(Photo from: http://commongood.org.za/2014/08/07/the-day-that-rock-beat-paper)
It doesn’t take a lot to make me feel guilty. I’m symbolic of guilt, all the 20th Century evil is combined in me. I’m a white, German speaking South African. My grandfather served in the SS. I grew up in a Nat household. We had. Others had not. But I was blissfully unaware of that.
Whoever came up with that unprecedented Nike catch phrase must have referred to writer’s block. I’m no writer, not by any stretch of the imagination. And if you were my keyboard you would know that as I was typing the word writer, I did in fact accidentally, or Freudiadentally type right, as I am so often wrong. And then, er, backspaced and you see the result on the page, innocently hiding my glitch. Thank you Mr Gates et al. Continue reading
As a child I wanted to be a vet. For many, many years this was all that made any sense to me. Then, alas I became a teenager and so forth and the common sense and logic of the child evaporated from my brain leading me into the stupidity that is being an adult. Continue reading
So you may not know this, but I recently partook of a series of most unfortunate events.
For most of my life I’ve wrestled with a conflict. Sexism is probably my pet hate. Bring me a man who thinks he’s superior to me purely on the strength of his gender and I get so hot under the collar I could spit. And I have spat on occasions making me an unpopular choice for dinner parties and earning me a “bra-burner” label quite often. I’ve been told I hate men. I don’t suffer fools gladly and if the fool turns out to be a mysoginistic man I can’t help myself, I just see red. And there’s no looking back. Continue reading
My younger sister is expecting a baby which is due any day this week. It’s her fourth child, she has two big boys, Frank, 16 and Terry, 14 from her first marriage, and a little monkey boy called Thorsten who is two.
Home, hearth and baked cheesecake
05 Feb 2011
IN my book, for a story to have a happy ending, it should start with the words “cream butter, sugar and eggs”. My mom is an excellent cook and baking seems to connect me with the happiest days of my childhood. It only takes a whiff of vanilla essence and I’m back in my childhood home in my mom’s kitchen. She was always whipping something up, everything was homemade and everything was good. That, and we went to boarding school where the food was swine before pearls or something like that. Continue reading
In bed with Sloth on a Sunday morning: Reading Zoo City by Lauren Beukes
It’s unlike any book I’ve ever read. I had to buy it because I have a patriotic urge to support anything that comes out of South Africa. The shelf of South African writers didn’t have it – curses, it did of course have several other titles I need also – so I dragged the cashier around the store with me. He took me to the SciFi Fantasy shelves. I stopped dead in my tracks and gulped, SciFi Fantasy is so not my thing (for most of my life I’ve listed Karel Schoeman and JM Coetzee among my favourite authors), could I be making a big mistake here? Should I make a run for it? By now I was clutching the book, brand new, embossed title, beautifully trimmed corners, gorgeously smooth. It’s never really taken much to make me buy a book, especially one so silky smooth and new. Continue reading
Home alone 2011
My husband is away. I feel a strange freedom and sense of ownership about our house. I don’t usually feel this way, especially if the kids are here. At the moment it’s my house, my couch, my TV. I eat what I want when I want. I don’t cook. It’s marvellous. I can’t say when last I strolled through a supermarket with just a little basket without a meticulous shopping list, just ambling and buying what I really, really felt like. Continue reading