Dogshow in the Department Store

It is pretty well documented by my own admission and by others that we’re 'the casual parents'. We let our children run wild in the park, let them take their clothes off if they want to and generally aren’t bothered about mess and dirt. We even let them bath and put themselves to sleep. For the most part, everything works out ok. Our kids never run that far in the park, we eventually locate their clothes and most stains don’t survive the wrath of a bucketful of bleach. We’ve also only had one near drowning in the bath and eventually after singing 18 renditions of ‘Fish Alive’ at the top of her lungs in her bed, my daughter will fall asleep. I know it. My husband knows. The neighbours know it. Even my son who has taken to sleeping with a pillow over his head knows it.

A few months ago, we had a parenting moment of terror that shook even us Harry casuals. It hasn't left my mind and I know my non-worrier husband who is pretty good about focusing forward and not dwelling on bad stuff… has thought about it too. He’s most certainly experienced the same coldsweaty-shuddery-panic-flashback as I have. He just doesn’t whine about it in quite the same way as I do. 



We were in the furniture section of a massive department store. The ferals were most indignant about being dragged along to what my son describes as “boring shopping”. All things considered though, they were behaving pretty well. The manager was still smiling at us and we hadn’t yet been asked to leave. There had been no tantrums or toilet Armageddons - which is probably why. It was a successful start to the shopping expedition. Of course we’d bribed them with the promise of all manner of sugary treats afterwards. We’re only human after all. Bribery and corruption is our Zuma method of parenting. Sadly, Gina Ford has never graced our doorstep. Ever. No offense to Ms. Ford, we’re just too lazy to read parenting books. Her books. Or any for that matter. It’s why we (ok so my husband) called the clinic the day after our first night of crying hell with our newborn son convinced there was something catastrophically wrong with him. The sister asked how the dummy was going. We were like… “What? We’re allowed to use a dummy? We didn’t know we were allowed to use a dummy.” We never looked back after that. We plugged our son’s mouth on that day and he sucked a dummy until just shy of three. We’re that kind of parents. The clueless-but-don’t-let-any-book-try-to tell-us-what-to-do kind of parents. Winging it mostly works for us, but when it fails. It fails spectacularly.

On the aforementioned shopping occasion, we were ordering a coffee table. Once we’d chosen it, we asked our bouncy pair of blondies to sit on the couch alongside the tills while we handled delivery date details and payment. Ok, so I'm sure this will come as a complete surprise, but I'm a bit of a talker. Apparently I'll find any opportunity to make inane small talk to whoever will listen. It’s a nervous thing I think. I begrudgingly acknowledge that I may have a slight problem and resolve to work on it. Talking it out clearly won’t help. That would be like drinking more gin because you’re an alcoholic. So maybe I should just learn to sit quietly in public places. The bus. The train. We’ll see. I’ll start in the New Year.

So I chattered on. My husband was just about to enter his pin into the credit card machine when my son pulled my sleeve and said, “Excuse me Mummy”. I was in the midst of a conversation about South Africa (naturally) and how the size of furniture compares to the midget sizes the British are used to – so I said to him: “Ollie, Mummy’s talking. Don’t interrupt me.” The oke is pretty good about listening and not interrupting his motor-mouth mother – but this time he was insistent and said in a little voice laced with panic, “Mummy, I am sorry but Gabriella is missing. I can’t find her anywhere.”

Those words dropped like lead. We both turned to look at the couch that our daughter had been merrily sitting on 5 minutes before. It was empty. We scanned the area around us. She wasn’t there. I started walking in between all the furniture. Methodically pacing aisle by aisle. My husband asked our son to stay put on the couch by the tills. He also started pacing the floor. All the staff spread out to look. The manager made a call to security to have all of the doors automatically locked. The department store is three floors with multiple exits. Panic started to to gnaw at all of us. Tangible and terrifying. I began by calling my daughter’s name quietly as I made my way past the linen section, past the crockery, past the home theatre equipment. I kept thinking she’d be there. Around the next corner. Looking at something shiny or pressing buttons she shouldn’t. She wasn’t. I started then to shout loudly -  like a banshee. I screamed her name, louder and louder. Other shoppers recognised our panic and started to help us to look. Sympathetic eyes. Serious faces. I tried to not be hysterical. Well more hysterical. I have a tendency for melodrama and I know that I can make a meal out of most things – but in this instance I had no barometer of the appropriate reaction to how to deal with a missing child. Does one ever? I was so freaked out it was difficult to focus. We kept calling hopefully to each other “you found her?” And the more times we’d hear “No", the levels of panic would rise.

It couldn’t have been more than seven minutes. Seven minutes that our two year old little girl was missing in a store full of strangers. Seven minutes of parenting hell. She was found by a staff member sitting on the bottom level of a bunk bed, not thirty metres from where we were. Perfectly unharmed. Completely unaware of the carnage happening in her midst. I burst into tears when I saw her. That precious little face. See I told you there’d be melodrama.

We left the store shaken and stirred. With a coffee table on order and both our children in tow. Tim and I then proceeded to drink alcohol at 11am in the morning, and the kids gorged themselves on all the treats they could eat. We praised our quick-thinking son for alerting us so quickly to his sister’s absence. We also bought him a big-ass plane. It was the least we could do. We basked in having things back to normal. Happy to be sitting at a table with our children. Both of them. They drive us completely batty. Virtually every day. But we wouldn’t swap them for all the polite, well-mannered angelic little children in the world. They’re our ferals – and that’s just how we like it.

From that day on, we’ve resolved never to take them furniture shopping, never to let either of them out of our sight and for me unless I’m alone, never to yak mindlessly to anyone behind a counter. Two of out of three we’ve managed so far. Still working on the third, but I figure 66% ain’t half bad. It’s better than half. It’s two-thirds better.

How they work best....as a crazy little pair. 

Things a Saffa Notices about Life in the UK

Booze is sold on a Sunday. Every Sunday. All day. And on public holidays. All day. 


No one keeps their handbag and laptop in the boot of their car.

There are no petrol attendants. Not a one.
 In addition to petrol, you have to put your own oil in your engine. And air in your tyres. And water in your tank. You can't pay anyone to do this for you. The forecourt staff will be insulted if you try. I tried. It was awkward. For me. 


There are no car guards. The only high-vis vests you see are worn by guys who work on the rail, roads, airports or in construction.


There is no free parking. Anywhere. Even in front of your own house. 


Those privileged enough to have a garage don’t use their garage to house their car. Not a chance. A garage is used to store plastic outdoor furniture, paddling pools and abandoned gym equipment. Or it has been converted to house their in-laws or rented out as additional income to someone from Eastern Europe.


If you accidently leave your key in your front door overnight or during the day, you won’t come home to find you have been neatly or not-so-neatly relieved of all your possessions. Most likely someone will politely ring your bell and let you know that your key is in your front door.
 This has happened to us. Many times.

No one wraps their luggage in cling-film at the airport. And the ones who do are South African headed to South Africa.


You can walk in the nighttime. Along a deserted street. Alone. You will not need pepper spray or a remote panic button. Or to be completely rat-face drunk.


Big dogs are kept in small houses.

There are no grocery packers in the supermarkets. You pack your groceries yourself. You also weigh your own fruit and veg. You can also scan your own groceries and pay at a self-service checkout.

It is often cheaper for mothers not to work. Childcare costs as much or more than the average mortgage or rent. 


Even if you rent a property, you still pay rates. It’s called Council Tax.

Items of clothing (gloves, scarves, hats) dropped on to the street will be placed on the nearest wall for the rightful owner to retrieve at their earliest convenience.

No one knows what a jersey is. It’s a jumper.
 No one says takkies, they’re sneakers. It’s not a pram, it’s a buggy. It’s not a dummy, it’s a pacifier. 
Chips in a packet are crisps. And chips are still chips.
 It’s not a robot, it’s a traffic light. It's not a highway, it's a motorway. It's not a cellphone, it's a mobile phone. It's not an sms, it's a text. It's not soccer, it's football.

No one will approach you at a robot with a piece of paper or a rubbish bag for spare change. The intersections are too big and the traffic flows too quickly.


You proceed at a robot when the light turns orange, not green.


You will avoid more cyclists than stray dogs on any road. You will never see a stray dog on any road. You will never see a stray dog full stop.


No vehicle on the road is unroadworthy. Some may be old. Some may be driven by someone old. But each year a vehicle has to undergo a Ministry of Transport (MOT) test for safety and emissions. This is compulsory. You will not get your licence disc unless you’ve passed your MOT.


You can’t drive a drunk mate home. Unless you’re insured to drive their vehicle. It is illegal to drive a vehicle for which you are not insured.

No one drives to a restaurant for a night out. They’ll take a taxi.

Halloween happens here. It’s big. People dress up in skeleton onesies and make crazy costumes. All the kids go trick-or-treating. You have to buy sweets and make an effort. You can’t fight it. So you just go with it.


You can’t buy a knife from a shop if you’re under 18. You have to produce ID. Unless you’re a yob in which case you already wield a knife on the streets at nighttime or at school during the day.
  *A yob is a juvenile delinquent.

The Royals are a big deal. The Brits speak about them a lot and take them very seriously. And apparently they do have proper jobs.


The Brits don’t like to be called Brits. They say it’s derogatory.


It is illegal to drive a child in a vehicle with no car seat. Even the chavs abide by this.
 There are chavs here. These are the Council House and Violent types. They’re the most entertaining breed of humanity you’ll ever encounter.  


It will soon be illegal to smoke in a car with a child. Even for the chavs.


When unions take strike action 1) It’s planned 2) It’s publicised 3) No one dies 4) Government usually responds.


You can’t buy boerie or biltong from the supermarket. But you can buy a TV or a lounge suite.

Value added tax is 20%, not 14%.


If someone does something bad and goes to court, their sentence and crime is published in the local newspaper for all to see.


When the highways agency is working on the road, you’ll never see anyone sleeping on the side of the road or lying with a piece of grass in their mouth. You will never see anyone lying alongside the road. Ever.


The coppers don’t carry guns. Only big sticks.

There are no toll-roads.

The interest rate has been 0.5% since 2008.

Few houses have alarms. Ours does. We don’t use it. We don’t even know how to turn it on. It's just for show. Houses have no burglar bars. There is no razor wire. There are no electric fences.

A kebab is meat served with salad in a pitta. It’s not meat on a skewer like we know it.

If a delivery arrives and you’re not home, the courier will often leave it on your doorstep. Or with your neighbour. Either way, you will get your parcel.

On the highway, ambulance and emergency services use the emergency lane. This lane is always clear because the taxis other cars don’t drive in it. No one does. Even if they're late for a flight. Even if they flash their hazards.

When there's an accident on the highway, emergency crews will close off the road until they’ve attended to the scene. However long it takes. You never drive past and see bodies covered in tinfoil. That never happens.


A new car does not cost the same as a small house or apartment.


There are gypsies here. Real life carnies. Or pikeys. But you’re not allowed to call them that. The PC word is ‘traveller’.


It’s illegal to pack peanuts in your child’s lunch. Or use peanut butter on their sandwiches. You get into big trouble.

You also are not able to simply take your child out of school. You need permission. You can't just do it. They send an inspector. In some instances you will be fined.

Clocks go forward by one hour in March – and back by an hour in October.

Swimming in a public pool is very common here. And not just for common people. Everyone does it. It's perfectly respectable. Unlike in SA, swimming pools are hard to come by. Unless you’re a Beckham or a One Direction band member, you’re not going to have one lurking in your backyard.

Conservatories are big here. They’re what we’d called sunrooms in SA. Rooms made of glass. Except that here there’s little sun, so their purpose is vague. I've worked out that they’re basically a cheap way for people to add additional space on to a tiny house without submitting expensive plans and getting planning permission from the council.

Single level homes are less common than double or triple storey homes.


There’s no load-shedding. Ever. Electricity outages are caused by powerful storms or forces of nature. Not due to cable theft or an overload on the national grid.

People move homes and jobs to be in the appropriate catchment areas for good schools. People also convert to Catholicism and begin going to Church for the same reason. School is a serious business in this country. 


The British are not a nation of “come around for a braai”. You never pop around for a kuier and a cuppa or a chardonnay. The Brits don’t entertain at home. Home is too small. The Brits go out. To bars, pubs, restaurants, cafes, bistros – you name it. Only on Come Dine with Me do the dinner parties happen. The majority of lunches or dinners we’ve attended here have been with fellow Saffas. Crammed into the space of the average en suite bathroom in SA, but kuiering nonetheless. It’s just what we do.

No matter how acclimatised I start to become to this foreign little island and figure out the idiosyncrasies of life here, I will always hanker for that country at the southern most tip of the African continent. I miss hearing “yah” and “but like hey bru”. And the flat way we deliver our vowels. I miss the sight of a rust bucket crawling up Fields Hill amidst a plume of black smoke. Children kicking a soccer pool in the street. Pride in the Rainbow Nation from all walks of life. A man on the side of the highway selling golfballs and litchis or a guy in a suit with a Bafana Bafana bumper sticker on the bumper of his car. A nation that clicks its tongue. Laughs with teeth bared, from the depths of its belly. I miss the smell of sugar cane. Of lazy afternoon braais when the air hangs and dogs drape haphazardly around the pool. And most of all, I miss the People of the South. There are no people in the world quite the same.

Saffa Humour.