Customs in the Kingdom

“Ah you’re such a card!” Here’s a card to show just how much

The Brits do love a card. From Christmas to Easter and every major or minor (er Halloween?) moment in between. If there’s even the slightest cause for handing over a Hallmark, they’ll find it. Got a new cat? Cat died? Cat climbed up a tree? Cat missing? Cat had kittens? Cat got your tongue? There’s a card for that. And a cat-load kak-load more.
Meanwhile down south. A card is where you stash the cash when you don’t know what gift to buy someone/left it too late to shop/forgot to shop/couldn’t really be arsed. We have greetings cards. We’re not philistines. We just use them when the occasion warrants it. Like for births. Or deaths. And we’d never post them like in the actual post. It took me a while to get used to the card culture here. I’m still consciously un-carding though. I don’t see the point in paper sentiment when a personal one is far more well…personal. Also, for a nation so committed to the environment, the mind boggles that so many trees have to die simply so that someone doesn’t have to talk to someone else.

Don't braai, don’t bring

The Brits are game for a barbecue. I’m saying barbecue, not braai because you can’t really call these gatherings braais. There’s no fire for one. And secondly the way they work is most un-braai-like. Here the host caters for everyone. For everything. Alles. People bring nothing. Nadda. Not a drumstick. Not a dop. This means that there are far fewer barbecues than what we’re used to because the host needs to take out a loan to cater for any number that borders on a crowd, especially if said crowd is partial to a stukkie steak, the sides and a suip. Which let’s be honest, who isn’t? So we find ourselves braaiing with ourselves a lot. Which is fine. But it goes against the natural order.
Meanwhile down south. It’s a bring and braai culture. It’s in the bible of braais. Thou shalt bring. And thou shalt braai. And then thou shalt share the food and have a feast. Virtually every weekend. It’s how we do it. It’s how we can do it.

You’re invited to our wedding party, but not our actual wedding at our actual venue 

This is a contentious one. The Brits get a little ruffled with me arguing about sharing my opinion on it. So here’s the deal. You get invited to a wedding. Except it’s not a wedding. You don’t witness the ‘da dum da da’ aisle part or the exchanging of the vows. You skip the whole church part altogether. Ok, so you’re thinking… ‘ja, but hey, that’s not so strange. Some people keep the church part very private or do it at a registry office. No surprises there.’ Ok, but how's dem apples? You’re not actually invited to the reception either. You don’t hear a single speech. Watch the first dance. Or the cutting of the cake. But wait...you are invited to a pub after the reception. Where you’re welcome to join the wedding party and all the guests who were at the church and reception who’re now as pissed af. And you’re welcome to toast the happy couple with a drink you bought from the cash bar and tuck into a tray of soggy sausage rolls stashed behind the bar just for you and the 30 other B-listers who were also not invited to the wedding. And you’re welcome to leave your gift in the pile with the A-lister's gifts. And you get invited to this with an actual invitation. Printed on card, delivered in the post which says you’re welcome to attend special couple’s special wedding celebration. The irony does not elude you. It's not so special at all. And you’re not actually welcome at all. And no thank you, fu pub you very much.
Meanwhile down south. Weddings are pricey no matter where you live in the world. Unless you’re a serial killer marrying another serial killer with a limited social circle on account of all the killings, the likelihood is that the number of friends and family you want to invite will exceed your budget/venue capacity. And so down south we make a call about the cash, if cash is a concern. We choose a bigger wedding with less flash. Or a smaller wedding loaded with flash. There will be people who we can’t invite, either way. So we don’t. If they get pissy, we have one less friend to fret about. Bonus. If I’m not A-list guest material, i.e. not friend enough for the formalities and the actual er…wedding, I’d be more than happy to forgo all celebrations on the big day itself and enjoy a barbecue (we’ll provide all the stuff, obvs) after the newlyweds’ honeymoon. This, rather than get all dressed up to travel late at night to a random pub to sip a warm house white amidst a swathe of guests who’ve enjoyed a wedding that I’ve been no part of. But that’s just me. And most South Africans, I’m hoping guessing.

A ginormous pain in the Gazump 

So you find a house that you can afford in Britain. Which in itself is a large miracle. You put in an offer. It is accepted. And you still have both of your kidneys and major organs. Also a miracle. You crack open the bubbly. It’s all happy days. Until it all goes to shite. Why? Before the sale completes, the seller accepts a better offer. So you lose the house. And if you were in a position where you needed to sell your home to secure this one, you’ve jeopardised a chain for yourself and for your buyer who may be in a similar situation. You’ve spent money on conveyancing fees and paid a lawyer to start the paperwork. You’ve lost that too. No house to buy. Your house is no longer sold. It’s called being gazumped. It’s a Yiddish word for being “overcharged” or boned as I call it. This is how it is in England and Wales. Wtf. I couldn’t believe it was legal. It is. Why? An agreement to buy or sell a house doesn’t become legally binding until written contracts are exchanged and until then, neither party can be held to a verbal one. The exchange of contracts between a conveyancer and the seller’s solicitor happens several weeks after an offer is accepted. In the meantime, a property survey is conducted and the conveyancer does checks – necessary, but costly. And the estate agent is legally bound to inform the seller of any other offers during this time. The higher the better, obvs. For more commission, obvs. What a kak show.
Meanwhile down south. Despite some of our more dubious legislative initiatives when it comes to land and property ownership (aptly sounds like apart and hate), we’ve actually got something right this time. We’re privy to an important piece of legislation called the Alienation of Land Act 68 of 1981 (“Act”) which puts forward that for an offer to purchase and agreement of sale to be valid, they must be reduced to writing. No verbal agreement is legally binding. When a valid contract of sale has been signed by all parties, neither the seller nor buyer can simply withdraw from the agreement without penalty unless by mutual agreement or there are specific conditions listed in the contract.

It's not a dog's life for dogs in the UK

Ok so there’s no denying that these customs are bonkers and I don’t agree with any of them. But amidst these clangers, there are some very good British conventions that I’m totally down with. Animals – the Brits are big on animals. I’ve literally seen an entire motorway grind to a halt for a bevy of swans that took a short left, got horribly lost and there was much flapping and sharting all over the place. But they were rescued and lived to swan around another day. And I don’t actually like swans. Here, you never see a lost dog. You never see a skinny dog. Pets are micro-chipped. Every one has pet insurance. Ok so they do keep big dogs in small houses. But they walk them. Pick up their business. And love them. That much is obvious. That much is good.
Meanwhile down south. Eish, I have so many friends picking up strays (canine or feline, not human...although that too) and making impassioned pleas on Facebook for someone to help re-home them (this is just for the animals, humans sometimes, but less so). Sadly, despite all the best effort made by some very big-hearted people and charities, the state of domestic animal welfare in South Africa isn't great. I think this is because we've got a lot of hungry and homeless humans to worry about.

Build it a million years ago and they will come

Old buildings. They do go postal over a pile of bricks in this country. Especially if it’s old. Actually, only if it’s old. Protect it. Raise money for it. Open it to the public. Put up plaques everywhere. There’s something very cool about how het up people get about history. And how important they believe it is to preserve for future generations. And we’re spoilt for choice where we live. On our doorstep London is one heaving historical hotspot. The Tower of London, for example, was built in 1080 under the rule of William the Conqueror and is nearly a million years old. It was used as a sanctuary or a slaughter house for the royals - whichever served the royal interest best at the time. And London Wall, construction began here in the 2nd or 3rd century AD to protect the settlement of Londoninium as it was known then from invasion by the Picts. Or St Pancras Old Church rumoured to be one of the oldest sites of Christian worship in England was built on the site of a former Roman temple in 4th century AD. Charles Dickens mentions it in A Tale of Two Cities and it’s also the burial place of the son of Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of the great U, S of A. How marvellous is that? Who doesn’t love a bit of history?
Meanwhile down south? So we have the Castle of Good Hope in Cape Town. The oldest surviving structure in South Africa, built between 1666 and 1679 by the colonialists from the Dutch East India Co. And we have a wine estate, a theatre, pub and a garden that all date back to this era. And that's awesome. But we can't really go back for our buildings beyond 366 years, which for the Brits is positively new-build.

So as long as I steer clear of everything from nonsensical non-wedding dis-invitations and card-fanatics to braai-less barbecues and trying to buy a house that someone else wants to buy too – and stick to history and stick with people who love animals, I should be ok navigating the customs of this land. I'm just over half a decade in, I'll keep you posted. But not with a card - which I could probably find. Obvs.

The Tower of London. Oh if those walls could talk...

Sold, but not actually sold. Should read "Still taking offers".

I have no words. Actually I have lots. But I won't put them in a card.

A Royal Revelation

Windsor. A quaint historic town situated south of the River Thames adjacent to its twin town of Eton, 34 kms west of Charring Cross in London, 11 kms south east of Maidenhead and 35 km east of Reading. That’s where it is. But Windsor is far more than just your average market town on a map. Windsor is home to the oldest and largest inhabited castle in the world. Built by William the Conqueror in the 11th Century, Windsor Castle has housed British kings and queens for just shy of a millennium. That’s a kak long time. 1.3 million visitors travel to Windsor Castle every year. That’s a kak load of people. Windsor may be home to one of the most iconic castles and home to the royal family. But it’s also home to a little family of Cooks. It's home to me.

Overseas visitors arrive by the bus load, day-trippers catch the train in from Londontown and sightseers come from all corners of the kingdom. Usually I use my local smarts to steer well clear of the swathes of selfie-stick-wielding castle-crazed happy-snappers. Except for this one time. On Saturday the 19th of May, I was amongst the human horde that lined the streets of Windsor, who stood on her tippy toes and strained for the slightest glimpse, my phone precariously poised for a shot. I was there in the thick of it. Caught up in the euphoria. The excitement. When Harry wed Meg.

I’ve never been a royalist. One who buys Hello magazine, collects the tat memorabilia or worries about her hat or hemline on race day. To me victoria was a sponge, earl a tea, duke a university and prince and princesses existed only in fairy tales. So when it was announced that the royal wedding of the year would take place at St. George's Chapel in Windsor, I thought to myself "sweet baby cheesus, can't they all just keep calm and carry on." And on they carried all right - this little town got the gees in a big way. Out came the paint, the polish and the patriotic paraphenalia. The local schools designed crowns, made the bunting that lined The Long Walk and even coordinated a Guinness World record attempt for the longest concertina greetings card. There was an infectious sense of community spirit. And I caught it. The royal fever. Even when it got real after the media flooded the town centre, the traffic took a turn for hell-town and the homeless were controversially "re-housed" from the high street. And even when it got weird after the royal super-fans started camping in their chairs outside the castle three nights before the ceremony. I couldn’t help but be swept up by the stately spectacle of it all.

And so the big day dawned and we made our way to our friend’s house right on the royal parade. We drank gin in the morning, waved Union Jack flags and watched as thousands packed The Long Walk. We clocked the snipers on the roof, made small talk with the security police and caught snippets of the ceremony on the telly. And we waited. And when it was time, we ventured outside to watch with the world. As the procession made its way from Windsor Castle down the Kings Road we heard the crowds cheer as it drew closer. First we saw the horses. And then the carriage. And for a fleeting moment as it passed, we saw the couple. And they smiled. Not at us - obvs. Our friend next to us was holding up a sign she’d made that read: “I married a ginge too” and when Prince Harry spotted it, he gestured to Meghan to look and they both smiled. And we got that shot. Right place. Right time. Right sign.

Wherever we venture next, Windsor will always be a special place for our family. It’s where we first chose to make our home in England. It’s where my youngest son was born and it’s the only home my daughter knows. And I will always remember that remarkable May day. The day I stood with one hundred thousand people on the Kings Road and cheered for the 16th royal couple to wed at Windsor Castle. The day that we were there to join in a celebration like no other. The day that a family of Saffas were a very small part of British history. In Windsor. Our home town.

When a wedding comes to Windsor

Royally flushed

The Kings Road 

The best sign 

The royal ginge and his beautiful bride

A portrait of a prince

Never Bored with Full Board

I recently went on the holiday of a lifetime. Well of my lifetime, anyway. To an idyllic tropical island paradise. The location exactly as it would say on the tin. Think shoreline with swathes of real sand and not a toe-puncturing pebble in sight. Think sea you can actually swim in sans nasal blood loss, hypothermic shock, shark attack. Or all of the above. Watersports that cater to every age and ability where the boatmen are unfazed by the mum of three riding the wake with her swimsuit up her bum because they’ve literally seen it all. A daily aqua-aerobics session at noon to jiggle the wobbly bits. A full gym, sauna, jacuzzi that I can’t really describe because I didn’t visit once. Bubbles on tap. Every cocktail you can think of. At any time of the day. And a buffet. I spent a lot of time watching that buffet. For the food, obvs. But more so for the people and the food. It became like an anthropological obsession for me to observe what happens when human meets all-you-can-eat in all its full gluttonous glory.

In the “five-factor model” psychologists reckon that there are five main personality types and everyone possesses some degree of each. I’ve taken my buffet findings and I’ve matched them to a personality because, as was also the case in my efforts to resist coconut ice-cream for dessert every night for 14 days straight, I simply couldn’t help myself. So back to that buffet - few other places in life can bring out the best or the beast in people.

The Conscientious. Efficient, well-organised and self-sufficient, psychs reckon this type plan in advance and aim for success at all costs. At the buffet, they’ll do a little recce beforehand of what’s on offer before making a calculated dining decision. They’ll wait to ensure their eggs are cooked to perfection, work out the best queue for the freshest pancakes, and they’ll nab the last croquette simply because they got there first. They divide and conquer, collaborating with their partners for maximum efficiency. Their children’s meals are meticulously planned in the same way. They sit and eat neatly together and it’s all very civilised. They like to quiz about ingredients, preparation methods and feel it necessary to offer feedback. The chef hides when they arrive and the waitstaff smile through clenched teeth.

The Extroverts. Talkative, outgoing and comfortable in the spotlight. They’re the people who lift a lid and exclaim “Oh my god would you just look at that!” They overfill their plates with one dish because it’s so good, but then realise that there’s another dish just as good three cloches deep and another. So they make frantic trips back and forth. Their table looks like a war zone. They spill. They smash. They waste. They make banter with other guests about the dim sum. They eat too much and tell everyone about it. And they drink too much and show everyone about it. Their children have carte blanche with the menu and so dart around with plates of this and bowls of that. These people require three times the staff.  The chef enjoys watching the festival of food, but disappears when the carnage calls for a mop.

The Agreeable. Known as kind, trustworthy and affectionate, this type get boned at the buffet. It’s not a place where they can bring their A game. They’ll passively wait at the end of a queue where people are cutting in left, right and centre. They’ll happily hand you the last piece of anything. Their self-sacrifice means that they end up with the crusty bit from a tray that no one wants. Their warm food and drink ends up cold and their cold food and drink ends up warm. Some dishes they won’t even know exist because they’ll have been snapped up by The Conscientious within seconds. And they appear satisfied with it all. Sitting quietly in a dining room that everyone has long since left behind, eating the food that’s long since left behind. The staff clear up the tables around them while the Chef has long since left the building.

The Open to Experience. Curious, open and experimental is how these folk roll. They’re the ones who stand watching the live grill at the buffet, ask to sample each sauce, pare a different wine with each course because they’ll have every course there is. But of course. They visit every restaurant and try to taste every dish on offer. The more exotic the better - even if it’s not something that they particularly fancy because who’s to say someone won’t ask if they’ve tried cow intestine wrapped in vine leaves with a red wine jus and juniper foam? And god forbid they didn’t…when they could. Their enthusiasm is exhausting. For the chef, the waitstaff and every other guest that's drawn into their culinary crusade. Because that what all-inclusive is to them, a crusade. To experience it all. Every. Flaming. Little. Thing. And everything else that's poached, pan fried or pureed too.

The Neurotics. Prone to high levels of anxiety and irritability, the neurotics don’t cope well at the buffet. There’s simply too much. Choice. Food. Noise. It’s far too overwhelming on every level. So they grab whatever they can as quickly as they can and hightail it back to their table – heads down, eyes averted. They can’t handle the Extroverts or the Experiencers and are more than a little terrified of the Conscientious. They don’t linger. They eat. And then bolt. The buffet is the last place they'd choose to dine. A la carte is more their comfort zone. The staff know them only by the table they occupied for five minutes and plates they leave behind.

And so which type was I at the buffet? The judgy one who sat for two weeks watching people when I should've been watching the waves or the natural beauty right in front of my face. I’m definitely a little of each and a lot of some. I'm a sixth type they don't name - it's called weirdo. I'm all and more of that one.

Before each meal, I’d conscientiously do a sweep of the menu before making small talk with a random stranger while spooning a portion of Mauritian curry I’d never tasted as I gestured to a couple to join the queue ahead of me for the fresh tuna while I secretly hoped that they weren’t pigs and wouldn’t snarf all the best bits. And then I’d head back to my table, top up my wine, take a bite of my curry, appraise my fresh tuna and then watch the blockbuster buffet show unfold. I left my kids to charm the waitstaff. I did make nice with the chef though. We're not quite Facebook friends, but I know he has teenagers, worked through a series of hotels in Europe and can't look at a platter of anything when he gets home. I also came to discover that he had no problem organising my bowl of coconut ice-cream from the kitchen when it wasn't on the menu. Definitely a buffet holiday to remember. I'll be back.

The view I took in...

The view I could've taken in...

Full feral

Less feral

Breakfast of champions and champion of breakfasts

Don't Chance a Second

It was the mid-eighties. My dad was repairing a gumpole fence along a river on the Baynesfield Estate. I forget which. It was mid-morning. The day was overcast. Chilly enough for a tracksuit. It had recently rained. So the river was full: swollen thick against its banks. You’d think too full and too deep to move. You’d be wrong. Move it did. The river surged forward in fast strokes with its quicksilver currents and eddies hidden beneath a milk chocolatey brown surface.

Bored with watching a pair of pliers twist wire, my sister and I began throwing rocks into the water. Little ones at first. Then egging each other on to throw bigger, higher, further. It was such fun watching the river open her brown viscous mouth to receive our granite gifts, burying them in her muddy depths. We shrieked with delight at the sound of every watery thud.

My sister was on the edge of the bank while I was bent over trying to unearth a particularly large clod when I heard a splash that wasn’t like all the others. I looked up. She was gone. A split second later, my dad pitched himself off the side and into the water. In the time that it took for me to register what I’d seen and run towards the bank, he was pulling a straggle of purple limbs to his chest. She was a sodden shaking mess of mud and shock. Wide-eyed and terrified. Too terrified even to cry. He was the same. Dazed, we made our way to the bakkie, my sister in his arms. The only sound was the rush of the river. The lazy brown swollen river that flowed faster than we thought. The river that took our rocks. The river that nearly took my four-year-old sister. 

My dad recounts his version of that day and how out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lift that last rock, throw it and go straight in with it. He said he didn’t even pause to think. He jumped straight into where he saw her head go under. He knew he’d never be able to see her in the brown water, so he grabbed frantically at anything he could. It was sheer luck that he caught hold of that purple tracksuit. Before she was swept away under the moving blanket of muddy water. It all happened in seconds. She was there. And then she wasn’t.

A couple of weeks ago my three-year-old son threw a tantrum on the pavement on our way to school, fell and a wall broke his fall. And his head. A neat little gash on his noggin that, to be honest, I wasn’t too concerned about. But then he went floppy and lost consciousness for a bit. He came around quickly though and was fine. Upon closer inspection the gash needed stitches. And I needed to make my maiden voyage to the local A&E in Slough. Five years of life in the UK and my first trip to A&E. Not bad going for a mother like me. Not bad going for kids like mine.

Sitting in the Wexham Park paediatric emergency unit, amidst the ill and injured little people, it struck me once again how everything can change in an instant. I had made very different plans for my Wednesday. And they certainly didn't involve a trip to casualty. We spend our lives creating a fragile reality. Building what we believe to be enough. Hoping that our constructs will hold. We become complacent in the solidity of their structure. But the simple truth is that in a flash, a river can sweep it all away. A little bump in the road. A second can change everything. And we can spend a lifetime trying to come to terms with the consequences.

I often bemoan the quagmire of my motherhood. At times, I even resent it. This trip to the A&E was a cheap yet valuable reality check for me. A 'block-my-nose-and-swallow' dose of perspective that tasted foul af but was exactly the medicine I needed. I think back now to that day at the river when we were children and I don’t feel the haunting terror I once did. I just feel gratitude. And an overwhelming sense of relief. I know that my dad would've held my sister a little bit tighter after that day. Just as I did with my son last week. Immensely thankful for health. For life. For every precious second we're given. For every second that counts.

Circling Back, Moving Forward

I remember 30 years ago. In a little house. Just outside the Baynesfield Farming Estate in the KZN Midlands. Sitting with my gran on her stoep in the sun while she shelled peas. And I gorged myself on granadilla after granadilla. Bashing open the wrinkly purple-skinned shells, crunching my way through the sweet yellowy pulp inside. Hoping she wasn't counting how many I'd swiped, but knowing full well that nothing escaped those big eyes behind the glasses perched on the end of her nose. I can still hear the sounds of the Jackie Hangman birds in her garden. The distant drone of traffic on the road where a milk tanker hit the family bull terrier, Jezebel, who didn't die, but was never quite the same again.

I remember chattering away about everything and nothing. As I do. My gran didn't say a word. I was never sure whether she was listening. And she probably wasn't. So deep she was in her own thoughts. But that didn't stop me. I chattered on. While her stiff arthritis-afflicted fingers sliced neat splits along the length of each pod to release a tumble of fresh green peas into a shiny silver bowl. And when the last pea was shelled, all the ripe granadillas were gone and it was time to go inside, my gran finally spoke. "My girl," she said, "It all comes full circle. Everything that has happened and everything that's going to happen still." And then she stood up and disappeared into the cool dark haven of the house. What she said then made no sense. And I felt a little sick from all the sun and that sticky sweet fruit. So I left it at that. But I've never forgotten. A seven year old girl in a pair of pink shorts sitting on a yellow Checkers plastic carrier bag (to avoid piles, obvs) with my gran, a glut of granadillas, the bowl of peas on her lap. And those words.

It's been five years since we were in our own home in South Africa anxiously waiting the news of our UK visa application. We're currently in that position again. Except this time, we're asking to stay. Not for permission to arrive. We're about to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain. Residency outcome aside, we're also not sure about whether we're going to be able to continue to live in the house we currently rent. We may be moving again. It appears to be our thing. Move. Copy. Paste. I'm uncharacteristically sanguine about it all. Despite all the will in the world, I've realised that I simply cannot control everything. And more than merely acknowledging this, I'm ok with it. Not happy mind, I'm not a sociopath. But I can deal.

In 1999, I moved to the UK on a two-year working holiday visa. When my then-boyfriend-now-husband and I first visited Windsor, we stepped off the train in much the same way as the over-eager tourists who annoy us do today, and we made our way down to the river. We stood on Eton Bridge and looked up in awe at the first castle we'd ever seen. He said, "When we're grown-ups with kids and stuff and if ever we live in the UK, I think we should live in Windsor." I sarcastically replied: "Sure, let's go big. Let's have loads of kids. And let's live in the Castle. I'm sure the Queen won't mind. She wouldn't even notice us. But let's never be grown-ups." We were 18 years old.

I don't know where we'll be in another five year's time. I can't tell you our postcode. The place we'll call home. I don't know a lot of things. But I do know that my gran's words are as relevant to me today as they were 30 years ago. Even though I'm certain now that she was talking more to herself than she was to me. Life does come full circle. In a myriad of ways that are both weird and wonderful, foreign and familiar. And all we can do is trust in the turns, be mindful of the moments that make up the whole and be grateful for the journey. And those are my goals for 2018.

My gran hasn't been with us for 17 years, but I think she'd approve. Of my plans for the year ahead. And the fact that I think of her every time I shell a pea while my six year old little girl offers a running commentary on everything and nothing. Every time I smash open a wrinkly-skinned granadilla and the smell takes me straight back to my childhood - to a sunny stoep in the eastern interior of South Africa. And every time I warn my children about cold concrete and the perils of piles. *

*  Old wives' tale or not, it's family lore. Can't possibly argue with that.

Five years of family life in Windsor - with no grown-ups 

With my gran on the day I was christened - before the joys of granadillas

When her lap was my stoep

A Testing Time of Life in the UK

I always find this time of year tough. It’s Christmas. It’s cold. And we’re a million miles away from our normal. From family. Friends. Festive moments of sunshine around a swimming pool with the familiar sounds of a crackling braai, cricket on the telly, choruses of Christmas beetles and the tick-tick-tick of a creepy crawly.

What has literally tested me this week – was a test. No, not a pregnancy test. Not again. But I can see why you’d think that. Again. No, this week I wrote the Life in the UK Test. One of the requirements for our Leave to Remain application. The test is based on a handbook that covers British values, history, traditions and everyday life. There are 24 questions that the computer randomly selects and unless you achieve 18 correct answers, you fail. Oh and it’s £50 per shot.

So what’s so troublesome about a little test? We’ve lived here for nearly 5 years. We should, by now, have cracked some of the code for co-existence in the kingdom. We know that you pump your own fuel, that there are no car guards or grocery packers. We know that the Brits don’t do nudity, hugging or braais. They do barbecues but only if it’s sunny and on gas. We know that they have no problem with cyclists on main roads, selling booze on a Sunday, big dogs in small houses or parking cars in the opposite direction of traffic. They do have a problem with any cars that are not insured, spontaneous visitor drop-ins or giving directions in the underground. They love the Royals, Halloween, pantomimes, fireworks and football. We can mind the gap, stand clear of the doors and have even worked out how to navigate those bum-clenching 4 lane traffic circles. We know how to vote. Who we support politically – and that we never speak of this. We’re covered. Or so we thought.

But this test. Eish. It covers 10 000 year’s worth of British history. Literally from the Stone Age through to the Bronze and Iron Ages, the Roman, Viking, Anglosaxon and Tudor times, Medieval, Elizabethan, Industrial, and Victorian eras all the way through to Modern Britain. With every king, queen, war, religion, plague, colonial acquisition, sporting, architectural, literary achievement or scientific invention along the way. I mean how did we survive without knowing that the Speaker in parliament is elected by other MPs and is politically neutral, how the number serving on a jury in Scotland is 15 and everywhere else is 12, what percentage of the UK is Sikh or Buddhist, whether the Council of Europe can pass laws, how many countries form part of NATO and the number of delegates admitted to the Welsh Assembly? There is literally no end to the detail. And how do you possibly know which detail is going to be tested? You don’t. And therein lies the testing part.

So I read the book, wrote it out in longhand and then in shorthand. I downloaded an app on my phone with practice tests and worked through a series of exam questions online. And then the test day arrived and I was ready. More ready for any exam at school or university. I was called into a room to register and verify my identification. I wasn’t nervous at all. I should’ve been. Turns out the place of birth on my biometric card actually reads Durban and not Pietermaritzburg. I never noticed. This detail-orientated, OCD little being didn’t spot such a blatant error. So I wasn’t allowed to write the test. I failed before I’d begun. I was ushered out of the building. Do not pass. Do not collect anything, except a security guard. Do lose £50. And do bugger off and call your immigration lawyers, presto. Nothing with me is ever straightforward. But we all knew that.

So the second time I ventured out to write the test five days later, with my passport this time, not my biometric card, I was more terrified about providing my identification than I was about the 24 questions. With trembling hands and a shaky voice, I told the truth. Again. That I was born in Pietermaritzburg. Not Durban. That they are indeed very different places. That I’m not a fraudster out to bamboozle Border Control. Anyway, I passed. The identification part. And the 24 questions. Next is all the paperwork. But that’s another saga for another day.

My head at present is positively heaving with history. I know that the Brits fought with pretty much everyone. With the Romans who eventually invaded thanks to Emperor Claudius. And the French, compliments of William the Conqueror. And then as the British Empire grew, so too did their army. And their victories. Obvs. There were many kings named Charles and queens named Mary. And the gentry weren't very gentle at all. Queen Elizabeth I locked her own cousin in the Tower of London for 20 years before executing her because she suspected she was after her crown. She wasn’t. King Henry the VIII – well he changed the structure of an entire church to divorce his first wife, married five more women and beheaded two of them. And then there was Bloody Mary. And I don’t mean the drink. Scotland fought very hard to avoid Roman and British occupation. They succeeded with the Romans. The Scots were hardcore. The Highland Clearances had nothing to do with a jolly jumble sale and everything to do with the 'forcible' (read fierce) eviction of people for their land. The Irish fought amongst themselves about whether it was better to be with or against England, mostly when it came to religion. So much so that it divided a nation. Literally. They endured famine and all sorts of trouble. Wales, well they seem to have wisely kept a low profile and carried on with their own thing. Britain was a republic under Oliver Cromwell for 11 years. Who knew? There was a king who hid in a tree to escape being mauled to bits by the roundheads in a civil war. And too many royals to count who pissed off parliament and then bailed from their thrones to hide in Scotland, France or other parts of Europe. The history of this kingdom is fraught with conflict - territorial, religious, political, humanitarian. You name it. Anything you can fight about, they did. And it makes for some very interesting, and often surprising, reading.

And so here I sit with all the information that the government deems relevant for “New Residents in the United Kingdom”. I’m flush with facts. I know that blind people get a 50% discount on their TV licences (yes, I know), Sir Edward Lutyens designed the Cenotaph and I now know what the Cenotaph is and where it is, that a Justice of a Peace Court in Scotland addresses minor crimes and that England makes up 84% of the total UK population. What I don’t know though is the best way for us “new residents” to integrate into British life whilst managing to retain elements of our heritage. How to handle the bouts of homesickness that hit us while we try to find a new normal. How to raise our families away from our families. History tells us that Britain shipped in migrants from all over the world to help with everything from war and weapons to manufacturing and the post WW2 rebuild. So how did these families cope? There’s no chapter on that. Those are the real lessons for life I’d love to learn. Maybe I'll write my own book. There won't be a test on it though. "New Resident" life in the UK is testing enough.

Routine Reflections

I’m currently slap-bang in the muddle of what I describe annually as the “birthday binge”. All three of our children’s birthday celebrations within five farking festive weeks of each other. So it’s a time of cake and carnage. Fairy lights and financial free-fall. It’s also a time when I reflect on being a mother. What I’ve learnt so far. What I know I’ll never learn. The ups. The downs. The upside downs. Every year I marvel at my children’s smarts. And every year I’m mortified by just how stupid they can be. The eternal pendulum of maternal pride and shame.

A number of my good friends are currently pregnant with their first babies. On the rare occasion I’m asked to share any advice with expectant mums who’re flushed with hope and hormones, I suggest that a strong stomach, a good sense of humour and an annual subscription to a wine club that delivers can pretty much see anyone through anything during at least the first couple of years. All gospel truth, obvs. But this year, I’ve decided to share a pearl of parenting wisdom that I’ve only just discovered. And it's taken three children and nearly nine years to find it.

It should come as no surprise that my A-type personality can’t cope well with chaos. I analyse, organise, OCD the stuffing out of pretty much everything. I’m not alone in this though. There are a lot of us out there. People-pleaser perfectionists who strive to garner control in a world that’s out of control. Some hide it better than I do. I've learnt to simply accept it. It's how I handle life. And it's how I planned to handle parenthood. The parenting gurus all supported it. They advised me to establish a routine as quickly as possible. Babies thrive on structure, they said. Babies need boundaries, they said. Don’t let your baby get into any bad habits, they said. You’ll never sleep, they said.

I’ve realised that it’s all bollocks, really. A strict routine for an infant is all about the mother’s need and has nothing to do with the infant. In my opinion and in my experience, a baby needs their mother and her boobs (or bottle, depending on your feeding situation). They need to be held. They need to be loved. No rigorous routines. No cry-it-out sleep training. No we-can't-leave-the-house-during-nap-time. They don’t need the cribs, lights, rockers, pillows, music and all the pricey paraphernalia. They need you. Not on your schedule. On theirs. Never have I felt less of a failure as a mother than when my carefully crafted routine was kaibosched to all kak and my child didn’t feed/burp/shite/sleep on schedule. I revered the routine with my first two children. It broke me. And worse, it broke them. And so I threw away the rulebook with my third. And we’re all happier for it.

I wish at the brink of the birth of my firstborn, someone had said to me “Sal, you’re going to want to control everything. And you’re going to try to. And that’s ok. That’s your need. That’s nearly 30 year’s worth of your coping strategy kicking in. Being a mother is different though. It’s different to how you’d prepare for a new job. A new relationship. A new city. It’s the biggest undertaking of your life. It’s the one thing where you can’t practice to make perfect. Because there isn’t any practice. And there isn’t any perfect. You can’t control it. So just go with it. Be gentle. Listen. Trust your instinct. You are not a moron. You are a mother. And you can do this. Your way."
Hindsight eh. All the help you need... just after you need it. Like a massive sale just after you've coughed up a kidney to buy five air tickets.

There will come a time that your child sleeps through the night. In their own bed. Without their dummy. Or your boob. I don’t know a fifteen year old that sleeps in their parent’s bed, wakes to be nursed, sucks a dummy or willingly wears a nappy. Not even on American TV. There will come a time when your child no longer wants to be in your arms because that’s where they feel safest. Or come to you when they fall. Or call for help on the loo. Or kiss you on the lips. And you will miss the feel of a tiny hand in yours, little arms around your neck, a chubby cheek wedged against your chest.

My eldest will be nine in a few weeks. Nine, almighty. He’s lanky and tall, a bag of bones as my gran would've said. He wears a serious face but behind the frowny facade he's the biggest tease. Every now and again I’ll snatch a sidelong glance at this long lithe one sitting at our kitchen table or draped like a sloth all over our sofa. And the sheer sight of him takes my breath away. How the chap has grown. I still see flashes of the blue-eyed baby he once was. But those days are long gone. He’s a young lad now. And I know it’ll feel like just a moment and he’ll be a man.

So my advice now for new mothers is to ditch the bloody routine. Feck Forget the lot of it. All the schedules, curriculums, clubs and routines you can possibly cram into your i-cal are just around the corner. Let them be babies while they’re still babies. Use a dummy if that’s a comfort. Bring them into your bed for a cuddle. Breast or bottle feed as long as they need. Potty train on their terms. And hold them close every chance you get. Because as the infinitely wise Gretchen Rubin says:
“The days are long, but the years are short.”
And the childhood years are the shortest of them all.

Literally just after each of them was born.

Literally just this weekend past.