Ginny – Page 2

Ode to Emma – her 21st (5th August 2011)

I wrote this blog for Emma (aka Igz) for her 21st birthday – this year she will be 28! It is an account of the day she was born. Reason I am posting it here again is because (a) blog.com where I originally posted it has long since died and (b) it was the last time I was in hospital for myself. Let’s face it – I went to hospital and came out with exciting new stuff (little did I know quite how exciting that stuff would be – lol)… tomorrow will be a bit different.

How it all began – hmmm…. you probably wouldn’t want to know those nitty gritty details so let’s skip along to the day you were born 5th August 1990.

I woke up. Erk. Had a fat whinge to myself that my tum was so full of baby there was no space left for me. Decided to rearrange the piano a bit. A little shove to the left. Nope. That did not look great – put it back where it was in the first place.

Your dad sold cars. Thank goodness he also bought cars. Three days before you were born we had a beach buggy with no roof. It was the middle of winter. He’d put Markie in charge of looking after me during the day when he went off somewhere and was not readily available around the corner to dash me off to hospital. I said I’d rather knuip, thanks very much.

It was a Saturday. There was a car to be seen. I said I’d go with him. Was a bit worried I might have started something by moving the piano. (The same piano had done a pretty good job with Lauren 10 years earlier.) Plus we were being hounded by bastardly estate agents. Were renting the house in Myburgh Street with an option to buy, but the owner of the house decided he wanted to sell then, right then. We didn’t really have the money to buy it right then, so I was busy sabotaging all the prospective buyers. Being a pregnant knitting needle (that wretched Faithy’s description, when she was not calling me a pregnant grasshopper) I managed to get away with all sorts of beastly hormonal crap. Think they were a tad terrified of me.

So we went off to Milnerton and checked out the car. Uneventful.

Perhaps I should mention here that I was only eight months preggy. Was not exactly time for you to arrive yet.

In all honesty, can’t much remember what happened for the next few hours, but I do know that some dude was boxing that night at Sun City and your dad thought he was tops. Markie was coming over and they were going to watch the match. Then we were having a braai.

I sat on the stoep – had a nice relaxing brandy and soda (sorry people – yes I had the odd drink when I was preggy – so shoot me) and made fire whilst they watched. Big fire. The match didn’t last long – two rounds I think. Can remember that we had ribs. They smelled delicious and there was still no space in my tum.

Went to bed. Woke up around midnight with cramps. Bugger. Should not have eaten anything at all. Was very tired. Tried to go back to sleep.

Wait a bit – these are odd cramps.

Nah… can’t do this now.

Tried to go back to sleep.

Sighed… oh crap. Baby time!

Poked your father in the ribs. Oi! Wake up. Baby’s coming! He leapt up and dashed off to wake Lauren.

Lolla thought she was late for school and promptly climbed into her uniform. We only noticed that later – on our way to drop her off at Gran’s house. Lucky we had a car with a roof by then. Was a chilly early middle of the winter morning.

Of course, we’d never been to HH hospital before so we went to the wrong entrance. This dude sat at reception. Not sure his lift went all the way to the top floor. He totally failed to see any urgency in the situation.

Started filling out a form… uh duh name? Address? I kept doubling over with contractions. Your dad and I could not stop giggling. Eventually he gave up and said we could fill it in later.

We had about two miles of corridors to sneak down to the maternity ward. Every few steps I’d stop, grunt, top it off with some stifled giggles and we’d carry on sneaking.

They slapped me into a bed, did their measuring to see how dilated I was and said oh oh – better call your doctor.

Par for the course, the bastard was out.

So they tried somebody else who was standing in for him. Hmmm… unavailable too. (Remember kiddo – there were no cell phones 21 years ago.) Could hear the nurses mumbling in the doorway, getting a little worried. I piped up between ever increasing contractions – just get any friggin’ doctor wouldcha!

In the mean time, your father, who knows half of the Helderberg basin, was wandering around the maternity ward chatting. Of course he’d bumped into an old friend of his who’d eaten something nasty and had food poisoning. They were worried about the baby so she was waiting to have a C-section.

The pain was getting quite interesting by this time. Could manage it if I lay on my side and your dad rubbed my back – hard. The nurse came along and put a stop to that. Apparently you were in a bit of distress – I should lie on my back instead.

Not surprising – really had gotten to the stage where I was knuiping, waiting for the wretched doctor.

They hauled the resident dude out of bed – luckily he lives just across the road – and he came skidding into the operating room, literally just in time to catch you. Your dad, who had been quite a star whilst I pushed and grunted, took one look at his little blue smurfie and promptly keeled over in a dead faint. On his way down he knocked over the stool – kadoef – making one hell of a noise in the relatively silent hospital.

Oh shit! Thought I – he’s died.

Promptly tried to get off the bed to check him out. Many hands held me down. A nurse took over and dealt with the last gory bits, whilst the doctor checked your dad was still alive. Not really dead after all, merely a bit overwhelmed. A lot overwhelmed actually. He came round a while later and sheepishly sloped off with the nurse to get a drink of water.

By this time it was around threeish. They put me in a clean bed – I fell into an exhausted achy slumber. Your dad went home to catch a few hours sleep. He was back by eight the next morning. At ten the doctor (the one I’d never seen in my life before up to a few hours ago) pitched up to see us.

We were pronounced fine.

That’s great, I said… then I can go home! The nurse stood smugly in the doorway. She’d been telling me how I’d have to stay at least a day or so. Stressed the hell out of me. Think he read the fire flashing in my eyes and erred on the side of safety – his safety. He let us go.

We went home. You were very very tiny. I climbed into my own bed and snuggled you on my chest under the duvet. A thousand people came to meet you.

On Monday morning that fuckwitty estate agent called up bright and early wanting to bring prospective clients around to view the house.

See! She said. You’re still at home – you have not had your baby yet!

Hah! I retorted. I’m home yes, but I’ve had my baby!

Flirting with Cancer

Funny how life changes in the blink of an eye. Three weeks ago I was a bit neurotic about going to the dermatologist to check out a mole. This Friday I go for surgery…

Part I – Eating the Frog

A few years ago my thyroid blew. This meant that I was on chronic meds and had to go see the GP every 6 months to get my prescription renewed. The first time she saw my arm she freaked… “That has to go!”

I was a tad nonplussed because she’d just told me that I had to have a pap smear at the same time. Seriously – this Dr thing sucks. So I pitched up on the designated day – ready to have the mole on my arm obliterated as well as being checked out for cervical cancer.

By my GP took a second look at my arm and declared that it did not actually look so bad – and decided we should rather just keep an eye on it. I did not get away with the pap smear thing so lightly – but all was good.

This continued for a couple of years – each year she’d check out the mole and go hmmmm…. Looks okay.

This year she looked at the mole and freaked. OMG!!! When did that get so large?

Whaaaaatttt – I replied. It’s not so big. Think a few freckles joined hands – that’s all. But she persisted. It must go.

So take it out – I re-joined.

But no… it turned out that said mole was a tad too large for my GP to comfortably remove. A dermatologist was the order of the day. Or we could let her hubby loose on my arm – he’s a surgeon. But I figured that it was stupid hacking out the whole thing if it was not necessary – rather check it out first.

My GP looked at me sadly and said that their tame dermatologist dude had just died. They would have to find me somebody else. They did too. I was informed that I was really lucky- everybody else was fully booked until August but I had a date booked for the 24th April – a couple of weeks away. I smiled and nodded gratefully, muttering under my breath that I would not mind waiting until August.

So I ate the frog. Let it be known that there are other froggies that have hopped away… the mammogram, the bone density… like I said – I am not fond of this stuff. Let sleeping dogs snooze and all that.

Fast forward to the 24^th April. I figured the dermatologist would refer to me to a surgeon if necessary. I was fully expecting to leave intact. I arrived at the place – breathless and a bit late because I had taken a few wrong turns – despite my lovely husband having shown me the way the previous Saturday.

The dermatologist was really awesome. Lovely, cool, calm and collected. She checked out my arm and recommended that we remove the middle section of the mark on my arm – the bit that had the dodgy looking mole. Swift and simple – she needle numbed the spot and removed it chop chop – deftly stitching it up thereafter. I was beyond impressed.

She also had fabulous art work on her walls that I, without my glasses, fondly imagined looked like a fairy tale tree. Turned out it was actually a picture of a follicle.

Dr Carpenter (hahahah – my lovely husband pointed out the irony of this later) would send the bit of flesh off to be analysed and would call me if there was anything to worry about. Because there were a spate of public holidays approaching – she’d probably only get the results in just over a week. I was to have my 3 little stitches out in two weeks. If she had nothing to report I would get my results when I had them out.

D-Day arrived and I approached the day with butterflies fluttering around my tum. But no ominous calls were received, despite the fact I eyed out my phone carefully. No calls the next day. Nor the next… Then it was weekend. On Monday I noticed that I missed a call from the dermatologists. Truly – I did not give it a second thought. They were calling to remind me about my appointment for the next day to have my stitches removed. I did not even bother to return the call.

Shit gets real – time to face the music.

After lunch on Monday Dr Carpenter called and told me that the news was not that fabulous. A melanoma. But I should not panic or anything because we had caught it early and it was not deep. However – protocol demanded that a surgeon remove more of the said spot.

Feh! I brooded on the news for a couple of hours and then decided I needed to share. My lovely husband came dashing home. Was a bit of a blow to say the least. I had become complacent because I had not heard from Dr C in the designated time. So I assumed all was well.

Tootled off the following day to get my stitches out.. Turned out the lady who was supposed to do this task was not at work that day and Dr C herself took them out. Painless! She exclaimed that the scar she had given me was negligible… but sadly that was not going to last. She gave me letters for my GP and the potential surgeon.

I admit to procrastinating on the way to deliver those letters.

A few hours later my GP called me back – commiserating on the shitty outcome. We agreed that she would get her receptionist to make an appointment with her husband, the surgeon for me. But only after the 10^th – we had a fancy awards ceremony for Chris on that day. I needed to be whole. Also mentioned in passing that the dermatologist had said it would not be a big deal – could probably be done with local anaesthetic.

My GP laughed uproariously. No, probably not, she said. There are lymph nodes involved and centimetres that need to be removed.

My spirits plummeted.

Said appointment was duly made for the 11^th May at 09h30. We got there – a lot of minutes early. I filled out the form. Wrongly.

Chris gently removed the clipboard from my shaking hands and filled it out correctly.

The receptionist or whatever you call that person was jabbering on the phone. She kept saying “My doctor this, my doctor that…”

I admit – my evil twin sister emerged and I mimicked her irritating voice saying “My doctor, my doctor… I’ve also got a doctor… but he’s not a proper doctor.”

Chris cringed. I waited expectantly for a laugh… nothing. Not a peep. Stony silence. Ooopsie.

So right then and there I shot my own self in the foot. (Aaahhhhh – say those of you who might have read my Facebook posts from the past two days. No wonder her op got so screwed up! Never mess with the receptionist.)

The Dr emerged and ushered me into his room.

What can I do for you? he politely inquired? I was completely thrown. WTF? He was supposed to have gotten all the grizzly details from my GP – his very own wife. They had told me they’d already given them to him…

So I explained. Feeling like a bit of a tit – because said dodgy spot had now been removed, the stitches had healed really well and it just looked like a bit as though I’d scratched myself.

He eyed the mark out suspiciously. When did all this happen? Two and a half weeks ago was my reply.

Hmmm… he needed to see the histology report. He excused himself and went out of his room. My heart pounded a bit more.

He came back and did all the doctory thing like… tapping my tum (WTF?), listening to my innards, checking that I could swallow.

Then explained patiently how the whole thing worked. He even drew me a picture. It was like an ellipse – if the spot was so big – then 2cm would removed – but obviously they cannot close up a circle without a skin graft – so for every 2cm width – they need to cut 3 x that in length so they could yank it all together (my words- not his). But because he had not seen the histology report he did not know if it would be 2cm or 4cm… I told him that it was early stage, but he just stared at me. He’d wait and see.

That dastardly evil twin kept rearing her head and I cracked one joke after the other… about old arms… and yay for me – I was finally going to sample some nuclear medicine after working at iThemba LABS all those years…

Turns out the man has no sense of humour. Not a shred. Not a blip. I did not raise a single lip curl. Clearly he and his receptionist get on well.

He told me he operated Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

Let’s do it, I replied and chose the first available day.

His lovely lady handed me a form – in Afrikaans nogal – with all the descriptions and codes that we needed to go and pre-book into hospital for the following week. She had the last laugh because she gave us a wrong code which caused havoc and much to-ing and fro-ing.

Eventually I emailed her and got a terse little very unprofessional one-liner back in response.

“0311 should not be used.”

Chris later told me that she took a private phone call when she was supposed to be finding out what happened to the histology report. He was sitting listening and getting more and more pissed off with the length of time she took to get around to the simple little task of providing “my doctor” with the information he should have had before I ever saw him. Not sure what went down there but I sure as hell will ask my GP.

The date was set for the following Wednesday (16^th May). In addition to having my arm excavated, I would need to have the lymph nodes investigated – hence the nuclear meds – to check that the cancer has not relocated itself to other parts of my skanky bod!

The day before the op at 10h49 I get an SMS from the anaesthetic dudes which went like this… :

“Ur anaesthetics tomorrow code 1439×60 min(avg time)= R3981.06. Arrange with your m/aid for PMB auth Celliersstr. Narkose Dienste.”

I dutifully emailed this info off to the medical aid. Also tried to call but after waiting for 5 minutes (no really) I got chucked off the system each time.

Then I get a call from the lovely Dr’s receptionist – Due to “unforeseen circumstances” the operation needs to be postponed to Friday.

I freaked. I want to get this over with. ASAP! There was no apology, no niceness, no freaking eff all. Just would this work for me? I asked what bloody choice did I have? Will this work for me? She repeated with an edge to her voice.

Inquired what needed to be done to sort this out with the medical aid – she said she’d do it for me. Like it was a huge favour!

A few minutes later I get an email from the medical aid saying…

Thank you for the email. We kindly require the following clinical information regarding the lesions:

Size of the lesions, how long have they been there, are they changing in colour, texture or size, are they painful/sensitive, are they bleeding, which area of the body are lesions on.

Upon receipt of this information the request for authorisation will be referred to our medical advisor for review.

I zapped off a scathing letter – including some photos saying I hoped the medical adviser found that the lesion looked suitably cancerous, and that I was not in the habit of having myself chopped up for fun. Really – I was beyond pissed off. Copied Chris and he phoned to commiserate.

Still utterly bedonered the day drew to a close with nothing really resolved – except for the fact that the operation had been moved to Friday and I would be lumped with another freaking 3 nights of even less sleep than usual.

The next morning the lady from the medical aid phoned – turns out she thought this anaesthetist cost was going to be x 60 instead of figuring out it was the total cost for 60 minutes and she had called the Dr. to find out what exactly what procedures they were going to do.

The stupid blah blah fishpaste receptionist at the Dr said she did not know what they were talking about and instead of involving me in the conversation – the whole operation got postponed from Wednesday to Friday.

I know this does not seem a very long delay in the great scheme of things- but it’s shit enough finding out that you have a melanoma (even if it is an early stage one) and knowing that you have to have an operation – whereby your arm is going to undergo another cut that is going to take weeks to heal again… as well as biopsies on lymph glands to check that it has not spread without being jerked around by a shitty unhelpful receptionist.

She could have avoided the whole delay.

Note to self… NEVER EVER rip off a silly receptionist again.

Note to all receptionists… Don’t fuck with a person who writes.

Finish the Saga

Lucky knickers

Sometimes being the mom in this boomerang house of ours is not all that bad…

The other day Emma – aka Igz – asked if I had any scarves that I do not use.

Ummm… nope. I replied very quickly.

Since the big kids came to live with us – nothing, I repeat, NOTHING is safe anymore. Things get borne off to various parts of the house never to be seen again.

Aaahhhh come on mom – you used to have all those little ones that you NEVER use.

Begrudgingly got up to go and look. Had a plastic bag in my cupboard that I vaguely remember stuffing things into when we moved – things that I no longer wore or did not fit.

We emptied The Bag onto the bed… knickers of all varieties and a couple of saggy old bras. One or two new ones as well – of the boobtube variety that had sliced my body unattractively in half. I’d buried them in disgust rather than return them. Those were the days when my thyroid was busy attacking me and I had no idea – was just packing on weight and could not understand it.

We sifted through the stuff… not a single scarf.

She eyed the bras, What are you going to do with those?

I’d gone from too fat to too thin – so they were not likely to fit me now anyway…

What are you going to do with them? I enquired.

She’d use bits of them for other things… the underwire, the fastners and stuff. I tossed them onto the Em pile.

We ruffled through the heap and found some undies – never worns that I passed on to my skinny daughter, and some others that I had thought would never fit me again found their way back into my top drawer.

I spotted and pounced on my lucky knickers… green lacy ones that I had loved so much they had holes in the crotch in a very unsexy way. They became unlucky when I was wearing them and my suitcase went missing on a visit to the USA, only to be found 5 days into my 10 day trip.

Hot trip tip people – never pack HIS and HERS suitcases – mix your stuff up!

Hadn’t worn those knickers for years – not since I got divorced back in 2003 but could never bear to ditch them completely, so they had languished in a corner of my top drawer and then been relegated to The Bag.

Give those to me, said Em, snatching them out of my hand and stuffing them into her pocket.

Noooo… I started to howl – then realized I was being pathetic – she’d use the lace for some arty project. We shoveled the rest of the stuff into The Bag and stashed it back in the cupboard.

Early next morning, Chris and I were on our way to fetch my older daughter and her family from the Lanseria. They were coming from Cape Town and would be spending Easter with us, then going onto Sun City for a friend’s wedding. I encountered Em in the passage.

I blinked… What are you doing up and out of your flat so early?

Here. She said – grabbing my hand and filling it with something slinky. It’s your lucky bracelet.

She’d made me the most gorgeous charm bracelet – turning bits of lucky knicker lace into beads. This is the sort of thing my creative, quirky, tempremental, pain-in-the-ass Em does for a living. So if anybody wants something creatively recycled – give her a shout.

He makes it a better world

Have been wanting to write a blog about the Chris de Burgh concert ever since we went on the 2^nd of March – I mean FFS – The Man touched my hair!

No really he did. He was walking up the aisle – Lady in Red blaring and all these ladies in red kept leaping out and accosting him. I’d considered wearing something red but then thought that was beyond lame – so was secretly sniggering at all the dames in their fancy red dresses – thinking yah right – like that’s going to help. Hah! They knew something that I did not.

Let me back track a bit… Chris – my Chris that is – flipped open his cell phone one night just before Christmas, when we were parked off on our lovely bench outside, enjoying a glass of wine and trying to ignore the whine of those bastardly mozzies intent on chomping any exposed bits of flesh. He casually mentioned that he’d heard on Radio 702 on the way home that Chris de Burgh was coming to South Africa – did I want to go? Stupid question! Of course I wanted to go but what with us having boomerang kids, aged mothers and a new (old) house making us a tad financially challenged – no ways.

Let’s just have a look, he said… already looking.

Turned out that not only was there only going to be one concert in South Africa (at that stage –although he actually ended up having one in Cape Town too) but it was going to be right here in Pretoria at Menlyn Maine, Times Square – only ten minutes away from our house.

We looked at the prices… I havered – just long enough for Chris to pounce. Come on, he said – it can be your Christmas, anniversary and birthday pressies all wrapped in one. I slugged down half a glass, mentally pulled up my big girl broekies and happily acquiesced. We moved on to the seating plan… we had our pick of seats – within our price range that is. Chris has been known, on the odd occasion, to get the front and the back of a venue mixed up before so we did some very careful checking before finally settling on seats on the aisle – in the middle of the stage – Block AA; Row MM; No’s 49 & 50. (Oh shit shit and double shit – I just hauled the tickets out of the bakkie next to my desk to check the numbers and dropped one of them into the dregs of my cup of coffee – frantic mopping up operation.)

I casually mentioned at the dinner table just a few nights before the event, that we were going to a Chris de Burgh concert. My 84 year old mom gasped and nearly choked on her supper. (Yes – okay – I’d felt bad that only Chris and I were going and we were not taking my mom, who is also a huge fan, so had not mentioned it at the time we’d booked).

Luan looked up from his dinner and said… Chris de WHO?

I snorted in disgust – the youth of today!

Quite funny actually – a few days before the concert I’d gotten new glasses – twice because the first time the frame had broken and I’d just received them for the second time. Thought briefly to myself as we were leaving for the concert, better wear my old glasses in case I get caught in a stampede and they fall off and get stomped. We left early – as the official web page suggested we should do – in order to avoid any lengthy parking queue snafus. I scanned the occupants of the cars surrounding us and screeched out laughing – caught in a stampede my ass – everybody was as old as we are – or older.

I have found in life, that getting wildly excited about something usually leads to intense disappointment – a bit of a jaded, somewhat cynical, outlook I know, but it works for me. The less I expect – the more I tend to enjoy an event or situation.

After parking, we wandered around the place and acquainted ourselves with what was where. We checked into the Arena and I splurged on a programme. We ambled downstairs and found our door. Then backtracked and went into the casino for an excruciatingly disgusting bite to eat. One would think that all the restaurants in the place would be clued in as to when something exciting is happening in the arena and are, therefore, maybe somewhat prepared for an influx of people on a Friday night.

Not so.

Luckily we had ordered before the hordes arrived. We still waited 25 minutes and honestly, I think cold cardboard would have been warmer and more delicious. I’d name and shame but can’t remember what the place is called – friendly staff but shite food – that sushi / burger joint on the ground floor. Chris had a beer, but I stuck to soda water – no ways was I going to risk falling asleep in the concert. (You laugh – I’m famous for falling asleep in important things… The Lion King, an Elton John Concert…) We choked down our unappetizing, rather revolting burgers and headed for the arena.

By now it was around 19h00. The concert was due to start at 20h00. Originally the tickets had said 20h30 but during the previous weeks, we’d had email notifications that this had changed.

We were led to our seats.

Hmmmm… my Chris pondered… are these really the seats we booked?

By then the usher had already moved on and the seat numbers clearly aligned to the numbers on the tickets. Stress levels kicked in. Was my lovely husband going to make a scene and demand that the right seating position be allocated to our tickets? Luckily he had his own slight doubts and kept his ponderings to himself. Secretly I knew they probably had stuffed up – seats do not go from 50 – 1 and then start on the other side at 51 – but I hugged that sneaky knowledge to my chest and declared myself perfectly happy with our places.

A group of people trouped in. They walked up and down a bit. Clearly confused as all hell. Turned out their entire row was missing – no Q. Fortunately for the event organizers – their blocks of seating had a little break between the A and the AA blocks and so they quietly, quickly and incredibly efficiently inserted an entire row with the minimum of fuss. I briefly wondered if the people got a rebate because they were then sitting 9 rows further back.

I had been to a Chris de Burgh concert in a previous life… years ago at the Spier, close to Stellenbosch. I’d booked the tickets – second row from the front – but it turned out we were seated right on the side behind an enormous speaker and could see almost diddly squat without dislocating our necks. The seating plan was very misleading. I was beyond devastated because I’d had a choice of just about anywhere – could have sat a few rows back, right in the middle. It was winter and rather chilly in the amphitheater. After the show – which was seriously awesome (the Riding on a Rainbow tour in 1998) Chris de Burgh said He was going to have a shower – and never in his life before had he had to have a shower after a show… to warm up! As we filed out of the venue I spotted the glass that he had been swigging water from during the show. My hand snaked out to pilfer the glass and to my eternal disgust, my (now ex) husband slapped it down and frowned at me. Nice people did not steal mega performer’s drinking glasses. Who said I was a nice person?

So you can maybe understand why my Chris was feeling a bit dejected that we were once again stuck on the side of the stage and not in the middle where he had booked. But it did not matter in the least.

There was a buzz in the arena. Most of the people were obviously huge fans and greatly looking forward to the event. Having said that – I was totally gobsmacked that people had the audacity to arrive late (after 20h30 – yes – that’s when it finally did start) when the fabulous man himself was already on the stage – and still chattered loudly causing a huge disturbance getting to their seats in the middle of the row… prompting me to hiss shut the fuck up at them to my poor husband’s mortification. (Upon reflection – they had probably been waiting for their food!)

I was further outraged to notice (hard not to when they keep passing in your line of vision) that people came and went the entire performance, getting drinks and snacks from the stands outside. Seriously… is this the new norm at concerts? Can people not last for two hours without feeding their faces? How rude – to the artist and other people. I can remember when doors were locked and if you were late – tough shits – you missed the first act.

One of the things I love best about Chris de Burgh is that his songs have the most memorable lyrics. You can lose yourself in them. They are deep, meaningful and melodious. He cares about what is going on in the world and it shows in his music. “A Better World” – his current tour – consists of many songs that I had never heard before – and yet this did not diminish a single bit of enjoyment.

Yes – we all know that we adore it when well-loved songs are belted out at a concert and you can sing along – your heart swelling with joy and feeling like you want to bust because you are actually listening to the real person singing the song – LIVE!

He sang those too – lots of them.

So back to the beginning bit… Lady in Red was serenading from the speakers and Chris de Burgh left the stage and started bonding with his audience. He walked up the very same aisle we were sitting on, high-fiving people and shaking hands. Picking out ladies in red and giving hugs or twirling them in the aisle. Truly I am not one of those people that goes … pick me, pick me – but as he got level with my chair – I was about to stick my hand out, when an elderly lady dressed in red dashed down from the side seats and accosted my man… which meant he had his back to me. My wicked twin sister’s hand snaked out and coochied him in the ribs (yeah yeah – over his jacket – which was sooo soft but I could still feel bod underneath) as he walked past me. The few seconds it took had me dying of mortification at my absolute cheek of pawing the poor dude – and also wondering if one of his bouncers was going to rap my knuckles and toss me out the door.

The next moment I felt my head being coochied back.

Holyfuckeroni! Sat still as a statue and blushed beetroot – luckily it was darkish. Then stole a look at my lovely husband sitting next to me…

YES! He affirmed with a not altogether friendly look on his face. IT WAS HIM… and I nearly bliksem’d him!

I giggled wildly – my head would never be the same again.

The concert was beyond fabulous and exceeded every single expectation but that magic touch was totally the cherry on the top. Did not wash my hair for days. Now – more than a month later, can still conjure up that feeling – light, warm fingers on that particular bit of my head. Igz, my daughter, googled and came up with some waffle about if a famous person you really like touches you – a bit of their magic rubs off. It sure felt like it.

Chris de Burgh is the utmost professional. Don’t think they make artists that perform and entertain like that anymore. Those people who scoff and say… Who? That old dude… can just feck right off because he is still a magical artist to watch and listen too. I’ve been a fan for more than 40 years – ever since we used to listen to Spanish Train in our back room in Malawi. Can’t for one moment imagine that Justin Bieber fans will be saying the same in 40 years!

He entertained us on that stage for more than two hours, gave his band a break but he himself did not take one. He really looked like he appreciated his adoring fans (of which there were many of varied ages) and finally ended his concert with a rousing rendition of Patricia the Stripper – which nearly had my husband creeping under his seat because his usually well-behaved (okay – not always) wife was leaping around, bellowing out the words, along with everybody else.

The foreword of the programme reads like this: “Hello and welcome to the concert! The band and I are delighted to be here tonight to perform for you. We look forward to giving you the best show that we possibly can, with many of your favourite songs, and to you leaving the show happy! That’s my hope and our intention, now and always. Thank you for coming. Chris de Burgh”

He certainly succeeded. I felt genuinely happy (okay – I’m mostly a happy person anyway – but this was an extra bubbly feeling floating around my system) for the next three days.

Thank you Chris de Burgh for the lovely concert and for performing from the heart. And a million thanks to my own Chris – for being such a lovely husband.

P.S. You’ll be glad to note that vet-boy Luan (aged 22) now knows exactly who Chris de Burgh is and frequently plays his music whilst studying body bits and their ghastly Latin names on our bone-strewed dining room table!

Lentil Patties

I got this recipe from a very dear friend of mine, Anisabel, who is sadly no longer with us. I enjoyed many Saturday lunches in the Van Zyl’s home back when I was barely out of school and I dated her brother. Lentil patties were a staple in this vegetarian household and were always totally delicious.

I had not made them for ages and had to rack my brains for the recipe the other day.

I knew that potatoes, onions, carrots and garlic were involved, with some flour and eggs to bind them. I also knew for sure you did not soak the lentils like you do beans. After racking my brains some more I just decided to wash them.

Turned out I had forgotten to boil them.

That’s what you have to do – boil the freaking lentils for 45 minutes first.

The patties were unbelievably tasty but the lentils were like little rocks. Upon consulting Mr Google it was discovered that eating uncooked lentils was not recommended. We decided to try microwaving the patties to see if that helped at all. Indeed it did not – just made them worse.

So instead of having lentil patties and potato bake that night we just had potato bake.

The next day I was not taking any chances. I soaked the lentils for a couple of hours (upon the advice of a friend of mine – she said they do this when making biryani).

This is what I did after soaking…

(NB – I’m cooking for 6 people – the quantities below made around 20 patties – so down- or up-scale accordingly.)

Boiled half a packet of lentils for 45 minutes.

Added the following veggies to the boiled lentils:

2 potatoes – grated
3 small onions – chopped (but you could grate them if you want)
3 smallish carrots – grated
teaspoonful of smooshed garlic (the stuff you buy in a bakkie in the shop)
dash of soy sauce
salt & pepper

Mixed everything up and then added two eggs and enough flour to bind.

(At this point Luan came into the kitchen and looked at the uninviting mixture in horror. “That looks DISGUSTING” he grimaced. Luckily he had tried the failures the night before and knew they did not taste too shabby.)

I then plopped tablespoonfuls of the mixture into hot oil and fried the patties until they were nice and brown.

Chris and I scarfed a few down in the kitchen before supper. They were all crunchy and delicious.

But don’t do what I then did… kept them in a covered up bowl for 20 minutes until I had finished cooking the basil pasta – so they went all gross and soggy (although they still tasted good).

Probably best if you serve them immediately rather cooking.

Incidentally… Gemma thought the lentils were quite tasty too and demolished all the left over bits that Emma had refused because she said the texture was revolting. Happily they are not toxic for dogs. In fact some dog food suppliers use lentils as fillers instead of corn. But they did make her a bit farty though. Jack on the other hand refused to even sniff them.

Lentils are a part of the legume family. These small seed-like vegetables are nutrient dense and inexpensive, making them an ideal superfood. They are a fabulous source of molybdenum and folate. They’re also a great source of dietary fibre, manganese, copper and phosphorus. Not to mention being a good source of iron, protein, vitamin B1, B6, pantothenic acid, potassium and zinc.

The Kindness Book Project

The Kindness Book is in the final stages of editing – we have 18 authors (from various countries) who have contributed stories. It will be available very soon.

The cover was done by Kaisa Koponen who is the most fabulous artist. You can follow her on Instagram to see more of her gorgeous work.

Here’s the back….

If you want to know how this project started….

Greetings and salutations fellow writers!

You are receiving this email because you want to write children’s stories… right?

I am continually inspired and enthused by all the people wanting to write children’s stories.

Imagine a storybook filled with short stories from different cultures and races – all on the same topic… KINDNESS!
Kindness makes the world go around! We have to start instilling this value in our children while they are young, and what better way than stories.

Would you be interested in participating in such a project?

How it works:

Write a story – no more than 500 words (excluding the title and your name) on the topic of KINDNESS. In English please.
You can write in prose or rhyme – it can be funny or sad or poignant – but it needs to have the message of kindness – something that any child would listen to, enjoy and then maybe pay it forward.
If you can illustrate your story – go for it – but please stick to black and white sketch type illustrations, and only one or two.
If you can’t draw – no worries – paint your pictures with words.

I will then compile all the stories into a book that will be printed and you will be able to buy copies – to keep, to sell, to read to your kids at home, in class etc.

Cost of the book will be determined by how many pages and the final quantities ordered. Thankfully digital printing makes this possible.

The result – a melting pot of short stories for kids about kindness.

If you are interested in participating – please hit reply and let me know.

This is NOT meant to be some sort of spammy stuff – but an opportunity to have your story published in an anthology called “The Children’s Book of Kindness” – for us all to share and read.

Answers to some questions you might have…

Due date for story submissions – April 15^th 2018.
Topic is kindness – nothing else will be considered.
500 word limit – can be less but not more.
Prose, rhyme or poetry welcomed.
Specify what age you think your story appeals to and we’ll have sections.
Yes, I will edit any spelling errors or glaring mistakes.
No I will not change the flavour of your story or the way it is written. I will do nothing without your permission.
Yes – your name will be prominently displayed next to your story and we can have a list of authors, emails & websites (if you have one) at the back of the book if everybody agrees. This will allow somebody who likes your story / style of writing to contact you.
Yes – you will always be able to order more books (but the price might vary).
Yes, you can share this email with other children’s authors who might be interested.
Maybe we could have a competition amongst the illustrators in the group for the cover artwork?
No, we won’t get rich from this, but it will be fun and we’ll be sharing our work and having it read in places we never imagined. Who knows what will come from this.
If there are too many stories for one book – we’ll split it into two or three books – age targeted.
Yes, if this works we can do story books on other topics.

Anything else – feel free to ask directly.

……………………………………………………………………

You can stop reading here and start writing… but if you want to know a bit more about who am I and why I am doing this… carry on reading.

…………………………………………………………………….

My name is Ginny Stone and I am a published author. I’ve written 20 books – 17 of those have been published by reputable publishers. I’ve also gone the indie route and self-published 3 books.

People often say to me… I wish I could have my story published. I always tell them – don’t wish – just do it.

Problem is… many people dream of writing a story, having it published and becoming rich overnight.

Ain’t gonna happen!

I can tell you (and any of the published authors reading this will probably agree) that you don’t make lots of money writing children’s stories. My Sibo Series (14 different titles) are being read in schools and libraries all over the country. Same with the Sello series and yet I am still poor as a church mouse (financially that is – in other ways I am extremely rich!).

I know what you’re thinking… my writing is bad! But if you’ve read this far you might be just a little intrigued and feel free to go see for yourself:

The Sibo Series
The Dog’s Blog
Imaginaeries of Faerie Glen These projects all have FB pages too.

YES! I have made money but it is not really enough to live on.

Wrote a weekly blog in The Springs Advertiser for more than 8 years – from our SPCA dog’s point of view and am in the process of turning those blogs into books… however Indie books need to be marketed and that is my downfall (am working on this).

Currently write a weekly blog in the African Reporter from Sibo’s point of view on a variety of topics (runs as a real blog too).

Our latest book called “The Imaginaeries of Faerie Glen” is available as an eBook on Amazon and Smashwords, plus I’ve printed some copies. A genuine South African fairy story set in a nature reserve. I had great fun writing this in collaboration with my daughter, Igz, who also did the all illustrations.

I edited and produced a newsletter for the science centre community in Southern Africa for a number of years, as well as producing proceedings of conferences – so have experience in the graphic and editing fields. I also have access to a jazzy old pensioner whose command of the English language is awesome and flawless. (You could employ her services too.)

My main aim in life is to empower children with knowledge. I try to do this in any way I can. This is one of them.

Please do join in on this adventure!

Greatly looking forward to working with you.

Ginny

Dirt roads, spiders and heat stress

When I’m not writing books, keeping track of the science centres in South Africa or doing a bit of creative meddling, I develop and design board games.

I don’t even like playing games, but I’ve discovered it’s a great way to learn. It’s interactive, promotes team work, gets kids (and adults) to read and problem solve.

I’ve developed quite a few to date.

One of my more enjoyable projects was being asked to help create a game on the topic of thermal stress for mine workers. In South Africa we have many gold and platinum mines and they operate deep underground. Heat stress is a killer and it is covered by about half a page in the manuals. Our brief was to create something interesting and innovative.

The team consisted of 4 academics and my own very un-academic, irreverent, creative wacky self. The academics had the experience in mines and social work. I had experience in creating and developing games. Things did not always run smoothly.

Fast forward two years….

We’d done all the work, visited mines, soul searched, tested and eventually created a fabulous game that everybody loved.

Then it mouldered for ages whilst the Mine Health and Safety Council decided whether they wanted to actually manufacture and invest in copies of the game that we had all worked so hard on.

Out of the blue they decided they did – we all sprang into action.

A video explaining how the Iyashisa Board Game worked was produced. I had a fine time (not) reproducing the art work – having changed graphics programmes in the interim.

Eventually 1000 games were produced and were ready to roll out to mines in Gauteng, Limpopo, Mpumalanga and the Free State.

One of our team members had decided she no longer wanted to be involved in the project (I think I pissed her off) and another one was sadly undergoing cancer treatment – so it was mostly down to Nico and myself to do the roll out.

A trip was planned to Limpopo.

We’d had one successful day of driving all over the place – demonstrating how the game was played to mine workers and were on our second day. We were in Nico’s bakkie, with a trailer full of games… on our way from Polokwane to a mine in Penge.

Being new to the area we were using Nico’s floozie – his cell phone’s sat nav.

We gaily left the main road and tootled through a township area. The road became a tad less traveled.

The tar gave out to dirt. The dirt got narrower and narrower and petered out into something barely better than a pathway.

Nico and I looked at each other… were we still on the right track?

But he consulted his trusty sat nav and determined that we had not gone wrong.

By this time the road, if you can call it such a thing, was littered with humps and rocks. A few goats regarded us curiously from the side of the hill. I was immensely grateful that Nico is experienced in the art of 4×4’ing. I blocked the fact that dragging a trailer had not exactly featured in said experience before.

A large baboon appeared and sat on a rock watching at us.

We felt a bit like idiots, but the wet tracks on the road kept our spirits up and told us that a vehicle had ventured along the same path not too long before.

In any case, it was not possible to turn around, especially with the trailer, so our only option was to carry on.

The baboon kept us company along the way.

The scenery was magnificent – sweeping valleys of vegetation, rocky outcrops – all green and incredibly lush. Part of me was really enjoying the trip. The other part was stressing mightily that my cell phone had long since lost contact with the outside world and we actually had no clue where exactly we were.

We were traversing down a particularly steep and rocky incline when I suddenly spotted the most disgusting, revolting, spine-chilling sight.

I gasped and screeched – causing Nico to almost chuck us all over a mini-cliff. He ground to a halt giving me an exasperated look.

Wordessly I pointed…

A huge tree was completely encased in spider webs. I mean completely. Clearly visible were huge tufts of spiders – a ruler length apart.

The tree was literally crawling with ginormous spiders. The stuff nightmares are made of.

I hate spiders. Give me a fat rat any day but I freaking hate spiders!

Nico saw what I was looking at and did his own gasping thing.

To this day I am a little miffed that I did not have the courage to get out of that bakkie and take a photo, but our baboon guard was a little intimidating and frankly – no way in hell was I leaving the safety of the car.

We carried on and a few metres from the first tree we spotted another web covered tree encrusted with enormous spiders.

The road deteriorated even further.

My heart sank. Was I ever going to see my husband and my lovely Fudgie again? We crawled on… humping and bumping over rocky outcrops and dongas.

Eventually the road started getting a fraction better and we spotted some civilization in the distance. We breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps we were not going to be lost in the depths of lush Limpopo after all.

The guys at the mine in Penge were horrified and amazed that we had not only taken but survived the back road over the mountain that is seldom used. It had taken us more than two hours when, had we stayed on the main road; we would have reached our destination in a mere half an hour.

Irritatingly we discovered the Penge is an open caste mine and they were not even very interested in our game.

Our adventure was for nothing.

I found out later that the spiders were Orbital Web Spiders – but nobody I’ve spoken to has ever seen a tree like that themselves.

Toolkit for Teenagers and Twenty-Somethings

A few simple rules that will get you far in life.

Please and thank you will get you far. Seriously. They will.

If you receive a gift (it does not matter if you think it’s crappy) thank the person who gave it to you. This can be done in several ways:

Thank the person personally
Pick up the phone
Write a letter
Send an sms or whatsap
Send a message on Facebook
Leave a post on the person’s wall
NB – Generic messages on your Facebook wall do not count.

If you get into a car (like you are getting a lift or something) say “hullo” as you get in. Don’t wait until you’ve finished your text or whatever. It is not the other person’s duty to greet you first.

Put your fecking phone in your pocket or bag for the first five minutes. The world will not come crashing to a halt if you miss a couple of posts or texts.

Grunting does not count – you need to actually enunciate your words.

Be cheerful – it won’t kill you. God forbid but a smile might also be nice.

Ask the other people how they are. This will get you plenty of brownie points.

If you think you are cute and gorgeous – the world does not owe you one.

Even if you are cute and gorgeous – the world still does not owe you one.

Amazingly enough – you do not know everything. No! Really. You don’t.

Have some respect for those around you. Life is not all on your terms.

At a restaurant – sit up straight and put that fecking phone away. Pretend like you are a grownup and have a conversation in real life. Face to face.

Don’t drop your crap all over the house the minute you come home. Put it in your room or wherever.

Get off your ass and offer to help every now and then. No matter where you are.

Your parental agents do not owe you one, nor are they your slaves. Without them you would not be having this beautiful life experience. Be grateful.

If in doubt refer to Number 1 and put your fecking phone down.

Jack!

A few weeks ago, after having done our heavenly duties for the day, a bunch of us critters were lolling around spying on Mom. We like to check up on her and see what’s happening down on earth. We’d noticed that she spent a fair amount of time moping by the compost heap, chatting to the spot where Alpha had buried Ralph’s mortal remains.

Zed-Boy snickered and gave Ralph the nose.

Hah! So that’s what they thought of you eh! Compost.

Gave that meanie Basset Hound a slap with my tail… Oi you! Be nice! We’re in heaven now.

Ralph was about to point out that there were reminders of all the animals except Zed-Boy down by the compost heap, but I gave him the nose too. No need to point out the obvious.

Skunk ambled up in his shambley long-legged way and plopped down next to us on another bit of fluffy white cloud. We exchanged licks and slobbers. I’m rather partial to that Skunk. He’s a gentle old soul. Pity I never met him in real life, but then again, if he’d stuck around Mom and Alpha would never have come looking for me – so I guess things worked out how they were supposed to.

I’ve lined her up another cat! Skunk announced. One the same colour as Ralph and me!

Whaaat? Yowled Ralphie. So soon? She hasn’t finished being sad about me yet.

Gave Ralph a withering look. Really? We don’t want her to be sad. We like it better when she’s happy.

Ralph grumbled and mumbled a bit and Zed Boy smirked. Honestly, sometimes I think that dog should have gone down below to Old Nick instead of being a heavenly hound.

Let’s see it then – what’s it look like?

Skunk waved his paw in the direction of the Woolies parking lot. There.

Ralph nearly fell out of heaven laughing. That’s my replacement? He scoffed. That’s not a proper cat! That’s a cartoon creature.

Skunk looked a bit put out. The freckles on his nose crinkled up ever so slightly and his whiskers quivered. I sidled up closer and leaned on him a bit.

He grunted… oeff!

I feel so light and springy now I tend to forget that I’m still a bit of a pudgy Fudgie.

That’s a perfect kittycat Skunkers– he’ll fit in beautifully with that crazy family. Where did you find him?

Skunk admitted that he’d seen him lurking by the side of the road, all wet and bedraggled and had used his heavenly powers to entice the furball into the doggy parlour. He giggled a bit and confessed that he did not really imagine that Lulu, the parlour owner, would tidy him up as neatly as she did.

She’d taken a photo and put up a notice on their board outside with “Needs a good home”.

Ralph was still cackling and hooting – lying on his back with his manly wing-spurs flapping all over the place.

Skunk nudged me – Look… Mom’s checking out the pocket-Fudge’s paws.

Skunk always calls Gemma “the pocket-Fudge” because she’s brown and long but a quarter of the size of my own robust Fudginess.

We all held our breath to see what she would do next…

First she spoke to Alpha and he shook his head. Then she foofled around on her lap-top thingy. Tik tik tik.

Finally she loaded Gemma into the car and drove off – in the right direction.

Zed Boy was barking bored by this time and was trying to sit on Looseyfur, the little red devil.

Loosey just did a disappearing trick and poof! he appeared again next to Skunk. Zed looked around for somebody else to mess with but Slayer hissed and gave him the evil eye.

Mom and Gem walked straight into the parlour. She did not even look at the notice board. Skunk gulped. He closed his big brown eyes and concentrated hard.

She helped put Gemma into a cage and glanced up at the cartoon cat. Then she walked out and drove off. I looked at Skunk… Is this part of your plan?

He did not reply but continued concentrating intently.

A bit later mom came back. She was about to walk in the door but she backtracked and read the notice. She went inside. We all saw her waving her arms around and pointing.

Heads were nodded. Gemma came trotting out and mom took another look at that cat.

More heads were nodded. Skunk and I were about to do a paw version of a high five when that wretched mom gathered up Gems and walked off to her car. Leaving her cat behind!

Zed Boy howled with delight. You stupid mutt! You can’t organise a darn thing. Not even from heaven!

Poor Skunkie sloped off feeling very dejected. Even Ralph was a bit quiet. Slayer and Looseyfur looked at each other with slitty eyes. They’d always preferred Skunk to Zed and they did not like to see Skunk looking so downtrodden.

A few hours later Skunk gave a delighted whelp. Mom was hauling the cat box out of the spot where it lived and was getting back into her car.

We watched with glee as she drove back to that very same parlour and loaded that cartoon cat into the box.

The cat was safely on its way to his new home.

Skunk leapt around whooping like a crazy flying grasshopper and made faces at Zed Boy. Ralph was a bit put out and slunk off. Slayer and Looseyfur winked at each other and then went back to catnapping.

I smiled at mom with all my Fudgie fangs.

Ralphie goes to Heaven

I was just floating around in heaven the other day. Flitting around from colour to colour on the Rainbow Ridge – supervising the new additions that tend to take advantage of the space.

Even I, Miss Fudgie-wena, took advantage when I first arrived. I mean it is ginormous fun to leap through the rainbow and become rainbow coloured – especially when you have a long bod like I do – but let’s furry face it – doing that a gazillion times becomes old very quickly.

We don’t want to wear out the rainbow now, do we?

So like I said, I was supervising things, sniffing around. Generally making my own self useful where ever possible, when I heard that there was a commotion going on at the Pearly Gates.

Curiosity won and I decided to go take a peek.

Sometimes I can calm things down a smidgeon – me being a peaceful old furry lady and all.

There was a big crowd. Everybody was pushing and shoving and trying to see what the problem was. Such unbecoming behaviour in heaven.

Heard some whispering that a cat had arrived at the Pearly Cats that was so big they were having a hard time finding angel wings to fit.

Now there are rules in heaven about wings. People get people wings. Dogs get dogs wings. Cats get cats wings. Pigs would love to have wings but everybody knows they can’t fly. They have to snuffle around the place.

Nosed my way closer to the front of the crowd to see what was going on.

A large black and white cat was sitting looking extremely disgruntled. Various pairs of wings were being fitted on his back and just as quickly discarded. Every now and then the cat would twitch his whiskers and raise its yellow eyes to heaven – which is pretty hard to do when you are already in heaven. Clearly he had been in a spot of trouble because his nose was a total mess.

“Gerroffme!” He yowled – as the 37th pair of too-small wings was tried on his back. “I’m not a freaking fairy!”

Saint Peter looked on – a bit disapprovingly. Getting to Heaven’s Gate is quite an achievement – so you do not want to jeopardize actual entry into heaven once you are so close.

Had a feeling of déjà vu. Thought something looked a bit familiar.

Suddenly it hit me. Ralphie!

But what was my Ralphie doing in heaven. He wasn’t due for a good couple of years.

Sidled up closer to check that I was not getting short sighted. I WAS NOT. It was indeed my old furry bud, Ralph.

Gave him the nose.

Oi! Hullo Ralph.

His cat eyes opened wide and his whiskers quivered bravely. He smiled with all his sharp pointy fangs. Even his eyebrows wiggled and jiggled with joy.

Fudges! Ralphie murmured and slinked his furry body against mine. We nuzzled for a bit. It felt like home.

What is the problem Ralph? I breathed in his ear.

He hissed…. Get these silly wallies off me. I. Am. Not. A. Fairy Cat!

I looked at him with big brown eyes. Ralphie! Do not jeopardise your spot in heaven. Just take the wings and shhhhh… You are going to be an angel – not a fairy!

Ralphie, however, was having none of it.

He shook and shivered and refused to even vaguely entertain the thought of having any sort of wings on his back.

Saint Peter’s face got blacker and blacker.

Eventually he intervened… “Ralph…” he murmured in a silky smooth voice… “would you like to go downstairs and catch rats for Old Nic?”

Ralph looked at me – not really understanding the question properly. For a smarty-pants cat he’s quite doff sometimes.

I shook my head vehemently. Then I suddenly had a brain wave. I whispered to one of the flighty angels who were responsible for fitting the new additions with wings.

She reappeared with a nice selection of mouse wings that could be worn on Ralph’s legs – like manly spurs.

Clearly Ralphie thought that this whole idea was not too shabby because he gave in and let them attach the wings. He fluttered those wings and flew like an angel.

Saint Peter breathed a sigh of relief. So did I.

Zoomed up next to Ralph and gave him the nose.

Hey… it’s not so bad up here… come on – I’ll introduce you to Zed, Skunk and Looseyfur. Then let’s go see what mom is doing downstairs.