And now for something completely different. . .

As previously stated I am not one for beauty treatments.  I don't have the patience or the stomach for hours in salons amongst caped and foiled gossipers.  I did, however, once attempt to wax my legs at home with help from a friend.  The day started with an expedition to buy suitable wax which, from the blurb on the packaging, appeared to be ridiculously simple to use and promised silky, smooth legs in no time.  It sounded perfect and so began the quest for hairlessness.  The wax was popped into the microwave, as per instructions.  Almost immediately the container burst into flame.  Not to be daunted by this setback, a different tactic was employed and the charred container was warmed in hot water.  Legs exposed, warm and suspiciously resinous wax was smeared liberally on my, soon to be gorgeous, pins.  Strips at the ready, grimace on face, riiiiiip and. . . nothing.  Not a hair moved and nor did the wax.  Again and again we tried to no avail.  My legs were embalmed in stubbornly solid wax.  Nothing for it, but to call the helpline.  Luckily the number was on the uncharred bit of the container.  Unfortunately hysteria had set in and between the two of us, giggles prevented us from making much sense to the not particularly bright helpline lady.  She seemed to think we were having her on.  Eventually we were told that baby oil was the appropriate solvent.  Did we have any? Of course not.  We had not forseen any leg versus wax catastrophes.  By this time, we had tried all manner of ways to remove the wax and my legs were rather red and sore and covered with blobs of cotton wool.  Next hurdle, a trip to the shop to buy baby oil.  My friend doesn't drive so I drove, robed in a towel and the plan was for her to nip into the shop, grab the baby oil and get the damn wax off.  Easy.  All was going well until her child escaped the car wanting her Mum.  Child running through parking lot with me, towel, wax, cotton wool and all in hot pursuit. Of course the towel fell off, it just couldn't not have. I grabbed screaming child who, by now had attracted a huge amount of attention wailing "Mummy, I want my Mummy." Now I was being viewed as a half naked, child snatcher by half of Fish Hoek's surly shoppers. After what seemed like an age, my friend emerged brandishing a tiny bottle of our life saving elixir. Oh thank the powers that be! I put foot and wax-caked-leg out of the car park and we squealed with laughter as I recounted between snorts what had happened during her absence. A calming cup of tea and operation remove wax began. It worked, but not without a great deal of elbow grease. Moral of the story. If your beauty product bursts into flame within the first five minutes of use, you should probably take that as an ominous sign. I am just so grateful that I started with my legs and not my bikini line!

My sister, my friend.

In life people cross paths for a reason, a season or a lifetime, as the saying goes.  My sister and I were destined to be together.  We were adopted thirteen months apart from different backgrounds.  This fact was never disclosed to us by our adoptive parents.  My sister came home to me and I apparently did not appreciate the intrusion as I sent her hurtling down the staircase on a tray and while she cried at the foot of the stairs, I squirted washing up liquid in her eyes!  As time went by, I got over my jealousy and we grew as close as siblings can be.  Our upbringing was strict, almost Victorian, and we relied on each other for comfort.  We made up games, we adventured into the bush behind our house, we danced and sang and spent time with our Dad on the beach.  Our lives also revolved around ballet and music eisteddfods, school work and piano exams.  Our Mother expected nothing less than perfection and there was little enjoyment on the trips home. An angry cloud of disapproval often hung in the car about things most petty.  Like toes not pointed enough or slouching.  I think this is the reason why we both developed a such a whacky sense of humour to help us through.   As young girls and then teens, Dad was ill and we were eventually sent to boarding school. I don't think we really realised how much we lent on each other in those days or how much insidious interference our Mother caused to our impressionable psyches. We discovered by accident around the ages of fourteen and fifteen that we were adopted. I tried to be philosophical, my sister was devastated. We knew instinctively not to say we knew, but it came out. It was a difficult time, a true elephant in the room as it was a taboo subject. The roots we thought we had were severed and we were ungrounded. Our behaviour deteriorated. As young adults we began to spend less time together. This in part due to natural pathfinding and the death of our beloved Dad. My sister moved out early, I stayed at home. We wrote long letters to each other, but things were not the same. We were lonely for each other, but a subtle rift had developed. Unbeknown to us, Mother sought to divide and conquer by playing one sister against the other. For what reason, we will probably never know. As the years went by, we lived our lives. We married, had children and found our respective careers. My Mother and sister immigrated to New Zealand. This before I had access to email so regular communication wasn't that easy. After some particulary nasty accusatory behaviour from my Mother I felt it necessary to finally sever her negative influence and never spoke to her again. Sadly my sister became a casualty of this because I was made out to be the villain. When our Mother died, I realised just how dire the situation was. Our sisterhood was in tatters. We could barely speak to each other all due to the disinformation campaign Mother had put in place. Some tentative messages via cell phone, then a phone call and slowly, putting the pieces together, we began to rebuild. It was a time of real elation and deep sadness. Elation for me because I had my sister back and sadness that a person who called herself a mother had caused such unnecessary harm. In 2012 I travelled to New Zealand to see my sister after ten years of silence. For the first few days we were a little wary of each other, but then we just found our old course. Like a river knows where to flow, we did too. We spoke of the happy memories, we spoke of the dark days and together we buried her ashes, we buried our past. That was a day of great significance, a new beginning for us both. I rent the sky asunder with echoing blasts from my Dad's double-barrelled shot gun. We vowed never to be apart in spirit, ever again. Goes to show that blood is not always thicker than water. My sister, my friend how did I cope without you for so long.

Angus, continued.

I wrote a blog about our bull terrier named Angus a while ago entitled 'Angus, his story.'  Since then Angus has been improving daily.  As I type, he is curled up asleep in his basket, his beloved orange ball near his nose.  During his 'terrible tail time,' this would never have happened.  He hardly slept then because he was fixated with chasing his tail and mutilating it.  Since his tail was amputated, he has been weaned from his anti-epileptic meds and we are in the process of doing the same with his anti-anxiety meds.  Angus likes routine and tells the time exceptionally well. He loves car trips and is wary of the vet, but behaves exceptionally well with him. I think he might instinctively know that the vet gave him another chance at life as a real dog. Up to this point he has not been dog-friendly, but he met a Jack Russell the other day and immediately went into the 'bowing position' which says "Play with me!" in dog language. The Jack Russell was at risk of being flung into the air by an Angus nose under his tummy. We were amazed to see this as the times before play spiralled into aggression very quickly.  He sleeps upstairs with us these days and has his spot at the bottom of the bed.  Before he settles down for the night, he washes Sam, our very large ginger cat.  This causes much disgruntled meowing. Once that task is finished, he bomb drops into his space with a grunt and goes to sleep.  In the early morning, Sam and Angus start gently waking us.  Sam with the patting-paw-in-the-face method and Angus with the nose-nibble method. Needless to say, this becomes more and more insistent as they realise we are pretending to be asleep.  They are both let out only to return for 'snuggle Mum in the bed' time. When I manage to extricate myself and go downstairs, Angus sometimes grabs my dressing gown tie and leads me to wherever my husband happens to be.  We all sit on the couch and watch TV.  Angus like to sprawl across our laps.  Breakfast crumbles eaten, it is time for Angus to bark at the cupboard for his ball. If I am working that day, Angus curls his waggy body around me all the way to the door, maybe to prevent me from going. If I am at home during the day, I have a black and white shadow. I can't even go to the loo without being checked on! Angus is not a great gardener, but he tries. He likes to sniff blooms. We have had some disputes about where the plants should be planted. Angus pulls them out and relocates them. . .  Everytime I come home I am greeted in true bully style, ears back, wagging stumpy tail and quite a lot of boinging!  He knows now that humans need a nice cup of tea when returning from work so he waits, almost patiently, with the occasional woof in case we have forgotten the promised ball game.  Eventually, when the ball emerges from its cupboard hiding place, he gleefully grabs it and rushes outside to roll it in the mud. Once it is suitable anointed, it is presented to either Mum or Dad with a bump. No white clothing in this house! The problem is he won't let it go. We have tried everything! He puts it under the stove and flattens himself so just his rear end protrudes, idiot! We then have to prostrate ourselves on the floor with a long kitchen implement to get the ball out.  The game goes on until "Game over" is announced.  Angus then likes to remind the pigeons nesting on the awning who exactly is boss by barking at them. They perch on the edge looking rather puzzled. He also chats to the staffie nextdoor for a bit. He sniffs at his bowl when he thinks it should be filled and he is always on time. Then it is time to help Dad cook. If he is not sitting on someone's feet, he is near the stove, it is a bit like an obstacle course. While watching TV, Angus likes to snuggle next to me on the couch or chew a hoof filled with peanut butter in his basket. He used to be unable to chew anything because he thought his tail was going to grab his treat and spent his time growling at it. Poor chap! Angus is a very sensitive dog and has displayed this many times. If one of us is upset, he will do his utmost to help by climbing onto the person's lap and pushing his chest hard up against the person. He likes to join in when people are laughing and clowns around doing his springbok leaps (all four legs off the ground) usually with something ridiculous like pliers or the decorative metal warthog in his mouth! Angus has just turned three and I will say this again. I am so glad we found someone who was willing to help us spare his life. He is an absolute character.

Thoughts on challenge.

Challenge is something I thrive on.  For me, life without a challenge or ten would not be worth living.  Challenge for me is a self-test.  It has nothing to do with pitting myself against others, it has to do with my inner drive to succeed, solve a difficult problem, survive even.  I like to think I would not give up when others have.  Television programs like 'Survivor' appeal to me, but I probably would not do well because I am not a devious person.  I am able to read people well so picking up deception would not be difficult, but playing mind games is not my modus operandi.  I like to win fair and square, on my own merit rather than be cheated, that just makes me cross!  Another thing that makes me cross is people who throw in the towel when things become difficult.  I understand letting things go, but people who move from place to place, person to person, doctrine to doctrine searching for perfection are usually doomed to failure.  Make the best of what you have and who you are.  Strive for your dreams and don't be afraid to question, explore and of course challenge yourself.  How will you know what you can accomplish unless you have tried?

Take time to look.

The beauty and the bounty of nature has always fascinated me. Since childhood, walking along beaches or in woodland looking for little gifts from her has never failed to make me happy. Odd stones, bleached bird skulls, shells, strange gnarled pieces of wood. I drove my physiotherapist mother nuts because I walked around with my head down, eyes on the ground. I was always told to walk up straight! How can one possibly find treasure doing that? I have many bits and pieces around the house from adventures all over the world. Stones, for me, hold the energy of a place so I always pocket one or two from wherever I visit. It is incredible how much detail there is to be seen if one just takes time to look. From the minute and intricate to massive, sweeping vistas, something stirs within me. I enjoy photography and with the advent of digital cameras, my world has expanded. I recently invested in a 'good' camera and it gives me the ability to capture fleeting moments of special light, a basking lizard, an interesting rock or flighty bumble bee. A slow meander down the boardwalk in my little town of Kommetjie produced some interesting photographs within millimetres of each other. Looking for photo opportunities is a way I enjoy spending my time and doing this leaves me in awe of our natural surroundings again and again.

Growing up in Kalk Bay.

In 1976 my family moved from Fish Hoek to the quaint fishing village of Kalk Bay.  Kalk Bay is situated between the mountains and the sea on the East side of the Cape Peninsula. Kalk Bay has a rich history and is named after the lime kilns, "Kalk" means lime.  There is evidence that the San people lived in the area and of course fishing has always been the mainstay of this little village. Our house, on a double plot, was built in 1937 of mountain stone. Thick walls, high ceilings and a view across the ocean. As children growing up here, it was an adventure wonderland. The beach was a hop, skip and a jump down the road, even quicker with an illegal short cut we found. Dalebrook beach, as it is known, has a large flat rock in the middle of the tidal pool. Many hours were spent sunning ourselves on that rock. It is safe to say we grew up on the beach. We learned to swim there, we fished there from our orange, white and black canoe. I, particularly, scouted the shore for interesting flotsam and jetsam for hours on end. I remember the local parents sun-worshipping, lounging on towels. Their children became our friends. A game we played involved standing on the back wall of the pool as the tide came in and whoever wasn't knocked off by the waves, was the winner. In those days dogs and fires were allowed on the beach so we lit fires and braaied caught fish in a perfect natural fire place in the rocks. Our dog was always with us. Sadly he was killed by a car trying to follow us to the beach one day. I remember lying on the rock weeping for him, my heart was broken. We surfed at Kalk Bay reef and Danger Beach. I am proud to say I was the first girl to do so and the boys were not amused. (Until they discovered that surfing in a bikini causes loss of said bikini!) Surfboards were safely stowed under the colourful, now extinct beach boxes. We skateboarded down the steep hill adjacent to our house. The mountains were explored, and in those days it was safe, sadly no more. We hiked in groups and spelunked in Boomslang cave. The tunnels in the cave are so low, the only way through is on one's belly. The cave traverses the mountain from the Kalk Bay side to the Fish Hoek side. We jogged on Boyes Drive and stopped at the waterfall which, when in full flow in winter, caused a mountain of foam. The play park, just down the road, was a meeting place and children congregated there. Games were organised, secrets told and tadpoles caught in the small stream that ran through the park. The local shop, SL Bazaars, was a source of half-cent sweets, illegal for my sister and I, but shared covertly with us by our friends. At Christmas time we sang carols to indulgent neighbours accompanied by squealy recorders! The railway line runs between the sea and the main road and we crossed it often to get to the beach. We put coins on the tracks so that the train would flatten them and then spent ages finding them. I still have some. Danger was the last thing on our minds. My sister and I had a "war" with the boys next door because they allegedly shot a hole in my bedroom window with an airgun. We captured one and tied him to a tree, lighting a fire beneath his feet! Another boy, fell out of a tree after my mother told him to retrieve my shoe that he had thrown there. Us kids dragged him inside bleeding from a puncture wound to his rear. To this day he is mortified at 1. How we cruelly laughed at him for not wearing underwear and 2. That my mother saw his bottom! We roller-skated on the smooth concrete floor of our garage and later held parties in there. We played horses in the sprawling garden and later held parties there too. We bothered the boys across the road by putting silly notes on their motor bikes and my sister, who had a crush on one of them, serenaded him hanging out of her window with her blue Mason-Pearson hairbrush-pretend-microphone singing "Hopelessly devoted to you." The now famous, Brass Bell restaurant became a hangout. Music was allowed there then and we listened to many, now renowned musicians. Thanks to a resident, music was later banned there for years. I remember a dad whistling to bring us in from surfing at supper time. I remember the clickety-clack of the trains and hearing the siren signifying closing booms at the harbour entrance. I remember the tragic day of the fatal explosion at the harbour. I remember the droning of the fishing boat engines leaving or entering the harbour in the early morning quiet and the soothing sound of the sea. The sunrises were gently spectacular and the morning my Dad died, Mum and I watched from the deck as the sea erupted with dolphins playing under a huge rainbow. By the way, I married one of the boys across the road in the old Holy Trinity Church, a stone's throw away from our beloved Kalk Bay reef!

My memories of Stuart Hunt.

A friend has left us. Stuart Hunt has been part of our lives for many years and while I was looking through the photographs for a suitable picture of him, I realised just how much he was a part. If I had to list the things that remind me of Stuart, the first thing I would mention would be fire!  Stuart loved fire and anything that was not nailed down would be burned on the braai fire.  He felt the cold and could be found huddled as close to the flames as possible.  Stuart was fiercely protective of his friends and although he didn't show it, we all knew that if anyone would help, it would be Stuart.  He loved music and he was a proficient ball-room dancer.  I loved dancing with him, because he was that good.  His phrase, "Don't bounce" comes to mind.  He insisted that dancing is flowing and he was right.  Stuart was an architect and his mind was as sharp as a tack when it came to building design.  He drew up plans for many houses.  Stuart was passionate about motor bikes and his bike was always maintained as a spotless machine.  We used to rag him about making sure that his bike idled for fifteen minutes before it was ridden, but he did things by the book. We all rode for Ulysses bike club (now Odysseus) and I don't think there was a more loyal member than Stuart accompanied by his love, Megan who he dubbed "The Poison Dwarf."  Organisation was Stuart's forte.  If we were embarking upon an adventure, be it a breakfast ride, rally or a weekend away, emails from Stuart would fly around cyberspace to make sure we all knew exactly where, what and how. He was always so enthusiastic and it was infectious. He loved the camaraderie of friends and would document all our doings with photographs and music. I bet he has categorised everything in his amazingly precise handwriting. I remember how excited he was to be surrounded by so many friends and family on his sixtieth birthday. Stuart earned the nickname of Grumpy due to his acerbic retorts, but Stuart was not really that. I saw him tear up more than once because he was so damn sentimental. He was a kind man. Stuart had a brilliant, dry sense of humour and one had to listen carefully to muttered commentary to hear how funny he actually was. His rare smile was a joy to behold. His latter time was difficult. We sadly watched his health decline and he alienated himself to a large extent. He had his reasons because Stuart always had his reasons. We all tried to understand and let him be. The last time I saw Stuart he smiled at something I said so I kissed his cheek and said my silent goodbye to him.

Three days in a mall.

I spent the last three days in an upmarket mall in Cape Town taking blood pressures as part of Pharmacy Week.  This was a drive to make people more aware of the need to check, not only their blood pressures, but cholesterol, blood glucose, hearing and sight.  Many people participated and I enjoyed interacting with them, listening to what they had to say, educating and picking up vibes from them.  I discovered quite a few interesting things during my time there.  Firstly people are generally pretty clueless when it comes to basic measurements and normal levels. They are so used to simply letting a doctor tell them what is what, that they look no further and take little responsibility for their health. On one hand people believe that treatment that does not include drugs is balloney and on the other, people are finally questioning over-medicating without a holistic approach to them as human beings. People were quick to tell me that they had a genetic pre-disposition for disease because "it runs in the family" and many mentioned suffering 'white coat syndrome' as a reason for high blood pressure. I observed a glaring gap in the understanding that illness is, more often than not, caused by lifestyle rather than genetics and that mind and body are connected. Having said that, the trend is leaning toward people trying to live healthier lifestyles which is understood as going to gym and cutting out sugar, salt and carbohydrates. While this trend is positive, it is quite often taken to extremes. Some people asked for basic advice while others were resistant, almost aggressive. I noticed that the banting diet is hugely popular. The healthiest people I interacted with seemed to be relaxed and balanced in mind and body while the ones on the high risk side were either fanatical, anorexic male and female gym bunnies or paranoid hypochondriacs who listed ailments, medications and doctors with a sigh. I noticed that a certain sector of people are more inclined to listen to advice given by misinformed friends than healthcare professionals. My approach has always been to listen between the lines and observe all aspects of the person sitting in front of me. To include the patient in their health issues, I encourage them to answer their own questions. I have no right to assume or judge. One cannot treat one being the same as another. Sadly I met a lot of lonely and stressed people, some of whom had issues that nightmares are made of. Thankfully I was not too busy to make time for a little chat and a hug here and there.

The need for balance.

There seems always to have been a trend to separate science from creativity, logical process from intuition, IQ from EQ. A mathematician is perceived to be as far removed from a comedian as an astronaut is from a rubbish collector. Are they really that far removed from each other? The astronaut may be brilliant academically, but have no concept of humor, the mathematician is comfortable with numbers, but not people. The rubbish collector may have a mundane job, but is happy within himself and the comedian has a grasp on the ridiculous, but is not. Different areas of the brain have been tapped to cause this. The astronaut was possibly the child of strict, over-bearing parents who had no time for humor. The comedian used funny to cover something lacking. The rubbish collector may not have had the opportunity to gain an education, but had a loving family life and the mathematician was perhaps not socialised well. The concept of left-brained people and right-brained people puts everyone into boxes. I feel that all brains have the capacity to excel in all fields if stimulated correctly. Take a child from the seventies who grew up climbing trees and using imagination versus a child of this day and age who grows up using indoor technology. The seventies child is likely to be a practical person with a good immune system, strong body and a creative mind, the modern child, although superior perhaps intellect-wise, relies on Google for answers and is lacking in physical ability and often ill. This of course is a very broad generalisation. The secret, I feel, to a well rounded person is balance. Significant elders are often to blame for not realising how important this is. It is easier to sit a child in front of the screen of some gadget than to read them a story, draw with them, play with them. If the brain is stimulated in many areas, curiosity is encouraged, reasonable boundaries set and negative reinforcement steered away from, there is no reason why the brain will not develop the capacity to use all it's faculties. What I observe in children who are growing up in a well-balanced environment is a wonderful mix of intellect and creativity, good social skills and a natural understanding of moral codes. Children stimulated by technology alone, and there are many out there, are not interested in being creative, can be socially inept and seem to have very little concept of how to deal with reality. Balance, sorely lacking in our time and something we all need to think about.

Angus. His story.

Angus is a bull terrier. He is almost three years old and his life has been a rollercoaster ride. Born in September 2011, he came to us at eight weeks. Our elderly male bull terrier, Digby, had died aged twelve and Daisy, our old girl had arrhythmia. As grumpy as Daisy was, she mothered little Angus who was strangely quiet and unaffectionate as a puppy. Sadly Daisy died of heart failure when Angus was about five months old. Angus had been going to puppy classes to ensure socialisation and to learn the usual commands which he did very well. He loved to play with a little bully girl named Lola and seemed very happy. Suddenly he began behaving rather strangely. He became aggressive toward other dogs and would bite whatever was in front of him, including us. This happened more and more frequently and so we had him neutered. Puppy classes had to be stopped. Neutering had made no difference. At six months, Angus began to chase his tail. Not the happy spinning that bull terriers are known for, vicious growling and snapping accompanied his frantic spinning which could not be stopped by anything. The first time I witnessed it I will admit I was afraid of Angus. We consulted the vet who was keen to put him down, we consulted a behaviourist who told us to redirect his attention. We contacted the breeder who assured us that he was the only problem dog in the litter. As things escalated, Angus began to bite his tail. He would spin in an out-of-control manner, bite his tail to the bone and then growl and growl and the blood would splatter everywhere. The house looked like a murder scene. Angus would go for us if we went anywhere near his tail to try and stem the bleeding. This happened several times a day. The vet did not seem interested in what I had to say about all the research I had done. I was pretty convinced at this stage that Angus was autistic and perhaps suffering from focal seizures as well. I looked at this aspect because when he started to spin, he had a faraway look in his eyes and often spinning accompanied a stressor of some type. I interrogated the breeder. Eventually it came out that Angus' mother had to have a C-section due to enclampsia and all the puppies had to be resuscitated. Here was a possible reason, lack of oxygen to his brain at birth. I was furious that this information had not been disclosed. As far as I am concerned, this is an example of unscrupulous breeding. The spinning problems became so bad and I was so stressed that I did not want to go home to Angus. The vet was still unco-operative and pushing euthanasia. We decided to give Angus another chance and changed vets. Thank goodness we did. At the first appointment, I was armed with information. I probably also came across as rude and a know-it-all mom because I was expecting another stone wall. For those who know their animals, I knew if we found the right person, we could help Angus. We lived with him and we saw the sweet, clever, funny personality in between spinning episodes. I showed the vet a video I had taken of Angus spinning and put forward my thoughts. The first thing that struck me was how Angus, usually muzzled at the vet, allowed this vet to check him over without a whimper or a muzzle. He listened and asked questions. I was silently elated, he was hearing me and taking me seriously. He put Angus on an anti-depressant to see if it would control the spinning brought on by possible anxiousness. He expressed Angus' anal glands because any pain in his rear could cause a focus for spinning. We concocted a long term plan for Angus' treatment which, we were warned, may or may not end up with his tail having to be docked to stop self-mutilation. We decided to try all other options first. Over the next few months, Angus calmed quite a lot, the spinning still happened, but not as frequently. His tail began to heal. We are not sure what happened to trigger it again, but something did, this time even worse. The vet put him on an anti-epileptic drug and we had an emergency stock of tranquiliser if things got out of hand. They did and we had a choice. Either have Angus put to sleep or dock his tail. We opted to dock his tail. This move was our last hope to give Angus a life worth living. The vet seemed relieved when we told him of our decision and Angus was booked in immediately. The vet docked his tail leaving a rottweiler-type stump and Angus came home to heal. He had to wear a big puffy collar, but he didn't seem to mind. Now, six months down the line Angus is a different dog. He still spins, but cannot hurt himself. We are relaxed and that helps him. He has been weaned off his anti-epileptic meds and we plan to try and wean him off the anti-depressant drugs in the not too distant future as well. Angus will always be a special needs dog, but he is a special dog who lights up our lives with his funny antics, his un-bull terrier-like perchant for swimming and his very sensitive nature which picks up on sadness and causes heavy duty snuggling. All I can say is thank goodness for the people who are really there for the well-being of our animals, thank goodness. . . . . .

A stereotypical South African braai.

Most South Africans are very sociable people.  They will strike up conversations in queues, coffee shops and even between bathroom cubicles!  Almost a little latin in temperament, in other words quick to anger, slightly suspicious, yet helpful, quite often a chance meeting ends up with the inevitable. . . "We must braai sometime."  The South African tradition of braai is likened to the Australian, New Zealand and British barbeque, but is nothing like it.   A South African braai is uniquely disorganised. It is often spur-of-the-moment, with the guest list growing as friends of friends are spontaneously invited. It is wood in an outdoor fire place and a firestarting device, then charcoal and finally flames.  While the flames burn down to coals, there is drink.  Commonly beer or brandy and coke for the men and wine or spritzers for the ladies, but once that has run out, really anything goes!   Braai's are accompanied by salads like potato salad, beetroot salad, a green salad and rolls.  Often there is a speciality dish made by someone so requests for "Mel's cracked potatoes" or "Bella's curried bananas" are made. All the food, including the pre-margarined rolls, is laid out on the kitchen table. The cutlery, serviettes and condiments are displayed next to the paper plates which are stacked in flat wicker baskets to keep them from flopping once loaded with food. All this is covered with dainty white see-through lacey umbrella dome-type devices to keep flies at bay. Potato chips accompanied by dips are provided to ease the hunger pangs. If the fire has burned down enough, it is tested by holding a palm above the coals and counting to ten. To hot for hand, too hot for meat. The braai fire and the cooking of the meat is the preserve of the men who clap tongs and mutter among themselves about rugby scores. The kitchen area is where the women sit and put the world to rights along with plaintive bemoaning of loutish husbandly behaviour and knitting tips. Quite often the drink takes precedence and the braai extras like tin-foiled potatoes and mealies become casualties remaining sadly forgotten and blackened in the fire while the meat is consumed before it even gets to the neatly stacked plates. Bodies "rest" on couches, dogs are subjected to tearful life stories and children stay up far beyond their bedtime. There is sometimes drama, but this is usually resolved with smooshy sentimentality and unstable hugging. As people weave their way home, promises of doing this again are made. The chaos of bottles in various states of fullness, half-eaten food and over-flowing bin are left until the following morning. And on said following morning, the phone calls "Did I leave my sunglasses, cooler-box, children behind?" Or the classic, "I called to apologise. . . "

Road trip!

Early Saturday morning, we packed the car and with Angus, our bullterrier in tow, began the two and a half hour drive to Gansbaai.  Gansbaai is a fishing town known for shark cage diving just past Hermanus on the South East coast of South Africa.  On all our adventures since the beginning of road trips, it has been mandatory to pack "padkos" or road food which must always include coconut-covered marshmallows! Angus loves them to distraction. The roads were quiet and we arrived in Gansbaai mid-morning. Our accommodation was one of the original homes built literally a stone's throw away from the sea. (This theory was tested.) The walls, made of lime and seashells, are sadly crumbling and the rooms have been added over the years in a haphazard fashion, but the view is spectacular. Our friends, collectively known as "The Posse," had arrived the day before and shouted greetings from the balcony.

We settled in with a cold cider while Angus sniffed and peed on everything! Our first visitor was a mongoose who eyed us from the safety of his bush. Then the whales arrived and put on a spectacular show, launching their massive bulk out of the water and crashing down, known as breaching. As the day progressed, naps were had, walks were taken and food prepared. Our supper was a lamb curry "potjie" which is an iron pot in which all ingredients are simmered very slowly until the meat is wonderfully tender and flavour-infused. We ate as the sun sank and an orange glow picked out Cape Point in silhouette across the bay. The fresh sea air had woven it's relaxing magic so an early night was had by all. Our room was under the main house so apart from Angus initially barking at footfalls on the wooden floors above, we slept well. At crack of dawn, to the calls of a myriad of birds, we awoke. Angus took himself for a swim as we made steaming mugs of tea and coffee. It was to be a balmy, spring day with a touch of "Berg" wind. "Berg" means mountain and it is a warm wind that usually heralds rain. As bleary-eyed friends emerged to the smell of coffee and amid much cheerful banter, the whales slid into view, blowing gentle plumes. Angus helped with breakfast, although I think he was more interested in morsels of bacon. Mongoose was spotted again and Angus barked at him as he sped away into his bush which was surrounded by pretty white daisies. After a delicious breakfast, a lone whale began tail-slapping. It was quite far out, but we could hear the cracks as the massive tail hit the water. Washing up and tidying done, packing the vehicles began and with a final look at our beautiful surroundings we headed out in convoy for home. Another weekend to remember fondly.

If the tables were turned.

Over the years, while caring for patients both in the ambulance and hospital environment, I have felt for them being in the vulnerable position of illness or hurt, having to rely on strangers for help.  I always tried to be as empathetic as I could by mentally putting myself into their shoes.  I often wondered how it would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. I know, only too well, the feeling of being "shut out" when I am not in paramedic mode and medical staff, unaware of what I do, look at me in that "tone of voice" when I start asking questions. Being a patient must be so scary if you are not au fait with medical terms and nothing is explained, as often it isn't, but I wonder how much more scary it would be if you are knowledgeable?   When you know how things work, the usual treatment and prognosis of various diseases?  What if you are only too aware of euphemisms used and what they really mean?  An injury, as debilitating as it may be, heals eventually, but a disease like cancer tends to be unpredictably fickle in responding to treatment.  I wonder if it would be better to be ignorant as a patient?  With a potentially life-threatening diagnosis, which for some is just a string of scary-sounding words, people are sent home to dwell on their possible life-changing situation while they wait on test results.  What goes through their minds?   Is this as bad as it sounds, am I going to have to have bits of me removed, will my family cope, will I suffer, am I going to die? Most people can't help but think about the worst case scenario and as an experienced paramedic, would it be more acute? Suddenly a person becomes a body in a blue gown, poked and prodded, x-rayed and biopsied. Medical staff, and I generalise, although trained to be caring and smiley, don't seem to see past the condition. The stark personal reality of the fear-filled being is often neglected. Choice is, to a large extent, removed. The chasm between doctors, in their mystical medical world and the patient, is high-lighted. I, personally, do not agree with giving people "time left to live", as it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Too often people live for almost exactly the amount of time they have been given. I wonder why that is allowed and positivity is not encouraged? It is after all incredible how powerful the mind is and if it is understood that the mind manifests illness, it would stand to reason that the mind can heal the body as well.

A day to remember.

The 9th of August is Women's Day in South Africa and it has become customary for our unofficial Mayoress of Kommetjie to hold a luncheon complete with theme for us, the ladies.  This year the theme was "Out of Africa" and women of all ages, races and suspicious gender. . . arrived resplendent in traditional African garb, enormous hats, red overalls, spikey heels, traditionally painted faces, wigs and much leopard print. Everyone looked fabulous.  The effort made was wonderful, the camaraderie comforting and as the food, and particularly the wine, was consumed, the decibels, high. The delicious food, all made by our philanthropic hostess, was typical South African fare. Music supplied by a Congolese duo caused feet to tap and eventually quite a bit of unfettered dancing and singing. There were prizes and lucky draws and I won a book which I have been longing to read called "Good Morning, Mr Mandela" written by his private secretary, Zelda la Grange. Very fitting, I thought, because it is written by a lady who was a self-proclaimed racist, but learned to accept that colour is not an issue from the great man himself! Our Women's Day event is never without a cause because giving back to women in need is what it is all about. This year we raised funds to help a creche in Masiphumele, an informal settlement, which was badly damaged in the recent fires. Other amazing things transpired, like a request for a wheelchair was granted for a diabetic lady and much needed donations were made to TEARS, the animal shelter. What struck me once again is how spontaneously fun, kind and happy women are when in a group. The only thing that could have made a lovely day better is if my daughter had been able to get off work to be there with me. The significant others, i. e. the men, were all down the road at the pub where a husbands day had been arranged. Apparently the venue was very quiet as men sat gazing into their glasses, eating oxtail potjie and waiting for their women. . .

Our Mayoress and one of the ladies in red.

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.