Closer

I’m terribly sorry (not really) if you were expecting a ranting about the wickedly odd movie “Closer” in which Jude Law and Julia Roberts bashfully try to tie and knot skimpy knickers into a macabre twist.

This is about a line I picked up (nothing sexual) in a cell phone guideline this morning. It reads like this:

Loudspeaker:

Do not hold the device near your ear when the LOUDSPEAKER is in use, because the volume may be extremely LOUD...

I know I KNOW! Not remotely as funny or near funny as some other quotes and things, but it did catch my eyes and odd sense of humor. Once I took a photograph of a road sign warning against water in the road. It was planted right in the biggest mud puddle on route to Waenshuiskrans, near Struisbaai.

Did one have to feign surprise at such an informative piece of warning? I wonder.

Duh.

I’m nearly off now on the long awaited hols and wish you all a bulging sock full of pleasant surprises.

Odd

Ahh, the meaning of "odd":

I used to work for an elderly who will be turning a milestone of 93 years on the 26th of December. Whenever I said something she did not agree with, such as having a relationship with one of her family members, she'd say in a very low tone of voice:

"How VERY odd"

Well, that way of speech had become my very own and ...

How odd, I can hear you say.

Not so.

I just heard on the radio that someone else's New Years Party already started.

People are odd things, don't you think?

Some parties are really odd

These voices on the radio are irritatingly odd

Sexual relationships are odd things - far too oddly complicated to understand

My very normal dysfunctional family behaves oddly sometimes

Foreigners are odd

SA drivers are really odd

Mogabe is well past the sell-by date of odd

Life is odd

I'm odd...


Have a verily-merrily Xmas & a bulb-blasting blessed New Year.

That too sounds odd.

Nosy Rainbows

I'm on the receiving end of odd threads of thought today.

Doo-lally emails are also going around like it is Christmas. Well...

Wots the weatherman saying?

Fog and cold around the Ears

Not cotton clouds?



I think people are allowing their minds to switch off - thank goodness.

The cotton and fog reminds me of a time when I strolled sunny but icy moors in Scotland. This wellie-clad shivering South African chic clambered bravely over fences or skidded over sea-rocks, all the while keeping her chin up with the pretence of inbred-ease for strolling foreign grounds. Took photographs too of sheep and sheds, stark black cliffs and mused over broad sea views across to the MacLeod Maidens (Rocks edging into the skyline) and Tables (two flat top mountains).

At some point someone walking next to me, stopped and peered closely at my nose for a long-long time and said: “My! I can see rainbows!”

It seems that my numb nose had started running in small rivulets and as I did not know or feel a thing about it, a friendly word of comfort was delivered in small dosis of friendly sniggers. Seeing rainbows, eh? It IS one of the greatest features in Scotland, did you know?

Apart from angelic looking but not-to-be-messed-with heilen coos and sea monsters…

Between friends

Snippets... Did you know the meaning according to the rhinoceros (thesaurus) says it is a small piece of anything, especially a piece that has been snipped off.

Well, I like sharing snippets with friends, such as the two which was done via emailing:


Your mobile phone number please

Why?

To send a text on Xmas

Okay. It is 141..51..&5113&1141

Wots with all the “1’s” in that number???

I cannot count much higher that’s why

At least you got past the -1…



AND


...some disdodconbobbled phrases about marriage

Are you generally against Marriage?

I’m a girl who firmly believes in marriage.

All that anti-why-marriage garbage you just sent indicates otherwise...

Yes but...

eH BUT?

Once I say “yes” the marriage will be firmly locked in a legal and firm contract…of do's, don'ts, never-to's, always to's amongst a set of rules

You are against marriage.

On a sober note

Do you rescue sick or injured animals by roadsides?

A few years ago we nearly drove over a little white-faced barn owl which was sitting in the middle of the road. It was very early in the morning and we took it to the nearest police station which was at Middleburg (Cape Province). They delivered the seemingly stunned bird to the Grootfontein veterinary institution, situated not far from town. When we phoned towards late afternoon, we were informed that the poor wee thing had died. It had been poisoned. It is hard to believe that farmers still put poison out in the fields. This is a criminal act, don't you think, to be prohibited and punished with severe fines or even jailing. If the culprit is ever caught, to be mentioned.

Same counts for wildlife being culled for their tusks and horns. I'm sure most people feel rather passionate with hair-raising anger when hearing about these unbelievably cruel and greedy activities. The brutal scumbags behind such acts ought to be punished for live.

It is the time of year again when hundreds of pets are lost through negligence of their owners. That is why I'm going to have pup Bella and Jessie micro-chipped before we leave for a few days holiday. It only fair to them, and at least it'll give me some peace of mind. Not altogether completely as I'll still fret a bit.

Also, doesn't it annoy you into teeth gnashing, spitting rage of the fabric-tearing-kind when the car driver in front of you chucks a ciggie out of the window? Educate a nation with such ignorant morons in our midst. Ha.

Perhaps a little bit of care to be taken during this time of sun, sea and celebrations?

Down There...

In the dungeons there is was a soldier, now a ghostly figure...

I was kindly reminded of this true story that happened when one day my friends and I visited Deal Castle in South-East Kent. They walked on ahead in a deep murky dark tunnel and I tagged behind, taking my time as usual.

In the meantime the low scum I call my friends decided to give their friend something to take home with her: The fright of my life. All three charged around the corner ahead and the sound of six feet slapping like horse hooves on cold wet stone echoed ferociously with the force of an army upon itself.

It’s quite natural that I freaked out:

“HE-HIRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH-hhh-hh.......*&^%$!!!”

The sound that came out was however a couple of notches higher than usual. I wonder if they have performed such a death challenging deed had they known what had just happened prior to their mischief?

Amidst the wonder of 16th century castles someone or something had decided to get a grip on my hair. Yip, that’s right. It gave my hair a very HARD tuck and not letting go immediately either. I can’t think a bat could have had the terrible sense of getting muddled in my silky clean hair and neither had I been trying out acrobats hanging on poles or near any mucky walls. I know I was very alone down in that dungeon or whatever it is called.

And this was when my friends-of-combat decided to startle the life out of me even more...

It’s been known ever since that this chick must be radiating a certain charm to C 16th soldiers who are doing what soldiers do.

Kind of makes me feel rather flattered – but only if it was a man soldier. Must get utterly and profusely boring down there...

Wacky or Wot

There are certain miserabilities currently in my life refusing to take leave of absence. Instead they remain like stubborn little gremlins with sharp teeth slammed into everything they can get. My hampered work PC is one of them. Modern technology leaves me utterly cold and passionless but this problem now makes me feel more than ever resentful of work, incompetent and retarded as well. To do with too much work and too little sleep and heaven knows what else which seems to be plunked unasked for, on my proverbial plate.

I'm whacked.

But not too far gone yet to recall two funny episodes when I worked as a twenty-something (young) elderly carer in the U.K.

On this occasion I cared for an elderly Colonel who suffered a lot from shingles. We're not talking now about all the times I had to bath him (yip) and found his eyes watching me full of silent humor. Naughty goat. Anyway, in the throws of an adventurous moment, I once made rice pudding from a Lady magazine recipe. All went well, apart from belatedly realizing that I needed a few drops of brandy to set the complete tune to taste.

There wasn't brandy. So the doctor (me) prescribed whisky instead. Good medicine, let me tell you. I poured half a bottle of whisky over the rice and we got very tipsy at the dinner table. So much so that I had to assist the giggly old dear on wobbly legs to his favorite chair to watch the Sitcom, My Family. Later I was asked if the dentist in this comedy really had climbed out of window...

Reminds me fondly of the Xmas I looked after the rather weird lady who only ate fish morning, day and evening. I aptly named her the "Fish-Woman". Her son and his gay friend from the U.S.A had a stash of weed with them, and late afternoon, sated after a huge meal, we watched Chicken Run. Do I have to explain what inhalation of weed-smoke does to someone like me? Note, not smoking actively but inhalation... At least I remembered to laugh at all the 'right' places whereas for those two...they had lost the plot long before we tuned into the story.

And this year we're watching Dinner For One. Are you up for a GOOD ONE, a TOAST and a LAUGH?

Pass The Pepper Please

Can I have the pepper please?

Sorry Darling, what did you want?

The pepper. Please.

The paper?

No, the pepper. Over there…

What paper?

PEPPER

I'm sorry, but which paper are you talkking about? The telegraph, Scotsman or the local one?


Did you know that England and Scotland has a great many dialects? I must have grown up very ignorant never to have wondered about other countries and different accents and dialects. All of which are depending on the setting of county, city or coasts people come from.

I’m not sure what one should name language barriers and confusion when it happens between the posh England-English from English-Scots origins and those of South-African descent speaking English with an Afrikaans accent. Around a breakfast table deep in the heart of a west coast island just off the mainland of Scotland, it sometimes causes confusion, not to speak of frustration.

As it happened on this occasion, three of us had early brekki around a table with a ‘lazy Suzan’ in the middle between us, in a house called Balgowan on The Isle of Skye. A complete conversation ensued across our plates between a Scots-English lawyer and a twenty-something SA lassie…

Listening to us, the ex-town-planner who lives in Kent and a Scots-English gentleman wiped tears of laughter from his eyes as he looked at us over the rims of his glasses and newspaper he was reading.

And to our delight, he then shed light on the question of paper OR pepper.

Getting the gist...

Of mussle seekers and younger men...

Xmas shopping done just under a miraculous two hours, and managing to even enjoy it, we headed to Scarborough (in South Africa). A safe haven of tranquility, sea-spray, soft waves and endless skies. Far removed from the human-craze that is worming and clawing its way into car- and shopping queues this time of year.

Coming down with something close to flu-like year-end exhaustion (yes, I finally diagnosed the late cantankerous knackered spell) I needed to leave the whirlpool of chaos behind for a little while.

Basking in the sun we sat on rocks close to the road. Looking at the broad view I felt my life seep back to being me again. I felt solitude. Fynbos tickled my feet; oystercatchers flew across rock-puddles with shell food, surfers skimming the air far out on the western horizon. I am at home here. I may just want to put down my travel load here one day. Who knows?

Sipping unwooded chardonnay, we watched two men moving to- and fro between the rocks and sea waves. They were mussel seekers. One had a really nice back, although his skin a tad too bleached for this time of the season. The other one boasted a mop of unruly curly hair. They were aware of us and glanced up occasionally. Biting into pomegranate and sipping wine, we watched them. Speculated and shared a giggle about what might happen next.

They ventured up and dropped their full bags by our feet. Lounged on the dry grass and vygies, asking if we made a habit of watching strangers clambering and skidding over rocks. Of course not, we said indignantly. Just happen to visit the place often, finish a bottle of good white wine and return to our lives with newly acquired strength for yet another week’s work.

They didn’t believe us, I know. Could see it in their eyes. The hopes of youth, or male chauvinistic wistfulness to be watched and admired by women of a slightly wiser age? Shrug, I really don’t know. They were fun, young, curios and boldly flirtatious, I know that without a wink of doubt. Otherwise I’d have been a lost case of a slowly ageing stock-deaf-hopelessness idiocy.

Do younger men feel comfortable with slightly older women? Why so? These two were so at ease, almost vulnerably so, with us. Did we try to impress? No, the answer to that may be at their door or simply the fact that nobody needed to make an impression. We talked easily about whereabouts, a muscle potjiekos-invite which we declined, neighbours and stuff.

Perhaps they sensed that we would not be charmed and bowled over as easily as our twenty something counterparts.

It would be grossly unfair if these two guys were fooled into believing we aren't “fair game”. Because that would be such a wrong conclusion on their part. They eventually headed back to their car. There was no pressure neither any self-pitying thoughts as I watched them go. Happy for the company shared and completely at ease staying behind. Maybe my life journey has taught me a few things, but I must admit, finding myself in a space between twenty’s and forty’s is a whole new experience with a lot of stuff out there waiting to be learned.

One thing I sensed yesterday, was however strong and comfortable a young thirty-something can look outwardly, doesn't mean she doesn't harbor a great many other feelings inside. Still blushing deeply and even innocently under the intense and curious gaze of a twenty something male.

Life so often seems to run ahead of itself on an overload of cheap junk and predictable plastic… When the unexpected challenges one as it did yesterday – the feeling that submerges is one of being startlingly refreshing. Don’t you think?

Downhill Jack & Jill

We held a Xmas "dop & tjop braai" Saturday evening. To those who don't understand, it means a barbeque. It happened in a lot of darkness in the garden dimly lit with pretty fairy-throng (thong?) lights, lanterns and one glow-worm. A worm with a bulb in its arse. It was a male as it was such a long worm. The animal family caused some entertainment as the curious cats bobbed amongst the guests legs and the two dogs nicked bones from plates. Why does ones dogs behave badly when people visit?

Apart from realizing too late that we needed more light in our garden, LOTS of other things happened prior to this tranquil setting.

My cell phone drowned Friday night. We never shared an intimate relationship as I never quite took to it. However, the sudden departure left an unexpected gaping hole in my life as for once I really needed that phone more than anything on Saturday. How could it let me down like that?! Desperation has many faces and one is to smack a nasty, tatty lifeless piece of Chinese clutter to pieces on the kitchen counter. It could have revived the dead phone, but I did remember that smacking might also not have the complete desired effect.

I miss my phone. I’m lost without it. I doubt it ever wants to come back to me. It’s gone for good.

Do you know, if I was a bad person all these bad things could be blamed on another entity who ventured across our lawn with an unlabelled bottle of red wine Friday evening. I’m not particularly fond of people arriving uninvited with unlabelled half-full bottles of off-tasting wine. That is so cheap. Disrespectful. So I ended up blending my white with red and switched on the irrigation system and forgot about my phone which I've left jsut outside the backdoor. Circumstantial evidence was discovered the next morning that my cell had been in the wrong place at the wrong time as it sometimes goes in life. What used to be a stupid working phone was now a useless soaked piece of moldy pulp and junk.

I’m not sure if I can vent my annoyance in a general direction, but anyone who plans a visit to Acorn Cottage in the future: Don't ever arrive with an opened, unbalanced unlabelled wine. Never. You’ll regret it.

The rest of Saturday left me lost in a whirlwind of inevitable doom and gloom. I don’t believe in the 13th bad luck and it strikes me as very odd that it seemed to have been waiting for me. The day spiralled like an upside-down see-saw with some electricity and hosepipe trippings, dogs demolishing a 3rd new spray-head in the 3rd consecutive week, cleaning up the lawn, getting on chairs to reach behind the top-shelve in the kitchen and stepping on the arthritic cat’s tail, a grub of dry bread, a growl here, some good music, a fused temper there or a philandering sister arriving just on time to avoid doing a stitch of work prior to the party...

There was a lot of self-pep-talk under the shower just before our first guests arrived.

The party went well. In case you wondered...

Then yesterday morning happened: Been taking care of the neighbour’s toothless dog a day or two and left him in their place too long yesterday morning. Had to deal with BIG SHIT. Resulting in blocking their toilet. I wonder how a 10 c piece could have landed amongst all that mess between the two bedrooms...

Most of us know the song of Jack and Jill going up and down the hill to fetch a bucket of water. Only difference this weekend was that I had no hill climbing, neither fetching any water and trust me: I’m done. One simply doesn’t have to dance across hills to the sound of music this time of year and the thought of it alone leaves me limp with a certain degree of cross-eyed lethargy.

I so want to curl up under a rose-bud-bush and forget about everything, especially the part of buckets, water, phones, and mountains of work to be conquered.

Holding On

Original Cin’s comment about finding a crab in her bed once. Pretty adventurous for a crabby creature... If this one was “planted” then all sympathy for both parties unwittingly part-taking for the cause of a naughty smirk...

The Scottish villages Ardfern and Croabh Haven are surrounded by islands known as the Inner-Hebrides. The beauty of these catches in one’s throat as it is being watched on a bright day after the rains have gone.

My friends once invited me to join them on the island “Shuna”, situated between the island Luing and Craignish. Gorgeous names. Places not yet spoilt by tourists either.



We stayed in The Hunt Lodge which stands out like a rock and alone with its windows overlooking isles and miles of sea. We had a massive primitive braai (I think all the visitors add more stones), washing line, swinging line in the woods, no modern equipment wotsoever and a vast range of books left behind by previous visitors.



The Lodge had a little secluded bay next to the rocky patch where the little boat was anchored. We trampled down to our private bay often clothed with bathing gear and wearing wellies as we tip-tap-toed over slippery stones, wild thyme and primroses. I have a lovely picture taken from the water towards the beach where my gumboots waited patiently for my return...

We swam, ate, watched cloudless skies or cotton clouds, dreamed, drift on our backs, talked and laughed, loved life, discussed things like skinny dipping etc. It was all simple but heavenly bliss.

One day, I waded elegantly out of the water, feeling like a goddess all cleansed up and revived. The next instant a claw firmly pinched one of my toes and sent this unsuspecting idiot into little water aerobics. I emerged eventually from below the water and with a delicate shriek pointed towards my foot which I held above the surface. Inspecting me was the beady eyes of a little crab. It clang to my poor little toe for dear life as we eyed each other up. I tried keeping afloat with one leg kicking randomly at any prospective attracts from yet more beasties.

My friends told me through snorts of laughter that I had a hermit crab dangling on my toe, which by then seemed to be stuck in the air... A WHAT?



Good thing when one can still make others laugh.

As for swimming naked ... One of the five explorers eventually dared the whole part of our previous discussion. On a warm midge-crazy summer afternoon when the others had gone for a hike. Incidentally at the same time the neighbours from the opposite side of the island decided to throw anchor in our little bay. They appeared without warning out of thin blue layers of air-sky and miles of sea and there was nothing to hold on to...

Knackered

I’m really knackered. Kapoet. Toast. Over-the-Wall... so I even borrowed this picture from the web...

Do you also feel how the gravitation powers of the earth and the moon are working in synchrony against your ability to keep your eyes open and focussed?

All due to year end functions. Such a grand affair. In my case I dreaded just the very thought of it this year, for many reasons which can’t be explained. I needed super-natural strength to get my bum out there at the restaurant this morning, to attend the year-end-breakfast ceremony.

It’s worse than family ceremonies, trust me.

Some others delightedly anticipated this eight o’clock palaver whilst I panicked about it for nearly three weeks. How to...how...how...howls.

It seems however, I found the cure to such extreme unwillingness to participate. Gone are thoughts of faked headaches or sick pets and I’d like to share the remedy here with you.

It works...up to a point.

Wake up, get a mug of hot ground coffee and take it with you into the bathroom. Swash on as much as you can while you take a blasting shower. Lather your hair only once with an ordinary shampoo but scrub your whole body hard with almond-salt or citrus and pour generous amounts of smelly stuff all over which will make you feel gorgeous.

Don’t worry, don’t worry. Don’t even worry much at all about your hair. Or what you’ll wear; just grab something out of the cupboards that looks like it’ seen an iron.

Have one more cuppa coffee, preferably in the garden where you watch normal life. All will be well. You’ll see. You may even be late for work today because classy people always arrive late.

Dispose of any left-over cold coffee and take half a calming or sleep tablet. Whichever of the two, but not both.

Get dressed now. Bind hair behind head with elegant pink rose. Who cares.

Go back to the kitchen, take out the big blue bottle and pour its contents liberally into a glass. Take your glass of wine to your room and complete the grooming business.

A good measure of wine works better than little. Trust me. Too little will have you back in the kitchen in no time and it tastes surprisingly refreshing so early in the day.

Important thing to remember: Brush your teeth, gums and upper mouth, under the tongue TWICE.

On the way out, remember to lock the door, say hello to the cats and give the dogs their bikkis.

Remember to put the car in reverse when you leave. Close the gate behind you and double check that the road is clear when you pull into the road. By now you feel more than ready, still gorgeous and amazingly calm. Close to chilled-out...

Take extra-strong spearmint while you drive to the restaurant – your dry mouth will need it as you can’t afford blabbering lisping when you make your grand entrance.

By the time you find a parking and walk towards the group (everyone there) you feel so chilled, you actually manage to radiate the broadest smile and still feel gorgeous. And you manage to get through breakfast and talk whilst sipping orange juice and earl-gray tea with toe-curling enjoyment.

Back at the office: Is an altogether different matter. Maybe the extra “sugar” and extra “milk” at home this morning did a lot of good, but now seem to be working more actively so as I feel really out of it.

Somebody help!

I’m so tired. Please pretty please can’t I lie down under my desk, curl myself into a little ball and sleep just for a little while or what?

Virgin Births Versus Wise Men

Dinners and Kinky Stuff

The thing about E-mails and those black and whites...

Lastly named doesn't refer to kinky black or white undies, okay. Save those for much later in the game or day...

Coming back to the thing about receiving the same old junk emails doing the rounds every year pre-Christmas and New Year. I hope you read them religiously too and through, as there is something so jolly funny and sad about doing just that.

Such as the one about baking an explosive life-threatening infused Xmas cake and EVENTUALLY and FINALLY falling or keeling over in bliss.

Or the one about one's sex life (Garfield piccie) improving soooooo much during the year that everyone is now fucking the poor bugger around. Can't say I'm quite in this category yet, but definitely fall victim to being mucked about sometimes. Darn. So does this mean that regardless of getting more or less sex, one will still get fucked? Sorreee, bad language again.

Does anyone ever watch "Dinner For One" on New Year's Eve? I lurve the butler and feel a certain affinity with the way he carries on...

Anyhow, this morning I received the message highlighted in FAT BLACK letters below. Ridiculing the terrorist communities or wickedly overworked mob of sods like me, but I love it when insanity screws the mind.

Well and I thought anyone who'd like to join in to voicing their feelings, should meet me there...


PLEASE CIRCULATE THIS MESSAGE AROUND YOUR OFFICE AND MAKE SURE EVERYONE TAKES PART THIS FRIDAY:

The Leaders of the world are asking for your support to combat terrorism and we are being encouraged to demonstrate against these terrorists this Friday at 15:00 hours.
It is a well-known fact that the Taliban are against alcohol consumption and think it is sinful to look at a naked woman.

Therefore, at 15:00 hours this Friday, all women should run naked through the office while men chase them with a beer in their hands. This is the best way to show our disgust for the Taliban and will hopefully help us in detecting the terrorists amongst us, so anybody who does not do as proposed will be deemed a terrorist, denounced to the world and be shot.

Do it for your country!!

Furthermore...and a Very Good Morning

I once wrote something similar, but this is another year and done in a different frame of mind more or less. Perhaps a bit more clear about a few things too. So here we go.

The view out there reflects my mood. Soft green colors, gray distant forestry mountains with a drizzle of mist dancing above the tops. And here, amongst bushy storm-ridden purple lavender and leafy tree branches I entertain the idea of taking my bags and leave a job I daresay drives me into near comatose mind boggling boredom and despair.

It is cool and inviting out there, a breeze that carries feathery insects to and fro-and the world out there seems so distant to the place I find myself to be.

But these beautiful images and thoughts also makes me hotly uncomfortable now, as I am in an office atmosphere clinically loaded with the hum of machines and harsh flicker of fluorescent lights. If anything in me feels alive or joy here, it comes from a place deep inside me.

I'm secretly making Wishing and Wistful lists.

This season with its many sharp ups and downs, has the ability to touch people more than usual. Whether it causes family feuds or makes one miss people whom one never met before. Perhaps I fall in this category, trying to steer well clear of rowdy whipping sparks and arguments and allowing my mind to stray to far-away peaceful places instead.

I think of people who I will miss this season. Those who passes me by within inches and oceans, and still we won’t speak nor touch. Eyes might lock for an eternity of seconds, but roam further a field again. Then of course there the lives that will never be near me, not cross anywhere near my footpaths and I wonder about those...

And my mind wanders in these quiet moments, amongst faxes and telephones back to the real times which seemed to have been so short-lived but loved. Spent amongst Christmas trees and holly-berries from a real lichen-ancient-walls-heather-clad forest. Dark green pine needle trees growing in these mountainous woods with some lost in the flat dark eerie moors full with its little streams and wild herbs.

A Wistful Moment that lingers on...

To the lakes surrounded by Hawthorns and May trees, landscapes beautifully crafted with wild growing and the sweetest raspberries. I loved cycling to the Point which overlooks the islands Jura, Scarba, Mull and the magical smaller ones... and often the freshly mixed scent of bog and sheets of rain heading this way caught me suddenly and unawares.

All of which was utterly enchanting...

I find myself having a picnic on a rock, hand stroking some old washed up bark which is roughly mapped with layers of time etched deep into its core. I think it might have given shade or place for a nesting bird before – who knows? A tree that maybe even have been embraced in the lush leafy arms by the bottom of its feet by pink bell heather, bluebells or the foxy freckled white lady named Foxglove.

I used to get the drift of wood smoke – and would wonder “Wherefrom?”

It awakens a vivid image in my searching mind and with it comes a deeper longing for something nameless that circles on the edges that are just out of reach.

Here and now, I don’t think these dreams are appropriate...

All so very wistful - are they dreams or could they be real?

I dare not breathe too deeply and know a moment like this might never come my way again, on this day, and I just had to tell you all of this.

Beats me too

Challenge a tour-guide with a little devious game? Aye, why not...

Whipping again around narrow single-road tracks in Scotland. Passing the Old Man of Storr (looks like a finger or dick) on route to the famous Quirang Mountains, our quick-witted Scots guide enforced the crew in the yellow “Haggis” bus to each blast in voice their national anthem.

Do you like singing in front of strangers?

He threatened to let anyone who refused off the bus. Aren’t these skirt-wearing clan descendants just blatantly charming?

I nearly told him to get lost amongst the ancient spooky graveyard we passed by.

Luckily South African’s have a mind of our own too, and we decided to comply to his demand.


The Aussies sang:

Australians all let us rejoice,
For we are young and free;
We’ve golden soil and wealth for toil;


The sleepy Mexican guy sang:

Mexicans, at the cry of war,
prepare the steel and the steed,
and may the earth shake at its core
to the resounding roar of the cannon.


The Finnish tree-hugging Anna sang

TRA-LA-LA...


We sang and the only thing missing was a banjo:

Hoe ry die Boere sit-sit so, sit-sit so, sit-sit-so Hoorah(x 2)

Die Kaapse Klong sê tiengelieng-tiengelieng hoorrah (x2)

Hoe ry die Boere....bla-blah-blah...



Well. We were met by a hushed silence, looks of disbelief and clueless glances from the rear window and our tour guide nearly and tragically drove us into a deep ditch of unknown depths.

Then the blasted Aussie chick flew from her seat. Swaying and dangling precariously on her feet as the bus took to skidding around another sharp bend, she cried out with little beady eyes all screw-up

“Oh No-no-no, ye cheated! That was naet right.

Needless to say the bus screeched to an abrupt stop and we were asked to sing again or risk a grant exit...

HEH

Notes of sisterly affection

The 3 kittens agreed to meet at Dunes for an after-work sundowner. Our favorite place.

We climbed a desert mountain however to get through the pub/restaurant’s entrance - the westerly wind seemed to have gone mad and wiped all the beach sand accross the road and dumped it right there.

Perhaps that is why we are the only visitors who were brave enough to brace themselves and stop by...


Conversation goes as follows:

C: This year I got so many wrinkles – it’s never happened like this before.

M: Scrutinizes my face and says: Yeah, I have noticed so.

Sharp intake of breathe and shocked pause.

C: Well, can’t you see it’s really only the base that I use that makes it looks worse than it is? Causing some grooves...

M: Not really

C leans accross the table, stating an important point:
The little grooves only give the impression that there are more. You too ought not to frown so much...

M: Doesn’t diminish the fact that you accumulated some lines...

C takes big gulp of wine, indignity x-crossing the face

C: Nice wine


She always HAD more wrinkles than me...

Xmas at his and hers...

The three kittens (us) lounging around the garden table which is folding under the weight of bare-looking plant pots screaming "un-germinating bloody dud blank seeds!":


M: Well, when I was married to W, we would spend one Xmas at his parents and another at our parents place.”

C: I’m sorry to tell you but the marriage only lasted for one year...

Silence....

M: Oh...


I daresay she gets carried away sometimes and I felt a bit sorry for the stunned expression on her face...

Am I cruel?

Punch-Drunk Melons

After a long day of stuffing myself with practically all kinds of rubbish, I have come to the delicious conclusion: no amount of coffee, tea, crisps, chocks or healthy glasses of water comes near the explosion of flavors from something simple as a... melon.

I just got asked if I'm drunk.

But Blondie is perving on Clifton beach while the other two siblings are doing the usual thing: work. Maybe I fell in love with the taste of melons to combat the mundane monotone persistence of work appearing on my desk. But I'm not drunk.


The conversation leading to the question went as follows:

A: "The Witch is on Clifton beach"

C: "I know. The Tart has sent an sms about it. She'll be coming home with all sorts of things she had picked up too."

A: "Curry & Rice..."

C: "Maybe. But I don't know if tart will mix so well with curry & rice..."

A: "Are you drunk?????"


Turns out she only wanted to tell me what she had for lunch...

Mid-Nightly Escapdes

Three sisters. The middle one blond who just arrived after a long drive through the Karoo and meltingly content after we fed her good food and plenty a wine.

Three smug (schmuck?) cats sitting at the front steps overlooking a fairy lit valley with a half-moon edging shadows over the mountain cliffs, a slight breeze and some giggles... Maybe I should call ourselves the Fairy-brigade? We discuss the possibilities of testing the irresistable shiny waters at the bottom of the garden as the owners are away on holiday for a week.

So two kittens stroll down, leaving me behind to mold myself further into stewing over something totally ridiculous and outragingly stupid that happened at work earlier in the day. I can't begin to describe how I can't stand those who think they can rule others - they can't and won't. I'll never call an employer "my boss" either and dictators my arse.

Down at the swimming pool I hear them chatting and tune my ears in:

A: Feel the water

M: Will you hold my hand?

UH?

A: Okay...come here...I'll hold you hand...

M: Ah......oh... I-E-Y-yeerrrrrrrrrggggggggggggggggggh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Nobody ever forget M's shrieks. It can cleave right through one's eardrums or cement walls and can wake a whole sleeping valley. It was such a laugh though... Innocent or blond to take the proffered hand? A bit like Eve listening and doing what the Snake tell her to do...

Lesson: Don't trust anyone who offers kindly a hand when you feel a bit unsteady on your feet whilst testing the waters.

And A: She had to go and grab the hand instead of the little finger only. Offered on a tray like that. Got what she practically begged for when two of us pulled her over the edge too...

I went inside the cottage to enjoy a steamy self-lecturing pep-talking warm soapy shower whilst telling myself to let the demons run down the gurgling drain...and drown in their own wicket evil-selves.

Tonight the three of us are planning another tip-toe down to the pool. Skinny dipping? Ah-hh, that is another topic for discussion, but in the meantime you’re more than welcome to join the kitten-fairy-throng...



PS: We used to put bugs in M's bed too and Dad used to be the saint to go and carry these creatures out to where they safely belong.

Extra-extra Virgin

Does the sound of the wind through thick tree branches more than speak to you? But send pure delight through your whole being, or perhaps give you sinusitus head aches? On both accounts I must nod...

But seen from the soothing side, the sound and feel of the wind in trees stirs feelings of contentment and a certain longing. Oh, to be so high on a mountain that I can see other layers of these sleeping giants, or maybe to wander again through a forest as a gale rages above swirling tops – feeling safe and at homoe amongst my “friends”.

I’m not a tree-hugger, but love trees. What I’m about to tell is sacred. NO, I wasn’t dubed. If you laugh I must warn that you’re on the wrong Blog.

In a place called Strathmiglo in Perth shire (Scotland) I once lived and worked for a short time with faith healers. Walking with the elderly lady in the nearby Achtermachtie woods one cold very windy afternoon, I glanced back and there it was. Forgotten were the elderly lady, black Labrador and brambles as I stared at something close to a giant spiral of misty shadow amongst trees and leafs. A ghost? Transparent mist particles? I don't know, but for knowing it was something greater than the ordinary. It never moved, but silently it watched over us. I believe this without doubt. Thereafter, I could feel and sometimes see more than one – yes they were there always. Probably have been there amongst ancient oaks and birch forever.

The wind in trees as another meaning and once again I'm coming with a story. The old farm house has a huge gum-tree outside the wire-fence surrounding the once marvelous old garden. Into this tree I once invited a little friend who promptly fell out like a bag of potatoes and then quite peeved joined the adults who tried soothing the tears away with tea out of cornflower blue cups. I now use those with the matching saucers to enjoy earl gray tea on Sunday mornings.

The bees used to hu-hum-humm in this tree too, during December months.

The two massive big and round big pine trees in the back garden are old. On early peaceful evenings from beneath a thorn tree one gets lost in thoughts that go absolutely nowhere. Silence roams the veldt, accompanied by the occasional calling of a lamb, little bird or partridges and nothing much else. Sealing the moment is a range of mountains basked in orange-pink and crimson red with waving grassland sparkling yellow in the foreground. And one just knows that the soft flutter apart from homing pigeons is that of the big trees praying.

This is when we were told and what I still like to believe.

As I wrote this, a gray-green dried leaf darted in by the sliding door and landed right here between me and the keyboard.

I'm taking it home today, as a beacon shining with hope or understanding or something similar...

What makes you freak out?

A friend teaching at primary school mentioned during a happy braai that the most frequent questions she gets are: What will happen to us? What if the world comes to an end?

Pretty big fears and questions for wee ones...

After reading this you will know something about my driving behaviour...


Taxis of all shapes (mostly hammered) that stops right in front of you without warning and swears back at you

Know-it-alls

Over friendly strangers

Beer Bellies

Sick pets who can’t say they’ve got ticks or where it hurts

Beggars that spit at you when you offer them bread

The thought of old age, disease and dying, perhaps

Having an empty wallet – this fear really hits home

Pigeon droppings on a newly washed car? Or worse, gull droppings. Topping it is the remnants of an ibis meal molding over the windscreen...

Paranoid people or those who believe in aliens and that our ancestors were all lizards

Companies phoning into selling ask a donation or promote a political party – calling you (the innocent party) a stupid cow or b....

Finger-swiping car drivers taking a left at a round-about when they’re supposed to wait or the one’s stopping mid-circle (usually with a foreign number plate).

Loosing everything due to storms or collapsing economies

Snakes

Rude drivers...again.

Permanent Mood Disorder

Okay. It was Monday and why did I get prickly stares at my back?

Feeling them bore into me more than sensing them and really can’t for the life of me understand why one has to suffer three bitches in one office.

If there is any way out of it, please let me know.

Why do so many women opt for joining The Bitch Club?

And why is it that mostly women manages to excel in the trade of bitching and gossip? Me friend making friends with you friend and tomorrow buddy, I will tell the whole world you're a whore and fat arse cow...

Give us women credit, or some of "us" who seem to be able to breed and infest a place quicker than mice can with a stiff upper lip, high & mighty snooty scratching and scatty set of mannerisms.

Maybe a lot of women like to live high on adrenaline which turns them into aggresive estrogen manics which border-lines real nasty vapors and raging open war?

Why are so many women like that, I ask? I am proud being one, and guess others must think I'm a bitch too...but why so mean?

Or maybe they just suffer from Permanent Mood Disorder.

My neck muscles have this tingling sensation – do you think I’ve been poisoned?

Worst was to come later when the MD wanted a word with me... Some B had blurbed that I am looking for other work.

I don't blame myself. Do YOU?

All Bundled Up

Do some songs or music themes bundle you up into a solitary little hedgehog and carry you away to far places? And dump you in different realms, times and worlds.

I know it’s a dumb clumsy way of saying wots on my mind...

But the subject came to mind as I hung on to the last threads of a good weekend l– tuning in to the Gladiator soundtrack late last night.

The Enya theme song “Now we are free” never fail to hit a deeply buried nerve amongst the layers of my existence. The haunting sounds send spirals of satin silvery emotions right into and over me. So heart-wrenchingly beautiful and poignant, it brings me to the deepest happiness and sadness at once. Music that makes the heart tremor as it touches and soothes and re-awakens something very strange but also close to home. An ancient kind of knowledge that I will never quite fathom neither tire of...

Tunes that lead me up and down narrows and steeps into places of a life so familiar yet untouchable and far beyond my own understanding.

My friends who live in Kent, U.K. has a daughter namely “K”. Her voice is above my own understanding, developed vastly over the years and I can only describe it as stunning. There is endless potential; fresh, strong, beautiful and fragile just like her. She also plays guitar. I think my little “adopted” sister (I’m big sis) is shyly coming out from behind a forest of innocence and growing into a beautiful young woman. Making a reluctant debut in a world holding it’s breathe in anticipation of such an utterly enchanting but elusive being.

I don’t think I’ll be written-off for ranting like this, and if you like go visit her Dad’s Blog (words can’t explain what he is on about most of the time) and hear her tracks: http://brothertobias.blogspot.com/

(Obviously my other fans on News 24 blogs will relish this).

The lyric that really catches me is “I’m gonna haunt you” (Fabienne Delsol) – and I know my sissie’s voice will accompany me again today, carry me through the mundane chores of senseless amounts of work of the non-making-sense variety. I am awaiting a CD of all her own songs now. Mostly wanting to hear the song which her Dad wrote aged 23 about a girl named “Angie” which his 21 year old daughter had turned (or tuned?) into “Andy”.

As said, might have gone down somewhat wrong and weird if Dad wrote in those days about a boy...

I will start writing my lyric requests to Santa then...

Bonnie Dark Side of Scotland

Right now, consider yourself lucky as the Scots finds themselves amidst depressing heaps of snow, zero temperatures and hardly ever seeing the sun as they only get approximately 6 hours of daylight at this time of year.

The upside is that locals meet at pubs on a 7 days a week basis - pretty often as you see. It is also quite a thing to see stars shining at 4 pm and add a bit of romance to a life amongst Roman-Pictish-Vicking-ish (barbaric?) ancestors when everyone wears double seam coats and woolen hats... Great fun being whipped around single-track roads too, by a strong out of control westerly gale whilst one try dodging sheep that live by the roadside... Simultaneously searching for the whisky flask rolling somewhere between the accelerator and breaks and two practically numb blocks of icy feet.

Take this from a lassie with a lasting fling with Scotland: That place casts magic over the most unsuspecting victims and seems to find pleasure in haunting them too.

Reading another bloggers snippet about a visit to the Lowlands and capital city of Scotland, Edinburgh, I immediately wanted to cry out: “Garde Loo!”

You see, in the olden days any amount of waste meant for “loos” or rubbish bins were chuck out of doors and windows and if you were the unlucky one to wander around at the wrong time and place. Well... Worse things can happen these days, resulting in things such as permanent extinction or even personal loss of life, so it can't have been too bad back then.

Another name Edinburgh (correctly pronounced Edin-bre) went by was “The old Stinky” or “Old Smoky” which resulted from the open sewers of the Old Town.

Apart from a 11 century haunted castle, one can visit dungeons (English are banned these days apparently, so the strive for rivalry between these two lovely nations goes on), Italian restaurants, a pub in a church, walk out to Arthur’s Seat and the Hogmanay can’t be missed as it is the world’s best ever festival. Drunkiest too. The Military Tattoo is another great activity, but before I start sounding like a boring repetitive tourguide...

Those first days for me, visiting this country very reluctantly for many reasons went as follows:

P*ssing rain.

A walk with a stranger, a Scot as my newly-made-friend-guide for a day and taking me for brekki at a Greasy Spoon (café) near the Edinburgh Botanical Gardens. Taking photos of pigeons on a little office roof and becoming aware of strange architectural forms and shapes. Georgian perhaps.

Also becoming aware of the attraction a South African has to outlanders. Ah, but who doesn't just lurve the Scottish accent? C'mon, do naet deny't...

Discovering the magic of The Old Town –

Ex-Scottish boyfriend taking me to Camera Obscure – an impossibly crazy and fun place... From the rooftop one can check out other people’s mischief through a telescope 360 degrees around the city. You simply MUST go there.

Visit St Giles Cathedral and make sure the Queen’s not visiting when you’re there. This happened to me. They told me to hurry up and leave as the Queen was on her way. So I took a hide and at the Palace, which felt like miles further was told “The Queen’s coming, please go around to the other side.” On the other side I got into a scram with a nasty greedy photographer. Prat.

Charlie Dickens shoots happens all the time – don’t be a dick and get in the crew’s way as you try to take hundreds of photos.

And there are the rainbows towards the Highlands - another story in a long story...

Heilen coos, snow-capped Monroes such as the Black and Red Cuillens

Falling over boulders on a bridge on a western island and being told by a local Scot that I ought to wash my face in that river in order to obtain eternal beauty. Cheeky git. I told him that I don’t need it but he might definitely benefit from a scrub. I’m not sure however that water only would banish those cute freckles or dim the extraordinary blue of his sparkling eyes...

At the Barracks at Newton – the town is a place with a dog-owner of a pub... Well, at the Barracks out on no-mans-land, there I somewhat experienced a collision with a horse. Horse-head-butting? Turned out a wee bit embarrassing and resulted in a very sore head without any alcohol involved...

The Mexican on tour kept falling asleep next to me, falling over me with each of the hundreds of bends leading to the famous dark, eerie once war-zone between the betrayed Scots and English: Glencoe.

More rain...and rainbows.

Learning about selkies, brownies and the wicket-wicket Water-horse who disguises itself as an ailing old woman in need. Tsk. Can’t think why it needs to do that if it could have been a dashing young man for whom I’d happily give up my virginity (as a young maiden in those days) and life. Mind, the waterfall near the old church and graveyard usually sent shivers down my spine.

A SA lassie giving old sheep-farmer heart palpitations as he had to be rushed to hospital after we once met on road and had a chat. A decent well-mannered chat, by the way. Heaven knows what goes through those farmers’ heads most of the time...

Oh well, I’ll continue this piece full of trashy thoughts on another day... See it as emptying a basket of old cloth and shoes at an Oxfam or Salvation Army shop – I’ll be back with socks and hats next time.

Moments

I’m in a deep place today, amidst silly season.

Moments in life fluctuate and flit from one depth and shallow into another or from a tidal pool to rock pools full of hidden beauty and treasures.

Moments are a bit like the unnamable scent of earth after heavy downpours – can’t be stored in a bottle for those rainy days when one needs a reminder. Like the colors of a rainbow mingling effortlessly with droplets, basking in sun and mixing into the backdrop of blue cloudless skies with no end as to where it all begun. Yes, moments can’t quite be captured and neither can be taken ownership of...

But we can look back at a glimpse of places and times in photographs, and view them through the apple of our own naked eyes.

Dancing in the sky in elation and plummet to the deepest depths of serious contemplation or hover simply on the brink of what feels like a great discovery, falling in love or out and thus tracing over the seams of one’s very own soul. Do you feel this happening to you during the journey called “life” and looking at your photographs?

Nearly each weekly morning I scurry to the drudgery of work. Set in a frantic mood of mind of the utmost unwillingness of giving myself to the world... again. If only it wasn’t like that. I wish there was a dingy smoky cottage on a pebbled beach by a lake with a small wooden boat.

Before I leave the save haven called bedroom, my eyes are drawn to a frame on the wall to my left. My soul comes to rest, and I breathe again.

There they are. Three framed black and white photos. They speak of parts and fragments of a lifetime ago behind dark black and red mountains. They tell a story only I know. I am so distant from that place, an eternity. Could it not turn around into being only a mere second away?

My three small framed pictures say that all is not lost, a world of good things is – An oyster with hidden pearls if only one look deeper. These images tell me to hang in here and hold on to dreams, never to loose sight. The story is that what was breathed and touched with my own eyes, breathe and skin... and I can still experience it. Just looking at them I focus on the light and dark and know there is more to black and white.

The artist Gavin Collins recently did a range of painting revolving around "Light". In there is a place in the world I could see myself and my three dark photographs. Moments captured in light and shade, and it is there in my soul, free to roam there like an old friend too.

I would like to think the light and shadow so playfully caught in my comforting 3 pictures reflects far more than the eye can see. And then...it gives away so much more than the sum of lightness and darkness, but for something magical that brims with hope, sadness and joy, a stark presence and light, beauty and splendor.

And they are mine.

BQE Days

My equilibrium-self played up yesterday. Forget about monthly cycles because you’ll just round in crazy circles. Neither has it to do with the moon being joined by Venus and Jupiter.

This is something that happens without a cause or reason.

I nearly knocked myself out for a count with the car door. It really hurt.

Seemed to attract directionless beasties in a shop as they all seemed to have a need to walk straight into me - however much I tried to dodge a collision...

Managed to break the 2nd last decent wine glass in the cottage with a bulky bag of newly purchased loo-paper

Also managed to add a bleeding cut to the dozen others accumulated over the weekend to my right hand’s pinkie. With a blunt crazy-store knife.

Verbal Dyslexia. Turning around all my words. Can understand why a colleague asked today why I’m so quiet...

Jammed the hose-pipe and when the compression shot the sprayer-head off managed to get myself soaked. No bath needed then.

The microwave forgot that it only needed to defrost stroganoff-beef cubes for three minutes – it all but cooked it.

Put separate types of ear-rings in my ears; something which has never happened before. At least I did not apply mascara only on one eye...

And this morning I thought there were rather a lot of purple bruises (self-inflicted somehow) on my legs...

And the rest of it all, well there were many things yesterday, I've forgotten. Add to the list short-term memory loss. I'll get some zink tablets, if I can remember.

Could being bitten by a spider (note: not a vampire) have caused such un-anesthetized, un-poised chaos?

The option of NO CHOICE

See if you get this:

We're all knackered with overdue holidays shuddering in anticipation on the not-so distant horizon. But to my utter joy it seems that the younger siblings (me) seems to still hold the sharper edge of the knife to the slightly older siblings (them) throats...

The other Acorn inhabitant received a post this morning. From me. Which reads like this:


You have a choice of the following:

I send the invite for "Dop & Tjop" to everyone, including the three people whose email addresses you have.

Or-r-r-r-r......

You can send their email addies to me and I will send the whole katooti to everyone all at once.


After a loooooong time, the reply rang: Yes-Yes. Fine. You can send it.

Well, of course I couldn't believe my luck and neither could I resist sending this back:


PS: Did I leave any choice in the matter?

Heheh...

Between the lines

Someone has been so busy playing family-family for the past year that I nearly swallowed a whole sticky toffee when I receive an email from a friend asking the following:

"In the mood to go to Kayla's book club on Friday night?"

So.

The holy cow decided to remember us. I'm sorry babe, but Fridays are out of bounds for meeting at a house except if it promises a BIG party.

And book club on a Friday night??? Should I bring my dusty granny-bunny flannel pajamas along too? They were a Xmas present from long ago, in case you wonder...


My reply to the questions and pardon the filthy language, is this: "Is jy helemal B*****K?"

Roughly meaning are you *** in your head...

Office Conversation

Did you see the cute new guy who started today?

Yes. Pity though he is so young.

A spring chicken...

Not even a spring-chicken. He is still an egg.

You are probably right.

Yeah. Well, don’t go playing with it. You might get egg-yolk all over you.

Long, thoughtful silence...

E-r...true.

Office Conversation

Did you see the cute new guy who started today?

Yes. Pity though he is so young.

A spring chicken...

Not even a spring-chicken. He is still an egg.

You are probably right.

Yeah. Well, don’t go playing with it. You might get egg-yolk all over you.

Long, thoughtful silence...

E-r...true.

Detoxi-Flying Nightmare!

I am tapering my alcohol intake to a glass at night. This sabbatical will only last until a day before Xmas and excludes all weekends.

Do dreams sometimes have the uncanny ability to influence or completely bugger-up your whole day?

Mine do and don’t they just...

That is why something smells of decomposed rat today. I woke up at 06h50 with the foul-tasting dregs of disbelief from the most personal degree of nightmares protruding from my astonished “O-shaped” lips.

No pouts there, I was simply aghast.

It started with a dream by a dam in a field. Couldn’t hear any frog song as I barbequed meat, but I know it was of the non-frog-leg-variety. Horror stirred when I realized the over-cooked meat started multiplying on the grill...

I then joined a group with the majority of members male. How odd. Anyway, I am convinced they were a cult of sorts and the kind of evil ones that breeds contempt and unlawful coo-coo too.

Can't help to still spit rage at what happened, as I remember them asking me to agree to do away with two of the most vital things for survival for one very long week:

Stop taking alcohol

Stop wearing make-up

Heart-wrenching torture, really. Worse was to come when it was demonstrated how I had to give the people I hate most in life, a warm and friendly hug and tell them just how much I love them. Oprah Winfrey would have chuckled at this, but I think we rather leave this part without any room for comment.

A stern looking block of a woman planted herself in front of me, obscuring my view, and told me to get onto a scale. I said I couldn’t weigh more than 70 kg’s. This is scary – why did I not say anything less than 50 kg's? I hopped onto the darn scale and said it really wasn’t necessary because I knew I had lost a LOT of weight.

The astronomical colossal burdened lump-obsessed vermin did not react to what I said, but commented with a disgusted tone of voice: “You weigh 82 KG!”

At this stage I should have slapped her. Lying lorry. And so blatantly.

“That can’t possibly be right. Look at me and say you see 82 kg’s”

Cocking square head to one side and with an unfunny witchy tilt to the toad mouth, the beast said:

“I see 82 KG’s.”

How could she!

I stalked off to the next room to see a row of lined up guys. Their skin looked unspeakably infested with oozing eczema papilla and the worst ever acne I have ever seen. I knew that detoxifying my obese body would lead to this and that not being allowed to use make-up would send me to an early death and unmade coffin. Nobody would see me alive with such unsightly grubby mole-heaps camping out on my face!

I had to get away, because all of that and no alcohol for sanity were too much to bear and then I wanted to tear off my clothes with my teeth and drown in myself in my very own tears...

And thank all the good things I then woke up...

Flip Flops

Yesterday I had to pay an astronomical amount for a dog-collar tag with the name “Bella” and my mobile number (xxx) on its back.

An old lady usually sells collars and tags on this particular spot at the HB Sunday market. She wasn’t there, but instead a collar-less guy and young woman who sell a diverse range of dog tags. Naturally concerned I asked him what had happened to our old lady

Gone, he said.

Oh no! My mind scrambled into blind corners of disbelief “Whàt? Did she die?”

No, she’s just not here, as you can see...

Idiot.


A short walk further I saw a group of five nuns talking to an African lady about the goods she sells. Rounded wall clocks with different African themes. They were old, these fragile and upright white-clad ladies with their papery thin skin and polite voices. If one could turn the time – I wondered what stories would run through their minds and lives...

At a stall selling crunchies, I thought I saw the epiphany of stupid male behaviour. The guy practically jumped from behind his stance to plant him in front of us, asking mere impolite questions such as where we are from and why hasn’t he seen us there... Yeah right... And to be back SOON...

I’d rather take laxatives, than go back...

The oily nut needs to be informed that there are certain rules to such behavior and one is that it does NOT flatter, but scare a girl right out of her sandals and devoid her of any lust for life or crunchies.

I did wonder as we walked on, whether a certain “aura” or “halo” could hover in the air for the unusual male-attention received over the past weekend. Recently I have not been giving a pig in frocks as to whether I attract or annoy and before you jump to conclusions; I have not turned to lesbianism (sorry) and neither have I become a boring WWE- man-hating scheming wrestler... I reached the point of an enlightened existence of drinking from the joy of life with disregard to false images and pretence. One can compare it to drinking good aged barrel wine from an ugly unbreakable pewter goblet.

Buying a pomegranate tree for a mere R50, I whispered “Oh sod that sleazy knob - can keep his old nuts to himself.”

And promptly burst out laughing.

After-all, there was a beautiful-bum guy who hit it off with some Jack Daniels and Irish (Gaelic) coffees on thundery-sunny-rainy Saturday afternoon, who phoned me yesterday...

They say laughing deeply from one’s tummy is as good as the best tonic; lowers cholesterol and blood pressure. Which reminds me to ask when last did you have a thorough check-up on all those things?

Christmas is lurking around the corner, which reminds me, I haven’t...

Foul Play

How does one get rid of racketing guinea-fowl?

Day and night I am put to the test with the following kind of noise: a chirping, chomping, chortling, chuckling, cackling, clapping, clattering, cock(ing?) and doodle-a-dooing of an altogether different and feathery nature...

Turns out I did not have enough sympathy with a friend who told me about a year ago of a guinea-plague that had hit her surrounds. Correction. It targeted her and only her garden. They terrorized her in the mornings as they lined up on the telephone wire outside her window and at night stalked her into near madness with constant battering, presumably continuing the day’s gossip.

The cacophonic birds decided to migrate to our side of the mountain. They seem to flourish amongst the depths of our and the neighbours vegetation. These terrorizing spotty little cock-wits with their dozens of hatched eggs seem to be at it from 04h58 in the morning until all hours at night. They either inflict deafening harassment with crass beak-splattering sounds which can put an ibis to shame. Or throw their heavy lumps clumsily and randomly with menacing accuracy out of the sky onto the cottage roof at whatever ungodly hour of the day and night.

Before bedtime last night, the weight of such a one perfected yet another landing on the rooftop. Fat dick, I thought. Must have had a lucky day and probably been digging up each single corn kernel I planted the week before. However, gravitation of such a nature will make any unsuspecting person jump out of their skin and in as in my case it was nearly a jumping out of my skimpy sleep-things. Lewis and Skye sat up straight, ears suspiciously erect as they watched the ceiling with surprised cat interest. It felt as if a dinosaur was about to crash straight through the bedroom window any moment as we listened to tweaky feet scraping above our heads.

Could I shoot them with a pellet gun, do you think? A friend offered to lend me one. Guinea-parties just don’t suit me very well – especially when it must be me frolicking in fun on balmy summer evening... and not some crazy birds.

As it is Friday I may very well let go off any murderous thoughts.

Let them off the whip and hook as I am anyway already harassed by a bird song chorus that starts abruptly each morning at 05h00 together with the wake-up calls of at least 10 cockerels from at least twenty different directions, a snorting bull from a plot nearby, horses galloping, a screaming peacock and the grandeur of Egyptian geese perfecting their Sunday choir songs...

Perhaps I’ll go round to the World of Birds this weekend, as they are situated around the corner – to check out a fraternity of feathered beings. Would I be taken serious if suggesting they lock their very verbal inhabitants up during the night, and maybe until the end of summer?

Scaly Bush-watchers

Once upon a long time ago, Pa had a permanent iron-foot on the speeding side of things. I’m not sure if he got scared (with ageing) or why exactly he doesn’t drive so madly fast anymore. Maybe the real reason is that a bakkie can only go so fast. Maybe also the presence of rockety-rickety dips, potholes, meerkat-manors with entrances dead centre in dirt roads, three-four meter long crevasses, cracks and ditches have grooved itself firmly into the road that leads to the farm too. Making it feel as if one is trailing high on the edge of some treacherous and bottomless Nepalese-cliffs.

Reminds of the time Ma and I drove to town to get something and on our return we noticed this fat-bellied meerkat lying on its back, next to a cattle-grid. Not sunbathing unfortunately... We knew it could only have been our doing as it must have jumped out of the grid the moment we drove over it earlier on. Call me cruel and other things, but apart from the tragedy of it, it reminded me of those very funny Tom & Jerry clips.

Amongst Dad’s post this week, was an official notification that a vehicle in his name, e-rt... had been speeding. One that is in Cape Town for which I pay a monthly installment to Dad as it still is registered on his name.

Well, apart from nearly having a fit, he looked at the attached photo and saw it wasn’t me behind the steering wheel. It was the mutt called my sister who must have been flying to work instead of driving and collecting speed-points with MY car which someone will have to pay for. Not me!!

Quick explanation about why I drive her blue donkey and she my white boxy golf: Working in town she uses my car as it is economic on petrol-usage and as her car should have had new tekkies seven or eight months ago, I use it for the 6 km daily drive to work. If I was clever and not so generous as to give my new mountain bike to the ex-boyfriend in Scotland, it might have been even more economic to cycle 2 km’s across the river past the stables to work, but aye alas not...

It gave me such pleasure to watch how the mutt sort of deflated like a flat tire when Mom had the pleasure of informing her of the speeding offence.

Heh-heh...

I was well smitten, because madam had the cheek to pull a nasty joke on my fragile gullible self only last week. Told me without so much as blushing that I got a speed-ticket with her car – which was in truth only a reminder for her car license renewal. The low lice could have given me a heart-attack!

But the wicked can’t laugh too long... and calamity upon dire unbelief hit me two days ago. I managed to pick up an official looking envelope that had fallen onto our garden path and should have dumped the filthy scrap of dirt in the rubbish bin nearby. Instead I placed it on the kitchen counter where my sister would find it. Just contend with fermented grape juice, I sat back after dinner when the rat calmly told me that I got a fine while I drove her car. The schizophrenic witch enjoyed that, I tell you. And it happened at the same place she got her fine...

It is a darn Criminal Injustice to sit behind bushes and robbing innocent, normally law-abiding citizens of their honest and hard-earned money when they need a rush of air to wake up in the morning and get to work not half an hour late.

Well, now we’re equal and I daresay the thieving traffic department will be guaranteed a jolly party end of this year. The culpirt or bush-sitting cop must have slammed his greedy claws firmly into a hell of a lot pockets, of that I am absolutely sure. Including innocents such as these two sissies...

Meet the Adams...

Imagine this:

Idyllic balmy white-hot summer holidays spent lazing under big trees, preferably with a good glass of ice cold wine or beer in one hand and best-seller novel in the other. No buzzing computers or phones except for some crazy wood beetles making hysterical love and keeping one's heavy eyelids open. Butterflies darting amongst the nettles and a purple bank of cauliflower clouds growing bigger in the far western horizon. Not a care in the world can come between one and such tranquility...
And BANG!!!... and the recently topped up glass topples over and spills an unfairly big measure of some great contents across the white pages of a very good new library book. With the superb grace of a lizard, one slides a striped bum back onto the wooden garden chair and wonder aloud:

“What on earth NOW?!”

Sometimes I wonder how come the Venter-family has not yet been reported by passersby and black-marked as a red-zone threat to normal civilization and the reputation of all real Italian Mafia... Really, we portray at least one character of that old sitcom “3rd or 4th Rock from the Sun” - the Adams family can’t possibly be the only derailed family on this planet.

What caused me to fall off my chair and out of day dreaming? Oh, only the virtually top-of-voice excited tones of Mom and Bro who was again that day, at each others throat. I hoped they were not in the kitchen with its plenty of sharp knives, skewers and other piercing or mixing utensils.

It was the Pre-Christmas all-hell-breaking-loose-story again. Families breathing and seething like barking mad dogs at each other. Don’t get me wrong; we are normally a very loving and warm family, very protective over each other, but when the moment of disharmony strikes, it can go the wrong way...

Dabbing the sodden book with my happy-holidays skimpy skirt, I noticed Pa's shadow carving a dead straight to his vegetable garden - as fast as his short sun browned legs could carry him away from squibs and such things and before Mom demanded that he gets involved.

A door slam shut and bro takes a drive to town to join the touch rugby team, just to return later with a beer-breathe and concussion from barging into the rugby-field H-pole. In the meantime Mom had come to the unhappy verdict that two of her daughters were at least paralytic alcoholics beyond help after she discovered us hiding a box of wine in the car trailer, just there under the big old walnut tree.

Actually, by now Mom was in riveting tears and Dad somehow had to defuse the moment. Forced to make his voice heard above all wailing or else he ended in the haggard dog box too, with some of the other culprits banished there already...

Do you fear the Christmas season because of some miss-matched realities of family life? A mixture of different personalities thrown in one bag can cook up a fiery flood of under-currents resulting in basically one word: singing chaos. I like watching people, but there are limits as to how much of one’s own family can be absorbed.

So, Mom and Dad's three daughters made a deadly decision. Name us ‘Three Criminals’ if you like but I swear we were well-past our wits-end with Mom so unnaturally flying highly strung that particular year (not so long ago). As we poured over the coffee mugs one morning, we gave special attention to a blue mug with a yellow corn flower. A very particular blue oval shaped tablet was then stirred into it and middle-sis took the incriminated contents to the parent’s bedroom.

We went back to our beds, drinking coffee, reading and listening for any sound. We were so desperate for a peaceful day for once. My thoughts were skirting around the possibilities of putting things like pain-killers in biscuits and wondered why can’t tranquilizers be hidden legally too? Instead of politely asking people to just bloody take the things because they bloody needed it, or dump it in their coffee illegally.

What we did not know, was that Mom took two headache tablets with her coffee.

Well.

Dad became worried as Mom dozed off and seemed to be completely knocked out as she lay snoring next to him. She did not move as much as an eyelash. Much later that morning she got up with great effort and struggled through the day with the most admirable of efforts. We watched with quiet discomfort, and I’m sorry to say also with wide-eyed amusement, how Mom executed her daily tasks. Shuffling from kitchen to sitting room to bedroom to rest again in the kitchen. Still not a lamb, but for once we were able to relax with a tiny be-speckled reminder of our guilt.

Later that day we informed dad of matters – him asking us to repeat exactly what we just have told him. It took a few seconds to sink in and with a small smile he nodded and with the smile still on his face ventured away to tend to the watering process in his garden.

I have a grand Pa. As much as Ma, but still...

This year we decided to take at least 60 Xanors each for the time spent at home with the family. No no no, not planning mass-action but prevention of any souring or soaring tempers that might fly around again. I am going to take that for myself - one for the morning and to sleep tight at night - and try to stay out of trouble for as much it is possible in the heat of a festive season.

Oh, by the way: Men snore, lions roar and women...PURRRrrrr.

Sluttish dolls versus...???

I was told about a brilliant subject on News24 last week - about the reaction modern day dolls can have on unsuspecting grownups between 20 and 40. My age group. In this particular case a "modern" girl was instructed to buy a "modern" doll for her godchild. Oh the shock and horror..!!! she exclaimed.
I had the same sort of nightmarish privilege of setting eyes on a BRAT-doll recently. This happened during a recent visit to my 4-year old darling fairy godchild. Unfortunately I can't say it was a pleasure looking into the scary BRAT-eyes of a sluttish chic with hair as wild as Tarzan's apes. Actually, I nearly had an ape when darling Alysha brought the whole katooti of BRAT out of a box - the proverbial Pandora’s Box. I stared back at these creatures with their cosmetically botoxed-perlaned-sucked whatever anatomies and got really scared.

And I would very much like to pour a bucket of ice over the people who sell such pompous and brainless rubbish to kids these days. What happened to the long-legged one’s that we used to play with? In fact, the latest ones makes Barbie look quite timid and rather nun-ish...

It took the greatest effort of willpower over disgust not to scream but screw my eyes to slits and force a note of interest over horror onto my feeling-like-plaster face. I forced my quivering tight-lipped-mouth to move eventually, saying the right thing or what was expected of me to say: "Oh! Wow, A-aren't they so very...pretty?"

It took even greater willpower not to start pulling the hair out or make sure those voluptuous bodies with tits and buttocks weren't for real. Jeeee-bloooooody-helllllll!!! They don't even look like humans, neither space aliens...

Catching the eyes of her mom and other family members, I cast my horror-filled eyes downwards. Just to look up at my godchild’s sucked-in-expectation-lips and her eyes all lit-up as she watched her scared-out-of-her-wits fairy-aged-godmother. I got a grip on myself but needed a stiff scotch actually.

Instead got more of these monster things dumped onto my lap, was asked to play and pretend I'm the one with the jolly philandering slut Angelina Jolie lips. My least favorite actress and if that is what god motherhood is like, and then I take me hat off for each and every one.

Grrrrrr....

Bloody Outstanding!

Some vets are really SMART.

We all know an empathetic and very patient nature an oh-h yes...affinity for animals are essential, if not prescribed, in the blueprint and job description for a standard veterinary surgeon.

A certain type relationship or chemistry must exist between vet and animal-patient. But a Masters in “Psychology” and “Manual & Handling” certificate for the aspects of demanding, freaking and neurotic pet-owners is more than vitally important...

Working for a short time at a veterinary hospital years ago, I once spat outrage at another understanding employee as I fumed rage once object of affliction left the building:

“That bloody bitch ought to get spayed – and not the poor little Maltese!!!”

One really needs a special personality in order to cope in that environment, and since those days I’ve been weaned off any noble ideas of becoming a vet, animal behaviorist or veterinary nurse. I can’t cope with idiotic owners and buckets of blood...

Last week I had an entertaining day at the veterinary practice. The owner had taken the initiative to re-think who and what he ought to employ to push up monthly turnovers. He recruited two new freshly qualified vets, both blond and golden skinned like some escapee Greek gods with their graduation cloaks hardly gathering dust yet – a male and a female.

I’m not certain if this strategy is focused solely on healing sick or unhappy animals and think maybe the old shrewd vet had an ulterior motive. He took into consideration how a young fresh-faced vet would affect pet owners not only in the health department but also the retail section of a practice. More people go back for more than collecting their mongrels or pedigreed poochy-poos these days. They also seem to lavish their darling pets now with excessively full bags of cattle-hooves, pig-ears, collars, balls, shampoos, de-flea-worming stuff, joint supplements and anything else under the sun just for the privilege of setting eyes on these new vets.

The “sting” has virtually been taken out of the visiting the “VET” as well as paying astronomical amounts of hard-earned cash with a smile either for a consultation, back-breaking hospitalization, medicine top-ups and any other pet-groceries...

I’m not sure though if one could say “all’s fair in vets & war” when I notice other vulnerable single women (like me) or men drooling in front cat or dog food shelves as we pretend to take our time choosing what flavor our poochies want. Must also admit to having partially joined this throng of gullible singles skulking shyly around just to find out what happened to certain homeless litters or whether finding a tick on one’s pup could have deadly effects...just to see The Vet. The Gorgeous, Scrumptious young and new VET.

I fetched Harry-cat last week after my dream-vet had to drain a nasty abscess. The cat-fellow slammed his cute deformed paws into my new flatteringly low-cut purple shirt. Apparently avenging his abandonment for a whole day. Keys in one hand, dog hooves and antibiotics locked in my other hand, handbag tucked under one arm, I was left completely unable to do anything but hold kitty-cat frozen between clenched hands, right in front of me.

His front claws were grooved into the folds of my shirt in the region between upper-stomach and stuff that rose above the occasion.

Silence erupted as the receptionist abruptly lost her usual babbly abilities. And the girl carrying in cups of late afternoon tea nearly burned her hands to cooked meat. Dr. Vet tried with intense surgical concentration in gorgeous sky-blue eyes, methodically undid Harry’s iron grip. Each time however, a freed paw yet again slammed wildly and with sedated confusion back into the perfectly same spot as before. He nearly shred the fabric to rags, but I hardly cared as my eyes watched fascinated how my vet, with something close to knighthood, tried freeing me and Harry from the de-stressing obscurity of de–dressing in front of a wide-eyed audience...

Strange things we do or say amidst times like these when our shameless thoughts seem to skirt into all possible corners... Of course I had to go blurting out: “Oh, this is so funny!”

Nails, claws, beautiful hands, paws, long human fingers, toes... Eventually a cacophony of relieved voices and applause broke loose as he eventually executed the complex operation of freeing us both, successfully. Done without any ruptures except maybe for my and Harry’s raggedy pride.

Oh, it’s been a while since I had watched such skill from such tender hands, of someone so damn sexy and darn...so unbelievably young to be a vet yet.

E-r, in case you know of anyone who needs someone to take a little coochy-coo to an outstanding practice with a personal touch, please tell them I’m available.

National Toilet Day – The mist of the forest

Yesterday was officially announced to be “National Toilet Day”.

Will it be considered offensive if one wonders whether this particular “day’s birth” may have originated far from here in the Northern Hemisphere? Somewhere on a small green island north of France, south of the North Pole and Orkney Islands, namely The United Kingdom.

Some of my British friends never run out of interesting conversations around dinner and pint tables, as it would be like running out of toilet paper in which cause it would cause severe disruptions in an ordinary English household.

There are two subjects of prominence, namely:


Toilets

And

The Weather


I strongly doubt that they will ever tire of these two subjects.In a drenched country with rain, sleet and snow as common ground, one has empathy with people getting nearly obsessed with the weather. The south-eastern parts receive +- 700 mm a year and the Lake District is the wettest with average annual totals exceeding 2,000 mm a year, comparable with that in the Western Highlands of Scotland. I know this because I used to hang out permanently kitted out in wellies and raincoats. I also understand why the Scots are burdened with the stigma of being the world’s heaviest drinkers.

This is rather worrying for a Capetonian as we get more than 788 mm rain a year. Kirstenbosh received 240 mm in one month alone and the place is only over the next little nook from where I live!

Will we become like those people on the small island - alienated from the “normal” world associated with “normal” conversations?

As for toilets, I am at a loss. They told me the correct manner of speaking is “loo”. This was something new to me as I became aware of this class-system which affects the grading of what “material” one uses in this environment: it is now either “loo-paper” or “toilet-paper” and belief me, there is a massive difference between the two.

All these dinner conversations must have rubbed off on this Colonial because it provoked a colleague at work to comment on my version of the British most favorite topics of discussion.

Dryly, he said “Have you ever wondered why you are man-less?”

Duh.

That comment stinks and makes as little sense as the mention of ‘the smell of forest mist’ has any relevance to sanitary systems. I don’t get what the absence of a male partner in my life has to do with popular topics of discussion...

Do you?

Deflation???

Would love to know if one can take a cake out of the oven and put it into a microwave oven to “bake” further...

Tina, our extremely entertaining neighbour came over for a glass of vino at sundowner-time in our garden and so the topic of cake-baking was broached. Please don’t get too excited or put-out as one can easily be mislead by this topic. We are not an expertly cake-baking club and chances for that in this century is sub-zero. I’d rather pack cat food tins.

Some enjoy eating cake. Others have a fuzzy view of what sorts of cake we like and dislike as we hardly ever crave the sweet seduction of cake. Nobody can possibly eat more cake than the British - ever noticed which isles are usually the busiest at any Tesco-, Sainsbury- or M & S store? Their dental work, apart from the French usual in quite a state...

Apart from some of the British shameless lusts, I completely appreciate the artistic beauty of something such as a melting Black-forest chocolate cake. Licking all ten fingers as I stare through a glass window at a creamy blueberry-raspberry chilled roulade. Still, steering well clear of the technicality of "how it got there" and "the baking".

Tina asked if anyone would know why all her cakes suddenly "deflate" just when it ought to fluff and stabilize at the end stage. At this point, I happily rise to refill our glasses with a set expression on my face which says “Don't ask me”. It could just as well have been a question about Greek Mythology and Religion.

The story goes on. Her ancient oven once died in the middle of a delicate baking process. A genius idea struck and a quick calculation was done of timing of transferring a half-baked cake to the micro-wave oven. It did not happen exactly as planned since halfway across the kitchen the cake completely collapsed. Still, it was dumped into the microwave with the undesired result of what intense laser beams sometimes do to flesh or cake – it burned. I asked Tina if they had some rock-cake slices, but she decided then it was time for another top-up. Neatly side-stepping such bald and shameless curiosity.

It also came to light during this intensely interesting conversation, that if one desire of finding a fire-man in one's kitchen, the best thing to do is to leave a pot of popcorn unattended on a hot stove. Apparently these men start showing up uniformly in the kitchen, and out of the blue (smoke).

We moved on to another subject of planning an informal pre-Christmas party at Tina and Johan’s place. So far I have never attended a Shark-Pre-X-Mass Party; it should be interesting for a Cheetah supporter. Anyhow, so we talked about starting a “Cooking-Book Club” in 2009. My job is already certified as the one who will keep the conversation afloat refilling empty glasses and replacing melted candles and wax from the table.

Tina left later than planned and her fiancé in the meantime had given up all hope of chicken-Tina-a-la-??? And started preparing a chicken curry...

Gals, there may be a lesson here for all of us...

Hazy Tuesdays

How strange that one word or a small act, the nervous flicker of eyelashes or twitch of a mouth can stop the world, and suddenly put one in a poetic frame. How I would love to be out there today, and ponder a few things. Spend time in the shade of a pine or birch and soak up the pure smell of summer and the goodness of the raw earth. Hear the buzzard on his flight across the forest and watch butterflies twiddling from one dew drop to the next.

How I would love to be there...


















Life

All things alive have a manner of strife,

Whether it is a passion for being alive...

Dancing through obstacles or dreams,

Believing in abundance of all things good,

Knowing we are never quite alone,

and much more than the total sum of all...


There are precoius gifts and fields of roses,

- places where one can watch wide eyed limitless skies

- Catch wisdom and Grace

- Playing and free-falling in a soft breeze

- Yes, and be vibrantly alive and pure of spirit

- And sometimes mischievously pull the leavers

Until the whole world is lit with blossoming mirth...


Why and what makes fear part of life,

And have us struggle against endless possibilities?

Slowly and wearily we look up, into a reflection

Of limitations and we forget the good...

But for gazing upon our lives as worthless,

With impending traps for failure lurking around...

Which scares us and make us believe,

It's all but for the tick of a vein and catch of a breathe...


Take courage, and gain strength from knowing

Of a life not grasping fruitlessly to lower skies,

neither berating nor beating up ourselves,

To a bruised pulp of what once was beautiful,

And drop the cloak of battle and rage,

let it fall like the old, autumns leafs...

No more sorrow at failure, crumbling fortresses,

In the knowledge that we are more than this...


Even when all are done, waltz to the tune of life,

In the knowledge that more or less doesn’t matter,

Whether there is something or nothing...

- We will always get up from the dirt and dust,

And fall all over again in love...

With this Life