Dogshow in the Department Store

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things a Saffa Notices about Life in the UK

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


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

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


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


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


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


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

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


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


Big dogs are kept in small houses.

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

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


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

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

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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

Value added tax is 20%, not 14%.


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


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


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

There are no toll-roads.

The interest rate has been 0.5% since 2008.

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

Saffa Humour. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Baba enjoying a spot of nature.

Baba on Google - as nature intended.

Life Lessons From My Husband

I’ve spent 15 years with this man. That’s half my life with a bit of change to spare.
We’ve celebrated many milestones together. A bold and clueless first foray into independent life in a foreign country as ‘aren’t we big stuff’ teenagers. 21st birthdays. First jobs waitressing (mine), delivering pizzas (his) and au pairing (mine). Graduations. First proper jobs where we earned less than our not-so-proper jobs. A very public down-on-one-knee marriage proposal in front of an entire restaurant that wasn’t how he planned it. A very big wedding that was how we both planned it. First new home. First child. First time turning 30. And the second, third and soon to be fourth times. Second new home. Second new baby. Second more tentative foray into life in a foreign country as old older individuals and the humbling realisation that we were never big stuff and never will be. And of course everything else in between.

And so life together continues. Hopefully for at least three more sets of 15 years. Until he pops his clogs before me. As men usually do. I'd make a far better widow than him anyway. I'm way more attractive. Or until he saves enough money in his Swiss bank account to leave me. He was literally in Switzerland just last week checking his funds. Not there just yet he said. Still a ways to go apparently. Cheeky bugger.

Over the course of these 15 years, I have learnt valuable lessons about life and myself from a young man I met in a backwater small town when I wasn't old enough to drive. A man with heartbreakingly beautiful eyes I've always felt were too pretty for a guy. And God clearly agreed because our daughter is blessed with the very same pair. A man with a mop of (then) very blonde hair that he once tried to dye black…which turned orange…and then promptly fell out in chunks in the shower. And notwithstanding a lack of any kind of knowledge when it comes DIY hairdressing, a man who doesn't know how just how wise he is. And please don't anyone tell him. I'll never hear the end of it.

I’ve compiled a list of lessons for life that I carry with me in my head and heart - and try to remember every day.

 - Don’t sit in the sun with your head in a plastic bag and peroxide on your hair. It doesn’t end well for you. Or your hair.

 DIY hairdressing never works. Go to a professional.

- Less is usually more. When it comes to pizza toppings, make-up, accessories and home décor. I say usually because this does not apply to diamonds. Or wine. Obviously.

- Pig racing makes an epic 21st party. Just add friends and family. And pigs.

- Children who go to boarding school for the majority of their schooling are tough. And a little feral. They can sleep anywhere. Eat anything. And will remember their laundry numbers for life.

- The best photographs are the ones where you don’t try so hard – in front or behind the camera.

- Being happy is a choice. Every day.

- Supporting a team in sports means you have their back whether they win or lose. That’s the support part. You can’t just choose the ones who win all the time.

- The time between when you leave your job in the afternoon and start again in the morning, you are effectively on holiday. Enjoy the time like you would a holiday. It makes all the difference.

- A negative attitude affects and influences your reality in a negative way. A positive attitude influences your reality in a positive way. It's that simple.

- Teasing is a form of affection.

- The real ‘real’ men are not afraid of tears. Their own or others.

- Humour is as necessary to life as food or water. And just as good for you.

- Your children want to be disciplined. They need to know where the boundaries are. Disciplining them does not make them love you less.

- Any situation will have a solution. No matter how bad it seems.

- Listen more. Speak less. Except when you’re worried/scared/angry/hurt – then don’t stop talking.

- Parallel parking a 4x4 in a street crammed with cars can be done. It simply takes practice and confidence. And more practice. Even a dimwit like me can do it.

- I am not actually a dimwit. I just behave like one sometimes.

 Dimwittedness does not define me.

- Friends are worth the effort. Always.

- Be genuine. Fake is stupid and unattractive.

- Don’t judge. You never know a person’s story. Until you know their story. And then you feel sick for judging.

- If you’re having fun no one notices that you dance like a douchebag. They just notice that you’re having fun.

- Kindness costs nothing and is priceless to receive.

- If you’re passionate about what you do – you will succeed in it.

- Being calm in a crisis solves more than bashing about like a banshee.

- Saying sorry does not mean you are weak. It just means you are sorry.

- Holding a grudge usually harms you more than the person you’re harbouring the grudge towards.



- You can eat milk and sugar and bread with a dash of vanilla essence. It’s a weird concoction, but it works.

- Pink is not the anti-Christ for little girls. It’s just a colour they seem to like very much. There is no shame in letting them like it.

- Having a temper tantrum and throwing things is just silly. It also ruins your stuff.

- Frowning makes bad wrinkles. Smiling makes good ones.

- Try not to drive with the petrol tank on empty. You will run out of petrol.



- Technology is not designed to make you feel stupid. It serves a greater purpose than that. Don’t flatter yourself.

- Don’t be irrational when making a decision. You could end up with a tattoo you hate and a nasty scar. A permanent reminder of your foolhardiness.

- When you buy something new – don’t keep it in the plastic. Use it. Enjoy it. It’s why you bought it in the first place.

- Don’t order your meal based on the prices on the menu.

- A smile. A kiss. A cuddle. These are little gestures with big meanings. Be generous with them.

- Asking for help doesn't make you inferior. It makes you human.

- I am good enough. Just the way I am.

- I am a good mother. Just the way I am.

Here’s to the next 15 years of life lessons. Where hopefully I do some of the teaching. Don't hold your breath on that one though, I'm still thick in the middle of the Life for Dummies manual, lurching from one cock-up to another. But one can live in hope. I do. Every day. My husband taught me how.

A wise old chap.

A Road By Any Other Name

“Taxi Professionals Direct. How can we help you?”

“Hello, I’d like to book a taxi to Stamford. From Ludford. For 6pm.” 

“No problem Ma’am. May I have your address please?”

“It’s 15 Fanny Hands Lane”

<Pause>

“Sorry Ma’am, can you repeat that please?”

“15 Fanny Hands Lane.”

<Longer pause>

“I’m sorry, but I’m struggling to hear you properly Ma’am. Could you spell your address please?”

<Big sigh>

“You heard me the first time. But all right. <Another sigh> If I must. It’s Number 15. One-five. Fanny. Err... F for Freddie. A for Alpha. N for November. N for November. Y for Yankee. Then Hands. As in part of your body. F-a-n-ny-H-a-n-d-s Lane.”

<Muffled guffaw. Whispering in the background>

“Ma’am, are you havin’ a larf?”

<Even bigger sigh>

“Just forget it. And you call yourselves professionals. Childish prat.”

<Line goes dead>

A London newspaper recently released an article entitled: The 10 Rudest Street Names in Britain. I read it. And laughed and laughed. I read it again. And then I laughed some more. I am clearly depraved and my sense of humour is in the gutter. All this we knew. But I cannot express how much joy I derived from this list. And the fact that somebody actually took the time to compile it. And it was published. And they were paid for the honour. It should win an award. A Pulitzer or something. Carte Blanche should cover it.

In South Africa we may have Glady Mazibuko Road, Khotha Mkhunya Road and an even bigger tongue-lashing Ingcunce Road….but at least these names reflect actual people and there’s some logic in their naming (well sometimes). The list below? Not so much. Well none that I can deduce anyway. But then I'm not exactly the litmus test for any powers of intellectual and contextual deduction. The subject of this post is evidence enough of this fact.

Ok, so now without further ado - I present to you the top 10 rudest street names in this little here Kingdom. In no particular order.

1. Minge Lane, Longfield
2. Slag Lane, Lowton, Lancashire
3. Fanny Hands Lane, Ludford, Lincolnshire
4. Bell End, Rowley Regis, West Midlands
5. Crotch Crescent, Marston, Oxfordshire
6. The Knob, Kings Sutton, Northamptonshire
7. Cock Lane, Farringdon, London
8. Cockshoot Close, Stonesfield, Oxfordshire
9. Cumming Street, Islington, London
10. Cock A-Dobby, Sandhurst, Berkshire

Ok, so I couldn't help myself...

“Primos Pizzas. How can I help you?”

“I’d like to order a Russian Grande please. A large. Stuffed crust. For delivery.”

“Sure thing sir, that’ll be £8.95. Can I have your address please?”

<Pause>

“Your address please sir.”

“10 Cock A-Dobby.”

"I beg your pardon?"
<Exasperated sigh. Response through clenched teeth>
“Number 10. Cock A-Dobby. Cock as in…er a rooster. A chicken. Then the letter A for Alpha. And then Dobby. D for Diamond. O for Oscar. B for Bravo. B for Bravo. Y for Yankee. Cock-A-Dobby.”

<Silence>
"Hello...are you there?"
<Muffled sounds in the background>

“Err. Um...Certainly Sir. Got it. Er. It will be with you in 30 mins. Are you paying cash or card Mr Cock A-Dobby, er, sorry. Mr Sir?”

“Cash. I will be paying cash.”

“Thank you Sir.”


<Audible sound of raucous and hysterical laughter before connection is cut>

I worked at a pizza franchise taking orders over the phone when I was a student at university. I would not have been able to control myself if someone told me that their address was Cock A’Dobby. I barely could handle a 'Koekamoer" surname. With a Cock A'Dobby address, I’d most likely have to pass the phone over to a more professional staff member while I held my stomach and laughed my head off in the back room. I’d probably have got the sack. Like the time I told a customer to steer clear of the avocado paste because it wasn’t real avocado and tasted like peanut butter. This would be way worse. Wa-ay worse.

Imagine trying to sell a house with either of these street names? Agents must have to get very descriptive but remain completely vague about actual location. What a job. "Neat and impeccably presented Tudor style family home boasting well-appointed interiors and complete remodeling upgraded to a modern standard. Home is seated majestically on verdant manicured lawns with trimmed hedge borders. Located in quiet cul de sac, alongside popular park overlooking a soothing stream. Enquire within for further details. 

What the ad should read is: "Could be Kensington Palace, but it ain't going to change the fact that the street name is a blinder. Exact address could not be named. For fear of mockery and ridicule - and incessant ragging. This home will be defaced with spraypaint. Regularly. You will not be able to teach your children their home address. You will struggle to order anything online. You will forever be taunted. Steer clear of this property. God knows - we've tried. But someone's got to sell it. Sadly, that's us."

Yes. Ok I have issues. This I know. But at least I don’t live at Crotch Crescent. I could just have bigger ones. 

For now, we live in Queens Road. Nothing dodgy in that. Well certainly on the surface. But who knows what the future holds? A Fanny Hands Lane maybe, god-forbid a Bell End – or perhaps a windy little Cock Lane may be the ideal location for a dwelling to house a family of four who’re a little lot left off centre. Slag Lane….well that may take some convincing. But if the parking’s not too tight, we could be in with a chance. Time will tell. In the meantime, I’m going to read that list again. One more time.

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