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.