24: our crown anniversary

24 on the 24th! Of October that was.

Yes, I know we just celebrated 12 years of marriage (if scones for breakfast, a walk in the woods and a Rooibos Chai ice-cream maketh a celebration - which in our world it totally does), but in October we also celebrate our real anniversary.

It all started here. (Well actually it started on my first day of high school but I've told that story before).
But the actual relationship started here, on this bench in September 1991.

And yes, I have a photo of The Bench - weird huh? Even weirder: I lifted it off a friend of a friend's Facebook page in September this year. The same bench, at the same time of year, 24 years later.
The dog has no significance..

Back to the story.
There was a beach party. There was a big fire and a big crowd, there was a boy home from his obligatory one year military conscription (this was 1991 remember?) and there was a girl who really liked that boy and was really hoping tonight would be the night he'd notice her.
He did.
There was a walk to the bench and an awkward silence and an awkward kiss and then some even greater awkwardness when a bunch of assorted friends swooped in through the darkness to tease the young couple. It was awkward and silly and yeah I'm cringing a little right now.
But I remember what he was wearing. I remember the sound of the sea in the blackness. I remember those white West Coast daisies scattered about like little stars underfoot.

And I will never forget how, a month later, he came home again, and phoned me at home on a Friday afternoon and asked if he could come over. How we went for a walk and he said he'd not stopped thinking about me since that night at the beach. How he asked me to be his girlfriend (it was 1991 remember??) and then came back to mine for dinner.
I remember my youngest brother (the one who got married this year) was little enough to be in his pyjamas at the dinner table. I remember (and still appreciate!) how cool and relaxed my parents were. I remember we had potato salad and there was an enormous bunch of chincherinchee on the table.

That was the 24th of October 24 years ago.

birthdays are RAD

Stella's latched on to this idea that one must first and foremost love and respect oneself. I don't recall having that exact conversation with her, but it's a philosophy I support so I imagine she's picked it up from us.
It sounds like the opposite of being humble, living in service etc etc - but I don't think it is.
I think you can only be happy if you are happy with yourself. You can only make a positive contribution if you're coming from a positive place. This is elementary right?
Yes, love yourself above all others - not in a cocky, presumptuous, entitled sense - but in a practical one. Love yourself enough to be happy, to make happy choices and then spread that happiness into every single thing you do.
Make your own happy.

Just like birthdays.

My birthday is a special day for me because I know I'm worth it. Because I make it so by deciding to be celebratory all on my own.
I go back to bed with tea and a book after the girls have left for school. I work as little as possible. I buy myself expensive shoes. I bake apple-crumble cheesecake because that's the flavour I feel like.
I reckon I could have a fabulous birthday even if I was alone in the world.

But luckily, awesomely, wonderfully, I'm not.

Every birthday I am reminded of how much I am loved - by the people who also tell me everyday, as well as by those who don't usually get this soppy.

Who said technology is the death of human emotional expression?

And here's the thing - I couldn't actually have a fabulous birthday if I was all alone in the world.
I am happy because I'm surrounded by people who make me happy.
I am happy because I've been raised to believe I'm worth it.
I am happy because I've been blessed with a sunny nature.
Nature, nuture and a hugely wonderful bunch of the super nice people = luckiest girl alive.

On my birthday this year my parents produced the newspaper clipping with my birth announcement. (And Mum was well enough to join us for pizza after all!)

On my birthday this year my youngest cousin left a voicemail message which reminded me so much of my Granny Molly that I got all tearful, 20 years after she's passed.
On my birthday this year, as with the last 3 years, I missed that birthday call I'd always get from my Grandad.

On my birthday this year I got some reddy-orangey things.

On my birthday this year I was, as I am every year, spoiled and loved and celebrated. And not for one moment do I take for granted how incredibly privileged I am for that.

Birthdays are RAD. Even fortieth ones.

free gift

A few weeks back I noticed on Facebook that a friend of a friend was appealing to her friends to enter a competition she was running on her blog's Facebook page. (Facebook is weird).

The writer was concerned that she wasn't getting enough entries. The prize was a cookbook.

So naturally I entered.
And I won!

Aptly titled hey?

For the Love of Baking arrived on our grey Wednesday and so naturally ... I had to bake something.
Immediately.

This was going to be Frieda's choice, a Blueberry and Mascarpone Sponge Cake (pg 83), until I pointed out to her that she doesn't actually like blueberries in things ... so we combined a couple of recipes from the book (the gudda gudda gudda of the beaters in the bowl echoing the helicopters passing overhead) and made a Victoria Sponge, in a bundt (I finally got a bundt!), and topped it with whipped cream and a Blueberry Coulis (which I made following instructions from the book of course).

It was divine.

Anyhoo, this morning I spotted the author, Sarah, in the supermarket. She was chatting to a friend who had a teeny-weeny baby strapped to her chest.
I drifted closer, pretending to examine lettuce, to ascertain that this was indeed Sarah - I only knew her from photos on her website - and couldn't help but overhear the conversation.
Sarah's mate was describing, in utter minutia, her nights with a newborn ('And then she feeds at around 2, and has to be burped for a while, and settled, and then if I'm lucky I get about two and half hours .... yada yada yada') and Sarah's eyes were getting as glazed as her Doughnut Cake (pg 150).

I had to save the poor girl.

'Excuse me, I hope this isn't too stalker-ish but I just wanted to tell you I recently won a copy of your lovely book and I've been baking from it already! Well done, it's lovely.'

Sorry girl with baby, it's only once you've been an obsessed new mother yourself that you realise how tedious you are to anyone who isn't there yet, and I also know how painful it can be to have a non-mothers professional successes cast in your over-tired face, but Sarah needed that, and considering the hours of joy she has and will provide for me - I had to return the favour.

party like it's 1998

It's shaping up to be a nostalgic year.

There was the cripple phase back in January when I went through old diaries and memories (husband and I had dinner one night back then talking about 'potatoes and porn', namely how we'd prepared the potatoes we were eating and my long-buried recollection of finding a friend's parents' porn collection - unrelated but indicative of how immersed I was in dredging up old memories).

Then there was revisiting my friend Adam, the old schmuck boyfriend, a 40th birthday lunch with a friend I spent many, many a happy afternoon with when we were littlies - and have hardly seen since (she lives abroad).

I made her this card, which kind of summed us up - perpetually dressed up, rock scrambling and beach exploring in the playgrounds of our youth.

Blasts from the past have abounded, and I've really been enjoying it.

We think we remember so much, but in truth there are really a handful of well-worn memories that we remember over and over again. There is so much more lying dormant, there but unacknowledged, and sometimes it takes a person, a smell, a picture, a conversation or an event to nudge those moments out of hiding, and then it all comes flooding back.

Last Thursday I went to a party. A revival of the super-duper 'Pickle' parties of my Varsity days. '96 to '98 Pickle parties were our jol, our crowd, our beat, our playground. The friends who DJ-ed back then were back in town and arranged a reunion.
It was magic.

Packed with faces I knew, but hadn't seen for years. Thumping with music my body instantly knew how to move to - and did!
Everyone was happy to be there, everyone grateful to recapture a feeling - an intersection of emotional and physical memory. Everyone was smiling, Everyone got it.
I didn't have a single 'what are you doing now' conversation. I don't know about anyone's kids or lack there of, I don't know where they're living now or what their home-owners status is.
We just hugged, smiled, danced.
We just existed in a space where none of that was relevant.
Just like 1998.

A perfect resurrection for Easter weekend.

more about Adam

Last year I wrote a post about my friend from high school who died tragically aged 17. Lynne begged me to send a copy to his Mum, and with every intention of doing so I tracked down his brother and had a tear-speckled email conversation with him.
I got his Mum's address, but I kind of lost my nerve (why? what was I nervous about?), and a full year passed until I finally wrote to her, a few weeks ago.

I received her response today.

It's a weird feeling, knowing that my letter and the blog post I printed and sent with it, made her so happy and so sad.
I feel conflicted, with happiness - satisfaction that I could express how I felt about him so well (she refers to the post as 'an eternal love letter to my beautiful son') and that my letter was 'so very welcome' to her  - but also really humbled and unworthy to have intersected with her immeasurable grief. I think this is what held me back from writing to her for so long, I didn't feel ... entitled in some way ... to tell her anything about missing Adam. She owns the rights to that loss solely and completely.

But of course that was naive. And more than needing to hear that other people miss him, she needs to hear that others remember him, that he lives on in other hearts too.

She told me that after the first few awful years, she'd found a way that was 'manageable' to keep on going, but that just recently it has been very difficult again.
Maybe, as with all things, there was a reason I sent my letter to her now, not a year ago.

I found this in the high school diary I was reading through on the weekend. No Adam, you're my dreamboy.
For ever and ever.

notes from 1993

It seems a theme is developing. Building on my ample time to resurrect old memories while crippled earlier this year, yesterday I opened an old memory box and pulled out a bunch of diaries from the 90's.

At first I thought my weekend would be consumed by them, but after randomly picking up a 1993 edition and immersing myself in my 18th year, I think I'll work through them more slowly.
So much to remember, so much to learn.

21 years later, that Molly, the 1993 version, has shown me ...

That she would be so, so happy to know that she is now married to Charl. That they have two little girls and a wonderful life.
In 1993 I'm still counting down our anniversaries in months, and my weeks hinge around seeing him again.

That I have always been creative.
I know that obviously. I have my means of expression (birthday cakes being right up there), but I've also always had friends who create for a living - beautiful handmade things - and I suspect that has prevented me from taking myself seriously, or made me vaguely apologetic for the very homemade nature of my handwork.

That I spent very few weekends and holidays at home. As an adult daughter, and a parent, this sobers me, but I have also been reminded about so many good times with wonderful friends ... foundation-building times, for friendships and myself.

If I'm bored I don't make the effort. I've often regarded this as a character flaw but you know what, I've always been like this. My school results from first quarter 1993 will confirm - winging it in English and History, barely scraping through the rest.
Life's too short you know?

I'm always telling a story. There's a narrative, a bunch of sub plots, character definitions, scenery, atmosphere to every experience I have. I'm telling myself as it happens and I rewrite and hone in my subconscious for long while after.
So why the fuck aren't I writing this stuff down?
There are clippings for writing competitions stuck all over 1993, I don't recall entering anything to any of them. Have I been carrying the same writer's block for 21 years? No wonder my fucking ankles are going.

That I was happy. As grown as I felt, I can see now that despite being 18, and world wise and clubbing and going on road trips and wearing big girl pants, I was still at school, living with my parents. From 2014 I still look very much like a child.

But I was strong, and confident and adventurous too, and this pleases me. My god, 18 was fun.

inertia

I'm not going to lie, spending three days sitting on my exquisitely-positioned stoop, stoned on painkillers, having conversations with nearests and dearests, my kids largely being taken care of by themselves and others, has definitely had its moments.

When I first posted about the sprain on FB, a friend with a 3 yo and 2 yo TRIPLETs retorted: Lucky you!
I can't fault her envy.

There's something undeniable about crutches. Unlike a cold, or a tummy bug, or just plain slackness, no one can really doubt your inability to do certain things (like carrying a mug of hot tea), and after spending the first 24h after the sprain fighting rising panic, I've found a place of calm acceptance.

This is not unlike being pregnant. My body is doing something which has meant I've had to change my modus operandi, have had to embrace assistance, have had to surrender to the now and patiently wait it out.

I've had more down time in the last 3 days than the whole of the long summer holiday - this cannot be all bad right?

It's just ... not how I'd planned to start my year. 2014 was to be about speed. Doing more work, getting my motorbike licence, moving a little faster now that my kids no longer hold as tightly to my apron strings.

But no, seems it is to start with a period of very slow contemplation. Right. Back to the stoop.

gone too soon

Last Thursday I celebrated 22 years with my husband. On that same afternoon a friend lost hers in a light plane crash.

Devastating. A word I've thought, said, typed more often since then I probably ever have. 

Devastating.

I've been struggling so much with this one. We don’t know them that well, but the time we've spent with them my husband and I felt such a connection, a meeting of like-minded souls which has become very rare as we've gotten older. I know they felt it too.

If we’d lived closer I've no doubt we would be close friends. When we have seen each it’s always been warm and empathetic. We laugh at the same things.

They have two young children. We have two young children. The horror of having to guide your children through the loss of a parent as you suffer your own inconsolable grief is terrifying.

They were soul mates. We are soul mates. We both think they were one of very few couples we've met whose relationship seemed to operate similar to ours. They were partners. We are partners. They loved each other dearly. We love each other dearly. The reality that such a treasured person can be taken from you is sobering and horrific.

Devastating.

And also, what the actual FUCK?

I will never understand how a man – a warm, compassionate, loved, positive, energetic man, a father and a husband – gets whipped away on a sunny afternoon while hundreds of wife-beating, double-crossing scum live long into old age.

If I was religious I could put it down to ‘God’s plan’, which I should not question, just ‘trust’. This may be why I’m not religious.

But I am spiritual (it’s possible, really it is), and I have been thinking a lot these last few days about destiny and fate.

Was it always his destiny, while building a life, a marriage, fathering and parenting two children, making plans, hoping, dreaming, that he would leave it all too soon, too soon for anyone?

Was it always her fate to be a young widow?

And while I’m at it, was it coincidence that two of their dearest friends were planning to visit them this last weekend, so that they were the first to arrive after she got the news? There to guide her through that first surreal, unimaginable 48 hours?

I don’t know the answers to any of this. All I know is there is a patch on my heart rubbed raw for her, for her children. My tears are but a drop in the ocean of their grief.

Devastating.

a moderate lush

I know, I know, there's plenty of fun to be had without alcohol. But the fact remains there's plenty of fun to be had with it too.

In these fast paced days of child-rearing and minimal adult relaxation time, nothing changes gears faster than that first gulp of wine of the evening. Literally washing away the horror trauma craziness of the afternoon and making for a much nicer Mummy (and a much more animated reading of the bedtime story if I've succumbed to the call of the vine while they're still up).

At Frieda's 6th birthday party recently the first gin 'n tonics started flowing at 11 am, and the last guests left at 6 (it was supposed to a be a 2 h party). Related? I think so.

One of my favourite moments of the last month or so was barreling through the dark streets of the town I grew up in - an unofficial high school reunion - 3 of us crammed into the back seat of a friend's car singing (and I use the term loosely) along to Bohemian Rhapsody at the tops of our voices. For a moment I was 17.
Was alcohol involved? You betcha.

Nothing says Friday evening like a gin cocktail, or in summer a tall sweaty glass of beer.

But interestingly since I started this post yesterday evening (I had to break for wine) I've had a bit of a sobering experience.
The news that a South African filmmaker, a man much older than me, has won a prestigious local film award for his first feature film in 20 years. I've not seen the film, I'm not even sure I want to, but it was the news of this man's success which really moved me.

When I met Andrew Worsdale 13-odd years ago, he was such a sick alcoholic that people were telling me he wouldn't live for very much longer.
He'd fallen off the wagon repeatedly, looked like it had ridden over him a couple of times, lost his home, most of his possessions and almost all of his friends. He had one of those horrific chemical implants which was supposed to make drinking unbearable, but yet he drank.
My boss at the time was one of his last remaining friends, giving him small film review jobs and other bits and pieces to try and keep him going. Andrew would hang out in our offices occasionally, and I was horrified by how damaged he seemed.

How remarkable that he's made it back from that.

My taste for alcohol could never compare to that kind of disability. I can't imagine having to battle those demons or fight that kind of fight. I'm so proud of him.

But I'm very grateful to be able to use booze to my advantage every now and then!

green

The topography of Cape Town means that some suburbs - those closest to the mountains - are lush and tree'ed, green and shady. These are the wealthy ones.
The further from the mountain one gets the less shade there is, the less green, the less wealth.

It's not just in Cape Town that shade belongs to the wealthy though right?

Shade ... feels luxurious. It dapples, it hue's, it gives texture and depth and mysticism and richness to everything around it.
Driving from Hout Bay, over Constantia Neck and down through Bishop's Court to Tokai (all four amongst Cape Town's wealthiest suburbs) is to travel through an almost continuous canopy of different greens. It relaxes the eyes, and also the shoulders. It draws one out of the car, out of your thoughts, and sets your mind free to gambol in the lushness of it all.

Well it does me. I've a bit of a thing for leaves.



It was only as I left the canopy, drove out into the light, needed to find my sunglasses and crack the window for some air, that I contemplated green and its association with wealth.

Large sprinklers ticking across deep green lawns, the colour of money, the leafy suburbs, proud old oaks on the grounds of proud old schools, going green - and having the time and resources to do so, shady nooks, summer in the Hamptons ... rich, fertile, green.

On the subject, I'm starting to plan my first herb and veggie garden. The thought terrifies me, I'm not known for my green fingers, but I like the idea of growing to eat and I love the idea of popping out to pick something for dinner.
Apparently growing one's own veggies is like printing one's own money - let's see.

dreaming as therapy

I probably shouldn't share this story. I already feel somewhat responsible for some of the readers of this blog's decision not to have children.
As I said recently on the other blog, blogging about parenting is a constant balance between trying not to gush too much, and not wanting to be an awfully moaning bore. Parenting does however seem to occupy one or the other of these extremes most of the time.

So I won't go into too much detail about how COMPLETELY FUCKING NUTS my just-turned 3 year old is driving me.
I'll just relate the dream I had two nights ago and let that speak for itself ...

I dreamed I was at some lovely day time event, sans kids, facing a massively indulgent buffet table, perusing the options.
I selected a thick slice of farm baked bread, spread lusciously with butter and my Mum's delicious apricot jam.

As I walked away from the table savouring this treat a scrawny teenage Goth girl approached me and whined, 'Aw, please can I have a bite?'
I wasn't thrilled but begrudgingly offered my slice to her, whereupon she started moaning, 'Why did you put jam on it? I hate jam? Scrape the jam off!'

In my dream I saw red. With the flat of my hand I ground the whole slice of bread, butter and jam hard into her whiny face, eventually causing her to topple over and when she was lying on the ground, I stood over her, placed my foot on her chest and, pushing down hard, shouted at her to SHUT UP and never, ever speak to me like that. EVER!

If there was ever any doubt that one's dreams tackle one's subconscious, lay those to rest. My dream blew off some of the steam which mounts within me every day during this incredibly challenging parenting stage we're in.
Sorry little Goth girl, but thanks for the release.

how I met your mother

I love love stories. Stories about how people met their significant others.

Okay, I love stories and people and love but the combination of the three, with a really good love story, actually makes my fingertips tingle.

Here's a good one I heard recently.

A couple met for the first time aged 10, on a church camp. Then, completely coincidentally, again aged 13, another church camp.
Both times they really hit it off, first as buddies, then as giggly self-conscious tweens.
After that they didn't see each other for a decade.

She went to university, fell pregnant and moved to another city to live with her parents and face life as a single mum.
He learnt a trade, married young, had a child and then a nasty divorce.

Completely by chance, when her baby was 8 months old, she and her parents visited a mission station in a remote part of the country. They stayed with the couple running the mission and she, by looking at the family photos on the walls, realised they were her camp buddy's parents. They all had a good laugh.

A few days after she got home she emailed them some photos she'd taken while staying there. He emailed her back.

8 months later they married. He adopted her baby and a few years later they had one of their own.

Such intertwining of coincidence and circumstance can only be fate right? And although not a believer myself I can absolutely understand how they see the hand of God in their story, working to bring them together.

Fate or God clearly they were meant to be. And that's totally romantic enough for me.

tiny houses

Julochka had a post recently on tiny houses - a few ceramic miniature houses she'd picked up at a flea market. She also has the best Pinterest board full of images of teeny-weeny houses, it's one of those boards which represents the greatness of Pinterest - a deeply personal collection of absolutely exquisite creative expressions from all over the world.

All this reminded me of my tiny houses, and a weird coincidence, and how it all ties in nicely with my recent obsession - houses.

When my Grandfather died earlier this year, he left instructions for his grandchildren to divvy up his lovely collection of ceramic and glass figurines. We gathered together after his funeral and took turns to choose items which reminded us of him, of visiting his home as children and later with our children.

I was so happy to bring home this little row of porcelain Gault houses.

And especially pleased when husband and Frieda recognised them instantly and both said how they remembered them in my Grandfather's home. Perfect.

So imagine our delight when we spotted these ...

... a row of tiny houses (very possibly Gault?) on the bedroom windowsill of our New House (yes, that will be my New Bedroom View).

Another one of my portents and dreams I think. Another one which seems to now have come true.

I love my tiny houses, and I love that I'll be taking them (and the associated fond memories of my Grandad) to our new big house too.

in which I did some weird huru-guru hippie shit which didn't necessarily work but hey we sold so maybe it did

We sold our house yesterday.

Almost a month to the day after it went on the market. My FB time-line is full of congratulations that it happened so fast. 'Cos it did right?
Just because it felt like a million years to us doesn't mean it wasn't a short month in the real world, an even shorter month in the world of property sales.

4 show houses, about 15 other house visits, MEGA chocolate and ka-ching, it's done.

I didn't cope with it very well though. Insomnia, comfort eating, general crabbiness - wasn't my best month of the year by any means.

One day, after I had a little moan, a friend messaged me suggesting I consider a little 'house-selling ritual' that she swore by, citing examples of people who'd sold houses under dire circumstances after doing it. I'm not really into that kind of thing but I liked the basic premise of her idea - that one needed to let go emotionally, or 'release' one's home, before it would sell.
Considering I came home to this house as a new bride, invested so much time and effort renovating it, spent nearly 9 years here with my husbandguy, brought both our babies home from hospital here - ja, I've definitely been very emotionally invested.

So I gave it a bash. I gathered items which represented my home - frangi-pani's from the front garden, a lemon from the back, a splinter of wood from our beloved floors, a shirt both girls wore as babies - then, as per the instructions, I filled a basin with water and pushed the items in, holding them under while quietly chanting 'I release you, I release you, I release you.' My take on the alleged Islamic divorce practise of old.

Then I pulled the plug and let the water, and the ties that bind, drain away.

10 days later the house is sold. I can't really credit the ritual. If we'd sold the next day I would've been intrigued, but as it is I'm not wholly convinced.
But it did make me think about the house, and my relationship with it, and it did make me consciously try to let go. All of which is good, and necessary.

So now, eyes forward. And emotional reserves ready to embrace a lot of change - houses, schools, rhythms of our day. Now to think about establishing a new relationship, with a new house, and wondering what milestones we'll celebrate there.

Can you see her? Just peeking around the enormous tree, her jetty sticking out into the water? Behind the arb stranger standing fishing on the point? Looming quietly in the mist?

Hello new house.

oh my god I hope he's right

Twelve years ago, lazing around with the weekend papers, husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our cat.'
We'd just recently moved into our own place, our first place with no housemates, and getting a cat seemed the next logical step.

The ad read: 1 year old black cat. Female. Half Siamese. R50.

This was the information he was basing his statement on, he couldn't explain it, but he was convinced he was right.
And he was. She was, is, and will always be, the perfect cat for us.

3 weeks ago, lazing around with the internets ('cos that's the way the world now works), husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our house.'
I sat up and took heed.

It's in a part of town we'd never before considered, it wouldn't make his commute to work any easier, it doesn't put us in the catchment area for any great schools, it would place us a distance away from some of our favourite people ... but it has a garden and a view and the promise of a lifestyle we just can't resist.

We emailed the agent and heard back the next day that an offer had already been placed, it was basically off the market.
We went there the following Sunday, looked at another couple of houses in the area on show. Then, just to rub salt in the wound, we drove past The One. As we got out of the car a fish eagle called in the sky above.
We sighed and drove home.

A week later, a call from the agent. You know where this is going right? The potential buyers were having marital problems, they might be pulling out.

We went away for 6 days, spent some of that time wondering about The One. Wondering whether it was thinking about us too.

Back home to discover the original offer had fallen through, but an English couple were 'very interested' in the house. Naturally they'd be paying pounds, cash. We couldn't compete.
We sighed.

Then, they decided not to place an offer. The house, The One, the one with the fish eagles and the lake and the garden and the double garage workroom and the staggeringly high mortgage, was officially back on the market.

Guess I don't need to tell you how we went to see it. How we laughed in horror and delight at how much it reminded us of our current place when we first bought it. How we thrilled at the potential and despaired at the kitchen. How we met, giggling, in the bathroom as the agent was taking us around and grinned at each other, husband whispering 'It's crap but I love it.'
How we stood in silence in front of the lake at the bottom of the lawn and listened to the water birds and in our minds, pushed off our canoe and paddled off into the estuary.

We placed an offer. It's been accepted. We have to sell our current house first so we're not there quite yet. But we're closer than we ever thought we'd be.

There's a 13 year old black cat purring on my lap. I think she'll like it there.

things from the day

Realising, during the eulogy, that you can know someone your whole life and not, by any means, know everything about them. Not at all.
Coupled by the instant stab of pain at how much you didn't ask them when you could have.

Sitting in the front pew (we came in late) knowing my whole extended family was right behind me. Hearing a cough and recognising it as my mother's, a whisper from a cousin, a nose-blow which could have only belonged to a man.
Feeling the presence of all of them behind me.

The young undertaker's assistant dropping his small change all over the carpet in front of the coffin trolley. My uncle's look of resigned disdain.
The knowledge that it wouldn't have bothered my grandfather as much as it did his eldest son.

The pallbearers - my father, flanked by his older and younger brothers. Opposite each of them their eldest son. 4 of the 6 wearing ties from the same prestigious Cape Town boy's school. A momentary pang that I have no sons, no men to stand, proud in their grief, in formation at my funeral.
A momentary respect for patriarchy.

Changing the meaning of the minister's words in my head so that each time he mentioned god I substituted my grandfather.
He is good, merciful, kind. He brings us comfort. We are here to honour Him.

The strange, yet oddly comforting way the minister followed behind the coffin, still preaching, accompanying my grandfather out to the hearse.
The heavy thud of the vehicle's door punctuating the end.

The ribbons on the hymnals fluttering in the breeze ...

Later, in my uncle's study with all my first cousins. 10 present, just one missing. We're here on my grandfather's bidding, complying with instructions he left in his last days. 10 adults - all married, most of us parents, most of us with very little else in common - all briefly reminded of days gone when we tumbled on our grandparent's lawn at Christmas-time, tussled over the coins in the Christmas pudding, performed Beatles songs for a family concerts.
Days when we frolicked through family gatherings filled with happy adults and so much love.

Even later, exhausted, sitting outside with my man, a ridiculously bright and spectacular shooting star shot across the sky.

These are the things I want to remember from that day.

(m)in(i)tuition

A few days ago I was leaving the house with the girls.

I pulled the car out the driveway and noticed, from the corner of my eye, a man leaning against my neighbour's wall kind of diagonally across the road from our house.
He was well-dressed, mustached, sober (looking) but yet there was something just not right about him ...

He wasn't close enough to either my neighbour or the next house's gate to necessarily be waiting for someone from either of those houses.
He wasn't relaxed enough to be killing time or alert enough to be expecting someone.
He wasn't looking at me but was definitely watching.

I got out the car to close our gate and he started walking away from us down the road, but he turned to look back twice. I felt uneasy. He turned the corner and disappeared.

Just then a police patrol car came towards me from the opposite direction. I know by now to trust my gut, so flagged them down and told them what I'd seen. They thanked me, said they'd drive past him, and I got back in my car feeling a little alarmist but more secure.

'Who were you talking to Mum?' asks Frieda from the back seat. My car had been facing away from the cop van, she couldn't comfortably turn around while strapped into her car seat.
'Those policemen.' I answered.
'The policemen who look out for bad people Mum?'
Hesitantly, 'Yes.' (Who's told her that I wonder?)
'Bad people like that man in the black & white shirt Mum?'
'Which man?' (Surely she's not saying what I think she's saying?)
'That man who was on the pavement over there.'

I'd said nothing. I'd not gestured in the man's direction while talking to the police. She'd not even been able to see that conversation.
What she knew of that man she'd possibly gathered from my body language, and more likely from her own intuition.

I hate that my daughter must already know that there are bad people in this world. But I love that she's already developing a gut instinct. Unfortunately she's going to need it.

oddities

Cape Town? Coincidence? Hand of Fate? Circle of Life? An unerring ability to over-analyse?

I'm not sure what you could call them, the couple of odd events around Stella's recent birth. Maybe they have different explanations, but some of them were pretty strange. Or I'd have thought them strange had I not lived in Cape Town all my life and gotten used to these kind of weird cross-overs.
Or maybe 'cos I've lived in Cape Town all my life I just don't realise that this is a world-wide phenomenon, not limited to this sleepy city by the sea. That actually there are only 6 degrees of separation between any of us.
But let's not over-analyse: herewith the facts.

As I've described before, the day I went into labour with Frieda I'd spent the whole afternoon trawling a big local mall. The ultimate Babylon of malls I might add, a monolith a good couple of kilometres long. No one who heard that walking up and down that beast induced labour have been at all surprised.
Anyhoo, on Wed 10 March this year I set off to that same mall, one which I usually avoid like the plague, sending a text to my husband to say 'taking drastic action, heading into Canal Walk, stand by for waters breaking'.
A friend has subsequently decided it's all in the name: (Birth) Canal Walk. I got home from that shopping expedition at 4pm, my waters broke at 5.
Weird huh?

Much, much later that night an aneathetist was called to administer a very, very welcome epidural. (Seriously, let's hear it for the epidural!). He had a long ponytail (ok, that is very Cape Town) and looked vaguely familiar. Turns out he used to live in our road.
Of course he did.
Husband and I are also convinced we used to see him on the outdoor rave circuit of our wild youth. What better recreational activity for an aneasthetics med student?

Finally, a week after Stella's birth I took her to my preferred clinic for a weigh-in etc. The usual assistant nurse wasn't there, another woman was standing in for her. She introduced herself and started completing Stella's clinic card. Then she stopped and looked up, 'I was at your c-section' she said. 'Last Thursday morning? 5am?'
Turns out she'd been assisting the attending pediatrician. I hadn't been aware of her presence but she'd been there. And now our paths were crossing here, at a clinic where she helps out max once or twice a month, and happened to be there the day Stella and I went in.
A little strange.

'I didn't see you there' I said, 'and if I didn't see you, how many other people were present that I wasn't aware of?'
'Oh', she said, 'they put up that little screen so you can't see anything and then they open to whole event up to a studio audience.'
Ha. Ha. Ha.

it could've been serious, but at least there was great food

4 Jan 2005, my Mum and I spent most of the day at Heathrow Airport waiting for our flight home that evening.
Unbeknown to me, one of my oldest and dearest friends spent the day in hospital, trying to stave off and eventually reconciling herself to, the very premature birth of her son.
He was 1.4kg at birth and spent 4 weeks in hospital before going home.

On Monday Frieda and I went to Matthew's 5th birthday party, a gorgeous young lad, jumping in and out of the swimming pool and wildly playing his birthday drum kit (is his mother mad?).

My friend and I have often shared a wry grin over the last few months that her due date with Matthew was early March, the same as mine is with this baby, and on Monday I nearly pushed the joke too far, and seemed to displease the birth gods.
With the kids being dinosaurs in the pool, I turned to my friend and jokingly said well, I've made it through the 4th!

An hour later I discovered I was having a bleed, 3 hours later I was in hospital hooked up to a heart-rate monitor and cursing my wise-ass mouth.

All is currently as it should be, I spent the last 2 nights under observation, had a big scan and my little girl's doing great, weighing a very healthy 1.8kg, placenta's fine, bleeding's all but stopped.

I managed to spend the hottest day of the summer so far in an air-conditioned hospital room while the rest of Cape Town sweltered and stewed, being served great food by a very sweet lady-guy called Ingrid, reading the last book in the Millennium Trilogy and being completely spoilt with a peri-peri 'katkop' (cat head - slang for that indulgent carb-laden deliciousness of hot chips on a fresh white roll, slathered in peri-peri sauce), courtesy of my Muslim room-mate's husband.

Now home and nothing to do but take it easy, keep tabs on myself and incubate, incubate, incubate ... and keep fingers (and legs!) crossed that we make it to term, this bouncy little self-starter and I.

You just never know what's coming down that road ahead, and you never know who's listening as you jest with the gods.

a little strange ...

I love that my orthodox Muslim dentist has Wallpaper* magazine in her waiting room. Albeit from July 2004.

But I find it a little strange that this issue should be on such er, prominent display.

And I like the placement of that title 'Petite but perfectly formed'. That could only have been intentional ...