One last stand

I should have taken a picture. I wanted to, but the moment passed before I could, or did. It didn't happen suddenly, I had days, maybe even a couple of weeks when I kept saying, each time I came home, "I must take a picture of that." But I didn't and now it's too late. The rain is belting down and it's rained off the last of them. They're blending into the mud below, twirling around blades of grass, becoming mulch, indecipherable from the mud.

Hundreds of little deep purple flowers from the Potato Bush, pale blue Plumbago, yellow ones from the Bush with Yellow Flowers (name unknown) and bright pink bougainvillea, all pushing out over the fence of The House in the Middle of the Street, unruly and sticking their tongues out at the impending Winter.

It's a brave little garden my beloved mother has created here at my house. My fingers are not green, hers are an astounding shade of it. Her garden needs to be seen to be believed, it's gorgeous. I'm a lucky girl that she was kind enough to do mine for me too and she filled it with wild, unruly bushes that have entwined themselves around the palings and push their way out to trail their petals along passersby's arms when they walk past. It's a riot of colour and green.

And I love that, like me, my little garden always makes one last stand in late Autumn. It produces flowers profusely and throws its petals about boldly in the face of Winter.

I wish I'd taken that photo but, as seasons are wont to do, they'll happen again and maybe, just maybe, next year I'll take it in time.

An aside

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...

Early Saturday morning

I was woken on Saturday morning by the crash-bang of my bedroom door against my dressing table. The Big Black Dog entered the room looking sheepish. I know this even though my back was to the door and I was happily sleeping (until the crash of door against dresser) because I have known The Big Black Dog a good, long, time. I pretended to remain sleeping. The Siamese Princess was curled behind my knees, probably dreaming of paper bags and boxes (her favourite things.) She too awoke with the crash of door against dresser.

I know this because she greeted The Big Black Dog like a long-lost friend that she hadn’t seen for years, climbing onto my legs to gain some height and meowing her greetings in her not-so-melodious-Siamese yowl. She then walked along the length of my body to my shoulder, as if I were the Great Wall of China. On my shoulder she paused to stretch, yawn loudly (this I could see because her left paw was almost on my chin, and hear because her little Siamese mouth was about 2cm from my ear.)

At this point, The Big Black Dog was pushing her snout into my back. I know what she wanted – food, love, attention – pretty everyday The Big Black Dog desires. I closed my eyes quickly, feigning sleep, even though she could only see the back of my head. The Siamese Princess hopped daintily from her perch, landing with a surprisingly loud thud for such a small cat and I heard her pitter-patter through into the kitchen where she ate some breakfast (she has surprisingly loud chewing sounds, too.)

The Big Black Dog followed her and I lay wondering whether, when nobody is looking, The Siamese Princess juggles a couple of her pellets and throws them down to The Big Black Dog. They are very good friends, considering one is a very small and old Siamese, and the other is a big-boned (ahem) black labrador of middle-age-but-puppy-temperament, so I wouldn’t be surprised.

Ah, yes, life in The House in the Middle of the Street is not half domestic, is it?

The wind

The wind howled last night. It came from the direction that makes it want to get into my bedroom window, shaking at the window panes, rattling the long arm thingy that keeps it open. I don’t know which direction it is when it does that, but it seems to shake the House in the Middle of the Street to its very roots. My house, let’s put it lightly, is not all that, um, tightly put together – the windows don’t close completely, the door has a gap through which leaves can blow. It’s Africa, you see, we don’t do air tight. I love it dearly though, despite its noisy nature on windy nights.

I was amazed the first time I went to Europe, by how houses became almost hermetically sealed when you closed the two front doors. “Two front doors?” my naïve African-born-and-bred brain questioned, “How weird.” After a visit to the UK one November I got it. That ice wind can sting.

And that’s my story for today. Arbitrary, isn’t it?

Winter is upon us

Oh dear, oh dear! Winter is here! It's the first rainy, windy, grey day. I realised yesterday that this could, well, be the reason for my rising melancholy. I do not like the cold. At all. Yes, I love a day spent next to my crackling fire, listening to the rain on the tin roof in the company of lovely people but, unfortunately, in reality, that is not how most of my Winter is spent (although I try to make those occassions fairly regular).

Mostly it's spent getting up in the cold dark, muddling through the rain to work and slinking back home to try and warm up in my made-for-Africa (i.e. NOT warm) house. Don't get me wrong, I love my House in the Middle of the Street but no, the bottom line is that it is draughty and cold. Unless you're sitting right next to the fireplace. Here in Africa we don't do central heating. We just ignore the fact that, for four months a year (sometimes more) it's bloody freezing.

I think it's like they say childbirth is - during labour you scream and swear you'll never again and then you forget the pain as soon as you see the baby. Then you do it again. All Winter we talk about installing solar heating, blocking the gaps under the front (and back) door that allow the freezing gales in (and sometimes the rain too, if it's heavy) and vow to buy more energy-saving heaters (I do try to be environmentally-friendly). But, as soon as Spring curls her pretty fingers around us... whoosh... out of my tiny brain it goes.

In other, fascinating, news, the milk I have at the moment seems to make a skin on top of my tea the minute I let it stand. Most disturbing. I told you it was fascinating, didn't I?

Nibbling along

There I was, sat at a table at the Thai place down the road, outside on the stoep (verandah to my UK readers. Well, reader - Mud), the new moon (and, no, nothing to do with those blooming teenage vampire hearthrobs who seem to be taking over the world) just visible above the rooftop across the road, balmy air, looking around a table at which there were seven people. Six of us live within walking distance, and the seventh was The Pond, who is here from Faraway. She used to live with me, and still has a place in The House in the Middle of the Street so, basically, we were all from The Hood.

It got me thinking how lucky I am, to live in the area I live in, with the other people who live there. It's a small suburb, within a bigger suburb which prides itself on it's 'village' persona. We have a little street of restaurants, we have a Village Association, and we have rules about not building high rise buildings. People (generally) greet each other in the streets and their dogs, and then them, make friends in the parks (we have three). It's just all rather lovely really.

My mind wrapped itself warmly in those thoughts as I stared at the silver sliver moon and the easy conversation between the people at the table became background noise until my reverie was interrupted, not unpleasantly, by the lovely Thai lady who owns the place saying:

"Would you like any starters to nibble along before your mains?"

Who can say no to starters to nibble along?

Novel writing takes a back seat

So, I'm a naughty girl. I so very much wanted to be cool, like the ever-so-brave and incredibly talented sisters Tamara and Miranda and write a 50 000 word novel in November. That amounts to 1666.67* words. Per day. I even signed up. And started. I got to 509 words in my first sitting (1 157.67 words short, for the day). It was complete trash, but fun to write. Then it was the next day, and I realised I was 2 824.34 words behind. I'm now 7 824.35 words behind (including today). It was starting to stress me out.

You see, in September, I wrote on my blog every day, and then in October, I wrote 100 words every day on another little project thing, so I (way over-zealously) thought that this was the perfect next step. What I failed to realise, was that I have just moved back into the newly renovated House in the Middle of the Street. Which still has no kitchen taps. We have a sink, but no taps. It's a long story. And boxes. What looks like thousands of them. Filled with Stuff. Stuff that needs to be unpacked, have the concrete dust wiped off it, and returned to its rightful places.

Then there's Real Work, which is chaotic, and fills my days fairly fully (except when I sneak off to blog) from 7am until 5pm. And the Other Work, which also seems to forget that I'm freelance, and not available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, to bow to their every whim. ("Could we have 350 words of copy, for a competition, by, say, yesterday afternoon?" "Um.... no.") It's just that time of year with work-type stuff. I really shouldn't sound so ungrateful. At least I'm being paid.

And then, there's the small matter of the fact that I am very busily falling in love. This takes up a lot of time and, on much contemplation this morning, I decided needed more attention than any 50 000 word novel deserves from me. At this point. You see, I'm feeling I should rather revel in this starry-eyed, fluttery-hearted, Mills & Boon-esque gushiness that I'm experiencing right now. It only seems fair.

And I'm pretty darn sure that my 50 000 word novel can just revel in said feelings, and possibly develop a bit more in my head, and be ready for next November. Or, at least, I hope so.

Novels don't have expiry dates, do they?

Flying, tiling and happiness

I take it back. My whinge about the self actualisation and positive thought mantra-saying. My house is, indeed converted - the bricks are made of chocolate cake, the roof is covered in wafers, the door handles in the kitchen are Jelly Tots, and the chocolate spring flows into a meandering stream through my garden. And I'm flying.

It's a good place to be. I know I'm being all cryptic again, but it's just that I'm not quite there yet. You know the 'there' I'm talking about? The one where you're able to blurt it all out and make it all public. I'm getting there, at the speed of light, really, what with my new wings and all.

The good news is that we will all be moving back into the House in the Middle of The Street on Saturday. The floors are in, the walls are painted, I just need to choose tiles for the kitchen (walls - at the sink and stove). You'd think this'd be a walk in the park. It's not. Finding red tiles? Like trying to get hold of the original hotpants worn by Axl Rose in the '80's.

You amble happily into tile place (after tile place, after tile place, getting less happily ambly exponentially, as the number of tile places increases) and ask to see their red tiles. Smiley Salesperson enthusiastically says: "Sure, we have a whole range!" (Why do sales people have to talk in exclamation marks?) Said Smiley Salesperson then rushes off and returns minutes later with a range of orange tiles. They're all bloody orange.

Anyway that's a long, gripey story which I will deal with (some more) over the weekend. In the meantime, I must fly around the office a bit, looking busy.

I wonder if my colleagues can see my wings?

Catching up

I have lost my desire to write. Well, not really the desire, just the drive. I just can't think of anything interesting to say. Which is a bit silly really, because there is so much extremely cool stuff going on in my life, but I just can't get myself to write about it. I have just made myself come into this "New Post" block and am forcing my hand to make letters into sentences (of a sort) in the hope it'll turn into something worth reading. Thus far... I don't think I'm winning. Drivel, that's what this is.

Let me catch up with some news. The House in the Middle of the Street is almost ready to be moved back into. It has been a veritable building site and I have had to try very hard not to kick and scream at the builder's boot marks through my lavender, and my dead mint (presumably choked on concrete dust or paint fumes, poor thing) and had the very stressful job of choosing new paint colours (I mean, seriously, how the hell are you supposed to pick a colour for an enormous room from a square 4cm x 3cm?)... But the walls are all done, except the kitchen, and the wooden floors are almost done, and rumour has it that we may be able to move back in this weekend.

My parents left last Monday for Botswana/Big Smoke/Bali allowing us free reign in their house. It instantly made me want to throw a party, of course, having regressed to a 16-year old. Unfortunately work has been ridiculously busy and so I haven't pulled myself together to organise it! Also, they have DSTV, and I have, basically, become a DSTV-whore. There, I said it. Now you all know the real reason for my lack of writing.

Who says TV swallows you whole?