Devious ol' me

Just 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.

Come to think, are bloggers a reputable species at all?

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:


Me: Frost nipping at your toes eh?

German: Nipping my whatsit, more likely

I just knew something’s wrong with you

Thank you v.much. who needs friends????

Oh dear. Did I hurt your feelings…again?


Maybe my odd sense of lavatory humor stinks…but I so love to send a draft down the corridor.

The sweet-sweet Sound Of Music

If 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...

Now. The landlord couple got their ten year old son a complete set of drums.

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.

And boy, does it hurt. Right through my scull to the bottom of my pituitary gland and whatever is hiding behind that.

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…

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?

...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.

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?

Well, example of the odd chance meeting:

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...

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.

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…

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.

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.

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?

More Wiff & Waffel

Late 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.

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...

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.

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.

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).

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...

Anything to overcome the feeling of missing life; apart from getting well and truly tipsy.

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…

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

"PISS OFF OR DIE"

Daft kitten hardly bats an eye.

So Luigi prowls away with a Oscar for Best Acting Italian Stalker, and Harry purrs with acclaim for Best Heavy Weight Director.

Woody Perfume

Oh, The music of Wood-smoke...

The fickle witch at work can’t stop moping about her sodden aversion to the smell of smoke.


What's thàt?! It smells so acrid (Sigh. Of course it smells, but not like that)

How revolting…

It can’t be good for one..!!!


For me on the other hand, the smell of wood-smoke casts out the devils of a mundanely existence.

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.

The smell of moss and smoke clouds over feelings of anxiety and boredom that sometimes skulk in the back of my mind.

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.

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...

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.

Explicit versus Old Fashioned

Fellow Blogger ‘Melodrama’ on the News24 Blog-site suitably touched upon a very interesting topic. Vulgar language…

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.

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?

I’m not referring to the odd occasion of mischief in real life or books; lifts, drains, underground, airplane cupboards, broom cupboards etc.

To be compared to naked and clothed:

Let’s take a woman dressed in next-to-nothing and another dressed elegantly in next-to-nearly-nothing.

The one with too much make-up and the other with subtle splashes of make-up.

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...)

Isn’t more interesting to leave certain things to the imagination?

Old Weekend Stuff

What do you like to do on weekends?

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.

But what are OTHER PEOPLE up to during weekends?

Some like to sleep in and are either boiled out of bed by their body heat or too many farts (oops, er…sorry).

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?).

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.

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.

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.

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.

The littlest toe of the anatomy is extremely fragile 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.

Blasted trolleys. You understand now why I absolutely divulge in not pushing trolleys? Ever. I’d rather break my arms carrying baskets.

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.

I’m still a little bit stunned. Beautiful music; Andrew Lloyd Weber deserves more credit!

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…

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.

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.

A Good Round

I once lived in London - 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…

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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…

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.

I wonder…If I stayed there, if I just stayed and never went away. What would and could have happened?

Poem of an Unknown Soldier

Does your mind take you as the wind, into different directions?

With me, it does so often and today is no exception.

Once again I am in a frame of mind;

far removed from a world full of noise and bother.

And I remember a poem that I hold very dear;

it was written during World War I or II.

















Poem by Unknown Solider -

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep


Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.


















I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

















I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there, I did not die.

Someone stole my idea

Learning and checking out the ropes, I'm not too sure if what I'm about to do, means breeching of somebody else's copyright. I might be jailed and banned from the writer’s community, but tough luck. Worse crimes are committed such as stealing other peoples work.

The following article from the website www.journalism.co.uk could serve as a lesson us. It's rather long though, but insightful.


Posted: 15/01/09 By: Dan Roberts

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.

But last month I had a new and not-so-pleasant experience – someone stole my idea.

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.

Then… nothing.

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.

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.

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.

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."

So is there anything we can do to keep those precious ideas from being taken and given to another writer?

"You could pitch the idea without giving away specifics," says Toner.

"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.

"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."

Given that most freelancers aren't pitching bite-your-hand-off exclusives, what legal protection do more mainstream ideas have?

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.

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.

"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.

"It's only when the work is in writing that copyright automatically protects it."

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."

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.

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.

Another such organisation, Own-it, provides intellectual property advice for creative businesses.

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.

"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.

"You need to make an astute business decision about the value of pursuing something and what you’ll get in return."

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"It's essential for journalism that ideas cannot be protected, but equally essential that the finished piece can."

Somewhat grudgingly, I have to agree, though I'm still fuming about my idea being 'borrowed'.

Never fear – next time I pitch something juicy there will be a confidentiality agreement attached.