A Decade of Motherhood - A Lifetime of Memories

Yeah, so it's that time. The annual birthday auxiliary input. Our middle child has just turned seven. Our youngest, four. Their celebrations can best be described as a touch of magic with mayhem en masse. Literally. We hosted a magic party for 45 three to seven year olds. The magician even had a rabbit. A live one. It wasn't harmed in the making of the magic. It wasn't harey at all. Yeah I couldn't help that.

This year with my routine ramble, I'm going to try and embrace that elusive little thing called brevity. Even though I'm celebrating a milestone. It's a big 'un. Our firstborn is 10. And I could talk for days. About lots of things. But mostly about our son. The fact that he's 10. And I'm hoping that one day he'll read this. And if it's rammed to the rafters with text, there are no pictures and it's not attached to a controller in front of a game that starts in F...and ends in nite, it's a non-starter. I figured the best way would be to write him (and myself) a wee letter. Note, the wee. Yes and I note the guffaw.

Dear Oliver                                                                                

So on Monday the 8th of December 2008 at around 10am, I held you for the very first time. Ever so fleetingly mind as you were whisked off to an incubator for the next five hours. But that little cuddle was enough to seal the deal. I was smitten. I didn't know you were an Oliver. I thought during my pregnancy that you may be an Olivia. I'd never have admitted it then, not out loud anyway, but I really wanted a son. And there you were. I could scarcely believe my eyes. You didn't cry. You didn't fuss. You seemed rather unfazed by it all. You were completely bald. A long, lean fella. You looked to me a little like your Dad. And a lot like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. And when you opened your eyes for the first time, those crazy blue eyes, and you looked up at me as if to say "So, what's up Mum?" - Oliver I can't describe to you that feeling. I felt like an absolute rockstar. So proud. And elated. I hope you are fortunate enough to experience this feeling one day. Meeting your firstborn for the first time. It truly is a pride and joy like no other. A moment that I will never forget.

So ten years eh bud. Through a rather rough first year of life. Spinal surgery and ICU and a lot we won't dwell on - because mum already has here. You nailed it though. Smiling through some testing times with that big smile. A happy toddler with a halo of blonde hair (that finally arrived), your favourite place was outdoors with a stick and your beloved Labrador Graham. The arrival of your sister you accepted with your trademark laidback vibe. A move to a new country was a crazy time for all of us, but you adjusted to an entirely different life remarkably well. A new little brother joined the fray and you've taken on the big brother role effortlessly. Being the firstborn isn't an easy gig. It's hard not to feel responsible for everyone. I know it all too well. It made me kind of more psycho. But you're totally relaxed about it all. When they maul you. Which is often. You're kind Oliver. To your siblings. To your friends. To everyone. And what a tribute that is. To you. To the boy you are. And the man you're becoming. Carry on with the kind. Ok, so missioning to Mars with NASA would be pretty cool too. But your kindness is a special gift that defines you. And it can make someone's day. Or change a life. I know. It has done both for me.

So here's to the next decade and all the adventures that lie ahead. There will be many. It's you. You're quite a fan of adventure. Climbing on the roof at two years old, letting the air out of the tyres on your Granny's car, running naked in the bush, stunning a snake with a plastic spade, squealing with joy on the back (and front) of your dad's Harley Davidson, fishing with your shoe as bait in a dam with your grandfather, always climbing high, riding fast.

Being a mother for ten years is a milestone for me too. Keeping you sort of nourished, mostly clean, mildly sane, alive and kicking. Sheesh. What a journey. Thank you for guiding me through it all. Because let's face it, you're a lot more sensible than I'll ever be. Big love to you. And booyah to the brevity. Hashtag half nailed it. In 8 short years, you can pour us both a drink and we can cheers together. Today though, I raise a fizzy glass to you. The beautiful boy who made me a mum. Who made me softer. Gentler. Kinder. Who makes me smile every day. Happy Birthday. And thank you.

Love, your Mum

How to Change a Life

We all know that Facebook can be a festival of fake. It can also be the best way to find out who's on holiday, having a baby, got a new job, new house, new shoes. And who's leaving South Africa and emigrating to Australia, New Zealand, Canada, the UK, the US, the UAE. Pick a place. Any place. In the near 6 years since we left the sunny shores down south, many of our friends have also packed up their families to pursue new adventures in parts elsewhere. And I've watched. Through the Insta-filtered frames of Facebook. Revelled in their resettling triumphs and wondered about the parts that no one shares. The lonely, ugly side of resettling. The raw reality of rebuilding a life. The faces that will never feature on a Facebook newsfeed.

I walk a lot. And while I walk, I make lists in my head. One of them is a list of the things that I wish I'd known before I left South Africa about what life would be like here. What would've helped me. Yes, hindsight is 20/20. Yes, there's no handbook for life. And there's certainly no instruction manual on how you and your partner drag your kids across the world and make familiar with foreign. It simply doesn't exist. Perhaps this is so because the experience is different for everyone and we all have our own ways to cope? But I wouldn't be me if I didn't over share so here are a few of the lessons I've learnt about moving a million miles from my normal.

1) Use Facebook as a force for your own good. It's not just good for flowery family photies, although it is for that too. Join the local parents groups on Facebook and ask questions about areas, schools, doctors, parking, municipal services. Ideally before you leave. Also join the "Saffa Mums in the UK" Facebook equivalent in your country. There will be one. If there isn't, start one. It's a great platform to bring together mothers from the motherland who're going through the same and in true South African style will tell you all about it.
2) Your children's school is your foundation for building a social network in real life. Get involved. Host playdates. Meet other parents. Parenthood is a great leveller. We're all the same really. Kids make us see that underneath it all, there's more that unites than divides us. And then - and this is a biggie -  lean on the friends you make. You simply cannot do it all. And you certainly cannot do it all alone. No one can.
3) Don't try and replicate your South African life in another country. It's not possible. Your new life is here. Your new life is now. Don't look back. Focus on forward.
4) Your kids are just fine. They will cope way better than you. They're wired for resilience and their settings for survival haven't had any interference from self doubt.
5) These things take time. Finding a house, a job, a group of friends. And then finding the right house, the right job, group of friends. It's a process. Don't rush it.
6) Watch your other half. He'll hide his strain while you both look after the little ones. Talk about stuff. All of it. Even the stuff that sucks. Or it festers. And then it's a freak show.
7) Nothing is forever. You will not be the new people for long. You will soon be old news. And there will be new kids on the block. Feeling alien won't last. You will all settle. It will all work out. Not always how you think. But exactly how it should.
8) It's ok to have doubts. It's ok to fall apart. You've made a massive move. You're going to feel the repercussions of the change. For a long time. But you'll learn to adapt. We're built to do that.
9) It all carries on back home. Without you. And that's ok. I've said this before, but it's something I really battled with. Your friends in your homeland will continue to have their bi-weekly breakfast brunches, they'll do dinner and host New Year's parties. Your families will enjoy Christmases, they'll have braais and get togethers. It sounds the most arrogant of all assumptions that because this way of life has stopped for you, that it'll stop for everyone else too. Not true. Obvs. It carries on regardless. You're just not a part of it. And it's fine to feel bleak about that.
10) The missing never ends. You just learn to deal with it better.

I read this once on Facebook, "If you don't like where you live, move. You are not a tree." Well, I think we're a lot more like trees than we realise. We grow roots. We branch out and intertwine with those alongside us. We need nurturing to thrive. Uprooting is traumatic for us. Uprooting a family is a bloody shit storm. A tree weeps when you cut it. So do we. We're severing the roots that bind us to...well, everything. But we do it because we believe it's the right thing to do. We do it because it's life. And we're humans doing life. The best way we know how. And most often, the best way we don't know how.

Word.

Hey Thirty Eight... it's a Date

I don't date much. On account of, well, being married. So I've decided that for my 38th year of life, I'm going to make a date with a series of 20 things to know for sure. And spend the next 364 days trying to be wiser to their wisdom.

1) I'm certain that I'm uncertain about what I want to be when I grow up.

2) I'm certain that it's ok not to know what I want to be when I grow up. There is so much pressure to achieve. To succeed. I need to just be me. It's enough.

3) When things are going well, I must not anticipate a disaster. Just bloody well enjoy it.

4) When kak happens, remember that it's not forever. It will pass.

5) My children are growing up. Lightning fast. I need to treasure the time I have with them. They will be gone all too soon - following dreams and chasing their own adventures. And their father and I will no longer be the centre of their world.

6) I am ageing. It's a fact. I must stop being constantly surprised by it. My face is like the crinkly tinfoil that's been used to cover a lasagne. It's ok. It's life. It's a life lived. A good hearty life and a good hearty lasagne.

7) My health is important. It's a privilege. One of my biggest. I need to take care of it. Say yes to everything in moderation. Lovely floury carbs, oily samoosas, rich cheeses with buttery reds and lovely crisp whites. Oh yah and hearty lasagnes.

8) Not everyone likes me. Yeah, that blew me away too. But it's ok.

9) I need to be gentle. To others. And myself.

10) I don't need to earn time to myself. I shouldn't feel guilty about making more time for the things that interest me.

11) Keep singing in the car, dancing in the kitchen. Even when my children beg me to stop. Especially when my children beg me to stop.

12) As they say, the only certainty in life is change. I can't control change, but I can control my reaction to it. I need to be less of a psycho when change happens.

13) I must walk when I can walk. Note, I didn't say run. I'm not drunk. I need to walk. No matter the weather. It's great to be outdoors. It's great for the state of my mind. It's great for the state of my joints.

14) I should be a better friend. Be more engaged. Listen more. Speak less.

15) I don't always need to be right. Sometimes I just need to be kind.

16) There is no shame in falling apart every now and again. It's not a sign of weakness to admit I need help. And then to accept the help when it's offered. I'm really bad at that. Asking and accepting.

17) I'm a work in progress. It's why I'm called a human being. Not a human complete.

18 I should write more, but less, in this blog. It's highly entertaining, mostly for me, to have an actual record of all the crap  thoughts I've shared for over half a decade.

19) I should travel more. With my family. With my friends. With myself.

20) I need to remember that perfection is an illusion. I should strive instead to be imperfectly fine. And happy. With everything that I have. Right here. Right now. Because it's a lot.

*the person behind the lens of this picture is just as important
 to me in my 38th year as the three little people in it.

Customs in the Kingdom

“Ah you’re such a card!” Here’s a card to show just how much

The Brits do love a card. From Christmas to Easter and every major or minor (er Halloween?) moment in between. If there’s even the slightest cause for handing over a Hallmark, they’ll find it. Got a new cat? Cat died? Cat climbed up a tree? Cat missing? Cat had kittens? Cat got your tongue? There’s a card for that. And a cat-load kak-load more.
Meanwhile down south. A card is where you stash the cash when you don’t know what gift to buy someone/left it too late to shop/forgot to shop/couldn’t really be arsed. We have greetings cards. We’re not philistines. We just use them when the occasion warrants it. Like for births. Or deaths. And we’d never post them like in the actual post. It took me a while to get used to the card culture here. I’m still consciously un-carding though. I don’t see the point in paper sentiment when a personal one is far more well…personal. Also, for a nation so committed to the environment, the mind boggles that so many trees have to die simply so that someone doesn’t have to talk to someone else.

Don't braai, don’t bring

The Brits are game for a barbecue. I’m saying barbecue, not braai because you can’t really call these gatherings braais. There’s no fire for one. And secondly the way they work is most un-braai-like. Here the host caters for everyone. For everything. Alles. People bring nothing. Nadda. Not a drumstick. Not a dop. This means that there are far fewer barbecues than what we’re used to because the host needs to take out a loan to cater for any number that borders on a crowd, especially if said crowd is partial to a stukkie steak, the sides and a suip. Which let’s be honest, who isn’t? So we find ourselves braaiing with ourselves a lot. Which is fine. But it goes against the natural order.
Meanwhile down south. It’s a bring and braai culture. It’s in the bible of braais. Thou shalt bring. And thou shalt braai. And then thou shalt share the food and have a feast. Virtually every weekend. It’s how we do it. It’s how we can do it.

You’re invited to our wedding party, but not our actual wedding at our actual venue 

This is a contentious one. The Brits get a little ruffled with me arguing about sharing my opinion on it. So here’s the deal. You get invited to a wedding. Except it’s not a wedding. You don’t witness the ‘da dum da da’ aisle part or the exchanging of the vows. You skip the whole church part altogether. Ok, so you’re thinking… ‘ja, but hey, that’s not so strange. Some people keep the church part very private or do it at a registry office. No surprises there.’ Ok, but how's dem apples? You’re not actually invited to the reception either. You don’t hear a single speech. Watch the first dance. Or the cutting of the cake. But wait...you are invited to a pub after the reception. Where you’re welcome to join the wedding party and all the guests who were at the church and reception who’re now as pissed af. And you’re welcome to toast the happy couple with a drink you bought from the cash bar and tuck into a tray of soggy sausage rolls stashed behind the bar just for you and the 30 other B-listers who were also not invited to the wedding. And you’re welcome to leave your gift in the pile with the A-lister's gifts. And you get invited to this with an actual invitation. Printed on card, delivered in the post which says you’re welcome to attend special couple’s special wedding celebration. The irony does not elude you. It's not so special at all. And you’re not actually welcome at all. And no thank you, fu pub you very much.
Meanwhile down south. Weddings are pricey no matter where you live in the world. Unless you’re a serial killer marrying another serial killer with a limited social circle on account of all the killings, the likelihood is that the number of friends and family you want to invite will exceed your budget/venue capacity. And so down south we make a call about the cash, if cash is a concern. We choose a bigger wedding with less flash. Or a smaller wedding loaded with flash. There will be people who we can’t invite, either way. So we don’t. If they get pissy, we have one less friend to fret about. Bonus. If I’m not A-list guest material, i.e. not friend enough for the formalities and the actual er…wedding, I’d be more than happy to forgo all celebrations on the big day itself and enjoy a barbecue (we’ll provide all the stuff, obvs) after the newlyweds’ honeymoon. This, rather than get all dressed up to travel late at night to a random pub to sip a warm house white amidst a swathe of guests who’ve enjoyed a wedding that I’ve been no part of. But that’s just me. And most South Africans, I’m hoping guessing.

A ginormous pain in the Gazump 

So you find a house that you can afford in Britain. Which in itself is a large miracle. You put in an offer. It is accepted. And you still have both of your kidneys and major organs. Also a miracle. You crack open the bubbly. It’s all happy days. Until it all goes to shite. Why? Before the sale completes, the seller accepts a better offer. So you lose the house. And if you were in a position where you needed to sell your home to secure this one, you’ve jeopardised a chain for yourself and for your buyer who may be in a similar situation. You’ve spent money on conveyancing fees and paid a lawyer to start the paperwork. You’ve lost that too. No house to buy. Your house is no longer sold. It’s called being gazumped. It’s a Yiddish word for being “overcharged” or boned as I call it. This is how it is in England and Wales. Wtf. I couldn’t believe it was legal. It is. Why? An agreement to buy or sell a house doesn’t become legally binding until written contracts are exchanged and until then, neither party can be held to a verbal one. The exchange of contracts between a conveyancer and the seller’s solicitor happens several weeks after an offer is accepted. In the meantime, a property survey is conducted and the conveyancer does checks – necessary, but costly. And the estate agent is legally bound to inform the seller of any other offers during this time. The higher the better, obvs. For more commission, obvs. What a kak show.
Meanwhile down south. Despite some of our more dubious legislative initiatives when it comes to land and property ownership (aptly sounds like apart and hate), we’ve actually got something right this time. We’re privy to an important piece of legislation called the Alienation of Land Act 68 of 1981 (“Act”) which puts forward that for an offer to purchase and agreement of sale to be valid, they must be reduced to writing. No verbal agreement is legally binding. When a valid contract of sale has been signed by all parties, neither the seller nor buyer can simply withdraw from the agreement without penalty unless by mutual agreement or there are specific conditions listed in the contract.

It's not a dog's life for dogs in the UK

Ok so there’s no denying that these customs are bonkers and I don’t agree with any of them. But amidst these clangers, there are some very good British conventions that I’m totally down with. Animals – the Brits are big on animals. I’ve literally seen an entire motorway grind to a halt for a bevy of swans that took a short left, got horribly lost and there was much flapping and sharting all over the place. But they were rescued and lived to swan around another day. And I don’t actually like swans. Here, you never see a lost dog. You never see a skinny dog. Pets are micro-chipped. Every one has pet insurance. Ok so they do keep big dogs in small houses. But they walk them. Pick up their business. And love them. That much is obvious. That much is good.
Meanwhile down south. Eish, I have so many friends picking up strays (canine or feline, not human...although that too) and making impassioned pleas on Facebook for someone to help re-home them (this is just for the animals, humans sometimes, but less so). Sadly, despite all the best effort made by some very big-hearted people and charities, the state of domestic animal welfare in South Africa isn't great. I think this is because we've got a lot of hungry and homeless humans to worry about.

Build it a million years ago and they will come

Old buildings. They do go postal over a pile of bricks in this country. Especially if it’s old. Actually, only if it’s old. Protect it. Raise money for it. Open it to the public. Put up plaques everywhere. There’s something very cool about how het up people get about history. And how important they believe it is to preserve for future generations. And we’re spoilt for choice where we live. On our doorstep London is one heaving historical hotspot. The Tower of London, for example, was built in 1080 under the rule of William the Conqueror and is nearly a million years old. It was used as a sanctuary or a slaughter house for the royals - whichever served the royal interest best at the time. And London Wall, construction began here in the 2nd or 3rd century AD to protect the settlement of Londoninium as it was known then from invasion by the Picts. Or St Pancras Old Church rumoured to be one of the oldest sites of Christian worship in England was built on the site of a former Roman temple in 4th century AD. Charles Dickens mentions it in A Tale of Two Cities and it’s also the burial place of the son of Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of the great U, S of A. How marvellous is that? Who doesn’t love a bit of history?
Meanwhile down south? So we have the Castle of Good Hope in Cape Town. The oldest surviving structure in South Africa, built between 1666 and 1679 by the colonialists from the Dutch East India Co. And we have a wine estate, a theatre, pub and a garden that all date back to this era. And that's awesome. But we can't really go back for our buildings beyond 366 years, which for the Brits is positively new-build.

So as long as I steer clear of everything from nonsensical non-wedding dis-invitations and card-fanatics to braai-less barbecues and trying to buy a house that someone else wants to buy too – and stick to history and stick with people who love animals, I should be ok navigating the customs of this land. I'm just over half a decade in, I'll keep you posted. But not with a card - which I could probably find. Obvs.

The Tower of London. Oh if those walls could talk...

Sold, but not actually sold. Should read "Still taking offers".

I have no words. Actually I have lots. But I won't put them in a card.

A Royal Revelation

Windsor. A quaint historic town situated south of the River Thames adjacent to its twin town of Eton, 34 kms west of Charring Cross in London, 11 kms south east of Maidenhead and 35 km east of Reading. That’s where it is. But Windsor is far more than just your average market town on a map. Windsor is home to the oldest and largest inhabited castle in the world. Built by William the Conqueror in the 11th Century, Windsor Castle has housed British kings and queens for just shy of a millennium. That’s a kak long time. 1.3 million visitors travel to Windsor Castle every year. That’s a kak load of people. Windsor may be home to one of the most iconic castles and home to the royal family. But it’s also home to a little family of Cooks. It's home to me.

Overseas visitors arrive by the bus load, day-trippers catch the train in from Londontown and sightseers come from all corners of the kingdom. Usually I use my local smarts to steer well clear of the swathes of selfie-stick-wielding castle-crazed happy-snappers. Except for this one time. On Saturday the 19th of May, I was amongst the human horde that lined the streets of Windsor, who stood on her tippy toes and strained for the slightest glimpse, my phone precariously poised for a shot. I was there in the thick of it. Caught up in the euphoria. The excitement. When Harry wed Meg.

I’ve never been a royalist. One who buys Hello magazine, collects the tat memorabilia or worries about her hat or hemline on race day. To me victoria was a sponge, earl a tea, duke a university and prince and princesses existed only in fairy tales. So when it was announced that the royal wedding of the year would take place at St. George's Chapel in Windsor, I thought to myself "sweet baby cheesus, can't they all just keep calm and carry on." And on they carried all right - this little town got the gees in a big way. Out came the paint, the polish and the patriotic paraphenalia. The local schools designed crowns, made the bunting that lined The Long Walk and even coordinated a Guinness World record attempt for the longest concertina greetings card. There was an infectious sense of community spirit. And I caught it. The royal fever. Even when it got real after the media flooded the town centre, the traffic took a turn for hell-town and the homeless were controversially "re-housed" from the high street. And even when it got weird after the royal super-fans started camping in their chairs outside the castle three nights before the ceremony. I couldn’t help but be swept up by the stately spectacle of it all.

And so the big day dawned and we made our way to our friend’s house right on the royal parade. We drank gin in the morning, waved Union Jack flags and watched as thousands packed The Long Walk. We clocked the snipers on the roof, made small talk with the security police and caught snippets of the ceremony on the telly. And we waited. And when it was time, we ventured outside to watch with the world. As the procession made its way from Windsor Castle down the Kings Road we heard the crowds cheer as it drew closer. First we saw the horses. And then the carriage. And for a fleeting moment as it passed, we saw the couple. And they smiled. Not at us - obvs. Our friend next to us was holding up a sign she’d made that read: “I married a ginge too” and when Prince Harry spotted it, he gestured to Meghan to look and they both smiled. And we got that shot. Right place. Right time. Right sign.

Wherever we venture next, Windsor will always be a special place for our family. It’s where we first chose to make our home in England. It’s where my youngest son was born and it’s the only home my daughter knows. And I will always remember that remarkable May day. The day I stood with one hundred thousand people on the Kings Road and cheered for the 16th royal couple to wed at Windsor Castle. The day that we were there to join in a celebration like no other. The day that a family of Saffas were a very small part of British history. In Windsor. Our home town.

When a wedding comes to Windsor

Royally flushed

The Kings Road 

The best sign 

The royal ginge and his beautiful bride

A portrait of a prince

Never Bored with Full Board

I recently went on the holiday of a lifetime. Well of my lifetime, anyway. To an idyllic tropical island paradise. The location exactly as it would say on the tin. Think shoreline with swathes of real sand and not a toe-puncturing pebble in sight. Think sea you can actually swim in sans nasal blood loss, hypothermic shock, shark attack. Or all of the above. Watersports that cater to every age and ability where the boatmen are unfazed by the mum of three riding the wake with her swimsuit up her bum because they’ve literally seen it all. A daily aqua-aerobics session at noon to jiggle the wobbly bits. A full gym, sauna, jacuzzi that I can’t really describe because I didn’t visit once. Bubbles on tap. Every cocktail you can think of. At any time of the day. And a buffet. I spent a lot of time watching that buffet. For the food, obvs. But more so for the people and the food. It became like an anthropological obsession for me to observe what happens when human meets all-you-can-eat in all its full gluttonous glory.

In the “five-factor model” psychologists reckon that there are five main personality types and everyone possesses some degree of each. I’ve taken my buffet findings and I’ve matched them to a personality because, as was also the case in my efforts to resist coconut ice-cream for dessert every night for 14 days straight, I simply couldn’t help myself. So back to that buffet - few other places in life can bring out the best or the beast in people.

The Conscientious. Efficient, well-organised and self-sufficient, psychs reckon this type plan in advance and aim for success at all costs. At the buffet, they’ll do a little recce beforehand of what’s on offer before making a calculated dining decision. They’ll wait to ensure their eggs are cooked to perfection, work out the best queue for the freshest pancakes, and they’ll nab the last croquette simply because they got there first. They divide and conquer, collaborating with their partners for maximum efficiency. Their children’s meals are meticulously planned in the same way. They sit and eat neatly together and it’s all very civilised. They like to quiz about ingredients, preparation methods and feel it necessary to offer feedback. The chef hides when they arrive and the waitstaff smile through clenched teeth.

The Extroverts. Talkative, outgoing and comfortable in the spotlight. They’re the people who lift a lid and exclaim “Oh my god would you just look at that!” They overfill their plates with one dish because it’s so good, but then realise that there’s another dish just as good three cloches deep and another. So they make frantic trips back and forth. Their table looks like a war zone. They spill. They smash. They waste. They make banter with other guests about the dim sum. They eat too much and tell everyone about it. And they drink too much and show everyone about it. Their children have carte blanche with the menu and so dart around with plates of this and bowls of that. These people require three times the staff.  The chef enjoys watching the festival of food, but disappears when the carnage calls for a mop.

The Agreeable. Known as kind, trustworthy and affectionate, this type get boned at the buffet. It’s not a place where they can bring their A game. They’ll passively wait at the end of a queue where people are cutting in left, right and centre. They’ll happily hand you the last piece of anything. Their self-sacrifice means that they end up with the crusty bit from a tray that no one wants. Their warm food and drink ends up cold and their cold food and drink ends up warm. Some dishes they won’t even know exist because they’ll have been snapped up by The Conscientious within seconds. And they appear satisfied with it all. Sitting quietly in a dining room that everyone has long since left behind, eating the food that’s long since left behind. The staff clear up the tables around them while the Chef has long since left the building.

The Open to Experience. Curious, open and experimental is how these folk roll. They’re the ones who stand watching the live grill at the buffet, ask to sample each sauce, pare a different wine with each course because they’ll have every course there is. But of course. They visit every restaurant and try to taste every dish on offer. The more exotic the better - even if it’s not something that they particularly fancy because who’s to say someone won’t ask if they’ve tried cow intestine wrapped in vine leaves with a red wine jus and juniper foam? And god forbid they didn’t…when they could. Their enthusiasm is exhausting. For the chef, the waitstaff and every other guest that's drawn into their culinary crusade. Because that what all-inclusive is to them, a crusade. To experience it all. Every. Flaming. Little. Thing. And everything else that's poached, pan fried or pureed too.

The Neurotics. Prone to high levels of anxiety and irritability, the neurotics don’t cope well at the buffet. There’s simply too much. Choice. Food. Noise. It’s far too overwhelming on every level. So they grab whatever they can as quickly as they can and hightail it back to their table – heads down, eyes averted. They can’t handle the Extroverts or the Experiencers and are more than a little terrified of the Conscientious. They don’t linger. They eat. And then bolt. The buffet is the last place they'd choose to dine. A la carte is more their comfort zone. The staff know them only by the table they occupied for five minutes and plates they leave behind.

And so which type was I at the buffet? The judgy one who sat for two weeks watching people when I should've been watching the waves or the natural beauty right in front of my face. I’m definitely a little of each and a lot of some. I'm a sixth type they don't name - it's called weirdo. I'm all and more of that one.

Before each meal, I’d conscientiously do a sweep of the menu before making small talk with a random stranger while spooning a portion of Mauritian curry I’d never tasted as I gestured to a couple to join the queue ahead of me for the fresh tuna while I secretly hoped that they weren’t pigs and wouldn’t snarf all the best bits. And then I’d head back to my table, top up my wine, take a bite of my curry, appraise my fresh tuna and then watch the blockbuster buffet show unfold. I left my kids to charm the waitstaff. I did make nice with the chef though. We're not quite Facebook friends, but I know he has teenagers, worked through a series of hotels in Europe and can't look at a platter of anything when he gets home. I also came to discover that he had no problem organising my bowl of coconut ice-cream from the kitchen when it wasn't on the menu. Definitely a buffet holiday to remember. I'll be back.

The view I took in...

The view I could've taken in...

Full feral

Less feral

Breakfast of champions and champion of breakfasts

Don't Chance a Second

It was the mid-eighties. My dad was repairing a gumpole fence along a river on the Baynesfield Estate. I forget which. It was mid-morning. The day was overcast. Chilly enough for a tracksuit. It had recently rained. So the river was full: swollen thick against its banks. You’d think too full and too deep to move. You’d be wrong. Move it did. The river surged forward in fast strokes with its quicksilver currents and eddies hidden beneath a milk chocolatey brown surface.

Bored with watching a pair of pliers twist wire, my sister and I began throwing rocks into the water. Little ones at first. Then egging each other on to throw bigger, higher, further. It was such fun watching the river open her brown viscous mouth to receive our granite gifts, burying them in her muddy depths. We shrieked with delight at the sound of every watery thud.

My sister was on the edge of the bank while I was bent over trying to unearth a particularly large clod when I heard a splash that wasn’t like all the others. I looked up. She was gone. A split second later, my dad pitched himself off the side and into the water. In the time that it took for me to register what I’d seen and run towards the bank, he was pulling a straggle of purple limbs to his chest. She was a sodden shaking mess of mud and shock. Wide-eyed and terrified. Too terrified even to cry. He was the same. Dazed, we made our way to the bakkie, my sister in his arms. The only sound was the rush of the river. The lazy brown swollen river that flowed faster than we thought. The river that took our rocks. The river that nearly took my four-year-old sister. 

My dad recounts his version of that day and how out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lift that last rock, throw it and go straight in with it. He said he didn’t even pause to think. He jumped straight into where he saw her head go under. He knew he’d never be able to see her in the brown water, so he grabbed frantically at anything he could. It was sheer luck that he caught hold of that purple tracksuit. Before she was swept away under the moving blanket of muddy water. It all happened in seconds. She was there. And then she wasn’t.

A couple of weeks ago my three-year-old son threw a tantrum on the pavement on our way to school, fell and a wall broke his fall. And his head. A neat little gash on his noggin that, to be honest, I wasn’t too concerned about. But then he went floppy and lost consciousness for a bit. He came around quickly though and was fine. Upon closer inspection the gash needed stitches. And I needed to make my maiden voyage to the local A&E in Slough. Five years of life in the UK and my first trip to A&E. Not bad going for a mother like me. Not bad going for kids like mine.

Sitting in the Wexham Park paediatric emergency unit, amidst the ill and injured little people, it struck me once again how everything can change in an instant. I had made very different plans for my Wednesday. And they certainly didn't involve a trip to casualty. We spend our lives creating a fragile reality. Building what we believe to be enough. Hoping that our constructs will hold. We become complacent in the solidity of their structure. But the simple truth is that in a flash, a river can sweep it all away. A little bump in the road. A second can change everything. And we can spend a lifetime trying to come to terms with the consequences.

I often bemoan the quagmire of my motherhood. At times, I even resent it. This trip to the A&E was a cheap yet valuable reality check for me. A 'block-my-nose-and-swallow' dose of perspective that tasted foul af but was exactly the medicine I needed. I think back now to that day at the river when we were children and I don’t feel the haunting terror I once did. I just feel gratitude. And an overwhelming sense of relief. I know that my dad would've held my sister a little bit tighter after that day. Just as I did with my son last week. Immensely thankful for health. For life. For every precious second we're given. For every second that counts.

Circling Back, Moving Forward

I remember 30 years ago. In a little house. Just outside the Baynesfield Farming Estate in the KZN Midlands. Sitting with my gran on her stoep in the sun while she shelled peas. And I gorged myself on granadilla after granadilla. Bashing open the wrinkly purple-skinned shells, crunching my way through the sweet yellowy pulp inside. Hoping she wasn't counting how many I'd swiped, but knowing full well that nothing escaped those big eyes behind the glasses perched on the end of her nose. I can still hear the sounds of the Jackie Hangman birds in her garden. The distant drone of traffic on the road where a milk tanker hit the family bull terrier, Jezebel, who didn't die, but was never quite the same again.

I remember chattering away about everything and nothing. As I do. My gran didn't say a word. I was never sure whether she was listening. And she probably wasn't. So deep she was in her own thoughts. But that didn't stop me. I chattered on. While her stiff arthritis-afflicted fingers sliced neat splits along the length of each pod to release a tumble of fresh green peas into a shiny silver bowl. And when the last pea was shelled, all the ripe granadillas were gone and it was time to go inside, my gran finally spoke. "My girl," she said, "It all comes full circle. Everything that has happened and everything that's going to happen still." And then she stood up and disappeared into the cool dark haven of the house. What she said then made no sense. And I felt a little sick from all the sun and that sticky sweet fruit. So I left it at that. But I've never forgotten. A seven year old girl in a pair of pink shorts sitting on a yellow Checkers plastic carrier bag (to avoid piles, obvs) with my gran, a glut of granadillas, the bowl of peas on her lap. And those words.

It's been five years since we were in our own home in South Africa anxiously waiting the news of our UK visa application. We're currently in that position again. Except this time, we're asking to stay. Not for permission to arrive. We're about to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain. Residency outcome aside, we're also not sure about whether we're going to be able to continue to live in the house we currently rent. We may be moving again. It appears to be our thing. Move. Copy. Paste. I'm uncharacteristically sanguine about it all. Despite all the will in the world, I've realised that I simply cannot control everything. And more than merely acknowledging this, I'm ok with it. Not happy mind, I'm not a sociopath. But I can deal.

In 1999, I moved to the UK on a two-year working holiday visa. When my then-boyfriend-now-husband and I first visited Windsor, we stepped off the train in much the same way as the over-eager tourists who annoy us do today, and we made our way down to the river. We stood on Eton Bridge and looked up in awe at the first castle we'd ever seen. He said, "When we're grown-ups with kids and stuff and if ever we live in the UK, I think we should live in Windsor." I sarcastically replied: "Sure, let's go big. Let's have loads of kids. And let's live in the Castle. I'm sure the Queen won't mind. She wouldn't even notice us. But let's never be grown-ups." We were 18 years old.

I don't know where we'll be in another five year's time. I can't tell you our postcode. The place we'll call home. I don't know a lot of things. But I do know that my gran's words are as relevant to me today as they were 30 years ago. Even though I'm certain now that she was talking more to herself than she was to me. Life does come full circle. In a myriad of ways that are both weird and wonderful, foreign and familiar. And all we can do is trust in the turns, be mindful of the moments that make up the whole and be grateful for the journey. And those are my goals for 2018.

My gran hasn't been with us for 17 years, but I think she'd approve. Of my plans for the year ahead. And the fact that I think of her every time I shell a pea while my six year old little girl offers a running commentary on everything and nothing. Every time I smash open a wrinkly-skinned granadilla and the smell takes me straight back to my childhood - to a sunny stoep in the eastern interior of South Africa. And every time I warn my children about cold concrete and the perils of piles. *

*  Old wives' tale or not, it's family lore. Can't possibly argue with that.

Five years of family life in Windsor - with no grown-ups 

With my gran on the day I was christened - before the joys of granadillas

When her lap was my stoep