flu, but not THAT flu

Honestly, what kind of loser gets a different flu during a flu pandemic?

Me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The beaches finally opened, earlier than expected on the 2nd of Feb. And as if the gods had decided to  finally cut us some slack it was the most magnificent summers day. We swam twice!

And twice more that week - long luxurious swims in which the ocean embraced us like a long-lost lover and we couldn't bring ourselves to leave (you say goodbye first, no you say goodbye first) until we finally returned to land with shriveled toes and water-logged ears.

That Saturday we spent at one of our favourite places on earth - swimming and picnicking with my parents (all outdoors) and friends. It was a magical summery day and one of those rare moments in which everything felt peaceful and okay, just for a minute.

And then the next morning - sick.

Fever, chills, body ache, headaches. Restless sweaty nights and fevered dreams, concerns about having infected my parents and the girls not being able to start long-awaited school. The dreaded nasal swab, the wait, a negative Covid test. Wtf?

Help from friends to get the last minute school prep done, infinite patience and care from my lovely husband, long horrible disjointed nights and tedious days moving from bed to couch to bed.

A full week of fevers, another full week of recovery, a gradual return to functionality... I still need an afternoon lie-down, I still can't fathom exercising, or drinking wine, I still get dizzy standing up too fast. Vit B jabs in the butt ('You don't have any extra vaccines lying around do you?' ha ha joke to the clinic sister who's probably heard it many times already). 

That one magical week of summer has gained almost fantasy status in my memory. The weather is icky now and the sea rough and cold. But the summer is not over, good weather and more swims lie ahead.

I just... really can't believe that wasn't Covid? Antibody testing in a couple of weeks I think...

black lives matter

A friend of ours put this up at the popular Muizenberg beachfront just before dawn on Saturday, just before it got light enough for the security cameras.

Because even making a statement about equality for all races is a risky act these days.

Later that day I posted this picture to the Muizenberg Notice Board FB page (I don't think I need to tell you what a fraught place of radical division that is right?) and received the exact response I anticipated.

2 minutes later ...

'But ALL lives matter'

Le sigh.

In just under 2h the admin closed comments on the post because of the inevitable brawling taking place. No one was directly contesting the initial sentiment, but so many Whataboutists - 'what about gender violence?, 'what about slave labour in Libya', 'what about Covid' - and my personal favourite: 'Is the beach really the correct forum to vent these views?'

I say old chap, fuck yeah it is.

That said, 5 days later the post is still getting likes (only 9 angry faces!), and the banner is still up. 

The conversation is ongoing, and that is what is important.

Black lives matter, and if you want it in (a highly amusing) nutshell - watch this.

the great thirst

It sounds like a David Attenborough episode - The Great Thirst - maybe the one in which we watched in horror as a baby elephant slowly shriveled away and died because the rains didn't come in time?

Or maybe it sounds like a sci-fi movie - The Great Thirst - in which water is a dwindling resource and one of the most beautiful cities in the world is slowly crumbling apart as residents flee and businesses crash because the rains didn't come in time?

Or maybe it's a song - The Great Thirst - a melodic melancholic yearning for water, for lushness ... a cracked and rasping voice singing of dust, drought and despair, because the rains didn't come in time?

What it really is, is our coming reality.

The drought which has been growing in severity for the last 3 years is now well and truly upon us. We have been told to prepare for Day Zero.
(cue music: dunt duh daaaaaaa)
Day Zero sounds even more like a sci-fi movie doesn't it?

And it's hard to believe when you're sitting on the stoep with a block of ice melting in your glass of Chenin and the lake water lapping at your feet ... but as of Friday it is predicted that 21 April (UPDATE: apparently 12 April is the new date) will be the day that our dam capacity will be too low to support the city and the central water system for Cape Town will be turned off - and remain off until the winter rains (fingers crossed) bring substantial water back to our dams - some say this could take 6 months.
Day Zero. For 180 plus days, or thereabout.

How do you prepare for such an event? I mean, WTAF right?

As always, some are luckier than others. As always, people start showing great creativity and resourcefulness in times of trouble.
And, as always, one realises pretty quickly how much less one can use, how much more one can do without.

Laundry, while we still have water, gets done on shorter cycles, capturing the rinse water and using it for the first wash of the next cycle (thank goodness for top loaders).
Toilets, while we still have water, get left to only be flushed two or three times a day, and never with potable water, always with grey (thank goodness for our shower over bath and how easy this makes capturing all shower water).
Dishes can be wiped with paper towel, faces (and hands and feet and well, everything) can be wiped with face wipes, clothes and bedding can be hung out to air and reworn/reused, cars can stay dirty, windows smeared and opaque, houseplants can live on dribbles of leftover tea, hair can be sprayed with dry shampoo, corn and pasta and potatoes can be boiled in the same water, which once cooled can nurture a few more potted plants. Lawns can die. Swimming pools can sink and fester. Floors can survive with a good sweep and a spot clean.
Middle-class civilisation can do without all the perceived trappings of normality and convenience. We can survive more than we think.

But it's not easy. Lugging water is hard work, thinking about water use is time-consuming, continually reminding children to conserve water requires a delicate balance of making sure they're doing their bit but not freaking them out with too much doomsday hype.

And yet this drought is the greatest illustration of white privilege ever - just down the road from us live hundreds of people who have NEVER had a home with running water, a flush loo or a hot tap. Queuing for water, going without, going dirty, is a daily reality for millions of families around the world.

I get to sit on my stoep with a chilled glass of wine and puzzle this out. I have a rain tank (albeit empty) which (hopefully) will fill when the rains come (fingers crossed) and give us water before the taps come back on, I have family with a borehole, resources to buy and transport 25l water drums back and forth once a week to collect water from them for cleaning and flushing, I can buy bottled water, I can take my family out of the city to have a break from it all should it come to that.

As my girlfriends and I like to remind ourselves as we puzzle out the daily conundrums of living with minimal water, as we swap tips and advice and support each other - after this, for there will be an after this, we will be fucking hardcore. And our taps will come back on, and we will remain the lucky ones.

Husband went to Johannesburg on business for a day, brought back some water for our weekend whisky ice.
Good husband.

ex-spike

For nearly 3 weeks I had a dead hamster in my freezer.

Spike, the innocuous grey and white dwarf hamster Frieda got for her 8th birthday, succumbed a few months short of the 2 years we were warned hamsters usually last.
I ... didn't really get the hamster thing. He was kinda cute, very soft, but more likely to bite one on the sensitive web of skin between your thumb and forefinger and leave a string of turds down the front of your shirt than anything else.
His cage ponged and his wheel squeaked all night.
We had to keep the girls bedroom door closed all the time for bull terrier and cat risk.
Except for the couple of times we didn't.

Spike's most noteworthy achievement, in his small life, was to not once but TWICE ward off attack by voracious bully. Orca just couldn't resist that little guy.

#hamsterwatch

Very possibly the stress contributed to his shortened life span. Spike got steadily more crabby and less lovable. His fur lost its lustre and that wheel didn't squeak as energetically at night. One morning I realised he was really not happy. I called the vet to warn him I'd be bringing in a hamster for euthanasia, I prepared the girls (home for the holidays and remarkably - worryingly? - unfazed), I kinda berated myself for not being butch enough to just hold a ball of socks over the little guy's face until it was over, but call me 21st century soft if you will, I just couldn't do it.

And by the time I got upstairs to fetch him it was basically all over. He was lying in the sawdust, in a coma I think, occasionally a limb twitched but he seemed peaceful and that to move him would be more traumatic than to just close the door, tip toe away and come back later.

No more caged pets please.

Husband felt we needed a proper burial and so, in a box and a bag, into the freezer went Spike.
And then we forgot to bury him.
And the next night we all got home too late.
And the next day is was raining, or something.
And then it was rubbish day and I informed the family I was going to send Spike off in that great wheelie-bin to the sky.
And then I forgot.
And then the next rubbish day was Easter Monday and we were away.
And then finally, today, after that box had been opened a couple of times by morbidly fascinated children, after I'd shuddered more than once getting ice for a drink or scratching around for supper makings, after we'd had a very naughty but delightfully squirmy imagining about a ... hamster smoothie ... I managed to get him out, in time for rubbish collection.

RIP Spike.
No more caged pets.

christmas happened

It did! And looking back through the hasty snaps taken here and there I realise there were moments of real peace and calm, and beauty, despite the days feeling very full and rushed - the irony of these longest days of the year flying by so fast.

Stella has been taking holiday art classes with her Waldorfy pre-school teacher from 2014 and it's wonderful to have lovely Xmas crafts in the house again. The reindeer above is one of my favourite things ever.

I've never had a nativity scene up for Christmas before, and wouldn't have were it not for this remarkable fold-out cardboard one I picked up secondhand for R20. It's from the 1950's with intricate fold-outs for the kings and the shepherds, hosts of angels overhead.
But it was the family scene which really sold me. Set up on the bureau in the dining room it is just at eye-level for a little girl we have, currently deeply enamored with her family, with concepts of nurturing and loyalty and love. I knew she would love it.
I'm not a believer, and the Christmas story doesn't have the significance for me that it must do for practising Christians. But it represents two things which I do hold dear: the power of stories to teach us lessons and give us a sense of belonging through magic and mythology, and the strength of the family bond. These are the things I celebrate at Christmas, and this little scene captures both of those for me.

We did our annual Christmas book advent too. Each year I think the girls may have outgrown it, but each year they start anticipating them in November and I find myself trawling the secondhand book stores for a few new titles to throw in the mix, and looking for bulk deals on wrapping paper. They love them and the reappearance of our family favourites - Father Christmas and The Jolly Christmas Postman, plus other vintage and more modern titles - gets us all in the Christmas spirit.

There was some Christmas baking too ...

... in this case the freshly spray-painted fuel tank from Husband's project bike, curing quietly in the oven one warm night.

But there was some of the more traditional kind too - annual Christmas cupcakes for the security guards who work our neighbourhood.

We visited FC, and handmade a few gifts (much anticipated little boy cousin due in March!), I watched - and cried through - Love Actually, Husband and the girls attended the traditional Christmas Carols on the water one evening, while I stayed at home with a tummy bug, but I managed recover in time to outdo myself with a Christmas pinata!

It was a good Christmas.

But it was a hard year, and 2016 still had a couple of gut punches it was saving until the very end. Fucking hell.

I'm always partly sad and partly relieved to see the back of Christmas. It was lovely but it was busy and now that it's done, now we can relax for a couple of weeks before bracing ourselves for the next year.

We're clearing the debris today, and packing for the beach. Tomorrow we leave on holiday, and that's a different kind of magic - one which we are all very much looking forward to.

Bye bye x

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?

paying the price for paradise

Ah, an astoundingly beautiful evening at the lake.

The kind of picture one is loath to post on FB lest one invoke any haters.

The still, pure, air. The gentle bird calls. The pinking sky.

Sigh.

But what's this? This persistent buzzing, this cloud marring my perfect sunset?

Jesus Christ, there's something in my eye!

Quick! Indoors! Close windows, turn off lights, seal the cat flap!

Every year at the neighbourhood Christmas Carols us lake-dwellers sing a reworked version of the '12 Days of Christmas'.

We trill through it, subbing pelicans for partridges and dancing grebes for maidens and then come together in gusto for the favourite line:

'Five Thousand Miggies!!!!'

It is miggie season at the lake. Great columns of them hover in mass orgies of procreation, buzzing in disgusting sensual miggie delight. They just live for a day, dying in ecstasy and hemorrhaging their insides all over our white walls, garden furniture and any sad towel or item of clothing foolishly left outside.
They bring with them spiders, toads and giant cobwebs. They pollute our wine, our nostrils and the very air we breathe.
They are the proverbial fly in our pie.

Luckily they don't bite, and they only last a few weeks. But yeah, paradise could do without them!

what the what actually was that??

I was convinced I'd written a post about this, but I can't find it anywhere on the blog or in drafts so I guess that is just another sign of how stupidly out of it I've been these last ... shew, 6 weeks!

I find the phrase 'burnout' faintly embarrassing. The last time I really truly burnt out I was 25 (or thereabouts) working flat-out in the film industry, dealing with a really demanding boss and a super crazy job.
Burnout at 25 was vaguely impressive, I thought.
And as a result of it I did a lot of introspection and changed the whole direction of my career.

Burnout at nearly-40 just sounds old.

Things have been a little crazy around here right? A short (full!) break for Christmas and then on with the madness , two more shorter jobs straight after that one and then an epic birthday party and then guess what?
I got sick.
Obviously.

Pharyngitis.

I soldiered on for the wedding, sensibly getting myself on to proper drugs and feeling like a grown-up. But I was back at the doctor for more drugs 10 days later, still with glands like golf balls.
This time she gave me a Vitamin B shot too, to absolutely no affect.

3 days later, limp as a twice-dunked biscuit, I drove myself back one more time. I sat in the waiting room with my head resting against the wall, twice the receptionist asked if I'd like to lie down.

Blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol, anemia, glandular fever, thyroid, pregnancy etc etc etc - all results came back negative, fine, healthy.
I felt like shit.

And so the last few weeks have been. No energy, no brains, overwhelming thirst, short term memory loss, rubber limbs and sore head.
No real diagnosis except just ... fucked. And did I mention old?

I'm horrified that I haven't been able to keep the pace, somewhat ashamed that all that hard work - which I found so invigorating and energising - left me shattered and inert.

There has been some introspection (I've decided to blame the children) and some resolutions (I do need to get serious about my general health and fitness), but I refuse to contemplate a career change just yet.
I love what I do and I'm looking forward to doing a lot more of it soon.

And some more of this too!

Stronger every day - hurrah!

fri(e)da

I'm done with this piece.

I'm so happy with the eye, the hair, the whole face actually. But those damn flowers.
I'm done with them.

I've revisited this piece over and over for months now, I've redone those flowers 3 times, but I think it's time to walk away.
Be happy with what it is or move on (or back to) another project and apply the lessons learned.

Interesting for me is that going into this, I didn't expect the flowers to be the hard part. I was apprehensive of how to do her skin (it is so overwhelmingly smooth and flawless in the photo), her eye took me nearly 3 hours work (and I do love it), but I thought the flowers would be the easy part.

Clearly you stick 'n learn.

hot, okay ... warm, mama

The weather's been atrocious this last week or so. Real big winter storms with gale-force winds and rain squalls and ... hail!

It's impossible to relish winter in South Africa. Impossible for me anyway. All those 'winter delights' like open fires and red wine and hot chocolate and soup are tainted with thoughts of flooded shacks and cold children and desperate people.

I'm not a winter fan, I feel a growing dread as the nights draw in, but I can only imagine the fear of facing these harsh conditions completely exposed.

'The children, the children' someone tweeted this week, in a conversation about the weather and the homeless. But to be honest it's not the children who first break my heart.
It's the thought of the mothers, and their anguish at not being able to keep their kids warm and dry. I can't even go there, the guilt and pain and FURY of being unable to mother, due to circumstances so out of one's own control.

I met a young American girl this week, but from her name I could tell there was a connection to Africa. She said something about 'not having been back very often' and I asked her where she was originally from.
'Rwanda,' she said, 'we left when I was five.'
'1994?' I asked, and she nodded.
Instantly my eyeballs prickled, not at the thought of a five year old girl dislocated from her home, but at the thought of her mother, fleeing to save her children's lives.

Having my own children hasn't really made me feel differently about children, but becoming a mother has certainly made me feel for mothers, all mothers, the world over. And weeks like this make me realise anew that I have it so easy.

er ... what?

We're just finishing off our second long weekend in a series of three. Hard on the heels of the week long school holiday. With another public holiday on May 7th for the elections.

This sounds idyllic, and probably would be if I didn't have so much work to do, but frankly right now it's a pain in the arse.

I'm a mother, a wife, a housekeeper, myself and a service provider. I have four different clients. I have a limited number of working hours in the week. And now my weeks have a variable amount of days.

Frankly I'm feeling a little bit like this guy ... I think his expression says it all.

niggling

Things irritating the pants off of me right now:

- decorum - like, having to wear pants
- endlessly debating the state of education, and how it's apparently killing our kids creativity
- recycling, and the accompanying guilt of binning a plastic tub of mouldy hummus rather than scooping it out and washing it for the green bag
- anti-vaxxers, obviously
- having to re-examine every word in every conversation for fear of insulting somebody
- doing the 'right thing'
- not always being able to say fuck out loud.

Being PC and middle-class can be fucking boring.

Oh, and did I mention 'hurry up and wait' work contracts in which everything was sooooo pressing and urgent last week, but this week ... dead air.

Grrrrrr.

why can't we all just get along?

In the light of the atrocities happening in Uganda, and the recent distressing news from Arizona, picking up this in the waiting room at my GP's office was a real shocker.

What the actual fuck fuckitty fuck?

I calmly read it, photographed it, and folded it up under my arm when I went in to see the doctor. I asked her about it before we went any further with the consultation, it being a bit of a deal-breaker in the continuance of our until now valued doctor-patient relationship.
Thankfully she was as horrified as I, and clearly from her reaction already suspected which staff member was responsible for disseminating this filth.
Really left me with a horrid taste in my mouth (and not just from the antibiotics either).

On Monday I took the girls out for fish and chips and were seated behind a table of men, all speaking Afrikaans.
The girls don't provide much in the way of stimulating conversation while shoveling hot chips, so naturally I eavesdropped.
Turns out this bunch of friends were counselling one of their group as he prepared to come out to his family.

It was a wonderful conversation to listen in on. The young guy's angst was real, and that was sad, but his friends were amazing, offering such insightful and affectionate advice - telling bits of their own coming out stories and really working to help him overcome his fears.
There was some joking too, and teasing about the kind of questions he needed to prepare himself for:
'Who's the man and who's the wife?'
'When did you know?'
'Have you ever slept with a woman?'
The group all laughed wryly at these, and made comments on how straight people just don't get it do they?

We're all so different, negotiating our way through this crazy world. But we're all so similar too, we all just want to be happy, and accepted. Even poor old 'Janet' in the article above.
And we all need friends to help navigate our way along this journey.

I left feeling so happy that this guy had such good friends, whatever the reaction from his family will be, and saddened that 'Janet' has clearly distanced herself from hers, and maybe her chance to really be happy.

so.much.noise

I did a software upgrade on my phone recently. It's been really slow since then.
'Have you done a factory reset?' asks Husband.
'No, of course not.'
'You got to back everything up first.'
'How?'
'With Kies.'
'The Kies that keeps crashing my laptop?'
'Reinstall it.'
'So, uninstall it and then reinstall it on the laptop that keeps crashing?'
'Well, move to the PC I built you.'
'But before I do that I have to back up right?'
'Yeah ... well start with your phone and then everything else.'

Everything else.

I'm really too young to be a tech-philistine. I can't let it start intimidating me yet. I don't want to be that person. But jesus I'm tired of having to learn to do a new thing when I just want to draw a line under an old thing and get on with living my life.

The To Do pile wrt to Things To Back Up and Move and Save for Eternity just joins the list of all the other things that need Sorting Out.
Like my desk.
And the art room.
And the piles of junk I stashed in various cupboards before the birthday party on Saturday.
And the photos, don't get me started on the photos.
And the girl's closets.
And the toy room.
And the at least 5 projects I've got on the go.
And the upcoming contract I'm starting soon.
I could go on but really it's too boring.

Sorting out and backing up and clearing the decks is not how I want to live my life. Not. At. All.
All this stuff makes so much noise.

bleuurgh

A mid-summer, mid-season, mid-holiday head cold. Oh fucking joy.

Husband and I both.

On Boxing Day, after a gentle, lovely, but busy Christmas, we were only too pleased to be lounging around - reading books and eating chocolate and playing with new toys and suchlike.
Today, the novelty has severely worn off.

I get why some friends deactivate their Facebook accounts this time of year. If you're not having the Best Holiday Ever then the endless feed of Plett/Llandudno/sundowners/poolside/cocktails/roadtrips/bikinis can really get you down.

What's not getting me down however, are my children. My god they've been amazing. For sure there's a bit of cabin fever ... and I feel badly that we're not on the beach or up the mountain or on the water or making meaningful family memories besides reading Little House on the Prairie and watching The Long Way Down (wait, I think those are family memories actually) ... but they seem completely happy to play with each other. New paddling pool, mermaid Barbies, bows and arrows, Lego, camping on the lawn and gathering 'winter stores', feeding ducks, and mainly - playing with each other.

We may be sniffling and sneezing and feeling sorry for ourselves, but they're having a summer holiday. The old-fashioned way.

I'd call it 'subtweet' but the person I'm referring to isn't reading.

Man sits down at a bar. Small voice says, 'Nice shirt.'
Man looks around confused, catches the barman's eye who indicates with his head, 'It's the nuts,' he says, 'They're complimentary.'

Drum roll ...

The ability to take a compliment has become one of my measures of a person. The manner in which one receives a reasonable compliment speaks to your confidence, how comfortable you are in your skin or your stage of life - take it well and you're my kind of person.

I'm no gusher. If I tell you I like your laugh, your house, your hair or your mind, if I compliment your kids, your style, your ass or your driving skills, I'm being really sincere.

So it bugs me when people - adults - are too self-deprecating to take a compliment. Specifically people who have beautiful homes, good jobs, healthy families and the wherewithal to serve bloody good champagne.
I know that everyone has shit, I know that seemingly perfect lives can be deeply flawed, I know that people are not always who they seem.
But acknowledge your privilege. Count your blessings. Have the grace to take a good compliment on the chin.

Your hair looks amazing!

pre-menstrual

Full and tender, I carry this cup from room to room. Nothing must jar it.

Not the indignant shriek of a child, not a stubbed toe, not the last drop of milk in the house one drop too little for my tea.
Not a dog underfoot or a page printed skew or a hair in my shirt tickling me.

Sometimes it's a heavy chalice, set with jewels and laden with images of womyn, carved with stories of childbirth and fecundity throughout the ages.
Other months it's as inconsequential and irritating as a discarded styrofoam cup on the side of the road.

But when it's brimming, it must be carried with two hands and a studied frown. Nothing else must be poured into it.

Not a concern for the future, not someone else's bad luck, not a newspaper headline which brings tears and the perilous danger of giving a fuck.

This cup must be balanced and managed and held, until it is ready. And then in a wave of relief and blood, I can put it down and get on with my life.

on aging

I saw a photo of myself recently - a side-on of me smiling - and the lines around my mouth seemed to meet the crinkly lines from my eyes, drawing a circle around my face akin to those inside a tree trunk. An age line to count my years by.

Maybe it's short sighted of me (I believe that comes with age as well), but it so doesn't really bother me.

I've never been a `lotions and potions' kind of girl. I've bought one tub of anti-aging cream in my life - a panicked response to the first smile lines which appeared around my thirtieth birthday. I use a face cream with a SPF factor every day, but only because my skin feels tight and uncomfortable without it, not for any real hope of slowing the aging process.

I had my first facial a few months back. It was lovely, I really enjoyed the deep cleaning aspect of it, but after that I got a little bored with the host of creams and powders and 'deep tissue massage' thingies the therapist started applying to my face. Lying there with my eyes closed I was reminded of the scene in Love Actually where Rowan Atkinson's character is extravagantly wrapping the adulterous gift purchased by Alan Rickman.
How many more layers was this woman going to add to my face? A sprinkling of fairy dust maybe? A scoop of lavender? A cinnamon stick inserted in my nose?
At the end of the session she told me I should use a face cream with a higher aqua content, and suggested some complicated and radically expensive options. `Like aqueous cream?' I asked. She blanched.

I just can't get excited about that stuff.

And it's not like I've got particularly good genes in this department. I have wrinkles. I have bags under my eyes. I still get acne for gods sake.
But yet I can't bring myself to spend money on products to make me look younger (maybe I'm counting on the acne to do that ha ha ha).
I might be kicking myself in a few years time, but I reckon I'll take my chances.

other people's children

There is an astounding feeling of peace and restored equilibrium which descends over one when a person who has been, to whatever degree, tainting your days, exits your life.

Often, it is only once such a person leaves that one fully realises the impact they had on your general happiness, but in this case I was acutely aware day-to-day of how that happiness was being compromised, and it makes the peace on this side of the separation that much sweeter, that much ... happier.

Maybe a by-product of my years of working mostly from home, mostly with my children, but I count myself lucky that I've had relatively few opportunities to rue the presence of a particularly unpleasant person in my life (my own children don't count here).
I choose my friends well, I don't suffer fools, I don't compromise myself out of any sense of social obligation - those years of my life are over.
But all this makes me particularly annoyed when I do encounter an asshole, and find myself powerless to avoid them.

I'm not proud of myself that in this case the asshole was a child. But I'm also not afraid to say, with genuine sadness at the concept, that children can be assholes too.

Because of course it's never really their fault. Nature and nurture both play a roll and if you're conceived and raised by an asshole ... well then.

It wasn't made any easier by the fact that this kid was alarmingly smart, with a sense of humour which had me laughing despite myself, and a world view far beyond her years. Undoubtedly part of the problem.
And she was sweet, or she had real potential to be, but she was also mean, and cruel, and cuttingly shrewd.

I, we, just don't need that in our days. For a while, when I could envisage no way out of the situation which wouldn't cause major hurt and offence (discrediting, I'm not proud to admit, the amount of hurt and offence we were suffering from the association), I placated myself that is was better for my girls to learn how to manage an asshole in a controlled environment with their mother on by their side.

But actually no, there's time enough to encounter assholes. There's plenty of time before that to learn lessons in self-confidence, civility, self-worth and how to build boundaries before they need to put them into practice.

The kid is gone, it happened quite naturally and easily in the end, and our days are much pleasanter as a result.