Frozen Vegetables and The Great Film Debate

WOW - you'd swear I'd forgotten this blog existed it's been so long!! But now that I've found my feet (and I can only say that in a figurative sense, because my swollen belly is so full of child that I can only rely on memory as to what my feet look like --- though maybe it's a good thing I can't see my tootsies - they're probably fat with water-retention!)

Since my last day of work, and with Craig also being on holiday, we've done little but eat, sleep and rest! Craig has a thing for TV, which unhappily, I do not share. Whether it's Jerry Springer, Judge Judy or Trawlermen, the TV seems to be perpetually on, with its glare of colour and Yankee twanging. (Or maybe I'm just a bit grumpy?!) But there really is very little to do in this area - especially in comparison to how we used to live back home in Cape Town where we were hard-pressed to actually make a choice between fun things to do! Maybe that's why the Brits spend so much time (and money) in their beloved pubs?

OK - let me make a list of potential fun activities to prove I am at LEAST trying not to continue wallowing in this pit of bleak despair:

1. Take our new 'Travelsystem' (pram and/car seat) for a walk around the village in practice for Layla's arrival. (To crank up the Fun Factor, maybe we could strap a squirming Max into it?! Running after him if he escapes could be quite fun!! Or let me rephrase that: watching Craig run, swearing, after Max into the bright blue yonder between sheep and prickly hedges could be quite amusing!!!)

2. Have a Flokati Furball Race. We start at either ends of the lounge, on hands and knees, and race to see who can pick up the most number of fluffy white fur balls our flokati rug sheds as though there were no tomorrow.

3. Max Drolletjies Race. This game would follow the same rules, except it would be Max's hard little non-smelly vegan poos we'd be picking up.

(You see, I'm already running out of ideas!) Outside, twilight is quietly creeping over what is left of the setting gold sunlight of the afternoon even though it's only 1:58pm. But today we are in luck: we have two DVDs which arrived in the post this morning from LoveFilm.com - one for Craig, one for me. 'Harold & Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay' and then 'Amores Perros'. On a beer-rating (i.e. the number of beers needed in your bloodstream for the film to actually BE funny), I reckon 'Harold & Kumar' must be about an inebriated 8. (Meanwhile, I can only sip a sobering cup of tea to keep me company during this grand epic of a film!) However, there is nothing more delectably luxurious than sipping a glass of fiercely rich Rioja or Pinotage during a dark and beautiful art film... But that's more to do with atmosphere than duping my brain into being entertained - or am I kidding myself? Admittedly, there have been some rather obscure and pathetically cerebral art films I've forced myself to endure in the name of artsy-fartsy intellectualism - but all made possible by those one and usually more glasses of red wine!

And now maybe it's time for a bath (I think I should rather have said 'a wallow') and then time to consider our evening meal (perhaps another activity I can add to my Fun List above?! "Who Can Devise the Tastiest Meal Out of What's Left Over in the Freezer"? Bonus points if you don't use the Tesco Value Frozen Mixed Veg that's been haunting the back alleys of the deep freeze for too, too long..)

A Week of Work!

YIPPEEEEE!!! YAHOOOO!!! HURRAY!! At long, long last I have some work from Protocol Education!! From tomorrow till the next Friday I'll be a teacher's assistant at Avondale Junior School in Kettering - and why exectly I'm telling you is because I'll probably be too tired to write in the evenings -- my blog will be stuck in limbo for awhile. Though, who knows, I may just have a story I'll be bursting to tell you!

Until then, keep the comments and stories rollin' in, folks! And, while you have some time, why not explore my other blog listed just here to the right? See it?

Hush little baby, don't say a word...

At the rude sound of the alarm at 6.30 this morning, I was instantly transformed into that belligerent, abusive 4 year old I apparently once was when it came time to wake up and go to school. Generally a sweet-tempered child (I think?) waking up was not one of my favourite things – and my poor dear mother tired of the cross little girl who kicked and lashed out at her to be left alone that she sent in My Father. Surely he wouldn’t tolerate these waking tantrums?
Sweet birdsong the music on the fresh morning air, it looked to be a perfect summer’s day – except for the dark stormcloud of a little girl that needed waking for preschool. As if it were yesterday, I can still feel my eyes clamped so determinedly shut that they may as well have been superglued closed with my desire to stay asleep. Even the duvet is something still so tangible, so real, that it is billowed softly around me like the warmest hug – but in walks my dear dad to end this perfection. He is irritatingly chirpy so that I want to sling him an evil look from my heavy lids but am too lazy to do even that! I remain locked in my sleepy cocoon in the vague hope that he’ll disappear. But no, he sits down carefully on the bed. Lovingly and gently shaking my shoulder and saying, ‘Come on, Lees, time for school.” Grrrr… and I can even hear a sunny smile in his voice which only fuels my four year old fury some more.
“It’s a beautiful day! Wake up!”
Nothing.
“Open your eyes, my darling.”
Nada.
“Lees, just have a look at me!”
This went on for some time, and I knew I could only be a little shit for so long before incurring some serious parental wrath. Wrenching my eyelids apart and twisting round from under my duvet, lo and behold, but what did I see? NOT my father! But a strange man grinning at me like a mad clown in his 1980s white safari suit. The fright lasted only a second, before the laughter spilled from in great big gusts, making me forget all about my quest to sleep in! Daddy had shaved off his omnipresent moustache!! And now his embarrassingly bare, smiling upper lip had me in stitches that to this day I could never, ever forget.

Staying on the subject of dads, let me tell you about my darling Craig and how he kept me up for a hefty chunk of the night with his turbulent, sigh-filled tossing and turning. At one point, I found myself poking him repeatedly in the ribs and threatening him with my most menacing, midnight voice, each word punctuated with a stabbing finger: “If (poke) you (poke) DON’T (harder poke) keep (poke) still (poke)…” and here I realised I was trying to intimidate him with something I’m sure he couldn’t care less about in his slumbering state: I was going to get out of our bed and go sleep in the spare bed in the spare room – until I realised I was too much of a coward to climb under those stiff, icy covers!
Our conversation this morning: Craig smiling, his eyes crinkling with being happy I was up with him – and me, haggard and unrepentantly grumpy, like a starving, mangy lioness waiting in the shadows to spring savagely upon her prey!

Lisa: “So, tell me, WHY were you so fidgety last night? You kept me awake, you know.”

Craig:(Sheepish look ) “I dreamed the baby was here already and she was crying and crying. WHEEEEEEHHHH, WHEEEEEEEH.”
I turn my nose up in a disgusted sneer at what he thinks a baby sounds like.


Craig: “And every time she cried, I turned around and knew that you’d get up to see to her.”

Lisa: “Nice one, Craig. Great stuff.” My arms are folded in an exaggerated display of horror and derision.


Hell – and Craig’s a naturally paternal kinda guy. Imagine what other men must be like!? Oh well. It’s just a dream. The reality is this: Layla Rose will be sleeping in our room for the first few weeks of our life what with my mom and his folks visiting: and he will NOT be able to simply turn over when she cries: he will be wide, wide awake, and I shall have my revenge.

On Writing

After my file was 'cleared' by Protocol Education last week, I was so hoping to be able to work every day this week: but, hell's bells, nothing's happened so far today. So while subconsciously I'm holding thumbs for a call from them, I've been working steadily at my writing - and this doesn't just mean the actual process of putting words down, but the checking of my blog stats, readership levels, what forms of publicity are working etc. It also means hunting for the right kind of places on which to have my blog listed, and also being a regular participant in forums on these sites... (sigh) A lot of elbow grease and wrist-strain and screen glare to get more and more people reading what I write.
It's a strange thing, this, to be a writer. Some days I feel like all I do is pontificate and sprout general bull**** about me, me and more of me. But then on other days, I feel like if I don't write about a certain story, I'll just explode with NOT sharing it! Some days are filled with dark, ugly doubts which eat away at my self-confidence when I wonder what everyone thinks when they get a "Lisa Has Updated Her Blog" email in their inbox. Is it a case of, "Oh noooo!!! Not AGAIN!" or something else? I subscribe to a fair number of blogs - and must admit that I am not a regular reader as much as one that reads when she has time. I suspect that's the case for almost everyone, hey?
Though I've bitched and moaned about not having any work since I arrived in the UK, it has been a lifechanging time of reflection and discovery for me: I am a writer almost more than I am an artist! And yes, I studied art at university and I've been calling myself an artist since I can remember - but I've learned that writing is the skin in which I feel the most comfortable - and the work is so much more satisfying than the art EVER was... I write every single day - and it feels like good, hard labour to me! Yet with my art and drawing, it was always this fight inside me to get anything out...
OK. Enough about that! Time to get some more of that paint scraped off the old, delicate carvings on the wardrobe for Layla Rose's nursery before heading off into the bleak darkness of the late afternoon to pick Craig up from school...

The Fine (and Expensive) Art of Fly Fishing

I guess there's really no need to discuss the weather as we're slap-bang in the middle of the English autumn - but, as a friend of mine commented on my Soutpiel blog, once you've lived in England, you automatically contract, like a flu, the British habit of constantly discussing the weather as though they'd sneezed on you! In all the years I've been keeping a handwritten journal, almost every single entry begins with a line or two dedicated to The Weather.

Wobbly and thick, the glass in the big bay windows of our bedroom is the original glass from when the house was built! Thick, gooey layers of white, gloss enamel painted reverently again and again over the years have permanently sealed the other two sash windows shut - but today its warm enough to not have the central heating on -- one window invitingly open to the fresh countryside air. The sweetest birdsong floats in to me through this gap reminding me of how lucky I am to have landed with my bum in the butter: this gorgeous, spacious old house that somehow feels like it is happy! And the views from our windows of the natural, seasonal rhythms of the farms rolling through their cycles of harvest, planting, toil and rest. Also - our landlord: one Julian Davies who struggles to keep his eyes off my chest but has the most robustly generous heart of gold! In the first few months, while Craig was on his starting salary, we were struggling a little to make ends meet but said nothing to anyone about it; so how dear Julian knew, is STILL a mystery, but he paid our 124GBP council tax for us that one month! We've also been to a delicious braai at his house -- with so much red wine that he fell asleep at the table despite my low-cut, figure hugging blouse! I also sing with his partner, Katie, in the village choir. (Gosh! By no means did I set out to write about these two - but they really are quite an interesting bunch - so shall I just go with the flow then?)

Julian called a few minutes ago to ask if it was ok if he were to pop round this evening to retrieve a few fishing rods from the loft. (His voice always makes me feel warm inside, like I'm sitting next to a gentle, crackling fire in an old little village pub! And then I wonder how my voice makes him feel? Like standing next to a foghorn-tooting tug in the harbour? When I called his shop the other day to say we'd be coming by, he knew immediately it was me! My South African accent? I'd like to say it simply must be the undeniable sweetness and sincerity that sing from my vocal chords - but in all probability, I'm sure it's just my South African twang.) He and his boet own two fishing and hunting shops -- one in Kettering, one in Northampton (http://www.gilderscountrysports.co.uk/)

On weekends and holidays, I moan at Craig as he hovers, ants in his pants, between Facebook on the laptop or something random on TV, about not having a healthy, constructive hobby. His constant rebuttal is : " I do! I love fishing!" (his face a mirror of his wounded, insulted heart!) Alas, with not having that much spare cash ever floating around for expensive hobbies as these, his weekends were declared a fishing-free zone - until a month or so ago when he spent a very macho weekend of fishing and shooting-anything-that-moved-with-a-little-beebee-gun in the forest with his brother: and he finally splashed out and purchased a very fine rod and reel for pike fishing. The ugliest freshwater fish on the planet, rivaling only the nightmarish barbel, Craig and Gary caught some quite easily, throwing them, very sportingly, back (with hooks and lures left, not quite so sportingly, twisted in their guts!) Apparently it is only the French who appreciate the finer, muddier culinary perfection of pike flesh - no surprise there what with their predilection for frog's legs etcetera!

A little bored, I think, with the lack of challenge presented by pike fishing, Craig and Gary's next step was to attempt the fine (and expensive) art of flyfishing! A couple of miles down the road, nestled between the farms and little villages, lies Pitsford Reservoir where sailing and fishing are as popular as the walking and cycling routes around its perimeter. And so the boys hired a small engined boat for the day from the Pitsford Fishing Lodge, as well as flyfishing rods which, by the end of the day, were blamed for their rudimentary quality (i.e. not a single trout was caught between the two of them!) However (and here I heave a big sigh of feminine confusion and mild annoyance) this gave them both the perfect excuse to spend exhorbitant amounts of money on buying 'the right equipment'. Hence our abovementioned visit to Julian's shop in Northampton!

The shopfront stands out from all the other high-street signage by being magnificently classy and old-school. Deep forest green overlain with gold lettering in the kind of style that just oozes sophistication and, well - expensive taste. A dark, quaint little doorway opens up into a posh and cosy, oh-so-English-dear cave of camouflage and tweed, rows of bottle-green rubber boots and all sorts of hats that are not meant to make one look like a fashion victim - i.e. the elephant-like ear flaps keep your ears either warm or sun-free! A chatty little mouse of a woman, Jill, helps a customer with obvious knowledge and natural enthusiasm - and I later learn her and her husband have been friends with Julian for more than thirty years! She, a retired primary school teacher, and Graham - an ex-headmaster, met Julian he attended Graham's ceramic workshop early in the 1970s! Graham, balding and kindly, manned the glittering glass cases of 'flies' -- somewhat amused by my excited announcement I wanted to turn them into earrings and brooches because of their exquisite, colourful and intricate beauty. (Oh yes, I forgot to mention that upon our arrival, Julian wandered in from the store-house section at the back of the shop with his steaming cup of tea only because he heard me all the way back there behind the closed doors! Embarrassing? Nah --- I'm used to it! A lifetime of incurring this sort of reaction and my father affectionately calling me 'Hoeterbek' has somewhat numbed my levels of sensitivity.)

The expert deftly set Craig up with all the right kit, gear and tackle while I daydreamed how I'd keep the look of the hook on the flies while removing the sharp danger of it - my jeweller sister would know! Julian gave Craig a whopping great big discount that left me looking like a gaping barbel at the till - throwing in some of the most popular flies for free and lending him a brand-new, unopened dvd to watch! He is one of those people who you just can't help but feel proud to know - and pleased for their success in life because they deserve it so completely! (This is Julian on one of his many fishing adventures to all sorts of exotic places - this time in Cuba.)

Back to Katie now. Her and Julian were both married before. Julian is divorced, while Katie was prematurely widowed -- and though Julian is like a lovestruck boy with wanting to marry her, she's one of these superbly independent but still wonderfully feminine women: she has a timeless sense of graceful beauty I know I shall one day envy. The first time we met was on paper - a gorgeously scribbled note torn from her diary, welcoming us into the house her and Julian had renovated in a mad hurry for us! Mysteriously and for quite a few weeks, she was adventuring in Peru, until at last we met in the car when she picked me up for my first night of choir. Petite and just curvy enough, she'd recently cut her long, long hair into a sleek bob - but what you notice most about Katie are her eyes and her smile: they both seem magically connected like the moon and the stars in the night sky of her face. Originally a doctor, Katie then specialised in opthamology - but is now retired and organises all sorts of village gatherings in between gardening and travelling to obscure countries!

Well. Phew! I didn't get even within a million miles of what I was originally going to write about - but I hope this sated your appetite?

PS. Craig's fancy flyfishing equipment and perhaps his natural affinity for the sport, landed him the biggest trout of the month! Gary also caught one (he, too, succumbed to the lure (no pun intended) of purchasing more sophisticated equipment) which they gutted and cooked - though the look on Gary's face when I asked him how it tasted needed no extra words: his face crumpled into "yech", "muddy", "dirty" and "I'm so disappointed!" Craig's prize trout languishes in the bottom of our freezer while he hunts for the elusive cookie tin big enough so he can smoke it a la Jamie Oliver...

Adios!

Having resisted the the almost overwhelming temptation to gobble a mince pie for breakfast, I instead had a leisurely and healthy breakfast to fill me up for our journey down to Portsmouth to visit a darling friend I haven't seen in almost 3 years! So, till Friday, adios ;)]

DIY -- at your peril!

My first scrumptious mince-pie of the Christmas season (make that two, actually) in my tum and I'm just about ready to hit The Nap Zone - a critical time of day for me these days if I am to survive through an evening of dinner, some random television show(s) and my usual spot of pre-slumber reading!

This afternoon, B&Q was pumping! Their usual, weekly singular till-point was abuzz with uniformed cashiers whizzing away cash and credit cards from the lines and lines of waiting customers, all visibly itching to get back home to their DIY. Yes, 'tis the season to be merry, but also the season to be painting, stripping, sanding... Winter seems to be the time when the British are suddenly consumed by an unquenchable desire to redecorate - and so often incurring both decorating and first-aid disasters! High-powered tools zing and pound and churn through plaster and wood, and arms, legs and fingers... It reminds me of a fellow student at art school who took a university anglegrinder home with her to catch up on her lackadaisicality regarding our latest sculpture project: laminating layers of inch-thick Supawood into a grand, imposing block of it - and then carefully tearing into it with anglegrinders, saws and chisels that would look more at home in a butchery! A zol or three later, her laminated woodblock calling to her and she was ready to begin! With the anglegrinder tucked inbetween her thighs, she reached behind her to turn the machine on at the wall. ZZZZZZZWWWWWWWWWWWWWIIIIIIIIINNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! The person who'd last used it had neglected to turn the actual anglegrinder off - and the monstrously sharp blades were churning and chunking ever deeper into the meat of her thighs! (She recounted this gorey tale, mascaraed lashes blinking through the acrid blue smoke of her cigarette, in a comically detached voice - lifting up her wide cotton Indian skirt to reveal two fat cotton pads taped to each thigh - oily Betadine seeping through the gauze...)

I didn't buy an anglegrinder at B&Q - my power-tool days are long over - but filled my basket with a slimmer, sharper steel paintscraper, some nastily cheap (and soon to be moulting) paintbrushes and a shockingly expensive tub of ultra-sophisticated paint stripper. 10quid as opposed to 5quid - but with needing to keep this baby inside me safe from fumes, 5quid was worth the extra expenditure! Paint stripper I've used in the past was lethal!! While you got high applying the stuff and waiting for the paint to bubble and ooze up from the wood beneath, you risked suffering searing chemical burns if some accidentally landed on your skin. THIS paint stripper is a thick gel which needs to be painted on in a 1mm thick layer - then left to dry overnight. (Great news for me - I can work super-duper fast in small sections at a time, then close the door behind me, having left the sash window wide open to breathe!) The layer of stripper absorbs the paint off from the wood into a crusty, crumbly layer which is easily scraped or brushed off. Voila! C'est trop facile, no?! But first, that nap I was going on about... zzzz...zzzzzzzzzzzz....

Dr Who?

"BUGGER!?! %$@*!!!!" --- delightful language for a young mother-to-be, admittedly - but I honestly didn't expect SUCH heavy traffic at 9 in the morning - especially when I was only just on time too! A long line of blinking, winking red brake lights stretched as far as the eye could along that pin straight road into Northampton, while visions of me doing arm-wrenching three-point-turns out of too-full hospital parking lots made me shudder and, I'm ashamed to admit, swear a little more.

Either the time-angels or the traffic-angels were on my side that morning, because we arrived with plenty of time to spare - AND finding a parking spot right in front of the antenatal clinic itself! Voila!
A petite orange lady (her stiff hairsprayed bob matched her orange blouse EXACTLY - a bit odd, really) took my maternity notes from me, and when I reached into my folder to retrieve my still warm wee-sample for her (she'd asked for it!!) she recoiled in matronly horror! I felt like saying in a bit of hormone-aggravated indignation, "Listen lady - then why did you ask me: 'And do you have your urine sample for me?'" Honestly...
Craig settled down with a magazine into the much more homely, warm waiting room compared to the cold sanitisation of the scan department's. The proliferation of 'Mommy & Baby' magazines sprawled endlessly over the tables irritated me somehow. Did they think that just because you're pregnant that's all you're interested in? That your brain has shrunk to a decrepit, useless walnut?! Anyway, it didn't matter because I was called soon enough by a waddling sweetie of a nurse with eyes that twinkled kindly. She showed me into a neat little room that was NOT what I expected at all!

Little Diversion: This is another aspect of what I've called The Soutpiel Phenomenon: the dysjunction between your South African expectations and the English reality. You see, our expectations are naturally based on our past experience and knowledge gained from heresay, newspapers, television etc - and my experience of visiting a gynaecologist and what my friends have told me about their visits just did NOT coincide with what happened in that Northampton antenatal clinic! What did I expect? To be seen, solely, by a snazzily dressed gynaecologist in a plush, modern office, including a thorough physical examination and open chat. What happened instead? Well...

Sweet nurse Julie had me sit on the paper-covered examination table, and took my blood pressure - smiling at the very healthy reading. Next she checked my urine sample - also nice 'n healthy. "Please lie back on the bed so we can listen to baby's heartbeat!" Now THIS was a surprise! Once again in a state of utter maternal ecstasy, I strained to hear my baby's sprinting-stallion heartbeat - and then suddenly remembered Craig was out in the waiting room - still bereft of this experience... "Could I call my fiance? He hasn't heard our baby yet!"
"Of course, love!" and Nurse Julie beamed proudly as though she were my own mom!

Like an unembarassed schoolgirl with the best news in the world, I ran into the waiting room to grab an unsuspecting Craig by the hand - literally dragging him into the nurse's cubicle. Craig's face lit up with a light I can only describe as brandnew daddy-love when our baby's heartbeat eventually made its sonic appearance (after hiding almost deliberatelt away down in the deepest dark depths of his home! Oops - did I say 'his'?)
Nurse Julie slipped out to call Dr Aldritch -- and with that kind of name, I was rather taken aback when in walked a stocky, smiling Nigerian man! Very quickly and politely he explained he was the new registrar under Dr Aldritch and would be talking to me about my pregnancy's progress and the medication I'm on. No qualms there - he did a fabulous job though was interrupted by a cellphone call about a delivery ---- not the the kind of delivery you'd expect from a gynae: a delivery to his house! He then said he'd briefly consulting Dr Aldritch before we were free to go. Dr Aldritch appeared a few short minutes later alongside his African protogee - in a pink shirt and an even pinker tie nogal spotted with little daisies! Casually leaning against the doorway, he reassured us with a grand sort of proficiency my pregnancy and baby were progressing wonderfully and that he honestly felt no concern regarding my meds -- but that he'd let 'the paediatrician' know about it anyway. Righty-ho! Next appointment: only on the 22nd of December. What a relief!

Though the experience didn't nearly begin match my expectations, I can't say I was specifically disappointed, nor was the experience a bad one. After all, we both left smiling like happy, reassured parents-to-be! March can arrive now - I am relieved and pleased as punch I chose Northampton hospital (despite its naughty nurse posing topless on Facebook and its random shootings! Curious - see "Health & Safety?!" at http://thesoutpielphenomenon.blogspot.com )

O wat 'n skande, Mevrou Oosthuysen!

Today the sun has won its fierce battle against the predicted days and days of atrociously grey, wet weather! And only because I can, did I spend the morning in bed, listening to music and sipping tea and dismantling Sunday's newspaper - hunting for anything that would tickle my fascination - but more particularly, for something that I could use as a departure point for my next Soutpiel entry. All that really related to South Africa was a paltry side article on the British government wanting to clamp down on immigrants coming into the UK and a more elaborate section with full colour photos of (gasp!) a scandalised South African-born MP! One Ms Oosthysen and her lie through omission: "They never asked me if I had a police record. I would have told them had they asked!"

Her crime? Scratching her ex's car with her keys in a bit of a rage -- but unfortunately caught in CCTV camera...

Having thought my registration and application with Protocol Education was complete, and waiting as patiently as possible for work - I was mildly annoyed that they needed yet another certifying document: this time, a South African police record certificate (something I have NEVER been asked for! And which, rather stupidly, left me feeling blushing and indignant!) But, seeing as Protocol Education are one of the top employment agencies for teachers and supply teachers, with international offices in Cape Town, Canada and Australia, their standards are impeccable: they have to see originals of every single document! Thankfully, my mom could just zip over to the Cape Town office to show them my original university degree certificate: very, very handy indeed!
Their Cambridge office is a claustrophobic 6 miles away from Soham - the school janitor, Ian Huntley, who abducted and murdered two young girls a few years ago. There was a huge uproar - not least because his criminal record, which had plenty to worry about, hadn't been checked...

Tonight is a TV night - a rare occurrence for me because I usually steal off to bed to luxuriate in whatever novel I've got my nose stuck in! After a supper of a pasta I'm yet to feel excited about (neighbour Ang joining us), we'll watch Gok Wan's Miss Naked Beauty, followed by what looks like a fabulously detailed and glossy documentary about British fashion (bring on Galliano, Vivienne Westwood et al) and then another documentary: this time, an investigation into what women will resort to for love - looking this week at polygamy in the United States!

Tomorrow will be a day dedicated to writing, writing and more writing - so expect more news, epic sagas and tall tales very, very soon!

Staying in touch...

After a week of the most unseasonal but GLORIOUSLY warm sunshine, the grey skies are back to haunt us with rain, rain and more rain. At 14C it's not as bitterly cold as that icy snap that made me so miserable I had to turn the central heating on!
My friend, Ang, gave me a lekker warm coat (I was REALLY that miserable it must've shown on my face) but it won't fit over this ever-expanding belly for much longer. In fact, a quick shop-around on the weekend didn't render many coats that are in the 'tent' shape I was so hoping to find... The only ones available to me now are the maternity ones. The maternity wear shops all think us pregnant females must be desperate and/ stupid! WHO, in their right, pregnant or non-pregnant mind would pay the prices they're asking?? But hell - maybe I will end up succumbing to their arm-twisting extortion because I NEED TO BE WARM!!! Even if it means paying 100 squidoodles for a massive black tent that makes me look like I'm hiding an entire Tesco grocery shop inside it?! (Work has been very, very slow in the offering: one day of work in almost two months... But now that I've signed up with another agency, I should be able to afford The Tent after a few weeks.)

Craig's daily reading of the P.E Herald newspaper (he can't actually go to sleep at night if he hasn't read it) has prompted me to begin the same habit in the frantic hope it'll help curb this snowballing homesickness. Yesterday was my first day. This is what I discovered: my second-cousin, Luke Watson, called Afrikaners 'Dutchmen' and is now suffering the cold shoulders of all the Boks. Admittedly I do feel a little defensive on his part for two reasons. One, he is my second-cousin (though I only remember playing with him as a tiny tot at Storms River more than 20 years ago) and two, haven't so many of us said the same thing?! OK, yes, yes... he was a bit of a poephol for doing it so publicly...

The other thing I discovered was so ugly and gruesome that it stayed with me all the day long, like a seething, pounding pain in the back of my head. Four little Xhosa boys were conned into helping a stranger catch a stray fox - but then raped them and made three of them watch while he butchered the one little boy... removing eyes, intestines, a part of his tiny little pinkie finger...
If only I could set up a filter on the news sites. If only. One of my reasons for reading the news is that I can feel more connected to my country - and also to acquaint myself with the true 'climates' of the country: political, social, economic. And I suppose that means keeping an open mind and taking it ALL in. Oh, but then I think of those four little boys and I just don't know.

PS. Just as frightening, revolting things happen here in England (everywhere, in fact). Some people use these kinds of stories as a numbing technique to not miss their homeland - but realistically, I can't do that to South Africa. In the news here, I've seen stories of a young British woman in Brazil butchered to pieces by her Brazilian boyfriend, then collected in a suitcase and abandoned under a bridge next to a river; or the pretty young special-needs teacher whose best friend's boyfriend murdered her and kept her body in a self-storage freezer, fetching her body whenever he felt like it, for necrophilic sex until her body decomposed from exposure to too much warmth - then he burnt her body in a field.

Nowhere is civilised.

On cravings and carboot sales

What a GLORIOUS sunshiney day!! For the last 5 days we've showered in bucketfuls of hot, gold sunshine - Summer's way of apologising at last?! What would we do with this magnificent day? With what could we fill it?
Seeing as we missed yesterday's carboot sale in Holcot which must've been a whopper in this weather, we headed down to our local recycling plant where Craig'd seen a foldable rabbit run a few weeks back (while I secretly hoped it would be gone: I can't bear the thought of my sweet little bun being cooped up ALL the time...) Fanastically, the run had long been sold (lucky Max!) but I discovered all sorts of other things I didn't think I could leave without.
One was a very old, very large black and dark blue luggage trunk, stamped with R.A.F and someone now long-passed's name. Hmmm, it'd look fabulous on top of my fluffy flokati rug in the lounge as a coffee table! Then there was an old walnut dresser with perfectly filigreed brass handles which was the perfect height for the baby's nursery to serve as storage for the baby clothes AND serve as changing table! A single cup and saucer caught my eye in its white porcelain glory edged delicately in turquoise and gold lace. A tiny old Chinese jewellery box with a miniature landscape set theatrically behind a little pane of glass, each little branch and leave carved ingeniously from some pale, soft wood. A small gold latch unclasped to reveal a seductive red satin inside. Oh there was so MUCH! But the council workers who run the tip are rather like sharks, who sidle silently up to you, sniff the money-scent of you and try to determine just how much you'd be willing to pay! They can size up desire in a cold flash of an eye. And so, when our regular council-dude told me, with that cold gleam in his eye, "Thirty quid, my love," I realised we would no longer be frequenting this den of refuse and sharks --- the carboot sales in the local villages render much better quality (yes, it's still someone's refuse) stuff for just a fraction of the price! Two weeks ago we bought a beautiful cabinet for my studio space for just 2GBP!
So did I buy anything in the end? An old home-made wooden horsey on wheels that I can just see rejuvenated in some kind of paint effect. Keep it old and antiquey? If our bub is a girl, maybe I'll lacquer it in a lush fuschia pink and decorate it with gold, lace-like patterns - a la Bollywood? I'll leave it in the empty nursery and wait for our scan result on November the 3rd!
The foraging and bartering left me hungry (nothing unusual these days!) and lunch was a feast of a feta sarmie, a handful of plump, juicy cherry tomatoes and a somewhat gluttonous helping of real German sauerkraut! Mercifully, I've not begun chewing the plaster off our walls or eating handfuls of soil form the back garden, but I can certainly testify that Cravings of Pregnancy are no myth or old wives' tale: it is as real as gherkins and strawberry jam at midnight!! My cravings have been less bizarre, but certainly something I can' help but notice when one week all I want to eat is buffalo mozzarella and cherry tomatoes, and the next it's something else... (For the first time this morning, when I surveyed myself in the mirror, I felt like I actually look pregnant for the first time - and no longer like a fat vroumens! We're just 2 weeks away from the halfway point!!!!!!!!!!! If I START to describe all I'm thinking and feeling, I'll have you stuck for another hour yet, so let me say ciao ciao and see you soon ;)
PS. My poor, pounding heart needed a break from all the Stephen King books we have in our home (thanks to a certain addict called Craig) and so I found some more soothing, beautiful books - and the current one I just can't put down is "Serving Crazy with Curry" by Amulya Malladi. Reminiscent of 'Like Water for Chocolate' by Laura Esquival - but much more simple in language - and, of course, Indian in origin. (I think my looooong story about my friend Pakshi (http://thesoutpielphenomenon.blogspot.com) had me lean towards this Indian tale!)

Not Keyne on Milton Keynes...

A sunny autumn morning and I am up much earlier than usual to enjoy the sunshine! (To clarify: to enjoy the sunshine from my warm little spot on the sofa right next to the radiator, dressed up in all the warm, cuddly things I could find AND my coat!) Yes - winter is here, even though it is technically only still autumn - but remember that when one is African, many things are not quite as it may seem (wink!) Admittedly, Zuma has the same effect on my heart that the English winter has on my body, but: I haven't been able to really get to grips with the ins and outs of what's really going on, so I'll not allow myself to comment at this time, lest I make a poephol of myself!

Plans for today? Stay on 'high alert' for a call from Simply Education, my supply teaching agency! I'd assumed I'd be working 5 days a week, week after week, but I've only had one (disastrous and discouraging) day so far. Eish! Also, I'll do some writing - but more excitingly, I'll head into my little studio to concoct a game-plan for MOOCH. Mooch? Huh? 'Scusez mois?

A hot cup of perfectly sweet tea and toast soaking in melted butter and honey was brought as a peace offering yesterday morning to wake me after an irritable night spent next to the now hopeful peacemaker who tossed and turned like the sea after a storm - the sad result of an oft repeated chemical experiment whose the thesis remains the same: Jack Daniels and red wine in one evening do not bode well for a good night's rest! Munching the delicious offering in wolfish acceptance, we stared out together in dismay at the torrid black rain which dampened our enthusiasm somewhat for the day we'd had planned: a trip down to Milton Keynes to visit a craft fair.
Driving along in the car with our South African neighbours/friends, Barney and Ang - Ang and I in the back, I very quickly became more carsick than I've ever been in my life - but closed my eyes, breathed dramatically and deeply through my nose and blamed it on being pregnant (most things get blamed on that these days!)but by the time we reached the next village along, I couldn't bear it much longer (and I think my fellow passengers couldn't either!!) so we lurched to a stop and I leaped into the front next which soon proved to be an instant solution. No, let me rephrase that: a short-lived solution! The nausea crept back slowly but surely, so that I began to frantically gobble down the apply I'd packed for much later in the day in the hopes it would settle my blood sugar level and make this YEEEEEEECH feeling go the hell away!! A windy farm road decided my fate: I was to be sick, for the very first time in my life on TWO accounts, 1)on the side of the road and 2)in front of my fiance and friends................ Bloody hell!!
With my carefully applied eyeliner now running in long grey streaks down my red, puffy cheeks, we headed to the nearest place we could find some munchies. It was unanimously decided I'd not had enough to eat for breakfast, so a ploughman's sarmie, Lucozade and chocolate bar later and I felt like the proverbial million bucks.

After a shortish drive from our emergency stop and a fair amount of our driver's vehement cussing about how he abhors the English and that our African taxis drive more considerately, we arrived at an old, sprawling stone farmhouse that had been converted into a farm stall and various little decor/trinket shops. The mustards, chutneys and jellies really tickled my fancy - their flavours ranging from apply & thyme jelly to Devil's Breath mustard! The big loaves of just baked bread left us all in a mouthwatering state of temptation - until we saw the price per loaf!! But what really captured me (mind, body AND soul!) was the selection of Turkish Delight! THE REAL DEAL kinda stuff - so that you could almost smell the old, dark hands of the Turkish merchant and touch his tightly wound, unwashed grey turban when you picked up the box and felt the succulent weight of the heaven inside... A purple, hexagonal box boasted 'violet' Turkish delights. I was wracked by strange sense of deja vu thinking about these violet-scented delicacies, but simply could not place the feeling or memory...
The next shop along was a very French decor boutique bedecked with chic candles, cushions and some gorgeous art I didn't think would sell outside of Europe. The owners, a subtly pushy Frenchman with shoulderlength, wavy greying hair that would look ridiculous on a man of any other nationality -- and his Dutch wife (ex-model, by the looks of her) chatted with us while she soothed her crying 11 month old baby son, telling me about her other 3 children aged 17, 15 and 12. I refrained from saying 'laatlammetjie'!!
Craig had disappeared awhile before and I discovered him in the next shop along, the proprietress holding up a white babygro - the front embroidered in delicate silver with 'i'm a baby angel', the back adorned with tiny little white fabric wings!
Wonderfully cute, but hey - for TWENTY ONE fat squidoodles, my baby can be cute enough for me without it!! The rest of the shop was elegantly stocked with the most fabulous stuff - the kind of stuff you would find in Cape Town (somewhat exacerbating my homesickness!) Little square silk sachets of something scented, handstitched, with a little printed arty image stitched down onto the silk... Flat round fabric button-badges decadently hand-embroidered with words or little images... Glasses and vases in dazzling blue, etched with trailing flowers and random butterflies or summer swallows... a long floor rug in knotted suede strips with the word L O V E running along its centre in blood red...
The long and the sort of it, before I get carried away, is that I will now spend the next 2 to 3 weeks making some of my own decadent little fripperies and small square art canvases - and then potentially become a supplier for Mooch - their second shop opening up in nearby Buckingham in the coming month! (This could not have come at a better time for me!!) ---- oh yes! Mooch stocks SA's Carol Boyes silverware. The owner's husband has some or other South African connection/heritage.


If you've ever read Bill Bryson's book about England, you will understand my lack of enthusiasm about encountering the town centre and (in)famous shopping mall of Milton Keynes. Parking was a nightmare with everyone greedy and grabbing for a space, the rain not making things any easier. The mall is just one looooooooooong stretch of shopping shopping shopping. Wallis, Hugo Boss, Woolworths, Faith, Burger King. The bizarre uncomplementary mix of shops is reflected in the crowds - elegant, ruthless women in stilettos and manicures bumping and jostling between loitering cheap-tracksuited families who look lost and soul-hungry. Yip - a pretty scathing criticism, huh? But if you've been there, you'll agree. And if you're going to go there, don't say I didn't warn you!

Enough of all that. Max is shredding the newspapers in a lonely, hungry rabbit-tantrum - his way of telling me: I KNOW you're in the next room, Lisa! Don't think I'll let you ignore me for long!! Time to get give my bunny some love (and keep a beady eye on him so he doesn't get another mouthful of lounge wallpaper!!)

Tring-tring...

Yesterday I joined a couple of writing forums as well as some SA expat ones. Some of these seem very 'random' and very slow, while others look so damn complicated and un-user-friendly that already I've ditched them. I don't really know where to go from here, but all I know is that I must write or I will explode!!
When I write I do very little (or no) editorial polishing mainly because I think I might suffocate all that freshness out of it by being hyper-critical. Of course, I'll do a cursory, casual 'once-over' but I can't bring myself to agonise over every little comma or adjective... Maybe this means I am lazy - or maybe it means I have developed enough self-confidence to just write for the sheer love of it! Whatever the verdict, I am my happiest when writing...
Summer has definitely moved onto its celestial course down to the other hemisphere, so that we are forced to sit with scarves wrapped woolenly about our necks and the gas bill climbing ever higher. My passion for winter I've had since a child has been frozen into a mere memory so that I have to do my utmost to not let this perpetual chill get me down. Strangely enough, last weekend was magnificently warm - as if the sun were teasing us by saying - ha! this is the last you'll see of me till June next year! Har har!
Craig is at a rugby match this wind strewn afternoon with the Colts - the under-11 rugby team he coaches at school, while I am home in my jarmies (and scarf!) cuddling on the warm couch with my laptop - catching up with a world of emails that seems to spin and spin and spin! How people coped with living abroad I don't quite know. My brother was one of the first in the SA exodus to London in the '90s - and he'd phone for our birthdays for 10quid a minute! Now it only costs a mere half a pence a minute to call home... Most days I find myself chatting to my mom with a cup of tea usually for an hour or more. Though email is great for corresponding and staying in touch, NOTHING can beat a languid, detailed chat on the phone - hearing the dogs barking in the background or the doorbell ring...

British Wintriness (is there such a word??)

Never before has this British wintriness affected me in the way I am struggling with it at the moment. Perhaps I can blame it on my perpetual homesickness, compounded by these raging pregnancy hormones? Even our summer up north here in the Midlands was hardly worthy of being called 'summer' compared to the gentle sunniness of Hampshire and West Berkshire, with probably a grand equivalent of 7 days that justify being called 'sunny'. I remember how my one sister struggled deeply with the English winter, literally sinking into what they call 'seasonal depression' - but even then, I figured it was her living in grey, concrete London that caused her to feel so low and frustrated.
And so, I have turned the heating on since yesterday despite the constant talk about everyone being able to afford their gas bills. I just could not bear the cold eating into my bones, day in and day out - where the only relief could be found in bed under piles of duvet or in a scaldingly hot bath. The trick is to have the heating on, not to turn the house into a hot air balloon, but to merely take that dreadful biting chill off the air - whereas the trend here seems to be to blast the building with hot air so that when you walk in off the icy street, you are hit by a solid wall of claustrophobic heat which has you clawing frantically at your woollen coat!
However, when the baby is born, we will need to keep the ambient temperature quite warm. Newborns' little bodies haven't developed the ability to regulate their body temperature, and their circulation is still quite primitive. Our nurse/midwife at Gymboree explained one day, when I moaned about how stuffy and warm her office was, that babies can easily catch a cold or develop pneumonia if exposed to a cold draught. (And she's a 'modern' woman who blatantly negates most old wives' tales -- so I think I'll definitely take her advice!)

Engrossed in a telephone conversation with a very dear friend, I didn't hear the sounds of escape - until Max was right next to me in the lounge looking at me with proud defiance: "See, you can't keep me locked up!" Flabbergasted, I had to retract my previous statement that bunnies aren't that bright... Needless to say, his cage is now rigged to keep him firmly locked in his straw-strewn, bunny-poo home!
As I am becoming more and more pregnant, I am finding running around after this cheeky little bunny more of a chore which leaves me cussing and puffing (and, I'm ashamed to admit, wondering if there is a nice little girl in the village who would like a bunny!!) Someone rightly advised me to stick him outside in the garden where he'll probably be happier, but I just can't bring myself to do it! I imagine him shivering in the winter nights, wondering sadly why I kicked him out the house. Also, I know for a FACT, that I will neglect to play with him as much as I do with him being indoors: it's seeing him looking at me with those big, brown eyes that makes me open his hutch and cuddle him for a bit before letting him run around the house (and eat all my wallpaper - or, shall I say, the landlord's?!)

GUESS WHAT????? At the midwife on Wednesday, I heard our baby's heartbeat for the first time!! The exquisite miraculousness of it hasn't yet reached the realms of my conscious, rational brain - I can't find the words to express the sound of such a tiny little heart beating like a running wild horse's hooves so deep inside me, and consciously being able to understand that THIS is my child... Prostrate on that examining table covered in stiff blue paper towel, I fell victim to something I felt before at the 12 week scan... I can only think that this overpowering emotion and deep awareness is 'mother's love'... In a few weeks' time, we'll be back at the hospital's dark ultrasound room, for our 20 week scan --- Craig is almost obsessed about this scan: then he'll be able to know if it is a boy or a girl. It's not such a crucial thing for me - maybe because I have the sore boobs, growing belly ETC (!!!) to make the baby more real for me, whereas Craig needs everything he can to be able to relate to this first child of his. There's a private clinic down the road that will do an hour's appointment with ultrasound and a 4D scan -- for 175 Great British Pounds! And despite our meagre earnings, this is something I think he would go without food for!!

Oh, I could write and write all day - but I need to do some research into how to get more traffic to my two blogs. (My dream? To be a full-time blogger and get paid for it. Unrealistic? There are plenty of bloggers out there who have stopped work to become full time writers - so why can't I? It's just that I've found my current attempts at publicity rather useless -- so I need to push myself a bit and get involved in forums and various other groups. Any ideas from you would be WELCOME!)

Zen & the Art of Housekeeping

Just having glugged the last of my rosepetal-infused tea, I feel a little guilty writing about cleaning the house, but I just can't seem to help myself. It seems the more I write, the more I need to!
I've discovered a book called 'Zen and the Art of Housekeeping' I'm just itching to buy -- its by-line proclaims it will help to put meaning and beauty back into your daily household drudgery! Now, now - before you cock a sarcastic and cynical eyebrow at me - let me tell you about another book: 'Simple Abundance' by Sarah Ban Breathnach. My mom bought it for me many years ago now, and STILL it sits beside my bed where I dip into it almost every day for very inspiring ideas on living a beautiful, meaningful life. I think we all strive for this - but mostly we are lured by magazines, malls and TV into believing money can purchase it for you. (As I type, Pink Floyd's 'Money' is on the radio!) What 'Simple Abundance' seeks to teach us is that beauty and meaning (and peace, joy, contentment etc) can not so much be bought as learned through a process of purging one's life of junk (mental and literal junk)and acquiring a constant attitude of mindfulness and GRATITUDE. Breathnach advocates (rather stringently) the daily use of a 'gratitude journal' --- and though this may sound a bit twee and trite, it has absolutely and consistently transformed my inner (and outer) life when I have used diligently...
Find a little journal that speaks to your sense of delight, whether it be a dark leather Moleskin or a glittering, sequinned pink silk one, and keep it on your bedside table with its own special pen. Before you turn off the light, write down a list of just 5 things from the day for which you are grateful and feel blessed. Mine have sometimes been 'oxygen, this bed, my mom, my dad, the soup I had for supper'. And at other times, there are more magical, lavish things to record - but it truly is a simple, free and miraculous way to transform your life! (Gosh, don't I just sound like the little wannabe-domestic goddess?!)
I'll make myself another cup of tea - and while 'Rock Hits of the 70s' plays perhaps a little too loud from the lounge, I'll remember one of my favourite things from 'Simple Abundance' as I begin to dust, wipe and tidy this precious old house I call home:

"the simple pleasure of concentrating on one thing at a time..."

PS. My gratitude list for this morning:
1. The soft, pale mist like a veil over the rain-richened fields and hills of the countryside driving Craig to work this morning.
2. Being HUNGRY and no longer nauseous with morning sickness
3. Thinking about how I felt my baby move inside me for the first time last night when I wallowed in the bath
4. The thought of a hot bowl of my vegetable and pearl barley soup for lunch
5. Rock 'n roll from the 70s...

14 and a half weeks (a third of the way!)

Lunch is a ham sarmie : the softest white bread spread with just a hint of butter and two juicy slices of pink ham! Also a half tub of coleslaw I bought on a whim yesterday, eaten in great big hungry mouthfuls with a very old, ivory handled silver fork engraved delicately with quite an exotic little pattern on the silver...
Now that the morning sickness has come to an end, I feel, strangely, quite unpregnant. (Coleslaw finished.)Besides the disturbingly painful and ponderously large breasts that have, quite frankly, never been this unsexy and a swelling belly that looks more fat than fertile, I have to consciously THINK about the little person growing inside me. The 'realising' effects of the scan we had at 12 weeks has dissipated into a kind of dumb paranoia where I sometimes feel like I'm just imagining it! Perhaps that is why, in the next week or two, God designed it that I'll be able to feel the baby inside me! I have already felt the strange shiftings inside of me this week of intestines etc being squashed and moved by my ever expanding uterus. (Discovered that the baby creates its own fingerprints by its swimming motions!)
OK - enough pregnancy chit-chat. What else can I tell you?
1. I am writing a book. Non-fiction. (It's terrifying!!)
2. I have begun painting again - watercolours, in a very large format - A1 or A0. Until I get my easel and can afford such large swathes of Bockingford, I'm doing smaller ones (A3). I'm looking at flowers as metaphors for anatomy and reproductivity. (Yip - now that I am pregnant I find I can hardly think of anything else! But no, really - it's more about celebrating the exquisite beauty and miraculousness of life --- a (visual) song of praise to God I suppose.)
3. Craig is still enjoying working at Spratton Hall. The children are quite unlike any other children I've ever encountered here... Hence why I am not looking forward to starting my supply work -- i.e. I'll probably be placed 90% of the time in public schools where the kids know their rights and are, generally, full of bullshit and are somewhat lacking in the discipline department.
Otherwise, I could write and write and write, but I'm stuck in the middle of yet another Steven King book -- so I'll say 'tootleloo' and ciao, ciao - with lots of love!

10 weeks and counting...

Well, well, well... it has been an eternity since I have written. Actually, let me rephrase that: since I have been ABLE to write! And if I were to be even more honest with you: since I have been able to very much at all...
About 6 weeks ago I discovered my dream had at last come true. The dream I'd been wishing and hoping and praying for since I was a little girl. 4 pregnancy tests later and it was confirmed: I was (and still am!) well and truly up the duff. Pregnant. With child. A bun in the oven. Unforunately (mild understatement) I have been suffering with the most awful, neverending morning sickness. And sheesh - if it happened to live up to it's apparently false name, I would be MORE than happy to feel like a violently sea-sick hippopotamus in the mornings - except that I feel like that twenty four loooooong hours a day! Both my mom and my dad have said: "Ja, jy wil mos!" which obviously doesn't help - and which makes me feel like an errant teenager instead. But it also makes me laugh, which DEFINITELY helps!

In the beginning, chocolate worked like a miracle cure -- for about 20 minutes - and then I'd scramble like a crazed thing for another piece! Now, NOTHING works. My boisterously cheerful, super-large midwife (who has no children of her own except a dog!) hasn't much sympathy for me and only tries to reassure me that it means my body is pumped full of all the right hormones. Hypocrite! (ultra-bitchy, hormonal sneer...)

Not much else is news because (I'm not going to bore you with the reasons.) The weather? It's England! Rain, rain and more rain - with bouts of scattered sunshine! Max is naughty as hell and has developed a peculiar predeliction for the wallpaper in hidden corners of the lounge - causing us some anxiety as to how to remedy this unsightly destruction without the landlord finding out. Why? Because I need to ask him for the name and make of the paint used on the walls... What could I say if he asks why? That a friend loves the colour so much she wants to paint her lounge the same colour?! OK, enough prattling... Time to see if I can tackle something other than sleeping, reading or vomiting this fine day! Adios.

Of bunnies and Noah's Ark

___?????????????????????????????????????????______))))))))))))))))))) : that was Max Martini, who climbed inquisitively onto the keyboard to investigate just what I was up to on this clicky-clacky thing! Now he is sitting next to me as I indulge in a little bit of writing in bed, wondering just WHAT I want to write about. I began a story ( a ‘proper’ novel) but it just felt too much like I was forcing it – instead of it flowing easily and with great enjoyment from me. (I’m telling Max he should relax and take a nap instead of trying to burrow a hole with his very furry little paws into my white cotton duvet – but he’s instead deliberately ignoring me and attacking, with surprising ferocity for such a sweet little bunny, my cardboard box of glue, scissors and magazine cuttings – and now he’s moved onto the wicker basket I use to prop my laptop against when I write in bed! He absolutely HATES to be reprimanded and when I do end up having to admonish him, he punishes me with The Cold Shoulder by turning his back on me and giving me harsh, unforgiving looks. And oh, how it hurts!)
Here in Northamptonshire, the weather continues to be cold and violently wet so that we are in grave doubt as to whether (weather?!) summer will arrive at all this year! The locals say they have a few wet ones in a row, followed by a few hot ones. (‘Hot’ denoting ‘heavenly’ in the English weather dictionary.) You see, now this is what I just adore writing about: daily life! Daily life as an adventure and a journey filled with the most incredible minutiae of beauty if one will just slow down long enough to look for them. And so, instead of writing a book in order to be published, I shall write for my own pleasure and self-publish for non-profit. I think though, that if I were to write a book, it would be based upon a collection of short stories: a collage or patchwork quilt of stories, stitched and glued together to create a whole… I suppose, in fact, that this is my creative style which can be seen in my obsession with collage and my never-ending collecting of found objects – and in the placement of these in particular groupings which set up a kind of meaningful dialogue in the way in which they relate to each other. (I bought a 1934 edition of THE NEW STANDARD ENCYCLOPEDIA in a charity shop last week for 50p – but which is so desperately precious to me that I wouldn’t trade it for a brand new version from Amazon.com! I have already begun its slow dismemberment by cutting out the words and definitions of Rabbit, Max and Martini – and which I have added to the growing collage decorating Max’s hutch.)
Last night was the ‘Summer Concert’ which we’ve been practicing for these last 6 weeks. ‘We’ are ‘The Village Voices’ – a choir of about 20 people who come from Walgrave and the surrounding villages once a week on a Thursday to sing their hearts out and to bow to the every whim of Ian Clarke, our quite famous choirmaster! Ian had chosen ‘water’ as the theme for this year’s summer concert – and rather ominously, it rained with frightening severity all of yesterday and last night, making the modern cantata based on Noah and his ark, rather too appropriate. We sang a song called ‘Pirate’s Lullaby’, an ancient song written in Latin called Babylonis Somethingus which gave me nightmares it was so antiquatedly complicated, and a few other songs about love and rivers. The true highlight of the evening for me was the group of little girls from our village’s primary school who joined us in some of the parts in Captain Noah and his Floating Zoo. Their obvious delight in being a part of the evening was catchy, and every single face lit up when their sweet little songbird voices filled the room. The very gay pianist took a fascinated liking to Craig, cornering him with a glass of Pimms and regaling him with tales of his gym exploits and his impending trip to Dublin! We will be taking a break between now and September, when we will begin rehearsing for the December concert which will no doubt be about carols etc etc. In the meantime, I exchanged numbers with a few of the special friends I had made and we will, I hope, meet up now and again before September for tea or a pint at out local!
We are still sans-automobile: what a mission!! The public transport system is pretty dysfunctional out here in the sticks, so getting anywhere without a car requires an enormous amount of planning and effort, as well as money -- it is quite pricey to travel by bus (unless one buys a monthly ticket – but even that is not always a reliable way to save money as not all the bus routes are run by the same company… So: aaaaarrrrgh!!!!!!!!!) Hopefully though, by September we WILL have a car, as that is when my supply teaching job starts and not having a car would mean instant career-suicide! In the meantime, we will continue investigating ways to finance a car, and otherwise keep our travels pedestrian.

It died after 3 weeks and we paid 200quid for the thing!!!

In the middle of applying for jobs on-line and listening to my personlised (and very eclectic) Yahoo Launchcast radio station, I'm waiting for the car-breaker to pick our car up which died on the way home - but quite conveniently just outside our village. Craig arrived home to tell me this, so we walked back to the car together, both embarrassed and probably blushing for shame! I hopped in while Craig pushed the car - well, tried! Everytime we just got the thing rolling, a car would come whizzing round the bend - and I'd have to yank up the handbrake. THANKFULLY, our neighbour (head of the child-protection police unit - and unfortunately for him, called 'Digger'!) stopped next to us on his way home, parked his car and hopped out to help us get the car off the road and onto a grassy verge just a little further back - the entrance to one of the neighbouring wheat farms.) Digger must've thought Craig a bit of a pig because I was pushing the car while Craig was inside it : you see, the other night, Digger popped in on his way home from a long and very wet night at the pub, and elbowed Craig with a sly twinkle in his eye, and asked if I was pregnant because I am apparently 'so radiant and glowing'! Ha! Imagine! And so I didn't need to wonder why he raised his eyebrow in concern when he saw me pushing the damn jalopy with all my meaty might!

pink wellies and pink eyes

At last I have begun my (first) novel in earnest - and I can really only say this is thanks to two people: Melanie and Craig. Anyway - before I do today's 2000 words, I thought I'd get the ol' creative juices flowing by telling you about my unexpected adventure yesterday!
At about noon, deep into the first draft of the first paragraph of my first book, my phone rang and glowed glowed glowed that Ang (neighbour, friend, South African) wanted to chat. On her way to buy a 100 pound voucher for Wyevale garden centre for a colleague who's about to retire (and move down Cornwall way), Ang invited me to tag along. Loathe to leave my writing behind but always keen for a bit of windowshopping, I dashed on some mascara and the inevitable lipgloss and hopped in her faded little red Noddy car. Taking all the narrow roads that wind and twist their way from village to village, we passed ancient stone houses afroth with overflowing hanging baskets of every colour of begonia and pansy - one old farmhouse sporting an aged and very historically styled thatch roof with pretty lace-like patterns cut into the dry, grey thatch. Then it was past Lady Di's family land where a myth has the princess buried on a little island in the lake there...
Wyevale boasts a vast selection of fancies and fripperies from scented candles (baby powder, vanilla, french rose etc) to polka dot wellies! I tried on a gorgeous pair of the latter but changed my mind when I saw the price, and instead opted for a pair of baby-pink ones in the kiddies section (fifteen pounds cheaper - so very handy to have size 3 tootsies!!) Ang bought herself a pair of striped ones in pinks and purples -- tres cool.
Craig arrived home early to find Ang and I looking at magazines, spread out lazily on our flokati rug (which is much like having a perpetually moulting, very silent and terribly lazy labrador in the house!)She was off to a balletic ode to Edith Piaf and Judy Garland, so said Adios. Then I jumped into my new pink wellies, tucking the tops of my jeans into the top - and off we went on a ramble through the fields. Through the stinging nettles and sheep poo, I thought Craig very brave in his shorts and flip-flops! The mommy ewes herded their little lambs off as they heard us approaching - and it looked as if they'd all had their summer haircuts that day! And, wraggies waar, up at the top of the field, outside the gate of the little enclosed pasture where they spend the night, the grass was covered in what looked like soft summer snow... (Suffering from a kind of obsession with collecting found-objects, I was very tempted to gather all this creamy wool tinged with brown and take it home to wash and dye and turn into felt buttons! But, alas, allergies of a cataclysmic kind were already starting to make me sneeze and all I wanted was to get home!)
What was so very terrible about this particular typhoon of sneezing and wheezing was the effect it had on my eyes! They burned and itched at the same time so that they turned a horrible orangey sort of bloody pink and the clear covering membrane became a thick, bulging gel-like yuckiness - and even the skin around my eyes swelled so that my eyes looked almost closed! Miserable and wishing we lived across the road from a pharmacy, I instead stood in the shower for an age, hoping the water would remove the evil stuff from me -- while my clothes were designated to the bottom of the laundry bin for a very thorough washing indeed!
Oh yes - I forgot to mention that Ang and I stopped at the recycling plant outside Brixworth, where she lent me two pounds to pay for a plate patterned with blue flowers, a very old porcelain tea-cup (white, apple-green inside and filigreed with gold) and, a slightly rickety wooden sewing box, with draws that move out on hinges. And deep inside were two hidden treasures! An old piece of obviously handmade lace that had been sewn rather raggedly onto a square of white linen and then stuffed with a funny old orange piece of sponge... And a heavy, squareish pincushion, covered in faded gold silk which has the merest shadow of a flower in a pot, painted in the Japanese style of the 1890s -- and then pushed in with pins and needles: curved upholstery needles, a rusted beading needle, a hat-pin with a real white pearl on the end, glowing with a rich lustre - and making me wonder the hats it has seen and the stories it could tell...

Xenophobia (backdated to 24 May)

24 May 2008, Saturday
While the rest of the South Africans are next door at Barney’s watching the much anticipated Shark’s game, I am meant to be resting but instead sit in the warm dining room table behind my laptop needing to write because my brain is fizzing over with, well… stuff. (Been back in the UK for two weeks now, after a 2 year spell back in South Africa.)
I could launch into the idea of fragments and their piecing together – how my very life and creative approach always seem to be based, quite unconsciously, on this premise and M.O – but instead I shall launch straight into my first fragment. Xenophobia. More particularly, xenophobia in South Africa.

Xenophobia, South Africa – May 2008.
Sitting in my warm, snug lounge, my mom called me (a big surprise) all the way from South Africa – costing her more than an arm and a leg, I am sure! Phoning her straight back via my 3p a minute line, we engaged in our usual Mommy/Daughter chattiness – until she asked if I’d heard about these ‘xenophobia attacks’ in South Africa. My mind rattled around a little to remember exactly what xenophobia is – and, I suppose, my very South Africanness made immediate sense of the word as something racial. But, quite surprisingly, it is not a black and white thing at all, but the African people of South Africa lashing out against the African people of other African countries. It appears that the main motivation behind this hectically violent backlash is the matter of jobs. And jobs mean money. And money makes the world go round, they say. Though this seems like a pretty rational motivation, it is merely a symptom of the deeper, darker side of xenophobia – if there could be a darker side to this already pitch-black phenomenon?! (Re-reading this, I HONESTLY didn’t intend that as a pun…)
How to define “xenophobia”? The Thesaurus on my laptop gave me these synonyms – in bold, while I looked up their meanings (in italics) in the almost too Concise Dictionary & Thesaurus I bought at the Pound Shop this morning --- because “xenophobia” didn’t even feature!

Chauvinism: damn – not even “chauvinism’ is an entry!! You get what you pay for, I suppose!
Well, here follow the other synonyms: Racism, Dislike of foreigners, Discrimination, bigotry, intolerance, prejudice, small-mindedness…

Xenophobia pretends to be about jobs. Xenophobia is merely racism dressed up in Latin. Xenophobia is everywhere – Africa, Europe, classrooms and cocktail parties. It is the fear of those who are different. It is fear of the unknown. The irony, which I am sure has missed no-one – including Tokyo Sexwhale and the Reverend Tutu -- is that the very people who struggled as victims of xenophobia under the apartheid regime are now themselves operating as perpetrators of the very thing they fought and hated and feared. Both Sexwhale and Desmond Tutu have said, in the last week, how ashamed they are to be Africans amidst this spreading fire of what has been dubbed by the media as “xenophobia attacks”. (I wonder what Nelson is thinking and feeling?)
Having recently arrived a fortnight ago in the rural village of Walgrave in the county of Northamptonshire, with no TV or internet, I’ve had no news of this till that phonecall with my mom. Quite a shock… Devastating, actually. Especially because I’ve always been so very ‘pro’ our incredible “Rainbow Nation”… One is often asked, when living abroad, why one is living so far from home. Even when I lived in the UK before, I always made it very, VERY clear that it was for reasons OTHER than the South African stereotypes of ‘crime and violence’. But suddenly, I am beginning to wonder where the future of our country REALLY lies, optimism aside. Never having being a cynic or pessimist, I am shocked by my wandering, worried thoughts about my future, my family’s safety, my roots. For the first time, I am contemplating a future in this famously grey and drizzly country where I will never really belong, where my blood will always be the hot colour of Africa, where my heart will always yearn for home. I found myself begging my mother to continue to be optimistic – but to be more realistic than ever before. The prognosis from political and social analysts is that these purgative attacks will reach beyond the tribe versus tribe line into the white zone. (Gosh – did I just write that?? I want to erase those lines – but like Zimbabwe, it is a complete reality which probably doesn’t deserve to be dressed up in politically correct niceties…)
Even here, in this apparently almost-perfect “centre of the universe” (did you pick up the sarcasm?) xenophobia is an umbrella against the rain of Polish, Russian, South African, Kiwi etc. Just the other day, there was a television programme about a sports-shoe warehouse/factory which was being accused and scrutinised for its use of Polish for cheaper labour – ‘apparently’ causing job loss/ “job absence” for English workers. Craig worked with many Russians and Polish on the apple farms in England between 2001 and 2004 – and his opinion is worth it’s weight in gold (or apples?!) : he says these are a hardworking and humble people – proud to be given this opportunity, and physically and emotionally very able to do the jobs the English won’t do. The emaciated drug addict/ alcoholic Big Issue sellers on the High Streets of England are a prime example of this latent laziness in the English job-attitude: they have every opportunity and financial support given them, but what do they do with it? **** ALL – that’s what! It reminds me of a couple of years ago, walking out the underground in London, I passed the first Big Issue seller I’d encountered in the UK – and how bloody pissed off I was at seeing his self-pity and obvious evidence of addiction. I went straight up to him and unleashed upon him a probably very self-righteous little high-horse sermon which no doubt had any sort of impact – telling him the story of my young Xhosa friend who sold the Big Issue in Cape Town, always smiling, ‘shoulders-back’ proud, clean – selling the magazine in a bid to educate and improve himself, but who was murdered for his paltry end-of-day takings right there on the busy main road. And this pathetic addict stood there, leaning against the brick exit, sniffing and whining, with no such threat at all to his survival…
As a South African living in the UK, I’ve even experienced xenophobia for myself – being ignored, sneered at and downright insulted. I think of all the times I’ve just wanted to fit in – to belong. To not be picked out or treated differently simply because of my accent gave me away – and yet, not wanted to disguise my identity I’m so proud of! Hmmm…. A complicated matter. (Our broadband – via Virgin – will be set up by Thursday, so keeping up to date with the news will be easier at least…)

Home Jerome!

It has been a long, long time since last I updated my blog! At first it was just the crazymad rush of working and packing to move to England and then I can blame my parents’ ridiculously slow dial-up which wouldn’t allow me to insert images and add new entries to my blog. I gave up! But now I have my laptop back in my possession and a very naughty connection to our neighbour’s unsecured wireless! There are no more excuses now!
So much has happened in the last while and if I’d had the chance, I’d have written so much I could’ve had enough material for a book – or two! And quite where I should now begin is a mystery…
Attached to our kitchen is a lovely, airy diningroom, the walls painted an unobtrusive but stylish shade --- almost white, but with the palest suggestion of warm sage. THANK GOODNESS it is not that damn Magnolia that adorned 97% of all the walls in England – from the Home Office loos to Jane Smith’s bedroom, kitchen, bathroom, livingroom, diningroom, lounge, blah blah blah. Nauseatingly boring. The floors have been newly laid with beech laminate, while the two windows have cotton blinds the colour of blood oranges, though not “bont” in hue. When I was packing (the second time!) my decision to discard unnecessary clothes in lieu of items of usefulness, meaning and irreplaceability, saw me packing little plastic bank bags of embroidery thread, scraps of silk in every colour I could lay my hungry hands on, books that never fail to inspire --- and, about two meters of fuschia pink satin ribbon dangling with bellydanceresque glass beads and sequins --- which I’ve since attached with pins to the bottoms of the orange blinds. (I’m still waiting for someone to nominate me for the Domestic Goddess Awards for 2008!)
Just got up to make myself a hot cup of the most fragrant tea: Rose Pouchong by Twinings. Apparently the smoked black Tibetan tea is layered with rose petals… All I need now is an unusual tea pot and some pretty glasses and mismatched tea cups from old tea sets that each must have their own story to tell. But these are little treasures that can only be discovered over a period of time – and are not to be purchased from any supermarket shelves or mail order catalogue. In the meantime, I’ll sip this delicious brew from the white porcelain mug that’s own history is just as special to me: while I was stuck very far away, Craig prepared our first real home for my arrival by purchasing every single thing he thought I might need – crockery, cutlery, towels, bedding, a toaster, a kettle --- even a garlic crusher he knows I would find it impossible to live without!
Though it is a Saturday, Craig’s been whisked off to coach his 7 year olds in what looks like a very wet and very cold cricket match, while my South African neighbour, Angela, is taking me shopping with her for some groceries…

The Village...

First thoughts might be..a horror movie..?But no,its just the sleepy little English village in which I now find myself waiting continously for the arrival of my princess/better half..

The photo is of the house we are moving into.Its actually quite nice,with a stunning view of the rolling hills from the bedroom window..even the odd fox can be spotted!!The interior has a modern but at the same time Historic feel to it,which is GREAT.There are also two fire places in the lounge alone so im looking forward to some red wine and romantic evenings;).Who knows what miracles might happen there..?

I found out today one of my neighbours is a policeman,so I guess ill have to tread carefully!The other one I think is an artist who runs her business from home,and who is also deafer than I am(hard to imagine).Apart from those two the rest of the houses are big by British standards and so there occupants seldom seen.The whole village is surrounded by farms with plenty of interesting foot paths which im hoping to discover together with Lisa.Futher down the main road(if you can call it that)is a large dam(8miles to walk round it)which is stocked with trout.Ive enquired about the hire of a boat and kit,although I have yet to even attempt the art of fly fishing,all in all it works out to about £30 for the day,not bad for a day out and you keep your catch!(im a seafood fan).Even further down the road is the nearest village,Brixworth.Not much there either..basically our village is just a couple of stone houses and a pub,as ive mentioned.

Its been another cold day in which ive been holed up indoors,something which is proving rather frustrating!!I think its time for a glass of red,even though the enjoyment ive had sipping glasses a couple of weeks ago is missing,simply because the reality is theres nothing like sharing a glass of red wine with your loved one and enjoying the conversation that accompanies it.

So ill say Poka for now,
Craig

My first attempt...from a thousand miles away..

How to start this im not quite sure,but here goes..basically im Lisa"s fiancee/other half.She is my dream come true and EVERYTHING I could ever want and now she has invited me to be a part of her online journal,something im a bit nervous about.

Unfortunately due to an unforseen passport issue we are now a couple of thousand km apart from each other,and this is driving me insane!!As most people will know the SA Home Office is not exactly,shall we say fast/friendly/efficient..

So far the better part of my 1st week in good old freezing England has been spent in a bit of a daze.Probably still from the shock of leaving Lees behind and being uncertain as to the exact date of her arrival.Although hard this seperation has had its benifits,hey Lees?;).I have been keeping busy,started a new job at an Independant school near Northampton called Spratton Hall in the little village of Spratton.Ive also managed to find accomadation in the form of a 2Bed teerraced house in the village of Walgrave which is everything id hoped for,which is a house in the middle of nowhere,surrounded by farms,all we have is one pub and a couple of stone houses,oh and a stunning stone chapel..Slowly ive been setting the house up,getting the neccesary utensils,furniture etc(which has proved challenging)so that when my fiancee does arrive she can simply add her touch and settle in easily.

One of my hobies is people watching and after todays shopping trip which included,a dvd,books,a printer/scanner/copier and medicine I decided to spend an hour on one of the benches in the shopping centre and simply just watch the world goodbye..needless to say this lasted about 15min before I got sick of it,the culture here is just so different,your average shopper never seems to have a lift going to the top floor and the amount of 15yr olds pushing prams is MINDBLOWING!!So I packed my stuff and headed back to Walgrave!

Now im sitting here in freezing conditions(British spring)drinking a double rum,poured by my friend,better known as King Barny,wondering what this week holds and hoping it brings good news.Its also probably time to get supper ready and move on to a slightly smoother drink,a glass of red wine and relax and enjoy the rest of this evening.So this brings my first attempt at adding to contemplating my navel to an end.

Poka C..