Off to London ...
Be good.
x
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Sunday, October 04, 2009
the very best of friends (vol 3)
Growing up in a small coastal town as I did, life was for the most part all about surfing. Who did, who didn't, where, how (regular or goofy foot / boatman or doormat etc).
After my parents gave up driving me round the coast to a nice English-speaking private primary school every day, I finished my junior school days in our small verkrampt village school and finally, joyfully, moved on to the High School in the next town, a mythical place swarming with gorgeous surfers and the tantalising promise of a real teenage life (real = Beverley Hills 90210, of course).
We already knew, on our first terrifyingly intimidating day, to look out for 3 big boys in particular. The creme of the surfer crop whose reputations as bad boy surfer party dudes had preceded them down the coast to our little school.
I think, and hope, I'll never forget that moment, queuing up outside our new home-room, all outsized school blazers and knobbly knees, when a whisper spread down the row: 'Here they come! Here they come!' Girls and boys alike turned to watch in awe as the 3 of them strode past, achingly cool with their nonchalance and flippy hair. Two blondes and a brunette, they were the closest to celebrity most of us had ever come, and while I'm sure I wasn't the only one, right there on that spot I had an epiphany: the dark-haired one, he would be mine.
And get this: he is.
Granted it took a couple of years. He dated my then best friend (who my mother still cynically thinks I only befriended as her brother was one of The Three, thereby getting myself one step closer to my goal), and graduated 3 years before me, leaving town to do his (then still compulsory) military service.
I had the kind of high school experience one can only have in a small seaside town, a free, safe few years of crushes and endless summers and beach parties and girl friend dramas and a little bit of academia thrown in to the mix, and then one weekend he came back to town on military pass, and decided to take a chance on the girlie he'd always known had a crush on him.
And the rest is, quite literally, history.
I met my soulmate when I was 13, we started dating when I was 16, we got married 12 years later, and today we've been married for 6.
18 years together, and he's still one of my very bestest of friends.
I don't need to go into what you share in 18 years together, just the fact that its been the 18 years bridging teenagehood to grown-up parenthood says enough, and I can't do a big gushy post about what he means to me and count the ways I love him and yada yada, he's my guy, that's all there is to it.
But what I will say is that I think I've found the fountain of youth. For when I kiss him there's a moment there where once more I'm 16 on a beach somewhere, nervous and excited under the full moon, a moment where I'm 22 at an outdoor rave, ecstatic and uninhibited with thumping music and psychedelic lights, a moment where I'm 24, newly graduated from University and stepping off into the big wide world, I'm 26, baking on the rocks next to an idyllic mountain river, I'm 28, coming down the aisle before all our friends and family. I'm a first time home-owner, a small intimidated country girl starting University, I'm a dressed-up party queen, I'm a stressed-out event coordinator, I'm an awestruck first time mum.
On his lips is the taste of all of these versions of me, the lingering echo of the best years of my life (so far), and if there's one thing I know for sure, I will taste all of these there every time I kiss him until the last.
Happy anniversary babe. Love you.
After my parents gave up driving me round the coast to a nice English-speaking private primary school every day, I finished my junior school days in our small verkrampt village school and finally, joyfully, moved on to the High School in the next town, a mythical place swarming with gorgeous surfers and the tantalising promise of a real teenage life (real = Beverley Hills 90210, of course).
We already knew, on our first terrifyingly intimidating day, to look out for 3 big boys in particular. The creme of the surfer crop whose reputations as bad boy surfer party dudes had preceded them down the coast to our little school.
I think, and hope, I'll never forget that moment, queuing up outside our new home-room, all outsized school blazers and knobbly knees, when a whisper spread down the row: 'Here they come! Here they come!' Girls and boys alike turned to watch in awe as the 3 of them strode past, achingly cool with their nonchalance and flippy hair. Two blondes and a brunette, they were the closest to celebrity most of us had ever come, and while I'm sure I wasn't the only one, right there on that spot I had an epiphany: the dark-haired one, he would be mine.
And get this: he is.
Granted it took a couple of years. He dated my then best friend (who my mother still cynically thinks I only befriended as her brother was one of The Three, thereby getting myself one step closer to my goal), and graduated 3 years before me, leaving town to do his (then still compulsory) military service.
I had the kind of high school experience one can only have in a small seaside town, a free, safe few years of crushes and endless summers and beach parties and girl friend dramas and a little bit of academia thrown in to the mix, and then one weekend he came back to town on military pass, and decided to take a chance on the girlie he'd always known had a crush on him.
And the rest is, quite literally, history.
I met my soulmate when I was 13, we started dating when I was 16, we got married 12 years later, and today we've been married for 6.
18 years together, and he's still one of my very bestest of friends.
I don't need to go into what you share in 18 years together, just the fact that its been the 18 years bridging teenagehood to grown-up parenthood says enough, and I can't do a big gushy post about what he means to me and count the ways I love him and yada yada, he's my guy, that's all there is to it.
But what I will say is that I think I've found the fountain of youth. For when I kiss him there's a moment there where once more I'm 16 on a beach somewhere, nervous and excited under the full moon, a moment where I'm 22 at an outdoor rave, ecstatic and uninhibited with thumping music and psychedelic lights, a moment where I'm 24, newly graduated from University and stepping off into the big wide world, I'm 26, baking on the rocks next to an idyllic mountain river, I'm 28, coming down the aisle before all our friends and family. I'm a first time home-owner, a small intimidated country girl starting University, I'm a dressed-up party queen, I'm a stressed-out event coordinator, I'm an awestruck first time mum.
On his lips is the taste of all of these versions of me, the lingering echo of the best years of my life (so far), and if there's one thing I know for sure, I will taste all of these there every time I kiss him until the last.
Happy anniversary babe. Love you.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
walk. run! walk. run! run! run! walk.
The bizarre duality of busy life, and a toddler.
This is not a new theme of mine, but I'm still sometimes amazed at how the rhythm of my days flow, intrigued at how they would look plotted on a graph, tempted to get a podometer just to be able to map out the differences.
Time with Frieda is slow and measured. Not that she is at all - she's busy and unstoppably energetic - but it's slow in the sense of how productive I am, and feel. Frieda time is all about Frieda, and all about what Frieda does and doesn't want to do.
I'm okay with this, really I am. I do believe it's not only hugely beneficial for a young child to have this kind of time with a parent (and ditto the parent to slow down and experience life with a child), let alone a privilege these days, but as I'm not with her all day and every day, I happy for our time together to run at her pace, to allow for unexpected diversions, to not be too fraught with schedules and tasks and deadlines.
The flipside however is that time without Frieda is often m-a-n-i-c. Time in which I find myself driving around town with my filofax open on my lap for making quick lists and calls, time in which I'm continually on the run, time which is as precious and fleeting as an hour lying on the couch reading The Gruffalo, but so much more pressured.
And while most times I'm really happy with this double life, I really do wish that the contrast between them wasn't quite so drastic.
And I know, I know, that I bang on and on about this, but seriously, do we live in a goddamn beautiful city or what?
This is not a new theme of mine, but I'm still sometimes amazed at how the rhythm of my days flow, intrigued at how they would look plotted on a graph, tempted to get a podometer just to be able to map out the differences.
Time with Frieda is slow and measured. Not that she is at all - she's busy and unstoppably energetic - but it's slow in the sense of how productive I am, and feel. Frieda time is all about Frieda, and all about what Frieda does and doesn't want to do.
I'm okay with this, really I am. I do believe it's not only hugely beneficial for a young child to have this kind of time with a parent (and ditto the parent to slow down and experience life with a child), let alone a privilege these days, but as I'm not with her all day and every day, I happy for our time together to run at her pace, to allow for unexpected diversions, to not be too fraught with schedules and tasks and deadlines.
The flipside however is that time without Frieda is often m-a-n-i-c. Time in which I find myself driving around town with my filofax open on my lap for making quick lists and calls, time in which I'm continually on the run, time which is as precious and fleeting as an hour lying on the couch reading The Gruffalo, but so much more pressured.
And while most times I'm really happy with this double life, I really do wish that the contrast between them wasn't quite so drastic.
And I know, I know, that I bang on and on about this, but seriously, do we live in a goddamn beautiful city or what?
Friday, October 02, 2009
furkids
this little puppy got spayed
this little kitty had a tooth removed
and this little kitty got pissed off with everyone else getting all the attention and got herself a tail graft ...
All today. Ok, except the tail graft ...
[apologies to all 6 of you who are also facebook friends and have been subjected to this already]
Monday, September 28, 2009
weekend adventures and whale love
On Saturday morning I had reason to head out of town to attend an event up the coast. Due to high temperatures and excessive grouchiness I left Child home with Husband and set out on my own with the iPod set to stun and the delicious anticipation of a few hours to myself.
All was going well 'til I hit some hellish beginning-of-the-school-holiday traffic but just the fact that I wasn't sharing an over-packed SUV with a bunch of kiddies and their assorted paraphenalia was enough to keep my spirits up.
At last I broke free and got onto one of the most beautiful roads in the Cape (and this from a place with many, many exceptional roads), Clarence Drive (follow the link for some images which just about vaguely do it justice).
I've had a life-long relationship with this road. It was the most direct route from the small village where I grew up to anywhere resembling civilisation and when I first started school one of my parents would drive me, and a smattering of other (English speaking) local kids, along it to school and back everyday. We'd leave super early and I have memories of the drive in all kinds of weather, through all seasons. We saw baboons, seals, penguins, whales and once, a porcupine, all on the way to school. An education in itself. Less romantically I also remember many hours of car sickness along the drive's windy (and windy) bends ...
I practically learnt to drive on this road too, or at least perfected my technique. Through high school we braved it to and from a night out in the 'big city' (the next town, just enough bigger than ours to count as glamorous) and one of my favourite memories of the road is driving it very slowly in the rain while my cousin hung out the window manually operating the bust windscreen-wipers. Good times.
I was in a bit of a hurry this time though, so sped past two scrapping adolescent baboons without slowing down to watch, executed some masterful over-taking of slow tourist types and, with a pang of regret, had to keep driving even when I spotted a whole pod of whales close to shore in one of the bays.
I got to my destination with minutes to spare, just in time to proudly watch my Dad launch his new book, the biography of a wonderfully eccentric botanist who discovered all kinds of gorgeous fynbos in the region. I saw lots of people I've not seen since I was a child, had many little old ladies patting my baby bump and my cheek and reminiscing about how I used to run round their gardens stark naked. Ah, more good times.
Then after a huge cream tea and with a gathering storm darkening the sky, I headed off back home at a much more leisurely pace. And discovered the whales still frolicking in the bay.
Southern Right whales are an inherent part of my childhood. They come to the Cape every year between May-Oct to calve and the arrival of the whales was always a big deal for us. Spotting the first one of the season was an event celebrated with ice-cream, long cold windy walks along the coastal paths to spend time with them was part of our winter routine.
I have memories of watching them jumping and jumping and jumping out to sea, of sitting on the rocks with a giant whale eye surfacing just metres from us. I've countless surfer friends who tell tales of suddenly realising they were surrounded by them just beyond the break, I've one friend who had a whale surface right under him, lifting him on his board right up into the sky.
But since moving to the city I've not had nearly as many opportunities to hang out with whales, so on Saturday that's exactly what I did.
Still plugged into iPod, with no camera to distract me with trying to get a great shot, I stood on a rock for what felt like hours, being buffeted by the strong stormy gusts, and occasionally spat on by small flurries of rain, hanging out with whales. A big pod of mothers and calves, sheltering in the bay from the choppy seas further out, rolling and splashing and waving their tails, calling out to each other with those distinctive deep and melodius whale calls. Bliss.
After a while I noticed a path down through the milkwood trees, which seemed like it would get me closer to the sea, and thereby closer to the whales. I gamely set off, with the branches crashing round my head, but as soon as I got a little way I realised it was quite skanky down there, lots of rubbish lying around, and at a bend I saw that the path came to a dead-end so I quickly turned around to get out of there.
And turned straight into a branch. And poked my eye quite badly. And stumbled backwards. And by god very nearly stood in a pile of human shit. And had a little dry heave. And scrambled back up the path as fast as I could!
And waved goodbye to the whales with one streaming throbbing eye and retreated to my car out of the wind.
Stinky vile humans.
Lucky old whales.
But a couple of hours later, home to crawl into bed with Husband and Child curled up asleep together, to have lovely dahl and home-baked bread for supper, to watch a movie on the couch with my beloved, I was feeling that maybe human life wasn't so bad afterall ...
All was going well 'til I hit some hellish beginning-of-the-school-holiday traffic but just the fact that I wasn't sharing an over-packed SUV with a bunch of kiddies and their assorted paraphenalia was enough to keep my spirits up.
At last I broke free and got onto one of the most beautiful roads in the Cape (and this from a place with many, many exceptional roads), Clarence Drive (follow the link for some images which just about vaguely do it justice).
I've had a life-long relationship with this road. It was the most direct route from the small village where I grew up to anywhere resembling civilisation and when I first started school one of my parents would drive me, and a smattering of other (English speaking) local kids, along it to school and back everyday. We'd leave super early and I have memories of the drive in all kinds of weather, through all seasons. We saw baboons, seals, penguins, whales and once, a porcupine, all on the way to school. An education in itself. Less romantically I also remember many hours of car sickness along the drive's windy (and windy) bends ...
I practically learnt to drive on this road too, or at least perfected my technique. Through high school we braved it to and from a night out in the 'big city' (the next town, just enough bigger than ours to count as glamorous) and one of my favourite memories of the road is driving it very slowly in the rain while my cousin hung out the window manually operating the bust windscreen-wipers. Good times.
I was in a bit of a hurry this time though, so sped past two scrapping adolescent baboons without slowing down to watch, executed some masterful over-taking of slow tourist types and, with a pang of regret, had to keep driving even when I spotted a whole pod of whales close to shore in one of the bays.
I got to my destination with minutes to spare, just in time to proudly watch my Dad launch his new book, the biography of a wonderfully eccentric botanist who discovered all kinds of gorgeous fynbos in the region. I saw lots of people I've not seen since I was a child, had many little old ladies patting my baby bump and my cheek and reminiscing about how I used to run round their gardens stark naked. Ah, more good times.
Then after a huge cream tea and with a gathering storm darkening the sky, I headed off back home at a much more leisurely pace. And discovered the whales still frolicking in the bay.
Southern Right whales are an inherent part of my childhood. They come to the Cape every year between May-Oct to calve and the arrival of the whales was always a big deal for us. Spotting the first one of the season was an event celebrated with ice-cream, long cold windy walks along the coastal paths to spend time with them was part of our winter routine.
I have memories of watching them jumping and jumping and jumping out to sea, of sitting on the rocks with a giant whale eye surfacing just metres from us. I've countless surfer friends who tell tales of suddenly realising they were surrounded by them just beyond the break, I've one friend who had a whale surface right under him, lifting him on his board right up into the sky.
But since moving to the city I've not had nearly as many opportunities to hang out with whales, so on Saturday that's exactly what I did.
Still plugged into iPod, with no camera to distract me with trying to get a great shot, I stood on a rock for what felt like hours, being buffeted by the strong stormy gusts, and occasionally spat on by small flurries of rain, hanging out with whales. A big pod of mothers and calves, sheltering in the bay from the choppy seas further out, rolling and splashing and waving their tails, calling out to each other with those distinctive deep and melodius whale calls. Bliss.
After a while I noticed a path down through the milkwood trees, which seemed like it would get me closer to the sea, and thereby closer to the whales. I gamely set off, with the branches crashing round my head, but as soon as I got a little way I realised it was quite skanky down there, lots of rubbish lying around, and at a bend I saw that the path came to a dead-end so I quickly turned around to get out of there.
And turned straight into a branch. And poked my eye quite badly. And stumbled backwards. And by god very nearly stood in a pile of human shit. And had a little dry heave. And scrambled back up the path as fast as I could!
And waved goodbye to the whales with one streaming throbbing eye and retreated to my car out of the wind.
Stinky vile humans.
Lucky old whales.
But a couple of hours later, home to crawl into bed with Husband and Child curled up asleep together, to have lovely dahl and home-baked bread for supper, to watch a movie on the couch with my beloved, I was feeling that maybe human life wasn't so bad afterall ...
Saturday, September 26, 2009
shag ~ marry ~ kill
I had a nice clean wholesome post in mind for today but then I read this on Julochka's blog and I couldn't not play too ...
I was reminded of the time a good friend was playing Shag Marry Kill with other bored crew members on set during a night shoot. Naturally the subjects under consideration became their collegues, the hairy-back from the Lighting Dept or the overly-muscular Grip. I can imagine the squeals and giggles they tried to stifle as the game got out of hand.
All things considered they thought they were doing a fairly good job of remaining discreet 'til the foreign director wandered over from the other side of the set, he'd been well out of ear shot but obviously knew his stuff, he walked right up to them and casually asked: 'So would you shag, marry or kill me?'
Deafening silence.
So here goes, in no particular order ...
1. Bruce Willis ~ shag (I'm with Miss Buckle on this one)
2. Tom Cruise ~ torture slowly, then kill
3. Victoria Beckham ~ disfigure, then kill
4. George Clooney ~ wear down to a nub
5. MacGyver ~ marry (oh wait, I think I already did)
6. Jack Nicholson ~ shag, but probably best with the lights off
7. Sir Anthony Hopkins ~ marry
8. Cate Blanchett ~ shag
9. Bono ~ shag
10. Richard Gere ~ kill (with or without hamster)
11. Bob Marley ~ shag
12. Kevin Spacey ~ shag, then marry. And one day probably kill.
13. Stringer Bell from The Wire ~ shag
14. Ian McEwan ~ marry
15. Meryl Streep ~ marry
Nice clean post about whales tomorrow.
I was reminded of the time a good friend was playing Shag Marry Kill with other bored crew members on set during a night shoot. Naturally the subjects under consideration became their collegues, the hairy-back from the Lighting Dept or the overly-muscular Grip. I can imagine the squeals and giggles they tried to stifle as the game got out of hand.
All things considered they thought they were doing a fairly good job of remaining discreet 'til the foreign director wandered over from the other side of the set, he'd been well out of ear shot but obviously knew his stuff, he walked right up to them and casually asked: 'So would you shag, marry or kill me?'
Deafening silence.
So here goes, in no particular order ...
1. Bruce Willis ~ shag (I'm with Miss Buckle on this one)
2. Tom Cruise ~ torture slowly, then kill
3. Victoria Beckham ~ disfigure, then kill
4. George Clooney ~ wear down to a nub
5. MacGyver ~ marry (oh wait, I think I already did)
6. Jack Nicholson ~ shag, but probably best with the lights off
7. Sir Anthony Hopkins ~ marry
8. Cate Blanchett ~ shag
9. Bono ~ shag
10. Richard Gere ~ kill (with or without hamster)
11. Bob Marley ~ shag
12. Kevin Spacey ~ shag, then marry. And one day probably kill.
13. Stringer Bell from The Wire ~ shag
14. Ian McEwan ~ marry
15. Meryl Streep ~ marry
Nice clean post about whales tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
(wo)man's best friend
I'm not sure if this a southern hemisphere thing or just South African, but apparently someone (I have no idea who) decided in recent years to officially move the First of Spring from 1 Sept to 21 Sept, 'cos the weather's always so crap on 1 Sept that it was getting embarrassing ... (oh wait, I bet it was the Tourism Bureau who decided on the change, that'd totally be their style).
Anyhoo, after today I really can see why.
Still, warm, balmy, and at 7pm I took the dog for a walk in the gathering dark wearing Short Sleeves.
And here's where it's kinda nice to have a dog which looks really mean. 7pm. Gathering dark. Walking. Sadly not things a woman would usually do in my neck of the woods without a mean looking dog. And I wasn't alone.
I passed a number of women walking big dogs. Our eyes met. We nodded. Our dogs strained on their leads to touch noses. We were walking through the streets of Obs after sundown and we felt safe.
Sad maybe, but liberating none-the-less.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
epic parenting fail #3
'Mum, it's got hole in it.'
'Mmmm?' I'm distracted, checking supper in the oven, and don't look up. 'Careful here Frieda, the oven's hot.'
'Mum, it's got hole in it.'
I look up to see my 2 yr and 3 month old holding ... a scalpel.
I remain calm.
'Oooo sweetie, give that to Mum, it's very sharp. Not a toy.'
Different tone: 'Honey, care to explain how our daughter got hold of this?'
Husband blanches.
'MUMMY, it's got hole in it!'
We both swing round, her [incredibly ugly and impractical] bouncing ball [which we hate] is slowly sinking to the floor.
'Oh shame, its broken baby. See how dangerous that was? I'll just put this out in the rubbish bin, what a shame.'
All's well that ends well.
'Mmmm?' I'm distracted, checking supper in the oven, and don't look up. 'Careful here Frieda, the oven's hot.'
'Mum, it's got hole in it.'
I look up to see my 2 yr and 3 month old holding ... a scalpel.
I remain calm.
'Oooo sweetie, give that to Mum, it's very sharp. Not a toy.'
Different tone: 'Honey, care to explain how our daughter got hold of this?'
Husband blanches.
'MUMMY, it's got hole in it!'
We both swing round, her [incredibly ugly and impractical] bouncing ball [which we hate] is slowly sinking to the floor.
'Oh shame, its broken baby. See how dangerous that was? I'll just put this out in the rubbish bin, what a shame.'
All's well that ends well.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
a matter of perspective
The gods of Google are out to scupper me, that can be the only conclusion drawn. I promised myself I wouldn't get into a huge bitch about how phenomenally frustrating blogging (or attempting to blog) has been the last few months. Bit I think I might have to just a little bit ...
Admittedly my biggest hurdle has been my own general state of utter exhaustion, but the few times I have had the inspiration and energy to blog I've been sooooo frustrated by Blogger that I've often given up in a huff. I've lost posts, only been able to open a new post in HTMtothefuckingL, waited a gazillion years for pics to upload and all manner of other annoyances, and you know when blogging's not fun (read: easy), I'm more inclined to go to bed and read.
So I made the change to Firefox and was so inspired by the improvement that I thought I might actually get round to posting every day this week. Gasp!
To this end I wrote a wonderfully witty and cathartic post last night and scheduled it to publish this morning. I checked my blog after publishing and happy that the post was nowhere to be seen, snuggled up in cyber-space for the night, I went to bed.
This morning, before the time the post was supposed to be published, I started receiving comments on it. Um, what?
Went to my blog, not there.
For SOME REASON (yes, shouting), Blogger decided my post was better suited to the 29th of August. It clearly had more of a, you know, August feel.
All manner of efforts, including posting on the 'Something's Broken' feed of the Blogger Help Forum, have proved unable to rectify the problem. And I'm pretty sure Blogger's American so it can't have anything to do with my Pom-bashing right? Right?
But then, as so often happens, perspective comes along to kick one in the ass and point out just how insignificant your problems really are.
My little brother has mumps! Yup, that childhood disease we were all carefully innoculated against decades ago which has now mutated into a whole new virus and come back to take healthy 27 yr olds out at the knees (and, um, a little higher). The poor dude is in isolation in his house for a week, starting to closely resemble a greedy hamster and unable to eat anything except soup and yoghurt. And chocolate mousse.
Our other brother and I have been taking turns to re-up his soup and DVD supply, dropping a bag at the gate, ringing the doorbell and then quickly getting back into our cars and waving at him through the closed windows. Pretty bleak.
Or is it ... ?
Husband and I had a moment last night where we conveniently forgot about the pain and fever poor baby brother is experiencing and allowed ourselves to imagine a week of total isolation. Just you, a pile of books, a stack of DVDs, a mountain of chocolate mousse ...
Nah, I'm sure it sucks.
OR, you could be an innocent under-age flower seller in Pasadena, being pimped out by your mother to an older guy with creepy hands like on this postcard I received today via Postcrossing.
She doesn't even have the internet, or mumps probably, and I'll bet she's having a worse day.
Admittedly my biggest hurdle has been my own general state of utter exhaustion, but the few times I have had the inspiration and energy to blog I've been sooooo frustrated by Blogger that I've often given up in a huff. I've lost posts, only been able to open a new post in HTMtothefuckingL, waited a gazillion years for pics to upload and all manner of other annoyances, and you know when blogging's not fun (read: easy), I'm more inclined to go to bed and read.
So I made the change to Firefox and was so inspired by the improvement that I thought I might actually get round to posting every day this week. Gasp!
To this end I wrote a wonderfully witty and cathartic post last night and scheduled it to publish this morning. I checked my blog after publishing and happy that the post was nowhere to be seen, snuggled up in cyber-space for the night, I went to bed.
This morning, before the time the post was supposed to be published, I started receiving comments on it. Um, what?
Went to my blog, not there.
For SOME REASON (yes, shouting), Blogger decided my post was better suited to the 29th of August. It clearly had more of a, you know, August feel.
All manner of efforts, including posting on the 'Something's Broken' feed of the Blogger Help Forum, have proved unable to rectify the problem. And I'm pretty sure Blogger's American so it can't have anything to do with my Pom-bashing right? Right?
But then, as so often happens, perspective comes along to kick one in the ass and point out just how insignificant your problems really are.
My little brother has mumps! Yup, that childhood disease we were all carefully innoculated against decades ago which has now mutated into a whole new virus and come back to take healthy 27 yr olds out at the knees (and, um, a little higher). The poor dude is in isolation in his house for a week, starting to closely resemble a greedy hamster and unable to eat anything except soup and yoghurt. And chocolate mousse.
Our other brother and I have been taking turns to re-up his soup and DVD supply, dropping a bag at the gate, ringing the doorbell and then quickly getting back into our cars and waving at him through the closed windows. Pretty bleak.
Or is it ... ?
Husband and I had a moment last night where we conveniently forgot about the pain and fever poor baby brother is experiencing and allowed ourselves to imagine a week of total isolation. Just you, a pile of books, a stack of DVDs, a mountain of chocolate mousse ...
Nah, I'm sure it sucks.
OR, you could be an innocent under-age flower seller in Pasadena, being pimped out by your mother to an older guy with creepy hands like on this postcard I received today via Postcrossing.
She doesn't even have the internet, or mumps probably, and I'll bet she's having a worse day.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
that weekend I was talking about
There's a farm in the Cederberg mountains, about 3 and a half hours drive from Cape Town, which my family has been visiting for decades. It's a big farm, set in a region which gets cold and very dry in winter, and hot and very, very dry in summer.
But inbetween, in those now fleeting seasons which do a below average imitation of what we once called autumn and spring, this area is Heaven.
The air up there has a texture. The feel of it against one's skin and coursing through one's lungs is a caress, a deeply satisfying tangible experience, a feeling one's body remembers and can recall even when back in the crowded, stinky city.
It's a place to recharge, to relax, a place to wallow in. And so we did, once more, this last weekend.
The part of the farm we stayed on is called Sevilla. Thus named because the current farmer's father bought it for her while she was travelling through Spain as a young woman. I think knowing that adds to the specialness of the place.
Completely out of character I forgot to take my camera (doh!), so these are some shots borrowed from others.
Omg, two concurrent posts. Wtf?
One word: Firefox. Why has it taken me so long to accept it?
But inbetween, in those now fleeting seasons which do a below average imitation of what we once called autumn and spring, this area is Heaven.
The air up there has a texture. The feel of it against one's skin and coursing through one's lungs is a caress, a deeply satisfying tangible experience, a feeling one's body remembers and can recall even when back in the crowded, stinky city.
It's a place to recharge, to relax, a place to wallow in. And so we did, once more, this last weekend.
The part of the farm we stayed on is called Sevilla. Thus named because the current farmer's father bought it for her while she was travelling through Spain as a young woman. I think knowing that adds to the specialness of the place.
Completely out of character I forgot to take my camera (doh!), so these are some shots borrowed from others.
One of the cottages near ours (ours was nicer : p)
29 degrees on Saturday necessitated some river time.
A novel way to heat croissants without an oven.
Some more of those crazy rock colourations.
Omg, two concurrent posts. Wtf?
One word: Firefox. Why has it taken me so long to accept it?
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