The Gift of Gabriella

When I was pregnant with our second child, I was expecting a boy. To me this was fact. I had no medical proof of the gender. I didn’t want or need any. I had my own special powers. I innately believed that the little being I was carrying was a boy. And for me, this belief was enough. I gave him a name. He was to be Alexander, after my late grandfather Alexander Robert Trevor Gray. I bought blue paint for the nursery. I even painted a whole wall myself before my ever-pragmatic husband intervened and toned the blue to a more gender-neutral grey. I kept aside all my eldest’s clothes. I envisaged another version of my son. I prepared myself for the arrival of our little boy. Somewhere in my psyche I’d convinced myself that I wouldn’t ever have girls. I’d be a mom to boys. That was that. I had nothing against girls. I just didn’t think that I’d be a good mother to a girl. I figured that boys were simple. Girls were complex. I wasn’t adept at complex – so simple is what I’d get. I had it all figured out.

At around 8am on the 1st of November 2011, our gynecologist delivered our healthy 3.75-kilogram baby. Into my arms he presented a dark haired, chubby-cheeked little girl. A little girl! I was in complete and utter shock. I’m ashamed to admit that for a while in that post-delivery drug-induced state, I actually believed that there had been a mix-up. Someone else had my boy. And I had been mistakenly given this little girl. She wasn’t mine. Despite my insane protests, I was kindly reassured that there was no mistake. She’d come from me. She was my baby. She was the complete antithesis of what I’d imagined. Of what I’d expected. My son was a bald, skinny and quiet little chap. He barely made a peep when he was born. I was holding a baby with a mop of dark hair, she was chubby and she screamed like a banshee the moment she'd drawn her first breath. And she was a girl. The anesthetist remarked “she’s a feisty one your daughter”. My daughter! The sound of that word ‘daughter’ was so foreign. In my mind I kept repeating, “I have a daughter, I have a daughter.” While my husband went with the nurse to bath her while I was being stitched, I wept. I wept at the shock of it all. I wept for being so stupid. For being so stubborn. For failing to honour her with the proper welcome into the world that she deserved. For allowing my own fears and insecurities to rob her of the first nurturing embrace she needed. For the shell-shocked fumble she ended up getting. On that morning in that theatre room of Parklands Hospital, I made a couple of vows. I vowed that I would get over myself. To her I vowed that she would be loved. She was my daughter. I was her mother. She would be loved.

And so began the process of getting to know my little girl. Of her getting to know me. Learning how to be her mother - a role that’s an ever-evolving journey rather than a destination absolute. I have written a lot about the wisdom I’ve gained from our son. The lessons I’m received from from him on how to live with feeling, to express oneself honestly no matter how difficult or painful. Truth is that I’ve also been taught so much from a little girl who I never gave the courtesy of a place in my imagined destiny. In just shy of two years of life, she’s shown me that love can be unconditional. She’s shown me that happiness can be found in a smile, a laugh, a song and a dance. There’s such uncomplicated joy in our little girl, it positively radiates from her. She’s been such a comfort in this time of transition. She’s been a constant for me. A constant source of delight. I understand that we’ve got a long journey ahead. Our relationship will go through seasons and not all of them will be good. Some will be tough. But I can honestly say that I’ve been blessed with a little soul who has taught me that happiness is a choice. No matter where one is. A million miles from normal. Under the most foreign of circumstance. One can choose to take the good from life. Find the positives. Belt out the Lumineers’ Ho Hey and dance around the living room like a lunatic with two littlies in tow. Jump on the bed and have tickle-fests after bath. Sing the Barney song in the car. Play peek-a-boo until it’s not possible to do it even just one more time. Moments of joy are everywhere. In the mundane. In the routine. They’re not just reserved for special occasions.



When I get home in the evening, I open the front door and every day without fail, there will be a little body that slams like a rocket into my legs. A greeting of giddy glee and pure unadulterated delight. I lift her into my arms she rests her head on my chest. She’s all big blue eyes, blonde curls and soft skin. “Love you”, I whisper. To which she replies, “Mommy I love you much. I love you most.” 



I never wanted a little girl. Now I cannot imagine a life without this girl. My daughter. We’re far away from that theatre room in Parklands Hospital. In so many ways. We’ve travelled a great distance together. I look forward to the rest of the journey with this precious gift. A beautiful happy little girl called Gabriella who has taught me to laugh more and worry less.

The Start of the European Appreciation Project - Spain, Siestas and Shedloads of Sick

Travel is one of the biggest bonuses that Adventure 20-13 affords us. We’re a plane, train or automobile ride away from Europe and all the culture, cubism or Caesar you can shake a stick at. We may though be better off with the States as our proverbial travel backyard. I say this because our son only ever wants pink milk and slap chips. At any time. In any country. I want to project an image of myself as a refined and cultured embodiment of a good education and a keen interest in history and world affairs. The truth is that I’m quite rude, very crass and wouldn’t know my Gauguin from my Guttoso if they gonked me on the backside. I fit better in America – just as well as my son’s palette it seems. Despite physicality to the contrary, we’re clearly related.

I resolve however to persevere with Europe and make headway into my mission to take in her sights and understand more of her sensibilities. If only to be in a stronger position to geographically pinpoint where each of her countries is located on the world map. Something I confess I am not currently able to do. And I did Geography for Matric. Yes, I know…Hit me Baby one more Time. # Homage-reluctantly-paid-to-Britney-Spears.

For our maiden European Appreciation voyage, we were fortunate enough to be hosted en masse for a week by our friend at her family home in Valencia. A beautiful four bedroom casita set in the rural hills in a region known as Olocau. Big enough to house our brood and the chaos we create and sturdy enough for the same reason. We had a week full of sunshine, swimming and off-the-beaten-track Spain. I’ve condensed my experience into a couple of memories that stand out. You’ll notice very little culture. But shedloads of chaos. Funny that.

• On our departure day, our four-year-old son was randomly searched at customs at Heathrow. A waifish little chap buffered between beefy security amidst a bustling airport is a sight to behold I tell you. He was curtly asked to remove his shoes. Taken aside. And then frisked. He took it all in his stride though. Cool as a cucumber as he was patted down by Attila the Hun. I wanted to ask the guard what he possibly could be packing on such a slight little frame? Bombs from Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Cocaine for little people? I withheld comment though. For once. Probably for the best.

• I tried to smuggle in a litre of milk for my daughter in my hand luggage. My more seasoned travel companions made me remove it before the security police laughed me all the way to the sink. What’s wrong with a little milk on a plane? A lot apparently.

• In Spain, driving on the right side of the road isn’t right. Neither are traffic circles when you approach them from the wrong side. We had a baptism of fire navigating the highways of Madrid en route to Valencia – a three hour journey. My husband lost five kilograms in perspiration and my friend and I toned our glutes with butt clenches at every circle, every entry and exit to a different highway and all the driving in between.

• Tom, the disembodied monosyllabic man who speaks over the satellite navigator app, is a douchebag. Exit to the right does not actually mean to the nearest right. It means at a right approaching at some point. So don’t get into the right lane. Stay in the middle until you miss your exit and you’re treated to the ‘recalculating jingle’. We got a little lost in the dark in an industrial estate in Madrid. We nearly killed Tom there. And left him in one of the 18 alleys he wrongfully took us through. It would’ve served him right. Fortunately lady luck smiled on us weary travellers and with a few blatant disregards of Tom’s cockeyed directions, we made it out. It was touch and go for a while though.

• On this very same car journey to Valencia from Madrid we had to stay awake to remind my husband to stay on the right side of the road. This was so we could stay alive. To achieve a semblance of consciousness, we spoke a lot of crap and ate a lot of crap. I spent much of the journey talking about the most psychotic murder documentaries I’d watched. Driving in the dark in a foreign country with a palpable fear of dying via road death, it somehow seemed an appropriate topic.

• The serial killer theme was given more context by the public toilets that were our pit-stops en route. Pit being the operative word. Spanish toilets make the South African toilets you get at home affairs look larney. They’re proper rank.

• According to the song from the musical My Fair Lady, The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Plain. Just not in Valencia. And not in August.  We packed 23 kilos of clothing for four of us, including nappies. Which I figured was pretty impressive. After having condensed our lives into seven suitcases – I proudly believed I had the packing thing waxed. Baggage beast slayed. Truth is, we could’ve packed a single change of clothing, a bathing suit and a towel each and we’d have been sorted for a week. It was over 30 degrees every day. My jeans and hoodie mocked me in the cupboard the entire week. I could practically hear the ‘nah-nah-nah-nah-nah’.

• The Spanish locals are in awe of children with blonde hair. Friendly locals patted our children’s heads everywhere we went. Not unlike in a petting zoo come to think of it.  But with less bread and fewer animals. And no cages.

• Few locals speak English in the rural parts of Spain. Thanks to our Spanish-heritage friend, we learnt to say "La cuenta por favor” which means “Check please”. But we did have issues with ordering an iced coffee that literally arrived as black coffee with ice. Looked like a glass of coke. Tasted like jet fuel. At least we could pay for it though.

• My culinary journey with tapas was born and then promptly died shortly after birth. We had two slimy fishy dishes served at a local restaurant which I gave a good go, but I’m not a fan of white soggy fish or slimy fish skin. So I ate a whole lot of bread and cheese. I was also very enthusiastic about the olives and chorizo. And the authentic paella that our host made on our last night. I committed culinary suicide akin to say squirting tomato sauce on truffles - when I made wraps for padkos with the leftover paella and added mustard and balsamic glaze to ‘season’. # Just-Not-Done.

• We drank a lot. Spanish beer is good and very reasonable priced. A quaffable bottle of Rioja sets you back about 2 Euro, which is less than the cost of the tolls on the highway. And it’s not battery acid. It’s very good. My advice – whatever you think you’ll drink, double it. When in Spain…

• The Spaniards take their siestas very seriously. Between the hours of 2 and 5pm, everything shuts down. Literally. Shutters are closed. Shades are drawn. You’ll struggle to get ice if your tongue was on fire during this time. Petrol is even harder to come by. Best place to be is lying prostrate on a lilo in a swimming pool. The pool will come in handy if you do manage to set your tongue on fire.

• Our return trip to Madrid airport for our flight back to the UK was…I’ll just say eventful. We set off at sparrows anticipating that douchebag Tom would lead us along the path of temptation and deliver us to evil. We were wrong. About Tom. He was uncharacteristically compliant. But we did encounter evil. And it came in the form of child vomit. Our two year old started retching approximately 20 minutes into the three hour journey and as if on queue in some pantomime for the seriously disturbed, my son followed suit. They vomited like you see on the movies. Like that scene in Bridemaids. Except not as funny. Not funny at all. We’re talking projectile vomit. All over their laps, the seats – I even found chunks in my handbag. We pulled over at the nearest exit. Changed their clothes. Cleaned as best we could. Then set off to catch our flight. The vomiting continued though. Pretty much the rest of the way. I ended up using a plastic biscuit tub to alternate catching the sick between each child’s up-chuck. When it was a well-timed tandem vom session, I used my hand as a cup. It was one of those moments where I had to remind myself that I chose motherhood. The two feral ones exist at least in part because of me. They didn’t choose me as their mother any more than I had any say whatsoever over their wussy lack of ability to hold their solids and liquids in a moving vehicle. Like a mantra, I kept reminding myself of this fact. If I hadn’t, you’d have certainly spotted two kotch-riddled little blondies on the side of a highway on the outskirts of Madrid brandishing a sign “Free to Good Homes”. I kid you not. It was that bad.

• To bid an authentic adiós or chau to Spain – we could only do it by making a scene at the airport. It’s just how we roll. No poise. No class. Just a shambolic dogshow all the way. In efforts to find my son…yip you guessed it… pink milk and chips, we trawled the airport. We eventually gave up and settled for doughnuts. No less yank but easier to come by at Madrid Airport for some reason. Afterwards we decided to buy some perfume for Granny Gail at Duty Free. Then we suddenly realised that our flight was boarding. Then we couldn’t find the gate. Then we started running. We eventually screeched to the boarding gate waving our children in the hopes they’d have mercy on the stupid tourists. We made it by a hair’s breadth. Grim faced crew waved us in and we did the aisle walk of shame in front of 200 passengers already strapped in and ready to go. Oh and I failed to mention… I had puke on my skirt. In my hair. And in my bag. A class act indeed. Watch out Europe – there’s a special breed of ‘culture’ heading your way. The Cook family.

Residency Revelations and Doing it Your Way - Your Best Way

So we were invited to a braai this past weekend. By a lovely South African couple who’ve been in the UK for 3 years. Present were the most Saffas gathered in one place we’ve seen since we queued through customs at Oliver Tambo Airport in March. We had a smorgasbord of locals representing the SA provincial trifecta of Jozi, the Mother City and good ol’ Durbs by the Sea. At every turn in this modest sized garden in the heart of Surrey, you’d encounter at least 20 home-growners jabbering away in conversations peppered with words like  “bru” “hey” “shot” and “yah”. Jock backslapping and friendly banter aplenty. The temperature hovered at a respectable 26 degrees. Beer and wine flowed as fast as the unbridled accents. The smell of boerewors wafted in the air. The children frolicked in a paddling pool. Buck-naked. Rotund and dimpled little bodies lathered in sunscreen, expressing delightful squeals of joy and shrieks of laughter. There were even two dogs doing the rounds looking for a stray sausage or an abandoned plate to pounce on. Every African can picture this. You can close your eyes and see it. Smell it. Taste it. Feel it. It’s a visceral memory we all share. It evokes home. Images of happy summer times with friends and family. The South African braai will always hold this for us. This afternoon was no different. It was the perfect setting for a perfect afternoon.

Except something cast a pall on this day. Not the weather this time. Not an arrogant Aussie or a self-righteous Brit. Miraculously it wasn’t one of our children either: puking in the paddling pool, clubbing another child in the face or destroying property. Thank goodness for small mercies. The source of our instant downer was the fact that virtually every couple we met (besides our hosts) absolutely hated life in the UK. We’re talking depressed and desperate hate here. Each couple took turns to confess their plans to head back to South Africa as soon as possible. No one enjoyed living here. “I fecking hate this hole.”“We’re outta here bru, as soon as we can” was the common sentiment. These aren’t newcomers either. They’re current residents of the United Kingdom. People who’ve committed in excess of seven years of hard graft, sworn allegiance to good old Lizzy and her posse and have absolutely no intention of remaining in Britain beyond what is necessary in their personal circumstance. Many have even had children here. Laaitjies who’re born to 100% South Africans, however their birthright offers them an undisputed claim to British heritage that will be wholly honoured and acknowledged by aforementioned Queen and country.

For us newbie 5 month olds with our freshly severed umbilical cord to Africa still tender and sore, it was shattering. We left the braai that evening feeling disheartened. And a little sad. We felt that perhaps we didn’t get the memo. We’d missed the boat. Did they know something that we didn’t? Why after 10 years in a country where a couple have been able to secure good jobs, purchase property, raise healthy children, enjoy travel, develop a network of friends – would their automatic default setting be to return to South Africa? And for little justification beyond, “We hate it here. We’ve always hated it here” and “We miss our family.” Is it really that terrible here? And if it really is so bad, why in the hell would you stay for 10 years?

I admit that I’m no stranger to the popular practice that sees Saffas arrive in the UK, achieve residency status, make some money and then head back to South Africa with the currency exchange rate in their favour and the sun on their back. Surely though there’s a little something called life somewhere in that equation. Tucked in between all the visas and residency permits. The hard slog and the homesickness. There is life in there. And under these circumstances is one really living it? At what cost? And for what gain? A passport to travel in Europe, a couple more zeros in one’s bank account. Hardly seems worth it to me. Certainly when it’s stacked up against the misery one needs to endure to achieve it. I can also appreciate that there’s a tricky lady called nostalgia who creeps into this equation with a pair of rose-tinted glasses on her nose. She starts making her presence known to Saffas pretty much the moment they arrive in a foreign land. She creates a hazy utopia, paints a pretty picture of life in SA that’s a mirage of unrealistic expectation. She cultivates a sense of ‘grass is greener’ and in this garden plants crafty little seeds of doubt that grow into mother-ass sized weeds that can choke you. John Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids springs to mind here. We did this book as a set work in Standard 7 English and I’ve spent 18 years looking for a context to reference it. Finally! Anyway, back to Lady Nostalgia. She’s dangerous. To give life in a new land a fighting chance, one needs to keep her banished until she can be enjoyed responsibly. Kind of like cane and crème soda. Lovely in moderation, but a complete dogshow if you over-indulge.

By no means do we possess the elixir of knowledge on how to handle living in a foreign country. We’re struggling just like everyone else. We’re taking strain with our new reality that sees virtually everyone we know and love located at best a 10-hour plane ride away over the expanse of an entire continent. We’re making this thing up as we go along. We’re doing our best. Through our experience on Saturday though, we’ve resolved that we’ll be damned if we’re going to be sitting at braai in 10 years time as residents of Britain bemoaning how bleak life is. Bitter and depressed. Lamenting about how we can’t wait to return to the land of our birth. No way bru. If we are still here in 10 years time, this will be home. We refuse to live life in future tense. We see enough tragedy and heartbreak of lives cut short, of destinies unfulfilled. If life is bleak here for us, we go back to South Africa. End of story. Finished and klaar as my Gran would say. Residency or not. We owe that to our children. We owe that to ourselves. And in a way, we owe that to Britain.

I’ll end off in the words of good old Frank, who’s eloquently managed to sum up the point of what I’ve attempted to achieve in the 1000-odd words before this. The point of it all. To strive to live with little regret. To do it your way. Your best way. Whatever that is. My sincerest wish is that it’s not being sad in a place that you hate away from everyone you love. I cannot conceive of anything that would be worth that.

“My friend, I'll say it clear I'll state my case, of which I'm certain. 
I've lived a life that's full. I traveled each and ev'ry highway.
And more, much more than this, I did it my way. 

Regrets, I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention. 
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption. 
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway. And more, much more than this, I did it my way.” - Frank Sinatra

Our children. Doing it their way.

An Ode to The True Hero of Adventure 20-13

“Can we go back to 18 Parklane? Please. P-l-e-a-s-e  M-o-m. The one with my pool. And my bike. And my bed. And my dogs?”

“Can I go to the school where there’s Seko and Matt McCarffey? My best friends in the whole wide world.”

“No one wants to play with me at my new school. It makes me sad. I don’t want to go back to that school. I want my real school.”

“Can I please get my moths back from Grumps’ house? Can I go to his house to fetch them? I will be quick. I promise.”

“I am tired of English. I’m over it. I want to go home. To Africa. My home.”

“Why is Dad always on the aeroplane? Why is Dad always at work?”

“When you speak to me like that Mom, you break my heart.”

“I miss Gra Gra so much it hurts in my chest.”

“Mom you make me so angry I want to cut your head off with a big knife.”

There are layers of complexity underneath those simple sentences. Sentences that my four year old has spoken. Sentences that simultaneously make me want to laugh, cry and submerge myself in a barrel of wine. We did a big thing with this move that we’ve casually dubbed Adventure 20-13. We moved a well-rounded little boy away from all the family, friends, pets, places and possessions he has ever known and loved. And we chose to re-settle him in a new country. A new home. A new school. Where everything is foreign, in every sense of the word. And he had absolutely no choice in the matter. We decided for him. We pulled the ultimate parent card.

So we’re five months in and the dust is slowly starting to settle. New realities are being shaped. I’m starting to wake up less thinking that’s all been a dream…that we’re on some version of a weird holiday. And I’m slowly starting to take the time to reflect on what we’ve done. The decision to make this epic move wasn’t taken lightly. We didn’t do it playing rock, paper, scissors where the winner of the best of three decides. Although that kind of reckless attitude to decision-making would normally apply to us. We’re not a couple known for weighing up much when it comes to making decisions. Any decisions. We looked at our flat once before we bought it. We cracked open a bottle of wine, offered a random amount over the Internet to sellers we never actually met and it was accepted the same night. Our house story is even more bizarre. We didn’t see the inside of our house before we bought it. We climbed over the fence with the agent, peered in through the windows and made an offer on the way home. We didn’t drive our car before we bought it either. You get the picture. No lists feverishly created, analysed or probed. No pros. No cons. For us it’s always been simple. We go with what feels right. We go with our gut. And for the most part, it all turns out ok. We’ve come up with an odd little system to make the most of the Russian roulette of living that seems to be our style. Rather than try and go against it. We roll with it. And we’ve rolled on pretty steadily thus far. Touch wood.

Granted if Adventure 20-13 goes pear, it wouldn’t be as simple to rectify as a house with mould or a car that’s a bit wonky. It has been the biggest decision of our lives. Bigger than anything we’ve ever done. Because it has, and will continue to have, the most monumental impact on the most valued treasures in our lives. Our two children. If we were to go back to the primary reason compelling why we’d consider leaving a perfectly happy middle class life in a country we love with incredible friends and supportive family, the answer would come straight back to where we started. Our children. They’re the question and the answer in everything. I think that’s just what happens when you become a parent. It becomes your new status quo. Forever. So me questioning our motives for this move and our overall plan for adding value and benefits to our children's lives naturally begins and ends with them. We’ve chosen to make this move to present them with opportunities down the line that would not otherwise have been available. It’s simple on paper. It’s simple to rationalise it. Simple to explain it. But to live it? Not so simple at times. As the record of my journey here has shown.

It’s too soon to gauge the effect of this life change and how everything will land after all the shaken pieces settle. Will they land smoothly? Will they break? Will they form new pieces? We will do our best to influence what we can. Control what we can. Make decisions we believe are right for our children, for ourselves. And beyond that, no one really can answer. It’s all at the mercy of the rollercoaster of life. You do your best and that’s all that can be asked of you. For my son, however, his needs now are simple. Life couldn’t be less complicated. He wants a house with space and trees to climb. He wants his dog. He wants his friends. He wants his family. Not necessarily in that order. But with equal measures of love and longing. And we’re trying very hard to provide for those needs. As best we can. We win some and we lose some. But we try. We’ll never, in any contest, be crowned Parents of the Year. But we’d have a good shot at Try-Hards of the Year. And I’m realising that’s not half bad. Forget sharing. Trying is the new caring.

I’ve learnt a lot from my four year old in these five months. He’s struggled with this change. He’s reacted to his new circumstance. He’s thrown epic Oscar-worthy tantrums. He’s been cheeky and sarcastic. He’s behaved like a feral rabies-infected monkey. He’s convinced me to allow him to sleep on his Dad’s side of our bed when he’s away “to protect Mom from the dinosaurs”. He’s also curled into my arms and released heart-wrenching sobs. He’s never pretended to feel anything other than what he expressed. And he’s expressed all of it. The vulnerable, the rabid and the disturbing. And this has allowed him to adapt in a healthy way. To come to terms with his new life. On his terms. At his own pace. His adaption has shown a profound resilience of spirit and strength. It’s an example of how to live genuinely. To live with feeling. At all times. To always be real. I will carry this with me. And one day share with him how he truly inspired me. And continues to. He’s been the unsung hero of Adventure 20-13. A true champion. Brave and courageous in the face of some scary stuff and some even scarier teeth.

In time, the angry outbursts and impassioned pleas to “leave English” and be taken home have diminished. I’ve also had fewer death threats. Never a bad thing that. Sometimes, though, our son will see a Labrador in the park or on his walk to school and later that night when I’m tucking him into bed, there’ll be a reference to how he aches for his beloved dog Gra. And there will be tears. His and mine. As we both remember a pet we dearly miss. But the moment will pass. And we move on. As human beings do. One foot in front of the other. 'n boer maak a plan ek se. He made a remark a couple of weeks ago that made me smile: “Mummy” he said, “You’re looking pale. Are you feeling poorly?” Poorly!! I ask you! He’s settling. No doubt about it. Using the local jargon is a clear sign of integration. We couldn’t be more proud of our little hero. Worried about what other toff sayings he might pick up. A little nervous perhaps of a Pom accent that he’s started to develop. But proud none-the-less. And blessed. Blessed beyond measure.

Our Hero of Adventure 20-13.

Managing Beastly Bus Brethren, Avoiding TB on the Tube and Staying on the Rails

Here are my rules of engagement for how to handle public transport in the UK:

• If you don’t have the correct change for the bus, crying doesn’t help. You will have to fork over a £5 note for a £3 fare and lose your change. Even if you jump up and down and stamp your foot. Even if you click your tongue or say “hayibo" or "eish" or "jislaaik” and plead complete and genuine ignorance. I have tried all of the above. To no avail. You will not win. It’s just the way it is. No one cares. The bus driver least of all. He scores. He points to the tiny sign that reads “exact fare required” as he takes your cash. You will want to smash his smug unhelpful little face into his little Plexiglass corner. He knows it. He also knows that he’ll get a bonus McFlurry on the way home. Compliments of the ignorant Saffa foreigner. But let him have his McFlurrry. Don’t get mad. Get even. Next time, present the exact £3 fare in 1, 2 and 5 pence coins. Don’t wait for him to count it. Make like haughty Victoria Beckham and swan off.
• Asking directions from aforementioned bus driver is like asking for fashion advice from Lady Gaga. You’ll get nowhere and you’ll look and feel like a tool. Don’t do it. If you’re not sure of the route, plan ahead. Call the helpline. Don’t board the bus to find out. You’ll be sorry. Mr. Smug Unhelpful will not help.
• Holding up the queue while you ask for these directions results in that creepy feeling you get when you can feel multiple sets of eyes boring into the back of your head. Negative bad energy and kooky karma with centripetal force. You can feel it for days after and you wonder if it’s left a mark. It has. On your ego.
• You will undoubtedly have a number of witnesses as you lug a pram overladen with groceries and your fidgety toddler onto the bus. You will huff and puff and your wine bottles will clink. A rogue pack of nappies may fall out. But no one will help you. Get over this. Don’t sulk. Get clever about how you pack your groceries. Use a backpack or a fanny pack. Ok a backpack. I just wanted to type the words fanny pack. Fanny pack. Fanny pack. Ok I’m over it now. Don’t hang too much from the sides of the pram. Buy your wine online.
• The buses in Windsor are mostly used by geriatrics. Grumpy geriatrics who don’t give a damn about a lot of things. Manners, patience and tolerance. Some aren’t fond of bathing either. Stand away rather than sit among them. They also don’t like children so keep your over-excited sproglets quiet and hidden with chocolate buttons (for the little one) and bribe trips to Legoland (for the older one). Don’t try and engage in any kind of conversation with the aged. These are not Mrs Doubtfire-esque souls with gumdrops in their housecoats and watery eyes. They are rude crotchety old bags with evil powers and whiskers. They’re pissed at the world because they’re old. It’s not your fault. Don’t take it personally. You are a nice person with perfectly normal children. It’s none of their business that your son is not at school/ his hair is too long/he sits with his feet on the seat. Or that your daughter isn’t wearing mittens/still uses a pacifier at 18 months/and clings to a dirty cloth for comfort. None of their business at all.
• If your kids distract you and you miss your stop, don’t bother appealing to the driver for help. He’ll carry on driving. You have to push that red button. The drivers are programmed only to respond to that button. Don’t try communicating like a human being. They’re like robots. Except Wall-e has more heart. Apologies Wall-e. I once lugged my children 1km further than we needed to because I missed my stop and wasn’t quick enough off the mark with the button. Now I’m like Oscar P. Effective with speed and triggers. I also keep my finger on the button at all times. That helps.
• When you’re boarding a train alone with your rotund little toddler seated in the pram and a 4 year old on foot, you physically cannot lift the pram and steer it up onto the train at the same time. Your 4 year old also can’t pull it up while you push. At that age, they’re just not strong enough. They need about 5 more years. Or 20 more kilos. Whichever comes first. In this instance you will have to do the unthinkable and ask a random stranger for help. Pick wisely. Avoid businesspeople or teenagers. The former will pretend not to hear you. The latter will also pretend not to hear you. Look for middle-aged women. Not businesswomen. Tourists. Not Chinese tourists either. They weigh less than your son. Look for a healthy mid-Western yank with big hair and a big bag. They’re friendly and happy to help.
• On the train you are almost guaranteed not get a seat because you’re last on it. You will stand with your daughter in her pram in the aisle and your son will sit on the floor. The group of teens sporting their ubiquitous Beats by Dr Dre headphones will continue to thumb flick through their smart phones. The businessmen will busy themselves on their tablets. No one will move a muscle or flick any eyelid in your direction. No one will offer you a seat. Not even when you squat on the floor alongside your son. Or when you finally give up all pretence of social sophistication and succumb to sitting on the floor like a dog.
• On the tube, no one makes eye contact. No one talks. No one smiles. It’s like being in the waiting room for a terminal cancer clinic where everyone’s getting their white blood cell count result. Depressing. This is just how it is. No one is in mourning. Nothing happened. Don’t try and make eye contact. Don’t try and smile. You’ll be shot down. Down to Chinatown.
• When there’s a heat wave, try to avoid the tube if at all possible. I got stuck last week standing on a tube that was packed with more travellers than should have been legal outside of Mumbai. No air-conditioning or regular influx of fresh air means that the atmosphere positively heaves with humans and their emissions. You can virtually see the rancid little bacteria multiply and morph into some strain of streptococcus that develops into a raging pneumococcal infection. The body odour factor is just as toxic and I have to admit there were times when I vommed a little in my mouth. When it’s over 30 degrees, just don’t take the tube. Ever. Not even for 2 stops. The public transport infrastructure is not geared to temperatures of this degree. The whole thing collapses. No one knows what to do. Rather take a taxi with aircon. It’s worth the fiver. It’s worth 5 fivers.
• Apparently on a Friday afternoon at around 3pm, there’s a high likelihood of a disruption to the train schedule as a result of a suicide by train. Especially on high-speed train lines. Locals macabrely refer to this incident as a “one-under”. If you’re at Paddington station trying to make your way home and the digital information board goes blank and your train is cancelled until further notice, there’s a strong chance that they’re scraping some poor blighter off the tracks. The train driver is probably breathing into a paper bag and the passengers on board are getting riled up over the inconsiderate nature of the person who chose to screw up their schedule. In fact the passenger mob mentality is so feral that if the jumper wasn’t already a goner, they’d probably maul him to pieces themselves. No one is particularly sympathetic to the person whose body is being collected in 14 bin liners. The Poms don’t take kindly to having their commute disrupted, especially by means as inconvenient as a suicide. My advice would be that if you’re considering a one-way trip to the other side, don’t do it on British Rail. St. Peter will probably deduct points off at the Pearly Gates. If an adventure death is your style, I’d consider a little sayonara off Tower Bridge with some lead boots or a pair of wedges. That should do it. No mess. No fuss. A little splash. Cute, yet effective. But then that’s just me.

British Rail's Attempt at Health & Safety. Should read: Don't off yourself on this track. Not cool.

From Camel-toe and Corsets to Wedges Never Winning Me Over

I've certainly banged the drum about the rules in this country. How driving without insurance gets your name in the paper and not in the society pages. Getting away with avoiding tax is as likely as getting a tan in December. Allowing your kid to bunk school for a weekend sneakaway, his academic report is blemished until University. Talking on your cellphone at a petrol station, you’ll get publically shamed and lambasted over the PA system. Rules are what govern this little island and its people. And for the most part, it’s good because these rules mean that everything works. Nothing is poked. Facilities are clean. Public toilets never look as though they’ve hosted a crime scene from an episode of Dexter. Buses and trains are on schedule. If there’s a slight delay, it makes the news. This is a first world country and the public infrastructure reflects this.

Where there’s a massive irony though is that for such a strait laced though-shalt-not-let-one’s-child-come-to-school-with-peanuts society, they’re very lax in another area. And no, I don’t mean in dental hygiene. There’s that. We’ve been there. Got the tooth decay. What I refer to in this instance is the Brits and fashion. There are no rules in Britain. No fashion police. Everything and anything goes.

- No one bats an eyelid at a pair of camel-toe-esque leopard print tights worn with a corset and accessorised with knee high boots to the supermarket at 10am on a weekday morning.
- When the temperature rises above 15 degrees, it’s perfectly acceptable to don your bikini in a public park. If you don’t happen to have swimwear on hand, you can strip down to your underwear. No one comes running with a towel to cover your dignity.

- You can wear a onesie if you’re an adult. You can pair this with Ugg boots and a cowboy hat. Even if you’re simply popping into the newsagents on the high street. No one thinks you’re a bride or groom on a hen or stag party. No one takes pictures.

- See-through apparel is acceptable. Shirts, pants, dresses. Even worn to the post office. In fact, flashing flesh of any description is fine. Chest, bottom or leg.

-  School uniforms can be so short the teenage girls wearing them need to wax. And I’m not referring to their legs. Makeup for schoolgirls is also acceptable it appears. False lashes included.

- You can wear 6-inch heels, a latex skirt and fishnets to drop off your child at school.

Since living in this land of anomalies, I’ve realised that South Africa is still a very conservative country. For all its democratic freedom and social inclusion, there’s still a very restrictive attitude when it comes to fashion. Britain and London, in particular, has moved past this. The melting pot of cultures and identities that make up this city are not concerned with making any kind of judgment on the basis of skirt length or appropriateness of attire. There’s a laisser faire attitude to fashion here. And while I'm still working to get over my “holy crap is she honestly wearing that” attitude, I find it all rather refreshing.

There must be such a sense of freedom in being able to throw on an ensemble based on exactly how you feel in the moment. No anguish about whether it fits, whether it’s right. Whether your bum looks gargantuan, your love handles ooze from the sides or your saddlebags jiggle. No fear of judgement, ridicule or mockery. You choose your fashion rules for your life. Because it’s your life. There’s something awesome in that. I want to try and learn from this country’s attitude to embracing all people and their fashion choices from the sublime to the ridiculous. I want to try then to raise my children with this liberating sense of open-mindedness. Remember I’m the one who tells them they’ll die if they touch the stove or venture too far away from me in the supermarket. I have a long way to go when it comes to tactful teaching so it will have to be baby steps. If you’ve seen how I walk, baby steps are both a literal and figurative hurdle for me. But I’m committed to the cause. I want to raise amazing human beings. I plan to ensure that the next time my son begs to wear his sister’s metallic silver belt to school, I don’t tell him that boys don’t wear shiny belts. I let him wear the belt. As camp as it looks. Who cares? He doesn’t. And that’s really what matters. I will allow my daughter to choose her outfits and she may (god forbid) develop a penchant for bright pink or Hello Kitty. The devil's in the detail and in my opinion that detail is Hello Kitty and its elk. So it will be a challenge for me. But I won't bribe her to wear what I want as I’d planned. I'll let her choose. I honour her with the freedom to express herself as she sees fit. As long as she doesn’t choose wedges. I will disown her if she comes home with a pair of wedges. I can’t stand them. Nor can I understand how the hell they’ve lasted so long as a trend. The mind boggles. Salavatore Ferragamo was the Italian designer responsible for the ugliest footwear style known to woman. Thanks Mr. F. Too many Bellinis in the sun perhaps? He's no. 11 of 14 kids. That’s got to mess with your head. So many brothers and sisters. Maybe that was the start of it...maybe he felt he needed to find a way to wedge himself into the brood for some attention? Either way. Something went terribly wrong somewhere. No disrespect Mr. F, the rest of your stuff is awesome. Just not the wedge.

Clearly, I have a long way to go in my Learn to Love the World Through Fashion (even Fashion that is Revolting) Appreciation Project. I’ll keep you posted on how I go. In the meantime, step away from the wedges. Go for the Mary-Janes or pumps instead. Baby steps Sally. Baby steps.

Hyde Park sunbather. Leopard pant and all. Gotta love London.

Cruising Life in the Slow Lane

My new job involves a bit of a commute. It’s what we’d describe in SA as a moerse trek. An hour’s drive each way. But to the Pom-a-longs, it’s nothing. They’re used to driving for days simply to have clotted cream scones or a special pint. I’d bitch having to drive 30 kilometres in South Africa. Now I do 122 kilometres every day. I’ve had to change my attitude here. Distance is a state of mind. Everyone does it. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that most people live in a shoebox so venturing out to wide open spaces is a prerequisite if you don’t want to lose all your piggies and end up in the looney bin.

Every morning I set off west from the city. Past Maidenhead. Past Henley on Thames. I pass through three counties. Berkshire through Buckinghamshire to Oxfordshire. To a region that’s known as the Cotwolds. I go through two villages. Think beautiful stone cottages set against green pastures. Think tractors. Think cows. Think sheep. To fill the time, I amuse myself with a little comparison of my journey to work here versus my journey to work in South Africa. Ok so we’d also have tractors at home. There’d usually be one broken down on Fields Hill. There’d be cows and sheep too. Tied with rope. On the back of a bakkie crawling along the highway. En route to a politician’s shindig in a marquee in his back garden. There’d even be stones. Except not clad on the walls of cottages. They'd be strategically placed on the roofs of houses to keep them from blowing off. Or littered under the highway bridges after a car-stoning fest. This kind of comparison analysis amuses me. For a long time. I have a simple mind. Clearly.

My journey would probably be a little faster were it not for the fact that before we knew I’d be commuting to work on my own steam and not via public transport, we purchased a gas guzzling 4x4. Our car is a family car. Great for city life. Bunging your kids and groceries in the boot. Comfort – check. Safety – check. Hitting other cars and emerging unscathed – check. But it’s not such a good car for commuting. It chows petrol faster than pacman eats those dots. The only way to make our vehicle remotely efficient is to drive at a particular speed. We’ve worked out it’s 60 miles per hour for long distances. Which is just under 100km per hour. This means I’m relegated to the slow lane on the highway. The pantechnicon trucks pass me. The tractors pass me. Every granny in Berkshire passes me. Most likely twice. They can pull over. Haul out their walkers. Have a spot of tea. Talk about the Queen. And then still overtake me. It’s excruciatingly slow. But what’s different here to SA is that no one creeps up my boot, flashes their lights or hoots like a lunatic. I’m left alone to drive at my snail’s pace with no judgment. There are three lanes and everyone finds their groove. Sally’s found her groove. And it’s slow. Which is a good thing. Because I’m still not quite sure of how to navigate the narrow country lanes with the cyclists who take up a third of the width. They’re like kamikaze pilots. I’m the only one of this opinion though. The Brits are completely unfazed by the presence of the little peddling legs attached to what look to me like neon tortoises hunched over the handlebars. They’ll happily slow their cars down to a crawl and then wait to overtake giving a ridiculously wide berth. In SA, it would be carnage. Sideswiped cyclists littered all over the road. Their bikes loaded on the back of a bakkie for scrap metal. I nearly took a cyclist out on my first trip to work last week. I came around the corner and there he was. Peddling genteelly. Not a care in the world. Strangely calm for someone who nearly had his face planted on my bonnet. I was so close I could see his armpit hair. I wanted to stop my car. Get out. And bitch slap him. You know that feeling when one of your kids gets perilously close to being injured by running into a busy road or stepping too close to the edge of a balcony? In that terrifying instant, you go cold from shock. Your heart explodes in your chest. And then once the immediate danger is over, the rage kicks in and all you want to whack the imp for putting you through the anguish. This may just be me though. Probably is.

Unless I can ensure I don’t plough into Queen-fearing Granny as she overtakes me on the M40 towards Oxford. And I manage to avoid cannonballing a cyclist. Or fleecing a sheep with my bumper. I have to admit that I’m quite partial to my weekday journeys to the office. As much as I miss the good old N2 and M13 and their familiar routes driving me home, there’s something magical about the winding country roads, beautiful stone cottages and fields of green. I used to favour a foot-flat pace and I'd automatically choose the fast lane. A slower pace to take in the scenery to me was just a waste of time. I'm starting to change my mind though. This life in the slow lane ain't half bad. It ain't half bad at all.

Step outside my office.

Who I meet when I pull out of the office car park.