Dear Santa

Yeah, it’s me...that little girl who cried her eyes out on Christmas morning 1979 when the “Baby Doll In A Rocking Cradle” turned out to be just a crappy cradle. Somebody (no names mentioned) didn’t bother to check the box for its full contents. Do you have any idea what type of elaborate yarn my parents had to spin by me to explain the absence of Baby? Apparently Baby was not well and had to stay in the Babies’ Hospital until after Christmas....conveniently around about the time the shops reopened. When Baby did finally come home, she’d grown blonde hair. I’d specifically requested a brunette Baby, coz, even at the age of 5, I was sick of all the blondes having all the fun.

That was when I first started wondering about you, Santa....you were supposed to be perfect and yet how could you make such a fundamental error? Attention to detail and all that, you know! Most unprofessional! And another thing that bugged me about you as a child was if there’s only one of you and you lived in the North Pole...who were all those Santa-lookalikes, one in every department store? Remember, this was long before they cloned Dolly. More awkward questions for my parents...apparently those other Santas were just your helpers, after all the North Pole is a long way from tropical Africa. They couldn’t quite explain why you brought the rich kids so many more cool toys though...

Anyway, not to dwell on the past, bygones are bye byegones and all that....I’m writing to you this year, Santa, with just one request. It’s quite a Biggie, but it’s not just for me. Here goes...

Could you please get rid of cancer....like eradicate it! It’s really messed up the past year and nearly took my dad away from me twice. Luckily he’s a great fighter and he’s with us for Christmas, coz it was a bit touch and go earlier this year. But now cancer’s picking fights with a lot of my friends’ families too. I know you don’t tolerate bullies and I’d say there’s no bigger bully than the Big C.

And if you possibly have a bit of space in that great sleigh of yours, any chance you could hustle up a pair of witty, intelligent, good-looking guys to fall in love with a couple of equally fabulous but strangely single ladies that I know?

Thanks, Santa!

Have a very merry Christmas
Nat
.....




Happy Christmas to all those who celebrate it and Happy Days Off to those who don't. Hope you get to do many fantastic things...

I'll be back posting more random drivel in 2010, provided I don't loose my fingers in a freak frostbite accident in Norway or get eaten by an Abominable Snowman.

Always look on the bright side of life....

The White Stuff

It sure is pretty outside.....

Odious

A few Christmases back, thanks to an online grocery shopping malfunction, I ended up with 3 kilograms of Brussels sprouts. Why in the name of all things sane and logical I was ordering even one single Brussels sprout eludes my memory. I can only think I got carried away by all the subliminal advertising messages of the season...

MUST GET BRUSSELS SPROUTS....CHRISTMAS IS NOT CHRISTMAS WITHOUT SATAN’S GREEN BALLS.

No one in my family eats them...so come Boxing Day, I was faced with a wheelbarrow load of sprouts...some cooked, some not, some half chewed and spat out. Tempting as it was to dump the whole ugly lot, my conscience pricked...people are starving, dontchaknow? And you’re throwing food out! As I was not in possession of the postal codes of the ravenous masses and therefore could not ship the nutritious little bundles of joy to the Blessed Hungry, I was going to have to come up with a plan....

[Tada, drum roll, fanfare, etc.]

Disguise them as something edible! I cooked up cauldrons of beef stew and vegetable soup, popping the offending articles into the pots when I hoped my taste buds weren’t looking. Good in theory, piss poor in practice....nothing on this earth can blanket out the rank nastiness that is a Brussels sprout.

The end result: foul tasting stew and even fouler soup, both completely inedible. So, instead of consigning a few dodgy veggies to the compost heap, I now had to dispose of several kilograms of stew and a vat of soup....and invest in some heavy duty air fresheners to take care of the pungent odours that filled the house.

Nat's Ode To Brussels Sprouts

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways

I loathe to spy thee lying on my plate

All small and green and round

I detest thee, soggy vegetable

I abhor thy sulphur scent

Boiled or roasted, steamed or fried

I hate thee for thou bitter taste

It makes me gag and twist my face

And later I hate thou even more

When two hours on, the air turns poor.

OK, poetry is not my strong point. But why do I hate Brussels sprouts so much? According to reliable sources, a gene that modern humans share with Neanderthals makes some people super-tasters of a bitter chemical called phenylthiocarbamide (PTC). Substances similar to PTC confer the tart taste to Brussels sprouts, broccoli and cabbage, and, as they are also present in some poisonous plants, having distaste for them makes evolutionary sense. For those of you that love the little devils, Go Ape!

Christmases Past

The very first thing that I learnt when I came to live in the UK was: Never use the word "pants" when refering to your trousers, as this can lead to embarrassing situations. For example, on a windy day, saying "I'm glad I wore pants!" (as opposed to a skirt) implies that you would typically Go Commando. On the other hand, if something is described as being pants, it means it's going horribly wrong, as in "This weather is pants!".....which brings me nicely onto the second thing I learnt.

British people have a love/hate relationship with the weather in general, and in particular with snow. It doesn’t actually snow very often (at least not down in the south), so there is great excitement when the white stuff does make a rare appearance. That excitement is pretty quickly replaced with collective annoyance as the country rapidly grinds to a halt....airports close, the transport system packs up shop and Davina McCall is forced to spend the night in her car, her fingers frozen to her iPhone as she bravely “tweets” through adversity to reassure loving fans she is still alive.

Nonetheless, snow at Christmas time is highly desired... but most years, the bookies profit while the nation’s hopes of a Dickensian scene are dashed. This year, expectations are greater than usual ...the snow that fell three days ago is still lying on the ground with more predicted to be on the way. Will this be the year we finally get to experience a "white Christmas"...or will all our dreams turn to slush?

After growing up in the southern hemisphere, where Christmas lands slap bang in the middle of summer, it took me a couple of years to get used to this reversal of seasons. Christmas days of my childhood were likely spent gathered around the pool, and lunch was typically cold ham or chicken and salads, or a barbeque/braai, depending on your cultural leanings. My family often spent Christmas on holiday in South Africa, on the southern KwaZulu-Natal coast. For landlocked Zimbos, going “Down South” was lekker, man... a holiday of sun, surf and sand and the opportunity for a shopping spree. In the early 1980s, everything was scarce in Zimboland...toothpaste, light bulbs, toilet paper (I shit you not!). People horded basic goods and everyone knew someone who had just returned from South Africa and was selling tins of sardines or Oil of Ulay at inflated prices.

My parents had a Citroen DS,  like this one....

Equipped with a massive boot, spacious back seat and hydropneumatic self-leveling suspension, the DS was perfect for carting goodies back over the border. Laden down with all our Christmas presents and a year’s supply of tinned fish, dried fruit and toiletries, it’s a wonder the weight of the car didn’t break Alfred Beit Bridge, landing us all in the croc-infested waters of the Limpopo.

One of the most traumatic events of my early life occurred during one such shopping spree, at a large department store in Durban. My parents went off to buy our Christmas presents, leaving me in the care of my older brother....only he wandered away in search of Scalextric cars and I was suddenly all alone.

Terrified, I started running up and down the shop aisles desperately looking for my Mummy....and ran straight into the arms of a burly shop assistant. He took me, screaming and struggling, to the store’s office, where the store manager tried to find out my name so that he could send out a message to my parents over the PA system. I was offered bags of sweets, but I was having none of it.....didn’t my mom always say I was not to talk to strangers? Well this candy-touting dude looked pretty strange to me and I took my mom’s instructions to heart (at the age of 6, I punched the doctor who was trying to examine me as my mom also said I was never to let anyone touch me).

Eventually, the store manager made an announcement that a little girl with long dark hair, wearing pink shorts and a purple top, and refusing to talk is looking for her mom and dad. Luckily, my parents immediately realised that little girl was me and were over to fetch me in seconds. As for my errant brother, he was unperturbed by my absence and then highly disappointed that I’d turned down the offer of unlimited sweets.

Aren’t brothers just the best?

Friday's Funny Feline Foto

Yeah, yeah....I'm destroying the last vestiges of the Queen's English with my F-Word thing going on here, but...

It's Friday.....lighten up!

Warning! Contains Nuts

As today is our eighth year wedding anniversary, I’m going to indulge in some nostalgic thoughts with my take on this meme that’s been circulating in bloggersphere....

1. Where/How did you meet? As students, through a mutual friend (who now entrusts us to be godparents of his youngest...little does he know we’ll be relaying stories of his wild youth when she’s ready to handle them). We met at dinner, B opened the conversation with an insult, I retaliated and we haven’t let up since as both of us are determined to have the last word. Suppose whoever outlives the other will finally take the crown....

2. How long have you known each other? Almost 15 years.

3. How long after you met did you start dating? A couple of months.

4. Who asked whom out? It was a vague agreement. There were a lot of crossed wires at the time...

5. Where was your first date? Cavendish Square, Cape Town.... a movie, “Shawshank Redemption”, followed by KFC....he sure knew how to treat a lady!

6. What is your song? Bryan Adams, “Summer of ‘69”....can you believe Cheesy Disco Man played that at my office Xmas do? Suppose it is a rather cheesy song...

7. How long did you date before you were engaged? We were officially shacked up together after two years...engaged four years later.

8. Who proposed and how? It was a mutual agreement....he’d brought up the possibility a few times but I wasn’t ready until the end of my student days was in sight. I did make him go down on one knee and ask me properly in the end...

9. How old were you when you got married? We were both 27.

10. Where was your wedding? The Wild Rose Country Lodge, Noordhoek. We were married in the herb courtyard under a baking hot sun.

11. How many people were in your wedding party? Just two – best man and best woman.

12. Are you still friends with them all? Best man is the best friend anyone could ever have...he flew out to Cape Town from London for our wedding and then put up with us squatting in his flat for 6 whole months when we first moved to the UK.  We don’t get to see him often enough...he has a lot of clocks to wind...oh, and a newborn son to look after.

Best woman remains a special, faraway friend.

13. How many people came to your wedding reception? We kept it small at 40, just close friends and immediate family.

14. What did you serve for your meal? We got married early in the morning, so it was breakfast...as in fruit, muffins, pastries, bacon, sausage and eggs, with champagne and orange juice followed by tea/coffee and cake.

15. What kind of cake did you serve? Carrot cake covered with butter icing and fresh cherries and strawberries. I baked the cake myself, but as there was no time to make it fresh the day before the wedding, I made it the month before and froze it. I did a trial run first though, just to be sure....baked the cake and froze it for the same length of time, then defrosted and got everyone to taste. Yes, a tad OCD...but that’s me.

16. Most special moment of your wedding day? It was all special...great to have all family and friends from near and far all together.

17. Any funny moments? I’d guessed correctly that my dad was going to bring up the issue of lobolo as a joke during his speech. He said he’d calculated that B owed him as least 10,000 head of cattle (or nearest cash offer) for his bride. B responded that he’d done some of his own calculations; based on the exchange rate to the Zimbabwean dollar (which was about one thousand billion million to the British pound by then...and it hadn’t hit free fall yet). So he reckoned “a tenner should just about cover it”, and pulled out a £10 note. To this day, B still harps on about "buying" me for £10 and he thinks he may have overpaid, etc, etc.

18. Any big disasters? Does half of the guests suffering sunstroke during the ceremony qualify as a disaster?

Minor panic when the Marriage Registrar arrived with his wife in tow, despite telling us she would not be able to attend the reception...luckily there was an extra place setting as one of my friend’s husband became an ex-husband between the time of invitation and the wedding, and he decided he would not grace us with his presence.

19. Describe your wedding outfit. I wore a powder blue suit...skirt and fitted jacket with silk camisole and silver sandals.

20. What kind of flowers did you have at your wedding? Some friends got married two days before us and they donated the flowers from their church service (two huge arrangements of white lilies still beautiful and fresh) that we placed in the courtyard for the ceremony. My mother-in-law arranged little bowls of red and pink Namaqualand daisies, interspersed with reeds sprayed with gold paint for the tables. I carried a dozen roses.

21. Where did you go on your honeymoon? We spent the night at the Wild Rose, then went back to our flat to pack up our sparse belongings and hand over the keys to the new owners. A week later, we flew out to London to start our new life. Six years later we treated ourselves to a fortnight's “honeymoon” in the Maldives.

22. Greatest challenge as a couple? Probably moving over to the UK, trying to settle down and find jobs, etc. Thankfully, we had loads of support from Best Man.

23. Greatest strength as a couple? We complement each other...he’s calm but can be grumpy. I panic and worry but remain upbeat. We make each other laugh... a lot!

I did warn you this post contains nuts!

Christmas Karaoke

It's that time of the year again when Christmas songs from decades past fill the airwaves....the gravelly tones of '70s Glam Rockers Slade, Pretty Boy Pop in the shape of Wham (when George Michael had a perm and was still pretending to be straight), a medley of squeaky clean tunes from Sir Cliff, and Band Aid in all its worthy forms are dusted off and given their annual airing.

Bad hair and clothes were big by Christmas 1973, and this song ruled. I was in utero at the time and would grace the world with my presence in just four short weeks' time....



In recent years, there's been no contest for the UK's Christmas Number One spot....it's been a given that the single of the winner of X Factor (its release conveniently timed to simultaneously line the shop shelves and Simon Cowell's pockets the week before Christmas) will go straight to the top.

But this year, X Factorite Joe McElderry's cover of 'The Climb' (Miley Cyrus) is facing some unprecedented competition from Rage Against The Machine's 'Killing In The Name', thanks to an anti-X Factor Facebook campaign that already boasts over 40,000 supporters.

So which would you choose? This one......



Or this....?



Personally, neither! My favourite Christmas song is this one from The Darkness - I love the way these guys just take the piss....

The Early Worm

Savage Chickens found HERE

The Seventh Deadly Sin

SLOTH!

It's been a bad week on the Getting Fit For Norway front.... a walk on Sunday post the Christmas party binge really doesn't even count and I'd be exaggerating if I claimed I've done half an hour in total on the bike.

I'm not looking for excuses for my complete lack of self discipline...well, actually, sod it!...I am...

1. Having a lingering, hacking cough that's been keeping anyone within a 5 mile radius awake at night has not been condusive to me hauling my (sizeable) lazy ass out of my warm bed in the morning to face the arctic blasts outside (OK, it's about 5C at the moment but its dropping daily).
2.  A bit of extra padding will be handy for keeping me warm in the subzero Nordic temperatures and the fatter the ass the softer the fall onto it....and I'm sure I'll be spending quite a bit of time on my rump in the snow.
3. Sloths are actually cute creatures...

A Bad Bout of Hypochondriatis

Savage Chickens found HERE

 

To say that my granny was obsessed with her health throughout her 80 years on this earth would probably be an understatement. For most of the time I knew her, she was never a very well person and she was on a potentially lethal cocktail of drugs for a multitude of ailments. In her last days, she was really ill with a failing heart, and was almost bent double from osteoporosis, which I now realise was thanks to her not getting HRT after a full hysterectomy aged just 34. But hey, it was the 1950s and what did they know?

I think my granny was actually quite a lonely person, and her preoccupation with illnesses filled the void and earned her some much craved attention. By the time my grandfather passed away and granny came to live with us in the mid 1980s, she had only two friends left in the country...all the others had either emigrated and lost touch or popped their clogs. One of those two friends was a former Follies dancer, now almost crippled with arthritis and not able to move out of her care home, but still lively in mind and spirit. The other old dear was quite mobile, but shared my granny’s passion for all things relating to bad health. When the two of them got together, they would talk for hours about ill they had been, were currently and expected to be in the near future.

I reckon you can talk yourself ill.

One day, my granny had been to the doctor for her monthly check-up....always a bit of a highlight for someone so keen on discussing her own health. She came home in particularly high spirits that day and announced that the doctor had told her she had malaria. We were puzzled...sure malaria is rife in Zimbabwe, but not in the capital city where we lived....and definitely not during the dry season (and the dust bowl pretending to be a garden was a bit of a giveaway that the rains had yet to arrive).

My granny was adamant she had a tropical fever: “I feel all hot one minute and cold the next!”. Naturally concerned, my mom phoned the doctor to confirm. He was as astonished as we were, “Malaria?! Well, she must have caught that between my office and home, as I’m treating her for arrhythmia!” In her haste to get to her doctor’s appointment that morning, my granny had forgotten to put in her hearing aid. Now it all made sense...

Could have been worse, I suppose...she could have gone to him suffering with a Glue-Ear, and come away telling everyone she had a bad case of diarrhoea...or even worse... gonorrhoea!

It’s been 10 years since my granny passed away. I wish I’d gotten to know her better, but I didn’t...as I was foolish and selfish in my youth and believed there were many better ways to spend my days than chatting to an old and (sometimes awkward) lady.

May she rest in peace and good health.

10 Things I Learnt At My Office Christmas Party

Inspired by Being Brazen, who regularly posts lists about her weekend, here’s one from me....

1. Not even Tyra Banks could "work" a paper Christmas hat.

2. A roomful of adults are easily entertained by party poppers and screeching rocket balloons whizzing overhead.

3. White and dark chocolate delice with raspberry and vanilla compote is a delicious dessert.

4. An office "Christmas do" is not a party without a disco cheesier than a toasted emmental and brie sandwich.

5. Two glasses of wine are enough to get me onto the dance floor of such a disco.

6. These days, two glasses of wine are also enough to give me a hangover from hell the next day.

7. Kings of Leon, 50 Cent, Chesney Hawkes and Marilyn Manson make for an eclectic mix of sounds....and some bizarre dance routines.

8. My Heavy-Metal-loving husband knows all the moves to The Macarena...and (with the right amount of alcohol in him) will happily demonstrate them on the dance floor.

9. There is no greater feeling than dancing in stockinged feet after 4 hours on 4 inch stiletto heels.

10. Cameras should be banned at functions involving alcohol, dancing and  workmates who are also your friends on FaceBook.

It's Friday!

Crimes of Plastic

I recently came across this quote that I thought I would do well to try and live by, in an attempt to curb my highly neurotic personality trait....

“The chief danger in life is that you may take too many precautions.” ALFRED ADLER (1870-1937) Austrian psychiatrist.

Huh! What did ol’ Alfred know? Clearly I didn’t take enough protective measures when flashing my credit card around cyberspace....some conniving little toe-rag out there has been using my details to fund their own dodgy transactions. Serves me right for extolling the virtues of online shopping on here last week...it’s come back to take a mighty big chunk out of my fat rump.

Luckily my credit card company were on the ball and put the brakes on before the Lunch-Is-On-Nat brigade could get out of the parking lot. Hassle, hassle, hassle....it’ll take a good 10 days before my card is restored. I’m thankful that I’ve done all my Christmas shopping and shopped till my fingers dropped, stocking up on thermal socks and undies to ward off the subzero temperatures of Norway. Otherwise, how would I cope?

Life's about film stars and less about mothers

It's all about fast cars and cussing each other

But it doesn't matter cause I'm packing plastic

And that's what makes my life so f***ing fantastic

And I am a weapon of massive consumption

And it's not my fault it's how I'm programmed to function

I'll look at The Sun and I'll look in The Mirror

I'm on the right track yeah we're onto a winner

[Lily Allen, The Fear]

And Now For Some Good News...

My dad saw his oncologist today...12 cycles of chemo down and he has responded well and the cancer is being held at bay. He'll be having a bit of a break from the noxious chemicals to give his body some time to recover, before the next round.

It's a happy day!

Analyse Me

It was a fairly dull weekend, watching paint dry....seriously...we’ve have been revamping the bathroom and downstairs cloakroom. Anyway, I took the BBC’s Big Personality Test, which works out your ‘Big Five’ personality traits, namely...

Openness - how receptive you are to novel ideas, creative experiences and different values.

Conscientiousness - to what extent you are organised, strategic and forward-planning.

Extroversion - how inclined you are to experience positive emotions and how attracted you are to social, stimulating experiences.

Agreeableness - to what extent you are concerned about the feelings of others and how easily you form bonds with people.

Neuroticism - to what extent you react to perceived threats and stressful situations.

Here’s how I scored:

Here's the blurb that came with the result...think it should be taken with a hefty dose of  "Let's not take this too seriously now":

1. Openness: Low score

"This trait is sometimes known as ‘Openness to experience’. People with scores like yours tend to have a less broad range of interests. They usually stick to what they know rather than being overly enthusiastic about trying new things. You may find that generating lots of imaginative ideas is not your biggest strength. It has been suggested that Openness is related to a person's likelihood to hold unusual beliefs. People with low-to-medium Openness may therefore be less likely to believe in things like conspiracy theories."

Nat: OK, so, basically, I’m a boring old fart....although I’ll try most things once, often with disastrous outcomes (such as paragliding and skiing). No plans to go skydiving or bungee jumping or go running off to join the "Elvis Is Alive and Lives in Area 51" followers.

2. Conscientiousness: Medium score

"Conscientiousness describes how dependable, organised and hard-working a person is likely to be. This may be the reason why, of all the personality traits, Conscientiousness is the most consistent indicator of job success. People with scores like yours are less likely to be workaholics, instead achieving a good work-life balance."

Nat: Probably true...I’d say my work is important, but I don’t live to work. I will get a job done, on time and properly, but I know when to call it a day.

"Conscientiousness often gives clues to the amount that a person plans. You probably enjoy planning aspects of your life and may indulge in occasional list-making, but you are unlikely to be averse to behaving spontaneously."

Nat: I’ve been known to do a bit of planning in my time....I recall my soon-to-be-father-in-law joking that I’d planned our wedding in finer detail than the D-Day Landings at Normandy were ever planned.

"Some studies have shown the more Conscientious an individual is, the more disciplined they are likely to be about exercise and diet."

Nat: Ummm.....I’m working on it.....

3. Extroversion: Medium score

"Extroversion is characterised by positive emotions and the tendency to seek out pleasure-stimulating or risk-taking activities. People with scores like yours are likely to be comfortable meeting new people and will usually enjoy social occasions. You are likely to have a generally positive outlook on life and may display a greater gift for leadership compared to those with low scores on this trait."

Nat: True to a point....I think.

4. Agreeableness: Medium score

"Agreeableness measures how sympathetic and considerate a person is likely to be. People with scores like yours are likely to show concern for the feelings of others and will be inclined to help those in need. You probably find it easy to get along with most people, but you won't be averse to speaking your mind."

Nat: I'd say I get on with most people and have found a way to work with some very difficult personality types. I think I was a lot more sarcastic and argumentative in my 20s, more likely to have a heated debate with someone with a strongly different opinion. I came across a lot of chauvinism early on in my life and I still have no tolerance for it.
5. Neuroticism: High score

"In the context of the Big Five personality traits, the term 'Neuroticism' relates to a person’s response to threatening or stressful situations. People with scores like yours may find that they often feel tense or anxious, and may well experience changeable moods."

Nat: Me...tense or anxious....never!


"Some scientists have suggested that Neuroticism was beneficial in evolutionary terms. Early man may have found it advantageous to live in a population where certain individuals had a high sensitivity to threats to the group's survival."

Nat: So, I would have been the one keeping an eye out for rampaging woolly mammoths....or sabre toothed tigers prowling outside the cave?

"There is evidence to suggest that Neuroticism, when combined with high scores in personality traits such as Conscientiousness, can result in a powerful work ethic and a will to succeed."

Me: Well, at least we end on a positive note (see Extroversion).

'Tis The Season To Get Fit

OK, I really need to up my fitness level with immediate effect. One month today we fly to Norway for a week of snow-related activities...we’ll be snow-shoeing most days, but there’s the chance to try cross-country skiing (at which I’m fairly confident I’ll be pathetically rubbish) and (most excitingly!) dog sledding. There’s even the very slim chance we may see the Northern Lights.

I’m not the most athletic of persons, but I do a fair bit of walking most days and have been on some quite hectic hikes in recent years (most notably the Alpine treks with the sadistic Swedish guide back in 2007 described here). I accidentally discovered snow-shoeing when the skiing part of the Christmas 2003 holiday with J and M in the French Alps didn’t really go that well for me. Might have been something to with having to be rescued off a mountain...in a blizzard...with suspected concussion...on the first day we actually hit the slopes.

Never one to do things in half measures, I was pretending to ski when I fell on the piste, whacking my head rather hard. I’d already fallen over a dozen times...even once forwards onto my face, which is apparently almost impossible to do on skis, but I did it! This was a particularly hard thwack on the back of my head, though, and, as I lay on the frozen ground, dazed and wondering which way was up or down, it started snowing very hard. That was it! I completely lost my nerve and could not face the trip back down to the chalet on my own steam. The ski lifts were now closed due to the inclement weather and everyone was hurrying to get off the slopes. We were going to have to get help or things could get scary....so experienced skier J shot off down the mountain, and soon came back with Rescue Man and his orange ski stretcher. He asked me “Do you have travel insurance?” [stupid question for a paranoid, pessimistic planner!] “Bon! Because this is the most expensive taxi ride you’ll ever take!” And at 300 euros for a few hundred metres, I should hope it was!

Rescue Man: Just lie down here

Me: You gotta be shittin' me!

To the great amusement of B, J and M (and to my mortification) I was strapped and tightly bound, like an Egyptian mummy, into the stretcher, and then dragged down the slope at high speed, behind Winter Olympics Downhill Skiing Champion aka Rescue Man. If I didn’t have concussion before that ride, I definitely had it afterwards, as my head hit every stone and tree root hidden under the snow on the way down. What was worse, the vibrations from our rapid descent caused my ski goggles to work their way up my face and the frame dug into my eye sockets....but with my arms tied to my chest, there was nothing I could do. The ski stretcher came to an abrupt halt in trendy Courchevel resort, where the Dior ski suits mingle with Prada. Everyone stopped and stared....orange stretchers usually meant broken limbs. I staggered to my feet. I was in a right state by now.... shaking from adrenaline, only partially sighted from the eye gouging of the goggles and frozen to the core, with icicles forming in my hair.

Rescue Man took me into the first aid office and proceeded to quiz me (in French) about the school my father attended and how many cats my great aunt Doris had...I later worked out he was checking me for memory loss. Luckily J was with me and she’s fluent in French (and Spanish) so she could interpret. I’d forgotten how to speak English, never mind any French I’d acquired at school. By now I was rapidly defrosting in the heat of the office, leaving a pool of water on the floor. I had to complete a form...wish I’d made a copy of it as a souvenir before I sent it to my insurers as it was filled out in the shaky, spidery writing of an octogenarian, with the watermarks of a dozen drops that dripped from my hair and onto the page.

I decided there and then that downhill skiing was not my bag, and that I would have to find some other winter activity to fill my week. And thus I discovered snow-shoeing...what a pleasure! Forget the rat run of the ski slopes.....snow-shoeing is the civilised way to enjoy snow. Breaking trails through virgin snow, trekking silently over crisp fields and through fairytale forests, pausing to sip wine and nibble cheese provided by the snow-shoe guide, while surrounded by absolute calm and breathtaking scenery. Best part: you can go downhill on your butt when faced with a hairy descent....

A slightly undignified descent!

I reckon you need to learn to ski when you’re young and fearless and have a flexible body, say around 7 or 8.....not the wrong side of 30 when the sense of mortality has kicked in and when hurtling downhill on a pair of skis not much wider than a ruler does not seem like a particularly sensible way to travel. Looking back now, I realise skiing is a lot more dangerous than I’d thought and I was crazy to be anywhere but on the nursery slopes until I’d had many more lessons. Every year, people are seriously injured when skiing (I personally know 3 people who have had long-term hospital stays and been off work for months after a slip on the slopes). Tragically, earlier this year, Natasha Richardson died following a head injury sustained when she fell during a skiing lesson in Canada.

But on that sad note, it’s time to whip my cold, lethargic butt into shape....dust off the exercise bike and do daily squats.

I’ll let you know how it goes...

An Ode To Broadband

The internet....what would we do without it? Well, we wouldn’t be blogging for one thing. There’d be no email, no online shopping or gaming or dating or banking....no social networking (Face who? Twit whatever!). Patience would become a necessity, not a virtue, in a world where information was no longer available at a key stroke or mouse click and we’d be flexing our muscles to lift all those huge books through which we’d now need to trawl just to find out a fact that was probably out of date before it went into print.

I’m the first to admit I would have a quite miserable time if I was to be disconnected, permanently. My job would be very different or nonexistent...and I’d certainly have to get in my car and drive into the office every day, not just dial up into my work server.

My reliance on the internet came on gradually...a bit like those extra pounds that have crept onto my middle. It all started at university with email, then surfing the web and sourcing information from online journals...moved to internet shopping, and now, it’s my first port of call for banking, booking holidays, finding a restaurant, even booking a medical appointment. I am constantly amazed by just what can be arranged over the internet....

Like getting a flat tyre changed today...no need to stress, huff and puff changing to the spare one then driving about, trying to find a garage. Just a quick search to find a tyre supplier/fitter, tap in the details....and pretty soon Tyre Man was on my doorstep, ready to replace the punctured one and balance the wheels. Done before you can say Google 100 times....OK, maybe if you said it really fast, but then you may be mistaken for a turkey, possibly not a good idea if you’re anywhere near the U S of A today.

We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in the UK, but I sure am thankful for the internet...today and every day.

I'm the Party Pooper

Darn!

Despite all my OCD attempts to stave off the disease-spreading microbes that go rampaging this time of the year...like washing my hands 200 times a day, overdosing on Vitamin C and avoiding anyone who has even the faintest hint of a sniffle...it appears some ballsy little bugs have made it through the antiseptic barrier, and taken up residence in the back of my throat. They’re currently throwing a Block Party in my sinuses (as in “block-them-up”) and have tapped into my cranial nerves to power their stereo beat box, which is cranked at full volume inside my head....or at least that’s what it feels like!

In retaliation, I’m going for the Vaporise Plan of Action: exterminate the little sods with a constant onslaught of hot lemon and honey infusions, coupled with regular bouts of steam inhalation.

With a bit of luck, they won’t be back....

Lost In Translation

I’ve been back on the ‘figuring out the foreign language’ lark at work this last week....this time it’s a mixture of Spanish and Portuguese, and the documents have actually been translated...well sort, but we still have to trawl through thousands of pages and decipher some of the oddities of the translation process. Sadly, the documents are more concerned with the legal aspects of running clinical trials, so it’s just a shed load of ethical jargon...pretty mind numbing stuff and almost certainly no use to me on my travels.

My grasp of Spanish is very poor...it should actually be a bit better considering I lived in Barcelona for 3 months, a decade ago. My PhD dissertation was in collaboration with the University of Barcelona's School of Pharmacy, who very generously sponsored me to go over and spend time in their labs, using their high tech equipment to figure out the chemical structures of the compounds I was extracting from herbal medicines. Your eyes are most probably glazing over by now, so enough already of the Geek Speak. Suffice to say it was a golden opportunity, academically, and the sole reason I managed to finish and publish my doctorate in less than 4 years. I was thrilled by the chance to travel overseas...I’d been to the UK with my family as a child, but mainland Europe was an unknown entity.

It was also one the hardest times of my life - the longest time I had ever spent away from B, and I felt very isolated in a city where few people spoke my mother tongue. I stayed in a students’ residential hall, in the section reserved for visiting post grad students and guest lecturers. Other guests came and went daily....it was just me there for the longish run. I had a reasonably nice room with en suite bathroom and there was a communal lounge and kitchenette at the end of the corridor. So I was comfortable, just incredibly lonely. During the week, I worked really long hours, never leaving the lab much before 9 every night. The other students (mainly South Americans) were all very friendly....we’d all break for coffee around 5 in the evening and get together in the student cafe for a bit of a gossip. They all spoke fairly good English and wanted to talk to me to practise as much as possible, which was great... it just meant I didn’t learn much Spanish!

But when the weekends came round, I was pretty much on my own and that’s when I felt the isolation. I would spend all my free time exploring Barcelona...I grew to love the city and got to know it very well. As I was on a really tight budget, I tried to walk everywhere, only using the Metro when I was venturing really far from my res. All this exercise meant I lost a load of weight (two bouts of a particularly nasty stomach bug also helped) and I felt very fit by the end of the 3 months. I had a few close shaves when I wandered into some dodgy neighbourhoods, and once I was followed for over an hour by an even dodgier looking man, but on the whole I felt safe and just seemed to blend in with the locals....to the extent that tourists were always coming up to me and asking me if I spoke English and if I knew the way to the train station. Most days I was generous and helped them out; once or twice I pretended “No entiendo” (one of the few Spanish phrases I did pick up) shaking my head tragically.

Parc Guell

One day, I helped a lady of Chinese descent find her way to the Placa Catalunya. She turned to me and said “You speak good Engrish...where you from?” I’d given up telling people I was originally from Zimbabwe (this just drew blank faces), so I answered “South Africa”, as it is the one African country most people seem to know and technically, I was representing my South African university, my home for 9 years. To my astonishment, the lost tourist’s jaw dropped and she blurted out “South Africa? But you can’t be.....you white!” How do you respond to that? Do you query “If there are no white people in South Africa, how did apartheid work then and why did Nelson Mandela have to walk a long road to freedom?”. Tempted as I was to reply: “Well you see, I was black when I left but as soon as landed in Europe, I turned as white as snow”, I bit my tongue. Some people are just best left alone to mull over their own ignorance.

Sagrada Familia

Years later, after we’d moved to the UK, I returned to Barcelona with B for a long weekend to celebrate our sixth wedding anniversary. I’d been itching to show him the city I’d explored that lonely Spring back in 1999. Isn’t it sad when you build up a place to be so wonderful....and it fails to deliver? Don’t get me wrong, we had a great weekend... but to me, Barcelona had changed. It had become far more tourist-orientated, scarily expensive and it all felt a bit tired. It probably didn’t help that almost all the city’s landmarks (those architectural wonders I’d raved about) were covered in scaffolding for repairs (Gaudi’s unfinished Sagrada Familia excluded....we expected to find scaffolding there!), so she wasn’t looking her best. Maybe we picked the wrong time of year (mid December is freezing cold!) or maybe I’d become jaded from all the travelling we’d done in the interim, but somehow the magic just wasn’t there for me anymore.

The one thing that hadn’t changed though....the delicious hot chocolate! Spanish hot chocolate is the best in the world....gooey, thick, creamy and really, really chocolatey.....

And amazingly, the Spanish Chocolate company is now marketing their gorgeous product in the UK. I picked up a tin last week in Tesco....and it’s the real stuff! Chocolate heaven....and not really  all that indulgent at a surprisingly low 91 calories a cup...yummmeeee!

Holy Moley!

I have a lot of moles....

No, not the furry little creatures that dig up your lawn...but the brown spots that may turn ugly and grow into melanomas. Since my dad was diagnosed with cancer earlier this year, I’ve become a lot more aware of the dreaded disease in all its devious shapes and forms. B has also been nagging me the past couple of years to “get that thing checked out, it’s growing”, referring to a particularly large one that I’ve worn on my neck all my life. There was a time in my youth when I vainly (in all senses of the word) hoped it could be considered a beauty spot à la Cindy Crawford....

Given that my childhood was spent playing barefooted/ faced/legged/armed under a hot African sun... and that my fair skin freckles the moment I step into the sunshine...my GP decided to refer me to a dermatologist. Joy and delight, this meant a trip to our local hospital today, but I did feel a huge sense of relief to be given the all clear from a Mole Guru. It’ll be SPF 50+ from here onwards...

Quick update on my dad:

He started his 12th chemo cycle today and is still going strong....he is an amazingly resilient man. We will know more about his progress after his scan and oncology appointment the week after next.

Child's Play

This past weekend, our 16-month-old goddaughter came to visit with her parents and 4-year-old sister. A and M are really delightful children - sweet natured, fun to be around and easy to please. It was the first time, however, that they were coming to stay overnight and we weren’t too sure what to expect. True to form, I went for the “Plan to the Last Detail” option...so in anticipation of their visit, we’d stocked up on what we hoped would be suitable tots’ fare (fish fingers, mini pizzas, frozen peas and chocolate yoghurt pots), we’d dug out all the animated DVDs we own and had researched suitable (hopefully fun) activities in the area.

Within seconds of their arrival, our usually neat and uncluttered childfree couple’s home was snowed under the metric tonne of (necessary) paraphernalia that seems to accompany small people....bright pink and purple miniature coats and dinky boots lined in the hallway, toys and books were strewn across the lounge, a rainbow of plastic plates, non-spill cups and cutlery occupied half the kitchen work surface and there was a game of furniture tetris being played out in the guest bedroom, to accommodate the travel cot and inflatable mattress that had been added to the residential twin beds, wardrobe and sets of drawers.

Their visit coincided with the worst storm to hit Britain in a year...so anything outdoors was ruled out on the Saturday. Instead we took them to an indoor “soft play” centre with loads of slides, ropes and ball pools....and (thankfully) a coffee shop where adults can take refuge. Anyone contemplating parenthood should probably be required to visit places like this as a training exercise....or perhaps an acid test to see if they can hack it. I certainly took strain from the assault on the senses of hordes of excited children letting off steam, tots throwing tantrums left and right (not our party of course!)....and from getting bombarded from all angles by flying plastic pool balls. Quite literally, an in-your-face reminder of why I’m happy to remain on the sidelines as an auntie and godmother, but no more.

The girls had a fabulous time playing and were worn out by the end of the afternoon...which meant they happily had supper, were bathed and in bed well before 7 pm, leaving their exhausted parents (and even wearier godparents) to spend some adult time together. A chicken was roasting in the kitchen oven, we were onto the second bottle of wine and, as it was a chilly night, we thought we’d fire up our rarely used gas stove for a cosy ambience. Pretty soon, a plume of grey smoke started billowing out the front of the stove. At first I didn’t take too much notice, quelling our friends' curious looks, with “Don’t worry; it normally does that, just a bit of dust burning off the surface of the coals”. However, when dense black fumes started filling the lounge, I decided to take a closer look and spied what appeared to be a foil package smouldering on the top of the oven. The package turned out to be a pack of blackcurrant vitamin pastilles, slowly melting into a pool of burnt sugar. It was probably “posted” through the slot at the top of the stove by one of the girls at some point earlier in the day. No serious damage done....once the stove had cooled down and the top plate removed, the congealed syrupy mess could be easily scrapped away. There is a prevailing smell of chargrilled blackcurrants that will probably be with us for a while yet.

By Sunday, the weather had cleared and we were all keen for a bit of fresh air and sunshine. For the first time in the five years we’ve been living in our village, we went down to our local park so the girls could play on the swings...I say girls, but we all had a go, including their 6-foot-7-inches tall Daddy (his legs tucked awkwardly underneath the swing bucket). Not surprisingly, I haven’t been on a swing for a few decades. I found it quite exhilarating....the wind in your hair, the feeling of (almost) flying....it transported me right back to my childhood. Does give a whole new spin on having a “swinging weekend” though...

Third Time Lucky

It's the third one for 2009!

La Dolce Vita - Part IV

Our last day dawned full of promise. Not a cloud in the sky, the rainwaters had receded and the coastal road had reopened. This would be our last shot at taking the Amalfi Drive...apparently also on the agenda for everyone else visiting Sorrento that day. There was a bit of a queue for the local bus service, but we struck it lucky and were first onto the second bus that pulled in, thereby securing seats on the good side (the sheer drop down the cliffs side). Spare a thought for those standing all the way - it takes around an hour and a half  to reach Amalfi....that's 90 minutes of heart-stopping, white-knuckle-inducing driving, with rapid breaking, frequent hooting and the odd tense stand-off between the bus driver and oncoming drivers. But the scenery is really stunning....

Once in Amalfi, we spent a couple of hours exploring the magnificent Duoma (cathedral) and the old streets, then had lunch in a traditional trattoria, just off the main touristy bit.

Duomo, Amalfi

Amalfi

Back on the bus to Sorrento....

As it was the last night of the holiday, the hotel laid on a special candle-lit dinner with a staggering six courses, and live entertainment in the shape of a suprisingly good pianist and tenor. A perfect end to a fabulous week.