Orinoco and the inner Womble

Great Uncle Bulgaria, Bungo and Orinoco are back! The Wombles have been reissued at last. I left the bookstore grinning like a fool and hopping up and down to get home and read it to my long suffering offspring.

The Wombles must have been one of the first “environmentally friendly and sustainable living” children’s books, only without the insufferable pretension and tree-hugger political passivism of our latest offerings. They are quite simply, brilliant books, simple stories filled with humour and adventure. There is nothing subversive, no celebrity trying to get publicity out of it, no political agenda, just a good bedtime story with a good message.

The Wombles, in case you are too young (or American) to remember, live under Wimbledon Common and collect the stuff people leave behind. Come Sunday in the park, Small boy aged 6 found a packet in the park and off we went Wombling. In an hour we’d filled and emptied it twice. We didn’t find anything useful, but we did help clean up our park. Small boy aged 6 humbled me.

If each time we saw a piece of litter we picked it up
If each day we picked up the rubbish on our own piece of sidewalk
If each one of us picked up just piece of someone’s else’s trash
We can make a difference

To paraphrase another literary hero, Horton, “A difference, is a difference, no matter how small.”

What it boils down to is that we can’t keep bitching about poor service delivery and our government’s lazy ineptitude. We need to set the example that they need to follow. At the end of the day our government is a reflection of us, as individuals and as a culture and a nation. We can’t point fingers at fat cat politicians who do squat when we walk past a Coke can on the side of the road saying to ourselves, “Not my problem. That’s someone’s else job.” If we don’t care enough, why should the people we vote into office?

It’s Monday and the only day of the week I have the energy to be a self-righteous sanctimonious bitch. Sue me.

Dick, Spot and Eminem

This is Dick.
This is Spot.
Spot is Dick’s dog.
Run, Spot, run.
See Spot run.

Bring back any memories?
I learnt how to read with Dick and Spot and Jane. I hated them. I loathed them. I only learnt to read them so I could read well enough to move onto the Bearenstein Bears. These days Dick, Spot and Jane have been relegated to the annuls of history where they belong and my children are learning to read to new, but equally tedious literature. It’s hard to bestow the love of reading when their first experience of it is so dull. I’ve tried all sorts and still Small boy aged 9 has struggled. He plows through them with a great deal of dedication and little enjoyment. But then…

I, or we, discovered something awesome. Eminem. Small boy aged 9 and myself quite like old Eminem. First thing in the morning we belt out raps at about 300 decibels to wake ourselves up on the way to school.

So how is Eminem teaching my son to read? Lyric sheets. Small boy aged 9 reads along to the rap from the lyric sheets. In two days he can keep up with Eminem’s rapid fire speech, had learnt about emphasis, irony, sarcasm, beat, and increased his vocabulary exponentially. Eminem trained himself by reading dictionaries so despite his white trash image; he’s actually quite eloquent.

Of course there is a downside – Small boy aged 9 now knows a lot of words a 9 year old shouldn’t and there are a few scenarios I’ve skipped over explaining. No doubt he’ll find out soon enough what a Johnson is without his Mom having to spell it out. I’d love to teach him to something tamer like Justin Bieber, oh no, wait, both of us would vomit if the Beeb ever found his insidious way into my car. So, Eminem and Metallica it is. The point is that it may be irreverent, it may be unorthodox, but it’s working and he’s reading.

I know there are the mommies and daddies who will be appalled, however, they forget that our generation had Dick, Fanny, the possibly lesbian George, golliwogs, Noddie and his gay pal Big Ears and the Smurfs (all those little blue men and only one little blue lass – yeah right!) – oh and the Gummy Bears who were addicted to some sort of amphetamine berry. So don’t harp on back to the sweet unoffensive literature of your youth!

If you have a problem with my method you’ve obviously never had to read Dick and Spot and in the immortal words of Kid Rock, “You can kiss my Anglo-Saxon ass!”

Have a good weekend folks.

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.