A time to remember

Argh, I hope I'm not going to be all remembery and so on this month. But I think I'll give myself this one.

A year ago...

A year ago, I drove The Muppet from Melkbos to LBW. A year ago, I sat in a car on my way to LBW and cried and laughed and spoke a LOT to myself (see previous blog). I also saw people I NEEDED to see. I drove in a car with LBW - something not done since age 17 and yet, I was still under the influence - conclusive proof that time changes not a sausage!

I did cartwheels on a beach where so many memories had been made. I said au revoir to my Nhands. I wrote a speech and finally said it without crying. She came to us on a wave and made us all laugh.

In truth, I can write so much about that day, how it meant so much to me. But more than that, how a group of women joined by shared experiences but for the most part, joined by Nhandi alone, came together to remember her in such a special way that had Nhandi written all over it. She loved her family and adored her friends and there we were, in an incredibly special place remembering her in just the right way. In a way she would have totally approved of.

And I do think she would have approved of the whole day. I would rather she had been there.

When the tears become too much and I'm racked with sobs and that sense of loss, I really do think of that day a year ago, and it calms me in a way I can't explain.

It's a farce

They say Africa time runs on slow. Clearly those people who say such things, never worked where I do. This is the place where a snail is considered the fastest land animal and a sloth is the most productive creature ever known to man.

But that’s all an aside. There are so many other analogies I could use. None of them fit for a blog of my calibre. None of them that would continue to pay my wages, until I find other employment.

And I will. It’s served it’s purpose. I don’t believe I can justify my time here anymore. Every office has it’s bureaucracies, every office has it’s time of sniping and so on. But it just seems my office is having a time of ineptitude. A really long time. And if I can see it, someone so far down the ladder, a worker bee if you will, then how can our ‘esteemed’ leaders not see this?

It says a lot about an organisation – no that’s not fair, I mean management in your area – when they try their very best to make sure you don’t progress, and if you dare to attempt to release yourself from their grubby paws, they make your life a living hell. However, should you take the piss, should you milk the system for all it’s worth – not unlike benefit fraud in my eyes – then you are rewarded. How screwed up is that? How is that inspiring?

And that’s what leaders should do – they should inspire, they should lead (it’s in the title), they should encourage. Not dismantle, not discredit, not destroy. How can my organisation get the best out of me, when I’m not getting the best out of them?

*hasten to add, not my manager but up the chain*

Of remembering and driving

Dear Blog

So sorry I have been absent. What can I say? Life has just marched on regardless without a spare minute. It does that.

But it’s that time – and I knew it would happen. Reflections of years gone by. I have that Timehop app and while normally it gives me a giggle, yesterday it stirred a few memories I’ve been attempting to suppress for about a week and stuff keeps happening to make me remember. Yesterday, it was that app which informed that 4 years ago, I was extremely happy to become a godmother and over the moon for Nhandi becoming a mommy. And the floodgates opened. The past week has been full of ‘signs’ of Nhandi and obviously G’s birthday yesterday was the culmination of it all.

Also, there’s a little bit of envy streaking through my mind. Not jealousy – it’s something not as disgusting as pure green eyes monsters. It’s knowing that a year ago (give or take a few days) I was preparing for her memorial – and in the process having an emotional and laughter/tear fulled day/night with my Lani-Mom, my Mouse, my LBW. They are doing all that again this year and I wish with all my heart I was there.

And that takes me back to the day I drove Cape Town all by myself. From Melkbos to Constantia Village.  All. On. My. Own. Having never been a driver in Cape Town, I was rather nervous to say the very least. I was armed with a sat nav – I’m of the belief that a half-jack of vodka should have come along too. The Sat Nav said it would take 2 hours, so I gave myself 3. I wasn’t particularly bothered about the high ways – but I had this stubbornness in my head that if I got the southern suburbs wrong, I’d be a failure, I could no longer call myself Capetonian.

Left Melkbos and soon enough I was speeding along quite nicely, having a sing along. And then I took a wrong turn, not 20 minutes into the journey, and ended up in Brooklyn. Up went the windows, I was determined not to make eye contact with anything and I had to delve deep into my internal aggression. Because, no matter how laid back Capetonians tell you they are… this is not remotely in their remit when it comes to driving. So I jostled for lane ownership along with all the taxi’s and sharrabangs. I’d like to think I won. And then I was on the N2 and this is where my internal navigation (I.N) kicked in and I have to say, she’s a pushy little creature but so clever, so good.

The Sat Nav lady was insistent I needed to go onwards to Muizenburg. I’m sure she thought she knew what she was doing. My internal creature thought this was a shit way to go. I saw an off ramp to Keurboom Road – AHA! I thought (actually I.N did) THAT’S far better. I got off the N road and promptly realised I was out of my depth, nothing looked vaguely familiar.

And at that point Mrs Sat Nav decided to sulk, lose the satellite and all the things that made her work. There I was – in TONS of traffic (as it was Saturday mid-morning) and not a clue which lane I should be shoving my way into. So I crawled along, dangerously close to tears, all exuberance of being oh so clever slowly slinking away. I sat for a good 5 minutes (seemed like years) when I looked to my left and blow me down, if it wasn’t the church my great granny used to go just smiling at me saying ‘you’re okay, you’ll find your way’. It wasn’t a spiritual thing, it was just a ‘you know where you are’ thing. And it was right, I knew EXACTLY where I was. I was in my area, my suburb that I roamed for a good ten years, I knew all the little roads, the short cuts, the ways to LBW.  The Sat-Nav attempted to click into gear at that point and I kept her jabbering on for a while, getting my kicks out of telling her how wrong she was. It was the Military Hill bit that made me laugh in the most in a smug and gleeful kind of way. She said to go right, and that I was 30 minutes from LBW’s house…. But I knew, oh yes I did, that if I veered left, it would take me 7 minutes max. And I chuckled. I was also right.

That drive gave me the confidence to be the Capetonian I always suspected I was. That drive was so much more than a drive. It was me being an adult in the city I was born in. It was me being able, in days after, to take CG on a tour of my childhood, of my haunts and to be able to fix any kind of detours we made. General rule of thumb – head toward the mountains.

And I do wish I was back. Maybe that’s just my emotional state of mind but I would love to be able to sink my toes in the sand of Clovelly/Camps Bay/Melkbos, I’d love to be able to gaze at the mountain (from all angles especially the Southern Suburbs side), I’d love to be able to visit with a few of my favourite people and sit there with some wine and plenty laughs (some tears too probably). I don’t see myself in a living capacity, only a visiting one. But I’d love to recreate that trip with CG. I’d love to show off my city to the bear.

After writing this epic and probably long-winded blog, I can say that I love driving in Cape Town and that’s one thing I never ever thought I would write. I can also say that I can picture all the girls around LBW’s table by the swimming pool and know that a little bit of me was left behind.

** it’s quite amazing that typing all that, all those memories, has made me feel somewhat sated and at peace. I should write more. I must write more.

Nadine Gordimer

“The truth isn't always beauty, but the hunger for it is.” 
― Nadine Gordimer

And so we learn about another icon passing on. Well maybe not an icon for everyone, but certainly a woman who gave me inspiration. Who spun words into fantastic writing. Who opened my eyes somewhat.

The first South African to win a Nobel Prize - and a woman at that.

So yes, I am saddened by her passing albeit at a grand age of 90.

I think I'll root out my copy of July's People and have a little read and remember the woman who I admired and who I wanted to grow up to be.

RIP Nadine Gordimer. And thank you.

Excitement and lyrics

In the words of the Pointer Sisters - and I apologise if I get them wrong, as I'm notoriously wrong when it comes to lyrics, Karma Chameleon my biggest error, every day is NOT like the bible.

But yes, in the words of a song:

"I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it"

I guess I could look the lyrics up but if I was a lyric looker upper, I would have got the words to Culture Club's biggest hit right.

Anyway, I'm so excited.

Road trip AHOY! Mixed cds AHOY! Best Bear in the world AHOY!

I'm not a pirate nor a sailor but saying AHOY after each group of words is making me chuckle.

Crap, now I've got Karma Chameleon in my head - my version.

Reading and Writing and a little bit of Adventure

See the thing is: I'd like EVERYONE to read my blog and heap critique and praise upon me. But I'd also like precisely, no one new to read my blog, thus letting me write anything I choose.
I wanted this to be a blog similar to my diary, but I've also realised that I'm censoring myself. That I'm imagining readers out there who might judge me. I don't particularly care if people think I'm ditzy/dumb/blonde/idiotic - because then when I wow them with my brain cell, they are all surprised. ;o) But I do worry that someone might take away the wrong message from my words.

I can't think of one instance where they might, but it's still a thought in my head when I'm writing. And then I think - do not be ridiculous, you have all of 2 readers! So with that in mind, I am going to copy and paste something I started (but didn't finish) back in 2012. It could very well be the start of a story - it could very well be 'something'. If I don't get anymore than 5 views, I will un-censor myself. I've only pasted a little bit of what I've written - a teaser if you will. Enjoy?

My Adventure:

“Box of fags Lily, I need a box of fags”

I was stressed out and frazzled. After months of prep and working overtime and plans and lists and notes of lists to do, I was finally booked into flight EY12 and on my way. Having given up smoking a million years prior, it was slightly odd I was demanding nicotine. But I was travelling into the unknown. For most people it was a slightly long way to go for 10 days, for those who knew me, well, they thought it would never happen.
You see, I’m a ‘gonna do’. I love having a plan, I love having a goal and I find it very easy not to get to them. Scared of failing? Oh for sure!

Boarded and I’m on my way… 3 planes to Destination. 3 planes until I relax. And I won’t believe it’ll happen until I’m in that hotel room. And that’s not me being negative, it’s just me accepting that the Universe is sometimes very cruel.

I am travelling halfway around the world. Yes, I am really doing this. And I’m not entirely sure if it’s because I’m blonde, look bewildered or I’m alone - or even a combination of all three but everyone is wanting to help me. I can’t sleep for the air hostesses plying me with food. I can’t move in the airport without strangers, fellow travellers and ground staff directing me. Could it be that the Universe is giving me a break?

And some 18 hours later and 3 planes and a Burger King in Abu Dhabi, I reach Phuket. My cupcake case has travelled with me - I could have smooched the sides off that suitcase. And here I am. I really have done this by myself (albeit with every nationality helping).

No driver outside customs. No driver in the hall. So I walk outside. And the heat hits me. I dressed in layers thinking the warmer it got, the more I could remove. But in Bangkok I was just a disgusting sweaty heap and decided to just run with it. The heat physically propels me back. I left England where it was a whopping 13C and now the numbers have switched themselves. It’s no longer an act, I’m seriously bewildered and confused and slightly nervous. There are people everywhere. Lots of tourists looking like me. Lots of men waving signs and flowers and shouting. And a man with a clipboard, he’s pretty official looking and he grabs me and shouts “Who are you”. To be fair, I don’t really know. I think of grabbing my passport to have a look. All of a sudden, it really doesn’t seem like it was a good idea to have stayed awake since Monday 6.30am when it’s Wednesday now.

And then there’s my driver - holding a sign with my name. That’s MY name! He’s a lovely man who is just so happy I say hello in his language. He tries to teach me some more Thai, but my brain refuses to engage. I offer to sit in the front, he looks as confused as my brain is. But he lets me and we have a jolly old yarn. I tell him the roads are better here than in England - he cannot believe it. I say no doubt because they don’t get frost and ice and snow in Thailand. First foot in mouth case… I totally forget that due to the Tsunami, they needed new roads, these roads aren’t old roads. The Romans probably didn’t build them. Idiot.  I see a Tesco and a Boots. Yes MaccD’s I totally expected, they span the Globe like the little parasites they are (McDonalds, the nits of the World - ha!) But Tesco’s… bet they won’t take my club card.
And human sized ceramic chickens for sale along with all the animals you can think of. How do people get them home? If I lived here, I would have a couple of those chickens in my garden. How are they made? Who makes them? Is there a giant chicken used as a model? Is there a market?

My eyes are everywhere, soaking up everything and my driver is fantastic, tells me about the rubber plants and the pineapple plants and the coconuts plants. He’s knowledgeable about vegetation. We pull into the hotel. It’s gorgeous. And a million times better than the pictures on the internet. The heat hits me again in my skanky jeans and vest and other vest combo. Whoever said ladies glow, never went to Thailand in jeans! I can feel my toes sweating.

YUCK!

I've always been a bit 'funny' (re weird) about public toilets. A source of many family jokes (and no doubt exasperation) of how easily disgusted/freaked out I am. It's my mother's doing of that I have no doubt. Her shriek of 'Don't touch ANYTHING!' and making sure my legs cramped hideously while hovering over a toilet seat, then scalding my toddler paws as she scrubbed, not only every germ that DARED to touch skin but also the very skin off my body, makes me believe that.

There's an infamous (within the family) story of how my great granny took a 3 maybe 4 year old me on a lovely train trip to the beach. A good 40 min ride.Upon arrival, I declared I needed the toilet. It was the vilest public toilet in the world, hence I refused to go. Granny had to take me home. She wasn't really a beach person anyway, I suspect it was all about the train journey. A little bit bratty but she got it - she understood.

I could regale you with a few stories of my public loo larks. But the truth is, within 5 minutes of going anywhere new, I WILL need the toilet and the place will be judged. Never mind that it's got the best food going, if your loo isn't pretty and clean, then chances are, I won't return. Eltham Train Station - take note - this is why I've never been back!

The reason I started this post (has been sitting in draft form for a few weeks) is because I realised another reason why I don't like public toilets. The people. The smell you get from the last person who's entered. It gives me the grills (pronounced grrrrrrils - no English word compares) to sit on a slightly warm seat (albeit covered with reams of toilet paper, to know that another body that I don't know has just recently been there. And if they are an unwashed body, the intimate stench you get from them. Double and triple yuck. It's vile, it's horrible and I wish I was the Queen, so that I'd always get a new WC.