I. Can. Not. Wait.

Wowee, time flies this time of the year. It is my last day of Real Work today, thank goodness, and as we speak, my sister, N, and the two baby nephews are winging their way towards The City Beneath the Mountain. I. Can. Not. Wait.

I have been desperately baby-proofing The House in the Middle of the Street. This is far from an easy feat as I am, to put it politely, a hoarder. Luckily, though, I am not a hoarder of extremely valuable or extremely breakable goods. My taste lies in the cheap and shiny section. Therefore, my house is Child Heaven and Parent Hell, despite my constant reassurances that little hands are welcome to touch/play/move all treasures found. This applies to friend’s children. My sister, on the other hand, knows that I am not just saying it, so my nephews’ four little hands will be everywhere. I. Can. Not. Wait.

The tree is up, there’s tinsel scattered about the place, two stockings hang from the mantelpiece. They’re ancient family heirlooms at this point, having existed since my sister and I were tiny tots. The boys are still a bit small for Father Christmas but they’re there, waiting. Did I tell you, they’ll be there, in The House in the Middle of The Street, today when I get home from Real Work? I. Can. Not. Wait.

In other news, I received a parcel in the post yesterday from a country way over the seas that is covered in snow. It was just a plain, brown, envelope but as I ripped it open I smelt the sweet scent of chocolate. I tipped it on the kitchen table – three slabs of chocolate, deliciously wrapped in wrappers with a foreign language (how exotic), a little bag of Christmas chocolates, and a decoration for the tree. What a wonderful treat, sent from Angela, over at Letters from Usedom. Thank you! This blog world is so wonderful, isn’t it?

Oh, did I tell you that I. Can. Not. Wait?

Snail-racing

I woke up this morning thinking of the house I did a fair amount of my growing up in. The one in the dusty Free State town. I have a vivid picture of it in my mind and I think it’s because I was at my very happiest there. I remember it as a safe, warm place with lots of places to play – a coal shed in the courtyard, big trees to climb, a vast garden to run around in. We lived there from when I was about three until I was ten. I played a lot. In between playing I went to first Nursery School, which I loved, and then Primary School, which I loved more.

From there we moved to a far more conservative (putting it lightly – it was a hotspot of nasty Apartheid politics) Small Town, and things changed for me. It’s not that I was unhappy there, it was just that my eyes were opened to all sorts of things I had been completely (and happily) oblivious to. Whether this was actually to do with us moving, or just me growing up, I’m not sure.

We used to have snail races at that Free State house, my sister and I. That’s how much time we had. There was a garden tap outside my bedroom window which was the local hangout for snails. We would spend an extended period of time choosing which one would be The Chosen One for each of us. Then we’d name them, place them on the painted brick wall, say “Ready… Steady… Go!”, and watch as they sped off toward the finish line ten bricks up, yelling encouragement.

Of course, them being snails, they didn’t really speed off, and we quickly changed the finish line to two bricks up and sometimes to the left, or right, depending on the two snails preferred direction. It was problematic when they went in opposite directions. That is when one realises it’s not so much fun being the younger sister. Sigh.

Snail-racing – is there a more fun way to spend an afternoon?

Middle ages approach

I am turning 35. Tomorrow. Which makes the name of my blog even sillier than before. I knew that'd happen when I started it. I think I even wrote a post about how silly it was. Naturally, though, as I am wanton to do, I ignored my sensical side and went with the nonsensical side. Even though I'm turning 35, as I just said, nonsensical Shiny seems to win most arguments still. I am beginning to accept that I may never grow up and become sensical.

So, in this vain, I had a little birthday party on Friday, in the garage, with music, and a mirror ball. There was champagne and lovely friends and fairy lights in the trees and I got spoilt with beautiful presents and the only difference between my youthful garage birthday parties and this new era of middle-aged garage birthday parties (because the garage parties are traditional at this point... I get complaints when I miss a year) was that everyone left by 12. Like in Cinderella.

Tonight I will dine out (look, I'm using phrases like 'dine out' now that I'm almost middle-aged) with my parents and their best friends who have known me, well, since I was 0, and my love, and then tomorrow night I shall go out with a little group of friends, to the same place I celebrated my birthday last year because it was just so fabulous. In that post I couldn't say what the newses were, but the first was that K was pregnant, with my now-Goddaughter, the beautiful Ava, and the second was that my sister was having not one, but two babies. Who now look like this (Allie, especially for you):

I may be an over-zealous, biased Aunt, but aren't they just too sweet?

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?

I could pop, so could she... anytime now

I have the concentration span of a goldfish. And a dim goldfish at that. In fact, a dim goldfish with many exciting things on its mind, like new seaweed in it's pool, and, urm, delicious things goldfish eat. You get the picture. I estimate it to be two seconds, give or take a second, so bear (bare? I've never worked out which one it is) with me.

You see my sister is going to the gynae this afternoon. She of the ever-expanding-belly-filled-with-two babies variety. And the gynae is going to tell her when those two gorgeous little creatures will come out and meet us all. And it'll be in the next two weeks. Yes, that's right, like in TWO WEEKS! Most likely it's the 17th (which would be tomorrow, a week - good grief!) or the 21st. I want to pop with excitement. I do realise, though, that it is not I that will pop, rather her. Well, I mean not literally pop, but yes.

So, you can see why I'd be struggling to concentrate on work and such. All I really want to do is go home, pack my little suitcase, drive that oh-so-beautiful drive through the Karoo to The Big Smoke to hang with my sister and wait, expectantly, with her and N. Her appointment is in an hour.

Shall I swim clockwise or anti-clockwise around my bowl while I wait?

Heavy heart but happy belly

I've had the day from hell. One of those where you just lose faith in humans. It's most unlike me because I have one of those Pollyanna outlooks normally but sometimes, just sometimes mind, too many things crawl under my skin and claw at my heart and the rips are too sore to Pollyanna-over. And then it's just one of those days.

It didn't start well, admittedly. You see, my sister was here with her partner, N, for the weekend from The Big Smoke which was so, so lovely, but too short and her leaving made me feel wretched and hate the fact that The Big Smoke is 1 400km away. The thing is that, not only do I adore my sister but she is also 6 months pregnant. With identical twins. I shall be Aunty Aunty Shiny. And the li'l creatures kicked me on my cheeks as I held my face to her tummy and spoke silly words to them. The fact that it was twins was one of the two fabulous things that happened on my birthday. The other was the fact that my best friend in Australia, K, is also pregnant.

These twin babies are a huge thing for my family. I think my parents had resigned themselves to the fact hat they wouldn't have grandchildren. My sister is gay. And I will never have my own children (yes, yes, I'll eventually tell the story of The Tragedy and it'll all become clear. But not now, not yet, certainly not today, when my heart is already shredded). But then she and her partner N, who is lovely too, decided it was time and, voila! Babies for us. A new generation of us. And twins! Turns out we have them on both sides. My parents couldn't be more thrilled. Me neither.

Anyway, putting this fabulous news in writing has made me feel slightly lighter, if a little more longing to be in the same space as that incredible growing belly and all the happiness that surrounds it.

Anyone know any good Astral Travel teachers?