A poo-etic homecoming and other tales of woe

So I returned home from a lovely week in Jeffreys Bay (some musings about the driving skills of people whose registration plates end in FS and NW to follow) to find the geese neatly lined up at the gate.

 

"Hello," I said.

 

They looked at me from their neat little row like little choir geese in church.

 

"You all look very well behaved," I add, starting to worry.

 

A quick count revealed that all the animals were where they should be so the geese didn't accidentally or on purpose kill anybody.

 

The dodgy-looking peacock was happily though still illegally squatting the in front garden.

 

Jean-Luc the mongoose was busy digging for whatever-it-is-that-he-digs-for by the pine tree.

 

The ducks were swimming in the dam.

 

Rambo the frog was tending his illegal froggy arms-cache behind the washing machine.

 

The crazy brown bird was happily pecking away at the windows.

 

The swallows were busy constructing the third story of their house.

 

Stanton the tortoise had returned from wherever his latest midlife crisis took him and the pig and the horse were neatly behind their own fence for a change.

 

I did a quick walk through the house, noting in a moment of Martha-Stewartesque smugness that my peppermint oil spider repellent was working very well.

 

And then I got to the stoep. My beautiful tranquil stoep that was covered in geese poo.

 

At this point, of course, the geese errupted in an energetic WWE-styled wrestling match as if to distract me from the small Everest of poo on the stoep.

 

"What happened here," I asked. "Have you been sleeping on the stoep again?"

 

The geese seized their wrestling for one second to treat me to a rarely seen look of geese innocence. One looked over at Jean-Luc.

 

"Don't even try blaming this on him," I said strictly. (I don't have favourites but I really, really like Jean-Luc).

 

The geese looked at me pensively.

 

"Jean-Luc would never have covered his apples in poo," I say feeling like detective Columbo and pointing at the poor Mongoose's apple bowl covered in poo.

 

I turned around, stomped into the house where I made some coffee, had a cookie and pondered the problem of how to clean poo without actually touching poo. It is one thing for Helen Zille to complain about the poo flingers in Cape Town - but she doesn't actually have to clean it up.

 

For a brief moment I considered moving.

 

Then I turned to the books. Turns out that not even the comprehensive How to Keep House, published in the 1950s but with some excellent home management tips, had a solution.

 

Next I realise that there is a plethora of advice on how to clean bird poo on the internet - all describing the first step as "soaking the poo." Lovely.

 

Then it dawned on me that I am the only one who can clean it.

 

Shopping list:

 

Industrial strength gloves.

 

Industrial strength kitchen paper. (Preventing any accidental seepage)

 

A dozen chocolate cookies.

 

Two bottles of bubbly. (Ok, maybe three)

 

Right Rambo cover me, I am going in.

Green Greener Greenest

With appalling timing a PR of the purveyor of some green-super-powered-vitamin-drink-powder accidentally found me at my desk when she phoned. I hate answering my landline for precisely that reason:

PR Person: Hello. How are you?

Me: I am fine. What can I do for you?

PR Person: I am fine.

Me: I didn't ask.

 PR: I am fine. Thank you for asking ma'm.

Me: I didn't ask. (O screw this) What can I do for you? (I don't say the bit between the brackets, I just think it.)

PR: I have something to send you. What is your address?

Me: What do you want to send me?

 
PR: A product.

Me: O really? What?

PR: A powder.

Me: A powder?

PR: A vitamin powder.

Unfortunately I found myself getting slightly interested at this point. But managed to fend of said incompetent PR person who then proceeded to send me the "powder" anyway.

Meanwhile, I got intrigued, I started reading up on it and apart from it being used as the crucial element of something called the Hallelujah-diet (yes really) some well-respected doctors were singing its praises.

Since I had "the powder" in any event I thought it will try it, mostly because system was slightly depleted of vitamins and other good things following a rather raucous weekend in Cape Town and my patience was wearing thin and I read somewhere that everyone who took it was in a good mood and of course in my vigorous pursuit of all things health-related. Here are my notes so far:

Day 1: Morning

Instructions say take with juice on empty stomach soon after waking up, but I guess the reason for it is that it smells so vile that you need something to disguise the smell.

And it is green. I don't do green feed. Unless it is an indication of cream-soda flavoring or I eat it by accident. (Except for beans. I love beans. And green jelly. Jelly of any colour really).

Used apple juice.

It didn't help.

Had coffee first for courage.

Had chocolate afterwards.

 Guessed this might have defeated purpose. Vowed not to have chocolate again. Cannot be moved on coffee though, don't be ridiculous.

Day 1: Evening

Instructions say take on empty stomach  about twenty minutes before having healthy supper.

Looked at bottle.

Recalled absolute vileness of morning attempt.

Had a glass of wine instead.

 

Day 2: Morning

Looked at self in mirror. Convinced self that needed more vitamins.

Had juice and vile green powder.

Had some more juice without green powder afterwards. (Temporarily run out of chocolate)

Spent another ten minutes in bed hoping overwhelming desire to throw up will go away.

Became endlessly entertained by spectacular goose wrestling outside window.

Body went into shock at suddenlty receiving so many vitamins at one time. Confused brain by releasing so many endorphins that was uncharacteristically happy all day.

 

Day 2: Evening

Had many, many glasses of wine over supper with friends.

Thought that having green juice might be potentially lethal.

 

Day 3: Morning

Looked at green powder. As have hangover the size of empire state building, brain slightly comprehends necessity to have green powder.

Rest of body refuses to find glass, juice.

Had two double espressos instead.

 

Day 3: Evening

Geese brought something that can either be a very large shongololo or a small snake and triumphantly dropped it on stoep. Mongoose scattered. Got so sidetracked about it worm/snake issue that forgot about green powder.

Vowing to try again.

Day 4 and 5

Favourite three-year old in the world arrived to visit Ouma, Oupa and Tannie Stel for Christmas.  So happy that completely forgot about green powder.

This is not going particularly well...

A Thunderstruck Guardian Angel

At about 1 am this morning I was woken up by what some people called a spectacular thunderstorm.

I had a few more descriptive four letter words for it. I discussed the situation with the frog, the geese, the mongoose, the ducks, the crazy-little-window-pecking-bird and the swallows this morning and they all agree. Thunderstorms are terrible things. If we were a democracy of 10 we would have outlawed it.

I am unapologetic about my obsession with weather. Despite living in Port Elizabeth, mostly because I really am too lazy to move and I REALLY love my house, I remain a true Capetonian at heart hence the obession with weather - and an unabashed fear for thunder and lightning.  Of the millions of things I hated about living in Johannesburg thunderstorms featured in the top 5.

So when the weather woke me up at 1 am last night, I wasn't happy.

To add to my unhappiness in general I received a flirty sms from Love Interest who, in his defence, is clearly not aware of my hatred of thunder and thought it an appropriate time for messages about being awake in the middle of the night. (Should stop adding more and more incidents to my flirting failure list).

First I looked in on the frog who likes to jump around in the garage at night. Have given up on evicting frog and have now named him Arnie. I have started putting down a 5 litre container of water for him as I fear that his stubborn refusal to leave might kill him and at night he can be observed happily swimming in it and then jumping around the garage. Frog was crouching down at the back of the washing machine where he no doubt was assembling his significant arms cache to fight the unknown enemy launching an arial assault.

Found  mongoose in a corner on the stoep. Looking longingly at me standing by the sliding door.

"You can't come in," I said. "You might have rabies."

Mongoose looked offended. I would be too but I couldn't think of another excuse and wasn't going to add to my weather woes by having a half-wild mongoose in my house.

I wasn't going to wake up anybody else - thought I would check on them in the morning.

When 6 am came and went without the normal Egyptian goose-induced riot on my roof, I became worried. Walked outside. Found the geese sitting on the low branches of the pine tree.

"Rough night?" I asked. They looked at me a little bedraggled.

"The thunder! I know!" I exclaimed. The geese were quiet. "O come on,"I coaxed. "It is no worse than the time that the dearly departed Sydney lost his leg." (Sydney is dead now, so maybe it wasn't the best time to bring it up).

The ducks, who seemed to like the fact that there is now a slightly bigger than a three-duck-hole in my drive way waggled past to go for an early morning swim.

"Well good morning," I say. "Glad to see you all survived and we don't have fried duck this morning."

The ducks looked at me funny. The geese looked appalled.

"I wasn't thinking of eating any of you," I said.  Then remembered I decided to stop making apologies.  

"You clearly lost your sense of humour," I say to the geese. The ducks at this stage were happily settling into what is, by my measurement, the new five duck hole - they didn't appear to need more cheering up.

The swallows, sadly, were nowhere to be seen. Guess last night might have been one thunderbolt too far for them. First they had to deal with losing the second story of their house (even though I explained that one of them did an appalling job on the construction) Next they violently rejected my efforts to glue their nest together and proceeded to destroy it - to the mongoose's great distress as he became quite fond of sniffing it.

Put out food for everybody though hoping it will revive the spirits.

Then the crazy-little-window-pecking-bird appeared starting, as usual his incessant irritating pecking at every single window in the house. I have a friend who swears that my guardian angel is a crazy-little-window-pecking-bird but really, if he was, I will ask Arnie the frog to shoot him in the knees. Surely mine is slightly more glamorous - however I doubt if you would find one more resilient as in our thunderstruck little corner of the world it was the only small ray of normality we' ve seen for hours.

Wool shop angst

Am trying my best to wrap up projects for the year including my beautiful crocheted blanket.

Let me just pause to point out here that I am using the word "beautiful" to substitute a litany of swear words I use to describe this blanket but am trying to be the epitome of zen now that I have 364 days before 40.

I saw a picture of the blanket in a magazine. After two glasses of wine I thought: "I can do this." Uncharacteristically I didn't start off in a rush and realised halfway that I will need double the IQ, tripple the charm and about four times the dexterity to finish it. I read the pattern. I thought it sounded easy. I went to buy a conservative amount of cotton yarn for it. It all started so well...

When I ran out of wool I was quite proud of me - went back to the wool shop - regular readers will remember this as the hotbed of octagenarian gossip, discussions about love, the occassional ladylike scuffle over 100% cotton yarn and the Sewende Laan like dramas over men with their own hips.

So I went back to the wool shop for another conservative amount of cotton yarn. The lady at the counter looked at me curiously. "Did you underestimate the amount of yarn you will need?"she asks peering over her glasses. "Yes," I said. "Give me the pattern that I can work out how much you will still need," she kindly offered.

An offer, I couldn't take up as I made, what seemed to be a mortifying mistake, no knowing how many little blocks I had done. "Not nearly enough," it turns out is not the correct answer.

So, to be on the safe side, I thought I added a few more skeins of yarn and off I went happily thinking I will finish my project.

By the third time I had to go back for more wool, I was hearing James Bond music in my mind, walking into the store with my sunglasses on buying a few other colours of yarn just to throw the judgmental yarn-mistress off my tracks. It didn't work.

"What!" she exclaimed. "You still not done? Are you crocheting a tent?"

Normally I would have mumbled something here about having a full time job, needing to go to gym as to support the chocolate habit, must at least attempt a social life, having a book that needs editing, have four geese that needs regular reprimanding, a crazy bird who must be fed and thanked for pecking at every window of the house, a lovely mongoose who needs apples and conversation and having recently conquered insomnia so now not crocheting at 3 am in the morning anymore. The new zen me with less than 365 days to go to 40 however does not make excuses anymore, so I just smiled. I want to add that I wish I was crocheting a tent at this stage as my efforts still only managed to produce what can only be described as a small blanket.

Unfortunately this spurred her on to more condemnation. "Please bring me the pattern that I can work out how much yarn you need! And go count how many blocks you have done!"

By the fourth time that I needed wool, I just gave up. Told my one 75 year old friend I will buy her a chocolate milkshake  if she will go buy yarn for me. She did it beautifully.

Bribery and corruption clearly is the only way to go.

A frog in the garage is worth two ... O screw this...

Summer is finally coming. Thank goodness.

 

I am anxiously awaiting the arrival of the swallows to explain the providence of the glued nest to them and introduce them to the mongoose who in his own very happy way has become a permanent fixture in our far flung corner of Port Elizabeth.  

 He has recently been joined by a frog in the garage who arrived there while I was out of town.

 I hate frogs. I never fell for that princess kissing frog thing. Just too gross.

With frog I don't mean a petite amphibian small enough to be caught by my patent-pending frog catching tupperware system. I mean something the size of a small plate.

I pulled the car into the garage, got out, saw frog, got back in, locked doors. Considered pepper spray, thought it would be rude. Opened window.

"Hello," I said. Then I decided to be quiet as the frog menacingly jumped in my direction.

"I promise not to spray you with lethal pepper spray that I got from the crime reporter who is refusing to say where he got it from if you will leave when I open the garage door," I said.

Frog looked like he considered it and turned down my offer.  (Am not imagining it and he in fact jumped in the opposite direction and disappeared behind the washing machine where I imagined he had been hiding his froggy automatic firearms and bandanna and will at any moment reappear shooting wildly Bruce Willis-style.
 

I used the opportunity to run into the house screaming like a girl.

"How did you let this happen?" I ask the mongoose who is lounging on the stoep. Now I have to add that the mongoose, and this is not my imagination, has a way of shrugging in the way of true French person, almost throwing his hands in the air while smiling in a charming way. (Am worried about him though he has been sniffing the nest a little too often)

Without the help of the mongoose I turned to the geese.
 

"Really? I ask in the way of a woman abandoned by all. "You couldn't catch and eat one frog for me?"

They just looked at me and left another number 2 on the roof.

Briefly considered asking Love Interest to come remove frog. Decided against it as Love Interest sees these calls for help as an amphibian inspired booty-call and currently not sharing the same Golden Retrieveresque enthusiasm for us as he is. Also there really is not strong and sexy way to ask for help with a frog even if a confrontation might result in a Terminator-style froggie shoot-out. Also I have a feeling that he is as scared of frogs as I am but pretends not to be - most deducing this from the number of glasses of wine he drinks afterwards - and it now makes me feel like an employee of Guatanamo Bay.

So, philosophically I did nothing. And the frog disappeared. Leaving me with another problem: There is only thing worse than having a frog in the garage and that is not knowing where the one in the garage is.

Animal farm deserted ... and repopulated

I have started feeling very lonely in my little far-flung cottage on this side of the world.

Last week I woke up in peace and quiet, which is not a usualy state of affairs over here as usually from around 6 am the resident Egyptian geese would start what could euphemistically be called their "raucous" taunting of the neighbouring avian family, boisterous hadeedah-chasing and general stomping all over the roof and dive bombing the ducks.

Suddenly the geese were gone. No WWF-style wrestling on the front lawn with the geese from next door. My stoep was no longer covered in geese poo. There was no midnightly stomping on the roof.

Their depature followed the pouty-protest of the bunnies who left after I moved the lettuce from the vegetable garden to the safer confounds of the kitchen window sill.

The little swallow family who lived on the stoep is also gone, but in all fairness to them they do this every year and didn't exactly leave in a hessy fit over lettuce or for some unfathomable geese-reason.

I do have very bad news for them and am a little fearful that the swallows will not return. Last summer when their little family suddenly doubled in size they constructed a second story to their swallow nest on my stoep. They might however have cut some corners as the last ferocious winter storm all but destroyed this part of their nest. The rest is, however, still in perfect condition. Not bad for spit and mud.

I glued the remnants of the second story together and put it on the stoep for them, should they return, as a gesture of goodwill and do hope that they will not think it was destroyed during a rowdy dinner party involving impromptu star-gazing and errant bubbly corks. (No really, it was the storm). Am worried that they won't like the smell of glue though. Or maybe they will.

Feeling slightly deserted by my animal friends I was gazing across my little garden when suddenly I saw a yellow mongoose. First thought it might be a rat. (It was early ok?) But came home in the afternoon to find Mr. Mongoose stretched out on the stoep in the sun.

I sat down. Gave him some apple. He seemed to like it even though there was a lot of suspicious sniffing of the glued-nest. Explained about the geese and the bunnies.

Not to seem too ungrateful I added that I am very much aware that the crazy little bird who flies around the house and pecks at the windows was still around, as were the owls and the crazy ducks. But, I explained, nobody can be good friends with an owl and frankly the ducks were slightly stupid.
The little bird, well... words fail me mostly.

Then I read in the paper that the people from the state vet caught a rabid meerkat in Despatch. I phoned my friend who is a vet in Cape Town. My enquiry was mostly met with laughter. Must add that mongoose looked a bit laid-back to be rabid.

The next morning I woke up to a stoep covered in poo, one hell of a noise on the front porch and some ferocious Hadeedah chasing. A slightly shocked mongoose looked at me from where he undoubtedly ran for safety.

"The geese are back," I said to him. "They were here first before me or you. So there is really not much we can do about it."

He nodded - but that might just be because he was earlier trying to lick the empty Pinotage bottle of the other day. "Sniff the nest if you are feeling rabid," I said. "Welcome back geese," I added.

They just left another number 2 on the stoep and went to fight with the hadeedahs on the lawn. All is well again over here. In fact it is almost like living in Cape Town.

P.S. In a gesture of reconcilliation have planted two new lettuces for the bunnies. They returned last night.

Love, knitting and unravelling stitches

I absolutely adore going to the wool shop. Apart from the fact that I have recently developed an obsession with surgeries, the obession with crocheting is also still ongoing - but judging about a very late night, slightly red-wine-fueled conversation with a surgeon the other day the two are actually quite close to each other - I do think he meant sewing or needlepoint as the thought of the human body and a crochet needle being intertwined is a bit weird - unless you want to stab someone in the eye.

Since I was a little girl I loved wool and going to the wool shop with my Ouma. Now we have even more types of wool and thick knitting needles that I am sure my Ouma, refined woman that she was would frown upon and many, many shades, textures and types of wool and yarn.

 
But that is not the number one reason why I love the wool shop.

The local establishment is a small incubator of scandal and gossip that sometimes explode into moments of incredibly amusing karma-inspired fabulousness that makes you want to run to the car to go lauch out loud in private.

So on Saturday I went to the wool shop to get even more cotton yarn for my latest insomnia-inspired granny-square quilt when I, to my great delight found two of my older friends there. When I say older, I mean 83 and possibly 80-something but she refuses to say. I am not suffering of a sudden attack of political correctness. I am just stating the truth as they are not old in spirit or in other department as Saturday's events clearly showed - and besides they claim that one can only truly refer to another human being as old when they reach the age of 95 - up to then older will do.

My wonderful friend, the one who taught me how to crochet with the help of several bottles of JC le Roux and the odd coffee cup of really bad sherry, took me by the arm. "This," she exclaims in a stage-whisper, "is not for publication unless we remain nameless or you want to blackmail someone..."

Turns out that my friend, who is a sprightly 83 year old, who goes to gym, works in the garden and is a mean, cheating poker player but also the most incredible person ever, has her eye on an 87 year old man who lives near her in the retirement village. The two of them started visiting each other a few months ago, went to the Addo Elephant Park, went for walks by the sea. went to see a movie once or twice and had pizza that gave both terrible heartburn but, to quote my friend, the persisted "for the sake of the romance."

A while ago my friend went to visit her grandchildren overseas and was away for three months. When she returned she found that she had a rival for her man's heart in the shapely form of a sprightly 89-year old . Despite her age, my friend explained that the rival was indeed quite a catch as she still had both her hips even though friend and friend's boyfriend both had hip replacements a few years ago.

 

To everybody's horror my friend's rival also told someone, who told someone, who told someone that a jersey my friend had knitted for her beau "unravelled in the wash" - a fact shared with me with the necessary gasps of shock and horror and hand over heart gestures to convey the full extent of the drama.

Turns out that friend was in the wool shop to "gather evidence" - a small revenge-inspired Sherlock Holmesian old lady with an axe to grind. Next, she took out the "offending garment" as she referred to the jersey. "I think,"  she said (still talking in stage whispers) "that this stitch was cut... and you must help me prove it. Can we send it for lab analysis? Maybe they can find some traces of steel in it or the mark of a blade - because my jerseys NEVER unravel in the wash? Must I go steal her scissors? I am here to find sample wool that we can send along ..." (Or we can possibly stop watching so much CSI and Criminal Minds?)

I wish I could say that I managed to talk her back to sanity but for now, if a kind manager at a forensic facility perhaps reads this and find a slightly unravelled jersey and a some sample wool in a package sent for forensic examination - please indulge my friend. Love has made all of us do silly things.

Chasing balloons and the man with the golden scalpel

I always loved Grey's Anatomy - love the big words they give to relatively simple conditions, the drama, the swooning, the life-saving surgeries. It kept me fascinated for hours.

So when I met a real life surgeon AND he, ever so casually invited me to watch surgery I was beyond excited...Now before you all think that he meant something else, he didn't! This was all in a legitimate pursuit of journalism. (See below for really horrific story of epic flirting failure for those of you who are intrigued by my love life)   In any event...where was I? O yes, surgery. So with a long quizzical look the surgeon in question first ask me... You are not squeemish are you? I snorted in mock toughness. Reckoned it will take too long to explain that I faint at the sight of blood and therefore will not exactly be a good man in a theatre storm. Being a veteran crime reporter I have to add that I don't mind dead people, not even horribly mangled ones. The ones that are actively bleeding, however, tend to make me pass out.  

I doubt that the lovely surgeon, who was at stage literally chasing balloons in the peadiatrics ward, was convinced. "Just sit down if you feel faint," he said. I also want a surgeon who likes to chase balloons if I ever need to go under the knife. So when we get to the theatre we were given horribly green theatre scrubs, caps, blue booties for the shoes. My green scrubs thing was a bit big, so it wasn't my most stylish moment. Then we were allowed inside with strict instructions not to touch anything green. I clenched my hands together as instructions like that makes me want to touch green things.   Not going to bore you with the details of the surgery as I hope you all read it in the paper.

I have learned a number of things:  
· It is every bit as exciting as Grey's Anatomy.
· Nurses are lovely people. I had my tonsils out when I was three and always thought of nurses as lovely though scary wrinkly women with hands like gnarled branches- but these ones were a lively, chatty, slightly gossipy bunch.
· Nobody shouted "stat" but I guess that was a good thing. 
· The one surgeon had a golden scalpel. For some reason that made me very happy.
· If you look away during the gross bits of surgery there is no reason to faint. This, however, I guess is not a good plan if you are the surgeon.
· If you want to know the hospital gossip, ask the anaethetist.
· Surgeons do sometimes nick their gloves but then will make a slightly embarrased joke about it and get new ones.
· They will make you wear a mask which is downright horrible. Mine was a bit big so you could only see my eyes. I looked like an idiot in a badly fitting mask.
· If you take the wrong lift you will end up in a part of Provincial Hospital that is so downright scary that I have no words but might have a story or two if I can find it again.

So once we were done and escorted out by twinkly eyed, balloon-chasing surgeon, he said: You didn't faint. I was convinced you would.Well done. Have a balloon. Dignity intact, I left.

So this morning when I go to see another lovely paediatric surgeon about something else, he chuckled. (As small aside fainted in his surgery last week as I tend when coming face to face with actively bleeding children). Turns out that some people underestimated my resilience. Ha."I hear you didn't faint in surgery yesterday, so I have come to the conclusion that we have better lollipops here."  

Indeed doctor. Indeed.  

PS It is not only a vicious rumour that I can write the book on lawyers. Am working on a Understand your Attorney - a novice's guide. They have, however, been on my no-date list for a while. So when one, ridiculously attractive one sent me a shirtless picture of himself with the question: Any comments? I wasn't really thinking of flirting.  
"You must have been cold" I said, considering Cape Town's current weather.
"No, try again," the answer came.
"You were robbed?" I tried again.
"No. One more chance," he wrote back.
"No. I give up."
"I HAVE A NEW TATTOO," he texted, clearly enraged. AND YOU ARE IMPOSSIBLE TO FLIRT WITH!"
Indeed. Nothing I said afterwards helped. Am clearly doomed.

Know all the precedent cases for specific performance under contract law and not a single rule of flirting. Crap. Off to watch more surgeries seems safer...

A three duck hole and a bit of purple prose

The recent rain in Port Elizabeth has left me with a medium-sized relatively shallow hole in my driveway.  As this is Port Elizabeth and not Cape Town where rain water elegantly disappears, the rain also caused mud and puddles and other weather-related hazards, like a medium-sized hole filled with water in the middle of my driveway.

 

Normally I just drive around it unless my somewhat-iffy driving skills desert me and then I just drive through it. The lovely owner of the farm saw it as well and now wants to cover it up. Great landlord that he is - I first said yes and now I am sorry.  To establish the scale of the problem lovely landlord phoned me.

 

"How big is the hole,"he asked.

 

"I don't know," I answered.

 

"How can you not know?"he asked.

 

"I haven't measure it. But if you allow for a tight squeeze it will fit three fat ducks," I answered.

 

Silence followed. "What do you mean three fat ducks?" he then queried - rather hestitatingly.

 

"There are three fat ducks sort of swimming in it. They can't really swim, so they mostly just splash around in it." I am still trying to find a word for "squeezing ducky-self into medium-sized hole filled with water and simultaneously trying to get rid of other two ducks in medium sized hole as to make the swimming experience slightly more comfortable."

 

More silence. (Landlord clearly getting with the new metric system)

 

"Are they swimming bum to bum or bum to head?"

 

"Bum to head."

"Ok, got it,"he says. (I can imagine making a note to go measure hole as soon as crazy tenant left for ).

When I came home he had left a note on my door. "Three-swimming-duck-sized-hole fixed.  Will fix one-fat-pig-sized hole in fence soonest."

Love that man to bits.

Wish all my problems were that easy to sort out. My favourit nail polish is a pale purple-grey called Lucky Lavender.

In Cape Town Lucky Lavender is considered highly popular. There is something akin to the running of the bulls in better shoes if the local salon gets it in as it is fairly scarce. In Port Elizabeth some beauty guru - am still trying to figure out who the hell it was - has declared that "purple" nails look like the wearer is ill or devoid of oxygen or very cold.

 

Now "Lucky Lavender" is not purple. It is a gorgeous creamy colour that reminds one of of the lavender fields in France. It is elegant and fun and goes with almost all outfits and most of all it makes me happy. Except that because of the above beauty edict I have to jump through flaming hoops to find a bottle of Lucky Lavender in PE - and now have all my spies in Cape Town on high alert with immediate instructions to buy all availble bottles should it be spotted on the shelves.

You can imagine my surprise though when I visited a spa in Port Elizabeth for the necessary maintenance-related spa-activities when the therapist exclaimed: "Oooo I love the colour on your nails."

"Lucky Lucky Lavender," I replied.

"We must so get it for the shop," she said.

"So you must, I agreed, whipping out bottle with the right codes and everything else.

Clearly dealing with almost anything over here is like a three duck hole - you either sink, swim or get stuck between two other ducks unless your nails are a gorgeous lilac.

Pajama drills and annoying livestock

I like pajamas. In fact pajamas are my favourite pieces of clothing. Silky, satiny, flannel - depending on the occassion - I love them all.

Now having said that I wasn't a fan of "all purpose wear" - that rather ill-fated idea of a designer a few years ago thinking that pajamas can by styled in such a manner that it can be worn in public as well - it still looked like pajamas, no matter what you did with it.

In winter I can spend long evenings in my pajamas without feeling slightly style-less (now that I have given up on the ridiculous pink-doggie-slippers).

But having said that I never venture into public with my pjs. I will sometimes go chase away bunnies from the vegetable garden or confront errant members of the neighbourhood watch in the middle of the night but otherwise when going out I put on real clothes.

I am not sure why I am still surprised when humanity proved time and again that there usually is no end to bad manners and inconsiderate behaviour. So when I was drove past a rather awkward scene in Bird Street the other day involving a girl in very ill-fitting satin pajamas and very pink slippers, a man wearing pj bottoms and a rather amused policeman, I was surprised. In fact I stopped and enquired only to be entertained by a long tale of infidelity, larceny and something weird about the last cigarette in the packet before the conversation descended into a domestic dispute of such nastiness that the policeman had to intervene.

Since then I realised that there are quite a lot of people in Port Elizabeth who think it is ok to wear pajamas on the street. The other morning I saw an old man going to buy the paper in his robe, two women with the whole pajamas, robe and curlers ensemble chatting on the street corner, two women in pajamas popping into the cornershop in their pjs and one memorable woman who was driving a very fancy car and obviously didn't bother to get dressed before she dropped the kids off at school. Really people? What is wrong with a tracksuit? Or a t-shirt and jeans. SInce when has it become applicable to wear pajamas in public?

Now this doesn't annoy me on the scale that I am about to embark on a new law enforcement campaign similar to the great stop-peeing-in-public-law-enforcement-effort of 2006 when I testified in no less than 8 public indecency cases and won 8 convictions (I am a very good witness, haha ) - plus one guy got convicted twice when he, after being fined in an unprecedented act of defiance peed in the dustbin outside the court.

And honestly, this just doesn't happen in Cape Town. Cape Town might have flashers, people without teeth spitting in the street, strange drunken advocates pushing each other around in shopping trolleys and judges who sometimes wear feather boas but nobody I know who would possibly commit the social sin of wearing pajamas in public.

I guess it is better than wearing nothing - and it won't get you arrested, but for now I will just wish that people will have better manners and continue to stare hard and snort with derision - and continue living in the country where, even if people run around naked outside with their pants on their heads, I just wont see it or I will at least pretend not to because I have to deal with things like pigs having very loud piggy sex on my doorstep. Again. Despite my pleas to the neighbours about their slutty pig. For goodness sake. 

Mean Cows and the Ungoogleable Camel Man

I hate cows. I really do.

What type of person hates cows, you ask?

The owners of infinitely stylishly fabulous gumboots, who have a penchant for rugged camel man types who have no fear or scruples to deal with cows, do.

Some of you will remember that a few years ago a fantastically bright designer hit on the idea that gumboots did not have to be dreary at all. It was a truly happy day. I got red ones with little white polka dots. They were in a word: fabulous. They made playing outside fun. They made walking around farms in the Cape Town winter fun and stylish. They made me love shoes all over again. They were even better than chocolate for a while.

Until the unfortunate cow incident.

At the time, my much beloved sister and dad had hit on the idea of keeping cows. Many of them. Until today I am not sure why.

I was dating the ultimate un-googleable Camel Man at the time . Un-googleable Camel Man offered to bring the cows home. Yes really. Hahaha. I, foolishly offered to go with him. Ungoogleable Camel Man got side-tracked fixing a fence. The cows - and there was a particularly nastly looking one with a mean expression on its face cornered me at the tree - and one licked my boots. It wasn't glamorous. I cannot honestly say that my life flashed before my eyes. It wasn't even bloody terrifying in an urban terrorism kind of way. I just felt trapped by animals who have surprisingly long tongues.

Instead of rescuing me Ungoogleable Camel Man was literally holding his stomach bent over in uncontrollable mirth. No he wasn't really the type to laugh out loud. Guess he still is, but since he refuses to get a Facebook profile I have no idea of his new humour-habits. He was more of a snorter - that is why this was even worse.

So in my never-ending relentless search for news, I happened upon a support group for people suffering of cow phobia. This is part of their support literature: "'A cow is a domestic animal and it is an essential part of human life. In reality, a cow is a meek and docile animal and it is not at all aggressive in nature. Therefore, phobia of cows is quite unnatural and somewhat irrelevant."

What the hell? Let one of them chase you into a tree and lick your boots, lady, and then you tell me it is irrelevant.

Next I had to tick a few boxes to see if I am a genuine cow-phobic and not some wannabee.

Breathlessness (Jip. Might however have been presence of Ungoogleable Camel Man - he had that effect on me)

Excessive sweating (No, that is just gross)

Nausea (slightly but was definitely due to hangover)

Shaking (Only in feet department and might be due to excessive licking)

Heart palpitations (See above comments on Ungoogleable Camel Man)

Fear of death (Uhhh, not really)

Sudden madness (What the hell? Unless meaning mad as in really, really angry at sight of Ungoogleabe Camel Man doubled over in mirth)

Sense of detachment (Nope, unless fear of them actually ruining my fabulous boots count)

So it turns out that I don't really have a phobia - more of a justified avoidance-coping-strategy - except that there is a particularly nasty-looking one that I have encountered on my last few morning runs and it looks like she has a penchant for Nike...

The agony of a boring stalker

We are all frozen in this little corner of the world.

The avian friends are limiting their conflict to sunlight hours. The bunnies are not happy. I have moved all the lettuce plants to the kitchen so now I am only getting accusatory stares and no longer have to run outside in my pajamas to chase them from the vegetable garden. Even the frogs and the spiders are quiet. The owls, Clive and his family, are back. Happy days. However, their stoic refusal to get involved in the goose fight, is slightly disappointing. I thought their beautiful imposing presence would solve the problem but somehow they only sit in the pine tree and look, somewhat amused at the WWF-inspired avian wrestling matches.

One small thing that did happen this week is that my stalker is back.

Now I am one of those people who always feel slightly left out when it comes to criminal fads. Nobody ever tried to spike my drink. Nobody even cloned my Facebook profile. I had a stalker once for about a week in my twenties who sent me bouqets of flowers, choclates and invitations to the opera - until his ego got in the way and he announced himself. 

 

And now, it turns out, while nearing 40, I finally got a stalker again. Cue evil laugh here.

 

Unfortunately he is very much middle aged and way too short to be considered tall, dark and dangerous and even drives a dull car. I am sure, I have to say in his defence, that I am sure he will be a perfect spouse for someone but not for me.

 

I have a feeling that he might be a transvestite as the only thing he ever comments is that I have washing on the line. It is possible to see my washing on the line but I don't hang frilly bras and lacy undies there, I hang those out of sight - unless the wind accidentally blows them all over the yard.

Yes, I did actually have a date with this man once. And yes, confession time I faked a breaking news story to leave after 30 minutes because frankly his company was so dull that it was unbearable.

 

Now if I was a stalker, I would go to all sorts of lengths to hide my identity and use unknown numbers and those 10 minute emails that I could stay anonymous, but mine smsses from his official phone, I would wear the subject of my affections down with presents, and beautiful love letters and joyfully funny smsses. What I am getting are smsses about the state of my laundry every month or two - he is not a particularly enthusiastic stalker.

 

I don't mind really as the smsses usually say: I drove past your house and saw you had washing on the line. Glad to see you are home. 

Have been tempted to reply: Am not home at all but please don't steal the Princess Tam Tam underwear as really like those - but I restrain myself thinking that he will get tired soon and go away or send OMO and Sta-Soft.

Eensy Weensy Spider: The SNVL 18-version

I try to be tough - but actually I am not. As a result life is sending me all sorts of creepy crawlies to test my resilience...and no despite popular opinion this is not a blog about my love life.

I have devised a special frog catching tupperware-sequence (patent pending) that is remarkably effective. Have perfected the broom and spade beating a scorpion to death routine and otherwise date men who doesn't mind catching spiders or at least pretend to remove them from my house with minimal emotion and probably scream in the car afterwards. Otherwise I just leave them to my domestic worker who usually beats them to death with an encyclopedia, despite my pleas that they be helped out into the garden in a gentle way. It is always great to give instructions from the lounge if the spider is in the bedroom.

Last month when there was a spider in my room and Liefie was out saving really sick people instead of me, I just locked the door and went to sleep in the guest bedroom until help arrived. I am not sure why one needs to lock the door, but you never know.

 

This week I saw a whole health forum on the internet (am the health reporter so can do this in working hours) that dealt with people whose sleep is disturbed because their brains wake them up and make them see spiders in their beds. It was a disturbing read. I have a feeling I might suffer of this - better not to tempt fate though - some of them might be real.

The next day as I was lying in the bath I saw a spider on the ceiling. I thought it would be fine. The next minute I heard a plop as spider dropped into the bath. I am now the proud new holder of the landspeed record for getting out of the bath, into a towel, locking a bathroom door and trying to calm self down in the bedroom. It was fairly tough to explain the whole situation to Liefie a bit later especially as he could not stop laughing.

The house has now been fumigated. Have temporarily forgotten that I care about the environment.

O yes... local news updates for those of you who asked:

The Neighbourhood Watch has stopped with their flashing. Now I only have to reform ADT.

The avian warfare is continuing. One of the main instigators have lost a leg. Not sure how but I swear I will move if I find it in my garden.  Am contemplating if appropriate to ask new love interest to do scouting for foot before I venture back into the garden.

Feathers are flying

Last week I was having a slightly romatic little supper with Liefie when an Armageddon-like noise and scuffle, errupted on my roof.

Liefie, alert farm boy that he is,  impressively wielding a steak knife, bolted for the front door, stormed out and returned about half a minute later.

"It is your bloody geese again," he said with a rather murderous glint in the eye. (Quite a significant achievement for a very gentle spirited man).

Turns out on further, slightly drunken inspection of the situation on the roof, that a small turf war has erupted between the resident geese and the refugee geese from across the road where people with dogs moved in recently.

See, for a long time we had two families of Egyptian geese living in peace in my little corner of farmland. My geese lived on my roof and the refugee geese lived across the road on the empty house's roof. I imagined them seeing each other in flight and politely tipping their little geese hats at each other every morning. Then the neighbours moved in.

Now the neighbours have so far been perfectly pleasant, apart from the small roving spotlight incident, but due to the large number of dogs that moved in with them their geese suddenly found themselves without a home.

Not surprisingly it turned out that they then decided to move in on the other end of my roof. My geese didn't like it. In fact they protested rather vociferously. The refugee geese temporarily backed down and retired to an old pine tree where they protested their plight rather loudly as well. Suddenly my cottage felt like a Home Affairs office.

Unfortunately the refugee geese has taken many, many opportunities to unseat the resident geese from their little spot on my roof. And they are not lightfooted creatures. Usually the fighting - WWF style - continues on the front lawn. However dramatic it is to watch, no amount of shouting or putting the sprinklers on can dislodged the birds from each other's throats.

I have stopped setting my alarm for 5 am as this, it has turned out, has become the refugee geese's favourite time to dive bomb my resident avian friends.

To add insult to injury the resident hadedas now regularly line up on the roof in the morning either to watch the action or to simply annoy the other warring parties.

It is like living in a war zone. I think I need a dog. Or a shotgun. Or maybe both.

Missing Darling Street and my lovely Auntie M

As you might have gathered it is raining in Port Elizabeth. Lovely icy Cape Town weather - making me miss the spice shops of Darling Street. Yes, before you all tell me you can find all the secret curry spices in PE, but buying spices at the supermarket and buying at the spice shop is not the same thing.

In Darling Street you first had to introduce yourself, explain your cooking, ask nicely and perhaps bring a sample of your bobotie to make sure that you are a worthy buyer.

If you walked into the dark little shop with an umbrella and a big handbag there were space for nobody else. Auntie M behind the counter would first ask about the news of the day, demand a detailed explanation of the state of my love life, look for any signs of a ring or possible pregnancy, wanted to see if the shoes were suitably fabulous and then and only then would you be allowed to request spices for a dish. She taught me to make boeber - lovely rose-water flavoured melkkos, that made you cry if you were sad, bobotie, the best possible chicken and lamb curry and along with it came advice, little bits of Bo-Kaap skinder and mostly warnings about men. If you started the conversation with " I am in a hurry" you were summarily dismissed as "decent people never buy spices in a hurry."

To get her to give you chicken curry spices you first had declare that you are quite sure that the chicken would be on standard and that you have enough of the right sort of vegetables, promise to several multi-cultural gods that you will use brown sugar and agree to never ever ever serve your curry on anything but basmati rice and agree to several threats that you were likely to drop dead if you ever brought a metal spook near your pot of curry. I often feared that she will arrive unannounced at my house for curry inspection. And of course you had to come back and sometimes when we were trying something new bring leftovers. However she was always delighted when there were none.

The last time I was there her shop was closed up and Auntie M had died. I realised that I never once saw her feet and that if anything I hope that when I am older my eyes will have the same laugh lines, my kitchen will be filled with the same beautiful fragrances and more than ever I will have enough people to threaten, interrogate and advise on their cooking.

There is a lion at the Town Hall and other thoughts

I have been going through my Ouma's papers, neatly preserved pictures and letters from a forgotten age, the writing faded, edges slightly curled, postmarks almost disappearing - a beautiful, gentle world of good manners, adventure and the inevitable social custom that was the postcard. So much better than a Facebook update.

So in between the small family scandals, there are stories of visits to the Zimbabwe ruins, the north of Namibia and tons of notes from my great uncle who "had to go north" during the second World War coupled with heartbreaking pictures of young boys in military gear, a lost British woman whose paths had crossed that of my Ouma's family and countless pictures of weddings, funerals and christenings.

The one series of postcards tells of one adventurous brother of Ouma who caught a lion cub and brought it home for his daughter. A few followed showing the cub growing up. Another shows a beautiful young lady with a beautiful lion at the Ladismith Town Hall (nogals) posing in front of the fountain casually noting: "The lion bit his her twice and her dad had him shot." That was the end of the lion story.

One must wonder why this photosession did not cause great uproar and drama in town. Or maybe it did. Must plan adventure to go study the local newspaper's archives.

Today there is just a whiff of a lion possibly escaping into the great wild that is the urban spread of Port Elizabeth and the whole town is suddenly a flutter with fear. Clearly it is escape season for the kind of the jungle as reports were also coming in of one being  on the loose in KwaZulu-Natal. Annoying morning person that I am I sat at my desk at 5 am this morning watching the pouring rain and thinking of my Ouma's niece and her lion. Then I suddenly realised my bunnies have been missing for a day or two but am hopeful that it was just the bad weather...

Bubble Bubble Toil and Trouble

My hairdresser, who I am not naming as am about to share a whole lot of skinder, is one of my favourite people in the world. Apart from the fact that he makes me look pretty he is also my beloved source of news presented in such an elaborate, no doubt exaggerated and highly detailed fashion that it often makes me, as a journalist, wish that all informants were hairdressers.

As a result I don't really mind that it takes for ever to cover all my grey hair and between tint and treatment and trim it takes all morning, as it turns out that this is time perfectly spend witnessing life's little dramas.

So the other day my hairdresser and I am in a passionate discussion about new hairstyles, colour and so on when two women walk into the salon. Loud women. Women who are wearing gym clothes to the salon (my ouma would be upset) but show no sign of having worked out. They are here for their "up-do", they say - in very loud voices - it is a small salon but their collective very nasal, high-pitched voice volume would also have made it audible in Builders Warehouse,

By then we had forgotten our discussion and we were watching what was later referred to as " the drama." (with appropriate handsigns)

"I think they are prostitutes," my hairdresser mumbles. "And she is definitely not 35."

The reference to age followed a loud discussion with the older one wishing for her hair to be done in what in the 1980's was euphemistically known as "a bubble."  Her hairdresser subtly suggested that an ... ahem ... older woman might look more elegant with something less girly. Frankly I would think that anybody aged 35 would know better than to try "the bubble" again but who am I to judge.

Lucky for us, as I would still have been there otherwise, there was a lull in the action with the suspicious duo were ushered to the basins to have their hair washed and treated and blow dryed.

When this was done they proceeded to put on roughly about 20 layers of make-up including fake eyelashes.

By now the two's beautifying routine had captured all eyes in the salon so when one of the other stylists suggested that they might have a problem to take off their tightly fitting gymtops without messing up hair and smudging make-up it prompted a lively discussion under the clients about how exactly to proceed.

The scary 35-year old however assured everyone that she had done this "thousands of times" which of course prompted the hairdresser and me to giggle uncontrollably.

And then the battle of the bubble started. First the delusional woman made the poor stylist do the bubble about 11 times. He politely points out that she had fine hair which, in the absence of possibly a cementlike hairspray, will likely refuse to be bullied into a bubble roughtly the height of the Twin Towers. She then grabs the brush and "works on the bubble herself."

Eventually after filling half the earth's atmosphere with hairspray, her arms also got tired and she sourly declared that "this would have to do."

As she turns to leave, my lovely much adored hairdresser said in what we both call his "theatrical voice": "Have a bottle of complimentary hairspray. You are going to need it..." This prompted her to give him a dirty look and a stare.

"It makes you look at least 40, he said as he turned and ran for the safety of his scissors.

I don't like going to gym. I go because I read all the scary statistics and I like having chocolate every now and again - so I run, and cycle and do circuit trading.  Also the resident geese wake me up at 5 am and there isn't much else to do that early in the morning when you know the avian neighbours won't let you go back to sleep. Also, as my dearly beloved ones are well aware, I am one of those annoyingly cheerful morning people - better to channel all that energy into exercise and to avoid bloodshed in the household that early as I seem to attract those who are decidedly not at their best at 6 am.

However, before I get mistaken for some bouncy, extatic gym bunny - I don't like sweating and I really don't like exercise, therefore to facilitate the process I have to put great music on my MP3 player. Music that speaks of great love, walking on sunshine and other joyful moments in life. Beautiful jazz. Happy classics and what is generally known as running music. Fantastic happy hormone-inducing stuff.

As I can rival any 2-year old in lack of attention span I have to change these playlists regularly to avoid boredom.  So this morning, in the middle of my workout I realise that Carmina Burana, Carl Orff's great masterpiece had slipped itself into my list of happy music. Now those of you who have heard it would know that it is not an endorphin-stimulating piece of music. It is beautiful... but decidedly fall more in the category of revenge music - a soundtrack for making plans that are slightly left of legal and moral.

So if you are suddenly confronted with all 8 minutes of it in the middle of the gym you realise that that the health club can indeed be an evil place. It also makes me think of Old Spice and crows but that is besides the point. So in the Old Spice aftershave smelling health club, the guy next to me suddenly looked like a deranged hairdresser from Nigel who could kill someone in the sauna. The bouncy blonde (who is always there) like a cunning, though benign con-artist out to get men and take all their money. The poor fat guy who always complain to all that he has gained 10 kg since joining the gym like a scheming mafia boss ready to kidnap people from the car park for ransom.

It was the most interesting workout I had in a long time. Have been googling revenge music all morning.

So did the news of the shouting, swearing woman in the pink flannel pajamas reach you yet? No. Well let me confess...

 
I used to love the city. Loved how you could just zip down to the local coffee shop. Have an espresso. Zip to the office. High on caffeine. How the buzz of the city would make you not notice how uncomfortable those really high shoes were. I guess in Cape Town you can get away with almost anything. It is so damn beautiful that you are distracted from sore feet, caffeine highs, vagrants on the street and any type of existential crisis as you are regularly overwhelmed by the sheer fabulousness of it all.

Port Elizabeth, on the other hand, prove to have more room for ... ahem .... contemplation. There is no in-your-face-beauty. No Long Street. No fabulous old woman who will regularly stroll down Victoria Road to Gardens for tea and scones.

God does have a sense of humour. I landed up in a cottage in the country. In a place that only now have a really great coffee shop. (Thank you Friendly Stranger) And I am no longer wearing high heels - well, sometimes - if it rains you get stuck in the mud. Instead  I have bunnies, a wandering tortoise, three very ill-tempered Egyptian geese, a little brown bird that is certifiably crazy and often try to kill itself by flying into the sliding doors, several times every morning (Once I opened the door and it flew right in, bashed into the wall and was lying lights out on the carpet when I found it.)

Instead of late nights with questionable men in the Cuban Restaurant where we will end up discussing topics with long Latin names I now go home, feed the birds, including the crazy brown one, put out some spinach for the tortoise, aka Clive, who will only come nibble on it when I can't see him, shout a little at the geese, just for fun.

I really like my little cottage as it firstly is quiet. I don't have to listen to drunk vagrants singing in the street and discussing the exactly length of Langkop's manhood - however interesting it is. I don't have to bash on the walls at 2 in the morning to alert the neighbours having very loud sex that I can hear every dirty word. Nobody knocks on the my door for "20c please."" (Really... what are you going to do with 20c??) My gate doesn't even have a buzzer so unless you have been invited or I really, really like you I don't have to let you in.

Of course recently my lovely, peaceful existence was seriously disturbed by the Neighbourhood Watch and their green light. Yes... I said it the Neighbourhood Watch. Lovely people. Sacrificing time for the good of all. Having spent the better part of the last decade covering brutal farm murders I am very much in favour of any deterrent force that will keep intruders from my home. However...

It is dark where I live. I like it as it is conducive to sleep and I have an insomnia-induced deficit of about 20 years to wipe out. If somebody shines a light in my eyes I will wake up. I will have a fright and I am bound to be cranky and do crazy things... as we all saw last night.

So the past few nights I got woken up by a flashing green light - shining right into my bedroom. My first thoughts contained several four letter words. The second one too. By the third one I was peeping out the study window and realised that the source of the green flashing light was the neighbourhood watch's friendly patrolling vehicle. You are wondering why they have a green light? Sit tight. At first I thought it was just a once off flashing incident. When it happened the next night I repeated a "tolerance affirmation" to see if it will make me patient and loving towards the neighbourhood watch people. It didn't.

Last night, I lost it, I am sorry to say. Barefoot and in pajamas I opened the front door. Stormed out to my gate. Discovered that the neighbourhood watch having coffee and sandwiches with the armed response guys. (Lovely only-in-South-Africa moment I only realised now that I have calmed down.) First my front door bashing woke the geese who, as one tends to do in avian land when woken up crazy angry women, made a huge noise. It did not disturb the security-sector midnight party.

 

"Can we help you?" they asked politely. I explained my predicament. "But it is a green light," they said. "It should not disturb you. Green is conducive to calm... and it is very dangerous to be outside in the middle of the night. It is cold you might catch a cold. And you must never leave your front door open."

 

I am not rendered speechless often in my life. But I was. Bowled out by the neighbourhood watch. I turned around angrily walked to my front door and promptly stepped in geese poo left there no doubt by my frightened avian friends.

 

This is not over.