Not your everyday sight

Walking up the road to the local coffee shop for a mid-morning cappuccino and writing session, I passed the Titanic. Her stern pointed to the sky and she was poised to slip silently into the icy depths, her famous funnels disappearing from view.

In disbelief, I stepped back off the pavement to capture this tragedy on my cellphone. Only kidding. It was huge blow-up thingy (I can hardly call it a balloon, but the correct word escapes me). As I reeled with laughter and wondered at the passing cars whose drivers did not even notice it, I pondered what it might be doing there, filling the entire front garden of a suburban property. Was it an early tribute for the 100th anniversary of the disaster? Perhaps a relative had perished? Or survived? Whatever the reason, I just loved the sense of humour behind it and it kept me giggling for hours.

Passing again on the way home, there were shrieks of delight from the kids on the upper deck. It was a water slide. Brilliant!

Now what about a blow-up baboon for my roof...

Those wooden giraffes

  What possesses tourists who succumb to the lure of a 12ft wooden giraffe? Do they think there is room in the aircraft galley for it, or that it will survive a trip in the plane's hold?
  Airports have rooms specially set aside for decapitated giraffes. They eventually get used as fire wood for the end-of-the-year staff party, where we suspect that all the confiscated items are redistributed among the attendees.
  I must admit that, even for me as a local, these giraffes exude great charm. It is a long-held dream of mine to put one under the milkwood tree in my front garden, where its head can poke through the foliage and drivers-by can catch it in their peripheral vision, causing a neck-jerk reaction and almost certainly some business for paramedics and panel beaters.I suppose that would be one way I could contribute to the economy.
  I really only need the head end, so if anyone wants to share the cost and part with the top half, please call me.

Late night chores

I once worked with a woman who liked to polish her brass and silver late at night. I thought she was mad - wasn't that way past working time? Didn't she need to sleep? Over the years, I would think of her and wonder.

Tonight I was working on my laptop (yes, really, not just Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Blogger). Coffee called and while I was waiting for the water, not the kettle, to boil, I noticed that the taps could do with a bit of a shine. I still had my reading glasses on and suddenly it all became clear! Without them, my astigmatism takes care of the finer points of cleaning. I grabbed a scourer and began scrubbing. Then I did the edges of the sink, progressed to the drying rack (even underneath), the fruit bowl, my beautiful china chicken that I keep eggs in (where else?), the top of the fridge, the microwave - and then I saw the time - 10.30pm.

Suddenly I could identify with my long-ago friend. This is the time for housework. Dinner is a thing of the past, everyone has gone to bed, there's no background noise. It's not as if I need the sleep. We've got it all wrong. Daylight shouldn't be wasted on housework. That's when you walk on the beach, potter in the garden or just sit in the shade of a milkwood tree with a good book. Work inside when it's dark.

But I'd better hold back on the vacuuming for now!

Paris taxi

My friend Ingrid and I were chatting over tea and sticky buns one afternoon, and talk turned to travel, Paris in particular. Having never been there, I said, "Let's go!" and two weeks later we touched down at Charles de Gaulle, two lone female travellers susceptible to the deviousness of French taxi drivers (nothing personal, we were just in France). One of said taxi drivers detached himself from the pillar he had been leaning against and offered his taxi. We should have been put off by the fact that it wasn't at a taxi rank, but inevitably we just wanted to get to our hotel and have a shower after the long flight.

We set off through the outskirts of Paris, endless rows of huge, unimaginative apartment buildings, agape at the size of the place (Cape Town doesn't prepare you for the large cities of Europe). We soon hit rush hour traffic and were jammed into lanes of vehicles which sat for ages while the meter ticked over alarmingly, and then all surged forward like lemmings as soon as a gap appeared. There seemed to be no rules of the road, just every man for himself. They say that to get a driver's licence in Paris, you have to go round the Arc de Triomphe five times without causing an accident.

A huge truck pulled up alongside, just inches from my face, and as it pulled forward there was a dreadful ripping sound like the tearing of metal. The back corner of the truck had hooked onto my door and had opened a gash along it, like a giant tin-opener. And I was the sardine in the tin. Ingrid and I had eyes like saucers as we gaped at each in disbelief. The taxi driver didn't seem to notice, and the truck driver just drove on (we assumed that truckers are brawnier than taxi drivers)! Of course, there was no possibility that they could have pulled over to discuss it anyway.

When we got to our hotel, we could see that he would need a new door. He gave some sort of French gesture and probably swore a bit. But I think we paid for it. He charged us R600 for the trip, and that was eleven years ago.

Queuing at the till

Went shopping today with my iPod. Isn't it great to walk down the mall, completely shut off from the rest of the world, enjoying your music, not muzak? You can semi dance down the aisles, have a smile on your face, stand in the queue at the till for hours without even thinking about it. All those annoying people in front of you paying their monthly bills while you want to get the frozen peas home quickly - forget ice cream - that will melt in your trolley! - it means nothing to you. People you know wave and you read their lips, saying "Great, thank you, and you" as you whisk by, oblivious to what they were really saying in your haste to get to the chicken special before it's all gone.

There are a few disadvantages. You can't hear the announcement that the banks are having trouble connecting the credit cards with the tills and you can expect delays. You can't hear the person in the queue next to you telling you she is just going to get that bar of soap she forgot and will you please keep her place. You can't hear the cashier asking if you want bags - of course I want bags, does she think I'm carrying R800 worth of groceries home in my arms?

The worst is that you can't hear your phone ring in your bag. I usually don't hear it anyway; the ringtone just doesn't seem to resonate with my eardrum. But all the people around you glare while it churns out cheerfully.
When it comes to actually paying, it's best to turn the music off. Then you can hear the phone ring, answer it, scratch in your bag for your Discovery card, Rewards card, credit card, etc, etc. What a nightmare. Eventually I complete my transaction. But wait! Electricity. Scratch in the bag, smile nicely at the queue, turn on the music again. All is well with the world, and I'm just another one of those annoying women who holds up the queue paying bills and talking on the phone.

The last place you would expect your cat to wee

This blog is an addendum to My cats #1:

My ancient cat, Fluffy, has an evil mindset in his dotage. You can leave him outside all day and the instant you let him in, he will surreptitiously sneak off to do his business. This cat has a bladder capacity of note, and as he drinks an awful lot of water and milk during the day, there is a plentiful supply. These are the places he has managed to let go in so far:

On the bathroom mat (a favourite)
In the shower (still almost acceptable as it has a drain)
On the outside of the litter tray (a case of a miss is as good as a mile)
In my shoe (nasty surprise)
In my husband's shoe (soaked and scrubbed before he found out)
On the laundry pile (also nasty but at least headed for the wash anyway)
In the sugar bowl (least said about that the better)
In my handbag (ostrich leather, went straight under the hot tap, soaked for days, dried in the sun - perfect)
And the pièce de résistance:
My laptop (insurance bought me a new one, so thank you Fluffy!)

My family are adamant that it is not for us to decide when the cat's days are over, so I just send out little requests for a peaceful demise in his sleep.

Our cats #1

Aren't cats marvellous creatures? They have such distinct personalities. I have four, each unique in its degree of obtuseness. My ideal cat lazes in the sun, purrs when you stroke it, laps gently at its bowl of milk and catches the odd mouse. My cats do not fit into this category.
Cat #1: Fluffy (the smoothest cat on the planet). Age 19. Rugged outdoor type in youth. Used to bring a rat home from the rocks at the beach every night and disembowel it on the kitchen floor, as a present for me. Nickname Slasher due to his habit of swiping at me with his claws if I passed too close. Now in his dotage, he has become a house cat, sleeping in the sun all day and peeing in the most inappropriate places.
Cat #2: Mittens (black with white paws). Age 19. Fluffy's sister. Small and dainty. Has spent most of her life in my daughter's room. Starting to go outside now. Only drinks water from a running tap.
Cat #3: Tiggy/Zoot. Age 14. Ginger chinchilla type - Daddy was a travelling man. Very beautiful but inclined to bite savagely. After a traumatic attack (perhaps by a caracal), refuses to come inside and sleeps on the fence, winter and summer. Doesn't mind getting wet or cold. Appears invincible. Often falls off the fence while sleeping.
Cat #4: Felix - turned out to be a girl. Age 9. Calico. Given to crazy careering around the house, sliding on mats and over the furniture. Scared of people during the day. Sleeps on my bed at night. My dog's best friend. Also drinks from a running tap.
Nobody is allowed to bring another kitten to this house. I yearn for the day when only people live here, but I'm sure that will never come. They'll sneak one in somehow.

High tea at the Mount Nelson Hotel, Cape Town

Went to the Mount Nelson for high tea today to celebrate 50 years of friendship with two dear friends. Two were unable to be there and I considered taking cardboard cutouts, but didn't want to appear weird.
  I don't wear shoes at home, inside or outside. My feet are far away from my eyes, so seldom undergo close scrutiny. But today I sat on the edge of the bath, armed with half a lemon, soap, pumice stone and scrubbing brush, for an emergency pedicure. I stopped short of nail polish on my toenails due to time constraints.
  With my eyes closer to my leg, I was amazed to see the length of the hairs that in our caveman days were intended for warmth and now have still to be totally eliminated by evolution. Hmm, what to wear, what to wear. It would have to be pants now, despite the 31 degrees out there.
   Got into the car. The windows are closed and it's been in the sun for 6 hours. If I'd put a casserole in earlier, I could have had a quick lunch. Fortunately swopped old Toyota for friend's 350SLK and airconditioner.
  Parked outside the front door at the Nelly (you can't do that with a Toyota unless it's a Lexus) and wafted through to the lounge as if to the manner born, where we consume vast quantities of tea and sticky buns in elegant (dare I say it? of course!) colonial comfort. Some traditions just don't lose their appeal, and we harked back to fond memories of another such establishment, the Vic Falls Hotel.
  Talk turned to the passing of the years, with the focus (sorry) on our deteriorating eyesight. Turns out theirs is as bad as mine. I could have worn the skirt after all.
 

The sound of an F1 car

Went to see the Red Bull Racing F1 car at Killarney racetrack in Cape Town. Not through any particular interest in seeing the car 'live', but to hear the sound it makes. Watching the races on TV doesn't bring the atmosphere of live racing, and I thought I would go to hear what turns people into petrolheads.
  The sun beat down on the tarmac, roasting the crowd from above and below. A stall selling high-class coffee had chosen the wrong place at the wrong time. Nobody could face the idea of a hot drink - a shame because it smelled delicious and even a dedicated coffee drinker like me turned away.
  From deep inside the pits came a throbbing roar as the F1 car was fired up. Every face turned expectantly towards the entrance. The impressive roar became an eardrum-bursting cacophony as the driver revved the engine and the crowd swept en masse to the pit lane fence to get a closer look at the object that had enticed them to queue for two hours in the scorching heat.
  I was there already. Being very short means you have to get there early and be in front. The video camera was rolling as the car came out onto the track. The announcer's voice reached a crescendo of excitement as the crowd cheered and waved Red Bull flags. The massive sound stage thumped out an incessant house beat which was appropriate for the mood of the day. And then - rrrwoooaaaaaarrrrrr!
  How do you find a word for a sound that nearly shatters every bone in your body as it passes within 10 feet of you and is gone in an instant? My reaction was to scream - not out of fear - but that crazy woo hoo! that you see people doing on TV and wonder why. It's called adrenalin. Every time the car passed, we would all scream as if taken by surprise again, then fall about laughing at our reactions. And of course, nobody could hear anyone, so that was even better. Letting it all hang out with no funny stares!
  It was great! Now I understand the attraction of Nascar where the cars just go round and round an oval track. It's the noise that thrills them.

Twilight

Twilight has always been my favourite part of the day. I'm standing on my balcony, looking out over the dark grey strip of sea forming the horizon line. A smoky redness rises from the grey and moves through a spectrum of gradual hue changes, orange, imperceptible yellow and green, into the palest blue and stretching up through indigo to a zenith of violet. This is Eliot's violet hour, and the very essence of Stephenie Meyer's evocative and inspiring love story.

Appropriately, two tiny bats have left their roost under my eaves, their crazy but not haphazard flight silhouetted against the fading glow. A small flock of night herons passes overhead, on their way down to the rocks to take over where the egrets left off at sunset. My cat lopes across the neighbour's roof, adventure bound.

Venus and Jupiter are resplendent in the west as the full moon rises from behind the mountains.

The magic of twilight gives way to mysterious night.

Strange things people keep in their deep freeze

There used to be a pie shop in Hout Bay where you could get a variety of strange fillings, including crocodile. I have no idea why. I bought my pizza bases there and one day was in the shop while the German owner was chatting to some customers. I mention the word German purely to illustrate that I did not know what he was saying to them. As he talked, he went over to the deep freeze where the pizza bases were kept and pulled out what looked like a patterned french loaf.

Turning to face me, with an evil look and a mad laugh, he poked it in my face. I screamed impressively enough to crack a wall as I realised that it was a puff adder, frozen solid. Everyone fell about laughing, especially him, but despite my normally extremely good sense of humour, I failed to see the joke. All I could think was, what an absolutely revolting thing to keep in a deep freeze, especially one storing food for sale to the public. It wasn't even clingwrapped!

I left without my pizza bases and never ever went back. I can only to think that his joke bit him in the bum, as the shop is no longer there.

Italy #3 Part 2

So off we go to Tuscany in a much smaller car - there are no bigger vehicles left at the car hire as it is an August holiday weekend. Rather cramped for the 3 adults in the back of what is essentially a 4-seater. A roster was developed so that every time we stopped, everyone except the driver moved one space to the right and so all got to see the view through the front window.
Locked in the boot back in Milan were my bag with comb, hair band, video camera (!) and cell phone (!), and worst of all, M's mountain bike which he had planned to use all over Tuscany. Comb and hair band - not a problem - seldom look in the mirror. Video camera - crying shame. Cell phone - not a problem for me, but family back in SA were convinced I had died in an Italian earthquake which had made the international news but wasn't felt in Italy. (They are always beside themselves when they can't contact me, for some reason. I rather like it.) Mountain bike - M was furious!
As we strolled the vias and vianettas, every time we looked behind us, there was M on his cell phone, bending the ear of the unforthcoming individual back at the car hire. The hand gestures and body language made it quite apparent that M was getting the short end of the stick and eventually he admitted defeat against bureaucracy. The key had been found in Rome and would be flown up to Milan, so we could get our things out of the boot when we returned from Tuscany. How helpful. He muttered about third world countries in Europe for a long time after that.