Ummmm....socks

 The cool kids at my school in the '70s and  '80s, would roll down their white summer socks as an indication of their rebellion.  The rest of us just folded them neatly as per uniform instructions.  I was never invited to join one of the popular cliques, and to be frank, I didn't want to.  Our schooling was pretty regimented and rigid in those days - sometimes to a ridiculous degree.  For example, as a five year old, I wore a pair of black lace ups to school, and once there, took them off, put them in a regulation shoe bag, and switched to a pair of brown  lace up shoes for the school day.  At home time, we reversed the procedure.  It boggles the mind thinking back on it.  At high school we had to have a white dress which we day girls wore exactly twice a year - at carol service and prize giving.  (Interesting choice of occasions to pair together don't you think?) Anyway, rolling the white cotton socks was seen as a daring breech of protocol.

I still fold rather than roll my socks.  There is no one I need to signal my coolness to these days, and I prefer an unbumpy feel on my ankles. At the end of last year I went to the 40th reunion of our matric year. (40th!) It was a stifling hot November day, so nobody was wearing socks of any description.  That made it very hard for me to remember who the cool kids were.  I did my best, and mingled with people I remembered from a different century, some of whom I didn't know, even with a name tag, and I am sure they didn't know who I was either.

School reunions are curious events.  Apart from reminiscing about "The Good Old Days", (and there are a lot of question marks around that statement) - I didn't really have anything in common with this group.  I still have friends from school - good friends and we see each other when we can, not just at ten year intervals.  Does collective experience create a good basis for community? Certainly Andrew's school mates are an incredibly social bunch of caring individuals who connect frequently.  I admire them for it.

After the reunion lunch, I didn't stay for a tour of the school.  I had a film premier to go to.  I had done the walk about a decade ago anyway when K was deciding which High School to go to, so I wasn't missing out.  The buildings and grounds are still beautiful - a Monument to Privilege and a gate way to higher education if we wanted it.

The memories that came up for me were more about the time period in my life than the school itself, although strangely certain patches of grass held special significance.  For example, there was one spot where our friends sat on a Friday at break, and we took it in turns to bring lunch for everyone.  My staple contribution was a delicacy, descriptively named by my mother, as Sore Fingers - a vienna sausage wrapped in a slice of white bread, smeared with tomato sauce.  (It was the 80s ok?) Another patch of memorable lawn was the grass in quad which was sacred, apparently, as it was strictly forbidden to walk on it. Punishable by death if I remember correctly.

Despite all its oddities this school was a good environment for me during my teenage years.  The rigidity and structure felt safe, and a couple of teachers allowed me to believe in myself.    Even if I didn't roll my socks down at school, I certainly rolled up my sleeves. Head down, mouth shut and hard work.  Sounds like a motto that could be used under the school badge.

Ummm...this started out as a piece about socks, but like the modern trend reinforced by Insta and Tiktok, it has meandered in a completely different direction.  So to tack back: I once asked my father what he would like as a gift - he was a difficult person to buy for at the best of times - and he answered  "Socks. They are useful, comfortable and you can never have too many."  I tend to agree with him about the comfort of socks.  People have been kind enough to gift me the most wonderful pairs, and every time I wear them I think of the givers.  The latest sets were ducks and daisies.  

It is still too summery to need socks, but when the moment comes, I may just be tempted to roll mine down.  Just to pretend for a moment that I am one of the Cool Kids. 

 

 

 

Thanks for the socks, Janet!

 

 

 

 

Ping!

 On the last Friday of our overseas adventure, we piled in the car and drove for about an hour towards the east coast.  We were headed for Symonds Salvage, a reclamation yard about half way between home and Dover.  I love poking around such places searching for treasures and generally exploring the past through other people's throw outs.  (We have been known to find and lug home such things as ancient footstools on previous trips.) 

 

 This expedition had almost been cancelled, as Thursday's weather was thoroughly unpleasant and all sorts of storm warnings had been issued. Andrew's brother had taken a day's leave and the wind died down by 6 am, so the four of us ventured forth.  Symonds proved to be a gold mine of beauty :  everything from gargoyles and ancient street lights to statues of David and wagon wheels.  So many roof tiles, benches, garden ornaments, mirrors, doors, planks of wood, wheellbarrows, doorknobs, silverware, old wood working tools....and stained glass windows. 

  I was there for the glass of course, and I made an offer on some panes, but the youngster at the reception desk was not in the mood to  negotiate or budge on the price.

Someone had dinged his car door, and his focus was definitely on trawling through the CCTV footage.

We spent a long time there, squelching through the mud, and marvelling at the collection. Salvage yards are art galleries too - a collection of human consciousness and expression.  I enjoyed this exhibition as much as all the other galleries I had visited.   Sadly my luggage allowance didn't permit me to bring home a statue of David or a gargoyle with moss growing out of its ears and nose.

We travelled on to Dover for a delicious fish and chips lunch at the seaside, before admiring the pebble beach.

The famous white cliffs were calling, and we wandered up a path amidst cows and freezing tourists.  The view is magnificent.  Grey seas stretched out before us, beckoning to the unknown.

My phone pinged. 

A new SMS :  Welcome to France.  Your new message and call rates will be sent to you shortly. (Or something like that - the message is on my UK SIM card, and I swapped it when we hit home soil.) 

France is a mere 32km away from the UK at Dover - almost spitting distance.  No wonder the service provider thought we might have crossed over.  Apart from the small inconvenience of the sea between us and Europe, we had no visas, so France was not a viable option as a dinner destination. 

Do you know when it seems you are close to something and yet so far away?  The welcoming ping reminded me of that feeling: Of almost being able to grasp something new, but it being frustratingly just out of reach, and not even clearly visible.  A destination you believe is out there, but that is not quite achievable at that particular time.  Or  other people may think you are at a certain place in your life but there is an ocean between you and that particular space?  It's all a bit bewildering. Perhaps it is because  I feel I should be at a different place in my life, and yet I secretly still feel a bit in limbo that all this was churning in my thoughts.

I had no desire to be in France that day.  I was right where I should be: having adventures with people I love and exploring quirky places just because I could.  My thoughts didn't have to drift into heavy philosophy and I didn't need to place expectations on where I should be in my life.

I knew my next destination:  Celebrating new beginnings with family, clinking champagne glasses, munching pizza and watching the final of Traitors.

It was a good day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Human Year

 Alexa and I have been chatting quite a lot since we've been in the UK.  The banter is mostly about the weather - it is a key topic of conversation here, and it is easy to see why.  I have come to appreciate that weather plays a huge role in anyone's lifestyle.  I am missing the Cape Town sunshine, but was delighted to experience falling snow here on Saturday. 

 Saturday snow

The weather in the UK disrupts a lot - wind causes trees to fall and trains to stop, rain regularly floods roads and makes them impassable.  Snow and ice - so beautiful - are slippery and dangerous. The weather determines the Who Where and What of any occasion.  Alexa maintains a cheerful tone throughout her announcements, and she doesn't get irritated that I ask her multiple times a day for a forecast.

I do ask her other things as well, and depending on her connections she can be helpful or just plain stonewalling.  "I am unable to help you with that"  was her response to my asking her to clarify some politics.  We have encountered two Alexas on this trip.  We spent New Year in Cambridge at Tom and Hannah's apartment as we opted for an exchange within an exchange to enjoy some family time together. (If you are new to this blog, you might want to google HomeExchange to make sense of all this!) 

Cambridge cows

 

Alexa is marketed as a "virtual assistant" and I can see the convenience of voice activated commands.  We turn lights on and off, set timers, play music, get the latest news headlines, see who is at the front door, turn on the TV with a simple sentence. On a superficial level, two things bother me:  the tone of voice we tend to use when talking to AI (sharp and commanding!) and the needlessness of any politeness.  I worry, in an old mother grundy type way that, as the words please and thank you are superfluous to a machine, many people may forget to use them in other contexts. Will we become so used to talking to AI that we forget how to play nicely?

On a slightly more complex level, Alexa seems to me to be the perfect household spy. Everything we say is data .  As a wise person once said to me : " If it looks like you are getting something for nothing, YOU are the product." I presume most of the data is used for marketing purposes, as Google learns about what you like and who you are.  I don't really like that. I am not that comfortable with people knowing too much about me (says she writing a blog.)

I was given a book about introverts for Christmas by a person who knows me exceptionally well.  (The title is Sorry I am late, I didn't want to come by Jessica Pan.) The author decides to spend a year as an extrovert.  I admire her courage and determination, but I am not sure I could attempt the challenges she sets herself.  We all have different challenges I suppose, and, as I am still not into new years resolutions, I won't ask you what epiphanies you had on 31 December.  I had none.  I was content to enjoy the moment of being together as a family.

I will keep my eyes open this year, however, for opportunities.  I might nudge myself into uncharted territories, because I can't think of a reason not to.

I will also be on the look out for AI creeping into my life.  As much as I enjoy the novelty of Alexa, she is difficult to have a meaningful conversation with.  We need each other for that.

Let's make 2025 a happy human year.