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!

 

 

 

 

Crosswords

 I married Andrew (34 years ago!) for three things:  his ability to tie knots, his sense of direction and his new tech convection microwave oven.  Sadly, all good things must come to an end, and the microwave died gracefully a long while ago, to be replaced with a cheap, practical Do-The-Job-Quickly type.  But his ability to tie knots - a product of a long and illustrious scouting enthusiasm-, and his sense of direction have lasted. (Well, mostly.  He seems to have issues with where Noordhoek is.)  Which just goes to show that it is better to marry someone for what is on the inside, rather than what they own.  I am still very happy with my decision, and we celebrated this past weekend in Riebeek Kasteel.  (A quaint village close to Cape Town.)

We had chosen and booked the accommodation together, but Andrew had sneakily asked them to put some roses in the room for me.  He is thoughtful that way, and next to a wine cooler filled with flowers was a little note from management wishing us both a very happy anniversary of our "beautiful union."  I was touched.

And next to the vase was a welcome letter from the hotel, giving the wifi password, room service number to dial and a sincere wish that we should not hesitate to ask if we need anything.

I say "we", but it was addressed to Andrew only.  A small, unimportant detail you may think, but it shoots right to the heart of the invisibility of women.  Especially as it was placed next to the congratulations-on -your-union card.

Last time we went away, you may remember, the weather was foul , and we landed up playing Scrabble. (See Quite! blog if you don't know what I am talking about!)  Not this year - we decided on Crosswords instead.  

I say "Crosswords" but what I should write is Cross Words.  Some of them too rude to print.  I found myself in a fug on the morning of our departure, and anger welled up in me.  "This is as bad as our 10th anniversary," I fumed.  Our tenth anniversary is a distant memory, but not a good one.  Andrew and I were barely talking to each other, and we sat through a miserable dinner in an upmarket restaurant in Town, wishing we were somewhere else. Separately.  It was the year of fertility treatments, and if you have been there, you will know the strain it puts on a relationship.  Ours was near breaking point.

But here we are, battle scarred but stronger for it.  My fug lifted as we settled into our weekend away, and we had the most enjoyable time, reading, resting and reminiscing.  

 I am grateful we are travelling together, and I think getting angry with each other is part and parcel of any long term relationship.  It means both of us have a voice, even if I feel the need to raise it on occasion in order to be heard. 

Life isn't always about Facebook smiles.  Sometimes we need to tell the irritating truth.  Looking back over the past three decades, I can acknowledge the times when we haven't always seen eye to eye. That's ok with me.  We are two separate people with different opinions about many things.  It is our strength that we can weave our threads together into a knot that holds in stormy weather. 

 

 

Not a bad view, really!

 

Rowing into the blue(s)

My hands were tingling this morning.  I could feel the familiar blisters hardening where I was gripping the handles of the rowing machine, and the tiny cuts on the tips of my fingers from some ill judged glass handling yesterday stung slightly.  So I closed my eyes, before continuing my 3 kilometer row.  With my eyes shut, I could feel the soft breeze on my face, just enough to take away any harshness of the early morning sun.  The salt water lapped quietly each time I dipped an oar, and the boat rocked as the tide came into the lagoon.  Twinkle, the rowboat named back in the our childhoods, is solid, bright red, easy to navigate and unsinkable.  It is my happy place.

When I open my eyes, I am nowhere near the idyllic Sedgefield lagoon in the sunshine.  I am sitting on a mechanical rowing machine in the gym, and it is raining and blustery outside.  This is not my natural habitat.  I have never been a gym bunny .  I am a firm believer that bunnies belong outside, hopping in a field.

(Long ago, before children, Andrew and I glimpsed the sweetest looking rabbit frolicking in some wild grass in the grounds of Balmoral castle.   Scotland is  entrancing. Wandering in the summer mist and drizzle around the castle grounds, we thought it would be fun to walk in the footsteps of the royal rabbit.  We got quite close to the residence before we lost sight of the creature, so we turned round to head back. Only then did we notice the sign that Strictly Forbade us from entering the area close to the Royals.We quietly skulked off hoping not to be caught.  It was a lesson in reading signage in life if we want to say out of trouble.)

My gym membership is another step in my Year of Trying out New Things.  It is an attempt to slow down my osteoporosis, as the medication suggested by the doctor has unappealing side effects and long term consequences.  So far so good with the gym thing.  What helps is that we all go as a family, and as a extra bonus, Andrew's cousin uses the facility too, so it feels like a safe, friendly environment.  It also is a place that empasises health rather than appearance, so my oversized t-shirts and old takkies are perfectly acceptable attire.

My next challenge is to conquer The Changing Rooms.  I have yet to get my kit off and wander about in the altogether from shower to lockers. I am ok with this.  Baby steps.  I will put it on next year's Challenge list.

Rowing on a real lagoon in a real boat is obviously first prize. But in the meantime  I am happy to admire the callouses on my hand from indoor rowing as a sign that I am taking charge of my own body and health.  Luckily I have a vivid imagination, and  twice weekly I can press reset on the stresses of life and dip my oars into my reservoir of happiness.

 

Twinkle - the magical boat

Background noise

There is a consistent buzz in my head.  It is more of a low hum, and sits just between my thoughts lobe and the irritation cortex in my brain.  Sometimes it is all I can concentrate on, and it leads me to despair. Please make it stop. It is an environmental noise, and a month or so ago, Andrew and I spent a Saturday evening trying to locate its origin.  Andrew is an engineer in almost every fibre of his being, so he had a mathematical plan.  We would triangulate the sound.  Yes - this was news to me too.  I would have just ventured out, fuelled by sheer determination, and stabbed blindly in the dark, hoping to get closer to the irritation.  But using the scientific method worked.  We drove to one edge of Pinelands, hoppped out the car, made silent assessments of the direction and intensity of the sound, and then conferred.  We could agree on direction.  I wrote down our findings in my notebook, and we drove to a different corner of the suburb.  Rinse and repeat, until we had plotted the possible area by intersecting the notebook lines.

And there it was, tucked away in a back street in a neighbouring industrial area.  Even at 8.30 on a Saturday night it was churning out steam and noise.  It is an massive plant that looks to me a bit like a mine with corrugated walkways and conveyor belts. And a security guard who walked up to us to see what we were doing there on a drizzly evening. The company manufactures oils and margarine products.

I was glad to have found out where the annoyance was coming from.  I knew it wasn't all in my head, but locating it exactly made me feel a lot better. I could direct my anger at a particular company rather than just vaguely thinking it must be somewhere out there.  Information is calming.

Sometimes I get lost in the trap that something is "all in my head."  And to be fair, a lot of thoughts do get stuck up there and need to be coaxed out.  

I am wondering if I can use this triangulation system to pinpoint other noise in my life.  If I stand and look at something that is bothering me from one angle, jot down my results, walk some distance away (metaphorically) and note the problem from a different angle, rinsing and repeating until I can work out the intersecting point,  maybe I can  find a cause and create a solution.

My heart hurts at the moment.  I don't know why - it feels as if a ball of wool (mottled blue!) has been cut through with a pair of scissors and there are all these loose ends sticking out and if I pull one, the whole thing may unravel. It is probably all in my head, but I am going to test the triangle theory with this as a case study.

Beautiful Peaceful Sedgefield

Recently we slipped away for to Sedgefield for a few days, and had a glorious holiday.  Highlights included painting rocks, having my face splat with shaving cream, eating celebratory pecan pie and NOT having this constant droning sound in my ears. Coming home made me even more aware of it and its effect on me.

 

 

 

I think it is the frequency that bothers me most.  Not so much the Hertz, but how often I can hear it - even now at 11 on a Sunday evening, the drone continues.  It is non stop. Time, I think, to phone City Council and see if there is any recourse. Enough already.  

 

A creative community project in Sedgefield - we left our contributions to be added!

 

 

 

A face full of shaving cream - part of a hilarious Task Master game we were playing....

Books

books

Despite my  (or maybe because of my) love of reading and books, I have never belonged to a book club.  I am not much of a wine drinker, to be honest, and that seems to be a prerequisite these days.  But that is not the real reason, obviously.  It is more that I am just not much of a group person, and prefer seeing people on a one to one basis, so I can enjoy their company and chatting without group dynamics.  I am pretty much the same way with books - I am not one of those people who can have several books "on the go" at the same time, dipping into each for a little bit.  I like to focus my concentration on a particular text and give it my full attention.  This is probably because I get deeply involved in my books.  I enter wholeheartedly into the plots, the characters' lives, the page turning, even the punctuation. I am a bit obsessive - I can see that!  I am also wary of recommending books to a group of people because my experience of a book is very unlikely to be the same as yours.  Reading is not only about the words on the page, but also about where your thoughts are at a particular time; whether the sun is shining on the chair you like reading in, whether the dishes are done, who is at home, how the children are.  You know what I mean.  It's personal.

I admire people who belong to book clubs.  They are readers and thinkers and sharers, and the world needs as many of these people as possible.   Their commitment to supporting the print industry is important too.  I am just not one of them. 

More books

Andrew jokes - at least I hope he is joking!- that if I buy any more books and put them upstairs, the floor might cave in under the weight. We would be pulverised by literature.  I do have a large collection -  I have a wealth of words.  And I am very happy to share my bounty with you - come and see if anything takes your fancy, or I can set you up on a blind date with a book I think might be a good fit. No questions asked when you return it. As long as it's personal.

I have just finished reading a memoir that left me feeling raw, and shaken, and moved.  There was a vague synergy between this book and where I find myself at the moment.  When I put it down, I felt bereft, and took a while to leave her world and re inhabit my own body.  Such is the power of reading for me.

Some books are just pure escapist fun - I love a good weekend read that leaves me smiling and happy and admiring people who have the gift of giving joy to so many people.

Even more books....

I worked in the adult literacy field many moons ago.  It was such gratifying work, because I can't imagine a world without reading. It plays such an integral part in our lives. From work to entertainment, social networking to life management, reading and writing are the backbone of how we live.  

To me, words are personal.

 

 

 

Seeing the light

 

 While the northern skies were lighting up with spectacular colours a couple of weeks ago, I was having quite a powerful green aura myself.  Seeing the Aurora Borealis has been on my bucket list for as long as I have owned a bucket.  So, as much as I loved seeing the pictures online, I will admit to being more than a tad jealous that so many people were just casually living my dream.

"Feel like a small adventure?" Andrew asked on that Sunday evening.  I agreed without knowing exactly what he was suggesting.  I had been dragging my feet, in a slumped sort of May Month way (apparently I am not the only one who finds May difficult!!) Andrew had read that Australia, at 32 degrees south, had had some good sightings of the Southern Lights, so Cape Town at 34 degrees might, just might, have the privilege of a show. I was all in.  We thought that at 10pm it would be properly dark, so we bundled into the car, Andrew and O with tripods and cameras, K and me with enthusiasm and warm jerseys.  We drove out past Millers Point, beyond the city lights.

Nothing.  Except a clear darkness.

But it wasn't the let down it could have been.  The sky was beautiful.  The sound of the sea was gentle and all of a sudden the world seemed possible again.  I didn't need a spectacular show or a once in a lifetime occasion.  The quiet stillness of the moment was more than sufficient. It was an important mind shift for me.

Andrew took some creative, beautiful photos, using the tripod and a long exposure.  Here is one:

 

I love this image.  But the thing is - this isn't what was visible  to me with the naked eye.  It was just black skies and water out there.  I began to realize that the photos posted in the media might just be long exposure too - who knows - that made the colours seem more extraordinary through the lens than to the people who were just gazing up. There were some lovely pictures taken the night before at Gansbaai,  a small coastal village about 160km from Cape Town.  So maybe if we had tried the night before....

My aura reduced to a mild mint colour instead of the violent green. Beauty is where we find it, and even if we are looking for something spectacular, the ordinary can be awe inspiring too.

There are plenty of other items on my bucket list, and the Northern lights has just slipped down a couple of places in the wish order.  I don't really need to see them anymore.

Now if I can just sort out my May maladies...

Listening

 I am listening to a lot of podcasts at the moment.  They are easy air fillers and I have found topics that I find interesting.  Things like the Lance Armstrong scandal, or British politics from the 1970s, the Waco Deaths and  Spy stories.   Perhaps I just choose very polite presenters, but I have noticed at the end of a section, they thank me for listening.  I take that personally, even though I know that they are actually unaware of the exact details of who listens to them. I will take politeness wherever I can find it.

Podcasts don't take up too much concentration space and can be combined with other activities. And being recorded, if I miss a bit, I can always go back and hear it all again.  Live conversations on the other hand are a bit more complicated.  You get one shot at absorbing not only the words and the non verbal cues (like folded arms, or tears...) but you often have to interpret the feelings behind the words.  Often there is a lot of interference or "noise"  and meaning and intention get lost.  That can be frustrating all round. Some people are better at listening than others.  Really listening.  It is an art.  So often we are tempted  to jump in with a response when just an acknowledgement is needed.

I was thinking about this a couple of weeks ago as I was walking to a meeting up the road. It was a beautiful soft day, and as I  closed my back gate I heard a whoop of delight. Council workers were weed eating the field edges behind our house. One of the guys had found a R200 note stuck in the long grass.  His happiness at this windfall energised the air.  I gave him a thumbs up (the noisy weed eaters were drowning out any conversation possibilities) and continued on my way up the hill. I think that R200 was a significant find for him, and it gladdened my heart.

I was still smiling about this when, a short way ahead, I saw a Mom and her two little girls walking together.  The younger child was enthusiastically pointing to the sky and yelling "Aeroplane" as only a two year old can with complete delight and happiness. Her sister was about 4 I suppose, and she came hurtling towards me and wrapped her arms around my knees in a hug.  I bent down to reciprocate and the two year old joined in too.

I didn't think this day could get much better, but it did!  Andrew and I were travelling to Hermanus to pick up a friend for the weekend.  We stopped at the Peregrine farm stall in Grabouw and I showed Andrew one of my favourite spaces - Liberty Bookshop.

Liberty Bookshop (not my photo!)

 It is a wonderful place, with an eclectic collection of loved and unloved books, as the assistant described them (so much nicer than calling them second hand and new...) , and  they stock an interesting range of South African literature.  There is also a welcoming fire with a purring cat to add to the temptation to linger.  I highly recommend a visit if you are in the area and like that sort of thing. 

One of the books I picked up was Brutal School Ties; the Parktown Boys Tragedy by Sam Cohen.  It makes for harrowing reading, because it describes institutionalized abuse of the boys at this Johannesburg school and how much of the cruelty was put down to "Tradition." No one was listening to these youngsters of 13 and 14, until one brave child made a plan.  Hundreds of children have suffered trauma, because no one heard them.  Not just the words they did or didn't say, (and some did beg their parents not to send them back at the end of the weekend) but also their behaviour changes, and their grades falling to unexpected lows.  The communication got stuck in the ethos of "boys will be boys", and "traditional makes you stronger."

As a society we need to learn to listen more, and with more sensitive ears. There are so many knee-hugging good things that are happening, and if we can hear those things as well as the sadness, we can maintain a balance and not get overwhelmed. I was reminded to listen with my heart.

Your reading this - whoever you are - gives my voice an audience too, and I appreciate the time you give me, and for hearing me.

Thank you for listening.

Another birthday

In a few minutes we are expecting my family to descend on our house to celebrate K's 21st birthday.  This will be the second round of Happy Birthday singing - her friends came to a Hobbit themed party last weekend, and that was blustery fun.  I want to celebrate this marvellous human as much as possible - birthday or no birthday.  She makes the world a better place with her laughter, kindness and sense of propriety.

The hordes don't know it yet, but we have put together a slide show of photographs of special moments in K's life, and a fun quiz if anyone wants to join in.  We have a lot of photos, and sifting through the thousands this past week has been both a pleasure and a jolt for me. So many memories come up, and I felt both incredibly fortunate to have so many wonderful times in my heart, head and photo albums, and also more than a little sad.  Photos of people who can't share our celebrations with us any more, and the passing of time in what seems just a heartbeat, have made me tear up on more than one preview of the slideshow.

But I -we- are capable of holding two seemingly opposite emotions together at the same time.  The happiness makes the sadness bearable, and the sadness makes the happiness meaningful.

We tried the quiz out on her friends last week, and it was interesting to watch people's reactions.  Everyone organised themselves into groups and we gave each group a thick crayon and a clipboard of paper.  The quiet ones took notes while the videos were playing - what colour jersey K was wearing in the snow, who sang the backing track, what K wrote on the chimney with the power-hose while cleaning.  Others doodled, some producing quaint crayony pictures, others sat quite still and absorbed the information in picture form.  And it occurred to me that we all take in things in different ways, and there is no right way to learn or have fun.  They all seemed to enjoy the challenge - hence the repeat this afternoon with a different group.  I wonder how The Family will deal with it.

I like throwing an unexpected challenge out to people, as long as nobody takes it too seriously.  Challenges push our boundaries just a little and give us a taste of how doing things differently might increase our appetite for change.  And change we must, because being static is both impossible and unhealthy.  There are lots of changes happening here as K becomes more and more independent, and I adapt to adult children.  

It has been quite a year of celebrations so far, what with Andrew's 60th and K's 21st.  The rest of the year might seem a bit dull, unless we decide to fill it with new adventures and celebrations.

In the meantime we have cake to eat.  Happy birthday K.  I love you.

21 Years ago....

The Quantum Physics of identity

A while ago I met a stranger as I was plodding round a few blocks near home. He was walking his dogs in one direction, and I was doing the circuit the other way. At the second crossover, he stopped me and told me he could tell me a few things about myself. Intriguing, but I wasn’t born yesterday. In fact he asked me when I was born, as numbers and quantum physics combined is his Thing. I don’t see the correlation myself, but then again, I don’t stop random strangers on the street and offer insights into their lives. As I wasn’t in a rush it being a Sunday, I opted for politeness and told him my birth day and month. Not the year, of course.

 Sure enough his assessment was accurate - I am a nurturer, I like arty stuff, I am a very private person, I hold tension in my neck, I think about things, I need to put boundaries in place in my life. Same as you. And you. And your friends and family. People are happy to hear these generalizations because they are more or less flattering and more than a little vague. I couldn’t get him to part with the info of how quantum physics and my birth date had helped him with the assessment though. I did ask. That would have interested me more. He also told me I drive too fast, but safely. Ah no, not me. Specifics tripped him up, but I didn’t tell him. I smiled sweetly and plodded on.

 Truth be told, I looked him up when I got home. I may not be as talented as him with equating numbers to quantum physics, but I am a dab hand at a Google search. So it‘s safe to say I probably know more about him now than he knows about me. 

 Information is pretty public these days, and easily accessible. I have always had at the back of my mind the thought to write a novel about mistaken web identities and so have researched people with the same name as me. We are an interesting collection of women – we boast personal trainers, an actress, several CEOs, a marine biologist, estate agents, educational specialists and so many more diverse careers. It is interesting that that is how people define themselves – by how they earn money, rather than who they are. It bothers me a little bit, but that might just be because what I do doesn’t sound particularly glamorous. I am a Manager. It says so on my tax form. 

 We are all managers really. Everyone juggles needs, wants, abilities, necessities, to create a curated life that works for them. Sometimes I Manage better than other times; February is going better than January for example, as the hype of newness of the year and the rhythm of daily life has settled into familiar patterns.

 Last week I saw the same Strange Man quizzing another woman about her birth date, and I saw how she smiled sweetly at him as he told her, I assume, that she is an arty nurturer who overthinks and needs to hold less body tension. I wonder if she drives too fast too. I walked on. I had places to be. 

 

This is where I needed to be - on a Mother/Daughter getaway.  Bliss!

 

Sun and Ski

26 January:

Andrew is packing to go on his much anticipated Austrian ski holiday with his brothers.  We leave for the airport in two hours, and he is a bit more flappy than he usually is.  This trip is a celebration of Life as he hits 60. The brothers haven't had a joint adventure for too many years. (One lives in Canada, the other in the UK).   Underpants - tick.  Jeans - tick.  Long sleeved shirts - tick.  But when it came to socks there was an odd assortment of forlorn mismatched singles skulking at the back of the cupboard.  He found enough comfy matching pairs, and decided to part with some that had not yet morphed into hangers, and probably never will.  Almost there.  Ski pants and jacket - tick.  Book to read....   And he is ready!

Andrew on the move...

We celebrated his birthday yesterday.  It started with a leisurely breakfast in Kalk Bay (highly recommend the food at Chardonnay Deli), followed by a dip in the ocean.  It is pure bliss for me to float in sea salt with my ears under the water, bobbing to the gentle current.  It feels like being in Creation, with all external distractions floating away.  

Actually, I am hoping to make this  the Year of Distractions.  I fancy dipping my toes in new adventures, even if I discard them promptly or "fail" miserably.  So what.  I have made a start by signing up for an online course. K and I are sneaking off for a Daughter/ Mother weekend while Andrew is away.  I have started a new glass panel for nowhere in particular.   So the January distractions are doing well.  Who knows, by the end of the year, I may even have a cookie jar full of creative ideas and a house full of odd looking glass panels.

 

31 January:

Even my distractions get distractions it seems. Andrew is having a wonderful trip by the sounds of things - I am sure he will share his adventures with you when he gets back.  He sends daily maps of his ski runs, and of  people sunbathing in the snow.  I am hoping the brothers are having a good time of re-connection. 

 I have been enjoying having the extra space to uncap my eccentricness and lying low for a bit.  January is done and dusted. 2024 is well under way.  I hope it has started well for you.

 

29 January

25 January

 

 

Onwards and upwards.

 My Mother-in-law was a very practical person, and would often try to help me by showing me the right way to do things.  In my early years of marriage I probably wasn't as receptive to her advice as I could have been - youth doesn't often favour the wisdom of the next generation, I realise.  One of the useful habits I did pick up from her, was always to crack an egg into a cup or empty bowl, just in case it is rotten.  Then the whole mixture/ cake will not be wasted.  This advice stuck, and I still crack eggs one by one into a cup before adding them to a recipe, despite not often finding green eggs.  Yesterday was only the third time ever.

A rotten egg is pretty disgusting.  The greenish brownish slush stinks and needs a quick disposal to avoid stomach repercussions. And so the Malva pudding was saved yesterday, thanks to ancient wisdom.

I am not superstitious - I am perfectly comfortable with the number 13, black cats are delightful, and ladders are my friends (except when I broke a toe colliding into one whilst painting the lounge...) But rotten eggs make me uneasy.  I connect them with disaster.  There is a reason, which isn't very interesting, so I will skip the details.  It was  coincidences of bad eggs and bad news, but the feeling stuck.

So when I broke the egg yesterday my headspace looped into a bit of dread.  Easily shaken off with logic. Not so easily shaken off with heart.

What will 2024 be like? Andrew turns 60 in less than a month.  I will be turning 27 again in May (it will the 30th anniversary of my 27th birthday....) We are getting to the mildly decrepit stage of life.  I will give you an example:  we decided to go to the movies a few nights ago.  The film was bewilderingly bad, but we were happy that a) We had gone out, and b) The seats were really comfortable.  Sounds a bit fuddy duddy doesn't it!  So I am hoping to regain a youthful spark next year, and get stuck into some projects that are just for me.  For many a year it has felt as though I have been the background to other people's lives:  A support structure making sure they can get on with what they need to do.  But roles shift and change, and now maybe there is some more freedom to tentatively dip my toes in the ocean of otherness.

It is a bit of a void, and a little daunting.  Maybe that was yesterday's heart space.

Onwards and upwards, always....as we say in our family.  Happy New Year. May 2024 bring peace.

 

 

 

Documented proof that green eggs are not particularly appetizing at first glance.....

A Soulful Llama

 

How many elephants can fit on a Vespa? 

 

Eleven.  And 1 tortoise, 1 bear and  1 wide eyed llama. It took us quite a while to achieve this, and a lot of cable ties.  We also stuffed some arty goodies into the back box, and were satisfied that we were ready for our first Toy Run.  The Toy Run is a spectacular event held late November or early December every year.  If you live near one of the routes, you would have heard about it.  The revving is festively loud.  Andrew and I joined the parade of thousands of bikes, all adorned with toys for needy children, and set off through the Cape Town streets.  Traffic cops waved us through busy intersections and cleared lanes for us, smiling and waving and giving us the thumbs up. (Finally - I see the attraction of being part of the blue light brigade.  Motorists were equally cheerful to wave us through, unlike our political counterparts who usually avail themselves of that service.) It was an excellent start to the festive season.

The group of riders was as diverse as the bikes.  The magnificent Harley Davidsons led the procession and the rest of us followed.  Not too many Vespas took part, and scooters were definitely in the minority.

 We didn't stay long at Killarney - just time enough to soak up the atmosphere and hand over the toys. There was a band playing and inbetween songs the continuity announcer thanked us for being part of the Moral Underground.  I like that phrase.

To be honest, when I started writing this blog, it was a bit doomsday -y.  I was /am struggling to see the bright patches in between the increased darkness of load shedding.  It is not so much the lack of electricity - we can, and have, learnt how to live working around that - it is more the darkness that load shedding represents.  The corruption.  The lost opportunities for this country to thrive. A lack of hope in the future.  It is easy to get bogged down in that train of thought, because the world is cruel, violent, intolerant place at war at the moment. I thought that people are doing such a bad job, that maybe letting AI have a go is not such a bad idea after all.  

So I asked Chat GBT to write a blog for me addressing South Africans about load shedding. This is what it came up with:

Dear resilient South Africans,

In the face of challenges, remember that the spirit of unity and strength runs deep within your nation. Each trial you encounter is an opportunity for growth and solidarity. Your history is a testament to the power of resilience, and your ability to overcome adversity is boundless.

Embrace the diversity that makes South Africa unique, for it is a source of strength and richness that can lead to a brighter future. In the tapestry of your nation, every thread contributes to the strength of the whole.

As you navigate the present, hold onto the belief that tomorrow holds promise and potential. The challenges of today are the building blocks of a better tomorrow. Trust in the power of collective effort and individual perseverance.

In the words of Nelson Mandela, "It always seems impossible until it's done." Your journey may be tough, but your ability to overcome is tougher. Remember that hope is not just a fleeting emotion; it is a force that propels you forward, even in the face of uncertainty.

Stay connected, support one another, and foster a community that uplifts every member. Your shared strength is a beacon that lights the path to progress.

Believe in the resilience of your nation, for within every challenge lies an opportunity for greatness. The sun rises on South Africa, and with it comes a new day filled with possibilities.

Keep the flame of hope burning bright.

With unwavering solidarity, [Your Name]

 

Not bad really.  As far as rhetoric goes.

But Chat GBT lacks authenticity and, more importantly, Soul.  (So I wouldn't be surprised to hear our politicians sprouting this speech some day soon.) Having Soul makes us part of the moral underground.  The goodwill of ordinary people ripples into communities and forms the bedrock of kindness and stability that holds society during turbulent times.  

A few stuffed toys will not solve the world's problems.  But I am hoping that, sometime in the future, someone will remember being given a wide eyed llama, a bear, a pink elephant or a tortoise, and know that it comes with my hope for  their happiness.

 

 

 

 

Reading this blog will bring you good luck....

 We get a lot of spam mail.  I imagine most people do these days.  Thunderbird moves most of them to the Junk folder immediately, but one or two slip through.  The latest barrage are headlined I RECORDED YOU!, and proceed to tell me about the compromising images they have of me and threaten me with...  umm ...exposure.   They obviously think I have a far more exciting life than I actually do, and I sometimes wonder what would happen if I asked to see the footage of my imaginary self.  It does lead on to the question : what is the spamming success rate?  Do people actually feel guilty enough about their behaviour to pay a complete stranger untraceable currency to prevent loved ones from seeing it?  Won't you let me know if you have been scammed like this ?- you don't need to send the salacious details, just the broad strokes.  Call it research.

Not all scams are that obvious.  I remember someone coming up to me at a pay machine at Canal Walk parking.  She got chatting - told me how she remembered me from before, and I had helped her with some information.  This is all possible, even plausible, as I worked at an information public library, and that was my job.  She liked my new hairstyle (she said) and asked if I was still working "there."  I am generally polite, so I replied to her questioning, and although I have a good memory for faces, I didn't recognise her.  But I did interact with very many people over the years.    The request for money - notes rather than coins- came soon after, and I suddenly saw through her.  I declined her kind offer to relieve me of my cash, and told her she was very good at this scamming thing.  She smiled and thanked me, and moved on the the next person.

Recently I listened to a Derren Brown YouTube video (Ironing and watching is hazadous, but listening is just as good).  He is  described as a illusionist, mentalist and entertainer. These days he spends quite a lot of time exposing fake "truth" tellers, or scammers.  Whether it is people communicating with your dead loved ones, or someone telling you your future, he educates people about the cues and methods these people use, and the damage they can do.  But the programme I want to draw your attention to is about Luck.  In a social experiment (in 2011), he sent a reporter friend to the small Yorkshire town of Todmorden. She started a rumour about a lucky dog statue, which would bring good luck if you patted it.  It only took about a week for this made up idea to become a sort of folk lore owned by the community, with several locals trying it out.  And indeed, lucky things did start to happen in the town.  The sceptics were not swayed of course, and Derren decided to see if he could change their minds by creating winning opportunities for them to take up (a sure win scratch card, for example.  Or cash in the road.)  It's a fascinating programme, which shows that those who want to see good fortune, make themselves open to experiences that create so called luck.  As an example,  a well known comedian "needed car assistance" in the village, near the two pubs.  The owner of the first pub (a sceptic ) decided he was too busy to help.  The other landlady said she didn't know how to help but went to fetch a mechanic who did, and sorted the problem.  She invited them all to pub for a pint afterwards.  To say thank you, the comedian did a free gig that evening, and the  pub made a fortune.  The landlady described herself as lucky. After that, people came from all over to pat the dog, until after 6 weeks, Derren held a community meeting and explained all. If you have ironing to do, or a spare hour, you can google the whole experiment.

The point is, there are no lucky dogs.  Or lucky anythings for that matter.  We see and create opportunities that help us, or are open to experiences that create positive environments.  Somehow that gives me hope - we can all "be lucky."  We just have to pat our own heads and believe in ourselves rather than mysterious improbable scenarios of luck being presented to us. Those just might be scams.

While I have been writing this, over sixty I RECORDED YOU!messages have been dumped on the computer.  I am hoping our non response triggers the sending algorithm to stop.  

Junk can be very clogging.

I am going to try to be more aware of, and open to, the multitude of opportunities for happiness that are all around me, and cherish what I have. I am going to try to live purposefully, rather than waiting for things to happen by chance.

That should get me to the end of the year...

 

 

 

This is the lucky Todmorden dog........

 

Quite!

 A few weeks ago Andrew and I celebrated a wedding anniversary.  (Our own, actually - but we will be very happy to celebrate yours too if you send us the details...) This year the celebrations were wild - a storm hit Cape Town, and rain lashed the mountainside at our getaway.  So we chose the most obvious form of  adult indoor entertainment - we played Scrabble. As usual we were pretty evenly matched until that annoying stage when the board is full and all the high scoring letters have finally been pulled from the bag. (Are they weighted slightly more heavily, so that they sink to the bottom of the bag and are pulled out last, do you think?).  To get rid of the "Q" I offered the word "QUIT", and I was happy enough with the score.  But  Husband decided to add an "E", and write another word, turning my quit into QUITE, scoring himself very many points, and a frosty smile from me. 

This last week Andrew suggested I bring the Scrabble board with me during visiting hour. He has been in hospital fighting a nasty leg infection.  The antibiotics prescribed at A&E and the GP weren't working, so he was admitted to be dripped and prodded and xrayed and checked.  It has been quite an ordeal.  Andrew does not take illness lying down, except when he is forced to.  Now he has no choice, as that leg needs to be elevated, and he needs to rest.  

I found it quite scary.  There is nothing quite like a hospital ward to help one face the fact that everyone is mortal. It is something that is obvious and everyone knows in the back of their thoughts.  But hospitals smell different.  There is uncertainty  in the air, and the acknowledgement that everything  can change from solid to fragile very quickly.  Andrew was in the same ward that my Dad died in a few months ago, and that probably added to my feeling of fragility.  But the care and service was good, (according to Andrew), with the exception of the food.  Nothing new there!  In fact if you start to like the hospital food, it might be time to gather the family.

I reckoned that the Scrabble board wouldn't fit on the bed table so I didn't take it when I went to visit.  Besides Andrew was in a 4 bed ward, and I didn't think it was a suitable game for a public space.  He would have to make do with my scintillating conversations and the books I brought him.  It had absolutely nothing to do with my bruising loss last game.  

Andrew is back home now, and recovering nicely.  We discussed the need for him to possibly give himself a break from the continuous busyness that is his norm.   We'll see - old habits are hard to break.

This is the view from the hospital parking area.  It struck me as quite beautiful as I sat there one day - the mountain, the greenery, even the traffic - a mixture of the unmovable, the seasons and the flow of life.  We are so fortunate with the standard of (private) healthcare in South Africa, and in the beauty of the environment.  If we look carefully, and give it some thought, it doesn't take much to move from a desolate feeling to one of understanding and agreement - changing quit into quite.

That's something we can all celebrate.  And Craig -  you were absolutely right in predicting this blog.😄

 :

 

The dark side of gratitude

 It was a glimmery sunny day last Sunday, and I sat in the garden with my mug of tea, rereading The Ugly Duckling and enjoying some tortoise time.  I have an ambivalent relationship with fairy tales - I can appreciate the history and language, but I often find the themes outdated and laboured.  The Ugly Duckling however, has a cast of mostly animals, and that is somehow more palatable.  And of course the themes of finding your space in the world, the hurt of being bullied and appearance discrimination  are important and  thought worthy contemplations for a sunny Sunday morning.  

I was wanting to look beyond the obvious though, to see what else resonated with me.  And guess what - one of the themes was around gratitude. The little "duck", having been rejected by family and community, having survived being shot at by hunters, and having been thankful that he was too ugly for a dog to bite and eat him, finds refuge from a storm in a cottage occupied by an old woman, a cat and a hen.

Sounds good doesn't it, to find a home after such a rough journey, even if he knew he was only being tolerated there for the possibility of his usefulness (alas, no eggs for the old woman, but she didn't know that).  The cat, speaking to our hero who wanted to go for a swim, and who voiced the truth that the cat didn't understand him, tells the swan to "thank your good fortune that you have been received here....I advise you, therefore, to lay eggs, and learn to purr as quickly as possible."  

Be grateful and conform.

Please don't misunderstand me - I absolutely believe in gratitude and am grateful daily for very many things.  But I think it is a mistake to tell/hint to other people to show gratitude, because such an instruction comes fully loaded with oppression, submissiveness and judgement. Telling someone to be grateful for what they have often implies that they shouldn't expect more, and are indeed lucky to be in the situation they are in.  But what if they don't feel lucky?  What if they want more?  What if conformity is damaging to them? 

Gratitude is strictly personal.  Anyone imposing it on you may have an ulterior motive, and it is an easy trap to fall into.  Because if you don't show the gratitude expected of you, the trapdoor of guilt is right there waiting for you to fall into.  Sometimes the negative voices telling us to be  grateful and conform are not from society at large, or even people in your inner circle.  Sometimes it is your internal voice betraying you.  If the sentiment comes out as "I should feel grateful, but....." take a step back from that guilt trapdoor, and ask whose voice you are listening to.  If you do feel grateful then skip right along and enjoy the bounty of your gratefulness.

The Ugly Duckling found the strength to leave warmth and safety of the cottage to follow his instinct that better things were out there.  It wasn't easy, and he had a rough winter, almost freezing to death, facing more rejection and much self loathing.  

But, as we all know, it ends well with him finding his place and happiness.   

The fable makes me uneasy to be honest.  A lot of it centres around others' reactions to the poor little outcast, and even in the end, the duckling is only happy when he finds acceptance in community of lookalikes. I often find myself on the outskirts of groups - sometimes by choice, but not always, and I wonder if I were to look into that reflective pond as the Ugly duckling did, would I like what I saw as much as he did?

I love swans.  In my family they are known as "Oofs" thanks to K who was delighted by these creatures when we stayed on Eel Pie Island near Twickenham when she was a toddler and inventing words.  They swam gently on the Thames River, coming up to the edge to be admired.  They can be scary creatures too - loud and aggressive when they feel threatened. We took quite a few happy snaps of them that holiday, and Andrew kindly and skillfully painted a couple of pictures which hang in our house. They are  constant reminders to me that reflections of kindness and self acceptance are the positive outcomes of gratitude.

Travelblog

Those people who say Life is about the Journey, not the Destination, don't travel Economy class on long haul trips.  This time last week we were chatting to an over zealous check-in assistant at Heathrow airport, who thought the battery in the built-in scale of Andrew's suitcase, might pose a security risk. We were coming home -via Doha- after the most fabulous two weeks in the UK. 

The absolute highlight was also the reason for this trip - we were privileged enough to watch our son receive his PhD in Mathematics from Cambridge University.  I guess it is a private sort of moment to see someone you love achieve something he has worked so hard for.  I can't yet put into words the explosion of celebration I felt on a synaptic, cellular level.  Being together as a family was the background of happiness, celebrating is the overlayer of  fireworks and champagne.

Trinity graduates walking to Senate House

Even the weather smiled on us that Friday - the daily drizzle stayed away.  After the Latin ceremony (I had brushed up on Duolingo and could follow most of it), Trinity treated us to lunch in the college grounds.  We celebrated later with a sublime dinner.  What a day.

I know, I know.....here we go again, me bubbling over with green-making potions.  But it has been a tough, exhausting year, and this was just the reset I needed.  Let me bubble a bit.

We started our trip in Surrey with much loved family, walking country lanes, eating, laughing, catching up.  Trying to forget that we live continents apart, and time together like this has to be savoured and put in the memory bank because the distance is so great. 
The teenage niece taught me to Just Dance, as my attempts at Mario Kart (these are Wii games) have not improved in the last 6 months and probably never will.  I am ok with that.

 

 

We stayed one night in the very middle of London - Piccadilly Circus -  and managed to tick off a few of the sights we really wanted to see. 

If you want details of the V and A or Science museum visits, or the interesting statue in one corner of Trafalgar Square, or how K got pickpocketed, or Spitalfields market send me a DM.  :)

But on to Cambridge (via a non functioning rail trip...) .  It is a magical place, with beautiful buildings, parks, and abundance of museums (opening hours are strange - best to check), a market,  quaint shops and something of interest around every corner, and of course the river Cam. It helps to have family with inside knowledge of  whats-on too.  S suggested we try a Shakespeare from the selection being performed in the colleges' gardens. What fun to picnic beforehand and belly laugh through the wit of Much Ado about Nothing in the grounds of St Johns College.  Not even the bracing dampness could spoil the evening.....

I will mention just two more things (hope your tea is still hot - otherwise I can wait while you make another cup) :  Another trip to the theatre, and what to do on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

R treated us all to tickets to see the Agatha Christie play, "Witness for the Prosecution" .  The theatre is the County Hall in London (next to the London Eye), and used to be the Greater London Council headquarters.  So the setting is perfect for a courtroom drama, and if you are sitting in particular seats, you will be chosen for jury duty. It is immersive theatre at its best, well acted, fast paced and more of an experience than just a play.

It was raining quite heavily on the last Saturday we were there.  Cambridge is definitely a Walking Zone ( we averaged about 10km a day) and after a fancy brunch at a restaurant, we decided we needed an indoor activity. R and S knew just the place.  We were lucky to get a table for a couple of hours at the Board Game cafe, slightly out the centre of town.  And we spent two happy hours playing board games from their large (over 500) selection, sipping tea, chatting, and you guessed it - more laughing. The vibe is relaxed and animated, the perfect way to spend some quality family time together on a wet weekend.

We had such a good holiday, that we just let the airport official fuss about the battery in Andrew's case without it bothering us or us needing to show him the absurdity of his logic.  His supervisor did that anyway.  Airports can be stressful environments, as we were reminded right at the beginning of this journey.  K sometimes holds her breath when her back pack goes through the x-ray machine, as she carries insulin and needles and such like paraphernalia. And indeed at Cape Town International, her bag was sent for second look.  She explained the situation, started hauling out the doctor's letter, but the official said no, that wasn't what they were looking for.  Security isolated the object of concern.  It was a toy car that K was carrying with her in memory of her grandfather.  (They had a thing, and indeed a whole language, about vehicles. ) Apparently a toy is of more concern than the needles and medicine vials. 

I guess in life, the journey and the destination are equally important and  indeed symbiotic.  But should you get stuck in the airport of life and happen to be in Doha, head to Terminal C - there is a cool, misty indoor garden to enjoy while you wait for your next flight and choose your next destination.