Don't say I never told you

dante days

2012-01-06T10:26:00.000-08:00

It has been so long since I last blogged that I feel a bit overwhelmed by my choice of subject matter. My blog used to be where I would come when I had a few moments to spare. I would write about some exciting experience or jot down an update on goings-on in my world. These days, 'spare time' is a past luxury which has been replaced by critical essays, domestic chores and dog walks. Additionally, committing to a weekly post on my small change blog has meant that, until recently, roxblurb has been lying dormant on a lonely server somewhere. That was until Fox lovingly compiled all my roxblurb posts into a book for Christmas. Therefore, I feel such a labour of love deserves the granting of a request that I post a more recent update than August last year.

The most significant alteration to our lives since my last post is the adoption of our puppy, Dante. Our intention was to go and 'view' him after seeing a picture of him online and then come home to make a balanced and logical decision. We arrived, took one look at his little face, paid our deposit and collected him three days later. I would love to report that his docile and independent temperament, that first attracted us to him, has endured. It hasn't. Instead, he is hyperactive, overly-friendly, totally disloyal, demanding, chewy and suffers from acute separation anxiety. If you think I am kidding about his desperate need to be close, let's jump to 11pm in our household. That's our bedtime. The moment the lights go out, Dante makes his way to his favourite sleeping spot: my head. If we try and banish him to the kitchen, where he is supposed to sleep, he yelps so loudly we fear he will wake the entire neighbourhood, never mind just the neighbours. So there are three in the bed.

My once leisurely days now consist of epic battles of tug-of-war, fetch, feeding, cleaning up puppy-poop and a minimum of two walks. On these walks I am often found to be running across Wimbledon Park screaming 'Dante!!! Nooooo!!!' as the dog hurtles toward a toddler who is just the right height to accept a thousand puppy kisses planted on the lips. Simple activities such as cleaning are now a matter of strategic planning. If Dante is anywhere in the vicinity, the mop weighs 4.5kg more than it should due to the added attachment of a dog. Our carpets are wrecked, I had to replace most of my wardrobe thanks to holes caused by puppy teeth and I can't remember the last time I had an entirely peaceful night's sleep.

Yet, for every one menacing trait, he possess ten lovely ones. He is cuddly and lovable. Four days after we brought him home, he attracted a horrible stomach bug. At 2am in the morning, I was so worried that we would wake up to a dead puppy that I went and slept on the kitchen floor to be close to him. I will never forget that tiny little creature looking over at me, using what little strength he had left to climb onto my chest and subsequently falling asleep in my neck. Fox likes to point out that Dante and I have a 'special' relationship. I think it started that night. After my head, my lap is his second favourite place. He is getting a bit big for it to be entirely comfortable but he persists. As I type, he is sleepily flopped over my legs like a rag doll, twitching occasionally as he dreams of chasing a bird or being chased by a barking Jack Russell.

The postmen love him. We have two and they both enjoy delivering parcels because they get greeted as if they are the most important person in the world as soon as the door opens. And it's not just them. Dante will go to anyone. This is why I say he is disloyal. Keeping him beside me on a walk is nearly impossible. Every new person who comes within range is lavished with kisses and nibbles and most likely a nice muddy smear down the front of their trouser legs. It is almost always a stress taking him into public places but still I endure and treasure those few incident-free outings.

He is gorgeous. I have had strangers stop me in the street to ask if they can take a picture of him. Going for a walk always takes longer than necessary because people want to know what breed he is or have a little pat.

I no longer have use for an alarm clock. Instead I am woken by sloppy kisses and gentle bites which I have come to interpret as, 'Wake up sleepy-head. Don't you know it's breakfast time? Sheesh, what's a dog got to do to get service around here?'

I love watching Fox interact with him. He pretends to be the tough-guy but I know better. Let's just say I'm not the one who first allowed Dante a taste of sleeping in our lusciously comfortable king-sized bed. When Fox arrives home I worry that Dante might spontaneously combust, such is the reciprocal scene that takes place at the front door.

Nothing scares him. Poor pup had to undergo the loss of his manhood on Tuesday. You would think that a return to the vet would induce fear and loathing but not our dog. Instead he runs through the door, wagging his tail (which in turn causes his entire body to follow in a wagging motion) greeting all the staff as if he couldn't be happier to see them. I've never known a dog with such enthusiasm for life. Yet, he has his moments of quiet where he will happy sit and stare out of the study window, watching the passers-by.

So we persevere through the bad times carried by the many good times that have been and in anticipation of those that are still to come. Now, five months on, we wouldn't trade him for anything. Our Dante days have only just begun.

a danger to myself

2011-08-30T03:36:00.001-07:00

Poor roxblurb has been a bit neglected since the launch of 'small change' and I thought it was time I returned to blog about something trivial. In the spirit of being able to laugh at one's self (post-trauma), I have two incidents of bodily harm to relate which occurred last week.

A new gym recently opened in our area and, always a sucker for a bargain, I simply couldn't pass up the opportunity of a dirt-cheap gym contract. Patting off six months worth of dust from my workout attire, I arrived at the gym with a keenness that can only be mustered in one who has not done any exercise for a significant period of time. My plan was to gently phase myself back into my fitness regime with a leisurely jog on the treadmill and perhaps a short cycle, while I read Henry Fielding's Joseph Andrews. While innocently filling my water bottle at the cooler, one of the instructors invited me to a 'warm-up' kettle bells class which he was running in the next five minutes. In my enthusiasm I agreed, with little prior knowledge of what such a class might entail. Within minutes I was handed an eight kilogram weight and had orders barked at me to lunge, lift and crunch with only ten second breaks in-between. Half an hour later I was sprawled out on an exercise mat, unable to muster enough strength to lift myself off the floor. For the next two days I was not just aching, I was mostly incapacitated. At one point, Fox had to carry me up the stairs because it was simply too painful for me to climb them myself. I have not been back to the gym since then and am currently undergoing a course of self-motivation just to put on my gym shorts.

If that wasn't enough physicality for one week, I decided that the Bank holiday weekend was the best time for us to redo our kitchen and bathroom floors. Ten hours later, after ripping up three layers of flooring in the kitchen alone, I began to wonder which side of the family I should credit with my unsound mind. Yesterday, I begrudgingly started on the bathroom while Fox, very willingly, opted to do the necessary trips to the hardware store. At one point, perhaps due to fatigue, maybe carelessness, there was an incident with the stanley knife, my thumb and a vinyl tile which resulted in me passing out. Fox arrived home to find me leaning against the kitchen cupboard, pale as a ghost, with blood smeared across my face. Not pretty. I have a ridiculous phobia relating to blood on the fingers which has contributed to many similar incidents. I have been unable to look at the wound and Fox's insistence that I need to disinfect it is responded to in a manner reminiscent of a five-year-old having a splinter removed.

You will appreciate then that today I have decided that I am a hazard to myself and the safest place for me is at my computer, blogging. I would make myself a cup of tea but the risks involved are just too high. My bottle of water will do just fine for now.

believe for better

2011-07-29T03:57:00.001-07:00

Where are my priorities?…children are dying…I can make a difference…it’s too overwhelming…I can’t change the state of the world so why try?…I don’t need most of the things I buy…where do I start?…there’s too much need…STOP!
Everyday we’re confronted by the reality that there is great need in our world. Most of us switch off, just like you are probably doing right now. Images of starving Africans, children rummaging in rubbish dumps in India and the poorest trying to salvage their meagre belongings from flood waters; it hurts too much so I send up a prayer and hope that someone else will not just feel compassion but act on it.
Yet, there IS SOMETHING that can be done. I recently heard a talk by Hugh Evans, CEO of Global Poverty Project. I suspect you have images of a middle aged man who became disillusioned by his day job and decided to use his accumulated wealth to make a difference. You’re wrong. Hugh is twenty-eight years old. My age. Hearing him speak made me wonder, ‘What have I done with my life so far?’ Hugh has accomplished many things to date but, in short, he truly believes that we can see an end to global poverty in our lifetime. And now so do I. It sounds idealistic but I don’t believe that it is. We have enough food to feed the world one and a half times over. Shocking, isn’t it? Heart-breaking, really, when you see current footage of Somalia where two-hundred-and-fifty children are starving to death everyday. Everyday.
Enough said. If we are to believe for a better global future, we need to start moving. Today’s step: find out more at GPP online. It can and will be done. What part will you play?

reading history, making history

2011-06-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

It's thundery outside and I have no choice but to remain couped up indoors. Days like today make me want to write. Okay, it's not just the weather. It's also my way of side-stepping the research I should be doing on the English Civil War of the seventeenth century. I know, you can't understand my procrastination when the topic at hand is just so enthralling.
I have to admit, despite how my current avoidance of the aforesaid reading may reflect on my sentiments, I have actually found my study of the English Renaissance quite intriguing. While analysing the innovation, as well as the turmoil, of times gone by I do wonder what the history books (or websites) will say about our time, my time. As far as innovation is concerned, the Internet will almost certainly feature as the advancement that changed the world as we once knew it. I suspect mobile phones will follow closely behind. Personally, I threaten to toss mine into the Thames too often to pledge my support of this development in telecommunications. Do people really have to be able to contact me ALL the time?
There is likely to be mention of the numerous wars that continue to be fought around the globe and the effects of 'terrorism' on those who say they strive for peace. Most confrontingly, I wonder what approach historians will take when relaying such atrocities as human trafficking and global poverty. Will they speak of the many who fought to counter these devastating problems or will their digging reveal a past society who preferred to turn a blind eye? Will you be mentioned as one who made a difference...will I? The problem with the 'here and now' is a lack of perspective. Historians have the advantage of hindsight, the ability to see a fuller picture than the one we are caught up in on a daily basis.
Yet, perhaps there is a way. We live in a world that is better connected than ever before. I do wonder if checking Facebook as regularly as I do actually makes my world quite small. And is what the news feeds me on a daily basis a true picture of reality? The big picture is far more vast than I could imagine but I can try to understand. Books, websites, journals....I have past, present and future at my fingertips. While the historians can tell a story, I'm the one who makes it happen today. What will our legacy be - yours and mine? We choose what the historians write. And maybe one day, some student will be inspired by what we did instead of writing about what could have been.

electricity is current headache

2011-06-23T04:31:00.001-07:00

Is it just me? Can anyone else’s experience in dealing with electricity providers be associated with having teeth pulled out minus anaesthetic? I want to vent. I want to relay every sorry detail of every frustrating telephone conversation I’ve had with ‘customer services’ over the last four months.
But I won’t. No one else should have to suffer the agony of what I have experienced as the result of one seemingly simple decision: changing energy suppliers. I read those words and I shiver. And I am resolute that it will never happen again. My blood-pressure, stress levels and general health and wellbeing are worth more than a few pennies saved over the course of a lifetime.
I have made approximately ten phone calls and had conversations with different EON representatives each time. Every newly received letter brings me closer to weeping as I consider that another fruitless call will have to be made, the situation re-explained, only for me to be told something different. Sometimes I’m lucky and I talk to someone friendly; other times I get the guy who simply hates his job. Those are not good days. How is it that we now live in a world where I can be held emotionally ransom by a headset-wearing, compassionless individual whose sole ambition is to ruin my life (or at the very least my day)? I want to scream down the phone, ‘Can you not understand my pain and frustration? Do you have a heart? ARE YOU NOT HUMAN TOO?’ Then I realise I haven’t even been put through to a real person yet; I’m wasting my anxiety on a recorded voice. So later, I sit and I simmer and then I blog. Because that is how we cope in an impersonal, technologically evolved world. And the irony is that I have to keep pursuing this ludicrous situation because I need electricity to keep my laptop alive, which enables me to write rather than combust.
Maybe I should come to some agreement with the electricity provider whereby they deal with my query and in return they are entitled use some of the energy produced by my rage. But that would mean making another phone call…and I just can’t do it.

heart at home

2011-06-20T23:51:00.001-07:00

All this rain, ruining picnic plans and postponing play at Wimbledon. It’s the first day of summer and I should probably be more put out than I actually am. Instead, I’m watching the drops slip down the glass of the window while I’m tucked up snuggly on the sofa in my study. We’ve been in our flat for almost five months and the literal blood, sweat and (almost) tears that have gone into never-ending DIY - sanding, painting, cleaning, hammering – finally feel worth it. I hesitate to count the many hours lost to perusing furniture catalogues and websites. Our magazine rack is testament to my addiction to Elle Decoration and Ideal Home. Having just crowned our newly acquired, stripy loveseat the ‘piece de resistance’ of the living room, we spotted a gigantic wall clock in Spain. I just knew that the rustic, French country-style theme would never be complete without it. Now, all other furniture lies in its shadow. My mother says it looks like we got it from a scrapyard. Good taste is clearly not genetic.
Replacing the burnt-out oven we inherited with the property moved further and further down the priority list in favour of aesthetics. However, one scorched meal too many finally pushed me over the edge. On Thursday a shiny new oven was delivered and the old health-and-safety risk removed. Is it sad to admit that this was the highlight of my week? Too late. Heston’s lemon tart, strawberry-cheesecake cupcakes and fluffy fruit cobbler have all been produced sans crispy edges and already Fox is begging me to have mercy on his waistline.
To most it would seem like tedious domesticity but I look around and I really love our little home. It may be disappointingly dismal outside but, even if summer never arrives, it’s warm and cosy at home.

monkeying around in gibraltar

2011-05-20T13:07:00.000-07:00

As our Spanish adventure continues, yesterday we opted out of a day at the 'Costa del Windsurf' and instead crossed the border into Gibraltar. For all our enthusiasm to experience new cultures, we were sadly excited by English road signs, price tags marked GBP and British high street stores. Let's be honest, what town wouldn't be somewhat improved by the addition of an M&S?
Gibraltar, situated on a rocky outcrop on the southern tip of Spain, could be any northern English town. Except, here the weather is great and the locals are fluent in English and Spanish but choose to converse in a hybrid of the two.
To enjoy the full visitor experience we ventured to The Top of the Rock. Of course, we would naturally choose to hike the 467m summit but due to time constraints we reluctantly opted for the cable car instead. Pity.
The terraces at the top afford uninhibited views of the city below as well as across the Straits to Africa, which seems close enough to swim to. Almost. Also resident on the rock are local apes which have become overly familiar with visitors. As we waited to catch the return cable car, Fox decided it was an opportune moment for a snack. Now, is there anyone on earth who doesn't know what food is reputed to be a monkey's favourite snack? In which case, would you brave eating nuts when surrounded by greedy apes? What ensued was a slow motion scenario that involved Fox ensuring his snack was safe before warning me that a monkey was running straight toward me. In a calamitous moment I had Fox shouting my name, an ape helping itself to the contents of my handbag and me shrieking in shock at the cheeky monkey savouring my Prince biscuit! My immediate worry was the £500 fine incurred for feeding the apes and I began to shout, 'I didn't feed it! I didn't feed it! I have witnesses!' It turns out I needn't have worried as everyone else was too busy photographing the ordeal to report me. Once mommy ape had handed my biscuit to baby ape, she went after Fox to retrieve the nuts. Justice is sweet. However, he and his precious snack retreated safely into the awaiting cable car and we all returned to safety. In true British style we found respite in a pub where we were safe from harms way and agreed that we had probably endured enough monkey business for one day.

almost perfect trip to andalucia

2011-05-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Lonely Planet magazine's 'Perfect trip to Andalucia' feature I'm currently sitting in our hire car watching the wild waves at Bolonia beach in Tarifa, Spain. They weren't joking when they said it's a good spot for windsurfing. The hundreds of wind turbines on the mountainside are a bit of a giveaway. It turns out Port Elizabeth is comparatively not the windy city.
Detouring away from tourist hotspots means our Spanish is improving. We had the lady at Hertz very confused when enquiring whether it was fine to drive the car into Gibraltar. Finally we pointed at the map and realisation dawned: 'Ah, G[guttural]-eee-bral-taaaar!' Basically, we've learned the important stuff like counting to three, hello/goodbye, please/thank-you, wine/beer.
We've explored the famous Alhambra of Granada and sampled Andalucian cuisine. However, the most memorable part of our trip so far must surely be high in the mountains of Las Alpujarras, in the tiny village of Capiliera. We had spent the night in a rustic B&B that afforded the most stunning views of the surrounding landscape. Yet, the most spectacular view was provided by me on the morning of our departure. Having enjoyed a lovely breakfast overlooking the valley we chatted to the friendly owner about his hotel featuring in the aforementioned magazine. I offered to fetch it so that he could look at the article which featured his establishment, Cortijo Catifalargo. On my return I happened to trip on my floor-length dress....my strapless floor-length dress. That's right....in one surreal moment I full-on, baring-one-naked-breast-for-all-to-see, flashed the guy. My reflexes failed me and I was simply not quick enough to stop my bare bosom from making his day. His reassurance that I should not worry as 'eet ees beooteefool and natooral' was of little consolation. Fox looked as shocked as I felt. The owner was incredibly happy to see a photo of his swimming pool featured above a picture of his friend Jean-Claude. Perhaps he was a little happier than he might otherwise have been had I not just given him a free peep-show! Fox and I laughed at my expense all the way down the mountain and it's safe to say that the Tarifan wind has now surely blown any humiliation far away.
As for that dress, it is at the bottom of my suitcase and there is little chance it will be seen again this holiday...if ever.

london love (a tribute to a royal romance)

2011-04-28T09:49:00.001-07:00

It has been ten years since I first set foot on Oxford St. From the moment the plane left Port Elizabeth, South Africa, I knew exactly where I was headed: the shops. Things have changed a bit since then and my love of shopping has evolved quite drastically, to the point where I am more inclined to buy out of necessity…most of the time.
Growing up can be so cruel.
What hasn’t changed is my affection toward Oxford St. Yes, its renowned for being a site of mass human congestion and I do prefer to stay in the suburbs where I avoid being shoved from every side, like a human ping-pong ball. But then, when I do find myself here I get swept up, not just by the crowds but, by the London ‘vibes’. Here I sit in Pret, sipping my latte, laptop out because I’m supposed to be studying (exams in less than a week…procrastinating….who, me?), watching the happy people pass by the window. Conversations around me are dominated by the same thing that preoccupies the papers and the news channels: Royal Wedding FEVER. The world is captivated by a bit of real-life-fairy-tale cheese and who can blame us when most of the time it’s all just bad news? Kate and Wills stare out of shop windows, flutter happily on flags and remain poised on t-shirts and tea-towels. It’s harder than you think to resist getting caught up in it all. I’ve been coaxed into buying beautiful red, white and blue flowers for our living room and I have a British flag at the ready. Okay…AND I’ve bought my own commemorative mug. BUT let me clarify it does not have their faces on it. Just a very trendy Union Jack and a big CONGRATULATIONS WILL AND KATE.
Don’t judge me.
It’s a wonderful time to be in the Capital. So, I’ve drained the dregs of my coffee and I’m off to Regent St to see and snap the hundreds of flags hanging to celebrate the special day. But, then again, what day isn’t a special day in lovely London town?

let the sun do the smiling

2011-04-08T08:07:00.001-07:00

It is the biggest, saddest looking dog in the world. It clearly takes after its owner, who wears terribly slovenly clothes and boasts a head of unkempt hair. They seem to spend their lives walking around and around the park. But then, maybe they think the same about me. They’re a stark contrast to myself and the others who seem delighted that the sun is beaming down on London for a third day. It’s impossible to deny the endorphins brought on by a rush of Vitamin D, replenishing a tank that has been emptied during the long winter months. Once again, I question how it is we all manage to get through the dreary days and long nights, the cold, the grey skies. It is surely in expectation of a day like today.
I feel Fox may start to question my commitment to my studies when he returns home to find me an even deeper shade of pink than when he left for work this morning. It is perfectly acceptable to study in the park!
During my hours of solitary study, my only companions are Dickens, Austen, Shakespeare and their fellow literary ‘greats’.It is therefore advantageous that I am not at all distracted by those whom I may encounter in the park: children playing and the ‘cool kids’ returning from school; friends kicking a ball around; dogs chasing other dogs…owners chasing dogs, chasing other dogs; runners, joggers and those who make walking seem like a chore; guys and girls revealing their pasty bodies after months of hibernation, all in the name of a tan; and the quirky little man with his melancholy dog. And it is this pair whom I regard the highest, for they remain true to themselves, come winter or summer. It would seem that their mantra is, ‘Why smile when the sun can do it for you?’ Good for them. As for me, I just can’t keep the smile off my face.

what next?

2011-02-15T06:16:00.000-08:00

The last couple of weeks have been a bit chaotic. Moving home always measures pretty high up on the stress-o-meter. Once we had marginally recovered from the anxiety of having the moving truck packed but technically not yet owning our new property, we had to contend with a broken shower, no hot water in the bathroom and a malfunctioning oven. But it was okay because we had a new flat and we had each other. Momentary bliss proves to be just that when, attempting to pull out of one of the terribly awkward parking spots in our new street, I managed to knock over a parked scooter...into a parked van. You simply wouldn't believe me if I tried to describe the damage to the scooter while myself and the van got off with one scratch between us (and it's not on our car). As much as I love our new flat, this week I am content to leave it in the hands of the refurbishers while Fox and I retreat to Mom's to keep an eye on the resident delinquent while "Granskies" jets off to Australia to meet her first grandchild, Abby Rose.
Living with a teenager is keeping me consistently amused as I try to decipher the string of latest slang that pours forth out of his mouth, coax him into eating a meal with a nutritional value higher than that of Sam's Chicken and make requests through his permanently closed bedroom door. This morning I had to chuckle at the state of panic when his desire for independence backfired, leaving him standing in his boxers cursing at the injustice of having no dry jeans to wear. (Aaz, on the off chance you are actually reading this, I'm sorry I'm such a cruel sister but it was very funny. Don't worry, Des also has me as a sister...she can sympathise with you.) Thankfully, I'm not too old to remember the days when adults knew nothing, my friends were my world and everything was too much effort.
So, as I turn my attention back to Virgina Woolf and fall under the spell of Mrs Dalloway's London, I think of my own London where there is just never a dull moment.

relocation, relocation

2011-02-02T23:57:00.001-08:00

I’m staring at an empty bookshelf and marvelling at the towers of boxes surrounding me. I arrived in the UK six years ago with one suitcase and it has now taken me three full days to pack our possessions in preparation for our move tomorrow. It’s hard to believe that we have lived here for more than two years in our first little flat as a married couple. And when I say little, I mean little. Hence, the upgrade.
Nostalgia makes me sentimental. That’s until I recall the nights of surround sound thanks to the neighbour upstairs, or the constant cigarette fumes from the people beside us and let me not neglect the granny downstairs who blasts her opera music every time our washing machine goes into spin cycle. Despite all that, I’m going to miss this place. So many hours of DIY to make it our own, Fox’s ingenious rewiring, trips to home stores to find the perfect mirror or lampshade and there is, of course, the world’s most expensive tie-backs (long time blog devotees might remember the dedication that went into making these). We’ve really made it ours over the years and it’s hard to let go.
But then, I am looking forward to a full-size fridge, my own study and a balcony where I can keep the live, potted Christmas tree which I have refused to let Fox leave out for the council to turn into compost. Hey, at least we don’t have to buy one this year! There are all new streets to learn as we cross the border from SW15 to SW18 (albeit only by one mile) and new locals to explore.
Farewell, Harwood. We have done all we can, outgrown the space you offer and now leave you in the hands of another who I’m sure will cherish you as much as we have. Farewell, Putney. It is perhaps you I will miss the most, with your crazy high street, convenient transport links and your all-round good reputation. However, we’re just down the road so I will see you often for walks along the river and dinner in your eateries. But it’s time to say goodbye…

keeping it local

2011-01-16T14:14:00.000-08:00

It’s winter in London and as a result one tends to spend majority of your time indoors. Suffering more than a small dose of cabin fever, Fox and I are desperate to make the most of an unplanned Saturday evening. Unfortunately, spontaneity in London isn’t always rewarding. Disappointingly, our ever-faithful Tastecard can only offer local restaurants that really need the business. The problem when two softies marry each other, is that you end up opting for the place that says in the reviews that the owner has to work a day job just to keep the eatery open. So, we make a reservation at Cochin Brasserie for 7pm, only to arrive and and feel embarrassed to say as much, considering the restaurant is totally empty. Well, we’re here now. Despite the utter lack of ambiance, the staff are welcoming and the food is utterly delectable. Poppadoms and sauces that tease the taste buds just enough to whet our appetites for the crispy fishcakes and stuffed chicken starters to follow. Our mains are some of the tastiest curries I’ve enjoyed in a long time and the nan and paratha (my new Indian favourite) are textured to perfection. At one point I think it might all come crashing when Fox thanks the waiter and the waiter turns and says,

'What did you say? Thank you, Raj?’
'No.’
'I thought you say ‘Thank you Raj’.’
’No, why, is your name Raj?’

Oh my goodness. Bad situation to worse. Turns out Fox has actually said ‘Thank you very much’ and it’s not a major issue because raj is an Indian word and the waiter thinks it was Fox being polite. Phew. Could have been bad. Empty restaurant, no witnesses.
When two fellow customers walk in I am almost disappointed to be forced to share our own little foodie paradise but slightly relieved that we won’t need to eat here every night of the week to ensure the place stays open. By 8.30pm the customers start to flood in. I count 24 in total and we are delighted that it has become so busy the manager has gone to change so he can help serve tables. Things get so crazy they almost have to start pushing tables together. Almost. I’m telling you, you just can’t pay for entertainment like this.
It’s time to leave and we depart with our tummies over-full and our hearts content that Cochin Brasserie will live to see another day. And all this for a mouth-watering 2for1. Thank you very much, Tastecard.

stop this train?

2011-01-04T16:06:00.000-08:00

Every New Year I write about my total aversion to the whole notion of resolutions. This year I will leave it there and allow the aforementioned to represent my distaste toward this self-defeating practice.
The start of January does, however, afford the opportunity to reflect on the year gone by. My theory is that Earth is spinning faster every year. I know there is a scientific flaw in my argument but the alternative, that I am simply letting life run away with me, is far less satisfactory. A number of my elderly relatives have relayed the same message: the years only go faster as you get older. I have to agree that the last few years seem to blend into each other with little distinction, other than the obvious milestones such as new jobs, studies and, of course, marriage.
There are times when I wish I could just press pause. As John Mayer puts it (more than five years of blogging and this is the first time I have quoted him?),”Stop this train, I want to get off and go home again”. So why do I feel like life keeps speeding along without giving me a chance to catch up? Perhaps I feel like I might have been more, done more, achieved more by this stage. And I don’t think this is negative. I feel it’s important to have a sense of dissatisfaction in order to keep moving forward, to continue reaching for what may seem unattainable but really just takes some determination. I think trying to exploit each moment for what it’s worth is too much pressure but cherishing the potential of a lifetime can go a long way.
So, while the world keeps turning and I continue to work it all out, I propose a New Years toast to making it count.

festive resolutions

2010-12-26T21:37:00.000-08:00

I find it hard to believe that another Christmas has come and gone. All the build up to this one day and then the presents, food, phone calls and just as quickly it's all over and you spend Boxing Day trying to recover full functionality of your overindulged body. It's the same every year and every Boxing Day I vow to do it differently next time. Not that I haven't loved Christmases gone by, it's just that I wish I could get my act together to start shopping earlier for presents, not spend as much, try not to eat myself into a semi-coma and do more for those who are less fortunate. I haven't done it yet but 2011 is my year for Christmas change!
Take my mom, for instance, who left her shopping to Christmas eve this year (sorry to 'out' you Ma) and I ended up with two right hand gloves. I loved them but she insisted on returning them to the store. On my side, I sent presents all across the world, only to discover yesterday that half of them never arrived. Gutted. I probably should have listened to the lady at the post office when she warned that I had missed the last posting date. I just thought she was trying to make more money out me.
When it comes to lunch, why did we think it necessary to have two roasts, a mountain of vegetables to rival Kilimanjaro as well as two desserts and other snacks? There was so much food we didn't even realise that the Yorkshire puddings had been left in the oven to become the casualties of Christmas lunch.
This year, in my attempt to 'have a Christmas with a difference', I researched helping out at a homeless shelter for the day. I'm sad to say that I was very quickly deterred by the health and safety training and pages of rules and regulations. Perish the thought that one could simply turn up and serving dinner to the needy! I know we need systems in place but I also had a moment where I feared we may be suffocating ourselves in our cotton wool world.
All of this said, we did have a really lovely Christmas this year and let's be honest, the funny stories and traditional chaos is a large part of what makes Christmas special. I just hope that in all the protocol I can stay true, not just to myself, but to the meaning behind it all. It's not just about going to church, but why we go to church. It's not just about a baby in a manger but about who that baby was and is. And as long as I keep that at the centre of it all, who cares if my Boxing Day resolutions are never realised. As long as I remember to rejoice through it all.

drive time

2010-12-19T05:45:00.000-08:00

I first started learning to drive about eight years ago. My father volunteered to take me out for my initial attempt behind the wheel. After just one lesson he declared that teaching me to drive would almost certainly ruin our relationship and he handed the responsibility over to Denise, my stepmom. Den was a wonderful instructor but my yearning for freedom was not strong enough to withstand the damage I caused to her new car on impact with a pillar. This little incident set me back about six years and I still shudder whenever I am in an underground parking lot.
For a few months my ever tolerant husband attempted to tutor me in the ways of the road until I could see that his sentiments were starting to align with those of my father. It was time to call in the professionals. After hours, upon hours, of lessons with Michael and too many pounds to want to recall, I passed my test first time, much to all previous 'instructors' amazement. The examiner told me to just ease off the accelerator a little (speeding? me?) otherwise I was now free to brave the streets of London on my own.
No one can prepare you for the neves you experience before that dreaded test. I spent the two days prior to it biting my lip and shaking. Equally, no one can explain the liberty you feel when granted your licence. Oh elation! No more waiting for lifts or freezing unnecessarily at bus stops. Gone are the days of lugging heavy grocery bags down the road.
There is something about obtaining your driver's licence that makes you feel all grown up. I have this urge to just carry my car keys around so that everyone can see I'm a driver. 'That's right Mr Sainbury's man - you see these keys? If I am old enough to drive I am old enough to buy a bottle of wine so you can just refrain from asking me for ID this time.
Fox has generously given me my own car key for 'our' car and now sits biting his tongue when I'm driving. We'll see how long it lasts before he can't resist questioning whether I have seen the cyclist who is a good 100 metres ahead. And now begins many years of repayment by way of 'designated driver'. He knew paying a professional was worth the long term investment. And I'm happy that the testing of my driving capabilities as well as family relationships is now done and dusted. About time too.

finding meaning in the season

2010-12-11T03:39:00.000-08:00

The tree is up, I've drunk enough mulled wine to float a small cruise liner and presents have been bought, wrapped and sent off to various corners of the globe. Yet, despite all these Christmas activities, I'm just not feeling the festive cheer this year. Perhaps I started on the mince pies before I should have and peaked too early. Maybe I'm just nostalgic about family scattered too far to join together for a nice big lunch. Then again, if I'm really honest with myself, I think I may just be forgetting what Christmas is really all about. The decorations have been up in shops for two months already and the lights on Oxford St are giant presents this year. One can't help but feel that the festive season has been hijacked to serve the interests of commercialism and it takes strong defences not to be caught up in the Christmas rush. I recently became all emotional watching a segment on The One Show that did a story on a group of school kids who had won toys on the show the week before. After acknowledging that they didn't really need more toys for themselves, they took the gifts to a local hospice and not only hand-delivered the toys, but stayed to play too. That really warmed the cockles of my little heart. And I realised why I'm not yet full of the joy of the season. So I'm banishing the thought that Christmas has become a routine of obligations. This is a time to celebrate Christ's birth and all that it means. Christmas is not about me; it's about making others know that they are loved. So, if I walk up to you and give you a big grizzly bear hug, just humour me. I'm just embracing the season for all that it means. Merry Christmas!

voluptuous vienna

2010-11-25T01:49:00.000-08:00

My memories of Vienna are likely to be of sausage and gluwein...and a lovely romantic two year wedding anniversary weekend. Of course. Nothing was so welcome a relief from the bitter cold as a lovely warm cup of gluwein from one of Vienna's many Christmas markets, which spring up across the city at this time of year. This left one hand free for a wiener (I'm not being rude, that is honestly what they are called in Austria) or some other scrumptious treat selected from the numerous stalls which proffer culinary temptations in abundance.
Apart from the pre-Christmas festivities, I was impressed by the grandeur of Vienna as we scurried from one building to the next, attempting to avoid circulation loss. Large, almost imposing palaces and monuments, such as those found in Rome, adorn this otherwise unpretentious European capital.
Unlike locals from many other cities, which are prone to invasion by tourists, Viennese inhabitants were surprisingly welcoming and friendly, especially when Fox attempted to order in German. Knowing only how to count to three meant that if the situation arose where we needed to order four or more of anything it would have to be done in multiples i.e. "Zwei sachre torte und zwei sachre torte und...." and so on. Thankfully it was just the two of us.
In case we hadn't consumed enough during our market jaunts we stopped off at Central Cafe to sample the aforementioned sachre torte (most delicious chocolate cake) for which Vienna is renowned. Coffee and cake culture is taken very seriously here and such reverence is reflected in ones bill. "Right...back to the markets for dinner then?"
Vienna also boasts some of the world's best museums and for our mandatory city-break culture fix we visited the Mumok. Here one can appreciate modern art offerings such as Andy Warhol and subsequently betray ones lack of culture by tutting at 'creations' such as a piece of string hung from the ceiling pretending to be art.
Having overindulged sufficiently we left Vienna with more than a few extra kilos, some new Christmas decorations for our tree and my prized tea advent calendar. We left having been fully enticed into the spirit of the festive season.

mani-pedi mayhem in nyc

2010-10-21T18:23:00.001-07:00

I’ve wanted to come to New York for as long as I can remember. Having watched countless episodes of Friends and Sex and the City I feel like I know the place already but there’s just no substitute for being here in the flesh.
I’ve crossed the East River via yellow cab, visited the famous Serendipity cafe and meandered the streets of the Lower East Side. However, my highlight thus far is, undoubtedly, my $20 mani-pedi experience.
My close friend and tour guide, BB, insists I join her at…uuhhmmm…I think it is just called ‘Nails’…for a bargain manicure and pedicure. Harbouring a strong dislike towards people touching my feet, a pedicure has never been on my list of enjoyable experiences. Nevertheless, the disapproval I receive when suggesting I simply have a manicure leads me to agree to the full works and I am ushered to a massage chair by a somewhat militant beautician. As I sit back to enjoy my pamper session I start to feel a fierce thumping on my back. I swear the chair has grown arms and is targeting every stress induced knot from my shoulders down. As I shift to distribute the pain and fight with the controls, the beautician dips my toes into a boiling hot spa only to realise her error when my foot emerges ruby-red. I maintain my composure until she comes at my sole with a pumice stone, at which point I began to giggle through the torturous, ticklish pain and wrench my foot away from her. I’m subsequently shunted to a manicure table where my finger nails are attacked with a file and my cuticles hacked away at viciously. I only register the extent of the damage when I notice my friendly manicurist painting over my very own blood. Secretly wishing for the process to end soon I’m manoeuvred to a nail dryer which seems to take longer than expected and is switched onto ‘heat’ mode. No prizes for guessing what sort of pain this inflicts.
As we gather our belongings to leave the manager checks my nails and on conclusion that they are not satisfactorily dry, she begins to wrap my toes in cling film. Yes, just like you would do to leftovers.
We leave the salon in fits of laughter marvelling at the cling film sticking out the sides of my shoes and I am overwhelmed by a strong nausea induced by the massage chair releasing toxins, from stressed muscles, into my system. Unfortunately the wrapping efforts are futile too and the polish smudges irreparably.
All that mayhem but…you know what? I would pay it again. Because that sort of entertainment is simply priceless.

hope for a little girl far away

2010-10-17T15:04:00.001-07:00

Today I received an email from a friend of my grandmother’s that touched my heart so deeply I cried for the next three hours. Rather than do his email an injustice I have copied it below.

For some reason I cant get this thin little child with all these scars on her face and body, loving her scruffy little puppy out of my mind. So this Thursday I am going back to find her, to see if I can make her life a bit more comfortable.You see she has never had a new pair of shoes or new clothes or Kentucky…all the things we take for granted.

No child should have to go through life with scars like this but that would need a world of people to help. This photo would need to go around the world to find the person who can fix her, or maybe we can all change our profile picture on Facebook to her so she can get help, or if we can get her on Idols people can vote to save her life.

But none of that is going to happen. At the end of the day its me and the other person who is reading this e-mail that can help change her life in a small way, because I cant delete them because I held them.

Never Give up on Life

Mike

That little girl lives in a township in South Africa and I don’t even know her name. But I do know that when Mike finds her on Thursday I want him to be able to tell her that someone who lives very far away from her wants to buy her a new pair of shoes.
I hear many stories of poverty and regularly expose myself to these in order to maintain an outward focus and ensure I don’t get caught up in my own world. Yet something about this little girl really struck a chord. I think it is harder to ignore just one than it is to turn your attention from a problem too big to handle. And as I cried over her photo and looked at her smiling face, despite the obvious pain she once must have endured, I knew I could not turn away from this one. I know that this time I don’t just want to send a bit of money to clear my conscience, I want to know this child’s name, I want to know her story and I want to know how I can help to change her life. If anyone reads this and you too are interested in getting involved please contact me. As I type this I feel energised at the thought that, for once, there is something we can do to change someone’s life for the better.

more than my own personal waterworks

2010-10-15T02:03:00.001-07:00

I know I’m just a big softie but I found myself bubbling like a baby each time one of those Chilean miners emerged from underground on Wednesday, jubilantly embracing everyone around them. I’m not sure what exactly set me off but seeing people so excited that these thirty-three ordinary men had been rescued and watching the heartfelt family reunions really tugged at my little heart. For once, it was so refreshing to switch on the TV or read the papers and it was just a flow of good news, all day.
Today is another day which goes some way to restore my faith in humanity. On this day, bloggers from all over are joining together for Blog Action Day 2010 to write about water issues in their communities and around the world.
So much of the time I am left feeling totally helpless about the vast issues facing our world. I simple bury my head and hope that someone will come up with some brilliant idea to make them go away. Today, however, I can play my tiny part and so can you by reading this post without nodding off.
A major issue that sets off my own personal waterworks is that nearly 1 billion people lack access to clean water, which causes a litany of struggles, diseases and even death. Every week, nearly 38,000 children under the age of 5 die from unsafe drinking water and unhygienic living conditions. How is that possible when we have so much excess and this is a solvable issue? Because those numbers are simply too big for us to really contemplate. The shocking statistics go on and on and they are real but we can do something. Did you know that it takes 24 litres of water to make one hamburger? It also takes 17 million barrels of oil to manufacture the bottles we use for bottled water, 86 percent of which will never be recycled. By simply making ourselves aware of the issues we can already start to counteract the problems.
So, will today be a day when you make a difference?

Blog Action Day 2010: Water from Blog Action Day on Vimeo.

my part on this globe

2010-10-12T05:47:00.000-07:00

It's been the most glorious few days in London. Wonderful autumn sunshine coaxing Londoners to take a Sunday afternoon stroll in Richmond park and marvel at the falling leaves while blissfully disregarding the inevitability that this means we will soon be left with bare trees beneath cloudy, grey skies.
In my first week post-employment I have enjoyed a few 'London' outings myself, most significantly a trip to Shakespeare's Globe. I'm aware it is sacrilege for an English student to admit what I am about to commit to print. I've actually never been much of a Shakespeare fan. In fact, most of the time I have to do a spellcheck to ensure I've written his name correctly. Quite honestly, I just wish that he had, at least some of the time, said what he actually meant. Nevertheless, having an entire subject in my degree imposed upon me, devoted purely to the one widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist¹ I have started to warm to the guy's evasive ways and was actually quite excited to visit the Globe.
Once inside the pit, along with the other 'commoners', I began to imagine what it must have been like back in the days of the original Globe. As I laughed along with fellow audience members and my legs ached from standing for three hours I felt like I was participating in a timeless, very English, tradition.
As I strolled back over Southwark Bridge and glanced sideways toward Tower Bridge I marvelled at the dense history that this city offers and how, in a drop-in-the-ocean sort of way, I am somehow a part of that. A wise man once put it so eloquently: 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.²' Now who was it again who said that...?

1 Is there anything that Wikipedia can't tell us?
2 Oh yes....Shakespeare wrote that in As You Like It

sweet smell of soetkoekies

2010-10-05T01:21:00.001-07:00

One of my favourite outings as a child was visiting my Nans’ house for Sunday lunch. Nans and Gramps had a gorgeous big home that overlooked the river and a dining room that could accommodate our extended family. It wasn’t unusual to have at least sixteen people around the table and some spilling out of the door. Nans would be in the kitchen from 5am preparing the feast and still make it to a morning church service. Only in recent years, as I’ve dabbled a bit in cooking myself, have I truly appreciated the effort that went into preparing those extravagant meals for the multitudes.
When I knew that I was getting married, I asked Nans to please share a few of her renowned recipes. Most sought-after of these is the legendary ‘soetkoekie’ recipe. Rumour has it that an old lady, on her deathbed, told the recipe to my great-grandmother who then passed it to Nans who has shared it with a privileged few. On the day of my kitchen tea, Nans handed me a notebook in which she had lovingly jotted a number of her and my personal favourites. In the flurry of activities I skimmed the pages but in my excitement I failed to register that the soetkoekie recipe had, in fact, been omitted. When I later questioned Nans she replied that she was sure it was one of the first recipes she had included in my book. Subconsciously, I think she wanted to be the one who bakes the soetkoekies for me, carrying them through with my cup of tea on mornings when I stayed over at hers.
I’ve attempted a few of Nans’ specialities and while hers will probably always taste better, as soon as I smell or taste those dishes or treats I am transported back to Port Elizabeth, cosy in her living room or sitting around the dining table. I’ve also had to learn to tweak quantities slightly. While Fox and I both have healthy appetites, trying to make our way through milktart meant for twelve people or two dozen sweetcorn fritters just isn’t good for the waistline.
So, today, as I whip up a batch of tasty soetkoekies and the air is filled with the smell of sugar and coconut, I’ll send up a little thank you for the woman who is my inspiration in and out of the kitchen: my Nans.

blank canvas before me

2010-10-01T05:33:00.001-07:00

I’ve shut down my computer one last time, packed my few personal belongings into a Tesco bag, hugged my colleagues, some of whom have become dear friends, farewell and let myself out of the building with a sense of finality. It’s the end of three years of hard work, much banter and laughs and a job that I genuinely loved (most days, like any other). I’m not even entirely sure why, but I know this is right. For months I have felt a restlessness that I need to start making space in my life, rather than simply trying to cram in as much as possible while still finding just enough time to eat and sleep.
Having bucked the trend and skipped university to dive headfirst into adulthood I’ve often felt like I missed out on a stage of life. Instead, I thrived on my freedom and by the time I thought I really should further my studies I knew I wanted my independence more. One year led to nine and here I am, years later, deciding it is time to further my education. Thankfully I have a wonderfully supportive husband who is happy to be adult enough for both of us while his “student wife” obtains her degree and bakes delicious treats when she is procrastinating.
As excited as I am, there is a part of me that naturally wonders who I am without a full-time job and the ensuing responsibility of being paid to use my time constructively. I guess I’m about to find out.
While I am allowing myself a dose of sentimentality, I am also giddy at the thought that before me is a blank canvas and between the Great Commissioner and I, I think something really beautiful could be created.

Eat Pray Sleep

2010-09-27T01:13:00.001-07:00

At least that’s what I think it should be called. Having persevered through both the book and the movie I am baffled by the popularity of one women’s story and why so many millions care about her journey to self discovery. Personally, I couldn’t wait for Liz Gilbert to find herself so that I could stop wasting precious hours of my life reading about her jaunts around Italy, India and Indonesia (*snore*). You may ask why I didn’t just stop reading if I found it that tedious: a) It was in our book club and I hate to report that I didn’t endure until the end and b) I am a sucker for closure.
My hope for the movie was that Julie Roberts might spice things up a bit and add some flare to a somewhat dull storyline. But no, the movie plays out exactly like the book and does what it says on the cover/poster. No surprises.
So, why the fuss? Who cares that a lady from America ate lots of food, learned how to meditate and then found inner healing in order to love again? I’ve pondered what the hype tells me about humanity: people need to get out more. Seriously. Turn off the TV, flee from the local pub, put your security blanket into the wash and experience the real world. There is so much to see, mysterious cultures to discover and so many people to meet.
I know that sounds largely simplistic but I’ve become all too aware that we are consumed by what little of the world we experience on an everyday basis; a world that is dictated by what news we are fed, adverts we watch and pop culture.
The protagonist in Eat Pray Love is not the exception; everyone has a story. Think of the strangest person you know. You’ve labelled them as weird and avoid them as far as possible but it’s inevitable that you will be forced into interaction at some point. Let me tell you, they have a story. There is some aspect of their life that defines them and you are bound to be surprised by it. They just need to be asked the right questions. And maybe once you know a bit more about them, they won’t seem so odd anymore. Why are there so many wars? Because we don’t take the time to understand each other. Okay, too deep for a Monday, I know.
So, now that I’ve totally knocked Liz Gilbert’s story, let’s take a leaf out of her book and work to open our eyes to what the world is really like beyond our borders of typical experience. And then, yes, maybe we too will learn a little more about ourselves along the way.

marrakech too hot to handle

2010-08-31T06:45:00.001-07:00

It’s 3.15am and I can’t understand why I have been woken by what sounds like Arabic chanting. Then I recall that I am in Marrakech and it is Ramadan. The call to prayer is echoing throughout our riad via a distant mosque loudspeaker. I ask Fox if this is the call to breakfast to which he responds I should stop being sarcastic. When I insist that I am in fact being serious we both burst into uncontrollable laughter. It must be the heat. We discover during our stay that this is the hottest summer in Morocco for the last 60 years. Proof that I am not handling the 51°C heat very well lies in random strangers, locals and tourists alike, taking one look at me as they pass by then spraying me in the face with water squirters. Charming.

Our introduction to Marrakech is at Djemaa-el-Fna, the main city square. By day, one is likely to encounter mainly fellow tourists and some sad looking donkeys bearing heavy loads but at night it truly becomes the heart of Marrakech. As the sun sinks, the call for the break of fasting resounds throughout the city and along with it comes the setting up of street restaurants which draw crowds-upon-crowds. Everywhere you look there are just people – some whizzing through on scooters, many feasting, others mesmerised by the snake charmers’ cobras or the men with monkeys on chains. The square also serves as the gateway to the souks. There is little the sellers in this labyrinthine marketplace will not attempt to coax one to purchase their wares. From catch phrases to grabbing your arm or telling you that “looking is free”, my favourite has to be “What you want? You want scarf? Bag? Ah, belly-dancing…you want this belt to be like Shakira?” Priceless.
While I smile at these attempts to rid me of my dirham, less amusing are the many poor who tug on one's arm for a handout. Between them, the mistreated animals and countless scrawny, battered stray cats who roam the city, one has little choice but to become hardened to the harsh surroundings for fear of being overwhelmed.

Another day of sightseeing means having to cross more chaotic roads (it’s no wonder we witnessed a scooter accident the day before), being at the center of a fight between taxi drivers and the bustle of the square at 10pm. All of this craziness plus the sweltering heat means that not even the acquisition of my own trusty water spray bottle is enough to cool me down by this point.

Thankfully our third and last day is spent exploring the Ourika valley in the Atlas mountains, outside Marrakech. We visit a traditional Berber village where a kind lady makes us peppermint tea in her house, climb a mountain to a gushing waterfall and admire some of Morocco’s notable scenery.

We conclude our trip, surrounded by other westerners who also look to be escaping the mayhem for a bit, on the chic rooftop terrace of Kosybar. As we sip our cold drinks and chat about travels with our fellow mountain tour mates, Andy and Aletia, I considered how much more I can appreciate Marrakech when looking at it from a distance in the cool of night.

nothing like a strong cup of coffee

2010-08-09T10:35:00.001-07:00

I wake up perky. It’s my first week no longer working full time and rather than waste my day having a lie-in I jump out of bed to make myself and hubby a freshly brewed cup of Cuban coffee. He is naturally surprised that I am even approachable at this time of day, never mind having caffeine which is at the top of my “Things that are Not Good for Me” list. I feel privileged to have the day open to possibility and I want to make the most of it by having a constructive day. Like a good “house wife” I send Fox off to work with a packed breakfast of healthy fruit (he’s already had a slice of homemade banana loaf), switch on morning TV and tidy up the flat. Next I assess my to-do list and start to tick things off one-by-one. As the morning progresses I find myself becoming more and more excited about my productivity.
By 10.30am, as I am energetically getting ready to leave the flat I realise I am having mild heart palpitations. Thinking that it must just be the adrenaline of such efficiency I head off to run my errands without further thought. I walk as fast as my pint-sized legs can carry me (nothing unusual there) and by the time I reach the high street both realisation and regret dawn simultaneously. Caffeine.
Perhaps my morning “treat” wasn’t a good idea, especially as I haven’t had any coffee for weeks…maybe even months. As the day unfolds I become more anxious and determined about everything I have to get through. After I am told that the kitchen trolley we want from Cargo is discontinued I go into overdrive. I have to have that trolley. I start calling different stores until the lady in Wimbledon agrees to let me have the display model at which point I literally beg her not to sell it to anyone else before I can get there to buy it.
I’m about to rush off to Wimbledon when I suddenly feel very, vey tired. Maybe I’ll just sit down and read for a bit. I pick up a book called “The Fingerprints of God” and all of a sudden the idea of creation and the Trinity all starts to make complete sense. I feel drugged. Ten minutes later I crash. I don’t wake up for an hour-and- a-half at which point I have to drag myself from the couch and convince my body that the gym is just what it needs. But on the way I suddenly fear I might have a heart-attack. Perhaps it is just my subconscious’ way of trying to avoid the treadmill but I can feel my heart beating in my chest and I panic that I am going to pass out mid-run and have to be carried out of the leisure centre on a stretcher. Wow…caffeine has turned me utterly neurotic in the space of nine hours.
I think I can finally understand how and why Castro started the revolution. After drinking Cuban coffee every day, perhaps I too might do something as significant as he.
Sheesh…I wouldn’t really know but I suspect Speed ain’t got nothing on that stuff. I think I’ll just stick to herbal tea.

run routine rox run

2010-07-16T06:38:00.001-07:00

I’m not a runner. I never have been and despite everyone telling me that once I get into it I will love it, I have been training for a few weeks now and I can confidently say I like it just as little as when I started. This whole training regime (I use the word “regime” here very loosely) has, however, got me thinking about what is involved with success. While I’m more likely to gasp for breathe after just 2km on the treadmill and then hide my glowing face as I retreat to my locker, I marvel at the men and women who manage entire marathons – an idea that is simply inconceivable to me. Having paid a couple of visits to the recent Wimbledon tournament and enjoyed watching some world-class players, as well as being confronted with endless weeks of football, I’ve observed these sportsmen’s determination and passion with some interest. What we seldom see is the discipline and routine involved with getting to this level. What sacrifices do these athletes make in order to excel…to be the best? And what could I achieve if I was as committed and disciplined? Unfortunately I have little will to apply such fervour to my running; instead my goal is to run my allotted 10k on Tuesday without my body failing me and hopefully raise some much needed funds for HOPEHIV’s work in Africa.
I have, nevertheless, been inspired to try and maintain more of a routine lifestyle. This idea always used to strike me as predictable and even boring, but more and more I can see the benefit. I’ve started by trying to wake up at the same time everyday. This may seem like an insignificant detail but is actually a major achievement for someone whose alarm clock is usually their husband lovingly placing a cup of tea bedside them and bravely nudging them until they start to show signs of life. My mornings are usually a blur of moodiness and fumbling around for about an hour when I feel I am awake enough to face the world. Now, since setting my alarm to the same time everyday, I actually feel ready to face the day quicker than usual.
I’m really coming around to this idea of structure. Perhaps I just need to persevere with the running and maybe I’ll be a marathon runner yet. Or perhaps I should just stick to what I enjoy and commit to routine blogging; it’s less strenuous and I don’t lose partial use of my legs for days on end.

widespread epidemic of world cup fever

2010-06-16T12:30:00.001-07:00

The international community is currently united by a widespread outbreak of World Cup fever. Controversially, I don’t even like football. I say ‘controversially’ because now is obviously not the best time to put that out there. However, I find myself currently absorbed by the match between South Africa and Uruguay. The sound of vuvuzelas leaves no room for silent anticipation – instead the excitement is kept at a constant, mosquito-like, audible level. Over the last few days I have entered into heated debates about the noise that these instruments produce and have opposed their potential ban as passionately as Desmond Tutu who emphasises ‘When in Africa…!’ I have choked back tears during reports on National Youth Day which marks a dark, yet momentous, day in the history of the country. Those same tears can no longer be denied during the national anthem as the swell of pride lights up the players’ faces. I’m clearly nostalgic, having just drowned my quiche in Spur pink sauce. Any self-respecting South African reserves such a prized condiment for chips alone but today I just need a little taste of South Africa.
I genuinely do not understand how ninety minutes of twenty-two men kicking a ball backward and forward can enthral so many millions across the globe but I do know what a win will do for the country tonight. For the thousands, if not millions, of people watching the matches in make-shift cinemas and viewing rooms, to comfortable living rooms and the handful in the stadium itself, a win has the power to unite a nation that spends so much of its time talking about its differences. We saw it happen at the Rugby World Cup final in 1995 and the same nervous exhilaration is evident in the air tonight.
The whistle has just blown at halftime and SA are 0-1 down and the anxiety is building. As much as I find myself trying to act disinterested, I just can’t help myself…come on Bafana Bafana!

no place like cuba

2010-06-11T16:22:00.001-07:00

It’s hard to detail our trip to Cuba without coming across partly pessimistic. Yet, our experience was far from negative, only somewhat different to the preconceived rustic experience we had fostered. It is true, Havana is a city of once colloquial majesty where, now, peeling paint, crumbling buildings and vintage cars reflect the struggles of the country. However, despite its perishing exterior, Havana is undeniably full of life. One only need explore the lanes of historic Habana Vieja where locals mix with tourists to create a buzz equal in scale to the stifling humidity. Here you can enjoy a mojito in Cathedral Square, seek out Hemingway’s favourite local spots and purchase cigars and rum. Don’t expect any bargains though; State prices, as we were informed a number of times, are non-negotiable. In many cases it’s hard to know whether this is the truth or if it is part of the wider conspiracy to sap tourists dry of every cent they might have on their person. We learned quickly, such is tourism in a socialist society. At the famous Coppelia ice-cream parlour we were relegated to the tourist area, taxi drivers conspired to over charge us on more than one occasion and walking out of the hotel meant we would be forced to decline numerous offers of cigars, rum and personal guided tours. Then there were moments when Havana redeemed itself by way of an unbelievably delicious dinner at Paladar Huron Azul (restaurant in someone’s home) and hanging out at the Malecon in front of our hotel, Nacional de Cuba. The Malecon, Havana’s sea wall, is where locals flock in the evening with food and drink to hang out with friends; after a few days in Havana we were happy to do as the locals and enjoy a cheap night out.
Notably, wherever you go, there is music. Cuban culture prides itself on its musical heritage and this is no different in Havana or Varadero where we spent the second half of our visit. From string quartets serenading us while we dined (and subsequently trying to sell us their CDs) to Cuban jazz in the lobby to dance beats while the resort guests did their stretches on the beach, silence is a rarity yet the constant buzz contributes to Cuba’s unique appeal. While our expectations of azure water and white beaches were met, the countless resorts that line the shores of this region highlight Cuba’s trend toward mass tourism and any illusions that this island is “undiscovered” are dismissed on arrival. But then, who doesn’t enjoy a bit of all-inclusive luxury spent on deck-chairs by day and in the Piano Bar by night?
In a country where taxi drivers earn more than doctors it is not hard to understand why tourists are so welcomed and cherished; yet one can’t help but feel the smiles burning holes in your wallet. Would we return? Probably not, but Cuba has left an impression like no other place could…and a tan to match, which makes any holiday worthwhile.

full of hope

2010-05-09T07:39:00.001-07:00

The last few weeks have been crazy. Between being surreally stranded in Cape Town due to a volcanic ash cloud and writing my first university exams, I feel I am only now coming back down to earth. However, the aforementioned chaos is not the only reason I have held off on blogging about our recent trip to South Africa. More than ever before, this trip left me feeling quite conflicted within myself. It’s strange to return to the country of your birth feeling as if you are able, to some extent, to view the politics, the people, the landscape and the culture from an outsider’s perspective. The first thing that hits me to my core is the poverty that so many of the people must still endure. My initial instinct is one of anger at those who have money for simply allowing this to continue. Yet I am all too aware that this is utterly naive. No matter how much money you have, it is not enough; it is not enough to help every person who still lives in a shack, who begs at every traffic light, who guards your car for hours on end for five Rand, despite his university degree. In Africa so many do what they have to do to get by. After two weeks I found that I had almost become desensitised. It happens so quickly.

Speaking to friends and family, the thing that strikes me is that everyone has an opinion on the state of the country. From power cuts to Julius Malema to hijackings and the cost of living what is most evident is one thing: hope. A land that seems to find so much of it’s identity in its differences, also stands united in how passionate people are about the country. There is little doubt that, despite hardship, many are willing to fight to right the many wrongs of the past. It’s hard to describe how this sense of hope infiltrates the country. I guess it’s a bit like listening to a song that really stirs you. You feel such a surge of emotion you almost wish that the song would just keep playing, that the melody would last forever. There is evidence of this in small and big ways; just between Fox and my families alone they are counselling those who grieve, helping fight crime as volunteer police, rescuing abused animals and buying local goods that they don’t necessarily need just to encourage entrepreneurs. Nor does it stop there. The work continues and I must admit I found it very hard to leave it all behind. Perhaps it was climbing one of the majestic mountains that dominates the city or staring at a turquoise ocean that rivals the brilliance of crystals; maybe the warmth of the sunshine or even just the encounter with a culture which is so familiar but I left South Africa this time with a big lump in my throat. And all worries that I had been numbed simply vanished as the flight circled the harbour to afford us a view of Table Mountain in all its glory. What a sight, what a city, what an incredible country.

happy easters

2010-04-03T11:48:00.001-07:00

I’ve tried to remember how old I was when I discovered it wasn’t a giant white bunny who delivered my Easter eggs. I don’t recall my exact age but I do know that I kept it to myself for a good two years in order to avoid the risk of not receiving any eggs at all. My younger sister unfortunately never had that luxury as I made sure that she was out of the dark as soon as she could understand life’s harsh realities. However, by the time my other siblings came along I had developed some sense of compassion and left them in naive bliss until their peers dashed their innocence.
I know it’s not all about the eggs but, let’s face it, one can’t help but be enticed by the myriads of chocolate that line the aisles at this time of the year. I recall hunting for eggs in some pretty exotic places: a mansion in St James in Cape Town, the hills of the Scottish Highlands, Pirates Cove in Devon but the best ones were always in my own garden. Mom used to go to town on Easter egg hunts, writing poems with clues or drawing treasure maps. Pick ‘n Pay would sell boxes of Beacon chocolate marshmallow eggs and by the time Easter Sunday arrived I would have found fifty different ways to consume them – my favourite method introduced to me by my friend Chelsea who would microwave the egg for 10 seconds and then smear it all over her front teeth and pretend that she was toothless (hours of fun!).
This year I feel like the shops have had eggs on sale for months and as a result the novelty has worn off somewhat. The same can’t be said for hot-cross buns and the sooner Sainsbury’s take's them off their specials stand the better for my waistline.
Jokes aside, this year I’m taking some time to reflect on the significance of Easter and all that it represents – not just an excuse for a long weekend but that I am truly redeemed because of what Jesus did on the cross. Now there is a reason to celebrate…so bring on the chocolate.

my mom

2010-03-14T07:56:00.001-07:00

I happened to catch a few minutes of Loose Women during the week and they were discussing the best advice their mother’s had ever given them in order to set the tone for today, Mothering Sunday. On reflection, the idea my own mother has drummed home the most is that a lady should always wear matching underwear in case one gets hit by a bus. This has been ingrained in me to such an extent that on the odd occasion when I deviate from this rule I wonder if I am tempting fate.
Mom openly admits that she is not your typical baking-cookies-in-an-apron type. Rather aptly, one of my fifteen year old brother’s friends recently described her as so “g”. Thinking this meant that she was so “great” she proudly relayed the news to my brother who quickly corrected her by informing that this actually meant she was so “gangster”. Charming.
One of my most vivid memories is of my eleventh birthday and a sleepover at the little townhouse that Mom and I inhabited at the time. I had about ten of my girlfriends over and we ended up dressing up in Mom’s high-heels and clothes and taking turns to parade around in a massive sun hat that for the other three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year served as a wall decoration. She was and always will be one of the cool moms.
Mom and I share a similar fashion sense. We’ve been known to turn up on more than one occasion dressed in exactly the same outfit. I owe my love of big earrings and skinny jeans to her. As much as I might mock the return of eighties style, all I need to do is look at pictures of Mom with me as a toddler balancing on her hip and clearly big curly hair and stripes were always going to make a comeback – a fashion-trap in which I have subconsciously been caught. I blame my mother.
To fully appreciate Mom’s friendliness and love for other people, all I need to do is walk down the road with her. This simple task takes longer than most people as she stops at regular intervals to chat to locals she has befriended over the years. I used to cringe as a teenager when she would joke with the cashiers in shops (sorry Mom) but now I often find myself wishing I was that friendly rather than simply rushing my groceries through or worse even, using the self-checkout to avoid conversation at all.
So we have our similarities and we have our differences and I’m glad to report that I can actually whip up a mean batch of cookies. Most importantly, however, I can honestly say that I am truly blessed to have an amazing mom who is so many things to so many people; loving, caring, funny, compassionate, artsy, clever and good fun. She’s just so “g” (great, not gangster!).

quiet please this is a library

2010-02-26T10:50:00.000-08:00

Today, as on most Fridays, I was forced out of our flat by the neighbour upstairs sharing this week's top 100 hits. While I don't mind a bit of Black Eyed Peas or Lady Gaga, such an environment simply isn't conducive to reading Plato. I reluctantly made my way to the library and settled myself at one of the tables in the magazine/newspaper section. It must have been the time of day because ten minutes later I found myself questioning if I was in the library or if I had mistakenly walked into a pensioners home. An old man came and sat across from me and may have gone unnoticed had he not blatantly lifted his left bum-cheek and simply let rip without a glimpse of shame. As I tried to feign ignorance and focus on Socrates arguing the nature of morality, an argument in my present surroundings caught my attention: a bit of a scuffle had arisen over the Investors Chronicle. The man across from me had the sought-after magazine in his possession, a lady to his left was claiming that she had been looking for it first so it was rightly to come to her next and there was a third gentleman who begrudgingly admitted defeat and said he would just wait his turn. Once a compromise had been reached the arguing man and woman got to chatting to pass the time. Five minutes later a lady in her little knitted hat and cardigan shouted at the two of them, "This is a library and you are not supposed to talk and you have been talking for half an hour!" The response was somewhat defensive but nevertheless the offending couple skulked off to a corner to leave the hatted granny in peace. At this point, the man across from me broke from jotting down investor tips, looked at me and said, "Oh dear, everyone is getting into trouble today. You had better watch out or you'll be next. You'll get into trouble for reading a book instead of reading a newspaper...reading books in the library...how old-fashioned..." He then smiled and continued his reading.
I was just sorry that I usually sit in the study area and miss all of this action. What a great way to pass the afternoon, although I'm not sure how much studying would actually happen.
I reckon I'll probably be a library dwelling granny one day, booking my place in the queue to catch up on the latest news and huffing at those who break the rules. "Quiet please, this is a library..."

country in union

2010-02-11T17:05:00.001-08:00

11 February 1990, the day before I turned seven years old, marked a critical turning point in the history of the country I called home. Back then I was too young to realise the significance of a man called Nelson Mandela being released after twenty seven years imprisonment. Today, exactly twenty years later, I do. The reality hits even closer to home when I consider that as of tomorrow, my lifetime to date equates to the same amount of time that Mandela was behind bars.
To mark the occasion we went to watch Invictus, Clint Eastwood’s latest film that details how Mandela used the white South African’s favourite sport, rugby, to unite the nation. Many will know that it doesn’t take much to get me choked up but this film did more than just make me cry – it made me swell with patriotic pride, reminisce about a childhood naive to the instability surrounding me and hope for a nation that has come so much further than most give it credit for.
Five years after his release from prison, Madiba walked onto the rugby pitch at Ellis Park stadium, his typical African shirt replaced by a Springbok rugby jersey, to welcome 62,000 fans to the final of the Rugby World Cup. I was twelve years old at the time but I can remember almost every detail of that match – the Kiwi’s doing the haka, the drop goal that won us the Cup, the final score and the whole team gathering in a circle to pray at the end of the match. I think God knew that the country needed a win and I think he smiled that day. At the time I had no idea what that game represented. I was just happy we won. My friends and I ran down to the main road screaming and shouting, waving our new multi-coloured South African flag at passersby who waved back just as madly, screamed just as loud and beeped their car hooters. Perhaps it impacted me more than I realised. The World in Union anthem ended up being the song I used to walk down the aisle on my wedding day. There was no raucous shouting and cheering, however, for which I am grateful. I see now how extraordinary it was for our nation to set aside their differences for that one day. And a man who had spent most of his life dreaming of such a day, even just for one hundred minutes, got to see the people of his country, regardless of colour, all on the same side, cheering for the same team. That sort of spirit can not be crushed, it is unconquerable, it is invictus.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul
”Invictus”, William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

musical escape

2010-02-04T11:55:00.001-08:00

Maybe it’s just me but do certain songs ever make you feel like you’re in a movie? I’ll be listening to some stirring tune such as Let Go by Frou Frou and suddenly I’m picturing myself being filmed on a train, staring out the window, my expression speaking a thousand words. Then there’s Snow Patrol’s Chocolate that transports me to New York where I’m a high-flying magazine editor, wearing the latest designer fashions and drinking a latte as I stride along the side-walk towards work.
At this point I really hope someone is reading this and agreeing with me otherwise I’m just admitting that I’m a bit of a weirdo.
Music really has the ability to arouse emotion. Like this morning on the bus when the boys on the back seat had the courtesy to share their gangster rap with everyone else on the bus. My emotion = anger. So, to counteract this negativity bubbling into what could potentially have become bus-rage, I shoved my earphones in and pumped up One Republic. It was as if the world disappeared and “all I needed was the air I breathe” = restoration of peace and calm. This city can really get to me with it’s unreliable public transport, delinquent youths and less than desirable weather. However, I’ve found that I can just shut the world off by hitting shuffle on the iPod and I have some of my favourite tunes to reinstate my sanity. So perhaps I’m a bit odd and my methods of distraction are unconventional but as I approach my five year anniversary of my time in this big city, sometimes I just have to do what I have to do to remind me that there is always a bit of good to be found.

from sydney to snow

2010-01-12T00:11:00.001-08:00

I circle the mist off the window and stare at a snowy graveyard. It’s not sad or creepy but beautiful. Snow makes everything beautiful – even London. The air is crisp and cold and people are hidden beneath layers of clothing but the chill is worth it because you get to make snowmen and throw snowballs and everyone smiles despite themselves.
As the bus hurtles forward I consider the contrast to being in sunny Sydney just five days ago and at the time that seemed far preferable to a British winter. But there is a lot to be said for the comfortable familiarity of home and I can’t say I’m altogether sad to be back, just sad to leave family behind. Then again, what’s a twenty-nine hour trip around the globe on Air China, complete with reconstituted Chinese take-out and less legroom than usual (unbelievable, I know)?
The other side of the world isn’t always as far as it seems. It’s only when you consider the change in weather that you realise quite how far it is.

boom boom boom

2009-11-14T01:41:00.001-08:00

I have decided to drive us to the movies. Most outings where I am behind the wheel have an inevitable episode where Fox feels the necessity to raise his voice in a moment of sheer terror but this has already occurred on this trip so I feel I am through the worst.
On arrival, I pull up to one of those ridiculous stay-in-your-car-while-the-machine-spits-a-ticket-at-you contraptions where you never quite judge the distance appropriately and end up dislocating your shoulder in an attempt to reach far enough. However, having survived that, it is the moments post-ticket retrieval that prove tricky. As the boom lifts I begin to stress because I am in neutral with the handbrake up and I’m aware that pulling off requires my full concentration. In my stress I manage to pull forward just enough so that I am directly underneath the boom…and stall. Yes, I have stalled in the perfect position for the boom to come down and crush our (but mostly Fox’s) car. Extreme panic now sets in and I glance over at Fox who very helpfully has his face in his hands and has shirked all responsibility as an instructor. I try to take a deep breathe and forget that any moment now our car will require serious repair work and attempt to restart the engine. Unfortunately, I have now put the car into third gear and forgotten about the handbrake. I stall. Again. The anxiety now begins to overwhelm me and I start to shake like a leaf and mistakenly glance in my rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of an Indian family in the car behind me all gesturing wildly with arms everywhere. A faint mumble about first gear and handbrake ensues from Fox who has started to return from the dead.
What feels like two hours later and purely by miracle, after my fourth attempt, I manage to roll forward and the engine finally kicks in. Oh the relief, so pure that I can almost taste it.
Fox has now come out of his tortoiseshell and instructs me to pull into one of the ten disabled bays where he will take over. Very helpful at this stage, thank you.
In case anyone is wondering, the booms do, in fact, have sensors and will not come down on your car while you are still under them. And anyone who said that learning to drive is fun has clearly never stalled under one of them.

metaphorical friday

2009-11-13T10:07:00.001-08:00

Right now I’m supposed to be formulating an answer to explain the problems with a common-sense assumption that language reflects reality. You can see why I would rather be blogging.
Instead, I’m sitting on the couch, contemplating what to have for diner while staring out the window at sheets of London rain (did you even spot the metaphor there? Probably not because this is a Metaphor We Live By). That being said, I’m really loving my studies, despite how my procrastination might not reflect that. At times it feels like my brain might explode, at others I simply lose myself in the narrative of a classic. As I’m sure you can gather, I’m still working on the self-discipline aspect but that will come eventually. Either that or I’m going to do a lot more blogging.
Anyway, I should make an attempt at understanding the social implications of syntax and the systematicity of metaphorical concepts before the day is out.
As a reward for the days efforts I get to enjoy, not only, the satisfaction of knowing that I have grasped something new but also dinner and a movie with my wonderful husband.
Did I mention that I was listening to John Mayer? Fridays are like a mouthful of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food where you get a bit of the marshmallow and a chocolate fish. Bliss.

date to diarise

2009-11-07T08:25:00.001-08:00

It’s reached that time of they year again when I start booking things into my schedule for next year but find myself at a loose end because I have nowhere to write them. While still reeling from the shock that it is almost time, once again, to see the year out with fireworks and a rendition of Auld Lang Syne, I marched myself off to WH Smith to pick out my 2010 diary.
Before me was an overwhelming array of colours and sizes and I started to feel daunted, aware that this is a very important decision. As my husband quite rightly pointed out, once you’ve chosen a diary you’re locked into a year long commitment. Oh, the pressure!
I was forced into deciding by process of elimination. The day-to-a-page A5 diaries are so appealing yet I know full well that they are totally impractical for my already, unnecessarily full handbag. The teeny little pocket diaries too are impractical unless you simply never go out or see anyone. I like to see my entire week at a glance so that is easy but I also need enough space to cross out and write lists if necessary. Naturally, it must be pretty but not too girly as a diary says a lot about a person and I like to keep an air of sophistication about myself (sorry Winnie the Pooh diary…you know I’d have chosen you if I never had to take you out in public). I like a slimline diary and almost opted for simply buying the same one I had this year but there is probably some truth in variety and spice etc. The extras are rather important too – place for notes, addresses, a tube map, important dates, personal details (although I have been warned not to fill in this section due to recent increases in identity fraud – be warned!).
In the end, I went down the functional route and opted for a thin little mauve number with a handy pink elastic and all the essentials. Its extra features are limited but, understandably, you can’t have it all in a handbag diary. It’s not outrageously gorgeous, but nice enough to look at for a year.
And the first date that’s going into it? “Buy diary for next year”

long journey home

2009-10-05T17:37:00.000-07:00

As written on the back of a used Etihad e-ticket and typed while passing time in Abu Dhabi airport at 4.30am

I'm sitting in Johannesburg International airport having enjoyed a Cape Malay chicken curry courtesy of Etihad airlines who have just added 6hrs to my already gruelling 24hr journey. Thus, it is taking me 30hrs to complete, what should be, a straighforward 15hr trip. I'm already emotional having left my family behind so it's no wonder tears prick my eyes when the lady at security confiscates my Rooibos Facial Wash (amateur mistake ... I'd tried to bypass the 100ml liquid rule). Her consoling words, "Ay, eet weel bee orkay, mummy" were of little comfort. They're so friendly in Africa. Still, sometimes I really hate flying.

The rest of my trip was enjoyable. I was glad to see Africa was as I left it; "Africa time" (GMT +1-2 x4 +6-3), the PE beachfront, Steri Stumpie milkshakes and my grandparents house in Cotswold remain unchanged.

There's something about returning to "The Friendly City" that brings me down to Earth. I might live in one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world but a great chunk of my heart lies in the city where the wind starts to blow at 11am, 360 days a year. I cherish coming back to the place I called home for so long, spending time with my grandparents, eating Red Windmill ice-cream and staring out of Nans' lounge window hoping to spot a Southern Right Whale or a school of dolphins. I also find that I depart from SA feeling like one of the aforementioned whales thanks to Nans' relentless offerings of cakes and cookies, Grandpa keeping me in constant supply of biltong, Mug & Bean's giant muffins and scrumptious seafood - the best of which is found at Trawlers take-away in JBay.

However, this time was about more than visiting family and indulging. I also had the privilege of watching my long-time friend, Vanessa, walk down the aisle to marry Marcus at the elegantly rustic Plantation in Sardinia Bay.

So, despite my current frustrations and eagerness to see my husband, on reflection, some things are worth a mere 58hr roundtrip.

literally procrastinating

2009-09-18T08:23:00.001-07:00

In writing this post I am reverting back to a means of task-avoidance about which I had long forgotten along with school lunches, the Theorem of Pythagoras and debating (yes, I was on the debate team – all the cool kids were doing it). I am speaking of what is commonly known as the “art of procrastination”. Since starting my studies towards my English degree I have found countless reasons to do anything but read my texts books which, quite frankly, make as much sense to me as the technology behind mobile phones. Last week, while attempting to understand everything that entails “literary theory” I found the need to refer to my newly acquired Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms. Understandably, such a title wouldn’t arouse all-round enthusiasm in most, but to me it is heaven-sent in assisting me to make head-or-tail of concepts that are simply way over my head. However, the entry for humanism prompted me to look up Renaissance; on doing this I was made to refer to the term Enlightenment (how appropriate!); but in order to fully understand this I first needed to look up Encyclopèdtes; which, unsurprisingly, referred me back to Enlightenment and just as well because by this stage I had completely forgotten what I was originally trying to look-up and had run out of fingers for page markers. I suspect that these initial literary terms are the least of my worries and no amount of procrastination is going to turn me into an instant intellectual literary critic. However, you can probably expect an increase in blog posts. And perhaps I’ll invest in a few proper page markers in order to elude myself into thinking that study times aren’t as daunting as they first appear.

hello world - this is me

2009-08-13T02:30:00.000-07:00

I’m currently conducting an experiment to prove that the more makeup I wear, the more I become reliant on it (I’ve just lost all my male readers so I’m now free to sound as girly as I want) by going one week without any gloop plastered on my face.
Pre-experiment observation has led me to believe that I look terrible without makeup (despite Fox’s insistence that this just isn’t the case). I have noticed that the last few times people have said to me “You look really tired” are the very times when I have decided to go sans Mac Face and Body and take on the world au naturale. At this point, as a gentle digression, may I point out that telling someone they look tired is never a compliment, regardless of the sincerity behind it; you might as well say “Sheesh, don’t you look rough?!” and be done with it.
When I was hit with dreaded swine flu a few weeks ago I didn’t wear makeup for an extended period and that was purely because I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow, let alone cared much about my general appearance. By the end of the week I was actually reluctant to return to my makeup-everyday ways as the mascara and eye-liner induced bags had faded and my skin was generally glowing from the opportunity to receive actual oxygen.

Having gone two days now without any mask behind which to hide my blotchy skin and sleepy eyes I can’t say it has been as hard as I had imagined. I can even rub my eyes without worrying that I have streaked black across my face. It has also forced me to pay more attention to my hair and clothes (I’m after a more carefree look, not a couldn’t-care-less look!) and I feel the need to smile more to appear bright and alive.
So, if I’m looking a little pale and sickly over the next few days, please don’t suggest that I might want to consider iron tablets. Rather, take a good look at my bare face making a rare and limited appearance and marvel at my dazzling smile as I try and divert your attention.

(If you are a guy other than my husband and you are still reading this, well done.)

finally getting myself into gear

2009-07-04T15:22:00.001-07:00

After too many years of riding shotgun I’ve finally decided that it’s time to take control of my independence. So, I’ve signed up for driving lessons. I must just establish that the last person who attempted to teach me to drive (my ever-patient stepmom) ended up with a rather large gash in the side of their car thanks to a pillar jumping out of nowhere in a basement car park. After that little scare I figured that public transport really wasn’t overly tedious and a drivers licence was deemed an unnecessary luxury.
However, a looming trip to South Africa, sans husband i.e. no chauffeur, where the public transport infrastructure is somewhat skeletal, was all I needed to finally get my rear “into gear” and just do what I’ve been saying I will do for the last 8 years.
On Friday I undertook my first lesson with Michael and I’m inclined to think we are going to get along quite nicely. The spare controls on his side of the car fill me with great confidence and he doesn’t appear the least bit fazed when police cars pull out in front of me, grannies cross the road at their leisure totally oblivious to the learner who is still using the clutch as a break, irritable drivers pull up impatiently behind me as I “creep and peep” at intersections and don’t take gaps unless I can’t actually see another car on the horizon. Overall I was rather pleased with how much I remembered and an hour into the lesson I was chugging along (“a little slower on the clutch, remember…”) Putney High St as Michael disapproved vocally of bus drivers who had the audacity to pull out in front of his pupil.
Now, the next challenge is to convince my grandfather that I am capable of driving the car when I’m back in Port Elizabeth in September. Why do family have this habit of remembering things you wish they would forget? You see there was an incident, when I was much younger, where my grandfather’s scooter ended up in the hedge…with me in the drivers seat. Maybe I don’t have the best track record but I do have determination and that’s got to count for something. Perhaps a licence at the very least.

best of both

2009-06-28T14:50:00.001-07:00

It was a gorgeous Saturday in London and in the spirit of summer I decided to accompany my husband to the Telegraph pub in Putney to watch the second game of the Lions rugby series in South Africa. The pub was packed and the atmosphere suitably buzzing with such a mixture of people that I wouldn’t have felt out of place if I had brought my great-granny along.
We found a good spot – where I could actually see the screen – at a table beside two Lions supporters. In the corner was the “buggy brigade” where all the mom’s had parked off with their newborns (I counted four but might have missed a few as they were just so tiny). The dad’s weren’t far but had distanced themselves suitably so as not to be roped into some task that would distract them from what was shaping up to be an exciting game. To our left was a large table of pensioners who had obviously come to enjoy a Saturday afternoon lunch and instead found themselves surrounded by rowdy rugby supporters. Nonetheless, they didn’t seem too perturbed and chattered amongst themselves and feigned the odd interested glance over at the big screen.
Support was almost certainly equally split between the two teams and I smiled to myself that here we all were just enjoying the match side-by-side. Being South African-British myself - I tick both boxes on official forms - I am usually torn when someone asks me where “home” is but when it comes to sports teams there is never any doubt; I’ll always shout for the boys in green. I looked over and there was a tiny-tot in a Springbok jersey, the little girl beside me told her dad, in her British accent, that she was supporting the team in green, the guy in front of us was shouting at the screen in Afrikaans and I wondered how far from home you could stray and still feel like you never left. There was no obvious rivalry just a sense that this was neutral territory and all we really cared about was that our team won.
It turned out to be a nail biter but the Boks took the game in the last minute and perhaps if I was filling in one of those forms that day, I might just tick one box for a change. The Lions supporters at our table stood to leave and congratulated us on our teams victory and because of that great gesture of sportsmanship I thought, had I been filling in one of those forms, I may in fact consider ticking the other box too.

sunshine at lunchtime

2009-06-24T04:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I decided to escape the confines of my basement office to lunch in the gardens of the Natural History Museum. It was a blissful London day of sunshine and happy Londoners, thanks to an overdue dose of vitamin D. I found a suitable spot and parked myself in front of the temporary Butterfly Jungle exhibition which is said to be housing iguanas, pythons, scorpions, tarantulas and hundreds of butterflies. I inched myself slightly forward at the sudden thought that there could be a mass escape and I would find myself surrounded by some of the world’s creepiest creatures.
Sitting reading my Lonely Planet magazine while basking in glorious rays of sunlight, I would glance up occasionally as a school child ran past me yelling to disperse flocks of pigeons. As charming as the scene was, I was aware that I was in the firing line and would be forced to spoil fun if one of those pigeons literally did get the poop scared out of it. There was a wonderful buzz in the gardens as passers-by were attracted to a brightly decorated piano in the far end of the garden that teased with the words “play me” scrawled across the front. I quite enjoyed one man’s rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody and just when I began to get lost in my thoughts a six-year-old took his turn and the tune became slightly less melodic and more of a constant thumping. Still, everyone has to start somewhere.
The whole experience left me a bit more in love with this city than I have been of late. For a few moments in my day I was able to block out the noise and busyness of life and just soak up my surroundings which can often be much scarier than the exhibition behind me. It’s a jungle out there.

bus ride without a book

2009-05-27T14:44:00.001-07:00

I tried unsuccessfully to get technical on the bus this evening by blogging from my mobile. Instead, my phone won the Gadget VS Woman battle and I resorted, shamefully, to using a pen and paper. How awfully archaic.

I love nabbing the front seat on the top deck of the bus. At the bus stop, I’m one of those annoying people who subtly (or not) inch my way to the front of the queue in order to be one of the first to tap my oyster and dash up the stairs to claim my spot. Not exactly playing it smooth and obviously not nearly as cool as sauntering casually towards the back seat of the bus but from the front I get to take it all in. Admittedly, most of the time I just sit and read but I like to have the option to look up once in a while, spot the odd wierdo and decide that people are terribly strange. Frankly after a long day in front of a computer screen my brain isn’t capable of much more (quick note to prove my point: in my notebook I spelt else as “esle”. See, brain dead).

This evening, much to my disappointment, there wasn’t much action out on the streets, hence my blogging to pass the time. Therefore, there is little of interest to report and makes for a pretty boring read…but so was my bus ride! I spied a few rowdy teenagers (halfterm), a vast number of cyclists (annoying fit and healthy people), an ex-work colleague (ooh, we never quite clicked– glad I’m on the bus) and many, many people talking on their mobiles (yeah, but try blogging). Two stops from home I conclude that some days are more exciting than others. And tomorrow I really must remember my book.

where have all the happy books gone?

2009-05-16T14:51:00.001-07:00

I love to read and over recent months have been churning through books faster then Speedy Gonzales can say "¡Andale! ¡Andale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Yii-hah!". However, I’ve found a lot of this reading to be mostly unpleasant due to the subject matter of my chosen literature. For some reason I seem to be picking up book after book full of doom-and-gloom involving humanitarian crises, abuse and death. I fully appreciate the importance of exposing ourselves to these things in order to remind ourselves that we live in a world where there is great need but books are a form of escapism for me and seriously…five books in a row is too much for one person to handle!

The Forgotten Garden by Kate Morton came highly recommended by Mom who omitted to tell me that I might need to pop a couple of Prozac when I’m done. The book takes 650 pages to pick up and then ends 5 pages later with the death of a women who lived her entire adult life with a horrible, life destroying secret. There, now you don’t have to go through the same torment as me.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly was a short and surprisingly good read considering the author, Jean-Dominique Bauby, wrote the entire book by blinking his left eye while confined in his own body by locked-in syndrome. Not much feel good factor there either.

After gathering many months worth of dust on my bookshelf I finally summoned enough courage to attempt reading Khaled Hosseini’s A Thousand Splendid Suns detailing life in Afghanistan. Why, why, oh why did I not think to take a back-up book on holiday? Graphic descriptions of unbelievable abuse and hardship don’t feature high on my checklist of what makes a good holiday read.

Okay, enough! I’m helpless. I can’t save the world. I can’t stop people’s pain. I need a happy book! So I scan the shelves at Waterstones and pick out The other Hand by Chris Cleave who claims it holds a secret that can’t be divulged on the back cover. I’m intrigued. So I include it in my 3-for-2 offer and within two days realise that the reason they don’t tell you what it is about is because it’s depro. Argh! And now I can’t tell you what it’s about either or the author will probably hunt me down and make me read ten other books just like it as punishment for giving the big secret away.

Right. I’m left with little choice but to turn to the queen of chick-lit, Marian Keyes. Her latest novel, This Charming Man, starts off in her usual light-hearted tone and I start to relish each page of girly antics. However, this is not the book to break the cycle. For within its pages are excerpts containing insights into the horrors of domestic abuse. While hugely relevant I think I’m going to give my heart a rest after this one. I can only take so much before I’m likely to crack and I’ll have to be rushed off to Charing Cross A&E on account of tear induced dehydration.

It’s now a case of self preservation. Perhaps I’ll pick up a few copies of The London Paper and find out what’s happening with Lily, Kate and Amy. And for half an hour in my day I might be able to pretend I’m naive to what is going on all around me. But then again, maybe that’s not what I really want to do at all.

the land of socks

2009-05-14T03:44:00.000-07:00

There is a land where lost socks go. No matter how much exploration is dedicated to discovering it, this place will never be found by humans. I imagine it is a very colourful world where no two socks are the same. Because this is not a land for pairs but rather odd socks that have escaped a life that would otherwise be spent on someone’s smelly foot. They have abandoned their other half to lie useless in a sock draw. Sometimes, if two socks of a similar colour and style have been deserted by a partner, a loving human such as myself will try and pair them together. Perhaps not a match made in heaven but it surely beats facing the unthinkable when the next spring clean comes around. Some may even find their way to the Jolly Gardeners on a Sunday where they can be made into sock monkeys and then sit gathering dust on bookshelves until the novelty wears off and they end up in the rubbish anyway. There just isn’t much hope for those who are left behind.
But those who live in the Land of Socks have no cares for such afflictions. They go undisturbed and possibly see their days out until they disintegrate to their initial state of lint.
The reason I have been thinking of this place is that I was faced with somewhat of a “prodigal sock” moment last night as I lay in bed, reading my book. Try as I might, I was unable to even out a lump in the sheet and after deciding that it was not going to go away, I delved deeper to investigate. Imagine my surprise when out came a white gym sock (clean) from between the mattress protector and the sheet. I had been looking everywhere for that little rascal! Perhaps the Land of Socks hadn’t been all that it had imagined or maybe it decided at the last minute that it didn’t want to go and clung for dear life to the sheet during the spin cycle.
I gladly reunited my gym socks and thought of those in Fox’s drawer that lie discarded in the hope that their partner might materialise one day too. I think it is probably too nice in the Land of Socks.

musings on london life

2009-05-12T16:35:00.001-07:00

London is a funny old place. I have these moments when I just stop and observe the chaos surrounding me. While waiting for a severely delayed bus this evening, I attempted to calm the inner voice that was screaming from anxiety at the thought that “I had to be home ten minutes ago” by just taking it all in. As I tuned out shouts of “Free Evening Standard” and tried to retreat to my happy place whilst fending off six attempts to hand me a free newspaper I watched those who were rushing past me at an exhausting pace. Having just disembarked the tube where I was stuck under someone’s smelly armpit from Earl’s Court to East Putney I stood at the bus stop considering why on earth anyone chooses to live in this crazy place? With five years of London experience now under my belt I feel I’m at liberty to highlight the uniqueness and oddities of the city I call home.

There was a moment on the tube a few weeks ago when a lady tried to make conversation with those of us on the carriage about the unreliability of the London Underground. We simply stared at her for all of four seconds and then simply continued about our business of pretending we were the only person on the tube that morning. When did I become such a Londoner?

A torturous amount of time had now passed while I waited for the 430 bus and I could no longer resist the temptation of a freebie. ARGH…if only the bus had come two minutes earlier I might have held out. So, I accepted the next offer of the London Evening Standard and used it to distract myself from the thought that I had some stranger breaking the personal space barrier when the bus finally arrived. I did come across a feature written by “Paddington Bear” which spoke of exactly the London life I had been contemplating. I thought his words were rather apt: “There are a lot of things you need to get used to if you live in a big city like London.” Phew! My heart hasn’t turned to stone, I’ve simply adapted to my environment. And as much as this city might drive me totally mad at least once a week, there’s no place I would rather be right now. As Paddington says, “When I count my blessings, living in London is top of the list, with marmalade* a close second, I know I shall never. ever. get tired of either.”

*FYI, personally I really don’t like marmalade but I didn’t think it right to misquote Paddington.

ab-solutely flabless

2009-04-30T15:03:00.001-07:00

I’m early for Body Balance and as I stand outside the aerobics studio (do they still call it that?), I’m suddenly aware of how undignified group exercise is. For starters, they insist on making the doors glass so that passersby are welcome to gawp in as you jump about looking like you’ve decided to have your face painted to resemble a ripe tomato. I can hear the instructor shouting instructions above the blaring music but she is hidden from my view and I’m watching two girls who have decided that Step class will be their voluntary torture for today. One looks fairly competent , if even a bit over-confident, while the other…oh dear… oh dear.This girl is clearly a first-timer and she is spinning, flailing her arms and bouncing up and down at all the wrong times, then glancing over at others in the class to see if she is the the only one who wants to run screaming out of the door, never to return. You see, the key to safeguarding your dignity in a gym class is not whether you know the moves but looking confident and never, never standing in front of the doors where everyone can see you. I catch the girl in front of me sniggering as she witnesses this display of incompetence.

We’re up next and I casually walk into the class as others push past me in a stampede towards the exercise mats. I calmly dispose of my excess belongings, retrieve a mat and go to claim a spot. But Oh No! I’ve played it too cool and now the only space left is…in front of the glass doors. So while I find myself in full “downward dog" and it’s a free for all Rox’s-bottom-in-the-air show, I ask myself why we put ourselves through this? Surely there is a better way to achieve this ultimate physique for which we strive – solid abs, a perky bum and triceps minus wings. Is it all worth this?

An hour later, when I walk out feeling well stretched and patting myself on the back for dedicating a whole hour of my day to my health and well-being, I decide it is. No matter how humbling the odd class might be, it sure beats running on the spot for an hour.

the joys of travel (and a bit about athens)

2009-04-28T09:48:00.000-07:00

On reflection of our recent trips, I'm reminded of a few things I've realised about travelling over the years.

Firstly, you just have to accept that you are going to spend a lot of time in airports. My anxiousness usually starts when I head towards security and realise I've forgotten to remove a bottle of 120ml deodorant from my bag. Do I try and sneak it through? Do I declare it and watch some airport official on a power trip shake their head and give me a "you know better than that" look? Or do I avoid the whole debacle altogether and just dispose of it myself and make no attempt to take a stand against the "terrorists" who I am cursing all the way for causing me all this undue stress. It's inevitable too that an item of my jewellery will then set off the metal detector and I will be violated by another official who wishes it were them going on holiday and take it out on me. So I endure the aforementioned torment with gritted teeth and then locate the nearest Starbucks, order a latte and allow myself to relax. Airports and flights take up so much of my holiday that I now ensure I use the time as productively as possible. So, on our last stint, I blogged and read and willed my blood pressure not to rise when the flight was delayed by an hour.

I've also learned to find comfort in crowds of tourists. For all of my wanting to explore places that are "off the beaten track" I realised, on our recent trip to Athens, that when there are no other tourists around I begin to feel a bit vulnerable. If there are others who are talking to the waiter in English while he responds (slightly aggravated) in his native tongue, you don't feel as out of place doing it yourself. When other hoards are heading towards the same historical monument, you know you're on the right track. Yes, they might be annoyingly taking photos of everything and speaking unnecessarily loudly and flashing maps in the middle of the street (pickpocket target right there!) but deep down, we're all the same. We're all strangers in a foreign land trying to savour the experience in our own little way.

All of that said, the things that I will remember most from our trip to Athens are not typically touristy. If I close my eyes, I see the dogs that roam the streets so freely, in particular, the two who guard the crossing at Syntagma Square by night. Some are pets, some are former pets and some have never been pets at all. Has Athens gone to the dogs?
I will remember fondly the night at Bairaktaris restaurant, when the owner came running with a bowl of Greek yoghurt and honey, shouting for us not to leave. Because we had already stood up, he chased a prospective customer from our seats so that we could enjoy dessert, on the house. A cherished moment of Greek hospitality.
On a material note, I can recall the excitement I felt as we stepped inside the Intercontinental Hotel with it's lush lobby and swanky restaurants. Dimly lit and minimally, yet elaborately decorated, there was a sense that unless you were parading Prada or Gucci, you didn't belong. But for three days and nights we did belong and it felt great.
The city itself is covered in graffiti and I felt a bit short-changed by climbing to the Acropolis and finding it covered in scaffolding but it's all part of the experience and there's great value in knowing just how to angle your camera lens.
And when all was said and done and we had checked out of the hotel with a few hours to spare before we had to head to the airport, where did we find ourselves? In the most familiar surroundings in all of Athens. Starbucks, of course.

a taste of tuscany

2009-04-26T15:35:00.000-07:00

Having merely whet my appetite with a short visit to Tuscany a few years ago, I was eager to return for a proper taste of all that this enchanting region of Italy has to offer. The scenery doesn’t disappoint mid-April, when the hills roll together to form a landscape too vast to capture with a camera lens. Our flight issues and debates with travel agents were a distant memory as Fox and I began the picturesque drive, in our tiny Fiat Panda rental, from Pisa to Siena. Whizzing around corners, we were captivated by the breathtaking greens and browns intercepted at intervals by fields of yellow mustard flowers. The numerous B&B advertisements dotted along the route are a giveaway that this area is not deprived of visitors yet the sense of tranquillity has by no means been tarnished.

Our first stop was a brief break at one of Tuscany’s characteristic hill towns, Volterra. Behind the city walls lies a typical Tuscan town complete with piazzas, medieval streets and a bell tower that stands proudly in the centre of it all. A quick slice of pizza at Pizzeria del Corso to quiet our hungry stomachs and it was straight on to Siena.

Siena’s quaintness and unrivalled charm make it one of my favourite places in Europe. With its narrow, paved streets enclosed by ancient apartments you wouldn’t be blamed for underestimating the 60,000 population. From the striking Duomo which appears as a vision of black and white, to the red-roofed views seen from the Panorama and the history behind the Palio and the Contrade, there is a lot to be discovered in this town which can easily be meandered across in an hour.
Our afternoon visit to Sam Gimignano was worth the hour drive to experience this most famous of Tuscan hill towns and its scenic views. The town now boasts thirteen towers where seventy-two once stood but it has become a bit of a tourist haunt so not worth a lengthy visit.

Departing Siena two days later, we headed back to Pisa where I still struggle to see any appeal beyond the necessity of having your picture taken in front of the Leaning Tower. So we took our token happy-snaps and boarded a bus for the buzzing city of Florence.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why so many visitors flock to Florence. This is not for lack of attractions but rather that there are so many; cafes spill onto pavements on every street; the city holds a collection of artworks so impressive it must make art galleries around the world turn green at the thought; the smell of real leather dominates market stalls; Tuscan cuisine is known to elicit great excitement in chef’s the world over; and there is the world famous statue of David. I did not expect to be so impressed by a single sculpture but it seems that you simply can’t deny the perfectionism of Michelangelo’s masterpiece which proudly dominates the Galleria dell’Accademia (an entire gallery built specifically to house this marble work).
After a few days in Italy we had experienced our fair share of pizza, pasta and far too much gelati. Gelateria entice with their lush displays at every turn and during a hard day of walking who can resist a scrumptious scoop of pistachio or almond...or both? After wandering aimlessly up and down Via dell’Isola we were unable to locate the ‘most famous gelateria in Italy’, Vivoli, and just when I thought Lonely Planet was having a laugh at our expense, it became apparent that perhaps it was just our ability to decipher the Florence building numbers that had failed us.
A stroll through the grand Biboli Gardens, to my delight, was free on the day we decided to picnic amongst its statues, fountains and terraces. After five days in Italy, the only drawback was that the British Pound just doesn’t go as far as it used to in Europe so a freebie was perhaps more welcome than usual.

There are few places to which I would consider returning when there is still so much of the world to see. Tuscany, however, is so unassumingly addictive that I suspect one can only keep cravings at bay for so long until a return visit is once again on the menu.

a highland fling

2009-04-25T15:37:00.000-07:00

In our relationship, the differences between men and women are never quite so obvious as when it comes to making decisions about travel. Having left our Easter weekend plans to the last-minute, Fox and I made a spontaneous decision to take a tour of the Highlands. With it being a long weekend, we were left with little choice but to endure a gruelling nine hour bus ride to Edinburgh and back. We also opted for a Wild in Scotland tour which covered an extensive part of the Highlands over a course of three days. Since I’d left Fox to organise majority of our trip I was not at liberty to comment too much on the choice of tour or accommodation but it is no secret that our ideas of travelling ‘comfortably’ differ somewhat. Although pleasant enough, being guided by a wacky kilt-clad Scot in a minivan with fourteen fellow travellers and staying in hostels probably would not have been my first choice.
Nevertheless, from Stirling through Glencoe and onto Skye, we found ourselves in the most isolated setting I’ve ever experienced. My sense of peace, however, was shattered approximately five minutes later when we were told that the Glenbrittle hostel, which was to be our first night stopover, required girls and guys sleep in separate dorms. It was at this moment that I declared the final nail had been hammered into the coffin wherein lies any future hostel prospects.
The following morning we hiked up through the Cuillin mountains for a soggy but spectacularly scenic Easter egg hunt and then drove along Loch Ness to Drumnadrochit for our second night. To my delight, Fox had booked us into a B&B for the evening and as the rest of the group filed into the backpapckers I resisted the urge to squeal with delight at the thought of a comfy ‘bed bug free’ bed and a full Scottish breakfast. On arrival at the Aslaich B&B, the friendly owner welcomed us and after a bit of ‘housekeeping’ presented us with a bottle of champagne, congratulating us on our honeymoon. I’m still not sure how we managed to hide the confusion from our faces, or perhaps we didn’t and she just took it as surprised gratitude. It was later that we discovered that Wendy, who runs the backpackers and is mildly eccentric, decided that she would tell the B&B owner that it was our honeymoon and score us a couple of freebies. In my defence, I would like to say that I was not the one who decided it was okay to drink the champagne. However, I can’t deny that I too enjoyed partaking in it. Come on, a freebie is a freebie! I somehow managed to abstain from wincing when we were wished a continued good honeymoon the following morning. We left as quickly as possible without looking back.
After another day of history and rugged highland scenery which boasts glistening lochs, mountain passes and castles, we returned to Edinburgh feeling somewhat enlightened. Danny, our guide had spoken much of Scotland’s struggles and if anything, we learned how proud the Scots are of their heritage. Being half Scot, I can’t deny that there is something in me that stirs each time I see the majestic castle up on the hill. We finished the trip with a wonderful dinner at Mussel Inn and then a drink at Brown’s where I was served the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted. And despite our gender differences I think we were both in agreement that this was a pretty great way to end our brief but enjoyable highland fling.

online grocery fiasco

2009-04-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

Only yesterday I was harping on about the benefits of online grocery shopping. I’ve taken to doing my bi-weekly shopping at Sainsbury’s online. In case I needed further justification other than I don’t have to physically get off my chair to buy two week’s worth of groceries, it is said to be better for the environment because there is only one van driving to a number of households rather than all those people driving independently to the grocery store. However, it must be said that the number of carrier bags that usually arrive at my door surely counteract the carbon emissions saved. Details, details…

Unfortunately, yesterday’s delivery did not prove as efficient as those that have come before. Fox and I were due to head out for a date and I assured him that the delivery always arrives towards the start of the delivery slot rather than at the end. So we waited…7pm, 7.10pm, 7.25pm, 7.40pm… “Where are these groceries?” I baffled.
When the delivery man finally did arrive, I scanned the till slip to find that a large proportion of my choices had been ‘substituted’. For those of you who are unfamiliar with online grocery jargon, if an item is unavailable you can give permission to the store to find suitable substitutes on your behalf. Usually the substitutions are close enough to the original item for me not to worry but this time I was perplexed by what was sent.
Is it unreasonable to think that Ben and Jerry’s Half Baked and Baked Alaska, on special at 2 for £5, is simply incomparable to Sainsbury’s own-brand toffee and vanilla ice-cream? Ben and Jerry’s is not just ice-cream; it is an indulgent dessert in an appealing little tub full of deliciouness.
I also ordered two bottles of wine. Both were fairly decent bottles - on special - for which neither I was willing to pay full price. It is then evident that I have only selected these particular bottles because they are half price so when one isn’t available, surely the obvious alternative is another bottle of the same quality, also on special. Instead, I was sent a different bottle by the same winemaker at full price. Who pays full price for wine at the supermarket? If logic didn’t kick in, they just needed to look to cultural trends.
On top of that, I sent a butternut squash rather than a coquina squash. To be honest I don’t even know what a coquina squash is but I was really hoping to find out. Perhaps another time.
The most amusing was the arrival of one tiny lamb chop when I ordered 'Sainsbury's Lamb Chops x2 (approx. 200g)’. Sometimes the pictures aren’t entirely clear and something might look substantial but it arrives looking fairly measly. I’m not entirely sure what I’m supposed to do with one lamb chop now so perhaps I’ll just freeze it and order another one next time.

As a result of all these replacement items, our groceries cost quite a bit more than usual but on the upside, we did receive a free copy of Radio Times that I definitely didn’t order. I suspect some other Sainsbury’s Online customer is blogging about how a delivery guy with his iPod in, oblivious to his presence as he shifted groceries from crate-to-counter, didn’t deliver his weekly magazine. Or perhaps he’ll just think it was substituted with the coquina squash that he never ordered.

where in the world

2009-03-31T09:07:00.000-07:00

I never thought that having the world as your oyster could actually become a bit of a headache. Fox and I have planned to take a short break in April but finding a destination has been surprisingly difficult. We want sun but we don’t want to have to fly half a day to find it; we want a decent hotel but without the crowds; we would quite like a nice white, sandy beach; we don’t want to spend half a year’s salary; we would like to experience a different culture; it would be advantageous to go somewhere with a bit of sightseeing potential. Is this an impossible list? Are we asking too much?
I think I know the root of the problem. You see, Fox made a novice mistake when planning our (somewhat extravagant) honeymoon in the Maldives. You simply can not treat a lady to 5 star luxury, in one of the most serene settings on earth and then expect her to have the same expectations as she did prior to marriage. I used to be okay with the odd night in a hostel. It was never quite my thing but I tolerated it. Now, however, the thought of bedbugs and clogged drains in communal showers makes my stomach churn. It's like biting into a luscious 70 percent cocoa Godiva truffle; Cadbury’s Kitkat quickly loses its appeal.
For Fox, the attraction to ‘roughing it’ lies in the chance of an unexpected adventure but as we browse through pictures of resorts with palatial foyers, jetty’s enticingly lit by night, bubbling jacuzzi’s and poolside restaurants offering succulent tropical fruits, I get the feeling that he too finds it difficult to get excited by the thought of Brodie’s Hostel. Our goal for this year is to see as much of the world as we can within the restrictions of annual leave and limited long weekends. This means that extravagant luxury is simply not sensible and to be honest, I’m sure the novelty would soon wear off.
So, I am now going back to look for a holiday wearing my ‘Kitkat’ goggles in the hope that the world will become accessible once again. Because Godiva is delicious but surely it wouldn’t be quite as tempting if that was all I ate.

wax attack

2009-03-26T06:41:00.001-07:00

Any honest woman will tell you that it requires a certain amount of effort to remain suitably maintained and often this entails tolerating some procedure that inflicts a degree of pain. Quite frankly, I have been de-fluffing for so many years that it no longer worries me when I know that a visit to the beautician or an appointment with my epilator is becoming evidently necessary.
Last week, on noticing that my eyebrows were starting to take over my face, I popped in at my regular salon for a bit of the aforementioned ‘maintenance’. Many will know that an eyebrow wax is not complicated and this simple procedure is usually over in approximately ten minutes. On arrival I was assigned to my cubical and met by a different beautician than usual which, at the time, didn’t worry me. It should have.
Half an hour later, after the most meticulous eyebrow pruning session I have ever endured, I was left with the most perfectly shaped, trimmed and plucked brows…and what can only be described as a carpet burn on my right eyelid. This attack on my eye involved medicated/tinted moisturiser, a cotton wool pad and highly sensitive skin. The brutality of the burn only surfaced two days later when I was left with a scab which annoyingly detracted from my newly shaped brows rendering the whole experience totally pointless.
Mom asked if I would sue (she was merely being supportive, not serious) but the beautician had been so lovely that I didn’t even have the heart to return to the salon and claim my money back. These things happen and it’s just part-and-parcel of being female.
While grumbling to Fox that the necessity of female hairlessness has been imposed by society and after such an incident I feel the need to rise up against the norm, he helpfully advised, “No, no, you should definitely listen to society” and then chuckled to himself. Such loyalty. Wait until he next encounters me armed with my epilator in one hand and a wax strip in the other. I suspect ‘society’ and I will be the ones laughing then.

the most comfortable shoes in the world

2009-03-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

There has been a lot of talk amongst my peer group, of late, regarding age and (dare I even say) growing old. It seems that late twenties has become the new forties and we’re all desperately trying to stop the clock. Fox remarked, after watching Marley and Me, that if we were to get a dog now, by the time it dies we will likely have hit forty. Emotional tyre screech moment. Talk about an unwelcome reality check.
Considering that I still get ID’d when I try and purchase a bottle of wine from the supermarket, age is not something that I find myself losing sleep over. I do, however, have rare moments where I consider my time and then question whether I’ve done enough to feel like I have used my years to achieve anything of significance. Because this is really what the fear of age boils down to, is it not? I don’t worry about growing old. I worry that I will grow old, look back on my life and wonder if there was more I could have done.

Last week, I was once again hit with the reality of becoming “grown up” when I went shopping. For someone who has affectionately been known as the family shopaholic from the time she knew what money was, I have done very little spending over the last few months. This in itself is noteworthy but it was more my approach to the whole outing that sent shockwaves through my being. For everything I looked at, before buying, I considered whether it was a sensible purchase. Since when do I worry if my purchases are sensible? Hello! As long as a pair of shoes looks good, it doesn’t matter that your feet look nothing short of mangled at the end of the day; it matters that for the time that you could endure the pain, your feet looked hot!
Now this is the real shocker. Rather than walking into Topshop or Aldo and finding myself a pair of fashionista-approved heels, I walked away with two pairs of practical pumps from…Clarks?! I mean, no discredit to Clarks but they are not renowned for offering the most beautiful shoes ever made. As I walked away, Clarks bag hanging subdued at my side, it suddenly dawned on me that I am becoming the level-headed, rational people in my life who, for years, have known that life is hard enough without forcing yourself to walk the journey in shoes that give you blisters. They aren’t called killer heels for nothing.

Now I might be resisting growing up but if these new shoes are anything to go by then it really can’t be all that bad. Because they are the most comfortable shoes I have ever owned.

the worlds most expensive tie backs, chocolate-orange brownies and other joys of domesticity

2009-03-23T00:30:00.000-07:00

Oh, how I've missed blogging! The last time I posted anything I had a different name, I still ticked 'single' on all official documentation and my flatmate was female. My, how things have changed.
I'm rather sad that the mayhem of the last 6 months means that an entire chapter of my life has gone un-blogged so to get you up to speed, the following is a brief summary of all that has transpired...

Engaged in Venice. Planned a wedding. Wished that we'd eloped. Family descended. Spent a week tying bows, moving home and hyperventilating from stress. Walked down the aisle to Gustav Holst's, Jupiter. Was worried that people would connect it to the theme song of the Rugby World Cup and throw a ball at me. Had the best day ever. Honeymooned in the Maldives and then in a cottage in the Cotswolds. Bliss. Moved into our new flat. Unpacked boxes and decorated. Flat became a home. Flew to South Africa for a post-wedding catch up. Came back and needed a holiday. Have spent the last four months learning to live with a guy and doing 'wifely' things.

...and that's it in a nutshell really. Of course, it has been an amusing learning curve.

After our trip to South Africa Fox spent a couple of weeks fixing up our little flat so I felt I needed to contribute accordingly. Looking around our home, I decided that what we needed was lime green tie backs, for our lounge curtains, to match our funky green sofa. It turns out that tie backs aren't quite as simple to make as they look. After tracking down buckram(What is this you ask? Exactly!), finding the right green thread to match the fabric, acquiring a roll of graph paper, lining etc etc and finding time to sit down and actually make the things, two months later and with approximately 10 till receipts from various outlets, the tie backs were complete. A more experienced wife would have had the sense to just go out and buy some. I, however, filled with naive domestic enthusiasm, was desperate to use my new sewing machine and show off my flair for needlework. I must say, they are beautiful and for the rest of our lives and in each home, I will make sure that they have pride of place somewhere in our abode. I mean, green is basically neutral, right?

Last weekend, eager to continue my baking streak (oh the delicious creations - and flops - that have come out of our kitchenette of late), I put my hand to making brownies. Following what claimed to be a flop-proof recipe I set about beating, fluffing, mixing and producing the most delectable mixture you have ever seen. As the chocolate flowed like velvet from the bowl to the baking tin I envisioned the masterpiece that was to be. After 30 minutes at 180°c I pulled from the oven a tray of scrumptious, irresistible looking brownies. Much to Fox's delight, he got to do the initial taste test. He 'oo-ed' and 'aah-ed' appropriately and then confirmed that he could definitely taste the hint of orange flavouring. Orange?! But I had made plain chocolate brownies so why on earth could he taste orange? It turns out that I had unintentionally bought orange flavoured chocolate, rather than plain. Fox had noticed but didn't comment as he suspected I had all intentions of making jaffa brownies! Despite this rather 'un-Betty Crocker' like moment, I think I might be onto something. Perhaps I'll try mint or even coffee next time.

So, despite my hair smelling like cookies a lot lately and our washing basket that is akin to Mary Poppins' handbag, this new season is fun and exciting and I look forward to the faux pas' that keep things interesting. Life is good. And living with a guy isn't so bad either.

bridal diaries: week 10

2008-09-08T13:26:00.000-07:00

With just ten weeks to go, I thought it was time I started documenting the lead up to our Big Day. Our intention from the outset has been to keep the whole planning process simple and chilled out. Like, right now, I’m supposed to be writing addresses on sixty envelopes in order to get our invites sent out. Instead, I’ve decided to blog for the first time in a couple of months. It’s okay, we still have two and a half months to go...
Wait a minute! Ten weeks and we still have to invite people?!! And order a cake, have the dresses altered, sort the menus, decide on decorations, sort Fox’s suit, pack for honeym.... *and breathe*
In all seriousness, we have been pretty relaxed about the whole thing. Someone asked me today what my dress looked like and to be honest, I couldn’t quite remember the exact details. I know I love it and that I can’t wait to wear it so surely that’s the important bit, right?
You see, I’m such a non-conformist when it comes to weddings that I’ve been trying to squash tradition at every opportunity. If only it wasn’t quite so important to everyone else, it seems. At the very mention that we had considered going without a wedding cake, my mother gasped and exclaimed, ‘But what will you cut?!’ *sigh* There’s just no getting around these things.
Through all of this, I’ve realised that fighting it is far more work than just going with the wedding flow. However, can anyone tell me what ‘cutting the cake’ actually symbolises and why it is so important? My take on all of this, is that if I don’t know why I’m going to such lengths to include something in our wedding, do I really have to go along with it?
Anyway, Mom will be happy that we’ve decided to have a cupcake tower (yet to be sourced and ordered), I’ve found beautifully colour coded bridesmaids dresses (only after scouting half the country), my grandmother has agreed to do the flowers, the invites are (almost) ready to be sent and we have arranged for our banns to get read (you can be relieved that I decided not to go into detail about this). I suspect Fox is rather chuffed with himself as the honeymoon has been well researched and booked.
All the fuss and pandemonium aside, I’m totally excited about our special day. With a number of family and friends flying in from the far corners of the globe, it is going to be such a wonderful celebration. That’s if I ever get round to getting those invites out...

mamma mia

2008-07-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

The decision isn’t made easily. Wait 45 minutes on my own for the next decent movie to begin or nip into the one that is just starting. You may think it’s simple. Until you understand that the movie I consider slipping into is Mamma Mia and I loathe Abba. Not dislike or prefer not to listen to, but detest. The sound of Dancing Queen makes my blood run cold and I’m reminded of just how much of a rock-chick I am at heart. But how bad could a movie be? I mean, musicals are fun, right? So, in a moment of what can only be deemed temporary insanity, I hear myself saying the words ‘One ticket for the 17:15 showing of Mamma Mia please.’ I recall that moment now with disbelief.
Walking into the darkened cinema I hover at the door while my eyes adjust. ‘I have a dream…’ Abba songs already?? Not even one minute in! Oh boy…
I spot two empty seats obstructed by a couple of ladies who are…uuhhmm…well-built. ‘Excuse me, sorry…oh that’s your foot…very sorry…’ I’m not getting out of this seat in a hurry, that’s for sure.
From the moment Meryl Streep frumps onto the screen with her scraggly blonde hair and toddler dungarees I regret getting out of bed, let alone walking into the cinema. One Abba classic after another hits me like a baseball bat to the shins and I can feel a guttural scream longing to burst forth from my lungs as my insides twist and my toes curl. I have a habit of biting my lip when I’m stressed and after 15 minutes I think I’ve started to draw blood.After half an hour I decide that I will surely lose what sanity I have in tact if I stay to the end so I look to make a bolt for it. Then I remember the struggle getting into this seat and the ‘tut-tuts’ from my disgruntled fellow patrons and I consider that the wrath of an Abba fan may be decidedly worse than their songs. So I’m stuck for the long haul.
I endure scenes of an entire village dancing on a jetty to Money, Money, Money. There are grown men doing pliés in flippers. Middle-aged women are dressed in flares while strutting about to Super Trouper. Emotions are high as Meryl dashes up a thousand step stairway, red scarf flailing in the wind, while serenading Pierce Brosnan with Winner Takes it All.
How much can one Abba loather really take? One and a half hours apparently.
I am released from my Cineworld, minimal legroom prison when the lady on my left decides that she has indulged in enough Abbamania for one day.
What I take away from my experience is this: you can be as anti-Abba as you want but it is everywhere. I make a point of abandoning the dance floor when an Abba classic comes on or grunting my distaste if one of their songs is played on the radio or in the supermarket. But despite my aversion to the Swedish Eurovision Song Contest-winning pop group I still knew most of the words to the songs in the movie. This is not out of choice but because their songs have been forced upon me by a culture that needs to reconsider it’s taste in music. Mamma mia…

venetian proposal

2008-05-31T23:00:00.000-07:00

I've rewritten my introduction to this entry twenty-times over. I'm afraid that my feeble attempt at summarising a moment that changed my life, simply isn't sufficient. No pressure, but this is something my kids will read one day. What's more, things like this only happen once in a lifetime. Hence, I only get to write about it once. Ever. So...

At 04:00am on Saturday morning, 10 May 2008, I was woken by a phone call from Fox to say that he was outside my front door. I probably should have been alarmed but the line between dream and reality was relatively blurred at that point. Bounding into my flat, Fox instructed me to get ready, gather my things and find my passport – we were taking a trip. On arrival at the airport an hour later, I let out a squeal of delight on discovering that we were headed to Venice. I have two dream-destinations: New York and Venice.
The rest of the day was spent exploring, what is said to be, the most romantic city in the world. I was totally engulfed by it’s charm, as Fox and I meandered the quaint streets leading off St Mark’s Square and strolled beside it’s many enchanting canals. I was like a kid captivated by the magic of Disneyland.
As the sun began to set and we continued to amble along in search of dinner, Fox led me down a narrow street that led to a quiet jetty, away from the crowds and the buzz of tourists. As I naively narrated an impromptu video while a gondola glided by, what I didn’t realise was that Fox was preparing himself to launch into a 32-line poem, which he had written and memorised. As realisation dawned I could feel my body tensing and then the tears begin to prick my eyes. As I heard the words “…Roxanne Sarah Tagg, I ask you, will you be my wife?” I could fight the tears no more and I responded with, “Of course I’ll be your wife!”

The last few weeks have a been a surreal combination of delighted congratulations from friends and family, wedding arrangements, venue bookings, dress shopping and getting used to be called, and having, a fiancé. It's nuts but totally, indescribably amazing! And it's only just begun.

culture shock

2008-04-11T17:45:00.000-07:00

I’ve been meaning to blog this for weeks but, excuses aside, I’ve just been slack.
In March we had the pleasure of Fox’s dad visiting for two weeks and as a treat, on his last evening, we decided to book a West End show. I’ve seen it written that a true Londoner never pays full price for theatre. I’m as ‘London’ as they come. I was delighted to find £10 tickets to a South African adaptation of Mozart’s Opera, The Magic Flute. Let me establish from the outset that I am not a fan of opera and neither are any of my loved ones. This show, however, is performed by a group from Khayelitsha township in Cape Town and the words ‘adaptation’ and ‘marimbas’ in the blurb quickly put my mind at ease.
On the Friday we slipped into the theatre as the doors were closing and theatre attendants tutted under their breath. I didn’t expect much for £10 so it was no surprise that they ushered us to the left-most seats, in the highest point in the gallery, separated from each other. It didn’t matter that we could only see approximately 22% of the stage because the sound of marimbas was filling the theatre and I was overcome by the music. It was the sound of Africa. Soon the stage began to fill with an array of tribal colours and I started to feel choked up by an overwhelming and rare sense of homesickness.
In the ensuing moments it was another sort of sickness that I would feel. It was as if the very worst thing that could have happened, just did. The sound was no longer a familiar melody but what Ian’s dad would later describe as AFRO-OPERA. My 13-year-old brother and I were sitting behind the rest of our party and as the leading lady began to belt out notes that shouldn’t be imposed on unwilling ears, I could see my mom, Fox and his dad all stiffen. And that is how they would stay for the full two-and-a-half hours of all of our first (and last) opera experience. As I braced myself for Aaron’s objections to bringing him to an opera, I couldn’t believe it when I looked over and he had a contented smile across his face. Life really can throw curveballs.
At interval I plastered a smile across my face and hoped that it would hide the fact that I knew what was coming. Mom stormed over to me, having paled significantly and pleaded, “What did I ever do to you that was so terrible that you would inflict such torment on me?” Her other comments were a bit too obscene to post here. Geoff was more polite but still did little to hide his aversion to being brought to an opera against his will. I think the scariest of all was Fox, who merely stood in silence, a broken man, just staring at me. He was clearly the most deeply affected.
Despite the horror of the unexpected, we all made it through to tell the tale, perhaps Aaron and I a little less scarred than the rest. Maybe next time I’ll do my research a bit better. But then, I always say that, don’t I?

no choice but to chill

2008-03-22T11:30:00.000-07:00

It's Easter weekend and I'm in Trowbridge watching Nigella Lawson whip up an Italian feast on Saturday Morning Kitchen. She makes it look so simple that I've just googled cookery schools in London. Surely that's all it would take to be crowned "The True Domestic Goddess". As it stands, my spag-bol speciality (affectionately know as "Tagg-bol") is made from the finest packet bollognaise mix that Sainsbury's has to offer. Perhaps I'm not quite in the running just yet.

Being outside of London means that I have no choice but to relax. After hours of Top Gear and skit show repeats I decided to do something constructive, so I made a cup of tea. The wind chill factor is -2 and the thought of spending the day indoors, reading my Glamour mag and drinking excessive amounts of tea has far more appeal than unnecessarily facing the world. Ian and his brother have gone off to fetch a couch and being of little use in terms of muscle power I've been left behind to entertain myself. So far I've taken advantage of the alone time by pampering myself and hijacking the laptop to research things like hair products. Being a girl has it's pros.

As Saturday Morning Kitchen comes to an end and I begin to drain my cup of tea I'm contemplating my next activity. Perhaps I'll move to a different chair, change the channel and have a glass of juice, just to mix it up a bit. It's kind of nice being stranded in the country. I know it doesn't make for the most thrilling read but it's great for my stress levels.

Ah, Friends re-runs. That'll do just fine.

anyone still here?

2008-03-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

You know it's been too long when your own blog doesn't come up in your browser as you begin to type in the address. I'm all too aware that even the most faithful of roxblurb readers have now dwindled and as much as I would like to promise to be more conscientious, I can't. However, when I mentioned to Fox a couple of days ago that I was considering shutting roxblurb down, the horror on his face quickly made me reconsider.
On a positive note, the reason I am no longer able to write as regularly is that I am far too busy during the workday doing a job that I actually care about and enjoy. What a change from the days when I would will the clock on my screen to reach 17:00 so that I could grab my belongings and run! Life is too short and my time too precious to ever waste that much of my life again doing a job that is mundane, demotivating and brain-numbing. After an amazing Worship Central conference yesterday, I'm ignoring my aching muscles and considering how all the hours spent slogging away in our little basement office are so worth it.
It's been really quiet on the travel front. A few exciting trips planned a bit later in the year but for the moment I'm focussing on enduring my third full English winter (not to be confused with a full English breakfast which is far more appealing than grey skies and meagre offerings of rain) without falling into a deeply morbid state of melancholy and climbing under my duvet never to be seen again. I keep opening my top cupboard only to find my picnic set gathering dust. As if I need any further reminders that my skin is practically see-through and if I go any longer without seeing proper sunshine I might really start scaring people. However, apart from the lack of Vitamin-D and my ever increasing loathing of public transport and my constant exhaustion and my empty bank account after London living has sucked it dry, three years down the line, I still enjoy living here. And I’m really going to try and tell you why, more often.

ski-chick diaries: post-piste

2008-01-23T11:57:00.000-08:00

On arrival in Torgon, as I slipped clumsily down the icy incline to my bedroom, the thought that I was unable to stay upright on the snow in my ugg-boots accentuated doubts that I was actually going to live to see the end of the week once I traded comfortable footwear for skis.
In the week that ensued I found myself flying down mountainsides at speeds that I'd be far more comfortable doing in a car. My peers were convinced that I had learned to ski in the space of a few days when, in fact, I'd simply not learned how to take it slow or how to stop effectively. Despite my inability to use my snow-plough technique to keep me from racing my fellow skiers, I came away with relatively few injuries and only a couple of bruises. These were largely due to beginner blunders such as slipping down slopes backwards, leaving my beginner group far behind as I careered towards a forest of pine trees and a couple of instances where my legs simply gave up on me after more exercise than they have ever had to endure over the course of my entire 24 years of existence.
Thanks to Sander, our Dutch instructor who fell down laughing into the snow every time one of us landed on our backsides or jammed a ski-lift or flew into the snow face-first, I did in fact learn to enjoy the slopes of Porte Du Soleil and found myself planning next years trip without a moments hesitation.
Fox was incredibly encouraging until an impromptu off-piste detour left me totally buried in thick, white powder. Unable to see through my snow-covered goggles, all I could hear were the muffled sounds of Fox's laughter from the top of the slope as I shouted the need to be rescued. After ensuring that my distress was caught on film, my knight-in-ski-gear came whooshing down the slope on his snowboard to pull me from my snowy-pit...my hero.
The thermals are packed away for another year. But the mulled wine is warming and pisters are revving, ready for ski-chick to dominate the slopes in 2009. Until then!

ski-chick diaries: preparation stage

2008-01-06T19:56:00.000-08:00

I spent an hour in Lilywhites this afternoon gathering the last of my gear for our ski trip next week. I'm a little disappointed that I didn't find a Bridget Jones inspired, all-in-one, pink jumpsuit but when I realised I could get kids attire for a third of the price I stopped being picky. Laden with gloves, thermal underwear, ski boots and other ‘ski-chick extraordinaire’ essentials I left feeling quite eager to hit the slopes. I must admit, I'm starting to reconsider my decision to opt out of ski lessons. I'm not sure how I expected to be able to navigate the snow - perhaps instinctively - but as the thought of overbearing mountains becomes a looming reality I'm not quite as confident as I was when filling in my form.
Anyway, in my opinion, snow and ski holidays are a definite perk of winter. The necessity to pile on ten layers of clothing every time you prepare to walk outside and an insatiable appetite for anything that is starchy and warm are not quite as appealing. I'm lacking motivation and frankly, the desire to go to bed at 19:30 is vastly uncharacteristic of a night owl such as I. The only explanation is that it is the time of year when my body thinks I'm a grizzly bear (don't laugh, I'm not that small) and all it wants to do is hibernate. If only.
But another week in wintry London is made tolerable by the appealing thought of gliding effortlessly down the slopes, a vast snow-covered mountain forming a picturesque backdrop of tranquil grandeur behind me. Illusions aside, it’s more likely that I’ll be flat on my back, one ski perpendicular in the snow, the other lying 3 metres from me as a ski-school of 10 year old kids swerves obnoxiously around me. That, coupled with unbearably stiff legs on day three and a goggles tan and I just can’t wait.

good year ahead

2008-01-05T15:10:00.000-08:00

Here I sit, watching the Wedding Singer for the fourth time and trying to distract myself from the mild feeling of guilt that is resultant from this being my first update in *cough* three *cough* months. My face is slightly tinted from the Portuguese sun, I'm searching for ski goggles online and thinking that EBay probably isn't an option for next week. I'm sporting a new hairdo that will last for approximately three days, at which point I'll be forced to accept that my hair will always be Medusa-like. I've just checked work emails on a Saturday, not because I had to but because I genuinely enjoy my work. I'm wearing my comfy ugh-slippers as an act of denial that it's mid-winter and not having the central heating on is bordering on madness.
I prefer to do my reflection a few days after New Year. My resistance towards New Years resolutions is really the extent of my rebelliousness but it is the one time of the year that is just too cliché for me to appreciate. I'm please to conclude, post-reflection, that right now there is little I feel the need to change. I could resolve to increase my exercise but the pressure would just make me feel lazy; I could say that I'm going to spend less money but I live in London; maybe I should go to bed earlier but I've become quite accustomed to hitting snooze until I absolutely must get up in the morning. I'm far more attracted to the idea of eating more chocolate, reading more soppy romance novels, spending more time at home chilling out with my man and seeing more of the world. Now that's a year to look forward to. Oh, and I’m really going to try and write more.

more than a compassion-tangent

2007-10-10T01:15:00.000-07:00

By now you probably think I've become somewhat of an activist. If not, you will after you read this post. And I'd be inclined to agree with you.
If I'm only finding time to write one blog entry a month then I'm going to make sure it's about something that matters. I know it's easier to read about my trivial life experiences but easy-reading won't save the 30,000 children dying of starvation every day. That's one child by the time you've read this sentence. Harsh, confronting, but true.
After reading Tom Davis' Red Letters last week and happening upon articles and books on "injustice" at, what seems like, every turn I'm significantly stirred and trying not to be deterred by how incredibly helpless I could, potentially, feel.
Now, fully informed about just how outrageously tragic the HIV pandemic is (yes, "pandemic", because it's worse than an "epidemic"), the desperation of Africa is weighing heavily on my heart - largely due to the pulse of Africa that flows through my South African blood.
Africa, with it's burnt orange sunsets behind Baobab trees, red earth and golden beaches, the echo of a lions roar across a vast plain. But it's people no longer gain life from the earth and they curse the sun because it only exaggerates their unquenchable thirst. Who will save it's people, if not us who are equipped to do so?
My perspective has completely changed about what my true "needs" really are. I am so incredibly grateful for 3 or more meals a day, running water from a tap and freely available medication for all curable sicknesses - all of which are taken fore granted by us - the lack of which is killing 18 million people a year. Yes, it's too much for us to really comprehend. Basically, it's the equivalent of the entire population of Mozambique - gone - in one year.
You see, I may come across as being on a compassion-tangent but the ache of my heart knows that it is so much more. Now that I know, what will I do?

just poppin' in

2007-09-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

Oh my, what an atrosion (implying that this sorry state of non-blogging is simply quite atrocious)! It dawned on me, as I sat here resisting the lure of slumber, that it has been an awfully long time since I last posted anything. So, this is my meager offering which I'm hoping will be the spoonful of sugar needed to keep any remaining blogees sweet.
What can I say that wont require cutting into precious sleep time (I fear that I have long passed the hour that ensures I acquire the necessary 8 hrs I must have in order to function at my perkiest)? Work is busy...no, life is busy. We watched a hilarious showed called Boeing, Boeing last week. I found myself doubled over for the most part while Fox expressed his appreciation at being subjected to something cultural that didn't include ten sung monolgues and an equal number of dance routines.
As much as I'd love to divulge all from the last month I really just wanted to say that I'm still alive and well...and happy. Hope you are too (well and happy, that is - of course you're alive if you're reading this).

neither here nor there

2007-08-29T17:53:00.000-07:00

Now that’s out of my system I guess I should try to lift the tone. So, what’s been happening over the last 3 weeks? I’ve been to Hamburg, Bath, Reading and Edinburgh. Yes, those are a lot of different place in one month. Some may say too many; I’m inclined to agree as my body and mind start to revolt against me in an attempt to tie me to London for just one weekend. I’m off to Malshanger for a pastorate retreat this weekend but then I’m restricting my diary and refusing any entries that require travel to a destination further than Zone 2 (or 3 at a push) for at least a month.
I feel I’m settling into my new job well and am so much happier when I wake up in the morning. None of that, “please let me get sick so that I don’t have to go into work” nonsense. I have moments when I’m sitting at my desk and I get this little bubbly feeling because I really love my job.
We watched some pretty lousy shows at the Edinburgh Fringe festival while there to watch the South Africa VS Scotland rugby (Bokke!). If it wasn’t over-acting or out-of-tune singing it was just pure vulgarity (however humorous). I feel the need to book a show on the West End just to restore my faith in the Arts.
We watched a great South African band last night, Rory Eliot and the Reason. The band was known as Plush until one of the core band members was killed, while trying to cross the road after a gig, by a drunken driver. At an unexplored venue in Putney (how can that be? I thought I’d covered every pub/restaurant in the area!), the Half Moon is intimate and had it not been for the bulky guy beside me grinding offensively through the entire gig, I might have appreciated the cosiness of it all.
I’d say "that’s a wrap" but it probably isn’t, however, it is all I can make of the blur since I last blogged. Thanks to my bloggees who have written to enquire about roxblurb updates. It’s nice to be missed. I’m going to be more efficient (and if I’m not, I’ll just come and delete this line).

enough

2007-08-29T17:40:00.000-07:00

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written. To be honest it has less to do with time than it does with lack of enthusiasm. With too much going on I’ve realised that scattered focus is futile. Too many pies, not enough fingers and you’re left with a lot of waste. But today I was stirred by an excerpt from a book that I read called “Red Letters” by Tom Davis. It starts with an apology by the author, on behalf of the church, for turning a blind eye to the poor and needy. And I got so worked up that I had to vent it.
If I’m completely honest, I’m feeling rather fed up with this world, full of people so concerned by trivial, self-centred issues that real need goes unnoticed. I’m just as much to blame. But I’m tired of it. Times like this leave me feeling so disappointed in humanity. I can only try to imagine how God must feel when he is the one who sees the big picture. If only we took the time to set our eyes on the things that actually meant something. What I do with this minute, of this hour determines how I will spend eternity. Eternity - a concept so vast that my human mind can not begin to comprehend it. But it’s real. And one day I will come face-to-face with this unfathomable concept and what then? What will be stored as treasure and what are the things that I will have to answer for?
I’m usually hesitant to blog anything super-spiritual or “in your face” but today, this is who I am. I’m no longer making excuses for who I have chosen to be and how I have chosen to live my life. This is me. Take it or leave it. Enough is enough.

strength

2007-08-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

All I have is the strength for today. And sometimes not even that.
The last few days I have been questioning God as to why, in certain areas, his plan for me is so different to what I had envisioned - why my yesterdays were less than perfect when I have always committed my way to him; why things probably wont go exactly my way tomorrow. When I'm only equipped to get through today, such questions are draining for my spirit. I wonder what I can change about myself or what I need to learn before he will grant all my desires when really HIS desire is that I just get through today the best I can. The further ahead I look, the more overwhelemed I become. You see, life is too much for me to handle on my own. My wisdom only extends to my experience so far and unless I'm willing to surrender my all I will never overcome my irrational fears of the future.
He's got the whole world in His hands. And what a heavy world it is.

roxblurb lives

2007-08-06T00:30:00.000-07:00

It's just been crazy lately. The days and weeks seem to have simply vanished and I find myself in my second week of a new job unable to believe that I'm free from the confines of O&L and actually wanting to get out of bed in the mornings.
I've spent the last two weekends outside of London town: one in Hamburg and this last one in Kent. The sun shone the whole weekend which meant that camping was a delight and I acquired a tan. I have newly restored faith in English weather (summer might just arrive after all!).
Despite all of this good I felt a little down today. Nothing major, just being a girl I guess. To cheer myself up I've painted my nails a shocking shade of pink. The logic behind this is yet to come to me but I think it has something to do with luminosity of my nails brightening my day.
I know I've been a shocking blogger of late and chances are that no one will read this as I've lost all my devoted blogees to my lack of posting. Rest assured, Roxblurb will recommence regular updates when Rox herself is feeling a little less disheveled from chasing her tail.

when harry met sally

2007-07-20T15:37:00.000-07:00

I realised today that I really have neglected my blog over the last few weeks. Between wrapping up at O&L, trying to find a simple pair of black shoes and compiling an entire website for a friend, I have found myself barely scrapping together enough time to eat and sleep.
I can’t believe that I will be cleaning out my desk drawers and bidding farewell to the fabric industry in one week. It has taken its time in getting here but the end is nigh and that silver lining glows brighter with each passing day.
Finding black shoes – I don’t want to talk about it. How hard can it be in a city this size? Very.
The website went live today and was good experience but, after a succession of late nights, I’m feeling somewhat bleary eyed and ready for a weekend.
Anyway, now that we’ve re-connected I feel to move onto a matter far more trivial – the release of the final book in the Harry Potter series. I’m not an avid Potter fan but having recently watched the latest movie I feel a bit caught up in all the excitement.
People have been queuing for 3 days, according to the BBC, to be one of the first to get their sticky little “muggle” hands on a copy. While I paged through the sensationalists delight that is the London Lite paper, yesterday, my interest was sparked by an article based on this review. The New York Times ran a pre-release review which not only broke the terms of the publisher’s agreement regarding the book’s release date but also gave away significant detail about how the series ends. Does a good reviewer truly take satisfaction from ruining a book for millions of readers who can’t wait to escape to Hogwarts for one last time? Power-trip of note.
Apparently, Childline have requested extra volunteers for the next couple of weeks to cope with the expected influx of calls by youngsters who are psychologically affected by the end of the story. I think I’m going to write a response series called “Sally Porter – the Girl Who Cared about the Real Issues in the World” but I suspect I might not rival JK Rowling for the No.1 spot on the bestseller chart. Maybe I’ll just pretend I’m Sally Porter and leave it there.

not about me

2007-07-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

As the days preceding my departure from O&L seem to drag out for, what feels like, years I find myself lying in bed in the mornings with a sense of dread at the thought of facing another day of monotony. Finding little meaning in my current situation I started reading “The Purpose Driven Life” again last night in an attempt to motivate myself through the next couple of weeks.
As my alarm sounded “Waaake me up…when September ends…” I felt no more inspired than previous mornings and after a 45min ‘snooze’ I scurried between bedroom and bathroom frantically trying to avoid a late login and the subsequent guilt that ensues.
My willingness to walk to work was overpowered by the wisdom that my legs are simply not long enough to get me there as quickly as I needed them to and I boarded a bus that, typically, required a driver change two stops later. Rather than wait, I jumped off and ran down the High St towards a bus for the 2nd leg of my journey (it really is far simpler to walk). Now in a total fluster, I breathlessly boarded a 485 for the short trip down Putney Bridge Rd and as I caught myself thinking that the world was out to get me I remembered today’s “Point to Ponder”: It’s not about me.
If it wasn’t about me then who was it about? I disembarked the bus and before I put my head down for my sprint to the office I turned to the bus driver and gave him a grateful wave and a half-smile. What happened next, catapulted me out of my melancholy. That bus driver’s smile beamed so wide that it instantly humbled me. There was someone who had been driving strangers around all morning, possibly not even realizing how much he yearned to be appreciated. His thankful smile altered my perspective and proved that true meaning is found in the impact, however small, our lives may have on others.

life on earth

2007-07-09T16:58:00.000-07:00

Bleary eyed and unenthused by an early morning “trek”, 6 of us made our way to Wembley Park Stadium too early for a Saturday. Thanks to Steve’s urging we arrived an hour before the doors opened and as a result, found ourselves in the “pit” for the length of Live Earth - which meant we were VIPs for a day!
Okay, not exactly VIPs, but we were really close to the stage.
I woke up on Sunday feeling as though I had a hangover – despite avoiding alcohol altogether - but the dehydration and ringing in my ears was worth the numerous highlights of which there are just too many to mention.
After a leisurely breakfast along the Thames (in the sun!), Fox and I returned to his flat where I set myself up to scan the Sunday paper. Imagine my excitement when I opened to the second page and there, smiling among the Live Earth crowd, was Fox!

I know I was next to him, along with the others, but there are certain disadvantages to being 5ft2½.
As I continued paging through the Sunday Times, I came across this article that brought me to such despair that I could only finish reading it this morning. Maybe it’s because Africa is in my blood; maybe because I can’t turn a blind eye when I am aware of such need. I did a Google search to see what the world is doing about the crisis in Zimbabwe and was totally disillusioned by the lack of involvement. How can countries just stand back and watch an entire civilization starve to death when we all indulge in our excess? All of a sudden a concert to promote climate change seemed shallow when this immediate need is so much greater.
What will happen if no one takes a stand? We will watch as this beautiful African country, with its Falls so majestic, fades back into the red African dirt.
Africa is more than flaming sunsets and wild animals. It is a rugged land of people; real people who are suffering while the world continues to uphold everything that is superficial and meaningless.
I’m stirred.

"Now that I have seen I am responsible Faith without deeds is dead Now that I have held you In my own arms I cannot let go till you are... "
Brooke Fraser – Albertine

what's that smell?

2007-06-29T16:26:00.000-07:00

Sad…it’s raining. Happy…it’s sunny. Oh no, sad again…the rains back. Yay!...I see the sun. Wait…it was only momentary.
Seriously! If I wanted a weather roller-coaster I’d go to Thorpe Park. Instead I’ve been subjected to lunch indoors for the last 2 weeks and I’m now suffering from severe cabin fever.
What’s with the weather on our planet? It’s snowing in Cape Town, flooding in the drought stricken regions of Aus and raining incessantly for weeks, mid-summer in UK (oh wait, that’s actually quite normal).
I arrived at work this morning in the foulest of foul moods. I was wet, my trousers were sodden at the ankles and I was feeling miserable due to the lack of Vitamin D. I’m just grumpy and all I ask is for a few consecutive days of summer sun to lift me out of my misery.
That aside, London suffered yet another terror threat today. My main concern (it’s okay, I can be a little flippant as no one was hurt), on sighting pictures, was that the bomb-car was parked right next to a 14 bus stop in Central London - just a bit close to home for a No. 14 regular!
As usual, I’m feeling that special Friday relief start to descend as I begin to envision 2 days of freedom from my office. Judging by the number of FWD emails flying between us, the boredom is undoubtedly mutual. I can smell it – that beautiful aroma that signals freedom – yes, it’s the smell of the weekend!

just a ramble to pass the time

2007-06-26T14:44:00.000-07:00

"I want to break free-e. I want to break free…" Freddie Mercury's crystal voice echoes through my head as I sit and stare blankly at my workstation, bound by the clutches of 9-5 and tormented by the restraints of boredom. Hark, the day cometh when I will have a workload full enough to see me through the day!
For some reason our internet has been unblocked today so I have been able to check my emails and Facebook any time of the day. As chance would have it, no one had Facebook’d me anything. Why, oh why have my cyber friends chosen to go quiet today?! Until…an email arriveth in my inbox, “Jo Nicholson has written on your wall”. Elation! Someone is awake in Facebook land. Jo had noticed the absurdity of my Facebook “online” status, mid-workday.
Despite all my whingeing and I must admit to a twinge of nostalgia this afternoon while speaking to one of my regular suppliers. As I drew the call to a close he ended his side of the conversation as he does, everyday, “Alright then Rox, love. Chat soon.”
I realised how dangerously comforting familiarity can be. It's just not comfortable enough to make me complacent. Never that.

another day another...pound

2007-06-25T16:34:00.000-07:00

We're well into the start of another week and the effort to drag myself out of bed this morning was an indication of my outlook. Work is incredibly tedious. I can usually find something to occupy myself for the morning but afternoons are dreadful as I long for the end of the day to arrive quicker than it ever does. All of a sudden, on hearing of my impending departure, I have been receiving emails of distress (one such email entitled "Oh No!!") from various staff who reason that my presence at work will be sorely missed. Hello, people! Where has the love been for the last 2 years? Human nature is a fascinating thing. Most days we don't even talk in my department. Maybe they will just miss my smell (note to self: don't change perfume).
It has been raining in London for 4 days straight. Who forgot to turn on the summer sun? As a result I spent most of the weekend indoors, under the duvet, playing on my new laptop. Ooh, I love new gadgets. Call me a nerd if you must but, honestly, are you ever too old to enjoy new toys?
Apart from reveling in the novelty of Windows Vista the weekend was a good balance of socializing and down-time. Fox is away again, this week it's to Poland - don't ask me to tell you where, it's pronounced too differently to how it's spelt.
In summary, I guess it's just another week in London Town; minus the sun, but full of bright prospects.

wise words on the 414

2007-06-22T16:11:00.000-07:00

As well as a number of really odd people (was it a full moon?) Fox and I spotted this on the 414 bus on the way home from date night at Shikara in Chelsea…

Knowledge is knowing that a tomato is a fruit and not a vegetable; wisdom is knowing not to include it in a fruit salad. (Anon)

Cracked me up!

oh happy day

2007-06-21T12:26:00.000-07:00

After yesterday’s email regarding the pain of waiting, finally I can tell you my news that I have been so desperate to share! Now that it’s all official I am free to air my excitement.
I HAVE A NEW JOB!!
I got the call yesterday after a particularly disheartening day at work which left me close to tears the minute I walked out of the building.
The call came totally unexpectedly while Ian and I were deciding on dinner options in Waitrose (Squash? Carrots? Salad!)
So, in 5 weeks I will leave behind the world of fabric and wallpaper and start working for my church, HTB. I don’t think I have ever been so excited to start a new job. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been excited about a new job at all.
I will be working in the worship department, which means that I can sing as loud as I want to and hopefully no one will throw things at me. Feel free to drop me a mail for more detail but, there we go, may your curiosity now be sated. YAY! YAY! YAY!

the weight of a wait

2007-06-20T16:16:00.000-07:00

I am an anxious waiter. Not the type that serves you food (although I’m really nervy when it comes to that too!) but the type that is told to be patient. I really don’t like waiting around. To me, waiting around is time that I could be busy doing something productive – moving forward. I know that this approach, however ambitious, has an adverse impact on my attitude. While walking to work I get really riled if I have to wait behind a couple of mom’s taking up the sidewalk while chatting and pushing prams; I get antsy waiting to hear back about a new job (nudge nudge, for those who read “what curiosity did”); I look at my watch no less than 10 times when waiting for friends/family who run late; I struggle with waiting to make large purchases (this, however, is definitely improving); I just dislike waiting, in general.
It’s not necessarily the waiting that irks me, but more the unknown. Waiting generally stirs a sense of uncertainty and if I don’t know what to expect from tomorrow I get panicky.
I’m not naïve; I know there is value in using time spent waiting, to learn and grow. But I just figure that I’m only here for a limited time and 1/3 of that is spent sleeping so I’d really like to make the most of the other 2/3’s. I know that every time I’m told to be patient it is a lesson in handing over control to He who is bigger and wiser than me. As a good friend told me, “We think that life lessons are a combination lock and if we just get the right combination we’ll move on when, in actual fact, they’re a time lock.” So, no matter what we do, we just have to wait it out. *sigh* If patience is a virtue, I think I’m one down.

brother too big to avoid

2007-06-19T13:09:00.000-07:00

I have a confession. I just need to get it off my chest but, before I do that, let me just establish that my actions were totally unintentional. I found myself in a compromising situation…and I caved.
This morning, while eating my breakfast, I watched last night’s repeat of Big Brother.
For all of you who thought I couldn’t resist all 3 months…well…you were right. The thing is, I had the intention of watching the morning news but when I switched on the TV it was already on Channel4. Before I knew what I was doing I caught myself hanging on every one of Ziggy’s words as he relayed his struggle to BB as to whether the lovely Chanel is perhaps a little too young for him. Then there was the fight between Charlie and another housemate over the hair-straighteners (you go girl – fight for that GHD!).
I would also like to clarify that there is no connection between my watching BB and being late for work this morning. That was due to an early morning run with Fox and my inability to regain full functionality of my legs, post-exercise. Thus, an unavoidable bus trip which landed me in rush-hour traffic. See, nothing to do with the urgency to watch the final 5 mins of the show just to see how all the shenanigans worked out.
My craving is still manageable. But then I think to myself, why fight it? Who needs to know what is happening in the real world when you can eat your brekkie and watch a bunch of people who have created a world that is, frankly, a little less depressing than the news? I guess it just means a decline in commentary regarding current affairs, but then, I’m rarely inclined to subject my bloggees to such dreariness anyway.

semi-update

2007-06-15T13:39:00.000-07:00

I know I've been really cruel in leaving you hanging for so many days. I'm afraid I still have my hesitancy's at divulging too many details regarding recent events but I hope to be able to reveal all by early next week. Sorry bloggees!
This week has been really stressful, made evident by headaches, loss of appetite and water spillage from my eyes at the most inappropriate times. Sometimes I've come so far from being that girl who used to worry herself to sleep at night and others I can't remember what ever made me think that.
Other than that there really isn't much to report. A few activities planned for the weekend - work drinks, watching Oceans 13, Portobello market, catching a bit of SA whipping some Wallaby bums in the rugby, maybe a trip to Greenwich and some sleep if I can find the time. Hhm, normality really isn't a writer's greatest inspirtaion. But sometimes it's just what a girl needs.

what curiosity did

2007-06-12T16:34:00.000-07:00

I have something quite exciting coming up tomorrow. I would love to blog all about it but, unfortunately, I have to keep mum for another few days.
Doesn’t it just drive you mad when people do that? “I have something that I really want to tell you…but I can’t.” Uhm, okay. Now you are left in a personal battle of ethics whereby you could either plead it out of them, in the full knowledge that they are breaking someone else’s confidence, or just leave it there and appear disinterested. At this point, if you were a cat, you’d be dead.
So I’m really sorry that I’m doing this to you but I’m excruciatingly bored at work today and tomorrow’s event is really all that is on my mind.
Okay, there’s other stuff there too…
Fox returned to London for the weekend *big smile* which somehow swept past in a haze of activity; catching up, watching him demonstrate his skill in touch rugby at Battersea Park, church and the Casting Crowns concert on Sunday night. I would be far saner if my work-week rushed by as quickly.
I’m looking into doing pump classes at the local leisure centre from next week. I distinctly remember the last time I undertook this particular exercise regime. Every step I took in the subsequent week was sheer agony. I was acutely aware of each and every muscle in my entire body. It was more pain than I thought I could bear. And here I am considering doing it all again. Perhaps it’s that work induced lunacy.
I know I’ve been a little slack on the blog updates lately but it seems that a life of routine is counterproductive to a full-life of blogging. But you know what curiosity does? It brings you back.

big brother’s summer snare

2007-06-11T16:56:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the year again. Summer is here and TV producers need the “good stuff” to keep us indoors rather than leave us to enjoy the sunshine (I’ve merely heard of this phenomenon) and all that the outdoors has to offer.
This is when they pull out Big Brother.
I’m not even lowering myself to the depths of trying to describe the characters that we get to observe for 3 months. But as ludicrous as I might find the whole shenanigans, all it takes is one episode to hook me…and then I just can’t get enough. So, the trick is just to steer clear of channel-surfing during summer months because, low and behold, if BB is the only thing showing while I eat my dinner, I’ve had it! I’ll find myself coming home late at night and tuning into channel E4+1 just to watch the housemates sleep; or logging onto BBC each Monday to see who was evicted while I was out living my “real” life; or looking over my shoulder in Sainsbury’s as I page through a Heat magazine to read the latest on the quirkiest characters.
So far so good. I’ve merely caught snippets on the news of the latest evictee being thrown out of the house thanks to her use of the “n” word and have obtained minor feedback from Mom who gave me the rundown on her favourites. I might have lingered around reception a little longer than necessary this morning as I eavesdropped on a conversation, regarding evictions, between colleagues. But I’m really quite disinterested.
In reality, there is no avoiding the BB hype - you either get involved or you happen upon it. I’m well aware that the summer is in its infancy and I only have so much willpower. Perhaps I’ll make a habit of eating my dinner in the park.

beauty hidden within

2007-06-08T16:58:00.000-07:00

As I dressed for work this morning I decided to wear a top that I’d been saving for a special occasion. As I gave myself a once over in the passage mirror I realised that the top was slightly more elegant than I had originally thought. Just as I was about to rethink my days attire I stopped to assess why I felt it necessary to dress down. Why was I changing my outfit when I felt really good in it? When did femininity become a trait inappropriate for the work day? It seems that, a lot of the time, if we feel too attractive we must be overdressed. I wonder when we started apologizing for our loveliness. I love getting dressed up and feeling pretty; it’s not about being “girly” but a connection with the essence of who I was created to be. We were made to be beautiful. I decided that there was no way that I was going to be apologetic about how I looked and felt today. And I think I’ll wear this top more often.

friday to sun-day

2007-06-01T16:44:00.000-07:00

I got word from Dad today that Desi is doing fine. There’s no apparent organ damage but, of course, she’s still suffering the broken pelvis. Thanks so much for all the prayers!
So, it’s practically the weekend and I couldn’t be happier to get out of this office today. After losing my assignment due to an unexplainable technical glitch, hearing of Desi’s accident, missing Fox and sleep deprivation, I’ve really had enough for this week.
I’m off to Mom’s tonight to watch “Little Miss Sunshine” (that movie SERIOUSLY cracks me up) and appreciate a mom-cooked meal.
Jo and I are taking a road trip to Oxford tomorrow. As much as I love London for its ‘big city’ qualities, I LOVE getting out of it too.
Then it’s Sunday and then it’s….no, I can’t bear to even think it.
If you happen to have sunshine in whatever country you inhabit this weekend, please enjoy it for me. London seems to have mislaid it.

prayer request

2007-05-30T06:13:00.000-07:00

Today I have no story to tell only a request that you please pray for my sister, Desiree, in Australia. I awoke to the sound of a doorbell that indicated a text message from my Dad. It said that my sister, who is a jockey, had been rushed to hospital and that the horse had bucked and reared and fallen on her. They think she has a broken pelvis. She will be in hospital for the next week and may have to undergo an operation today. She’s just recovered from an accident and has been doing really well so this is a setback that she really doesn’t need. Sometimes the world just feels so big.

new bands at koko in camden

2007-05-30T00:57:00.000-07:00

The Little Ones, wearing Blood Red Shoes and Pulling Tiger Tail while shimmying to the Rumble Strips. HA! The whole line-up of last night’s NME Tour at Koko, in Camden, in one sentence. *breathe on knuckles and shine them on my chest* The first band of the evening, Blood Red Shoes, nearly blew us straight from our prime balcony spot and in amongst the plebs below. But we stood our ground and suffered the screeching for long enough to welcome the next band which blew us away for different reasons. A happy little, guitar playing man with salsa moves to put any Spaniard to shame (that’s where the dance originated, right?!) and a cheeky smile had us absorbed for their full set. The Little Ones were a bunch of quirky muso’s, playing happy music, that made you wish they would just keep jamming well into the night. The other two bands were ok. Pull Tiger Tail were a fusion of Fall Out Boy and a typical Brit rock ensemble (pick one of your choice) who displayed enough talent not to provoke items being thrown onto the stage. We left halfway through the last band, Rumble Strips. Their folk sound and bad shoes were too much to endure at such a late hour. Despite the severe ringing in my ears, that was still audible as my head hit the pillow and smokey hair, a decent gig with a diverse mix of fresh-faced bands that haven’t “sold-out” just yet.

just some weekend stories

2007-05-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

Acknowledging the need to face the rain – necessity being my only motivation to leave the flat this weekend – I pulled on my ugh’s and begrudgingly left to grab a few essentials from the High St and meet Jo and Bron for a quick coffee (before they get offended - this I was happy to do).
While waiting for the bus, a very little lady literally blew alongside me. As she animatedly commented on the foul weather, I listened with amusement as she relayed her weekend’s domestic activities and how she was now forced to leave the house simply to purchase a cake for afternoon tea with her friends. As she spoke, her neat little beret bobbed and her smile was warm enough for me to ignore the cold wind. I couldn’t quite pinpoint her accent – perhaps a hint of cockney in her predominantly Indian enunciation. On alighting the bus, I purposefully sat on a two-seater to continue conversing but, instead, she waved goodbye, bounded to the back of the bus and took her rightful place in the ‘cool kids’ seat. How refreshing our brief encounter had been!
In other news, Mom’s hamster departed for hammy heaven on Friday evening. She lies peacefully alongside 80A’s goldfish, 82B’s budgie and the previous hamsters that passed on. After a distraught text from Mom, it was decided that a blog mention would ease the loss somewhat. Therefore, RIP Sweet Cheeks.
On our way home from Amused Moose comedy club on Saturday night (Happy birthday, Bron!), Fox and I witnessed a cringe-worthy scene that simply could not go un-blogged. A girl, who unintentionally revealed herself to be a musical groupie, sat beside us on the No. 14. She had spotted one of the actors currently in Blood Brothers and proceeded to gush about how great he is and how her friend thinks he is ‘Johnny Depp II”. Fox and I winced and giggled to ourselves as she continued to babble and the awkwardness was enough to engross us for most of the journey. I have such a deep affection for that bus route.
For the next 2 weeks I’ll be trying to pass the time as efficiently as possible while I await Fox’s return from a 3 week stint in Budapest. I feel a tad spare without my “partner in crime” to chuckle at funny people on the bus (among other things).
Anyway, a well balanced weekend to prepare me for a week of possibilities and I’m ready to approach it with a bright attitude to counteract the dull weather…that just refuses to pass.

sidewalk scuffle

2007-05-25T03:59:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of the week again when I have bled every source of work dry and I’m left wondering how I’m going to pass the time constructively. So far I have emailed anyone who I know will respond; made a shopping list for the weekend (and planned out meals); thought about doing my assignment and determined I’m “not in the right frame of mind”; disrupted anyone within a 2m radius of my desk and then decided that blogging was the most stimulating of all.
My day started out on a bad footing. As I disembarked the No. 14 bus, while chatting on my mobile to Fox, I heard a lady yelling something behind me but I ignored her as I thought she was just having a go at someone else. The next thing I hear is her saying to the person on her mobile, “Sorry, some girl just cut in front of me.” She then turned to give me a death stare and stormed away in a huff.
I was “some girl”. Hello! All I did was to get off the blinking bus…lady!!! I was so mad. I thought of a million different names to call “Miss Highness of the Pavement” but by that stage she was toddling off in her mean-spirited, huffy way. See, even now, just thinking about it gets me riled up. “Love of Jesus, Rox, love of Jesus…”
It wasn’t so much her reaction that upset me as it was her attitude that, to me, reflected the attitude of a million Londoners on any given weekday morning. There are just too many people in this city. Jo pointed out, last night, that her personal space boundaries have significantly decreased since living in London as she has been forced to become accustomed to having people in ‘her space’ so much of the time; a crowded tube, sharing couches in Starbucks or bargain battling in Primark (okay, maybe that’s just me!).
I had to put some worship music on my WalkmanÒ just to gain control after the sidewalk incident. This city really stretches you to the limits of yourself. If you want to know what you’re made of, London will tell you. I remember, as a child, I would slink beneath the table if my dad ever complained about food in a restaurant. When I returned from my first stint in London, my family nearly choked on their Spur burgers when I was the first to pipe-up to the waiter when I wasn’t satisfies with my meal. A part of me had become tough and no one was going to walk over me.
Maybe pavement-lady has just been here too long. Not only will she disallow people to walk over her, but it seems she has developed an aversion to people walking beside her too.
I hope I never become so tough that I can’t share a bit of sidewalk with a stranger.

all set for a picnic

2007-05-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

Summer is here. I know it was “official” about 2 months ago, but tell it to any Londoner and they’ll laugh outright. It seems the grey has opened up to allow the sun to warm the Capital and everyone is happy and smiling again.
I went and bought a picnic set at lunchtime today, in celebration. I really wanted the beautiful one at Huttons, in a wicker basket, complete with spotted crockery and pretty little napkins and a tablecloth. Unfortunately, the price was not as dainty as the goods and my sensible side (ie. a phone call to Fox) redirected me to Waitrose to purchase the set in a practical backpack, that doubles as a cooler box and is good for camping too.
I’m still that little girl having tea parties with her dolls, only now, instead of pretending to be an adult, I actually am one…most of the time.
So, tonight Fox and I are off to initiate the picnic set in Battersea Park. Of course, the napkins and tablecloth are merely for show and can not actually be used to wipe grubby mouths and hands. They may not be the little spotted ones but they’re blue-checked and cute all the same and are merely for showing off in the park. “Look everyone! We’re professional picnickers with a proper set and everything.” We’ll be the envy of all the other boys and girls…I mean, men and women.
Goodbye winter-blues, hello summer fun! Complete with goblets, chopping board, bottle opener and a detachable drinks cooler. A toast: to the many great picnics to come!

how to turn a drab day fab

2007-05-21T07:47:00.001-07:00

Second week back in London and all feels back to normal. It’s only Monday and I’m already bored at work; we’ve had about 2 hrs of sunshine since my return; my week has filled up quicker than a toilet cistern; I’m back to consuming approximately 2 chocolate bars a day. Aaah, all is right in the world.
Although I seem to have ended up in somewhat of a routine (gasp!), there are a number of changes looming just over the horizon. Unfortunately, none of them are public knowledge as of yet so you, my blogees, will just have to keep reading. Yes, a meager attempt at creating an air of suspense…
To London’s credit, I did have a wonderful weekend. Friday night, a few of us went to watch Goodbye Bafana – an interesting angle on the Nelson Mandela story. Joseph Fiennes rivals Leo DiCaprio in the “foreigner attempting to do a Safa accent quite well” stakes and I found myself cringing at the accuracy with which they portray life back in the homeland. We are an interesting bunch, hey, my bokkies? Out of the cinema and into Waxy O’Connors for a cheeky few where we ended up being asked to leave because it was closing time. SWEET! And Granny Tagg was still going strong.
Saturday I met up with, recently engaged blogee, Kirsty for a cuppa and a chat in the snooty, yet delightful Wimbledon Village. I then made my way to Zulu’s (ugh!) to watch the Super 14 final. What a match! Commiserations go out to Jo who was most deeply affected by the Sharks defeat. A lazy braai at Fox’s place in the evening, complete with steak and toasties, ended a typical South African day in London.
I managed to coax Fox into watching the end of “The Lakehouse” with me yesterday, by luring him with the offer of a tasty, cooked brekkie (and he wouldn’t even have to leave the couch). The good company was the only consolation for wasting an hour and a half watching Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock attempt to carry a film. Church in the evening, a quick dinner with “the gang” and yesterday was as restful as a Sunday should be.
Although today is pretty bleak, my grey day was brightened by a single, crimson, long-stemmed rose from my thoughtful boyfriend and I remembered that any place is as good as you make it. I really am trying to see all the good that this city has to offer. It’s just hard to acknowledge the sun for all the dreary rain clouds. But it hasn’t gone anywhere; it’s still shining as bright as ever, above the clouds, where only birds and airplanes can see it.

good thai-m in bangkok

2007-05-18T17:01:00.000-07:00

I’m going to attempt to write an account of our trip to Thaliand in 15 minutes. That’s how long I have left to sit before I escape to enjoy a weekend of catch-ups and London fun.
So, Aus-Land behind us, Fox and I jetted off to Bangkok and arrived in the country-sized sauna a little before midnight (I’m not sure which country’s time zone that was!). Our hotel was lush but on the doorstep was a city that is dirtier and poorer than most that I have experienced. Ian laughs at my inclination to want to adopt every stray (and the occasional non-stray) that crosses my path, so imagine my turmoil when everywhere I turned there was another mangy, hungry looking mutt. But it wasn’t long before the heat, pollution and the need to prevent ourselves from being scammed by locals tainted my compassion and I began to fade. Not even the magnificence of the Grand Palace and our friendly little tuk-tuk driver could elicit a smile – I needed something icy, cold and liquid. We found refuge in a local shopping centre (they are a different world to the one outside) and I don’t think a slushy has ever been so refreshing. Bliss in a glass.
Spending time with Christina, in her home town, was great and really interesting to interact on her turf. She took us to the market (bargain paradise!), a couple of tasty restaurants and as we enjoyed a ferry ride down the Chao Praya river I glanced over at her and believed her expression to be one of relaxed contentment at being home.
And after that it was time for us to head home too. Thailand is perhaps a little Far East for me.
More pics.

kissing kangaroos and more

2007-05-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

I’d be surprised if anyone actually reads this. Do I have any blogees left after such a long term of absence? On the off chance that someone might still be interested I will divulge my activities of late.
As Fox and I boarded flight QF0001 to Sydney, I acknowledged the sense of anticipation in myself that can only come from returning into familiar territory with a fresh sense of self. Having not seen my family for 2 years I didn’t object (much), despite disgusted sneers from fellow passengers, when Fox queue-jumped through Sydney Airport customs. We were greeted by film crews on arrival and just as I was about to reprimand my family for making such a fuss, we heard that Snoop Dog (or was it Puff Daddy?) was expected to arrive that morning too. As baby sister, Kirstin, flew into my arms, I held tightly onto her, as if that one hug could erase the separation that lay between us. She had grown so much. Behind her were Dad and Denise’s smiling faces and I felt numbed by the 24 hour flight and found myself disorientated by how glad I was to see them.
Fox and I spent the next 2 weeks bussing between Dad’s beachfront apartment (that’s the life!), Manly (for you Jo) and the city. Looking back it‘s all a blur of catch-ups with friends, a few dips in the ocean, good food and sleep. From Max Brenner and the Sheaf with Widge, Darling Harbour, the Bridge, Opera House, ferries, kissing kangaroos at the koala park, Hillsong with Den and Kirnie, Belgian Beer Café, Bondi…the list goes on; I fear I may have overwhelmed Fox with a myriad of activities but he still claims that he likes Sydney so I couldn’t have done too much long-term damage.
We took a day trip through the spectacular Blue Mountains to watch jockey-sister, Desi, race. What fun! Fox and I had a good time trying our hand at betting. At the risk of needing to call the ‘Is gambling a problem for you?’ helpline, we decided to leave it there (note to self: check Fox’s PC to make sure he hasn’t started delving into online betting). Des ‘cleaned-pipes’ (as Fox so eloquently puts it) in her race and I beamed as a proud sister should.
A stop-in at Circular Quay Starbucks for a quick catch-up with Sez and Briggs and dinner at Pancakes on the Rocks, with Dad and that was it. ‘See ya’ Sydney!
It seems that this trip came to an abrupt end sooner than most, exaggerated by leaving my beloved family once more to travel home, which happens to be as far as I could possibly go. But there was still Thailand and it wasn’t harsh reality just yet. London could wait.
Click here for pics.

just popping across to aus quickly

2007-04-17T13:58:00.000-07:00

Congrats goes out to devoted bloggee, Mands, on her engagement on Saturday. Yes, she did see the irony in this (please see previous post).
In other news, a series of events unfolded thanks to a phone call from Fox yesterday morning. In the space of 12 hours we decided to fly to Aus and Bangkok, made arrangements with my family and the lovely Christina in Thailand and booked air tickets…for next week.
That’s right! We’re jet-setting across the earth next Wednesday on a holiday that is long overdue on my part. I haven’t seen my family and friends down under for over 2 years and was lamenting to this effect just this weekend.
I sat at my desk excitedly compiling a list of “things to do in Sydney” yesterday. I think Fox is already a little overwhelmed by my zesty enthusiasm.
I seem to have fallen into a habit of spontaneous long-haul trips. And it’s so much fun! I’m not sure my boss shares my sentiments. I think his blood runs cold when I walk into his office with a Cheshire cat grin.
So there you have it. For those of you in Aus, Don’t Say I Never Told You.

worlds going white...and its not snow

2007-04-13T16:36:00.000-07:00

It’s that time of my life. Everywhere I turn someone else is getting married, or has just gotten married or wants to get married. I don’t use the term “everywhere I turn” lightly as I found out this morning, while eavesdropping on a phone conversation, that the guy who sits opposite me at work recently got engaged.
I received a group-mail from a good friend who is moving to Hong Kong, where her boyfriend is currently residing. The reply-all responses were mostly “marriage is around the corner” implications. Is there no shame in applying this sort of pressure to a couple?
I’m a bit of an anti-traditionalist. I’m just inclined to ask, “Where has the magic gone?” Not unlike the commercialisation of Christmas and Easter and other holidays, it seems to me that weddings are a big taffeta and flower infused headache right from the engagement until the couple drive away with tin cans jangling behind their marvellously trashed vehicle. I’m not discrediting the value of a grand celebration and I do believe it’s different strokes for different folks but, do couples do it for themselves or to please friends and family? My grandmother would probably cry into her ready-mixed marzipan if I was to axe the idea of a truly “big” day but surely that disappointment eases with time? Is it not enough that your offspring are truly content and no one has to sell their right kidney to pay for it?
I’m hoping I’m not forced to eat my words one day along with my big, ornately-iced fruitcake. I stand by the idea that the whole experience can be beautiful without the necessity of opulence and that the simple value found in commitment is enough to make it a cherished day.

run with the idea

2007-04-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

Having been inspired by Easter Sunday’s message of new life, new beginnings etc, the notion of Ian and I running together in the mornings seemed to be a particularly good one. Yes, good ideas are always just that in theory…
I arise with the sun this morning as my alarm clock forces its way into my dream and causes a dishevelled state of bewilderment to my waking. Arriving at Ian’s, feeling perky and preparing myself to head down to the river, I reiterate my lack of physical activity during the last 18 months. We set off through the refreshingly quiet streets of Putney and I congratulate myself on the ease at which I am keeping pace and still managing to breathe. I have run for 2 whole minutes and I am fine!
As we pass a couple of pigeons enjoying the peace and quiet of a spring morning, Ian decides it is more fun to chase them mercilessly in spite of my cries, “Don’t do that, they’re going to poo all over me. Stop!” Halfway to the river my body starts to remind me that it has not broken a sweat in a long time and it is largely unhappy to do so. Despite my begging Ian refuses to relent and I arrive at the river gasping for air through my aching lungs and only marginally conscious.
We have conquered the downhill now we must make our way back up.
I beg and plead with Ian to let me walk and I propose to meet him at the top but it is no use trying to explain the concept of “building up stamina” to someone whose physical philosophy is “my body must learn”.
At breaking point I threaten Ian with the loss of a running partner and at, what I’m sure is, the sight of my beetroot appearance he leaves me in the dust of his tracks as he sprints up the road.
Back outside the apartment, as I force back the two Easter roasts I have consumed over the course of the weekend, I look down at my trousers to find the pigeons have, as predicted, pooped all over my shoe and trousers and I am just too shattered to really care.
Credit to Fox, he is a great motivator. The “good” idea to endure this torture every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday is, however, less appealing than it was when I went to bed last night. But I will persevere and failing a greater endurance, I will simply run with my bus pass.