Jack Frost and the pink earmuffs

Jack Frost paid me a visit last night, scratching his clawlike nails down my corrugated iron roof and awakening me with heart stopping terror as I imagined Edward Scissorhands peeling my house open like a sardine can. Those icy fingers trailed lovingly down my cheeks reminding me that while I had put electric blankets on the beds of my offspring, I still need to buy one for me. Thanks to the heat of their own beds all three small people slept in happy warm slumber while I froze my toes under two duvets, a dressing gown and two pairs of socks.

I happily purchased 20 kilograms of coal and an equally huge bag of wood (yes, I know I have in my garden, but it was cold and dark and I wasn’t in the mood to play axeman). The petrol attendant kindly put them in the car and off we went home. This is either where you laugh hysterically at the stupid woman who bought stuff she can’t carry or applaud the South African “boer ‘n plan” spirit. Small boy aged 9 and mother stared at the bags. We heaved, we lugged, we pulled and we tugged. About an hour later and much grubbier we got them into the house. The resulting flames were spectacular. I only wish we had peat or some equivalent, so I could keep it going in the morning. Oh or an AGA. I would love an AGA.

My people have rosy red cheeks that are dry and arid from the cold. Forget fancy face creams, I ended up with a huge jar of Vaseline (I felt myself having to explain to the pharmacist why I wanted it before realising that his mind probably wasn’t racing to the same conclusions as mine). Now I smother these little faces in shiny goop and it seems to do the trick. I feel horrible about leaving them at school in this weather while I sit in my warm office with the heater blowing on my feet. I know when I collect them I’ll have to turn the heater up just to be able to defrost them enough to give them hug without breaking them in two.

One last note on the weather, a quote from my beloved father:
“As cold as charity and that’s pretty glum.
As cold as the hairs on a polar bear’s bum.”
I think that pretty much says it all.

My spouse after a few set backs is now in Ghana enjoying semi tropical heat. Pah! Compromising on a complicated car exchange scheme I set off to drop said husband at the Gautrain station on Monday afternoon. I waved him off and did the inevitable school run. I despise listening to people blurb on the radio so it was a rare occurrence for me to actually listen to a traffic report that predicted ominous delays. I usually don’t because let’s face it I have to go home anyway.

I collected said sprogs and feeling unusually magnanimous I offered to treat them to dinner from KFC. Just as we were about to tuck into our clandestine feast who should call but the father of my children. Turns out SAA likes to make an extra buck wherever they can.

Let me break it down:
Say there are 200 seats on a plane, SAA will sell 250 tickets at full price.
On the day all 250 people may rock up or not.
Assume 50 don’t.
They don’t get a refund and SAA gets 50 extra tickets cash in the hand.
Now what happens when all 250 people rock up?
Chaos, murder and insanity.

Stewardess: “We are terribly sorry that the flight was so overbooked, sir. We’d like to make it up to with a ticket to somewhere you’ve never wanted to go. And because we are so sorry you can go by yourself and stay there forever, because the flight is only one way.”

So, not only do they screw up his flight, his meetings and my chick flick marathon, but they then offer a consolation prize that can only result in more money being spent on their airline going to waardiehekisekfontein! The bizarre thing is that they think its perfectly reasonable and even added on a 20% discount if I wanted to join him on his flight to nowhere. Perhaps I’m the crazy one, but I don’t think it’s much of an apology. Some extra Voyager Miles now that would have been fine, or an upgrade to Business Class on the flight the following day – something real.

Just did the trek downstairs and into the Arctic for a quick smoke. Come tomorrow I am fishing out Small girl aged 5’s pink earmuffs and damn fashion, I’m going to wear them.

Tarzan and Geek Girl

Spouse: “I love you.”
Me: “Why?”
Spouse: “Because you quote Star Wars before sex.”
When did I marry a cast member from Big Bang Theory? And what has eleven years of marriage done to me that I can quote from Star Wars, that I know there are only three Star Wars movies and those 2 sci-fi ones plus the last one that defies logic? I am afraid, very afraid.

I was also very afraid of yet another parent-teacher stand-off this morning at the lovely hour of 7am. I am not compus mentis at 7am, I doubt I could tell you my name yet alone what day of the week it is. My stomach knotted in terror I was ushered into a beautiful office as befitting a headmaster and met a lovely group of people all who think my oldest son is wonderful, and most importantly, normal. We agreed that his biggest challenge is a fear of failure and he will see the school psychologist to learn some coping skills. We also have to lay off the stress and provide him with routine and structure.

The headmaster is an empathetic and intelligent man. Beautifully dressed, which matters to me, and has a huge glass bottle of suckers and chocolates in the middle of his desk. The boys must love coming to his office. We got to sit on real chairs, for grown-ups. All that was missing was a cup of coffee, the welcoming aroma of which permeated the air making me salivate.

Now all that remains is to convince the Pre-Prep that my younger son needs the same approach. Feminist liberal that I am it galls to me to say it, but what he needs is a man. I think I may ask the priest to read with him for half an hour a week. Small Boy aged 6 responds to male authority. I suppose a bit like a pitbull.

The weekend was spent between birthday parties, of children we actually know thank heavens, and the Great Wendy House Construction. Emmarentia Dam was the locale of party number one for Small Girl turning 2 aka Emma. Huh. I wonder if that’s why they chose the dam? Funny. The boys and I were happily feeding the ducks when I spied something moving through the water. It looked like an eel about a meter long. Slowly, it dawned on me that it was not an eel, it was a tail, and the tail was attached to a body. It was not a fish. Nothing that disgusting and pre-evolutionary could be called a fish. It inhaled a entire cupcake as though it were a crumb.

I am always surprised by the ducks at the dam. During the week they’ll eat just about anything you chuck at them. On Saturdays they’re slightly more discriminating. On Sundays they’ll watch a entire government loaf sink. They hold out on Sundays for the housewives who descend with leftover kitka and sourdough. They won’t even touch a croissant, far to pedestrian for the likes of them.

The second party of the weekend was a Aerobranch in Melrose, a new sort of tree canopy tour thing. Upon arrival my husband took advantage of the emptiness of the host’s gas bottle to disappear to Builders Warehouse, his mecca, for a good two hours. This left me to train and spot two small boys climbing and swinging through the forestry. It was a bit tight on the old nerves, but they got the hang of it quick enough and took to it fearlessly. Testosterone, which I often feel must be a terrible challenge to live with, obviously is an advantage in these types of situation where all logical reasoning yells at you to keep your feet on terra firma. Speaking of the dreaded hormone, a father there told me that men don’t only think about sex. Apparently they think about sex, food and sleep in equal measure. This is why they eat a burger, burp, get action and then fall into snoring somnambulant grace. A beautiful thing is a man.

The Great Wendy House Construction continues apace and I learnt a thing or two over the weekend about DIY. First off, a spray gun for painting is a necessity and brushes should go the way of the sabre-toothed tiger – into the history books. Secondly, a facemask a la WW1 trench warfare is equally as important or you end up with painted nostrils and coughing up great chunks of pale pink paint. Finally, and most importantly, don’t just take the word of the salesman at Builders Warehouse that your roof paint should be mixed with turps or thinners. Despite all training to the contrary, read the instructions on the tin first. When you have a water-based paint and you add thinners to it, a weird chemical reaction starts. First of all it curdles like sour milk and then promptly forms a sort of rubbery concrete-like oatmeal ooze that is impossible to clean out of a spray gun nozzle and looks utterly revolting. Regardless of this little learning curve the construction is now beautifully pink and its roof fitting seamlessly a dark gray. Small Girl aged 5 does not the roof grey, she wants each roof strip to be a different primary colour - a sort of rainbow migraine like effect. Tough luck sweetheart.

Spouse is off into deepest, darkest Africa again today, back to Ghana. I did not pack his suitcase, but I do know that most of it is taken up with Maggi 2 minute noodles – his attempt to avoid a recurrence of the Great Nigerian Dysentery Disaster. With no day off in the middle of this week it stretches ahead a terrible expanse of days. My mother has yet to return from the Holy Land so I hope she wasn’t caught up in a localised version of that American’s attempt to predict Armageddon. I feel a little lost without her nearby and have taken to leaving long-winded messages on her mobile. My father in another long-distance call pointed out that she can’t read SMSes or figure out how to listen to her voicemail on the most stupid phone ever sold (some kind of Sony Ericsson), so my pleas are just being sent to the ether. ET phone home!

I missed my doctor’s appointment this morning more by accident than design, although I can’t deny a string subconscious urge to run in the opposite direction. I guess it’s not that subconscious then. I have a deep dislike of being poked and prodded with as much sensitivity as a mechanic shows the engine of pale blue Ford Sierra.

This early morning activity has quite worn me out. Three cups of tea later and I’m still leaning towards a nap. A power nap. A short nap. Forty winks. Mmmm.

The lie and the cover up.

The freedom of the press in enshrined in our very progressive constitution. However, words on paper, are just that, words. Without action they mean nothing. Today I read with great sadness that South African photographer, Anton Hammerl, was shot dead in Libya fighting his own war, to bring the truth to the world.

What is even more horrific is that he was shot on April 5 and Libya has maintained the lie that he was alive all this time. Worse than that, so did the South African government. Claiming to have been misquoted at this point, weeks after the quote was printed simply does not ring true.

With their hatred of the press, the ANC has taken another step back into the dark ages of the National Party. They used this man’s horror, his family’s grief, to create spin for their election campaign. Look how caring we are. Look how we support our people. Together we’ll send you up the creek without a paddle. Then we’ll stand on the bank and watch you sink.

It seems very coincidental to me that the news of Anton’s death breaks the very day after the local elections. How odd. How serendipitous.

I haven’t been following the result of the elections. I voted, despite the belief that nothing will change. The Jukskei will still stink with effluent, the sewerage in Buccleuch will overflow into my garden and I’ll still spend most of the night in utter darkness thanks to Eskom’s ineptitude.

I believe that the most dangerous men (and women) are zealots. No matter what side of the fence they sit on, zealots are beyond rational thought. It seems to me that our ruling parties is not only made up of zealots with over-developed God complexes, but is worshipped by its followers. They are not a political party. They are a religion. The thing about religion is faith. Faith means you don’t ask questions. It means you don’t follow common sense. It means you do what you told. With a vote for the ANC getting you a pass through the pearly gates, we’ve got Zuma as God and JuJu as the prodigal son. May God help us all.

A million gazillion dollars

Me: “What would you do if you had a million gazillion dollars?”
Small boy aged 6: “Well, first I would have to work for it as a fireman. Then I’d buy myself a fireman’s helmet, buy you a dishwasher and then give the money I didn’t need to people who don’t have any.”
I’ve lived with him all his life and yet he can still leave me speechless.

There really is no good reason to be unhappy around him. As my colleague, Diksha Kara, says, “Just make your mind to be happy today. If something bad happens deal with it and move on.” The thing is I don’t trust people who are happy all the time. They seem like the types who one day will just go postal. And when I am depressed, I like to wallow in it for a bit before coming out of the funk. Still, I am giving the happy philosophy a shot today.

The kids and I enjoyed a productive voting day yesterday. We decided to get going on The Great Wendy House Construction to surprise our lord and master who is away. We prepped and painted walls and roof slats. The boys loved filling in the holes in the wood with putty, and Lexi and I painted the window frame a bright bubblegum pink. The clouds rolled in about then and thunder rumbled ominously, so I began the great clean up operation from which my skin will likely never recover from.

The truth behind my joy in this physical enterprise is that before the back operation I would never have been able to do it. In celebration I am wearing my first pair of high heels in over a year to work today. My feet are screaming, but my back is perfect!

I did make my mark at the elections, but I applied the knowledge learnt in previous years. For some reason most people rush off at sparrow’s tweet to stand in the freezing cold in long queues. I can’t understand this. I wait as late as possible and then meander my way up to the school. I got there about 15:30 and was the only person in the whole place. It was much better organised than in the past, although I must say smiles and good manners were scarce on the ground. The IEC bunch were a surly lot and the only brevity was the super happy car guard in an ANC election t-shirt. Dick, from Dick’s Jumbo Rolls, apparently did a roaring trade on wors rolls despite his dodgy name, and the police looked unutterably bored as though they were a little disappointed the residents of Buccleuch hadn’t tried to riot. What with the remains of lollipop pink paint, grey roof paint and the black spot of voting, my hands look as though I have some foul and contagious form of leprosy.

Spouse and I are contemplating a move into deepest darkest Africa, perhaps Kenya, Senegal or Ghana. I think we need to get out of this city and I believe that the more cultures children are exposed to the better adults they make. Also, I’d enjoy a change of scenery and a change of pace. Our parents are getting older and if we don’t take the opportunity now while they are still independent, it will soon be gone. Realising that I am reaching the age where I am becoming responsible for my parents is a harsh awakening. I want to see a little more of the world, live a little dangerously and learn to speak another language. I want my kids to see gorillas in the mist and the migration of the antelope across the Serengeti. The only barrier to all this is psychological. My spouse’s employer does not like the wives of their employees on assignment to work. I think I can overcome this. I’d like to study some more. And maybe I’ll finally finish that blasted book.

A smile says more than a finger.

 

The Sandton Chronicle kindly printed out an overview of the candidates for the local government elections on Wednesday. The sad thing is that I am looking more forward to a day off than I am excited about the chance to change things in my neighbourhood. Perhaps my cynicism is not politically correct, at worst it is defeatist at best realist. Do I think that any of these people can actually do anything about the stench of the Juksei or any service delivery issues? No.

 

Regardless of this attitude I read the candidates' answers quite carefully. During the course of working on an aspect of this election I have been made aware that people do not vote on sentiment, but will tend to vote as they have in the past. My DA councilor is 27 years old and is an IT project manager. He looks very sweet and utterly incapable of taking on the city council or even, in fact, a rabid daschund. He's totally given up on the city council and plans to get other people in the community to do the job we pay taxes for. I am sure that if I needed someone to reformat my hard drive he's be on my speed dial. The ANC prospect will dedicate his term to talking – a lot. Talking to the council. Talking to the people. Blah, blah, blah. I am sick to death of talking. As is everyone else. How about some old fashioned action? The Freedom Front chap offered the most intelligent solutions. The only thing standing against him is his party. Although I believe he'll do the best job of the bad bunch I can't align myself against a lifetime of conditioning against a party that seems to be the new evolution of the AWB. So, I am stuck between a rock and hard place, and will have to walk around with purple fingers for a week. Voting is not easy on a French manicure.

 

As an English speaking, white South African, I often myself feeling a little culturally divorced. Unlike the Greek and Italian communities, there isn't really one for the descendants of the 1820 settlers. I hadn't realised how much this affected me until I persuaded the family to come with me to Celtic Fest in Modderfontein this weekend. First of, Modderfontein is an incredibly unspoilt and beautiful area that I never knew existed. It offers kilometers of cycling track, great facilities for events and a beautiful space to picnic and relax. The Celtic Fest spoke to the Scot in me. It was lovely to see small girls dancing the Highland Fling and everyone in the clan colours. Small girl aged 5 wore my Bruce tartan very proudly. Our friend plays in the Transvaal Scottish Pipe Band and it was spectacular to see the bands belt out the tunes I grew up on long road trips with my father. Code Red was undoubtedly the highlight of the bands. This drum ensemble is the first non-military drum band to play in Red Square, Moscow. The showmanship and seamless teamwork make them a perfect choice for events (Call Anthony – 082 412 5101). We headed home before the mass bands, but not without stopping to watch the broadsword fighting first. Real warriors still exist and the sight of a man wielding a broadsword with muscles rippling is not to be sneered at. One explained to me that they were using wooden swords despite the fact that they practice with steel. This is because the steel does result in blood and gore. In fact last year one of the men was stabbed in the eye and almost lost it. I like the realism of the sport. Perhaps I could heft a broadsword? Hmmm. If you have even a drop of Scottish heritage make a plan to visit the next one at De La Sol school in two weeks time. I went home whistling Scotland the Brave.

 

Or I would have gone home whistling Scotland the Brave if Bella the Kombi had not decided to die as we left the Celtic Fest. Testosterone must be a terrible burden to bear and challenge to live with.

Me: "Should I call someone?"

Him: "No."

Me: "You know I belong to the AA?"

Him: "Shut up and let me fix it."

I chose the path of prudence and closed my mouth. An hour passed and we moved about 100 meters up the road.

Me: "Perhaps I could call someone?"

Him: "And what would you say?"

Me: "I'd ask for a lift home, collect the other car and bring it back so we can tow Bella home."

Silence. Time passed.

Him: "Fine."

Me: "What?"

Him: "Phone."

 

So I did. I called our kilt wearing, bag pipe playing friend and begged. It takes a real man to wear a kilt, but as there is a Queen on the throne at least he wasn't going commando. Well he rode to our rescue and off we went. Thank god he offered to wait while I collected the rope and the car, because, guess what? Spouse had the car keys back on the side of the road. Embarrassing much? By the time we got back to where we'd left sweet Bella, she was gone. Shock and horror. I had spouse's cellphone. We retraced our route. At last we spotted her about 50 m further on. Now, here is an interesting insight in to the male psyche. A woman can't suggest we call the AA. Another manly man can. I wanted to scream my frustration. The AA said about 2 hours and at least an hour for a security guard. The Scotsman roped up my 1976 classic to his shiny AA Quattro and towed us home. We were back for 45 minutes before the AA called to say they hadn't sent a truck yet. So, Steve you are my hero. Thank you for getting us home. I owe you a bottle of some obscenely expensive whiskey.

 

During the day I had a chat about my school woes. Apparently there are government schools that cater exclusively to children who can't fit in to mainstream schooling. Unfortunately, this includes any child with obedience issues, ADD and everything else. Remedial schools can help bridge educational gaps, but are socially devastating for the children involved. Funnily enough the school sent out a newsletter saying that friends are more important than anything else. The saga continues. One saga that is ongoing, but quickly nearing its end is the Great Wendy House Construction. The roof is now on, the paint is on coat one. Now we just have to do the insulation and put in the mezzanine floor. Yes, a mezzanine floor and a bay window. Once done it'll be an architectural wonder. I even braved the hallowed masculine halls of Builders Warehouse for the pale pink paint.

 

I'm writing this keeping an ear on the meeting I'm in. We're trying to get South Africans to become active citizens and do something small to make a difference. So, whether you live in South Africa or have departed for greener pastures, keep an eye out in June for something you can get involved in. (www.southafrica.info). Sometimes we need reminding about what a great country we live in and how much a single person can do. So, put on your big girl panties and clear out your wardrobe. Give an old jersey to a homeless guy you pass on your way home. Drop off your old magazines at the hospital. Small stuff that can make a huge difference in someone else's life. That's what Ubuntu is about. Hell, it is as simple as giving the beggar at your window a smile instead of the finger. There but for the grace of god go I and so on.

 

It's just been raised that women fall under the Department of Women, Children and People with Disabilities. This raises a tsunami of ire within me. It classes us all as second or third class citizens. I am a woman, not a child and my sex is not a disability. Men don't have a department looking fater their interests. This is because they are regarded as able to look after themselves, unlike me as a mere female. Bugger that.

 

This week I am single parenting, while my spouse embarks on another journey into deepest, darkest Africa. Ghana this time. No more extra hour to snooze in the morning. But, at least I can put the electric blanket on as a fait accompli. Sadly it coincides with my mother going off on a journey through Israel so it's all up to me. Please don't let the children's sniffles bloom into full blown flu. Please don't let the car break down. Please don't let my client suddenly wake up to her deadlines. Please let everything go as smooth as shave from Gillette.

 

 

 

 

 

John Wayne and the Sidewalk Showdown

John Wayne ain’t got nothing on me. I had to go to gynae (shudder here with horror) yesterday. Of course I didn’t phone before I go there and some woman chose my appointment to go into labour. Honestly, how selfish is that! So the horror was postponed a few hours much to my relief. The good news is I don’t have cancer and am revoltingly fertile. I don’t whether to be proud of my body’s biological imperative to breed or mildly ashamed. Regardless I am glad my spouse agreed to be snipped. Not that it was without its challenges.

Spouse: “But, you can’t serious, it’s so invasive!”
Me: “You want invasive!” voice now tinged with hysteria, “You want invasive? Try natural childbirth three times and I’ll give you @#$%* invasive!”

The bad news is that my uber-fertile ovaries have mass produced ova and refuse to suck them back again so I have a bleeding cyst on one – the source of the acute pain that led me to the Sunninghill ER in my pantoffels during the Royal Wedding. And now for the really bad news, I have to face the doc again in 6 weeks! Horror.

Admittedly, Dr Mseleku at the Parklane is a dream of a gynae. She is beautiful, well spoken and… how can I put this without sounding sexist… um, I can’t… she a woman. My previous one was the very same who delivered me unto this world almost 35 years ago. He has an eye that doesn’t work, so it stares unblinking and blindly at you while he performs mediaeval torture with a pair of braai tongs down below. Also I think he is the far side of 80. Malepule didn’t try to book me a Caesar to fit in her golf game when I was pregnant and gave me an enormous amount of support in my desire to have home births. Basically she tries to make the whole procedure as comfortable as possible, which let’s face it isn’t.

Today’s challenge: Buy soccer boots, shin pads, school socks and assorted soccer gear and deliver to Small boy aged 9 before match. It was a mad whirlwind rush and as usual me in a sports shop fills me with dread. I know people can see the neon sign on my head saying, “Sportphobe!” I feel more out of place in the Adidas store than in Builders Warehouse. That’s saying something. And yes, I went to Adidas because it is in the Mall and close to work. The shoes are divine – called Predators! Awesome, they should give my chap some confidence.

Next stop was the school swap shop run by scary PTA mothers. Of course I couldn’t escape with just the socks. Oh no, that would be too easy! I had to agree to scarves too and narrowly avoided having to purchase braai tongs with a built in torch and a toolkit. It was worse than going for a facial. By the time I rushed through hallowed halls of learning in search of my son I was retail wreck. Do you know they lock the little buggers up in there? Do they think they’ll riot or try to escape? I have no idea, but it makes finding your son in that warren an absolute nightmare. Still Small boy will be kitted out in time for his match against KES. I just hope mhe makes it home alive, I’ve heard things about KES boys.

It occurred to us as parental providers of exorbitant school fees this morning that we could hire a fulltime teacher to educate our children at home to the UK syllabus with individual attention for less than we pay now. Private schooling here in sunny South Africa, is not a luxury it is an absolute necessity. The fact that no government minister would send their child to a public school says it all. They educate to the lowest common denominator. So as parent you just have to find a way to afford education even to the point of funding Olympic size water polo pools.

I have a theory about all this. I think our new government has learnt from the old Apartheid Boys. Education gets people thinking. Thinking leads to questions. And no-one wants to answer those. So while the elite get fatter and richer, the poor get leaner and poorer with no way out. Let’s face it they want everyone to believe the blither and blather they spout as Gospel truth. Our President tells them that voting for him will get them into heaven! What has he got an All Access Pass to the Great Almighty? Then again they planed acres of porcelain loos across the fields so maybe he has a dedicated line to the Pearly Gates.

I almost forgot my morning’s most exciting episode, which given the state of my life is not saying much. Sitting in the morning traffic at the corner of Glenhove and Oxford Road I was just puffing away on my smoke, chatting to the newspaper seller and bopping a bit to Kid Rock when all of sudden… bah, bah BAH!

Two men one with a half brick and one with a bit of pipe launched into the traffic. As this took place directly in front of my car I had a ring side view of the action. Brick Man was livid with rage and determined to beat the hell of Pipe Man. Pipe Man was perfectly happy to oblige.

Pipe Man’s Sidekick tried to defuse the situation and managed to get Pipe Man to turn back to the sidewalk. Brick Man cracked and let fly the half brick. I followed the trajectory with slow motion tracking as it narrowly missed my windshield and paintjob. It nailed Pipe Man right on the noggin. Once he had regained his footing, Pipe Man was ready to unleash the monster within.

For a moment, a split second, I debated getting out the car and telling everyone to chill out and have a smoke. Then I realised it was stupid white girl thing to do. By the time I got round the corner the little melee had attracted quite a crowd, taxi drivers and their passengers, the entire construction crew of the Gautrain station and other odd passers by. No-one seemed inclined to interfere much, so I let them get on with it and went to work.

After that work seemed positively normal.

So long and thanks for all the fish

The fish are gone. Is it a prelude to Armageddon or a space super highway or just a hungry heron? I don’t have the answer, all I know is an entire school of fish disappeared overnight. A school of fish I was quite proud of actually. I can’t grow plants. I can’t train my dogs. But, I can and I did achieve success with my fish.

I know they were there on Friday, because when they saw the light come on in the kitchen they swarmed to the side for their daily dose of overpriced fish food. On Saturday there were none. I hope they give that heron indigestion.

A short skirt, a long jacket and a pump action shotgun

There is little so humbling than a handmade Mothers’ Day card from a firstborn son. Mine is not given to outpourings of emotion and his age has reduced gestures of affection to hair ruffles and bedtime hugs. So, the card I received on Sunday morning felt like the first ray of sunshine after a storm. It was a Mothers’ Day poem and it was beautiful. I will keep for the rest of my life. My second son built me an elaborate Lego tower that took hours of intricate engineering and design and my sweet daughter gave me a heart penholder with a pink pen.

After a Saturday spent in the rain at the school soccer festival Sunday morning was blessedly relaxed. Note to husband: Please call the groundsman and ask about the desk and lockers lying rusting on the field. I though about just popping them in the car and making tracks, but thought that might be a bad example to set.

The soccer was way more stressful than the 2010 FIFA World Cup™ final. My son’s team was lucky to have one extremely talented player, Camille, who scored so many goals I lost count. Then just as I was damply coming to terms with the fact that my son was not sportsman, he scored a goal! I jumped up and down like a crazy person it was so fantastic. The goalie and opposition were so busy marking Camille no plaid attention to the skinny white boy sneaking in a goal. I was so damn proud!

The reason I was there in the first place was the result of an SMS received on Friday morning: “Please will you serve tea at the soccer.” Needless to say, this innocuous seeming message struck terror into my soul. You see, I’ve managed pretty successfully to avoid this for four years largely because full time employment does not allow you to cover books in the library or work the tuckshop. Sometimes I wonder if I work more to avoid these duties than anything else.

Regardless, the SMS forced my guilt to raise it’s horrible head and before I’d had time to apply some logic and high level reasoning to the situation I had messaged back, “Yes”. Immediately my spouse and colleagues made me aware of my error in judgement. When it comes to the PTA you can never show weakness. Once you’ve agreed once, that’s it; you’ll be pouring tea at every function from now until the end of Matric.

As I trudged soggily across the field to do my tea pouring I met another mother sloshing in the same direction. After a second or two I realised that I had found a common soul. Neither of us wanted to do it, but both felt guilty that we’d never done anything else and both were terrified that we might have to take money and work out people’s change. There is a reason we’ve steered clear of this sort of thing in the past. We had both fallen prey to the Invisible Mom. The one who volunteers for everything and bakes and all that 1950s stuff. She isn’t real, but she terrifies us anyway.

Small boy aged 9 may not be the next David Beckham, but he was taken to the shooting range and proceeded to make me think he may be the next SAS sharp shooter. He is very good, so his father’s genes are giving him some sporting prowess even if it is not in mainstream team sports. I finally voiced my long time Columbine Fantasy, which my spouse and father-in-law are scheming to make come true. No, I am not going walk into the hallowed halls of my son’s school and last them all to kingdom come, although the thought has occurred. I am going to wear a short skirt and long jacket (leather), saunter into a room at the shooting range, bring up the pump action shotgun concealed under my billowing coat and blast the hell out of make believe terrorists. I can’t wait!

I have spent much time over the last 48 hours debating the whole dyslexia situation. I realise logically that I am not to blame. I didn’t drink, smoke or shoot up during my pregnancy. I may have drunk carbonated soft drinks, but I don’t think that results in brain damage. I have to make a concerted effort not to take any comments as a personal judgement on my mothering skills, but I am dreading the upcoming school meeting that will result in a litany of my sins, top of the list being employed. I am just going to have to put on my Big Girl panties and suck it up. As a result though I have decided it is time to finish the 6 or so novels I have started writing and see if I can’t make something out of the drivel that pours from my fingertips.

Egbok. Even when it doesn't seem like it.

Vrrrrrrrr - that is the sound of me rewinding this day and starting it over or just erasing it completely. Someone get me that universal remote thing from the movie I never saw. Oooh – or Hermione Granger’s egg timer. Yeah, one of those. Barring that just knock me on the head and give me a day’s worth of retrograde amnesia a la Days of our Lives.

Okay, so it’s just been one of those days. I went back to hospital this morning for a follow-up from my emergency room visit last week. Apparently the stomach pain was a side effect from the back operation and all my insides getting messed around. The cyst they found has doubled in size since last week and is now haemorrhaging hence the continual pain. Now I have to face my worst doctor ever… the gynae. Just the word makes me shiver.

I limped dejectedly back to the car to find it afloat in a sea of oil. Perhaps that is a slight exaggeration but it seemed sweet Bella has sympathetic symptoms and is haemorrhaging oil. At least I think that disgusting brown ooze is oil. I was told to stay put and await rescue. Thankful for Bella’s roomy interior I curled up for a nap, which was promptly interrupted by my colleague having a badly timed meltdown. Understandable? Absolutely. Could I do anything about it? No.

By now of course I have got to the office sorted out his hysteria and am contemplating a cup of hot sweet tea before calling the dreaded gynae. It’s so long since I saw her I have no idea if she still exists and I am not going back to the one who delivered me 34 odd years ago and has a gammy eye that stares eerily at you.

That however is not the end of this list of woes. My beloved eldest son has been diagnosed with dyslexia. I wish I could leave my job and fetch him from school and help him everyday, but I have to pay off crippling medical bills. I don’t know want to do. Should I take him out of his high-pressured academic school and send him to a school designed to help and empower him? Is his schopl the right choice for him or me? Am I forcing him to live up to his parents’ legacy instead of treating him as a special and unique individual who might grow so much stronger in another environment? And where is another environment? If I do send him to another school would he live through life with the stigma of a remedial school? Would it matter if it made him stronger, happier and more equipped to handle the world? And whose stigma is it anyway? And do they even matter? By the time he graduates no-one will give a damn and it’s not like every matriculant from a private school goes on to guaranteed success – some end up second hand car salesmen. My heart just bleeds for him and I want to make it easier for him. Any ideas?

The weather mirrors my narcissistic selfish state of mind. I want to wallow like a hippo in a warm bath of mud. Now that I’ve vented into the abyss of cyberspace I feel slightly better although I’d rather go home, have a hot bath and sleep then face the rest of this day. I lie. I want to rush over to school pick my son; hold him close and take him to school that will appreciate him.

I think I've had my quote of bad things today. can you send over some good ones to balance it out? Like a lottery win of a million dollars?

Fush

Whoever said school days are the happiest days of your life must have been insane. First off because getting up at sparrow’s fart cannot make anyone happy unless they getting up to catch a flight to the Caribbean. Even though my school days are far behind me watching my children suffer the same ignominy has brought back many of the feelings of sheer helplessness and impotence.

The first day of school was survived by all. Just. So it was great to see their friends. Small boy aged 9 got in trouble for missing a choir session on the day I was released from hospital. Not just a stern talking to, but ritual public humiliation. Breaking my child’s spirit for something out of his control fills me with ire. Father went this morning and read them their fortunes.

My school mornings were fraught with panic that I would be late, which I inevitably was. I’d be hauled up in front of the school and “made an example of”. It didn’t matter that I tried to get my mother’s breakfast ready early, pack the car for her and turn on the engine to warm it up. The fact that I didn’t drag her into the car at gunpoint and force her to leave made me a weak and spineless child. As a result (combined with the inevitable horror of swimming lessons) as I watched the clock tick later and later I’d end up throwing up all over her car. I am damned if my children will suffer the same.

Small girl aged 5 has a new teacher. She doesn’t look old enough to drive let alone vote. How weirdly ageist and judgemental I have become. Still, I hope that under those blond bangs and innocent demeanour is a spine of steel. My daughter can sniff out weakness and exploit it in a fraction of a second. She already tried the crocodile tears yesterday and I saw her watching keenly under her lashes to ascertain the reaction. The teacher seems very sweet and hails for Durban. Small girl’s father spent a happy few minutes this morning trying to get her to say “Fush”. He arrived back home energised from the encounter.

Small boy aged 9 didn’t tell anyone about his motorbike because he didn’t think anyone would believe him. Small boy aged 6 seemed to be the only one who took everything in his stride. Thank god for small mercies. The upshot is I arrived home last night exhausted from day 2 at work to find Small girl tearstained and distraught, her oldest brother lying in the bath like a beached whale drowning himself in sulks and small boy aged 6 watching TV in an exhausted state of near coma. Small boy aged 9 had a migraine, my unfortunate legacy, and once happily drugged into sleep took over my kingsize bed. Coupled with books that have to covered (necessitating a trip to Carlos at the Spar for plastic wrap), school lunches and bag packing I ended up dreaming about school all night long.

The sound of the alarm going off in the darkness this morning did not fill me with sweet joy. I took a page from Small girl aged 5’s book and batted my eyelashes at her father who kindly did the school run so I could collapse back into my own bed for one more blessed hour’s sleep. I did achieve one thing yesterday in terms of maternal duty. Small girl aged 5 informed me that she has no desire to follow in my footsteps and go to Roedean, but rather she wants to go with her best friend to Auckland Park Primary. I duly went over and completed an application form that will no doubt go nowhere. The fact that the action was largely futile is irrelevant, at least I can tell her I tried.

My colleague is currently cutting out about two hundred Minnie Mouse’s for her niece’s 1st birthday as well as creating 50 odd colouring in books. The birthday is about 3 weeks time. My son’s birthday was last week and I have yet to even harbour thoughts about the party, which has morphed into an afternoon with some pals riding his bike. Yippee. I can handle that.

Damnation, my boss has given me the evil eye about time sheets again. I guess it time to fire up those creative juices and get imaginative.

Yay! Auckland Park Primary just called to offer Small girl an assessment! Is her happiness worth an extra 45 minute commute? Maybe the boys can take the bus.

The birth of the MX monster

Go left! No, right! This offramp! You should have turned off back there. OMG! By the time we arrived at our destination I was utterly exhausted. I have no idea how my husband’s family ever gets anywhere. Backseat drivers! Open the window. Close the window. After everyone had disembarked I turned to my spouse and asked about his state of general sanity. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, “I tuned them out just after we left home. The trick is to do the opposite of whatever direction they give.”

The destination was the Rand Easter Show. I am not sure it is really is much smaller and dinkier then I remember, but I seem to recall having to take the monorail to get from end to the other. Not anymore, its like Santarama or miniland.

The only thing worth seeing was the SANDF display. I rode on a tank, I shot a rifle, I got a troepie to teach my boys how to fold their clothes and I got to sit in the cockpit of a Rooivalk helicopter. It was very cool. Small boy recently turned 9 would like to join the Special Forces. Small boy aged 6 is torn between the medics and the airforce and Small girl aged 5 wants to join whatever will allow her to shoot the pink and purple rounds. She was so impressed by the colour coordination that she went up to a soldier and complimented him on having different colours for boys and girls. I think he was totally nonplussed.

The rest of the show was like trip into Carnivale. The funfair, which I swear used to have a massive rollercoaster in my youth, was creepy and had a teeny tiny little coaster with no rollers. However, the offspring loved every moment of it. So it was worth it. Oh, and I finally got to see the Calabash Stadium. From the outside. My sons got to play soccer with David Beckham there and they don’t even know or care who he is! The unfairness of it all…

The upshot of the Rand Show trip was that Small boy about to turn 9 chose his birthday present and so on the day of his birth we trekked off en famille to Linux Yamaha in Randburg. The look of sheer joy on his face just about managed to quell the violent nausea at the price and a future of trips to the ER ahead of me. He is now the proud owner of a Yamaha 110 scrambler. The two salesmen were bursting with joy and male camaraderie at the prospect of initiating a new man into the hall of manliness. It took forever, but we left with the bike, a helmet that makes Small boy look like a space invader and a series of funky and largely inappropriate decals to put on my kombi (chosen to shock and dismay the PTA).

“Don’t worry,” drawled the sales oke, “He’ll be riding it first gear for about a year.” Not a bloody chance. We picked up his friend and hit the park, fifteen minutes later he was pushing 60 km/hr and working the gears like he was born to it. An hour later and he was standing up ramping the bumps. I have created a monster MX man. Of course I got a go. It was totally awesome! I can’t believe I still know how to ride a bike and the goofy grin that plastered on my face wouldn’t move for hours afterwards. Now I just need a Yamaha 125 for me and I’ll be good to go.

Of course the past week has not been all fun and games. Halfway through the Royal Wedding, which I have been looking forward to like a soap opera junkie, I had to go to hospital. Now if you are a man you may want to stop here, but then again if you haven’t come to terms with how the female body works yet, you have no business going near one. I missed the wedding but gained an ovarian cyst that hurt like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and ruined my day. What the hell? Is my stomach destined to look like a patchwork quilt? I’ll be the Bride of Frankenstein (Note to spouse: this does not reflect on you). I have to return for another invasive exam on Friday as the powers that be in white coats think about what to do about it.

Once they had medicated the pain away, which took a while given that they couldn’t find a vein and punched holes all over my arm, I just began to feel rather stupid and wanted to go home. But no! Once they’ve got you they won’t let you go. So, there I was in my fluffy slippers and my jammies feeling like a right tart.

My spouse went off to the cafeteria and came back with a Bike SA magazine. He then proceeded to laugh uproariously at the Biker Chicks, an admittedly very weird ad for the some Christian Biker Gang of two bearded men with tears running down their faces and another odd personals ad for the return of a missing biker’s body. And guess who was in the cubicle next door? A tattooed biker with an Eagle on his back and his equally tattooed chick. Did they hear his commentary? Oh yeah. I think had we not been in the ER she would have flattened me. But who in their right mind is going to take on a woman in fluffy slippers? My spouse was unrepentant. I think he may have forgotten the days when I was the bitch on the back.

As for the Royal Wedding, my dad is going to send me a DVD and a mug, and I made up for it by watching Serial Killer Sunday on the CI channel.

Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. Whatever.

Whatever happened to ZeeBee? Zip it in a Zeebee?

It’s all very well going on about saving the world and so on, but since the municipal garbage people are on strike for more money I am drowning in rubbish. I can’t drive anywhere so I can’t take my recycling to the dump. Which by the way is a disgusting experience and I have no confidence whatsoever that anything there actually gets recycled. My kitchen is taken over with dustbins for everything under the bloody sun and there is no room for anything else.

It turns out that if you are lucky enough to live in Westdene or Melville, some enterprising little person gives you one extra bin for all your recyclables and takes them away and sorts the for you. Yippee. So, I got online and have discovered that even in Buccleuch, the neighbourhood time forgot, you can get your recycling taken away. I am signing up immediately.

What is means is that I only need 2 bins instead on 4, but that I now have to remember that Fridays is for general garbage, Tuesdays is for paper and whatever other day is for recycling. I’ll be hauling stuff up the driveway every bloody morning.

Whole Earth (www.wholeearth.co.za) charges you R500 for a new bin and R80 a month to pick up your stuff. You just have to get up early enough to put in the driveway before 07:30. Mama Shes (www.wasterecyclers.co.za) is slightly cheaper – you don’t have to buy a bin, they give you special bin bags, you pay R100 to register and then R45 a month afterwards.

It’s easy to the save the world when I can pay someone else to make it easy for me. Should I feel terrible about it? No. It’s created a wonderful opportunity for someone to make a fortune and saves me a lot of time, trouble and child-induced guilt.

From Battersea to Bryanston

Time: BC – Before Caffeine
Small boy aged 9: “Mom! Phone!”
Me: “Unhunh?”
Phone (Chirpy): “Hey there, it’s me!”
Me: “Unhunh?”
Phone: “I think we have a bad line. I’ll call back.”
Me: “Unhunh.”

Once my first shot of caffeine has time to jumpstart my vocal chords and brain cells I actually am quite articulate despite all evidence to the contrary. The upshot of the garbled phone call was that my friend from New Zealand was on these not very sunny shores, and so I took the opportunity to take my first solo drive post-op to pay her a visit.

It was very Michael J Fox Back to the Future this drive back into the past. The last time we met was outside the Battersea Power Station a la Pink Floyd. I had a day old baby and we met in a gray pub on a gray day.

Now almost ten years later we meet in the same apartment complex she lived in when we were at school. It was a bit surreal. I was looking forward to seeing the old homestead complete with taxidermied leopard and a Black Eagle in the living room. Sadly, however, not everything remains the same and we met in the home of a family friend.

Friends are funny things. Some come and some go, and some no matter how long you haven’t seen them remain your friends. There’s that instant connection where the years fall away and your heart fills with recognition. Across the chasm of years and experiences the mother and the adventurer still managed to bridge the gap. I learnt a few things, that age is a great leveller, that we all face challenges that make us stronger, and that we all end up somewhere we need to be.

I have no doubt we both look older than we once were, but I couldn’t see it. She looked ethereally beautiful and I still felt a little gauche, but the sum total of our shared experiences far out way the years we’ve spent apart and time didn’t really seem to matter. I drove home several hours later lighter in heart and spirit with a strong desire to listen to Pink Floyd.

Cabin Fever

 

Cabin fever is defined as extreme irritability and/or restlessness caused by being confined indoors for an extended period of time. I am not suffering from it. The longer I spend in isolation the more I am enjoying it. I like being at home. I like watching bad sitcoms and stoner movies. I like reading my way through a library of murder mysteries. I like wearing pyjamas and not putting on make-up. I like sleeping when I want. I resent being forced to leave the warmth and safety of my home for the insanity of traffic, parking and shopping mall horror. I don't want to go out. I like it here.

 

My petulant whining did not work and my mother drove me off to some fancy mall in Morningside. I bought fish food. I tried on some boots, but as I can't afford the 16 grand to pay off my operation I can't justify spending 3 grand on butter soft black leather knee high boots either. Oh, but they were lovely. I wish I'd bought them. As it turned out there was no water at the mall, so the loos were Porta-potties in the parking lot and the overpriced froo-froo restaurant couldn't make tea or coffee. Initially I felt some pity for the waitresses dressed in hideous frilly aprons, but after experiencing their concept of service quickly deduced that they deserved such ghastly clothing and possibly more. This is why I like shopping online and Mr. Delivery. I don't have to interact with service droids. The best service I received from today's little excursion was from the cashier at the pet shop.

 

My world has sharply contracted to my four walls and roof. Time passes in terms of the books I read and the passing of the sun. I am now allowed to sit up for 30 minutes and spend 10 minutes walking at a time. The sitting up is the hard part. Perhaps my centre of gravity has changed, because standing or lying is much better than sitting. As my nerves stretch sharp knifes stab at intervals up and down my legs and the nagging ache of pain never seems to recede. My friendly pharmacist sent me over some Synap Forte's yesterday, much to my eternal gratitude. I thought I'd feel better by now, but I don't really. My tummy looks horrible. My days of being naked in the light are officially over. Its full body swimming costumes and sex in the dark from now on. When it has healed a bit more I will get some talented graphic artist to design me a snake or something to cover it up. My belly button is skew! I have paid much attention to it before now, but now it is skew!

 

The father of my offspring is now taking them off to see a movie called Hop! Apparently it is about a bunny that poos chocolate jelly beans. How revolting. I am barely concealing my glee at a few hours of peace and quiet.

 

 

A stitch in time…

Things not to do when in post-op recovery: Watch Pauly Shore and laugh until your sides split literally. I broke through my stitches. Who knew?

 

In the wonderful morphine haze that accompanied my post-operative state I neglected to clear up a few salient points with my esteemed surgeon. For example the 6 weeks referred to. Is Week 1 the week of hospital or the first week out? My mother maintains the latter and I am holding out for the former. Then again, she was sober and took notes. According to her schedule this week I can walk around my garden for 10 minutes. According to mine, I can go out for lunch. I know in my head she is right, but in my heart I wish it were me. I have paid the price for pushing too far over the last week. I overdid the exercises, I've been outside and I've suffered the excruciating pain associated with your guts trying to escape your body. So this week I will try harder.

 

The father of my offspring was finally released from hospital last Friday. I think they became afraid he was harbouring Prison Break fantasies and would upset the other inmates. They still have no clue what alien lifeform lives within him, but sent him home with much relief. He does not fit the profile of The Good Patient. He reads his file (who does that?) and then Googles from his hospital bed. He admonishes the nurses when they don't give him his meds (quite rightly) and can wield a drip stand like a warrior with a lance. So, when he could eat jelly they sent him home. Much thinner if none the wiser as to what caused him to become so ill in the first place. Like many men who do not quite understand the silent and deadly fear women have of being fat, he has happily pointed out to my mother, my friends and some women who fight daily with eating disorders that now he weighs less than them. Don't gloat. It is unbecoming. What you do is when commented upon, say breezily, "Oh yes, it was horrible! I lost so much weight when I was ill and was horrified by gaunt I looked."

 

As for me? During that week my sainted mother looked after me making up for a childhood of leaving me with the maid every time I got ill. I adore her. She cooked for me. You know, those wonderful childhood meals only your mum can ever make right? She fluffed my blankets, she arrived at 6am to ferry the kids to school and brought them back in one piece later on. I don't know how to thank her properly, but without her I think I may have gone mad.

 

On his release from the white walls of Morningside Clinic Marc packed a tent and took the boys camping as part of the Dads and Lads Camp Out. How twee is that name? Nonetheless, off they went in Bella, the 1976 VW Kombi, comfortably ensconced in a mountain if duvets. After yelling at the boys to pack their pillows and duvets, Daddy left his behind. Good thing Mummy pressed an extra blanket on him before they left. I don't know why I packed so many clothes for them, or soap for that matter. They arrived back on Sunday in the same clothes they left in, just a little soggier.

 

Apparently at these events there are three groups of fathers:

Group 1: The avid outdoorsman

Group 2: The man child

Group 3: The (How to put this nicely?) organic metrosexual aka pussy whipped husband

 

Group 1 has every outdoor gadget known to man. They are the Camel Man, the Marlboro plan and the boer that maaks a plan. They expect the same of their children. During the week they are doctors, lawyers and CPAs, but in the bush… they are the hunter. Their kids are rough, tough and ready. They take turns on guard duty through the night and eat freeze dried army food.

 

Group 2 form the largest grouping. These are guys who remember going camping with a six pack of beer and a tape mix of Tones on Tail and David Bowie. They know how to light a fire and stare into its flames. They like to give the truth scope and share stories and tall tales of back when. Their kids run around unfettered on bikes with glow sticks and a boerie roll. If they go to bed at all they tumble into it fully dressed and emerge only at the smell of bacon frying in the morning before they disappear off again.

 

Group 3 are the ones I feel for. Even far from the watchful eye of their wives they desperately try and force organic celery sticks down their sons (who just pop over to Group 2 for a quick bite of meat anyway). Bath time is at 6pm sharp, dinner consisting of soya and a nice organic salad served at 7pm and in bed by 8pm. Not a chance. These guys battle it out for 48 hours and instead of coming home energized with masculinity, crawl home to their wives and whimper.

 

Now you also have the outliers. These are those who provide entertainment on a nouveau riche scale. The dad who arrives with a rented motorhome and toilet. Not a porta-pottie. A whole bathroom in marble and gold. I should just explain that the camping ground they go to in on the banks of the Vaal. There are bathrooms and mowed grass and no-one has to kill an impala for supper. It is very civilized. After all these boys go to a very civilized school.

 

Nonetheless my boys arrived home on Sunday morning, sunburnt, grubby and exhausted. They had a marvelous time. Small boy aged 8 (almost 9) dragged himself through the door, flopped on the couch and tuned into MTV. Small boy aged 6 joined him. Man dragged himself to bed and watched Grosse Point Blank. Conversation was held in grunts until the return to civilization kicked in with mother threatening to physically throw small grubby people into a bath. Not that I could have done it, but the threat was real enough. I could have called ADT as it was a family emergency.

 

The best thing was getting them up and dressed and off this morning and then falling back into bed for another hour. Blissful and decadent. Now if only I can get the cats to stop kneading my stomach…

ET, the Kardashians and Fate

Home, sweet home is not quite the serene bliss I had hoped. Small boy aged 6 has shingles due to the stress of my being in hospital and spent most of last week at home being brave and at school crying his eyes out. Can my heart break anymore? I had my many staples removed this morning and brought them home for Small boy aged 8 to gross out his friends at school tomorrow. All of this I can cope with. Finally I told husband to stop moaning about his sore tummy and go to the doctor and now he has been booked in more emergency surgery at the Morningside Clinic. This may be rash, but I have to ask, "Why, Goddess, why?"

 

Throughout all of this chaos one woman has remained a calm anchor in the storm. Without her I would flounder. My mother has brought me homemade venison stew, is cooking eggy peggys as I type (basically savoury French toast cut into strips), has ferried me to and from hospital and my ailing spouse too hospital. I can honestly say I do not know how I would cope without her here.

 

My sons have risen to the occasion in ways I never expected. They have done the washing up, put laundry in the machine, packed their school bags and brought me their GI Joe walkie talkie so I can call for help when I need it. My cats have been banished. They keep kneading my poor scarred belly and making me scream like a banshee with PMT. And oh, but things take so long do to. Morning ablutions and exercises can take up to an hour and I do not end up looking like a Kardashian after all that time either. And forget shoes, my feet are too far away.

 

I feel like Jane Eyre's hero who kept his crazy wife locked in the attic – trapped! And while I'm mixing metaphors can I just mention that my staple free belly looks revolting. I feel like Signourney Weaver in Alien ready to burst with a million little alien offspring. And I have run out of groceries and hospitalized husband has the credit card. The upshot is that while I haven't had a smoke for a week I just might call Carlos at the Spar and have him bring me a box. Perhaps friendly extra-terrestrials will see my smoke rings and beam me up.

Farting for Food

I have so far survived the lumbar disk replacement by Dr Meerkotter at the Donald Gordon Mediclinic. Thanks largely to Morphine. Tuesday is a series of surreal flashes – I remember being asked if I had a nose ring and saying, "No, further down. "A nipple ring?" "No, further down." "A belly ring?" "No further down." I also remember a conversation about the tattoo and then an image of three huge shining lights above my head. And I recall feeling like I'd fallen asleep on an ice floe. I awoke to find myself covered in three of those emergency metal blankets. If I didn't know better I'd have thought I had been abducted by aliens.

 

For the last 24 hours ice chips have been my only form of oral sustenance. Never have I longed to pass wind so much. Today at long last I farted. I could have sung out glory hallelujah. I haven't had quite so man in-depth conversations about the workings of my plumbing since my Grandmother was alive. She was equally as obsessed about bowel behaviour. At her 50^th wedding anniversary my Dad, her son, came out of the loo and she called to him loudly across the assembled crowd of well wishers, "Did your tummy work dear?" Exactly. Right now each time I pass wind I want to do a victory dance. Why? Oh because here farts mean food. Or dry toast, jelly and some indistinguishable soup that I quietly flushed most of down the drain.

 

My fellow patients are quite colourful to say the least, my ward partner got out of eating the rest of the soup by passing out on the floor. She made the mistake of honestly filling in the assessment form. She said the ward was too noisy. She is right, it is next to the sluice room and at the T-junction of 3 corridors. The matron bustled in and moved her. "But, I don't really want to move," said Mrs. Something-or-other-stein. "Ah," said the matron, "But you filled in the form and They will ask to see what I have done to rectify the situation. So you will move." So she got moved to a large general ward away from a window and with the crazy lady. She wields a drip stand like a weapon. Last night she took out 4 nurses trying to change her drip.

 

I have been visited quite a few times and much appreciated every one. Although I can't imagine I am much fun to visit with. I look like a Panda and keep falling asleep. Apparently you get bent over an arch of some kind to open your spine up and all the blood goes to your head and feet. Hence I have a face like a soccer ball and feet like a Yeti.

 

I never understood why you give sick people flowers before, but now I am sick I can feel why. They really do make you feel better. It is the proof of beauty and living amongst the sterile white of the hospital. They are the promise of days to come and the memories of good times past. I have sunflowers, an orchid, purple irises and an array of happy summer flowers to stare at and enjoy.

 

I go home tomorrow and I shall miss the quiet efficiency of this ward. The nursing staff is fabulous and has kept a sense of humour with me despite me having to call them constantly to plug in my leg massagers or pass me the TV remote that I've dropped on the floor. I have a great deal to thank them for, not least recognising that Small Boy aged 6 has Shingles. Apparently it is brought on by stress and me being in the hospital must have triggered it. Poor baby, we shall be sick together.

 

The physio has trained me to do a variety of exercises mostly lost in drug induced amnesia, but she has written them down somewhere. I have successfully navigated the stairs and now I can go home. On Monday I return here to have my staples removed with an implement that closely resembles a staple remover on the PA's desk. I hope it is better designed. The doc says each staple being removed will feel like someone pulling out a pubic hair. Bloody sore in other words.

 

Anyhow, I'd better go back to sleep. All week the nurses have been trying to get my blood pressure up to something near normal. Turns out what was needed was my boss to come in and ask me to do some work. He'd better spell check it, because the letters are still all wobbly to me.

The warrior, the wizard and the angel

The monsters we battle are secret ones. They track us no matter where we hide and just we think we have vanquished them forever they rise up stronger than before. This is why I should not have been surprised when the panic gripped my throat in the middle of Woolworths. Certain fears are socially acceptable, spiders, fire, heights, rats and so on. These are fears rooted in the solid reality of our world. The fear that plagues me has no basis in solid fact. I am mortally terrified of frozen foods. Supermarkets, crowds and shopping malls too, but it is always the frozen food section that finally sets me off.

So there I stood on Thursday afternoon in Woolworths laden with shopping and completely unable to breathe. In retrospect, shopping during lunch hour was not a good idea. In fact shopping anywhere that is not virtual is a bad idea for me. Despite that I won the battle that day. I did not cry. I did not pass out although it was a near thing. I simply went into a change room and waited it out. Finding out that the boots I bought for Small girl aged 5 were too small finally reduced me to tears, but at least I was home and safe. I also ended up with a lovely green dress I have no recollection of choosing. I am not a coward, so I went back on Friday and exchanged the boots. Me 1. Irrational panic 0.

The purpose of the shopping trip was to get some new pajamas for the trip into hospital on Tuesday morning. I may be going to feel terrible, but I'll be damned if I have to look like it. I now have fabulous sleepwear, Mac powder foundation and long last lipstick. Another not so irrational fear I have is what surgeons and their teams say about you when you are, to all intents and purposes, dead to the world. Lying there at their mercy. Her thighs are wobbly. Her boobs are sagging. Her legs are hairy and so on. Of course, I never got around to the wax so Immac will have to do the trick.

I also have some real fears about this operation I haven't quite given voice to yet. There's the obvious dying bit. So, just in case everything I have is left to my children and my husband. I also do not want to be kept in some horrible coma stasis if I do not wake up. Give me two weeks and then flip the switch. Oh, and I'd like to donate my organs. What else while I am on this morbid diatribe? Yes, the funeral. I want a Wiccan/Pagan ceremony – Sally and Adam are in charge of finding someone to do it. I'd like to be cremated and at the ceremony have 3 small vials of the ashes given to each child and the rest returned to the earth. Music wise, I like Joan Baez, Bob Dylan and some Leonard Cohen. Julie can sing. I think that would be nice. Afterwards I big party with a big bonfire and the sharing of funny stories about me. That would be a good send off and a hell of easier that raising a dolmen!

I am also concerned about living my life in a wheelchair. However, with a bit of creative interior design and some driving lessons I think I could survive that. I could still wear high heels and never have to worry about getting sore feet standing on them. Most of all, I am terrified the operation won't work. That my aorta will be attached to my spine and they can't do the disk replacement. That despite everything I'll still be pain and not be able to sit through a movie or go dancing. That my beloved shoes will have to go into storage for Small girl aged 5.

And what about the things I have yet to tell my offspring? Like how to apply liquid eyeliner. Who will hunt down and kill the first people to break their hearts? I will, even if I have to from beyond the grave. Instead I have bought a bag of goodies for their father to distribute for each night I am in hospital. Still, I do want them to know that they are each wonderful, unique and much loved. The warrior. The wizard. And the Angel. Okay, maybe Small girl aged 5 is a bit more Valkyrie than Angel.

Enough! I still have to pack. The new PJs, underwear, make-up and make-up remover, towel, face cloth, movies, Keith Richards autobiography and my hair straightener. The final item on the list may raise some eyebrows. I can't be separated from it. The laptop, modem, cellphone and associated chargers are all too obvious. I know that I will probably feel too ghastly to go online, but the thought of not being able to fills me with the fear of entrapment. I must have access to Mr Delivery should the food be too awful.

The next on my to do list is to pack school bags with everything they need for the week in the hope this will reduce morning trauma. Must remember to ask devoted father to call educational psychologist and set up a time for the feedback interview – also to sign permission slip for extra reading lessons. I know absolutely that devoted father is perfectly able to cope and that all will go smoothly. I am slightly and bizarrely jealous of witnessing my ease of replacement, but c'est la vie, mainly I am deeply relieved he is going to be there for them and here for me. I cannot imagine how I could do this if I were a single parent and my heart goes out to all those who are. They are immensely strong men and women who deserve many accolades. I read an article about how gay parents are more socially acceptable than single ones. This callous disregard for single parents fills me with ire. Very few choose to be single parents and in all certainty dreamt about raising a happy nuclear family, it just didn't work out that way, so why treat them so awfully?

I have devoted today to completing my role in the Great Wendy House Construction. The door is a pretty pink. So is the bottom of the floor. Sadly, I don't think the underside of the floor is meant to be a light shade of pink. Husband went off to work and I thought how clever I'd be. I couldn't find a tin called varnish, but I did one marked Wood Primer and I thought that would do. It looked just like varnish when I opened it and set to work. Lesson: Read the instructions. Soon I'd used all the oil that sat on top and was left with a thick pink ooze. It became too thick to apply so I added some wood oil sealer to the mix. I guess I thought it couldn't get worse. I was reminded of a friend of mine, John Lee, who as a child spilled Nesquik powder on his mother's white carpet. Instead of getting the vacuum he went for a bucket of water and you can imagine the rest. I did a similar thing with worse consequences involving a coal heater, a towel and a wardrobe. I hope the floor is fixable and at least it is the side that sits on the ground. I am looking forward to renting one of those air spray guns to paint the outside walls. It sounds likef a lot more fun than a brush.

All in all it has been a pleasant last weekend before the rest of my life. I saw Rango at the cinema. Johnny Depp was the hero's voice and I could listen to him for years and not get bored. In fact, I must put Pirates on the hard drive for the week's entertainment along with Pauly Shore and with any luck True Blood. I have has a long and interesting conversation with my darling Dad about postmodernism and political correctness and found out more history of my family. Uncle Willie Bruce who fought against the Boers and who could leap a horse clear over a road and some daring WW1 pilots. I understand the African respect for ancestors as I become more interested in finding out who mine were. Great Aunt Diana or Dr Diana Knowles-Spink, is having her final send-off next weekend at her home in London. I am sure she will liven up the other side as much as she did this one and am somewhat relieved to have her watching over me now. I think eternity with her would never be short on excitement. These chats with my Dad make me realize how much miss him on the other side of the world and how much I wish my children could grow up near him and benefit from his extraordinary knowledge, wealth of stories and huge capacity for caring. I walked into his old tobacconist the other day (to buy my boys penknives, an essential boy's tool) and was poleaxed by the scent of his tobacco.

Ah well, I'm going into hospital tomorrow, I'm allowed to be maudlin. See you on the flip side.

 

 

Enlightened and empowered

On the first day there was nothing.
On the second day there was nothing.
And then I called out, “Let there be light!”
And there was light.

The problem with subdivisions is that the numbers are all the same except for the little a, b or c’s attached. This means that when the electricity company sends out a technician (who can work with high voltage but is not necessarily literate) they quite often make a mistake. This one landed me in the dark with a limited supply of hot water.

Arriving home in the driving rain on Tuesday evening I discovered the house without power. This meant that I stood in the rain staring pathetically through the non-operational electric gate at a house in total darkness. I am nothing if not enterprising. With a plastic coathanger and a little elbow grease I managed to lift the gate of its track and made it to the front door a little soggy, but still feeling quite proud of myself. Apply the old adage about pride and a fall here.

Briskly efficient I lit candles and deposited offspring in the remains of the hot water to get themselves somewhat cleaner. Then I decided to make dinner. There I hit a snag. Where, oh where had the gas stove gone? I was not about to be foiled. I have a Weber and half a bag of charcoal and the SAS survival guide.

The first step in making a fire is to find wood. No wood. Well plenty of wood it is just all completely sodden thanks to two days of rain. Never mind. I have plenty of paper and cardboard ready for recycling. I placed a pizza box in the bottom of the Weber and filled it with charcoal. Then I packed the Weber full of more pizza boxes added a candle and lit it. Remember Ragged the Gerbil? In retrospect lighting the match was a bad idea.

In the end I admitted defeat and messaged the man of the house in deepest darkest Africa. He told me where to find the gas bottle and after singing my fingers there too I finally managed to make some 2 minute noodles. I would have called Mr Delivery, but Telkom hasn’t fixed the line yet and my Crackberry died soon after the gas bottle discovery. Also, I needed to prove to myself and my progeny that I am a strong, independent woman of the 21st century. Epic fail.

Singed and smoky I arrived at work a little the worse for wear and spent most of the day on the phone to Eskom in obsequious courtesy and finally impassioned begging. All to no avail. The power was still off when I got home last night. This is where my Roedean education and South African “boer maak ‘n plan” attitude cam to the fore. I grabbed some wire cutters, opened by electricity box, cut the cord and turned my power back on.

Eureka! We have light!

Sookie Stackhouse and other stereotypes

Single parenting again this week while husband flies off to Nigeria. Hopefully this week will go by without anyone barfing. A mother can only hope.

The father of my offspring gets angry and hurt when small children scream for Mummy. Quite often I wish the wheel would turn in the other direction. Or course, they wait until he is not here and then the tears fall like rain.

Small girl aged 5: “Daaaaa Deeeee! I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me: “Daddy is in Nigeria. I can get you out the bath or you can stay there until Friday when he gets back.”
Small girl aged 5: “I want mah Daaaaa Deeee!”
Me to Small boy aged 8: “You deal with it.”

The visit to Nigeria brought on an interesting conversation about national identity and stereotypes. Husband pointed out that you can’t judge a country of millions on the 2 000 odd drug dealers in Hillbrow. This is correct, but the world likes things in simple terms and it makes writing movie scripts much easier so:

Australians shag sheep.
South Africa is crime central and where you can get a good deal on offing your fiancé.
Germans are white supremacists.
Swedes have no sense of humour.
Russia and Italy are Mafia capitals.
Nigeria is made up of drug lords.
The English queue and can’t cook.
The French cook, but are obnoxious.
The Dutch have legal weed smokers.
America is a nation of consumerism, mild idiocy and Disney.

It doesn’t matter how much money International Marketing Councils spend on trying to change these perceptions there are there to stay. The greatest perceptual changes of national identity are made through cartoons and movies, not the news or CNN.

For example, when visiting America you can’t experience the national character by visiting Lady Liberty. It is the taste of a chilli dog, the carnival of a baseball game and fireworks on Independence Day. In England it is a footie match, a warm beer in a dark pub and a plate of bangers and mash.

I got in to very very hot water yesterday with Small boy aged 8’s teacher. The one person you should never piss off. I hope she hasn’t heard about the Army outfit or her opinion of me will sink even lower. So, last night small boy had to catch up a week’s worth of homework. It was so painful I felt like doing it for him. I deeply resent teachers who take out their irritation at the parents on their kids. Anyway, the reason I didn’t pick up the bloody homework was because we were all on a conference call on the great white telephone.


Arguably the worst part of the single parenting week (aside from the morning school run at tweet o’clock) is that I cannot take any painkillers for my back. They work like a charm, but they also remove me from this plane of existence for a few blessed hours. Hence, I cannot take them in case the house burns down and I am too comatose to rescue the cat. Which is why this morning’s desire to not pay any heed to the alarm clock led to a late awakening of the troops and a surprisingly well orchestrated campaign to get out the door. We even made it to school on time. Of course, as in any war, there are casualties. Today’s was the toaster, which lay down and died in the trenches amid heavy fire.

In response to this and a deep dislike of grocery shopping I went online to Pick n Pay and did my big shop. It took almost as long as going to the bloody supermarket, but with less stress and no anxiety attacks. Frozen food for some inexplicable reason reduces me to hysterical tears. The supermarket now knows me well enough to lead me to the coffee shop, ply me with sweet tea and finish my shopping for me. Weeping women in the frozen food aisle can be off-putting for other shoppers.

Must remember today:
Book wax – do not want to terrify surgeons
Manicure and pedicure – same reason
Sexy yet demure pyjamas – just because I will feel like hell is no reason to look like it
Hospital pre-admission forms
Bone density scan
Strawberry yoghurt

Damnation! I have work to do and I have finally managed to get into the Sookie Stackhouse chronicles. The name is just off-putting, Sookie? Yuck. Well, at least they aren’t vegan vampires like the last lot. To thine own self be true and all that. Vegan vamps just aren’t on.

The Arab and the Army Nurse

 

You are cordially invited… Isn't that how all invitations start? Well this one had an addendum. Come as something beginning with A.

 

So, I ended up at Masquerades Costume Hire in Sunninghill Village early on Saturday morning. I was going to go to Lola Montez, but Small girl aged 5 insisted on accompanying me and I didn't think that would be appropriate. Accosted by the aroma of the million sweaty armpits I contemplated ABBA, but the costumes were just too dreadful. I found a very cute sequined mini-mini-mini dress of the American Flag, which I quite liked, but they didn't have Captain America so not a couple deal. After much deliberation between Small girl aged 5, myself, the shop attendant and the husband, we settled on Army. The dress was skin tight, skimmed by hips and displayed my cleavage magnificently. Teemed with black high heeled boots and fishnets I was good to go.

 

Or not. Frantic search for a babysitter ensued. Small boy aged 6 needed to be dropped off at a birthday party at the Zoo en-route. How hard could that be? Excruciating. Absolutely excruciating. I turned to husband and said, "Darling, please run interference for me, I am wearing fishnets." "PAH!" said husband, "They all wish they could." Whatever. Child did not want to be abandoned at the Zoo, necessitating mother alighting from the car in fishnetted splendour, much to the horror of the PTA Mummies and some appreciative stares from the Daddies. "Are you going to a party," asked one perceptive male once his jaw had managed to close. "No," I said breezily, "I always dress like this on a Saturday outing to the Zoo." Actually, I didn't, but surely I can give the truth some scope. All in all I handled it with remarkable aplomb I thought, although I doubt I'll be getting any more invitations to join the Mummies for breakfast. Small boy aged 6 was duly returned home much relieved not to have to go safari.

 

The party itself was in Brixton and the crazy white people provided the neighbourhood entertainment for the evening. Upon arrival I sashayed (thanks to boots) into the kitchen, recoiled in horror and retreated outside. What is it with women and congregating in kitchens? Perhaps, thanks to going to an all-girls school, I have developed a wholly reasonable fear of female gatherings. There sheer accumulation of estrogen in such a small place was frankly dangerous. Upon an informal poll, I discovered this feeling was shared by many, mostly men. The outfit was a success. I was goosed twice by an Arab and am now fully in support of the war of terror, once by an Apache and an Angler asked for the costume hire contact details for his wife next weekend. Apparently, they've done the naughty nurse thing. TMI. My husband responded to the vegetarian fare with ill-disguised horror and distrust, and bought a steak on the way home. Actually, the veggie food was pretty good I thought after braving the domestic centre of the home for some after a healthy dose of dutch courage. Thank you Mr. Jack.

 

Now, the trip home should have occurred with no mishaps, but on the way to return the baby-sitter to the location my husband was pulled over by the perennially aggressive and offensive South African Police. White men are not allowed to drive home their darker-skinned babysitters in the middle of the night. Instead we should let her walk home alone carrying a 6 month baby. Despite threatening him with arrest unless properly bribed, husband managed to extricate himself with no loss of life, limb or hard earned money. Every white man in the location is not looking for a black prostitute and every black lady on Oxford Road is not for hire.

 

Once more into the breach on Sunday morning, surprisingly hangover free, I started work on the Great Wendy House Construction and now look like I have some strange disease as I am riddled with tiny lollipop pink spots. Small boys aged 6 and 8 nagged me for a movie and so off we ventured into The Zone. I refused on principle to enter a movie that started 30 minutes prior and dragged two sulky children off to Vanilla for bribery by chocolate milkshake. I had to up the ante and promise to take them and all their friends to a movie next weekend. Sucker. We meandered gently through the market and Small boy aged 6 fell in thrall to a set of salt and pepper shakers. Bizarre, but at least functional, so I bought them. Finally, I treated myself and them to a wonderful book called The Dangerous Book for Boys. It tells boys everything from essential boy gear (string, compass, pocket knife) to how to make the perfect paper jet. Brilliant.

 

Of course, my good fortune had to end sometime and Monday morning has been it. The torrential rain has killed the electric gate and I have no clue where the manual gear is. After finally exiting my home I discovered the river has burst its banks and there is no way out of my neighbourhood. I duly retreated home to work in warmth and quiet calm and am about to try once more to hit the road. Wish me luck.

Of Mouse, Men and Minutiae

I woke this morning with lead in my limbs and a tsunami in my belly. It seems that whatever plague struck Small boy aged 6 has struck his mother too. Is this how I am repaid for the sleepless nights and outpourings of maternal love? HAH! When at 20:00 last night my phone rang to alert me of my husband's return to this land. Thank the Lord it heralded the instant return of my children's health and my demise.

 

The tooth mouse / fairy (is that a gay tooth mouse?), commonly referred in our household as the Tooth Fairy Mouse (is that a mouse with wings?), anyway he or she as the case may be paid us a visit last night. At long last Small boy aged 6 lost his two front teeth. No, I didn't sing him that annoying rhyme because it is not Christmas and I am not in the mood. This necessitated a late night visit to the local ATM to withdraw cash to secrete under child's pillow. Trying to find a tiny tooth under the pillow while not awakening a child is not easy, especially when all three children are on Tooth Fairy Mouse alert.

 

Nonetheless, in case you are interested, the going rate for two front teeth is R20. I assume it's the amount that matters not the exchange rate, so if you are in the US it is 20 dollars – I have no idea if the recession has hit the tooth mouse industry, but I think it probably has. Inflation certainly has. When I shedding teeth I got a nice shiny 50c piece.

 

My dad used to threaten to tie a piece of string around my tooth and slam the door (I tried this and it didn't work). So, he and I moved on to Plan B. Plan B involved my tooth, some nylon and a brick. The brick was dropped out the window and the tooth was meant to follow it. It almost did, just with the rest of me attached. In the end my dad just had to endure the wiggling. Now I have to endure it, I can honestly say that it tests the limits of parental duty and my maternal desire not to let on when I completely grossed out. I fought against grabbing the pair of pliers (also threatened with by my father) and pulling the thing out myself.

 

A bombshell has been dropped on me from a dizzying height. I am going to a party tomorrow night and I have to dress up. By that I do not mean in a little black dress a la Coco, but rather as something beginning with A. I could rip a hole in back of my jeans, but I feel this could be too crass although it was suggested by quite a few people. I could wear a black cat suit and stand legs and arms akimbo pretending to be an asterisk. Somehow Abba and Angels just seem like too much effort and I don't feel like going to a costume hire to don a musty ensemble with the aroma of a million smelly armpits. Ideas please and one's that I can logistically handle. I even tried browsing through adult stores online in search of sexy angel costumes, but I can't see myself walking into the Adult World and asking to try one on. I may still resort to this, but Lola Montez is my first stop. At least my husband will be happy.

 

Astronaut, ant, apostrophe, Aphrodite (now that's possible and flatters my ego – Roman style toga – is there a Google How To on how to turn a bed sheet into a sexy toga? Must look.) Apparition – also bed sheet, Anakin Skywalker (wrong sex and I preferred him as Vader anyway), apple, avocado, asparagus, Agony Aunt – I like that – how do I dress up as an Agony Aunt? Now Angeline Jolie would be nice, but I'd need Botox and lip collagen, a boob job, 6 extra inches and Brad Pitt. Could I be really lazy and just go as A Slob?

 

Regardless of the final choice, I have to fetch my beloved offspring from various babysitters afterwards and can't prance in their parent's homes like a Playboy Bunny or an avocado. Bugger, maybe I'll call the AA and hijack a tow truck.

 

Laws of Motherhood

Victoria’s Laws of Motherhood: When one child falls ill the rest will follow like dominoes ending with you at the least convenient time.

The word projectile for me conjures something like a dart or a bullet with a specific target in mind. After some research via Google I discovered the following, firstly a projectile is “a body projected by external force and continuing in motion by its own inertia” or “capable of being or designed to be hurled forwards”.

Neither of which quite summed up my experience over the last 24 hours. So I ventured further into the realms of cyberspace where the universal unconsciousness stores its useless trivia. Projectile vomiting was first coined in 1862 to describe, “vomiting that is sudden and so vigorous that the vomitus is forcefully projected to a distance”.

This was more on the mark, but like many academic and medical definitions lacking somewhat in real life application. Somewhere around 22:30 last night Small boy aged 6 began vomitus projectus. By 04:00 I had 3 duvets in the washing machine, had changed clothes 4 times and had towels covering every inch of floor between the bedroom and the loo.

Once informed that my presence was required in the hallowed halls of corporate life I had a mild breakdown. The upshot of which was a tearful phone call to my mother. Sometimes, a girl just needs her mother. This was one of those times. As a result of her love for me she rushed her dogs to the kennel and came to my rescue, taking Small boy aged 6 to the doctor with whom I am considering having a standard daily appointment.

I staggered half dead into work to be greeted by a crisis of mammoth proportions precipitated by my client’s bi-polar approach to marketing and communications. It was of those Victorian swooning moments when the blood drains from your head and down your body through your toes into a pool on the floor. So much for my early night tonight or indeed for the remaining 12 days of life as I know it.

By the way, the reason my mother’s dogs were given precedent was this: My mother is going away tomorrow and Angus, her dog, had to have one last play date with his best friend in the park. The best friend is not, like the adage goes, my mother, but rather another dog to which he has taken a penchant. Angus pines without his play date and will make the kennel owner’s life a living hell unless he is pacified first.

Angus steals teddy bears from little girls in the park. His shaggy blonde good looks belie his narcissism and an almost terrifying hatred of anything that detracts attention away from him. He has eaten about 5 cellphones out of jealousy that my mother would dare to talk to someone other than him and most recently put her in hospital by breaking her leg. Angus is not my favourite canine. He is way too clever for his own good, hence why I have lovable but very stupid dogs called Charlie and Billy Bob.

Thank the Goddess that my husband is returning home this evening necessitating a rush to the train station for collection at some point. I can practically guarantee that all his offspring will have miraculously recovered and he’ll look at my haggard face and wonder what all the fuss was about.

Ah! Must mention fabulous compliment from garage owner when buying smokes. He asked for my ID. I could have kissed him senseless (had he been younger and resembled Johnny Depp).

Venus di Milo or not as the case may be

Wednesday always brings with it a deep sigh of relief as the knowledge that the weekend nears sinks in. It is about now that my head begins to spin and exhaustion begins to catch up with me. I grabbed a nap in the car this morning before work putting my left leg into a coma. I arose from my seat not so much like Venus and promptly sank to my knees at the burst of blazing agony. I crawled back into the car and tried to sit nonchalantly until normal blood flow resumed.

The sock-plastered-to-the-side-of-the-washing-machine tiredness is a result of another late night thanks to a brief that arrived at 15:00 for presentation at 10:00 this morning. My yawns are threatening to engulf me whole, so lunchtime may well be spent in slumber.

Conversations with children are always a fountain of information. For example volcanoes do not exist in this world, but only in dinosaur world. Any attempt to point out that we actually live in the mouth of an old volcano is greeted with sneers of “How stupid do think we are?” and “You don’t know!” Also fairies come in different sizes depending on their job spec. For example Flower Fairies are small like dandelions, but the Tooth Fairy is bigger because she has to carry around teeth.

I noticed something very odd recently about motherhood. Here it is. Once you become a mother, non-mothers and non-fathers begin treating you like a maiden aunt or a virgin bride. Is it because we are examples of when sex stops being recreational and becomes a biological imperative? Either they ask you embarrassingly intimate questions or act as though you had a virgin birth and the world s-e-x might offend your sensitive ears. On a little tangent, I read an article today that oral sex is the number one cause of mouth cancer in America (for men). There’s something to think about!

The point I was trying to make before I got sidetracked was that age and experience don’t fast track you into senility. When my first son was born I took him to meet the oldest member of my family, Dr Diana Knowles-Spink who recently passed away at the age of 104. Her aide softly asked me to leave the room if I needed to breastfeed as it might shock Aunt Diana. As I duly prepared to leave, she asked me loudly where I was going and when it was explained with difficulty as I tried to avoid saying the word breast, she burst out with, “Good God! I have been alive for nearly 100 years my girl and there is little anyone can do to shock me now.” Turns out she used to shake hers on the stage with a famous twenties flapper!

Not that I am unshockable, but the things that shock and appal me usually have to do with man’s inhumanity to man, not a piece of ass or a flash of a boob. Now, there’s another thing. How come men are reduced to helpless sniggers and laughter at the sound of certain rather innocuous words in the English language? It must be hardwired into the psyche. Try this little experiment, in the middle of a conversation drop in words like “poo”, “bum” and “boob” and see what happens to men of any age. The drop the big one… “fart”. It’s an instant recipe for male hilarity.

Now for some self-pity. Turns out I missed another mothers’ breakfast from Grade 00 at Tasha’s yesterday due to work commitments. Apparently, they had so much fun they didn’t leave Tasha’s until it was time to fetch their kids from school. I am jealous, wracked with envy and turning a very unattractive shade of green. Which is why when I hear these self-same women moaning about their lives I want to scream at them that they lead a life of privilege and should be bloody grateful for it. I want to spend a morning at Tasha’s trading idle banter, comparing Jimmy Choos followed by some shopping for stuff I don’t need before returning to my mansion on the Houghton Ridge. I think I shall buy a Lotto ticket on my way home.