October 2017

8 simple rules for when the “kids” came home..

Up to the end of 2015, my lovely husband and I had lived mostly alone for the previous 5 years. Apart from the odd visits from children and family of course – a weekend here or a week there. Well, us two, the dog and the cat that is. We ate what we liked, went out when I did not feel like cooking, swapped drinking shitty wine for more decent stuff… were starting to hit an almost level financial footing after divorces, retrenchments, sick dogs, houses that would not sell etc.

My C.V. states that I have two girls (Lauren and Emma) and shares in a son (Luan).

After finishing matric, Luan had a gap year on the farm which extended to two years whilst he decided in which direction he wanted to study – so apart from varsity related obligational visits he had not been back to visit very much. (Luan loves all aspects of farm life with a passion – he’s now studying animal science.)

Emma had been living in Cape Town since 2009, alternatively with her boyfriend and sometimes her father – depending on what the situation was. Lauren, my elder daughter is long since married. Hell – I’m a granny and Isabella is four already. She’s settled and not a problem.

We always knew Luan would be coming to live with us one day – when he finally decided what he wanted to study and started attending University. This was scheduled for early 2016.

Then the shit hit the fan with Emma (aka Igz – whose art features prominently in many of my previous posts). At 25, her life was not really working out perfectly in Cape Town. She’d been giving… wait for it… hula hoop fitness lessons to ladies in the USA via skype for a living. This had worked well for a time but she was experiencing difficulties finding a location to work from, had broken up with her long-time boyfriend a few months previously and was stressed beyond belief. But she had also just met Charl… was starry-eyed and had no plans to leave Cape Town.

Come home, said I in a moment of madness – you can bring Charl with you. (Karma is a bitch I tell you – payback for Emma living with Sean all those years!)

And so it came to pass…

By the beginning of 2016, three 20-something “children” had taken over our house. We live in a complex – three bedrooms, two and a half (thank goodness for that half too) bathrooms, kitchen-lounge-dining room and our sanity-saving lovely biggish under-roof stoep with a lovely braai. Oh… and a double garage – half of which is filled with stuff like lawnmowers, wheelbarrows, spare beds and other stuff from when we had our house in Springs.

I work from home and had already given up my “office” upstairs the previous year when darling Fudges was sick and could not climb the stairs. It just seemed easier to camp in a corner of the lounge. But I soon realised that having a house teeming with people, I’d never get any work done. Eyed out all the vacant spots in the house… not that many. Eventually decided that “sanctuary” be damned – I don’t sleep well at the best of times – I’d relocate to a corner of our bedroom.

Once more my desk was humped up the stairs and stuff was rearranged. Fortunately our room is relatively nice-sized and there is a balcony – I can open the door and have fresh air all day. Of course, I also have all the complex kids screeching and playing and waving at me from outside too.

What a shocker! Somehow it seemed as if there was never enough anything. Two litre bottles of milk disappeared in a wink. Bags of bread got devoured, cheese flew out of the window and worst of all – I had to cook dinner for five freaking people – every single night because who can afford to go out often with so many people? Other meals people had to fend for themselves.

I had to quickly double my dose of Brewer’s Yeast (commonly referred to as my bitch pills) to avoid losing my shit. YES PEOPLE! This stuff really does work.

Let’s not even talk about the internet – Chris had to tootle off and upgrade chop-chop to stop us all from killing each other over gobbled up GB’s.

The first rule we made was that we all eat supper together at night. We eat on the big table on the stoep outside. No excuses. If you are not hungry – you still pitch up and sit at the table. More than a year later this still works well.

The second rule was that the kids (and I use that term loosely) take turns with the washing up. No, we don’t have a dishwasher – there is no space for one.

Next came the kitchen cat. My mom had given me this flat black cat which used to perch on my notice board back in the day when I had a whole room as an office. I was never very sure what to do with it and all too often it would plummet down, narrowly missing decapitating either Fudges or me. That cat got painted with blackboard paint and stuck to a kitchen cupboard.

Rule number three – whenever anybody finished something – they had to write it up on the board so (a) I knew there wasn’t any and did not bank on using it for some or other meal and (b) I could replenish said item. I’d try to remember take a photo of the cat before I went shopping. (Or else there would be a frantic call home to ask what was on the cat?) This also still works well today.

I have discovered that things like tomato sauce and mayo seem to have holes in the bottom of the bottle as well as the top. Such things used to last Chris and myself months and months. In fact I took to buying the smallest possible size because they took forever to finish. Now the stuff swooshed out of the bottle in mere days.

Rule number four was “the drawer”. You know that piss-willy little cheese drawer in the fridge? Well that became MINE. All mine. Anything in there was out of bounds. Nobody was allowed to even think about opening it. At least this ensured that I knew for sure there was something to put on Chris’s sandwiches each morning. Not a task I love much in the first place – and just horrible when I have to forage around looking for stuff.

Rule number five – very important for menopausal sleep-deprived me to stay alive…. I only share wine with the kids on the odd occasion. That rule got a temporarily bent out of shape when my mom landed up being critically ill only three weeks after we had been invaded and I went off to Cape Town for the next three weeks. My lovely husband is very generous and happily shared with the boys each night. Em smokes but does not drink. That’s another thing we had to get used to. Smokers! There is a dedicated smoking bench around the corner – but somehow throwing away cigarette boxes seems to be very challenging and they pile up. This drove us mental in the beginning.

Rule number six was that cheese always gets grated on the second smallest side. Somehow that makes the cheese last much longer. The spare blocks get stashed in MY drawer. No touchie!

Rule number seven – in order to stay sane I had to learn (very fast) not to sweat the small stuff. Who cared if the house was messy. Honestly. Really? Well to begin with I did. Desperately! I was always taking things to rooms and putting things back where they belonged… but then I figured what the hell. When you’ve just finished cleaning the floor and boots stomp dirt all over them… or coffee gets spilled – your first reaction is murder. Then you start thinking – it’s just a bit of dirt. And really – who cares if the toilet roll magically falls off it’s rolling perch downstairs all the time. Seems boys need to wind the bog roll round their hands instead of pulling. (I now just go to our own bathroom upstairs – which NEVER gets invaded.)

Of course, feeding five people instead of two tends to be a shitload more expensive. Chris and I learnt to shop in different places, found that we had to buy quantity instead of quality half the time. In the beginning I also misjudged and made a good few meals where there was barely enough for everybody and definitely no seconds.

On the upside – I have lost all the weight I picked up when my thyroid died (another blog)! Chris is looking much slimmer too these days.

Charl was busy searching for a job. Luan seemed to have more free time than lectures and it felt as though the house was always full of somebody. I think it was only in May – for the first time – that I had an hour of being totally alone in the house. From being alone all day to being constantly surrounded by people – took some getting used to.

To make matters even more interesting, whilst I was away in Cape Town keeping vigil in the hospital with my mom, my darling Fudges started having epileptic fits. These continued until she sadly left us as the end of 2016. Emma also managed to adopt us an extra kitty – that turned out to be not such a kitty after all.

Emma – a creative soul – was going crazy without any space. Eventually she and Chris got stuck into the garage and dug out a hidey hole for her to work in. Charl (a handyman and wannabe plumber by trade) knocked her up some working surfaces and hospice was scoured for packing space bookshelf type things.

Because it tends to hail in the summer – we still like to have space for at least one of the cars in the case of such a storm. (We almost lost my lovely Getz to golf-ball sized hail a few years ago.) This meant that while Ems could stretch out and use the whole half a garage when she needed to – she had to be able to pack it up very quickly if necessary and disappear into her half-a-hidey-hole in the occupied half.

Emma would retire to her dungeon during the day and started creating stuff like her lovely dolls. Body parts littered the house. I’d find bits of faces, arms legs and torso’s stashed in odd places.

Needless to say the electricity usage more than doubled.

Rule number eight – no heaters, no electric blankets… dress warmly instead! Better for the environment anyway!

Charl got a job – well he got several – but he settled down to one after a few months. This meant one less person in the house during the day. Em and I settled into a routine of having coffee and brainstorming each morning before we’d repair off to our various lairs and get stuck into work.

I can bake again and the goodies like cheese straws get snarfed up quicker than it takes to bake them. I really like this. We hardly ever waste anything. Chicken carcasses get recycled into soup. The odd leftovers get gobbled the next day (boys are lazy and the less effort the better). I have become very creative using pasta and mince in a gajillion different ways. Some meals are more appreciated than others. Every now and then we venture out on a Monday evening and take advantage of the Spur special – two burgers for the price of one. Chris braais on the weekends.

To our credit we have not had a single serious blow-up in the entire time – now more than a year.

Luan is a darling and gives up his room on the odd occasions when necessary – for example when his grandparents were on their way to Australia and stayed over for a few days. Or when my mom came to visit over Christmas (although they only overlapped one night because he’d been away with his mother.)

Chris and I are the parentals – but we all respect each other. We have fun. We talk. We laugh. Yes – we also want to kill each other on the odd occasions too.

Best of all I totally adore having my crazy creative daughter on tap. For however long that may be.

Thunderdog!

(I’m telling you mom – that Thunderdog is lurking up there!)

Feh! It’s that time of year again. I start panting and sidle up close to mom.

What’s wrong Fudges? She gives my ear a scratch. Is it time for your pill already… noooo – I think not.

I give her the nose. Move your legs – I’ll just cozy up here under your desk with you.

She looks at me – but there’s no space my woof. And it’s still sunny outside. The weather is just fine.

Ohhhh… It’s coming, don’t you worry.

I give up trying to squoosh all our legs under her desk.

She’s right, there’s a most inconvenient bar in the way. Was I a tad younger I might have had a go at gnawing it off, but my fangs are not quite as fearsome any longer.

Sure enough, the sky gets all dark and gloomy. Then it starts to rumble and shake – in my head anyway. There is an incredibly brilliant flash… and that Thunderdog bellows in the sky.

Ralph comes skidding into the bedroom – whiskers twitching, eyes wild. He’s not a fan of the Thunderdog either. He scrambles onto mom’s lap. She has to move her chair back – there’s no space for both of them under the desk either.

I scuttle around the bed and dive into my box.

Must say – my box is not too shabby now. In the beginning it was horrible. Mom had put a mat in which I could scrunch into position, but every time I moved the whole box made a lot of noise. Then she got the idea to cover the box with a duvet and put a big fat cushion in it.

Thought it might be a bit hot , but it’s nice and cozy and also a bit soundproofed. Almost as good as being under the bed. Sometimes Ralph intrudes, which is just rude – especially when he claims the fat bit of the cushion.

Edge – the grey kitty who now has a name– does not particularly like the noise either and burrows under Em’s material boxes when he hears the first roar.

Sjoe, says mom. What a bunch of sissies you furries are. Just smell this rain – it’s delicious.

Delicious! My woggley whiskers – now she’s really losing it. Come inside immediately woman and close that balcony door.

She hangs over the railing and catches some raindrops. Then a bolt of lightning cracks nearby and the ferocious growl of that mutt in the sky even makes mom jump.

Yah!

Dead Dog Blues

Recently our pooch passed.

Well – it would have been better had she passed all by herself but we had to make the decision for her. It haunts me still… in the dead of night… in the middle of the day – whenever.

My. Dog. Is. Dead.

Um yeah… know we did the right thing (and we had no choice) yet still feel ultra shitty and guilty too… and wonder who the hell were we to decided that it was time for our dog to die?

And she was not just any old dog.

She was Fudge – the dog with a blog – for eight freaking years that dog wrote her weekly blog (which also appeared in the Springs Advertiser) and entertained people around the world with her antics.

Everything she wrote about happened. Maybe some of the stuff got a little embellished here and there (a bit of canine licence you could say) but each and every single episode in the series of blogs happened.

Hundreds of them.

Seriously. Eight whole effing years that little doglet stayed glued to my side.

She smiled at me, bitched at me to play with her. Messed up my working routine when I was on a roll. Smooched me when I was feeling sad. Clawed me with her bear claw-paws, jumped on me, squished my feet, lay in the way and dished me unconditional love.

She knew her love was every bit reciprocated.

I understood what she was thinking… Hey mom! Get off your butt and let’s play ball! Or maybe…. Hullo – it’s dinner o’clock. Or sometimes just a fangy grin letting me know she was a happy little dog and loved her life.

I work from home – Fudgie was my constant companion.

She shed more than sixty trillion million hairs all over the house, our clothes, the beds… hell – we even found Fudge hair in rented cars in Cape Town when Fudges was in the kennels in Equestria.

The cleaning staff at the University of Pretoria rebuked Chris for bringing a dog into his office. He had a hard time explaining there had been no dog in his office.

My mom and daughters maintained that they knew Fudge had been around when they found her hair in their bras. Whether they came to visit in Pretoria or we all went to visit in the Cape.

Once I went to pitch a deal for writing “Sibo Fights Malaria” with a very elegant professor. He had this immaculate office with a round table that gleamed. Hauled out my Sibo books and plonked them on the table. The dude picked up the nano book and several little magical fibres of joy wafted down onto the table.

I inwardly cringed and nonchalantly swiped at them. They skittered across the polished surface – out of my reach.

Another time, without thinking I slipped off one of my pumps at a conference and joggled it around on my big toe…. then noticed that it had acquired a lovely (very obvious) furry lining between the sole and the side of the shoe.

Now there is this huge gaping hole in my hairless life.

I carefully open the door when I come in from shopping… Fudge would always wait by the door for me to come home… but there is no Fudge. No matter who else was left in the house, when I went out, Fudgie mooched by the door waiting…

For me.

Mom. The person who fed her, talked crap to her, foofled with her ears, scratched her chin. Let her lick my plate, my face, my ear. Dished her snacks. Stuck up for her when she demolished things she was not supposed to. Fed her pills. Carried her up and down the stairs when she could no longer manage them herself. Held her paw when she had fits, wiped up widdles, scooped her poop, wept when she was sick. Hated going away on holiday if it involved her having to go to the kennels and got pissed off with anybody who called her Pudgy Fudgie. She was a big dog on short legs. Oh, okay – she was a tad on the robust side too – specially after she got sick.

I used to go onto the grass to hula hoop and Fudges would charge out and deposit her ball at my feet. My play time was her play time. I had to learn to play ball and hula at the same time without dropping the hoop.

I carefully get out of bed at night (her baskie lived next to my side) but the basket is gone.

Her balls are scattered around the place… how she loved her balls. Waiting for Chris to get home from work each evening and play with her was a highlight. No matter how often Em or I chucked that ball – Chris did it better.

The neighbourhood kids loved her for her gentle nature.

The cats are confused. They look at me with question marks in their eyes… What did you do with our dog?

There is still dog-nose-art on the sliding door.

I see there is a thunderstorm forecast and shudder – only to realize that the mighty Thunderdog can no longer send her scuttling under the bed.

Often I am swamped by the realization that my doglet is no longer here. She’s not in another room. Or outside. It takes my breath away, stuffs up my chest and I want to howl and rage.

But mostly I just want her warm fuzzy body back to hug once more.

How I miss my furry friend… love you Fudges.

Back in 1978 at Helderberg College

Saturday mornings we were allowed to “sleep late”. This merely meant nobody checked up whether you were at breakfast or not and there was no roll call during morning worship because… there was no morning worship. This was all well and good – but shite – it was a long time to lunch if you missed breakfast.

Know this would sound really odd to my kids now – knowing that their mother quite frequently goes from supper to supper without eating – but back then – missing a meal was a major deal.

So… what we used to do was appropriate a few slices of brown bread and some cheese on the Friday after supper.

Maybe I should go back to the beginning for those who were not there… at Helderberg College – the kids in the dorms did the work. You had to do x amount hours of work per week. Now, upon reflection, it was slave labour – but after a year at Worcester in the Ladies Seminary – it was heaven.

The girls at Helderberg College did kitchen and laundry duty. To begin with I complained like a stuck pig. Not fair that the boys had the cool jobs – like herding cows and riding around on the truck around campus. I mean who wanted to wash up a gajillion dishes and iron crappy clothes for all the kids in the hostels. Talk about stereotyping.

Obviously I made enough noise because I was invited into the hallowed male world of truck riding… eeeergh… and they made me do garbage duty. Seriously gross – to this day – I hooch, heave and hold my nose when I have to swop black bags.

So we worked in the kitchen.

They had this cool dishwasher type thing – you stacked dirty plates on a rack and then hosed the hell out of them with a gun that shot serious bursts of water. Then they got shoved through a little house of piping hot water. Bit like a car wash really. Usually only matrics got that cool hosing-off job.

Racks of glasses, warm and steaming, had to be dried. I quite liked that – at least there was no grungy stuff involved. A select few were allowed into the cooler room – this was where the good stuff – like cheese – lurked.

Really can’t remember the specifics – but suffice to say – we had cheese and brown bread.

On a Saturday morning we’d make toasted cheese. Marlene had an iron, I had an iron. We’d heat them both up. Make a cheese sarmie and clamp it between the two hot irons. Truly, don’t think I have ever tasted anything quite so delicious since then.

Kettles were also the privilege of Matrics – we were in Standard 8 or 9 at that stage. So we’d heat up water in our steam irons – and make lukewarm coffee to swill our sarnies down with. Bliss.

Heaven help us if we’d forgotten to iron our clothes first.

Heads and Beds

(Dog’s Blog 429) As I mentioned the other day – I don’t like my box anymore.

Not sure why… maybe it’s too hot in there. Then again I didn’t like it on a cold night either – so that’s probably not really the reason.

But this proved to be a bit of a problem because mom did a good job of closing up my access to under the bed. Managed to get through that one time, but then she made a different plan and the second time I almost got stuck trying.

She hates it when I have those little tikky fits under the bed and crunch my head into the wood. Drives her demented!

I’m not fond of it either.

Plus it’s Thunderdog season. All my panting and performing when I am scared out of my furry knickers is not a pretty sight.

Heard mom and Alpha murmuring on the bed.

Hmmm….. said Alpha. Right then. Let’s do it.

Looked at mom… Do what?

Never you mind Fudges, she replied, you’ll see soon enough.

They took me for a little trot around the complex and then went off without me.

Came back later with odd stuff. There was a lot of activity and noise. Sawing noise… clacking noise… grinding noise.

Worse than that wretched vacuum cleaner.

Nobody offered to carry me up the stairs so I dragged my own self up and peered into our room.

My woggledy whiskers! Whatever are you doing? Put that bed back at once.

The bed was upside down and all unmade. Alpha and my boy Luan were hovering over it. Mom was smacking it with something. They had all gone completely crazy.

Fled to Luan’s room and checked out his bin to calm my shattered nerves. Sadly there was nothing interesting in it.

Much later the activity ceased and our house returned to normal. Alpha offered to take me upstairs for a look see.

See what? I looked around the place and noticed that my box was gone.

Hey… wait a minute… the boards that mom had stuck to the bed were gone too.

Whoorf hrooof! I prepared to slink under the bed. Chunky chop bones! I did not have to slink so much either.

Turns out they made the bed yet another block higher and put nice thick foam rubber under the base of the bed, so that when I tik and jerk and bump my head – it’s now nice and soft and squishy. Mom shoved my duvet under there as well.

Not too shabby!

Bella Bids Fudgie Farewell

(The final Dog’s Blog #432)

Was barking bored, snoozing outside in the sun because nobody was paying me any attention when I dimly heard a car in the distance.

Somebody’s coming… galloped to the gate and checked out the scenery.

Nothing! Just a couple of moo-dy old cows glaring balefully at me. Then suddenly there was a flurry of activity. People arrived and started unpacking stuff.

Sniffed them… hmmm… never met these humans before. Nope… not even the little one.

Heard another car pull up and bounded back to the gate. Oooh… these are familiar smells… they belong to my friend Fudge.

Mom, Alpha and Grandma!

We all smooched. Then Fudge appeared.

Shame… she looks a bit unsteady on her feet. Maybe the long trip has been a bit much for her. Driving in the car makes me feel horrible too.

We did the little sniffy backside welcome dance thing but Fudge was not as interested as she usually is.

Turned out the little person’s name is also Bella. Was quite confusing, every time someone called “Bella” I obediently presented my own furry butt, only to be told… “Not you dog Bella. Human Bella”.

Later on that evening I accompanied all the humans down to the tennis club. Sadly, there was a nasty little snack there that tried to pick a fight with me and I ended up being sent home. No fair!

Fudge got to stay. She chose a smart spot under the braai and licked up all the chop fat that landed on the floor. Lucky for me Fudge’s mom is a softie and she snuck me a whole chop when nobody was looking.

I’m allowed to sleep inside now – although my humans have gone off to Australia for a bit so I’m still outside. Hope they’ll be back soon – it’s a tad lonely without them.

Slept with Grandma in my humans’ room. Fudge slept next to her mom in their room. Poor thing, she keeps having these weird hic-type things. Don’t think she is feeling very good.

Next day Alpha, Mom and I took the little person for a walk down to the river. Felt bad because Fudgie stayed home with the others – but I never miss a chance to have a swim. Went leaping and flying as soon as I spotted the water.

Oooh! A dip in the river is just soooo delightful. Paddled around chasing my own tail for a bit. Then shook some water on the little person – come on – play with me!

Seems she is not as keen on the water as I am.

The following morning my poor friend Fudge looked even worse. Her mom and Alpha looked really miserable too.

Next thing I knew they all went off in their car. Oi! Hullo! You’ve just arrived. You can’t leave now.

They came back much later, but sneakily parked the car by the orchard. They were both weeping and snicking. I could not see Fudge anywhere. Then they hefted out her duvet and foofled around. Mom came inside the fence and looked around for Fudge’s ball. She took it back to the orchard.

Something was terribly wrong.

I watched whilst they spent a long time in the orchard. Then they got back into the car and drove around to the proper parking place. I dashed up to the gate.

Mom buried her face in my fur… Oh Bella, she wept… my Fudgie is gone.

Alpha’s face was all wet too.

Gave her hand a lick – no worries – I’ll look after you.

I did not leave her side for the next few days.

Note from Mom:

As you may have read, our darling Fudgie started suffering from epileptic fits in February 2016. Eventually we were advised to put her on meds (Pexion) which she’d been on for about 4 months. In the beginning the pills worked well – but in the last few weeks they had become less effective. Fudge had had a couple of full-on fits in the space of a week and had taken to jerking and tikking a fair amount more than before (hence the foam rubber under the bed). Then she’d have days when she was just fine.

She travelled peacefully to the farm in the Eastern Cape. We were all looking forward to no stairs to worry about and a huge garden, river and veld to play in – albeit it very downscaled playing to what we were used to do.

It was very windy for the first few days and this bothered Fudge greatly (there is no wind in Pretoria!!!). She started flatly refusing to take her pills. No matter what delicious morsel I stashed them – she was not interested. Her condition got worse without them and I had to resort to forcing them down her throat. Something I had never had to do before – not even last year when she was so sick with IMHA and had to take over a thousand pills. She also started drinking copious amount of water and we feared her kidneys might be packing in. She was not sleeping much and every time her eyes closed she would jerk awake. I spent large chunks of the nights sitting on the floor gently stroking her and holding her paw but she was clearly uncomfortable and distressed.

In two days her quality of life severely diminished right before our very eyes and we could see that she was suffering – stoically – in good old Fudgie fashion. This time it did not look as though she was going to rally around as she had done so often before and be okay again.

It was the 23rd of the December and we were out in the boondocks – halfway between Barkley East and Rhodes. There are no vets on tap like there are in the city.

We had to make a tremendously difficult and heartbreaking decision. One that was best for our precious doglet.

Kerneels, Chris’s brother kindly helped us to locate a vet in Aliwal North who was willing to assist. He mentioned that he had to go out – if we missed him we should just wait. We drove for 2 hours and were incredibly lucky to catch the vet just as he was leaving. He agreed that there was no need to cause extra stress and move Fudgie from her comfy spot on the back seat, all snuggled on her pillow and duvet.

He was gentle and quick.

Our hearts shattered into thousands of pieces as we held her whilst she breathed her last.

We took her back home to the farm and buried her in the orchard, next to little Zorro (my mom-in-law’s Pekinese) who had gone to the Rainbow Ridge a month or so earlier.

Fudge, the big-hearted dog with the blog, now has the most fabulous resting place. Her life was a ball.

Thank you all for loving her almost as much as I did.

Three lovely rays of sunshine

This is a tribute to three lovely rays of sunshine. Strong women who totally brightened up my life, and many others, over the years in various ways. They have all succumbed to the bastardly C – but not without a fight.

Somehow the topic of food connects these three lives that were not really connected at all – except through me.

Joansie and Kirstie were probably diagnosed around about the same time – a good few years ago now. You know how Facebook is – there are always things circulating about what to eat or not to eat; what’s good for you; the most miraculous veggie that cures everything; interesting herbs and all that shite. I’d see stuff and point it out to Joan, then email the same info off to Kirstie, who was not a FB fan. Joan would post funny chemo videos and I’d pass along those links to Kirstie for a laugh. I’d only known Kirstie for a couple of years and sometimes I think she thought I was a tad bonkers but she appreciated the fact that she could talk about her illness around me, and not pretend that she was fine.

One is always a bit reticent when a friend is sick – like really sick – do you pussy foot around the topic or do you just come out with IT.

Once Joan had been diagnosed she immediately made a FB group and regularly updated a select group of her friends. This made talking about IT easier. She was always so cheerful and upbeat. She recounted horrendous episodes in a funny way that had a person sort of laughing and crying at the same time. I so admired her take on life.

She’d often post pics of her hospital food – saying how delicious it was. Carefully describing the globs of stuff on the plate. But if I close my eyes the first image I get of Joansie is when we were at Helderberg College way waaaay back in 1979. We were in the dorm together – she was a year or so younger than me so whilst we were not really friends – the dorm was sort of family. Sheesh! She was always Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes. Neat and tidy, with a shiny face and her trademark sparkly cheerful personality. We hooked up again 30 years later in 2009 on FB. Her upbeat personality had not changed one iota. We all held her hand – virtually – commented on wig choices and then celebrated when Joansie beat the bastardly C the first time.

Kirstie embraced a really healthy way of eating after she was first diagnosed – she cut out red meat and alcohol and dived into the fresh fruit and veggie regime. It worked for her.

For a while…

Then the tumours came back with a vengeance. We went out for lunch in 2014 – no rabbit food shite that time – Kirstie was telling me that they had discovered the Spur had a special – two burgers for the price of one. She and her family had tootled off and taken advantage of the deal. I agreed that it was great value for money – only paying for two people. Hell no! She replied with a giggle – we ate two burgers each. We fell around the table laughing.

Another time we went for lunch in 2015 was also funny – although it wasn’t really funny. By that stage Kirstie was very weak and we got her a wheelchair to conserve energy. I wheeled her into the restaurant and everybody leapt to attention and started making space for us to sit down. No thanks – chirped Kirstie – I want to sit upstairs. She proceeded to climb out of the chair and made her way slowly up the stairs. The look on the faces of the other patrons was hysterical.

When I dropped her off at home later I wondered if I would ever see her again. I didn’t.

During the course of our lunch, we somehow got onto the topic of birds. Kirstie told me how she loved little birds and one day she wanted an aviary. A few weeks after she died, I was sitting at my desk, feeling really miserable when a little sparrow type birdie landed on the window sill, pecked at the window until I looked at it. It chirped away with its little head on one side and stayed there for a good few minutes, chatting to me. Suddenly I felt better – like Kirstie had come back to say I’m okay – don’t be sad.

We now call all the little birds in the garden “Kirsties” and make sure there is food for them.

My third friend, Anisabel, was the first to die. She had been to visit us on her way back from England and was looking really skinny. Great, but skinny. So skinny that I passed on a pair of my jeans and they fitted her with room to spare. Unheard of because she had always been considerably larger than me. We just assumed she’d been living a bit frugally overseas, had been walking a lot and had lost weight. Upon reflection, she was tired too – but again – I put that down to jet lag. She was so looking forward to starting her new life in the boondocks on the Garden Route – finally having a bit of money to start her own business. We were talking about making a recipe book “Surviving on a shoestring!”

Anisabel was a great cook. She made really delicious food and iced cakes like an angel. We’d been friends for ever. My children looked upon her as a family member, even though we were not actually related. She made wedding, fiftieth, eightieth and many fancy kids cakes for us. She loved reading as much as I do and we came upon a cheapskate method of gifting – we’d buy second hand books – often read them first and then pass them over. Worked a treat because you could then afford to buy three or four books instead of only one.

While she was visiting that last time, she bought a tub of Liquorice Allsorts at Woolies. She then proceeded to demolish most of them. I was vastly amused – I love the stuff too – but so many! Eish! When she left there were a few rattling around in the bottom of the tub. Here, she said. You finish these.

That same tub is now filled with breadcrumbs in the freezer and every time I use them – I think of Anisabel. She also tossed a peg at me whilst she was packing to leave. It must have been stuck on one of her garments and traveled from England with her. Here, she said. Have a peg. It was nice solid peg, so I clipped it onto the washing powder bag – never realising that I would in fact be having frequent chats to that same peg every time I do the laundry!

She was diagnosed with the bastardly C in December and given three months. No prolonged battle for her. She quickly made her peace with the world and cheerfully lived out those last few months – making jokes about how they would be able to use her for a lawn sprinkler because she’d been stuck with a needle so many times. She did not even reach the target of three months.

Anisabel passed in February 2015 and Kirstie in September of that same terrible year.

I remember Chris had a visiting professor from Jordaan and we’d been taking her around on Heritage Day – showing her all the cool stuff we have in Gauteng. We’d just left Maropeng and I was sneakily checking FB on my cell phone in the car. Went cold as I read a post from Joansie saying that the bastardly C was back. It was like a kick in the gut and to my shame (because this haunts me horribly) being still raw from Kirstie, I messaged her back something along the lines that I had had it with cancer – claiming two friends of mine in one year and she better bloody well be okay. She replied that she hoped she did not make it three! It was not in the same year, but sadly, oh so sadly – she was the third.

Farewell my sunshine-flavoured ladies. You are gone… but not really.

Eat your greens… you dangerous little dude!

Clearly this is a very healthy little dude – he’s having greens for lunch.

Shame though… the green beetle is no longer quite so healthy. Was totally amazed to see the lovely patterns on this little beastie when I zoomed in (after I had taken the pic – several actually – took a while to get a nice clear shot because the spider was most intent on making damn sure his dinner did not get away).

The spider has a very clear orange spot on his belly – but was not a very accommodating model and scurried under the chair with his snack before I could get a decent shot.

Know I’m always posting pics of spiders and other crazy beasties… did I ever mention that I am poop scared of spiders? (Not these pisswilly little ones – the big hairy ones that jump….)Aaaarggghhhh!!! I just googled…. I AM SCARED OF THIS PISSWILLY LITTLE ONE AFTER ALL

According to Seamus’s Photo Blog

“Button Spiders or Latrodectus Geometricus are some of the most dangerous spiders of Southern Africa. They have neurotoxic venom which affects the heart as well as the respiratory system. It is a very painful bite and one will usually see symptoms within half an hour. At the site of the bite will be red and swollen and often one will get a rash. Strangely enough no deaths have yet been recorded in South Africa.”

Many Happy Returns

I am quite sure my father-in-law will kill me for blogging this but it is really too funny not to share…

They had just returned from visiting their daughter in Australia for three months, and would be stopping off in Gauteng for a couple of days before heading back to the farm in the Eastern Cape. Their plane arrived at 04h30 on Monday morning – Chris and I misjudged the length of time that it takes for elderly people to clear customs (very quick) and the poor parentals had to wait for us. They are not exactly spring chickens any longer – having 155 years between them.

The rest of Monday was slow. Naps were had. Not much happened. They realized, now that they were back in South Africa, they were simply busting to get home to the farm. Elise was badly missing her lovely dog Bella too. They decided to leave a day earlier than planned.

The original plan was to sleep two nights with us and one with relatives in Germiston. The new plan involved only one night with us to speed up the process of going home. We understood completely.

Tuesday arrived. The rellies were only going to be home after 16h00. Anybody who has driven between Pretoria and Johannesburg in rush hour knows that our traffic is beyond ghastly on occasions. Lucien and Elise’s plan was to leave our house at 14h45. They would deal with the traffic but hopefully would miss much of it.

Around 13h30 Lucien was sorting out his cell phone to get his navigator up when he realized that the cell battery was on its last legs. Panic stations ensued for a few moments because he knew there was no ways he’d be able to find his way without it.

I said he was welcome to borrow my Garmin – seeing as we all now have navigators on our cell phones it is no longer worth its weight in gold like it used to be. Lucien was not keen because he knew it would be months before we could reclaim it.

Luckily new cell phones have super quick chargers and these days they all fit. Their old cell phone charged quickly on my charger and all was well.

Heavy suitcases were lugged downstairs and Luan helped his grandfather pack the car. On the way out Lucien scooped up assorted bits and pieces. Luckily Luan was helping to stash them in the car and discovered (to his outrage) that his backpack full of new books for varsity was about to illegally venture off to regions unknown.

Amid much giggling and laughter he reclaimed his backpack. Eventually Lucien and Elise managed to leave the complex around 15h00.

My sister from the USA was arriving the following day so I scooped up all the linen to wash. Looked around for the towels… nowhere to be found… Luan confessed to packing them into the car. No worries – I’d get those later.

Emma had run out of her dastardly cigarettes so we jumped into the car and were on the way to the shop when my cell phone rang. It was Lucien. The floozie on the navigator was completely crazy, was taking him the wrong way and kept cutting out. Could he please borrow the Garmin after all? (Did I mention that Lucien can get a bit irate at times?)

Whilst we were speaking I noticed that we had both arrived at the same circle – they were coming from a totally wrong direction. The Garmin was indeed needed. They followed me to the shop but again disappeared in the wrong direction. We finally met up at home a bit later. (And yes – Luan hauled the towels out of the car.)

The Garmin was flat – needed to be plugged into the car lighter before I could programme in the address. This I did – reshuffling cell phones in the process. Meanwhile… our home phone rang and rang – my sister’s number showed up but I missed the call.

By now it was 15h20 and the traffic is hotting up.

Eventually everything was sorted. It was decided that Elise would rather drive and Lucien would navigate. The Garmin was stuck to the window so it would be able to see all the satellites and not cut out. The Garmin floozie knows where she is going – hopefully.

All was well. Once again we waved them good bye and Luan went off to open the complex gate for them.

I decided to send my sister an sms, confirming that I would collect her from the airport the next day. Opened my phone and was confused to find it looked completely different. Turned out the cell phone in my hand belonged to Elise.

I flew out of the house yelling No No No and bumped into Luan returning from the gate – he took off at lightning speed to try and stop them. Luckily they had two cell phones and we could still call one of them.

Many happy returns… they came back to fetch the phone.

The poor parentals then had a horrible drive to Germiston in full-on rush hour traffic. They did reach their destination safely.

Eventually!

Old School Beauties and Bloody Beasts!

Getting old and having to deal with ever changing technology really is a bit of a bitch!

My aunt is a spring chicken aged 89 and has a laptop which she refers to as “The Beast”. She has come to loathe her computer because it gives her more trouble than it is worth, according to her anyway. This is mainly because it somehow does not always allow her to send emails, despite the fact that she has a monthly internet contract. I’m sure it’s just a setting or something, but sadly we are not close enough to help.

We were having a chat on the phone the other day and she was telling me that she had been so delighted to discover via via via… that there was a lady in the church community who gave computer lessons. She had been planning on getting hold of said lady to empower her to deal more easily with The Beast.

Somehow this conversation came up with one of her friends a few days later and my aunt mentioned the clever computer church lady.

“Oh no,” her friend replied, “Mrs So and So died a while ago!”

My lovely aunt bellowed out laughing and said, “You know Gin, I was so disappointed.” (I think she said disappointed but it might just have been disgusted.”)

Then she let out another hoot and said, “I know that sounds terrible when the poor lady has died – but I was SO LOOKING FORWARD TO HAVING THOSE LESSONS!”

Her sister (my mom), on the other hand, is only 83. She too has a lap top which is often referred to as “that bloody computer” and she does weird things – like falling asleep on it and pressing buttons inadvertently (which she vehemently denies) that in turn makes whatever she was working on (usually email or Facebook) disappear.

Sometimes Grey Cat is the culprit, having gone for a stroll on the keyboard when mom was not looking. She gets very miffed when this happens and of course blames that bloody computer. Luckily for her, my lovely husband has installed team viewer on both her and his laptops, and can mostly fix her snafus in Cape Town whilst sitting comfortably in Pretoria.

That has its own specific brand of snag sometimes because Mom still sneakily tries to do things on her side when Chris has specifically told her to go and make a cup of tea. When confronted, she denied it at first and then confessed that she had gotten caught up reading a bit of one of the emails and wanted to see more – hilarious! We could actually see the mouse moving from her side.

Then Mom gets further miffed when her Gmail keeps changing – it doesn’t really – I think she lands up on different tool bars, which can be confusing. I don’t use Gmail much so can’t always long-distance help her – which irritates the hell out of her when she’s trying to find emails that have gone AWOL. I keep saying that she should first type stuff in a .doc file, then copy and paste it into the body of the email. That way she’d always have it… but then sometimes she hits delete instead of copy… or instead of paste – gets in a flap and loses it anyway.

Let’s not even go down the printer route – those bastardly expensive cartridges keep drying out because she does not use it that often and then it does not work when she needs it to. We also managed to lose a printer cable when we moved but the jury is out on whose fault that is.

My father-in-law, the babe of the trio at a mere 81 (yes, the same one of the “Many Happy Returns” fame) is indeed quite computer literate. His major problem is that he is beyond impatient and the laggardly internet connection on the farm drives him demented. He sometimes tries to do innovative things that do not always have the desired outcome. Even my lovely husband’s unending patience gets somewhat frazzled on these occasions.

At the end of the day I have the upmost respect for all senior citizens who are tackling this ever changing technology in the first place. With Skype, Facebook, email etc it is such a fabulously easy way of keeping in touch – especially in this day and age where families are so spread out around the world.

Some patient soul would make a fortune if they went around helping old folk keep in touch with their loved ones… and their bloody beasts.

PS – The cat in the pic above is obviously not grey cat – it’s LooseyFur – our little red devil!