Britain’s Got Talent…in TV

22.  As well as being a supermarket bargain whore, I have to confess another vice. I enjoy TV. I’m proud to admit that as a moderately educated woman, I see no shame in deriving pleasure from taking in a spot of telly. As long as it’s not all day. In your pyjamas. With box wine. Well those are my rules for myself anyway. It irks me when I meet people who scoff at my efforts to make conversation with “Do you watch?” or “Did you see the episode of…?” Those judgmental types who believe that TV is the anti-Christ and regard me with disgust when I launch into describing the plot of a series I’m currently enjoying. It’s these folk, who in my opinion, probably watch things that normal people don’t. Weird stuff downloaded from the Internet at 2am when the broadband is fastest or DVDs that are delivered via courier in a parcel marked “Fragile”. Everyone has their thing. Some people enjoy Sports or Nat Geo or History or the Jesus Channels or Reality TV. There’s something for everyone. Like my Mom always says “Love…there’s a lid for every pot”. I openly declare that I crave nothing more than a drippy episode of Grey’s. I am enthralled at just how many asses Emily Thorne has to kick, houses to burn down, computers to hack or cameras to install to enact her complex crusade of Revenge. I will never (repeat never) get tired of lusting after Harvey Specter in Suits. I will always be secretly scared that I’m a little bit too much like Claire Dunphy (and not enough like Gloria) in Modern Family, but the series will always make me laugh. This may make me shallow, but at least I’m honest. Honest and shallow beats judgmental in my book. But then when it comes to books, I like to read crap too. So I’m not sure where that leaves us. Moving swiftly along.

Since arriving in Britain, I’ve been in serious awe of how jacked these Poms are when it comes to TV. No disrespect to the SABC and their efforts to broadcast across the rainbow nation a variety of programming intended to appeal to every demographic and each of the 11 official languages. It’s a tall order. No wonder they stuff it up. They can’t possibly succeed and it’s unfair to expect as much.  DSTV will continue to laugh all the way to their private bank as long as the national broadcaster continues to deliver…well pretty much nothing. Let’s look at the SABC menu for a second. For your annual mandatory we-will-haunt-you-like-herpes-if-you-don’t-pay 250 ZAR, you will get, inclusive of, but not limited to:
 - A US series of any description (Desperate Housewives, Heroes or The Good Wife) four years later than the current episodes being screened in Equatorial New Guinea.

- Soap operas so painful with plots so weak that even the actors look embarrassed (I’m sorry to the actors who seem like nice people) but with good reason.
- “Delayed live broadcasts” (an oxymoron according to my Grade 10 English) of the national sporting teams because Supersport owns the rights to broadcast these. Why? Simple. They coughed up the cash.

- News updates or financial inserts where the English sub-titles are misspelt. 

- An entire day’s worth of repeat infomercials for life insurance, funeral policies, leather repair kits, pool cleaners, miracle exercise machines and miracle skin renewal for wrinkles. 

I am currently living in a country where the television options are akin to living in Columbia if you’re into drugs and stuff. There’s just so much choice. And so little time. And it’s so cheap. I have become addicted to Netflix, which is an on-demand Internet streaming media channel that we watch through our TV. It’s like being invited to a party with free drinks and an all-you-can-eat sushi buffet and no one judges while you scoff because they’re scoffing too. Aside from the multitude of kids movies and series, which have helped me through weeks of rain, snow and “ok so we’ve drawn 127 pictures Mom, now we’re bored”, there’s a host of offerings for grownups too. I’ve been able to watch Extras and re-watch the original series of The Office, which is my all-time favourite favourite. We’re proud (in a sad way) that we live across the river from Slough, where The Office is set. There’s nothing to be proud of really because Slough (like its name suggests) is a bleak little cesspit of a place, but the slight association with a series so brilliant makes us feel special. I have like totes the biggest crush on Ricky Gervais. I love his brand of humour, which makes you laugh and cringe at the same time. And then cringe because you’re laughing.

Another series I discovered which is as addictive as it is disturbing is a quirky British series called The Inbetweeners. The story follows a group of chavvy teenage boys and their perpetual quest to get laid. It’s disgusting. But I can’t stop watching it. It’s not a series that you openly admit to watching either. It’s like revealing that you and your husband are Crime and Investigation Channel freaks who enjoys nothing more than a dinner with your best friends (who happen to be just as ardent fans) where you discuss at length how a serial killer left a hollowed-out human head on someone’s doorstep and what the killer did inside the head before he left it. The Inbetweeners may not have a serial killer, but the gross and shock value is the same. Just in a different direction. You’re fascinated, but you know you should be appalled. And you’re also slightly concerned, because you have a son who will be a heaving mass of hormone in several years time and if the behaviour on The Inbetweeners is even a hint at what you’re in for…Well let’s just all have another drink.

My husband follows Ricky Gervais on Twitter. We’ve shazam’d the Extras theme tune (it’s "Tea for the Tillerman" by Cat Stevens by the way). I’ve Google stalked The Inbetweeners actors. And we’re planning a trip to find the actual building on the Slough Trading Estate where The Office was filmed. We’ll take pictures and stuff like real freaks. British television has well and truly helped to ease our transition into this country. Through humour. Mostly inappropriate humour. But humour none-the-less. So it has to be said that South Africa, for the moment you can keep your SABC – from Shuster to Sewende Laan and every infomercial in between. We’ll go British on this one and opt for the BBC. No hard feelings.

Ball-Buster Banks and the Journey from Steven Dlamini to Sheepcote

20. Fresh off the boat, there’s no such thing as credit. No bank will lend you a tissue, let alone the capital required to acquire a set of wheels. Even a crap bank for a skadonk set of wheels. We tried. We even tried asking the bank here to contact our bank in South Africa to verify our good standing and do a recce on our credit rating. But British banks are as unbending as their post office buddies. As staunch in protecting their pounds as the Royal Mail are their parcels. It doesn’t help to cry either. The British are as unmoved by tears as we are by repeated emails from Mohammed in Pakistan who’s declared us the heir to a hidden fortune for the small administration fee of $50. You’ve got to do your time on the Island – 6 months minimum – before you’re allowed to join the rest of the proletariats juggling one plastic with another. So purchasing a car when you've just arrived in the UK either means smuggling a wad of cash in your check-in luggage. Alternatively if you’re not a civil servant from the Tswane Municipality with access to the Rates budget, your only other option is to transfer funds electronically from South Africa. Unfortunately thanks to the drug trade sending our rainbow Madiba money through the proverbial wash so it’s nice and laundered, it really isn’t as simple as logging on to good old Netbank and clicking ‘transfer’. In fact, it’s akin to trying to get a visa to pretty much anywhere when you hold a South African passport. Collect shite. Do not pass go. Go to hell. It all but takes an anal probe for the privilege of converting a healthy set of zeros in South African Rands and watching it dwindle to a puny pile of Great British Pound Sterling. So a word to the wise…if you’re moving to the UK with kids, unless you’re planning on going council or gypsy (and this is more common than you think) you will need a car. You will need cash for the car. Plan ahead. Don’t be douchebags like us with the typical Durban-leave-it-to-the-last-minute mentality. You’ll be sorry and stranded. Mostly stranded.

21. While I was waiting for my urine sample to be analysed so we could buy our car. Ok, so not really a urine sample. But close. I did a lot of walking. My daughter and I and our Galaxy Lite, we hit the pavements hard. From my son’s school to the parks, the off-licence and the charity shops. We walked everywhere. Walking gave me the opportunity to take in our new surrounds and do a bit of voyeur house appraising. You know…. where you look at a house and in your head you add or subtract, update or obliterate, love or loathe, covet or cringe. It’s a girl thing. Another form of outdoor entertainment besides watching the locals, who loiter pissed at 11am outside the off-licence, is to make up stories with the street names. To me, there’s nothing that epitomises the British more than what they decide to name their streets. We’ve got a Maidenhead Road that’s parallel to a Dedworth Road. Sheepcote Road that’s close to a Wolf Lane and further along becomes Little Buntings T-Junction and then Hatch Lane. My little story goes like this. In a land far far away, there was once was a slum called Dedworth. Jozi's Hillbrow equivalent if you like. This area was teeming with desperate young maidens whose virtue fell prey to the charms of the sneaky kingpin wolf.  He was loaded and gave good gifts. He picked up maidens like Zuma does wives. Peer pressure was rife in Dedworth, so like sheep they all followed down the same path of disrepute. Little Buntings were often the inevitable result of such wanton behaviour and they were hatched in secret in a convent in Hatch Lane. The end.

I’ve clearly watched too much bad TV, but it appeals to my base imagination to conjure up such stories. We don’t actually live in the middle of a housing estate or in a carney rig. We live in a good area. So I know that Dedworth isn’t a slum and Maidenhead can’t possibly be as porno as it sounds. So for the benefit of a little local knowledge, I consulted the oracle of Google. Wikipedia reveals that Maidenhead's name refers to the busy riverside area where the "New wharf" or "Maiden Hythe" was built, as early as Saxon times. The name Dedworth is formed from the words 'Dydda', meaning a man's name and 'Worth', a Saxon word for enclosure. Dedworth was one of three Saxon villages (the other two being Clewer and Losfield) that Windsor expanded to encompass. A Sheepcote is an enclosure for sheep and Little Buntings aren’t illegitimate children, they’re a specific kind of bird. In my opinion, my version is way better. Boasts a lot more colour. In South Africa we know colour. Probably better than any country in the world. Look at our flag, our currency, our cabinet. Think of how much fun you could have with our street names: With Problem Mkhize Road or Magwaza Maphalala Street or Masabalala Yengwa Avenue or King Cetshwayo Highway? Kicks Wolf Lane’s ass. Just saying.

The Sweet Sound of Saffa

19.  As a South African in the UK, the moment you step across border control into the cavernous halls of Heathrow, you develop extra sensory perception. You suddenly become gifted with the most phenomenal ability to distinguish a particular sound. I’m not referring to the other special powers your homeland has blessed you with: the ability to decipher between a backfiring vehicle and a gunshot, or how to tell the difference between a police siren and the wail of an ambulance.

I speak here of your uncanny ability to sound out a South African accent virtually anywhere, from any distance. It’s an accent that you simply can’t get rid of, no matter how many years you’ve served on the Island or despite your best efforts to toff it up. If your mother tongue is South African, it will be as distinguishable to your fellow countrymen as the bottle green passport that you carry through customs, your shared bewilderment at health and safety and your polite indifference to the Royal Family.

The locals however don’t often share the same ability to recognise the unique intonations of our flat and let's be honest, slightly guttural accent. “Ah you’re Australian?” “No?” “Must be from New Zealand then.” “No?” “Can only be Argentinian” “Brazilian?” “Russian?” “Lebanese?” “C’mon luv where in da world are ya from?” “Sowff Africa! Cor. Yeah I fort so. I recognise dat accent. I know a lot of yous.” To the British not bothered to play You-Guess-my-Country-While-I-Feign-Amusement, we’re the ubiquitous Southern Hemisphere set. It’s us, the Aussies and the Kiwis. The Tri-Nations Trifecta. We’re all the same to them. To me, that Aussie twang is like nothing on earth. You can’t possibly confuse it with anything else. But that's just me. And about 50 million other South Africans I reckon.

I was recently at my local Tesco trying to extol to my son the benefit of a lovely red apple as a treat rather than what he calls “sprinkle biccies”. I warned him that too much sugar would rot his teeth and he’d end up looking like the man in the shop next to the garage. The poor man whose teeth you can count with your fingers. On one hand. I warned him he would get so fat he’d need a crane to carry him out of his house. I lost him at crane. To a 4 year old, instant gratification supersedes long-term cause and effect. So sprinkle biccies won. Part witness to this exchange was a lady who tapped me on the shoulder and asked: “Where in South Africa are you from?” I nearly fell over in shock. No one makes random conversation here.  Even my best efforts at striking up a little chitchat with the checkout lady while I’m waiting those awkward few moments for my card to authorise payment have failed dismally. And I made an effort to talk about the weather. Their favourite subject. And I crashed and burned. Proper. No one touches here either. It’s just not done. Well except of course for the teenage chavs who go at it hammer and tongs against the dim exterior walls of the local pub. But that’s less touching and more…well, I’m not really sure what that is. I digress. So when this lady reached out, I couldn’t gush quickly enough… “KwaZulu Natal. I'm from KwaZulu Natal. Well Pietermaritzburg born and raised, but I lived in Durban.” I then asked her whether she was from Joburg as I recognised the Highveld accent. She said she was born in Joburg but moved to the Western Cape when she got married. She, her husband and their three girls have lived in Windsor for 12 years and she sounds as South African as a Skype call home to my sister. And so geography established, we did what two South African women do in the cultural melting pot that is the local Tesco, we had a dik chat.

Amidst the rush of harassed shoppers weighing up their dinner options, alongside a promotion for robot peppers, I told a perfect stranger my condensed life story. She did the same. And that was that. After we said goodbye, we both smiled as we lumbered our spazzo trolleys in different directions. There’s a comfort in hearing the South African accent in an alien place. My husband jokes about the unmistakable and familiar kiss of Hansa Pilsener after he’s been kissed by his twelfth dumpie. There’s little familiarity there to me except the inevitable couch pose he resumes the day after. In my instance, what’s unmistakable here is a connection with a stranger in a land that’s so foreign in so many ways. A connection of birth, a place of shared history. We cling to the nostalgia of hearing words like “yah”, “geez” and “hey". It’s the lekker sound of home and it will never lose its magically ability to unite. Not after 12 years in her case or three months in mine.

It took me nearly six weeks of doing the school run (roughly 60 separate trips if you’re a detail orientated Virgo freak like me) standing outside the classroom with the same mums every day, twice a day, before my weather small talk efforts finally broke through. I’m happy to be moving slowly into the circle of trust with the local school mums – our shared connection obviously our children. But I can’t help but remember with pride the five minutes it took to forge a bond with a Saffa in a random supermarket where the subject of the weather never came up once.

Demon Trolleys, Car Guard Nostalgia and The Search for Demazin

18.  If you’re a South African new to the UK and you’re embarking on a spot of supermarket shopping, good luck to you. If you’re a South African new to the UK and you’re embarking on a spot of supermarket shopping with children, may the force be with you. Failing that, here are my tips for navigating your way through your first shop.

• Don’t bother trying to park anywhere near the entrance of the store. The spaces in front are reserved for the aged, whatever the current politically correct word is for the disabled and The Galaxy Mums. Also, parking far away means you can do your standard 25-point maneuver to get your car into the allotted space without the judging sets of eyes in the queue of cars you’ve held up. You’ll never get that 15 minutes of your life back, you may as well remove the shame of having witnesses to it.
  
• Car seats unstrapped, child on hip and one in hand, proceed to the trolley bay. Here’s your second vulnerable spot. The trolley bay is confusing for virgin shoppers or the logic-impaired such as myself. You can’t simply pull a trolley out of the bay. They’re all locked together by a single chain and to release one, you’ve got to insert a one pound coin into a slot, which will release the chain and allow you to wrestle a trolley free. This must be why, unlike in SA, there are no bergies on the side of the road here who’ve laid claim to a trolley that started out its life as the property of the local Pick’n Pay. They didn’t have a pound coin. Neither did I.  On any given day since I started sharing my bag with my children, it contains, without fail, a packet of baby wipes, a slightly battered nappy, a snack of some description and a random toy. From now, a pound coin will form part of this clutter. No coin means you have to leg it to the supermarket to stand in a queue at customer services to get change and hike back to the trolley bay. Yes you will have to take your children with you. Leaving them locked in the car back in Siberia where it’s parked (even with a window slightly open) was my first thought too, but it’s probably not a good idea. It is a foreign country after all.
  
• So you’ve got your trolley. You’ve locked and loaded your kids inside it and you’re ready to go. Except you’re going nowhere slowly. Your trolley appears to be a dud. You consider changing it. Don’t. There is definitely something wrong with it. It’s not you. It’s shite. It’s the most badly designed piece of shite ever designed in the history of design. And the worst news? They’re all like that. Every last one. In every single supermarket. Their problem is that they favour one side and automatically veer in that direction, usually the left side I’ve noticed. So you need to counterbalance that by pushing to the right as you steer.  I reckon this is the root cause of all the golden oldies and their hip issues.  Unfortunately you just have to accept that this is one of those things in life – like a pap smear or doing your tax return. It’s unpleasant but unavoidable. You’ll figure out your own technique in due time. It will always be painful, but you learn to deal.
  
• Once inside, head for the bakery. Allow your children to choose a treat so you can crab-slide through the aisles as quickly as possible while they focus on noshing. A box of mini-doughnuts usually works. Never, under any circumstances allow them out of the trolley in a shiny new store.  Never allow them out of the trolley ever. This is critical. They automatically head straight for the confectionary and toy aisles, which are so enticing they short-circuit your kid’s brains and they become feral little monkeys. You’re left chasing them with your spastic trolley. It’s not dignified. And what’s more, when you are able to corner them; one by the fruit and veg and the other hiding in the photo booth, you can only threaten them quietly with the punishment you will mete out at home. They know as well as you do that your threats are empty and they have all the power here. Subtly pinching them doesn’t work either. They cry, people stare and “mommy pinched me” may be more undignified than your trolley run.
  
• When you’re looking for over-the-counter pain medication, don’t ask the shop assistant to help.  He’ll just direct you to Calpol. Don’t bother asking for Demazin or Stilpane. They don’t stock it. Don’t try to qualify with the question, “Is Calpol the strongest you’ve got? I’m looking for something that makes them drowsy, but is cheap.” He’ll direct you to the in-store pharmacist. You explain that Calpol just isn’t going to cut the mustard, or your daughter’s teeth it appears. The pharmacist suggests you consult your GP. She doesn’t stipulate whether her advice is for you, your children or all three of you. You leave empty-handed convinced her attitude is because you’re South African. It’s the accent. It could also be that your daughter resembles the Joker from the Dark Knight with disturbing smears of jam and sugar all over her face and your son is using your car keys to poke holes in the doughnut box which he explains is a new house for his pet snails. You're not entirely sure.
  
• Hide your wine under the salad greens in the front compartment of the trolley reserved for flowers and baguettes. I’ve discovered it looks bad to have your son squashed into a corner of the trolley where he’s avoiding a wine bottle up his bum.
  
• At the checkout, if you wait while each of your items is scanned through, you’ll discover your pile of groceries patiently waiting for you at the end of the counter. You can’t inform the cashier that the packer is MIA. She, like the Medicine-aisle Man, has no idea what you’re talking about. You deduce from doing a quick look around that all the packers appear to be MIA.  And then the penny drops. There are no packers.  Just like pumping petrol and putting air in your car tyres, you do it yourself.  You pack your own groceries. And you’ve got to be quick about it too. The checkout staff whizzes through scanning your groceries like she’s on crack. This means that I inevitably end up with my biscuits crushed by a 2-litre bottle of bleach and my bread always has the faint whiff of fabric softener.
  
• As you lumber from the store into the parking lot, there’s a noticeable absence. No guy in a striped orange safety vest creeps out from thin air to offer to steer your trolley to your car and help unpack your groceries into your boot. There are no car guards. Not a one. I take back every single curse I uttered under my breath about every car guard I’ve ever hidden from, driven from or pretended not to see.
  
• Once you’ve loaded up the car, dragged the demon trolley back to its pit, driven home, unpacked your mangled groceries and toasted yourself on your epic shopping achievement, life is good. Until you realise that you’ve forgotten to buy milk and toothpaste for the kids and you meant to get tomatoes for the pasta for dinner. In fact, there’s little you’ve actually bought that you intended to buy. You’ve got to go back tomorrow. Maybe you should try Sainsbury’s? Maybe they have Demazin?
  

Sign should read, "Welcome to Tesco. Our trolleys are crap. We don't care".

From a Galaxy Far Far Away

17. There’s a controversial radio personality in South Africa who has said two things on his show that I will never forget. The first relates to weight loss.  I have to preface with my own health and safety disclaimer where I acknowledge that this aforementioned personality has never been subtle about broadcasting his scorn and disgust for the obese. I’m certainly not advocating his prejudice here.  What I do support however is a remark he made that if he ever were asked to write a weight loss book, it would be a total of a mere two pages. The first page would read, “Eat less” and the second page would read, “Run more”.  There’s something in the simplicity of that logic that appeals to me. I am sadly neither logical nor simple; I guess that’s why I like it.

His second pearl of wisdom is the point he made about having children. He argues that in our warped society you need a license to drive, a license to carry a firearm, a license to fish, but the one license you don’t need is for having children. And it's undeniably the most important responsibility in the whole world. “Any lunatic can have a child,” he says. And he’s got a valid point. Not the lunatic part. The having children part. You don’t need a license to have a child and I’ve noticed that nowhere is this declaration more apt than in Britain.  This country may be stingy when it comes to garden size, parking space, road width and public displays of affection, but when it comes to family size they’re happy to supersize. And supersize they do. What I find the most entertaining is the contraption required to transport a bevvy of sprogs. And we’re not talking a taxi or what they euphemistically call here a ‘people carrier’. That goes without saying. Unless you pack the surplus in the boot, which would be my solution but would probably result in a visit from social services, a standard family Toyota Corolla just isn’t going to work.  I’m referring to the type of pram you need for outdoor transportation. Anyone who’s had children knows that the pram is an important purchase (well for your first kid anyway).  The pram required for multiple offspring must be a purchase and then some. And then some more. I’ve spotted a particular pram that stacks the kids on top of each other like those stacking cups my daughter plays with in the bath. So picture a double pram that you’d get for twins. And then add a second storey on top of that. Literally on top. I call the whole contraption “The Galaxy”. My little in-joke with myself. The top-level kids on The Galaxy seem pretty happy with life. They’re in first class after all. They get a window seat with a view. They must be the gifted ones. It’s the poor blighters stuffed into the bottom layer who get the bum deal. The cheap seats. Most of the time they’re asleep. I’d also probably choose oblivion. Embrace the cocoon of darkness and warmth below your brother or sister. The firstborn walks alongside The Galaxy and child no. 2 is attached to the chassis with one of those harnesses that really is just the same principle as a dog leash, but you're not supposed to call it that. And Superwoman Mom with the abdominal core of Jane Fonda is at the helm of everything navigating through the traffic, propelling her charges to school where they make up 30% of a class. It’s a sight to behold. Don’t even ask what The Galaxy looks like when it rains.

Mockery aside, I do have the utmost respect for a mother on her own with that number of children to have to shepherd to any destination. I can barely get it together alone with two. I only have one to get to school fed, watered and clothed on time and it damn near breaks me. At least every second day (ok, ok every day) I genuinely feel the urge to have a celebratory G&T at 9.30am after it’s all done. It’s that chaotic. There are tears and tantrums. And that’s just me. I also have to confess that while I mock it, we’re also reluctant members of the child transport contraption club. We have what would probably be called The Galaxy Lite. A pram with a set of wheels that clip on for my son to stand on and lean in a Titanic-esque pose against the frame. Navigating that beast is a daily battle and I often bribe my kid with sweets (yes at 8.30 in the morning, what’s wrong with that?) to please for the love of jam walk rather than ride.  I am desperate for any chance to avoid grunting my way up the slight incline to the school with nearly 30 kilograms in wind resistance. Before you add in the actual wind resistance. Most often I’m successful, but the oke has special powers. He’s as sneaky as an SA speed camera copper just before Christmas. He’ll eat the sweets and then ask for a lift halfway along the journey. If I refuse, he sits down on the street and won’t budge. I have to pick my battles with this motherhood thing. I want to take off my shoe and tan his backside, but I don’t want to get arrested or actually take off my shoe. And I also really want him to go to school. So I do what any self-respecting mother does when her back is against the wall. I bribe some more. I bargain that if he walks, we go to the park after school. We’d be going anyway. But he doesn’t need to know that.  He replies that he’ll accept the park offer but I have to throw in an ice-cream. I agree. It’s a deal.  Calm restored. And so we plunder on. I’ve often said that politics are parenthood have a lot in common. It’s underhand bribery and corruption all the way with a lot of shame, subterfuge and ridiculous stories you're forced to make up to get yourself out of a tight spot.

Why not simply drive to school you ask? Fair question. The parking outside the school is such a dogshow that we’d find parking the equivalent distance as our house is from the school. Just in the opposite direction. So we’d need the blinding pram anyway. When my kids are old enough or I’ve got all the angles of the bribery thing better worked out, I’m going take great pleasure in having a little celebration to mark the occasion of giving the pram the boot. There will indeed be wine.  Probably gin too. Where do I boot the pram? To a Galaxy Far Far Away, of course.

The Galaxy Lite 

Parks and Pariahs, Bargain Whoring and Driving fear-free on the M4

Hidden gems and happy discoveries 14-16

14. Pretty much every afternoon to avoid complete psychotic breakdown (theirs and mine, although mostly mine) I take my children to a local park or a recreation centre. It’s good for all of us. They get to run wild and mingle with the locals. I get the chance to watch other mothers pretend they know what they’re doing as much as I do. The parks are amazeballs. By far my happiest discovery to date. The equipment is new and shiny, completely age-appropriate and health and safety sanctioned – of course. And most remarkable to report is that it’s all still there in the morning. Every day. Clean and shiny. Every day.  No one nicks the slide or steals the chain from the swing. You don’t see an unroadworthy bakkie crawling along the highway with a jungle gym protruding from the back. There’s no one who sleeps on the benches, pees on the roundabout or has a booze fest on the slide. No one has shat or puked anywhere. And I’m not talking about the kids. And the best part? It’s completely free. My only struggle besides the sweaty 15 minutes I spend parking, is trying to bribe my son to play in the sand rather than risk his life and limb by climbing to the highest point of the frame and calling “Look mom…I’m the king of the castle!” There’s a collective gasp of shock, horror and disapproval from the sideline mums as they witness my 4 year old jumping off the fireman pole instead of sliding down it.  It’s less about concern for my son’s safety. We breed them tough in South Africa and he’s climbed far higher before:  a massive tree in our back garden, our roof when he was 2 (true story). It’s more about being the social pariah at the park. That mother who sits back and watches while her kid encourages their kids to climb a little higher. Jump a little further. Take off their shoes. So I do what anyone who’s an outcast does: I smile and wave darling. Smile and wave.

15. I’m a closet supermarket bargain whore and Tesco supermarket is my pimp. I will buy 15 of the same item if there’s a sign flashing “Reduced 50% off”. I can’t help myself.  My 8 additional punnets of strawberries will become jam in my fridge and I’ll have to dump them in a bin four houses down from ours, but I’ll be proud that I got them for 70% off their normal price. The promotional offers, buy-one-get-5 deals and special reward cards make my bargain-bloated heart beat a little faster and I love that they’re always promoting the very things I need. How do they know? How could they possibly know we needed rim blockers or kidney beans? This country is waxed when it comes to deals and trapping greedy little consumer whores like me. And I know I’m being caught. Every single time. But I kind of like it. And I can’t stop. Even if I wanted to.

16. Driving here has been another pleasant discovery. I was initially skeptical about the narrow roads and reverse to go forward system and the terrifying 5 lane traffic circles with 20 exits, but the other drivers are very polite and will let you in. You will be waved in, even when you’re freaking out and stop dead in the middle of a circle narrowly avoiding a geriatric couple in a Peugeot and a bus full of school kids. And no one flashes you the bird or threatens to kill you. The highway (or the motorway as the Poms call it) operates on a strict keep left, pass right basis, everyone observes the speed limit and the appropriate following distance and as a result, it just works. There’s no overladen taxi skirting across five lanes to an exit. There’s no petrol head with small man syndrome weaving through cars in the left hand lane. There’s no jalopy limping in the emergency lane dragging a trailor with a goat. There are no jackknifed trucks. There’s no road kill so bad that you have to close your eyes when you pass. There’s no hooting or wild gesticulating. There’s no trolley on the side of the road alongside a beggar lighting a fire. There’s no dude selling golf balls or oranges either, or golf balls and oranges. It’s so different to driving in SA. What is still the same though, is the carnage inside the car. In the backseat more specifically. My daughter still pukes all over herself then cries about sitting in the mess. My son still whines “when are we getting there” and kicks the back of the driver seat. My husband still bemoans the noise, the smell, the physical abuse to his kidneys and says he can’t concentrate and asks please would I do something. I still frantically try to distract everyone by feeding them, bribing with treats, or singing (god forbid) or pointing out the scenery. Failing that I still tell them that if Dad can’t focus, he will crash and we will all die. That still doesn't work either. My daughter carries on whimpering. My son moans louder. My husband flashes me judging, accusatory eyes. We may journey in calm now, but we’ll always arrive in chaos. No country will change that.

Clewer Green Park: No puke or poo in sight.

Not-so-pearly-not-so-whites

Observation no. 13

While the British may care about a lot of things: health and safety, Will and Kate and the national obsession with the gender of their unborn child, perpetual discussion about the perpetually crap weather…there’s something I’ve noticed that doesn’t seem to resonate too strongly. Dental hygiene. While I certainly don’t boast a set of soap star sparkly whites myself and it’s wrong to judge (ok to observe), there appears to be an inordinate number of people I’ve encountered with some seriously bad teeth. Like seriously. Like avert-your-eyes-and-focus-on-a-random-spot on-the-forehead bad. My point here is that for a developed country that’s sorted with so many things, you’d think that a visit to the dentist would be a part of an annual checklist mandated by the hygiene police. Come to think of it, where are the hygiene police? There’s enforcement for pretty much everything else. You can’t drive without insurance, you can’t buy a knife without ID, you can’t park anywhere for free, you can’t let your dog crap in a park or allow your kid to go to school with peanuts, but you can walk around with a mouth full of a mangled mess of teeth? Come to think of it…in my local Tesco supermarket I’ve noticed a repeated promotion on 2-for-one deals on toothbrushes. Clearly there is just too much supply and too little demand.

Robert Dyas health and safety warning on kitchen knives.

The Post Office is a Scary Place, Peanuts are the Anti-Christ and Cell phones can bomb a Petrol Station.

Key discoveries 10 weeks in.

1. Vallergan Forte is the only way to fly with children. It's a schedule 5 antihistamine that will save your life. It's prescription-only, tastes like jet-fuel but will ensure that you're not the Taliban equivalent on a plane headed to any destination. 
2. Public transport is for the birds. We were all raised with cars. We come from a country where cars are normal. It's not elitist. It's how nature intended. Standing waiting for a bus is the biggest waste of time and slightly degrading especially when you have two children, an unwieldy pram with groceries hanging from the handles and your wine bottles clinking in the basket tray. The clink of shame.
3. Don't cry in the post office after you've posted your son's school application without the stamp you've just bought but forgot to stick on. Don't try and get them to open the postbox to retrieve aforementioned application. This is apparently illegal. Especially don't cry when your children are with you. They will cry too. You will all cry. It will be humiliating and you will be judged. Moral of the story: get your husband to post from his work. Never go into a post office again. Ever.
4. Don't send your child to school with peanuts as a snack in his lunchbox. Innocent little Avent cup with offending peanuts will be quarantined in the principal's office and your child will be treated with scorn by his peers. You as his mum and principle peanut offender will get a tongue lashing on health and safety regulations. 
5. On the subject of health and safety: don't think it's a joke when your child comes home with a letter signed by the principal stating that he fell off the jungle gym, or bumped into another child, or tripped down the stairs, or scuffed his knee. It's not a joke. It's to prevent a lawsuit. This is taken very seriously. 
6. My favourite health and safety rule has got to be the fact that the moment the clocks need to be pushed forward in April - you have to include sun cream and a hat in your child's book-bag. This is funny for 2 reasons. No.1, they'll never be used. And no. 2, in the (dubious) event that the sun reaches a temperature when a burn is likely, your child needs to have sun cream application training as the teachers are not allowed to apply the cream themselves. If it's 35 degrees and your kid can't apply sun cream, he'll come home with 3rd degree sun burns - but at least the teacher won't have touched him. Go figure that logic.
7. When you come across a petrol station, don't sit and wait for the guy to come to your window. No one will come. You'll sit for a while until you realise that everyone does it themselves. There is no one who helps. If you try to call your husband to ask how to remove the petrol cap on the car and which of the 16 nozzles you use to pump the petrol into your car, you will be screamed at by a nameless faceless man over an intercom. You will first ignore this, assuming that the racket can't possibly be for your benefit...when out of nowhere a lunatic man will emerge from a kiosk and tell you that you're going to blow up the petrol station up by using your phone. This isn't a joke. Don't laugh. He threatens police action. Don't laugh again. Hang up sheepishly, apologise profusely and figure out how to do it yourself. Never go to that petrol station again. 
8. When 2 Mormons come to your door at 6pm, your children are jumping on the couch after you've bribed them with chocolate mousse to let you read your book and the guys (despite the background carnage) ask politely to come in and talk to you about Jesus. You tell them that it's not a good time and that they should come back another time. They will. And they'll come back again after that. When the doorbell rings, get your 4-year-old son to answer the door and hide in the downstairs loo. They haven't come back since.
9. When your son en route from school needs to do a wee, the proper thing to do is encourage him to hold it in until you've reached your house and he can use the toilet. If he suddenly whips his penis out and starts peeing on someone's verge, you can only walk a little faster and pretend he's not yours.
10. You can also pretend he's not yours when you're at a soft play area and a mother turns to you and complains about the blonde boy in the gray hoodie (your son) who's just shoved her brutish looking kid down the slide. You didn't see the incident. You were on Facebook on your phone. You agree that the blonde kid is a cretin, leg it to the toilet and move to another area and hope cretin kid doesn't come looking for you.
11. When you're at the doctors and she gives your child a yoghurt sweet for having 2 jabs in his leg (he had to have a 2nd MMR vaccine and a Meningitis C jab, poor oke) and he drops the sweet on the floor and promptly picks it up and puts it back in his mouth and she's beyond horrified, don't laugh and go "5 second rule"…or "we're from Africa, we eat anything"... You won't crack a smile. Not even remotely.
12. Finally my biggest learning to date. Never completely lock your house. This isn't Africa. No one will try to creep through a 10x10cm square windowpane. If you do keep all your doors and windows locked and your front door is self-locking you may find yourself in a situation where you lock your 18-month-old child inside while you and your 4 year old are left outdoors with a bunkbed delivery man. You have no phone. You're in your PJs with no shoes and it's 5 degrees and 5:15pm. Oh and your husband is in Europe. Luckily our landlords live in a big fancy detached house at the end of the row of terraced houses (of which we are no.6) and on this particular day when psycho South African bashes on her door screaming that her infant daughter is locked alone in the house, she's able to help by calling a locksmith and 50 minutes later with a crowd of about 12 neighbours looking on shaking their heads and you can only then hold your little girl who's cried herself hoarse. After the ordeal, landlady suggests a cup of tea and you smile wanly and reach for the wine. Landlady and 12 onlookers avert eye contact and avoid you wherever possible.

Windsor High Street Post Office - my site of shame.

Does the life of a family of 4 fit into 7 suitcases? Yes it does. Just.

My husband and l traded a comfortable and sunny middle class life in South Africa for a cloudy, less comfortable and infinitely more foreign existence in England. Our friends called us crazy. We called it an adventure. The jury’s still out on who was right. Armed with 7 pieces of luggage and 2 children under 5, we’ve set up life in a terraced house the size of our double garage in South Africa. Although we share with the British a shady imperialist history, the English language (supposedly) and we drive on the same side of the road…that’s pretty much where the similarities end. I’ve spent the last couple of months learning just how different we are. I’ve decided to record these discoveries because some are so amusing/shameful/shocking/interesting I’d be selfish not to share them. Also, I drink a lot of wine in the evenings so I may forget. This blog will remind me.

King Shaka Airport Durban - 4 March 2013