I'm back

Sunday was spent revisiting old haunts. Our taxi driver took us into central Johannesburg (amid many dire warnings about the extremely high crime rate. Never having been to Lagos, I can't say, but that was the most frequent comparison). It's true, the city centre was in complete reverse video, and it did have the air of a frontier town - streets lined with brightly coloured tin signs advertising tiny businesses, young men eager to point out a parking place and receive a tip, and, on street corners, live chickens in wire cages clearly destined for the nearest cooking pot.

We were visiting our old place of worship, the Cathedral of St Mary the Virgin. (I wish they had a website, but pretty much no-one there does. Their idea of Broadband is about 512k. Eek. Or rather, Yawn.) The place used to be a hotbed of political sedition - members of both clergy and congregation regularly fell foul of the authorities, and were subject to trials of varying soundness. As we stood outside, taking pictures and some video, we were hustled inside (by a black man in a very nice suit) and told basically not to be so silly as really the crime rate was extremely high.

The church was exactly the same as I remembered - high, cool, beautiful, and an eye of calm in a hurricane of social upheaval.

Our old home had Julia and I squealing with delight. The owners couldn't have been kinder, showing us around the house and gardens, which held more than enough familiarity to have us both enthralled. And the evening was spent with a friend from Julia's schooldays, and her partner. 80% of the conversations began of course, with 'Do you remember . . .!' Britta's partner, Claire, was very patient with a gang of well-past-their-sell-by-date schoolgirls shrieking with unbecoming giggles.

Do I need to bore you with details of the Thai massage we treated ourselves to, on our last day? Nope, you are right, I don't. The only comment I could possibly make would be 'Aaaaaaah', anyway.

I am very pleased to be home though - away is lovely, but home with a loving husband and adored children is best.

I'm here

After the usual hoo-ha (arriving at the wrong terminal, not being able to check in because they thought Jeremy's credit card was stolen, did they - didn't they - did they have any rands at the currency exchange - oh yes they did) the flight was uneventful, and the limo ride to the hotel very smooth. Do I have to tell you about the blue skies, the blazing sunshine, and the fabulous food? Nah - OK then.

Last night we found ourselves in - how to describe it? I think if you looked from the outside you would see a gigantic warehouse. Inside, you were transported into a little corner of Venice. Somewhere in the back streets in the bend of the Grand Canal. The roof was painted to look like a late afternoon sky, until you went under a certain bridge and it was magically night time. The 'houses' have lit-up windows, some sporting Italian football scarves, and the wall-to-wall restaurants are mostly Italian. Julia said it reminded her of Las Vegas (only not so classy). And casinos, of course. Hordes and hordes of teenagers strutting their stuff.

Today was the - I dunno, I've been describing it as a 'family thing', and that seems to satisfy anyone who asks. Fact is, my cousin Mark, whose wedding we celebrated today, died five days ago. For the last three months he hadn't responded well to his chemotherapy, then he had a stroke, and died. We didn't know he had already married Felicity in May. We convened in a lovely hall for a meal, and speeches, and music, and Felicity looked lovely in her wedding dress.

Just no groom.

I met Mark's sons for the first time, who are both charming, clever, courteous young men. We caught up with one of our cousins - very disappointingly, the other was trapped by flooding in the Eastern Cape and couldn't join us - and enjoyed meeting a roomful of total strangers. I've got some pictures, I'll show you when I get back.

Eat your heart out . . .

This is where, no kidding, my sister and I are booked in. A little to the north of the centre of Johannesburg, in its own park, and not even slightly over the top. By a delightful co-incidence, one of Julia's liveries, a good friend, is going to be there too, on business. The delightful bit is that we managed to book in on her coat-tails, as'twere, and are being charged a less-than-usually-extortionate rate for the room.

This friend and I will be travelling out on the same flight, she up in Business Class, and me, of course, in Steerage. Jeremy suggested I ask her to swing an upgrade for me. Tempting thought, neh? I had to weigh that against the opportunity to be, for eight hours in a row, surrounded by strangers, none of whom would talk to me. (Apart from asking in hushed tones, 'Would you like your dinner now?', and 'May I take your dirty dishes away without you having to lift a finger?')

Come ON! Steerage could never be that uncomfortable.

Decisions, decisions . . .

THIS POST IS NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH. IF YOU ARE IN ANY WAY FAINT-HEARTED, LOOK AWAY NOW.

I'm still feeding Sid. I know, I know . . . you can't tell me anything I haven't thought of already. There it is. The frequency is much reduced, generally to weekend mornings, but last night she asked so damn' winningly for a feed that I crumbled and agreed. Now, because her feeds are so few and far between, I can never remember which side is next, but Sid usually can. But it had been quite a while since the last feed, and Sid was stumped. So she looked at my chest, saying

'Eeny, meeny, miney, mo . . . .'



OK, I'm done with the oogy stuff. You can start reading again now.

In Other News, I had, and inflicted upon two innocent little girls, the most beastly afternoon. I needed to go to Mothercare to buy vouchers for Beri's teacher who is going on maternity leave. As Claudia Mae was to spend the afternoon with us, I thought I might take the two girlies to the in-the-middle-of-blimmin'-nowhere superstore, buy the vouchers and treat us all to lunch in a local cafe. Good plan, until I realised that the directions I had been given had missed at least one roundabout, and before I knew it I was crushed - crushed, I tell you - by traffic in deepest Southall, with no option of turning around. We were in the car for nearly two hours before finally pulling back into our forecourt, sans vouchers, sans lunch, sans patience, sans everything. The girlies fell on their lunch like the wolf on the fold, with zero time to do any playing before the school run. You'd think I had done more than my share, but as I didn't get the vouchers I have to do the whole thing again tomorrow. At least it will be with a different little friend, and I plan to go to a different Mothercare.

I'm doomed.

Some Bangs, and the Occasional Whimper

Phew. So that's Fireworks night over and done with for another year. The little'uns stuck it all out, hooray (I love fireworks, and definitely consider it the short straw if I have to take a bratlet home halfway through the show), Beri's only, though not inconsiderable, concern being that the fireworks might land on his head, and Sid telling me that I didn't have to say 'Oooh!' every time, and that I should just say it when a firework was 'specially beautiful. After the show, a houseful of people, with the children, some of them really quite small, whooping it up until about 10. And we still hadn't had supper.

Jane and Ian visited for the weekend, and Jane awarded all the children hand-drawn stars for chewing with their mouths closed. You have to take the victories where you find them, don't you!

Wonderful, wonderful Freecycle had enabled me to find a home for a blanket which had developed a split down the middle. (A woman with puppies, which were going through their bedding faster than she could wash it.) I wrapped the torn blanket in a plastic bag, and stuck a big label on saying 'Puppies', so by leaving it outside the front doorI didn't have to be at home for her to collect it. You would not believe the number of people who asked me if there really were puppies in the bag. Including a girl in a Chesham High uniform (local grammer school. You have to pass an exam to get in). Really? Puppies wrapped in a plastic bag?!? Maybe that's an additional question they should include in the 11+ . . .