I went to a funeral yesterday. My best friend's mother died last week after a long and brave fight against the dreaded cancer. It's one of those inevitabilities that you hope will remain in the distant future well, forever really, but of course, it doesn't - the death of parents.
At the funeral I realised that we're at that age and I completely freaked. I don't want to be at the age where I'm suddenly going to my friend's parent's funerals and, god forbid, my own parents.These are the people who watched us grow, saw us through our adolescent tempestuosness (with us rolling our eyes and them shaking their heads) and then welcomed us to the 'adult' dinner table, becoming our friends. They know our history. They are our history.
My best friend flew from Sydney for the funeral, her tummy beautifully swollen with her second baby, which will join us in October, and who kicked and wriggled with life at the funeral. She, of course, is heartbroken. The funeral was as good as funerals can be, a mixture of sadness and laughter. Her mum was a lively woman, with a wicked sense of humour, right up to the end.
After the funeral we all gathered at one of her brother's houses and celebrated her. Wine flowed (they're Irish), food was consumed, stories were shared and the sun came out after four days of grey, miserable, weather. It all seemed fitting.
I came home and organised to meet my parents for dinner having realised (again) how lucky I am to live down the road from them and still be able to make that shared history with them. I've never been a fan of funerals, I'm bad at them, and I especially don't like it when they make it patently obvious that I'm the wrong side of 35 and can no longer rely on teen- or twenty-something delusions of immortality.
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Jumping in, heart beating wildly
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 motherforced 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.
My mother
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.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Handwritten letters
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
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!
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.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Mother's Day
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
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!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
A puzzling T(t)urkey question
I can’t remember if I’ve put this ponderance out there before. It keeps coming up in my mind, and has been doing so for years, which is why I uttered a gleeful ‘yippee’ when my mother announced that she and my father are going to Turkey in September. The big question I have needed an answer to for such a long time, is this: Are there turkeys in Turkey?
Knowing my parent’s trip is imminent, I will ask them to go searching, while they’re there. I’m sure they’ll be perfectly happy to trail around the Turkish landscape, looking for turkeys (as opposed to exploring Turkey’s fabulous sights and sounds and rich history (I sound like a travel advert)) to answer this aeons-old question of mine. Obviously, turkey-hunting will take preference. I do not refer to the shoot-to-kill version of hunting, rather the just-find-one version. Then again, I am quite partial to roast turkey at Christmas and a turkey roast in October wouldn’t go unappreciated.
I may be asking a a tad too much, though, expecting them to hunt, kill, pluck-and-deinnard, freeze, fly back to Africa with turkey in hand luggage, cook (preferably stuffed) and serve said turkey (preferably with lots of gravy, roast potatoes, butternut, creamed cauliflower. And peas.) Just a tad.
What do you think?
Knowing my parent’s trip is imminent, I will ask them to go searching, while they’re there. I’m sure they’ll be perfectly happy to trail around the Turkish landscape, looking for turkeys (as opposed to exploring Turkey’s fabulous sights and sounds and rich history (I sound like a travel advert)) to answer this aeons-old question of mine. Obviously, turkey-hunting will take preference. I do not refer to the shoot-to-kill version of hunting, rather the just-find-one version. Then again, I am quite partial to roast turkey at Christmas and a turkey roast in October wouldn’t go unappreciated.
I may be asking a a tad too much, though, expecting them to hunt, kill, pluck-and-deinnard, freeze, fly back to Africa with turkey in hand luggage, cook (preferably stuffed) and serve said turkey (preferably with lots of gravy, roast potatoes, butternut, creamed cauliflower. And peas.) Just a tad.
What do you think?
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
My mother outdoes herself
My mother has been referred to by many people the occasional person as eccentric. She becomes more so as she gets older. Yesterday (Women’s Day, a public holiday here on the tip of Africa, in remembrance of the Women’s Day March in the 1950’s to protest the Pass Laws. Very civilised to have a public holiday dedicated to women) she called me at home:
Shiny: Hello
Shiny’s Mother: Hello love. Can you do me a favour? Are you on Facebook?
Shiny: Sure. I’m not at the moment, but I will be tomorrow. What do you need?
SM: I want you to enter a competition for me. For Women’s Day. They’ve given a recipe for a cocktail and you have to give a name to it.
Shiny: Okay, what name have you given it?
SM: Vodka Vagina.
Shiny: (Spluttering) You’re not serious, surely?
SM: I think it’s a brilliant name for a cocktail! Have you seen the names they give them?
Shiny: Yes. What’s the prize?
SM: VIP tickets for the winner and three friends to Club TrendyYoungThings.
Shiny: But, mum, you’ll hate it there. It’s for Trendy Young Things. And it’s a night club. I don’t think you and three of your 60-something year old friends will really enjoy it.
SM: Oh no, when I win, I’ll give you the tickets (with a tone of pride and charity in her voice.)
Shiny: Urm, thanks, but three of my 30-something year old friends and I are not really Trendy Young Things either!
SM: Oh, well then I’ll give it to the Trendy Young Things next door.
So, being a dutiful daughter, I went into Stalkbook this morning and found (thankfully) the e-mail address needed to enter the competition (for a moment I thought I’d have to enter as me, on Facebook) and she entered.
She has just phoned me to say she received a curt e-mail back from the woman running the competition to say she found her entry offensive! My mother has written back to say she is sorry she found it offensive but she thought it very apt and, although she’s never drunk cocktails in her 60-something years on this earth, she has read some cocktail menus in her life, and thought her suggestion was rather tame!
It’s hard to bring up parents correctly, isn’t it?
Shiny: Hello
Shiny’s Mother: Hello love. Can you do me a favour? Are you on Facebook?
Shiny: Sure. I’m not at the moment, but I will be tomorrow. What do you need?
SM: I want you to enter a competition for me. For Women’s Day. They’ve given a recipe for a cocktail and you have to give a name to it.
Shiny: Okay, what name have you given it?
SM: Vodka Vagina.
Shiny: (Spluttering) You’re not serious, surely?
SM: I think it’s a brilliant name for a cocktail! Have you seen the names they give them?
Shiny: Yes. What’s the prize?
SM: VIP tickets for the winner and three friends to Club TrendyYoungThings.
Shiny: But, mum, you’ll hate it there. It’s for Trendy Young Things. And it’s a night club. I don’t think you and three of your 60-something year old friends will really enjoy it.
SM: Oh no, when I win, I’ll give you the tickets (with a tone of pride and charity in her voice.)
Shiny: Urm, thanks, but three of my 30-something year old friends and I are not really Trendy Young Things either!
SM: Oh, well then I’ll give it to the Trendy Young Things next door.
So, being a dutiful daughter, I went into Stalkbook this morning and found (thankfully) the e-mail address needed to enter the competition (for a moment I thought I’d have to enter as me, on Facebook) and she entered.
She has just phoned me to say she received a curt e-mail back from the woman running the competition to say she found her entry offensive! My mother has written back to say she is sorry she found it offensive but she thought it very apt and, although she’s never drunk cocktails in her 60-something years on this earth, she has read some cocktail menus in her life, and thought her suggestion was rather tame!
It’s hard to bring up parents correctly, isn’t it?
Monday, July 12, 2010
A flashback and an old friend
My mother sews, beautifully. She made all of our clothes as children, much to our chagrin as teenagers, when all I longed for was just one item of clothing with a label (the ingratitude of adolescents!) She still sews for us if we are specific about what we want, years of experience having taught her that.
It was with a pair of pants in mind that I found myself, reminiscent of my childhood, in a material shop with my mother this morning. She can spend hours, possibly days, in those places so I had prepared myself mentally for some people-watching while she ambled about touching, stretching, experienced-seamstressing the hundreds of rolls of material.
My father drove us to the edge of the city where the enormous, warehouse-like material shop lives, two buildings down from the lap-dancing place where young Eastern European beauties trade their ware (apparently) and my mother and I went into the Aladdin-like cave (the fabric place, not the lap-dancing one.) As expected, my mother went into her Material Hunter mode and I sat quietly watching people.
The thing is, though, I had this funny feeling from when we walked in. You know that feeling when you meet someone and you feel like you know them, but you don't know where from? I looked at my mother's fellow hunters - the elderly sisters dressed in clothes too young for them, trying to find the perfect blue chiffon to go over the pale violet satin they'd chosen; the movie-type blonde wanting metres and metres of white fabric for a set; the gentle Xhosa lady going through the cordurouy for the perfect colour for children's dungarees (with my mother, momentarily distracted by possible fabrics for dungarees for the fabulous twin grandsons) - nope, none of them seemed familiar (other than my mother, of course.)
Then I suddenly got flashbacks of dark, smokey corners, flashing lights and loud music and I realised that behind me, where there were now shelves and shelves of buttons and zips, there used to be a bar and there, on that huge floor covered in rows of material was a dancefloor and up there, where the material shop owner stood talking on a cellphone, surveying the room, was the DJ box.
This here material shop used to be a club, it was the building that was the familiar person I'd been feeling, having been there once, in it's previous life as a nightclub, before it had retired into the more sedate phase of fabrics. I sat thinking of the night, the people I'd been with, that time of my life.
It's always nice to bump into an old friend, isn't it?
It was with a pair of pants in mind that I found myself, reminiscent of my childhood, in a material shop with my mother this morning. She can spend hours, possibly days, in those places so I had prepared myself mentally for some people-watching while she ambled about touching, stretching, experienced-seamstressing the hundreds of rolls of material.
My father drove us to the edge of the city where the enormous, warehouse-like material shop lives, two buildings down from the lap-dancing place where young Eastern European beauties trade their ware (apparently) and my mother and I went into the Aladdin-like cave (the fabric place, not the lap-dancing one.) As expected, my mother went into her Material Hunter mode and I sat quietly watching people.
The thing is, though, I had this funny feeling from when we walked in. You know that feeling when you meet someone and you feel like you know them, but you don't know where from? I looked at my mother's fellow hunters - the elderly sisters dressed in clothes too young for them, trying to find the perfect blue chiffon to go over the pale violet satin they'd chosen; the movie-type blonde wanting metres and metres of white fabric for a set; the gentle Xhosa lady going through the cordurouy for the perfect colour for children's dungarees (with my mother, momentarily distracted by possible fabrics for dungarees for the fabulous twin grandsons) - nope, none of them seemed familiar (other than my mother, of course.)
Then I suddenly got flashbacks of dark, smokey corners, flashing lights and loud music and I realised that behind me, where there were now shelves and shelves of buttons and zips, there used to be a bar and there, on that huge floor covered in rows of material was a dancefloor and up there, where the material shop owner stood talking on a cellphone, surveying the room, was the DJ box.
This here material shop used to be a club, it was the building that was the familiar person I'd been feeling, having been there once, in it's previous life as a nightclub, before it had retired into the more sedate phase of fabrics. I sat thinking of the night, the people I'd been with, that time of my life.
It's always nice to bump into an old friend, isn't it?
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
My mother's magic handbag
My mother had a magic handbag when we were children. In fact, she had a number of them through the years. I presume that there was some Secret Handbag Shop where she'd buy them. I imagine it was one of those places in an alley, with a non-descript door on which you'd knock, perhaps three times, and a little slot would open through which you'd whisper a secret password (something like "Antwerp") and then it'd open, just wide enough to let her slip through, leaving the alley empty, and looking innocent.
Well that's how I think it happens, I may have got one or two details wrong (maybe the password is "Serendipity" or "Diddley-do".) She says she just gets them from normal shops. I know this is untrue, though, and she's actually been sworn to secrecy, and just can't tell the real story for fear of repercussions from The People who run the Secret Handbag Shop. However she obtained them, they were certainly magic. And still are.
You see, they have a never ending supply of tissues, generally a bit crumpled, but clean, that smell like her face powder (an extremely lovely, motherly-soothing smell). I have seen literally hundreds of them come out of there - to mop up spills, to blow snotty noses and - teenage cringe - to wipe small spots of dirt off our faces, with spit!
The main thing is that I never, ever, saw her put any of those tissues into the handbag. I told you it was magic, didn't I?
Well that's how I think it happens, I may have got one or two details wrong (maybe the password is "Serendipity" or "Diddley-do".) She says she just gets them from normal shops. I know this is untrue, though, and she's actually been sworn to secrecy, and just can't tell the real story for fear of repercussions from The People who run the Secret Handbag Shop. However she obtained them, they were certainly magic. And still are.
You see, they have a never ending supply of tissues, generally a bit crumpled, but clean, that smell like her face powder (an extremely lovely, motherly-soothing smell). I have seen literally hundreds of them come out of there - to mop up spills, to blow snotty noses and - teenage cringe - to wipe small spots of dirt off our faces, with spit!
The main thing is that I never, ever, saw her put any of those tissues into the handbag. I told you it was magic, didn't I?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Tragedy, Part 3
So I began the convoluted and disjointed tale of my tragedy a couple of months ago (Part 1 and Part 2 are here, and there). And then I stopped. Not because it was causing me great pain or drama, but because I ran out of steam to tell it. And I didn't get very far, and I am now making myself get back to it. Thus far, we crashed in the middle of nowhere on a hot summer's day and I had done a sterling job of breaking my neck and squelching my spinal cord. People stopped, angels flew over (or were they vultures?), the sun looked at us despairingly from her perch in the vast Karoo sky, and I landed up in ICU at a hospital in Bigger Town.
We transferred from Small Town to Bigger Town in a rickety ambulance. The Small Town hospital had an air of dusty despondency about it, unlike the big private hospital in Bigger Town (about 3 hours away) at which I found myself. Wheeling down the corridor on arrival I was surprised to notice tinsel and shiny red and gold balls attached to the ceiling of the passage... Christmas.
I was met there by my mother's university friend (and Godmother to my sister) who lived in the university town. My mother had phoned her with the news and she rushed to meet me and be with me until my mother arrived (she had to fly down). I remember feeling relieved to see her familiar face.
I'm trying really hard here to remember my thoughts and feelings but I think I've left it too long. I feel like I'm going to make them up, as if I'm thinking now, how all that whirl of chaos and drama would make me feel if it were happening to me now but I'm a different person, surely? Perhaps not.
At this juncture, though, it was just whirlwind. I was X-rayed from head to foot because I couldn't feel anything. I knew full well that I couldn't because every doctor/nurse/tea lady who came into my room seemed to have a pointy instrument with which they prodded me, starting at my feet and moving up, asking at 5-secondly intervals: "Can you feel that?" Right up until my upper chest... then I could feel it, bloody hell. And they kept telling me to move my foot/leg/hip. I couldn't.
I was put in ICU with two other people - a man who complained incessantly of being uncomfortable and a woman who, in hindsight, I think must've been psychotic. I was on morphine, it all seemed fine, if a bit noisy. I love morphine, just so you know.
My mother arrived. She flew, while my father drove below her in the direction of us, he would sleep over in a small dusty town and change direction when he heard I was to be airlifted out of there, heading toward the City Beneath the Mountain, to which I was transferred.
I don't remember much from that first night, a combination of shock and drugs, I'm sure. I just remember waking repeatedly to the discomfort of the man in the next bed, the wailing of the psychotic woman, and the beeping and disturbingly-human-like sounds of the ECG and ventilator machines. Somebody there must've been on a ventilator.
Next day I was airlifted to The City Beneath the Mountain, where my sister waited anxiously.
I need to stop there. Like I said, disjointed, I apologise.
Better disjointed and flowing, than buried deep within, right?
We transferred from Small Town to Bigger Town in a rickety ambulance. The Small Town hospital had an air of dusty despondency about it, unlike the big private hospital in Bigger Town (about 3 hours away) at which I found myself. Wheeling down the corridor on arrival I was surprised to notice tinsel and shiny red and gold balls attached to the ceiling of the passage... Christmas.
I was met there by my mother's university friend (and Godmother to my sister) who lived in the university town. My mother had phoned her with the news and she rushed to meet me and be with me until my mother arrived (she had to fly down). I remember feeling relieved to see her familiar face.
I'm trying really hard here to remember my thoughts and feelings but I think I've left it too long. I feel like I'm going to make them up, as if I'm thinking now, how all that whirl of chaos and drama would make me feel if it were happening to me now but I'm a different person, surely? Perhaps not.
At this juncture, though, it was just whirlwind. I was X-rayed from head to foot because I couldn't feel anything. I knew full well that I couldn't because every doctor/nurse/tea lady who came into my room seemed to have a pointy instrument with which they prodded me, starting at my feet and moving up, asking at 5-secondly intervals: "Can you feel that?" Right up until my upper chest... then I could feel it, bloody hell. And they kept telling me to move my foot/leg/hip. I couldn't.
I was put in ICU with two other people - a man who complained incessantly of being uncomfortable and a woman who, in hindsight, I think must've been psychotic. I was on morphine, it all seemed fine, if a bit noisy. I love morphine, just so you know.
My mother arrived. She flew, while my father drove below her in the direction of us, he would sleep over in a small dusty town and change direction when he heard I was to be airlifted out of there, heading toward the City Beneath the Mountain, to which I was transferred.
I don't remember much from that first night, a combination of shock and drugs, I'm sure. I just remember waking repeatedly to the discomfort of the man in the next bed, the wailing of the psychotic woman, and the beeping and disturbingly-human-like sounds of the ECG and ventilator machines. Somebody there must've been on a ventilator.
Next day I was airlifted to The City Beneath the Mountain, where my sister waited anxiously.
I need to stop there. Like I said, disjointed, I apologise.
Better disjointed and flowing, than buried deep within, right?
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Can I nibble on my finger?
I'm still staying with my mummy and daddy while the floors are fixed. It has been quite fun actually. There is nothing wrong with freshly squeezed orange juice each morning, and a home-cooked packed lunch every day. I did, however, have to phone home to complain yesterday. Reason being that we looked in the fridge yesterday morning before work to find nothing. Well, ok, not nothing, but no neatly packed tupperware shouting: "I'm Shiny's lunch! Take me! Eat me!"
On receiving my complaint call, my mother explained, that, due to the fact that I had gone out the night before to The BFF's birthday, she didn't think to pack me lunch. WTF? I was horrified. Almost wordless, except that I find wordlessness, well, impossible. I had to have a word with my father about it when I got home from work. He, too, was shocked.
This morning, as I drank my freshly squeezed orange juice (yum), I noticed a new bottle of hand cream on the counter. And you know what that's like. New bottles of cream just shout out to be tested. Which I did. My hands now smell like marshmallows, it's wierd. I keep having this unsupressable (is that even a word?) desire to chew off my baby finger.
I'm sure that'd be okay, wouldn't it?
On receiving my complaint call, my mother explained, that, due to the fact that I had gone out the night before to The BFF's birthday, she didn't think to pack me lunch. WTF? I was horrified. Almost wordless, except that I find wordlessness, well, impossible. I had to have a word with my father about it when I got home from work. He, too, was shocked.
This morning, as I drank my freshly squeezed orange juice (yum), I noticed a new bottle of hand cream on the counter. And you know what that's like. New bottles of cream just shout out to be tested. Which I did. My hands now smell like marshmallows, it's wierd. I keep having this unsupressable (is that even a word?) desire to chew off my baby finger.
I'm sure that'd be okay, wouldn't it?
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