tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8809737640451375022024-03-13T15:09:21.290+02:00Extra VirginA tour of words to the highest quality & finest orchards...Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-37467785802674190412009-07-06T14:38:00.003+02:002009-07-06T14:47:04.589+02:00Same old same oldWhat may seem like a complete disappearing act over the past months, was me switching to a much more convenient (for me) blog-site. <br /><br />Anyone still interested after the long silence, please check my blog in the future on Google at the following link: <br /><br />http://mynewsblogs.24.com <br />My beloved old Blog-name didn't change: <strong>Extra Virgin </strong> <br /><br />Cheers<br />EVExtra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-89656116702957472122009-05-29T11:50:00.001+02:002009-05-29T11:53:15.174+02:00Limes and WireDoes anyone know something about other people stealing into Internet Servers at home? A worrisome and complicated business. <br /><br /><em>"What world are you living in?" </em> You're asking me. Answer is I'm not sure anymore. <br /><br />Also, does the word "Lime Wire" mean anything to you? Where do I check for Lime Wire (apart from the fact that I know its somewhere on my PC)? Please explain this to an Internet-challenged person. It bogs my brain into a bunch of crunced chicken-wire as to why some greedy others can't keep their sodding sly minds out of other peoples legally purchased stuff. <br /><br />Does it shed light on the question if I leave the computer on overnight? Well, the "ON" sound (like a evil little insect) will drive me insane if I do. I try to sleep at night and am too worried about the battery giving in or blowing up - it has to be on charge all the time when I work on it now. So the answer to that is "No".<br /><br />The other thing is: that Mars story being as big as the Moon was a HOAX. Damn...Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-24185295631797216242009-05-29T09:58:00.001+02:002009-05-29T11:50:22.487+02:00Just For The RecordWas supposed to be my Friday afternoon off and for the second time now (on a Friday), my colleague's child is sick which means I don't get a longer weekend to get away or just chill out completely. So, what if I say my dog, parrot or cat's ill? Won't help moping though...<br /><br />There was a heck of a cat-fight on the other side (neighbours) this morning, but its all due to OUR cats straying over there and the big fat gray cat doesn't like strangers on his property. It's a place so off-limits and Sci-Fi to me that I'd not dare sticking my little toe through the wire. What is that then with my precious darling cats trespassing time and time again over the threshold? Who's luring them there? Can't hold 'em on their tails though can I? Bella was sick as a dog too last night; ate her supper too quickly, but this morning she's as fresh as a button again and I'm a wreck. <br /><br />The exhaustion might be the after-effect of returning home in the wee morning hours of Thursday (up again at 06h30) after an unexpected night out with strangers. I was sat down next to a man on my one side who later confessed to think I'm the woman he should marry and I think he is confused (to put it mildly). If one's been drinking and lecturing a hoare-house of supposively lost souls all afternoon and meet a saint like me... frankly I don't take any responsibility. Then there was the other one... with carpenter hands, who knows how to set the sails on the open seas and supports the Barcelona Football Team with shameless fluency in Spanish. He lived in Spain for seven years. I do not agree that single men like that should be on the loose though. They corrupt the brains of single females by making soccer-support (insults) sound like hoarse whispers of eternal love and lust an' all. <br /><br />Don't worry, I still support Liverpool...e-r Man-U...<br /> <br />If I don't see or read about you this weekend: Enjoy the weekend and remember to make time for yourself too.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-43014079380264507262009-03-19T10:08:00.000+02:002009-03-19T10:09:04.562+02:00LaughDriving from work and doing what most women do (patching up make-up whilst trying not to drive over squirrels), I headed to the place where one sip fermented grape-juice undisturbed and with a broad view across the ocean…<br /><br />Oh you know I feel exhausted writing all that. But it is a tiresome business that lurks behind my thoughts this morning. And why, you ask, is a chic like me so deep and gravely serious on a sunny, cool, somewhat blasting easterly morning? <br /><br />Because I acknowledged a sad fact driving to my sundowner place. It revolved about the small word "laughter" and happy thoughts. The absence of those two hit me hard near the Shell garage and opposite an old age home. I came to think how grim one often feels and how terribly sad or pathetic it must seem to the outside world. So unsmilingly sad that it could turn other drivers into DEPRESSION and send them straight into a lamp post or tree perhaps…<br /><br />It struck me how terribly and unwantingly sad one often goes about a day of work. Nine hours spent in a world which is plastered in the grime of seriousness which leaves some of us alone amongst strangers and to fend for one's sanity, dignity and the self. <br /><br />It baffled me as I became aware of the existence of muscles in my face as I suddenly smiled at my very own thoughts. It felt as if I awoke from a very bad dream as the smile spread even wider. It also felt as if my face was about to crack. And nearly choked at feeling life returning to a rather stiffened mask called my face.<br /><br />How insane it is living a life without laughter. Real, hearty and happy laughter which can be shared with those one have to share each blessed day with.<br /><br />Today, remember that it could be your last or first day to do some laughing. Make those facial muscles work; it keeps wrinkles at bay too.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-15434818678147878992009-03-19T10:05:00.000+02:002009-03-19T10:07:43.560+02:00R-E-S-I-G-N-A-T-I-O-NAnd the winner was…<br /><br />Ma-ladies and gentlemen, <br /><br />Today I am of a mind not to twitter about twat, but inform you of the very long-awaited good NEWS that has hit home: so much so that I have not even considered popping more jelly tots or champers (yet). <br /><br />Today, I will officially resign from the ghastly job – the german mafia will soon no longer have any power over me anymore.<br /><br />Shudder and sigh of relief.<br /><br />The search and waiting period is over and it seems that I was headhunted and found. That makes for a change. <br /><br />The waiting to hand over my LETTER OF RESIGNATION (smacking lips with a schmuck grin) however is somewhat of a disappointment. It is agonizing. Every few minutes I experience heat-flushes and unpleasant heart palpitations. Curious, because it is not dissimilar to the symptoms of someone falling in love.<br /><br />I’m not in love… with the mafia. That we all know.<br /><br />Counting the hours will be counting every day of the next 14 long 24 hours.<br /><br /><em>Pray for me.</em>Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-40552069236280884242009-03-12T16:38:00.003+02:002009-03-12T16:41:33.818+02:00Dear Mr. Ray, Rust, Suterland and others...I have read a certain book that covers a certain topic… Picking up the same type of conversation on blogs24 earlier this week, I went basking in the late afternoon sun yesterday and mulled it over in my mind. <br />Now, before I get to the bottom of the well (subject), I'd like to emphasize my feelings about this 'topic': <br /><br /><br />It is a tired and tiresome subject (yawn); <br /><br />A subject that does not deserve much thought; <br /><br />A lean but tough subject;<br /><br />A subject stretched so far out that the stretch-marks will never...will never fade;<br /><br />A slack and worthless subject;<br /><br />A subject that leaves a sour taste of curd sugarless milk on my palate.<br /><br /><br />You want to know why 'the topic' brings on a black and thunderous (murderous) mood? <br />Oh no-no-no guys, wrong! It’s not that I didn’t get any breakfast or the hormones raging or the fact that I'm slowly ageing… I’m just being assertive, but ladies we know that the lads might read it as aggressive. The male world, eh. <br /><br />But let me say, I am pissed off with the general assumptions doing the rounds all over the world of <em>UNMARRIED WOMEN </em>who are seemingly tragically and WITHOUT choice despairingly sitting on the rack. <br /><br /><br />THIS IS NOT about divorcees. This is about us slightly older women who don’t have the balls to jump in and out of relationships on a weekly basis, get married every other week and join the throngs at the divorce-courts on a monthly basis.<br /><br />Older Single Women are an alien species to men who like to believe the following : <br /><br /><em>She’s in her thirties (forties or older) and has never been married??? Un-fucking-belieeeevable!!!! Something must be very wrong there…<br /><br />OH NO, no ovaries working there; may be menopausally crazy...<br /><br />She always goes to church alone; never with a man. Maybe she’s a lesbian…poor old thing<br /><br />If she likes hanging around her own place and not getting drunk like a slut in public all the time, she must be a freak. <br /><br />Definitely something askew with that old bag who likes to blog – maybe she is too ugly or sad to have real friends in real life<br /><br />Well I always see that chick at this pub/restaurant and she never has been seen with a man. Can’t get one, I presume…<br /><br />No boyfriend for ages or years? Wow, maybe she is a virgin (dads can think this about their daughters too)<br /><br />She must be slow or ugly... if you want to introduce that old maid to me ...........<br /><br />Women in the chat-rooms are soooo good, they meet my sexual fantasies…I’ll never have to meet and have strings attached to the faceless cow and sad creature too-oooooo....</em><br /><br /><br />A lot of older women prefer (sometimes with little choice) to live their lives to the best of their ability, without being dictated. Why give up ones hard-earned values to men without integrity? <br /><br />Guys watch your thoughts and tongues. <br /><br />Women are more than a pair of pretty eyes, legs or perty boobs. We don’t have to be patronized into the belief that we’re not good enough simply because of the prejudiced world of men. You older guys can be quite neatly screwed up too, so I believe. So it can be that older women don’t always settle for second best. Unfortunately its gets harder when we leave the 20’s, 30’s and 40’s behind. I’m beginning to feel the effect of ‘depression’ and see it all around me and in my women buddies lives too. <br /><br />Guys this might hurt, but perhaps a lot of you have baggage. We don’t want your baggage for the simple reason that we don’t have any and don’t want to share those which you so selflessly offer to us. I really don’t fancy sharing your baggage; life’s hard enough as it is.<br /><br />So older women, if men look at you with a suspicious squint eye as to why you haven’t tied the knot yet or before… or why your relationships never exceed two years maximum… well, why worry about men old, bold and cold who harbors such crude or useless imaginations?<br /><br />In SA I can’t walk into any old pub or chat to any old fool, because I have learned that people here do get the wrong ideas. <br /><br />Guitar man who does gigs; he could not ‘get it’ swiftly and so opted to dump a friendship for something easier elsewhere. Dumb twit. <br /><br />I think I am sexy and smart; but most men don’t like girls that don’t have money or a glamorous job or flashy car (and mine always need a wash; if anyones up for it for no extra pay).<br /><br />A lot of men don’t like a woman with a mind of her own; something must be wrong with her<br /><br />Men want to be worshipped – why, if I want a true friend instead of a hairy god in my life?<br /><br />Men want us to be pretty and perfect and in a man’s life anyone older than 30 can’t possibly be those. Men want stupid buttocks bimbos; cheap horny tarts, or submissive throw-away-able doormats without spunk.<br /><br />Gmf.<br /><br />Surely not…in…my…life.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-49734195211519050612009-03-05T13:34:00.001+02:002009-03-05T13:37:14.126+02:00Kinship or..?<strong>I have an ungodly fear of the Arab race. </strong><br /><br />And am forever grateful that I will probably never have to deal or ask one to translate for me. Because I am too scared to visit the Arab countries. <br /><br />Arabs, that dark-skinned and shrewd nation, forever sketches haunting images in my mind of sables, barbaric screaming & galloping after innocent people, greedy and sharp clawed fingers with dirty nails, beaky noses with gold rings, cruelty unheard of and revolting oily moustaches and the list continues… Oh, and don’t forget that ghastly picture of woman-stealing-raping pirates under a wide Arabian night sky. Nothing remotely romantic attached to the vision. <br /><br />Don’t quite understand why I so adored the childhood story sweetheart called Sinbad. I even named a pup after him… Could be that little Sinbad had not yet grown a beard at the time and I shiver to think what BIG Sinbad would look like now as a grownup hard-stubbed fearsome Arab legend. <br /><br />Captain Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean would probably wet his socks should the unfortunate pleasure befall him to set eyes on an adult-version of Sinbad.<br /><br />Many grownups harbor strange fears for certain human races. The Chinese for example can induce a holy fear by some, and others are freaked out by things like clowns.<br /><br />Do you have an unreasonable fear of such things or people?Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-35745953667523975172009-03-05T13:33:00.000+02:002009-03-05T13:34:18.494+02:00An evergreen love-affair…with figs and trees<br /><br />I have green fingers and two fig-trees: one in a pot and a medium size one brought back from the farm post Christmas.<br /><br />In the spur of the moment earlier this week, I said to the landlady that her husband may get my potted fig-tree as a birthday present in June. We missed out on giving him something last year. My offer stands, as long as he doesn’t go chopping off our garden trees again. I politely refrained from voicing it as a severe warning.<br /><br />Yesterday I found her weeding on our side of the front sliding doors.<br /><br />That’s quite endearing actually. Maybe she really wants that fig-tree… So, I find that there is no turning back and I will have to part with my beloved fig-tree. My tree and I have walked quite a bit of road since its humble beginnings as a bare leafless cutting that survived the trip through the hot Karoo.<br /><br />Well, I still have the harvest of popcorn-pips to look forward to. Sewn in January, it has produced miniscule mielie-heads, by lack of the appropriate name for those. <br /><br />I’ll be sorry to pick them…Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-78148788245937439212009-03-02T16:53:00.001+02:002009-03-02T16:56:26.527+02:00Office PalaverOffice life can sometimes be looked upon as a soap opera. All the kings men and queens going about killing, winching, scheming and decapitating one another with blood spilling all over the place (in a metaphorical sense). It so reminds me of the mother-of-the-son versus daughter-in-law scenario; nobody will give way to another.<br /><br />I work for an impossible German entity, as you already know. Friday the employer (never a boss) decided to let off steam on his ‘useless’ and unsuspecting P/A. What makes employers think they have the power to talk to an employee in a manner of trash? I quietly stood my ground, and out of the blue the imbecile quoted that I don’t greet the office. <br /><br />I’ve wondered when the paw-paw would hit the fan in this air-condition-less hot hole… Lately two females in the pack of wolves decided to stop greeting me. It suited me well as I can’t stand false pretence, but unfortunately the big nosed boss feels his wife and her adder friend does not quite deserve <em>my</em> rejection. <br /><br />My instant (cheeky and fed-up) short reply was: <em>I’m only returning the favor</em>. <br /><br />Oh boy. He puffed up and nearly exploded. <br /><br />Oh really? <br /><br /><em>Yes, really.</em><br /><br />I left the office in a silent huff to drive home stuttering aloud some type of Turrets code. I suppose sometimes one feels just too indignant to say much at all. Got home and finished a whole brie cheese in no time, swallowing the bitter bile down with a good measure of good wine. It helped a bit. But to keep angry tears away I looked across the lawn at the weed that seemed to be loosing their fight against the addiction for flowerbeds. I helped the poor weeds by getting themselves forcefully removed from the sulking powerless flowerbeds. And felt a lot better for it. <br /><br />An eye opener to me was how harsh and prejudiced remarks can tear Friday Peace into tattered and bleeding shreds waving in the wind. <br /><br />One must watch out for the nettles and thistles in this life and not allow them ever getting too close. But sometimes, only so rarely, some of the thorns do catch one unawares. My resolution is that I will not dwell on stinking sewerage pipe manners, but concentrate on the fresh, living and drinkable waters of life. <br /><br />PS: They don't say for nothing In vino veritas...Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-55813026236918871792009-03-02T16:46:00.000+02:002009-03-02T16:49:04.298+02:00'Anatomic' MattersI realize the seemingly odd topic of shoe-sizes could seem weird on a dull Monday. But remember, Mondays are odd in itself. For the moment, don’t think about shoe-fetish or any other connotations to shoes and feet – only size. <br /><br />Then, if the Monday mood doesn’t completely suck and you feel you can cheer the day into something with fun and funny things…feel free to corrupt our minds with more than smelly feet, cheap plastic work-coffee and the pleasure of work. <br /><br />Asking a colleague the size of his wife's feet, he hesitated... He thought and thought and stuttered something between a number 5 or maybe a 6. He gave up altogether knowing his wife’s shoe and slipper size. <br /><br />With quiet amusement I returned to my desk and puzzled at how many men actually know the size of their partner’s shoe? <br /><br />Do you?Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-47884583312787257812009-02-25T14:46:00.005+02:002009-02-25T15:08:59.702+02:00Devious ol' meJust got asked, to my surprise, by a REPUTABLE fellow blogger if I really had thought he had written all of THAT stuff in one of his topics. <br /><br /><em>Come to think, are bloggers a reputable species at all? </em><br /><br />Anyway, being in a friendly-sarcastic mood, this hyperactive ball with ants in her pants told blogger-friend she had made some 'friends' on that particular day due to ill humor. Told him also how correspondence had gone in the direction of a drain after I had learned I was to receive a gift in the shape of a wine bottle: <br /><br /><br /><em>Me: Frost nipping at your toes eh?</em><br /><br />German: Nipping my whatsit, more likely<br /><br /><em>I just knew something’s wrong with you</em><br /><br />Thank you v.much. who needs friends????<br /><br /><em>Oh dear. Did I hurt your feelings…again?</em><br /><br /><br />Maybe my odd sense of lavatory humor stinks…but I so love to send a draft down the corridor.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-33460363406969576412009-02-25T14:43:00.001+02:002009-02-25T14:46:06.863+02:00The sweet-sweet Sound Of MusicIf you ever wonder about sudden bursts of blogs arriving at once. It is my weekly report of Blogs on News24. The latter a wee bit more accessible... <br /><br />Now. The landlord couple got their ten year old son a complete set of drums. <br /><br />This serves to improve his coordination skills. Must pay off because the initial hesitate sounds radiating from the garage have upped its speed and noise drastically over the past months. Faster and louder, sometimes not just a wee bit franticly so. <br /><br />And boy, does it hurt. Right through my scull to the bottom of my pituitary gland and whatever is hiding behind that.<br /><br />I know that music apart from his physical disposition drove Mozart mad. Suppose it is just not possible to exorcism the devil out of a beautiful piece of musical instrument? It would be like a sexy saxophone without sound and a piano without a pianist…<br /><br />But these drums… I’m bearing with it for now. But should I ever become addicted to taking anaesthetizing drugs with wine (keeps the doctor away) and music – which and who to blame?Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-49956453087771404402009-02-25T14:41:00.003+02:002009-02-25T14:43:00.266+02:00...and Splatters...A friend from a half-frozen land afar posted a bottle of Spanish wine out to me. With his boss who is soon to arrive in CT.<br /><br />Great having a few friends across the globe, with the unlikely chance of ever meeting. Just think, it may save one severe embarrasment or having to bear with revelations of immeasurable disastrous proportions. Follow the trail of my thoughts? <br /><br />Well, example of the odd chance meeting: <br /><br />Friend could be bald… with such a bald head, it would straight-away distinguish him from the rest of the world. Other than the fact that he could be one of the dippiest people too, one can imagine friend’s bald head to be similar to a dippy nature to suffice...<br /><br />Must confess, the following was once written by me: “And one can take a fairy across mainland to the Isle of Skye.” Agh what to say? Dippy guppy at the best of times.<br /><br />Distant friend was terribly impatient, asking if I actually got the headlines of this supreme bottle to be air-borne all the way to South Africa. Such is our European friends or perhaps the frost was nipping at some peoples toes or wassits this morning…<br /><br />Trouble between you and me, is that I am to be expecting a Spank-la-dish bottle from Germany. Unusual indeed. And don't get me wrong, I am DEFINITELY NOT UNGRATEFUL! Just curious.<br /><br />Could the frail German vineyards not have survived the recent black frost and snow? Ah, not as hardy as our own strong vines then. Is German friend just maybe a wee bit ashamed of German wine? Well e-r…if not originating from the Rhine Valley…then…well snobby cultured (cultivated senses) me. <br /><br />Their goodies frozen and ours on fire. Pffhfff…What a world of opposites. Come to think. Ought I to wait for this particular Spanish medicine to reach a golden age or simply uncork and dive in?Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-39037410067780735952009-02-25T14:39:00.000+02:002009-02-25T14:40:33.063+02:00More Wiff & WaffelLate afternoon in the beautifully magic garden; balmy and still. Tree-tops, primroses, lemon-basil and wotnots hallowed in an orangy-glow that wafts from Helderberg’s burning vineyards. A tragedy. <br /><br />Ash from once bursting grapes and lush greenery floats like speckled grey snow amongst lazy summer, nectar and sex infused insects. An attractive fat bumble bee in a yellow striped jacket hovers around some small pink flowers. The leafs of the plant I used to put into my food at the time when I believed it to be edible and family of Mint. Turned out it was seriously poisonous, without me experiencing any serious effects... <br /><br />It set me thinking this morning, how the flame will into eternity dare and fascinate the moth. Inviting and licking starvingly at the delicate fragments of the moths fluttering wings. <br /><br />How the danger of the greener pastures lures the curios, creative of mind and the ever-youthful old soul to the sketchy edges of a long, narrow and steep drop just to get a view of the sharp rocks and ever restless ocean far below.<br /><br />And turning my mind to how a tiny kitten can behave erratically bravely in the sheer face of a scowling big albino tiger cat (case of a house-trained domestic and no-nonsense cuddle bear). <br /><br />Sipping cool wine, bare feet resting on the limp garden table, ensconced in sun dapples and droplets from the sprayer, I hankered yet again after something nameless. Freedom? Maybe. Could have gone doing some worthwhile volunteering stuff at the raging fires. Perhaps, as long as it would not include me burning to an unplanned premature death. Mind, nobody plans when they die. Not that I'm aware off... <br /><br />Anything to overcome the feeling of missing life; apart from getting well and truly tipsy. <br /><br />Well, dear gangly kitten Luigi brought a smile on when Mr. decided to accomplish the great task of taunting tiger Harry…AGAIN. Luigi did okay for a cocky kitten and scrambled-climbed from Mission Impossible to Mission Completed. On all four on top of the tiger and acting a bit like a baboon...Some growling started, followed by ferocious kicking and eventually tufts of hair ruffled and flew in several directions… <br /><br />Harry the Gladiator eventually became bored from the never-ending onslaught from Luigi the Terminator. He smartly decided to thwart the little loafer with a dead-scary look that read <br /><br />"PISS OFF OR DIE" <br /><br />Daft kitten hardly bats an eye. <br /><br /><em>So Luigi prowls away with a Oscar for Best Acting Italian Stalker, and Harry purrs with acclaim for Best Heavy Weight Director.</em>Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-26522301231879158912009-02-20T13:09:00.001+02:002009-02-20T13:09:58.975+02:00Woody PerfumeOh, The music of Wood-smoke...<br /><br />The fickle witch at work can’t stop moping about her sodden aversion to the smell of smoke. <br /><br /><br /><em>What's thàt?! It smells so acrid</em> (Sigh. Of course it smells, but not like that)<br /><br /><em>How revolting…<br /><br />It can’t be good for one..!!!</em><br /><br /><br />For me on the other hand, the smell of wood-smoke casts out the devils of a mundanely existence. <br /><br />If something rekindles and awakes tender feelings of melancholy and the stirrings of happiness in my soul, it is smoke wafting from a bonfire, tickling my nose and senses to live.<br /><br />The smell of moss and smoke clouds over feelings of anxiety and boredom that sometimes skulk in the back of my mind.<br /><br />It brings a tingling feeling of life to me that reverberate all through me. And it wafts me away on wisps of threadbare smoky strands spiraling through the wide branches of pine-needle giants and hill-forests. <br /><br />On the Isle of Skye, I once mistook mist for smoke. The upwards flutters of a misty cloud transported me to the days of small stoked fires and kindred spirited gypsies in the woods. But then, the misty isle has that effect on one...<br /><br />This last fragments of a dying wood-fire, now all but evaporated also carries me back to the farm where two three four things are synonymous: bees, a thousand tiny gum-tree flowers, honey and back at the house, leafy rubbishy soft smoke lingering amongst the hill, outhouse and me.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-59570295136646402592009-02-16T16:39:00.003+02:002009-02-16T16:44:24.743+02:00Explicit versus Old FashionedFellow Blogger ‘Melodrama’ on the News24 Blog-site suitably touched upon a very interesting topic. Vulgar language…<br /><br />Some novels are fun to read, until I’m midway through some surprisingly sex-manic scenes which seem to take it all out of me. It makes me blush and slam the book shut in company, as if I am some porn-starved sado who tries to hide my obsession.<br /><br />And I cringe at the very thought of ever writing novels with crude, filthy and repetitive blasphemous language. Why is it that such banal stuff continuously pops up in sitcoms, movies and books? <br /><br />I’m not referring to the odd occasion of mischief in real life or books; lifts, drains, underground, airplane cupboards, broom cupboards etc. <br /><br />To be compared to naked and clothed:<br /><br />Let’s take a woman dressed in next-to-nothing and another dressed elegantly in next-to-nearly-nothing. <br /><br />The one with too much make-up and the other with subtle splashes of make-up. <br /><br />The swimmer guy bulging with 'goodies' in his ‘ouch’ speedo and the guy hiding his bulding goodies with trendy old-fashioned trunks? (Well, come to think. This sensitive point may be a debatable matter...)<br /><br />Isn’t more interesting to leave certain things to the imagination?Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-23252660814715479242009-02-16T16:35:00.001+02:002009-02-16T16:38:57.915+02:00Old Weekend StuffWhat do you like to do on weekends? <br /><br />I managed to complete an article for a travel mag – just need to tweak and edit a wee bit more. Tough job though without Internet at home and a dysfunctional PC with its spacebar and Shift buttons falling out. Okay, yes…I tampered with it and can’t get them back properly now. I’m a technologically challenged person.<br /><br />But what are OTHER PEOPLE up to during weekends? <br /><br />Some like to sleep in and are either boiled out of bed by their body heat or too many farts (oops, er…sorry). <br /><br />Others prank in undies on Camps Bay whilst their irritating loud husband plonks around on a board like a Neanderthal of old, fishing (for brains maybe?).<br /><br />Couch potatoes dwell not far either. Eyes going squint, solid-square or wide-shut-snoring OFTEN. People that have a personal relationship with their telly better watch as it’s said that prolonged staring causes Alzheimers.<br /><br />I am annoyingly bugged with people spending time at leisure in the shops. Heartily spending money (that they get where?) in an unnatural noisy environment of squeezing, navigating and getting squashed in the isles and endless queues. <br /><br />Recently I had no choice but go on a Friday late afternoon to Pick & Pay. Choosing two boxes of chocolate, Mints and Lindt, I realized was a rather extravagant thing to do. As REAL coffee rocketed from R29 to R54 I’ll soon be without chocolates, resorting to pap & wors. Not a bad thing but it sometimes causes people to develop bloating with protruding Sotho-buttocks and bellies. <br /><br />So I got rid of the Mints in the cleaning-stuff isle. I guiltily dashed away and thus ran the trolley with cat-dog-food contents right across my little toe. <br /><br />The littlest toe of the anatomy is <em>extremely fragile </em> and prone to feel pain more than any other part of the anatomy. Refusing to look at the damage, I queued and felt quite sick when my toe began feeling rather sticky. It was bleeding to death. My little toe was in bad shape. <br /><br />Blasted trolleys. You understand now why I absolutely divulge in not pushing trolleys? Ever. I’d rather break my arms carrying baskets. <br /><br />Coming to the point: Just saying I stayed at home Friday night. GREAT! Under the tree, watching the sun set behind little Lions-head and gorged on Hill & Dale sauvignon blanc(s). Anyone seen The Phantom of the Opera? Nah nah, not talking about the giant panter up the tree. <br /><br />I’m still a little bit stunned. Beautiful music; Andrew Lloyd Weber deserves more credit! <br /><br />V&A saw me briefly (yeeeehgh) and any idea of getting Valentine flowers FOR MYSELF were blown away under a sparkling sun, over a torrent of ocean-spray and a wild howling gust at dear old reliable Dunes. Oven-baked Karoo ribs and more movie time followed later on…<br /><br />Sunday a vinegar-pot-roast Italian chicken, loads of garden loitering and more movie (this one’s name I remember: North & South). Another BBC oldie and piece of brilliance. Gorgeous hunk plays in it, garls.<br /><br />I’ve been offered another job. Shocking. Miracles still happen amidst depression! I may finally be given the opportunity to get rid of the blasted Mafia (and vice-versa) without a civil war breaking out.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-10953000738189348222009-02-12T16:15:00.000+02:002009-02-12T16:16:06.760+02:00A Good Round<em>I once lived in London </em>- at the top of a road near Kensington High Street. If I stood in front of the elongated narrow kitchen window, Earls Court would be situated immediately to the south (my right), Knightsbridge down the lane to the east (ahead of me) and Holland Park a few short steps to the north-west (my left). To my north (my back) the ever intriguing famous Notting Hill… <br /><br />It was a good time. Similar in some ways to the book ‘A Good Year’ (Peter Mayle) except that I was in England and not France, did not inherit a vineyard with a huge house and wasn’t fired like the character Max.<br /><br />During the following months I stayed in a big mansion, walking almost everyday. Often with set determination to spend my weekly earnings on neck & heel breaking Laura Lee and boutique outfits. Very often returning with nothing but a Boots smelly soap, my first ever wax strips, a new squash racket and balls, or a bottle of newly released Aussie or French wine under the arm. It was here at Safeway that the round-faced butcher bellowed on top of his deeply humored voice “Chicken BREASTS then for our young lady!” (I left deeply flushed like the red raspberries carefully placed next to the brown-paper wrapped succulent chicken-breasts.)<br /><br />Soon I was quite skinny. Taking Miss Kelly on long walks to Kensington Palace and once we were rebuked by a stranger with flashing eyes when the 80-year old dear said too loudly that the Princess of Wales had been a disgrace to the Royal Family. Traffic halted together with pedestrians when one afternoon an unusual person sailed across the saliva-spat dirty pavement, apparently oblivious to a staring audience. Maybe she was a drag-queen, actress or maybe not. With those fishnet stockings, endless long and shapely legs and weird hairdo, I still wonder.<br /><br />A lot of me became still during golden October afternoons and darker mornings. After months of commuting to unknown stations and employers, trying to figure out why I lived a solitude life in a foreign country, I saw another side to life abroad. I got up at eight in the morning, enjoyed Italian M&S coffee at leisure, bathed in a deep old bath full of spindly cracks and had almost too many free evenings to read, wander in Holland Park and visit the art-shop around its main entrance or hit the streets that I have never quite seen deserted. <br /><br />Once the sight of a Kensington High Street Madonna nearly sent a prudish-me puking with shock and revolt in a small backstreet. Heavily pregnant she wore a tight bra-like top and a golden ring protruded from a protruding belly. Nothing subtle about that and worse was a beggar that nastily spat on my new leather jacket on another occasion, when I gave him a piece of my bread and advice.<br /><br />The Odeon cinema is kind of an old-fashioned and bloody expensive activity. Nearby is an Italian restaurant, extremely popular. I once enjoyed a slivered-cold-mutton dinner in this cozy woody place with its jovial owner and chef. There were other places too, but perhaps this was my favorite dine-out. <br /><br />It was the post-towers time, 2002 when threats of dirty-bombs were hovering dark and sinister in the air. I wondered whether I ought to buy masking tape to seal up the windows, to buy tinned food and bottled water and…decided against the whole idea. Often I would hop on a tube train to get to Oxford Street, Trafalgar square or Camden Town where I bought a sexy sandy dress which I’ve so far only worn once. <br /><br />A fellow South African, a year younger and male was introduced to me at an East London potjie-pub-party. We were instant friends and met up at Starbucks – for once someone insisted paying for my cuppa coffee. We went for long walks, shared our thoughts and plenty of laughter. He took me to little shops that he insisted I had to see; closer, further and deeper into the city than I ever could have guessed. I introduced him to the Victoria Museum and Tate Modern, we lounged on a park bench with his head resting on my lap - looking at the oak leafs, me and blue sky - and we marveled at the ease of our friendship. We both loved Holland Park with its acres of scented roses, squirrels and hidden corners and once asked a lovely French couple about their stunning two Pointer hounds. <br /><br />We drank wine in the tree shade outside an underground spooky candle-lit pub, fed pigeons and went listening to an acquaintance playing saxophone during a jazz evening at the Oxo Tower. Spectacular views from the top. And Elaine Vassal from the drama Allie MacBeal exchanged a few pleasantries during a trip in the lift down. She is much shorter in real life, and very pretty…<br /><br />I knew him for a short time only, and all this little episodes to remember…My gentle friend then had to get on board of a friend’s yacht and set sail back to SA. There was no time to say good bye. Just as well; I may have fallen in love.<br /><br />I wonder…If I stayed there, if I just stayed and never went away. What would and could have happened?Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-76710501131499347542009-02-12T15:57:00.027+02:002009-02-12T16:20:15.224+02:00Poem of an Unknown Soldier<em>Does your mind take you as the wind, into different directions? <br /><br />With me, it does so often and today is no exception.<br /><br />Once again I am in a frame of mind;<br /> <br />far removed from a world full of noise and bother.<br /><br />And I remember a poem that I hold very dear; <br /><br />it was written during World War I or II. </em><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpqlpNQGJ02aZOr5Gbkgo5UsKH3ndafLCTAZ-sAyqhOPCTNM2XRgvXT9epWQtIJuiYNDk9esXCnRvXIzu_UeA0UUlRrYFqpgJrJ4lS2xW4XPsrHEhpoa29ie0FuP61EoZJjBk64xB1WKz/s1600-h/_45447686_snow_4663002.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpqlpNQGJ02aZOr5Gbkgo5UsKH3ndafLCTAZ-sAyqhOPCTNM2XRgvXT9epWQtIJuiYNDk9esXCnRvXIzu_UeA0UUlRrYFqpgJrJ4lS2xW4XPsrHEhpoa29ie0FuP61EoZJjBk64xB1WKz/s320/_45447686_snow_4663002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301910042087061074" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>Poem by Unknown Solider -</em> <br /><br />Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep </strong><br /><br /><br />Do not stand at my grave and weep <br /><br />I am not there. I do not sleep. <br /><br />I am a thousand winds that blow. <br /><br />I am the diamond glints on snow. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcxgC5jA0_AunuCj9LeoT4bD6eyDTMnU8bJMbzsTsRjvucqEgQkuA87jy3kWOYe6lwHQGq7cqoz-UYQ58ivd1hYxMhiIeVb3zN2YuUpwU0kq9gK7ko3kIl2Y2ETV0exkcSNX2c_42yQ9X/s1600-h/snow-scenes_555.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcxgC5jA0_AunuCj9LeoT4bD6eyDTMnU8bJMbzsTsRjvucqEgQkuA87jy3kWOYe6lwHQGq7cqoz-UYQ58ivd1hYxMhiIeVb3zN2YuUpwU0kq9gK7ko3kIl2Y2ETV0exkcSNX2c_42yQ9X/s320/snow-scenes_555.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301911236320180466" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I am the sunlight on ripened grain. <br /><br />I am the gentle autumn rain. <br /><br />When you awaken in the morning's hush <br /><br />I am the swift uplifting rush <br /><br />Of quiet birds in circled flight. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdH-8ixFO6-QyVYaoUxbGttv5GxhYDMIEht3U_W43jpJHuFYTpYldZoKMnAwC5GduKuAXoqq9nwgvzxJMepZZrQMZUETasfPziJdwJXtzzsr3PA2LJ1uJrACLlsCMl5dLftQQOxWba9Aoq/s1600-h/Yellow+fields.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdH-8ixFO6-QyVYaoUxbGttv5GxhYDMIEht3U_W43jpJHuFYTpYldZoKMnAwC5GduKuAXoqq9nwgvzxJMepZZrQMZUETasfPziJdwJXtzzsr3PA2LJ1uJrACLlsCMl5dLftQQOxWba9Aoq/s320/Yellow+fields.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301910560641375506" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I am the soft stars that shine at night. <br /><br />Do not stand at my grave and cry; <br /><br />I am not there, I did not die.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJXvsD32JOKdkRM_mvgzXdoW7fTP7Ra5MSIU-m0JqGn12FJKn1bUhcur8vNiB5or02ah05RYfsStnZTeLmaXvEAQcNxQvYopZnPtpIjofN5UXNVBqd038wYWK7bBx6-65U5rMS55qYkaj/s1600-h/_45447769_bird220x300.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTJXvsD32JOKdkRM_mvgzXdoW7fTP7Ra5MSIU-m0JqGn12FJKn1bUhcur8vNiB5or02ah05RYfsStnZTeLmaXvEAQcNxQvYopZnPtpIjofN5UXNVBqd038wYWK7bBx6-65U5rMS55qYkaj/s320/_45447769_bird220x300.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301910294040302194" /></a>Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-58630109562502938282009-02-12T15:56:00.000+02:002009-02-12T15:57:05.296+02:00Someone stole my ideaLearning and checking out the ropes, I'm not too sure if what I'm about to do, means breeching of somebody else's <em>copyright</em>. I might be jailed and banned from the writer’s community, but tough luck. Worse crimes are committed such as stealing other peoples work.<br /><br />The following article from the website www.journalism.co.uk could serve as a lesson us. It's rather long though, but insightful. <br /><br /><br /><strong>Posted: 15/01/09 By: Dan Roberts</strong><br /><br />After a decade of freelance feature writing, you think you've seen it all: pitches ignored or rudely rebuffed; work spiked for no good reason or going unpaid; lovingly crafted pieces hacked to bits on an editor's whim. <br /><br />But last month I had a new and not-so-pleasant experience – someone stole my idea. <br /><br />The whole thing started innocently enough when I pitched a decent feature idea to a women's mag, which shall remain nameless. The features editor responded, saying she liked the idea and would put it forward at the next features meeting.<br /><br />Then… nothing. <br /><br />Expecting a commission, I waited to hear back, but didn't. I sent an email chasing it up, but no reply. Breaking one of my golden rules, I sent another, only to pick up the mag in question and see my feature in all its glory crowned with someone else's byline.<br /><br />It annoyed me so much that I sent a withering email to the features ed, which made me feel better, but probably ensured I would never write for them again.<br /><br />Still smarting, I talked to the National Union of Journalists (NUJ) and other intellectual property experts to see what rights I had, if any, to find out how common idea-stealing was and what freelancers could do to avoid it. <br /><br />John Toner, the union's freelance organiser, reports that it happens with annoying regularity: "My sympathies are with freelancers who are ripped off and get nothing for it. Some writers get understandably angry about having their ideas pinched. Others just acknowledge it's part of freelance life, put it behind them and move on to the next pitch."<br /> <br />So is there anything we can do to keep those precious ideas from being taken and given to another writer? <br /><br />"You could pitch the idea without giving away specifics," says Toner. <br /><br />"If you can keep back details like who you would interview until they've agreed to commission you, then you've improved your chances of not having the idea stolen. <br /><br />"Some freelances will only pitch if the other party agrees to commission under strict commercial confidence. But that's usually only writers with a track record of coming up with exclusives – the kind of stories commissioning editors would do anything to get."<br /><br />Given that most freelancers aren't pitching bite-your-hand-off exclusives, what legal protection do more mainstream ideas have? <br /><br />In order to understand that, you have to know a little about intellectual property. This is broken down into separate categories: patents apply to the scientific or mechanical workings of an invention; while trademarks apply to logos and brands, like the Coca Cola or McDonald's logo. <br /><br />As creatives, what we're interested in is copyright, which applies to any written medium, including dramatic works, broadcasts or musical recordings and literary works, like novels, newspaper articles, song lyrics – even computer programs and instruction manuals.<br /><br />"Unfortunately, copyright doesn't protect ideas for a piece of work," explains James Thomson from the Intellectual Property Office (IPO) – the UK government body responsible for granting intellectual property rights. <br /><br />"It's only when the work is in writing that copyright automatically protects it."<br /><br />Thomson echoes Toner's suggestion about requesting a confidentiality agreement: "If you pitch an idea to a paper, it might be worth protecting your intellectual property with a confidential disclosure agreement, which you can download from our site."<br /><br />If you do think your copyright has been infringed, the IPO is a good place to start, as it offers a mediation service between you and the publisher and can direct you to the appropriate body if you need to take further action. <br /><br />This may be a legal advisor or specific organisations representing different types of artist, like the Writers' Guild, which looks after writers in TV, radio, theatre, books, poetry, film and video games; or the Authors' Licensing and Collecting Society, which ensures that authors are compensated for works that are copied, broadcast or recorded.<br /><br />Another such organisation, Own-it, provides intellectual property advice for creative businesses. <br /><br />Its project director, Marice Cumber, is a passionate advocate for us creative types. Although she believes we should protect our copyright by whatever means necessary, she also advises caution. <br /><br />"With creative people, because their ideas represent that creativity, they can get very emotional if they feel those ideas are taken away. But it's good to get someone independent to say whether anything awry has occurred or you may lose potential clients," she says.<br /><br />"You need to make an astute business decision about the value of pursuing something and what you’ll get in return."<br /><br />Cumber points out that, in addition to the risk of biting the hand that feeds us, just two lawyers' letters can cost more than the fee we'd get for the piece. <br /><br />Before you go charging off to a legal firm, talk to Own-it, which offers a free legal advice service. Its website also hosts an excellent series of free-to-download podcasts on all aspects of copyright.<br /><br />One final – and somewhat surprising – comment from Toner: though he is a staunch defender of freelance rights, he thinks it crucial that finished work should be copyrighted, but ideas not. <br /><br />"There is actually a very good reason for ideas not being protected by copyright: if they could be copyrighted, it would prevent two people writing or broadcasting about the same subject. For example, if you wanted to write about Paul Gascoigne's [former England footballer] alcohol problems, you could write a piece with a totally different focus than the recent Channel 4 documentary. <br /><br />"It's essential for journalism that ideas cannot be protected, but equally essential that the finished piece can."<br /> <br />Somewhat grudgingly, I have to agree, though I'm still fuming about my idea being 'borrowed'. <br /><br />Never fear – next time I pitch something juicy there will be a confidentiality agreement attached.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-75826186667644069162009-02-12T15:54:00.000+02:002009-02-12T15:55:29.799+02:00St. Valentine & DecapitatedSomething to ask with St Valentine’s stumbling around the block again. I'm sure he is a drunk.<br /><br />How do you make love work for you?<br /><br />Some swear by commitment, bugger sentimental love and whispers <br /><br />Others firmly belief the glue that keeps them together is e-r…sex<br /><br />Emotional naggers swear by communication in all its forms (including psychologists) <br /><br />Sentimental love-to-be-in-love experts choose partners that will always buy them gifts<br /><br />Vulnerable lambs hang onto the belief that the world will be a better place with a crappy partner<br /><br />… Seldom, the Valentinos and Valerinas of the world truly understand the word ‘Love’ …<br /><br /><br /><br />To me the tricky snare in a relationship seems to be commitment. How to bear with a partner’s whims and less elegant moods? It leaves one pretty much alone out there on the shore, in a breaking storm. Love eventually takes a hike, even after a long time and so I came to associate my relationships with a favorite childhood game: <br /><br />Snakes & Ladders. <br /><br />The dice is jinxed. More often than not I am kicked right down a blasted long and wobbly ladder and my partner hardly seem to notice. My partner in fact, seem to progress rather well and swiftly upwards to the Finish Line. It’s the pits at the bottom. Pretty lonely and disheartening. <br /><br />A bit stupid really, this game forever wrecking havoc regardless of my honorable efforts. I also don’t like the evil snakes that eye me so hungrily. They obviously think I’m stupid. To keep trying. That I'm not good enough to play their game, a bad looser and a spoilsport when I stump off to pour a glass of wine, lick my wounds in solitude and wallow a little bit in my bottom corner. <br /><br />So when I queue in shops, the domino effect hits and plasters me to a wall: Another year and here I am again, pestered by revolting nylon teddy bears and cheap milk chocolate hearts. Under my breath, I curse the wicked dice. Then I remember that I'm actually not in such a bad spot - that my love life is not a soap opera of sordid rules and break-ups. Neither am I playing the macabre game of Russian Roulette which I'll never understand. I don't have to fear decapitation or desperately edging a knife deep into my lover's chest. <br /><br />Love seems to be a blood-thirsty game. And a piece of medium-rare beef with a trace of blood goes so well with a romantic dinner by candlelight... <br /><br />From Snakes & Ladders on to the worn weather-cock on top of the church tower: It seems to get it all; swaggering and swaying day and night with a full round view. I am bound to bloody do something ridiculous this Valentines Day - and why not? Anyone up for a game, can meet me at the tower this coming Saturday. We’ll decide which way to go from there. <br /><br />Finish Line: So what would be the greatest cheesy Valentine gift?Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-84800979155555422332009-02-12T15:51:00.001+02:002009-02-12T15:53:35.694+02:00Va-va-Voom!Call me a drama queen, but exciting moments in life adds spice to the existence of an adventure-adrenalin-craving but shit-scared ordinary person like me. <br /><br />Those moments add up to waving at helicopters.<br /><br />First things first however. I am very sad to announce that I don’t have any pics available to show how loony our Cape doctor gets from time to time. Must be male, as it ravished, scooped, ripped, sprayed and did everything else it could do on the dock and over the decks of big old boats. A good wind clears the cluttered brain, I agree, but it is also very good at making one look like a filth-wit growing stubborn dandruff on the head and nostrils. I was quite brave visiting our rather deserted desert-looking Dunes after work. But hardly had the gust or guts to return to my car in the face of a manic tantrum exhausting itself on the beach. There was a mad dog and his half-senile owner playing along though…<br /><br />Driving home, I saw billowing smoke further up the valley. Oh dear! And suddenly all the cars in front of me seemed to slow down and drive rather pathetically slow and directionless. I swear I’d drive over them to get home, should a fire ever threaten to destroy my lavender and pets. Turned out it was not at our place, but one can’t help to be nervous about these things. There’s Lourensford in Somerset-West as an example. A hundred fire-fighters are right now as I speak, battling a fire that may be destroying the vinyards together with those of Vergelegen, to ashes.<br /><br /><em>Sewende Laan </em> time on telly, kitten fed, dogs fed and human beings not fed, I heard the rotors of a heli battling the waves of the wind. Rushed out to wave at it as it circled over the garden and back the way it had come. Strange. The next instant, more by the sound of it, we realized they planned a landing. Right there outside our walled garden, on the main road of our valley! I sprinted out of the gates, first grabbing keys to unlock it and saw the following: two police vehicles parked by the side of the road, a panzer-police lorry heading their way and our heli landing right next to them on a strip of open field.<br /><br />This may be a state secret so don’t tell anyone: There were only one or two cars passing at the time – maybe other motorists have been blocked further up and down the road. The one heli guy jumped out with a box in his hands and handed it to one of the other car-chaps. Neatly got back into the heli and as they started leaving, they saw us. Frantically and not really dressed for the occasion, waving our arms off in the driveway outside our big gate. Hmm. So the thrill of the story is that he spotted us and waved back. Really cool. Very satisfactory, don’t you agree? These police people so often take flak and there’s two gorgeous chics falling over their bare feet to show our gratitude for the work they do.<br /><br />Back at the cottage, we came to a verdict with two possibilities:<br /><br />Either we will be <strong>eliminated</strong> early this morning for witnessing something secret. To which I replied “With love!”. But nothing happened this morning. And I doubt they know where I work…<br /><br />The next thing that could happen is that we’ll wait there by the gate after work. A little suitcase packed and when the heli pitch up, ask <strong>why they are so bloody late</strong>.<br /><br />Don’t you find it terribly frustrating when things happen at your doorstep and you have not a blinking idea what it is all about? <br /><br />PS: People, I just caught a wiff and sound of a low-flying helicopter!!!Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-46830294329764099882009-02-12T15:44:00.003+02:002009-02-12T15:51:38.998+02:00Australia Fires<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdKXvvJJJQaEa6l9yJhQu_hpg9cDVlMIyOdMKQhBSA8M5mTeaCwvbbCWoVf32kciR5WgqhD0U_6ZtktL20IIboXunzGI-8DbsXBkh8hDlW86NI6V_vNm68o66jBFiiyfKb0pe6POcl5w9/s1600-h/Aust.1.bmp"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdKXvvJJJQaEa6l9yJhQu_hpg9cDVlMIyOdMKQhBSA8M5mTeaCwvbbCWoVf32kciR5WgqhD0U_6ZtktL20IIboXunzGI-8DbsXBkh8hDlW86NI6V_vNm68o66jBFiiyfKb0pe6POcl5w9/s320/Aust.1.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301907330805999938" /></a><br /><br /><br />So terribly-terribly beautiful and sad.Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-4726100409735624442009-02-12T15:42:00.002+02:002009-02-12T15:44:09.207+02:00The thing about jelly-totsI just asked a colleague to go & get me some jelly-tots.<br /><br />Yesterday it was chips. <br /><br />Fat chance if you get any ideas, as chances are about as slim as snow falling on Table Mountain this time of year. Easier to get pollen stuffed up one’s nose, actually…<br /><br /><br />The youngster colleague asked what I want to do with a BIG packet of jelly-tots.<br /><br /><em>(Well e-r…)</em><br /><br /><em>I’ll eat it. My sister once stuffed tots up her nose though.</em><br /><br />Really, and what happened to her?<br /><br /><em>(A bit of thinking)</em><br /><br /><em>Well e-r, my sister turned into a blond</em><br /><br />Heh. And what do you mean with that?<br /><br /><em>I don’t know. She stuffed it really deep, until it began to melt…eventually.</em><br /><br /><br />The danger of sweeties...Extra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-880973764045137502.post-24495442998563138562009-02-10T17:02:00.000+02:002009-02-10T17:03:49.534+02:00Drugs or CoffeeReading friend BT's blog, I could not help but smirk...e-r laugh a bit. <br /><br /><br />The British are indeed a nation that I had come to love for the following: <br /><br /><em>Wicked, wicked and wicked sense of humor (I would love to spell it wicket as for hitting the target spot-on)<br /><br />Their obsession with black, toilets and the weather (forever)<br /><br />Their brilliant authors and films<br /><br />Their love for anti-fox-hunting marches on bitter cold winter days<br /><br />(I could have been arrested at Heathrow with my profile on Police-file)<br /><br />Their love-to-hate passion towards their politicians and education minister in particular. <br /><br />The manner with which they eye all USA & Israeli activity with curios suspicion</em><br /><br />BT wrote about ducking out of the way of falling airplanes and how he once came upon a stack of coffee packets dropped in their neck of the woods, from a plane. Many weeks later he came upon the story how smugglers disguise drugs as coffee packets, so BT headed up the hill as fast as his legs could carry him. To find the nearly disintegrated packets, full of ground coffee. <br /><br /><em>Tsk-tsk.</em><br /><br />This gets me to thinking that Africa has indeed become a…curios country in itself. Say, if something similar played if off on our continent, what do you think might have happened? <br /><br /><strong><br />This is my theory:</strong><br /><br />Sound of falling airplane; stash falling from the rear of plane onto a hill<br /><br />Stampede of mass proportions heading and heaving upwards towards the accident scene<br /><br />The ‘big trek’ tramples over the dead and half-dead bodies strewn across a field, unfazed by the sight of death. ..<br /><br />Bags with powdery contents and cigarette boxes ripped open<br /><br />Unprecedented grabbing and looting at whatever else hands and mouth can find<br /><br />...And one stupid fool goes and lights a cigaretteExtra Virginhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10253552501314758096noreply@blogger.com2