the name game

For some odd reason I'm starting to pay close attention to names at the moment. Perhaps it could because of that upcoming responsibility of bestowing a name on an innocent little being who'll have to carry it for the rest of their life?
(Or at least until they're 18 which is when you can legally change your name in this country).

Here's a collection of names of people we've encountered over the course of this renovation:

Doran
Deon
Diani
Melvin
Melvyn
Sidwell
Gulzar
Marilyn
Pedro
Fipaza
Zakier
Kevin
Royson
Pamela
Nomana

Deductions:
a) I love living in a multi-cultural country.
b) Yes, I have spoken to, and in some cases spent considerable time with, a truckload of strangers recently.
c) No, I'm not shortlisting any of these for my unborn child.

marching to tiletoria

One thing about renovating, you find yourself in the weirdest places. Places you'd never in your right mind (or normal life) frequent.
Tiletoria is one such place.

When you've lived in one city for 15 odd years you think you know it fairly well. But as life likes to remind one, there's always more to learn out there. Even if you feel the lessons best left unlearnt.

And so it came to pass that we spent a bit of time at Tiletoria last Saturday morning. More time then either of us would've thought we would really, but we went in looking for a lowly basin spout and immediately I had to start taking some pictures of the horror.
Then Frieda discovered the indoor aquarium, so that took a while.
And then as we leaving Husband noticed the daily special in the tearoom (yup, Tiletoria boasts its own one) was scones with cheese and jam and coffee for only R15 and so, I'm ashamed to admit, we sat down and had elevenses there.

Sitting right near this:

Too close for comfort to this:

Nauseatingly conscious of this:

And reeling in disbelief at this:

The whole time we were there I was pronouncing the name of the place as Tile-tor-ia. Eventually Husband pointed out to me that it was actually pronounced Tile-toria. To rhyme with Pretoria.

Instantly it all made sense.

Besides the scones we bought nothing.

don't panic

Back in January I wrote about intuition and the debilitating panic attacks I had during my first pregnancy.

I remember the awfulness of those feelings very clearly, but the more time has passed since I've recovered from them the more I've realised how they were so very much a condition, how foreign those feelings of anxiety are to my normal everyday existence, and how in retrospect the seeds of those panic attacks had been quietly germinating for some months, finally blooming at a time when the most stable of minds starts panicking a bit at the thought of the approaching responsibilities of parenthood.

Anyway, the point of that post, and the worst thing about the panic attacks, were that they made me doubt my intuition, a sense I'm 98.5% confident about most of the time (gotta allow that small margin of error to cover my ass in case of any future 'I told you so's'). In that post I referred to an incident which occurred when we were on our pre-baby holiday before Frieda was born in 2007, an incident truly bizarre in it's circumstance, and maybe one which should've proven to me that my strong sense of intuition was still operating well.

One of the places we visited on that trip was Die Hel (translated - The Hell), a remote and isolated place of very few inhabitants and great beauty. Yes, it's at the bottom of that road.

Die Hel has a weird history; apparently many, many years ago some farmers from the region trekked deep into these mountains to establish their own hamlet after some kind of disagreement with their neighbours. Rumours of cattle-rustling, pig-headedness and even incest abound, all of which add to the mystery of this already weird place.

We arrived in the late afternoon and almost immediately I felt really uneasy. We moved around looking for a campsite where I'd feel better but soon I was in tears and wanting to leave, and as always during one of these attacks of anxiousness the main thing freaking me out was whether I was being irrational, or if my intuition really was screaming at me to Get Out of There Immediately. I couldn't tell through the fuzziness and emotional overload, and that was what was making me panic.

It really was impossible to leave, we'd driven for 6 hours to get there and even if we'd turned around and driven back through the dark there was no guarantee where we'd find the next place to stay in this remote area of the country. So we stayed, I took some of my anxiety meds, Husband heroically set up camp and got a fire going all the while trying to reassure me that everything would be Fine.

'Mols' he said, 'this is probably the safest place in South Africa. There's maximum 20 people living in this valley, all of whom have lived here for years, all of whom rely solely on tourism for an income - so aren't going to do anything to jeopardise that - there's no wild animals which could be a threat to us and no one is going to trek all the way here across these massive mountain ranges purely with the intent to do evil. We're fine babe, everything'll be fine. Here, have a lamb chop.'

Between him and the meds (and the lamb chop!), I calmed down from near-hysteria, but I wasn't comfortable and spent a fitful night in our tent, a night so still that (I kid you not) we could hear the termites chewing in the tree above us.

In the morning everything felt better, as it always does. Our campsite was lovely and we were keen to go out exploring a bit. We drove up the valley, admiring the views, stopping at a couple of landmarks. At the end of the road (it was short, the valley community is tiny - this is the point see?) we found a tiny little museum attached to the house of the government conservation officer and his wife, the only real 'authority' up there.

We went in and were pottering round the museum when I started to become aware of the telephone conversation taking place in the next room. I glanced at Husband and realised he'd noticed too, and was shooting anxious glances back at me. The conversation was in Afrikaans and the snippets I was overhearing were:

'Ja, we don't know where he came from'.

'My husband noticed smoke in the riverbed at 5 this morning, went down there and found this stranger.'

'He was acting really odd.'

'Later the lawyer up the valley reported a man on his doorstep, being threatening and irrational.'

'My husband and some other men have been out looking for him again but he seems to have disappeared.'

And ...

'He must've just hiked in here from god knows where.'

He must've just hiked in here. Hiked all this way to be weird and threatening and irrational.

Nice.

We drove back to our campsite in silence. I could tell Husband was cursing that we arrived at the museum in time to garner this news. I was experiencing this strange mix of concern, obviously, that there was now an unidentified and odd-acting stranger at loose in the valley, and also oddly, relief. Maybe last night's anxiety attack wasn't pure over-emotional irrational pregnancy hormones, maybe my intuition was still functioning afterall. Who'dve thought the confirmation that a weirdo was about when camping in a small isolated site could hold any relief at all?

But relieved as I may have been, I also had every intention of packing up and shipping out as soon as we got back to camp, and I could tell Husband knew there was no way of dissuading me this time.

Luckily for him, when we returned we found some other campers had set up nearby to us, and immediately the presence of others put me at ease. We stayed, we braai-ed more lamb chops, we had a giggle and although I can't say I slept very well, I was more at ease than the night before.

That whole holiday was lovely, in the time we spent just the two of us, but looking back through the photos I can still sense that feeling of creeping unease that tinged that whole period.
As I enter month 6 of this pregnancy I've been looking out for signs of those feelings returning, but am relieved to find that although I remember them clearly, they're also very foreign to me. I think it's safe to say I'm not in that headspace at all.
But I often think of that incident in Die Hel, and wonder at the bizarreness of it all.

I'm not going to make 100 but here's a few more ...

The friend who first set me on this course could probably work out how many crafty things I'd have to do/make a day for the rest of 2009 to reach the end goal. In fact even I could do that kind of maths I guess, but it's a bit disheartening.
Unless I'm allowed to count growing a foetus and revamping half my house for a good 30 or so points (each) I don't think I'll be reaching 100 crafts in 2009. I'm okay with that.
But even though I last boasted posted on this in July, I've not been completely useless since then. Although I'm taking wild liberties with what I count, as you'll see ... oh and, some of my photos are shite.
I'm like, so creative.

Back on my blog's 1st birthday I made these quirky and delicious cupcake burgers.

no. 34

Then there was this artfully wrapped birthday gift and card.

 

no. 35

A batch of birthday cupcakes and a card for a friend.

no. 36

(maybe next year I should aim for 100 cupcakes?)

Never having been to boarding school I'm a big fan of macaroni cheese. And while it may seem that counting such a mediocre dish as a 'creative' thing is stretching the definition way too far, can I just say that I found heaven when I discovered this recipe, for souffled mac 'n cheese.

no. 37

Then there were two cards for newborn baby girls.

 

no. 38

no. 39

And during my strawberry obsession in the beginning of this pregnancy, this strawberry sponge cake:

 

no. 40

And the latest, totally inspired by this, I started making a candygram for my brother's birthday. But of course it took on a life of it's own, not a little influenced in my growing interest in diorama's (which I'll get into some other time), and with the addition of a homey action figure and some scrapping materials it became a most uniquely wrapped book voucher.

no. 41!

Just 59 to go before the end of the year. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ... 

list of 5: 5 things inspiring me

People, most of whom have happened to be women recently but I'm sure this is incidental, who know their shit.
From buying a toilet to downlighters to splashback tiles, I keep finding myself wildly impressed by the technical know-how and expert opinions of sales people all over the city. This is all the more inspiring for the generally crap levels of service we've come to expect here.

*

My 90 yr old grandfather who surprised as all by arriving at his birthday lunch on the weekend dressed in a traditional Red Indian Native American costume, dancing into the room to the beat of a drum.
Beloved father of 4, grandfather of 12, great-grandfather of 9 (with no.10 on the way), we were all once again awe-struck by his vitality.
During the speeches his children honoured him by saying he was the most unflaggingly positive person they'd ever known (could you ask to have anything better said about you?) and that throughout their lives they'd been able to go to him with any problem or concern, and while he may not always have been able to provide a solution, they'd always walked away feeling better. I cannot think of a higher accolade for a parent. (Incidently, my grandfather served in North Africa during the war, an experience he never talks about but is generally accepted to be the reason for the little bit of sadness which lurks in his eyes, and he would totally agree with Mr London Street on this.)

*

Another great irreverent and gentle parent, Jim from Sweet Juniper, with this post. He manages to just get it right every time.

*

Cupcakes! As always. It's quite weird 'cos I don't really love eating cupcakes, it's the making of them I'm starting to suspect I'm developing an addiction to ...

When we were packing up the kitchen Husband kept going on and on about 'exactly how many cupcake baking tins does a girl really need?' as he unearthed more and more from the bowels of the baking cupboard. Answer: lots. Can't wait to get the use of my oven back for a celebratory batch.

 

*

Frieda's unerring ability to answer 'NO' to any question or request posed to her. Any question. Including: 'Would you like some ice cream?', although admittedly that answer is 'NOyes' like it's one word.

Okay, I exaggerate, this negative trait is not inspiring me as such (most of the time it's annoying the fuck out of me), but I have to have some admiration for a stage in life in which you have no concern about pleasing others, don't give a hoot about social niceties or the 'right thing to do'. Every question, request, demand, inconvenience thrown at you gets immediately deflected with a firm 'NO'.

I plan to revert to this the day I turn 75.

and so it seems ...

... I am to be the mother of daughters, parent to sisters.

I don't have sisters. Most of my closest girlfriends don't have sisters. I've never been a girly-girl. I don't especially like pink. I'm not big on sibling rivalry. I abhor Barbie.
And while I was never one for dreaming about my future children and planning how many I'd have and what their names would be etc, I always kinda assumed I'd have a son. I really did.

But very possibly I won't, and that's taking some getting my head round. It's not a tragedy by any means, I'm not wailing and gnashing my teeth and taking to my bed with disappointment (although some do I've been told, in fact just yesterday I met a woman whose sister-in-law was about to pop number 6 in her desperate quest to have a daughter - 5 boys and finally she was expecting her girl. Can you imagine that lady's angst, and the extreme likelihood of that long-awaited little girl growing up to be a bull dyke, 'cos why wouldn't the universe work like that?), but I'm taking a while for the news to sink in, I'm reconfiguring my mental picture of our family, I'm pondering raising sisters, girls, women.

And I'm finding there's a lot to be excited about in that. Imagine a girl child who is not Frieda - what a mind bend. Naturally a boy would've been different to her, but another girl, anatomically the same but a whole new personality? That's almost more challenging, and certainly quite exciting.

And while I've not had a sister, I almost did. My Mum lost a girl baby just after she was born, 2 years after me. Had she lived that would definitely have had an impact on the person I've become and I'm now being given the opportunity to experience sisterhood, albeit from a different perspective.

I've spent my life surrounded by incredible women, from my grandmothers, mother and aunts, to my parent's friends, to my own wonderful girl friends, a collection of fine, strong, formidable ladies, and I think I'm excited about spending the rest of my life with two more.

it's all good

Dusty and tired.
But very, very happy. I can't express how much I've enjoyed watching parts of our house get ripped to pieces this week. Really, it couldn't have happened to a nicer kitchen.

It's only been a week but this whole process has, so far, been fabulous. Really, fabulous. I'm not just throwing around gratuitous superlatives here.

I love the problem-solving required when packing up half one's house and storing all that crap stuff in the other half in a way which defines items into 'deep' and 'shallow' storage, which allows a family of 3 (and a bit, and a bull terrier and 2 cats) to live in relative comfort and ease, which is still vaguely aesthetically pleasing and, most of all, safe from the rambling thuggery of an inquisitive nearly two and a half year old.
It's allowed me to flex an organisational muscle I've not exercised to this extent for some time now.

I love the transience of a make-shift kitchen (though admittedly this could start losing it's appeal), the change of perspective when one's sofa is moved to a corner you'd never usually sit in, the discovery that the second bathroom which was never more than a spare loo and a storage space actually boasts a wicked shower, the oddity of waking in the night and hearing the fridge hum and click in the lounge room.
It's reminded me of how fun it was to rearrange my bedroom on a whim when in high school, that interesting feeling of going to sleep with all your familiar possessions in unfamiliar places, and waking up to a seemingly new world.

I love watching the building progress each day, seeing the plans we've been hatching for 6 years come to fruition, love the translation of those plans to a physical actuality.
It makes me wonder if we'll function a bit differentally as a family in this new space. I know we won't change as people - obviously not - but this new, improved living space has to affect the flow of our days, and I'm excited about that.

I love sharing a project like this with my man. Making practical and aesthetic decisions together; the thrill of discovering how often we think alike, the shock when realising sometimes we really, really don't.
It forces us to communicate in quite a unique way, to express serious differences of opinion with no hostility, to argue for, or against, the other's opinion without insulting their taste or logic, and to relearn those old relationship favourites: how to pick your battles, when to walk away, at which point to play your trump cards. It's fun.

It's all fun, and the real fun, the enjoyment of the final product, is still to come.

is becoming a reality ...

California Dreamin'. That's how that line's supposed to start, but as that part bears (bares?) absolutely no relevance to my life I'll not include it.

No indeed, what is becoming a reality is this child growing inside me. 20+ weeks, kicking like a donkey (albeit a little one) and just suddenly my brain is starting to ask; where will it sleep? what will it wear? And also, what the hell is it?
So far it's remained elusive, coyly crossing it's legs and refusing to reveal it's true self. In other words defying me already.
It's not that I must know or anything, it's just that I MUST KNOW. And no, it's not a question of pink or blue, it's a question of getting used to the format of our family, of preparing Frieda for her little brother, or sister. Of ordering that Meccano set online for husband if indeed it is another girl (an excuse to buy Meccano seems to be the only real reason why he'd care either way).

And so the urge to start digging out baby clothes and launder them, to start stockpiling nappies and rearrange furniture is growing. But I suffer no dillusions about why I'm feeling this way.

It's all due that other reality. The one in which a crew of men descend on our house at 7am on Monday morning to rip our kitchen and bathroom to pieces. The one in which we need to create a temporary kitchen in our lounge room, clear the cobwebs from the never-used 2nd shower (and make sure it actually has water!), pack up our existing kitchen, make a plan about the dog, order new floor tiles, find a bath we can both agree on without any shouting, find a temporary home for the gazillion powertools, boxes of books, camping gear, furniture etc currently stuffed into the small 'storeroom' which will soon become (can it be?) our Dining Room ... all before 7am on Monday morning.
Makes California sound quite attractive really.

So ja, those baby clothes will have to stay packed away. And this baby, he or she, can carry on kicking back (ha ha ha) and growing, and I'll apply my logistical mind to the more immediate conundrums we face.

Oi vey.

london ~ oddities

Lovely bike.

Landrover Offender. Wtf?

Scraps of felt tied to the Millenium Bridge,

apparently to promote Global Felt Week?

Kitty with a drinking problem.

Or maybe it was us with the problem.

No kitties were harmed in the taking of this photograph.

See?

Spotted in a quiet corner of the IKEA warehouse.

An expression of employee dissatisfaction perhaps?

london ~ food

Fortifying Sashimi & Edamame Bean Snack on arrival at Victoria Station.

Huevos Rancheros, brunch at Giraffe on the South Bank.

Starbucks, of course, but you know, actually not as good as Vida!

Tea at Liberty's. This is supposedly a serving for 1!

Genuine b&w Willow Pattern china, clotted cream, ginger cake and so much more ... sigh.

(3 pound 50 for Rooibos tea - wha ha ha ha ha)

Scallops with Parsnip Cream & Crispy Bacon, a starter at the Portrait Restaurant,

National Portrait Gallery.

 Poached Autumnal fruit with Cinnamon Ice-Cream,

dessert at same.

Swedish meatballs at IKEA!

Just a tad less swanky ...

Rocket, Parma Ham & Parmesan Pizza. Super thin base. Bliss.

Cute bowl of cappuccino, somewhere on King's Road.

Genuine bangers & mash with sprouting broccoli and onion gravy,

Lots Pub, maybe in Putney?

That mash was something else.

FOUR choices of Ben & Jerry's!

1 x excellent reason to immigrate.

More American imperialism - Krispy Kreme at Heathrow.

Pooling our remaining cash for one last sushi blow-out at Yo Sushi, Heathrow.

Burp!