There will be Kak

Most festive greetings to you dear reader.  I do hope the season of merriment and excessive consumer consumptive practises is treating you well.  Except for a brief moment when everybody thought that somebody else was tending to the turkey (no that is not a euphemism, tut-tut) my Christmas has passed smoothly enough. 

Did I mention that the Husband and I have flown South for Winter and hopefully longer (should the Universe align in the correct manner facilitating financial rewards i.e. not unemployment etc. etc). 

I said goodbye to my dear Myvanwy at the end of November and inducted a new South African as her faithful companion.  The Husband came to collect me from Vanny’s and despite my firm resolution not to cry I was bawling like a baby for the next hour of our car trip.  I was so terribly sad to leave my dear friend and housemate of the last 9 months as she has been confidant and advisor and a hell of a good laugh.  The terrible niggle that at 93 I may not see her again weighs heavily on my heart.  Luckily the new me is fantastic and we message regularly so I can keep up with the comings and going of my geriatric social circle i.e. Vanny’s bridge ‘girls’.

So I’m back in S.A and can report that the sun is shining, the mosquitoes are biting, crime is still and issue - my poor grandmother had her car nicked two nights ago (!Bastards!) and the President Jacob Zuma (JZ) still has a way with words (‘He recently described people who loved dogs more than people as “having a lack of humanity”.  Spending money on buying a dog, taking it to the vet and for walks belonged to white culture and was not the African way.’)  All I can say is every dog has its day and JZ best hope the Buddhists are wrong about that whole karmic reincarnation thing. Zuma’s official media man, Mac Maharaj, is backpedalling up a storm claiming that the President’s comments where an attempt to decolonise the African mind, which many a canny twitter commentator has noted is best done by driving German cars, wearing Swiss watches and drinking Scottish whisky.

All of which reminds of a joke of my father’s:

An American goes on a game drive in search of the king of the African veld, the mighty lion.  Before they head out the game ranger has a few pointers for him:

Ranger: Now if we should be caught off guard away from a vehicle and a lion approaches I want you to wave your arms in the air and walk towards him and he should back down.

Yank: But what if he doesn’t back down?

Ranger: Then you should slowly back up to the vehicle never breaking eye-contact and he should stay where he is.

Yank: But what if he keeps on coming?

Ranger: Then I want you to find a piece of kak and smear it all over your body, especially your face.

Yank: But what if there isn’t any what do you call it ‘kak’?

Ranger: Ag, man, there will be kak.  There is always kak.

And there lies the moral of this little tale, there will be kak, there is always kak, but shoo-hey I’m glad to be home.

Marvellous Movember

“We can’t be lovers because we both have mustaches. But since you’re a lady, and I’m a gentleman, I’ll shave mine off.”

― Jarod Kintz, Love quotes for the ages. Specifically ages 18-81.

November is fast becoming my favourite month, not because it signals the arrival of the festive season and summer in the Southern hemisphere, but because of Movember.  The month when men of all ages and races liberate their lip locks and unite in their attempts to grow moustaches to raise support and awareness of testicular cancer.  I do so love a man with a moustache. In my mind it conjures up images of: 

The eccentric brilliance of Salvador Dali.

The Errol Flynned elegance of Hollywood's golden era.

The machismo of 1980’s Magnum P.I.  

I still harbour a supremely un-hip and hearty crush on the mustachioed Tom Selleck based solely on his abundantly folliculated lip. 

Sometimes I feel that men are a little hard done by in the hair/fashion stakes with limits to how many ways they can style their hair without looking like

a bell-end (the dangers of the mullet, Mohawk and Bieber-sweep spring to mind).  The sartorial choices offered by mustaches are far more intricate and diverse:

If I were a man I would immediately manicure some fuzzy facial furnishings.  My father’s side of the family is of the hirsute-lipped genetic line so I am not ruling out growing my own ‘easy rider’ as a retirement project in my golden years.  

Luckily for me South Africa is the land of the ‘Snor’ (Afrikaans for moustache) and it is still firmly fashioned in non-ironic manner by men of a certain generation, men like my father.  My father’s moustache has been a constant since I was a child.  He shaved it off once and we protested that he looked odd and rather un-Dad-like.  Though the general style has remained, immaculately groomed, it has been an indicator of his age, its colour changing with the seasons of my life.  In my youth it was a mousy brown, in my teenage years it developed a few flecks of ginger and now as I approach my 30’s it has transformed to a distinguished snowy white.  To me the moustache is a potent symbol of home, family and sentimental childhood comfort. [There will be no mention of anything Freudian here, thank you very much.]

Occasionally my husband will indulge my weakness for a snor and play the shaving game leaving a stylistic ‘Errol Flynn’ complete with hair side-parted in the manner of a 1920s gent, much to my delight.  Once he actually sported a hearty handlebar for a number of days, but kept getting rather aggressive looks and comments from other men.  Eventually fearing for his life (and beautiful face) he shaved it off.  From this I learnt that the choice of mustache is a very delicate matter, the ‘Hitler’ and the ‘Handlebar’ are probably going to get  you your ass kicked.  If I were a bloke I’d go in for the Rhett Butler with a firm dollop of “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Sadly my facial follicles are still underperforming – two stray chin hairs are not going to grow a 'Dali' – I am not male and therefore cannot join in the bonhomie atmosphere of Movember.  Not to be outdone however, I'd like to invite the ladies out there to join me a little something I like to call 'Fanuary'. 

Blimey I'm a Limey

I am officially a Limey, a bona fide Pom.

This morning alongside a multicultural group of aliens I swore allegiance - faithful and true to her Majesty Queen Lizzie her heirs and successors in accordance with the law... and stuff. In exchange for my lifelong servitude I can now (well in 6 weeks once I am in possession of an actual British Passport) enter into most countries around the world without leaping through a horrendous number of immigratory hoops. Tickity-boo, old chap, what a spiffing idea.

The actual ceremony was far less formal than I had imagined. I had dressed in a severe school-marmish way in preparation for this very serious ceremonial step towards total Britishness. Although I was pipped in the formal stakes by the gentleman of Asiatic origins who had donned full kilt regalia for this momentous event.

The registrar conducting the ceremony seemed to think we were a group of brain dead toddlers and so despite the fact that each of us was presented with the Oath of Allegiance typed and set on a laminated card, we were instructed to repeat the Oath after her three words at a time. She took great pains to explain that on the card where it said, "I (Name) swear..." we should not simply repeat the word 'name', but insert our full names. The resulting Oath was pretty poor: 

Registrar: I (name) do solemnly swear...

Group of Aliens: I (garble-gungle-noise-noise) do solemnly swear... 

Registrar: By Almighty God...

Group of Aliens: Byyy-Almiiiighty-God...

Registrar: That on...

Group of Aliens: Thaat-on...

Registrar: Becoming a...

Group of Aliens: Becoooming-aaaa....

Registrar: British Citizen...

Group of Aliens: Breeetish-Ceetizen....

You get the point.

Once the swearing was over I was the first lucky recipient of my certificate of new life. In my eagerness to get the wretched thing before they changed their minds I fairly galloped up on stage in the manner of a high-heeled horse. On reflection I should have practiced my walking, but I did manage to stay upright and not headbutt the diminutive official certifying me so that was something.

Luckily I turned off my telephone during this important presentation because I later discovered that my ever supportive Husband, sitting in the back row, was trying to phone me mid-gallop to critique my approach.

I was greatly anticipating the moment after we had all received our certificates and were to be upstanding to sing the National Anthem.  Having avidly followed the Olympics I was well prepped on the teary eyed patriotism required for a rendition of God Save the Queen to an accompanying big brass band. Of course being Scotland, the Registrar simply hit the play button on a knackered c.d player and a dreary wordless soundtrack played while we all stood around oddly and a few new citizens mouthed the words. I had really been looking forward to watching my non-Patriotic Husband goldfish the words 'God Save our noble Queen', now the damn separatist Scots had shit in my metaphorical porridge. I turned to find the Husband in the crowd only to discover he had boycotted the entire karoake portion of the event and nipped out for a fag.

Ah well, I'm off to the pub now.  So a toast:

Here's tae us
Wha's like us
Damn few,
And they're a' deid

25 Reasons to Love South Africa

Despite my growing sense of Britishness the grand plan is to drag the Husband from the dour whiskyness of his Scottish homeland to the tip of Southern Africa that is mine.  People think we're crazy to leave the security of Britain for the vagaries of Africa. I say, 'what and miss all the fun?'

Rule Britannia

“Dear Husband, I fear that you may have forgotten to who I am. Allow me to introduce myself, I am your wife – crazy, brunette, currently obsessed with cooking and deceased American author and screenwriter, Nora Ephron. I am presently rooming with a 93 year old.”

This is a message I sent to my poor suffering Husband, who I have seen for a total of 7weeks in the last 8 months. Such a long distance marriage often requires an activities update to keep things ticking over. I think the message sums up my movements quite nicely:

1) I am as crazy as a box of frogs.

2) I have turned into a complete foodie – obsessively watching cooking programs and turning out both pancetta and parmesan puffs and perky peri-peri roast chicken on the same day.

3) I am completely enamoured with Nora Ephron (screenwriter of such gems as When Harry met Sally). Nora says things like 'The amount of maintenance involving hair is genuinely overwhelming. Sometimes I think that not having to worry about your hair anymore is the secret upside to death.'

4) My housemate is the gorgeous 93 year old Myvanwy (or Vanny), who I absolutely adore. Through her I have learnt the power of a restorative nip of whisky should one be feeling off colour. I in turn have introduced her to the celebratory power of the Olympics - where we were united in our admiration of hottie-hot pants BBC presenter and former swimming champ Mark Foster. Vanny refers to him as her boyfriend and likes his 'Grey hair'

The only thing I ommited to include in the text to Hubby dearest is that I am also very obsessed with the serial shaggings of Don Draper in Mad Men (I have reached the end of Season 3). I thought it best to leave mention of the very dapper Mr Draper out of the equation as no man wants to know that his wife is lusting over a chronic adulterer – not good for morale really.

Luckily for my estranged Husband we are scheduled to meet in 2 weeks time in Autumnal Scotland. It is here that I am booked in to swear allegiance to Her Maj (or Ma’am – said Marm as in arm, not Mam as in ham) at which point I will be issued with a certificate stating my new found Britishness. I will henceforth officially be a Pom.

I am quite excited at the prospects of my new found Britishness as I have taken all things Rule Britannia quite seriously this last year and would like to point out my enthusiasm point by point (I also appear to be a bit obsessed by numerical lists at present):

1) I watched the Royal Family float down the Thames for 4 hours in the rain, listening to BBC presenters drivel on incoherently about the Jubilee Flotilla. I keenly followed the resulting press coverage of the Duke of Edinburgh’s bladder blockages – a direct result of 4 hours standing in the mizzle watching boats float by – and became quite the expert on Phil the Greek’s relapsing Royal plumbing.

2) I made Union Jack cupcakes for a Jubilee street party and then attended said event with dear Myvanwy where we knew no one. Consequently we were subjected to a discussion about the home-made bunting that had been crafted out of Mrs Perfect Middle Englands’ son’s Cath Kidston print pyjamas.

3) I bunked out mid-way through a wedding to watch Andy Murray fight for the Wimbledon title (to be fair the bride did welcome me with, ‘Oh, you! I’d forgotten who we invited” so I didn’t feel too bad about missing out on the line-dancing). I then drowned my genuine sorrows at Andy’s defeat in a fair amount of Bridezilla’s expensive Champas. I even entered into discussions about the Class system as interpreted by transvestite artist Grayson Perry’s in his latest works in my best Hot-Potato voice, throwing in a hearty “Here-here!” as required.

4) I cried when British Olympic athletes won gold, especially when Murray finally beat Federer at Wimbledon to win Olympic Gold. I hummed along to God save the Queen at every medal ceremony.

5) I was even excited when young Brit Johnny Peacock beat Oscar Pistorius in the 100m at the Paralympics, even though I love Oscar Pistorius and if it wasn’t already with my digitally challenged Husband I would proposition the Blade Runner.

6) Whilst lunching with a friend at the Serpentine in Hyde Park we spotted actress Sienna Miller with her baby and I resisted the urge to stare or rush over and gush, but instead smiled sweetly and continued with my meal – the very picture of the reserved Brit.

7) I have started pronouncing 'yoghurt' in the British yog-hurt instead of the South African yo-ghurt, likewise I proffer a rather posh 'yar' instead of 'Ja'. I refer to 'text messages' rather than 'sms's', 'traffic lights' instead of 'robots' and 'shopping bags' instead of 'plastic bags'.

So as you can see I am totally ready to accept my British Citizenship and procure myself one of them sweet little red passports, at which point I am dragging my Husband straight back to darkest Africa because I have become dangerously dare I say, British.

Olympic Hangover

Oh, no it's all over... [Sobs weakly into knotted fists, rocking unsteadily to and fro in foetal position.]

I am maniacally in the grip of post-Olympic depression. For the past 2 weeks I lived happily in a little Olympic bubble of nationalism, heroism, beautifully sculpted athletic bodies and fair play. I have been religiously glued to virtually every Olympic sport available – even rowing and boxing? Who knew that a sparky, little British man called Mo Farah running around a field 25 times could be so riveting.

Or that one’s sphincter could actually bite a hole in one’s undies whilst watching a swimming gala – I was Le Clos to causing myself a mischief when South African Chad Le Clos (that ‘beautiful boy’ to quote his father Bert) beat Michael Phelps to win GOLD in the 200m Butterfly.

I blatantly supported my Motherland and host nation. Shouting and weeping in equal measure for Team GB and Team SA. I was more than a little teary and proudly South African when Le Clos drizzed his way through Nkosi Sikele, South Africa’s national anthem.

Tears threatened when Jess Ennis won Gold for Britain in the Heptathlon and the sight of Sir Chris Hoy blubbing at his 6th Olympic Gold medal had me in pieces.

Will I ever again feel the wonder and pride at watching The Blade Runner, Oscar Pistorius, make history by being the first double-amputee to compete against able-bodied Olympians.

Every morning I made a beeline for the sports pages and learnt nuggets of information like that an American sprinter had broken his leg at 200m into the 400m sprint relay, but kept going so as not to let his team down, or that Usain Bolt ‘the fastest man alive’ celebrated his win holed up in the Olympic Village with the Swedish Women’s Handball team. Oh, the tears, the sweat, the drama and that was just as an armchair spectator.

But now after the fanfare and glory and the overwhelming sight of the Spice Girls reunion at the closing ceremony (what witchcraft is this? Is it a timemachine?) I’m just not sure I can manage reality.

Still there is the Paralympics and my new crush [sigh] Oscar [swoon] Pistorius. My friend Pantaholic and I have clashed over who gets Oscar, she maintains she spotted him first. I plan to stalk him at the Paralympics Games and if all else fails in the spirit of fair play and epic Olympic battles I’ll race her for him.

Fifty Shades of Grey

"By all means move at a glacial pace, you know how it thrills me..." is my favourite quote from the Devil Wears Prada. My life had been moving at quite a leisurely speed, as is usually the case when homing with a geriatric, however last week a terrible thing occurred, I don't want to panic anyone but I...found...a...GREY...hair.

I knew it was coming and having passed my 29 birthday (only just) I felt my days were numbered. Despite having been on high alert for this chromatically challenged hair it snuck up on me like a cheap tequila on a night out. Too say I felt a little ill would be an understatement. I panicked. As a result of the silver-sliver induced nausea, I am currently going through a quarter life crisis (optimistically assuming I live to 116). I have embraced the gym with a fervor last seen in the year 2000. I go to spinning classes (done on an exercise bike with a Stalinist instructor urging us on with spittle-flying commands to sprint and hill climb). I adopt a puce-purpling, sweat drenched game face so serious you would think I was leading the pack in the Tour d'France. I walk out feeling close to vomiting but secure in the knowledge that I have scissor kicked that mother-trucking spinning class in the back of the head. I may go grey but my bottom will resist gravity for a while yet.

Another side effect of my quarter-life crisis (too soon for mid-life surely?) is that I have started to buy more mature clothing - my new wardrobe bought in the sales is all about neat little blazers, leg-lengthening wedge heels and tailored palazzo trousers. Although the combination of wide-legged 'flock of seagulls' print palazzo trousers and gladiator sandals (Jesus boots, according to my father) and a gusty wind turned me into a bit of a fashion victim. Wind+wide-legged pant+flat shoes+bambi legs=me face planting on the tarmac. I leapt up in the manner of a jack-in-the-box assuring the smirking public that I was "fine, fine, totally fine, just tripped." Of course due to my advanced age my knees hurt like buggery for the next 3 days. I wandered about the house moaning that God had taken a slegehammer to my patellas. Eventually poor Myvanwy offered me her arthritis drugs to quell my moaning. [As a responsible carer I obviously declined.]

The finite nature of life has been brought home to me by my impending fifty shades of grey head and aching knees. No more glacial movements here. If only the Home Office would agree and give me my blinking British passport...

I left and then I returned.

Myvanwy and I had a 2 week break from each other during which time I reunited with my Husband and passed a Birthday, much in the same way that one might pass a kidney stone – necessary but not altogether enjoyable. Owing to our homelessness we spent the two weeks in assortment of accommodation – friends’ spare room, sister-in-law’s sleeper couch, spa hotel, not so posh hotel, backpacker’s dormitory and a week in a campsite on the Isle of Mull.

While it was delightful visiting friends living in the picture postcard village of Tobermory, the camping was a spot, shall I say, challenging. As is the custom on a Scottish island the wind came up turning our tent into a wind tunnel and forcing the Husband out in his tighty-whiteys to re-peg the tent at 4am. The next night it rained heavily, it was so loud I felt as though I were standing in a monsoon with a tin-bucket on my head. To round up our weathering experience the final night our tent resembled an icicle after a heavy ground frost. Thankfully on this occasion I was warmed by beer and much merriment after sampling the delights of the Mull Folk Festival.

The Folk Festival was in fact a series of bad cover bands doing Bruce Springsteen and Killer’s songs in the various pubs around Mull. It was a most educational evening during which I learnt that in Scotland you can virtually camp anywhere:

And you are never too old to Rock! While some might be settling in with their Horlicks and knitting this 80-something Glasgow Granny, was cutting some rug to the distorted sounds of ‘William and his Wonders’.

Indeed Mull and the campsite were awash with Glaswegians a.k.a Weegies who like to get up at about 6am and crack open their first can of Tenants at about 6.30am. They enjoy peppering their riveting conversation with expletives. Due to the lack of soundproofing in a tent I was privy to this delightful exchange between 3 Weegies putting up their tent:

Weegie 1: QUA-A-A-A-CK. [Loud expulsion of digestive gasses in manner of a duck call]

Weegie 2: Aye fuck, beuy!

Weegie 3: Ah, roast duck t’night beuy.

I had the pleasure of seeing Weegie 3 again in the pub where he was tucking into a rather large squinty girl who had been eyeing out our single friend, Duke and chatting up my Husband until she gave Weegie 3 the glad eye (well one of her eyes did). Poor Duke needs to find himself a better wingman, my Husband is useless as he simply starts chatting to the prettiest girl and forgets to steer her in Duke’s direction and it would appear that I’m just not man enough for the job. I tried once, accompanying Duke to a pole-dancing club (as a friend and investigative journalist) unfortunately I rather ruined the mood by suggesting that he didn’t lean against the bar as I looked a bit unwashed and you couldn’t be too sure what fluids had been spilt upon on the counter top. I then vocalised my contempt for the lighting, which was not doing ‘Cindy’ any favours as she hung like a bat from the stripper pole in tacky synthetic bra-let (i.e. almost a bra) and g-string. The revolving disco light above Cindy’s upturned form was highlighting her cellulite in a most uncomplimentary manner. Needless to say my rather vocal appraisal of her disco-dimpled bottom didn’t endear us to management.

But I digress, after the failure to find Duke a suitable partner without an overbite or myopic vision we gave up and headed South. After many hours in the car, during which my Husband suffered extreme road rage and we took in Hadrian’s wall (grey, old, windy) I returned to my dear Myvanwy. I was disgusted to discover that my temporary replacement, a hung over Kiwi (the Nationality, not the fruit) had been on a two week fruit only detox. Poor Myvanwy had felt too mean to insist the fruitarian cook and so had fended for herself for a fortnight.

We were both bloody thrilled I was back.

You have the right to arrange your own life

Last night the clocks changed here heralding the start of The Great British Summer. I am so excited by incremental increase in temperature that I could soil myself. The joys of Spring are everywhere – once again my breasts no longer imprisoned beneath 2 inches of knitwear have made their Spring t-shirted appearance and received the ‘Glad eye’ from passing motorists. Couples young and old in love are strolling about hand in hand. The Earth is waking up and it is beautiful.

And so in tune with my celebratory and indulgent mood here are a few things I found delightful this week:

A young couple in that lusty teenage-OMG-nobody-else-has-ever-felt-like-this-before-love.

A couple of advanced years in love. I like to believe they have been married for the last 40 years and still fancy the pants off each other (although I don’t like to imagine any pant removal as such).

"“When I needed to wear glasses, I decided I’d wear glasses. All the better to see you with.”

- Iris Arpel, 90 year old New Yorker, the Grand Dame of Fashion. Her fashion style is maximalist and relies heavily on Tribal jewellery. Adding her to my gromance list.

And finally, words of wisdom in the form of ‘Sharashkas’ by Russian poet Alexander Solzhenitsyn. A fabric print of this has been hung up in my parent’s bathroom for as long as I can remember. It makes for great mid-shit philosophical ponderation:

Sharashkas

You have the right to arrange your own life 
under the blue sky and the hot sun, 
to get drink of water, to stretch, 
to travel wherever you like....

What about the main thing in life, all its riddles?
If you want, I'll spell it out for you right now.



Do not pursue what is illusionary - property and position:
all that is gained at the expense of your nerves,
decade after decade, and is confiscated in one fell
night. Live with a steady superiority over life ...
don't be afraid of misfortune, and do not yearn
after happiness: it is, after all, the same: the
bitter doesn't last forever, and the sweet never 
fills the cup to overflowing.

It is enough if you don't freeze in the cold and if
thirst and hunger don't claw at your insides. If
your back isn't broken, if your feet can walk, if
both arms can bend, if both eyes can see, if 
both ears hear, then whom should you envy? And why?
Our envy of others devours us most of all. Rub
your eyes and purify your heart - and prize
above all else in the world those who love you
and who wish you well. Do not hurt them or
scold them, and never part from any of them in
anger; after all, you simply do not know: it
might be your last act .....

- Alexander Solzhenitsyn.

There now don't you feel better?

Staring down Death.

Myvanwy is fast becoming my favourite nonagenarian (barring of course any close family members of a ripe old age):

Yesterday over a lunch of couscous salad and curried potato and pea soup (she is not averse to my culinary experiments or chillies) we were discussing the issue of homosexuality, a dinner table conversation that I reserve for only the most open-minded geriatics:

Me: Well, I had this discussion with another couple I looked after, she is in her 70’s and he in his 80’s, and they told me that rather a lot of their male friends in the 70 plus age range had suddenly come out as bi-sexual. [Ladle spoonful of soup into open mouth.]

Myvanwy: [Behind dark glasses] Oh, my Godfathers! Nonsense dear, I suspect they were just tired of ‘giving it’ to the old girls and thought up this clever little cover story instead.

Me: Cough, splutter. Ergle. [Blindsided by a 90 year old mentioning sex I promptly chortle into my soup, in the process snorting up curried pea soup – rather singeing my nostrils.]

Myvanwy: [Chuckling at my perplexity]. Well I expect so dear, I was married twice, I know a thing or two about marriage.

Myvanwy’s sexual frankness was a complete surprise to me (as testified by the curried pea embedded in my left nostril). It has been my experience that for most O.A.P’s (old age pensioners) once the ovaries have withered any mention of sex is completely taboo. In my view the homes of most ninety year olds are asexual zones with loud ticking grandfather clocks (except for Hugh’s Playboy Mansion where I’m sure other noises fill the air). But Myvanwy is different - joking about sex and rather pragmatic about death. She tells me that her bridge club has been going through a rough time with everyone ‘falling off their perches’ and she reluctant to spend excessively on a new garden shed with a 10 year guarantee, as she is doubtful she’ll be around to see the warrantee out. Also acutely aware that she is in bootleg trousers when skinnies are in fashion she can’t bring herself to go shopping, “Oh my Godfather’s no,” she cried when I suggested it, “First there is the changing room trauma, the lighting in there is terrible. Secondly, the last time I tried I could barely get the trousers over my ankles and finally at this time in my life is there any point in investing in a new Spring wardrobe?” Remarkably none of this is said with any melancholia, just an acute awareness of the fact that at 92 there may not be too many Springs to be sprung.

I reckon Myvanwy must have been a real live wire in her youth. Widowed in her early twenties after the Second World War, with a young baby she just kept “calm and carried on,” through the wreckage of post-war Britain. She remarried, had more children and taught ballroom dancing all the while smoking 30 cigarettes a day until the age of 72. Now in her 90’s she gets through the day largely unmedicated, which is wildly unusual as in my experience Geriatric Britain is buoyed by the pharmaceutical industry, or the other way round. That's not to say Myvanwy doesn't medicate she does have a few fortifying sips of brandy for the ‘queer turns’.

She is my new Aging Icon, forget Madonna, who at 50, with her teenage body and army of toyboys is fighting the aging process each macrobiotic day at a time, I’m signing up for the Myvanwy school of aging, her motto ‘drive it like you stole it.’ Staring down Death with a steely glint in her eye and Brandy in her hipflask. What a gem.

#chancewouldbeafinething

My budding gromance with Myvanwy meant that for the first time in my distinguished career at the B.B.C (British Bum Cleaner) I didn't use my day off as an opportunity to bolt straight to London to immerse myself in retail therapy. This is largely due to the fact that a) I like Myvanwy's company so much I will willingly cook a meal and chat over a cup of tea without being paid to do so and b) I promised the Husband I would not spend excessive amounts of money on clothing etc.as we are saving for our escape from the Rock to a life in sunny, crime-infested South Africa. I have already failed in this regard as I spent some dosh on a rather dazzling haircut, which I like to argue is reminscent of a 1920's flapper (watched 'The Artist', am in love with 'Poppy' even practiced pencilling in a mole). The haircut happened last week on my day off when I took my shoulder length locks in for a 'trim', but uttered the immortal words, 'I'm not too precious about the length'. 40 minutes and £40 later I was virtually bald.

So this week in order to avoid spending money or coming home with a crew-cut I stayed in and spent an inordinate amount of time on twitter (@sallygypsytiger). As I only have about 11 followers I was almost besides myself with glee when moments after following the T.V critic for an upper class lady's magazine, he in turn followed me. As he is followed by some 5000 other people I like to think he is something of a celebrity, which places me a virtual one degree from fame myself. I don't like to dwell on the fact that he follows about 5000 other twitters. Of course the pressure is on to be witty and something of a messiah in 140 characters #chancewouldbeafinething.

I'm still not entirely sure about twitter culture. The Husband (armed with his iphone) created a twitter account after overhearing two lawyers on a train discussing how wonderful it was to have access to other lawyers views on issues almost instantly. Picturing a community of other like minded seamen (now, now children he is a nautical man) the Husband hastily created a twitter account but informed me rather sadly, "I logged on but nothing happened."

I tried to explain twitter to Myvanwy whilst discussing the topic of Aging. I wondered if my generation will be facebooking each other aged 90 and tweeting such informative pearls such as, "Send a search party, I've lost my teeth again." Myvanwy didn't think all this face-less communication was such a good idea. "Wouldn't you rather just hear a human voice or at least see the personal script of a handwritten note?" she asked me. Honestly? No. If a complete unknown middle-aged gent e.g. the upper-class-lady's-mag-t.v.-critic. were to send me a handwritten note of 140 characters to discuss the fate of the contestants food on masterchef, I'd find it downright freaky. Heaven forbid I should have to physically talk to half of my facebook 'friends' (except of course those of you who followed the link here, love you, chat later xx). In the end I really couldn't explain the relevance of an online community to a woman who for 92 years has lived in the real one, because I have to agree with her, "It doesn't sound like it has much soul."

I think the main problem is I'm too verbose for 140 characters.

Meet Myvanwy

My 8-year old nephew recently asked me if when he’s my age I would still be alive?

The obvious answer was I bloody hope so (of course I didn’t say the ‘b’ word to an 8 year old, I’m not completely without manners). At the age of 28 I’m aware that I am positively ancient to the under-10’s who like to peg my age at anywhere between 40 and 60, but I’m surely not that far-gone that I need dwell on my mortality just yet. I mean I haven’t even found my first grey-hair (that doesn’t mean I don’t have any it just means I haven’t found the treasonous shafts yet. Although I fear they will appear before 29th Birthday as I vowed not to dye my hair for entire year).

Putting my follicular-obsessions aside if I do by the grace of God reach my 90’s I intend to age in the manner of my latest charge, 92 year old Myvanwy. As she is amazingly compos mentis and able bodied we are able to enjoy sparkling dinner conversation. As a further advantage her good health means that I never have to see her naked (a rare perk in this job – I’ve seen more geriatric nudity than is good for one’s ocular health) or study the shape of her bowel movements. I’ve always been told that keeping a few secrets from each other is vital in any relationship and it would appear this is the case in the carer-caree relationship. For by keeping the mystery about what happens behind closed toilet doors I am able for the first time in this job to enjoy a sort of gromance (geriatric romance).

Myvanwy is fabulous, she swathes herself in pashminas, wears dark glasses around the house in the manner of a movie-star and has small stashes of Brandy throughout the house in case she should ‘feel queer’ (she even has a ‘water bottle’ full of Brandy in the car glove box, presumably in case my driving gives her The Fear, or she feels like channelling any of the characters from Hunter S. Thompson’s ‘The Rum Diaries’.) It’s hardly a job really as we drink red wine, go to the cinema, make tasty little meals together and watch ‘Upstairs Downstairs’ on a Sunday night with our knees tucked beneath little crocheted rugs. A truly bonhomie atmosphere thrives.

Myvanwy’s only age-faulty appliance is her hearing, which in my vast experience is not bad, but in order to preserve my eardrums she likes to have the subtitles on the television at all times. The annoying thing with subtitles is if they are there you will read them. Yesterday’s subtitles on the news read ‘South African President Nelson Mandela has horse’s eyes’, the truth was that Mandela had been ‘hospitalized.’ Egad I thought imagine being so hearing-impaired that you had to rely exclusively on these faulty typings decrying Madiba’s equine eyes! I was very glad to hear (with my own perfectly sound-inductive ears) that Madiba is out of hospital (with or without his horse’s eyes). As he is the same age as Myvanwy and a figure of global adulation I’ve included him in my gromance and rather want the two of them to make a century.

Goodbye PantyHead

I am very saddened to announce that PantyHead passed from this Earthly dimension into the next at the end of last year. As I had been gallivanting in deepest darkest Africa I only learnt this news a few days ago via an email from her daughter, which I discovered amidst a sea of spam.

Apparently after I left her last August the old battle-axe’s ticker grew dickier and dickier until it finally stopped the week before Christmas. Her daughter assured me that PantyHead had given her subsequent carers a run for their money and was prickly to the end when finally despite her obsessive compulsive neuroses, extreme calorie counting and bizarre hypochondria she passed peacefully away.

I was strangely saddened to hear of PantyHead’s demise. Despite being madder than a March hare and so causing me to curse inwardly (and audibly - she was pretty deaf) she also awarded me with moments of blog worthy comic gold. I’ll never forget her bizarre approach to self-medication: preventing blindness (brought on by excessive salt intake?) with a sugar rich midnight feast consisting of half a bottle of wine, 8 prunes, 4 laxative pills and a fair gulp of liquid laxative. This was followed by a full day propped up on her commode shitting indelicately through the eye of a needle but feeling all the better for it because she had after all saved her sight.

I was surprised to hear of PantyHead’s death as I half expected that with her indomitable spirit and Rod Stewart wiggery she really would live forever. But she is testament to that Universal truth that we are none of us infallible. I saw a glimpse of the fragile woman behind her prickly armour of neuroses that day when whilst combing-over her remaining wispy locks she so soulfully questioned where her youth had gone. I could never imagine her young and beautiful, dancing in exquisite clothes at lavish balls. Just as I suspect my (for now imaginary) grandchildren will never fathom that I was once young and ginger (as a result of excessive hair dying I now pass for a natural Red).

I am profoundly affected by PantyHead’s passing, I think of her with a tenderness of heart that at the time I never suspected I would be capable of. She has reminded me that no matter how tough you think you are it is a slippery slope towards insanity and incontinence from here on in. What I found most tragic was the eulogy attached to the notification of death email. It was a eulogy written by children who felt no connection to their difficult mother, but in that great British tradition of the Stiff Upper Lip were being very polite about it.

Excuse me for going all preachy with a borrowed line from Moulin Rough,

'The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.'

An aging, neurotic, hypercondriac once showed me a life lived without Love ends in a polite eulogy. And a polite eulogy is to my mind like a tepid cup of tea – frankly bloody intolerable.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid...

The Husband and I have been house-hunting, not to buy you understand no that would be a step too far from our current vagabond existence, rather we are looking for a room to rent in a shared flat in Edinburgh. However after two dismal abode viewings I fear we are doomed to live under bridges transporting all our worldly belongings in plastic packets for the rest of our married lives.

A ‘furnished, light and spacious attic conversion’ was in reality a mattress on the floor in a sea of cold cups of coffee and half smoked joints and the sort of space you would have been hard pressed to swing a dwarf. Flat two sounded rather more promising, a converted paper mill overlooking the Water of Leith.

Unfortunately the minute we were greeted by ‘Saul’ with his floppy hair and murderer blue eyes and he uttered the words, “take a seat and let me tell you about myself” I knew we were doomed. Saul was recently divorced and newly returned from 3 months teaching English in Mexico, after which time he was, and I quote ‘fluent in Spanish’. He liked to use frequent air quotations in the manner of Dr. Evil and stare furtively at my chest every 5 seconds:

Saul: [To the Husband and I] I’m very fussy about who I have in the house. [Breast glance in my direction]. I don’t want wild parties, but I’m not a square, we do have the odd [air quotation] “cervesa” - that’s beer in Spanish [Breast glance].

The Husband: [Said with straight face] I can’t remember the last time I had a drink…

Saul: You don’t have a piece of paper that says you will never drink again do you? Are you following the 12 steps?

The Husband: No. But I would say my drinking days are behind me. (In reality only two days behind, but who is counting?)

Saul: Good, now what do you do? [Said to Husband but with passing gaze at my mammaries.]

The Husband: I’m a fisherman and diver. I dive for shellfish, scallops and razor clams.

Saul: Ooh, you don’t dive deep do you? [Double entendre followed by quick breast appraisal].

The Husband: No, we only dive to about 15metres if you go too deep that’s when problems happen.

Saul: Metaphorically speaking. [air quotation].

[Husband and I exchange look of bewilderment.]

Saul: Now where do you come from? [Question aimed in direction of my breasts.]

Me: [Feeling I should answer on behalf of my mammaries] Born and bred in South Africa.

Saul: Well that’s certainly eclectic isn’t it?

Me: Yeees, I suppose you could say that.

Saul: Now what I’m looking to do here is foster a culture of community. I don’t want people who stay in their rooms swotting at their books all day. No I want people to enjoy the common area or “lounge” [air quotation]. As a father of three girls I want to embrace the community. [Breast glance].

Needless to say the Husband and I removed my ample breasts from Saul’s prying eyes and legged it back to the safety of the non-freaky people.

Saul eager to embrace us to his breast sent and email containing more than an acceptable amount of ellipses…

[Grannypants]...was good to meet you and [The Husband] this afternoon...

I am attaching a copy of the license agreement for your perusal......

Bear in mind there is a deposit of £200 at the start of the lease - returnable at the end of the lease period...

you would certainly be very welcome...!!

I look forward to hearing from you…

After reviewing the House Rules, which included the clause that no visitors were permitted unless permission had been granted no later than 12 hours previously, we decided that boob-gazing Saul was not for us:


Dear Saul...

After careful consideration we have decided that...we would rather live under a bridge...

Many Thanks...

Grannypants…

My Blog she suffered a terrible accident...

I don’t know if anyone noticed but my blog suffered a terrible accident – I went on holiday to South Africa for 2 months and was too busy getting on with my life to document it. But you will be pleased to know that my sybaritic and opulent lifestyle has ground to a freezing halt and I am back in Blighty (sigh).

My African holiday involved large quantities of sunshine, numerous glasses of alcohol, wonderful friends and my rather amusing family. One of the main highlights of said holiday was my niece ‘Queenie’ who at 15 months old has all the makings of a stand up comedian. I particularly enjoyed the way she admonished the plug points in her room with a stern look, a hearty finger waggle and the words, “No! No! No! Don Tush! Naughty!”

Queenie also does a fantastic impersonation of the Hadeeda Ibis (loud South African bird who according to Zulu folk lore is afraid of heights causing it to scream out in a ‘Ha-ha-Haaah’ fashion every time it takes flight).

Queenie’s ‘Ha-ha-haah’ impersonations were generally followed by her clapping two pudgey hands together and shouting, “Go, Go! Naughty Birdie!” I was completely entranced with the little tyke and reciprocally she thinks that I am the dog’s bollocks - indeed there is nothing quite so morale building as the adulation of ankle-biters.

In other holiday news my dear friend Klong tied in the knot in a rather lovely al fresco wedding. As chief bridesmaid I had my hair and make-up professionally tweaked, the transformation was so alarming that the Husband did not recognise me with my Californian wave hair and attempted to bat me away when I swooped in for a kiss. At least it is good to know that he will resist the advances of beautiful unidentifiable women. The wedding ceremony went off without a hitch, but alas the groom got what I shall indelicately call a case of the ‘shits’ after the first dance and had to retire to the fortress of solitude for the remainder of the night. Never ones to let a good wedding go to waste (not to mention a fully stocked bar – those cane and crème sodas weren’t going to drink themselves) the Husband and I helped the Bride to keep drinking and dancing till 3am, at which point we were the last three standing and the Bride could no longer understand the Husband’s Scots accent. As my father says of the Scots, “I like them but I can never work out if they are talking to me or swearing at me.”

And finally we voyaged to Mozambique where we enjoyed some R and R, which in traditional Mozambican style is an alcoholic beverage of 50% Tipto Tinto Rum and 50% Raspberry juice. R and R’s are best consumed in the numerous shabeens or baracas i.e. make shift shacks posing as bars that are to be found alongside most public thoroughfares. The locals in the baracas were most welcoming indeed after hearing that the Husband was Scottish the music was hastily changed from local Portuguese tunes to Rod Stewart’s greatest hits, presumably to make him feel more at home in the heat of the coconut shack.

My digitally challenged husband caused some confusion at the Mozambican border control where an overly officious immigration officer attempted to take his fingerprints. Instead of admitting defeat when he noticed that the husband is missing the top half of three fingers, the official spent a good 5 minutes studying the Husband’s hand as though the missing digits would magically unfold, when they did not he proceeded to finger print the Husband’s stumps for good measure.

Unfortunately all the African amusement has come to an end after bathing in 29’C tropical seas touching down in Edinburgh to a ground temperature of -6’C was more than a little alarming. When my hand was freezing to the balustrade as I disembarked the plane I thought, ‘there’s been a terrible mistake.'

But perhaps a little Africa detox is just what the doctor ordered, especially after Queenie's nanny Sara eyeballed me in my swimsuit one day:

Sara: Hmm. [Staring at my post Christmas/Holiday stewed body with caliper eyes.]

Me: What? [Said with sense of impending doom.]

Sara: Are you gaining?

Me: Gaining what? [Fear in my voice]

Sara: Are you gaining...[dramatic pause pregnant with possibility]...weight?

Me: [Horrified] I certainly hope not.

Sara: Yes, you look like you are gaining. [Gleeful smile, like she's just told me I won the lottery]

Worryingly this is not the first time an African lady has told me I am "coming nice and fat."

Aikona.