A Testing Time of Life in the UK

I always find this time of year tough. It’s Christmas. It’s cold. And we’re a million miles away from our normal. From family. Friends. Festive moments of sunshine around a swimming pool with the familiar sounds of a crackling braai, cricket on the telly, choruses of Christmas beetles and the tick-tick-tick of a creepy crawly.

What has literally tested me this week – was a test. No, not a pregnancy test. Not again. But I can see why you’d think that. Again. No, this week I wrote the Life in the UK Test. One of the requirements for our Leave to Remain application. The test is based on a handbook that covers British values, history, traditions and everyday life. There are 24 questions that the computer randomly selects and unless you achieve 18 correct answers, you fail. Oh and it’s £50 per shot.

So what’s so troublesome about a little test? We’ve lived here for nearly 5 years. We should, by now, have cracked some of the code for co-existence in the kingdom. We know that you pump your own fuel, that there are no car guards or grocery packers. We know that the Brits don’t do nudity, hugging or braais. They do barbecues but only if it’s sunny and on gas. We know that they have no problem with cyclists on main roads, selling booze on a Sunday, big dogs in small houses or parking cars in the opposite direction of traffic. They do have a problem with any cars that are not insured, spontaneous visitor drop-ins or giving directions in the underground. They love the Royals, Halloween, pantomimes, fireworks and football. We can mind the gap, stand clear of the doors and have even worked out how to navigate those bum-clenching 4 lane traffic circles. We know how to vote. Who we support politically – and that we never speak of this. We’re covered. Or so we thought.

But this test. Eish. It covers 10 000 year’s worth of British history. Literally from the Stone Age through to the Bronze and Iron Ages, the Roman, Viking, Anglosaxon and Tudor times, Medieval, Elizabethan, Industrial, and Victorian eras all the way through to Modern Britain. With every king, queen, war, religion, plague, colonial acquisition, sporting, architectural, literary achievement or scientific invention along the way. I mean how did we survive without knowing that the Speaker in parliament is elected by other MPs and is politically neutral, how the number serving on a jury in Scotland is 15 and everywhere else is 12, what percentage of the UK is Sikh or Buddhist, whether the Council of Europe can pass laws, how many countries form part of NATO and the number of delegates admitted to the Welsh Assembly? There is literally no end to the detail. And how do you possibly know which detail is going to be tested? You don’t. And therein lies the testing part.

So I read the book, wrote it out in longhand and then in shorthand. I downloaded an app on my phone with practice tests and worked through a series of exam questions online. And then the test day arrived and I was ready. More ready for any exam at school or university. I was called into a room to register and verify my identification. I wasn’t nervous at all. I should’ve been. Turns out the place of birth on my biometric card actually reads Durban and not Pietermaritzburg. I never noticed. This detail-orientated, OCD little being didn’t spot such a blatant error. So I wasn’t allowed to write the test. I failed before I’d begun. I was ushered out of the building. Do not pass. Do not collect anything, except a security guard. Do lose £50. And do bugger off and call your immigration lawyers, presto. Nothing with me is ever straightforward. But we all knew that.

So the second time I ventured out to write the test five days later, with my passport this time, not my biometric card, I was more terrified about providing my identification than I was about the 24 questions. With trembling hands and a shaky voice, I told the truth. Again. That I was born in Pietermaritzburg. Not Durban. That they are indeed very different places. That I’m not a fraudster out to bamboozle Border Control. Anyway, I passed. The identification part. And the 24 questions. Next is all the paperwork. But that’s another saga for another day.

My head at present is positively heaving with history. I know that the Brits fought with pretty much everyone. With the Romans who eventually invaded thanks to Emperor Claudius. And the French, compliments of William the Conqueror. And then as the British Empire grew, so too did their army. And their victories. Obvs. There were many kings named Charles and queens named Mary. And the gentry weren't very gentle at all. Queen Elizabeth I locked her own cousin in the Tower of London for 20 years before executing her because she suspected she was after her crown. She wasn’t. King Henry the VIII – well he changed the structure of an entire church to divorce his first wife, married five more women and beheaded two of them. And then there was Bloody Mary. And I don’t mean the drink. Scotland fought very hard to avoid Roman and British occupation. They succeeded with the Romans. The Scots were hardcore. The Highland Clearances had nothing to do with a jolly jumble sale and everything to do with the 'forcible' (read fierce) eviction of people for their land. The Irish fought amongst themselves about whether it was better to be with or against England, mostly when it came to religion. So much so that it divided a nation. Literally. They endured famine and all sorts of trouble. Wales, well they seem to have wisely kept a low profile and carried on with their own thing. Britain was a republic under Oliver Cromwell for 11 years. Who knew? There was a king who hid in a tree to escape being mauled to bits by the roundheads in a civil war. And too many royals to count who pissed off parliament and then bailed from their thrones to hide in Scotland, France or other parts of Europe. The history of this kingdom is fraught with conflict - territorial, religious, political, humanitarian. You name it. Anything you can fight about, they did. And it makes for some very interesting, and often surprising, reading.

And so here I sit with all the information that the government deems relevant for “New Residents in the United Kingdom”. I’m flush with facts. I know that blind people get a 50% discount on their TV licences (yes, I know), Sir Edward Lutyens designed the Cenotaph and I now know what the Cenotaph is and where it is, that a Justice of a Peace Court in Scotland addresses minor crimes and that England makes up 84% of the total UK population. What I don’t know though is the best way for us “new residents” to integrate into British life whilst managing to retain elements of our heritage. How to handle the bouts of homesickness that hit us while we try to find a new normal. How to raise our families away from our families. History tells us that Britain shipped in migrants from all over the world to help with everything from war and weapons to manufacturing and the post WW2 rebuild. So how did these families cope? There’s no chapter on that. Those are the real lessons for life I’d love to learn. Maybe I'll write my own book. There won't be a test on it though. "New Resident" life in the UK is testing enough.

Routine Reflections

I’m currently slap-bang in the muddle of what I describe annually as the “birthday binge”. All three of our children’s birthday celebrations within five farking festive weeks of each other. So it’s a time of cake and carnage. Fairy lights and financial free-fall. It’s also a time when I reflect on being a mother. What I’ve learnt so far. What I know I’ll never learn. The ups. The downs. The upside downs. Every year I marvel at my children’s smarts. And every year I’m mortified by just how stupid they can be. The eternal pendulum of maternal pride and shame.

A number of my good friends are currently pregnant with their first babies. On the rare occasion I’m asked to share any advice with expectant mums who’re flushed with hope and hormones, I suggest that a strong stomach, a good sense of humour and an annual subscription to a wine club that delivers can pretty much see anyone through anything during at least the first couple of years. All gospel truth, obvs. But this year, I’ve decided to share a pearl of parenting wisdom that I’ve only just discovered. And it's taken three children and nearly nine years to find it.

It should come as no surprise that my A-type personality can’t cope well with chaos. I analyse, organise, OCD the stuffing out of pretty much everything. I’m not alone in this though. There are a lot of us out there. People-pleaser perfectionists who strive to garner control in a world that’s out of control. Some hide it better than I do. I've learnt to simply accept it. It's how I handle life. And it's how I planned to handle parenthood. The parenting gurus all supported it. They advised me to establish a routine as quickly as possible. Babies thrive on structure, they said. Babies need boundaries, they said. Don’t let your baby get into any bad habits, they said. You’ll never sleep, they said.

I’ve realised that it’s all bollocks, really. A strict routine for an infant is all about the mother’s need and has nothing to do with the infant. In my opinion and in my experience, a baby needs their mother and her boobs (or bottle, depending on your feeding situation). They need to be held. They need to be loved. No rigorous routines. No cry-it-out sleep training. No we-can't-leave-the-house-during-nap-time. They don’t need the cribs, lights, rockers, pillows, music and all the pricey paraphernalia. They need you. Not on your schedule. On theirs. Never have I felt less of a failure as a mother than when my carefully crafted routine was kaibosched to all kak and my child didn’t feed/burp/shite/sleep on schedule. I revered the routine with my first two children. It broke me. And worse, it broke them. And so I threw away the rulebook with my third. And we’re all happier for it.

I wish at the brink of the birth of my firstborn, someone had said to me “Sal, you’re going to want to control everything. And you’re going to try to. And that’s ok. That’s your need. That’s nearly 30 year’s worth of your coping strategy kicking in. Being a mother is different though. It’s different to how you’d prepare for a new job. A new relationship. A new city. It’s the biggest undertaking of your life. It’s the one thing where you can’t practice to make perfect. Because there isn’t any practice. And there isn’t any perfect. You can’t control it. So just go with it. Be gentle. Listen. Trust your instinct. You are not a moron. You are a mother. And you can do this. Your way."
Hindsight eh. All the help you need... just after you need it. Like a massive sale just after you've coughed up a kidney to buy five air tickets.

There will come a time that your child sleeps through the night. In their own bed. Without their dummy. Or your boob. I don’t know a fifteen year old that sleeps in their parent’s bed, wakes to be nursed, sucks a dummy or willingly wears a nappy. Not even on American TV. There will come a time when your child no longer wants to be in your arms because that’s where they feel safest. Or come to you when they fall. Or call for help on the loo. Or kiss you on the lips. And you will miss the feel of a tiny hand in yours, little arms around your neck, a chubby cheek wedged against your chest.

My eldest will be nine in a few weeks. Nine, almighty. He’s lanky and tall, a bag of bones as my gran would've said. He wears a serious face but behind the frowny facade he's the biggest tease. Every now and again I’ll snatch a sidelong glance at this long lithe one sitting at our kitchen table or draped like a sloth all over our sofa. And the sheer sight of him takes my breath away. How the chap has grown. I still see flashes of the blue-eyed baby he once was. But those days are long gone. He’s a young lad now. And I know it’ll feel like just a moment and he’ll be a man.

So my advice now for new mothers is to ditch the bloody routine. Feck Forget the lot of it. All the schedules, curriculums, clubs and routines you can possibly cram into your i-cal are just around the corner. Let them be babies while they’re still babies. Use a dummy if that’s a comfort. Bring them into your bed for a cuddle. Breast or bottle feed as long as they need. Potty train on their terms. And hold them close every chance you get. Because as the infinitely wise Gretchen Rubin says:
“The days are long, but the years are short.”
And the childhood years are the shortest of them all.

Literally just after each of them was born.

Literally just this weekend past.

Ubuntu

“One of the sayings in our country is Ubuntu – the essence of being human. Ubuntu speaks particularly about the fact that you can’t exist as a human being in isolation. It speaks about our interconnectedness. We think of ourselves far too frequently as just individuals, separated from one another, whereas you are connected and what you do affects the whole world. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity.” - Desmond Tutu

I love this. Everything about it. I wish that the entire planet would embrace ubuntu. It’s so simple, yet so powerfully positive. In South Africa, whether we recognise it or not, we live with the spirit of ubuntu. It’s intrisically woven into the fabric of everyday living. There’s a reason that the proverb “it takes a village to raise a child” has African origins. It’s how we are. How we think. It just is.

Moving to the UK has shown me more than ever what ubuntu means. And how I miss it. Especially when it comes to my family. Raising children here is tough. Raising children anywhere is tough. It’s full-on. It’s full-time. My eldest recently discovered sarcasm. And irony. And eye-rolling. My daughter’s superpower is melodrama. She’s prone to hysterics. She’s clocked my breaking point and just the right pitch to take me there. My youngest is a wild one. He’s fearless. He seeks and destroys. He chewed chunks of foam from a brand new trampoline in five minutes, threw an iphone down a stormwater drain and stuffed my bank cards and our post down the slats in our suspended wooden floor. They keep us on our toes. It’s what they do. They’re children. They're lovely and a little loathsome at times, if you're honest enough to admit it. And this is true no matter where you live.

Moving abroad is most often a choice that expats willingly make. It’s a journey that people undertake with planning and purpose. And we’re prepared, in part, to deal with everything that's different: the lifestyle, the weather, the people. What’s hardest to handle though, in my opinion, is raising a family far away from home. Without a full family framework. Without ubuntu.

As Saffas, we’re not the only expats doing this. I read a crazy statistic that one in every 10 people living in the UK is a foreign citizen. Most, like us, will be doing it alone. Doing our best to make memories and mark milestones to share with our loved ones across the miles. Doing our best to parent with a plan or wing it spectacularly, as I do. 

Living here we can speak of first world privilege. Of access to the best healthcare, education, public transport, history, art, culture. And I’m appreciative of all it all. Truly I am. Life is more than this though. It’s about the little things. The cricket match. The ballet concert. The awards assembly. And it's about the big things. Birthdays. Christmases. Anniversaries. And ubuntu. Life is about ubuntu. A philosophy for living that for all its advancement, this developed world hasn’t quite developed yet.

Living La Vida Lilo

So I recently turned 37. And I hit a wall. I’ve never been too fazed about my age. I’ve always thought it rather ridiculous the lengths people go to avoid or alter their age. If there ever was a more apt, “it is what it is” this would be it. Ageing is a natural process that’s as part of life as breathing, laughing or making those grunting noises when you bend down. I’m not hung up on the actual number. I’ve battled more with the fact that I am still clueless. I feel a little lost. Bobbing about aimlessly on a lilo in waters where lilos are not really welcome and boats are better. I’m three quarters of the way to 40 and at this stage of my life; I assumed I’d be a lot more sussed. I assumed I’d have a boat. I understood that with age and experience, comes wisdom. I’m still waiting for the wisdom. And the boat.

When I look back at what I have to show for the privilege of 37 years on this earth, it’s with some sense of accomplishment, yes. But it’s also with some liberal lashings of loser. I acknowledge that I have a wonderful family, a supportive lovely husband and three robust little ferals whom I adore. I have a network of loyal friends across far-flung corners of the globe. I have a home. I’m safe. I’m healthy. And yes, that’s a glut of good stuff and it is a helluva lot more than most. And please don’t misunderstand this as over-pampered posturing. I’m grateful for all of it. All the messy and magic moments as a mother, every time I raise a glass of wine with my husband, every time I connect with a good friend. My domestic cup runneth over. I’d hoped though that beyond the babies and the brethren, I’d have contributed more to the world by this point. I’d have found my groove. And I’d be owning it. Confident and kick-ass. I’m neither. Unconfident and ass-kicked, perhaps. But I don’t think that counts.

So when I realised that the day had arrived that marked another year of my existence, I felt less like celebrating and more like cancelling the whole birthday thing. Failure to deliver would be the reason. An able-bodied educated woman with all her faculties in most respects, has spent the better part of the last year doing nothing remarkable. Nothing remarkable at all. Bobbing about on my lilo watching the world and the big boats go by. I felt rather sorry for myself. And then guilty for feeling sorry. And on it went. A pity party that the most pathetic would be proud to attend.

And then I read something that was quoted by the rector of a school in South Africa. A school that’s close to our family. The rector was quoting words written apparently by Pope Francis (although the Vatican know nothing about it). The words were spoken at the recent funeral of a pupil named Themba Dlota, a bright young star who died in a tragic bus accident on his way to play football. Just like that. A young man with a future filled with promise who is now gone. And suddenly, measuring myself up against an imaginary milestone and coming up short seemed ridiculous. And moaning about it even more so.

“This life will go by fast. Don’t fight with people, don’t criticise your body too much, don’t complain too much. Don’t lose sleep over your bills. Look for the person that makes you happy. If you make a mistake, let it go and keep seeking your happiness. Never stop being a good parent. Don’t worry so much about buying luxuries and comforts for your home, and don’t kill yourself trying to leave an inheritance for your family. Those benefits should be earned by each person, so don’t dedicate yourself to accumulating money. Enjoy, travel, enjoy your journeys, see new places, give yourself the pleasures you deserve. Allow dogs to get closer. Don’t put away the fine glassware. Use the new dinnerware; don’t save your favourite perfume, use it to go out with yourself; wear out your favourite sport shoes; repeat your favourite clothes. So what? That’s not bad. Why not now? Why not call now? Why not forgive now? We wait so long for Christmas; for Friday; for Reunions; for another year; for when I have money; for love to come; when everything is perfect…look… Everything perfect doesn’t exist. Human beings can’t accomplish this because it simply was not intended to be completed here. Here is an opportunity to learn. So take this challenge that is life and do it now…love more, forgive more, embrace more, love more intensely."  *

Reading that was a revelation for me. And a much-needed kick up the arse. It was also motivation to live with more gratitude and less grouchiness. I'm going to make more of an effort to be grateful for everything, really. But most importantly for life. The beautifully uncoordinated chaos that is my life.

Oh and I'm also going to start looking after my lilo. Who needs a bloody boat anyway. And if that's not wisdom, I don't know what bloody is.

Not me. Not my lilo. But a good pic for my point.
Image credit: Surfdome

* I edited out some of the religious stuff. It's my blog. I can do that.

A Little Lyon Goes a Long Way

So the week before last was no ordinary week. Ok so I ferried my children to school. I washed clothes, dishes, and little bodies as usual. But I also experienced something rather remarkable and most definitely outside of my regular routine. I flew to Lyon, in France. For the night. With a friend of mine. To eat French food. And drink French wine. And have 48 hours of conversation (mostly) about French food and French wine. It was a delicious little slice of time and I savoured every moment as I did every meal. And every sip of wine. 

I’ve only ever visited Paris – in all its delightful touristy glory. Lyon is something rather different. Refreshingly so. Like its residents, Lyon is a city that’s unapologetically comfortable in its own skin. There’s beauty at every turn. A simple, complicated elegance that just is. In architecture, art, food, wine, culture - but more than this, there’s a truth to the tableau, an authenticity that’s humbly appealing.

We visited restaurants recommended by the locals. Off the beaten tourist track. Without the cheesy red tablecloths. We feasted on flavourful French cuisine. Four courses for lunch. And the same for dinner. Again we marveled at the simplicity of it all. Fresh wholesome ingredients, cooked simply. Nothing more, nothing less. Artfully presented, of course. These are the French after all. Presentation is everything. But again, behind the beauty, there’s unmistakable substance. And it’s oh so satisfying.

We visited a business in the Beaujolais region who select and bottle wine to sell around the world. The owner was gracious enough to meet with us. We were invited to taste their latest Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand and offered tutelage on the correct colour and clarity of the perfect Provénce Rosé. We were treated to another four-course lunch at a quaint country chateau and then chauffeured to the airport. En route, we asked him how the French remain so fit and healthy in spite of their indulgent lifestyle. To which he replied: We source good quality ingredients. We take pleasure in well-prepared food and good wine at mealtimes. Only at mealtimes. And where we can, we walk. That is it. 

American chef, author and TV personality Julia Child who brought French cuisine stateside with her cookbook Mastering the Art of French Cooking, said it too... "small helpings, no seconds, no snacking and a little bit of everything." 

Taking the time to savour simple, mouth-watering pleasures without unnecessary excess...
What a lovely philosophy for health. 

What a lovely philosophy for life.

Lyon

Little plates of perfection.

Down Under Debrief

I never much rated the Aussies. Loud, arrogant, competitive humans with an unfortunate accent. Ok so I’d never met an actual Australian or visited Australia. Such is the usual case with stereotypes. Since moving to the UK though, I’ve met a number of Aussies. I’ve been mistaken as an Aussie myself. And I recently visited Australia for the first time.

Ok so I can now no longer say that all Aussies are loud, arrogant, competitive humans. The accent…well that’s still unfortunate. Although a dik Afrikaans accent isn’t going to be a sweet serenade either. But I’ve recently come to realise that whilst it’s not just an ocean that divides South Africa from our staunchest South Hemisphere rivals, there is actually way more that unites us. And it’s not just a mutual disdain for sub-par sausages off the grill or a washed-out one-day. We’ve got lots more in common than we give each other credit for.

A sunshine state of mind
We’re both countries where the sun shines more than it doesn’t. Our lifestyle is geared to outdoor adventuring. We fling open our doors and let the sunshine in.

Life’s a beach
The beach is our go-to place. For holidays. For leisure. For life. Sandy enclaves, rock pools, a golden shoreline and waves that peel from a broad horizon of blue.

Sporting attitude
From rugby and running to cricket, hockey and surfing - we’re for sport. It’s how we’re made. It's how we raise our children. It's why they're strong and give it horns.

Our blood runs red, white and rosé
Our countries produce award-winning wine that’s enjoyed across all corners of the world. We raise a glass in times of good, bad and everything in between.

Commonwealth cousins
The British had a lot to do with both of our countries, for better or worse. The colonial charge influenced our history. But it’s never touched the heart of our heritage.

Braai buddies
Our nature is to be open. We're a friendly sort. We're social. We share. You'd struggle to find an Saffa or an Aussie who doesn't like to make a fire and stand around it drinking and talking.

We recently swapped the Queen's land in Britain for Queensland in Australia. We flew to Brisbane. We had little to go on about the place. So we did what we do to get a feel for a city. We walked it. Through vibrant suburbs, past trendy cafés and along the river's edge. We visited artisan food shops and delis. We grabbed takeaway flatties from mobile barista carts before meandering through galleries and museums. The locals were warm, welcoming and friendly. Even Especially after hearing we were South African. We left like shiny, happy people. All loved-up and slightly smitten with a city that hosted us so spectacularly.

Some people describe Brisbane as a 'first world Durban'. But that's not fair. To Brisbane. Or to Durban. There's no place like home. But there's no place quite like Brisbane either.

Brisbane - you beaut.

How to Raise a Saffa Child in the UK

Before making the trek to Blighty in 2013, I’d spent a total of 32 years in South Africa. From teeny tiny to fully-grown - with a few teeny tiny ones of my own. I can close my eyes and root around in the old memory bank and pull out a sight, a sound, a smell. It’s all there. And it takes me straight back. To a purple rain of Jacaranda trees, the feel of a coastal-bound berg wind as it blows down from the Great Escarpment, the distinctive drone of vuvuzelas and the smell of boerewors on a wood braai.

Our children don’t have the same privilege. Their resource library for recollection is somewhat limited. It was abandoned before it could be built, really. The foundations are there. But it’s empty. No one’s home. They’ve moved.

Despite having spent most of their young lives here. And despite how they speak. My children are not British. Obvs. They’re South Africans who happen to live in Britain. To keep their heritage alive, I try very hard to reinforce as many of our cultures and traditions from down south as I possibly can. I win some. I lose some. But I always try. 

- Food matters. We braai all year round, regardless of the weather. We enjoy a multi-cultural diet. From milktert, malva and mieliebread to biltong, bobotie and koeksusters, we flavour our food with tomato sauce and dip homemade rusks into our tea. 

- Rain does not stop play. Ok so there’s no swimming pool in our backyard. But there is a backyard. And we spend a lot of time in it. Whether it’s raining. Freezing. Or both. We simply wrap up. And get on with it. We visit parks when it’s pouring and trek to tourist sites when it’s two degrees. Simply to be outdoors and underneath a sky. Any sky. Even one that’s ghastly grey and as miserable as moer.

- A picture is worth a thousand words. My children love to see photos of South Africa. They’re fascinated by the life we once lived. How we had a sprawling one-storey home with a pair of dogs and a troop of monkeys with shongololos, snakes and a swimming pool. Always the pool.

- A story shared. In the car before school, I’ll often share memories of my childhood. I recount the adventures I enjoyed with my sister and our cousins who were like brothers. Pelting each other with over-ripe guavas at the bottom of their garden. Bike rides through sugarcane. Long walks to the quarry with my granddad and his dog Heidi, noshing on his illicit stash of Wilson's toffees. Seaside holidays with dripping orange lollies, sunburnt noses and mad-dashes across scorching yellow sand. Encounters with snakes in the garden. Lazy pool days with watermelon and lilos. 

- The power of ubuntu. We socialise with other South African families. We braai. We camp. We run around parks chasing our kids. And most importantly we share. Not just our food, drink and our homes. We do that too. We share about our experiences living in the UK. From the good bits to the gory bits. And everything in between. It’s refreshing to contrast the nonsensical nuances of our foreign existence with people who get it. People who understand exactly what it's like to pack up a life, move to another country and build a new life.

- Heed health and safety by half. Jislaaik so while I appreciate that young children are vulnerable to injury and prone to catastrophe on account of them being…er young children. I don’t appreciate the insane levels of logic-defying, namby pamby over-protectiveness. To me it breeds wussy little whiners. Who’re afraid of everything. Who can’t stand on their own two feet. Or can’t get up when they fall down. Literally. To me that is unhealthy. That’s unsafe. Way more so than a barefoot child playing outdoors, eating a little sand when the mood strikes and god forbid without a sunhat. Who doesn’t need to see their mum-may every five seconds - or more to the point, whose mum-may doesn't need to see them. Who is happy to explore. Climb trees. Run wild. Now to me, that's a healthy child.

- Music makes the world go round. From The Parlotones and Jeremy Loops to Ladysmith Black Mambaza and Mango Groove, while I’m cooking dinner I blast heartwarming harmonies from my homeland. I dance around the kitchen like a loon to shrieks of delight from my youngest, shimmying booty shakes from my little girl and 'you're-so-embarassing' eye-rolls from my eldest.

- Pause for the past. Without delving too deeply into the detailed complexities of South Africa's history and politics (because that's a blady deep pool) I think it's appropriate that my eldest has a general understanding. He knows about apartheid. The how and the what. Not necessary the why. I'm not sure I even know the why. Madiba is his hero. He sings Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika in the shower. He and his siblings will slowly learn the history of their heritage and it shapes their future.

I’m fiercely proud of being South African. It's a pride that comes through in the way I think. The way I live. The way I mother my children. I'll never forget where I came from. And I'm determined that my children won't either.

A little mud makes for many happy childhood memories.