2 Feb 1990

Facebook just gave me this - the memory of something I wrote on 2 Feb 2015.

I'm reposting it here because I'd like to preserve it, and because I can still remember that hot, hot afternoon and the miraculous events which played out from then.

25 years ago today I was sitting in the school bus, in the sweltering heat of Napier on a February afternoon.

It was a Friday, and I was to spend the night at a friends house. The only reason I was in that school bus was that I, and the teacher who'd driven us there, were waiting for my friend and the rest of the school tennis team to finish an Inter-School match so that the weekend could begin.

The radio was on and suddenly programming was interrupted for a special announcement from Parliament.

Then-President FW de Klerk came on and addressed the nation, announced the imminent release of Nelson Mandela and the unbanning of the ANC.

I was privileged to have been brought up in a politically aware household and despite being a flighty 16 year old, I knew immediately what a massive, MASSIVE, moment this was for South Africa.

I had no one to share it with.

The teacher I was with - a total doos* - rested his head on the steering wheel and said nothing.

The small conservative village of Napier buzzed in the heat around us.

The tennis balls knocked back and forth on the courts.

I wanted nothing more than to speak to my Dad, and sat there with tears of excitement rolling down my cheeks as I pictured his face, his joy, and wished I was with him.

Dad said afterwards he'd never thought it would happen in his lifetime.

I will always be grateful for having witnessed a real life miracle, and will never forget that hot sweaty afternoon when the world changed forever.

*dickhead, but I think you got that.

international social justice day

Apparently sometime last week was International Social Justice Day (who decides these I do not know), but reading that made me so grateful, again, for the work I've been able to do (for an astounding 17 years now!) assisting and supporting some of the most dedicated and hardworking social justice activists in our country.

I'm still not really sure how I managed to fall into this.

As a pre-teen the running joke in our family was my allergy to the word 'responsibility'. Being the oldest of 3 I guess it was a natural backlash against having to be older and wiser, more responsible than my seemingly carefree younger brothers.

But responsible I have become - for giant budgets, complicated international travel arrangements, hordes of delegates, deadlines and deliverables - I am often the hinge upon which it all swings, the stick upon which the plates are spinning, handling the immense stress of logistical success so that my clients don't have to, so that the participants - the social justice activists - can concentrate on the WORK.
The work of listening, of speaking for the voiceless, of finding the platform for their voices, and making them heard.

Recently I got in touch with an old lefty friend of my parents, and chatting to him brought back memories of sleepily listening in on their rigorous debate, around dinner tables and braai fires, often wine-fueled, always fascinating.

I learned so much from those evenings - not just great swear words - but how to agree to disagree, what injustice looked like, how to fight it, intersectionality (before that was even a concept probably), how to protest without getting arrested, what to do if you were arrested, how many people it took to build a movement (not just the big names), how to put your ego aside and do work for a greater good.

It was when bringing up these memories that I realised this was the foundation of the work I do now. A logistical mind is one thing - that's some weird shit I got born with (from my Granny Molly I think) and eventually made peace with, but the ability to use that in a social justice space (see, I can even speak the lingo) with empathy and an innate understanding of those specific challenges is a learned skill, learned in part by the example of my parents - social activists themselves in many ways - and in part from those long weekend evenings of being exposed to highly inappropriate discussions and arguments. 

Many of the activists I work with say that the key to social justice is for everyone at the table (more lingo see, I'm fluent) to work to their strengths. To find their skills, be acknowledged for them and be given the chance to use them for the greater good.

I think I might have found mine, and I'm so grateful to have found the perfect niche in which to flex them.

under the jacaranda

I've recently finished a monster of a job in Johannesburg.

I was contracted through a long-standing client to do the logistics on a high-level meeting of, originally, 80 experts from around the world. And by around the world I mean really around the world - Moldova, Georgia, Ukraine, Macedonia ... 20 different countries all in.

Rapidly, as these things are wont to do, our numbers burgeoned beyond 80, making the group too big for the main auditorium in the venue we'd booked - the historic and poignant Liliesleaf Farm.

'But we have to have it there!' they cried.
'Well we can't bloody do it inside,' I replied.

6 weeks later...

Negotiating the precarious space between budgetary constraints and expected outcome I worked with the venue, engineers and external suppliers to put together a tented space on the grounds, under the flowering jacarandas, the territorial hadedas and the hot early summer sun.

It looked great on paper and when I flew up a few weeks earlier to do a site inspection it all mapped out well, in theory. But on the Sunday before the meeting, as the tent went up - more open on the sides than the pictures I'd been shown - and the plastic-tile 'floor' went down - on a bumpy lawn which had not in fact been mowed despite assurances that it would be - and the chairs were delivered - and unceremoniously dumped in a corner of the lawn, all 120 of them - and nothing was quite as it should be, far from it in fact - I stood on that bumpy lawn and wondered what to do first: throw-up, change my name, book a flight to Abu Dhabi .... I thought I might cry.

Instead I started unpacking 120 chairs, and vented my frustration at the first supplier who crossed my path, quietly informed my client that it was fine, but not ideal, and checked the weather forecast for the bazillionth time in 24 hours.

The next day I was there by 07:00 and already things started looking better. With cushions on all the chairs and the big plasma screens in place and the fresh morning air - it felt serene and controlled. I watched from the lawn as the Big Boss arrived in her chauffeur-driven car ... she came slowly down the hill toward me as I stood there taking deep breaths, braced for whatever might be rained down upon me ...

'I love it.' She said, spreading her arms wide as she approached. 'Meeting under the trees, it's the African way.'
I thought I might cry again.

3 days of meeting in a dappled green, outdoor space, 3 inspiring days of ideas and information, people stepping out of the tent to stretch their legs and ending up stretched out on the lawn, still listening and engaging. Not a chill breeze or a drop of rain or a dusty gust to distract them. Just the creak of the trees, the occasional cry of the birds and the warmth of a few perfect African days.

That spirit went back to Jordan, to Indonesia, to Pakistan and after it was all over, I came home to Cape Town, happy and exhausted. I love my job, mostly ;-)

won't ever happen

We found a video clip on an old phone of Frieda, soft-faced and blonde curls, age 6, her voice so different, thicker - pre-tonsillectomy -  'I pinkie swear I'll never twerk.'

Stella, regularly, 'I'll never leave home, I'll live with you until I die Mummy. Or until you die, whichever happens first.' Her eyes become solemn.
She thinks a lot about death this one.

Overheard today: 'I will never, ever drink coffee.'

We've thought for months: 'Trump will never become president.'

the ups and downs of October

This post is to filed under 'diary'. I need to record this last crazy month for myself, for the record.

I've come here so often with an opening line, a thought or an observation, but the back story has always been so enormous - October's stories have been enormous - that I've either shied away or the next thing has happened before I could finish writing/processing about the last.

Emotional ro-la-co-stah. I'm tired just thinking about writing about it.

October is a beautiful month (which month isn't really right?), but this one has brought some pain.

On the 1st of the month one of my very best friends was admitted to hospital after weeks of what we all then thought was 'flu.

That weekend, beloved English cousins currently living in the States woke to the news that their 23 year old son had died in his sleep.
Shock rippled around the world as we gathered in small digital huddles - on FB messenger, Whatsapp and eventually a Tribute Page - trying to cradle a family in unimaginable pain with words and images shared on these platforms, knowing that none of it worked as well as a hug, but that all the hugs in the world wouldn't heal their hearts.
When a healthy 23 year old guy dies in his sleep on a Saturday night there is one conclusion that everyone jumps to, and from the talk it does seem he lived a colourful life - partying and living it up in the film industry in which he worked.
But louder then that were the reams of words testifying to his gentle care of those he loved, his sense of humour, his intelligence, his diligence to his work, his magic touch with animals - all these words proven by the multitude of photos of him shared on the page, in each one of them he has his arms around someone.

I recalled so vividly the boys like him I knew at that age. Young, gorgeous, healthy young men who worked, had plans, took their jobs and their lives seriously, earned well, and partied hard. Those boys were the best friends a girl could have, watchful and caring, they were the most fun to have at a party, loud and gregarious and hilarious, they were generous with their love, their time and their drugs - and after a heavy night out they would go home to Sunday lunch and be the most attentive, genuinely devoted sons and brothers. They thought they were invincible.

So many are lost in grief at his passing.

On the 4th we celebrated our 13 year wedding anniversary.

It was a magic evening, warm and golden and still. We'd made no plans, but that afternoon I remembered two bags of prawns in the freezer, a bottle of very fine wine we'd been saving, a box of creme brulee magnum ice-creams I'd seen at our local store ... I lit the fire and watched the girls play wildly on the lawn as we waited for the sound of his motorbike arriving home.
We ate grilled prawns 'til the butter ran down our arms, washed down with sublime wine, and grinned stupidly at each other over our daughter's heads. 13 years.

A couple of nights later we ditched the girls and went out for a proper grown-up dinner in our beautiful 'hood.

But still my friend was in hospital, and the news was not good. An inflammation of the spinal cord, a rare auto-immune condition, crippling pain and uncertainty about the path ahead.
Sobering updates as we rallied around her family, setting up an online meal roster to cook for them, a Whatsapp group to keep all those concerned in the loop.

I traveled to Pretoria for work. Twice.
Pretoria was hot, and dry, but magnificently purple.

Jacaranda trees were introduced a hundred years ago, blatant invaders from South America, for their beauty and their shade. They kind of hung around and once a year transform Pretoria from a fairly drab and run-down city to a psychedelic wonderland. Well played invaders.

The work was good, the people I met inspirational and fun.

Our country has had a hard month too. Our Minister of Finance is facing trumped-up charges of misconduct, leveled at him by a President fueled only by his greed. Our students are rising up to demand the education promised to them 20 years ago, and getting beaten in the streets by our dysfunctional police force. Our academics and universities are reeling from the damage - to their campuses and their careers. Our general public are split down the middle on a topic so complex that you can only see it in black and white if you're at the heart of a the struggle or being a total asshole. Their are a select few who are both.
It's a fucking mess.

The activists I was in Pretoria with were for the most part much younger than me, black and very active in education. We spoke at length about the current situation and it was so reassuring to me, a white, middle-class, (cough) middle-aged lady, to check in with them and find that we shared many opinions on these issues. It's easy when you live among your peers to believe that you're right. It's a gift to step out of that circle and find others, very different to you, who feel the same. I love my work for the worlds it opens up for me.

Back home and straight into a very special celebration. My Dad turned 70.

Which necessitated a party, with some of our dearest family friends, and a rainbow cake for the birthday boy, with ants on it - because he's all about the ants, about the ants, no spiders - according to one of his silly granddaughters.

And then another anniversary - a really BIG one.

On the 24th my man and I marked 25 years together - a silver anniversary - from bumbling high school sweethearts to married-up parents.
We celebrated with an enormous bunch of chinkerinchees, a bottle of bubbly and the gift of a vintage silver dollar from my parents. How exactly did I get this lucky?

And still ... my friend is in hospital. Still battling pain and an uncertain future, but still smiling when she can, still strong, still her.

This growing up thing is not for sissies, the realities of life and aging are hard and painful. But the love, the love just gets stronger and sweeter - and the knowledge that that is all that is important gets clearer every day.

This year has worn us out already - is it holidays yet?

2/5

Jo'burg for 3 days.

Jo'burg is hot at the moment. Still and hot and buggy. I spent a fair amount of time photographing ants and sending them to my Dad. He sent back sketches from his growing portfolio. My Dad's a myrmecologist and it's hard not to catch the um ... bug.

Winged things flew into my hair a lot as soon as it got dark. It gets dark early in Jo'burg, and at the same time, every night.

The first night we sat out late, on the stoep of our guesthouse, planning the next day and flicking bugs out of our hair.

Two days of meeting, 40 participants from all over.
Day 1 started with a ridiculously childish request at 5am (which I ignored), and ended with Baklava Cheesecake (it got my full attention).
Day 2 was soured by transport company fuck ups (I had to throw some toys - it wasn't pretty) but sweetened by a tour of the remarkable place where we were meeting.

It was sobering, in session, to listen to our participants speak of police brutality now in a place so representative of the heinous acts of the apartheid secret police service then.
But it was moving and evocative, out there, to visit the cottage where Madiba lived while posing as a gardner and forming Umkhonto wiSizwe. To stand in the living room in which the Rivonia trialists were seized.

A quick meeting for job 3/5 (it all starts again on Monday), and a terrifying foretaste of the drama which will be job 5/5, a mad dash to the Gautrain and a nearly full moon over OR Tambo Airport.

Home to my dear hearts.

A brief respite, and then I pick up the reins for the next mad sprint. Life is full, life is full-on.

a little lunchtime trolling

The troll, in this case, being me.

troll

One who posts a deliberately provocative message to a newsgroup or message board with the intention of causing maximum disruption and argument

The National Elections this last week have been an emotional time for the Nation. Lots of nervous energy has been spent on speculation and optimism, and then disappointment when the results have not been as different as many had hoped.

The problem with being a Nation that once witnessed a miracle is that we forever maintain the hope we'll see one again. Does one get more than one miracle in a life time? I'd tend to say we are amazingly blessed to have witnessed one, and such a magnificent one at that.

I'd also tend to say that anyone who thought the ANC would fall, or even significantly shift, during this election is a fool. I don't get the 'So crushed #fml #sadforSouthAfrica' status updates I've seen around the interwebs.

I ALSO think that all those calling ANC voters 'idiots' (and much worse), are vile, bigoted sanctimonious twits.

A Twitter friend yesterday expressed this far more eloquently than I:

Amen Karen.

So THEN, I stumbled across this little corner of the internet, heavily populated by aforementioned vile twits, mainly of the expat variety, bitching and moaning at this post about their votes 'not being counted' and I just .... couldn't help myself. 

(Screenshots because I'm not tainting my blog with a live link).

Obviously this wasn't the popular approach.

Luckily I'm not going to 'loose' any sleep over this.

And then of course someone had to play this card ... so cute ...

Ah, SO much fun to while away a lunch break which I couldn't really afford to take but you know, when a girl's got to troll a girl's got to troll!

Viva South Africa Viva!

20 years today

I was 18. Voting for the first time, just like millions of my countrymen and women.

We were in the tiny seaside town where I grew up. In 1994 there were no designated voting stations. We pitched up with our green bar-coded ID book and voted. All of us.

It was heady, surreal and we knew it was HUGE - even without twitter, facebook, 24h TV, text messages or the internet, we could feel the vibe. Could feel the world's eyes, the enormous exhale, the teeth on edge, the fingertip tingling belly cramping slightly nauseous inducing excitement and apprehension: what next?

For us, what was next was to go down to the beach, huddle out of the rain in the deserted life-savers' shack, play cards, drink quarts of beer, smoke cigarettes, play djembe drums, and try and imagine how this would change the course of our lives.

On that grey and rainbow-hued day, I think this was kind of what I had in mind.

Frieda and her bestie - June 2013.

This country is so radically complex, but basically: humanity wins. Amandla.

okay twitter, I get you now #blacktuesday

Wow.

Today I experienced that thing about Twitter which so many people rave about. I watched, in real time, as history was made - following the hash tag, my home page bumping up every few seconds with another 20 tweets, another 30 tweets, another 60 tweets as the announcement was made.

#BlackTuesday out-trended Thanksgiving for a moment today. Apparently that's huge.

I wish the historical event I was following was a more positive one. I wish I'd been outside Parliament to experience it with my peers, not reading about it once removed - albeit only a few seconds removed.

But Twitter totally came through for me on this one, and I get it now. Fucking marvelous technology.

Not just the real-time connection with the event, but being able to garner all the varied comments - from SA's top newspaper editors to comedians, political commentators, assholes - the voices of reason, of hysteria - to instantly have ones own reaction tempered, inflamed, counter-balanced, validated, refuted. Great stuff.

And instantly those (South Africans) whom I follow fell into two stark categories: those who were talking #blacktuesday and those who weren't. How could anyone really have been tweeting about anything else today?

Twitter, I take it all back. You totally came through for me today.

Even if my government shamefully and horrifyingly didn't.

[insert title here*]

*options:
baking with leftovers
human rights day cookies
ebony & ivory
must.bake.cookies.
take that crappy oreo filth

Any of these would be applicable here. Cookies baked with leftover chocolate cookie dough and white chocolate melts, on an important public holiday, for no other reason than I had to bake.
You know when you have to have to bake?
Yup, like that.

writing on the walls

I've mentioned before how much I like living in a part of town where people paint on the walls. In a suburb of thinkers, students, activists and drama queens ~ many of whom seem to like to live out loud.

I've also said how I love that South Africans have such a strong tradition of political commentary, often expressed through satire. This trait kept many people sane through the apartheid years, and I'm pleased the trend still seems to be alive and well.

This professionally printed poster went up in a random shop window within days of South Africa refusing the Dalai Lama a visa, and remains there still.

Ja, wtf was up with that?? 

And then, just days after we got our new President (he of a dubious legal past), these went up all over the 'burb. 

And I had to include this one, also a new addition. A simple Peace sign. Nice.

Of course I nearly stood in dog poo twice while taking these pics, and I drove from site to site 'cos I didn't want to risk walking with my camera on my own. And I got some broken glass lodged in my shoe. 

But hey, sometimes I think I'd still rather bear all that than live in a suburb filled with fake Tuscan architecture and whiny middle-class whingers.

zumast be joking* ...

And so it comes to pass that we have a new President. A man who was charged and tried (and, admittedly, acquitted) of rape. A man who was directly implicated by the presiding judge in the fraud trial of another high profile South African, but who had the charges against him dropped just weeks before these elections. A man who is a master at 'bird-talking' (apparently an Australian term - gotta love those forthright Aussies - for telling people what they want to hear). A man who inspires very little confidence all round.

So basically, no suprises.

But are we down-hearted? A little. Apprehensive? A lot.

Prone to baking when the world goes mad? You bet ya!

Husband says I'm not allowed to count these a-m-a-z-i-n-g chocolate brownies as one of my 100 things as they're the second batch I've made in little over a month (and I totally counted the first ones). 

But I am going to share the recipe, I am going to eat one every time I feel concerned about the future, I am going to urge you to bake your own and follow suit.

And I am going to hope we don't get too wet and miserable on our camping long weekend away. Leaving tomorrow. Back-to-back storms predicted. Are we apprehensive? No, we've got brownies!

Gulp.

Perfect Chocolate Brownies

150 g butter

350 g castor sugar

4 large eggs

5 ml vanilla essence

150 g plain flour

100 g cocoa powder

 a pinch of salt

100 g chopped macadamia nuts

50 g chopped glace cherries

2 slabs chopped chocolate Turkish Delight (praise the Lord yes)

Cream butter & sugar. Beat in eggs one by one, then add vanilla. Sift in flour, salt & cocoa powder and mix. Mix in nuts, cherries and chocolate. Gloop out into greased baking tray and bake in pre-heated oven (170 degrees C) for approx. 30 min. 

Keep an eye on them though 'cos as everyone knows, if it's not soft and squidgy in the centre it's not a brownie. Just cake. And while there's nothing wrong with cake. It's not a brownie. 'Nuff said.

*title totally ripped off from a recent tabloid headline. 'twas too good not to repeat. oi vey.

election day on the southern-most tip of africa

We voted.

And then, with the rest of a lovely still, cool, public holiday ahead of us, we dropped the kidlet off at Granny's and took a long bike ride round this awesome place we live.

I just tried to upload this one to Earth Mosaic, but it seems they've been inundated and are no longer able to upload anything. Guess the world's a pretty big place ...

And some more eating ... Lovely fish 'n prawns, with my tagged thumb to prove I did my civic duty.

Let's see what comes of that.

and now it's our turn

Election Day next Wednesday!

And after the political turbulence of the last year or so, this is a much anticipated day indeed.

The recent announcement by the National Prosecuting Authority that all fraud charges against Jacob Zuma have been dropped kind of cancelled out the last hope that he might not become our next President. Now it seems he will. We're in for some interesting times indeed.

And I really do feel that's the only way to forge ahead into the future. To take this on as the next 'interesting' (don't you love how all-encompassing that word can be? How it can say everything and nothing? A bit like 'working together to make a better life for all' ... ), sorry where was I? Oh yes, the next 'interesting' phase in a political history which has, at the very least, never, ever been boring. 

What I have been greatly enjoying about our politics recently is the upswell in political satire. Something which we became really good at during the apartheid years, a lot of satirists took a back-seat in deference to celebrating our wildly optimistic Rainbow Nation. Ah those heady days in the mid 1990's when even the razor-sharp wit of Pieter Dirk-Uys was tempered a little, and we would joke about how comics such as he would now have to dig deep for their material. Turns out not so deep at all.

For inevitably (and how could we really for a moment have believed that just because we had a unique political situation we'd have unique politicians?) and quite swiftly, a host of new preposterous buffoons presented themselves, like virgins at a coming-out ball, to be flayed alive by that good ole SA sense of humour which never fails to make one laugh, even when sometimes you think you should be crying.

Zapiro must undoubtedly be our finest right now. Proof thereof being that JZ himself is trying to bring a defamation suit against him - guess he struck a nerve huh? The marvellous Evita is still getting it right every time, and whole new waves of younger South African stand-ups and public commentators are regularly making us chortle.

But there's an even more recent trend, a deliciously dangerous one, of uncompromisingly ripping-off election slogans and posters, an underground movement which really does hark back to the bad old days.

Let's hope this is as close as we come.

And on a bit more serious note, our big weekly publication, the Mail & Guardian, has posted this poll on their website. By answering a few questions about key current issues facing SA at the moment, the poll will tell you who it thinks you should be, or are most likely to, vote for next Wednesday. The questions are very astute, and if nothing else will get you thinking. And you may even be quite surprised by the results.

Here's hoping there's some surprises in the election results in general. Stranger things have happened in this bizarre country of ours.

are you sitting comfortably?

I've been interviewed by Julie from Moments of Perfect Clarity- great questions Julie!

1. you've only just started back to work after having #1 child and now you're contemplating #2. how will this impact your career possibilities in the long term if at all? (what i'm meaning to ask is how it's seen in south african society--the whole question of maternity leave and such.)

Oooo, kicking it off with the big ones. This question made me examine Career and Child#2 - neither of which are simple issues for me...

Firstly, in some ways I'm starting to think of Child#2 as the Duty Sibling. Obviously there's lots of excitement and anticipation about having another child, but I do feel utterly exhausted at the thought and so it's sometimes handy to think of this next one as an obligation, rather than a fun exercise. How's that for a hard-hearted callous view? Take that Earth Mothers! But seriously, our motivation to have another child is for Frieda to have a sibling, and for the joy of watching them grow up together, so it makes sense to try for a reasonable, but close-ish gap, and therefore to do it sooner rather than later.

Career? What career? I've been examining my somewhat ambivalent feelings about my 'career' as such for some time now. I've tried to do an honest assessment of why I don't feel more strongly about it, am I lazy? Unambitious? A friend and I have had long conversations about how our parents did us a great disservice bringing us up to believe 'we can be whatever we want to be', 'cos now we believe them and don't really feel the need to prove this to ourselves or anyone else.

Rocket scientist? Yeah, I could do it. Yawn.

But the realisation I've come to on this is two-fold. 1. I haven't found my 'thing' and 2. my sense of self isn't really related to what I do. My work doesn't define me and I think that's maybe not such a bad thing in this sometimes career-obsessed world. Maybe finding something which totally rocks my world will change this, but in the meantime... maybe I'll just breed some more.

But just to get serious for a mo, obviously I still have to earn something, sometime, and I've been really lucky in that the work that I do is fairly specialised. This doesn't make it particularly well paid, but it does mean I've got a bit of a big fish in a small pond thing happening for me, and have been lucky enough, so far, to stay in the loop and stay in demand even while breast-feeding.

Formal maternity leave in SA is 4 months, paid or unpaid depending on your contract. I obviously didn't have this benefit not being employed full-time, but was extremely privileged to be able to essentially take a year off with Frieda. I don't think I'll have the luxury of taking as much time with Child#2. But then I won't need to, 'cos he/she will be so busy playing with his/her big sister right?

2. you have a thing about chairs. show/tell us about some of your favorites (i know you have links on the right, but i want more) and why you covet them. 

And so we come to why I must earn - ha ha ha, if only it were that simple.

I really don't know what it is about chairs, maybe my liking of them is another sign of essential slothfulness? It all started with a Red Velvet Rocker (which I still own). My parents used to do fund-raising for a children's charity in our home town and this beauty was donated to the local children's home. I didn't have the cash to buy it (I was 12 or something), but I persuaded my Mum to let me swop the perfectly serviceable and somewhat ugly chair in my bedroom for it, arguing that the orphans wouldn't appreciate its Red Velvet deliciousness. 

The love affair has run its course since then; I once forced a friend to pull over to pick up an abandoned kitchen chair with a broken leg off the pavement in one of CT's upmarket suburbs - I liked the look of it and it lived in our shed, still broken, for years until Husband forced me to chuck it. I have a collection of red kitchen chairs, in perfect nick, in storage for one day when I have space for them. I once clung to a phenomenally ugly pink fabric chair for years 'cos I liked it's wooden form, even painting it black with fabric paint to try and redeem it - I think Husband made me turf that one in one of our moves too. My biggest regret is allowing my parents to get rid of the beautiful, but uncomfortable, brown velvet sofa we had when I was a kid. My mother-in-law has two chairs which are apparently to come to us one day which I'm already excited about and have picked out fabric samples to have them re-covered - which is admittedly a little morbid, and premature...

Of all the chairs I covet the Zulu Mama chair is, for me, the most exquisite. I love that it's modelled on the old 70's style wire garden furniture (of which we have a set rusting away in the back yard), but with such a modern South African twist. But more realistically -budget wise- and more practical, I would seriously donate a small finger or toe for a set of Nguni chairs for the Dining Room of the Future. I have a long standing love for Nguni cattle (which I won't get into here), and these chairs have so exquisitely captured the graceful form of their horns.

3. what's the best thing about living in cape town? the worst?

Easy one.

The best: it's beautiful here. In Cape Town you can see beauty everywhere you turn, every single day. 

Heath Nash Coat Rack

The worst: it's frikkin' far away from anywhere! Southernmost tip of Africa. Think on that. (ok, ok sticklers, it's not the actual southernmost tip, but we're close enough to claim it for all intents and purposes)

4. south african politics seem to be nearly as messed up as US politics (tho' hopefully that's going to straighten out on tuesday), what do you make of it all and does it have an impact on your day-to-day life?

Gosh, there's so much to say one this one - it's such a complex, multi-layered, historically weighty and culturally sensitive issue. Oh wait, that's 'cos it's politics see, no matter where in the world it's playing out.

But I'll try to be brief. Yes, it has an impact on my day-to-day life. It's near impossible to ignore what with it being so exciting and all! In SA the drama hasn't stopped since 1994, we've one of the most dynamic and complex political histories in the world, and it ain't showing any sign of slowing down in the near future!

This does make it unsettling at times, and we've had recent spates of very real concern for the future, but if there's one thing we're learning its that a young democracy is a force to be reckoned with, and an unpredictable force at that. We're writing our history here, day to day, and while that's never going to be a particularly stable place to be, it's never boring!

Obviously there's a part of one which wishes you could tell what the future will hold, for one's children and for one's self as you get older, but if you get too obsessed with that then you'll never be happy in the moment - and I think this applies to anywhere in the world. If you live in a place in which momentous things (good and bad momentous things) happen every day, you will only find happiness if you acknowledge this, and relish it.

The very real concerns of crime, the AIDS pandemic, corruption, xenophobia, those are all the by-products of our politics which worry me, which make me an occasional insomniac, make me sad - but as we face a general election this year which is already looking so incredibly (as in, I'm incredulous) different to how we thought it would play out 6 months ago, I can honestly say: I wouldn't want to live anywhere else in the world!

5. what made you start blogging and what do you feel it gives you?

It's not a new story. My dear Husband got concerned about how much time I was spending reading other people's blogs and encouraged me to start my own. I did, posted 3 times or something and then got blogger's block. I got intimidated by the idea of others reading my words. I lurked some more. I coined the phrase 'blog like nobody's reading' and started again 6 months later. I started it to do something for me. I've never looked back.

My favourite thing about blogging is that it gives me a reason to write. To experiment with different styles and maybe eventually find my own, or gain confidence in my own.

My least favourite thing about blogging is that I don't have the time to do it as much as I'd like to do. But maybe that's also a good thing!

6. bonus frivolous question: when are you going to get that pool boy? ;-)

I'm sorry, I can't answer this one 'cos it just makes me think of this, which makes me laugh too hard to type! ; )

Oh and here are Very Important Rules Which Must be Included, and adhered to if you'd like to be interviewed by me.
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." 
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. (I get to pick the questions). 
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.  
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post. 
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions. 

This was fun!

democracy - must it apply to everyone?

This evening I went to a public participation hearing for a new City by-law. In theory I love the democratic concept of being allowed a forum in which to express one's opinion and comment on City policy and legislation.
I just wish we could curtail who exactly gets to exercise this democratic right. Some animals may not be more equal than others, but some people definitely are more full of shit!

The hearing was in the Civic Centre, a monstrous monolith of mighty eyesore-ness and impracticality in the city. During office hours it's inhospitable enough with no parking, no signage and absolutely no visual appeal, but on an unseasonably cold and stormy evening it's gloomy, deserted and filled with eerie noises from the howling wind. Like the complaints of all the frustrated tax-payers and the exhausted humdrum of the underpaid city workers take voice after everyone has left, and moan and sigh around the deserted halls.

That said, the hearing was well run, and the by-law we were examining very relevant to the city, and progressive and necessary for Cape Town as an internationally acclaimed destination for events and tourism, especially in the lead-up to 2010.

However, a contingent of the participants were from the dreaded Ratepayer's Associations and Civic Organisations and other community bodies which I'm afraid, in my experience, do very little but moan and complain. And as another Concerned Citizen used the opportunity to spout forth his incredibly boring personal campaign against Anyone, Anywhere, Ever Having a Good Time Ever, the only way I could stop myself from ramming my pen into my eyeball was to doodle this list:
whinge
sanctimonious
self-righteous
prejudice
boring
mother grundy
self-aggrandising
self-entitlement
asshole
whinge
whinge
whinge
urgghhhhhhh

His barely-veiled prejudice against the Other was just frightening, his fear of his suburb being over-run by "these people" (who? soccer hooligans? cheerleaders? candy-floss toting Nigerians?), his whiny self-righteous sanctimonious nasal tone, his pursed lips sense of entitlement - urgghhhhhh! I mean who, who, thinks it's still okay (or even relevant) to say, in public, things like "15 years ago this would never have happened..."??
Dude, 15 years ago we wouldn't have been sitting in this room with black people! WAKE UP YOU WANKER!

Or please, please, immigrate to somewhere small and cold and very, very dull.