The Holidays, the Futon and the Treasure Trove

School holidays are here. Greeted with joy by my children and dread by me. During my school holidays from the age of 3, I was shipped off as an unaccompanied minor to my grandparents in another city. Now, I am left with three small people under 10, untapped potential for chaos and a lack of wherewithal for holiday programmes.

Both small boys also have a mountain of homework to get through. I have deadlines looming like Armageddon and although I am looking forward to sleeping two hours extra in the morning, lay awake half the night wondering what on earth to do with my offspring for the next month.

I think I may have a partial solution. I am drawing up a timetable and have offered Small boy aged 9 R50 a week to teach his brother and Small boy aged 6 the same if all his homework for the week is done. It is not bribery. I’d end up paying a tutor far more. Ah ha! Another solution represents itself. I have a friend looking to make some easy green. Maybe I can co-opt her in to childcare? Is our 30 year friendship worth risking? I shall have to mull over that for awhile.

In the meantime I have to unearth my futon from underneath about 10 tonnes of boxes. It is going to a new home. I slept on the blasted uncomfortable thing for years, until my doctor told me in no uncertain terms that I needed a fancy mattress that cost more than the national deficit. One night on that mattress and I’ll never sleep on another futon for as long as I live.

The reason the back killing bed has lain around unused for so long is because I am a packrat. I’d like to blame it on my star sign, but that would be a cop out. The fact is that I keep everything and on rare occasions like today throw things away in a demon-possessed frenzy. Then I find something and get totally sidetracked.

I found a box. Inside the box was a treasure trove of letters to and from friends, and the motherload of teenage angst ridden poetry. Some of it isn’t too bad, although extraordinarily painful to read, somewhat due to my aversion to punctuation. In some ways I feel totally removed from the girl I once was and in others as though I haven’t changed in the slightest.

Much of the writing dates back to my first battles with depression and its crippling isolation. There’s a lot of quasi-religious rambling, some plainly hallucinogenic Ken Kesey cum Aldous Huxley stuff and quite a bit of broken hearted blood stains. I can’t trash them. One day my children will find them and maybe they will realise that I was once human too.

Men, Women and the Sex Thing

Fat, Forty and Fired by Nigel Marsh is one of my current favourite books. The pearls of wisdom are thrown down in such a way that you are more likely to fall on your bum laughing than by tripping over one of little blighters on the way to the loo in the dark. I have children I know what that’s like - albeit with marbles not molusc gallstones.

One passage that kept me in stitches was about the different ways men and women view sex. This seems to be the root cause of a lot of marital and relationship strife. So, in the spirit of bridging the chasm between the sexes I did some Googling.

Did you know that there are 247 reasons women have sex. Yep, just 247 of them, exactly. They’re not all sweetness and light either. There’s a new book out all about it called Why Women Have Sex by Cindy Meston and David Buss. Sexual attraction, great abs, tight buns and a good sense of humour are way down the list. Higher up are reasons like relieving boredom, keeping the peace, curing a headache and just a quickie thank you for cooking dinner. Pity sex also ranks pretty high. The number one reason we have sex is to, well, orgasm. Just like men really.

The notion of love is number two, but this is murky as it seems to have little to do with emotional commitment and more to do with your smelly armpits.

Love and attraction have less to do with your great sense of humour and double D cup silicone implants and more to do with pure animal magnetism. It’s pheromones and symmetry really. This should help all those singles out there looking for the next big O. Just rule out anyone whose ears are higher up their face than yours.

Love is a tricky one anyway. The book says that women use sex at all stages of the relationship. What we look for in a man is firstly good genes for reproduction and secondly good financial stability, a nice car and the ability to look after the result of the reproduction all the way to college.

We use sex to get a man, keep a man, drive a man away, keep other women away, lure a man away from another woman, get a new car, get a good night’s sleep and lose weight. But give us 15 minutes spare in the day and we’d rather have a nap, a cup of tea or a bath than a quickie. Men responded slightly differently to that question – “Ooh,” they said, “Just enough time for a…” Little head. Big head.

Slightly further back on the evolutionary scale, but only by one or two little genetic markers, female apes have it easy in the dating game. They just bring food to the man of their dreams and fling poo at any other woman stupid enough to encroach on their property. There’s a lot to be said for flinging poo. It is unequivocal, not like the complex machinations of human females.

Another study says that men have a straightforward sex drive, while the female of the species has a libido that is fluid. What the hell does that mean?

The researchers say that a man takes 4 minutes from start to finish. This puts women on the back foot, we need an average of at least 10 minutes of action preceded by 20 minutes of foreplay. Not the Australian version of it either.

Despite all that blather about curvy women being so sexy, it turns out that almost 48% of men would dump their woman if she got fat. Us females are way more forgiving of a little bit extra around the middle, only 20% of us would tell you to take a hike.

It’s a minefield out there. In under 30 minutes I found 3 surveys telling me men need cuddles more than women and 3 others telling me why women need to cuddle and men don’t, it is terribly confusing. I prefer the statistics that tell me at my age sex just gets better over the one that says that only something like 25% of women over 35 ever get busy between the sheets or anywhere else that matter. It turns out that with small children, my chances of great sex are only 14%. That’s not very high. It’s pretty bloody depressing actually. Add that to my working full time and the odd go down to, well… nothing.

Who are these people who measure this stuff? Just let me regress down a branch on the evolutionary tree, swing over to Tarzan and fling some poo. It’s much easier just to do it like they do it on the Discovery Channel.

The Cyber Spy and the Marbles

In a bizarre case of art imitating life, it turns out that my gossip mongering about the Chinese telecommunications company that used British Telecom to send information back to the mother ship wasn’t all just heresay. It turns out they’re spying on just about everyone. According to one report there are only two groups a country or a company can fall into – those that already know about it and those who haven’t found out yet.

Alright, it isn’t as though they can come out and say they’re doing it. That would be like us South Africans admitting we were ever in Angola. It just isn’t done. Google didn’t outright accuse the Chinese government either; they simply said the hacking originated in a Chinese province.

Conspiracy theories are everywhere today.

While I sat in my little bubble on the fourth floor of a nondescript, let’s be honest, horrible ugly, office block yesterday, merely a block away some lunatic decided to walk into the local police station and gun down some officers. Such drama, so close by and I missed it. Shocking really – and here I thought I was the center of the world.

The story has some bizarre twists. The civilian who went postal was about to be fired from the police station for “misuse of firearms” or some other nebulous terms that is supposed to convey the fact that he gave gun licenses to people who shouldn’t have access to lethal weaponry. His response was to take a gun and kill everyone before killing himself. I have to say, it seems a bit of an OTT response.

There are always those people around that give off those vibes that they just might snap and go postal. I had a colleague once who if he was late for work our boss would come running up and ask if he’d gone off his rocker. He always seemed pretty calm to me, but then again those are the ones you have to watch for. Them and freakily happy ones. The ones that never have a bad day, those who are always perky, perky, perky! Everything they say has an exclamation mark at the end and one day that mask will just crack and then watch out. People will all shake their heads and say, “But she always so nice.”

That’s what the neighbours always say you know, “He was a nice quiet boy, never had parties or anything, never caused any trouble.” I’d rather have loud, noisy sane neighbours then quiet genocidal ones. I wonder what the Norwegians neighbours had to say about him? This is why I’d rather I inspired in people love or hate, then absolutely nothing. The last way I want to be described is, “Oh, her? She’s was nice… fine…um….” Fine? Nice? I’d rather be remembered as total bitch or a loud mouthed busybody than as someone who couldn’t even make an impression.

I suppose it’s a sign that I’m unlikely to kill off any office drones this week.

Someone tell Julius he doesn’t need to hide in his underground Hitler house just yet, I still have my marbles.

Eric Miyeni and the White Oppressors

Eric Miyeni’s vitriolic diatribe in Monday’s Sowetan says more about the sorry state of South African journalism than it does about a bigoted racist. After all, bigoted racists are a dime a dozen. Should he have lost his job? Damn right, but not for the reasons he did. His massacre of the English language should have been grounds for dismissal alone.

I am a white, English speaking writer. I do not pretend, nor am I so arrogant as to assume I can write in isiZulu, eKasitaal or Afrikaans for that matter. I stick to the language in which I am best able to communicate. I don’t commit genocide with your language, don’t do it with mine.

As for his Editor, the man should be shot (not literally – I am not advocating violence against journalists here). Slothful, lazy and ambivalent are the terms I would to describe the type of editorial mismanagement that allowed the column to printed in the first place. Unless, and here’s a thought for all you paranoid conspiracy theorists out there – it was intended to be printed with full knowledge of the outcome to flag failing distribution levels, boost PR and change senior management? Maybe Eric pushed it through because the ANC Youth League had already offered him a job (God knows poor Floyd can do with the help) and he needed a way out. Either way surely a sub-editor somewhere should have checked the grammar?

As for Eric’s little outburst? He writes an opinion column. It doesn’t have to based on fact, it’s allowed to be an emotional outpouring of racist hatred. The fact is if I support his being fired I wouldn’t be allowed to call him a hypocritical, racist bigot and I have every right to call him such – it’s my opinion. One day he may look back on his article and recognise that he echoes the sentiments of his “colonialist, white oppressors”.

Racism is racism and bigots are bigots no matter what colour their skin. So, you have tough time being black? Try being female or being a black female? Being a working mother? Or being homosexual? Or being a white male overlooked for promotion in favour of a less skilled person of a darker hue? Somebody once said to me that everyman’s burden is the heaviest. My advice – your hang-ups, chips on your shoulder, guilt, hatred, whatever, are your issues, not mine; I have enough of my own, thank you very much.

After being subjected to Julius Malema’s long-winded interview this morning on 702, I really don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It seems Nelson Mandela’s dream for this country is destined to die when he does.

For heaven’s sake JuJu, if nationalisation didn’t work for Mugabe, do you honestly think it will for you? Are you ready to plunge this country into famine, a spiralling cycle of poverty and destitution? You may get your wish and every skilled, white mampara who can, may leave for Nigeria or Tanzania (where they quite like us, by the way), and then you can pick up the pieces. Chances are all the skilled, educated black people will leave too and you’ll be left with a bunch of illiterates who failed woodwork just like you.

See, if Eric is silenced we’re back to Apartheid when you couldn’t say stuff like that. I know many of the journalists (white) who during those years didn’t pack up and leave for the BBC, but decided to fight for freedom of the press, freedom of association and freedom of opinion instead. I know what it was like to have your calls tapped, your bags packed and wonder if you’d ever see your father again. To know it was in vain, that the press is more a political puppet than ever is saddening, but not unexpected. After all the Catholics adopted many Pagan practices throughout Europe in their quest for global domination, so why shouldn’t Eric and his friends at the ANC Youth League use the very practices they abhorred under the National Party? A rose by any other name, anyone?

As an afterthought, when does one stop being a youth? I thought it was 21, but apparently it is now in your mid-thirties, which is great for me actually, because I’m tired of being told that I’m hitting middle-age at 35.

Julia Roberts, the Airbrush and the Great Deception

I’ve been lied to, deceived. I am distraught.
What do you mean L’Oreal won’t make me look like Julia Roberts?
Does that mean Red Bull won’t give me wings?
Kit Kat won’t give me a break.
Bar One won’t give me a 25 Hour day.
My son’s Omnitrix won’t turn him into an Alien?
What is the world coming to?

The Liberal Democrats (UK) have a proposed a ban on all airbrushed photos in advertising. Read about here.

They also want a label on all ads akin to “smoking kills” to warn those total idiots out there that the image may not be all its cracked up to be. Imagine what they’ll do when they tire of that and get started on Disney. Talking dogs, monsters under the bed, fairy princesses and let’s not forget about the field day they can have on Barbie and Ken.

Here’s my opinion:

If you are dumb enough to believe that that your make-up will literally turn back time and make you look ten years younger, you deserve to have them take $200 of your money and laugh all the way to the bank.

If you have no imagination you never create anything, you’ll just be a mindless little mannequin waiting to die.

I know that no matter what ooze I pour onto my face I’ll never look like Julia Roberts. It’s a basic DNA issue, it’s impossible! If you thought that by using the stuff L-Oreal would wave a magic wand and turn you into a Julia clone, you… you… I have no words for you.

Advertising, movies and brands everywhere have been selling impossible dreams since time began. They are about ideals. I don’t want to see an aging, overweight, balding white man in a Lamborghini. I want to see an impossibly gorgeous, six pack abed, 24 year old Adonis. I don’t care that he can’t afford the car or that the main market are the aforementioned aging mid-life crisis contingent. I want the dream.

If I am wrinkled old crone I want to believe, I need to believe that L-Oreal can make me 19 again. Just like I want to believe that low-fat food will make me slim, or that my bank really does care about me. Most of all I like to pretend that my country isn’t going to run by a total madman in the near future. (JuJu’s 702 interview is on and the man never fails to amaze me with his sheer narcissism, selective memory and total inanity.)

If we are all about truth do we tell our children, “Look darling, the chances of you ever going a rocket to the moon are slim to nothing. You’ll end up in a low paying job in a polyester suit and crippling mortgage and that’s if you are lucky. With the current state of affairs you’ll likely be panhandling on that corner in 5 years.”

Or “Sweetheart, you’re never going to a fairy princes. You’re passably attractive and of average intelligence. Don’t think you going to be the next Greta Garbo or anything, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”

The fact is that for most of us Julia Roberts isn't real, she isn't even a person, she is an ideal, an image to aspire to. I don't want to know that Princess Catherine wakes up with morning breath and farts. I don't want to know if she has to wear support underwear or underarm deodorant. She is the living embodiment of every little girl's dream. Why take that away?

I do think it is horrendous that 5 year olds are suffering from anorexia and far more of them from obesity. I have to say that has nothing to do with advertising and everything to do with poor parenting.

Advertising doesn’t set societal trends, it reflects them.

The Plane, the Game and the Grievous Injury

My husband and the father of my children is once more in deepest, darkest Africa. In fact, I am not sure if Kenya counts as deepest, darkest anything, but the sentiment is the same.

This one’s for him.

In case you were left bereft
As the train left
I have your travel card

There’s not much to report
Of any sort
About the day I had

Small girl aged 5
Had a day that was “fine”
She drew you a plane

Small boy aged 6
Got a pal in a fix
All part of the game

Small boy aged 9
Is fine
We stopped the bleeding

Karate was cancelled
Sport was too
I didn’t get caught speeding

The Confetti Conumdrum

How often do you have to punch a piece of paper? Well, I don’t have to do it very often for the simple reason that my filing system consists of my desk and my dustbin. Please don’t be offended by my use of “you”, it is not meant to be a judgement on your punching behaviour, for all I know you are a professional confetti maker and its all part of a day's work.

The thing is my punch doesn’t get a lot of use. This brings to me to today’s conundrum. How come, it is always full? And why does it always fall apart? The latter question is easily answered in my case; it is probably due to neglect. However, in my colleague’s case I somehow doubt it.

Nonetheless in the way that punches have, her’s exploded all over the office. It didn’t fall gracefully apart disgorging its contents into a neat little heap. It flew apart like a high velocity nuclear armament causing a mini Hiroshima in its wake. The device itself, though small, is mighty. Its size is not equitable to its volume.

As the storm began to settle, the little pieces of paper began to mate and breed and give birth. Then those began to mate and breed and give birth. Before we knew what was happening we had 6 generations of confetti all over the bloody floor. Then they began to migrate. They made little pathways out of the door, down the corridor and into other offices. We had an epidemic on our hands.

We contemplated calling the office housekeeper and then quickly discarded that path of action. She is scary and we were guilty. Also we remembered the Case of the Smelly Lunchbox last week that resulted in office wide anarchy. It wasn’t worth risking her wrath.

So we spent the better part of the afternoon on our hands and knees chasing tiny little bits of paper all over the carpet. You can’t just brush the little suckers up either; they leap like demented fleas out of the way. Eventually, we hit on a winning system. Duct tape. We made long streamers of tape and laid them all over the floor before jumping up and down on them.

I swear we got every last one, but the next time I looked I saw we missed a few baby boomers and they were multiplying again. I think some even followed me home.

The Mutoscope Glorified Glamour Girls Card Vendor c. 1950

These collectors' cards are just a sample of what you get for 2c from a 1950s vending machine. The writing is clever, the humour not politically correct and the girls curvaceous. See more on: http://www.pinrepair.com/arcade/glamgirl.htm

The Universe, John Travolta and the Nia Class

Oh dear, I think have I concussion. I am the type of person the universe has to hit repeatedly over the head with a 2x4 to make a point. By the time the message hits home I have a pounding headache and have to thank said universe for the invention of Myprodol. Tonight the universe must be sighing with relief and saying, “At last! I thought she’d never get it!”

This morning I took myself to a Nia dance class. On the spur of the moment and not at all like I’ve been tripping over Nia dance instructors for months. My colleague’s partner happens to be one. She happens to be friends with a friend of mine who is one. I happened to read my friend’s Nia blog and repost a quote. All of a sudden a Facebook friend who is a journalist about all things cool and amazing in my city happens to mention that she’d like to cover a class. “Oh hell!” said my subconscious, “It’s about time you went back.”

My subconscious was right. I went to a few classes a year ago, but my back was so painful at the slightest movement I didn’t return. Now that I have a new lease on life, it is high time I started thanking my body for healing.

The thing is, after years of nursing back pain I’m not exactly the fittest person out there. Neither am I particularly well co-ordinated. But I do love to dance, usually when the children are asleep and I can pop in my iPod and cavort across the garden in the moonlight like some erratic and slightly mad Wiccan priestess.

I arrived at the class today with some trepidation only to be warmly greeted by Mia, the instructor for the morning. Suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so uneasy. There is something very disarming about a heartfelt welcome by a woman who uncannily resembles Minnie Driver.

The rest of the class was equally as charming, all age groups, all body types and all of us a little too self-aware at the start. And those mirrors? My God, I never realised I have such skinny little toothpick legs – GAH! I looked for all the world like a stick man among real, flesh and blood people. Or an anaemic giraffe, only with less grace.

Periodically my husband quotes Shakespeare at me, with varying degrees of success. One of which he is particularly fond is “My mistresses eyes are nothing like the sun”. For some reason this does not make me feel good about myself at all, but I digress. To quote a line, “My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground”. Nia instructors don’t tread. They glide. They ooze like golden honey over a hot waffle.

With all these hang-ups why did I choose Nia at all? Because it embraces people with hang-ups and instead of competing with terrifying leotard-clad aerobicisers, it’s all about finding your body in your space. I’ve been so hung up on my lower back that I seem to have forgotten I have a body at all. It’s not exhausting, it’s exhilarating. It’s like yoga in movement.

Although we all started cold and very conscious of everyone else, it wasn’t long before we were relaxing into the music and the movement. It was with something approaching envy I watched the other more seasoned veterans embrace the space they were in and they fluid movement of their bodies. Beauty has nothing to do with being thin and everything to do with accepting your body, imperfections and all.

By the time I left John Travolta had nothing on me. I was feeling limber and joyful. I didn’t feel like a great awkward galumph anymore. My body aches, but pleasantly, because it’s all about listening to what your body needs, how it needs to move and when it’s had enough. Admittedly, around mid-afternoon I succumbed to the need for a long nap and in a little while a long, hot bath.

It beats Bootcamp hands down. I am damned if I’m going to pay some muscled lothario in combat gear to yell at me. I am very aware of my fitness shortcomings thank you very much and I don’t need them yelled across the Northern suburbs. Although, my boys seem to thrive on it and by the time I picked them up were on an adrenalin high that has yet to wear off.



Today Nia.
Tomorrow So You Think You Can Dance?
Or maybe Strictly Ballroom?

If you feel like giving it a try, click on this link to Nia Glow.
Come on, it'll do you good to try something new.

The Valkyrie and the Angel

Asleep on my office floor is Small girl aged 5. It is exhausting work colouring in all morning. Sleep can transform a chattering bundle of energy into a somnambulant angel. I have a feeling I went a little heavy on the spice when following the recipe. After all, it isn’t very clear how much spice and how much sugar exactly.

How one small person can contain so much fire constantly amazes me. She does nothing by halves, there is no in-between, and she exists entirely either in black and white or full 3D technicolour.
Wide-awake or dead to the world.
On top of the moon or in the depths of despair.
Furious or ecstatic.
Adoring or vitriolic.
A Valkyrie or an angel.

Being a mother to two small boys and this aforementioned small girl I am reminded often of this quote from Alexandre Dumas (The Three Musketeers?) “It is rare that one can see in a little boy the promise of a man, but one can almost always see in a little girl the threat of a woman.”

I look at my boys and am filled with pre-emptive rage for the girls who will break their hearts. I look at my daughter and feel pity for the boys she will walk all over. I pray my boys find women who will love them unreservedly. I pray for my daughter that she finds a man with enough strength and patience to temper her fire without losing her heat.

It always comes as a surprise to me how a little girl can be so strong and stubborn, and yet so vulnerable and fragile all at once. A fitting metaphor would be a thorny rose bush. She can draw blood and enchant you at the same time.

Her wrath can shake the foundations of the earth
Her tears can make the angels weep
But her laughter can lift you up to the heavens
And her smiles can make the sun burst through the clouds

When she wakes up I’ll take her for ice-cream and she’ll let me give her a hug and not quite understand why I am holding on so tight.

Smiling One and the Crowdsource Challenge

Words have tremendous power and no more so then when spreading a message of hope. Instead of forwarding on another “God loves you, but if you don’t forward this to 1 million of your closest friends you will die a terrible death and spend in eternity burning in hell” message, why not tell someone you know about Smiling One?

What is Smiling One and why am I trying to get you to do something about it?

Well first off, Karina Anderson, the founder of Smiling One, is a remarkable woman who believes in the old adage of teaching a man to fish. She remains a dreamer even when face to face with a seemingly insurmountable challenge. Smiling One will close in under a week unless they can raise enough funds (R122 000) to stay open. For many people that’s pocket change, for the people Smiling One touches it’s akin to a $16 million lotto payout.

Karina’s team goes in to prisons, schools, townships, disadvantaged communities and anywhere they are needed. They activate, what they call, Circles of Change. They train community leaders to become entrepreneurial Responsibility Coaches™ and Community Builders. Smiling One equips them to actively established platforms of responsibility within their own community involving youth, families and schools.

Why should I care?
I care because so many people, children and communities fall through the cracks.
I care because Karina is saving starfish.
I care because it could be me.
I care because the children she helps today will be the leaders of my country tomorrow.

So what can you do?
Well you don’t need to threaten your friends with an eternity as Satan’s pet labradoodle. You don’t even have to raid your piggy bank -although that would be nice. All you have to do is spread the word.

All you need to do is:
• Like this post
• Share it on Facebook
• Link to http://the-smilingone-foundation.blogspot.com from your website, blog, Facebook profile or MySpace, hey even Google+ if you want
• Tweet using #SmilingOne
• Share some ideas on how we can raise enough money to make a difference

A parting thought…
“I have come to understand how important it is to focus on and invest in the human potential, guiding individuals, companies and communities onto a meaningful and successful path. Our thinking, our focus and our actions need to change in order to develop attitudes of heartfelt commitment, trust, loyalty, devotion, motivation, enjoyment, passion, inspiration and enthusiasm!” Rashid Toefy, CEO of the Cape Town International Convention Center on Smiling One

The Bossy Boots, the Labradoodle and the Sippy Cup

I read Small girl aged 5’s school report with great amusement. “Small girl aged 5 is a very independent little girl who knows her own mind.” So, basically she’s a bossy little boots then? Thank goodness for that because with two older brothers she better be able to hold her own.

Small boy aged 9’s is too much of an introvert according to his termly overview. Is that a bad thing? I was of the opinion it just was and not subject to a good or bad judgement. I am an introvert, my father is, my mother is and we all turned out just fine. Introverts judge themselves harshly and are less concerned about what others think than by living up to their own standards, which quite often are set far too high. Yes, there will be challenges, he’ll never be the child who raises his hand and shouts, “Me! Me! Me!” That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know or that he doesn’t have something to share. This is not to say he doesn’t want attention or acknowledgment for his successes, he just doesn’t like to court it overtly.

Small boy aged 9 is still visiting the school psychologist regularly who is one of those amazing people who believes in giving feedback. Small boy aged 9 is about to embark on a Bootcamp Gassuku with his karate sensei. Part of the activities is a paintball game. This is a classic case of me, the parent, thinking I know what’s best and being proved wrong. Small boy aged 9 is in a state over shooting someone and being shot at. Considering I have never played paintball for the same reasons, I shouldn’t be surprised. Although I have told him that he need not take part, he is determined to face his fear. For this he has earned my tremendous respect.

In a similar vein Small boy aged 6 finally said that he loathes karate and want to do gymnastics or horse riding instead. It matters desperately to him that he makes me happy and it is with relief and pride that I am now watching him begin to assert his own needs. It is all very well always sharing and being concerned about other people, but it is also important to make yourself a priority.

The truth of that only occurred to me when I gave birth to second son. I struggled to cope, I had severe PND and a psychologist had to sit me down and read me the riot act. What he said is that instead of putting everyone else at the centre of my universe and revolving around them, I needed to put myself at the centre of my universe instead. It involved a careful reworking of my priorities and is a concept I still struggle with. As a parent you can’t always put yourself first, but one day the chicks will fly the nest and then what? You’ll end up adopting a labradoodle.

What the hell is a labradoodle? Apparently it is a cross between a Labrador and a Poodle. Whoa! Hold the press? No kidding. It’s way more than that though. A labradoodle is the must-have celeb-cessory. It’s better than a BFF. It’s more chic than a Chihuahua. Celeb owners include: Jennifer Aniston (as a gift from Brad), Jeremy Clarkson (Oh no, tell me it’s not true?), Richard Hammond (oh no again), Jeremy Irons and Tiger Woods. Bella, Elle Macpherson’s labradoodle is about to come Australia’s Next Top Model. She is the face of dogside.com, Elle’s doggie fashion brand.

Ask Small boy aged 6 to write a sentence with dog and he’ll produce: “A dog is man’s best friend.” Friend, not fashion accessory or baby substitute. Would you dress your best friend in a pink ballet tutu with sparkles? Not if you want stay friends. It’s a bit like bridesmaids. You can always tell the relationship between a bride and her bridesmaids by what they wear as she launches herself down the aisle.

My bridesmaids were told my colour scheme given strict instructions to dress themselves according to their personal style. They did, they are very beautiful, talented and stylish people, just in radically different ways. There was no way I could force them into matching bubble skirts and expect them to ever speak to me again. When I reciprocated for the first of the two she designed a magnificent skirt and silk top that is gorgeous and, believe it or not, actually wearable past the day. I’ve seen some terrible buttercup yellow monstrosities in wedding photographs that show the bride looking smug and her bridesmaids appalled. No love lost there.

Fashion is one of those fickle things as are the occasions that are the fashionista highlights of the social calendar. The Queen may have Ascot, but down here Southside we have the Durban July. Strangely enough, racing was the bastion of the white elite and despite the anti-colonialist rhetoric of the ruling party, they all flock down to watch the ponies and place a bet.

At this gathering of the rich and famous, our esteemed President happened to walking under a balcony, when an owner above was jostled by the crowd and lost control of his glass of whiskey. The upshot is that some of the golden liquid fell from the balcony narrowly missing the very important person below. It happens to the best of us and while we may suffer some embarrassment and have to foot the bill for some dry cleaning, that would be that. Not for this poor chap. He’s been found guilty of assault. A little bit OTT maybe?

Check it out here: http://www.2oceansvibe.com/2011/07/28/zuma-drink-spiller-guilty-of-assault/.

Next time he’d better get one of those spill-proof sippy cups for toddlers.

The Junkie and Psychopath and my Bathroom

In the news, a psychopath tried to start a revolution in Norway. Hang on, where? Norway. Pause. Why? I have no clue. Of all the places to try and start a revolution Norway has to be the last on my list. Off hand, what do I know about Norway? Fjords and salmon, yup that’s about it. They are a nice people, a quiet people. The last big thing to happen in Norway was the Second World War. You’d have better luck trying to start a revolution in a nunnery.

The psycho posted his manifesto online somewhat like Hitler and Mein Kampf. We covered that volume in school history lessons.

Teacher: “Hitler wrote down his plan for Europe in his manifesto, Mein Kampf.”
Me: “Excuse me, if he wrote it all down why was everyone so surprised when he set it action?”
Teacher: “Go to the library and take out a copy this weekend and then come to me on Monday and tell me what you think.”

Monday
Teacher: “Did you do what I suggested?”
Me: “Yes Ma’am.”
Teacher: “And now do you understand why his actions came as a surprise?”
Me: “Yes Ma’am.”

It’s so awful, turgid and incomprehensible that no-one ever managed to read all of it and so no-one knew about Hitler’s plans for mass genocide. The same could be said of the ramblings of the Norway psycho. His online Mein Kampf makes no sense whatsoever and simply sends out a clear message that this man is need of psychological counselling, some good drugs and a writing course.

The psycho didn’t manage to keep the front-page spot for long though as Amy Winehouse decided to shrug off her mortal coil this weekend and join the infamous 27 club. It seems a bit ironic that she apparently died of natural courses (still to be determined, but her family is convinced she was as clean as a whistle) after a lifetime spent ingesting every pharmaceutical concoction known to man and single-handedly keeping a small South American country in the black.

I cannot idolise the woman, she had an amazing voice and a more amazing talent for making a fool out of herself. To have so much talent and waste it so spectacularly is astounding. Her life and death and music serves to underline the truth of my naming theory. What you name your child can to some extent determine the path of their life. For example: Virginia. A Virginia can go one of two ways, she can be a nun or she can be the opposite. I’m a Wine house? She was going to be an alcoholic since birth. Every time she introduced herself the neuro-linguistic programming kicked in until she lived out the truth of it.

Amy’s ability to kick a mass serial killing off the front page certainly highlights the fickle nature of the reading public. We are all far more interested in the junkie tabloid queen then the death of what is probably half the population of Norway. Her death even put Rupert Murdoch on the back burner and Shrien Dewani? Who the hell is he again?

The ANC Youth League’s website had a bumper day yesterday with the highest number of hits every recorded after the site was hacked. Floyd Shivambu must have the hardest job in the world and my heart goes out to him. He spends every waking moment trying to make Julius Malema seem vaguely sane justifying his crazy words and actions. It’s not like he can resign is it? It came home to me when a Sunday paper asked him for comment on the R16 million mansion with bomb shelter and he was quoted as saying: “I don’t care. Just print whatever you want.” I hope the job comes with excellent benefits, like a slush fund, oh sorry, I meant trust fund.

On the home front, my relaxed journey through the nation's newspaper's was interrupted by a very uncomfortable domestic employment situation. My domestic helper was once married to the gardener’s brother. The gardener is a suave and charming young man. Usually the two don’t meet, but circumstances this weekend meant that we had a full house. I hadn’t seen either of them for a while and thought nothing of it, when I went to my study to check my email. The soundtrack from the en-suite bathroom was x-rated to say the least. The two of them were doing it like they do it on the Discovery Channel. IN MY BATHROOM! The only person allowed to get busy in my bathroom is me. I retreated to the living room and a short while later they strolled out blissfully, said their goodbyes and left.

There are some unpleasant realities here that have far farther reaching consequences than the defiling of my bathroom. There’s an HIV positive status to contend with, two children out of wedlock already and don’t forget the gardener’s brother. To have achieved this amount of complication by the age of 22 is a real feat. By getting busy in my bathroom they have managed to bring all these very real issues to roost well, in my bathroom.

I could handle talking to the domestic helper who spent R20 000 on my telephone, to the one who borrowed my clothing and even the one who stuck a knife in a wall socket. For some reason words desert me when I have to say something about this. Should I start to stock condoms in the bathroom? Should I mention that free contraceptive injections are available at the clinic? This goes beyond normal employer-employee situations for me. But in my bathroom? Hell no!

Office politics seems positively tame after that.

The Boobs, the Businessmen and the Balls

I have come to the conclusion that overt sexism by boorish pigs is preferable to the subtle nuances of discrimination that colour the words and actions of metrosexuals. It’s the unintentional sexism that sticks in my craw.

I’m not talking about a man being sweet enough to open a door for me or offer to pour me a drink. I’m not going to turn down an offer an umbrella in the driving rain either. I appreciate these gestures in the spirit of chivalry in which they are offered. I am humbled and absurdly flattered at these.

What gets me all hot under the collar and ready to get out my bic and set my bra on fire are the men who don’t even realise they are being sexist. They would never define themselves in those terms. They think women are fabulous, of course they deserve equal rights and after all, some of their best friends are women.

So, why do they direct a business conversation at the male party? Why do they assume that my gender makes me somehow less capable or my experience less valuable? When I get up from the table, suddenly they get all business oriented and keen, but my very female presence seems to detract from the professionalism of the environment.

When this company gets off the ground it will start as it means to continue and not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, religion, marital status or existence of children. I know women who have got up and walked out of interviews when asked whether or not they plan to have children. Trust me, if you can handle a child and a career you know more about effective time management and prioritising than anyone.

By the way, as a wife or as a business partner I am in no way inferior because I can fall pregnant. My position in either relationship is of an individual in a team. I am not there to make tea or small talk. I am just as serious and ambitious as any man. I’m not going to cry or explode in a hormonal tsunami, but I will cut you down if you put me down.

There seems to be a feeling that if you are married and in business together you form some of sort of unit, like conjoined twins. Does this mean I can pay a married couple less than two single people? I don’t think this would fly at the CCMA. I don’t think that either partner’s contribution to a company is less simply because they wear matching jewellery.

As for the “Mom and Pop Shop” commentary: Pick ‘n Pay, the Oppenheimers, Ikea... should I go on? What started out as amusing has begun to irritate me immensely. People ask if we can work together. What on earth do they think we’ve doing for the last 14 years? We’ve faced some incredibly tough challenges and surmounted every single one. Not many business partnerships last that long or marriages for that matter.

The most frustrating thing is that I have let it get to me. For the first time in my life and career I am starting to question myself, allowing other people to erode my confidence on the basis of... breasts. They aren’t doing it to me, I’m doing to myself and that is at the core of this tirade. Why do I let it get to me when they smile gently and indulgently at me then turn to my male business partner? I’ve sat through meetings gritting my teeth as I get more and more irate, and not even a blind man could miss the blood dripping from my fangs. I’ve stopped going to many of the meetings, because more seems to happen without me being there and more honestly, my self-esteem has been badly shaken.

How insane is that?
I guess I better grow me some balls!

Dobbie and the Frog Prince

Today was one of those strange and magical mornings where small, unexpected sights gave my spirit wings. A water main had burst on the side of the road and the brightest rainbow I have ever seen, hung suspended against the green grass and the blue sky. Two Rhodesian ridgebacks sat statue still in a patch of sunlight staring in unison out the gate. Both passed so quickly there wasn’t time to grab a camera or soak it in, but both have made me feel good today.

The lift in spirits is necessary, because allergy season has brought with it a reappearance of this bizarre affliction that plagues me. When I am stressed and suffering from allergies, odd spots on my face swell up. It leaves me looking quite peculiar with a swollen, shut eye or a lip that looks like Dr Ray stuck me with a collagen injection in one corner.

I sat through a meeting last night in mounting horror as I felt my lip swell and swell and swell to mammoth proportions. By the end of the hour I was hiding behind my hand and hoping no one had noticed. Thing is, you can’t not notice someone’s lip swelling up like a balloon in front of your eyes. I went home and dosed myself on antihistamines. This morning although I still look lopsided I no longer look like a relative of Dobbie the house elf.

Upon seeing my face last night my children reacted with laughter, concern and repugnance.
Small boy aged 9: “Yuck Mom, your face is all puffy.”
Small boy aged 6: “Is that what happens if you kiss a frog that isn’t a prince?”
Small girl aged 5: “Eww, gross. Mummy kissed a slimy frog, Mummy kissed a slimy frog.”

Thanks chaps. It did wonders for my self esteem. I didn’t mention that what actually happened when you kiss a frog that isn’t a prince is herpes.

Shrien Dewani and the Alsatian

Yes, I am a pampered spoilt little brat. I also pay for the privilege of my water and power, so when they stop I get a little miffed. I am a simple creature. I have simple pleasures, like a hot bath after a long, cold day. I know there are millions of people who live happily without this privilege, for whom a bucket of water comes at the end of a 2-mile hike, I am not one of them. I realise I take it for granted, but then I take switching the light on and having power for granted to – and 24 hour pizza delivery.

This morning I woke to find that I had water gushing happily from the taps once more. What I did not have was the necessary power to heat it up. Apparently Eskom does not like to be outdone in the poor service delivery stakes and decided to cut power to the entire neighbourhood again.

There is a knock-on effect to the nation’s GDP as a result, not to mention the poor people I have to deal with today. A smelly, grumpy, pissed off, sleepy person means pain and suffering for all she comes into connect with. This then leads to poor work performance and general bad attitude, which leads to a lack of income and a high staff turnover. Magnify this by the whole neighbourhood. This translates into a city wide go slow and higher incidents of road rage and office workers going postal. It can cause more damage to the economy then the ongoing fuel shortage.

This strike has some amusing qualities for me, most of which disappear in the reality of having no petrol, but they are there nonetheless. The industry are asking for people not to stockpile or be so selfish as to fill up their whole tanks and only to try and get more petrol when the red light has been on for a day. The thing is if you wait that long you will be going nowhere and if you happen to find a garage with full tanks – by the way Shell seems quite flush – you fill up because only God knows when you will be so lucky again.

Strike season comes at the same time every year and as the birds start their strange mating dances, so do the unions and the Government. The thing is everyone knows what the outcome will be, but they have to go through the ritual of it. Everyone loves a good strike, a good march and a place to go where you can practice your ululation. The unions come in with a totally bizarre demand like 20% increases, the Government offers 7% and then like an Mumbai bazaar they even out to the amount they both know going in they will accept, which is about 10%. They can’t just agree on this at the start and not strike at all, because then everyone would question why they belong to a union anyway if they don’t get to march and stuff.

Unions are a great way to make cash. You get some members who all pay you say 5% of their salary and all you have to do is arrange a strike sometime in the year. Like a party planner. Advertising is not really supported by any unions, we don’t earn enough and there are not enough of us to make it worthwhile. We’re lucky if we get a 5% raise at all each year, also our bosses would just laugh hysterically at us and then give us a pink slip. We’re also used to being in fierce competition with each other and couldn’t all work together if our lives depended on it.

In other news, that idiot Shrien Dewani is too depressed to stand trial. Dumbass. He’s scared of going to jail in the Western Cape. Oops. Maybe he should have thought about that before he hired someone to kill his wife there? Besides as daily reports of his extra-curricular activities filter in, he could be very happy in a jail cell with two large gay men from the Cape Flats. If he’s worried about HIV he needn’t be – prisoners get free condoms. It’s more than Anni got.

If the situations were reversed and a South African was arrested for offing his wife in London, he’d be on the next flight from OR Tambo to Heathrow end of story, bugger his depression. Instead this bastard gets to sit in a 5 star rehab facility, apparently the Prioiry wasn’t good enough for him so he’s gone to another one, and is treated like a Ming bloody vase. My advice is that he should rethink the mental incapacity thing. If he ends up back here with an insane plea and is sent to a State mental facility like Sterkfontein, he is in a for way worse than anything he can imagine in a State jail.

In another bizarre legal case, a dog in Ireland is standing trial for murder after he indulged in apparently consensual sex with a human woman and she died after an acute allergic reaction to the sex. The dog, an Alsatian, has been remanded in custody since 2006. Its owner will stand trial on its behalf. He, the owner, met the dead woman on a bestiality website and arranged the little rendezvous. In my opinion the dog is the victim here. How can raping a dog be termed consensual? My legal wise spouse informs me that this is some strange Roman law thing. Will the dog get the death sentence? Is he covered by basic human rights? It’s all very murky to me. Apparently you can rape a sheep, but not a dog.

Tell that to the Cape Flats guy, Shrien will sharing a cell with, who was arrested yesterday for doing the dirty with a Jack Russell named Stompie.

The Metaphor and the Truth of It

I have a pretty shitty issue, literally, I’m not just swearing for the sake of it. My neighbourhood’s sewerage system was installed sometime in the 1970s when the place was a single farm. Times have changed, but the sewerage hasn’t. About R20 million is currently being spent on upgrading our water system and I blithely assumed this would include the sewerage, but apparently it doesn’t.

I haven’t called 702, but I have done the suburban thing and written letters to my Councillor. During last year’s great Shit Storm she sounded outraged on my behalf but did bloody all about it. In the end my father-in-law broke down the wall between my property and the vacant lot next door so that the sewerage people could get access to the main drain. It was a short lived victory.

We have a new Councillor now. My husband has asked me to draft a letter to him using IT metaphor. Here it is.

Dear Councillor Bergman

Here is the thing. The antiquated sewerage system in Buccleuch cannot handle the current load and is exploding in my backyard.

Simply put, my Local Area Network (LAN) has been reinstalled and is working optimally. However, my LAN’s connection to the WAN is not. All the neighbourhood’s LANs connect together at a single node at the bottom of my garden. Currently packets of data are being shed all over my LAN. Let me put it another way. It is as if when anyone in the vicinity presses Print, their documents come out at my printer. Or how about the spam filter is not working and spam is coming out of the bowels of the earth all over my driveway?

More and more LANS are being added to the wider network all of which bottleneck much like the way that all Internet connections in South Africa end up at Internet Solutions. Only what I need is a solution because the smell is like opening a spam email only to infect your entire hard drive with a putrescent stench.

As our local Councillor, please could you look into a full systems analysis and possible reinstall of the operating system concerned?

Kind regards,

Buccleuch Residents

James Bond and the Chopstick Wars

The Chopsticks Wars. That’s what they’re calling it. Two Chinese mobile network operators are competing in the same market. Both have just had an enormous amount of employees escorted in handcuffs out of the country as illegal immigrants. (Read about it on www.itweb.co.za)

Now Company A wants to sue Company B for shopping them to Home Affairs. Bear with me; perhaps I am the crazy one here. Company A has broken the law (so has Company B but lets not snap chopsticks). Whether or not Company B shopped them, they have still broken the law. Surely, this not being America, they have no grounds for a legal case?

What punishment should be inflicted on the companies concerned? A fine? Pennies. How about rescinding their BEE status?

Around this whole saga I have heard some fascinating stories aka rumours that make for amusing retelling, but I must admit I have no proof of their validity, so don’t hunt me down like a rhino and chop my horn off okay?

So here is a round-up of some of the best:
1. They were evicted from a swanky office park for slaughtering the tame impala and barbequeing them up for dinner as well as using the second floor as a permanent residence.
2. They offer white-collar criminals the opportunity to work off their jail terms here, in my country, as little more than slave labour. Hence, the whole lack of immigration paperwork thing.

The most high profile was the CEO of a top Telco network who owns Company A. The press say he resigned on the same day as the mass deportations for “personal reasons”, but I heard he was set packing back to whatever European country he came from as an illegal immigrant! It’s nice to know Home Affairs don’t only target poor Zimbabwean refugees.

Now this whole saga segues into the UK phone hacking scandal quiet smoothly. Another story is that one of the companies above won a multi billion Pound tender from British Telecom. They installed the entire telecommunications network for Great Britain. In due course another tender came up and they were asked to set up a dummy network as proof of concept. BT then went through the code line by line and lo and behold they found a little programme running on the side.

“Oh no,” said the service provider, “That’s nothing.”

Turns out it was something, a very big something. Every activity on the BT network was being reported straight back to the Chinese government in some demented James Bond parody. So as long as you have the telephone number of the person you want, you can access their Internet records, SMS, phone calls, bank security, you name it. More than that, the Chinese government could shut down the system with the flick of a switch. BT threw them out and now have to reinstall the whole damn thing. So, every network installed throughout the world by the same company has the same little programme. Welcome to world domination.

I am unsure of my reaction to the phone hacking saga. I couldn’t care less about soccer stars, movie stars and TV wanna-bes getting their phones hacked. I don’t think it is in the public interest, but I don’t honestly give a damn. If News of the World had stopped there, it all would’ve blown over.

Taking on the most powerful family in Europe? Not the brightest idea ever.
Hampering a police investigation into a kidnapping of a child? Criminal.
Listening in and cashing in on the grief of victims of terrorism? Beyond the pale.

Regardless, should Rupert Murdoch be held responsible? Does the head of an international conglomerate really micromanage to that extent? Sure he is a difficult man and a difficult boss who placed enormous pressure on his employees to deliver, but wasn’t it the editor who should be to blame, or that terrible woman with the ghastly hair? In their defense they say all the papers do it. Maybe. But they didn’t get caught.

Despite this latest scandal, Murdoch is the last of the great newspapermen. He may own gossip rags, but he also owns the Times, Fox entertainment and a host of others. If he is forced to sell his network, it will be the end of an era. Is that a bad thing? Maybe not, but it is sad to witness nonetheless. He won’t be remembered now as the man who built the world’s biggest media empire. He’ll be remembered as the idiot who hacked the phones of the Royal Family.

I feel like I am living the through the last days of the Roman Empire, powerless to do anything except watch it topple. The rot has spread so far and goes so deep that it has become a cancer that we cannot cut out. Now we have some idiot who claims to live on a R25 000 a month salary, building a R16 million home complete with a luxury bunker. And they say I have illusions of grandeur? Either he is totally off his rocker or he knows something the rest of us don't. When asked for comment his spokesmen, who has probably the hardest job in the entire world, exclaimed: "Oh print whatever you want". Poor Floyd, it can't be easy continuously trying to make Julius says sound like anything less than the ravings of a madman.

The Washerwoman and the Doughnut

Things fall apart. The centre cannot hold. These words have never rung so true. The bloody washing machine has packed up and shipped out. The door lock has some gimpy computerised thing on it that has died and apparently costs more than our annual deficit to replace.

The great white elephant is now lying ass upwards on the kitchen floor exposing its sordid underbelly to the world. I have to say that after 8 odd years of stationery existence the underbelly is pretty sordid. I spent much of the weekend ignoring the situation and promising myself a trip to the Laundromat.

Last night as I sat burning the midnight oil my spouse came down to see me.
(Aside: Oooh, my chair just made a horrible noise and seems to have turned into a Lazyboy.)
My spouse. He walks in very proud of himself:

Spouse: “I have put the laundry in the bath.”
Me: “You’re kidding me, right?”
Spouse: “No.”
Me: “What?”
Spouse: “I poured some shampoo over the lot and stamped around on it.”
Me: “Sorry? You did what?”
Spouse: “Think of the all the time it will save.”
Me: “For whom exactly?”
Spouse: “Bugger, you’re going to blog about this aren’t you?”

My feelings on the matter were underlined this morning when Small girl aged 5 came to me with a puzzled look on her face.
Small girl aged 5: “Mummy. I think Daddy has gone mad.”
Me: “You are only realising this now?”
No, actually, I said: “Why?”
Small girl aged 5: “He’s put all the clothes in the bath water.”
Me: “I know.”
Small girl aged 5: “Maybe he needs to go to the doctor?”

Maybe I need a strait jacket and a padded room. The washing machine, the staple gun air compressor thingie that blew up on my face on Saturday, La Bella Donna going nowhere slowly – what is it with me and appliances? Speaking of my classic car folly, La Bella has petrol, spark, compression and is still not showing signs of resuscitation. What gives? I think I’ll trade her in for the 2012 Ford Mustang, except that the Yanks will only make them in left hand drive. Bastards. Wave a dream in front of me and then cruelly snatch it away. I may well have to move to the home of the chilli dog just so I can have that car – and access to a Chinese Laundromat.

Damn, my cellphone just beeped manically at me to inform me that Small boy aged 9 has a hair and uniform check tomorrow. He currently looks like a Justin Bieber wannabe with bed head. What am I going to do? I offered to buy a clipper set and do it myself, but he reacted with such horror. Actually, I think he’s got my measure pretty well, but it still stings, the lack of trust. I am hoping that some creative combing and discrete concrete gel will disguise his innate scruffidom.

Today I have two reasons for celebration. Firstly, I got a full tank of petrol! Hopefully this means the strike is over. Secondly, I arrived at the Oaklands Seattle Coffee Company for my hot chocolate this morning just as freshly baked chocolate doughnuts came out of the oven. It would take a stronger person than I to ignore the message the universe was quite clearly giving me. It has sprinkles!

The Funny Girl and La Bella Donna

The relationship between man and his car is a complex and multi-faceted thing of beauty. I say man in a totally non-gender specific way, because God knows I love my car, but not in a creepy auto-erotica kind of way.

Someone got me thinking about cars and what they mean this weekend. Mine have occupied a strange mechanical shaped space in my heart. My first car belonged to my Grandpa. It was his pride and joy. No-one, but no-one drove it but him. He was so obsessive about this that he went with his car when it was serviced and stayed throughout the proceedings like an over-protective parent. Upon his death I painted it British racing green, put fur on her dashboard and embraced the road like a long lost lover. I am sure he did more than roll over in his grave. He probably stood straight up and roared.

She had no brakes, no radio (I had a portable tape player under the passenger seat), no air conditioning and certainly no power steering. She was the very essence of freedom and the keys to the city. The AA came to my home most days to start her up and in the afternoons I prowled the varsity parking lot with my jumper cables looking for some hapless first year to get her going again. I never went anywhere without those cables or a 2 litre bottle of water to refill the radiator. Once caught without it, a passing motorist kindly gave me her bottle of Evian.

Eventually I had to concede that I lacked the mechanical knowledge to keep her on the road. This coincided with my Grandmother passing away and my father telling me in no uncertain terms that it was time to get a car that might just on the off-chance pass roadworthy. We went together to the Ford dealership and I spent my inheritance on Funny Girl, named for her number plate FNY. She was a red Ford Fiesta with air conditioning and, oh glory, a cassette and radio built-in! My happiness knew no bounds.

She has served me well for many years, but with three children a two-seater car is not an option and I was sick of listening to old mix tapes. Sadly things came to a head last year in a head on collision that has rendered her into a heap of scrap metal in my back garden. I can’t bear to part with her. She may be unsalvageable, but her spirit will live on in my husband’s Triumph Herald.

She must have known my heart belonged to another. For shortly before the accident I had fallen head over heels in love with La Bella Donna. She is a 1976 3 litre VW Kombi. She’s been repainted, reupholstered and kitted with a sound system that can blast your head off at 20 paces. She has no power steering and no air-conditioning, but she is beautiful. Everyone smiles when I drive past. Arbitrary strangers try to buy her from me for ridiculous amounts of money.

She and I are the same age. This means we are slow to get going in the morning. We are a little creaky around the joints. We go a little slower these days. We can be a little cranky. We do not like to be rushed. We need a lot of tender loving care.

Sadly La Bella Donna is currently going nowhere slowly. Her compression is out and her steering column in shot. She is, like the best women, an artwork in progress. My father regards her as my folly. Then again his first car was the first Mini Cooper and his folly a 1960s Morgan. My older son regards both Bella and me with ill-concealed embarrassment amid the Z5s and SLKs in his parking lot at school. My younger two think she is marvellous.

Why did I fall so on love with her? Well, let me count the ways...

The most important is that she is a symbol of my childhood, my dreams for the future and the naiveté of youth in a design icon of her era. She is instantly recognisable on the road. People wave at me on the school run and daily commute like we are old friends. She doesn’t look like any other car smooched out of a sausage factory production line. She stands out, proud of her heritage, her age and her aging mutant hippiedom. She is a symbol of simpler days, simpler times and maybe happier ones.

Also, she is one of the few cars this week with petrol in her, because she doesn’t use this new fangled unleaded stuff, she’s an LRP girl all the way.

Oh yeah, and she paid back her carbon footprint in 1983. Boo sucks to you Prius.