How to Raise a Saffa Child in the UK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A little mud makes for many happy childhood memories.

The Lottery of Birth. Place.

It's a familiar scene. 

A woman delivers a baby, her partner by her side. The couple is elated. Exhausted, overwhelmed and more than a little terrified. But elated. They can’t stop looking at their child. After nursing, the mother cradles the infant to her chest, her heartbeat a soothing lullaby. As she rests her chin on her baby's fragile head, she understands a love like no other. It’s visceral. Powerful. Unbreakable. The mother tenderly strokes a soft round cheek before she closes her eyes to rest. The child’s father is moved by the sight of his sleeping family.  
He will never forget this day. The day he became a father. The day his life changed forever. He glances out of the window. A whole new world awaits this new life. A whole new world awaits them all.

And what land lies outside of the window that frames this scene... America? England perhaps? Could it be South Africa. Or Australia. Pakistan, Yemen or Syria? It could be anywhere really. Does it really matter? Well, yes in fact it does. It matters very much. For this child. And every child.

Babies are born every second. In every country across the globe. They all come from the same place. From their mother’s womb. All share an instinct to survive. And while it’s no big deal how a baby is born, these details are irrelevant. Trivial in the grand scheme of things. Where a baby is born is a big deal.

As a person who happens to have been born in South Africa, I can enter 90 of the 218 countries in the world without a visa. Without prior permission. For entry into the other 128 countries, I’ve got to prove I am who I say I am, who I’m currently married to and all the people I’ve been married before, who my parents are, where I currently live, where I’ve lived for all eternity before, how much money I have, whether I own property, what its value is, how much I owe to the bank. I’ve got to describe the exact position of the mole on my left buttock and my natural hair colour. Ok so maybe not the last two, but it won’t be long. The process is expensive. Time-consuming. Frustratingly complex and confusing. Some people strip their moer with it all. So they hire professionals. And pay extra. This is simply to visit another country. Many people can't afford to do it it at all. To live, work or study across borders? Well, that’s a whole new visa. More paperwork. More money. And that’s where they go for blood. Literally. And lungs. Those too.

Someone born in Germany or England for example can enter double the number of countries I can without a visa (a massive 176 and 173 countries respectively). Simply because they drew their first breath in a country different to mine. “There is still huge disparity in the levels of travel freedom between countries, despite the world becoming seemingly more mobile and interdependent,” says Dr Christian H. Kälin, chairman of Henley & Partners, a citizenship and planning firm. It doesn't make it right. It doesn't make it fair. It's just the way it is.

No matter how you look at it, the simple and ugly truth is that borders are open or closed to people on the basis of birth. Children die in countries they cannot escape from. Literally trapped in famine or war. Politicians perpetuate the polarity of people and call it nationalism. Prejudice has a party and invites all of its hateful friends. Those who are other do not belong. Cannot stay. Cannot settle. Do not pass go. But do pass your passport, please.

We raise our children to believe that human beings are all equal. That we are all the same. We encourage them to travel. To experience new adventures. To learn from other cultures. We inspire tolerance. Kindness. Hope. Freedom. We nurture their dreams. We do all of this in a world where we are clearly not all equal. In a world where we are not all free. In a world where a child’s destiny is very often determined from that very first breath. In the country of its birth. 

“And we call ourselves the human race,” John F Kennedy once said an ironic statement. I agree. There’s little humanity in the way we live. Little humanity at all.

Words to live by. Literally.

Down South Debrief

So we went back to South Africa. As a family. For the first time since we left. For the first time in nearly 4 years. In my head of course, I’d been back. Many times. I’ve dreamt of taking our children back to where they were born. Back to where their Dad and I were born. Back to where we grew up. Built a life together. To the warm and welcoming east coast. To the KZN hills and valleys that we know. And I believe know us. Back home.

We landed at King Shaka after a 24-hour journey. The first thing that hit us was the heat. As it does. Cloying. Humid. Hot. Distinctively Durban. And then the sense of space. The outlook in South Africa is so open. In every way. The horizon. The landscape. And more than that. There’s an abundance of spirit in the people too. We talk. We share. We’re unreservedly ourselves. And that’s rare. You don’t find it in the UK. I don’t think you find it anywhere else.

On our first night, I literally made my husband record the sound of bullfrogs and beetles outside our bedroom window. We marveled at the absence of aeroplanes blazing a path above us, of sirens shrieking in the night. What a treat it was. To close our eyes and fall asleep to a chorus of nature. To sounds like no other. We spent our days in the sunshine under that great big African sky that I speak of so often. We lazed in sparkling blue swimming pools, bobbing about on lilos. We spread out our pale bodies in the shade. We walked on the beach. Enjoyed the delicious crunch of yellow sand between our toes. The children clambered on the rocks. Chased crabs. Collected shells. We walked along the Umgeni River with the dogs. We meandered in the Midlands. My son tried his hand at fishing – the fish are safe, let’s put it that way. We visited majestic Michaelhouse. Mandela’s awe-inspiring museum. We ate good food, drank good wine and enjoyed the company of those closest to us. It was a time to treasure. And all too soon, it was over. All too soon, it was time to say goodbye.

It never gets any easier. No matter how often you do it. You’re leaving. They’re staying. The simplicity of it is brutal. Except it's not that simple though, is it. My coping mechanism is to focus on the little details associated with the departure. I shepherd children. Organise luggage. Keep a check on the time. All of this so that I don’t have to acknowledge an inconvenient truth that’s as conspicuous as it is out of my control. The heartbreaking reality that milestones are being missed, our children’s lives are unfolding a continent away in all their unique glory and there are human beings whose absence in our day-to-day lives will never feel right. And so I fiddle with zips, check passports and find mindless tasks. And long after we’ve boarded the plane. After take-off. After the mayhem of the meal service. And long after the children have finally succumbed to sleep, when we’re flying high into a dark expanse of nothingness, I fall apart with the sadness of it all. And then, of course, I pull myself together. As you do. It never gets any easier though. No matter how often you do it.

South Africa was too hot and too wild for my daughter. She missed the twinkling fairy lights in her little bedroom. Her toys. Her bath. And the cold. She missed the cold. My little one is too little to express his opinion just yet. But for my eldest, it was an unforgettable experience. A memory that I know he will cherish forever.  

"I feel light in South Africa, Mum. Like I can just open my arms and fly. I love it. I love it all. Even the snakes. It's a special place. It's our special place." 

I couldn't have said it better myself, my boy. 

"In South Africa our Land"

Totting-Up My Totes Awks

So my eldest is at an age where he's anxious about making silly mistakes. And being laughed at. He's constantly asking me for reassurance. “Mum I tripped, fell and bashed my face. And everyone laughed.” “Mum, I split my trousers at school. I can’t wear them. Children will laugh."

I explain to him that it’s ok to be clumsy or make silly mistakes. And it’s ok to be laughed at. It’s what it means to be human. Unless he’s hurt, he should join in and laugh too. Learning to laugh at oneself is a very necessary skill to survive in a world that's altogether a little too serious. 

I’ve got a wealth of experience in being totes awks. My cup runneth over. From peeing in my pants when I was in 6 in class one to peeing on the motorway when I was 33 and beyond, I’ve endured many a cringe-worthy moment. And I'm never sure whether I was awkward because of the situation or the situation was awkward because of me...

• Binning my husband's cash collection of rent money. And then making him climb into the apartment building’s communal tip to scrounge around to find it. It was £780. 18 years ago. Worth all the soggy lettuce and rancid teabags he had to ferret through in my opinion. But then I wasn't the one standing on a trampoline of black trash bags.
• As I was about to be put under for a revision of c-section, the anaesthetist asked if I had any concerns. Naturally I replied: "What do you mean besides dying?" Deadpan face. No reaction. I ploughed on: "Actually I'm nervous about the gown staying closed over the top half of my body. I'm worried that you'll all look at my boobs." There was an awkward silence before he replied: "Don't flatter yourself Mrs Cook. I'm sure we'll all control ourselves." And then it all went floaty as the drugs kicked in and I passed out. At that point, I'm certain they all laughed at me. And my very unremarkable rack.
• Reversing into a parked car in my street for fear I’d left the oven on.
• Actually leaving the oven on. And only realising when I was at the children’s swimming lessons. And they were both flailing around in the pool. In a blind panic calling my neighbour to beg for help. To break into my house. And check on my two corn bread loaves baking in the oven. Oh and to please turn off the oven on her way out.
• Swallowing a R2 coin whilst playing a game of coinage. This too shall pass I remember thinking. And it did. The shame though. Not so much.
• Handing in an empty bottle of lemonade for the Tombola collection at my children’s school. I had no idea what Tombola was. They kept reminding us to bring in our bottles. I figured it was a recycling exercise. How was I to know they were intended as prizes. And that an empty lemonade plastic bottle wasn't a prize. Except for those people who don't like lemonade, I suppose.
• Driving to school with the television remote in my coat pocket instead of my cellphone. 
• Being sick on account of too much red wine. All over my library book. And then in my inebriated state, trying to wash the sick off the book by running it under the bathroom tap. 
• Being the responsible adult two glasses down when my daughter shoved frozen corn up her nose. Twice. Also discovering that she'd eaten more than just a few of my birth control pills.
• Tripping and breaking a new pair of shoes when I was a teenager. Trying to fix them with a nine-inch nail and a hammer. And then begging my sister to go back to the store to convince the manager that the mangled shoe with a bent nail protruding from the heel was like that when I bought it.
• Washing a friend’s borrowed silk dress on a hot wash and having it come out 50 shades of every colour it never was to begin with. 
• Getting a tattoo at 18. Instantly regretting it. Spending a fortune of our savings in a futile attempt to have it lasered off. Ending up having the tattoo cut out. By my father in law. Before he was my father in law.
• Vomiting my heart and a chunk of my lung into a flowerbed at 10am in the morning in front of about 100 random strangers after a very merry girl’s night out. This public spectacle wasn't way back in my youth either. Well there was plenty back then too. But no. This was last October.

When he’s a little older, I won’t need to explain to my beautiful boy just how well I’m acquainted with totes awks. He’ll be able to see for himself. How I languish in a league of cringe-worthy that he'll never come close to competing with. For now though, it’s lovely to be the stable and sane person he turns to for support. It's a privilege to be the person he thinks I am. And one day when he finds himself in a situation where he wants to crawl into a hole and die from the shame, I'll be there. Ready and waiting to say: "Don't worry my boy. Did you know that when Mummy was your age she used to eat dry chunky dog food out of cupboard in her aunty's kitchen..." 

Learning how to Parent in the Present

I’ve always been a forward thinker. And I don’t mean in the progressive way that the term usually implies. Mine is way less impressive. I literally think forward. I live my life focusing on the future. Focusing on the horizon instead of my two feet in front of me. I trip a lot, but I'm constantly thinking ahead. To when I’ll have more time. To when we’ll have more money. When I’ll be less tired. When I’ll finally get around to tidying the cupboard under the stairs.

I’ve lived most of my 36 years this way. And it’s rather sad really. It means I miss out on many moments without even realising it. Mindfulness is a state of being that’s in vogue right now. Everyone’s trying to achieve it. The ultimate goal is to be fully aware of one’s self in the moment by acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts and physicality. The jargon’s rather intense and it’s a tough nut to crack or a tough crack to nut. Especially for someone like me. A forward thinker with little vision, but big dreams.

Since having children I’ve realised just how dangerous it is to wish away all the little moments of mundanity in between the big milestones. Children are a physical reflection of the passage of time. Their childhood waits for no one. Not even a mother with a mindfulness disorder. I don’t believe in New Years resolutions. I don’t believe in waiting for the turn of a year to make a positive change in life. Change certainly doesn’t wait for us. It blows by whenever it feels the need. Nudging gently or blindsiding with bliksem. Sometimes welcomed. Sometimes not.

So without attaching a resolution tag to my work-in-progress mindset, I’m simply going to do it. Live less in the future and more in the present. Be more mindful. Without the mantras or Facebook memes, mind. I’m going to enjoy the fact that my toddler son still needs me to change his nappy. Still needs me to cut his food. Still needs me to play with him. Still needs me to cuddle him after a fall. Still needs me.

My mum once said: “Sal these are the best days of your life. Cherish them.” 

I remember being baffled by her advice: “My God, what a crock! How can my daily domestic dogshow where I’m always rushing, barely breathing and often feel inadequate and overwhelmed… how can this possibly be the best that it gets?”   

But then I’ll see my little girl finally let go and trust that she can swim. “Mummy look, mummy. See what I can do!” Eyes bright, her round face beaming. Squealing with delight. And I’m there in the front row to watch my son receive a special mention in assembly for his project on Madiba. His bashful smile as his eyes find mine, desperately trying not to look for too long, heart-swelling pride squaring those small little shoulders. These are the moments that matter. The moments that need mindfulness. The moments where I’m the most important witness to the magic that lives within the mundane. And I realise that my mother was right. They usually are.

So I’ve finally cleared out the crap in the cupboard under the stairs. And now I’m going upstairs to wake my son from his afternoon nap. I’ll lift him from his cot, limp-limbed and heavy with sleep and I’ll bring him downstairs. We’ll sit a while on the sofa as he wakes; cuddled against my chest, his breath warm on my neck, his chunky legs tucked into my lap. I’ll sit and simply breathe in the scent of him. And I'll treasure the quiet moment of time. Of togetherness. 

My little boy on my lap. 

Before he’s back to his usual full-throttle form, tearing around in all his toddler glory. 

Before he’s too big to fit on my lap at all.

My children awed in a moment of mindfulness.

A Right Ol' Romp

When I was a lot slightly younger, I’d often spot a gaggle of middle-aged women in a bar. It was always the same. They’d be the loudest. Cackling and heckling. Tipsy and giddy, ordering silly cocktails and knocking ‘em back with gusto. Dancing like loons. Laughing with their heads thrown back, showing their teeth. I’d see them and I’d think. ‘Ag shame hey. How sad. How mortifying.’ I’d wonder how on earth they could behave that way. To me, their social abandon was cringe-worthy and just, like, totally uncool.

Now 15 some years later. I am one of those women. I am the middle-age romper I once scorned. I get all tarted up with my friends. We do our nails. We pluck our eyebrows. And our chins. We tuck our wobbly bits into our spanx and blowdry our hair. We giggle like schoolgirls. We drink frivolous cocktails, make random toasts and flirt with the barman. We dance to music we don’t understand, but we dance anyway. We cry with laughter until we need to go to the loo. Often. On account of the pelvic floor thing. And at the end of the night, when we’re staggering back to our hotel on unsteady high heels, screeching and talking over each other, we’re deliriously and drunkenly happy. Happy to have spent a great night out together. With great food, ridiculously over-priced prosecco and shameful dance moves. 

They say that youth is wasted on the young. It is. The older I get, the more I understand just how much. I wish I could go back to my twenty-something self. To the uptight madam who was so desperate to fit in she simply faded out. I’d tell her to lighten the hell up. I’d tell her to worry less and enjoy more. I’d make it mandatory for her to order a round of pink sparkly drinks, talk nonsense, laugh at nothing, kick off her shoes and hit the dance floor. I’d tell her to embrace her youth and all the freedom and opportunity it represents. And to smile and wave at the marauding troop of middle-aged women as they totter past her on their big night out.

Most Saturday nights I’m tucked up at home. In my pajamas. On the couch. Binge-watching Gilmore Girls. My old faithful laundry basket next to me like a trusty labrador while I untether tights and pair socks. My husband on his laptop, earphones in. My children asleep upstairs. This picture pretty much represents the standard order of weekly domesticity. Weekends are rarely different. 

But every six months or so, my girlfriends and I grab a gap. Away from the socks and tights. Away from our husbands and children. We simply take time out. To romp. To let go. To dance like no one is watching. And it’s glorious. A cherished moment amidst the routine of motherhood, marriage, work and everything in between. 

And when I'm out with the girls and I pass an anxious looking young ‘un clutching her drink at the bar, pulling down at her dress, fiddling with her hair and trying her best to make aloof look attractive, I make a point to catch her eye and smile. I do my best to exude a friendly how-fun-is-this vibe. Naturally she pretends she doesn't see me, whips her head in the opposite direction and angles her body away so fast it's like I flashed her my C-section scar or something. But then that's the young for you. What do they know anyway? I take comfort in the fact that in a decade or so when she's enjoying a long anticipated night out with her girlfriends and she's got a houseful of kids and a husband with his earphones in, she'll embrace a good ol' middle-age romp.
Just like I do now. 

True story.

Truer story still.

The Best of British

So I’m pretty hard on Britain. With good reason at times. The relentlessly drippy weather. The lack of space - indoor and out. The stiff upper lipped locals with toxic teeth. Health and safety hypersensitivity. Wayward-wheel supermarket trolleys. The deafening Heathrow flight path. I bang on a lot about how different life is on mud island. And it is. No big revelation there, innit. But there is good. I do enjoy many things about life here. I thought I’d share the best of Britain, from a Saffa’s perspective:

1) The NHS. Ok, so the National Health Service here is like marmite. People either love it or hate it. It’s mostly the migrants like us who love it. And it's the locals who think it’s shite because they’ve got nothing to compare it to. In my opinion, the fact that the state pays for all of your medical treatment – whether it’s a bunion, a boil or a baby – is bloody (no pun intended) marvellous. Coming from a third world country with no state-funded healthcare to speak of and a medical aid industry that makes a killing (pun intended) from the middleclass it’s a no-brainer for us to embrace a state-funded service that gets it right most of the time. And cocks messes up only some of the time.

2) Security. This one is bound to be raised. Or not raised is more apt in this context. The absence of burglar bars. Firearms. Alarms. Panic buttons. Razor wire. Armed response. Electric fences. Guarded entry. Gated communities. It’s not to say that crime doesn’t happen here. Of course it does. It’s just not in your face. All of the time. People don’t live with a panicked vigilance to crime. It’s refreshing to sleep with the windows wide open. I creep downstairs in the early hours often. But it’s to check that I didn’t leave the oven on. Not to see whether there's human-shaped shadow lurking in the darkness.

3) History and tradition. The Brits do love to bask in a significant historical moment. They go positively ga-ga for a bit of pomp and ceremony. With bunting and a windband of course. Buildings and architecture are revered. As are statues and monuments. And everything is old. Like proper old. We’re talking centuries old. There’s a real passion for history here. And how it impacts today. It’s pretty cool to have such a sense of respect for the bygone era and the diligent preservation of historical artefacts to share with future generations. I mean a woman recently received a 7-month prison sentence for urinating on a war memorial while she was on bail after urinating on it before. Actual jail time she's getting. With robbers and abusers and murderers. This war memorial is that important. And rightly so. In SA, we seem to be smashing or burning ours. Makes for a nice change.

4) Parks and recreation. It has to be said that there’s nothing more pleasant than a well-manicured bush. In a park full of well-manicured bushes. With flowers and fountains. It’s all so civilised. The children’s playgrounds are immaculate. No rust or ramshackle. The sand even gets combed daily by the council for shite. Climbing frames, zip-liners, pirate ships – it’s all here. For the children. And for the adults? All the wifi, coffee and cake you can debit your card at.

5) Walking culture. So in South Africa we drive. Everywhere. Here, we walk. Everywhere. To town. To the park. To the river. To the station. To the pub. To the hairdresser. To a curry night with the girls. Or a braai with mates. It’s just what people do. And you don’t need pepper spray or a walking buddy either. I march home on my tippy-toes (for those who’ve seen me walk) from the station, along the river, under the bridge and I don’t look over my shoulder once. I used to. Every 10 seconds. Until I realised that I’d become the threat. To other people. Who started to give me a very wide berth. A twitchy white woman with a spastic neck lurching forward and backward in a nervous gait must've been a pretty scary sight. I now walk forward. With my head forward too.

6) Education. State schools are free. And depending on where you live, they’re good. Really good. The teachers work hard. They don't get paid like someone in Zuma's cabinet. But then they're not on the breadline either. Education is proper here. It's competitive. In the classroom and out. I've mentioned before about how my daughter is 4 and she can read. She'll be doing my tax return in a year or so. I do worry though about where the play went. And the sports. But this is what the world looks like now. And unless I homeschool my kids - which is about as likely as Donald inviting Syrian or Mexican refugees to take up permanent residence in Trump Towers - I go with it and hope for the best for my kid's education. Which is pretty much my own attitude to my own education all those years ago. The point is - with a British education it's not going to be long before my children will be a lot more clever than me. Without Google backup.

7) Inflation of 0.5%. And I’m only using this in terms of groceries because what do I know about anything else, really. So grocery prices very seldom increase dramatically. The consumer price index is low. They take the cost of food very seriously here. You pay for bread and milk pretty much what you paid a decade ago. Even petrol doesn’t really change dramatically in the way that we’re used to seeing down South. 

8) Public transport. In South Africa if you don’t have a car, you’re pretty stuffed. Unless you live and work from home, buy your groceries from the supermarket that’s next door, all your mates live on the same street, the beach is around the corner and the doctor/dentist/pharmacist are your other neighbours – you’ll need a car. Here if you don’t have a car it just means you live in London. Trains, tubes, buses and taxis are how people get around. It’s safe. Mostly. Unless you’re on a night tube and someone vomits. That’s never safe. It’s reasonably priced. Mostly. Especially when you consider what it costs to own a car: petrol, road tax, MOT, licensing, services and parking. And it’s extremely convenient. Mostly. Unless someone decides to off themselves on the tracks and there’s a moerse mess and an even bigger delay. Then it’s pretty inconvenient. But all in all, the public transport infrastructure in the UK is fantastic.

9) Online retail. I shop for my groceries online and a cheerful chap wheels them into my kitchen in very handy demarcated freezer, fridge and cupboard compartments. Every week. At a time that I choose. He’s polite, yet professional. He never accepts the tea and chat that I proffer. But he’ll always check that my plums are firm, my baps haven't been squashed and my eggs aren’t cracked. From clothes to camping pegs, beds to braai accessories - we even order plants for the garden online. There is nothing that can't be delivered to your door. And if it’s broken/wrong/late or you’ve simply changed your mind, you can return it. No one gives you grief or charges you for stuffing up a size or making ridiculous fashion choices after you've had too much vino and decide a midnight retail binge is a good idea. And no one steals your stuff. Even a big shiny parcel that the postie leaves on your doorstep with direct street access. Discovering a parcel propped up against my door ready and waiting is a thrill that never gets old. Like having my melons assessed for bruising or my rump delicately handled by the ever-faithful supermarket deliveryman. Never gets old. 

10) The humour. It’s not for everyone. But to me the British humour is hilarious. From sarcasm and sexual innuendo to intellectual wit and banter with deadpan delivery – I love it all. Ok so I've got a pretty low bar. I laughed until I cried at Bridesmaids and I think I may have wet myself a little when I watched American Pie and The Hangover. But the British do it best for me. You know how I feel about Ricky Gervais. British comedy is funny when it's clever. And funny when it's not. When it's just coarse and crass. I laugh a lot here. And that's good. As Charlie Chaplin famous said: "Through humour, we see in what seems rational, the irrational; in what seems important, the unimportant." So I'll just go with that.