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.
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| Clewer Green Park: No puke or poo in sight. |
