Colour me beautiful.

When I was 14, I went a pale shade of yellow.  It was not a good look on me, particularly as the whites of my eyes were more mustardy than light ivory. Luckily not too many people saw me looking like that as I was confined to bed for a couple of months.  I was in Standard 7, and missed the entire second term of schooling.  All thanks to hepatitis. I slept.  And slept and slept, waking only to eat some thin mixed vegetable packet soup - the only nourishment my body would accept.  I was aware that my grandmothers took it in turns to come and sit in the house with me, as Mom and Dad were working, but I don't think I was very sociable (or much trouble to look after.)  It was the better alternative to the hospitalization our friendly GP suggested.  

After my deep sleep (alas no handsome prince to hack through a thorny hedge pitched up to wake me...) I remember managing to do some needlework and some scrapbooking.  I found those large A3 blue-paged books a few months ago, and finally threw them out.  After looking at them again, of course.  I reread the notes my classmates sent me on a daily basis.  Not about schoolwork or what homework I was missing, but little bits about themselves and their everyday lives.  These notes were not just from my limited supply of friends either. People who were way too cool for me to have thought they even knew I existed, wrote regularly and kindly.  It was - and is - a huge gift.  To be included.  To be cared about. That kindness embedded itself in me, and lines the memory compartments in my head like a bubblewrap of kindness, cushioning other thoughts which may intrude.  People are generous.  People are thoughtful.  Thank you, classmates, for helping me get better.

After my yellow phase, I have - off and on- had blue phases, red phases, and green phases.  And now I think I am entering a Purple Period.

Did you know (I didn't, despite my being remembered by a work colleague as "that Librarian who spent
her spare time reading the dictionary....") that the word purple has an interesting derivation. Long story short it comes from a Greek word for Sea-slug, as the expensive dye was made from the creature's slimy mucus.  No wonder it was reserved for the rich.  I imagine a lot of mucus would be needed to create the aura of wealth associated with the cloaks of kings and priests and other members of the upper crust. These days you just need to combine some chemicals C₂₀H₁₂N₂O₂ and Voila!, (or should I say Violet!) the colour palette is available to the masses.  

 I nominated this year as my purple phase after looking out of my bedroom window to see tall watsonias waving to me. They were a vibrant, life affirming shade of beautifullness. And if I looked deeper into the flower beds, splashes of purple were popping up between the oranges and yellows and pinks.  Spring was a calmness of colour. (Sidebar: I was going to use the usual phrase "riot of colour" but the thought of associating the gift of a garden with violence, protest and unrest didn't sit well with me. End of sidebar.)

I am aware that these days purple is crudely made by mixing blue and red, if we are talking about primary school poster paint.  So maybe I haven't left my blue and red phases behind altogether, maybe I have just combined a splotch of a sadness with a dab of anger to create something more manageable - an understanding of purple. 

 

PS Who remember that book, Colour me Beautiful, wildly popular in the 1980s, and prescribing what colours people should wear to enhance their natural beauty.  In my family it was always disparagingly referred to as "Colour me luvvvely."   It sat on my bookshelf for years before I tossed out (along with my shoulder pads) the notion of being told what colours I liked. 

 

 

 

 

 

Fools Gold

 We came pretty close to chucking up city life and buying a smallholding 23 years ago.  We had the offer to purchase papers in hand, pens hovering over the space for the our signatures.  The plan was to buy a beautiful, treed plot near Millwood in the hills behind Knysna, and grow carrots. Or was it radishes - I forget.  There was no electricity, no water on tap - just vast expanses of fertile land, a dam and a river and the peacefulness that isolation in the back of beyond offers.

The plot that got away...

  We hesitated long enough to see that we were really not being sensible, or fair to our son who would either  have to spend hours commuting to a school in Knysna or become a child of the forest like in a Dalene Matthee novel.  

Millwood is a breathtakingly beautiful area though, and I left a little bit of my heart there.  We have visited it on and off my whole life, as it is near Sedgefield where my family spent our holidays.   It is also a very interesting area for two reasons.  Firstly, the indigenous forests had been home to elephants. Sadly now only one is  known to be living wild, the herd having been hunted and frightened by urban creep.  Secondly the area is well known  because in the 1876, there was a short lived gold rush.  Millwood was the name given to the settlement that developed for the hopefuls. The gold yield was not enough to keep the mining going, and the tin homes and shops and taverns were abandoned.  One or two have been restored, and some of the mining equipment and caves are still there for exploration.  Jubilee Creek is an excellent spot for a visit and picnic and a wander in a stream. It is well worth the time when you are next visiting the Garden Route.

Overgrown mining equipment at Millwood

A lot of South Africa's wealth - and a large chunk of its misery - has been built on gold. Gold threads are woven into our history since it's first discovery in the  mid 1800s.  In 1967, the South African government decided to mint a gold coin to allow citizens to buy and own some of the wealth of the land.  So it said. And Andrew's parents decided to invest in 3 Kruger Rands (named after Paul Kruger - the President of the Boer Republic where gold was first discovered), one for each of their children.

Andrew remembers being given his.  His parents traditionally pushed coins into the steamed Christmas pudding, and when he was 18, his slice of pud contained this generous gift covered in brandy sauce.  It was a rainy day investment, and one which needed to be kept safe.  After we married, and moved into our tiny fixer-upper home, we chose a cunning hiding spot to fool any would be intruders (and we did have a couple of those who helped themselves to our worldly goods.)  When we put some extra electrical plugs in the house, we hid the Kruger Rand in the wall socket and screwed on the plug coverplate.  Brilliant hiding spot, don't you think?

So good in fact that when we moved 8 years later, in the chaos that packing up one's life entails, we forgot.

It plagued us for a long time.  Perhaps we had hidden it so well that it was still there, and we could retrieve it. It felt like unfinished business, something that needed a resolution. The house had passed through a couple of families before we plucked up the courage to give it a go.  Armed with photographs of us (looking so young!) and our house renovations to prove we were the legitimate owners of the coin, Andrew rang the doorbell.  The new owners were charming, and obliging, although they said, they had had electricians in to create double plugs, but Andrew was welcome to look. Screwdriver in hand he removed the coverplate. Obviously the treasure was gone. 

It had been a fool's errand and yet it was an important one.  We no longer wondered if the investment was there waiting to be found.  We could make peace with the fact that we had made an expensive mistake and there was nothing we could do about it.  We could - finally - let it go. In fact we could even hope that the coin was a windfall that the finder truly needed and somehow we had inadvertently put some good back into the world.  (That is just a fantasy - new found gains can also be destructive.)

Also, I realised, I tend to hang on to past mistakes for far too long, hoping to go back and see if by magic I can undo them.  I can't. But it is good to get resolution and not always be wondering "what if." Let it go, Wendy, let it go.

Besides I have unminted wealth that can't be locked away in hiding places.  And I am pretty sure my children are grateful I didn't send them out elephant hunting or panning for gold in Jubilee Creek in their formative years. One day I will ask them.

 

 

Bagpipe lessons

 

Not very many months ago, Andrew woke up from a good night's sleep and announced he needed to learn to play the bagpipes. Just like that.  So he did the research, found a group and asked if he could have a look.  Looking turned into wild enthusiasm, wild enthusiasm turned into the purchase of the required chanter, and the purchase turned into daily practice.  His only regret, he says, is that he didn't start sooner.

There comes a time when we all think that: I wish I had done something earlier in life.  For me, that wish is that I would have liked to write a moderately successful novel.  Nothing flashy - just a masterly crafted, well thought out, gripping tale of intrigue, grounded in a rich tapestry of well rounded characters' lives.   Luckily I don't take myself too seriously, and can chuckle at such grandiose ambitions.  I am happy to scribble stories into soft cover A5 notebooks which I chuck away when they are full. 

But the concept of You Are Never Too Old to Learn is an excellent one.  I remember the awe I felt when I was involved with adult literacy and I watched people who had been denied an education determinedly and patiently tackle letters and sounds until they could read. The age group ranged from thirty to eighty, and the stumbling blocks  (economics, home language, work and family responsibilities...) gigantic. But determination is a great empower-er, and that is worth remembering.

Being open to learning is perhaps one of life's greatest skills.  It requires a healthy sense of self, so we don't feel we  have to go around proving ourselves or always being right. Or always knowing.  I wish the education system taught the art of questioning in the curriculum.  I would have benefitted from that as a teenager. And as an adult.  

Some questions we need to ask are not just about how things work or gaining skills.  Some are about the why and wherefores of human behaviour. Starting with the self, of course.  I want to know where I fit in the world, and who I am in relation to you.

Andrew's bagpipe group spends time socializing after practice.  This give the experience a wholeness, I think, and this camaraderie is crucial to the learning process.  He is still on the chanter phase - the bags and pipes will follow in due course - and he can knock out quite a few recognisable tunes.  I am looking forward to following his progress, and will, I promise, post a photo when he reaches the full regalia stage.  I think a kilt will suit him.

As for me - well who knows.  maybe after a good night's sleep I will one day know exactly the plot of my unborn novel.  And I will need to write it. In the meantime I will make a list of all the other things I wish I had done earlier, and see how many of them I can tick off in the coming years.

 

  

Weeding after rain

 It has been a wet winter - one that reminds me of childhood.  Rain has lashed the windows for  days on end.  There have been big puddles to splash in, the odd rumble of thunder and cold winds.  It has felt like a proper Cape Town winter.  This past weekend the sun smiled weakly on us, so once the washing was hung, I decided to do my Sunday meditation by gardening.  Weeding, mostly.  The ground is wonderfully soft from all that rain and that makes it easy to de -root the pesky onion grass. It was satisfying work and at the same time I could admire all the bulbs that are shooting up after the rains, and imagine the riot of colour that will hopefully fill the garden in a couple of months.

 The only thing about weeding in wet soil, is that a lot of the ground tends to come out with the pulling.  A dilemma!  I didn't want to knock the roots - the onion grass seedlings  fall off and reroot themselves and multiply the problem.  But neither did I want to throw away the excess soil  - what a waste that would be.  The obvious answer was to get the inherited garden sieve out of the wendy house, but I didn't fancy that time consuming and laborious task one little bit.  Plan B:  allow the sun to dry the weed pile and then it would be easy to separate soil from spoil. 

Sometimes when I am working through the weed -thoughts of my life,  the task is easier to do if there is some moisture around (so to speak.)  Weed thoughts are those things that choke out the happier memories - we all have them - the regrets, the if-only's, the painful bits of relationships, health wobbles...  And the moisture is a good old fashioned cry.  I remember when I was younger and could snot my way through a box of tissues. Crying was a relief, and I recall sleeping deeply after a good howl. These days, I can (and do) tear up  quite frequently and easily, but I seem to have lost the ability to commit fully and do those embarrassing sobs.  So working through whatever is bothering me seems like hard work at the moment.  I have to dig deep to get to the root of what is going on, and sometimes the thought breaks before I can pull it out because the mind soil is arid.

Of course there is always the danger of pulling too much out when I am weeding, and getting a little too enthusiastic about trimming, so careful, mindful work is required if I am not to destroy the roots of the wanted plants.

I am quite proud of my system of letting the sun dry out the weedpile before separating the weed from the chaf .  It is energy efficient and effective.  I can return the soil to the flowerbeds and encourage new growth.  Airing our sadnesses for a while is a good idea; allowing happy memories to dry out the other ones will allow us to reuse the good, and compost or destroy the unwanted.   The patch I weeded last weekend is looking better - the ground looks richer and neater and less cluttered.

And it very much looks like it is going to be a beautiful Spring.

 

 

Legacy

 

As a child I was drawn to owls, giraffes and ducks, a diverse collection of  creatures that held my attention and seemed to resonate with my anima.  I was at that stage when I had just graduated from thick chunky crayons to the magical Crayola box with a sharpener. Remember those?  A coveted item in childhood.  The giraffes I drew all had the the requisite long necks, but rather stumpy legs, if I recall correctly.  Probably because I misjudged the length of the page and proportions weren't high on my priorities list.  Owls were easier, as I had a stock standard oval shape I used, with the wings being part of the round body, and the beak and eyes being the focus of the drawing.  And ducks?  Maybe I drew them because my mother made me an appliqued duck cushion which I hung onto like a Linus blanket.

My mother believed in creativity.  Every week she schlepped me off to the Frank Joubert Art Centre (Now the Peter Clarke centre) and waited the hour in the car while I was allowed to express myself messily on paper.  The thing about that art centre is that it taught me true art - they encouraged us to find our own visions, and no two children's project looked the same.  They actively discouraged colouring in books or even keeping colour within the lines.  This was a stark contrast from my school art.  Two teachers in particular would make us 6 and 7 year olds copy their drawings by making us all draw the same shape at the same time, and add to it as instructed until all 30 pictures were identical to theirs and to each others.  It was really boring. 

Art is about believing in the self, and being in an environment that encourages, rather than frowns upon,  seeing things from different angles. I am forever grateful to my mom for this gift.

She also used to take me to museums during the school holidays.   We would wander together around these treasure troves of the past, and see history through the eyes of those who lived through it.  Or at least through those who curated the exhibitions.  Mom looked for the unusual places in addition to the larger well known places. I loved our times together, creating memories while observing them.

But perhaps most importantly, Mom believed in reading and libraries.  When we were small children, Pinelands did not have an official library.  Undaunted, Mom drove us to Mowbray to use the City Libraries stock, and when I had outread that children's section, she took me to Goodwood.  All of these were out of her way activities, and considering she was juggling 4 children, running a household and a full time job, the sacrifice of her time cannot be underestimated.  She nurtured my love of reading - a skill and a pleasure that I can't imagine life without.

It is Mom's birthday today, and this year, the loss of her presence is hitting especially hard. I remember sitting in the car with her after the doctor had told us there was nothing more medicine could do for her (in 2018), and admitting to her that I couldn't imagine a world in which she did not exist.  But the world keeps revolving and my own children carry her legacy with them - they too are creative, intelligent, thoughtful beings.  The circle of life enfolds us all and carries us through the sad days.

 

Mom and her parents in the 1950s

 

 

 

Journey into the interior

Freedom was calling.  The convergence of a long weekend and a Home Exchange request from three Italians visiting Cape Town en route to AfrikaBurn, meant one thing:  Road Trip!

Andrew hauled out the unwieldy huge paper map which has all the roads we have travelled marked in red kokhi, and looked for a gap in the squiggles.  Our fingers landed on the tiny dot of Heidelberg, a small country village most famous for its petrol station.  And the attached Wimpy restaurant, of course.  We had whizzed past it umpteen times on our way to Sedgefield, but we have never  ventured off the National Road.  Why would we?  Our expectations were not high.

But it is a lovely little gem at the start of the Garden Route.  What we found was a beautiful, green country village, brimming with quirkiness, history and friendly people. We stayed in a unusual, hand built (by the owner) French styled chalet.  It was set in a garden of peacefulness.

  Perfect.  When we weren't eating or playing board games (no Scrabble or Crosswords this time!!) we sat in the garden and read our books.  We did stir our stumps to wander through the village, turning left at the railway line on day 1, and right on day 2.  Heidelberg is proud of its history - many of the buildings have information boards up and we could piece together parts of the Anglo Boer War conflicts that happened in the area. It was a complicated time in South African history, and one which casts long, dark shadows on British colonialism.  

One building in particular intrigued me.  It was a corner shop with Christmas decorations still in the window, despite Easter having just come and gone. (Perhaps its a place where time stands still.) It was not one of the most attractive buildings in the area, being drab and non descript.  I would have walked straight past it if it had not been for the information board. 

In 1901, the British opened fire on the Afrikaner Commando with casualties on both sides.  The British didn't want to admit that there had been losses on their side and so buried the bodies of three soldiers under the floorboards of this building.  Their skeletons were discovered when renovations took place, and the good people of Heidelberg held a Town meeting. They decided to leave the bones there and concrete over them, so I assume, they are still there.

The thing is, when South Africa became a Union in1910, Britain agreed to hand over all property and grounds to the new South African government with the exception of grounds where British soldiers were buried.  That means that this corner shop is technically on British soil.    How weird is that!

 We all have skeletons we have buried (don't we?) .  Often when renovating our lives we decide to leave them there and concrete over them.  That's ok, I think, as long as we remember they belong to foreign powers. I wonder though if the families of those three British soldiers would have been comforted to know what really happened to their sons, brothers and fathers.  Covering up old wounds is not always helpful for the survivors.  Sometimes admitting our losses rather than trying to pretend they didn't happen is the more helpful route.

Our road trip took us over little used mountain passes, through landscapes that morphed from verdant pastures to rocky outcrops.
It reminded me that adventures are easy to find close to home and that sometimes deviating from the main roads can take us on an enlightening journey of discovery.

 

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.

 

Direction

 Landmarks give us direction.  I have been lucky enough to live my life using Table Mountain as my compass.  It is hard to get too lost in Cape Town - when in doubt, I can look up and see where I am in relation to the mountain's benevolent shadow, and I can breathe out.  I know where I am.

It is slightly more difficult here in south London.  It requires a lot more effort for me to determine which direction is north, and where (temporary) home is.

Andrew talking to our neighbour

  It is slightly out of my comfort zone.  Looking out of the bedroom window on the third floor, I can see horses grazing in the fields, and a wood beyond.  If I look up a bit more, I can also see the Shard, and that grounds me and gives me a sense of place.

We are living in someone else's home for December and January, and they in ours.  This house swap has been months in the planning.  It is an incredible opportunity to experience a different way of doing things for a bit. London is on our doorstep ( a 30 minute train ride) and beloved family are close by.  We can have lunch with our son during his lunch hour. 

On our way to lunch...

We can celebrate his turning 30 in Cambridge.  Our daughter has been to visit her cousin in Oxford.  We are making the most of creating special memories.  But we are also just living ordinary lives.  Andrew is working online.  We are catching up on sleep.  Sorting out the usual monthly admin. Watching TV.  There is less need to rush around using every precious minute like on previous visits because we have the luxury of time.

I have ambled through both the Tate, and the Tate Modern art galleries, soaking up the visual beauty.  We have been to Borough market a couple of time, and drank in the hustle and bustle and smells of the wonderful foods on offer.  And I have achieved a tick on a bucket list item (more about that in another blog.)

Getting around on public transport is not something I do at home.  The trains and buses  here are efficient and close by. The London underground however, confuses me direction wise.  That is where I fear getting lost the most.  There is absolutely no landmark in a tunnel to tell you where north is, or if you are going the right direction.  Thank goodness for apps that make me feel less disorientated.

Doing things differently is both exhilarating and challenging.  My sense of (self) direction has shifted this past year or so.  My landmarks have changed, and sometimes I gaze up and wonder where I am in my life.  Sometimes I get tunnel vision, and wonder if I am going the right direction.  There are two options that I can see - either create new landmarks to be my  Table Mountain, or just get on the tube and see what direction it takes me, knowing I can get off at the next station if  I want (so to speak.)  I haven't decided which option to take yet, or if I can combine the two.

In the meantime, happy travelling - at home or abroad- to you - and thank you for your company on the journey. 

En route to The Tate.  Cold and wet

Borough market on a quiet day!

London is beautiful at night.  It is dark by 4.30pm.  That takes quite a bit of getting used to!!

 

unbelievable

 

 Our home will be welcoming new custodians for the months of December and January. We have arranged  a house swap with a family from the UK.   This promises to be an adventure par excellence!  So it is time to sparkle the space and make it neat and tidy.  Most of it is, but our work areas tend to get creatively messy.  I have started the process of cleaning the blood, sweat and tears (quite literally, I'm afraid ) from the room in the roof which is where I do my glass work.

I have just finished a big project, which used lots of glass, lead came, putty, linseed oil, baby powder, nails, and solder. It also involved courage, most of my head space and quite a few plasters. I was asked by someone who has buckets more faith in my abilities than I do (thank you, Donna) to create new leaded panes for a shop front in Observatory.  A truck and a storm had destroyed the originals.

work in progress...

The task seemed Herculean from the outset, but I have so enjoyed the challenge and sense of accomplishment.  And I have learnt so much along the way.  Mostly about measurements and cutting and sourcing the right glass, but also about asking questions until I understand what's what and believing that I am capable.  

We fitted the three panels on Saturday.  Andrew's expertise, patience and unwavering support made this possible, especially as it turns out that old buildings have their foibles and glass is not bendy. 

We shaved off some of the lead came with my power sander, chiseled offending bits of the wooden frame and eventually it all fitted together.  It was a huge relief and I am delighted with the result.

The thing about glass is that it is both tough and fragile at the same time.  It can withstand  the rain and wind battering it, and provides a barrier keeping the outside separated from the inside.  But it is easily breakable, particularly if you step on an edge it seems.  (I had to throw that piece away.)  Cutting glass starts with scoring - essentially you create a flaw or weakness in the glass before using pliers to complete the break. 

I think there is a reason I enjoy working with glass so much.  I can identify with the medium.  I know what it is like to be tough and fragile simultaneously.  I understand the importance of a shield between external and internal.  Our scars are our weak points, and where we are most likely to break.  I get all that.  But I also get the beauty of glass - how it reflects and refracts light, how it amplifies and frames a viewpoint. People have innate beauty in them.  Sometimes the panes just need a gentle wash for us to see an unclouded version.

 Self doubt has often been my shadow.  I have sometimes felt unbelievable, or unheard, and that has, in the past, put speed bumps in my path.  But recently I have allowed myself to see the possibility of potential.  Thank you to those of you who have encouraged me.

TaDa!