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.

Daytime TV for Desperate Housewives

If you’re an executive in the UK and your trade is in poo rather than paper clips, you'll be what they call a home executive. Your profession is even listed as a category on a form when you apply for a visa or want to sign up for a Tesco Clubcard. Your earnings however are nil. Until they can convert into actual currency the number of nappies you've changed, meals you've prepared or your son's fake tattoos you've removed with nail polish remover (true story), you'll work long hours for renumeration that you can't take to the bank. You do however earn gummy smiles, sloppy kisses, clumsier air kisses and monkey-clinging hugs. You're rich beyond measure but sadly you can't buy any clothes from Hobbs, Whistles or Joules. Earnings and rewards aside, if you're a home executive, you’ll most certainly have encountered daytime TV. Whether you’re sweeping and mopping the floor or folding your umpteenth pair of toddler tights or boys briefs, your background ambience will be daytime TV. No question. In my head I like to think I’m a cultured lass who industriously tends to home and hearth against a soundtrack of classical music. Beethoven or Bach perhaps. Truth is, I’m a low-class gossipmonger who loves nothing more than the background blarings of some outrageous news or lifestyle TV show. The filthier the better. The more graphic the better. I do not appear to hold one refined sensibility whatsoever. If I do, I haven't found it yet. I cackle and snort just like those witches in Macbeth. Probably louder.

I’m spoilt for freaky fodder in the UK. Lorraine kicks off in the early morning. It’s a weekday morning lifestyle and entertainment show. She’s a Scottish lady who talks to a whole lot of people about a whole lot of stuff. She’s a salt of the earth type, except I’m rarely able to understand her, so thick is her Scottish brogue. This means I miss a lot. And I have to conjecture a whole lot more. But the newsy bits I can understand entertain me and I’ve found that it helps me to contextualise a little more of the British way of life. As warped and frankly speaking cocked up as it may be. And there’s something about her accent that I really enjoy. It’s nurturing somehow. She alternates her days with another lady presenter. I don’t know her name. She sports a fringe so close to her eyelashes that I can’t look at her. I have to change the channel it irritates me so much. I just want to hack off her fringe. It's all I can think of doing. So I watch Lorraine and half understand her half of the time.

Following Lorraine is The Jeremy Kyle show. I have to admit that I don’t really follow this programme. It’s the UK’s equivalent to Jerry Springer. Except Jeremy Kyle is slicker, younger, better dressed and speaks with a posher accent than his American counterpart. That’s the only difference though. They both profit from the trashy lives of the low-class who’re happy to let it all hang out on national television. Literally and figuratively speaking. The Poms are no less rank than the Yanks when it comes to infidelity, denying parentage, punching each other in the face or exposing a boob. You'd think this would be my cup of Earl Grey tea, but there's something disgusting about how overt it all is. At least feign pretence of some class like the rest of us. Even if there's nothing behind it to back it up.

After Lorraine, at 10:30am there’s This Morning. Another newsy, entertainment programme that's hosted by a blonde bombshell called Holly and her on-show partner Phillip, a silver fox of a guy who as the Poms would say ‘is a bit of alwraait’. They alternate presenting with a real-life married couple Eamon and Ruth who’re prone to marital banter where they mock and criticise each other. Just like real couples. It’s refreshing to watch. Reminds me of my own marriage. In a good way. This Morning dabbles in some serious stuff; serial killers, politics, the weather…and then they throw in a feature that’s a little different. I’ll give you an example: a few weeks ago they interviewed a guy who’s involved in local politics and genuinely believes that he lost his virginity to aliens and is visited by aliens regularly. I kid you not. It was the most entertained I’ve been since the final episode of the latest series of Revenge. I was gripped. Real life lunatic with no qualms about publicly parading his freak-show. I admire that. I'm am worried however that he's even remotely involved in local politics. Scary thought. He should be a sheep-shearer in rural Yorkshire or something. But he's got some serious kahunas to come on national television knowing full well that he's inviting all manner of mockery and skepticism to his person. That takes courage. And even courage from a fruitcake should be acknowledged.

Loose Women is an afternoon show that I thought was something very different to what it actually is. C’mon, don’t deny that your mind went there too? I only catch a glimpse when my kids are running riot in the garden because it’s hosted in the afternoon. But it’s a good laugh. The show in its essence is a panel of women who talk about a host of subjects pertinent to parenting, marriage and current affairs. The one episode particularly caught my attention as they were debating the morality of drugging children for flying. The basic consensus was that it just wasn’t right. I have a different opinion. You know my position on this. I’m all for it. Apparently Britain isn’t. 

I am however no longer able to partake in my daytime quotient of trivia. I’ve recently rejoined the ranks of working mums. I’m a little sad. I miss Lorraine and Phil, Eamon and Ruth and the Loose Women. I'm also feeling a little bereft at having lost my home executive title. I've swapped Daytime TV for a desk and subdued overhead lighting. My office is no longer my living room. My colleagues don't lick the floor, whip off their pants and flash their junk around. My lunch remains my lunch. I can eat it all by myself. I don't have to hide in the kitchen with my head in a cupboard and shovel it in within five minutes. I can drink a cup of tea that doesn't have to be heated so many times in the microwave that there's a milk crust around the rim. I've gone from home executive to business executive overnight. Things should be dandy. And they are. I've chosen to go back to work. I've got a great boss and a fantastic group of colleagues. But I still yearn for my feral cretin colleagues at home. They have a way of creeping into your heart. Like moss or mould. But slightly more difficult to clean with bleach. I've tried.

What Daytime TV has taught me. I took a picture to record the education.

AWOL pram wheels, MIA Coppers and a Brain on Sabbatical

I’ve had one of those weeks where I should have been excused from life. For my safety and the safety of those around me. I should’ve clicked ‘pause’ and skipped the week altogether. It all started when I made my husband take a day off work. Which if you know my husband or his work, is not an easy feat to achieve. It’s like pulling that wobbly tooth when you were six and desperate for one of those big shiny one rand coins. No matter how hard you wriggled or twisted or fiddled…the little bastard tooth remained attached. You didn’t have the balls to sever the tooth from the gum in one swift and final tug. There’d undoubtedly be blood and pain. And it was all a little too feral for your taste.

This should’ve been my first hint at the carnage to come. Wife does not mess with a man and his work. Wife will be punished. Karma will mete out appropriate punishment. In my case punishment will be epic. I only do epic failure. There’s no middle gear for me and my stuff-ups. It’s fifth gear all the way baby. The reason for the day off was to drag reluctant husband and sprogs to the visa offices in central London to an appointment for our Schengen visas. Visas are required for a family holiday to Spain in August. Husband did not need to attend as he was not applying. His company is arranging his visa. For work trips. Naturally. I begged him to accompany me to help with the wild ones. He kindly agreed after the begging turned to blackmail. This happens sometimes in marriage. It’s not uncommon. No cause for concern. The day’s leave took weeks of planning, schedules were drawn up, train times consulted; it was a bloody mission and a half. And that was before we’d even left the house. On visa day, after my son finished school, we bolted for the station and arrived 90 minutes later at our destination with the panicked crazy eyed and dishevelled look familiar only to families with young children. We all recognise it. It’s code for. “Thank **ck we got here alive. It was close though.”

Except we weren’t allowed into the building. Why? Well for good reason. And no it wasn’t as a result of the mammoth poo we both pretended not to notice festering in our daughter’s nappy since Ealing station five stops before we arrived. It wasn’t the dinosaur that my son refused to remove from underneath his hoodie that he pretended was a bazooka and periodically and with horrifically accurate sound effects used to gun down anyone we passed. All suitable grounds for disbarment, I concede. We were barred simply because the appointment date I’d been issued a month previously was in fact the following day. I was a day early. I’d worked as frenetic and tirelessly as the Obama army okes trekking Bin Laden to convince my husband he needed a day’s leave. We’d completed a leg of The Amazing Race equivalent. We had a small tree’s worth of paperwork. We were there on the wrong day. Come back another day. The next day. Rinse and repeat. There was nothing we could do. So we turned around and made our way back to Windsor. We caught two trains and lugged our baggage (literal and figurative) and attachments (literal and figurative) back to the car park where we loaded aforementioned baggage and attachments into the car and headed home. I even joked that at least I’d chosen the day before and not the day after. I commiserated that evening over a goblet of Pinotage and contemplated taking wine with me for Dutch courage on my solo mission. The next morning, I realised with horror that the wheel attachment which allows my son to stand up against the pram was missing. Not in the car. Not in the garage. I even checked the nappy bag. When you’re panicking, you do stupid things. We’ve all been there. I called my husband 16 times. This procedure is our code for emergencies. He curtly informed me he had no idea where the wheels were. This is the censored version of our conversation. Apparently he’d excused himself from a conference call to Russia with the head of something or other for fear that his family were burning alive in their terraced house. So frantic was his wife’s efforts to get hold of him. He’s ever the calm Noah though. He figured I’d left the wheels in the parking lot while I was loading the pram into the boot and he was loading the kids. He imparted this wisdom and then promptly hung up. I figured he was right. Not something I do lightly. Or often. Or with any kind of grace. 

I called the parking management to see if the wheels were perhaps handed in to the office. Nope. They had a pair of wellies, a dog leash and a trike. But no pram wheels. The frustrating thing about the loss of the wheels is the fact that they’re completely useless without the attachment that’s on the pram. You simply can’t use them. Also they cost me 60 pounds. That afternoon en route to the station for Visa Mission Part Deux, I scoured through every bush in the parking lot for those wheels. I opened bins and dug in the trash. My kids helped. Not a good sight I’m sure. Woman and her children ferreting in trash. But I was desperate. A desperate mother supercedes all levels of desperation. And they cost me 60 pounds. Without the wheels, my son would have to walk the three kilometres through Paddington station to the visa offices. I’m not a wussie mom. My kids are tough too. My son especially. He had spinal surgery when he was 10 months old. He’s a tough little cookie. I’ve even made him go to school after he puked the same morning. I’m that kind of Mom. I’m not scared of a little discomfort. Mine or theirs. But that’s a long way with no wheels for a 4 year old’s legs that when you measure are only really the length of two rulers. I had no option though. With AWOL wheels and a looming appointment in the city, we had to go. Did I mention the wheels cost me 60 pounds?

Long story short. We got to the visa office. Without police escourt or in an ambulance. Our appointment was two hours delayed and there were some tense moments. We all had a little cry, but we left having made an application for the visas. My son was a superstar. We walked at a snail’s pace and stopped for more breaks than there are adverts in an MNET screening of Grey’s Anatomy, but the oke walked the entire way. There and back. I bribed him with a Burger King Happy Meal and two toys of his choice from the charity shop. I even agreed he could have a machine gun if they had one in stock. Fair play. The oke is crafty. He knows when I’m in a weak spot. And more to the point, when he’s in a strong one.

And so began my relentless pursuit to crack the case of the missing wheels. I pretty much stalked the parking office. They got to know my name. They started to sigh when I approached. I suggested they use the CCTV camera footage to track the wheel’s last movements. “Not going to happen in this lifetime Mam” was the attendant’s reply. I wasn't even offended by the matronly 'Mam'. My only concern was for the wheels. He suggested that as the wheels were clearly important to me I go to the police station up the road, report them missing and see if perhaps they hadn’t been handed in. I perked up. A new lead. It was a Saturday afternoon by this time after two days of solid search. I asked long-suffering spouse to accompany me to the police station to catch a wheel thief. He refused. I tried a different tack and asked long-suffering spouse to drive me to the police station and wait in the car. He agreed. With conditions. When I arrived at the station, it was closed. Not a soul in sight closed. My first thought was that there was a drug bust or some kind of terror attack on the Castle. Yes my mind goes there. Until I peered closer and noticed a sign on the door with the opening hours. I nearly fell over. And no not because the doors opened. The police station operates on standard weekly business working hours. Can you believe it? Ok so yes the irony is not lost on me that a thirty something woman wants to report her pram wheels missing. To a police station that only opens from 9am-5pm on the weekdays. It's closed on Saturdays and Sundays. It’s one case of ridiculous after another. But c’mon. Do criminals in this country commit crime in working hours only? I think not. Crime is taken very seriously here. They even name and shame people in the local newspaper by printing their misdemeanours and their sentences. It’s my favourite part of the paper. I love it. Most people get cuffed for driving without car insurance, which is illegal here. That’s seriously as hardcore as it gets. Ok so sometimes someone tries a bit of cheque fraud or starts a brawl outside the pub. Be still my beating heart. My case of the missing pram wheels would fit right in. I can’t help but contrast this to the many times I visited the Hillcrest Police station to report my garden furniture or Weber stolen for insurance claims. Or my son’s stolen bike, or his second bike, or his third. There was queue each time. A long queue. With some serious unsavouries in attendance. And I’m not just talking about the policemen. The condition of my husband driving me to the police station was that once he did; I’d agree to drop the case of the missing pram wheels. Not talk about it. Not think about it. Give it up. Accept defeat. And move on. 

So in the spirit of moving on (but not necessarily forward) since we’ve arrived in the UK, I’ve become a different person. I forget things and orchestrate all manner of cockups in my own little choir of chaos. Visa day/s and wheels aside. My track record of disaster is growing at an alarming rate. I lost my hand/nappy bag at the local Tesco. Inside were my purse and all four of our passports. It was handed in to customer services. Not a pound or document missing. Apparently I left it in the baby changing room. I joked that I could’ve left my baby and taken the bag. Didn’t go down well. I gained no laughs. I did lose something though. My pride was lost that day. It’s on the floor at the exact spot I noticed the bag was missing and proceeded to go into public meltdown. One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest public meltdown. I locked my daughter in our house for over an hour while my son and I lurked outside in our PJs and no shoes in freezing cold weather waiting for the locksmith to let us in. There are still neighbours who won’t look me in the eye. I posted my son’s school application without a stamp. I then cried like a baby in front of the entire post office. I dropped a brand new i-phone 5 into the toilet. Yip. Submerged piece of Apple technology that gushed water like the gutters after those floods we had in Durbs a couple of years ago. You know the floods where the Wimpy on the Beachfront joked they were serving burgers and ships, not burgers and chips. It was cheesy, but so apt.

On Wednesday, I reversed into a parked car in our street. I was late to fetch my husband from the station. I had already reached the end of the cul de sac when I realised that I had left something in the oven. And the oven was on. I debated risking it. But I figured the neighbours would be a damnside more pissed at me if I burned the block down than they were when I locked my kid inside my house. My conscience and efforts to avoid being a social pariah got the better of me and I decided to nip back home and turn it off. I hit reverse and it was all fine until it wasn’t. There’s nothing like the sound of metal crunching metal. My kids were in the backseat and they were both fine. In fact my son asked me to do it again. He even pointed to a blue Ford Mondeo parked alongside us and said “Now get that one Mom!” No one came running. Not a soul came out when I got out of my car (yes in my PJs….it was 7pm at night), but I could feel the eyes. Those judgy eyes. I sprinted home, turned the oven off and grabbed a pen and paper. I proceeded to write a note that I wish had read like this: "Dear Sir. Your stupid black car got in the way of mine. Black cars are so difficult to see. For reasoning that completely eludes me, they were apparently cool about a decade ago when everyone suddenly got one. But now they’re just difficult to see for those approaching middle age. I couldn’t help hitting it. But you can help where you park. And it’s not good to park on the side of a road where you can get in the way of other cars. Especially mine. Let’s call it quits. You park like a tool and drive a black car. I smashed into it. Reckon we’re even.” My note actually read: "Sorry for being such a twat. Here’s my number. I live at 6 Ellison Close. I am so sorry. I will pay. So very sorry. I am South African. Only been here 3 months. So sorry. ”

I keep thinking that when my family and I packed, sold and donated our possessions before we embarked on this crazy journey, I put my brain into one of the boxes. I probably bubble-wrapped it. It's most likely stored in my Mom's garage with my wedding photos and Matric certificate. Thing is. I want it back. Just like those pram wheels. I fear though that I’ve sadly lost both. Forever. Gone, but not forgotten.

My exhausted son on the floor of the train after Visa Mission Part Deux.

The Windsor Police Station opening times. I googled it. Just to be sure.

The 'present' with note I left for someone. Not my best gift.