Over the Airwaves in a Land Far Far Away

On my daily commute I listen to two hours of BBC news radio. I listen to reports on everything. The war in Syria. Unrest in Central African Republic. Ongoing Obama-care drama in the States. Bolchy Boris Johnson’s efforts to pull himself out of the hole he dug for himself with his controversial cornflake analogy. The Madiba tributes from back home. I hear it all. And for the most part, I enjoy having a vague idea of what’s potting in a local and global context. It makes me feel connected somehow. Connected to time and place. Also it feeds my curiosity. Being of course the nosiest person I know. If you’ve seen the size of my schnozz, you’ll understand that there’s literal correlation too.

Despite the varied content mix, what I struggle to hear most is any news report that involves children and their suffering. I vacillate between a genuine desire to be informed and utter terror over exactly what I’ll hear. I want to know what it’s about. But I know it’s something that will haunt me. It’s a tenuous balance.

I listened recently to a report by a British journalist who worked with an aid organisation in the aftermath of the typhoon in the Philippines. Based in Tacloban, she did a daily audio diary for the BBC. She described the conditions and spoke to the locals as they tried to re-build their lives. She told a story about a remarkable boy she’d met and interviewed. Before the storm hit while people were being evacuated, this boy and his dad remained behind at their home to protect it from looters. They believed the storm wouldn’t be as bad as predicted and feared they’d lose their valuables if their home was abandoned. This had apparently happened before. It was agreed that his mum and sisters would flee to higher ground. As the storm approached, fierce winds ripped their house apart. Everything was destroyed. They tried to take cover, but this proved impossible. A wall collapsed and crushed his father to death. The boy remained at the scene holding his dad’s hand until the rains came and the water rose and threatened to drown him. He simply didn’t want to leave his father. When he couldn’t stay a second longer, he swam away and was miraculously rescued.

The following day, he was reunited with his mother and sisters who thankfully were unharmed. When asked about how he’d told his family about their father, the boy replied, “When I saw them, I didn’t need to tell them. They could see from my face what had happened to my father.” The journalist commended his bravery. To which he replied: “I am the man of my family now. I must show courage to take care of my mother and sisters. It is my job. My responsibility. I am honouring my father.”
This boy is 10 years old.

I sit as I drive thinking to myself what a privilege it is for me to travel in a road-worthy vehicle with fuel that is readily available, that I can afford to buy. On a road that is safe. To a home that is warm. To a family that is healthy. To a life that is free. What a privilege indeed. I suppose that in order to truly embrace a real sense of gratitude you need at times to be kicked in the face with a news story like that. I got home that night and squeezed the bejaysus out of my children. Talked to my husband about more than just how his day was.

It’s these haunting news stories. A brave child facing a tragedy. Horrific child abuse cases. Child kidnappings. Trafficking. Teenage gang violence. These are the stories that make me squirm. They creep into my head and my heart. The discomfort I feel is good I’ve decided. It’s a cheap lesson for me to appreciate my own life. Acknowledge what I take for granted. And then suck it up and try to be a better human being with a better attitude. I owe this to my children. To my husband. I owe it to a 10-year-old boy in a village in Tacloban. I owe it to the world.

A Boy Named Oliver

Exactly five years ago a couple of hours after our son was born, my best friend asked "How do you feel? What does it feel like to have just had a baby?” Hormone-flushed and drug-giddy, I confessed, “I feel like a rockstar. This feeling is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I am completely blown away.” Today as I type this, sans drugs or post-partum hormones, those exact words sum up how I’d describe my feelings about our son Oliver. He takes my breath away. In a multitude of ways. I am genuinely in awe of our little chap. I am in awe as much today as I was when I first unraveled his swaddling blanket and looked in wonder at the miracle of him.

From the very beginning, Oliver was an easy baby. Happy little guy. Fed well. Slept well. No teething drama. Social. Travelled easily. Loved his nanny. A contented soul with a serious and quirky little frown who quietly took in the world and everyone in it. We marveled that for a couple of twits who’d jumped headfirst into parenting having read none of the books and with no cooking clue, we’d clearly been given just what we could handle. He was eight months old when our lives were turned upside down. A surgical procedure we understood to be simple suddenly turned serious. MRI, neurosurgery, tumour. Big words with a heavy context. Especially when you mark the word ‘infant’ in the patient category. Oliver required surgery that would prevent him from losing the use of his legs and control of his bladder and bowels. The risks associated with the surgery were high. The risks of not undergoing the procedure were equally as complicated. We were devastated. And utterly terrified. Being as grown-up as we could, we ventured through each scenario. We tried to be rational. We tried to weigh up our options. But through all the serious talk, we kept coming back to the subject where neither of us could remain objective. This was our child. Our precious baby boy. We doubted ourselves at every turn. Were we making the right choice for him? Should we operate? Should we wait? Was he going to be ok? What if he wasn’t? The magnitude of our indecision and the what-ifs we pounded back and forth were agonising. The uncertainty of our course of action gnawed at the foundation of the shaky confidence we’d been able to fudge together in our short time as parents. It was a tough couple of months and we took strain.

Eventually, we agreed to the surgery. Mindful of the risks associated with the operation and the fact that any complications could lead to issues further down the line, we felt we couldn’t live with ourselves knowing that we didn’t at least try to rectify the problem. On the day of his surgery, I was led into the operating theatre while Tim said goodbye to his son in a little pre-op cubicle. Tim was stoic and yet at the same time fought to keep his composure in the face of sheer terror and uncertainty. My gentle husband with the biggest heart. We avoided eye contact with each other as we feigned upbeat reassurances as much for our son as for ourselves. My job was to accompany Oliver into the operation theatre and hold him as the anestheticist put him under. Our boy didn’t struggle or squirm as the mask was gently placed over his face. His blue eyes were wide and trusting, as he looked straight at me. He was completely relaxed and he even gave me a little smile as he slipped into unconsciousness. Holding my baby’s vulnerable body like that in a room where a team of specialists prepared to extract a mass of tissue from his spine was the hardest moment for me. I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to bolt out of the door carrying him in my arms. To me, it was this moment that I became a mother. In the truest sense of the word and all its meaning. I understood as never before, the fierce and instinctive need you have to protect your child. How deep those waters run. How powerful that instinct. And how you can never go back.

The procedure was scheduled for four hours and within two, we’d received word that Oliver was out of surgery in recovery and we could see him. Our neurosurgeon, a man of few words yet with an aura of palpable calm, gave us the news that he was pleased with how the operation had progressed and the outcome as he could see it. He confessed how nervous he had been about our son’s procedure. He’d spent weeks reviewing, researching and planning for it. In his 20 years of practice, he’d performed countless operations of a similar kind. But never on a 10-month old baby. The burden of that responsibility weighed heavily on him and he was man enough to acknowledge it. We were impressed by his grace and humility. In the ICU when Oliver first opened his eyes, we could see him process many things as he regained consciousness: the strange environment, the unfamiliar sounds, the pain and discomfort. He flashed his trademark frown and his face crumpled. But when his focus cleared and his gaze reached us, that mischievous sparkle in his eyes was there and he tried to lift up his little arms in welcome. We were both overcome with gratitude and relief. He was still the same Ollie. Our Ollie. Our champion. Our brave boy. He was going to be ok.

Five years on and that happy chap with those piercing blue eyes is now a little man. Sensitive and perceptive but with a wild streak that sees him climb higher, run faster and jump further. He’s a far cry from the infant lying in a cot in the ICU ward at St Augustine’s hospital. Except in many ways he’s not all that different. He is just as brave. Just as strong. Just as determined. He can still make my heart swell with the sparkle in his eye or when he lifts his arms into my embrace. Five years ago today we welcomed a courageous and special little boy into our lives and he taught us the biggest lesson we’ve ever learnt as parents.

The small stuff truly doesn’t matter. Where you live. Your job. What car you drive. How much money you have. This is all irrelevant. So too is the other stuff we agonise about as parents: how little our children sleep, whether they’re ahead or behind their peers in milestones, how much mess they make or the quantity of butternut they ate for supper. It’s when you’re faced with the big stuff, the truly life-changing stuff – that your role as a parent is put into glaring perspective. You understand then that your greatest job is to love your children. Take care of them. Do your best. Make the tough decisions in their best interests. Cherish every day. Take nothing for granted. This is all that’s truly important. The rest is fluff. Some parents face far greater challenges than ours. Obstacles far beyond what we could ever comprehend. Life or death situations. For these gladiator parents, having only the fluff to worry about would be a privilege. We were the lucky ones. Ollie taught us this lesson. We will never forget it.

In the United Kingdom of Competition, Subtle is for Sissies

In advertising in the UK, they let it all hang out. Like the vaalies on a Ballito beach in December. Everything is out there. The view can be shocking at times, but you’re spoilt for choice with something entertaining to see. There are few advertising campaigns I’ve seen here with suggestive or subliminal competitive wordplay. Few gentle nudges, nifty allusions or discreet suggestions. Here the advertising is in-your-face…our brand-is-better-than-yours, stick-that-in-your-pie-hole obvious.

In South Africa, we’re accustomed to advertisements that shrewdly reference a particular competitive advantage. Campaigns can’t reveal a rival brand’s name. As a result, everyone tries to outdo everyone else by being clever. And cool. And by mastering the art of being subtle. It’s bloody hard work. No wonder they’re all paid so much. Silver-tongued ad execs sporting the industry-ubiquitous uniform of Polo and Paul Smith, with the right touch of faded Diesel jeanpant and artfully constructed chaotic hair, spend a lot of time (and their client’s retainer) developing strategies intended to grow market share and build brand equity. In offices adorned with expensive African art amidst the gurgling sounds of a gleaming coffee machine and/or koi pond, creative teams will spend hours on a brief – revert after revert striving for perfection. No matter though how intelligent, witty or ‘on-brand’ their campaigns may be, they can never say by name that their client is cheaper, better, faster or bigger than a rival brand’s product. In the UK, they can. And they do. And I love it. For a subtlety simpleton like me, it’s bliss.

On the radio every day this week, I have heard an advert by Microsoft’s Outlook about how Google Mail scans your personal messages in order to serve you specific advertisements based on the contents of your emails. Outlook positions itself as more private than Gmail. Outlook says it straight… “We do not scan your personal emails. Gmail does. We are private. Gmail is not.” Refreshingly to-the-point and effective. The same with supermarket advertisements. Acado says they’re cheaper than Tesco. Tesco promises to give you a refund if they’re not cheaper than Sainsbury’s or Morrisons on the same items. Asda promises to beat the lot of them. They all try and outdo each other and it’s a complete dog-show of competitive price wrangling – but it’s awesome. Why? Because we, the consumer, are at the focus of it all. We’re the prize at the end of the race. There’s something refreshing about this state of transparency. They all want my money. And they’re not ashamed to say it or fight over it. The playing field is level, so the lot of them can bash each other to bits in efforts to try and secure my purchase. And at the close of play, after all of the TV ads have been flighted and the catalogue pages printed, I can make the ultimate choice by voting with my wallet. Oh the power of it all.

I don’t do subtle very well. I’m too stupid. I’m also lazy. So to be told that I’m getting the best deal and it really is the best deal, what a win. Easier than being told that my supermarket is “Good for Life” or “The Difference” or is “Inspired by Me”. Quite frankly I don’t give a baboon’s blue bottom. All I want to know is that I’m getting the best products at the best price. I’m the easiest consumer to market to. I will shop where it’s convenient. I like shiny things and big signs. I will buy anything that’s half price. Usually in multiples of quantities I never need. I like rewards, vouchers, discounts and free stuff. Don’t give me complicated innuendo or fine print. I don’t have time and I’m too tired to try and figure out any witty repartee. I will always opt for simple and straight up.

Britain may purport to be the bastion of all things educational and cultural, but when it comes to advertising, their contribution is like Walker Texas Ranger – crops up everywhere, is as subtle as a jackhammer and is usually engaged in some kind of confrontational headlock with a competing party. I find it all most delightful. But then I would, wouldn’t I? I’m about as discreet as a heart attack.

According to Tesco "Every little helps." It sure bloody does.

The One About the Poo in the Soft Play

I visit the garden centre in my neighbourhood because it offers a soft play facility. A soft play is basically an indoor enclosure where your kids can run rampant while you snatch some time to contemplate a cup of tea. There are rules. This is Britain. Of course there are rules. No shoes are allowed. Socks are mandatory. Children are supposed to be supervised at all times. You pay per hour. No food or drink allowed. No screaming. No pushing or shoving. Just calm and orderly play. Well that’s the theory anyway.

On this particular visit, my daughter was in the soft play while I sat chatting with mums from my son’s school. We were enjoying a good natter when an almightily commotion erupted from inside the soft play. Screams and shrieks and pandemonium. Mothers elbowing to get out, trying to shepherd kids scattering in different directions. It was chaos. My first thought was that a child had been seriously injured. There had to be proper carnage to warrant that level of noise. My next thought was that it could be my daughter. I bolted from our table with my heart in my throat expecting to see my little girl with a protruding bone from her arm. Or worse. Another child’s broken arm as a result of being clobbered by her. What I found was nothing of the kind. There she was happily playing in the corner of the ball pond, hidden behind the slide – without a scratch. Completely oblivious to all the chaos - which is very unlike her as she’s usually thick in the midst of it. The soft play was desolate. Not another child in sight. She hadn’t seen me, so I left her exactly where she was. As one does. Making my way back to our table, I asked a woman lurking nearby what all the fuss had been about. Wide-eyed and choking with indignation she replied, “Some child defecated on the floor. There’s faeces all over the place. Can you believe it!” She pointed to a blue mat with a small smear of brown smudged across the surface. “And what’s worse,” she continued, “another child trod in it. And then another child puked all over the place.” She was mortified. Disapproval and disgust etched all over her face.


I looked around at clusters of unsettled mothers flapping like hens. Their children straining like dogs on leads to get back inside. I had a panicked thought that perhaps my child had whipped off her nappy and proceeded to do her business on that bright blue mat. It wouldn’t surprise me. She does hide in the cupboard with the rubbish bin. She drinks bath water. She wears her potty on her head. Before I could make a move back inside to check, wide-eyed lady informed me that the child who’d perpetrated the "offensive" deed had been removed from the premises. Poor little blighter I thought. The child who’d stood in the mess was noshing on a doughnut to help ease the shock. Milking the attention for all it was worth, I guessed. The socks he was wearing when he’d stepped in the business had been disposed of. Staff proffering Ribena and paper towels were attending to the vomitter. A cleaning lady dressed in one of those suits that reminds me of bee keepers trudged past us towards the soft play. She also had gloves. A mask. A bottle with disinfectant and an industrial roll of blue paper towel. 


Before she got to the entrance though, disapproving wide-eyed woman to my left mumbled, “I hope everyone gets a refund. No child can possibly play in there after that. I would never let my child near there. Think of all those germs.” As if on cue, my little girl chose this moment to pop her blonde head out of the ball pond, step daintily over the poo on the blue mat, circumvent the puke, and push the door open. “Hello mummy,” she said as she lifted her arms up. Wide-eyed lady’s eyes got wider as I picked up my child and gave her a kiss. I bid a fake farewell and walked away. But I could feel those massive eyes boring holes into my back as I took each step back to our table where I reported to the girls that the commotion was just a spot of poo. No cause for alarm. None whatsoever. We promptly ordered another round of tea.

On the way home in the car, I ran through all the things I wish I’d said to wide-eyed woman. “All that fuss you made for a little poo and some puke. Seriously lady, I let my kids eat sweets off the floor. I have caught their vomit in my bare hands. When my son was a potty-training toddler he climbed up a set of drawers to poo on our kitchen counter. He was so proud of his work he called me to show me. Delighted and overjoyed by his accomplishment. My husband took pictures of it on his phone and messaged it to our friends. My son also did his business on the side of the road on the way home from school while his nanny stood guard because she knew he’d never make it home to the toilet. I’ve changed endless poo nappies and puke-sodden sheets. I’ve wiped and cleaned and disinfected. Every mother has. It’s part of having children. It’s a part of life. Get over yourself. And shame on you for supporting that a child be vilified as a result of having a toilet accident. Who are you to judge anyway? Have you seen the size of your eyes? You must have. Can’t miss them. Take those gigantic judgy eyes and go and play in the traffic and I hope you stand in the biggest pile of dog shite. Then I hope you puke. All over your prissy white shoes.”

That’s all I’d have said. That about covers it. Subject closed. On poo and puke. Probably not for long though. I do have two young children after all. Poo and puke are as constant in my life as the sun and the moon. I’ll keep my normal eyes open for that lady. Till next time big eyes…

The scene of chaos.

To my Daughter on her Second Birthday

Dearest Gabriella

01/11/11 - The fact that this day two years ago marks the day you were born is a double layer cake of emotion for me. It’s a weird dichotomy that even I (self-confessed Madame Motormouth) struggle to describe. On the one hand it feels like just yesterday I looked into your little face for the first time and you held my gaze with your trademark quizzical frown as if to say “Yes it’s me. I am here. I am your daughter. Get a grip now Mother…let’s get on with it shall we.’ That look was exactly what I needed. I can still remember so much of that day. All the edges are still clear, time hasn’t blurred any lines. It’s all still there. Every part of the experience of the day we welcomed you into the world. On the other hand however, you have become such an integral part of our lives. You're so woven into the fabric of our thoughts and memories that to record your time with us as only two years seems wrong somehow. It’s not profound enough. It’s too brief and seems too trivial to mark the impact you’ve had on all of us.

I have watched as you have tackled each milestone of your development with such grace and purpose. Focused but with a gentle and relaxed attitude that means even when you struggle, you don’t let it get you down. You persistently and cheerfully keep trucking along. It’s almost as though you recognise already that failure is part of the journey. And you’re ok with that. Granted, you will still throw yourself on the floor in mock hysteria at the news that you will not be getting the scone you’ve asked for five minutes before bedtime, but this is less to do with how you deal with life’s blows and more, I believe, with your penchant for performance. Within five minutes you’re back to your cheerful self. Crisis averted. Happiness restored. You will persevere to get it right. Whether you’re fitting blocks on top of each other or hanging up your coat. You don’t give up. This could later perhaps be construed as stubborn, however to me it’s a sign of strength that I hope to help you nurture in the right way. This strength runs in your family Gabriella. Your great-grandmothers, grandmothers, aunts… these incredible women that you either sadly didn't ever meet, or those who you share life with now – are (or were) blessed with extraordinary strength of character. Embrace this legacy with pride. It is your birthright.

Your lightness of spirit has been a source of wonder for me. I think this is because I am for the most part, a grumpy cow. I have to dig deep to be cheerful. My default setting is to be rather negative. I’m a glass shattered kind of girl. But you’re genuinely and consistently happy. And this is a marvel for me. You’re happy even when you should be miserable. I’ll never forget when I took you for a round of vaccinations at the clinic and I brought your brother along. With his big blue eyes he took in every part of the process of how I had to hold you down for the nurse to administer those injections. How you scrunched up your face and bawled with the shock, pain and indignity of it all. It was when he began to weep uncontrollably that your cries stopped. You followed him with your eyes and offered him a brave smile. Trying to communicate before your words were ready, before you could speak. To make an effort to comfort him and let him know you were ok. When we left that nurse’s room you carried on smiling, the picture of cooing calm while I led your sobbing brother out into the waiting room. One mum even believed that it was he who’d had the vaccinations. He was that distraught over the whole experience of witnessing your pain, our sensitive little Ollie. In the car while he cried some more and I tried to soothe him, you maintained your eye contact and offered him your gummy smile as a gift. He accepted it. Seeing that you were your usual non-fussed little self helped him to come to terms with the whole scary episode. Being happy is your default setting. You choose it. At the right moment, every moment. I am so in awe of this gift.

You love with all of who you are. And this too is a gift. You’re tactile and affectionate. Your Dad is the apple of your eye. You are your Father’s little girl, no doubt about it. He wept with joy at your birth. On that day and today and forever he is so incredibly proud of you. Since you were a tiny baby, you have rested your head on his chest and there you will remain perfectly still and content in the cocoon of protection within his arms. With me, you snuggle into that nook just below my ear, underneath my hair. This is your place. When you need comfort. When you’re just saying hello. You lavish both your father and I with equal attention and affection. But your true adoration you reserve for your brother Oliver. He is your protector. He is your confidante. Your playmate. Your partner in crime. He is your world. You follow him everywhere. Copy his every move. Nothing he does will deter you from trailing in his wake. You love him unconditionally and the bond you share is remarkable. We have discovered you both fast asleep in each other’s arms on your bottom bunk. I have witnessed you gently pat his arm when he is upset, whispering, “It’s ok Ollie. It will be ok Ollie.” You shower him with spontaneous hugs, kisses and (mostly) unrequited affection. You sing to him. You tell him stories about the moon. You laugh together. You cry together. You love no else in quite the same way. Your faith in him helps him to feel more confident in himself. You have taught him just as much as he you. My hope is that this bond remains as strong as it is now in years to come.

So to my little girl who walks on her tippy toes, dances in the wind and looks for the moon and stars at every opportunity – happy birthday to you sweetheart. Stay just the way you are. Never give up when the going is tough, choose happiness everyday and love with all of your little being. And life will continue to remain the source of joy and delight it is for you at this very moment. And you will be rich in life Gabriella - beyond all measure or imagining.

With all my love….and in due course with many toasts of birthday champagne cheer that you have already developed a taste for.

Your grumpy baggage of a Mother…who is so very proud of you. x

Gabriella - our crazy beautiful little girl.

In the UK, the Postman always Rings Twice. It’s his Job.

When you post something in South Africa, it’s like playing the slots at a casino. Your hope is always to achieve success. You back yourself. You give it a gamble. But the odds are always in favour of the house. And mostly you lose. You feel angry and frustrated. You want to kick something. But you don’t. That would be silly. And possibly painful. When it comes to the SA postal disservice, you figure (and you’d be right) that you’d be better off putting your parcel in a Moses basket and ushering it gently it along the banks of the Umgeni River. Waving goodbye with a handkerchief, blowing kisses until your bobbing little basket is out of sight. Enya's Orinoco Flow playing in the background. You know the tune. Don't pretend you don't. "Let me sail, let me sail, Let the Orinoco Flow, Let me reach, let me beach on the shores of Tripoli. Let me sail, let me sail, Let me crash upon your shore, Let me reach, let me beach far beyond the Yellow Sea." You so catch my drift. Come to think of it and changing the tune slightly...Pigeons may also be a more effective mode of postage. Cheaper with less attitude and more intellect. Santa's reindeer. Aladdin's magic carpet ride. All better alternatives. It’s no wonder the private courier services industry in South Africa is a thriving cash cow. A nifty niche with targeted demand. Privatisation at its best.

In the UK, the postal system is a machine. Ok, so admittedly the actual post office is not my favourite place. And it never will be. I still get a creepy Silence of the Lambs feeling when I visit one. My public Britney-Spears-esque meltdown at the Windsor post office in our first couple of weeks will haunt me forever. And possibly the staff. Probably not though. They've got thicker skins than those gnarly granadillas my Gran used to grow. But I have to give credit where credit is due. The postal system in the UK is reliable and safe. And most of all, it works. In July, I sent my father-in-law in South Africa a gift for his birthday. He sadly never got it. It was sent to a post box noggal. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. I didn’t mark it: “To Grumps. Somewhere in Howick. On the River". It was properly addressed with a real name, codes and everything. And a stamp. Lots of stamps in fact. I’m gun-shy now when it comes to stamps…I err on the side of over-compensation.

 It was also marked as a "gift" and I stupidly included the correct "monetary value" of the gift on the customs declaration. Epic fail. I understand now that this is the equivalent of waving a red flag to a charging bull and expecting a pony ride. You're not going to get a Mary Poppins canter around the auditorium. You're going to be mauled. Proper. Expect nothing less.

The parcel was tracked having left the UK on the day after I posted it. She had a fighting chance par avion across the African continent until she reached the RSA border. Then we lost her. No sight or sign of that little parcel. She was apparently ‘unable to be located’ in the quagmire of sorting in South Africa. I contacted the British Royal Mail who sent me an apology letter for failing to deliver. Literally. Enclosed was a cheque to recoup some of my costs. A real cheque that I deposited for real money. The Royal Mail took responsibility for a parcel that was lost in South Africa after it had successfully reached South Africa. That’s service. It’s a little stupid. But it’s service. My latest efforts to send parcels home involve marking on the customs declaration “Second-hand item. Sentimental. Granny’s crochet work. No value whatsoever. Except to family of Granny. Granny is dying by the way. For reals.” So far, so good.  Deliveries are going through. No one seems to notice I've had like eight grannies thus far. Not surprising really.

It's no surprise either that Amazon outright refuses to ship a majority of goods to South Africa. No wonder they won't accept any claims for non-delivery. They tried it. It didn't work. Grannies notwithstanding. Goods posted were "unable to be located". People were pissed. When Amazon first made attempts to ship carte blanche to sunny SA, I can just picture the scene in a sorting depot in Pinetown or Pietersburg when the first packages starting rolling in... it would've been like one of those sales at YDE where everything in the store is a hundred bucks. The result is a complete dogshow of grab whatever you can. Almost like looting. Exactly like looting in fact. Frenzy. Frothing. Grown men and women kicking and scratching each other like feral monkeys fighting over a banana. No skaam. No dignity. For Amazon, the current set-up is solid business practice that simply makes sense. If you keep getting kicked in the balls, you’ll avoid the people who kick you in the balls and the places where it happens. And you’ll wear a groin guard for protection. Amazon’s groin guard is restricted delivery to SA. I don’t blame them.

So in efforts to fly the capitalist flag and show my support to the global e-commerce giants, I’ve been making up for a lot of the purchases that Saffas back home can’t make. Amazon, e-Bay, Ikea, Gap, Banana Republic, Boots, Cath Kidson. I’ve been there. Added to my basket. Proceeded to checkout. And the next day….a parcel is waiting for me. In its original packaging. Nothing missing. Nothing damaged. It’s slightly addictive. Getting exactly what I pay for. A novel concept that I’m slowly (and dangerously) beginning to accept as my new status quo. 


The UK may not be able to offer many of the qualities of life we Saffas deem important. Madiba. Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Swimming pools you can swim in. Petrol attendants. Jonny and his Rotis. Boere and their wors. But they do have a working postal system. And that’s not too shabby. I don’t miss the SA Postal Office in the least. I have only come to develop greater scorn for their lack of service or accountability and their overall inability to deliver. On any level. The glaring disparity between two public service offerings has never been more contextualized for me. The righteous Royal Mail may be very British and unsympathetic when it comes to dealing with a sobbing mother who posted her son’s school application without the stamp she’d just bought. But they earn their Royal stripe every time they deposit my post through my letterbox or ring my doorbell with a parcel. On time. Every time. So I am perfectly happy to trade a boerie roll or two for a box of bed linen from Cath Kidston. Swap my pap en sous for a Royal Mail postie with a smile. For now. We'll re-visit this subject in a couple of months or so. In January I'm thinking. At the height of a time I'm led to believe when ex-pat sentiment resembles something like: "WTF, this place sucks ass. Where's the sun? I can't do this much cold. It's just not right. It can't be normal. Are the Poms cold-blooded. How do they cope? They must be reptiles. That makes sense." The novelty of buying stuff online and actually receiving it may well have worn off by then and I'll be willing to trade everything I've acquired for a sunny day and a stukkie droewors. We'll see. I live in hope and denial. I am African after all. That hasn't changed.

Postman rang twice. I wasn't home. He left my package. I got my package. Still blows my mind.

My CV of Motherhood

On the 8^th of December, I’ll have been a mother for five years. I’m just out of the starting blocks really. Still a novice. Striving to acquire a set of skills in a career where the job description changes every day. Working to attain some kind of qualification in a life-long profession from which I can never retire. Even when I can’t report for duty because I’m too old to dress myself, too frail to get out of bed. Even when I have no teeth and I have long hair growing out of my long nose. I’ll still be a mother. My children may have to wipe the drool from my face, fetch my teeth, uncork my champagne and clip my nosehair… but I’ll still be their mother.

Unlike other jobs, my performance review I do on myself. I usually find areas that require massive attention and my assessment is far more regular than the standard annual review. I’m my own boss and for the most part, I’m pretty hard on myself. Failure is not an option with this job. I can’t do half-day or go freelance. I lean on my colleagues for support. My colleagues are other mothers. A sacred sisterhood tethers us; we understand each other’s fears and insecurities. Share in each other triumphs. We give everything to our jobs. We may not give all of our time. We may have sideline gigs in other companies with other bosses and colleagues. But don’t let this fool you – our hearts and minds are always invested in the most important of our jobs. Being the best mothers we can be.

If there was such a thing as a CV of Motherhood – mine would probably read something like this:

Profile:

Sally has successfully conceived child/ren. Children baked upside side both presenting Frank Breach position. Natural didn’t not come to the party in any shape or form. Successful births assisted by ludicrously well-paid professionals wielding scalpel, forceps and much-desired anesthetic.

Experience:

Weaning: has been achieved. Despite maximum chaos, unfortunate waste and frowned upon bribery with confectionary to encourage vegetable intake…. transition from liquid to solid food is mostly complete. Unless yoghurt counts neither as a solid nor as a meal. In which case, weaning still has a way to go.

Teething: Not too big a drama for either child. This may be as a result of regular administration of tranquilisers or encouraged ‘sips’ of alcohol before bedtime.

Potty training: 50% complete, notwithstanding occasional set of skidmarks or lashing of urine all over the walls. Littlest currently uses potty as a hat. Work required there.

Sleep routine: Well established. Mostly. Save for occasional nightmare or random requests at 2am to watch Cbeebies. Success in this area can most likely be attributed to the same methodology applied to teething gripes – pharmaceuticals.

Education: One child is present and can be counted at school. He is not however always able to count without incident to 20 – although does use words like “poorly” and “ridiculous” which hopefully balances things out. Also shows aptitude for art and artistic construction. Other child shows promise in letter and word recognition and reading. Both are masters in manipulation and emotional blackmail.

Physical health: Good. Conquered spinal surgery challenge. Only two courses of antibiotics (ever) for near 5 year old. None so far for 2 year old. No broken limbs. Although this is imminent with the eldest whose attempts to fly are becoming increasingly more perilous as he strives to reach greater heights.

Dental health: Drama when eldest planted his face on a wet laminate floor. Two front teeth needed attention after they turned grey. Dentist was consulted. Two front teeth are as dead as a door nail. But mercifully can stay. Youngest has sprouted set of gnashers that will most likely require attention in later years. Massive relief that orthodontic work is free for children in the UK.

Mental health: Appears ok although there is slight concern over eldest child’s fixation with beheading barbies and the youngest child’s penchant for hiding in cupboards in the dark. Continued monitoring highly suggested.

Behaviour and social aptitude: Eldest child favours independent play, shies away from attention and is happy to follow children who want nothing to do with him. His stalkerish persistent tendencies can not be dissuaded. He remains steadfast in his devotion to being rejected over and over again. Youngest seeks to be the leader and craves attention all of the time.  Regrettably neither is too afraid to launch into a fist-banging floor-thumping tantrum in the supermarket.

Special abilities: From the sublime to the ridiculous. Eldest son can watch SpongeBob SquarePants for two hours straight without breaking eye contact with the television. Youngest will cry when she can no longer see the moon while driving in the car at night.

Skills

Sally has amassed a number of skills as a mother, including, but not limited to:

Pain management. Bribery. Negotiation. Distraction. Conflict resolution. Damage control. Waste management. Medicine dispensing. Food services. Transportation services. Calendar scheduling. Hairdressing.

Potential Areas for Growth

Sally can afford to improve in the following areas of parenting:

Patience. Less use of foul language. Less hysteria. Less use of television as a form of play. Less administering of drugs. Less administering of sugar. More praise. Less ridicule and mockery. Less concern over dirt.

Conclusion

Sally is a mother to a sensitive and perceptive little boy with a kind and gentle soul. Her daughter is a confident and joyful little girl who dances when she walks. Sally began her career as a mother with no previous experience, little skill and limited knowledge. Initially she set the bar way too high. Her efforts to attain perfection in cleanliness, calm and order were constantly thwarted and she soon came to understand that these attempts were futile. She lowered the bar as she realised that perfection is not the attribute of a successful mother. A happy child is. Sally’s methods may be different. Her approach is never standard and rarely supported by the professionals, however she has her own way. She genuinely makes it up as she goes along. Sally believes in the “poke it and see” school of parenting where routine is indeed hallowed practice, but rules are mere suggestions open for interpretation and can be adapted for individual taste.

Sally will most likely never receive a glowing parenting recommendation or boast a faultless record. And she’s ok with that. Why? Because she does the best she can. Always. To her, her children are tremendous creatures of humanity. Just the way they are. A pair of happy little souls who’re loud, affectionate and slightly cuckoo eccentric at times. But who light up her life. All of the time.

Day one on the job. Meeting the bosses.

The God of Small Things…must have been British

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy is a novel I really enjoyed. It’s the story about how a series of small things can have a big impact on a person’s behaviour and their life. Ok so this is a simplistic description of a rather complex and controversial plot, but it works for me in this context so I’m rolling with it. Small is a word that I’ve come to know very well these past several months in the UK. Where we live, space is a commodity as rare and valuable as spice was in the 16th century. Today you can buy pepper at the corner shop but there ain’t no way come hell or Hackney you’ll able to find any structure bigger than 150smq that isn’t a library or a museum. And naturally I don’t refer to the properties owned by Her Majesty and all her royal tributaries. Castles and palaces don’t count. I'm talking about what applies to us common folk. The more modest territory of semis, terraced houses, bungalows et al.

When it comes to dealing with space in the UK, your South African roots will show if…

- Your neighbours are dining al fresco and you’re embarrassed that you can hear every word of their conversation. And they live four houses down.
- You can’t squeeze a coin between the cars parked on any given street. They’re that close. You’re horrified that you need a degree in geometry and an advanced driver’s license to work out the angles involved in some parking manoevres. And even then, you still wouldn’t have the balls or cheek to attempt those moves yourself.
- You marvel at the sight of how bicycles are stored on the balconies of apartment blocks. One wheel precariously propped over the edge. I have to avert my eyes from the imagined carnage of bicycles dropping to the ground like those hotdogs on Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
- You’re horrified that upon entering a lift, 10 people will trail in behind you. As the lift doors are about to close, another eight will sneak in. Even after you’ve started breathing into your handbag, one more will join the crowd.
- Your mind boggles at the ubiquity of three or four storey homes - where there’s a kitchen in the basement and a bedroom in the loft. You walk up two flights of stairs from your kitchen to enjoy a cup of tea in your lounge. You need hiking gear and a healthy appetite to haul a midnight feast up your bedroom.
- You’re stumped by the design and home décor challenge of the long narrow rooms in typically British houses. It will never be ok to climb into your bed from the bottom because it’s neatly slotted in between two walls. Never.
- You feel completely violated on a Tube packed with commuters when someone stands so close to you that you can feel their breath on your neck. And you get unsolicited butterfly kisses on your cheek.
- You’re amused that beds, couches, coffee tables, futons – all come with built-in storage space. Even storage comes with extra storage.
- You’re shocked in a coffee shop when other diners will brazenly sit down and fill the unoccupied space at table you’re sharing with someone. Possession is not nine tenths of the law in the UK. Space is.
- You’re disturbed by the fact that in most open plan offices in London you can hear every stage of your colleague’s peristalsis as they digest their lunch. You can also watch a five o’clock shadow grow. You sit that close to Fred from Accounts or Lauren in IT.
- You’re dumbstruck that you can boil the kettle and mow your lawn in time to make a hot beverage. Your lawn is that small. Your kitchen is that close to your lawn.
- The blind acceptance of queues astounds you. Waiting 2 hours for a ride on the Fire Engine at Legoland is no problem for Brits. No one, but you, proclaims: “This is ridiculous. Waiting two hours for a 30 second ride. Bloody waste of time.” No one tries to consult management. The queue remains. People keep joining it.
- You’re freaked out by how the shops are always packed. All of the time. There is no off-peak. And no one minds. Everyone just gets on with it. Personally I take issue with choosing a brand of tampons alongside a geriatric man who’s shopping for nosehair clippers. But then that’s just me. And only me it seems.
- You’re mortified to discover that campervans and boathouses are not just for the downtrodden or down on their luck. Scores of folk of middle-class standing choose to live in a home they can also use as a mode of transportation. And I have to reiterate. They choose this. A conscious decision has been made to have a bed that can double up as a table where one eats, or a work surface where one cuts the fat off one's chicken thighs. A sink where one washes one's face in the morning. And then one's dishes after breakfast.
- You have an urge to call the RSPCA when you see a fully-grown Golden Retriever being led out of a terraced house. Just when you’ve suspended your disbelief – out trots another dog. The Brits keep their pets indoors. No matter the breed of dog. No matter the size of dog. Or the size of their house. And it’s perfectly legal.
- You find it completely insane that vegetables are grown in communal areas called allotments. People mission with garden tools to a plot of land that they don’t own to fiddle with a few fruit and veg. And someone can just nick their harvest at any time. What’s the point? How obsessed with 'organic' can one person actually be?
- You get road rage by how common it is to have to reverse to go forward on a street to allow another car to pass. Why is it a road if two cars can’t travel on it at once?

Space is not a commodity the Poms worry about it. They don’t miss it, because they’ve never had it. You can’t lament the size of your home to a Brit who’s never lived anywhere else. They just don’t get it. Like rusks, biltong and boerewors, it’s a completely foreign subject matter. For us Saffas, space is an attribute of life that we take for granted. On the day we hauled our seven suitcases on to the hearth of our modest (euphemism for teeny tiny) new home – my son walked through the front door, took the five steps into the living area and said “where’s the rest of the house?” Seven months down the line, he happily shares a box room with his sister. They sleep on top of each other on a single bunk bed. He swims in the bath instead of our swimming pool in Africa and climbs the wooden fence in our garden instead of his beloved tree. He’s adapted to small.

So have we. We’ve discovered it’s now ok to shower in what can best be described as a time capsule. You just can’t drop your showel gel. You will eventually learn to sleep with the sounds of Avatar or Tomorrow Never Dies blaring in surround sound from someone’s Friday night movie night. You just need to build the plot into your dreams. You’ll become accustomed to the cars grinding their gears in your street in attempts to perfect 16-point maneuvers to fit into a parking space the width of a lamppost. You’ll learn to eavesdrop from your bed on conversations held at 2am on the street. Go back to sleep if they're boring. Listen a little longer if they're the rants of a drunken couple. Our perspective has changed. Our world-view has grown, but our home-view has shrunk. We’re trying small on for size – and it’s slowly starting to fit.

A mobile home... outside an immobile home. Go figure.

We'll Always Have Paris

14 years ago when we dined at restaurants without a drive-through, watched full-length feature films (at the cinema) and slept an uninterrupted eight hours – my husband promised he’d take me to Paris for my birthday. I was so besotted with him I’d have happily skipped to the McDonalds on the Hounslow High Street if he’d suggested as much. But the idea of Paris made my 19-year-old heart swoon. Paris was for grownups. Paris was proper. I could have a Big Mac any day, but sipping a velvety French wine in front of the Eiffel Tower wasn’t an experience available on any Ronald McDonald’s menu board. Sadly we didn’t make it to Paris that year. Life happened and the trip was put on hold. Until this year. 14 years later than scheduled - somewhat wiser (him) a lot more wrinkled (me) we finally set off our Paris adventure. Just the two of us.

We caught the Eurostar from Kings Cross on a rainy Saturday morning and arrived just before lunch in a sunny Paris. The trip took two hours. I fell asleep in Britain and awoke in France. We arrived at the Gare du Nord station amidst a frenzy of excited tourists. We were no different - my husband had taken 200 pictures before we’d even left the UK. Not unlike a pair of giddy teenagers, armed with a bag each, a camera and the Citymapper app, we set off to see as much of Paris as we possibly could in just 24 hours. We were en route to buy Metro tickets, when I spotted a serious wad of cash lying on the platform. My husband was taking pictures of the sky at the time and so the next 30 minutes were very tricky trying to locate the loot’s owner in a swarm of people few of whom spoke English. Eventually we were able to reunite a very thankful Japanese man with his holiday money – nearly £300’s worth of cash. I’ll hazard a guess that his next purchase was a fanny pack. We figured the reunion we’d initiated between a man and his cash was a good omen. For us. And the Japanese man of course.

The Gare du Nord station is not the best introduction to Paris. It’s ugly, smells of pee and there are groups of pickpocketing yobs that steal from you under the ruse of seeking directions. “Speak Engrish, speak Engrish” is what they chant while a piece of tattered paper is thrust under your nose and you are unwittingly relieved of your wallet and cellphone. We saw this con virtually happen in front of us – fortunately the overwhelmed lady had the presence of mind to scream like a banshee and within seconds the mob had dispersed.  At any station we visited thereafter whenever someone approached us with “speak Engrish, speak Engrish”, we’d back away and like a foghorn I’d proclaim, “No, get away. Leave us alone.” In language with a lot more colour – too colourful in fact for me to type. I tried. It was bad. I felt like a right git though when a lady approached me and she’d barely got her words out before I verbally assaulted her and legged it. Only to have my husband come around the corner a couple of minutes later holding her map of Paris pointing her in the direction of the train she was looking for.  A genuinely lost tourist in a Paris station… Who’d have thought it? Not me. Clearly.

I’ve always been rather cynical about historical buildings. Yes they were built a long time ago. Yes they’re famous. Yes they’re pretty. Yes, ok. I get it. But I had to swallow every last chunk of that cynicism – when I actually stood at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and looked up. And it wasn’t just the structure itself – which is obviously impressive. Mind-blowing in fact. The real magic was being a part of a crowd of hundreds of people on that day. People who had all made their individual journeys from various parts of the world to visit the same site. To share in the collective awe. My best friend asked me to describe the highlight of the trip – and I can honestly say that it was picnicking on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower sharing a bottle of French wine with my husband. Sitting amidst groups of happy people at the foot of one of the world’s most iconic feats of architecture. Watching people pose for that umpteenth picture with the tower as a backdrop. Children playing. Snatches of conversation in a variety of accents. The sound of laughter. The experience transcended age, gender and nationality. We were one collective happy mass. The atmosphere on that afternoon was something I’ll never forget.

Ok so the Notre Dame Cathedral was pretty good too. The Louvre. The Arc de Triomphe. The Opera. All incredible. All worth the hype. Paris is a beautiful city. There’s no doubt about it. We soaked in all the sights. Drank too much wine. Ate way too much cheese. Paris delivered. And we were happy to receive.

We were seated on the bottom of a double decker tube en route to the Louvre when a South African family tumbled into our carriage, moments before the doors closed. Dad led the charge trying to maintain the illusion delusion of being in control. Mom looked harassed, hair disheveled, tired eyes. Three (!!) boys trailed in the couple’s wake. Ranging in age from approximately nine to around three years. They fell into their seats. Mom and Dad rested weary heads and closed their eyes. There was a moment of calm. Then Oldest son opened his backpack and took out a bottle of water. Younger son asked Mum for water. Mum shrugged and raised her hands in apology. There was no more. Older son handed his over to younger to share. Naturally Middle son wanted water too. Younger took a sip and handed it to Middle who in turn took a sip. Older son asked for it back. Younger son wanted more. Middle son proceeded to deliberately finish the rest of the water. A fight ensued. Chaos. Parents intervened. Cajoled. Bargained. Bribed. I averted my eyes from the scene – knowing how desperate I feel when my children have a public meltdown and there are witnesses. My husband and I looked at each other knowingly. Shared relief and sympathy. The couple looked apologetically in our direction. Embarrassed by the disturbance their brood had unleashed. To them we were a couple alone, free and unencumbered in Paris. We sat with two bags, a camera and each other. No additional baggage. In that moment, we could easily have been that couple from 14 years ago. And I have to be honest, on that train, on that day, we basked in the pretence. We had travelled light – in every sense of the word. And it was good.

It was an hour later that we saw a figure skater in the piazza outside the Louvre – performing the most incredible tricks. My husband turned to me and said excitedly, “Wouldn’t Ollie just love to see this! And wouldn’t the Gabs go wild chasing all of these pigeons?” Sublime Paris was all ours for a brief moment in time. After an idyllic 24 hours though, we were happy to leave La Ville-Lumière - The City of Light. And head back home. Back to our chaos. The cheeky little pair of them.

My Africa

I’ve never been a typical tourist in Africa. I’ve never been on safari. Never travelled through the bush on the back of a landy. Never visited multiple African countries. I’ve never spent time observing different African cultures. I’ve been a city slicker virtually my entire life – apart from a few early years on farms when I was too young to remember. I avoid sand and mud if I can help it. Snakes are the devil. Frogs aren’t far behind. Spiders I can handle. Walking is good, but not too far and don’t call it hiking. Hiking I don’t do. The shoes are ugly and to me unless there’s a destination, what’s the point? I don’t watch nature programs because it’s too traumatic for me to see a defenseless buck being mauled by a lion. I keep thinking that the buck was another buck’s baby and could be a mother to her own baby buck. I’m not brave in the wild. I scream. I cry. Most traditional African food makes me gag unless its phutu or samp. Mopani worms, no thanks. Boiled goat, Kapenta – pass. I need a clean flushing toilet. Running water. And electricity. And a bed raised off the floor. At all times. I would rather stay at home than sleep in a tent. In a word, I am a wuss. I am the biggest nature wuss you’ve ever come across. I am Africa’s bastard child. 

But something about the quote above really moves me. It may be because I’m trying to build a life in a foreign country. It may be because I miss my home, my family, the familiar. Either way – the quote and image above makes me proud to hail from Africa. Proud to be an African. Even though I’m her bastard child. Even though I’m terrified of most of her nature and pretty much all of her wildlife. 


This got me thinking about what it actually means to be African? How do we make this connection to the continent of our birth and what nurtures it? It is family for sure. It is shared experience in a place one calls home. The traditions and cultures one shares – whatever these may be. Whether it’s a Sunday roast every week, a trip to a restaurant to celebrate happy news or a cultural ceremony in one’s backyard. Being a part of a family unit and a broader community helps to define one, shape identity, root one in a world where the boundaries don’t exist except as governments have created them.

As a child, I spent many happy family holidays along the Kwa-Zulu Natal south coast. Net fishing with my cousins in rock pools, body surfing with my sister in the shorebreak, picking mussels with my uncle, scouring the beach in search of a prized cowry. Sunbathing with my mom. Inevitably nursing sunburn that evening. Honing my skill at making Irish coffees for my aunt. Walking alongside cornfields whilst visiting my grandparents in the KZN interior, eating oranges or sneaking Wilson toffees from the stash in my grandfather’s pocket. Sitting in a warm cosy kitchen watching while my Gran made crumpets. Weekend day trips to the local dam, waterskiing and enjoying braais in the sun. The smell of charcoal and Tabard. Christmas Days spent lolling in a swimming pool, eating too much food and the nervous anticipation of Father Christmas. Chlorine and sun cream, gammon and mince pies, Quality Street chocolates. Learning to drive with my Dad along dusty Eastern Cape backroads or sitting on the back of his motorbike with the wind in my hair. Unbearably hot and humid afternoons in Pietermaritzburg where the air sits in a haze until there’s a release and the heavens finally open. The smell after a storm; organic but with a lingering trace of the city…tarmac, car fumes, smog.

As an adult, I think of carefree picnics at Barley Beach or Signal Hill in Cape Town. Beautiful scenes of sea and land and the point at which they meet. Mountains and valleys in the Winelands. The Helderberg. Greens and browns in perfect harmony. The golden Highveld in Johannesburg. Vibrant purple Jacarandas in Pretoria. The quaint KZN Midlands. The whooshing sound of Howick Falls. The Umgeni River’s slow journey to the sea. The spectacular Kloof Gorge, the panoramic outlook across the Krantzkloof Nature Reserve. The Berea’s palm trees and harbour views. The majestic ranges in the Drakensberg, the quiet Underberg and picturesque rolling hills of Ixopo. The yellow beaches of the South Coast. The enticing blue waters of the Dolphin Coast. The arid Karoo and her striking lonely beauty. The views of pancake flat land as one drives the back route through the Free State to the Cape. The peaks and valleys of the Transkei. The distinctive flora of the Eastern Cape, the aloes that dot the landscape in an orange flash of colour. Electric thunderstorms and multi-coloured rainbows. Sunrises with promise and sunsets rich with the blessing of a full day.

This is my Africa. These memories and the experiences I hold in my heart. They are a living record of the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met. These memories reflect laughter, joy, family, friendship and a life lived. These memories are all that make me African. Offer me a valid passport to land of my birth. I may not have seen the Big Five. I may not have ridden an elephant, watched a wildebeest migration in the Maasai Mara or spotted a leopard in the Serengeti. I may not have camped alongside the Okavango Delta or rafted down the Zambezi. But My Africa is just as magical. It belongs to me. And I carry it with me always.

Idiot Abroad Seeks Signs

Signs are everywhere here. I don’t mean signs from Jesus or the ones in your head that you think mean you should take a lotto ticket. I’m referring to actual signs. On buildings. On the Tube. At the train station. On the highways. They’re intended, I suppose, to help the clueless types like me and the tourists from Uzbekistan or China find our way around without bothering the police. The police in London have enough to deal with. If the local news is anything to go by, they’re chasing chav teenagers who stab and beat each other to death in the streets at nighttime. Just like feral little monkeys – except less cute and more rabid. Unleashing me onto the London Underground is like taking a new puppy to the Vatican. It just shouldn’t be done. There’s going to be barking. And pee. And a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. And I’m not talking about the dog.

I am the most unsophisticated traveller I know. Forget idiot abroad, I am idiot at home. I have downloaded a mobile app that literally guides me to my intended destination. The little man flashes his field of vision and I follow it like a dim-witted sheep. Recently I have been required to venture into the depths of Londontown to meet with clients for work. This means panic stations as I try to figure out the logistics required to reach each destination. Piccadilly Line (or Piccalilli Line as I call it) Circle Line, City Line, District Line, overground, underground. So many routes, so many colours, directions headed east or west, the London Underground Tube Map looks like a psychedelic drawing by that creepy kid in the white dress with the limp hair from The Ring. To me it’s disturbing and completely devoid of logic. To 29 million other travellers, it appears to hold some meaning. Funny that.

The Citymapper mobile app is a godsend for directionless cretins like me. I find myself literally holding my phone in front of me as I follow the directions. I look like the Queen of tools though. The mummy pose never quite made it to the high street – although when I look at twerking that surprises me somehow. When first I was following my dude on my screen, I worried that my phone was too visible and someone might nick it so I tried to be discreet and hold it lower, which meant I smashed into people, bins, poles. A class act indeed. I’d bumped into every trashcan in Euston, ten mobsters and as many Russian mail-order brides, before it suddenly dawned on that I wasn’t in Africa. I didn’t need my cellphone buried deep in my bra or safely stowed in my handbag looped 8 times around my shoulder. People I pass here are either thumbing on their phones or Spotifying through their earphones. Mobile phones are as common as Miley Cyrus’s performance at the MTV Music Awards last Sunday. No one swipes out of your hand here. I’ve got more chance of being knifed because I rammed into someone. A cellphone smash and grab Saffa style is very unlikely. Theft is another kind of weird in London - I recently heard of someone who was mugged on the Tube and her assailant asked for a hug after he’d taken her cash. He stole her cellphone, but did her the courtesy of removing her sim card so she’d keep her contacts. The whole transaction was was very polite and efficient. Very British. Poms don’t like mess or fuss. Even thieving ones it appears.

So by the time I arrive at each meeting, I feel as though I’ve given birth. And the proper way. Not my wussy Caesar births. I hope to breeze into each meeting fresh and confident. The truth is I scream in, head for the nearest loo, mop my brow, change out of my slops into proper shoes and give my underarms special attention with a fire hydrant sized deo I carry. There’s nothing bright or breezy about that.

When you’re vulnerable you take note of the signs. I’ve learnt that I mustn’t force my body in between the train’s doors when they’re closing. I mustn’t run for the train. I mustn’t stand with my daughter’s pram too close to the edge of the platform. I must mind the gap. I must watch my possessions on the train. I mustn’t litter. I must give up my seat for either an aged, disabled, pregnant person or one carrying a child. Or any of that combination thereof I’m guessing. I mustn’t vandalise the Tube. I must carry my ticket at all times. I can’t throw myself off the platform. Nor can I throw any item or person off the platform. Unless you’re a destructive, absent-minded, selfish, disrespectful, suicidal or homicidal manic, these signs seem pretty straightforward. Only sign I haven’t come across yet is one that reads: “Lost? Clueless? Foreign? Come and talk to me. I’ll help. You can cry. It’s ok.” I’ll keep looking for it. It’ll be the sign that I head to every time. My default sign.

Last weekend, we were driving on a highway from Cambridge back to Windsor. Every so often there are signs for what they call “Services” where you pull over and can refuel in petrol, coffee and all manner of overpriced road-trip fare. The British version of Shell Ultracity or Engen Quikstop. We stopped soon into our journey because my son was starting to wig out and his motion sickness meds hadn’t reduced him to the same zombie state that they’d achieved for my daughter. We couldn’t dump him on the side of the A11, which is what we wanted to do. So we figured we’d feed him instead. I bought a 500ml coke zero which I drank pretty much before we’d left the parking lot. After 15 minutes of travel small-talk, I said to my husband “I really need the loo. I wonder where the next Services sign is?” Considering that we’d just pulled off at one, my chances of another anytime soon were slim. I kept hoping though as we drove that a sign would come. Hope turned to desperation. And then it got ugly.

It was when I had reached gooseflesh and tingly hair stage that I suggested that we pull over on the side of the highway. My husband chuckled until he realised that I was ‘ready to pee in seat now’ serious. He said, “Sal, this is England. You can’t just pull over and pee on the side of the road. It’s not done. People don’t do that here. I’ve never even seen a car on the shoulder of the highway, let alone someone squatting. There are probably cameras anyway.” He carried on driving - smugly confident that I’d been suitably shamed into holding it for just a little bit longer. I took the opportunity to remind him he had two options. He could witness his wife wet herself in a car 40 minutes from home and spend the next 50 years with that mental image. Or he could pull over and risk the highway patrol arresting me for dropping my drawers. He pulled over. I had the fastest wee of my life, perched in between two open car doors, protecting as best I could my lily white derriere from highway view. My husband slouched lower in his seat like a gangsta, pretending to have no knowledge of what was happening to his left. I vaulted back into the car and we were off. I had polluted the blessed English countryside. And there were no police sirens wailing in hot pursuit. No coppers with truncheons. The sky did not fall Chicken Little. Fancy that. Guess what we saw though literally two minutes after pulling back onto the highway? Yip you guessed it – the Services sign. Taunting in its overtness.

So I’m six months in – and clearly no wiser to any signs. Literal or otherwise. I got stung by a nettle on Monday. Stung by a hornet on Wednesday. Is that a sign of more stings to come? One more perhaps? Or have I been stung enough? I joked that the third sting may be SARS as I’ve got to submit my tax return soon. Or it could be a sign from the British traffic police that my indecent exposure and desecration of a public road was captured by one of the 19 million cameras along the highway routes in the UK. They know what I did. They will come for me in their own time. Once they’ve got some manpower after chasing the knife-wielding yobs. I’ll watch out for any sign of their arrival. Then I’ll hide. Probably in a Tube Station with a couple million tourists. Until then – I’m all signed out. Clearly.

The Gift of Gabriella

When I was pregnant with our second child, I was expecting a boy. To me this was fact. I had no medical proof of the gender. I didn’t want or need any. I had my own special powers. I innately believed that the little being I was carrying was a boy. And for me, this belief was enough. I gave him a name. He was to be Alexander, after my late grandfather Alexander Robert Trevor Gray. I bought blue paint for the nursery. I even painted a whole wall myself before my ever-pragmatic husband intervened and toned the blue to a more gender-neutral grey. I kept aside all my eldest’s clothes. I envisaged another version of my son. I prepared myself for the arrival of our little boy. Somewhere in my psyche I’d convinced myself that I wouldn’t ever have girls. I’d be a mom to boys. That was that. I had nothing against girls. I just didn’t think that I’d be a good mother to a girl. I figured that boys were simple. Girls were complex. I wasn’t adept at complex – so simple is what I’d get. I had it all figured out.

At around 8am on the 1st of November 2011, our gynecologist delivered our healthy 3.75-kilogram baby. Into my arms he presented a dark haired, chubby-cheeked little girl. A little girl! I was in complete and utter shock. I’m ashamed to admit that for a while in that post-delivery drug-induced state, I actually believed that there had been a mix-up. Someone else had my boy. And I had been mistakenly given this little girl. She wasn’t mine. Despite my insane protests, I was kindly reassured that there was no mistake. She’d come from me. She was my baby. She was the complete antithesis of what I’d imagined. Of what I’d expected. My son was a bald, skinny and quiet little chap. He barely made a peep when he was born. I was holding a baby with a mop of dark hair, she was chubby and she screamed like a banshee the moment she'd drawn her first breath. And she was a girl. The anesthetist remarked “she’s a feisty one your daughter”. My daughter! The sound of that word ‘daughter’ was so foreign. In my mind I kept repeating, “I have a daughter, I have a daughter.” While my husband went with the nurse to bath her while I was being stitched, I wept. I wept at the shock of it all. I wept for being so stupid. For being so stubborn. For failing to honour her with the proper welcome into the world that she deserved. For allowing my own fears and insecurities to rob her of the first nurturing embrace she needed. For the shell-shocked fumble she ended up getting. On that morning in that theatre room of Parklands Hospital, I made a couple of vows. I vowed that I would get over myself. To her I vowed that she would be loved. She was my daughter. I was her mother. She would be loved.

And so began the process of getting to know my little girl. Of her getting to know me. Learning how to be her mother - a role that’s an ever-evolving journey rather than a destination absolute. I have written a lot about the wisdom I’ve gained from our son. The lessons I’m received from from him on how to live with feeling, to express oneself honestly no matter how difficult or painful. Truth is that I’ve also been taught so much from a little girl who I never gave the courtesy of a place in my imagined destiny. In just shy of two years of life, she’s shown me that love can be unconditional. She’s shown me that happiness can be found in a smile, a laugh, a song and a dance. There’s such uncomplicated joy in our little girl, it positively radiates from her. She’s been such a comfort in this time of transition. She’s been a constant for me. A constant source of delight. I understand that we’ve got a long journey ahead. Our relationship will go through seasons and not all of them will be good. Some will be tough. But I can honestly say that I’ve been blessed with a little soul who has taught me that happiness is a choice. No matter where one is. A million miles from normal. Under the most foreign of circumstance. One can choose to take the good from life. Find the positives. Belt out the Lumineers’ Ho Hey and dance around the living room like a lunatic with two littlies in tow. Jump on the bed and have tickle-fests after bath. Sing the Barney song in the car. Play peek-a-boo until it’s not possible to do it even just one more time. Moments of joy are everywhere. In the mundane. In the routine. They’re not just reserved for special occasions.



When I get home in the evening, I open the front door and every day without fail, there will be a little body that slams like a rocket into my legs. A greeting of giddy glee and pure unadulterated delight. I lift her into my arms she rests her head on my chest. She’s all big blue eyes, blonde curls and soft skin. “Love you”, I whisper. To which she replies, “Mommy I love you much. I love you most.” 



I never wanted a little girl. Now I cannot imagine a life without this girl. My daughter. We’re far away from that theatre room in Parklands Hospital. In so many ways. We’ve travelled a great distance together. I look forward to the rest of the journey with this precious gift. A beautiful happy little girl called Gabriella who has taught me to laugh more and worry less.

The Start of the European Appreciation Project - Spain, Siestas and Shedloads of Sick

Travel is one of the biggest bonuses that Adventure 20-13 affords us. We’re a plane, train or automobile ride away from Europe and all the culture, cubism or Caesar you can shake a stick at. We may though be better off with the States as our proverbial travel backyard. I say this because our son only ever wants pink milk and slap chips. At any time. In any country. I want to project an image of myself as a refined and cultured embodiment of a good education and a keen interest in history and world affairs. The truth is that I’m quite rude, very crass and wouldn’t know my Gauguin from my Guttoso if they gonked me on the backside. I fit better in America – just as well as my son’s palette it seems. Despite physicality to the contrary, we’re clearly related.

I resolve however to persevere with Europe and make headway into my mission to take in her sights and understand more of her sensibilities. If only to be in a stronger position to geographically pinpoint where each of her countries is located on the world map. Something I confess I am not currently able to do. And I did Geography for Matric. Yes, I know…Hit me Baby one more Time. # Homage-reluctantly-paid-to-Britney-Spears.

For our maiden European Appreciation voyage, we were fortunate enough to be hosted en masse for a week by our friend at her family home in Valencia. A beautiful four bedroom casita set in the rural hills in a region known as Olocau. Big enough to house our brood and the chaos we create and sturdy enough for the same reason. We had a week full of sunshine, swimming and off-the-beaten-track Spain. I’ve condensed my experience into a couple of memories that stand out. You’ll notice very little culture. But shedloads of chaos. Funny that.

• On our departure day, our four-year-old son was randomly searched at customs at Heathrow. A waifish little chap buffered between beefy security amidst a bustling airport is a sight to behold I tell you. He was curtly asked to remove his shoes. Taken aside. And then frisked. He took it all in his stride though. Cool as a cucumber as he was patted down by Attila the Hun. I wanted to ask the guard what he possibly could be packing on such a slight little frame? Bombs from Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Cocaine for little people? I withheld comment though. For once. Probably for the best.

• I tried to smuggle in a litre of milk for my daughter in my hand luggage. My more seasoned travel companions made me remove it before the security police laughed me all the way to the sink. What’s wrong with a little milk on a plane? A lot apparently.

• In Spain, driving on the right side of the road isn’t right. Neither are traffic circles when you approach them from the wrong side. We had a baptism of fire navigating the highways of Madrid en route to Valencia – a three hour journey. My husband lost five kilograms in perspiration and my friend and I toned our glutes with butt clenches at every circle, every entry and exit to a different highway and all the driving in between.

• Tom, the disembodied monosyllabic man who speaks over the satellite navigator app, is a douchebag. Exit to the right does not actually mean to the nearest right. It means at a right approaching at some point. So don’t get into the right lane. Stay in the middle until you miss your exit and you’re treated to the ‘recalculating jingle’. We got a little lost in the dark in an industrial estate in Madrid. We nearly killed Tom there. And left him in one of the 18 alleys he wrongfully took us through. It would’ve served him right. Fortunately lady luck smiled on us weary travellers and with a few blatant disregards of Tom’s cockeyed directions, we made it out. It was touch and go for a while though.

• On this very same car journey to Valencia from Madrid we had to stay awake to remind my husband to stay on the right side of the road. This was so we could stay alive. To achieve a semblance of consciousness, we spoke a lot of crap and ate a lot of crap. I spent much of the journey talking about the most psychotic murder documentaries I’d watched. Driving in the dark in a foreign country with a palpable fear of dying via road death, it somehow seemed an appropriate topic.

• The serial killer theme was given more context by the public toilets that were our pit-stops en route. Pit being the operative word. Spanish toilets make the South African toilets you get at home affairs look larney. They’re proper rank.

• According to the song from the musical My Fair Lady, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Plain. Just not in Valencia. And not in August.  We packed 23 kilos of clothing for four of us, including nappies. Which I figured was pretty impressive. After having condensed our lives into seven suitcases – I proudly believed I had the packing thing waxed. Baggage beast slayed. Truth is, we could’ve packed a single change of clothing, a bathing suit and a towel each and we’d have been sorted for a week. It was over 30 degrees every day. My jeans and hoodie mocked me in the cupboard the entire week. I could practically hear the ‘nah-nah-nah-nah-nah’.

• The Spanish locals are in awe of children with blonde hair. Friendly locals patted our children’s heads everywhere we went. Not unlike in a petting zoo come to think of it.  But with less bread and fewer animals. And no cages.

• Few locals speak English in the rural parts of Spain. Thanks to our Spanish-heritage friend, we learnt to say "La cuenta por favor” which means “Check please”. But we did have issues with ordering an iced coffee that literally arrived as black coffee with ice. Looked like a glass of coke. Tasted like jet fuel. At least we could pay for it though.

• My culinary journey with tapas was born and then promptly died shortly after birth. We had two slimy fishy dishes served at a local restaurant which I gave a good go, but I’m not a fan of white soggy fish or slimy fish skin. So I ate a whole lot of bread and cheese. I was also very enthusiastic about the olives and chorizo. And the authentic paella that our host made on our last night. I committed culinary suicide akin to say squirting tomato sauce on truffles - when I made wraps for padkos with the leftover paella and added mustard and balsamic glaze to ‘season’. # Just-Not-Done.

• We drank a lot. Spanish beer is good and very reasonable priced. A quaffable bottle of Rioja sets you back about 2 Euro, which is less than the cost of the tolls on the highway. And it’s not battery acid. It’s very good. My advice – whatever you think you’ll drink, double it. When in Spain…

• The Spaniards take their siestas very seriously. Between the hours of 2 and 5pm, everything shuts down. Literally. Shutters are closed. Shades are drawn. You’ll struggle to get ice if your tongue was on fire during this time. Petrol is even harder to come by. Best place to be is lying prostrate on a lilo in a swimming pool. The pool will come in handy if you do manage to set your tongue on fire.

• Our return trip to Madrid airport for our flight back to the UK was…I’ll just say eventful. We set off at sparrows anticipating that douchebag Tom would lead us along the path of temptation and deliver us to evil. We were wrong. About Tom. He was uncharacteristically compliant. But we did encounter evil. And it came in the form of child vomit. Our two year old started retching approximately 20 minutes into the three hour journey and as if on queue in some pantomime for the seriously disturbed, my son followed suit. They vomited like you see on the movies. Like that scene in Bridemaids. Except not as funny. Not funny at all. We’re talking projectile vomit. All over their laps, the seats – I even found chunks in my handbag. We pulled over at the nearest exit. Changed their clothes. Cleaned as best we could. Then set off to catch our flight. The vomiting continued though. Pretty much the rest of the way. I ended up using a plastic biscuit tub to alternate catching the sick between each child’s up-chuck. When it was a well-timed tandem vom session, I used my hand as a cup. It was one of those moments where I had to remind myself that I chose motherhood. The two feral ones exist at least in part because of me. They didn’t choose me as their mother any more than I had any say whatsoever over their wussy lack of ability to hold their solids and liquids in a moving vehicle. Like a mantra, I kept reminding myself of this fact. If I hadn’t, you’d have certainly spotted two kotch-riddled little blondies on the side of a highway on the outskirts of Madrid brandishing a sign “Free to Good Homes”. I kid you not. It was that bad.

• To bid an authentic adiós or chau to Spain – we could only do it by making a scene at the airport. It’s just how we roll. No poise. No class. Just a shambolic dogshow all the way. In efforts to find my son…yip you guessed it… pink milk and chips, we trawled the airport. We eventually gave up and settled for doughnuts. No less yank but easier to come by at Madrid Airport for some reason. Afterwards we decided to buy some perfume for Granny Gail at Duty Free. Then we suddenly realised that our flight was boarding. Then we couldn’t find the gate. Then we started running. We eventually screeched to the boarding gate waving our children in the hopes they’d have mercy on the stupid tourists. We made it by a hair’s breadth. Grim faced crew waved us in and we did the aisle walk of shame in front of 200 passengers already strapped in and ready to go. Oh and I failed to mention… I had puke on my skirt. In my hair. And in my bag. A class act indeed. Watch out Europe – there’s a special breed of ‘culture’ heading your way. The Cook family.