Blue Sundays.

Sundays are depressing. The only good thing about a Sunday is waking up and realising that staying in bed is an option. Sundays became an issue for me when I went to boarding school. We had to go back to that awful place on Sunday afternoon. I would get up early on Sunday morning to make the most of the half a day I had, Mum was usually nagging about cleaning school shoes and packing suitcases, but I was half way out of the door, surfboard under my arm, heading for the solace of the waves. The sinking feeling of having to leave the water and trudge home is still with me. The depressingly green suitcase open on my bed in the sanctuary of my little room signified the end of my freedom.  The resigned silence in the car all the way to Cape Town and the wind.  I don't know why, but it always seemed to be windy.  It whistled around that old school and rattled the sash windows.  Even though there was an excited air among the other girls, catching up with news and weekend exploits, I just felt flat and sad.  Another week of horrible food, silly rules and bitchy girls, of wishing the days would hurry by and Friday afternoon magically be. I would stuff everything into that damn green suitcase and wait for my Dad's white Ford Escort to appear. The anticipation was excrutiating. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for the full-time boarders, stuck there for weeks on end until the end of term. I don't think I would have survived that. I thank my lucky stars I was not one of them. One of the best and worst days of my life was when I was asked to leave that school for not conforming to the system. I was not particularly badly behaved, but I was so desperately unhappy I didn't care to toe the line and be a "well-adjusted young lady", whatever that means! They did not approve of my surfing, I refused to take my surfing posters off the wall, my hair was wild, I struggled to tame it and that was an issue. Oh, the petty list went on and on. My Mother was naturally mortified that I had been dismissed from one of the "best" schools in Cape Town and I felt I had committed the ultimate sin letting her down like that, but I was secretly elated. I was finally free. And Sundays, well, I still have the need to pinch myself to ensure that I am in the here and now because the residual angst feeling from those days still remains.

Quick fixes?

Isn't it funny how, as youngsters, the thought of being middle aged did not compute.  You looked around and saw older people, but could never imagine being older.  Ageing is seen as a curse in our society and people will go to great lengths to stave it off.  Lengths which to my mind may be quite dangerous.  Fad diets, hair and beauty treatments, gruelling exercise regimes and handfuls of supplements are the used at great expense.  Not to mention elective surgery to correct perceived imperfections.  I speak for myself and no one else when I question the long term use of botox for example.  A derivative of the botulism bacteria. A powerful and potentially fatal poison. Does anybody really know?  I am aware of many people who use it and granted they look wrinkle-free and gorgeous, but I prefer to allow my wrinkles to tell my story.   I have seen the results of collagen and silicone injections disfiguring faces as it is rejected by the body into lumpy masses. Testosterone injections for females with low libido? The side effects are a list long, but that doesn't seem to matter as long as it does the job. I question doctors who promote drugs without due process. Hair dye can be a killer, especially the darker colours.  It contains p-phenylenediamine, or PPD, which can cause anaphylactic shock. I used to use it until I became short of breath one evening after applying it.  I use natural henna now and rather enjoy the preparation and definitely the result.  For me, sitting in hair salons for hours listening to endless chatter about knitting, second-hand gossip and healthy kids lunches is torture. Fad diets are just that, fads. Often weight loss is achieved, but not sustained. The body needs healthy food, in moderation. It makes sense to me, that food intake translates into an equal amount of exercise to sustain a healthy weight. Exercise is a wonderful stress reliever, but many are fanatical and this can cause long term damage to bodies, especially if training is carried out with little sustenance which is often the case.  Supplements are another area of contention for me.  People take supplements like sweets without ever researching their interactions or knowing if they are really necessary.  Firstly, the body rids itself of anything it doesn't need, so a lot lands up in the toilet and secondly, some supplement interactions can be lethal to the body. I try and make sure that any shampoos or beauty products I use are paraben free and not tested on animals. This is not an easy task as ninety-nine percent of beauty treatments are full of parabens and tested on animals. I have done my research and found some products that profess to be paraben and cruelty free and I stick to them. As far as elective surgery is concerned. I cannot understand why, unless someone has a legitimate reason, people would subject themselves to the knife. Surgery is always a roulette wheel. In cases of severe malformations, it is a blessing, but for unnatural enhancement? It is all about what others think, so why not learn to be happy in your skin. This is the body you were given and as long as you treat it with respect and love, it should be enough. Clothe it, paint it, enhance it naturally, but not to your detriment. If people don't like the you they see, they are not worth knowing.

A "complicated" issue.

Facebook is a forum to air one's views on a miriad of issues. People deplore the way that others treat animals and I am subjected to an endless stream of graphic images of starving dogs and mutilated pachyderms. I am well aware of these realities and have voiced my despair time and time again. But, I have spotted an elephant in the room. There is a noticable lack of any outrage surrounding what can only be described as carnage in Gaza. People, innocent men, women and children, are dying in their hundreds. Soldiers dying is part of their understood job description, but civilians? I do not condone war in any form. I have watched the endless debates, read all I can and tried to understand the actual dynamics of the situation. What strikes me is the way the problem is referred to by the players as "complicated" time and time again. I think this is the reason why people are reluctant to air their feelings.  It is so "complicated" that although a people are being persecuted, no one is certain how fair their comments may be. Perhaps people are afraid to appear insensitive? I am commenting on what I have witnessed and cannot justify what looks like a massacre. The television footage of the dead and dying lying in blood-filled streets with horrific injuries, hearing the anguished cries of terrified relatives shocked this hardened paramedic. The fact that the sanctity of hospitals has been attacked is surely against the Geneva Convention. As the number of injured mount, medical staff struggle to cope and vital resources rapidly dwindle adding to the misery. Collateral damage is an (un) acceptable fact of war, but I don't see much care being attempted to limit civilian casualties. It almost seems as if the civilians being maimed or killed are not seen as people. This perpetrated by a people who have suffered at the hands of a regime who did not see them as people, reduced them to numbers, starved them then gassed them like animals. This atrocity has been universally accepted as one of the most dire of human tragedies and we are encouraged to remember this so that that level of cruelty never happens again. . . And yet a people who should know better through experience are, it would appear, essentially committing a similar act over land. I struggle to find the sense. Anger at injustice has boiled over, both sides have their unwavering grievances.  But both sides have the choice to escalate or lay down the gauntlet and put an end to this.  I fervently hope that a full and final peace is reached for all, but as they said, its "complicated."

Far away families.

It is a sad phenomenon in South Africa that many family members are separated by thousands of kilometres. People still make the decision to leave this country for many reasons perhaps safer shores, to find employment or out of fear that the political situation may deteriorate. Some families leave in tact and others do not. This means that even with huge advances in communication, the natural family day to day interaction breaks down. When I was young I remember how difficult it was when snail mail or a very expensive, booked overseas call was the only way to pass news along and of course a telegram was never usually positive. A phone call is wonderful, but often things that needed to be said are forgotten. Nothing beats a face to face catch-up chat. Travelling from South Africa to other countries is prohibitively expensive with the weak Rand causing exchange rates to be exorbitant. Not within the means of most. If one does manage to go, the trip is tinged with a nagging sadness at having to leave again. Overseas family communication seems to be just one long goodbye with no guarantee of ever seeing each other again. It is rather isolated here on the tip of Africa. When bad things happen it is just awful to have to stand by the cell phone or computer waiting for news. The normal thing to do would be to go to those you want to be with, those who need you to share a cup of tea and a hug. On the other hand it makes every interaction very special, it really makes one appreciate family. But never the less, I believe families should stay together and I miss mine very much.

Farewell dear one.

There are times in life when a person appears and has such a profound impact on one's being that no words can adequately capture the significance of that meeting.  I was blessed to meet a beloved family friend when I travelled to New Zealand in 2012.  She alighted from an airport shuttle and the connection was instant.  It was as if we had known each other forever.  We dumped her baggage, poured a glass of wine, lit a ciggie each and started talking.  We didn't stop talking for her entire stay.  If I had to hazard a guess at this mutual fondness, I would say we were simply re-connecting.  We just knew each other.  We laughed until we cried, we spoke of hard times and difficult subjects, we wept and comforted each other.  She inspired me to invent a cartoon strip about a kiwi called Kevin and encouraged me as no one ever has before.  She was forthright and wise, an indomitable spirit who was as stubborn as a mule, yet as kind as could be.  Bright and funny, completely open minded.  It was not unknown to find her floating around naked in the pool, glass in hand or getting completely soaked on the slippery slide, even though her health wasn't great.  We swore to tandem bungey jump off the Auckland bridge next time I visited New Zealand and whenever she phoned me she reminded me about that promise.  I felt so free to be able to say whatever I wanted to in her presence.  I had never had a relationship with an older woman in which this was possible.   Dotty taught me the true meaning of unconditional love. She believed in me and by doing so, restored my faith in me.  She left the world today and later as the sun goes down, I shall sit quietly and chat to her with a glass of wine and a ciggie. I will send her my love and overwhelming gratitude for her enormous contribution to my life. I bet I will hear her laugh and say "You were worth it."

The obvious choice.

I do not subscribe to any set belief system, I have my own inbuilt radar which discerns right from wrong.  I have always thought for myself and following the crowd has never appealed.  I follow the beat of my own drum.  If something feels right and harms none I do it and if it doesn't, I don't.  If an idea resonates, I may, after consideration, take it on.  The ideal of love and forgiveness is a noble one, but life is not as clear cut as that.   Understanding why someone would hurt another is an interesting exercise when one is on the outside of the conflict, but if that hurt encircles one, what then?  I have a choice as does every other human being on the planet.  I have a choice to endure pain or walk away, I have a choice whether to fight back or forgive and I have a choice about how I feel.   It seems that since the dawn of time, humans have preferred revenge over peaceful resolution and this has perpetuated the fact that hate begets hate.  I have experienced injustice and intolerance, I have wanted revenge and to hurt as I have been hurt.  In the end I am human.  Where did this get me?  It made me ill, it made me unhappy and at times I disliked myself intently.  What did this teach me?  It made me realise that although I will feel the emotions, I do not have to act on them.  I am not obliged to forgive, but I can walk away.  I am not obliged to agree, but I can voice my opinion.  I can choose whether I want to expend energy on a thing and give it life or not.  Changing people's perspectives on long held ideologies is near on impossible, but imagine how wonderful the world would be if each person on the planet took it upon themselves to be kind, tolerant and understanding of the other? People could live in harmony on earth if they made the choice to do so. It is that simple.

Sean Terry. Missing skipper mystery.

The 12th of July 2012 was my nephew's birthday and also the day I was asked to look into the case of a missing yachtsman.  This was to be the beginning of a yet to be solved mystery.  My sister contacted me and asked me if I could look into my nephew's godfather's disappearance psychically.  The known information at that stage was just that a man named Sean had somehow disappeared off his yacht, location and circumstances unknown.  I closed my eyes and "saw" a tall, thin, tanned blonde man dressed in colourful shorts.  He was standing on board a yacht which was moored in azure blue, sparkling sea and it was a very warm place. On the decking were some ropes and a crate as if things were being sorted out or tidied.  In the distance I could see a hazy island and it seemed to have greenery and large rocks on it.  Behind me was another land mass.  Suddenly I saw another man, dark and stocky, with a tribal tattoo on his left shoulder and almost Polynesian-looking, wielding a long metal object, his face like thunder, about to attack the blonde man.  I wondered why he was so fiercely angry.  The blonde man put his hands up and said "Is this for real."  He seemed genuinely shocked.  I saw no more after that.  I sent a message to my sister suggesting they look into what the crew had to say.  Information started filtering through on a Facebook page that had been set up by Sean's distraught family and through the media.  Sean Terry, a very experienced skipper, had been sailing around the globe, mostly solo, on his yacht Finnegan.  Sean and an Austrian scuba diver named Stefan Pokorney, set out from Sri Lanka across the Indian Ocean via the Maldives to the Chagos Archipelago and were to sail on to Madagascar and finally home to Cape Town for Christmas. Sean was last seen on the island of Chagos and there are photographs of him there. I realised that Sean was the blonde man I saw. The crew member was not the same man I had seen. The apparent chain of events from then on is that Finnegan, and another yacht called Alice, left Chagos and sailed in tandem en route to Madagascar until they parted ways in bad weather. Alice last communicated with Finnegan 18th of June and it was reported by her skipper that it was a positive conversation. The next contact with Finnegan was when she sailed into port at an island South of the Seychelles called Coetivy with only the crew member on board. The crew member stated that Sean had jumped overboard at night, in bad weather, in a fit of rage. This could be a believable story because tragic things happen to the best at sea, but for a few inconsistancies. Firstly, the Man Overboard Button was not pressed and protocol was not adhered to. Secondly, the weather forecast for the days in question indicated calm weather. Thirdly, laptops and the logbook holding vital navigational information and notes had disappeared and finally, Seans family, knowing him as they do, said categorically he would never behave like that. It was reported by officials on Coetivy that the crew member also did not behave in the manner of a man who has seen his friend apparently commit suicide. Finnegan arrived at Coetivy on the 25th of June and Sean's family was notified of his disappearance on the 11th of July. Eventually the crew member was arrested on suspicion of negligence and held in the Seychelles. Sean's brother's and best friend flew to the Seychelles to see what they could do. They felt they would come home with Sean or at least answers. This was not to be. The charges against the crew member were dropped because the case must be heard in the country of yacht's origin which is South Africa. Stefan went home without a word to Sean's family. One would think that an innocent man would do anything he could to help bring answers to a bereaved family, surely? Family and friend left the Seychelles no wiser than when they arrived. A huge blow. I have since met Sean's family and they are just amazing people. I cannot imagine what it must be like for them to live day to day wondering what really happened to Sean. Their utter frustration at not being able to speak to the last person who saw Sean and ask pertinent questions if, for nothing else, but to find a little peace must be soul destroying. Finnegan has since been sailed back to Cape Town. The investigation on the South African side has been stalled due to tardiness on the side of the Seychelloise authorities who have yet to send the necessary documents which adds insult to injury. This case must be heard. Questions must be answered. Sean and his family deserve to be given the benefit of a hearing and Stefan must tell his story so that a court can make a decision. I never met Sean, but I feel that if I were ever to meet him, he would be like an old friend. I have spent two years with him on my mind almost daily and will continue to work on his disappearance as long as it takes. Leave no stone unturned.

Professional advice, erm, no!

Some people will jump on the opportunity to get something for free like aphids on a rose bush.  I find it almost obscene to watch the way normally well-behaved people become frenzied at the prospect of of a give-away.  A similar thing happens when people discover that someone has knowledge that they can tap for free.  As a paramedic, I find this happens a lot.  People ask about their ailments and I really don't mind dispensing advice if I have the answer.  Why they can't look it up on Google, I'm not sure, but then again Google doctoring can lead to people firmly believing they have rare and exotic diseases.  It also happens that people, usually when filled with dutch courage, sidle up to me and with furtive looks while fumbling around the belt area ask "Can I show you something?" I learnt quickly to answer over my shoulder as I beat a hasty retreat, "Go and see your doctor!" Else I may see someone's nasty bits that have been infected for a more than a while. . . . It gets my goat when people ask advice and then take advice from Aunt Arabella who has a dead relative's medical book from 1922, which is clearly far more informative and up to date than anything I may have to say!  On a more serious note, if I am consulted and my experience and training leads me to believe that what the patient is presenting needs urgent medical attention, why ignore what I have to say?  Why ask if my opinion is not heeded?  My husband, who is an accountant, has the same problem, as does my daughter, who is a tattoo artist. I suppose you could say that we are all professional people and as professionals in our respective fields, we take what we do seriously.  My daughter is obviously seen as a magician of sorts when she is asked whether she can replicate "The Last Supper" in minature on someones big toe for a fraction of the normal price. She has been doing this for some time and knows about skin, inks and placing for the tattoo to work and be the best it can be, but does that count, no! People want what they want for as little as possible and the people in the know are seen as difficult. A tattoo placed incorrectly on the body can distort and turn a baby portrait into a Yoda look-alike. Its frustrating. Yet those same people will pay for advice and take it as gospel truth. It is, I suppose, just the way things are.

Walk a mile in my shoes.

Life is cruel to some and seemingly kind to others. People suffer through all manner of horrors and to the ones looking in, it is a case of platitudes said, but with the thought, "I'm glad it's not me." I have had a share of unpleasantness in my life and found little solace in others. Emotional suffering is a lonely road. It seems to be a case of either, others have been through equally difficult times and are on the other side, glad to be rid of the awfulness, quietly pleased they are no longer suffering, some do not want to be involved or cannot fathom pain because they have not met it yet.  Some kind souls try, but in the face of inconsolable sadness and without experience cannot find the depth of feeling to offer any form of relief.  Insensitive things are said like "Everything will work out."  To a person who feels that their world has collapsed and will never be the same again, how could that statement or others like it, help?  I have been witness to sudden, violent and natural deaths.  Someone has lost a loved one.  What words could possibly make it better?  The absolute truth is, none.  That is why I say nothing.  I will not disrespect someone with platitudes.  I feel things very deeply and that seems to be seen as a failing because I am often told I am over-reacting.  That is how I am, I can climb into the mind of others and empathise completely.   In some circumstances kind words need to be said, and if I find the right ones I will. Just a quiet hug sometimes will do for a sad friend who is feeling down, scared or worried.  It is the sense of being able to safely let emotion take over and allow the pain to be for a while that makes the difference.  No one should feel abandoned in their time of need and it happens too often. People do not know what to do in the face of abject despair unless they have felt it themselves.

"Silly or, not so silly, habits."

While true Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is a debilitating series of actions that the sufferer is compelled to complete, like constant hand washing or checking numerous times to see that a door has been locked, I have noticed that most people have a certain measure of OCD-ness.  Some only display traits when nervous and some need to perform certain actions on a regular basis.  I know this because I used to be a list-maker, a list of a list-maker and sometimes a list of a list of a list-maker!  I listed everything from shopping to packing and the list had to be perfect.  If I made a mistake, I would re-write the list.  The ridiculous part of it was, at the end of all the listing, I would never refer to it again.  I decided one day that the listing had to stop because it was a time-wasting compulsion.  Nowadays I only list when absolutely necessary, but I must admit, having a pen and a clean, lined piece of paper in front of me is pleasurable!  I still have a habit of making sure that all items on the table in front of me are lined up perfectly, but that usually happens when I am a bit uncomfortable in company and often I don't even realise I have done it.  In my group of friends, we often ask each other about our "silly habits" and quite a few interesting ones have emerged.  The toilet roll can only be put onto its holder one way, bedding must be absolutely flat before getting into bed, foods must be stored in date order and sell-by dates so strictly adhered to that food is discarded before the sell-by date, an unequal amount of objects in a set means getting rid of one to make the set equal and so on.  The more common habits which could become compulsions are to do with cleanliness and fear of germs.  I am certainly not in line for home executive of the year prize because I feel that free time spent scrubbing is not free time!  I know people, particularly women, who spend so much time cleaning, their hands are sore and chapped.  They also profess to enjoy it. . . beyond me!  Clean is good, but superduper-germ-free clean is possibly one of the reasons our immune systems are in such disrepair.  Rigid routine is another habit people employ, but if for some reason that routine is disrupted, the routinee can become quite stressed. Drumming fingers, clicking pens, repeating a word, touching a lucky object, all things we do, but these too can become a compulsion. The question is why? I think the answer has to do with the need to calm ourselves, which is aided by repetition, and to help us feel in control of our immediate environment. So, I ask, what is your "silly habit"?

On death, again.

It is more the exception than the norm for people outside the medical environment to witness death.  I ask people in the first aid classes I teach whether they have seen dead people and often the answer is no.  No, with a shudder.  This is a normal reaction because death is a feared, inconceivable state for most. I ask this rather morbid question because I am interested in how people relate to death. People who have witnessed death are usually irrevocably changed.  It is an intensely private and personal moment that causes people to feel strangely privileged.  I know I have felt this.  This is not always the case, especially with violent death, which brands its awfulness on minds forever, but in my experience, peaceful death does evoke a sense of release, relief and closure to those watching the process.  People who have been witness to death seem more able to bear grief than those who have not. Maybe it is because they have had those final, personal moments where a farewell could be said.  It seems that the ability to say our last goodbye plays a huge role in our coping process.  Maybe it is because through the experience of seeing a death, its feared mystery is removed.  We do not know whether there is in fact suffering during the process of death.  I have seen death and dying in its many forms in my personal life and during my time on the ambulances and I do not feel that the dying suffer during their last moments of life, no matter what the cause. They may suffer before their body begins to shut down, but once that has happened, they seem to enter a state in which there is a nothingness, a comfortable free floating.  I say this because as much as we perceive difficulty from the outside, there is no sense of horror or pain from the patient that I have ever felt.  Once death has happened, the essence of the person disappears like a candle extinguished.  Beyond the veil.  A body remains.  A shell devoid of the flame of life.

Remembering Dad.

It is Father's Day today in South Africa.  All across the country fathers are being spoilt with biltong and red wine, allowed the remote exclusively, not that that really makes a difference from the norm, and perhaps visiting their dads.  My dad died in 1986 when I was twenty.  He had been ill for most of my life and his death was a sweet release from a life of extremes.  My dad was born in 1914.  He would have been one hundred years old this year.  He was the quintessential Victorian gentleman complete with cravat and pipe.  A quiet, but caring man who drew people to him.  He was an adventurer and an avid teller of wonderful stories which all stemmed from his travels.  My dad was a pilot.  He could fly anything with wings.  From Lancaster bombers to spitfires to biplanes, the list is endless.  The story goes that his passion for flying caused him to run away from a solid career as an architect to live his dream.  He loved Africa.  I am lucky enough to have old sepia photographs he took all over the world.  Vistas from his birds-eye vantage point of hundreds of wildebeest galloping across the Serengeti, herds of marching elephant, sights we will never see again.  He documented everything and it is a wonderful legacy to have.  There is a story, in an old newspaper I have, of him keeping himself and two American tourists alive for two weeks in a remote part of Central Africa before being rescued after the plane he was flying, crashed. My dad fought in WWII and I wear his RAF badge with pride. Later, he became a commercial pilot with BOAC. Unfortunately a combination of injuries from aircrashes and having contracted amoebic dysentery in Central Africa caused him to become chronically ill, mentally as well as physically. As his health deteriorated, he had to stop flying. His mental state was pretty fragile and it caused him to swing between severe depression and manic highs, now called bi-polar disorder. He was a much older dad, but on good days and between his bouts of hospitalisation, he taught me to shoot his massive double-barrel shot gun in the back yard and made sure I knew my way around a car engine. He always had time for questions and stories and made us feel very loved and safe. He constructed bows and arrows, spent hours in the freezing cold at the ice-rink while my sister and I skated or with us at his favourite place, the beach. My dad loved to swim and taught us to be at ease in water from an early age. He would sit on his rock, in his brown dressing gown, smoking his pipe with his beloved dog by his side while we played. I swear I still see him there, at peace with himself and the world.

What lies beneath?

It apparently takes but a few seconds for people to decide what they feel about a stranger.  Could this be an accurate judgement?  I am not so sure.  Some people use instinct exclusively and accurately, but a pleasant, charming, yet dangerous stranger could pull the wool over many eyes.  There are often accounts from people who have discovered that their neighbour, after many years of living quietly nextdoor, has been arrested for a heinous crime saying, "I can't believe it, he was so charming" or "It couldn't have been her, she always gave the kids sweets."  Most of us like to believe in the goodness of others, we prefer to trust and feel bad if we don't because something doesn't feel right.  After all, criminals are people and look like everyone else.  There are traits that set them apart physically, but they are subtle and can only be spotted by a trained eye.  Some crimes happen through need caused by poverty, but other crimes are seemingly unfathomable.  Words such as evil, psychopath are said in horrified tones.  My question is are murderers actually that different to you and I?  What lies beneath to cause them to behave in a manner that most apparently normal people find so abhorrent?  Could it be psychology, a genetic trait or simply something they enjoy doing, like we enjoy chocolate?  Killing other humans is wrong in the eyes of the law and humanity, but what if it weren't?  Would we see an increase?  People seem to enjoy the sport of hunting.  Shooting and killing a giant, beautiful, defenceless beast such as an elephant is seen by some as an achievement that brings the hunter joy.  I personally feel it is wrong to kill any living thing, even ants are safe in my house! Perpetrators of murder, once arrested, often show remorse, but maybe that is because they were caught. Others show nothing and this is a source of comment because it goes against what should be. I believe that some serial killers have asked to be locked away because they simply could not control their urges. Does this bloodlust or power over life and death or whatever it is they experience become an addiction like a drug or mundanely, chocolate? Is it possible that every person has the potential for murder, but the switch has not tripped, perhaps like some people have inexplicable abilities in other areas? Typical serial killers often have similar traits such as being quiet, socially awkward, yet often charming, loners. People accept that they are a little different and are slightly wary, but never dream that behind the smile is a mind bent on murder. After all many people have these traits, don't they.

Mother. Spelled m,o,t,h,e,r. . . M,O,T,H,E,R.

My mother was born in good old England in 1927.  She lived through the war and was a woman to be reckoned with, a Hyacinth Bucket without the funny (although if she let her guard slip, she really could be hilarious.)  Even though she died in 2011, I still feel the grey tendrils of disapproval reaching through the ether as I mention her birth year. . .  because "A lady should never mention her age."   As a family we were insular.  We had to be because her standards were so high as to be unattainable.  She put people into class catagories according to where they lived or what their parents did or how they said "milk."  "Muulk" got you banned!  She constantly corrected pronounciation and spelled out the word as well, often twice. The world almost came to an end one day when my kind-hearted sister, at the age of six, I think, snipped off the flower of an aloe known as a red-hot poker, to give to my dad.  Dad had just come home after a long stint in hospital.  The problem was not so much the picking of the flower, but that it had been snipped off right near the bloom leaving very little stem.  Something most would see as sweet brought out the wrath of mother. She was quite an accomplished seamstress and made us clothing. I will never forget the unlined, proper tartan trousers she made me wear. Hard, itchy fabric, uuurgh. We were dressed identically too. Hygiene was one of her things and we girls were bought boy's white, y-front, cotton airtex underwear.  As children who know no better, we accepted this.  At school however, changing for swimming caused untold hilarity amoung the other children and huge embarrassment for us.  Nothing was ever thrown away and the drawers were full of things like unusably small bits of string, "just in case." In case of what, the great mouse escape? Everything we owned had to be marked in some form, usually with pieces of brightly coloured fabric. From suitcases to violin stands, our belongings always stood out. Food was also kept long beyond its sell by date. When she left for New Zealand in 2000, a frozen turkey was found in the freezer dating from 1984. Bananas were hidden in her scarf drawer to stop us "pigging them down," but often they were forgotten and went off. To make each other laugh, my sister and I roll our eyes at each other and say in a voice a martyr would be proud of, "Oh, I'll have the broken egg." Mother liked to make sure she was known to be sweating the small stuff, but on major issues, she internalised everything. Stiff upper lip and all that. A product of her time I am sure. I have to look back and smile. My mother was an eccentric woman, but one who was a character. Someone who believed in the Victorian adage "spare the rod and spoil the child." I vowed early on not to be like her and so far, so good.

On friendship.

Friendship is a necessary part of the human condition.  Having a true friend for life, Im sure, is an uplifting experience.  When I was a child, my sister and I were discouraged from having friends, I think in part due to my dad's illness and possibly because my mother found fault with anyone who did not meet her standards.  My sister and I had each other and we were a unit, but it made it difficult for me to learn what making friends outside of our unit was about.  I suppose that is why I became more of a loner.  I have made friends now, but I have no lingering childhood friends because of this.  It seems the more friends you have, the more popular you are seen to be, judging by the trends on Facebook.  As far as I am concerned, Facebook friends are a collection of trophies on a wall, they do not reflect true friendship.  I do not have many Facebook friends, but the ones I do have, bring positivity into my life. I prefer to sit and talk to my friends, face to face, just be myself warts and all.  Friendship is a work in progress.  One cannot sit back on one's laurels and just let a friendship be.  If this is so, it is a one of a kind.  Usually a friendship is a two way street.  It is about understanding and compromise, communication, ease of being and empathy.  Some friendships are difficult and require a lot of imput.  These are usually a one way street and are not healthy.  Often they fizzle out relatively quickly because one party is needy and puts conditions on friendship, but sometimes that ending can take years.  A well adjusted person knows what they will tolerate in a friendship and strives to maintain that position, but at times people will hang on to a toxic friendship because it is uncomfortably comfortable.  People will tolerate constant negativity, bad behaviour, skewed ideologies or even abuse in the quest to be liked.  If eventually the friendship ends, whether due to growing apart, an unresolvable issue or a conscious decision, a void exists, as it is with endings. Time always tells.  If, after the dust settles an unusual calm decends, that friendship was in fact meant to end. Thank the person quietly from your heart for the lessons they taught you during your time with them and move on.