“Ignorance is the Curse of God; Knowledge is the Wing wherewith we Fly to Heaven”

Thanks to the Bard for my header. Couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally couldn’t. So good thing he did. Not very long ago, I was the leader of my own little ignorance-is-bliss-and-I-know-better club. Until I had a child. And then another. And only now do I realise that I know nothing. And in fact, I never did. And that’s ok. You want to know why? When it comes to being a parent no one really has all the answers. There is no one-size-fits-all solution for conscious childrearing. All dem little chillens is different. And so we parentfolk make it up as we go along. And jolly good for us I say. Survival is designed around adaption, evolution, being a MacGyver when it comes to creating a solution that works best for you.

I only wish though I’d been told this before I had children. It would’ve saved much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But maybe learning it for yourself is the whole point? Designed to make you a stronger human being? Pffft. Sod it. I still wish I’d been a little more clued in. I feel it then my maternal responsibility to suggest gently to all future mums, without scaring the sweet living bejaysus out of them, to approach motherhood with no preconceived notions of superiority, ideas of best practice or judgment of other mothers. Knowing and accepting you know nothing (always and forever) when it comes to parenting is so much easier to deal with than failure. Well in my life book anyway.
Here are the tenets of motherhood I held true for all of five minutes before real life crushed them; one fantasy at a time.

Myth: Formula is the Anti-Christ
I was certain that no formula would ever darken my doorway. I would breastfeed exclusively until my child was old enough for cow’s milk. I would persevere at all costs. I would never surrender.

Reality: Breastfeeding exclusively while trying to maintain a fulltime job after 3 or 4 months of maternity leave is like trying to run up an escalator that’s headed downward. It is possible. A strong woman can do it. Some may call her a lunatic. But for most of us it’s the kind of behaviour that’s just too silly to try to maintain on top of everything else that’s built into the ‘full-time working mother’ job description. It’s difficult enough you’re sitting in the ladies loo during a 15-minute tea break at a conference with your breast-pump whirring conspicuously. Or you can feel a let-down soaking through your breastpads after a meeting has gone an hour over schedule. Supplementing with a formula bottle – a relief bottle as they aptly call it – is easy, does no harm to your baby and least allows you the dignity of maintaining some level of discretion over your mammorys and their function at work. No colleague should ever have to bear witness in sight or sound to the contraption you use to literally milk yourself. Takes awkward to a whole new level at the water cooler. Believe me, I know.

Myth: No TV for my Child
Educational games, puzzles, books, sensory stimulation toys. These will be the only fodder to fuel my little one’s mind, to entertain and educate him. TV will be reserved for David Attenborough re-runs or the Drakensberg Boys Choir recitals at an appropriate age.

Reality: CBeebies will at some point save your life and the life of your child. No question. Picture the scene: It’s 6pm, you’re battling suicide hour alone after a day from hell at the office. Your child has missed you. He’s cranky too. He’s screaming blue murder clinging onto your hip. You’re boiling rice and trying to strain chicken one-handed through a colander for his dinner. You’re tired. You haven’t sat down. And you just want to have little cry. Or take refuge in your nice quiet car and go for a ride to Ventersburg, Villersdorp, Vegas… anywhere really. Doesn’t matter. It’s at this point that a spot of “In the Night Garden” or “Teletubbies” will be the soothing balm to the beast. Stacking cups or building blocks my ass. TV will win. No contest. The box has its uses. And there’s no shame in administering as necessary.

Myth: My Children will Never throw Tantrums in the Supermarket
Before I became a mother, I self-righteously believed that women who are unable to control their feral offspring should not a) take them out in public b) have children in the first place. Yes I was perched at a very lofty height of sanctimonious delusion. And boy did I fall from this perch. Hard. Flat on my face.

Reality: Every child will, at some point, see a toy, sweet, ice-cream, cake *insert what’s relevant here*and throw a hissy fit when you refuse to buy it for them. It’s almost a rite of passage as a new mum. They will start to squawk and then eventually belt out their protestation at the top of their lungs. And unless you have the balls of steel required to ignore this, you will want to die with shame. You will try a gentle, yet firm ‘no’ and then launch into distraction mode. When this fails, you will start trying to speed up your shop, maneuvering your trolley up and down aisles as quickly as you can. When your child’s crescendo has reached fever pitch and people have stopped to stare outright, this is when you resort to the place you swore you’d never visit. Bribery. And voila…you become one of those mothers with your child sitting smug in a trolley eating a chocolate ring doughnut at 5.30pm. It happens. To the best of mothers. And to me. Don’t sweat it. Do your shopping online or without your kid.

Myth: No Ready-Meals. No Sugar

With my son, I’d spend all weekend steaming an array of vegetables and protein and pureeing them sans salt, butter or taste ready for his meals for the week ahead. He only drank water. Sugar was a no-no. This lasted pretty much for his first year. Then his sister arrived. And I found I couldn’t cope with being a food purist and a mother with two kids. Being the food police is a full-time job on its own. Just ask Gwyneth Paltrow.

Reality: Nutrition is important. I don’t deny this. But does every meal have to be painstakingly freshly prepared by your very own hand? Hell no. Life is too short to cube butternut for 45 minutes or boil chicken livers.  As a result, my children do eat ready-meals. They drink juice. They drink water too, but both would prefer juice. So do I come to think of it. Fermented grape juice. Red or white. To counter the much-publicised evils of foods with salt and sugar, we make sure they exercise. They eat plenty of fresh fruit. They brush their teeth twice a day – and visit the dentist…(Note to self: both are due a checkup.) And you know what’s ironic? In spite of the fact that they eat meals mostly prepared by Tesco, drink watered down Robinson and scoff the occasional bag of crisps and chocolate bar, our children are rarely ill and their pearlies still exist, are still white and look set to stay for the foreseeable future.

Myth: I will Read to my Children every Night

Reality: You are just too tired to read a book to your children every single night without fail. I knew I was up for another nomination for the Shocker Mom of The Year Awards when one night I sat on my daughter’s bed and I said, “Once upon a time there was a princess. She lived in a castle. She was very kind and very beautiful. And then she went to sleep. The end.” No child deserves that. So in the evenings when neither my husband nor I can do proper justice to a story ourselves, we requisition help from a higher power. Our children go to sleep listening to the wonderful stories of “Fantastic Mr Fox”, “The Twits” or “Charlotte’s Web” being read to them by someone who’s super engaging. Does all the voices. Who never gets tired. And who just so happens to be from an iPad. Judge if you will, but it works. For us. It wasn’t what we planned, but it’s the best we can do.

Myth: I do not need Anti-Depressants. I can Cope. I am a Supermom. I can Do it All. Perfectly

Reality: Post-partum hormones can inflict as much damage to a woman’s psyche as watching Fashion TV or too many episodes of America’s Next Top Model can. Immediately after birth you are expected to trot home with your perfect feeder-sleeper bundle of joy. Tend to home and hearth deliriously happy. Looking as slim and trim as your pre-natal self. Welcoming streams of visitors in to your immaculate home to coo over contented baby and enjoy freshly home baked muffins. This state of postpartum bliss only happens on Days of our Lives to actresses who were never pregnant to begin with, who troll around on a fake set all day. It is la-la land. What is real though is the rinse and repeat cycle of broken sleep, a grisly baby, a messy house and the struggle to settle your toddler back into a routine after your newborn has shifted the balance. You veer from euphoria one minute to a complete and utter emotional meltdown the next. You’re bloated and saggy, sore and weepy and exist in a catatonic haze of sleep deprivation and self-angst. It’s ok to feel as though you’re battling to cope. It’s even ok to admit it. To yourself. To your partner. To your loved ones. And most importantly to your doctor. Who can help. With drugs. Take them. You have nothing to prove.

I smile then when I see articles on Facebook being forwarded by pregnant friends, first-time-mums-to-be that read something like “Children Who Eat Sugar Have Lower Success at University” or “Why an iPad will Ruin your Child’s EQ” or “Breastfeeding Exclusively for Two Years Will Make your Child President”. And I have a little chuckle at the demonising of the McDonalds Happy Meal. Been there. Done that.

It’s only a matter of time before this expectant mum with her rosy glow of pre-maternal delusion will join our ranks. She’ll learn in her own way – to forge her path in the jungle that is motherhood. We all do. Until then, let her freely forward her Huffington Post articles of how to raise a perfect specimen of humanity. It’s good to daydream. After all, they say you should get all the sleep you can before baby comes. That’s not bullshite. No one lied about that one.

Fully Engrossed in Charlotte's Web

Losing his EQ to the iPad

The Camping Chronicles

So we drove two hours from home and spent two nights and two days in a tent in a field. With two kids. And we didn’t die. The experience was an eye-opener. Not all bad. Not all good. Kind of like trying an exotic dish for the first time. You weren’t completely sure to begin with, but you may need to try it a few more times to be certain of exactly how you feel about it. I’ve given the experience a lot of thought and I’ve decided that camping is a lot like making a speech…

You Need to be Prepared

- Never is there a bigger trainwreck (except of course an actual trainwreck) than when someone tries and fails to wing a speech. To go off script and shoot from the hip. With spectacularly bad results. I’ve watched it happen. I’ve clenched my buttocks in shame, horror and mortification for the person making a complete jackass of themselves on a stage. While the audience sits helplessly through the ordeal. Wincing at every word and trapped for the duration. Hell, it’s been me a couple of times – the git on the stage that is. Not that I knew it at the time of course. Although my wedding speech is immortalized on a DVD hidden away never to see the light of day unless my children beg me to see it when I’m a geriatric. Anyway, like a good speech - you cannot wing camping. There’s no going off piste. You need to plan. You need lists. You need stuff. 



- What stuff? Well less of what you think you need and more of what you don’t have a cooking clue about if you’re a novice camper. This is where a list comes in handy. A list from a professional. You need things like a basin for washing up, bin liners, matches, a dust pan and brush, dishwashing liquid, tea towels, wipes, paper towels… there’s a whole world of little necessities that mean the difference between feeling like you’re conquering this nature thing or being tempted to chuck it all in, crawl into your car and head home. The devil really is in the detail. Make the detail your bitch.

- When you’re packing to go camping for example, open your suitcase and remove everything except a rain-proof jacket, a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, a hoodie, a few t-shirts and a few pairs of socks. Transfer these to a duffel bag. Take the duffel bag. Leave the rest of the clothes and the suitcase at home. Also leave your book. You don’t need make-up and any other form of footwear besides slops and wellies. Save the space in your car for torches, lanterns, towels, braai equipment, a coffin-sized cooler box and booze.

- Your tent is your Mecca. Seriously. Think big. Then double it. There’s no cozy in camping. That’s a deluded little fairytale brought to us by Disney. There’s nothing cozy at 3am in the morning when you’re sleeping 30 centimetres from your spouse and your sprogs on either side. And there’s a foot in your back and snoring hot breath on your face. Mankind was not meant to sleep with their children. Ever. It goes against nature. Get a big tent with compartments. Sleeping quarters, living quarters, cooking quarters. With an awning for when it rains. Because it will rain. At some point. It’s like Wimbledon. Rain eventually stops play. No matter the forecast.

- Make sure your mattresses are quality. There’s no fun in sleeping on the ground after your cheap-ass blow-up mattress deflates. This may be fine when you pass out after late night campfire revelry but when you wake up sober on the cold hard ground in the wee hours, life will never seem as bleak. Except perhaps at 4am when the sun starts to pound through the tent in tandem with your head.

- Make sure food is sorted. Again, an area you need to plan. You can’t forage in the depths of your freezer or grocery cupboard to whip together an impromptu meal. Get at least a two-burner cooker. With a monster supply of gas. There is no shame in gas here. This is cooking, not braaing we’re talking about. You want to have your bacon and egg at the same time as your coffee in the morning, not half an hour afterwards.

- Refrigeration is also something to consider. Invest in it if you can. If there are no electrical sockets at your site, freeze a ridiculous number of ice packs before you go and replenish perishables at a local store close by or on-site shop. Yes - you do need fresh fruit and veggies. Despite what every male on the planet thinks, one cannot live by bread and meat alone with a packet of potato chips or a few fried eggs thrown in for good measure. Constipation is never pretty. Less so on a camping trip when your ablutions are less private and you pretty much share your toilet time in half-walled cubicles and a dozen or so witnesses to your movements (bowel or otherwise). Like I said, never pretty.

You Need to Keep it Short

- Even the best speeches need to end. And the good ones usually end on a high. With you wanting more. It’s the same with camping. Stay a couple of nights. No more. It’s bloody hard work. Infinitely more than you’d think. Setting up, facilitating meals, washing up, ablutions, keeping order of the chaos. And believe me there’s chaos. Everything requires a lot more thought and effort than your usual day-to-day. Don’t try and be a hero. Leave with happy memories so you’re looking forward to the next time. If you overdo it, you wreck every positive memory and all you remember is the misery and pain of the final hours.

- This is remarkably like when you’re at a party and the mojito’s are flowing and you reach that crossroads in the evening when you can either leave respectfully having had a marvelous time. With your dignity intact. Or, you can stay on five hours too long and the end of your evening sees you being unceremoniously dragged home with scant recollection of the unspeakable things you did or didn’t mean to say. And you carry your shame with you into the next day (and usually forever) as you heave and dry wretch into the toilet bowl recollecting one painful flashback of humiliation at a time. It’s just like that. Well for me anyway.

A Lot Depends on the Crowd



- A tough crowd can kill even the best speech. If the feckers have no sense of humour. If they’re a deadpan uptight, miserable lot who don’t want to give you anything to work with. It's the same with camping. Go with people you genuinely like. All of the time. People you want to spend time with. And have already spent time with. When you’re sober. And they’re sober. Think of people you’d be able to be around after you’ve had a bad night’s sleep because your kid kept kneeing you in the kidney, you had to stumble way too many times blindly in the rain and dark to the toilet 100 metres from your tent, you’re rudely awakened by your kids at 5am and it’s wet and cold and you want to puke and then cry at the thought of walking 500 metres to fill a water bottle so you can wait 20 minutes to boil a kettle for a cup of insipid instant coffee…. Pick those people. If you’ve ever thought of punching someone in the face for any reason, you can’t go camping with that person. It will end badly. For both of you.

- Also, you become a parent to a whole tribe of children. You indiscriminately feed, take to the toilet, discipline, entertain and console any child. Regardless of whether they’re a part of your kin. So if you have a problem with any particular kid…if they’re a cretin when you’re at home, if they’re a whiner or a ninny or an irritating little bastard, they’ll only be worse when you’re in the elements. Nature brings out the best and the worst in people.

Lastly, I have to acknowledge a massive stereotype that I harboured about camping – and by extension campers. I thought they were all just a bunch of closet cheapskates. People who couldn’t afford a real holiday who made do with hanging out in a field, eating rehydrated food and drinking warm beer. I take it all back and I apologise to every camper I ever judged. Camping can be a serious business, with serious costs involved. Some of the tents we’ve seen start in excess of £1000 alongside some very fancy vehicles and when you see all the extensions and paraphernalia, it’s most definitely not a cheap pastime for poor people.

Camping is simply a different way of spending time in the fresh outdoors with friends and family. Getting away from the city and the Heathrow flight path (in our case) with the space to let one's children run free without the fear of them being nabbed by a lunatic or run over by a pantechnicon. Chucking out the routine and being presented with a different perspective. Enjoying laughs, long walks and late night fireside chitchat with marshmallows and a good red.

And like most things in life, you can go with it and embrace it with a positive attitude or you can let it suck and never consider it again. I’m hoping I’m in the former camp. Although I’ve come to the cringe-worthy conclusion that instead of me being too good for camping, perhaps camping just may be too good for me. Who’d have thought it? Not me in a million years, that’s for sure.

Pre-camping packing

Setting up camp

Casa de Cook

Madam testing out her sleeping quarters

The serious business of braai

Our outdoor chap loving it

Not so convinced of all this nature stuff...

No Time to Say Goodbye

We received shocking and devastating news last week. Our beloved nanny in South Africa took ill very suddenly and passed away. Her death was a shock to her family and her doctors are still doing tests to ascertain exactly what happened. For an active, healthy and fit woman in her late forties with no HIV or heart complications, it is very difficult to make sense of her death and the fact that she is gone. Being so far away compounds the sense of helplessness and confusion. We have lost a very special loved one and it is difficult to come to terms with it all.

How does one accurately paint a picture of a person who shared one’s life as an employee on paper, but who came to represent so much more than simply the business end of a childcare contract? With extreme difficulty. I wanted to share a few memories I have of Flora that will remain in my heart and that I hope will do justice to her memory and the type of person she was. What she taught me about being a mother. And the gifts of love, tenderness and devotion she gave to my children.

- Faith: and in this I don’t necessarily mean religion although her Christian faith was very important to her. When our son underwent spinal surgery, developed septicemia and was very ill, Flora never gave up faith. Not for a second. I lost faith every five minutes. Flora was unwavering in her support of our family and in her belief that it would all be ok. I am not good with public displays of emotion. I choose to weep in private and struggle to share my tears. On the day we heard there was a problem with our son’s spine, I came home to a very concerned Flora. I gave her the prognosis, trying my best to keep it together. I couldn’t. I sobbed like a little girl. Snot, tears, big hiccupping cries. She embraced me and I cried a massive wet patch on her shoulder. For five minutes we stood together. I have never wept like that with anyone before. Or since.

- An innate sense of calm. Flora never raised her voice or lost her temper. She would calmly stand by while I raged on like a lunatic. She’d gently shepherd my children away while I visited the dark side and she’d wait until I had come back. I always admired her sense of peace and calm in dealing with any situation. Whether it was snake in the garage, a burglary or the time our son let down three of the tyres on my mother-in-law’s car.

- Being present: It was after my little boy said one afternoon while we were playing outside – or rather I was tanning my legs while he threw the ball at me – that he preferred playing with Flora… I started taking note of how she engaged with our children. With her undivided attention. She’d never half-heartedly do anything. Playing in the puddles, painting a rainbow or building a fort for my son’s collection of garden creatures. She was there. All of her. And they knew it. Big lesson for me.

- Kindness and generosity: Every birthday our children would receive a special and thoughtful gift chosen just for them. When I suffered extreme morning sickness in my second pregnancy, she’d take calls from my GP and reassure him that I was indeed taking in sufficient fluids. When I came home after Gabriella was born, there was a posy of flowers next to my bed and a card congratulating me on our beautiful little girl and how proud she was to be a part of her life. No fuss, no fanfare. Just kindness.

- Humour: So much of raising children is about damage control. Curtailing the carnage and doing your best to ensure they don’t die. I tend to get very caught up in the stress of it all. To Flora, it was a joy. And she’d always find the humour in it. Her reaction when Ollie would do an arc pee across the walls – was to laugh. When Gabriella ate the dog's food, she’d laugh her head off. Ollie sticking peas up on his nose, when he pooed on the side of the road on the way home from school. When Gabriella drew her ‘art’ on the walls in koki pen. She embraced it. She delighted in it. In the innocence and playfulness of children. Such a lesson for an uptight stresspot like me.


We will all miss Flora. We haven’t had the heart to tell our son that she has gone. We haven’t found the words. How do you tell a child that the person they spent every day of four out of their five years of life they will never see again? My son asked about her last week. He came into our bedroom, sat on our bed and said: “When we visit South Africa can we see Flora and can she play with me again with my big yellow truck?” Out of the blue he mentioned her. He hadn’t for a while. This was on Wednesday. The day she died. On this day, she was in my son’s thoughts. I believe, in some way, he was in her thoughts too.

And so we bid farewell to a gentle soul who loved her sons with an unwavering pride and passion. A single parent who worked every day to educate them, provide for their needs. Who embraced and loved our children and was always there when we needed her. A true lady who lived with such grace. Who was my friend.

Hamble kahle Florie. Ngiyakuthanda


Below is the reference I wrote for Flora to help her to find a new family when we knew we were leaving for the UK. And she did find a new home. A lovely family. Who miss her and ache over her loss just as much as we do.


Sent on the 4th of February 2013

I write this mail in the hopes of securing our beloved nanny Flora a home in which she is loved and adored as she is in ours. We are in the process of emigrating to the UK and Flora will be available to join a family by the 1st of April 2013. I wish that we were able to take Flora with us (I have tried!!), however as attractive a scenario this would be for our family, it is simply not feasible for Flora as she is dedicated to her two adult sons and her family and community in Botha's Hill. I have tried to convince her otherwise, but alas she remains steadfast in her belief that this is her home.

Flora joined our family in 2009 when our son Oliver was 10 weeks old.
At the time we lived in an apartment in Musgrave and Flora travelled daily from Botha's Hill to take care of him and make sure that our home was kept to her impeccable standard of order. Flora quickly became a part of our lives and fitted into our routine with a quiet grace and dignity, instilling a sense of calm and humility that I can only aspire to. Being a new parent, I often erred on the side of hysteria and Flora was a welcomed validation to my newfound motherhood, reassuring me that I was a good mother and doing the best that I could. I needed to hear that. A lot.

At just shy of 10 months old, our son Oliver underwent neuro-surgery at St Augustine's to remove a tumour located on his spine which threatened his ability to walk and his bowel and bladder control, the outcome of which we were told was touch-and-go. Naturally as parents Tim and I were beside ourselves with concern. Flora made her way to the hospital to check on "her boy" every day during his two-week stay and I remember how sure she was in her conviction that he'd pull through. He did pull through and Flora was there to play the role that I as a mother juggling full-time work was unable to resume 100% of the time - she gently and carefully took care of our little boy when we couldn't. She tended to his post-op needs, and then helped to teach him to walk, count, decipher colours, animals and insects. And he has thrived and grown under her care into an active four-year-old boy who climbs trees and collects snails and shongololos; who is sensitive and perceptive. 

We moved to Kloof in Sept 2010 where Flora took on the added responsibility of fetching Oliver from school and maintaining a significantly larger home as well as 2 Labrador pets. In November 2011, we welcomed a daughter Gabriella into our family and once again Flora embraced our little girl into her heart and she became Flora's shadow. To this day at 15 months old, when Flora leaves at 4pm, Gabriella will sob without fail.

Flora in 4 years has never taken a sick day. She has never let me down. She has been my mentor, my support, my friend. I trust her implicitly with our most valued treasures in life - our children. I cannot recommend her enough.

If anyone is interested in meeting Flora with the possibility of employing her as a nanny, please drop me a line or give me a call and I'd be happy to facilitate an interview or provide additional details re salary, working hours, responsibilities, etc. Her preference is the Upper Highway area, and a live-out position.

Sally Cook

Camping: Why God Gave us Hotels for Holidays

This will be a two-part post. The before - now. And the after will come…well, er after. I hope with every fibre of my cynical being that there will be a difference between the two posts. Like the before and after pics of the women who drop the equivalent of whole children off their weight to reveal their slender, whiter-teethed and suspiciously tanned selves. I hope my two posts are like that – chalk and cheese different. This is my solemn hope. Time will tell. So too will the pictures. 



Ok, so this may be another revelation that completely astounds you - I have never been a happy camper. Literally or figuratively speaking. I am grumpy, lazy and to me nature is best enjoyed from afar and preferably above – taking in a lovely view with a bottle of something bubbly and a few nibbles. Or walking a gentle meander along a river or in park. Preferably en route to a table where there’s a bottle of something bubbly and a few nibbles. That’s how my nature intended. I have never had the slightest inclination to sleep on the floor, squat in the bush and eat all food groups that come out of a packet. It is less about creepy crawlies. I’m surprisingly unfazed about those. It’s the smell of smoke, the absence of any luxury comforts and the notion that this suffering must somehow all be part of an amazing experience. I derive more pleasure from having my head massaged at the hairdresser quite frankly. Or sitting in my car while I go through one of those carwash drive-throughs watching those massive foam flappers rub up against my car.

My two previous camping experiences may have shaped this slight aversion. The first was nearly 20 years ago at school when our class was on a leadership course where we had to stay for a night on a hill in the middle of nowhere. No tents. “Sleeping under the stars ladies” was the teacher’s enthusiastic pitch. The reality was very different. Rain. Cold. Dark. Not a fecking star in sight. A wretched night where I felt so sorry for myself, I actually cried. Real tears.

After that I managed to avoid camping for another five years before I caved in a weak moment. This time I roped in my sister. We camped for one night on New Year’s at Midmar Dam. Again there was rain. Ablutions were slightly better in that there were actual ablutions. Half a kilometre from our camp and shared between 300 odd strangers of course, but campers can’t be choosers. Clearly. Or they’d choose a guest lodge in Camps Bay. Clearly. The night was marginally better than my teenage hillside trauma, bar one massive exception. After midnight, after all the New Year’s drunken revelry and it was time to retire for the four hours before daylight, my sister and I were treated to the sounds of a couple having excruciatingly protracted and very enthusiastic sex in the tent alongside ours. Joy of all joys. In the morning, we donned our smoky clothes, packed our tent and were out of there before that first piece of bacon hit the Cadac skottel braai. We have never spoken of it since.

It’s no wonder then that every time my husband has suggested camping. I’ve said, “Awesome. Go for it. I’m happy to stay at home. Seriously.” In SA, it was not something I’d have associated with fun or a holiday. Lugging everything you need and more to sleep, cook and sit to a field where you set it all up and then you have to pack it all away, haul it back home and then pack it all away again. Seems like a blady mission. It’s bad enough having kids and going to stay a night with friends or your parents. You virtually need a trailer for all that paraphernalia. And that’s without having to take a structure to sleep under and your own bed/chair/stove/table. Also, the security aspect of camping has always worried me. There’s no exposure quite like being in the middle of a bush in the dark with no cellphone reception or armed response. So we never did it. Not once. Not even in our garden. And my long-suffering husband tried. Boy did he try.



Patience pays off it seems. Especially when combined with the emotional blackmail of a five year old little boy. The shrewdest move my husband has made has been to encourage our son to join in his camping crusade. His new recruit. A boy who swims in the Thames River, climbs any tree he can find and who asks me often if he can bring snails, worms and weird little insects to share his bed. He is also desperate to put anything on a stick and roast it on a fire. Added to this a 2.5 year old little girl who copies every move her brother makes, mimics his every request and will eat hot coal if he so much as suggests it. I never stood a bloody chance.

So in three weeks time, we are going camping. For two whole nights. With our British mates and their offspring. There will be 10 adults and as many children. My husband can’t stop smiling. We’re staying at the edge of the New Forest in Wiltshire on a farm. We need to take a tent, sleeping bags and all the stuff that one needs to be one with the elements. A list longer than what appears natural to me. I am begging and borrowing all the gear I possibly can. My husband can’t stop smiling. He of course wants to buy everything. I have asked him to restrain himself until at least the dust has settled on our maiden camping voyage and we can take stock, count the mosquito bites and wash the smoke out of our clothes. Have I mentioned that my husband hasn’t stopped smiling?


I have never been more outvoted in my life. Except for when I confessed at work that I believed Justin Bieber deserved his success because he worked for it. It is for this reason – the outvoted one – not the little lost boy singer - I am going camping with as open-mind as my bigoted and sarcastic soul will allow. May the force of all good camping karma be with me. Please. Especially between the hours of darkness. Daylight I can handle. I’m not a complete wuss.

Dogshow in the Department Store

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things a Saffa Notices about Life in the UK

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


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

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


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


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


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


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

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


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


Big dogs are kept in small houses.

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

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


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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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

Value added tax is 20%, not 14%.


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


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


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

There are no toll-roads.

The interest rate has been 0.5% since 2008.

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

Saffa Humour. 

Parenting 101: Thou Shalt Not Show Your Toddler Porn on Google

When I was pregnant with our second child (our son who turned out to be our daughter. Yes you know the story. I made sure of that here), my husband went to Amsterdam on business. He came home with a blue bunny as a gift for our unborn child. It’s not the prettiest toy. Weird cross-stitch mouth, small button eyes and not very cuddly. But it’s a national treasure in Amsterdam and he figured there must be some reason that scores of Dutch kids flock to own one. And yes, as he has told me many times, it’s not all about looks. Ugliness aside, it’s still not my favourite toy. I also find it a little creepy. Goes without saying then that my daughter loves it. This bunny goes everywhere with her. Even across a continent. She’s inventively named it “Baba”. I have tried to get her to re-name the thing. I creatively suggested “Bunny”. I’ve even pushed the boat out and suggested “Blue Bunny.” It remains Baba. She sees stubborn and she raises it. Every time.

Last week I sat her on my lap and explained that we were going to see Baba on the computer. I opened Google images and typed “Milfy” into the search bar. Milfy is the brand name of this toy bunny. What greeted us were definitely not images of blue bunnies. Not a bunny in sight *unless that’s your code name for something of an entirely different nature. We were assaulted by pornographic images of women and their bits. I slammed my laptop shut. My daughter remained nonplussed after her first pornographic exposure at the tender age of two years and four months. She simply cuddled Baba closer to her chest. I refused to be beaten. I also know a thing or two about stubborn. I figured there had to be some mistake. I re-opened my computer and tried another search term in Google images. I typed: “Milfy Bunny Toy”. It took a few seconds before the entire screen was flooded with worse porn. With accessories. Blue bunny ones. It was then that my little girl, ever the know-it-all said to me all big eyed and earnest, “Mummy I told you her name was Baba”. I agreed with her and left it at that.

A couple of days later I told my husband what had happened. He said, “Sal the toy’s name is Miffy. Not Milfy. A milf is….well you know what a milf is. American Pie is one of your favourite movies. You pretend it’s not. But we all know the truth.” He then laughed his head off. And I poured myself another glass of wine.

And so, I can now chalk up another ‘bad mommy’ moment on my parenting record. I can now add. “I showed my daughter porn. Twice”. This in addition to other egregious no-no’s like using chocolate as bribery, giving in to tantrums and allowing them to go to bed without brushing their teeth when I’m too tired to wrestle the little buggers - and they know it. This responsible motherhood thing is for the bloody birds. And the bunnies too it seems.

I’ve also come to the not-so earth-shattering realisation that Dr Google, my once dear and trusted friend and the oracle of all my knowledge (with regards health symptoms, parenting and pretty much everything in between) needs to clear his house of some seriously milfy material. As they say on Grey’s Anatomy where naturally all good mothers go for their surgical knowledge and a much-needed emotional release… Stat. If we can't trust Google to show us the way as we fumble our way in the dark along this journey called parenthood - however will we cope? Who will guide us? Hang on. Let me Google it...

Baba enjoying a spot of nature.

Baba on Google - as nature intended.