking it too far, aren't I?

It was my lovely sister's 40th birthday and her fabulous wife, N, organised a surprise party to celebrate, up there in The Big Smoke, and I went up, also as a surprise. I love surprises very much. I struggle to keep secrets because I get oh-so-excited about it all and want to talk about it, but I was good this time.

I speak to my sister daily, sometimes twice a day, but usually daily. On Saturday, the day I flew up, she called me four times, I kid you not. Firstly, at 5am, I got a picture sent to me. They were going in a hot air balloon. Admittedly, a very exciting thing, but, in her mind (not knowing I was getting ready to head to the airport) I had no reason to be awake at that time on a Saturday. I called her to exclaim my wonderment, and my (fake) horror at her early communications.

Then, as I was getting on the plane. To discuss the excitement of the hot air balloon (fair enough.) I lied. I hate lying, but it was necessary. I said it was a scorcher of a day and we were in the queue for the 9am movie, I'd phone her later. Phone off, 2 hour flight. Very pleasurable Gautrain experience then met by an old varsity friend, T, with whom we were staying. I phoned my sister back in the car, thinking that'd be it for the day.

Back to T's house where her husband and very boisterous 4-year old son live too. Another call from my sister, mid-afternoon, necessitating gagging both husband and 4-year old, in case of voice recognition. And, boy, was she in a chatty mood. Poor husband and son were positively blue in the face.

And that wasn't it. One more, just before we were to leave to the party, of course. She informed me they were going out for dinner, I told her she should really stay home and watch the cricket, which she suggested to N, just to mess with poor N's mind. I am a mean sister-in-law.

It was fabulous, she was completely surprised and it was a lovely, Argentinian party with yummy food and yummier people and I was very glad that I'd managed to keep my mouth shut. And I got to see the delicious babies on Sunday.

This is what the babies look like now, Griffin in green, Liam in red with his pyjama pants on his head (I am a cruel aunt too). Okay, they're the ones up there, at the top. I can't figure out how to put them down here, even though I tried my darndest.

You see? Good excuse for silence. It's a bullshit one really, I just haven't felt like writing, I could've written about all manner of things but, as I found out on Saturday, through four sisterly phonecalls, I'm quite a proficient liar.

Edit: I wrote this last week Wednesday and was then struck down by a dreaded lurgy that has made me cough and splutter and take to my bed. It is retreating now, I fought it bravely, in my suit of armour, fighting hand-to-hand, using every inch of my strength. It's pretty obvious I'm feeling better isn't it? It was, seriously, just a cold. That made me feel yukky.

New Year's delight

I have ten minutes, then C, G and I are off to catch the train into the city to meet Pop and Shuzie for lunch, a New Year's Eve lunch. I have never been an NYE fan - the searching for the best party, the feigned excitement, the slobbery kisses from strangers at midnight. Sometimes I have a braai at my house, last year I had something resembling a party, with people I love. This year, it's a DVD, and sleep, probably way before midnight, and a fresh, clear, 1st of January 2011.

I have a feeling about 2011, I'm not sure if it's good or bad, but it's expectant. I don't think I've had that before. What I wish for, for us all, is happiness. Happiness like that I have seen in my 17-month old little nephews over the last ten days - undaunted, unstoppable, crazy-shit happiness that makes them giggle amd squeal at small things. What a treat to have them here, they are delicious.

So, yes, a quick note. I have much to tell of those squeals, of the fascination of one nephew with his grandfather, of watching the bond develop, tight as tight can be, of Christmas lunches and family, of friends, and love, and a little tinge of sadness, but mainly of those delighted squeals. I'll be back soon, as soon as I have time. Right now, peak-a-boo, buzzing like a bee and pointing at the butterflies that hang from my roof, all to elicit that delight, is way more important.

Wishing you all out there a delight-filled 2011. Remember to giggle and see the joy in everything.

Shiny x

Brown or white?

Here on the tip of Africa we have some Nasty History. There was a time when Horrible Men (and Women) did despicable things to people who share this country, just because they had the wrong colour skin. I was young when those awful times were at their peak. I was there, and aware, but it was on my periphery because, well, ludicrously, I’m white. Therefore I wasn’t subjected to Pass Laws and inadequate (or no) education; to segregation and violence; to being treated as inferior; and to having any opportunity taken forcefully from me. We couldn’t even go to school together.

Thankfully, that is a thing of the past and things started turning as I went to university. I think my parents are eternally grateful for this too, not only because they were Anti-Apartheid, but, more personally, they knew that I would’ve been politically active and, more-than-likely, in trouble.

But, yes, we were all saved from that, over 15 years ago now. Everybody walked on shells for a while, and sometimes still do. It was all about 'political correctness'... Be careful what you call people, how you say things, how you write things. Everybody was hyper-sensitive and ready to flare. 'Racism' was bandied about and flung back and forth and shouted at any hint of anything. Sometimes unnecessarily. Understandably, it was a difficult transition, from all sides.

How time flies. We almost have the first generation of adults born in the Free South Africa. Now everybody goes to school together.

This brings me to my point, a conversation G and I had with her 7-year old nephew in the car on Monday. He’s a sweet, blonde, mostly-bare-footed Afrikaans boy (like we all were... urm... some years ago) who has just moved with his parents, brother and sister, from a farm to a small town which, in the bad old days would’ve been, well, bad. Unless, of course, you were white.

Nephew: Benj was in the school play. (Benj is his younger brother, Benjamin)
G: Oh wow, who was he?
Nephew: Joseph.
Shiny: Jesus’ dad?
Nephew: Yes.
G: Who played Mary?
Nephew: Brown Hayley.
Shiny: Brown Hayley?
Nephew: Yes. She's brown.
G: But isn't that rude?
Nephew: No, why? There’s two Hayleys in the class, one is brown and the other is white, so we call them Brown Hayley and White Hayley. Otherwise it’s confusing.

Well, yes, indeed. This was nothing to do with racism, this was logical, like referring to your red t-shirt and your blue t-shirt, and I smiled a huge, happy, smile, to hear it. It seems our country has grown into its shoes - the terrible past, the uncomfortable teenage years of adapting and finding our feet are done. Now we can just be. How wonderful.

Absence due to jollification

Oh bugger, how did that happen? I’m trying to be a good blogger and write lots and lots. Not daily, mind, but often. Like in maybe everyday and then, all of a sardine, it’s been five days since my last post. Five? Surely not. That time flies thing? I think it might be true.

I’ve been busy you see. This entails not so many hours type-typing away on my computer and many more hours spent doing so many other more fun things. Like drinking cocktails full of crushed mint while the sun sets, turning the sky brilliant pink and The Mountain hazy purple, while seagulls fly above laughing at the ice cream lickers below.

And sitting in a garden that feels like a small oven in the Summer sunshine while a big boy cooks meat on the braai and a little one throws brightly coloured balls into his sandpit-without-sand and then into his pool-without-water. There’s no water in it because otherwise he will never get out. Ever. Not even at bedtime.

Or sitting amongst the warm happiness of a large family, celebrating birthdays in a hidden valley on a stoep next to a very much loved herb garden while the children zoom about, swinging, climbing, and the adults drink wine with lots of ice in it.

Then there’s the taking out of the Christmas lights, checking that they work and getting the box of decorations, old and new, from the top of the cupboard, and persuading my father that he really, really, does want to go and buy a tree from the guys next to the racecourse and put it up in my house. A smaller tree this year, though, not one which reaches the roof like he always gets me, which I love (despite my mother always telling him to get me a smaller one.) No, this year the tree must stand on a table, slightly above 16-month old twin boy height because… THEY’RE ARRIVING, next week, for Christmas! My beautiful nephews, and their mothers.

First though, tomorrow, is my annual Christmas Tree Decorating Party. When people pass through, some stay a half hour, others all night, with their children, their friends. There’ll be food and Christmas songs and everybody who walks through the door has to put at least one decoration on the tree, from the box.

See now, why I’m being a naughty blogger? I’m busy jollifying.

I have a crush on a Beach Boy

There were couples dressed in matching Hawaiian outfits, some headband-toting aging hippies and a smattering of youngsters. G and I felt young, being about 30 years younger than the majority of the audience. The place was packed, though, probably 90% full. I was pleasantly surprised. And a nice crowd it was. Very civilised. To be expected, I suppose, with an average age of 65+.

G took me to see The Beach Boys last night, and I loved it. We sat a row behind the front row, so when the old men (only three of the orginals, and three ‘newbies’) doddered on, we could see them very, very, well. They must also be in their late sixties but boy, they can still harmonise beautifully, and it’s hard not to to beam a huge, happy, smile when they’re singing songs of surf and California sun.

While we waited for them to start, I listened to the conversation behind us – three couples all terribly excited about the fact that they were seeing their beloved Beach Boys AND that Neil Diamond is coming soon. I say no more. It was fabulous to be there and get swept up by the excitement.

The band – well – the lead singer, in all his late-60’s glory, still thinks he’s the god’s gift to women so spent a lot of time making eyes at women in the crowd and doing a vaguely disturbing ‘come hither’ pointing finger thing making him look very much like the definitive Dirty Old Man. Then again, looking and listening to the swooning (older) ladies around us, I think he probably could’ve had his way with any number of them! I avidly avoided making eye contact with him but secretly wished I’d taken a pair of (granny?) knickers to throw on stage.

They sang all the favourites, the crowd roared with delight and clapped and wolf-whistled and I’m happy to tell you that one of their new additions is an absolutely gorgeous young fellow who I have fallen head-over-heels in crush with. Yes, I’m the original groupie! Luckily my crush is not one of the old ones. That’d just be weird.

I never thought I’d see Good Vibrations performed live. I’m really glad I did.

There’s nothing wrong with having a crush on a Beach Boy, is there?