In a Place I Now Call Home

I started this blog nearly 6.5 years ago just after we arrived in the UK. I found it therapeutic to share the details of our move on a platform where I not only had the last word, I had the first word and every word in between. And I rather liked that. Also I felt that getting it all down was my way of detangling everything. You know how it's best to have all the Christmas tree lights strewn out on the floor before you can even start with the bitch-blerry job of unravelling the little feckers? Well, writing is my version of laying the lights out before I can make sense of it all. Imbued with a sense of cautious and hopeful optimism that I won't step on the delicate (yet deceptively lethal) bulbs, crush them to pieces and bleed all over the place. But with the pragmatic belief that I'll probably shatter every last one and have to go to A&E for stitches. And then buy a new set of cocking Christmas lights like I should’ve done in the first place.

Truth is that when I started this blog I was rather lonely. Rather lost. Rather terrified. And this white page with its heartbeat cursor became my happy place. A place where I'd hide behind a wide range of humour. From dry and deadpan to self-deprecating, crude and crass to deflect my massive insecurities about myself and the permanent move that we'd made away from a home that I loved and I life that I loved more. I do a lot of life with humour. Some healthy. Some not so much. It's the ultimate defence mechanism. "Ha ha, let's all laugh while I slowly fall apart. And you'll never know, because I'm smiling and joking all the way down." It's a classic Sally-survival tactic. Not so classic though. And it's less survival and more sad. But not uncommon. And certainly not unique to me. Now, as I'm less in the emo trenches, my blog is has become a one-stop shop for all my small-minded drivel. It's a lot less funny. But that's probably healthier.

My husband recently presented me with a hardcopy version of this blog. It's a weighty tome. With some serious thud factor. Of course it is. It's filled with all the rants, revelations and affirmations of a lass trying her best to make a life in Britain. That would never be a skinny offering. It's rather tough to look back at those first pages when I know that I was struggling and how desperately I wanted to portray otherwise. Facebook was also a willing accomplice in that endeavour. There is a lot of laughter though. Genuinely funny moments that I'll remember forever. Posting my passport and the tears I shed to retrieve it, my son plopping a poo onto the street, having the peanuts I gave him for lunch wrapped up like kryptonite, locking myself outside of the house and my 15-month-old daughter inside, catching my kids’ vomit in each hand on a car ride from Valencia to Madrid, peeing on the side of a highway, reversing into a parked car and my children shrieking with delight "again, again mummy", being frogmarched by security out of a building after suspected identity fraud. There have been the best of times. And the worst of times. And through it all, this blog has been an invaluable tool in coping with the massive change and the trauma of immigration separation anxiety, which I just made up but is totally a real thing.

I've gone on a lot about how tough it is to make a life in a new country. Because it is. But human beings are an incredible species. We're made to adapt or die. And that we do. Adapt. And, well we die too. But that's hopefully much later. Speaking of hope, a few weeks ago we were invited to a ceremony to take an oath of allegiance to the Queen and accept the British citizenship status that we were finally granted. We have maintained our South African citizenship and so are now a family of dual nationals. It was an emotional moment as the registrar handed us our naturalisation certificates. She spoke of the difficulty in settling into a new country, especially with a young family. To leave a familiar homeland and build a new life. She said that Britain strives to make us feel at home and is proud to welcome us. A part of me wishes that this lovely sentiment was shared when we first arrived on this island, when we really needed to hear those words. But it was good to hear it at all. The first heartfelt human engagement in this whole process. And what a process. Every visa application, every bureaucratic stamp, every trip to an embassy, every biometric test, every proof of marriage, birth, life, every cost (monetary and otherwise) has led us to this point where we're finally able to reside in a place without restrictions. And it's a great place to be. Metaphorically and otherwise.

My best friend said it best. As she's wont to do. She said "Your newly-granted citizenship status is not to be taken lightly. You have made tremendous sacrifices and overcome huge challenges to change the course of your family's path, forever." And she's right. More and more I realise that the one true and lasting privilege is freedom of choice. The freedom to choose. Where to live. Where to work. Where to travel. British nationality status allows us to offer this to our children more than we otherwise could. We've done a lot of really stupid things in our 20 years together. But we both feel that this isn't one of them.

Six and half years ago, I truly was a million miles from normal. So much so that I wrote about it. In great detail. Often. I felt like an alien in a foreign land. Today I am no longer an alien. I am a citizen of a land and a life that is less foreign, in a place I now call home. In 1820 my intrepid British ancestors set sail from England to South Africa in pursuit of new opportunities in a foreign land. This epic move changed the course of our family's destiny for generations. 199 years later, we've come full circle and it's our turn to take bold new steps in a new country. And just think - future generations of Cook/Whittal progeny - you've got this blog to look back on and see where it all began. Or the hardcover version to to use as a doorstop. It’s your choice. 

Oh happy day.

Blogging it like it is since 2013.

Decoding Cricket for Mummies

I'm all for sport. To me, sport is a great metaphor for life. It teaches us about teamwork, hard graft, winners, losers, showing up. Showing up when the weather is kak. Showing up when we're hungover. Or both. Showing up and giving it our best. Or simply just showing up. Things we have to do every day. Competitive or otherwise, I'm all for sport. Fortunately my kids are too. So much so that my son has fallen in love with the gentleman's game. It's fitting. He's a gentle chap. Cricket though seems anything but. All those helmets, pads, a wooden bat, protection for his privates, a bloody hard ball. Anyway, I'm usually banned from watching my children play sport because I stand on the sidelines and cheer (loudly) for the losing team, I remind everyone (loudly) to have fun and I warn parents (loudly) that it's not the premier league.

Recently though, I managed to sneak down to watch my son have a little bat. It's a brave thing I thought, him standing in front of a hard af ball thrown at his face by an over-eager 10-year-old wannabee-spin-bowler with little accuracy and shedloads of enthusiasm. And he's got such a pretty face. Yes there's a helmet, but shit happens. Even with a helmet. I couldn't help but wince at each ball. I closed my eyes in fact. After he was bowled out, mercifully soon for his mother's sake, less so for his, I said "well done Ol, cracker innings that was." From what I saw. Which wasn't much. He went straight to his dad and started talking about how confident he was feeling with his glance and that he'd like to start working on his hook. I was like, err what? "It's just cricket talk mum." Well my boy, challenge accepted. I decided to decode the sweet baby cheesus out of cricket talk and blow their minds. First though, I've had my mind blown. Cricket terms. My god. I thought I was strange calling my daughter by the nickname moose-alpaca-unicorn-kittykat-dinosaur-donkey-pony or moose for short. Cricket terms are way weirder. I promise.

I'll start with the dibbly-dobbly. Nope, not the term for privates of any description. Or the thing that covers the privates. This I've established is the box. It's a slow paced, not particularly good bowling style. "He was a dibby-dobbly bowler". Not high praise. Even though it sounds pretty cool. To me anyway. Try saying it. D-i-b-b-l-y d-o-b-b-l-y, I know, right.

A beamer: No, this is not the term shouted when someone's posh car is parked on the pitch. Or when a ball hits a posh car parked on the pitch. It's also known as a 'bean ball' which isn't a ball that's been left in the shed for so long that it's sprouted some dirty fuzz. They both refer to when a bowler bowls the ball at the batman's head. Which apparently is not allowed.

A duck. This one I know. It's a score of zero. I didn't know why it was called that though. I thought it may have something to do with the batsman ducking out of his duty in a sucky way. Nope, it's named duck because the zero is shaped like a duck's egg. What an intelligent deduction. A duck on the first ball is a golden duck. Two ducks in the same game by the same batter are a pair. Two golden ducks are a king pair. I think the people who thought up cricket terms were pissed when they started and got progressively more so. You'll see why.

More duck now, except not quite. Duckworth-Lewis is a really complicated way of working out which team won if a match is called off due to rain. It was devised originally by two English statisticians Frank Duckworth and Tony Lewis. They've since retired, probably due to exhaustion after all the mental exertion they suffered after devising the most complicated scoring system known to man. Professor Steven Stern has inherited the method, lucky for him (not) and it's been renamed the Duckworth-Lewis-Stern Method. It may as well be the dibbly-dobbly method for all I understand of it. We'll leave it there. You'll thank me.

Googly. No, this isn't someone who can't spell Google. Neither is it related to the privates. Nor is it something that you can't quite believe you're seeing that's got you all googly-eyed. Nope. A googly is when a leg-spinner bowler bowls an off-spin delivery. Go figure that googly, eh.

A leg-spinner bowler. Not a bandy legged chap with an alarming arachnid-esque gait. No siree. It's a bowler with a fine set of pins who bowls right-arm with a wrist spin action that results in the ball spinning from right to left on the pitch.

A doosra. Well, now here's a doozy. Except that's not what doosra means. At all. A doosra is when an off-spinner bowler bowls a leg-spin delivery. Doosra ya get it? Good. Me neither.

An off-spinner bowler. A right-handed spin bowler who uses his fingers to spin the ball from a right-handed batsman's off side to the leg side (that is towards the right-handed batsman, or away from a left-handed batsman). This contrasts with leg spin, in which the ball spins from leg to off and which is bowled with a very different action. Holy mother of all the spins and legs in the world, anyone for a gin? I could spin the leg of a gin delivery that's for sure.

The leg side. Or the on side. This is the area to the left of a right-handed batsman (from the batsman's point of view – facing the bowler). 

Off side. The off side is a particular half of the field. From the point of view of a right-handed batsman facing the bowler, it is the right-hand side of the field, or the half of the field in front of the right-handed batsman when they assume the batting stance. 

A Nelson. This is when a score tallies 111, which you'd think would be like whoop whoop, what a score. Not so much. It's considered unlucky because legend has it that an Admiral called Horatio Nelson had only one eye, one arm and one leg. Poor bloke. So scoring a Nelson is considered unlucky. For obvious reason. 

Rabbit. Nope not a quick-witted, spring-like cricket superstar. The complete opposite in fact. The rabbit is the worst batsman on the team. Besties with the duck methinks.

Silly mid off. A close-in fielding position on the side opposite the batsman. Not to be confused with the dozens of other fielding positions, including fine leg, gully, fly slip, extra cover and cow corner. Definitely don’t confuse it with silly mid on. That’s on the other side, silly!

Yorker. Not like corker. As in something good. The bowler may think so. The batsman not so much. This is a ball that hits the pitch around the batman's feet or at the popping crease. The term is said to come from 18th or 19th century slang to "pull a Yorkshire" which means pulling a fast one.

The popping crease. This phrase makes me think of those YouTube videos where someone (usually a hairy-backed man) is having a cyst lanced by a woman in a mask wielding a scalpel and a towel. Eeeuuww. You can't help but watch through the gaps in your fingers. It's called so because under the rules of cricket in the 1700s, a batsman had to place his bat into a hole cut in the turf to score a run. The name popping hole then became popping crease. Now a popping hole, well that's a whole new tangent that I could run with, but I won't.

From popping creases, rabbits, googlys, yorkers, dibbly-dobblys, doosras, beamers and all the silly mid, leg on and off associated with the respectable game of cricket, I'm not only over, I'm out. Bowled. Stumped. Caught. Cricket can keep its crazy terms. I'll stick to sitting leg-side-ways on the field, ducking from the serious, uncorking a crisp Sancerre while I beam(er) with pride watching my helmet-ed son at the crease while he hooks and glances to his heart's content, loving every second of it all. That's all the cricket I need to understand. That's all the cricket anyone needs to understand.

PS - Just in case you give a toss (*the toss is the flipping of a coin to determine which captain will have the right to choose whether his team will bat or field at the start of the match).

A glance: is a shot played by a batsman with a vertical bat, deflecting the ball behind the square leg area of the field.

A hook: is a term used to describe a shot played at shoulder height by the batsman against any short delivery.

Our gentlemanly-boy

Being One with the Weirdo

Yeah, so it's taken me a long time. Three decades or so. To accept that I am rather a different sort. And when I say 'different' I don't mean 'let's celebrate your individuality, you're going to be a star' different. I simply mean that I am bat-shit crazy. It used to be a source of great angst and I tried to hide it, which was futile and exhausting. And now I just let it all hang out. I own it. The hipster way of saying pretty much the same thing. Also I'm nearly 40 years old ffs. It really is now or never. I've come to a place where my weirdness and I can coexist. Not always happily or in complete harmony, but we bump along together.

• I only read books, that are, like, actual books. With pages you can't zoom in on, but spines that bend. No screens. Ever. I associate screen reading with work. Reading fiction is anything but. The library, therefore, truly is my happy place. More so really than anywhere else in the world. If they sold good coffee, I'd be there every day. I'd likely move in.
• I've yet to see a single second of a single episode of Game of Throes. And I don't intend to. Ever. Medieval fantasy just ain't my vibe. 
• A few months ago I had a hernia repair procedure. I woke up in a ward with a lot of women who'd just had laparoscopic surgery for endometriosis (or other stuff I shan't share) in efforts to fall pregnant. We had to wait for the general anaesthetic to wear off and we couldn't move. So we did what women do when they're off their faces on drugs. We drank tea, ate toast and chatted up a storm. In deference to their various fertility issues, when I was asked if I had any children, I avoided the question altogether by asking a question in return. Lying by omission I think they call it. This worked very well and I was rather chuffed with myself. Until it came time for me to be discharged and instead of meeting my husband at reception which I'd specifically requested, he thought he'd form a happy-to-have-you-home committee and burst into the ward with all of our children who threw themselves at me like a pack of puppies. I offered a feeble "Oh yeah, these are my kids. I forgot about them!" before bolting as fast as a freshly-stitched abdomen would allow. It was not a good day. I still feel shame thinking about it and the scar is a searing reminder that I should never pretend I don't have kids. It always ends in pain.
• Speaking of painful. I like hot things scaldingly hot. I literally microwave my hot drinks before I drink them. And cold things freezing cold. Except sparkling water which I like at room temperature because it helps keeps the bubbles bubbly. This does not apply to alcoholic bubbles. These must be arctic cold.
• Recently on an uncharacteristic night out. At an actual pub. Not just a PTA meeting or a parents evening at school. These sadly also count as nights out in my life. I went to the bar to order and said to the bar lady, "Could I have a bottle of Prosecco please. And can it be very cold." To which she replied "Certainly. And how many glasses would you like with that?" I said "Err, just the one, please." I smiled. She smiled in complete understanding. She turned out to be an Aussie. Obvs.
• I once took the entire biscuit tin to school when I was running late for pick-up. My children expect a snack. It's the stupidest thing I started years ago and now I can't get out of it. I usually bring them a sandwich, fruit roll, Tupperware of strawberries, something. It's the first thing they say when they see me after 6 hours at school. I go: “Hello sweethearts, how was your day?” They go: “What did you bring us to eat?” I brought the biscuit tin in a moment of desperation and tried to discreetly open it so they could grab a couple and we could get on our way. But they pulled it out and brandished it for all to see. They chorused. I cringed. Not my first cringe in the school yard. Likely not my last either.
• I push my trusty old double-pram-steed to school every day despite the fact that my children are 7 and 4 and don’t need a pram. But I need it. It carries the school bags, the bike and the scooter and the helmets. I also get a childish kick out of wheeling the pram into town after I've dropped them at school. And when people worriedly enquire: “Er, where’s the baby?” I scratch my head and pretend I can't remember where I left it. And just before it gets too awks, I announce: “Just kidding. My children are at school. I brought the pram for myself. I need it to carry my wine.” Some people think it's genius. Most make a hasty retreat.
• I like to do personal gifts for the teachers for Christmas. In December I decided that making a cake was a great idea. An entire cake each. Except I couldn't just make for the three class teachers. I felt I needed to make for the teachers' assistants, the head, the deputy head and the office staff too. This meant 12 cakes. I bought 4 springform 6-inch cake tins figuring I'd do three baking sessions. Badda boom. Mmm, what cake to bake? Orange and polenta was my current favourite, so I reckoned that would be a goodie. Except I failed to realise that each cake required an entire packet of ground almonds and polenta which cost a small fortune, plus the zest of two oranges which was a bitch on the fingernails, plus a saucy syrup that I had to boil for hours and reduce. Less badda. More broken. And one teacher has a nut allergy so I needed to make that cake separately and be sure not to confuse it with the others. A simple cake offering became Cakegate 2018. Never to be repeated. Apparently the cakes were lovely which is good because I laboured longer over them than I ever did any of my children. 
• Speaking of broken. My daughter broke her arm while we were hosting a playdate with two other children. She fell out of a tree at a park. There was a lot of screaming. I went running. Only to check that the other children were ok. Not for her. She screams a lot. There was no blood. Her arm looked fine. No swelling. No visible damage. I then made her pose with her friends alongside the lake with her broken arm that we didn't know was broken. I asked her to please stop crying because she was ruining the photo. It was a full 24 hours before we realised her arm was broken because she couldn't move it and she was still bleating that it was sore. We didn't even give her pain relief because 1) we didn't have any 2) we didn't think she needed any. Yeah. Another parent fail. I succeed at parent fails. 
• I've decided that I really like to help at the school disco so that I can dance The Macarena, YMCA or pull moves from Grease with a horde of pre-teens and any teachers I can drag down with me. My son does not like it as much. He says my dancing is the cringiest he's ever seen. And he says he watches a lot of bad dancing on Youtube so he's well informed. Regardless, I will continue to attend discos with the young uns. It is the best fun. And who knew you could dance without being rat-faced? I certainly didn't. It's great exercise, makes you feel fantastic and there's no hangover. Bonus. The fact that my son doesn't want people to know I'm his mum - well, that was bound to happen eventually.
• I still think wedges are pants. I still accost any random stranger Saffas I encounter. I still overshare to any random stranger I encounter, Saffa or otherwise. I still use the word dogshow for anything not remotely related to an actual dogshow. I still dream of big South African skies and the view of 'Maritzburg as you make your way down Town Hill on the N3. I still feel 25 until I try to do a cartwheel and then not so much. Or until I look in the mirror. And then again not so much.
• A million miles from normal I am. Today. Tomorrow. Always. And you know what, I'm totally ok with that.

Cakegate 2018

Using a pram to cart the children cricket equipment. As I do.

For Love or Money

Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life, they say. Well that's bollocks. Codswallop. I never dreamed it possible that I would one day write for a living. Until now. Until I started writing for a living. And it's hard. The hardest work in fact. Why? Because I care so much about doing it right. I guess so that I can continue to do it. Also, no one except perhaps Piers Morgan gets to write exactly what they want. Or possibly Ian McEwan and his ilk, although I'll bet that even he feels the pressure to produce another bestseller. Professional writers write to get paid. No matter the brief. No matter the client. It's only the unemployed writer who can afford to write what they want. And I can't afford to be unemployed.

This blog is the perfect case in point. I love to write here. I love the fact that I can, and I do, ramble on and on about everything and nothing. It's a digital diary of a life lived. I sometimes scroll back and giggle or gag, mostly gag, at the overshare from years gone by. I rarely have the time though these days to do what I love. To express myself within the relative sanctuary of this screen, knowing full well that there are only about five regulars, including my mum, who read my latest rant. I resolved today that there would not be another week that goes by where I write a whole lot of stuff for a whole lot of people, but I neglect to write something about myself, for myself. And the five people who'll read it.

So here I am. Work notwithstanding, it's been a whirlwind for us lately. We've begun the process of applying for dual citizenship. This deserves a blog post all of its own. But I will wait until we are further down the road in this journey before I share all of the details of how one acquires dual citizenship and the organs paperwork required in order to do so. For fear that what I say can and will be used against me. This exercise has been an epic undertaking in human perseverance and bureaucratic tenacity. But then everything about this journey has been epic. We've been here six years. It feels like a lifetime and yet feels like just yesterday that we sat at the Spur at the King Shaka International Airport with our family having a final drink before we boarded a flight that would take us to Heathrow and the start of our adventure, a million miles from normal.

We're older. We can see it. We can feel it. Our children are older too. Taller. With more words and less teeth. My 10-year-old can wear my blazers. And does. He's virtually my height. Lithe and pointy-featured. Confident, compassionate and kind. My daughter is tall and leggy, a tip-toeing little waif with a mega-watt smile and a constant stream of chatter. My youngest, a fearless four year old who is the age now that our eldest was when we first moved to the UK. A solid build that belies the softest, most tactile nature - a sensitive soul who shines in the light of his siblings. They're a remarkably strong and resilient trio. As all children are. But more so because they live with little extended family structure. And this is tough. I know so because it's tough for us and we're adults. Special milestones and Christmases remain heartbreakingly bittersweet and I don't foresee this getting easier to cope with. This too will not pass.

What has passed though is that I have finally acclimatised to the British weather to the degree that I now not only speak about it incessantly, like I did here, but I feel it less acutely. 10 degrees I now rate as rather mild. 14 degrees is positively balmy. This revelation may have a lot something to do with the fact that I have discovered the delights of down outwear. I'm totes down with down. Layering is so last year. This is massive progress for me. Feeling perpetually cold is not a happy place.

So back to where I started. It's sad that society deems you successful at something when you make money from it. It shouldn't be that way. But it is. Ricky Gervais said it best. He says a lot of things best in my opinion. He said "Happiness is the only success that matters and the one that your critics are the most jealous of." Of course he said that though. He can afford to. Until I can afford to say life affirming stuff that they make into memes -  I will write words for the money. And I will love this blog for the words.

Hemingway I am not. Bleed I do.

Ricky Gervais - writer, humanitarian and a lot that is right with the world

A Bluster of British Banter

So it’s happened. After 6 years of life in the UK. After moving into four different houses. Birthing our third child. Settling three children into two different schools. Settling myself into a social circle of new friends. Getting indefinite leave to remain status on the long road to citizenship. Learning to drive through the eye of a needle along narrow roads. Navigating buttock-clenching four lane traffic circles. Parking three miles from anywhere to avoid having to parallel-park. Driving a lot less. Walking a lot more. Getting used to the constant drone of living under the Heathrow flight path. Working for myself. Cleaning for all of us. Learning to survive homesickness that hits the solar plexus. Learning to survive camping. Learning to enjoy camping. After a complete transformation of lifestyle/culture/family/friends/career. After all this time. I am now someone who talks about the weather. A lot.

My European work colleagues have dubbed me “the weather girl". In my email intros, I not only make small talk. I make small talk about the weather. It’s become my weird little trademark. I look out of the window and write about the 50 shades of grey (both rubbish), that it's cloudy with a chance of meatballs or perhaps as Pooh says "it sure is rather a blustery day". When there's actual sun I bring out my jazz hands. It’s cringey. But I can’t help myself. I have become incapable of starting any sentence without: “Greetings from a gloomy Windsor” or “A sunny hello from southeast England”. I can’t remember how I used to do email intros before. I draw a blank. In the same way I don't know how I filled my time a decade ago before I had kids. I honestly couldn’t tell you.

If there was a barometer of Britishness, I guess weather banter would be pretty up there. Along with drinking two litres of tea a day, popping to the pub for a pint and listening to the Queen’s speech at Christmas. It’s a safe topic. It changes every five minutes so there’s plenty of subject matter. It’s inoffensive. It’s impersonal. It’s perfectly British in every way. I even engage in a wee weather chatter with the checkout ladies at the supermarket. “Brrr...by golly, it’s cold today. We’re in for some snow apparently.” Sometimes they run with it. And I get a little “Yeah and it’s cold in here and all.” Sometimes not. And I get a raised eyebrow, no eye contact and my groceries are scanned in record speed and I’m sure there’s mumbled nuance of “nutter” directed at my derriere.

The weather here is not just a conversation starter. It stops traffic. It closes train lines. Roads. Schools. It gets under your skin. In your bones. Obviously, I’m used to a more moderate climate down south, where unless it’s kak hot, kak cold or there’s a kak load of rain, it’s not something we spend a lot of time talking about. Weather chat is a first world privilege. Apparently the average Brit spends the equivalent of four and a half months of their life talking about the weather and it comes up in conversation three times in a typical day. An actual study was conducted. Someone took the time to research it. It's a hot topic. A hot mostly cold topic, if you will.

Oscar Wilde said: “conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” So there I go. Or perhaps I’ve already lost it? Along with the age-defying chub that apparently used to cushion my cheekbones. Who knows? All I do know for sure is that for the last couple of days I’ve been working on my couch with my coat and scarf on. The radiator is on max, but the arctic breeze that creeps up through the suspended wooden floor takes my breath away. Yesterday, I looked outside and typed: “Greetings from Windsor! Today we had 20 000 or so people visit our town. Along with the inimitable Jack Frost. He snuck in overnight on a cloud of ice, snow and slush. The bastard. I hope you’re enjoying warmer climes wherever you are and you’ve received a less frosty reception to the start of your day.” And then I made myself a cuppa. As is just as customary in these parts. Where it's currently cold. Kak cold.

Snow flaming cold 

Loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave

Raising a child is a lot like baking a cake. You gather all the ingredients, put them together and hope for the best. Well that’s I how bake anyway. Hell, that’s how I parent. Nothing is guaranteed. Sometimes the cake rises to the occasion and sometimes it’s a complete fuck up flop. It’s never fool-proof, no two cakes ever come out the same and you never quite know how you’ve done until the cooking time is complete. You can’t open the oven door halfway through and add in the baking powder, or mix it a little more thoroughly or remove the nuts you shouldn't have added. You simply have to give it a jolly good go and wait it out. And you only ever get one chance with that cake. This is exactly how I feel about being a mother. Did I over mix it? Is it completely cooked through? Will it sink in the middle? Will my kids look back on their childhood and think ‘hell yeah, we had a good one’ or will they need to breathe into a paper bag and work through all sorts of neuroses that a therapist will tell them I was responsible for? Too much squawking, sarcasm, passive aggression and perfectionist tendencies – my arsenal of arsehole attributes that are kryptonite for my kids. Any kids, really. But mine mostly on account of them being mine. And by then it’s too late. And I’m a lush because our children are emotional train wrecks. It’s a sobering thought.

A thirteen year old South African girl who was badly hurt in a car accident on Christmas Eve got me thinking about all of this. She sustained terrible head injuries and it looked like she wouldn’t make it. She has though. She woke up. She breathes on her own. She lives. She’s got a long road to recovery ahead of her, yet every day she’s defying medical odds. It's a remarkable story.

Sitting at her bedside in the hospital, her mum recently asked her to point to a set of emotion cards that reflect how she felt at that very moment. She chose the cards: Loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave. This is a young girl who literally has part of her skull stored in her abdomen for safe keeping because it was so badly damaged. And while she’s faced with some big obstacles, she’s still able to reflect with such positivity and gratitude. There’s no blame, anger or pity. Just those five wonderful words. That’s one extraordinary child. And those are a set of extraordinary parents.

I’d give my one clean-ish kidney for either of my children to look back on their childhood and say, "I felt loved. Calm. Happy. Peaceful. Brave.” What a gift that would be. Not just for them because they’ll be delightfully self-aware little souls ready and able to conquer all of life’s challenges, obvs. But also for us as their parents. Until then though, we try. Hard. We lovingly watch the cakes we’ve baked. We do our best. And we hope for the best. Because only time will tell how they turn out. Well, time and my daughter, she’ll tell the world. Inspired by an amazing young South African girl a continent away, I asked my daughter to choose just two words to describe how she feels about her life. She looked me straight in the eye with all of her seven years and sass, and said: “Mmmm, I feel unsure and um, weird. Why would you ask me that? How much wine have you had?" Sobering thoughts indeed.

I'm very grateful for all the cake in my life. And my children. Not in that order (well some days) but they're worth every burn in every sense of the word, every catastrophe cake-related or otherwise - and all the sass. And to that warrior young woman down south, I promise I will strive to love bigger, keep calm(er), be happier, foster more peace and be braver so that my children learn to do the same. Big-ups to not being a bad mamabaker. Big-ups to being a bad-ass mamabaker - in the making.

Me, My Sass and I

From Kiara's Mum's Blog

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