Doggie dentistry

Well, haven't my chickens come home to roost! Having prided myself on saving vet's bills over the years by allowing my cats and dogs to lick themselves better and hope for the best (it's always worked out so far), I now find that they need dentistry. I can't say I look inside the dogs' mouths very often and it's just a cursory pulling up of the lip by tugging on the hairs on the side of the jaw, but the last time I looked, Monty's teeth were a rather disgusting shade of brown. So I took Monty and Susie to the vet for a general look-over to assure myself that they were in good health, thinking there might be some magic biscuit I could clean his teeth with.

The vet blanched when he looked inside their mouths and the words 'gum disease', 'inflammation', 'decay', 'anaesthetic' and 'extractions' sent dollar signs racing around inside my head. The mention of 'pus' settled the matter instantly. There was no doubt that my doggies had to have the dental hygienist treatment. Having had this myself, I am well aware that the scratching, digging and poking that goes on is far worse than any root canal treatment, so it was no surprise to hear that an anaesthetic would be necessary to prevent the vet from being savaged by an irate little fluffy white dog.

I asked for a quote and braced myself by clutching onto the examination table while Monty sniffed around looking for a suitable place to lift his leg (a briefcase was fortunately just out of reach) - only kidding - he did wait till we got outside, and Susie waited patiently as ever. The damage will come to R1 300 per dog plus R200 for unlimited extractions (I think we'll take all the back teeth out for this bargain price - after all, Susie never chews anything).

So just when you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, yes, it's the overhead light in the vet's theatre and it's waiting for your dog!

A Clovelly Childhood #7

When we were children, the small mountain behind our house, known as Trappies Kop, was our playground. Huge boulders that had tumbled down the mountainside aeons ago when the Cape fold mountains were first formed were the pirate ships, cars, playhouses and caves of fertile young imaginations, and the paths and alleyways and archways were an endless source of adventure. Sometimes there would be more adventure than we had hoped for, and we would often run pell-mell down the steep mountainside back home, shouting "Snake! Snake!" But we never stayed away long. The lure of freedom was strong up there on the Flat Piece, a natural platform bigger than a ledge and about as wide as a roadway that formed a cliff face about 50 metres from home and from where we could survey our world - to the left, the sea stretching from Fish Hoek Bay to Miller's Point beyond Simon's Town, with the southern Peninsula mountain chain split by the Fish Hoek Valley, the white sands of the dunes running from east to west with the rocky outcrop where early inhabitants dwelt in a cave, and a glimmer of the Atlantic Ocean in the west. The distinctive outline of Chapman's Peak joined the valley to the northern Peninsula mountain chain, with the impressive cliffs and world-famous Kalk Bay caves of Clovelly mountain keeping an eye on those lucky children who played in its shadow.

We never went higher than the Flat Piece on Trappies Kop because it was covered in impenetrable bush - the invasive alien known as Rooikrans, which was so dense that no person could pass through. Except for one amazing place, which we called the Tunnel of Trees. There was an opening rather like a cave mouth and you could walk into an area of dappled shade where, for some reason, the trees had not seeded themselves closely and a tunnel led a short way up a slope, ending in a sheer rock face beyond which there was no access. I like to think that this magical place was deliberately contrived by nature to provide us with that particular experience, knowing that it would be a defining part of our childhood memories. I always felt a different atmosphere in that tunnel of trees, one of secrecy or mystery, and I would never have gone in there by myself although I couldn't say why.

Years later, all the bush was destroyed in a fire, which exposed the rocky face of Trappies Kop, so much more interesting to look at, and the Tunnel of Trees has gone forever. But I'm sure everyone who ever went in there remembers it still.

What's in a name?

There was much activity overhead yesterday evening, as the heat of the day had coaxed every insect from its hiding place and the birds were feasting on them as if there were no tomorrow. Flocks of swallows and swifts swooped and swirled just above the rooftops, while terns and gulls soared less frenetically higher up on the thermals. It brought to mind the busy airways over Europe, where you would be hard pushed to find a clear patch of blue without jet trails criss-crossing your line of sight.

The speed at which the feeding birds fly prevents me from getting a good look for identification purposes, and although I have a rough idea of all the names, coming from a family of avid avian aficionados, my eyesight is not good enough to distinguish colour variations in small birds. I have better luck with raptors, with their generally striking markings and leisurely soaring flight when not diving in for the kill, but I have come to realise that it is not important what the bird is called. It is the pleasure of watching the different shapes and flight patterns among the species that really counts. A line of graceful gannets flying in tandem parallel to the waves, or a straggling V of sacred ibis on their way back to their roosts at sunset allow one to marvel at the orderliness of nature and how each species flies at an altitude and formation that suits their body weight and wingspan, and how they know just how much slipstream is required for efficient flight.

Garden birds provide plenty of entertainment as they hop and chatter in the branches. They love to bathe in the fountain and, if I prop up a hose so that the spray falls over low shrubs, within minutes the Cape white eyes and double-collared sunbirds will be there to play under the rainbow. The bush telegraph works overtime when there is water to play in! I have no idea what the other birds are, but they fall under the generic term of LBJ - little brown job!

Not knowing the name of something in no way diminishes the pleasure of observation - after all, bird watching is just that - watching birds.

Parting

I saw my cousin and his wife at the mall today. He had brought her out to give her a change of scenery from home and a relatively undemanding walk down the mall for exercise, with a glass of orange juice to revive her. She is terminally ill with cancer and, in her words, bearing up.

They asked questions about the family - have they all gone back to Europe and the UK after the holidays - the usual family chit chat.

Why is it that, when someone you know is reaching the end of this earthly life, we tend to avoid them? Is it because we don't know what to say, or we feel guilty for still being healthy and not yet in sight of our own departure? It seemed that everything I said related to leaving, separation, departure, going away, missing someone, a new life elsewhere, and the whole time all I could think of was whether either of them noticed and how trivial it seemed compared to what they are going through. I wanted to reverse each sentence as it came out and swallow it as though it had never been said. In the end I just gave her a hug and held her hand.
Words are, after all, the least effective means of communication when taken unawares - we need time to gather our thoughts - and so perhaps physical contact is the answer.

Despite her illness, her hair and makeup are immaculate as they have been all her life, and you won't hear her complain except of being tired. I can only hope we are all so dignified when the time comes.

Talking rubbish

I am seriously considering renting out space in my wheelie bin. Since starting recycling and with the recent diminution of the household, I can barely fill it a third of the way. You may wonder why this should be a problem. Well, the wind is blowing so hard that it is likely to blow the bin over in the night, and the dirt truck has been known to ride right over it in the past, so we need extra weight to hold it upright. The neighbours seem to need more than one bin, as the overflow is scattered all over the front lawn after the next problem, which is the people who make an unpleasant habit of digging through all the bins to extract any form of sustenance or whatever else it is they are looking for.

The very thought of someone scratching through our discarded food distresses me as, once it has been consigned to the bin, it is not intended for consumption even by animals, let alone people. If there is anything still edible, or old clothing that can be used, we put this in separate packets on top of the bin to discourage bin-picking. If I thought that putting dog poop in the bin would deter them, I would do so, but I don't want to take the chance that they are exposed to it. And of course, if they don't close the baboon proof catches, more disaster awaits if the truck is late and the troop moves in.

I have thought of filling the remaining space with garden refuse and thorny branches to make it just too difficult to get to the bottom. But I'm sure the bin will then be tipped over, defeating the purpose. The only way around this problem is to lock the bins and have a special key that the dirtmen use to open them with the least fuss, so that only bin owners have access. One can only dream of a society where such a system would actually work.

So in the meantime, if you have a need for extra bin space, give me a call and we can talk rubbish.

Counting sheep

It seems that many people are having trouble sleeping these days, or rather, nights. It is common to hear people comparing stories of what they do when they wake up in the early hours of the morning, and find themselves unable to get back to sleep. Everyone has their own remedy for breaking the pattern. Some say they eat toast and have a cup of tea, while others get up and walk around for a while then go back to bed and pretend they are just going to sleep for the first time. Counting sheep is synonymous with insomnia, and the idea is to picture sheep jumping over a stile one by one, and getting so bored doing it, that you fall asleep again. It usually works if you just think of something really boring, like a conversation about babies' bowel movements or which washing powder washes whites whitest and such inanities.

Although my sleep pattern has vastly improved through considerable effort to change the way I think about life and what really matters, I still wake up on occasion. For me, the solution is tea and Sudoku or one of those nice big blockwords from the You magazine, although lately I have taken to doing some blogging or other writing. There is a peacefulness about the aloneness of the early hours that is rather enchanting, particularly if you are able to step outside and gaze out into the universe.

But it occurred to me today, as I lolled on the couch (now that I have control of the remote again), that the very best way of going back to sleep is to turn the TV on. It's a surefire way to switch your brain off and keep the chatter at bay. I can barely watch an entire episode of something I really, really am interested in, and I always miss the middle of a movie - it must be watching flickering pictures that sends me straight to sleep. It surely can't be age related!

The trick is to have a TV that turns off as your eyes close.

Taking the gap

Curses! The dratted porcupine chowed through the fence again last night and ate every last green tomato in the garden! It also ate some young bromeliad shoots, so it is increasing its food repertoire, despite my leaving food and water under the front hedge so it doesn't have to go to all this trouble. It also ate the bok choi. I have now officially given up with vegetables and will probably plant roses instead.

The other side effect is, of course, that Monty takes the gap and disappears down to the rocks in search of companionship and a dip in the sea. It became apparent that he had gone when he didn't return from being let out at 6am. He Who Can Fix Anything, who is as devoted to his dog as a mother is to her child, watched the last laps of a motor race he was watching on TV, then set off in search of Houdini.

He returned 20 minutes later with what was barely recognisable as a white dog. Monty had obviously run through every burr-bearing bush between the boardwalk and home, and he was bedraggled from swimming in the sea, a frond of soft seaweed twisted into his tail like a fashionable hair adornment. And I almost bathed him yesterday! HWCFA proudly announced that the people whose dogs Monty had joined down at the rocks had declared Monty to be 'a real character'. One would swear he had just received the results of an IQ test revealing that his child had a score of 140.

I had to cut all the burrs off with scissors, leaving him with almost shaved legs, and then bathed him to get rid of the salt and seaweed smell. He is now back to his beautiful, shiny white coat and thoroughly satisfied with his escapade!

We'll have to mend that hole before tonight. The fence is now so patched it wouldn't be out of place in a shantytown.

A bit of a ramble

Really enjoying a bit of time out, visiting friends, strolling along the path along the beachfront, idly standing in the garden holding the hosepipe rather than moving the spray every ten minutes. It's been a while since I had time to do pretty much nothing and it's something we all need to do more often. It doesn't matter if you don't fill every waking moment with activity. Life is meant to be enjoyed, and that means taking care of yourself first. Spend a day without looking at your watch; the sun will tell you all you need to know. Make it a day without time, for after all, time is just an illusion we use to order our lives. Breakfast at 8, lunch at 1, supper at 7. How about fruit at 7, nuts and seeds at 10, an omelette and salad at 1, fruit at 4 and fish and steamed vegetables at 7? I can guarantee that after two weeks of that, you will have lost weight, feel ten years younger, probably have no aches and pains and actually have taste buds again. I know; it is roughly the way of life I have followed for 3 years now, and I can attest to the results. If I lapse back into eating starchy food, I immediately feel lethargic and get aching joints again from acidity. There is no doubt that going the whole hog is the only way.

But I digress. Back to time. I have always felt obliged to put dinner on the table by 6pm even if nobody will be home before then, just in case they are. Today I was out and I thought, hey, they're all adults, if supper's late they'll live. So I didn't go home till after 6 and I hadn't even thought what would be for supper. I scratched a few pork chops out of the deep freeze, defrosted them in the microwave while I put root vegetables in the casserole, then put the chops on top, liberally scattered salt and paprika and put the whole lot in the oven. Tossed some sliced baby marrows in a pan with butter and lemon juice and we still ate by 7.

So I can thoroughly recommend a day without tracking time. Even my blog has rambled off in different directions today, proving that you don't always have to have a point!

When you get what you wish for...

For years I have longed to have a whole day alone at home with nobody phoning me or asking me to do anything for them. Life has been a constant activity of looking after the home, the husband, the children, the garden, the dogs and cats, and most of the time, being gainfully employed, either by myself or in sheltered employment where someone else paid me. I haven't had a chance with the TV remote for years and have pretty much given up watching, preferring to chat to old friends on FB or Skype. And suddenly, within the last week, it has happened.

The freelance work has abated, Robert has left for London. I get up in the morning and don't have to make breakfast. The TV doesn't get turned on at all during the day. I don't get five phone calls a day with sundry enquiries as to what's for dinner. There's no queue for the shower and I have a choice of which car to use. The washing machine only goes once a day and I only need to shop once a week. Supper is a simple affair and we can eat peas again. The meat bill has halved and milk goes off in the fridge. That's the up-side.

The down-side is that the dogs are puzzled, there's nobody to get exasperated with when he doesn't get up till 10 am or stands under the shower for 15 minutes and uses all the hot water. There's nobody to mow the lawn and rake up the leaves under the huge gum tree or take out the bin on dirt day. I can't complain about all the ironing because there is hardly any, and I don't know where Man U is on the log any more. I don't know whether our cricket team is winning or which team to support in the Indian Premier League 20/20.

But back to the up-side. Robert has left home to start a new life with Sara and that is what his heart desires, and thus what we want for him. He has the opportunity to travel and see the world, but also to support himself and be the man of the house. For me, all this spare time will eventually translate into a return to painting, with opportunities for all kinds of adventures along the way, and most importantly, the finishing of my first book and progress with other writing projects. There is no longer any excuse and this is now the time of my life. It is up to me what I do with it.

Transport in the old days

When Dad was a teenager, he lived in Claremont, about 25km from Fish Hoek. On one particularly hot day, he and a friend decided to ride their bikes to the beach. Not Muizenberg, the closest beach, but Fish Hoek, a considerable way further along the road. Those of you who are unlucky enough not to be familiar with the Cape Peninsula may not appreciate the effort involved in a trip of that magnitude, and we who have grown up with the ease of use of trains, cars and other powered vehicles would never even contemplate riding a bike so far! But in those days, it was the only way youngsters could get around at no cost.

The ride from Wynberg down to Muizenberg was a very slight downhill slope and it got a bit hilly along the coast from Muizenberg to Fish Hoek, where sand flats were the order of the day. A fierce southeaster was blowing and it required pedal power to make progress against the wind. There were no fancy gears to help the rider, just strong legs.

After an invigorating and refreshing swim and relaxing on the beach, it was time to set off for home. The southeaster hadn't abated, and was so strong that it blew them all the way back home with almost less effort than on the way down. The problem was, by the time they got home, they needed another swim!

A Clovelly Childhood #6

We moved to Clovelly in 1958, when I was 2, and have been eternally grateful to Dad for: 1. joining the Navy so that we had to move to Cape Town from East London and 2. choosing to live in Clovelly rather than in Navy housing. When we first arrived, there were probably 20 houses, all with large grounds, many with orchards and streams running through them, fed by the watershed on the Kalk Bay mountains which loom over Clovelly.

We lived (and still do) on the top road which winds round to the Country Club. In front of our house, over the road, is The Homestead, the original farmhouse which was established as the first house in Clovelly in the early nineteenth century, and now a heritage site. The lady who lived there in the 1950s had ducks on a duck pond (fed from an underground spring which we suspect originates in our garage, as there is a permanent flow in winter) and kept chickens. We would walk onto a precarious wooden bridge from the road and climb down the steep ladder-like steps to get down to the garden - a drop of about 2 metres - to go and buy eggs and figs which we picked from the huge old fig trees which are still in the garden today. Mom made fig preserves from the first crop, Dad's favourite with a piece of cheese after dinner. Eventually our own fig tree grew big enough and we didn't have to buy them anymore.

The little rickety bridge played a fortuitous role in yet another of my grandmother's escapades. She drove a DKW (I was always fascinated that the gear lever was on the steering column and thought it was terribly clever and modern), which she parked in the garage opposite the bridge. She sometimes didn't put the handbrake on very securely and she looked out of the window one day to see the DKW with 2 wheels in the road and the rest of it balancing on the bridge! There was much excitement as another vehicle was harnessed to her car and hauled it out of the ditch.

If this had happened today, there is no doubt that a major accident would have been caused by the cars that hurtle round the blind corner just before the spot where all the action was, as they seem oblivious to possibility that residents might be attempting to reverse out of their garages. In the sixties, we could still sit on the warm road enjoying the spectacle, with all the neighbours having an impromptu street party and having a laugh with Granny, knowing that it wouldn't be long before the car rolled out of the garage again!

Funday in the garage

Today the Mini took to the road again, after about 7 years in the garage! It is a 1969 Mini which only had one lady owner and apparently no passengers, as the interior of the car was in pristine condition when we bought it some 10 years ago, except for the driver's seat which was almost worn out. It gave a lot of trouble with the brakes, and there were a number of advertising stickers of brake companies that had worked on the car over the years, so it must be a Mini thing. Also, if you drove up a hill it would overheat and it was always with great trepidation that I made my way over Ou Kaapse Weg, crawling in the gutter at 50km/hr so as to let all the traffic go by and nurse the engine to the top, when I could freewheel down the other side and all would be well again. I remember one horrendous day when I made it all the way into Cape Town for some reason and decided to go home via the scenic route up Kloofnek and over into Camps Bay. What was I thinking? There is a hill with a stop street at the top which joins Kloofnek which is almost perpendicular and any car with an engine of less that 1200 cc has to go up in first gear. My little Mini is 999 cc so it was touch and go as that needle hit the red and beyond. But we made it and eventually got home safely.

It was the brakes that took us off the road. It reached a stage where you had to pump the brakes before they would take, and one day I just sailed gently into the back of the car in front, at 10km/hr and dented the front. Obviously there was no damage to the other car, as I barely reached his bumper, and he got out, took a look, laughed and got back into his car. I took the Mini home and parked it in the back of the garage and there it stayed until today. He Who Can Fix Anything undertook the mammoth task of restoring the Mini to its former glory and stripped the entire car to bare metal, had it sandblasted, cut out the minimal rust, panelbeat the front until it resembled the original and fitted and welded and brazed extra bits to fill in the gaps. Every single piece down to the smallest nut was washed in petrol, stored in marked crates, and the engine stripped to its basic components, cleaned, rebored (and whatever else it is that you do to engines), reassembled and repainted. Missing parts were tracked down and slowly the car was put back together.

Today we adjusted the clutch, connected the wiring, bled the brakes, and drove it up to the garage to put in petrol. The engine still needs a little tuning and the electrics are not quite complete, but all in all, it's a pretty good job, considering he only had an old manual to work from and his own knowledge of cars.

I'll be out and about in it soon. I just hope the brakes hold!

Picnic time

This handsome fellow stopped in the shade of the old gum tree outside my house to eat a loaf of bread he had filched from someone's kitchen. He sat there, casually resting his elbows on his knees, picking chunks off the loaf and munching idly away, while staring up at the mountain, possibly choosing his resting place for the night, perhaps a smooth rocky ledge radiating the warmth gathered from the sun during the day and providing comfort in the night. Of course, it will have a magnificent sea view!

He hadn't brought his family, so he must be one of the outcast males. He didn't look unhappy. After his lunch, he crossed the driveway to drink all the water in the bowl I leave under the hedge for the porcupine (an effort to prevent him from digging under the fence and biting the irrigation pipes) and pick on the vegetable scraps. Now that he has discovered this source of fresh water and perhaps a bit of fruit, I'm sure he will be here even more regularly, but hopefully he will go straight there and then move on down the road rather than try for the fruit bowl in my kitchen. One can always hope!

The biggest hassle of having him around is that everything has to be closed up and in this hot weather it can be pretty unbearable inside the house!

Another farewell food fest!

For our last lunch yesterday, Robert and I went to San Marco's at the Waterfront, where we discovered gnocchi about 15 years ago and it's been our favourite meal ever since. They make the best gnocchi I have come across, but despite being made basically of potato, the price has doubled over the years and so it's not something we eat often. It was pretty much for oulaas that we had it yesterday, to mark the end of an era. They must have known it was a special occasion, because the plates were so huge, we were unable to finish it. It must be the first time that a plate of food has got the bretter of Robert, who has been known to demolish 2 Spur burgers with all the trimmings on a regular basis. Doggy bags were provided for the leftovers.

It was a perfect day at the Waterfront and afterwards we enjoyed a drive along the Atlantic seaboard, through Camps Bay and Bakoven to Hout Bay, and eventually going back home via the spectacular Chapman's Peak Drive.

Today, he landed in London. The flight almost couldn't land due to heavy snowfalls and circled Heathrow for quite a time. He sailed through customs to be met by Sara, his wife, and true to form, they have gone out to eat dinner before going back to their home to begin their married life. I don't think he even noticed the snow.

The last supper

I mentioned that January had been quite cool. Well, that was putting  the commentator's curse on it! Today was exceptionally humid and uncomfortable and early in the morning I could see the first signs of thunderclouds to the north. Robert has enjoyed the heat of his last day in Cape Town for who knows how long - London is expecting unusually low temperatures this weekend of -14 degrees! For his last dinner at home, he wanted his mother's famous peppered steak, and who am I to disappoint him? Off we went to the local butcher - an excellent fellow who will never sell you meat that has not matured sufficiently, and unfortunately the only piece available was fillet at R156 for the piece. He Who Can Fix Anything came home early because he knows I get twitchy when no-one turns up in time for steak - the sauce reaches a point of no return and cannot be reheated.

In view of the heat in the kitchen, he decided that we would do the steak in a pan on a fire - as if the air wasn't hot enough already, he wanted to stand in front of a blazing fire! But once again, who am I to disappoint him, and so Robert made the fire and I prepared everything and carried it downstairs. By now, the sky was filled with iron-grey clouds of that particular darkness that heralds an electrical storm. Suddenly a huge flash of lightning burst from the clouds right overhead, followed almost instantaneously by ground-shaking thunder, sending little Susie scuttling inside and under cupboard to await a comforting dose of rescue remedy. A few minutes later, large drops fell from the sky, plopping into the pan where the sauce was coming to the boil, necessitating the extraction of the garden umbrella from the shed. I held it over the fire while cooking proceeded and by the time the sauce had thickened, the rain had passed and the sun was peeking out from behind puffy cotton wool clouds.

The steak was worth every cent, melt-in-the-mouth without being borderline decomposing (if that isn't enough to encourage vegetarianism, I'll be a monkey's uncle) and Robert pronounced himself completely satisfied with his last home meal. A glass of champagne was had to celebrate his launch into a new and exciting life, and the sun sank into the sea, casting a magnificent cerise glow onto the clouds, shot through with the last golden rays, a fitting farewell from the Fairest Cape.

Pottering in the garden

We are so fortunate to have unlimited underground water here. The garden is looking quite good for this time of year and considering my lack of green fingers. Even the lawn is green, in stark contrast to this time last year when it was burnt to a crisp and there was more sand than grass. So far January has been quite mild and rather pleasant, but as always, this can change in an instant.

The last remaining Death's Head Hawk Moth caterpillar is munching its way along a branch of the tree fuchsia, unusual during the day when it is exposed to predation, but I don't think any of the birds fancy such a large meal - probably the equivalent of a McDonald's triple supersize burger or such. I am hoping to see it pupate and eventually hatch (?) so that I can get an idea of the life cycle and actually see the moth.

A swarm of tiny black hairy caterpillars are trying to eat the Parrot/Dragon plant (can't find the botanical name!) and if I don't blast them off with the hose they will demolish it overnight. This is a very rewarding ground cover that is ideal for tall pots and hanging baskets although it requires quite a bit of water and constant inspection for caterpillars and snails. The dark orange/brown and bright yellow flowers resemble parrots' beaks and is presumably the source of the common name. I must go to the nursery and do some research.

The carnations are prolific this year. They have obviously decided they like the conditions in the pot and have flowered continuously for months now. Although I started off with 3 little white carnations, part of the mass of vegetation has begun to flower in a deep red, making for a lovely contrast with the snow white blooms. This must be dead-headed regularly to ensure continuous blooming. My granny was always dead-heading the carnations. I think it was her favourite part of the gardening, and I must say I do enjoy a good prune myself.

Tomorrow promises to be a hot day, so I'm heading outside now to do a little extra watering of the pot plants.

The importance of dressing for the occasion

With the schools preparing for the start of a new school year, we were reminiscing about 'the old days' and my mother regaled us with the following story, involving our green Morris Minor and a case of mistaken identity.

A very attractive neighbour was always late in taking her children to school. She was a real social butterfly who was regularly wined and dined by her second, older husband. On this particular day, she was so late that she didn't have time to dress and got into the car in her negligee. After dropping the children at school in Fish Hoek, she headed back home for Clovelly, but on the way, the car ran out of petrol. As she sat in her car at the side of the road, in her negligee, wondering what to do next, she saw a green Morris Minor coming  in her direction. "Oh good, it's Margaret," she thought and leapt out into the road to flag her down.

The car screeched to a halt and she whipped the door open and jumped in, in her negligee, only to find that the occupant was not my mother, but a rather rough type from the dockyard. He had already pulled away, obviously thinking it was his lucky day, and passed the Clovelly turnoff, heading for Kalk Bay. She shouted at him to stop the car immediately but he completely ignored her. As they drove through Kalk Bay, she was in a panic, in her negligee, and as they drove past the station, they came upon a pedestrian robot which had fortuitously turned red. Of course, in those days, even if you abducted someone, you apparently still stopped for a red robot, and she grabbed her opportunity and flung the door open, tumbling into the road, in her negligee. She rushed into the little garage (which is no longer there - it had two petrol pumps on the pavement!), where she knew the owners and was thankfully returned home safely, in her negligee.

Moral of the story - don't leave home in your negligee.

Gourmet garlic

We were treated to an evening of gastronomic delight last night. My niece, Julia, served up her favourite dish at a family dinner to say goodbye to her cousins who return to Zurich today after a few weeks in the sun. It consisted of a basis of chicken, with a sauce incorporating 80 (yes) cloves of garlic, one bottle of chardonnay, some splashes of brandy and creme fraiche and other ingredients I have still to identify. Despite the amount of garlic involved, you would not have known that you were eating garlic and in fact, no one ingredient overpowered another.

For once, the entire family was silent as we savoured every mouthful. The delicacy of flavour, without being bland or insipid, could rival any sauce served at the most expensive restaurants; in fact, I thought it was considerably ahead of the pack. We literally scoured the gigantic pot to ensure that the very last morsel didn't go to waste. It was without doubt one of the best dishes I have ever tasted.

Of course, none of us are nice to be near today. The after effects of the garlic are quite potent, and I would imagine that the other passengers on the plane are going to keep a wide berth of my nephew and his wife! I have eaten a large bunch of parsley which I think did the trick as I have had no further complaints, and hope that all the other dinner guests followed suit. Garlic breath is bad enough to carve a path through a crowd without having to say, excuse me.

But this hazard notwithstanding, we are all ready to eat it again!

Sombre reflection

As our local community recovers slowly from the shock of a double homicide/suicide of good friends (there is no nice way to say it), we have all had cause to reflect on the fleeting nature of our journey on this earth and how it can be snatched from us in the blink of an eye. For the departed, their souls are now free from their earthly bounds, and they reside in a place where there is only love and light.

For those left behind, there will be unanswered questions and perhaps feelings of guilt for some things that were left unsaid or undone. Although none of us are ultimately responsible for another's choices, it serves to remind us that every day should be lived as if it were our last. There should be nothing done that would cause regret if it could not be righted, and although it doesn't come easily to some of us, we should give kindness at every opportunity and share a smile and a laugh as often as possible, even with a stranger, for who knows what their journey is. If someone asks for help, give it in whatever way is possible for you; the size of your gift is not the way to heaven. Just taking the time to hear what they want to say could be the most valuable gift they receive. Be kind to yourself and ask for help when you know you need it. We are all one, and we don't need to travel this road alone.

Rest in peace, Antonet and Martin.

Gathering of old friends

Went to an early evening drinks party to say goodbye to old friends returning to New Zealand after a family holiday in Cape Town. They sent out an open invitation to those who knew them from the days before they emigrated and waited to see who would come. There is a story that goes: If you live in Pretoria and you invite 20 guests to a party, 20 will arrive. If you live in Johannesburg and invite 20 guests, 40 will arrive because they all love a party and will bring someone else along. If you live in Cape Town and invite 20 guests, they will all accept the invitation, but between 5 and 10 will arrive, as they will wait till the last minute in case something better turns up, and then just not arrive. This sounds a bit harsh, but is unfortunately true, and difficult if they are being catered for, so we have to be very flexible with the supply of food and drink. In our defence (as I am also guilty of this Cape Town behaviour), it is usually to do with the weather. If it's good, you don't want to leave the sunset on the beach and if it's bad, you don't want to be on the roads.

It is testimony to the popularity of the hosts that the turnout was extremely good and friends from 30 years back showed up. A tremendous camaraderie filled the room, with school photos being flashed around and catch-up stories peppered with shouts of laughter created a buzz that lasted long after the party ended. How easily we forget those we spent so much time with in our youth, as Life takes over and everyone becomes busy with raising families and pursuing careers. And how quickly that friendship picks up where it left off, as I am sure everyone who was there will agree.

We probably all left the party feeling our lives had been enriched by the reunion and with good intentions of doing it again soon.

Caterpillar capers

Four caterpillars devoured an entire shrub last night. I don't know if they were on the plant yesterday, but it  had all its leaves then. Is it possible that they grew to 2-3 inches overnight? They certainly had the food intake necessary for such a growth spurt!
They are a beautiful, almost transparent pale greeny-yellow, coincidentally the colour of the now non-existent leaves, with funny little tails that look as though they have pollen, like the middle of a flower (the name escapes me, but I'm sure you know which bit I mean).

So there they are, exposed to predation by some lucky passing bird, on the twigs of the shrub. I hope one comes along, because I am certainly not touching them and they are, after all, part of the food chain. Perhaps they will pupate, then I will be able to identify the guilty party when the butterflies emerge. I hope so, because I would hate them to transfer to another plant. It will be interesting to see what transpires. I'll come back later in the day to see how they are.

Later in the day...
The last leaf has been eaten and there are now 3. Maybe one escaped. One caterpillar is walking round the edge of the tub, which leads me to think that it hatched on the plant and believes that is the perimeter of its world. (Three hours later, it was still walking round and round and round.) An escapee was making its way across the lawn, heading for the neighbour.

Later...
They've all disappeared. Fate unknown. I think I'll just pop outside with the torch in case they've relocated to the other tubs nearby.

Waves, wind and wildlife

There's been a heavy shorebreak off Kommetjie for more than a week now. We've been treated to a display of incredibly beautiful wave action, with perfect peppermint ice cream pipes folding over along the mouth of the little bay next to the Kom, the trapped air shooting explosions of white surf metres into the sky and sending reverberations like gunshots across the water. A friend who lives near the lighthouse very close to the sea can feel the vibration of the wave action as it transfers from the rocky ledges through the boulder-strewn substrata deposited over millenia - rather an aural vibration than physical, a most strange phenomenon.

The strong surge has kept the roosting birds on their toes, or rather, their wings, as they seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time wheeling above my house as the high tide covers the rocks around the Island. Or it could be the unseasonal south-westerly wind that is accompanying the heavy swells - the birds, particularly gulls, love to hover in the thermals from that direction as they sweep up the cliffs of Slangkop and soar to tremendous heights, almost disappearing from sight. We have learned from them, and hang-gliders and remote-controlled plane enthusiasts are also taking advantage of the south-wester from the top of the mountain.

A fish eagle from nearby Wildevoelvlei soared overhead yesterday, and it was quite a sight to see this magnificent bird passing slowly by. On our usual walk with the dogs, we were lucky to see a kestrel flying from telephone pole to telephone pole ahead of us, on the lookout for small mammals, and as we crossed over the dried up vlei area, were startled by the swoosh! of a flock of 70 or so small birds turning this way and that like a shoal of fish in perfect synchronisation. I think they may have been canaries - I've never seen them before in the area and they certainly made a spectacular sight. I'm not much of a bird watcher, as I can't focus well enough to see the detail required to identify most small birds, and they may well have been the ubiquitous LBJs! Nevertheless, a treat to behold.

Ba-ba-ba-baboons!

It's been a bit of a sweltering day today. We've had to keep all the doors and windows closed as Big Bobby the lone baboon is very interested in getting into my kitchen. He tried yesterday afternoon, but was too big to fit through the gap of the sliding window. I keep a piece of wood in the groove so that it can't be opened wider than 4 inches, just to let a little fresh air in. The dogs alerted me to his attempts and I shooed him away, so he dropped off the balcony and made for the neighbour. He appeared on the roof a few minutes later and it was very amusing to watch how he scanned the neighbourhood for his next food opportunity. Here is a picture of him, his head just showing above the trees. I later found out he had just trashed the house on the right, even though the owner was home at the time - he couldn't chase him out and every cupboard was opened and the contents strewn about.

About an hour later, his mate turned up and took a couple of onions from the packet on the outside table, then jumped up onto the roof where she obviously found the onions not to her liking and threw them away. It made a tremendous racket, like a bowling ball rolling down an alley. I later found half a green tomato - fortunately I had just picked the two Roma tomatoes I have been nurturing for months in a pot on the balcony, so she dipped out there.

Today there was no sign of Big Bobby until I decided to lie down on a mattress under the trees with a book. As my eyes were closing there was a shout from upstairs, followed by a rustling in the trees. He was back!
Rushed around making sure the fanlights were closed and that was the end of my sleep. Later on, I was cleaning the fountain and replenishing the water, when he strolled past me - I nearly fell into the fountain. They are so quiet, they materialise out of nowhere. Monty was close behind and chased him all the way to the boundary wall, but didn't bark and made sure to keep a safe distance. At least he is learning how not to annoy baboons too much!

I'm sure Big Bobby has been here often. He knows where everything is and is used to the dogs. In those famous words of the Terminator: "I'll be back!"

The wrong queue

I wanted to buy our Lotto tickets at the supermarket, but it is at the checkout for 10 items or less and unless you are in that queue, they basically just ignore you. Only having one basket, I thought, well this only looks like 10 items so I'll take a chance and join the queue to check it out and then I'll be able to get the Lotto at the same time, killing two birds with one stone, so to speak (what a dreadful idiom). As I started to unpack, it became apparent that there were considerably more than 10 items - the basket was a veritable Mary Poppins carpetbag of exciting goodies. The cashier politely told me that the queue was for 10 items etc but by then I had almost unpacked everything so decided there was no going back. "I want to get the Lotto, but you take no notice of me so I've had to come around and join this queue," I said firmly, without looking her in the eye, and continued to unpack. "There can only be about 12 items here..."

Rather than make a scene, she carried on processing the basket-load which was actually only 18 items after all (12 if you count duplicates as one) and I duly paid for it. Then, without daring to look at the man behind me, slid the Lotto forms across the counter. Of course, one of them didn't want to go through, and she had to insert it 5 times before it accepted. By then I was feeling so embarrassed, I almost apologised, but decided to rather take my tickets and two carry bags and just slink out of there without looking up at anybody!

How ridiculous to feel like a criminal just for joining the wrong queue. This is what happens to law-abiding citizens! Let's hope I win the Lotto tonight after all that.

Children's interactions

Strolled up to the local deli for tomatoes today, and stopped for a cappuccino on the way. A group of young boys were playing in a tree house outside the coffee shop, and a younger boy stood at the foot of the ladder, looking up hopefully. His parents were eating breakfast at one of the tables, and the boys in the tree house were local friends. He asked if he could play with them and they said he needed to know the password, because it was a club. After a little discussion, they asked him how old he was, and he said, 'Five', to which the response was, 'You have to be six'. The child almost burst into tears of anger at being the wrong age and stomped back to the comfort of his mother's lap, where she tried to ply him with food, but he wasn't in the least bit interested.

It struck me how cruel children can be and how the parent of one of the children, who was sitting nearby, seemed oblivious of her son's callousness. As I pondered whether to suggest to the kids that this new boy might contribute towards the fun they were having, the outsider took out an electronic device that played movies, and it wasn't two seconds before the boys were out of the tree house and crowded around him like his oldest and best buddies. His mother gave them a hairy eyeball but said nothing and his father held out his hand to retrieve the expensive toy before it could be fingered or dropped, and the next thing, one of the boys was whispering the password to the tree house into the outsider's ear. In no time, he was up that ladder and all was well in the world.

There are some lessons here.

Everything's working again!

The dishwasher is fixed! Turns out the repair man did come yesterday, but my phone was in my pocket, so my leg! was blocking the signal - so much for satellites - the dogs were lurking inside, frightened of baboons, so didn't bark, although I constantly looked through the bathroom window to see whether he had arrived, I must have missed him, Robert was watching the pathetic cricket on the TV and couldn't be bothered to listen for a car in the driveway, we don't have a bell at the gate, and Mr Bosch's car hooter doesn't work. With all that working against us, no wonder he had to eventually give up and leave. Anyway, we sorted it all out in the end and he turned up this morning, took the machine apart, pronounced the filter to be somewhat clogged (a little hygienic maintenance would be in order!) but fortunately also found a minor leak which was the real problem. AEG have all kinds of safety features built into their machines and this is only the second time I have called him out for this particular dishwasher, bought in 1999. Pretty good going for something that works every day.

I then had a flash of inspiration and asked if he knew anything about gas stoves. I have been unable to use 3 of the 5 plates for nearly two years now - I went away for a holiday and when I came back, nothing worked - par for the course when I disappear for a while. Ever since, I have been trying to find the hole where the gas comes out, using acupuncture needles, but have been unable to locate them. Anyway, within 2 seconds he had shown me where the problem was; I wasn't even close in trying to find the holes! He said never clean a gas stove with handy andy (do you think it counts as not naming if I don't use capitals?) as it clogs the holes, use a spray cleaner and gently clear with a needle and allow to dry.

What an exciting day! To have the use of all the plates again, and at no charge, set me in a frenzy of cooking - out came the duck breasts we didn't have at Christmas, a pot of beetroot picked from the farm this morning was set to simmer immediately, and stir-fried vegetables thrown into the wok which can once again take pride of place in its special cradle on the middle plate!

If anyone needs a really good repair man who doesn't charge the earth and will tell you it's only a loose wire without replacing the pump and filter, Mr Bosch of African Electric is your man!

Another aspect of baboon behaviour

It's been a quiet and uneventful day today, with even the wind taking a break and not putting in an appearance. I worked a bit, then pottered in the garden, pruned a few branches, watered. Dishwasher still out of action - technical angels couldn't fix it (obviously doesn't need a miracle!) so had to call the repairman, who unfortunately didn't turn up! Doubtless he will be here tomorrow and all will be well again.

Yesterday I heard that a friend up the road had a lone male baboon in her house, and it was disturbing to hear the tale:  Her daughter was alone upstairs when the baboon strolled in and she picked up a chair to place between her and the baboon. Male baboons are notorious for having no respect for women (yes, a universal failing) and he must have sensed fear. He circled her and then pushed the chair back at her and then threw a bowl of fruit at her. By then her father had rushed up the stairs and chased it out, but one wonders how the baboon learnt that behaviour and those human reactions. It seems that the danger is their reaction to fear and we will now have to be even more vigilant with our doors and windows as baboon behaviour is now an unknown. Possibly the interaction with monitors and a kind of baboon 'tourism' involving walking close to these animals has desensitised them and they no longer require a natural distancing from humans. This is all very sad. It began with people feeding them from cars and treating them as domesticated pets and has taken us along a path which is leading to the inevitable fate of so many animals - extinction because we don't value their place in the ecosystem and consider them lesser beings. Soon there will only be photographs and documentaries of the days when baboons 'terrorised' the suburbs.

Unless, of course, the baboons learn to stay away from humans again as quickly as they learned not to fear them. Perhaps self-preservation will kick in. One can only hope.

A new year dawns

A slightly inauspicious start to 2013! Woke up to a galeforce wind blowing through Kommetjie and decided to take the dogs early for their morning walk down to the lighthouse and along the boardwalk before it really picked up. Upon opening the gate and going out into the road, the sight of all my carefully sorted, cleaned, stored and tied in a bag recycling greeted me, strewn in all directions up and down the street, under bushes and in gutters. Not only that, but the dirt bins hadn't been properly emptied and a packet of bones awaited any loose dog that might be roaming at that time, and the neighbour's rubbish was also all over the front lawn, all signs of the original black bags long dispersed in the wind. As one who cannot bear the sight of any form of litter, this threatened to ruin my day, and I stomped off down the road with Susie, in a hurry to get back to clean up before too many people came by.

I noticed that not one other bag had burst along the road and everyone else's recycling and household refuse was neatly disposed of or intact. I can only conclude that, once again, the dirt truck rode over the bags. (They once rode over the entire wheelie bin (hard to believe, I know!) and left it crushed and split in pieces at the side of the road! I was on to the Council immediately and they delivered a new bin the very next day.) Anyway, after that mess was cleaned up (I declined to pick up the neighbour's nachos and other leftovers) it was on with the business of the day..

I spent a few pleasant hours in the kitchen making onion marmalade, tomato sauce and a quick chicken and veg curry for lunch. I then stuffed everything into the dishwasher and turned that on, while I did a bit of computer work. After about an hour, I said to Robert, what is that sort of rumbling hum? He didn't know, so I followed the sound and found that the dishwasher was stuck in the middle of a cycle, didn't have any water going in or out, and didn't turn off. I had to turn it off at the plug to stop it. Now if there is one thing I cannot do without, it's the dishwasher. So that's a small disaster. I took everything out and washed it all in the sink. I am now resting the dishwasher, and have asked the technical angels to sort it out by tomorrow, failing which He Who Can Fix Anything will take a look.

Apart from that, dinner just came out of the oven, spicy meatballs in a tomato and basil sauce with parmesan.  Mmmm, mmmm, mmmm! So all is not so bad after all.