Stuff of Substance

Just shy of a year ago, we sold or gave away the contents of our home. Belongings that we’d accumulated after living together since the dawn of time. Or the year 2000, if you like to be specific about things. Where does one start to disassemble a home? At the arse end of somewhere, working room by room, I discovered. In order to start the great purge of personal property, I began by creating a series of little piles. Divided into things that could go. And things that we absolutely had to keep. Up until this point, I had never considered myself a sentimental type. No cuddly toy has ever made its way on to my bed and I simply can’t bring myself to put my kids faces on any key-ring, mug or godforbid any bag or t-shirt. What I wanted to keep were items like our wedding invitation, photos from when we were unwrinkled and unhinged teenagers, address books, certificates, books. Stuff of substance - an oxymoron of perfect description.

I started sifting through the little bits that filled our drawers and storage cupboards. Things that quickly tally to reflect a life lived. University essays, textbooks, letters from friends, recipes. The funniest thing happened. My ‘to keep’ pile grew and my 'to go’ pile remained a modest jumble of old birthday cards, larney perfume bottles and beaded costume jewellery that seemed a good idea at the time. As our departure date loomed, the ‘to keep’ pile kept growing while the ‘to go’ pile remained dwarfed alongside it.

The tenants moving into our house asked the agent if they were able to bring forward their move-in date. My husband agreed. Ever the optimist, he knew we’d do it. We’d be out in time. I, on the other hand, had a mini meltdown. Instead of acknowledging the hysteria that bubbled under the surface, I did what I do in any time of crisis. I pretended it wasn’t happening. I clenched my jaw and focused instead on channeling my anxiety into sorting my piles. I began by laying out the six suitcases that we were taking for clothing, linen and everything else alongside all my ‘to keep’ piles. I then started to pack. Those cases filled up very quickly and yet my ‘to keep’ piles remained a towering eyeful. Stubborn bastards. I re-shuffled and lobbed more on to the ‘to go’ pile. And then a little more. My efforts were futile though. I realised I was never going to fit everything in. I was never going to be able to take it all with us. I sat back on my heels and looked at those six suitcases with the pieces of four lives around them and it hit me. It wasn’t the stuff I was clinging to at all. It wasn’t Gabriella’s first blanket or the card that Tim’s colleagues made for Ollie when he was in hospital. What I was so frantically trying to protect was home. Our happy place. And all the memories that those pieces of life came to represent. I did the ugly cry as I packed away all of our treasures, bidding a final farewell to our physical links to the past. My ‘to go’ pile started to grow. Eventually there was one pile. 13 year’s worth of bits and bobs. Stuff of substance that I was finally ready to let go.

We’ve lived for a year now in a house with furniture that is not ours, in an unfamiliar place in a different country. We’ve slowly started to acquire new pieces of life. New stuff of substance. Oliver’s certificates from school, his prized artwork and projects. Gabriella’s first artistic explorations. And then there is the other paraphernalia – toys, bikes, prams, scooters, kitchenware, clothing, tools. We move in two weeks to a new home. We’ve spent the last six weeks acquiring furniture of our own. It has been an exciting process starting to assemble the items that will go into our new space. I’ve learnt this past year that home really is where you make it. And geography has little to do with it. I’ve learnt too that you keep your memories in your heart. And lastly I’ve discovered despite my protestations to the contrary, I am in fact a sentimental sap. The biggest woosy sentimental old hag. And you know what? That’s perfectly ok. There are worse things to be.

The start of a our new home.

Thoughts on Harry Patch

This year marks a century since the start of the First World War. In 2009, a gentleman named Harry Patch died. Harry was one of the last known British soldiers to have survived the war. He was 111 when he died. He only spoke about the war when he was 100. For more than three quarters of a century he avoided films and books on the subject. Hid from any reference to it whatsoever. He simply couldn’t go there.

I’ve thought a lot about Harry. He used his last decade of life to try and bring some context to the futility of war. To articulate why, in his words, “war is the calculated and condoned slaughter of human beings". And why no political agenda can justify it. He said, “It wasn’t worth it. No war is worth it. No war is worth the loss of a couple of lives let alone thousands. T’isn’t worth it … the First World War, if you boil it down, what was it? Nothing but a family row. That’s what caused it.” No other person can speak with the same authority on the subject. Harry was there. He saw it all. And try as he did, he was never able forget it.

Harry has made me think about how I have a son. He’s five now. I can take a long blink, open my eyes and he’ll be 15. Then 18. Followed by 20 and so on. That’s how it works. We all know this. All of the years ahead will pass by in a haze. Filled with life. All kinds of it. The mundane. The spectacular. The tough. But life nonetheless. A century ago, it could’ve been my boy at 18 called up by his country to serve in the war. Called up to fight to protect a government’s ideal. To defend. To kill. And the odds are that he would have been one of the casualties in a fight that was not his fight. As so many were. Young men. Boys really. Barely out of their teens. Each boy with their own history. The owners of a collection of unique experiences and memories. Gifted with life. Until it was gone. Taken. And the boys who made it back home haunted by a terror they couldn’t escape. A terror locked in their hearts and minds. Lives changed forever. Harry described a harrowing memory of his own:  “We came across a young lad from A Company. He was ripped open from his shoulder to his waist by shrapnel and lying in a pool of blood. When we got to him, he said: 'Shoot me'. He was beyond human help and, before we could draw a revolver, he was dead. And the final word he uttered was 'Mother.' I remember that lad in particular. It's an image that has haunted me all my life, seared into my mind."

As much as I think of my son here, I think too of each of those mothers who sent their sons to do their duty for their country. Held their boys one last time. Flesh of their flesh. Waved goodbye. Pride and fear sitting uncomfortably together. Helpless. Vulnerable. One can only imagine their trauma. And the sense of their grief and loss. And anger. “All those young lives lost in a war which ended across a table. Where's the sense in that?” Harry asked. There is no sense in it. In any of it. Not to Harry. Not to a generation of soldiers and their families. Not to me looking in a whole century later.

I think of my boy now and as his mother, I cannot comprehend living in a time where the innocents are led to the slaughter in such a way. Except the sad truth is that I don’t have to imagine it. None of us do. We don’t have to go back 100 years. Or even 75 years to the Second World War,  67 years to start of the Cold War, 58 years to the Vietnam War or 24 years to the Gulf War... There's simply no need. War is being waged right now. This very second. Men and women are fighting under the tenets of freedom, religion, money and power. Killing each other. Families are still being torn apart. Mothers are still grieving the loss of their sons. We live in a world where at the absence of constructive dialogue, the default setting is still violence.

I can’t help but think that surely there can be another way? I’m no fanatical. I have no hippy tendencies. No pet goat. I’m a simple girl with simple ideologies. But even I have to ask…surely there’s an alternative to all the bloodshed? Just how united is the ‘United Nations’? What went on at Davos besides a whole lot of fine talk, fine food and wine and a flurry of selfies? As Harry says, “Politicians who took us to war should have been given the guns and told to settle their differences themselves, instead of organising nothing better than legalised mass murder." Food for thought indeed Harry. As much as we’ve come a long way from 1914, have we really? Sometimes I'm not so sure...

Damascus, Syria - 2014

Paris, France - 1914

Cook Plumbing and Electrical

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be a teacher. This career aspiration sadly had little to do with being a nurturer of young minds or steering burgeoning talent. I loved more the idea of dressing fancy, knowing all of the textbook answers and telling people smaller than me what to do. Being able to write neat big words on a chalkboard ranked high too. In my teens, Ally McBeal and LA Law inspired the lawyer within. I also wanted to wear short tight skirts, flick my hair and skip in stilettos up the stairs to a court. Psychology was the next phase. I practiced my thoughtful face and envisaged my impeccably suited self in an office with a massive fish tank and abstract art. As a young adult, I dreamed of being a magazine editor. With my nose and celebrity fixation, I reckoned the editorship of Heat magazine the ideal job for me.

I currently do not teach, nor do I practice law, psychology or edit a jot of content. And those professions are undoubtedly richer for my absence. Life does have a way of getting in the way of the best-laid plans. Usually for the right reasons. If you’re hell confused. Time will explain. I am still not entirely sure what I’m going to do when I finally graduate to grown-up so until I figure it out, I think a lot about what my children will be. Yes, yes, of course it’s happy. And confident and self-aware and all the things every parent says they want for their kids. I’m talking now about how they’ll pay their own bills. And hopefully mine.

Oliver is an observant little chap. He can see things. Thank Christ it’s not dead people. I mean he can see patterns. He design things in his head and figures out how to reproduce them in real life. Robots, dinosaurs, even a farmer for his school project. He makes a mean paper aeroplane. Way better than mine, I’m ashamed to admit. He’s a rational thinker our boy. I’ll hazard a guess that he’ll end up in some kind of design/ structural/ building field. This perhaps after he’s finished being a train driver, fireman or Santa Claus - the professions top of his list at the moment. He’s also said to me that when he grows up he wants to be a dad. I said, “but what about your real job?” He sighed and answered with an earnest little face: “Don’t you know…being a dad is a real job Mom!”. I considered myself suitably chastised by my five year old. I’m hoping though that he aspires to the dad part later in life (way later). In his forties preferably. Being a teenage dad is a tricky balance to figure out. What with school and football practice and stuff. And the having no fixed income thing.

Gabriella is anyone’s guess. She’s a talker. A very expressive one. Her flair for the dramatic is epic and her ability to cry at will is a real talent. She’s fond of books and reading. She’s probably going to work with people. Doing something where she talks. And reads. And writes. And talks some more. She’s a confident soul so will work well in most industries – if she can control her temper. She’ll also have to stop hiding in the cupboard with the bin, lose her dummy and stop putting her potty on her head. Baby steps.

It’s fun to guess their careers based on their current characters. It’s like starting a new book that you’re desperate to read. You open the first page and can’t wait to read more. I know however that I am going to interfere. Like any good mother. I intend to steer their aspirations toward what I believe is the best path for each of them. Because I know best. Naturally. To me, the best path to pursue in life is one that includes the electric or plumbing trades. Massively underrated professions with great career opportunities and a never-ending market. Good old-fashioned honest hard work and they’re well-paid too. Just think about how much you have to fork out to have a geyser installed or when you need any re-wiring done? Proper cash. Usually in installments as the initial problem gives birth to more problems. Ollie has flooded the bath, constantly breaks the seat off the toilet and once locked himself so spectacularly in the bathroom that the entire door handle had to be removed by a construction guy working in the house next door. Methinks we’ve laid a good foundation there. Gabriella blew up a car in the microwave, fiddles with the light in the fridge every time I open it and has decimated about four torches – so a “Gabriella Cook Electrical” is not too far off.  In 25 years or so time, I reckon.



The truth is that I have no idea what these two little people will grow up to be. Neither do they. And that’s ok. There’s enough pressure in life without having to add the future on top of it all. The here and now can be hard enough to deal with. I will do my best to let them dream and never discourage any idea. This will be hard for me. Like dentist root-canal hard. But I will restrain myself. I have had good role models. My parents were great at letting me dream. Even when I wanted to be an air-hostess for little more reason than an unhealthy obsession with their glamour and high-heels. My mom put paid to the idea though when she explained that the hostesses actually worked on board and didn’t just strut up and down the aisle with perfectly coiffed hair and very red lipstick. Who knew?

So for now, I’ll quietly research the scholarship criteria for plumbing and electric trade colleges and try to work out what I’m going to do next with my own career. Planning my future is way less fun though. I wonder if you can still be an air-hostess if you're on the wrong side of 30, have two kids and would rather skip the hand-signalling and serving part of the job? I'm completely fine with the lipstick, heels and travel. I'll drop British Airways a line right now...

Robo-construction-engineer in the making.

2013: A Year in Review

- Oliver started big school. He now takes a six and a half hour school day in his stride. Seven and a half hours if you count the day he has football after school and his day then ends at 16:40. Add to this daily homework and school projects. He’s five years old.
- He learnt (again) how to ride a bike without training wheels. The first time was when he turned four at home in South Africa. After three of his bicycles were stolen out of our garden, he (unsurprisingly) lost the skill and the inclination to ride. He’s now re-mastered it. And (unsurprisingly) his bike hasn’t been stolen out of our garden. One because we don’t have much of a garden to speak of and two because children’s bicycles aren’t high on the British hit-list of hot items to fleece. Thieves here seem to prefer cash or electronics. Funny that.
- Gabriella has learnt to speak. She has conquered this milestone with aplomb. She speaks very well. And in abundance. Even in her sleep. We’re not sure whether we should enrol her in a school for the Gifted of the Gab or buy a muzzle. A muzzle is cheaper so we’re inclined to head more in that direction.
- Our children now share a room. And a bunkbed. This tandem bedding down kicks the ass out of any sleep sense CD, book or sleep training schedule we’ve heard of, but never done. At 7:30pm we close their bedroom door and leave them to it. Eventually they’ve exhausted each other, instead of us.
- We visited Spain. It was awesome. I caught warm puke in my hands and sat with chunks of masticated oats and regurgitated milk for four hours in a car and a two-hour plane ride. But it was still awesome.
- We visited Paris. We ate so much cheese that I dreamt of boats of Bree floating in a river of Gorgonzola in the county of Camembert. It too - was awesome. The cheese. And the city.
- Tim visited New York (thrice), Dubai, Russia (twice), Denmark (twice), Turkey (twice) and Amsterdam (twice). He now needs a new passport with more pages for all his customs stamps. I would hate him. But he’s my husband and I figure we’ve got at least another 30 years of passive aggression in our marriage before the hate sets in.
- I had my first proper car accident. Ok yes, I’ve nudged poles and brushed past gates. But this time, I reversed straight into a parked car in my own street after I realised I’d left the oven on. Shameful is to have to write a note that reads: ‘I am so sorry I bashed your car”. More shameful is the fact that I had to do it in my pyjamas.
- I dropped a brand-new i-phone into the loo. We resurrected the phone by leaving it in a container of rice for 24 hours and letting it dry out in the cupboard that houses our boiler. I have never been more complimentary of Apple’s technology or resilience to dummies. Respect Apple. Sorry Samsung - it's just never going to happen.
- I locked myself out of our house. Twice. The second time my daughter was inside. Alone. I was stranded outdoors with my son. We were freezing. Shoe-less in our pyjamas. I discovered that while British homes don’t have burglar bars, they’re ironically very difficult to break into. I also discovered that feigning humour with pathetic jokes in moments of intense stress is my default setting for coping.
- I have started receiving voucher coupons in the post for wine and nappies from my supermarket. These are my most regular purchases. To me they go hand-in-hand. If you need to buy nappies, you sure as hell need to buy wine.
- I started a new job. After I had the same one for almost seven years.
- I drive a 4x4 vehicle and I don’t even know what that means – except that I pay more for petrol.
- Tim now exercises. Like proper. He walks 10 kilometres to and from work. And does Pilates twice a week. I can’t even mock him, because I do nothing. The most I do is get out of my car and walk the 50 metres to my office door.
- Tim saw Manchester United play at Old Trafford for the first time. This experience ranks top of his lifetime achievement list alongside having children and getting on a waiting list for a Playstation 4.
- I left a bag with my purse and all four of our passports in a supermarket baby changing room. I got them all back. The same day. Along with every pound I had in my purse. I didn’t even have to create a Facebook Appeals page or offer a reward. Someone just did the right thing and handed it in. My heart overfloweth with gratitude.
- On a work trip after an evening function, I couldn’t remember which station my hotel was located at. After traversing back and forth for an hour trying in vain to find my bearings at each stop on the line, I eventually started to cry. A stranger helped me. He suggested I calm down, stop crying and call my boss for help. I did. And it worked. My faith in the humanity of the random British stranger has been restored. So too has my resolve to master the public transport system once and for all.
- While I was cooking and my attention was diverted, my two year old daughter who was sitting on the kitchen counter ‘helping me’, put one of my son’s dinky cars in the microwave and turned it on. The wheel exploded and caught on fire. We escaped a serious accident, but at least my daughter will most likely avoid a microwave for the rest of her life. Silver lining in there somewhere.
- We said goodbye to our best friends, reunited with old friends and have started making some new friends.
- At our first dinner with aforementioned new friends, I drank two bottles of white wine and spoke at length and increasing volume about how colonialism instituted by the British was the start of apartheid and corruption in South Africa. This theory gained little support. I arrived home after falling on the pavement, was violently ill in my own bed and awoke in the morning amidst a sea of lamb curry vomit. I have never felt worse than I did that morning hunched over a bath of bleach scrubbing lamb curry out of my white bed linen. I learnt a big lesson that day. Don’t drink white wine with lamb curry. Stick to red. Possibly also reconsider white linen.
- I have bought more second-hand clothes and shoes than new ones. Vintage is the way forward. That or Gap. On a sale.
- We moved to a new home. In a new country. On a different continent.
- We started a new life.

2013 was a big year for our little Cook family.

Here's to 2014 - you show us yours, we'll show you ours.

2013

Over the Airwaves in a Land Far Far Away

On my daily commute I listen to two hours of BBC news radio. I listen to reports on everything. The war in Syria. Unrest in Central African Republic. Ongoing Obama-care drama in the States. Bolchy Boris Johnson’s efforts to pull himself out of the hole he dug for himself with his controversial cornflake analogy. The Madiba tributes from back home. I hear it all. And for the most part, I enjoy having a vague idea of what’s potting in a local and global context. It makes me feel connected somehow. Connected to time and place. Also it feeds my curiosity. Being of course the nosiest person I know. If you’ve seen the size of my schnozz, you’ll understand that there’s literal correlation too.

Despite the varied content mix, what I struggle to hear most is any news report that involves children and their suffering. I vacillate between a genuine desire to be informed and utter terror over exactly what I’ll hear. I want to know what it’s about. But I know it’s something that will haunt me. It’s a tenuous balance.

I listened recently to a report by a British journalist who worked with an aid organisation in the aftermath of the typhoon in the Philippines. Based in Tacloban, she did a daily audio diary for the BBC. She described the conditions and spoke to the locals as they tried to re-build their lives. She told a story about a remarkable boy she’d met and interviewed. Before the storm hit while people were being evacuated, this boy and his dad remained behind at their home to protect it from looters. They believed the storm wouldn’t be as bad as predicted and feared they’d lose their valuables if their home was abandoned. This had apparently happened before. It was agreed that his mum and sisters would flee to higher ground. As the storm approached, fierce winds ripped their house apart. Everything was destroyed. They tried to take cover, but this proved impossible. A wall collapsed and crushed his father to death. The boy remained at the scene holding his dad’s hand until the rains came and the water rose and threatened to drown him. He simply didn’t want to leave his father. When he couldn’t stay a second longer, he swam away and was miraculously rescued.

The following day, he was reunited with his mother and sisters who thankfully were unharmed. When asked about how he’d told his family about their father, the boy replied, “When I saw them, I didn’t need to tell them. They could see from my face what had happened to my father.” The journalist commended his bravery. To which he replied: “I am the man of my family now. I must show courage to take care of my mother and sisters. It is my job. My responsibility. I am honouring my father.”
This boy is 10 years old.

I sit as I drive thinking to myself what a privilege it is for me to travel in a road-worthy vehicle with fuel that is readily available, that I can afford to buy. On a road that is safe. To a home that is warm. To a family that is healthy. To a life that is free. What a privilege indeed. I suppose that in order to truly embrace a real sense of gratitude you need at times to be kicked in the face with a news story like that. I got home that night and squeezed the bejaysus out of my children. Talked to my husband about more than just how his day was.

It’s these haunting news stories. A brave child facing a tragedy. Horrific child abuse cases. Child kidnappings. Trafficking. Teenage gang violence. These are the stories that make me squirm. They creep into my head and my heart. The discomfort I feel is good I’ve decided. It’s a cheap lesson for me to appreciate my own life. Acknowledge what I take for granted. And then suck it up and try to be a better human being with a better attitude. I owe this to my children. To my husband. I owe it to a 10-year-old boy in a village in Tacloban. I owe it to the world.

A Boy Named Oliver

Exactly five years ago a couple of hours after our son was born, my best friend asked "How do you feel? What does it feel like to have just had a baby?” Hormone-flushed and drug-giddy, I confessed, “I feel like a rockstar. This feeling is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I am completely blown away.” Today as I type this, sans drugs or post-partum hormones, those exact words sum up how I’d describe my feelings about our son Oliver. He takes my breath away. In a multitude of ways. I am genuinely in awe of our little chap. I am in awe as much today as I was when I first unraveled his swaddling blanket and looked in wonder at the miracle of him.

From the very beginning, Oliver was an easy baby. Happy little guy. Fed well. Slept well. No teething drama. Social. Travelled easily. Loved his nanny. A contented soul with a serious and quirky little frown who quietly took in the world and everyone in it. We marveled that for a couple of twits who’d jumped headfirst into parenting having read none of the books and with no cooking clue, we’d clearly been given just what we could handle. He was eight months old when our lives were turned upside down. A surgical procedure we understood to be simple suddenly turned serious. MRI, neurosurgery, tumour. Big words with a heavy context. Especially when you mark the word ‘infant’ in the patient category. Oliver required surgery that would prevent him from losing the use of his legs and control of his bladder and bowels. The risks associated with the surgery were high. The risks of not undergoing the procedure were equally as complicated. We were devastated. And utterly terrified. Being as grown-up as we could, we ventured through each scenario. We tried to be rational. We tried to weigh up our options. But through all the serious talk, we kept coming back to the subject where neither of us could remain objective. This was our child. Our precious baby boy. We doubted ourselves at every turn. Were we making the right choice for him? Should we operate? Should we wait? Was he going to be ok? What if he wasn’t? The magnitude of our indecision and the what-ifs we pounded back and forth were agonising. The uncertainty of our course of action gnawed at the foundation of the shaky confidence we’d been able to fudge together in our short time as parents. It was a tough couple of months and we took strain.

Eventually, we agreed to the surgery. Mindful of the risks associated with the operation and the fact that any complications could lead to issues further down the line, we felt we couldn’t live with ourselves knowing that we didn’t at least try to rectify the problem. On the day of his surgery, I was led into the operating theatre while Tim said goodbye to his son in a little pre-op cubicle. Tim was stoic and yet at the same time fought to keep his composure in the face of sheer terror and uncertainty. My gentle husband with the biggest heart. We avoided eye contact with each other as we feigned upbeat reassurances as much for our son as for ourselves. My job was to accompany Oliver into the operation theatre and hold him as the anestheticist put him under. Our boy didn’t struggle or squirm as the mask was gently placed over his face. His blue eyes were wide and trusting, as he looked straight at me. He was completely relaxed and he even gave me a little smile as he slipped into unconsciousness. Holding my baby’s vulnerable body like that in a room where a team of specialists prepared to extract a mass of tissue from his spine was the hardest moment for me. I didn’t want to let him go. I wanted to bolt out of the door carrying him in my arms. To me, it was this moment that I became a mother. In the truest sense of the word and all its meaning. I understood as never before, the fierce and instinctive need you have to protect your child. How deep those waters run. How powerful that instinct. And how you can never go back.

The procedure was scheduled for four hours and within two, we’d received word that Oliver was out of surgery in recovery and we could see him. Our neurosurgeon, a man of few words yet with an aura of palpable calm, gave us the news that he was pleased with how the operation had progressed and the outcome as he could see it. He confessed how nervous he had been about our son’s procedure. He’d spent weeks reviewing, researching and planning for it. In his 20 years of practice, he’d performed countless operations of a similar kind. But never on a 10-month old baby. The burden of that responsibility weighed heavily on him and he was man enough to acknowledge it. We were impressed by his grace and humility. In the ICU when Oliver first opened his eyes, we could see him process many things as he regained consciousness: the strange environment, the unfamiliar sounds, the pain and discomfort. He flashed his trademark frown and his face crumpled. But when his focus cleared and his gaze reached us, that mischievous sparkle in his eyes was there and he tried to lift up his little arms in welcome. We were both overcome with gratitude and relief. He was still the same Ollie. Our Ollie. Our champion. Our brave boy. He was going to be ok.

Five years on and that happy chap with those piercing blue eyes is now a little man. Sensitive and perceptive but with a wild streak that sees him climb higher, run faster and jump further. He’s a far cry from the infant lying in a cot in the ICU ward at St Augustine’s hospital. Except in many ways he’s not all that different. He is just as brave. Just as strong. Just as determined. He can still make my heart swell with the sparkle in his eye or when he lifts his arms into my embrace. Five years ago today we welcomed a courageous and special little boy into our lives and he taught us the biggest lesson we’ve ever learnt as parents.

The small stuff truly doesn’t matter. Where you live. Your job. What car you drive. How much money you have. This is all irrelevant. So too is the other stuff we agonise about as parents: how little our children sleep, whether they’re ahead or behind their peers in milestones, how much mess they make or the quantity of butternut they ate for supper. It’s when you’re faced with the big stuff, the truly life-changing stuff – that your role as a parent is put into glaring perspective. You understand then that your greatest job is to love your children. Take care of them. Do your best. Make the tough decisions in their best interests. Cherish every day. Take nothing for granted. This is all that’s truly important. The rest is fluff. Some parents face far greater challenges than ours. Obstacles far beyond what we could ever comprehend. Life or death situations. For these gladiator parents, having only the fluff to worry about would be a privilege. We were the lucky ones. Ollie taught us this lesson. We will never forget it.

In the United Kingdom of Competition, Subtle is for Sissies

In advertising in the UK, they let it all hang out. Like the vaalies on a Ballito beach in December. Everything is out there. The view can be shocking at times, but you’re spoilt for choice with something entertaining to see. There are few advertising campaigns I’ve seen here with suggestive or subliminal competitive wordplay. Few gentle nudges, nifty allusions or discreet suggestions. Here the advertising is in-your-face…our brand-is-better-than-yours, stick-that-in-your-pie-hole obvious.

In South Africa, we’re accustomed to advertisements that shrewdly reference a particular competitive advantage. Campaigns can’t reveal a rival brand’s name. As a result, everyone tries to outdo everyone else by being clever. And cool. And by mastering the art of being subtle. It’s bloody hard work. No wonder they’re all paid so much. Silver-tongued ad execs sporting the industry-ubiquitous uniform of Polo and Paul Smith, with the right touch of faded Diesel jeanpant and artfully constructed chaotic hair, spend a lot of time (and their client’s retainer) developing strategies intended to grow market share and build brand equity. In offices adorned with expensive African art amidst the gurgling sounds of a gleaming coffee machine and/or koi pond, creative teams will spend hours on a brief – revert after revert striving for perfection. No matter though how intelligent, witty or ‘on-brand’ their campaigns may be, they can never say by name that their client is cheaper, better, faster or bigger than a rival brand’s product. In the UK, they can. And they do. And I love it. For a subtlety simpleton like me, it’s bliss.

On the radio every day this week, I have heard an advert by Microsoft’s Outlook about how Google Mail scans your personal messages in order to serve you specific advertisements based on the contents of your emails. Outlook positions itself as more private than Gmail. Outlook says it straight… “We do not scan your personal emails. Gmail does. We are private. Gmail is not.” Refreshingly to-the-point and effective. The same with supermarket advertisements. Acado says they’re cheaper than Tesco. Tesco promises to give you a refund if they’re not cheaper than Sainsbury’s or Morrisons on the same items. Asda promises to beat the lot of them. They all try and outdo each other and it’s a complete dog-show of competitive price wrangling – but it’s awesome. Why? Because we, the consumer, are at the focus of it all. We’re the prize at the end of the race. There’s something refreshing about this state of transparency. They all want my money. And they’re not ashamed to say it or fight over it. The playing field is level, so the lot of them can bash each other to bits in efforts to try and secure my purchase. And at the close of play, after all of the TV ads have been flighted and the catalogue pages printed, I can make the ultimate choice by voting with my wallet. Oh the power of it all.

I don’t do subtle very well. I’m too stupid. I’m also lazy. So to be told that I’m getting the best deal and it really is the best deal, what a win. Easier than being told that my supermarket is “Good for Life” or “The Difference” or is “Inspired by Me”. Quite frankly I don’t give a baboon’s blue bottom. All I want to know is that I’m getting the best products at the best price. I’m the easiest consumer to market to. I will shop where it’s convenient. I like shiny things and big signs. I will buy anything that’s half price. Usually in multiples of quantities I never need. I like rewards, vouchers, discounts and free stuff. Don’t give me complicated innuendo or fine print. I don’t have time and I’m too tired to try and figure out any witty repartee. I will always opt for simple and straight up.

Britain may purport to be the bastion of all things educational and cultural, but when it comes to advertising, their contribution is like Walker Texas Ranger – crops up everywhere, is as subtle as a jackhammer and is usually engaged in some kind of confrontational headlock with a competing party. I find it all most delightful. But then I would, wouldn’t I? I’m about as discreet as a heart attack.

According to Tesco "Every little helps." It sure bloody does.